Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  The desperate-looking Guildsman cringed. Around him, the Sisters moved to take control, ready for a final plunge.

  Before Murbella could give the command, though, Janess broke in over their tight-linked channel, “Mother Commander! Something’s changed with the machine battleships. Look at them!”

  Murbella examined the images on the viewing plate. The Enemy vessels no longer moved in a tight, efficient formation. They slowed and began to spread apart, as if they had no goal, like unmanned sailing ships becalmed on a vast cosmic sea.

  Left suddenly leaderless.

  To her amazement, the thinking-machine fleet floated listlessly in space.

  Even when caught up in his own myth, Muad’Dib pointed out that greatness is only a transitory experience. For a true Kwisatz Haderach, there are no warnings against hubris, no rules or requirements to follow. He takes from all things and gives to all things, as he wishes. How could we have deluded ourselves into believing we could control such a one?

  —Bene Gesserit analysis

  After the Oracle vanished, Erasmus stared at the empty space in the center of the vaulted chamber, his head slightly cocked to one side. “Omnius is gone.” His voice sounded hollow to Duncan Idaho’s ears. “No vestige of the evermind remains in the network of thinking machines.”

  Duncan felt his own mind racing, expanding, absorbing new information. The terrible Enemy he had sensed for so long—the threat that the Honored Matres had provoked—was no more. By removing the evermind, uprooting it from this universe and taking it elsewhere, the Oracle had disabled the vast thinking-machine fleet, leaving it without its controlling force.

  And we still remain.

  Duncan didn’t know exactly what had changed inside him. Was it simply the knowledge of his raison d’etre? Had he always had access to this potential without realizing it? Assuming Paul was correct, something had lain dormant inside Duncan for all those years, through all of the lives—original and ghola—a latent power that had grown with each iteration of his existence. Now, like a massive genetic program, he had to figure out how to activate it.

  Paul and his son Leto II had the blessing and curse of prescience. With their memories restored, each could claim to be a Kwisatz Haderach. Miles Teg had possessed his phenomenal capacity to move at a speed beyond comprehension and might conceivably have become a Kwisatz Haderach himself. The Navigators in the clustered Heighliners overhead could use their minds to see through folds of space and find safe paths for the great ships to travel. The Bene Gesserits could control their bodies, down to their very cells. All had expanded on traditional human abilities, expressing humankind’s potential to exceed expectations.

  As the ultimate and final Kwisatz Haderach, Duncan believed he might have the capability to do all of those things and much more, reaching the highest pinnacle of humanity. Thinking machines had never understood human potential, even though their “mathematical projection” credited the Kwisatz Haderach with the power to end Kralizec and change the universe.

  Confidence infused him, and he thought he might discover a way to make grand, epic changes . . . but not under the control of the thinking machines. Instead, Duncan would find his own way. He would be a real Kwisatz Haderach, independent as well as all-powerful.

  Dispassionately, he gazed upon the old woman in her frumpy floralprint dress and gardening apron, complete with scuffs of dirt. Her face appeared careworn, as if from nurturing people her entire life. “Something of Omnius has vanished from me, but not all.”

  Finally forsaking the old-woman disguise, Erasmus resumed the liquid-metal form of the independent robot attired in an elegant crimson and gold robe. “I can learn much from you, Duncan Idaho. As the new god-messiah of humankind, you are the optimal specimen for me to study.”

  “I am not another specimen for your laboratory analysis.” Too many others had treated him that way, in too many of his past lives.

  “A mere slip of my tongue.” The robot smiled cheerily, as if attempting to veil his looming violence. “I have long desired a perfect understanding of what it means to be human. Now it seems you have all the answers I so assiduously sought.”

  “I recognize the myth in which I live.” Duncan recalled Paul Atreides making similar pronouncements. Paul had felt trapped by his own mythos, which had become a force beyond his control. Duncan, however, had no fear of the forces that would emerge, either for or against him.

  With penetrating vision he saw through, and around, Erasmus and his minions. Across the hall he watched Paul Atreides standing unsteadily, aided by Chani and Jessica after his terrible ordeal. Paul drank from a water flagon, which he had taken from a table near the Baron’s body.

  Outside, the crashing of sandworms against robotic defenders had begun to subside. Though the huge creatures had not destroyed the machine cathedral, they had caused extensive damage to the city of Synchrony.

  At the perimeter of the great chamber, quicksilver robots stood attentively, the charges in their integral weapons glowing in a display of readiness. Even without the evermind, Erasmus could direct these machines to fire a deadly barrage against the humans in the vaulted room. The independent robot could attempt to kill every mortal here in a show of petulant revenge. And perhaps he would make the effort. . . .

  “Neither you nor your robots can make any difference here,” Duncan warned. “All of you are far too slow.”

  “Either you are overconfident, or you are fully aware of what you can do.” The flowmetal smile tightened, just a little, and the bright optic threads glistened a bit more. “Perhaps it is the latter, and perhaps not.” Somehow, Duncan knew with absolute certainty that Erasmus meant to unleash all the destructive power under his control, wreaking whatever havoc he could.

  Before the robot made half a turn, Duncan was upon him with all the speed Miles Teg had shown, knocking him backward. Erasmus crashed to the floor, his weapons disabled. Was it just a test? Another experiment?

  Duncan’s heart pounded and his body radiated heat as he stood over the robot, but he felt exhilarated, not exhausted. He could keep fighting like this against any machines Erasmus chose to send against him. At that thought, he left the independent robot where he had fallen, dashed at hyperspeed around the circle, and battered the silvery sentinel robots with quick kicks and punches until they shattered into debris. It was so easy for him now. Before the metal pieces had finished falling to the floor, he was back, looming over Erasmus.

  “I sensed your doubts as well as your intentions,” Duncan said. “Admit it. Even as a thinking machine, you wanted more proof, didn’t you?”

  Lying on his back and looking upward through the hole in the dome at the thousands of huge Guild Heighliners in the sky, Erasmus said, “Assuming you are the long-awaited superman, why don’t you simply destroy me? With Omnius gone, removing me would assure the victory of humanity.”

  “If the solution were that simple, a Kwisatz Haderach would not be needed to implement it.” Duncan surprised Erasmus, and himself, by reaching down and helping the robot to his feet. “To end Kralizec and truly change the future requires more than just the annihilation of one side or the other.”

  Erasmus examined his body core and his robes to ensure his appearance, then looked up with a broad smile. “I think we just might have a meeting of the minds—something I never really achieved with Omnius.”

  When the time comes for our Great Unmasking, our foes will be surprised by what has been disguised in front of them since the very beginning.

  —KHRONE,

  communiqué to Face Dancers

  Now that the Oracle was gone, several of the Navigators’ giant Heighliners overhead folded space and disappeared from Synchrony without explanations or farewells.

  Throughout the city, sandworms continued to destroy the living metal buildings. Because Omnius had never allowed them autonomy, the robotic defenders were unable to function effectively without connecting to the evermind. The vaulted hall filled with resounding silence. />
  Then with a loud crash, the high doors swung open. Dressed in black and followed by a throng of Face Dancers, Khrone marched in from the bright machine streets. Identical, blank-faced drones swarmed into the room. Scytale’s poison gas had killed some of the shape-shifters, but many had avoided the battle entirely.

  Out in the sprawling machine city, countless Face Dancers had pretended to stand against the rampaging sandworms, but secretly melted away from the barricades the robotic soldiers had set up. Khrone had taken pleasure in watching the worms destroy the great flowmetal buildings, smashing thousands of thinking machines. Clearing the way. Making our job easier.

  Khrone offered a skeletal smile as he swept forward. “I never cease to be entertained by the erroneous deductions of those who think they control us.” In his mind, a Face Dancer victory was now assured.

  “Explain yourself, Khrone.” Erasmus seemed only mildly curious.

  Ignoring the humans and their dead, Khrone faced the independent robot, who stood by Duncan Idaho. “This war has been in process for five thousand years. It was never Omnius’s idea, anyway.”

  “Oh, our war has been building for far longer than that,” Erasmus pointed out. “We escaped after the Battle of Corrin fifteen thousand years ago.”

  “I’m referring to a completely different war, Erasmus—one you never realized was taking place. From the moment the first advanced Face Dancers were dispatched by our creator, Hidar Fen Ajidica, we began our manipulations. When we encountered your thinking-machine empire, we allowed you to create more and more of us. Yet the moment Omnius let us in, the Face Dancers became his true masters! We shared with you all the lives we had gathered, letting you believe you were becoming increasingly superior to us and to humans. But we Face Dancers were in control all along.”

  “There is a diagnosis for your mental condition,” Dr. Yueh said boldly. “You have delusions of grandeur.”

  Khrone’s lips peeled back from blunt, perfect teeth. “My statements, based as they are on accurate information, can hardly be called delusions.”

  The amused expression on Erasmus’s face did not change. Khrone found it maddening, so he raised his voice, “You thinking machines helped us implement our Face Dancer plans, all the while believing that we served you. But it was exactly the opposite. You were, in fact, our tools.”

  “All machines began as tools,” Duncan pointed out, looking from Erasmus to the Face Dancer leader.

  Khrone was not impressed. So this was the man who had revealed himself as the final Kwisatz Haderach? Nor could he understand why the independent robot was not more upset, since he prided himself on employing his artificial emotions.

  Khrone continued. “Under your guidance, Erasmus, biological facilities run by thinking machines manufactured millions of enhanced Face Dancers. At first, we ventured into human society as scouts, swiftly infiltrating the fringes of the Scattering, and then the Old Empire. We easily duped the Lost Tleilaxu into believing we were their allies. Wherever humans remained, Face Dancers quietly intruded. We lived long, and accomplished much.”

  “Exactly as we instructed you to do,” Erasmus said, sounding bored with the lecture.

  “Exactly as we wished to do!” Khrone snapped back. “Face Dancers are everywhere, a hive mind more advanced than any extrasensory human linkages, more powerful than the network of Omnius. So swiftly and easily we accomplished our aims.”

  “And our aims, as well,” Erasmus said.

  Galled by the robot’s stubborn refusal to recognize defeat, Khrone felt rage building within him. “Over the centuries, we prepared for the day when we would implement our plan and eliminate Omnius. We never guessed that the Oracle of Time would do it for us.” He chuckled softly. “Your empire has fallen. We have superceded all thinking machines. And now that Omnius’s fleet and plagues have brought humanity to its knees, we can activate our hidden Face Dancer cells—everywhere, simultaneously. We will take control.” He planted his fists on his hips. “It is already over for machines, and for humans.”

  Behind him, all the identical Face Dancers wore blank expressions. Khrone’s featureless face had been duplicated many times over.

  “An interesting and insidious plan,” Erasmus said. “Under other circumstances, I might applaud you for your ingenuity and duplicity.”

  “Even if you could rally your robots to kill those of us on Synchrony, it would be of no use. I am reproduced everywhere.” The Face Dancer scoffed. “Omnius thought he was seeding the universe for his own conquest, but the true seeds of his downfall were right under his mechanical nose.”

  Erasmus began to laugh. It started as a chuckle that he imitated from an ages-old dataset, and he added components sifted from other recordings. The resultant sounds were quite enjoyable to himself, and he was sure they were convincing to the others.

  Over his long, long lifetime, the unusual robot had expended a great deal of effort in studying humans and their emotions. Laughter particularly intrigued him. An early step, which had required centuries of deep thought, had been to understand the concept of humor, to learn what circumstances might elicit this strange, noisy response from a human. In the process, he had compiled a library of his favorite laughter samples. A delightful repertoire.

  He played them all now through his mouth speakers, much to the bewilderment of the Face Dancer Khrone. But Erasmus realized that not even these favorite chuckles, snickers, and guffaws were adequate to express the true hilarity that he currently felt.

  “What is so funny?” Khrone demanded. “Why are you laughing?”

  “I am laughing because even you don’t understand the trick that was played on you.” Erasmus chuckled again, and this time he created a unique sound that contained flavors and undertones of his best borrowed recordings. This was truly his individual sense of humor, something genuinely original. After such long and difficult study, Erasmus was pleased with the new comprehension he had achieved. Surely this was worth all the tribulations of Kralizec!

  The independent robot turned to Duncan Idaho, who—after listening to the betrayals upon betrayals—had the faraway look of a man trying to join mismatched puzzle pieces. Erasmus knew that Duncan hadn’t the faintest idea of how to achieve his full potential. Just like so many other humans! The robot would have to guide this one.

  Ignoring Khrone, he spoke to Duncan. “I am laughing because the inherent differences between humans and Face Dancers are painfully hilarious. I hold great fondness for your species—as more than specimens, more than pets. You have never ceased to astonish me. In defiance of my most careful predictions, you still manage to do the unexpected! Even when those actions work to the detriment of thinking machines, I can appreciate them for their uniqueness.”

  Khrone and his contingent of Face Dancers closed in, as if expecting to mop up these few robots and humans easily. “Your words and laughter are meaningless.”

  Jessica supported a still-weak Paul, while Chani picked up the bloodied dagger that Paolo and Dr. Yueh had both used. Now that she had her past memories, Chani held the weapon in the manner of a true Fremen woman, ready to defend her man.

  Erasmus smiled to himself. His own confrontation with Duncan had shown only the tip of the iceberg of the Kwisatz Haderach’s powers. The robot had found it terribly exciting for a few moments, placing himself at the brink of death, or at least its equivalent for a machine.

  The Face Dancers would be in for quite a surprise if they thought Duncan Idaho and these other humans would be an easy conquest. But Erasmus had an even greater surprise to spring.

  “What I mean, my dear Khrone, is that while humans can astonish me, Face Dancers are woefully predictable. It’s a shame. I had hoped for something more original in your case.”

  When Khrone scowled, every one of the Face Dancers in the chamber mimicked his expression, like reflections in a hall of mirrors. “We’ve already won, Erasmus. Face Dancers control every foothold, and you have no place to hide from us. We will rise up across the human
planets and on all machine worlds. We will look back upon the path of destruction, and only we will remain.”

  “Not if I choose to stop it.” Erasmus’s flowmetal face shifted into a placid, disappointed expression. “Omnius might have been convinced that you all were our meek puppets, but I never believed as much. Who can ever trust a Face Dancer? Among humans, that saying has become a cliché. You and your counterparts did exactly what I predicted you would do. How could you not? You are what you are. It was practically programmed into you.” The robot gave a sad shake of his head.

  “While you Face Dancers were laying down your schemes, sending out spies, and establishing your presence, I watched patiently. Though you thought you were hidden from Omnius, you weren’t clever enough. I saw everything you did and allowed it to happen because I found your petty power plays amusing.”

  Khrone adopted a fighting stance, as if ready to attack the robot with bare hands. “You know nothing of our activities!”

  “Now who is drawing conclusions from insufficient data? Ever since the end of the Butlerian Jihad, when Omnius and I were sent out here on our long exile to start the machine empire all over again, I was the one in control. I allowed Omnius to continue believing he ruled everything and made all the decisions, but even in his first incarnation he was a self-aggrandizing annoyance, overconfident and unconscionably stubborn. More so than most humans!” The robot swirled his plush robes. “The evermind never learned to adapt and never bothered to face his mistakes, so I refused to let him ruin our chances again. Thus, I took control of the Face Dancer program from the moment the first of you arrived on our fringe planets.”

  Khrone remained defiant, though his voice carried a slightly uncertain undertone. “Yes, you manufactured us—and made us stronger than ever.”

  “I manufactured you, and I wisely planted a fail-safe routine in each and every Face Dancer. You are biological machines, evolved and manipulated over thousands of years, according to my own exacting specifications.” Erasmus moved closer. “A tool should never confuse itself with the hand that wields it.”