Mentats of Dune

Raquella stepped forward. “What are you suggesting?”

Valya flicked dark hair from her eyes. “Remember how easily the Sister Mentats were killed by Imperial troops? They were helpless in the face of brutish soldiers!”

The Mother Superior listened and considered. “The Sisterhood’s mission is to improve human abilities in all our candidates. Training is physical as well as mental, and mental abilities are enhanced by well-honed bodies. I agree, personal combat training would make the Sisterhood stronger.”

“Our enemies definitely won’t expect it.” Valya stood next to her sister as they faced the old woman. “Do we have your permission to show other Sisters our methods?”

“Of course. Each individual contributes to the whole. Develop an instruction routine as you see fit. But first I have a different mission for you.” She extended her arm. “Come, Valya, walk with me.”

As they crossed the grass, Raquella leaned on the younger woman’s arm, though she could have kept her balance without the assistance. The support she needed from Valya was far more than this.

The old woman continued, “On my orders, you were instrumental in hiding our electronic breeding records on Rossak. Although the new Sister Mentats are memorizing the incomplete bound records, that is not sufficient. Even if the records were exhaustive, it would take them far too long to assimilate so much data, one page at a time, and the result would not accomplish our larger goals.”

Valya could see where the discussion was heading, and her eyes flashed with a hungry pride. “You want me to go to Rossak, retrieve the hidden computers, and bring them back to Wallach IX, so we can continue our work on an accelerated scale.” Her lips curved in a grim smile. “That would prove Dorotea and her faction didn’t win.”

Raquella paused at a bench to catch her breath. “Those computers caused the deaths of many Sisters and created a huge schism in the order. But they are necessary, and I refuse to surrender them. Dorotea could never find the computers, never prove they existed, no matter how hard she searched. When we have them again, we must be extremely careful not to let the secret out.”

Valya narrowed her eyes. “I am good at keeping secrets — and at accomplishing what needs to be done. I will bring them back for you, Mother Superior. You can count on me.”

“Yes … yes, I can count on you. Lead a team of our best Sisters to Rossak to retrieve what is ours … and do it soon. We may not have much time.”

Valya was concerned. “Is there a crisis?”

“There is always a crisis. Right now, I am very old, Valya. Old and tired.”

Chapter 15 (Anyone who searches for the meaning)

Anyone who searches for the meaning of life is on a fool’s journey. Human life has no redeeming purpose or value.

— the cymek GENERAL AGAMEMNON, A Time for Titans

On a side street in Arrakis City, Vorian Atreides remained with Captain Phillips in the crowded, noisy gaming den for the better part of an hour. They watched the gamblers, the drug consumers, and those who imbibed potent spice beer or expensive offworld liquors. The dingy place smelled of dust, melange, and a faint background odor of urine from a poorly sealed reclamation chamber. Vor frowned; no true desert worker would be so careless as to let that moisture go to waste. He shuffled his boots to find a more comfortable position for his sore infected toe.

Griffin Harko

Captain Phillips wanted to eavesdrop on conversations, hoping to find a supplier who could offer a cargo of melange for a better price than Qimmit’s. So far, Phillips had remained silent, but now he caught Vor’s gaze, then nodded over his shoulder. Vor took a careful, casual sip of his spice beer while glancing where the captain had indicated. He spotted Qimmit in the crowd, chatting with miners and Combined Mercantiles businessmen.

“He’s moving in our direction … and not by accident,” Phillips said. “I’ve been watching him inch his way toward us.”

With his dusty stillsuit hood down to reveal his matted, unruly hair, Qimmit glided through the throng, pretending not to look at the two men.

“We won’t need to find an alternate supplier if he decides to lower his price,” the captain continued. “Qimmit is a crafty one, but he’s the least crooked of the possible suppliers. At least he never sells me diluted product.”

“Should we turn our backs on him?” Vor asked. He guessed that Qimmit had never expected them to walk away in the first place, and he wouldn’t want to lose their business to a rival. “To show him he’ll have to work to get us back?”

Phillips clicked his glass against his companion’s, nodded. “A good negotiating ploy, Vorian Kepler.”

Kepler. The alternate surname still jarred Vor. He wished he could tell the captain the full truth, but Vor preferred to remain anonymous.

They were trying to catch the bartender’s attention to order refills when a disingenuous voice said from behind, “If you two are here, then you haven’t found another supplier. Still need a load of spice?”

Vor and the captain turned to face the gri

Qimmit patted the captain’s back and looked at him with unfocused blue eyes. “You’re in luck, old friend. I’ve been talking with one of my associates, and his crew just returned after excavating a large spice deposit in the deep desert. The melange is earmarked for Combined Mercantiles, of course, but he is allowed a certain percentage for, ah, discretionary use. He delivered the haul to a warehouse here in town, and he’ll be putting his percentage up for auction. But if that happens, it goes through inspectors, packagers, shipping administrators, all of whom expect bribes. Rather than bother with all that, I convinced him to offer you the load under a revised pricing structure — if we can come to a quick agreement. I am in a volatile business.”

The captain responded in a terse tone, as if holding a grudge, and Vor didn’t think it was an act. “Revised pricing structure? Exactly what price do you propose?”

Qimmit rattled on about profit margins, equipment losses, and storage fees, and gri

Captain Phillips finished his drink, seemingly unaffected by the potency, and turned to Vor. “We’d better load the cargo right away and get back to the ship. Weathersats show a sandstorm rolling in tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to be trapped on this rock.”

AS THEY HURRIED out through the dusty city, making their way along convoluted alleys that had an aversion to straight lines, Vorian and Captain Phillips encountered dusty-robed desert people gathered around a battered transport vehicle that had landed in an open square near a collapsed warehouse.

The desert people came forward with a quick efficiency of movement, like ants working together on a silent mission. Walking shoulder to shoulder, they entered the cargo bay, then returned down the ramp, each pair carrying a body loosely wrapped in a polymer tarpaulin.

Phillips stopped, his expression a mixture of fear and disgust. Vor knew what the people were doing. “Casualties, Captain — retrieved from a spice crew, judging by the orange dust swirling around. Frequent accidents occur.”