Mentats of Dune

Chapter 30 (One man’s mission is another man’s folly)

Taref had not been thirsty for weeks, nor had he felt dust on his skin or in his hair. It was a marvelous sensation at first, and then became strange and unsettling. He hadn’t expected he might miss what he had previously scorned. Far from the desert world, this climate felt so strange.

He and his companions had been instructed to wear loose-fitting clothes that allowed perspiration to evaporate into the air; at some point later, it would fall back down onto the surface of Kolhar. He found this planet’s weather amazing, incomprehensible, and disturbing. His companions chafed in the strange garb and remained uncomfortable throughout their training sessions. Waddoch groaned that he was never going to get used to it.

Each day’s experiences forced Taref to reassess his understanding of the universe. For years he had dreamed of leaving the arid wastelands to explore exotic worlds and enjoy new experiences. He still marveled at what he was doing now, away from the harsh day-to-day sietch existence.

Yet the food here had strange seasonings and was difficult to enjoy. His desert friends remained astonished that offworlders had so much excess water to drink that they had the decadent luxury of adding flavors to their beverages.

He could see the difference in Lillis already: Her lean, leathery features were beginning to show soft curves as her body gained water fat. Shurko had grown ill from eating the unfamiliar items. Chumel developed a skin rash, some kind of rot or fungus that developed from too much moisture and too-frequent bathing, and he was ashamed of the amount of creams and salves he was required to apply. Waddoch and Bentur seemed edgy and irritable. None of them liked the annoying films they were forced to apply to their eyes to cover the distinctive blue-within-blue.

Though Taref anticipated seeing the ocean world of Caladan, he realized that his companions were growing homesick for Arrakis as they trained here. But they had barely begun their mission and still had much to learn.…

For the day’s instruction, Draigo Roget led them inside one of the landed spacecraft in the Kolhar shipyards. They followed the Mentat instructor down metal corridors until they reached the dim, stuffy engine decks.

On Arrakis, Taref had been aboard spice harvesters many times, and he was familiar with the loud hammering noises, the roar of engines, the unavoidable vibration that would inevitably summon a sandworm. Previously, he had scorned the giant spice factories, knowing that a group of Freemen could simply skitter across the sands, harvest raw melange, and carry it away with deft hands and irregular footsteps — all without summoning a worm. It had seemed so simple to him; that was the way a sietch gathered the melange they needed.

But he had never before understood the sheer volume of spice harvesting and the voracious appetite of the Imperium. Seeing the incredible amounts of melange the VenHold Navigators required, as well as the addicted populations of world after world, he was beginning to comprehend the scope of that hunger. Stopping that demand would be like trying to stop the moving sands.

Back on Arrakis, even if he and his companions sabotaged a spice harvester to hinder the work of Combined Mercantiles (more as a game to prove themselves than as a radical political statement), he knew their efforts would make no difference to the overall company operations. It was like removing a spoonful of sand from a giant dune.…

Draigo halted the group inside an engine chamber. “Observe the tasks we need you to do. This is a cumbersome old spaceship we recently acquired from a small company, Nalgan Shipping. These vessels are very similar to the ones used by EsconTran — the ships that will be your targets.”

“You want us to fight your battles for you,” Shurko said. “You are sending us out to destroy your rival’s ships so that VenHold vessels will be victorious.”

The Mentat drew his dark brows together. “In essence, yes. But the battle is more subtle than that, and much larger in scale. We need to do more than destroy a ship or two — rather, we need to fan the flames of fear.”

The desert recruits stood at the control panel connected to the ship’s foldspace engines. Draigo worked the grid, and system lights became a dizzying storm of colors and readouts.

“If we can make people believe that EsconTran ships are unreliable, then we cause far more havoc. We want the Imperium to think that VenHold has the only safe method of space travel, thanks to our Navigators. Already Escon’s safety record is less than ninety-eight percent, as best we can determine. Out of every hundred flights, two or more vessels disappear, on average.”

To Taref, the number did not sound so terrible. At least that many attempted sandworm rides ended in disaster. But weak offworlders had less tolerance for risk, he supposed.

Lillis said, “EsconTran must have faulty spaceships, then, or incompetent pilots.”

Draigo’s smile was faint, but Taref noticed it. “Or perhaps we have other operatives, just like you, who work on maintenance crews in certain rival docking facilities. For years our quiet saboteurs have been causing accidents, devastating their safety record.”

He guided their attention to the control grid. “The more complex the machinery, the easier it is to sabotage. I shall teach you all the ways.”

Taref drank in the details as the Mentat summarized how to adjust standard fuel flow, how to deflect heat-dissipation systems, how to set up a resonance feedback loop so that engines would explode moments after the ship folded space.

“That will kill many people,” Lillis pointed out.

“Only those who chose the wrong method of transport,” Draigo said, unconcerned. “Our goal is to see that EsconTran has a failure rate of seven percent or more within the next few months. Manford Torondo claims that his followers are protected by God. With such a disastrous loss rate, they’ll start thinking they’ve been cursed.”

When the group of friends had first arrived on Kolhar, Taref had only a vague idea of who Manford Torondo was, but Josef Venport had left a holo-recording for Draigo to use. Many VenHold workers had seen it. In the holo, the Directeur spoke with palpable anger, showing images of the legless, fanatical leader who rode on the shoulders of a female Swordmaster.

“This man is the greatest enemy of humanity,” Venport said, pointing at Manford in the holo. “Unless we stop the dark and primitive future he intends to create, he will cause the death of billions, if not trillions. By removing this one person, we can save the human race.

“As you fan out to various planets, I would be very pleased if Manford Torondo”—the image zoomed closer, showing the face of the Butlerian leader—“were to be removed from the interplanetary stage and prevented from causing further harm. I don’t care how it’s done.”

Taref had never forgotten that speech. Desert people had their feuds and unpopular Naibs, so he was no stranger to that way of dealing with problems, but Manford Torondo must be a terrible person to warrant such bloodshed. He let himself dream for a moment. If he could achieve such a victory, how much better it would be than earning respect in his tribe by sabotaging a spice-harvesting machine or two. Eliminating Leader Torondo would be far greater than anything Taref’s stern father could ever hope to accomplish.…

Though attentive, his companions showed little enthusiasm. Draigo continued to lecture the group as he led them away from the control grid and into the complex foldspace engines. “If you cannot gain access to the control panels, there are still simple ways you can cause damage using a few basic tools. Let me show you.”

He took out a small pry bar and a spanner, but before using them he turned to face Taref and his companions. “I believe that you Freemen have more potential than any of our other operatives.”

OUT ON THE field of Navigator tanks, Draigo spoke with three of his Mentat students, whose training was far more rigorous than what Taref and his companions were going through. Out of more than twenty volunteers for the intense Mentat instruction, these three — Ohn, Jeter, and Impika — had shown the most skills.

Draigo admitted that the trainees would have done better if they’d attended Headmaster Albans’s school on Lampadas. Although Draigo had memorized the curriculum of the great academy, he was not as gifted a teacher as the Headmaster. He missed his mentor, wished that he and Gilbertus had not found themselves on opposite sides of an immense conflict. He didn’t understand how the wise teacher could accept the antitechnology fervor that caused so much obvious harm.

At the school, Draigo and Gilbertus had matched wits many times on theoretical battlefields; they had even clashed for real at the Thonaris space shipyards. How much more formidable the two of them could be if they fought on the same side! He wished the Headmaster would join him in the fight against rampant fanaticism.

He doubted Gilbertus believed machines were innately evil. Draigo monitored Lampadas with his own secret spies and observers among the Butlerians. Over the years, Headmaster Albans had made questionable comments that attracted suspicion, making others wonder if he might be a machine sympathizer after all.

Draigo wondered if that could be true. He hoped it was true.

As he joined his companions out on the Navigator field, he knew these three students were his own now, his most talented apprentices. All three of them had bright lips, disturbingly stained, which told him they were continuing to consume the experimental sapho. Since it increased the mental acuity of his trainees, Draigo encouraged Ohn, Jeter, and Impika to use it. He would not turn down any chance to improve his students, his loyal Mentats.

Some of the candidates who did not prove sufficient to become Mentats volunteered instead to be sealed inside spice tanks for conversion into Navigators. The supreme privilege of being a Mentat demanded constant concentration, whereas a Navigator required a flexible, voracious mind, a great deal of melange, and good fortune. Mentat candidates who became Navigators might be a tremendous asset for VenHold.…

Draigo and his students stepped up to the translucent, gas-filled chambers. Inside, the half-converted, mutant volunteers seemed to be suffocating in open air. Draigo had never let himself grow fond of any particular student, but he was concerned. Despite his own teachings that a human computer must be like a thinking machine — coldly analytical and without emotions — Draigo knew that Headmaster Albans had actually cared for him on a personal basis, and now he had similar feelings for these three.…

The Mentat students stared at the transforming subjects who had recently been their classmates. “Are they in pain? Are they suffering?” Jeter asked.

“Who knows what pain is required before a person can become a Navigator? We did not all become Mentats, nor can we all become Navigators. Greatness requires sacrifice.”

A voice echoed from the chamber of an older, more experienced Navigator — Royce Fayed, who was a special protégé of Norma Cenva.

“They may endure pain,” said Fayed’s burbling voice, “but if they survive, they will know a greater joy than they ever imagined possible.”

“They volunteered for the process,” Draigo pointed out.

“They don’t all volunteer,” remarked Impika.

“No survivor has ever complained,” Draigo said.

Fayed added from his tank speakers, “The greatest gift is to ensure that a person reaches his or her potential … even if they have to be forced to that attainment. I was forced, but I do not regret it for a moment.”

WHEN DIRECTEUR VENPORT arrived home after his unsatisfactory speech in the Landsraad Hall, he summoned his Mentat for a debriefing. Draigo arrived in the admin-towers and found the Directeur scanning a new report he had received from the Denali research facility. His eyes sparkled. “Good news, Mentat! Our researcher Ptolemy wants us to help him transport several new cymeks under the tightest possible security — for a test.”

Draigo was surprised. “Transport cymeks? What kind of demonstration does he have in mind?”

“Something that requires an unusually harsh landscape. He wants us to take his cymeks to Arrakis.”

Draigo nodded. “If you can arrange the transportation of the cymek test subjects from Denali, I will send word to my Mentats at Combined Mercantiles to choose an appropriate place. I would like to attend the test myself.”

Directeur Venport raised his bushy eyebrows. “You are welcome to. I’d like your analysis.”

Draigo remained silent for a moment. “The details will take some weeks to arrange, sir, and I would like to make another brief trip first. I can be back in time.”

Venport looked at him, waiting. “I can tell you have something to ask, Mentat. Speak candidly.”

“I extrapolated from basic data, assessed the political tapestry of conflicts, alliances, and shifting loyalties, then followed my thoughts to their natural conclusion. We have another potential ally against the Butlerians.”

“Which is?”

“Back at the Mentat school, Headmaster Albans pretends to support the Butlerian movement in order to protect his trainees, but I refuse to believe that the teachings he espouses come from his heart. I know him. I’ve debated him numerous times. After the bloody rampage festival in Zimia, he will not support the mobs. His cooperation with Manford Torondo has always been reluctant.”

Directeur Venport was not pleased with the idea, having felt the brunt of the Mentat Headmaster’s tactical skills. “I don’t trust him. Without Gilbertus Albans, the Half-Manford never would have conquered the Thonaris shipyards.” He shook his head. “But I respect your projections, Mentat, and I am inclined to indulge you. What do you propose to do?”

Draigo remained standing, his back straight. “While we prepare the cymek test on Arrakis, I would like to go back to the Mentat School in secret. I think I can make the Headmaster see his folly.” He turned his eyes toward the Directeur. “I intend to recruit him to our side.”