The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert

  Humans deny a continuum of possibilities, an infinite number of realms into which their species may enter.

  —ERASMUS,

  notes on human nature

  It was a makeshift performance hall, inside a marble-walled building on the robot’s estate. Erasmus had worked his slave crews to modify the interior, install seats, and retool the walls, all to create perfect acoustics for this single performance. Erasmus had studied records of the greatest human classical music, knew exactly what was expected of grand symphonies, from the audience to the setting. He had high standards for his artistic endeavors.

  The robot invited Serena Butler, now in her eighth month of pregnancy, to sit in a large central chair for the concert. “These other people might experience pleasure from the melody and the sounds, but you have different expectations. On Salusa Secundus, sophisticated music was a part of your existence.”

  With a pang, Serena thought of her brother and his musical aspirations. She had learned to appreciate the enduring works of long-vanished human composers. “Music is not the only thing I miss, Erasmus.”

  “You and I speak the same cultured language,” he said, not noticing her pointed remark. “You will tell me how you enjoy this composition. I had you in mind when I wrote it.”

  He filled the performance hall with worker-caste slaves culled from a variety of skilled labor assignments. They were cleaned up and dressed according to Erasmus’s concept of a high-class audience.

  Electronic portraits of great human composers lined the interior walls, as if the robot wanted to count himself among their number. Around the perimeter of the concert hall, museum-type display cases held musical instruments—a lute, a rebec, a gilded tambour, and an antique fifteen-string baliset with inlaid vabalone shells on its case.

  In the center of the mezzanine stage beneath open rafters, Erasmus sat alone before a grand piano, surrounded by music synthesizers, speakers, and a sound-misting station. Wearing a formal black suit with a cut similar to a tuxedo but redesigned to accommodate his robotic body, Erasmus sat at attention, his face a smooth mirrored oval, showing no expression.

  Shifting to find a more comfortable position for her back, Serena watched the inquisitor robot. She rested a hand on her enormous abdomen, felt the movements of the restless baby. Within weeks, she would deliver her child.

  Around her, the captive audience shifted uneasily, not sure what to expect, or what was expected of them. Erasmus turned his mirrored face toward the audience, reflecting them as he waited, and waited. Finally silence fell.

  “Thank you for your attention.” He turned to a shiny silver apparatus beside him, a music synthesizer with dancing polymer fingertips that produced familiar riffs and chords. The background music increased in volume, laced with stringed instruments and mournful Chusuk horns.

  The robot listened for several moments, then continued, “You are about to experience something truly remarkable. To demonstrate my respect for the creative spirit, I have composed a new symphony especially for you, my hardworking slaves. No human has ever heard it before.”

  He played a rapid mixture of melodies on the piano, running through three short passages in an apparent effort to confirm that the instrument was tuned properly. “After detailed analysis of the field, I have written a symphony comparable to the works of the great human composers Johannes Brahms and Emi Chusuk. I developed my piece according to strict principles of order and mathematics.”

  Serena perused the audience, doubting any of the humans raised in captivity were familiar with the classical music the robot had mentioned. Schooled on Salusa Secundus, where music and art were integral parts of the culture, Serena had listened to the renowned works of many composers, even discussing them at length with Fredo.

  With a mental pulse Erasmus linked his gelcircuitry mind to the synthesizer, producing a strange, repetitious melody. Then his mechanical fingers danced over the keyboard, and he made frequent sweeping gestures as he played, as if imitating a famous concert pianist.

  Serena found the composition pleasant enough, but unremarkable. And, although she did not recognize the precise melody, it had a strangely familiar character, as if the robot had mathematically analyzed an existing piece measure by measure and followed the pattern, changing a rhythm here, a polyphonic passage there. The music felt lackluster, with no powerful driving force.

  Erasmus apparently believed it was a human instinct to appreciate a new work, that his captive audience would intrinsically note the nuances and complexities of his structurally perfect composition. The slaves around Serena shifted in their seats and listened; to them, this was a pleasant enough diversion but just another work assignment. The conscripted audience seemed to enjoy the soothing notes of the melody, but it did not move them in the way the robot desired.

  When at last he ceased his performance, Erasmus sat back from the piano, deactivated the symphonic support equipment, and let the silence deepen. The reverberating tones faded.

  For a moment, the slaves hesitated as if waiting for instructions. Erasmus said, “You may give an ovation if you enjoyed the piece.” They didn’t seem to understand the reference, until he said, “Signify by clapping your hands.”

  An initial wave of applause came as a sparse patter like raindrops, then swelled into louder clapping—as was expected of them. Serena joined in politely, though not enthusiastically. A small act of honesty that she was sure Erasmus would notice.

  The robot’s shining mask had shifted into a proud smile. In his formal black garment he walked smoothly down a staircase from the mezzanine stage to the main floor. The slaves continued to applaud, and he basked in the apparent adulation. When the acclamation receded, he summoned sentinel guards to escort the audience back to their regular work assignments.

  Serena could see that Erasmus believed he had created an enduring work of merit that possibly surpassed what humans had achieved. But she didn’t want to discuss it with him, and tried to slip away to her greenhouse work. She moved slowly because of her pregnancy, however, and Erasmus caught up with her. “Serena Butler, I wrote this symphony for your benefit. Are you not impressed by it?”

  She selected her words carefully, avoiding a candid answer. “Perhaps I am simply sad because your symphony reminds me of other performances I watched on Salusa Secundus. My late brother wanted to be a musician. Those were happier times for me.”

  He looked at her closely, his optic threads sparkling. “Nuances of human behavior tell me that my symphony has disappointed you. Explain why.”

  “You don’t want an honest opinion.”

  “You misjudge me, for I am a seeker of truth. Anything else is faulty data.” His cherubic expression caused her to lower her guard. “Is there something wrong with the acoustics in this hall?”

  “It’s nothing to do with the acoustics. I’m sure you tested everything to technical perfection.” The audience continued to move toward the exits, some looking over their shoulders at Serena with pity that the robot had taken a special interest in her. “It was the symphony itself.”

  “Continue,” Erasmus said. His voice was flat.

  “You assembled that piece, you didn’t create it. It was based on precise models developed ages ago by human composers. The only creativity I heard came from their minds, not yours. Your music was a mathematical extrapolation, but nothing that inspired me in any way. The tune you…engineered evoked no images or feelings within me. There was no fresh element that you contributed, nothing emotionally compelling.”

  “How am I to quantify such an ingredient?”

  Forcing a smile, Serena shook her head. “Therein lies your mistake, Erasmus. It is impossible to quantify creativity. How does a person hear a thunderstorm and use that experience to write the ‘William Tell Overture’? You would simply imitate the sounds of thunder and rain, Erasmus, but you wouldn’t evoke the impression of a storm. How did Beethoven look at a peaceful meadow and adapt that experience into his ‘Pastorale’? Music should make the s
pirit soar, take the breath away, touch the soul. Your work was just…pleasant tones, adequately performed.”

  The robot took several seconds to change the expression on his face, and finally looked at her with perplexity, even defensiveness. “Your opinion seems to be in the minority. The rest of the audience greatly appreciated the work. Did you not notice their applause?”

  She sighed. “First of all, those slaves have no knowledge of music, no basis of comparison. You could have stolen any symphony from a classical composer, note for note, and called it your own. They wouldn’t have known the difference.

  “Second, sitting in a concert hall—comfortable, clean, and well-dressed—is probably the best work assignment you’ve ever given them. Why wouldn’t they clap for that reason alone?”

  She looked at him. “Finally, and most important, you told them to applaud. How are they supposed to react, when they know you could have them killed at any moment? Under such circumstances, Erasmus, you will never get a fair and honest response.”

  “I do not understand, cannot understand.” Erasmus repeated this several times. Abruptly, he whirled and swung a hardened fist into the face of a man who walked past. The unexpected blow sent the victim crashing over the chairs, bleeding.

  “Why did you do that?” Serena demanded, rushing over to help the man.

  “Artistic temperament,” Erasmus said calmly. “Is that not what humans call it? He tried to deceive me about how he really felt.”

  She tried to soothe the man, but when he looked up to see the robot, the slave struggled away, holding a hand up to stop the blood dripping from his nose. Serena rounded on Erasmus. “True artists are sensitive and compassionate. They don’t need to hurt people to make them feel.”

  “You are not afraid to voice your opinion, even when you believe it might displease me?”

  Serena looked directly into his unnatural face. “You hold me prisoner, Erasmus. You claim to want my opinion, so I give it. You can hurt me, even murder me, but you have already taken me away from my life and the man I love. Any further pain pales in comparison.”

  Erasmus stared at her, assessing what she had said. “Humans are perplexing to me—and you more than anyone, Serena Butler.” His flowmetal countenance took on a smiling expression. “But I will keep trying to understand. Thank you for your insights.”

  As Serena left the hall, Erasmus returned to the piano and began practicing.

  Above all, I am a man of honor. This is how I wish to be remembered.

  —XAVIER HARKONNEN,

  comment to his men

  The time he had spent with Serena now seemed like an elusive dream.

  Xavier could not recall the exact trails they had taken into the forests on the Butler estate, which was now his home with Octa. His wife. He could not remember his lost love any more clearly than he could taste the exotic spices of a well-prepared meal, or smell the delicate scents of meadow flowers. His replacement lungs had healed to the extent possible. Now it was time for his heart to do the same.

  Many times he had told himself he would not do this, that he would devote himself to the new life he had promised Octa. But here he was anyway, trying to recapture the past, or bidding it farewell.

  He chose the same chocolate brown Salusan stallion he’d ridden on the bristleback hunt, almost nine months ago. For hours he tried to locate the magical meadow where he and Serena had made love, but it seemed to have vanished…like Serena herself. Like his happiness…and his future.

  Now, as he tried to bring back memories of the surrounding hills and forests, all he could recall about that afternoon was the beauty of Serena’s face and the sheer joy of being with her again. Everything else seemed a hazy fantasy, a mere backdrop.

  The Butler estate was so sprawling that even the Viceroy had never surveyed all of it. After Xavier’s marriage to Octa, Manion had insisted that his new son-in-law take up residence in the Butler manor. With Fredo and Serena gone, and Livia elsewhere, the great house seemed too quiet and lonely. Xavier had always considered the Tantor place his home, but the sadness in Manion Butler’s eyes and the hope in Octa’s had convinced him to move his belongings in with the Butlers.

  Someday, everything here would stop reminding him of Serena.

  At a clearing on the trail, he dismounted and stared into the cool distance, where evergreen-covered hills poked through morning mists. He felt caught in a dreary nightmare, but knew full well that he had brought it on himself by coming out here in the first place.

  Serena is dead.

  He had left sweet Octa back at the house, telling her he wanted to exercise the stallion. She often liked to ride with him, but had sensed that he wanted to be by himself. Though they had been married for less than two months, he could keep few secrets from her. Octa realized, without ever admitting as much, that she would never have all of her husband’s heart.

  He and Serena had shared grand dreams. His unrealized life with her would have been complex and sometimes stormy, but always interesting. In contrast, Xavier’s rushed marriage to Octa was good, but simple. The matters that concerned her seemed so small in comparison with Serena’s magnificent humanitarian visions. It was hard to believe the two were sisters. He knew that making such comparisons was unfair to Octa—who treated him better than he deserved—and also to Serena’s memory. But he couldn’t help himself.

  Standing just behind him, Xavier’s horse whinnied, and he tugged on the halter. He sniffed the breeze, searching with his deadened senses to find some lingering trace of Serena’s sweet perfume.

  Gone. You are dead, my love, and I must let you go.

  He remounted the stallion and continued down the path, but none of the trees or hills looked familiar. The meadow could be anywhere.

  Xavier rubbed the corner of his eye. He envisioned the idealistic woman for one last time, and her image broke through like summer sunlight, smiling down upon him, telling him without words that he must go on with his life.

  He said goodbye to her, though he had done this before, and always she remained nearby. He couldn’t discuss the hurt with anyone, for they would never understand. He had to suffer alone. He had always kept his feelings inside.

  Xavier wore a distant expression as he peered off into the might-have-been. Moments later, when daylight broke through the morning fog and warmed his face, he began to feel better. The sun’s golden glow was like Serena herself, watching over him. Each time he felt its warmth he would think of her, and of the love they had shared.

  Xavier turned the horse around and urged it into a trot, heading back to the Butler manor house…and Octa, his wife.

  Fire has no form of its own, but clings to the burning object. Light clings to darkness.

  —Cogitor philosophy

  After more than a month of major repairs, the Dream Voyager was finally ready to depart Earth on another update run. But Vorian Atreides had one important duty to complete before leaving, to visit Erasmus as the robot had requested.

  Once again, the extravagant horse-drawn coach brought him to the towering seaside villa. The sunny weather was much more pleasant than the drizzling rain of his previous visit, with only a few thin clouds scudding over the ocean.

  Immediately, as if his gaze was drawn to her, he saw Serena Butler standing at the main entrance. She wore a loose black servant’s dress, and her belly was so rounded that he couldn’t see how she continued her work. The baby must be due soon.

  She waited for Vor as if merely performing another duty, arms folded, face neutral. He hadn’t known what to expect, but seeing her unreadable expression left him crestfallen. Given her tone at the end of his last visit, Vor had hoped she might actually be happy to see him.

  Perhaps it had something to do with her baby and the hormonal storms swirling through her system. She might be worried about what would happen to the infant after its birth, what Erasmus would do with it.

  Though Serena had been a daughter of some prominence in the League of Nobles, here she was a
mere household slave, not even a trustee. Her baby might be tossed into the squalid pens with the lowest-caste humans…unless Vor used his influence to obtain concessions for the mother and child. And even if he succeeded, would she be grateful for his effort?

  Leaving the coach horses stamping on the flagstones, Vor reached the covered entry between carved Grogyptian pillars. Before she could say anything, he blurted, “I apologize for offending you last time, Serena Butler. Whatever I did.” He had looked forward to this for a long time, had practiced what he would say.

  “Your lineage offends me.” Her blunt response took him aback. As the son of Agamemnon, Vor had been given freedom to read his father’s memoirs and learn of all the glorious Titan conquests. He had been fortunate to experience many things in his travels, to see many interesting places. Being the son of a Titan had always seemed an advantage to him—until now.

  Seeing his crestfallen expression, she remembered that she must keep him as an ally and decided to offer him a smile. “But that is as much my burden as yours.”

  As they passed alcoved statues and tall, decorated urns, he said, as if she needed an explanation, “I leave soon on the Dream Voyager, and your master asked to speak with me first. That is why I’m here.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Then I’m sure Erasmus will be glad to see you.”

  They reached a door, and Vor asked, “Do you ever accept apologies? Or do you consider all affronts permanent?”

  The remark seemed to surprise her. “But you aren’t really sorry, are you? You willingly serve the thinking machines, who have enslaved and tortured humanity. Surely you acknowledge that much? You also boast about your father, as if his work is something to be proud of. Do you know about the horrors during the Time of Titans? Or the Hrethgir Rebellions?”

  “I’ve read my father’s memoirs in great detail—”

  “I don’t mean Agamemnon’s propaganda. Have you learned the real history?”