Mentats of Dune

“Tell us!” Dorotea’s eyes were dark, penetrating, and almost hypnotic.

Suddenly, as if her importunate voice had broken him, Quemada began to babble. “There are those who purchase organs on the black market, Tlulaxa researchers, even Suk transplant physicians. When a person dies under questioning, my Scalpel team is there to remove the organs. No waste, and others benefit.” Perspiration poured from him. “It is not forbidden! I’ve done nothing illegal.”

“But you have a financial incentive in letting them die.”

Quemada glanced at a horrified Salvador with eyes that burned with guilt, shame, and a rage that he could not conceal.

Dorotea stepped back, looking exhausted. She turned to the Emperor. “I can tell he is keeping other secrets, Sire, but I trust that was a sufficient demonstration?”

Roderick said in a mild voice, “You’ll notice, brother, that Sister Dorotea determined that information in only a few minutes, without even touching the man, without so much as one crushed finger or ripped-away nail. And he is still alive for you to treat as you wish. I’d say the Truthsayer’s methods are far superior.”

Salvador trembled with excitement. “You certainly made your point, brother. And if my Grand Inquisitor is hiding even more from me, we shall learn exactly what it is. It’s only fitting, however, that his own Scalpel practitioners extract the information from him. In public.”

The Grand Inquisitor writhed and pleaded. “Ask Empress Tabrina what you want to know. Get the truth out of her!”

Salvador raised his eyebrows, then turned to Roderick, even more pleased. “Oh, we will.”

Chapter 34 (History often distorts through a lens of fear)

History often distorts through a lens of fear. After disregarding the bombastic nonsense about General Agamemnon and the original Titans, I realize that those cymeks could have been great, if hubris had not destroyed them.

— PTOLEMY, Denali Laboratory Journals

The shimmer of sunlight on dunes dazzled Ptolemy as he emerged from the landing vehicle. Yes, these wastelands of Arrakis would make an excellent testing bed for his new cymeks.

As Ptolemy had requested, their private VenHold craft had landed out in the open desert, bypassing the main spaceport so there would be no record of its presence. The Mentats at the Combined Mercantiles headquarters had made all the necessary arrangements. Directeur Venport intended to keep this work secret for now, but when Ptolemy finally unleashed the cymeks against Manford Torondo’s savages, everyone would tremble before these gigantic machines.

He felt a chill that the desert heat could not dispel. His mind filled with a wishful vision of the hateful rabble leader whimpering in terror as he watched the nightmarish mechanical walkers smashing his panicked barbarians and tossing their shattered bodies like bloody dolls.

He coughed, then attempted to cover the sound, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Directeur. Ptolemy’s lungs had not stopped aching and burning since his exposure to Denali’s atmosphere. The research facility’s doctors had performed a deep scan, verifying that he had suffered significant pulmonary scarring. They assured him that with treatment, he could regain his health. But his work was all that mattered to him, and he could not take time for the extensive cellular restructuring the treatment would require.

Inside the domed medical facility, Administrator Noffe had taken care of him for weeks, making sure his friend ate regularly and took his medication. Although Ptolemy did not like the way the inhalant dulled his thoughts, the pain had an even more adverse effect, distracting him from what he needed to do.…

Their craft rested on a safe ridge of rock that overlooked an ocean of dunes, where the test would take place. As wind whipped sand around, Ptolemy stood with the others, but alone with his thoughts, ignoring the conversation around him. He wished Elchan were there, but his friend could no longer speak to him, because he’d been murdered by the Butlerians.

“It takes a powerful weapon to pierce the armor of ignorance,” Ptolemy muttered.

“What did you say?” Directeur Venport turned from talking with his Mentat, Draigo Roget, who had accompanied them at the last minute. Venport had been preoccupied with business since his recent address to the Landsraad, but he was eager to witness the new cymek demonstration.

Ptolemy gave him a stiff smile. “Sorry, sir. I was distracted by minutiae. This is an important day for me.” He struggled to subdue another fit of coughing. This arid air exacerbated the pain in his damaged lungs.

“An important day for all of us,” said Draigo Roget.

Ptolemy paid little attention to broader politics in the Imperium; he focused only on his part of the game. He had been involved with the design of the new cymeks, modifying the mobility systems, neural linkages, and thoughtrode controls, including sensors implanted in his own body. With this enhanced co

For much too long, Ptolemy had felt small and insignificant, powerless in the face of difficult events. With his new cymeks, he had changed. He felt mighty just thinking about his army. Technically, it was Directeur Venport’s army, but Ptolemy knew these cymeks better than anyone else did; no other person had his love for each mechanical walker, and for the disembodied, mutated brains that operated them.

Directeur Venport waited while a team of workers emerged from the shuttle to set up observation chairs so that he, Ptolemy, and the Mentat could watch the show.

Before the test began, Ptolemy explained, “Denali is a harsh place for humans, but cymek systems can withstand the poisonous air. Here on Arrakis, the extreme environment poses different challenges — the aridity, sand, static electricity, and uncertain ground.”

“And the sandworms,” Draigo added.

“We agree it’s a good place to test,” Venport said. “Now launch your cymeks. I want to see them in action. Give me your commentary as we watch.”

An armored cubical chamber gently dropped onto the sands at the base of the rocky ridge. Ptolemy had not wanted the cargo pod to land in the middle of the dunes, because the thump of its impact might attract a sandworm before he was ready. When he sent a signal from his remote, the pod walls separated and folded down like the petals of a flower.

Seven of the numerous new cymeks rose into ready positions on mechanical legs. These were the best and brightest, the ones selected for this demonstration. Standing high off the ground, all had high-powered engines, impenetrable armor film, and a suite of devastating weapons.

“These walker bodies comprise speed and agility as well as brute force.” Ptolemy lowered his voice, suddenly shy. “I’ve done my best to make them indestructible.”

“We’ll see about that,” Directeur Venport said.

The big machines marched away from the open cargo pod, testing the viscosity of the sand, analyzing the slope of the dunes. Ptolemy knew what the encased brains were thinking, since he had programmed the sensors himself. He had provided the proto-Navigators with all known data about Arrakis, including questionable accounts of the huge sandworms.

The black-garbed Mentat stood beside his observation seat, unable to relax. Draigo stared out at the sands where the heavy cymek walkers trudged along. “The vibrations of their feet could draw a worm. Are they ready for it?”

“The brains have been briefed, and the walkers are fully armed.”

Venport sat back in his chair, shading his eyes, watching the heavy machines tread across the dunes. After they assessed the terrain, they moved with greater agility. Demonstrating their systems, the two foremost walkers bounded to another dune, then another, in what looked like a graceful insect mating dance.