In a meditation alcove in the darkest basement of Harkonnen Keep, Piter de Vries could not hear the screech of amputation saws or the screams of torture victims from an open doorway just down the hall. His Mentat concentration was focused too intensely on other, more important matters.
Numerous harsh drugs enhanced his thinking process.
Sitting with his eyes closed, he pondered the clockwork of the Imperium, how the cogs meshed and slipped and ground together. The Great and Minor Houses of the Landsraad, the Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit, and the commercial trading conglomerate CHOAM were the key cogs. And all depended upon one thing.
Melange, the spice.
House Harkonnen reaped huge profits from its spice monopoly. When they’d learned of the secret “Project Amal” years ago, the Baron had needed little coaxing to realize how he would suffer financial ruin if a cheap melange substitute were ever developed— one that made Arrakis worthless.
The Emperor (or, more likely, Fenring) had hidden the artificial spice scheme well. He’d buried the vastly expensive project in the vagaries of the Imperial budget— imposed higher taxes here, trumped-up fines there, called in long-standing debts, sold valuable properties. But Piter de Vries knew where to look. Consequences, plans, preparations, third- and fourth-order ripples that could not remain invisible. Only a Mentat could follow them all, and the indications pointed to a long-term project that would bring about the economic ruin of House Harkonnen.
The Baron, however, would not go quietly. He had even attempted to start a war between the Bene Tleilax and House Atreides in order to destroy the “Amal” work . . . but that plan had failed, thanks to the damnable Duke Leto.
Since then, infiltrating spies onto the planet formerly known as Ix had proved predictably difficult, and his Mentat projections gave him no reason to believe the Tleilaxu had ceased their experiments. Indeed, since the Emperor was sending two more legions of “peacekeeper” Sardaukar to Ix, the research might finally be reaching a head.
Or Shaddam might be reaching the limits of his patience.
Now, in his Mentat trance, de Vries did not move a muscle, other than his eyes. A tray of mind-enhancing drugs hung around his neck, a slowly spinning platform like a table centerpiece. A yellow carrion fly landed on his nose, but he didn’t see it, didn’t feel it. The insect crawled onto his lower lip and kissed the spilled, bitter sapho juice there.
De Vries studied the rotating smorgasbord of drugs, and with a flick of his eyes stopped the turntable. The tray tilted, pouring a vial of tikopia syrup into his mouth . . . and with it the hapless fly, followed by a capsule of melange concentrate. The Mentat bit down on the spice capsule and swallowed, tasting an explosion of sweet-burning cassia essence. Then he summoned a second capsule, more melange than he had ever consumed in one sitting. But he needed the clarity now.
A torture victim in a distant cell howled, babbling a confession. But de Vries noticed nothing. Impervious to distractions, he plunged deeper into his own mind. Deeper. He felt his awareness opening, an unfolding of time like the spreading petals of a flower. He flowed along a continuum, each part accessible to his brain. He saw his exact place in it.
In his mind’s eye, one of several possible futures became clear, an extraordinary Mentat projection based upon an avalanche of information and intuition, enhanced by massive melange consumption. The vision was a series of painful filmbook images, visual spikes driven into his eyes. He saw the Tleilaxu Master Researcher proudly holding a vial of synthetic spice, and laughing as he consumed it for himself. Success!
A blur. He saw the Harkonnens on Arrakis, packing up, leaving all their spice production behind. Troops of armed Sardaukar guards marched blurred figures to an Imperial transport, taking them away from holdings on the desert world. He saw the Harkonnen blue-griffin banner taken down from the fortress in Carthag and the Residency at Arrakeen.
And replaced with the green-and-black of House Atreides!
A strangled noise came from his throat, and his Mentat mind sifted through the prescient images, forced them into a pattern, and tried to translate what he had seen.
The Harkonnens will lose their spice monopoly. But not necessarily because of the amal being developed by the Tleilaxu in collusion with the Emperor.
How, then?
As the drugs’ multitentacled hold tightened, smothering him, his mind streaked down one avenue of synapses after another. Each time, he found nothing, only dead ends. He circled around and tried again, but reached the same conclusion.
How will it happen?
Heavy consumption of mixed drugs was not an approved method of stimulating mind powers; but he wasn’t a normal Mentat, a gifted person accepted into the School and trained in the arcane methods of data-sorting and analysis. Piter de Vries was a “twisted” Mentat— grown in a Tleilaxu axlotl tank from the cells of a dead Mentat and trained by others who had broken from the Mentat School. After dispensing their warped training, the Tleilaxu retained no control over their Mentats, though de Vries had no doubt that they had another fully grown ghola, genetically identical to him, just waiting in case Baron Harkonnen happened to lose patience with him one too many times.
The Tleilaxu “twisting” produced an enrichment that could be obtained in no other way. It gave de Vries greater capabilities, far beyond what normal Mentats could attain. But it also made him unpredictable and dangerous, potentially beyond control.
For decades the Bene Tleilax had experimented with drug combinations on their Mentats; in his formative years, de Vries had been one of their subjects. The effects had been unpredictable and inconclusive, resulting in alterations— improvements, he hoped— to his brain.
Ever since he’d been sold to House Harkonnen, de Vries had performed his own tests, refining his body, tuning it to the condition he wanted. With just the right mixture of chemicals he had achieved a high degree of mental clarity for faster processing of data.
Why will House Harkonnen lose the spice monopoly? And when?
It seemed wise to suggest to the Baron that he reinforce his operations, double-check the secret melange stockpiles hidden on Lankiveil and elsewhere. We must protect ourselves from this disaster.
His heavy eyelids flickered, lifted. Bright particles of light swam into his eyes; with difficulty, he focused his vision. He heard squealing. Past the half-closed door, two uniformed men wheeled a squeaky gurney, on top of which lay a misshapen lump that had once been a human form.
Why will House Harkonnen lose its spice monopoly? Sadly, he realized the drugs he had administered were wearing off, dissipated in the effort to unravel the troubled prescient vision. Why? He needed to take this to an even deeper level. I must learn the answer!
In a frenzy he detached the drug tray from his neck, dumping juice and capsules on the floor. Falling to his knees, he gathered all the pills he could find and swallowed them. Like an animal, he lapped up spilled sapho juice, before he huddled in a jittering heap on the cold floor. Why?
When a pleasurable feeling came over him, he lay back on the sticky, wet surface, staring at the ceiling. His involuntary body functions slowed, giving him the outward appearance of death. But his mind was racing, its electro-chemical activity increasing, neurons sorting signals, processing, searching . . . electrical impulses leaping synaptic gaps, faster and faster.
Why? Why?
His cognitive pathways fired in all directions, crossed, sizzled; potassium and sodium ions collided with other radicals in his brain cells. The internal mechanisms broke down, no longer able to handle the fire-hose flow of data. He was on the brink of vaulting into mental chaos and slipping into a coma.
Instead, his marvelous Mentat mind went into survival mode, shutting down functions, limiting the damage. . . .
Piter de Vries awoke in a pool of spilled drug residue. His nostrils, mouth, and throat burned.
At the Mentat’s side, the Baron paced back and forth, scolding him like a child. “Look at the mess you’ve made, Piter. All that wasted melange, and I almost had to purchase a new Mentat from the Tleilaxu. Don’t ever be so thoughtless and wasteful again!”
De Vries struggled to sit up, wanting to tell the Baron about his vision, the destruction of House Harkonnen. “I . . . I have seen . . .” But he could not get the words out. It would take a long time before he was able to string sentences together coherently.
Worse yet— even with his desperate overdose, he still did not have an answer for the Baron.