The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert

Obviously, Serena Butler had not accepted her place as a household servant. Considering the squalid lives of slaves in the unkempt pens behind the villa, what did she have to complain about? It made no sense.

  “Outspoken, is she not?” said Erasmus, still standing in the rain. The robot shifted his pliable face into a congenial smile.

  Standing away from the cool drizzle, Vor said, “I am surprised you tolerate her annoying attitude.”

  “Attitudes can be enlightening.” Erasmus turned back to his study of the raindrops in the reflecting pool. “I find her interesting. Refreshingly honest—much as you are.” The robot took a step toward him. “I have reached an impasse in my study of human behavior because most of my subjects are drawn from docile captives who have been bred to slavery. They have never known any life but one of service and subjugation, and do not show any spark. They are sheep, while you, Vorian Atreides, are a wolf. And so is this Serena Butler…in her own way.”

  The visitor bowed, swelling with pride. “I am happy to assist you in any manner, Erasmus.”

  “I trust you enjoyed the coach ride? I breed the stallions and keep them groomed for important occasions. You gave me an excuse to use them.”

  “It was an unusual experience,” Vor admitted. “A most…archaic mode of transportation.”

  “Come stand here in the rain with me.” Erasmus beckoned with a synthetic hand. “It is pleasant, I assure you.”

  Vor stepped forward as he was told, trying not to show discomfort. The rain quickly soaked his tunic, moistened his bare arms; water trickled from his clumped dark hair, down his forehead and into his eyes. “Yes, Erasmus. It’s…pleasant.”

  The robot simulated a laugh. “You are lying.”

  With good humor, Vor said, “It is what humans do best.”

  Mercifully, the robot led them out of the rain. “Let us discuss Serena. She is attractive, according to human standards of beauty, is she not?” Vor didn’t know what to say, but Erasmus pressed him, “I watched you with her. You would like to procreate with that feral human, would you not? She is currently carrying the child of a hrethgir lover, but we will have plenty of time. She is unlike any simple pleasure slave you have been assigned?”

  Vor pondered the questions, wondering what the robot really wanted to know. “Well, she is beautiful…and enticing.”

  Erasmus made an artificial sound, something like a sigh. “Sadly, despite my numerous sensitive upgrades, I remain unable to experience sexual activity, at least not in the way a biological male does. I have spent centuries designing upgrades and modifications that might replicate the sensations of ecstasy that even the lowliest human can enjoy. Thus far, there has been little progress. My attempts with female slaves have been alarmingly unsuccessful.”

  Strolling along in his fine clothes, Erasmus gestured for Vor to follow him through the greenhouse. As they walked down garden paths, the regal machine identified various plants by name and origin, as if he were lecturing a child or bragging about his knowledge. “Serena knows a great deal about plants herself. She was something of a horticulturist on Salusa Secundus.”

  Vor made polite responses, trying to guess how he could help the robot. He wiped water from his eyes; his damp clothes felt clammy and unpleasant.

  Finally Erasmus explained why he had summoned the young trustee. “Vorian Atreides, your father recently gave you a biological life-extension treatment.” The mechanical face shifted back to a smooth mirror, so as not to give Vor a clue about what he wanted. “Tell me, how do you feel now that you have had centuries added to your lifespan? Surely, it is a great gift from Agamemnon, as significant as his original sperm donation.”

  Before Vor could consider the question, Serena entered the greenhouse carrying a silver tea set. She placed the tray with a rough clatter on a polished stone table and poured dark liquid into two cups. She handed one to Vor and one to the robot. Erasmus extruded a fibrous, feathery-tipped probe into the tea, as if tasting it. His mirrored mask shifted into an expression of supreme pleasure. “Excellent, Serena. A remarkable and interesting flavor!”

  Vor did not care for the taste himself; the tea reminded him of bitter chocolate mixed with spoiled fruit juices. Serena seemed amused at his expression.

  “It is good?” Erasmus asked. “Serena prepared it especially for you. I let her choose an appropriate recipe.”

  “The flavor is…unique.”

  The robot laughed. “You are lying again.”

  “No, Erasmus. I am avoiding a direct response.”

  Vor saw hostility in Serena’s unusual eyes as she looked at him, and he wondered if she had ruined the tea on purpose. Leaving the tray on the stone table, she departed, saying, “Maybe I should attend a trustee school to learn how to be a better simpering servant.”

  Vor watched Serena, surprised that Erasmus ignored her rudeness. “It amuses me to watch her attempts at resistance, Vorian. Harmless defiance. She knows she can never escape.” During a moment of silence, the robot continued to study him. “You did not answer my question about the life extension.”

  Now that he’d had time to ponder, Vor said, “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about it. My human body is fragile, easily damaged. Though I am still prone to accidents or sickness, at least I will not grow old and weak.” Vor thought about all the years remaining to him, like credits to spend. He would live several human lifespans, but becoming a cymek would be so much more important. “Even so, my extra years are only the blink of an eye compared to the life of a thinking machine such as yourself.”

  “Yes, the blink of an eye, an involuntary human reflex I can understand physically and conceptually. You use it as an inexact metaphor to indicate a brief period of time.”

  Noticing watcheye screens on the greenhouse walls, Vor realized that the evermind must be eavesdropping. “Are you always this curious?”

  “Curiosity is how one learns,” Erasmus said. “I inquire because I am inquisitive. That makes sense, does it not? Enlighten me. I would like to speak with you again. You—and Serena—can give me an interesting perspective.”

  Vor bowed. “As you wish, Erasmus. However, I must coordinate such visits with my important work for Omnius. Soon the Dream Voyager will be repaired and ready to depart on another update run.”

  “Yes, we all work for Omnius.” Erasmus paused. Overhead, through the murky ceiling of the greenhouse, the rain had stopped, leaving patchy openings of blue sky. “Think more about mortality and longevity. Come and speak to me again before departing on your next voyage.”

  “I will seek permission to do so, Erasmus.”

  INTRIGUED BY THE fascinating interplay between the two humans, Erasmus summoned Serena again and commanded her to escort their guest back to his coach. She had been outwardly hostile to this son of Agamemnon, while he was clearly interested in her…physically?…mentally? And how could one tell the difference? Another experiment, perhaps?

  Even though they had exchanged few words, Vorian found his imagination filled with this young woman. He had never met a female like her, with such self-confident beauty, intelligence, and willingness to speak her mind. Obviously Serena Butler had been raised to value herself as an individual—much as Erasmus worked hard to perfect his own independence.

  Reaching the outer doorway of the villa, the young man blurted, “When is your baby due?” At the coach, the horses seemed anxious to be off. The uniformed robot driver sat like a statue.

  Serena’s eyes widened with annoyance. She was about to retort that it was none of his business, but she stopped short. Perhaps Vorian Atreides was just the opportunity she had been hoping for. He had information that might help her escape, and he had the trust of the machines. It would be foolish to alienate him from the outset. If she befriended him instead, might she not be able to show him what a free human being could be?

  She drew a deep breath and smiled uncertainly. “I’m not prepared to discuss my baby with a complete stranger. But maybe next time you come, we could talk. That
might be a place to start.” There. She had done it.

  With that, she went inside the villa and carefully shut the door behind her.

  As she watched the coach from the portico of the towering villa, Serena Butler felt uncertain and confused about this deluded man who so proudly served the machines. She didn’t like him, wasn’t sure she could ever trust him. But perhaps he could be helpful.

  Feeling uneasy, and damp from the rain and mist in the outside air, she hurried back inside to dry herself and change her clothes. With the precious baby growing inside her womb, six months along now, she thought of her beloved Xavier. Could Vorian help her return to him, or would her child grow up in captivity, never to know its father?

  Of all the subjects of human behavior, two are most storied: warfare and love.

  —COGITOR EKLO,

  Ruminations on Things Lost

  The tragic loss of Serena had left Xavier off course, struggling to regain the momentum of his life. Three months earlier, he had seen the wreckage of her blockade runner floating in the seas of Giedi Prime, and had read the indisputable DNA analysis of the blood samples found inside.

  He did not claim to understand his feelings, and avoided them by letting his work consume him. At first he had wanted to fling himself recklessly at another machine stronghold, but Serena would have scolded him for that. The thought of her disapproval was the only thing that had stopped him.

  She had died fighting the inhuman enemy. Xavier needed an anchor to grasp, some form of stability before moving on. For the sake of her memory, the struggle must continue until every thinking machine had been destroyed.

  Xavier’s mind drifted to Octa, the haunting reminder of her sister. Lovely in her own right, she was sensitive and introspective, rather than the goal-driven crusader Serena had been. Still, in subtle ways, the willowy girl reminded him achingly of Serena, in the shape of her mouth and the gentle smile. It was like the echo of a pleasant memory. Xavier found himself torn between staring longingly at Octa and avoiding her entirely.

  She was there to comfort him when he grieved, gave him space when he needed it, and cheered him when he wanted that. Quietly and gently, Octa was filling a void in his life. Although their relationship remained tranquil and unremarkable, she showed him attentive love. Where Serena had been a storm of emotions, her sister was steady and predictable.

  One day, on an impulse driven more by grief and longing than common sense, Xavier asked Octa to become his wife. She had looked at him with wide eyes, astonished. “I am afraid to move, Xavier, to utter a sound, because I must be dreaming.”

  He had worn his clean and pressed Armada uniform bearing his new rank insignia as Segundo. Xavier stood straight, his hands clasped, as if addressing a superior officer, rather than asking Octa to join him as his life mate. He had always known that Serena’s sister had a girlish, unrealistic infatuation with him, and now he hoped it could grow into genuine love.

  “In choosing you to marry me, dear Octa, I can think of no braver way to march forward into the future. It is our best chance to honor Serena’s memory.”

  The words sounded like a formal speech, but Octa flushed as if they were a magical incantation. Aware that this was the wrong reason to betroth himself to her, Xavier tried to dispel the uneasiness. He had made up his mind and hoped that they could soothe each others’ wounds.

  Both Manion and Livia Butler accepted and encouraged the shifting of Xavier’s affections; they even rushed the nuptials. Now the bridge across an emotional chasm had been severed, and they believed the match with Octa would benefit all of them.

  On the day of his wedding, Xavier searched for an inner peace, doing his best to lock away the portion of his heart that would always belong to Serena. He still longed for the peal of her laugh, for her outspokenness, for the electric touch of her skin. Taking a few private moments, he reviewed his favorite memories of her one by one in his mind, and then, tearfully, set them aside.

  From now on, gentle Octa would be his wife. He would not hurt the already-fragile girl by wallowing in regrets, or by comparing her to her sister. That would be dishonest and unfair to her.

  A number of League representatives had gathered at the hilltop Butler estate, where seven months earlier Xavier and Serena had participated in the raucous bristleback hunt. Nearby, in the courtyard, they had held the gala betrothal celebration filled with music and dancing—but ending with the terrible news of Giedi Prime’s fall.

  At Xavier’s insistence, the wedding took place inside a new pavilion with vistas of vineyards and olive groves. The fabric structure was so resplendent and intricate in its workmanship that it cost more than a modest house. Out in front, three large banners fluttered in a gentle breeze, designating the households of Butler and Harkonnen, and of Tantor, Xavier’s adoptive family. In the valley below, the white buildings of Zimia shone in sunlight, with wide avenues and large administration complexes refurbished in the fourteen months since the cymek attack.

  The ceremony was small and somber, despite the guests’ pretenses and Manion Butler’s insistent merriment. New memories would supplant the old ones. Smiling as he had not done in months, the Viceroy strutted from guest to guest under the colorful awnings, tasting punch recipes and sampling the cornucopia of cheeses and wines.

  The silent bride and groom stood by a small altar at the front of the crowded tent, holding hands. Dressed in the pale-blue gown of traditional Salusan weddings, Octa looked ethereal, lovely and fragile beside him. Her strawberry-blond hair was held neatly in place with pearl-head pins.

  Some would say this rushed marriage to Serena’s sister was a reaction to Xavier’s grief, but he knew he was taking the honorable course. He reminded himself a thousand times that Serena would have approved. Together, he and Octa would bring closure to so much pain and sadness.

  Inside the flower-decked pavilion stood Abbess Livia Butler, her amber-brown hair highlighted by sparkling golden strands. She had come from the City of Introspection to perform the ceremony. Confident and proud, as if she had purged all doubts and sorrow from her mind, Livia looked at the bride and groom, then smiled at her husband. Manion Butler barely fit into his red and gold tuxedo. Soft flesh poked out at the neck and at the ends of the sleeves.

  A group of players began to strum their balisets. A boy with a sweet tenor voice sang slowly. Beside Xavier, Octa seemed to be in her own dreamy world, not quite certain how to react to the turn of circumstances. She squeezed his hand, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  Ever since the death of her twin brother Fredo, Octa had developed an ability to shut things out, never overwhelming herself with large-scale concerns but instead preferring smaller tableaux. Such a limited focus might permit her to be happy, and Xavier, too.

  Tears glistening in his expressive eyes, Viceroy Butler stepped forward to clasp their hands. After a long moment he turned solemnly to his wife, and nodded. Abbess Livia began to intone the ceremony. “We are here to sing a song of love, a song that has joined men and women since the earliest days of civilization.”

  As Octa smiled up at Xavier, he could almost imagine she was Serena, but he drove the troubling image away. He and Octa loved each other in a different way. Their bond grew stronger each time he held her in his arms. Xavier had only to accept the warmth that she readily bestowed on him.

  Before them, Livia spoke the traditional words, the roots of which extended back to the Panchristian and Buddislamic texts of ancient times. The lilting phrases were beautiful, and Xavier’s mind kept expanding outward, thinking forward and backward. The words were infinitely calm and reassuring as Abbess Livia guided the young couple through their vows.

  Soon everything necessary had been said. As he shared the ritual of love and placed a ring on Octa’s finger, Xavier Harkonnen pledged his eternal devotion to her. Not even the thinking machines could tear this relationship apart.

  Talk is based on the assumption that you can get somewhere if you keep putting one word after anoth
er.

  —IBLIS GINJO,

  notes in the margin of a stolen notebook

  Ajax strode his intimidating walker-form into the Forum Plaza, inspecting every operation, searching for flaws. With his array of optic threads, the Titan scanned the polished colossus that showed his long-forgotten human form. Ajax was frustrated that Iblis Ginjo had maintained such a careful watch that he could find no excuse to impose amusing punishments….

  In turmoil, Iblis watched for an opportunity of his own. His imagination kept returning to the remarkable things he had learned from the Cogitor Eklo, especially details of the glorious failure of the Hrethgir Rebellions. Ajax personified the brutality and pain of those long-ago battles.

  Could the Cogitor help Iblis to spread the quiet fires of a brewing revolution? They could learn from the mistakes of the past attempts. Had there ever been a rebel of trustee stature, like Iblis? And how could the secondary Aquim assist him?

  Despite his subtle investigations, his ability to manipulate conversations and make others unwittingly divulge their secrets, Iblis had not yet found evidence of other resistance groups. Perhaps their leadership was scattered, disorganized, weak. Who had sent him the secret messages—five in the past three months?

  The lack of evidence frustrated Iblis, because he wanted to push the uprising forward, now that he had made up his mind. On the other hand, if the dissenters were too easily found, they would have no chance against the organized thinking machines.

  After pushing his slaves particularly hard and finishing his assigned labors, Iblis asked to take another pilgrimage to Eklo’s stone tower. Only the Cogitor could give him the answers he needed. When he spoke with the administrative cymek Dante, showing records that demonstrated his productivity and efficiency, the Titan bureaucrat granted him permission to leave the city grid. Dante made it clear, however, that he didn’t understand why a mere work supervisor would be interested in nonproductive philosophical issues. It seemed to go beyond the interests of most trustees. “It will not benefit you.”