On my own planet, I make my own rules. And I have many planets.

—JOSEF VENPORT, VenHold internal memo

With a private space fleet at his command and dedicated Navigators to guide him safely through foldspace, Josef Venport could travel wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. His wife, Cioba, could easily handle the intricate management activities back on Kolhar, while he went off to deal with other important business. Some of his destinations were unknown to anyone else in the Landsraad League, planetary coordinates held only in the grossly expanded minds of the Navigators. The galaxy was a vast place, and even something as large as a solar system could easily be overlooked.

Many isolated colonies and outposts had been established, and forgotten, during the millennium of thinking-machine rule; Emperor Salvador—and especially the barbarian fanatics—did not need to know about them. The sanctuary planet of Tupile was one such world, the hiding place to some of the Imperium’s most-wanted fugitives (after they paid exorbitant fees to VenHold). Josef didn’t care much about the people who hid there; it was simply a business transaction.

Dr. Zhoma had come through for him with the genetic samples, as he’d known she would. The Suk School had no other choice, and her little misdeed wasn’t, after all, so much to ask.

His own particular interest at the moment was the unpleasant planet Denali, a small, hot world with a thick and poisonous atmosphere, where no human could survive except inside sturdy colony modules. Josef had made a point of establishing his own private outpost in a solar system that no scout would ever notice, on a world where the Butlerians would never discover the research projects funded by Venport Holdings.

A personal Navigator flew him aboard a small spacefolder to the Denali system, after which Josef personally guided the shuttle through the orange-gray clouds that denoted sulfur and chlorine gases. He landed in the paved clearing next to the cluster of garishly lit metal domes, the laboratory modules and living spaces for his scientists.

Josef looked through the cockpit windows into the corrosive murk as the connecting airlock sealed his shuttle to the docking module. Outside, he could see a few discarded skeletal forms of cymek walkers, hulking machine bodies that had once held the brains of near-immortal men and women. Long ago, this harsh planet had been a cymek outpost, and the debris of their mechanical bodies lay strewn about, dumped into a scrap heap for spare parts. Research materials. Just one of many projects here on Denali.

Though he visited this secret facility only rarely, he transmitted strict orders that the teams were not to interrupt their work just to greet him with frivolous fanfare. Josef did not want to disturb the individual scientists; there was too much at stake.

As he entered the complex, he drew a breath and caught a sharp whiff of brimstone and harsh chlorine, trace contaminants from the outside air that scrubbers could not remove. Josef supposed his research teams no longer even noticed the odors.

With small hands knotted in front of him, Administrator Noffe greeted Josef. Noffe was a hairless Tlulaxa scientist, the side of his face marred by three startlingly white blotches. Noffe had never explained where the marks had come from, but Josef imagined some kind of laboratory accident, a splashed bleaching chemical that caused permanent damage. VenHold hadn’t hired Noffe to be pretty anyway, but to be brilliant.

The Tlulaxa chief of research always sounded breathless. “Even if we had ten times as many facilities and a hundred times as many researchers, Directeur Venport, it would take more than a lifetime just to recreate the progress that’s been lost since the end of the Jihad.” It was a sobering thought.

Though he was an advocate of progress, Josef was not blind to the dangers raised by some of the research; hence, the other reason for the planet’s isolation. Each lab module had a rigorous quarantine system, protective walls, and self-contained fail-safe circuits so that if an experimental plague were to escape or a computer subroutine were to achieve aggressive sentience, the entire module could be isolated and, if necessary, annihilated.

Noffe had been a well-known researcher back on Thalim, where he had dedicated himself to cloning and genetics investigations, determined to create good works to erase the blotch of shame on his race’s history. But the Butlerian mobs had not liked that. They had come to the Tlulax system, conquered the planet, demolished the genetic and cloning laboratories (which they didn’t understand), and imposed harsh restrictions on all Tlulaxa scientists. Under a new draconian rule, they set up a religious board whose approval was required to conduct even the most basic laboratory tests. Noffe spoke out against the injustice, complaining that the zealots didn’t understand how they were harming humanity. And so they arrested and convicted him.

But Josef Venport had recognized the scientist’s potential and arranged for Noffe’s escape, whisking him to Denali and appointing him administrator, where he had been quite content and productive for several years now. Noffe took a cold pleasure in overseeing avenues of investigation that would make the barbarians squirm and gnash their teeth.

Josef carried a small sealed case of biological samples as he followed the small man into the adjoining module. “I have a new project for you, Administrator. Something close to my heart.”

“I’m always open to new ideas. But first let me show you what we’ve accomplished since my last report.” Noffe led him on a cursory inspection of the numerous projects underway at Denali. He was quite proud to guide Josef into a room filled with tanks that held exposed human brains, some swollen and mutated, others shriveled. “The brains of failed Navigators are particularly interesting and responsive,” Noffe said. “We’ve even made preliminary contact with some of the subjects in the preservation canisters.”

Josef nodded. “Excellent work. I’m sure they must be proud to provide such a service, after failing to become Navigators.”

“We learn from failures as well as successes, Directeur.”

Back on Kolhar, Norma Cenva churned through volunteers, expanding and enhancing their minds to make them sophisticated Navigators—but many of the candidates did not survive the transformation, their bodies collapsing, their skulls unable to sustain the physical growth of gray matter. Since the mutated failures would die anyway, Josef dispatched the subjects to Denali so that Noffe’s researchers could perform their experiments. It was a fundamental first step in understanding the remarkable changes undergone by a Navigator; someday, it might be possible to reproduce those mental skills without requiring such extreme bodily changes.

When they returned to Noffe’s office chamber, the Tlulaxa could no longer hide his eagerness as he looked meaningfully at the case that Josef still carried. “What is it you’ve brought, sir?”

He set the case on Noffe’s metal desk, opening the seal. “These are biological samples from Vorian Atreides.” He paused, watching for a reaction on the bald Tlulaxa’s face.

“The greatest hero of the Jihad? Have these samples been preserved in stasis all these years?”

“They are fresh. Taken from Vorian himself only weeks ago.” Seeing the Tlulaxa’s surprise, he continued, “The old warhorse is more than two centuries old and looks as young as I do. His father, General Agamemnon, gave him a life-extension procedure that was common for cymeks.”

“I don’t think anyone knows how to do that anymore,” Noffe said.

“Precisely. I want you to use the cellular history in these samples to rediscover the process. Learn what the cymeks did to prevent Vorian Atreides from aging … and how we can reproduce it for ourselves.” The Denali administrator took the sample case with sudden reverence, and Josef continued, “With all the work we have ahead of us, we are going to need that procedure. We have to survive if we’re going to save humanity.”