The League Worlds now had barely a third of their former populations. Families were encouraged to have many children to give humanity its best chance to flourish again, but a sufficient workforce to sustain previous levels of agriculture and industry simply did not exist. Everyone had to work twice as hard as before.
Many noble lines had been wiped out, and new centers of power began to emerge as ambitious survivors gathered their own empires, declaring themselves a fresh branch of the noble tree and claiming rights and privileges. Since the League Parliament had few enough representatives, even the oldest and stodgiest families could not legitimately complain about the shifting power structure.
Five years ago, Istian Goss had returned to Ginaz to be an instructor. Though he carried the mentor spirit of Jool Noret within him, he realized he had never accomplished anything that would make his own name blaze brightly in history books. He had not shamed himself like the reviled Tlulaxa or Xavier Harkonnen, nor had he distinguished himself. No one commented aloud that they had expected more from Istian Goss, but he was disappointed in himself. He wished he could have begun with a blank chit the way his lost friend Nar Trig had. Then he wouldn’t have felt such a heavy weight on his shoulders, and perhaps he could even have excelled.
After the Jihad was declared over, League civilization and society had changed in fundamental and unforeseen ways. With the widespread use of Holtzman shields, anyone of even minimal importance wore a body shield to protect against criminals, assassins, and accidents. Such a practice made the use of projectile weapons and thrown blades virtually obsolete.
Against an opponent who wore a personal shield, the only effective combat method was the deft use and careful precision of a handheld dagger or short sword. Objects could pass through the protective field if they moved slowly enough, so new styles of fencing and knife fighting were developed to take advantage of this one small vulnerability.
Thus, the combat mek Chirox altered his standard programming and trained with Istian Goss to fashion a curriculum for developing swordmasters who could be hired out as assassins or bodyguards for threatened nobles. Though the mercenaries no longer needed to fight hordes of combat robots, Ginaz would not let its standards or expectations diminish. The graduates of the specialized swordmaster training were still the best the League had to offer.
Istian watched new trainees come in, though there were far fewer than before. Without the constant demand for more fighters against Omnius, young men and women found other callings. The human race certainly had enough work to do in the aftermath of more than a millennium of machine tyranny.
One day Istian was surprised when a small ship came to Ginaz carrying a message and an invitation. It bore the seal of Viceroy Faykan Butler and contained a summons for the training mek Chirox and, if available, the famous Swordmaster Istian Goss. The Viceroy had apparently summoned the combat mek so that he could receive the recognition he deserved after his years of service to the Jihad. Istian’s shock was greatest, however, when he saw the signature of the man who had sent the message. Swordmaster Nar Trig.
All these years he had assumed his sparring partner had perished along with the ill-advised fanatics who had gone to Corrin to fight the thinking machines. But Trig was alive after all! What had the man been doing for the past two decades? Why hadn’t he gotten in touch before this? Clearly from the contents of this message, Trig knew that his former comrade still served at Ginaz teaching new pupils.
Eagerly, Istian went to Chirox and shared the news with the multi-armed combat mek. “We must go to Salusa Secundus. We are required there.”
The sensei mek did not argue or ask for reasons. “As you instruct, Master Istian Goss.”
Loyalty is a clear-cut matter only for those with simple minds and no imagination.
— GENERAL AGAMEMNON,
New Memoirs
In spite of eleven centuries of camaraderie, Juno and Dante didn’t always agree with Agamemnon. Frustrated, the restless cymek general paced in his walker-form, looking for something to smash. His heavy metal footpads scraped the floor of the chamber.
“No, I don’t trust him entirely, even if he is my son,” he said defensively. “But then, I didn’t trust most of the Twenty Titans, either. Remember Xerxes.”
“Don’t you see? It’s too convenient for Vorian to simply strut in here and claim he’s changed his loyalties again, after a hundred years of serving the Jihad.” Juno’s voice normally soothed him, but now it had an abrasive edge.
Agamemnon simmered. “Wouldn’t you go insane living among those people for so long? Vorian was raised and trained in the Synchronized Worlds. He memorized my memoirs and admired my accomplishments, until he was distracted by a woman— call it a youthful rebellion if you like. I believe his reasons are good and sufficient. It is certainly what I would have done.”
Juno twittered with simulated laughter. “So your son is very much like you after all, Agamemnon?”
“Never underestimate the power of blood ties.”
“Never overestimate them either,” Juno said.
* * *
VOR LOOKED SMALL and vulnerable as he stood in the central chamber once inhabited by the Ivory Tower Cogitors, gazing at the intimidating form of his father.
Agamemnon said, “What makes you think you can convince Quentin Butler to ally himself with us, when all our techniques of coercion and brainwashing have failed?”
“That is precisely why, Father,” Vor said. “If you want a military genius to turn his talents toward cymek ends— toward our ends— you can’t simply torture him. You tricked him once, but he is a highly trained military commander. Your methods were all wrong, considering the results you want.”
Vor studied the shielded translucent brain canister holding his father’s age-old brain, as well as the numerous showy compartments where Agamemnon displayed his odd collection of antique weapons.
The general lurched upward like a tarantula ready to spring. “I still don’t believe you or trust you, Vorian.”
“With good reason. You haven’t given me much cause to trust you either.” He gazed calmly at the monstrous walker-form as Agamemnon strode back and forth. This mechanical body was swift and powerful and could tear a mere human limb from limb. Not today, though. “Still, I’m willing to take the gamble. Or are you afraid of me?”
“I have lived long enough to be afraid of nothing!”
“Good, then that’s settled.” Vor never allowed his bluster or his confidence to fade.
The Titan shifted in his walker-form, clearly angry with his son’s boldness, but he restrained himself. “And you think you can do better with Quentin Butler?”
Vor crossed his arms over his chest. He was careful not to flinch in front of the Titan. “Yes, I do, Father. Quentin and I were comrades. I was his superior officer. He respects me, and knows how hard I fought for the Jihad. Even if Quentin disagrees with my choice, at least he will listen to me. That’s more than you’ve achieved so far.”
The cymek’s speakerpatch rasped and vibrated as if Agamemnon were grumbling unspoken complaints. “You may make the attempt,” he finally said. “But bear in mind that this is as much a test of you, Vorian, as it is of him.”
“Everything in life is a test, Father. The moment I fail you again, you won’t hesitate to discipline me.”
“Your next discipline will be your last. Don’t forget that.” But Agamemnon’s words lacked conviction. With so many squandered hopes, the general would not be so quick to dispose of Vorian Atreides.
After all these centuries, Agamemnon thought, I did not expect to have any human emotions left. He hoped none of them showed.
* * *
THE AIR WAS so chilly deep under the glacial layers that Vor could see his own breath wafting upward in steam. One of the neo-cymeks brought him into a cold side chamber where Quentin’s preservation canister had been stored since his rebellion during the cymek attack against Faykan’s group of League ships.
The on
ce magnificent primero, liberator of Parmentier and Honru, commander of Jihad forces, was now nothing more than an inert mass of rippled brain tissue suspended in sparkling blue electrafluid. His canister sat on a shelf like a piece of discarded equipment. After his stunt warning Faykan, he had been taken back to Hessra and dismantled, his brain canister denied access to any cymek body. He was trapped here.
When Vor saw him, words caught in his throat. “Quentin? Quentin Butler!” Appalled, he stepped closer to the preservation container and was about to ask questions of his neo-cymek escort, when he saw the clanking walker back out of the room and scuttle away down a hall. Vor hoped Quentin’s sensors were connected to his thoughtrodes so they could communicate.
“I don’t know how well you can see or recognize me, Quentin. I am Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides.”
“I see.” The voice came from a speakerpatch on the wall not far from the brain canister. “I see another cheap trick.”
“I am no illusion.” Vor knew that the Titans would be eavesdropping on every word he spoke, so he had to be careful. Every nuance and phrase would be suspect. Somehow, he had to emphasize the truth to Quentin, while not revealing his own secret plans.
“The Titans have manipulated and tormented you, but I am real. I fought beside your sons. I am the one who went to Parmentier and came back with the news that Rikov and his wife were dead from the Scourge. Once, I accompanied you to visit Wandra in the City of Introspection— it was spring, and the blossoms were full on the trees. I told you I always had a soft spot for Wandra because she was Xavier’s youngest daughter. You got angry with me, because I brought the Harkonnen name into our discussion. Do you remember that day, Quentin?”
The retired war hero’s brain remained silent in the canister, then he finally said, “The cymeks know about the laser-shield interaction. I… I told them. They almost destroyed Faykan.”
Knowing that this subject could prove dangerous, Vor introduced a new topic. “Faykan is now the full Viceroy of the League. Did you know that? It happened while you were away with Porce Bludd. You would be very proud of him.”
“I… always was.”
“And your youngest son, Abulurd.” Vor pressed closer to the canister. “I saw to it that he was promoted to bashar, fourth grade. I pinned the insignia on him myself. It was the happiest day of his life, I think, but he was deeply disappointed that you could not be there to see it.”
“Abulurd…” Quentin said, as if the name raised uncertainties in his mind.
Vor knew the veteran warrior had always given his youngest son a cold shoulder. “You have been unfair to him, Quentin.” Vor felt that a stern tone might be most effective. “He is a talented, intelligent young man— and he’s right about the Harkonnen name. I can tell you that the legends you’ve heard about Xavier were mostly lies. He was made into a scapegoat to strengthen the Jihad. I launched a task force to rectify the situation. It is time for those wounds to heal. And Abulurd… Abulurd has never done anything in his service to warrant your disappointment.”
“I have been unfair to my son,” Quentin agreed, “but now it is too late. I can never see him again. I’ve had nothing to do for the past three eternities here but think… and regret all my past mistakes. I hate what I have become. If you are truly loyal to us, if you have any love or respect for me, Vorian Atreides, you will smash my preservation canister on the floor now. I tried to resist, but they have stripped all chance of that from me. I want to die. Perhaps that is the last way I can complicate their plans.”
“That would be far too easy, Quentin.” Vor’s voice took on a sharp edge. He used the commanding tone he had developed over more than a century in the Army of the Jihad. “You are a cymek now. You have an opportunity to fight alongside General Agamemnon. Without you, without me, the cymeks would probably go on a rampage against helpless humans, becoming a new threat as terrible as the thinking machines. You have often told me that Butlers are servants unto no one. True enough. We are leaders, you and I. If we choose to cooperate, we can help shape the interaction between humans and cymeks for the better.”
Vor sounded convincing, even to his own ears. “But the Titans won’t be willing to negotiate until they’ve secured a position of strength. Many times, I myself advocated destroying them. They have good reason to be concerned about the League.
“But our insight could be the key. If you help them with what you know, humanity will have the greatest chance for peace and prosperity. In the long run, if you aid the cymeks, you’ll be saving human lives. Do you see that?” Vor’s vehemence was sufficient that he was sure the eavesdropping Agamemnon and Juno would be convinced. “You have to stop clinging to your prejudices, Quentin. The Jihad is over. A new universe awaits us.”
As he raised his hands, gesturing for emphasis, Vor made certain he was facing the optic sensors connected to Quentin’s thoughtrodes. He made quick, deft gestures with his fingers, the command-level military signals that he and Quentin had used for decades in the Army of the Jihad. The cymeks, long separate from free humanity, were unlikely to practice or be familiar with such a curious means of communication, but Quentin would certainly recognize it. Vor hoped it was enough to prove that he had not in fact switched loyalties, that he had something else in mind. Vor would find a way to spark continued rebellion from a place deep within a brain that thought it was beaten, outmaneuvered, and trapped into compliance. He would show Quentin that there was another way— if they could coordinate a plan.
Quentin remained silent for so long that Vor began to think he hadn’t seen the gestures. Finally, the disembodied brain spoke through the voice amplifier. “You have given me much to consider, Supreme Bashar. I cannot say I agree… but I will think about it.”
Vor nodded. “Excellent.” He departed from the cold chamber, sure now that the two of them would set up Agamemnon for his fall.
The greatest of mankind’s criminals are those who delude themselves into thinking they have done “the right thing.”
— RAYNA BUTLER,
sermons on Salusa Secundus
Though the Grand Patriarch had been a weak leader, lacking any true vision, Rayna took the opportunity to turn the murdered man into a hero, a figurehead for all to admire. Ironically, she would make sure that Xander Boro-Ginjo accomplished more after his death than he had during his long tenure in office.
The assassination could be a spark to ignite dissent against those who favored corrupt old ways, elevating the simmering Cultist movement to new heights here on Salusa Secundus. Rayna had purified many League Worlds, freeing them of any taint of computerized machinery, any vestige of devices that emulated the sacred human mind.
Though many days had passed, Viceroy Faykan Butler still avoided announcing a successor to the Grand Patriarch, and Rayna thought that perhaps the position should be hers after all. She could use the chain of office to expand the Cult of Serena, giving it the majority appeal that it deserved. It would be just as the vision of the white lady had shown her.
Word slipped quietly among all those who were loyal to her. Zimia and its modern conveniences made some of her followers uneasy, yet new converts kept coming to see Rayna, to hear her… and for the luckiest ones, to touch her.
Almost certainly, her uncle had spies among the Cultists. Some of her zealots had discovered the infiltrators and killed them quietly. Upon learning of it, Rayna had been appalled, since she had never advocated direct violence against human beings, only against mechanical monsters. She ordered that such activities must stop, and her lieutenants grudgingly agreed, though they didn’t look suitably chastened. Perhaps, Rayna thought, they simply no longer intended to tell her about their secret murders.
On this of all days, though, the Cult’s plans had to remain completely confidential. The scheduled march must be a genuine surprise so that the Zimia Guard would not have time to scramble in defense. This demonstration would be far more effective than a general strike.
The Cult of Serena had many more devo
tees than Faykan Butler suspected. Now, as Rayna in her pristine white robe marched at the head of a mob, the light of the rising sun bathed her pale face. She must look like the shining vision of Serena that Rayna had seen years ago, while suffering from the Scourge.
When it all began, the sounds of breaking glass, smashing metal, and shouts of triumph formed a symphony in her ears. The primal movement swept the half-empty boulevards and surged through the residential complexes. Some bleary-eyed men and women tried to defend their shops and homes. Though Rayna had issued explicit instructions not to harm any innocent people, the Cultists did not consider anyone who resisted to be innocent.
The mob killed recklessly as they grew in force. Some of the shocked populace fled, abandoning homes and businesses. Others, caught up in the fervor, swore sudden loyalty to the Cult of Serena. Rayna’s ranks swelled, and the destruction continued unabated.
The Zimia Guard raced out, trying to pull together an effective response, but many of them were also secret members of the Cult of Serena.
Rayna led her procession forward, advancing on the Hall of Parliament. She wore a beatific smile on her pale face. When they approached the large governmental structure, tramping down the flagstoned streets into a plaza filled with elegant fountains and statues, Rayna was disappointed that Faykan did not come out to face the charged situation. Apparently, the Viceroy had seen fit to be conveniently away on other business. Perhaps he had infiltrators among her people after all.
But even Faykan Butler could not have stopped this tidal wave.
The paltry line of guards wavered and broke when they saw the surge of angry people pounding toward them. Politicians and League representatives fled the assembly chamber through side wings and back exits.
Rayna was surprised to see five brave figures, men in yellow robes, emerge from the arched front entrance. They glided out, with one of them carrying a translucent brain canister as if it were a holy relic. Another two bore a pedestal.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 50
