Now the rest of her team followed Valya down the sloping passage to the underground cenote chamber. The access tunnels had been widened by generations of the Misborn, outcasts from the cliff city who lived in isolation around the underground pools. The Misborn were gone now, having died out in the generations since the end of the Jihad.
Valya removed her night-vision goggles and switched on a bright illuminator. Overhead, the thick, hairy roots of trees penetrated through the ceiling, dangling down like lost ropes. Water dripped and echoed in the tunnels.
Valya remembered the route; she counted her steps, then looked to her right and found a narrow, chest-high opening. She pointed the illuminator beam, revealing a rock tunnel. “This should be the place.”
The other Sisters pressed close, ready to help. Valya looked at Olivia, summoned a sense of command, and altered her voice into a lower, more throaty range. She had been observing Olivia, assessing her, learning her weak points that could be manipulated. Setting the pitch of her voice, she said, “Crawl in there and verify that the components are intact.”
She had been practicing a new technique she had discovered since becoming a Reverend Mother, a way of influencing people by utilizing her voice to manipulate that person’s will. Now she was pleased by how effective the command was against even a Sister Mentat. “Crawl in there.” It was like an invisible push.
Olivia froze for an instant, and then, as if an unseen hand pushed her, she sprang into the tunnel opening. She seemed startled by her reflexive reaction and cried out in alarm, then recovered and proceeded into the passage, crawling along. When she saw Olivia’s response, Valya felt a giddy sense of power.
She analyzed what she had done, trying to memorize the compulsion she had put into her voice. It seemed boosted by the power of Other Memory she carried within herself—she’d noticed that the throaty sound of her compelling Voice bore certain similarities to the cacophony of Other Memory she heard in her mind, a low rumble of background noise from those ancestral females. She could enhance her compulsion with nuances tailored to what she knew of Olivia. And the woman responded as expected.
Valya+prp mme smiled, knowing she had to practice this further. This would bear greater study.
Olivia crawled into the darkness until she had the presence of mind to activate her own illuminator. In a breathless voice, she called back, “The containers are here, the components still sealed in polymer sheets.”
Valya felt a sense of relief, but wanted to hurry. Trying to summon her commanding voice again, but without as strong an effect this time, she spoke to two of her commandos, Sisters Ulia and Stancy. She added a little push to see what would happen. “Help Olivia move the components. Bring them all out with extreme care. Then we’ll load them in the suspensor bins and make our way back to the shuttle. We can be gone by sunrise.”
Standing back, Valya watched while the other Sisters did the work of retrieving the computers. She took inventory, keeping track of each component.
The Sisters emerged, smeared with dirt and spores, and moved the components up the passage to the suspensor bins. The team members spoke in hushed whispers, not out of fear of Imperial detection, but because the cenote chamber seemed to hold eerie memories.
Is anything truly as we perceive it? What are the filters to our perception? The most honest among us will look deeply to examine how our opinions are skewed by our own delusions.
—training of the Orthodox Sisterhood
To celebrate the symbolic triumph of humans over thinking machines—no matter that it was just a pyramid chess game—Salvador Corrino had scheduled a parade through the capital city of Zimia. He would sit in an ornate open carriage pulled by four spirited golden lions and listen to the cheers of the crowd.
He had the uneasy feeling, though, that they would be cheering for Manford Torondo, not him. The Butlerian leader had brought out his intense, fanatical followers, and they were already crowding the streets. How could there be so many of them in Salvador’s own capital city?
Manford rode beside the Emperor on a specially designed seat in the carriage, so that both of them could wave to the bright-eyed throngs on each side of the street. With a clang and a clatter, the remnants of the defeated combat mek were dragged along behind the royal carriage, like the corpse of an overthrown tyrant. For security, uniformed Imperial troops marched behind the carriage.
Oddly, the legless Butlerian leader had already been in his seat when Salvador climbed into the carriage. Other than an indecipherable nod and a mild expression, Manford had not communicated with Salvador as the procession got under way. The legless man showed no deference toward the Imperial Presence, merely waved to the throngs in a stiff, robotic manner.
Suspicious, the Emperor studied Manford more closely. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His features, his eyes, even the way he sat …
Sensing the scrutiny, the legless man looked back at him. “Is my makeup credible?”
“Makeup? What do you mean?”
“I am told my resemblance to Leader Torondo is quite striking. And you, too—most convincing!” The man blinked at him. “Let’s not fool each other. We understand our roles. I’m not the real Manford Torondo, and you cannot be the true Emperor Salvador. For the safety of our holy leaders, you and I must accept the public risk in their stead.”
Feeling his face burn, Salvador said, “You’re Manford’s double?”
The false Manford continued to wave at the crowds, drinking in the cheers. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “You are an excellent substitute. Even your voice is perfect.”
“This is an outrage!” Salvador half rose from his seat, then remembered to keep smiling and waving as the lions plodded along. “I am the real Corrino Emperor!”
The man in the seat beside him looked astonished. “Truly? Well, Sire, then this is quite an honor. You are very brave to face the threat of assassination so openly. I do my best not to show any fear, for Leader Torondo’s sake.” The man+ across the Titansit beamed with pride. “His previous double died horribly from poison, but maybe I’ll be more fortunate.”
Salvador was aghast, but embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of the idea himself. He couldn’t take his eyes from the double, whose legs were clearly missing. The impostor noticed his attention. “Yes, it was necessary for me to have my legs amputated. Otherwise my disguise would have been unconvincing.” He smirked, finding humor in his situation.
“You … did that voluntarily?”
“Of course. Leader Torondo asked it of me. A small sacrifice on my part for the greater glory of the human soul.” He gazed out at the burgeoning crowds. “And I keep a great man safe so he can continue his work, regardless of the numerous threats against him.” Seeing Salvador’s alarm, the fake Manford tried to sound reassuring. “I’m sure there’s nothing to fear today, Sire. You have a goodly number of your soldiers providing security along the parade route.”
The Emperor mopped cold perspiration from his forehead. “Don’t say another word to me.” Now he imagined wild assassins in the crowd, and he wanted to bolt from the carriage and run for his life … but that would cause him great public embarrassment. He would have to complete this procession. His pulse pounded, but the Manford double did not seem concerned. Salvador wished that in retaliation for this trick he could turn the real Butlerian leader over to Quemada for a few questions.
As Emperor, Salvador was the leader of all humanity, and if the Butlerian leader needed a double, then the Emperor should have one, too … and Roderick as well. If anything happened to his brother, Salvador would never be able to rule the Imperium alone. Either the Butlerians would run roughshod over him with unreasonable mob demands, or Josef Venport would insist on unconscionable concessions to benefit his powerful industries.
Salvador was caught between these two mortal enemies—each inflexible and both focused on their respective passions. Although he and Roderick had close business and political relations
hips with Venport Holdings, the Corrinos had also made concessions to the mad Butlerians. The situation was a powder keg waiting to explode.
At Manford’s demand, the Emperor had formed a Committee of Orthodoxy to monitor and judge technology throughout the Imperium. The Butlerians provided a list of unacceptable items—a list that always changed, and never grew shorter. Salvador had to accept the list or rabid mobs would storm the capital city and bring him down.
Meanwhile, most of the ships in the Imperial Armed Forces were carried to their destinations aboard VenHold spacefolders, in a service provided at low cost with great safety. The VenHold Spacing Fleet was clearly the superior alternative.
Fortunately for Emperor Salvador, Manford Torondo and Josef Venport hated each other. Maybe they would neutralize each other—so long as the conflict didn’t take Salvador down with it.
Beside him, with sparkling eyes and a vapid smile, the false Manford continued to bask in applause. The throng was a mass of faces and expressions, generating rolling swells of noise.
Finally, to Salvador’s relief, the Imperial carriage completed its celebratory procession and headed back to the golden-domed Hall of Parliament. With an uncomfortable glance at the legless double, he slipped out of the carriage without waiting for his military guards or entourage and hurried into the building, while his liveried attendants tried to keep up with him.
His brother+swre the , Roderick, waited for him on the staircase that led to the second-story balcony from which Salvador was expected to deliver a speech. Still hearing the murmur of crowd noise from the streets outside, the Emperor tried to control his breathing. His brother raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
Salvador told him about Manford’s double. “That bastard kept himself safe and hidden, but allowed me to face the risk of assassins!” His nostrils flared. Outside, the crowd sounded restless, as if slipping out of control. “Find me my own double, Roderick—without delay. Oh, and you should find one for yourself as well. If anything happened to you—”
“I’ll begin the process.” Roderick’s voice was soothing and steady, and Salvador felt calmer just to have his brother’s strong presence at his side. “Right now, the crowds are expecting to see you. And if you don’t deliver a speech, Manford will probably talk without you. He’s already there riling them up.”
When they reached the balcony, the real Butlerian leader sat in his harness on the Swordmaster’s shoulders, as if ready for battle. Two Reverend Mothers from the Imperial Court stood in the shadows off to the side: his personal Truthsayer, Dorotea, and the soft and pudgy Sister Woodra—both ardent Butlerian adherents. Headmaster Gilbertus Albans, looking out of place and uncomfortable with all the attention, stood behind them. Because he had defeated the mek in the pyramid chess game, the Mentat Headmaster was required to be present for the celebration.
As soon as he saw Salvador arrive, Manford nudged Anari Idaho, and she stepped out onto the balcony where the crowd could see him. Without even waiting for the Emperor to join him—exactly as Roderick had warned—he raised his hands, and his gesture was like flinging fuel onto a fire. The roar of applause was deafening.
The Emperor felt a sinking sensation. Beside him, Roderick paused and showed clear distaste for the Butlerian leader’s disrespect for the Emperor.
From his perch on top of Anari’s shoulders, Manford raised his voice for the crowd and gestured back toward Salvador. “Our Emperor has joined us! All hail Salvador Corrino the First!”
Buoyed by all the obvious enthusiasm, Salvador stepped into view. Yes, they were shouting for him now, because the crowd was packed with Butlerians, and Manford had told them to applaud. He noted that the real Manford’s voice was distinctly different from the double’s, filled with the familiar charisma.
Before the Emperor could speak, Manford shouted out, “Our Mentat defeated a terrible thinking machine, just as the faithful will defeat evil technology in all its forms. Never forget! You have earned the right to celebrate destruction, because that destruction gained us our freedom.” His smile had a wild, uncontrolled edge. “On behalf of the Emperor, I announce another rampage festival here in Zimia! Rejoic bloodlines fr
There is strength in numbers, a raw and primal power. But as a crowd grows and grows, its ability to reason diminishes.
—GILBERTUS ALBANS, Mentat School records
The rampage festival swelled out of hand through the evening, and fires burned in three parts of the city. In the midst of it all, Manford Torondo and his Swordmaster seemed complacent, as if they bore no responsibility for what was happening.
Roderick was dismayed to see that Imperial troops were completely ineffective at quelling the chaotic energy. Though numerous, the soldiers and the Zimia security force had no capable leadership, and the swift rush of violence took them by surprise; when they hesitated to fire upon the crowd, they were either shoved aside or trampled. The turbulence of a mob that had no coordinated goal dispersed the stationed troops.
Even the military officers did not know how to react to the unexpected storm of feral energy. Roderick had told his brother repeatedly that the Imperial Armed Forces needed better leaders and better organization; now, upon seeing how poorly the troops performed, he felt determined to crack down. First, though, this mindless vandalism had to be brought under control.
And this was a celebration, not even a mob driven by anger.
Roderick worried about his wife and children, who could be out there if they had come to watch the victory procession. But he could do nothing about it except to send messages for guards to find them. He knew his priority was to protect the Emperor. As the violence inten+hi Mentatoperationsified, Roderick arranged for his brother to go into hiding in a private underground network of tunnels constructed centuries ago, during a time of frequent cymek raids. Empress Tabrina was taken to a different hiding place, because Salvador had no desire to be sealed up with her.
While mayhem continued in the city above, Roderick and a contingent of elite guards led Salvador through the puzzle box of combinations and security systems that allowed access to the secret tunnels. “They’re burning my city, Roderick!”
Roderick tried to keep his brother calm. “I have dispatched troops to protect important buildings and summoned soldiers from our orbiting battleships to impose order.” He knew, though, that the guards were in chaos, many of them unresponsive; he wouldn’t be surprised if some of them had been killed. Quite a few had certainly abandoned their posts. “It’s hard to strategize against a mob that has no logical plan.”
The Emperor paused at the steel sliding wall as a thought occurred to him. “And your family, Roderick? Have them brought down here where they’ll be protected.”
“I sent word, but they haven’t been found yet.” Roderick fought against the knot in his stomach, remembering how his children always loved the spectacle of a good parade. “As soon as I’m sure that you’re safe, I’ll get back out there and find them myself, if I have to.”
At first, Salvador didn’t want his brother to leave, but he steeled himself and gave a brave nod. “I’ll be fine. Go now—I am counting on you to save Zimia!”
Leaving the Emperor with guards in the deep tunnels, Roderick hurried back to an emergency command post in the palace. When he reached his secondary office, he was surprised to find Headmaster Albans there, offering to help. Roderick paused, suspecting a trick. Wasn’t Albans a known ally of Leader Torondo? But the Headmaster, normally a cool and logical man, looked shaken by the Butlerian violence. Seeing the expression on the bespectacled Mentat’s face, Roderick ushered him into the private room and closed the door.
They could hear the crowd noises from outside. By the light of distant fires visible through the office windows, he glimpsed a crude clay sculpture on his desk—he thought it was supposed to be a puppy—that Nantha had made for him. Roderick felt a new pang of fear and hoped that Haditha and their children were safely clear of the uproar by now.
He turned to the Me
ntat, barely controlling his anger at the unnecessary destruction. “You offered to help, Headmaster? If you know of a way to stop this violence, I am eager to hear it. Tell Leader Torondo to command them to stop, or has he gone into protective hiding?”
The Mentat frowned. “He is among his people—that makes him safe. But he will not tell them to stop … because I believe he fears they won’t listen.” He removed his round eyeglasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back on. “Prince Roderick, I believe you are a man of honor, or I would not be here. If I suggest how you might end this rampage, you must promise never to reveal who offered the solution, not even to the Emperor—and especially not to Manford Torondo.”
“Why not?”
“Manford is demonstrating the power he can unleash. He’s doing it to frighten the Emperor, and I suspect it won’t be long before he makes even more extreme demands.” He lowered his voice. “If he learns I worked with you to quell the violence, he would kill me, and his escape plan,” the robot said t. p followers would raze my school on Lampadas.”
Roderick narrowed his gaze, not understanding the Mentat’s motivations. This man had just performed before the court, defeating a combat mek in a game to stroke Butlerian pride. And Manford had commanded the festival—wasn’t this what Gilbertus wanted? But Roderick’s primary responsibility was to restore peace and stability in Zimia. “I will hold your advice in confidence, Mentat. How do we extinguish this mob?”
“The violence will die down in the night as people return to their homes, but some Butlerians plan to incite another rampage early tomorrow morning.”
Roderick felt a flush of new anger. “Which followers, and where are they? We need to arrest them.”
“You will never find them.” Gilbertus shook his head. “No, this requires a different tactic, a trap. You must choose three outlying towns you are willing to sacrifice. I will initiate a rumor that stockpiles of preserved thinking machines are being kept in those towns—perhaps hidden by Directeur Venport himself. That is sure to drive the mob into an even greater fervor.”
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