“Unforeseen elements such as that, for example,” he said.
Draigo recovered. “I understand. Shall we finish?”
“Very well. A Mentat must learn to concentrate under all circumstances.”
Gilbertus resumed the simulation as Mentat students gathered around to observe the show, but his conscience urged him to end this private battle and give the other trainees the attention they deserved. In the thick of the battle, Gilbertus intentionally slacked off and waited for his opponent to move in for the kill.
Noticing his instructor’s change of mind-set, however, Draigo sat back in his tall chair with a disgusted look. He let his own forces collapse and get hit by Gilbertus’s hamstrung force. With a sigh, the young man disengaged himself from the war-game controls. “I don’t want to win that way.”
Gilbertus stood and stretched. “Soon you won’t have to.”
The young man had won nearly forty percent of the engagements.
From a tiny seed can grow a mighty tree, able to withstand the most severe of storms. Remember, Rayna Butler was just a sickly, fever-struck girl when she began her crusade—and look what has grown from it! I am but another tree in the forest of steadfast belief that Rayna planted. My followers will not bend to the whims of nonbelievers who fight against us.
—MANFORD TORONDO, THE ONLY PATH
Though his important work carried him across the Imperium, Manford enjoyed rare moments of peace in his own home in the company of Anari. The simple, wholesome people of Lampadas had established small farms, growing their own food, making their own fabrics, and living a contented existence without artificial monstrosities: without enslavement by machines or dependence upon the crutches of technology.
The mind of man is holy.
Manford’s cottage had been built out of fieldstone and mortar, framed with timbers cut by hand and shaped with hand tools. His followers had erected the house for him; if he’d asked for it, they would have built him a palace more magnificent than the Emperor’s, but the very idea was so contrary to Manford’s philosophy and desires that he upbraided anyone who dared to suggest it. His cozy cottage was perfect, lovingly decorated with handcrafted quilts, adorned with paintings done by his followers. Volunteers planted flowers in front of the cottage; gardeners trimmed his hedges; landscapers laid down stone paths. People baked and cooked for him, bringing such bounty that he could never eat it all, and so he shared it.
It made his heart swell to see proof positive that humans could be happy without gadgets, computers, or sophisticated—and evil—technology. The Butlerians worked harder, ate better, and were generally healthier than those who sought constant treatment from doctors and medicines.
The Imperium had too few worlds like this, and his movement still had much to do. Beyond simply smashing the vestiges of combat robots and thinking-machine ships, he had to do constant battle against a mind-set of dependency.
But not tonight. He sent his followers away, thanking them for their company, but insisting that he needed to rest and meditate. Only Anari Idaho remained with him, as always.
He sat propped up on his cushions, watching her go about her tasks. He knew that if he snapped his fingers, countless others would rush to meet his every need: They would carry him on a palanquin, feed him, maintain his home, and tend him with obsessive attention. But no one was like Anari. Manford would not have survived without her. She took such good care of him.
The Swordmaster added another split log to the fire from the woodpile outside the house (which held enough firewood to last a hundred people for a year). In the chill autumn evenings, Manford liked to have the windows open for fresh air so Anari kept the fire burning; she even woke herself to add logs throughout the night. In the kitchen she had already put kettles of water on the stove to heat for Manford’s bath. Anari never complained about the menial chores; in fact, she occasionally hummed because she was so pleased with her life, so happy to take care of him.
She walked past him now, carrying the second brass kettle. He could smell the resinous aromatic leaves she had steeped in it. “Your bath is almost ready. I’ll be back for you.”
“I can make it to my bath myself,” he said.
“I know. But I love to do things for you.” She smiled softly and left the room.
While Anari was gone, he sprang up on his powerful arms and used them like legs to walk across the room upside down, where he grabbed one of the numerous parallel bars that had been installed at his height, to help him steady himself when moving around the house on his own. Though he had lost half the height of his body, he exercised regularly with what remained. He would never surrender to helplessness, but he also made certain he looked dignified in public. He let people help him when it was necessary, but he wasn’t as crippled as people believed him to be.
He heard Anari pour the kettle into the tub in the next room, after which she came back out to where he had been sitting on his cushions. Anari saw that he had crossed the room without her, gave him a brief disapproving expression, then bent down and extended an arm.
He slipped into her strong embrace, wrapping one arm around her shoulders to hold himself upright. Anari carried him along, their hips touching like a love-struck couple walking down the street, except she did all the walking for both of them. Propping him against her, she bent over and sloshed her palm in the water to check the temperature. Finding it adequate, she removed Manford’s shirt and wrappings, then placed him in the tub.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Anari took up a frayed rag and began washing him. She never gave any indication that it was a chore. He let her continue. He did not feel uncomfortable to be the focus of Anari’s ministrations, because she made him feel that he was in a safe place with her, that he could trust her completely. He let his thoughts drift away, but the nightmares were always there … that terrible day of the explosion that had killed Rayna Butler.
Manford would always wonder if he could have moved faster, could have saved her somehow. He’d made a heroic attempt, and failed—and it had cost him his legs. He would have been willing to sacrifice anything for her.
Even after the defeat of Omnius, Rayna Butler had continued her antitechnology movement, which was then called the Cult of Serena. After launching her crusade when she was just a girl, having miraculously survived the machine plagues that killed her whole family, Rayna never swerved from her mission—until an assassin’s bomb killed her at the age of ninety-seven.
The CET riots were an added flash point to her followers. The uproar against the Orange Catholic Bible was not precisely the same as Rayna’s desire to stifle technology, but the two movements had similar goals. Rayna Butler had been old, but still sharp and charismatic, and she had not relied on medical technology or melange or drugs; she had lived to such a great age because she was pure.
Manford had joined the Butlerians as an enthusiastic, idealistic fifteen-year-old after running away from home. He knew that the machines had wiped out the population on his family’s home planet long ago, and even though Omnius and the cymeks had been defeated decades before his birth, Manford still held a grudge. He was an impassioned young man who wanted to fight long after the battles had ended.
Fitting in among the Butlerians, he loved being close to Rayna, listening to her, watching her. He adored her like a student with a crush on an elderly teacher, admiring the sparkle and gleam in her eyes, the radiance of her ivory-pale skin. Although she had lost all of her hair as a child due to the machine-induced plague, Manford still saw immense beauty in her.
She had noticed him among her followers; and once, she’d even told Manford that she expected great things from him. When he gave the embarrassed response that he was much too young to become a real leader, Rayna answered, “I was only eleven when I received my calling.”
As the fledgling Imperium expanded, there were those who resisted Rayna’s efforts—the protechnology forces, business interests, planetary populations who refused to surrender their conveniences
. During one of her rallies on Boujet, a planet that was trying to build an industrial and technological base, a protechnology fanatic planted a bomb, intending to kill her.
Manford had discovered the bomb at the last minute, raced to protect Rayna, and been caught in the explosion. Old Rayna had died in his arms, torn apart and yet beatific. She’d lifted a bloody finger to bless him, telling Manford with her dying breath to carry on her good work.
Now the thought made him shudder in the warm bath. He still had nightmares of how he’d watched the light fade from Rayna’s eyes as he held her, briefly envisioning her as a young woman again. He was so enraptured as she died—and so much in shock—that he didn’t even notice his own grievous wounds, his lower body blown off.…
Afterward, Butlerian mobs stormed the cities and factories of Boujet, burning most of it to the ground and leaving the people there with no technology, no conveniences, only ashes. They reverted the planet to the Stone Age.
Manford had astonished the doctors by surviving the trauma, and he took Rayna’s blessing as his armor and sword. One of his holiest possessions was a scrap of bloodstained cloth removed from her body on the day of her death. He carried the torn fabric with him at all times; it gave him strength.
Anari began working his knotted muscles with her fingers, massaging his shoulders. Gazing down at Manford as he stirred in the herb-infused water, she asked, “You’re thinking about Rayna again. I can tell by the look on your face.”
“Rayna is always with me. How can I stop thinking of her?”
Anari removed him from the water and gently toweled him off, then dressed him again. As she held him up with her strong arms, he leaned his head on hers. “Put me by my desk near the bed. And light a candle. I’d like to read before I go to sleep.”
“As you wish, Manford.”
When she left him alone, he sat before copies of the bound printed journals and laboratory notebooks written by the heinous robot Erasmus. The dangerous backup documents had been found in the wreckage of Corrin and salvaged, but kept locked away. Appalling journals, providing a window into the mind of a monster. Now Manford studied the pages, sickened by what the twisted robot had written. It was like confronting the words of a demon, and the more he read the more horrified he became. The thinking machine’s pride in his tortures and crimes showed through in the pedantic accounts. The comments chilled Manford’s soul.
“Machines have patience that humans can never achieve,” Erasmus had written. “What is a decade, a century, a millennium to us? We can wait. And if they think they have defeated us, I remain confident. Humans created thinking machines in the first place, and we became their masters. Even if they succeed in eradicating every computer mind in this war, I know what will happen. I know them. Given enough time, they will forget … and will create us all over again. Yes, we can wait.”
Disturbed by the passage, Manford felt stinging tears in his eyes, and he swore it must never happen. He closed the volume, but knew he would not sleep for a long time. Some things were too terrifying for him to share with his followers.
Life! If only we could revisit our pasts and make wiser choices.
—ANONYMOUS LAMENT
On the rare occasions when Raquella Berto-Anirul had visited Salusa Secundus, the weather was always exceptional—clear, warm days with gentle breezes fluttering the colorful flags of the Landsraad League and the golden Corrino lion crest. From the crowded historical lives in her mind, she could recall this planet over the centuries, a gem among all the settled worlds of humanity.
As Raquella and her delegation of Sisters arrived this afternoon, however, the sky was leaden and the air as still as a bated breath, so that the colorful banners hung slack on their poles. Zimia had grown somber, as if it knew that Raquella had come to take Anna Corrino away.
She had wanted to impress Emperor Salvador with the Sisterhood’s professionalism, to prove that his decision to send his sister to Rossak was correct. According to the established schedule, Raquella and her companions should have landed the evening before, but a last-minute delay in the VenHold spacefolder had prevented their timely arrival. Now the group of women were hours overdue for their meeting at the Imperial Palace. Not an auspicious beginning, she thought.
The chartered groundcar pulled to a halt in the bustling drop-off loop in front of the multi-spire Corrino Palace, as if Reverend Mother Raquella, Sister Valya, and the two other Sisters were guests at a glamorous reception. A pair of liveried footmen opened the groundcar door and helped Raquella out, treating her like a fragile old woman. She let them feel useful, though she was still nimble and did not require any assistance.
When Valya Harkonnen emerged from the vehicle, the young woman looked around, clearly impressed by the glory of the capital, before remembering herself and marshaling her emotions. The footmen hurriedly moved on to another ambassadorial car to welcome more representatives, not giving a second glance to the women from Rossak. No one paid much attention to their arrival.
As they made their way to the palace, Raquella and her party became lost in the flow of dignitaries, bureaucrats, and representatives that streamed in and out of the gigantic Palace. Exuding confidence, she presented herself to a uniformed escort who waited at the base of the long waterfall of stairs leading up to the grand arched entrance. “I am Reverend Mother Raquella Berto-Anirul, from the Sisterhood’s school on Rossak. My companions and I have come at the Emperor’s request to see Princess Anna Corrino.”
Not at all surprised, as if she had merely announced the delivery of a parcel of groceries, the man led them up a seemingly endless succession of white marble steps.
At the Palace entrance, the lanky Sister Dorotea hurried to intercept them, looking breathless. Five other Sister graduates who served in the Imperial Court had joined her. All of them bowed with respect before the Reverend Mother; even Sister Perianna, assigned as personal secretary to Roderick Corrino’s wife, had broken away from her duties to greet the visitors.
Dorotea dismissed the palace escort and guided Raquella and her companions through the echoing, arched hallways. “I apologize for not arranging a more organized reception, Reverend Mother. We were uncertain when you would arrive.”
“The vagaries of space travel,” Raquella said, acting as if it didn’t matter. “VenHold Spacing Fleet is quite reliable, but this delay was out of our control. I hope Emperor Salvador is not terribly upset.”
“I rearranged the appointments on his calendar,” Dorotea said. She had been raised among the Sisterhood, and had no idea that she was actually Raquella’s granddaughter. “He won’t notice the difference, and Anna is certainly in no hurry to leave.”
Raquella allowed warm pride to creep into her voice. “You have always been one of my most competent Sisters. I am impressed with what you’ve done here in the Palace.” She paused. “I expect you were instrumental in the choice of our school for Anna Corrino?”
“I may have suggested it.” Dorotea gave a slight bow. “Thank you for coming in person to receive the Princess as a new acolyte. The gesture means a great deal to her family.”
“It’s a tremendous honor that the Emperor has entrusted her to us. With so many new schools springing up around the Imperium, he had other options.”
Dorotea led the visitors deeper into the sprawling palace. “My Sisters and I have proved our worth and set a good example. Given Anna’s predilection for immature choices, the Emperor wants to have Anna trained along the same lines as we were.” She looked directly at Valya, assessing. “I’ve read the reports. You are the one who took over my duties assisting Sister Karee Marques in the pharmaceutical research?”
“Yes. We still have much work to do.” She bowed, but could hardly contain her excitement. “Right now, though, I am grateful for this opportunity to see the Imperial capital.”
Dorotea gave her a faint smile. “Then we have much in common.”
Raquella interrupted. “I have confidence in Sister Valya. She has proven herself
in many ways. For now, I have added befriending Anna Corrino to her list of duties.”
Valya’s eyes were bright with excitement at being on Salusa Secundus, giving Raquella pause about the young woman’s priorities. She did not find Valya’s humble tone convincing as she said, “I’ll try to make her feel welcome during her difficult transition to the Sisterhood.”
“You two are the same age, so she may warm to you.” Dorotea seemed skeptical, too, perhaps because she viewed Valya as a personal rival. “However, the Emperor asked me to accompany his sister, so that she might have a familiar face on a strange world. My work on Salusa Secundus is concluded by Imperial command, so I’ll be returning to Rossak myself.”
Though she would have preferred to leave Dorotea where she was, Raquella could not countermand Emperor Salvador’s wishes. “Very well, you can return to your work with Sister Karee, and I will reassign Sister Valya. I’ll be sad to lose you as our representative at the Imperial Court, but we still have four Sisters here.” Inside Raquella, voices whispered with excitement, pointing out that few other Sisters were as advanced in their training as Dorotea, or as ready to attempt the transformation. Maybe she would be next.… My own granddaughter! But all Sisters must be equal, and family ties hidden.
Shortly after giving birth to Dorotea, Raquella’s daughter Arlett had refused to be separated from her baby, insisting that she would take the child, leave the Sisterhood, and find the father. Seeing such weakness in her own daughter, Raquella had reached an important decision, encouraged by all those other insistent and objective voices from history.
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