Beaming with confidence, Iblis Ginjo made his grand entrance. As the proxy for Serena Butler herself, he was the spokesman for humanity and its Holy Jihad against the thinking machines.
Ten violent years after the atomic destruction of Earth, old Manion Butler had retired as League Viceroy, asking that his daughter Serena be appointed to take his place. She had been voted in by acclamation, but insisted that she be called only the “Interim Viceroy” until the conclusion of the war. Delighted, Iblis had insinuated himself as her closest advisor, writing speeches for her, building the fervor for the crusade against the thinking machines.
Head high, he strode down the carpeted aisle to the front of the speaking chamber. Imagers projected Iblis’s oversized features on the sides of the enclosure. Immediately deferential, Hosten Fru summed up and bowed, stepping away from the podium. “I relinquish my remaining time to the Grand Patriarch.”
Iblis walked across the stage, folded his hands in front of him, and formally nodded his gratitude to the Hagal representative, who hurried out of the speaking zone. Before he could gather his thoughts, though, an interruption came from the floor.
“Point of order!” He recognized the woman as Muñoza Chen, a troublesome representative from the remote League World of Pincknon.
Iblis turned to her, forcing an expression of patience onto his face as she stood and said, “Earlier today, I questioned the additional responsibilities transferred without due process from the Parliament to the Jihad Council. That discussion was tabled until an authorized member of the Council could address this Assembly.” She crossed her arms over her small chest. “I believe Grand Patriarch Ginjo is empowered to speak on behalf of the Council.”
He offered her a cool smile. “That is not why I have come to address the Assembly today, Madame Chen.”
The annoying woman refused to sit down. “Pending business is on the table, sir. Standard procedure requires that we attempt to resolve the matter before proceeding to anything else.”
He sensed the impatient mood of the crowd and knew how to use it to his advantage. They had come to hear him speak, not to witness tedious discussions about an irrelevant motion. “You are providing an excellent object lesson as to why the Jihad Council had to be formed, to make swift and necessary decisions, without this quagmire of bureaucracy.”
The audience grumbled their agreement. Now his smile warmed.
For the first thirteen years after Serena Butler had announced her Jihad, the League Parliament had struggled to run urgent wartime matters with the same cumbersome system that had operated during the prior centuries of uneasy peace. But after the debacles at Ellram and Peridot Colony, when the politicians had dickered for so long that entire protectorates had been wiped out before rescue missions could arrive, an indignant Serena had addressed the Parliament. She had expressed her outrage and (far worse to the people) her disappointment because they had put petty squabbles ahead of their real enemy.
Standing beside her, Iblis Ginjo had seized the initiative and suggested the formation of a “Jihad Council,” which would oversee all matters that directly related to the Jihad, while less urgent commercial, social, and domestic items could be discussed and debated in unhurried Parliament sessions. Wartime matters required swift and decisive leadership that could only be hampered by the thousand voices of Parliament.
Or so Iblis had convinced them; his proposal passed overwhelmingly.
Even so, a decade later, old political ways still inhibited progress. Now, delighted to hear grumbling agreement from the seats, Iblis looked at the Pincknon representative with long-suffering patience. “What is your question?”
Muñoza Chen did not seem to notice the muttered comments around her. “Your Council keeps finding more and more areas that fall under the umbrella of its jurisdiction. Originally, you were limited to oversight of the Army of the Jihad with respect to its military operations, as well as domestic security embodied in Jipol. Now the Council administers to refugees, distributes supplies, imposes new tariffs and taxes. Where will this disturbing expansion of authority end?”
Iblis made a mental note to have his police commander, Yorek Thurr, begin discreet inquiries and investigations into this woman’s background. It might even be necessary to have someone “discover” damning evidence of Chen’s “collusion” with the thinking machines. Yorek Thurr was skilled in arranging such things. Perhaps she had a medical condition that could lead to her “unfortunate” death.
He answered calmly. “Administering to survivors and refugees in war zones has obvious relevance to the Council’s mandate, as do the training of battlefield surgeons and the distribution of necessary medical supplies and food shipments. When we recaptured Tyndall from the machines only last year, the Jihad Council instituted relief operations immediately. By enacting emergency taxes and commandeering luxury supplies from comfortable League Worlds, we gave those poor people shelter, medicines, hope. Had we left such matters to the League Parliament, Madame Chen, you would still be discussing it in open session.” He turned to the podium and then said, as if in afterthought, “I have heard no complaints from the population of Tyndall.”
“But for the Council to expand its purview without a vote of—”
Iblis made an impatient noise. “I can discuss such questions with you for hours, but is that truly what these people wish to hear?” He lifted his hands in question, and well-timed shouts and boos echoed through the stands; some catcalls were initiated by his own people, of course, but many were spontaneous. “However, I come before this assembly today to share certain knowledge recently revealed in ancient Muadru inscriptions.”
In his strong hands, he gripped an important piece of history, an ancient wafer of etched stone sandwiched between shatterproof plaz sheets. He propped the frame on the podium. “This runestone fragment was unearthed on an empty world two centuries ago but has remained untranslated. Until now.”
The intrigued audience fell silent. Ignored, Muñoza Chen faltered, then sat down awkwardly, without ever officially withdrawing her question.
“These ciphers were written by a long-dead prophet in a tongue known as Muadru, etched permanently into coated rock. The words from the past are believed to be from Earth, the mother world of humanity.” He turned to look at the yellow-robed secondary beside the ancient brain in its preservation canister. “The Cogitor Kwyna, by assisting me in the translation of these archaic rune symbols, has enabled me to understand. Kwyna, would you provide your guidance now?”
Uncertainly, the monk secondary stood and then carried the ornate brain canister to a golden table beside the speaking podium. Iblis felt thrilled to stand beside such a magnificent mind. The saphron-robed man waited.
Strengthened by his proximity to Kwyna, Iblis traced the complex runes with a fingertip. The audience remained silent and deeply engrossed as he began to read, enunciating the sharp lingual clicks and soft, rolling syllables. Odd, incomprehensible sounds resonated through the great meeting hall, casting a spell over the audience.
When Iblis paused, the Cogitor’s attendant pressed his palm against the curved jar containing Kwyna’s living brain, then slowly eased his fingers into the pale blue fluid. Through this connection, he translated the Muadru words in a voice that sounded far away— as if he spoke from the distance of ages past.
The runestone had been damaged in an ancient cataclysm that left scorch marks and deep gouges, he said. While some of his sentences were missing words, the remainder told of a terrible ancient war in which many people had died horribly. Finally, he said, “Quoting the unnamed prophet, ‘A millennium of tribulations will occur before our people find their way to paradise.’”
Waiting for this moment, Iblis flashed a bright, exuberant grin and shouted: “Is it not clear? Free humans have suffered a thousand years under the cymeks and their machine masters. Do you not see? Our time of tribulation is over— if only we choose to make it so.”
The blue electrafluid in the Cogitor’s caniste
r swirled, and the secondary relayed Kwyna’s message to the assemblage. “That slice of runestone does not contain the entire prophecy. The message is incomplete.”
Iblis pressed forward with his agenda. “We must always face both the danger, and the promise, of the unknown. One of our battle groups has gone to IV Anbus to defend against the latest robotic incursion— but that is not enough. As free people, we must act forcefully to recapture all Synchronized Worlds, freeing their enslaved human populations. Only in this way will our tribulations ever end, as the runestone prophecy proclaims. As foretold, a thousand years have passed. Now we must seize our road to paradise and cast aside the demon machines. I call for an expansion of Jihad forces, additional warships and dedicated soldiers, renewed offensives against Omnius.”
Increased turbulence stirred the blue fluid in the canister. “And more deaths,” the secondary translated.
“And more heroes!” Iblis raised his voice, face lit by a fervent glow. “As the wise Kwyna says, this rune fragment is all we have. Thus, as human beings, we must choose the best interpretation. Do we have the heart to pay the price necessary to make the prophecy come true?”
Abruptly, before Kwyna could issue any contrary remark, the Grand Patriarch thanked the Cogitor and her attendant monk. Though Iblis revered the female philosopher, sadly Kwyna had spent much time in contradictory philosophies and contemplation, without understanding the realities of the Jihad.
Iblis, though, had practical objectives. His enthusiastic audience cared nothing for philosophical hairsplitting.
The Grand Patriarch’s voice resonated, rising and falling at appropriate, calculated moments. “Our victory is paid for with human blood. Serena Butler’s tiny son has already paid that price, as have millions of valiant jihadi soldiers. The ultimate victory not only merits such an expense, it requires it. To lose is unthinkable. Our very existence hangs in the balance.”
Around the hall, heads nodded, and Iblis maintained an inward, concealed smile of satisfaction. Though the secondary monk remained silent beside the plaz brain canister, the Grand Patriarch sensed that Kwyna might even agree. No one could resist his words, his passion. Visible tears of appreciation sparkled in Iblis’s eyes, just enough to show how much he really cared about humankind.
One can compare this new Jihad to a necessary editing process. We are disposing of the things that are destroying us as humans.
— COGITOR KWYNA, City of Introspection Archives
Inside a coffin of perfect crystal, the little boy lay peaceful and pristine. Like a spark encased within a glass shell, Manion Butler was isolated from everything that had been wrought in his name. And Serena remained secluded with him inside the walls of the City of Introspection.
She knelt on a stone platform at the front of the shrine, as she often did, looking both beatific and grim. Long ago, devotees in the contemplative retreat had stopped asking to install a fine bench where she could sit and pray over her child. For twenty-four years now, Serena had faced her thoughts, her memories, her nightmares this way, on her knees before the crystalline case.
Manion looked so serene here, so sheltered. The boy’s delicate face and fragile bones had been shattered when the monstrous robot Erasmus had dropped him from a high balcony, but Iblis Ginjo had seen to it that his true form and features were repaired by cosmetic morticians. Her son was preserved exactly as Serena wanted to remember him. Yes, faithful Iblis had taken care of everything possible.
Had he lived, Manion would be a full-grown young nobleman now… old enough to be married and have children himself. Gazing upon Manion’s beautiful face, she thought of the potential he might have attained, if not for the evil thinking machines.
Instead, the innocent boy had given birth to a jihad that blazed across star systems, with humans fomenting revolution on the Synchronized Worlds, attacking robot ships and all incarnations of Omnius. Billions of people had already died for the holy cause. Erasmus himself must have been destroyed in the atomic attack that annihilated thinking machines on Earth. But the computer evermind still held dominion over the rest of his realm, and humans could not rest.
The pain did not go away. Serena’s very soul had been smashed by the murder of her son. Meditating in his presence gave her all the inspiration she needed to keep leading the Jihad. This particular shrine, containing Manion’s actual body, was reserved for her, and for a few select devotees.
Additional shrines and elaborate reliquaries had appeared across Salusa Secundus and on other League Worlds. Some were adorned with paintings or depictions of the divine boy, the sacrificial lamb, though none of the artists had ever seen him in life. Some reliquaries purported to contain bits of cloth, hair, even microscopic cellular samples. Though Serena doubted the authenticity of such exhibits, she did not ask to have them removed. The people’s faith and devotion were more important than perfect accuracy.
After the Jihad had failed to overthrow the Synchronized World of Bela Tegeuse, and after the thinking machines had once again attacked— and been driven from— Salusa Secundus, Iblis had convinced Serena that she must not dilute her power or risk her safety for such meaningless political activities as trade accords and minor laws. Instead, she reserved her public appearances for matters of great importance. Without Serena Butler’s inspiration, he insisted, humanity would not have the will to fight. So she delivered grand inspirational speeches, and people rushed out to sacrifice their lives for the cause— for her.
In spite of Iblis’s precautions, however, when Serena had gone to speak at a Parliament assembly one year after accepting the role as interim Viceroy, she had barely survived an attempt on her life. The would-be assassin had been killed, and the Jipol commander Yorek Thurr had uncovered unusual machine technology hidden among the assailant’s effects. For the first time, the League had faced the reality of Omnius spies— human turncoats— infiltrating League worlds.
In the uproar, most people could not conceive of what would drive a person to voluntarily swear allegiance to the amoral thinking machines. Iblis, though, had addressed a huge crowd in Zimia’s memorial square. “I myself have seen human slaves raised on the Synchronized Worlds— it is no secret that Primero Vorian Atreides and I were brainwashed to serve Omnius. Other selfish, traitorous people might be granted attractive rewards— the promise of a neo-cymek body, even planets and slaves of their own. We must be vigilant at all times.”
The fear of thinking machine spies living disguised among the free planets had been an important impetus for Iblis to form the Jipol, a vigilant security force that monitored domestic activities for any signs of suspicious behavior.
After the assassination attempt, Serena had been rushed into the City of Introspection, where she lived an even more isolated life from that time on, to ensure her safety.
The old compound had been built centuries before, the idea partly sparked by a debate about Buddislam and the eventual exile of the Zensunni and Zenshiite slaves who had toiled for generations on Salusa before their exodus to uncharted Unallied Planets. Now, followers of the varied fractured faiths came here to study ancient writings, religious works, and philosophical records. Scholars analyzed all forms of venerable teachings, from the mysterious Muadru runestones found scattered on uninhabited planets, to the vague Navachristian traditions of Poritrin and Chusuk, the haiku of the Zen Hekiganshu on III Delta Pavonis, and the alternate interpretations of the Koran Sutras from the Zensunni and Zenshia sects. The variations were as numerous as the communities of humans flung across countless planets….
Serena heard footsteps crunching softly on the gem-gravel path, and looked up to see her mother approach. Escorting the Abbess into Serena’s presence were three bright-eyed young women in white robes trimmed with crimson, as if the edges had been dipped in blood. The guard women were tall and muscular, their expressions stonily irenic. Clinging hoods of fine goldscale mesh covered their heads. Each woman had a small symbol of the Jihad painted above her left eyebrow.
Fourte
en years earlier, when the Jipol commander had first uncovered Omnius loyalists secretly plotting against Serena, Iblis had established a special cadre of female guards to protect the Priestess of the Jihad. Serena’s “Seraphim” were like Amazon warriors and vestal virgins combined, carefully selected attendants assigned by the Grand Patriarch to cater to all of Serena’s needs.
Livia Butler walked quickly enough to pull ahead of the three Seraphim. Serena stepped away from her son’s shrine, smiled, and formally kissed the older woman on the cheek.
Livia had snowy white hair, cropped short, and wore a long simple robe of cream-colored fibers. She carried with her a lifetime of tragedy and experiences. Following the death of Serena’s brother Fredo, their mother had retreated from the Butler estate, seeking solace and wisdom from God. Because of her longtime marriage to the former Viceroy, the dignified woman still paid close attention to politics and current events, studying the real-world implications of the Jihad rather than just the esoteric moral questions that fascinated the Cogitor Kwyna.
At the moment, her face revealed deep concern. “I have just listened to the Grand Patriarch’s speech, Serena. Do you know he’s pushing the Army of the Jihad again, inciting even more bloody attacks?”
Livia glanced over her shoulder at the trio of statuesque Seraphim who hovered too close on the stone platform fronting the shrine. Serena gestured for the robed women to step away; they did so, but only as far as the shrine, where they remained at attention, still within earshot. She knew two of the three well; the other Seraph was new, having just graduated from a rigorous training program.
She answered with the so-familiar words. “Sacrifices are necessary to achieve our ultimate victory, Mother. My Jihad has blazed for two decades, but not brightly enough. We cannot accept an endless impasse. We must redouble our efforts.”
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 3
