Dune: The Machine Crusade (46 page)

“See how they run,” Erasmus said. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

The boy, who did not answer, had a somewhat horrified expression on his face.

Erasmus aimed at another random target— a pregnant woman— and shot again. Delightful! He was enjoying this immensely.

“Isn’t that enough?” the boy asked. “I understand the lesson.”

In his wisdom, Erasmus had selected a projectile weapon sure to generate a colossal blast, and the caliber of the bullet was large. Each time a victim was struck, blood, skin, and bits of bone flew in all directions. The sheer extravagant horror increased the panic even more, like a feedback loop.

“There is more to learn,” Erasmus said, noting that Gilbertus was shifting uneasily on his feet. He seemed nervous.

Interesting
.

The prisoners were screaming and yelling, climbing on top of each other, stepping on fallen bodies as they tried to stay out of the robot’s way. But in the confined area they could not escape. Erasmus fired again and again.

A projectile struck one man in the head, and his skull and brains vaporized into an expanding cloud. Several slaves stood frozen, stunned into abject surrender. He killed half of these as well, not wanting to train them in any way or alter their responses. For the purity of the experiment, he had to be completely fair, playing no favorites for any reason.

After killing at least a dozen and maiming twice as many, he stopped and held the cooling projectile gun in his flowmetal hand. The frenzied tides of terror continued to swirl around him, with survivors running back and forth, searching for places to hide or any means of escape. Some of them rendered assistance to their fallen comrades. Finally the screaming stopped and the people huddled against the fences as far from Erasmus as they could get, as if such a small distance could make any difference.

Unfortunately, the ones who still lived were tainted for further experimentation, even if they were not injured physically. No matter. He could always find fresh subjects, drawing them from his vast renewable pool of captives.

Outside the enclosure, Gilbertus had stepped back to avoid being touched by the outstretched hands of the captives who begged him for assistance. The boy frowned at Erasmus in confusion, as if he could not understand which direction his emotions were supposed to flow.

Curious
. Erasmus would have to analyze Gilbertus’s own responses to the experiment— an unexpected bonus.

Some of the slaves began weeping, moaning quietly to themselves as Erasmus opened the gate again and stepped confidently up to his young ward. But Gilbertus flinched away, instinctively shrinking from the dripping gore and bits of brain that spattered the robot’s shining skin and colorful robes.

This gave Erasmus pause. He did not mind being abhorred by his test subjects and captives, but did not want this particular young man to fear him. Erasmus was his mentor.

In spite of all the attention the independent robot had lavished upon Serena Butler, she had still turned on him. An old story in human history, and it had blindsided him. Perhaps she had been too mature, too set in her ways, when he had taken her under his wing. Erasmus had learned plenty about human nature in his many years of study; he would make certain that Gilbertus Albans remained absolutely loyal to him. He needed to be cautious and observant.

“Come with me, young human,” he said with simulated cheeriness. From now on he would have to be very careful so that the boy did not get the wrong idea about him. “Help me clean myself up, and then we’ll have a nice chat about what you’ve just seen.”

T
hey were visitors from another world, and looked like it.

As Iblis Ginjo watched the strange Cogitors and their attendants proceed single-file across the concourse of Zimia Spaceport, he stepped forward to greet them, his mind racing. His new aide Keats, a quiet and intelligent young man who had replaced the “tragically killed” Floriscia Xico, stood off to one side watching quietly, as if taking mental notes. Keats was more of a scholar than a thug, and Iblis used him for special Jipol work.

Buzzing construction noises filled the air, mingled with the drone of arriving and departing spacecraft. Using a swell of donations, the Jihad Council had commissioned a titanic statue of the saintly Manion the Innocent, which would welcome all vessels arriving from the dangers of deep space. Iblis was reminded of all the colossal statues and monuments the Titans had insisted on building to commemorate their glory days….

Iblis counted twenty-four saffron-robed secondaries approaching. As soon as word had reached him, he had rushed to the spaceport, making certain he would be there in person to greet them.

All of the attendants looked like living mummies with parchment-dry, liver-spotted skin and wispy hair. The fragile monks walked with a deliberate slowness. Six secondaries in the front carried canisters that held living brains that were far, far more ancient than the secondaries themselves.

“This is a momentous occasion,” Iblis said, and he meant it. His heart swelled. “I never dreamed that I would have a chance to converse with the Ivory Tower Cogitors. It has been… centuries since the last time you were seen away from frozen Hessra!”

Unlike Kwyna, who dwelled in the City of Introspection, or even wise Eklo, who had helped encourage the original uprising on Earth, these “Ivory Tower” Cogitors believed in near-total isolation from the distractions of society. They lived on a distant, unwanted planet, tended only by their human secondaries. Given uninterrupted serenity to contemplate for centuries, these brains were among the wisest and most remarkable in all of creation.

And now the notoriously insular Cogitors had come to Salusa Secundus! He had never dreamed this would happen in his lifetime.

Iblis introduced himself as the Grand Patriarch of the Jihad, a title unfamiliar to the out-of-touch Cogitors. He smiled in fascination as he stepped closer to the strangely ornate preservation canisters. “I have some experience with your kind. On Earth, the great Eklo taught me and encouraged me. And here I took much counsel from the Cogitor Kwyna. Our history has changed much because of their influence.”

One of the wizened secondaries looked up with watery eyes. In a raspy voice he said, “Vidad and our other Cogitors have no interest in affecting history. They wish only to exist, and to ponder.”

Iblis summoned his aides to assist the ancient monks. Keats directed two Jipol officers and a group of eager transportation workers to swarm around the distinguished, unexpected guests. The rapid flurry seemed to confuse the doddering yellow-robed secondaries.

Iblis said to Keats, “Please find comfortable quarters for the secondaries. Give them the best of food and access to any therapeutic or medical treatments they may need.”

The young Jipol officer nodded, then disappeared to follow the instructions.

One of the monks holding a preservation canister spoke. A small man with an oval face and long, silvery eyelashes, he said in a flat tone, “You do not know why we are here.”

“No, but I am eager to learn,” Iblis said. “Do you have something to sell? Do we have anything you need?”

Like all Cogitors, they were entirely reliant on human secondaries to keep their brains alive, to perform all of the necessary tasks involved in maintaining the preservation canisters in which they were enclosed. Iblis didn’t think the Cogitors could be entirely self-sufficient. Did they have secret outside commerce, with… cymeks, possibly? In extreme isolation on frozen Hessra, the secondaries had difficult lives indeed, and now they all looked too old and brittle to still be breathing. But they were.

The old man said in a voice as breathy and quiet as the wind, “We are the last of the secondaries on Hessra. Vidad and the other Cogitors did not wish to be interrupted, but my fellow monks and I will not survive much longer. It is necessary to obtain new secondaries.” He looked ready to drop, but his arms were steady as they held the preservation canister. “As soon as possible.”

Iblis’s eyes shone. “And you brought the Cogitors with you! I’d have thought they’d just send you with their request.”

The ancient monk lowered his eyes. “Because of the magnitude of the situation, Vidad wished to make his appeal in person. If necessary. Are there eligible people in the League who would be willing to volunteer for such service?”

Iblis’s throat went dry. If he didn’t have so many responsibilities of his own, he might have considered such a fascinating assignment for himself. “Many of our talented scholars would be most willing to assist you.” He smiled and bowed slightly. “I promise you, we shall locate all the volunteers you need.”

Possibilities were already churning in his mind.

IBLIS GINJO KNEW he had to see the Ivory Tower Cogitors in private. This was an opportunity no man alive, not even himself, had ever faced. They were six of the most brilliant, immortal philosophers.

He strode toward the chambers he had assigned for their representatives, grinning with optimism, remembering how much the Cogitor Eklo had already changed his life.

Ages ago, Vidad and his companions had isolated themselves so that they could contemplate for centuries upon centuries, uninterrupted. What grand revelations they must have uncovered in all that time! He could never allow these disembodied philosophers to leave without at least one conversation— even if he was forced to use his Jipol associates to keep them here against their will. But Iblis hoped he wouldn’t have to use such strong-arm methods.

But they must share their enlightenment!

Since he was the man who was willingly offering replacement tenders to fill the Cogitors’ desperate request, Iblis was able to go to the dignitaries’ quarters. When the door opened at his command, he stood before the ancient, crumbling old secondaries and his heart ached for the plight of these Cogitors. What if some emergency occurred on Hessra that these cadaverous men could not mitigate? “As Grand Patriarch, I swear to you that we will find appropriate replacements, as you requested— young talented men who will give their lives to the care taking of your masters.”

The yellow-robed secondaries bowed stiffly. Their eyes blinked in sunken, wrinkle-encircled sockets. “The Ivory Tower Cogitors appreciate your assistance,” said the lead secondary.

Iblis stepped further into the room, where he saw the ancient brains in their canisters resting on temporary pedestals. His heart pounded and he drew in a quick breath. “Would i t… would it be possible for me to speak with them?”

“No,” the secondary said.

In his exalted position, Iblis Ginjo was unaccustomed to hearing such a response. “Perhaps Vidad is aware of the Cogitor Eklo, who spent his last days on Earth? I served him there. I communicated with Eklo, and he helped me to formulate the grand slave uprising against Omnius.” The ancient yellow-robed men did not seem impressed.

Iblis continued, “Here in Zimia, I spent much time in philosophical interaction with the Cogitor Kwyna before she grew weary of life and shut herself down.” His eyes were bright and his mouth partly open in a hopeful smile.

Touching Vidad’s electrafluid to receive messages, his secondary said, “Other Cogitors dabble in interaction with humans. We see little benefit in this. We simply wish to acquire our new caretakers and return to Hessra. Nothing more.”

“I understand, Vidad,” Iblis said, “but perhaps for just a moment—”

“Even a moment distracts us from our vital ruminations. We see the key to the universe. Would you wish to deny us this?”

Iblis felt panic in his chest. “No, of course not. I apologize. I meant no disrespect. In fact it was due to my deep regard for you that I made my request in the first place—”

The skeletal old secondaries stood up, to facilitate the Cogitors’ wishes to be left alone.

Rebuffed, Iblis backed away. “Very well. I shall personally select appropriate secondaries for you.”

As the door closed behind Iblis, the scheming wheels in his mind accelerated. These Ivory Tower Cogitors were too complacent, too oblivious to recognize real importance in the universe. Vidad might be an eminent philosopher, but he was still naïve and blind; he and his fellows were as bad as the minority of deluded protesters against the Jihad, unable to recognize matters of consequence.

But the Cogitors… Iblis knew he had to change their minds, no matter how long it might take.

He would have to select his candidate secondaries carefully, and give them very explicit instructions. So much depended on this. Their mission would be subtle, yet crucial, for winning the Jihad and ensuring the ultimate survival of the human race.

GONE WERE HIS normally surreptitious Jipol clothing and even his rarely worn formal uniform, and Keats appeared out of place in the new yellow robes the Ivory Tower Cogitors had provided for him.

Iblis studied his loyal aide, nodded with approval. “Keats, you look suitably pious. The Ivory Tower Cogitors will find you, and all of my other handpicked volunteers, acceptable replacements.” The Grand Patriarch’s smile widened. “They have no idea what they’re getting into. All of you have been carefully briefed, of course, but you, Keats, are my most trusted recruit. Keep the others on track… and be subtle. Take your time.”

Keats wrinkled his oval face in a scowl, brushed his nails over the drab yellow robes. “Time is the one thing that seems to be in generous supply, if one can judge from the lives of the men we’re replacing.” He heaved a long sigh, and his shoulders shuddered. “I feel as if I’m being sent into exile, sir. There is much more important work I can do here for the Jihad—”

Iblis placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing it paternally. “Many can perform those trivial tasks, Keats. You, though, are best qualified for this one, considering your proven talents as an investigator and interrogator.