He wiped sweat from his brow and smelled the gritty dust that rose from the work below. He looked at the electronic notepad in his hand, checking the progress against the schedule tally. Everything was proceeding well, as expected.
With his sharp eyes, he spotted a man leaning against a shaded wall, taking an unauthorized rest. With a smile, Iblis pointed an “encourager” pulse weapon at him and skimmed the man’s left leg with a beam of energy. The slave slapped the hot spot on his skin and whirled to look up at Iblis.
“Are you trying to make me look bad?” Iblis yelled. “What if Ajax came around and saw you falling asleep there? Would he kill you first, or me?”
Abashed, the man shouldered his way into the crowd of sweating laborers, where he resumed his work with renewed vigor.
Some work bosses found it necessary to kill slaves as examples to the others, but Iblis had never resorted to that tactic and vowed that he never would. He was certain it would break the inexplicable spell he had over the men. Instead, he only had to show disappointment in them, and they worked harder.
Every few days he delivered stirring, impromptu speeches. On such occasions the slaves received water and rest breaks, giving them renewed energy that more than made up for the time spent. The way he strung phrases together often brought cheers and enthusiasm, and only a few questions from bold slaves who wondered why they should be excited about yet another monument. The work leader’s talent lay in being utterly convincing.
Iblis hated the machine overlords, but concealed his feelings so effectively that his superiors actually trusted him. Now, in a fanciful moment, he envisioned destroying the computer evermind and installing himself in its place. Much more than a mere trustee. Think of it— Iblis Ginjo, ruler of all, knower of all!
He caught himself and dispelled the foolish daydream. Reality was a harsh teacher, like the sight of a cymek on a beautiful day. If Iblis didn’t complete the obelisk pedestal in time, Ajax would devise an extravagant punishment for them all.
The work leader didn’t dare fall behind schedule.
Each of us influences the actions of the people we know.
— XAVIER HARKONNEN,
comment to his men
For days, Tercero Xavier Harkonnen stayed up late working on defensive plans for the League. Since his sweet night with Serena— a sparkling promise of their future— he had devoted himself to the protection of free humanity.
On Salusa he flew practice missions, drilled new fighters, increased the number of picket ships on the system’s perimeter for a stronger first defense, and extended the scanning network to provide a better early-warning capability from deep space. Engineers and scientists dismantled and studied the warrior-forms abandoned by the cymeks and left behind in the ruins of Zimia, hoping to find flaws or weaknesses. With each breath in his replacement lungs, he felt outrage against the thinking machines.
He wanted to spend more time with Serena, dreaming of where they would go after the wedding, but driven by anger and private guilt about Giedi Prime, Xavier buried himself in work. If he had concentrated on the primary mission there, rather than mooning like a lovesick schoolboy, he might have noticed the defensive flaw and helped the Magnus to prepare. Even encouraging the immediate completion of the secondary shield generator would have made all the difference. But it was too late now.
Seemingly inconsequential mistakes could lead to huge events. Xavier promised himself that he would never lapse in his duties again, not for any reason. If that meant spending less time with Serena, she would understand.
Emergency staff meetings resulted in a revision of the military structure of the Armada, combining the resources and numerous warship designs from all the planetary militias and home guards. The special defensive needs and tactical significance of each League World were discussed in detail. Armada recruitment surged to new levels. Manufactories worked overtime to provide ships and weapons.
Xavier hoped it would be enough.
In his office on the top floor of the Joint Staff Building, electronic star maps covered the walls. Printed charts and reports cluttered every work surface. Each step of the way, he obtained the approval of the Joint Staff Commander, who in turn reviewed key elements with Viceroy Butler.
When he slept at all, Xavier did so in his office or in the underground barracks. For days he did not return home to the Tantor estate, though his mother often sent eager young Vergyl to deliver meals made especially for him.
Oddly, he had not heard from Serena, and assumed the Viceroy’s daughter was occupied with vital duties of her own. The two young lovers were alike in their ability to see large-scale priorities . . . and in their independence.
Determined to revamp League defenses, Xavier kept himself going with stimulant capsules and drinks. He rarely noted what time of day or night it was, heeding only the next meeting on his schedule. Now he blinked through his office window at the quiet streets and the city lights glittering in the darkness. How long had it been night time? The hours merged with each other, carrying him along like a pebble in a landslide.
In the final tally, how much could one man actually accomplish? Were some League Worlds already doomed, no matter what he did? Because of the distances between planets and slow space travel, communication was sluggish, and news was often stale by the time it reached Salusa Secundus.
His reliance on stimulants made him feel scratchy and ragged. He was awake, but so pummeled by fatigue that he could no longer focus. He heaved a huge sigh, staring blankly. At the side of the office, his adjutant, Cuarto Jaymes Powder, had cleared a spot on a table and rested his head on the polished wood.
When the door opened, Cuarto Powder did not stir, or even snore, but continued sleeping like the dead. Xavier was surprised to see Viceroy Butler stride in, also weary to the core. “We need to implement whatever you’ve got ready, Xavier. Funding is guaranteed. For the sake of morale, the people must see us doing something.”
“I know, but we need more than one solution, sir. Have Lord Bludd encourage Savant Holtzman to present any preliminary concepts he has under development.” He rubbed his eyes. “If nothing else, we need new options for our arsenal.”
“We already talked about that last night, Xavier— at great length.” The Viceroy looked at him strangely. “Don’t you remember? He has several prototype units almost ready.”
“Yes . . . of course. I was just reminding you.”
Xavier crossed the room and sat at an interactive information screen, a high-security system that flirted with the dangers of a computer. The electronic summary system could organize and provide vital data, but had no self-awareness. Many nobles— especially Bludd of Poritrin— resented the use of even such crude computers, but in times such as these, the summary systems were vital.
Passing his hand over the screen, Xavier made adjustments in his report to Parliament, including a compendium of planet-specific appendices, then printed the document, copies of which would be sent to each League World. Presently he handed a neat stack to the Viceroy, who perused the recommendations and signed his approval with a flourish. Then Serena’s father hurried out of the office, leaving the door open behind him.
At the table, Cuarto Powder stirred and sat up, bleary-eyed. Without a word, Xavier settled into the chair at his own desk. Across the room, the summary screen flashed in an aurora of light as technicians filled it with probing signals to make certain the system exhibited no glints of artificial intelligence.
As his aide drifted off again, Xavier dozed as well. In his groggy imagination he dreamed that Serena Butler was missing, along with a ship and military team. It seemed surreal to him, but plausible . . . then he realized with a start that he was not asleep at all anymore.
Powder stood at his desk with another officer, listening to the bad news. “She’s taken a blockade-runner, sir! Modified it with expensive armor and weaponry. She has a group of commandos with her. An old veteran, Ort Wibsen, agreed to lead them.”
Xavier strug
gled to throw off the confusion induced by weariness. After rubbing his scratchy eyes he was surprised to see Serena’s wide-eyed sister Octa standing behind the men. In a pale hand she held a gleaming black diamond necklace dangling from a coil of gold, which she hurriedly handed to him.
“Serena told me to wait five days, and then give this to you.” Octa seemed ethereal, delicate; she moved to his side, but would not meet his gaze.
Searching for answers, Xavier removed the necklace from the coil. When he touched the black diamonds, the perspiration on his hand activated a tiny projector that showed a small holo image of Serena. He stared at her, feeling astonishment and dread. The visual seemed to look directly at him.
“Xavier, my love, I have gone to Giedi Prime. The League would have argued the issue for months, while the conquered people suffer. I can’t permit that.” Her smile was heartbreaking, but hopeful. “I have a team of the best engineers, commandos, and infiltration specialists. We have all the equipment and expertise we need to slip in and activate the secondary shield transmitter. We will complete the construction and install the systems— enabling us to cut off the planet from thinking machine ships, while trapping the ones that are already there on the surface. You must bring in the Armada and recapture this world. We’re counting on you. Think of how much we can help humanity!”
Xavier was unable to believe what he was hearing. The image of Serena continued to speak her recorded message. “I will be waiting there, Xavier. I know you won’t let me down.”
Xavier clenched his hands until his knuckles whitened. If anyone could accomplish such a surprising mission, it was Serena Butler. She was impetuous, but at least she was trying to do something. And she knew her decision would force the rest of them to act.
Octa began crying softly at his side. Viceroy Butler rushed into the office, appalled at what he had heard.
“That’s just like her,” Xavier said. “Now we have to rally a response— there’s no choice.”
Think of war as behavior.
— GENERAL AGAMEMNON,
Memoirs
In an arena under the harsh sunlight of Earth’s equatorial zone, Agamemnon prepared to battle Omnius’s gladiator machine. The evermind treated these mock combats as challenges for the subservient Titans, a way for them to vent their anger and keep them preoccupied. But Agamemnon saw it as an opportunity to strike hard against his real enemy.
Two hundred and thirty years ago, human slaves and contractor robots had completed this semicircular, open-roofed coliseum for Omnius’s flashy battles. The evermind enjoyed testing the destructive capabilities of different robotic designs. Here, armored vehicles and self-aware artillery systems could clash under controlled circumstances.
Long ago, the genius Barbarossa had programmed an appreciation for combat and a thirst for conquest into the artificial intelligence that had evolved into Omnius. Even a thousand years later the computer evermind had never forgotten his taste for victory.
Sometimes these staged competitions pitted humans against machines. Randomly selected slaves from work gangs were given clubs, explosives, or cutting beams and thrown into the arena to face combat robots. The irrational violence of desperate humans never ceased to challenge the calculating mind of Omnius. At other times, the omnipresent computer preferred to demonstrate his own superiority against his cymeks.
In anticipation of the next gladiatorial challenge, Agamemnon had spent considerable effort in designing his new combat body. Omnius sometimes pitted his sleekest, most sophisticated models against the Titans; on other occasions, he responded with absurdly massive monstrosities that would never have been viable in any real struggle. It was all for show.
Months ago, when Barbarossa had achieved a particularly fine victory against Omnius, the cymek had demanded permission to attack the feral humans as a reward. While the strike on Salusa Secundus had not gone well, the Titans’ second effort had conquered Giedi Prime. Barbarossa was even now overseeing dozens of neo-cymeks in the subjugation of the people there, a Titan once more in charge of a world. At last, it was a step in the right direction . . .
If he succeeded in winning in the arena today, Agamemnon had plans of his own.
With sirens blaring to announce the new event, Agamemnon rolled forward on resilient walker pads and passed between the Corinthian columns of Challenger’s Gate. He could feel the thrumming strength of his stepped-up mobility systems, the pulse of increased power surging through his neurelectric pathways.
Inside this gladiator-form, his low-slung body core consisted of a pair of reinforced spheres— one surrounded by opaque armor, the other made of transparent alloyglas. Within the clear globe hung the grayish white hemispheres of his human brain, drifting in a pale-blue electrafluid and connected to thoughtrodes. Faint photon discharges crackled along the cerebral lobes as the cymek body moved forward, ready to fight.
Around the double-sphere core, bulky drive motors hummed inside protective cowlings. Engines worked the smooth hydraulics of four grappling legs. Each articulated limb ended with a shifting mass of adaptable metal polymer that could shape itself into a variety of hardened weapons.
Agamemnon had constructed this ferocious gladiator-form under the buzzing gaze of watcheyes that monitored his every move. Omnius supposedly filed all such information in a segregated portion of his evermind, so as not to gain an unfair combat advantage. Or so Omnius claimed.
While Agamemnon waited, poised for battle, his opponent strode forward, controlled directly by the evermind. Omnius had selected a walking suit of exaggerated medieval armor: two massive legs with feet like the foundations of a building and arms that ended in gauntleted fists as large as the body core itself. The proportions were grossly exaggerated, like a child’s nightmare of a bully. Spikes extruded from the massive knuckles on Omnius’s goliath robot, and apocalyptic discharges arced from point to point on the thorny fist.
Agamemnon pushed forward on armored walker pads while raising his crablike forelimbs, the adaptable-polymer ends of each morphing into claws. Even if he won the contest today, the evermind would suffer nothing, would not even have the grace to be humiliated in defeat.
On the other hand, Omnius could accidentally destroy the Titan’s brain canister. Unforseen things happened in battle situations, and maybe Omnius— despite his programming that prevented him from intentionally killing a Titan— was counting on that. For Agamemnon, this fight was for real.
A few designated robotic observers watched from the stands through enhanced optic threads, but they remained silent. Agamemnon did not require applause anyway. The other polished stone seats in the coliseum remained empty, reflecting daylight from the open sky. The large stadium, like an echoing tomb, had all the room necessary for two gigantic foes to clash.
No announcement preceded the fight, no information piped over loudspeakers. Agamemnon launched his attack first.
The Titan raised his whiplike grappling arms, hardened them with a shifting diamond film, and drove forward on heavy walker pads. With surprising agility, Omnius’s goliath robot lifted an enormous leg and sidestepped the attack.
Agamemnon lunged with another of his forelimbs, this one capped with a spherical wrecking ball that fired disruptive, paralyzing energy. The pulse thrummed through vulnerable systems, and Omnius’s warrior shuddered.
Suddenly the goliath swiveled, raising a gauntleted fist to smash the cymek’s segmented arm. Even the diamond film could not endure the blow, which bent Agamemnon’s forelimb until it ripped from the flexible socket. The cymek dismissed the damage and reversed his walker pads, ejecting the unsalvageable limb. He swung up a cutting arm that metamorphosed into a flurry of shimmering diamond blades.
Agamemnon sawed through his opponent’s armored torso, severing a set of neurelectric control threads. Greenish fluid sprayed out from chopped lubricant channels. The combat goliath swung his other spiked fist, but Agamemnon danced his walker pads sideways and shifted his vulnerable body core, keeping the brain canis
ter safe.
When his swing missed completely, the heavy blow overbalanced the gladiator robot. Agamemnon brought up two slicing arms, hacking at the goliath’s arm joints with white-hot cutting irons. He found vulnerable spots with surprising ease, and the goliath’s right arm dangled useless, a tangle of neurelectric fibers and conductive fluids.
To assess the damage, Omnius dragged his unwieldy fighter two thundering steps backward. Agamemnon pressed his advantage, closing to grappling distance. Then he unleashed his first major surprise.
From a concealed compartment within the old-fashioned engine housing, a trapdoor irised open, and eight reinforced conductor-fiber cables sprang out, each tipped with a magnetic connector claw. The cables flew like a nest of startled vipers and slammed into the reeling goliath. As soon as the tips struck home, Agamemnon released a huge energy discharge. Lightning flared up and down the massive body of Omnius’s fighter.
The cymek general expected this insidious blow to knock the combat robot completely offline, but Omnius must have shielded his fighting unit well. Agamemnon sent another paralytic pulse like a scorpion’s sting, but still the Omnius gladiator did not fall. Instead, as if in anger, the machine swung its mammoth gauntlet with the force of a colliding train, putting all of his energy and momentum behind a single blow.
The spiked fist struck true, slamming into the transparent preservation sphere that held the disembodied brain. A major jamming surge pulsed out of the knuckle spikes, and a shaped fracture wave shattered the curved glass walls of the protected brain canister. Through the breached container walls, electrafluid spilled like blue gushing blood. Thoughtrodes tore, and the brain fell from its suspender wires, dangling naked in the open, hot air.
It might have been the death of Agamemnon.
But the cymek general had devised his own trick. The brain inside the transparent container was only a decoy, a synthetic reproduction of his cerebral contours. Agamemnon’s actual brain was inside the opaque metal-walled sphere, from which he controlled the gladiator-form. Safe and intact.
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 17
