Dune: The Machine Crusade (75 page)

Like a champion racehorse, old Manion had never even considered slowing down, that the urgency for completing the project in a single morning was perhaps overstated.

Xavier had slept late, glad to be home with his wife and their youngest daughter Wandra, now eight years old. He snuggled close to Octa in their bed, reacquainting himself with the familiarity of her touch, her closeness. But the Primero had never been a man to lounge around and do nothing. He soon got up, breakfasted, and dressed in old work clothes.

It had been eight years since the slave revolt on Poritrin resulted in the destruction of the city of Starda and the deaths of so many people. And eight years since Agamemnon’s unexpected cymek rebellion threw the Synchronized Worlds into an uproar and diverted the destructive attentions of Omnius.

While the machines’ relentless attempts at conquest had lost focus, the Jihad plodded on. Xavier regularly guided forays into Synchronized territory, protected vulnerable colonies, and attacked robotic warships wherever he encountered them.

Upon arriving home, however, Xavier always enjoyed working in the Butler Estate’s fields and vineyards, where he sought to distract himself and gain some inner peace in a universe of war.

He stepped outside into the fresh morning light, tugged on thick gloves, and strode out smiling to meet the old man and help him finish the mulching. Xavier arrived just in time to see Manion pause and then reel, as if disoriented. The old politician clutched the handle of the shovel, trying to keep himself upright, but his expression fell, his face turned gray, and he crumpled to the ground.

Xavier was already running, calling out to his father-in-law, but he reached his side too late to help.

“NOW WE HAVE lost two Manions,” Serena’s mother said. Tears streamed down Livia Butler’s weathered face; her reflection in the ripples of the City of Introspection’s reflecting pool looked ancient.

Abbess Livia Butler had always looked much younger than her eighty-one years, but she appeared to have aged terribly since the death of her husband. In elegant contemplation robes, she sat hunched over. Despite her stoic composure, Livia looked broken inside, like a tree severed from its roots.

Serena sat with her mother on a bench at the edge of the pool. Manion had passed away peacefully enough, after a full life.
If only he had lived long enough to see the end of this unhappy war.

In the three and a half decades of the Jihad, the ache of tragedy had never left Serena. Sometimes it was the grim knowledge of populations wiped out on Chusuk or in the Honru Massacre; at other times, the grief was much more personal. She would never relinquish her sworn duty to guide the struggle against the thinking machines, but Serena wished she could finally have time to ponder, and grieve. She had thought about going into Zimia, to meditate beside one of the numerous flower-draped public reliquaries. But at the moment she did not want to see any crowds.

Serena glanced up a grassy slope to the shrine that contained the preserved body of her child. Her little boy was the innocent symbol of the human spirit, the absolute antithesis of machine cruelty and utter
in
humanity. She said, “Yes, now we have lost two Manions. But the League and its Jihad will have to go on without both of them.” Even so, she felt as if one of the pillars of the League of Nobles had toppled and shattered.

Reaching over, she touched her mother’s hand. The Abbess squeezed back, with little strength at first, but then harder, urgently. Livia’s eyes widened, and she gasped with a genuine pain that went far beyond her sadness. Serena tried to put an arm around her mother, but the older woman slumped off the bench and dropped to the edge of the water. Serena knelt by Livia and lifted her shoulders, shouting urgently for help.

For a long, agonizing moment Serena stared into her mother’s open, lifeless eyes. Though Livia and Manion Butler had lived separate lives for many years, each preoccupied with their own passions, the two of them had shared an invisible bond. They had been married for over half a century.

Now Livia had gone to join her beloved husband….

THOUGH SERENA GOT very little sleep, the following day she performed her duties with burning energy. The Grand Patriarch told her afterward that she seemed fresher and more inspired than ever, as if instilled with a novel, raw form of power.

Her emptiness had changed to anger, as if a switch had been activated inside her mind. The thinking machines—
unthinking, hateful
machines— had robbed her of so much. The losses ran deeper than words could express.

After all these years, she found herself bitter that the fight had not yet been won. Undoubtedly it had something to do with a weakness in the human spirit, an insufficient resolve. She must change that, somehow.

Desperately, the Priestess of the Jihad wished she could have the quiet advice of her mother, just one more time. Or the Cogitor Kwyna. Now, more than ever, she needed great wisdom. But where could she turn?

After long consideration, she decided it was time to do something new, to change the parameters. Eight years earlier, she and Iblis Ginjo had generously provided new secondaries to the Ivory Tower Cogitors. The well-chosen volunteers had had plenty of time to persuade Vidad and his five philosopher comrades to share this knowledge, and now she had grown tired of waiting.

A shiver ran across her skin. If the Ivory Tower Cogitors refused to come to her, then she would simply have to go to them.

While somber but extravagant preparations were being made for a double funeral of state for the retired Viceroy and the Abbess, the streets were filled with orange marigolds, blooms that signified the grief of the people. Serena stared out the windows at them. So many people followed her blindly into any peril. Vorian Atreides had returned home to brief the Jihad Council on his efforts to strengthen the Unallied Planets, and brought with him devastating news of yet another randomly destroyed human colony— this time the mining planetoid Rhisso. His report caused great consternation. Sleeping gas had been pumped into the atmospheric domes, and it appeared that most of the colonists had been kidnapped before the facilities themselves were destroyed.

Vor stood in front of Serena as he concluded his report. Iblis Ginjo heard the words with an expression of shock, but she noted that his eyes sparkled as if somehow this might be good news to him. She had mixed feelings about him. Despite some of his questionable actions, she knew Iblis would never allow his enthusiasm for the Jihad to wane. Troubled, Serena looked away, then back at him. This time, she saw only sadness in his face.

Vor suggested that the people of Rhisso must have been taken by thinking machines in order to force them into slavery on some distant world where manpower was needed. That made sense to Serena. But she couldn’t help wondering.

“The evidence Primero Atreides has brought back will surely enrage people across the League, and we will have a fresh influx of recruits to continue the fight,” Iblis said, intending to give comfort. “Don’t ever feel that you are alone, Serena.”

Serena, though, felt enraged and invigorated. News of this unfortunate incident, like Chusuk, would certainly rile the populace again, but she didn’t think it would be enough. It might even spark yet another round of debilitating protests against the conflict. It had been over three decades since the destruction of the Earth-Omnius.

Why have we not yet achieved victory?

“I wish I had billions of impassioned fighters, instead of a few million. But there is another way to win.” She lifted her chin and stared at Iblis, strengthening her resolve. “I intend to start by adding only a few new allies.
Powerful
allies.”

T
his is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” Erasmus said as he pushed the boy down onto a laboratory table, face up. “Trust me when I say it is for your own good.”

Gilbertus made no attempt to resist. “Of course I trust you, sir.” Still, he looked around nervously as Erasmus clamped his wrists, ankles, and torso. The young man had seen enough of the independent robot’s experiments to know that the experience would not be pleasant.

Erasmus then rolled forth a cart filled with cylinders of acid-bright fluids, neuromechanical pumps, machines with sensor tips, and long, sharp needles. Numerous needles.

“It is important that I do this.” He swung a flexible metal arm from the cart over the boy’s torso. He knew he should have asked permission from Omnius before doing this, but didn’t want to explain his motivations to the evermind.

Some things are best left private,
he thought.

“Afterward, I would like you to describe the sensations to me. I am very curious about them.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Erasmus.” His voice held a hint of nervousness, and fear.

Steel points extruded from the flexible arm and penetrated the young man’s neck and chest, seeking out specific internal organs. He gasped, tried to scream, then struggled to endure the pain. His expression and palpable agony made Erasmus sad. The robot had never before experienced any qualms about observing the reactions of pain on test subjects… but Gilbertus was more than just an experiment.

Relegating his feelings to a minor subroutine, the robot adjusted controls to increase the subject’s pain higher and higher, and then still higher. He had to proceed through all the steps of the process.

“It will be over momentarily, and I would be most displeased if you were to die now.”

Gilbertus writhed and thrashed, but could not escape. Only his screams broke free and echoed off the walls of the laboratory. His lips curled back to reveal clenching teeth, and blood running into his gums from biting his own tongue.

The robot spouted more platitudes that he had learned from humans. “It will be all right in the end. It’s for the best. Keep a stiff upper lip.”

The boy’s body sagged, and he plunged into the safety of unconsciousness. Erasmus reduced the settings gradually, and finally shut down the life-extension machine. A console showed the subject’s vital signs improving moment by moment. He was young and comparatively strong— even stronger, after this.

The young man’s eyes fluttered, opened. Seeing the smiling flowmetal face of the robot, he managed a faint smile of his own.

“You trust me completely, don’t you?” Erasmus asked, as he placed healing patches on the wounds.

“Of course, Mr. Erasmus.” Gilbertus’s voice was low, and he spat blood into a bowl that the robot held for him. “But what was the purpose of this… test? Did you learn something from it?”

“I took you to the brink of death… and brought you back. It is my gift to you.” He released the restraints. “It was a procedure developed during the time of the Old Empire and kept secret in the Synchronized Worlds. The cymeks have used it to maintain their organic health. Now I have given you life, Gilbertus— in as true a sense as your own parents did. Your biological body will retain its health for hundreds of years, possibly longer if you take care of yourself. Unfortunately, your low threshold for pain prevented me from giving you a higher dosage.”

“So I have failed you?”

“Not at all. Your human frailties are not your fault.”

“I feel more like a thinking machine now,” Gilbertus said, struggling to sit up. He swung his legs off the edge of the table, but swayed when he tried to stand.

Erasmus had to help him keep his balance. “Machines and humans have differing strengths.”

The boy’s eyes began to shine as he understood the consequences of his life-extension treatment. “I promise I will make you proud of me, Mr. Erasmus.”

“I already am, young man.”

H
igh above the restless ocean, the lone man climbed the moonlit cliff face with no more effort than if he’d been running on flat, open ground. He leaped upward with great force, scrambling around overhangs and up fissures in the stone, never slipping, always advancing. Far below, the waters of the Ginaz Sea crashed against treacherous reef rocks.

But Jool Noret would not fall; he never did. For nine years, he had thrown himself into the jaws of Death— and Death had always spat him back out.

The most extraordinary of all mercenaries wore a white combat suit— sleeveless, with trousers to the knees— an outfit that offered no armor but permitted him full range of movement. A black bandana encircled his head, tied in the manner of the ancient ronin fighters of Old Earth. Though he cared little about impressing the ever-present onlookers, Noret wore the white suit so that they could observe his progress up the sheer rock face.

Above, shadowy forms lined the top of the cliff, a score of Ginaz trainees watching him, accompanied by Chirox. Noret saw the angular multi-armed
sensei
mek glistening dull silver in moonlight. He knew the combat machine was telling the students what they should attempt, without exceeding their own abilities. As Noret glanced up at the group, part of him was pleased to have inspired so many more fighters to destroy the machines. At the same time, he was bewildered by all of the attention. He had never asked for it.

Without doubt, he had become the greatest warrior the Ginaz archipelago had ever produced— perhaps the finest it ever would produce.

But Noret was also the most enigmatic of men, speaking only rarely to his students. Several years ago, a downcast trainee had etched the Swordmaster’s most famous quotation into a polished stone near the cluster of huts on the island. “I am still unworthy myself. I am not fit to teach others.”