Dune: The Machine Crusade (23 page)

When Ishmael had been a boy, his grandfather always insisted that he have complete faith in God, that it was arrogance for any person to take matters out of Buddallah’s hands and into his own. Still, uncertainty formed icicles within him… and Aliid showed no willingness to accept those terms.

As the crew bosses bellowed orders, trying to arrange the slaves into assigned groups for the assembly, Ishmael slipped through the crowd toward a polishing and finishing crew where his wife was stationed. Presently he touched Ozza’s arm, and she reached over to take his hand, sensing her husband’s nearness without needing to look at him. With so many slaves all in one place, the workmasters would not bother to take attendance or herd the people into appropriate groups. That would take all day.

Through no choice of their own, Ishmael and Ozza were jostled toward the podium where two small men stood beside the main work supervisor. The sunlight was bright, and Ishmael still had trouble adjusting his eyes after the dim and cavernous foundry.

“I wonder if they will announce another celebration of their great society,” Ozza asked close to his ear, so that no one could hear her sarcasm.

“I can think of worse reasons for this summons.”

He peered up at the two strangers, both of them obviously Tlulaxa… the hated slavers. The younger man had sharp features, including a narrow face and dark, close-set eyes. But Ishmael was more intent on the familiar features of the older man with a long, iron-gray braid that hung like a noose rope over one shoulder. In his opposite ear dangled a triangular bronze earring. More than two decades had passed, and Ishmael had been only a terrified boy at the time… but he would never forget the face of the man who had led the raid on Harmonthep.

His heart pounded as fresh fear and righteous anger swelled within him. He had sworn vengeance against this man, vowing to crush him. Right now, Ishmael wished he could lunge to the podium and wrap his work-strengthened hands around the slaver’s throat. It was what his friend Aliid would have done— Aliid, who had always scorned Ishmael’s patience and blind faith.

But vengeance was not what the Zensunni sutras taught. Ishmael’s grandfather would have been deeply disappointed in him.
It is in God’s hands, not mine.

But must I simply forgive and forget?

Ozza looked at him, touched his face with gentle fingertips. He saw concern there. “What is it, Ishmael?”

“That man… I—” He stopped himself, unable to tell her. His grandfather would have insisted on acceptance, even forgiveness. The old man would have demanded that Ishmael look for a deeper lesson from Buddallah, to grow from every trial and experience. God did not guarantee a soft and peaceful life to every member of the faithful— at least not in this world. The sutras instructed the Zensunni to accept, endure, and wait for Buddallah to choose the right moment.

But it was so difficult.

After nearly half an hour of passive chaos, the hundreds of slaves had finally arranged themselves and quieted down. At the front of the throng, Ishmael heard the work supervisor speaking to the younger Tlulaxa. “Rekur Van, these are all the members of our slave crew working today. They have been assigned to the ship construction project for months. We cannot spare them.”

“Nevertheless, I wish to see them.” The leaner, rodentlike Tlulaxa scanned the faces and the bodies in the crowd. Tuk Keedair, the slaver who had hunted down Ishmael and so many innocent Zensunni on Harmonthep, stood beside him, looking bored. Keedair seemed to have no interest in acquiring new slaves, but had come to Poritrin for another reason entirely.

As Ishmael watched, Rekur Van paced the podium, sweeping a small device across the crowd, with which he took images and analyzed the gathered slaves. “I am required to inventory your captive personnel. They are to be considered resources for the Army of the Jihad. We Tlulaxa desperately need a large number of healthy slaves from a wide range of body and tissue types. This is our highest priority.” When the workmaster showed his alarm, Rekur Van lowered his voice to a growl. “If you object, I can obtain a signed warrant from Grand Patriarch Ginjo himself.”

“No doubt you can, Rekur,” said Keedair, in a patient, reasonable tone, “but it is not necessary to insist on the first and most inconvenient alternative.”

With a flurry and bustle, a boatcar skimmed over the shallow water of the delta, then drove up on the ground to reach the staging area. Flustered, Tio Holtzman strode imperiously up to the podium. His eyes were narrow, his face a mixture of anger and confusion. “Why do you interrupt my slaves in this important project? Their work is vital, and delay is inexcusable.”

“We have a suitable excuse, Savant Holtzman,” said Rekur Van, just as imperiously. “The Jihad has an immediate need for slaves, and Poritrin is the nearest world on my route. The Tlulaxa require many new candidates.”

Ishmael swallowed hard, then clutched his wife’s arm. Both of them looked around for their daughters, but Chamal and Falina had been assigned to different support teams and were nowhere in sight.

“Not from my workers,” Holtzman said in a huff. “All of these workers are dedicated to a project vital to the protection of Poritrin and our weapons factories. You’ll have to get your slaves someplace else.”

“But I am here, Savant Holtzman, and I need slaves now.”

“So do I.” The scientist made a rude snorting noise. “Why didn’t you just capture some of those cowards on IV Anbus? It is my understanding they refused to fight even against the thinking machines that were attacking them… and they actually sabotaged the brave jihadis. Could there be any people more worthy of serving the human race?”

“Perhaps that is an indication of their inferiority,” Rekur Van suggested. “Besides, they were scattered, and their numbers were… insufficient to meet our needs.”

Through rumors and slow news, the Poritrin captives had only just learned of the battle on IV Anbus, the Jihad’s pyrrhic victory at the cost of so many lives and holy relics. All Buddislamics, including Zensunnis and Zenshiites, revered the sacred city of Darits, storehouse of the original manuscripts of the Koran Sutras. The Poritrin slaves were dismayed to hear of the ruin caused not only by the robot army, but by the forces of the Jihad.

Looking around, Ishmael noted that the humans in control here didn’t seem to care.
Why is their religious fervor acceptable, while ours is a matter of scorn?

He watched the older slaver step between the indignant inventor and the eager flesh merchant. Though he despised the man, Ishmael had to concede that Tuk Keedair seemed wiser and better versed in the ways of interaction.

“Slaves are available in many places, Rekur. There are plenty of Buddislamic backwaters for the harvesting of flesh. Since these captives are already serving a useful purpose for humanity, I see no need to remove them from the custody of Savant Holtzman.”

Rekur Van scowled at his fellow Tlulaxa, as if they were rivals. “And why are you here, Tuk Keedair? You are no longer a flesh merchant, but prefer to sell spice and glowglobes with that alien Venport. Why should you meddle in my important assignment?”

“My partner and I are here on another business venture. Your task is not the only legitimate job in the Army of the Jihad.” In a paternalistic manner, Keedair placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Listen, I know where you could raid for more slaves, a large group that is a nuisance to me and, by extension, to the League of Nobles. Come, I will tell you where to hunt them, and everyone will be happy. Are you familiar with the desert world of Arrakis?”

Still frowning but somewhat mollified, Rekur Van accompanied the veteran slaver off the podium.

Ishmael put his arm around Ozza’s waist, drawing her close. His pulse continued to race, and he sensed that they had narrowly dodged disaster. He and his family could remain here, together. And, as much as he resented his captivity on Poritrin, he felt in his heart that serving the Tlulaxa would have been far worse.

Holtzman looked satisfied and stared down at the gathered workers. Finally, the inventor waved his hands imperiously. “Why are you just standing there? We must finish this project on schedule! Get to work.”

T
he extravagant “hollow ship” bluff at Poritrin was the brainchild of Primero Atreides, who claimed to understand the way machines thought. But Tio Holtzman was implementing the scheme in the absence of the Primero… which put him in position to take most of the credit.

If the epic ruse worked.

The Savant was nervous, but had gambled that he would be showered with kudos and hails of appreciation. He needed them, after a long hiatus in the stream of awards that had marked his career. With luck, Lord Bludd would bestow medals upon him, and the people would cheer. Tio Holtzman would be declared the savior of Poritrin….

As he dined with Lord Niko Bludd on the balcony of the nobleman’s tower residence overlooking the river city, Holtzman watched the quiet lives all around him. The upper classes of Poritrin had always been surprisingly lax in their attitudes, believing that nothing truly bad could happen to them. They followed the passive tenets of Navachristianity, more for appearances than out of deep conviction. The climate was calm, while food and resources were abundant, and well-domesticated slaves took care of every need. The gentle Isana River seemed an apt metaphor for the languid flow of their lives.

Holtzman feared that would all change as soon as the robot war group arrived. Only moments before, a military courier had rushed up to the Lord with a message cylinder. Bludd read the communication, then stroked his immaculately curled beard. “Well, Tio, we shall see if your scheme is going to work. A massive machine battle fleet is indeed on its way into the Poritrin system.”

Holtzman paled and swallowed hard. Lord Bludd seemed supremely self-assured, certain that his greatest Savant could not possibly let them down. Holtzman hoped the nobleman’s blithe confidence had not been misplaced.

Bludd chuckled at his worried expression. “Don’t trouble yourself, Tio. Even with the incredible expenditures required by this crazy project of yours, we’ll make enough from VenKee’s glowglobe profits to pay for it a dozen times over.”

All of the faux battleships had been completed in space, and the orbits around Poritrin were populated with intimidating-looking vessels, hundreds of ballistas and javelins in a seemingly invincible war fleet, like ferocious guard dogs patrolling a yard. A mere facade.

Dozens of Jihad battleships— real ones— stood on the Starda Spaceport field, ready to be sent into combat. Regimented jihadi soldiers were stationed near the vessels, their numbers augmented by mercenaries from Ginaz. None of that would be enough, however, if the bluff didn’t work.

Holtzman forced himself to take a bite of spiced riverfish, hoping Bludd wouldn’t notice his hesitation. “Time to put on our little show. Let’s give the order for our forces to redistribute their orbits. I advise keeping half of them in the planet’s shadow as an added surprise for the robot fleet.”

In recent months, the Army of the Jihad had inserted bits of misinformation into communications they knew would be intercepted by Omnius, even including some accurate material, because it served Holtzman’s purposes to reveal it to the enemy: anti-machine propaganda for the fighters on Ix… signals leaked to the escaping robot fleet at IV Anbus… and more.

If the information reached its intended audience, the machine armies would be convinced that the great Tio Holtzman was expanding his successful shield system on Poritrin in order to protect fleets of Jihad ships, to create invisibility fields and extraordinarily durable hull armor. This should make the technology a tactical prize for Omnius.

Bait
.

“I gave that order as soon as we received a signal from our picket ships,” Bludd said. “I’m confident they were safely out of view long before robot sensors could have detected them.” Then, smiling, he suggested that the two of them step back inside, where they could observe the encounter in comfort within the nobleman’s projection room. Holtzman looked at the displayed maps and grids of the planetary sphere and orbital paths, saw that all the ships had taken their proper positions. He nodded.

Next, glowing shapes approached like bullets from the edge of the screen. Bludd smiled. “Ah, those incoming machine ships are in for a big surprise.” He had more confidence than Holtzman, but the Savant dared not show any reservations.

Bristling with heavy weapons and overwhelming firepower, the robot fleet approached Poritrin and slowed as their scanners surveyed the battlefield ahead of them. Holtzman brushed a hand across his forehead, stroked thick hair away from his eyes. The enemy had at least three times as many ships as the Poritrin fleet. But that did not present an insurmountable obstacle— if the machines believed the misinformation.

“Now we shall see if human cunning is superior to machine technology,” he said.

Standing with Lord Bludd, he listened to the filtered communication transmissions, barked orders, warnings, assessments. On the screens, they watched as the Jihad warships moved into place, spreading their formation out into tactical positions around the planet. By all appearances, they were impenetrable, unbeatable.

The immense machine fleet drove forward implacably in a straight line toward its goal, only to encounter a large group of defenders in Poritrin’s orbit. The decoy League vessels held position. Electronic panels on the exteriors of their hulls glowed red, making it look as if they had powered up weapons systems. Sensor signatures transmitted that a huge complement of armaments was ready to be deployed.

Only a handful of these League vessels had any weapons at all, of course. Most of the ships were hollow scrap-metal constructions, masked by Holtzman shields that defied the electronic probes of the thinking machines.

“All systems activated,” a tactical officer announced over the speaker system.