“You are right. My own attitude disgusts me. Being a ruler for the sake of bullying a few underlings is not sufficient. It is good to have slaves at one’s beck and call, but even that grows tiresome.”
“Yes, look at how Yorek Thurr behaved on Wallach IX. He commanded a whole planet, but that wasn’t enough for him.”
“Wallach IX is a radioactive scab,” Agamemnon said. “Like all the other Synchronized Worlds. It is irrelevant.”
“Any planet that was once a Synchronized World is never irrelevant, my love. You must think in a different paradigm.”
They stared together at the desolate landscape of Hessra, as lifeless as so many of the scorched Synchronized Worlds they had explored, and discarded, after the Great Purge. Presently, Agamemnon said, “We must instigate changes, instead of being the passive recipients of whatever history throws at us.”
The two Titans swiveled their head turrets and strode back across the rough ice toward the Cogitors’ towers. “It is time for a fresh start.”
* * *
BEOWULF SUSPECTED NOTHING, though his fate had been part of the Titan general’s burgeoning plans for some time. Dante suggested, “His damaged brain no longer has the capacity to sense nuances or draw conclusions.”
“The clod can barely walk down a corridor,” Agamemnon said. “I’ve put up with him long enough.”
“Perhaps we should just let him wander outside and fall headfirst into a crevasse,” Juno said. “That would save us all a lot of trouble.”
“He already fell into a crevasse when we first took over Hessra. We were foolish enough to rescue him,” Agamemnon said.
The three Titans summoned the wavering neo-cymek into the central chamber that had once held the Cogitors’ pedestals. The etched Muadru runes on the wall blocks had been defaced with obscene scribbles. Scuttling about in limited walker-forms, the enslaved secondary-neos went about their laboratory duties, monitoring electrafluid-processing equipment for the cymek rulers.
Agamemnon had everything he needed. Now what he needed was more.
Beowulf lumbered in, the thoughtrode control of his walker limbs unsteady. Signals tangled and overlapped so that he staggered like an intoxicated man trying to move from one point to another. “Y-ye-yes, Agamemnon. You c-ca-called me?”
The general’s voice was carefully neutral. “I have always been grateful for the service you performed in helping free the cymeks from Omnius. We are now at a watershed. Our circumstances are about to change dramatically for the better, Beowulf. But before we can do that, we need to perform a bit of housecleaning.”
Agamemnon lifted his walker-form, looming high in the stone-walled chamber. He withdrew one of the antique weapons he kept in display cases on his body. Beowulf seemed intrigued.
Dante darted forward and deactivated the engines and power source that drove the brain-damaged cymek’s robotic body.
“W-wha-what— “
Juno’s voice sounded sweet and reasonable. “We have to get rid of some old junk before we can move on, Beowulf.”
Agamemnon said, “Thank the gods in all their incarnations that Xerxes isn’t still here in his blundering attempts to assist us. But you, Beowulf… you are a disaster waiting to happen.”
The Titans clustered around the deactivated walker-form, extending their articulated arms, fashioning the necessary tools to begin the dismantling process. Agamemnon hoped to try out some of the antiques in his collection again.
“N-no-nooo— “
“Even I have been waiting for this a long time, General Agamemnon,” Dante said. “The Titans are ready for a great resurgence at long last.”
“What matters most is that we expand our power base, taking over more territory and holding it with an iron fist. I was distracted for a long time by desiring the planets inhabited by the hrethgir, but since the Great Purge, there are innumerable bastions for the cymeks to conquer. I will be happy to build our new domain from the graveyards of Omnius. Before, when I dismissed the possibility, I did not consider how ironic and satisfying it could be. A radioactive wasteland poses no threat to our protective shells and our shielded brain canisters. To reign in Hell will only be our first step. Thereafter, we can build our strength and strike out against the League Worlds.”
“There’s nothing wrong with beginning a new empire in the ruins, my love.” Like tearing a giant crab apart, Juno disengaged and removed the first set of bulky legs from Beowulf’s walker-body. “So long as it is only the beginning.”
The damaged neo-cymek continued to wail and plead with them, becoming less and less articulate as his urgency grew. Finally, in disgust, Agamemnon deactivated the speakerpatch connected to the preservation canister. “There. Now we can concentrate and finish this euthanasia.”
“Unfortunately,” Dante continued, “only we three Titans remain. Many of our neos are loyal enough in their own way, but they have always been passive. We drew them from subjugated populations.”
Agamemnon snapped one of the thoughtrode clusters from Beowulf’s walker-form. “We need to develop a new Titan hierarchy, but we can never obtain the stock we need from our dwindling resources. The neos are all sheep.”
“Then we shall simply have to look elsewhere,” Juno pointed out. “Though Omnius tried his best to exterminate them, a great many hrethgir remain. And the survivors are the strongest ones.”
“Including my son Vorian.” As he worked to dismantle all of the components that kept Beowulf alive, the Titan general was reminded of the days when his loyal trustee Vor would lovingly and meticulously clean, polish, and refurbish all of his father’s delicate cymek components, in a gesture that went back to the dawn of history, washing the feet of a beloved leader. Those had been their most intimate times between father and son.
Agamemnon missed those days, and he wished things had not gone wrong with Vorian. His son had been his best chance for a perfect successor, but the humans had corrupted him.
Juno did not notice his reverie. “We should recruit from them, take talented candidates and convert them to our cause. I’m certain we have the wiles and the techniques to accomplish something so simple. Once we have a person’s brain detached, there’s little we can’t do to manipulate him.”
The Titan general considered. “First, we will scout the radioactive planets and decide where best to establish our strongholds.”
“Wallach IX will be a good first step,” Dante said. “It is near Hessra.”
“I agree,” Agamemnon said, “and we’ll step on whatever remains of the throne of that maddening Yorek Thurr.”
Beowulf’s mechanical body was disassembled now, and the components lay strewn about for recycling and reconditioning. Silently, the secondary-neos came forward to take the pieces away.
As Agamemnon thought about all the wasted Synchronized Worlds, it occurred to him that Vorian had been the spearhead behind all that nuclear destruction. Perhaps in a way, he might be an appropriate successor to the Titans after all.
If we turn around to gaze at the remote past, we can barely catch sight of it, so imperceptible has it become.
— MARCEL PROUST,
ancient human author
Vor stood inside his token office in the Army of Humanity headquarters, gazing through the open window at the evening drizzle. The cool moisture felt good on his face after a hot afternoon, since Zimia had been unbearably hot and humid for the past week. The rain was a pleasant respite, but not enough to make the Supreme Bashar feel much better.
Every day, it seemed, he was losing his battle against the government’s stagnation, lethargy, and inability to make difficult decisions. League representatives were afraid to finish the necessary dirty work, and with every year that passed they forgot more and more. Engrossed in local problems and political favors, they convinced themselves that the continuing threats of Omnius and the cymeks would just go away. He could not make them believe that even though the Titans had bided their time for years, Agamemnon was not finished with his
reign of terror.
His long war was over. After the Great Purge, Quentin Butler had not been the only military leader who sought out a long and peaceful escape. It had been too easy to give highest priority to recovery and reconstruction. Other people wanted to relegate the whole Jihad to history.
But it really wasn’t over. Not yet, while Corrin and the cymeks remained very real threats to humanity. But Vor seemed to be the only one who saw it. The League refused to authorize an offensive force, not even a regular reconnaissance routine to Hessra, where the last Titans were known to be hiding. Complacent fools!
The Grand Patriarch and the nobles had devoted their energy to the internal economic problems of extending their administration to the Unallied Planets in order to create a larger empire with tighter, more centralized controls over each world. The Grand Patriarch had added several new jangling links to the chain of office he wore around his neck.
The conquered Synchronized Worlds would remain uninhabitable for centuries, but some of the more aggressive League Worlds considered the Unallied Planets to be ripe pickings. Across the League, the insatiable demand for melange had not lessened with the end of the Scourge. Population restoration programs had been under way for many years, following the guidance of Supreme Sorceress Ticia Cenva.
The public-works projects required human labor pools, now that sophisticated computerized machines had been banned. And that meant human slaves, mostly Buddislamics from backwater planets. There had been some protest in the League chambers against treating other humans “just like the machines did,” but that position had little support.
Since his military duties had been replaced by mere administrative work, public speeches, and appearances in parades, Vor had long ago made a point of continuing his search on Parmentier for his granddaughter Raquella. After six months of effort, he had finally found her.
Having fled the Hospital for Incurable Diseases, she and Mohandas Suk had settled in an outlying village populated mainly by an insular group who followed the incredibly ancient religion of Judaism. There, she had helped them through the Scourge, tending their needs— until another paranoid mob that drew upon even more ancient prejudices had swept into the town and burned it, blaming the Jews as well as the thinking machines for the epidemic.
So she and Mohandas had moved again and continued their work, accompanied by some of the Jewish villagers who hid their identities. Even after the epidemic had passed, the recovery of Parmentier took years and years.
By the time Vor had found her, she was working under primitive conditions. Most of her medical equipment had been destroyed, so Vor generously sent her whatever aid she needed, including more equipment and guards to keep her safe. Shortly thereafter, he recruited Raquella and Mohandas to help form the Humanities Medical Commission— or HuMed— that replaced the old Jihad Medical Commission. Then, with his own funds, he purchased a hospital spaceship for their use. The new ship enabled Raquella and her medical associates to travel across the galaxy to perform their important work more efficiently. The worlds of the League had to be watched closely for new outbreaks of the Scourge, even after all this time….
Someone had to be vigilant.
Not all League expenditures were as beneficial to its citizens. Illuminated in spotlights across the Zimia plaza, Vor saw the ostentatious Cathedral of Serena under construction, one of the many projects Rayna Butler and her Cultist followers had pushed through the government in recent years. When completed, it would be the largest and most expensive religious structure ever built. Though Vor revered and loved Serena— the real Serena— more than anyone still alive, he felt that the energies of reconstruction might have been better turned elsewhere.
The Cult of Serena had grown too quickly, for all the wrong reasons. Though earnest Rayna remained dedicated to her antimachine crusade, many of her followers seemed interested in using the pale young woman as a fulcrum to build their own power bases. He could see it clearly, though others apparently didn’t notice.
No one wanted to listen when Vor, the “old warmonger,” pointed out the obvious problems.
He heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. Parliamentary and military leaders moved forward with their own agendas and left the Supreme Bashar out of the decision-making process. His rank had become more ceremonial than functional. Though Vor still looked like a young man, even Faykan Butler had suggested that he accept a long-deserved retirement. Vor would not go down in a blaze of glory, like Xavier Harkonnen. This was worse. Vorian Atreides was just fading into obscurity.
Each day as he arose early and went about his business in the city, Vor’s thoughts turned backward, to fond moments and personal crises he had endured. Serena, Leronica… even Seurat, whom he’d called Old Metalmind.
He hated being ineffective.
Vor was now one hundred thirty-five years old, but he felt far older. When he finished his daily duties in the Army of Humanity headquarters, he no longer had anyone waiting for him at home. His sons were now old men with extensive families of their own, all living on far-off Caladan.
And Vor missed his former adjutant Abulurd Harkonnen, who had seen him as a mentor and a father figure— much more so than Estes or Kagin ever had. But Abulurd had spent the past year in the Corrin system keeping Omnius contained.
As if his thoughts had summoned his protégé, Vor looked up to see Abulurd himself striding purposefully down the street toward the military headquarters. His uniform was rumpled and he hurried along without an escort, ducking his head in the drizzle. His movements conveyed a sense of urgency.
Only half convinced he wasn’t imagining Abulurd’s reappearance, Vor hurried down the corridor, took the stairs two at a time, and rushed to the door, startling the other man as he tried to enter. “Abulurd, it is you!”
The younger officer slumped, as if he had used his last energy to get here. “I came straightaway from Corrin, sir. I took a spacefolder scout, because I had to arrive ahead of the machines. But I don’t know how much time we have.”
* * *
THOUGH VOR AND Abulurd both felt a similar sense of exigency, the rest of the Parliament members felt that the crisis was somewhat exaggerated.
“After so many years, what can the thinking machines possibly hope to accomplish? They are defeated!” exclaimed the Giedi Prime representative.
“And if these automated missiles passed through the scrambler fields, isn’t it certain that any gelcircuitry would have been wiped out? Therefore, we have nothing to worry about.” The stuffy Honru ambassador lounged back with a smug look on his face.
“There is always something to worry about— so long as a single incarnation of Omnius remains.” Vor couldn’t understand why they would be so confident. But the attitude wasn’t surprising: Anytime they were faced with a difficult problem, the representatives discussed it until everything became muddled and inconclusive.
After Abulurd’s return, Vor spent more than a week arranging meetings, speaking directly with other subcommanders. Abulurd submitted his recorded images taken from the watchdog fleet, showing the strange projectiles. Finally, the Supreme Bashar insisted on addressing the Parliament directly. According to his projections, depending on the acceleration rate and the fuel reserves, the superfast missiles could arrive at Salusa any day now.
“Are you certain you’re not exaggerating the dire threat, to rile up the populace and strengthen the Army of Humanity, Supreme Bashar?” a thin man from Ix said. “We’ve all heard your war stories.”
“Be thankful you didn’t have to live through it yourself,” Vor growled.
The Ixian man scowled. “I grew up during the Scourge, Supreme Bashar. We may not all have as much battlefield experience as you do, but every one of us had hard times.”
“Why go chasing shadows?” muttered another man, whom Vor didn’t recognize. “Send some scout ships out to patrol the perimeter and intercept these projectiles before they can reach Salusa. If they ever come. That’s how Quentin Butler took care of the p
lague projectiles.”
The meeting continued in a similar vein for the better part of the morning. Finally, disgusted with what he heard beneath the great golden dome of the Hall of Parliament, Vor slipped outside. Pausing at the top of the stone steps, he looked up into the cloudy sky and heaved a great sigh.
“Are you all right, sir?” Abulurd hurried forward from between the ornate columns to the carved-stone steps.
“The same old foolishness. The legislators have forgotten how to talk about anything other than farm prices, space-travel regulations, reconstruction subsidies, and massive public projects. Now I finally understand why Iblis Ginjo formed the Jihad Council during the height of the war. People might have complained about their draconian powers, but at least they made prompt, effective decisions.” He shook his head. “The greatest enemy of humanity now seems to be complacency and bureaucracy.”
“We have limited attention spans for long-term threats or projects,” Abulurd pointed out. “Our society is so focused on returning to normal— as if anyone can remember what that is— that we can’t focus on a threat we thought we had already dealt with.”
Now the rain resumed, heavier than before, but the veteran officer did not move. Someone floated a suspensor umbrella shield over Vor’s head to protect him from the moisture. Abulurd again. Vor smiled at him, but the bator remained concerned.
“What are we going to do about it, sir? Those missiles are on their way.” Before he could answer, a gust of wind snatched the suspensor umbrella, pulling it across the stone steps, and Abulurd chased after it.
The two of them were just about to go back inside the Hall of Parliament when Abulurd, after gaining control over the suspensor umbrella, pointed into the distance. The umbrella broke free again in the wind. This time he didn’t chase it.
Like the slashes of a predator’s claws, silver-orange streaks cut down across the sky. “Look— the missiles from Corrin!” Abulurd groaned, filled with as much shame as alarm that he had not been able to get anyone to heed his urgent warning.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 31
