Serena turned to the young woman. “I need no protection from my own mother, Niriem.”
“We must also protect you from your own doubts, Priestess,” the Seraph leader warned. “Your Jihad cannot suffer weakness from within.”
“Do you obey me or make up your own orders? Now go.”
Sullenly, the devoted women departed. Livia Butler had not moved, and said, “Just before leaving for Poritrin, the Grand Patriarch announced his intentions on Ix, but he has actually been plotting there for a long time, coveting the industries and manufacturing centers. You cannot imagine the slaughter he has already triggered in your name. Many, many lives have already been expended on Ix— and it is going to get much worse.”
Serena blinked her lavender eyes. “How do you know this? Iblis has made no such report to me.”
In response, Livia handed over an image pack. A broken seal bore the insignia of Jipol, marked with the highest security classification. “These clips were smuggled out by a mercenary sent in to foment turmoil. The images were compiled by a native Ixian named Handon, one of the rebels and saboteurs.”
“How did you get it?”
“The image pack was intended for Yorek Thurr, but was misdelivered in the League Assembly to an old representative who was once very loyal to your father. You know the bureaucracy there— it’s as bad as in the fallen Empire. He thought the retired Viceroy should see it, and I think that you should also view the images, Serena. You must see what is happening out in the Jihad. The protesters have good reason for questioning the tactics in this war.”
“The protesters are cowards who do not understand the deadly purposes of the thinking machines.”
Livia pressed Serena’s fingers against the image pack. “Just view this.”
Frowning to conceal her nervousness, Serena activated the system and scrolled slowly from one nightmarish scene to another. She saw mass slaughter in full color: machine extermination squads attacked humans, and families huddled underground, hiding in tunnels, while a cymek— identified as the Titan Xerxes— strode about in a warrior-form, killing any human he encountered.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to say, “I realize this war is painful, Mother, but we must fight and we must win.”
“Yes, and you need to understand, child: Ix is a slaughterhouse— unnecessarily so. Iblis has deluded the Ixian rebels into throwing themselves at the ferocious assassin robots, with no hope of survival and no chance of making the slightest progress against the enemy. We give them a few weapons, but they are not nearly enough. Iblis has recognized the futility of the campaign for more than a year, and yet he keeps egging them on, sending them your messages.”
“My words are meant to inspire them.”
“Hundreds of thousands of fighters have died there, all in your name. They call out for you and your martyred son as if you are deities who can protect them, then hurl themselves upon the thinking machines. You were never meant to see these horrific images, but you must know how much blood is on your hands.”
Serena shot her mother a hard glance, then continued to watch the images. She absorbed the brutal fighting taking place in blood-spattered cave warrens in the industrial complexes and cities beneath the surface of the planet. Flames raged around the desperate fighters. Smashed machines and dead human bodies lay everywhere.
“What would you have me do, Mother?” she asked at last, unable to tear her gaze away from the carnage. “Should we just surrender Ix?”
Livia’s expression melted. “No, but even if we conquer Ix by sending an army in, is it all just for another excuse to cheer? This is a poorly chosen battlefield. For such an extravagant effort and expenditure of lives, we might as well attack the machine capital on Corrin!”
Serena was troubled. “I will have to discuss this with Iblis, when he returns from Poritrin. He will explain himself. Perhaps the Grand Patriarch has reasons we don’t immediately see. I’m sure he has good justification for—”
Livia interrupted. “He has made these decisions without you, Serena. As he often does. Are you the Priestess of the Jihad… or a mere figurehead?”
Her mother’s words stung. After a long moment Serena said, “Iblis is my advisor and mentor, and he has always been a great source of strength to me. But you are right… I should not be in the dark concerning major decisions.”
“The Grand Patriarch will not come home for nearly two months.” Livia leaned forward, pressing. “You cannot wait that long. Decide how you will act before then.” The old Abbess took her daughter by the arm. “Come with me. After learning of this report herself, the Cogitor Kwyna wishes to speak with you. It is most urgent.”
* * *
ONCE A HUMAN female in times forgotten by history, long before the Titans overthrew the Old Empire, the great philosopher Kwyna had pondered all the thoughts and philosophies collected by the human race. After expending a millennium of effort, Kwyna taught that even common human brains could achieve a glimmer of wisdom.
Serena and her mother climbed the steps of the stone tower that had been built to accommodate the great thinker. The tower windows were open, and cool breezes swept through the room. The Cogitor’s ornate preservation canister rested on a pedestal at the center of the round room, and her chosen human attendants stood nearby, awaiting her instructions.
Kwyna gave her excellent advice and many important questions to consider. Kwyna’s philosophical conundrums had occupied Serena during her darkest times of grief and despair over the loss of her baby and the crumbling of her expected life with Xavier Harkonnen.
Now her mother remained at the door, while Serena stepped forward to stand before the preservation canister. “You asked to speak with me, Kwyna? I anticipate much enlightenment from every conversation with you.”
Two secondaries marched forward with shaven heads and immaculately clean hands. The monks removed the canister lid and motioned for Serena to reach out. “Kwyna wishes to connect with you directly.”
Floating in its electrafluid bath, the disembodied brain was wrinkled and intricately patterned by centuries of deep thought. With a mounting sense of curiosity mixed with apprehension, Serena let her eyes fall half closed and dipped her slender fingertips into the warm preservation fluid.
“I am here,” she murmured.
She pushed her hand deeper until she touched the rubbery contours of Kwyna’s brain. As the thick fluid swirled around the Cogitor’s sensitive flesh, ionic pathways connected through the pores of her skin, linking with Serena’s neurons, connecting the mental passages of the distinct, but related, life-forms.
“You know the facts and the words,” the wise Cogitor said in her mind. “You understand Iblis Ginjo’s justifications… but do you believe them?”
“What do you mean, Kwyna?” Serena said out loud.
“I have avoided giving Iblis new straws of philosophy to clutch, but still he twists my words, corrupts the ancient scriptures. Instead of drawing enlightenment from my treatises, he makes up his own mind and then takes passages out of context in order to justify his decisions.”
The Cogitor’s thoughts seemed to thrum with deep weariness. Serena wanted to retreat from the accusations, but respect for the Cogitor trapped her hand in the living fluid. “Kwyna, I’m sure the Grand Patriarch holds only the best interests of humanity in his heart. I will speak to him, of course, and am certain he will explain everything.”
“One who will manipulate the truth to prove his enlightenment will do much worse. Serena Butler, are you not struck by the fact that his decisions cause martyrs to march to their deaths with your name on their lips?”
Serena bridled. “They are fighters for the Jihad. Even if they were slaughtered to the last, they would insist it was worth the cost. And so would I.”
Behind her, Livia expressed disappointment. “Oh, Serena. Is human life so valueless to you?”
Kwyna continued, her thoughts damning. “The Grand Patriarch incites violence by whatever means he considers neces
sary, because he believes that his goal validates his methods. Ix is another prize to him, but not part of any plan to win the war. He is in no hurry for the fighting to end, and knows that tragedies can be as inspirational as victories. You, Serena, may want Omnius destroyed as soon as possible, but Iblis Ginjo sees the Jihad as his source of power.”
This news was painful, almost too much to bear. Serena did not want to hear any more but was still unable to withdraw her hand.
“I have lived and pondered for more than twenty centuries, and dispensed my knowledge to those who deserved it. Now, my conclusions are being used in a manner that I never intended. I myself feel responsible for countless unnecessary human deaths.”
Serena let her fingertips brush over the vermiform contours of the Cogitor’s mind. “Those who would carry an important role must bear immense burdens. I am all too familiar with this sad fact.”
“But I did not choose the role,” Kwyna retorted. “Just as you have been manipulated by Iblis, so have I. Willingly, I gave my thoughts for the betterment of humanity, but my writings have been corrupted. I now understand why some of my fellow Cogitors chose to withdraw forever from interacting with the rise and fall of civilizations. Perhaps I should have gone with Vidad and the others long ago.”
Serena was surprised. “There are other Cogitors still alive? What do you mean they have withdrawn forever?”
“Vidad was once my friend, a mental sparring partner, a mind worthy of infinite debate. But he and five other Cogitors chose to sever all contact with humans and machines, preferring the eternal serenity and purity of their own thoughts. At the time we scorned them for fleeing the obligations that stemmed from their revelations. We accused them of hiding, living in ivory towers. Vidad accepted the label, but did not change his decision. No one has heard from them in many centuries.”
Serena sensed a sullen exhaustion in Kwyna’s mind as the ancient brain said, “Perhaps I should have joined the Ivory Tower Cogitors, but now I must find another option. I have summoned you here to tell you this, Serena Butler, so that you may understand.”
“And you think understanding is so simple?” Serena asked.
“Reality is what it is,” said Kwyna. “And I have had enough of life. I will share no more thoughts, allow no more wisdom to be twisted. When I am gone, Iblis may still find ways to use the lost doctrines, but I do not intend to give him further weapons that he can corrupt.”
Dreading what the ancient mind might do next, Serena said, “You have served me well here. I have learned much from you, and relied on your advice.”
Now the Cogitor’s voice became gentler in Serena’s mind. “I know your heart is true, but I am weary from the deep ponderings of two millennia. From now on, I cast you free of my protection. Think your own thoughts and fly from the nest to your destiny.”
“What are you saying? Wait!”
“It is time for me… to cease.” The bluish electrafluid stirred and turned a different color, dangerously reddish, as if the ancient brain had hemorrhaged, secreting a bloody essence.
Serena felt a terrible coldness in the brain, a shocking, sudden sensation.
Then, with no added effort from the secondaries and no manipulation of the life-support systems in the preservation canister, the deep thoughts smoothed and faded from the Cogitor’s mind. After two thousand years of considering the meaning of existence, Kwyna let her essence flow into the universe and melt away. Her mind disappeared into nothingness.
Serena yanked her hand from the electrafluid. The slippery liquid felt like blood all over her fingers. “What have I done?”
“Many things have led to this tragedy,” Livia answered, her tone bitter. “Iblis Ginjo in part, as well as the Jihad, by its very nature.”
Fighting back tears, Serena stepped away from the now lifeless mass of the ancient philosopher’s brain. Her friend. “So many things have been done in my name.”
Livia looked at her sternly. “Serena, you have had a quarter of a century to contemplate and to learn from your personal tragedy. Now the time has come for you to make your own decisions.”
Serena squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She gazed out the window and felt an icy breeze on her face. “Yes, Mother. Now I know what I must do.” She glanced at the mourning, saffron-robed secondaries, then peered into the hall where her brooding Seraphim stood at the ready, garbed in crimson-trimmed white robes.
“It is time for me to lead my Holy Jihad.”
It is better to be envied than pitied.
— VORIAN ATREIDES, Memoirs Without Shame
For Xavier Harkonnen, the Butler Estate was haunted by memories and lost opportunities. But it was also the home he made with his loving wife Octa and their two daughters Roella and Omilia.
By the age of forty-four, Octa had grown into her beauty and her role as his wife and anchor. A gentler soul than her fiery sister Serena, Octa was a caring and devoted mate and an attentive mother. A prize beyond measure.
What have I ever done to deserve her?
Since retiring as Viceroy, her father Manion Butler had lived with them, tending the orchards and winery. The elderly man adored his grown granddaughters, and still enjoyed political and military discussions with his influential son-in-law. Of late, however, such talks often evolved into banal reminiscences about the “good old days.” Serena had become a distant stranger to her family.
When Xavier stepped out of the main doorway and looked across toward the olive-darkened hilltops and the vineyard rows, he saw a rider on horseback coming up the graveled switchbacks to the manor house.
Octa joined him in the courtyard, and Xavier slipped a hand around her narrow waist. She felt comfortable and familiar beside him. They had been married for more than twenty-five years now.
Squinting, Octa recognized the dashing, dark-haired rider as he came up the path. “You didn’t warn me Vorian was coming. I was going to visit Sheel over at the Tantor estate.” Vergyl’s still-grieving widow Sheel and three children had recently arrived from Giedi Prime, and were beginning to settle in on Emil Tantor’s large and lonely estate. Octa had been very helpful, assisting the young woman.
“We just want to spend a friendly afternoon discussing possibilities.” He stroked her long strawberry-blond hair, now tarnished with a few strands of pale gray. “If I’d told you he was coming, you would have rallied all the servants and insisted on holding a banquet.”
She smiled back at him. “True enough. Now you’ll have to be satisfied with cold meat and boiled eggs.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Well, at least you can spoil us with our best wine. Let your father choose a bottle— he knows the vintages better than the rest of us.”
“Only because he takes his sampling duties so seriously. I’ll ask him if we still have some of the old celebration bottles from his marriage to Mother.” Octa disappeared back into the manor house, after waving to Vorian as he rode into the courtyard on a well-muscled Salusan stallion.
Though Xavier was now forty-seven years old and feeling a little less spry in his muscles, his mind held more details and relationships than it ever had in his younger days. In contrast, Vor Atreides retained the best aspects of youth combined with the wisdom of experience. He had not aged a day since his escape from Earth decades ago. His skin was still smooth, his hair dark and lush, though his eyes carried the burden of more memories than any young man’s eyes should have displayed. Years earlier, he had explained to Xavier about the life-extension treatment—”torture” was the way he had described it— that Agamemnon had administered to him, supposedly as a reward.
Vor jumped down from his saddle and patted the magnificent beast’s neck. Two handlers emerged to take the stallion; they would rub it down, braid the mane and brush the tail; old Manion would make sure everything was done to his satisfaction.
Xavier extended a formal hand to greet his friend, but Vor clapped him on the back instead. “So, do you like my new horse, Xavier? It’s one of five I just
purchased.” With obvious pride, he watched the animal trot into the Butler stables. “Spectacular beasts.”
“I should think riding would be a lot of trouble for you, Vor. You have little experience with horses, so—”
“But I love chaos. I spent enough of my life with machines, and there’s something unique and exciting about riding a live animal that seems to enjoy the journey.” He looked up at the sky, his expression troubled and wistful. “Now that I think of it, Erasmus kept horses, too. Sometimes he summoned a fine carriage to deliver me to his villa. Poor beasts… but the robot probably cared for them well enough. He preferred to experiment on humans, you know.”
By the time they reached the upstairs veranda on the balcony of the Winter Sun Room, Octa had already ordered her servants to put out a tray of sliced meats, cheeses, and boiled eggs garnished with herbs. A bottle of fine red wine stood open as well, with two glasses poured and oxidizing in the air.
Xavier chuckled. “Sometimes I think Octa is as telepathic as the Sorceresses of Rossak.” As his friend dropped into a chair and put his feet up on the balcony rail, Xavier turned and looked across the thick forests of the Butler Estate. “Why don’t you take a woman, Vorian? She could tame you and give you something to look forward to each time you come back to Salusa.”
“Tame me?” Vor shot him a wry smile. “Would I inflict myself on some poor, innocent female? I’m content enough to have a few women waiting for me here and there.”
“In every spaceport, you mean.”
“Not even close. I’m not the womanizer you think.” Vor took a sip of wine and sighed with pleasure. “I may eventually select one, though.” He left the obvious unspoken— the fact that he still had plenty of time. It was difficult for him to imagine spending all those years with only one woman.
Vor had served Omnius, but Serena Butler had changed his thinking and made him look at the universe in a different way— a human way. Vor had accepted the cause of the Jihad, not as a duped fool or an unquestioning fanatic, but as a proficient military commander with the skills General Agamemnon had taught him. Since escaping the rule of Omnius and declaring his loyalty to free humanity, Vorian Atreides claimed he had become more alive than he had ever imagined possible.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 22