He knew she was right. Josef guided the groundcar over a rise and then down into a broad, bowl-shaped valley filled with hundreds of tanks, each containing one of his Navigator candidates. Cioba leaned over and kissed his cheek as he halted the vehicle amid the sealed tanks.
They walked among the thick-walled chambers full of concentrated spice gas. Through the murky plaz windowports and swirling fumes inside, Josef could see mutated figures undergoing constant mental convolutions to expand their minds. No unmodified brain could grasp foldspace calculations and the prescience necessary to guide a ship through the void, but the spice-enriched transformation made it possible.
Josef marveled at these freakish but oddly impressive Navigators. Even if the Emperor’s ships came for Kolhar, his military spacefolders would be clumsy and blind because they had no Navigators. While antique FTL ships were relatively safe in their passage through space, they were unconscionably sluggish, taking weeks or months to travel between star systems. VenHold ships, on the other hand, were fast and safe.
He and Cioba paused before a large central tank on a marble platform, like a shrine. Josef was pleased to see that Norma Cenva, his great-grandmother, was present in the chamber, surrounded by her personal spice-dreams and the infinite possibilities that stretched far into the universe.
More than a century ago, Norma had become the first Navigator. Although she was more than a mere human, she still maintained contact with Josef, and remained aware of Imperial politics for her own purposes.
“The human race is at stake, and I feel a tremendous obligation,” Josef said to Cioba, although he suspected that Norma would be eavesdropping. “I am the one with the rational thinking and the wherewithal to save us. I must stay alive, and I must win. Roderick will not break through our defenses, and with all my commercial ties across the Imperium, I can pull strings and force decisions that are beyond his capabilities.”
Though Norma helped to make Venport Holdings strong, Josef knew that her driving goal was to promote the creation of more Navigators. Unlike her protégés, Norma had the ability to fold space simply with her mind and travel at will, while all other Navigators needed to use great ships powered by Holtzman engines to travel. Sometimes her enclosed tank would vanish for days on obscure business of her own, but for now she remained here, where she meditated and observed.
Needing to know answers, Josef stepped up to the tank and asked without further preamble, “What do you think, Grandmother? If I am more powerful than Emperor Roderick, should I hide here and build my defenses, or should I think in grander terms?”
Norma spoke in a warbling voice through the tank’s speakerpatch. “You have the power and ability to seize the throne—if that is what you wish.”
He was surprised to hear her say this. Some men fantasized about becoming great rulers, but Josef had always considered himself a businessman, a consummate commercial leader, but not one who was interested in political aggrandizement.
“You know that isn’t what I wish. I want Roderick to be the Emperor—a sensible one. I placed him on that throne, damn it. I want him to be strong and wise … and to ask for my counsel! I have my own business empire. My planetary banks are brimming with money that depositors entrusted to me. I have tremendous spice operations on Arrakis, even though the fool Salvador tried to take them away. For me, politics is a tool to accomplish my business interests, nothing more.”
He let out a sigh. “But I’ve been backed into a corner. We’re at a turning point of civilization, and if Emperor Roderick won’t do what is required of him, then am I the one to replace him?” He pondered, but still saw no clear answer. “I would much rather go back to how it was a year ago, when I could focus my energies on annihilating Manford’s barbarians.”
“And our spice operations—for my Navigators,” Norma said. “We need to go to Arrakis, rather than stay here. You and I should go.”
“We’ll do it soon, Grandmother.” He had already planned a long-delayed inspection trip, but first he needed to attend to a last few details here.
“Soon,” Norma insisted, “I will take us there.”
Frustration welled up in him. While the Emperor wasted time and resources trying to retaliate against him, the fanatical Butlerians were running rampant, erasing the progress that Josef had achieved at such a dear cost.
Well, Josef had already taken action. Even as he built his defenses here on Kolhar, he had dispatched an important commando force to Lampadas, the headquarters of the Butlerian movement. Maybe after his invincible cymek forces slaughtered that vile little cripple, then Josef could be truly satisfied.
“You have already made your decision,” Norma said in her distorted voice.
“I came here to seek your advice, Grandmother.”
“You have already made your decision,” Norma repeated, and she would not answer further.
I will choose my allies as best they suit me, but God has chosen my enemy—the enemy of all humankind. God Himself is my staunchest defender. Why do I need you?
—MANFORD TORONDO to Emperor Salvador Corrino
Draigo Roget, Josef Venport’s leading Mentat, arrived in a fast VenHold warship covered with stealth armor so it would remain unnoticed by Butlerian orbital patrols. With its integrated weaponry, this small vessel was capable of destroying a dozen of the old-model Jihad warships that the fanatics used.
But Draigo had not come to Lampadas to battle a planet full of barbarians, not at the moment. This time he was merely a pilot on a proof-of-concept mission that might well eliminate this threat to civilization. He would demonstrate the power of their new cymeks.
Lampadas … He had been trained in the Mentat School here, and here he had learned to loathe Manford Torondo and his followers, extremists who had corrupted and then torn down the great school. The Butlerians had arrested and beheaded his mentor and headmaster of the institution, Gilbertus Albans. Draigo would never forgive them for that.
Unable to rescue Gilbertus, Draigo had managed to escape with the damaged Anna Corrino and the memory core of Erasmus, the infamous robot responsible for so much cruelty and havoc during Serena Butler’s Jihad. Now, Anna was a vital bargaining chip, and Erasmus was a key resource for the Denali scientists; together, they would ensure Directeur Venport’s victory, the triumph of reason over fanaticism, of civilization over barbarism.
That was, after all, what the ongoing conflict was about. Every one of Venport’s people understood that.
Tonight, Draigo’s cymeks would fill the enemy with terror and possibly even kill Manford Torondo, which would neutralize the fanatics once and for all. If nothing else, the cymeks would prove their horrific destructive potential; many of Directeur Venport’s scientists would be eager to see the results.
Of the three cymeks in the hold of Draigo’s ship, two were guided by enhanced Navigator brains, while the third was controlled by Ptolemy, the first voluntary new cymek, a genius driven by his hatred of Manford Torondo. Ptolemy had opted to discard his frail human form, exchanging it for any mechanical body he liked. A powerful, destructive body.
Manford had certainly generated a lot of enemies.
Secure in orbit above the quiet planet, confident that the stealth systems would keep him hidden from the primitive Butlerian warships, Draigo prepared for the mission. Ptolemy’s brain canister was installed in his warrior form, while the two Navigator-driven cymeks moved their walkers into armored drop-pods. The Navigator brains were silent and brooding, as always, but they followed instructions. After checking the thoughtrode connections, Draigo pronounced all three machines ready for launch.
Ptolemy raised one multiclawed hand and clacked the long, sharp pincers together. His words came through the speakerpatch. “That sadistic monster burned my friend alive and forced me to watch. Manford Torondo must die.”
“He also tries to kill human intellect and progress. That man has sowed many seeds of hatred, and we all wish to take part in the harvest.” Draigo smiled at the brain suspended
in pale blue electrafluid before closing the last section of the pod. They were ready for launch. “This is your chance.”
* * *
CARRYING THE RESPONSIBILITY of humanity was a burden Manford Torondo did not gladly bear, but he did it nonetheless. What choice did he have?
The current crisis in the Imperium was more than a struggle for resources or territory; it was a war for the human soul. After centuries of enslavement to thinking machines, mankind was free at last, cut loose from the stranglehold of technology. Reborn, they could return to a new Eden—but only if they chose to do so. Unless their own weaknesses destroyed them.
Twisted men like Josef Venport wanted to enslave mankind once more, making the exultant human spirit beholden to machines again! After the end of the Jihad, Rayna Butler—Manford’s beloved mentor and teacher—had guided people along the true path, but such a way was not without violence and resistance, not without those who threw bombs in crowded rallies.…
Swallowing hard as he sat propped up in a cushioned chair late at night, Manford looked down at where his body ended below his hips. The reality of his disfigurement was sometimes shocking to him, even now, years after the explosion that had nearly killed him, leaving him just half a man. “But twice the leader!” as his loyal followers shouted during their rallies.
The future was so uncertain, the weight so heavy on his heart. How Manford wished that wise Rayna were still here to lead the movement! Oh, he had loved her so! He felt warm tears trickle down his cheeks.
Anari Idaho, his fiercely loyal Swordmaster, noticed the tears and stepped closer, concerned. She would have thrown herself in front of any enemy for Manford, would have given her life to save his. Now she seemed just as willing to defend him against his own emotions.
Anari was a large-framed woman trained among the Swordmasters of Ginaz; for years she had tended him in his simple fieldstone cottage on Lampadas. The interior walls had been fitted with bars and handholds, so Manford could move himself around with his strong upper body. Whenever he wished to present an imposing figure to large cheering crowds, or to his enemies, he would ride in a harness on Anari’s shoulders. From that perch, Manford did not feel less than a man; instead he seemed the most powerful person in the Imperium.
His Truthsayer, Sister Woodra, came to speak to him, but she blurted out her business concerns without noticing his heavy mood. “Emperor Roderick still thinks we are responsible for the disappearance of his sister after we overran the Mentat School.” Her voice had an annoying edge. “You should convince him otherwise, Leader Torondo. Anna Corrino must have escaped somehow.”
“We had nothing to do with her disappearance, whether or not the Emperor believes it.” Manford suspected the flighty girl had been devoured by a swamp dragon as she tried to flee the siege. “Fortunately, the Emperor’s anger has turned toward Josef Venport. I’m not worried.” Manford could not help but think it was a miracle in disguise.
“Perhaps,” Anari said, “but he will never forget his daughter was killed by a Butlerian mob. He will have enough anger for us.”
“That was an accident, nothing more,” Woodra said dismissively, as if she thought the matter was ended. “We cannot be blamed for that.”
“And yet, he will blame us regardless,” Anari said.
“Alliances can shift again,” Manford said. “Roderick Corrino must be made to see his true destiny as our ally—preferably through reasonable appeals, but by coercion if necessary.”
Sister Woodra brought out logbooks and lists that she wished to discuss in detail, but Manford did not have the energy for it at this hour. Sensing her master’s weariness, Anari shot Woodra a scolding glance. “That is enough business for now. Manford needs to rest and contemplate. Otherwise, how can we expect him to lead us?”
The brusque Truthsayer sniffed at the implied dismissal. “The success of our movement depends upon details as well as strong leadership. And we must make time for the details.”
Woodra had been trained among the Sisterhood before the terrible schism that tore the school apart. He knew Woodra was as vehemently against technology as any of his followers, and she had also proved to be a useful asset, not only as a Truthsayer, but as an adviser. She was blunt, however, and lacked finesse; sometimes Manford found her exhausting. Right now, he was too preoccupied, no matter how much she insisted. “Anari is correct. I’m weary. Take me to my bedchamber.”
The Swordmaster picked him up as if he were a pet and plodded toward his private rooms, where she placed him in an austere, narrow bed. She opened the window to let in the fresh night air.
Outside, Empok, the capital city of Lampadas, sparkled with warm orange lights in the countless simple buildings. Insects made quiet songs, and the planet seemed deceptively peaceful as Manford composed himself for a contemplative sleep. Until a thundering roar shattered the darkness.
Heavy objects screamed down through the atmosphere, wreathed in the flames of deceleration. Three projectiles struck the ground outside of Empok.
Anari shouted in alarm and burst into the bedchamber to protect him.
People streamed out of their homes to investigate the disturbance, then howled in alarm. The three impact sites simmered ominously, lit by afterglows of white and orange and highlighted by angular shadows. Shielded pods split open like the jagged petals of armored flowers, then mechanical forms emerged. Heavy piston-driven legs lifted weapon-studded body cores, each containing a disembodied human brain. Three towering cymeks began to march on the city.
As Anari swept Manford out of the bed, he saw the distant movement through the window, and knew his enemies were coming for him.
Seizing him, the Swordmaster said, “I will save you.”
Humans claim that deep personal tragedy can cause severe changes in mindset. I have experimented with these effects in my studies of laboratory subjects, inflicting damage to people and testing their reactions. Yet I was never able to verify the hypothesis through direct experience—until the death of Gilbertus Albans.
—ERASMUS, Secret Laboratory Notebooks
Inside the Denali laboratory domes, Directeur Venport’s researchers worked on vital projects, hidden in the poisonous atmosphere of the isolated planet. The scientists had been recruited based on their intellect as well as their hatred of the Butlerians.
Now the research teams regarded the Erasmus memory core with fascination, calling him a priceless trove of historical experiences—which pleased the independent robot. At long last, Erasmus found himself among like-minded persons, and he reveled in the attention.
Draigo Roget had rescued his memory core when the fanatics overthrew the Mentat School. Erasmus appreciated the man’s efforts in saving his life, just as Gilbertus had saved him decades earlier. Erasmus had owed much to his human ward Gilbertus. The robot had raised a feral child from the slave pens and shaped him into a nearly perfect human being. And those irrational barbarians killed him! Defeated, Gilbertus had simply bowed to the thuggish Swordmaster Anari Idaho, who then hacked off his head with her sword.
Erasmus had simulated emotions in his programming, but this personal experience, this sense of terrible loss, had been far greater than anything he had previously recorded.
Now, in a well-lit research chamber against the poisonous gloom outside, his gelsphere core rested on a stand, connected to an imperfect sensory apparatus. Lovely young Anna Corrino, sister of the Emperor, hovered beside the memory sphere, while curious Denali scientists gathered close, hanging on the robot’s words, waiting for him to continue.
Erasmus realized that with his thoughts about Gilbertus, he had lapsed into silent anger. Yes … the human emotion of anger. He reviewed the unique experience in the same way he gathered all interesting data, particularly psychological data in his constant attempt to comprehend the complex human mind.
“I have much information to convey to you,” he said to Anna. “Highly useful information. If I can help you destroy the enemies of reason, I will do so.”
“Tell them about the Mentat School,” suggested Anna, smiling in her eagerness. The young woman’s small blue eyes and her quirky personality reminded Erasmus of stained glass, disjointed colors and distorted images. After her brain had been damaged by psychotropic poison at the Sisterhood school, Anna had become skittish, intense, and unpredictable. Her mind had never been the same afterward, and her concerned brothers had sent her to the Mentat School for treatment. There, Erasmus had found her, and made her into his most interesting human subject. He had guided the damaged young woman, manipulated her mind, helped her … but although he had tried to make her fit a perfect mathematical model, his work had not been a complete success.
“I spent many decades hidden at the Mentat School,” Erasmus said, “as Gilbertus Albans taught his students how to organize their thoughts.” His erudite voice was piped through speakers mounted around the room. He remembered what his original voice had been like in his flowmetal body. How glorious he had been back in the heady days of the Synchronized Empire, before the rampant humans wrecked everything … as they had done later at the Mentat School. One could not depend on humans to behave in an organized, rational fashion.
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