Istian focused on the second intact battle machine. It raised two artillery arms, but he ran forward faster than it could reset its aimpoint. The two arms launched their explosives after he had passed into its blind spot. The shells exploded, leaving a smoking crater a meter behind Istian. Then he was inside its vulnerable zone.
The combat machine retracted its artillery arms and extruded bladed weapons instead, stabbing appendages that flailed about like sharp pincers. Istian parried them, letting his thoughts flow, trying to feel the guidance of Jool Noret’s spirit within him. When Istian could not detect the presence, he thought, Why are you silent?
For the first time, Istian fought without thinking, without fear of injury or pain. Before he even realized what he was doing, three of the machine’s sharp-bladed arms fell to the side, drooping like withered willows.
For good measure, Istian struck the pulse-sword against the lowered artillery arms to prevent the robot from firing projectiles at the fanatical spectators who surged forward as if they wanted to help fight the enemy with their bare hands. If the Martyrists got too close, Istian knew they would be massacred.
Yowling like a wild man, Trig was already battering the last combat robot. The machine flailed its arms, attempting to use a different set of weapons. Clearly it was on the defensive, unprepared for the unfettered fury of this berserk fighter. Watching him, Istian thought with a sadness in his heart that Nar Trig should have been the one in whom the spirit of Jool Noret was reborn.
Gritting his teeth, he fought harder.
One of the mek’s cutting arms slashed him in the shoulder, and a second blade sliced across his chest. But Istian bent backward, flexing at an amazing angle so that the serrated edge traced only a thin line of blood across his sternum as the weapons arm swept past.
Istian bounced back like a released spring. His pulse-sword, also at its highest setting, slammed into the armored torso of the combat machine. He released a pulse that drained the rest of his battery, a full-fledged surge that paralyzed the fighting robot’s mobile systems, leaving its arms and legs dead, its artillery deactivated, and only its head swiveling back and forth, helpless.
Trig struck his own opponent’s neck column, hammering down in a shower of sparks that made the mek jitter and thrash. He slammed the weapon home again with enough force to break the tubing and support pipes, and finally snapped off the encased armored head. The heavy body drooped, dead.
Feeling the wash of adrenaline leave him like a tangible presence— could it have been the spirit of Jool Noret?— Istian slumped, letting his drained pulse-sword clatter to the floor. His exhausted muscles trembled. Beside him, Trig paced like a caged Salusan tiger looking for another enemy.
Before they could turn back to the first paralyzed combat robot, whose head still swiveled back and forth on its deactivated body, the angry Martyrists surged forward. They carried their own weapons, cudgels, sledgehammers, prybars. As a mob, they vented their fury against the three defeated fighting machines, swinging and crushing, shouting as they battered the murderous meks into collapsed hulks.
Sparks flew; components were torn loose. Processing units were smashed, gelcircuitry modules pried free and splattered on the warehouse’s hard floor. The mob did not stop until, after a long and great clamor, they had pounded the shrapnel into unrecognizable wreckage.
“We can use those metals,” the military administrator said brightly. “The Martyrists have already begun a program of using scrap from destroyed thinking machines to make our building materials, agricultural tools, and carpentry supplies. The ancient scriptures tell us that swords must be beaten into plowshares.”
“It is not enough just to defeat the minions of the evermind,” Nar Trig agreed, his voice deep. “Victory will be sweeter if we can turn them to our own advantage.”
“Like Chirox,” Istian pointed out. His partner did not respond.
I have imagined what it would be like to be Omnius, and the far-reaching decisions I might make in his position.
— Erasmus Dialogues
Despite Rekur Van’s promises, the new version of Serena Butler was a great disappointment. Another accelerated clone, another misstep.
Erasmus hoped the damage to the Serena experiment was not irreparable. Using preserved cells brought as a bargaining chip when he’d fled the League, the Tlulaxa captive tried again and again to re-create the woman, but he always encountered the same problem. The smuggled cells carried only her genetic makeup— not her, not her essence. The secret wasn’t in the cells, but in the soul— as Serena might have said.
And now the limbless flesh merchant petulantly refused to tend to the other clones being grown.
Perhaps it had something to do with his frustration over the reptilian regeneration experiments. After a promising start, the bony growths on both of Rekur Van’s shoulders had fallen off, leaving infected patches of raw, oozing skin. The Tlulaxa had found this most upsetting, and his mood contributed to his failings on the Serena matter. To straighten out the mess, Erasmus adjusted medications to keep Van focused on important matters, and to give him selective amnesia. It required constant modification and attention.
I mustn’t mix experiments, the robot thought.
Now, as he faced the counterfeit Serena in his immaculate gardens, Erasmus hoped for some flicker of recognition, even fear, in her lavender eyes. Gilbertus remained dutifully at his side. “She looks exactly like all the archival images, Father,” the man pointed out.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Erasmus said, selecting from his store of appropriate clichés. “She matches human standards of beauty, but that is insufficient. This is not… what I am looking for.”
With his perfect memory, the robot could replay every conversation he’d had with the real Serena Butler. Thus, he could relive the numerous debates they’d had during her time as his special slave on Earth. But Erasmus wanted new experiences from her, continued understanding, an appropriate counterpoint to the excellent insights he gained from Gilbertus.
No, this new Serena clone simply would not do at all.
She was as bland and uninteresting as his other human specimens, containing none of the memories and sheer stubbornness that Erasmus relished. She had been accelerated to maturity, but without the commensurate education of experiences.
“She appears equivalent to my apparent age,” Gilbertus said. Why was he so interested?
The real Serena Butler had been raised in the League of Nobles where she’d learned to believe interesting foolishness, such as her human superiority and the innate rights of freedom and love. Erasmus regretted that he had not appreciated Serena’s uniqueness as much as he should have. Now it was too late.
“You do not know me, do you?” he asked the new clone.
“You are Erasmus,” she answered, but her voice held no spark.
“I suspected that was all you would say,” he answered, knowing what he must do. He disliked having reminders of mistakes where he could see them.
“Please don’t destroy her, Father,” Gilbertus said.
The robot turned, automatically fashioning a puzzled expression on his face.
“Allow me to speak with her, teach her. Recall that when you took me from the slave pens, I was uneducated, wild, a blank slate that showed none of my potential. Perhaps with care and patience I can… salvage something.”
Suddenly Erasmus understood. “You find Serena Butler attractive!”
“I find her interesting. From what you have told me about the original Serena, would she not be a suitable companion to me? A mate perhaps?”
The robot had not expected this, but he found the new permutation of purpose intriguing. “I should have thought of that myself. Yes, my Mentat, make your best attempt.”
Studying the female clone, Gilbertus suddenly looked intimidated, as if he had accepted a challenge too large for him.
The robot gave his support. “Even if the experiment fails, I still have you, Gilbertus. I could never wish
for a better test subject— or companion.”
* * *
IN ORDER TO better study human preferences, Erasmus had designed a number of muscle-enhancement machines for Gilbertus, some simple in their application and some much more difficult. Gilbertus was a perfect specimen, both physically and mentally, and Erasmus wanted to keep his ward in peak condition. Like a well-tuned machine, the human body required maintenance.
After so many extensive workout programs, Gilbertus had become a prime example of the flawless male physique. When a human used his muscular components, his strength improved; when a robot used mechanical components, they began to wear down. An odd, but fundamental difference.
While Erasmus watched, the man effortlessly ran for kilometers on a treadway while curling weights and performing upper body exercises with resistance force fields. His mind was incredibly compartmentalized to manage such a complex feat. On a typical day Gilbertus would use more than thirty grueling workout stations without much rest and only water to drink.
Since the routine was time-consuming, Erasmus said, “While you push your physical abilities, you can also be honing your mental skills, my Mentat. You should be improving your memory, practicing calculations, solving riddles.”
Gilbertus paused, breathing hard. Sweat glistened on his brown hair as he formed an expression that the robot identified as puzzlement. “I am doing exactly that, Father. While I work my body I work my mind. I go through countless calculations, projections, and equations, each of them providing new insights that are not available to common thinkers.” He paused, added, “This is what you have made me… or what I am leading you to believe that you made of me.”
“You are not capable of deceiving me. What purpose could you possibly have in doing that?”
“You have taught me humans are not to be trusted, Father, and I took your lesson to heart. I do not even trust myself.”
Gilbertus had been his ward for nearly seven decades, and Erasmus could not imagine the man might secretly turn against the thinking machines. He would have sensed an alteration in Gilbertus’s mood, and Omnius would have observed evidence of such a betrayal— his watcheyes were everywhere.
The robot worried that if Omnius ever formulated such suspicions, he would suggest that the safest course was to eliminate Gilbertus before he had a chance to cause damage. Erasmus had to make certain the evermind never experienced those doubts.
Omnius challenged me to make a feral child into an intelligent and civilized being, Erasmus thought. Gilbertus has surpassed even my most extravagant expectations. He makes me think of things I had never considered before. He makes me feel affection for him in ways I could not have conceived without him.
Gilbertus switched to performing force-field pull-ups and simultaneous lower-body exercises. As the robot watched, he recalled that Gilbertus had already expressed distaste for the deadly RNA retrovirus plague that was even now starting to spread among the League Worlds. What if he decided to help his own species… instead of Erasmus?
The situation will bear watching. The robot realized that he himself was exhibiting a very human trait himself: paranoia. Thinking is not always reality. There must be a connection, documented evidence that establishes a linkage between suspicion and fact.
A common problem that had long troubled human researchers was how an observer’s presence affected an experiment. Erasmus had long ago stopped being an objective eyewitness to Gilbertus’s progress. Did his surrogate son behave a certain way in order to prove something to his robot mentor? Were these extravagant physical exercises a way to flaunt his superiority? Was Gilbertus really more rebellious in his attitude than he revealed?
Though troubling, this line of thought was so much more complex and interesting than the bland Serena clones. Did Gilbertus intend to teach her to become his ally?
Finally, the man swung off his exercise machine, did a double back flip in the air, and landed squarely on his feet. “I was wondering, Father,” he said, hardly even breathing hard, “does using an exercise machine make me more like a machine?”
“Research that question and give me your analysis.”
“I suspect it does not have a definitive answer. We could argue it one way and another.”
“A perfect topic of discussion, then. I always enjoy our discussions.” Erasmus still had lengthy, esoteric debates with the Corrin-Omnius, but he preferred spending time with Gilbertus. On a certain level, Gilbertus was the more interesting of the two, though it would not be beneficial for Erasmus to point that out to the evermind.
The robot changed the subject. “Our surveillance probes should soon return with images showing the results of the initial plague deployment.”
Finished with his workout, Gilbertus peeled off his clothes as he strode to the shower bay. The robot scanned, analyzed, and admired the naked physique while standing far enough away to keep his plush robe from being drenched in the spray.
“Yorek Thurr will no doubt be pleased with all the death and misery,” Gilbertus said while scrubbing himself. “He enjoys being a traitor to his species. He has no conscience.”
“Machines have no conscience either. Do you consider that a failing?”
“No, Father. However, since Thurr is a human, I should be able to comprehend his behavior.” Standing in the pounding warm water, Gilbertus lathered his thick black hair. “I believe, however, that I finally know how to explain Thurr’s actions, after reading so many ancient human records.” He grinned. “Quite simply, he is crazy.”
Gilbertus rinsed his body, then shut off the water, standing cool and refreshed. “Clearly, the immortality treatment he demanded as a price for his services has made his mind unstable. Perhaps he was too old. Perhaps the operation was flawed.”
“Or perhaps I intentionally applied the treatment… inadequately,” Erasmus said, surprised that Gilbertus had come to such a subtle conclusion. “Perhaps I felt he did not deserve such a reward, and even now he does not know exactly what was done to him.” The robot’s flowmetal face formed a small grin. “Still, you must admit that his plague idea was quite good. It adequately meets our needs for victory without causing undue damage.”
“As long as some of us survive.” Gilbertus toweled off and found a clean garment waiting for him.
“Especially you. I have taught you to be extremely efficient, with a highly organized mind, able to remember and analyze facts in a computer-like fashion. If other humans could learn such skills, they might coexist better with machines.”
“Maybe I could be better than machine or man,” Gilbertus mused.
Is that what he aspires to? I shall consider his remark at length.
The two of them walked out of the exercise building.
Machines are neither more nor less than we make them.
— RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL,
Essays from the Edge of Consciousness
Agamemnon, Juno, and Dante soared along in immense warrior bodies. The general felt exhilarated to be planning a military assault again, seizing a place far from Richese where they would be safe from Omnius’s dull-witted machine marauders. A place where they could regroup, grow stronger, and plan the next phase of their new cymek empire.
The three Titans were accompanied by a large force of neo-cymek battleships, each an extension of a single human brain with thoughtrode connections. All of these neos professed their loyalty with great enthusiasm, especially since they knew Agamemnon could activate selective termination switches and kill any of them on a whim. Still, he felt confident enough in their allegiance and dedication. Once their brains had been removed from biological bodies, what else were the neo-cymeks to do?
After abandoning Richese, the swarm of ferocious-looking ships converged upon the frozen planetoid of Hessra, where the Ivory Tower Cogitors had isolated themselves for many centuries.
“According to our projections, there should be no defenses here,” Dante said. “The Cogitors pretend not to participate in any outside activities. They sim
ply hide and think.”
Juno made a derisive, guttural sound. “They can pretend all they like, but the Cogitors were never as neutral as they claimed to be. They’ve always had a meddling finger inserted somewhere.”
“As b-ba-bad as hrethgir,” damaged Beowulf transmitted in his hitching voice. While tolerant of Beowulf because of his past service, Agamemnon was annoyed that the neo-cymek had eavesdropped on a private discussion among Titans.
With exaggerated patience, Dante said, “My point was that our victory is assured. I foresee no military difficulties whatsoever in taking Hessra.”
“Nevertheless, I intend to relish every moment of it.” Agamemnon directed his force of cymek ships to encircle and descend. With expendable neos in front, the angular vessels converged in an expanded attack formation above the glacier-encrusted fortress of ancient philosophers.
While the Ivory Tower Cogitors professed disinterest in the outside galaxy and held to their isolation, they were not totally self-sufficient. They had long operated a secret business supplying the cymeks with electrafluid, even after Agamemnon and his rebels had broken free of the Synchronized Worlds.
Unwilling to be completely dependent on Vidad and his ilk, Dante had established the Titans’ own electrafluid-manufacturing facilities on Bela Tegeuse and Richese. While the mass-produced fluid was adequate for neo-cymeks, Agamemnon and his Titans demanded better quality, and no electrafluid was superior to the concoction made for the Ivory Tower Cogitors. Today, the Titan general would seize the facilities for himself, claiming Hessra as his new headquarters, and beginning his long-delayed march on history….
The black towers of the isolated citadel protruded from thick glaciers, nearly engulfed by slow rivers of ice that had built up over the centuries. The once-tall spires that housed the disembodied brains looked as if they were drowning in a flood of crawling snow and ice.
Agamemnon and Juno, flying in the lead, delighted in activating their integrated flamethrowers augmented by streams of oxygen from the thin air of Hessra. Tongues of fire lashed out from the cymek craft, pummeling the black stone walls, breaking away huge chunks of ice, and sending a prodigious cloud of camouflaging steam roiling into the dim sky.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 13