Then he realized he himself was late. Serena Butler was about to address the assembly in another of her scheduled inspirational talks, which he had written personally. Not noticing his wet clothes, the Grand Patriarch hurried inside to listen to her. Though the security was intense, he did not have to worry about violence or assassination attempts today.
He had not arranged for any.
* * *
INSIDE THE SPEAKING chamber, Serena Butler looked like a heavenly vision, attired in an exquisite white robe and glittering rubate jewelry. Even without the adornments of an orange marigold on her lapel and a golden necklace around her neck, she looked surprisingly vibrant and healthy for her advancing years. Remarkable, considering that she refused to partake of Aurelius Venport’s youth-enhancing melange.
Iblis watched it all. Serena rarely emerged in person from the City of Introspection, so each of her speeches had to be a major event.
Twenty freed humans, rebels who had been smuggled from the new battleground on Ix, sat in the front rows as showpieces. They gazed up at the Priestess with awe. Thanks to Iblis’s incessant propaganda efforts, every person alive— even those in darkest captivity on machine planets— had heard of this woman and her martyred child. She had become a dedicated missionary, working tirelessly to unify humans against the vile machines.
When the audience fell silent, Serena’s voice rose melodically through the hall. “Many of us have witnessed firsthand the bravery, bloodshed, and sacrifices necessary to overthrow the greatest depravity in the universe. Some of you are true heroes.”
She asked half a dozen men and women to stand up, and identified each by name for their brave, selfless deeds. All were civilians, survivors of tremendous battles. “Come to me.” Serena gestured, and from every corner of the great hall, the audience gave them standing ovations. As the refugees came forward, one by one, the Priestess touched them on the head as if in blessing; tears streamed down every face, including her own.
Serena raised her voice in challenge and angry determination. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “I watched something no mother should ever have to witness: my beautiful son murdered in front of my eyes. Think of your own babies, and of mine. Do not let the thinking machines do this to other children, I beg of you.”
As he listened to her masterful delivery, the perfect intonation and diction, Iblis felt a chill of pride run down his spine. The tears were an excellent touch, and he did not doubt they were real. He heard Serena use the phrases he had written, and nodded as he saw her magic work on the audience. They were enraptured. She had been an excellent student, ever since he’d begun to lead her down the path of professional fanaticism.
At first, the young woman had willingly followed his instructions to achieve worthy, noble results. But when she had started to disagree with him, Iblis had fabricated possible “threats” to her safety, so that he would be justified in assigning a group of his handpicked Seraphim as her personal bodyguards.
When Serena continued to be too independent, he had staged an assassination attempt and framed one of his sacrificial dupes, who was conveniently killed during capture. Thereafter, for her “protection,” Serena stayed inside the walls of the City of Introspection, where he could keep a closer eye on her.
He had to make certain that Serena Butler never felt completely safe, so that she would always depend on him.
Now, Iblis relaxed when he saw that everything was under control. Since his arrival had not been noticed, he hurried to a dressing room and changed into dry clothes. Before he could leave the private room, his Jipol commandant slipped silently through the door. “Grand Patriarch, I am pleased to inform you that our work with Muñoza Chen is complete, as you requested. Everything is in place. A nice, clean job.”
Yorek Thurr was a small, swarthy man with a black mustache and bald head. Dressed in a dark green doublet, he peered through slitted eyes that were as dull and black as those of a corpse. Expert with garrote, stiletto, and an assortment of other silent weapons, Thurr had an ability to move with the utmost stealth— and as the Jipol commander, he was always ready to do the Grand Patriarch’s bidding. A good man to have around.
Iblis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “I knew I could count on you.”
From the moment the Jihad Police had been established, Yorek Thurr had proved himself a valued informant by discovering real spies, unobtrusive but quietly powerful humans who had secret connections to the Synchronized Worlds. Since Iblis had originally raised the specter only as a straw man to frighten the League members, he had been astonished to discover the depth of the deceit Thurr uncovered. Dozens of prominent citizens were implicated and executed, swelling the paranoid frenzy of free humans. As the newly formed Jipol rose in prominence, so Yorek Thurr rose in its ranks, eventually taking command. Sometimes he frightened even the Grand Patriarch.
Because of her constant complaints and resistance, Iblis had always suspected that Muñoza Chen might be an agent of the thinking machines. Why else would she oppose the essential work of the Jihad Council? The answer seemed obvious. The moment Chen had decided to oppose him, her life expectancy had dropped precipitously. Anyone who spoke out against the Jihad was, by definition, an ally of the thinking machines. It made perfect sense.
As Grand Patriarch, holding the responsibility for trillions of lives, he didn’t have time for subtleties. To protect and advance the movement he had to cut efficiently through opposition. The clear results justified anything he might need to do along the way. The Jihad had gone on for decades now, gaining momentum. Even so, it had not gone far enough or fast enough to suit Iblis.
Anyone who overtly crossed the designs of the Grand Patriarch got investigated and expertly framed. Over the years, after the first major purge implicated seven League representatives— all of them, strangely enough, political rivals or people who had spoken out against Iblis— people began to suspect a machine spy under every bed. Five years later, another set of purges had removed all resistance to Iblis.
Now little internal opposition remained, and thanks to the quiet efforts of the Jipol, Muñoza Chen would no longer hinder his crusade against the machines….
Iblis separated from the Jipol Commandant and made his way back into the Assembly Hall. It would be good for him to be seen listening to Serena’s speech. As he entered, her impassioned voice carried through the chamber like perfume on a breeze. She raised her arms in benediction and stood motionless for a long, poignant moment, as if gathering inspiration from above. Then she looked directly toward Iblis Ginjo and said, “There is no time to shirk the duties of humanity and no time to rest— only to fight!”
As she spoke, the doors of the hall burst open, and a throng of men and women marched in, wearing the bright green-and-crimson uniforms of the Jihad. While the audience cheered, every available space in the hall filled with the thousands of new volunteers ready to sacrifice their lives for the Army of the Jihad.
Moving like an angel, Serena glided into their midst, weeping with gratitude. She blessed them all and kissed many, knowing she was dispatching many of them to their deaths. “My fighting jihadis!”
Iblis nodded in satisfaction. It was choreographed with perfect timing, but Serena had pulled it off as if it were a spontaneous event. The concept had been her own, while Iblis had attended to the details of presentation.
We make a great team.
But as he watched the talented Priestess work the crowd, Iblis found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He wanted Serena to do well, had coached her carefully— and now she was giving the performance of her life.
The Grand Patriarch decided to watch her closer than ever, for his own sake. He didn’t want her to think too much for herself… or too much of herself.
We are fools to think the battle is ever over. A defeated foe can delude us into letting down our guard… to our eternal sorrow.
— PRIMERO XAVIER HARKONNEN, “On-Site Military Dispatches”
Lounging in the command chair
on the bridge of the flagship ballista, Vor studied satellite images of water surging through the canyons of IV Anbus. He shook his head. Victory through total disaster. He gave a wry smile. What next?
After the ground operations, Tercero Vergyl Tantor and the other battleship captains had shuttled back to their ballistas and resumed their places on board, readying for the endgame that would occur in space. If all went according to Vor’s plan, the Omnius fleet would be driven permanently from this bruised world.
Knowing that Primero Harkonnen’s shuttle had already docked and his friend was on his way to the bridge to join him, Vor grinned with anticipation. My turn. He would show Xavier exactly how victory should be achieved— through wiles instead of destruction.
As soon as Xavier stepped out onto the bridge deck, panting and disheveled, Vor flashed him a challenging look with a glint of mischief in it. “Watch how I can neutralize the thinking machine fleet without such a large and embarrassing loss of human life.” He gave the order, and the flagship pressed forward to assume the vanguard position in the Jihad fleet.
Xavier ran fingers like a comb through his rusty-brown hair, smoothing his gray-streaked temples. “There didn’t need to be any loss of life down there, Vorian. Some people choose to become victims, even when they have other options.” Clearly disturbed, he tried to compose himself as he watched. “But even if we’d managed it without anyone suffering so much as a scratch, the Zenshiites would still have complained about our efforts.”
Vor emitted a brief laugh. “We don’t do this for gratitude, my friend, but for the future of the human race.” He turned at his station and spoke quickly; his voice carried across the comline to the bridges of all five ballistas. “Power up Holtzman shields to full intensity. Increase orbital velocity so that we encounter the robot warships an hour sooner than they expect us.”
“That’ll surprise them, Vor,” Vergyl transmitted from his own bridge.
Xavier took a formal tone. “Thinking machines are more likely to be… unsettled and unable to recalculate their actions in an appropriate time-frame, Tercero Tantor. That’s not the same thing as an emotional reaction.”
“As your little brother said,” Vor added, “they’ll be surprised.”
Judging by his image on the viewer, the young black officer seemed to be fighting the effects of a lingering illness. While waiting for the Jihad ships to get into position, Vor quipped, “Vergyl, you look like you could use a vacation after this mission.”
“Just a little too much… hospitality from the Zenshiite natives down there. But if your sympathy makes you spot me a few points in our next game—”
“Gentlemen, let us concentrate on the battle at hand,” Xavier said.
Even though the robotic ground forces had been obliterated by the cataclysmic flood, Omnius’s large space fleet remained intact. Now the five Jihad ballistas, shielded but heavily outgunned, picked up speed like angry mice racing to do battle with Salusan bulls.
As they circled over the limb of the planet and saw the powerful thinking machine ships in night’s shadow, Vor whistled in appreciation. Omnius looked more invincible than ever. But Vor spoke firmly to his bridge crew.
“Machines operate under a rigid perception of reality. So, with a little tweak here and there, we can rewrite that reality.” He adjusted the comline to the full ship-to-ship channel. “Everybody, double-check shield integrities and increase your speed to ramming velocity!”
The crew seemed uneasy and grim, but committed to victory. “I’m sure the robots intercepted that transmission, Vor,” Vergyl transmitted from his bridge, keeping the second ballista close behind the flagship. “Uh, I hope you’ve got a better plan than a simple suicide plunge.”
“We do what we must, little brother,” Xavier said.
As the opposing fleets careened toward each other, closer and closer each second, Vor adjusted the comcontrols and sent a brief, coded transmission directly at the robotic command-and-control center. After the signal had been surreptitiously delivered, he added on the open channel, “Call in our hidden fleet and ram those ships!” He gripped the edge of his captain’s chair, but the corners of his mouth turned upward in a confident smile. “Watch this, Xavier.”
In cool disbelief, Xavier shook his head. “I thought I’d win any game of nerves against you, Vorian. But now I believe your spine is made of pure titanium.”
“I’d love to teach you some new contests on the long flight back to Salusa. Spend time relaxing with your crew for a change, win some of their wages… or lose some of your own.”
“For now, just command your ship, Primero Atreides,” Xavier said, his voice a quick rush. He gripped a support rail as the Jihad vessels approached like cannonballs, unswerving.
At the last instant, the robot fleet suddenly broke from their orbits and scattered in frenzied flight. The five Holtzman-shielded ballistas hurtled through the empty space where the thinking machines had been only moments before. Omnius’s warships streaked away from the planet, apparently abandoning IV Anbus entirely.
The human crew cheered with giddy hysteria, startled by their unexpected survival. Laughing deliriously, Vergyl transmitted, “I can’t believe it. Xavier, what a sight!”
Vor turned to his bridge crew with a mockingly impatient expression. “So, we have Omnius on the run, people— why are you waiting? Do you want to sit here congratulating yourselves, or go slag some robots?”
The crew cheered again, confident and enthusiastic. Vor’s ballista surged forward, and Vergyl drove his warship alongside. The remaining human vessels swooped in their wake, chasing and harassing the robot craft toward the fringes of the Anbus system, like barking guard dogs driving away intruders.
Xavier crossed his arms over his uniformed chest, waiting for the detailed explanation. Grinning, Vor finally turned to his friend. “My signal submitted false data to the machine fleet’s sensor web. I simply altered a few readings to make them believe that our ballistas were heavily armed, indestructible… and accompanied by a much larger unseen contingent, which recently arrived from the Poritrin shipyards.”
“You make it sound easy.”
Vor snorted. “Absolutely not! Every detail has to be perfect, able to withstand close analysis from the enemy’s redundant sensors. I doubt I could ever do it again, because Omnius will be aware of the trick and will be looking for it.”
Xavier remained skeptical. “So what do the machines see now? Sounds like you hypnotized them.”
“At present, the robots think we have dozens of battleships cloaked with invisibility fields. They can’t see them, or defeat them, but they ‘know’ our ships are there, waiting to fire upon them. After calculating the odds, the enemy vessels had no choice but to flee.”
“Brilliant tactical move,” Xavier said. “But based on a flimsy assumption.”
“Not flimsy, or brilliant— simply devious. As I’ve said many times, machines can be fooled. We’re just lucky my father wasn’t part of that fleet. Cymeks are much more suspicious. Agamemnon would know the difference, and he can certainly see through a bluff.”
* * *
AFTER HALF AN hour of hot pursuit, a bridge technician asked to speak privately with the two Primeros and informed them that their Holtzman shields were in danger of overheating and failing. The protective systems were not meant to be used at such high intensity for long periods of time.
Vor crossed his arms over his chest. “I believe we can safely shut off the shields now. We won’t need them anyway.” He sent the same order to the other ballistas, then made an aside, “So why don’t we just open fire?”
With apparent glee, the ballistas fell upon the robotic stragglers, shooting heavy armaments against the much larger machine ships, destroying two of them quickly. But the machines tolerated much higher acceleration than fragile human bodies could endure, and soon the balance of the robot fleet stretched out across an increasing distance. The pursuing Jihad forces had to break off the chase.
Ver
gyl transmitted, “I’d say that’s the best antidote to Zenshiite poisons.”
Then, as the five ballistas circled back toward IV Anbus for a final mop-up, they suddenly encountered a new group of enemy ships that streaked in under heavy acceleration. These vessels had a different design, and came in without stealth or defenses, as if they expected a thinking machine fleet already there.
Heady with confidence, Vergyl Tantor transmitted over the secure, scrambled command channel, “Ha, a second chance! Looks like we can teach more of those damn machines a lesson. Anybody taking odds on which one I’ll hit first?”
“Tercero Tantor, hold back and wait for reinforcements,” Xavier cautioned, though he had little outright concern after seeing the first robotic battlegroup’s ignominious defeat.
But Vergyl was giddy with confidence. “I want to flush the rest of these contraptions away from IV Anbus.”
Vergyl took his battleship in a downward sweep, firing potshots at the newcomers. He radioed back to the flagship. “Xavier, remember when I was just a boy and you told me I needed to be a hero and save a whole planet to be worthy of a woman like Serena Butler. Well, now I’ve got Sheel back home— do you think this’ll impress her?”
Vor suddenly spun in his chair, shouting into the comline. “Wait— look at the designs. Those are cymek ships, not computers. I can’t use my programming on them.”
“Vergyl, break off!” Xavier shouted. “Primero Atreides informs me that his ruse will not work—”
The newcomer cymeks had come into the system armed for heavy combat against the Army of the Jihad. Now they opened fire on Vergyl’s oncoming battleship.
Reacting quickly, the young tercero tried to bring his overheated shields back online, but some of the overlapping fields flickered and failed under the first cymek onslaught. Six explosive projectiles broke through and hit the ballista’s hull and engines.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 12