Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Read online

  Agamemnon chided him. “Are you suggesting that the computer evermind is devoutly religious?” The disgraced cymek quickly fell silent.

  Barbarossa said, like a patient teacher, “No, no— Omnius simply doesn’t wish to expend the energy or cause the turmoil that such an extermination would bring about. He sees humans as resources, not to be wasted.”

  “We’ve been trying to convince him otherwise for centuries,” Ajax said.

  Aware that their safe window of time was rapidly dwindling, Agamemnon pushed the discussion forward. “We must find some way to spark a radical change. If we shut the computers down, then we Titans rule once more, along with any neo-cymeks we can recruit.” He swiveled his sensor-turret. “We’ve taken charge before and must do it again.”

  Previously, when the human Titans had consolidated the stagnant Old Empire, combat robots had done the bulk of the fighting for them. Tlaloc, Agamemnon, and the other rebels had simply picked up the pieces. This time the Titans would have to fight for themselves.

  “Maybe we should try to find Hecate,” Xerxes said. “She’s the only one of us who has never been under Omnius’s control. Our wild card.”

  Hecate, the former mate of Ajax, was the sole Titan who had relinquished her rule. Before the thinking machine takeover, she had departed into deep space, never to be heard from again. But Agamemnon could never trust her— even if she could be located— any more than he trusted Xerxes. Hecate had abandoned them long ago; she was not the ally they needed.

  “We should look elsewhere for assistance, take any help we can find,” Agamemnon said. “My son Vorian is one of the few humans allowed access to the central complex of the Earth-Omnius, and he delivers regular updates to the everminds on other Synchronized Worlds. Perhaps we can use him.”

  Juno simulated a laugh. “You want to trust a human, my love? One of the weak vermin you despise? Moments ago you wanted to exterminate every member of the race.”

  “Vorian is my genetic son, and the best of my offspring so far. I have been watching him, training him. He has read my memoirs a dozen times already. I have high hopes that one day he will be a worthy successor.”

  Juno understood Agamemnon better than the other Titans did. “You’ve said similar things about your twelve previous sons, if I recall. Even so, you found excuses to kill all of them.”

  “I preserved plenty of my sperm before converting myself into a cymek, and I have the time to do it right,” Agamemnon said. “But Vorian . . . ah, Vorian, I think he might be the one. One day I’ll let him become a cymek.”

  Ajax interrupted, his voice pitched low, “We cannot fight two major enemies at once. Since Omnius has finally allowed us to attack the hrethgir, thanks to Barbarossa’s victory in the gladiator ring, I say we prosecute that war to the best of our abilities. Afterward, we deal with Omnius.”

  Immersed in the crater shadows, the cymeks muttered, half-agreeing. The League humans had escaped Titan rule centuries ago, and the old cymeks had always harbored a hatred toward them. Dante’s optic threads tracked back and forth, calculating. “Yes, the humans should be easier to defeat.”

  “Meanwhile, we continue to seek a means to eliminate Omnius,” Barbarossa added. “Everything in its time.”

  “Perhaps you are correct,” Agamemnon admitted. The cymek general did not want to extend this clandestine gathering much longer.

  He led the march back to their individual ships. “We destroy the League humans first. Using that as a springboard, we then turn our attention to the more difficult foe.”

  Logic is blind and often knows only its own past.

  — archives from Genetics to Philosophy,

  compiled by the Sorceresses of Rossak

  Thinking machines cared little for aesthetics, but the Omnius update ship was— by accident of design— a beautifully sleek silver-and-black vessel, dwarfed by the immensity of the cosmos as it journeyed from one Synchronized World to another. Finished with its current round of updates, the Dream Voyager was on its way back to Earth.

  Vorian Atreides considered himself fortunate to be entrusted with such a vital assignment. Born from a female slave impregnated with Agamemnon’s preserved sperm, dark-haired Vorian could trace his lineage back past the Time of Titans, thousands of years to the House of Atreus in ancient Greece and another famous Agamemnon. Because of his father’s status, twenty-year-old Vor had been raised and indoctrinated on Earth under the thinking machines. He was one of the privileged “trustee” humans permitted to move about freely, serving Omnius.

  He had read all the stories of his illustrious bloodline in the extensive memoirs his father had written to document his triumphs. Vor considered the Titan general’s great work to be more than a literary masterpiece, closer to a holy historical document.

  Just forward of Vor’s work station, the Dream Voyager‘s captain, an autonomous robot, checked instruments unerringly. Seurat’s coppery-metal skinfilm flowed over a man-shaped body of polymer struts, alloy supports, gelcircuitry processors, and wound elastic-weave musculature.

  While Seurat studied the instruments, he intermittently tapped into the ship’s long-range scanners or looked out the windowport with focused optic threads. Multiprocessing as he conversed, the robot captain continued the interplay with his subservient human copilot. Seurat had a strange and unfortunate penchant for telling odd jokes.

  “Vorian, what do you get when you breed a pig with a human?”

  “What?”

  “A creature that still eats a great deal, still stinks, and still does no work!”

  Vorian favored the captain with a polite chuckle. Most of the time, Seurat’s jokes only demonstrated that the robot did not truly understand humor. But if Vor didn’t laugh, Seurat would simply tell another one, and another, until he obtained the desired reaction. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll make an error by telling jokes while monitoring our navigation systems?”

  “I don’t make mistakes,” Seurat said, in his staccato mechanical voice.

  Vor brightened with the challenge. “Ah, but what if I sabotaged one of the ship’s vital functions? We’re the only ones aboard, and I am a deceitful human after all, your mortal enemy. It would serve you right for all those terrible jokes.”

  “I might expect that of a lowly slave or even an artisan worker, but you would never do that, Vorian. You have too much to lose.” With an eerily smooth movement, Seurat turned his rippled coppery head, paying even less attention to the Dream Voyager‘s controls. “And even if you did, I would figure it out.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, old Metalmind. My father teaches me that, despite our many weaknesses, we humans have a trump card with our very unpredictability.” Smiling, Vorian went to the robot captain’s side and studied the metric screens. “Why do you think Omnius asks me to throw a wrench into his careful simulations every time he plans an encounter with the hrethgir?”

  “Your outrageous and reckless chaos is the only reason you are able to beat me in any strategy game,” Seurat said. “It certainly has nothing to do with your innate skills.”

  “A winner has more skills than a loser,” Vor said, “no matter how you define the competition.”

  The update ship traveled on a regular, continuous route throughout the Synchronized Worlds. One of fifteen such vessels, the Dream Voyager carried copies of the current version of Omnius to synchronize the separate computer everminds on widely separated planets.

  Circuitry limitations and electronic transmission speeds constrained the physical size of any individual machine; thus, the same computer evermind could not viably extend beyond a single planet. Nonetheless, duplicate copies of Omnius existed everywhere, like mental clones. With regular updates continually exchanged by ships like the Dream Voyager, all the separate Omnius incarnations remained virtually identical across the machine-dominated autarchy.

  After many voyages, Vor knew how to operate the ship and could access all onboard data banks using Seurat’s codes. Over the years, he and the ro
bot captain had become fast friends in a way that others were not likely to understand. Because of the extended time they shared in deep space, talking about many things, playing games of skill, telling stories— they bridged much of the gap between machine and man.

  Sometimes, for amusement, Vor and Seurat traded places, and Vor pretended to be the captain of the ship, while Seurat became his robotic underling, as in the days of the Old Empire. During one role-playing session, Vorian had impulsively christened the ship Dream Voyager, a bit of poetic nonsense that Seurat not only tolerated, but maintained.

  As a sentient machine, Seurat routinely received new instructions and memory transfers from the overall Omnius brain, but because he spent so much time disconnected while journeying between the stars, he had developed his own personality and independence. In Vor’s opinion, Seurat was the best of the machine minds, although the robot could be irritating at times. Especially with that peculiar sense of humor.

  Vor clasped his hands and cracked his knuckles. He sighed with pleasure. “Sure feels good to loosen up. Too bad it’s something you can’t do.”

  “I do not require loosening up.”

  Vorian didn’t admit that he, too, found his own organic body to be inferior in many ways, fragile and prone to aches, sicknesses, and injuries that any machine could have easily fixed. He hoped that his physical form would remain functional long enough for him to be made into one of the enduring neo-cymeks, all of whom had once been valued trustee humans, like himself. One day Agamemnon would receive permission from Omnius for that, if Vor worked very hard to serve the evermind.

  The Dream Voyager had been in space on a long update run, and the young trustee was glad to be going home. He would see his eminent father soon.

  As the Dream Voyager soared between stars, undisturbed, Seurat suggested a friendly competition. The two sat at a table and engaged in one of their customary diversions, an amusing private game they had developed through frequent practice. The strategy involved an imaginary space battle between two alien races— the “Vorians” and the “Seurats”— each of which had a space fleet with precise capabilities and limitations. Though the robot captain had a perfect machine memory, Vor still fared well, as he invariably came up with creative tactics that surprised his opponent.

  Now, as they took turns placing warships in the various sectors of their fanciful space battlefield, Seurat reeled off an endless succession of human jokes and riddles he had found in his old databases. Annoyed, Vor finally said, “You’re making an overt attempt to distract me. Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Why, from you, of course.” The robot proceeded to mention the many times in which Vor had teased him, threatening to sabotage the ship without ever really intending to do so, concocting extraordinarily unpredictable emergencies. “Do you consider it cheating? On your part, or on mine?”

  This revelation astonished Vor. “It saddens me to think that, even in jest, I have taught you deception. It makes me ashamed to be human.” No doubt, Agamemnon would be disappointed in him.

  After two more rounds, Vor lost the tactical game. His heart was no longer in it.

  Every endeavor is a game, is it not?

  — IBLIS GINJO,

  Options for Total Liberation

  On a garden terrace overlooking the scarred ruins of Zimia, Xavier Harkonnen stood somberly by himself, dreading the upcoming “victory” parade. Afternoon sunlight warmed his face. Birdsong had replaced the screams and explosions; breezes had scoured away the worst of the poisonous smoke.

  Still, the League would be a long time recovering. Nothing would ever be the same.

  Even days after the attack, he still saw smears of smoke wafting from the rubble and trailing into a cloudless sky. He could not smell the soot, though. The cymeks’ poison gas had so damaged his tissues that he would never smell or taste much of anything again. Even breathing had become no more that a mechanical act, not an enjoyable inhalation of sweet fresh air.

  But he could not wallow in misery when so many others had lost much more. In the aftermath of the cymek attack, he had been kept alive by the heroic efforts of a Salusan medical team. Serena Butler had come to him at the hospital, but he remembered her only through a fog of pain, drugs, and life-support systems. In an extraordinary procedure, Xavier had received a double lung transplant, healthy organs provided by the mysterious Tlulaxa. He knew Serena had worked vigorously with the brilliant battlefield surgeons and a Tlulaxa flesh merchant named Tuk Keedair to get him the treatment he needed.

  Now he could breathe again, despite intermittent bursts of pain. Xavier would live to fight the machines another time. Thanks to pharmaceuticals and advanced healing techniques, he had been able to leave the hospital soon after the medical procedure.

  At the time of the attack, the flesh merchant Keedair had been in Zimia on a routine sales call and barely escaped with his life. On the Unallied Planet of Tlulax in the distant Thalim solar system, his people ran organ farms, growing human hearts, lungs, kidneys, and other body parts from viable cells. After the cymeks were driven away, the secretive Tlulaxa had offered his biological wares to the battlefield surgeons at Zimia’s main field hospital. His ship’s cryogenic lockers were filled with sample body parts. A stroke of luck, Keedair had admitted with a smile, that he could be there to help the grievously injured Salusan citizens during their time of great need.

  Following the successful surgery, Keedair had come to see Xavier in the medical center. The Tlulaxa was a man of middle height but slight of build, with dark eyes and an angular face. A long, dark braid hung at the left side of his head, plaited tightly.

  Breathing in, carefully modulating his raspy voice, Xavier said, “It was fortunate you were here with new organs already stored aboard your ship.”

  Keedair rubbed his long-fingered hands together. “If I had known the cymeks would strike so ferociously, I would have brought a larger supply of material from our organ farms. Your Salusan survivors could use many more replacement parts, but additional ships cannot arrive from the Thalim system for months.”

  Before the flesh merchant left Xavier’s room, he turned back and said, “Consider yourself one of the lucky ones, Tercero Harkonnen.”

  • • •

  IN BATTLE-SCARRED ZIMIA, grief-stricken survivors searched for their dead, and buried them. As rubble was cleared, the death toll mounted. Bodies were recovered, names of the missing were compiled. In spite of such pain and sorrow, because of the attack free humanity grew stronger.

  Viceroy Manion Butler had insisted that the people show only determination in the aftermath. On the streets below Xavier’s terrace, final preparations were under way for a celebration of thanksgiving. Banners with the open-hand sigil of human freedom fluttered in the wind. Rough-looking men in dirty coats struggled to control magnificent white Salusan stallions that had become agitated by the commotion. The horses’ manes were braided with tassles and bells, and their tails swept behind them like waterfalls of fine hair. Festooned with ribbons and flowers, the animals pranced, eager to march down the broad central boulevard that had been washed clean of debris, soot, and bloodstains.

  Xavier glanced uncertainly at the sky. How could he ever look at the clouds again without dreading that he might see more pyramidal dropcarriages plunging through the scrambler shields? Missiles were already being installed, increased batteries to protect against an attack from space. More patrols would be launched, circling the system on the highest state of alert.

  Instead of attending a parade, he should be preparing the Salusan Militia for another attack, increasing the number of picket ships and scouts at the edge of the system, working out a more efficient rescue and response plan. It was only a matter of time before the thinking machines returned.

  The next meeting of the League Parliament would devote itself to emergency measures and reparations. The representatives would sketch out a reconstruction plan for Zimia. The cymek warrior-forms left behind must be dismantled and analyzed
for weaknesses.

  Xavier hoped the League would immediately dispatch a summons to Poritrin, calling the brilliant Tio Holtzman to inspect his recently installed scrambler shields. Only the great inventor himself could devise a stopgap measure against the technical flaw the cymeks had discovered.

  When Xavier mentioned his concerns to Viceroy Butler, the florid-faced leader had nodded, but stopped further discussion. “First, we must have a day of affirmation, to celebrate the fact that we are alive.” Xavier saw deep sadness behind the Viceroy’s mask of confidence. “We are not machines, Xavier. There must be more to our lives than war and revenge.”

  Hearing footsteps on the terrace, Xavier turned to see Serena Butler smiling at him, her eyes flashing with a secret depth that she shared with him now that no one could see the two of them. “There is my heroic tercero.”

  “A man responsible for letting half a city be destroyed isn’t usually called a hero, Serena.”

  “No, but the term does apply to a man who saved the rest of the planet. As you are fully aware, if you hadn’t made your hard choice, all of Zimia, all of Salusa, would have been crushed.” She put a hand on his shoulder and stood very close to him. “I won’t have you wallowing in guilt during the victory parade. One day won’t make much difference.”

  “One day could very well make a huge difference,” Xavier insisted. “We barely drove off the attackers this time because we were too confident in the new scrambler shields, and because we foolishly thought Omnius had decided to leave us alone after so many decades. This would be the perfect time for them to hit us again. What if they’ve launched a second wave?”

  “Omnius is still licking his wounds. I doubt his force has even returned to the Synchronized Worlds yet.”

  “Machines don’t lick wounds,” he said.

  “You’re such a serious young man,” she said. “Please, just for the parade? Our people need to have their spirits uplifted.”