“It has been proven to my satisfaction.”
Thurr rose to his feet. Though shorter in stature than Camie, he had the coiled strength of a cobra. “More to the point, Primero, it has been proven to the satisfaction of the League citizens. They need their heroes and martyrs.”
“Apparently they need their villains as well. And, if you cannot find the correct culprit, you create one—as you did with Xavier.”
Thurr meshed his fingers together. “We don’t wish to engage in an acrimonious debate, Primero. You are a great military strategist, and we owe many of our victories to you.”
“And to Xavier,” Vor said.
The Jipol commandant continued without responding to the comment. “We three important leaders must work together to accomplish important goals. None of us can be mired down by bruised feelings and traditional grieving. We must keep the populace focused on winning our Holy Jihad, and cannot afford arguments that divert us from the real enemy. You persist in raising questions about what happened between Xavier Harkonnen and the Grand Patriarch, but you do not realize the damage you’re doing.”
“The truth is the truth.”
“The truth is relative, and must be taken in the context of our larger struggle. Even Serena and Xavier would agree that unpleasant sacrifices are warranted if they help to achieve the goals of the Jihad. You must stop this personal crusade, Primero. Stop casting doubts. You only harm our cause if you don’t keep your feelings to yourself.”
Though Thurr’s words were spoken calmly, Vor read the implied threat in them and suppressed a fleeting urge to strike the man; this Jipol commandant had no comprehension of honor or truth. No doubt, Thurr had the power to see that the Primero was quietly assassinated … and Vor knew he would do it if he considered it necessary.
Still, the Jipol commandant had struck a solid blow, reminding him of his friends’ intentional sacrifices. If Vor destroyed the public confidence in the Jihad Council and the League government as a whole, the political repercussions and social turmoil could be considerable. Scandals, resignations, and the general uproar would severely weaken the solidarity the human race needed in order to face the thinking machines.
Omnius was the only enemy that mattered.
Vor crossed his arms over his heavily medaled and ribboned chest. “For now, I will keep my opinions to myself,” he said. “But I don’t do it for you and your power plays. I’m doing it for Serena’s Jihad, and for Xavier.”
“Just so long as you do it,” Camie said.
Vor turned to leave, but paused at the door. “I don’t want to be anywhere around when you unveil your Three Martyrs farce, so I’m heading for the front lines.” Shaking his head, he hurried away. “Battles I can understand.”
* * *
On the main machine world of Corrin, years passed, and a female child grew rapidly into adulthood, her cloned life accelerated by Rekur Van. Erasmus regularly visited his laboratories full of moaning experimental subjects, where his new Serena Butler was taking shape nicely.
Among the tormented human subjects, the Tlulaxa researcher seemed quite at home. Van was himself an interesting person, with opinions and attitudes dramatically different from those Erasmus had observed in the original Serena or in Gilbertus Albans. Even so, the intense scientist had an unusual perspective: entirely self-centered, twisted by irrational hatred and spite toward the feral humans. In addition, he was intelligent and well trained. A good mental sparring partner for Erasmus … but the robot pinned his hopes on the return of Serena.
During her prolonged development, Van used advanced machine instructional technology to fill her head with misinformation, false memories mixed with details of the real Serena’s life. Some of the data took hold; some of it needed to be implanted again and again.
When he had the opportunity, the robot engaged his new Serena in tentative conversation, anxious for the forthcoming days when he could debate with her, provoking her ire and her fascinating responses—just as it had once been. But though she looked like an adult, Rekur Van insisted that the clone’s preparation was not complete.
And after all this time, Erasmus was growing impatient.
At first, he had assumed the discrepancies from the Serena he had known were inconsequential, the difference between a juvenile and the woman she would ultimately become. But as the clone approached the equivalent age at which he had known Serena, Erasmus became increasingly disturbed. This wasn’t at all what he had expected.
Sensing that he could no longer justify further delays, the Tlulaxa researcher rushed his final preparations. Dressed again in his regal robe, Erasmus arrived to observe as the Serena clone completed several days of immersion in an experimental cellular deceleration chamber, to slow the aging process. Her development had been stretched and pushed, and her weak biological body had endured incredible rigors.
The Tlulaxa had been anxious to prove his claims, but Erasmus reconsidered now. Thinking machines could wait for centuries, if necessary. Perhaps, if he decided to make another clone, he would allow that one to grow normally, since this experimental acceleration might have introduced flaws. The independent robot had extremely high expectations for his renewed interactions with Serena Butler. He did not want anything to get in the way.
As the gummy fluids drained and the female clone stood naked and dripping before him, Erasmus scrutinized her through several spectral regimes, using his full complement of optic threads. A long time ago, though his many surveillance systems, the robot had seen the original Serena naked many times; he had been present when she’d given birth to her frustrating infant, and he had personally performed the sterilization surgery on her so that the pregnancy problem could never occur again.
Now Rekur Van came forward, leering unpleasantly, to give her a physical examination, but Erasmus lifted the little Tlulaxa out of the way. He did not want Van to interfere with what should have been a special moment.
Still dripping from the tank, Serena didn’t seem to care about her nudity, though the original would no doubt have been offended; just one of many personality variations that the robot noticed.
“Do I please you now?” Serena asked, blinking her lavender eyes. She stood seductively, as if trying to lure a potential mate. “I want you to like me.”
An artificial scowl formed on Erasmus’s flowmetal face, and his optic threads gleamed dangerously. Serena Butler had been haughty, independent, intelligent. Hating her captivity among the thinking machines, she had debated with Erasmus, searching for any chance to hurt him. She had never tried to please him.
“What did you do to her?” Erasmus turned to the Tlulaxa. “Why did she say that?”
Van smiled uncertainly. “Because of the acceleration, I had to guide her personality. I shaped it with standard female attitudes.”
“Standard female attitudes?” Erasmus wondered if this unpleasant, isolated Tlulaxa man understood human women even less than he did. “There was nothing ‘standard’ about Serena Butler.”
Van appeared increasingly uneasy, and he fell silent, deciding not to attempt further excuses. Erasmus remained more interested in the clone. This woman looked like Serena, in her soft, classically beautiful face and form, in her amber-brown hair, and in her unusual eyes.
But she wasn’t the same. Only close enough to tickle his own memories of her, of the times they had spent together.
“Tell me your beliefs about politics, philosophy, and religion,” the robot demanded. “Express your most impassioned feelings and opinions. Why do you think that even captive humans deserve to be treated with respect? Explain why you believe it is impossible for a thinking machine to achieve the equivalent of a human soul.”
“Why do you wish to discuss such subjects?” She sounded almost petulant. “Tell me how you would like me to answer, so that I can please you.”
As soon as the clone spoke, she shattered his fond remembrance of the real Serena. Though she looked exactly like Serena Butler, this simulacrum was very different in her interna
l makeup, the way she thought, the way she behaved. The cloned version had no social conscience, no spark, no glimmer of the personality that had become so familiar to him, and which had caused him so much interesting trouble. The real Serena’s rebellious attitude had triggered an entire Jihad, while this poor substitute lacked any such potential.
Erasmus noted the difference in the glint of her eyes, in the turn of her mouth, in the way she threw her wet hair over her shoulder. He missed the fascinating woman he had known.
“Put your clothes on,” Erasmus said. Looking on from one side, Rekur Van appeared alarmed, obviously sensing the robot’s disappointment.
She slipped into the garments he had provided, accentuating her feminine curves. “Do you find me pleasing now?”
“No. Unfortunately, you are unacceptable.”
With a blur of his flowmetal arm, Erasmus struck a swift, precise blow. He didn’t want her to suffer, yet he did not want to look at this flawed clone ever again. With all his robotic strength, he drove the sharp edge of his shaped metal hand into the base of her neck, and decapitated her as easily as he might cut a flower in his greenhouse gardens. She made no sound as her head tumbled away and her body fell, spraying blood on his clean laboratory floor.
Such a disappointment.
On his left Rekur Van made a choking sound, as if he had forgotten how to breathe. The Tlulaxa man stumbled backward, but sentinel robots stood all around the laboratory chambers. The numerous tortured experimental subjects moaned and chattered in their cages, tanks, and tables.
Erasmus took a step toward the genetics researcher. Van held up his hands and his expression telegraphed what would occur next. As usual, he would try to worm his way out of any responsibility. “I did everything possible! Her DNA matches perfectly, and she is the same in every physical characteristic.”
“She is not the same. You did not know the real Serena Butler.”
“Yes! I met her. I took the tissue samples myself when she visited Bandalong!”
Erasmus made his flowmetal face a bland expressionless mirror. “You did not know her.” This Tlulaxa’s ability to perfectly recreate Serena Butler had been overstated, at best. As in the robot’s own attempts to imitate the paintings of Van Gogh to the finest detail, the copy never approached the original’s perfection.
“I have many more cells. This was just our first attempt, and we can try again. Next time, I’m sure we’ll take care of the problems. That clone was different only because she never shared the real Serena’s life experiences, never faced the same challenges. We can modify the virtual reality teaching loops, make her spend more time immersed in sensory deprivation.”
Erasmus shook his head. “She will never be what I want.”
“Killing me would be a mistake, Erasmus! You can still learn much.”
Staring at the Tlulaxa, the inquisitive robot noted how objectively unpleasant he was; apparently, all of his condemned breed were similar. Van had none of the noble attributes of character that could be found in so many people of other races. The little man might have some value after all, providing a new window on the dark side of human nature.
He was reminded of one of his thought-provoking signs. Is it more human to be Good? Or Evil?
The robot’s flowmetal face formed into a broad smile.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” Van asked, nervously.
At a silent, transmitted signal from Erasmus, the sentinel robots came closer to surround the Tlulaxa man. Van had no place to run.
“Yes, I can learn from you, Rekur Van.” He turned, his plush robe swirling, and signaled for the sentinel robots to seize the man. “In fact, I already have several very interesting experiments in mind.…”
The Tlulaxa screamed.
* * *
Fixing his gaze forward, Vorian Atreides sat stiffly on the bridge of the flagship. Over the past week, his assault force had been cruising across space. Soldiers and mercenaries continued their specialized drills. To the last man, they counted the days until reaching their next destination.
As the fleet entered Synchronized space, Vor mentally tallied all the weapons and firepower, all the soldiers and Ginaz mercenaries he would bring to bear against the thinking machines in the next great battle. He had not heard of the target planet before, but nevertheless Vor intended to conquer it and destroy the machine scourge.
Politics be damned. Out here is exactly where I belong.
For years after the death and defamation of Xavier, Vor had thrown himself into the struggle against Omnius. He fought one accursed machine enemy after another, striking in the sacred name of humanity.
Vor felt instilled with the holy determination of Serena, and of Xavier as well. Their strength allowed him to carry the Jihad forward. Always forward. He vowed anew to crush every thinking machine in his path. He would leave the next planet a blackened blister if there was no other way, despite the loss of unfortunate human slaves who served Omnius. By now, the Primero had learned to accept almost any cost in blood, just as long as it counted as a victory against the machines.
His two dearest friends had become martyrs in their own fashion. They had known what they were doing and had been willing to make great sacrifices, not only of their lives, but of their memories as well, allowing myths to replace truth, for the sake of the Jihad.
In a private message, Serena Butler had begged Vor and Xavier to understand the personal sacrifice she was making. Later, Xavier made his own sacrifice in order to stop the Grand Patriarch’s predatory organ farm scheme with the Tlulaxa, saving thousands of lives in the process. Xavier’s decision to leave Iblis’s name untarnished was unselfish and heroic; he knew full well how much harm would befall the Jihad if its Grand Patriarch was proven to be a fraud and a war profiteer.
Both Xavier and Serena had paid terrible, ultimate costs, with full knowledge of what they were doing. I cannot dispute the decisions of my friends, Vor thought, feeling a universe of sadness on his shoulders.
And he realized that his own burden must be to let them do what they intended. He had to resist the impulse to change what Xavier and Serena had done, and to let the untruths stand in order to achieve a long-term result. In accepting their fates and accomplishing what they had hoped, Serena and Xavier had left Vor to carry on in their behalf, and to bear an unseen banner of honor for all three of them.
Not an easy task, but that was my sacrifice.
“We are approaching the target planet, Primero,” called his navigator.
On the flagship’s screens, he saw the unremarkable planet—wispy clouds, blue oceans, brown and green land masses. And a bristling force of weirdly beautiful machine warships converging to form a defensive line. Even from a distance, the angular robotic battle vessels flickered with bursts of fire as they launched machine-guided projectiles in a hailstorm toward the League fleet.
“Engage our Holtzman shields.” Vor rose from his chair and smiled confidently to the officers on the bridge with him. “Summon the Ginaz mercenaries into ground teams, ready to shuttle down as soon as we break the orbital defenses.” He spoke automatically, confidently.
Decades ago, Serena had started this Jihad to avenge the murder of her baby. Xavier had fought beside Vor, crushing many machine foes. Now Vor, without his friends, intended to see this impossible war through to its end. It was the only way he could be sure the martyrs had made worthwhile sacrifices.
“Forward!” Vor raised his voice as the first robotic shells impacted against the Holtzman shields. “We have enemies to destroy!”
Red Plague
Introduction
Eighty years after the final defeat of the thinking machines, the human race began to build the Imperium under the Corrinos, who took their name from the victory at the Battle of Corrin. In the Schools of Dune trilogy—Sisterhood of Dune, Mentats of Dune, and Navigators of Dune—we told the saga of the formation of the seminal schools, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, the Mentat human computers, and the Spacing Guild and
the Navigators.
The core of this trilogy is the war between faith and reason, fanaticism vs science. After centuries of the Jihad, and previous centuries of enslavement by computers and thinking machines, the Butlerian fanatics led by Manford Torondo want to destroy any hint of high technology, even where it is beneficial to humanity, while the rational demagogue Josef Venport wants to advance humanity by controlling and exploiting technology. Venport and Manford become mortal enemies, a clash of fundamentally opposed philosophies.
In this story, after the fledgling Imperium has been torn in half by civil war, the fanatics have to decide whether to accept help for a dying population, if it means admitting the benefits of science.
Red Plague
Even in his dreams, he could still hear the long-ago cheering and feel the energy and heartfelt dedication of the crowd. It roared around him, making his sleep restless. Young Manford Torondo could see the beatific face of Rayna Butler, his inspiration, his beloved mentor—whose vision had brought healing and faith to the human race after the bloody generations-long Jihad.
He could see Rayna’s lips moving, but Manford could no longer remember the words she was speaking, because at that moment he had seen the bomb, had known it would explode. He rushed the stage, trying to save her, trying to throw himself upon the destructive device.
But it was too late.
The explosion was like a sun ripping open, right next to Rayna. He saw the shock wave, felt the flames, the energy that ripped bodies apart, destroyed the stage, sent fire and smoke and debris in all directions. Manford didn’t feel his own pain, even though he had been close to the blast, much too close. He saw the mangled remnants of Rayna Butler, her clothing splashed red, her skin torn and lacerated. Frantic, he tried to run to her, tried to reach her, but for some reason he could barely move. He had nothing left but to crawl, and so he crawled.
It was only later that he realized he no longer had his legs. The blast had torn away the lower half of his body, leaving only gruesome shreds below his hips. But his own wounds were utterly unimportant. He had to get to Rayna, had to save her, to hold her somehow. Though his ruined body was only moments from catatonic shock, he used his bloody elbows to haul himself forward. He got to Rayna, touched her, looked into her eyes, and he imagined he saw the light still there, but fading. Finally, he summoned the energy to scream.…
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