The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert

  But Jool Noret shunned all accolades and refused to bask in fame. He did not feel he deserved it.

  In the past few weeks, though, an increasing number of curious students had come to watch him, hungry to replicate his techniques. They witnessed Noret's superhuman drills against the combat mek and gasped as he moved.

  The crowds increased. Some of the would-be warriors pleaded openly for personal instruction, but he declined them all. "1 cannot. I have not yet learned all that I need to know."

  Though he sought to conceal it, he refused to teach any admirers because of the guilt he carried over his father's death.. His heart felt like stone. He knew he would fall in battle someday, for that was the fate of his kind. But he vowed to do it in a blaze of glory, with his skills sharpened to their limits. His complete release of all care or self-preseitation liberated him to achieve such feats as he demonstrated in his training exercises. What good would that kind of teaching do the other mercenaries, except to get them all killed?

  Each day, Jool Noret bested the highest level of expertise Chirox could implement.

  "Other students wish to learn from you, Master Jool Noret," the combat robot said, as the sun set golden on the extended sea. "Is it not the stated duty of Ginaz to hurl more and more mercenaries into the fight?"

  Noret frowned. "It is my duty to return to the fight. I intend to leave on the next ship." He hefted his pulse sword, piecing together in his mind scenarios for future engagements against the evil thinking machines.

  Then one of the bolder students strode toward him, brave enough to approach the famously solitary young mercenary. "Jool Noret, we admire you. You are the scourge of Omnius."

  "I am merely doing my job."

  The student had dark hair and pale skin that had sunburned, peeled, then freckled. He was obviously not a native of Ginaz, yet he had come here to train. Here. He was older than Noret by at least five years, and his strength came from a burly body and heavy muscles. He would never possess the agility of a deft Ginaz mercenary… but he still had the look of a formidable fighter about him.

  "Why do you refuse to teach us, Jool Noret? We are all weapons waiting to be forged."

  Calmly, Noret repeated what had become a mantra for him, with no end in sight. "I remain unworthy myself. I am not fit to teach anyone else."

  The man's voice was gruff. "I will take that risk, Jool Noret. I come from Tyndall. Eight years ago the thinking machines took over my world, killed millions and enslaved the rest. My sisters were slaughtered, and my parents." His eyes were large and filled with both anger and tears. "Then the Army of the Jihad fought back. They came to Tyndall with an overwhelming force and many mercenaries from Ginaz, and they drove the machines out. I am free, and alive, because of them."

  His upper lip trembled. "I came here because I want to be a mercenary, too. I want to kill the thinking machines. I want my revenge. Please… teach me."

  "I cannot." Noret hardened himself to the crestfallen expression of the Tyndall refugee. "However," he said, turning to Chirox after long consideration, "I have no objection… if you wish to train candidates on my behalf."

  Though he was an unorthodox trainer and met with considerable skepticism from veteran instructors, the combat robot began formal lessons for the breathless and ambitious pilgrims who came to Jool Noret's island.

  Within days after his master's departure, Chirox took two students, then twelve, and finally he led several shifts of eager mercenaries all through the daylight and nighttime hours. He instructed them in the basics of robot destruction techniques. And he needed no rest.

  Early each day the students threw themselves into the training with all the vehemence a teacher could hope for. Each of them wanted to be like the legendary Swordmaster of Ginaz, though when asked why, none of them could say precisely what their idol did that was different from the style of other mercenaries. Except that he was extremely fast, his actions rapid and undefined.

  Whenever the sensei mek felt that particular trainees were ready, he sent them off to be accepted as official mercenaries of Ginaz. Claiming to be followers of Jool Noret, each one drew an inscribed coral disk from a basket and adopted the spirit of a fallen mercenary.

  Then they headed out to pledge their fighting abilities to the Army of the Jihad.

  Loose ends have a way of strangling you.

  —General Agamemnon, New Memoirs

  Outside the jihad Council chambers, a news banner proclaimed, "Bela Tegeuse Liberated!" With the local Omnius destroyed, the planet was poorly protected and ready for the taking… if only the Army of the Jihad could move quickly enough.

  Hecate had fulfilled her promise, though she'd taken her sweet time informing Iblis Ginjo. He had heard nothing. With foreknowledge of her plans, he might have had a full armada of the Jihad prepared to pounce, another perfect victory that he could claim.

  But after living for so long, the female Titan did not seem overly concerned. When he'd pressed her, Hecate had been petulant, even openly indignant. "I provided full details to your representative exactly as you told me to do. Perhaps you'd better check to see if there's a breakdown in your own communications, hmm?" He had hated the taunt in her voice, but Yorek Thurr had insisted that he'd received no such message.

  Bela Tegeuse still waited, simmering and wounded. By now, the Grand Patriarch was sure their response would be too late. Nevertheless, he spearheaded a vigorous debate in the Jihad Council. Even if he failed, he could still claim visionary foresight.

  After learning about the attack on Bela Tegeuse, Iblis had carefully crafted a false letter and a fictional petition by a group of human survivors from the wreckage of Comati. Calling themselves "freedom fighters," they described what had happened, how a mysterious ship had destroyed the local Omnius, causing them to implore title League of Nobles to send military aid to them immediately, before the machines could reestablish their hold.

  "The streets and buildings of Bela Tegeuse are littered with broken, inoperable machines! The planetary Omnius is not functioning. What greater opportunity could there be?" he said in his most compelling voice. "Ragtag groups of humans are attacking the remaining robot defenders, but they have no appreciable military strength. This is our chance to succeed where we failed before. Imagine what a victory on Bela Tegeuse could mean for the Jihad!"

  But others, still stinging from the first bloody struggle there at the dawn of the Jihad, wanted more information, to send scouts, to gather a large enough fleet to make a difference. Iblis grew frustrated, knowing that all the while the machines were making their move.

  And Serena was not here. Giving him limited executive decision-making powers, she had returned to the City of Introspection to make final preparations for her imminent departure for the Thalim system, where she would inspect the Tlulaxa organ farms.

  Things had been so much more efficient when he was in charge all by himself.

  The debate went far into the night. As a military representative, Primero Vorian Atreides sat at the discussion table, looking as agitated and impatient as Iblis. The high-ranking officer, recently returned from establishing a military outpost on the Unallied Planet of Caladan, made an astonishing announcement concerning what he had done with the corrupted Omnius core through the duped robot captain who had delivered his deadly updates to many Synchronized Worlds.

  After hours of arguing, Vor said with a long sigh, "Bela Tegeuse is just sitting there, vulnerable. If we continue to talk about this endlessly, then we have already made our decision. Omnius will not wait."

  This caused some of the council members to waver. Two of them expressed limited agreement, and the others did not dispute their comments.

  The Grand Patriarch saw his fellow escapee from Earth as a strong ally, in this matter at least. With the tide already turning in Vorian's favor, he inserted himself into the debate. "Listen to Primero Atreides! He is a man of action, and experienced in these matters." Looking at the Jihad Council, realizing that they now followed Serena But
ler rather than jumping to act on his every whim, Iblis felt strangely ineffective. The answer was so plain!

  A side door opened, and Primero Xavier Harkonnen hurried in from his preparations to accompany Serena to Tlulax. He appeared weary and haggard, and his uniform was uncharacteristically disheveled. Looking around the domed chamber, he spotted Vorian Atreides and took a seat beside him. "Has the Council established a plan yet?"

  "Too much talk," Vor muttered in response. "I recommended sending in a division or two while we put together a full-fledged strike, but I barely got the sentence out before the shouting started. I have some supporters — maybe a majority — but the reluctant ones are managing to stall the proceedings. Some of them used your opposition to my computer virus trick in an attempt to discredit me."

  Xavier said, with a weary smile, "I'm usually the one calling for direct action, while you prefer more indirect methods."

  Following a brief break, a representative from Kirana III conferred with Iblis Ginjo. A small, swarthy man with a black mustache, the representative suggested that they set the measure aside for further study and discussion, "so that cooler heads might prevail on this important decision." He moved that the Council assemble all available information and reopen the discussion the following week.

  Several representatives seconded the motion.

  "Next: week?" Vor cried, rising to his feet.

  "Thai's too long!" Xavier shouted.

  "Everything will be lost!" Iblis said in despair, knowing he would have to forfeit the vote. He couldn't remember ever failing so pointedly before in the Jihad Council.

  "With all due respect, this Council has many important matters to handle," the Kirana representative said.

  Infuriated and frustrated, Iblis hung his head and wouldn't even meet the eyes of the two Primeros. The three of them knew mat Bela Tegeuse would now be lost again. Needlessly.

  "I have a question, General Agamemnon," the Corrin-Omnius said. The evermind's voice — coming from everywhere at once — was calm, but extremely threatening. "Would you like me to have your brain removed and pulverized?" Each word grew louder, vibrating throughout the flowmetal structure' of the Central Spire. "I have determined this to be an appropriate response to your extraordinary lapses and outright failures."

  Wearing a golden armored body that bristled with spikes and weapons ports, the Titan military leader replied, "It would be ill advised to do that to a valuable cymek such as myself, after ten centuries of productive service to the Synchronized Worlds. I am one of only three Titans who remain." He knew programming restrictions prevented Omnius from following through with his threat.

  All around him, the Central Spire's windowless walls clicked open and shut in a dizzying variety of colors and shapes. At times the flexible, shifting chamber seemed very large, but for the moment it had constricted dramatically, as if threatening to crush the Titan. Abruptly, when the walls were only centimeters from him, the room expanded as if drawing a deep breath.

  Next, the Central Spire swayed like a serpent, and Agamemnon used his walker-form's stabilizers to maintain his balance. He had never expected a pervasive computer evermind to play such immature tricks, like a child throwing a tantrum. Perhaps software damage from the corrupt Earth-Omnius update continued to plague this incarnation, leading to the peculiar behavior.

  These machines all deserve to be overthrown, destroyed… with or without Xerxes. Agamemnon made a conscious effort to prevent his mechanical body from twitching.

  "Do you believe I cannot find a way around the restrictions Barbarossa designed into my core programming?" Omnius asked. "To underestimate my abilities would be a severe mistake."

  Agamemnon contemplated this. If the evermind had discovered how to circumvent the primary command not to harm any of the Twenty Titans, wouldn't Omnius have destroyed the original cymeks long ago? "1 can only emphasize my continuing value to you, Omnius. Your machine empire has benefited greatly from my success in military operations. My body is a machine, while my brain is human. I represent the best of both worlds."

  "Your organic mental core is still flawed. You would do better without it."

  Agamemnon did not understand what had triggered this wave of denunciation, but he remained calm. "My human brain enables me to understand the enemy better. Efficient and logical thinking machines cannot comprehend the chaotic nature of humans. It would be a grave tactical blunder not to take advantage of all your resources."

  The floor beneath him plunged, as the cloud-scraping Central Spire contracted all the way to the ground. Abruptly the sensation of movement ceased, and the flowmetal walls became completely transparent, giving Agamemnon a nighttime view of the machine city. Arcing blue lights dazzled along the building exteriors; robot flying craft passed overhead.

  "This Hecate matter displeases me, if that is truly her identity." The sheer volume of Omnius's voice buffeted the cymek. "She is one of your Titans, and she should be under your control. Recently, she caused severe damage to Bela Tegeuse."

  "She is a former Titan, Omnius. Hecate has been in hiding for a thousand years. I accept no personal responsibility for her actions."

  "You should have tracked her down and eliminated her. Long ago."

  "But you have kept me occupied with other matters, Omnius. You have never given me leave to spend decades on a wild-goose chase looking for someone who, until recently, has caused no trouble whatsoever."

  Agamemnon suspected that the evermind's ostensible rage was no more than an elaborate bluff, yet another annoying pattern of intimidation. As if Omnius understood the slightest bit about manipulation!

  "Here is my generous decision, Agamemnon: I will allow you to live for a while longer, but you must put an end to Hecate. Secure Bela Tegeuse and reinstall a complete copy of my evermind there before the League humans can arrive to establish a foothold. You must hurry." Abruptly, the transparent walls sealed shut again with flowmetal barriers.

  "Yes, Omnius. I will do as you say."

  The voice shifted, coming from only a single direction. Overhead. "We have a bargain, then. If you deal with Hecate, you live. But if you fail, I shall squash you."

  "It is always my intent to serve you adequately, Omnius. But, as you say, the human remnants I carry with me make me less than perfect."

  "You amuse me, Agamemnon. But that is not enough."

  Seething with anger, the cymek general departed from the Central Spire and lurched down the street in his immense warrior form. Encountering two human slaves on the Corrin streets, he went out of his way to smash them against a wall. Other trustees bolted for the safety of nearby buildings.

  For centuries Agamemnon and his dwindling band of Titans served Omnius only because they had no choice. Now the general wanted more than ever to make his move against the evermind. At least that fool Xerxes could no longer get in the way.

  Resolve pulsed through him like an infusion of energy. He had waited long enough. The recent recruit Beowulf had already identified well over a hundred secretly disloyal neos. Agamemnon needed to seize the opportunity. Now.

  There would never be a better time or place than Bela Tegeuse.

  The human mind, facing no real challenges, soon grows stagnant. Thus it is essential for the survival of mankind as a species to create difficulties, to face them, and to prevail. The Butlerian Jihad was an outgrowth of this largely unconscious process, with roots back to the. original decision to allow thinking machines too much control, and the inevitable rise of the Omnius Empire.

  —Princess Irulan, Lessons of the Great Revolt

  Since the outpost colony of Kolhar had few commercial enterprises, Aurelius Venport had never been there. The bleak and stagnant planet was not the sort of place where he had ever envisioned profits.

  But once he received the communication from Norma — she was alive! — he could think of no place he would rather be. He would have gone anywhere to find her, undeterred by her cryptic comment, "Do not be surprised by what you see."

>   As a businessman, Venport knew that surprises frequently translated into lost revenues. VenKee Enterprises made the greatest profits with well-planned ventures based on sound business practices, personal experience, and reliable instincts. But he could think of no surprise more pleasant, more delightfully unexpected, than the knowledge that dear, precious Norma had survived.

  Her brief message had reached him in the pharmaceutical fields of Rossak, but provided him with no details. How had she escaped the Poritrin revolt? What had happened to the prototype space-folding ship? Where was Tuk Keedair? Why — and how — had she gone to… Kolhar, of all places?

  When he arrived at the unimpressive spaceport, Venport was even more astounded to see Zufa Cenva striding up to meet him. His former lover seemed to have changed, her expression less sour, her icy beauty a degree warmer.

  "Zufa, what are you doing here? I received a message from Norma —"

  "As did I." Her attitude seemed more positive than he had ever experienced in their years together, less hardened, more optimistic. "You will be amazed, Aurelius. This… this changes everything about the Jihad."

  Moments later her old demeanor returned, though, and with a maddening air of superiority Zufa refused to answer any of his inquiries. She assured him that Norma was alive and healthy, but revealed nothing more. Impatient and frustrated, he frowned at her; Zufa had always played mind-games, like a wrestler trying to get a leg up on him.

  She took him by railtaxi far from the outpost city to an even more isolated spot on a cold marshy plain bounded by rugged mountains. The ground, covered with patches of dirty snow and lumpy ice, crunched underfoot as the merchant followed the tall woman to a simple wooden cabin. A bare, sheltered bench was the only adornment on a small porch. On one side of the house, a lean-to sheltered a woodpile, although Venport noted no trees nearby.

  Striding across the wooden porch, Zufa pulled open the squeaky front door and gestured for him to follow her. He had stopped bothering with questions, and hurried forward, hoping to find Norma inside. He remembered her message — Do not be surprised by what you see — and took a deep breath. Smiling, he entered the modest dwelling.