Finally, with a crackle of static and a blaze of light, vision returned to him. In the glare and the jumble of indecipherable sights, he focused until he recognized the horrific images before him. Cymeks!
“Now he should be able to see you, Agamemnon.”
Agamemnon! The Titan general!
Around him he saw smaller walker-forms, not designed for combat or intimidation, but still monstrosities. Brain canisters were installed in protective cages beneath the walkers’ control systems.
Quentin and the cymeks were inside some sort of chamber… not out in the open skies that he remembered from Wallach IX. Where had they taken him? One of the cymeks continued to work in his field of view, raising slender, sharp arms, each of which ended in a strange surgical instrument. Quentin tried to thrash and escape, but was as ineffective and immobile as before.
“And this should establish connections with all the sensory endings that remain intact.”
“Including the pain receptors?”
“Of course.”
Quentin screamed. He had never experienced such agony. It was worse even than the suffocating darkness. Now, the stabbing pains went to the core of his soul, as if every centimeter of his body were being flayed from him with white-hot, dull knives. A shrieking, raucous cry rippled through the air, and Quentin wondered if he had somehow caused the noise.
“Turn the voice pickup off,” said the gruff male voice. “I don’t need to hear that racket yet.” Agamemnon.
The machine with the female voice came into his field of view, moving smoothly, as if making seductive gestures, but she looked like a sinister spider. “It’s merely neurologically induced pain, my pet. Not real. You will get used to it, and then it’ll be only a distraction.”
Quentin felt as if atomic warheads were going off inside his brain. He tried to form words, but his voice refused to work.
“Perhaps you don’t know where you are,” said the female cymek. “I am the Titan Juno. You’ve heard of me.”
Quentin quailed, but could not respond. Years ago, he had attempted to rescue members of the enslaved citizenry on Bela Tegeuse, but instead they had turned on him and tried to deliver their prisoner to Juno. They hadn’t wanted to be freed— they had wanted to earn the “reward” of being converted into neo-cymeks. He remembered her synthesized voice like metal scraping on glass.
“We have taken you as a specimen and brought you back to Hessra, one of our bases of operations. We are building new strongholds on abandoned Synchronized Worlds such as Wallach IX, where we found you, my pet. But for now, our main facilities are here, where the Ivory Tower Cogitors once lived.” She made a strange lilting sound that might have been a laugh. “We have already performed the most difficult part. We’ve cut away and discarded the broken meat and bones of your body, leaving your lovely brain intact.”
Quentin took a long moment to realize where— what— he was. The answer had been obvious, but he’d forced himself to deny it until the quieter male cymek— Dante?— adjusted his optic sensors.
“You will learn to manipulate things on your own, using thoughtrodes, given time and your choice of mechanical bodies. But now perhaps you would like to see this for one last time.”
On the table Quentin recognized the bloody, sagging body that had formerly been his own. It was battered, bruised, torn— showing just how hard he had fought even up to the last minute. It lay there like an empty suit of flesh, a disconnected, discarded marionette. The top of the head had been cut away.
“Soon you’ll become one of us,” Juno said. “Many of our subjects consider that to be the greatest reward. Your military expertise will prove quite valuable to the cymeks— Primero Quentin Butler.”
Even though his vocal pickup was not connected, Quentin howled in despair.
Successful creative energy involves the harnessing of controlled madness. I am convinced of this.
— ERASMUS,
The Mutability of Organic Forms
After a full day of training his loyal human ward, Erasmus stood alone in the Corridor of Mirrors on the main floor of his mansion. Even trapped on Corrin, with the fate of Omnius and all thinking machines in grave doubt, he still had a great deal of curiosity about esoteric matters.
With rapt attention, he studied the reflection of his flowmetal face, how he could make it change to mimic a variety of human facial expressions. Happiness, sadness, anger, surprise, and many more. Gilbertus had coached him well through his entire repertoire. He especially liked to play at making scary faces to engender fear, an emotion that stemmed from the humans’ own physical weakness and mortality.
If only Erasmus could better understand the subtle ways in which humans were superior, then he could incorporate all the best aspects of human and machine into his own body, which would in turn become a template for an advanced series of thinking machines.
Under one scenario, he might be treated as a godlike figure. An intriguing possibility, but it did not particularly appeal to him, after all his studies. He had no great patience or empathy for the irrationality of religions. Erasmus sought only personal power in order to complete his fascinating experiments with hrethgir test subjects. The independent robot did not intend to end his machine existence anytime soon, did not envision himself becoming obsolete and discarded for a better model. He would keep improving himself, and that would take him in directions he did not presently foresee. He would evolve. Such an organic concept. Such a human concept.
Standing before the mirror, the robot tried out more expressions, particularly enjoying one in which he looked like a ferocious monster, copied from an ancient human text describing imaginary demons. Though he considered this one of his best faces, all of his expressions were too simple and basic. His flowmetal countenance was not capable of more subtle, sophisticated emotions.
Then a thought occurred to him. Perhaps Rekur Van could use his biological expertise to come up with an improvement, now that the reptilian limb-regeneration experiments had all failed. It would give the limbless Tlulaxa captive something to do.
As he walked through his ornate mansion toward the outbuildings, inquisitive watcheyes flew everywhere, surrounding him, like eager spectators. The independent robot found himself distracted by holo-art and music— shimmering flowmetal-like images of stylized machine warships going through battle maneuvers in space. In the background, a harmony of Claude Jozziny’s “Metallic Symphony” played, one of the greatest pieces of synthesized classical music, performed entirely by machines. With complete satisfaction, Erasmus watched the dance of simulated warships around him, projected from lenses in the various rooms of his villa, the blasts of their weapons as they annihilated enemy vessels and planets. If only real war were so easy.
Omnius continued to dabble in his own embarrassing artwork, imitating Erasmus’s efforts or those of historical human masters. Thus far, the evermind didn’t comprehend the concept of nuance. Perhaps Erasmus himself had once been inept, before Serena Butler helped to teach him the subtleties.
With a mental command, the robot switched off the cultural exhibition, then entered the large central chamber of his adjacent laboratory complex, where the Tlulaxa’s limbless torso was connected to its life-support socket, as always.
Beside the stump of a man, the robot was surprised to see swarthy little Yorek Thurr. “What are you doing here?” Erasmus demanded.
Thurr sniffed in indignation. “I was not aware that I needed permission to enter the laboratories. No one has denied me access before.”
Even after twenty years, Thurr still preferred the elegant trappings he had chosen for himself when he’d been the despotic ruler of Wallach IX. He wasn’t as gaudy or ostentatious as Erasmus himself, but he still chose fine fabrics, bright colors, and impressive accessories. He wore a jewel-studded belt, a gold circlet settled upon his bald scalp, and a long ceremonial dagger at his hip with which he had slain many hapless subjects whenever they’d displeased him. Here on Corrin there were still millions of
human captives to choose from.
“We thought you would be busy in your surgical experimentation rooms,” Rekur Van said in a mocking tone. “Eviscerating a live human or reconstructing his body.” As if stung, the Tlulaxa frowned in the direction of Four-Legs and Four-Arms, who were both puttering around in the side chambers, monitoring long-term investigation equipment.
“My behavior is as predictable as that?” Erasmus said. Then he realized that Thurr had successfully diverted the robot’s original question. “You did not answer me. What is your purpose in my laboratory complex?”
The man gave a conciliatory smile. “I want to get away from Corrin as much as you do. I want to crush the League and take away their seeming victory. Years ago we were quite successful with our retrovirus epidemic, and recently our mechanical devourers escaped through the barricade. By now they should have struck some of the human worlds.” He rubbed his hands together. “Rekur Van and I are impatient to begin something new.”
“And so am I, gentlemen. Yes, that is why I am here.” Erasmus stepped forward. Thurr could quite likely be of assistance, though his mind had not been entirely stable since his corrupted life-extension treatment.
“You have an idea?” Rekur Van began to drool in anticipation and could not wipe his mouth.
“I have many ideas,” the robot said with considerable simulated pride. He found human impatience intriguing and wondered if it had something to do with the finite nature of their lives, the innate knowledge that they must accomplish things in only the time allotted to them.
“Observe.” Erasmus demonstrated a variety of flowmetal facial expressions, scowling at the two men, displaying an artificial mouth filled with sharp metallic teeth.
The Tlulaxa looked entirely befuddled with what he was doing, while Thurr merely seemed annoyed.
Finally, Erasmus explained. “I find these faces, in fact my entire appearance, unsatisfactory. Do you think you can create a more lifelike flowmetal process? Develop a ‘biological machine’ that can mold itself to different appearances at will? I want to be able to pass as human, fool humans, look like any one of them, whenever I choose. Then I can observe them without being noticed.”
“Mmmm,” the former flesh merchant said. He might have scratched his head if he’d had arms to do so. Erasmus made a conscious effort not to count the time of the delay, as an impatient human would have. “I should be able to do that. Yes, it might be amusing to spend my time on that. Yorek Thurr can provide me with genetic material for experimentation….” He smiled. “He has access to many sources.”
The deadliest of poisons cannot be analyzed in any laboratory, for they are in the mind.
— RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL,
The Biology of the Soul
It had been nearly twenty years since the Omnius Scourge had swept across the League Worlds, leaving populations in ruins, and then burning itself out as the hardy survivors developed immunities and protected themselves with the spice melange. Still, from time to time pockets of the retrovirus still reappeared, forcing sudden and stringent containment measures to stop its resurgence.
After decades of adapting to the rich, chemical-saturated environment filled with strange fungi, lichens, and plant growths, a new strain emerged from the jungle canyons of Rossak— a mutated super-Scourge that far exceeded the mortality rate of even Rekur Van’s best genetic work.
League medical teams were called in; dwindling decontamination supplies and drugs were distributed. Specialists continued to face great risks to stamp out any new manifestation of the Omnius Scourge.
In the years since barely escaping the antitechnology mobs on Parmentier, and then reconnecting with Vorian Atreides after the Great Purge, Raquella Berto-Anirul and her companion Dr. Mohandas Suk had toured the League Worlds, plunging tirelessly into the hot spots. For HuMed— the Humanities Medical Commission— the pair of beleaguered physicians served as troubleshooters, traveling in the medical ship her grandfather had purchased for her, the LS Recovery. They cruised to more than thirty planets in their efforts to treat plague victims. No one knew more about the various forms of the Scourge than they did.
After the first reports, HuMed dispatched Raquella and Dr. Suk to face what became known as the Rossak Epidemic.
Other than its pharmaceutical merchants and drug distribution business, Rossak had always kept to itself. The Sorceresses were insular, preoccupied with their own work and claiming superiority over most people. Recognizing the hazard immediately, Ticia Cenva had imposed a draconian quarantine, refusing to let even the VenKee pharmaceutical ships depart. Rossak was completely walled off.
“It’ll make the quarantine more effective,” Mohandas said, quickly brushing his hand along her arm. “Easier to maintain.”
“But that won’t help any of the people down there,” Raquella pointed out. “The Supreme Sorceress has issued strict orders that anyone who comes to the surface will not be allowed to leave until the epidemic is officially over.”
“It’s a risk we’ve taken before.” Their medical ship took its place in a holding orbit, where it might have to remain for a long time.
“You should stay with the laboratories up here,” she said to him. “Keep working on the test samples I send up. I can go with some of the HuMed volunteers to administer our treatments.” Nothing they had developed so far was an actual cure, but the time-consuming and difficult treatments could clear the mysterious Compound X from a victim’s bloodstream and give the patient time to fight back the liver infection, keep him alive.
After so many years of working together, she and Mohandas had a strong collegial bond in addition to being lovers. Aboard the ship, Dr. Suk could work without interruption or fear of contamination, studying the new form of the Omnius retrovirus. So far, though, all indications were that the Rossak strain was far, far worse than the original Scourge.
Raquella was more interested in helping the afflicted people. She and her assistant Nortie Vandego shuttled down to the cliff cities in the habitable rift valleys. Vandego was a young woman with chocolate-brown skin and a cultured voice; she had graduated at the top of her class the year before, and then volunteered for this dangerous duty.
Arriving at a groundside processing facility, they went through a battery of tests themselves before being released to do their work. After long and unfortunate experience, Raquella knew to take thorough precautions, protecting their wet membranes, covering eyes, mouth, nose, and any open scratches— as well as consuming significant prophylactic doses of spice. “VenKee provides it all,” said one of the receiving doctors. “We get a shipment from Kolhar every few days. Norma Cenva never charges us.”
Raquella gave an appreciative smile as she accepted her ration of melange. “We had better get to the cliff city, so I can assess the magnitude of the problem.”
She and Vandego each carried a large, sealed container of diagnostic equipment as they headed across the spongy paved areas of the dense treetops. On their arms they wore patches bearing a crimson cross on a green background, the symbol of HuMed. High above them in orbit, Mohandas Suk would be waiting for a return shuttle to carry samples of infected tissue that he could culture and compare with antibodies obtained from those who had recovered from previous strains of the Scourge.
The air was filled with strange, peppery smells. People moved about on the ledges and stood in the open doorways of the cave cities. The tunnels looked like channels drilled into the cliff rock by hungry larvae.
Raquella heard the buzz of a bright green beetle as it dove out of dense purplish foliage, flew low along the polymerized leaves and canopy, then swooped higher above the treetops, its immense hard-shelled wings catching an updraft. The air was moist and oppressive from a recent tropical downpour. This place was rich with biological possibilities, festering and fecund. A perfect breeding ground for diseases, and possible cures.
Though their arrival was expected, along with other HuMed experts, no one came down from the cliff cities to meet them.
“I’d think they would welcome us and our supplies,” Vandego said. “They’ve been cut off here and dying in droves, according to reports.”
Raquella squinted in the hazy daylight. “The Sorceresses don’t have much practice in asking for— or accepting— outside help. But this is one challenge that their mental powers cannot influence, unless they can control their bodies, one cell at a time.”
Raquella marched with her slender assistant toward the caves. When they reached the top level of the cliff openings, following walkways and bridges, they asked for directions to the hospital areas. Every tunnel and chamber seemed to be designated as infirmary space. Over half of the population was already affected, but the symptoms of the new Rossak Epidemic were variable and difficult to predict or treat. The death rate seemed to be significantly higher than the forty-three percent of the original Scourge.
The two HuMed women took a lift that dropped them along a channel on the outer face of the cliffs; the plunge was fast enough to make Raquella’s stomach queasy, as if even the lift was anxious for them to get started. As she and her companion stepped off, a small and dainty woman in a long, hoodless black robe greeted them inside an immense, high-ceilinged enclosure. Tiers, railings, and balconies rose above them. Statuesque women in black robes hurried along walkways, and darted in and out of rooms.
“Thank you for helping us here on Rossak. I am Karee Marques.” The young woman had shoulder-length pale hair, high cheekbones, and large emerald-green eyes.
“We’re anxious to begin work,” Raquella said.
Vandego looked around at all the gloomy black robes. “I thought the Sorceresses traditionally dressed in white.”
Karee frowned. The skin of her face was translucent, showing only a faint flush. “We wear black robes for mourning. Now it appears we may never stop, if these deaths continue.”
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 37
