“I was at Giedi Prime as well, Segundo. Remember? You shot at me and severely damaged my ship.”
Xavier’s brown eyes flashed with anger. “Yes, I remember, son of Agamemnon.”
“The uprising on Earth was a grand example,” Vor said, “but the participants were only slaves, armed with little more than their hatred for the thinking machines. They never had a chance.” He turned to look at the members of the special committee. “The League Armada, on the other hand, is a different story altogether.”
Seeing the opportunity to press the point, Iblis said in a booming voice, “Yes, look what a mob of untrained slaves managed to achieve. Then imagine what a coordinated military response might accomplish.” Outside, the voices of the demonstrators grew louder. Iblis continued, “The losses on Earth must not go unavenged. The death of Viceroy Butler’s grandchild— your own son, Segundo Harkonnen— cannot go unpunished!”
Vor could not tear his gaze from Xavier, trying to see him as the brave man who had stolen Serena’s heart, and then had married her sister. I would have waited forever for her.
Finally, he focused on Iblis Ginjo. Vor did not particularly like the rebel leader, whose motivations were not clear to him. Iblis seemed obsessively fascinated with Serena, but it was not love. Nevertheless, Vor did agree with the man’s assessment.
Speaking loudly, Iblis continued, as if he had been brought here to address the tribunal members, and not to answer their questions. “The events on Earth are a setback, nothing more. We can rise above it, if we have the will to do so!”
Some of the representatives were caught up in his enthusiasm. Outside, the crowds grew more agitated, and security troops could be heard over a public address system, attempting to maintain order.
As Vor looked on, Iblis gazed from face to face and then into the distance, as if only he could see something there. The future? Iblis gestured with his hands as he spoke. “The people of Earth were slaughtered because I encouraged them to oppose their machine masters, but I feel no personal guilt over this. A war must begin somewhere. Their sacrifice has demonstrated the depth of the human spirit. Consider the example of Serena Butler and her innocent baby, what she endured and still survived.”
Vor saw agitation on Xavier Harkonnen’s face, but the officer said nothing.
Iblis smiled and stretched out his hands. “Serena could have an important role in the new force that will overwhelm the machines, if she only recognizes her potential.” He spoke directly to Manion Butler, in an increasingly fervent voice. “Others may try to take credit for it, but Serena was the true spark of the great revolt on Earth. Her child was slain, and she raised her hands against the thinking machines, for all to see. Think of it! What an example she is to the entire human race.”
Iblis stepped closer to the tribunal members. “All across the League Worlds, people will hear of her bravery and feel her pain. They will rally to her cause, in her name, if asked to do so. They will rise up in an epic struggle for freedom, a holy crusade . . . a jihad. Listen outside— do you hear them chanting for her?”
There it is, Iblis thought. He had made the religious connection recommended by Cogitor Eklo. It didn’t matter what particular creed or theology they followed— of paramount importance was the fervor that only zealousness could provide. If the movement was going to be large, it needed to touch upon the emotions of people, needed to draw them into battle without any thought of failing, without concern for their own safety.
Following a long, poignant pause, he added, “I am already spreading the word. Ladies and gentlemen, we have the makings of much more than a revolt here, something that sets apart the soul of mankind from the soulless thinking machines. With your help, it could be a tremendous victory borne on the wings of human passion . . . and hope.”
Without recognizing it, humankind created a weapon of mass destruction— one that only became apparent after machines took over every aspect of their lives.
— BARBAROSSA,
Anatomy of a Rebellion
In an uproar, red-faced League delegates argued over the consequences of the genocide on Earth. Serena sat stony-faced, the first time she had entered the Hall of Parliament in the weeks since returning home, but her presence did not quell the usual tedious discussions.
“The struggle against Omnius has gone on for centuries!” bellowed the Patriarch of Balut. “There is no need to do anything drastic which we will later regret. I grieve for the bloodshed, but we never had any realistic hope for saving the slaves of Earth anyway.”
“You mean slaves . . . like Serena Butler?” From his guest seat, Vorian Atreides interrupted with a glance in her direction, disregarding protocol or political traditions. “I’m glad we didn’t all give up so easily.”
Xavier frowned at him, though he had been thinking the same thing. He considered the son of Agamemnon a loose cannon, with no respect for order, but he himself was often frustrated by the ponderous pace of formal political debates. If Serena had been confident about the workings of Parliament, she would never have gone blundering off to Giedi Prime in the first place, thus forcing the League’s hand.
In an equally loud voice, the interim Magnus of restored Giedi Prime said, “Just because the situation has gone on for a thousand years, is that an excuse for us to become accustomed to it? The thinking machines have already escalated the war with their attack on Zimia and Rossak, their invasion of Giedi Prime. This Earth disaster is just another challenge.”
“It’s a challenge we cannot ignore,” Viceroy Butler said.
• • •
NOW, ACCORDING TO the agenda, Xavier stepped into the recording shell that surrounded the oratory podium. Projection screens enhanced his image and his speech; overblown determination formed deep creases on his face.
Out in the tiers of seats that rose above the speaking pit, Iblis Ginjo sat ensconced in a box reserved for distinguished visitors; he wore expensive finery provided by Salusan tailors.
Xavier’s voice boomed forth, the commanding tone he used when directing his Armada ships. “We can no longer content ourselves with a reactive war. We must take the battle to the thinking machines, for our very survival.”
“Are you suggesting we become as aggressive as Omnius?” shouted Lord Niko Bludd from the fourth tier of seats.
“No!” Xavier looked at the red-bearded noble and said in a calm, firm voice, “I’m saying we must be more aggressive than the machines, more destructive, more intent on victory!”
“That will only provoke them to do something even worse,” yelled the County General from Hagal, a barrel-chested man in a red tunic. “We can’t risk that. Many of the Synchronized Worlds have large human populations, even more numerous than the slaves killed on Earth, and I don’t think—”
Zufa Cenva, stern in her regal glory, cut him off, her voice icy with scorn. “Then why don’t you just surrender Hagal to the Synchronized Worlds, County General, if you tremble so much at the thought of combat? It would save Omnius the trouble.”
Serena Butler stood, and a sudden hush settled over the audience. She spoke in a firm, clear voice fueled by her own passion. “The thinking machines will never leave us alone. You are fooling yourselves if you believe otherwise.”
She swept her gaze along the rows of seats. “You have all seen the shrine to my son, who was murdered by the thinking machines. Perhaps it is easier to comprehend the tragedy of a single victim than of billions. But that child only symbolizes the horrors Omnius and the Synchronized Worlds wish to inflict upon us.” She raised a clenched fist. “We must declare a crusade against the machines, a holy war— a jihad, in the name of my murdered son Manion. It must be . . . Manion Butler’s Jihad.”
In the muttering and the hot emotions of the audience, Xavier said, “We will never be safe until we destroy them.”
“If we knew how to accomplish that,” complained Lord Bludd, “we would have won the war long ago.”
“But we do know how to accomplish it,” Xavier
insisted from the lecture dome, with a nod to Serena. “We have known for a thousand years.”
He lowered his voice so that all the members of the great hall grew quiet to hear him. He glared from face to face, then said, “Blinded by Tio Holtzman’s new defenses, we have ignored the old-fashioned final solution that has been in front of us all along.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the Balut Patriarch.
Near him, Iblis Ginjo sat with his arms folded across his chest, nodding as if he knew what was coming.
“Atomics,” Xavier said. The word fell hard and loud, like the detonation of a forbidden warhead. “A full and total bombardment with atomics. We can sterilize Earth, vaporizing every robot, every sentient machine, every gelcircuit.”
The uproar took only seconds to reach a crescendo, and Xavier shouted back into the clamor. “For more than a thousand years we have maintained our atomics. But they have always been meant as a last resort— doomsday weapons to destroy planets and obliterate life.” He jabbed a finger at the representatives. “We have sufficient warheads in our planetary stockpiles, but Omnius considers them an empty threat, because we’ve never dared to use them. It is time to surprise the thinking machines and make them regret their complacency.”
Using his priority as Viceroy, Manion Butler interjected, “The machines captured and tortured my daughter. They murdered a grandson who carried my own name, a boy neither I nor his own father ever got to meet.” The once-rotund man was much thinner now and stooped from weariness. His hair hung limp and unkempt, as if he usually slept badly. “The damned machines deserve the most terrible punishment we can mete out.”
The clamor continued, and finally, surprisingly, Serena Butler made her way to the speakers’ dome beside Xavier. “Earth is nothing more than a festering graveyard now, with evil thinking machines trampling through it. Every living human being there has already been slaughtered.” She drew a deep breath, her lavender eyes blazing. “What is left to preserve?What have we got to lose?”
Projected images flashed around the chamber as Serena continued. “The captive population of Earth rebelled, and they were killed for their effort. All of them!” Her voice thundered through every speaker in the hall. “Shall we allow that sacrifice to mean nothing? Should the thinking machines suffer no consequences?” She made a disgusted sound. “Or should Omnius pay?”
“But Earth is the birthplace of humanity!” gasped the acting Magnus of Giedi Prime. “How can we even contemplate such destruction?”
“And the rebellion on Earth has launched this Jihad,” Serena said. “We must spread news of this glorious uprising to other Synchronized Worlds, perhaps spark similar revolts on machine planets. But first we must eradicate the Omnius on Earth . . . no matter what it takes.”
“Can we afford to turn down such an opportunity?” Xavier Harkonnen said. “We have the atomics. We have Tio Holtzman’s new shields to protect our ships. We have the will of the people, who shout Serena Butler’s name in the streets. By God, we must do something now.”
“Yes,” Iblis said in an even voice that nevertheless cut across the murmurs. “It is by God that we must do this.”
The representatives were stunned and frightened, but no dissent rose. Finally, after a long, agitated silence, Viceroy Manion Butler demanded that the League of Nobles submit the question for a formal decision.
Somberly, the vote was taken . . . and passed by acclamation.
“It is decided, then. Earth, the ancient birthplace of humanity, will become the first tombstone of the thinking machines.”
Creativity follows its own rules.
— NORMA CENVA,
unpublished laboratory notes
In the laboratory tower overlooking the broad Isana, Norma Cenva stood at her cluttered workstation. New glowglobes bobbled in the air like ornaments over her head; she had not bothered to deactivate them, even though the dawn had grown bright. She didn’t want to interrupt her train of thought.
She pointed a pen-sized projection mechanism at a slanted table. Magnetically scribed sheets flipped silently through the air, blueprint films of a flagship-class ballista, the largest battleship in the League Armada.
Norma changed the setting on the handheld plan projector and swung the shimmering blueprint films out into the open room. She segregated one deck of the vessel and then walked into the enlarged holo-image, a stroll in which she made mental calculations for the shield-generator installation so that the small field radius would overlap for complete protection.
Savant Holtzman was off attending another public function, where he would no doubt celebrate his successes with false modesty. Of late, he had only worked with Norma for an hour or so in the mornings before flitting off to prepare for luncheon engagements, followed by evening banquets at Lord Bludd’s mansion. Eventually he would come to talk to her about the nobles and politicians he had met, as if he felt some need to impress her.
Norma actually didn’t mind the time alone and tried to do her work without complaint. Mostly Holtzman left her in peace to perform the calculations necessary to install overlapping shields on the largest Armada ships. The Savant claimed he did not have time to do it himself, and he no longer trusted his cadre of equation solvers.
Norma felt the weight of responsibility, knowing the League Armada had sent out the call to arms for a concerted armaggeddon strike on Earth. A massive unified force of diverse warships was already gathering at Salusa Secundus in preparation for launch.
Holtzman basked in his sudden inflated importance. To Norma, it seemed that the laboratory work should speak for itself, without all of the promotional frivolity. But she could never hope to understand the political circles in which he traveled, and she wanted to believe that he was doing his best for the war effort through contacts with important people.
In the meantime, her mind thought of many tangential things, in detail, and she followed the internal paths of inquiry, seeking answers. Even obliterating the evermind on Earth would still leave complete copies of Omnius elsewhere in the Synchronized Worlds. Could thinking machines suffer such a thing as a psychological blow? On the scale of the Synchronized Worlds, a single planet did not seem a substantial enough target, and her concern made it difficult to focus on the calculations. Like sparks of heat lightning jumping from cloud to cloud, her thoughts skittered to new possibilities, fresh ideas.
Under the martial law Lord Bludd had imposed after Bel Moulay’s slave uprising, Norma had felt increasingly isolated from her mentor. Two years ago, when she’d first received the summons to come to Poritrin, Tio Holtzman had been her role model and champion. Only gradually had she come to realize that, rather than simply appreciating her talent and employing it as a means of furthering their mutual goals, the scientist had become resentful of her.
Part of it was Norma’s own fault. Her insistent warnings about both the abortive alloy-resonance generator and the lasgun-shield test had turned him against her. But it didn’t seem fair for the Savant to dislike her just because she had been correct. Tio Holtzman seemed to place his own embarrassment above the furtherance of science.
She scratched her clumpy mouse-brown hair. What place did ego have in their work? In almost a year, none of his new concepts had amounted to anything.
By contrast, a certain project had been brewing in Norma’s thoughts for a long time. In her mind’s eye she saw the parts coming together, a grand design that would shake the foundations of the universe, theories and equations she could barely grasp. It would demand all of her energy and attention, and the potential benefits would rock the League even more than the development of personal shields.
Now Norma set aside the projected ballista diagram and stepped out of it, after using a holomarker to designate the point at which she had stopped her calculations. With her concentration freed, she could devote her efforts to matters of true importance. Her new idea excited her far more than shield calculations.
Inspiration, ever mysterious, had directed
her toward a revolutionary possibility. She could almost see it working on an immense, staggering scale. A chill ran down her spine.
Although she could not quite solve the problems associated with her concept, she felt in her bones that Holtzman’s field-equation breakthrough might be employed for something much more significant. While the scientist rested on his laurels and reveled in his success, Norma wanted to go in a new direction.
Having seen how the Holtzman Effect warped space in order to create a shield, she was convinced that the fabric of space itself could be folded, creating a shortcut across the universe. If such a feat could be accomplished, it might be possible to travel across vast distances in the wink of an eye, connecting two discrete points without regard to the separation between them.
Folding space.
But she could never develop such a stupendous concept with Tio Holtzman restraining her at every turn. Norma Cenva would have to work in secret. . . .
Quite obviously, our problems do not come from what we invent, but from how we use our sophisticated toys. The difficulties stem not from our hardware or software, but from ourselves.
— BARBAROSSA,
Anatomy of a Rebellion
In a thousand years, humanity had never assembled such a powerful, concentrated military force. From their separate space navies, each League World dispatched ships large and small: lumbering battleships, midsized cruisers, destroyers, escort ships, hundreds of large and small shuttles, thousands of kindjals and patrol craft. Many of them were armed with atomics . . . enough to sterilize Earth three times over.
Segundo Xavier Harkonnen was given command of the operation that had been his brainchild. Swelling with vessels and weapons and countless commanders from planetary defense systems, militias, and home guards, the unified Armada gathered at the orbital launch point above Salusa Secundus over the next three months. Prep crews emblazoned each vessel’s hull with the open-hand sigil of the League of Nobles.
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 59