Dune: The Machine Crusade (15 page)

Ignoring the cold rain that fell harder, the secondary spoke in a rough, throaty voice as the Cogitor communicated directly through him. “Grand Patriarch, you wish to ask me about scriptures and ancient texts. It is in your voice, in your actions, in every breath you take.”

Impressed, Iblis nodded. “I am fascinated by ancient Muadru prophecies and how they apply to our turbulent times. Based upon my readings, I have found countless justifications for the Holy Jihad against the thinking machines. Your own writings and speeches have inspired me to send many brave fighters to our battlegrounds.”

The Cogitor seemed distressed. “Those ideas were never relevant to your Jihad.”

“Are not certain ideas timeless? Especially yours, Kwyna.” By now, the drumming rain had soaked everyone. One of the Jipol sergeants handed the Grand Patriarch a dry cloth, and he dried his face as he continued. “In one of your manifestos you wrote about the collective insanity of war, that winners invoke forceful delusions to achieve victory. I have been trying to achieve this lofty goal that you espoused, with some success, I am pleased to say. But now I wish to take it to a higher level.”

“I never advocated such a practice. It was merely one of many ideas I offered as examples,” Kwyna responded. “You have taken my words out of context. Have you read the entire scroll, Iblis Ginjo? I believe it is several million words long, and it took me centuries to compile.”

“I scanned it for ideas. You inspired me.”

“Important concepts must be absorbed in their totality. Do not attempt to interpret scriptures while wearing blinders in order to suit your own purposes.”

Iblis knew full well that he had extracted selectively from her writings, and then manipulated the information. But he enjoyed this dialogue with Kwyna, saw it as an intellectual game, a challenge to see how well he could match wits with one of the greatest minds in history. It filled his need for the kind of tutelage he had enjoyed under the Cogitor Eklo, until his destruction in the terrible Earth revolts.

The Grand Patriarch quoted rapidly from several “end times” scriptures, ancient Muadru runestones and other testaments, which— if interpreted loosely enough— proclaimed that humanity could find its paradise only after enduring a thousand years of suffering… and then only if they made sufficient sacrifices.

“I believe Ix is an opportunity for us to make those sacrifices. My jihadis and mercenaries are willing to pay the price. So are the people of lx.”

“The blood of innocents has always been the currency of charismatic leaders,” Kwyna said through the secondary’s voice. “You are reading from fragments and artifacts known to be incomplete. Thus, there are gaps in your knowledge, and your conclusions may be faulty.”

Suddenly intense and eager, Iblis raised his eyebrows. “Then do you know what the rest of the message is? What is on the other fragments?” He wanted as much scriptural ammunition as he could get. He needed to stir a frenzy on newly awakening planets, to galvanize the oppressed people with promises that their time of tribulation was over.

After a moment of intense silence, Kwyna said, “Are you in truth a religious man, Iblis Ginjo?”

He knew he could not lie to the ancient philosopher. “Religion suits my holy purpose, which is to help humanity rise up against its oppressors.”

In her eerie secondhand voice spoken through the monk, Kwyna said, “And have you listened to any of the numerous protests against the Jihad? Are you doing this for humankind, Grand Patriarch… or just for yourself?”

Iblis responded deftly, “For just one person, perhaps, but not for myself. No, it is for the innocent child of Serena Butler, whom I saw murdered by an uncaring thinking machine. The protesters are shortsighted and irrelevant, while I myself am merely an instrument of victory. When success is achieved, I will gladly step aside.”

Through her link with the secondary, Kwyna made a peculiar sound. “Then you are a most admirable— and atypical— man, Iblis Ginjo.”

Forcibly ending the audience, the monk closed the wet cloth flap that covered the preservation canister. He said in his own voice, “We must return to the City of Introspection, Grand Patriarch. The Ancient One must not be disturbed further.”

As if coming out of a trance, Iblis grew aware of people who moved past him up the rain-slickened steps into the Hall of Parliament. He wanted to spend more time with the superannuated brain, to receive advice and instruction, to share brilliant inspiration— but the saffron-robed secondaries hurried away.

Then he realized he himself was late. Serena Butler was about to address the assembly in another of her scheduled inspirational talks, which he had written personally. Not noticing his wet clothes, the Grand Patriarch hurried inside to listen to her. Though the security was intense, he did not have to worry about violence or assassination attempts today.

He had not arranged for any.

INSIDE THE SPEAKING chamber, Serena Butler looked like a heavenly vision, attired in an exquisite white robe and glittering rubate jewelry. Even without the adornments of an orange marigold on her lapel and a golden necklace around her neck, she looked surprisingly vibrant and healthy for her advancing years. Remarkable, considering that she refused to partake of Aurelius Venport’s youth-enhancing melange.

Iblis watched it all. Serena rarely emerged in person from the City of Introspection, so each of her speeches had to be a major event.

Twenty freed humans, rebels who had been smuggled from the new battleground on Ix, sat in the front rows as showpieces. They gazed up at the Priestess with awe. Thanks to Iblis’s incessant propaganda efforts, every person alive— even those in darkest captivity on machine planets— had heard of this woman and her martyred child. She had become a dedicated missionary, working tirelessly to unify humans against the vile machines.

When the audience fell silent, Serena’s voice rose melodically through the hall. “Many of us have witnessed firsthand the bravery, bloodshed, and sacrifices necessary to overthrow the greatest depravity in the universe. Some of you are true heroes.”

She asked half a dozen men and women to stand up, and identified each by name for their brave, selfless deeds. All were civilians, survivors of tremendous battles. “Come to me.” Serena gestured, and from every corner of the great hall, the audience gave them standing ovations. As the refugees came forward, one by one, the Priestess touched them on the head as if in blessing; tears streamed down every face, including her own.

Serena raised her voice in challenge and angry determination. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “I watched something no mother should ever have to witness: my beautiful son murdered in front of my eyes. Think of your own babies, and of mine. Do not let the thinking machines do this to other children, I beg of you.”

As he listened to her masterful delivery, the perfect intonation and diction, Iblis felt a chill of pride run down his spine. The tears were an excellent touch, and he did not doubt they were real. He heard Serena use the phrases he had written, and nodded as he saw her magic work on the audience. They were enraptured. She had been an excellent student, ever since he’d begun to lead her down the path of professional fanaticism.

At first, the young woman had willingly followed his instructions to achieve worthy, noble results. But when she had started to disagree with him, Iblis had fabricated possible “threats” to her safety, so that he would be justified in assigning a group of his handpicked Seraphim as her personal bodyguards.

When Serena continued to be too independent, he had staged an assassination attempt and framed one of his sacrificial dupes, who was conveniently killed during capture. Thereafter, for her “protection,” Serena stayed inside the walls of the City of Introspection, where he could keep a closer eye on her.

He had to make certain that Serena Butler never felt completely safe, so that she would always depend on him.

Now, Iblis relaxed when he saw that everything was under control. Since his arrival had not been noticed, he hurried to a dressing room and changed into dry clothes. Before he could leave the private room, his Jipol commandant slipped silently through the door. “Grand Patriarch, I am pleased to inform you that our work with Muñoza Chen is complete, as you requested. Everything is in place. A nice, clean job.”

Yorek Thurr was a small, swarthy man with a black mustache and bald head. Dressed in a dark green doublet, he peered through slitted eyes that were as dull and black as those of a corpse. Expert with garrote, stiletto, and an assortment of other silent weapons, Thurr had an ability to move with the utmost stealth— and as the Jipol commander, he was always ready to do the Grand Patriarch’s bidding. A good man to have around.

Iblis allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “I knew I could count on you.”

From the moment the Jihad Police had been established, Yorek Thurr had proved himself a valued informant by discovering real spies, unobtrusive but quietly powerful humans who had secret connections to the Synchronized Worlds. Since Iblis had originally raised the specter only as a straw man to frighten the League members, he had been astonished to discover the depth of the deceit Thurr uncovered. Dozens of prominent citizens were implicated and executed, swelling the paranoid frenzy of free humans. As the newly formed Jipol rose in prominence, so Yorek Thurr rose in its ranks, eventually taking command. Sometimes he frightened even the Grand Patriarch.

Because of her constant complaints and resistance, Iblis had always suspected that Muñoza Chen might be an agent of the thinking machines. Why else would she oppose the essential work of the Jihad Council? The answer seemed obvious. The moment Chen had decided to oppose him, her life expectancy had dropped precipitously. Anyone who spoke out against the Jihad was, by definition, an ally of the thinking machines. It made perfect sense.

As Grand Patriarch, holding the responsibility for trillions of lives, he didn’t have time for subtleties. To protect and advance the movement he had to cut efficiently through opposition. The clear results justified anything he might need to do along the way. The Jihad had gone on for decades now, gaining momentum. Even so, it had not gone far enough or fast enough to suit Iblis.

Anyone who overtly crossed the designs of the Grand Patriarch got investigated and expertly framed. Over the years, after the first major purge implicated seven League representatives— all of them, strangely enough, political rivals or people who had spoken out against Iblis— people began to suspect a machine spy under every bed. Five years later, another set of purges had removed all resistance to Iblis.

Now little internal opposition remained, and thanks to the quiet efforts of the Jipol, Muñoza Chen would no longer hinder his crusade against the machines….

Iblis separated from the Jipol Commandant and made his way back into the Assembly Hall. It would be good for him to be seen listening to Serena’s speech. As he entered, her impassioned voice carried through the chamber like perfume on a breeze. She raised her arms in benediction and stood motionless for a long, poignant moment, as if gathering inspiration from above. Then she looked directly toward Iblis Ginjo and said, “There is no time to shirk the duties of humanity and no time to rest— only to fight!”

As she spoke, the doors of the hall burst open, and a throng of men and women marched in, wearing the bright green-and-crimson uniforms of the Jihad. While the audience cheered, every available space in the hall filled with the thousands of new volunteers ready to sacrifice their lives for the Army of the Jihad.

Moving like an angel, Serena glided into their midst, weeping with gratitude. She blessed them all and kissed many, knowing she was dispatching many of them to their deaths. “My fighting jihadis!”

Iblis nodded in satisfaction. It was choreographed with perfect timing, but Serena had pulled it off as if it were a spontaneous event. The concept had been her own, while Iblis had attended to the details of presentation.

We make a great team
.

But as he watched the talented Priestess work the crowd, Iblis found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He wanted Serena to do well, had coached her carefully— and now she was giving the performance of her life.

The Grand Patriarch decided to watch her closer than ever, for his own sake. He didn’t want her to think too much for herself… or too much of herself.

L
ounging in the command chair on the bridge of the flagship ballista, Vor studied satellite images of water surging through the canyons of IV Anbus. He shook his head.
Victory through total disaster
. He gave a wry smile.
What next?

After the ground operations, Tercero Vergyl Tantor and the other battleship captains had shuttled back to their ballistas and resumed their places on board, readying for the endgame that would occur in space. If all went according to Vor’s plan, the Omnius fleet would be driven permanently from this bruised world.

Knowing that Primero Harkonnen’s shuttle had already docked and his friend was on his way to the bridge to join him, Vor grinned with anticipation.
My turn
. He would show Xavier exactly how victory should be achieved— through wiles instead of destruction.

As soon as Xavier stepped out onto the bridge deck, panting and disheveled, Vor flashed him a challenging look with a glint of mischief in it. “Watch how I can neutralize the thinking machine fleet without such a large and embarrassing loss of human life.” He gave the order, and the flagship pressed forward to assume the vanguard position in the Jihad fleet.

Xavier ran fingers like a comb through his rusty-brown hair, smoothing his gray-streaked temples. “There didn’t need to be any loss of life down there, Vorian. Some people choose to become victims, even when they have other options.” Clearly disturbed, he tried to compose himself as he watched. “But even if we’d managed it without anyone suffering so much as a scratch, the Zenshiites would still have complained about our efforts.”