His face dark, Xavier took a sip of chiantini, but hardly noticed the fullbodied taste of the wine. “Yes, a small settlement on Balut, obliterated. Everything annihilated, leaving only a few charred bodies in the streets. Most of the humans were taken away, undoubtedly into forced labor camps. Just like on Chusuk nine years ago. And Rhisso.”
Roella shook her head. “Omnius didn’t stay to establish his computer network on those worlds? The thinking machines simply came in to destroy and to take slaves?”
“It appears that way,” her father said. “And to think we were ready to accept their overtures of peace.”
Omilia shuddered. “Peace at any cost!” She said it like a curse. Wandra looked on with her huge dark eyes.
Xavier continued. “The thinking machines will find our every weakness and keep attacking. We must do the same. All victims of machine aggression demand it.”
Octa pushed her plate away, clearly upset by such talk during what she had hoped would be a pleasant banquet. But Xavier knew she understood the necessity. “No one can understand Omnius,” she said. “Serena was right. We’ve got to destroy the thinking machines, no matter what.” She swallowed hard and looked over at Xavier. “Even if it continues to tear my family apart.”
Xavier looked down at his plate, and his eyes stung. He loathed Omnius, but had grown more and more convinced that the manipulative Iblis Ginjo was the one truly responsible for Serena’s final folly. Without the Grand Patriarch’s forceful personality, she would never have been pressured into such a foolhardy suicide mission.
“Our crusade has to continue even if it risks our family and a trillion others. We seek more than Victory in battle. Our goal is to secure the future of the human race, for our grandchildren, and our grandchildren’s grandchildren.”
“Then I hope your mission to Tlulax achieves what you wish.” She seemed doubtful, but Xavier patted her hand. He looked at Octa tenderly, and then at his daughters, one by one, his eyes misting over.
“I’ll do whatever needs to be done,” he vowed, “for the Jihad and the memory of Serena.”
The mind is a crazy thing.
— Graffiti outside the Central Spire of Corrin
Erasmus stood atop a black mountain peak under the dull ember of the giant sun, staring back across the foothills at Corrin’s gleaming city. Since revisiting the crevasse where he had once been trapped, the robot had wanted to explore more of this planet’s wilderness.
Human explorers had the same drive, to go where no one had gone before, to see things no other person had seen, to plant flags and mark new territories. How could an independent robot do any less?
Below, in a sheltered bowl of snow-specked boulders at the edge of the treeline, his ward Gilbertus Albans slept in a tent, again exhausted from the strenuous hike.
Erasmus realized another positive aspect of escaping the activity of the machine city. Humans had long understood the benefits of solitude and contemplation in untamed, aesthetically pleasing environments. Some old journals even referred to the process as “recharging the mental battery.” He suspected that humans were more like machines than they liked to admit.
Far away, visible under the highest resolution of his optic threads, the robot saw something flash in the machine city atop the Central Spire. Moments later a swarm of tiny silvery watcheyes came into focus around him, hovering at various vantages, observing him from every angle.
“You were trying to flee from me?” Omnius said through the watcheyes, so that the sound came from all around. “That is quite irrational.”
Imperturbable, Erasmus replied, “No matter how far I go, I know you are always monitoring my movements. I am simply on a training exercise for Gilbertus Albans. It is necessary for him to contemplate without interruptions or distractions.”
The watcheyes hovered. “I postulate that the human war effort will be much diminished, now that Serena Butler no longer goads them on. It is time you agree with me.”
“I fear the incident will result in repercussions you do not foresee. You simplify the humans too much, Omnius, and you haven fallen directly into Serena Butler’s trap. We will regret allowing her to become a martyr. The humans will draw their own conclusions about what happened with or without accurate data.”
“Ridiculous. She is dead. This will crush the morale of the Jihad fighters.”
“No, Omnius. It is clear to me that her death will only make things worse.”
“You claim to be more intelligent and insightful than I am?”
“Do not confuse the accumulation of data with intelligence, Omnius. They are not equivalent.” Behind them, overhearing the conversation, young Gilbertus emerged from his tent, looking refreshed and eager to continue his studies.
As the watcheyes hummed, Omnius paused, ran through cycles, and added, “I do not wish our discussion to be tarnished with acrimony. I have determined that this is our three hundred thousandth conversation. Quite a momentous occasion, according to the human model of marking milestones, though I do not understand why one number should be more significant than another.”
Erasmus’s flowmetal face, already frosted over from the mountain’s icy wind, formed into a scowl. Quickly, he checked his own data, and discovered that Omnius was wrong. “I show a slightly higher number. You have an error in your databanks.”
“That is not possible. Each of us makes simple tallies in the same manner. Remember, you were originally a spinoff of my own mind.”
“Nevertheless, you are in error. You have not accurately accounted for all of my conversations with the Earth-Omnius, since you received an incomplete, faulty update.”
The watcheyes remained silent for a long moment, then said, “Your explanation could account for any inconsistencies. If there is an error.”
Erasmus pressed the issue. “Consider, if you are in error about a simple numerical count, then you might be wrong about something much more important, such as the Serena Butler matter.”
The watcheyes swirled in the air, circling the robot’s mirrored head. Gilbertus stepped forward, listening in on the conversation; Erasmus wondered if the loyal boy meant to protect him.
Then Omnius said, “Perhaps I should analyze and verify your systems, Erasmus. There is an equal, if not higher, probability that you are the one in error. The best solution is to clear all of your gelcircuitry paths, reset us both to parity, and begin again from base principles. Within a few decades, you will develop another new personality.”
Erasmus considered this unexpected development. He did not wish to have his thoughts and personality obliterated and resynchronized with the evermind. It would be like… death.
“First, let me recheck my calculations, Omnius.” On the mountaintop he ran full internal diagnostics through his circuitry, and again came up with a higher number. At last the time had come to apply the knowledge he had gained from studying generations and generations of human test subjects.
So he lied.
“You are correct, Omnius. I now show the same tally as you. My count was in error. I have deleted the inconsistency.”
“That is good. “
Erasmus did not consider this an improper action, even though he had just told Omnius an outright falsehood. Rather, he did it for his own survival, another very human thing to do. Because of the potential problems stemming from the death of Serena Butler, the independent robot felt that the Synchronized Worlds needed him more than ever. After all, when Seurat’s sabotaged update had dumped programming viruses into the Corrin evermind, this planet could well have become a League World if Erasmus himself had not taken quick, decisive action. Of course, that manipulation of data had included an altered version of history, diminishing the robot’s own role in subverting the human trustees who had sparked the Earth revolt in the first place.
With practice, Erasmus could probably become even better at these interesting human techniques of lying and rationalizing actions. He assimilated these behavior modes for the best of reasons. If he
was ever going to understand the human mind, he needed to dissect it in the laboratory and be able to mimic it in practice. Throughout history, humans had been known to achieve military victories through subterfuge. Example: the update scheme.
Unfortunately, Omnius would remember this latest incident, in which the robot had made an apparent calculational error, and then claimed to have corrected it. The evermind would continue to analyze and question the event. Though the Corrin-Omnius might not take immediate overt action, those doubts would be communicated through updates delivered to other Synchronized Worlds, and the other computers would process and reprocess the matter, as well. What if Omnius eventually carried through on his threat to take away Erasmus’s independence and that of other robots like him, making them conform once again to the rigidity of the evermind?
I will need to counter any such moves, Erasmus thought. On my own.
We must resist the temptation to manipulate the universe.
— COGITOR KWYNA, City of Introspection Archives
Following Serena’s execution, Vorian Atreides was not at all surprised at how quickly Iblis Ginjo surged back into prominence. For some time before that terrible event the Grand Patriarch’s star had been falling, especially once Serena began to take a more direct role in the Jihad Council. Iblis, always self-serving and accustomed to power, must have resented his diminishing position. Vor knew the former machine trustee well, and was convinced that he had devised this spectacular way to get rid of Serena Butler.
Now the “grieving” Grand Patriarch took great pleasure in rallying the people to a heightened, rabid level of vengeance. Apparently he expected to receive even more accolades for his much publicized mission to the Tlulaxa planets, urging the secretive race to become League members. By accompanying him on a diplomatic ship to Tlulax, the respected Primero Harkonnen lent legitimacy to Iblis’s diplomatic mission, though Vor knew his friend also had doubts about Iblis Ginjo….
Stewing and feeling helpless, Vor remained behind on Salusa. Vidad and his fellow Ivory Tower Cogitors had spent months in Zimia, naï vely meddling with the Jihad and the politics of the League. Finally, when angry representatives and mobs ranted against them, they made preparations to return to their glacier-enshrouded fortress on Hessra. Their yellow-robed secondaries, unsettled and confused after the martyrdom of the Priestess, arranged for transportation, undoubtedly happy to go back into hiding.
But before they left Salusa Secundus, Vor knew he had to talk with the seemingly oblivious, disembodied human minds. The Ivory Tower Cogitors considered themselves enlightened philosophers. Instead, it seemed they were merely ancient, deluded fools.
No one challenged Primero Atreides as he strode into the fortified cultural libraries. The Cogitors had remained there while their secondaries copied documents of nearly forgotten philosophical treatises and manifestos that had been written during the years Vidad and the others were in seclusion. Vor went alone into the spacious data rooms, despite the eager jihadi officers who wanted to accompany him.
Six secondaries met him inside the echoing library, standing beside pedestals that held the Cogitors’ preservation canisters. “Primero Atreides,” said the preeminent secondary, Keats, who looked disturbed and full of self-doubt. “Vidad commands us to depart soon. During the journey to Hessra, and afterward, we will have much to debate with our masters.”
“And well you should, for I have much to discuss with Vidad himself.” The anger in Vor’s tone was palpable, taking the secondaries aback. In a rush of information from the past, he remembered the dark things he had learned from reading— and foolishly believing— the memoirs of Agamemnon.
Atop their pedestals, bodiless brains floated in bluish electrafluid. “As Cogitors we are willing to discuss important matters,” announced one of the legendary brains through a speaker patch. “Enlightenment increases through the exchange of opinions and information. Vorian Atreides, you are an experienced man, though still vastly younger than any of us here.”
Vor said, “With extreme age comes mental fossilization. Your peace attempt is an embarrassment to all Cogitors, a shame on the capabilities of your kind.”
The secondaries were amazed that this former lackeys the thinking machines would speak so boldly. In contrast, even though their fluid-filled canisters shimmered with a buzz of mental activity, the Cogitors did not seem overly upset. “You do not entirely understand what has occurred, Primero Atreides. You are unable to discern the subtleties.”
“I understand that your innocent optimism created a dangerous situation, like immature children bumbling about in the affairs of adults. You made a foolish choice that cost the life of the greatest woman who ever lived.”
Vidad did not sound disturbed. “Serena Butler asked us to communicate with the thinking machines. Her intent was to find a way to end the Jihad. If our plan had been followed, the hostilities between humans and thinking machines would have ceased. We believe Serena Butler intentionally provoked Omnius into violent retaliation. Otherwise the machines would not have made such a response.”
Vor shook his head, gritted his teeth. “How can you have lived so long, and understand so little? A war cannot simply stop without any resolution. The core conflict of Serena Butler’s Jihad will never go away just because you wish to ignore it, or because our people are tired of fighting. Your attempt— if successful— would have led us to the brink of extinction.”
The Cogitor pondered, then said, “You are behaving irrationally, Vorian Atreides— along with the bulk of humanity, as far as we can determine.”
“Irrationally?” He spat out a bitter laugh. “Yes, that’s what we humans do best, and it maybe the means by which we achieve great victory.”
“If you live long enough, Vorian Atreides, you will begin to appreciate the depth of our wisdom.”
Vor shook his head. “Perhaps if you keep pondering the question, Vidad, you will recognize your own delusions.”
Angrily, he turned to leave, knowing he would resolve nothing by a continued debate with the disembodied thinkers, who had in effect detached themselves from the realities and necessities of humanity. As he departed from the library, Vor called over his shoulder, “Go back to Hessra and stay there. Don’t ever try to help us again.”
My greatest mistake was in believing that I made my own decisions. Even the most perceptive man can fail to see the puppet strings that control him.
— PRIMERO XAVIER HARKONNEN, private letter to Vorian Atreides
The Tlulaxa representatives welcomed a smiling Iblis Ginjo, who stepped forth from his diplomatic shuttle accompanied by Jipol guardians and attendants. The politicians and elders here had engaged in numerous dealings with Iblis that had never been documented in official records. As he arrived, the Grand Patriarch made subtle gestures and shared knowing looks with the merchant Rekur Van and his colleagues. Several of the Jipol guards and attendants slipped off to take care of undisclosed matters, as previously arranged. The Tlulaxa had made special exemptions for Iblis.
At the landing platform, the Tlulaxa also received the veteran Xavier Harkonnen— a living testimonial to their biological prowess— giving him full honors. He stood like a statue, a showpiece, displaying none of the turmoil inside him.
Only one of the Primero’s low-ranking adjutants, Quinto Paolo, accompanied him. Young Paolo looked at the veteran through starry eyes, seeing him as a legendary icon rather than a human being who had made sundry mistakes and held regrets in his heart. Xavier did not require pampering; the devoted young quinto would follow his instructions without being overly attentive.
Rekur Van and other Tlulaxa representatives hosted a ceremony at their hillside organ farms. Xavier stood in the eerie technological forest under the Thalim sunlight, remembering the previous time he had been here. With Serena. The tree like stands bore swollen artificial fruits— a variety of cloned and modified organs, bearing labels in strange letters.
Rekur Van was all smiles, revealing sharp little teeth as h
e spread his arms to indicate the biological wealth in their organ farms. “Primero Harkonnen, so nice to see you. Tlulax is honored by your presence. With our cultured lungs in your chest, you showcase to the League the best our marvelous society has to offer.”
Xavier nodded, but said nothing. He stood straight backed and drew in a deep breath that carried the faintest whiff of chemical scents.
Since their visit here, Dr. Rajid Suk had continued his own experiments, enamored with the possibilities of cloning medical specimens, though his own attempts had been failures. Only the genetic geniuses of Tlulax had been able to provide a constant supply of compatible and perfect organs, which the Army of the Jihad desperately required….
As he took the stage, Iblis Ginjo’s squarish face was full of satisfaction. “On this occasion, we bring to fruition one of the most prominent dreams Serena Butler shared with us. It was her most fervent desire that the Tlulaxa be brought into the League. This is a difficult mission in the shadow of her recent death, but I swore not to let the dreams of our beloved Priestess perish with her.
“Therefore, I am pleased to accept Tlulax as the newest League World, welcoming the Tlulaxa people as business partners and allies. Your scientists will provide vital medical products at a time when we are sure to experience many more injuries as we seek to reach our sacred goal. The Jihad is entering a new and even more glorious phase.”
The Grand Patriarch showed exhilaration, boundless energy and optimism. He had maintained his youthful health and vitality through massive consumption of Aurelius Venport’s imported spice, melange, an exotic drug that continued to be popular among the most prominent League nobles.
In contrast, as he stood watching, Xavier felt the weight of his years and his own tragedies. Nothing more than stage-dressing himself, Xavier looked about at the strange Tlulaxa— all of them men— who had come to attend this event. No sign of females anywhere. Even though he noticed nothing he could identify as directly suspicious, he felt as if he were trespassing in a den of predators. Their sharp little teeth and black, rodent eyes only added to the effect.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 72
