Mentats of Dune

Chapter 33 (There is no such thing as perfect security)

Prince Roderick went on a brief hunting trip in the woods of the northern continent; he wanted time away from the city, the politics, and the memory of the rampage festival. Haditha had taken the other children to stay with her sister in a distant city, needing to find her own peace. Back in their quarters, Nantha’s belongings remained where they had always been, because Haditha couldn’t bear to pack them away, nor would she allow anyone else to do it.

The scar of their lost daughter would always be with them, but Roderick needed to find a way to function. Though he would never admit it aloud, he knew the Imperium depended on him. Salvador couldn’t rule by himself.

For his few days of escape out in the quiet forest, Roderick was accompanied by three friends, one of whom owned a small lodge. The simple accommodations were rugged enough that even a Butlerian would have found nothing to object to. After the mayhem in the streets, Roderick found the lodge relaxing. He cleared his mind and tried to think of nothing other than hunting Salusan pheasants and roasting them over a fire.

But he couldn’t forget the terrible loss of Nantha for long, or his duties to Salvador, and all too soon he had to return to the Imperial Palace. Despite the brief respite, his heart wasn’t healed.

Arriving back in Zimia, he encountered an immediate reminder of why he had left. In the large central square outside the Hall of Parliament, Grand Inquisitor Quemada and his Scalpel team were putting on a public demonstration while Imperial soldiers stood guard over the proceedings. The Emperor had decided that showing off the skills of his interrogators would be an excellent deterrent to crime. Roderick did not approve, considering Dorotea’s subtle Truthsayer skills much more effective … but his brother insisted on the show.

A boisterous crowd had gathered to watch, and Roderick felt a knot form in his stomach. The imposing, black-haired Quemada was already on his fourth victim.

After what had happened to poor Nantha, Roderick would have liked to see Manford Torondo undergo such an ordeal. All the violence he had sparked, all those innocent lives lost … He closed his eyes and imagined.

As a beefy woman in an Imperial army uniform led him toward the Emperor’s observation suite, she explained what was going on, assuming Roderick would want to know. “Four petty criminals so far, my Lord. The Grand Inquisitor’s team has subjected them to various forms of ‘coaxing.’ Ancient methods, but they are all quite effective. Entertaining, too.”

Glancing through a wide window, Roderick saw a portable strappado out in the plaza, along with a spiked chair, compression helmets, and a medieval rack. Far from being modern and streamlined, each item was a functional museum piece from distant history with a brutish design. It was to create an intimidating effect, Roderick knew. After intensive training at the Suk Medical School, the Scalpel practitioners could wring agony from their captives using nothing more than a pebble or a stylus.

Three men lay on the stone pavement off to one side, bleeding and trembling, having been released from the interrogation machinery after confessing to the inquisitor’s satisfaction. A fourth man was having his fingers and toes crushed one at a time, which made him scream horrendously; so far, though, he had not admitted anything.

Prince Roderick grimaced, not certain what he found more offensive — the barbaric display or the cheering of the crowd. He hurried up to the Emperor’s suite, hoping to talk sense into Salvador, to warn him against playing into the barbaric madness embraced by the Butlerians. Was his brother creating a culture in which vicious destruction became ordinary and expected?

Roderick thought that Directeur Josef Venport was fighting on the correct side of the divide — reason versus violence. Salvador would have to be strong to stand up to the swelling antitechnology movement, but he was deathly afraid of the Butlerians. Roderick would discuss the matter with him in private and advise the best course of action, seeking to bolster his courage and strengthen his resolve.

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 nannies.”

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 cannot hide their lies.”

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.

“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.”