The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert

  Before her husband left on the difficult and risky campaign to liberate Ix, Octa had once again prepared a feast and called their closest loved ones. Serena was invited to join them, as always, but the Priestess of the Jihad rarely attended any small gatherings, even with her family. The office of Grand Patriarch Ginjo had politely declined the invitation on Serena's behalf, responding that she was simply too busy.

  Those who did not know Octa well saw her as a shy, quiet woman who stood in the shadow of the great Primero. But when she made up her mind and focused her thoughts, Octa displayed all the rigidity and firmness of an angry military commander. She rallied the servants, the cleaners, and the cooks, making sure absolutely everything went perfectly.

  Old Manion Butler himself stayed down in the cellars for an hour selecting three rare bottles of wine. Xavier knew that the retired Viceroy didn't keep any less than the best vintages; but out of love he still encouraged his father-in-law to make the choices, a task he relished.

  In the late afternoon, Xavier's two grown daughters, Roella and Omilia, joined them at the departure feast, along with their husbands. Roella had reached the age of twenty-six, and her sister was two years younger. Omilia brought her new baby daughter, to the delight of her parents.

  Octa adored Omilia's new baby, and watched wistfully as the child smiled at Xavier. Though he had lost a son of his own, he was exceedingly proud of his two daughters and the lives they were making for themselves. Both Omilia and Roella were strikingly lovely, but Xavier was not exactly an objective judge.

  "Sometimes I wish we could have had at least one more," Octa said, tickling the baby.

  To Xavier, his wife was still the most beautiful of them all, though she was by now forty-five years old. He still saw the youthful glow she carried within her, and he still found her more attractive than any young woman. Xavier shrugged and gave her his best boyish grin. "No one said you're too old."

  "It's not very likely." She teased him, but he continued to smile.

  "That's no reason for us to stop trying."

  But Xavier couldn't help being uncomfortable and heartsick as he faced the other guests. His adoptive father, Emil Tantor, was accompanied by Vergyl's widow Sheel and their three children.

  Xavier couldn't believe that two years had already passed since the debacle at IV Anbus. He still felt pangs of guilt and regret for allowing Vergyl to be captured by the cymeks. His brother had been thirty-four years old at the time of his death — by no means a child — but Xavier could never stop thinking of the grinning young man as his little brother, a boy he had played with… and later let down. Vergyl and Sheel should have had a fine, long life together. His brother's family was wonderful, but their future had been torn away… just as his own had been when Serena was kidnapped by the thinking machines.

  "Damn this Jihad!"

  Still, even after losing Serena, Xavier had made a good life for himself. And he would not have changed any of it, even if he could. He had no doubt that Sheel was strong enough to do the same, under the guidance of the aged, increasingly frail Emil Tantor.

  Though he was overjoyed to see his father, as well as Vergyl's family, Xavier still felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Omilia's new baby seemed to sadden Sheel, and his father also appeared somber, perhaps remembering that his own wife Lucille had been killed in a flyer crash shortly before she was to meet Vergyl's baby daughter for the first time…

  When the first course was ready to be served, Octa led the prayer. She gave thanks for the food and for their lives, begged God for Xavier's safety on the mission to Ix, and prayed for deliverance from Omnius and all thinking machines.

  Xavier had known this was supposed to be a joyous occasion, his loved ones bidding him farewell and wishing him success in his latest military campaign. The Ixian mission was fraught with peril, and though he would never surrender easily, he was certain that many other jihadi soldiers were having similar farewell dinners with their close families… and many of them would not, in fact, return.

  The moment Octa saw his mood fall, even before the main course could be brought out, she called in a trio of youthful Zimia musicians who played their instruments and sang in a lovely contralto, while the other guests ate and talked in low conversations.

  Hearing the happy minstrels, Xavier thought again of the dead, of Octa's twin brother Fredo, who had always wanted to be a musician and an artist. As he watched his wife, he expected to see similar thoughts reflected in her face, but she took only joy from the musicians' performance, and soon the rest of the guests responded as well, enjoying their meal, talking, and laughing.

  Octa was radiant. Later, in the heat of pitched battle, he would remember that more than anything else.

  Though he was the one going to Ix to fight the murderous machines, Octa fought just as bravely in her own battle to maintain good spirits and optimism in her household, because that was the only weapon she could wield. She had done the same thing each time Xavier had gone off to war, and it had always worked.

  But he had gone away too many times.

  A few years after the League Armada's devastation of Earth, Xavier had led the first "official" attack of Serena Butler's expanding Jihad. After selecting a Synchronized World at random — Bela Tegeuse — the warships had gone out with much fanfare. Vorian Atreides had distinguished himself in that battle, earned a higher rank, and proved his true fervor for the cause of humanity.

  The battle of Bela Tegeuse had destroyed many robots and obliterated extensive thinking machine infrastructure, but the enemy fought back relentlessly. The skirmish was ultimately inconclusive, and the human forces retreated to lick their wounds. A year later, and without orders, Vorian had slipped back to the Tegeusan system and returned home to report that the machines had rebuilt everything and continued to oppress the surviving human population there. It was as if nothing had happened. Despite the terrible struggle and loss of life, the Jihad had made no progress whatsoever.

  It was after Earth and Bela Tegeuse, however, that the Omnius ever-minds realized that the character of the struggle had changed. In response, the Corrin-Omnius sent a heavy fleet against Salusa Secundus, but the newly formed Army of the Jihad — led by Xavier himself — rebuffed them. At the time, he had considered it payback for the Battle of Zimia, where he had been so badly injured years before.

  Now, en route to Ix, the senior officer was spoiling for another chance. He'd had many opportunities in the quarter century since the destruction of Earth, and each fight gave him the chance to strike another blow. To free more humans. To devastate the thinking machines.

  If only his fighters could maintain their edge… and their energy.

  During the long and tense voyage, Xavier issued orders imposing a rigorous training routine on his soldiers, to keep their reflexes sharp. A separate: force under his command, the normally aloof mercenaries from Ginaz were pleased to demonstrate their combat abilities for Xavier's troops.

  The Primero often spent hours watching them from above, judging their techniques, mentally selecting the best fighters among the recruits.

  i

  He found the new batch of mercenaries particularly interesting. Never before had he witnessed such skill in hand-to-hand combat.

  The fighters deferred to their new champion Jool Noret, a mysterious and intense young man in a black jumpsuit. Fresh from the archipelago on Ginaz, the young mercenary had bronzed skin, jade eyes, and sun-bleached hair. As thin and fast as a human whip, Noret wielded blade weapons with a speed that turned them into lethal barbs.

  An enigmatic loner, Noret rarely spoke to anyone, including his fellow mercenaries. Nonetheless, he threw himself into even the most basic of training exercises with reckless abandon and without concern for his personal well-being. He seemed to be blessed — or cursed — with a belief in his own invulnerability.

  As commanding officer, Xavier observed him closely. In combat demonstrations Noret fought with utter conviction, though he seemed to prefer his ow
n company when he was off duty.

  Now, inside the crowded common room, Noret sat in the middle of his fellows and seemed to shut out all distractions. In full view of the rest of the crew, he contorted his body into supple okuma positions, men held himself rigid, facing a bulkhead while he journeyed inward to a realm of contemplation.

  Suddenly, with blinding speed, he leapt to his feet, whirling and diving, striking out with his bare hands, as well as more traditional weapons — a small club and a heavy stun-ball connected like a bolo to a thin chain on his wrist. It seemed to be a test, or a game, but the Ginaz mercenaries treated it with absolute seriousness. A quartet rushed at him, but Noret dispatched them all with startling efficiency.

  For a finale, he tossed his assorted weapons into the air, defeated two more men with martial arts blows, snatched the weapons back out of the air, then slipped them into concealed pockets in his black clothing. Though soundly beaten, none of his companions were seriously hurt. No doubt they would challenge Noret again… and just as certainly, the young man would win.

  Two days later, Xavier made a point of approaching Noret, wanting to learn more about him. Even during the tedious voyages between battlefields, the Primero had never felt comfortable fraternizing with his troops, as Vor always did. His friend would eat in the common mess hall with the soldiers, spinning tall tales for them about his adventures, playing round after round of Fleur de Lys, which he won without smugness and lost without rancor.

  But Xavier had never been able to do that. He was their commanding officer — a leader among men, but rarely a friend. Instead of calling out a good-natured greeting as he walked along the crew decks, the soldiers all snapped to attention and gave him crisp salutes. Complete respect seemed to be a barrier between them and him. Privately, the men called him "Old Fuss and Formality."

  Now he did not seek out Jool Noret as a friend. In the ballista's crew compartments, the young mercenary was tidying his lower bunk, carefully stowing articles of clothing and exotic weapons in an adjacent locker. Even for such a mundane task, Noret's every movement was fluid and quick.

  The room was nearly empty with the current duty shift. The Primero came toward him from behind, making no noise loud enough to be heard over the background hum of the spaceship engines and conversations in the outer corridors. Even so, he noticed that the young mercenary stiffened without actually seeing him. He seemed to be watching with his ears.

  Xavier moved into his line of sight and stood with his arms folded across; his chest. "I have observed your combat exhibitions, Jool Noret. Your technique is very interesting."

  "And I have observed you observing, Primero."

  Xavier had already considered his purpose in this encounter. Another week remained until they arrived in the Ixian system and began their campaign. "I believe you have skills you could teach to my men, techniques that will increase their chances of survival when they fight the thinking machines."

  The young mercenary looked away, as if stung. "I am not a teacher. I still have too much to learn myself."

  "But the men respect you and want to learn from you. If you instruct them in your methods, you could save lives."

  Donning a haunted expression, the young man seemed to withdraw into himself. "That is not the reason I agreed to fight for the Jihad. I want to destroy thinking machines. I want to die bravely in battle."

  Xavier did not understand what demons troubled this man. "I would rather you fought bravely and survived, to destroy even more of the enemy. And if you help my jihadis to improve, we will be more easily assured of victory."

  Noret remained silent for so long that Xavier didn't think he intended to respond at all. "I won't be a teacher," he said, at last. "That is too much of a burden on top of the others I carry. I will not have their blood on my hands if they fail to perform with adequate skill." He looked up at the aging officer, his expression sad. "However, they are welcome to… observe, if they wish."

  Xavier nodded, for the moment unwilling to push harder and discover what disturbed Noret so deeply. "Good enough. Perhaps they can learn something by watching you. If it works out, I'll consider requesting additional compensation for you when we return home."

  "I don't want any of that," Noret said, his expression intense and strangely frightening. "Just give me free rein to kill machines."

  Beware of well-meaning friends. They can be as dangerous as enemies.

  —General Agamemnon, Memoirs

  After xavier and his battle group departed for Ix, Vor's mind burned with alternatives. Brute force was a stale and old-fashioned tactic, but not at all the most effective way to defeat the thinking machines. His eyes twinkled impishly as his mind gave birth to possibilities, devising schemes that could prove more effective than all the warships in the Army of the Jihad.

  This was more than a friendly competition with his fellow primero. Clever tricks could save countless lives. Human lives.

  Without fanfare or much attention whatsoever, Vor commandeered a single-man scout ship. As usual, the jihadi officers were concerned. They warned him of the risks involved and insisted that he take along an escort of armed gunships. But Vor just laughed and brushed them off. They still did not know what he had done to the captive Omnius sphere, now hidden in his cockpit. No one knew. Yet.

  Out in open space, Vor set course for a world he had never again expected to visit, and certainly not by choice: Earth. The birthplace of humanity. Now nothing more than a radioactive, charred ball.

  Vor knew what he would find there… and still he went.

  Though he had no reason to venture down to the surface, he took extra time to cruise above the stormy atmosphere, scanning the lifeless land masses below. The night-side continents were black, showing no signs of civilization, and as he circled around to the daylight side he noted swirling white clouds, murky oceans, and brown land masses with almost no smear of green.

  He remembered the many times he had flown here in the Dream

  Voyager. Thumbing back through the internal ledger of his thoughts, he envisioned himself and the independent robot Seurat approaching the homeworld of humanity, the central planet of Omnius. The network of city lights, the grid of bright industry and civilization had always called out to Vor. But the beautiful glitter was now absent. It had been decades since the nuclear annihilation, and still the planet looked mostly dead. Perhaps one day Earth would again be habitable, but for now it was only a scar marking a wound that humans had dealt the thinking machines… and themselves.

  Vor had spent his formative years here, studying his father's memoirs, absorbing the cymek general's distorted version of history. Then Serena Butler had shown him that his life was filled with distortions and outright lies. He had escaped. He had been reborn.

  In his new life as a free human in the League of Nobles, Vor found himself fascinated with history. He read the records of ancient humanity and memorized details of the original Agamemnon, the ancient general who had fought in the Trojan War, as recorded in Homer's Iliad.

  In his studies Vor sought to differentiate between history and myth, between accurate information and legends. But sometimes even tales of questionable accuracy could provide interesting ideas. When studying the exploits of the first Agamemnon, he had become particularly intrigued by the account of the Trojan horse…

  The League scientists would not have understood — or perhaps they would have run endless tests. But that was not a luxury they could afford during wartime.

  Filled with nostalgia and renewed determination, Vor left Earth behind and headed for his real destination. Following a trajectory he had flown long ago during the Armada's battle for Earth, he reached the fringes of the solar system. Back then, still a recent turncoat and not fully trusted, Vor had broken ranks to pursue an Omnius update ship that was attempting to escape. After deactivating its robot captain, he had left the craft adrift… for twenty-five years.

  Now Vor searched for any trace of the long-inert vessel, scanning the regions int
o which it might have drifted among the frozen cometary debris far from the light of the Sun. "Don't hide from me, Old Metalmind," he said to himself. "Come out and play."

  Vor wished he'd had the foresight years ago to place a tiny locater beacon on the update ship, but now he used his skill with calculations and computers to determine possible orbits. Taking his time, he combed the sparse desert of deep space. Finally, not far from one of his orbital estimates, he detected the metal signature of the robotic vessel. "Ah, there you are."

  Grinning, Vor brought his ship alongside the other craft, maneuvering expertly to dock the two vessels. Back in the isolated lab in Zimia, he had worked for many months, tampering with the captive Omnius, adding subtle loops, errors, and virtual landmines to its programming. The original silvery gelsphere sat beside him in the Jihad ship's cockpit, stolen from the cybernetic lab. Now he had stolen it, and would use the gelsphere to plant his corruptions on the Synchronized Worlds.

  Unwittingly, his old comrade Seurat would do it for him.

  Vor donned a breathing mask and opened the hatch to step into the frigid air of the paralyzed update ship. The copper-skinned robot pilot, deactivated when Vor used a scrambler on him, should still be on board.

  At the time of this betrayal, Vor had felt uncomfortable. Seurat had been his faithful companion, a quirky but genuine friend on many voyages Though Vor still held a soft spot in his heart for him, his dedication to the Jihad was even stronger, infused with a powerful sense of determination and the rightness of humanity's cause. Despite his attributes, Seurat was a thinking machine, making him the sworn enemy of the human race… and of Vorian Atreides.

  Aboard the craft, Vor felt like an intruder. The brutally cold air seemed to resist him, and he moved forward silently, afraid to disturb the tiniest detail. He could not leave any mark of his presence, neither a fingerprint nor a scuff. The update ship's every interior surface sparkled with frost, humidity that had crystallized out of the motionless air, but he left no footprints on the corrugated metal deck as he moved across it.