Mentats of Dune

Inside the spice harvester, the operational noise was deafening, the smells offensive, the grit everywhere. Emperor Salvador kept his hands close at his sides, reluctant to touch anything. He frowned at the unavoidable brown-orange stains that marked his fine garments. Dirty desert crewmen rushed up and down the corridors, brushing past the visitors, hurrying about their tasks.

“This is an active operation, Sire,” Josef said. “Every person has a duty, and very little time to do it in. If one person misses a deadline, then the rest of the operation fails — as you can see, this is a huge undertaking.”

Salvador was struggling with his own discomfort. “Now I see why melange is so expensive.”

The crew chief led them up to the main operations deck, where twelve men and women sat at their stations, shouting into radio links. They remained in contact with the spotters and ground crews, and with the dune rollers that mapped out the expanse of visible melange, sending probes down into the sand. The pounding racket and miasmic odors made the operation unpleasant, and Josef knew the pampered Emperor Salvador would not tolerate it much longer. He felt tense.

Finally, at the central communication station, a dusty older woman looked up at him. “Directeur, there’s a message for you.”

His heart leapt with relief. “Excuse me, Sire. I’ve been expecting an urgent communication. I’ll deal with it quickly, and then we can continue your tour.”

“But what about the sandworm?” said Salvador.

“No sign of one yet. Don’t worry.” Josef hurried away from the control deck, ostensibly to an office compartment. Instead, he climbed a metal ladder and opened a hatch to the roof of the factory, where he kept a small escape flyer on the upper deck. All around him, dust and sand blew, while mechanical scoops hammered into the dunes, sending an irresistible summons to any sandworm in the vicinity.

Minutes later, he sealed himself into the escape flyer’s cockpit, activated the engines, and transmitted to the two spotter craft that had sent him the message. He’d given the spotters strict instructions, and a promise of huge rewards — enough for each man to retire — if they contacted him first, privately.

“We’ve got distant wormsign, Directeur, but have not informed the factory yet.”

“Excellent. And have the carryalls been withdrawn?”

“Yes, sir. Are you sure you wish to do this?”

Josef thought about Emperor Salvador and how the ponderous, dallying fool had decided to take over these vast spice operations on a whim. “I’m positive.”

He took off in the flyer, leaving the Emperor and his entourage vulnerable, along with (sadly) a qualified and experienced crew. And all that expensive equipment. VenHold was contributing both blood and treasure to this operation, but it was worth the cost.

With the remote-control device in his pocket, he triggered the focused limpet detonator he had planted, which exploded in a small puff, crippling the Emperor’s shuttle. Then he opened the comm line again to the two spotter pilots. “Good enough. Go ahead and make your a

The worthless Emperor might as well know what was coming.

Chapter 71 (When the weak become powerful)

When the weak become powerful, their former oppressors will tremble in fear.

— Orange Catholic Bible

At first, the visiting Suk doctors were afraid to do what was necessary, but Ptolemy would not let them avoid their responsibilities. They were the only ones who could help Noffe. The scientist commanded them, bullied them, and hovered beside them inside the Denali surgical center as they completed the work. This was not, after all, much different from what they had done many times before to extract and preserve the brains from dying Navigator bodies.

For the first week after the surgery, Ptolemy rarely left the preservation tank that held the administrator’s brain, and the thoughtrodes functioned exactly as he expected. He co

Initially, the responses were jumbled gibberish, but Ptolemy had infinite patience. He spoke calmly, giving explanations so that his disoriented friend wouldn’t be so lost and frightened. The input sensors converted his softly spoken words into comprehensible pulses so that Noffe’s disembodied brain could understand him.

Finally, as Noffe calmed himself enough to focus on a single thought, he kept expressing, “Dark … too dark … too dark.”

Ptolemy leaned closer to the tank. “That’s because you have no eyes, my friend. Those will come next — optic threads to give you a visual clarity beyond anything your human eyes could ever have. After you adjust, you will be able to see all parts of the spectrum, and vast distances. Imagine the clarity. You will focus and see things no one else has ever seen! I envy you, in a way.”

In the speakerpatch, Noffe’s voice fumbled, tried several times, and then finally said, “Don’t envy me.…”

Several days later, once the optic sensors were installed and Noffe could “see” the laboratory around him, the administrator changed his dreary, disoriented gloom to optimistic marveling. Most importantly, he could now discern Ptolemy nearby, which he found reassuring; Noffe said he could even read an expression of concern and wonder on his friend’s face. Ptolemy responded with increasing excitement. “I’ll do everything to make this the best experience for you that it can possibly be, I promise.”

Noffe’s thinking was not as adept as an enhanced proto-Navigator brain, but with a week of practice he was able to control his thoughts and communicate clearly through the speakerpatch. Before long, he accepted and even embraced his new situation. “My old body was imperfect and weak, in need of repairs.”

Ptolemy fell into a fit of coughing. Despite his own treatments, his scarred lungs felt as if he had inhaled embers that refused to be extinguished. The visiting Suk doctors had treated Ptolemy’s damaged lungs, mitigating the worst symptoms, but even with the best medical attention, he would degenerate. “My body needs repairs as well.”

Noffe seemed eager. “When might I have one of the new walker bodies?”

Ptolemy was glad to consider the possibilities. “One step at a time, my good friend. I’ve trained many failed Navigators, but their minds are more adaptable than yours. I don’t want to rush you.”

“I am excited about this, very anxious,” Noffe said. “Don’t wait too long.”

Ptolemy let out a wistful sigh and tried to make a joke, but then squeezed stinging tears out of his eyes and struggled to hide his pain from Noffe’s new high-acuity sensors. “You’ll have all the time you could possibly wish,” Ptolemy finally managed. “Some of the Titans lived for thousands of years.”

“You should join me,” Noffe said. “I would hate to have humanity lose your insights … and I’d hate to lose you as a friend.”

Ptolemy had been thinking the same thing, daydreaming but not willing to succumb to the temptation. Even before his lungs were damaged, he had often looked longingly at the new cymek walkers, marveling at the strength of their mechanical arms and their protected body systems that allowed them to survive in the harshest environments … and gave them the ability to face hundreds of screaming barbarians.

“I have considered it, Noffe — many times.”

TO START WITH, Ptolemy installed Noffe’s brain canister in one of the smaller, old-model cymek walkers. The administrator reveled in being able to move about, and he gingerly tested his mechanical legs, growing more comfortable as he walked on them with increasing strength and balance.