Mentats of Dune

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

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 connectivity, the new Titans were much improved from the old enemies of humanity. These cymeks with proto-Navigator brains could have torn General Agamemnon to shreds!

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.

The Directeur remarked, “Our spice operations have been plagued by bandits and saboteurs. I could station a cymek guardian near each spice factory. That would be enough to thwart the desert people — and the giant sandworms. That should keep our equipment safe.”

“We don’t know yet if these new Titans are a match for the sandworms,” Draigo said.

Venport leaned forward. “We’ll see soon enough.”

The cymeks lined up along a sinuous whaleback dune and directed their weapon arms out into the deep golden sea. Sand crystals sparkled in the sunlight, as if the planet itself were awake. One after another, the cymeks fired their integrated weapons. Explosive artillery shells blasted from segmented arms, streams of acid shot out in thin jets that turned the sand into bubbling glass, a lasbeam carved a smoking hole into a distant dune, and a jet of flame arced out like a solar flare.

Ptolemy’s eyes shone, and he almost forgot about the searing pain in his lungs. “These Titans will eradicate Manford Torondo and his Butlerians.” He spoke into the comm circuit. “Phase Two — it’s time to be more aggressive.”

The seven cymeks scuttled down to a packed basin where their vibrations would penetrate deeper beneath the surface. Raising their thick piston legs, they stomped down like pile drivers, hammering in an irresistible summons.

“According to unverified reports,” Draigo said, as if lecturing trainees back at Kolhar, “the Freemen use clockwork syncopated thumping devices, even simple percussion instruments, to summon a worm. They claim it always works, but I doubt they’d report any failures.”

“I doubt everything about their superstitious stories,” Venport said, “but I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

Ptolemy watched his awesome walkers, recalling the ancient archival images he had seen of old battles, particularly the ones of Ajax, the most brutal of the original cymeks. As Ptolemy thought of the malicious destruction the Titans had caused in comparison with the ignorant destruction of the Butlerians, his own anger — perhaps leaking through the thoughtrodes in his brain — seemed to agitate the Navigator cymeks. One of them, Hok Evander, launched a wild artillery projectile up into the air, and it came down not far away, creating a smoking crater.

When no worm responded, Draigo said, “It is rumored that the creatures are highly territorial, and it’s possible we are in a contested zone among the sandworms, a neutral area. The nearest creature may be far away.”

Venport frowned, and Ptolemy felt impatience as well. He said, “According to reports, the activation of a shield is a certain way to draw a monster worm, though it’s dangerous and drives the beast into a frenzy.”

“Bring on the frenzy, then,” the Directeur said, “if you’re confident these cymeks can handle it.”

Ptolemy looked at the seven machines and sent another signal. “Phase Three.”

The Titans stood at high alert, and then each of the large machines switched on a Holtzman shield.