But at the moment Venport had other priorities. He had a feeling there was no way to circumvent the wishes of these hardy people, that they completely controlled those who visited them, even deciding who departed from the desert alive.
When they began to ascend a steep path, the groundcar slowed, and finally the Zensunni hid the vehicle again and made their blindfolded guests walk again. The nomads guided their guests step by step around boulders and broken rocks. Finally, Dhartha yanked off the blindfolds, revealing a dim cave entrance. The group stood just inside a tunnel. Venport blinked to adjust his vision to the dim light generated by flaming lamps mounted on the walls.
After being blindfolded for so long, it seemed that his hearing and sense of smell had grown more delicate and precise. Now, as he looked around the tunnel entrance, Venport detected signs of many inhabitants, the stink of unwashed bodies, the sounds of people stirring.
Taking them to chambers high inside a cliff wall, Dhartha fed the men a meal of crunchy bread served with a dab of honey and thin strips of dried meat marinated in a spicy sauce. Afterward, they listened to Zensunni music around low fires and told stories in a language that Venport did not know.
Later, the naib took the two impatient visitors out onto a rocky ledge that overlooked an endless sea of dunes. “I want to show you something,” he said, his lean face shadowed, the geometric tattoo on his cheek even darker than his skin. The men sat with their feet dangling over the edge. Keedair looked from Dhartha to Venport, eager to watch the negotiations.
The naib rang a little bell, and soon an old man came forward, his muscles sinewy, his face like leather. His hair was long and white, and he still had most of his teeth. Like all of the desert people, his eyes had turned a solid blue, which Venport believed indicated a deep melange addiction. Keedair’s own eyes had already taken on the eerie tint.
The elderly man held a tray containing dark wafers, cut perfectly square and covered with sticky syrup. He extended the delicacies to Venport, who took one. Keedair selected another, and Naib Dhartha a third. The gray-haired man remained standing beside them, watching.
From what Venport had seen, in this culture the women always served the men— an odd turnabout from the custom on Rossak. Perhaps elderly men here were also relegated to menial duties.
Venport studied the brown cake, then nibbled one corner. The meal he’d eaten earlier had been laced with significant amounts of melange, but this sample seemed to have even more of a kick than expected, exploding with rich cinnamon fire in his mouth. He took a substantial bite, felt the strength and well-being expand outward in his body.
“Delicious!” Without realizing it, he had gobbled most of the wafer.
“Fresh spice gathered from the open sands just this afternoon,” Dhartha said. “It is more potent than anything you have previously tasted in spice beer or food.”
“Most excellent,” Venport said, the possibilities filling his mind like unopened gifts. Keedair also consumed his cake and sighed in satisfaction.
Venport had a visceral intuition that the spice trade would prove profitable, and he expected to sell substantial quantities to the League nobles. To commence that enterprise, he planned to accompany Zufa Cenva on her next trip to Salusa Secundus. While she delivered her fiery lectures in the rebuilt Hall of Parliament, Venport would make contacts, dropping hints, distributing small samples. It would take time, but the demand would grow.
He held the last bite of his spice cake. “Is this what you meant to show us, Naib Dhartha?”
The tattooed leader reached up to clasp the old man’s thin but muscular arm. “This man is what I want you to see. His name is Abdel.” The naib bowed briefly, and the old man bowed in return, then gave a deeper bow to the two seated guests, now that he had been introduced. “Abdel, tell the visitors your age.”
The withered man spoke in a thin but strong voice. “I have watched the constellation of the Beetle cross Sentinel Rock three hundred and fourteen times.”
Confused, Venport looked to Keedair, who shrugged. Naib Dhartha explained. “A tiny asterism in our sky. It drifts back and forth with the seasons and crosses a thin spire of rock near the horizon. We use it as a calendar.”
“Back and forth,” Keedair said. “You mean twice each year?”
The naib nodded.
Venport did quick mental calculations. “He is saying he’s a hundred and fifty-seven years old.”
“Close,” Dhartha said. “Children do not start to watch and count until they have passed the age of three years, so technically that would make him one hundred and sixty standard years. Abdel has consumed melange all his life. Notice how healthy he remains . . . with bright eyes and a sharp mind. He will probably live for decades yet, provided he continues to consume a regular diet of spice.”
Venport was amazed. Everyone had heard stories of youth-prolonging drugs, of life-extension treatments that had been developed in the Old Empire and then forgotten when the decaying regime fell. Most of the stories were no more than legends. Yet if this old man was telling the truth . . .
“Do you have any proof of this?” Keedair asked.
A flicker of anger washed across the naib’s lean face. “I offer you my word. No additional proof is required.”
Venport gestured for Keedair not to press the issue. The way he felt from the melange coursing through his system, he could well believe the claims. “We will run tests of our own to make certain there are no side effects other than a blue tinting of the eyes. Melange may be a product I can add to my catalog of goods. Would you be able to provide sufficient quantities for commercial purposes?”
With a nod, the desert leader said, “The potential is vast.”
Now only the details of the business transaction remained. In part, Venport intended to offer something unusual as payment. Water? Or perhaps these nomads would barter for some of Norma’s glowglobes, to illuminate their shadowy caves and tunnels. In fact, the floating bulbs might be of more practical use to the Zensunni than League credits. He had some samples in his transport back at Arrakis City.
Reaching forward, he took the last cake from the tray that Abdel still held in his hands. Venport noticed that the old man held the platter motionless, without the slightest tremble in his fingers. Another good sign, which Tuk Keedair noticed as well. The business partners nodded to one another.
My copilot thinks of the human female constantly, but thus far it does not seem to have distracted him from his duties. I will watch him carefully for signs of trouble.
— SEURAT,
log entry submitted to Omnius
The Dream Voyager entered Earth’s atmosphere, returning home after a long update run. It had been so long since Vor had seen Serena Butler . . . and he needed to confront his father with the historical discrepancies he had found.
Aboard the silver-and-black ship, he and Seurat monitored their approach, checking temperature readings of the reflective outer skin. The ship’s chronometer automatically adjusted to Earth standard time.
This reminded Vor of how Agamemnon had altered his memoirs to suit a preferred version of history. The Titans were not the glorious, benevolent heroes that his father had portrayed.
Serena Butler had forced Vor to discover the truth about Agamemnon. Vor wondered if she had thought about him while he’d been gone. Would Serena respect him now because of his newfound understanding? Or did she still pine after her lost lover, the man who had fathered her child? Vor’s stomach knotted with nervous anticipation. Throughout his highly structured life he had never faced so much uncertainty as in the past several months.
Agamemnon might be waiting for him at the spaceport.
All of the great Titan’s promises of rewards, the lure of leaving a fragile human body behind and becoming a neo-cymek, now felt flat to Vor. Everything had changed.
Vor would challenge his father, accuse the great general of fabricating history and distorting facts— of deceiving his own son. Part of him hoped the Titan wou
ld indeed have a ready answer, a comforting explanation, so that Vor could go back to his sane and regimented life as a trustee.
In his heart, though, he knew that Serena had not misled him. He had seen enough evidence with his own eyes, knew how the machines treated human beings. Vor could no longer pretend . . . but he didn’t know what else he could do now. He was very frightened to return to Earth, yet he knew he must.
Surely Agamemnon would notice his son’s change of attitude. And Vor already knew that the Titan general had killed twelve previous sons who had disappointed him.
“What do you make of that, Vorian?” Seurat interrupted his thoughts as they neared the spaceport in the capital grid. “I am detecting data inconsistencies and an alarming level of physical chaos.” The robot captain called up closer images.
Vor was astonished to see fire, smoke, and destroyed buildings, along with robot and cymek troops. Scores of humans ran wild in the streets. His heart lurched from a mixture of emotions that he had not yet sorted out. “Did the League Armada attack here?” Even with his new knowledge, he couldn’t believe that scattered remnants of free humanity could have wrought such destruction on the core machine world. Omnius would never allow it!
“Scans show no human spacecraft or battleships in the vicinity, Vorian. Nevertheless, the conflict is ongoing.” Seurat seemed puzzled, but not overly concerned. At least he didn’t attempt to make a joke about the situation.
Vor adjusted the scan-optic controls, focusing on the seaside extension of the capital city grid, and located the estate of Erasmus. He saw more fires there, damaged buildings and monuments, pitched battles in the streets. Where was Serena?
Slowly, reluctantly, he began to comprehend what was happening. Humans were fighting the machines! The very idea stirred up thoughts that he would rather have avoided, because they seemed disloyal to Omnius. How could any of this be possible?
The Dream Voyager detected a unified emergency signal used by the evermind to link with his subsidiary robot forces. “All thinking machines divert to defensive perimeters and battle stations . . . human revolt spreading . . . Omnius core remains defended . . . power shortages in many sectors. . . .”
Vor looked at the robot captain’s mirror-smooth face. The spangle of optic threads brightened like stars. “This is a most unexpected situation. Our assistance is obligatory.”
“I concur,” Vor said. But which side should I help? He had never expected to feel this way, with his allegiances pulling at one another.
The Dream Voyager soared toward the burning city grid. Near the villa of Erasmus, the thinking machines had formed a cordon against the mobs. Barricades had been erected in the flagstone plaza where Vorian had previously arrived by carriage for his visits. Portions of the building facade appeared damaged, but the villa seemed intact.
I hope she is safe.
Unconcerned, Seurat cruised over the capital’s spaceport, preparing to land. Reacting suddenly, he pulled up in a steep ascent. “Our facilities and ships have already been overrun by rebellious slaves.”
Vor continued to study the chaos below. “Where can we go?”
“My backup landing instructions suggest an older spaceport on the southern edge of the city grid. The landing field is functional, and remains under Omnius’s control.”
As the update ship settled on the alternate landing pad, Vor saw blackened human corpses and smashed machines around the perimeter. At the northern docking pads a fierce battle raged between neo-cymeks and suicidal rebels who must have taken weaponry away from destroyed sentinel robots.
Seurat put the Dream Voyager‘s engines and electronics into standby mode. Half a dozen armed robots ran to their landing site, as if to defend the ship and the valuable Omnius updates they carried.
“What do you want me to do, Seurat?” Vor inquired, his heart pounding.
Seurat delivered a surprisingly insightful answer. “I will offer to use the ship to transport robot defenders to wherever Omnius requires them. Remaining aboard is your best option, Vorian Atreides. It is likely to be the safest place.”
Vor’s mind throbbed with his need to find Serena Butler. “No, old Metalmind. I might get in the way, and my life-support needs would interfere with your work. Leave me at the spaceport, and I’ll take care of myself.”
The robot considered Vor’s request. “As you wish. However, because of the situation, it would be best for you to lie low and remain out of sight. Avoid the fighting. You are a valued trustee, the son of Agamemnon— but you are also human. You are at risk from both sides in this conflict.”
“I understand.”
Seurat looked at him with his unreadable face. “Take care of yourself, Vorian Atreides.”
“You, too, old Metalmind.”
As Vor hurried down the ramp onto the exhaust-stained pavement of the old spaceport, the thinking machines transmitted alarms and messages to other military units. The northern docking pads had fallen to human mobs. Hundreds of people were surging across the field. With instant consensus, a dozen soldier robots swarmed aboard the Dream Voyager for tactical redistribution.
From the cover of a parked groundtruck, feeling more vulnerable than ever, Vor watched the update ship lift off. Only the day before, he and Seurat had been amusing themselves in space with strategy games. Now, in a few hours, his whole world had been turned on its side.
After breaching the northern docking bay, the rebel humans spread out into the spaceport buildings. Evidently, Omnius had decided to cut his losses, leaving only a few thinking machines to resist the hrethgir. Vor ran for cover, abruptly conscious that he wore the formal uniform of a trustee, a servant of the Synchronized Worlds. Not many humans worked in high positions for the thinking machines, and if the mob spotted him, they would tear him apart.
Hundreds of rebel bodies lay strewn about the tarmac. Thinking quickly, Vor grabbed the arms of a dead man about his own size and dragged him into the shadows between two smoking buildings. Discarding a part of his past, Vor tore off the flight suit he had worn on so many Dream Voyager journeys, and switched clothes with the slain rebel.
Dressed in a tattered shirt and dirty trousers, he waited for the right opportunity and joined the flow of the rushing crowd. They shouted “Victory!” and “Freedom!” as they broke into the spaceport buildings. Few sentinel robots remained to resist them now.
Vor hoped the mob didn’t destroy all the facilities or the robotic vessels. If they had bothered to plan ahead, the revolt leaders would know that they needed to escape from the Synchronized Worlds altogether.
Vor caught himself, astonished to realize his allegiance was shifting. It both exhilarated and frightened him. He felt himself drawing away from the security of his known life in machine society, toward the chaos of the unknown and his own feral biological roots. But he knew he had to do it. He understood too much now, saw through different eyes.
Around him, frenzied slaves did not worry about the consequences of their rampage. The mob had an eclectic supply of weapons, from primitive clubs to sophisticated cellular-displacement guns removed from sentinel robots. The rebels set off incendiary devices in the old spaceport’s control building and killed a skittering neo-cymek who tried to escape, splitting open his brain canister with a cellgun blast.
When he felt it was safe, Vor broke away from the crowd, maintaining his disguise, and wandered with other humans through the damp streets, deeper into the city grid. He looked like a ragged straggler but had a definite goal.
He needed to reach the villa of Erasmus.
In the canyons between large buildings, darkness began to arrive ahead of twilight, intensified because the Earth-Omnius had severed power in sectors overrun by slaves. Thunderclouds closed in, pregnant with smoke and rain. A brisk wind cut through Vor’s thin clothing, and he shivered.
He hoped Serena was still alive.
A group of rough-looking slaves broke down a metal gate and surged into a building. The mangled remains of thinking machines lay in
disarray. He heard from excited chatter that even the Titan Ajax had been slain. Ajax! At first he couldn’t believe it, and then he didn’t doubt what he had heard. A block away, a building erupted in flames, casting eerie light into the street.
Even after what he had learned about the crimes and abuses of the original Titans, Vor felt a twinge of concern for his father. If Agamemnon was on Earth, the cymek general would be somewhere in the midst of this revolt, trying to quell it. In spite of all the lies and misleading stories Agamemnon had told, he was still Vor’s father.
Quickening his pace, Vor made his way toward Erasmus’s villa. He was tired and sore. In the plaza fronting the main house, a crowd of angry rebels pressed against a hastily erected barricade fence. The worst fighting had passed into the primary centers of the capital city grid, but here the freed slaves seemed to be maintaining an angry vigil, for reasons that Vor did not understand. He asked questions, carefully.
“We’re waiting for Iblis Ginjo,” a man with a thin beard said. “He wants to lead the assault personally. Erasmus is still inside there.” The man spat on the paving stones. “And so is the woman.”
Vor felt a jolt. What woman did the man mean? Could it be Serena?
Before he could ask, robotic defensive installations on the ornate crenellations fired scattered shots, trying to disperse the crowd. But more rebels arrived, swelling their numbers, maintaining the siege. A group dressed in stained work clothes took up strategic positions and launched two crude explosive projectiles, smashing the rooftop gun emplacements.
A small section of the rain-slick plaza had been cordoned off with posts and plazwire, and the humans had surrounded it like guardians . . . or, oddly, pilgrims. Vor saw flowers and colorful ribbons scattered on the plaza. Curious, he pushed closer and asked a gaunt old woman about it.
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 52