“Such a disappointment,” she scolded him. “Exactly what did you hope to accomplish?”
Realizing that she had accidentally disconnected his voice synthesizer, she applied the appropriate thoughtrode again, and Quentin shouted, “Bitch! I’ll tear you apart and pierce your demented brain!”
“That’s quite enough,” Agamemnon said, and Juno disconnected the voice synthesizer again.
Her looming walker-form pressed closer to the optic threads Quentin used. “You are a cymek now, my pet. You belong with us, and the sooner you accept that reality, the less misery you’ll endure.”
Quentin knew deep inside that there could be no salvation, no escape. He could never be human again, but the idea of what he had become sickened him.
Juno stalked around, her voice warm and flirtatious. “Everything has changed. You wouldn’t want your brave sons to see you like this, would you? Your only opportunity lies in helping us achieve a new Time of Titans. From now on, and forever, you must forget your former family.”
“We are your family now,” Agamemnon said.
Since the time of Aristotle of Old Earth, humankind has sought more and more knowledge, considering it a benefit to the species. But there are exceptions to this, things man should never learn to do.
— RAYNA BUTLER,
True Visions
It was her life’s work. Rayna Butler could not conceive of another passion, another driving goal to compare with this. The intense woman never allowed herself to believe that the challenge was too great. She had dedicated her every breath for twenty years to exterminating any remnant of the sophisticated machines.
Once the Synchronized Worlds had been beaten in the Great Purge, Rayna and her fanatical followers had decided to complete the exhausting job, from within the League of Nobles. Not a scrap would remain. Human beings would do their own work, solve their own problems.
Still pale-skinned and hairless, she walked at the head of an ever-growing crowd that marched along the tree-lined streets of Zimia. Tall buildings, soaring high over complex monuments, defiantly declared humanity’s victory after the century-long Jihad. But there was still much to do.
Rayna stepped forward, looking lean and waifish, yet filled with charisma. Crowds of Cultists pressed after her, their murmured determination growing louder as she approached the Hall of Parliament, her goal. Though she led all these people, she wore a plain robe without insignia or trappings. Rayna had no interest in gaudiness— unlike the Grand Patriarch. She was a simple and devout adherent to a holy cause. She had guided her followers and focused their passion to follow the shining white vision of Serena.
Behind her, people shouted and chanted, lifting banners and pennants that were embroidered or stained with images of Serena Butler and Manion the Innocent. For a long time, Rayna had discounted the icons and stylized images, preferring a more concrete expression of her mission for humanity. But she’d come to understand that the many brutally loyal followers of the Cult of Serena required their comforting paraphernalia. She finally accepted the standard bearers, so long as enough of her people also carried cudgels and weapons to do the necessary smashing.
Now she continued her march down the wide boulevard leading the throng. More streamed in from side streets, some merely curious, others sincerely wishing to join Rayna’s crusade. After years of planning, here at the heart of the League of Nobles on her family’s homeworld of Salusa Secundus, Rayna Butler could finally achieve her dream.
“We must continue to negate all machines that think,” she called. “Humans must set their own guidelines. This is not something machines can do. Reasoning depends upon programming, not upon hardware— and we are the ultimate program.”
But before she could get too close, a group of nervous-looking Zimia guards blocked the plaza in front of the Hall of Parliament. The security troops wore personal shields that hummed and shimmered in the sudden silence as Rayna paused in front of them. Her followers stumbled to a halt, catching their breath.
An angry grumble rose up from the Cultists. They held their cudgels and prybars, just as anxious to smash unbelievers as machines. The guards, milk-faced with dread and anxiety, were clearly not pleased with this assignment to stop Rayna’s march, but they followed orders.
If Rayna commanded her followers to sacrifice themselves to make the larger point, there were not enough soldiers to prevent the mob from charging recklessly forward. But the Zimia guards did have sophisticated weapons, and many of Rayna’s people would die— unless she could resolve this. She squared her shoulders and lifted her pallid chin.
In the center of the cordon of soldiers, a female burseg took one step closer to the pale-skinned young woman. “Rayna Butler, my soldiers and I have been instructed to block your passage. Please tell your followers to disperse.”
The Cultists muttered angrily, and the officer lowered her voice, speaking so only Rayna could hear. “I apologize. I understand what you’re doing— my parents and sister were killed by the Demon Scourge— but I have my orders.”
Rayna looked intently at her, saw that the burseg meant what she said, that the woman had a good heart but would not hesitate to tell her troops to open fire. Rayna did not answer at first, considering possibilities, then she said, “The machines have already killed enough people. There is no need for humans to kill other humans.”
The burseg did not order her soldiers to stand down. “Nevertheless, madam, I cannot allow you to pass.”
Rayna looked back at the crowds on the streets. She and her followers had been to many devastated League Worlds in the past year, and they had recently returned to the capital. She saw hundreds, even thousands of faces, all of them with a grudge against Omnius. Every person there needed to strike a blow against the demon machines. If she gave a signal, she could incite all of these fanatical followers to rip the guards limb from limb….
But she was not willing to do that.
“Wait here, my friends,” Rayna called to them. “Before we can proceed, there is something I must accomplish alone.” With a placid smile, she turned back to the burseg. “I can keep them at bay for now, but you must escort me into the Hall of Parliament. I request a private audience with my uncle, the Interim Viceroy.”
Taken aback, the burseg looked at her fellow soldiers and at the overwhelming crowd— still chanting, waving banners, and gripping crude weapons. Wisely, she took a step back and nodded. “I will arrange it. Follow me, please.”
* * *
RAYNA HAD LED her destructive marches against the thinking machines since she’d been a girl on Parmentier. She was thirty-one now, and for years the Cult of Serena had been solidifying around her, especially once they learned that the thin woman with ghostly features and haunted eyes was a blood relative of Saint Serena Butler. Her passionate movement had grown in strength and momentum, first across the plague-ravaged worlds and then everywhere.
The disheartened people listened to her message, saw the fire in her eyes— and they believed. With their civilizations already wrecked and their populations decimated, Rayna demanded that they destroy all appliances and conveniences that would have helped them to rebuild their lives. But those who survived were the strongest the human race had to offer, and under her potent leadership they picked up the pieces with their own hands and reassembled their societies. Rayna’s ardent message convinced them. Though they faced difficulties, the crowds shouted and prayed, calling out the revered name of Serena.
When her followers chanted her name along with those of the Three Martyrs, Rayna stood fast and tried to stop them. She did not want to be seen as a prophet or pretender to any throne. She protested when the Cult elevated her and declared her the greatest human since Serena Butler. Once, when Rayna noticed to her shame that such worship gave her an unexpected thrill of pleasure, she had stripped herself and sat naked all night on a cold rooftop, crouched against the biting wind, praying for forgiveness and guidance. There was a clear danger in letting herself become a powerful f
igurehead, followed by too many people without question.
She was finally ushered into the offices of Interim Viceroy Faykan Butler. Rayna knew that her uncle was a skilled politician, and somehow the two of them would have to negotiate an appropriate solution. The young woman was not naïve enough to think that she could simply make her demands, nor did she want to force Faykan into ordering a regrettable massacre. Rayna feared what might happen to her holy legacy if she were made into another martyr like Serena.
Behind the closed door of his private office, Faykan embraced his niece, then held her at arm’s length to look at her. “Rayna, you are my brother’s daughter. I love you dearly, but you certainly cause a great deal of trouble.”
“And I intend to continue causing trouble. My message is important.”
“Your message?” Faykan smiled and went back to his desk, offering her a cool beverage, which she declined. “That may be so, but who can hear your message above screams and shouts, and the wild smashing of plaz and metal?”
“It must be done, Uncle.” Rayna remained standing, though Faykan sat back in his plush Viceroy’s chair. “You have seen what the thinking machines can do. Do you intend to have your troops stop me? I would rather not have you for my enemy.”
“Oh, I don’t object to the results you desire. I simply have problems with your methods. We have a civilization to think about.”
“My methods have been successful so far.”
The Interim Viceroy sighed and took a long sip of his drink. “Allow me to make you a proposal. I hope you’ll grant me that much?”
Rayna remained silent, skeptical but willing to consider her uncle’s words.
“Though your main goal is to obliterate thinking machines, you must admit that your followers often… get out of hand. They cause massive amounts of collateral damage. Look around you at Zimia, see how much we have rebuilt after cymek and robot attacks, after the piranha mites. This place is the capital of all League Worlds, and I simply cannot let your unruly mob run rampant through the streets, smashing and burning.” He folded his fingers together, still smiling. “So please don’t force me to do something that will harm everyone. I don’t wish to have my guards open fire on your followers. Even if I attempted to minimize the casualties, it would still be a bloody massacre.”
Rayna stiffened, but she knew that Faykan’s words were true. “Neither of us wants that.”
“Then may I suggest a more lasting solution? I will let you make your announcements across Salusa. You can ask people to surrender their supposedly corrupt machines and appliances. I’ll even let you hold a great rally to destroy them. Have as large a crowd as you wish! But when you march through the streets of Zimia, you must do it in an orderly fashion.”
“Not all people will voluntarily surrender their conveniences. They have been too seduced and corrupted by the machines.”
“Yes, but a great many of them will be swept up in the emotional fervor you incite, young woman. I can introduce appropriate legislation that will forbid the development of any devices or circuits that even remotely resemble gelcircuitry computers.”
Rayna clenched her jaw and leaned over the table. “I have heard the commandment directly from God: Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of the human mind.”
Faykan smiled. “Good, good. We can use that wording in the laws that I propose.”
“There will be exceptions, people will refuse— “
“Then we will punish them,” Faykan promised. “Believe me, Rayna, I will make this happen.” His eyes narrowed as his face took on a calculating expression. “However, there is one thing you can do for me to ensure that I have sufficient power to help you.”
Rayna remained silent, while Faykan continued. “At the start of this Jihad, Serena Butler took only the title of Interim Viceroy, claiming she did not deserve the formal title ‘until such time as the thinking machines were destroyed.’ Yes, the thinking machines remain a thorn in our side at Corrin, but the real Jihad is over. The enemy is defeated.” He pointed at Rayna. “Now, young woman, if you will stand beside me, as my niece and the leader of the Cult of Serena, I will take on the title of full Viceroy. It will be a great day for humanity.”
“And this will allow you to pass laws forbidding all thinking machines throughout the League? You will enforce these laws?”
“Absolutely, especially here on Salusa Secundus,” Faykan pledged. “On the more primitive frontier League Worlds, though, you and your Cult may have to continue your work, however you see fit.”
“I accept your terms, Uncle,” Rayna said. “But with this warning— if you do not achieve what you have promised, then I will return… with my army.”
Not everything is as it appears.
— DR. MOHANDAS SUK,
medical journals
I‘m afraid we’ll have to use trial-and-error methods,” Dr. Suk said, his voice distorted by the communications patch in his complete anticontamination suit. He had shuttled down personally from his sterile orbiting lab on the Recovery. Under the stars, he met Raquella on the polymerized canopy landing pad across from the cave cities. “We don’t have any choice. Almost sixty percent of those infected will die, even after consuming melange.”
He faced Raquella as she stood bravely, wearing no protection other than a breather. She looked into his dark, liquid eyes and thought of all the close ties they had, both the warm love and the friendship that had formed between them. Now they were separated by a thin, impenetrable barrier of decontamination fabric. She had never been so much at risk; the Rossak Epidemic made the original Scourge seem almost like a practice run by comparison.
With a gloved hand, the doctor extended a transparent carrying case that contained ten vaccine vials. “Variants on the RNA treatments we used before. Some of them might work… some might be deadly.”
Raquella pressed her lips together and nodded. “Then they have to work.”
“Analyzing this retrovirus is like trying to solve a murder mystery with a billion suspects,” he said. “The mutated strain actually camouflages the genetic blueprint of its DNA, as far as our tests can determine. I’m looking for patterns, trying to map genomes and project the statistically probable components of the virus based on the available evidence. The melange molecule is no longer as effective in blocking the receptor sites.”
Raquella saw the concern etched in his compassionate brown eyes. Some of his thick black hair had slipped free of its clasp inside the helmet, giving him a disheveled appearance. She wanted to hug him.
Mohandas had not been able to develop a viable gene therapy technique, but he continued to try. Other than heavy preventive consumption of melange, which blocked some of the retrovirus from converting the body’s hormones into the poisonous Compound X, the only partially effective treatment involved specialized blood-filtering treatments from modified dialysis apparatus. Like its previous incarnation, this new retrovirus seated itself in the liver, but the slow and difficult dialysis procedure was not sufficient to cull out toxins faster than the infected body could produce them.
Staring at each other, he and Raquella discussed the test vaccines. One vial was a rich, deep blue, like the eyes of a spice addict. Mohandas gazed intently, longingly at her from behind his protective faceplate. He seemed to want to say so much more. “You are taking enough melange to protect yourself? Another VenKee ship just came from Kolhar.”
“Yes, but spice does not guarantee immunity, as you well know. I am exercising suffient care.”
But he wasn’t convinced. “You aren’t giving your spice ration to other patients?”
“I am taking sufficient amounts, Mohandas.” She lifted the case of vaccine vials. “I’ll get right to work on this. I need to determine which of the people are in greatest need.”
* * *
FOR DAYS, KEEPING careful records on circuit plaz files, Raquella administered the trial vaccines with the help of Nortie Vandego and the still-healthy Sorceress, Karee Marques. It seemed
a terrible irony, but the most powerful Sorceresses seemed even more susceptible to this version of the retrovirus than the normal population of Rossak.
As they worked, Raquella noticed a strange-looking boy watching with doe-eyed curiosity, keeping his distance. She had seen him before, working quietly and diligently to clean the wards and bring food and supplies for the medical workers.
She knew that mutagens and chemical contaminants in the Rossak environment caused many birth defects, deformities, and various levels of mental retardation, especially among males. Karee noticed Raquella’s interest in the calm, curious young man. “He is Jimmak Tero, one of Ticia’s sons— though of course she does not claim him, considering his obvious faults. She says he belongs with the Misborn.”
The young man saw her looking in his direction and hurried away, flushing a deep red. Raquella drew a quick, sighing breath. “I’m surprised she didn’t kill him at birth. Does that mean Ticia Cenva has a heart after all?”
With a wan smile, Karee said, “I’m sure she had other reasons.”
Raquella gestured to Jimmak, luring him back as she spoke in a gentle, coaxing tone. “Come over here, Jimmak. I can use your help.”
Timidly, he approached, staring at her with inquisitive, round blue eyes. He looked delighted that she would ask for his assistance. “What do you need, Doctor Lady?” His words were halting with a loose enunciation.
“Doctor Lady?” She smiled, tried to judge his age. Fifteen or sixteen, she thought. “Could you bring us some drinking water from the sterilizer, please? Nortie and I have been working so hard that we haven’t had anything to drink for hours.”
He glanced around nervously, as if afraid that he was doing something wrong. “You want something to eat? I could get food from the jungle. I know where to find things.”
“Just water for now. Maybe food later.” She saw instantly how much this pleased him.
After administering the test vaccines, Raquella performed regular blood tests to check the efficacy of the treatments, but the results were disappointing. None of Dr. Suk’s trial batches of potential cures showed much promise.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 39