Nearly an hour passed, and finally he was taken up a wide flight of stairs into Lord Bludd’s private suite and gallery. His skin felt warm, and his thoughts blazed with possibilities. With good fortune his plea would touch the heart of the nobleman who ruled Poritrin. He hoped his words were persuasive.
Inside a room that smelled of candles and perfumes, courtiers were dressing the bearded lord in a padded vest, gold chains, and thick cuffs. His reddish-gold hair had paled with age, intertwined now with gray. A tattoo of tiny clustered circles like bubbles marked the side of his eye. Personal servants bustled about, splashing scented water onto his hair and cheeks. One rail-thin man brushed lint from the fabric of his lord’s robe with the intensity of a philosopher studying the key to all knowledge.
The lord looked up at Ishmael, and sighed. “Well, it isn’t often that Tio sends one of his slaves to meet with me, and he isn’t usually so insistent— or timely— with his reports. What does the Savant want this evening? It is quite an inconvenient time.” He reached out to take the logbooks.
Ishmael kept his voice calm and soft, as polite as he could manage. Respectful but with a degree of confidence, as if he imagined himself an equal. Realizing the importance of his every word, he drew silent strength from deep within. “Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding, Lord Bludd. Savant Holtzman did not send me here. My name is Ishmael, and I have come of my own accord to speak with you.”
The courtiers stopped in shock. Bludd blinked at Ishmael with distaste, then looked up to glare at his chamberlain, who in turn snapped a harsh look at the Dragoon guards.
Peripherally, Ishmael saw the chamberlain moving forward to take him away, but Bludd motioned for the aide to stay back. His voice was annoyed now, demanding explanations. “Why have you come here if it isn’t about Savant Holtzman?” He held up the logbooks. “What are these?”
Ishmael smiled, letting the words flow through him, hoping that he could soften the nobleman’s heart with reason and sympathy. “Lord, for generations my people have served and protected Poritrin. My fellow slaves and I worked on many of Savant Holtzman’s projects, which have saved untold League citizens from the thinking machines. In the past year we labored without respite to fabricate your successful decoy fleet.”
Lord Bludd scowled, as if he had swallowed a rancid sweetmeat. Then he smiled cruelly and replied, “That comes under the definition of being a slave.”
Nearby, the chamberlain chuckled.
But Ishmael saw no humor in this. “We are human beings, Lord Bludd.” He calmed himself, refusing to allow his determination to slip. “We have shed sweat and blood in order to protect your way of life. We have watched your celebrations. Because of our efforts, Poritrin has remained independent of the thinking machines.”
“Because of your efforts?” Bludd’s face grew stormy at the audacity of this Zensunni man. “You have done exactly as your masters ordered you to do, nothing more. We saw the threat coming. We developed the means to guard against it. We drew up the plans, and we provided the resources. You merely put the pieces together, as you were commanded to do.”
“My Lord, you underestimate and belittle what your captives have done for—”
“What is it you people want— my eternal gratitude? Nonsense! You helped to save your own lives, not just ours. That should be enough for you. Would you rather be rotting in a thinking machine prison right now, being dissected by curious robots? Count your blessings I am not the archdemon Erasmus.”
He ruffled his sleeves and shooed his attendants away. “Now go, slave. I wish to hear no more of this, and do not ever attempt to speak directly with me again. Your deception is cause enough for your execution. I am the Lord of Poritrin, the head of a family that has been in power here for generations, while you are but a… transplanted coward whose food and shelter is provided only at my own sufferance.”
Ishmael was deeply offended, but had heard this sort of insult before. He wanted to argue, to state his case more plainly, but saw from the look of dull anger simmering in Lord Bludd’s eyes that nothing he could say would have a satisfactory effect. He had failed. Perhaps Aliid had been right to scoff at his naïve faith.
I have underestimated how different, how alien, this man’s thoughts can be. I do not comprehend Lord Bludd at all. Is he even human?
Recently, during nighttime discussions around the story fire in the slave encampment, Aliid had grown increasingly strident, encouraging the people to follow in Bel Moulay’s footsteps. Now Aliid wanted to attempt another revolution, regardless of how much bloodshed it might involve. Every time Ishmael tried to be a voice of reason and speak against the naked quest for revenge, Aliid shouted him down.
After this meeting, though, Ishmael wasn’t sure how much more he could argue. He had tried his best, and Lord Bludd had refused to listen.
Hoping the nobleman would not change his mind and order his immediate execution, Ishmael bowed again and backed slowly toward the door. The Dragoon guards grabbed his arms rudely and escorted him out, growling curses under their breath. Ishmael didn’t struggle or respond to their insults; it would take little to provoke them into beating him to death.
Even though his faith had been rocked to the core, and his innocent beliefs found wanting, he was not sorry for having tried. Not yet.
* * *
WITHIN DAYS THE new orders came in, reassigning Ishmael and many others who had worked on the shipyard construction project. He, Aliid, and a hundred like them were to be sent far upriver to a new facility, where they would be put to work on an independent project led by Norma Cenva, the female genius from Rossak who had once served as Savant Holtzman’s assistant.
The Dragoons also had explicit instructions that the slave Ishmael was to be separated from his family. The sergeant said in a gruff voice, “Your wife and daughters will remain here for reassignment”— from beneath his gold-scaled helmet, he smiled—”probably to three separate places.”
Ishmael’s knees wobbled, and he could not believe what he had heard. “No, that is impossible!” He had been with Ozza for fifteen years. “I have done nothing—” The guards took him by the arms, but he broke free and ran toward his stricken-looking wife, who stood with Chamal and Falina.
Lord Bludd had made his displeasure clear, and the soldiers had been looking for an excuse to punish Ishmael. They removed stun sticks and struck him on the knees, on the small of his back, on his shoulders and head.
Ishmael, who was not a violent man, crumpled with a cry. With tears streaming down her face, cursing the attackers, Ozza tried to reach him. But the Dragoons kept her away. Their daughters attempted to dodge around the gold-armored men, but Ishmael feared more for their safety than his own. If they drew too much attention to themselves, Chamal and Falina might be taken away by the guards, for depraved sport. His two beautiful girls…
“No, stay back. I will go with them. We will find some way to be together.”
Ozza gathered the girls close to her and looked at the Dragoons as if she wanted to claw their eyes out. But she knew her husband, and did not want to do anything that would bring more harm to him. “We will be together again, my darling Ishmael.”
Slowly, Aliid moved to stand beside him, an angry fire kindling his eyes. The Dragoons seemed amused by this Zenshiite man’s stormy defiance. Ishmael groaned and tried to maintain his balance amid a storm of pains.
As the guards herded the new work crew away to their assignment upriver, Ishmael struggled to get another look at Ozza and the girls, perhaps for the last time. When Aliid had been separated from his family, he had never seen his wife and son again.
Now Aliid spoke in a harsh whisper, using the old Chakobsa tongue that none of the slavers could understand. “I told you, these men are monsters. Lord Bludd is the worst. Now do you see that your simplistic faith is not enough?”
Stubbornly, Ishmael shook his head.
Despite all, he was not prepared to cast aside the Zensunni beliefs that formed the foundati
on of his life. Seeing his failure, would the others who had so carefully listened to his evening parables and sutras give up on him? Ishmael was being sorely tested— and had no idea what his ultimate answer would be.
175 B.G.
JIHAD YEAR 27
One Year After the Victory on Poritrin
War: A manufactory that produces desolation, death, and secrets.
— Statement of anti-Jihad protestor
Primero Harkonnen did not find the long, slow flight to Ix a serene one. The gung-ho enthusiasm of new recruits on board the ballista flagship had gradually settled into a dread of facing the thinking machine forces on the long-embattled Synchronized World. Everyone in the massive attack force knew the stakes, and the dangers.
Xavier’s mandate was clear. The rebels on Ix had fought long and hard against an overwhelming army of cymeks and hunter-killer robots, and now he would add sufficient forces to turn the tide. The humans could not afford to lose. Once he had freed another planet from Omnius, then he would sleep easier.
One world at a time.
* * *
BACK HOME, OCTA had never liked to see him depart on another assignment for the Jihad. During their marriage, Xavier had gone off on one dangerous mission after another. It was difficult for her to watch him go, but Octa knew the stakes in this never-ending war. She had seen firsthand what the brutality of the thinking machines had done to her sister Serena. War changed people. Someone had to protect the innocent. Xavier and Vor were among those who risked their lives to do just that, and Octa had always understood that this war was his calling. In war everyone made sacrifices.
And though Xavier loved her intensely and knew she had complete faith in him, he always saw the fear in her eyes when he left Salusa Secundus— but it was a fear that Octa mastered. She did everything possible to make him feel loved and comfortable when they were together, so that he would hold good memories for all the long days until he could return home. Once, he had even joked with Octa that she always threw the largest celebrations on the days he went away.
Before her husband left on the difficult and risky campaign to liberate Ix, Octa had once again prepared a feast and called their closest loved ones. Serena was invited to join them, as always, but the Priestess of the Jihad rarely attended any small gatherings, even with her family. The office of Grand Patriarch Ginjo had politely declined the invitation on Serena’s behalf, responding that she was simply too busy.
Those who did not know Octa well saw her as a shy, quiet woman who stood in the shadow of the great Primero. But when she made up her mind and focused her thoughts, Octa displayed all the rigidity and firmness of an angry military commander. She rallied the servants, the cleaners, and the cooks, making sure absolutely everything went perfectly.
Old Manion Butler himself stayed down in the cellars for an hour selecting three rare bottles of wine. Xavier knew that the retired Viceroy didn’t keep any less than the best vintages, but out of love he still encouraged his father-in-law to make the choices, a task he relished.
In the late afternoon, Xavier’s two grown daughters, Roella and Omilia, joined them at the departure feast, along with their husbands. Roella had reached the age of twenty-six, and her sister was two years younger. Omilia brought her new baby daughter, to the delight of her parents.
Octa adored Omilia’s new baby, and watched wistfully as the child smiled at Xavier. Though he had lost a son of his own, he was exceedingly proud of his two daughters and the lives they were making for themselves. Both Omilia and Roella were strikingly lovely, but Xavier was not exactly an objective judge.
“Sometimes I wish we could have had at least one more,” Octa said, tickling the baby.
To Xavier, his wife was still the most beautiful of them all, though she was by now forty-five years old. He still saw the youthful glow she carried within her, and he still found her more attractive than any young woman. Xavier shrugged and gave her his best boyish grin. “No one said you’re too old.”
“It’s not very likely.” She teased him, but he continued to smile.
“That’s no reason for us to stop trying.”
But Xavier couldn’t help being uncomfortable and heartsick as he faced the other guests. His adoptive father, Emil Tantor, was accompanied by Vergyl’s widow Sheel and their three children.
Xavier couldn’t believe that two years had already passed since the debacle at IV Anbus. He still felt pangs of guilt and regret for allowing Vergyl to be captured by the cymeks. His brother had been thirty-four years old at the time of his death— by no means a child— but Xavier could never stop thinking of the grinning young man as his little brother, a boy he had played with… and later let down. Vergyl and Sheel should have had a fine, long life together. His brother’s family was wonderful, but their future had been torn away… just as his own had been when Serena was kidnapped by the thinking machines.
Damn this Jihad!
Still, even after losing Serena, Xavier had made a good life for himself. And he would not have changed any of it, even if he could. He had no doubt that Sheel was strong enough to do the same, under the guidance of the aged, increasingly frail Emil Tantor.
Though he was overjoyed to see his father, as well as Vergyl’s family, Xavier still felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Omilia’s new baby seemed to sadden Sheel, and his father also appeared somber, perhaps remembering that his own wife Lucille had been killed in a flyer crash shortly before she was to meet Vergyl’s baby daughter for the first time….
When the first course was ready to be served, Octa led the prayer. She gave thanks for the food and for their lives, begged God for Xavier’s safety on the mission to Ix, and prayed for deliverance from Omnius and all thinking machines.
Xavier had known this was supposed to be a joyous occasion, his loved ones bidding him farewell and wishing him success in his latest military campaign. The Ixian mission was fraught with peril, and though he would never surrender easily, he was certain that many other jihadi soldiers were having similar farewell dinners with their close families… and many of them would not, in fact, return.
The moment Octa saw his mood fall, even before the main course could be brought out, she called in a trio of youthful Zimia musicians who played their instruments and sang in a lovely contralto, while the other guests ate and talked in low conversations.
Hearing the happy minstrels, Xavier thought again of the dead, of Octa’s twin brother Fredo, who had always wanted to be a musician and an artist. As he watched his wife, he expected to see similar thoughts reflected in her face, but she took only joy from the musicians’ performance, and soon the rest of the guests responded as well, enjoying their meal, talking, and laughing.
Octa was radiant. Later, in the heat of pitched battle, he would remember that more than anything else.
Though he was the one going to Ix to fight the murderous machines, Octa fought just as bravely in her own battle to maintain good spirits and optimism in her household, because that was the only weapon she could wield. She had done the same thing each time Xavier had gone off to war, and it had always worked.
But he had gone away too many times.
* * *
A FEW YEARS after the League Armada’s devastation of Earth, Xavier had led the first “official” attack of Serena Butler’s expanding Jihad. After selecting a Synchronized World at random— Bela Tegeuse— the warships had gone out with much fanfare. Vorian Atreides had distinguished himself in that battle, earned a higher rank, and proved his true fervor for the cause of humanity.
The battle of Bela Tegeuse had destroyed many robots and obliterated extensive thinking machine infrastructure, but the enemy fought back relentlessly. The skirmish was ultimately inconclusive, and the human forces retreated to lick their wounds. A year later, and without orders, Vorian had slipped back to the Tegeusan system and returned home to report that the machines had rebuilt everything and continued to oppress the surviving human population there. It was as if nothing had happe
ned. Despite the terrible struggle and loss of life, the Jihad had made no progress whatsoever.
It was after Earth and Bela Tegeuse, however, that the Omnius everminds realized that the character of the struggle had changed. In response, the Corrin-Omnius had sent a heavy fleet against Salusa Secundus, but the newly formed Army of the Jihad— led by Xavier himself— rebuffed them. At the time, he had considered it payback for the Battle of Zimia, where he had been so badly injured years before.
Now, en route to Ix, the senior officer was spoiling for another chance. He’d had many opportunities in the quarter century since the destruction of Earth, and each fight gave him the chance to strike another blow. To free more humans. To devastate the thinking machines.
If only his fighters could maintain their edge… and their energy.
During the long and tense voyage, Xavier issued orders imposing a rigorous training routine on his soldiers, to keep their reflexes sharp. A separate force under his command, the normally aloof mercenaries from Ginaz, were pleased to demonstrate their combat abilities for Xavier’s troops.
The Primero often spent hours watching them from above, judging their techniques, mentally selecting the best fighters among the recruits. He found the new batch of mercenaries particularly interesting. Never before had he witnessed such skill in hand-to-hand combat.
The fighters deferred to their new champion Jool Noret, a mysterious and intense young man in a black jumpsuit. Fresh from the archipelago on Ginaz, the young mercenary had bronzed skin, jade eyes, and sun-bleached hair. As thin and fast as a human whip, Noret wielded blade weapons with a speed that turned them into lethal barbs.
An enigmatic loner, Noret rarely spoke to anyone, including his fellow mercenaries. Nonetheless, he threw himself into even the most basic of training exercises with reckless abandon and without concern for his personal well-being. He seemed to be blessed— or cursed— with a belief in his own invulnerability.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 25