Dune: The Machine Crusade (3 page)

The machines’ objective was clear, and Omnius would certainly show no consideration for any fanatical religious preferences. Xavier had a vital job to complete here, in the name of the Jihad— and that job required a little commonsense cooperation from the natives. He had never expected so much trouble trying to make these people appreciate what the Army of the Jihad was risking for them.

The Zenshiite elders shuffled back into the meeting room, an enclosure adorned with aged religious artifacts that glimmered with gold and precious stones.

As he had for hours, the religious leader Rhengalid gazed at him with stony eyes and implacable refusal. He had a large shaved head that glistened with exotic oils; his thick eyebrows had been brushed and artificially darkened. His chin was covered with a thick, square-cut gray beard that he wore as a mark of pride. His eyes were a pale gray-green that stood out in striking contrast to his tanned skin. Despite the ominous thinking-machine battle fleet overhead, or the impressive firepower of the Army of the Jihad, this man remained unimpressed and unintimidated. He seemed oblivious.

With a determined effort, Xavier kept his voice even. “We are trying to protect your world, Elder Rhengalid. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, if our ships did not continue to hold back the thinking machines
every day,
you and all your people would be slaves of Omnius.” He sat stiffly on the hard bench across from the Zenshiite leader. Not once had Rhengalid offered him any refreshment, though Xavier suspected that the elders had partaken of their own whenever the soldiers left the room.

“Slaves? If you are so concerned for our welfare, Primero Harkonnen, where were your battleships a few months ago when Tlulaxa flesh merchants stole healthy young men and fertile women from our farming settlements?”

Xavier tried not to show distress. He had never wanted to be a diplomat, didn’t have the patience for it. He served the cause of the Jihad with all the loyalty and dedication he possessed. The crimson of his uniform symbolized the spilled blood of humanity, and his innocent Manion— barely eleven months old— had been the first of the new martyrs.

“Elder, what did
you
do to defend your own people when the raiders came? I knew nothing of the incident before now and cannot help you with what happened in the past. I can only promise that life under the thinking machines will be much worse.”

“So you say, but you cannot deny the hypocrisy of your own society. Why should we take the word of one slaver over another?”

Xavier’s nostrils flared.
I don’t have time for this!
“If you insist on reliving the past, then remember that your peoples’ refusal to fight the thinking machines from the very beginning has cost the freedom of billions of humans, and countless deaths. Many believe you owe a great debt to your race.”

“We have no love for either side in this conflict,” the gray-bearded man retorted. “My people want no part of your pointless, bloody war.”

Holding back a heated retort, Xavier said, “Nevertheless, you are caught in the crossfire and must choose sides.”

“Are human tyrants better than machine tyrants? Who can say? But I do know that this is not our fight, has never been our fight.”

Workers inside the Darits dam moved sluice gates, letting clear water pour in twin spectacular waterfalls from the open hands of the colossal Buddha and Mohammed statues. At the sudden rushing noise, Xavier looked up and was surprised to see Primero Vorian Atreides striding along the rock walkway from the landing pad of his shuttle at the crude spaceport. Smiling, the dark-haired man approached, still looking as fit, virile, and young as when Xavier had first met him after his escape from Earth so many years ago. “You can cajole them all you want, Xavier, but the Zenshiites speak a different language… in more than the linguistic sense.”

The Darits elder looked indignant. “Your godless civilization has persecuted us. Jihadi soldiers are not welcome here— especially not in Darits, our sacred city.”

Xavier held his gaze on Rhengalid. “I must inform you, Elder, that I shall not allow the thinking machines to take over this planet, whether you help us or not. The fall of IV Anbus would give the enemy yet another stepping-stone to the League Worlds.”

“This is our planet, Primero Harkonnen. You do not belong here.”

“Neither do the thinking machines!” Xavier’s face reddened.

Vorian took him by the arm. Clearly amused, Vor said, “I see you’ve discovered new techniques of diplomacy.”

“I never claimed to be a negotiator.”

Smiling, Vor nodded. “If these people knew to follow your orders, that would certainly make things easier, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not going to abandon this planet, Vor.”

The command comline sputtered, and a sharp message came across it. Vergyl Tantor’s voice was excited, breathless. “Primero Atreides, your suspicions were correct! Our scans have discovered a secret thinking machine base camp being established on a plateau. Appears to be a military beachhead, with industrial machinery, heavy weaponry, and combat robots.”

“Good work, Vergyl,” Vor said. “Now the fun starts.”

Xavier glanced over his shoulder at the self-absorbed Rhengalid, who looked as if he never wanted to see the jihadis again. “We’re finished here, Vor. Come back to the flagship. We’ve got work to do.”

Z
imia was a stunning city, the cultural pinnacle of free humanity. Tree-lined boulevards fanned out like the spokes of a wheel from a complex of governmental buildings and an immense memorial plaza. Men in doublet-suits and ladies in ornamented official dresses walked briskly about the square.

Iblis Ginjo frowned as he hurried across the expanse toward the stately Hall of Parliament. Such an orderly arrangement could give the illusion of security, that the surroundings would never change.

But nothing is permanent. Nothing is secure.

He was in the business of inspiring people, galvanizing them into action by convincing them that the evil machines could attack any world at any time, and that there were sinister human spies who secretly gave their loyalty to Omnius, even here in the heart of the League.

Sometimes Iblis had to embellish reality, for the greater good of the struggle.

A broad-shouldered man with a squarish face and straight dark brown hair, he wore a loose black blazer adorned with gold stitching and sparkling bangles. Several steps behind him, half a dozen Jihad Police— Jipol agents— followed, always alert, ready to draw their weapons quickly. Turncoat humans or assassins loyal to the machines could be lurking anywhere.

Two decades ago, Iblis had granted himself the title “Grand Patriarch of Serena Butler’s Jihad,” and the throng embraced him every time he appeared in public. He spoke for them, rallied them, told them what to think and how to react. Like Vorian Atreides, Iblis had once been a human trustee of the thinking machines on Earth. Now he was an orator and statesman of the highest order: a king, politician, religious leader, and military commander all wrapped in one charismatic package. He had carved his own path, an unprecedented course that allowed him to move in the elite circles of human leadership. He knew history, and saw his place in it clearly.

As he climbed the broad steps of the Hall of Parliament and entered the high-ceilinged, frescoed foyer, representatives and clerks fell silent. Iblis loved to see people fumbling around in awe of him, red-faced and stammering.

He paused with appropriate reverence at the ornate alcove shrine to Serena Butler’s murdered child Manion, an angelic sculpture with arms open wide to receive a daily burden of fresh flowers, pale orange marigolds that looked like small, bright supernovas, the blossom that had been adopted as “Manion’s flower.”

Inside, the great hall was full, every chair occupied by a nobleman or planetary representative. Even the aisles were packed with distinguished guests seated on portable, new-model suspensor chairs that floated in available spaces.

A monk in a saffron-yellow robe sat near the front of the assembly, monitoring a heavy translucent container that held a live human brain inside a life-support bath of bluish electrafluid. As Iblis glanced at the revered Cogitor, he felt a giddy rush of genuine pleasure at the memory it inspired of the ancient philosopher-brain named Eklo, who had shared his knowledge when Iblis had been a mere slave supervisor on Earth. Those had been heady days, full of possibilities….

This Cogitor, a female thinker known as Kwyna, was more reluctant to help him, to offer her advice. Even so, Iblis often went to the tranquil City of Introspection to sit by Kwyna’s preservation canister, hoping to learn. He had met only two Cogitors in his life, but the magnificent organic thinking units never failed to impress him.

They were so superior to Omnius, so elegant and so infinitely
human
… despite their obvious physical limitations.

The Parliament’s business had already been under way for hours, but nothing important would happen until he arrived. It had all been arranged. His quiet allies among the League representatives would clog the governmental works with irrelevant bureaucracy, just to make
him
look more effective when he cut through all the dithering.

On the podium, the planetary representative from Hagal, Hosten Fru, droned on about a minor commercial problem, a dispute between VenKee Enterprises and the Poritrin government over patents and distribution rights for glowglobes, which had become increasingly popular.

“The original concept is based on work done by an assistant to Savant Tio Holtzman, but VenKee Enterprises has marketed the technology without any compensation to Poritrin,” Hosten Fru said. “I suggest we assign a committee to look into the matter and give it due consideration—”

Iblis smiled to himself.
Yes, a committee will ensure a complete lack of resolution on the issue
. Hosten Fru was a seemingly incompetent politician who blocked League business with inane problems, making the cumbersome government appear as ineffectual as the passive Old Empire. No one knew that the Hagal representative was one of Iblis’s secret allies. It served Iblis’s purposes perfectly: the more people saw how incapable the League Assembly was of solving simple problems, especially during crises, the more decisions were relegated to the Jihad Council, which he controlled….

Beaming with confidence, Iblis Ginjo made his grand entrance. As the proxy for Serena Butler herself, he was the spokesman for humanity and its Holy Jihad against the thinking machines.

Ten violent years after the atomic destruction of Earth, old Manion Butler had retired as League Viceroy, asking that his daughter Serena be appointed to take his place. She had been voted in by acclamation, but insisted that she be called only the “Interim Viceroy” until the conclusion of the war. Delighted, Iblis had insinuated himself as her closest advisor, writing speeches for her, building the fervor for the crusade against the thinking machines.

Head high, he strode down the carpeted aisle to the front of the speaking chamber. Imagers projected Iblis’s oversized features on the sides of the enclosure. Immediately deferential, Hosten Fru summed up and bowed, stepping away from the podium. “I relinquish my remaining time to the Grand Patriarch.”

Iblis walked across the stage, folded his hands in front of him, and formally nodded his gratitude to the Hagal representative, who hurried out of the speaking zone. Before he could gather his thoughts, though, an interruption came from the floor.

“Point of order!” He recognized the woman as Muñoza Chen, a troublesome representative from the remote League World of Pincknon.

Iblis turned to her, forcing an expression of patience onto his face as she stood and said, “Earlier today, I questioned the additional responsibilities transferred without due process from the Parliament to the Jihad Council. That discussion was tabled until an authorized member of the Council could address this Assembly.” She crossed her arms over her small chest. “I believe Grand Patriarch Ginjo is empowered to speak on behalf of the Council.”

He offered her a cool smile. “That is not why I have come to address the Assembly today, Madame Chen.”

The annoying woman refused to sit down. “Pending business is on the table, sir. Standard procedure requires that we attempt to resolve the matter before proceeding to anything else.”

He sensed the impatient mood of the crowd and knew how to use it to his advantage. They had come to hear
him
speak, not to witness tedious discussions about an irrelevant motion. “You are providing an excellent object lesson as to why the Jihad Council had to be formed, to make swift and necessary decisions, without this quagmire of bureaucracy.”

The audience grumbled their agreement. Now his smile warmed.

For the first thirteen years after Serena Butler had announced her Jihad, the League Parliament had struggled to run urgent wartime matters with the same cumbersome system that had operated during the prior centuries of uneasy peace. But after the debacles at Ellram and Peridot Colony, when the politicians had dickered for so long that entire protectorates had been wiped out before rescue missions could arrive, an indignant Serena had addressed the Parliament. She had expressed her outrage and (far worse to the people) her
disappointment
because they had put petty squabbles ahead of their real enemy.

Standing beside her, Iblis Ginjo had seized the initiative and suggested the formation of a “Jihad Council,” which would oversee all matters that directly related to the Jihad, while less urgent commercial, social, and domestic items could be discussed and debated in unhurried Parliament sessions. Wartime matters required swift and decisive leadership that could only be hampered by the thousand voices of Parliament.

Or so Iblis had convinced them; his proposal passed overwhelmingly.