Dune: The Machine Crusade (95 page)

“That is not all. He did the same on Chusuk years ago, and the mining planetoid of Rhisso. He intends to hit… Caladan… next. You must stop him.”

Xavier listened with growing horror as the tercero explained in short bursts of words, like the last remnants of a battery charge. Finally the man slumped to the floor, with no energy left. Xavier wondered how the officer had managed to survive for so long without vital organs— just a core, head, and limbs— detached from the sophisticated maintenance systems the Tlulaxa used to keep their organ reservoirs fresh.

Xavier knelt, draped the officer’s arm over a bony shoulder, and stood. He tried to drag the man along, even though he knew there was nothing he could do to help him. He staggered between the rows of coffin like beds and dissection tables, hauling the valiant soldier along. But finally it became too much. Hondu Cregh was dead.

Gently, Xavier laid the tercero’s body on the stained floor. Xavier caught glimpses of other half-dismantled bodies kept alive for the harvesting of organs and tissues. Some had been flayed of their skin— which had no doubt been used to treat Jihad burn victims— revealing raw, red muscle tissue that glistened wetly in the light.

He staggered away, considering whether he should try to free these people but he knew that most would die swiftly without the medical systems that kept them alive here. They had already lost vital organs. A few might survive… but to where could they flee? What could he possibly do for them?

Though he was a high-ranking officer in the Army of the Jihad, he was all alone here, surrounded by enemies— the Tlulaxa, as well as Iblis

Ginjo and his Jipol guards. Xavier could not sound an alarm. He grasped the edge of one of the dissection beds. Feebly, the body inside twitched a hand and reached toward him.

“I see some explanations are in order,” said a rich, powerful voice. “Do not judge what you don’t understand.”

Xavier whirled to see the Grand Patriarch standing at the end of the long aisle, accompanied by Tlulaxa medical researchers, Jipol guards, and flesh merchants. Xavier froze, knowing that his life would now be forfeit, in spite of who he was. Maybe they would hook him up and harvest his organs…

“I already understand far more than I ever wanted to know,” Xavier said, trying to hide his disgust and outrage. “I presume you have your justifications?”

“It only requires a broader perspective, Primero. Surely you can understand that?” Iblis looked robust and powerful, while Xavier simply felt incredibly old.

He asked, “Is this… is this where my own lungs came from?”

“That was before I rose to power, so I have no way of knowing. Even so, any objective person would consider it a worthy trade— a nameless wretch for a great Primero.” Iblis drew himself up, seizing a way to make his argument convincing. “Most of these people are slaves, human outcasts scraped up from unwanted planets.” He sneered at the victims confined to their life-support beds. “But
you
are a tactical genius, a loyal soldier for the Jihad. Consider everything you have done in past decades, Primero— all the victories you won against Omnius. By any measure, your life is far more valuable than that of a mere slave— especially a Buddislamic coward who refused to fight for the Jihad.”

“The ends justify the means,” said Xavier, not daring to let his true revulsion show. “That can be a valid argument.”

Iblis smiled, misinterpreting Xavier’s calmness as acceptance. “Think of it this way, Primero: By keeping you alive and able to serve to your fullest capacity, that slave who sacrificed his lungs for you did his own part to defeat the thinking machines. If his people had been willing to contribute to the war effort in any another way— as a human
should
have— he would never have been brought here, would he?”

“But these victims aren’t all Buddislamics,” Xavier said, looking down at the grayish ruin of Cregh’s body. The words were like sour bile in his throat. “This man was also a soldier in the Army of the Jihad.”

“What did he tell you?” Iblis asked, his words sharp, his jaw set.

Xavier shook his head. “He was too weak and died quickly, but I recognized him. How did he get here?”

“That man… does not exist any longer,” Iblis said. “Some are so wounded in battles that they cannot survive. Nonetheless, their bodies can still offer hope and assistance to others. That officer’s family believes he died bravely in battle— and he did, for all intents and purposes. Afterward, his body provided the organs necessary to keep other jihadis and mercenaries alive. He would have died anyway. Could any fighter ask for more?”

Xavier felt weak and nauseated. Nothing Iblis said could justify what he and the Tlulaxa monsters had done. “Did… did Serena know about this?” he asked finally, sounding defeated.

“No, but Tlulaxa technology enabled us to complete the illusion of her martyrdom. We used the sample cells the Tlulaxa took from her when she visited Thalim ten years ago to grow a genetically identical clone body, which we then mutilated horribly. We captured every moment in highly detailed images, staged every motion, and made Omnius out to be the monster that we all know he is.”

Now Xavier had difficulty grasping the enormity of this revelation as well. “Then Serena wasn’t tortured? She wasn’t murdered by the thinking machines—”

“I gave orders that her own chief Seraph Niriem kill her, if the Corrin-Omnius did not. Serena intended to goad Omnius to murder. But if she failed… well, we couldn’t allow that to happen. It was to be a quick and painless blow that would thoroughly astonish the thinking machines.” Iblis shrugged.

Xavier reeled in disbelief. “Why would she do such a terrible thing? What did she have to gain—” Then he cut himself off. “Of course. She threw fuel onto the flames of the Jihad. She knew our people would accept the Cogitors’ peace terms out of sheer exhaustion, unless she gave her life to make sure that would never happen.”

Smiling, the Grand Patriarch spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. “Can you imagine any better way to stir up every human in the League? Serena couldn’t, and neither could I. I simply made certain that Serena would succeed. Even the protesters fell silent when they saw what Omnius had done to their beloved Priestess.”

A moan from one of the half-butchered Zensunnis turned Xavier’s attention back to the bubbling and humming medical beds. He swallowed hard. “Did she know about the organs, where so many of them came from— all these people, cut up like garments in a tailor shop?”

The Grand Patriarch flashed a knowing smile, while his Jipol guards and the Tlulaxa stood uneasily around him. “Serena had other burdens to bear, and she was told only what she needed to know. She asked that I find a way to care for the wounded Jihad fighters, to get them the organs they desperately needed. While I admit these facilities are not pleasant, they fill a necessary function. Surely, you can see that?” He smiled broadly.

“Think of Serena and her memory, Primero. You know how much she praised these farms and all the good they did. You know how badly Serena wanted Tlulax to join the League of Nobles. Regardless of the method,
this
is truly what she wanted all along.” He took an ominous step closer, pretending to be paternal and understanding. “Xavier Harkonnen, I know you loved her, and I beg of you— do not act prematurely. Do not ruin Serena’s legacy for all of us.”

Xavier struggled to keep his fury in check. “No, I wouldn’t think of it,” he said. He hoped he had convinced Iblis.

The Tlulaxa and the Jipol guards looked at him suspiciously, but Xavier kept his gaze fixed on the smug Grand Patriarch. “I’ve had enough of these horrors, Iblis— enough of the war. When we return to Salusa Secundus, I ask that you… accept my resignation as Primero in the Army of the Jihad.”

For an instant, Iblis looked surprised, then pleased. Quickly, he masked his expression and nodded. “As you wish— with full honors, of course. You have served well, Primero, but the war must go on until Omnius is defeated. For Serena’s sake we will continue to do whatever needs to be done.”

“Of course,” Xavier said. “Just call on me, and I will serve for Serena’s sake. For now… I just want to go home.”

But he had other plans, if only he could implement them quickly enough.

T
hroughout the ebb and flow of the Jihad, Omnius update ships continued to fly predictable, endless courses, from one Synchronized World to another. The unchanging nature of the sentient evermind created its greatest vulnerability.

Agamemnon and his unified cymeks knew exactly where to wait for the incoming vessel on the fringes of the Richese system. The general had left Juno on Bela Tegeuse to continue to rally and convert the deluded population there. After nine years, their rebellion now had plenty of neo-cymek fighters who owed everything to the three surviving Titans.

And Omnius had not taken the threat seriously.

While waiting in ambush, Agamemnon and Dante detected the arrival of the silver-and-black update ship as it flew obliviously along its route between Synchronized Worlds. The programmed robot captain was doing his job, never seeing his part in the overall conflict.

Six neo-cymek warships hovered, ready to strike. All of Agamemnon’s vessels had been augmented with heavy armor and superior firepower, built by the restored industries on Bela Tegeuse. Omnius had added small batteries of defensive weaponry to many of the update courier vessels, but it was only a token gesture, completely inadequate to protect the data spheres from cymek attack.

Agamemnon knew his rebels could pick off this one with ease. The neos converted from the Tegeusan population were anxious to show their worth and strike blows in the continuing fight.

Beowulf lumbered along with them. The oldest neo-cymek had been severely damaged by Hecate’s traitorous attack, his ship nearly destroyed by the bombardment of kinetic spheres. While he’d tried to escape, the heavy impacts sent power surges through delicate thoughtrodes, searing portions of his organic brain. The aftermath left the damaged Beowulf drifting in the asteroid belt of Ginaz, where he was rescued by a cymek scouting party. Because of the injury, he could no longer function at his previous level. His mind would never be the same.

In a rare and uncharacteristic show of compassion, however, the Titan general had allowed the crippled and sluggish cymek to accompany this attack, though Beowulf would be of little assistance.

Though the earlier strike against Zufa Cenva and Aurelius Venport had not turned out as planned, Agamemnon knew that his two intended human victims were dead… as was Hecate, thus preventing her from further interfering with his plans. An acceptable result.

Agamemnon was also finding it increasingly useful to sprinkle eavesdroppers and fully trained spies throughout the prominent League Worlds. Given a taste of immortality with the promise of becoming neo-cymeks, the people of Bela Tegeuse had volunteered to act as observers and data gatherers, which enabled the Titans to fight this two-front war much more effectively. Omnius, too, used human spies, though cautiously, since he feared that exposure to free humanity would corrupt them beyond repair— as had occurred with Agamemnon’s own son Vorian.

“We are ready to move against the target, General,” Dante announced.

Beowulf made an eager noise and finally adjusted his communication systems so that his words were distinct, though slow. “Time to kill Omnius.”

“Yes. Time to kill Omnius.” Agamemnon gave the order for the ambush ships to swoop down and converge upon the update vessel.

Agamemnon and Dante observed from a safe distance while the neo-cymeks charged in to surround and detain the update ship. They had instructions to inflict no damage that could not be repaired quickly. Within moments their precise shots had taken the update ship’s engines off-line and burned out the implanted transmission systems, leaving the vessel to drift free.

The robotic captain would attempt to send a distress signal, but the Richese-Omnius would never know what had happened. Agamemnon and his team would finish here, commandeer the ship, and streak toward the unsuspecting machine planet before any delay could be noted.

“Hurry,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

The cymek ships forcibly docked with the update vessel. One of the Tegeusan neos boarded first, stalking with clattering mechanical footsteps across the chill metal decks. Agamemnon followed and headed for the pilot chamber, eager to crush another silver gelsphere in his metal claw.

Inside the cockpit, the copper-skinned robot captain utterly surprised the bold neo-cymek. He fired an explosive weapon, and a dense projectile slammed into the neo’s brain canister, ripping it open and splattering the gray matter and electrafluid in a broad splash across the walls of the cockpit.

Agamemnon reared up, raising the weapons implanted in his articulated walker body. The robot turned a mirror-smooth copper face toward him. “Ah, it is Agamemnon. I suppose I should have fired at you first. But then Vorian might have been upset with me.”

The Titan general hesitated, recognizing the independent robot Seurat, who had taken Vor as his copilot on innumerable update missions. “On the contrary, Seurat. I believe my son would have been delighted if you’d done the difficult work for him.”

The robot captain simulated a chuckle. “I do not believe so, Agamemnon. He seems to prefer facing his own problems, and savoring his victory.”

Other cymeks had crawled aboard the update ship, crowding in behind the general. The other update captains had been tossed out of airlocks, dumped still-smoking out into space, but Seurat might actually provide valuable information.

“Take this robot as a prisoner,” Agamemnon instructed the armored neos. “I want to debrief him.”

Seurat stood firm. “I cannot allow you to take the update sphere. My programming prevents it.”