At first, the visiting Suk doctors were afraid to do what was necessary, but Ptolemy would not let them avoid their responsibilities. They were the only ones who could help Noffe. The scientist commanded them, bullied them, and hovered beside them inside the Denali surgical center as they completed the work. This was not, after all, much different from what they had done many times before to extract and preserve the brains from dying Navigator bodies.
For the first week after the surgery, Ptolemy rarely left the preservation tank that held the administrator’s brain, and the thoughtrodes functioned exactly as he expected. He connected the speakerpatch first, along with the conversion software that translated Noffe’s panicked thoughts into words.
Initially, the responses were jumbled gibberish, but Ptolemy had infinite patience. He spoke calmly, giving explanations so that his disoriented friend wouldn’t be so lost and frightened. The input sensors converted his softly spoken words into comprehensible pulses so that Noffe’s disembodied brain could understand him.
Finally, as Noffe calmed himself enough to focus on a single thought, he kept expressing, boosted by the power of Other Memory she carri
Ptolemy leaned closer to the tank. “That’s because you have no eyes, my friend. Those will come next—optic threads to give you a visual clarity beyond anything your human eyes could ever have. After you adjust, you will be able to see all parts of the spectrum, and vast distances. Imagine the clarity. You will focus and see things no one else has ever seen! I envy you, in a way.”
In the speakerpatch, Noffe’s voice fumbled, tried several times, and then finally said, “Don’t envy me.…”
Several days later, once the optic sensors were installed and Noffe could “see” the laboratory around him, the administrator changed his dreary, disoriented gloom to optimistic marveling. Most importantly, he could now discern Ptolemy nearby, which he found reassuring; Noffe said he could even read an expression of concern and wonder on his friend’s face. Ptolemy responded with increasing excitement. “I’ll do everything to make this the best experience for you that it can possibly be, I promise.”
Noffe’s thinking was not as adept as an enhanced proto-Navigator brain, but with a week of practice he was able to control his thoughts and communicate clearly through the speakerpatch. Before long, he accepted and even embraced his new situation. “My old body was imperfect and weak, in need of repairs.”
Ptolemy fell into a fit of coughing. Despite his own treatments, his scarred lungs felt as if he had inhaled embers that refused to be extinguished. The visiting Suk doctors had treated Ptolemy’s damaged lungs, mitigating the worst symptoms, but even with the best medical attention, he would degenerate. “My body needs repairs as well.”
Noffe seemed eager. “When might I have one of the new walker bodies?”
Ptolemy was glad to consider the possibilities. “One step at a time, my good friend. I’ve trained many failed Navigators, but their minds are more adaptable than yours. I don’t want to rush you.”
“I am excited about this, very anings gives me
I now understand regret, loss, and sadness. These are all concepts—emotions—that previously eluded me, especially the emotion of love. Now I can fit them into a workable mental framework. For my progress in this, I owe a great deal to Gilbertus Albans.
—ERASMUS, Latter-Day Laboratory Journals
The robot reviewed the entirety of his existence, fast-forwarding down the centuries of the Synchronized Empire, how he had become unique among thinking machines, a true counterpoint to the overconfident Omnius. Erasmus had never stopped trying to understand … everything. He wanted to know the entire universe, and had a specific interest in humanity, in what it meant to be a fully conscious, fully functioning Homo sapiens.
But that was not a simple problem, and there wasn’t one clear solution. The complexity and volatility of humans unsettled him.
He had seen the extremities of human emotions, including irrational and self-destructive behavior, such as when Serena Butler had reacted so strongly to the simple death of her child; and those emotions+maal impenetrable also caused extremities of overconfidence and refusal to concede logical defeat—the humans had kept fighting the Jihad long after any rational being would have seen the futility. And yet they had won.
Erasmus realized that the study of their species would be an unending quest, and their quirks would require millennia to analyze. Even then, as the race evolved, he would have to reevaluate his theories.
Now, with Butlerians surrounding the Mentat School and his devoted ward their prisoner, Erasmus was discouraged to think that his noble and lofty quest might end here in such an ignominious way. He had become fascinated with Anna Corrino, but he still had much to learn from Gilbertus Albans.
Ever since founding the Mentat School, Gilbertus had been treading lightly around antitechnology sensibilities, careful to provoke no retaliation from the Butlerians. He bowed to them, compromised with them for too long, implicitly endorsing their fanaticism by his silence. Now he had brought the current situation on himself because of his stubborn sense of honor and personal belief system.
Erasmus still struggled to understand.
Meanwhile, behind the protective walls, the Mentat students continued to keep watch. They evaluated the school’s security measures, both from the lake side and the marshes and sangrove swamps; despite its defenses, the facility could not outlast the large Bp class="TX" a
Is it better to make a vow to a person or to principles? Which is more important?
—Annals of the Mentat School
Draigo Roget arrived at Lampadas hoping to recruit Headmaster Albans, to bring him to the side of reason and civilization—only to find that the Butlerian world had gone insane.
Previously, Gilbertus had managed to keep his school isolated out in the inhospitable wastelands, but now Manford Torondo had roused his mob and laid siege to the school. Draigo was angry just to see it.
When he was a student here, Draigo had never revealed his loyalties to Venport Holdings; he kept his political opinions to himself, but he had been unable to hide his talent. Headmaster Albans had acknowledged that Draigo was the best student at the Mentat School.
In addition to mental exercises, Draigo had passed the rigorous physical challenges: sprinting through treacherous sangrove forests, memorizing the submerged stepping-stones through the marsh channels, keeping track of every safe path, every devious trick and trap. He understood that danger and physical effort helped trainees to attune their minds, that adrenaline and risk pushed them to the edge of their capabilities. Now he realized that Headmaster Albans had been preparing all along to defend the school against the Butlerians, even as he tried to remain neutral.
Leaving the covert VenHold spacefolder in orbit, Draigo used his shuttle to descend to the surface. In the darkness, his shuttle’s sensors mapped out a cluster of people camped in dry patches on the grassy marshlands. In spite of the natural defenses of the swamps, a horde of barbarian fanatics had surrounded the school, laying siege to the walled complex, with amphibious craft patrolling the marsh lake, tents and artillery posted on the moist ground.
Just glimpsing the scene infuriated Draigo. If he had brought a VenHold warship, he could scorch the Half-Manford’s entire camp!
separating truth from falsehood, inal impenetrableActivating the automated guidance systems, he landed at a safe distance out on the edge of the sangroves. Draigo had turned off any of the shuttle’s external lights that the Butlerians might see. After stabilizing the craft on the waterlogged ground, he changed into nondescript attire such as the common people of Lampadas wore. Butlerians also wore a badge of their movement, a human fist clenching a stylized machine gear, but Draigo would not go so far. He slipped a pulse-stunner into his shirt.
He made his way overland to the edge of the sprawling camp, and slipped in among the restless people without difficulty. The Butlerians were angry and suspicious, but the majority were simpleminded, as D
raigo had always known. They directed their fervor toward the Mentat School, never imagining that outsiders might come to defend it.
The siege camp was fairly well lit. The barbarians made campfires out of whatever dry wood they could find. In addition, there were portable lamps near and inside the tents. Draigo approached.
* * *
INSIDE ONE OF those tents, Manford Torondo sat on the fabric floor, balancing his torso with his hands at his sides. He heard Anari speaking to a guard outside. Her constant presence was reassuring and allowed the Butlerian leader to concentrate on his important work, without concern for his personal safety.
In the low light cast by a lamp, he looked intensely at Gilbertus, who sat on his low bed-pad. The Headmaster looked much younger with his aging makeup scrubbed off, and his elegant robe was wrinkled and soiled. His face was half in light, half in shadow.
“You knew Erasmus better than anyone,” Manford said, “so I want you to tell me about him, everything you can think of that might be useful to me in advancing the cause of humanity. What were his thoughts, his plans, his weaknesses?”
“You wish me to speak on behalf of a thinking machine from long ago?”
Manford’s nostrils flared. “I want you to speak about him, not for him. You must reveal these things, after the crimes you have committed. They will not remedy your crimes, but they may be of help to me. Tell me why he conducted his cruel experiments on human beings.”
“To understand. It separates some of us from those who wish to remain ignorant.”
Manford’s eyes flashed. “I have read the laboratory journals of Erasmus. I have struggled to understand the enemy. What was it like living on Corrin with the thinking machines? Is it true you considered Erasmus a father figure, and he thought of you as a son? How could such a bizarre relationship exist? He was a monster!”
“You cannot understand Erasmus, or me. The gulf between us is too great. You and Erasmus represent two extremes.”
Manford pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And I will proudly keep to my extreme, for the soul of the human race depends on it. Spend your evening in contemplation, Headmaster, for tomorrow you will die.”
* * *
DRAIGO WANDERED THROUGH the encampment, absorbing information. When he saw that many of the Butlerians sported crudely bandaged wounds, he wondered if some great battle had occurred. But after listening to conversations, he learned that the casualties had been inflicted by swamp creatures or the Butlerians’ own ineptitude at living out in the wild. Draigo found the knowledge+ k s woman both ironic and insulting to those who turned their backs on the conveniences and safety of civilization.
“Leader Torondo should just execute the Headmaster tonight and be done with it, so we can go home,” grumbled a man sitting by a fire. “Why wait until dawn? What’s the point?”
Next to him, a younger man sorted through broken branches, discarding wood that was too wet for the blaze. The two men noticed Draigo, and he decided that ducking away would draw more attention, so he came closer. Although his heart pounded when he heard their conversation, he remarked in a casual tone, “I never question what Leader Torondo wants to do, or his timing.”
The other two looked at each other and shrugged. The younger one discarded another wet stick. “He gave his word, though. A promise is a promise.”
The older man disagreed. “Leader Torondo gave his word to keep the Headmaster safe, but the confession changed everything. The execution order against machine sympathizers was in place long before. The Headmaster tricked everyone. He collaborated with Omnius and the demon robot Erasmus!”
Draigo was startled. “Headmaster Albans is a collaborator with the thinking machines? What proof do you have of that?”
The younger man glared at him. “How could you not know? Have you been deaf all afternoon?”
“Not deaf—I was out hunting, but didn’t have any luck.” Draigo indicated his dirt-smudged clothes.
“Headmaster Albans was raised on Corrin, and Erasmus kept him as a pet. He escaped after the Battle of Corrin and has been living as a different person all this time.”
Draigo turned his head to hide his astonishment. “That’s not possible! Corrin fell eighty-five years ago. I’ve seen … images of the Headmaster. He’s not old at all.”
“Some sort of trick from the demon machines. Deacon Harian found his past in the old records. There is conclusive proof. When that Truthsayer caught him at his lies, he had no choice but to confess.”
“I shouldn’t waste any more time hunting, then,” Draigo said. “If Leader Torondo is going to execute him in the morning, the siege is almost over.”
“This won’t be over until that machine sympathizer lies on the ground, with his head in one place and his body in another.” The older one chuckled at the grisly image.
Draigo wandered away, so as to not look too interested, but he kept his eyes and ears open, and asked questions whenever he could do so without raising suspicion. He touched the pulse-stunner concealed in his shirt. If the Butlerians caught him with the weapon, they would know he was not one of them.
As he walked further into the encampment, drawing little attention and nodding dumbly whenever someone looked at him, he spotted the muscular female Swordmaster. Wearing a determined expression, she marched through the camp, making her way toward a large tent, where she took up a sentry position by the front flap. Anari Idaho’s protection was always reserved for the Half-Manford, though, not Headmaster Albans, who was likely to be somewhere else. Draigo ducked back, keeping to the shadows, because she might recognize him.
The tent holding the prisoner was more isolated, as if the Butlerians feared Gilbertus might contaminate them by mere proximity to his thoughts. Draigo saw two nervous-looking guards standing in front of the entry flap, with a portable lamp burning beside one of escape plan,” the robot saidblre the them. Keeping his distance, Draigo prowled around the tent, trying to determine how he could approach and free his mentor. This was not a matter that needed Mentat projections; it was a matter requiring quick and efficient action.
In the rear, he saw the shadowy, squatting figure of a third guard. He could tell by the guard’s posture that he was awake and alert, not dozing. Unfortunate. Draigo chose not to use his pulse-stunner, because it would make a faint but perceptible noise, and the two guards at the front might come running.
He approached the tent from the rear, moving as cautiously and silently as only a person with full Mentat awareness could. He knew he could defeat all three of them, but he couldn’t afford to have them sound an alarm.
Draigo withdrew his small throwing-knife—a crude weapon and less accurate than the stunner, but at least it was silent. From this short distance it was simply a mathematical problem: calculating parabolic arcs, air resistance, gravity. In a flash, he checked and rechecked his calculations, cocked back his arm, and hurled the knife. The challenge was not in striking his target, but in how quickly he could kill the man. If the knife struck the wrong place and left the guard alive long enough to flail and gurgle, it would be a mistake.
Draigo Roget did not like to make mistakes.
There are far more pleasant places for an Emperor to visit than Arrakis, but it is important for the sake of appearances that I go there in person. I reign over my subjects on squalid worlds as well as those on magnificent ones.
—EMPEROR SALVADOR CORRINO, Imperial Journals
The spice crew chief received word from the spotter aircraft. “Wormsign, chief! It’s close—and a big one.”
The Imperial entourage responded with a titter of nervous excitement. Salvador hurried to the dust-smeared observation windows on the control deck. “Good. I’ve been wanting to see one.”
The crew chief kept his attention back on the communication system. “Plot its course. How long do we have?” The spotter transmitted coordinates, and the location of the behemoth appeared on a grid-map of the surrounding dunes. “Gods below, it’s close! Why the hell didn’t you spot
it sooner?”
“It must have been running deep, Chief,” the spotter replied.
“You should hire better spotters,” Salvador remarked.
Crew Chief Okarr’s drawn expression and gray complexion alarmed the Emperor. “This one is extremely close, Sire. Too close!”
Wondering what action was necessary, Salvador snapped a signal to his Imperial troops. “Be on high alert. We may need your protection.”
The factory crew chief blinked at him in disbelief. “Sire, your guards can’t do anything against a giant sandworm.”
Directeur Venport’s voice came over the comm speakers, sounding scratchy and distant, even though Salvador thought +Fal impenetrablehe had merely gone to an office in another part of the spice factory. “Chief Okarr, prepare to jettison the spice—we don’t have much time.” The Emperor was not impressed with the electrical systems aboard this big mobile factory. Static storms and dust must be playing havoc with the circuitry.
“Yes, Directeur. I summoned the carryalls, and my crew is ready to evacuate. I’m trying to reach the rescue ships right now—they should be inbound momentarily.” His hands a blur across the controls, the chief prepped the spice container and launched it.
The loud explosive report startled Salvador. “What was that? Are we under attack?”
“That was planned, Sire.” Chief Okarr was flushed and tense, but he still answered the Emperor’s questions. “All the spice gathered during our operations is packed into an armored cargo container, which I just jettisoned. In tight situations like this, we launch it with a locator beacon far from the spice factory. With the worm distracted by the greater vibrations from our operations, we can usually retrieve the container later.”
“Interesting,” Salvador said, but his nervous entourage did not seem interested at all.
The captain of the Imperial Guard picked up on the tension in the control room. “Sire, we should return to the Imperial shuttle. It’s time to get to safety.”
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