Navigators of Dune

The carrier’s piloting deck was surrounded by technological systems and broad viewing windows—and in the center, a large sealed tank held a mutated Navigator obscured by orange clouds of spice gas. The creature stared out at them with oversized, inhuman eyes, as if his prescience had told him that ruthless invaders would arrive at any moment.

Harte strode up to the tank. “We’ve taken control of your ship.”

“You may believe so.” The Navigator’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.

“Yes, I do. In fact, I know so.”

Imperial fighters swarmed onto the deck, yanking terrified VenHold employees from their seats, killing one woman who resisted; the rest surrendered. Three of Harte’s technical officers rushed to the Navigator tank and disconnected the fittings to the nav-systems. Harte had specifically chosen fighters who were familiar with foldspace engines and piloting. They severed the linkages to the Navigator tank so that the mutated creature could no longer control the carrier.

“He’s neutralized, Admiral,” announced one of his tech officers. Unlike Norma Cenva, who could fold space with her mind, the other Navigators required a direct connection to the Holtzman engines.

The Navigator stared blankly at them, while other soldiers went to the control panels. Frantically, they studied the activation systems, ready to launch out of orbit and fold space.

“We don’t have much time,” Harte called. “Kolhar will soon respond and cut off this vessel. We have to fly this carrier out of here.”

“Firing up the foldspace engines now, sir. Setting course for Salusa Secundus.”

Harte stood before the Navigator tank. “What is your name?”

“Navigator.”

“What was your human name?”

“It was…” The creature seemed to be searching deep into his past. “Dobrec … but Navigator is all that matters now.”

The deck trembled as Harte’s captive Imperial ships within the great hold blasted more holes through the outer hull, careful not to endanger the integrity of the main structural framework. Even with numerous holes in its outer shell, the giant carrier could carry them through folded space back to the Imperial capital.

“Tell all our hostage ships that we’ve taken control of the carrier, and we’ll be home soon.” Harte directed his pilots to activate the carrier’s Holtzman drive. Thrumming increased throughout the decks as the foldspace engines gathered power.

The Navigator—Dobrec—blinked his large, soulless eyes. “You do not know how to navigate. There is danger in flying this ship without the prescience of my guidance.”

The Admiral glared. “Then guide us—or risk dying with the rest of us. Your choice.”

One of the tech officers cried out, “VenHold interceptors closing in fast, sir. If they damage our Holtzman engines, we’ll never break orbit. We have to go.”

“Activate those engines now,” Harte snapped, then turned to the Navigator. “If you have any suggestions for course adjustments, tell us now.”

He felt a smooth machine sensation as the engines went on.

Dobrec remained silent, as if accessing data. “I suggest a slight alteration to avoid colliding with a double star en route.” He specified a variant set of coordinates.

“How do I know you’re not going to fly us directly into a sun?”

“You must gamble as well. You must believe that I do not wish to die any more than you do. I still have too much of the universe to see and experience.”

Harte stared at the mutated Navigator in the tank, but could read nothing on the strange, distorted features. He barked to his surrogate navigator at the controls. “Alter course as Dobrec says.”

The soldier swallowed hard and made the change.

As VenHold ships rushed to close in around the embattled foldspace carrier, Admiral Harte drew a deep breath and nodded. His soldiers trusted him implicitly, and engaged the Holtzman engines.

The carrier folded space and vanished from Kolhar.

One man’s demon is another man’s angel.

—Ancient saying

Emperor Roderick Corrino I. Considering the recent siege by VenHold forces and how close he’d come to losing it all, he wondered if he could ever claim that lofty title again. He could not believe that Josef Venport had attacked him, attacked the Imperium—threatening the throne.

Manford Torondo and his Butlerians had rescued him, saved the Emperor—and now Roderick dreaded what that would cost him, what Manford would demand in return. The antitechnology fanatics might be even worse for the future of humanity.

As he stood at the high window of his office, gazing down at the activity in the sunlit central plaza of Zimia, he reminded himself that despite his human frailties and shortcomings, Roderick was responsible for leading civilization, to see that it became strong again. More than eight decades ago at the Battle of Corrin, brave and desperate fighters had finally overthrown the greatest enemy of the human race, the computer-mind enslaver of mankind.