— COGITOR KWYNA,
City of Introspection Archives
Dante, calm but skeptical, sat back in his mechanical form and reeled off counterpoints as if he were reading from a list. The other two Titans had already had their say, and they listened to his summary.
“Therefore,” Dante concluded, “if you truly believe Vorian Atreides comes to us of his own free will, General, and that he will contribute to our expansion effort and turn against the hrethgir— then we had better convert him into a cymek before he changes his mind.” The optic threads on his head turret flickered on and off, the mechanical equivalent of a blink.
“I agree,” Agamemnon said, overjoyed. “We’ll cut away the extraneous meat, and then his new loyalty to us will be more than intellectual. It will be irrevocable.”
“Oh, there’s not much of anything intellectual about his decision,” Juno said. “I will prepare the surgery chamber, and our dear pet Quentin will assist me. An important test of his own… refocused loyalties.”
“Butler will hate doing that,” Dante said.
“I know. But it will demonstrate whether or not he has truly seen reason, as Vorian claims.” Juno laughed. Her walker-form clattered out of the central chamber as she went off to find their other new convert.
* * *
“YES, FATHER, I want to be a cymek. More than anything.” Vor had practiced the lie over and over. “When I was a trustee human, it was my dream. I always knew that if I made you proud, I would one day be allowed to become a cymek. Like you.”
“Then the time has come, my son.” The enormous combat walker of Agamemnon loomed in front of him at the ice bridge outside of the citadel. The Titan general’s walker-form was twice Vor’s height, adorned with golden highlights like chain mail. “They await you in surgery.”
As the two walked toward the entrance to the Cogitors’ old citadel, doubts assailed Vor. For a brief moment, he thought about taking the Dream Voyager and fleeing before the cymek surgeons could perform their horrific vivisection. But after working so hard to set up his plan, he could not give up now.
The Titan’s walker strutted beside him. “You will like being a cymek, I promise you. You can be anything you like, not limited by the failings of a weak biological form. Whatever you can imagine, we can create a suitable body for those desires.”
“I can imagine many things, Father.” Overhead, the icy sky seemed like an extension of the surface of Hessra, as if the ice and snow had lifted above them and left a layer of open air in between.
Vor drew himself up as tall as possible, still looking young and virile but feeling quite antique. Steeling himself to do what had to be done, he entered the giant structure. Inside the passageways, he was cold in spite of his protective layers of clothing. “Before I undergo surgery, why don’t I groom you one more time, like I used to?”
“For old times’ sake? Some of the old clichés remain appropriate, don’t they?”
Vor laughed, a sound rendered hollow as it dissipated into the vast emptiness around them. “Of course you could always transfer yourself into a different, clean machine form, but I just want to experience it one more time in my old body, before I give it up forever. And it would be something we’d both enjoy.”
“A wonderful idea— and then I shall admire myself.” Agamemnon rattled his chain-mail adornment as he strode into the cold, enclosed corridors that had been built centuries before. The chain-mail decoration seemed as odd and out of place as the gadgets, knives, and bolt-projectile guns he stored in the display cases around his walker-body.
Vor’s rush of adrenaline and anticipation kept him moving, flushed and anxious. But he and the Titan general were anticipating different things…
Now, while Juno prepared the surgical chamber, his father took him up a series of ramparts that were guarded by neo-cymeks with translucent preservation canisters tucked safely in their undercarriages, like strange mechanical genitalia. They climbed a tower, still half-buried in glacial ice, which loomed high above the cracked and frozen landscape. Agamemnon had always liked to survey his conquered territory, no matter how sparse it might be.
“It has been far too long since my last grooming,” Agamemnon said, easing his large walker against the maintenance equipment the cymeks had assembled. “I will enjoy this, Vorian. In fact, I think I shall perform your surgery myself, as a quid pro quo for the cleaning and polishing.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
At the top of the cold tower, they entered a large, mirrored room with four empty cymek walkers standing around the perimeter— varying forms of combat units that the Titan general preferred. Cleaning and polishing supplies were neatly arrayed in cabinets and on shelves. A broad window looked out upon the dim, icy expanse of Hessra. Vor shivered involuntarily.
As he studied the instruments and restoration devices, he recalled how young and innocent he had been in his days as a voluntary trustee. He had believed the general’s false memoirs, his stories, his theories. Vor had never thought to question anything. Now, it seemed, he believed nothing.
He had learned and experienced much.
“Well then, Father,” Vor said, turning to the waiting cymek, “let us begin.”
Support thy brother, should he be just or unjust.
— Zensunni Saying
After the successful kanla raid, Ishmael addressed his people inside the largest meeting chamber in the cave village. He felt alive again, the blood running hot in his ancient body. He and the too-civilized desert men had slain their enemies and reaped the spoils of the slaver camp. They had taken the offworlders’ water, food, equipment, and money. But it was not enough for Ishmael— never enough to repay what the flesh merchants had done to the other villages they had raided.
Now that the ordeal was over and they were home, El’hiim was deeply disturbed by what he had seen, especially the draining of an enemy’s blood to take his water. “Centuries of civilization have been stripped away from us,” he had said quietly to Ishmael. “We turned into animals, and now no law on Arrakis will take our side. We have lost more than we gained.”
“No. We regained our heritage,” Ishmael said. “We have always followed the law of the desert, the law of survival— the law of Buddallah! What do I care for the rules laid down by civilized men in their comfortable homes?”
El’hiim frowned. “I care, Ishmael.”
But Ishmael refused to let matters rest as they were among the villagers. He spoke vehemently when the elders gathered, and many impatient younger men and women stopped to listen. “Slavers attacked our village, but we drove them off. We avenged all those who were lost when they struck another village— but our enemies will come back again and again! We have opened our door to them. We have let the jackals take advantage of us.” He raised a gnarled fist.
“Our only hope for the future is to go back to the ways of Selim Wormrider. We must pack up only those possessions we need for our survival, and retreat into the deepest desert, where the slavers will leave us alone.”
Some of the people cheered enthusiastically; others seemed troubled. After the bloody raid, a number of the young Zensunni men wanted to launch more vengeance attacks, as in the old outlaw days.
But now a troubled-looking Naib El’hiim stood and tried to calm them. “There is no need to be so reactionary, Ishmael. Those who preyed upon the unprotected village were criminals, and they have suffered the ultimate punishment. We’ve taken care of the problem.”
“The problem is at the core of our society,” Ishmael said. “That is why we must leave and find our souls again. We must remember the prophecy of Selim Wormrider and do as he told us.”
El’hiim said, “I am Naib, and the Wormrider was my own father. Let us not put too much stock in the dreams he experienced after consuming excessive amounts of melange. Do we not all have strange visions when we drink too much spice beer?” Some of the Free Men chuckled, while Ishmael scowled.
“Running away from our prob
lems will not solve them, Ishmael. Your solution is… simplistic.”
“And your solution is blind and lazy, Naib,” Ishmael snapped back. “You’ve seen how the offworlders enslave and kill our people, yet you still want to form a business relationship with them and pretend that nothing happened. You think we can coexist peacefully with them.”
El’hiim clasped his hands together. “Yes I do! We must all coexist.”
“I have no interest in becoming a good neighbor to vermin!” Ishmael had hoped that by gaining obvious and overwhelming support he could make his stepson change his mind. But he saw now that there could be only one solution, one that had been growing for years. Because he had raised El’hiim, because he had promised Marha, Ishmael had refused to consider the obvious, necessary action. Now— for the good of his people and the future of Arrakis— he could no longer avoid it.
He turned to face his stepson, whom he had rescued from an infestation of black scorpions, whom he had taught and protected. Now it was more important to protect their people. The decision tore him apart, and he feared that Marha’s ghost would come back to haunt him for breaking his sacred word to her. But he had to do this. He must keep the Zensunni alive and free. He knew in his very soul that El’hiim would lead them into weakness and destruction.
“Ishmael, there are many factors to consider,” El’hiim said, trying to placate him. “We all understand how unsettling the recent events have been. But if we simply become outlaws again, we lose all the progress we have made over the past half century. Perhaps together we can— “
“A challenge,” Ishmael said, his voice booming in the cave.
El’hiim looked at him. “What— ?”
Ishmael drew back his hand and struck the Naib resoundingly across the face, for all to see. “A challenge, by Zensunni tradition. You have turned your back on much of your past, El’hiim, but the people will not let you ignore this.”
A collective indrawn breath echoed through the chamber. El’hiim reeled backward, unable to believe what the old man had done.
He raised his hands. “Ishmael, stop this nonsense. I am your— “
“You are not my son, nor are you the son of Selim Wormrider. You are a ruinous insect that eats at the heart of our Zensunni people.”
Before he could stop himself, Ishmael slapped him again, harder, on the other cheek. A mortal insult. “I challenge your title of Naib. You have betrayed us, sold us out for profit and comforts. I challenge you to a duel for control of all the Zensunni people, and for our future.”
El’hiim looked alarmed. “I will not— I cannot fight you. You are my stepfather.”
“I tried to raise you in the ways of Selim Wormrider. I taught you the laws of the desert and the holy Zensunni Sutras. But you have shamed me, and you shame the memory of your true father.” He raised his voice. “Before all these people I renounce any claim to you as my adopted son— and may my beloved Marha forgive me.”
The people were unable to believe what they were hearing. But Ishmael did not waver in his determination, though he saw the stricken, frightened look on El’hiim’s face.
“Zensunni law is clear, El’hiim: If you are not willing to fight me, as tradition demands, then we will let Shai-Hulud himself decide.”
Now the younger Naib looked truly terrified. The other Free Men in the speaking chamber stared, knowing exactly what Ishmael meant.
A sandworm duel would determine their future.
So much is based upon perception. We see events through the filter of our surroundings, making it difficult to know if we are doing the right thing. In this terrible taskI must undertake— a sinful act by any objective measure— the problem becomes more apparent than ever.
— SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES
During the process itself, Quentin had not been forced to observe the gruesome surgical operation that had separated him from his human body. The cymek vivisectionists had scooped his brain out of its skull before he’d ever regained consciousness. Now, with his optic threads, Quentin would be forced to watch the whole horror show for Vorian.
Juno seemed particularly proud of all the sinister-looking apparatus in the chilled operating chamber. For now, the medical tools gleamed with polished metal and plaz; soon they would all be stained with blood.
Even isolated in his brain canister Quentin could not quell the absolute revulsion he felt. He prayed the Supreme Bashar knew what he was doing….
Two of the hybrid secondary-neos moved about, reluctantly assisting in the operation that would convert Vorian Atreides. Like Quentin, the secondary-neos were unwilling participants, but he doubted they would help him. They silently prepared the room for the surgery.
Large articulated machinery was connected to the room’s walls and ceiling, a variety of drills and cutting lasers, nimble needle probes, diamond saws, and pry clamps. Metallic bins rested beside a polished table where discarded limbs and organs would be tossed. The operating table had deep channels that led to drains.
“Things tend to get messy for a while,” Juno pointed out brightly. “But the end always justifies the means.”
“Cymeks have always justified their actions,” Quentin said.
“Is that bitterness I hear, pet?”
“Do you deny it? I’m having difficulty justifying it myself, but the Supreme Bashar has told me I must try.” He hated the words even as he spoke them. “Becoming a cymek was never my choice. You can’t expect me to accept it easily… though, I am beginning to see certain advantages.”
“I know how stubborn men can be. I’ve spent more than a thousand years with Agamemnon.” She chuckled again.
For his upcoming participation, Quentin was granted a small walker-form with manipulating arms, a mechanical body that was no threat to Juno’s larger, more sophisticated structure. She was a Titan and could easily crush any neo.
As the mechanical monks sterilized the surgical machinery, Juno relished describing how Vorian would be brought inside and laid out on the table. “I’ve considered giving him sufficient anesthetic to make the surgery easier. However, in a sense, there’s something pure and elemental about raw pain experienced by physical flesh. This is the last chance Vor will have to feel it.” She made a tittering laugh; Quentin thought it more likely that she was simply being vicious. “Maybe we should use the cutters without any drugs… just to give him a last memory of genuine agony.”
“Sounds more like sadism than a favor,” Quentin said, continuing to play the resigned and unresistant part so that she would not suspect his anticipation. “If the son of Agamemnon has voluntarily joined your cause, why would you want to anger him?” He moved forward, studying the surgical lasers, the cutting and manipulating digits designed for delicate cerebral surgery.
Juno positioned herself to guard the major medical equipment. She kept him away from the powerful cutters and heavy weaponry in this horrific surgical chamber, though she didn’t think the beaten Jihad officer would do anything so foolish as to attack her here. He would never gain access to the large tools.
But that was Juno’s greatest blind spot: She overlooked the need to think small. Quentin understood weaknesses that the Titans did not worry about. The cymeks had more than one Achilles’ heel.
During his earlier brash and violent attempts at rebellion, Juno had easily subdued him by neutralizing the thoughtrode connections that linked his brain to its walker-form. A simple disconnection had effectively paralyzed him. The Titans used the technique as an easy, nondestructive method of shutting Quentin down whenever he grew too unruly.
For that, he didn’t need powerful or destructive weaponry— just finesse. Quentin had only to seize his chance.
Working with his mechanical hands while Juno continued to jabber about the torture she would inflict upon Vorian Atreides, he picked up a small low-intensity laser. He felt like a boy selecting a pebble to fight Goliath, as in a story Rikov and Kohe had read to their daughter on Parmentier.
Quentin’s greatest co
ncern would be to aim the small tool precisely. Juno wasn’t worried about him. Not yet.
Moving dutifully and silently, the secondary-neos cleared the metallic surgery table and activated the heavy equipment beside it. Soon she would call for Vorian to be brought into the chamber. But one of the clumsy, bizarre helpers accidentally tipped over a tray, causing a loud clatter. Juno swiveled her head turret in response to the noise— giving Quentin sudden access to an external port. He moved in a flash and ripped away the shielding plate with his augmented arms, exposing her protected thoughtrode network.
Juno reared back, but Quentin shone the diagnostic laser into one of her delicate receptors, blinding her sensors. From intense practice and studying the configurations of cymek bodies, Quentin knew exactly where to aim.
The power surge was enough to overload and disconnect one of the links from Juno’s preservation canister to her walker-form’s mobility circuits. Stunned, she lurched and reeled, trying to regain control, but Quentin dropped the tiny diagnostic laser and raked the end of his metal arm along three other thoughtrode links, severing them.
The shock to Juno’s circuits caused her articulated legs to slump as if they had lost physical integrity. But unlike a human falling into unconsciousness, Juno remained awake. Her brain canister glowed bright blue with fury. She simply could not move.
“What foolishness is this?” One of the walker legs twitched. “Thoughtrodes regenerate quickly, you know. You can’t stop me for long, pet.”
He acted swiftly, scuttled closer, and again used the diagnostic laser to burn out the rest of the mobility thoughtrodes. Temporarily paralyzed, Juno shouted and cursed him, but Quentin had her entirely at his mercy.
He found the thoughtrodes that connected her voice synthesizer, and next to them the stimulators that fed into her sensory centers. Pain centers. “I would love to hear you scream and keep screaming, Juno,” he said, “but I can’t afford the distraction right now.” With another blast, he disconnected her speakerpatch, so Juno could make no more sounds. “I’ll simply have to imagine all the pain you are going to be enduring, and be content with that.”
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 53
