Brian Herbert - Navigators of Dune

“You’re talking about surrender,” Josef said.

“I believe it is the only option. The question you must answer, Directeur, is whether or not you wish to be taken alive.” It was a flat, cool statement, but Draigo’s intent eyes burned into his.

“I am not going to kill myself, Mentat. That would be an admission of complete failure.”

“Such was my guess, sir, yet I regret to inform you that I have no reasonable projection in which Emperor Roderick allows you to live. The timing of your death may be the only part that is in your control.”

Ice ran down Josef’s spine. “Go, Mentat—make your best deal. Save yourself and save something of my legacy … maybe the human race can use it after all, my innovation, my business models. You are an excellent negotiator.” He took a breath. “I thank you for your years of service.”

With a brisk nod, Draigo left the admin chamber. Josef sealed the door behind him, although the lock would never withstand a concerted effort to break through. Silent and alone, he sat at Noffe’s old desk knowing this was the last remnant of his vast planetary commercial empire. He had been squeezed down to this, trapped and cornered.

He heard pounding on the barricaded metal hatch of the office, and the hiss of thermal cutters as they began to burn through the sealed lock.

His stomach clenched, and thunderous possibilities clamored around his head. He couldn’t think of any other way out, but knew these Imperial soldiers would capture him, and he would be disgraced, every last vestige of his legacy destroyed.

And after all that, Roderick would put him to death, undoubtedly with a big celebratory event in the main square of Zimia.

The barricaded office door began to collapse, glowing red, metal dripping down the wall. His mind started to go blank. The end was near, and he had nowhere to run. His entire future and past had focused down to this one moment.

Suddenly, Norma Cenva’s tank appeared in the chamber, crushing the chair that had only recently held Draigo Roget. The armored vault knocked aside the furniture, collapsed a shelf in the small office.

Josef showed no surprise or fear to see her there, did not even rise from his chair. He merely glared at her, his heart as heavy as stone. She had already shattered his last hope—what more did she want of him? To gloat? To explain herself in hopes that he would forgive her?

His voice projected the deep weariness and disappointment he felt. “I did not believe you would ever do it, Grandmother, but you destroyed me.”

His heart ached as he longed to see his beautiful wife once more, but he knew that was not possible. No, he was deluding himself. He had nothing, at least nothing that could save him. Neither his money nor his spice could do it.

Now, for the first time, he finally felt defeated, with no way out. “I thought we shared a common dream,” he said to her. “I gave you everything you needed, I fought to pave a clear future for human civilization, to save the Imperium … and instead of defending me to the last, you betrayed me.” He smiled grimly. “You threw me to the Corrino lions.”

Norma’s swollen head came close to the observation windowport. “I have not destroyed you, Josef, nor have I abandoned you. My prescience showed me possible paths of failure, but I chose the one that would save my Navigators … and you.”

“You’re going to save me? Where will you take me, to Arrakis?” He lurched to his feet as he heard the clamor continuing through the connected laboratory domes. The cutting tools had almost opened the door. “You’d better be quick about it. This complex is overrun. Emperor Roderick will execute me. His soldiers will be here any moment, and his torturers will not be far behind.”

Her voice was maddeningly steady. “There is no place in the universe for you to hide. No, I have a different solution.”

“What are you saying?” He looked at the door, saw it caving in, heard the shouts of soldiers on the other side. “We’re running out of time!”

Her voice came back to him as distant words, painfully slow. “Emperor Roderick made a solemn promise that he would protect all of my Navigators, that they would not be harmed. A new Spacing Guild is to be formed. The universe is ours.”

“Good for you,” Josef said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “You got what you wanted. How does that help me?”

“It is a significant loophole. Emperor Roderick gave me his word. It is for the best.” Spice gas vented from her tank, and a small hatch on the side disengaged from its seals. “You must become a Navigator, Josef.”

In the ruins of Empok, the surviving Butlerians began to pick up the pieces so they could rebuild, although it seemed an impossible task. Anari Idaho quickly silenced any expressions of hopelessness or despair, however. Her voice was harsh, her face stern as she bellowed to the throngs, “Challenges strengthen us. Our great Leader Torondo would never have given up! Every breath spent complaining is a breath that should be devoted to work. We have much to rebuild here—so rebuild!”

Imperial teams came to Lampadas bearing supplies and workers, but Anari saw them for what they were: watchdogs, spies, and controllers. They meant to bottle up the movement on this planet. Her Butlerians were forced to tolerate the intrusion … for now. Until they grew stronger.

By order of the Emperor, the fallen cymek walkers were turned into monuments, optimistic declarations that the strength of the human spirit—the power of bare hands and complete faith—was sufficient to bring down even titanic nightmares. The cymek preservation canisters had been smashed, and remnants of the evil disembodied brains had been stomped into organic pulp; all else was burned so that no vile residue could contaminate the faithful.

Even defeated, though, these ominous wrecks made Anari shudder whenever she looked at them. Some Butlerians wanted to dump the components in the swamps near the Mentat School, but as much as she loathed what the machine monsters represented, she refused to do that. On this her feelings ran parallel with those of Emperor Roderick. From her standpoint, it was important for every Butlerian to see them and remember the horrors of unchecked technology … a message that humans must never become lax in their vigilance.

The Imperial reconstruction crews worked at cross-purposes with the natives, razing the remnants of the old city. By strict Imperial command, the Butlerian mourners were forbidden to erect a monument at the site where Manford had fallen. Despite the increasing wails of grief from the people, the soldiers stood firm and drove off any protesters. Anari was offended, but could see no way to win that fight. Not yet. So she changed the rules and announced to the faithful, “Manford is not a place . He lives in my heart and everywhere, and all of you feel the same. Our monument for Manford is within our hearts, in the memories we hold of him.”

While heavy Imperial machinery crushed the damaged buildings, covered up mass graves where countless lesser martyrs were laid to rest, and paved over portions of the Empok battleground, Anari led a group of the faithful to the battered warrior form that had been the Ptolemy cymek, the monster that had murdered Manford. Using simple tools, they disengaged one of the pincer claw-hands, still marked with Manford’s blood. Holy blood.

Under cover of darkness, Anari had the grim relic smuggled back to Butlerian headquarters, where it sat, unwashed, for all to see. The dried bloodstains were a simple reminder of painful but necessary sacrifices, and she did not let them forget that Manford Torondo was only one of half a million martyrs who had fallen on that horrific day.