Saying of the desert

When Draigo Roget returned to Arrakis City and breathed the crackling dry air, he viewed the details around him with the catalog focus of a trained Mentat. He also drew upon his own experiences. He had been to this planet many times.

Among Draigo’s other duties, Directeur Venport had delegated oversight of the spice-harvesting operations to him. With his Mentat focus and loyalty to VenHold, he had already improved the efficiency and profitability of the work.

Since leaving the Lampadas school, Draigo had trained several Mentat candidates of his own. Given the volatility of the Butlerian fanatics, Directeur Venport knew it was too dangerous to infiltrate more operatives into the Mentat academy right now. If he did, the paranoid Manford Torondo might discover them—and kill them. Better that Draigo teach the candidates himself.

Through VenHold intermediaries, he had obtained a supply of a promising new thought-focusing drug, sapho, and had begun administering it in small doses to some of his students as an experiment; Headmaster Albans kept a supply in the Lampadas School, but had not used it. Draigo’s early results looked promising, but he intended to proceed slowly.

Several of Draigo’s personal trainees worked in Arrakis City as Combined Mercantiles employees, and two of his new Mentats met him at the spaceport. Needing no pleasantries, Draigo asked for a report as they made their way to company headquarters. The first Mentat, a small man with a high voice, delivered a crisp summary of their activities. “We’ve been studying weather patterns on Arrakis, analyzing images from our new proprietary meteorological satellites. The weather is capricious, but we are developing general models. The more efficiently we predict storms, the better we can plan our harvesting operations.”

“And reduce equipment losses, ” said the second Mentat, a taller, slightly older man.

“Any progress on coping with the giant sandworms? ” Draigo asked. “Can we detect them earlier or drive them away when they attack our spice-harvesting operations? ”

“No progress, sir, ” said the first Mentat. “The sandworms cannot be stopped.”

Draigo paused to think about that for a moment, then gave a curt nod. He accepted their conclusion. “Unfortunate.”

The Combined Mercantiles building was cool inside, and the air remained dry. There were no real windows in the sealed facility, but on the wall of the conference room was a fake picture window showing a rugged shoreline and crashing waves under a sky filled with thick rain clouds, a place the Arrakis natives had never seen.

“We brought several Freemen candidates, as you requested. Some refused, but one was curious enough to convince the others.”

“A curious Freeman? ” Draigo said. “That is a good sign.”

Six dusty, tanned young men sat in the room around a long table. Draigo Roget studied them in silence, and they did the same to him. All had blue-within-blue eyes, indicating a lifetime of exposure to melange—which would need to be disguised, so as not to rouse suspicions offworld. That problem could be resolved.

Some of the desert people were uneasy, and regarded the wall image of the ocean with awe and intimidation. One of the young men was more fascinated than the others, and his intensity seemed to encourage them to pay attention. Because they were wrapped in spice-fiber robes covered with grit, and their bodies encased in the distillation suits necessary for desert survival, it took Draigo a moment to realize that one of the group was a female.

After a long pause of mutual assessment, the Mentat said, “I wanted to speak with you. You are the free people of the desert? ”

A young man, with a lean face and pointed chin, glanced at his companions, then rose to his feet. “We are not free people, if we are prisoners of the enticing offer your men made to us.”

“And you want to hear it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“We should go back out to the sietch, ” said a scowling Freeman with creased, weathered skin. “We do not belong here.”

“I don’t belong out there either, ” said the young man with the pointed chin. “We discussed this. I thought you wanted to learn about the other worlds.”

“I have the whole desert to see, ” grumbled the scowling Freeman. He slumped back into his chair.

The lone woman among them looked at Draigo and pressed, “How do we know we can trust you? ” She was so lean and leathery that her beauty had been leached out by the heat and the arid climate. Her body had no spare moisture whatsoever to fill out her breasts in a normal manner, and her distilling suit concealed even the hint of a curve.

Draigo chuckled. “We have done nothing to make you doubt us. We showed you hospitality, offered you water, and you drank it. You may leave if you don’t wish to be here, but first take a look at the world featured on the wall. We can take you there.” He pointed. “And to many other planets. Do none of the Freemen dream of the rest of the universe? If you don’t like it, you can go back to your squalid desert.”

“Why did you ask us to come here? ” said another of the young men.

“Because you have been sabotaging our spice-harvesting equipment, ” Draigo said, stating a fact, not accusing them. “You ruined some of our flyers, contaminated their energy packs with sand and breached their airtight seals.”

The young man with the pointed chin scowled. “We know nothing of such crimes. You cannot prove we had any part of that.”

“I don’t care whether it was you, ” Draigo said. “And even if I were to punish you, someone else would come, and someone else after that. It would be like using one hand to block sand from entering a home while leaving the door wide open.”

“Then why are we here? ” demanded the young woman.

“First, tell me your names, ” Draigo said.

“A name is a private thing, not given lightly, ” she said. “Have you earned it? ”

Draigo smiled. “I offered you water. Is it so much to ask for your names in return? ”

The woman smiled stiffly and said, “I am Lillis. The others can give you their names if they like. I am not afraid.”

Draigo chuckled again. “At least one is without fear.”

“I am Taref, ” said the one with the pointed chin, who seemed to be the leader. The other four, with varying degrees of reluctance, introduced themselves as Shurko (the gruff one), Bentur, Chumel, and Waddoch.

Draigo paced the room. He had been out in the desert aboard the spice factories himself; twice he had even watched huge worms destroy harvesting equipment that could not be whisked away in time. He tended to agree with his Mentats’ assessment that no obvious defenses existed against such leviathans. He had even heard through reliable sources that the Freemen knew how to ride sandworms across great distances. Draigo wasn’t sure he believed that incredible story, but there were so many reports.…

“Your people have been sabotaging our equipment. I doubt you do it because you hate the offworlders who harvest spice. Combined Mercantiles provides necessary materials here in Arrakis City, if you choose to purchase them, but otherwise we leave tribes alone out in your desert. I think young people like yourselves vandalize our equipment because you are bored and restless. It is entertainment and a challenge. You wish to make a mark.”

Draigo watched their expressions. These young Freemen were guarded, but not well practiced in concealing their emotions. He saw a hunger in their brown and leathery faces, their dark, intensely blue eyes.

“Let me offer you an opportunity, a way to channel your abilities. You know the desert … and you know that the desert is not everything in the universe.” He gestured toward the projection wall. “Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere different, perhaps to a planet with so much water you could immerse yourself in it, or look up in the sky and see droplets falling through the air, like sand whipped up by a storm? ” He listened to their muttering, nodded again at the oceanscape. “Caladan isn’t even a special world. No one else in the Imperium finds it remarkable at all.”

“How can that be? ” Lillis couldn’t take her eyes from images of the stormy sea. “So much water in one place! ”

Draigo laughed. “It’s called an ocean. Most worlds have them, at least the ones on which people live. Wouldn’t you like to see that planet firsthand, and others like it? I can take you from this desert, show you there’s much more than the dunes of Arrakis.”

“I have misgivings about this, ” said Shurko. “My family and the desert have always been good enough for me.”

Taref snorted. “I have heard you say otherwise.”

Shurko looked cowed. “I was just agreeing with you when I said it. But that does not mean I meant to abandon the desert entirely.”

“If you are uneasy about it, then you’re not the sort of person I’m searching for, ” Draigo said. “And if you go with us, we can bring you back in a year if you like, a much wiser and more experienced person.”

“I want to see the ocean, ” Taref said, as if daring the others to disagree with him. He had the mannerisms of a natural leader, but his skill-set and his confidence were not yet well honed. “And you all have said as much to me when we were out in camp.”

His remaining companions looked at one another. They had been waiting for Taref’s lead, and they all agreed to accept the offer, although with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Shurko wavered and finally said, “Then I will go along as well.”

Draigo hardened his voice. “I’m not interested in volunteers who change their minds so easily. What we ask will be difficult, but exhilarating. A chance that no other Freeman has been given. Do you want to be the first … or do you want to be nothing? ”

Now, however, it was a matter of pride for Shurko. “I give you my word. I will go with my friends. We will stay together.”

Lillis expressed caution. “What is it you want from us in return? ”

Draigo smiled. “Do what you’ve already proved you can do so well—sabotage. We’ll train you. On Arrakis you may understand how spice-harvesting machinery works, but spaceships with Holtzman engines are vastly more complicated. A person requires decades of education and innate intelligence to understand how a foldspace engine functions.” He paused to look at the desert people, not bothering to conceal a little disdain. “Fortunately, it takes far less training to make such an engine not function.”

Waddoch was surprised. “Sabotage? Why would you want us to ruin one of your own spaceships? ”

“I want you to sabotage the spaceships of a rival company: EsconTran.”

The name obviously meant nothing to the Freemen. His two Mentat trainees were alert and attentive. Draigo tried a different explanation. “Do you not have tribes? Rivalries? ”

From a certain perspective, history—in fact all of existence—can be viewed as a game with both winners and losers.

—GILBERTUS ALBANS, internal memo of the Mentat School

It was a spectacle in the Imperial Court, and Gilbertus played his role well, because Manford Torondo was watching him. Buried behind layers of impenetrable mental walls, he resented being treated as a performing animal for the Butlerians.

Manford considered Gilbertus neither an equal nor an ally, but rather a tool, a weapon—a means for the Butlerian leader to make his point. Other than perhaps his loyal Swordmaster, Manford viewed every human the same way, from the lowliest fanatical follower all the way up to Emperor Salvador Corrino. He showed disdain for anyone not as determined as he was … and no one was as determined as he was.

Manford had made it clear that he counted on his trained Mentat to prove that the thinking machine was inferior. If Gilbertus failed to win the assigned contest, the Butlerians would take out their disappointment on the Mentat School.

Instead of his usual Headmaster’s suit, Gilbertus wore a simple Mentat robe as he entered the satellite Imperial Audience Chamber. Even this side chamber was larger than any lecture hall at the Mentat School. The floor had been cleared to create an open expanse like a gladiatorial arena, at the center of which sat a single table for Gilbertus and his game.

In seats around the perimeter, crowds already lined the room—twitching court functionaries, stern ambassadors from varying planets, trading partners, Butlerian deacons, and wealthy nobles who had signed Manford’s antitechnology pledge.

Emperor Salvador sat on a faux throne, a pale imitation of his real green-crystal chair. It was his clumsy way of showing that Manford’s spectacle was not sufficiently important to warrant the use of the Emperor’s primary chamber with its regal furnishings.

Gilbertus noted that Empress Tabrina was conspicuously absent. Searching through his memory records of other appearances at court, he recalled numerous occasions when he’d not seen Tabrina at her husband’s side.

Roderick Corrino occupied one of the special reserved seats, close enough that he could watch the pyramid chess game. His wife, Haditha, and their young son and three daughters were with him, as if this spectacle were a pleasant family outing. Laughing and whispering to her, Roderick placed his youngest daughter, Nantha, on his knee.

Several of the orthodox Sisters who served the court were also there, waiting stiffly. Reverend Mother Dorotea hovered close to the Emperor, perhaps to give him advice, perhaps to explain nuances of the game. Although Salvador understood the rules of pyramid chess, he had never demonstrated any particular skill when he played it.

Gilbertus glanced around the audience, counting the attendees and memorizing their identities in a single eye blink. No one here would cheer for his opponent, and the combat mek was going to be destroyed regardless of the outcome. Though the robot was a relatively primitive model, Gilbertus was sure the mek had enough awareness to understand its fate.

Without speaking, Gilbertus stepped up to the table and the chess set on display. The board and pieces were larger than standard size, so that observers in the far rows could see what was happening.

The neutered combat mek was propped in place at the game board, not struggling, with its optic sensors glowing dully. The robot’s legs were still detached, and the torso was bolted to a metal platform. All the mek’s bladed weapons had been sawed off, leaving dull stumps, which comforted the observers. This mek model was deadly in many ways beyond the obvious, however, but Gilbertus didn’t want to explain how he knew this.

“I acknowledge my opponent, ” he said. Still standing, the Headmaster faced the mek in a traditional gesture of respect that caused a troubled murmuring to pass through the audience.

Anari Idaho stood next to the legless Butlerian leader, who rested on a padded palanquin. Her sword was drawn and ready in case she needed to fight the combat mek.

Manford said, “This is a challenge between the soul and the soulless, the holy mind of man and the accursed mind of machine. My Mentat, Headmaster Gilbertus Albans, formally challenges the demon machine to a game of pyramid chess. Humans do not need sophisticated technology to achieve our potential. My Mentat will prove that humans are superior to machines in every way.”

Gilbertus thought it a needlessly jingoistic speech. Every person in the audience knew what was about to occur and what the stakes were. Thinking back to ancient human history, he brought to mind Colosseum battles, gladiator against gladiator, downtrodden religious followers pitted against ravenous predators, though they had no chance of survival. Pyramid chess was a different sort of combat, but the fighting robot before him was like one of those doomed Christians.

No doubt Manford had formulated an appropriate response even if Gilbertus should lose, ready to call this a “moral victory” rather than an actual one. In that case, the Butlerians would get their revenge on the Mentat School later.

But Gilbertus didn’t plan to lose. He sat at the game table and waved an arm casually. “As challenger, I cede the first move to my opponent.” Granting the first move gave the mek a slight advantage. Gilbertus wanted to show clearly that he was not cheating or otherwise taking advantage of the robot.

Leaning forward in his seat, Roderick Corrino looked surprised; Salvador seemed disturbed. Manford had not expected him to make such an offer, but he didn’t react; the expression on his classically handsome face showed that he had utter confidence in the Mentat Headmaster.

The robot moved its Lion figure forward and up a level, to another fighting platform. Gilbertus responded with the heroic-faced Martyr, moving to block. The robot chose the Infant in a sacrificial play. The very idea disturbed the audience, bringing to mind the murder of Serena Butler’s baby by Erasmus—the event that had triggered the Butlerian Jihad.

Gilbertus countered with his own Lion, rising up three levels. He was attuned to the fine points of the game, focused on unfolding scenarios and strategies, planning ten moves ahead and thinking of a counter to any approach the mek might take.

The thinking machine moved another piece, a simple foot soldier, in a curious gambit. Gilbertus seized the foot soldier and removed it from the board. When the robot made its next move, a cascade of possibilities fell into place, and Gilbertus saw the machine’s strategy. There was indeed a good chance that his opponent might actually win. Gilbertus fine-tuned his own plans. He began to perspire a little, painfully aware that the robot would never show such a human frailty.

One of the noblemen in the audience let out a too-loud gasp; he had also caught the robot’s intention, although most of the other spectators didn’t understand. Gilbertus made a defensive move on the multilayer board, and the robot blocked it, diminishing Gilbertus’s viable options. He saw a narrow path and hoped the robot didn’t recognize it as well.

The mek was relentless, countering, blocking Gilbertus in, forcing him into a vulnerable corner on the lowest level. The audience grew restless. In his peripheral vision, he noted Manford’s stormy expression.

Gilbertus reapplied all his Mentat focus to the game. He knew one thing the audience could not possibly guess, something that even the combat mek didn’t know: For the past century and a half, he had regularly played pyramid chess with Erasmus. The independent robot was a skilled opponent who had honed Gilbertus’s tactics, teaching him many subtle tricks. This combat mek might have the rules embedded in its programming, but Gilbertus knew how to use those rules to ensure his own victory.

Two more moves of retreat by Gilbertus, and the mek advanced each time, toward the trap that the Headmaster was setting. Emperor Salvador looked decidedly uneasy. Sister Dorotea whispered in his ear, but whatever she said did not reassure him. Gilbertus made one more move, and the combat mek responded as expected.

Then the Mentat sprang his trap. He seized the Lion, and in the next two moves used one of his foot soldiers to block the Mother’s escape and then capture the piece. In three more moves, he turned the game around by capturing companies.

Humans are endlessly perplexing and fascinating. No wonder they need so many different emotions in order to concoct explanations, excuses, and rationalizations for all their irrational behavior.

—ERASMUS, Laboratory Notebooks

With Gilbertus away on Salusa Secundus, the independent robot used the spy-eyes he had installed throughout the Mentat School to observe the activities of the trainees. The students diligently followed the guidance of proctors and administrators, forcing their brains into proper focus and following the Headmaster’s curriculum … never imagining that the foundation of their instruction came from a reviled thinking machine—who watched them all the time.

Erasmus enjoyed the irony, but he was also frustrated. For centuries in the thinking-machine empire, he had been an avid researcher, participating in hands-on experiments. He had found it invigorating to manipulate human test subjects and shed blood in the name of understanding. Gilbertus had helped Erasmus in many of the experiments. Those had been excellent times.

The human subjects had not been willing participants, but throughout the history of science, what laboratory animal had happily sacrificed its life for the greater benefit of knowledge? In his research, Erasmus had come across an old saying: There were many ways to skin a cat, and cats liked none of them. The humans he had skinned (literally) did not appreciate the experience either.…

Now, trapped and impotent, the robot core’s only refuge lay in assessing the students from a distance. He observed a group of them crowded around a stainless-steel dissection table on which they had spread a reptilian swamp dragon. The dead specimen, two meters long, had spiny ridges and overlapping green armor plates, as well as curved teeth to hook prey.

Erasmus focused in on the view, increased the magnification.

His tiny robotic helpers had worked hard to place spy-eyes outside the walls of the school complex as well, so he could watch any trainee who fell prey to swamp predators. He monitored every such exercise, calculating the odds and—yes, he admitted to himself—hoping to see a bloody attack. He wanted to observe how Mentats-in-training defended themselves. So far, none had bested a swamp dragon in direct combat, though two had put up an extraordinary struggle.

Now, in the laboratory, the students used surgical knives and serrated cutting tools to make incisions through the dragon’s armor plates. Erasmus wished he could participate, standing in his former flowmetal body or even a more cumbersome mek body. He remembered his beautiful physical form with the delicate silver hands that were able to manipulate complex tools.

Personally, he had always gained more insights from dissecting human subjects while they were still alive. What better way to analyze reflexes and pain responses? Living subjects, in pain, also provided the best data on emotions. He would watch and measure the expression in their eyes, the begging and pleading, the sheer panic, and then—a distinct change that was obvious once he’d learned what to look for—the loss of hope just before the onset of death.

Now, the students pulled apart the gray muscle fibers and removed the reptile’s internal organs. Though dead, the swamp creature twitched reflexively, and its long jaws clamped down. One of the students jerked out of the way, barely in time to keep her hand from being bitten off. Even so, the curved tooth left a deep red scratch on her arm.

Erasmus focused in on the scratch. He knew that the marsh reptiles carried deadly bacteria in their saliva. A scratch from this tooth could become infected, grow gangrenous, and the student might die, feverish and babbling, in excruciating pain. Erasmus hoped the school’s medical team wouldn’t treat the scratch. It would be very interesting to study the effects of delirium on an enhanced Mentat mind.…

He switched to another set of spy-eyes to watch a room full of new trainees poring over pages and pages of random numbers, which they were then asked to reproduce from memory. The exercise helped them organize their brains, to replicate the skills of a machine (except a thinking machine never needed to practice). Many inductees failed at this stage and were released from the school, but others did manage to learn. Erasmus admired them for their persistence and determination, because humans had such great disadvantages with their soft and chaotic brains.

Erasmus took all of his basic thinking skills for granted. Long ago, he had been identical to so many other robots, programmed by Omnius to serve the Synchronized Empire. The computer evermind had been duplicated across hundreds of worlds, each separated memory core maintaining parity via update ships such as one flown by Vorian Atreides.

Erasmus had gained uniqueness only through a fortunate accident. After falling into a glacier crevasse on Corrin, he’d been trapped for over a century, during which time he had nothing to do but ponder his existence and develop his advanced personality. By the time Erasmus was rescued, he was different from any other independent robot … and that was the point at which he’d begun to do great things. His suffering had been necessary to transform him into such a superior thinking machine, one with a very creative mind.

In a sense, his current situation was similar—trapped and helpless, disembodied. But Gilbertus could save him at any time.

Now that the two of them had been hiding for so long among feral humans, Erasmus worried that his ward had become corrupted, even sympathetic to the rest of his race. It was time for them both to leave Lampadas, to change their parameters, to create a new identity for Gilbertus. The Butlerian delusions were interesting, but dangerous—and growing more so.

Gilbertus had already installed stronger defenses around the Mentat School, on the pretext of protecting the Emperor’s sister. High walls now surrounded the school complex, and the approach through the labyrinth of marshes was difficult. The gates were barred, the landing field small and secure. The lakeshore was protected with electronic and physical defenses as well, augmented by dangerous predators in the water.

But it was not enough, as far as Erasmus was concerned.

Using tiny robotic drones to complete the work, the robot core had laid down advanced conduit paths and installed hidden high-intensity power-dispersal units, a grid that could project a microwave pulse to incapacitate human enemies. He still did not let down his guard.

Erasmus’s attention continued to roam throughout the school. The time ticked away as he studied activities that had once been so fascinating, but now were boring. In an instruction chamber, seven Mentat students stared at a wall that projected blips of light in predetermined grid squares, following a complex pattern that the trainees were asked to decipher. The lights twinkled like a random display of static, and the trainees tried to predict the sequence. Most of them failed. Only one—the intriguing Anna Corrino—identified the correct sequence every time. He watched her lips move as she muttered the answers.

For a thinking machine, time was infinitely flexible, every second broken into countless pieces, but Erasmus chose to speed up the time now, slowing down his thought processes so that the lonely day passed in a blink. When he let himself become aware again, it was night outside—and Anna had returned to her quarters. Now, things would get interesting.

His external sensor pickups detected a cacophony of swamp noises, buzzing and clicking, mating calls, the screams of dispatched prey, the rustling of large animals through the underbrush, a splash of razorjaws swimming through the thick sangrove swamp.

He channeled his attention into Anna’s quarters. She was eager to go to bed every night now, because whenever she lay next to the tiny speakers implanted in the walls, she listened for his soothing voice, and answered him.

“Tell me again about your lover, Hirondo Nef, ” Erasmus said.

The young woman grew alternately emotional and detached as she talked about the palace chef who had made her swoon but who—in Erasmus’s assessment—had been a mere diversion and certainly not worthy of a majestic and valuable female specimen such as Anna.

“Salvador destroyed our love, ” she said with a hitch in her voice, glad to have a sympathetic listener. “He sent Hirondo away, drove us apart.”

“I’m sure he had your best interest at heart, ” Erasmus suggested.

“No, my brother was thinking only of protecting his throne. He murdered Hirondo. I know it! ”

Indeed, Erasmus hoped so. He wished he could witness her reaction if she discovered proof that it had really happened. It would be interesting to see the emotions on her face, and hear her screams of despair. “Tell me more about your brother, ” he said.

Anna blinked in the dimness. “Which one? Roderick or Salvador? ”

“Both. We have plenty of time.”

She began to list a curiously organized set of facts: the birth dates of Roderick and Salvador, their heights, the names of their wives, the names and birth dates…

The past is always with us, in one form or another. Those with the proper perception can see it.

—maxim of the Sisterhood

The traitor Dorotea and her orthodox Sisters had split from Raquella’s teachings because they refused to accept any form of advanced technology, regardless of the need. It was her blind spot, Valya knew. While pretending to be Dorotea’s friend, Valya had noted a disturbing edge of unreason in the other woman’s eyes and comments. During a years-long assignment on Lampadas to observe the Butlerian movement, Dorotea had been poisoned by their beliefs.

It was no wonder Dorotea had let her emotions get the best of her, turning like a viper against the Sisterhood.

Unlike the orthodox Sisters, Valya did not despise advanced technology: It was a tool to be used for her own purposes and for the success of the Sisterhood’s goals. Given the vast complexity of the breeding-record computers and their capacity for predictive analysis, she grasped the necessity for those tamed thinking machines. Besides, those exhaustive databases had allowed her to track down Atreides bloodlines. Technology was a means to an end, and Valya would use any weapon available to achieve her goals, which were far more important than any esoteric moral challenge.

While Butlerians stormed across the Imperium and destroyed anything that resembled a thinking machine, Venport Holdings promoted technology for the benefit of the human race. Now Cioba Venport arranged to transport Valya’s team to Rossak in secret so they could retrieve the buried computers. A loyal Sister, Cioba knew not to ask questions.

As their camouflaged shuttle dropped out of a huge VenHold spacefolder, guided down by a skilled Sisterhood pilot, Valya sat among fifteen women who had demonstrated combat proficiency in test exercises on Wallach IX, specially cleared Sisters from Raquella’s most trusted inner circle. Some of the commando Sisters were armed, and all of them were weapons in their own right. There was a chance they might have to face Imperial soldiers the Emperor had left behind to watch over the abandoned cliff city. If that happened, Valya was confident her Sisters could still prevail, but it would be better if they managed to slip in and out of the jungles without being noticed. She preferred not to have to explain bodies.…

Sister Olivia, one of the recently graduated Sister Mentats, selected a seat next to Valya as the shuttle descended through the atmosphere. “I spent a year on Rossak before going to Lampadas for Mentat training. It will be sad to see our great cliff city abandoned.”

Olivia was young and wide at the hips, with long blond hair and an assertive personality that Valya found grating at times, perhaps because it reminded her of herself. Olivia had formed a solid friendship with Fielle in their time together at the Mentat School, and Valya gauged the influence of all the new Sister Mentats. Fielle in particular was a shining star who already held much of the Mother Superior’s attention. Valya was keeping a close eye on her, assessing whether she would be a powerful ally or rival.

“Stay near me at all times, ” she warned Olivia. “The shuttle will land far from any Imperial military defenses, and we’ll make our way through the thickest wilderness. It’s a testing ground, and there are many hazards for the unwary.”

The Sister Mentat gave her an indulgent smile, but quiet anger simmered beneath her controlled expression. “I’m not unwary, nor a fool. And the Lampadas swamps have ferocious predators as dangerous as any Rossak can offer.”

Valya realized that she herself should attempt more finesse. Even before becoming a Reverend Mother, she had observed many subtle connections in the political and personal web of Sisters—factions, alliances, rivalries, resentments, all under the guise of formalized teaching and philosophical debate. But that had changed when the Sisterhood itself split apart. Now, Valya vowed, she would help the true Sisterhood on Wallach IX to be strong, unified, focused.

And since the Mother Superior would have to name her successor soon, Valya needed to make certain the old woman made the correct decision. Valya felt envious when Raquella was with Fielle or when she showed interest in other Sisters—but voices in Valya’s mind, wise voices from Other Memory, counseled her to rise above such pettiness, for the sake of the Sisterhood and its mission to improve mankind. Valya had heeded such advice, but turned a deaf ear when the same voices suggested that she abandon her ambitious goals for House Harkonnen, so she could focus entirely on the Sisterhood.

Valya herself was absurdly young, in physical years, to be considered for such a monumental role. But for a Reverend Mother, with countless generations of experiences inside her, physical age was irrelevant. Her drive and determination, though, were her own.

If she became the Mother Superior, she would need to lead all of the Sisters, from the freshest acolyte like Tula to the wisest Reverend Mother. She couldn’t let Raquella see her act petulantly or childishly. She had to forge alliances, not break them. Their true enemies were the orthodox Sisters on Salusa and the betrayer Dorotea.

Now, she suppressed her feelings of antipathy toward Fielle and considered the good in the other young woman. Fielle was talented, but so new and untested that she could not possibly be Raquella’s replacement. For Valya to keep herself paramount in Raquella’s mind, and to demonstrate that she was rising above pettiness, the best solution was to turn Fielle into an ally, perhaps through her friend Olivia.

After a moment of assessment and consideration, Valya smiled warmly and said to Olivia, “You are part of my team for a good reason. In addition to the jungle hazards, we have to watch for any Imperial troops Salvador left behind. As a Sister Mentat, you might be able to see dangers that even I don’t detect. We have to make this a swift and smooth mission.”

Olivia seemed relieved. All the tense muscles in her face relaxed. “Our work here is vital for the Sisterhood. Each of us is an important member of the team.”

As the shuttle continued its descent, Valya looked through the windowport at the night-darkened planet below. She spotted a few city lights spangled in the murky wilderness. Although the Sisterhood School had been uprooted and the primary cliff city abandoned, many people still lived on Rossak: entrepreneurs, harvesters, scouts, even exiles.

According to an intelligence report that Cioba Venport had obtained from her own VenHold operatives, Emperor Salvador had stationed a small contingent of troops near the former Sisterhood settlement. Although the soldiers had poor service records and substandard equipment, Valya was sure the guards were here at Dorotea’s suggestion to make certain the exiled Sisters didn’t try to return to the cliff city. Dorotea wanted to keep her faction of pandering Sisters important to the Emperor—and keep Raquella irrelevant.

I should have killed Dorotea while she lay writhing from the poison, Valya thought. But no one had expected her to live through the Agony. No previous Sister candidate had survived intact, with the exception of Raquella herself.

Since the Imperial contingent had only rudimentary surveillance equipment, the camouflaged VenHold craft easily slipped past their scans and set down in a jungle clearing several kilometers from their destination. She listened to the low conversations of her team members, heard the excitement and anticipation in their voices. Simply returning to the original home planet felt like a kind of victory for them.

Stepping outside into the heady jungle wearing a night-vision headset, Valya listened to the rustle of animals gliding through the underbrush. She didn’t worry. Many times, she had traveled the depths of the jungle when she assisted Karee Marques in search of natural toxins or drugs.

Through the illumination enhancers she magnified the view and saw the majestic cliff city in the distance, its pockmarked stone face riddled with tunnels and now-empty living quarters. At one time this had been the Sisterhood’s vibrant hub; now it was nothing but faded memories. She could no longer discern the trails or crepe like balconies that had graced the sheer stone wall.

In those days, the breeding computers had been concealed up there in a cavern deep inside the cliff. Egged on by the insistent Dorotea, the paranoid Emperor’s search team had ransacked the tunnels, but Valya had already whisked the dangerous technology away. Undeterred by the lack of proof, the Emperor had slaughtered the Sister Mentats and the remaining Sorceresses, who were merely trying to protect their school. Even though Salvador Corrino had given the order, Valya still placed the blame on Dorotea.

As her team members emerged from the shuttle and gathered their equipment, she inhaled the moist, odor-rich jungle air. While gazing at the haunted-looking cliff city, she remembered the women she’d known there. In the back of her mind, Valya heard what sounded like a murmur of human voices, as if the honeycombed Cliffside were saturated with the spirits of dead Sisters. She felt a sudden chill as the voices called out plaintively, moaning for what was lost and would never be again.

Valya had enough ghosts in her own past, and too much blood on her hands. And she wasn’t finished yet. Even with all the struggles of the downtrodden Sisterhood, she thought angrily of her slain brother, Griffin, and the generations of disgrace that House Harkonnen had suffered. The blood Valya wanted on her hands was Atreides blood.

When the rest of her team stood equipped and ready to move through the undergrowth, Valya activated a holomap in the air, and her team gathered around. “We’re here, ” she said, pointing. “This sinkhole is our destination. Three of you were with me when we sealed away the computers, and though it’s been less than a year, the jungle reclaims its territory quickly.”

She regarded them all. “We retrieve what is ours, which will bring us one step closer to rebuilding the Sisterhood to what it is meant to be.”

* * *

Valya and her comrades trudged through the gloomy Rossak jungles. Carrying electronic locators, they moved behind two trailblazing commandos who wielded melters that dissolved the tangled plants to clear a wide path.

Their tracks would be obvious, but once they escaped with the computers, Valya didn’t care. Imperial scouts would never guess what had really happened, and the fecund silvery purple foliage of Rossak would erase the scars quickly enough.

All of them still wore enhancement goggles, which added a greenish outline to everything around them. Behind the trail-cutters, six commandos guided silent suspensor bins to hold all of the sealed components.

Valya sent two women ahead, with two others on each side to watch for any dangers. They found a game trail trending in the right direction, and the foliage melters cleared the path through vines and tangled forward. Sister Olivia and two others maneuvered the suspensor bins. It was warm even in the night, and Valya perspired heavily.

Having led the original operation to hide the computers, she knew where to find the limestone sinkhole. She came upon the dim, moss-blurred outline of a mushroom-shaped rock, recognized the landmark, and moved off the trail to explore, telling the others to wait. Valya found a loose stack of pancake-shaped limestone slabs as high as her shoulders. She walked around it, discovering one of the loose slabs fallen to one side—it looked natural to the casual eye. Using her goggles, she enhanced the detail.

“Over here, ” she called. “I need help.”

Valya stood aside and directed two of her commandos to push. Under their effort the stone moved, revealing a concealed cave opening and a sloping passage lined with rough limestone steps. She adjusted her light-enhancing goggles and entered the darkness, leading the way down.

When she and her companions had hidden the components here, they’d had very little time. Mother Superior distracted Dorotea’s followers by inviting them to a debate, fooling the detractors into believing that the subject of computers was open for discussion. And while that was happening, Valya had saved the machines and records.

Now the rest of her team followed Valya down the sloping passage to the underground cenote chamber. The access tunnels had been widened by generations of the Misborn, outcasts from the cliff city who lived in isolation around the underground pools. The Misborn were gone now, having died out in the generations since the end of the Jihad.

Valya removed her night-vision goggles and switched on a bright illuminator. Overhead, the thick, hairy roots of trees penetrated through the ceiling, dangling down like lost ropes. Water dripped and echoed in the tunnels.

Valya remembered the route; she counted her steps, then looked to her right and found a narrow, chest-high opening. She pointed the illuminator beam, revealing a rock tunnel. “This should be the place.”

The other Sisters pressed close, ready to help. Valya looked at Olivia, summoned a sense of command, and altered her voice into a lower, more throaty range. She had been observing Olivia, assessing her, learning her weak points that could be manipulated. Setting the pitch of her voice, she said, “Crawl in there and verify that the components are intact.”

She had been practicing a new technique she had discovered since becoming a Reverend Mother, a way of influencing people by utilizing her voice to manipulate that person’s will. Now she was pleased by how effective the command was against even a Sister Mentat. “Crawl in there.” It was like an invisible push.

Olivia froze for an instant, and then, as if an unseen hand pushed her, she sprang into the tunnel opening. She seemed startled by her reflexive reaction and cried out in alarm, then recovered and proceeded into the passage, crawling along. When she saw Olivia’s response, Valya felt a giddy sense of power.

She analyzed what she had done, trying to memorize the compulsion she had put into her voice. It seemed boosted by the power of Other Memory she carried within herself—she’d noticed that the throaty sound of her compelling Voice bore certain similarities to the cacophony of Other Memory she heard in her mind, a low rumble of background noise from those ancestral females. She could enhance her compulsion with nuances tailored to what she knew of Olivia. And the woman responded as expected.

Valya smiled, knowing she had to practice this further. This would bear greater study.

Olivia crawled into the darkness until she had the presence of mind to activate her own illuminator. In a breathless voice, she called back, “The containers are here, the components still sealed in polymer sheets.”

Valya felt a sense of relief, but wanted to hurry. Trying to summon her commanding voice again, but without as strong an effect this time, she spoke to two of her commandos, Sisters Ulia and Stancy. She added a little push to see what would happen. “Help Olivia move the components. Bring them all out with extreme care. Then we’ll load them in the suspensor bins and make our way back to the shuttle. We can be gone by sunrise.”

Standing back, Valya watched while the other Sisters did the work of retrieving the computers. She took inventory, keeping track of each component.

The Sisters emerged, smeared with dirt and spores, and moved the components up the passage to the suspensor bins. The team members spoke in hushed whispers, not out of fear of Imperial detection, but because the cenote chamber seemed to hold eerie memories.

Is anything truly as we perceive it? What are the filters to our perception? The most honest among us will look deeply to examine how our opinions are skewed by our own delusions.

—training of the Orthodox Sisterhood

To celebrate the symbolic triumph of humans over thinking machines—no matter that it was just a pyramid chess game—Salvador Corrino had scheduled a parade through the capital city of Zimia. He would sit in an ornate open carriage pulled by four spirited golden lions and listen to the cheers of the crowd.

He had the uneasy feeling, though, that they would be cheering for Manford Torondo, not him. The Butlerian leader had brought out his intense, fanatical followers, and they were already crowding the streets. How could there be so many of them in Salvador’s own capital city?

Manford rode beside the Emperor on a specially designed seat in the carriage, so that both of them could wave to the bright-eyed throngs on each side of the street. With a clang and a clatter, the remnants of the defeated combat mek were dragged along behind the royal carriage, like the corpse of an overthrown tyrant. For security, uniformed Imperial troops marched behind the carriage.

Oddly, the legless Butlerian leader had already been in his seat when Salvador climbed into the carriage. Other than an indecipherable nod and a mild expression, Manford had not communicated with Salvador as the procession got under way. The legless man showed no deference toward the Imperial Presence, merely waved to the throngs in a stiff, robotic manner.

Suspicious, the Emperor studied Manford more closely. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His features, his eyes, even the way he sat …

Sensing the scrutiny, the legless man looked back at him. “Is my makeup credible? ”

“Makeup? What do you mean? ”

“I am told my resemblance to Leader Torondo is quite striking. And you, too—most convincing! ” The man blinked at him. “Let’s not fool each other. We understand our roles. I’m not the real Manford Torondo, and you cannot be the true Emperor Salvador. For the safety of our holy leaders, you and I must accept the public risk in their stead.”

Feeling his face burn, Salvador said, “You’re Manford’s double? ”

The false Manford continued to wave at the crowds, drinking in the cheers. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “You are an excellent substitute. Even your voice is perfect.”

“This is an outrage! ” Salvador half rose from his seat, then remembered to keep smiling and waving as the lions plodded along. “I am the real Corrino Emperor! ”

The man in the seat beside him looked astonished. “Truly? Well, Sire, then this is quite an honor. You are very brave to face the threat of assassination so openly. I do my best not to show any fear, for Leader Torondo’s sake.” The man beamed with pride. “His previous double died horribly from poison, but maybe I’ll be more fortunate.”

Salvador was aghast, but embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of the idea himself. He couldn’t take his eyes from the double, whose legs were clearly missing. The impostor noticed his attention. “Yes, it was necessary for me to have my legs amputated. Otherwise my disguise would have been unconvincing.” He smirked, finding humor in his situation.

“You … did that voluntarily? ”

“Of course. Leader Torondo asked it of me. A small sacrifice on my part for the greater glory of the human soul.” He gazed out at the burgeoning crowds. “And I keep a great man safe so he can continue his work, regardless of the numerous threats against him.” Seeing Salvador’s alarm, the fake Manford tried to sound reassuring. “I’m sure there’s nothing to fear today, Sire. You have a goodly number of your soldiers providing security along the parade route.”

The Emperor mopped cold perspiration from his forehead. “Don’t say another word to me.” Now he imagined wild assassins in the crowd, and he wanted to bolt from the carriage and run for his life … but that would cause him great public embarrassment. He would have to complete this procession. His pulse pounded, but the Manford double did not seem concerned. Salvador wished that in retaliation for this trick he could turn the real Butlerian leader over to Quemada for a few questions.

As Emperor, Salvador was the leader of all humanity, and if the Butlerian leader needed a double, then the Emperor should have one, too … and Roderick as well. If anything happened to his brother, Salvador would never be able to rule the Imperium alone. Either the Butlerians would run roughshod over him with unreasonable mob demands, or Josef Venport would insist on unconscionable concessions to benefit his powerful industries.

Salvador was caught between these two mortal enemies—each inflexible and both focused on their respective passions. Although he and Roderick had close business and political relationships with Venport Holdings, the Corrinos had also made concessions to the mad Butlerians. The situation was a powder keg waiting to explode.

At Manford’s demand, the Emperor had formed a Committee of Orthodoxy to monitor and judge technology throughout the Imperium. The Butlerians provided a list of unacceptable items—a list that always changed, and never grew shorter. Salvador had to accept the list or rabid mobs would storm the capital city and bring him down.

Meanwhile, most of the ships in the Imperial Armed Forces were carried to their destinations aboard VenHold spacefolders, in a service provided at low cost with great safety. The VenHold Spacing Fleet was clearly the superior alternative.

Fortunately for Emperor Salvador, Manford Torondo and Josef Venport hated each other. Maybe they would neutralize each other—so long as the conflict didn’t take Salvador down with it.

Beside him, with sparkling eyes and a vapid smile, the false Manford continued to bask in applause. The throng was a mass of faces and expressions, generating rolling swells of noise.

Finally, to Salvador’s relief, the Imperial carriage completed its celebratory procession and headed back to the golden-domed Hall of Parliament. With an uncomfortable glance at the legless double, he slipped out of the carriage without waiting for his military guards or entourage and hurried into the building, while his liveried attendants tried to keep up with him.

His brother Roderick, waited for him on the staircase that led to the second-story balcony from which Salvador was expected to deliver a speech. Still hearing the murmur of crowd noise from the streets outside, the Emperor tried to control his breathing. His brother raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong? ”

Salvador told him about Manford’s double. “That bastard kept himself safe and hidden, but allowed me to face the risk of assassins! ” His nostrils flared. Outside, the crowd sounded restless, as if slipping out of control. “Find me my own double, Roderick—without delay. Oh, and you should find one for yourself as well. If anything happened to you—”

“I’ll begin the process.” Roderick’s voice was soothing and steady, and Salvador felt calmer just to have his brother’s strong presence at his side. “Right now, the crowds are expecting to see you. And if you don’t deliver a speech, Manford will probably talk without you. He’s already there riling them up.”

When they reached the balcony, the real Butlerian leader sat in his harness on the Swordmasters shoulders, as if ready for battle. Two Reverend Mothers from the Imperial Court stood in the shadows off to the side: his personal Truthsayer, Dorotea, and the soft and pudgy Sister Woodra—both ardent Butlerian adherents. Headmaster Gilbertus Albans, looking out of place and uncomfortable with all the attention, stood behind them. Because he had defeated the mek in the pyramid chess game, the Mentat Headmaster was required to be present for the celebration.

As soon as he saw Salvador arrive, Manford nudged Anari Idaho, and she stepped out onto the balcony where the crowd could see him. Without even waiting for the Emperor to join him—exactly as Roderick had warned—he raised his hands and his gesture was like flinging fuel onto a fire. The roar of applause was deafening.

The Emperor felt a sinking sensation. Beside him, Roderick paused and showed clear distaste for the Butlerian leader’s disrespect for the Emperor.

From his perch on top of Anari’s shoulders, Manford raised his voice for the crowd and gestured back toward Salvador. “Our Emperor has joined us! All hail Salvador Corrino the First! ”

Buoyed by all the obvious enthusiasm, Salvador stepped into view. Yes, they were shouting for him now, because the crowd was packed with Butlerians, and Manford had told them to applaud. He noted that the real Manford’s voice was distinctly different from the double’s, filled with the familiar charisma.

Before the Emperor could speak, Manford shouted out, “Our Mentat defeated a terrible thinking machine, just as the faithful will defeat evil technology in all its forms. Never forget! You have earned the right to celebrate destruction, because that destruction gained us our freedom.” His smile had a wild, uncontrolled edge. “On behalf of the Emperor, I announce another rampage festival here in Zimia!

There is strength in numbers, a raw and primal power. But as a crowd grows and grows, its ability to reason diminishes.

—GILBERTUS ALBANS, Mentat School records

The rampage festival swelled out of hand through the evening, and fires burned in three parts of the city. In the midst of it all, Manford Torondo and his Swordmaster seemed complacent, as if they bore no responsibility for what was happening.

Roderick was dismayed to see that Imperial troops were completely ineffective at quelling the chaotic energy. Though numerous, the soldiers and the Zimia security force had no capable leadership, and the swift rush of violence took them by surprise; when they hesitated to fire upon the crowd, they were either shoved aside or trampled. The turbulence of a mob that had no coordinated goal dispersed the stationed troops.

Even the military officers did not know how to react to the unexpected storm of feral energy. Roderick had told his brother repeatedly that the Imperial Armed Forces needed better leaders and better organization; now, upon seeing how poorly the troops performed, he felt determined to crack down. First, though, this mindless vandalism had to be brought under control.

And this was a celebration, not even a mob driven by anger.

Roderick worried about his wife and children, who could be out there if they had come to watch the victory procession. But he could do nothing about it except to send messages for guards to find them. He knew his priority was to protect the Emperor. As the violence intensified, Roderick arranged for his brother to go into hiding in a private underground network of tunnels constructed centuries ago, during a time of frequent cymek raids. Empress Tabrina was taken to a different hiding place, because Salvador had no desire to be sealed up with her.

While mayhem continued in the city above, Roderick and a contingent of elite guards led Salvador through the puzzle box of combinations and security systems that allowed access to the secret tunnels. “They’re burning my city, Roderick! ”

Roderick tried to keep his brother calm. “I have dispatched troops to protect important buildings and summoned soldiers from our orbiting battleships to impose order.” He knew, though, that the guards were in chaos, many of them unresponsive; he wouldn’t be surprised if some of them had been killed. Quite a few had certainly abandoned their posts. “It’s hard to strategize against a mob that has no logical plan.”

The Emperor paused at the steel sliding wall as a thought occurred to him. “And your family, Roderick? Have them brought down here where they’ll be protected.”

“I sent word, but they haven’t been found yet.” Roderick fought against the knot in his stomach, remembering how his children always loved the spectacle of a good parade. “As soon as I’m sure that you’re safe, I’ll get back out there and find them myself, if I have to.”

At first, Salvador didn’t want his brother to leave, but he steeled himself and gave a brave nod. “I’ll be fine. Go now—I am counting on you to save Zimia! ”

Leaving the Emperor with guards in the deep tunnels, Roderick hurried back to an emergency command post in the palace. When he reached his secondary office, he was surprised to find Headmaster Albans there, offering to help. Roderick paused, suspecting a trick. Wasn’t Albans a known ally of Leader Torondo? But the Headmaster, normally a cool and logical man, looked shaken by the Butlerian violence. Seeing the expression on the bespectacled Mentat’s face, Roderick ushered him into the private room and closed the door.

They could hear the crowd noises from outside. By the light of distant fires visible through the office windows, he glimpsed a crude clay sculpture on his desk—he thought it was supposed to be a puppy—that Nantha had made for him. Roderick felt a new pang of fear and hoped that Haditha and their children were safely clear of the uproar by now.

He turned to the Mentat, barely controlling his anger at the unnecessary destruction. “You offered to help, Headmaster? If you know of a way to stop this violence, I am eager to hear it. Tell Leader Torondo to command them to stop, or has he gone into protective hiding? ”

The Mentat frowned. “He is among his people—that makes him safe. But he will not tell them to stop … because I believe he fears they won’t listen.” He removed his round eyeglasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back on. “Prince Roderick, I believe you are a man of honor, or I would not be here. If I suggest how you might end this rampage, you must promise never to reveal who offered the solution, not even to the Emperor—and especially not to Manford Torondo.”

“Why not? ”

“Manford is demonstrating the power he can unleash. He’s doing it to frighten the Emperor, and I suspect it won’t be long before he makes even more extreme demands.” He lowered his voice. “If he learns I worked with you to quell the violence, he would kill me, and his followers would raze my school on Lampadas.”

Roderick narrowed his gaze, not understanding the Mentat’s motivations. This man had just performed before the court, defeating a combat mek in a game to stroke Butlerian pride. And Manford had commanded the festival—wasn’t this what Gilbertus wanted? But Roderick’s primary responsibility was to restore peace and stability in Zimia. “I will hold your advice in confidence, Mentat. How do we extinguish this mob? ”

“The violence will die down in the night as people return to their homes, but some Butlerians plan to incite another rampage early tomorrow morning.”

Roderick felt a flush of new anger. “Which followers and where are they? We need to arrest them.”

“You will never find them.” Gilbertus shook his head. “No, this requires a different tactic, a trap. You must choose three outlying towns you are willing to sacrifice. I will initiate a rumor that stockpiles of preserved thinking machines are being kept in those towns—perhaps hidden by Directeur Venport himself. That is sure to drive the mob into an even greater fervor.”

The Mentat used his fingers to tick off the sequence of events. “That allows you to lure the Butlerians out of central Zimia. They will flood to the chosen villages, and the journey itself may drain their exuberance. Then you can set up security perimeters with your troops and bottle the Butlerians in those three towns.”

Roderick frowned. “I don’t like it. The mobs will ransack the target villages.”

Screams and explosions could be heard outside. A column of fire rose into the night.

“But they will be away from Zimia.” The Headmaster shrugged. “We cannot always find a solution that we like.”

* * *

The reports of destruction throughout Zimia forced Roderick to cut his losses. The Mentat was right. Studying maps, he selected three underpopulated and easily defensible towns, and gave his decision to the Headmaster.

Gilbertus Albans slipped out among the Butlerians and initiated a cascade of rumors, suggesting that computers and robots were secretly stored in those three outlying villages. Roderick felt anguished about the welfare of the citizens there, but he needed to protect the capital. He dispatched urgent messages ahead of the mobs, hoping to convince the targeted townspeople to flee while they still had time.

Well after midnight, as the rampage began to die down in the heart of Zimia, Manford Torondo heard the rumors himself. Reacting quickly, he sent teams of his supporters to punish the accused towns. After making his announcement, Manford summoned his Mentat and Swordmaster to join him, and departed from Salusa Secundus, turning his back on the mayhem he had caused. Roderick felt that the man was slipping away to hide from the consequences of what he had done.

At last, though, Roderick had a chance to snuff out the uprising. With Manford gone, his followers were confused but still keyed up. Roderick rushed Imperial troops to surround the three scapegoat towns and bottle up the most vehement Butlerians—and he told the troops to be ruthless. Just before dawn, the crisis began to wind down.

Red-eyed and exhausted, Roderick sent a message to his brother, giving him the good news, although Salvador was cautious, suggesting that he remain in isolation a while longer, just to be certain. Roderick didn’t argue with him, for now, but he knew that when day broke the people would want to be reassured that their Emperor had survived. In the interim, Roderick was the Emperor’s proxy and dealt with the response throughout Zimia. He spoke in public, looking calm and steady, a firm bastion in this crisis. Roderick Corrino was what they needed to see.

As dawn arrived, cleanup operations began in the capital city; fires were put out, “revelers” arrested, and field hospitals set up where Suk doctors triaged the injured. Numerous bodies—Butlerians, Zimia police, Imperial troops, innocent bystanders, and even children—were discovered in the rubble around the central plaza. Many of the victims had simply come out to see the parade and were swept up in the mayhem. The bodies were brought to a central holding area to be processed and identified.

Roderick felt so weary and wrung out that he indulged in a cup of bitter spice coffee, and the stimulant gave him a needed boost. At last he received the welcome news that Haditha and his children had been taken to a place of safety, but right now he had no chance to go home to them.

By midmorning, Roderick felt that the worst had been brought under control, and he began to feel a hint of calm. Then a haggard-looking Haditha burst into his office in the Hall of Parliament, pulling ahead of a distraught-looking guard. Roderick rushed to greet her with an embrace, knowing how frightened and exhausted she must be.

But when he held her, she pulled back with a terrible expression on her face, her entire body shaking so hard she could not speak. A wan-looking guard who had accompanied her stood awkwardly nearby.

“Nantha! ” Haditha finally cried, and the name sounded raw,