Navigators of Dune

As his initial move, Josef intended to create a large spice stockpile, which would provide stability in the melange markets, and then he could devote his efforts to mopping up these operations and chasing away the Imperial interlopers. Maybe that would be the leverage he needed to reach some sort of peace with Roderick Corrino. Restored spice trade would be best for the Imperium, by far.

But if the new Emperor proved to be intractable, Josef might have to take the throne himself, however reluctantly. That was by far the least desirable solution, though. If he seized the Imperial rulership, that would, no doubt, cause countless headaches and bring him very few genuine rewards. Still, “Emperor Josef Venport” had a nice ring to it.…

Flying his shuttle down to Arrakis City, he had to remain alert for local traffic that flew in unregulated patterns. No one gave him guidance for landing in the spaceport, so he chose his own spot and set down without incident. When he disembarked, his first breath of the bitterly arid air scoured his throat and lungs.

Because water was so extraordinarily expensive on this planet, locals fitted themselves with desert survival suits and moisture-reclamation units, but Josef hated those things and refused to wear one. He was not flaunting his wealth and power—he just disliked the inconvenience.

As he made his way to the Combined Mercantiles headquarters he studied the city with its insulated shops, moisture-sealed doors, window coverings to shade from the raging sun. Ragged, dust-covered people moved through the streets with their heads down. Arrakis City had degenerated substantially since his last time here. That would have to change. So many things to take care of once he secured his operations.…

He arrived at the headquarters of Combined Mercantiles and saw that a veritable army of guards was stationed outside. Mercenary troops huddled in sealed pillbox turrets, alert for bandits or, more likely, a move by Imperial forces.

He was glad to see the security. He chose only his most trusted administrators to run the spice operations. Before the crisis had forced him to reassign his Mentat to more pressing matters, Draigo Roget had been in charge here, a model of efficiency. Josef felt another flash of anger over how dramatically the situation had changed. If only Salvador had left well enough alone and focused his efforts against the Butlerians!

After passing through all the layers of security, Josef was wryly amused to watch Norma Cenva’s tank simply appear in the meeting chamber with a rush of displaced air.

The two Mentat administrators, Rogin and Tomkir, had begun their training under Gilbertus Albans and then transitioned to final instruction under Draigo Roget. The two men were around the same age, though Tomkir’s skin was much darker, and Rogin’s complexion had been ravaged by the pockmarks of disease. They had already assembled summary data for him to peruse.

The third man in the meeting room looked furtive and out of place. He was thin and dirty, as if he had been left in the sun to dry out from a storm, and he regarded Norma’s tank with superstitious horror.

Josef knew about the desert people on Arrakis, tribes that haughtily called themselves the “Freemen,” although their freedom on this dry, bleak world seemed more miserable than the civilized slavery from which they had escaped more than a century ago. Yet he knew the desert wanderers had been useful before, and he expected that Rogin and Tomkir had enlisted this man for the important new stockpile project.

Tomkir indicated the desert man. “Modoc here was about to depart after delivering his report, Directeur, but we prevented him from doing so. We thought you would like to meet him.”

Rogin interjected, “Thanks to Modoc’s tribe, we will have an established, secure location that we can repurpose for the facility you requested.”

The desert man shrank away from Norma’s mutated, naked body drifting in the spice gases. “You captured a demon?” He looked up with his unnaturally blue eyes, caused by a lifetime of spice ingestion. “Are we safe from it?”

“She is my great-grandmother,” Josef said. “Her mind can encompass the entire universe in ways that your desert gods could never comprehend.”

Modoc took a tentative step forward, fascinated. “I always laughed at my brother Taref for imagining so many fantastical things. I didn’t believe him.”

Josef raised his eyebrows. “You are from Taref’s tribe?” He remembered the desert operative he had trained, and trusted—for a time. Until the man had simply abandoned his responsibilities and walked away.

Modoc lifted his chin, gazed at him with irritation. “I am the Naib of my sietch, and yes, Taref was cast out. He was worthless, of no more use to my people.”