The Earth-Omnius already knew about the recapture of Giedi Prime because of an automated emergency buoy launched by the robot Seurat, whose update ship had unexpectedly encountered the disaster in its duties. The alarming message had reached Earth only that morning.
“I was not given data that the Sorceresses of Rossak had developed this capability of telepathic destruction.” The robot’s face shimmered back into its blank oval smoothness. “Why not also ask your questions of Vorian Atreides when he returns to Earth? The son of Agamemnon has helped us to simulate unstable human behavior before.”
Omnius said, “Even his input could not have prepared us for what happened to Giedi Prime. Sentient biologicals are unpredictable and reckless.”
As the sentinel robots dragged the squirming twins away, Erasmus directed his attention to the watcheye. “Then it is obvious I have more work to do.”
“No, Erasmus, it is obvious that your research is not yielding the desired results. You should strive for perfection, rather than investigating compounded errors. I recommend that you overwrite your mind core with a subset of my program. Turn yourself into a perfect machine. A copy of me.”
“You would sacrifice our fascinating, open-ended debates?” Erasmus responded, fighting to conceal his inner alarm. “You have always expressed an interest in my peculiar manner of thinking. All the everminds especially look forward to your record of my actions.”
The buzzing of the watcheye intensified, indicating that Omnius was shifting his thought pathways. This was a worrisome, volatile situation. Erasmus did not want to lose his carefully developed independent identity.
One of the twin girls tried to break away from the robotic guards and run back toward the dubious safety of the pens. As Erasmus had suggested beforehand, the guard lifted her sister by one arm, leaving her to dangle screaming. The free twin hesitated, though she could easily have reached the temporary shelter. Slowly, she came to a stop, surrendering.
Fascinating, Erasmus thought. And the sentinel robot did not even have to inflict cellular damage on the other girl.
Thinking quickly, the robot said, “Perhaps if I diverted my attention to matters of military significance, you would more easily see the potential of my work. Let me understand the mentality of these wild humans for you. What drives them to such self-sacrifice, as we witnessed on Giedi Prime? If I can distill an explanation, your Synchronized Worlds will no longer be vulnerable to unpredictable attacks.”
The watcheye hovered as a million possibilities showered through the abundant mind of Omnius. Presently, the computer made his decision. “You have my permission to proceed. But do not continue to test my patience.”
People require continuity.
— BOVKO MANRESA,
First Viceroy of the League of Nobles
On Poritrin, the virulent fever raced through the mudflats and docks where slaves made their dreary homes. Despite the best quarantine and mitigation efforts, the disease killed a number of officials and merchants, and even spread as far as the slaves in Tio Holtzman’s blufftop laboratories, where it caused quite a disruption in the scientist’s work.
When Holtzman first noticed symptoms of the illness among his crowded equation solvers, he immediately ordered removal of the sick ones to isolation chambers and sealed off the remainder of the calculating teams. The distracted Savant thought the slaves would rejoice at being relieved of their mathematical chores; instead the solvers moaned and prayed, asking why the hand of God would strike them rather than their oppressors.
Within two weeks, half of his household slaves had either died or been quarantined. Such a shift in daily routines was not conducive to the Savant’s mental work.
Several large-scale simulations had been under way, following the gradual development of parameters established by the talented Norma Cenva. Groaning at the inconvenience, Holtzman knew that stopping the lengthy work in midstream would necessitate new teams to start over again. To maintain his stature, he needed a major breakthrough soon.
Lately his reputation had been supported more by Norma’s work than his own. Naturally, he had taken full credit for modifying the scrambler-field generators into an offensive weapon. Lord Bludd had delighted in presenting two prototypes to the Armada liberation force for Giedi Prime. Indeed, the scrambler projectors had served the rescuers well, but the prototypes had consumed enough energy to ground two troop transports, and the devices themselves had broken down— irreparably— after only one use. In addition, the disruptive pulse had yielded uneven results, since many robots had been shielded by walls or unaffected by the dissipating field. Still, the idea showed promise, and the nobles urged Holtzman to work on improvements, without ever knowing about Norma’s involvement.
At least Holtzman’s reputation was secure again. For a while.
Norma was quiet but diligent. Rarely interested in diversions or amusements, she worked hard and scrutinized her own ideas. Despite Holtzman’s wishes, she insisted on performing most calculations personally rather than handing them off to solver teams. Norma was too independent to understand the economics of delegating tasks. Her dedication made her a rather dull person.
After rescuing the young prodigy from her obscurity on Rossak, he had hoped, unrealistically perhaps, that Norma might provide him with sudden inspiration. During a recent cocktail party in Lord Bludd’s conical towers, the nobleman had made a joke about Holtzman taking a holiday from his usual brilliance. Though the comment had stung, the inventor had laughed along with the other tittering nobles. Still, it high-lighted— in his own mind, at least— that he had not created anything really original in some time.
Following a restless night of bizarre dreams, Holtzman finally came up with a concept to explore. Expanding some of the electromagnetic features he had used for his scrambler fields, he might be able to create an “alloy resonance generator.” Properly tuned, a thermal-field inducer would couple with metals— the bodies of robots, for instance, or even the crablike warrior-forms worn by cymeks. Given the correct adjustment, the resonance generator could slam selected metal atoms against each other, generating enormous heat until the machine shook itself apart.
The concept seemed promising. Holtzman intended to pursue its development with full enthusiasm and haste.
But first he needed more solvers and assistants to construct the prototype. And now he had to waste a day on the mundane task of replacing the household slaves that had died from the fever. With a frustrated sigh, he left his laboratories and trudged down the zigzag trail to the base of the bluffs, where he caught a jetboat across the river.
On the opposite shore, at the widest part of the delta, he visited a bustling river market. Rafts and barges had been lashed together for so long that they might well have been part of the landscape. The merchants’quarter was not far from the Starda spaceport, where vendors provided offworld oddities: drugs from Rossak, interesting woods and plants from Ecaz, gems from Hagal, musical instruments from Chusuk.
In shops that fronted a narrow alley, tailors were copying the latest Salusan fashions, cutting and sewing exotic imported cloths and fine Poritrin linens. Holtzman had used many of these garment makers to enhance his personal wardrobe. An eminent Savant such as himself could not spend all of his time in the laboratories. After all, he was frequently called upon to make public appearances to answer questions from citizens and often spoke before committees of nobles, to convince them of his continued importance.
But today Holtzman made his way farther out onto the floating rafts and barges. He needed to purchase people, not clothes. The scientist saw a sign on the dock ahead, in Galach:HUMAN RESOURCES. He crossed creaking boardwalks and gangplanks to a cluster of rafts that held captives. Grouped in lots behind barricades, the sullen prisoners were dressed in drab, identical uniforms, many of which fit badly. The slaves were lean and angular, as if unaccustomed to eating regular meals. These men and women came from planets that few of the free citizens of Poritrin had ever heard of, much les
s visited.
Their handlers seemed aloof, not particularly eager to show off wares or haggle over prices. After the recent plague, many households and estates needed to replace their personnel, and it was a sellers’market.
Other customers crowded against the railings, scrutinizing the downcast faces, inspecting the merchandise. One old man clutching a wad of credits summoned the tender and asked for a closer look at four middle-aged females.
Holtzman was not particularly picky, nor did he want to waste time.
Since he needed so many slaves, he intended to buy an entire lot. Once they arrived at his blufftop estate, he would choose the most intelligent ones to work calculations, while the remainder would cook, clean, or maintain his household.
He hated these menial shopping duties, but had never delegated them in the past. He smiled, realizing he had been critical of Norma for doing the very same thing, for her failure to use solvers.
Impatient and eager, Holtzman summoned the nearest handler, waving Niko Bludd’s credit authorization and pushing himself to the front. “I want a large order of slaves.”
The Human Resources merchant bustled over, grinning and bowing. “Of course, Savant Holtzman! What you require, I shall provide. Simply specify your needs, and I will provide a competitive quotation.”
Suspicious that the merchant might try to cheat him, he said, “I need slaves that are smart and independent, but capable of following instructions. Seventy or eighty will do, I suppose.” Some of the customers pushing close to the railing grumbled, but did not challenge the celebrity inventor.
“Quite a demand,” the vendor said, “especially in these lean times. The plague has created a shortage, until the Tlulaxa flesh merchants deliver more.”
“Everyone knows how important— and essential— my work is,” Holtzman said, pointedly removing a chronometer from the wide sleeve of his white robe. “My needs take precedence over some rich citizen looking to replace a house cleaner. If you like, I will obtain a special dispensation from Lord Bludd.”
“I know you can do that, Savant,” said the slave tender. He shouted at the other customers pushing forward. “All of you, quit your complaining! Without this man, we’d be sweeping the floors for thinking machines right now!” Putting on another face, the handler smiled back at Holtzman. “The question, of course, is which slaves would best serve you? I have a new batch just delivered from Harmonthep: Zensunnis, all of them. Suitably docile, but I’m afraid they go for a premium.”
Holtzman frowned. He preferred to use his finances in other ways, especially considering the large investment that would be necessary for his new alloy-resonator concept. “Do not attempt to take advantage of me, sir.”
The man reddened, but held his ground, sensing that the inventor was in a hurry. “Perhaps another group would be more suitable then? I have some just in from IV Anbus.” He gestured to a separate raft where dark-haired slaves stared out with hostile expressions, challenging the customers. “They are Zenshiites.”
“What’s the difference? Are they less expensive?”
“A simple matter of religious philosophy.” The slave merchant waited for some recognition, didn’t see it, then smiled with relief. “Who can understand the Buddislamics, anyway? They’re workers, and that’s what you need, right? I can sell you these Zenshiites for a lower price, even though they’re quite intelligent. Probably better educated than the Harmonthep lot. They’re healthy, too. I have medical certifications. Not one of them has been exposed to the plague virus.”
Holtzman perused the group. They all had rolled up their left sleeves, as if it were some kind of badge. Up front, a muscular man with fiery eyes and a thick black beard gazed back at him dispassionately, as if he considered himself superior to those who held him captive.
With his cursory inspection, Holtzman could see nothing wrong with the IV Anbus captives. His household was desperately understaffed, and his laboratories needed more low-level technicians. Every day it was a struggle to find enough solvers to work through the increasingly complex sets of equations.
“But why are they cheaper?” he persisted.
“They are more plentiful. It’s a simple matter of supply and demand.” The slave vendor held his gaze. He named a price.
Too impatient to haggle for the best deal, Holtzman nodded. “I’ll take eighty of them.” He raised his voice. “I don’t care if they’re from IV Anbus or Harmonthep. They’re on Poritrin now, and they work for Savant Tio Holtzman.”
The crafty slave merchant turned to the group of captives and shouted. “You hear that? You should be proud.”
The dark-haired captives simply looked back at their new master, saying nothing. Holtzman was relieved. That probably meant they would be more tractable.
He transferred the correct amount of credits. “See that they are cleaned up and sent to my residence.”
The grinning slave handler thanked him profusely. “Don’t you worry, Savant Holtzman. You’ll be satisfied with this lot.”
As the great man left the crowded river market, other customers began to shout and wave their credit vouchers, squabbling over the remaining slaves. It promised to be a furious day of bidding.
Over the course of history, the stronger species invariably wins.
— TLALOC,
A Time for Titans
After taking refuge in the Arrakis wasteland, the Zensunni Wanderers were little more than scavengers, and not very brave. Even on their most distant excursions to collect useful items, the nomads remained close to the rocks, avoiding the deep desert and the demon worms.
Long ago, after the Imperial chemist Shakkad the Wise had remarked on the rejuvenating properties of the obscure spice melange, there had been a small market for the natural substance among offworlders at the Arrakis City spaceport. However, the planet’s distance from popular spacing lanes had never made melange an economically attractive item. “An oddity, not a commodity,” one surly merchant had told Naib Dhartha. Still, spice was a staple in the food supply, and it must be gathered . . . but only on sands close to the rocks.
Dhartha led a party of six across a ridge of packed powder sand that held their footprints as if they were kisses in the dust. Loose white cloths around their heads and faces exposed only their eyes; their cloaks blew in the breeze, revealing equipment belts, tools, and weapons. Dhartha snugged the cloth higher over his nose to keep from breathing grit. He scratched the tattoo etched so painstakingly onto his cheek, then narrowed his eyes, always alert for danger.
No one thought to watch the clear morning skies until they heard a faint whistle growing quickly into a howl. To Naib Dhartha, it sounded like a woman who had just learned of her husband’s death.
Looking up, he saw a silvery bullet that tore through the atmosphere, then recognized the unexpected hum and whine of thrusters. A bubble-shaped object plummeted through the sky, spun about and see-sawed in the open air as if choosing a place to land. Quad engines slowed its descent. Then, less than a kilometer from where the scavenging party stood, the object slammed into the dunes like a fist thumping into the stomach of a dishonest merchant. A spray of dust and sand shot upward, embracing a tendril of dark soot.
The Naib stood stiffly and stared, while his men began to jabber excitedly. Young Ebrahim was as enthralled as Dhartha’s own son, Mahmad; both boys wanted to race out and investigate.
Mahmad was a good lad, respectful and cautious. But Dhartha had a low opinion of Ebrahim, who liked to tell stories and talk of imaginary exploits. Then there was the incident in which tribal water had been stolen, an unforgivable crime. Initially the Naib had thought two boys were involved, Ebrahim and Selim. But Ebrahim had been quick to disavow any responsibility and to point the finger at the other boy. Selim had seemed shocked at the accusation, but had not denied it.
In addition, Ebrahim’s father had stepped forward to make a generous deal with Dhartha to save his son . . . and so the orphan boy had received the ultimate sentence of banishment. Not
much of a loss to the tribe. A Naib often had to make such difficult decisions.
Now, as the scavengers looked at Dhartha, their bright eyes glinting between folds of dirty white cloth, he knew he could not ignore the opportunity of this crashed ship, whatever it was. “We must go see this thing,” he called.
His men rushed across the sands, boisterous Ebrahim and Mahmad in the lead, hurrying toward the pillar of dust that marked the impact. Dhartha did not like to stray far from the sheltering rock, but the desert beckoned them toward a rich, alien treasure.
The nomads crested one dune, slid down the slipface, and scurried up another. By the time they reached the impact crater, they were all winded, panting hot breaths that were smothered by the cloths over their mouths. The Naib and his men stood on the high lip of excavated sand. Glassy smears of superheated silica had splattered like saliva on the ground.
Inside the pit lay a mechanical object the size of two men, with protrusions and components that hummed and moved, awakening now that it had landed. The carbon fiber-encased body still smoked from the heat of reentry. A spacecraft, perhaps?
One of Dhartha’s men stepped back, making a warding sign with his fingers. Overzealous Ebrahim, though, bent forward. The Naib put a hand on Mahmad’s left arm, cautioning his son. Let the foolish one take the risks.
The crashed pod was too small to carry passengers. The lights blinked brighter, and the probe’s sides opened like dragon wings to expose mechanical limbs, articulated claws, and complex machinery inside. Scanners, processors, engines of investigation and destruction. Mirrorlike power converters spread out in the glare of the sun.
Ebrahim slid down the churned sand at the edge of the pit. “Imagine what this would be worth at the spaceport, Naib! If I get to it first, I should receive the largest salvage share.”
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 25
