In the dockside town Vor had already found a warm, well-lit tavern where the locals gathered every night to drink a home-brewed distillate of fermented kelp that tasted remotely like bitter beer but was as potent as hard liquor. Vor discovered its effects quickly enough.
As a soldier in the Army of the Jihad, Vor Atreides was a breath of fresh air among the locals. Fishermen offered him drinks and treats of crunchy shellfish in exchange for news and stories. He went by his chosen alter ego of "Virk" and ostensibly worked as a common jihadi engineer. Most of the League's planetside crew didn't even know his real identity, and the rest of them kept his secret.
As the kelp beer blurred his senses, Vor became more talkative and told of numerous adventures he'd had, always careful not to talk about his time as a human trustee on Earth or his rank as an officer. It was obvious from the adoring looks of the young women that they believed him, and just as apparent from the amused but skeptical frowns of the men that they thought he was exaggerating. By the way the girls flirted and hung close, Vor knew he would be a welcome guest in someone's home this night; the challenge would be to decide which rendezvous to choose.
Oddly enough, his gaze was drawn frequently to a busy young woman who worked the tables, pouring mugs of kelp beer at the bar and hurrying back and forth from the kitchen to deliver food. She had eyes the color of dark pecans, and rich brown hair that hung in a mass of ringlets that looked so soft and tempting that he could barely restrain his urge to reach out and touch them. Her figure was well-rounded and she was tall, but most of all he found himself drawn to her heart-shaped face and engaging smile. In an indefinable way, she reminded him of Serena.
When it was his turn to buy a round of drinks, Vor called the woman over. Her eyes danced teasingly. "I can understand why your throat is dry with that constant stream of nonsense flowing out of it."
The men laughed good-naturedly at Vor's expense, and he chuckled along with them. "So, if I said how beautiful you are, you would consider it more of my nonsense?"
She tossed her ringlets and called to him over her shoulder as she went to get their drinks, "Nonsense of the purest form." Some of the other young women frowned, as if Vor had already snubbed them.
His eyes went back to her as she stood at the bar. She glanced in his direction, then turned away. "Ten credits to the man who tells me her name," he said boldly, holding out the coin.
A chorus answered him with "Leronica Tergiet," but he gave the coin to a fisherman who provided more information. "Her father has a deep-sea boat, but he hates the work. He bought this place, and Leronica pretty much runs it."
One of the pouting girls clung to Vor. "That one won't relax for a moment. She'll work herself into old age when she's still in her child-bearing years." Her voice deepened. "A pretty dull companion, I'd say."
"Maybe she just needs someone to make her laugh."
When Leronica returned to their table, her arms laden with freshly filled mugs, Vor raised his glass in a toast. "To the lovely Leronica Tergiet, who knows the difference between a genuine compliment and utter nonsense."
She set down the rest of the kelp beer. "I hear so little honesty around here that it's hard to make the comparison. I don't have time for silly stories about places I'll never visit."
Vor lifted his voice above the hubbub. "I can wait for a private conversation. Don't think I didn't notice you listening to my stories and pretending not to."
She snorted. "I have to work past closing. You'd be better off going back to your nice clean ship."
Vor smiled disarmingly. "I'd trade a warm bed for a clean ship any day. I'll wait."
The men made catcalls, but Leronica raised her eyebrows. "A patient man is a novelty around here."
Vor remained unruffled. "Then I hope you like novelties."
Octa tried to make me stop believing in the destiny of love, that there was only one person for each of us. She nearly succeeded in this, for I almost forgot about Serena.
—Primero Xavier Harkonnen, Reminiscences
SALUSA SECUNDUS glimmered like an oasis in the harsh wilderness of war, a sanctuary where Xavier could regain his strength before going back out with the Army of the Jihad. Now, though, as he sped by groundcar away from the Zimia Spaceport, he hoped he was in time. He had just arrived back home from the Ixian battlegrounds.
For months he'd known that Octa was pregnant — apparently their lovemaking on the night before his departure for Ix had been quite surprisingly successful — and her delivery was now imminent. He had not been present for the births of Roella or Omilia — his duty to the Jihad always came first—but his wife was forty-six now, causing her delivery to be fraught with a greater than usual potential for complications. She insisted that he: should not worry, which made him all the more concerned.
Xavier sped along a winding road into the hills toward the Butler estate, while the sun dropped lower in the western sky. He had made contact as soon as the ballistas entered the home system, and had received regular reports on Octa's condition. He was cutting it quite close.
Octa had chosen to deliver at home, as she had done with her two older children, because she wanted the resources of the medical centers available for the war, especially for the wounded who were receiving replacement organs from the generous Tlulaxa organ farms.
After parking in the courtyard and racing through the main gates into the echoing foyer, he called out with more emotion than he usually allowed himself to show. "Octa! I'm here!"
One of the servants met him excitedly, pointing up the stairs. "The doctors are with her. I don't think the baby is born yet, but it's very —"
Xavier didn't hear the rest as he hurried upstairs. Octa lay on the large four-poster bed where they had conceived the child. It was another small victory, a symbol of human persistence and triumph. Now Octa was half-sitting, her legs spread, and her face was streaked with sweat and contorted in pain.
Seeing him, though, she smiled, as if trying to convince herself it was not a dream. "My love! Is this… what I have to do… to get you home from war?"
At her bedside, the professional midwife smiled reassuringly. "She's strong, and everything is normal. Any time now you should have another child, Primero."
"You make it sound too easy." Octa groaned with another contraction. "Would you like to switch places with me?"
"This is your third child," the midwife said, "so it should be easy for you. Maybe you don't even need me."
The expectant mother grabbed the woman's hand and held on tight. "Stay!"
Xavier stepped forward. "If anyone's going to hold her hand, it: should be me." Smiling, the midwife backed away, letting Octa's husband take her place.
Leaning close, Xavier thought about how lovely his wife still was. He had been with her for many years, and away from her for too much of the time. He marveled that she could be so content with this patchwork marriage.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"About how beautiful you are. You're glowing with happiness."
"That's because you're with me."
"I love you," he whispered in her ear. "I'm so sorry that I haven't been the husband you deserve. Even when we're together, I haven't been attentive."
Her eyelids fluttered, and she touched her large belly. "You must be somewhat attentive, or I wouldn't be pregnant again." She grimaced when a contraction struck, but fought through the pain with a brave smile.
But he wouldn't let himself off so easily. "Honestly, I've spent too much time brooding, concerned with this damned war. The real tragedy is how long it took me to see what a treasure I have in you."
Tears streamed down Octa's face. "I have never questioned you, my darling. You are the only man I have ever loved, and I am happy to accept you on any basis."
"You deserve more, and I'm…"
But before he finished his sentence, Octa cried out. "This is it — hard labor," the midwife said, hurrying to the bedside. "Time to push." And Xavier knew the conversation was
over.
Twenty minutes later, Xavier cradled his third daughter in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. Octa had already chosen the name while he was away at Ix, with his approval.
"Welcome to the universe, Wandra," he said. And for a moment, he felt complete.
On his sprawling estate Manion Butler had always tended the olive groves and vineyards, and in between war engagements, Xavier dabbled as a gentleman farmer himself, much as ancient Roman officers had during times of peace. He took pleasure in being home, spending time with his family and forgetting about the evil thinking machines and the horrors of the Jihad… if only for a short while.
Xavier always made certain there were enough field hands and crop supervisors to make the cultivated hills a productive enterprise, but he loved getting his own hands dirty, feeling the sunlight on his back and the sweat on his skin from simple, straightforward labor. Long ago, Serena, too, had loved gardening, tending her lovely flowers, and now he understood what had drawn her to the soil and growing things. He felt a purity of purpose without political considerations, treachery, or personality complications. Here, he only had to focus on the fertile soil and the fresh-smelling vegetation.
Blackbirds flitted among the gray-green leaves of the olive trees, eating berries the pickers had missed. At the end of each row of grape vines stood a cluster of giant orange marigolds. Xavier strolled down the narrow, leafy corridors, his head just tall enough to rise above the twisting vines that curled around the posts and support cables.
As expected, he found his father-in-law working among the vines, caressing the clusters of green grapes that were ripening in the dry, warm weather. Manion's hair had gone white and his once fleshy face was now lean, but the retired Viceroy exuded a calm contentment that he had never displayed when he had served the League Parliament.
"It's not necessary to count every one of the grapes, Manion," Xavier quipped. He walked forward, and grape leaves brushed against his sleeves like the outstretched hands of an adoring throng during one of his victory parades.
Manion looked up and tilted back the straw hat that shielded his eyes from the sun. "It is because of the care and attention I shower upon these vines that our family vintages are the best in all the League Worlds. This year I fear the Zinagne will be a bit weak — too much water in that acreage — but the Beaujie should be superb."
Xavier stood next to him and looked at the grape clusters. "Then I'll have to help you sample the vintages until we're both convinced of their excellence."
Workers went up and down the rows of grapes, using hoes and rakes to turn the soil and remove the weeds. Each year when the fruit ripened to perfection, crowds of Salusan laborers toiled around the clock in the vineyards, filling baskets and carrying them to the winery buildings behind the main house. Xavier had managed to participate in this riotous harvesting activity only three times in the past decade, but had enjoyed it.
He wished he could stay home more often, but his true calling was out in space battling the thinking machines.
"And how is my newest baby granddaughter?"
"You'll have plenty of time to see for yourself. I've been called out to join the fleet again in a week, and I'm counting on you to help Octa. As a new mother, she'll have plenty to do."
"Are you certain my bumbling assistance won't cause more problems?"
Xavier chuckled. "You were the Viceroy, so at least you know how to delegate responsibility. Please make certain Roella and Omilia lend their mother a hand."
Blinking in the bright Salusan sun, Xavier sighed as the weight of his life seemed to press down on him. He had already spent time with old Emil Tantor, who was pleased to be sharing his lonely house with his daughter-in-law Sheel and her three children.
Though Xavier had his own family and plenty of love, he felt he had lost something along the way. Octa was quiet and strong, a sanctuary in the turmoil of his life. He loved her without hesitation, though he recalled the carefree passion of his brief relationship with Serena. The two of them had been young then, fired with romance, never imagining the tragedy hurtling toward them like a meteor from the skies…
Xavier had stopped regretting the loss of Serena — their lives had diverged long ago — but he could not help but regret how much he himself had changed. "Manion," he said in a quiet voice, "how did I get to be so rigid in my ways?"
"Let me ponder that for a moment," the retired Viceroy said.
Troubling thoughts assailed Xavier. The optimistic and passionate young man he had once been now seemed a total stranger to him. He thought of the difficult tasks he had undertaken in the name of the Jihad, and was unable to condone them all.
Finally, Manion answered with all the seriousness and importance he had ever used when giving a speech before the League Parliament. "The war made you harder, Xavier. It's changed all of us. Some people, it has broken. Others, like you, it has made stronger."
"I fear my strength is my weakness." Xavier peered deep into the thick, green vines but saw only memories of his numerous Jihad campaigns… space battles, mangled robots, massacred human beings who were victims of the thinking machine onslaughts.
"How so?"
"I have seen what Omnius can do, and have devoted my entire life to making sure the machines never win." He sighed. "That it is the way I've chosen to show my love for my family: by protecting them. Sadly it means I am almost never home."
"If you did not do this, Xavier, we'd all be slaves to the evermind. Octa understands, as do I, as do your daughters. Don't let it weigh too heavily upon you."
Xavier drew a deep breath. "I know you're right, Manion… but I don't want my relentless determination for victory to cost me my own humanity." He looked intently at his father-in-law. "If people like me are forced to become like machines in order to defeat the machines, then the whole Jihad is lost."
We can study every scrap of detail about the long march of human history, assimilating vast amounts of data. Why then, is it so difficult for thinking machines to learn from it? Consider this as well: Why do humans repeat the mistakes of their ancestors?
—Erasmus, Reflections on Sentient Biologicals
Even after centuries of experimenting with various human subjects, Erasmus still had not run out of ideas. There were so many interesting ways to test the species. And now that he could also see the world through the eyes of his young ward, Gilbertus Albans, the possibilities seemed fresh and intriguing.
The robot stood in his fine crimson robes trimmed with gold fur. Very stylish and impressive, he thought. His flowmetal skin was polished so that it gleamed in Corrin's ruddy sunlight.
Young Gilbertus was impeccably attired as well, having been scrubbed and groomed by valetbots. Despite two years of diligent training and preparation, the boy still had a feral streak, a wildness mat manifested itself in small rebellious ways. Eventually, Erasmus was certain he could eradicate that flaw.
The two stood outside looking at the locked pen of slaves and test subjects. Many belonged to the animalistic lower social orders from which Gilbertus himself had been drawn. But others were better trained, educated servants, artisans, and chefs who worked inside Erasmuses villa.
As he gazed into the boy's open, innocent eyes, Erasmus wondered if Gilbertus even remembered his squalid and painful early life grubbing in the dirt of these awful pens… or if he had discarded those memories as he learned to organize his mental skills through the persistent instruction of his machine mentor.
Now, before the latest experiment could commence, the boy looked curiously at the chosen group; they stared back at Erasmus and the young boy with uneasy expressions. The independent robot's sensor threads detected a heightened concentration of perspiration in the air, accelerated heartbeats, elevated body temperatures, and other clear indicators of increased stress. What did they have to be so nervous about? Erasmus would have preferred to begin the test on an even baseline, but his captives feared him too much. They were convinced the independent robot meant to do something u
npleasant to them, and Erasmus couldn't fault them for drawing such conclusions.
He didn't bother to conceal a smile. They were correct, after all.
Beside him, the boy quelled his curiosity and simply observed. It had been one of the robot's first lessons to him. Despite all of Erasmus's efforts, Gilbertus Albans was still a child of scant education, with such a minimal database that it would be futile to simply ask an endless stream of random questions. Thus, the thinking machine instructed him in an orderly, logical fashion, building upon each fact that he learned.
So far, the results seemed satisfactory.
"Today, we begin an organized series of evoked reaction tests. The experiment you are about to witness is designed to demonstrate panic responses. Please observe the range of behavior in order to draw general conclusions based upon the relative status of the slaves."
"Yes, Mr. Erasmus," the boy said, gripping the bars of the fence.
These days, Gilbertus did as he was told — a great improvement from his previous untamed behavior. Back then, Omnius had frequently gloated, insisting that Erasmus would never civilize the brutish youth. Whenever simple logic and common sense failed, Erasmus used discipline and methodical training, along with rewards and punishments, augmented by the liberal use of proven behavior-altering drugs. Initially, the pharmaceuticals had left Gilbertus in an apathetic stupor. There was a decided decline in his manic, destructive behavior, tendencies that hampered his overall progress.
Gradually the robot had decreased the dosages, and now he rarely needed to drug the boy at all. Gilbertus had finally accepted his new situation. If he did remember his miserable previous life, the boy would surely look upon his new situation as an opportunity, an advantage. Before long, Erasmus was certain he would have a triumph to show Omnius, proving that his understanding of human potential exceeded that of even the supposedly omniscient computer.
But he had more in mind than just winning the challenge with Omnius. Erasmus actually enjoyed watching and recording the progress Gilbertus made, and wished to continue even after Omnius had conceded the point.
The Machine Crusade Page 34