Sisterhood of Dune (58 page)

A long time ago, when they’d worked as a team, Vor and Abulurd had planned to correct that injustice as soon as the thinking machines were defeated at Corrin. But after Abulurd betrayed him and nearly lost the Battle of Corrin because of his cowardice, Vor had refused to follow through on those plans, and as a consequence Xavier was still portrayed as a monster in the official records. Vor felt guilt for that. Abulurd deserved his punishment, but Xavier was merely a scapegoat in the politically driven Jihad.…

Yes, after his long life, Vor knew he needed to atone for many things, and he did not make excuses or ignore his responsibilities. He tried to do what was
right
and
necessary
—and hope that the two things were the same more often than not.

The twins had come hunting for him. Did they want to recruit him, or kill him? Vor had assassinated their father, but the cymek general had deserved to be executed, and Vor would not accept even a momentary flicker of guilt about that, even if the strange children of Agamemnon demanded revenge.

Vor heard someone approaching. The young guards outside the door stood at attention and acknowledged Ishanti and Naib Sharnak. Vor turned to face them as they entered.

The desert woman crossed her arms over her chest and did not defer to the tribal leader. “Sounds as if you’ve been busy while I was gone, Vorian Atreides.”

“I did not intend to be, but the killers followed us here.”

“One day they will come back,” the Naib said, “and we could better prepare ourselves if we understood who they are.”

“I already told you what I know.” But the Freemen had been away from the League for so long that they didn’t understand the power and fear General Agamemnon had wielded; they didn’t understand the indelible mark he had made on human history. He lowered his voice. “Again, I never intended to bring any harm to your people.”

“Your intentions do not bring back the spirits of those slain.” The Naib shot a sharp look at Ishanti. “And you are the person who brought him here, uninvited. There are those who mutter that
you
should be cast out in the desert along with this man.”

Ishanti gave a rude snort. “Let them try. Let them openly accuse me, and I’ll answer in my own defense. If they’re too frightened to do that, then their whispers are no more than the mutterings of a lone wanderer on the sand. I stand by Vorian Atreides. I believe he is honorable.”

Vor appreciated her support. Ishanti was rough and leathery, and the desert had scoured the beauty from her. Unwed and independent, she was an anomaly among the Freemen, and he wondered if she might actually be flirting with him. What did Vor care about her age? He had already spent a lifetime with each of two wives, and loved them even as their bodies grew old and infirm. But so soon after leaving Mariella, he had no interest in romance, wasn’t sure he ever would again.

Naib Sharnak continued, “We Freemen can defend ourselves—but this is not our battle. It has never been our battle, and I refuse to waste the blood of my people on
your
enemies. I have decided to cast you out into the desert, stranger, for our own safety.”

Ishanti looked indignant. “Give him supplies and a chance.”

The Naib didn’t care, one way or the other. “So long as you pay for them, Ishanti. To me, it is not imperative that he dies—simply that he
leaves.
”

“First, you should hear what I discovered in Arrakis City.” Ishanti looked at Vor. “I dug through the records of Combined Mercantiles, and found that no rival company claims responsibility for the attack on the spice operations.”

“I told you,” Vor said. “If those two are the children of Agamemnon, they were hunting
me.
They don’t care about politics or melange harvesting.”

“True … but another man approached me in the city, asking detailed questions about Vorian Atreides, as well.”

Naib Sharnak made a sound of disgust. “Just how many people are after you?”

Ishanti added, “And why? What have you done?”

“I’ve done plenty, but I’m still at a loss.” Had Agamemnon released yet another murderous offspring to track Vor down? “Tell me about the man trying to find me.”

“He was young and water-fat, no more than twenty-five years. Blond hair and a goatee, like nobles wear. He was blatant, even clumsy, when he asked about you. If he was a spy, he wasn’t much of one.”

Vor didn’t know anyone that young, and it didn’t sound like anyone from Kepler.

Ishanti turned to the Naib. “If dangerous people are hunting for Vorian Atreides, we should find out who they are before we banish him into the desert. What if they come out here?”

The Naib considered this for a moment, and nodded. “We must be prepared to defend ourselves.”

Ishanti said quickly, “I’ll take care of it.”

*   *   *

IN HIS WEEKS
in Arrakis City, Griffin had spent most of his money, and so far his search had yielded nothing. He had only sufficient funds for two more nights of lodging, and barely enough for food and water. Though he had tried to be frugal, he’d spent too much on fruitless bribes.

The specter of Vorian Atreides had loomed over generations of the Harkonnen family, and he was amazed that the man’s name evoked no reaction here. The people on Arrakis were so concerned with their daily toil that they cared little for a figure in a war that had begun almost two centuries ago.

Griffin refused to touch the final stash of credits he had set aside to buy passage off the planet. He would not compromise there: He had no intention of being stranded on Arrakis, whether or not he found Vorian Atreides. Two more days … and he would go home.

He missed Lankiveil. He had done what Valya asked, tried his best, but it had not gone well, and House Harkonnen might have to delay, or even abandon, its plan of vengeance.

Feeling no need to socialize, Griffin took his meals in his room. He was also wary of venturing out into the streets after sunset.

A furtive signal at his door surprised him, and he wondered who could possibly wish to speak to him, especially this late at night. However, he knew he had spread his name widely, planting tiny seeds of bribes with promises of more to come—though he had little money left. He hoped it was someone responding to his inquiries.

He opened the door to see three people in desert garb, their faces cloaked by dark scarves and hoods. “We have questions for you,” said the person in front, a woman. The voice behind the scarf was raspy and harsh.

He saw her eyes, noted something about her … and then recognition came. “I spoke with you at the spice administration building.”

Without invitation, the three desert people pushed into his room. “You ask too many questions, and we want to know why.”

The young men with her sprang forward. One grabbed Griffin’s arms, and the other tugged a dark hood over his head. He fought back with a strength and speed that surprised them, bruising one, knocking another to the floor—then someone pressed a needle-jet against his neck, and the idea of struggling evaporated into blackness.

Life is filled with tests, one after another, and if you don’t recognize them, you are certain to fail the most important ones.

—admonition to acolytes, the Rossak School

A lone man stood in morning sunlight on the highest rooftop of the Mentat School, staring out at the marsh lake. He wore a wide-brim hat, which he removed to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Gazing across the greenish waters, he saw only school security boats performing their rounds. It was deceptively serene out there, in contrast to the stormy mood in the classes, fostered by the rigid and angry Butlerian students.

Gilbertus still faced repercussions from the debate in which he had voiced sympathy for thinking machines, albeit theoretically and for instructional purposes only. He had been foolish to believe that the vehement antitechnology followers could even pretend to be logical or objective. And he had placed himself at risk.

Now that Manford had returned to Lampadas with all his followers and a fleet of dedicated warships, the situation was bound to grow worse. Word had leaked out, reports had been whispered. From the capital city on the main continent of Lampadas, Manford Torondo responded by publicly calling upon Gilbertus to explain himself and renounce his sympathies toward the hated thinking machines.

High above the linked floating buildings in the complex, Gilbertus walked along the roof edge to the opposite side, where he could look down on the connected buildings. Some structures had been vandalized overnight: heavy objects thrown through windows, and the words “Machine Lover!” painted on his office door. One shockingly primitive drawing depicted Gilbertus himself copulating with a thinking machine. And his students had been carefully selected as the brightest, most talented minds?

By his orders, maintenance workers were painting over the graffiti right now, and performing repairs. He realized he should have been more skillful and cautious in the debate. It was his own fault that the discontent had flared up, but he still didn’t understand how his own students could do such barbaric things to the revered school.

Many of his trainees remained objective, and quietly supportive, but afraid to criticize the outspoken Butlerians. One student had whispered quickly in passing, “We are with you, sir. We know you didn’t mean what you said in the debate.”

Now Gilbertus put the hat back on, and drew a deep breath. Despite the cool morning, he could not control the flow of perspiration. He believed in facts, data, and science—and the Mentat School had been built on that firm foundation. He had made many Mentat projections during his life. He was a mathematical fortune-teller, using statistics rather than paranormal powers to predict certain outcomes. Though the Butlerian-trained students in the school were a minority, he had not allowed for the fact that they were more vocal than the moderates, as well as prone to exaggeration and intimidation. He should have projected how swiftly they could make other students at the Mentat School turn against him, or at least fall silent rather than defending their Headmaster.

As he made his way back downstairs, Gilbertus knew he had to find a way to make the silly furor blow over.

*   *   *

IN CONTRAST WITH
the rooftop, his office was dark and gloomy. He had drawn all the window coverings so he could speak to the small golden ball that comprised Erasmus.

The independent robot was adamant. “All will be lost if Manford’s mobs find my memory core. You made an error in allowing your students to glimpse our true thoughts. Was it only an exercise, or were you trying to win them over to our side with logic?”

“I wanted them to
think
!”

“If Manford Torondo turns his people against you, we may have to abandon the school. You must
convince
them. Make your apologies—and lie if necessary. Do whatever you must. If they came to lynch you, I would be helpless to defend you—or myself.”

“I understand, Father. I won’t let that happen, I promise you.”

“But what if you die, and I am condemned to remain here hidden and helpless? How could I survive? I sacrificed everything for you. I sabotaged the machine defenses at Corrin and brought about the downfall of Omnius, just to save your life!”

Gilbertus bowed his head. “I know, and I promise I will help you—but first I must convince Manford Torondo that I am no threat.”

And so, to appease the dissenters, the Headmaster delivered a speech in the school auditorium, in as convincing a tone as he could manage, “We have to stop rationalizing the extent to which technology is acceptable. We should not measure it, but rather stand strong against it.” He had spoken eloquently for the better part of an hour, doing his best to persuade the small but destructively vocal minority that he was sincere.

His backpedaling and excuses somewhat mollified Alys Carroll and the other angry students, but Gilbertus knew the problem was not over.

He received word that Manford Torondo intended to investigate, in person.

*   *   *

WHEN THE BUTLERIAN
leader came to assess the situation at the Mentat School, Gilbertus realized that this could well be his most dangerous debate.

Manford arrived by powered boat at the Mentat School’s interconnected floating platforms. He emerged riding on the shoulders of his female Swordmaster, and that in itself was a bad sign. Gilbertus knew the legless man allowed himself to be borne on a palanquin when he simply intended to have a meeting, but he rode upon Anari Idaho’s shoulders whenever he went into battle.

As he greeted Manford, Gilbertus maintained a steady demeanor of contrition and cooperation. “I apologize, Leader Torondo, that this misunderstanding has brought you away from your more important duties.”

“
This
is one of my important duties.” Manford looked around at the buildings. “Your Mentat School should be solidly on the side of righteousness, without equivocation. By training humans to think with the efficiency of computers, you demonstrate our inherent superiority over the thinking machines. But from what my friend Alys Carroll tells me, you have allowed yourself to be … tempted.”

Gilbertus kept his gaze downcast. “I assure you, it was merely a practice debate, an exercise to challenge the preconceptions of the students—nothing more.”

“You debated a bit too well, Headmaster, and I must emphasize that you selected a subject that was unsuitable for any debating class, because the matter of thinking machines is
undebatable
.” With his right hand, Manford nudged Anari, and she walked forward, herding Gilbertus back inside the school. Manford continued, “One more thing. I have always been reticent about your practice of studying combat robots and computer brains as an aid to instruction. Too dangerous.”

Gilbertus answered in a humble voice, “I understand. After much reflection, I also understand how my recent lesson was misconstrued, and I wish to make amends for my lapse in judgment.”

A look of approval flickered in Manford’s eyes. “Very well. For our first step, I want you to show me this storehouse where you keep the forbidden machines. Alys Carroll told me that your specimens are not all as deactivated as you claim.”