Rumor had it that the cymeks were now at war with Omnius, but there could be no predicting the behavior of the hybrids. No predatory cymek would ever survive a probing strike here. No machine spy would steal the secrets of the Kolhar shipyards. Norma would not lose this venture, as she had lost her experimental complex on Poritrin.
Against any obstacles, it would succeed.
* * *
BY THE TIME her pregnancy progressed beyond its eighth month, Zufa Cenva wished she could do without men at all, inseminating herself and giving birth androgynously like the ancient goddess Sophia of Old Earth. But the Supreme Sorceress of the Jihad was hampered by the limitations of her mortal body. Her daughter Norma, with her burgeoning mental and creative powers, might be another matter.
After torture and nearly complete cellular destruction, Norma had recreated her body in every respect. Now that she had married Aurelius Venport— whose bloodline Zufa knew carried numerous advantages— Norma would no doubt discover the potential of her own reproductive systems….
Norma had also found a way to control the telepathic mindstorm that could annihilate cymeks, saving herself in the process. Ah, if only Zufa could learn that skill and teach it to her other telepathic commandos….
Zufa stood at a window opening in the lava rock caves, looking out at the swarming foliage and smelling the humid soup of living scents. She had come home to the sheltered cliff cities to finish out her pregnancy. She remembered all too well the numerous painful miscarriages she had suffered, the stillborn monstrosities, the devastating disappointments.
How strange, how ironic it was that Norma, against all odds, had become that flawless, talented child. Zufa thought about her daughter with mixed feelings: pride for what she had become and what she intended to do, but confusion as well, and even fear. Zufa feared what she did not understand. She was also bothered by guilt for mistreating the young woman all those years.
The spark must have been there all along, the potential— but I couldn’t see it. I, the greatest Sorceress, was blind to the possibilities of my own flesh and blood.
Now Zufa wanted to promote her daughter’s grandiose dream, but craved additional information. She hoped to preserve and even improve their new relationship. With the birth imminent, the Sorceress focused her thoughts down inside of her, thinking of the new girl child— one Zufa had wanted for so long. This baby daughter was coming at a most inconvenient time.
Zufa promised herself that she would remain on Rossak only as long as necessary to deliver the infant and hand her over to Sorceress caretakers, to assure that she would be raised properly. Her duty and obsession called her to return to Kolhar, where Venport and Norma were consumed with the initial excavation of what would become the most enormous shipyard in the League…
Zufa rested a hand on her swollen abdomen. She stood on a high ledge, gazing across the thick jungle canopy. Despite its environmental toxins and rough landscape across most continents, Rossak was still the most beautiful of all the planets she had visited. The silvery-purple jungle provided food, tamed the atmosphere, and yielded numerous drugs and pharmaceuticals that had formed the foundation of Aurelius Venport’s commercial empire.
She contemplated the never-ending cycles of nature, all the species supported by the jungles of this single world, the complex interactions and ecological niches that even the tiniest life-forms of Rossak found for themselves. A stirring within reminded her of her own place in the biology of the planet, and in the Jihad.
Zufa felt a gush between her legs, a flow of warm amniotic water running down onto her feet and the stone path. Even sooner than she had expected! She summoned one of the young Sorceresses who stood nearby. “Send for breeding mistress Ticia Oss. Tell her I require her services— now.”
Though other Sorceresses came to aid her, Zufa insisted on walking by herself down the rocky corridor to her quarters, which had already been prepared with the necessary birthing equipment.
Seven women had taken turns watching Zufa during the final weeks of this important pregnancy. The Supreme Sorceress loved them as her own family, having trained five of them to be psychic weapons if called upon. She had already decided to name her daughter after the breeding mistress who guided the birth.
Ticia. My daughter will carry that name for all of her days. And perhaps the breeding mistress would agree to act as guardian and surrogate mother for a time, so that Zufa could journey back to Kolhar.
She lay back on the bed, and as her head sank into the soft pillow she felt a violent contraction, followed moments later by another. “It is coming fast.”
Perhaps this daughter was as anxious to be born as Zufa was to be free of its burden….
Tall, pale Sorceresses filled the room, each with a familiar task to perform. Zufa tried to focus on a wall tapestry to forget about her pain, using her mental focus to guide the birth and block the swelling pain. Despite all such attempts, the baby wrenched Zufa’s thoughts back to the birth with each labor spasm.
Finally, Ticia Oss drew forth a gleaming red infant and cut the umbilical cord while the assistants came forward with towels and warm cloths. “You have a beautiful baby daughter.”
“I expected nothing less,” Zufa said, exhausted and sweating. Ticia Oss handed her the fragile child wrapped in a pale green blanket.
As she held the newborn child, crimson and wrinkled from its ordeal, Zufa felt immense relief this had not been another misshapen horror that would need to be buried out in the jungle. She had experienced that disappointment too many times already. No, this child— Ticia Cenva— was healthy and would easily survive without Zufa’s constant attendance. The girl would be strong.
After recovering for only a few days, Zufa would arrange to return to Kolhar. She had unfairly scorned both Aurelius and Norma in the past, and now she wanted to make up for it.
Unreliable allies are no better than enemies. We prefer our independence, our own control.
— GENERAL AGAMEMNON, The New Golden Age
Which choice will you make?
The ragged remnants of the slave population on Bela Tegeuse had never fended for their own survival, or even set up a semblance of government. For countless generations they had lived under the benevolent care of the thinking machines. Looking back at the time between the destruction of the local Omnius and the takeover by the rebel cymeks, their temporary freedom seemed harsh by contrast, not a kindness to them at all.
Now, after picking up the pieces following the atomic blast at Comati, the Tegeusan survivors were ripe for conversion… through brainwashing. They would think only what the Titan Juno told them to think.
Leaving the docile and reprogrammed thinking machine fleet in orbit, ready to drive back any incursions by the Army of the Jihad or Omnius’s robot forces, Agamemnon made this wounded Synchronized World a centerpiece and base of operations for his eventual conquest of the hated computer evermind. He had expended no resources and lost no cymek fighters in this initial victory, but still the Titan general needed to enlarge his rebellious force so that he could withstand any outside attack.
Agamemnon and his cymeks had the will and the vision, but their most important next step was to develop a large, unstoppable army. As soon as possible. They needed more industries, more weapons… and more neos. Many more.
Using the robotic warships, the conquering cymeks shuttled large groups of human prisoners from the radioactive outskirts of Comati. As a matter of efficiency and logical planning, the thinking machines set up stockpiles of supplies, and when Agamemnon offered the frightened survivors more food, medicines, and a slightly increased measure of freedom, the former Bela Tegeusan captives looked upon the Titans as saviors. Now, relatively well fed and still starry-eyed from their changed circumstances, they were ripe for Juno and her mesmerizing speech.
The female Titan had assembled a larger, more glorious walker body for this occasion than she had used in some time— more than was necessary to impress anyone. Juno used reprogrammed serv
ant robots to polish and etch every exposed surface, so that she gleamed like a walking tarantula made of engraved chrome and silver. Her intent was to inspire awe in those who viewed her, to harken back to the fabled Time of Titans.
She linked her speaker patch through thoughtrode transmitters to amplifiers that boomed her voice.
“Would you like to live forever?” she asked the throng. Juno paused, expecting cheers, but the indrawn breath rewarded her well enough. The crowd milled about. She knew that these unfortunates had rarely felt the emotion of hope, and had only now begun to allow themselves dreams.
“Would you like to be immortal and feel no pain— only power and the ability to accomplish anything you can imagine? I have lived that life myself for a thousand years! So has General Agamemnon. All of the neocymeks were formerly trustee humans who proved themselves worthy of the greatest gift any mortal could achieve. Are any of you worthy of this honor?”
The former captives knew all too well the unchanging drudgery of life under the computer evermind. Faced with Juno’s wondrous augmented cymek body and hearing her words, the people were stunned and speechless.
“My fellow Titans and I have thrown off the shackles of Omnius, so that you may be free for the first time in your lives. We have conquered this planet in the name of the Titans, and we wish to bring the best of you into our fight.”
She saw them stirring. The idea had never occurred to them.
“We can create a new golden age for human achievement, made possible through cymek enhancements. From this very population on Bela Tegeuse, we intend to draw our first ranks of lieutenants.”
Fortunately, most of the trustees had been wiped out in Comati, since Juno and Agamemnon did not want to recruit humans who were loyal to the computer evermind. Rather, they preferred volunteers who would swear their very souls to the service of the Titans.
Juno needed to make inroads swiftly. She did not know how long it might be before the Army of the Jihad came to occupy the ruins of Bela Tegeuse. Agamemnon and his cymeks needed to fortify their beachhead.
“We ask you to look into your hearts and minds.” She raised her voice even louder. “Do you have the stamina and the brilliance necessary to become one of us? Are you tired of your frail human bodies? Are you weary of sickness, times when your natural muscles and bones are insufficient to the tasks you demand of them?”
She swiveled her head turret, scanning the crowd. “If so, the Titan Dante and his neo-cymek assistants are willing to hear you and consider your case. They will run tests and select those of you who impress us the most. We are at the dawn of a new age! Those who join now will reap far more rewards than those who are afraid to take risks.”
Agamemnon had expected she might convince a few dozen competent new volunteers, but Juno knew her lover was far too pessimistic and shortsighted. She felt it would be best to let hundreds, maybe even a thousand, willing humans undergo the cymek conversion here— fitted with fail-safe programming and auto-destruct systems in their preservation canisters, should any of them prove to be unruly or rebellious. For now the cymeks needed fighters, swarms of machines with human minds battling to the death, willing to undertake suicide missions to bring an end to the reign of Omnius, as well as Serena Butler’s distasteful Jihad.
“Therefore,” Juno continued in her booming yet seductive voice, “we offer you a chance to become immortal, to live inside mechanical fighting forms, limber and invincible bodies.” She raised her sleek silvery forelimbs. “You will have the ability to stimulate the brain’s pleasure centers at will. You will never again be hungry, or fatigued. You will never feel weak.” She paced about like a prancing thoroughbred. Artificial, bright yellow lights played off her smooth curves and polished exoskeleton.
“Think carefully before responding,” she cautioned in a sultry voice. “Now tell me, which among you are willing to join?”
When she heard the resounding cheer and the thunderous roar of assent, Juno knew the Titans would have far more volunteers than they could ever possibly need.
I feel I can do anything— except, perhaps, live up to the expectations others have of me.
—The Legend of Selim Wormrider
Now that the Zensunni survivors were well fed and had hope for their future again, Ishmael finally allowed himself to feel a growing satisfaction. Despite its harshness and the daily balance on the edge of survival, life among the desert dwellers of Arrakis began to find natural rhythms. It was not comfortable, perhaps, but much safer than before.
When Jafar and the others led the band of refugees back to the isolated cave settlements, the newcomers had straggled into the sanctuary with expressions of awe and wonder, as if they were arriving in heaven. Standing in cool shadows, the survivors were welcomed by Selim’s outlaw band. Some of the Poritrin Zensunnis accepted food offerings, while others drank deeply of tepid water. Some could do nothing more than collapse in relief.
That night, giddy with contentment, Ishmael studied them all, especially Chamal. He had wanted to weep. Only fifty-seven of the original group remained, a little over half. But they were now free.
In spite of their terrible ordeal, the survivors looked on him as a confident leader, whose vision and faith had kept them together, guiding most of them safely through. Escaping the tyranny of slave masters, he had brought his people halfway across the galaxy in an unproven starship, and helped most of them survive for months— no mean feat on Arrakis.
And the refugees insisted to the band of outlaws that Ishmael deserved their respect as well. Marha, the wife of fallen Selim, held onto her young dark-eyed son El’hiim, not yet a year old, and nodded slowly at Ishmael, appraising him. “We are happy to have a man among us who is so worthy of respect.”
On the first night of their salvation, he stood at one of the cave openings, staring out upon the moonlit desert, marveling at the beauty of the wan light as it washed over the sands. Overhead, pinprick stars twinkled in the clear, dry air.
Then he turned to his rescued people and spoke in a firm, comforting voice. “This is what Buddallah promised us. It may not be what we expected— it is not an easy life here, not a paradise by any measure— but given time, perhaps we can make it better.”
* * *
THE SURVIVORS CONTINUED to celebrate, consuming supplies stolen from spice-harvesting caravans or unsuspecting villages that had garnered wealth through trafficking in melange. The Poritrin refugees praised Buddallah and Ishmael, while the outlaws sang songs of Selim Wormrider and shared tales of Shai-Hulud.
Ishmael found himself alone with Jafar deep in the caves. “How did you know of us?” he asked the tall, gaunt man. “We have been seeking help for a long time.”
Jafar narrowed his blue-within-blue eyes, which looked like shadowed pits in his face. “We found a man wandering alone on the sand, barely alive. We saved him, and he asked us to go in search of you.” He shrugged. “We did not know whether to believe him, for the words of a merchant and a slaver are often untrue.”
He led Ishmael to a dim chamber in the heart of the mountain. “I will leave the two of you to talk.” From the opening, Ishmael could barely see a thin man sitting alone under the wan light of a single, small glowglobe. Tuk Keedair.
Jafar whirled in his desert robe and left.
Barely able to believe what he saw, Ishmael stepped forward. “Buddallah does indeed work in strange ways if a flesh merchant who led so many slave raids is responsible for saving Zensunni lives!”
The Tlulaxa man looked gaunt and haunted, his body scrawny, his hair ragged and without its signature braid. When he looked up to see his visitor, Keedair’s face showed neither defiance nor fear, only weariness.
“So, Lord Ishmael of the Slaves, I see you have survived, against all odds. Your god must indeed have great plans for you… or a profound trick up His sleeve.”
“I am not the only one who remained alive despite the best efforts of this planet.” Ishmael stepped farther into the room. “What happened to Raf
el and Ingu, and our scout ship?”
Keedair rocked back and forth on the stone ledge that served as his bed. “They are all down in the belly of a worm.” He ran a clawlike hand through his shaggy hair. “Rafel threatened to slit my throat, but instead decided just to turn me loose in the wild desert. I had not gone far before three huge sandworms came in a frenzy. They destroyed the scout ship, devouring every trace.” He looked up, staring at a point somewhere beyond Ishmael. “I wandered for days before Jafar and his men found me.”
Ishmael frowned upon hearing that his son-in-law had turned the former slaver out into the desert, where he would almost certainly die. Had he been trying to take revenge? Had Buddallah punished Rafel because he had decided to take justice into his own hands?
“You must never inform my daughter of this,” he said.
Keedair shrugged. “It was a matter between Rafel and the worm. It means nothing to me.” He extended a sinewy hand. “I give you my word.”
Ishmael made no move to accept the gesture. “You expect me to accept the word of a flesh merchant? The word of the man who attacked my village and sold me into slavery?”
“Lord Ishmael, a businessman who cannot keep his promises soon finds himself without any business.” He used the title not sarcastically, but in deference.
Sensing someone beside him, Ishmael turned to see the large-eyed woman who had been the wife of Selim Wormrider. He had not heard her approach. “What would you have us do with the slaver, Ishmael? The choice falls to you.”
He frowned, uneasy with the responsibility. “Why did you let him keep his life in the first place?”
To Marha, the answer seemed obvious. “To see if he spoke the truth about other Zensunnis who came from a faraway world. But water and food are scarce, and we need no extra mouths in our tribe.”
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 57
