Mentats of Dune

Anari had plenty of volunteers to trigger the violence, and as soon as the riot began, more in the crowd joined in, unable to resist the tide. Perhaps they were showing their true feelings, or perhaps they simply did not want to be seen as an enemy and fall victim to mob violence. Either way, they were fighting on the correct side.

Unfortunately, the people got to Deacon Kalifer before Anari could reach him. He tried to fight them off, but his efforts proved useless as they beat him unconscious. They hacked off his legs in a twisted parody of Manford, then dragged him through the streets. He died of blood loss in a matter of minutes.

Across the city, the newly arrived supplies and ships were being destroyed. Deacon Kalifer and his entire government council were slain. Any citizen who tried to stop the mob from ransacking buildings also became a target. It was a necessary cleansing, since too many citizens of Baridge had forgotten the truth, forgotten who they really were.

Anari led the charge into the main VenHold spacefolder. The larger vessel was a former robot battleship, full of sharp lines and intimidating angles that were designed to trigger instinctive fear. Anari had been aboard such vessels before, when she and Manford destroyed any derelict thinking-machine ship they found.

Bloody corpses in VenHold uniforms lay in the corridors. Anari kept shouting commands even though her voice went hoarse. She knew how to find the control deck of the old robot ship, and led some followers there, while others spread out through the decks, looking for frightened crewmembers to kill.

She wished Directeur Escon could see the glory of these devout followers doing their holy work, but maybe it didn’t matter. The shipping magnate was weak and made too many excuses; he remained aboard his own ship in orbit, not wanting to go down to the surface of Baridge until the matter had been resolved. Anari didn’t really need him for this work.

After the Swordmaster gained some control over her wild anger, she realized that Manford could incorporate this vessel into his defense fleet — with the expanding conflict, he needed to gather all the ships he could. She issued orders to be passed among the swarming Butlerians: Capture or kill any traitors found aboard, but inflict no more damage on the ship. “Leader Torondo requires it,” she said, and that was enough reason. In a matter of minutes, her followers mitigated their violence, although their continued shouts and howls sounded like war cries as they ransacked cabins and corridors.

Anari and a group of wild-eyed fighters reached the control deck. Two human pilots gave up without a fight, but she refused to accept their surrender, and slashed them to pieces herself.

When the bodies of the VenHold pilots were dragged away from the controls, she realized to her horror that computers were part of the navigation systems. It was like discovering a nest of scorpions. Even though she had advised the others not to cause further damage, she told them to smash the navigation calculators anyway. No sane person could have any use for those.

She heard a shrill yell. “Swordmaster! It’s a monster!”

Two of her followers gestured toward a lift platform. When she reached the higher deck, she found a plaz chamber filled with orange-brown gas and a creature inside with an enlarged head, amphibious eyes, and webbed fingers. Its arms and legs hinted that it might once have been human. It had to be one of VenHold’s mysterious Navigators, the prescient things that guided the ships.

“You must stop!” said a voice through the speakers. “You have caused enough damage. You do not understand.”

Anari did not wish to hear any of this, had no tolerance for computers or monsters. She found the tank’s hatch and released it, thinking she would climb inside and slay the twisted Navigator. But the internal pressure was explosive, and rich melange gas boiled out. The creature in the tank flailed, and his words were filled with alarm. “Stop! You will never comprehend the secrets!”

He spoke more words, but she stopped herself from hearing them by smashing the speakerpatch. Together with the others, she hammered at the tank until the plaz wall shattered. More gas spilled out, reeking of spice. Spice …

She watched the creature inside gasping, weakening. This VenHold ship had been loaded with melange, a gift for the weak people of Baridge. The Navigator thrived on spice, and now it seemed to suffocate without it.

She knew that Venport Holdings had been heavily involved with spice production on Arrakis. The clue felt like an irritating pebble in her shoe. Did Josef Venport depend on spice to create these horrendous monsters? The humanoid thing gasped, sucking in useless breaths, but its words were incomprehensible. It seemed to be pleading, trying to explain something.

Anari turned away. “Pull that creature out and drag it through the streets so all can see what sort of monstrosity allies itself with Josef Venport.”

Coughing, her eyes stinging from the pungent spice gas, Anari watched them draw the slippery-ski

Manford would be pleased at what Anari had accomplished — and what she had discovered. The existence of this deformed thing changed everything. If Josef Venport’s Spacing Fleet required great supplies of melange to keep functioning, then maybe she would have to take a trip to Arrakis.…

Chapter 46 (Sometimes the best way to see the familiar is to go far from it)

Sometimes the best way to see the familiar is to go far from it.

— wisdom of the desert

When he returned to Arrakis City under orders from Directeur Venport, Taref felt as if a dust storm had passed from his mind, and he saw the city clearly for the first time. Though he was sure it had not changed, this wasn’t the same place he had left.

While growing up in the sietch, he’d thought of the city as a huge metropolis filled with strange noises and smells. In those days, he and his friends could journey for days across open featureless dunes and still find their way home, yet they could get lost in the city’s tangled streets. There were so many tall buildings, confusing alleys, crowds of strangers, and unexpected perils.

Now, however, Taref realized that Arrakis City was small in comparison to other offworld population centers. Buildings that had once seemed magnificent were rather low and weather-beaten. The streets were dirty, the people huddled. Though large numbers of VenHold spice haulers lifted off daily, the Arrakis spaceport operations didn’t compare with those on Kolhar, or even Junction Alpha.

He’d been gone from the desert for only a few months, but he’d grown accustomed to bathing and feeling clean. His flesh had gained an unsettling soft flexibility; he could now pinch it between his fingers instead of feeling the stiff tautness of a desert-adapted body. Naib Rurik would consider that a weakness.

Poor Shurko would have felt that way as well, Taref knew. Even on planets with an abundance of moisture, his stern young friend had rationed his water intake, afraid that he would forget the basics of simple existence, that he would grow soft and weak. Taref would never forget the core of the desert within him — nor would he ever forget his dead friend — but he was open to learning and experiencing new things as well.

Yet the wondrous new places had not been so wondrous after all, and his work had been little different from what he had done when sabotaging spice-harvesting equipment — except that it cost a great many lives. And now Shurko would not be returning to the desert, would never need his desert knowledge again.