After parking in the courtyard and racing through the main gates into the echoing foyer, he called out with more emotion than he usually allowed himself to show. “Octa! I’m here!”
One of the servants met him excitedly, pointing up the stairs. “The doctors are with her. I don’t think the baby is born yet, but it’s very—”
Xavier didn’t hear the rest as he hurried upstairs. Octa lay on the large four-poster bed where they had conceived the child. It was another small victory, a symbol of human persistence and triumph. Now Octa was half-sitting, her legs spread, and her face was streaked with sweat and contorted in pain.
Seeing him, though, she smiled, as if trying to convince herself it was not a dream. “My love! Is this… what I have to do… to get you home from war?”
At her bedside, the professional midwife smiled reassuringly. “She’s strong, and everything is normal. Anytime now you should have another child, Primero.”
“You make it sound too easy.” Octa groaned with another contraction. “Would you like to switch places with me?”
“This is your third child,” the midwife said, “so it should be easy for you. Maybe you don’t even need me.”
The expectant mother grabbed the woman’s hand and held on tight. “Stay!”
Xavier stepped forward. “If anyone’s going to hold her hand, it should be me.” Smiling, the midwife backed away, letting Octa’s husband take her place.
Leaning close, Xavier thought about how lovely his wife still was. He had been with her for many years, and away from her for too much of the time. He marveled that she could be so content with this patchwork marriage.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“About how beautiful you are. You’re glowing with happiness.”
“That’s because you’re with me.”
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t been the husband you deserve. Even when we’re together, I haven’t been attentive.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and she touched her large belly. “You must be somewhat attentive, or I wouldn’t be pregnant again.” She grimaced when a contraction struck, but fought through the pain with a brave smile.
But he wouldn’t let himself off so easily. “Honestly, I’ve spent too much time brooding, concerned with this damned war. The real tragedy is how long it took me to see what a treasure I have in you.”
Tears streamed down Octa’s face. “I have never questioned you, my darling. You are the only man I have ever loved, and I am happy to accept you on any basis.”
“You deserve more, and I’m…”
But before he finished his sentence, Octa cried out. “This is it— hard labor,” the midwife said, hurrying to the bedside. “Time to push.” And Xavier knew the conversation was over.
Twenty minutes later, Xavier cradled his third daughter in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. Octa had already chosen the name while he was away at Ix, with his approval.
“Welcome to the universe, Wandra,” he said. And for a moment, he felt complete.
* * *
ON HIS SPRAWLING estate Manion Butler had always tended the olive groves and vineyards, and in between war engagements, Xavier dabbled as a gentleman farmer himself, much as ancient Roman officers had during times of peace. He took pleasure in being home, spending time with his family and forgetting about the evil thinking machines and the horrors of the Jihad… if only for a short while.
Xavier always made certain there were enough field hands and crop supervisors to make the cultivated hills a productive enterprise, but he loved getting his own hands dirty, feeling the sunlight on his back and the sweat on his skin from simple, straightforward labor. Long ago, Serena, too, had loved gardening, tending her lovely flowers, and now he understood what had drawn her to the soil and growing things. He felt a purity of purpose without political considerations, treachery, or personality complications. Here, he only had to focus on the fertile soil and the fresh-smelling vegetation.
Blackbirds flitted among the gray-green leaves of the olive trees, eating berries the pickers had missed. At the end of each row of grape vines stood a cluster of giant orange marigolds. Xavier strolled down the narrow, leafy corridors, his head just tall enough to rise above the twisting vines that curled around the posts and support cables.
As expected, he found his father-in-law working among the vines, caressing the clusters of green grapes that were ripening in the dry, warm weather. Manion’s hair had gone white and his once fleshy face was now lean, but the retired Viceroy exuded a calm contentment that he had never displayed when he had served the League Parliament.
“It’s not necessary to count every one of the grapes, Manion,” Xavier quipped. He walked forward, and grape leaves brushed against his sleeves like the outstretched hands of an adoring throng during one of his victory parades.
Manion looked up and tilted back the straw hat that shielded his eyes from the sun. “It is because of the care and attention I shower upon these vines that our family vintages are the best in all the League Worlds. This year I fear the Zinagne will be a bit weak— too much water in that acreage— but the Beaujie should be superb.”
Xavier stood next to him and looked at the grape clusters. “Then I’ll have to help you sample the vintages until we’re both convinced of their excellence.”
Workers went up and down the rows of grapes, using hoes and rakes to turn the soil and remove the weeds. Each year when the fruit ripened to perfection, crowds of Salusan laborers toiled around the clock in the vineyards, filling baskets and carrying them to the winery buildings behind the main house. Xavier had managed to participate in this riotous harvesting activity only three times in the past decade, but had enjoyed it.
He wished he could stay home more often, but his true calling was out in space battling the thinking machines.
“And how is my newest baby granddaughter?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to see for yourself. I’ve been called out to join the fleet again in a week, and I’m counting on you to help Octa. As a new mother, she’ll have plenty to do.”
“Are you certain my bumbling assistance won’t cause more problems?”
Xavier chuckled. “You were the Viceroy, so at least you know how to delegate responsibility. Please make certain Roella and Omilia lend their mother a hand.”
Blinking in the bright Salusan sun, Xavier sighed as the weight of his life seemed to press down on him. He had already spent time with old Emil Tantor, who was pleased to be sharing his lonely house with his daughter-in-law Sheel and her three children.
Though Xavier had his own family and plenty of love, he felt he had lost something along the way. Octa was quiet and strong, a sanctuary in the turmoil of his life. He loved her without hesitation, though he recalled the carefree passion of his brief relationship with Serena. The two of them had been young then, fired with romance, never imagining the tragedy hurtling toward them like a meteor from the skies….
Xavier had stopped regretting the loss of Serena— their lives had diverged long ago— but he could not help but regret how much he himself had changed. “Manion,” he said in a quiet voice, “how did I get to be so rigid in my ways?”
“Let me ponder that for a moment,” the retired Viceroy said.
Troubling thoughts assailed Xavier. The optimistic and passionate young man he had once been now seemed a total stranger to him. He thought of the difficult tasks he had undertaken in the name of the Jihad, and was unable to condone them all.
Finally, Manion answered with all the seriousness and importance he had ever used when giving a speech before the League Parliament. “The war made you harder, Xavier. It’s changed all of us. Some people, it has broken. Others, like you, it has made stronger.”
“I fear my strength is my weakness.” Xavier peered deep into the thick, green vines but saw only memories of his numerous Jihad campaigns… space battles, mangled robots, massacred human beings who were victims of the think
ing machine onslaughts.
“How so?”
“I have seen what Omnius can do, and have devoted my entire life to making sure the machines never win.” He sighed. “That it is the way I’ve chosen to show my love for my family: by protecting them. Sadly it means I am almost never home.”
“If you did not do this, Xavier, we’d all be slaves to the evermind. Octa understands, as do I, as do your daughters. Don’t let it weigh too heavily upon you.”
Xavier drew a deep breath. “I know you’re right, Manion… but I don’t want my relentless determination for victory to cost me my own humanity.” He looked intently at his father-in-law. “If people like me are forced to become like machines in order to defeat the machines, then the whole Jihad is lost.”
We can study every scrap of detail about the long march of human history, assimilating vast amounts of data. Why then, is it so difficult for thinking machines to learn from it? Consider this as well: Why do humans repeat the mistakes of their ancestors?
— ERASMUS, Reflections on Sentient Biologicals
Even after centuries of experimenting with various human subjects, Erasmus still had not run out of ideas. There were so many interesting ways to test the species. And now that he could also see the world through the eyes of his young ward, Gilbertus Albans, the possibilities seemed fresh and intriguing.
The robot stood in his fine crimson robes trimmed with gold fur. Very stylish and impressive, he thought. His flowmetal skin was polished so that it gleamed in Corrin’s ruddy sunlight.
Young Gilbertus was impeccably attired as well, having been scrubbed and groomed by valetbots. Despite two years of diligent training and preparation, the boy still had a feral streak, a wildness that manifested itself in small rebellious ways. Eventually, Erasmus was certain he could eradicate that flaw.
The two stood outside looking at the locked pen of slaves and test subjects. Many belonged to the animalistic lower social orders from which Gilbertus himself had been drawn. But others were better trained, educated servants, artisans, and chefs who worked inside Erasmus’s villa.
As he gazed into the boy’s open, innocent eyes, Erasmus wondered if Gilbertus even remembered his squalid and painful early life grubbing in the dirt of these awful pens… or if he had discarded those memories as he learned to organize his mental skills through the persistent instruction of his machine mentor.
Now, before the latest experiment could commence, the boy looked curiously at the chosen group; they stared back at Erasmus and the young boy with uneasy expressions. The independent robot’s sensor threads detected a heightened concentration of perspiration in the air, accelerated heartbeats, elevated body temperatures, and other clear indicators of increased stress. What did they have to be so nervous about? Erasmus would have preferred to begin the test on an even baseline, but his captives feared him too much. They were convinced the independent robot meant to do something unpleasant to them, and Erasmus couldn’t fault them for drawing such conclusions.
He didn’t bother to conceal a smile. They were correct, after all.
Beside him, the boy quelled his curiosity and simply observed. It had been one of the robot’s first lessons to him. Despite all of Erasmus’s efforts, Gilbertus Albans was still a child of scant education, with such a minimal database that it would be futile to simply Alaskan endless stream of random questions. Thus, the thinking machine instructed him in an orderly, logical fashion, building upon each fact that he learned.
So far, the results seemed satisfactory.
“Today, we begin an organized series of evoked reaction tests. The experiment you are about to witness is designed to demonstrate panic responses. Please observe the range of behavior in order to draw general conclusions based upon the relative status of the slaves.”
“Yes, Mr. Erasmus,” the boy said, gripping the bars of the fence.
These days, Gilbertus did as he was told— a great improvement from his previous untamed behavior. Back then, Omnius had frequently gloated, insisting that Erasmus would never civilize the brutish youth. Whenever simple logic and common sense failed, Erasmus used discipline and methodical training, along with rewards and punishments, augmented by the liberal use of proven behavior-altering drugs. Initially, the pharmaceuticals had left Gilbertus in an apathetic stupor. There was a decided decline in his manic, destructive behavior, tendencies that hampered his overall progress.
Gradually the robot had decreased the dosages, and now he rarely needed to drug the boy at all. Gilbertus had finally accepted his new situation. If he did remember his miserable previous life, the boy would surely look up on his new situation as an opportunity, an advantage. Before long, Erasmus was certain he would have a triumph to show Omnius, proving that his understanding of human potential exceeded that of even the supposedly omniscient computer.
But he had more in mind than just winning the challenge with Omnius. Erasmus actually enjoyed watching and recording the progress Gilbertus made, and wished to continue even after Omnius had conceded the point.
“Now watch carefully, Gilbertus.” Erasmus went to a gate, unscrambled the lock, and stepped inside.
After the gate to the pen closed safely behind him, Erasmus strode in among the crowded people, pushing, knocking them down. Frantic, they tried to get out of his way, averting their eyes as if that would make him fail to notice them. This amused Erasmus, since they were basing their avoidance on human standards of what attracted another person’s attention. As a sophisticated autonomous robot, he made his selections on a purely random, completely objective, basis.
Withdrawing a large projectile pistol from his robe, he pointed it at the first victim— who happened to be an elderly man— and opened fire.
The gun boomed like thunder, a reverberant echo that ripped through the old man’s body, followed instantly by a wave of screams in the crowd, building to outright panic. The test subjects scrambled about like stampeding cattle, both the feral slaves and the sophisticated assistants.
“See how they run,” Erasmus said. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
The boy, who did not answer, had a somewhat horrified expression on his face.
Erasmus aimed at another random target— a pregnant woman— and shot again. Delightful! He was enjoying this immensely.
“Isn’t that enough?” the boy asked. “I understand the lesson.”
In his wisdom, Erasmus had selected a projectile weapon sure to generate a colossal blast, and the caliber of the bullet was large. Each time a victim was struck, blood, skin, and bits of bone flew in all directions. The sheer extravagant horror increased the panic even more, like a feedback loop.
“There is more to learn,” Erasmus said, noting that Gilbertus was shifting uneasily on his feet. He seemed nervous.
Interesting.
The prisoners were screaming and yelling, climbing on top of each other, stepping on fallen bodies as they tried to stay out of the robot’s way. But in the confined area they could not escape. Erasmus fired again and again.
A projectile struck one man in the head, and his skull and brains vaporized into an expanding cloud. Several slaves stood frozen, stunned into abject surrender. He killed half of these as well, not wanting to train them in any way or alter their responses. For the purity of the experiment, he had to be completely fair, playing no favorites for any reason.
After killing at least a dozen and maiming twice as many, he stopped and held the cooling projectile gun in his flowmetal hand. The frenzied tides of terror continued to swirl around him, with survivors running back and forth, searching for places to hide or any means of escape. Some of them rendered assistance to their fallen comrades. Finally the screaming stopped and the people huddled against the fences as far from Erasmus as they could get, as if such a small distance could make any difference.
Unfortunately, the ones who still lived were tainted for further experimentation, even if they were not injured physically. No matter. He could always find fresh subjects, drawing them fr
om his vast renewable pool of captives.
Outside the enclosure, Gilbertus had stepped back to avoid being touched by the outstretched hands of the captives who begged him for assistance. The boy frowned at Erasmus in confusion, as if he could not understand which direction his emotions were supposed to flow.
Curious. Erasmus would have to analyze Gilbertus’s own responses to the experiment— an unexpected bonus.
Some of the slaves began weeping, moaning quietly to themselves as Erasmus opened the gate again and stepped confidently up to his young ward. But Gilbertus flinched away, instinctively shrinking from the dripping gore and bits of brain that spattered the robot’s shining skin and colorful robes.
This gave Erasmus pause. He did not mind being abhorred by his test subjects and captives, but did not want this particular young man to fear him. Erasmus was his mentor.
In spite of all the attention the independent robot had lavished upon Serena Butler, she had still turned on him. An old story in human history, and it had blindsided him. Perhaps she had been too mature, too set in her ways, when he had taken her under his wing. Erasmus had learned plenty about human nature in his many years of study; he would make certain that Gilbertus Albans remained absolutely loyal to him. He needed to be cautious and observant.
“Come with me, young human,” he said with simulated cheeriness. From now on he would have to be very careful so that the boy did not get the wrong idea about him. “Help me clean myself up, and then we’ll have a nice chat about what you’ve just seen.”
When you become aware of the volume of the universe around you, the paucity of life in that vast space becomes an overwhelming reality. It is from this basic awareness that life learns to help life.
— TITAN HECATE
They were visitors from another world, and looked like it.
As Iblis Ginjo watched the strange Cogitors and their attendants proceed single-file across the concourse of Zimia Spaceport, he stepped forward to greet them, his mind racing. His new aide Keats, a quiet and intelligent young man who had replaced the “tragically killed” Floriscia Xico, stood off to one side watching quietly, as if taking mental notes. Keats was more of a scholar than a thug, and Iblis used him for special Jipol work.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 35