He was, however, astonished and infuriated. Omnius had proven his willingness to inflict severe damage on the most powerful and talented Titan of all. Omnius’s strong urge to avoid losing seemed capable of overriding his programming restrictions. Or had the evermind known about the ruse all along? Agamemnon launched his vindictive response.
Even as he spun backward on his walker pads, roaring away as fast as possible, he ejected the now-cracked sphere that contained the false brain. He launched it into the body core of the goliath robot.
In his specially constructed body, Agamemnon then ducked down, raising his armored limbs and lowering his shielded brain canister between the rows of thick walker pads to protect himself, like a turtle withdrawing into a shell.
The brain sphere struck the damaged gladiator and detonated. The simulated brain had been sculpted from high-energy solid foam. Flames roared past Agamemnon, charring the ground. The resulting explosion bowled over the goliath robot, decapitating it, ripping open its torso. The shockwave was sufficient to knock down part of the nearest coliseum wall.
Agamemnon had survived— and the Omnius gladiator had fallen.
“Excellent, General!” The computer voice echoed from loudspeakers in the intact portion of the arena, sounding genuinely pleased. “A most refreshing and enjoyable maneuver.”
Agamemnon still wondered if Omnius had been aware that the visible brain was false. Or perhaps the evermind had found a way to circumvent the protective restrictions Barbarossa had installed so many years ago. Now he would never be sure if the evermind was indeed willing to let him die in combat. Maybe Omnius had to keep the ambitious Titans from feeling too triumphant or overvalued, especially Agamemnon.
Only Omnius knew for certain, one way or the other.
Amid the smoke and flames rising from the ruin of the goliath machine, Agamemnon raised his gladiator-form, the uncontested victor. “I have defeated you, Omnius. I wish to claim my reward.”
“Naturally, General,” he answered, sounding good-natured. “You need not even speak your wish. Yes, I shall allow you and your cymeks to lead further strikes against the hrethgir. Go forth and enjoy yourselves.”
Survivors learn to adapt.
— ZUFA CENVA,
lecture to Sorceresses
In the pristine, contoured cabin of the Dream Voyager, Vorian Atreides and Seurat cruised between star systems again, picking up and delivering Omnius updates to maintain congruence in the distributed evermind across all the Synchronized Worlds. They exchanged updates with other copies of the evermind, synchronizing the Omnius incarnations, and departing with new data to be shared among the widespread networks. Vor loved being a trustee.
Days in space passed, each like the others. The oddly matched pair performed their jobs efficiently. Seurat and the small cadre of maintenance drones assured sterile cleanliness and optimal efficiency in the cabins, while Vor occasionally left food or drink stains, leaving a few items half-finished or in disarray.
As he often did, Vor stood at an interactive console in the cramped rear compartment, rummaging in the ship’s database to obtain more information about their destinations. He had been taught the benefits of bettering himself in his training among the other privileged humans on Earth. His father’s example— rising from an unknown man to become the greatest of the Titans, conqueror of the Old Empire— showed him how much even a mere human could accomplish.
He was surprised to see that the Dream Voyager‘s normal route had changed. “Seurat! Why didn’t you tell me we’ve added a new planet? I’ve never heard of this . . . Giedi Prime in the Ophiuchi B system. Previously it was listed as a solid League World.”
“Omnius programmed that destination into our course before we departed from Earth. He expected that your father would have conquered it by the time we arrive. Omnius is confident in Agamemnon’s ability to make good after their failure on Salusa Secundus.”
Vor felt pride that his father would tame yet another unruly world for the thinking machines. “No doubt all will have gone well by the time we arrive, and our forces will be mopping up.”
“We will see when we get there,” Seurat said. “It is still months away.”
• • •
ON MANY OCCASIONS they engaged in traditional human competitions from the extensive databases, such as poker or backgammon; other times Vorian would make up a new game, declare a set of absurd rules, and then proceed to defeat Seurat, until the autonomous robot learned to manipulate the rules for himself.
The two were evenly matched, but with drastically different skill sets. While Seurat was talented at intricate strategy and could calculate many moves ahead, Vor often pulled off baffling innovative twists to win. Seurat had trouble comprehending the human’s erratic behavior. “I can follow the consequences in a logical progression from an individual event, but I cannot understand how you manage to turn impulsive and illogical behavior into an effective strategy. There is no causal connection.”
Vor smiled at him. “I’d hate to see you calculate an ‘irrational’ response, old Metalmind. Leave it to the experts, like me.”
The son of Agamemnon was also quite proficient at military tactics and strategies, a skill he had developed by studying the great battles of ancient human history, as summarized in his father’s extensive memoirs. The cymek general made no secret that he hoped his son would become an accomplished military genius one day.
Whenever Seurat fell behind in a particular contest, he continued his irritating habit of distracting Vor with jokes, trivia, or anecdotes— tailoring them to interest the brash young man. During all the time the machine captain had known his human copilot, Seurat had accumulated and assessed information, preparing it for future use. The robot captain had become adept at raising topics that engrossed Vor and sent his thoughts spinning.
Seurat chattered incessantly about the legendary life of Agamemnon, adding details Vor had never read in the memoirs: great battles the Titans had won, planets they had added to the Synchronized Worlds, and the warrior-forms Agamemnon had designed for private gladiatorial contests. Once, the robot captain concocted an absurd tale about how the great general had literally lost his mind. The cymek’s protected brain canister had accidentally detached from its walker-form and gone tumbling down a hill, while the mechanical body, on automatic programming, had to scamper about and find it.
However, Vorian had recently uncovered information more unsettling than anything the robot could ever reveal. Between games and challenges, he often skimmed the open databases, reading his favorite parts of his father’s memoirs, trying to make sense of the reams of Omnius’s minutiae. On one of those excursions Vor discovered that over the years, Agamemnon had sired twelve other sons. Vorian had never assumed he was the only one— but a dozen unknown brothers! The great Titan general would naturally have wanted to create descendants worthy of his legacy.
Worse, he discovered that each of those dozen sons had proved to be a failure. Agamemnon did not suffer disappointments gladly, and had killed his unacceptable offspring, though they had been privileged trustees just like Vor. The last had been executed nearly a century ago. Now Vor was his father’s best hope, but not necessarily the only choice. Agamemnon must still have more sperm in storage . . . and thus Vor was just as expendable as the others.
After learning that, Vor became immune to Seurat’s attempts at distraction.
Now Vor sat at the table, staring at a projected game board and considering his next move. He knew Seurat could not determine what was going on inside the unpredictable human mind. Even with all his independent sophistication, the robot accumulated only external data and did not recognize subtleties.
The trustee smiled, just a little, which Seurat did not fail to notice. “You are playing a little trick on me? Exercising some secret human power?”
Vor continued to smile and stare at the board. It was a multigame competition, revolving inside a three-dimensional screen embedded in the tabletop. Each player attempt
ed to choose a contest or situation that benefited him from a wide selection of games, and then make a move. The score was tied, and the next point would win the contest.
The various games came up at random, and each time Vor had only a few seconds to make his move. He watched the shifting graphics as they locked into place momentarily before moving on. The ancient Terran game of Go appeared on the palette of selections; nothing there to benefit him. More options flowed by. A machine-biased game appeared next, one that required more memory than Vor had. He let it pass. Two other games appeared that he didn’t like, followed by a poker hand.
Relying on luck and bluster, Vor faced off against the robot captain, who could not understand the strategy of bluffing or the “skill” of random odds. Vor’s expression was unreadable, and he laughed at the confusion he saw on Seurat’s mirrored face.
“You lost,” Vor said. “And you lost, badly.” He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling smug after the robot finally folded his hand. “It’s not just the score, but the way you tried to win.”
Seurat responded that he did not wish to play more games, and Vor laughed at him. “You’re sulking, old Metalmind!”
“I am reassessing my tactics.”
Vor reached across the table and pounded his opponent’s slick shoulder, as if to comfort him. “Why don’t you stay here and practice, while I run the ship? Giedi Prime is still a long journey from here.”
Regrets, there are many, and I have my share.
— SERENA BUTLER,
runpublished memoirs
The cloud-gray blockade runner was not only fast and difficult to see against the murky skies of Giedi Prime, it contained the most sophisticated stealth profile of any craft in the League arsenal. Serena hoped Ort Wibsen’s crack abilities would be enough to get her team through to the isolated island in the northern sea, where they could begin their work.
Pinquer Jibb had provided the blueprints, plans, and access codes for the secondary shield-transmitting towers, if any of the systems remained intact. But even with the excellent military advisors and engineers, no part of this was going to be obvious or easy.
After the long journey from Salusa, they now flew silently through the darkened sky, studying the land mass below. Unnecessary parts of the power grid had been shut down, cities plunged into barbarous blackness. Machines, after all, could simply adjust their optic sensors to see in the dark.
Serena didn’t know how many trained Home Guard members had survived. She hoped some had gone underground after the thinking-machine takeover, as the desperate courier Jibb had promised. Once her commandos restored the scrambler shields, the Home Guard survivors would be crucial in retaking the planet. She was counting on Xavier to bring Armada ships into the fray, no matter what strings he had to pull.
Serena sat in the blockade runner’s passenger compartment, anxious to begin. By now, back on Salusa, her father would know she had gone, and she hoped Xavier would already have launched his strike force for Giedi Prime. If he didn’t come, then their mission was doomed, and so were she and her team.
Xavier would be upset and worried about her, angry at the foolish risk she had taken. But if she achieved results, all the effort would be justified.
Nothing remained but the task itself.
Hunched forward in the cockpit, old Wibsen scanned the northern regions to pinpoint the uncompleted transmitter station. Serena had gleaned only a general location from Xavier’s report, but she knew the conquering machines wouldn’t have bothered with an isolated arctic island while subjugating Giedi Prime’s population. So long as they didn’t call attention to themselves, perhaps Brigit Paterson’s engineers could complete their work without interference.
The hardened veteran studied an instrument console, scratching his rough cheek. After his forced retirement, Wibsen had never maintained a crisp, spit-and-polish military appearance; now, at the conclusion of their journey across space, he looked more rumpled than ever. But Serena had not enlisted him for his wardrobe or his personal hygiene habits.
He watched streaks of light and blips on a scanner screen. “There it is. Must be the right island.” With a satisfied grunt, he began touching buttonpads like a musician playing a keyboard to reveal a weaving but safe course through the machines’electronic sensor net. “The stealth film on our hull should let us slip right through their surveillance. Sixty, seventy percent chance, I’d say.”
Serena accepted the grim reality. “That’s better odds than the people of Giedi Prime have.”
“At the moment,” Wibsen said.
Brigit Paterson stepped into the cockpit, not losing her balance as the deck shook in buffeting winds. “Most of the Armada wouldn’t even take the chance. They’d probably write off Giedi Prime until they had a perfect, risk-free opportunity.”
“We’ll just have to show them how it’s done,” Wibsen said. Serena wished Xavier could be here so they could make decisions together.
The camouflaged blockade runner sliced through the murky atmosphere at an efficient angle and approached the cold, leaden sea. “Time to duck out of sight,” the veteran said. “Hang on.”
The smooth ship plunged beneath the deep water like a hot iron. The gush of steam was followed by hardly a ripple. Then, concealed by the ocean, the craft glided north toward the coordinates of the rocky island where a nervous Magnus Sumi had built his backup shield transmitters.
“I’d say we’re sufficiently out of sensor range,” Serena said. “We can breathe easy for a while.”
Wibsen cocked an eyebrow. “I hadn’t even started to sweat yet.”
As if to disprove his remark, he fought to control a sudden coughing spasm while he maneuvered the converted blockade runner through the dim underwater currents. The old man cursed his health, cursed the implanted medical injector in his chest.
“Commander, don’t jeopardize this mission because of your stubborn pride,” Serena scolded.
The ship pitched to one side and creaked. Behind a bulkhead something fizzed. “Damn water turbulence!” Red-faced, Wibsen kept the blockade runner under control, then turned back to glare at Serena. “Right now I’m just the chauffeur. I can relax as soon as I drop you off.”
The vessel cruised beneath the surface for an hour, deep enough to avoid any floating chunks of ice from the polar regions, and finally guided them toward a sheltered bay. On the cockpit screens, the approaching island looked stark and rocky, all black cliffs and ice. “Doesn’t look like much of a resort to me,” Wibsen said.
Brigit Paterson said, “Magnus Sumi didn’t choose the site for its beauty. From here, a polar projection is simple and efficient. Coverage from these transmitters is good for all the inhabited land masses.”
Wibsen brought the blockade runner to the surface. “I still think it’s an ugly place.” As he guided them into the deep harbor embraced by a crescent of cliffs, he began to cough again, louder and worse than before. “Damned ridiculous timing.” He looked more annoyed than distressed. “We’re on auto-guide, still on course. Get Jibb over here to fly for a while. This is his home territory after all.”
Curly-haired Pinquer Jibb looked at the approaching island complex, seemingly disappointed that the Home Guard refugees hadn’t already completed the work. He took the controls from the veteran and brought the blockade runner to the island’s abandoned quays and loading docks. After they had clamped into place, he opened the hatches.
Purplish dawn spread like a bruise across the northern sky. Breathing the fresh but biting air, Serena stood in warm clothes with her team members. The rocky island looked forbidding and seemed completely deserted.
More heartwarming, though, was the set of silvery towers with parabolic sides and metal-lattice grids. Ice and frost rimed the structures, but they appeared untouched by the thinking-machine invaders.
“Once we switch those on, the robots won’t know what hit’em,” Wibsen said, hauling himself out into the open, looking somewhat recovered. He blew a lungful of white st
eam onto his hands.
Serena kept looking at the towers, a sweeping expression of hope and determination on her face. Brigit Paterson nodded, all business. “Even so, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
In times of war, every person claims to contribute to the effort. Some give lip service, some provide funds, but few are willing to sacrifice everything. This, I believe, is why we have been unable to defeat the thinking machines.
— ZUFA CENVA,
The Rossak Weapon
Staring at fourteen of the strongest and most dedicated young Sorceresses Rossak had ever produced, Zufa Cenva understood that these women were not the sole hope for humanity. They were not the only weapon against the terrible cymeks, not the most powerful blow the League could strike. But they were critical to the war effort.
Zufa stood in the fleshy underbrush with her trainees and looked at them with compassion and love. No one in all the League Worlds was more confident of success or devoted to victory. Her heart seemed ready to burst as she saw them focusing every scrap of energy toward the ultimate goal. If only everyone else could be as intent, the thinking machines would be defeated in short order.
As she had done for months now, Zufa led her elite group into the jungle where they could practice their skills and summon the power within their spirits. Each of these women was the equivalent of a psychic warhead. Zufa, blessed from birth with more talents than any of them, had been sharing her methods, pushing the others to their limits. She had patiently taught them how to unleash incredible telepathic abilities . . .and how to exercise control. The women had performed admirably, beyond Zufa’s most optimistic forecasts.
But they must make their effort stand for something.
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 18