The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert

  "Naturally, they hold a more primitive set of beliefs. Some have concocted stories about a Supreme Being, but most are convinced that such a deity has given up on them. The very concept of religion may be no more than a social aspect of humanity, and when social fabrics are destroyed, such belief systems fade."

  The gelsphere sped over one ceiling surface, then streaked down a wall, across the floor and between Erasmus's legs, then back up again. "Is it possible that you have avoided the subject of religion in your investigations because it is too complex and illogical?"

  "I have not studied the matter in detail, Omnius. Many other avenues of human behavior have occupied me. Religious belief is only a minor aspect of human character. From what I have observed, I would conclude that humans are either agnostics or outright atheists, unless they are exposed to extreme pain or stress. Such attitudes go in cycles throughout their history, ebbing and flowing like a great tide of human affairs. Religious belief is on the upswing now, with the Jihad as a catalyst."

  "Is the need for religion an innate human characteristic? Perhaps by ignoring their spirituality, you have been blind to their very essence."

  "I have tortured them by the thousands, and very few say anything about God — except to ask why He has forsaken them. I have no doubt, however, that even now as Xerxes and his crew are decimating the rebel population on Ix, the mewling victims are uttering prayers with their last breaths, even though they see its ultimate futility."

  They had received no direct news from Ix, but the Titan's orders had been clear enough. Xerxes was perfectly capable of performing brutal, straightforward butchery. The few survivors on Ix would never consider foolish rebellion again.

  Omnius said, "I still do not grasp the very concept of religion. What purpose does it serve? It seems an imaginary incentive designed to control societal-scale behavior."

  Erasmus replied slowly, "Understanding basic faith is like trying to hold a wet, moss-covered rock. It is a solid, substantial object, yet slippery and very difficult to grasp."

  "Explain."

  "The religious experience is different for all humans, even when they claim to belong to one belief system. Each individual seems to focus on a different aspect of it. There are nuances, subtle variations — like the human emotion of love, religion is never the same for two different people."

  "But why?"

  As Erasmus stood there, the Omnius sphere streaked around the room faster and faster, up the walls, over the ceiling, down the walls, across the floor. Presently, duplicate gelspheres appeared, dozens of copies of Omnius, like projectiles spinning in all directions at high speed, narrowly missing Erasmus, spouting voices that overlapped with a single word: "Why? Why? Why?"

  Abruptly, the spheres shot away, and silence returned to the sealed room high up in the Central Spire. The door irised open behind Erasmus. Dutifully, he entered the lift and departed.

  Back at his Corrin villa, Erasmus admitted the possibility that he had not paid sufficient attention to the subject of religion, as Omnius suggested. If so, he could avoid it no longer. He had been obsessed with human creativity and its expression in various art forms. But where did they get their inspiration? From some higher source? Maybe Erasmus's slave humans had successfully concealed their spirituality from him — perhaps even subconsciously. If so, that suggested they were hiding it from themselves as well.

  Erasmus stood on a porch overlooking the pens, watching the filthy humans mill about in their crowded, squalid enclosures. If Iblis Ginjo or Serena Butler had discovered how to unleash that engine deep within the human psyche, it might explain the religious fervor that translated into war fever.

  Full of renewed determination, the robot set out on a revised intellectual quest. What was the power behind religion? Was it a weapon that machines truly could not weld? While Erasmus cared little about the details of the galactic Jihad, he had to undertake this project for his own growth…

  Omnius made available to Erasmus piles of printed and electronic books that had been confiscated from ancient human libraries and settlements on conquered Synchronized Worlds. The independent robot began to load them into his own databanks.

  As he did so, Erasmus thought of the Cogitors and all the information in their ancient brains. If a Cogitor had existed on Corrin, such an ancient brain might provide him with interesting revelations. On Earth, Erasmus had occasionally spoken with the Cogitor Eklo, but Eklo had been annihilated in the human revolt there.

  With machine precision, the robot consciously recalled every word Eklo had communicated to him, going over the conversations in detail, and came to a disturbing conclusion: The supposedly neutral Cogitor had been concealing something from him — and protecting humans all along.

  Unfortunately, some wars are won by the side that is the most fanatical in a religious sense. The victorious leaders harness the holy energy of collective insanity.

  —Cogitor Kwyna, The Art of Aggression

  Alight afternoon rain pelted the government plaza as Iblis Ginjo hurried toward the Hall of Parliament. Half a dozen Jipol aides followed, not bothering to shelter themselves from the weather. On various corners, statues and shrines to the martyrs of the Jihad glistened in the drizzle and glowing yellow lights.

  As he climbed the broad steps, the Grand Patriarch feigned surprise when he encountered four saffron-robed monks walking gingerly downward. The tallest one carried a large cylinder wrapped in cloth to shield it from the rain: the Cogitor Kwyna being transported like a bird in a cage. Iblis had known they would be here and had arranged to "accidentally" encounter them.

  Iblis signaled to his entourage, and all of them moved to block the secondaries' path. "Ah! How wonderful!" Iblis exclaimed. "I have been asking to see the Cogitor. I'm sure we have many ideas to exchange." He grinned, secretly longing for the kind of contact he'd had with the great, brilliant Cogitor Eklo before the terrible rebellion on Earth.

  But Iblis's present work was far more sophisticated than his earlier, clumsy efforts to stir the slaves into revolt against their masters. He couldn't accomplish it by himself, but was sure the Cogitor could help — if only he could convince Kwyna to share her vast intellect with him. So far, though, the ancient philosopher-brain had been reticent and aloof, as if unwilling to see the justifications for Iblis's actions.

  "Kwyna has been busy," replied the secondary who held the preservation canister. A keloidal scar ran down the side of his face, from temple to chin. Trickles of rain spotted his robe.

  "Of course, just as the Jihad also keeps me busy. But we are on the same side, are we not? Allies… perhaps even colleagues?"

  Reaching forward with bold anticipation, Iblis opened a flap on the cloth covering to reveal the sealed jar that held a pink brain immersed in blue electrafluid. The monk's braided scar twitched as he grimaced, and his dark eyes became steely. But he did not resist the Grand Patriarch.

  "Cogitor Kwyna?" Iblis spoke directly to Kwyna's lidded canister. "Why don't we move out of this miserable rain where we can talk? I need you to enlighten me."

  Kwyna's disembodied mind was a vast reservoir of knowledge and insight, just as Eklo's had been. Perhaps she would agree to instruct him, if he used the information in the right way. Iblis had read some of the Cogitor's earlier esoteric pronouncements, and now he needed to be certain that his interpretations of her thoughts were correct.

  Though he could sense Kwyna's discomfort in reaction to his intense interest, he longed to be intellectually closer to the female Cogitor, to all the wonderful information and philosophy. His voice became thin, eager. "Please?"

  "Wait, Grand Patriarch." The scarred monk's eyes glazed over as he communicated with the ancient brain.

  Ignoring the cold rain that fell harder, the secondary spoke in a rough, throaty voice as the Cogitor communicated directly through him. "Grand Patriarch, you wish to ask me about scriptures and ancient texts. It is in your voice, in your actions, in every breath you take."

  Impressed, Iblis n
odded. "I am fascinated by ancient Muadru prophecies and how they apply to our turbulent times. Based upon my readings, I have found countless justifications for the Holy Jihad against the thinking machines. Your own writings and speeches have inspired me to send many brave fighters to our battlegrounds."

  The Cogitor seemed distressed. "Those ideas were never relevant to your Jihad."

  "Are not certain ideas timeless? Especially yours, Kwyna." By now, the drumming rain had soaked everyone. One of the Jipol sergeants handed the Grand Patriarch a dry cloth, and he dried his face as he continued. "In one of your manifestos you wrote about the collective insanity of war, that winners invoke forceful delusions to achieve victory. I have been trying to achieve this lofty goal that you espoused, with some success, I am pleased to say. But now I wish to take it to a higher level."

  "I never advocated such a practice. It was merely one of many ideas I offered as examples," Kwyna responded. "You have taken my words out of context. Have you read the entire scroll, Iblis Ginjo? I believe it is several million words long, and it took me centuries to compile."

  "I scanned it for ideas. You inspired me."

  "Important concepts must be absorbed in their totality. Do not attempt to interpret scriptures while wearing blinders in order to suit your own purposes."

  Iblis knew full well that he had extracted selectively from her writings, and then manipulated the information. But he enjoyed this dialogue with Kwyna, saw it as an intellectual game, a challenge to see how well he could match wits with one of the greatest minds in history. It filled his need for the kind of tutelage he had enjoyed under the Cogitor Eklo, until his destruction in the terrible Earth revolts and atomic attack.

  The Grand Patriarch quoted rapidly from several "end times" scriptures, ancient Muadru runestones and other testaments, which — if interpreted loosely enough — proclaimed that humanity could find its paradise only after enduring a thousand years of suffering . . and then only if they made sufficient sacrifices.

  "I believe Ix is an opportunity for us to make those sacrifices. My jihadis and mercenaries are willing to pay the price. So are the people of Ix."

  "The blood of innocents has always been the currency of charismatic leaders," Kwyna said through the secondary's voice. "You are reading from fragments and artifacts known to be incomplete. Thus, there are gaps in your knowledge, and your conclusions may be faulty."

  Suddenly intense and eager, Iblis raised his eyebrows. "Then do you know what the rest of the message is? What is on the other fragments?" He wanted as much scriptural ammunition as he could get. He needed to stir a frenzy on newly awakening planets, to galvanize the oppressed people with promises that their time of tribulation was over.

  After a moment of intense silence, Kwyna said, "Are you in truth a religious man, Iblis Ginjo?"

  He knew he could not lie to the ancient philosopher. "Religion suits my holy purpose, which is to help humanity rise up against its oppressors."

  In her eerie second-hand voice spoken through the monk, Kwyna said, "And have you listened to any of the numerous protests against the Jihad? Are you doing this for humankind, Grand Patriarch… or just for yourself?"

  Iblis responded deftly, "For just one person, perhaps, but not for myself. No, it is for the innocent child of Serena Butler, whom I saw murdered by an uncaring thinking machine. The protesters are short-sighted and irrelevant, while I myself am merely an instrument of victory. When success is achieved, I will gladly step aside."

  Through her link with the secondary, Kwyna made a peculiar sound of amusement. "Then you are a most admirable — and atypical — man, Iblis Ginjo."

  Forcibly ending the audience, the monk closed the wet cloth flap that covered the preservation canister. He said in his own voice, "We must return to the City of Introspection, Grand Patriarch. The Ancient One must not be disturbed further."

  As if coming out of a trance, Iblis grew aware of people who moved past him up the rain-slickened steps into the Hall of Parliament. He wanted to spend more time with the superannuated brain, to receive advice and instruction, to share brilliant inspiration — but the saffron-robed secondaries hurried away.

  Then he realized he himself was late. Serena Butler was about to address the assembly in another of her scheduled inspirational talks, which he had written personally. Not noticing his wet clothes, the Grand Patriarch hurried inside to listen to her. Though the security was intense, he did not have to worry about violence or assassination attempts today.

  He had not arranged for any.

  Inside the speaking chamber, Serena Butler looked like a heavenly vision, attired in an exquisite white robe and glittering rubate jewelry. Even without the adornments of an orange marigold on her lapel and a golden necklace around her neck, she looked surprisingly vibrant and healthy for her advancing years. Remarkable, considering that she refused to partake of Aurelius Venport's youth-enhancing melange.

  Iblis watched it all. Serena rarely emerged in person from the City of Introspection, so each of her speeches had to be a major event.

  Twenty freed humans, rebels who had been smuggled from the new battleground on Ix, sat in the front rows as showpieces. They gazed up at the Priestess with awe. Thanks to Iblis's incessant propaganda efforts, every person alive — even those in darkest captivity on machine planets — had heard of this woman and her martyred child. She had become a dedicated missionary, working tirelessly to unify humans against the vile machines.

  When the audience fell silent, Serena's voice rose melodically through the hall. "Many of us have witnessed firsthand the bravery, bloodshed, and sacrifices necessary to overthrow the greatest depravity in the universe. Some of you are true heroes."

  She asked half a dozen men and women to stand up, and identified each by name for their brave, selfless deeds. All were civilians, survivors of tremendous battles. "Come to me." Serena gestured, and from every corner of the great hall, the audience gave them standing ovations. As the refugees came forward, one by one, the Priestess touched them on the head as if in blessing; tears streamed down every face, including her own.

  Serena raised her voice in challenge and angry determination. Tears glistened on her cheeks. "I watched something no mother should ever have to witness: my beautiful son murdered in front of my eyes Think of your own babies, and of mine. Do not let the thinking machines do this to other children, I beg of you."

  As he listened to her masterful delivery, the perfect intonation and diction, Iblis felt a chill of pride run down his spine. The tears were an excellent touch, and he did not doubt they were real. He heard Serena use the phrases he had written, and nodded as he saw her magic work on the audience. They were enraptured. She had been an excellent student, ever since he'd begun to lead her down the path of professional fanaticism.

  At first, the young woman had willingly followed his instructions to achieve worthy, noble results. But when she had started to disagree with him, Iblis had fabricated possible "threats" to her safety, so that he would be justified in assigning a group of his hand-picked Seraphim as her personal bodyguards.

  When Serena continued to be too independent, he had staged an assassination attempt and framed one of his sacrificial dupes, who was conveniently killed during capture. Thereafter, for her "protection," Serena stayed inside the walls of the City of Introspection, where he could keep a closer eye on her.

  He had to make certain that Serena Butler never felt completely safe, so that she would always depend on him.

  Now, Iblis relaxed when he saw that everything was under control. Since his arrival had not been noticed, he hurried to a dressing room and changed into dry clothes. Before he could leave the private room, his Jipol commandant slipped silently through the door. "Grand Patriarch, I am pleased to inform you that our work with Mufioza Chen is complete, as you requested. Everything is in place. A nice, clean job."

  Yorek Thurr was a small, swarthy man with a black mustache and bald head. Dressed in a dark green doublet, he peered through sl
itted eyes that were as dull and black as those of a corpse. Expert with garrote, stiletto, and an assortment of other silent weapons, Thurr had an ability to move with the utmost stealth — and as the Jipol commander, he was always ready to do the Grand Patriarch's bidding. A good man to have around.

  Iblis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. "I knew I could count on you."

  From the moment the Jihad Police had been established, Yorek Thurr had proved himself a valued informant by discovering real spies, unobtrusive but quietly powerful humans who had secret connections to the Synchronized Worlds. Since Iblis had originally raised the specter only as a straw man to frighten the League members, he had been astonished to discover the depth of the deceit Thurr uncovered. Dozens of prominent citizens were implicated and executed, swelling the paranoid frenzy of free humans. As the newly formed Jipol rose in prominence, so Yorek Thurr rose in its ranks, eventually taking command. Sometimes he frightened even the Grand Patriarch.

  Because of her constant complaints and resistance, Iblis had always suspected that Munoza Chen might be an agent of the thinking machines. Why else would she oppose the essential work of the Jihad Council? The answer seemed obvious. The moment Chen had decided to oppose him, her life expectancy had dropped precipitously. Anyone who spoke out against the Jihad was, by definition, an ally of the thinking machines. It made perfect sense.

  As Grand Patriarch, holding the responsibility for trillions of lives, he didn't have time for subtleties. To protect and advance the movement he had to cut efficiently through opposition. The clear results justified anything he might need to do along the way. The Jihad had gone on for decades now, gaining momentum. Even so, it had not gone far enough or fast enough to suit Iblis.

  Anyone who overtly crossed the designs of the Grand Patriarch got investigated and expertly framed. Over the years, after the first major purge implicated seven League representatives — all of them, strangely enough, political rivals or people who had spoken out against Iblis — people began to suspect a machine spy under every bed. Five years later, another set of purges had removed all resistance to Iblis.