The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert

  Standing on the threshold, separated now by the gulf between the cliffs, the black-bearded leader cursed again. Behind him, a section of the vaulted roof crashed down, destroying the prototype generator and finally stopping the relentless pulse.

  Dust settled. A few flames and a curl of smoke rose into the air amidst the wailing of injured men still trapped within the collapsed building.

  Norma felt sick. Beside her, Holtzman sweated profusely and looked ill. He blinked again and again, then wiped his forehead. His skin was gray.

  In a wry voice, Bludd said, “Not one of your most successful efforts, Tio.”

  “But you must admit, the concept shows promise, Lord Bludd. Look at the destructive potential,” Holtzman said, looking at the unruffled nobles without even considering the dead and injured slaves. “We can be thankful at least that no one was hurt.”

  Science: The creation of dilemmas by the solution of mysteries.

  —NORMA CENVA,

  unpublished laboratory notebooks

  Inside the broken demonstration dome, the bloodstains washed away easily, but deeper scars remained. While a crew of new slaves cleared the rubble, Tio Holtzman crossed a temporary and none-too-sturdy walkway. He looked sadly at the ruins of his laboratory.

  From where he worked, Bel Moulay, the bearded leader of the Zenshiite slaves, glowered at the callous inventor. He hated the Poritrin man’s pale skin, square-cut hair, and arrogantly colorful clothes. The scientist’s frivolous badges of honor meant nothing to Bel Moulay, and all the captive Zenshiites were offended that such a useless, deluded man could flaunt his wealth while stepping on the faithful.

  In a deep voice the bearded leader gave instructions and consolation to his fellows. Moulay had always been more than just the strongest among them; he was also a religious leader, trained on IV Anbus in the strictest laws of the Zenshiite interpretation of Buddislam. He had learned the true scriptures and sutras, had analyzed every passage; the other slaves looked to Bel Moulay to interpret for them.

  Despite his faith, he was as helpless as his companions, forced to serve at the whim of nonbelievers. The infidels refused to let Zenshiites live according to their strictures, but insisted on dragging them into their hopeless war against the unholy machine demons. It was a terrible punishment, a set of karmic tribulations visited upon them by Buddallah.

  But they would see it through, and eventually emerge stronger….

  Under Bel Moulay’s guidance, the slaves moved rubble, uncovering the crushed bodies of companions who had worked alongside them, fellow Zenshiites captured when Tlulaxa slavers raided the canyon cities on IV Anbus.

  Buddallah would eventually show them the way to freedom. At story fires, the bearded leader had promised that the oppressors would be punished—if not in this generation, then in the next, or the next. But it would happen. A mere man like Bel Moulay had no business trying to hurry the wishes of God.

  With excited shouts, two slaves shifted a fallen section of wall to uncover a man who still clung to life, though his legs had been crushed and his torso slashed by shards of windowplaz. Preoccupied, Holtzman came over and scrutinized the injured man. “I am no medical practitioner, but there seems to be little hope.”

  Bel Moulay glowered at him with dark, penetrating eyes. “Nevertheless, we must do what we can,” he said in Galach. Three Zenshiite workers scooped away the debris and carried the injured man across the rickety walkway. Inside the slave quarters, healers would work on the injuries.

  After the accident, Holtzman had provided basic medical supplies, though a similar effort had done little to keep a fever from sweeping through the slave population. The scientist supervised the workers in the rubble, but he was intent on his own priorities.

  With a frown, the Savant gestured impatiently at the slaves picking up chunks of the collapsed ceiling to uncover victims. “You and you, leave off digging out bodies for now and excavate what’s left of my device.”

  The sullen captives looked at Moulay for guidance. He simply shook his head. “There is no value in resistance now,” he muttered in their private language. “But I promise you the time will come.”

  Later, during their meager sleep time, they would remove their dead and provide proper Zenshiite blessings and passage preparations for the souls. Burning the bodies of the faithful was not something their religion accepted easily, but it was the way of Poritrin. Bel Moulay was certain Buddallah could not fault them for not following traditional rules, when they had no choice in the matter.

  His deity could be an angry one, though. Moulay hoped to live long enough to see vengeance strike these oppressors, even if it must be in the form of thinking machines.

  As the demonstration dome was cleared, Holtzman began chattering to himself, planning new experiments and tests. He considered acquiring more slaves to make up for recent losses.

  In all, twelve slaves were recovered from the demonstration dome, while those who had fallen to their deaths from the walkway had already been gathered from the river and disposed of by public cremation teams. Bel Moulay knew every one of their names, and he would make sure the Zenshiites chanted continual prayers for them. He would never forget what had happened here.

  Or who was responsible: Tio Holtzman.

  The mind imposes an arbitrary framework called “reality,” which is quite independent of what the senses report.

  —COGITORS,

  Fundamental Postulate

  “Nothing is impossible,” the disembodied brain had said to him.

  In the gray stillness before dawn, Iblis Ginjo turned over restlessly in his makeshift bed, on the perimeter of the work encampment and its habitation hives of human slaves. Since the weather had been unseasonably warm, he had hauled his pliable bedstrip onto the porch of the simple bungalow the neo-cymeks had provided for him. He had lain awake, staring up at the distant stars and wondering which ones were still under the control of free humans.

  Far away, the League had managed to keep Omnius at bay for a thousand years. Listening closely, but afraid to ask questions or call attention to himself, Iblis had heard accounts of how the machines first conquered, and then lost, Giedi Prime. The resilient humans had driven the machines out, killing the Titan Barbarossa and destroying a new Omnius.

  An incredible achievement. But how? What had they done to attain such a victory? What sort of leaders did they have? And how could he do the same here?

  Groggy and tired, Iblis stirred. Again, he would spend the day convincing lower-level slaves to complete pointless labors for machine masters. Every day was the same, and the thinking machines could live for thousands of years. How much could he accomplish in only a meager human lifespan?

  But Iblis took heart from the words of the Cogitor: Nothing is impossible.

  He flicked open his eyes, intending to gauge the impending sunrise. Instead, he saw a distorted reflection, a curved plexiplaz wall, pinkish organic contours suspended in a container of energy-charged fluid.

  He sat up abruptly. The Cogitor Eklo rested on the floorboards of his veranda. Beside the canister sat the big monk, Aquim, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, meditating in a semuta trance.

  “What are you doing here?” Iblis demanded in a hushed voice. Fear clenched his throat. “If the cymeks find you in the camp, they—”

  Aquim opened his bleary eyes. “Trustee humans are not the only ones who have an understanding with the Titans, and with Omnius. Eklo wishes to speak with you directly.”

  Swallowing hard, Iblis looked from the enlarged brain suspended in its electrafluid to the haggard-looking monk. “What does he want?”

  “Eklo wishes to tell you of earlier abortive human revolts.” Holding a hand against the preservation canister, he stroked the smooth surface, as if picking up vibrations. “Have you ever heard of the Hrethgir Rebellions?”

  Iblis looked around furtively. He saw none of Omnius’s watcheyes. “That isn’t the sort of history slaves are allowed to know, even a crew boss at my lev
el.”

  The secondary leaned forward, his brows hooded. He spoke of things he had learned, without connecting directly through the electrafluid to the Cogitor’s thoughts. “Bloody rebellions occurred after the Titans had converted themselves to cymeks, but before Omnius awakened. Feeling themselves immortal, the cymeks became exceedingly brutal. Especially the one called Ajax, who was so vicious in his torment of the surviving humans that his mate Hecate left him and disappeared.”

  Iblis said, “Ajax hasn’t changed much over the centuries.”

  Aquim’s red-rimmed eyes glowed. Eklo’s brain trembled inside its nutrient solution. “Because of the excessive brutality of Ajax, oppressed humans began a rebellion, mainly on Walgis but spreading to Corrin and Richese. The slaves rose up and destroyed two of the original Titans, Alexander and Tamerlane.

  “The cymeks responded with a swift and decisive crackdown. Ajax took great delight in closing off Walgis and then methodically exterminating every living human there. Billions were slaughtered.”

  Iblis struggled to think. This Cogitor had come all the way from his high tower to see him. The magnitude of such a gesture stunned him. “Are you telling me that a revolt against the machines is possible, or that it is doomed to failure?”

  The big monk extended a rough hand to grab Iblis’s wrist. “Eklo will tell you himself.”

  Iblis felt a rush of anxiety, but before he could resist, Aquim pressed the work leader’s fingertips into the viscous electrafluid surrounding the Cogitor’s ancient brain. The slick solution felt icy cold to Iblis, then hot. The skin on his hand tingled, as if a thousand tiny spiders ran along his flesh.

  Suddenly he could sense thoughts, words, and impressions flowing directly into his mind from Eklo. “The revolt failed, but oh what a glorious attempt!”

  Iblis received another message, this one wordless, but it conveyed meaning nonetheless, like an epiphany. It was as if the majesty of the universe had opened to him, so many things he had not previously understood…so many things Omnius kept the slaves from knowing. Feeling great calm, he immersed his hand deeper into the liquid. His fingertips touched the Cogitor’s tissue, ever so gently.

  “You are not alone.” Eklo’s words reverberated to his very soul. “I can help. Aquim can help.”

  For several moments, Iblis gazed toward the horizon as the golden sun rose, casting light on enslaved Earth. Now he did not view this story of a failed rebellion as a warning, but as a sign of hope. A better-organized revolt might succeed, given proper guidance and proper planning. And the proper leader.

  Iblis, who had once felt no purpose or direction in his life other than to enjoy the comfort of his position as a trustee of the machines, now sensed a brooding anger within. The revelation brought a fervor to his heart. The monk Aquim seemed to share the same passion behind his semuta-dazed expression.

  “Nothing is impossible,” Eklo repeated.

  Amazed, Iblis removed his hand from the charged fluid and stared at his fingers. The big monk picked up the Cogitor’s brain canister and sealed it. Cradling the cylinder against his chest, he set off on foot toward the mountains, leaving Iblis to reel with the visions that had flooded into his soul.

  Believing in an “intelligent” machine engenders misinformation and ignorance. Unexamined assumptions abound. Key questions are not asked. I did not realize my hubris, or my error, until it was too late for us.

  —BARBAROSSA,

  Anatomy of a Rebellion

  Erasmus wished the sophisticated evermind had spent more time studying human emotions. After all, the Synchronized Worlds had access to immense archives of records compiled by millennia of human studies. If Omnius had made the effort, he might now understand the independent robot’s frustration.

  “Your problem, Omnius,” the robot said to the screen in an isolated room high in his Earth villa, “is that you expect accurate and specific answers in a fundamentally uncertain system. You want large numbers of experimental subjects—all human—to behave in a predictable fashion, as regimented as your sentinel robots.”

  Erasmus paced in front of the viewer until finally Omnius directed two of the hovering watcheyes to scan him from different directions.

  “I have tasked you to develop a detailed and reproducible model that explains and accurately predicts human behavior. How do we make them usable? I rely upon you to explain this to my satisfaction.” Omnius changed his voice to a high-pitched tone. “I tolerate your incessant tests in the expectation of eventually receiving an answer. You have been trying long enough. Instead, you are like a child playing with the same trivialities over and over.”

  “I serve a valuable purpose. Without my efforts at understanding the hrethgir, you would experience a state of extreme confusion. In human parlance I am known as your ‘devil’s advocate.’”

  “Some of the humans call you the devil himself,” Omnius countered. “I have considered the matter of your experiments at length, and I must conclude that whatever you discover about humans will reveal nothing new for us. Their unpredictability is just that—entirely unpredictable. Humans require a great deal of maintenance. They create messes—”

  “They created us, Omnius. Do you think we are perfect?”

  “Do you think that emulating humans will make us more perfect?”

  Though the evermind would derive no meaning from it, Erasmus shaped his pliable, reflective face into a scowl. “Yes…I do,” the robot finally said. “We can become the best of both.”

  The watcheyes followed him as he walked across the palatial room to the balcony several stories above the flagstone plaza that opened up into the grid of the city. The fountains and gargoyles were magnificent, imitated from Earth’s Golden Age of art and sculpture. No other robots appreciated beauty as much as he did. On this cloudy afternoon, artisans crafted scrollwork around the windows, and new alcoves were being constructed in the building’s facade, so that Erasmus could install additional statues as well as more colorful flowerboxes, since Serena Butler enjoyed tending them so much.

  On this high balcony he loomed over the docile humans. Some laborers glanced up at him, then bent more diligently to their tasks, as if afraid he might punish them or—worse—single them out for his horrific laboratory projects.

  Erasmus continued his conversation with the evermind. “Surely some of my experiments intrigue you, Omnius, just a little?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  Erasmus said, “Yes, the experiment to test the loyalty of your human subjects is proceeding nicely. I have delivered cryptic messages to a handful of trustee candidates—I prefer not to reveal exactly how many—suggesting that they join the brewing rebellion against you.”

  “There is no brewing rebellion against me.”

  “Of course not. And if the trustees are completely loyal to you, they will never consider such a possibility. On the other hand, if they were genuinely faithful to your rule, then they would have reported my incendiary messages immediately. Therefore, I presume you have received reports from my test subjects?”

  For a long moment, Omnius hesitated. “I will recheck my records.”

  Erasmus watched the diligent artisans in the plaza, then crossed the upper-level halls of his villa to the other side of the great house. He looked out toward the miserable fenced-in compounds and breeding pens from which he drew his experimental subjects.

  A long time ago, he had raised a subset of captives under these conditions, treating them like animals to see how it would affect their much-vaunted “human spirit.” Not surprisingly, within a generation or two they had lost all semblance of civilized behavior, morals, familial duty, and dignity.

  Erasmus said, “When we imposed a caste system upon humans on the Synchronized Worlds, you attempted to make them more regimented and machinelike.” He scanned the dirty, noisy crowds inside the slave pens. “While the caste system fit them within certain categories, we perpetuated a model of human behavior that allowed them to see how other members of
their own race are different. It is the nature of mankind to strive for things they do not have, to steal the rewards that another person might win. To be envious of another’s circumstances.”

  He focused his optic threads on the lovely ocean view beyond the filthy slave pens, the churning blue-and-white surf at the base of the slope. He swept his mirrored face up so that he could focus on seagulls in the sky. Such images matched his programmed aesthetics more closely than the dirty, fenced compound.

  Erasmus continued, “Your most privileged human beings, such as the current son of Agamemnon, hold the highest position among their kind. They are our reliable pets, occupying a rung between sentient biologicals and thinking machines. From this pool we draw candidates for conversion into neo-cymeks.”

  The watcheye buzzed close to the robot’s polished head. Through the flying device, Omnius said, “I know all this.”

  Erasmus continued as if he hadn’t heard. “And the caste below the trustees includes civilized and educated humans, skilled thinkers and creators, such as the architects who design the Titans’ interminable monuments. We rely on them to perform sophisticated tasks, such as those being completed by artisans and craftsmen at my villa. Just beneath them are my household staff, my cooks, and landscapers.”

  The robot scanned the slave pens and realized that such appalling ugliness made him want to go back to his flower gardens to wander among the carefully cultivated species. Serena Butler had already done wonders with the plants. She had an intuitive understanding of gardening.

  “Admittedly, those wretches down there in my pens are good for little more than breeding new offspring or for dissection in medical experiments.”

  Erasmus was like Serena in a sense: he frequently needed to prune and weed the human race in his own garden.