She forced herself not to pull away. Resistance must count for something more than a captive’s pride, her mother had once told her. If Serena struggled, Erasmus could hold her with his powerful robotic grasp, or summon mechanized torturing devices. “My skin is no more lovely than yours,” she said, “except mine is not synthetic. My skin was designed by nature, not by the mind of a machine.”
The robot chuckled, a tinny cachination. “You see, I expect to learn much from you.” He led her into his lush greenhouses, which she observed with reluctant delight.
At the age of ten she had become fascinated with gardening, and had delivered plants, herbs, and sweet exotic fruits to medical centers, refugee complexes, and veteran homes, where she also volunteered her services. Around Zimia, Serena had been renowned for her ability to cultivate beautiful flowers. Under her loving attention, exquisite little Immian roses bloomed, as did Poritrin hibiscus and even the delicate morning violets of distant Kaitain.
“I will have you tend my prized plaza gardens,” Erasmus said.
“Why can’t machines perform such tasks? I’m sure they’d be much more efficient— or do you just revel in making your ‘creators’ do the work?”
“Do you not feel up to the task?”
“I will do as you command— for the sake of the plants.” Pointedly ignoring him, she touched a strangely shaped red and orange flower. “This looks like a bird of paradise, a pure strain from an ancient stock. According to legend, these plants were favored by the sea kings of Old Earth.” With a look of defiance, Serena turned back to the robot. “There, now I have taught you something.”
Erasmus chuckled again, as if replaying a recording. “Excellent. Now tell me what you were truly thinking.”
She remembered words her father had spoken—Fear invites aggression; do not show it to a predator— and felt emboldened. “While I was telling you about a beautiful flower, I was thinking that I despise you and all of your kind. I was a free and independent being, until you took it all away from me. Machines stole my home, my life, and the man I love.”
The sentient robot was not at all offended. “Ah, your lover! Is he the one who impregnated you?”
Serena glared at Erasmus, then made up her mind. Perhaps she could find a way to use this machine’s curiosity, turning it against him somehow. “You will learn the most from me if I cooperate, if I talk freely. I can teach you things you would never learn for yourself.”
“Excellent.” The robot seemed genuinely pleased.
Serena’s eyes grew hard. “But I expect something from you in return. Guarantee the safety of my unborn baby. Allow me to raise the child here in your household.”
Erasmus knew it was a standard parental imperative for her to be worried about her offspring, and that gave him leverage. “You have either arrogance or ambition. But I shall consider your request, depending on how much I enjoy our discussions and debates.”
Spotting a fat beetle at the base of a terra cotta planter, Erasmus nudged it with one foot. The insect had a black shell with an intricate red design. His smooth face mask shifted, flowed, until the shaping film displayed an amused expression. Erasmus let the beetle nearly escape, then moved his smooth foot to block it again. Persistent, it scuttled in another direction.
“You and I have a great deal in common, Serena Butler,” he said. Remotely, he activated a contraband Chusuk music cube, hoping the melody would draw out her internal emotions. “Each of us has an independent mind. I respect that in you, because it is such an integral part of my own personality.”
Serena resented any such comparison, but held her tongue.
Erasmus scooped the beetle onto one hand, but his primary interest dwelled on Serena— he was intrigued at how humans tried to keep so much of themselves veiled. Perhaps, by applying various pressures, he could see through to her inner core.
With the music playing in the background, Erasmus continued, “Some robots keep their own personalities rather than simply uploading a portion of the evermind. I began as a thinking machine on Corrin, but I chose not to accept regular Omnius updates that would synchronize me with the evermind.”
Serena saw that the beetle was immobile on his metallic palm. She wondered if he had killed it.
“But a singular event changed me forever,” Erasmus said, his voice pleasant, as if telling a story about a quaint forest outing. “I had set out across Corrin’s unsettled territories on a private scouting mission. Because I was inquisitive and did not wish to accept the standard analyses compiled by Omnius, I ventured into the landscape on my own. It was rugged, rocky, and wild. I had never seen vegetation except for in the areas where Old Empire terraformers had planted new ecosystems. Corrin was never a living world, you see, except where humans had made it so. Unfortunately, tending fertile fields and beautifying the land was no longer a priority of my kind.” He looked at Serena to see if she was enjoying his story.
“Unexpectedly, far from the city grid and robot support systems, I was unprotected from a severe solar storm. Corrin’s red-giant sun is in turmoil and unstable, with frequent flare activity, sudden hurricanes of radiation. Such an onslaught is hazardous to biological life-forms, but the original human settlers were resilient.
“My delicate neurelectric circuitry, however, was rather more sensitive. I should have dispatched scout scanners to keep watch on the star-storms, but I was too engrossed in my own investigations. I found myself exposed and damaged from the radiation flux, disoriented and far from the central complex run by the Corrin-Omnius.” Erasmus actually sounded embarrassed. “I wandered away and I . . . tumbled into a narrow crevasse.”
Serena looked at him in surprise.
“Despite dropping deep into the crack, my body was only slightly damaged.” He lifted an arm, looked at his flexible fiber-wrapped limb, the organic-polymer skin, the flowmetal coating. “I was trapped, out of transmission range, and basically immobilized. I could not move for an entire Corrin year . . . twenty Terran standard years.
“The crevasse’s deep shadow shielded me from solar radiation, and soon enough, my mental processors recovered. I was awake, but I could go nowhere. I could not move . . . only think, for a long, long time. I spent a seemingly endless blazing summer there, wedged in the rocks, and then I endured the ensuing long winter locked in heavy, compacted ice. During all that time, two decades, I had nothing to do but contemplate.”
“No one to talk to but yourself,” she said. “Poor, lonely robot.”
Ignoring the remark, Erasmus said, “Such an ordeal altered my fundamental nature in ways I could never have foreseen. In fact, Omnius still does not understand me.”
By the time he’d finally been discovered and rescued by other robots, Erasmus had developed an individual personality. After his restoration and reintegration into the cooperative machine society, Omnius had asked Erasmus if he wished to be upgraded with standardized character traits.
“Upgraded, he called it,” Erasmus said with some amusement. “But I declined the offer. After reaching such . . . enlightenment, I was reluctant to delete my impulses and ideas, my thoughts and memories. It seemed too great a loss to bear. And the Corrin-Omnius soon discovered how much he enjoyed sparring with me verbally.”
Now, peering at the motionless beetle on his artificial hand, Erasmus said matter-of-factly, “I am a celebrity among the widespread everminds. They look forward to receiving updates containing my actions and assertions, like a serial publication. These are known as the ‘Erasmus Dialogues.’”
With a guarded look, she nodded toward the motionless insect. “And will you include a discussion of that beetle? How can you understand something you have killed?”
“It is not dead,” Erasmus assured her. “I detect a faint but unmistakable throb of life. The creature wants me to believe it is deceased, so that I will discard it. Despite its small size, it has a powerful will to survive.”
Kneeling, he set the beetle on a flagstone with a surprisingly gentle touch, then
stepped back. Moments later, the bug stirred and scampered to safety under the planter. “See? I wish to understand all living things— including you.”
Serena glowered. The robot had managed to surprise her.
“Omnius does not think I can ever attain his intellectual level,” Erasmus said. “But he remains intrigued by my mental agility— the way my mind continually evolves in new and impulsive directions. Like that beetle, I am capable of springing to life and persevering.”
“Do you really expect to become more than a machine?”
Taking no offense, Erasmus replied, “It is a human trait to better oneself, is it not? That is all I am trying to do.”
One direction is as good as another.
— saying of the Open Land
By the tenth time he rode a giant sandworm, Selim was proficient enough to enjoy the experience. No other thrill could compare to the power of a leviathan of the deep desert. He loved racing across the dunes while perched on the high ridges of a worm, crossing an ocean of sand in a single day.
Selim had brought water, rugged clothing, equipment, and food from the abandoned botanical testing station. His crystal sandworm tooth proved a valuable tool as well as a mark of personal pride. Inside the empty station, he had sometimes stared at the smooth milky curve of the blade under the dim light of recharge panels and imagined a religious significance to the object. It was a relic of his supreme test out here in this wasteland, and a symbol that Buddallah was watching over him. Perhaps the worms were part of his destiny.
He came to believe that the sandworms were not Shaitan after all, but blessings from Buddallah himself, perhaps even tangible manifestations of God.
After months of recuperation and boredom inside the old research facility, living without purpose, Selim had known he must go out and ride a sandworm again. He needed to learn exactly what it was that Buddallah expected of him.
He had carefully marked the location of the testing station. Unfortunately, since he couldn’t guide the sandworms, he knew it would be a challenge to make his way back to the secret place. Upon departing, he had carried everything necessary on his back.
He was Selim Wormrider, chosen and guided by Buddallah. He needed no help from others.
• • •
AFTER KILLING TWO more sandworms by riding them until they collapsed of exhaustion, Selim discovered that it was not necessary to slay a worm just so he could get safely away. It was possible, though risky, to dismount from a weary beast by running down the length of its back, leaping away from the hot tail, and then racing toward nearby rocks. The depleted worm, too tired to give chase, would wallow in deep dust, and sulk.
This satisfied Selim, because it seemed wrong to destroy the creatures that gave him transportation. If the sandworms were emissaries from Buddallah, and old men of the desert, then he must treat them with respect.
On his fourth ride, he discovered how to manipulate the sensitive edges of worm rings, using a shovel-bladed tool and the sharp metal spear to prod Shaitan in the direction Selim wished to go. It was a simple concept, but one that required a great deal of work. His muscles ached by the time he dropped away from a spent worm and ran to the shelter of nearby rocks. He remained lost out in the deep desert . . . but in a very real sense, the desert belonged to him now. He was invincible! Buddallah would care for him.
Selim still had an adequate supply of water from the distilling units in the testing station, and his diet consisted of large amounts of melange, which gave him strength and energy. As soon as he learned how to master the worms, he was able to travel wherever he chose, working his way back toward the abandoned station.
Other Zensunnis would have called him mad, appalled at his foolhardy attempt to tame the terrifying sandworms. But the young exile no longer cared a whit how people felt about him. He was in touch with another realm. He felt in his heart that this was what he had been born todo. . . .
Now under the double moonlight, Selim guided his worm as it hissed across the sands. Hours ago, the creature had ceased trying to throw him off, and instead plunged onward, resigned to the commands of the imp who kept inflicting pain in the sensitive flesh between ring segments. Selim navigated by the stars, drawing lines like arrows between constellations. The unforgiving landscape began to look familiar, and he believed he was at last close to the botanical testing station, his sanctuary. Back home.
All alone atop the sandworm, surrounded by the bitter aromas of brimstone and cinnamon, he allowed himself to think and dream. He’d had little else to do since his exile. Was that not how great philosophers were born?
Someday perhaps, he would use the abandoned facility as the seed of his own colony. Maybe he could gather disaffected people from other Zensunni villages, outcasts like himself who wanted to live without oppressive strictures enforced by inflexible naibs. By controlling the great worms, Selim’s people would have a strength that no outlaws had ever possessed.
Was that what Buddallah wanted him to do?
The young man smiled at his daydream, then grew sad as he recalled Ebrahim, who had so easily turned against him. As if that was not enough, he had then joined others in hurling insults and stones at Selim.
As his sandworm crashed over the dunes, the young rider finally saw the line of rocks ahead, familiar crags and dark formations. His heart leaped with joy. The behemoth had carried him home faster than anticipated. He grinned, then realized it would be a challenge to dismount from the feisty demon, which was not yet exhausted. Another test?
Using his spear and the shovel-spreader, Selim drove the worm toward the rocks, thinking he might beach the creature on the outcroppings, where it would thrash and wriggle its way back to the soft sanctuary of sand. The eyeless monster sensed the rocks, recognizing a difference in viscosity and vibrations within the sand, and swerved in the opposite direction.
Selim pulled harder on the shovel and jabbed with the spear. The confused worm twitched and slowed. As it curled close to the nearest line of rock, Selim yanked himself and his equipment free. He tumbled down the creature’s ring segments until he dropped to the sand and then ran away at full speed.
The safe reef of rock was less than a hundred meters distant, and the worm thrashed about as if it couldn’t believe it had been so unexpectedly released. Finally, it sensed the rhythm of Selim’s racing footsteps. The monster turned and lunged toward him.
Selim ran faster, bolting toward the boulders. He sprang onto a shelf of sharp lava rock and kept running, spitting pebbles from beneath the soles of his boots.
The worm exploded out of the sand, its head questing, its cavernous maw open. It hesitated as if afraid to go closer to the rock barrier, then slammed downward.
Selim had already scrambled up and over the second line of boulders, diving between rough-edged stones into a pocket, less than a cave but enough for him to wedge his body into. The sandworm crashed like a gigantic hammer into the ridge, but it did not know where the little human had gone to ground.
Enraged, the worm pulled back, its gaping mouth exuding an overpowering stench of melange. It smashed its big head against the rocks again, then retreated. Frustrated and beaten, it finally dragged itself away, wallowed through the sands, and then sank below the dune crests. Slow and indignant, it headed back out to the deep desert.
His heart pounding, adrenaline charging his bloodstream, Selim crawled out of the shelter. He looked around, amazed that he had made it back alive. Laughing, he praised Buddallah at the top of his lungs. The old botanical testing station was above him on the ridge, waiting for him. He would spend several days there, replenishing his supplies and drinking plenty of water.
As he began to climb with weary arms and legs, Selim saw something glint in the moonlight, lost in the broken rocks against which the furious worm had smashed itself. Another crystalline tooth, a longer one. It had broken free during the demon’s attack and now lay in a cranny. Selim reached down and plucked out the curved, milky weapon. A reward from Buddallah! He h
eld it high triumphantly before turning to make his way up to the derelict station.
Now he had two of them.
Time depends on the position of the observer and the direction in which he looks.
— COGITOR KWYNA,
City of Introspection archives
Still angry, Zufa Cenva returned to Rossak, where she intended to focus on the escalating war. After climbing down from the polymerized landing pad atop silvery purple leaves, she went immediately to the large chamber she shared with Aurelius Venport.
Zufa had earned her prestigious residence through political skills and mental powers. She could not help but frown every time she saw Venport’s commercial ambitions, his comfortable profit goals, his hedonistic pursuits. Foolish priorities. Such things would mean nothing if the thinking machines won this war. Could he not understand that he had blinded himself to the terrible threat?
Exhausted from the long journey and still upset over the argument she’d had with her daughter, Zufa entered her whitewalled chambers, wanting only to rest before planning the next round of strikes against the thinking machines.
There, she found Venport alone, but not waiting for her. He sat at a table made of green-veined stone quarried from the cliffs. Glistening with perspiration, his face remained handsome, with the perfect patrician features she had selected as a good joining with her bloodline.
Venport didn’t even notice her. His eyes were distant, drowning in the aftereffects of some bizarre new jungle drug with which he was experimenting.
On the table before him sat a wire-mesh cage containing scarlet wasps with long stingers and onyx wings. His naked forearm was thrust inside the enclosure, with the mesh wall sealed around his elbow. The angry wasps had stung him repeatedly, injecting venom into his bloodstream.
More in anger than horror, Zufa stared at his stupor. “This is how you occupy yourself while I am trying to save the human race?” With her hands on the jeweled belt that cinched her dark robe, her mouth formed a terse, straight line. “A Sorceress has died in battle, someone I’ve trained, even loved. Heoma gave her life to keep us free, yet here you are, dabbling in euphoric chemicals!”
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 30