Rekur Van grimaced at the Grand Patriarch. “What choice do I have?”
“Serena Butler has promised her injured Jihad fighters increased shipments of replacement parts— arms, legs, internal organs— for all who need them. You Tlulaxa must provide everything necessary.”
“But we don’t have the capacity.” The flesh merchant scowled. “How could you let her say such things? Have you lost control of the Jihad?”
“I was not present, but her statement is a matter of record, and now we must make it happen. The Priestess of the Jihad cannot renege on her commitments. The Tlulaxa organ farms will send increased shipments immediately.”
“It will not be easy. We need much more raw material.”
“Just see that it is done. I don’t care how. My office will provide whatever authorization you need… and because of the vital nature of this ‘request,’ I’m sure the Army of the Jihad can promise a bonus. Say, an increase of five percent over your usual fees?”
The Tlulaxa merchant, at first intimidated by the magnitude of the demand, began to smile. “Given sufficient incentive, all things are possible for the Jihad.”
“Of course they are. Your ship is at Zimia Spaceport?”
“Yes.” Rekur Van brushed cake crumbs from his chest. “My business is finished here, and I intend to depart in three days.”
Iblis stood, towering over the little Tlulaxa on his cushion. “You will depart now.” The Jipol guards lifted Rekur Van to his feet.
The Grand Patriarch and his entourage escorted the sputtering flesh merchant out of the pleasure house. “Until this is done, the League of Nobles will have no further business dealings with you.”
He had already issued a similar demand to the commanders of the mercenary schools on Ginaz. Human beings were the Jihad’s primary resources in this fight against mechanical monstrosities, and Iblis needed to make sure the supply lines remained open.
Rekur Van perspired and looked nervous. His dark gaze flitted around, as if looking for an avenue of escape. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Iblis gave a smile. “I have only the best interests of mankind in my heart.”
A tool wielded in ignorance can become the most dangerous of weapons.
— SWORDMASTER JAV BARRI
The island in Ginaz’s central archipelago dozed beneath a hazy afternoon sky. The sun swelled large and yellow above a horizon of blue-green water. On the curving leeward shore of a lagoon, warm water lapped against the beach.
The serenity was broken by the violent clamor of weapons.
Jool Noret watched his father thrust and parry, battling a fearsome combat robot. Zon Noret’s body was sinew coiled over hard bones. He wore no shoes, and his long yellowish-gray hair flew behind him like a comet’s tail as he leaped in with a wild yell, slashing and clanging with his pulse sword. His weapon, fashioned like a perfectly balanced blade, contained a generator cell that delivered precise disruptive pulses through the metal. The disruptive bursts could overload and disengage the sophisticated gelcircuits of thinking machines.
Noret’s mek opponent was also a blur of movement, raising six metallic arms to shield itself, using grounded armor plates and nonconductive support struts to protect its control circuitry against the veteran opponent.
The talented old mercenary continued his training, demonstrating techniques for his son and honing his own skills. Zon had seen so much furious combat on the battlegrounds of the Jihad— most recently in the heroic defense of IV Anbus, where he had been wounded— that this was little more than a game to him. The veteran thrust hard, skittering the blade with a shower of sparks along one of the robot’s six arms and striking a small but vulnerable section of self-contained circuitry. One of the fighting mek’s arms went limp.
Jool crowed with victory for his father. “The best you’ve ever done!”
“Not quite, my son.” Panting, Zon Noret stepped back. “One only achieves the peak of one’s capabilities when fighting for survival.”
According to the rules, Chirox, the fighting mek, could reset his systems after a minute of delay, but Jool thought the disabled arm would need to be repaired in the shop. Zon took two quick breaths, then leaped in again with a flurry of blows.
With his five remaining good arms, the mek defended.
A century ago, an intrepid Ginaz salvage scout had found a damaged thinking machine ship and retrieved the broken combat robot. The mek’s gelcircuitry mind had been wiped, and once the combat programming was reinstalled, Chirox became an instructor on the Ginaz archipelago, teaching unorthodox but effective hand-to-hand combat techniques against robots. Chirox no longer had any loyalty to the computer evermind, and had diligently trained four generations of mercenary fighters, including Zon Noret. Jool, one of the veteran’s many sons, would follow in his footsteps.
Shaped roughly like a human, the mek had three pairs of fighting arms extending from his torso, with weapons in each hand— swords and knives that could be varied in length and design. He had bright optic threads on a rigid molded face, instead of mirrorized flowmetal; this unit had been designed for nothing but combat.
In a sense, Chirox was a thinking machine… but because of his beneficial, necessary functions and strict control mechanisms he was not customarily referred to as such. He was one of only a handful of robotic units maintained and operated by League forces or their allies. These mechanical fighters were so efficient in their destructive abilities that Omnius considered them perfect, and no longer found it necessary to change their hardware or software. This provided an unforeseen opportunity for the Jihad, however, since they now had a technological standard against which to test their own fighting methods.
The Noret family and their immediate trainees considered Chirox their sensei, a master of martial arts and combat techniques. Since the launching of Serena Butler’s Jihad, many robots had been destroyed because of what Chirox taught.
Now young Jool squatted back on the warm, grainy sand. His jade eyes were bright and intent. He had pale, sun-bleached hair, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin; he was skinny, but deceptively strong. He could dart in and out of a training exercise even faster than his father.
He watched every move Zon Noret made, the blurring swish of energized steel as his blade traced complex patterns in the air, dancing forward to slam against the sensei mek’s exoskeleton.
As always, the nineteen-year-old admired his father, for he had heard numerous tales of Zon Noret’s triumphs during the most intense fighting of the Jihad. Jool wished he could have been at IV Anbus when the destroyed dam wiped out the robot army. His father had been among the first group of Ginaz mercenaries who volunteered their services to the Jihad, eight years after the destruction of Earth.
In Ginaz society, families had many children to replenish the warrior ranks, but the culture did not encourage parents to be very close to their offspring. The old veteran Zon was an exception, especially where Jool was concerned. A hero many times over, Zon’s bloodline was considered desirable, so he was persuaded to have even more offspring once he had returned from the combat fields.
Jool was easily the most skilled fighter of his fourteen brothers and sisters, and among the most advanced of his entire generation. Seeing so much potential in the young man, his father had paid extra attention to Jool, and saw him as his successor in the elite Corps of Ginaz, arguably the finest mercenaries in the Galaxy. Many planets provided freelance warriors for the fight, but no other group boasted such a high kill ratio.
Ginaz acknowledged that all humans shared the same enemy, but the mercenaries maintained their independence instead of joining the formal military hierarchy of the Army of the Jihad, making them wild cards. Where the jihadis preferred to use large military equipment and attack from a distance, Ginaz fighters were willing to get up close against the enemy robots. They hired themselves out for combat, unafraid to be used as suicide forces, disposable commandos— if the importance of the mission was sufficiently high.
; Zon had also been on the front lines when the machines had struck Peridot Colony; the human forces had fiercely defended the planet, at the cost of over eighty percent of the Ginaz mercenaries. In the end they had driven back the robot invaders, but Omnius had instructed the thinking machine fighters to follow a scorched-earth policy along their retreat. Though the colony had been grievously damaged, the rest of the planet had not fallen to the enemy.
Three years ago, Zon had been burned and injured while fighting robots on board a besieged thinking machine ship, after which he had been forced to recuperate and retrain on the archipelago islands of Ginaz. That was when he had first noticed his son’s exceptional skill. Now, after intensive practice, the young man might even surpass his own father.
Dripping with sweat, Zon parried and thrust, faster and more competently than his son had ever seen him fight. Jool could see how badly his father wanted to get back to the battlefields. The location didn’t matter to him. The Army of the Jihad always needed more fighters, and Ginaz devoted most of their population to the cause.
“I advise caution, Master Zon Noret.” Chirox’s voice was smooth and calm, not at all reflecting the intense exertion of the exercise.
“Nonsense,” Zon called with proud defiance. “Keep fighting to the absolute best of your abilities.”
The robot had no choice but to follow the command. “I have been programmed to teach you, Master Zon Noret, but I cannot force you to heed my cautions or lessons.” He thrust with his multiple arms, holding a knife or a sword in each.
The veteran scorned formalized instruction, claiming that it detracted from the development of true fighting skills. He always said, “The best technique for learning and growth is to simply observe. Rote memorization gains you nothing on the field of combat. Rather, practice until you no longer exist as an individual. There can be no separation between mind and body. You must become no more than living, fluid combat moves. That is all a mercenary should be.”
But though his father had achieved the highest accolades among the mercenaries of Ginaz, and a promised place in the Council of Veterans, Jool had already surpassed his elder’s skills, practicing in secret.
Like all youthful warriors on the islands, Jool Noret had spent his childhood being taught a variety of weapons by battle-scarred veterans and being lectured in techniques by pregnant female mercenaries. But only Zon Noret and a handful of eccentric trainees made full use of the fighting mek Chirox. Some of the conservative veterans considered it dangerous, but Zon had always felt it was the best way to understand, and defeat, the real enemy.
Now nearly an adult, Jool had followed in his father’s footsteps, but took measures one step further. Zon never knew that his son had exceeded the mek’s prior maximum capabilities, but Jool had learned how the robot worked and deciphered the combat programming. A year ago while his father was guest instructor on another island, Jool had installed an adaptability algorithm module that allowed Chirox to become a “supercharged” mek, superior to anything its original combat programming allowed. With the supercharged module installed, Chirox could keep pace with his student, becoming a better and better fighter as Jool himself advanced. The only limitation was the young man’s capabilities.
Jool always practiced and fought against Chirox either late at night or when he was sure he would be alone on the beaches. His muscles still felt a pleasant, weary burn from the latest workout he and the mek had completed before dawn, in secret before his father could see.
Someday Jool would surprise Zon with an astounding demonstration of his capabilities, but the young fighter was still not satisfied with himself. He wanted to become the best mercenary Ginaz had ever produced. He knew he had the potential within him, if only he could release his inhibitions. A thread of self-restraint impeded him, a protective instinct that placed a glass ceiling on his development.
Even so, Jool was better than any other fighter he had ever seen. Chirox said so himself, and he had trained against many of the best mercenaries. The combat robot had no choice but to be objective and honest….
Now, sitting in the hot sun, Jool studied his father’s attack and defense methods, as well as the skill and resilience the sensei mek demonstrated. Zon applied himself with fury, as if trying to prove something to himself. Surprisingly, he even pulled out a few new tricks, moves that Jool had never seen him use before. The younger man smiled.
Despite his opponent’s best efforts, though, Chirox remained one step ahead of the older fighter. The mek’s five remaining segmented arms moved in a blur, and the human could barely keep up. The old veteran was clearly being worn down.
Chirox spoke, “This is unwise, Zon Noret. Your strength and stamina are diminished. You have only recently recovered from your combat injury.”
Angrily, Zon clattered his sword against the robot’s body; the five still-functioning arms flailed in defense. “I have battled real thinking machines, Chirox. They do not fight below their capabilities, not even against an old man.”
“You’re not old, Father,” Jool insisted, but he heard the insincerity in his own voice.
Panting heavily, Zon stepped away, glanced at his son, and tossed the long, pale hair out of his eyes. “Age is a relative term when applied to seasoned warriors, my son.”
With a sound like an army of blacksmiths battering hot blades on their anvils, Zon attacked Chirox. The robot swung up his arms, and weapons disappeared from two of the hands, which he now used to grasp at his opponent. Zon managed to paralyze this pair of arms with the pulse sword, and the robot’s right leg as well, so that Chirox could only pivot in the sand rather than dodge out of the way. Cutting weapons emerged from the robot’s body, jabbing and slashing with buzzing blades, but Zon danced to one side.
Then Jool realized with a sudden sinking fear that he had forgotten to remove the supercharged fighting module from the combat mek. With the adaptability algorithm functioning, Chirox was pumped to capabilities far superior to anything Zon had ever faced.
Jool paled with alarm for his father. And now in the intensity of battle— with Chirox’s safety systems and restraints deactivated— he didn’t dare shout a distracting warning. He jumped to his feet. Everything happened in an instant.
Zon leaped in the air and lashed out with a callused foot, kicking sideways to knock the mek off balance. But Chirox somehow anchored himself.
Jool ran forward, intending to dive into the fray. His bare feet kicked up sand.
The old warrior did not know his danger. He jumped backward, out of the reach of the cutting arms, but the ferociously intent mek kept driving in. Zon Noret landed wrong, twisting his ankle. He stumbled.
Jool cried out automatically, “Chirox, stop!”— just as the sensei mek struck. The robot’s knife plunged deep into the old warrior’s chest.
As the young man ran forward, Chirox stood frozen as if in disbelief at what he had done.
Zon Noret melted to the beach, gasping and coughing blood. The combat mek withdrew immediately, powering down his systems.
Jool knelt beside the dying man and lifted him by the shoulders. “Father…”
“I failed to see it…,” Zon said, his breath rustling through his lungs. “I failed.”
The sensei mek remained motionless, away from the humans. “I deeply regret what I have done. I had no desire or intention to kill you.”
“You will recover,” Jool said to the bleeding man, but he could see the wound was mortal. It was all his fault, for having altered the mek’s programming. “It’s just another wound. You’ve suffered many of them in your lifetime, Father. We will get you a battlefield surgeon.” He tried to pull away and summon help, but Zon clasped him by the wrist.
The veteran fighter turned to the mek, his sweat-streaked hair plastered against his face. “Sensei Chirox, you did… exactly as I commanded you.” It took him several breaths to force out the words. “You fought precisely… as I requested. And you have taught me… many useful things.”
He looke
d up at Jool, who bent intently over the old warrior. The lapping surf and seabirds wheeling over the lagoon seemed like a lullaby. The sun slipped below the horizon, fingerpainting the sky with intense colors.
Zon squeezed his son’s wrist. “It is time for me to transfer my spirit and pave the way for another fighter. Jool, I want you to forgive Chirox.” He clutched one last time. “And you must become the greatest warrior Ginaz has ever known.”
Choking on his words, he said, “As you wish, Father.”
Zon Noret closed his eyes, and his son could no longer see the bright scarlet of hemorrhages there. His thoughts drifting, his voice weakening, the elder mercenary said, “Speak the litany with me, Jool. You know the words.”
The younger man’s voice cracked, but he forced himself to speak. “You taught them to me, Father. All the fighters of Ginaz know the final instructions.”
“Good… then help me with them.” Zon Noret drew in a long, wet-sounding breath, and his words overlapped with his son’s as they recited the Litany of the Fallen Mercenary.
“‘Only thus do we honor the warrior’s death: carry on my will, continue my fight.’”
Moments later, Zon Noret slumped in his son’s arms. Silent and rigid, the sensei mek stood in position.
Finally, after a poised moment of quiet grief, Jool Noret rose to his feet over his father’s body, which lay on the beach. Squaring his shoulders, he faced the combat robot and took deep breaths to calm himself. He centered his thoughts, then reached down and picked up Zon’s pulse sword from the blood-specked sand.
“From this day forward, Chirox,” he said. “You must work even harder to train me.”
Those who refuse to fight against thinking machines are traitors to the human race. Those who do not use every possible weapon are fools.
— ZUFA CENVA, “Lectures to Sorceress Trainees”
Looking carefully across the verdant treetops of the dense jungles of Rossak, Zufa Cenva could still envision scars from the horrific cymek attack more than two decades earlier.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 15