Dune: The Machine Crusade (9 page)

No one had bothered to explain the plan to the slave crews. Like worker ants, each man and woman had a designated task, and crew supervisors observed the complex flurry of activity from above.

To Ishmael, it was yet another dirty and difficult labor assignment. He had worked in the cane fields, mines, and factories during the past five years in and around Starda. The intense Zenshiites, as well as the less radical Zensunnis, remained restless as their masters forced them to meet the increased demands of Serena Butler’s galactic war.

When Ishmael was just a boy, raiders had attacked his peaceful village on Harmonthep. They kidnapped healthy Zensunni settlers and pressed them into service on League planets that accommodated slavery. After more than twenty years, Poritrin was Ishmael’s world now, a home as much as a prison. He had made the best of his life.

Because Ishmael had caused no obvious trouble, upon reaching adulthood he’d been allowed to take a wife. After all, the Poritrin slave masters wanted to keep their stock thriving; and they had statistics that showed married slaves worked harder and were more easily controlled. Before long, Ishmael had learned to love strong and curious Ozza. She had given him two daughters: Chamal, who was thirteen, and little Falina, now eleven. Their lives were not their own, but at least Ishmael’s family had remained intact through several transfers and new work assignments. Ishmael never knew if that had been a reward for his acceptable service, or simply a fortuitous accident.

Now, in the bleak industrial shipyards, orange sparks and the splashing glow of hot alloys turned the work site into a vision of Heol, as described in the Buddislamic Sutras. The hiss of sulfurous smoke, the tang of metal dust and scorched ores, forced the slaves to wrap blackened rags around their faces in order to breathe.

Beside him, he saw the sweaty, perpetually angry visage of his childhood friend Aliid, whom Ishmael had only recently rediscovered at the shipyard work site. Although the other man’s coiled brashness made Ishmael feel threatened and uncomfortable, friendship was one of the few threads to which they could hold.

Even when they were boys, Aliid had been trouble, willing to break rules, committing vandalism and minor sabotage. Because Ishmael was his friend, both of them had often suffered punishments and transfers. Before the boys became teenagers they were separated and did not see each other again for nearly eighteen years.

But Tio Holtzman’s ambitious new construction project had thrown many slaves together in the foundries and factories. Ishmael and Aliid had discovered each other again.

Now, under a clatter of hammers and the percussive drumbeat of rivet-welders, Ishmael maneuvered the machinery over hull-plate seams. Over the years, his muscles had grown large, as had Aliid’s. Though his clothes were dirty and worn, Ishmael cropped his hair and shaved his weathered cheeks, chin, and neck. Aliid, though, let his dark hair grow long and tied it back with a thong. His beard was thick and black like Bel Moulay’s, the outspoken Zenshiite leader who had tried to lead a slave revolt when they were just boys.

Ishmael climbed up beside his friend, helping to wrestle the heavy metal sheet into place. Aliid activated the rivet welder before either man checked the alignment. Aliid’s work was sloppy and he knew it, but the Poritrin nobles and work supervisors never penalized them or even criticized their work. Ship after ship had been assembled in space above the quiet planet. By now, dozens of bristling war vessels clustered in orbit like a pack of trained hunting dogs, waiting for an opportunity.

“Is that within tolerances?” Ishmael asked guardedly. “Unless we seal the hull seams tight, we might cause the deaths of thousands of crew members.”

Aliid didn’t seem bothered as he continued firing the hot riveting gun. He yanked away the greasy cloth that covered his face so that Ishmael could see his hard smile. “Then I’ll apologize to them when I hear their distant spirits screaming in the depths of Heol, where all evil men must go. Besides, if they don’t bother to test the components in orbit, they deserve to suck vacuum.”

While he had kept a relatively stable assignment and had found some measure of happiness with his family, Ishmael’s deeply troubled friend had been transferred dozens of times. Shouting above the din of the construction yards, Aliid had told him about his wife, whom he loved passionately, and one newborn son, whom he barely remembered. But ten years ago a workmaster had caught Aliid salting the fuel in a big mining grinder; in punishment, he had been transferred away from the work group and sent to the other side of Poritrin.

Aliid had never seen his wife again, never held his son. No wonder the man was bitter and angry. But though he had obviously brought the disaster upon himself, Aliid wanted to hear none of Ishmael’s admonishments. To him, no one but the people of Poritrin were to blame. Why should he care about the lives of crew members aboard these ships?

Oddly enough, the workmasters and shipbuilders didn’t seem to care about quality either, as if they were more concerned with assembling the vessels
rapidly
than with making them functional. Or safe.

Ishmael went back to work diligently. It never paid to delve into details and questions that might arouse the ire of the crew supervisors. He passed time more easily if he kept himself numb on the outside, hiding the spark of his own identity deep within. At night, when he recited Sutras for his Zensunni followers, he recalled life on Harmonthep, listening to his grandfather quote the same scriptures….

Unexpectedly, shift bells rang, and the lights increased inside the clamorous refinery. Sparks fell to the ground like tiny meteors, and pulleys raised the machinery back to the ceilings of the highbays. Bellowed words from speaker boxes were fractured into gibberish by the background din. Uniformed supervisors strode around the decks, assigning crews to staging areas.

“Lord Niko Bludd grants all people of Poritrin, even slave workers, this hour of relaxation and contemplation to commemorate the victory of civilization over barbarism, the triumph of order over chaos.”

The hissing racket of the refinery and shipyards dwindled. The slave crews interrupted their conversations and looked toward the speaker boxes. Supervisors stood on high platforms, glaring at the people to make certain they were paying attention.

The announcement continued, clearer now, the recorded words of Lord Bludd. “Twenty-four years ago today, my Dragoon forces put an end to a violent and illegal uprising led by the criminal Bel Moulay. This man deluded our hardworking slaves, confusing them with irrational promises that lured them into a hopeless, nonsensical fight. Luckily, our civilization was able to restore the rule of order.

“Today is the anniversary of the execution of this evil man. We celebrate the triumphs of Poritrin society and the League of Nobles. All humans must put aside their differences and fight our common enemy, the thinking machines.”

Aliid scowled, struggling to suppress a defiant outburst. Ishmael knew what his friend was thinking. The Buddislamic slaves, by working in war industries, contributed unwillingly to the military effort against Omnius. Yet to the captives, the Poritrin slavekeepers and machines were both demons— only of different sorts.

“Tonight, every Poritrin citizen is invited to join in feasts and festivities. Fireflowers and skypaintings will be launched from rafts in the river. Slaves are also welcome to observe, provided they remain within designated holding areas. Working together, combining our strength, Poritrin can be assured of victory against Omnius and freedom from the thinking machines. Let no man forget the potential of the human race.”

The announcement ended and the work supervisors dutifully applauded, but the slaves were slow to add their cheers. Aliid’s expression darkened behind his black beard, and he pulled up the rag to cover his face again; Ishmael doubted the unobservant crew leaders noticed his look of pure hatred.

AFTER NIGHT FELL and the slaves returned to their camp compound in the marshy river delta, Lord Bludd launched his extravagant festivities. Hundreds of phosphorescent balloons rose into the sky. Celebratory music wafted across the water. Even after two decades on Poritrin, the melodies sounded slightly atonal and alien to Ishmael as he sat with his wife Ozza and their two daughters.

Poritrin nobles professed to follow gentle, bucolic Navachristianity, but their core beliefs did not extend to their daily lives. They had their festivals, and embraced religious trappings, but the Poritrin upper classes did little to demonstrate their true faith. For centuries their economy had run on slave labor, ever since they had cast aside sophisticated technology, forsaking anything that reminded them of thinking machines.

Slaves learned to snatch whatever moments and memories they could find. Ishmael’s girls Chamal and Falina were fascinated by the spectacle, but he remained quietly beside his wife, thinking his own thoughts. The celebration reminded him of the brutal crackdown the gold-armored Dragoon guards had mounted against the insurgents two decades ago. Lord Bludd had commanded all slaves to witness the execution of the rebel leader, and he and Aliid had watched in horror as the executioners stripped Bel Moulay naked and hacked him to pieces. That uprising had given the slaves a brief flicker of hope, but the death of their fiery leader had crushed their spirit and left a dark scar on their hearts.

Finally, Ishmael gathered with other slaves so that they could hold a memorial for the fallen Bel Moulay. He saw that Aliid had also come into the compound, wanting Ishmael’s company and shared memories of the tragic event that had shaped their boyhood.

Aliid stood beside Ozza, fidgeting, as Ishmael quoted the familiar Sutras that promised eventual paradise and freedom. They ignored the ghostly sounds of music and the militaristic bangs and pops of fireflowers. Finally, using the words he had repeated often— too often— Ishmael said to the listeners, “God promises that one day our people will be free.”

Aliid’s dark eyes reflected the glow of the story fire. His voice was low, but clear, making Ishmael uneasy with the simmering threat: “This I swear— one day we shall have our revenge.”

W
hile the swarm of new ships was rushed through construction on Poritrin, Savant Holtzman performed his work on Salusa Secundus. The legendary inventor stood inside an isolated laboratory chamber within one of the most secure zones, pacing with his hands on his hips and frowning in disapproval. It was the persona he showed whenever people expected him to do something important.

With armored walls and power conduits cut off from the rest of Zimia’s grid, the large government facility was supposedly safe and protected. In theory, the hostage Omnius was completely contained.

But this lab was not set up the way Holtzman would have liked. He preferred to choose his own diagnostic tools, analytical systems, and slave assistants who could be conveniently blamed if anything went wrong. A small, aging man with a gray beard, Holtzman prided himself on being able to manage resources. The Savant was sure he could provide these Jihad military scientists with good advice. If words failed him, he might have to refer the matter to his many eager assistants back on Poritrin, who constantly found ways to impress him.

From behind secure transparent barriers, the team of legislative observers watched his every move, along with the Cogitor Kwyna, who had once again been removed from her place of restful contemplation in the City of Introspection. Even through the impenetrable barriers, Holtzman could sense the watchers’ anger and fear.

A silver gelsphere floated in front of him, glistening as it spun in the air within the invisible suspensor field. This incarnation of the evermind was completely under his power. Where once he had felt fear at being so close, now the greatest enemy of the human race seemed like such a small thing. A child’s toy! He could have held the complex sphere in the palm of one hand.

The silver gelsphere contained a complete copy of the computer evermind, albeit a somewhat dated version now. During the atomic raid on Earth at the very beginning of the Jihad, Vorian Atreides had seized this update from a fleeing robot vessel. Over the years, the League’s “prisoner” had provided valuable insights into thinking machine plans and reactions.

The evermind’s programs had been copied, dissected, and examined by League cybernetic experts. As the first rule, all data was considered suspect, perhaps intentionally distorted by Omnius, though such deceit was supposedly impossible for the computer mind.

The Army of the Jihad had undertaken a few military ventures based upon information obtained from the evermind copy. When the fighters launched an offensive against cloud-locked Bela Tegeuse, they had obtained detailed specifications from the captive Omnius. But that engagement had ended inconclusively.

Now, after twenty-three years without updates, the intelligence data stored in the captive evermind had grown stale. The captive Omnius had been unable to warn them of the return of the robot war fleet against Zimia— though that second attempt had been thwarted by Primero Xavier Harkonnen— nor had the evermind prepared the League for the unexpected massacre on Honru, which had cost the lives of so many undefended colonists. Still, it had been of some value.

Holtzman scratched his thick mane of hair as he watched the sphere spin in the air.
Despite its shortcomings, this one provides us with clues. It is just a matter of interpreting them correctly.

“Erasmus often praised the unending creativity of human imagination,” said a bored synthesized voice from speakers linked to the sphere, “but your interrogations have grown tedious. After so many years, have you not learned everything from me that your small minds can grasp?”

Holtzman slipped a hand into a pocket of his white smock. “Oh, I am not here to entertain you, Omnius. Not at all.”

Over the years, he had communicated with this Omnius, but never with such intensity. In the weeks that he had recently focused on the effort, the famed inventor had failed to secure any breakthroughs, despite his past successes in other realms. Holtzman hoped he had not painted himself into a corner with everyone’s unrealistic expectations.