Navigators of Dune

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.

Inside the headquarters building, the morning air was filled with the loud and chaotic sounds of construction work. Heavy haulers and small hand wagons carted away the residue of shattered buildings, thousands of tons of rubble. By Emperor Roderick’s order, they would build a new, simpler city.

Because of the numerous threats against his life, Manford had always kept a body double who could make public appearances in his stead. On that terrible day when the cymeks attacked Empok, Manford had refused to let the double serve his destiny, and now Anari resented this man who looked so much like Leader Torondo; he had failed utterly, for he remained alive while Manford was dead.

Anari had failed in the same way.

Now, the body double seemed too eager to fulfill his role again, and to broaden it. “I can become a new Manford Torondo,” he insisted. “Stronger than ever. The people will know I’ve returned. They will believe in me.”

“Only the gullible ones will. It’s not a good idea.”

He had come to her in Manford’s old administration offices—her offices now. She was annoyed that he had allowed himself to be seen, since the double’s very existence had always been a carefully kept secret. Seeing him had caused a few ecstatic and terrified followers to claim that Leader Torondo’s ghost had returned to guide them, a spirit from beyond who could offer the truth and wisdom that the Butlerians sorely needed right now.

Anari angrily dispatched her own people to quash the rumors. She closed the curtains in the offices so that others could not glimpse him now.

Propped up on cushions, seated like Manford in a chair designed to accommodate his legless form, the double looked at Anari with a fiery determination in his eyes. She didn’t know his original name, but his name didn’t really matter. He had pretended to be Manford for so long that without his physical resemblance to the charismatic leader, he was nothing.

Deacon Harian—his forehead bandaged from a severe wound, and one eye blinded from the acid mists sprayed by the cymeks, his arm in a sling—was also in the office. Though he was just as determined to do something significant in the aftermath, he looked uneasily at the double. Anari would have to make the necessary decision, and she was perfectly willing to do so.