Dune: The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached; tears streamed down her cheeks. Xavier’s face floated before her, an hallucination born of wishful thinking. Then a harder spasm hit, and she could concentrate on nothing else.

  She had been in labor for ten hours now, while the midwives performed various procedures that softened the pain, inserting thin needles into pressure points, massaging nerve centers, injecting drugs. Erasmus provided the midwives with whatever they needed.

  Even inside the sterile birthing room, the robot wore a shimmering golden robe trimmed in royal blue. “Describe your feelings to me. What are the sensations of giving birth? I am very curious.”

  “Bastard!” Serena gasped. “Voyeur! Leave me in peace!”

  The midwives talked with each other as if their patient wasn’t even present.

  “Fully dilated . . .”

  “Contractions coming more frequently . . .”

  “Almost time . . .”

  In the background, beyond the center of her existence and the pulse of her child, Serena heard the female voices, this time directed toward her. “Push.”

  She did so, but eased back when the pain became unbearable and she didn’t think she could go on.

  “A little harder.”

  Through sheer force of will, she overcame the pain, increased her effort, and felt the baby coming. Her body knew what it was supposed to do.

  “Push again. You can do it.”

  “That’s it. Good, good. I see the head!”

  As if a dam had broken, Serena felt a release of pressure in her birth canal. She nearly passed out from the exertion.

  When she lifted her head moments later, she saw the midwives washing the afterbirth from her baby. A son! They turned the child toward her, and the face was exactly as she had envisioned it.

  Erasmus stood watching. The image of the infant reflected in his distorted-mirror face.

  Serena had already decided she would name a son after her own father. “Hello, Manion. Dear, sweet Manion.”

  The baby cried forcefully, taking healthy gulps of air. She held the infant against her chest, but he continued to squirm. Erasmus stared at the child, showing no reaction.

  Serena refused to acknowledge the robot’s presence, hoping he would just go away and leave her with a special memory. Unable to take her eyes off the baby, she thought of Xavier, of her father, of Salusa Secundus . . . and all the things this child would never have in his life. Yes, the infant had good reason to cry.

  Abruptly, Erasmus intruded on her field of vision. With strong synthetic hands made from organic-plastic composites, the robot lifted the newborn into the air and studied him from all angles.

  Though utterly weary, drenched with sweat, Serena yelled, “Leave him alone! Give me my baby.”

  Erasmus turned the infant over. The robot’s shimmering facefilm shifted to form a curious expression. The child began to cry and squirm, but Erasmus simply tightened his grip, unconcerned. He held the naked baby so that he could study its face, its fingers, its penis. With an involuntary squirt, little Manion urinated on the robot’s robes.

  One of the alarmed midwives tried to wipe the robot’s face and the wet collar with a cloth, but Erasmus brushed her aside. He wanted to gather as much data as he could about the experience so that he could file it all away for contemplation at his leisure.

  The newborn kept crying.

  Serena struggled off the birthing bed, disregarding her pain and exhaustion. “Give him to me.”

  Surprised at the vehemence in her voice, Erasmus turned toward her. “All in all, this biological reproduction process seems overly messy and inefficient.” With something akin to distaste, he passed the baby back to the mother.

  Little Manion eventually stopped crying, and one of the midwives wrapped him in a blue blanket. The baby snuggled into his mother’s arms. Despite the power Erasmus held over her life, Serena did her best to ignore him. She showed no fear.

  “I have decided to let you keep the baby with you, instead of processing it through my slave pens,” the robot said in a flat tone. “The interaction of mother and child intrigues me. For now.”

  Fanaticism is always a sign of repressed doubt.

  —IBLIS GINJO,

  The Landscape of Humanity

  When Ajax strode across the Forum work site in his immense walker-form, the ground trembled, and slaves paused in terror to determine what the Titan wanted. From his high platform, Iblis Ginjo watched the cymek’s thundering approach, but tried not to show nervousness. He gripped an electronic notepad in his sweaty hands.

  Since the gruesome execution of the crew boss Ohan Freer, Iblis had been extraordinarily careful. He believed he could trust all of his loyal slaves, who owed much to him. Ajax could not possibly know about plans Iblis had set in motion or the secret weapons he had installed, just waiting for a sign.

  For six days, Iblis had supervised a large work crew at “Victory of the Titans,” a megalithic stone frieze depicting the twenty original visionaries. Two hundred meters long and fifty high, the conjoined slabs showed mechanical cymeks in heroic poses, marching over a mass of humanity, breaking bones and turning fleshy bodies into jelly.

  Like a modern-day version of his depiction on the frieze, Ajax’s cymek body stalked toward the supervisory platform, pushing workers aside and trampling an old man to death. Iblis’s heart turned to lead, but he could not attempt to flee. Ajax had already singled him out, and the crew boss would need all of his persuasive skills just to survive the Titan’s fury.

  What does he think I have done?

  The platform and cymek were around the same height. Trying to look obedient and subservient, but not afraid, Iblis stood to face the frontal suite of sensors and optic threads mounted in the Titan’s head plate. He bowed deeply. “Greetings, Lord Ajax. How may I serve you?” He gestured toward the trembling slave gangs. “Our work on this latest monument is proceeding precisely on schedule.”

  “Yes, you always have reason to be smug with your performance. Your slaves listen to everything you say, do they not?”

  “They obey my instructions. We work together for the glory of Omnius.”

  “No doubt they would believe any preposterous idea you suggested.” Ajax’s voice was gravelly. “How well did you know the traitor Ohan Freer?”

  “I do not associate with such men.” He hoped the cymek would think the perspiration on his brow was from hard labor rather than mounting dread. “With due respect, Lord Ajax, check your logs. My crew has been working to make this mural to your exacting specifications.” He pointed up at the frieze’s replica of Ajax towering overhead.

  “I have already checked the logs, Iblis Ginjo.” The cymek shifted in his immense robotic body. Iblis felt a skitter of fear along his spine. What has he seen?“Twice now, Dante has given you special dispensation to leave the city grid. Where do you go?”

  It took all his effort to maintain an innocent expression. If Ajax already knew about the trips, then he knew the answer to his question. “I have spoken with the Cogitor Eklo in an attempt to better myself.”

  “Hrethgir rarely amount to much,” the Titan said. “Given my preference, I would have exterminated the rest of the humans long ago. Too much trouble to keep around.”

  “Even the Titans were once human, Lord Ajax.” Iblis tried to sound eager and conspiratorial. “And Omnius still allows certain loyal and hardworking humans to become neo-cymeks. Can I not dream?”

  The scatter of glowing optic threads across Ajax’s head plate twinkled. His artificial forelimb rose up, and pliable flowmetal digits formed into a diamond-skinned claw that could easily have crushed Iblis. The Titan’s vocal speaker hummed with deep laughter.

  I have successfully diverted him! To continue his ruse, Iblis spoke quickly. “Ajax, you saw how I salvaged your statue in the Forum Plaza. Similarly, with this enormous stone mural, I have coordinated many artists and constructors to make every detail perfect. I would not trust that task to any other
crew supervisor.”You need me! he wanted to shout. “Few others are capable of such efficiency— you know it yourself.”

  “What I know is that there are traitors and insurgents among the slaves.” Ajax paced in his ominous body, making nearby workers scramble out of the way. “Perhaps you are one of them.”

  Now Iblis understood that the cymek had no evidence, and was only fishing. If the monster had known anything for certain, he would have executed Iblis without hesitation. The crew boss tried to mask his fear with disdain. “The rumors are false, Lord Ajax. My workers have been laboring with special intensity to make certain your own image on the frieze receives preferred positioning and enhancements.” Iblis made his voice sound as firm as possible. He already had a surprise prepared for Ajax, to be sprung on him at the appropriate moment.

  The Titan turned his massive head plate, as if to get a better view. “Enhancements?”

  “You are a warrior, sir— the greatest and fiercest of all cymeks. Your countenance is designed to strike terror into the hearts of enemies.”

  “This is true.” Ajax seemed somewhat mollified. “We will discuss your indiscretions later.” He amplified his voice to boom out across the captive workers. “Enough rest! Back to work!”

  In his giant artificial body, Ajax stomped away. The supervisory platform trembled behind him, and Iblis grabbed a railing for support. Relief washed over him.

  During his entire discussion with the volatile Titan, Iblis had kept his hand inside a pocket that held a crude electronic transmitter. With a simple activation signal, the complex frieze would have revealed its deadly secret, an integrated sequence of old-fashioned rocket launchers that his co-conspirators on the work crew had subtly incorporated into the design.

  By now, Iblis had completed enough massive-scale projects to know that the thinking machines did not scrutinize the details once a plan had been approved. The cymek would never notice the destructive system.

  But the timing must be absolutely precise. First, he needed to recruit more soldiers to his cause.

  As he watched the cymek stride toward the center of the city grid, Iblis mentally painted a target on its brain preservation canister. If there was to be a violent revolt, this ancient and brutal Titan would be among the first to fall.

  At the perimeter of the construction site, Ajax swept one of his sleek arms sideways in a petulant gesture that struck a group of slaves cleaning up debris. This decapitated one of them, and the bloody head smashed into the nearly completed mural.

  Though the Titan seemed more agitated than usual, Iblis was confident that he had covered his own trail.

  The darkness of humanity’s past threatens to eclipse the brightness of its future.

  — VORIAN ATREIDES,

  Turning Points in History

  The Dream Voyager traveled again through the Synchronized Worlds, carrying its various updates of Omnius. Everything back to normal and on schedule, the familiar routine. While the black-and-silver ship looked and functioned the same as always, Vor Atreides himself had changed.

  “How can you not be interested in playing our usual military games, Vorian Atreides?” Seurat asked. “You have not even bothered to insult my attempts at jokes. Are you ill?”

  “I am exceptionally healthy, ever since my father gave me the life-extension treatment.” Vor stared out a viewing window at the stars.

  “You are obsessed with that slave woman,” the robot captain said at last. “I find you much less interesting when you are in love.”

  Scowling, Vor left the porthole to seat himself before an oval database-display window. “You’ve finally made a funny joke, old Metalmind— a machine talking to me about love.”

  “It is not difficult to understand the basic reproductive drive of a species. You underestimate my analytical abilities.”

  “Love is an indescribable force. Not even the most sophisticated thinking machine can feel it. Don’t even try.”

  “Then would you care to distract yourself with another competitive challenge?”

  Vor stared into the oval computer screen, where he often perused the memoirs of Agamemnon. But there was so much more information he had never bothered to check. “Not now. I want to search through some databases. Can you grant me access to the files?”

  “Of course. Agamemnon asked me to facilitate your knowledge-enhancement requests whenever possible, especially with regard to military planning. After all, you saved us when our vessel was attacked at Giedi Prime.”

  “Exactly. I’m interested in seeing Omnius’s records of the overthrow of the Old Empire, the Time of Titans, and the Hrethgir Rebellions. Not just my father’s memoirs.”

  “Ah, an interesting display of ambition.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll win too many of our games if I learn more?” Vor scanned the list of files and was glad he would have so much time on the long update run.

  “I have nothing to fear from a mere human.”

  For hours, Vor sat at the midships console, accessing the wealth of information. He had not studied so much since his days in the trustee school. With his mind sensitized by thoughts of Serena, Vor expected to find a few minor discrepancies in the historical record, when compared with Agamemnon’s recollections. Even a cymek might be allowed to embellish war stories. But Vor was shocked to discover how radically different the evermind’s objective records were from what Agamemnon had described.

  Feverishly, he looked through records about Salusa Secundus, the Time of Titans, and the Old Empire, astonished at what he learned. Vorian had never bothered to look before, but the information was all here in front of his eyes.

  My father lied to me! He distorted the events, taking credit, hiding the extent of the brutality and suffering— even Omnius knew it.

  On the other hand, Serena had told him the truth.

  For the first time in his life he felt anger toward his machine masters and his own father, and a glimmer of compassion for the human race. How bravely they had fought!

  I, myself, am physically human. But what does that mean?

  Agamemnon had caused horrendous slaughter and devastation during the Time of Titans, against people who were only trying to protect their own freedoms. He and Juno were responsible for the deaths of billions of people and the harsh enslavement of survivors. The humans had deserved none of this, had only tried to defend themselves.

  No wonder Serena hates me, if I am the son of such a horrible murderer!

  Vor read on. All the history was there, a dispassionate record accumulated by efficient machines— and he could not doubt it. Not this. Machines would never whitewash their records. Data was held sacred; information must be accurate. Deliberate deception was anathema to them.

  It required a human mind to distort such information . . . or a human mind in a cymek body.

  Seurat’s voice startled him. “What are you researching? You have already wasted hours.”

  Gazing into the robot’s mirrored face, Vor admitted, “I am learning more about myself.”

  “That should require only minimal study,” Seurat said in an attempt at wit. “Why trouble yourself unnecessarily?”

  “Sometimes it is necessary to face the truth.” Vor closed the database, darkened the monitor.

  The robot captain stepped back to the central console and linked himself with the ship’s systems in order to begin planetary approach maneuvers. “Come now, we have reached Corrin. It is time for our next update delivery.”

  Science, under the guise of benefitting humankind, is a dangerous force that often tampers with natural processes without recognizing the consequences. Under such a scenario, mass destruction is inevitable.

  — COGITOR RETICULUS,

  Millennial Observations

  After concluding tests against every conceivable projectile and explosive, Tio Holtzman was eager to put his personal shield design into commercial production. He had already spoken with the managers of factory centers in Poritrin’s northwest mining belt and assembl
y shops in Starda. With slave labor, he could make a substantial profit. His patents alone would place him, and his patron Lord Bludd, among the wealthiest men in the League of Nobles.

  Unfortunately, as he worked through the projections of inventory and supply, thinking as a businessman rather than a scientist, he came to an inescapable conclusion: Poritrin, a bucolic world, could never handle the level of demand this wondrous invention was sure to arouse. Lord Bludd would not be happy to lose so much business to an offworld manufacturer, but Holtzman had no choice but to look to other League industrial centers.

  Before he could send the fabrication units to Vertree Colony or to the restored and hungry industries of Giedi Prime, he decided he should first test his personal shield against a nonprojectile weapon, an energy beam. Intense laser weaponry was almost never used in combat, since it was much less energy-efficient than explosives or simple projectile guns. Still, he wanted to be certain.

  For one final test, he ordered his household guards to obtain a laser gun from an ancient military armory. After a good deal of searching and a plethora of requisition forms, the necessary weapon was finally located and brought to the blufftop laboratories. Because his shields had proven effective in every previous test, the scientist found each demonstration less exciting, simply another step in the process. Soon, the profits would begin to roll in.

  Norma Cenva had returned to her continued ponderings of the Holtzman equations. The scientist had left her to her obsessive calculations while he basked in his own success.

  For the laser test, he placed a slave within the shield, intending to fire the weapon himself. He brought only one assistant into the reinforced demonstration dome to record impressions of the test, as they had done many times before. Holtzman fiddled with the laser weapon’s antique controls, trying to figure out how to fire the beam.