The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert

  "I should have protected him better."

  "He's… a man, Xavier. You couldn't coddle him."

  "No, I suppose not." He looked off into the distance. A golden hummingbird buzzed past his face. "Those first few years, I made sure he was stationed on Giedi Prime, where he would watch over the war memorial construction. I thought he'd be safe there."

  "Your brother always wanted to be in the thick of things."

  Xavier remembered back. On Giedi Prime, bright and promising Cuarto Vergyl Tantor had fallen in love and had married Sheel when he'd turned twenty-one.

  Emil sipped from his red wine and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "I suppose now I have all the excuse I need to bring Sheel and my grandchildren here. Someone's got to keep me company, and it'll be good to hear young voices around here again."

  Xavier nodded. "I'll see that they're brought here with all possible speed, Father, and I promise—" He drew in a deep breath and started anew, "I promise I will return home as often as I can."

  The old man smiled at him and patted his hand. "I would like that, Xavier. You are my only son now."

  Even victories take their toll on a man.

  —Saying of Old Earth

  On the open-air stage of the Zimia Memorial Plaza, the two newly returned war heroes were quite a contrast, standing side by side. Each was dressed in a Jihad uniform, and both were in their mid-forties, but Xavier Harkonnen looked older than that, with crow's feet around his tired eyes and a heavy peppering of gray hair at his temples.

  Sharply different, Vorian Atreides had an unlined complexion and supple muscles. As the son of Agamemnon, recipient of a painful life-extension process, Vor was not ordinary by any stretch of the imagination.

  The two men were different in character, each fulfilling their duties in their own ways, according to their own standards. Both loved Serena Butler, and both had gone to war as officers in her Jihad. Their ranks and status were nearly the same, down to the medals on their chests and the plaques of commendation that adorned their offices, though Vor was technically one grade below Xavier.

  Now, as Xavier scanned the sea of faces in the crowd, he felt the weight of age and experience on his shoulders. Fresh orange marigolds decorated the numerous memorials, statues, and makeshift shines to Manion the Innocent.

  The League citizens considered the successful defense of IV Anbus an overwhelming victory that prevented the thinking machines from gaining a critical foothold closer to League territory. Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo had declared a day of celebration to welcome the Jihad soldiers home.

  But others would never return to their families. Like Vergyl…

  A vision of power and grace, the Priestess of the Jihad made her way through the rejoicing crowd toward the stage, waving to her people. As usual she was surrounded by an entourage of powerful Seraphim, assigned Jipol guards, and handlers.

  Iblis Ginjo walked beside her in a gold-trimmed black suit, holding his large head high. Xavier saw the Grand Patriarch for what he was — a man who shared Xavier's goals in the general sense, but one willing to utilize morally ambiguous options to achieve his ends. Xavier wished Serena would notice some of this, but she had isolated herself more and more, believing the slanted reports her advisors gave her.

  On one side of the stage, a hundred uniformed jihadis stood at attention. Some bore the marks of combat, either in the healing packs on their skin or in the haunted looks in their eyes. They would receive medals, but Xavier thought they would have been better off resting, to recover from the rigors of combat.

  Many of the ground soldiers and Ginaz mercenaries had suffered severe wounds; most of the escapees from Vergyl's destroyed ballista were injured, burned, and barely alive. Making the hospital situation even worse, another fast commando ship had just brought a load of refugees from Ix, the now-embattled Synchronized World where underground rebels were barely surviving against cymek hunters.

  They had enough blood, pain, and medical emergencies to keep Zimia's best doctors and the army's finest battlefield surgeons busy for a long time.

  Serena climbed to the stage, followed by Iblis. Though she showed no hesitation in spite of the most recent assassination attempt against her in the City of Introspection, white-robed bodyguards surrounded her, ready to thrust themselves into the line of fire if necessary.

  Serena and the Grand Patriarch stood in front of Xavier and Vor, waving past them to the giddy crowd. Iblis raised his hands high for silence, while Serena gazed at both Primeros. Xavier felt an electric tingle upon looking into her lavender eyes, her still-lovely, beatific face. She seemed to be in a religious trance. Or… drugged?

  "We are here to celebrate a tremendous victory." Serena's words echoed from powerful, unseen speakers. "The successful defense of IV Anbus will go down in the annals of the Jihad as one of our proudest moments. One day there will be no more thinking machines, no more tormentors of our collective soul. This is the moment of our greatest challenge — and I call upon all human beings to do their part. No, I call upon each of you to do more than your part."

  Serena looked warmly at the Grand Patriarch, and in her eyes Xavier saw adoration and respect that went beyond anything the man deserved. Did she not see how Iblis manipulated her, telling her only what she wanted to hear?

  Presently, Iblis's resonant voice filled the speakers of the plaza. "As we proved on Earth, on Giedi Prime, on Peridot Colony, Tyndall, ana now IV Anbus — we can defeat Omnius! One planet at a time. We must seize and free the Synchronized Worlds… and for that, we always need more volunteers. Every League World must contribute fighters now, so that we may carry on the valiant war. Sons and daughters, fighters from all free regions and peoples. I even call on Ginaz to provide more of their best mercenaries, who have proved so effective. Train them, test them! With your help, thinking machine planets will fall in a chain reaction across the cosmos."

  Xavier's stomach churned as he thought of his foster brother Vergyl, but he maintained his stoic composure. Standing erect, a dedicated soldier in every aspect of his demeanor, he saluted the crowd.

  Every world in the League of Nobles remained at the highest state of alert. Twice in the past quarter century, the capital city of Zimia had been the target of massive attacks — an initial assault by cymek walkers when Serena had been only a junior member of the League Parliament, and again several years after the atomic destruction of Earth. But humans had survived both times.

  There were no safe harbors on the roiling sea of Serena Butler's Jihad. Her people could never rest, never stop looking over their shoulders, until the scourge of thinking machines had been eliminated for all time.

  As she walked like an angel through a Salusan military hospital outside Zimia, she felt more determined than ever. Despite all the colorful flowers of celebration and reverence to Manion, the sight of wounded fighters on healer beds brought home the urgency to her.

  People were ultimately vulnerable, forced to spend their lives in fragile bodies that the thinking machines could easily destroy. Her murdered son was the most famous example, but little Manion had not been the first child brutalized by machines, nor had he been the last. And he had not suffered as much as some. She knew what Omnius and Erasmus were capable of. But the little boy's death had triggered trillions of people to fight back against the machines, all under her banner. She heaved a deep sigh at the terrible losses of her people.

  Serena wore a simple white hospital dress now, with a red version of the open-hand League symbol on the lapel. She administered a benevolent smile, soft words, and a gentle touch to each soldier as she moved from bed to bed.

  One man had lost both arms in an artillery explosion and remained in a coma. Lingering at his bedside, Serena held a cool hand against his bandaged, waxen face and told him how proud she was of all he had sacrificed.

  A young tan-skinned doctor went to the healer bed and began checking vital signs on an array of instruments. A badge on the lapel of his white shirt identified him as Dr. Rajid S
uk, one of the most talented of the new battlefield surgeons. "I'm sorry, but he can't hear you."

  "Oh, but he can." Against her fingertips, Serena felt the patient's cheek twitch. The eyelids flickered open. The man groaned in confusion and pain. Some of the patients called it a miracle.

  "There are many paths to healing," Dr. Suk said, calling out to his colleagues. "Serena, you brought this man out of his coma."

  The patient became aware of his grievous injuries and began to wail. On the healing bed, intravenous lines and probes adjusted automatically to improve his vital signs. A nurse stepped forward and adhered a white sedative pad to his chest. As the drug calmed him, the man looked up imploringly at Serena. She massaged his brow and whispered to him…

  Later, when he had drifted off, Serena spoke quietly to Dr. Suk. "Will he be scheduled for limb-replacement surgery?"

  "With so many battles, there is a shortage of organs, limbs, and other replacement body parts. The Tlulaxa organ farms simply cannot keep up with the demand." The doctor shook his head sadly. "It could take a year or more before he is even a candidate."

  She lifted her chin in angry determination. "I will speak with the Tlulaxa representatives. They claim to be our allies, and their organ farms must be expanded to provide what we need, no matter the cost. In this fight for all humanity, they must work closely with us, forgoing excessive profits if necessary, to care for those who risk their lives for our freedom!" She raised her voice so that wounded soldiers could hear her. "I guarantee that all of you will receive the organs and limbs you need. I shall demand it of the Tlulaxa!"

  Not a single person in the hospital doubted her.

  That evening four Jipol men led Iblis Ginjo to a dim pleasure house filled with sweet-smelling smoke and oddly atonal music. Inside, the small-statured Rekur Van sat on a cushion as if meditating, paying little attention to the languid lights that played over the flowing silhouettes of slender women.

  Without receiving an invitation, Iblis took a thick cushion next to the Tlulaxa flesh merchant. The slaver stirred, gave an agitated grunt. He put down a chunk of orange cake that he had been eating with his bare, long-fingered hands. The Jipol men sat menacingly close to him, causing his dark eyes to flit about nervously.

  "I need your help," Iblis said quietly enough that no eavesdropper could hear. After his most recent raid on IV Anbus, Rekur Van had reported to Iblis the ominous presence of machine scout ships in the system. "I saved your best slave-harvesting grounds. In exchange, you must do something for me."

  A simpering server came up to them with mincing steps, but Iblis made a gesture with his left hand. Two Jipol guards caught the server and rapidly whisked him away from the private conversation.

  Rekur Van grimaced at the Grand Patriarch. "What choice do I have?"

  "Serena Butler has promised her injured Jihad fighters increased shipments of replacement parts — arms, legs, internal organs — for all who need them. You Tlulaxa must provide everything necessary."

  "But we don't have the capacity." The flesh merchant scowled. "How could you let her say such things? Have you lost control of the Jihad?"

  "I was not present, but her statement is a matter of record, and now we must make it happen. The Priestess of the Jihad cannot renege on her commitments. The Tlulaxa organ farms will send increased shipments immediately."

  "It will not be easy. We need much more raw material."

  "Just see that it is done. I don't care how. My office will provide whatever authorization you need… and because of the vital nature of this 'request,' I'm sure the Army of the Jihad can promise a bonus. Say, an increase of five percent over your usual fees?"

  The Tlulaxa merchant, at first intimidated by the magnitude of the demand, began to smile. "Given sufficient incentive, all tilings are possible for the Jihad."

  "Of course they are. Your ship is at Zimia Spaceport?"

  "Yes." Rekur Van brushed cake crumbs from his chest. "My business is finished here, and I intend to depart in three days."

  Iblis stood, towering over the little Tlulaxa on his cushion. "You will depart now." The Jipol guards lifted Rekur Van to his feet.

  The Grand Patriarch and his entourage escorted the sputtering flesh-merchant out of the pleasure house. "Until this is done, the League of Nobles will have no further business dealings with you."

  He had already issued a similar demand to the commanders of the mercenary schools on Ginaz. Human beings were the Jihad's primary resources in this fight against mechanical monstrosities, and Iblis needed to make sure the supply lines remained open.

  Rekur Van perspired and looked nervous. His dark gaze flitted around, as if looking for an avenue of escape. "You drive a hard bargain."

  Iblis gave a smile. "I have only the best interests of mankind in my heart."

  A tool wielded in ignorance can become the most dangerous of weapons.

  —Swordmaster Jav Barri

  The island in Ginaz's central archipelago dozed beneath a hazy afternoon sky. The sun swelled large and yellow above a horizon of blue-green water. On the curving leeward shore of a lagoon, warm water lapped against the beach.

  The serenity was broken by the violent clamor of weapons.

  Jool Noret watched his father thrust and parry, battling a fearsome combat robot. Zon Noret's body was sinew coiled over hard bones. He wore no shoes, and his long yellowish-gray hair flew behind him like a comet's tail as he leaped in with a wild yell, slashing and clanging with his pulse sword. His weapon, fashioned like a perfectly balanced blade, contained a generator cell that delivered precise disruptive pulses through the metal blade. The disruptive bursts could overload and disengage the sophisticated gelcircuits of thinking machines.

  Noret's mek opponent was also a blur of movement, raising six metallic arms to shield itself, using grounded armor plates and non-conductive support struts to protect its control circuitry against the veteran opponent.

  The talented old mercenary continued his training, demonstrating techniques for his son and honing his own skills. Zon had seen so much furious combat on the battlegrounds of the Jihad — most recently in the heroic defense of IV Anbus, where he had been wounded — that this was little more than a game to him. The veteran thrust hard, skittering the blade with a shower of sparks along one of the robot's six arms and striking a small but vulnerable section of self-contained circuitry. One of the fighting mek's arms went limp.

  Jool crowed with victory for his father. "The best you've ever done!"

  "Not quite, my son." Panting, Zon Noret stepped back. "One only achieves the peak of one's capabilities when fighting for survival."

  According to the rules, Chirox, the fighting mek, could reset his systems after a minute of delay, but Jool thought the disabled arm would need to be repaired in the shop. Zon took two quick breaths, then leaped in again with a flurry of blows.

  With his five remaining good arms, the mek defended.

  A century ago, an intrepid Ginaz salvage scout had found a damaged thinking machine ship and retrieved the broken combat robot. The mek's gelcircuitry mind had been wiped, and once the combat programming was reinstalled, Chirox became an instructor on the Ginaz archipelago, teaching unorthodox but effective hand-to-hand combat techniques against robots. Chirox no longer had any loyalty to the computer evermind, and had diligently trained four generations of mercenary fighters, including Zon Noret. Jool, one of the veteran's many sons, would follow in his footsteps.

  Shaped roughly like a human, the mek had three pairs of fighting arms extending from his torso, with weapons in each hand — swords and knives which could be varied in length and design. He had bright optic threads on a rigid molded face, instead of mirrorized flowmetal; this unit had been designed for nothing but combat.

  In a sense, Chirox was a thinking machine… but because of his beneficial, necessary functions and strict control mechanisms he was not customarily referred to as such. He was one of only a handful of robotic units maintained and operated by League for
ces or their allies. These mechanical fighters were so efficient in their destructive abilities that Omnius considered them perfect, and no longer found it necessary to change their hardware or software. This provided an unforeseen opportunity for the Jihad, however, since they now had a technological standard against which to test their own fighting methods.

  The Noret family and their immediate trainees considered Chirox their sensei, a master of martial arts and combat techniques. Since the launching of Serena Butler's Jihad, many robots had been destroyed because of what Chirox taught. >

  Now young Jool squatted back on the warm, grainy sand. His jade eyes were bright and intent. He had pale, sun-bleached hair, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin; he was skinny, but deceptively strong. He could dart in and out of a training exercise even faster than his father.

  He watched every move Zon Noret made, the blurring swish of energized steel as his blade traced complex patterns in the air, dancing forward to slam against the sensei mek's exoskeleton.

  As always, the nineteen-year-old admired his father, for he had heard numerous tales of Zon Noret's triumphs during the most intense fighting of the Jihad. Jool wished he could have been at IV Anbus when the destroyed dam wiped out the robot army. His father had been among the first group of Ginaz mercenaries who volunteered their services to the Jihad, eight years after the destruction of Earth.

  In Ginaz society, families had many children to replenish the warrior ranks, but the culture did not encourage parents to be very close to their offspring. The old veteran Zon was an exception, especially where Jool was concerned. A hero many times over, Zon's bloodline was considered desirable, so he was persuaded to have even more offspring once he had returned from the combat fields.