Mentats of Dune

Chapter 50 (Symbols are powerful motivators of human behavior)

Turning his back on the sietch that did not want him, Taref worked his way across the desert back to Arrakis City.

The week-long trek was arduous, and the desert austere and uncomfortable, but he endured the deprivation. When he reached the city, he would find other Freemen who had left their sietches, Freemen who might be tempted to join him. He vowed to himself he would not return to Directeur Venport empty-handed.

If he’d been able to recruit eager volunteers from the sietch itself, Taref would have summoned a sandworm to transport them swiftly across the open dunes. He would have stood tall atop the head of the monster, feeling the sun and grit on his face.

At the moment, though, he had no cause to celebrate. He didn’t care about the father and brothers he’d left behind; he’d known that they would sneer at the idea, because they were ignorant and closed-minded. He had been reminded of how squalid and backward his tribe was, and yet the glorious promises and shining visions he had once believed in now also tasted like dust.

When he and his friends had left poverty behind, they’d been so excited for the opportunity, especially him. Taref tried to take comfort from the fact that Shurko had lived more in his brief months working for VenHold than he would have experienced in a lifetime out in the desert. Surely his friend had seen and enjoyed some wonders on his travels.

Knowing what Kolhar, Junction Alpha, and all those other run-down spaceport worlds were like, should he bother to go back at all? If Taref were to vanish here, Directeur Venport and Draigo Roget would chalk up his loss to an unspecified desert hazard. He could easily find a way to survive, even here on Arrakis, maybe joining another spice crew.

But he didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to hide. No, Taref would go back to Directeur Venport, because he had promised. With the authorization he carried, he could have flown to Kolhar on the next spice hauler, but first he had to do what he had agreed to do. He would find volunteers, somehow.…

On the way to Arrakis City, Taref was surprised at how the desert environment now grated on him as much as the backward desert mindset did. His stillsuit was scuffed and dusty, but it still looked different with its obvious offworld modifications. He had a few coins, a Maula pistol, his stillsuit, a desert cloak, and his VenHold ID. His demeanor was no longer that of a furtive, ever-wary sand dweller. Reaching the city, he noticed the people regarding him as if he were an outcast here, too.

For a while Taref observed the spaceport operations, watching the vessels load up with melange and take off from the landing field. Before, when he’d worked on spice crews, Taref had never given much thought to where all that spice went after the haulers departed from Arrakis. Now he knew so much more. Seeing a small freighter take off, he remembered dreaming about those romantic, far-off places — Salusa Secundus, or Poritrin, or the ocean-drenched world of Caladan, a planet he still hadn’t seen. Surely there were other people here willing to leave.

He watched the freighter ascend into the lemon-colored sky, and decided he had put off his work for too long. He would convince others to join him, promising them wonders that he now doubted existed. He would find young men or women with sparkling eyes turned toward the skies imagining a far better life elsewhere. Taref would tell them everything they wanted to hear, everything he had wanted to hear.…

Then a miracle occurred in the streets.

A muscular female Swordmaster strode through Arrakis City with the stump of a man riding on her shoulders. They were accompanied by an entourage of defiant, disheveled followers, each wearing the badge of a machine gear clenched in a symbolic fist — the badge of the Butlerians.

Taref stared. This was the Butlerian leader, the man whom Directeur Venport loathed, the fanatic who had caused such turmoil … the man Venport wanted dead, by any means.

He knew immediately what he had to do.

Although he had no personal interest in politics, he owed his loyalty to Josef Venport, and Venport wanted to cut off the head of the barbarian monster that was destroying humanity’s future. The Directeur’s enemies were Taref’s enemies.

Manford rode high on Anari Idaho’s shoulders, a perfect target above the throngs around them. Taref could never fight the Swordmaster, not even with a precious wormtooth dagger, but he did know that none of the Butlerians would be wearing a body shield. They abhorred technology, foolishly expecting their faith to protect them.

Taref didn’t make a plan, didn’t think about his possible escape. He merely reacted. He already had the blood of many thousands on his hands from the spaceships he had sabotaged. This one man, though, counted for more than all of them together.

Taref drew his Maula pistol, aimed, and fired.

The projectile struck Manford in the head, shattered his skull, and splattered brains and blood over his shocked supporters. The Butlerian leader jerked backward, his legless form knocked out of the padded leather socket that secured him to the Swordmaster’s shoulders.

A sudden startled hush fell on the streets. All eyes had been watching the marching Butlerians. The Maula pistol had made only a whizzing clack from its spring-loaded mechanism.

Manford tumbled to the ground, twitching but obviously dead. The Swordmaster wailed.

Taref dropped the weapon and melted back into the crowd. Though numbed by the knowledge of what he had done, he forced himself to keep moving. Fortunately, his dusty desert garb looked commonplace in the streets. He heard gasps. People reacted with shock and dismay, and he glanced from face to face, mimicking their horror as he pretended to search for the source of the danger.

The Swordmaster scooped up the legless body and bounded away, carrying Manford Torondo like a limp doll. Other Butlerians screamed, but they could not find who had shot their leader. Some of the offworlders even gave water for the dead, as tears streamed down their dusty cheeks.

Taref didn’t stay to watch, but slipped under a sheltered overhang, and then away. He knew Directeur Venport would reward him for this one act far more than if he had brought a hundred avid recruits.

He decided to use the VenHold line of credit for a nice meal and a room after all. Then he would depart on the next spacefolder.

ON KOLHAR, WHEN Taref reported to the administrative towers without his promised volunteers, Directeur Venport’s face soured in disappointment. “No one else wishes to join our cause? You could not convince any of your desert people?”

Taref could barely contain himself. “You might not need any more volunteers, ever again.” He blurted out, “I assassinated Manford Torondo on Arrakis!”

That claim seemed to freeze time itself. Draigo Roget turned to him, his dark eyebrows raised in disbelief. The Directeur straightened behind his desk. “What?”

Taref was breathing quickly. “I saw him and his Swordmaster in Arrakis City. I don’t know why they were there, but I remembered your orders. I had a Maula pistol, so I shot the Butlerian leader in the head. I saw him fall. He’s dead, Directeur Venport.”

Josef looked at Draigo, struggling to conceal elation behind his thick mustache. “Is he telling the truth, Mentat?”

“I am not a Truthsayer, sir, but I will verify the facts as soon as possible.”

“I saw it with my own eyes, Directeur,” Taref insisted. “Half of his head was blown away, his brains splashed on the people around him and the dirt of the street. He’s dead — no question about it.”

Venport began to chuckle. “If you’re right, this almost makes up for the Baridge debacle. Without their pathetic half-leader, the barbarians will scatter like rodents.” Directeur Venport stepped over to Taref in a single stride and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulders. “Good work.”