Dune: The Machine Crusade (47 page)

“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….

A
s 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 thousands 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.”

“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.