He did not flinch. His vacant expression shifted not at all.
The aggressive wasps battered themselves against the wire-mesh while emitting a high-pitched humming music. The insects stung his swollen flesh repeatedly. She wondered what psychotropic substance the venom provided, and how Venport had discovered it. Unable to find adequate words for her fury, she finally said, “You disgust me.”
One time after lovemaking, Aurelius had claimed that he experimented with drugs for more than his own amusement, or even commercial earnings. As scented candles burned in a rock alcove above their bed, Venport had confided, “Somewhere out in the jungles, I hope to find a pharmaceutical substance that can boost male telepathic potential.” With it, he hoped to bring certain men up to a psychic par with the Sorceresses.
Zufa had laughed at his ridiculous fantasy. Hurt, Aurelius had never mentioned the possibility again.
Long ago, the first colonists on rugged Rossak had been tainted, saturated with background jungle chemicals that had augmented their mental potential. How else could the women have achieved such extrasensory powers on this particular world and nowhere else? But, through some hormonal or chromosomal difference, men seemed to be immune to such effects of the environment.
Now Zufa shouted, ordering him to withdraw his hand from the wasp cage, but Venport did not utter a word. “You dabble in drugs, and my daughter conducts worthless experiments with suspensor fields and floating lamps. Are my Sorceresses the only ones on Rossak with a sense of mission?”
Though his eyes turned in her direction, he did not seem to see her.
Finally Zufa said in revulsion, “Some patriot you are. I hope history remembers you for this.” She marched off to find a place where she could think of ways to continue the fight against thinking machines . . . while others amused themselves obliviously.
• • •
AFTER HIS MATE’S departure, Venport’s glazed eyes took on a flicker of fire, then increased to a burning intensity of concentration. He focused on the open door to their private chambers, and the silence seemed to grow, as if he was draining sound and energy from the air. His jaw clenched, and he concentrated harder . . . and harder.
The door swung slowly shut by itself.
Satisfied but drained, Venport slid his arm out of the wasp cage and slumped to the floor.
Assumptions are a transparent grid through which we view the universe, sometimes deluding ourselves that the grid is that universe.
— COGITOR EKLO OF EARTH
As a reward for completing the giant Ajax statue under an impossible schedule, Iblis Ginjo received four days off duty. Even the neo-cymek work commanders were pleased that the human crew boss had rescued them all from the wrath of Ajax. Before leaving, Iblis made certain his slaves received the benefits he had promised; it was an investment, and he knew they would work even harder on the next project.
With special dispensation from his masters, Iblis rode away from the city grid and into rocky wastelands, the scarred site of a long-forgotten battlefield. Trustees could take advantage of special privileges and freedoms, the choice to earn rewards for work well done. The thinking machines were not concerned that he would flee, since Iblis had no place to go, no way to get off-planet, and no other access to food and shelter.
In fact, he had something else in mind: a pilgrimage.
Iblis sat astride a knobby burrhorse, a plodding laboratory-bred animal used in the bygone days when humans had ruled Earth. The ugly beast had an oversized head, floppy ears, and stubby legs designed for work rather than speed. The animal stank like matted fur soaked in sewage.
The burrhorse trudged up a narrow, winding trail. Iblis had not been here for years, but still knew the way. Such things were not easily forgotten. Previously his visits to the monastery of the Cogitor Eklo had been sparked by mere curiosity. This time he had a desperate need for advice and guidance.
After receiving the anonymous message of rebellion, Iblis had pondered the possible existence of other dissatisfied humans, people willing to defy Omnius. For his entire life, he had been surrounded by slaves toiling endlessly under machine rule. He had never looked beyond his own station, never imagined that it could be different. After a thousand years, any prospect of change or improvement seemed impossible.
Now, after much consideration, Iblis was willing to believe that there might be rebellious cells among humans on Earth, possibly even on other Synchronized Worlds. Widespread groups who intended to fight back.
If we can build such enormous monuments, do we not also have the power to tear them down?
The thought ignited his long-simmering resentment toward Omnius, the robots, and especially the cymeks, who seemed to bear a grudge against humans. But before he decided if the intriguing message was more than just fantasy, he needed to do some research. Iblis had survived so well and so long because he was cautious and obedient. Now he had to conduct his investigations in such a manner that the machines would never suspect his intent.
For answers, he could think of no better source than the Cogitor Eklo.
Years ago Iblis had been a member of an armed slave-pursuit team, chasing a few deluded people who had senselessly escaped from the city grid and fled into the hills with no plans, survival skills, or supplies. Wild rumors had convinced the gullible escapees that they could demand sanctuary from the politically neutral Cogitors. A foolish notion, considering that the meditative and detached human brains wanted nothing more than to isolate themselves and contemplate their esoteric thoughts. The Cogitors had not cared about the Time of Titans, the Hrethgir Rebellions, or Omnius’s creation of the Synchronized Worlds. Cogitors did not wish to be disturbed, so the thinking machines tolerated them.
When Iblis and his pursuit team had surrounded the isolated monastery on the rugged mountainside, Eklo had dispatched his human secondaries to drive the slaves out of concealment. The escapees had cursed and threatened the Cogitor, but Eklo passively ignored them. Iblis and his armed companions had then brought the slaves in for “vigorous reassignment,” after tossing their ringleader off a high cliff. . . .
Now the sturdy burrhorse ascended the steep path that shifted and crumbled beneath its hooves. Presently Iblis made out the high tower of the monastery, an impressive stone structure partly shrouded in mists. Its windows glowed red and then shifted to a sky blue, reportedly according to the moods of the great contemplative mind.
In his schooling as a trustee, Iblis had learned about the Cogitors, about the primitive remnants of religion still manifested by some of the larger groups of human slaves. Omnius had ceased trying to quash it, though the evermind did not understand the superstitions and rituals.
Long before the takeover of the Old Empire, Eklo had left his physical body behind and devoted his mind to analysis and introspection. While planning the large-scale overthrow of humanity, the Titan Juno had adopted Eklo as her personal advisor, demanding answers. Uninterested in repercussions, taking no sides in the conflict, Eklo had answered Juno’s questions, and his unwitting advice had helped the Titans plan their conquest. In the thousand years since, Eklo had remained on Earth. The driving passion in his long life was to synthesize a complete understanding of the universe.
Reaching the end of the trail at the base of the stone tower, Iblis suddenly found himself surrounded by a dozen robed men armed with archaic pikes and barbed clubs. Their robes were dark brown, and they wore white clerical collars. One of the secondaries grabbed the reins of Iblis’s burrhorse. “Leave here. We offer no sanctuary.”
“I do not seek it.” Iblis gazed down at the men. “I have only come to ask the Cogitor a question.” He dismounted and, after charming them with his warmth and sincerity, glided confidently toward the high tower, leaving the robed men to hold his burrhorse.
“Cogitor Eklo is deep in thought and does not wish to be disturbed,” one of the secondaries called out.
Iblis chuckled lightly, his voice smooth. “The Cogitor has been thinking for a thousand y
ears. He can spare a few minutes to hear me out. I am a respected trustee. And if I give him information he doesn’t already know, he’ll have something more to ponder for the next century or so.”
Muttering in confusion, several secondaries followed Iblis up wide steps. Abruptly, however, as he reached the arched entry, a broad-shouldered monk blocked his way. The muscles on his thick arms and chest had gone to fat, and he peered out from sunken eyesockets with dull eyes.
Iblis infused his voice with friendly persuasion. “I honor the knowledge Cogitor Eklo has acquired. I will not waste his time.”
Frowning skeptically at Iblis, the monk adjusted his clerical collar and said, “You are bold enough, and the Cogitor is curious to hear your question.” After checking the visitor’s body for weapons, he said, “I am Aquim. Come this way.”
The big man led Iblis along a narrow stone corridor and up a steep spiral stairway. As they proceeded, Iblis said, “I have been here before, chasing escaped slaves—”
“Eklo remembers,” Aquim interrupted.
They reached the highest point in the structure, a round room at the pinnacle of the tower. The Cogitor’s plexiplaz container rested on an altarlike ledge beneath one of the windows. Winds hummed along the window edges and swirled the mists. The windows shimmered sky blue from some internal illumination.
Leaving the other secondaries behind, Aquim stepped up to the transparent brain canister and stood for a moment, looking down at it reverently. He jabbed a hand into one of his pockets, and his trembling fingers emerged with a twisted strip of paper encrusted with a black powder. He placed the strip in his mouth, letting it dissolve. His eyes rolled upward, as if in ecstasy.
“Semuta,” he said to Iblis, “derived from the burned residue of elacca wood, smuggled here. It aids me in what I must do.” With complete serenity, he rested both hands against the smooth lip of the canister, and said, “I understand nothing.”
The naked brain inside its blue soup of electrafluid seemed to pulse, waiting.
With a beatific smile, the big monk drew a deep breath and slid his fingers into the open mouth of the tank, dipping into the thick life-support liquid. The gelatinous medium wet his skin, penetrated his pores, linked with his nerve endings. Aquim’s expression changed, and he said, “Eklo wishes to know why you did not ask your question the last time you were here.”
Iblis did not know if he should speak to the secondary or directly to the Cogitor, so he directed his reply to a space between them. “At the time, I did not understand what was significant. Now there is something I wish to know from you. No one else can provide an objective answer.”
“No judgment or opinion is ever completely objective.” The big monk spoke with calm conviction. “There are no absolutes.”
“You are less biased than anyone else I could ask.”
The altar ledge moved around slowly along a hidden track, and the Cogitor came to rest in front of a different window, with Aquim keeping pace, his hand still immersed in the canister. “State your question.”
“I have always worked loyally for my cymek and machine masters,” Iblis began, selecting his words carefully. “Lately I received word that there may be human resistance groups on Earth. I wish to know if this report is credible. Are there people who want to overthrow their rulers and gain freedom?”
During a moment’s hesitation, the secondary stared blankly into space, either from the effects of the semuta or from his connection with the philosopher brain. Iblis hoped the Cogitor would not drift into a long period of contemplation. Finally, in a deep and sonorous voice, Aquim said, “Nothing is impossible.”
Iblis tried several variations of the question, deftly circling with phrases, adjusting his selection of words. He did not want to reveal his intentions, though the neutral Cogitor presumably did not care why Iblis might want to find the rebels, whether to destroy them or to join them. Each time, however, Iblis received the same enigmatic answer.
Summoning his courage, he finally asked, “If such a widespread, secret resistance organization did exist, would it have a chance of succeeding? Could the reign of the thinking machines possibly come to an end?”
This time the Cogitor pondered longer, as if assessing different factors in the question. When the same answer came via the robed monk, the words, spoken more ominously, seemed to convey a deeper meaning. “Nothing is impossible.”
After that, Aquim withdrew his dripping hand from Eklo’s brain container, signifying that the audience was concluded. Iblis bowed politely, expressed his gratitude, and departed, his own thoughts in turmoil.
On the ride back down the steep trail, the frightened but exhilarated crew supervisor decided that if he could not locate one of the resistance group members, he had another option.
Drawing from his deeply loyal work crews, Iblis would form a rebel cell of his own.
Conflict prolonged over an extended period tends to be self-perpetuating and can easily plunge out of control.
— TLALOC,
A Time for Titans
“After a thousand years, only five of us remain.”
It was rare for the surviving Titans to congregate, especially on Earth where the eyes of Omnius watched them every moment. But General Agamemnon was so outraged after the disaster on Giedi Prime and the murder of his friend and ally that he didn’t waste time worrying about the evermind.
He had other priorities.
“The hrethgir have a new weapon that they have used against us with devastating consequences,” Agamemnon said.
The Titans were inside a maintenance chamber, their preservation canisters perched on pedestals. In a stern tone, he had instructed Ajax, Juno, Xerxes, and Dante to detach from their mobile forms. Tempers would flare, and an individual’s impulses were hard to control when installed in a powerful combat body, where thoughtrodes could convert any rash impulse into immediate, destructive action. Agamemnon trusted himself to restrain his anger, but some of the other Titans— especially Ajax— destroyed first and reconsidered later.
“After much investigation and analysis, we have learned that Barbarossa’s murderers came from Rossak, and the feral humans called her a Sorceress,” said Dante, who kept track of such things. “Rossak harbors more of these Sorceresses, women who possess enhanced telepathic capabilities.”
“Obviously,” Juno said, with sarcasm evident in her synthesized voice.
Dante continued, reasonable as always, “Until now, the Sorceresses have not been used in any large-scale aggressive function. After their triumph on Giedi Prime, however, it is probable that the hrethgir will use them to strike again.”
“Their action has also reminded us of how vulnerable we are,” Agamemnon said. “Robots can be replaced. Our organic brains cannot.”
Ajax was so infuriated by the dilemma of the Sorceresses that his life-support monitors had trouble maintaining the proper chemical balance inside his shimmering electrafluid. He could not find words to express his anger.
“But didn’t this Sorceress have to kill herself to slay Barbarossa and a handful of neo-cymeks?” Xerxes asked. “It was suicide. Do you think they’d be willing to do that again?”
“Just because you’re a coward, Xerxes, doesn’t mean the feral humans are so afraid to sacrifice themselves,” Agamemnon said. “That one Sorceress cost us seven neo-cymeks and a Titan. A staggering loss.”
After living a thousand years, during which billions upon billions of human lives were lost (many at Agamemnon’s own hands or while he watched), he had thought he was immune to witnessing death. Of the original Titans, Barbarossa, Juno, and Tlaloc had been his closest friends. The four of them had been the seeds of the rebellion. The other Titans had come later, adding to the junta as necessary.
Despite the fact that his mental images were very old, the Titan general still remembered Barbarossa in his human form. Vilhelm Jayther had been a man with thin arms and legs, wide shoulders, and a sunken chest. Not pleasing to look upon, some said, but his eyes h
ad the sharpest intensity Agamemnon had ever seen. And his programming genius was unparalleled.
With a wolfish obsession, Jayther had accepted the challenge of overthrowing the Old Empire, losing sleep for weeks until he figured out how to solve the problem. Jayther gave himself over entirely to the task until he understood precisely how to manipulate sophisticated programming for the rebels’ purposes. Implanting humanlike ambitions and goals into the computer network, he had made the machines want to participate in the takeover.
Later, though, Omnius had developed ambitions of his own.
A man of tremendous foresight, Jayther had included fail-safe instructions that precluded the thinking machines from harming any of the Titans. Agamemnon and all of his compatriots were alive only because of Vilhelm Jayther— Barbarossa.
Now the Sorceresses had killed him. The realization kept pounding inside Agamemnon’s brain, building his anger.
“We cannot let this outrage go unpunished,” Ajax said. “I say we go to Rossak, slay all the women, and turn their world into a charred ball.”
“Dear Ajax,” Juno said sweetly, “need I remind you that just one of those Sorceresses destroyed Barbarossa and all the neo-cymeks with him?”
“So?” Ajax’s voice swelled with pride. “Single-handedly, I exterminated the human infestation on Walgis. Together, we can handle a few Sorceresses.”
In a sharp tone Agamemnon said, “The rebels on Walgis were already broken before you started slaughtering them, Ajax. These Sorceresses are different.”
Dante said, in a droning voice, “Omnius will never authorize a full-scale strike. The expenditure in resources would be too great. I have completed a preliminary analysis.”
“Nevertheless,” Agamemnon said, “it would be an extreme tactical mistake to allow this defeat to go unchallenged.”
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 31