Dune: The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Dhartha wanted to argue with the exuberant youth, but when he saw that no one— except for his own son— looked eager to join Ebrahim, he nodded. “If successful, you’ll get an extra share.” Even if the falling object was completely ruined, the nomads could work the pure metal for their own purposes.

  The brash young man stopped halfway down the loose slope, looking suspiciously at the device, which continued to vibrate and thump. Flexible components extruded arms and legs, while strange lenses and mirrors rotated at the ends of flexible carbon fiber tentacles. The probe seemed to be assessing its surroundings, as if it didn’t comprehend where it had landed.

  The machine paid no attention to the surreptitious humans, until Ebrahim dug a stone from the slumping side of the crater. He called out “Ai! Ai!” then hurled the rock. It struck the composite material of the probe’s side with an echoing clunk.

  The mechanical lander froze, then turned its lenses and scanners toward the human standing all alone. Ebrahim hunched on bent knees in the yielding sand.

  Blinding hot light erupted from one of the lenses. A gout of coherent fire engulfed Ebrahim and blew him backward in a crackling cloud of incinerated flesh and bones. A wad of smoldering garments struck the top of the crater, along with charred pieces of his hands and feet.

  Mahmad screamed for his friend, and Dhartha immediately yelled for the men to retreat. They stumbled back down the outside of the crater and fled through the soft gully between dunes. Half a kilometer away, safe, they climbed to a sandy crest high enough that they could look back toward the pit. The men prayed and made superstitious gestures, and Dhartha raised his clenched right fist. Foolish Ebrahim had drawn the attention of the mechanical thing and had paid with his life.

  From a distance, the would-be scavengers watched. The crashed probe paid them no further heed. Instead, with thumping and clattering, the machine seemed to be assembling itself, building structures around its core. Scooping hands drew sand into a resource-production hopper in its belly and extruded glasslike rods that it used for structural supports. The machine added new components, building itself larger, and finally began digging its way out of the pit. It pounded and hammered, making a great deal of racket.

  Dhartha remained perplexed. Though he was a leader, he had no idea what to do. Such a thing was beyond his ken. Perhaps someone at the spaceport would know, but he hated to rely on outworlders. Besides, this thing might be valuable, and he didn’t want to surrender his salvage.

  “Father, look.” Mahmad gestured toward the wasteland of sand. “See, that machine demon will pay for killing my friend.”

  Dhartha saw the telltale ripple, the stirring of a behemoth beneath the sands. The crashed probe continued its pounding, rhythmic motion with a clattering of components, oblivious to its surroundings. The assembled mechanism raised itself, a monstrous composite of crystalline materials and silica struts reinforced by carbon-fiber beams converted from its own hull and support girders.

  The sandworm came in fast, tunneling just beneath the surface until its head rose up. The mouth was a huge shovel larger than the impact crater.

  The robotic probe waved its sensor arms and weapons lenses, sensing it was being attacked, but not understanding how. Several white-hot blasts of fire penetrated the loose ground.

  The worm swallowed the mechanical demon whole. Then the sinuous desert creature burrowed beneath the dust again like a sea serpent seeking deeper waters. . . .

  Naib Dhartha and his men remained petrified on the dunes. If they turned and ran now, their vibrations would call the sandworm back for another meal.

  Soon enough, they saw the worm trail heading outward, returning to the deep desert. The crater was gone, along with all evidence of the mechanical construction. Not even a scrap of foolish Ebrahim’s body remained.

  Shaking his head with its long black ponytail, Dhartha turned to his shocked companions. “This will make a legendary story, a magnificent ballad to be sung in our caves in the dark of night. . . .” He drew a deepbreath and turned around. “Though I doubt anyone will ever believe us.”

  The future? I hate it because I will not be there.

  — JUNO,

  Lives of the Titans

  After the unexpected encounter with the League Armada at Giedi Prime, the battered Dream Voyager took an extra month to limp back to Earth for repairs. Because of the slow pace caused by the damage, Seurat had immediately dispatched his emergency buoy, relaying to Omnius the dire news of the fall of the newest Synchronized World and the loss of the Titan Barbarossa. By now the evermind must know what had happened.

  The robot captain did his best to repair or bypass the ship’s damaged systems and seal off sections to protect his fragile human copilot. General Agamemnon would not be pleased if his biological son were injured. Besides, Seurat had developed a certain fondness for Vorian Atreides. . . .

  Vor insisted on donning an environment suit and crawling outside the update ship to inspect the hull. Seurat tethered him with two lines, while three inspector drones accompanied him. When the young man saw the blackened wound where the rebellious humans had fired upon them, he once again felt a sense of shame. Intent only on delivering the vital Omnius updates, Seurat had committed no aggressive act against these hrethgir, yet they had attacked him. Wild humans were without honor.

  Agamemnon and his friend Barbarossa had brought the unruly populace of Giedi Prime into the sweeping embrace of Omnius, yet the hrethgir had spurned the greater civilization of the Synchronized Worlds, making a martyr of Barbarossa in the process. His father would be deeply disturbed at the loss of such a close friend, one of the last remaining Titans.

  Vor himself could have been killed, his soft and breakable human form destroyed without ever having the chance to become a neo-cymek. A single blow from the Armada could have erased all of Vor’s potential, all of his future work. He could not update himself or back up his memories and experiences, as a machine could. He’d be lost, just like the Giedi Prime– Omnius. Just like the other twelve sons of Agamemnon. The thought sickened him, and he shuddered.

  On their return journey, Seurat tried to cheer Vor with ridiculous jokes, as if nothing had happened. The robot commended his companion for quick thinking and tactical innovation in outwitting the hrethgir officer. Vor’s deceit in pretending to be a rebellious human who had captured a thinking-machine vessel— what an outré scenario!— had given them a few moments of valuable time, and his decoy projections had allowed them to escape. Perhaps it would even be taught to others in the trustee schools on Earth.

  Vor, however, cared most about what his father might say. The approval of the great Agamemnon would make everything all right.

  • • •

  WHEN THE DREAM VOYAGER landed at Earth’s central spaceport, Vorian hurried down the ramp, eyes alert, face eager— then crestfallen when he saw no sign of the Titan general.

  Vor swallowed hard. Unless vital matters intervened, his father always came to greet him. These were rare moments they had together, when they could exchange ideas, talk about plans and dreams. Vor comforted himself with the thought that Agamemnon probably had important business for Omnius.

  Robotic maintenance crews and repair machinery trundled forward to inspect the damaged ship. One of the multicomponent machines paused in its assessment, broke away, and hummed toward him. “Vorian Atreides, Agamemnon has commanded you to meet him in the conditioning facility. Report there immediately.”

  The young human brightened. Letting the robot return to its work, he walked off briskly. When he could contain himself no longer, he began to run. . . .

  Though he attempted to exercise during the long voyages with Seurat, Vor’s biological muscles were weaker than a machine’s, and he tired quickly. Another reminder of his mortality, his fragility, and the inferiority of natural biology. It only increased his desire to wear a powerful neo-cymek body someday and discard this imperfect human form.

  His lungs burning, Vor rushed into the gleaming
chrome-and-plaz chamber where his father’s brain canister was regularly polished and recharged with electrafluid. As soon as the young man entered the cold, well-lit room, two robot guards folded in behind him, ominously blocking egress. In the center of the chamber stood a mechanical, human-shaped colossus that Agamemnon now wore. The behemoth took two steps forward, stabilizer-feet hammering against the hard floor. He dwarfed his son, towering three times Vorian’s height.

  “I have been waiting for you, my son. Everything is prepared. What caused your delay?”

  Intimidated, Vor looked up at the preservation canister. “I hurried here, Father. My ship landed only an hour ago.”

  “I understand the Dream Voyager was damaged at Giedi Prime, attacked by the human rebels that murdered Barbarossa and recaptured the world.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vor knew better than to waste the Titan’s time with unnecessary details. The general would already have received a full report. “I will answer any questions you might have, Father.”

  “I have no questions, only commands.” Instead of instructing his son to begin the process of grooming and polishing his components, Agamemnon raised a gauntleted hand, clutched Vorian by the chest, and pushed him forcefully against an upright table.

  Vor was slammed against the smooth surface and felt a burst of pain. His father was so powerful that he could accidentally break bones, sever the spine. “What is it, Father? What—”

  Holding him immobile, Agamemnon clamped on wrist bindings, a waist restraint, and ankle cuffs. Helpless now, Vor twisted his head to look at what his father was doing and saw that complex devices had been brought into the chamber. With trepidation he noted hollow cylinders filled with bluish fluids, neuromechanical pumps, and chittering machines that waved questing sensor tips in the air.

  “Please, Father.” Vor’s deepest fears careened through his mind, ricocheting off the pain, each impact increasing his doubts and terrors. “What have I done wrong?”

  Showing no readable expression on his head turret, Agamemnon extended an array of long needles toward his son’s squirming body. The steel points penetrated his chest, poking between his ribs, seeking out and finding his lungs, his heart. Two silver shafts pierced his throat. Blood oozed out everywhere. Vor’s neck sinews bulged as he clenched his jaw and curled back his lips, biting back a scream.

  But the scream broke through anyway.

  The cymek manipulated the machinery connected to Vorian’s body, increasing the pain beyond all imaginable levels. Convinced that he had failed somehow, Vor assumed it was his time to die— like the twelve unknown brothers who had preceded him. Now, it seemed, Vorian had not lived up to Agamemnon’s expectations.

  Agony swelled higher, with no crest in sight. His scream became a prolonged wail, as acid-colored fluids were pumped into his body. Soon even his vocal cords gave out, and his shriek continued only in his mind . . . yet it continued nevertheless. He could endure no more. He could not imagine the grievous injury his stretched and torn body must already have endured.

  When finally the torture concluded and Vor came back to himself, he didn’t know how long he had been unconscious— perhaps even lost in the cloak of death. His body felt as if it had been crushed into a ball and then stretched back into the form of a man.

  The colossus shape of Agamemnon loomed over him, a galaxy of optic threads glittering on his body. Even though the remnants of excruciating pain echoed inside his skull, Vor resisted crying out. His father had kept him alive after all, for his own reasons. He stared into the Titan’s implacable metal face and could only hope that his father had not revived him just to inflict more agony.

  What have I done wrong?

  Yet the ancient cymek did not have murder on his mind. Instead he said, “I am exceedingly pleased with your actions aboard the Dream Voyager, Vorian. I have analyzed Seurat’s report and determined that your tactical prowess in escaping from the League Armada was innovative and unexpected.”

  Vorian couldn’t understand the context of his father’s words. They seemed unrelated to the tortures the general had inflicted on him.

  “No thinking machine would have considered such a deceitful trick. I doubt even another trustee would have been so quick to think of the ruse. In fact, Omnius’s summation concludes that any other action would likely have resulted in the capture or destruction of the Dream Voyager. Seurat would never have been capable of surviving by himself. You not only saved the ship, you saved the Omnius update spheres and returned them intact.” Agamemnon paused, then reiterated. “Yes, I am exceedingly pleased, my son. You have the potential of becoming a great cymek someday.”

  Vor’s raw throat convulsed as he tried to force out words. The needle-studded cradle had been yanked away, and now Agamemnon released the body restraints that held him against the hard surface. Vorian’s watery muscles could not support him, and he drooped like a rag, sliding down until he pooled on his knees on the floor. Finally he choked, “Then why was I tortured? Why have you punished me?”

  Agamemnon simulated a laugh. “When I choose to punish you, son, you will know. That was a reward. Omnius allowed me to grant you this rare gift. In fact, no other human in all the Synchronized Worlds has been so honored.”

  “But how, Father? Please explain it to me. My mind is still throbbing.” His voice hitched.

  “What are a few moments of pain, in comparison with the gift you have received?” The colossus paced back and forth across the sparkling maintenance room, shaking the floor and the walls. “Unfortunately, I was unable to convince Omnius to convert you into a neo-cymek— you are too young— but I am sure the time will come. I wanted you to serve at my side— more than a trustee, but as my true successor.” His sparkling optic threads glowed brighter. “Instead, I have done the next best thing for you.”

  The cymek general explained that he had given Vorian a rigorous biotech treatment, a cellular replacement system that would dramatically extend his life as a human. “Geriatric specialists developed the technique in the Old Empire . . . though to what purpose I cannot fathom. Those oafs did nothing productive during their normal lifespans, so why should they want to live for centuries longer and accomplish even less? Through new proteins, rejection of free radicals, more efficient cellular repair mechanisms, they prolonged their pointless existences. Most of them were murdered in the rebellions when we Titans cemented our control.”

  Agamemnon swiveled at his torso joint. “While we still wore human bodies at the beginning of our rule, all twenty Titans underwent the biotech life extension, just like you, so I am quite familiar with the level of pain you endured. We needed to live for centuries, because we required that much time to reassert vision and competent leadership upon the waning Old Empire. Even after we converted ourselves into cymeks, the process helped prevent our ancient biological brains from degenerating because of our extreme age.”

  His mechanical body strode closer. “This life-extension process is our little secret, Vorian. The League of Nobles would tear themselves into a frenzy if they knew we had such technology.” Agamemnon made a wistful sound, almost a sigh. “But beware, my son: Even such enhancements cannot protect you against accidents or outright assassination attempts. As, unfortunately, Barbarossa recently discovered.”

  Vor finally struggled shakily to his feet. He located a water dispenser, gulped a beaker of cool liquid, and felt his heartbeat slowing.

  “Astonishing events await you, my son. Your life is no longer a candle in the wind. You have time to experience many things, important things.”

  The hulking cymek stalked over to a harness and used an intricate network of artificial hands and clamps extruded from the metal wall to link to the thoughtrodes of his brain canister. Flexible lifting arms raised the cylinder out of the colossus body core and shuttled it over to one of the chrome pedestals.

  “Now you are one step closer to your potential, Vorian,” Agamemnon said through a wall speaker, detached from the mobile body.

  Though we
ak and still in pain, Vor knew what his father expected of him now. He hurried to the conditioning devices and with trembling hands attached power cables to the magsockets of the translucent brain chamber. The bluish electrafluid seemed full of mental energy.

  Trying to restore a sense of normalcy amid the clamoring disbelief at what had just happened to him, Vor went through his habitual grooming duties, tending his father’s mechanical systems. Lovingly, the young man gazed at the wrinkled mass of brain, the ancient mind so full of profound ideas and difficult decisions, as expressed in the general’s extensive memoirs. Each time he read them, Vor hoped to understand his complex father better.

  He wondered if Agamemnon had kept him in the dark to play a cruel joke on him, or to challenge his resolve. Vor would always accept whatever the cymek general commanded, would never try to flee. Now that the agony was over, he hoped he had passed whatever test his father had administered.

  As Vor continued the patient grooming of the preservation tank, Agamemnon spoke softly, a susurration. “You are very quiet, my son. What do you think about the great gift you have received?”

  The young man paused a moment, not certain how to respond. Agamemnon was often impulsive and difficult to understand, but he rarely acted without a larger purpose in mind. Vor could only hope to comprehend the overall picture someday, the grand tapestry.

  “Thank you, Father,” he finally said, “for giving me more time to accomplish everything you want me to do.”

  Why do humans spend so much time worrying about what they call “moral issues”? It is one of the many mysteries of their behavior.

  — ERASMUS,

  Reflections on Sentient Biologicals

  The identical twin girls looked peaceful and asleep, side by side, like little angels in a cozy bed. The snakelike brain scanners inserted through holes drilled into their skulls were almost unnoticeable.