Dune: The Machine Crusade (19 page)

Later, when he had drifted off, Serena spoke quietly to Dr. Suk. “Will he be scheduled for limb-replacement surgery?”

“With so many battles, there is a shortage of organs, limbs, and other replacement body parts. The Tlulaxa organ farms simply cannot keep up with the demand.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “It could take a year or more before he is even a candidate.”

She lifted her chin in angry determination. “I will speak with the Tlulaxa representatives. They claim to be our allies, and their organ farms must be expanded to provide what we need, no matter the cost. In this fight for all humanity, they must work closely with us, forgoing excessive profits if necessary, to care for those who risk their lives for our freedom!” She raised her voice so that wounded soldiers could hear her. “I guarantee that all of you will receive the organs and limbs you need. I shall demand it of the Tlulaxa!”

Not a single person in the hospital doubted her.

THAT EVENING FOUR Jipol men led Iblis Ginjo to a dim pleasure house filled with sweet-smelling smoke and oddly atonal music. Inside, the small-statured Rekur Van sat on a cushion as if meditating, paying little attention to the languid lights that played over the flowing silhouettes of slender women.

Without receiving an invitation, Iblis took a thick cushion next to the Tlulaxa flesh merchant. The slaver stirred, gave an agitated grunt. He put down a chunk of orange cake that he had been eating with his bare, long-fingered hands. The Jipol men sat menacingly close to him, causing his dark eyes to flit about nervously.

“I need your help,” Iblis said quietly enough that no eavesdropper could hear. After his most recent raid on IV Anbus, Rekur Van had reported to Iblis the ominous presence of machine scout ships in the system. “I saved your best slave-harvesting grounds. In exchange, you must do something for me.”

A simpering server came up to them with mincing steps, but Iblis made a gesture with his left hand. Two Jipol guards caught the server and rapidly whisked him away from the private conversation.

Rekur Van grimaced at the Grand Patriarch. “What choice do I have?”

“Serena Butler has promised her injured Jihad fighters increased shipments of replacement parts— arms, legs, internal organs— for all who need them. You Tlulaxa must provide everything necessary.”

“But we don’t have the capacity.” The flesh merchant scowled. “How could you let her say such things? Have you lost control of the Jihad?”

“I was not present, but her statement is a matter of record, and now we must make it happen. The Priestess of the Jihad cannot renege on her commitments. The Tlulaxa organ farms will send increased shipments immediately.”

“It will not be easy. We need much more raw material.”

“Just see that it is done. I don’t care how. My office will provide whatever authorization you need… and because of the vital nature of this ‘request,’ I’m sure the Army of the Jihad can promise a bonus. Say, an increase of five percent over your usual fees?”

The Tlulaxa merchant, at first intimidated by the magnitude of the demand, began to smile. “Given sufficient incentive, all things are possible for the Jihad.”

“Of course they are. Your ship is at Zimia Spaceport?”

“Yes.” Rekur Van brushed cake crumbs from his chest. “My business is finished here, and I intend to depart in three days.”

Iblis stood, towering over the little Tlulaxa on his cushion. “You will depart
now
.” The Jipol guards lifted Rekur Van to his feet.

The Grand Patriarch and his entourage escorted the sputtering flesh merchant out of the pleasure house. “Until this is done, the League of Nobles will have no further business dealings with you.”

He had already issued a similar demand to the commanders of the mercenary schools on Ginaz. Human beings were the Jihad’s primary resources in this fight against mechanical monstrosities, and Iblis needed to make sure the supply lines remained open.

Rekur Van perspired and looked nervous. His dark gaze flitted around, as if looking for an avenue of escape. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Iblis gave a smile. “I have only the best interests of mankind in my heart.”

T
he island in Ginaz’s central archipelago dozed beneath a hazy afternoon sky. The sun swelled large and yellow above a horizon of blue-green water. On the curving leeward shore of a lagoon, warm water lapped against the beach.

The serenity was broken by the violent clamor of weapons.

Jool Noret watched his father thrust and parry, battling a fearsome combat robot. Zon Noret’s body was sinew coiled over hard bones. He wore no shoes, and his long yellowish-gray hair flew behind him like a comet’s tail as he leaped in with a wild yell, slashing and clanging with his pulse sword. His weapon, fashioned like a perfectly balanced blade, contained a generator cell that delivered precise disruptive pulses through the metal. The disruptive bursts could overload and disengage the sophisticated gelcircuits of thinking machines.

Noret’s mek opponent was also a blur of movement, raising six metallic arms to shield itself, using grounded armor plates and nonconductive support struts to protect its control circuitry against the veteran opponent.

The talented old mercenary continued his training, demonstrating techniques for his son and honing his own skills. Zon had seen so much furious combat on the battlegrounds of the Jihad— most recently in the heroic defense of IV Anbus, where he had been wounded— that this was little more than a game to him. The veteran thrust hard, skittering the blade with a shower of sparks along one of the robot’s six arms and striking a small but vulnerable section of self-contained circuitry. One of the fighting mek’s arms went limp.

Jool crowed with victory for his father. “The best you’ve ever done!”

“Not quite, my son.” Panting, Zon Noret stepped back. “One only achieves the peak of one’s capabilities when fighting for survival.”

According to the rules, Chirox, the fighting mek, could reset his systems after a minute of delay, but Jool thought the disabled arm would need to be repaired in the shop. Zon took two quick breaths, then leaped in again with a flurry of blows.

With his five remaining good arms, the mek defended.

A century ago, an intrepid Ginaz salvage scout had found a damaged thinking machine ship and retrieved the broken combat robot. The mek’s gelcircuitry mind had been wiped, and once the combat programming was reinstalled, Chirox became an instructor on the Ginaz archipelago, teaching unorthodox but effective hand-to-hand combat techniques against robots. Chirox no longer had any loyalty to the computer evermind, and had diligently trained four generations of mercenary fighters, including Zon Noret. Jool, one of the veteran’s many sons, would follow in his footsteps.

Shaped roughly like a human, the mek had three pairs of fighting arms extending from his torso, with weapons in each hand— swords and knives that could be varied in length and design. He had bright optic threads on a rigid molded face, instead of mirrorized flowmetal; this unit had been designed for nothing but combat.

In a sense, Chirox was a thinking machine… but because of his beneficial, necessary functions and strict control mechanisms he was not customarily referred to as such. He was one of only a handful of robotic units maintained and operated by League forces or their allies. These mechanical fighters were so efficient in their destructive abilities that Omnius considered them perfect, and no longer found it necessary to change their hardware or software. This provided an unforeseen opportunity for the Jihad, however, since they now had a technological standard against which to test their own fighting methods.

The Noret family and their immediate trainees considered Chirox their
sensei,
a master of martial arts and combat techniques. Since the launching of Serena Butler’s Jihad, many robots had been destroyed because of what Chirox taught.

Now young Jool squatted back on the warm, grainy sand. His jade eyes were bright and intent. He had pale, sun-bleached hair, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin; he was skinny, but deceptively strong. He could dart in and out of a training exercise even faster than his father.

He watched every move Zon Noret made, the blurring swish of energized steel as his blade traced complex patterns in the air, dancing forward to slam against the
sensei
mek’s exoskeleton.

As always, the nineteen-year-old admired his father, for he had heard numerous tales of Zon Noret’s triumphs during the most intense fighting of the Jihad. Jool wished he could have been at IV Anbus when the destroyed dam wiped out the robot army. His father had been among the first group of Ginaz mercenaries who volunteered their services to the Jihad, eight years after the destruction of Earth.

In Ginaz society, families had many children to replenish the warrior ranks, but the culture did not encourage parents to be very close to their offspring. The old veteran Zon was an exception, especially where Jool was concerned. A hero many times over, Zon’s bloodline was considered desirable, so he was persuaded to have even more offspring once he had returned from the combat fields.

Jool was easily the most skilled fighter of his fourteen brothers and sisters, and among the most advanced of his entire generation. Seeing so much potential in the young man, his father had paid extra attention to Jool, and saw him as his successor in the elite Corps of Ginaz, arguably the finest mercenaries in the Galaxy. Many planets provided freelance warriors for the fight, but no other group boasted such a high kill ratio.

Ginaz acknowledged that all humans shared the same enemy, but the mercenaries maintained their independence instead of joining the formal military hierarchy of the Army of the Jihad, making them wild cards. Where the jihadis preferred to use large military equipment and attack from a distance, Ginaz fighters were willing to get up close against the enemy robots. They hired themselves out for combat, unafraid to be used as suicide forces, disposable commandos— if the importance of the mission was sufficiently high.

Zon had also been on the front lines when the machines had struck Peridot Colony; the human forces had fiercely defended the planet, at the cost of over eighty percent of the Ginaz mercenaries. In the end they had driven back the robot invaders, but Omnius had instructed the thinking machine fighters to follow a scorched-earth policy along their retreat. Though the colony had been grievously damaged, the rest of the planet had
not
fallen to the enemy.

Three years ago, Zon had been burned and injured while fighting robots on board a besieged thinking machine ship, after which he had been forced to recuperate and retrain on the archipelago islands of Ginaz. That was when he had first noticed his son’s exceptional skill. Now, after intensive practice, the young man might even surpass his own father.

Dripping with sweat, Zon parried and thrust, faster and more competently than his son had ever seen him fight. Jool could see how badly his father wanted to get back to the battlefields. The location didn’t matter to him. The Army of the Jihad always needed more fighters, and Ginaz devoted most of their population to the cause.

“I advise caution, Master Zon Noret.” Chirox’s voice was smooth and calm, not at all reflecting the intense exertion of the exercise.

“Nonsense,” Zon called with proud defiance. “Keep fighting to the absolute best of your abilities.”

The robot had no choice but to follow the command. “I have been programmed to teach you, Master Zon Noret, but I cannot force you to heed my cautions or lessons.” He thrust with his multiple arms, holding a knife or a sword in each.

The veteran scorned formalized instruction, claiming that it detracted from the development of true fighting skills. He always said, “The best technique for learning and growth is to simply observe. Rote memorization gains you nothing on the field of combat. Rather, practice until you no longer exist as an individual. There can be no separation between mind and body. You must become no more than living, fluid combat moves. That is all a mercenary should be.”

But though his father had achieved the highest accolades among the mercenaries of Ginaz, and a promised place in the Council of Veterans, Jool had already surpassed his elder’s skills, practicing in secret.

Like all youthful warriors on the islands, Jool Noret had spent his childhood being taught a variety of weapons by battle-scarred veterans and being lectured in techniques by pregnant female mercenaries. But only Zon Noret and a handful of eccentric trainees made full use of the fighting mek Chirox. Some of the conservative veterans considered it dangerous, but Zon had always felt it was the best way to understand, and defeat, the real enemy.

Now nearly an adult, Jool had followed in his father’s footsteps, but took measures one step further. Zon never knew that his son had exceeded the mek’s prior maximum capabilities, but Jool had learned how the robot worked and deciphered the combat programming. A year ago while his father was guest instructor on another island, Jool had installed an adaptability algorithm module that allowed Chirox to become a “supercharged” mek, superior to anything its original combat programming allowed. With the supercharged module installed, Chirox could keep pace with his student, becoming a better and better fighter as Jool himself advanced. The only limitation was the young man’s capabilities.

Jool always practiced and fought against Chirox either late at night or when he was sure he would be alone on the beaches. His muscles still felt a pleasant, weary burn from the latest workout he and the mek had completed before dawn, in secret before his father could see.

Someday Jool would surprise Zon with an astounding demonstration of his capabilities, but the young fighter was still not satisfied with himself. He wanted to become the best mercenary Ginaz had ever produced. He knew he had the potential within him, if only he could release his inhibitions. A thread of self-restraint impeded him, a protective instinct that placed a glass ceiling on his development.