Dune: The Machine Crusade (11 page)

Though she’d been born a daughter of the chief Sorceress of Rossak, Norma had spent most of her life here on Poritrin, not as a citizen but as a visitor invited by Savant Holtzman. Long ago, when Norma’s stern mother had seen her as only a failure and a disappointment, Holtzman had noticed the girl’s quiet genius and had given her the opportunity to work with him.

In all that time, she had received few accolades. Humble but dedicated, Norma did not mind being overshadowed by the great man. She was a patriot in her own unassuming way and wanted only to make certain that the advanced technology was put to use to benefit the Jihad.

For years Norma had actually protected Holtzman, catching embarrassing inconsistencies that might have led to disastrous consequences. She did this out of gratitude, since he was her patron. But once she had realized that the Savant spent so much time rubbing elbows with nobles that he accomplished little on his own, she spent less time trying to save his image and devoted full concentration to her own research.

She found his current expensive project to be particularly foolish from a scientific point of view. Building a giant sham fleet in orbit! It was no more than a bluff, an illusion. Even if the scheme worked— as Primero Atreides insisted it would— Norma thought the Savant should have focused his intellectual resources on something more challenging than smoke and mirrors.

From her squalid dockside workplace, she could hear the hammering and hum of the factories and shipyards across the Isana mudflats. Foundries hissed; steam and sparks boiled out of assembly lines. Barges hauled cargo loads of ore into the shipyards and carried away completed components.

Luckily, when Norma focused her thoughts, all distractions faded into the background.

Finally, hungry and dehydrated, her body screaming for rest, Norma lay her head on stacks of scrawled equations, as if the symbols could keep penetrating her mind by osmosis. Even in slumber her unconscious mind continued to process the formulas she had been reviewing….

Mathematical equations cycled through her sleeping mind. She could compartmentalize tasks, assigning separate sections of her brain to perform specific functions, resulting in a coordinated mass-production process in her cerebral cortex. After so long, the entire iterative simulation was coming to a climax, and she felt her dreaming self rising from great depths through the catacombs of her mind.

Abruptly, Norma sat straight up at her workbench, nearly falling off the raised chair. Her bloodshot eyes flew open, but did not see their immediate surroundings. Still surrounded by a vivid dream, Norma gazed across an infinite distance, as if her thought impulses could extend from one side of the universe to the other and bring the distant parts together, folding the underlying fabric of space. After days without rest, her subconscious finally let the puzzle pieces click into place.

At last!

She became aware of her physical self, of her heart hammering so rapidly it threatened to burst out of her chest. She sucked in a breath but desperately tried to remain focused, to retain her grasp on what she had dreamed. The answer!

As she awoke, her mind clung to the revelation, having captured it like a butterfly in a net. She envisioned great spaceships crossing the universe without moving, guided by prescient navigators who could see safe pathways through space. Immense companies and empires would rise up from this foundation, and there would be a fundamental shift in the nature of warfare, travel, and politics.

Tio Holtzman had never foreseen such consequences to his equations. He would not be capable of seeing them now. Norma did not dare waste time. The Savant would challenge her, question her “unprovable” mathematics, and she didn’t want to lose precious time answering him. She had worked too hard, the potential was too great. This breakthrough was
hers
alone.

She had no interest in ownership or credit for the discovery, but she had to make certain the concept received the full-scale commercial and military exploitation it deserved. Savant Holtzman would not understand the grandeur of what she had done; he would let it drift into obscurity.

No, Norma had to find another way.
The future awaits me
.

Smiling, she let out a long, slow breath. She should have thought of the possibility long ago. She knew exactly where to obtain the independent funding she needed for research, development, and production.

A
fter a decade of construction, sculpting, and polishing, the memorial to the war dead of the Jihad was finally completed. Aurelius Venport, whose merchant company VenKee Enterprises was one of the largest donors, received a fine seat at the unveiling ceremonies in Zimia.

The night was cool, the darkness kept at bay by spotlights and illuminated buildings around the central plaza. Crowds milled in nearby alleys and streets, kept back from the posh VIP stands within the parklike square itself.

Venport sipped carefully from a fluted glass of bubbly champia; he had never cared for the cloying sweetness of the slightly alcoholic drink from Rossak, but it was one of his company’s prime exports. He had delivered a full load of the vintage to Salusa Secundus just for this event.

The monument was striking and surreal, composed of two free-form pillars with soft curves and organic shapes representing humanity, towering over a boxy monolith that lay toppled and broken at their feet. It symbolized the victory of life over machines.

An identical monument had been built on Giedi Prime, a site of terrible loss of life but also a significant victory over the machines. If plans had proceeded as expected, the second memorial was also complete and ready to be unveiled simultaneously with this one. On one of his merchant runs to Giedi City, Venport had seen the bustling work area and the huge structure being erected there as well.

A decade earlier, when the Jihad had already simmered and flared across the star systems for fourteen years, Xavier Harkonnen had spearheaded the movement to erect an appropriate memorial to those slain by the thinking machines. In the previous two years, thinking machines had attacked and conquered the small colony of Ellram, then struck and— at great cost— been driven away from Peridot Colony. A group of enthusiastic and ill-advised jihadi soldiers had launched their own vengeful strike against the main Synchronized World of Corrin. But they had all been killed. Martyrs to the cause.

In the uproar following so many setbacks, Primero Harkonnen had called for the monuments, so that the fallen soldiers would never be forgotten. Serena Butler, still the League’s Interim Viceroy though she had withdrawn into the City of Introspection, had added her support to the project, using her influence to obtain financial backing from political and business leaders.

Moved by Serena’s plea, and having witnessed some of the more difficult struggles against the thinking machines firsthand, Aurelius Venport had decided to do his part, despite initial objections from his Tlulaxa business partner, Tuk Keedair. Since the start of the Jihad, the profits of VenKee Enterprises had grown substantially as their merchant ships transported war materials and supplies to suffering colonies. They were also turning large profits by exporting increasingly popular luxury items such as glowglobes and, most lucrative of all, the spice melange from Arrakis.

Venport prided himself on his business acumen, his ability to recognize moneymaking opportunities and to capitalize on them. The League of Nobles was vast, and open for commerce. Through his access to Rossak pharmaceuticals, Arrakis melange, and glowglobe and suspensor products invented by dear Norma, he had leveraged his advantages as much as possible, which pleased him immensely.

His former mate Zufa Cenva had always insisted he would never amount to anything, nor would her stunted daughter. They had both proved Zufa wrong.

It had been many years since he’d been the chief Sorceress’s lover and partner. Through it all, Zufa had never believed that Venport with his commercial interests or Norma with her dabbling in mathematics would ever do enough for the fight.

Even when Venport had personally contributed enough credits to pay for a large portion of the Zimia memorial, he had not expected Zufa to be impressed. The stern woman had devoted her life and soul to the Jihad, training Sorceresses who threw themselves against cymek strongholds as suicidal psychic bombs. Not surprisingly, Zufa considered his donation, and the memorial project itself, a frivolous waste of money better used for purchasing weapons or constructing new battleships.

Venport smiled to himself at the thought. If nothing else, Zufa was consistent and predictable. Against all reason, he had loved and admired her since the day they met. But in business terms it had never been a worthwhile investment of his emotional capital.

Seated in the open-air stands beside a beautiful young woman— one of his grown granddaughters?— the retired Viceroy Manion Butler caught Venport’s eye and smiled cordially. Nearby, Primero Harkonnen’s adoptive father, the aged and dignified Emil Tantor, sat alone looking sleepy.

A smiling attendant offered another glass of champia, which Venport declined. He settled back and waited for the show. The audience was just beginning to grow restless, but Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo was a master of timing and would begin exactly when enthusiasm had peaked and before the mood slid into impatience.

Though the Grand Patriarch had arrived at the ceremony on time, flanked by intimidating Jipol guards, he wanted the VIP guests to mill about while the larger crowds bought souvenirs and clutched bunches of brilliant marigolds, Manion’s flower.

Venport turned toward a swell of cheers, saw Iblis Ginjo and Serena Butler make their grand entrance. Serena wore her usual purple-trimmed robe of such a glowing white that she looked like an angel incarnate. Fixing his squarish face in a confident smile, the Grand Patriarch, garbed in a dashing black blazer embroidered in gold, accompanied her onto the ornate stands, while dazzling lights cast glowing haloes around them.

Iblis was silently followed by his beautiful wife, Camie Boro. This was obviously not a love match, but a trophy marriage; during his rise to power, the man had shrewdly chosen a woman of impeccable heritage, a direct descendant of the Old Empire’s last ruler.

Around Iblis’s neck dangled a prismatic chain that supported a pendant of brilliant blue-green Hagal quartz. Possibly part of his wife’s fortune. No one questioned where the Grand Patriarch obtained the money for such luxuries, or for other aspects of his opulent lifestyle. His value to the League could not be measured in monetary terms. He was surrounded by his own developing mythology.

Iblis raised his hands, and his voice boomed out with a resonant amplification. “When we see this memorial, we must remember those who paid the ultimate price against the demon machines. But we must also remember what they fought
for
.”

Serena stepped forward and continued in her clear, passionate voice. “This monument is not only a reminder of fallen heroes, but a symbol of yet another step toward our ultimate victory over Omnius!”

With a brilliant flash like an exploding star, two spears of light shot upward, illuminating the memorial and the entire park. A reflecting pool became a mirror of stars under the night sky, graced with feathery fountains at one end. The spotlights blazed brighter, as if trying to outdo each other, the fountains sprayed higher, and the cheers of the crowd swelled to a deafening roar. Bright yellow-orange marigolds were strewn across the grass and in the pools, their heady scent wafting through the evening air.

When Serena Butler fell to her knees on the stage and wept, half of the audience moaned, and grieved with her for her lost baby and their own fallen loved ones.

Then, swept along by the overwhelming approval of the audience, Venport rose to his feet and applauded the spectacle. The leaders of the Jihad certainly knew how to impress a crowd.

AFTERWARD, WHILE THE population of Zimia celebrated far into the night, Iblis Ginjo and his wife attended a more formal and exclusive reception in the gathering courtyard of the Salusan Cultural Museum.

Glowglobes floated overhead, imparting variegated, festive colors to the framework of the open-air stands. Night moths flitted around the moon lilies that bloomed in planters at the edge of the courtyard. Important guests chatted casually with each other.

Resplendent in jewels and impeccable clothes, Camie Boro always made certain she was seen with him during their initial entrance, but his wife never wanted to “waste” a party by spending it on his arm. She had her own plans and connections, and set about exchanging favors, knitting together subtle obligations. Iblis smiled after her, then turned to his targets among the well-dressed crowd; he and his wife had a very clear delineation of their respective duties.

The Grand Patriarch saw a tall man— patrician features with light blue eyes and curly dark hair frosted with gray— standing beside a small plaz case. The man opened the lid to display dozens of melange products that had been developed by his company. Many League nobles had already become enamored of the rare and expensive spice, and Aurelius Venport rarely missed an opportunity to show his benevolence— and to seduce more customers— by offering free samples.

As eager guests pointed to what they wanted to try— spice beer, melange candy, or spice chewsticks— Venport removed a taste of each from his case. “Free of charge. If any of you are not familiar with the benefits of melange, please come and find out.”

Melange is said to be addictive,
Iblis thought, as he stepped to the front.
And unquestionably beneficial
. He had partaken of the spice before, though it had been heavily diluted and nearly flavorless. “I would like a small, pure sample, Directeur Venport. Something I can just… taste.”