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 dear 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, naively 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 lackey of 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 may be 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 treelike 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 he 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 straightbacked 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.
A secret triumph reflected in Iblis Ginjo's own dark eyes. His broad-shouldered Jipol officers stood by, scanning the crowd, watching everything. Only the youthful Quinto Paolo seemed to accept this celebration at face value.
"We have guaranteed the Tlulaxa their privacy, and we respect their wishes to restrict outside visitors," the Grand Patriarch continued. "Still, we welcome them as our brothers in the holy struggle against thinking machines."
Xavier stood in front of the organ farms, surveying the masses of carefully bred tissue. He drew a deep breath into his own lungs, which had themselves been taken from similar tanks four decades ago. He focused on spherical eyeballs drifting in murky nutrient containers. They all seemed to be staring at him like accusing ghosts.
In a highrise dwelling complex outside the Bandalong city perimeter, (the Tlulaxa provided Xavier with a suite located in the middle of a maze of corridors, exterior balconies, and catwalks. His private room contained pleasant furniture and unusual art objects, but the basic design seemed austere and industrial; Xavier wondered if the Tlulaxa had simply added the decorations for his benefit.
Following his attendance at the organ farms ceremony, the Tlulaxa and Iblis Ginjo seemed to have no further interest in him. They sat together at a banquet table and ate a spiced meal, accompanied by strained conversation. Then the Grand Patriarch clearly dismissed Xavier, citing the veteran's "weariness from the demands of the day" and suggesting that he retire to his own quarters for the evening.
Quinto Paolo bunked in a small room nearby. The Jipol had; no business with the young adjutant, and the spaceport and business sectors of this suburban section did not offer much nightlife for an energetic military man. The core of Bandalong itself was off-limits to outsiders for purported religious reasons, although Xavier could not get a straight answer to any of his inquiries as to the reasons why.
Xavier brooded in his rooms, not wanting to sleep. He felt mentally weary, but his body was not tired. He resented having too much time to sit alone, where he had nothing to do but think and remember. Under such circumstances doubts and suspicions could run rampant…
Though Serena Butler had written passionate tracts and Iblis Ginjo had released his own popular essays and memoirs, Xavier had never felt the need to boast about his own life or military heroics. Despite this prominence, he had never bothered to document or justify his Work for future generations to read. He preferred to let his actions speak for themselves.
Now Xavier spent hours far into the Tlulaxan night, poring over the last writings of Serena Butler. He found nothing new or enlightening, since he knew her thoughts and arguments so well. Nonetheless, Xavier savored the cadence and poetry of her words, as if she were speaking aloud to him once more. He opened his memories about her as if they were a separate, treasured book inside his mind, and thought of the remarkable accomplishments of her life.
Too short a life.
He heard a noise, a desperate tapping on the hard windowplate of the folding door of his high balcony. Startled, Xavier noticed a shadow moving outside, the silhouette of a human form.
He might have been suspicious or afraid, but curiosity got the better of him. When he opened the balcony door and a cold, sour breeze slapped his face, he saw his mysterious visitor, a skeletal man with cadaverous, gray skin, except where livid scars embroidered it. The man had only one eye; the other hollow socket was a ghastly crater. Translucent lubes ran from his neck into packets of gelatinous fluids strapped to his waist.
Somehow the man had made his way across the catwalks and then dropped down here with the use of a wet, knotted rope. Xavier couldn't imagine h
ow this desiccated person had summoned the strength to accomplish such a task.
The stranger trembled as if in exhaustion or desperation. "Primero Harkonnen… I have found you." He nearly collapsed with relief.
Xavier supported the unfortunate soul and led him into the room. Instinctively, the Primero kept his voice low. "Who are you? Does anyone know you're here?"
The stranger shook his head, and the effort seemed to cost him a great deal. His chin sagged onto his own sunken chest. He looked like a giant mass of wounds, a shambling collection of scars. Not battle scars — surgical scars. Xavier helped him to one of the chairs in his room.
"Primero Harkonnen…"The man took deep breaths between words. "You may not remember me. I served with you at IV Anbus, thirteen years ago. I led one of the detachments against the thinking machines. I am Tercero Hondu Cregh."
Narrowing his eyes, Xavier brought the recollection into focus. This officer had arranged the second ground ambush in a Zenshüte village, but the locals had sabotaged the artillery, leaving Cregh and his commandos vulnerable to robotic attack like Vergyl.
"Yes, I remember you well." His brows knitted. "But I thought you'd been reassigned to your homeworld… Balut?" He drew in a quick breath. "Balut! And you survived the devastating attack there?"
"Balut was my home… once."
Full of questions, Xavier leaned closer. "I saw the tactical report, the summary images. Awful! The thinking machines destroyed everyone, not a living soul left — but how did you escape?"
"We were not attacked by… thinking machines." Hondu Cregh shook his head. "You were meant to believe that, but it wasn't Omnius at all. It was Iblis Ginjo and the Tlulaxa."
Xavier's heart skipped a beat. "What are you saying?"
"There is something I must show you, if my body can withstand the effort." Cregh lifted his head, blinking his oversized, bloodshot eye. "But I warn you, this knowledge places you in great danger, and you will not thank me for it."
"I am not concerned about danger, not anymore." Xavier set his jaw. "And if you have the courage to come here in your condition and tell me — how can I do less than listen to what you have to say?"
The Machine Crusade Page 71