“I obtain the information the Emperor requires.”
“But he doesn’t require you to kill them. In fact, their deaths are often inconvenient. Blanton Davido should not have died so quickly under your ques
History often distorts through a lens of fear. After disregarding the bombastic nonsense about General Agamemnon and the original Titans, I realize that those cymeks could have been great, if hubris had not destroyed them.
—PTOLEMY, Denali Laboratory Journals
The shimmer of sunlight on dunes dazzled Ptolemy as he emerged escape plan,” the robot saidirp the other from the landing vehicle. Yes, these wastelands of Arrakis would make an excellent testing bed for his new cymeks.
As Ptolemy had requested, their private VenHold craft had landed out in the open desert, bypassing the main spaceport so there would be no record of its presence. The Mentats at the Combined Mercantiles headquarters had made all the necessary arrangements. Directeur Venport intended to keep this work secret for now, but when Ptolemy finally unleashed the cymeks against Manford Torondo’s savages, everyone would tremble before these gigantic machines.
He felt a chill that the desert heat could not dispel. His mind filled with a wishful vision of the hateful rabble leader whimpering in terror as he watched the nightmarish mechanical walkers smashing his panicked barbarians and tossing their shattered bodies like bloody dolls.
He coughed, then attempted to cover the sound, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Directeur. Ptolemy’s lungs had not stopped aching and burning since his exposure to Denali’s atmosphere. The research facility’s doctors had performed a deep scan, verifying that he had suffered significant pulmonary scarring. They assured him that with treatment, he could regain his health. But his work was all that mattered to him, and he could not take time for the extensive cellular restructuring the treatment would require.
Inside the domed medical facility, Administrator Noffe had taken care of him for weeks, making sure his friend ate regularly and took his medication. Although Ptolemy did not like the way the inhalant dulled his thoughts, the pain had an even more adverse effect, distracting him from what he needed to do.…
Their craft rested on a safe ridge of rock that overlooked an ocean of dunes, where the test would take place. As wind whipped sand around, Ptolemy stood with the others, but alone with his thoughts, ignoring the conversation around him. He wished Elchan were there, but his friend could no longer speak to him, because he’d been murdered by the Butlerians.
“It takes a powerful weapon to pierce the armor of ignorance,” Ptolemy muttered.
“What did you say?” Directeur Venport turned from talking with his Mentat, Draigo Roget, who had accompanied them at the last minute. Venport had been preoccupied with business since his recent address to the Landsraad, but he was eager to witness the new cymek demonstration.
Ptolemy gave him a stiff smile. “Sorry, sir. I was distracted by minutiae. This is an important day for me.” He struggled to subdue another fit of coughing. This arid air exacerbated the pain in his damaged lungs.
“An important day for all of us,” said Draigo Roget.
Ptolemy paid little attention to broader politics in the Imperium; he focused only on his part of the game. He had been involved with the design of the new cymeks, modifying the mobility systems, neural linkages, and thoughtrode controls, including sensors implanted in his own body. With this enhanced connectivity, the new Titans were much improved from the old enemies of humanity. These cymeks with proto-Navigator brains could have torn General Agamemnon to shreds!
For much too long, Ptolemy had felt small and insignificant, powerless in the face of difficult events. With his new cymeks, he had changed. He felt mighty just thinking about his army. Technically, it was Directeur Venport’s army, but Ptolemy knew these cymeks better than anyone else did; no other person had his love for each mechanical walker, and for the disembodied, mutated brains that operated them.
Directeur Venport waited+ss s woman while a team of workers emerged from the shuttle to set up observation chairs so that he, Ptolemy, and the Mentat could watch the show.
Before the test began, Ptolemy explained, “Denali is a harsh place for humans, but cymek systems can withstand the poisonous air. Here on Arrakis, the extreme environment poses different challenges—the aridity, sand, static electricity, and uncertain ground.”
“And the sandworms,” Draigo added.
“We agree it’s a good place to test,” Venport said. “Now launch your cymeks. I want to see them in action. Give me your commentary as we watch.”
An armored cubical chamber gently dropped onto the sands at the base of the rocky ridge. Ptolemy had not wanted the cargo pod to land in the middle of the dunes, because the thump of its impact might attract a sandworm before he was ready. When he sent a signal from his remote, the pod walls separated and folded down like the petals of a flower.
Seven of the numerous new cymeks rose into ready positions on mechanical legs. These were the best and brightest, the ones selected for this demonstration. Standing high off the ground, all had high-powered engines, impenetrable armor film, and a suite of devastating weapons.
“These walker bodies comprise speed and agility as well as brute force.” Ptolemy lowered his voice, suddenly shy. “I’ve done my best to make them indestructible.”
“We’ll see about that,” Directeur Venport said.
The big machines marched away from the open cargo pod, testing the viscosity of the sand, analyzing the slope of the dunes. Ptolemy knew what the encased brains were thinking, since he had programmed the sensors himself. He had provided the proto-Navigators with all known data about Arrakis, including questionable accounts of the huge sandworms.
The black-garbed Mentat stood beside his observation seat, unable to relax. Draigo stared out at the sands where the heavy cymek walkers trudged along. “The vibrations of their feet could draw a worm. Are they ready for it?”
“The brains have been briefed, and the walkers are fully armed.”
Venport sat back in his chair, shading his eyes, watching the heavy machines tread across the dunes. After they assessed the terrain, they moved with grall. This is a
Every person can be manipulated—and all of us are, in one manner or another.
—wisdom of the Cogitors
The Mother Superior moved with surprising stealth for a woman of her age and frailty. She managed to startle Valya outside between two of the main school buildings. “I’ve been watching you closely, and you don’t seem saddened by your sister leaving.”
Valya calmed herself, kept her expression flat and unreadable. “She has been gone for weeks already, Mother Superior. I am not her keeper—and I am following your advice to control my emotions. I should not appear sad or disappointed that she made her own choice.”
Raquella seemed amused. “On the contrary, you seemed pleased by her departure—even eager to have her go. I find this odd, since you were the one who indoctrinated Tula into the Sisterhood. Do you consider her a failure now that she has given up on us?”
“No, Mother Superior—not a failure. And she hasn’t given up. Tula will succeed in whatever she attempts, though perhaps not in any way we anticipated. I have high hopes for her.”
Walking away from the main school grounds, the two women worked their way up a steep and rugged path along Laojin Cliff, a wooded hillside with an abrupt drop-off. It was the highest point in the vicinity, and Raquella liked to take the rugged walk at least once a week. The Mother Superior insisted on demonstrating that she was still physically and mentally fit to lead. Today, even Valya found it difficult to keep up with the Mother Superior’s pace.
“The loss of my brother Griffin was a tremendous blow,” Valya admitted as she kept up with Raquella. She cast her gaze down. “Having Tula back will make my parents and Danvis very happy.”
Raquella paused on the trail to give her a hard look. “You may be a Reverend Mother, but I can still read you. Are th
e goals of the Sisterhood paramount in your mind now? Above those of your family?”
Valya always felt uncomfortable trying to explain herself. “I have two families—House Harkonnen and the Sisterhood. I can be loyal to both.”
“A diplomatic answer, but potentially problematic.”
“I refuse to view the universe in simplistic terms.”
Raquella’s papery lips formed a genuine escape plan,” the robot saidusp the other smile. “Perhaps that suggests a future leadership role for you.”
Valya fought to control the surge of excitement. Certainly the Mother Superior realized that Valya was the best choice to follow as her successor, to continue rebuilding the school. Before she could press the issue, the old woman changed the subject. “I received a report from observers in the Imperial Palace. Sister Dorotea has made herself invaluable as Emperor Salvador’s Truthsayer, and he has allowed her to begin training her own new acolytes on Salusa.” She let out a long, rattling sigh. “The splinter group of orthodox Sisters will have no incentive to reunite with us. I had so hoped for…” She shook her head. “Dorotea is my own granddaughter.”
Sister Fielle approached from the ridge above, negotiating her way down the slope along a steep zigzag trail. When Raquella waved for the Sister Mentat to join them, Valya was disappointed to lose an important private moment with the Mother Superior. Nevertheless, she shifted her thoughts, concentrated on solidifying her efforts to make Fielle an ally.
The young Sister Mentat shared greetings, giving Valya an unreadable smile, and the three fell into step together on the trail, with Raquella setting the pace to continue the climb. The Sister Mentat didn’t seem to mind returning uphill the way she had come.
Valya continued the discussion with some urgency, expecting Fielle to take her side. “Our faction is stronger than Dorotea’s, Mother Superior. We are the better organization with a greater long-term vision.” She controlled the intensity in her voice. “We can also work on Truthsaying abilities here among ourselves, and I’ll redouble our training in new combat techniques.” She hadn’t told the Mother Superior about her experimental new voice control. “We’re in a war for our very survival, and
Success is a matter of definitions. What is victory? What is wealth? What is power?
—DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, VenHold internal memo
Over the years, the scientists on Denali had sent Josef Venport numerous exuberant proposals, many of which had seemed absurd and unobtainable. New shield generators, thoughtrode interfaces, mob stunners, atomic pulse-flashes, even mechanical “cricket” saboteurs.
Not wanting to place limitations on his remote think tank, he told Administrator Noffe to encourage imagination in all its forms, so long as it led to developments that could inflict harm on the Butlerians.
But this was more than he had ever hoped for.
Josef, Draigo, and Ptolemy sat under the bright desert sun watching seven mechanical walkers guided by Navigator brains. He was already impressed with what Ptolemy had produced. The fearsome machines moved with remarkable swiftness and ease. Josef smiled: Results such as this justified the fortune he had poured into the Denali research facility.
Now he had his own Titans.
His great-grandmother had been tor+ere m2Itured by one of the ancient Titans, and that ordeal had transformed Norma Cenva into more than a human being. Her husband, Aurelius Venport, had devoted his life to fighting the cymeks. How ironic that Josef Venport was responsible for creating a new group of Titans that were even more powerful than their predecessors.
Ptolemy touched his earadio. “Still no sign of a worm.”
“Maybe the creatures are afraid,” Josef said.
“I doubt sandworms know fear, Directeur,” Draigo said. “From the vibrations, the creatures would have no way of knowing these cymeks were different from a spice factory. And we were anticipating that the Holtzman field from the shields would madden at least one worm.”
“I was being facetious, Mentat.”
At last, a ripple rolled along under the sand, casting it up like the crest of a wave. The great worm plowed through a succession of dunes as if they were no thicker than air, moving with the speed of a projectile fired from a weapon.
Josef rose out of his observation chair. “What a monster!” Beside him, Draigo’s dark eyes widened as he drank in details. Ptolemy looked both awed and terrified.
It seemed that the theories about the effect of shields on the creatures might prove correct after all.
The enraged sandworm exploded upward. As the huge maw came out of the sand, dust sheeted off its curved segments.
Inside their preservation canisters, the proto-Navigator brains did not panic. Having researched the behavior of sandworms, they positioned the walker bodies in a precise attack configuration, as if this were a military drill. Three of the cymeks switched off their shields and bounded away like jumping spiders.
The worm slammed down like a battering ram, but the agile cymeks sprang in opposite directions, their movements carefully coordinated, as if the brains were telepathically linked. Even from the distant outcropping Josef could feel the tremors as the monster dove under the sand.
Scuttling to the dune tops for a better strategic position, the seven cymeks launched artillery, hammering the sandworm’s segmented body with explosion after explosion. So much dust, sand, and smoke boiled into the air that Josef could barely see.
The worm rose up again, thrashing about like an unchecked high-pressure hose. It slammed into one of the cymeks and knocked the machine body into the air, then scooped downward to swallow one of the other cymeks, Hok Evander, who was still protected by a shimmering shield.
In his observation chair, Ptolemy let out a groan as the struggling cymek vanished down the creature’s gullet. Josef was surprised at his lack of objectivity. “This is a test, Dr. Ptolemy. One must expect losses.”
The remaining five Titans redoubled their attack, shooting flames, lasbeams, and exploding shells. Although several of the worm’s armored segments looked ragged and damaged, the attack only enraged the beast. It lifted itself up and then crashed down on top of two more cymeks, smashing them into the sand. The behemoth was so massive that even the walkers’ enhanced armor could not protect them.
The last three Titans spread out equidistant from the worm and continued to attack. The creature let out a rumbling groan like exhaust from a starship engine.
Then, oddly, its serpentine form bulged and swelled, as if repeated detonations were occurring from its interior. A dark stain appeared on the ring segments, then smoke spurted out from a widening wound. Sizzling chemicals dri+ych womanpped down its tough hide.
From within the worm’s digestive tract, the swallowed Titan, still shielded, unleashed explosives and deadly acid to cut its way out. The es earlier, we c
Human imagination is a powerful thing. It can be a sanctuary from difficult times, a catalyst to change society, or the impetus to create marvelous works of art. On the other hand, an overabundance of imagination can inspire paranoia that impairs one’s ability to interact with reality.
—Suk School Manual, Psychological Studies
Erasmus said into Anna’s ear, “Do you like my voice? It should sound familiar.”
She paused, hesitated, then gasped. “Hirondo! My darling, is that you?”
The robot was pleased that he had matched it closely enough, and Anna Corrino’s imagination smoothed over any inaccuracies. The Mentat School had access to many records, but without large computer databases, Erasmus had experienced difficulty finding what he needed. Finally, he’d discovered a small report about the scandal at the Imperial Court in which a palace chef had disgraced the Emperor’s sister with their affair. The report had included no more than a snippet of audio—a panicked Hirondo protesting his innocence—which gave Erasmus little to work with. Also, the stress in the young man’s voice had changed the timbre. Erasmus did his best to adjust the pitch.
“I can be part of your m
emories of Hirondo.” Erasmus spoke in the false voice, trying to manufacture a soothing tone. “I will always be here, right beside you, inside your mind. I’ll never leave you … so you can tell me everything.”
Erasmus was going to enjoy this. And he actually found it … pleasing?… that she responded with such joy. After her ordeal with the sapho-unleashed memories, he found it fascinating to pretend to console her, as a necessary part of satisfying his own curiosity. He could learn many details of humanity from her, a different perspective from what he had learned from Gilbertus over many years, but the next step would be even better, a technological enhancement that would give him a closer, and permanent, connection with her.
The independent robot had spread his tendrils throughout the Mentat School complex, extending his reach even though he had no physical body. Thanks to the many thinking-machine specimens that had been stored in a sealed vault “for study,” Erasmus had raw materials for his use. Over a long, slow period, he had subtly utilized deactivated combat meks, along with isolated computer minds and automated devices, all of which he used to construct hundreds of miniature drone robots.
The first one was the size of a human hand; in turn, that device built a smaller machine, which then constructed an even smaller mechanism. Finally, the drone robots were able to use near-microscopic scraps to reproduce perfect miniaturized copies of themselves. With very little computing power, the drones merely followed the guidance+afp the other Erasmus transmitted, and they did amazing work threading conduits throughout the buildings, implanting spy-eyes, diverting power and expanding invisible power grids, even dropping tracers onto insects and swamp creatures so that his observation network expanded into the tangled sangroves.
His masterpiece was a tiny implanted device, a new spy-eye and listening device, a tiny silver robot the size of Anna’s smallest fingertip. It didn’t look like a robot at all, but a beautiful insect.
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