“I’m sure you are right, Lord Dante…but it amuses me.”
Setting out before dawn, Iblis urged the smelly burrhorse into the rocky desert and up the slopes to the monastery. Aquim awaited him at the steep circular stairs to the tower, again looking disheveled and somewhat dazed from semuta. From the first time Iblis had immersed his hand in electrafluid and touched the Cogitor’s thoughts, he could not imagine why Aquim wanted to dull his perceptions. Perhaps the complex enlightened thoughts of Eklo were so vast and overwhelming that the big-shouldered secondary needed to dampen the flood of confusing revelations.
“I see you look at me with disapproval,” Aquim said, peering out through slitted eyelids.
“Oh no,” Iblis said. Then, realizing he could not get away with lying, he said, “I was just noticing that you enjoy your semuta.”
The big man smiled and spoke in a voice that slurred slightly. “To an outsider, it may appear that I have deadened my senses, but semuta permits me to forget my own destructive past, before I was inspired to join Cogitor Eklo. It also enables me to focus on what is really important, ignoring the sensual distractions of the flesh.”
“I can’t picture you as a destructive man.”
“Oh, but I was. My father fought against enslavement and died in the attempt. Afterward, I sought revenge against the machines, and I was good at it. I led a small band of men, and we…damaged some robots. I am sorry to say that we also killed a number of trustee slaves who got in our way, men such as yourself. Then Eklo arranged for my rescue, and for my rehabilitation of sorts. He never told me why he sought me out, or how he made the arrangements. There are many things the Cogitor does not reveal to anyone, not even to me.”
Abruptly, the monk turned and plodded unsteadily up the stairs, leading Iblis to the chamber where the Cogitor lived in a state of eternal contemplation. Standing in the tower room with the color-bathed observation windows, Aquim said, “Eklo has considered your situation at length. Long ago he watched the changes in humanity after the Titans crushed the Old Empire, but he did nothing. Eklo thought the challenge and adversity would improve the human race by strengthening their minds, forcing them out of their sleepwalking existence.”
The monk wiped a stain from the corner of his mouth. “By separating their minds from their bodies, the cymek Titans could have become enlightened, like Cogitors. That was Eklo’s hope when he assisted Juno. But the Titans never rose above their animal flaws. This weakness enabled Omnius to conquer them, and humanity.” Aquim stepped toward the translucent brain canister resting on a window shelf. “Eklo believes you may be able to institute a change.”
Iblis’s heart leaped. “Nothing is impossible.” But he knew he could not fight the machines by himself, would need to find others to help him. Many others.
Before the transparent window, Eklo’s plexiplaz container glistened in a wash of golden morning sunlight. In the distance, Iblis could see the unending skyline of megaliths and monuments designed by the cymeks and built with human sweat and blood. Do I really want to see them all crumble to dust?
The crew boss hesitated as he considered the consequences, remembering the billions of victims of the Hrethgir Rebellions on Walgis and other worlds. Then he sensed an intrusion into his thoughts, something bumping against them.
Aquim removed the covering of the Cogitor’s canister, exposing the nutrient fluid that supported the ancient mind. “Come, Eklo wishes to make direct contact with you.”
The tank’s nutrient solution was like amniotic fluid, tingling with immeasurable mental energy. Tentative, fighting his eagerness to know and learn, Iblis dipped his fingers into the electrafluid, touching the slippery surface of Eklo’s brain and unlocking all the thoughts the Cogitor wanted to give him.
Aquim stood to one side with a strange expression on his face, part beatific complacence, part envy.
“Neutrality is a delicate balancing act,” Eklo said directly into Iblis’s mind, through the neurelectric contact promulgated by the organic circuitry. “Long ago, I answered Juno’s many questions about how to overthrow the Old Empire. My unbiased answers and advice allowed the Titans to formulate successful plans, and the course of the human race was forever changed. For many centuries I reconsidered what I did.” The brain seemed to press against Iblis’s fingertips. “It is essential for all Cogitors to maintain absolute neutrality. We must be objective.”
Puzzled, Iblis said, “Then why are you speaking to me? Why have you raised the possibility that the machines might be overthrown?”
“In order to reestablish the balance of neutrality,” Eklo said. “Once, I inadvertently assisted the Titans, so I must now answer your questions with the same objectivity. In the final analysis, I will have maintained equilibrium.”
Iblis swallowed hard. “Then you have foreseen where it all ends?”
“There are endings all around us, and beginnings. You alone can decide where you are on the path.”
As Iblis’s thoughts spun, searching for useful questions about machine weaknesses and vulnerabilities, Eklo intruded, “I cannot provide concrete military or political details, but if you phrase your questions cleverly enough, as Juno did, then you shall have what you need. The art of cleverness is a prime lesson of life. You must outwit the machines, Iblis Ginjo.”
For more than an hour, Eklo guided Iblis. “I have considered this problem for many centuries, long before you came to me. And if you do not succeed, I shall consider it even longer.”
“But I can’t fail. I must succeed.”
“It will take more than desire on your part. You must tap into the deepest emotions of the masses.” Eklo fell silent for several moments.
Iblis struggled to comprehend, trying to stretch his thoughts. “Love, hate, fear? Is that what you mean?”
“They are components, yes.”
“Components?”
“Of religion. The machines are very powerful, and it will take more than a mere political or social uprising to defeat them. The people must coalesce around a powerful idea that goes even deeper, into the very essence of their existence, what it means to be human. You must be more than a trustee, but a visionary leader. Slaves need to rise up in a great holy war against the machines, an unstoppable jihad to overthrow their masters.”
“A holy war? A jihad? But how can I do that?”
“I tell you only what I sense, Iblis Ginjo, what I have thought and envisioned. You must go out and discover the rest of the answers for yourself. But know this: Of all human wars in history, a jihad is the most passionate, conquering worlds and civilizations, mowing down everything in its path.”
“And the people sending me messages—how do they fit into this?”
“I know nothing of them,” Eklo said, “and I do not see them in any of my visions. Perhaps you have been specially chosen, or it might be nothing but a ruse or a trap by the machines.” The Cogitor fell silent, then said, “Now I must ask you to leave, for my mind is tired and I need to rest.”
When Iblis departed from the imposing stone tower, he felt a strange mixture of exhilaration and confusion. He needed to organize the information into a comprehensive plan. Though he was not a holy man or a military person, he did understand how to manipulate groups of people, how to channel their loyalties in order to achieve his goals. Already, his work crews would do almost anything for him. His leadership abilities would be his greatest asset, and weapon. But the scale was not large enough. It needed to be much larger than a few hundred people in order to succeed.
And he needed to be very careful, in case the thinking machines were trying to trap him.
WITH ACCESS TO Omnius’s watcheyes and distributed surveillance hardware, Erasmus monitored the activities of his experimental subjects. Many loyal trustees had ignored the hints he had sent to them; others had been too frightened to act. But some had shown an amusing amount of initiative.
Yes, Erasmus felt that Iblis Ginjo was a perfect candidate to prove his point, and win the bet wi
th Omnius.
“Systematic” is a dangerous word, a dangerous concept. Systems originate with their human creators. Systems take over.
—TIO HOLTZMAN,
acceptance speech for Poritrin Medal of Glory
As he sat in the crowded room of equation solvers, Ishmael scrutinized the furnishings of Savant Holtzman’s estate, smelled polishing oils, flower bouquets, perfumed candles. This place was clean, comfortable, and warm…far more pleasant than the slave barracks on the muddy river delta.
The boy should have counted his blessings.
But this unwelcome place was not Harmonthep. He missed his small boat, navigating through rivulets in the tall reeds. He especially missed the evenings, when the Zensunni would gather in the central hut on the highest stilts to tell stories, recite fire poetry, or simply listen to his grandfather read comforting sutras.
“I hate this place,” Aliid said beside him, speaking loudly enough that he drew a scolding glare from Tio Holtzman himself.
“Perhaps you would rather return to the mudflats or the agricultural fields?”
Aliid frowned at his own outburst, but met the scientist’s steady gaze. “I hated those places too,” he mumbled, but not by way of apology.
All work stopped. All eyes were fixed on him.
Holtzman shook his head in disbelief. “I simply do not understand why you people complain about everything. I feed and clothe you, I give you easy assignments that advance the cause of humanity—and still you want to crawl back to squalid villages and live in disease and filth.”
The inventor looked genuinely angry. “Don’t you understand that thinking machines are out there trying to crush every living person? Just imagine all the humans they slaughtered on Giedi Prime, and no one could stop them! Omnius doesn’t care about your religion or your foolish politics against civilization. If they find your little hovels, they will destroy them, burn them to the ground.”
Just like the Tlulaxa slavers did to my village, Ishmael thought. He saw Aliid’s dark eyes flash and knew that his friend was thinking the same thing.
Holtzman shook his head. “You fanatics have no sense of responsibility. Luckily, it is my job to force it on you.” He went back to his scribing board, angrily jabbed his fingers at the symbols. “Here are segments of equations. I need you to solve them. Simple mathematics. Try to go through the steps I showed you.” His gaze narrowed. “Each correct answer will earn one full share of daily rations. If you make mistakes, you go hungry.”
With a heavy heart, Ishmael turned to the papers and computational devices before him, doing his best to follow the supposedly simple calculations.
On Harmonthep, all the children in the marsh village had received a basic education in mathematics, science, and engineering. The elders felt that such knowledge would be important for them, when their civilization rose again and the faithful constructed great cities like those in Zensunni lore. Ishmael’s grandfather, like many village elders, also spent time instructing the young people in the sutras, in logical and philosophical conundrums that only the tenets of Buddislam could solve.
On Aliid’s home of IV Anbus, the closely orbiting moons changed the seasons dramatically, causing the planet to oscillate. Thus, the boy had been taught a different branch of mathematics and astronomy, because the ever-varying calendar affected the floods that roared through polished red rock gorges, where the Zenshiite cities had been erected. Flood management workers required sophisticated calculations to understand the variances. Aliid had learned the techniques in order to help his own people. Here, though, he was forced to assist the overlords who had enslaved him, and he resented it.
Aliid’s first assignment on Poritrin had been to work the cane harvest. He had labored for weeks hacking at tall reeds, from which sweet juices were turned into sugars or distilled into Poritrin rum. The fibrous cane residue was used to make Poritrin cloth. He had wielded a sharp scythe, chopping down woody stalks that splattered sticky syrups. The stalks were harvested after heavy rains when they were most laden with juices, and heaviest to carry.
Toward the end of the cutting season, their master had delivered them all to the slave markets in Starda, after accusing them of starting a suspicious fire in the cane silos and destroying half a season’s crop. Aliid told Ishmael of this with a lilting smile, but never confessed to having participated in any outright sabotage.
Now, Ishmael bent over his calculations, checking and rechecking his math by sliding bars and moving counters on the calculation device. Already his stomach was growling, since Holtzman—angry about the many mistakes committed the previous day—had vowed not to feed the solvers until they proved they could do the work. Most of the slaves grudgingly completed their assignments properly.
Several days later, after the new solvers had adequately performed their exercises, Holtzman gave them real work. At first, the inventor let them believe it was merely another test. Ishmael could tell from his expression and agitation, though, that he was counting on these results rather than simply putting the crew through their paces.
Aliid worked diligently, but Ishmael noted from his expression that he had something devious in mind. Ishmael wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was.
After they had worked on numerical simulations for several more days, Aliid finally leaned over to Ishmael. “Now it is time to make a few subtle changes,” he said, grinning. “Small enough that no one will notice.”
“We can’t do that,” Ishmael said. “They’ll catch us.”
The dark-haired boy gave an impatient frown. “Holtzman has already checked our work, so he’s not going to redo all the math. Now that he trusts us, he can focus on some other scheme. This is our only chance to get even. Think of all we’ve suffered.”
Ishmael could not disagree, and after having heard Bel Moulay’s talk of bloody rebellion, this seemed like a better way to express their displeasure.
“Look.” Aliid pointed at the string of equations, and with his stylus made a tiny mark, changing a minus sign to a plus sign, and then moved a decimal point to a different part of the equation. “Simple enough mistakes, easily excused, but they will yield dramatically different results.”
Ishmael was uneasy. “I understand how it could harm Holtzman’s inventions, but I do not see how this will assist us. I’m more concerned with seeing that we go back home.”
Aliid looked at him. “Ishmael, you know the sutras as well as I, perhaps better. Have you forgotten the one that says, ‘When you help your enemy, you harm all the faithful’?”
Ishmael had heard his grandfather utter the phrase, but never before had it meant as much to him. “All right. But nothing that can appear deliberate.”
“If I understand anything about this work,” Aliid said, “even a small miscalculation will cause plenty of damage.”
PSYCHOLOGY: The science of inventing words for things that do not exist.
—ERASMUS,
Reflections on Sentient Biologicals
In the sunny botanical garden of the robot’s grandiose villa, Serena Butler snipped dead flowers and leaves, tending plants in their beds and planters. Silently resistant, biding her time, Serena performed her daily tasks like any other slave, but always Erasmus watched her as if she were a pet. He was her captor and jailor.
She wore black coveralls, her long, amber brown hair tied back in a ponytail. The work allowed her to think of Xavier, of the promises they had exchanged, of making love in the meadow after the bristleback attack, and again in her plush bed on the night before she had slipped off to Giedi Prime.
Each morning Serena went to the robot’s flower beds, glad for the chance to think undisturbed about getting away from Earth. Day after day, she kept her eyes open for some way to escape—the obstacles seemed insurmountable—or a means to cause significant harm to the thinking machines, despite the fact that sabotage would undoubtedly cost her life, and her unborn baby’s. Could she do that to Xavier?
She couldn’t imagine the grief h
e must be going through. Somehow she would find a way back to him. She owed it to him, to herself, and to their baby. She had hoped to have Xavier hold her hand as she delivered their child. He should have been her husband by now, their lives intertwined in a union stronger than the sum of their individualities, a bastion to stand against the thinking machines.
He didn’t even know she was still alive.
She stroked her curved belly. Serena felt the child growing within her and was filled with foreboding. Two more months and the baby was due—what did Erasmus mean to do, once the child was born? She had seen the locked doors to the ominous laboratories, had looked with revulsion and horror at the filthy slave pens.
And yet, the robot kept her busy with flowers.
Erasmus often stood motionless beside her as she worked, his oval face unreadable as he challenged her to debates. “Understanding starts at the beginning,” he had said. “I must build a foundation before I can comprehend everything.”
“But how will you use that knowledge?” She yanked out a weed. “Will you think of more extravagant ways to inflict misery and pain?”
The robot paused, his burnished face a mirror that reflected a distorted image of her own face. “That is…not my objective.”
“Then why do you keep so many slaves in such terrible conditions? If you don’t intend to cause misery, why not give them a clean place to live? Why not provide them with better food, education, and care?”
“It is not necessary.”
“Maybe not to you,” she said, surprised at her boldness. “But they would be happier and able to do better work.”
Serena had watched how Erasmus lived in magnificent luxury—an affectation, since no robot could require such things—yet the household slaves, especially those in the horrible communal pens, existed in filth and fear. Whether or not she remained a captive here, she might be able to improve their lot. If nothing else, she would consider it a victory against the machines.
The Butlerian Jihad Page 37
