Brian Herbert - Navigators of Dune

A small man in a scarlet-and-gold jumpsuit approached from the back of the laboratory—Demos Athens, the head of the facility, accompanied by a much taller man in a long black garment. Athens nodded toward his dour companion. “Sire, may I present Robér Cecilio, an adept of the Scalpel order of the Suk Medical School, one of our most skilled deep-interrogators. His talents will be useful in extracting information from the captive Navigator.”

Cecilio bowed. “With your blessing, Sire, I am ready to help unravel the secrets this creature holds in its mind.”

Roderick had some unpleasant experience with the infamous Scalpel torturers. His brother had used them often—far too often, and Roderick had seen them in action. “I have never approved of your cruel methods.” He drew a breath, reminding himself that he was the Emperor now, not just a brother and a top adviser. “But I understand what may be necessary to obtain the information we desperately require.”

Haditha looked concerned. “We need to understand the origin of the Navigators, but that creature is no longer human. Scalpel methods may not be effective in this case.”

Roderick knew what she was thinking, and agreed. “I do not approve of torture … even of such an inhuman thing.”

“But you do approve of results, Sire. The information you seek is vital to the Imperium.” Cecilio gave a slight bow. “Nevertheless, I will use the lightest possible touch, gauging everything I do carefully.”

Roderick warned, “We do not want this Navigator to die at your hands, or suffer.”

Cecilio leaned close to the Emperor and lowered his voice. “Sire, with all respect we should not be having this conversation in front of the subject. Our methods should remain secret from him.”

Roderick spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “No, I want Dobrec aware of his situation and the peril he faces. This Navigator must understand how necessary the information is to us.” He nodded toward the Scalpel interrogator. “Very well, I authorize you to see what you can find out.”

He stared ruefully at the creature in the tank, and the Navigator looked back with oversized eyes that seemed only remotely aware of the people around him, staring far past the Emperor, into the deepest and most uncharted regions of space and time.

The heroic reception from the citizens of Zimia was so overwhelming that even after four days of parades, speeches, and celebrations, the zeal had not diminished. Manford was pleased.

The Emperor had been forced to embrace him and lionize the brave Butlerian soldiers who had arrived at the perfect time to chase away Venport and his evil machine lovers. Settling in with the throngs at the capital city, rather than returning to his flagship in orbit, Manford had inflamed the crowds. And he kept them energized.

The swelling crowds had taken over empty homes and apartments, pushed themselves into temporary shelters, commandeered spare rooms in large family units, and set up communal sleeping tents across the palace plaza—whatever they needed to do. It was all perfectly justified and necessary.

If anyone from Zimia grumbled about the conditions, Manford merely spread his hands. “Good citizens of the Imperium are willing to make sacrifices for the future of humanity. After all, if we had not saved you from Venport’s siege, your city would be in smoking ruins and you would all be dead. You can endure some small inconvenience to welcome your saviors.”

Manford knew he was exaggerating his own importance, but the Emperor could not pretend that Salusa Secundus would have survived without the Butlerian intervention. And Manford did not intend to let him forget it. Roderick Corrino might not be as weak as Salvador had been … but Manford was not weak either.

After the three cymeks had attacked Lampadas and killed Sister Woodra, Manford’s devoted followers howled for blood. New converts had rushed to his ranks, and even more joined after Venport’s invasion of the Imperial capital. That dangerous man, his monstrous Navigators, his insidious machines, and his terrible cymeks had to be eradicated from the galaxy!

But not everything could be blamed on Directeur Venport. Even as the struggle for the human soul continued across the Imperium, a smaller-scale disaster occurred on Salusa Secundus. Far from Zimia in the southern lowlands, a large flood broke the banks of a Salusan river delta, and the rushing water devastated several trading settlements and river communities. Thousands were killed, tens of thousands displaced. The Emperor rushed to send emergency crews with temporary shelters and medical supplies. The suffering was extreme.

Empress Haditha announced that she would lead the relief efforts, calling upon the citizens of Salusa to contribute their work and supplies. She showed her strength and leadership by rallying support from all quarters. Manford found it admirable, but it was none of his concern.

And then Roderick came to see him. Tens of thousands of Butlerians were camped throughout the palace district, and Manford received him there like a visiting dignitary. The Emperor made his appeal. “I have work for your people, Manford Torondo. If you truly care about the well-being of humankind, then your followers can assist the flood victims. I will provide transportation to take them as humanitarian work crews.”

Manford maintained a neutral expression, but he knew exactly what Roderick’s real intent must be. The Emperor wanted to use this mundane catastrophe as an excuse to disperse the huge crowds of Butlerians, to get rid of them. No, he and his followers would not be deceived so easily.

“The flood victims are suffering, Sire, but that disaster was clearly an act of God,” Manford said. “Those people must have been machine sympathizers. I would be cautious about helping them, because they likely deserved their punishment.” He nodded as if to reaffirm his own conclusion. “Thank you, but my followers will stay right here, at the heart of our glorious capital. Surely you have enough trained home troops to handle a civil matter such as this? Weather events are rather commonplace, are they not?”

The Emperor looked angry on many levels, but Manford just smiled placidly at him. Anari Idaho stood like a statue, not questioning Manford’s decision. Unable to coerce him, Roderick and his entourage departed.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, as Manford sat propped on cushions under the rippling fabric of his pavilion, he contemplated his next steps. Butlerians filled the palace square on the west side of Zimia, and tens of thousands of believers strained the city’s resources, but everyone would share the burden for the common good.

“‘The mind of man is holy.’” He always found the mantra calming.

Manford knew the restless crowds could easily be driven to violence, and he fully understood the necessity of occasional mob celebrations as a pressure-release valve, although the last event in Zimia had gotten out of control. The death of the Emperor’s young daughter had been an unfortunate tragedy, but at least the poor girl was a martyr.

That realization gave him an idea that brought a broad smile to his face. Perhaps if Manford presented it that way, the Emperor and Empress would forgive him.…

Anari had arranged for Manford’s pavilion to be set up not far from a four-meter-high bronze statue of Emperor Faykan Corrino. Manford looked up at the statue, both impressed and offended by the towering figure. Faykan had been a hero at the end of the Jihad, and he certainly deserved to be celebrated—but not deified. Maybe someday there would be similar statues of Manford, though. He’d certainly done as much for humanity’s future as Faykan had, and arguably more.…