Dune: The Machine Crusade (82 page)

Though he had not forgotten the wife and younger daughter he had been forced to leave on Poritrin, he could never go back there. It had been almost a decade since the slaves had escaped. There was no way he would ever find Ozza or Falina again.

He watched young El’hiim scamper away, then turned his attention toward a crisp, potent smell wafting to his nostrils. Marha had opened the packages of stolen melange and cupped the powder in her hands.

“Selim Wormrider found the truth in visions that the spice brought to him. Shai-Hulud gives this blessing to us. He leaves it in the desert, so that we may learn his bidding.” She looked at both Ishmael and Jafar. “It has been too long since the death of my husband. Each of us needs focus and direction now. This spice was taken from the thieves of the desert, and Shai-Hulud wants us to consume it so that we may understand.”

“What if we all see different visions?” Ishmael asked.

Marha looked at him. She was beautiful, strong, and self-assured, with a small half-moon scar on her brow from a knife duel. “We will each see what we need to see, and everything will be right.”

As the sun set on the smooth, soft horizon of sand, the temperatures dropped and the blazing colors of dusk rose up in their glory. The followers of Selim Wormrider met in the largest cave chamber and passed the potent processed melange among themselves. Each man and woman consumed far more than they would ever include in their daily diet.

“This is the blood of God, the essence of Shai-Hulud. He has concentrated his dreams for us, so that we may partake of them and see through the eyes of the universe.” Marha ate a thick spice wafer, and handed another one to Ishmael.

He had consumed melange many times before— it formed a staple of the desert dwellers’ diet— but this was much more than he had ever eaten at once. As he swallowed it, he felt the effect sweep through his bloodstream and erupt into his mind almost immediately.

Windows opened as if he had eyes peering from various spots on his skull. He couldn’t tell if he was looking into the future or the past, or simply seeing images of what he wanted or feared. Selim Wormrider had observed the same things, and had incorporated them into his passionate mission.

But Ishmael now experienced horrific images of things he did not want to witness. He saw Poritrin, the familiar river delta and the slave quarters awash in blood and violence, on fire. The screams of victims filled the night air. His heart turned to lead, and he knew that Aliid must have caused all this pain and suffering.

The entire city of Starda, the great capital on the Isana River, lay in ruins before his eyes, with most of its central complex a slumped, glassy crater. The debris of tall buildings spread out in waves, as if the fist of a vengeful god had hammered the metropolis and flattened everything.

But that was only the start. He saw noble survivors and the remnants of Dragoon regiments gathering weapons, howling for vengeance. They hunted down Buddislamic slaves on every continent, trapping and torturing them. Many were burned alive, sealed inside houses; others were gunned down. The bodies were mutilated.

In a vision he would never forget because it burned like a brand into the contours of his memory, he saw Ozza and Falina cowering together, screaming in terror, begging for mercy. Then five men with long knives fell upon them… and the men were not swift with their work, prolonging their enjoyment.

But the melange swept Ishmael further along on a churning white current of images in his mind. Poritrin vanished, replaced by the sere tan dunes of the driest desert. Cracked lakebeds and wrinkled black rocks rose up to offer secure islands, safe from the ravenous worms.

Without words, he sensed the mission of Selim Wormrider and saw a man riding high on the back of a huge sandworm, delivering his message in service to the Old Man of the Desert. Though Selim was long dead, Ishmael saw himself riding beside the bandit leader, crossing a great expanse of desert on a sandworm. The two of them guided Shai-Hulud and led their fellow wormriders to a bright horizon, a future where they could be free and strong— and all of the sandworms were
alive
.

Ishmael caught his breath. His heart was pounding, and he felt buoyed by the dream. He understood what Marha felt, the sense of purpose Selim himself had inspired among his bandit followers.

Then he sensed danger, a black and consuming fear… not part of the grandeur of the vision, but a more personal tragedy, a peril— the boy El’hiim.

This was not a vision of the future, not a distant warning. It was happening now. The boy was trapped, caught inside a small opening in the rocks. While the adults gathered here, El’hiim had run off to explore the cliffs and steep slopes, poking into cracks and holes in search of kangaroo mice or lizards that he could bring to the tribe to eat. Ishmael sensed sharp, scuttling legs and skittering danger around the boy, like a thousand assassin’s knives.

Ishmael began to run out of the cave chamber. He knew this wasn’t part of his vision. His body was being guided along by some other force.

He left the gathered people, all of whom swayed with their personal spice visions.

When Marha realized he had left the chamber, she stumbled after him. But Ishmael would not be slowed. Intuitively, he knew where the boy had gone, though he had not seen El’hiim for hours. With impressive agility, Ishmael climbed over rocks and went down through a small break in the stone.

His eyes drank in the details around him, and simultaneously he saw the terrible vision inside his head: the boy trapped, and the knife-wielding assassins getting closer.

El’hiim was afraid. He had already called twice for help, but no one heard him.

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.”

E
rasmus 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.”