Dune: The Machine Crusade (69 page)

He grinned at Serena, then at the Tlulaxa representatives. “For the benefit of all humanity, you must share this technology with the League. We could erect similar organ farms. Medical victims would no longer need to endure months on life-support machines waiting to receive replacement organs.”

Seeing alarm on the faces of the Tlulaxa hosts, Iblis Ginjo raised his hands. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Doctor Suk. This is the very livelihood of the Tlulaxa civilization.” The small group walked among the unsettling yet incredible tanks, each of which held one or more organs that would someday help the war victims. “They could easily impose higher prices and reap huge profits, but they are doing their part in the fight against Omnius. No war profiteering here, eh, Rekur?”

“None at all.”

Energized, Iblis added, “Eventually Tlulaxa organ farms may surpass the profits they generate from slave activities.”

“I would like to see that happen,” Serena said. “Of course, there is a higher demand for these products during wartime.” She frowned and looked around. “Where are all of the slaves here? I expected to see them working your farms.”

Rekur Van said, “Selling slaves is our primary business, Priestess Butler. Trained, intelligent humans are a valuable commodity, and we do not keep them for ourselves. Besides, we could not entrust the care and upkeep of these delicate farms to unruly laborers who might have foolish dreams of vengeance.”

Xavier nodded stiffly, as if barely controlling his anger. “As the recent revolt on Poritrin demonstrated.”

“We have no intention of exposing our organ farms to such a threat.”

Serena accepted the explanation and recalled all too well the horrors Buddislamics had wrought on Poritrin. The casualties around Starda were still not accurately tallied; the true number would likely never be known because, at its center, the radioactive wasteland was little more than glassy rubble and the stains of bodies. The surviving population had hunted down the rebellious slaves and slaughtered many of them in a vindictive pogrom. That world would never be the same again.

The Tlulaxa escorts continued the tour for the rest of that day, showing the visitors all types of biological samples dangling in tanks. Always alert, Niriem never left Serena’s side.

After dinner, they attended a formal reception, where discussions continued. The following day, Iblis seemed quite pleased when he came to Serena with an offer from the Tlulaxa council. “Our friends have made a most generous suggestion, Serena. They wish to take formal samples of your cells and DNA. This will allow them to grow specifically tailored replacement organs for you, should… should you ever suffer injury in another assassination attempt.”

Serena frowned. “Would I not be able to use the standard organs from the farms, like all of our jihadi soldiers?”

Rekur Van hurried up to her in the small banquet room. “Of course, Priestess, but there is always a
slight
chance of rejection. It’s biologically impossible to guarantee a perfect match— unless we use your own DNA. It seems a worthwhile safeguard, and the Grand Patriarch agrees.”

Xavier Harkonnen looked skeptically from Iblis to the Tlulaxa flesh merchant. “I’m not convinced this is necessary—”

Serena brightened. “No, it’s all right. I think it’s a good idea. I would also like the Tlulaxa to maintain a library of cells from Primero Harkonnen, Grand Patriarch Ginjo— and even Doctor Suk.”

Xavier appeared alarmed, touching his chest. “The replacement lungs I received many years ago have functioned perfectly well, Serena. I see no need for—”

“But
I
do.” And that was the end of the discussion.

The following morning, after carefully tagged samples had been taken from the group, Iblis urged them to return to the spaceport. “Come, Serena. The Tlulaxa have been more than generous with their time. You’ve seen everything you need to. Besides, our business is concluded here.”

Finally, after a breakfast that seemed oddly rushed, she smiled at her Tlulaxa hosts. She needed to make certain they understood how much she appreciated their efforts. “I am greatly impressed, and I commend you for your accomplishments. It is my dream for you to join us as full-fledged League members. All of humanity would benefit from your contributions.”

“Perhaps that can be discussed in the future,” Iblis said. “In any case, the most important thing is for the Tlulaxa to continue their gallant efforts on our behalf.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Iblis quickly ushered Serena and her entourage back to the shuttle as if he didn’t want Serena to probe any deeper. Dr. Suklooked completely awed by all that he had seen. Iblis said, “You are Priestess of the Jihad, the unifier of humanity against Omnius. With you, nothing is impossible.” He shot meaningful glances at Rekur Van and the other Tlulaxa.

Leaving the Grand Patriarch behind, Serena thought he seemed entirely pleased with how the visit had turned out. But in her heart she could not shake the nagging sense that something was not right….

I
f Agamemnon had still possessed a physical body, his face would have displayed a triumphant grin as he watched the machine fleet converging on Bela Tegeuse. With his organic brain bathed in the electrafluid of his preservation canister, the cymek general felt a tingle of anticipation and victory.

Omnius would never suspect a thing.

The two Titans with Agamemnon felt the same, along with the neocymek Beowulf and the one hundred seventeen ambitious neos they had recruited into their revolt against the Synchronized Worlds.

“Once again, it will be the Time of Titans!” Agamemnon’s secret transmission was distributed throughout the swarm of cymek ships that traveled like unobtrusive remoras amid a school of deadly sharks. “We will restore our original rule, granting rewards and power to those visionaries who wish to destroy the computer evermind.”

The Corrin-Omnius had dispatched this large fleet along with numerous “loyal” cymek assistants to impose machine control before the feral jihadi humans could take over. The evermind had given his cymek general clear orders not to allow the wounded Synchronized World to fall to the
hrethgir
.

Agamemnon intended to follow those orders… in his own fashion.

Beowulf, the most talented programming genius since the Titan Barbarossa, had designed customized instructions and programming loops for all thinking machine warships, supposedly to prepare them for the chaos and disruption they would find on Bela Tegeuse. The machine warships would protect against any foolish incursions by human marauders.

The robot fleet carried a new and complete update of Omnius, with all of the instructions and information necessary to restore Bela Tegeuse to its synchronized status.

All of those massive, technologically beautiful ships would be a good start for Agamemnon’s own imperial cymek fleet.

Surrounding the cloud-blanketed planet, the machine warships transmitted identification signals and requests for response from the Omnius nexus in Comati, but received mostly static in response. The city itself had been leveled in Hecate’s atomic blast. Moments later, the machines received a few fragmented messages from trustee humans who had gotten some of the technology functional again.

Pleased to see no sign of a
hrethgir
occupation force, Agamemnon was relieved that he would not have to fight the jihadis while simultaneously overthrowing the forces of Omnius. Easier to deal with one foe at a time.

“Attention, thinking machine fleet,” he transmitted. “The cymek Beowulf has prepared an upload for you.”

Beowulf took his cue. “Before we departed from Corrin, Omnius gave me a confidential package that was not to be installed until now, for security reasons. Prepare to receive my transmission.”

The neo-cymek genius entered the appropriate high-level access codes, and the unsuspecting thinking machines accepted the burst. The entire fleet of machine warships and robots swallowed the programming rewrite like a deadly poison pill.

In a chain reaction, one by one, the robot vessels shut down over Bela Tegeuse, like lights blinking off in a large city. A bloodless coup.

Transmissions of triumphant glee and cold surprise echoed across the private cymek channel and open frequencies. Small cymek ships flitted like wasps around the silent robot fleet. One of the rebel neos asked, “Why didn’t you do this centuries ago?”

“The programming was not simple,” Beowulf said. “But it was Agamemnon’s own son who pointed me in the right direction. According to our inside information in the League, Vorian Atreides was behind the sensor deception at Poritrin, as well as the similar virus that fooled the machine fleet at IV Anbus.”

The Titan general agreed. “Since Vorian flew with the robot Seurat on his update runs— the same robot that has delivered corrupted updates on Synchronized Worlds— I have no doubt he was behind that tactic as well. There’s no reason we cymeks couldn’t have attempted a similar scheme long ago, but this will work only once, and we had to be ready. All of us. And now is our time at last.”

Agamemnon scanned the forces he had pulled together, and the powerful but unsuspecting robotic fleet. “I have waited a thousand years for this moment! Titans, join me aboard the frontline machine ship. We shall call a meeting with Omnius.”

The cymek ships converged upon the central machine vessel like pirates gathering around a treasure chest. Agamemnon linked his ship to the airlock, and the other cymeks followed suit. The Titan general installed his preservation canister inside a sleek walker body, which he wore like a triumphal cape that might have suited the original Agamemnon when he strode into the fallen city of Troy.

“Long ago, we conquered the Old Empire, and then lost it to Omnius,” he said to Juno and Dante, as well as to the proud Beowulf, whose genius had made all of this possible. “Now, the Synchronized Worlds are weakened from decades of war against the free humans. The Army of the Jihad has worn down the thinking machines for us— an opportunity we must seize.”

The thinking machine update ship was dark and silent, its robot pilot paralyzed by Beowulf’s clever programming. The cymeks would never be able to try such a trick again, but perhaps they would not have to do so.

In his mechanical walker, Agamemnon tore open the sealed alcove that held the Omnius update. The silvery gelsphere rested on wrinkled padding. Agamemnon reached in with one metal-clawed extremity and picked up the shimmering globe that held so many decillions of thoughts.

Bela Tegeuse was the first giant step.

“Omnius, you seem so weak and fragile,” he said. “With this single gesture, I launch the beginning of a new era… and the end of yours.”

Agamemnon clenched his articulated, clawed fist and crushed the silvery gelsphere. Now Omnius and his thinking machines were facing a three-way war.

A
fter five lean months, their supplies had dwindled, people had died— and Arrakis remained as harshly inhospitable as ever. Ishmael sensed growing despair among the escaped Zensunni slaves.

“This planet is just a giant
dune,
” complained one of the gaunt, sunburned refugees, who sat on a rock near the crashed experimental spaceship. They had no place to go.

Still, their leader had refused to let the spark of hope die. Ishmael insisted that they maintain their faith, that they endure the crushing heat and learn to adapt to this new place that God, for whatever reasons, had chosen for them. He found applicable Sutras to recite, which comforted his people.

One he had learned from his grandfather: “Courage and fear chase one another, around and around.”

His daughter Chamal had grown quiet and hardened, no longer able to believe that her husband Rafel might still be alive. He, Ingu, and the Tlulaxa slaver had set off in the group’s only vehicle and never returned. It had been far too long. After weeks without word, Chamal had stopped expecting Rafel’s expedition to come back bearing good news and fresh food.

Ishmael could see in her eyes that she had envisioned all possibilities— that they had gotten lost, or crashed in a storm, or been murdered by Tuk Keedair. No one could imagine that they might have found civilization and failed to send help.

Ishmael leaned against a rough boulder, holding his daughter and wishing she were a little girl again, without so many troubles. She had lost her husband, and now Ishmael was her only strength. But he himself had left Ozza behind and would probably be responsible for the deaths of these Zensunni refugees. To what purpose had they escaped? Perhaps they would have been better off joining Aliid’s struggle after all. Hopefully the Zenshiites had won that far-off battle on Poritrin… but Ishmael doubted it, and doubted he would ever find out.

Despite all the hardships, he refused to regret his decision. Better to starve to death in this inferno than to become a killer, even a killer of slavekeepers. “Buddallah must have had a reason for sending us here,” he murmured, as if reassuring Chamal. “It may take a thousand years for our people to discover why.”

As far as anyone knew, Ishmael and his followers had vanished from the universe. The Zensunnis had made their base camp around the crash site, where they stripped down the hulk of the prototype vessel and removed every bit of usable material. Some of the cleverest among them made ingenious traps and filters to catch dew in the shadows, but it did not produce enough moisture for all of them to survive.

In the last desperate day of preparation for their escape, Ishmael’s slaves had frantically packed only the items they could scavenge from Norma Cenva’s research hangar, and many necessities were lacking. The experimental craft had never been designed to carry a hundred fleeing Zensunnis without equipment or the basic tools of self-sufficiency. Even the gloomiest among them had never expected to land in such a thankless wasteland.