The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert

  Lord Niko Bludd had the most prominent seat, skewered by spotlights at the head of walkways that led to the stage. Obviously, the foppish man considered himself the reason for the gathered spectators.

  Meanwhile, at center stage, Savant Tio Holtzman was receiving honors before a cheering crowd. The inventor beamed and waved to the blurred mass of faces. Iblis sat wearing a frozen smile.

  The Grand Patriarch always had an agenda in mind, an important task to complete. As far as Iblis was concerned, life was brutishly short and too much needed to be done. After taking a deep breath, he decided not to notice the slight that Niko Bludd had given to him. Not yet.

  A situation like this, with so many people excited about a convincing military victory, would provide Iblis with his opportunity.

  Good intentions can bring about as much destruction as an evil conqueror. Either way, the result is the same.

  —Zensunni Lament

  Alüd considered his friend Ishmael a fool. The fiery Zenshüte could not keep the scorn or disbelief out of his voice when he scoffed, "Did you honestly expect gratitude? From them? I cannot say I admire your blind faith, but I do find it amusing." His smile contained no humor, only hard edges.

  In the months after the hollow fleet had successfully bluffed the machine marauders, the consolidated slave force was pulled from the mudflat shipyards and broken into smaller groups. Many of the workers returned to their original owners for regular assignments in the cane fields and mines. Alüd had remained with the Starda factory crew, since none of his previous owners was eager to reclaim him. At first Ishmael had rejoiced to have more time with his childhood companion, but later felt a twinge of uncertainty.

  "It was our dedicated work that built the decoy fleet, Alüd. Our labor saved Poritrin." The distress and disappointment was palpable in Ishmael's words. "Even someone as pampered and oblivious as Lord Bludd must admit this fact."

  "You are a slave, and he is a noble," Alüd replied. "There is nothing he is required to admit, while we are required to submit."

  But Ishmael had not listened. The slaves received no rest or increased rations, no better accommodations or medical treatment, no concessions to their Buddislamic beliefs… not even the smallest of rewards. It was outrageously unfair, but apparently only Ishmael had expected anything different.

  In Ishmael's boyhood his grandfather had lectured him with gentle sternness, "If you are unwilling to speak of your concern to the person who has wronged you, do not complain when he fails to resolve the situation of his own accord."

  Ishmael took that to heart. The Koran Sutras insisted that the human heart and soul — even in nonbelievers — contained a kernel of fundamental goodness and mercy. As a slave, he had remained passive for too long, accepting his inferior lot. He had spent too many nights reciting empty promises and clinging to diluted dreams that seemed overly easy — as hollow as the decoy ships that had frightened away the robot war fleet. He owed this to all those who had listened to him, for so long.

  Now that he and his companions had performed inarguable service for Poritrin, Ishmael knew it was time to take up his concerns with Lord Bludd himself. God would guide him and show him what to say. Ishmael would prove to Alüd, and to all the Zensunnis who listened to him around the story fire, that his beliefs were reliable.

  Exasperated, Alüd caught Ishmael before he could blunder innocently into what would surely be a disaster. "At least think of a plan, my friend! How will you get into the presence of Lord Bludd? You can't simply knock on his door and speak your mind."

  "If he is the lord of his people, he should listen to a valid complaint."

  The other man rolled his eyes. "You are a slave, not a citizen. He has no reason to listen to you." He leaned close. "Use your imagination, Ishmael. You have worked for Savant Holtzman, you know his routines, how he interacts with Lord Bludd. Use that to find an excuse, or you'll never get within a hundred meters of him."

  Ishmael considered the possibilities. He did not like lies or misdirection, but Alüd was right. In this instance, it was a necessary means to an end.

  At the end of the following work shift, he returned to the habitation compound with the other captives. There, after washing himself and dressing in his cleanest clothes, he kissed his wife and prepared to go. He took up a set of logbooks he had smuggled out of the factory offices that were being decommissioned and made his way across the city to the Poritrin lord's conical towers. The veteran slave wore an expression of respect, but not meek submission. Buddallah walked in his footsteps, gave him strength.

  Two gold-armored Dragoon guards at the tower's street-level gate looked at Ishmael skeptically. Careful to show no threat, he chose his words prudently, trying not to lie but still attempting some sleight of hand. "My name is Ishmael, and I must see Lord Niko Bludd."

  The Dragoons studied him. "A slave to see Lord Bludd? Do you have an appointment?"

  His armored companion said, "Lord Bludd does not grant audiences with slaves."

  Ishmael wondered if Buddallah would make the men step aside, clearing the way for him to enter. But he did not expect such an obvious divine intervention.

  Feeling audacious, Ishmael withdrew the purloined logbooks and held them out. "I am one of Savant Holtzman's slaves. He has regularly sent persons such as myself to deliver written documents." He hesitated before finally telling an outright lie. "The Savant has sent me with these. He insisted it was a matter of some urgency, that I must not return until I had delivered them to Lord Bludd personally."

  The taller Dragoon grumbled. "Everything to do with Holtzman is urgent." He frowned at Ishmael. "Lord Bludd doesn't have time for that today."

  Ishmael did not back away. "Perhaps you should explain that to Savant Holtzman yourself. He will not believe it from me that Lord Bludd refused to receive these logs." He drew a breath and waited; his faith gave him serenity and confidence.

  Following a moment of silence, the other Dragoon said uncertainly, "We've always let them deliver the logbooks before. What if the Savant has had another breakthrough, like the shields?"

  The first guard agreed. "Maybe we should let Bludd throw him out personally."

  Responding to the brief hesitation, Ishmael bowed and then stepped quickly through the doorway. His confidence weakened the guards, and they gave way. Wide-eyed, Ishmael entered the palatial government mansion of the hereditary lord, whose ancestors had enslaved Buddisla-mic captives for generations.

  Just inside, a harried chamberlain frowned at Ishmael's dark-skinned features and his Zensunni garb, but again the name of Tio Holtzman and the impressive-looking logbooks proved of sufficient weight to overcome doubts and questions. One of the guards, apparently having second thoughts, moved close and said, "I'm sorry, sir. If you want me to remove him…"

  The royal officer shook his head at the Dragoon, then met Ishmael's steady gaze. "Are you certain you must deliver these to Lord Bludd now! He won't have time to look at them anyway. In only an hour he is hosting a banquet for offworld painters who wish to depict Starda under varying lighting conditions." The chamberlain shot a meaningful glance toward the wall chronometer. "If this was so important, Savant Holtzman should have made an appointment for you. Are you certain—"

  "I am sorry, sir," Ishmael interrupted. He offered no further explanation, nor did he volunteer to leave.

  "Lord Bludd can spare you very little time."

  "Even a moment of his generosity will be enough. Thank you."

  "Shall I check him for weapons?" the Dragoon asked.

  "Of course."

  When the body search was completed, Ishmael waited in an echoing reception gallery. In the center stood a bench made of polished stone; though it looked lovely, it proved uncomfortable. He sat in placid silence, patiently enduring the delay.

  In his mind, the bold slave recited his favorite surras, verses he had learned at his grandfather's knee. He had long ago stopped wishing that his life might have been different, that he had escaped when the
raiders attacked the marshes of Harmonthep. For better or worse, his life was here on Poritrin, and he had a loving wife, along with two beautiful daughters who were almost women themselves…

  Nearly an hour passed, and finally he was taken up a wide flight of stairs into Lord Bludd's private suite and gallery. His skin felt warm, and his thoughts blazed with possibilities. With good fortune his plea would touch the heart of the nobleman who ruled Poritrin. He hoped his words were persuasive.

  Inside a room that smelled of candles and perfumes, courtiers were dressing the bearded lord in a padded vest, gold chains, and thick cuffs. His reddish-gold hair had paled with age, intertwined now with gray. A tattoo of tiny clustered circles like bubbles marked the side of his eye. Personal servants bustled about, splashing scented water onto his hair and cheeks. One rail-thin man brushed lint from the fabric of his lord's robe with the intensity of a philosopher studying the key to all knowledge.

  The lord looked up at Ishmael, and sighed. "Well, it isn't often that Tio sends one of his slaves to meet with me, and he isn't usually so insistent — or timely — with his reports. What does the Savant want this evening? It is quite an inconvenient time." He reached out to take the logbooks,

  Ishmael kept his voice calm and soft, as polite as he could manage. Respectful but with a degree of confidence, as if he imagined himself an equal. Realizing the importance of his every word, he drew silent strength from deep within. "Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding, Lord Bludd. Savant Holtzman did not send me here. My name is Ishmael, and I have come of my own accord to speak with you."

  The courtiers stopped in shock. Bludd blinked at Ishmael with distaste, then looked up to glare at his chamberlain, who in turn snapped a harsh look at the Dragoon guards.

  Peripherally, Ishmael saw the chamberlain moving forward to take him away, but Bludd motioned for the aide to stay back. His voice was annoyed now, demanding explanations. "Why have you come here if it isn't about Savant Holtzman?" He held up the logbooks. "What are these?"

  Ishmael smiled, letting the words flow through him, hoping that he could soften the nobleman's heart with reason and sympathy. "Lord, for generations my people have served and protected Poritrin. My fellow slaves and I worked on many of Savant Holtzman's projects, which have saved untold League citizens from the thinking machines. In the past year we labored without respite to fabricate your successful decoy fleet."

  Lord Bludd scowled, as if he had swallowed a rancid sweetmeat. Then he smiled cruelly and replied, "That comes under the definition of being a slave."

  Nearby, the chamberlain chuckled.

  But Ishmael saw no humor in this. "We are human beings, Lord Bludd." He calmed himself, refusing to allow his determination to slip. "We have shed sweat and blood in order to protect your way of life. We have watched your celebrations. Because of our efforts, Poritrin has remained independent of the thinking machines."

  "Because of your efforts?" Bludd's face grew stormy at the audacity of this Zensunni man. "You have done exactly as your masters ordered you to do, nothing more. We saw the threat coming. We developed the means to guard against it. We drew up the plans, and we provided the resources. You merely put the pieces together, as you were commanded to do."

  "My Lord, you underestimate and belittle what your captives have done for—"

  "What is it you people want — my eternal gratitude? Nonsense! You helped to save your own lives, not just ours. That should be enough for you. Would you rather be rotting in a thinking machine prison right now, being dissected by curious robots? Count your blessings I am not the arch-demon Erasmus."

  He ruffled his sleeves and shooed his attendants away. "Now go, slave. I wish to hear no more of this, and do not ever attempt to speak directly with me again. Your deception is cause enough for your execution. I am the Lord of Poritrin, the head of a family that has been in power here for generations, while you are but a… transplanted coward whose food and shelter is provided only at my own sufferance."

  Ishmael was deeply offended, but had heard this sort of insult before.

  He wanted to argue, to state his case more plainly, but saw from the look of dull anger simmering in Lord Bludd's eyes that nothing he could say would, have a satisfactory effect. He had failed. Perhaps Alüd had been right to scoff at his naive faith.

  I have underestimated how different, how alien, this man's thoughts can be. I do not comprehend Lord Bludd at all. Is he even human?

  Recently, during nighttime discussions around the story fire in the slave encampment, Alüd had grown increasingly strident, encouraging the people to follow in Bel Moulay's footsteps. Now Alüd wanted to attempt another revolution, regardless of how much bloodshed it might involve. Every time Ishmael tried to be a voice of reason and speak against the naked quest for revenge, Alüd shouted him down.

  After this meeting, though, Ishmael wasn't sure how much more he could argue. He had tried his best, and Lord Bludd had refused to listen.

  Hoping the nobleman would not change his mind and order his immediate execution, Ishmael bowed again and backed slowly toward the door. The Dragoon guards grabbed his arms rudely and escorted him out, growling curses under their breath. Ishmael didn't struggle or respond to their insults; it would take little to provoke them into beating him to death.

  Even though his faith had been rocked to the core, and his innocent beliefs found wanting, he was not sorry for having tried. Not yet.

  Within days the new orders came in, reassigning Ishmael and many others who had worked on the shipyard construction project. He, Alüd, and a hundred like them were to be sent far upriver to a new facility, where they would be put to work on an independent project led by Norma Cenva, the female genius from Rossak who had once served as Savant Holtzman's assistant.

  The Dragoons also had explicit instructions that the slave Ishmael was to be separated from his family. The sergeant said in a gruff voice, "Your wife and daughters will remain here for reassignment" — from beneath his gold-scaled helmet, he smiled — "probably to three separate places."

  Ishmael's knees wobbled, and he could not believe what he had heard. "No, that is impossible!" He had been with Ozza for fifteen years. "I have done nothing -" The guards took him by the arms, but he broke free and ran toward his stricken-looking wife, who stood with Chamal and Falina.

  Lord Bludd had made his displeasure dear, and the soldiers had been looking for an excuse to punish Ishmael. They removed stun sticks and struck him on the knees, on the small of his back, on his shoulders and head.

  Ishmael, who was not a violent man, crumpled with a cry. With tears streaming down her face, cursing the attackers, Ozza tried to reach him. But the Dragoons kept her away. Their daughters attempted to dodge around the gold-armored men, but Ishmael feared more for their safety than his own. If they drew too much attention to themselves, Chamal and Falina might be taken away by the guards, for depraved sport. His two beautiful girls…

  "No, stay back. I will go with them. We will find some way to be together."

  Ozza gathered the girls close to her and looked at the Dragoons as if she wanted to claw their eyes out. But she knew her husband, and did not want to do anything that would bring more harm to him. "We will be together again, my darling Ishmael."

  Slowly, Alüd moved to stand beside him, an angry fire kindling his eyes. The Dragoons seemed amused by this Zenshüte man's stormy defiance. Ishmael groaned and tried to maintain his balance amid a storm of pains.

  As the guards herded the new work crew away to their assignment upriver, Ishmael struggled to get another look at Ozza and the girls, perhaps for the last time. When Alüd had been separated from his family, he had never seen his wife and son again.

  Now Alüd spoke in a harsh whisper, using the old Chakobsa tongue that none of the slavers could understand. "I told you, these men are monsters. Lord Bludd is the worst. Now do you see that your simplistic faith is not enough?"

  Stubbornly, Ishmael shook his head.

  Despite all,
he was not prepared to cast aside the Zensunni beliefs that formed the foundation of his life. Seeing his failure, would the others who had so carefully listened to his evening parables and sutras give up on him? Ishmael was being sorely tested — and had no idea what his ultimate answer would be.

  B.G.

  JIHAD YEAR

  One Year after the Victory on Poritrin

  War: 'A manufactory that produces desolation, death, and secrets.

  —Statement of anti-Jihad protester

  Primero harkonnen did not find the long, slow flight to Ix a serene one. The gung-ho enthusiasm of new recruits on board the ballista flagship had gradually settled into a dread of facing the thinking machine forces on the long-embattled Synchronized World. Everyone in the massive attack force knew the stakes, and the dangers.

  Xavier's mandate was clear. The rebels on Ix had fought long and hard against an overwhelming army of cymeks and hunter-killer robots, and now he would add sufficient forces to turn the tide. The humans could not afford to lose. Once he had freed another planet from Omnius, then he would sleep easier. One world at a time.

  Back home, Octa had never liked to see him depart on another assignment for the Jihad. During their marriage, Xavier had gone off on one dangerous mission after another. It was difficult for her to watch him go, but Octa knew the stakes in this never-ending war. She had seen firsthand what the brutality of the thinking machines had done to her sister Serena. War changed people. Someone had to protect the innocent. Xavier and Vor were among those who risked their lives to do just that, and Octa had always understood that this war was his calling. In war everyone made sacrifices.

  And though Xavier loved her intensely and knew she had complete faith in him, he always saw the fear in her eyes when he left Salusa Secundus — but it was a fear that Octa mastered. She did everything possible to make him feel loved and comfortable when they were together, so that he would hold good memories for all the long days until he could return home. Once, he had even joked with Octa that she always threw the largest celebrations on the days he went away.