Selim’s legend would continue to grow . . . like a verdant green tree sprouting in the middle of the barren sands, where it should not have been able to survive.
Mother and child: An enduring, but ultimately mysterious image of humanity.
— ERASMUS,
Reflections on Sentient Biologicals
Little Manion became a bright spot in Serena’s captive life, like a candle flickering in a pit of darkness.
“Your infant is an extraordinarily time-intensive and distracting creature,” Erasmus said. “I do not understand why it requires so much attention.”
Serena had been gazing into Manion’s large, inquisitive eyes, but turned her head toward the robot’s polished mirror face. “He will be only three months old tomorrow. At this age, he can’t do anything for himself yet. He has to grow and learn. Human babies need to be nurtured.”
“Machines are fully functional from the day of their programming.” Erasmus sounded smug.
“That explains a lot. For us, life is a gradual developmental process. Without nurturing, we can’t survive,” she said. “You have never been nurtured. I think you should make improvements to the way you raise the slave children in your pens. Show them more kindness, encourage their curiosity.”
“Another one of your suggested improvements? How many disruptive changes do you expect me to make?”
“As many as I can think of. You must have seen a change in the people. They seem more alive now, after experiencing just a bit of compassion.”
“Your compassion, not mine. And the slaves know it.” The sentient robot flowed his pliable face into a now-familiar perplexed expression. “Your mind is such a mass of contradictions, it is amazing you manage to survive each day without undergoing a mental meltdown. Especially with that child.”
“The human mind is more resilient than you imagine, Erasmus.” Serena held the baby close. Each time the robot complained about how much disruption Manion caused, she feared he would take the infant away. She had seen the crowded, inhuman creches filled with wailing, low-caste youths. Although she had managed to improve the living conditions among these bestial slaves, she could not bear to have her own baby placed in their care.
Now Erasmus stood beside a gaudy swordfish statue, watching Serena play with the baby on a sunny afternoon. The two of them splashed in one of the villa’s shallow aquamarine pools on a high terrace that offered spectacular views of the frothing ocean. Serena heard the pounding of surf, and the honking of geese that approached overhead.
Naked in his mother’s arms, Manion splashed and squealed, patting his hands awkwardly on the water. The robot had suggested that Serena swim naked as well, but she insisted on wearing a simple white swimming garment.
As always, Erasmus stared at her and the baby. She tried to ignore the robot’s scrutiny, as long as she had a peaceful hour to spend with Manion. Already, she could see how much her son would resemble Xavier. But would the boy ever have the freedom, the forceful personality, and the dedication to fight the thinking machines?
Where once she had thought in terms of large-scale League political and military matters, Serena Butler now concerned herself only with the safety of her child. Her worries were personal now, specific instead of grandiose. With renewed energy, she worked hard on her household duties in order to earn time with Manion, giving Erasmus no excuse to punish her.
The robot must realize that he now had a stronger hold over her than ever. He seemed to enjoy it when she verbally sparred with him, but she also grudgingly showed her appreciation for the minor freedoms Erasmus granted. Though she had never stopped hating her captor, Serena knew that he held her fate— and Manion’s— in a delicate balance.
When she looked at her son’s jutting chin and the determined set of his little mouth, she thought of Xavier and his stubborn devotion to duty. Why didn’t I just stay with him? Why did I have to save Giedi Prime? Couldn’t I have been an ordinary woman for once?
The honking geese grew louder as they flew directly over the villa, not caring whether humans or machines ruled the Earth. Whitish gray splatters of excrement struck the patio, one hitting the swordfish statue near the robot. Erasmus did not seem disturbed. It was all part of the natural order, as far as he was concerned.
In the shallow pool, Manion made a cooing giggle as he looked in the direction of the flying geese. Even at three months, he showed a curiosity about everything. Sometimes he tried to tug at the golden barrette in Serena’s hair with his pudgy fingers, or at the sparkling jewelry Erasmus liked her to wear; the robot seemed to be grooming her as a hostess for his villa, an ornate decoration in his household.
Erasmus stepped closer to the pool and looked down at the baby who splashed happily in the water while his mother held him. “I never comprehended how much distraction and chaos an infant could cause in an orderly and calm household. I find it most . . . unsettling.”
“Humans thrive on distraction and chaos,” she said, trying to sound upbeat, though she felt a chill. “It is how we learn to innovate, to be flexible, and to survive.” She climbed out of the pool with the baby and wrapped him in a soft white towel. “Think of all the times human ingenuity has thwarted Omnius’s schemes.”
“And yet, the thinking machines have conquered you.”
“Are we really conquered, Erasmus, in any real sense?” She raised her eyebrows, one of her mannerisms that he found maddeningly enigmatic. “Many planets remain free of thinking machines. If you are superior, then why do you struggle so hard to emulate us?”
The inquisitive robot did not understand the emotional bonding between mother and son. Despite her firm tone, he was most surprised to see the mellow changes in this woman who had previously been so fierce and independent. She seemed a different person after becoming a mother. She had never served him with half the attention she gave to that messy, noisy, useless infant.
While this investigation into human relationships had provided interesting data, Erasmus could not permit such a disturbance to his household in the future. The baby was disrupting his efficient daily life, and he wanted Serena’s undivided attention. Together, they had important work to do; caring for the infant had made her lose focus.
As Erasmus stared at little Manion, the robot’s thin flowmetal mask shifted to a ferocious scowl— which he quickly changed to a benign smile before Serena looked in his direction.
Soon, this phase of the experiment must end. He considered how best to accomplish that.
Patience is a weapon best wielded by one who knows his specific target.
— IBLIS GINJO,
Options for Total Liberation
For eight nerve-wracking months, Iblis Ginjo had operated on his own, making decisions and letting his imagination judge the extent of unrest among the slaves. As a trustee, he received certain privileges, but he had never truly seen how awful their lives were, foolishly thinking that his minimal rewards and praise made their days tolerable. How had they endured for so many centuries?
Iblis was convinced there must be other secret ringleaders and resistance fighters. Cogitor Eklo and his secondary Aquim had promised to help, and he could only guess at what resources or means they might have. However, apart from Ajax’s constant suspicions and the execution of Ohan Freer, the thinking machines seemed to have no inkling of the incredible uprising they were about to face.
Soon that would change.
For weeks Iblis had exerted himself quietly but intently, whispering to his faithful workers, smoothly recruiting them into his circle of dissent. He had prepared them for the possibility of a revolt, and in spite of the danger, they had excitedly passed the message among themselves. Iblis swore that this uprising would not become another lost cause like the first Hrethgir Rebellions.
In the past two months, a determined Iblis had nearly doubled the ranks of his secret organization, with many more people attempting to join. He could feel the wave building. To become part of the spreading resistance, each convert had to pas
s through a series of blind names and defensive layers recommended by the monk Aquim.
The hundreds in his organization were divided into small cells of no more than ten, so that each member knew the identities of only a few others. All the while, they continued to spread the word, the goal, the excitement, and caution. It was as if they had been waiting a thousand years for this.
Cogitor Eklo had given a somewhat esoteric explanation of how the movement could achieve an exponential growth rate by following a basic model of biology, cells multiplying through mitosis. Members of each rebel cell would grow, break loose, and form new ones, which would continue in the same fashion. Sooner or later, they would encounter other groups and merge, drawing strength from each other. Ultimately the dissenters would reach critical mass, and there would be a flash of energy, like an electrochemical charge. . . .
Nothing is impossible.
Iblis had received additional secret communications at unpredictable times. The mysterious notes were maddeningly general, providing no specifics of other rebel cells, or what he was expected to accomplish. When it occurred, the revolt would be large but alarmingly uncoordinated, and Iblis feared that disorganization in the face of highly structured thinking machines would doom the movement to failure. On the other hand, the very unpredictability of human beings might be their greatest advantage.
Now, when Iblis returned home after three days of nonstop work on the Victory of the Titans frieze, he saw an old slave slipping out of his bungalow. Hurrying inside, Iblis discovered another message on top of his bedding. He rushed out to confront the old man in the yard. “Stop! I want to talk to you.”
The old slave froze, like a rabbit about to bolt, trained never to resist the commands of a crew boss. Iblis ran to him, perspiring in the lingering heat of the day. “Who sent you? Tell me!”
The slave shook his wrinkled head. A peculiar, glazed expression crossed his face. He opened his mouth and pointed at it. The tongue had been removed.
Undeterred, Iblis thrust an electronic notepad at him, after clearing the screen with which he kept track of the crew’s activities. The man shrugged, as if to indicate his inability to read or write. With a scowl, Iblis saw this as an effective means of preventing discovery and cross-contamination among the rebel cells. Disappointed, he let the slave go, whispering, “Keep up the resistance. Nothing is impossible.” The old slave didn’t seem to understand, and hurried off.
Iblis returned to his bungalow and read the brief message: “Soon we will be united. Nothing will stop us. You have made great progress, but you must continue for now without our help.” Already, the lettering on the thin metal sheet had begun to corrode and vanish. “Advance your plans, and watch for a sign.”
In the distance, beyond the megalithic cymek monuments, the yellow sun was dropping below the western horizon. Watch for a sign.
Iblis narrowed his eyes. If Omnius or one of the Titans discovered the plot too early, the revolt might fail. The crew boss had never considered himself a hero. He was working to free humans, but knew that a part of him also wanted to succeed for the benefit of his own ego. He must take advantage of his ability to sway opinions and inspire action among the slaves.
Slaves were easily encouraged to dream of freedom, but when second thoughts set in they feared reprisals from the thinking machines. During such moments of doubt, Iblis could gaze at his followers and speak hushed words with a deep intensity, convincing them of the unstoppable success of their movement. He had them under his complete physical and psychological control. His leadership skills had never failed him, and recently he had discovered new, hypnotic aspects of his personality. . . .
Iblis’s teams maintained the oppressive work schedule on the Victory of the Titans frieze. His handpicked people labored at the exhibit with only a few robot guards and a neo-cymek in view, which had allowed them to surreptitiously incorporate the deadly components suggested by Cogitor Eklo. Similarly, Iblis had installed concealed weaponry at four other work sites around the capital city grid. Even the robot Erasmus had requested skilled laborers for modifications to his villa . . . and Iblis saw potential advantages there.
Inside his dim bungalow, Iblis held the metal message sheet, now entirely blank. He discarded it into a scrap pile that would be delivered to a recycler. The machines were very efficient at utilizing materials and minimizing industrial energy expenditures.
Even with only snippets of information, Iblis vowed to make all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. His core of dissatisfied workers was ready to rise up and smash thinking machines; the need to vent their anger built with each day.
Iblis could not wait forever. At some point, he might have to strike out on his own. He hoped the promised sign would come soon.
One of the greatest problems in our universe is how to control procreation, and the energy hidden in it. You can drag humans around by this energy, making them do things they would never imagine themselves capable of. The energy— call it love, lust, or any number of terms— must have an outlet. Bottle it up and it gets very dangerous.
— IBLIS GINJO,
Options for Total Liberation
For months Erasmus tolerated the disruptive baby, but by the time little Manion was half a year old, the robot grew frustrated at the lack of progress in his own research. He wanted to move on to other investigations, and this unruly child was in the way. Something must be done.
With her misplaced priorities, Serena had grown increasingly protective of her son. She devoted more time and energy to the useless child than she did to Erasmus. Clearly unacceptable. It must never happen again.
Because she intrigued him, though, he had granted Serena far more freedom than any slave deserved. The baby gave her nothing in return, but she hung on the creature’s every breath and whimper. It seemed a poor investment in time and resources.
Erasmus encountered her walking in the rear garden, holding Manion in her arms as she made her way between rows of plantings. The boy, ever-curious, gurgled his delight at the colorful flowers. She talked to it, using silly words and endearing tones. Motherhood had turned the intelligent and intense Serena into a buffoon.
One day Erasmus would make sense of these human personality traits. Already he had learned many important things, but he wanted to work faster.
For her own part, Serena thought her robot master was behaving more strangely than ever. He trailed her like a misshapen shadow, thinking she didn’t notice him. His increasingly hostile reaction to Manion gave her cause for anxiety and dread.
At six months old, the boy could crawl around quickly, if awkwardly, and had a baby’s skill at getting into trouble when he wasn’t closely watched. Serena worried about him breaking fragile objects and making messes when her duties forced her to leave him in the care of other household slaves.
Erasmus seemed oblivious to the infant’s safety. Twice now, when Serena had been performing assigned tasks, the robot had turned him loose to crawl through the villa, as if to see whether Manion could survive the numerous household hazards.
Only a few days ago, she had found her son at the edge of the high balcony overlooking the flagstone plaza in front of the main building. Snatching him to safety, Serena had snapped at Erasmus. “I don’t expect a thinking machine to worry, but you seem to have no common sense, either.” The comment had merely amused him.
Another time, she had intercepted Manion at an outer door to the robot’s sealed vivisection laboratories, which were off-limits even to her. Erasmus had warned her not to pry. Though she agonized over the torment the inquisitive robot must be inflicting on other hapless slaves, for the sake of her child she dared not press the issue.
Curiously, Erasmus seemed to be intrigued by emotions while despising them at the same time. She had caught him practicing exaggerated facial expressions when he stared at baby Manion, his flowing synthetic skin displaying a parade of theater masks that ranged from revulsion to perplexity to outright malice.
Serena hoped to co
nvince Erasmus that he still did not comprehend human nature, and that he must keep her alive in order to discover the answers he so desperately wanted. . . .
Today she carried Manion through a misty fern garden. Walking with feigned nonchalance, Serena noted a doorway at the far end of the greenhouse and remembered that it had a lockable door that led into the main house. Erasmus watched her obsessively, as usual.
Continuing her rounds, studying the plants, she pointedly did not look at the spying robot. Then, faking a second thought, she darted through the doorway with the baby and locked the door behind her. It was only a momentary respite from the intense scrutiny— and it would keep her master off balance. She hoped.
As she hurried through the corridor, Manion struggled in her arms, making loud squeals of displeasure. He was trapped with her, unfairly condemned to spending the rest of his life as a slave. Xavier— her heart went out to him— would never see his own son.
Once again she regretted her bold decision to go to Giedi Prime in the first place. Filled with purpose and idealism, she had thought only in terms of large populations, of the welfare of billions of people. She had not given adequate consideration to those close to her, her parents, Xavier, even the fetus she had not known she was carrying. Why did she have to bear the burden of human suffering on her own shoulders?
Now Xavier and little Manion were paying the price along with her.
In the corridor ahead, Erasmus emerged through another doorway to block her path. He wore a displeased expression on his surreal face. “Why do you attempt to escape, when you know it is impossible? This game does not amuse me.”
“I wasn’t trying to escape,” she protested, shielding the little boy.
“By now you must understand that there are consequences for your actions.” Too late, she noticed something shimmering in his hand. He pointed the device at her and said, “It is time to change the parameters.”
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 47
