Dune: The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Buzzing construction noises filled the air, mingled with the drone of arriving and departing spacecraft. Using a swell of donations, the Jihad Council had commissioned a titanic statue of the saintly Manion the Innocent, which would welcome all vessels arriving from the dangers of deep space. Iblis was reminded of all the colossal statues and monuments the Titans had insisted on building to commemorate their glory days….

  Iblis counted twenty-four saffron-robed secondaries approaching. As soon as word had reached him, he had rushed to the spaceport, making certain he would be there in person to greet them.

  All of the attendants looked like living mummies with parchment-dry, liver-spotted skin and wispy hair. The fragile monks walked with a deliberate slowness. Six secondaries in the front carried canisters that held living brains that were far, far more ancient than the secondaries themselves.

  “This is a momentous occasion,” Iblis said, and he meant it. His heart swelled. “I never dreamed that I would have a chance to converse with the Ivory Tower Cogitors. It has been… centuries since the last time you were seen away from frozen Hessra!”

  Unlike Kwyna, who dwelled in the City of Introspection, or even wise Eklo, who had helped encourage the original uprising on Earth, these “Ivory Tower” Cogitors believed in near-total isolation from the distractions of society. They lived on a distant, unwanted planet, tended only by their human secondaries. Given uninterrupted serenity to contemplate for centuries, these brains were among the wisest and most remarkable in all of creation.

  And now the notoriously insular Cogitors had come to Salusa Secundus! He had never dreamed this would happen in his lifetime.

  Iblis introduced himself as the Grand Patriarch of the Jihad, a title unfamiliar to the out-of-touch Cogitors. He smiled in fascination as he stepped closer to the strangely ornate preservation canisters. “I have some experience with your kind. On Earth, the great Eklo taught me and encouraged me. And here I took much counsel from the Cogitor Kwyna. Our history has changed much because of their influence.”

  One of the wizened secondaries looked up with watery eyes. In a raspy voice he said, “Vidad and our other Cogitors have no interest in affecting history. They wish only to exist, and to ponder.”

  Iblis summoned his aides to assist the ancient monks. Keats directed two Jipol officers and a group of eager transportation workers to swarm around the distinguished, unexpected guests. The rapid flurry seemed to confuse the doddering yellow-robed secondaries.

  Iblis said to Keats, “Please find comfortable quarters for the secondaries. Give them the best of food and access to any therapeutic or medical treatments they may need.”

  The young Jipol officer nodded, then disappeared to follow the instructions.

  One of the monks holding a preservation canister spoke. A small man with an oval face and long, silvery eyelashes, he said in a flat tone, “You do not know why we are here.”

  “No, but I am eager to learn,” Iblis said. “Do you have something to sell? Do we have anything you need?”

  Like all Cogitors, they were entirely reliant on human secondaries to keep their brains alive, to perform all of the necessary tasks involved in maintaining the preservation canisters in which they were enclosed. Iblis didn’t think the Cogitors could be entirely self-sufficient. Did they have secret outside commerce, with… cymeks, possibly? In extreme isolation on frozen Hessra, the secondaries had difficult lives indeed, and now they all looked too old and brittle to still be breathing. But they were.

  The old man said in a voice as breathy and quiet as the wind, “We are the last of the secondaries on Hessra. Vidad and the other Cogitors did not wish to be interrupted, but my fellow monks and I will not survive much longer. It is necessary to obtain new secondaries.” He looked ready to drop, but his arms were steady as they held the preservation canister. “As soon as possible.”

  Iblis’s eyes shone. “And you brought the Cogitors with you! I’d have thought they’d just send you with their request.”

  The ancient monk lowered his eyes. “Because of the magnitude of the situation, Vidad wished to make his appeal in person. If necessary. Are there eligible people in the League who would be willing to volunteer for such service?”

  Iblis’s throat went dry. If he didn’t have so many responsibilities of his own, he might have considered such a fascinating assignment for himself. “Many of our talented scholars would be most willing to assist you.” He smiled and bowed slightly. “I promise you, we shall locate all the volunteers you need.”

  Possibilities were already churning in his mind.

  * * *

  IBLIS GINJO KNEW he had to see the Ivory Tower Cogitors in private. This was an opportunity no man alive, not even himself, had ever faced. They were six of the most brilliant, immortal philosophers.

  He strode toward the chambers he had assigned for their representatives, grinning with optimism, remembering how much the Cogitor Eklo had already changed his life.

  Ages ago, Vidad and his companions had isolated themselves so that they could contemplate for centuries upon centuries, uninterrupted. What grand revelations they must have uncovered in all that time! He could never allow these disembodied philosophers to leave without at least one conversation— even if he was forced to use his Jipol associates to keep them here against their will. But Iblis hoped he wouldn’t have to use such strong-arm methods.

  But they must share their enlightenment!

  Since he was the man who was willingly offering replacement tenders to fill the Cogitors’ desperate request, Iblis was able to go to the dignitaries’ quarters. When the door opened at his command, he stood before the ancient, crumbling old secondaries and his heart ached for the plight of these Cogitors. What if some emergency occurred on Hessra that these cadaverous men could not mitigate? “As Grand Patriarch, I swear to you that we will find appropriate replacements, as you requested— young talented men who will give their lives to the care taking of your masters.”

  The yellow-robed secondaries bowed stiffly. Their eyes blinked in sunken, wrinkle-encircled sockets. “The Ivory Tower Cogitors appreciate your assistance,” said the lead secondary.

  Iblis stepped further into the room, where he saw the ancient brains in their canisters resting on temporary pedestals. His heart pounded and he drew in a quick breath. “Would i t… would it be possible for me to speak with them?”

  “No,” the secondary said.

  In his exalted position, Iblis Ginjo was unaccustomed to hearing such a response. “Perhaps Vidad is aware of the Cogitor Eklo, who spent his last days on Earth? I served him there. I communicated with Eklo, and he helped me to formulate the grand slave uprising against Omnius.” The ancient yellow-robed men did not seem impressed.

  Iblis continued, “Here in Zimia, I spent much time in philosophical interaction with the Cogitor Kwyna before she grew weary of life and shut herself down.” His eyes were bright and his mouth partly open in a hopeful smile.

  Touching Vidad’s electrafluid to receive messages, his secondary said, “Other Cogitors dabble in interaction with humans. We see little benefit in this. We simply wish to acquire our new caretakers and return to Hessra. Nothing more.”

  “I understand, Vidad,” Iblis said, “but perhaps for just a moment—”

  “Even a moment distracts us from our vital ruminations. We see the key to the universe. Would you wish to deny us this?”

  Iblis felt panic in his chest. “No, of course not. I apologize. I meant no disrespect. In fact it was due to my deep regard for you that I made my request in the first place—”

  The skeletal old secondaries stood up, to facilitate the Cogitors’ wishes to be left alone.

  Rebuffed, Iblis backed away. “Very well. I shall personally select appropriate secondaries for you.”

  As the door closed behind Iblis, the scheming wheels in his mind accelerated. These Ivory Tower Cogitors were too complacent, too oblivious to recognize real importance in the universe. Vidad might be an eminent
philosopher, but he was still naïve and blind; he and his fellows were as bad as the minority of deluded protesters against the Jihad, unable to recognize matters of consequence.

  But the Cogitors… Iblis knew he had to change their minds, no matter how long it might take.

  He would have to select his candidate secondaries carefully, and give them very explicit instructions. So much depended on this. Their mission would be subtle, yet crucial, for winning the Jihad and ensuring the ultimate survival of the human race.

  * * *

  GONE WERE HIS normally surreptitious Jipol clothing and even his rarely worn formal uniform, and Keats appeared out of place in the new yellow robes the Ivory Tower Cogitors had provided for him.

  Iblis studied his loyal aide, nodded with approval. “Keats, you look suitably pious. The Ivory Tower Cogitors will find you, and all of my other handpicked volunteers, acceptable replacements.” The Grand Patriarch’s smile widened. “They have no idea what they’re getting into. All of you have been carefully briefed, of course, but you, Keats, are my most trusted recruit. Keep the others on track… and be subtle. Take your time.”

  Keats wrinkled his oval face in a scowl, brushed his nails over the drab yellow robes. “Time is the one thing that seems to be in generous supply, if one can judge from the lives of the men we’re replacing.” He heaved a long sigh, and his shoulders shuddered. “I feel as if I’m being sent into exile, sir. There is much more important work I can do here for the Jihad—”

  Iblis placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing it paternally. “Many can perform those trivial tasks, Keats. You, though, are best qualified for this one, considering your proven talents as an investigator and interrogator.

  “But I also know you fancy yourself a student of philosophies, so you are the ideal foil for these isolated, oblivious Cogitors. You must work on them, soften them, make them understand how much we need their support in this struggle.”

  Side by side, the pair walked to the window of the Grand Patriarch’s office tower, where they gazed down at the busy paved streets of Zimia. At the memorial park, the lumbering, frozen form of an abandoned cymek warrior stood like a specter in the bright afternoon. Flowered and sculptures adorned some of the city quadrants that had been damaged in the attack twenty-nine years ago.

  “I know there is much you will miss here on Salusa Secundus,” he said, “but you have an opportunity that few humans are ever given. You will spend the next years in seclusion with some of the greatest minds ever produced by the human race. What you learn from these Ivory Tower Cogitors will surpass any normal man’s experience. You are one of a handful of people in the last millennium who have conversed with Vidad and his fellows.”

  Still, Keats still did not look certain.

  Iblis smiled, and his vision became distant. “Well do I recall the times when I made pilgrimages to the Cogitor Eklo on Earth. I was a mere slave supervisor then, but for some reason the Cogitor saw my potential. The aged brain communicated with me. I was even allowed to dip my fingers into the electrafluid that kept his great mind alive, and I communicated directly with him. What a blessing.” He shivered from the memory.

  “Omnius is full to bursting with sheer data, but the evermind has no comprehension. It is all cold assessments and projections, responses to stimuli. But a Cogitor— a Cogitor is swollen with true wisdom.”

  Keats stood tall, obviously letting himself feel pride in the tremendous responsibility the Grand Patriarch was giving him. “I… understand.”

  Iblis stared at the man in the saffron robes. “In a way I envy you, Keats. I wish I had no obligations to the Jihad so that I could spend the next few years as a pupil kneeling at the side of a Cogitor’s tank. But that task falls to you. I know you are up to it.”

  “I will do my best, Grand Patriarch.”

  “Feel free to enlighten yourself as you serve the Cogitors to the best of your ability. But you must be clever and flexible. Open their eyes— figuratively, I mean. The Ivory Tower Cogitors have left too much behind. You and your comrades have the secret task of converting them from neutrals to genuine allies in our Holy Jihad.”

  He guided his loyal aide to the door of his plush offices. “Serena Butler will give you all a benediction before your departure. Then you will be off on the most important journey of your life.”

  * * *

  SERENA ADMINISTERED HER sacred blessing to each of the newly designated secondary monks, but Iblis had made all the choices long before informing her. The Priestess of the Jihad— despite her increased role of late— did not question his decision, though he made certain she did not learn the details.

  At least she had not tried to take over that part of his responsibility. For the past several months, ever since he had returned from his strange meeting with the renegade Titan Hecate, Serena had been pushing him aside, taking charge of things that had been running well enough before.

  And he had been wracking his brain for a way to consolidate power again. It had been almost twenty years now since he had married the lovely, charismatic Camie Boro, whose dowry had been her imperial pedigree. But he had entangled himself with Camie and her exaggerated political importance before he understood that the true descendant of the last emperor counted for little in the League of Nobles. She had become a mere showpiece to be displayed on important occasions.

  As he watched Serena complete her admirable duties, Iblis observed her in wonderment. The Priestess of the Jihad would have made a much more suitable partner for his ambitions. It seemed a shame to waste such power.

  Now, a suitably submissive-looking Keats and the other new volunteers waited to accompany the Ivory Tower Cogitors to their glacier-encrusted planetoid. They stood, looking appropriately brave and contrite, and Iblis smiled at each one, nodding subtly when the new recruits flashed devoted glances at him.

  Serena had the grace of a madonna as she touched each man on the shoulder. “I thankyou for your sacrifices, gentlemen, for your willingness to isolate yourself for years. You will suffer many lonely hours on cold Hessra, perfect times for discussions and debates. And for the good of our Jihad, you must make the Ivory Tower Cogitors see that neutrality is not the sole option.”

  Keats smiled and stepped away from Serena’s benediction as she moved to the next man. They would be gone for years or decades, perhaps for the rest of their lives… but in that time, they might be able to bring these other Cogitors over to the righteous cause of mankind.

  In a low tone, Iblis spoke to Serena. “Priestess, they may appear placid on the outside, but these volunteers are experts in the art of conversation and debate.” She nodded.

  Iblis knew that the Cogitors were brilliant philosophers, but naïve. Though he gave Serena an appropriately sanitized explanation of his scheme, her bright lavender eyes showed that she understood….

  Individually and collectively, humans are driven by sexual energy. Curiously, they construct great edifices around their actions in an attempt to conceal this.

  — ERASMUS, Reflections on Sentient Biologicals

  As tall as the buildings of Zimia, the titanic cymek walker looked like a prehistoric arachnid constructed of steel and alloys. With its combat arms raised in the air, it exposed threatening weapons turrets and cannon limbs.

  The gladiator body showed signs of rust and corrosion from nearly three decades of exposure to open air. When guided by a disembodied human brain, this cymek warrior had caused much destruction during Agamemnon’s deadly raid to bring down the planet’s shield transmitters. But under the guidance of Xavier Harkonnen, the Salusan Militia had successfully driven back the attack. Several neo-cymeks had been obliterated in the battle, and others had jettisoned their preservation canisters for retrieval by the frustrated robot fleet, leaving the gigantic mechanical bodies behind.

  This combat walker had remained here since the thwarted machine attack, surrounded by what had once been ruined governmental buildings. Now the hulkstood as a memorial to the thousa
nds of victims of the first Battle of Zimia. The frozen machine body was both the trophy of a defeated enemy and a reminder that more thinking machines could attack again at any moment….

  After a year fighting for the Jihad— first at Ix and then in two other major skirmishes against robot warships— Jool Noret had finally come to Salusa Secundus. Peering through narrowed eyes, he stood in the landscaped plaza staring up at the ominous cymek walker. The mechanical body was more than ten times his own height. With his analytical mind-set and the training received from Chirox, Noret scrutinized the warrior-form’s systems, mentally devising ways to destroy such an adversary. If necessary he would have faced such a giant machine alone. His jade-eyed gaze roved over the armored legs, the implanted projectile launchers, and the head turret from which the traitorous brain guided its attacks. Searching for weaknesses.

  Noret knew from the sensei mek that cymek bodies took many forms that were adapted for a variety of harsh situations. While this permitted some freedom of arrangement, the primary systems accessing the though trodes needed to be basically the same. If Noret could discover how to cripple and subdue machines like this, he would be an even more formidable mercenary. And he would cause even more destruction.

  Looking at the fearsome contraption, he recalled the combat exercises he had watched his father perform, and felt the warrior spirit of Jav Barri flowing through him. “You don’t frighten me,” Noret said quietly to the huge machine. “You are just another enemy, like all the others.”

  A tall woman with pale hair, icy eyes, and milky-white skin came to stand beside him, making hardly a sound. “Foolish bravado leads to failure more often than to victory.”

  Noret had heard her approach, but there were many visitors and supplicants in this memorial square, all staring at the cymek hulk as if it were a defeated demon. “There is a difference between bravado and confident determination.” He glanced up at the huge cymek again, then back to the woman. “You are a Sorceress of Rossak.”