Mentats of Dune

Quemada’s latest victim screamed and then slumped from the excruciating pain. Irritated that he hadn’t answered all the questions, the Grand Inquisitor called for another subject, to a rising swell of cheers. This seemed as mad as the Butlerian rampage festival. Emperor Salvador should have known better than to incite the crowds, which could so easily get out of control. Unable to bear more of the harsh scene, Roderick entered the suite.

Salvador received him with a warm smile that made him uncomfortable. The Emperor wore one of his assorted lavish military uniforms, this one crimson and white, with a golden lion on the lapel. “Ah, I’m so glad you joined me. I was about to go out on the balcony while I have my coffee. I have some fresh melange from Arrakis, if you want it.”

The loud cheers outside tightened the knot in Roderick’s stomach, making him think of Manford’s murderous mob as they rampaged through the city. “I’d rather stay inside, if you don’t mind. That reminds me of the tortures the thinking machines inflicted upon us. We’re supposed to be better than machines.”

Salvador looked disappointed by the comment. He stood at the window, gazing out at the crowd, then slumped casually on a sofa inside the office. “Have your way, then.” He motioned for a female aide to deliver the coffee service to a small sitting area on the right of his goldenwood desk.

Roderick said in a heavy voice, “You once told me you wanted justice to be an enduring legacy of your reign. What’s happening out there in the plaza is not justice.”

“The crowd seems to like the show. It’s a pressure release for them.” As Salvador spoke, the throng roared and cheered.

“But it’s adding fuel to flames. Once a crowd gets a taste for violence, they’ll burn down half the city and kill anyone who happens to be in the way, including little girls and their na

Salvador blinked. “Ah, of course! I’m sorry. I didn’t think how it would remind you of what happened to your daughter.”

“Everything reminds me of Nantha.” Roderick clenched his hands into fists at his sides as he struggled to maintain a professional demeanor. His brother needed him. He said, “There are other ways to get information, Sire. A Truthsayer could extract the answers far more efficiently — and reliably — than this torture. Those victims out there confess only because of the pain, not because they ca

Salvador sipped his coffee, added more melange. “My Grand Inquisitor serves his purpose, too. No one is going to cower in terror of a black-robed woman who simply stands there and listens in silence.”

“Nevertheless, by listening in silence, Sister Dorotea discovered the fraud perpetrated by House Péle.”

Salvador sniffed. “Quemada got more information out of Blanton Davido afterward.”

“And killed him in the process. Dorotea could have obtained the same information, and more, and we would have had a living hostage.”

“Or a convicted prisoner, headed for execution.”

Roderick did not want to disagree. “Either way, Omak Péle might not have been frightened into going renegade. I advise that we rely more on Sister Dorotea and her Truthsayers for interrogations, and avoid these public displays of cruelty.”

“What would be the fun in that?” Salvador muttered in a voice so quiet that Roderick barely heard him. Then he spoke louder. “Perhaps a challenge! We should test the two of them, have Sister Dorotea question Quemada with her methods … and then let my Grand Inquisitor question her in return.”

“He would kill her!”

Salvador waved a finger. “Not if he knows it would displease me.”

Roderick thought about Dorotea’s strength and focus; as a Reverend Mother, she had achieved a level of bodily control that Roderick could not begin to understand. Maybe his brother was right. He remained uneasy that Dorotea’s orthodox Sisters so openly sided with the violent Butlerians, but surely a Truthsayer’s interrogation had to be less barbaric than this.

The Emperor summoned his aide again, smiling at Roderick. “Let’s have a civilized demonstration of their respective abilities. We’ll serve tea and little spice cookies.”

AN HOUR LATER, Sister Dorotea swept into the observation suite in her characteristic black robe, but her brown hair looked freshly cut; as always, she had a presence about her. She gave both the Emperor and Roderick curt nods, and then her unflinching gaze settled on Quemada, who sat in a straight-backed chair. The Grand Inquisitor looked very uncomfortable, only minimally cleaned up after his efforts in the square. Outside, at Roderick’s request, Imperial guards had dispersed the unhappy crowd. Maintenance workers were dismantling the props and spraying down the interrogation equipment.

Dorotea and Quemada had been told why they were summoned. Roderick noted that the Grand Inquisitor seemed oddly intimidated by the Truthsayer; he was obviously more comfortable asking questions than answering them.

Salvador gestured impatiently. “Very well, let’s get on with it.”

“Considering the likely results of Quemada’s handiwork, Sister Dorotea will go first,” Roderick said.

Dorotea stood tall and stared at the Grand Inquisitor, not saying anything, not asking anything. As moments passed, Quemada grew increasingly red-faced and indignant. Several times his mouth quivered as if he were about to say something, but he clamped his lips shut. He held Dorotea’s gaze, undoubtedly imagining what he would inflict on her when he got his turn.

Finally, the Emperor lost patience. “Ask him what you’re supposed to ask.”

“He is already speaking to me without words, Sire.” She paused for a moment longer, then stepped closer to Quemada. “We both seek the truth. Why do you need so much violence to ply your trade? Your training from the Suk School should be sufficient to inflict pain without resorting to physical damage or death. Are you unskilled, or do you enjoy hurting people? Is that why you look forward to going to work every day?”

Quemada half rose, but forced himself to sit back down. “I do only what is necessary.”

“Necessary?” She leaned forward like a bird that had spotted a bright shiny object. “Many of your subjects die under questioning — a great many. Yet a skilled Suk practitioner should be able to keep even the most grievously injured victim alive. Why do you find it necessary to kill them? Is it intentional?”

“I obtain the information the Emperor requires.”

“But he doesn’t require you to kill them. In fact, their deaths are often inconvenient. Blanton Davido should not have died so quickly under your questioning.” She watched him like a specimen under high magnification.

“I derive the truth the Emperor needs.”

Dorotea drew back, catching her breath. “Ah, but I see much more than that, more than just the enjoyment of inflicting pain. I did not recognize that you were being pragmatic, and I apologize for thinking you were a sadist — that’s not it at all. This is a practical matter, isn’t it? I see now that you find the victims useful in secret ways. And profitable.” Her eyes flicked back and forth, and Roderick noticed a changing demeanor in the Grand Inquisitor as she continued to speak. “When someone dies during questioning, the Emperor doesn’t ask what you do with the bodies afterward.” She turned to Salvador. “Do you, Sire?”

He was confused. “Of course not.”

Roderick had not expected this at all.

Dorotea continued to press Quemada. “You and your Scalpel assistants dispose of the bodies personally. Is there some reason you want them? How do you benefit from corpses? You kill specific people … or you let them die, because…” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re after their organs?”

“No, I — uh, I—” Thick beads of perspiration had formed on Quemada’s forehead and upper lip, and his entire body was shaking. He seemed to be dissolving before their eyes.