Dune: The Machine Crusade (26 page)

“Intriguing ideas.”

“Patterns without patterns,” Erasmus said. “It seems to me that our enemies are insane on a massive scale. The religious zeal that fuels their Jihad is like a disease that runs through their midst, infecting their collective mind.”

“They have achieved so many unexpected victories,” Omnius lamented. “The destruction of Earth and the defenses of Peridot Colony, Tyndall, IV Anbus, and the shipyards on Poritrin are of great concern to me.”

“The endless rebellion on Ix is proving problematical as well,” Erasmus said. “Despite the deaths of millions of humans there, Jihad infiltrators continue to pour in, as if they calculate neither the cost nor the benefit. When will they realize that one world is not worth the deaths of so many fighters?”

Omnius said, “Humans are animals. Just look at them in your pens.”

Erasmus strolled to the edge of his terrace, which afforded him a view of the squalid slave pens. A few skeletal, filthy humans milled about within the high-fenced enclosures, crowding toward a long wooden table set up on muddy ground. It was feeding time, and they stood with bovine expressions on their faces. Automatic mechanisms opened internal gates in the pens, and food pellets rattled out, like brown gravel.

Such pathetic lives they lead,
Erasmus thought,
without formal education or awareness
. But even the lowliest of them might possess the tremendous potential to be a great human genius. Lack of opportunities did not necessarily make an individual stupid, but only shifted his intelligence to a form suited to survival rather than creativity.

“You do not fully appreciate the situation, Omnius. Begin with any healthy human. If taken at a formative age, when its mental systems remain pliable, any one of those poor humans can be trained. Given the opportunity, even the most bedraggled child could become brilliant, nearly our equal.”

Hovering near Erasmus, the watcheye magnified its viewing mechanism for a closer look at the pens. “Any of them? That is doubtful.”

“Nevertheless, I have found it to be true.”

Additional watcheyes converged above the crowded pens where the feeding humans jostled each other. An image appeared on the watcheye lens by Erasmus, and Omnius said, “Observe that boy closest to the fence— the one with straggly hair and ragged pants. He appears to be the wildest and most unkempt of all. See what you can do with that creature. I will wager that he remains an animal despite your best efforts.”

Remembering his bet with the now-destroyed Earth-Omnius, a wager that had unexpectedly sparked the initial rebellion among the slaves, Erasmus said nothing. Because the last evermind update had been destroyed in the atomic annihilation of Earth, the Corrin-Omnius did not know the details of the abortive wager. Erasmus’s secret was safe.

“I do not wish to gamble with the great evermind,” Erasmus said. “But I accept your challenge nonetheless. I shall make that boy civilized, educated, and insightful— far superior to any of our other trustees.”

“A
challenge
it is, then,” Omnius said.

Previously, Erasmus had noticed this wild boy because of his primitive tendency toward obstinacy. Such a feral, potentially violent organism. According to records, the child was nine years old, young enough to remain pliable. The robot recalled how even the cultured, educated, and
exhilarating
Serena Butler had been a challenge, and how his own relationship with that woman and her child had led to unforeseen, disastrous events.

He resolved to produce better results from this effort.

T
each me to kill machines.”

Before each round of training, Jool Noret said the same thing to his
sensei
mek, and Chirox did his best to please his master. With his adaptability algorithm module, the fighting robot was a remarkably intuitive instructor, considering that he was merely programmed and designed to slay humans.

Jool threw himself into his training with an abandon he had never exhibited prior to the loss of his father. It was no longer training— it was an obsession. He had been the cause of Zon Noret’s tragic death, and to assuage his conscience he therefore needed to inflict more damage on Omnius than two Swordmasters. It was his burden. Jool had never wanted the old veteran to be harmed, but the tough philosophy of Ginaz taught that there were no accidents, no excuses for failure. Every event was the result of a sequence of actions. Intentions were irrelevant to actual outcomes.

Jool had no one but himself to blame, no one who could accept his apology or help to shoulder his responsibility. The young man’s guilt was so much a part of him now that it became a driving force. With his dying breath, Zon Noret had commanded him to become a great fighter, the best Ginaz had ever seen.

Jool accepted the task with a vengeance.

A nearly superhuman increase in skills, even at his already-high level, seemed to flow from within, awakened by his own passion and drive. According to Ginaz beliefs, the spirit of an earlier, unknown mercenary warrior shared his body, an entity that was reincarnated but unaware. He could feel the ancestral instinct burning through his veins and filling each muscle fiber as he battled Chirox with an array of weapons, from sophisticated scrambler-pulse rods to simple clubs to his bare hands.

The yellow optic sensors of the
sensei
mek glowed as he learned to increase his level of skill to keep pace with his student. “You are as swift as a machine, Jool Noret, and as resilient as a human. Together, these factors make you a formidable foe.”

Noret used his father’s pulse sword, paralyzing the
sensei
mek one component at a time without suffering more than a bruise or a scratch. “I intend to become the bane of Omnius, his bête noire.” Jool drove forward faster and harder, pressing even the supercharged abilities of the mek, which had continued to adapt and increase.

Eventually, the determined warrior outstripped the machine.

Standing on the same beach where his father had been slain, the younger Noret attacked the combat robot’s armored left leg, then the right, and worked his way up, shutting down all six fighting arms, one system after another, until finally Chirox was no more than a twisted metallic statue. Only the robot’s optic sensors remained bright, like stars in the dark night sky. Without rancor or joy, simply intensity, Noret bounded into the air and delivered a hard kick to the mek’s torso, toppling the machine backward into the soft, trampled sand.

“There, I have vanquished you.” He loomed over his fallen mechanical teacher.”
Again
.”

From the ground, the robot’s response was flat and emotionless, but Noret thought he detected a note of pride. “My adaptability module has reached its maximum capacity, Master Noret. Until you program me with further proficiencies, you have absorbed everything I can teach you.” The mek’s left leg twitched as the adaptive circuits reset themselves. “You are ready for anything a thinking machine can throw against you.”

ON THE MAIN island of the Ginaz archipelago, Jool Noret fought other mercenary trainees. Under careful supervision and weapons restrictions, most of the students survived.

Every member of the Council of Veterans had known Jool’s fallen father, had fought with him in many battles against the machines, but the young man needed to earn his own honor and respect. It was a means to an end. He was desperate to be off fighting in the Jihad, so that he could begin destroying the forces of Omnius… and repaying his oppressive personal debt.

The population of Ginaz was scattered across hundreds of small, lush islands that provided a range of terrain. The natives could have led peaceful lives— plentiful fish, tropical fruits, and nuts grew in the rich volcanic soil— but instead they had developed a rigorous warrior culture that achieved fame across the League of Nobles.

The young men and women used the varied terrain and natural hazards of the numerous islands to practice their fighting skills. The natives had always opposed the thinking machines, all the way back to the initial Time of Titans. Isolated Ginaz had been the only society to throw off the program-corrupted robots that the Titan Barbarossa had unleashed against the Old Empire in the initial conquest. In a quarter century Serena Butler’s Jihad had intensified to a fever pitch, which placed extraordinary demands upon Ginaz to provide more and more desperately needed warriors.

Just as the computer evermind could copy itself and transmit updates to endure one destruction after another, each Ginaz mercenary believed that after death his fighting spirit was transferred like a data file into the body vessel of his successor. It was more than reincarnation; it was a direct continuation of the battle… a handoff from one warrior to another.

Since so many of their people were killed in battle, the island society had to adapt, encouraging more offspring than usual. Young Ginaz students traveled from island to island and took mates indiscriminately. It was considered a candidate’s duty to have three children before journeying offworld to fight in the furious Jihad: one child to replace the father, one to replace the mother, and a third as a spiritual duty to those who could not reproduce, for whatever reason.

Mercenary women who became pregnant while out on long assignments returned home to Ginaz for the last few months before childbirth, where they helped to teach the others. They remained only long enough to deliver the children and regain their strength, then were off again on the next available ship to a new machine battlefield.

There were always plenty of battles to be fought.

Older men from the Council of Veterans, like Zon Noret, were considered excellent breeding stock, since they had shown their physical superiority by surviving a certain number of missions and injuries. Jool believed this, and knew that he himself was a fortuitous blending of powerful genes.

Many of the war children never learned the identities of their fathers. Some never even knew their mothers. Jool Noret was one of only a few whose father had returned to claim him, so that he could follow his son’s development and training. And then, a year ago, through his own hubris and inattention, Jool had caused the death of Zon Noret, a skilled mercenary needed by the Jihad. How much had that single mistake cost the war effort?

He already knew that it had cost him a great deal personally, and he doubted his conscience would ever give him any breathing room. Driven and obsessed, he had to do the fighting of two Ginaz mercenaries, or more. Jool could only wait until his father returned as a restless warrior spirit eager to fight again, reborn in the body of a new, eager fighter….

Now, while he awaited final testing, Jool dug his fingers into the warm afternoon sand, felt the beat of his pulse and the perspiration on his skin. With each breath, he was reminded of how much he longed to contribute his skills to the Jihad and make his mark. Somewhere inside, he carried the spirit of an unknown, unawakened comrade. Today, if the Council of Veterans found him worthy, Jool would discover whose spirit burned within him.

He clenched sand in his hands, then lifted a fistful and watched the grains trickle through his fingers. He would have to earn the privilege….

The new group of potential mercenaries had diverse specialties. Some were proficient at hand-to-hand combat against the thinking machines; others had developed more esoteric sabotage or destruction skills. All of them, though, were useful additions in the age-old struggle against Omnius.

The new hopefuls dueled each other in a cordoned-off section of rock-strewn beach. Mercenaries did not graduate merely by defeating their opponents, but by demonstrating sufficient talent to prove that the soul of a warrior truly inhabited them. Looking crestfallen, a handful of the trainees failed in their vigorous demonstrations.

Jool Noret did not.

A few of the losers crept away with eyes downcast, seeming to give up in their hearts. Jool watched them, knowing that such easily discouraged fighters would have been liabilities under true battle conditions. Others who had fallen short, however, clearly retained their sparks of defiance and determination; though they had failed this particular testing, they were eager to return to their instructors. They would learn more, improve their abilities, and try again.

The next morning, Jool Noret stood beside six companions, all of whom had been chosen as champions by the Council of Veterans. While white waves crashed against the gnarled black reef, the veterans built a bonfire of driftwood on the beach near a stand of thick, armored palms. A young mute boy with blond hair walked solemnly forward, struggling to carry a basin filled with polished coral disks. As he set the basin down, the chits clattered against each other like the teeth of a skeleton. Jool squinted in the direct equatorial sunlight.

“You will all continue the fight,” said the lead veteran, a one-armed warrior who wore his gray hair braided into a thick rope. Master Shar could no longer fight machines, but he had devoted his life to creating replacement warriors who would cause far more damage than the thinking machines had inflicted on him.

Shar had lost his arm during his last battle. He considered himself too old to fight further and had refused to accept one of the available replacement limbs from the battlefield surgeons’ stores, so that it might be given to a younger soldier, one better able to continue to fight. Despite his handicap, however, the Master retained so much agility that he braided his own hair with one hand and refused any help, though few could understand how the old man accomplished such a feat.

“This is the last time you come before us as trainees.” Shar swept an icicle gaze across the seven young warriors. “When you depart Ginaz for some faraway battlefield, you will go as proud mercenaries, representatives of our skills and our gallant history. Do you all accept this grave responsibility?”

In unison, Noret and his companions shouted their acknowledgment. Master Shar summoned them forward one by one, announcing each of them. Fourth in line, Noret took two steps to the sitting Council of Veterans.