Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (61 page)

Soon that would change.

For weeks Iblis had exerted himself quietly but intently, whispering to his faithful workers, smoothly recruiting them into his circle of dissent. He had prepared them for the possibility of a revolt, and in spite of the danger, they had excitedly passed the message among themselves. Iblis swore that this uprising would not become another lost cause like the first Hrethgir Rebellions.

In the past two months, a determined Iblis had nearly doubled the ranks of his secret organization, with many more people attempting to join. He could feel the wave building. To become part of the spreading resistance, each convert had to pass through a series of blind names and defensive layers recommended by the monk Aquim.

The hundreds in his organization were divided into small cells of no more than ten, so that each member knew the identities of only a few others. All the while, they continued to spread the word, the goal, the excitement, and caution. It was as if they had been waiting a thousand years for this.

Cogitor Eklo had given a somewhat esoteric explanation of how the movement could achieve an exponential growth rate by following a basic model of biology, cells multiplying through mitosis. Members of each rebel cell would grow, break loose, and form new ones, which would continue in the same fashion. Sooner or later, they would encounter other groups and merge, drawing strength from each other. Ultimately the dissenters would reach critical mass, and there would be a flash of energy, like an electrochemical charge. . . .

Nothing is impossible.

Iblis had received additional secret communications at unpredictable times. The mysterious notes were maddeningly general, providing no specifics of other rebel cells, or what he was expected to accomplish. When it occurred, the revolt would be large but alarmingly uncoordinated, and Iblis feared that disorganization in the face of highly structured thinking machines would doom the movement to failure. On the other hand, the very unpredictability of human beings might be their greatest advantage.

Now, when Iblis returned home after three days of nonstop work on the Victory of the Titans frieze, he saw an old slave slipping out of his bungalow. Hurrying inside, Iblis discovered another message on top of his bedding. He rushed out to confront the old man in the yard. “Stop! I want to talk to you.”

The old slave froze, like a rabbit about to bolt, trained never to resist the commands of a crew boss. Iblis ran to him, perspiring in the lingering heat of the day. “Who sent you? Tell me!”

The slave shook his wrinkled head. A peculiar, glazed expression crossed his face. He opened his mouth and pointed at it. The tongue had been removed.

Undeterred, Iblis thrust an electronic notepad at him, after clearing the screen with which he kept track of the crew’s activities. The man shrugged, as if to indicate his inability to read or write. With a scowl, Iblis saw this as an effective means of preventing discovery and cross-contamination among the rebel cells. Disappointed, he let the slave go, whispering, “Keep up the resistance. Nothing is impossible.” The old slave didn’t seem to understand, and hurried off.

Iblis returned to his bungalow and read the brief message: “Soon we will be united. Nothing will stop us. You have made great progress, but you must continue for now without our help.” Already, the lettering on the thin metal sheet had begun to corrode and vanish. “Advance your plans, and watch for a sign.”

In the distance, beyond the megalithic cymek monuments, the yellow sun was dropping below the western horizon.
Watch for a sign.

Iblis narrowed his eyes. If Omnius or one of the Titans discovered the plot too early, the revolt might fail. The crew boss had never considered himself a hero. He was working to free humans, but knew that a part of him also wanted to succeed for the benefit of his own ego. He must take advantage of his ability to sway opinions and inspire action among the slaves.

Slaves were easily encouraged to dream of freedom, but when second thoughts set in they feared reprisals from the thinking machines. During such moments of doubt, Iblis could gaze at his followers and speak hushed words with a deep intensity, convincing them of the unstoppable success of their movement. He had them under his complete physical and psychological control. His leadership skills had never failed him, and recently he had discovered new, hypnotic aspects of his personality. . . .

Iblis’s teams maintained the oppressive work schedule on the Victory of the Titans frieze. His handpicked people labored at the exhibit with only a few robot guards and a neo-cymek in view, which had allowed them to surreptitiously incorporate the deadly components suggested by Cogitor Eklo. Similarly, Iblis had installed concealed weaponry at four other work sites around the capital city grid. Even the robot Erasmus had requested skilled laborers for modifications to his villa . . . and Iblis saw potential advantages there.

Inside his dim bungalow, Iblis held the metal message sheet, now entirely blank. He discarded it into a scrap pile that would be delivered to a recycler. The machines were very efficient at utilizing materials and minimizing industrial energy expenditures.

Even with only snippets of information, Iblis vowed to make all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. His core of dissatisfied workers was ready to rise up and smash thinking machines; the need to vent their anger built with each day.

Iblis could not wait forever. At some point, he might have to strike out on his own. He hoped the promised sign would come soon.

F
or months Erasmus tolerated the disruptive baby, but by the time little Manion was half a year old, the robot grew frustrated at the lack of progress in his own research. He wanted to move on to other investigations, and this unruly child was in the way. Something must be done.

With her misplaced priorities, Serena had grown increasingly protective of her son. She devoted more time and energy to the useless child than she did to Erasmus. Clearly unacceptable. It must never happen again.

Because she intrigued him, though, he had granted Serena far more freedom than any slave deserved. The baby gave her nothing in return, but she hung on the creature’s every breath and whimper. It seemed a poor investment in time and resources.

Erasmus encountered her walking in the rear garden, holding Manion in her arms as she made her way between rows of plantings. The boy, ever-curious, gurgled his delight at the colorful flowers. She talked to it, using silly words and endearing tones. Motherhood had turned the intelligent and intense Serena into a buffoon.

One day Erasmus would make sense of these human personality traits. Already he had learned many important things, but he wanted to work faster.

For her own part, Serena thought her robot master was behaving more strangely than ever. He trailed her like a misshapen shadow, thinking she didn’t notice him. His increasingly hostile reaction to Manion gave her cause for anxiety and dread.

At six months old, the boy could crawl around quickly, if awkwardly, and had a baby’s skill at getting into trouble when he wasn’t closely watched. Serena worried about him breaking fragile objects and making messes when her duties forced her to leave him in the care of other household slaves.

Erasmus seemed oblivious to the infant’s safety. Twice now, when Serena had been performing assigned tasks, the robot had turned him loose to crawl through the villa, as if to see whether Manion could survive the numerous household hazards.

Only a few days ago, she had found her son at the edge of the high balcony overlooking the flagstone plaza in front of the main building. Snatching him to safety, Serena had snapped at Erasmus. “I don’t expect a thinking machine to worry, but you seem to have no common sense, either.” The comment had merely amused him.

Another time, she had intercepted Manion at an outer door to the robot’s sealed vivisection laboratories, which were off-limits even to her. Erasmus had warned her not to pry. Though she agonized over the torment the inquisitive robot must be inflicting on other hapless slaves, for the sake of her child she dared not press the issue.

Curiously, Erasmus seemed to be intrigued by emotions while despising them at the same time. She had caught him practicing exaggerated facial expressions when he stared at baby Manion, his flowing synthetic skin displaying a parade of theater masks that ranged from revulsion to perplexity to outright malice.

Serena hoped to convince Erasmus that he still did not comprehend human nature, and that he must keep her alive in order to discover the answers he so desperately wanted. . . .

Today she carried Manion through a misty fern garden. Walking with feigned nonchalance, Serena noted a doorway at the far end of the greenhouse and remembered that it had a lockable door that led into the main house. Erasmus watched her obsessively, as usual.

Continuing her rounds, studying the plants, she pointedly did not look at the spying robot. Then, faking a second thought, she darted through the doorway with the baby and locked the door behind her. It was only a momentary respite from the intense scrutiny— and it would keep her master off balance. She hoped.

As she hurried through the corridor, Manion struggled in her arms, making loud squeals of displeasure. He was trapped with her, unfairly condemned to spending the rest of his life as a slave. Xavier— her heart went out to him— would never see his own son.

Once again she regretted her bold decision to go to Giedi Prime in the first place. Filled with purpose and idealism, she had thought only in terms of large populations, of the welfare of billions of people. She had not given adequate consideration to those close to her, her parents, Xavier, even the fetus she had not known she was carrying. Why did she have to bear the burden of human suffering on her own shoulders?

Now Xavier and little Manion were paying the price along with her.

In the corridor ahead, Erasmus emerged through another doorway to block her path. He wore a displeased expression on his surreal face. “Why do you attempt to escape, when you know it is impossible? This game does not amuse me.”

“I wasn’t trying to escape,” she protested, shielding the little boy.

“By now you must understand that there are consequences for your actions.” Too late, she noticed something shimmering in his hand. He pointed the device at her and said, “It is time to change the parameters.”

“Wait—” Serena saw a burst of white light, and then numbness engulfed her body. She could no longer stand. Her legs drooped as if they had turned to water. Falling, she made an attempt to protect Manion, who howled in surprised fear as he and his mother melted to the floor.

Her consciousness fading, Serena could do nothing to stop Erasmus as he stepped forward to pluck the helpless child from her arms.

INSIDE HIS DISSECTION and surgical theater, Erasmus studied Serena. Her naked skin was smooth and white, having recovered from her bothersome pregnancy with surprising resilience.

As she lay insensate on the hard white platform, Erasmus performed delicate surgery. For him it was a routine operation, because he had practiced many times on slave women in the past two months, and only three of the subjects had died.

He did not want to harm Serena, since he felt she could still teach him many things. This procedure was for her own good. . . .

SERENA FINALLY AWOKE, unclothed but soaked with perspiration. Restraints held her arms and legs, and she had vague burnings of discomfort in her abdomen.

Lifting her head, she found that she was in a large, cluttered room, apparently alone. Where was Manion? Her eyes widened in alarm and fear. Trying to sit, she felt a jolt of pain in her midsection. Looking down, she could see an incision and the mark of fused skin across her lower belly.

With a clatter, Erasmus entered the room, carrying a tray that contained metal and crystalline objects. “Good morning, house slave. You have slept longer than Ianticipated.” He set down the tray and gingerly released the restraints on Serena’s wrists. “I was just cleaning my medical instruments.”

Furious with him, and sick with dread, she touched the marks of her surgery, felt around her sore abdomen. “What have you done to me?”

Calmly, the robot said, “A simple precaution to solve a problem for both of us. I have removed your uterus. You need not be concerned ever again about the distraction of having more babies.”

F
or months after the thinking machine attack on Rossak, Zufa Cenva devoted her time and energy to training replacement candidates. They had lost so many in psychic fire-storms against the cymeks.

Aurelius Venport had handled himself well during the crisis, successfully evacuating the people and keeping them safe out in the fungoid jungles while cymek warriors destroyed everything in sight. But Zufa had barely noticed. While Venport was sympathetic to the stress and responsibility she placed upon herself, the chief Sorceress spared little thought for her lover. It had always been this way, and he was growing weary of it.

Zufa had never fully bothered to see what the men of Rossak were capable of doing. Despite her telepathic prowess, Zufa did not understand the practical functioning of her sheltered world. Little did she know how the patriotic Venport kept the economy of Rossak strong.

For years, his teams of chemists had studied the medicinal and recreational potential of the jungle plants, barks, liquids, and fungi. Battlefield surgeons and medical researchers throughout the League depended on a reliable supply of drugs from the Rossak jungles.