“And you are a mercenary of Ginaz,” she said. “I am Zufa Cenva. My women have fought and destroyed cymeks. It is our burden and our skill to become the bane of all machines with human minds.”
Noret gave her a cold smile. “I wish to become the bane of all machines— regardless of their type.”
She considered him skeptically, as if trying to interpret the dangerous calmness surrounding this mercenary. “I see that you mean what you say, Jool Noret.”
He nodded, not asking how she knew his name.
“My Sorceresses can eliminate cymeks,” Zufa reiterated. “Each of my women can annihilate ten smaller neo-cymeks, sizzling their treacherous brains.”
Noret continued to inspect the huge cymek walker. “Whenever one of your Sorceresses unleashes her mental weapon, she must die. Each strike is a suicide mission.”
Zufa bridled. “Since when is a Ginaz mercenary unwilling to sacrifice himself for the Jihad? Are you a coward who fights only when it is safe?”
Though she was an intimidating woman, Noret did not flinch. Instead, he looked at her with vacant, shadowed eyes. “I am always willing to sacrifice myself, but so far I have not seen a worthy opportunity. In each battle I have survived in order to keep destroying my enemy year after year. If I am dead, I can no longer continue the fight.”
Grudgingly, Zufa conceded the point. She nodded to the surprisingly grim and distant mercenary. “If only there were more like the two of us, the machines would have no choice but to turn and flee for their very… existence.”
* * *
PLANS AND POSSIBILITIES filled the Grand Patriarch’s mind during every waking hour, wheels within wheels, schemes to benefit the human race. And himself, of course. Everything he did had countless ramifications. There were linkages to every decision.
Iblis Ginjo had much to conceal and much to balance. At present only Yorek Thurr and himself knew about their amazing new ally, Hecate. And the Jipol commandant had always been frighteningly capable of keeping secrets.
Through the quiet machinations of the Jihad police, Iblis had seized a growing number of protest leaders who naively wanted to put a stop to the constant warfare. He had also put political enemies to death if they interfered with his grand plans for the Jihad. Like Muñoza Chen. It was all a matter of necessity, not something he particularly enjoyed. To safeguard himself, the Grand Patriarch had people watching people watching people, though Yorek Thurr always managed to elude the closest scrutiny.
Iblis considered it his sacred duty to make certain harsh, difficult decisions that others would not understand. Some things needed to be done secretly in order to annihilate the thinking machines. The Grand Patriarch’s honorable motivations were clear in his own mind, but he knew he could never share them with anyone, especially not with his carefully groomed Priestess of the Jihad. Her saintly innocence was not feigned.
Unfortunately, Serena’s newfound independence had thrown many intricate plans into turmoil. Too much was at stake, and Iblis couldn’t allow her to continue along this uncomfortable path. He had to find some way to bring her back into line. The answer had seemed so obvious, and he hoped she would see the advantages, too. He knew her heart was a block of ice when it came to personal matters, though she still insisted on charitable actions for jihadis and refugees. She could be reached, but he had to be careful how he did it, to make her see the logical reasons for the perfect alliance he wanted.
She was due to arrive in his private chambers soon, and Iblis intended to use every skill he possessed to convince her to accept his proposal.
Through a window of his Zimia penthouse, he looked out at the imposing government buildings fronting the immense central square where thousands of people gathered for the weekly Jihad rallies. He envisioned even larger crowds in the future, spilling across metropolitan centers on all League Worlds. If properly fed, the holy struggle would continue to grow and grow.
First, though, certain things needed to happen. His wife Camie wouldn’t like it, and matters might get ugly with their three children, but he had married the woman only because her supposed political clout had boosted his own power. Later he learned, to his dismay, that she was in reality a person of insignificant influence. Now, as a turnabout, Camie loved being married to the Grand Patriarch’s title, not to him. And if she caused too much trouble… well, he supposed Thurr could take care of that as well. All for the good of the Jihad.
Serena was more important, with much more interesting possibilities.
Iblis sat back in a deep suspensor chair, felt it conform to his stocky body. Given the stresses of his position, the Grand Patriarch had not paid much attention to his diet or physical condition. Over the past ten years, ever since the formation of the Jihad Council, he had gained a considerable amount of weight, and Camie hadn’t bothered to sleep with him in months. Although he had been discreet out of political necessity, with his charisma and important position, Iblis could have any woman he wanted.
Except for Serena Butler. Ever since her capture by the thinking machines long ago on Giedi Prime, she had avoided all opportunities for romance. Such steely resolve and dedication gave her a certain air of noble sacrifice, but it took a toll on her, detracting from her humanity. The most fanatical of her followers saw her as an Earth Mother, a Madonna, and a Virgin.
But love was more than just an esoteric concept. To be truly effective, the Priestess had to demonstrate her capacity for love. A compassionate Mary instead of a steely Joan of Arc. Iblis meant to do something about that today.
From the drawer of a side table he removed a phial of subtle pheromones and dusted them on his neck and on the backs of his hands. The smell was faintly sour and not particularly pleasant, but it should work unobtrusively on the female instincts. Iblis rarely needed such a crutch, but wanted to leave nothing to chance.
He knew full well that conventional romance and methods of seduction would never succeed with Serena. He had to rely on other forms of persuasion, prove to her the benefits to the Jihad, if only she would agree….
A discreet signal sounded at the door, and one of his Jipol corporals escorted Serena Butler into his chamber. “Sir, the Priestess of the Jihad.” Iblis quickly hid the pheromone phial.
“Grand Patriarch,” she said, with a stiff nod. “I trust this is important? My duties have increased dramatically of late.”
It is your own fault. Revealing none of his annoyance, Iblis smiled warmly and stepped forward to take her hand. “You look especially radiant today.” She wore a black suit-dress with a white collar and sleeves. He gestured to a leather suspensor sofa over the deep-pile imported carpet.
“I have been out in the sun,” she said with a curt smile. “I spoke for hours at the large rally yesterday.”
“I know. I saw the recordings.” Iblis took a seat beside her on the slick sofa. It bobbed a little. “A very effective job, as usual.” Even if she had written it herself, ignoring all of his suggestions….
A mustachioed manservant appeared with a tray of steaming drinks, which he placed on a table in front of them. “Sweet green tea from the finest importers,” Iblis announced, trying to impress her. “Special blend from Rossak.”
She accepted a cup, but held it in her palms without taking a sip. “What do we need to discuss, Grand Patriarch?” She seemed so distant. “We must make the most of our time.”
Since her change of heart and insistence on running the Jihad Council, Iblis saw clearly that she had been redefining the power structure on her own terms, placing him in a subordinate position. Perhaps, though, he could still find ways to guide and direct her, just differently from before.
“I have an idea that may surprise you, Serena, but when you think about it I am convinced you will see the wisdom, and how it will make the Jihad much stronger. It is time we had this talk.”
She waited without answering. Her expression hadn’t softened, but he could see that he had her complete attention.
Entirely relaxed, he said no
thing to her of the melange capsules he had consumed less than an hour ago. Serena had always made it clear that she did not approve of any drug, considering it a sign of weakness, so he had been certain to take spice with odor-masking additives.
Iblis laid out his case. “For many years we have worked together, but not closely enough. We have always been partners in the Jihad, you and I— the Grand Patriarch and the Priestess. Our goals are identical, and our passions. The closer our alliance, the more we can accomplish.”
He used a practiced, seductive voice as he studied Serena’s profile. Though she was in her mid-forties he still found her strikingly beautiful, with soft features, golden hair, and those extraordinary eyes.
“I agree.” Her smile was brief, as if unconvinced.
He leaned closer to her. “I have considered this at length, Serena, and I do not make the offer lightly. I believe the next step to strengthen our Jihad would be… for us to become true partners, for all of free humanity to see. Are there any two people better suited for each other? We could have a grand wedding, cement our influence, and push the Jihad to the goal we know we must achieve.”
He saw her surprised reaction, but before Serena could begin to argue, he pressed on. “The two of us could be so much more effective if we were to work together. The people would see us as an even stronger entity, an invincible duo. Even Omnius would tremble before the idea of a unified Priestess and Patriarch.”
Though he felt intimidated and defensive, Iblis revealed none of his emotions. He felt like a man who had taken two steps backward and might never recover his previous position. But he would never reveal to her the extensive scope of his security, surveillance, and mercenary operations, or the fact that he had committed serious crimes in the name of the Jihad.
She sat stiffly on the sofa, frowning, seeming to ignore his proximity. “An obvious impossibility. You already have a wife. And three children.”
“A simple enough problem to solve. I do not love her. I am willing to make the sacrifice for the good of the Jihad. Camie will understand.” She could be bought off. He reached out to touch Serena’s arm and continued in a rush, as his rehearsed words tumbled forth. “Think of it— together, we can become the guiding force the Jihad requires. You and I can take our Holy War to the next level— and ultimate victory.”
He feigned emotion— ostensibly for the sake of the Jihad, not for himself personally. He had already known that he would never get through to Serena Butler with clumsy efforts at seduction. Iblis wanted her very badly, even more so because she was as unreachable as a goddess. But he restrained himself and shifted his approach. The only way he could ever have this woman— as his wife, as his mate, and under his control again— would be to convince her on her own terms. A business proposition.
She nudged him away. “I have no interest in love, Iblis. Or marriage. Not with you or any man. You don’t need me.”
Iblis frowned, fighting back his frustration. This would be difficult. “I do not speak of humdrum love, but of something far greater than either of us, something far more important. We are destined to be partners in our great mission, Serena.” He withdrew his hand but smiled at her, concentrating on his ability, hoping to snare her with his hypnotic gaze. He had to solve the puzzle of this woman. “Only you and I have the necessary resolve to win this war.”
Iblis had never sounded so desperate, and he was angry at what she had done to him. If he could conquer her, it would be a huge victory for his own political aspirations. With Serena Butler under his control, nothing could ever stand in his way.
But her expression remained cold, disinterested. She stood up from the sofa, ready to leave. “Our Jihad requires your full attention. And mine. Use your charms to rally the people, Iblis. That would be a better application of your skills. We must both get back to work, Grand Patriarch, and not fritter away time on this nonsense.”
Iblis showed her every courtesy as he motioned for a Jipol aide to escort her away from his suite, but he raged inside and felt like smashing something.
* * *
HE HAD NEVER expected the beautiful, utterly confident Sorceress of Rossak to seek him out. As if sensing that he had been rebuffed by another woman, Zufa Cenva strode boldly to the Grand Patriarch’s quarters that evening and demanded to see him for a “personal and private audience.”
He quickly forgot about Serena Butler.
Zufa cared nothing of Iblis’s other women or his political wife. Sorceresses dedicated themselves to tracking bloodlines and manipulating breeding patterns in an attempt to pinpoint the specific genetics conducive to achieving high mental powers in some of the female offspring on Rossak. She had taken the fertility drugs— ironically the ones developed and marketed by Aurelius Venport, who had himself failed her so many times— and knew her body was perfectly receptive.
Given Iblis’s libidinous inclination, she supposed the man would be receptive to her as well.
A male telepath was extremely rare, considered nearly impossible. But Zufa had seen the signs in this man, and she needed to bring his valuable bloodline back to her world. Given her own abilities and the Grand Patriarch’s history, she did not believe it would be difficult.
And it was not….
As Zufa and Iblis lay on his suspensor bed, having enjoyed each other to the fullest, she thought of what a fascinating man he was. Even without fully understanding the origin of his innate abilities and without training, he had managed to secure a powerful position for himself. While they were making love a short while ago, he had proclaimed her the “Supreme Sorceress of the Jihad.” He promised to make a formal announcement of her new official title through the Jihad Council.
“Most impressive,” she had gasped, pretending to be breathless from their physical passion. “But do we have to discuss the war now?”
“I’m always thinking about the Jihad,” he said. “I have to, because thinking machines never sleep.” Only a few minutes afterward, he drifted off.
Beside her, he snored lightly, with one burly arm draped over her shoulder. Gently, Zufa pulled away. Iblis had immediately recognized the advantages of a political alliance with her, adding the power and influence of the Rossak Sorceresses to his great cause. In exchange, she got what she needed from him, and she could always get more, if necessary. A quid pro quo. But she supposed this would be one of her final opportunities, biologically, to conceive. For future missions, she would probably have to send in a younger Sorceress.
But this daughter, she wanted for herself.
Zufa slipped out of bed and stood naked before a full-length mirror. Though she was mature and well beyond childbearing age for most women, her body remained in excellent condition. She had an almost perfect form, as if she had been sculpted by the hands of the gods. In the reflection she saw Iblis stir on the bed, without opening his eyes.
Is your genetic line superior, Iblis Ginjo? She vowed to discover the answer for herself.
Human breeding was not an exact science, but the women of Rossak were convinced that powerful bloodlines could be identified, controlled, and harvested. She had tested her timing, hormones, and ovulation to be certain she was at peak fertility, and had no doubt that she would conceive a child. Through careful application of special Rossak drugs known only to Sorceresses, she had greatly increased her chances of selecting a daughter.
She had suffered terrible personal disappointments when she’d given birth to the stunted Norma, and when her carefully chosen mate Aurelius Venport had proved to be a dismal genetic failure, despite all prior indications to the contrary.
This time it will be different. As she dressed quickly and slipped out of the Grand Patriarch’s quarters, she finally had hope. This one would be a perfect daughter. The one she had always wanted.
Females were so much more valuable than males.
Anyone can be brought down. It is only a matter of figuring out how to do it.
— TIO HOLTZMAN, letter to Lord Niko Bludd
At leas
t the disaster happened behind closed laboratory doors. The reinforced walls contained the explosion, and no one was hurt, except for a few inconsequential slaves. Holtzman decided to make careful modifications to his records so that Lord Bludd would never know about it.
Years ago, thanks to Norma Cenva, the Savant had learned to be careful about showing off a new concept before it had been thoroughly proven. He wanted no further blots of embarrassment on his record.
Anxious to quell muttered jokes among the Poritrin nobles that the great inventor had run out of ideas, Holtzman had revamped old plans for his alloy-resonance generator— a device that had blown up an entire laboratory twenty-eight years ago, destroying a bridge and killing many slaves. It should have worked, should have been a powerful new weapon that acted directly on the metal bodies of the thinking machines. He’d been eager to show off the device to Lord Bludd without testing it first.
The ensuing catastrophic failure had been an embarrassment that took him years to get over.
Regardless of this, the Savant had always believed the concept had some merit. Recently he had given the old plans to his team of ambitious young assistants, and instructed them to make it work.
With bloodshot eyes, mussed hair, and a pervasive smell of sour perspiration, the assistants had recalculated, redesigned, and rebuilt the demonstration assembly. He had pretended to go over their plans in great detail, but he took the apprentices at their word. Now, when the “improved” device failed just as explosively, he was despondent. Fortunately this time the Savant could keep it a secret, but that was only a small consolation.
All those years ago, Norma Cenva had warned him that the concept was hopelessly flawed, that it could never possibly work. She had always been so smug about such admonitions, but maybe she was right after all. What is she doing now, anyway? He had not seen her in a while.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 37