Gilbertus took a deep breath. “All right, Father. I will allow you to converse with her and draw conclusions — with great caution and restraint — but you will inflict no physical or mental harm on her. That is not a request. She is a member of the most powerful family in the known universe.”
The robot hesitated. “I admit I considered surgery on her, but I no longer wish to explore the workings of her mind through that means. I have grown somewhat fond of her.”
Gilbertus was surprised by the admission. “How much have you learned about compassion?”
“Compassion is a fundamental component of humanity. You once told me I must come to understand it, and I know you have great compassion for me. You saved me, you have protected me all these years. Compassion can lead to love. I am still studying this.”
Gilbertus did owe the independent robot everything, and could never abandon him. “Compassion, true … but that won’t stop me from defeating you in this chess game.”
He scanned the pyramid board, saw that Erasmus had put his pieces exactly where the trap needed them to be. He had engaged and distracted the robot, and Erasmus did not even know the ploys his ward used on him.
He pounced with one of his remaining foot soldiers, an insignificant piece, and assassinated his opponent’s Empress, which in turn left other important pieces vulnerable. Though the robot tried to counter the follow-up moves, Gilbertus executed them flawlessly. Finally another foot soldier moved forward and struck a fatal blow, taking the Grand Patriarch and winning the game. In the Imperial Court, the mek had played by straightforward understanding of the complex rules; Erasmus was even more sophisticated, but Gilbertus knew him better than any other mind.
“You still don’t understand humans,” he pointed out.
The robot pondered the game for a long moment before he admitted, “Apparently not.”
Chapter 25 (We can never atone for all the harm we cause)
We can never atone for all the harm we cause in our lifetimes. We each make decisions based on personal priorities. In the process, people are invariably shunted aside. Someone suffers.
— teaching of the new Philosophical Academy
The shuttle that Vorian Atreides rode down to Lankiveil was a flying bus full of laborers, mostly offworlders ready to work in boats on the cold seas. More than fifty men and women had been transferred here to fill jobs promised by the wealthy Bushnell family, who had encroached on the best fur-whale harvesting waters. As House Harkonnen waned, the Bushnells saw an opportunity and moved into territory that Vergyl Harkonnen could no longer protect.
The Bushnells had noble blood, but a century ago they had fallen into political disfavor after withdrawing from some of the most vigorous battles in the Jihad. Even so far from Salusa Secundus, the Landsraad still had influence, and current Bushnell ambitions had been thwarted by other nobles who still held grudges. Seeking to recover their standing, the family had moved in on backwater Lankiveil, where the Harkonnens were also held in low esteem.
Vor knew the Harkonnens had little chance without good business leadership. Their noble house had fallen on hard times after several commercial failures, especially the loss of an entire season’s whale-fur harvest when a cheap cargo carrier vanished in foldspace. Vergyl Harkonnen was not a skilled planetary ruler, and his elder son, Griffin, had been the family’s best hope … until Griffin was murdered on Arrakis, with Vor at his side, unable to protect him.
Now Vor hoped that if he went to Lankiveil, he could do something for Griffin’s family. The proud Harkonnens would never accept charity or assistance from the man who had caused their downfall, but if he could accomplish it without their knowledge.…
He didn’t think he had ever been to this chill, windswept world before, even though he knew his former friend and protégé Abulurd had been exiled here. He promised himself he would make up for that now. During the journey that Captain Phillips arranged for him, Vor had studied images of the planet’s docks and city buildings nestled among rugged fjords. Vergyl Harkonnen and his family lived here, operated the planetary government offices, and managed their own fur-whale harvesting fleet.
As the shuttle landed in a wet, blowing sleetstorm, no one seemed concerned about the weather. After disembarking, the already assigned Bushnell hires took a snowbus that had been sent to pick them up. Vor paid for a local transport that took him to the other side of the fjord, the crowded village, and the wood-framed Harkonnen main house.
The gray clouds had thinned by the time he arrived in the small, snow-glazed whaling village and tramped along a wooden sidewalk on the main street. He wore thick, waterproofed clothing and carried a heavy satchel with personal belongings.
Before Vor left the Nalgan Shipping vessel, Captain Phillips had given him everything he needed, and he needed very little. Phillips had asked him to reconsider, but seeing the look of determination in Vor’s gray eyes, he let the matter drop. “I hope you find what you’re looking for down there.”
Even Vor wasn’t sure what he was looking for, except that he needed to lighten his conscience.
Only a few people were outside, men in heavy weatherproof clothing for a day on rough seas. The wind blew hard, and the harbor water was the color of dull steel, but several whaling craft were heading out, their running lights bright in the mist and falling snow.
After checking into a rooming house, Vor entered the adjacent restaurant, where diners were eating lunch. Unusual cooking odors assailed him: fish, salt, pungent spices. A woman with long red hair worked the floor, serving thick whale steaks accompanied by steamed greens and bowls brimming with chowder. While Vor waited for her to bring him a meal, he noticed two men standing at a message board, reading notices posted there.
The waitress brought his bowl of thick chowder. “Did you come in on the shuttle, looking for work on a whaling ship?”
“Is Vergyl Harkonnen hiring?”
“Usually, but the Bushnells pay better. That’s the only reason newcomers are interested in Lankiveil. Where are you from?”
“Lots of places. I travel and find work where I can.”
The waitress indicated the message board. “Post a note there with your qualifications. Somebody will see it.”
When Vor finished his meal, he wrote an unusual card, offering to work on a Harkonnen whale-fur boat at no salary, in exchange for taking images so he could compile a research report on his experiences. He claimed to be a freelance writer, using the assumed name of Jeron Egan. He knew well enough not to use the name Atreides around here.
The following morning, the boardinghouse manager told him that Vergyl Harkonnen wanted to see him. Vor went to the large weathered house on the fjord. As he regarded the imposing structure, the wooden walls, the lap-shingled roof, he realized that Abulurd had built this place decades ago, making his home here and enduring his exile, no doubt passing along his resentment of the Atreides to the next generation.
Now, as Vorian climbed the icy stairs to the front porch, the door opened before he could knock, and a bearded man greeted him. Vor recognized Vergyl Harkonnen. “You’re the fellow who posted the notice? You’re a writer?”
Looking at Vergyl’s face, Vor could see the clear resemblance to Griffin’s features. He remembered the last time he had seen the young man, lying dead in the sand with his neck broken. Seeing the lines on the father’s face, Vor felt a heavy sense of dread. This man had endured a terrible grief and had seen the family fortunes fall in the eight difficult decades after the Battle of Corrin.
Vor removed his warm coat and joined the Harkonnen patriarch in a small parlor to discuss his possible employment, as a research assignment. Sonia Harkonnen delivered cups of steaming tea.