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Gilbertus raised his chin. “And I deeply regret having done any of them. I erred in trying to protect myself rather than standing up for my principles. I should have openly defied you long ago. You are wrong.”
Hearing this, the Butlerians went into a barely suppressed fury. Gilbertus had promised himself he would make a statement, but he also had to be careful, because this mob could cause inconceivable damage to the school, not just to him. “You’ll have me as your spectacle, but I remind you of your oath. You will save my school.”
“I will save your school,” Manford said. “I’ll save the Mentats from themselves. They will continue their training, but they’ll be reeducated. Mentats need to understand that their entire purpose is to supersede computers, not emulate them.”
Gilbertus remained stony, realizing that was the best promise he would get. He knew Manford would alter the terms however he wished, and would make whatever justifications he needed.
He was not afraid of Manford’s attempts at indoctrination, since he had trained his students how to think, rather than to blindly follow any doctrine. Gilbertus had given his cherished students the method, and their minds were tools that the Butlerians could not take away, short of killing them. The next Mentats would have to be careful and find ways to continue the great school, or perhaps Draigo might set up another Mentat learning academy someplace safe.
Gilbertus felt confident that Mentats would continue in some form or another, no matter what happened to him. And if the Mentats survived, then this was a worthwhile bargain.
Anari stood there, her sword gleaming in the bright dawn. Deacon Harian glared at him with loathing, blaming Gilbertus for the machines using human shields at the Bridge of Hrethgir, and for the generations of suffering before that. The accusations were ludicrous, and Gilbertus didn’t bother to look at him.
Manford said, “You committed horrific crimes against your own race, Gilbertus Albans. If you recant and beg for forgiveness with all your heart and soul, God may forgive you. But I can make no promises, and you will die today.”
“I wouldn’t want you making me promises on God’s behalf. He may not feel obliged to honor them.”
Harian looked even more offended than before, but Manford merely nodded. “That is your choice, Headmaster. God will do with you as He wishes.”
Gilbertus gave a last smile. “I look forward to debating him.”
Without being asked, he turned to face Anari Idaho and sank to his knees. He heard distant cries of dismay from the observation platforms and growls of outrage from the Butlerians, but it all retreated to a buzz in his mind.
“I know you’re a good Swordmaster and your blade is sharp,” he said.
Anari’s voice cut crisply through the air. “I will do my job.”
He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and withdrew into his Memory Vault, where he had many decades of life to revisit. He knew he had very little time, and memories moved at their own speed.
Gilbertus had spent the first portion of his life on Corrin, with all the care and teaching Erasmus had given him, yet now in memory he returned to his happy times on Lectaire, the seven years when he’d been a normal human being leading a quiet life, in good company. He’d made his first human friends there, including Jewelia, the first person he’d ever loved, an experience he held within him as a long-term treasure, even though it had not turned out as he hoped. Gilbertus also relived the pain of his broken heart, when she had chosen someone else, instead of him.
He remembered Jewelia’s sweet, caring face, her carefree laugh, the good times they spent together. By now she would be old and quite possibly dead, but in his Memory Vault she remained as young and vibrant as the last time he saw her.
He spent that bright moment with her now, and didn’t feel the pain when the sharp sword made its deadly arc.
Chapter 77 (Sand flows through my veins)
Sand flows through my veins, dust fills my lungs, and the taste of spice lingers in my mouth. The desert is inside me and ca
— desert hymn
He discarded everything from offworld before returning to the desert. He felt like a prodigal son with no family to receive him. Taref had no place to go, not on Arrakis, not anywhere.
Thanks to the largesse of Directeur Venport, he could have bought himself the finest home in Arrakis City and a tanker of water to fill his household cistern. He could have traveled to Caladan, as he’d once fantasized … but that dream had crumbled into ashes, and he wondered why it had ever seemed important.
In his galactic journeys he had felt rain and sleet on his skin, and although those were wondrous experiences, Taref could not measure them against watching a yellow sunrise spill across the dunes, or the smell of raw melange from a fresh spice blow so pungent that it made him want to pull out his nose-plugs and inhale the desert’s bounty deep into his lungs.
Taref didn’t want to return to his sietch, though, at least not in defeat. He had ideas but didn’t know what to do with them. The desert would help him find himself.
He considered his modified distilling suit, the one VenHold had given him with sophisticated “improvements.” It was comfortable and functioned efficiently, but it smelled wrong, felt wrong. He stripped off the suit, intending to dispose of it, but realized he had only offworlder clothes with him, which would not let him survive in the desert. Instead, he sold the suit to a blue-eyed vendor, who immediately saw its value. Taref accepted the man’s first offer, caring only that he had enough money to trade for an old but serviceable distilling suit. He should have thought of that before throwing away the money that Venport gave him, scattering coins in the street and watching scavengers rush in to retrieve them.
He carefully looked over the offered distilling suit before accepting it from the vendor. No true Freeman would ever surrender a good stillsuit, so this one must have come from the body of a dead man. Taref studied the fittings and seams and discovered where a knife puncture to the kidney area had been cleaned and repaired. Such things happened all the time. No desert dweller would let a suit go to waste, but would fix and reuse it. Taref do
Though Directeur Venport had covered up the assassination of Emperor Salvador Corrino, Taref felt the stain of his own actions on his conscience. The Imperial Barge had escaped — but it would likely be lost, since he had sabotaged its navigation systems. He remembered, though, that he had not taken the time to finish his work, upset by Manford’s ghost. Still, what he had done should be more than enough to make certain the barge was never seen again.
He learned that Directeur Venport had purged the records of the Arrakis City spaceport and the orbital tracking systems. Everyone back on Salusa Secundus would be mystified when the opulent Imperial Barge vanished en route — another tragic loss, like so many other ships that had been lost recently, due to the dangers of galactic travel.…
Taref also wanted to vanish. The desert would enfold and caress him, in spite of its dangers, which were at least familiar to him. Maybe he would die, and maybe he would be saved, but he needed to find out one way or the other.
He left the city behind, along with its ways that were nearly as alien to him as those of Venport Holdings. Taref had his stillsuit, a literjon of water, spice, and food. A man of the desert required nothing more.