No one except Ishmael’s vision.
“Ishmael, what is it? Where are you?” Marha’s voice was slurred and distant… but heavy with concern. Ishmael could not answer her. The pounding demand dragged him along, and finally he arrived at a shadowy crevice. El’hiim must have gone inside there, wedging his narrow shoulders into the narrow opening, working through to where he hoped he might find some treasure or food or secret hiding place.
Instead, he had found… terrible danger.
Ishmael pushed his wider shoulders inside, scraping skin, working his way forward. He reached out, found a lump of fixed rock, and hauled himself deeper. He wondered how he would ever get back out, but he could not pause. El’hiim was trapped.
Ishmael heard a cry— not of fear, but warning. “They’re everywhere! Don’t let them touch you.”
Ishmael reached out until he grasped El’hiim’s hand and pulled the boy toward him. He heard the skittering legs again, felt sharp movement swarming near, but he could sense that the boy would be safe if only he pulled him closer. Ishmael maneuvered his body into a wider section of the crevice until he had room to yank the boy free.
And the assassins attacked him instead.
He felt their poison needle stabs like knives, tiny blades that poked and penetrated his clothes, his skin. But Ishmael held on to El’hiim and paid no heed to his own pain. Instead, he sliced open the skin of his back as he hauled himself backward until he pulled El’hiim out into the open air. He stood holding the son of Selim, intact and safe.
Marha raced up, snatched the boy away— and then stared in horror at Ishmael.
His body was covered with black scorpions, poisonous arachnids that had stung him repeatedly, each venomous dose potentially fatal.
Ishmael brushed the creatures away from him as if they were no more than gnats, and the scorpions scuttled away into hiding places inside rock cracks.
“Check the boy,” he told Marha. “Make sure he is safe.”
El’hiim shook his head in amazement. “I’m all right. They didn’t sting me.”
Then Ishmael collapsed.
* * *
HE WOKE AFTER three days of fever and nightmares. Ishmael drew a deep breath that felt hot in his raw lungs, blinked his eyes, and sat up in the coolness of his cave chamber. Touching his arms, he saw welts on his skin, but they were pink rather than red and seemed to be fading.
Marha stood at the doorway, pushing the cave hanging aside. Astonished, she stared at Ishmael. “Any one of those stings should have killed you, and yet you live. You recovered from all of them.”
His lips were cracked, and his mouth was very dry, but still Ishmael managed to smile. “Selim showed me what to do. In the spice vision, he made me save his son. I do not think he would have let me die.”
His daughter Chamal came in, her eyes were red and puffy. She had been weeping, even though the Arrakis bandits deeply frowned upon such a waste of water. “Perhaps it was the melange in your bloodstream, the spirit of Shai-Hulud giving you strength.”
Ishmael felt dizzy, but forced himself to stay upright. His daughter hurried forward to hand him a cup. The water tasted like nectar.
Finally El’hiim entered the chamber, and stared wide-eyed at Ishmael. “The scorpions stung you, but you saved me. They didn’t kill you.”
Ishmael patted the boy’s shoulder; the act demanded all of his strength. “I would prefer that you did not require me to do that again.”
Marha grinned, unable to believe what he had endured. She drew a deep breath. “It seems we are blessed many times over. You, Ishmael, are intent on creating a legend for yourself.”
We have waited long enough. It is time.
— COGITOR VIDAD, Thoughts from Isolated Objectivity
Erasmus had never considered himself a political leader, despite his studies on diplomacy and human social interactions, along with a toolbox full of theoretical skills. The ability to navigate political waters had been useful in establishing himself as an independent robot, and in convincing Omnius to let him continue his experiments on human subjects.
The Ivory Tower Cogitors, however, weren’t exactly human.
One afternoon he greeted a strange delegation from the frozen planetoid of Hessra, a few secondary attendants blinking under the coppery blaze of Corrin’s red-giant sun. They came toting the ancient human brains— philosophers like Erasmus himself— in preservation canisters.
The independent robot received them in the luxurious parlor of his villa, surprised and pleased because he so rarely entertained guests. Due to numerous attacks by the Army of the Jihad, Omnius had suggested that the meeting take place here, rather than at the towering Central Spire, in case the Cogitors attempted to sneak in some insidious, undetected weapon.
Dressed in fine new clothes, his young ward Gilbertus Albans observed and assisted, the perfect attendant. On one wall an Omnius watcheye glowed softly as it eavesdropped on the proceedings, but the evermind didn’t seem to know what to do with the unexpected visitors. Six fearsome robotic guards remained out in the hall.
A procession of yellow-robed monks marched in, the first six carrying the ornate translucent cylinders as if they were sacred relics. The secondaries did not seem to recognize their peril at voluntarily coming to visit a Synchronized World. “The Ivory Tower Cogitors wish to consult with Omnius on an important matter,” the lead monk said, holding the heavy canister of the foremost Cogitor in his hands. “I am Keats, secondary for Vidad.”
The disembodied brain hung suspended in its bluish electrafluid, looking as if its own thoughts held it in telepathic equilibrium. It reminded Erasmus of the rebellious cymeks and the ancient, scheming minds of the Titans. Agamemnon’s unwise and unexpected revolt had troubled Omnius a great deal, but ultimately came as little surprise. The cymeks were, after all, human brains with human faults and unreliabilities.
Erasmus spread his flowmetal arms in a welcoming gesture; the sleeves of his carmine-and-gold robe drooped. “I am the evermind’s designated liaison. We are most interested in what you have to say.”
Vidad’s voice came from a speakerpatch, like a cymek’s. “After much contemplation, we must make an overture regarding this long-standing conflict between humans and machines. As Cogitors, we offer a balanced perspective and a resolution to the conflict. We can act as intermediaries.”
Erasmus formed a smile. “That is a most difficult challenge you have undertaken.”
Watcheyes hovered near the ceiling, recording everything. From behind Erasmus, Gilbertus did the same. The Omnius screen on the wall glowed as if vibrant and alive. The evermind spoke, his voice so loud it blared. “This conflict is costly and inefficient. There are many advantages to ending it, but humans are too irrational.”
The secondary Keats bowed slightly. “With all due humility, the Cogitor Vidad believes he may be able to develop a suitable resolution. We are a neutral delegation. We believe there may be points of negotiation.”
“And you come unannounced, without personal security?” Erasmus asked.
“What good would it do for us to bring personal security to the most powerful of Omnius’s planets?” Vidad inquired, rhetorically. Keats looked around the room and met the gaze of Gilbertus Albans, who showed no reaction; the yellow-robed secondary seemed uneasy.
Remembering his duties as host, according to the old records he had absorbed, Erasmus sent for refreshments. When the secondaries looked hungrily but suspiciously at the cold juices and exotic fruits, Gilbertus sat down and calmly sampled each one to prove it wasn’t poisoned.
Erasmus walked among the preservation canisters the humans had placed on sturdy tables in the parlor. “I thought the Ivory Tower Cogitors had isolated themselves from all distractions of civilization and society— including its conflicts,” the robot said. “Why have you undertaken this noble cause now? Why not decades, or even a century ago?”
“Vidad believes the time for peace is at hand,” Keats said, reaching for a second glass
of sapphire-blue juice.
“Serena Butler declared a holy war against all machines thirty-six standard years ago,” Erasmus said, and his flowmetal face formed a faint smile at the memory of the fascinating woman. “The humans do not seek resolution— they seek our annihilation. In ancient databases, I read a parable of a man trying to do a good deed by breaking up a fight among neighbors, and getting killed for his efforts. This could be dangerous for you.”
“Everything is dangerous, but the noble Cogitors gave up the burden of fear long ago, when they gave up their bodies.”
Omnius boomed at the visitors, “Your answer is insufficient. After so much time, why do you come to me now?”
The yellow-robed secondaries looked at each other, but waited for the Cogitor Vidad to speak through his voice synthesizer. “On one front the Titans have an army of neo-cymeks to oppose you, and they have already destroyed many of your update ships. On another, the free humans continue to launch powerful assaults against you. You have already lost several Synchronized Worlds. Logically, Omnius, it is in your interest to reach a settlement with the humans, so that you can focus on the cymek challenge. The tide is turning against you.”
“My ultimate victory is assured. It is only a matter of time, and effort.”
“For efficiency’s sake, is it not advisable to minimize your expenditure of time, effort, and resources? As Cogitors, we can act as impartial mediators to obtain a rational, equitable resolution to this conflict. We believe a beneficial settlement can be arranged.”
“Beneficial to whom?” Erasmus asked.
“To the Synchronized Worlds and to the League Worlds.”
“You cannot convince the humans to align themselves with us against the cymeks.” Omnius asked. “Agamemnon intends to conquer us both.”
“It is not our purpose to broker war, only peace.”
“I am quite familiar with Serena Butler,” Erasmus said. “She is unrealistically concerned about our human slaves, even though League Worlds keep their own slaves. Such hypocrisy!”
The secondaries nodded, looking at each other, and Vidad said, “Many slaves are being killed by violence on both sides of the Jihad. We do not have an accurate tally of the innocent human casualties on Ix, IV Anbus, and Bela Tegeuse, but we assume it is a large number.”
“On an orderly Synchronized World, where society is not a clumsy, inefficient affair, there are few slave fatalities,” Omnius pointed out. “I can verify this with comprehensive statistics.”
Erasmus said, “Thus we could make the argument that more human lives would be saved if a cease-fire settlement is reached. We need to show the humans that the cost of their Jihad is too high for them. Serena Butler will understand that.”
“The simplest solution is an immediate cessation of all hostilities between you and the League of Nobles,” Vidad said to Omnius. “You keep your Synchronized Worlds, and the free humans keep their League Worlds. In exchange, the mutual aggression ends. There will be no further deaths, no further violence between machine and man.”
“For how long?”
“In perpetuity.”
“I accept your suggestion,” Omnius said from the wallscreen. “But you must send a League representative to formally accept the terms. Do not return if the League refuses.”
Valor is defined by valiant deeds, regardless of what motives lie in a person’s heart.
— TITAN XERXES, A Millennium of Fulfillment
Sitting beneath the dome of the Jihad Council chambers, Aurelius Venport sipped an iced drink, careful to maintain his falsely confident expression, without Zufa. Facing him were Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo and his brooding Jipol commandant Yorek Thurr, as well as Serena Butler, never wavering in her intensity. Venport’s tailored suit was cool enough to prevent any damning nervous perspiration from showing.
Venport set out to complete the most important negotiations of his career.
“I am pleased that we can all sit down and discuss our mutual needs like adults,” he began after taking another sip. He needed to deal with the loss of his swift merchant fleet as a businessman. The situation had changed, and he had to make the best of it. He would not be able to keep all the profits and power he had anticipated, so he had to parlay what remained into something different. Perhaps even something better.
He had engaged in similar negotiations with Lord Bludd over the merchandizing rights to glowglobes, and had done well. This promised to be far more significant, with enormous repercussions.
“You have proposed that my new space-folding commercial haulers be converted into fighting ships for the Army of the Jihad and that new foldspace engines be adapted to the medium-sized javelin warships. Your earnest but somewhat… naïve military officers are of the opinion that I should happily liquidate all of my assets, surrender proprietary technology, ignore a decade of unceasing work and investment, and simply turn over every vessel in my expensive fleet for no compensation. Apparently, I am to be paid in… pride?”
Serena frowned, tapped her fingertips together. “Even if you were to receive nothing, some of us have given more for the cause.”
“No one means to diminish your own sacrifices, Serena,” Ginjo said. “But perhaps we don’t have to ruin the man in order to achieve what we need.”
Unswayed, Serena asked, “Are you a war profiteer, Directeur Venport?”
“Certainly not!”
Thurr frowned, stroking one side of his mustache as he said in a quiet voice. “On the other hand, let us not be so credulous as to believe that the military applications of these space-folding ships never once entered Directeur Venport’s mind. Yet he did not bother to inform the Jihad Council of his activities on Kolhar.”
Venport bristled at the shadowy Jipol commander. “The spacefolders are new and still dangerous, sir. We lose a troublesome percentage of our flights. The frequent disasters force me to tack substantial surcharges onto cargo prices, just so I can rebuild the ships I lose and provide recompense for the families of the mercenary pilots who take such outrageous risks.”
Thurr folded his hands together. “The rebellious cymeks, as well as Omnius, would love to take over that facility and steal the technology for themselves.”
“I poured the majority of VenKee’s equity into the program for years, and I am entitled to benefit in some manner from the new technology. I would never have paid for the research and development unless I thought it had some value for us. Even with smooth and profitable years, it will take me decades to pay off the debt I incurred to build the shipyards. Do you believe that any businessman in the League would invest all his assets to develop important technology if he knew there was a chance that the government might take everything, leaving him bankrupt?”
Serena gestured impatiently with a forefinger. “I can eradicate your debt. Erase it completely.”
Venport stared at her, unable to believe the suggestion. Such a sweeping concession had never occurred to him. “You can… you can do that?”
Iblis Ginjo sat straight, puffed up like a bird practicing its mating display. “She is the Priestess of the Jihad, Directeur. She can do it with a stroke of a pen.”
Pressing his advantage immediately, Venport began reciting the discussion points he had developed during the voyage to Salusa. “My wife Norma Cenva has devoted more than thirty years to developing the spacefolding technology. She faced many adversities, including horrific torture after being captured by cymeks, but her vision of mankind’s future has never wavered. She even killed the Titan Xerxes. And all along, I am the only one who supported her, the only one who believed in her. Even Savant Holtzman cast her off.”
Looking around the table in the Council chamber, he noted that several of the members seemed impatient for him to come to his point. Venport leaned forward. “Therefore I request that VenKee Enterprises and its successors be granted irrevocable patents on the technology specific to folding space.”
“A monopoly on space travel,” Yorek Thurr grumbled.
> “I am asking for proprietary treatment for my form of space travel, using my engines, in my ships. For millennia, human beings have crossed vast distances by traditional means. They are welcome to use the same vessels they have always taken— I want special consideration only for my spacefolders, which were developed by my wife and funded by my company. That seems a reasonable request.”
Ginjo tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Let us not delude ourselves. If the safety considerations are ever worked out, this will become the preferred method of travel between star systems, making every other technology obsolete.”
“If it is the fastest, most reliable means of travel, why should my company not benefit?” Venport crossed his arms over his chest.
But Serena had heard enough of the argument. “We are wasting time. He can have his irrevocable patents and his monopoly— but only after the Jihad is over.”
“How can I be sure it will ever be over?”
“That is a risk you will have to take.”
From the expression on her face, Venport saw he could not press the issue one centimeter further. “Done, but the rights pass on to my heirs if I die before the conclusion of the Jihad.”
Serena nodded. “Iblis, see that the necessary documents are drawn up.”
In the end, the astute Aurelius Venport also negotiated the right to bring at least a partial cargo load of his merchandise on selected military missions. Though he had not initiated these talks, nor precipitated the commercial crisis that required them, when he was finished Aurelius Venport began to suspect that they could make him a very, very wealthy man.
* * *
HE RECEIVED THE award almost as an afterthought.
Banners hung in the Hall of Parliament, and ordinary citizens were allowed to stand at the rear, overlooking the planetary representatives. Thousands of people gathered in the memorial plaza outside, watching the proceedings on screens as tall as buildings.
Zufa Cenva sat beside Venport in a front row of seats that spread toward the higher tiers like the expanding ripples of a pond. Her pale hair and features made her look like static electricity incarnate, and she seemed to radiate with a presence that marked her as the most powerful Sorceress of all the talented practitioners from Rossak.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 64