Sisterhood of Dune (73 page)

His heart sank, however, when he saw that nearly half of the seats were empty.
Again
. “How can this be?” he said to Anari.

He could feel the anger and tension as her shoulder muscles knotted like twisted driftwood, but Anari’s face remained stoic. “Don’t be disheartened. We know we are on the right side.”

He said to Gilbertus Albans, “Mentat, note who is missing. I’ll want a complete list later.”

“I’m already working on it.”

Showing no dismay, Manford nudged Anari as if she were a horse, and she carried him into the speaking area. A dissatisfied muttering passed through the crowd, but he raised his voice, defying them to challenge him. “No more cowardly hiding behind bureaucratic procedures. Today is the day when you will go on record with what you believe. Today you must make a decision and declare yourselves on the side of righteousness, or an enemy of humanity’s future.”

But as he looked at all the empty seats, he realized that many of the representatives were unofficially boycotting the meeting for their own protection, refusing to go on record either way. He should have known it would be difficult to rally them against Venport Holdings, even with the appalling images his followers had obtained at Thonaris. So much of the Imperium depended on VenHold ships and their strange Navigators for travel, supplies, and commerce. Many of the absent representatives might already have gone to their homeworlds to set up defenses or form an active resistance against him.

But Manford’s people were more powerful, and would respond with even greater vigor. He knew that many of his followers would die in the forthcoming struggle, but he would keep track of all their names and include them in volume after volume of
The Book of Martyrs.

Manford turned to the Imperial box. He had strongly encouraged the Emperor to express his formal support for the measure.

Reluctantly, Salvador stood in his private box to address the half-empty hall. “We all know the dangers of uncontrolled technology. I cannot help but be overjoyed that our Imperium has a chance to go back to simpler days, peaceful days, the way humans were naturally meant to live.” He paused, as if gathering courage, and said, “I urge you to vote in support of Manford Torondo’s resolution.” Then he sat down, as if trying to get out of view as quickly as possible.

Manford waited, but knew what the vote would ultimately show. Pressed into a corner, reminded of the consequences of intractability, the Landsraad representatives voted overwhelmingly to stand firm against any technology that could be construed as “too sophisticated, too tempting, and too dangerous.”

When the resolution passed, he felt Anari relax beneath him; tension drained from her muscles like spilled water. But Manford wasn’t finished yet and drew himself up as high as he could. “We must be specific, so that no one has any question. Emperor Salvador, I request that you immediately set up a Committee of Orthodoxy to watch over industries and advances, and quell any problem before it can become a danger. Every citizen of the Imperium must have a complete list of acceptable and unacceptable technology, and the government will need an enforcement arm. I volunteer the assistance of my people in these matters.”

Salvador’s resistance had already been broken; not surprisingly, he complied without further argument.

Finished with his work for now, Manford called for adjournment of the meeting. Anari turned and followed the three standard-bearers out of the Landsraad Hall. They stepped through the open doors to face the huge crowd of Butlerian supporters. He raised his hands high in a signal of victory, and the roaring cheers rolled over him.

“Our movement will grow stronger now.” Anari smiled up at him with a look of adoration.

Manford stared at the crowd and at the tall buildings. “We may have won today, but the real battle is just beginning. Humans are weak and don’t like to live without their conveniences. We have to show them, by any means possible, that righteousness is far more important than comfort.”

Historians and scientists face in opposite directions: One looks to the past, the other to the future. The wise scientist, however, listens to historians and considers the past in order to create the most acceptable future.

—
PTOLEMY,
Denali notebooks

When Ptolemy learned of the massacre at Thonaris, the news only reinforced his nightmares stemming from the wreck of his lab, the murder of his partner, and the fanatic Manford spurning the gift of new legs. Because of the Butlerians, superstition, ignorance, and violence were becoming the norm in society. Rational people were already going into hiding, progress was stalling, and humanity was beginning to plunge into the abyss of a new Dark Age.

For all of this, Ptolemy loathed Manford Torondo more than anyone he had ever known.

Throughout most of his life, Ptolemy had been a peaceful, innocuous man, following his own interests and paying little attention to outside political squabbles. Serena Butler’s crusade against the thinking machines had ended decades before he was born, but the continued Butlerian paranoia served Manford’s purposes. Technology was only an imaginary enemy that Manford used to rally his followers and build his own power structure.

The recent purge of biological research on Tlulax was an extension of the Butlerian wish to eradicate all science; the attack on the Thonaris shipyards was an escalation of their senseless violence. And the recent vote in the Landsraad Hall was an outright challenge to civilized human beings. Instead of keeping the Butlerian radicals on the fringe, operating outside of legitimate government, the Landsraad resolution granted Manford Torondo political standing and the explicit support of the Imperium. His extremism was being folded into the mainstream.

Ptolemy felt sickened, as he saw civilization crashing all around him. This could not be tolerated. Reasonable people had to fight back!

In an imploring message, Directeur Venport had urged all researchers on Denali to increase their efforts to defend against Manford’s insidious assault, thus galvanizing the exiled scientists.

It was time for the next step, Ptolemy decided. He requested a special meeting with Administrator Noffe in the brain-preservation lab, where the walls were lined with bubbling tanks. The expanded brains of failed Navigators hung in nutrient fluids, cut off from sensory output but kept alive. Ptolemy often spent hours regarding those disembodied brains, wondering what thoughts might be swirling through the gray matter.

Now he turned to Noffe (who was harried by the pressures placed upon him) and said, “We have an opportunity, Administrator. We need to take extreme action to face an extreme threat.”

“I am always eager to hear your ideas, Ptolemy.” Noffe often seemed distracted and overwhelmed, and that had allowed Ptolemy to complete a significant task without his knowledge.

“They must be more than just ideas. I know you hate the Butlerians, as I do. Every researcher on Denali has been harmed by them, and I don’t doubt that Josef Venport will authorize, and even applaud, what I propose. It will change everything.”

The administrator looked at him inquisitively.

Gazing one last time at the uniform arrays of enhanced brains, Ptolemy turned. “Follow me.” He led the Tlulaxa administrator to the airtight hangar, where bright glowpanels illuminated his trio of refurbished and fully functional cymek walkers; a mere glance at the imposing machines still inspired a visceral fear in Ptolemy.

Noffe’s expression wavered between intimidation and admiration. “Three complete walkers!” He walked closer, awed and nervous. “I knew you were working on the old artifacts, but—”

“I’ve found
hundreds.
I’ve studied them, and I understand them—and we don’t need to be mere scavengers of old, defeated technology. We can build new walkers, more advanced machine forms with better armor and stronger weaponry. You think the old cymeks were fearsome? Wait until you see my new ones!”

Noffe continued to stare, then said in a very small voice, obviously afraid of the answer, “To what purpose?”

“I have studied records from the Time of Titans—the original source material, the memoirs of General Agamemnon, and before that, the manifesto of Tlaloc. Back then, the human race had gone stagnant, grown weak. The Titans were ambitious, but in a certain sense they had altruistic motives, as well, although their own aggressive personalities brought about their downfall.”

He turned away from the powerful walkers, smiled at Noffe. “We can do better. With the enhanced brains in the experimental lab, and with improved technology, we can create a new set of cymeks—more powerful, more intelligent, and more adaptable than before.

“And they’ll need someone to lead them … possibly Josef Venport, if he is willing to undergo the radical surgery. If not, Administrator, you and I can be the first of the next generation of cymeks. With new Titans, we might manage to stave off the impending Dark Age.”

Both men discussed all the horrendous damage that Manford and his followers had caused. Then Noffe mused, “Yes, we could achieve a glorious victory. A new Time of Titans.”

One of the greatest blessings in life is to discover your talent at a young age, and do something productive with it.

—
REVEREND MOTHER RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL

Gilbertus Albans rode in an open, horse-drawn carriage that made its way slowly along the muddy streets of the Lampadas capital, leading other carriages in a victory parade. Beside him sat Manford Torondo in a specially designed seat, waving to bystanders. The Butlerian leader and his followers were ecstatic with their triumphs at the Thonaris shipyards and the vote in the Landsraad Hall.

For Gilbertus, both were Pyrrhic victories. He had regained Manford’s trust by demonstrating to the Butlerians that he was no machine sympathizer, but he had to marshal his visible emotions. Even though the robot memory core had advised him to sacrifice the shipyards in order to maintain his reputation, he still felt he had somehow failed Erasmus. And he had hated being forced to defeat Draigo Roget in a real and crucial battle. Gilbertus longed for a return to the days of challenging intellectual debates and simulated games with his prize student.

Here in the medieval-like city on Lampadas, he saw a hub of political and commercial activity, a melting pot of humanity on the sidewalks and paving-stone streets. The crowds were cheering, with people hoisting placards that showed his own heroic image beside Manford’s. How quickly and easily their opinions changed! Blood-red and black Butlerian banners hung from buildings, fluttering in a cool morning breeze.

Shivering in a gust of wind, Gilbertus pulled his jacket collar around his neck. The city was a hodgepodge of buildings built beneath a weather convergence zone, in which different storm systems often clashed overhead, giving the inhabitants drenching rain, lightning, thunder, and wind, but the local leaders were a hardy bunch, and they seemed to like the location. Weathersats would have helped, but Manford would never accept the technology.

In contrast to the colorful celebrations, Gilbertus smelled sewage through the open carriage window; the stink would never have been so prevalent in a high-tech city, and certainly not on Corrin under the management of the thinking machines. He looked out at the throng with mixed feelings. He wanted to
improve
civilization, promote the cause of human
advancement.
Despite the Butlerian fervor, that could not be done by discarding and destroying any device or technique that was even remotely connected with sophisticated technology.

He couldn’t wait to get back to Erasmus, who remained hidden, locked away … probably lonely, and most certainly bored. Gilbertus was worried to have been gone so long. Many Butlerians had died during the attack at Thonaris—if something ever happened to him, what would become of Erasmus? Though Gilbertus had lived for a very long time, he was still mortal. He needed to find a way to guarantee the safety of the independent robot, and soon. But what human, or group of humans, could possibly supervise such a strong personality?

Manford turned away from the crowd, with a stern expression. “You look troubled, Mentat, on this great day.”

Gilbertus made himself smile, and waved at the crowd.

“They love you, too,” Manford continued. “They respect you—the great service you did for our movement. You should stay here and work with me on our expanding efforts. Leave the school in the hands of someone else.”

Gilbertus had not wanted to be here in the first place, but Manford insisted that the people needed to see their heroes, and adore them. “Thank you for saying that, sir, but my duties lie elsewhere. An important new student arrives this afternoon.”

“Ah, yes. Anna Corrino. It’s very good that she will be trained by someone of your moral caliber. And I am happy to have the Emperor’s sister close at hand, right here on Lampadas, so that I can … ensure her safety.”

Gilbertus fought to control his disturbed expression. Manford was considering Anna a hostage? “I understand she is troubled, her mind damaged by exposure to poison. But I will do what I can to help her through her difficulties. Perhaps Mentat techniques will prove beneficial.”

When the parade wound to its end, Gilbertus emerged from the carriage, and Anari Idaho retrieved Manford. Increasingly, the Headmaster was being compelled to have even closer ties with the leader of the movement.

For more than an hour, forced to remain at the reception, Gilbertus shook hands with enthusiastic, common people who gushed over him, praised him, patted him on the back. He posed for pictures with them, complimented them on their babies, and felt like the politician he did not want to be.

*   *   *

WITH FAR LESS
spectacle, Gilbertus went to meet the Emperor’s sister when she arrived at the spaceport. Anna Corrino wore a dazed expression as she was led along by two palace guards who appeared to be twins, ruddy, uniformed men who seemed ill at ease on Lampadas.

Dressed in a skirt and blouse that made her look like a young teen rather than a twenty-one-year-old, Anna walked forward, her attention flitting to the sights around her. She took no notice of Gilbertus, but talked to herself in a constant, muttering monologue.