Mentats of Dune

Josef said, “We don’t value Arrakis for its beauty, Sire, but for its spice.”

A cross-shear from the fringe of a minor storm buffeted the shuttle, and the entourage gasped in sudden panic. With his face twisted in a

The pilot meekly apologized and gave the small storm a wide berth, which further delayed their arrival at the spice operations. Fortunately, having anticipated the ponderous nature of the Emperor’s entourage, Josef had not dispatched the spice factory until the shuttle was already on its way. Timing was crucial. Harvesters could only work a melange vein for a limited time before a sandworm forced them to evacuate. Salvador Corrino probably expected the desert leviathans to accommodate his schedule.

Josef fashioned a false smile to make himself appear pleasant; the muscles of his face ached.

He was surprised to receive a direct communication from his saboteur Taref, especially so close to the Imperial entourage. In fact, he had never expected to hear from Taref again, counting on the desert man to simply fade off into the dust and sand.

For security, the Emperor had private cubicles aboard the elaborate shuttle. Trying not to show his sweat, Josef took the communication off-line temporarily and smiled. “If you would excuse me, Sire? I have an urgent business matter.”

Salvador gave him an indulgent smile. “Of course, Directeur. Always crises! It comes with your position of responsibility. You must be so relieved to be done with all the pressures of the melange industry.”

Josef could not seal himself in the chamber quickly enough, and he demanded answers and reassurances from his Freeman operative. “Is it done? Where are you?”

The young Freeman sounded hesitant and sad. “I did not complete my task, Directeur. In fact, I refuse. I began to corrupt the ship’s nav-controls, but I will not have an Emperor’s spirit haunting me.” The desert man’s face looked haunted on the screen, his eyes hollow.

Josef felt chilled. “But you must! It is the only way—”

“I am done with this work, Directeur — and done with other worlds. It is in God’s hands now.” He terminated the transmission.

Josef wanted to scream. It was such a neat, simple, perfect plan — the Imperial Barge would simply vanish en route, along with the worthless Emperor and his worthless entourage, lost on their way back to Salusa. The spice industry, the future of Venport Holdings, Norma Cenva’s precious Navigators — everything depended on it.

The Emperor could not return to the palace. He could not be allowed to continue his blundering damage to civilization — no matter how much the solution cost.

As the shuttle continued to fly across the desert, Josef felt his face burning with anger. His thoughts churned, then focused, and soon he had another solution. A more expensive plan, harder to cover up, but effective nevertheless. He hated to spend so much — but if he did not find some way to take care of Salvador, VenHold would pay a much, much higher price.

Fortunately, he had operatives on all spice crews, people who were paid well for their services. He could get rid of the Emperor, but he had very little time to make the arrangements. Still in the private chamber, he sent out another urgent communication. By the time he emerged to rejoin Salvador and the rest of his contingent, Josef had calmed himself, and no one noticed a difference in his mood.

A dust plume was visible in the air as sand grains and fine particles were exhausted through the chimney-mouths of the mobile factory. Like a bloodstain, a rusty smear from a recent spice blow marked the dunes. The machinery scooped the top sandy layers into separation chambers, where centrifuges and filters did the first-cut processing to pull out the spice and eject the debris.

Salvador sat in his padded seat, peering through the expanded central observation window, while his functionaries gathered at smaller portholes on the sides. “What huge machinery!” one of them gasped.

Spotter aircraft flew high, keeping watch. Salvador’s own guards remained alert and wary, but Josef reassured them. “Those flyers are constantly on the alert for giant sandworms.”

“Your harvesting crew is creating an awful mess, isn’t it?” Salvador said. It wasn’t really a question.

Josef saw the churning scar the mobile spice factory was leaving as it scooped melange-saturated sand. “They’ve been at full production now for only about fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes?” said one of the baliset players.

“Spice operations are a race against the worms,” Josef explained. “Sire, when these become Imperial operations, your workers will have to heed that as well.”

Salvador raised his eyebrows, but it was clear that he really didn’t care. “We intend to hire many of your own crew chiefs, and we’ll bring in Imperial geologists, industrial managers, planetologists. If you like, we may even retain you as a consultant.”

Josef wanted to strangle the condescending nobleman, but instead he chuckled. “Venport Holdings gives me plenty to occupy my time, Sire. My family has accomplished a great deal here over the generations, but spice harvesting is dirty and difficult work, with many losses as well as gains. Honestly, I won’t miss it in the least.”

Emperor Salvador seemed overly pleased with himself. “I love situations where everyone wins.”

The shuttle found a landing spot in a flattened area marked off between dunes. Josef had given instructions to the spice crew to get ready for a secret high-level inspection, telling them to prepare a landing area, since he didn’t think the Emperor’s pilot would be skilled enough to land on the factory’s upper deck.

The craft lurched from side to side as it set down, and the group made sounds of dismay. This time the pilot apologized for the rough landing before Salvador could scold him.

The party emerged wearing no protective clothing of any sort. They weren’t going to stay here long, and they could always retreat to the Imperial shuttle if the heat and dust grew too uncomfortable.

A yellow glare reflected off the dunes. Several functionaries coughed in the swirling dust. Salvador blinked in the bright light. “The smell of spice is … suffocating,” he said, then laughed. “I never imagined a person could smell too much spice!”

The factory crew chief, Baren Okarr, came forward to meet them. A weathered, squat man with a dust-encrusted face, Okarr showed little deference for the Imperial Presence. His pleasantries were cursory. “I have a quota to meet, Sire.” He nodded to Josef. “Directeur, our operations are at full capacity. We hope to have another half hour of harvesting time before a worm comes.”

“Will we see a worm?” asked Salvador.

“Oh, you’ll see one,” Josef said, “no doubt about that.”

“But how close is it now?” asked a functionary.

“The vibrations of the factory will attract at least one,” Josef explained. “It just depends on how far we are into the worm’s territory, and where the monster is when it detects us.” The entourage seemed nervous, so Josef urged them to hurry. “The crew chief will take you inside the factory for a tour, but it has to be quick. I want you to see the harvesting and processing.” He gestured for the people to move forward, smiling and nodding, while he lagged behind. Even without the pounding machinery, the clumsy footsteps of a hundred people would have attracted a sandworm.

As the others chattered with nervous excitement, Josef slipped a focused limpet detonator into his palm and casually approached the shuttle hull, tossing the limpet up against the near engine socket, where it adhered. The placement didn’t need to be accurate — the focused charge would do enough damage to the engines that the pilot would never take off again.