Sisterhood of Dune (12 page)

“I no longer relate to others. Bear with me as I attempt to express myself.” Her large midnight eyes stared through the tank at Salvador, sending a chill of fear down his spine. “I see parts of the future, and I am concerned.” She drifted in her tank, and Salvador remained silent and tense, waiting for her to continue. “To bind the Imperium, we must have a network of transportation and commerce. And for that we must have starships.”

Salvador cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. We have the VenHold Spacing Fleet, Celestial Transport, and countless other enterprises.”

Everyone remained hushed in the banquet hall. Then Norma said, “Thousands of machine vessels were abandoned in space. They are still intact. Those ships can be used for commerce, for civilization. But other groups destroy these vessels wherever they are found. Mobs cause great harm. I am very disturbed by this.”

Salvador’s throat went dry. “The Butlerians.” Manford Torondo took pride in sending reports to enumerate the machine ships that his people ransacked and exploded. “They act on their convictions. Some would call their fervor admirable.”

“They destroy valuable resources that could be used to strengthen human civilization. You must stop them.” The rusty swirls of gas cleared away, revealing Norma with all of the hideous, deformed details of her body—the stunted torso, the tiny hands and feet, the grossly large head and eyes, the nearly invisible mouth, nose, and ears. “Or your Imperium will fragment and die.”

Salvador was left entirely without a response. He had no idea how he could stamp out the Butlerian movement, even if he wanted to. Before he could come up with excuses, however, Norma Cenva folded space, and her tank vanished from the banquet hall, leaving only a
pop
of displaced air.

Emperor Salvador shook his head and muttered with forced levity, “Amazing what those Navigators can do.”

A quiet observer may learn countless secrets, but I prefer to be an active participant.

—
ERASMUS
, secret laboratory notebooks

In order to keep his thoughts and memories in precise, accessible order, a Mentat required a certain amount of meditation and mental practice every day, uninterrupted hours of quiet contemplation. As the headmaster of the school, Gilbertus Albans kept his office private, an isolated sanctuary where he could wall himself off and focus on improving his mind. Students, fellow instructors, and school administrators knew not to disturb him when he was inside his sealed office chamber.

No one guessed what he was really doing there.

The Erasmus memory core sat exposed on its stand, completely engaged in conversation. When Gilbertus paced around the office, the independent robot spoke up. “Do you realize you taunt me just by moving about, flaunting your freedom by pacing back and forth?”

Gilbertus took a seat at his desk, pushed a wisp of hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay seated.”

Erasmus chuckled. “You realize that does nothing to solve the problem.”

“And yet it keeps you alive. You must accept certain sacrifices and limitations in order to continue to exist. I saved you from Corrin.”

“And I appreciate that, but you speak of eighty years ago.”

Gilbertus enjoyed sparring and debating with his old mentor. “Weren’t you the one to tell me that machines have infinite patience?”

“True, but I was not made to be a passive observer. I have too many experiments to perform, too much to learn about the intriguing inconsistencies in human behavior.”

“I understand your predicament, Father, but you will have to content yourself with studying the material I provide—until we find some other solution. I can’t stay here forever.” Gilbertus had already reached the limit where casual observers had begun to wonder about his perfect health, how he seemed quite young for his years, though he altered his appearance to look older. In order to keep secret the life-extension treatment he’d received from Erasmus, Gilbertus had fostered the rumor that he consumed melange regularly, and the geriatric properties of spice gave him a youth and vigor beyond his years. Although he kept records of his spice purchases, he never consumed the substance. The last thing Gilbertus Albans needed was something to make him look even younger.

The robot spoke up again. “If I am to be a scholar, then I must study human interactions. Despite this frustrating isolation, I have been able to tap into the school’s power conduits and ventilation systems. With the materials at hand, I created an even more extensive network of optic fibers, tiny remote spyeyes, so I can watch the day-to-day activities of your school. It is fascinating.”

“If your spyeyes are discovered, the Butlerians might burn down the school.”

“Illogical but interesting,” Erasmus said. “I will trust your conclusion, after my experiences with provocative and shockingly unpredictable human behavior.”

From his desk, Gilbertus withdrew a printed document that had been submitted for the library at the Mentat School. “I have obtained a new history released by the Butlerians, which focuses on destroying your reputation.”

“Another one?”

“See the title,
The Tyranny of the Demon Robot Erasmus.
” He raised the book, and the optic threads implanted in the room’s walls and ceiling drank in the cover of the tome.

Erasmus chuckled again. “That does not sound objective.”

“I thought you enjoyed the propaganda aspects of historical accounts.”

“It always amuses me how a person with no firsthand knowledge of events can distort the facts with such vehemence. When I read Agamemnon’s memoirs, I saw how the cymek general distorted history. It took me a long time to discover that humans do not appreciate or even want the truth. Machines, on the other hand, would be at a great disadvantage if they knowingly used false data to draw their conclusions.”

Gilbertus let out a bright laugh. “I think you enjoy being so reviled.”

The robot pondered this. “I was hated for many centuries by my labor crews, my household slaves. Even Serena Butler despised me, and she was one of my favorite humans of all time. You, Gilbertus, are the only one who has ever seen my true worth.”

“And even I am still learning,” Gilbertus replied. In fact, he had read the histories himself and knew from his own observations that the robot had indeed committed most of the horrors attributed to him.

Erasmus sounded impatient. “Open the book. I want to read what the Butlerians say about me.”

Gilbertus dutifully turned page after page so that Erasmus could scan and absorb the words. “Ah, I was not aware that the Butlerians had access to my laboratory notebooks. One of the volumes was recovered from Corrin after the battle? I’m so glad the records were preserved, although I am disturbed that this author—and presumably the readers of this volume—could draw such ridiculous conclusions from my carefully researched data. I believe I understand more about human suffering than humans themselves do,” Erasmus said. Gilbertus could imagine him shaking the smooth and beautiful flowmetal head he used to have. “However, if you would find a way to provide me with a sophisticated body again, I could continue my important work.”

“You know that wouldn’t be wise at this time.” Although he loved the independent robot for all of the tremendous opportunities he’d given him, Gilbertus was wary and protective. Despite his mental acuity, Erasmus wasn’t fully cognizant of the dangers he would face if ever he emerged from hiding. And Gilbertus didn’t entirely trust what the robot might do.

“I wish the humans hadn’t made such a mess of things,” Erasmus said, simulating a long sigh. “The thousand years of machine rule were quite efficient and well organized. I fear the galaxy will never be the same.”

Gilbertus closed
The Tyranny of the Demon Robot Erasmus.
“I don’t disagree, but you may be overlooking a key insight.”

“A key insight?” Erasmus sounded delighted. “Share it with me.”

“It serves no purpose for you to criticize the humans for their rebellion, when you yourself were the catalyst. You personally were the direct cause of the downfall of the machine empire.”

Erasmus sounded offended. “How so? I might have inadvertently contributed in some small way by dropping Serena’s baby from the tower—”

“In every way,” Gilbertus countered. “None of the machine defeat would have happened without you.
You
posed the challenge to Omnius, deciding to question the loyalty of the human slaves who had previously shown no evidence of organized resistance.
You
suggested that you could trick some of your slavemasters into turning against the machines.
You
planted the hints of a human rebellion.”

“It was an interesting experiment,” Erasmus said.

“And it destroyed the Synchronized Empire. Without
you,
Iblis Ginjo would never have organized his rebel cells, would never have considered overthrowing the Omnius worlds. When you killed the infant son of Serena Butler by throwing him off a balcony in front of a great crowd,
you
touched a spark to the tinder that you yourself had laid.”

“An unusual conclusion.” Erasmus sounded hesitant, then admitted, “When viewed in that light, perhaps I was responsible.”

Gilbertus stood from his desk. “Ponder that, Father, when you’re feeling restless and isolated here. If you had been more careful, the machine empire would never have fallen. And because you’re all that’s left, and because I worry about you, I don’t intend to be careless.”

He closed the robot’s memory core back in its hidden cabinet, making sure all the locks and seals were in place. Then he went off to instruct his students on how to order their minds more like those of thinking machines.

History may remember me with awe, terror, or hatred. I don’t care, so long as I am not forgotten.

—
GENERAL AGAMEMNON
,
New Memoirs

Leading a small group of Butlerian hunters, Swordmaster Ellus felt more like a scavenger than a predator. Omnius and his robotic forces had been utterly defeated, and even their deactivated remnants could pose no threat; the rebellious cymeks had also been wiped out, leaving dead walker bodies and obscure empty outposts.

But cleanup remained to be done.

In the icy ruins of the last cymek stronghold on Hessra, human investigators had discovered a database compiled by the notorious Titan Juno, records listing the locations of many secret cymek bases, and Manford had commanded that each one be destroyed before the bases fell into the hands of corruptible humans like Josef Venport. Methodically, Ellus and his hunters were going to each set of coordinates in the Hessra records and leaving the machine bases in smoldering ruins. The mission would last for six months or longer, and he would be out of contact with Butlerian headquarters except to submit occasional progress reports.

During their years of ruthless physical training on Ginaz, Ellus and Anari Idaho—comrades, rivals, occasional lovers—had been fascinated by the legends of Serena Butler’s glorious Jihad. Captivated by stories of those heroic days, he and Anari wished they could have been fighting armies of combat robots or ferocious cymek walkers, but they had been born a century too late. All that remained now was a mop-up operation to eradicate the leftovers … but it was a job that needed to be done.

His scout ship arrived at the next location—a cratered, airless rock that barely met the definition of a planet. Robots had no need for an atmosphere, and cymek brains, protected inside their preservation canisters, could live anywhere. If this system hadn’t been noted in the secret cymek records, no one would have bothered to go there.

“Scan closely and keep your eyes open,” Ellus said to his Butlerian comrades. “Look for artificial structures. There’s got to be something here.”

Ellus had spent years on Ginaz learning how to fight with a pulse-sword against salvaged combat meks. He and Anari had done well, killing many of their machine opponents and feeling like gladiators in an ancient arena. But it was all for show. The thinking machines had been long defeated.

The Swordmaster fantasized about finding a still-functioning base crowded with evil thinking machines—worthy opponents at last for a man of his fighting skills. It would be like turning over a rock and discovering an infestation of tiny black beetles. That, however, was a private thought that he did not dare discuss with anyone. Not even dear Anari.

Ellus felt driven, but also calmly confident. Each step brought the Butlerians closer to eradicating all vestiges of thinking machines, though no closer to forgetting them. What would they do when there was nothing left? When the thinking machines were completely gone, the movement would lack focus and purpose.
If there is no enemy, do we just create a new one?
Manford’s followers couldn’t just go around smashing everything that contained electronics or moving parts—that would be foolish and misguided, and would inevitably force them to shun even the workings of their own spacecraft.

The ship cruised over the stark landscape, where distant, unfiltered sunlight cast the crags and canyons into sharp relief. Ellus’s team members—six Butlerians and two more Swordmasters—peered through the windowports and scanned the surface before erupting into chatter. “There it is, sir! On the left side of that crater.”

“By God and Saint Serena, it looks like the war’s already been fought here,” said Alon, one of the two other Swordmasters with the team.

Ellus caught a glint of metallic domes and habitation chambers—clearly an outpost or a base. Several of the outpost domes were smashed, and the rocky landscape was pocked with divots and craters surrounded by black starbursts of debris—clearly the result of recent explosions rather than ancient impacts. Mangled cymek walkers lay strewn about, their crablike legs smashed and bent. Robot attack ships had crashed on the crater floor.

“This must have occurred during the civil war between the cymeks and Omnius,” Ellus said. “This was a secret cymek base, and the combat robots fought them here.” He gazed intently at the view below. “Looks like the two sides wiped each other out.”