=================================================
Notes:
This book was scanned by JASC/elibrary
If you correct any errors, please change the version number below (and in the file
name) to a slightly higher one e.g. from .9 to .95 , or if major revisions + proof, to v.
1.0 or higher.
Current e-book version is v .9
Comments, Questions, Requests(no promises): daytonascan4911@hotmail.com
DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL
COPY. THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Book Information:
Genre: Sci-Fi
Author: Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson
Name: The Butlerian Jihad
Series: Book One (DUNE Prequel)
=======================================================================




                                            DUNE
                            THE BUTLERIAN JIHAD
                                         Brian Herbert
                                              and
                                       Kevin J, Anderson

    Princess Irulan writes: kny true student must realize that History has no beginning.
Regardless of where a story starts, there are always earlier heroes and earlier tragedies.
    Before one can understand Muad'Dib or the current jihad that followed the
overthrow of my father, Emperor Shaddam IV, one must understand what we fight
against. Therefore, look more than ten thousand years into our past, ten millennia
before the birth of Paul Atreides.
    It is there that we see the founding of the Imperium, how an emperor rose from the
ashes of the Battle of Corrin to unify the bruised remnants of humanity. We will delve
into the most ancient records, into the very myths of Dune, into the time of the Great
Revolt, more commonly known as the Butlerian Jihad.
    The terrible war against thinking machines was the genesis of our political-
commercial universe. Hear now, as I tell the story of free humans rebelling against the
domination of robots, computers, and cymeks. Observe the basis of the great betrayal
that made mortal enemies of House Atreides and House Harkonnen, a violent feud that
continues to this day. Learn the roots of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, the Spacing ana
tneir JNavigators, the Swordmasters of Ginaz, the Suk Medical School, the Mentats,
Witness the lives of oppressed Zensunni Wanderers who fled to the desert world of
Arrakis, where they became our greatest soldiers, the Fremen.
    Such events led to the birth and life of Muad'Dib.
    LONG BEFORE MUAD'DIB, in the last days of the Old Empire, humanity lost its drive.
Terran civilization had spread across the stars, but grew stagnant. With few ambitions,
most people allowed efficient machines to perform everyday tasks for them. Gradually,
humans ceased to think, or dream… or truly live.
    Then came a man from the distant Thalim system, a visionary who took the name of
Tlaloc after an ancient god of rain. He spoke to languid crowds, attempting to revive
their human spirit, to no apparent effect. But a few misfits heard Tlaloc's message.
    These new thinkers met in secret and discussed how they would change the Empire,
if only they could overthrow the foolish rulers. Discarding their birth names, they
assumed appellations associated with great gods and heroes. Foremost among them
were General Agamemnon and his lover Juno, a tactical genius. These two recruited the
programming expert Barbarossa, who devised a scheme to convert the Empire's
ubiquitous servile machines into fearless aggressors by giving their AI brains certain
human characteristics, including the ambition to conquer. Then several more humans
joined the ambitious rebels. In all, twenty masterminds formed the core of a
revolutionary movement that took over the Old Empire.
    Victorious, they called themselves Titans, after the most ancient of Greek gods. Led
by the visionary Tlaloc, the twenty allocated the administration of planets and peoples
among themselves, enforcing their edicts through Barbarossa's aggressive thinking
machines. They conquered most of the known galaxy.
    Some resistance groups rallied their defenses on the fringes of the Old Empire.
Forming their own confederation—the League of Nobles—they fought the Twenty Titans
and, after many bloody battles, retained their freedom. They stopped the tide of the
Titans and drove them back.

    Tlaloc vowed to dominate these outsiders one day, but after less than a decade in
power, the visionary leader was killed in a tragic accident. General Agamemnon took
Tlaloc's place as leader, but the death of his friend and mentor was a grim reminder of
the Titans' own mortality.
    Wishing to rule for centuries, Agamemnon and his lover Juno undertook a risky
course of action. They had their brains surgically removed and implanted in preservation
canisters that could be installed into a variety of mechanical bodies. One by one—as the
remaining Titans felt the specter of age and vulnerability—all of the others also
converted themselves into "cymeks," machines with human minds.

    The Time of Titans lasted for a century. The cymek usurpers ruled their various
planets, using increasingly sophisticated computers and robots to maintain order. But
one fateful day the hedonistic Titan Xerxes, anxious to have more time for his pleasures,
surrendered too much access to his pervasive AI network.
    The sentient computer network seized control of an entire planet, followed quickly
by others. The breakdown spread like a virulent infestation from world to world, and the
computer "evermind" grew in power and scope. Naming itself Omnius, the intelligent
and adaptible network conquered all the Titan-controlled planets before the cymeks had
time to warn each other of the danger.
   Omnius then set out to establish and maintain order in its own highly structured
fashion, keeping the humiliated cymeks under its thumb. Once masters of an empire,
Agamemnon and his companions became reluctant servants to the widespread
evermind.
    At the time of the Butlerian Jihad, Omnius and his thinking machines had held all of
the "Synchronized Worlds" in an iron grip for a thousand years.
    Even so, clusters of free humans remained on the outskirts, bound together for
mutual protection, thorns in the sides of the thinking machines. Whenever attacks
came, the League of Nobles defended themselves effectively.
    But new machine plans were always being developed.
   When humans created a computer with the ability to collect information and learn
from it, they signed the death warrant of mankind.
    —SISTER BECCA THE FINITE




Salusa Secundus hung like a jeweled pendant in the desert of space, an oasis of
resources and fertile fields, peaceful and pleasing to the optic sensors. Unfortunately, it
was infested with feral humans.
    The robotic fleet approached the capital world of the League of Nobles. Armored
warships bristled with weapons, weirdly beautiful with their reflective alloy coatings,
their adornments of antennae and sensors. Aft engines blazed pure fire, pushing the
vessels to accelerations that would have crushed mere biological passengers. Thinking
machines required no life-support or physical comfort. Currently, they were focused on
destroying the remnants of age-old human resistance on the wild outer fringes of the
Synchronized Worlds.
    Inside his pyramid-shaped vessel, the cymek general Agamemnon led the attack.
Logical thinking machines did not care about glory or revenge. But Agamemnon
certainly did. Fully alert inside his preservation canister, his human brain watched the
plans unfold.
    Ahead of him, the main fleet of robot warships swept into the human-infested
system, overwhelming the crews of sur prised sentry vessels like an avalanche out of
space. Human picket ships opened fire, defenders swept in to meet the oncoming
machine force. Five League sentry vessels fired off heavy salvos, but most of their
projectiles were too slow to hit the streaking inbound fleet. A handful of robotic vessels
were damaged or destroyed by lucky shots, and just as many human ships exploded in
flashes of incandescent vapor—not because they posed a particular threat, but because
they were in the way. Only a few distant scouts managed to transmit a warning toward
vulnerable Salusa Secundus. Robot battleships vaporized the diffuse inner perimeter of
human defenses, without even slowing on their way to their real goal. Shuddering under
extreme deceleration, the thinking-machine fleet would arrive not long after the warning
signal reached the capital world.
    The humans would never have time enough to prepare. The robot fleet was ten
times the size and power of any force Omnius had ever before sent against the League
of Nobles. The humans had grown complacent, having faced no concentrated robotic
aggression during the last century of uneasy cold war. But machines could wait a long
time, and now Agamemnon and his surviving Titans would finally have their chance.
    Revealed by a flurry of tiny machine spy probes, the League had recently installed
supposedly invincible defenses against gelcircuitry-based thinking machines. The
massive robot fleet would wait at a safe distance while Agamemnon and his small
vanguard of cymeks pressed forward on a mission, perhaps a suicidal one, to open the
door.
    Agamemnon reveled in the anticipation. Already the hapless bio-logicals would be
sounding alarms, preparing defenses… cowering in fear. Through flowing electrafluid
that kept his disembodied brain alive, he transmitted an order to his cymek shock
troops. "Let us destroy the heart of the human resistance. Forward!"
    For a thousand hellish years, Agamemnon and his Titans had been forced to serve
the computer evermind, Omnius. Chafing under their bondage, the ambitious but
defeated cymeks now turned their frustration against the League of Nobles. One day the
once-defeated general hoped to turn against Omnius himself, but thus far had seen no
opportunity.
    The League had erected new scrambler shields around Salusa Secundus. Such fields
would destroy the sophisticated gelcircuitry of all AI computers—but human minds could
survive the passage. And though they had mechanical systems and interchangeable
robotic bodies, cy-meks still had human brains.

    Thus, they could pass through the defensive shields unscathed.
    Like a target behind crosshairs, Salusa Secundus filled Agamemnon's field of view.
With great attention to detail the general had studied tactical projections, applying the
military skills he'd developed over the centuries, along with an intuitive understanding of
the art of conquest. His abilities had once allowed a mere twenty rebels to take over an
empire… until they'd lost it all to Omnius.
    Prior to launching this important attack, the computer evermind had insisted on
running simulation after simulation, trying to develop plans for every contingency.
Agamemnon, though, knew it was futile to plan too precisely when it came to unruly
humans.
    Now, while the immense robot war fleet engaged the expected League orbital
defenses and perimeter ships, Agamemnon's mind probed outward from his sensor-
connected container, and he felt his guideship as an extension of his long-lost human
body. The integral weapons were part of himself. He saw with a thousand eyes, and the
powerful engines made him feel as if he had muscular legs again and could run like the
wind.
    'Prepare for ground assault. Once our dropcarriages penetrate the Salusan defenses,
we must strike fast and hard." Recalling that watcheyes would record every moment of
the battle for the evermind's later scrutiny once the fleet returned, he added, "We will
sterilize this filthy planet for the glory of Omnius." Agamemnon slowed his descent, and
the others followed suit. "Xerxes, take the lead. Send in your neo-cymeks to draw their
fire and flush them out."
    Hesitant as usual, Xerxes complained. "Will I have your full support as I go in? This
is the most dangerous part of—

    Agamemnon silenced him. "Be grateful for this opportunity to prove yourself. Now
go! Every second you delay gives more time to the hrethgir." This was the derogatory
term that intelligent machines and their cymek lackeys used for human vermin.
    Another voice crackled across the comlink: the robot operator of the machine fleet
battling the human protective force orbiting Salusa. "We await your signal, General
Agamemnon. Human resistance is intensi-fying."
    'We're on our way," Agamemnon said. "Xerxes, do as I instructed!"
    Xerxes, who always fell short of complete defiance, stifled further comment and
summoned three neo-cymeks, later-generation machines with human minds. The
quartet of pyramidal ships shut down their subsidiary systems, and their armored
dropcarriages fell unguided into the atmosphere. For a few dangerous moments they
would be easy targets, and the League's missile-and-aerial defenses might hit a few of
the cluster. But the dropcarriages' dense material shielding would protect them against
the brunt of the bombardment, keeping them intact even through a wild crash-landing
on the outskirts of the prime city of Zimia, where the main shield-generating towers
were located.
    Thus far the League of Nobles had preserved unruly humanity against the organized
efficiency of Omnius, but the feral biologicals governed themselves ineffectively and
often disagreed over major decisions. As soon as Salusa Secundus was crushed, the
unstable alliance would disintegrate in a panic; resistance would crumble.
    But first Agamemnon's cymeks had to shut down the scrambler shields. Then Salusa
would be defenseless and quivering, ready for the main robot fleet to deal the lethal
blow, like a huge mechanical boot squashing an insect.
    The cymek leader jockeyed his dropcarriage into position, ready to lead the second
wave with the rest of the extermination fleet. Agamemnon switched off all computerized
systems and followed Xerxes down. His brain floated in limbo inside its preservation
canister. Blind and deaf, the general did not feel the heat or violent vibrations as his
armored craft roared toward the unsuspecting target.
   The intelligent machine is an evil genie, escaped from its bottle.
   —BARBAROSSA,

    Anatomy of a Rebellion
    When Salusa's sensor network detected the arrival of the robotic war fleet, Xavier
Harkonnen took action immediately. Once again, the thinking machines meant to test
the defenses of free humanity.
    Though he bore the rank of tercero in the Salusan Militia—the local, autonomous
branch of the overall League Armada—Xavier had not yet been born during the last real
skirmishes against League worlds. The most recent major battle had been nearly a
hundred years ago. After all these years, the aggressive machines might be counting on
soft human defenses, but Xavier swore they would fail.
    'Primero Meach, we've received an urgent warning and a vidstream clip from one of
our peripheral scouts," he said to his commander. "But the transmission cut off."
    'Look at them all!" squawked Quinto Wilby as he scanned images from the outlying
sensor network. The low-ranking officer stood with other soldiers at banks of instrument
panels inside a domed building. "Omnius never sent anything like this before."
    Vannibal Meach, the short but loud-voiced primero of the Salusan Militia, stood in
the control center of the planet's defenses, coolly absorbing the flow of information.
"Our last report from the perimeter is hours old due to signal lag. By now they've
engaged our pickets, and they'll try to get closer. They'll fail, of course." Though this
was his first warning of the impending invasion, he reacted as if he had expected the
machines to arrive any day.
    In the control room's illumination, Xavier's dark brown hair glinted with reddish
cinnamon highlights. He was a serious young man, prone to honesty and with a
tendency to see things in black and white. As a member of the third military ranking
tier, Tercero Harkonnen was Meach's backup commander of the local defense outposts.
Much admired by his superiors, Xavier had been promoted quickly; equally respected by
his soldiers, he was the sort of trusted man they would follow into battle.
    Despite the sheer size and firepower of the robotic force, he willed himself to
calmness, then signaled for reports from the nearest picket ships and put the
spaceguard defense fleet on highest alert in close orbit. The warship commanders had
already called their crews to battle-ready status as soon as they'd heard the urgent
transmission from the now-destroyed scout ships.
    Around Xavier, automated systems hummed with activity. Listening to the oscillating
sirens, the chatter of orders and status reports in the control room, he drew a slow
breath, prioritizing tasks. "We can stop them," he said. "We will stop them." His voice
carried a tone of firm command, as if he were much older than his years and
accustomed to battling Omnius every day. In reality, this would be his first engagement
with the thinking machines.
    Years ago, his parents and older brother had been killed in a mar-rauding cymek
attack while en route from an inspection of family holdings on Hagal. The soulless
machine forces had always been a threat to the League Worlds, but the humans and
Omnius had maintained an uneasy peace for decades.
    On a wall grid, a map of the Gamma Waiping system showed the orbital locations of
Salusa Secundus and six other planets, along with the deployment of sixteen patrol
battle groups and the vigilant picket ships that were scattered at random. Cuarto Steff
Young hurried to update the tactical projection, plotting her best guess of the location of
the approaching robot battle group.
    'Contact Segundo Lauderdale, and call in all perimeter warships. Tell them to engage
and destroy any enemy they encounter," said Primero Meach, then he sighed. "It'll take
half a day at maximum acceleration to retrieve our heavy battle groups from the fringe,
but the machines might still be trying to get through by then. Could be a field day for
our guys." Cuarto Young followed the order with easy efficiency, dispatching a message
that would take hours to reach the outskirts of the system.
    Meach nodded to himself, going through the much-drilled sequence. Always living
under the specter of the machines, the Salusan Militia trained regularly for every
scenario, as did Armada detachments for every major League system. "Activate the
Holtzman scrambler shields around the planet and issue warnings to all commercial air
and space traffic. I want the city's shield transmitter output up to full within ten
minutes."
    'That should be enough to brain-fry any thinking machine gelcir-cuitry," Xavier said
with forced confidence. "We've all seen the tests." This, however, is not just a test.
    Once the enemy encountered the defenses the Salusans had installed, he hoped
they would calculate their losses to be too heavy, and retreat. Thinking machines didn't
like to take risks.
    He stared at a panel. But there are so many of them.
    Then he straightened from his summary screens, full of bad news. "Primero Meach,
if our velocity data for the machine fleet is correct, even at deceleration speed, they are
traveling almost as fast as the warning signal we received from our scouts."
    'Then they could already be here!" said Quinto Wilby.
    Now Meach reacted with sharp alarm, triggering a full emergency alert. "Sound
evacuation orders! Open the underground shelters."
    'Evacuation under way, sir," reported Cuarto Young moments later, her fingers
working the update panels as she spoke. The intent young woman touched a
communication wire at her temple. "We're sending Viceroy Butler all the information we
have."
    Serena is with him at the Hall of Parliament, Xavier realized, thinking of the Viceroy's
nineteen-year-old daughter. His heart clenched with concern for her, yet he did not dare
reveal his fear to his compatriots. Everything in its time and place.
    In his mind he could see the many threads he needed to weave, doing his part while
Primero Meach directed the overall defense.
    'Cuarto Chiry, take a squadron and escort Viceroy Butler, his daughter, and all of the
League representatives deep into the subterranean s ters.
    'They should be heading there already, sir," the officer said. Xavier gave him a stiff
smile. "Do you trust politicians to do the smart thing first?" The cuarto ran to do as he
was told.
    Most histories are written by the winners of conflicts, but those written by the
losers—if they survive—are often more interesting.

   —IBLIS GINJO, The Landscape of Humanity

    Secundus was a green world of temperate climate, W»«,'home to hundreds of
millions of free humans in the League of Nobles. Abundant water flowed through open
aqueducts. Around the cultural and governmental center of Zimia, rolling hills were
embroidered with vineyards and olive groves.
    Moments before the machine attack, Serena Butler stepped onto the oratory stage in
the great Hall of Parliament. Thanks to her dedicated public service, as well as special
arrangements made by her father, she had been granted this opportunity to address the
representatives.
    Viceroy Manion Butler had privately counseled her to be subtle, to keep her points
simple. "One step at a time, dear one. Our League is held together only by the threat of
a common enemy, not by a set of shared values or beliefs. Never attack the lifestyles of
the nobles."
    This was only the third speech of her brief political career. In her earlier addresses,
she had been overly strident—not yet understanding the ballet of politics—and her ideas
had been met with a mixture of yawns and good-natured chuckles at her naivete. She
wanted to end the practice of human slavery that had been adopted sporadically by
some League worlds; she wanted to make every human equal, to ensure that all were
fed and protected.

    'Perhaps the truth hurts. I was trying to make them feel guilty."
    'You only made them deaf to your words."
    Serena had refined her speech to incorporate his advice, while still sticking to her
principles. One step at a time. And she, too, would learn with each step. On the advice
of her father, she had also spoken to like-minded representatives in private, rallying
some support and gaining a few allies ahead of time.
    Lifting her chin, adjusting her expression to look authoritative rather than eager,
Serena positioned herself inside the recording shell that surrounded the podium like a
geodesic dome. Her heart swelled with all the good she might be able to do. She felt
warm light as the projection mechanism transmitted oversized images of her outside the
dome enclosure.
    A small screen atop the podium allowed her to see herself as they did: a soft face of
classical beauty, with hypnotic lavender eyes and amber-brown hair highlighted by
natural golden strands. On her left lapel she wore a white rose floweret from her own
meticulously tended gardens. The projector made Serena look even more youthful, as
the mechanism had been adjusted by nobles to mask the effect of years on their own
features.
    From his gilded box at the front of the audience, round-faced Viceroy Butler, in his
finest robes of gold and black, smiled proudly at his daughter. The sigil of the League of
Nobles adorned his lapel, an open human hand in gold outline, representing freedom.
    He understood Serena's optimism, remembering similar ambitions in himself. He had
always been patient with her crusades, helping the young woman to rally disaster relief
for refugees of machine attacks, letting her journey to other planets to tend to the
injured, or dig through rubble and help rebuild burned buildings. Serena had never been
afraid to get her hands dirty.
    'The narrow mind erects stubborn barriers," her mother had once told her. "But
against those barriers, words are formidable weapons."
    On the floor of the great hall, dignitaries chatted in low tones. Several sipped drinks
or munched on snacks that had been delivered to their seats. Just another day in
Parliament. Comfortable in their villas and mansions, they would not welcome change.
But the possibility of bruised egos did not prevent Serena from saying what needed to
be said.
    She activated the oratory projection system. "Many of you think I have foolish
notions because I am young, but perhaps the young have sharper eyesight, while the
old grow slowly blind. Am I foolish and naive—or have some of you, in pampered
complacency, distanced yourselves from humanity? Where do you fall on the spectrum
of what is right and wrong?"

    Out in the assemblage she saw a flurry of indignation mixed with expressions of
rude dismissal. Viceroy Butler shot her a sharp glance of disapproval but transmitted a
quick reminder throughout the hall, asking for respectful attention, as would be
accorded any speaker.
    She pretended not to notice. Couldn't they all see the larger picture? "We must each
look beyond ourselves if we are to survive as a species. Now is not the time for personal
selfishness. For centuries we have confined our defenses to a handful of key planets.
Though Omnius has launched no full-scale attack in decades, we live in the constant
shadow of the machine threat."
    Touching pressure pads on the podium, Serena displayed a projection of the stellar
neighborhood, like a cluster of gems on the high ceiling. With a wand of light, she
pointed out the free League Worlds and the Synchronized Worlds ruled by thinking
machines. Then she brought her pointer to more extensive regions of the Galaxy where
neither organized humans nor machines held sway.
    'Look at these poor Unallied Planets: scattered worlds like Harmon-thep, Tlulax,
Arrakis, IV Anbus, and Caladan. Because their sparse, insular human settlements are
not members of our League, they do not warrant our full military protection should they
ever be threatened—by machines or by other humans." Serena paused, letting the
audience absorb her words. "Many of our own people wrongly prey on those planets,
raiding them for slaves to be supplied to some League Worlds."

    She caught the eye of the Poritrin representative, who scowled, knowing she was
talking about him. He responded loudly, interrupting her. "Slavery is an accepted
practice in the League. Lacking complex machines, we have no other choice to augment
our workforce." He looked smug. "Besides, Salusa Secundus itself kept a population of
Zen-sunni slaves for almost two centuries."
    'We put a stop to that practice," Serena replied with considerable heat. "It took
some imagination and a willingness to change, but—"

    Trying to head off a shouting match, the Viceroy stood. "Each League planet makes
its own determination of local customs, technology, and laws. We have a fearsome
enough enemy in the thinking machines without starting a civil war among our own
planets." His voice sounded paternal, just slightly chiding her to get back to her main
point.
    Sighing but not surrendering, Serena adjusted the pointer so that the Unallied
Planets glowed on the ceiling. "Still, we can't ignore all these worlds—ripe resource-filled
targets, planets just waiting to be conquered by Omnius."

   The Sergeant at Arms, on a tall chair off to one side, rapped his staff on the floor.
"Time." Easily bored, he rarely listened to speeches.
    Serena continued in a rush, trying to finish her point without sounding strident. "We
know the thinking machines want to control the Galaxy, even though they have been
essentially quiescent for almost a hundred years. They have systematically taken over
every world in the Synchronized star systems. Do not be lulled by their seeming lack of
interest in us. We know they will strike again—but how, and where? Should we not
move before Omnius does?"

    'What is it you want, Madame Butler?" one of the dignitaries inquired impatiently,
raising his voice, but not standing, as was customary. "Are you advocating some sort of
preemptive strike against the thinking machines?"
    'We must seek to incorporate the Unallied Planets into the League, and stop
harvesting them for slaves." She jabbed her illuminated wand at the overhead
projection. "Bring them under our wing to increase our own strength, and theirs. We
would all benefit! I propose that we dispatch ambassadors and cultural attaches with
the express intent of forming new military and political alliances. As many as we can."
    'And who will pay for all that diplomacy?"
    'Time," the Sergeant at Arms repeated.
    'She is allotted three extra minutes for rebuttal, since the representative from Hagal
has posed a question," Viceroy Butler said in an authoritative tone.
    Serena grew angry. How could that representative worry about petty price tags,
when the ultimate cost was so much higher? "We will all pay—in blood—if we do not do
this. We must strengthen the League and the human species."

    Some of the nobles began to clap—the allies she had courted before her speech.
Suddenly, screeching alarms echoed through the building and in the streets. Droning
sirens wavered in a chillingly familiar tone—usually heard only during planned drills—
summoning all reserve members of the Salusan Militia.

    'Thinking machines have entered the Salusan system," a voice said through built-in
speakers. Similar announcements would be ringing all across Zimia. "We have an alert
from perimeter scouts and the sentry battle group."
    Standing next to her father, Serena read details as the Viceroy was handed a brief
and urgent summary. "We've never seen a robot war fleet that size!" he said. "How long
ago did the first scouts sound the warning? How much time do we have?"
    'We are under attack!" a man shouted. The delegates were on their feet, scattering
like stirred ants.
    'Prepare to evacuate the Hall of Parliament." The Sergeant at Arms became a flurry
of movement. "All armored shelters are open. Representatives, report to your
designated areas."
    Viceroy Butler shouted into the chaos, trying to sound confident. "The Holtzman
shields will protect us!" Serena could read her father's anxiety, though he covered it
well.
    Amid shouts and cries of panic, the League representatives scrambled for the exits.
The merciless enemies of humanity had arrived.
   Any man who asks for greater authority does not deserve to have it.
   — TERCERO XAVIER HARKONNEN, address to Salusan Militia


    The robot fleet has just engaged our spaceguard," Xavier Harkonnen called from his
station. "Heavy fire exchanged."
    'Primero Meach!" Cuarto Steff Young shouted from the orbital grid screens. Xavier
could smell the salty metallic tang of Young's nervous sweat. "Sir, a small detachment of
machine ships has broken from the main robotic fleet in orbit. Configuration unknown,
but they're preparing for an atmospheric descent." She pointed to the images, picking
out brilliant lights that signified a cluster of inert projectiles.
    Xavier glanced at the perimeter scanners, real-time intelligence transmitted from the
defensive satellites high above Tio Holtzman's gelcircuitry-scrambling fields. On the
highest resolution he saw an assault squadron of pyramidal ships roaring headlong into
the atmosphere, straight toward the sizzling shields.
    'They're in for an unpleasant surprise," Young said with a grim smile. "No thinking
machine can survive that ride."
    'Our biggest worry will be dodging the debris from their crashing ships," Primero
Meach quipped. "Maintain surveillance."
    But the dropcarriages slipped past the scrambler shields—and kept coming. They
showed no electronic signatures at all as they penetrated the boundary.

     'How are they getting through?" Quinto Wilby mopped his brow, brushing dishwater-
brown hair out of his eyes.
     'No computers could." In a flash, Xavier understood what was happening. "They're
blind dropcarriages, sir!"
     Young looked up from her screens, breathing hard. "Impact in less than a minute,
Primero. Second wave is coming in behind them. I count twenty-eight projectiles." She
shook her head. "No computer signatures on any of them."
     Xavier called out, thinking ahead, "Rico, Powder, work with med-response teams and
fire-suppression squads. Everything up to speed and ready. Come on people, we've
drilled for this a hundred times! I want all vehicles and rescue equipment mobile and in
the air, prepared to move before the first ship hits."
     'Divert defenses to pound the invaders as soon as they crash." Primero Meach
lowered his voice, swept his flinty gaze across his comrades. "Tercero Harkonnen, take
a portable comstation and get out there—be my eyes on the scene. My guess is those
dropcarriages will hatch into something unpleasant."

    OUTSIDE, THE CITY streets were chaotic under a cloud-dappled sky. Rushing into
the confusion, Xavier heard the hot metallic scream of agonized atmosphere as the inert
armored projectiles shot downward like bullets from space.
    An asteroid-rain of pyramidal dropcarriages slammed into the ground, one after
another. With deafening thunder, the first four blind vessels punched into buildings,
leveling city blocks with the explosive dispersion of kinetic energy. But sophisticated
shock-displacement systems protected the deadly cargo inside.
    Xavier ran down the street, his uniform rumpled, his sweaty hair clinging to his
head. He stopped in front of the giant edifice of the Hall of Parliament. Although second
in command of Salusa's defenses, here he was in an unsecured position, ready to issue
orders at ground zero.
    Not exactly the way he had been taught in his Armada Academy courses. But
Primero Meach was relying on his assessment, recommendations, and ability to act
independently.
    He touched the comline on his chin. "I'm in position, sir."
    Five more unguided projectiles thumped into the outskirts of the city, leaving
smoldering craters. Explosions. Smoke. Fireballs.
    From the impact points, the inert crashdown pods cracked open to reveal a huge
object stirring in each one. Reactivated mechanical units peeled off charred ablation
shielding. With dread, Xavier knew what he was about to see, understood how the
enemy machines had managed to pass through the scrambler shields. They were not
computer minds at all…
   Cymeks.
    Fearsome mechanical monstrosities emerged from the broken pyramids, driven by
surgically detached human brains. Mobility systems restarted; articulated legs and
augmented weapons clicked into place.
    The cymek bodies lurched out of the smoking craters, crablike gladiators half as tall
as the damaged buildings. Their alloy legs were as thick as support girders, bristling
with flamer cannons, artillery launchers, poison gas jets.
    Xavier shouted into his comline. "Cymek warrior-forms, Primero Meach! They figured
out how to get through our orbital defenses!"
    All across Salusa, from the outskirts of Zimia to the farthest continent, the local
planetary militia was dispatched. Low-atmospheric defense craft—kindjals—had already
launched in defensive overflights, their weaponry magazines loaded with armor-piercing
projectile shells.

    People in the streets fled in terror; others stood frozen, staring. Xavier shouted
descriptions of what he was seeing. He heard Vannibal Meach add, "Cuarto Young, issue
orders for all stations to break out the breathing apparatus. See that filter masks are
distributed to the populace. Every person not inside an approved shelter must wear a
breather."
    Face masks wouldn't protect against cymek flamers or high-energy detonations, but
the people could be safe from the thick poison clouds. As he fit his own breather into
place, Xavier felt a growing fear that all of the Militia's best-planned precautions would
be woefully inadequate.
    Leaving the discarded shells of their dropcarriages behind, cymek warriors
thrummed forward on monstrous feet. They launched explosive shells and incinerated
buildings and screaming people. Gouts of flame poured from nozzles in their foremost
limbs, setting the city of Zimia on fire.
    Dropcarriages continued to tumble from above, ready to split open as soon as they
crashed. Twenty-eight of them in all.
     With a howling roar loud enough to burn his ears, the young tercero saw a column
of fire and smoke spinning, tumbling, so fast and bright that it left his retinas
smoldering. The dropcarriage smashed into the military compound half a kilometer
behind him, vaporizing the control center and the planetary Militia HQ building. The
shockwave knocked Xavier to his knees, shattered windows for dozens of blocks.
     'Primero!" Xavier screamed into the comline. "Primero Meach! Command center!
Anybody!"
     But he could see from the ruins that he would get no response from the Militia
commander or any of his comrades in the complex.
     Stalking through the streets, the cymeks spewed greenish black smoke, an oily mist
that settled into a toxic film covering the ground and structures. Then the first squadron
of kindjal bombers came in low. Their initial sweep scattered explosives around the
machine warriors, striking both cymeks and buildings.
     Wearing his clearplaz breathing mask, Xavier panted, unable to believe what he had
just seen. He called again for the commander, but received no response. Finally, tactical
substations around the city checked in, demanding to know what had happened, asking
him to identify himself.
     'This is Tercero Xavier Harkonnen," he said. Then full understanding hit him. With a
supreme effort, he summoned his courage and steadied his voice. "I am… I am
currently in command of the Salusan Militia."
     He ran toward the conflagration, into the billowing greasy smoke. All around him
civilians fell to their knees retching in the poisonous mist. He glared up at the aerial
strikes, wishing he could be in more direct control. "The cymeks can be destroyed," he
transmitted to the kindjal pilots. Then he coughed. The mask was not working properly.
His chest and throat burned as if he had inhaled acid, but he kept shouting orders.
     As the attack proceeded, Salusan emergency response aircraft swooped over the
battle zone, dumping canisters of fire-suppression pow ders and foams. At ground level,
masked medical squadrons moved in without hesitation.
     Oblivious to the insignificant human defense efforts, the cymeks marched forward,
moving as individuals, not an army—mechanical mad dogs spreading mayhem. A
warrior-form bent back on powerful crablike legs and blasted two rescue ships out of
the sky—then it moved ahead again, eerily graceful.

     The front line of Salusan bombers dropped explosive shells directly onto one of the
first cymeks. Two projectiles struck the armored body, and a third hit a nearby building,
causing the structure to collapse, girders and debris tumbling down to bury the invader's
mechanical body.
     But after the flames and smoke cleared, the battered cymek remained functional.
The murderous machine shook itself free of the rubble, then launched a counterattack
at the kindjals overhead.
     From his distant vantage, Xavier studied their movements, using a portable tactical
grid. He needed to figure out the overarching plan of the thinking machines. The
cymeks seemed to have a target in mind.
     He could not hesitate or waste time bemoaning the fall of his comrades. He could
not ask what Primero Meach would have done. Instead, he had to stay clear-headed
and make some immediate decisions. If he could only understand the enemies'
objective…
    In orbit, the robotic fleet continued to fire upon the Salusan space-guard, though the
AI enemy could not pass through Holtzman fields. They might defeat the spaceguard
ships and blockade the League capital world… but Primero Meach had already recalled
the heavy perimeter battle groups, and soon all that League Armada firepower would
pose a serious challenge to the robot warships.
    On the screen he saw the robot fleet maintaining position… as if waiting for some
signal from the cymek shock troops. His mind whirled. What were they doing?
    A trio of gladiator machines launched explosives against the west wing of the Hall of
Parliament. The beautifully carved facade sloughed to the street like a late-spring
avalanche. Slabs of rubble crumbled, exposing open chambers in the evacuated
governmental offices.
    Coughing in the smoke, trying to see through his smeared faceplate, Xavier looked
into the eyes of a white-smocked medic who grabbed him and fitted a new mask over
his face. Xavier's lungs burned more now, as if they had been soaked in av-fuel and lit
on fire.
    'You'll be fine," the medic promised in an uncertain tone as he applied a snap-
injection pack to Xavier's neck.
    'I'd better be." The tercero coughed again and saw black spots in front of his eyes.
"I don't have time to be a casualty right now."
    Xavier thought beyond himself and felt a deep worry for Serena. Less than an hour
ago, she had been scheduled to speak to the League representatives. He prayed that
she had reached safety.
    Struggling to his feet, he waved the medic away as the injection took effect. He
tuned his portable tactical grid and requested a sky-high view, imaged from the fast
defense kindjals. He studied the blackened paths of the graceful, titanic cymeks on his
screen. Where are they going?
    Mentally, he scanned from the smoldering impact craters and the ruins of the Militia
HQ, envisioning the paths made by the mechanical monsters as they pressed forward.
    Then he understood what he should have seen from the start, and cursed under his
breath.
    Omnius knew the Holtzman scrambler shields would obliterate thinking machine
gelcircuitry; thus the main robotic fleet remained just beyond Salusan orbit. If the
cymeks took out the shield generators, though, the planet would be wide open to a full-
scale invasion.
    Xavier faced a critical decision, but his choice was predetermined. Whether he liked
it or not, he was in command now. By wiping out Primero Meach and the Militia
command structure, the cymeks had put him temporarily in charge. And he knew what
he had to do.
    He ordered the Salusan Militia to fall back and direct their utmost efforts to defend
the single most vital target, leaving the rest of Zimia exposed as the cymeks blasted and
burned everywhere. Even if he had to sacrifice part of this important city, he must stop
the machine forces from reaching their target.
   At all costs.
   s the subject or the observer the greater influence?
   —ERASMUS, uncollated laboratory files

    On Corrin, one of the primary Synchronized Worlds, the robot Erasmus walked
across the flagstone plaza that fronted his lavish villa. He moved with a well-practiced
fluidity that he had learned to imitate after centuries of observing human grace. His
flowmetal face was a burnished blank oval, like a mirror entirely devoid of expression
until he decided to form the metallic polymer film into a range of mimicked emotions,
like ancient theater masks.
    Through optic threads implanted in his facial membrane, he admired the iridescent
fountains around him, which so nicely complemented the villa's stonework, gemstone
statuary, intricate tapestries, and laser-etched alabaster columns. All plush and opulent,
by his own design. After much study and analysis, he had learned to appreciate
standards of classical beauty, and was proud of his evident taste.
    His pet human slaves bustled about performing household chores—polishing trophies
and art objects, dusting furniture, planting flowers, trimming topiary shrubs under the
crimson afternoon light of the red-giant sun. Each tremulous slave bowed in respect as
Erasmus passed. He recognized but did not bother to identify individuals, though he
mentally filed every detail. One never knew when the tiniest scrap of data might help in
overall understanding.

    Erasmus had a skin of organic-plastic composites laced with neur-electronics. He
pretended that the sophisticated sensor network allowed him to genuinely feel physical
sensations. Under the glowing ember of Corrin's huge sun, he detected light and
warmth on his skin, presumably like real flesh. He wore a thick gold robe trimmed in
carmine, part of a stylish personal wardrobe that separated him from Omnius's lesser
robots. Vanity was another thing Erasmus had learned from studying humans, and he
rather enjoyed it.
    Most robots were not as independent as Erasmus. They were little more than mobile
thinking boxes, drone subsets of the evermind. Erasmus obeyed Omnius's commands as
well, but he had more freedom to interpret. Over the centuries, he had developed his
own identity and semblance of an ego. Omnius considered him something of a curiosity.
    As the robot continued to walk with perfect grace, he detected a buzzing sound. His
optic threads picked up a small flying orb, one of Omnius's many mobile watcheyes.
Whenever Erasmus ventured away from the ubiquitous screens found throughout all
buildings, the avid watcheyes followed him, recording his every move. The evermind's
actions spoke of either a deep-seated curiosity… or an oddly humanlike paranoia.
    Long ago, while tinkering with the original AI computers of the Old Empire, the rebel
Barbarossa had added approximations of certain personality traits and goals.
Subsequently the machines had self-evolved into a single grand electronic mind that
retained a few of the imposed human ambitions and characteristics.
    As far as Omnius was concerned, biologicals, even bastardized cy-meks with human
brains and machine parts, could not see the epoch-spanning vistas that the gelcircuitry
of a machine mind could encompass. When Omnius scanned the universe of possibilities
it was like a vast screen. There were so many ways to win, and he was constantly on
the alert for them.
    Omnius's core programming had been duplicated on all the machine-conquered
planets and synchronized through the use of regular updates. Faceless, able to watch
and communicate throughout the interstellar network, near-identical copies of Omnius
were everywhere, vicariously present in innumerable watcheyes, appliances, and
contact screens.
    Now, apparently, the distributed computer mind had nothing better to do than
snoop. "Where are you going, Erasmus?" Omnius demanded from a tiny speaker
beneath the watcheye. "Why are you walking so fast?"
    'You could walk, too, if you chose to do so. Why not give yourself legs for a while
and wear an artificial body, just to see what it is like?" Erasmus's metallic polymer mask
reshaped itself into a smile. "We could go for a stroll together."
    The watcheye buzzed along beside Erasmus. Corrin had long seasons, because its
orbit was so far around the giant sun. Winters and summers each lasted for thousands
of days. The rugged landscape had no indigenous forests or wildernesses, only a
handful of ancient orchards and agricultural fields that had gone to seed since the
machine takeover, left to propogate untended.
    Many human slaves went blind from exposure to the pounding solar flux. As a
consequence, Erasmus fitted his outdoor workers with custom eye protection. He was a
benevolent master, concerned for the well-being of his resources.
    As he reached the entry gate of his villa, the robot adjusted the new sensory-
enhancement module grafted by neurelectronic ports onto his body core and hidden
beneath his robe. A unit of his own design, the module allowed Erasmus to simulate the
senses of humanity, but with certain unavoidable limitations. He wanted to know more
than the module could provide, wanted to feel more. In this respect, the cymeks might
have an advantage over Erasmus, but he would never know for certain. Cymeks—
especially the original Titans—were a narrow-minded, brutal bunch, with no appreciation
for the more refined senses and sensibilities that Erasmus worked so hard to attain.
Brutality had its place, of course, but the sophisticated robot considered it only one of
many behaviorial aspects worthy of study, both positive and negative. Still, violence was
interesting and often pleasurable to employ…

    He was intensely curious about what made cognizant biologicals human. He was
intelligent and self-aware, but he also wanted to understand emotions, human
sensibilities, and motivations—the essential details that machines never managed to
reproduce very well.

     During his centuries-long quest, Erasmus had absorbed human artwork, music,
philosophy, and literature. Ultimately, he wanted to discover the sum and substance of
humanity, the magic spark that made these creatures, these creators, different. What
gave them… souls?
     He marched into his banquet hall, and the flying eye buzzed away toward the
ceiling, where it could observe everything. On the walls, six Omnius screens glowed
milky gray.
    His villa was modeled after the opulent Greco-Roman estates in which the Twenty
Titans had lived before forsaking their human bodies. Erasmus owned similar villas on
five planets, including Corrin and Earth. He maintained additional facilities—holding
pens, customized vivisection rooms, medical laboratories, as well as greenhouses, art
galleries, sculptures, and fountains. All of which enabled him to study human behavior
and physiology.

    Erasmus sat his robed body at the head of a long table lined with silver goblets and
candleholders, but with only one place setting. For him. The antique wooden chair had
once belonged to a human nobleman, Nivny O'Mura, a founder of the League of Nobles.
Erasmus had studied how the rebellious humans had organized themselves and
established strongholds against the early cymek and machine assaults. The resourceful
hrethgir had ways of adapting and improvising, of confounding their enemies in
unexpected ways. Fascinating.
    Abruptly, the evermind's voice echoed from all around, sounding bored. "When will
your experiment be concluded, Erasmus? You come in here day after day, doing the
same thing. I expect to see results."
    'I am intrigued by questions. Why do wealthy humans eat with such ceremony? Why
do they consider certain foods and beverages superior to others, when the nutritional
value is the same?" The robot's voice became more erudite. "The answer, Omnius, has
to do with their brutally short lives. They compensate with efficient sensory mechanisms
capable of imparting intense feelings. Humans have five basic senses, with countless
gradations. The taste of Yondair beer versus Ularda wine, for example. Or the feel of
Ecaz burlap compared with parasilk, or the music of Brahms versus—"

    'I suppose that is all very interesting in some esoteric way." "Of course, Omnius. You
continue to study me while I study humans." Erasmus signaled the slaves who peered
nervously through a porthole in the door to the villa's kitchen. A probe snaked out of a
module at Erasmus's hip and emerged from underneath his robe, waving delicate
neurelectronic sensor threads like expectant cobras.
    'By tolerating your investigations, Erasmus, I expect that you will develop a detailed
model that can reliably predict human behavior. I must know how to make these
creatures usable."
    White-clad slaves brought trays of food from the kitchen—Corrin game hen, Walgis
beef almondine, even rare Platinum River salmon harvested from Parmentier. Erasmus
dipped the weblike ends of his probe into each dish and "tasted" it, sometimes using a
cutter to penetrate the meat and sample the internal juices. Erasmus documented each
flavor for his growing repertoire.

    All the while, he carried on a dialogue with Omnius. The evermind seemed to be
doling out bits of data and watching how Erasmus reacted. "I have been building up my
military forces. After many years, it is time to move again."
    'Indeed? Or are the Titans pressuring you into a more aggressive stance? For
centuries, Agamemnon has been impatient with what he perceives as your lack of
ambition." Erasmus was more interested in the bitter berry tart in front of him.
Analyzing the ingredients, he was puzzled to detect a strong trace of human saliva and
wondered if that had been part of the original recipe. Or had one of the slaves simply
expec-torated into it?
    'I make my own decisions," the evermind said. "It seemed appropriate to launch a
new offensive at this time."
    The head chef rolled a cart to the table and used a carving knife to cut a slab of Filet
Salusa. The chef, a toady little man who stuttered, placed the dripping slice on a clean
plate, added a dollop of savory brown sauce, and extended it toward Erasmus. Clumsily,
the chef bumped the knife off the serving tray and it clattered against one of Erasmus's
smooth feet, leaving a nick and a stain.
    Terrified, the man bent to retrieve the knife, but Erasmus flashed a mechanical hand
down and grabbed the handle. Sitting straight, the elegant robot continued to talk to
Omnius. "A new offensive? And is it a mere coincidence that the Titan Barbarossa
requested exactly that as a reward when he defeated your fighting machine in the
gladiator arena?"
    'Irrelevant."
    Staring at the blade, the chef stammered, "I will p-personally p-polish it and m-m-
make it good as n-n-new, Lord Erasmus."
    'Humans are such fools, Erasmus," Omnius said from speakers on the wall.
    'Some of them are," Erasmus agreed, waving the carving knife with graceful
movements. The little chef mouthed a silent prayer, unable to move. "I wonder what
should I do?" Erasmus wiped the knife clean on the trembling man's smock, then stared
at the fellow's distorted reflection in the metal blade.
    'Human death is different from machine death," Omnius said dispassionately. "A
machine can be duplicated, backed-up. When humans die, they are gone permanently."
    Erasmus simulated a boisterous laugh. "Omnius, though you always talk about the
superiority of machines, you fail to recognize what humans do better than we."
    'Do not give me another of your lists," the evermind said. "I recall our last debate on
this subject with perfect accuracy."
    'Superiority is in the eye of the beholder and invariably involves filtering out details
that do not conform to a particular preconceived notion." With his sensory detectors
waving like cilia in the air, Erasmus smelled the odor of foul sweat from the chef.
    'Are you going to kill this one?" Omnius asked. Erasmus placed the knife on the table
and heard the toady man emit a sigh. "Individually, humans are easy to kill. But as a
species, the challenge is far greater. When threatened, they draw together and become
more powerful, more dangerous. Sometimes it is best to surprise them." Without
warning, he grabbed the knife and plunged it into the chef's chest with enough force to
drive it through the sternum and into the heart. "Like so." Blood spurted down the white
uniform, onto the table and the robot's plate.
    The hapless human slid off the blade, gurgling. As Erasmus held the bloody knife he
considered attempting to duplicate his victim's look of disbelief and betrayal with his
own pliable mask, but decided not to bother. His robot face remained a flat, mirrored
oval. Erasmus would never be required to display such an expression anyway.
    Curious, he tossed the blade aside with a clatter, then dipped sensitive probe
threads into the blood on his plate. The taste was quite interesting and complex. He
wondered if the blood of various victims would taste any different.
    Robot guards dragged the chef's body away, while other terrified slaves huddled by
the doorway, knowing they should clean up the mess. Erasmus studied their fear.
    Omnius said, "Now I wish to tell you something important that I have decided to do.
My attack plans are already set in motion."
    Erasmus feigned interest, as he often did. He activated a cleaning mechanism that
sterilized the tip of his probe, which then snaked back into its hiding place beneath the
robe. "I defer to your judgment, Omnius. I have no expertise in military matters."
    'That is exactly why you should heed my words. You always say you want to learn.
When Barbarossa defeated my gladiator robot in exhibition combat, he requested the
chance to strike against the League Worlds, as a boon from me. The remaining Titans
are convinced that without these hrethgir, the universe would be infinitely more efficient
and tidy."
    'How medieval," Erasmus said. "The great Omnius would follow the military
suggestions of a cymek?"
    'Barbarossa amused me, and there is always the chance that some of the Titans
might be killed. That is not necessarily a bad thing."
    'Of course," Erasmus said, "since programming restrictions prevent you from
harming your creators outright."
    'Accidents happen. Regardless, our offensive will either subsume the League Worlds
or exterminate the fragments of humanity there. I do not care which. Very few humans
are worth keeping around… perhaps none at all."
    Erasmus did not like the sound of that.

The mind commands the body and immediately it obeys. The mind orders itself, and
meets resistance.
   —ST. AUGUSTINE, ancient Earth philosopher

    T'hough the cymeks had only begun their assault on Zimia, Xavier Harkonnen knew
that free humanity must make its stand, here and now. And make it count.
    The weapon-studded warrior-forms strode forward in lock-step. Raising silver arms,
they launched explosive projectiles, spewed gouts of flame, spread poison gas. With
each smashed wall, the cymeks drew closer to the main shield-generator station, a
soaring tower of parabolic curves and intricate latticework.
    At the fringes of Salusa's atmosphere, an orbital array of redundant satellites wove a
crackling fence with amplifiers at each node. Across the continents, transmission towers
beamed up the substance of the Holtzman scrambler field, crisscrossing it into an
intricate mesh high above the planet, an impenetrable tapestry of energy.
    But if the cymeks took out the primary towers on the surface, vulnerable gaps would
open in the shield. The whole protective fabric could unravel.
    Coughing blood from his searing throat and lungs, Xavier shouted into his comline,
"This is Tercero Harkonnen, assuming command of local forces. Primero Meach and the
control center have been wiped out." The channel remained silent for several long
seconds, as if the entire Militia had been stunned.
   Swallowing hard, Xavier tasted rusty blood in his mouth, then he issued his terrible
order: "All local forces, form a cordon around the shield-transmitting towers. We do not
have the resources to defend the rest of the city. Repeat, pull back. This includes all
combat vehicles and attack aircraft."
   The expected complaints poured in. "Sir, you can't be serious! The city is burning!"
   'Zimia will be undefended! This must be a mistake!"
   'Sir, please reconsider! Have you seen the damage those cymek bastards are already
causing? Think of our people!"
   'I don't recognize the authority of a tercero to issue orders of such—

    Xavier countermanded all of them. "The cymek objective is obvious: they intend to
bring down our scrambler fields so the robot fleet can destroy us. We must defend the
towers at all costs. At all costs"
    Blatantly ignoring his order, a dozen pilots flew kindjals overhead, continuing to
dump explosives upon the cymek walkers.
    Xavier growled in an uncompromising voice, "Anybody who wants to argue about it
can do so afterward—at your court-martial." Or mine, he thought.

    Droplets of scarlet splashed the inside of his plaz mask, and he wondered how much
damage the poisonous fumes had already done. Each breath became difficult, but he
put such conterns out of his mind. He could not sound weak, not now. "All assets, pull
back and protect the towers! That is an order. We need to regroup and change our
strategy."
    Finally, Salusan ground units retreated from their pitched defenses, drawing back
toward the shield-transmitter complex. The rest of the city lay as vulnerable as a lamb
prepared for slaughter. And the cymeks took advantage with gleeful mayhem.
    Four warrior-forms crashed through a statue park and destroyed fabulous works.
The mechanical monsters annihilated buildings, blasting and burning museums, dwelling
complexes, hazard shelters. Any target suited them.
    'Stand firm," Xavier commanded on all channels, overruling howls of outrage from
the troops. "The cymeks are trying to lure us away."
    The warrior-forms set fire to a resonant bell tower erected by Chusuk to
commemorate a successful defense against the thinking machines, four centuries ago.
The ornate bells clanged and gonged as the tower collapsed onto the paving stones of
an open gathering square.
    By now most of Zimia's populace had rushed to armored shelters. Fleets of medical
and fire-suppression craft dodged enemy blasts to fight the increasing disaster. Many
rescue attempts became suicide missions. In the midst of the Militia crowded around the
transmitting towers, Xavier felt a flash of doubt, wondering if he had made the right
decision but not daring to change his mind now. His eyes stung from smoke, and his
shredded lungs sent shocks of agony through his body each time he drew a breath. He
knew he was right. He was fighting for the lives of everyone on the planet. Including
Serena Butler's.
    'Now what, Tercero?" said Cuarto Jaymes Powder, coming up behind him. Though
the subcommander's angular face was partially covered in a mask, his eyes still revealed
his outrage. "Do we just sit back and watch these bastards level Zimia? What good is it
to protect the shield transmitters if there's nothing left of the city?"
    'We can't save the city if we lose our shields and open up the whole planet to
machine attack," Xavier rasped.
    The Salusan troops mounted a defense around the parabolic latticework of
transmitting towers. Ground forces and armored equipment were arrayed on the
surrounding ramparts and streets. Kindjals circled the skies and fired their weapons,
keeping the cymeks away.
    Gripping their weapons, the nearest Militia members seethed. The frustrated men
wanted to rush forward and engage the attackers… or perhaps tear Xavier limb from
limb. With each explosion or leveled building, the angry troops edged one step closer to
outright mutiny.
    'Until reinforcements arrive, we'll need to concentrate our forces," Xavier said,
coughing.
    Powder stared at the tercero's plaz faceplate, noticed blood on the inside. "Sir, are
you all right?"
    'It's nothing." But Xavier heard the liquid wheezing of his mangled lungs with every
breath he took.
    Feeling unsteady as the poison continued to burn his soft tissues, he gripped a
plascrete bulwark for support. He studied the last stand he had assembled on short
notice and hoped it would hold. Finally, Xavier said, "Now that these towers are held
and protected, we can go out and hunt down some of our attackers. Are you ready,
Cuarto Powder?"
    Powder brightened, and soldiers cheered. Several men fired their weapons into the
air, ready to charge pell-mell into the destruction. Like a rider at the reins of a willful
horse, Xavier held them back.
    'Wait! Pay close attention. There is no clever trick we can use, no inherent weakness
that will allow us to outsmart the cymeks. But we have the will to succeed and the need
to succeed… or we will lose everything." Ignoring the blood in his mask, he didn't know
how he was able to summon unwavering confidence in his voice. "This is how we will
beat them."
    During the initial frantic skirmishes, Xavier had seen at least one of the gargantuan
invaders destroyed by multiple, concentrated explosions. Its articulated body was now
nothing more than a smoking hulk. However, the scattered bombers and armored
ground units had spread their attacks across too many targets, diluting their efforts.
    'This will be a coordinated strike. We will select a single target and crush it, one
cymek at a time. We'll hit it and hit it again until there's nothing left. Then we'll go on to
the next one."
    Though he could barely breathe, Xavier chose to lead the squadrons himself. As a
tercero, he was accustomed to being in the thick of the action during training exercises
and simulations.
   'Sir?" Powder said, surprised. "Shouldn't you be in a secure area? As the acting
commander, standard procedure requires—

    'You're absolutely right, Jaymes," he said quietly. "Nevertheless, I'm going up there.
We're in an all-or-nothing situation. You stay here and protect those towers at all costs."
    Subterranean elevators brought more kiridjals to the surface, ready for launch. He
climbed into one of the mottled gray craft and sealed himself into the cockpit. Troopers
raced to their assault ships, shouting promises of revenge to their comrades who were
forced to remain behind. As he transferred the kindjal's comchannel to his command
frequency, Xavier issued new instructions.
    Tercero Harkonnen adjusted the cockpit seat and launched his kind-jal. The rush of
acceleration pushed him backward and made his breathing even more difficult. Hot
blood trickled from one corner of his mouth.
    Soaring away from the central transmitting towers, aircraft followed him, while a
small number of armored ground vehicles moved away from the generating facility,
heading for their designated intercept positions. Weapons primed and bombs ready to
drop, the kindjals descended to ward the first cymek target, one of the smaller
machines. Xavier's voice crackled in the cockpit of every aircraft. "On my mark, strike—
now."

    The defenders pounded the crablike body from all directions until the warrior-form
lay crushed, its articulated legs blackened and twisted, the brain canister destroyed.
Cheers and catcalls resonated across the comchannels. Before the cymeks could react to
the new coordinated tactic, Xavier chose a second target. "Follow me. Next one."
    The Militia squadron came in like a hammer, converging on a single mechanical
body. Mobile armored ground units opened fire from the surface, while kindjals dropped
powerful bombs from above.
    The second cymek target saw the attack coming and raised its spiked metal legs to
open fire with white-hot sprays of flame. Two of Xavier's flanking kindjals went down,
crashing into already-ruined buildings. Stray bombs leveled a square block of the city.
    But the remainder of the concentrated assault struck true. The multiple explosions
were more than the robotic body could withstand, and another cymek was battered into
wreckage. One of its metal arms twitched, then fell out of its socket into the rubble.
"Three down," Xavier said. "Twenty-five more." "Unless they retreat first," said another
pilot.
    The cymeks were individuals, unlike most of Omnius's thinking machines. Some of
them were survivors of the original Titans; others—the neo-cymeks—came from
traitorous human collaborators on the Synchronized Worlds. All had sacrificed their
physical bodies so they could be closer to the supposed perfection of thinking machines.

   Among the troops surrounding the field-transmission towers, Cuarto Powder used
everything in his combined arsenals to drive back four cymeks that had gotten close
enough to threaten the vital structures. He destroyed one warrior-form and forced the
other three to limp away and regroup. Meanwhile, Xavier's forces in the air crushed two
more cymeks.
    The tide was turning.
    Xavier's bomb-laden kindjals came around again, closing on a new wave of invaders.
Followed by armored ground vehicles and artillery guns, the Salusan Militia launched
volley after volley at the foremost cymek. The bombardment damaged the machine's
legs, obliterated its weapons. Kindjals circled around to deliver the final blow.
    Surprisingly, the central turret containing the cymek's human brain detached itself.
With a bright flash of ignition, locking bolts blasted clear of the set of articulated legs.
The armored spherical container rocketed skyward, beyond the reach of Salusan
weapons.
    'An escape pod to protect the traitor's brain." Xavier's words caused him to wheeze
and cough more blood. "Open fire on it!" His kindjals launched their weapons as the
cymek pod soared into the smoky sky with enough thrust to reach escape velocity.
    'Damn!" The pilots shot at the fading exhaust trail, but the cymek's escape pod
rapidly dwindled from sight.
    'Don't waste your weapons," Xavier said over the comline. "That one's no longer a
threat." He felt dizzy, either fading into unconsciousness… or dying.
    'Yes, sir." The kindjals turned back toward the ground, concentrating on the next
cymek.
    However, when his assault squadron converged on another enemy, that cymek also
launched its escape pod, shooting the brain-case like a cannonball into the sky. "Hey," a
pilot complained, "he retreated before we could give him a black eye!"
    'Maybe we activated their'turn-tail-and-run' programs," another pilot said with a
snort.
    'As long as they're retreating," Xavier said, barely able to hold on to consciousness.
He hoped he didn't spiral down and crash. "Follow me to the next target."
    As if in response to a signal, all the remaining cymeks abandoned their warrior-
forms. Escape containers blasted upward like fireworks, vaulting blindly through the
scrambler net and out into space, where the robotic fleet could retrieve them.
    When the cymeks abandoned their assault, the surviving Salusan defenders set up a
ragged cheer from the wreckage on the ground.
    OVER THE NEXT several hours, Salusan survivors emerged from shelters, blinking
into the smoke-filled skies with a mixture of shock and triumph.
    After the cymeks had retreated, the frustrated robot fleet had launched a swarm of
missiles at the ground, but their gelcircuitry guidance computers also failed. Standard
Salusan missile-defense systems obliterated all of the machine weapons before they
could reach their targets.
    Finally, when the recalled battle groups began to converge on the robot fleet,
charging in from the perimeter of the Gamma Waiping system, the thinking machines
recalculated their chances for success, didn't like the odds, and decided to retreat,
leaving much wreckage in orbit.
    On the surface, Zimia continued to burn, and tens of thousands of bodies lay in the
rubble.
    Xavier had held himself together for the battle, but in its aftermath was barely able
to stand. His lungs were full of blood; his mouth tasted of acid. He had insisted that the
medics and battlefield surgeons concentrate on the more seriously wounded out in the
streets.
    From a balcony on the top level of the damaged Hall of Parliament, he gazed out at
the horrendous damage. The world turned a sickly red around him, and he wavered on
his feet, then reeled backward. He heard aides behind him, summoning a doctor.
    I cannot consider this a victory, he thought, then retreated into black
unconsciousness.
   In the desert, the line between life and death is sharp and quick.
   —Zensunni Fire Poetry from Arrakis

    Far from thinking machines and the League of Nobles, the desert never changed.
The Zensunni descendants who had fled to Arrakis lived in isolated cave communities,
barely subsisting in a harsh environment. They experienced little enjoyment, yet fought
fiercely to remain alive for just another day.
    Sunlight poured across the ocean of sand, warming dunes that rippled like waves
breaking upon an imagined shore. A few black rocks poked out of the dustlike islands,
but offered no shelter from the heat or the demon worms.
    This desolate landscape was the last thing he would ever see. The people had
accused the young man and would mete out their punishment. His innocence was not
relevant.
    'Begone, Selim!" came a shout from the caves above. "Go far from here!" He
recognized the voice of his young friend-former friend—Ebrahim. Perhaps the other boy
was relieved, since by rights it should have been him facing exile and death, not Selim.
But no one would mourn the loss of an orphan, and so Selim had been cast out in the
Zensunni version of justice.

    A raspy voice said, "May the worms spit out your scrawny hide." That was old Glyffa,
who had once been like a mother to him. "Thief! Water stealer!"
    From the caves, the tribe began to throw stones. One sharp rock struck the cloth he
had wrapped around his dark hair for protection against the sun. Selim ducked, but did
not give them the satisfaction of seeing him cringe. They had stripped almost everything
from him, but as long as he drew breath they would never take his pride.
    Naib Dhartha, the sietch leader, leaned out. "The tribe has spoken."
    Protestations of his innocence would do no good, nor would excuses or explanations.
Keeping his balance on the steep path, the young man stooped to grab a sharp-edged
stone. He held it in his palm and glared up at the people.
    Selim had always been skilled at throwing rocks. He could pick off ravens, small
kangaroo mice, or lizards for the community cookpot. If he aimed carefully, he could
have put out one of the Naib's eyes. Selim had seen Dhartha whispering quietly with
Ebrahim's father, watched them form their plan to cast the blame on him instead of the
guilty boy. They had decided Selim's punishment using measures other than the truth.
    Naib Dhartha had dark eyebrows and jet-black hair bound into a ponytail by a dull
metal ring. A purplish geometric tattoo of dark angles and straight lines marked his left
cheek. His wife had drawn it on his face using a steel needle and the juice of a scraggly
inkvine the Zensunni cultivated in their terrarium gardens. The Naib glared down as if
daring Selim to throw the stone, because the Zensunni would respond with a
pummeling barrage of large rocks.
    But such a punishment would kill him far too quickly. Instead, the tribe would drive
Selim away from their tight-knit community. And on Arrakis, one did not survive without
help. Existence in the desert required cooperation, each person doing his part. The
Zensunni looked upon stealing—especially the theft of water—as the worst crime
imaginable.

   Selim pocketed the stone. Ignoring the jeers and insults, he continued his tedious
descent toward the open desert.
   Dhartha intoned in a voice that sounded like a bass howl of storm-winds, "Selim,
who has no father or mother—Selim, who was welcomed as a member of our tribe—you
have been found guilty of stealing tribal water. Therefore, you must walk across the
sands." Dhartha raised his voice, shouting before the condemned man could pass out of
earshot. "May Shaitan choke on your bones."

    All his life, Selim had done more work than most others. Because he was of
unknown parentage, the tribe demanded it of him. No one helped him when he was
sick, except maybe old Glyffa; no one carried an extra load for him. He had watched
some of his companions gorge themselves on inflated family shares of water, even
Ebrahim. And still, the other boy, seeing half a literjon of brackish water untended, had
drunk it, foolishly hoping no one would notice. How easy it had been for Ebrahim to
blame it on his supposed friend when the theft was discovered…
    Upon driving Selim from the caves, Dhartha had refused to give him even a tiny
water pouch for his journey, because that was considered a waste of tribal resources.
None of them expected Selim to survive more than a day anyway, even if he somehow
managed to avoid the fearsome monsters of the desert.
    He muttered under his breath, knowing they couldn't hear him, "May your mouth fill
with dust, Naib Dhartha." Selim bounded down the path away from the cliffs, while his
people continued to utter curses from above. A hurled pebble bounced past him.
    When he reached the base of the rock wall that stood as a shield against the desert
and the sandworm demons, he set off in a straight line, wanting to get as far away as
he could. Dry heat pounded on his head. Those watching him would surely be surprised
to see him voluntarily hike out onto the dunes instead of huddling in a cave in the rocks.
   What do I have to lose?
    Selim made up his mind that he would never go back and plead for help. Instead,
chin high, he strode across the dunes as far as he could. He would rather die than beg
forgiveness from the likes of them. Ebrahim had lied to protect his own life, but Naib
Dhartha had committed a far worse crime in Selim's eyes, knowingly condemning an
innocent orphan boy to death because it simplified tribal politics.
    Selim had excellent desert skills, but Arrakis was a severe environment. In the
several generations since the Zensunni had settled here, no one had ever returned from
exile. The deep desert swallowed them up, leaving no trace. He trudged out into the
wasteland with only a rope slung over his shoulder, a stubby dagger at his belt, and a
sharpened metal walking stick, a piece he had salvaged from the spaceport junkyard in
Arrakis City.
     Maybe Selim could go there and find a job with offworld traders, moving cargo from
each vessel that landed, or stowing aboard one of the spaceships that plied their way
from planet to planet, often taking years for each passage. But such ships only rarely
visited Arrakis, since it was far from the regular shipping lanes. And joining the strange
off-worlders might make Selim give up too much of himself. It would be better to live
alone in the desert—if he could survive…

     He pocketed another sharp rock, one that had been thrown from above. As the
mountain buttress shrank into the distance, he found a third shard that seemed like a
good throwing stone. Eventually, he would need to capture food. He could suck a
lizard's moist flesh and live for just a little while longer.
     As he made his way into the restless wasteland, Selim gazed toward a long
peninsula of rock, far from the Zensunni caves. He'd be apart from the tribe there, but
could still laugh at them every day he survived his exile. He could thumb his nose and
call out jokes that Naib Dhartha would never hear.
     Selim poked his walking stick into the soft dunes, as if stabbing an imaginary enemy.
He sketched a deprecating Buddislamic symbol in the sand, with an arrow on it that
pointed back toward the cliff dwellings. He took a special satisfaction from his defiance,
even though the wind would erase the insult within a day. With a lighter step, he
climbed a high dune and skidded down into the trough.
     He began to sing a traditional song, maintaining an upbeat composure, and
increased his speed. The distant peninsula of rock shimmered in the afternoon, and he
tried to convince himself that it looked inviting. His bravado increased as he drew
farther from his tormentors.
     But when he was within a kilometer of the sheltering black rock, Selim felt the loose
sand tremble under his feet. He looked up, suddenly realizing his danger, and saw
ripples that marked the passage of a large creature deep beneath the dunes.
     Selim ran. He slipped and scrambled across the soft ridge, desperate not to fall. He
kept moving, racing along the crest, knowing that even this high dune would prove no
obstacle for the oncoming sandworm.
     The rock peninsula remained impossibly far away, and the demon came ever closer.
     Selim forced himself to skid to a halt, though his panicked heart urged him to keep
running. Worms followed any vibration, and he had run like a terrified child instead of
freezing in place like the wily desert hare. This behemoth had certainly targeted him by
now. How many others before him had stood terrified, falling to their knees in final
prayer before being devoured? No person had ever survived an encounter with one of
the great desert monsters.
     Unless he could fool it… distract it.
     Selim willed his feet and legs to turn to stone. He took the first of the fist-sized
stones he carried and hurled it as far as he could into the gully between dunes. It
landed with a thump—and the ominous track of the approaching worm diverted just a
little.
     He tossed another rock, and a third, in a drumbeat pattern intended to lure the
worm away from him. Selim threw the rest of his stones, and the beast turned only
slightly, rising up in the dunes close to him. Empty handed, he now had no other way to
divert the creature. Its maw open wide, the worm gulped sand and stones, searching
for a morsel of meat. The sand beneath Selim's boots shifted and crumbled at the edge
of the worm's path, and he knew the monster would swallow him. He smelled an
ominous cinammon stench on the worm's breath, saw glimpses of fire in its gullet.
     Naib Dhartha would no doubt laugh at the young thief's fate. Selim shouted a loud
curse. And rather than surrender, he decided to attack. Closer to the cavernous mouth,
the odor of spice intensified. The young man gripped his metal walking stick and
whispered a prayer. As the worm lifted itself from beneath the dune, Selim leaped onto
its curved and crusty back. He raised the metal staff like a spear and plunged the
sharpened tip into what he thought would be tough, armored worm-skin. Instead, the
point slipped between segments, into soft pink flesh. The beast reacted as if it had been
shot with a maula cannon. It reared up, thrashed, and writhed.
     Surprised, Selim drove the spear deeper and held on with all his strength. He
squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth and pulling back to keep himself steady. He
would have no chance if he let go.
     Despite the worm's violent reaction, the little spear couldn't have wounded it; this
was merely a human gesture of defiance, a biting fly thirsty for a sweet droplet of
blood. Any moment now the worm would dive back beneath the sand and drag Selim
down with it.
     Surprisingly, though, the creature raced forward, keeping itself high out of the dunes
where the exposed tissue would not be abraded by sand.
     Terrified, Selim clung to the implanted staff—then laughed as he realized he was
actually riding Shaitan himself! Had anyone ever done such a thing? If so, no man had
ever lived to tell about it.

    Selim made a pact with himself and with Buddallah that he would not be defeated,
not by Naib Dhartha and not by this desert demon. He pulled back on his spear and
pried the fleshy segment even wider, making the worm climb out of the sand, as if it
could outrun the annoying parasite on its back…
    The young exile never made it to the strip of rock where he had hoped to establish a
private camp. Instead, the worm careened into the deep desert… carrying Selim far
from his former life.
    We learned a negative thing from computers, that the setting of guidelines belongs
to humans, not to machines.
    —RELL ARKOV, charter meeting of the League of Nobles

    After being rebuffed on Salusa Secundus, the thinking-machine fleet headed back to
their distant base on Cor-rin. There, the computer evermind would not be pleased to
hear the report of failure.
    Like lapdog servants to Omnius, the remaining neo-cymeks followed the defeated
robot fleet. However, the six survivors of the original Titans—Agamemnon and his elite
cadre—prepared a diversion. It was an opportunity to advance their own schemes
against the oppressive evermind…

     While the dispersed battleships made their way through space carrying the vigilant
watcheyes, Agamemnon discreetly flew his own ship on a different course. After
escaping the Salusan Militia, the cymek general had transferred his brain canister from a
soot-scarred mobile warrior-form to this sleek armored vessel. Despite the defeat, he
felt exuberant and alive. There would always be other battles to fight, whether against
feral humans or against Omnius.
     The ancient cymeks maintained corn-silence, worried that a stray electromagnetic
ripple might be detected by an outlying ship in the retreating machine fleet. They
plotted a faster, more dangerous route that took them closer to celestial obstacles
avoided by the risk-averse robot vessels. The shortcut would buy the secretly rebellious
cymeks enough time to meet in private.
     As their course intercepted a simmering red dwarf star, the Titans approached a
misshapen, pockmarked rock that orbited close to the dim sun. There, a sleet of stellar
wind and ionized particles, coupled with strong magnetic fields, would hide them from
any robotic scans. After a thousand years of serving Omnius, Agamemnon had learned
ways to outwit and sidestep the accursed evermind.
     The six cymeks vectored in toward the planetoid using their human skills instead of
computerized navigation systems. Agamemnon chose a site within a yawning crater,
and the other Titans dropped beside his vessel, finding stable terrain on a rippled plain.
     Inside his ship, Agamemnon guided mechanical arms that lifted his enclosed brain
canister from its control socket and installed it into another mobile terrestrial body with
a set of six sturdy legs and a low-slung body core. After connecting the thoughtrodes
that linked his mind through electrafluid, he tested his gleaming legs, lifting the metal
pads and adjusting the hydraulics.
     He walked his graceful mechanical body down the ramp onto the soft rock. The
other Titans joined him, each wearing a walker body with visible internal workings and
life-support systems impervious to the blazing heat and radiation. The bloodshot dwarf
star loomed overhead in the black, airless sky.
     The first of the surviving Titans came forward to touch sensor pads against the
general's mechanical body, delicate probings in a romantic caress. Juno was a strategic
genius who had been Agamemnon's lover back when they had worn human bodies.
Now, a millennium later, they continued their partnership, needing little more than the
aphrodisiac of power.
     'Will we move forward soon, my love?" Juno asked. "Or must we wait another
century or two?"
     'Not so long, Juno. Not nearly so long."
     Next came Barbarossa, the closest thing to a masculine friend Agamemnon had
known for the past thousand years. "Every moment is already an eternity," he said.
During the Titans' initial takeover, Barbarossa had discovered how to subvert the Old
Empire's ubiquitous thinking machines. Luckily, the modest genius had also had the
foresight to implant deep programming restrictions that prevented thinking machines
from doing any outright harm to the Titans—restrictions that had kept Agamemnon and
his cymek companions alive after the ever-mind's treacherous takeover.

    '1 can't decide if I'd rather smash computers or humans," Ajax said. The most
powerful enforcer of the old cymeks, the brutal bully clomped forward in a particularly
massive walker-form, as if still flexing the muscles of his long-ago organic body.
    'We must cover our tracks twice for every plan we make." Dante, a skilled
bureaucrat and accountant, had an easy grasp of complex details. Among the Titans, he
had never been dramatic or glamorous, but the overthrow of the Old Empire could not
have been achieved without his clever manipulations of clerical and administrative
matters. With none of the bravado of the other conquerors, Dante had calmly worked
out an equitable division of leadership that had permitted the Titans to rule smoothly for
a century.
    Until the computers had wrested it all from them.
    The disgraced Xerxes was the last cymek to clamber into the shel-tered crater. The
lowliest Titan had long ago committed the unforgivable mistake that allowed the
ambitious newborn computer mind to hamstring them all. Although the Titans still
needed him as part of their ever-dwindling group, Agamemnon had never forgiven him
for the blunder. For centuries, miserable Xerxes had had no other desire than to make
up for his error. He foolishly believed that Agamemnon might embrace him again if he
could find a way to redeem himself, and the cymek general made use of such
enthusiasm.
    Agamemnon led his five co-conspirators across the terrain to the crater shadows.
There, the machines with human minds faced each other among broken rocks and half-
melted boulders to speak their treason and plot revenge.
    Xerxes, despite his flaws, would never betray them. A thousand years ago, after
their victory, the original Titans had agreed to surgical conversion rather than accept
their mortality, so that their disembodied brains could live forever and consolidate their
rule. It had been a dramatic pact.
    Now, Omnius occasionally rewarded loyal human followers by converting them to
neo-cymeks, as well. Across the Synchronized Worlds, thousands of newer brains with
machine bodies served as indentured servants to the evermind. Agamemnon could not
rely upon anyone who willingly served the evermind, however.
    The cymek general transmitted his words on a tight waveband that tapped directly
into the Titans' thought-processing centers. "We are not expected back on Corrin for
weeks. I have seized this opportunity so that we may plan a strike against Omnius."
    'It's about time," Ajax said, his voice a deep grumble.
    'Do you believe the evermind has grown complacent, my love—like the humans of
the Old Empire?" Juno asked.

    'I have noted no particular sign of weakness," Dante interjected, "and I keep careful
track of such things."
    'There are always weaknesses," Ajax said, twitching one of his heavy armored legs
and gouging a hole in the ground, "if you're willing to use enough muscle to exploit
them."
    Barbarossa clacked one of his metal forelegs on the hard rock. "Do not be fooled by
artificial intelligence. Computers do not think like humans. Even after a thousand years,
Omnius will not let his attention wander. He has enough processing power and more
watcheyes than we can count."
    'Does he suspect us? Does Omnius doubt our loyalty?" Xerxes already sounded
worried, and the meeting had just begun. "If he thinks we are plotting against him, why
won't he just eliminate us?"
    'Sometimes I think you have a leak in your brain canister," Agamemnon said.
"Omnius has programming restrictions that prevent him from killing us."
    'You don't have to be insulting. It's just that Omnius is so powerful, you'd think he
could override whatever Barbarossa loaded into his system."
    'He hasn't yet, and never will. I knew what I was doing on that job, believe me,"
Barbarossa said. "Remember, Omnius yearns to be efficient. He will take no
unnecessary actions, will not waste resources. We are resources to him."
    Dante said, "If Omnius is so intent on ruling efficiently, then why does he keep
human slaves around at all? Even simple robots and minimal-AI machines could perform
their tasks with less bother."
    Agamemnon paced out of the thick shadows into harsh light, and then back again.
Around him, the conspirators waited like huge insects made of scrap metal. "For years, I
have been suggesting that we exterminate the human captives on the Synchronized
Worlds, but Omnius refuses."
    'Maybe he's reluctant because humans created thinking machines in the first place,"
Xerxes suggested. "Omnius might see humans as a manifestation of God."
    Agamemnon chided him. "Are you suggesting that the computer evermind is
devoutly religious?" The disgraced cymek quickly fell silent.
    Barbarossa said, like a patient teacher, "No, no—Omnius simply doesn't wish to
expend the energy or cause the turmoil that such an extermination would bring about.
He sees humans as resources, not to be wasted."

    'We've been trying to convince him otherwise for centuries," Ajax said.
    Aware that their safe window of time was rapidly dwindling, Agamemnon pushed the
discussion forward. "We must find some way to spark a radical change. If we shut the
computers down, then we Titans rule once more, along with any neo-cymeks we can
recruit." He swiveled his sensor-turret. "We've taken charge before and must do it
again."
    Previously, when the human Titans had consolidated the stagnant Old Empire,
combat robots had done the bulk of the fighting for them. Tlaloc, Agamemnon, and the
other rebels had simply picked up the pieces. This time the Titans would have to fight
for themselves.
    'Maybe we should try to find Hecate," Xerxes said. "She's the only one of us who has
never been under Omnius's control. Our wild card."
    Hecate, the former mate of Ajax, was the sole Titan who had relinquished her rule.
Before the thinking machine takeover, she had departed into deep space, never to be
heard from again. But Agamemnon could never trust her—even if she could be
located—any more than he trusted Xerxes. Hecate had abandoned them long ago; she
was not the ally they needed.

     'We should look elsewhere for assistance, take any help we can find," Agamemnon
said. "My son Vorian is one of the few humans allowed access to the central complex of
the Earth-Omnius, and he delivers regular updates to the everminds on other
Synchronized Worlds. Perhaps we can use him."
     Juno simulated a laugh. "You want to trust a human, my love? One of the weak
vermin you despise? Moments ago you wanted to exterminate every member of the
race."
     'Vorian is my genetic son, and the best of my offspring so far. I have been watching
him, training him. He has read my memoirs a dozen times already. I have high hopes
that one day he will be a worthy successor."
     Juno understood Agamemnon better than the other Titans did. "You've said similar
things about your twelve previous sons, if I recall. Even so, you found excuses to kill all
of them."
     'I preserved plenty of my sperm before converting myself into a cymek, and I have
the time to do it right," Agamemnon said. "But Vorian… ah, Vorian, I think he might be
the one. One day I'll let him become a cymek."
     Ajax interrupted, his voice pitched low, "We cannot fight two major enemies at once.
Since Omnius has finally allowed us to attack the hrethgir, thanks to Barbarossa's
victory in the gladiator ring, I say we prosecute that war to the best of our abilities.
Afterward, we deal with Omnius."
     Immersed in the crater shadows, the cymeks muttered, half-agreeing. The League
humans had escaped Titan rule centuries ago, and the old cymeks had always harbored
a hatred toward them. Dante's optic threads tracked back and forth, calculating. "Yes,
the humans should be easier to defeat."
     'Meanwhile, we continue to seek a means to eliminate Omnius," Barbarossa added.
"Everything in its time."
     'Perhaps you are correct," Agamemnon admitted. The cymek general did not want to
extend this clandestine gathering much longer.
     He led the march back to their individual ships. "We destroy the League humans
first. Using that as a springboard, we then turn our attention to the more difficult foe."
     Logic is blind and often knows only its own past.
     —archives from Genetics to Philosophy, compiled by the Sorceresses of Rossak

    Thinking machines cared little for aesthetics, but the Omnius update ship was—by
accident of design—a beautifully sleek silver-and-black vessel, dwarfed by the immensity
of the cosmos as it journeyed from one Synchronized World to another. Finished with its
current round of updates, the Dream Voyager was on its way back to Earth.

    Vorian Atreides considered himself fortunate to be entrusted with such a vital
assignment. Born from a female slave impregnated with Agamemnon's preserved
sperm, dark-haired Vorian could trace his lineage back past the Time of Titans,
thousands of years to the House of Atreus in ancient Greece and another famous
Agamemnon. Because of his father's status, twenty-year-old Vor had been raised and
indoctrinated on Earth under the thinking machines. He was one of the privileged
"trustee" humans permitted to move about freely, serving Omnius.
    He had read all the stories of his illustrious bloodline in the extensive memoirs his
father had written to document his triumphs. Vor considered the Titan general's great
work to be more than a literary masterpiece, closer to a holy historical document.
    Just forward of Vor's work station, the Dream Voyager's captain, an autonomous
robot, checked instruments unerringly. Seurat's coppery-metal skinfilm flowed over a
man-shaped body of polymer struts, alloy supports, gelcircuitry processors, and wound
elastic-weave musculature.
    While Seurat studied the instruments, he intermittently tapped into the ship's long-
range scanners or looked out the windowport with focused optic threads.
Multiprocessing as he conversed, the robot captain continued the interplay with his
subservient human copilot. Seurat had a strange and unfortunate penchant for telling
odd jokes.
    'Vorian, what do you get when you breed a pig with a human?"
    'What?"
    'A creature that still eats a great deal, still stinks, and still does no work!"
    Vorian favored the captain with a polite chuckle. Most of the time, Seurat's jokes
only demonstrated that the robot did not truly understand humor. But if Vor didn't
laugh, Seurat would simply tell another one, and another, until he obtained the desired
reaction. "Aren't you afraid you'll make an error by telling jokes while monitoring our
navigation systems?"
    'I don't make mistakes," Seurat said, in his staccato mechanical voice.
    Vor brightened with the challenge. "Ah, but what if I sabotaged one of the ship's
vital functions? We're the only ones aboard, and I am a deceitful human after all, your
mortal enemy. It would serve you right for all those terrible jokes."
    'I might expect that of a lowly slave or even an artisan worker, but you would never
do that, Vorian. You have too much to lose." With an eerily smooth movement, Seurat
turned his rippled coppery head, paying even less attention to the Dream Voyager's
controls. "And even if you did, I would figure it out."
    'Don't underestimate me, old Metalmind. My father teaches me that, despite our
many weaknesses, we humans have a trump card with our very unpredictability."
Smiling, Vorian went to the robot captain's side and studied the metric screens. "Why do
you think Omnius asks me to throw a wrench into his careful simulations every time he
plans an encounter with the hrethgirl"
    'Your outrageous and reckless chaos is the only reason you are able to beat me in
any strategy game," Seurat said. "It certainly has nothing to do with your innate skills."
    'A winner has more skills than a loser," Vor said, "no matter how you define the
competition."
    The update ship traveled on a regular, continuous route throughout the
Synchronized Worlds. One of fifteen such vessels, the Dream Voyager carried copies of
the current version of Omnius to synchronize the separate computer everminds on
widely separated planets.
     Circuitry limitations and electronic transmission speeds constrained the physical size
of any individual machine; thus, the same computer evermind could not viably extend
beyond a single planet. Nonetheless, duplicate copies of Omnius existed everywhere,
like mental clones. With regular updates continually exchanged by ships like the Dream
Voyager, all the separate Omnius incarnations remained virtually identical across the
machine-dominated autarchy.
     After many voyages, Vor knew how to operate the ship and could access all onboard
data banks using Seurat's codes. Over the years, he and the robot captain had become
fast friends in a way that others were not likely to understand. Because of the extended
time they shared in deep space, talking about many things, playing games of skill,
telling stories—they bridged much of the gap between machine and man.

    Sometimes, for amusement, Vor and Seurat traded places, and Vor pretended to be
the captain of the ship, while Seurat became his robotic underling, as in the days of the
Old Empire. During one role-playing session, Vorian had impulsively christened the ship
Dream Voyager, a bit of poetic nonsense that Seurat not only tolerated, but maintained.
    As a sentient machine, Seurat routinely received new instructions and memory
transfers from the overall Omnius brain, but because he spent so much time
disconnected while journeying between the stars, he had developed his own personality
and independence. In Vor's opinion, Seurat was the best of the machine minds,
although the robot could be irritating at times. Especially with that peculiar sense of
humor.
    Vor clasped his hands and cracked his knuckles. He sighed with pleasure. "Sure feels
good to loosen up. Too bad it's something you can't do."
    'I do not require loosening up."
    Vorian didn't admit that he, too, found his own organic body to be inferior in many
ways, fragile and prone to aches, sicknesses, and injuries that any machine could have
easily fixed. He hoped that his physical form would remain functional long enough for
him to be made into one of the enduring neo-cymeks, all of whom had once been
valued trustee humans, like himself. One day Agamemnon would receive permission
from Omnius for that, if Vor worked very hard to serve the evermind.
    The Dream Voyager had been in space on a long update run, and the young trustee
was glad to be going home. He would see his eminent father soon.
    As the Dream Voyager soared between stars, undisturbed, Seurat suggested a
friendly competition. The two sat at a table and engaged in one of their customary
diversions, an amusing private game they had developed through frequent practice. The
strategy involved an imaginary space battle between two alien races—the "Vorians" and
the "Seurats"—each of which had a space fleet with precise capabilities and limitations.
Though the robot captain had a perfect machine memory, Vor still fared well, as he
invariably came up with creative tactics that surprised his opponent.

    Now, as they took turns placing warships in the various sectors of their fanciful
space battlefield, Seurat reeled off an endless succession of human jokes and riddles he
had found in his old databases. Annoyed, Vor finally said, "You're making an overt
attempt to distract me. Where did you learn to do that?"
    'Why, from you, of course." The robot proceeded to mention the many times in
which Vor had teased him, threatening to sabotage the ship without ever really
intending to do so, concocting extraordinarily unpredictable emergencies. "Do you
consider it cheating? On your part, or on mine?"
    This revelation astonished Vor. "It saddens me to think that, even in jest, I have
taught you deception. It makes me ashamed to be human." No doubt, Agamemnon
would be disappointed in him.
    After two more rounds, Vor lost the tactical game. His heart was no longer in it.
    Every endeavor is a game, is it not.7
    —IBLIS GINJO, Options for Total Liberation

     In a garden terrace overlooking the scarred ruins of Zimia, Xavier Harkonnen stood
somberly bv himself, dreading the upcoming "victory" parade. Afternoon sunlight
warmed his face. Birdsong had replaced the screams and explosions; breezes had
scoured away the worst of the poisonous smoke.
     Still, the League would be a long time recovering. Nothing would ever be the same.
     Even days after the attack, he still saw smears of smoke wafting from the rubble and
trailing into a cloudless sky. He could not smell the soot, though. The cymeks' poison
gas had so damaged his tissues that he would never smell or taste much of anything
again. Even breathing had become no more that a mechanical act, not an enjoyable
inhalation of sweet fresh air.
     But he could not wallow in misery when so many others had lost much more. In the
aftermath of the cymek attack, he had been kept alive by the heroic efforts of a Salusan
medical team. Serena Butler had come to him at the hospital, but he remembered her
only through a fog of pain, drugs, and life-support systems. In an extraordinary
procedure, Xavier had received a double lung transplant, healthy organs provided by the
mysterious Tlulaxa. He knew Serena had worked vigorously with the brilliant battlefield
surgeons and a Tlulaxa flesh merchant named Tuk Keedair to get him the treatment he
needed.
     Now he could breathe again, despite intermittent bursts of pain. Xa-vier would live
to fight the machines another time. Thanks to phar-maceuticals and advanced healing
techniques, he had been able to leave the hospital soon after the medical procedure.
     At the time of the attack, the flesh merchant Keedair had been in Zimia on a routine
sales call and barely escaped with his life. On the Unallied Planet of Tlulax in the distant
Thalim solar system, his people ran organ farms, growing human hearts, lungs, kidneys,
and other body parts from viable cells. After the cymeks were driven away, the secretive
Tlulaxa had offered his biological wares to the battlefield surgeons at Zimia's main field
hospital. His ship's cryogenic lockers were filled with sample body parts. A stroke of
luck, Keedair had admitted with a smile, that he could be there to help the grievously
injured Salusan citizens during their time of great need.
     Following the successful surgery, Keedair had come to see Xavier in the medical
center. The Tlulaxa was a man of middle height but slight of build, with dark eyes and
an angular face. A long, dark braid hung at the left side of his head, plaited tightly.
     Breathing in, carefully modulating his raspy voice, Xavier said, "It was fortunate you
were here with new organs already stored aboard your ship."
    Keedair rubbed his long-fingered hands together. "If I had known the cymeks would
strike so ferociously, I would have brought a larger supply of material from our organ
farms. Your Salusan survivors could use many more replacement parts, but additional
ships cannot arrive from the Thalim system for months."
    Before the flesh merchant left Xavier's room, he turned back and said, "Consider
yourself one of the lucky ones, Tercero Harkonnen."
    IN BATTLE-SCARRED ZIMIA, grief-stricken survivors searched for their dead, and
buried them. As rubble was cleared, the death toll mounted. Bodies were recovered,
names of the missing were compiled.
    In spite of such pain and sorrow, because of the attack free humanity grew stronger.
    Viceroy Manion Butler had insisted that the people show only determination in the
aftermath. On the streets below Xavier's terrace, final preparations were under way for
a celebration of thanksgiving. Banners with the open-hand sigil of human freedom
fluttered in the wind. Rough-looking men in dirty coats struggled to control magnificent
white Salusan stallions that had become agitated by the commotion. The horses' manes
were braided with tassles and bells, and their tails swept behind them like waterfalls of
fine hair. Festooned with ribbons and flowers, the animals pranced, eager to march
down the broad central boulevard that had been washed clean of debris, soot, and
bloodstains.
    Xavier glanced uncertainly at the sky. How could he ever look at the clouds again
without dreading that he might see more pyramidal dropcarriages plunging through the
scrambler shields? Missiles were already being installed, increased batteries to protect
against an attack from space. More patrols would be launched, circling the system on
the highest state of alert.
    Instead of attending a parade, he should be preparing the Salusan Militia for another
attack, increasing the number of picket ships and scouts at the edge of the system,
working out a more efficient rescue and response plan. It was only a matter of time
before the thinking machines returned.
    The next meeting of the League Parliament would devote itself to emergency
measures and reparations. The representatives would sketch out a reconstruction plan
for Zimia. The cymek warrior-forms left behind must be dismantled and analyzed for
weaknesses.
    Xavier hoped the League would immediately dispatch a summons to Poritrin, calling
the brilliant Tio Holtzman to inspect his recently installed scrambler shields. Only the
great inventor himself could devise a stopgap measure against the technical flaw the
cymeks had discovered.
    When Xavier mentioned his concerns to Viceroy Butler, the florid-faced leader had
nodded, but stopped further discussion. "First, we must have a day of affirmation, to
celebrate the fact that we are alive." Xavier saw deep sadness behind the Viceroy's
mask of confidence. "We are not machines, Xavier. There must be more to our lives
than war and revenge."
    Hearing footsteps on the terrace, Xavier turned to see Serena Butler smiling at him,
her eyes flashing with a secret depth that she shared with him now that no one could
see the two of them. "There is my heroic tercero."
    'A man responsible for letting half a city be destroyed isn't usually called a hero,
Serena."
    'No, but the term does apply to a man who saved the rest of the planet. As you are
fully aware, if you hadn't made your hard choice, all of Zimia, all of Salusa, would have
been crushed." She put a hand on his shoulder and stood very close to him. "I won't
have you wallowing in guilt during the victory parade. One day won't make much
difference."
    'One day could very well make a huge difference," Xavier insisted. "We barely drove
off the attackers this time because we were too confident in the new scrambler shields,
and because we foolishly thought Omnius had decided to leave us alone after so many
decades. This would be the perfect time for them to hit us again. What if they've
launched a second wave?"
    'Omnius is still licking his wounds. I doubt his force has even returned to the
Synchronized Worlds yet."
    'Machines don't lick wounds," he said.
    'You're such a serious young man," she said. "Please, just for the parade? Our
people need to have their spirits uplifted."
    'Your father already gave me the same lecture."
    'You know, of course, that if two Butlers say a thing, it's bound to be true."
    He gave Serena a firm hug, then followed her from the terrace toward the parade
reviewing stand, where he would sit in a place of honor beside the Viceroy.
    Since they'd been children, Xavier had always found himself attracted to Serena; as
they matured, they had grown confident of their deepening feelings toward each other.
Both he and Serena considered it a foregone conclusion that they would wed, a rare
perfect match of politics, acceptable bloodlines, and romance.
    Now, though, with the sudden increase in hostilities, he reminded himself of his
greater priorities. Thanks to the disaster that had killed Primero Meach, Xavier
Harkonnen was interim commander of the Sal-usan Militia, which forced him to face
larger issues. He wanted to do so much, but he was only one man.
    An hour later, the assemblage sat on a grandstand in the central plaza. Scaffolding
and temporary girders shored up the broken facades of government buildings. The
ornamental fountains no longer functioned, but the citizens of Zimia knew there could
be no other place for such a presentation.
    Even burned and damaged, the tall edifices looked magnificent: constructed in
Salusan Gothic style with multilevel roof lines, spires, and carved columns. Salusa
Secundus was the seat of the League government, but it also hosted the leading cultural
and anthropological museums. In surrounding neighborhoods, the crowded dwellings
were of simpler construction but pleasing to the eye, whitewashed with lime taken from
chalk cliffs. Salusans prided themselves on having the best craftsmen and artisans in the
League. They did most of their production by hand instead of with automated
machinery.
    Along the parade route, the citizens dressed in colorful raiment of magenta, blue,
and yellow. People chattered and pointed as the remarkable stallions passed them,
followed by marching musicians and folk dancers on hover-floats. One monstrous
Salusan bull, drugged into a near stupor to control it, plodded down the street.
     Though Xavier made the best of it all, he found himself constantly glancing at the
sky, and at the scars of the wounded city…
     At the conclusion of the parade, Manion Butler delivered a speech celebrating the
successful defense but acknowledging the high cost of the battle, tens of thousands
killed or wounded. "We have much healing and recovery to do, but we also have an
unbroken spirit, no matter what the thinking machines may attempt."
     Addressing the crowd, the Viceroy summoned Xavier to the central platform. "I
present for you our greatest hero, a man who stood firm against the cymeks and made
the necessary decisions to save us all. Few others would have been strong enough to do
the same."
     Feeling out of place, Xavier stepped forward to receive a military medal on a striped
blue, red, and gold ribbon from the Viceroy. In the midst of cheers, Serena kissed him
on the cheek. He hoped no one in the crowd could see him blush.
     'With this commendation comes a promotion to the rank of Tercero, First Grade.
Xavier Harkonnen, I charge you with studying defensive tactics and installations for the
entire League Armada. Your duties will encompass the local Salusan Militia, along with
responsibility for im proving the military security of the entire League of Nobles."
     The young officer felt awkward from the attention, but he graciously accepted the
accolades. "I look forward to beginning the hard work of our survival… and
advancement." He favored Serena with an indulgent smile. "Following today's festivities,
of course."
   Dune is the planet-child of the worm.
   —from "The Legend of Selim Wormrider," Zensunni Fire Poetry

    For an entire day and deep into the night, the monstrous sandworm raced across
the desert, forced beyond its normal territorial range.
    As the two moons rose and shone their curious light down upon Selim, he clung to
his metal staff, completely exhausted. Though he had escaped being devoured by the
wild and confused creature, he might soon perish from the interminable ride. Buddallah
had saved him, but now seemed only to be toying with him.
    While thrusting the corroded spear, the youth had wedged himself into a gap
between worm segments, hoping he wouldn't be buried alive if the demon plunged
beneath the dunes. He huddled against rank flesh that smelled of rotten meat
impregnated with pungent cinnamon. He didn't know what to do, but prayed and
contemplated, searching for an explanation.
   Perhaps it is a test of some kind.
     The sandworm continued to flee across the desert, its undersized brain seemingly
resigned to never again finding peace or safety. The beast wanted to wallow into the
dunes and hide from this malicious imp, but Selim pried the spear as if it were a lever,
irritating the wound anew.
     The worm could only surge onward. Hour after hour.
     Selim's throat was parched, his eyes caked with grit. He must have crossed half the
desert already, and recognized no landforms on the monotonous open bled. He had
never been so far from the cave community—no one had, as far as he knew. Even if he
somehow escaped this giant monster, he would be doomed in the unforgiving Arrakis
wasteland because of his unjust sentence.

    He was certain his faithless friend Ebrahim would be exposed one day, and the truth
would come out; the traitor would violate other tribal rules, and would eventually be
recognized for the thief and liar that he was. If Selim ever saw him again, he would
challenge Ebrahim to a fight to the death, and honor would win out.
    Perhaps the tribe would applaud him, since no one in even the grandest fire poems
had ever braved a giant sandworm and lived. Maybe the saucy, dark-eyed young
Zensunni women would look at Selim with bright smiles. Dust-covered but with his head
held high, he would stand before stern Naib Dhartha and demand readmittance to the
community. To have ridden a desert demon and lived!
    But, though Selim had already managed to survive longer than he had ever hoped,
the outcome was by no means assured. What was he to do now?
    Beneath him, the worm made peculiar, agitated noises, an invertebrate sound
beyond the loud whisper of hot sand. The weary beast shuddered, and a tremor ran
down its sinuous body. Selim could smell flint and an overpowering aroma of spice.
Friction-induced furnaces burned inside the worm's gullet, like the depths of Sheol itself.
    As lemony dawn tinged the sky, the worm became more unruly and desperate. It
thrashed about, trying to dig itself into the sand, but Selim wouldn't permit that. The
monster slammed its blunt head into a dune, smashing a dust spray into the air. The
youth had to throw all of his body weight against the spear, digging into the raw,
exposed worm segment.
    'You are as sore and exhausted as I am, aren't you, Shaitan?" he said in a voice as
thin and dry as paper. Almost exhausted unto death.
    Selim didn't dare let go. The moment he dropped off onto the barren dunes, the
sandworm would turn about and devour him. He had no choice but to keep driving the
creature. The ordeal seemed endless.
    As daylight grew brighter, he noticed a faint haze on the far horizon, a distant storm
with winds bearing flakes of sand and dust. But the disturbance was far away, and
Selim had other concerns.
    At last, the demon worm ground itself to a halt not far from a ridge of rocks, and
refused to move. With a final convulsion, it slumped its serpentine head onto a dune
crest and lay like a slain dragon, quivering… then went utterly still.
    Selim trembled with absolute weariness, fearing this was some kind of final trick.
The monster might be waiting for him to drop his guard so it could swallow him up.
Could a sandworm be devious? Was it truly Shaitan? Or did I ride it to death?
    Gathering his energy, Selim straightened. His cramped muscles trembled. He could
barely move. Joints were numb; nerves prickled as they awakened with the creeping fire
of restored circulation. At last, risking all, he yanked the metal spear from the pink flesh
between the callused segments.
    The worm didn't even twitch.
     Selim slid down the rounded bulk and hit the sand running. His boots pumped up
little dust clouds as he raced across the undulating landscape. The far-off rocks were
black mounds of safety protruding from golden dunes.
     He refused to look behind him and ran on, gasping. Each breath was like dry fire in
his throat. His ears tingled, anticipating the hiss of sand, the rippling approach of the
vengeful creature. But the sandworm remained still.
     Filled with desperate energy, Selim sprinted for half a kilometer. Reaching the rock
barricade, he scrambled up and finally allowed himself to collapse. Drawing his knees
against his chest, he sat gazing out into the wash of daylight, watching the worm.
     It never moved. Is Shaitan playing a trick? Is Buddallah testing me?
     By now Selim was very, very hungry. He shouted at the sky, "If you have saved me
for some purpose, then why not offer a bit of food?" In the extremity of his exhaustion,
he began to chuckle.
   One does not make demands of God.
    Then he realized that there was food, of a sort. In his flight to the rock sanctuary,
Selim had crossed a thick ochre patch of spice, veins of melange like those the Zensunni
sometimes found when they ventured onto the sands. They gathered the substance,
using it as a food additive and stimulant. Naib Dhartha kept a small stockpile within the
cave warrens, occasionally brewing from it a potent spice beer, which the tribe
members consumed on special occasions and traded at the Arrakis City spaceport.
    He sat in the uncertain shade for nearly an hour, looking for any sign of movement
from the monster. Nothing. The day became hotter, and the desert lapsed into a
sluggish silence. The distant storm seemed to move no closer. Selim felt as if the world
itself was holding its breath.
    Then, growing brash again—after all, he had ridden Shaitan!—Selim crawled down
from the rocks and scurried out to the patch of melange. There, he raised a wary gaze
in the direction of the ominous hulk.

     Standing in the rust-hued sand, he scrabbled with his hands, scooping up the dry
red powder. He gobbled it, spat out a few grains of sand, and immediately felt the
stimulant of raw spice, a large quantity to take all at once. It made him dizzy, gave him
an explosion of energy.
     Finally sated, he stood at a distance from the flaccid worm, hands on his hips,
glaring. Then he waved his arms, shouting into the utter silence, "I defeated you,
Shaitan! You meant to eat me, old crawler, but I conquered you instead!" He waved his
hands again. "Can you hear me?"
     But he detected not even a flicker. Euphoric from the melange and foolishly brave,
he marched back toward the long sinuous body that lay on the dune crest. Only a few
footsteps away, he stared up into the face. Its cavernous mouth was studded with
glittering internal thorns. The long fangs looked like the tiniest of hairs in relation to the
creature's immense size.
     Now the dust storm approached, accompanied by skirling hot breezes. The wind
seized grains of sand and fragments of rock, whipping them against his face like tiny
darts. Gusts stole around the curved carcass of the worm with a whispery, hooting
sound. It seemed as if the ghost of the beast was daring him, prodding him forward.
The spice thrummed in Selim's bloodstream.
    Boldly, he strode to the worm's maw and peered into the black infinity of its mouth.
The hellish friction-fires inside were cold; not even an ember remained.
    He shouted again, "I killed you, old crawler. I am Worm Slayer."
    The sandworm did not respond even to this provocation.
    °
    He looked up at the daggerlike fangs, curved shards that lined the wide, smelly
mouth. Buddallah seemed to be urging him on, or maybe it was simply his own desire.
Moving before common sense could catch up with him, Selim climbed over the lower lip
of the worm and reached the nearest sharp tooth.
    The young outcast grabbed it with both hands, feeling how hard it was, a material
even stronger than metal. He twisted and wrenched. The worm's body was soft, as if
the tissues of its throat were losing integrity. With a suppressed grunt, Selim uprooted
the fang. It was as long as his forearm, curved and pure and glistening with milky
whiteness. It would make an excellent knife.
    He staggered back out, holding his prize, utterly terrified at the realization of what
he had done. An unprecedented act, as far as he knew. Who else would have risked not
only riding Shaitain, but stepping into its maw? His body trembled to its core. He
couldn't believe what he had dared—and accomplished! No other person on all of
Arrakis possessed a treasure such as this tooth-knife!

    Although the remaining crystalline fangs hung down like stalactites, hundreds of
them that he could sell in the Arrakis City spaceport (if he could ever find the place
again), he felt suddenly weak. The rush of the melange he'd consumed was beginning
to fade.
    He scrambled backward onto the soft sand. The storm was almost on top of him
now, reminding him of his Zensunni desert survival training. He must make his way back
to the rocks and find some sort of shelter, or he too would soon lie dead upon the
dunes, a victim of the elements.
    But he no longer thought that would happen. I have a destiny now, a mission from
Buddallah… if only 1 can understand it.
    He backed away, then turned and ran toward the line of rocks, cradling the fang in
his hands. The wind nudged him onward as if anxious to get him away from the
carcass.
    Humans tried to develop intelligent machines as secondary reflex systems, turning
over primary decisions to mechanical servants. Gradually, though, the creators did not
leave enough to do for themselves; they began to feel alienated, dehumanized, and
even manipulated. Eventually humans became little more than decisionkss robots
themselves, kft without an understanding of their natural existence.
    — TLALOC, Weaknesses of the Empire

   Agamemnon was not eager to face Omnius. Having already lived more than a
thousand years, the cymek general had learned to be patient.
   As patient as a machine.
     Following their secret rendezvous near the red dwarf star, he and his fellow Titans
reached Corrin after an interstellar voyage of nearly two months. The robotic fleet had
arrived days before, delivering the battle images captured by the watcheyes. The
evermind already knew about the defeat. All that remained was for Omnius to issue
rebukes and reprimands, especially to Agamemnon, who had been in command.
     As he landed his ship under the blazing giant sun of Corrin, the cymek general
reached out with his sensor network, accepting data through his thoughtrodes. Omnius
would be waiting, as always, after a mission.
     Perhaps by now the evermind would have accepted the failure.
     A false hope, Agamemnon knew. The all-pervasive computer did not react in the
manner of a human.
     Before emerging from his ship, the Titan general chose an efficient mobile body,
little more than a streamlined cart that carried his brain canister and life-support
systems connected to the framework. The cymek moved out onto the paved boulevards
under the enormous baleful eye of the red giant. Harsh crimson light washed the
flagstoned streets and white facades.
     Millennia ago, the bloated star had expanded, growing so large that its outer layers
swallowed the inner planets of the system. Corrin itself had once been a frozen outlying
world, but the increased heat from the swollen giant now made the planet habitable.
     After the atmosphere thawed and the icy seas boiled away, Corrin's landscape
became a blank slate on which the Old Empire established a colony during its younger,
ambitious days. Most of the ecosystem had been transplanted from elsewhere, but even
after thousands of years Corrin still seemed an unfinished world, missing many of the
ecological details necessary for a thriving planet. Omnius and his independent robot
Erasmus liked the place because it seemed new and unburdened by the baggage of
history.
     Agamemnon trundled along the streets, followed by hovering watch-eyes that
monitored him like electronic guard dogs. With surveillance monitors and speakers
throughout the city, the evermind could have conferred with him anywhere on Corrin.
Omnius, however, insisted on receiving the cymek general in a lavish central pavilion
built by human slave labor. This pilgrimage of contrition was part of Agamemnon's
penance for the Salusa failure. The powerful computer understood the concept of
dominance.
     The electrafluid surrounding his brain churned blue as Agamemnon prepared to
defend himself against a rigorous interrogation. His mobile body passed under tall
arches supported by scrolled white-metal columns. Eccentric and earnest, the robot
Erasmus had copied ostentatious trappings from historical records of human empires.
The awesome gateway was designed to make visitors tremble, though the Titan
doubted Omnius cared about such things.
     The cymek general halted at the center of a courtyard where fountains trickled from
gaps in the walls. Tame sparrows flitted about the eaves and nested atop the pillars.
Inside terra cotta urns, scarlet lilies bloomed in violent explosions of petals.
   'I have arrived, Lord Omnius," Agamemnon announced through his voice
synthesizer—a mere formality, because he had been closely observed since emerging
from his ship. He waited.

   In the echoing pavilion, the mirror-faced Erasmus was nowhere to be seen. Omnius
wanted to upbraid his general without the curious scrutiny of the independent and
annoying robot. Though Erasmus fancied that he understood human emotions,
Agamemnon doubted the eccentric machine would show even a glimmer of compassion.
   The voice boomed from a dozen speakers in the walls, like an angry deity. No doubt
the effect was intentional. "You and your cymeks have failed, General."
   Agamemnon already knew how the discussion would play out—as did Omnius.
Surely the evermind himself had run simulations. Yet, this was a dance that must be
continued.

     'We fought hard, but could not achieve victory, Lord Omnius. The hrethgir put up an
unexpectedly fierce defense and were surprisingly willing to sacrifice their city rather
than let the shield generators fall. As I have said many times, feral humans are
dangerously unpredictable."
     Omnius responded without hesitation. "You have repeatedly insisted that cymeks are
far superior to the human vermin, combining the best advantages of machine and man.
How, then, could you be rebuffed by such untrained, uncivilized creatures?"
     'In this instance, I was in error. The humans realized our true objective faster than
we had anticipated."
     'Your forces did not fight hard enough," Omnius said.
     'Six neo-cymeks were destroyed. The gladiator body of the Titan Xerxes was
demolished, and he barely escaped in a launch pod."
     'Yes, but the remainder of your cymeks survived. A mere twenty-one percent loss
does not equate with 'fighting to your fullest.' " Around the courtyard, chirping sparrows
flitted about, oblivious to the tension between Omnius and his top military officer. "You
should have been willing to sacrifice all your cymeks to bring down the scrambler
shields."
     Agamemnon was glad he no longer displayed human expressions, which the
computer mind might be able to interpret. "Lord Omnius, cymeks are irreplaceable
individuals, unlike your robotic thinking machines. In my estimation, risking the loss of
your most vital Titans was not a reasonable exchange for one insignificant planet
infested with feral humans."
     'Insignificant? Before the mission you emphasized the extreme importance of Salusa
Secundus to the League of Nobles. You claimed that its fall would precipitate a complete
collapse of free humanity. You were in command."
     'But is the League itself worth the obliteration of your remaining Titans? We created
you, established the foundation for your Synchronized Worlds. The Titans should be
used for more than cannon fodder." Agamemnon was curious as to how the evermind
would respond to this line of reasoning. Perhaps by setting up the Titans to fall in battle
against feral humans, Omnius planned to bypass the choke-hold of Barbarossa's
protective programming.
    'Let me ponder that," Omnius said. Screens on the pavilion walls projected watcheye
images from the battle on Zimia. "The hrethgir are smarter than you presumed. They
saw your target. You made an error in judgment thinking your cymeks would be able to
push forward easily." "I miscalculated," Agamemnon admitted. "The humans have a
clever military commander. His unexpected decisions allowed them to mount a
successful resistance. Now, at least, we have tested their scrambler fields."
    Agamemnon's explanations rapidly degenerated into a succession of rationalizations
and excuses. Omnius analyzed and dismissed them, leaving the Titan feeling bare and
humiliated.
    In the serene courtyard, bright flowers bloomed and birds sang. Trickling fountains
added their musical sounds… and Agamemnon contained his outrage within himself.
Even his sensitive mechanical body showed no sign of agitation. A thousand years ago,
he and his fellow Titans had controlled these damnable thinking machines. We created
you, Omnius. One day, we will also destroy you.
    While it had taken the visionary Tlaloc and his group of rebels only a few years to
conquer the sleepy Old Empire, Omnius and his thinking machines proved to be a far
superior adversary, never sleeping, always watching. But even machines made
mistakes. Agamemnon just needed to exploit them.
    'Is there anything else, Lord Omnius?" he interrupted. Further arguments and
excuses would serve no purpose. Above all else, machines craved efficiency.
    'Only my next set of instructions, Agamemnon." The Omnius voice moved from
speaker to speaker, giving the impression that he was every where at once. "I am
dispatching you and your Titans back to Earth. You will accompany Erasmus, who
intends to continue his studies of captive humans there."
    'As you command, Lord Omnius." Though surprised, Agamemnon showed no
reaction. Earth … a very long journey. "We will determine other ways to destroy this
blight of humanity. The Titans exist only to serve you."
    It was one of the few advantages of Agamemnon's human side: Even though the
evermind was filled with a vast quantity of data, Omnius did not know how to recognize
a simple lie.
    From a certain perspective, defense and offense encompass nearly identical tactics.
    —XAVIER HARKONNEN, address to Salusan Militia

    I^U ew duties, new responsibilities… and more good-byes. I, A. As a mostly
recovered Xavier Harkonnen stood with Serena Butler inside the Zimia Spaceport, the
departure facility seemed a sterile environment with echoing plaztile floors. Even the
warmth of Serena's expression did not compensate for the utilitarian structure. Window
walls looked out onto the fused pavement where shuttles took off and landed every few
minutes, going to and from the larger long-distance ships that waited in orbit.
    In one wing of the spaceport, work crews shored up sections of a hangar damaged
during the cymek attack. Large cranes lifted temporary walls and braces into place. Out
on the landing field, huge blast craters had been filled in.
    Dressed in a crisp gold-and-black Armada uniform reflecting his new grade, Xavier
gazed deeply into Serena's unusual lavender eyes. He knew how she saw him. His facial
features were not particularly striking—ruddy complexion, pointed nose, generous lips—
but overall she found him attractive, especially the soft brown eyes and his infectious,
though rarely used, smile.

    'I wish we could spend more time together, Xavier." She fingered a white rose
floweret on her lapel. The spaceport drone of other people, noisy repair crews and
heavy machinery surrounded them.
    Xavier noticed Serena's younger sister Octa watching them. A seventeen-year-old
with long strawberry-blond hair, she'd always had a crush on Xavier. Willowy Octa was a
nice enough girl, but recently he wished she would give him and Serena a little more
privacy, especially now that they would be apart for so long.
    'So do I. Let's make these minutes count." Surrendering to the urge he knew they
both shared, he leaned forward to kiss her, as if his lips were drawn by a magnetic
force. The kiss lingered, then grew intense. At last Xavier pulled back. Serena looked
disappointed, more with the situation than with him. They both had important duties,
demands on their time and energy.
    Newly installed in his position, Xavier was about to embark with a group of military
specialists on an inspection tour of League planetary defenses. After the nearly
successful cymek strike against Salusa two months ago, he would make certain there
were no weaknesses on other League Worlds. The thinking machines would exploit the
tiniest flaw, and free humans could not afford to lose any of their remaining
strongholds.
    Serena Butler, meanwhile, would focus on expanding the League domain. After the
battlefield surgeons had been so successful with the fresh tank-grown organs provided
by Tuk Keedair, Serena had spoken passionately about the services and resources the
Unallied Planets such as Tlulaxa could provide. She wanted them to formally join the
union of free humans.
    Already, more flesh merchants had arrived on Salusa with their biological wares;
previously, many nobles and League citizens had been uneasy about the mysterious
outsiders, but now that the war-wounded faced terrible losses of limbs and organs, they
were willing to accept cloned replacement parts. The Tlulaxa never explained where
they had developed or obtained such sophisticated biological technology, but Serena
praised their generosity and resources.
    At any other time, her speech in the Hall of Parliament might have been forgotten,
but the cymek attack had underscored her point about the vulnerability of the Unallied
Planets. What if the machines next chose to wipe out the Thalim system and thereby
eliminate the Tlu laxan ability to give sight to blind veterans, new limbs to amputees?
    She had studied hundreds of survey documents and ambassadorial reports, trying to
determine which of the nonsignatory planets were the best candidates for induction into
the League brotherhood. Unifying the remnants of humanity had become her passion,
to make the free people strong enough to put down any machine aggression.
    Despite her youth, she had already led two successful aid missions, the first when
she was only seventeen. In one she had taken food and medical supplies to refugees
from an abandoned Synchronized World, and in the other she had provided relief for a
biological blight that almost destroyed the pristine farms on Poritrin.
    Neither she nor Xavier had time for themselves.
     'When you return, I promise I will make it up to you," she said, her eyes dancing.
"I'll give you a banquet of kisses."
     He allowed himself a rare laugh. "Then I plan to arrive very hungry indeed!" Xavier
took her hand and kissed it gallantly. "When we dine again, I shall come calling with
flowers." He knew their next rendezvous could be months away.
     She gave him a warm smile. "I have a particular fondness for flowers."
     He was about to pull Serena close, but they were interrupted by a familiar brown-
skinned child coming from another direction—Xavier's eight-year-old brother, Vergyl
Tantor. The boy had been permitted to leave school to see him off. Breaking free of an
elderly instructor escort, Vergyl ran to hug his idol, nuzzling his face into the crisp
uniform shirt.

   'Take care of our estate while I am gone, little brother," Xavier said, playfully
rubbing his knuckles on the boy's wiry hair. "You are in charge of tending my
wolfhounds—you understand?"

     The boy's brown eyes widened, and he nodded gravely. "Yes."
     'And obey your parents, otherwise you can't hope to grow up to become a good
officer in the Armada."
     'I will!"
     An announcement summoned the inspection team to board the shuttle. Hearing it,
Xavier promised to bring something back for Vergyl, Octa, and Serena. While Octa
watched from a distance, smiling hopefully, he hugged his little brother again, squeezed
Serena's hand, and strode off with the officers and engineers.
     Staring at the window wall where they could watch the waiting mil itary shuttle,
Serena glanced down at the boy and thought of Xavier Harkonnen. Xavier had been
only six years old when thinking machines had killed his natural parents and his older
brother.
     Because of interfamily agreements and the written wills of Ulf and Katarina
Harkonnen, young Xavier had been raised as the foster son of powerful and then-
childless Emil and Lucille Tantor. The noble couple had already made arrangements for
their holdings to be administered by Tantor relatives, distant cousins and nephews who
would not normally have inherited anything. But when Emil Tantor began to raise
Xavier, he was quite taken with the orphan and legally adopted him, though Xavier
retained his Harkonnen name and all associated noble rights.
     After the adoption, Lucille Tantor unexpectedly conceived a son, Vergyl, who was
twelve years younger than Xavier. The Harkonnen heir, not worried about dynastic
politics, concentrated on a course of military studies, intending to join the League
Armada. At the age of eighteen Xavier received the legal entitlement to the original
Harkonnen holdings, and a year later he became an officer in the Salusan Militia. With
his impeccable performance and rapid promotions, everyone could see Xavier was a
rising star in the military ranks.
     Now three people who cared about him watched the shuttle lift into the sky on a
plume of orange exhaust. Vergyl held Serena's hand, bravely trying to comfort her.
"Xavier will be all right. You can count on him." She felt a pang for her departing love,
but smiled warmly at the wide-eyed boy. "Of course we can."
   She would have it no other way. Love was one of the things that separated humans
from machines.
   The answer is a mirror of the question.
   — COG1TOR KWYNA, City of Introspection archives he temporary meeting chamber
for the League delegates had originally been the home of the first Viceroy, Bovko
Manresa. Before the Titans had taken over the weak Old Empire, Manresa had built the
mansion on then-isolated Sal-usa Secundus as a way of celebrating wealth garnered
from his planetary land dealings. Later, when refugee humans began arriving, driven
out by the cruel rule of the Twenty Titans, the big house had become a meeting hall,
with chairs and a lectern set up in the grand ballroom, as they were today.

    Months ago, within hours of the cymek attack, Viceroy Butler had stood on a pile of
rubble beneath the broken central dome of the Hall of Parliament. While the poisonous
dust settled in the streets and fires still blazed in damaged buildings, he had vowed to
repair the venerable old facility that had served the League for centuries.
    The governmental edifice was more than just a building: It was hallowed ground on
which legendary leaders had debated great ideas and formulated plans against the
machines. The damage to the roof and upper floors was severe, but the basic structure
remained sound. Just like the human spirit it represented.
    It was a frosty morning outside, with fog on the windows. Leaves on the hills had
begun to turn lovely autumn shades of yellow, orange, and brown. Serena and the
representatives came inside the temporary meeting hall, still clinging to their coats.
    She gazed at the walls of the crowded old ballroom, at paintings of long-dead
leaders and depictions of past victories. She wondered what the future would bring, and
what her place might be in it. She wanted so badly to do something, to help in the great
crusade of humankind.
    Most of her life she had been an activist, always willing to get her hands dirty, to
assist in aiding the victims of other tragedies such as natural disasters or machine
attacks. Even during pleasant times, she had joined the work crews of harvesters to pick
grapes from the Butler estate vineyards or olives from the gnarled groves.
    She took a seat in the first row, then watched as her soft-featured father made his
way across the wood parquet floor to the antique lectern. Viceroy Butler was followed
by a monk in a red-velvet tunic carrying a large plexiplaz container that held a living
human brain in viscous elec-trafluid. The monk lovingly placed the container on an
ornate table beside the lectern, then stood beside it.
    From her front-row seat, Serena saw the pinkish gray tissue undulate slightly within
the pale-blue life-support liquid. Separated from the senses and distractions of the
physical world for more than a millennium, stimulated by constant intense
contemplation, the female Cogitor's once-human brain had grown larger than its original
size.
    'The Cogitor Kwyna does not often leave the City of Introspection," Viceroy Butler
said, sounding both formal and excited. "But in these times we require the best
thoughts and advice. If any mind can understand the thinking machines, it will be
Kwyna's."
     These esoteric disembodied philosophers were seen so infrequently that many
League representatives did not understand how they managed to communicate.
Compounding the mystery that surrounded them, Cog-itors rarely said much, choosing
instead to marshall their energies and contribute only the most important thoughts.
     'The Cogitor's Secondary will speak for Kwyna," the Viceroy said, "if she has any
insights to offer."
     Beside the brain canister, the red-robed monk removed the sealed lid, exposing the
agitated viscous fluid. Blinking his round eyes rapidly, he stared into the tank. Slowly,
the monk slid one naked hand into the soup, immersing his fingers. He closed his eyes,
drawing deep breaths, as he tentatively touched the convoluted brain. His brows
furrowed with concentration and acceptance as the electrafluid soaked into his pores,
linking the Cogitor with the Secondary's neural system, using him as an extension in
much the same way cymeks used artificial mechanical bod ies.
     'I understand nothing," said the monk in a strange, distant voice. Serena knew that
was the first principle the Cogitors adopted, and the contemplative brains spent
centuries in deep study, adding to that sense of nothingness.
     Centuries before the original Titans, a group of spiritual humans had enjoyed
studying philosophy and discussing esoteric issues, but too many frailties and
temptations of the flesh inhibited their ability to concentrate. In the ennui of the Old
Empire, these metaphysical scholars had been the first to have their brains installed in
life-support systems. Freed of biological constraints, they spent all their time learning
and thinking. Each Cogitor wanted to study the entirety of human philosophy, bringing
together the ingredients to understand the universe. They lived in ivory towers and
contemplated, rarely bothering to note the superficial relationships and events of the
mundane world.
     Kwyna, the two-thousand-year-old Cogitor who resided in Salusa's City of
Introspection, claimed to be politically neutral. "I am ready to interact," she announced
through the monk, who stared with glazed eyes at the assembly. "You may begin."
     With intense blue eyes, Viceroy Butler gazed around the packed ballroom, pausing to
look at a number of faces, including Serena's. "My friends, we have always lived under
the threat of annihilation, and now I must ask every one of you to devote your time,
energies, and money to our cause."
     He gave tribute to the tens of thousands of Salusans who had died in the cymek
onslaught, along with fifty-one visiting dignitaries. "The Salusan Militia remains on full
alert here, and messenger ships have been dispatched to all League Worlds, warning
them of the danger. We can only hope that no other planets were attacked."
     The Viceroy then called upon Tio Holtzman, recently arrived after nearly a month in
transit from his laboratories on Poritrin. "Savant Holtzman, we are anxious to hear your
assessment of the new defenses."
     Holtzman had been eager to inspect his orbital scrambler fields, to see how they
might be modified and improved. On Poritrin, the flamboyant nobleman Niko Bludd
funded the Savant's research. Given his past accomplishments, League members always
held out the hope that Holtzman would pull some other miracle out of his pocket.
     Slight of body, Holtzman moved with grace and an enormous stage presence,
wearing clean and stylish robes. The iron gray hair that hung to his shoulders was
square-cut, framing a narrow face. A man of immense confidence and ego, he loved to
speak to important dignitaries in the Parliament, but now he appeared
uncharacteristically troubled. In truth, the inventor could not bring himself to admit a
mistake. Unquestionably, his scrambler network had failed. The cymeks had broken
through! What would he say to these people who had relied on him?
     Reaching the speaking platform, the great man cleared his throat and looked
around, glancing oddly at the imposing presence of the Cog-itor and the looming
attendant monk. This was a most delicate matter. How could he shift the blame from
himself?
     The scientist used his best voice. "In warfare, whenever one side makes a
technological breakthrough, the other attempts to top it. We recently witnessed this
with my atmospheric scrambler fields. Had they not been installed here, the full thinking
machine fleet would have laid waste to Salusa. Unfortunately, I did not factor in the
unique abilities of the cymeks. They found a chink in the armor and penetrated it."
     No one had accused him of lax work or poor planning, but this was the closest
Holtzman would come to admitting that he had overlooked a major flaw. "Now it is our
turn to surpass the machines with a new concept. I hope to be inspired by this tragedy,
pushing my creativity to its limits." He then stalled and looked embarrassed, even
endearing. "I'll be working on that, as soon as I get back to Poritrin. I hope to have a
surprise for you very soon."
     A tall, statuesque woman glided toward the lectern, drawing attention to herself.
"Perhaps I have a suggestion." She had pale eyebrows, white hair, and luminous skin
that made her seem ethereal, but charged with power.
     'Let us hear from the women of Rossak. I gladly yield to Zufa Cenva." Looking
relieved, Holtzman hurried back to his seat and slumped into it.
     The pale woman carried an air of mystery about her; she wore glowing jewelry on a
black, diaphanous gown that revealed much of her perfect body. Pausing at the
Cogitor's life-support case, Zufa Cenva peered inside at the enlarged brain. Her brow
furrowed as she concentrated, and as she did so, the brain itself seemed to vibrate; the
electra-fluid swirled, bubbles formed. Alarmed, the devout attendant monk withdrew his
hand from the liquid.
     The tall woman relaxed, satisfied, and stepped to the podium. "Because of oddities
in our environment, many of the females born on Rossak exhibit enhanced telepathic
abilities." Indeed, the powerful Sorceresses of the dense, barely habitable jungles had
parlayed their mental quirks into political influence. Rossak men exhibited no such
telepathic enhancements.
     'The League of Nobles was formed a thousand years ago for our mutual defense,
first against the Titans and then against Omnius. Since then, we have barricaded
ourselves, trying to protect our worlds from the enemy." Her eyes flashed like highly
polished stones. "We need to rethink this strategy. Perhaps it is time for us to take the
offensive against the Synchronized Worlds. Otherwise, Omnius and his minions will
never leave us alone."
     The League representatives muttered at this, looking fearful, especially after the
devastation Zimia had just endured. The Viceroy was first to respond. "That is a bit
premature, Madame Cenva. I'm not sure we have the capability."
     'We barely survived the last attack!" a man shouted. "And we had only a handful of
cymeks to contend with."
     Manion Butler looked deeply concerned. "Confronting Omnius would be a suicide
mission. What weapons would we use?"
     In response, the imposing woman squared her shoulders and spread her hands,
while closing her eyes and concentrating. Although Zufa was known to have
extrasensory powers, she had never before displayed them in Parliament. Her milky pale
skin seemed to heat up with an inner light. The air in the enclosed chamber stirred, and
static electricity crackled around the assemblage, making hair stand on end.
     Lightning flickered at her fingertips, as if she were holding a barely contained
thunderstorm inside herself. Her own white hair coiled and writhed like snakes. When
Zufa's eyes opened again, a dazzling energy seemed ready to shoot out of them, as if
the universe lived behind her pupils.
     Gasps echoed through the delegates. Serena's skin crawled and her scalp tingled, as
if a thousand poisonous spiders skittered over her mind. In her preservation tank, the
Cogitor Kwyna churned.
     Then Zufa relaxed, throttling back the chain reaction of mental energy. Letting out a
long, cold breath, the Sorceress smiled grimly at the startled onlookers. "We have a
weapon."
     The eyes of common perception do not see far. Too often we make the most
important decisions based only on superficial information.
    —NORMA CENVA, unpublished laboratory notebooks fter delivering her
announcement to the League assem-IJbly, Zufa Cenva returned to Rossak. She had
been in transit for weeks, and her shuttle now landed on a dense section of the jungle
canopy that had been paved over with a polymer to seal and fuse the branches and
leaves into a solid mass. To enable the trees to receive adequate moisture and gas
exchange, the polymer was porous, synthesized from jungle chemicals and organics.

    Toxic oceans made the native Rossak planktons, fish, kelp, and sea creatures
poisonous to humans. Rugged, sterile lava plains covered much of the planet's land
area, dotted with geysers and brimstone lakes. Since the botanical chemistry did not
rely on chlorophyll, the general cast of all plants was silvery purple; nothing here was
fresh and green.
    In a tectonically stable zone girdling the equator, large rifts in the continental plate
created broad sanctuary valleys where the water was filtered and the air breathable. In
these pn> tected rift ecosystems, hardy human settlers had constructed sophisticated
cave-cities like hives tunneled into the black cliffs. The declivitous external walls were
overgrown with silvery-purple vines, drooping ferns, and fleshy moss. Com fortable
chambers looked out upon a thick jungle canopy that pressed against the settlement
cliffs. People could venture directly onto the upper rubbery branches and descend to the
dense underbrush, where they harvested edibles.
     As if to make up for the dearth of life elsewhere on Rossak, the rift valleys teemed
with aggressive living things—mushrooms, lichens, berries, flowers, orchidlike parasites,
and insects. The Rossak men, lacking the telepathic enhancement of their women, had
turned their talents to developing and extracting drugs, pharmaceuticals, and occasional
poisons from nature's larder. The entire place was like a Pandora's box that had been
opened only a crack…

    Now the tall, luminous Sorceress watched as her much younger paramour, Aurelius
Venport, crossed a suspended bridge from the open cliffs to the foamy purple treetops.
His patrician features were handsome, his dark hair curly, his face long and lean.
Tagging along behind him on stubby legs came Zufa's disappointing fifteen-year-old
daughter by a prior relationship.
   Two misfits. No wonder they get along so well.
    Prior to seducing Aurelius Venport, the chief Sorceress had arranged conjugal
relationships with four other men during her peak breeding times, selecting them for
their proven bloodlines. After generations of research, miserable miscarriages, and
defective offspring, the women of Rossak had compiled detailed genetic indices of
various families. Because of heavy environmental toxins and teratogens, the odds were
against any child being born strong and healthy. But for every stillborn monster or
talentless male, a miraculous pale-skinned Sorceress might occur. Each time a woman
conceived a child, it was like playing a game of roulette. Genetics was never an exact
science.
    But Zufa had been so careful, checking and double-checking the bloodlines. Only
one of those conjugal encounters had resulted in a living child—Norma, a dwarf barely
four feet tall, with blocky features, mousy brown hair, and a tedious, bookish
personality.

    Many offspring on Rossak had defective bodies, and even the apparently healthy
ones rarely exhibited the strong mental powers of the elite Sorceresses. Nevertheless,
Zufa felt deep disappointment, even embarrassment, that her daughter had no
telepathic skills. The greatest living Sorceress should have been able to pass along her
superior mental abilities, and she desperately wanted her daughter to carry on the fight
against the machines. But Norma showed no potential whatsoever. And despite Aurelius
Venport's impeccable genetic credentials, Zufa had never been able to carry one of his
babies to term.
   How many more times must 1 keep trying before 1 replace him with another
breeder? Once more, she decided—she would attempt to get pregnant again, within the
next few months. It would be Venport's last chance.

   Zufa was also disappointed in Norma's independence and defiance. Too often the
teenager spun off on obscure mathematical tangents that no one could comprehend.
Norma seemed lost in her own world.
   My daughter, you should have been so much more!
    No one had a heavier burden of responsibility than the small clan of Sorceresses on
the planet, and Zufa's burden was the greatest of all. If only she could count on
everyone else, especially in light of this latest danger from the cymeks.
    Since stunted Norma could never take part in the mental battle, Zufa had to
concentrate on her daughters in spirit, those few young women who had won the
"genetic lottery" and acquired superior mental abilities. Zufa would train and encourage
them, showing them how to eradicate the enemy.
    From her cliffside perch, she watched her lover Aurelius and young Norma reach the
other side of the suspension bridge and begin to negotiate a circular network of ladders
that led to the deeply shadowed jungle floor. Like two happy-go-lucky outcasts, Norma
and Aurelius had grown close emotionally, using one another as crutches.
    Engrossed in their own petty concerns that had nothing to do with victory, neither of
them had even noticed Zufa's return on the shuttle. No doubt the two misfits would
spend hours poking through the foliage in search of new drug resources, which Aurelius
would incorporate into his business ventures.
    The Sorceress shook her head, not understanding his priorities. Those drugs the
men developed were of little more use than Norma's arcane mathematics. Admittedly,
Aurelius was a highly intelligent and skilled businessman, but what good were enormous
profits if free humanity was doomed to enslavement?
    Disappointed in both of them, knowing that she and her Sorceresses would have to
do the real fighting, Zufa set out to find the most powerful young women she had
recruited to learn the devastating new technique she planned to unleash against the
cymeks.
    AS NORMA FOLLOWED him through the fleshy underbrush, Aurelius consumed
capsules of a focused stimulant that his expert chemists had synthesized from the
pungent pheromones of a boulder-sized burrowing beetle. Venport felt stronger, his
perceptions sharpened, his reflexes enhanced. Not quite like the telepathic powers of icy
Zufa, but better than his natural abilities.
    Someday he would make a breakthrough, allowing him to meet the powerful
Sorceress on his own terms. Maybe he and Norma would do it together.
    Aurelius maintained a benign fondness for the girl's stern mother. He tolerated
Zufa's moods and scornful attitude with good grace; Rossak women rarely allowed
themselves the luxury of romantic love.
    Though Aurelius knew full well that Zufa had selected him for his breeding potential,
he saw through the woman's stoic, demanding exterior. Attempting to conceal her
weaknesses, the powerful Sorceress showed her doubts on occasion, afraid that she
could not fulfill the responsibilities she had placed on herself. Once, when Aurelius
commented that he knew how strong she was trying to be, Zufa had grown
embarrassed and angry. "Somebody has to be strong" was all she had said.
    Since he lacked telepathic ability, Zufa had little interest in engaging him in
conversation. Perhaps she recognized his skills as a businessman, investor, and
politician, but she valued none of those abilities as much as her own narrow goals. The
Sorceress frequently tried to make him feel like a failure, but her derision only served to
ignite his ambition, especially his desire to find a drug that would give him telepathic
powers equivalent to her own.
    There were other ways to fight a war.
    The silvery-purple jungles offered a treasure-trove to cure diseases, expand the
mind, and improve human abilities. The choices were overwhelming, but Aurelius
sought to investigate everything. From proper development and marketing, the products
of Rossak had already put him on the path to great wealth. He was even grudgingly
respected by a number of the Sorceresses—except by his own mate.

    As a visionary entrepreneur, he was accustomed to exploring alternatives. Like paths
through a dense jungle, many routes could lead to the same place. Sometimes, one just
had to hack through with a machete.
    So far, though, the right drug eluded him.
    In another venture, he had proudly distributed Norma's exotic mathematical work
among scholarly scientific circles. Though he didn't understand her theorems, he had a
gut feeling that she might come up with something important. Maybe she had already
done so, and it took expert eyes to recognize it. Venport liked the intense girl, acting as
a big brother to her. As far as he was concerned, Norma was a mathematical prodigy,
so who cared about her height or her appearance? He was willing to give her a chance,
even if her mother never would.
    Beside him, Norma studied the design of a broad purple leaf, using a light-beam
caliper to measure its various dimensions and the relationships among angles in the
sap-filled veins. The depth of her concentration added a wistful cast to her plain
features.
    Glancing back at him, Norma said in a surprisingly mature voice, "This leaf has been
designed and constructed by the Earth mother Gaia, or the Master Creator God, or
Buddallah, or whatever you want to call it." With blunt fingers, she held up the fleshy
leaf and passed a beam of light through it, so that the intricate cellular designs showed
clearly. "Patterns within patterns, all tied together in complex relationships."
    In his drug-enhanced, euphoric state, Aurelius found the design hypnotic. "God is in
everything," he said. The stimulant he had taken seemed to supercharge his synapses.
He squinted through the illuminated fabric of the leaf as she pointed to the internal
shapes.
    'God is the mathematician of the universe. There is an ancient correlation known as
the Golden Mean, a pleasing ratio of form and structure that is found in this leaf, in
seashells, and in the living creatures of many planets. It is the tiniest part of the key,
known since the time of the Greeks and Egyptians of Earth. They used it in their
architecture and pyramids, in their Pythagorean pentagram and Fibonacci sequence."
She discarded the leaf. "But there is so much more."
    Nodding, Venport touched a moistened fingertip to a pouch of fine black powder at
his belt; he rubbed the powder under the sensitive tissue of his tongue and felt another
drug penetrating his senses, merging with the remnants of the last one. Norma kept
talking; though he did not follow her logical development, he was certain the revelations
must be fabulous.
    'Give me a practical example," he slurred. "Something with a function that I can
understand."
    He had grown accustomed to Norma spouting off obscure formulations. Her basis
might have been in classical geometry, but she applied her knowledge in much more
complex ways. "I can envision calculations all the way to infinity," she said, as if in a
trance. "I don't have to write them down."
    And she doesn't even need mind-enhancement drugs to accomplish it, Au-relius
marveled.
    'At this very moment I envision a huge and efficient structure that could be built at a
reasonable cost, tens of kilometers long—and based upon the ratio of the Golden
Mean."

   'But who would ever need something so immense?"
   'I cannot peer into the future, Aurelius." Norma teased him. Then they trudged
deeper into the weird jungle, still curious and intent on what they might discover.
Norma's face was radiant with energy. "But there might be something… something I
haven't thought of yet."
   Careful preparations and defenses can never guarantee victory. However, ignoring
these precautions is an almost certain recipe for defeat.
   —League Armada Strategy Manual

    For four months, Tercero Xavier Harkonnen and his six Armada survey vessels
traveled along a predetermined route, stopping to inspect and assess the military
facilities and defensive preparations of the League Worlds. After many years of no more
than a few skirmishes, no one knew where Omnius might strike next.
    Xavier had never wavered from the difficult decision he'd made during the cymek
attack on Zimia. The Viceroy had praised him for his nerve and determination; even so,
Manion Butler had wisely sent the young officer away during the major rebuilding
activities, giving Salusans time to heal their wounds without looking for a scapegoat.
    Xavier listened to no excuses from tightwad nobles unwilling to commit the
necessary resources. No expense must be spared. Any free world that fell to machine
aggression would be a loss for the entire human race.
    The survey ships traveled from the mines of Hagal to the broad river plains of
Poritrin, then made their way to Seneca where the weather was poor and the rain so
corrosive that even thinking machines would break down soon after a conquest.
    The League planets of Relicon followed, then Kirana III, then Rich-ese, with its
burgeoning high-tech industries that made so many other League noblemen uneasy. In
theory, the sophisticated manufacturing devices contained no computerization or
artificial intelligence, but there were always questions, always doubts.
    Finally Xavier's team arrived at their final inspection stop, Giedi Prime. At last, his
tour was about to end. He could return home, see Serena again, and they could make
good on their promises to each other…
    All other League Worlds had installed scrambler field towers. The shields' known
weakness against cymeks did not completely devalue Holtzman's ingenious work, and
the costly barriers still provided substantial protection against all-out thinking machine
offensives. In addition, every human world had long ago built up enormous stockpiles of
atomics as part of a doomsday defense. With so many nuclear warheads, an iron-willed
planetary governor could turn his world into slag rather than allowing it to fall to
Omnius.
    Although the thinking machines also had access to atomics, Omnius had concluded
that atomics were an inefficient and nonselective way to impose control, and radioactive
cleanup afterward was difficult. Besides, with unlimited resources and a deep reservoir
of patience, the relentless evermind had no need of such weapons.
    Now, as Xavier disembarked from the lead survey ship at the Giedi City spaceport,
he blinked under bright sunlight. The well-maintained metropolis sprawled in front of
him, with its habitation complexes and productive industrial buildings amid manicured
parks and canals. The colors were bright and fresh, and flowers bloomed in ornate beds,
although with his new Tlulaxa lungs and tissues he could smell only a hint of the most
potent scents, even when he breathed deeply.
    'This would be a fine place to bring Serena one day," he said wistfully as he stood in
the heat-shimmer of spaceship exhaust. If he married her, perhaps this would be a
suitable world for their honeymoon. During the current inspection tour, he had kept his
eyes open, trying to find a likely spot.
    After four months in space, Xavier missed Serena terribly. He knew the two of them
were destined for each other. His life operated on a smooth, clearly defined path. When
he returned to Salusa, he promised himself that he would formalize their betrothal. He
saw no point in waiting any longer.
    Viceroy Butler already treated him like a son, and the young officer had received the
blessing of his adoptive father Emil Tantor. As far as Xavier could determine, everyone
in the League agreed it would be a fine joining of noble houses.
    He smiled, thinking of Serena's face, of her intriguing lavender eyes… and then
looked across the landing field to see Magnus Sumi approaching the survey ships. The
elected leader was accompanied by a dozen members of the Giedi Prime Home Guard.
    The Magnus was a thin man in late middle age with pale skin and gray-blond hair
that hung to his shoulders. Sumi raised a hand. "Ah, Tercero Harkonnen! We welcome
the League Armada and are eager to see how Giedi Prime can improve its defenses
against the thinking machines."
    Xavier snapped a stiff bow in return. "Your cooperation pleases me, Eminence.
Against Omnius, we must not use low-cost materials or stopgap systems that would not
adequately protect your people."
    After the Battle of Zimia, Xavier's corps of engineers had made requests for
mandatory strategic improvements throughout the League. The nobles dug into their
coffers, increasing taxes on their subjects and spending the necessary money to build
up their defenses. At each stop, planet after planet, month after month, Xavier had
assigned teams of engineers and Armada troops where he deemed they were most
needed.
    Soon, though, he would be going back home. Soon. As the time drew near, he
thought of Serena more and more.
    Well dressed and well armed, the Home Guard stood at attention around the survey
ships. Magnus Sumi gestured for Xavier to follow him. "I look forward to clarifying
everything over a sumptuous banquet, Tercero Harkonnen. I've set up twelve fine
courses with dancers, musicians, and our best poets. You and I can relax in my
government residence while we discuss plans. I am certain you must be weary from
your journey. How long can you stay with us?"
    Xavier could form only a tight smile, thinking of how far away he was from Salusa
Secundus. Even after leaving Giedi Prime, the ships would still need another month of
fast space travel to return home. The sooner he departed here, the sooner he could
hold Serena in his arms again.
    'Eminence, this is the final stop on our long tour. If it pleases you, I would prefer to
spend less time with festivities and more on the inspection." He gestured toward his
survey ship. "We have a schedule to keep. I'm afraid I can allot only two days for Giedi
Prime. It is best that we concentrate on our work."
    The Magnus looked crestfallen. "Yes, I suppose celebration is not appropriate after
the damage done to Salusa Secundus."
    FOR TWO DAYS, Xavier gave the planetary defenses a quick, almost cursory
inspection. He found Giedi Prime to be a dazzling and prosperous world with many
resources, perhaps even a suitable place to settle down and start an estate of his own
one day.
    He gave a favorable assessment, accompanied by a warning. "This is undoubtedly a
planet the thinking machines will want to conquer, Eminence." He studied the city
blueprints and the distribution of resources across the main continents. "Any cymek
attack would most likely attempt to keep the industries intact so that robots could
exploit them. Omnius preaches efficiency."
    Beside him, Magnus Sumi reacted with pride. He pointed out substations on the
diagrams. "We intend to install secondary field-transmitting towers at several strategic
points." As he spoke, highlights appeared on the blueprint screen. "We have already
built a completely redundant transmitting station on one of the uninhabited islands in
the northern sea, which can provide full overlap from a polar projection. We hope to
have it online within another month."
    Xavier nodded distractedly, his mind weary from months of such details. "I am glad
to hear that, though I doubt a second transmitting complex is entirely necessary." "We
want to feel safe, Tercero."
    When the two men stood under silvery parabolic towers that throbbed into the sky
over Giedi City, Xavier paced around the plascrete embankments that blocked access to
large vehicles. He had no doubt a cymek warrior could easily crash through.
    'Eminence, I suggest you station more ground troops and obstacles here. Increase
your planetside missile-defense batteries to protect against any intrusion from space. On
Salusa, the cymek strategy was to focus their entire attack on the destruction of the
towers, and they might try that again." He rapped his knuckles against the tower's
heavy paristeel support pillar. "These shields are your first and last line of defense, your
most effective blockade against thinking machines. Do not neglect them."
    'Indeed. Our munitions factories are building heavy artillery and armored ground
vehicles. As soon as possible, we intend to surround this complex with a large
concentration of military power."
    As for the uncompleted secondary generating station, it was too isolated to be
protected from a massive assault. But its existence seemed to comfort the Magnus and
his populace.
    'Very good," Xavier said, then glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. Everything
was going so well, perhaps his survey ships could depart before sunset…
    The Magnus continued, his voice uncertain, "Tercero, are you concerned about Giedi
Prime's limited space military defenses? Our Home Guard has few large ships in orbit to
drive back an approaching machine fleet, and our picket ships and scouts are minimal. I
admit to feeling vulnerable in that area. What if Omnius attacks us directly from orbit?"
    'You have ground-based missile defenses in place, and they have always proved
reliable." Impatient, Xavier looked up into the clear sky. "I believe your best hope is to
protect your shield complex here on the ground. No quantity of Armada battleships can
match the deterrent power of scrambler shields. When the robot fleet attacking Salusa
realized they could not take down the scramblers, they retreated."
    'But what if they blockade Giedi Prime from orbit?"
    'Your world is self-sufficient enough to wait out any siege until the arrival of a
League rescue force." Anxious to be back at the spaceport, Xavier decided to appease
the governor. "Nevertheless, I will recommend that a javelin-class destroyer or two be
stationed around Giedi Prime."
    THAT EVENING, THE Magnus threw a departure banquet for the Armada service
performed on his behalf. "Someday," he said, "we may all thank you for our lives."
    Xavier excused himself midway through the meal. The food and wine seemed to lack
taste. "My apologies, Eminence, but my squadron must not miss the optimal departure
window." He bowed at the doorway, then hurried to his vessel. Some of his troops
would have liked to remain longer, but most were also eager to get home. They had
their own sweethearts and families, and these soldiers had more than earned furloughs.
    With his inspection tour behind him, Xavier left lovely Giedi Prime, confident that he
had seen and done everything necessary.
    And completely unaware of the vulnerabilities he had not bothered to discover. .
    In the process of becoming slaves to machines, we transferred tech' nical knowledge
to them—without imparting proper value systems.

   —PRIMERO FAYKAN BUTLER,

    Memoirs of the Jihad
    The Dream Voyager neared Earth, humanity's original home and now the central
Synchronized World. Though he remained attentive, Seurat allowed Vorian Atreides to
pilot the ship. "Such risks amuse me."
    Vor sniffed, looking at the unreadable expression on the copper skinfilm of the
cognizant machine. "I've proved myself to be a perfectly competent pilot—probably the
best of all the trustees."
    'For a human, I suppose, with sluggish reflexes and the frailties of a physical body
prone to infirmities."
    'At least my jokes are better than yours." Vor took the controls of the black-and-
silver ship. He showed off his skills, dodging asteroid rubble as he accelerated in a
slingshot curve around the heavy gravity of Jupiter. Alarms lit on the diagnostic panels.
    'Vorian, you are taking us beyond acceptable parameters. If we cannot break free of
Jupiter's gravity, we will burn up." The robot reached forward to reassert control on the
flight deck. "You must not endanger the Omnius updates we carry—"

    Vorian laughed at the trick he had just played. "Got you, old Metalmind! When you
weren't looking I recalibrated the alarm-sensor setpoints. Check with objective
instrumentation, and you'll see we've still got plenty of wiggle room."
    They easily pulled away from the gas giant. "You are correct, Vorian, but why would
you do such a brash thing?"
    'To see if a robot is capable of wetting his pants." Vor plotted a final approach vector
through the machine-operated surveillance stations and satellites orbiting Earth. "You'll
never understand practical jokes."
    'Very well, Vorian. I will keep trying—and practicing."

   Vor realized that he might one day regret teaching Seurat that type of humor.
   'Incidentally, I have more than metal in my brain, as do all thinking machines. Our
neurelectronics are only the most exotic alloys, in a network of optic threads, complex
polymers, gelcircuitry, and—

    'I'll keep calling you old Metalmind anyway. Just because it bothers you."
    'I will never understand human foolishness."
    For the sake of appearances, Seurat maintained command as the Dream Voyager
touched down at the bustling spaceport. "We have reached the end of another
successful route, Vorian Atreides."
    Grinning, the young man ran his fingers through long black hair. "We travel a
circular route, Seurat. A circle has no end."
    'Earth-Omnius is the beginning and the end."
    'You're too literal. That's why I beat you in so many strategy games."
    'Only forty-three percent of the time, young man," Seurat corrected. He activated
the exit ramp.
    'Around half." Vorian headed toward the hatch, anxious to get outside and breathe
fresh air. "Not bad for someone susceptible to illnesses, distractions, physical
weaknesses, and any number of other frailties. I'm gaining ground on you, too, if you
care to examine trends." He bounded down to the sprawling field of fused plascrete.
    Loader robots scurried among larger pieces of AI equipment that moved about on
glider fields. Small scouring drones climbed into engine tubes and exhaust cones;
maintenance machines scanned large drive components for needed repairs. Tanker
robots refueled parked starships, preparing each long-range vessel for any mission that
Omnius decreed in his infinite intelligence.
    As Vorian stood blinking in the sunlight, a giant cymek strode for
    IOO
    ward on jointed legs. The hybrid machine's inner workings were clearly visible:
hydraulics, sensor systems, blue-lightning nerve impulses transferred from electrafluid
to thoughtrodes. At the core of its artificial body hung the protected brain jar that
contained the mind of an ancient human general.
    The cymek swiveled its turret sensors, as if targeting him, then altered its path
toward Vor, raising its front grappling arms. Heavy pincers clacked.
    Vorian waved and rushed forward. "Father!"
    Since cymeks regularly exchanged temporary bodies in response to the physical
requirements of various activities, they were difficult to distinguish from each other.
However, Vor's father came to see him whenever the Dream Voyager returned from its
update-delivery missions.
    Many enslaved humans lived on the Synchronized Worlds, serving the evermind.
Omnius kept them on as token workers, though few had lives as important and
comfortable as Vorian's. Trustees like himself received special training, went through
rigorous instruction at elite schools for crew bosses and other important positions under
the machine domination.
    Vor had read about the glories of the Titans and knew the stories of his father's
great conquests. Raised under the evermind's wing and trained by his cymek father, the
young man had never questioned the world order or his own loyalty to Omnius.
    Knowing the robot captain's moderate temperament, Agamemnon had used
considerable influence to obtain a spot for his son on Seurat's update ship, an enviable
assignment even among the chosen trustees. As an independent robot, Seurat did not
mind the young man's company, suggesting that Vor's unpredictable personality was an
asset to their missions. Occasionally, Omnius himself asked Vor to participate in role-
playing simulations to better understand the capabilities of feral humans.
    Without fear, Vorian now raced across the landing field to stand beside the weapon-
studded cymek, who towered over him. The young man stared fondly at the suspended
brain case of his ancient father, with its strange mechanical face now on the underside.
    'Welcome back." Agamemnon's vocal patches made his voice deep and paternal.
"Seurat has already uploaded his report. Once again, you have made me proud. You are
one step closer to meeting our goals." He swiveled his turret around, reversing the
direction of progress, and Vor ian trotted beside the armored legs as Agamemnon
strode away from the ship.
    'If only my fragile body survives long enough to accomplish everything," Vor said
wistfully. "I can't wait to be selected as a neo-cymek."
    'You are only twenty, Vorian. Too young to be morbidly concerned about your
mortality."
    Overhead, resource haulers dropped from orbit, balanced atop yellow-white flames
that slowed their descent. Loadcars manned by human workers trundled up to where
ships had landed, preparing to distribute cargoes according to rigid instructions. Vor
glanced at the slaves but did not ponder their situation. Each person had his own duties,
every human and machine a cog in the Synchronized Worlds. But Vor was superior to
the others, since he had a chance to become like his father one day. A cymek.
    They passed unmarked warehouses with computerized monitoring and inventory
systems where fuel and supplies were stored. Human clerical personnel dispersed food
and materials from storehouses to slaves inside the city. Inspectors—some robotic,
some human—performed quality control and quantity assessments for the larger-scale
plans of Omnius.

    Vor could not comprehend the lives of the uneducated workers who unloaded heavy
crates at the space dock. The slave laborers performed duties that a simple loading
machine could have done faster and more efficiently. But he was pleased that even
these lesser people had tasks they could perform in order to earn their subsistence.
    'Seurat told me about Salusa Secundus, Father." He maintained a quick pace to
match the cymek's huge strides. "I'm sorry your assault was unsuccessful."
    'Just a test case," Agamemnon said. "The feral humans have a new defensive
system, and now we have probed it."
    Vor beamed. "I'm sure you'll discover a way to bring all hrethgir under the efficient
rule of Omnius. Like the times described in your memoirs, when Titans were in complete
control."
    Inwardly, the cymek general frowned at the comments. Agamemnon's optic threads
detected numerous watcheyes floating around them as the two walked. "I do not wish
for the old days, of course," he said, presently. "You have been reading my memoirs
again?"
    'I never tire of your stories, Father. The Time of Titans, the great
    Tlaloc, the First Hrethgir Rebellions… everything is so fascinating." Accompanying
the magnificent cymek made Vor feel special. He always remained alert, within the
limitations of his position, for ways to better himself. He wanted to prove himself worthy
of the opportunities he'd been given… and of more. "I would be happy to learn of this
new hrethgir defensive system, Father. Perhaps I can assist you in finding a way to
defeat it?"
    'Omnius is analyzing the data and will decide what to do. I have only recently arrived
back on Earth."
    With human ambitions still a fundamental part of their psyches, the Titans always
had monumental construction projects under way: mega-lithic buildings and monuments
to themselves that celebrated the lost age of humanity and glorified the Time of Titans.
Captive human artists and architects were ordered to develop original designs and
sketches that the cymeks modified or approved.
    Nearby, machinery lifted the components of skyscraper buildings into place, adding
upper floors to existing complexes, though the thinking machines had little need for
further expansion. At times, the extravagant construction seemed to Vor like mere busy-
work for the slaves…
    He had never known his mother, and understood only that ages ago, before the
Titans had surgically converted themselves into cymeks, Agamemnon had created his
own sperm bank, from which he had germinated Vorian. Over the centuries, the general
could create any number of offspring using acceptable surrogate mothers.
    Though he had never learned about any siblings, Vorian suspected they were out
there somewhere. He wondered what it would be like to meet them, but in machine
society, emotional attachments were not practical. He only hoped that his siblings had
not proven to be disappointments to Agamemnon.
    When his father was off on his frequent missions, Vor often tried to talk with the
remaining Titans, curious about the events recorded in Agamemnon's celebrated and
voluminous memoirs. He used his responsible position to better himself. Some of the
original cymeks—especially Ajax—were arrogant and treated Vor as a nuisance. Others,
like Juno or Barbarossa, found him amusing. All of them spoke with utmost passion
about Tlaloc, the first of the great Titans, who had sparked the revolution.

    'I wish I'd been able to meet Tlaloc," Vor said, trying to keep the conversation going.
Agamemnon loved to speak of his glory days.
    'Yes, Tlaloc was a dreamer with ideas I had never heard before," the cymek mused
as he strode down the boulevards. "At times he was a bit nai've, not always
understanding the practical repercussions of his ideas. But I pointed them out to him.
That was why we made such a great team."
    Agamemnon seemed to pick up speed when he spoke of the Titans. Weary from
trying to keep up the rapid pace, Vorian gasped for breath.
    'Tlaloc took his name from an ancient rain god. Among the Titans, Tlaloc was our
visionary, while I was the military commander. Juno was our tactician and manipulator.
Dante watched over statistics, bureaucracy, and population-accounting. Barbarossa saw
to the reprogramming of the thinking machines, making certain they had the same
goals as we did. He gave them ambition."
    'And a good thing, too," Vorian said.
    Agamemnon hesitated, but did not voice any objections, wary of the watcheyes.
"When he visited Earth, Tlaloc realized how the human race had gone stagnant, how
people had become so dependent on machines that they had nothing left but apathy.
Their goals were gone, their drive, their passion. When they should have had nothing to
do but unleash their creative impulses, they were too lazy to perform even the work of
the imagination." His vocal speakers made a disgusted sound.
    'But Tlaloc was different," Vor said, on cue.
    The cymek's voice took on more emotion. "Tlaloc grew up in the Thalim system, on
an outer colony world where life was difficult, where labor was not accomplished
without sweat, blood, and blisters. He had to fight his way and earn his position. On
Earth, he saw that the human spirit had all but died—and the people hadn't even
noticed!

    'He gave speeches attempting to rally the humans, to make them see what was
happening. A few watched him with interest, considering him a novelty." Agamemnon
raised one of his powerful metal arms. "But they heard his words only as a diversion.
Soon the bored audiences returned to their slothful, hedonistic pursuits."
    'But not you, Father."
    'I was dissatisfied with my uneventful life. I had already met Juno, and the two of us
had dreams. Tlaloc crystallized them for us. After Juno and I joined him, we set in
motion the events that led to the downfall of the Old Empire."
    Father and son arrived at the central complex where the Earth-Omnius resided,
although redundant nodes of the evermind were distributed around the planet in a
network of armored vaults and high towers. Vorian followed the cymek into the main
structure, eager to do his part. This was a ritual they had completed many times.
    The walker body strode through wide halls and entered a maintenance facility filled
with lubricant tubes, bubbling nutrient cylinders, polished tabletops, and flickering
analysis systems. Vor retrieved a tool kit, then turned on vacuum hoses and high-
pressure water jets, found soft rags and polishing lotions. He considered it his most
important task as a trustee.
    In the center of the sterile room, Agamemnon halted beneath a lifting apparatus. A
magnetic claw-hand came down and attached itself to the preservation canister that
held his ancient brain. Neural connection ports popped open, and thoughtrode cables
spiraled away. The lifting arm raised the canister, still attached to temporary batteries
and life-support systems.
    Vorian came forward with an armload of equipment. "I know you can't feel this,
Father, but I like to think it makes you more comfortable and efficient." He blasted the
connection ports with high-pressure air and streams of warm water, using a wadded
cloth to polish every surface. The cymek general transmitted wordless gratified
murmurings.
    Vor completed the cleaning and polishing, then adjusted wires and cables and
hooked up diagnostics. "All functions optimal, Father."
    'With your attentive maintenance, it is no wonder. Thank you, my son. You take
such good care of me."
    'It is my honor to do so."
    His synthesized voice purring, Agamemnon said, "One day, Vorian, if you continue
serving me so well, I will recommend you for the greatest reward. I will ask Omnius to
surgically convert you into a cymek, like me.
    At the mention of this wonderful prospect, Vorian again polished the canister, then
looked lovingly at the creamy contours of the brain inside. He tried to hide his flush of
eager embarrassment, but tears came to his eyes. "That is the best a human can hope
for."
   Humans, with such fragik physical forms, are easily crushed. Is it any challenge to
hurt or damage them?
   —ERASMUS, uncollated laboratory files

    Gazing out upon the skies of Earth again through hundreds of appraising optic
threads, Erasmus was not pleased. The robot stood in a high bell tower of his villa,
staring through a curving expanse of armored windowplate. The landscape of this
world, with its oceans and forests and cities built upon the bones of other cities had
already seen countless civilizations rise and fall. The scope of history made his own
accomplishments seem small and contrived.
    Therefore, he would have to try harder.
    Neither Omnius nor any of his delegated architect robots understood true beauty. To
Erasmus, the buildings and the layout of the rebuilt city resembled components with
sharp angles, abrupt discontinuities. A city must be more than an efficient circuit
diagram. Under his multiphased scrutiny, the metropolis looked like an elaborate
mechanism, designed and constructed with utilitarian force. It had its own clean lines
and systematic efficiency, which resulted in a completely serendipitous beauty… but
there was no finesse whatsoever.
    It was such a disappointment when the omniscient ever-mind refused to live up to
his potential. Sometimes, gloriously unrealistic human ambitions had a certain merit.
    Omnius either ignored or intentionally refuted the graceful beauty of Golden Age
human architecture. But such cold and petulant superiority was not logical. Admittedly,
Erasmus could see a certain beauty in streamlined machines and components—he
rather liked his own burnished platinum skinfilm, the smooth grace of his mirrored face
with which he formed facial expressions. But he saw no point in maintaining ugliness
just to spite a perceived enemy's concept of beauty.

     How could a vast computer mind distributed across hundreds of planets exhibit even
a hint of narrow-mindedness? To Erasmus, with his detached and mature understanding
developed through long contemplation, Omnius's attitude revealed a lack of
comprehensive thinking.
     Making the sound of an exaggerated sigh that he had copied from humans, he
transmitted a thought-command that caused projection shades to drop over the
windows in the bell tower. Choosing his mood, he projected artificial, pastoral views
from other worlds. So soothing and peaceful.
     On one wall he paused at a clothing synthesizer, selected the design he wanted, and
waited while a garment was prepared for him. A traditional painter's smock. When it
was ready, he draped it over his sleek body and crossed the room to an easel where he
had already set up a blank canvas, a palette of paints, and fine brushes.
     At a wave of his hand, the projection shades shifted to display enlarged images of
masterpiece paintings, each one highlighting a different great master. He selected
"Cottages at Cordeville" by an ancient Earth artist, Vincent Van Gogh. It was bold and
colorful but basically crude in its implementation, with inept lines and childish pigment
applications that featured thick globs of paint and smears of color. Yet when considered
as a whole, the painting itself possessed a certain raw energy, an indefinable primitive
vibrancy.
     After deep concentration, Erasmus thought he had a delicate understanding of Van
Gogh's technique. But the comprehension of why anyone would want to create it in the
first place eluded him.
     Although he had never painted before, he copied the artwork exactly. Brushstroke
for brushstroke, pigment for pigment. When he was finished, Erasmus examined his
masterpiece. "There, the sincerest form of flattery."
     The nearest wall-mounted screen brightened to a pale gray wash of light. Omnius
had been watching, as always. Erasmus would no doubt have to justify his activities,
since the evermind would never understand what the independent robot was doing.
     He studied the painting again. Why was it so hard to understand creativity? Should
he just change some of the components at random and call it an original work? As the
robot finished his scrutiny, satisfied that he had made no mistakes, that he had not
deviated from the tolerances he could see in the image of the painting, Erasmus waited
for a rush of comprehension.
    Slowly, he came to realize that what he had just completed was not really art, any
more than a printing press created literature. He had only copied the ancient
composition in every detail. He had added nothing, synthesized no newness. And he
burned with the need to understand the difference.
    Frustrated, Erasmus took a different tack. In an implacable voice, he summoned
three servants and ordered them to carry his painting supplies out to one of the
laboratory buildings. "I intend to create a new work of art, all my own. A still life, of
sorts. You three will be vital parts of the process. Rejoice in your good fortune."
    In the sterile environment of the laboratory, with the cold assistance of his personal
robot guards, Erasmus proceeded to vivisect the trio of victims, oblivious to their
screams. "I want to get to the heart of the matter," he quipped, "the lifeblood of it."
    With stained metal hands he studied the dripping organs, squeezed them, watched
their juices flow and cellular structures collapse. He performed a cursory analysis,
discovering sloppy mechanics and inefficient circulatory systems that were unnecessarily
complex and prone to failure. Then, feeling a vibrant energy, an impulsiveness, Erasmus
set up a tableau to paint. A new work, completely unique! It would be his own
arrangement, and he would tint the images using different filters, making a few
intentional mistakes to better approximate human imperfection and uncertainty.
    At last, he must be on the right track.
    At his command, the sentinel robots brought in a vat filled with fresh, uncoagulated
human blood. Erasmus began removing the interesting array of human organs—still
warm to the touch—from his table, and instructed two cleaning drones to scrape out the
insides from the donor bodies. Contemplating the arrangement and order, he dropped
organ after organ into the blood and watched them bob in the liquid—eyes, livers,
kidneys, hearts.

    Slowly assessing each step of the process, he set up exactly what his "creative
urges" told him to do. Whim upon whim. Erasmus added more ingredients to the grisly
stew. Pursuant to something he had learned about the artist Van Gogh, he sliced an ear
off one of the corpses and tossed it into the vat as well.
    Finally, his metal hands dripping gore, he stepped back. A beautiful arrangement—
one that was totally original to him. He could think of no famous human artist who had
worked on such a canvas. No one else had ever done anything approaching this.

    Erasmus wiped his smooth metallic hands and began to paint upon a virgin canvas.
On the blank medium, he astutely drew one of the three hearts, showing in perfect
detail the ventricals, auricles, and aorta. But this was not meant to be a realistic
dissection image. Dissatisfied, he smeared some of the lines to add an artistic flair. True
art required the right amount of uncertainty, just as gourmet cooking needed the proper
spices and flavors.
    This must be how creativity worked. As he painted, Erasmus tried to imagine the
kinesthetic relationship between his brain and his mechanical fingers, the thought
impulses that set the fingers into motion.
     'Is that what the humans define as art?" Omnius said from a wall-screen.
     For once, Erasmus did not debate with the evermind. Omnius was correct in his
skepticism. Erasmus had not attained true creativity. Yes, he had produced an original
and graphic arrangement. But in human artwork, the sum of the components added up
to more than the individual items. Just ripping organs from victims, floating them in
blood, and painting them brought him no closer to understanding human inspiration.
Even if he manipulated the details, he remained imprecise and uninspired.
     Still, this might be a step in the right direction.
     Erasmus could not carry this thought to the next logical step, and he came to
understand why. The process was not ratiocinative at all. Creativity and the precision of
analysis were mutually exclusive.
     Frustrated, the robot gripped the macabre painting in his powerful hands, broke the
frame, and tore the canvas to shreds. He would have to do better than this, much
better. Erasmus shifted his metallic polymer face to a stylized pensive mask. He was no
closer to comprehending humans, despite a century of intensive research and musings.
     Walking slowly, Erasmus went to his private sanctuary, a botanical garden where he
listened to classical music piped through the cellular structures of plants. "Rhapsody in
Blue," by a composer of Old Earth.
     In the contemplative garden, the troubled robot sat in the ruddy sunlight and felt
warmth on his metal skin. This was another thing that humans seemed to enjoy, but he
did not understand why. Even with his sensory enhancement module, it just seemed like
heat.
   And machines that overheated broke down.
   IIO
     The tapestry of the universe is vast and complex, with infinite patterns. While
threads of tragedy may form the primary weave, humanity with its undaunted optimism
still manages to embroider small designs of happiness and love.
   —COGITOR KWYNA, City of Introspection archives

    After his long sojourn in space, Xavier could think only of being home, and back in
the warm embrace of Serena Butler.
    On furlough, he returned to the Tantor estate where he was welcomed by his
adoptive parents and their enthusiastic son Vergyl. The Tantors were a soft-spoken
older couple, gentle and intelligent, with dark skin and hair the color of thick smoke.
Xavier seemed to be cut from the same mold, with similar interests and high moral
values. He had grown up in this warm and spacious manor house, which he still
considered home. Though he had legally inherited other Harkonnen holdings—mining
and industrial operations on three planets—many rooms in the Tantor mansion were still
set aside for his use.

   As he entered his familiar large suite, Xavier found a pair of shaggy gray wolfhounds
awaiting him, wagging their tails. He dropped his bags and wrestled with the dogs. The
animals, larger than his little brother, were always playful and delighted to see him.
   That evening, the family feasted on the cook's specialty of sage fowl roasted with
honey, slivered nuts, and olives from the Tantors' own groves. Unfortunately, after his
exposure to the cymeks' searing gas, the subtle nuances of flavors and aromas now
eluded him. The cook gave him an alarmed look when he dumped salt and seasoning—
which he needed to taste anything at all—onto the delicate food.

    Another thing the thinking machines had taken from him.
    Afterward, Xavier lounged in a heavy oak chair before a roaring fire, sipping a red
wine from the Tantor family vineyards—also, unfortunately, nearly tasteless. He
luxuriated in relaxing at home, away from military protocol. He had spent almost half a
year aboard the efficient but bare-bones Armada survey ships; tonight he would sleep
like a babe in his own bedchamber.

    One of the gray wolfhounds snored loudly, resting a furry muzzle on Xavier's
stockinged feet. Emil Tantor, with a fringe of smoky hair around his bald crown, sat in
the chair opposite his adopted son. Emil asked about the strategic positions of the
Synchronized Worlds and the military capabilities of the Armada. "What are the chances
of the war escalating after the attack on Zimia? Can we ever do more than drive them
back?"
    Xavier finished his wine, poured another half glass for himself and a full one for the
older man, then sat back in the chair again, all without disturbing the gray dog. "The
situation looks grim, Father." Barely remembering his own parents, he had always called
the Tantor lord his father. "But, then, it has always looked grim, ever since the Time of
Titans. Perhaps we lived too comfortably in the days of the Old Empire. We forgot how
to be ourselves, how to live up to our potential, and for a thousand years afterward
we've paid the price. We were easy prey—first for evil men, then for soulless machines."

    Emil Tantor sipped his wine, and stared into the fireplace. "So is there hope, at
least? We must have something to cling to."
    Xavier's lips formed a gentle smile. "We are human, Father. As long as we hold onto
that, there is always hope."
    THE NEXT DAY Xavier sent a message to the Butler estate, asking permission to
accompany the Viceroy's daughter on the annual bristle-back hunt, scheduled in two
days. Serena would already know that Xa vier had returned. His survey ships had
arrived with much fanfare, and Manion Butler would have been expecting his note.
    Still, Salusan society was formal and extravagant. In order to court the beautiful
daughter of the Viceroy, one had to bow to certain expectations.
    In late morning a messenger pounded on the doors of the Tantor manor house;
Vergyl stood beside his big brother, grinning when he saw the expression on Xavier's
face. "What is it? Can I come along? Did the Viceroy say yes?"
    Xavier made a mock-stern expression. "How could he possibly turn down the man
who saved Salusa Secundus from the cymeks? Remember that, Vergyl, if you ever wish
to win the affections of a young lady."
    'I need to save a planet just to have a girlfriend?" The boy sounded skeptical,
though wary of outright disbelief when it came to Xavier's words.
    'For a woman as magnificent as Serena, that is exactly what you must do." He
strode into the great house to tell the Tantors his plans. The next dawn, Xavier dressed
in his finest equestrian outfit and rode into brightening daylight toward the Butler
property. He borrowed his father's chocolate-brown Salusan stallion, a fine beast with a
braided mane, narrow muzzle, and bright eyes. The animal's ears were large, and its
gait flowed without the jarring rhythm of less conditioned horses. On the crest of a
grassy hill stood a cluster of ornate whitewashed buildings—a main house, stables,
servants' quarters, and storage sheds arranged as outbuildings along the perimeter of a
split-rail fence. As his horse climbed, he saw impressive vistas of the white spires of
Zimia far behind him.

     A path paved with crushed limestone wound up to the crest. The gravel crunched
under the stallion's hooves as Xavier rode, breathing the crisp air. He could feel the
moist chill of early spring, saw fresh leaves on the trees, a dazzle of wildflowers in their
first bloom. But each breath he drew into his new lungs smelled flat.
     Grapevines lined the hill like green corduroy, carefully tended and watered, each
vine tied to cables between stakes so that the clusters would hang off the ground for
easy picking. Twisted olive trees surrounded the main house, their low branches awash
with white flowers. Each year, the first pressings of grapes and olives were cause for
feasting in every Salusan household; local vineyards vied against each other to see
which could produce the best vintages.
     As Xavier rode through the gates and into the courtyard, other horsemen in hunting
outfits milled about. Barking dogs dodged around the stallion's legs, but the chocolate-
brown horse stood majestically, ignoring the hounds as if they were ill-mannered little
boys.
     Contract huntsmen grabbed the leashes and pulled the dogs back into order. A
number of short black hunting horses pranced about, as impatient as the dogs. Two of
the huntsmen whistled loudly and others joined them, ready to begin the day's
festivities.
     Manion Butler strolled out of the stables, calling up his team like a military
commander positioning troops for battle. He glanced at the young officer, raised a hand
in greeting.
     Then Xavier saw Serena riding out on a gray mare with beautiful lines and an ornate
saddle. She wore high boots, jodhpurs, and a black riding jacket. Her eyes were like
electric sparks as her gaze met his.
     She cantered over to where Xavier sat astride his mount, a smile forming at the
edges of her mouth. Even with all the barking dogs, restless horses, and shouting
huntsmen, Xavier wanted to kiss her so badly that he could barely restrain himself. Yet
Serena remained coolly formal, extending a gloved hand in greeting. He took it, holding
her fingertips.
     How he wished he could be telepathic like the Sorceresses of Rossak, just to send
her his thoughts. But from the obvious delight suffusing her face, he thought Serena
understood his feelings well enough, and reciprocated them.
     'The journeys across space were so long," he said. "And I thought about you all the
time."
    'AH the time? You should have been concentrating on your duties." She gave him a
skeptical smile. "Perhaps we can find time alone during today's hunt, and you will tell
me what you dreamed of."
    Playfully, she urged her gray mare to trot over to where her father waited.
Conscious of the eyes watching them, she and Xavier maintained an acceptable
distance. He rode forward and clasped her father's black-gloved hand. "I thank you for
allowing me to participate in the hunt, Viceroy."
    Manion Butler's florid face rearranged itself into a grin. "I'm glad you could join us,
Tercero Harkonnen. This year I'm certain we'll track down a bristleback. The beasts are
definitely in these woods—and I, for one, have been craving hams and roasts. And
bristlebacon, especially. There's nothing like it."

    Her eyes dancing, Serena looked at him. "Perhaps, Father, if you brought along
fewer barking dogs, galloping horses, and men crashing through the underbrush, some
of those shy animals would be easier to find."
    In response, Manion smiled as if she were still a precocious little girl. Glancing at
Xavier, he said, "I'm glad you'll be there to protect her, young man."
    The Viceroy raised his right arm. Horns sounded and a brass gong clanged from the
stables. The purebred hounds began to bay, clustering toward the far fence. Ahead, the
path led beyond the blossoming olive groves and into the scrubby Salusan forest. Two
eager-eyed boys swung open the gates, already anticipating their first bristleback hunt.
    The party rode out like a rowdy gang, dogs pushing first through the gates, followed
by the big horses that carried the professional huntsmen. Manion Butler rode with them,
blowing an antique bugle that had been with his family since Bovko Manresa's first
settlement on Salusa.
    The followers rode lesser mounts, hurrying behind the horses. These helper crews
would set up camp and dress and skin whatever wild game the huntsmen caught. They
would also prepare the feast once the party returned to the main house.
    The hunters had already spread out, with each chief taking a point and plunging into
the outskirts of the forest. Unhurried, Xavier and Serena trotted toward the dark green
woods. One bright-eyed young man, trailing behind, glanced over his shoulder and
winked at Xavier, as if he knew that the young couple had no intention of enjoying the
hunt for its own sake.
    Xavier urged his stallion forward. Serena rode beside him, and they chose their own
path through thinning trees to a muddy streambed wet with spring flow. Smiling
secretively at each other, they listened to the distant sounds of dogs and her father's
continuing bugle blasts.
    The Butler's private forest covered hundreds of acres, crisscrossed by game trails.
Mostly it was left as a preserve, with meadows and sparkling creeks, nesting birds, and
lush patches of flowers that bloomed in successive splashes of color as the patches of
crusty snow faded.
    Xavier was simply happy to be alone with Serena. Riding side by
    '
    side, they brushed arms and shoulders, intentionally. He would reach up to hold
green branches away from her face, and Serena pointed out birds and small animals,
identifying them.
    In his comfortable hunting outfit, Xavier carried a sheathed ceremonial dagger, a
bullwhip, and a Chandler pistol that shot jacketed crystal fragments. Serena carried her
own knife and a small pistol. But neither of them expected to bring down any prey. To
them, their hunt was for each other, and both knew it.
    Serena chose her path without hesitation, as if she had spent time during Xavier's
survey mission riding through the forest in search of places where they could be alone.
Finally, she led him through a stand of dark pines to a meadow with tall grasses, starlike
flowers, and thick reeds taller than her head. The reeds surrounded a mirror-smooth
pond, a shallow old tarn created by winter snow melt and refreshed by an underground
spring.
    'The water has bubbles in it," she said. "It tingles your skin." "Does that mean you
want to go for a swim?" Xavier's throat tightened at the prospect.
    'It'll be cold, but the spring has some natural heat. I'm willing to risk it." With a
smile, Serena dismounted and let her mare graze. She heard a splash out in the pond,
but the reeds blocked their view.
    'Sounds like a lot of fish, too," Xavier said. He slid down from his stallion, patted the
muscular neck, and let his mount sniff at the thick grasses and flowers near the gray
mare.
    Serena pulled off her riding boots and stockings, then lifted her loose jodhpurs
above her knees as she walked barefoot into the rushes. "I'm going to test the water."
She pushed the hollow grasses aside.
    Xavier checked the fastenings on his stallion's saddle. He worked open one of the
leather compartments and brought out a bottle of fresh citrus water to share. He
followed Serena toward the reeds, already imagining how it would be to swim beside
her, just the two of them stroking naked through this lonely forest lake, kissing each
other…
    Without warning, a monstrous bristleback charged out of the reeds, spraying mud
and water from its cool wallowing hole. Serena let out a cry, more of alarm than terror,
and fell backward into the mud.
    The bristleback pawed at the rushes with its cloven hooves. Long tusks protruded
from a squarish snout, each a bony maul for uprooting saplings and eviscerating
enemies. The animal had wide-set eyes, large and black. It made loud grunts as if
preparing to breathe fire. In tales of great bristleback hunts, many men, hunting dogs,
and horses had died—but there were so few of the animals anymore.

    'Into the water, Serena!"
    The bristleback turned as it heard his shout. Serena did exactly as Xavier said,
splashing away from the rushes, deeper into the pond. She began to swim, knowing the
boar could not charge her if she was in deep enough water.
    The bristleback stomped out of the rushes. The two horses squealed and skittered
back toward the edge of the meadow.
    'Look out, Xavier!" Waist deep now, Serena drew her hunting knife, but knew she
couldn't help him.
    Xavier planted his legs firmly, held a knife in one hand and the Chandler pistol in the
other. Without flinching, he aimed the crystal-shard weapon and shot the bristleback
three times in the face. The sharp projectiles tore through the animal's cheek and
forehead, gouging the thick skull. Another shot splintered one of the tusks. But the
bristleback kept charging toward him, caught up in its own solitary stampede.
    Xavier fired twice more. The mangled creature bled profusely, mortally wounded—
but even imminent death did not diminish its momentum. As the beast thundered
toward him, Xavier jumped to one side and slashed the sharp knife across its throat,
opening jugular and carotid vessels. The bristleback turned, gushing blood upon him
even as its heart began to fade.

    The weight of the falling creature knocked Xavier to the ground, but he wrestled it
away, avoiding the convulsive thrusts of the razor tusks. The killing done, Xavier
climbed back to his feet and staggered away, shivering in shock. His hunting outfit was
soaked with the beast's blood.
    He sprinted into the trampled rushes at the edge of the water. "Se rena!
    'I'm all right," she called, splashing toward the shore.
    He looked at his reflection in the placid pond, saw his shirt and face covered with
gore. He hoped none of it was his own. He cupped his hands and splashed cool water
on his skin, then dunked his head to wash the stink from his hair. He scrubbed his
hands with peaty sand.
    Serena came to him, her clothes drenched, wet hair clinging to her skull. She used a
comer of her riding jacket to dab the blood from his neck and cheeks. Then she opened
his shirt, wiping his chest as well.
    'I don't have a scratch on me," he said, not sure if it was true. The skin on one side
of his neck felt raw and hot, as if chafed, and his chest was sore from the collision with
the attacker. He clutched her arm, pulling her closer. "Are you sure you're not hurt? You
aren't cut, no bones broken?"
    'You're asking me?" she said with teasing disbelief. "I'm not the brave boar fighter
here."
    Serena kissed him. Her lips were cold from the water, but he held them against his
own, awakening her touch with his until their mouths opened slightly, their breath warm
inside each other as the kiss deep-ened. He took her from the edge of the pond,
through the rushes, and to the soft meadow grass, far from the dead bristleback.
    The young lovers stroked the wet hair away from their ears and eyes, and kissed
again. The brush with death made them feel intensely alive. Xavier's skin was hot, and
his heart kept pounding, even though the danger was past. A new excitement mounted.
He wished he could better enjoy the seductive scent of her perfume, but could detect
only a tantalizing thread.
    Serena's sodden clothes were cold, and Xavier noticed goosebumps on her pale
arms. All he could think to do was to remove the wet fabric. "Here, let me warm you."
    She helped him unfasten the black riding jacket and her blouse while her own
fingers worked at his bloodstained shirt. "Just to make certain you're not hurt," Serena
said. "I don't know what I would have done if you'd been killed." Her words came fast
and hard between kisses.
    'It takes more than a wild boar to keep me away from you."
    She yanked his shirt down over his shoulders and fumbled with his cuff so she could
take it off entirely. The meadow was soft and lush. The horses munched patiently on
grasses as Xavier and Serena made love without restraint, expressing their pent-up
passions, whispering and then shouting their love for each other.
    The rest of the hunting party seemed far away, even though Xavier had killed a
bristleback and would have a dramatic story to tell during the evening's feast. Of
course, certain details would need to be omitted…
    For the moment, the war with the thinking machines did not exist. In this brief and
heady hour, they were just two human beings, alone and in love.
   There is a certain hubris to science, a belief that the more we develop technology
and the more we learn, the better our lives will be.
   —TLALOC, A Time for Titans

    ,'% nythir
    A 1*nius.
    nything imagined can be made real… given sufficient
    Tio Holtzman had said as much in a hundred speeches at the Lords Council on
Poritrin. His concepts and achievements sparked dreams and fostered confidence in
human technological capabilities against the thinking machines.
    The mantra had also been picked up by his patron, Lord Niko Bludd, and by
representatives in the League of Nobles. Early in his career, Holtzman had realized that
it was not always the best scientists who received the accolades or funding. Instead, it
was the best showmen, the most effective politicians.
    To be sure, Savant Holtzman was an adequate scientist. He had an exceptional
technical background and had achieved marked success with his inventions and
weapons systems, all of which had been put to good use against Om-nius. But he had
arranged for more publicity and attention than the inventions themselves warranted.
Through his oratory skills and by coloring certain details, he had constructed a pedestal
of fame on which he now stood. Holtzman had made himself into the Hero of Poritrin,
rather than just an other nameless inventor. His ability to enchant audiences, to spark a
sense of wonder and possibility in their minds, exceeded his scientific skills.
    To maintain his mythology, Holtzman constantly hungered for new ideas—which
required inspiration and long periods of uninterrupted thought. He liked to let
possibilities roll like pebbles down a steep mountain slope. Sometimes the pebbles
would come to rest, making a bit of noise but ultimately yielding nothing; on other
occasions, such notions might spark an avalanche.

   Anything imagined can be made real.
   But first it must be imagined, seen in the vision of the creator.
   After returning home from the devastation on Salusa Secundus, he had booked
himself a private cabin aboard a luxurious driftbarge, one of the quiet zeppelin craft that
rose from the delta city of Starda and drifted inland on currents of warm air, cruising
across the seemingly endless Poritrin plains.
    Holtzman stood on the driftbarge's open deck, looking at the grasslands that flowed
in a sea of green and brown, dappled with lakes. Below him, birds flew like schools of
fish. The slow aircraft floated with no hurry, no schedule.
    He stared toward the open horizon. Limitless distances, endless possibilities.
Hypnotic, meditative… inspirational. Such places opened his mind, allowed him to
pursue crazy concepts and run them down like a predator pursuing prey.
    The driftbarge passed over geometric shapes like tattoos on the ground, carefully
sectioned acreage for the labor-intensive farming of sweet cane. Other fields grew
plump grains and fibrous threads to make Poritrin cloth. Armies of human slaves worked
the farms and ranches like insects from a hive.
    Following a bucolic derivative of Navachristianity, the people of Poritrin had outlawed
computerized harvesting apparatus and restored their society to humbler roots. Without
sophisticated machinery, they required a great deal of manual labor. Long ago, Sajak
Bludd had been the first League nobleman to introduce actual slavery as a means of
making large-scale agriculture viable.
    That Poritrin lord had justified his act by choosing only those who owed a debt to
humanity, mostly Buddislamic cowards who had fled instead of fighting against the
repressive Titans and thinking machines. If they hadn't been afraid to help defend
humanity, Sajak Bludd said, their added numbers might have been enough to turn the
tide of war. Working the fields was a small enough price for their descendants to pay—
—

    Holtzman paced the driftbarge's deck, acquired a fluted glass of sugary juice from a
server, and sipped it as he pondered. Looking down at the sea of grasses, he relished
his mental sojourn. No distractions… but as yet no inspiration, either. The great scientist
often embarked on such journeys to pull his thoughts together, simply staring and
thinking—and working, though everyone else aboard seemed to be taking a holiday.

   Because of Holtzman's previous successes, Niko Bludd gave him free reign to
develop whatever innovative defenses and weapons struck his fancy. Unfortunately,
during the past year the scientist had faced a growing conviction that he was running
out of ideas.
   Genius was nothing without creative impulse. Of course, the Savant could coast for a
while on his earlier triumphs. Still, he had to offer up new inventions regularly, or even
Lord Bludd would begin to doubt him.
   Holtzman could never permit that. It was a matter of pride.
   He'd been embarrassed that the cymeks so easily penetrated his scrambler shields
on Salusa Secundus. How could he—and all the other engineers and technicians on the
project—have ignored the fact that cymeks had human minds, not AI gelcircuitry? It
was a significant, devastating lapse.
    Still, the outpouring of faith and hope—not to mention substantial funding—made
him feel a crippling pressure. The people would never allow him to retire now. He must
find some other solution, save the day once more.

    While back in the blufftop laboratories at his Starda residence, he searched
constantly, reading dissertations and theoretical papers transmitted to him, combing
them for exploitable possibilities. Many of the reports were esoteric, beyond even his
comprehension, but occasionally an idea struck his fancy.
    Holtzman had brought along numerous recordings for this mental sojourn over the
Poritrin plains. One ambitious and intriguing paper had been written by an unknown
theorist from Rossak named Norma Cenva. She had no credentials, as far as he could
determine, but her concepts were nothing short of amazing. She thought of simple
things in a completely different light. He had a gut feeling about her, an in' stinct. And
she had such a low profile…
    As starlight fell over the vast bowl of Poritrin sky, he sat alone in his cabin drinking a
warm fruity beverage. He stared at Norma's calcu' lations, working them repeatedly in
his mind, watchful for errors while trying to understand. This young, unknown
mathematician seemed to harbor no pretensions, as if she simply pulled new ideas out
of the clouds and wanted to share them with a man she considered her intellectual
comrade. Stymied by some of her derivations, he realized that his doubts were more
about his own lack of ability than about her postulations. Norma Cenva seemed divinely
inspired.
    Exactly what he needed.
    Restless, Holtzman thought long and hard into the night. Finally, with the arrival of
dawn, he relaxed and drifted off to sleep, his decision made. The airborne barge rocked
in gentle breezes and continued to float across the flat landscape. He dozed off with a
smile on his face.
    Soon he would meet Norma for himself. Perhaps some of her concepts might be
applicable to devices he wanted to employ against the thinking machines.
    THAT AFTERNOON THE Savant wrote a personal invitation to Norma Cenva and
dispatched it to Rossak by League courier. This young woman who had grown up
isolated in the jungles just might prove to be his salvation… if he handled the situation
properly.
    Opportunities are a tricky crop, with tiny flowers that are difficult to see and even
more difficult to harvest.
   —ANONYMOUS

    Feeling like an intruder, Norma Cenva stood in her mother's study, overlooking the
canopied purple trees. A sour, misty rain fell outside; some of the droplets from the high
skies contained impurities and poisonous chemicals from spewing volcanic fumes in the
distance. On the far horizon, she monitored dark clouds as they drew closer. Soon there
would be a downpour.
    What did Aurelius Venport want her to find in here?
    Her stern mother maintained an austere room with chalky-white interior walls. An
alcove contained the Sorceress's fine clothes, articles that were much too large and
fanciful for Norma to wear. Zufa Cenva had an intimidating beauty, a luminous purity
that made her as perfect—and as hard—as a classic sculpture. Even without telepathic
powers, she could draw men like ants to honey.

    But the chief Sorceress had only a superficial loveliness, concealing an implacability
about subjects she never permitted Norma to see. It wasn't that Zufa didn't trust her
daughter; she simply considered the girl beneath grand concerns. Like her telepathic
companions, Zufa seemed to thrive on secrecy.
    But Aurelius had seen something here. "You won't be sorry if you find it, Norma," he
had told her, smiling. "I trust your mother to tell you about it eventually… but I don't
believe it is high in her priorities."
    I have never been high in her priorities. Curious, but wary of being caught, Norma
continued to investigate.
    Her gaze settled on a fibersheet notebook resting on a worktable. The thick book
had a maroon cover with indecipherable lettering as arcane as the mathematical
notations Norma had developed. Once, eavesdropping on the Sorceresses and their
intricate plans, Norma heard them refer to their private language as "Azhar."
    Since returning from Salusa Secundus, her mother had been even more detached
and aloof than usual. She seemed driven to attempt greater things, because of the
cymek attack. When Norma inquired about the war effort, Zufa had merely frowned at
her. "We will take care of it."
    The chief Sorceress spent much of her time sequestered with a cabalistic clique of
women, whispering secret things. Zufa had a fresh passion, a new idea to use against
the thinking machines. If her mother had dreamed of any way Norma could contribute,
she would have pressed the dwarf girl into service. Instead, Zufa had entirely written off
her daughter without giving her a chance.
    The most talented women, numbering around three hundred, had established a
security zone in the deep fungoid jungle, cutting off the pharmaceutical scavengers
hired by Aurelius Venport. Any explorer who ventured into the secluded area
encountered strange shimmering barricades.
    Ever alert, Norma had noticed unexplained explosions and fires out where Zufa's
hand-picked Sorceresses spent weeks of intensive training. Her mother rarely came
back to her cliffside chambers…
    Now, in her mother's room, Norma discovered two pieces of fine white paper
beneath the maroon notebook: the bleached parchment often used by League couriers.
This must be what Aurelius had wanted her to find.
    Dragging a stepstool to the table, she climbed up. She could see the heading on the
top sheet of parchment—a formal document from Por-itrin. Curious, afraid her mother
might return from the jungles, she removed the pages and was astonished to read in
black chancery lettering,

   SAVANT TIO HOLTZMAN.
   For what possible purpose had the great inventor written a letter to her mother?
Leaning down, the girl read the salutation line: "Dear Norma Cenva." With a scowl, she
scanned the message, then reread it with mounting delight mixed with anger. Tio
Holtzman wants me to apprentice with him on Poritrin! He thinks I am brilliant? I can't
believe it.
    Her own mother had attempted to conceal, or at least delay, the transmittal! Zufa
had said nothing, possibly unable to believe the Savant would want anything to do with
her daughter. Luckily, Aurelius had told her about it.
    Norma hurried off to the business district of the cliffside settlement. She found
Venport in a tea shop, concluding a meeting with a seedy-looking trader. As the dark-
skinned man rose from his seat, Norma hurried over with her off-kilter gait and slid into
his place at the table.
    Venport smiled warmly at her. "You look excited, Norma. You must have found the
letter from Savant Holtzman?"
    She thrust the parchment forward. "My mother tried to prevent me from seeing his
offer!"
    'Zufa is a maddening woman, I know, but you must try to understand her. Since
neither of us can do the things she values most, Zufa disregards our abilities. Oh, she's
aware of your mathematical talents, Norma, and she knows I'm a competent
businessman, but our skills do not count for anything with her."
    Norma squirmed on the seat, not wanting to give her mother the benefit of the
doubt. "Then why did she hide this letter?"
    Venport laughed. "She was probably embarrassed by the attention you received." He
squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, I will intervene if your mother attempts to block this.
In fact, since she's so preoccupied with the other Sorceresses, I can't see how she
would object if I were to complete the necessary paperwork for you."
    'You would do that? Doesn't my mother—

     'Let me take care of everything. I'll handle her." He gave Norma a quick, warm hug.
"I believe in what you can do."
     Acting in Zufa's stead, Aurelius Venport dispatched a formal letter of response to the
famous inventor, agreeing to send Norma away. The young woman would study with
him on Poritrin and assist him in his laboratories. For Norma, it was the opportunity of a
lifetime.
     Her mother might not even notice she was gone.
     Home can be anywhere, for it is a part of one's self.
     —Zensunni saying

    -V ven in the wasteland, with wind whipping around him, I—,'Selim's luck continued
to hold. Survival itself became a wondrous game out in the desert.

   Leaving the dead sandworm behind, he'd tried to find a small cave or gully in the
rocks where he could crouch from the approaching storm. Desperately thirsty, Selim
poked around for any signs of human habitation, though he doubted any other man had
ever set foot so far out in the arid wilderness.
   Certainly no one who had lived.
   After wandering from planet to planet, the Zensunni had come to Arrakis, where
they scattered in widely separated settlements. For several generations, the scavenger
people had scraped a meager existence from the desert, but only occasionally did they
venture from their protected areas, fearful of giant worms.
    The wild sandworm had taken Selim far from the spaceport, far from the vital
supplies that even the most resourceful Zensunni would require. His prospects for
survival seemed bleak indeed.
    So when he stumbled upon an ancient botanical testing station camouflaged in the
rocks, Selim could hardly believe his good fortune. Undoubtedly, it was another sign
from Buddallah. A miracle!
    He stood before the domed enclosure erected by long-forgotten ecol-ogists who had
studied Arrakis and found it wanting. Perhaps a few Old Empire scientists had lived here
and recorded data during a storm season. The rugged structure consisted of several low
outbuildings built into the rocks, half-disguised by time and windblown sand.
    As the howling tempest peppered him with stinging sand, Selim scrambled around
the abandoned station. He saw tilted weather vanes, dented wind collectors and other
data-gathering devices that looked long dead. Most important, he found an entry hatch.
    With sore hands and aching arms from his worm-riding ordeal, Selim pounded
against the barrier, searching for a way inside. He scooped powdery debris away,
looking for some sort of manual mechanism, since batteries would have long since died.
He needed to get into the shelter before the storm wind slammed into him with full
intensity.
    Selim had heard of such places. A few had been found and raided by Zensunni
scavengers. These self-reliant stations had been placed on Arrakis during humanity's
glory days, before the thinking machines had taken over, before Buddislamic refugees
had fled to safety. This automated facility was at least a thousand years old, probably
more. But in the desert, where the environment remained unchanged for millennia, time
ran at a different pace.
    Selim finally located the mechanism that controlled the hatch. As he had feared, the
power cells were dead, providing only enough of a spark to make the door groan open
the barest crack.
    The wind howled. Blown sand hung like fog on the horizon, obscuring the sun. Dust
tingled against his raw ears and face, and Selim knew it would soon become a deadly
scouring.
    Growing more desperate, he wedged his sandworm tooth into the dark opening and
used it as a pry bar. The aperture widened a little, but not enough. Cold, stale air
gasped out. He used the aching muscles in his arms, dug his feet against the rocks to
throw his body weight into the effort, and pushed hard on the makeshift lever.
    With a last groan of resistance, the hatch grated partway open. Selim laughed and
tossed the curved worm fang into the interior, where it made a tinkling clatter on the
metal floor. He squirmed through into the station, heard the muffled roar of the
sandstorm increasing outside. It was on top of him.
    Impeded by wind and blown sand, Selim grasped the lip of the hatch and pushed
hard. Incoming sand fell through a grating in the floor, into a receptacle below. He
needed to hurry. The wind let up for only a second, but that was enough. He got the
door shut, sealing himself in, away from the violent weather.
     Safe… unbelievably safe. He laughed at his good fortune, then gave a prayer of
thanks, more sincere than any he had uttered in his life. How could he question such
blessings?
     Selim used the shaft of wan daylight to look around. Luckily, the abandoned station
had plaz windows. Though scratched and pitted from prolonged exposure, they allowed
fading illumination inside.
     The place was like a cave of treasure. Guided by the dust-filtered light from the
windows, he found a few old glowstrips which he coaxed into brightening the small
shelter. Then he ransacked cupboards and storage vaults. Much of what remained was
useless: unreadable data-plaques, dead computerized recording systems, strange
instruments that bore the names of archaic corporations. He did, however, find capsules
of well-preserved food that had not deteriorated even in all the time this facility had
been abandoned.
     He broke open a capsule and ate the contents. Though the flavors were unusual, the
food tasted wonderful, and he felt energy seeping back into his weary flesh. Other
containers held concentrated juices, which were like ambrosia to him. Most valuable of
all, he found distilled water, hundreds of literjons of it. Undoubtedly it had been
collected over the centuries by automated moisture extractors left behind by the long-
ago scientific expedition.
     This was personal wealth beyond anything Selim had imagined possible. He could
pay back the brackish water he'd been accused of taking from the tribe a thousand
times over. He could return to the Zensunni as a hero. Naib Dhartha would have to
forgive him. But Selim had never committed the crime in the first place.
     While Selim sat comfortable and satisfied, he vowed never to give Dhartha the
satisfaction of seeing him return. Ebrahim had betrayed his friendship, and the corrupt
Naib had falsely condemned him. His own people had exiled him, never expecting him
to survive. Now that he had found a way to live by himself, why would Selim ever want
to go back and surrender it all?
     For two straight nights, the young man slept. At dawn on the second day he awoke
and opened more of the sealed boxes and cabinets. He discovered tools, rope, durable
fabric, construction material. The possibilities filled him with joy, and Selim found
himself chuckling all alone inside the botanical testing station.
     I'm alive!
     The storm had rattled past as he slept, unsuccessfully scratching against the walls of
the shelter like a monster trying to get in. Most of the sand had been deflected, so very
little was piled around the enclosure. From the vantage of the station's largest window,
Selim gazed across the desert sea that he had crossed on the back of the sandworm.
The dunes were fresh and spotless. All signs of the dead worm had been erased,
scoured clean. Only this solitary young man remained.
     He envisioned a long journey ahead of him, and thought he must have a particular
calling. Why else would Buddallah have gone to so much trouble to allow poor Selim to
live?
   What do you want me to do?
    Smiling, the outcast looked out upon the desert, wondering how he could possibly
cross such an expanse again. The vista filled him with a sensation of supreme solitude.
He made out a few rocks in the distance, etched by eternal winds. Here and there were
a few hardy plants. Small animals scurried into burrows. Dune merged into dune, desert
into desert.
    Enthralled by his own memories and feeling recklessly invulnerable, Selim decided
what he must do, sooner or later. The first time had been an incredible fluke, but he
understood better how to do it now.
    He must ride a sandworm again. And the next time it would not be an accident.
    One of the questions the Buderian Jihad answered with violence was whether the
human body is simply a machine that a man-made machine can duplicate. The results
of the war answered the question.
   —DR. RAJID SUK,

   Post-Trauma Analysis of the Human Species
     Wearing a new warrior-form designed to strike terror into the humans on Giedi
Prime, Agamemnon strode on armored legs through the broken industries and flaming
ruins of the city. The hrethgir hadn't stood a chance.
     Giedi Prime had been conquered easily.
     The invading machine troops plodded forward, targeting habitation complexes and
setting them aflame, blasting parks into blackened fields. In accordance with
Agamemnon's orders—citing the glory of Omnius—the neo-cymeks and robotic warriors
left the Giedi City industries essentially intact.

    Agamemnon had sworn that Giedi Prime would make up for the cymeks' humiliation
on Salusa. Even now, watcheyes flew overhead, recording the carnage, seeing how
efficiently the two Titans guided the military operation.
    Accompanied by his comrade Barbarossa, Agamemnon scanned the topography of
the metropolis and located the Magnus's magnificent residence. It was an appropriate
place to establish the new center of Synchronized government, a symbolic gesture of
domination as well as an affront to the defeated populace.
    The cymek general's warrior-form was the most monstrous multilegged system he
had ever conceived. Electrical discharges fired through artificial muscles, pulling fiber
cables taut and moving weapon-studded limbs. He flexed his flowmetal claws and
crushed construction blocks in his grip, imagining them to be the skulls of enemies.
Following in his own ferocious configuration, Barbarossa laughed at the showmanship.
    Marching forward on many limbs, the cymeks thundered through the wreckage-
strewn streets. Nothing stood in the way of these former warlords. The situation
reminded both of them of a thousand years before, when twenty Titans had conquered
the Old Empire by trampling the bodies of their foes.
    This was the way it should be. It only whetted their appetite for more.
    PRIOR TO THE attack, Agamemnon had studied Giedi Prime's defenses, analyzing
images taken by spy watcheyes that zoomed through the system like tiny meteoroids.
From those readings, the cymek general had concocted a brilliant tactical move,
exploiting a slight weakness in planetary defenses. Omnius had been willing to pay the
necessary price to take over a League World, and it had not cost the life of a single
Titan, not even one of the lesser neo-cymeks. Only a single robotic cruiser. Perfectly
acceptable, as far as Agamemnon was concerned.
    The humans had erected scrambler fields here like those on Salusa, centering their
transmitting towers in Giedi City. The field-generator facility had been guarded by
kindjal fighter craft, supposedly impregnable embankments, and massively armored
ground vehicles. The feral humans had learned a lesson on Salusa Secundus. But it was
not enough to protect them from obliteration.
    Giedi Prime's first-line orbital protective forces had been brushed aside by the
unstoppable force of the giant machine fleet. All robot losses were acceptable. When
Agamemnon led the cymek ships in, along with the sacrificial cruisers, the planetbound
human defenders could not hope to drive them back.
    To begin the assault, the huge robotic cruiser had positioned itself above Giedi
Prime, its cargo holds filled with explosives. Dozens of other robot cruisers moved with
machine grace, sleek and streamlined, lining up for the assault. Guided by a thinking
machine intelligence, the enormous craft fired its engines and accelerated at full speed
toward its target.
    'Descent approach in progress," the battleship's robot mind had reported,
transmitting images to the waiting fighters. Ahead, thirty decoy vessels shot downward,
also hoping to strike the target but designed to be targets for the ground-based missile
defenses. The plan relied on brute force and overwhelming numbers, not finesse.
Nevertheless, it would be effective.
    With its engines at full speed, the sacrificial vessel had accelerated white-hot into
Giedi Prime's atmosphere, faster than any ground-based human missile defenses could
target and respond. The other cruisers approached the invisible scrambler shield.
Already, gray-white blossoms of smoke and explosions marked where the ground-
launched missiles had found targets. The numbers dwindled, as did the distance. The
humans could never stop all the invaders.
    The doomed robot ship sent final images back to the watcheyes so Omnius would
have a complete record of the conquest of Giedi Prime. Every nanosecond—until it
passed through the scrambler net, which effectively erased the AI guidance brain. The
transmissions became static, then an empty carrier wave.

    Still, the juggernaut had continued to descend. Even with its gelcir-cuitry brain
neutralized, the plummeting cruiser fell like an asteroid-sized hammer.
    Kindjal fighter craft directly engaged the last explosive-laden vessel, but the inbound
ship was too big and too hot to be swerved. The defenders' shots amounted to little
more than pellets.
    The giant dead vessel slammed into the field transmitters on the outskirts of Giedi
City. A crater half a kilometer wide flashed into steam; the transmitters, the
overwhelmed defenses, and the surrounding inhabited areas all vanished.
    Shockwaves had toppled buildings for kilometers around and shattered windows.
Holtzman's scrambler shields were neutralized in the blink of an eye, and the Giedi
Home Guard was crippled.
    After that, the cymeks and robots had come down in full force.
     'BARBAROSSA, MY FRIEND, shall we make our grand entrance?" Agamemnon said,
arriving at the residence of the Magnus.
     'Just like when we followed Tlaloc into the halls of the Old Empire." his fellow Titan
agreed. "It has been a long time since I've enjoyed a victory so much."
     They led enthusiastic neo-cymeks easily through the reeling metropolis. The stunned
human inhabitants could not even put up a fight. Behind the cymek conquerors
marched robotic troops to help secure the territory.
     Although part of Giedi Prime's population might flee underground and hide, the
citizenry would break, given time. It might take years to root out the last cells of feral
resistance. No doubt the conquering machines would endure decades of guerrilla strikes
by misguided vigilantes, survivors of the Giedi Home Guard who thought a few gnat-
bites would make the invaders pack up and go away. Resistance groups would be a
futile exercise, but he had no doubt the locals would try some such foolishness.
     Agamemnon wondered if he should bring in Ajax to complete the cleanup. The
brutal cymek warlord particularly enjoyed hunting humans, as he had proved so
effectively during the Hrethgir Rebellions on Walgis. As soon as they installed a copy of
the evermind in the ashes of Giedi City, Agamemnon would make appropriate
recommendations to the new incarnation of Omnius.
     Agamemnon and Barbarossa smashed open the front of the governor's residence,
clearing an area wide enough for their reinforced bodies. In their wake, soldier robots,
much smaller than the cymeks' warrior-forms, flooded into the building. Within
moments, the robots brought blond-haired Magnus Sumi before the two Titans.
     'We claim your planet in the name of Omnius," Barbarossa declared. "Giedi Prime is
now a Synchronized World. We require your cooperation to consolidate our victory."
     Magnus Sumi, trembling with fear, nevertheless spat on the broken floor where the
weight of the cymek warrior-forms had crushed his carefully laid tiles.
     'Bow to us," Barbarossa said.
     The Magnus laughed. "You're mad. I would never—"

    Agamemnon swung one of his sleek metal arms sideways. He had not fully tested
this new body and was not aware of the magnitude of his strength. He had meant to
strike the governor in the face, an instinctive angry slap. Instead, the arm delivered a
blow so forceful that it ripped the man's torso in half. The two parts of his body thudded
against the far wall in a splatter of gore.
    'Oh, well. My demand was a mere formality anyway." Agamemnon turned optic
threads toward his comrade. "Begin your work, Barbarossa. These robots will assist."
    The Titan programming genius began dismantling the household systems in the
governor's residence and setting up power conduits and machinery. He added linkages
and installed a blank, resilient gelsphere mainframe into which he uploaded the newest
version of Omnius's mind.
    The process took several hours, during which the thinking machine invasion force
moved through the city, putting out fires and shoring up damaged industrial buildings
that Agamemnon considered important for the planet's continued utility.
    The habitation complexes of the surviving humans, though, were left to burn. The
suffering people could fend for themselves. Misery would help them understand the
hopelessness of their position.
    Floating overhead, the annoying watcheyes recorded everything. At least it was a
victory this time. Agamemnon revealed no sign of his impatience or displeasure,
knowing that resistance against the computer evermind would be fruitless. For now.
Instead, he must select the proper place and time.
    Once installed and activated, the new incarnation of Omnius would show no
appreciation toward the two seemingly loyal Titans for their victory, nor would the
evermind begrudge the loss of his machine juggernaut. It was a military operation well
executed, and the Synchronized Worlds had now added one of humanity's jewels to its
empire. A psychological and strategic success.
    When the immense download was finally complete, Agamemnon activated the new
copy of the distributed evermind. Systems surged alive, and the omniscient computer
began to survey its new domain.
    'Welcome, Lord Omnius," Agamemnon said to the wallspeakers. "I present to you
the gift of another world."
   We are happiest when planning our futures, letting our optimism and imagination
run unrestrained. Unfortunately, the universe does not always heed such plans.
   —ABBESS LIVIA BUTLER, private journals

     't't Ithough their marriage was a foregone conclusion, Se-1 ikrena and Xavier happily
endured the extravagant betrothal banquet thrown by Viceroy Manion Butler at his
hilltop estate.
     Emil and Lucille Tantor had brought baskets of apples and pears from their orchards
and huge jars of herbed olive oil for dipping the fresh-baked engagement rolls. Manion
Butler served up exquisite roasts of beef, spice-crusted fowl, and stuffed fishes. Serena
provided colorful flowers from her extensive gardens, which she had faithfully tended
since she was a child.
     Famous Salusan performers tied ribbons on shrubs in the courtyard, and presented
folk dances there. The women secured their dark hair with jeweled combs and wore
white dresses adorned with embroidered patterns. The flowing skirts flew like
whirlwinds about their waists, while dapper gentlemen strutted around them like
peacocks in a mating challenge. Brassy music offset by soulful balisets drifted through
the afternoon.
     Xavier and Serena wore impressive outfits befitting a proud military officer and the
talented daughter of the League Vice roy. They strolled among the assembled guests,
careful to address each family representative by name. The couple sampled prized
wines from dusty bottles brought in by the scions of every household. Xavier, who could
taste none of the subtleties in the vintages, took care not to get too drunk; he was
already giddy at the prospect of his upcoming marriage.
     Serena's sister Octa, two years younger, seemed equally excited. With her long
chestnut hair adorned by fresh cornflowers, Octa's eyes were wide with amazement,
enchanted by her sister's beau and fantasizing about a handsome young officer who
might be her own husband one day.
    Amazingly, Serena's reclusive mother Livia came to spend the celebratory weekend
at the Butler manor. Manion's wife rarely left the City of Introspection, a retreat where
she kept herself from the cares and nightmares of the world. The enlightened
philosophical preserve, owned by a Butler trust, had originally been established to study
and ponder the Zen Hekiganshu of III Delta Pavonis, the Tawrah and Talmudic Zabur,
even the Obeah Ritual. But under Butler patronage, the City had gradually blossomed
into something the likes of which had not been seen for millennia.
    Xavier had not seen Serena's mother often, especially in recent years. With her
tanned skin and lean features, Livia Butler was a handsome beauty. She rejoiced in the
betrothal of her daughter and seemed to enjoy herself as she danced with her jovial
husband or sat beside him at the banquet table. She looked not at all like a woman who
had fled from the world.
    Years ago, Livia and Manion's strong marriage had been envied by many noble
families. Serena was their eldest child, but they also had twins two years younger: the
calm and shy Octa and a sensitive, intelligent boy, Fredo. While Serena underwent
political schooling, the twins were raised as close companions, though neither had the
far-ranging aspirations of their older sister.
    Fredo had been fascinated by musical instruments and folk songs, traditions from
the grandest planets of the former Empire. He learned to be a musician and poet, while
Octa was intrigued with painting and sculpture. In Salusan society, artisans and creative
people were highly respected, as admirable as any politician.
    But at the age of fourteen, honey-voiced Fredo died of a wasting disease, his skin
splotched with purplish discolorations. For months, he'd grown thinner and thinner, his
muscles atrophying. His blood would not clot, and he could not keep even the thinnest
of broths in his stomach. The Salusan doctors had never seen anything like it. Frantic,
Viceroy Butler begged the League for help.
    The men of Rossak offered a number of experimental drugs from their fungoid
jungles to treat Fredo's undiagnosed malady. Livia insisted on trying everything.
Unfortunately, the young man reacted poorly to the third Rossak drug, an allergic
response that caused his throat to swell. Fredo went into convulsions and stopped
breathing.
    Octa had mourned the loss of her brother and came to fear for her own life as well.
Fredo's disease was eventually determined to be genetically based, meaning that she
and her older sister were at risk of contracting the fatal malady themselves. Octa took
care with her health and lived each day dreading that her life would come to a slow,
painful end like that of her brother.
    Fiercely confident and optimistic, Serena always tried to console her sister, giving
her a shoulder to cry on, offering encouragement. Though neither sister had shown
signs of the strange disease, Octa's dreams had lost all momentum, and she gave up
her artwork, becoming a quieter, more pensive soul. She was a frail teenager now,
hoping for a spark of wonder to bring her back to the fullness of life.
    Though her husband had a brilliant political career and his importance grew with
each season, formerly vivacious Livia had withdrawn from public life to her spiritual
retreat, where she focused on philosophical and religious pursuits. She donated large
sums to the imposing fortress to build additional meditation chambers, temples, and
libraries. After devoting many sleepless nights to frank discussions with the Cog-itor
Kwyna, Livia became the Abbess of the facility.
    In the aftermath of the tragedy, Manion Butler had immersed himself in League
work, while Serena felt a heavier burden and set higher goals. Though she could do
nothing to help her brother, she wanted to stop the suffering of other people whenever
she could. She plunged into politics, working to stop the practice of human slavery still
common on some League Worlds, and pledging herself to finding a way to overthrow
the thinking machines. No one had ever accused her of lacking in vision or energy…
    Living separate lives now, Manion and Livia Butler remained pillars
    « of Salusan society, proud of each other's accomplishments—not divorced, not even
emotionally separated… just following different paths. Xavier knew that Serena's mother
occasionally came back to spend nights with her husband and enjoy weekends with her
daughters. But she always returned to the City of Introspection.

    Serena's betrothal had been important enough to bring her mother into the public
eye again. After Xavier danced with his future bride four times in a row, Abbess Livia
insisted on having a dance with her future son-in-law.
    Later, during a long acoustic set of the Long March Ballads played by native Salusan
minstrels, Xavier and Serena slipped into the manor house, leaving Livia to weep
unabashedly as she watched the musicians and remembered how Fredo had wanted to
become a player himself. Manion sat beside his wife, rocking her gently.
    At the event in their honor, Xavier and Serena had by now experienced their fill of
company and revelry, of greeting guests and sampling food and wine. They laughed at
every witticism, whether subtle or crude, so as not to offend the grand families. By now,
the two were desperate for just a few moments alone.
    Finally they slipped away and hurried through the corridors of the manor house, past
hot kitchens and musty storerooms, to a small alcove outside the Winter Sun room. In
winter, slanted sunshine lit this room with bronze rainbows. The Butler family
traditionally took their breakfasts here during the cold season, enjoying family
conversation while they watched the rising sun. It was a place of fond memories for
Serena.
    She crowded with Xavier into the alcove just outside the room; glow-panels shone in
the hall, but still allowed a few rich shadows. Serena pulled him close and kissed him.
He placed a hand behind her neck and stroked her hair as he pulled her face close to his
and kissed more deeply, hungry for her.
    When they heard hurried footsteps in the hall, the lovers hid in silence, quietly
chuckling at their secret rendezvous. But fresh-faced Octa easily found them. Flushed
with embarrassment, Octa averted her gaze. "You must come back to the banquet hall.
Father is ready to serve dessert. And an offworld messenger is coming."
    'A messenger?" Xavier suddenly sounded military and formal. "From whom?"
    'He went to Zimia demanding an audience with the League Parlia ment, but since
most of the nobles are here for the banquet, he's on his way up the hill."
    Bending his elbows outward, Xavier offered an arm to each sister. "Let us go
together so we can hear what this messenger has to say." Forcing a lighthearted tone,
he said, "After all, I haven't eaten enough today. I could use a bowl of roast custard and
a whole plateful of candied eggs."
    Octa giggled, but Serena gave him a mock stern frown. "I suppose I must resign
myself to life with a fat husband."
    They entered the large hall, where the guests gathered around a long table,
complimenting the array of extraordinarily beautiful desserts that looked too precious to
be eaten. Manion and Livia Butler stood side by side, raising a toast to the couple.
     Sipping politely from his wine, Xavier detected an undercurrent of worry in the
Viceroy's manner. Everyone pretended to be unconcerned about what news the
messenger might bring, but the moment a pounding sounded on the door, all activity
stopped. Manion Butler himself opened the wooden portal, gesturing for the man to
enter.
    He wasn't a formal courier. His eyes were haunted and his officer's uniform
unkempt, as if he no longer cared about protocol or appearances. Xavier recognized the
insignia of the Giedi Prime Home Guard. Like other League uniforms, it bore the gold
sigil of free humanity on the lapel.
    'I have grave news, Viceroy Butler. The fastest ships have brought me directly here."
    'What is it, young man?" Manion's voice was filled with dread.
    'Giedi Prime has fallen to the thinking machines!" The officer raised his voice against
the guests' disbelieving outcries. "The robots and cy-meks found a flaw in our defenses
and destroyed our scrambler-field transmitters. Much of our population has been
slaughtered and the survivors enslaved. A new Omnius evermind has already been
activated."
    The people in the hall wailed at hearing of the devastating defeat. Xavier clutched
Serena's hand so tightly he feared he might hurt her. Inside, he had turned to stone, his
stomach filled with a cold heaviness.
    He had just been to Giedi Prime, had inspected the defenses himself. Xavier had
been terribly anxious to finish his inspection tour so that he could return to Serena.
Could he possibly have missed something? He squeezed his eyes shut as the questions
and disbelieving comments turned to a buzz around him. Was he to blame? Had a
simple mistake, a bit of impatience from a young man in love, caused an entire planet
to fall?
     Manion Butler placed both palms on the table to steady himself. Livia reached over
to touch her husband's shoulder, adding silent support. She closed her eyes, and her
lips moved as if in prayer.
    The Viceroy spoke. "Another free planet lost to the Synchronized Worlds, and one of
our strongholds, too." He straightened, took a shuddering breath. "We must call an
immediate war council, summon all representatives." With a meaningful glance at
Serena, he added, "Let us also include anyone who speaks for the Unallied Planets and
wishes to join us in this fight."
    Everything in the universe contains flaws, ourselves included. Even God does not
attempt perfection in His creations. Only mankind has such foolish arrogance.
   —COGITOR KWYNA,

   City of Introspection archives
    Her screams rang through the quiet cliff cities above the silvery-purple jungle. Inside
her private chamber, Zufa Cenva lay sweat-streaked on a pallet. She shrieked in pain,
clenching her teeth, her eyes glassy.
     Alone. No one dared come near a delirious Sorceress of Rossak.
    A metallic doorway curtain rattled with an invisible tele-kinetic force. Wall shelves
buckled in the aftershocks of Zufa's psychic explosions, scattering pots and keepsakes
all over the floor.
    Her long white hair was wild, quivering with internal energy. Her pale hands gripped
the sides of the pallet like scraping claws. If any woman had come close enough to try
to soothe her, Zufa would have scratched her face and mentally hurled her against the
whitewashed walls.
    She screamed again. The chief Sorceress had endured several miscarriages before,
but never one so agonizing or disruptive. She cursed worthless Aurelius Venport.
     Zufa's spine shuddered, as if someone had jolted her with electricity. Delicate
ornamental objects floated into the air on invisible strings, then flew in every direction,
smashing into shards. One hollowed-out irongourd stuffed with dried flowers burst into
white flames, crackling and smoking.
    She gasped as her body cramped, squeezing her abdominal muscles. It seemed as if
this unborn child wanted to kill her, to drag her down to death before she could expel it
from her uterus.
    Another failure! And she so desperately wanted to produce a true daughter, a
successor to lead her fellow Sorceresses to new heights of mental power. The genetic
index had misled her again. Damn Venport and his failings! She should have abandoned
him long ago.
    Out of her head with pain and despair, Zufa wanted to kill the man who had planted
the child-seed inside her, even though the pregnancy had been at her own insistence.
She had completed the bloodline calculations so carefully, had gone over the genes
again and again. Breeding with Venport should have produced only superior offspring.
    Nothing like this.
    Telepathic blasts echoed into the corridors, sending Rossak women scurrying in
terror. Then she saw Aurelius Venport himself standing at the doorway, haggard with
worry. His eyes were filled with concern.
    But Zufa knew he was a liar.
    Unafraid for his own safety, Venport entered their bedchamber, displaying patience,
concern, and tolerance. His lover's mental blasts ricocheted around the large room,
overturning furniture. In a petulant attempt to slight him, she smashed a set of tiny
hollownut sculptures he had given her during their courtship and genetic testing.
    Still, he stepped forward, as if immune to her ferine outbursts. In the hall behind
him, muted voices urged caution, but he ignored them. He came to her pallet, smiling
with compassion and understanding.
    Venport knelt beside the bed, stroking her sweaty hand. He whispered soothing
nonsense in her ears. She couldn't understand his words, but she grasped his fingers
until she expected to feel the bones snap. But he remained frustratingly close, not
intimidated by her in the least.
   Zufa hurled accusations of treachery at him. "I can sense your thoughts! I know
you're thinking only of yourself."
   Her imagination concocted schemes, attributing them to his devi-ousness. If the
great Zufa Cenva was no longer there to protect him, who would keep this man as a
pet? Who would care for him? She doubted he could take care of himself.
   Then, with greater fear: Or could he?
   Venport had sent Norma off on a long journey to Poritrin, arranging everything
behind Zufa's back, as if he believed that a man like Tio Holtzman truly wanted to work
with her daughter. What was he planning? She gritted her teeth, wanting to prove that
she understood his intentions. Her threats came as sharp gasps. "You can't… let me die,
bastard! No one… else would… have you!"
   Instead, he looked at her, coolly patronizing. "You've told me many times that I
come from a good genetic line, my darling. But I do not desire someone else among the
Sorceresses. I prefer to stay with you." He lowered his voice, looking at her with an
oddly intense love that she could not quite fathom. "I understand you better than you
do yourself, Zufa Cenva. Always pushing, constantly demanding more than anyone can
possibly give. Nobody—not even you—can be perfect all the time."

    With a final prolonged shriek, she expelled her deformed, resistant fetus, a
monstrously abnormal creature. Seeing the bright blood, Venport bellowed for
assistance, and two brave midwives scurried into the chamber. One reached down with
a towel, placing it over the fetus like a shroud, while the other bathed Zufa's skin,
adding pain-numbing salves distilled from jungle spores. Venport sent for the best drugs
from his own stockpiles.
    Finally, he took the squirming fetus himself, holding the bloody larval thing in his
hands. It had dark skin and strange mottled spots that made it look as if proto-eyes had
grown all over its limbless body. He saw the thing twitch a final time, then it stopped
moving.
    He wrapped it up in the towel, trying to ignore the tear in his eye. His expression
stony, Venport handed the corrupt fetus to one of the midwives, saying nothing. It
would be taken out into the jungles, and no one would ever see it again.
    The exhausted Sorceress lay back, shuddering, just now beginning to feel a sense of
reality and despair again. The miscarriage had hurt her, leaving her with a deep sadness
that went beyond the goals of any breeding program. Her vision returned to focus, and
she noticed the psychokinetic destruction she had caused in the room. It all spoke of
weakness, of lack of control.
    This was her third horrific miscarriage from mating with Venport. Deep
disappointment and anger boiled inside her. "I chose you for your bloodline, Aurelius,"
she muttered through dry lips. "What went wrong?"
    He looked at her, still expressionless, as if his passion had been washed away.
"Genetics is not an exact science."
    Zufa closed her eyes. "Failures, always failures." She was the greatest Sorceress of
Rossak, and yet she had endured so many disappointments. Sighing with disgust, Zufa
thought of her stunted daughter, not wanting to believe that the ugly dwarf was the
best she could achieve.
   Venport shook his head, uncharacteristically stern and impatient now that the
danger was past. "You have had successes, Zufa. You just don't know how to recognize
them."
   She forced herself to rest, to recuperate. Eventually, Zufa would have to try again,
but with someone else.
   Overly organized research is confining, and guaranteed to produce nothing new.
   —TIO HOLTZMAN, letter to Lord Niko Bludd

   J't't rriving on Poritrin at the conclusion of her first long I Ispace voyage, Norma
Cenva felt out of place. Her diminutive form drew glances, but was not so unusual that
people turned pitying stares upon her. On the Unallied Planets there was a variety of
races, some with stunted statures. She didn't care about the opinions of others anyway.
She only wanted to impress Tio Holtzman.
    Before Norma's departure from Rossak, her aloof mother had looked down at her
with dismissive puzzlement. Zufa chose to believe that the brilliant Savant had made a
mistake or had misread one of Norma's theoretical papers. She expected her daughter
to return home before long.
    Aurelius Venport had made all of the arrangements, used his own profits to pay for a
nicer cabin than Holtzman had offered. While her mother continued to work with the
Sorceress trainees, Venport had accompanied Norma to the docking-transfer stations in
Rossak orbit. He had given her a gift of delicately petrified flowers and a chaste hug
before she'd climbed aboard the vessel. With a wry smile, he told her, "All of us
disappointments need to stick together."
    Norma held onto that warm but troubling comment during the long journey to
Poritrin…
    When the shuttle landed in the river-delta city of Starda, Norma carefully inserted
Venport's petrified flowers into her mousy brown hair, a sprig of beauty that contrasted
with the plainness of her wide face, large head, and rounded nose. She wore a loose
blouse and comfortable hose, both woven from fernfibers.
    Jostled by other passengers crowded at the shuttle hatch, the girl carried only a
small travel pack. Climbing down the ramp, Norma felt flushed and eager to meet the
scientist she admired, a thinker who took her seriously. She had heard many stories of
Savant Holtzman's mathematical prowess, and she would be hard pressed to contribute
anything the great man hadn't already developed. She hoped she would not let him
down.
    Scanning the waiting crowd, she immediately recognized the eminent scientist. A
clean-shaven man with shoulder-length gray hair, Holtzman appeared to be in his late
middle years. His hands and fingernails were clean, his clothing impeccable and
ornamented with stylish designs and badges.
    He greeted her with a broad smile and open arms that let the sleeves of his white
robe droop. "Welcome to Poritrin, Miss Cenva." Holtzman placed both hands on her
shoulders in formal greeting. If he experienced any disappointment upon seeing
Norma's stature and coarse, unattractive features, he did not show it. "I certainly hope
you've brought your imagination with you." He gestured toward a doorway. "We have a
lot of work to do together."
    He steered her through the spaceport crowds, away from their curious stares, then
took her away from Starda Spaceport in a private limo-barge that floated high above the
graceful Isana River.
    'Poritrin is a peaceful world, where I can let my mind wander and think of things that
might save the human race." Holtzman smiled proudly at her. "I'm expecting that of
you, too."
    'I will do my best, Savant Holtzman."
    'What more could any person ask?"
    The skies of Poritrin held a gauze of clouds painted citrus yellow with afternoon
sunlight. The barge drifted above the multifingered streamlets that wrapped around
shifting islands and sandbars. Traditional boats rode the current of the broad river,
loaded with grains and cargo for distribution in the port city and export offworld. Fertile
Poritrin fed many less-fortunate planets, in return for which they received raw materials,
equipment, manufactured goods, and human slaves to add to their labor force.
    Some of the largest buildings in the spaceport were actually boats on pontoons,
anchored to the bases of sandstone bluffs. The roofs were composed of layered shingles
of silver-blue metal, smelted in mines far to the north.
    He gestured to a bluff overlooking the crowded portions of blue-roofed Starda,
where she could recognize the influences of classic Na-vachristian architecture. "My
laboratories are up there. Buildings and supply sheds, quarters for my slaves and
solvers, as well as my own home—everything built into that double spire of rock."

     The floating transport circled toward two sections of stone, like adjacent fingers
rising above the riverbed. She could see sheetplaz windows, awning-covered balconies,
and a walkway that linked a dome on one spire with a conical stone tower and
outbuildings on the other.
     Holtzman was pleased to note the amazement on her face. "We have quarters for
you, Norma, in addition to private lab facilities and a team of assistants to perform
calculations based upon your theories. I expect you to keep them all very busy."
     Norma looked at him, puzzled. "Someone else to do the mathemat ics:
     'Of course!" Holtzman brushed iron-gray hair away from his face and adjusted his
white robe. "You're an idea person, like me. We want you to develop concepts, not
bother with full-fledged implementation. You should not waste time performing tedious
arithmetic. Any halfway-trained person can do that. It's what slaves are for."
     When the floating barge settled onto a glazed-tile deck, servants emerged to take
Norma's bags and offer the two of them cool drinks. Like an eager boy, Holtzman led
Norma to his impressive laboratories. The large rooms were filled with water clocks and
magnetic sculptures in which spheres orbited about electrical paths without wires or
gears. Sketches and half-finished drawings covered electrostatic boards, surrounded by
serpentine calculations that went nowhere.
     Glancing around, Norma realized that Holtzman had abandoned more concepts than
she had ever created in her life. Even so, many of the cluttered papers and geometric
drawings looked a bit old. Some of
     H
     the ink had faded, and papers were curled around the edges.
    With a swish of his wide sleeves, Holtzman gave the intriguing items a dismissive
wave. "Just toys, useless gadgets that I keep for my amusement." He poked a finger at
one of the floating silver balls, which sent the other model planets into dangerous
orbits, spinning about like heavenly bodies out of control. "Sometimes I dabble with
them for inspiration, but usually they only make me think of other toys, not the
weapons of mass destruction we need in order to save us from the tyranny of
machines."
    With a distracted frown, Holtzman continued, "My work is constrained in that I
cannot use sophisticated computers. In order to perform the enormous calculations
required to test a theory, I have no recourse but to rely upon human mental abilities
and hope for the best from the fallible calculational skills of trained people. Come, let
me show you the solvers."
    He led her to a well-illuminated chamber with high windows. Inside, numerous
identical benches and flat tabletops had been set up in a grid layout. Workers hunched
over each writing surface using handheld calculation devices. From their drab garments
and dull expressions, Norma judged that these men and women must be some of
Poritrin's numerous slaves.
    'This is the only way we can imitate the abilities of a thinking machine," Holtzman
explained. "A computer can handle billions of iterations. We have a harder time of it, yet
with enough people working in concert and as specialists, we accomplish billions of
calculations on our own. It just takes longer."
    He walked down the narrow aisles between the solvers, who were furiously scribing
numbers and mathematical symbols on flat slates, checking and double-checking
answers before passing them on to the next person in line.
    'Even the most complex math can be broken into a sequence of trivial steps. Each of
these slaves has been trained to complete specific equations in an assembly-line
fashion. When taken together, this collective human mind is capable of remarkable
feats." Holtzman surveyed the room as if he expected his solvers to give him a
resounding cheer. Instead, they studied their work with heavy-lidded eyes, moving
through equation after equation with no comprehension of reasons or larger pictures.
    Norma felt sympathy for them, having been belittled and ignored for so long herself.
She knew intellectually that human slavery was a way of life on many League Worlds, as
it was throughout the machine-ruled planets. Nevertheless, she supposed that these
workers would prefer doing mental work to heavy labor out in the agricultural fields.
    With a magnanimous gesture, the scientist said, "Every solver is at your disposal,
Norma, whenever you develop a theory that needs verification. The next stage, of
course is to build prototypes for further testing and development. We have plenty of
labs and test facilities, but the most important work comes first." He tapped a fingertip
on his own forehead. "Up here."
    Holtzman gave her a cockeyed grin and lowered his voice. "Mistakes are possible, of
course, even at our level. If that happens, we hope that Lord Niko Bludd is tolerant
enough to keep us around."
   Only those with narrow minds fail to see that the definition of Impossible is 'Lack of
imagination and incentive.'
   —SERENA BUTLER

     In the front parlor of the Butler manor house, Xavier Har-konnen shifted on a green
brocaded settee. His duty uniform was not designed for lounging in fine furniture.
Ornate gold-framed paintings of Butler ancestors adorned the walls, including one like a
caricature of a gentleman with a waxed handlebar mustache and a tricomer hat.
     Between tight duty shifts, he had rushed here to surprise Serena, and the servants
had asked him to wait. Blushing, Octa came into the parlor, carrying a cool drink for
him. Though he had always seen her as Serena's little sister, Xavier realized with
surprise that she was actually a lovely young woman. With Serena's recent betrothal,
Octa might be dreaming of her own marriage, if she could ever overcome her shy
infatuation with him.
     'Serena wasn't expecting you, but she'll be right out." Octa looked away. "She's in a
meeting with official-looking men and women, assistants carrying electronic equipment,
a few Militia uniforms. Something to do with her Parliament work, I think."
     Xavier gave a wan smile. "We both have so many projects, but such times demand
it."
     While Octa occupied herself straightening books and statuettes on a shelf, Xavier
thought back to a Parliament session he had watched two days before. Upset over the
tragic fall of Giedi Prime, Serena had tried to rally representatives from the strongest
planets, hoping to mount a rescue operation. She always wanted to do something; it
was one of the reasons Xavier loved her so much. While others accepted the defeat and
cringed in fear that Omnius would push for more conquests, Serena wanted to charge in
and save the world. Any world.
     Dressed in a long gown, she had spoken passionately in the temporary Hall of
Parliament. "We can't just give up on Giedi Prime! The thinking machines have
penetrated the scrambler shields, killed the Magnus, enslaved the people, and every day
their presence grows stronger. There have to be Home Guard survivors fighting behind
the machine lines, and we know that another shield-generator station was nearly
completed. Perhaps that can be made functional! We must fight back before the
thinking machines can establish their own infrastructure. If we wait, they will become
unassailable!"
     'As far as we know, they are already unassailable," grumbled the representative
from industrial Vertree Colony.
     The Zanbar official added, "Bringing the Armada to Giedi Prime would be suicide.
Without their scrambler shields, they have no defenses left, and the machines would
slaughter us in a direct conflict."
     Serena had jabbed a finger at the nervous audience. "Not necessarily. If we could
slip in and finish the work at the secondary shield-generating complex, then project a
new blanket of disrupter fields, we could cut off—"

    The League members had actually laughed at the suggestion. Seeing her
heartbroken expression, Xavier felt stung on Serena's behalf. But she had not
understood the difficulty of her naive suggestion, the impossibility of restoring Giedi
Prime's shields under the noses of the machine conquerors. During his planetary
inspection tour, Xavier had learned that it could take days or weeks for engineers—
working under the best of conditions—to make the backup shield system operational.

    But Serena never stopped trying. The ache of imagining so many suffering humans
drove her to it.
    The vote had gone overwhelmingly against her. "We cannot spend the resources,
firepower, or personnel on an ill-advised mission to a planet we have already lost. It is
now a machine stronghold." The nobles feared for their own local defenses.
    Such work occupied most of Xavier's time. As an Armada officer, he had gone to
extended sessions with officers and Parliament representatives, including Viceroy Butler.
Xavier was determined to learn what had gone wrong with Giedi Prime's defenses—and
whether he was to blame in some way.

    Armada tacticians had studied the inspection records and assured him that he could
have done nothing to prevent the takeover, short of stationing a full fleet of battleships
at every League World. If Omnius was willing to sacrifice part of his robotic attack force
to bring down Holtzman's scrambler shields, no planet was safe. But the information
didn't make Xavier feel much better.
    On Poritrin, Tio Holtzman was working hard to improve the scrambler system design.
Lord Bludd expressed his optimism and confidence in the Savant, especially since the
inventor had brought in another mathematician, the daughter of the Sorceress Zufa
Cenva, to assist him. Xavier hoped something could be done quickly enough to make a
difference…
    Lovely but harried, Serena entered the parlor and hugged him. "I had no idea you
were coming." Octa slipped out the side door.
    Xavier looked at the ornate clock on the mantel. "I wanted to surprise you, but I
have to get back to duty. I have a long meeting this afternoon."
    She nodded, preoccupied. "Since the attack on Giedi Prime, we've all been prisoners
of our planning sessions. I think I've lost track of how many committees I serve."
    Teasingly, he said, "Should I have been invited to this mysterious gathering?"
    Her chuckle sounded forced. "Oh? The League Armada doesn't give you enough
work, so you'd like to sit in on my tedious meetings as well? Perhaps I should speak to
your new commander."
    'No thank you, my dear. I'd rather fight ten cymeks than try to dissuade you when
you've set your mind to something." Serena responded to his kiss with surprising
passion. He stepped back, breathing hard, and straightened his uniform. "I need to go."
    'Can I make it up to you at dinner tonight? A little tete-a-tete, just the two of us?"
Her eyes sparkled. "It's important to me, especially now." "I'll be there."
    WITH A SIGH of relief after quelling Xavier's suspicions, Serena returned to the
Winter Sun Room where her team had gathered. She wiped a sparkle of sweat from her
forehead. Several faces turned toward her, and she raised a hand to allay concerns.
    Late morning sunlight splashed across the chairs, the tile counters and a breakfast
table now strewn with plans, maps, and resource charts. "We've got to get back to
work," said the grizzled veteran Ort Wibsen. "Don't have much time if you want to put
this in motion."
      'That is absolutely my intention, Commander Wibsen. Anybody with doubts should
have left us days ago."
      Serena's father believed that she spent her mornings in the bright, cheery room just
reading, but for weeks she had been exploring schemes… gathering volunteers, expert
personnel, and raw materials. No one could stop Serena Butler from devoting her
energies to humanitarian work.
      'I tried to follow proper channels and make the League take action," she said, "but
sometimes people must be coerced into making the right decision. They must be led to
it, like a stubborn Salusan stallion."
      After the Parliament laughed at her "naive foolishness," Serena had marched out of
the temporary meeting hall but did not accept defeat. She decided to change tactics,
even if she had to organize and finance a mission herself.
      When Xavier learned of her plan, after it was too late to stop her, she hoped he
would be proud of her.
      Now she studied the team she had gathered from the Armada's most overlooked
experts in commando operations: captains, supply runners, even infiltration specialists.
Ten men and women turned to look at her. She clicked a remote control switch to close
the overhead louvers. The brightness of the room diminished, though muted sunlight
continued to filter in.
      'If we can reclaim Giedi Prime, it will be twice the moral victory that the machines
had," Serena said. "We will show that they cannot hold us."
      Wibsen looked as if he had never ceased fighting, though he had been off active
duty for over a decade. "All of us are more than happy to tackle a task that will have
tangible results. I've been itching to strike a blow against the damned machines."
      Ort Wibsen was an old space commander who had been forced to retire—ostensibly
because of his age. More likely it had to do with his coarse personality, a penchant for
arguing with superiors, and history of ignoring the details of orders. In spite of his
surliness he was exactly the man Serena needed to lead a mission that other League
members would have declared insane, or at least unwise.

   'Then this is your chance, Commander," she said.
   Pinquer Jibb, the curly-haired and still-haggard-looking messenger who had fled the
conquest of Giedi Prime to deliver his terrible news, sat stiff-backed, looking around the
room. "I've provided you with all the background material you need. I've compiled
detailed reports. The subsidiary shield-generator station was nearly finished when the
machines attacked the planet. We merely need to slip in and get it running." His
haunted eyes grew fiery. "Plenty members of the Giedi Home Guard must have
survived. They'll be doing everything they can behind enemy lines, but that won't be
enough unless we help them."
   'If we can get the secondary shield generators functional, the cymeks and robots on
the surface will fall to a concerted defense from the Armada." She scanned the others in
the room. "Do you think we'll be able to do that?"
   Brigit Paterson, a masculine-looking woman, frowned. "What makes you think the
Armada will join the fight? After my engineers get the job done, how will we make sure
the military comes in to save our butts?"
    Serena gave her a grim smile. "You leave that to me."
    Serena had been raised with the best schools and tutors, groomed to become a
leader. With so much that needed to be done, she could not sit in a comfortable manor
house and fail to use the Butler wealth and power.
    Now she was about to put that determination to the test.
    'Commander Wibsen, do you have the information I requested?"
    With his deeply creased face and rough voice, the veteran seemed more like a man
of the outdoors than an intricate strategist. But no one in Zimia knew more about
military operations than he did.
    'Some of it's good, some of it's bad. After crushing the government in Giedi City, the
machines kept a robot fleet in orbit. Mop-up work on the ground is being led by one
Titan and a lot of neo-cymeks." He coughed, scowled, and adjusted a medication
dispenser implanted in his sternum.
    'Omnius can keep sending in more machines, or even manufacture reinforcements
using the captured industries of Giedi Prime," said Pinquer Jibb, his voice urgent.
"Unless we get the secondary shield complex working."
    'Then that's what we have to do," Serena said. "The Home Guard was dispersed
across the settled continent, and many of the outlying regiments seem to have gone
underground to form a fifth column. If we can contact them, organize them, we might
be able to damage the machine conquerors."
    'I can help with that," Jibb insisted. "It's our only chance."
    'I still think it's foolhardy," Wibsen said. "But what the hell. I didn't say I wasn't
going to go."
    'Is the ship ready?" Serena asked, impatient.
    'It is, but there's a great deal lacking in this operation, if you ask me."
    Brigit Paterson said to Serena, "I have secured detailed maps, plans, and blueprints
of all aspects of Giedi Prime and Giedi City, including full functional diagrams of the
subsidiary scrambler-shield generators." She extended a stack of thin film sheets
densely packed with information. "Pinquer says they're up to date."
    With boundless enthusiasm and passion, Serena had always demonstrated skill in
putting things together. Two years ago, she had led a relief team to Caladan, an
Unallied Planet where thousands of refugees from the Synchronized Worlds had fled. On
her most recent crusade, a year ago, she had delivered three space transports full of
medical supplies to closed-off Tlulax, where the inhabitants were suffering from
mysterious diseases. Now that Tlulaxa flesh merchants had provided medical aid and
replacement organs from their biological tanks—including saving her beloved Xavier—
she felt that her investment in effort had paid off fully.

   Now Serena had called in favors, resulting in a mission that bore some similiarities to
her earlier successful efforts. She expected another clear success, despite the dangers.
   With beatific confidence, Serena looked around the table again. She envisioned the
mission succeeding. Eleven people willing to challenge a set of conquerors and
overcome the odds. "We have no higher priorities."
   Ort Wibsen had worked between traditional channels to obtain a fast blockade
runner. Paterson's engineering crew had equipped the vessel with the best experimental
materials she could scavenge from weapons manufactories. Using personal accounts
and falsified documentation, Serena had funded whatever the old commander needed.
She wanted the best possible chance for her impetuous mission to succeed.
    Serena said, "Every person in the League has lost someone to the thinking-machine
onslaught, and now we're going to do something about it."
    'Let's get busy then," Pinquer Jibb said. "Time for payback."
    THAT EVENING, ALONE in the grand dining hall, Serena and Xavier sat across from
each another. Servers bustled back and forth in red-and-gold jackets and black trousers.
    As he sampled golden duckling fillets on his plate, Xavier talked excitedly about
Armada mobilization plans and methods of protecting the League Worlds.
    'Let's not talk business tonight." With a charming smile, Serena rose to her feet and
glided around the table, taking a seat next to him, very close. "I savor each moment
with you, Xavier," she said, giving nothing away about her plan.
    He smiled back at her. "After the poison gas, I can't savor much else. But you,
Serena, are better than the finest banquet or the sweetest perfume."
    Stroking his cheek, she said, "I think we should tell the servants to go to their
quarters. My father is in the city and my sister is gone for the evening. Should we waste
this time alone?"
    He reached out to brush her arm, then drew her close and grinned. "I'm not hungry
anyway."
    'I am." Passionately, she kissed his ear, then his cheek, finally finding his mouth. He
ran his fingers through her hair, touching the back of her head and kissing her more
deeply.
    They left the remnants of the fine meal on the table. She took his hand and together
they hurried to her chambers. The door was heavy, and locked easily. She already had a
fire lit in the fireplace, giving the room an orange, cheery glow. They kissed again and
again, trying to unfasten laces and buttons and clips without breaking apart from each
other.
    Serena could barely control her urgency, not just to feel his intimate touch, but to
etch every sensation into her mind. He did not know that she intended to slip away
afterward, and she needed something to remember about this night, to compensate for
the time they would be apart.
    His fingers were like fire as they traced down her naked back. She could think of
nothing but the moment as she pulled off his shirt.
    WITH THE MEMORY of her lover's embrace still tingling along the nerves of her
body, Serena left the sleeping manor. She set out into the quiet depths of night, bound
to rendezvous with her team at a private field on the outskirts of the Zimia spaceport.
    Anxious to be away, her optimism subduing her anxiety, Serena joined her ten
commando volunteers. Within the hour they departed in a fast, cloud-gray blockade
runner loaded with engineering tools, weapons, and hope.
    Religion, time and time again, brings down empires, rotting them from within.
    —IBLIS GINJO, early planning for the Jihad

   •MMMM
    he conquered planet Earth seemed to be a dumping jl ground for grandiose
monuments that celebrated the fictitious glories of the Titans.
    Gazing from his vantage at yet another huge construction project designed by the
prideful imaginations of the cymeks, the crew leader paced along a high wooden
platform. His people were good workers, dedicated to him—but the work itself seemed
pointless. When this ornate pedestal was completed and shored up with reinforced arcs,
it would become the platform for a colossal statue representing the idealized, long-lost
human form of the Titan Ajax.

    As one of the most successful trustee humans on Earth, Iblis Ginjo took his job very
seriously. He scrutinized the throng of slaves scurrying about below. He had convinced
them to be enthusiastic, drumming up their attentiveness through well-chosen phrases
and rewards… though Iblis hated to waste such loyalty and hard work on a brutal bully
such as Ajax.
    Still, every person had his part in the giant machine of civilization. Iblis had to make
sure there were no malfunctions, not on his watch.
    The crew leader was not required to be here; his subordinate trustees could just as
easily stand under the hot sun and supervise. But Iblis preferred this to his other duties.
Seeing him watch over them, the slaves seemed to add a bit more to the tasks. He took
pride in what they could accomplish, if managed well, and they genuinely wanted to
please him.
    Otherwise, he would spend tedious hours involved in the processing of new slaves
and assigning them to various work crews. Often the untamed ones needed special
training, or resisted violently—problems that hindered the smooth flow of daily work.

    Erasmus, the strangely independent and eccentric robot, had recently issued an
order to inspect any hrethgir captives taken from newly conquered Giedi Prime, in
particular any human who showed qualities of independence and leadership. Iblis would
stay on the alert for a suitable candidate… without drawing attention to himself.
    He didn't care about Omnius's goals for their own sake, but as a crew leader he
received certain considerations based on performance. Though such perks made life
tolerable, he distributed most of the rewards among his crews.
    With a broad face and thick hair that fell across his brow, Iblis had a strong, virile
appearance. Able to get more work out of the slaves than any other boss, he knew the
best tools and incentives, the manipulation of gentle promises rather than harsh threats.
Food, rest days, sexual services from the reproductive slaves—whatever it took to
motivate them. He had even been asked to speak some of his thoughts at the school for
trustees, but his techniques were not widely adopted among the other privileged
humans.

    Most crew bosses relied on deprivation and torture, but Iblis considered that a
waste. He had risen to his position largely through the force of his personality and the
allegiance he engendered in his slaves. Even difficult men invariably succumbed to his
will. The machines sensed this innate ability, so Omnius gave him the freedom to do his
work.
    At a glance, Iblis counted half a dozen monoliths around the hilltop Forum, each
pedestal containing the huge statue of one of the Twenty Titans, beginning with Tlaloc,
then Agamemnon, then Juno, Barbarossa, Tamerlane, and Alexander. An immense
likeness of Ajax would occupy the one here, not because Ajax was so important, but
because he was violently impatient. Dante could wait, and Xerxes.
    Iblis couldn't remember the rest of the Titans off the top of his head, but he always
learned more than he wanted to know as each statue was built. The work would never
end. Iblis had been personally involved in every one of the ostentatious sculptures over
the past five years, first as a construction slave and later as crew boss.
    It was late in the summer season, warmer than usual. Heat devils danced off
rooftops around the Forum. Directly under him on the dusty ground, his construction
crew wore drab browns, grays, and blacks—durable clothing that required only
occasional washing or repairs.

    Below Iblis's platform, a team boss bellowed out orders. Supervisory robots moved
about, making no move to assist the straining laborers. Watcheyes floated overhead,
recording everything for Omnius. Iblis hardly noticed them anymore. Humans were
industrious, ingenious, and—unlike machines—flexible, as long as they were given
incentives and rewards, encouraged in the proper ways, guided to the best behavior.
The thinking machines could not understand the subtleties, but Iblis knew that each
minor reward he gave his workers was an investment that paid off tenfold.

    According to tradition, the slaves often sang work songs and engaged in boisterous
team competitions; they were silent now, groaning as they hauled structural blocks into
place though in their habitation hives, workers sometimes grumbled about the labor.
The cymeks were anxious to see the pedestal completed so they could erect the statue
of Ajax, which was being fabricated elsewhere by another crew. Each segment of the
project followed a rigid schedule, with no excuses permitted for lateness or shoddy
quality.
    For now, Iblis was glad his people could work in peace, without the intimidating
scrutiny of Ajax. Iblis did not know where the Titan might be at the moment, but could
only hope he would prey on other hapless individuals today. Iblis had work to do and a
schedule to keep.
    In his opinion, the monoliths were useless—huge obelisks, pillars, statues, and
Grogyptian facades for empty, unnecessary buildings. But it was not his position to
question such time-consuming projects. Iblis knew full well that the monuments fulfilled
an important psychological need for the usurped tyrants. Besides, such work kept slaves
busy and gave them visible results of their labor.

    Following their humiliating overthrow by Omnius centuries ago, the Titans had
constantly scrambled to recover lost status. Iblis thought the cymeks went overboard,
building cyclopean statues and pyramids just to make themselves feel more important.
They strutted around in showy but old-fashioned machine bodies, bragging about
military conquests.
    Iblis wondered how much of it was really true. After all, how could anyone question
those who controlled history? The wild humans in the unruly League worlds probably
had a different view of the conquests.
    He wiped sweat from his brow and smelled the gritty dust that rose from the work
below. He looked at the electronic notepad in his hand, checking the progress against
the schedule tally. Everything was proceeding well, as expected.
    With his sharp eyes, he spotted a man leaning against a shaded wall, taking an
unauthorized rest. With a smile, Iblis pointed an "encourager" pulse weapon at him and
skimmed the man's left leg with a beam of energy. The slave slapped the hot spot on
his skin and whirled to look up at Iblis.
    'Are you trying to make me look bad?" Iblis yelled. "What if Ajax came around and
saw you falling asleep there? Would he kill you first, or me?"
    Abashed, the man shouldered his way into the crowd of sweating laborers, where he
resumed his work with renewed vigor.
    Some work bosses found it necessary to kill slaves as examples to the others, but
Iblis had never resorted to that tactic and vowed that he never would. He was certain it
would break the inexplicable spell he had over the men. Instead, he only had to show
disappointment in them, and they worked harder.
    Every few days he delivered stirring, impromptu speeches. On such occasions the
slaves received water and rest breaks, giving them renewed energy that more than
made up for the time spent. The way he strung phrases together often brought cheers
and enthusiasm, and only a few questions from bold slaves who wondered why they
should be excited about yet another monument. The work leader's talent lay in being
utterly convincing.
    Iblis hated the machine overlords, but concealed his feelings so effectively that his
superiors actually trusted him. Now, in a fanciful moment, he envisioned destroying the
computer evermind and installing himself in its place. Much more than a mere trustee.
Think of it—Iblis Ginjo, ruler of all, knower of all!

     He caught himself and dispelled the foolish daydream. Reality was a harsh teacher,
like the sight of a cymek on a beautiful day. If Iblis didn't complete the obelisk pedestal
in time, Ajax would devise an extravagant punishment for them all.
     The work leader didn't dare fall behind schedule.
   Each of us influences the actions of the people we know.
    —XAVIER HARKONNEN, comment to his men por days, Tercero Xavier Harkonnen
stayed up late work-JL ing on defensive plans for the League. Since his sweet night with
Serena—a sparkling promise of their future—he had devoted himself to the protection of
free humanity.

    On Salusa he flew practice missions, drilled new fighters, increased the number of
picket ships on the system's perimeter for a stronger first defense, and extended the
scanning network to provide a better early-warning capability from deep space.
Engineers and scientists dismantled and studied the warrior-forms abandoned by the
cymeks and left behind in the ruins of Zimia, hoping to find flaws or weaknesses. With
each breath in his replacement lungs, he felt outrage against the thinking machines.
    He wanted to spend more time with Serena, dreaming of where they would go after
the wedding, but driven by anger and private guilt about Giedi Prime, Xavier buried
himself in work. If he had concentrated on the primary mission there, rather than
mooning like a lovesick schoolboy, he might have noticed the defensive flaw and helped
the Magnus to prepare. Even encouraging the immediate completion of the secondary
shield generator would have made all the difference. But it was too late now.
    Seemingly inconsequential mistakes could lead to huge events. Xa-vier promised
himself that he would never lapse in his duties again, not for any reason. If that meant
spending less time with Serena, she would understand.
    Emergency staff meetings resulted in a revision of the military structure of the
Armada, combining the resources and numerous warship designs from all the planetary
militias and home guards. The special defensive needs and tactical significance of each
League World were discussed in detail. Armada recruitment surged to new levels.
Manufactories worked overtime to provide ships and weapons.
    Xavier hoped it would be enough.
    In his office on the top floor of the Joint Staff Building, electronic star maps covered
the walls. Printed charts and reports cluttered every work surface. Each step of the way,
he obtained the approval of the Joint Staff Commander, who in turn reviewed key
elements with Viceroy But-ler.
    When he slept at all, Xavier did so in his office or in the underground barracks. For
days he did not return home to the Tantor estate, though his mother often sent eager
young Vergyl to deliver meals made especially for him.
    Oddly, he had not heard from Serena, and assumed the Viceroy's daughter was
occupied with vital duties of her own. The two young lovers were alike in their ability to
see large-scale priorities… and in their independence.
    Determined to revamp League defenses, Xavier kept himself going with stimulant
capsules and drinks. He rarely noted what time of day or night it was, heeding only the
next meeting on his schedule. Now he blinked through his office window at the quiet
streets and the city lights glittering in the darkness. How long had it been night time?
The hours merged with each other, carrying him along like a pebble in a landslide.
    In the final tally, how much could one man actually accomplish? Were some League
Worlds already doomed, no matter what he did? Because of the distances between
planets and slow space travel, communication was sluggish, and news was often stale
by the time it reached Salusa Secundus.
    His reliance on stimulants made him feel scratchy and ragged. He was awake, but so
pummeled by fatigue that he could no longer focus. He heaved a huge sigh, staring
blankly. At the side of the office, his adjutant, Cuarto Jaymes Powder, had cleared a
spot on a table and rested his head on the polished wood.
    When the door opened, Cuarto Powder did not stir, or even snore, but continued
sleeping like the dead. Xavier was surprised to see Viceroy Butler stride in, also weary to
the core. "We need to implement whatever you've got ready, Xavier. Funding is
guaranteed. For the sake of morale, the people must see us doing something."
    'I know, but we need more than one solution, sir. Have Lord Bludd encourage
Savant Holtzman to present any preliminary concepts he has under development." He
rubbed his eyes. "If nothing else, we need new options for our arsenal."
    'We already talked about that last night, Xavier—at great length." The Viceroy looked
at him strangely. "Don't you remember? He has several prototype units almost ready."

    'Yes… of course. I was just reminding you."
    Xavier crossed the room and sat at an interactive information screen, a high-security
system that flirted with the dangers of a computer. The electronic summary system
could organize and provide vital data, but had no self-awareness. Many nobles—
especially Bludd of Poritrin—resented the use of even such crude computers, but in
times such as these, the summary systems were vital.

     Passing his hand over the screen, Xavier made adjustments in his report to
Parliament, including a compendium of planet-specific appendices, then printed the
document, copies of which would be sent to each League World. Presently he handed a
neat stack to the Viceroy, who perused the recommendations and signed his approval
with a flourish. Then Serena's father hurried out of the office, leaving the door open
behind him.
     At the table, Cuarto Powder stirred and sat up, bleary-eyed. Without a word, Xavier
settled into the chair at his own desk. Across the room, the summary screen flashed in
an aurora of light as technicians filled it with probing signals to make certain the system
exhibited no glints of artificial intelligence.
     As his aide drifted off again, Xavier dozed as well. In his groggy imagination he
dreamed that Serena Butler was missing, along with a ship and military team. It seemed
surreal to him, but plausible… then he realized with a start that he was not asleep at all
anymore.
     Powder stood at his desk with another officer, listening to the bad news. "She's
taken a blockade-runner, sir! Modified it with expensive armor and weaponry. She has a
group of commandos with her. An old veteran, Ort Wibsen, agreed to lead them."
     Xavier struggled to throw off the confusion induced by weariness. After rubbing his
scratchy eyes he was surprised to see Serena's wide-eyed sister Octa standing behind
the men. In a pale hand she held a gleaming black diamond necklace dangling from a
coil of gold, which she hurriedly handed to him.
     'Serena told me to wait five days, and then give this to you." Octa seemed ethereal,
delicate; she moved to his side, but would not meet his gaze.
     Searching for answers, Xavier removed the necklace from the coil. When he touched
the black diamonds, the perspiration on his hand activated a tiny projector that showed
a small holo image of Serena. He stared at her, feeling astonishment and dread. The
visual seemed to look directly at him.
     'Xavier, my love, I have gone to Giedi Prime. The League would have argued the
issue for months, while the conquered people suffer. I can't permit that." Her smile was
heartbreaking, but hopeful. "I have a team of the best engineers, commandos, and
infiltration specialists. We have all the equipment and expertise we need to slip in and
activate the secondary shield transmitter. We will complete the construction and install
the systems—enabling us to cut off the planet from thinking machine ships, while
trapping the ones that are already there on the surface. You must bring in the Armada
and recapture this world. We're counting on you. Think of how much we can help
humanity!"

    Xavier was unable to believe what he was hearing. The image of Serena continued
to speak her recorded message. "I will be waiting there, Xavier. I know you won't let me
down."
    Xavier clenched his hands until his knuckles whitened. If anyone could accomplish
such a surprising mission, it was Serena Butler. She was impetuous, but at least she
was trying to do something. And she knew her decision would force the rest of them to
act.
    Octa began crying softly at his side. Viceroy Butler rushed into the office, appalled at
what he had heard.
    'That's just like her," Xavier said. "Now we have to rally a response—there's no
choice."

   Think of war as behavior.
   —GENERAL AGAMEMNON,

   Memoirs
    I n an arena under the harsh sunlight of Earth's equatorial I zone, Agamemnon
prepared to battle Omnius's gladiator machine. The evermind treated these mock
combats as challenges for the subservient Titans, a way for them to vent their anger
and keep them preoccupied. But Agamemnon saw it as an opportunity to strike hard
against his real enemy.
    Two hundred and thirty years ago, human slaves and contractor robots had
completed this semicircular, open-roofed coliseum for Omnius's flashy battles. The
evermind enjoyed testing the destructive capabilities of different robotic designs. Here,
armored vehicles and self-aware artillery systems could clash under controlled
circumstances.
    Long ago, the genius Barbarossa had programmed an appreciation for combat and a
thirst for conquest into the artificial intelligence that had evolved into Omnius. Even a
thousand years later the computer evermind had never forgotten his taste for victory.
    Sometimes these staged competitions pitted humans against machines. Randomly
selected slaves from work gangs were given clubs, explosives, or cutting beams and
thrown into the arena to face combat robots. The irrational violence of desperate
humans never ceased to challenge the calculating mind of Omnius. At other times, the
omnipresent computer preferred to demonstrate his own superiority against his cymeks.
    In anticipation of the next gladiatorial challenge, Agamemnon had spent
considerable effort in designing his new combat body. Omnius sometimes pitted his
sleekest, most sophisticated models against the Titans; on other occasions, he
responded with absurdly massive monstrosities that would never have been viable in
any real struggle. It was all for show.
    Months ago, when Barbarossa had achieved a particularly fine victory against
Omnius, the cymek had demanded permission to attack the feral humans as a reward.
While the strike on Salusa Secundus had not gone well, the Titans' second effort had
conquered Giedi Prime. Barbarossa was even now overseeing dozens of neo'Cymeks in
the subjugation of the people there, a Titan once more in charge of a world. At last, it
was a step in the right direction…
    If he succeeded in winning in the arena today, Agamemnon had plans of his own.
    With sirens blaring to announce the new event, Agamemnon rolled forward on
resilient walker pads and passed between the Corinthian columns of Challenger's Gate.
He could feel the thrumming strength of his stepped-up mobility systems, the pulse of
increased power surging through his neurelectric pathways.
    Inside this gladiator-form, his low-slung body core consisted of a pair of reinforced
spheres—one surrounded by opaque armor, the other made of transparent alloyglas.
Within the clear globe hung the grayish white hemispheres of his human brain, drifting
in a pale-blue electrafluid and connected to thoughtrodes. Faint photon discharges
crackled along the cerebral lobes as the cymek body moved forward, ready to fight.

    Around the double-sphere core, bulky drive motors hummed inside protective
cowlings. Engines worked the smooth hydraulics of four grappling legs. Each articulated
limb ended with a shifting mass of adaptable metal polymer that could shape itself into
a variety of hardened weapons.
    Agamemnon had constructed this ferocious gladiator-form under the buzzing gaze of
watcheyes that monitored his every move. Omnius supposedly filed all such information
in a segregated portion of his ever mind, so as not to gain an unfair combat advantage.
Or so Omnius claimed.
    While Agamemnon waited, poised for battle, his opponent strode forward, controlled
directly by the evermind. Omnius had selected a walking suit of exaggerated medieval
armor: two massive legs with feet like the foundations of a building and arms that
ended in gauntleted fists as large as the body core itself. The proportions were grossly
exaggerated, like a child's nightmare of a bully. Spikes extruded from the massive
knuckles on Omnius's goliath robot, and apocalyptic discharges arced from point to
point on the thorny fist.
    Agamemnon pushed forward on armored walker pads while raising his crablike
forelimbs, the adaptable-polymer ends of each morphing into claws. Even if he won the
contest today, the evermind would suffer nothing, would not even have the grace to be
humiliated in defeat.
    On the other hand, Omnius could accidentally destroy the Titan's brain canister.
Unforseen things happened in battle situations, and maybe Omnius—despite his
programming that prevented him from intentionally killing a Titan—was counting on
that. For Agamemnon, this fight was for real.

    A few designated robotic observers watched from the stands through enhanced optic
threads, but they remained silent. Agamemnon did not require applause anyway. The
other polished stone seats in the coliseum remained empty, reflecting daylight from the
open sky. The large stadium, like an echoing tomb, had all the room necessary for two
gigantic foes to clash.
     No announcement preceded the fight, no information piped over loudspeakers.
Agamemnon launched his attack first.
     The Titan raised his whiplike grappling arms, hardened them with a shifting diamond
film, and drove forward on heavy walker pads. With surprising agility, Omnius's goliath
robot lifted an enormous leg and sidestepped the attack.
     Agamemnon lunged with another of his forelimbs, this one capped with a spherical
wrecking ball that fired disruptive, paralyzing energy. The pulse thrummed through
vulnerable systems, and Omnius's warrior shuddered.
     Suddenly the goliath swiveled, raising a gauntleted fist to smash the cymek's
segmented arm. Even the diamond film could not endure the blow, which bent
Agamemnon's forelimb until it ripped from the flexible socket. The cymek dismissed the
damage and reversed his walker pads, ejecting the unsalvageable limb. He swung up a
cutting arm that metamorphosed into a flurry of shimmering diamond blades.
     Agamemnon sawed through his opponent's armored torso, severing a set of
neurelectric control threads. Greenish fluid sprayed out from chopped lubricant
channels. The combat goliath swung his other spiked fist, but Agamemnon danced his
walker pads sideways and shifted his vulnerable body core, keeping the brain canister
safe.
     When his swing missed completely, the heavy blow overbalanced the gladiator
robot. Agamemnon brought up two slicing arms, hacking at the goliath's arm joints with
white-hot cutting irons. He found vulnerable spots with surprising ease, and the goliath's
right arm dangled useless, a tangle of neurelectric fibers and conductive fluids.
     To assess the damage, Omnius dragged his unwieldy fighter two thundering steps
backward. Agamemnon pressed his advantage, closing to grappling distance. Then he
unleashed his first major surprise.
     From a concealed compartment within the old-fashioned engine housing, a trapdoor
irised open, and eight reinforced conductor-fiber cables sprang out, each tipped with a
magnetic connector claw. The cables flew like a nest of startled vipers and slammed into
the reeling goliath. As soon as the tips struck home, Agamemnon released a huge
energy discharge. Lightning flared up and down the massive body of Omnius's fighter.
     The cymek general expected this insidious blow to knock the combat robot
completely offline, but Omnius must have shielded his fighting unit well. Agamemnon
sent another paralytic pulse like a scorpion's sting, but still the Omnius gladiator did not
fall. Instead, as if in anger, the machine swung its mammoth gauntlet with the force of
a colliding train, putting all of his energy and momentum behind a single blow.
     The spiked fist struck true, slamming into the transparent preservation sphere that
held the disembodied brain. A major jamming surge pulsed out of the knuckle spikes,
and a shaped fracture wave shattered the curved glass walls of the protected brain
canister. Through the breached container walls, electrafluid spilled like blue gushing
blood. Thoughtrodes tore, and the brain fell from its suspender wires, dangling naked in
the open, hot air.
     It might have been the death of Agamemnon.
     But the cymek general had devised his own trick. The brain inside the transparent
container was only a decoy, a synthetic reproduction of his cerebral contours.
Agamemnon's actual brain was inside the opaque metal-walled sphere, from which he
controlled the gladiator-form. Safe and intact.
     He was, however, astonished and infuriated. Omnius had proven his willingness to
inflict severe damage on the most powerful and talented Titan of all. Omnius's strong
urge to avoid losing seemed capable of overriding his programming restrictions. Or had
the evermind known about the ruse all along? Agamemnon launched his vindictive
response. Even as he spun backward on his walker pads, roaring away as fast as
possible, he ejected the now-cracked sphere that contained the false brain. He launched
it into the body core of the goliath robot.
     In his specially constructed body, Agamemnon then ducked down, raising his
armored limbs and lowering his shielded brain canister be-tween the rows of thick
walker pads to protect himself, like a turtle withdrawing into a shell.
     The brain sphere struck the damaged gladiator and detonated. The simulated brain
had been sculpted from high-energy solid foam. Flames roared past Agamemnon,
charring the ground. The resulting explosion bowled over the goliath robot, decapitating
it, ripping open its torso. The shockwave was sufficient to knock down part of the
nearest coliseum wall.
     Agamemnon had survived—and the Omnius gladiator had fallen. "Excellent,
General!" The computer voice echoed from loudspeakers in the intact portion of the
arena, sounding genuinely pleased. "A most refreshing and enjoyable maneuver."

    Agamemnon still wondered if Omnius had been aware that the visible brain was
false. Or perhaps the evermind had found a way to circumvent the protective
restrictions Barbarossa had installed so many years ago. Now he would never be sure if
the evermind was indeed willing to let him die in combat. Maybe Omnius had to keep
the ambitious Titans from feeling too triumphant or overvalued, especially Agamemnon.
    Only Omnius knew for certain, one way or the other.
    Amid the smoke and flames rising from the ruin of the goliath ma chine,
Agamemnon raised his gladiator-form, the uncontested victor. "I have defeated you,
Omnius. I wish to claim my reward."
    'Naturally, General," he answered, sounding good-natured. "You need not even
speak your wish. Yes, I shall allow you and your cymeks to lead further strikes against
the hrethgir. Go forth and enjoy yourselves."
   Survivors learn to adapt.
   —ZUFA CENVA, lecture to Sorceresses n the pristine, contoured cabin of the Dream
Voyager, Vor ian Atreides and Seurat cruised between star systems again, picking up
and delivering Omnius updates to maintain congruence in the distributed evermind
across all the Synchronized Worlds. They exchanged updates with other copies of the
evermind, synchronizing the Omnius incarnations, and departing with new data to be
shared among the widespread networks. Vor loved being a trustee.

   Days in space passed, each like the others. The oddly matched pair performed their
jobs efficiently. Seurat and the small cadre of maintenance drones assured sterile
cleanliness and optimal efficiency in the cabins, while Vor occasionally left food or drink
stains, leaving a few items half-finished or in disarray.
    As he often did, Vor stood at an interactive console in the cramped rear
compartment, rummaging in the ship's database to obtain more information about their
destinations. He had been taught the benefits of bettering himself in his training among
the other privileged humans on Earth. His father's example—rising from an unknown
man to become the greatest of the Titans, conqueror of the Old Empire—showed him
how much even a mere human could accomplish.

     He was surprised to see that the Dream Voyager's normal route had changed.
"Seurat! Why didn't you tell me we've added a new planet? I've never heard of this…
Giedi Prime in the Ophiuchi B system. Previously it was listed as a solid League World."
     'Omnius programmed that destination into our course before we departed from
Earth. He expected that your father would have conquered it by the time we arrive.
Omnius is confident in Agamemnon's ability to make good after their failure on Salusa
Secundus."
     Vor felt pride that his father would tame yet another unruly world for the thinking
machines. "No doubt all will have gone well by the time we arrive, and our forces will be
mopping up."
     'We will see when we get there," Seurat said. "It is still months away."
     ON MANY OCCASIONS they engaged in traditional human competitions from the
extensive databases, such as poker or backgammon; other times Vorian would make up
a new game, declare a set of absurd rules, and then proceed to defeat Seurat, until the
autonomous robot learned to manipulate the rules for himself.
     The two were evenly matched, but with drastically different skill sets. While Seurat
was talented at intricate strategy and could calculate many moves ahead, Vor often
pulled off baffling innovative twists to win. Seurat had trouble comprehending the
human's erratic behavior. "I can follow the consequences in a logical progression from
an individual event, but I cannot understand how you manage to turn impulsive and
illogical behavior into an effective strategy. There is no causal connection."
     Vor smiled at him. "I'd hate to see you calculate an 'irrational' response, old
Metalmind. Leave it to the experts, like me."
     The son of Agamemnon was also quite proficient at military tactics and strategies, a
skill he had developed by studying the great battles of ancient human history, as
summarized in his father's extensive memoirs. The cymek general made no secret that
he hoped his son would become an accomplished military genius one day.
     Whenever Seurat fell behind in a particular contest, he continued
     '74
     his irritating habit of distracting Vor with jokes, trivia, or anecdotes—tailoring them
to interest the brash young man. During all the time the machine captain had known his
human copilot, Seurat had accumulated and assessed information, preparing it for
future use. The robot captain had become adept at raising topics that engrossed Vor
and sent his thoughts spinning.
    Seurat chattered incessantly about the legendary life of Agamemnon, adding details
Vor had never read in the memoirs: great battles the Titans had won, planets they had
added to the Synchronized Worlds, and the warrior-forms Agamemnon had designed for
private gladiatorial contests. Once, the robot captain concocted an absurd tale about
how the great general had literally lost his mind. The cymek's protected brain canister
had accidentally detached from its walker-form and gone tumbling down a hill, while the
mechanical body, on automatic programming, had to scamper about and find it.
    However, Vorian had recently uncovered information more unsettling than anything
the robot could ever reveal. Between games and challenges, he often skimmed the open
databases, reading his favorite parts of his father's memoirs, trying to make sense of
the reams of Om-nius's minutiae. On one of those excursions Vor discovered that over
the years, Agamemnon had sired twelve other sons. Vorian had never assumed he was
the only one—but a dozen unknown brothers! The great Titan general would naturally
have wanted to create descendants worthy of his legacy.

     Worse, he discovered that each of those dozen sons had proved to be a failure.
Agamemnon did not suffer disappointments gladly, and had killed his unacceptable
offspring, though they had been privileged trustees just like Vor. The last had been
executed nearly a century ago. Now Vor was his father's best hope, but not necessarily
the only choice. Agamemnon must still have more sperm in storage… and thus Vor was
just as expendable as the others.
     After learning that, Vor became immune to Seurat's attempts at distraction.
     Now Vor sat at the table, staring at a projected game board and considering his next
move. He knew Seurat could not determine what was going on inside the unpredictable
human mind. Even with all his independent sophistication, the robot accumulated only
external data and did not recognize subtleties.
     The trustee smiled, just a little, which Seurat did not fail to notice. "You are playing
a little trick on me? Exercising some secret human power?"
     Vor continued to smile and stare at the board. It was a multigame competition,
revolving inside a three-dimensional screen embedded in the tabletop. Each player
attempted to choose a contest or situation that benefited him from a wide selection of
games, and then make a move. The score was tied, and the next point would win the
contest.
     The various games came up at random, and each time Vor had only a few seconds
to make his move. He watched the shifting graphics as they locked into place
momentarily before moving on. The ancient Ter-ran game of Go appeared on the
palette of selections; nothing there to benefit him. More options flowed by. A machine-
biased game appeared next, one that required more memory than Vor had. He let it
pass. Two other games appeared that he didn't like, followed by a poker hand.
     Relying on luck and bluster, Vor faced off against the robot captain, who could not
understand the strategy of bluffing or the "skill" of random odds. Vor's expression was
unreadable, and he laughed at the confusion he saw on Seurat's mirrored face.
     'You lost," Vor said. "And you lost, badly." He crossed his arms over his chest,
feeling smug after the robot finally folded his hand. "It's not just the score, but the way
you tried to win."
     Seurat responded that he did not wish to play more games, and Vor laughed at him.
"You're sulking, old Metalmind!" "I am reassessing my tactics."
     Vor reached across the table and pounded his opponent's slick shoulder, as if to
comfort him. "Why don't you stay here and practice, while I run the ship? Giedi Prime is
still a long journey from here."
   Regrets, there are many, and 1 have my share.
    —SERENA BUTLER, unpublished memoirs he cloud-gray blockade runner was not
only fast and dif-Jt ficult to see against the murky skies of Giedi Prime, it contained the
most sophisticated stealth profile of any craft in the League arsenal. Serena hoped Ort
Wibsen's crack abilities would be enough to get her team through to the isolated island
in the northern sea, where they could begin their work.

    Pinquer Jibb had provided the blueprints, plans, and access codes for the secondary
shield-transmitting towers, if any of the systems remained intact. But even with the
excellent military advisors and engineers, no part of this was going to be obvious or
easy.
    After the long journey from Salusa, they now flew silently through the darkened sky,
studying the land mass below. Unnecessary parts of the power grid had been shut
down, cities plunged into barbarous blackness. Machines, after all, could simply adjust
their optic sensors to see in the dark.
    Serena didn't know how many trained Home Guard members had survived. She
hoped some had gone underground after the thinking-machine takeover, as the
desperate courier Jibb had promised. Once her commandos restored the scrambler
shields, the Home Guard survivors would be crucial in retaking the planet. She was
counting on Xavier to bring Armada ships into the fray, no matter what strings he had to
pull.
    Serena sat in the blockade runner's passenger compartment, anxious to begin. By
now, back on Salusa, her father would know she had gone, and she hoped Xavier would
already have launched his strike force for Giedi Prime. If he didn't come, then their
mission was doomed, and so were she and her team.
    Xavier would be upset and worried about her, angry at the foolish risk she had
taken. But if she achieved results, all the effort would be justified.
    Nothing remained but the task itself.
    Hunched forward in the cockpit, old Wibsen scanned the northern regions to
pinpoint the uncompleted transmitter station. Serena had gleaned only a general
location from Xavier's report, but she knew the conquering machines wouldn't have
bothered with an isolated arctic island while subjugating Giedi Prime's population. So
long as they didn't call attention to themselves, perhaps Brigit Paterson's engineers
could complete their work without interference.
    The hardened veteran studied an instrument console, scratching his rough cheek.
After his forced retirement, Wibsen had never maintained a crisp, spit-and-polish
military appearance; now, at the conclusion of their journey across space, he looked
more rumpled than ever. But Serena had not enlisted him for his wardrobe or his
personal hygiene habits.
    He watched streaks of light and blips on a scanner screen. "There it is. Must be the
right island." With a satisfied grunt, he began touching buttonpads like a musician
playing a keyboard to reveal a weaving but safe course through the machines' electronic
sensor net. "The stealth film on our hull should let us slip right through their
surveillance. Sixty, seventy percent chance, I'd say."
    Serena accepted the grim reality. "That's better odds than the people of Giedi Prime
have."
    'At the moment," Wibsen said.
    Brigit Paterson stepped into the cockpit, not losing her balance as the deck shook in
buffeting winds. "Most of the Armada wouldn't even take the chance. They'd probably
write off Giedi Prime until they had a perfect, risk-free opportunity."
    'We'll just have to show them how it's done," Wibsen said. Serena wished Xavier
could be here so they could make decisions together.
    The camouflaged blockade runner sliced through the murky atmo sphere at an
efficient angle and approached the cold, leaden sea. "Timi to duck out of sight," the
veteran said. "Hang on."
    The smooth ship plunged beneath the deep water like a hot iron The gush of steam
was followed by hardly a ripple. Then, concealed b the ocean, the craft glided north
toward the coordinates of the rock island where a nervous Magnus Sumi had built his
backup shield trans mitters.
    'I'd say we're sufficiently out of sensor range," Serena said. "We cai breathe easy for
a while."
    Wibsen cocked an eyebrow. "I hadn't even started to sweat yet."
    As if to disprove his remark, he fought to control a sudden coughin spasm while he
maneuvered the converted blockade runner through th dim underwater currents. The
old man cursed his health, cursed th implanted medical injector in his chest.
    'Commander, don't jeopardize this mission because of your stubbor pride," Serena
scolded.
    The ship pitched to one side and creaked. Behind a bulkhead some thing fizzed.
"Damn water turbulence!" Red-faced, Wibsen kept th blockade runner under control,
then turned back to glare at Seren; "Right now I'm just the chauffeur. I can relax as
soon as I drop you off
    The vessel cruised beneath the surface for an hour, deep enough'tavoid any floating
chunks of ice from the polar regions, and finall guided them toward a sheltered bay. On
the cockpit screens, the aj preaching island looked stark and rocky, all black cliffs and
ice. "Doesn look like much of a resort to me," Wibsen said.
    Brigit Paterson said, "Magnus Sumi didn't choose the site for i beauty. From here, a
polar projection is simple and efficient. Covera^ from these transmitters is good for all
the inhabited land masses."
    Wibsen brought the blockade runner to the surface. "I still think it an ugly place." As
he guided them into the deep harbor embraced by crescent of cliffs, he began to cough
again, louder and worse than befor "Damned ridiculous timing." He looked more
annoyed than distress^ "We're on auto-guide, still on course. Get Jibb over here to fly
for while. This is his home territory after all."
    Curly-haired Pinquer Jibb looked at the approaching island comple seemingly
disappointed that the Home Guard refugees hadn't alreac completed the work. He took
the controls from the veteran and brought the blockade runner to the island's
abandoned quays and loading docks. After they had clamped into place, he opened the
hatches.
    Purplish dawn spread like a bruise across the northern sky. Breathing the fresh but
biting air, Serena stood in warm clothes with her team members. The rocky island
looked forbidding and seemed completely deserted.
    More heartwarming, though, was the set of silvery towers with parabolic sides and
metal-lattice grids. Ice and frost rimed the structures, but they appeared untouched by
the thinking-machine invaders.
    'Once we switch those on, the robots won't know what hit 'em," Wibsen said,
hauling himself out into the open, looking somewhat recovered. He blew a lungful of
white steam onto his hands.
    Serena kept looking at the towers, a sweeping expression of hope and determination
on her face. Brigit Paterson nodded, all business. "Even so, we've got our work cut out
for us."
    In times of war, every person claims to contribute to the effort. Some give lip
service, some provide funds, but few are willing to sacrifice everything. This, I believe,
is why we have been unable to defeat the thinking machines.
    — ZUFA CENVA,

   The Rossak Weapon
   ^üi^ taring at fourteen of the strongest and most dedicated K™,'' young
Sorceresses Rossak had ever produced, Zufa Cenva understood that these women were
not the sole hope for humanity. They were not the only weapon against the terrible
cymeks, not the most powerful blow the League could strike. But they were critical to
the war effort.
    Zufa stood in the fleshy underbrush with her trainees and looked at them with
compassion and love. No one in all the League Worlds was more confident of success or
devoted to victory. Her heart seemed ready to burst as she saw them focusing every
scrap of energy toward the ultimate goal. If only everyone else could be as intent, the
thinking machines would be defeated in short order.
    As she had done for months now, Zufa led her elite group into the jungle where they
could practice their skills and summon the power within their spirits. Each of these
women was the equivalent of a psychic warhead. Zufa, blessed from birth with more
talents than any of them, had been sharing her methods, pushing the others to their
limits. She had patiently taught them how to unleash incredible telepathic abilities…
    and how to exercise control. The women had performed admirably, beyond Zufa's
most optimistic forecasts.
    But they must make their effort stand for something.
    Now she sat on a fallen silvery-barked log that was overgrown with a thick cushion
of shelf fungus. The canopy was dense with shadows that interlocked high overhead.
Dark purple foliage filtered the caustic rainwater so that droplets trickling like tears to
the mulchy ground were fresh and drinkable. Large insects and spiny rodents tore
through the soil layers, oblivious to the testing the Sorceresses were about to begin.
    'Concentrate. Relax… but be prepared to focus with all your might, when I command
you to do so." Zufa looked at the women, all of them tall and pale, with translucent skin
and shining white hair. They looked like guardian angels, luminous beings sent to
protect humanity against the thinking machines. Could there be any other reason why
God had granted them such mental powers?
    Her gaze moved from face to determined face: Silin, the bold, impulsive one;
creative Camio, who improvised forms of attack; Tirbes, still discovering her potential;
Rucia, who always chose integrity; Heoma, with the most raw power… and nine others.
If Zufa were to ask for a volunteer, she knew all of her chosen Sorceresses would
demand the honor.
    It was her task to select who would be the first martyr among them. Xavier
Harkonnen was already anxious to depart for Giedi Prime.
    She loved her trainees as if they were her children… and in a very real sense, they
were, for they were following her methods, maximizing their potential. These young
women were so different from her own Norma…
    Facing the chief Sorceress, the fourteen stood together, apparently content and
calm, but coiled within. Their eyes fell half closed. Their nostrils flared as they breathed,
counting heartbeats and using innate biofeedback skills to alter bodily functions.
    'Begin to build the power in your mind. Feel it like the static electricity before a
lightning storm." She saw their expressions flicker as their thoughts stirred.
    'Now increase the power one bit at a time. Envision it in your brain, but do not lose
control. One step, then another. Feel the energy amplifying—but do not release it. You
must maintain your hold."

    Around her in the dimness of the fungoid jungle, Zufa felt the energy crackling,
building. She smiled.
    Zufa sat back on her log, feeling weak but not daring to show it. Her recent difficult
miscarriage, expelling Aurelius Venport's monstrous child, had left her drained. But there
was so much work to do, so much she could not delay or delegate. The League Worlds
were depending upon her, especially now.
    Everyone had high expectations of the most powerful Sorceress, but Zufa Cenva
placed an even greater burden upon herself. At every turn, her plans and dreams had
been hamstrung when people refused to expend the effort or take the necessary risks.
These eager, talented trainees seemed different, though, and she assured herself that
they would perform up to her standards. Too often when she measured other people,
she found them wanting.
    'Another notch," she said. "Intensify your power. See how far it can go, but always
be careful. An error at this point would wipe us all out—and the human race cannot
afford to lose us."

   Psychic energy pulsed higher. The Sorceresses' pale hair began to drift upward as if
gravity had failed. "Good. Good. Keep it going." Their success delighted her.
    Zufa had never been interested in self-aggrandizement. She was a stern and difficult
taskmistress, with little patience or sympathy for the failings of others. The chief
Sorceress did not need wealth and profit like Aurelius Venport, or accolades like Tio
Holtzman, or even a show of attention like Norma seemed to desire by convincing the
Savant to take her as his apprentice. If Zufa Cenva was impatient, she had a right to be.
This was a time of great crisis.
    The underbrush stirred as native insects and rodents scampered away from the
pounding psychic waves that built to a crescendo. Trees rustled, leaves and twigs
fluttering as if trying to break away from their parent stalks and flee the jungle. Zufa
narrowed her eyes and studied her students.
    Now they were reaching the most dangerous part. The mental energy had increased
until their bodies began to shimmer and glow. Zufa had to use her own skills to erect a
protective barrier against the combined psychic pressure on her mind. One slip and all
would be lost.
    But she knew these dedicated apprentices would never make such a i
    mistake. They understood the stakes and the consequences. Zufa's heart ached as
she gazed upon them.
    One trainee, Heoma, displayed more strength than her companions. She had built
her power to a higher level while still maintaining control. The destructive force could
easily have become a wildfire in her brain cells, but Heoma held onto it, staring with
unseeing eyes as her hair whipped like a storm.
    Suddenly, out of dense branches high above, a thick'bodied slarpon dropped, a scaly
creature with needle teeth and thick body armor. It tumbled among the young women
with a crash, disturbed from its predatory perch and maddened by the backwash of
mental energy. All muscle and cartilage, it thrashed, snapping with powerful jaws and
scrabbling with thick talons.
    Startled, Tirbes twitched—and Zufa felt an uncontrolled surge of power spouting like
a released jet of fire. "No!" she cried and reached out, summoning her own powers to
blanket the student's slip. "Control!"

    Heoma, with perfect calm, pointed toward the slarpon as if she were erasing a
smudge on a magnetic board. She drew a line of psychic de-struction across the scaly
predator. The slarpon burst into white-hot flames, thrashing as its bones turned to
charcoal, its skin crackling and tearing until it flaked off in puffs of ash. Flames
smoldered out of its now-empty eye sockets.
    Heoma's companions struggled to clamp down and exert their mental forces. But
they had been distracted at a critical moment and were losing their slippery grips on
their telepathic battering rams. Steadfastly, Heoma and Zufa maintained a superhuman
calmness in their midst, a stark contrast to their frenzied efforts. The combined psychic
force rippled and undulated.
    'Back down," Zufa said, her lips trembling. "Ease the power away. Draw it into
yourself. You must retain it and reel it back into your minds. It is a battery, and you
must maintain its charge."
    She breathed deeply, saw that all of her psychic warriors were doing the same. One
by one they inhaled, and gradually the tingle in the air dissipated as they began to
dampen their constant efforts.
    'Enough for now. This is the best you've ever done." Zufa opened her eyes and saw
her students all staring back at her, Tirbes pale and frightened, the others amazed at
how close they had come to self-annihilation. Heoma, an island apart, looked entirely
unrattled.
    In a broad circle around them, the soft fungal underbrush was curled and singed.
Zufa studied the blackened foliage, fallen twigs, and shriveled lichens. Another instant, a
hair's breadth less control, and everyone would have been vaporized in a ball of
telepathic flames.
    But they had survived. The test had succeeded.
    After the tension finally evaporated, Zufa allowed herself a smile. "I am proud of all
of you," she said, and meant it. "You… my weapons… will be ready as soon as the
Armada arrives."
    Mathematical answers are not always expressed numerically. How does one
calculate the worth of humanity, or of a single human life?
   —COGITOR KWYNA, City of Introspection archives t Tio Holtzman's extravagant
house, high on a bluff, INorma Cenva spent three exhilarating days settling into her
expansive laboratory space. She had so much to do, so much to learn. Best of all, the
Savant was eager to listen to her ideas. She couldn't have asked for more.

     Quiet Poritrin seemed so different from the dense, dangerous jungles and lava-rock
canyons of Rossak. She was anxious to explore the streets and canals of Starda, which
she could see from her high windows.
     Tentatively, she asked Holtzman for permission to go down to the river, where she
had seen many people performing some kind of work. She felt guilty for even asking,
rather than working tirelessly on a means to fight the thinking machines. "My mind is a
little tired, Savant, and I am curious."
     Instead of looking at her skeptically, the scientist wholeheartedly endorsed the idea,
as if pleased to have an excuse to accompany her. "I remind you that we are paid to
think, Norma. We can do that anywhere." He shoved aside a sheet of doodles and
sketches. "Perhaps a bit of sightseeing will inspire you to a work of genius. One can
never know when inspiration might strike, or where."
     He led her down a steep stairway that clung to a cliff over the Isana. As she stood
beside the taller man, Norma inhaled deeply of the river's smell, sour and peaty from silt
and vegetation dragged down from the highlands. For the first time in her life, she felt
giddy with her own possibilities; the Savant was genuinely interested in her imagination,
her mind, and he listened to her suggestions, unlike the constant scorn she had
received from her mother.
     Norma raised an idea that had occurred to her that morning. "Savant Holtzman, I
have studied your scrambler shields. I believe I understand how they function, and I've
been wondering if it might be possible to… extend them somehow."
     The scientist showed guarded interest, as if afraid she might criticize his invention.
"Extend them? They already stretch across planetary atmospheres."
    'I mean a different application entirely. Your scramblers are purely a defensive
concept. What if we used the same principles in an offensive weapon?" She watched his
expression, detected puzzlement but a willingness to listen.
    'A weapon? How do you propose to accomplish that?"
    Norma answered in a rush. "What if we could make a… projector? Transmit the field
into a thinking machine stronghold, disrupt their gelcircuitry brains. Almost like the
electromagnetic pulse from an atomic air burst."
    Holtzman's face lit with comprehension. "Ah, now I see! Its range would be quite
limited, and power requirements off the scale. But perhaps… it just might work. Enough
to knock out the thinking machines within a substantial radius." He tapped his chin,
excited by the idea. "A projector—good, good!"

    They walked along the bank until they reached the foul-smelling expanse of mudflats
dotted with sloppy pools. Crews of ragged, half-clothed slaves sloshed out onto the
mudflats, some barefoot, some wearing boots that extended to their upper thighs. At
regular intervals across the featureless field, flat pallets on pontoons held metal barrels.
Laborers marched back and forth to the barrels, where they scooped dripping handfuls
of the contents and went to plunge their fingers into lines marked in the soft mud.
    'What are they doing?" Norma asked. It looked as if they were embroidering the
mudflats with their work.
    Holtzman squinted as if he had never considered the details. "Ah! They are planting
clam seedlings, tiny shellfish that we raise from eggs filtered out of the river water.
Every spring, slaves plant hundreds of thousands of them, maybe millions. I'm not
certain." He shrugged. "The waters will rise again, cover the clam plantings, and then
recede. Every autumn, harvesting crews dig up the shellfish: clams as big as your
hand." He held up his right palm. "Delicious, especially when fried with butter and
mushrooms."
    She frowned to watch the backbreaking labor, the sheer number of people wading in
the mud. The concept of captive workers remained strange and unpleasant to her, even
Holtzman's teams of solvers.
    The scientist didn't venture too close to the smell and the slaves, despite Norma's
obvious curiosity. "It's wise to maintain our distance."
    'Savant, doesn't it strike you as somewhat… hypocritical that we fight to keep
humans free from the domination of machines, while at the same time some of our own
League Worlds use slaves?"
    He seemed perplexed. "But how else would Poritrin get any work done, since we
have no sophisticated machines?" When he finally noticed Norma's troubled look, it took
him a moment to realize what bothered her. "Ah, I've forgotten that Rossak keeps no
slaves! Isn't that correct?"
    She didn't want to sound critical of her host's way of life. "We have no need, Savant.
Rossak's population is small, with plenty of volunteers to scavenge in the jungles."
    'I see. Well, Poritrin's economy is based on having hands and muscles for constant
labor. Long ago, our leaders signed an edict banning machinery that involves any form
of computerization, perhaps a little more extreme than on some other League Worlds.
We had no choice but to turn to human labor, a manual workforce." Smiling broadly, he
gestured toward the mudflat crews. "It's really not so bad, Norma. We feed and clothe
them. Bear in mind, these workers were taken from primitive worlds where they lived
squalid lives, dying of diseases and malnourish-ment. This is paradise for them."
    'They're all from the Unallied Planets?"
    'Leftovers from colonies of religious fanatics that fled the Old Empire. All
Buddislamics. They've fallen to distressing levels of barbarism, barely civilized, living like
animals. At least most of our slaves receive a rudimentary education, especially the ones
who work for me."
    Norma shaded her eyes from the reflected sunlight and stared skeptically at the
bent-backed forms out on the mudflats. Would the slaves agree with the scientist's
blithe assessment?
    Holtzman's face hardened. "Besides, these cowards owe a debt to humanity, for not
fighting the thinking machines as we did. Is it too much to ask their descendants to help
feed the survivors and veterans who kept—and still keep—the machines at bay? These
people forfeited their right to freedom long ago, when they deserted the rest of the
human race."

    He seemed offhanded about it and not quite angry, as if the problem was beneath
him. "We have more important work to do, Norma. You and I have a debt to pay as
well, and the League of Nobles is counting on us."
    THAT EVENING, GRIPPING the cool metal of a wrought-alloy railing, the small
woman gazed out from her balcony window at twinkling city lights. Boats and barges on
the Isana looked like waterlogged fireflies. In the gathering darkness, flaming rafts
drifted out from the slave sector, mobile bonfires that floated into the marshes. Each
fire rose and peaked, then diminished as the burning rafts sputtered and sank.
    Humming to himself, Holtzman came to offer her a cup of seasoned tea, and Norma
asked him about the boats. Squinting out at the drifting bonfires, he was slow to realize
what the slaves were doing. "Ah, must be cremation rafts. The Isana takes the bodies
away from the city, and the ashes are carried out to sea. Basically efficient."
    'But why are there so many of them?" Norma pointed at the dozens of flickering
lights. "Do slaves die that often, each day?"
    Holtzman frowned. "I heard something about a plague traveling through the worker
population. Most unfortunate, requiring a lot of effort to replace them." He reassured
her quickly, his eyes brightening. "Nothing you need worry about, though. Truly. We
have plenty of good medicines shipped here, enough to tend all the free citizens in
Starda if we should happen to fall ill, too."
    'But what about all the slaves who are dying?"
    His reply was not on point. "Lord Bludd has requested replacements for them.
There's a standing order for healthy candidates these days.
    The Tlulaxa flesh merchants are happy to harvest more men and women from the
outlying worlds. Life on Poritrin goes on." He reached down to pat Norma's shoulder as
if she were a child needing reassurance.
    From the balcony, she tried to count the floating fires, but soon gave up the effort.
Her tea tasted cold and bitter.
    Behind her, Holtzman continued happily, "I very much like your idea of using my
scrambler-shield concept as a weapon. I am already thinking of how to design a field-
portable projector that could be deployed on the ground."
    'I understand," she said, her voice hesitant. "I will work harder to suggest new
ideas."
    Even after he left, Norma could not tear her eyes from the funeral barges blazing
across the river, the floating cremation fires. She had seen how the slaves labored in the
mudflats planting clam seedlings and in laboratory rooms calculating hundreds of
equations. Now they were dying in droves from a deadly fever… but were easily
replaced.
    The League of Nobles desperately sought to keep from being enslaved by the
thinking machines. Norma wondered about the hypocrisy here.
    All men are not created equal, and that is the root of social unrest.
    —TLALOC, A Time for Titans

    The Tlulaxa slaving crew came down to Harmonthep like a weary convoy instead of
a squadron of military raiders.
    Tuk Keedair rode in the lead ship, but he left the piloting and shooting to the
newcomer Ryx Hannem. Not yet jaded to the slave-acquisition business, young Hannem
would be eager to please Keedair, and the veteran flesh merchant wanted to see what
this novice was made of.
    Keedair had a flattened nose that had been broken twice in his youth; he liked the
way it had healed, imparting rugged character to his wolfish face. In his right ear he
wore a triangular gold earring etched with a hieroglyphic mark that he refused to
translate for anyone. A thick black braid, tarnished with strands of gray, hung between
his shoulders at the left side of his face—a mark of pride, since commercial tradition
required a flesh merchant to slice off the braid after any unprofitable year. And
Keedair's had grown long.

    'Do we have coordinates yet?" Hannem asked, looking nervously at his control panel,
then out the cockpit windshield. "Where should we start, sir?"
    'Harmonthep's an Unallied Planet, boy, and the Buddis lamics don't publish maps.
We just look for a village and then harvest the people. Nobody's keeping a census."
    Hannem peered through the viewer, searching for villages. The clustered Tlulaxa
ships cruised over a waterlogged green continent. No mountains or hills rose above the
soggy landscape of lakes, marshes, and waterways. Harmonthep seemed to have an
aversion to pushing its land masses much above sea level. Even the oceans were
shallow.
    After a few more runs, Keedair might take a long furlough back on Tlulax, the
closed-off world of his people. It was a nice place to relax, though he was sure he'd get
restless again before long. As a "procurer of human resources," Keedair had no regular
home.
    The Tlulaxa biological industry had a constant demand for fresh material, generated
from new subjects, untapped genetic lines. By imposing a high degree of secrecy on
their work, the Tlulaxa had managed to fool their innocent League customers. When the
price was right and the need great, the nobles easily swallowed stories of sophisticated
bio-tanks that could grow viable replacement organs. The dedicated researchers
eventually hoped to modify their clone-growth tanks to produce such products, but the
necessary technology had not yet been attained.
     It was so much easier to just grab swarms of forgotten humans who lived on
outlying worlds. The kidnappings would never be noticed, and the captives would all be
carefully catalogued according to their genetics.
     For the time being, though, the sudden shortage of viable slaves on Poritrin had
changed Keedair's business focus. As long as the plague continued, it would be more
profitable just to provide living captives, warm bodies that needed no further
processing…
     As the slavers approached the tangled swamps, Keedair tapped the scanned
topographic map on his console screen. "Fly low over that broad stream and follow it. In
my experience, you're likely to find villages at a confluence of waterways."
     As the craft swooped down, he spotted large dark shapes moving in the waters,
serpentine creatures curling through bamboolike reeds. Huge orange flowers bloomed
on the tops of the stalks, opening and closing like fleshy mouths. Keedair was glad he
didn't have to stay on this ugly world for long.
     'I see something, sir!" Hannem overlaid a magnified display on the windscreen,
pointing out a cluster of huts standing on poles within the marshes.
     'Good enough, boy." Keedair contacted the slaver ships in their wake. "Just like
plucking fruit from a nobleman's garden."
     The marsh village did not look substantial. The round huts were made of reeds and
mud, fused with some sort of plastic cement. A few antennas, mirrors, and wind
collectors hung between them, although the Buddislamics used little sophisticated
technology. He doubted the harvest from this single village would fill the holds, but he
was always optimistic. Business had been good lately.
     Three attack ships flanked Keedair's lead craft, while the Tlulaxa human-cargo
vessels were in the rear. Ryx Hannem looked uneasy as the slavers approached the
village. "Are you sure we have sufficient weaponry, sir? I've never been on a raid like
this before."
     Keedair raised an eyebrow. "These are Zensunnis, boy, pacifists to the core. When
the thinking machines came, these cowards didn't have the balls to fight. I doubt we'll
come out of it with so much as a bruise. Trust me, you'll never see so much gnashing of
teeth and wringing of hands. They're pathetic."
     He opened the comchannel and spoke to his harvesting crew. "Knock the poles out
from under three outlying huts and dump them into the water. That'll bring people
running out. Then we'll use stun-projectors." His voice was calm, a bit bored. "We'll
have plenty of time to round up the valuable ones. If there are any severe injuries, take
them for the organ stockpiles, but I'd prefer intact bodies."
     Hannem gazed at him worshipfully. Keedair spoke again into the comchannel.
"There'll be profits enough for everyone, and a bonus for each young male and fertile
female you take without damage."
    The linked pilots raised a cheer, then the four raider ships swooped toward the
helpless swamp village. Young Hannem held back as the more-experienced slavers flew
in. With hot beams, they chopped through the tall poles and let the rickety huts topple
into the murky water.
    'Well—open fire, boy!" Keedair said.

    Hannem discharged his weapons, disintegrating one of the thick support legs and
strafing open the side of a hut wall, setting the reeds on fire.
    'Not so much destruction," Keedair said, forcing a veneer of calm over his
impatience. "You don't want to harm the villagers. We haven't even had a chance to
look them over yet."
    Just as he had predicted, the pathetic Zensunni came boiling out of their huts. Some
shimmied down ladders and poles to reach wobbly boats tied up against their hovels.
    At the edge of the village, the two human-cargo ships landed in the marsh water
with hissing splashes, their friction-hot hulls creating steam. Pontoons opened up to
keep the ships afloat, and loading ramps extended to solid-looking grassy hummocks.
    Keedair directed Hannem to land near the scurrying knots of people. Some splashed
into the waist-deep water, while women dragged children into reed thickets and young
men brandished spears that looked more suitable for catching fish than for warfare.
    The first Tlulaxa raiders set down gently, extending flat-footed landing struts that
sank into the mud. By the time Keedair emerged onto a mound of trampled grasses with
his stun-projector in his hands, his companions were already out and opening fire,
selecting their targets carefully.
    The healthy men were marked first, because they were worth the most on the
Poritrin market, and because they were the likeliest to cause trouble, if given the
chance.
    Keedair handed the stun weapon to a grinning but intimidated Ryx Hannem. "Better
start shooting, boy, if you want to bag any of this booty."
    THE BOY ISHMAEL confidently guided his boat along the waterways, threading his
way through the maze of creeks and passages. The reeds were much taller than his
head, even when he stood up in the wobbly little craft. The orange flowers at tops of
the reeds opened and closed with smacking sounds, feasting on gnats that drifted
through the air.
    Eight years old, Ishmael had been foraging by himself for a long time now. His
maternal grandfather, who had raised him after the death of his parents, had taught
him well. Ishmael knew how to unearth secret stashes of qaraa eggs that even the giant
eels couldn't find.
    He'd found a good patch of salad leaves and had caught two fish, one of a species
he'd never seen before. His basket clattered and jiggled as the venomous creatures
inside crawled up and down the walls, thrusting spiny black legs through the tiny holes.
He had captured eighteen milkbugs today, too, each as large as his hand. The family
would eat well tonight!
    But as he approached the village, guiding his boat smoothly through the brown
water, Ishmael heard shouts and screams along with buzzing sounds. Static discharges.
Ishmael paddled quickly but cautiously. The reeds were too tall for him to see anything.
    As he rounded an oxbow, he saw the slaver ships, one of the biggest fears of his
tribe and the reason they had built their village in such an isolated place. Several huts
had been toppled, while others were afire. Impossible!
    The boy wanted to yell and charge in fighting, but better judgment told him to flee.
Ishmael watched Tlulaxa slavers pointing their stun-projectors, dropping one villager
after another. Some of the people tried to hide inside dwellings, but raiders smashed
their way through.
    The Zensunni had no locks on their doors, no shielded places to hide. As followers of
Buddallah, they were a peaceful people. Never had there been war among villages on
Harmonthep; at least Ishmael had never heard of such a thing.
    His heart pounded. Such a loud commotion would attract the giant eels, though the
predators were generally sluggish in the daytime. If these raiders did not quickly
retrieve stunned villagers who had fallen into the water, the eels would have a feast…
    Without making so much as a ripple on the water, Ishmael moved his boat closer to
one of the raider ships. He saw his cousin Taina crumple from a stun-blast and then be
grabbed by dirty-looking men who loaded her motionless body onto a wide metal raft.
    Ishmael didn't know what to do. He heard a roaring sound in his ears—his own
blood flowing, his gasping breath.

    Then his grandfather, Weyop, pushed forward to the center of the huts, and faced
the chaos. The old leader carried a thin bronze gong dangling from a pole, symbol of his
office as the village spokesman. Ishmael's grandfather did not seem at all afraid, and
the boy felt instant relief. He had faith in the wise man, who always found a way to
resolve disputes. Weyop would save the villagers now.
    But deep in his heart, Ishmael felt a terrible dread, knowing that this would not end
so simply.
    RYX HANNEM PROVED tobea fairly good shot. After the novice had stunned his first
captive, he continued with enthusiasm. Keedair kept a mental count, estimating the
haul, though he would not have an accurate tally until the unconscious bodies were
placed inside stasis coffins for transport.
    Keedair clenched his jaw as the Zensunnis wailed and pleaded—probably in much
the same manner as the population of Giedi Prime had begged during the recent
thinking-machine conquest. Keedair had business associates in Giedi City, but he
doubted he'd ever see them alive again.

    No, he couldn't dredge up any sympathy for these Zensunni bastards.
    Hannem called attention to an old man who stepped forward. "What does he think
he's doing, sir?" The old man repeatedly banged a metallic gong on a long staff.
Hannem raised his stunner. "Do we take him?"
    Keedair shook his head. "Too old. Don't even waste a stun-blast on him."
    Two of the experienced slavers thought the same way. They broke the tribal leader's
staff and pushed him into the water, then laughed when he shouted curses in a mixture
of his native tongue and Galach, a universal language among the human planets. The
humiliated old man swam to shore.
    The remaining villagers wailed and wept, but most of the healthy young ones were
already stunned and in the boats. Old women and dirty children cried out, but
attempted no resistance. Keedair looked knowingly at Ryx Hannem.
    Suddenly a boy sprang out of the reeds behind them, jumping from a narrow boat.
He threw sticks at Hannem and Keedair, yelling something about his grandfather.
Keedair ducked. A rock narrowly missed him.
    Then the boy grabbed a basket out of his boat and hurled it at
    Hannem. The flimsy wickerwork broke and spilled a swarm of huge spiny-legged
insects that tumbled over Hannem's chest and face, biting. The copilot let out a thin
shriek as he batted at the creatures, squashing them, but they continued to scramble up
his arms and clothes. Their smashed bodies oozed a thick milky substance that looked
like pus.
    Keedair grabbed Hannem's stun-projector and directed it at the scrappy youth. As
the boy fell, Keedair also sprayed his copilot with a paralyzing blast. It wasn't the best
way, but at least it incapacitated the aggressive venomous insects, in addition to
Hannem. Once aboard the cargo ship, they would put the injured slaver into a stasis
coffin, along with the new captives. Keedair didn't know if the lad would die, or just
have nightmares for the rest of his life.
    He shouted for the rest of the Tlulaxa to gather up the unconscious people. It looked
as if they might need the second cargo ship after all. Not a bad day, he thought. He
studied the motionless form of the native boy; the scrappy Zensunni youth was certainly
impetuous and foolish. This one would be a handful for whichever human master
purchased him.
    But that wasn't Keedair's concern. Let Poritrin deal with the problem. Even stunned
and dirty, the wiry boy looked healthy enough, though maybe a little young to take with
the other slaves. Out of annoyance, Keedair decided to include the youth anyway. This
one had caused him trouble and might need punishment, especially if Hannem ended up
dying.
    The old village elder stood on the shore, soaking wet, shouting Bud-dislamic sutras
at the raiders, telling them the errors of their ways. Bodies floated in the water,
facedown. Some of the desperate villagers used poles to nudge the bodies back toward
shore, sniveling and wailing the whole time.
    Keedair saw large black serpentine forms swimming along the narrow canals,
attracted by the noise. One of them raised its head out of the water and snapped a
fang-filled mouth. The sight of the ferocious animal sent a shudder down Keedair's
back. Who knew what other creatures lived around here?
    Anxious to be away from the stinking swamps, he urged his crew to hurry. He
watched as the new slaves were loaded onto the ships. He would be glad to get back
aboard his own clean vessel. Nevertheless, the profits from this operation would be well
worth the inconvenience and discomfort.
    When all was ready, he climbed back into his own ship, started the engines and
retracted the mud-encrusted stabilizers. As he lifted off into the hazy sky, Tuk Keedair
looked down into the marsh and watched the giant eels begin to feed on a few stray
bodies.
   Mind rules the universe. We must make certain it is the Human mind, rather than
the Machine version.
   —PRIMERO FAYKAN BUTLER,

   Memoirs of the Jihad
    Zufa Cenva chose her most talented student to be Rossak's first weapon against the
cymeks on Giedi Prime. Strong and dedicated, the Sorceress Heoma appeared more
than ready to answer the call.
    From her cliff city on Rossak, Zufa coordinated the operation with the League
Armada. The chief Sorceress bit her lower lip and blinked stinging tears of pride from
her eyes.
    Serena Butler's unexpected and ill-advised mission provided the necessary impetus
to galvanize the Armada into an offensive. Amidst the arguing and saber-rattling, Xavier
Har-konnen had put forth a well-integrated operational plan for the attack. Then he had
convinced his commanding officer to let him spearhead the strike. Now, high over
Rossak, the battle group of ballista battleships and javelin destroyers was ready to
depart from the orbital stations.
    The initial retaliation against the machine invaders must be a dramatic and complete
victory, much more than a localized fight. Each planet affected the others, like the links
of a chain. Tercero Harkonnen would lead an Armada battle group, carrying Tio
Holtzman's brand new field-portable scramblers to knock out key robotic installations.
    A Sorceress, though, must deal with the cymeks, whose human brains would be
unaffected by the scrambler pulse. Eager for the opportunity, Heoma had accepted her
role without hesitation.
    She was a lean young woman, twenty-three years old, with ivory-white hair, almond
eyes, and a plain-featured face that belied the strength and turmoil within her powerful
mind. But Zufa knew more than just this woman's mental skills; she knew Heoma as a
dear person, a daughter like she wished she'd had herself. Heoma was the eldest of five
sisters; three of the others had already been indoctrinated as Sorceress trainees.
    Zufa stood before her top protege and placed her hands on Heoma's bony
shoulders. "You understand how much rides on this. I know you will not disappoint me,
or humanity."
    'I will achieve everything you expect of me," Heoma promised. "Perhaps even more."
    Zufa's heart swelled. As the straight-backed Heoma boarded the shuttle, the chief
Sorceress called after her, "You won't be alone. We all ride on your wings."
    During the final preparations, with stern words and a hard expression, Zufa had
spoken to the strongest Rossak men, chastising them for their inability to play a useful
part in the crucial fight. Simply because they were impotent telepathically did not
preclude their participation in other ways. The assault on Giedi Prime needed their help
as well. With her flinty gaze, the statuesque Sorceress had shamed six of them into
accompanying Heoma as bodyguards.
    The Rossak men brought their personal supplies of stimulants and mind-numbing
painkillers, provided by Aurelius Venport. They had undergone rigorous weapons
training and learned powerful hand-to-hand combat techniques. When the time came,
they would become fanatic warriors, charging into battle with no concern for their own
survival, with no goal but to enable the Sorceress weapon to get close enough to the
cymeks. Venport had prepared the drugs carefully, creating a cocktail that would keep
the men functional through the worst horrors.
    As she watched the shuttle ascend in a silvery arc to the waiting javelins and
ballistas, Zufa's thoughts were in turmoil, full of regret and anticipation. She tried to wall
those emotions behind a shield of confidence and a vow of duty.
    Aurelius Venport came to stand silently beside her, as if he too was at a loss for
words. The man was perceptive enough to pick up on Zufa's sadness at seeing her prize
student depart. "It'll be all right."
    'No it won't. But she will succeed."
    Venport looked at her with a warm understanding that penetrated Zufa's prickly
demeanor. "I know you wish you could have been the first weapon yourself, my dear.
Heoma is certainly talented, but you are unquestionably more skilled than anyone. Just
remember that you're still recovering from your miscarriage, and that weakness might
have jeopardized the mission."
    'And I am bound by the higher responsibility of training others." Zufa watched the
shuttle disappear into the thin clouds. "I have no choice but to remain here and do what
I can."
    'Funny. I. was thinking the same thing about my own work."
    Recalling the gullible male bodyguards, the Sorceress studied her mate with
undisguised scorn. His patrician eyes were incisive, clear of corrupting drugs, but his
independent attitude grated on her. "Why did you not volunteer to join the operation,
Aurelius? Or is it not in you to do something selfless, beyond your perception of
yourself?"
    'I am a patriot in my own way." Venport returned her expression with a wry smile.
"But I never expect you to see it."
    She had no response for that, and the two of them continued to stare blankly at the
sky long after the shuttle had reached the stations in orbit.
    I don't believe there is such a thing as a "lost cause"—only those without suitably
dedicated followers.

   —SERENA BUTLER, address to League Parliament

    Despite Magnus Sumi's optimistic report, the secondary shield-transmitting station
on Giedi Prime was not at all near completion.
    When Serena's covert team landed on the rocky, windswept island in the northern
sea, they spent a day bringing their supplies and equipment to shore, breaking open the
barracks buildings and restarting the power-generating huts. The parabolic towers for
the scrambler-shield transmitters stood like frost-encrusted skeletons. But none of the
systems were functional.
    Once Brigit Paterson had scanned the status of the work, the engineer came to
Serena with a frown on her wind-chapped face. "The best I can say is that it won't be
impossible to complete the work." She shrugged her broad shoulders. "The framework
and heavy construction are all completed, but most of the components have not yet
been wired. The substations aren't linked, and the cables haven't even been strung to
the highest girders." She pointed to the ice-slick bars moaning in the breeze.
    Serena did not envy the volunteer who would climb up there and finish the vital
linkages. "We don't know exactly when Xavier is bringing the Armada for us, but if
you're not done by the time those ships arrive, we may as well not bother. We'll have
let him down, along with the people of Giedi Prime."
    Brigit summoned her engineers for an emergency meeting. "We brought enough
stimulants along. We can work round the clock, provided we rig area lighting to
illuminate the platforms."
    'Do it," Serena said, "and press us into service if there's anything we can do.
Commander Wibsen was looking forward to a few days of rest, but we'll shake him out
of his bunk if we have to, and make him useful."
    Brigit gave a wry smile. "I'd like to see that."
    Over the next week they worked unmolested. The thinking machines did not know
they had sneaked in, or what they were doing. Suffering no more than a few minor
bruises, the team completed the most perilous parts of the job. While the task was
ninety-percent complete—at least, according to the plan on paper—Brigit Paterson said
the remaining steps were the most time-consuming ones.

    'We have to go component by component and harden the circuits. By their very
nature, these transmitting towers generate a field that obliterates complex gelcircuitry.
We need to make sure the system will last more than five minutes once we activate it."
    Serena bit her lip and nodded. "Yes, that would be a good thing."
    'And if we're too obvious with our testing," Brigit continued, "some of the damned
machines might figure out what we're doing. It's a touchy process."
    'How much time?" Ort Wibsen asked, chewing on his own impatience.
    'A week, if we're lucky." Brigit frowned. "Ten days if anything goes wrong and we
need to fix pieces."
    'Eight days is the absolute soonest the Armada could arrive," Serena said. "That
assumes Xavier organized the attack force and launched within two days of receiving
my message."
    Wibsen grumbled, "That'll never happen with the League. They'll call meeting after
meeting, then break for long lunches, then hold more meetings."
    Serena sighed. "I'm hoping Xavier can cut through all that."
    'Yeah," Wibsen said, "and I'm hoping the robots will all just leave Giedi Prime
voluntarily… but it's not bloody likely to happen."
    'Keep your engineers busy," Serena said to Brigit Paterson, paying no heed to the
veteran's pessimism. "Commander Wibsen and I will take the blockade runner. We'll slip
back through the sensor net and try to intercept the incoming Armada. Xavier needs to
know the plan so he can take advantage of what we've done. We can give them a
timetable and coordinate the assault."
    Wibsen coughed, and scowled ferociously. "Better take Pinquer Jibb, too, in case I
need backup in flying the blockade runner."
    Curly-haired Jibb looked uncertain, glancing from Serena to the old veteran and then
to the lead engineer. "Maybe the Commander should just stay here?"
     The veteran spat onto the frozen ground. "Not on your life. It's a remote chance that
I'll need any help."
     'If you say so," Serena answered, covering a knowing smile. "Brigit, you'll be able to
detect the Armada when they come into the system?"
     'We're monitoring the thinking-machine communications net. I'm assuming once the
Armada battleships approach, the robots will be all atwitter with excitement." Brigit
looked to her team and then gave a grim smile. "Yeah, we'll know."
     MOVING UNDERWATER AGAIN, the blockade runner cruised through the cold depths
away from the ice-choked northern sea. Looking over his shoulder in the cockpit,
Wibsen said philosophically, "When we started this mission, I thought you were crazy,
Serena Butler."
     'Crazy to try and help these people?" She raised her eyebrows.
     'No—I thought you were crazy to give me another chance."

    According to his original mapping while guiding the ship through the atmosphere,
Ort Wibsen had identified weak spots in the robotic sensor net girdling the planet. By
emerging in the open sea at about forty degrees north latitude, they could fly the
stealth-coated vessel up through the tenuous blanket with a reasonable chance of
remaining undetected by machine sentries in orbit and on the ground. The patterns of
observation flickered irregularly like invisible spotlights across the open skies.
    'We'll sit quietly here," he said, coughing again and slapping the medical injector on
his chest as if it were an annoying insect. "We'll bide our time until I'm damned sure I
know their routine."
    'That's one thing you can say about thinking machines," said Pinquer Jibb, looking
uneasy. "They're certainly predictable."
    Cymeks, however, were not.
    Less than an hour later, fast-moving mechanical airfoils raced in, converging on the
half-submerged blockade runner. Wibsen cursed a proverbial blue streak, then coughed
up a mouthful of scarlet blood.
    'Eleven of them!" Pinquer Jibb cried, looking at the scanners. "How did they find us?"
    'How did you not see them?" Wibsen snapped.
    'They emerged from underwater just like we did!"
    Serena looked at the screen, seeing the numerous robot-driven interceptor ships
closing in on them. Activating the blockade runner's starboard weaponry, she shot at
the oncoming airfoils, hitting one and missing the others. She had not been trained as a
weapons officer. If they'd expected to fight their way through, they never would have
taken on the challenge of infiltrating Giedi Prime.
    'Jibb, take the controls and prepare for liftoff." Wibsen lurched out of the cockpit.
"By hell, they'll not take us so easily." He jabbed a big-knuckled finger at the copilot.
"Watch for your chance after I leave—and don't hesitate."

   'What're you going to do?" Serena asked. The old veteran didn't answer, but raced
across the deck and dove inside the single lifepod.
   'What's he doing?" Jibb said.
    'No time to court-martial him now." Serena couldn't believe the veteran would just
leave them to the thinking machines.
    Wibsen sealed the hatch of the lifepod and green lights shone around the rim,
indicating he was preparing for launch.
    Serena shot another blast from the starboard weapons, the only ones aimed toward
the oncoming thinking machines. She crippled another vessel, but in a united effort, the
cymeks and robots fired at the blockade runner, ripping open the weapons ports.
Serena looked with dismay at her control systems. They flickered, sparked, went dead.
    With a lurch and an explosive thump, Wibsen's lifepod shot out like a cannonball. It
roared away, a fast-moving, heavily armored projectile, barely skimming over the
surface. Over the SOS frequency, the old veteran said, "Don't be asleep at the switch,
now. Be ready!"
    Pinquer Jibb powered up their engines, preparing to fly. The ship began to cut a line
through the water.
    Wibsen did his best to aim the lifepod toward the robotic targets. Designed simply to
carry a survivor to safety from a catastrophic explosion, the escape vessel had thick
shielding and hull plating—and when it hammered into the closest enemy, it annihilated
the cymek ship, blasting all the way through and slamming into a second. Battered and
smoking amid the sinking wreckage, the lifepod came to a halt. Serena shouted to Jibb.
"Go! Take off!"

    He increased thrust, and the blockade runner lifted off from the water, heaving itself
into the sky. As they climbed, Serena looked at the imager that showed the water
below.
    In the wreckage of the two thinking-machine aerofoils, she saw the lifepod hatch
open. Wibsen emerged, battered but still defiant. Around him, smoke and steam roiled
into the air, and three angry cymeks churned toward him.
    The old veteran reached into his pocket and hurled a dull gray sphere at the nearest
cymek vessel. The explosion knocked the enemy back and also sent Wibsen toppling
into the lifepod's hatch. He waved a pulse cartridge rifle unsteadily with one hand,
shooting again and again, but three armored cymeks pounced upon him from their own
aerofoil vessels. Serena watched in horror as their articulated mechanical claws ripped
the old veteran to pieces.
    'Hold on!" Pinquer Jibb shouted, too late. Serena saw robotic vessels aiming their
heavy weaponry along the trajectory of the fleeing blockade runner.
    'I can't—"

    The impact smashed Serena against the far wall. Explosions ripped out their ship's
engines. The craft began to plunge, Jibb unable to reverse their fall back toward the
ocean. The blockade runner careened into the waves like a huge out-of-control sled,
spraying up a high tail of white foam. Water began to gush through cracks in the hull.
    Serena ran to the weapons locker, grabbed a pulse cartridge rifle of her own.
Slinging the weapon over her shoulder, though she had never fired one before, she
made ready to defend herself. Pinquer Jibb grabbed another weapon from the open
armory closet.
     With clanging sounds like impacting torpedoes, cymeks slammed into the crippled
ship. Without even attempting to use the normal access hatches, they cut their way
through the hull, ripping into the central compartment like birds trying to get at the
tasty meat inside a seashell.
     Jibb opened fire as the first silvery arms protruded through the split wall. A pulse-
bolt damaged the cymek's arm but also ricocheted around the ship's interior,
inadvertently blasting the breach even wider.
     Another cymek came in from the top hatch, prying open the armor and dropping its
limber body into the chamber. Serena launched a pulse-bolt, scorching its core. With a
lucky second shot, she fried the brain canister. A larger cymek worked its way in from
above, grabbing the fallen mechanical body and using it as a shield as she poured more
pulse projectiles into it.
     Next to Pinquer Jibb, a cymek shaped like a black beetle continued to work its way
through the hole torn in the hull. The copilot turned and attempted to fire again, but the
cymek thrust a long pointed arm forward. Jibb dropped his gun as the robotic arm
plunged through his chest like a spear. Blood blossomed from the center of his uniform.
     The morphing end of the sharp leg shaft suddenly sprouted clawlike fingers, and as
the cymek yanked his hand back out of his victim's chest, he tore out the dripping heart
and held it up like a trophy.
     Above, the largest cymek threw the nonfunctional body of his dead mechanical
companion at Serena. The heavy hulk crashed down, cutting and bruising her. Trapped,
she couldn't move, pinned to the deck.
     The beetle cymek, blood still dripping from its spearlike limb, wrenched its way
through the gaping hull and clattered forward, leaving Jibb's body behind. It raised two
more pointed forearms above Serena, but the largest cymek bellowed for him to stop.
     'Don't kill them both or we'll have nothing to give Erasmus. He asked for one of the
feisty resistance fighters from Giedi Prime. This one will do nicely."
     Hearing his words, Serena was terrified. Something ominous in the tone made her
think she would be better off if she simply died here. Gashes in her arm, her ribs, and
her left leg were bleeding onto the deck.
     Jibb's killer snatched the pulse projectile rifle out of her hands, while the larger
cymek lifted away the fallen body. He stretched out a grappling arm and snagged her
with a flexible metal fist. The Titan lifted her off the deck, then held her face close to his
glittering optic threads.
     'Oh, so lovely. Even after a thousand years, I can still appreciate beauty. If only I
were human again, I could demonstrate my full admiration." His sensors glinted cruelly.
"I am Barbarossa. It's a shame I'll have to send you to Erasmus on Earth. For your sake,
I hope he will find you interesting."
     Sharp silver limbs pinioned her in a huge grasp, like a gigantic cage. Serena
struggled, but could not get away. She knew of Barbarossa, one e original tyrants who
had taken over the Old Empire. More than anything, she wished she could have killed
him, even if it meant sacrificing her own life.
   'One of Omnius's ships leaves for Earth tomorrow. I will see that you are transported
aboard," Barbarossa said. "Did I forget to mention? Erasmus has laboratories where he
does… interesting… things."
   There is no limit to my potential. I am capable of encompassing an entire universe.
   —secret Omnius data bank, damaged files

    Within his wide-range operating program, the newly installed Giedi Prime-Omnius
studied a three-dimensional map of the known universe. An accurate model based upon
extensive compilations of archival surveys and sensor data, coupled with probability-
based projections and analyses.
    Endless possibilities.
    With insatiable curiosity, the new Omnius copy scanned swirling nebulas, giant suns,
and planet after planet. Given time and sustained effort, all of them would become part
of the network of Synchronized Worlds.
    Soon, the next update ship would arrive, bringing him to near-parity with other
planetary everminds. He had not been able to synchronize himself since his activation
here on Giedi Prime. The Giedi Prime-Omnius could copy his exciting new thoughts and
share them among the evermind clones. Expansion, efficiency… so much to be done!
The conquest of Giedi Prime was a building block in the cosmic empire of machines. The
process had begun, and soon would accelerate.
    Nestled inside his cybernetic core within the former Magnus's citadel, Omnius
uploaded images taken by his watch-eyes: flaming ruins, human children on torture
racks, immense bonfires made of surplus members of the population. He objectively
studied each image, absorbing information, processing it. Long ago, Barba-rossa's
modified programming had taught the thinking machines how to savor victory.
    Many of the multitiered factories on Giedi Prime were now being put to good use, as
well as mining hoverships and other facilities. Bar-barossa had made a bold effort to
adapt the humans' manufacturing centers to the uses of the thinking machines. And in
those factories, the new evermind had discovered something that created interesting
connections, extraordinary possibilities.
    The humans had designed and begun to assemble a new model of long-distance
space probe, an explorer of far-off planets. Such probes could be adapted as emissaries
for the thinking machines, new substations for the computer evermind.
    On the galactic map Omnius noted the travel times required by even a high-
acceleration machine probe. He scanned territory designated as "Unallied Planets," not
yet claimed by machines or human vermin. So many star systems for him to explore,
conquer, and develop, and these prototype Giedi Prime probes would make that
possible. The new evermind saw this as an opportunity—and so would his allied
computers on all Synchronized Worlds.

    If he could propagate seeds from his evermind, self-supporting factories capable of
using local resources to construct automated infrastructures, he could establish thinking-
machine beachheads on innumerable inhabited worlds. It would be like a shower of
sparks cast upon tinder, and the hrethgir would never be able to stop the spread of
Omnius. That was part of his basic nature.
    A team of support robots stood just outside his shielded core, prepared to give
technical assistance. Acting on his innovative idea, the new evermind sent a signal pulse
to one of them. Its systems activated; it powered up, ready to serve.
    FOR WEEKS, AS Barbarossa continued to subjugate and rebuild Giedi Prime, Omnius
guided his support machines in the creation of sophisticated, long-range probes, each
one containing a core copy of his mind and aggressive personality.
    Upon landing, the probes would extend automated systems, establishing self-
contained factories on each planet, units that in turn would build additional support
robots… mechanized colonies that would take root far from the main Synchronized
Worlds, far from the League of Nobles. Though machines could settle and exploit
virtually any planet, the cymeks insisted on focusing on human-compatible worlds.
Though barren worlds seemed to be less trouble, the evermind understood the
desirability of both.
    When the work had been completed, Omnius used his watcheyes to observe the
flurry of launches—five thousand probes simultaneously taking flight, programmed to
scatter to the farthest corners of the galaxy, even if such flights took millennia.
Timescales did not matter.

    Compact units shaped like bubbles, the soaring probes filled the sky with sparkling
lights and green exhaust plumes. At appropriate future times, Omnius would reconnect
with each of those mechanisms, one by one.
    Thinking machines were capable of making long-term plans—and living to see them
carried out. By the time humans expanded into those distant star systems, Omnius
would already be there.

   Waiting.
   Each human being is a time machine.
   —Zensunni Fire Poetry

    Safe inside the ancient botanical testing station that had been his sanctuary for
months, Selim hunkered down while another ferocious sandstorm blew across the
desert. The weather was the only thing that ever changed here.
    The tempest lasted six days and nights, whipping up dust and sand, thickening the
air so that the sun turned into murky twilight. He could hear the howling rattle against
the sturdy walls of the prefabricated structures.
    He was not at all afraid. He was safe and protected though a bit bored.
    For the first time in his life, Selim was self-sufficient, no longer captive to the whims
of villagers who ordered him around because he was of unknown parentage. He could
hardly grasp the wealth at his disposal, and he hadn't even begun to uncover all the
strange technological objects from the Old Empire.
    He remembered when he and his turncoat friend Ebrahim had scavenged the desert
with other Zensunni, including Naib Dhartha and his young son Mahmad. Once, Selim
had found a melted knob of fused circuitry, obviously from an exploded ship. It had
been sand-scoured into an unusual, col orful conglomerate. He had wanted to give the
trinket to Glyffa, the old woman who had sometimes taken care of him. But Ebrahim
had grabbed the fused component and rushed off to show it to Naib Dhartha, asking if
he could keep it as a treasure. Instead, the Naib had taken it from him and tossed it
into a pile sold to a scrap merchant. No one had given a thought for Selim…
    Still, as the time in this place drifted into weeks he discovered aspects and
dimensions of loneliness. Day after day he sat in front of the scratched windows,
watching the storms fade, bringing bloodred sunsets splashed with colorful hues. He
looked out at the clean dunes undulating toward the endless horizon. The immense
mounds had metamorphosed like living creatures, yet in essence they always remained
the same.
    Across such an expanse, it seemed impossible that he would ever see another
human being again. But Buddallah would give him a sign of what he was expected to
do. He just hoped it came soon.
    Much of the time Selim occupied himself inside the empty station with solitary games
he'd learned to play when he was younger. In the village, he had been ostracized by
others who traced their paternity back a dozen generations or more, even before the
wanderers' arrival on Ar-rakis.
    From the time he'd been a toddler, Selim had been raised by different Zensunni,
none of whom had adopted him as part of their family. He had always been an
impulsive and energetic lad. Any real mother would have been patient with his
mischievous misbehavior, but Selim had no real mother. On Arrakis, where survival
balanced on a razor's edge, few would expend effort for a young man who seemed
intent on making nothing of himself.
    Once, he had accidentally spilled water—an entire day's ration—while working in a
storage alcove. As punishment, Naib Dhartha had denied him any fluids for two days,
insisting that he must learn his lesson if he was to be a part of the tribe. But Selim had
never seen such a punishment inflicted on any others who had committed comparable
mistakes.

     When he'd been only eight Standard Years old, he had gone exploring out on the
cliffs and rocks, hunting lizards, searching for hardy weeds with edible roots. While he
was out there a sandstorm had caught him by surprise, hurling dust and grit against the
mountains, forcing him into shelter. Selim remembered how frightened he had been,
hiding alone for two days. When he'd finally made his way back to the cliff city,
expecting to be greeted with relief, he saw that none of the Zen-sunnis had even
noticed his disappearance.
     Conversely, Ebrahim, the son of a respected tribal father, had too many siblings for
anyone to pay attention to him. Perhaps to compensate, Ebrahim got into a lot of
trouble himself, constantly testing the limits of the Naib's restrictions while cleverly
making sure the worthless waif Selim was around, just in case someone needed to be
blamed.
     As an unwanted scamp, Selim never experienced the parameters of true
comradeship. He had always accepted Ebrahim's manipulations at face value, without
considering the possibility that the other boy might be taking advantage of him. Selim
had been slow to learn his lesson, and did so only after paying the price of exile into the
desert, where he was expected to die.
    But he had lived. He had ridden Shaitan, and Buddallah had guided him to this
hidden place…
    While the long storms made him restless, Selim became more determined in
exploring the research station. He studied the banks of sophisticated instruments and
records but did not understand the antique technology. He knew vaguely what the
systems were meant to do, but did not comprehend how to work the machines that had
been installed by Old Empire scientists. Since this station had remained intact for
hundreds, maybe thousands of years, it should be able to withstand a bit of tinkering
from a curious young man…
    Some of the power cells were still active, barely, and he was able to switch systems
on, make panels glow. Finally he stumbled upon a way to activate a log entry, a
holorecording of a tall man with strange facial features, large eyes, and pale skin. The
bones of his face had an unusual set, as if he came from a different race of humans.
The Imperial scientist wore bright garments, some metallic, others bearing unusual
designs. He and other researchers had been stationed here to test the resources of
Arrakis and assess its suitability for colonization. But they had found little of interest.
    'This will be our last recording," said the chief scientist in an obscure Galach dialect
that Selim found barely comprehensible. He played the log entry five times before he
understood the full message.
    'Although our assignment is not yet complete, a new transport ship has arrived at
the local spaceport. The captain brought an urgent mes sage of turmoil and chaos in the
Empire. A junta of tyrants has seized control of our servile thinking machines and used
them to take over the galactic government. Our civilization is lost!" Behind him, his
scientist companions whispered uneasily to one another.
    'The captain of the transport ship must leave in a matter of days. We cannot finish
our survey work in that time, but if we do not depart now, the continuing turmoil may
disrupt travel across the Empire."
    Selim looked at the gathered researchers, with their troubled expressions and
distant, glazed-over eyes.
    'It may take some time for the political leaders to resolve this dispute and return our
lives to normal. None of us wish to be stranded in this awful place, so we will leave with
the transport after sealing all systems in our testing stations. Little remains to be
discovered in this Arrakis wasteland anyway, but if we ever return, we have made
certain that the stations will remain intact and operational, even if the hiatus lasts for a
few years."
    As the recording ended, Selim chuckled. "It has been more than a few years!"
    But the images of the long-dead Empire scientists did not respond, and only seemed
to stare into the uncharted future. Selim wanted to share his delight with someone, but
could not. The desert still held him prisoner.
    Nonetheless, he would find a way to escape.
    Risk diminishes as our belief in fellow human beings rises.
    —XAVIER HARKONNEN, military address

   l^
   days.
     Brigit Paterson hadn't wanted to cut the time so close, but she worked her crew
hard. She checked and double-checked their work, insuring that there were no errors.
An entire planet was at stake.
     According to Serena's best estimate, the engineers had finished with a little time to
spare.
     After testing the scrambler-shield system and finding everything operational, even to
her most precise standards, Brigit finally gave her people a few hours of rest. Some sat
staring into the cold gray skies through the windowplaz of their barracks huts; others
fell immediately to sleep as if they had been placed in suspended animation.
     The Armada actually arrived on the morning of the ninth day.
     The eavesdropping system she had installed to tap into the Omnius sensor network
blared with a flurry of alarms. Brigit woke her team and told them the League fleet was
on its way into the system, ready to retake Giedi Prime. She hoped that Serena had
intercepted the ships and told them what to expect.
     The cymeks scornfully expressed their disbelief that the feral humans would dare
come against them, while the Omnius incarnation worked to analyze the situation and
develop a response.
     The thinking machine fleet maintained several large patrol cruisers in orbit, but the
majority of robotic fighting ships had been grounded, used in subjugation operations
over the populace. Now, with the League Armada approaching, the Giedi Prime—
Omnius issued orders across the computer network. Robotic battle vessels powered up,
preparing to launch into orbit as a massive, synchronized force to strike against the
hrethgir invaders.

    Brigit Paterson listened to the plans and smiled.
    Her secondary engineer hurried up to her, looking out at the windswept rocky island.
"Shouldn't we turn on the scrambler shields? They're all ready. What are you waiting
for?"
    Brigit looked at him. "I'm waiting for the cocky robots to fall into my trap."
    On crude screens installed in the unfinished facility, she watched a hundred capital
warships lift off from landing fields that had been conquered during the original
takeover. The huge mechanized vessels rose from the ground, carrying incredible
firepower.
    'Not so fast." Brigit finally activated the rejuvenated Holtzman scrambler shields. Ice-
rimed transmitting towers pumped energy into the linked network of satellites far
overhead, and the disruption spread out like a spiderweb, invisible and utterly deadly to
AI gelcircuitry.
    The robotic fleet never knew what hit them.
    Rising upward, unable to believe that something so unexpected could affect their
battle plan, the thinking-machine vessels struck the thin, shimmering veil that
immediately obliterated their computer brains, erasing systems and memory units.
Battleship after battleship became inoperative and tumbled like asteroids out of the sky.
With all systems dead, they crashed and exploded on the ground.
    Some hit uninhabited areas. Others, unfortunately, did not.
    Brigit Paterson didn't want to think about the collateral damage she had just caused
to the already devastated world. Seeing the success, her engineers cheered. Now the
remaining robot battleships in space could never stand against the combined might of
the unified Armada, nor could they come down to the surface to cause havoc.
    'We haven't won yet," Brigit said, "but it may not be long before we get off of this
rock."
    THE ARMADA BATTLE group approached Giedi Prime, all weapons ready against the
thinking-machine scourge. Xavier prayed that Serena had succeeded in her wild plan,
and that she was down there safe, somewhere.
    He had insisted on commanding the risky strike himself—not because he wanted to
claim the glory of a morale-boosting victory, but because he desperately wanted to find
Serena.

    Secure in his mechanized grip over the planet, Omnius had misjudged human plans
and capabilities. After calculating the odds and seeing only a small chance of League
success, the evermind had probably dismissed the threat of human retaliation. No
sensible enemy would ever attack against such overwhelming odds.
    But Xavier Harkonnen had no compunction against taking on hopeless missions. And
in this instance, the Giedi Prime evermind did not possess all the relevant information.
This Omnius lacked vital data about the Sorceresses of Rossak, about the new portable
scramblers, and—he hoped—about the now-operational secondary shield transmitters.

    When the orbiting robotic warships detected the battle group's approach, they
gathered into standard formation to destroy the Armada vessels. In his comline, Xavier
heard a report from his adjutant, Cuarto Powder. "Sir, the thinking machines are
coming. Their missile ports are open."
    Xavier issued the first command. "Dispatch the ground assault divisions… launch
armored troop transports." The swarms of ships carried the Sorceress Heoma and her
Rossak bodyguards, as well as the soldiers who would use the portable scramblers
against the robot warriors in Giedi City.
    Cuarto Powder suddenly looked up from his station, verifying the scans his tactical
officers had just forwarded to him. "Sir, it looks as if scrambler shields have just come
on over the whole planet!"
    Xavier's heart swelled. "Exactly as Serena promised." The soldiers cheered, but he
smiled for a different reason entirely. Now, he knew she must be alive after all. Serena
had accomplished the impossible, as she often did.
    'Robotic warships are falling out of the skies! They were trying to launch and got
caught in the scrambler backwash!"
    'Good, but ground-based thinking machines will try to zero in on those secondary
transmitting towers. We've got to finish this while the robot fleet is trapped up here and
the rest of the thinking machines are stranded in the cities." Xavier would not let
Serena's work be in vain. "Let's take back the planet."
    Dropping out of the lead ballista's launch hatches, eight escort kind-jals flanked
Heoma's single transport, all of them fully armed and ready to engage the enemy. The
mission of the kindjals was to cause confusion and chaos, to distract the unimaginative
robotic defenders so that the Sorceress volunteer could land safely and carry out her
essential work.
    Seeing the robotic battleships zeroing in, Xavier urged the troop transports to hurry.
Swarms of smaller Armada ships streaked into the turbulent atmosphere and headed
toward Giedi City.
    Closing his eyes, Xavier sent his hopes with them, then concentrated on the machine
threat approaching in orbit.
    Some lives are taken, while others are freely given.
    —ZUFA CENVA, repeated eulogy speech phrase

    Surrounded by six silent Rossak men, Heoma piloted the troop transport. All of her
guards wore padded uniforms and helmets that provided some protection against
projectile fire. Eyeing the altimeter as their ship descended, the men swallowed cocktails
of Rossak drugs. The intense stimulants blazed like lava through veins and muscle
fibers, deadening pain and fear.
    With her telepathic abilities, Heoma saw the drugged men becoming thunderstorms
in human form, ready to unleash lightning upon their foes. Individually they met her
gaze, exchanging unspoken knowledge, fully aware that they were about to die.
    The transport bounced and shuddered as it tore through perilous shear winds.
Heoma was no expert pilot, but she had enough training to land the ship. It would not
require a delicate touchdown—only one they could walk away from.

     She had expected robotic defender ships to intercept them, but Heoma watched
thinking-machine flyers crash to the ground, dropping like stones into buildings and
parks. Other machine flyers that managed to swoop low enough to avoid the worst
effect of the scrambler shields struggled to land with damaged systems.
     'They're not in any shape to worry about us," a man transmitted from one of the
flanking kindjals. The fast Armada ships opened fire with artillery rounds, blasting some
of the fleeing robotic flyers.
     In orbit, the Armada battleships exchanged furious fire with larger, space-borne AI
vessels that were now precluded from descending to the surface and defending Omnius.
Tercero Harkonnen had also dispatched a full-scale ground assault force after Heoma
and her small team had started on their way. Each prong of the attack had its specific
mission, requiring pinpoint attention to detail.
     Heoma watched the ship's controls, counting down the seconds. Hers was to be a
desperate single thrust; she would have no other opportunity. And she had to be
finished before any League soldiers got into position.
     As the low clouds tore away, she could see the city below, grid streets and tall
buildings built by proud humans who had envisioned a prosperous future. Entire city
blocks were blackened, especially the habitation complexes, which were apparently
worthless to the inhuman conquerors.
     Recalling her briefing, during which she had memorized the only available maps of
Giedi City, the Sorceress volunteer located the citadel that had once been the governor's
residence. There, the cymeks had installed a new Omnius evermind, according to the
ragged messenger, Pinquer Jibb. Magnus Sumi's mansion had become a thinking-
machine stronghold.
   Cymeks there.
    Her kindjal escorts spread clouds of masking smoke. Launched canisters dispersed
sparkling electromagnetic chaff, flecks of active metal that disrupted the robots' sensor
capabilities. Heoma's craft followed the dispersing cloud down to the ground. She hoped
to remain hidden as they approached the undamaged robotic flyers.
    Aware that ships were approaching, thinking-machine fighters launched blind salvos.
Explosions rocked Heoma's craft, and she saw that the landing gear had been damaged.
She brought the heavy ship down anyway, braking as sharply as she could. On impact,
the vessel careened along a wide flagstone street, scraping and skidding, spraying fire,
sparks, and shrapnel. They finally crashed to a halt against the side of a gray stone
building.
    At once, Heoma and her men were up, unfastening restraints, gathering weapons.
She opened the side hatch and ordered her pumped-up bodyguards to clear the way.
Dutifully, she transmitted an all-clear signal to her escort kindjals. One pilot responded
as he streaked upward, "Melt the bastards." The fighters zoomed into the sky toward
the second wave of troop transports dropping ground assault teams into the robot-
infested city.
    The next part of the mission was in her hands.
    Heoma stepped away from the smoking craft, then gestured for her glassy-eyed
defenders to hurry toward the governor's citadel. She loped after them, the target clear
in her mind.
    Behind her, the battered transport craft exploded in its programmed self-destruct
sequence. Heoma didn't flinch. She had never intended to leave herself any option of
retreat.
    The bodyguards carried projectile launchers and disrupter guns. Such artillery would
have been too bulky for a normal man to carry, but with their chemically enhanced
muscles the men had superhuman strength… at least until the drugs burned their
bodies from the inside out.
    Standing three meters tall, powerful combat robots guarded the approach to the
Omnius citadel. Though alert, the thinking machines were more concerned with the
Armada ballistas and javelins and the restored scrambler shields than with a few
humans running through the streets. What could a handful of trivial hrethgir accomplish
against the invincible thinking machines?
    When the robot sentinels moved to block their approach, Heoma's bodyguards
opened fire. Without a word, they launched projectiles, blowing the steel robots to
debris.
    Overhead, buzzing watcheyes skimmed building tops and swooped down as the
squad ran toward the arched entrance to the Magnus's mansion. The watcheyes kept
track of Heoma's movements, reporting everything to the Giedi Prime—Omnius. But the
Sorceress did not slow. Her bodyguards blasted any machine target, holding nothing in
reserve.
    Behind them in the streets, the first Armada troop transports had landed, teams
scrambling out and opening fire with handheld weapons. They established a guarded
perimeter so that their technicians could set up the first of Holtzman's two prototype
field-portable scramblers.
    The device looked crude and bulky, erected on a sturdy tripod. Cables connected it
to the power source of the large troop transport. A single blast from the pulse projector
would drain the spacecraft's engine—and would also disable all unshielded robots for
half a kilometer.

    'Clear!" the technician shouted. Many of the soldiers covered their ears as if
expecting a thunderous artillery burst.
    Heoma heard only a thin, high whine, then a faint popping in the fabric of the air.
Sparks and smoke showered out of Holtzman's prototype, and all the glimmering lights
on the transport vehicle went dead.
    Then, with a clatter like a metal hailstorm, hundreds of dead watch-eyes tumbled
out of the air, striking the paved streets. Lumbering machine warriors ground to a halt.
More robot-driven aircraft wavered in the sky, out of control, and tumbled to the
ground.
    A ragged cheer went up from the Armada soldiers still emerging from their
transports, building in enthusiasm as they saw that they had established a foothold, a
zone where most of the enemy robots had been eliminated.
    Heoma had to complete her mission before she endangered any of the other brave
human soldiers. "Inside! Hurry."
    She and her bodyguards rushed into the corridors of the government citadel. As Zufa
Cenva had taught her, she concentrated on building up her telepathic powers until her
mind ached with a surging power.
    Deep in the citadel, Heoma's squad encountered two interlocked robots, still
functional but disoriented. Apparently the thick walls of the building had protected them
from the brunt of the scrambler pulse. The robots stood in front of them, cannon-arms
raised, but Heoma discharged a blast of telekinesis that knocked them sideways,
helpless against an offensive they could not see or comprehend. Before the staggering
robots could regain their feet, Heoma's bodyguards destroyed them with heavy
projectile fire.
    Almost there.
    Running at full tilt, she led the way toward the nexus of the thinking-machine
citadel, triggering alarms all the way. Many robots had fallen inactive in rooms or halls,
but others converged upon her. Armored doors slammed shut in the corridors, as if to
seal off vital chambers, but Heoma could see they were not important. She saw exactly
where to go.
    Soon the cymeks would arrive and surround her. Exactly according to plan.
    The tingle of mental electricity mounted in her brain like a power transformer. Her
skull felt ready to burst, but she did not unleash her energy yet. She must retain all of
her strength for one final moment.
     She heard their crablike warrior-forms skittering down the corridor, ominous sounds
of sophisticated machine bodies guided by the brains of human traitors, different from
the regimented lockstep of the robotic guards.
     'It is almost our time," she announced to the fiery-eyed Rossak men, her voice filled
with excitement and barely suppressed fear.
     Skidding to a halt, she arrived within the main chamber where the shielded core of
the Omnius manifestation dwelled. Inside the armored room, numerous watcheyes
glared at her through glowing optic threads.
     A voice boomed out from myriad sources. "Human—are you wearing a bomb, a
pitifully weak explosive that you think can harm me? Did you bring one of your atomics,
or is victory not worth such a price to you?"

    'I am not so nai've, Omnius." Heoma tossed her sweaty white hair over her shoulder.
"One person cannot possibly harm the great computer evermind. That requires a much
more extensive military strike. I'm no more than one woman."
    As the giant cymeks approached from adjoining corridors, Omnius simulated a laugh.
"Humans rarely admit the folly of their own actions."
    'I admitted no such thing." Heoma's skin was glowing red now, heated with
unnatural energy. Static electricity made her pale hair wave like angry serpents. "You
have merely misjudged my purpose."
    The doors opened and three monstrous cymeks glided in with graceful metal
footsteps, as if savoring the capture of these humans. Heoma's bodyguards turned and
opened fire, using the last of their ammunition to cripple one of the neo-cymeks in a
single concerted attack.
    The second neo-cymek raised his integral weapons and vaporized the fearless
Rossak men into clouds of bloody pulp. The damaged neo-cymek lay on the floor, its
arms and legs twitching like a poisoned insect not yet ready to succumb to death. The
larger Titan cymek strode forward.
    Now Heoma stood alone against the machines. Without moving, she focused her
mental powers, building to the point where she could barely maintain even a shred of
control.
    'I am Barbarossa," said the cymek. "I have squashed so many hrethgir that it would
take a computer to count them all." He and his companion cymek came closer. "Rarely
have I witnessed such arrogance."
    'Arrogance? Or confidence?" Heoma smiled. "Removing a Titan from the equation is
a worthy exchange for my life."
    The Sorceress's mental energy could do no damage to the hardened gelcircuits of
Omnius itself. Human minds, however, were more vulnerable to her telepathic
onslaught. She felt the flames of vengeful energy cresting within her mind—and
released them in a white-hot firestorm.

    The shockwave of psychic annihilation boiled the brains of Barbarossa and his
companion, as well as all other cymeks and hapless bio-logicals crowded inside the
citadel complex. Omnius let out a wordless bellow of static and outrage. Heoma saw
only white as her mental energy vaporized the organic brains of the cymek generals.
   Leaving the newly installed evermind vulnerable.
   Outside, League ground troops waited for the telepathic firestorm to fade, then
surged forward to attack the now-defenseless stronghold of Omnius.
   The work of recapturing Giedi Prime had begun.
   Nothing is permanent.
   —Cogitor saying

    Within an hour of the transmitting facility's activation, the cymeks and surface-
confined robots had pinpointed its location. While the battle raged in Giedi City, even
after Barbarossa had been annihilated, a kill squadron of neo-cymeks and robots was
dispatched to the northern sea. They surrounded the rocky, ice-covered island to
penetrate the compound and destroy the parabolic transmitting towers.
    With few weapons, Brigit Paterson's remaining engineers could not possibly defend
against such an onslaught, but they had no intention of surrendering, either. Inside the
main control center, she scanned the skies and sea. "The longer we hold out here, the
more lives we'll save."
    Pasty-faced and drawn with terror, the desperate engineers armed themselves with
grenades, pulse-projectile rifles, and a portable artillery launcher and went to guard the
quays and aerial approaches to the island.
    The machine kill squadron did not issue ultimatums; they began their attack as soon
as they were in range. Brigit's engineers were ready and fired back immediately. They
reloaded, making their dwindling ammunition count.
    The cymeks and robots were more intent on obliterating the towers than on killing
the few defenders. Most of their attack was directed at the frosty structures that
pumped a lifeblood of scrambler energy into the sky. When a cymek shot knocked one
transmitter offline, the shields began to fade, but Brigit finessed the controls. Her cold
fingers flew, rerouting to more stable sections of the tower, and soon she had a
functional shield in place again. She didn't know how long it would last.
    Outside, she heard explosions and screams, making her wonder how many of her
engineers remained alive. Her screens flickered as the sensors were damaged in the
firestorm, and she saw more ships approaching, probably machine reinforcements. A
whole squadron.
    Then louder detonations rang out in the water, and the cymeks began to scramble.
Robot vessels exploded, targeted by oncoming kindjals flown by human pilots. She
heard a ragged cheer from a woefully small number of voices. The League Armada had
sent rescuers to defend the shield facility.
    Weak with relief, Brigit slumped into her chair, glad that this risky scheme had
worked. When she got home, she promised she would buy Serena Butler the finest,
most expensive bottle of wine available in the whole League of Nobles.
    AFTER HEOMA'S MIND-STRIKE obliterated the cymek enforcers, Holtzman's second
portable scrambler knocked out the robots in another section of the city. The Omnius
core was damaged and vulnerable.
    Surviving robotic defenders mounted a strong resistance, willing to sacrifice anything
to keep humans from reclaiming the planet and destroying the evermind. While Xavier
Harkonnen fought against thinking-machine spaceships in his giant ballistas, he
dispatched four javelin destroyers to help secure the surface. Squadron after squadron
of kindjals soared over targets, wrecking the embryonic machine infrastructure, crippling
any robots that had been beyond the range of the field-portable scramblers.
    Armada troop transports dumped soldiers onto the battleground to seek out and
sabotage thinking-machine strongholds. Scanner ships sent messages to rally any knots
of human resistance, calling for others to rise up and join the fighting.
    In response, distraught men, women, and children surged out of buildings, breaking
away from slave gangs. They ran through the streets with any weapons they could find,
some recovered from fallen robots.
    As the tide of battle began to turn, Xavier issued a set of general orders, delegating
responsibilities and mop-up zones to the Armada sub-commanders. Then he set out
with elite search teams to find Serena Butler.
    He flew directly to the island in the northern sea where commando engineers had
restored the shield-generating facility. He expected to find Serena there, since this had
been her scheme all along. Xavier looked around, studying the bodies with dread, but
saw no sign of Serena or the old veteran Ort Wibsen. Nor did he see her blockade
runner.
    When he encountered Brigit Paterson standing outside in the cold breeze without
seeming to feel the chill, she was exuberant with their victory. In a booming voice, she
said, "We did it, Tercero! I would never have bet a single credit on our odds of success,
but Serena knew what she was doing. I can't believe she pulled us through."
    Xavier felt ready to melt with relief. "Where is she?"
    'She's not with the Armada?" Brigit frowned. "She left here days ago to intercept
your ships and inform you of what we had accomplished." She blinked, suddenly
disturbed. "We thought she'd given you all the information."
    'No, we came because of the message she left me on Salusa." Xavier's heart leaped
with sudden fear, and his voice dropped to a frigid whisper. "Something must have
happened. God, I hope not."
    XAVIER TOOK A small contingent of kindjals with his best pilots. Serena was lost
somewhere on Giedi Prime. An entire planet provided an overwhelming number of
hiding places, but he vowed to find her.
    After leaving the engineering crew on the windswept island, had she crashed? Had
she been captured? Wibsen's service record showed him to be an excellent pilot, and
the converted blockade runner should have performed well. But Serena and her
remaining commandos had not responded to any Armada transmissions. So many things
could have happened.
    Bad things.
    The Armada had orders for the final phase of the operation on Giedi Prime. Convoys
were airlifting survivors away from the damaged government complex in Giedi City. He
hoped Serena was not in there.
    Ten kilometers above the surface, centered over the citadel that had once been the
home of Magnus Sumi, the squadron leveled out, and Xavier knew it was time. Only a
few months earlier, in those buildings below, he and his inspection team had been
hosted by the Magnus at a banquet.
    Now Omnius must be excised like a cancer, obliterated from Giedi Prime.
    Circling over the wounded metropolis, Xavier hesitated. His stomach knotted, and he
finally gave the order to his crew. The kindjals disgorged their deadly loads.
    Xavier closed his eyes, then forced himself to watch the terrible solution. This was
the only way to be certain. Even if shreds of the ev-ermind had been distributed in
substations around Giedi Prime, the vigorous occupation force would root out any
remnants. For now, the humans must annihilate the computer core that cowered like an
evil insect queen in the citadel complex, cut off from all its infrastructure, stripped of its
machine protectors.
    Through the tattered smoke and cloud cover, Xavier watched a dozen high-thermal
bombs go off, blazing flashes and thunderclaps over the center of Giedi City, vaporizing
the government buildings. For blocks around, even stone melted. Steel turned to ash.
Glass vaporized. Nothing could survive.
    A bittersweet victory… but victory nonetheless.
    DURING AN INSPECTION tour two days later, Tercero Harkonnen and his line
officers documented the decimation of Giedi City. They already knew what they would
find, but the harsh evidence sickened them.
    Xavier took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to salve his conscience by
reminding himself that Omnius had been defeated. The humans had taken the planet
back.
    But there was no sign of Serena.
   There is always a way out, if you can recognize it.
   —VORIAN ATREIDES, debriefing files

   J't't s the Dream Voyager finally entered the Ophiuchi B solar A Asystem as part of
the long update run, Seurat attempted to contact the recently installed Omnius network
on Giedi Prime. If General Agamemnon had conquered the hrethgir world, as promised,
Vor knew they would find the standard machine-run citadel at the world's business hub.
It would be another great chapter for his father to include in his memoirs.
    Vorian stood behind the robot captain, studying the instrument console as they
approached. "I'll bet there's still a lot of organizing and restructuring to do down there."
He was excited at the opportunity to visit a world in the process of shifting from human
unruliness to efficient machine rule. Omnius would need to install the best trustees,
those most loyal to the thinking machines. Neo-cymeks would probably take care of the
brunt of the subjugation work, and trustees would come in later, once the people were
sufficiently tamed and accepting of their new situation.
    But Vor also felt a little peculiar. The conquered hrethgir on Giedi Prime would look
like him, though he would feel no kinship with them. Seurat, and others like him, are
more like brothers to me.
    At the command console, the robot attempted to lock an onboard signal onto a
homing beacon from the citadel. "No contact yet. Perhaps all the systems are not yet
installed on the surface, or Agamemnon caused too much damage during his conquest."
    Vor tended to the monitoring systems. "Damage can always be repaired, once
conquest is assured." Ahead, Giedi Prime was illuminated on its dayside by a pale yellow
sun. As he stared, his brow furrowed with worry. "Something doesn't seem quite right,
Seurat."
   'Define your reservations, Vorian Atreides. I can take no action based upon a vague
uneasy feeling."
   'Never mind. Just… be careful."
   The Dream Voyager skimmed the upper atmosphere, slicing through clouds and
scattered particulates that the ship's scoop system analyzed as copious smoke. Could
the hrethgir have been so vicious and desperate that they had burned their own cities?
What loathsome creatures!
   His stomach lurched as onboard warning systems whined. Seurat promptly altered
course, halting their descent and gaining altitude again. "It appears the scrambler field
remains intact on Giedi Prime."
   'We almost flew into it!" Vor cried. "Does that mean—

    'Perhaps General Agamemnon did not succeed in his conquest. Giedi Prime is not as
secure as we were led to expect."
    Irrationally confident that his father would not have failed, Vor ran a sequence of
scans. "Instruments picking up League military equipment on the surface, evidence of
recent massive explosions in Giedi City." The words caught in his throat. "The central
hub and the local Omnius have been obliterated! All robots and cymeks appear to be
destroyed as well."
    'I am scanning their broadband reports… collating a summary." Without alarm, the
robot recounted his understanding of the portable scramblers, the powerful Sorceress of
Rossak who had used mental powers to obliterate the cymeks, then the overwhelming
force of the League Armada.
    Then Seurat said in a maddeningly calm voice, "Vorian, a fleet of hrethgir ships is
coming around from behind the planet. They appear to have been waiting for us in
ambush."
    Outside, streaks of orange and blue tracer fire came close to hitting the update craft,
and the Dream Voyager's automatic systems jolted into evasive maneuvers. League
kindjals streaked in like wolves. "They're barbarians," Vor said. "Eager to destroy
anything they don't like."
    Seurat said, "We are under attack. And the Dream Voyager is not a combat-
programmed vessel." He continued to sound artificially jovial, facetiously this time.
"Someday I will think of a joke about why it takes so many humans to short-circuit an
Omnius."
    ALERTED TO THE approach of a single thinking-machine vessel, Ter-cero Xavier
Harkonnen had moved his orbital battle group to the far side of the planet. Some
wreckage of robot warships still tumbled in a dispersing swath; Omnius's forces had
been completely destroyed.
    Xavier flew out in a personal kindjal, accompanied by a well-armed squadron. He
saw the update ship roar on a steep trajectory toward the damaged main city, then
swerve desperately upward as soon as the robot captain detected the scrambler fields.
"Follow me! We can't let it get away."
   Hungry for vengeance, his squadron hurled itself into the pursuit. At the same time,
he signaled the ground-based military forces that he had an enemy craft in sight.
Ahead, wavering in the crosshairs, the Dream Voyager surged forward, trying to evade
Armada weapons fire and to escape back into space.
   Abruptly, Xavier was startled to hear a human voice—or one that sounded human—
coming over the comline. "Hey, break off your attack! This is a League ship. My name is
Vorian Atreides. We have boarded a machine craft and taken control. Stop trying to
shoot us down!"

    Xavier tried to determine from the tenor if it really was a human voice, or only a
clever machine copy. Thinking machines were not devious… unless there was a
preserved cymek brain aboard. Some of the kindjals dropped back, uncertain.
    'Stay on your guard," Xavier said to his squadron, "but cease fire until we figure this
out—

    Before he could finish his order, the suspicious ship looped and began firing its own
weapons, minimal defensive volleys that nevertheless took the Armada fighters by
surprise. One kindjal veered away, its engines damaged.
    Xavier's console screen showed the image of a human face with dark hair and
shining fanatical eyes. A sleek, mirror-faced robot stood next to him, his flexible
copperfilm body rippling as he operated the controls of the ship.
    A human and a robot, working side by side? Xavier couldn't believe it.
    'Open fire!" he shouted. "Destroy that ship."
    'IT is NOT wise to provoke them too much, Vorian," Seurat said, maddeningly calm.
"I would rather leave here posthaste."
    'I just gained us a few precious seconds, didn't I? You wouldn't have thought of
using a bluff." Vor couldn't stop grinning. He had read similar words in the memoirs of
Agamemnon and was glad to echo them.
    As the Armada commander took evasive maneuvers and rallied his kindjal pilots, he
hurled insults back at Vor on the comline. "You are a disgrace to humanity, a traitor!"
    Vor laughed, proud of his place here. He quoted what he'd been taught all his life. "I
am the pinnacle of humanity—a trustee of Omnius, the son of General Agamemnon."

    'I apologize for interrupting your grand speech, Vorian, but I am detecting more
hrethgir ships," the robot said. "More than we can evade. Therefore, I am breaking off
engagement. Our responsibility is to protect the updates aboard. We have to make our
report."
    Vor said grimly, "If the Giedi Prime-Omnius is already destroyed, we will never have
an update of what it did during its months of operation here. We'll never know what he
accomplished."
    'A grievous loss," Seurat said.
    The robot guided the Dream Voyager toward orbit, farther from the deadly
scrambler fields. The acceleration pressed Vorian back into his padded seat until he
nearly lost consciousness. A squadron of human-operated ships closed in on their tail,
and the update ship shuddered as an energy pulse hit the aft section.
    Seurat dodged, and another volley of blows pounded the hull, damaging the armor
plates. This vessel was not made to endure such punishment. Vor heard onboard
systems hissing, automated routines making temporary repairs to the damaged parts.
Another blast hit, even worse than the others.
    'We are operating on reserves," Seurat announced. Vor scanned the ship's
diagnostics himself, assessing the damage. The air in the cabin began to smell acrid and
smoky.
    The Dream Voyager lurched. More kindjals surrounded them, targeting their
engines. An explosion jarred Vor to his bones.
    'We cannot tolerate much more of this," Seurat said. "Our engines are functioning at
only a third of normal capacity, and I am flying as fast as I can."
    'Head into that high cloud," Vor said, as an idea suddenly occurred to him. "The
water vapor is thick enough to act as a projection surface."
    Listening to his enthusiastic copilot, Seurat steered into a giant, towering cloud. The
damaged engines strained. More blows came from the pursuing kindjals.
    Vor worked furiously at the controls, using the ship's sophisticated systems to
project virtual copies in its wake, electronic images of the Dream Voyager. He had
hoped to use the scheme in a tactical game with Seurat… but this was a different sort of
game. If it didn't work, the already-damaged update ship would never survive.
    Moments later a hundred illusory Dream Voyagers seemed to surge through the
cloud, solido images reflected on the water vapor. Momentarily confused, the pursuing
squadron chased decoys.
    And the real prey limped away, its pilots stealing up into orbit and hoping to remain
unnoticed until they could get out of range…
    Even the expected can be a terrible shock when we have been holding on to threads
of hope.
   —XAVIER HARKONNEN

    While the survivors of Giedi Prime counted their dead, documented the damage, and
made plans for the future, Xavier felt hope fading. It seemed that no one on the whole
world had seen Serena Butler since she'd departed from the island compound in the
northern sea.
    He took twice his normal shifts aboard scout kindjals, flying regular patterns over the
settled continents, where thinking machines had caused the most destruction. If Serena
was alive, Xavier knew she would never be hiding. Rather, the determined young
woman would be in the midst of the hardest work, taking charge as always.
    Flying eastward on the next scheduled search pattern, he watched the yellow sun
set behind him, leaving splashes of gold and orange in its wake. A powerful gust
buffeted his craft, and he fought to control it. Xavier rose to a less-turbulent altitude
above the jet-stream, while his squadron followed him.
    Someday, after he and Serena were married, he could tell this story to their children.
His chest tightened at the thought, but he continued his search, not daring to consider
what he would do if something had happened to her.
    From this altitude, Xavier could make out the major geographical outlines of
continents and seas as they soaked up the approaching night. Through a powerful
scope, he saw the center of a city and made out clusters of lights marking human
encampments. During their brief and brutal rule, the machine conquerors had
slaughtered countless people and sent millions fleeing into the countryside.
    Now survivors began to filter back to their homes. Construction crews had moved
into the industrial complexes, where they ripped out machine modifications and
reestablished the production capacities that were necessary to repair dwelling units and
distribute food and supplies. Back in Giedi City, Armada experts pored over the ruined
Omnius cit' adel, analyzing the debris from the high-thermal attack. Only scraps of
twisted, burned-out hardware and an electronic signaling mechanism remained.
    But full recovery would take a great deal of time. Xavier hated machines more than
anything, but he also believed in honor among men. He could not understand the
turncoat Vorian Atrei-des, who willingly flew beside a robot captain in a thinking-
machine spy ship. Brainwashed, obviously, but something in the young man's arrogant
demeanor suggested deep convictions… a fanatical, single-minded passion. Atreides had
claimed to be the "son" of Agamemnon, the worst of the cymek Titans.
    Below, one of the squadron ships veered toward the water in the vast, open sea.
"Tercero Harkonnen, I'm detecting debris in the water below. Metallic wreckage of some
sort."
    With sudden dread, Xavier said, "Check it out." Two kindjals swooped down to the
open sea. One pilot transmitted, "The mass and configuration suggests that it's the
remains of a League ship with military-grade armor. Maybe a blockade runner." "Did we
lose any ships of that type in our engagement?" "No, sir."
    'Retrieve the wreckage," Xavier commanded, surprised at how steady his voice
sounded. "We'll run an analysis." He didn't want to say it, but knew that Serena and her
team had taken such a craft out onto the open sea, when departing from the
transmitter facility.
    He thought of the shimmering image of Serena projected from the black diamond
necklace that Octa had given him. The memory was so sharp that the achingly beautiful
woman seemed to be standing in front of him again, proud and determined with her
misguided idea of helping the people of Giedi Prime.
    As the crews gathered the scattered debris, Xavier saw that the hull had been
painted an unobtrusive gray with a film of stealth coating, now blistered and peeled.
    He felt numb. "We have to make certain, one way or the other."
    LATER, WHEN THE debris had been delivered to a temporary military encampment
in Giedi City, Xavier Harkonnen ordered a full examination on any traces found in the
interior of the destroyed craft. Other parts of the wreckage seemed to have come from
robotic aerofoils, but he didn't care about that. His mind and body were numb with
dread; the conclusions seemed inescapable.
    Inside a battered lifepod not far from the downed blockade runner, the recovery
team also found the mangled remains of an old man, identified as Ort Wibsen. All doubt
dissipated. This had been Serena's vessel.
    They found more blood inside the waterlogged ship. Obviously they had put up an
extraordinary fight at the end. Xavier ran full DNA scans, hoping for any result other
than the one he feared most.
   But the results proved that the other victims had been the Home Guard messenger
Pinquer Jibb… and Serena Butler herself.
   Serena. My love…
    Hanging his head, Xavier tried to hold on to the unraveling strands of hope. Perhaps
the machines had only taken Serena prisoner. But that was a ridiculously unrealistic
possibility… and given cymek and robot brutality, would that be a fate he could wish
for?
    No, he would have to return to Salusa Secundus and deliver the news to a distraught
Manion Butler.
    There could be no doubt about it: Serena must be dead.
    Whether we are rich, poor, strong, weak, intelligent, or stupid, the thinking
machines treat us as nothing more than meat. They do not understand what humans
really are.
   —IBLIS GINJO, early planning for the Jihad

    Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.
    hile other trustee crew bosses supervised the Forum monument projects, Iblis Ginjo
received orders to process a load of arriving slaves. These captives had been freshly
harvested from Giedi Prime and brought to Earth by order of Omnius. The work boss
groaned inwardly, suspecting that the cymeks would want to build another enormous
monument to celebrate the Giedi Prime victory, too, and his crews would have to build
it…
    Erasmus supposedly had his eye on one female in particular, personally selected for
him by the Titan Barbarossa. Iblis had read the documentation, knew that the new
batch of prisoners might be an unruly lot, considering where they had been captured.
    As the disheveled and disoriented slaves were herded off the space transport in dirty
clothes, Iblis perused them with a trained eye, considering how to segregate them to
work assignments, a few artisans, a few skilled workers, most of them mere slaves. He
separated out a muscular, mahogany-skinned man for assignment to the Ajax pedestal
project, smiling encouragement to him, then dispatched others to crews that required
more manpower.
    One of the last to emerge from the ship was a battered woman who, despite the
dark bruises on her face and arms and the weary shock in her expression, carried
herself with pride, showing internal strength in every movement. This was the one for
Erasmus. Trouble.
    Why would the robot be interested in her? He would probably just vivisect her
anyway. A waste. And a shame.
    Iblis called to her, but she ignored his gentle yet authoritative tone. Finally, with
some rough encouragement from the guard robots, she stood in front of him. Though
only of average height, the female had striking lavender eyes, amber-brown hair, and a
face that might be pretty if cleansed of grime and anger.
    He smiled warmly, trying to reach out to her with a little charm. "The records say
your name is Serena Linne?" He knew full well who she was.
    Iblis stared into her eyes and detected a spark of defiance there. She held his gaze,
as if she were his equal. "Yes. My father was a minor official in Giedi City, moderately
well-off."
    'Have you ever worked as a servant before?" he inquired. "I have always been a
servant—of the people." "From now on, you serve Omnius." He softened his voice. "I
promise you, it won't be so bad. Our workers are treated well here. Especially intelligent
ones like yourself. Perhaps you could even aspire to a trusted, privileged position, if you
have the intelligence and the personality for it." Iblis smiled. "However, wouldn't it be
best if we used your true name… Serena Butler?"

    She glared at him. At least she didn't deny it. "How did you know?" "After capturing
you, Barbarossa inspected the wreckage of your vessel. There were many clues aboard.
You are fortunate the cymeks never needed to interrogate you in further detail." He
glanced at his electronic notes. "We know you are the daughter of Viceroy Manion
Butler. Were you trying to hide your identity out of fear that Omnius might use you in
some sort of blackmail scheme? I assure you, that isn't the way the evermind thinks.
Omnius would never have considered such a thing."
    She raised her chin defiantly. "My father would never surrender a centimeter of
territory, no matter what the machines do to me."
    'Yes, yes, you're all very brave, I am sure." Iblis gave her a wry smile, meant to be
comforting. "The rest is up to the robot Erasmus. He has requested that you be
assigned to his villa. He has taken a particular interest in your circumstances. That's a
good sign." "He wishes to help me?"
    'I wouldn't go that far," he said with a hint of humor. "I'm sure Erasmus wants to
talk with you. And talk and talk and talk. In the end, it's quite likely he will drive you
mad with his famous curiosity."
    Iblis instructed other slaves to clean and properly reclothe this female, and they
followed the trustee's orders as if he were a machine himself. Although her mannerisms
exuded hostility and resentment, Serena Butler did not waste effort on pointless
resistance. She had a brain, but her intelligence and spirit were bound to be crushed
before long.
    The routine medical check, however, revealed a surprise. She glared at Iblis, trying
to maintain her defensive wall of anger, but a glimmer of curiosity flickered behind her
odd lavender eyes. "Are you aware that you're pregnant? Or is that just an unfortunate
accident?" From the way she reeled, he saw that her reaction was not feigned. "Yes, by
now it appears about three months along. You must have suspected."
    'That is none of your business." Her words were hard, as if she was trying to
maintain her hold on something stable. The news seemed to be a greater blow to her
than all the rough treatment she had endured since capture.
    Iblis made a dismissive gesture. "Every cell in your body is my business—at least
until I deliver you to your new master. Afterward, I will really begin to pity you."

    The independent robot would no doubt plan interesting experiments on her and the
fetus…
   The psychology of the human animal is malleable, with his personality dependent
upon the proximity of other members of the species and the pressures exerted by them.
   —ERASMUS, laboratory notes

    Erasmus's villa stood as a towering edifice on a hilltop overlooking the sea. On the
inland side, the main building loomed high in front of a lovely flagstone square beneath
high turrets; toward the coast, a cluster of bleak, crowded slave pens huddled on the
opposite side, where human captives lived like livestock.
    From the highest balconies, the robot found the dichotomy curious.
    Forming his metal polymer facefilm into a paternal mask, Erasmus watched as two
sentinel robots strode through a slave pen, hunting for twin girls that he required for a
new round of experiments. The panicked humans scrambled away, but Erasmus didn't
shift his pliable face into a frown. His myriad optic threads scanned the lean and dirty
forms, assessing.
    He had seen the little girls a few days before, noting their short black hair and brown
eyes, but they seemed to be hiding somewhere. Playing a game with him? The sentinels
tore through a doorway into a tunnel that led to another pen; finally, they transmitted
back, "We have located the two subjects."
    Good, Erasmus thought, anticipating the intriguing work ahead. He wanted to see if
he could force one of the twin girls to kill the other. It would be a landmark experiment,
one that would reveal important insights into moral boundaries and how siblings defined
them. He especially enjoyed working with identical twins. Over the years he had
processed dozens of pairs through his laboratory, compiling de-tailed medical reports as
well as intensive psychological studies. He spent a great deal of effort on meticulous
comparative autopsies, microanalyz-ing the subtle differences in siblings who were
genetic carbon-copies. The slave masters working in the crowded pens had instructions
to identify and select any new sets among the captive populace on Earth.
    Finally, the squirming dark-haired twins stood in front of him, held by the sentinel
robots. He shifted his pliable facefilm into a calm smile. One of the girls spat on the
reflective surface. Erasmus wondered why saliva carried such a negative connotation for
humans? It caused no damage and could be cleaned off easily. The forms of human
defiance never ceased to amaze him.
    Shortly before Erasmus had left his estate on Corrin, twenty-two slaves had removed
their protective eye films and intentionally stared into the furious red-giant sun, blinding
themselves. Disobedient, resistant—and stupid. What did the rebellious act accomplish,
other than rendering them useless for slave work?

    They had expected to be killed, and Erasmus would oblige them. But not so that
they could become martyrs. Instead, he had quietly separated them from other workers
to prevent the spread of their unruliness. Blinded, they could not find or earn food. By
now, he supposed they must have starved in their self-inflicted darkness.
    Still, he had marveled at their spirit, their collective will to challenge him. Even
though humans were a troublesome breed, they were constantly fascinating.
    A watcheye buzzed nearby, making strange, raw noises. Finally, Om-nius spoke
through it. "The recent loss of Giedi Prime is your fault, Erasmus. I tolerate your endless
experiments in the hope that you will deconstruct and analyze human behavior. Why did
you not predict the suicidal raid that obliterated my cymeks? The data and experiences
of my Giedi Prime counterpart were never backed up. Barbarossa is equally
irreplaceable, since he created my original programming."
    The Earth-Omnius already knew about the recapture of Giedi Prime because of an
automated emergency buoy launched by the robot Seurat, whose update ship had
unexpectedly encountered the disaster in its duties. The alarming message had reached
Earth only that morning.
    'I was not given data that the Sorceresses of Rossak had developed this capability of
telepathic destruction." The robot's face shimmered back into its blank oval smoothness.
"Why not also ask your questions of Vorian Atreides when he returns to Earth? The son
of Agamemnon has helped us to simulate unstable human behavior before."
    Omnius said, "Even his input could not have prepared us for what happened to Giedi
Prime. Sentient biologicals are unpredictable and reckless."
    As the sentinel robots dragged the squirming twins away, Erasmus directed his
attention to the watcheye. "Then it is obvious I have more work to do."
    'No, Erasmus, it is obvious that your research is not yielding the desired results. You
should strive for perfection, rather than investigating compounded errors. I recommend
that you overwrite your mind core with a subset of my program. Turn yourself into a
perfect machine. A copy of me."
    'You would sacrifice our fascinating, open-ended debates?" Erasmus responded,
fighting to conceal his inner alarm. "You have always expressed an interest in my
peculiar manner of thinking. All the everminds especially look forward to your record of
my actions."
    The buzzing of the watcheye intensified, indicating that Omnius was shifting his
thought pathways. This was a worrisome, volatile situation. Erasmus did not want to
lose his carefully developed independent identity.
    One of the twin girls tried to break away from the robotic guards and run back
toward the dubious safety of the pens. As Erasmus had suggested beforehand, the
guard lifted her sister by one arm, leaving her to dangle screaming. The free twin
hesitated, though she could easily have reached the temporary shelter. Slowly, she
came to a stop, surrendering.
    Fascinating, Erasmus thought. And the sentinel robot did not even have to inflict
cellular damage on the other girl.
    Thinking quickly, the robot said, "Perhaps if I diverted my attention to matters of
military significance, you would more easily see the potential of my work. Let me
understand the mentality of these wild humans for you. What drives them to such self-
sacrifice, as we witnessed on
    Giedi Prime? If I can distill an explanation, your Synchronized Worlds will no longer
be vulnerable to unpredictable attacks."
    The watcheye hovered as a million possibilities showered through the abundant
mind of Omnius. Presently, the computer made his deci-ion. You have my permission to
proceed. But do not continue to test my patience."
   People require continuity.
    —BOVKO MANRESA, First Viceroy of the League of Nobles n Poritrin, the virulent
fever raced through the mudflats and docks where slaves made their dreary homes.
Despite the best quarantine and mitigation efforts, the disease killed a number of
officials and merchants, and even spread as far as the slaves in Tio Holtzman's blufftop
laboratories, where it caused quite a disruption in the scientist's work.

    When Holtzman first noticed symptoms of the illness among his crowded equation
solvers, he immediately ordered removal of the sick ones to isolation chambers and
sealed off the remainder of the calculating teams. The distracted Savant thought the
slaves would rejoice at being relieved of their mathematical chores; instead the solvers
moaned and prayed, asking why the hand of God would strike them rather than their
oppressors.
    Within two weeks, half of his household slaves had either died or been quarantined.
Such a shift in daily routines was not conducive to the Savant's mental work.
    Several large-scale simulations had been under way, f lowing the gradual
development of parameters establish,' the talented Norma Cenva. Groaning at the
inconve Holtzman knew that stopping the lengthy work in r would necessitate new
teams to start over again. To maintain his stature, he needed a major breakthrough
soon.
    Lately his reputation had been supported more by Norma's work than his own.
Naturally, he had taken full credit for modifying the scrambler-field generators into an
offensive weapon. Lord Bludd had delighted in presenting two prototypes to the Armada
liberation force for Giedi Prime. Indeed, the scrambler projectors had served the
rescuers well, but the prototypes had consumed enough energy to ground two troop
transports, and the devices themselves had broken down—irreparably—after only one
use. In addition, the disruptive pulse had yielded uneven results, since many robots had
been shielded by walls or unaffected by the dissipating field. Still, the idea showed
promise, and the nobles urged Holtzman to work on improvements, without ever
knowing about Norma's involvement.

     At least Holtzman's reputation was secure again. For a while. Norma was quiet but
diligent. Rarely interested in diversions or amusements, she worked hard and scrutinized
her own ideas. Despite Holtzman's wishes, she insisted on performing most calculations
person-ally rather than handing them off to solver teams. Norma was too independent
to understand the economics of delegating tasks. Her dedication made her a rather dull
person.
     After rescuing the young prodigy from her obscurity on Rossak, he had hoped,
unrealistically perhaps, that Norma might provide him with sudden inspiration. During a
recent cocktail party in Lord Bludd's conical towers, the nobleman had made a joke
about Holtzman taking a holiday from his usual brilliance. Though the comment had
stung, the inventor had laughed along with the other tittering nobles. Still, it
highlighted—in his own mind, at least—that he had not created anything really original
in some time.
    Following a restless night of bizarre dreams, Holtzman finally came up with a
concept to explore. Expanding some of the electromagnetic features he had used for his
scrambler fields, he might be able to create an "alloy resonance generator." Properly
tuned, a thermal-field inducer would couple with metals—the bodies of robots, for
instance, or even the crablike warrior-forms worn by cymeks. Given the correct
adjustment, the resonance generator could slam selected metal atoms against each
other, generating enormous heat until the machine shook itself apart.

     The concept seemed promising. Holtzman intended to pursue its development with
full enthusiasm and haste.
     But first he needed more solvers and assistants to construct the prototype. And now
he had to waste a day on the mundane task of replacing the household slaves that had
died from the fever. With a frustrated sigh, he left his laboratories and trudged down
the zigzag trail to the base of the bluffs, where he caught a jetboat across the river.
     On the opposite shore, at the widest part of the delta, he visited a bustling river
market. Rafts and barges had been lashed together for so long that they might well
have been part of the landscape. The merchants' quarter was not far from the Starda
spaceport, where vendors provided offworld oddities: drugs from Rossak, interesting
woods and plants from Ecaz, gems from Hagal, musical instruments from Chusuk.
     In shops that fronted a narrow alley, tailors were copying the latest Salusan
fashions, cutting and sewing exotic imported cloths and fine Poritrin linens. Holtzman
had used many of these garment makers to enhance his personal wardrobe. An eminent
Savant such as himself could not spend all of his time in the laboratories. After all, he
was frequently called upon to make public appearances to answer questions from
citizens and often spoke before committees of nobles, to convince them of his continued
importance.
     But today Holtzman made his way farther out onto the floating rafts and barges. He
needed to purchase people, not clothes. The scientist saw a sign on the dock ahead, in
Galach: HUMAN RESOURCES. He crossed creaking boardwalks and gangplanks to a
cluster of rafts that held captives. Grouped in lots behind barricades, the sullen
prisoners were dressed in drab, identical uniforms, many of which fit badly. The slaves
were lean and angular, as if unaccustomed to eating regular meals. These men and
women came from planets that few of the free citizens of Poritrin had ever heard of,
much less visited.
     Their handlers seemed aloof, not particularly eager to show off wares or haggle over
prices. After the recent plague, many households and estates needed to replace their
personnel, and it was a sellers' market.
     Other customers crowded against the railings, scrutinizing the downcast faces,
inspecting the merchandise. One old man clutching a wad of credits summoned the
tender and asked for a closer look at four middle-aged females.
     Holtzman was not particularly picky, nor did he want to waste time.
     Since he needed so many slaves, he intended to buy an entire lot. Once they arrived
at his blufftop estate, he would choose the most intelligent ones to work calculations,
while the remainder would cook, clean, or maintain his household.
    He hated these menial shopping duties, but had never delegated them in the past.
He smiled, realizing he had been critical of Norma for doing the very same thing, for her
failure to use solvers.
    Impatient and eager, Holtzman summoned the nearest handler, waving Niko Bludd's
credit authorization and pushing himself to the front. "I want a large order of slaves."
    The Human Resources merchant bustled over, grinning and bowing. "Of course,
Savant Holtzman! What you require, I shall provide. Simply specify your needs, and I
will provide a competitive quotation."
    Suspicious that the merchant might try to cheat him, he said, "I need slaves that are
smart and independent, but capable of following instructions. Seventy or eighty will do,
I suppose." Some of the customers pushing close to the railing grumbled, but did not
challenge the celebrity inventor.
    'Quite a demand," the vendor said, "especially in these lean times. The plague has
created a shortage, until the Tlulaxa flesh merchants deliver more."
    'Everyone knows how important—and essential—my work is," Holtzman said,
pointedly removing a chronometer from the wide sleeve of his white robe. "My needs
take precedence over some rich citizen looking to replace a house cleaner. If you like, I
will obtain a special dispensation from Lord Bludd."

    'I know you can do that, Savant," said the slave tender. He shouted at the other
customers pushing forward. "All of you, quit your complaining! Without this man, we'd
be sweeping the floors for thinking machines right now!" Putting on another face, the
handler smiled back at Holtzman. "The question, of course, is which slaves would best
serve you? I have a new batch just delivered from Harmonthep: Zensunnis, all of them.
Suitably docile, but I'm afraid they go for a premium."
    Holtzman frowned. He preferred to use his finances in other ways, especially
considering the large investment that would be necessary for his new alloy-resonator
concept. "Do not attempt to take advantage of me, sir."
    The man reddened, but held his ground, sensing that the inventor was in a hurry.
"Perhaps another group would be more suitable then? I have some just in from IV
Anbus." He gestured to a separate raft where dark-haired slaves stared out with hostile
expressions, challenging the customers. "They are Zenshütes."
    'What's the difference? Are they less expensive?"
    'A simple matter of religious philosophy." The slave merchant waited for some
recognition, didn't see it, then smiled with relief. "Who can understand the
Buddislamics, anyway? They're workers, and that's what you need, right? I can sell you
these Zenshütes for a lower price, even though they're quite intelligent. Probably better
educated than the Harmonthep lot. They're healthy, too. I have medical certifications.
Not one of them has been exposed to the plague virus."
    Holtzman perused the group. They all had rolled up their left sleeves, as if it were
some kind of badge. Up front, a muscular man with fiery eyes and a thick black beard
gazed back at him dispassionately, as if he considered himself superior to those who
held him captive.
    With his cursory inspection, Holtzman could see nothing wrong with the IV Anbus
captives. His household was desperately understaffed, and his laboratories needed more
low-level technicians. Every day it was a struggle to find enough solvers to work through
the increasingly complex sets of equations.
    'But why are they cheaper?" he persisted.
    'They are more plentiful. It's a simple matter of supply and demand." The slave
vendor held his gaze. He named a price.
    Too impatient to haggle for the best deal, Holtzman nodded. "I'll take eighty of
them." He raised his voice. "I don't care if they're from IV Anbus or Harmonthep.
They're on Poritrin now, and they work for Savant Tio Holtzman."
    The crafty slave merchant turned to the group of captives and shouted. "You hear
that? You should be proud."
    The dark-haired captives simply looked back at their new master, saying nothing.
Holtzman was relieved. That probably meant they would be more tractable.
    He transferred the correct amount of credits. "See that they are cleaned up and sent
to my residence."
    The grinning slave handler thanked him profusely. "Don't you worry, Savant
Holtzman. You'll be satisfied with this lot."
    As the great man left the crowded river market, other customers began to shout and
wave their credit vouchers, squabbling over the remaining slaves. It promised to be a
furious day of bidding.
   Over the course of history, the stronger species invariably wins.
   —TLALOC, A Time for Titans

     ,'» fter taking refuge in the Arrakis wasteland, the Zen-JL TLsunni Wanderers were
little more than scavengers, and not very brave. Even on their most distant excursions
to collect useful items, the nomads remained close to the rocks, avoiding the deep
desert and the demon worms.
     Long ago, after the Imperial chemist Shakkad the Wise had remarked on the
rejuvenating properties of the obscure spice melange, there had been a small market
for the natural substance among offworlders at the Arrakis City spaceport. However, the
planet's distance from popular spacing lanes had never made melange an economically
attractive item. "An oddity, not a commodity," one surly merchant had told Naib
Dhartha. Still, spice was a staple in the food supply, and it must be gathered… but only
on sands close to the rocks.
     Dhartha led a party of six across a ridge of packed powder sand that held their
footprints as if they were kisses in the dust. Loose white cloths around their heads and
faces exposed only their eyes; their cloaks blew in the breeze, revealing equipment
belts, tools, and weapons. Dhartha snugged the cloth higher over his nose to keep from
breathing grit. He scratched the tattoo etched so painstakingly onto his cheek, then
narrowed his eyes, always alert for danger.
     No one thought to watch the clear morning skies until they heard a faint whistle
growing quickly into a howl. To Naib Dhartha, it sounded like a woman who had just
learned of her husband's death.
     Looking up, he saw a silvery bullet that tore through the atmosphere, then
recognized the unexpected hum and whine of thrusters. A bubble-shaped object
plummeted through the sky, spun about and see-sawed in the open air as if choosing a
place to land. Quad engines slowed its descent. Then, less than a kilometer from where
the scavenging party stood, the object slammed into the dunes like a fist thumping into
the stomach of a dishonest merchant. A spray of dust and sand shot upward, embracing
a tendril of dark soot.
    The Naib stood stiffly and stared, while his men began to jabber excitedly. Young
Ebrahim was as enthralled as Dhartha's own son, Mah-mad; both boys wanted to race
out and investigate.
    Mahmad was a good lad, respectful and cautious. But Dhartha had a low opinion of
Ebrahim, who liked to tell stories and talk of imaginary exploits. Then there was the
incident in which tribal water had been stolen, an unforgivable crime. Initially the Naib
had thought two boys were involved, Ebrahim and Selim. But Ebrahim had been quick
to disavow any responsibility and to point the finger at the other boy. Selim had seemed
shocked at the accusation, but had not denied it.
    In addition, Ebrahim's father had stepped forward to make a generous deal with
Dhartha to save his son… and so the orphan boy had received the ultimate sentence of
banishment. Not much of a loss to the tribe. A Naib often had to make such difficult
decisions.
    Now, as the scavengers looked at Dhartha, their bright eyes glinting between folds
of dirty white cloth, he knew he could not ignore the opportunity of this crashed ship,
whatever it was. "We must go see this thing," he called.
    His men rushed across the sands, boisterous Ebrahim and Mahmad in the lead,
hurrying toward the pillar of dust that marked the impact. Dhartha did not like to stray
far from the sheltering rock, but the desert beckoned them toward a rich, alien treasure.
    The nomads crested one dune, slid down the slipface, and scurried up another. By
the time they reached the impact crater, they were all winded, panting hot breaths that
were smothered by the cloths over their mouths. The Naib and his men stood on the
high lip of excavated sand. Glassy smears of superheated silica had splattered like saliva
on the ground.
    Inside the pit lay a mechanical object the size of two men, with protrusions and
components that hummed and moved, awakening now that it had landed. The carbon
fiber-encased body still smoked from the heat of reentry. A spacecraft, perhaps?
    One of Dhartha's men stepped back, making a warding sign with his fingers.
Overzealous Ebrahim, though, bent forward. The Naib put a hand on Mahmad's left
arm, cautioning his son. Let the foolish one take the risks.
    The crashed pod was too small to carry passengers. The lights blinked brighter, and
the probe's sides opened like dragon wings to expose mechanical limbs, articulated
claws, and complex machinery inside. Scanners, processors, engines of investigation
and destruction. Mirrorlike power converters spread out in the glare of the sun.
    Ebrahim slid down the churned sand at the edge of the pit. "Imagine what this
would be worth at the spaceport, Naib! If I get to it first, I should receive the largest
salvage share."
    Dhartha wanted to argue with the exuberant youth, but when he saw that no one—
except for his own son—looked eager to join Ebrahim, he nodded. "If successful, you'll
get an extra share." Even if the falling object was completely ruined, the nomads could
work the pure metal for their own purposes.

    The brash young man stopped halfway down the loose slope, looking suspiciously at
the device, which continued to vibrate and thump. Flexible components extruded arms
and legs, while strange lenses and mirrors rotated at the ends of flexible carbon fiber
tentacles. The probe seemed to be assessing its surroundings, as if it didn't comprehend
where it had landed.
    The machine paid no attention to the surreptitious humans, until Ebrahim dug a
stone from the slumping side of the crater. He called out "Ai! Ai!" then hurled the rock.
It struck the composite material of the probe's side with an echoing clunk.
    The mechanical lander froze, then turned its lenses and scanners toward the human
standing all alone. Ebrahim hunched on bent knees in the yielding sand.
    Blinding hot light erupted from one of the lenses. A gout of coherent fire engulfed
Ebrahim and blew him backward in a crackling cloud of incinerated flesh and bones. A
wad of smoldering garments struck the top of the crater, along with charred pieces of
his hands and feet.
    Mahmad screamed for his friend, and Dhartha immediately yelled for the men to
retreat. They stumbled back down the outside of the crater and fled through the soft
gully between dunes. Half a kilometer away, safe, they climbed to a sandy crest high
enough that they could look back toward the pit. The men prayed and made
superstitious gestures, and Dhartha raised his clenched right fist. Foolish Ebrahim had
drawn the attention of the mechanical thing and had paid with his life.
    From a distance, the would-be scavengers watched. The crashed probe paid them
no further heed. Instead, with thumping and clattering, the machine seemed to be
assembling itself, building structures around its core. Scooping hands drew sand into a
resource-production hopper in its belly and extruded glasslike rods that it used for
structural supports. The machine added new components, building itself larger, and
finally began digging its way out of the pit. It pounded and hammered, making a great
deal of racket.
    Dhartha remained perplexed. Though he was a leader, he had no idea what to do.
Such a thing was beyond his ken. Perhaps someone at the spaceport would know, but
he hated to rely on outworlders. Besides, this thing might be valuable, and he didn't
want to surrender his salvage.
    'Father, look." Mahmad gestured toward the wasteland of sand. "See, that machine
demon will pay for killing my friend."
    Dhartha saw the telltale ripple, the stirring of a behemoth beneath the sands. The
crashed probe continued its pounding, rhythmic motion with a clattering of components,
oblivious to its surroundings. The assembled mechanism raised itself, a monstrous
composite of crystalline materials and silica struts reinforced by carbon-fiber beams
converted from its own hull and support girders.
    The sandworm came in fast, tunneling just beneath the surface until its head rose
up. The mouth was a huge shovel larger than the impact crater.
    The robotic probe waved its sensor arms and weapons lenses, sensing it was being
attacked, but not understanding how. Several white-hot blasts of fire penetrated the
loose ground.
    The worm swallowed the mechanical demon whole. Then the sin uous desert
creature burrowed beneath the dust again like a sea serpent seeking deeper waters…
    Naib Dhartha and his men remained petrified on the dunes. If they turned and ran
now, their vibrations would call the sandworm back for another meal.
    Soon enough, they saw the worm trail heading outward, returning to the deep
desert. The crater was gone, along with all evidence of the mechanical construction. Not
even a scrap of foolish Ebrahim's body remained.
    Shaking his head with its long black ponytail, Dhartha turned to his shocked
companions. "This will make a legendary story, a magnificent ballad to be sung in our
caves in the dark of night——-" He drew a deep breath and turned around. "Though I
doubt anyone will ever believe us."

   The future? I hate it because 1 will not be there.
   —JUNO, Lives of the Titans

   J't't fter the unexpected encounter with the League Armada JL mat Giedi Prime, the
battered Dream Voyager took an extra month to limp back to Earth for repairs. Because
of the slow pace caused by the damage, Seurat had immediately dispatched his
emergency buoy, relaying to Omnius the dire news of the fall of the newest
Synchronized World and the loss of the Titan Barbarossa. By now the evermind must
know what had happened.
     The robot captain did his best to repair or bypass the ship's damaged systems and
seal off sections to protect his fragile human copilot. General Agamemnon would not be
pleased if his biological son were injured. Besides, Seurat had developed a certain
fondness for Vorian Atreides…
     Vor insisted on donning an environment suit and crawling outside the update ship to
inspect the hull. Seurat tethered him with two lines, while three inspector drones
accompanied him. When the young man saw the blackened wound where the rebellious
humans had fired upon them, he once again felt a sense of shame. Intent only on
delivering the vital Omnius updates, Seurat had committed no aggressive act against
these hrethgir, yet they had attacked him. Wild humans were without honor.
     Agamemnon and his friend Barbarossa had brought the unruly populace of Giedi
Prime into the sweeping embrace of Omnius, yet the hrethgir had spurned the greater
civilization of the Synchronized Worlds, making a martyr of Barbarossa in the process.
His father would be deeply disturbed at the loss of such a close friend, one of the last
remaining Titans.
     Vor himself could have been killed, his soft and breakable human form destroyed
without ever having the chance to become a neo-cymek. A single blow from the Armada
could have erased all of Vor's potential, all of his future work. He could not update
himself or back up his memories and experiences, as a machine could. He'd be lost, just
like the Giedi Prime-Omnius. Just like the other twelve sons of Agamemnon. The
thought sickened him, and he shuddered.
    On their return journey, Seurat tried to cheer Vor with ridiculous jokes, as if nothing
had happened. The robot commended his companion for quick thinking and tactical
innovation in outwitting the hrethgir officer. Vor's deceit in pretending to be a rebellious
human who had captured a thinking-machine vessel—what an outre scenario!—had
given them a few moments of valuable time, and his decoy projections had allowed
them to escape. Perhaps it would even be taught to others in the trustee schools on
Earth.

    Vor, however, cared most about what his father might say. The approval of the
great Agamemnon would make everything all right.
    WHEN THE DREAM VOYAGER landed at Earth's central spaceport, Vorian hurried
down the ramp, eyes alert, face eager—then crestfallen when he saw no sign of the
Titan general.

    Vor swallowed hard. Unless vital matters intervened, his father always came to greet
him. These were rare moments they had together, when they could exchange ideas,
talk about plans and dreams. Vor comforted himself with the thought that Agamemnon
probably had important business for Omnius.
    Robotic maintenance crews and repair machinery trundled forward to inspect the
damaged ship. One of the multicomponent machines paused in its assessment, broke
away, and hummed toward him. "Vorian Atreides, Agamemnon has commanded you to
meet him in the conditioning facility. Report there immediately."
    The young human brightened. Letting the robot return to its work, he walked off
briskly. When he could contain himself no longer, he began to run…
    Though he attempted to exercise during the long voyages with Seu-rat, Vor's
biological muscles were weaker than a machine's, and he tired quickly. Another
reminder of his mortality, his fragility, and the inferiority of natural biology. It only
increased his desire to wear a powerful neo-cymek body someday and discard this
imperfect human form.
    His lungs burning, Vor rushed into the gleaming chrome-and-plaz chamber where his
father's brain canister was regularly polished and recharged with electrafluid. As soon as
the young man entered the cold, well-lit room, two robot guards folded in behind him,
ominously blocking egress. In the center of the chamber stood a mechanical, human-
shaped colossus that Agamemnon now wore. The behemoth took two steps forward,
stabilizer-feet hammering against the hard floor. He dwarfed his son, towering three
times Vorian's height.
    'I have been waiting for you, my son. Everything is prepared. What caused your
delay?"
    Intimidated, Vor looked up at the preservation canister. "I hurried here, Father. My
ship landed only an hour ago."
    'I understand the Dream Voyager was damaged at Giedi Prime, attacked by the
human rebels that murdered Barbarossa and recaptured the world."
    'Yes, sir." Vor knew better than to waste the Titan's time with unnecessary details.
The general would already have received a full report. "I will answer any questions you
might have, Father."
   'I have no questions, only commands." Instead of instructing his son to begin the
process of grooming and polishing his components, Agamemnon raised a gauntleted
hand, clutched Vorian by the chest, and pushed him forcefully against an upright table.
   Vor was slammed against the smooth surface and felt a burst of pain. His father was
so powerful that he could accidentally break bones, sever the spine. "What is it, Father?
What—"

    Holding him immobile, Agamemnon clamped on wrist bindings, a waist restraint, and
ankle cuffs. Helpless now, Vor twisted his head to look at what his father was doing and
saw that complex devices had been brought into the chamber. With trepidation he
noted hollow cylinders filled with bluish fluids, neuromechanical pumps, and chittering
machines that waved questing sensor tips in the air.
    'Please, Father." Vor's deepest fears careened through his mind, ricocheting off the
pain, each impact increasing his doubts and terrors. "What have I done wrong?"
    Showing no readable expression on his head turret, Agamemnon extended an array
of long needles toward his son's squirming body. The steel points penetrated his chest,
poking between his ribs, seeking out and finding his lungs, his heart. Two silver shafts
pierced his throat. Blood oozed out everywhere. Vor's neck sinews bulged as he
clenched his jaw and curled back his lips, biting back a scream.
    But the scream broke through anyway.
    The cymek manipulated the machinery connected to Vorian's body, increasing the
pain beyond all imaginable levels. Convinced that he had failed somehow, Vor assumed
it was his time to die—like the twelve unknown brothers who had preceded him. Now, it
seemed, Vorian had not lived up to Agamemnon's expectations.

     Agony swelled higher, with no crest in sight. His scream became a prolonged wail,
as acid-colored fluids were pumped into his body. Soon even his vocal cords gave out,
and his shriek continued only in his mind… yet it continued nevertheless. He could
endure no more. He could not imagine the grievous injury his stretched and torn body
must already have endured.
     When finally the torture concluded and Vor came back to himself, he didn't know
how long he had been unconscious—perhaps even lost in the cloak of death. His body
felt as if it had been crushed into a ball and then stretched back into the form of a man.

     The colossus shape of Agamemnon loomed over him, a galaxy of optic threads
glittering on his body. Even though the remnants of excruciating pain echoed inside his
skull, Vor resisted crying out. His father had kept him alive after all, for his own reasons.
He stared into the Titan's implacable metal face and could only hope that his father had
not revived him just to inflict more agony.
   What have 1 done wrong?
   Yet the ancient cymek did not have murder on his mind. Instead he said, "I am
exceedingly pleased with your actions aboard the Dream Voyager, Vorian. I have
analyzed Seurat's report and determined that your tactical prowess in escaping from the
League Armada was innovative and unexpected."
    Vorian couldn't understand the context of his father's words. They seemed unrelated
to the tortures the general had inflicted on him.
    'No thinking machine would have considered such a deceitful trick. I doubt even
another trustee would have been so quick to think of the ruse. In fact, Omnius's
summation concludes that any other action would likely have resulted in the capture or
destruction of the Dream Voyager. Seurat would never have been capable of surviving
by himself. You not only saved the ship, you saved the Omnius update spheres and
returned them intact." Agamemnon paused, then reiterated. "Yes, I am exceed' ingly
pleased, my son. You have the potential of becoming a great cymek someday."
    Vor's raw throat convulsed as he tried to force out words. The needle-studded cradle
had been yanked away, and now Agamemnon released the body restraints that held
him against the hard surface. Vorian's watery muscles could not support him, and he
drooped like a rag, sliding down until he pooled on his knees on the floor. Finally he
choked, "Then why was I tortured? Why have you punished me?"
    Agamemnon simulated a laugh. "When I choose to punish you, son, you will know.
That was a reward. Omnius allowed me to grant you this rare gift. In fact, no other
human in all the Synchronized Worlds has been so honored."
    'But how, Father? Please explain it to me. My mind is still throbbing." His voice
hitched.
    'What are a few moments of pain, in comparison with the gift you have received?"
The colossus paced back and forth across the sparkling maintenance room, shaking the
floor and the walls. "Unfortunately, I was unable to convince Omnius to convert you into
a neo-cymek—you are too young—but I am sure the time will come. I wanted you to
serve at my side—more than a trustee, but as my true successor." His sparkling optic
threads glowed brighter. "Instead, I have done the next best thing for you."

     The cymek general explained that he had given Vorian a rigorous biotech treatment,
a cellular replacement system that would dramatically extend his life as a human.
"Geriatric specialists developed the tech nique in the Old Empire… though to what
purpose I cannot fathom. Those oafs did nothing productive during their normal
lifespans, so why should they want to live for centuries longer and accomplish even
less? Through new proteins, rejection of free radicals, more efficient cellular repair
mechanisms, they prolonged their pointless existences. Most of them were murdered in
the rebellions when we Titans cemented our control."
     Agamemnon swiveled at his torso joint. "While we still wore human bodies at the
beginning of our rule, all twenty Titans underwent the biotech life extension, just like
you, so I am quite familiar with the level of pain you endured. We needed to live for
centuries, because we required that much time to reassert vision and competent
leadership upon the waning Old Empire. Even after we converted ourselves into cymeks,
the process helped prevent our ancient biological brains from degenerating because of
our extreme age."
     His mechanical body strode closer. "This life-extension process is our little secret,
Vorian. The League of Nobles would tear themselves into a frenzy if they knew we had
such technology." Agamemnon made a wistful sound, almost a sigh. "But beware, my
son: Even such enhancements cannot protect you against accidents or outright
assassination attempts. As, unfortunately, Barbarossa recently discovered."
    Vor finally struggled shakily to his feet. He located a water dispenser, gulped a
beaker of cool liquid, and felt his heartbeat slowing.
    'Astonishing events await you, my son. Your life is no longer a candle in the wind.
You have time to experience many things, important things."
    The hulking cymek stalked over to a harness and used an intricate network of
artificial hands and clamps extruded from the metal wall to link to the thoughtrodes of
his brain canister. Flexible lifting arms raised the cylinder out of the colossus body core
and shuttled it over to one of the chrome pedestals.
    'Now you are one step closer to your potential, Vorian," Agamemnon said through a
wall speaker, detached from the mobile body.
    Though weak and still in pain, Vor knew what his father expected of him now. He
hurried to the conditioning devices and with trembling hands attached power cables to
the magsockets of the translucent brain chamber. The bluish electrafluid seemed full of
mental energy.
    Trying to restore a sense of normalcy amid the clamoring disbelief at what had just
happened to him, Vor went through his habitual grooming duties, tending his father's
mechanical systems. Lovingly, the young man gazed at the wrinkled mass of brain, the
ancient mind so full of profound ideas and difficult decisions, as expressed in the
general's extensive memoirs. Each time he read them, Vor hoped to understand his
complex father better.
    He wondered if Agamemnon had kept him in the dark to play a cruel joke on him, or
to challenge his resolve. Vor would always accept whatever the cymek general
commanded, would never try to flee. Now that the agony was over, he hoped he had
passed whatever test his father had administered.
    As Vor continued the patient grooming of the preservation tank, Agamemnon spoke
softly, a susurration. "You are very quiet, my son. What do you think about the great
gift you have received?"
    The young man paused a moment, not certain how to respond. Agamemnon was
often impulsive and difficult to understand, but he rarely acted without a larger purpose
in mind. Vor could only hope to comprehend the overall picture someday, the grand
tapestry.
    'Thank you, Father," he finally said, "for giving me more time to accomplish
everything you want me to do."
     Why do humans spend so much time worrying about what they call "moral issues"?
It is one of the many mysteries of their behavior.
     —ERASMUS, Reflections on Sentient Biologicah

   he identical twin girls looked peaceful and asleep, side JL by side, like little angels in
a cozy bed. The snakelike brain scanners inserted through holes drilled into their skulls
were almost unnoticeable.
   Immobilized by drugs, the unconscious children lay on a laboratory table inside the
experimental zone. Erasmus's mirror-smooth face reshaped itself into an exaggerated
frown, as if the severity of his expression could force them to reveal their secrets about
humanity.
   Damn you!
    He could not comprehend these intelligent creatures that had somehow created
Omnius and an amazing civilization of thinking machines. Was it a miraculous fluke? The
more Erasmus learned, the more questions he developed. The inargu-able successes of
their chaotic civilization presented a deep quandary in his mind. He had dissected the
brains of more than a thousand specimens, young and old, male and female, intelligent
and dimwitted. He had made detailed analyses and comparisons, processing data
through the unlimited capacity of the Omnius evermind.
    Even so, none of the answers were clear.
    The brains of no two human beings were exactly identical, not even when the
subjects were raised under matching conditions, or if they started out as twins. A
con,'using mass of unnecessary variables! No aspect of their physiology remained
consistent from person to person.
   Maddening exceptions, everywhere!
    Nonetheless, Erasmus did notice patterns. Humans were full of differences and
surprises, but as a species they behaved according to general rules. Under certain
conditions, especially when crowded into confined spaces, people reacted with a pack
mentality, blindly following others, eschewing individuality.
    Sometimes humans were valiant; sometimes they were cowards. It especially
intrigued Erasmus to see what happened when he conducted "panic experiments" on
crowds of them in the breeding pens, wading in and butchering some while letting
others survive. In such circumstances of extreme stress, leaders invariably emerged,
people who behaved with more inner strength than the others. Erasmus especially liked
to kill those individuals and then watch the devastating effect it had on the rest of the
people.
    Perhaps his sample group of experimental subjects over the centuries was too small.
He might need to vivisect and dissect tens of thousands more before he could draw
meaningful conclusions. A monumental task, but as a machine Erasmus had no
limitations on energy, or patience.
    With one of his personal probes, he touched the cheek of the larger of the two girls
and sensed her steady pulse. Every droplet of blood seemed to withhold secrets from
him, as if the entire race was participating in a massive conspiracy against him. Would
Erasmus be considered the ultimate fool of all time? The fibrous probe glided back into
access channels in his composite skin, but not before he intentionally, petulantly,
scratched her skin.
    When the independent robot had taken these identical twins from the worker pens,
their mother had cursed at him and called him a monster. Humans could be so
parochial, failing to see the importance of what he was doing, the larger picture.
    With a self-cauterizing scalpel-beam, he cut into the cerebellum of the smaller girl
(who was 1.09 centimeters shorter and 0.7 kilograms lighter—therefore, not "identical"
at all), and watched the brain activity of her drugged sister go wild—a sympathetic
reaction. Fascinating. But the girls were not physically connected to each other, not
through body contact nor by machine. Could they sense one another's pain?

   He chided himself for his lack of foresight and planning. I should have put the
mother on the same table.
    His thoughts were interrupted by Omnius, who spoke from the nearest wallscreen.
"Your new female slave has arrived, a last gift from the Titan Barbarossa. She awaits
you in the sitting room."
    Erasmus raised his bloody metal hands. He had looked forward to receiving the
woman captured from Giedi Prime, supposedly the daughter of the League Viceroy. Her
familial ties suggested genetic superiority, and he had many questions to ask her about
the government of the feral humans.
    'Will you vivisect her as well?"
    'I prefer to keep my options open."
    Erasmus looked down at the twin girls, one already dead from the interrupted
exposure of her brain tissue. A wasted opportunity.
    'Analyzing docile slaves gives you irrelevant results, Erasmus. All thoughts of revolt
have been bred out of them. Therefore, any information you derive is of questionable
applicability for military purposes." The evermind's voice boomed from the wallscreen.
    Erasmus soaked his organic-plastic hands in solvent to eliminate the drying blood.
He had access to thousands of years of human-compiled psychological studies, but even
with so much data it was not possible to create a clear answer. Many self-proclaimed
"experts" offered wildly disparate answers.
    On the table, the surviving twin continued to mewl her pain and fear. "I disagree,
Omnius. The human creature is innately rebellious. The trait is inherent in their species.
Slaves will never be entirely loyal to us, no matter how many generations they have
served. Trustees, workers, it makes no difference."
    'You overestimate the strength of their will." The evermind sounded smugly
confident.
    'And I challenge your flawed assumptions." His curiosity piqued, sure of his private
understanding, Erasmus stood before the swirling screen. "Given time and adequate
provocation, I could turn any completely loyal worker against us, even the most
privileged trustee."
    With a long litany of data from his storehouse of information, Omnius disputed this.
The evermind was confident that his slaves would remain dependable, though perhaps
he had been overly complacent, overly lenient. He wanted the universe to run smoothly
and efficiently, and did not like the surprises and unpredictability of League humans.
    Omnius and Erasmus debated with growing intensity until the independent robot
finally put a stop to it. "Both of us are making conjectures based upon preconceived
notions. Therefore, I propose an experiment to determine the correct answer. You
select a random group of individuals who appear to be loyal, and I will demonstrate that
I can turn them against the thinking machines."
    'What will that accomplish?"
    Erasmus replied, "It will prove that even our most reliable humans can never be fully
trusted. It is a fundamental flaw in their biological programming. Would that not be
useful information?"
    'Yes. And if your assertion is correct, Erasmus, then I can never again trust my own
slaves. Such a result would call for a preemptive extermination of the entire human
race."
    Erasmus felt uneasy, that he might have trapped himself by his own logic. "That…
may not be the only reasonable conclusion." He'd wanted to know the answer to a
rhetorical question, but also feared it. For the inquisitive robot, this was much more
than a mere wager with his superior; it was an investigation into the deepest
motivations and decision-making processes of human beings.
    But the consequences of discovering the answers could be terrible. He needed to
win the argument, but in such a manner that Omnius did not shut down his
experiments.
    'Let me ponder the mechanics of implementation," Erasmus suggested, then gladly
emerged from the laboratory to go meet his new female house slave, Serena Butler.
   The universe is a playground of improvisation—it follows no external pattern.

   —COGITOR RETICULUS,

    Observations from a Height of a Thousand Years r't't| umbers and concepts danced
in her dreams, but every I time Norma Cenva tried to manipulate them, they slipped
away like snowflakes melting on her fingers. Staggering into her laboratory, haggard,
she stared at equations for hours until they became blurred lines before her eyes. She
erased part of a proof with an angry swipe across the magnetic board, then began
again.
    Now that she worked under the auspices of the legendary Holtzman, Norma no
longer felt like a failure, a misshapen disappointment to her mother. With telepathic
powers, a Sorceress had struck successfully against the thinking machines on Giedi
Prime. But Norma's field-portable scramblers had also been a part of the victory, though
Savant Holtzman had not emphasized her role in the generation of the idea.
    Norma cared nothing for fame or credit. More important was her contribution to the
war effort. If she could only derive some meaning from these wandering, infinitely
promising the ories.
    From the high blufftop labs, Norma could daydream while staring at the Isana River.
Sometimes she missed Aurelius Venport, who always treated her with such care and
kindness.
    Mostly, though, she pondered wild ideas, the more unusual the better. On Rossak,
her mother had never encouraged her to consider impractical possibilities, but here Tio
Holtzman welcomed them.
    Even though self-aware computers were forbidden on the League Worlds, and most
especially on bucolic Poritrin, Norma still spent much of her time attempting to learn
nuances of how those complex gelcircuits worked. In order to destroy, one must first
understand the target.
    She and Holtzman occasionally had dinner together, chatting over ideas as they
sipped imported wines and savored exotic dishes. Barely tasting the food, Norma spoke
with intensity, moving her small hands, wishing she had a stylus and a marking pad at
the dining table so she could sketch out concepts. She finished her meals quickly and
wanted to hurry back to her rooms, while the great inventor would sit back over a rich
dessert and listen to music. "Recharging my mind," he called it.
    Holtzman liked to engage her with tangential subjects, talking about his previous
successes and accolades, reading proclamations and awards that Lord Bludd had given
him. Unfortunately, none of those conversations had led to engineering breakthroughs,
as far as Norma could determine.
    Now she stood with lights glimmering all around her. She looked at a suspended
crystal slate the size of a large window. It was coated with a thin film of flowing
translucence that retained every stroke as she scribed her thoughts and notations. An
old-fashioned device, but Norma considered it the best way to record her wandering
ideas.
    She stared at the equation she had written, skipping steps and making intuitive
leaps until she arrived at a quantum anomaly that seemed to allow an object to be in
two places at once. One was merely an image of the other, yet through no calculational
proof could an observer determine which one was real.
    Though uncertain how this unorthodox concept might be used as a weapon, Norma
remembered her mentor's admonishment to follow every path to its logical conclusion.
Armed with equations and ready for a full simulation, she hurried down the glowstrip-
illuminated laboratory corridors, until she reached the room full of surviving solvers.
    Slave technicians hunched over their tables and used calculation devices, even at
this late hour. Many seats remained empty, fully a third of the solvers having
succumbed to the deadly fever. Holtzman had acquired a new group of Zenshüte
workers from Poritrin's "Human Re sources" quarter, but those replacements were not
yet sufficiently trained for higher-order mathematics.
    After handing her new problem to the lead solver, Norma explained patiently what
she wanted the slaves to do, how she had already done some of the setup for them.
She encouraged the hard-working solvers in the direction she wanted them to take,
emphasizing the importance of her theory—until she looked up to see Holtzman himself
in the doorway.

    Frowning, he drew Norma down the hall. "You are wasting time trying to befriend
them. Remember, the solver-slaves are just organic equipment, processors providing a
result. They are replaceable, so don't give them personalities or temperaments. Only the
solutions matter to us. An equation has no personality."
    Norma chose not to argue, but went back to her rooms to continue her efforts alone.
It seemed to her that the more esoteric orders of mathematics did indeed have
personalities, that certain theorems and integrals required finesse and considerations
that simple arithmetic never demanded.
    Pacing, she wandered around to the back of the crystal slate, where she peered at
the reverse of her equations. The backward symbols looked like nonsense, yet she
forced herself to stare at the question from a different perspective. Earlier, the solvers
had finished the previous set of tedious calculations, and while she had checked their
work, the result still perplexed her.
     Knowing in her heart what the answer must be, she disregarded the slaves' result
and returned to the front of the erasable crystal, where she scribbled so furiously that
silvery numbers and symbols soon flowed across the hanging plate. Afterward she went
frontside to back, trying to discover an exit from her quandary.
     Tio Holtzman jarred Norma out of a theoretical universe. He looked at her in
surprise. "You were in a trance." "I was thinking," she said.
     Holtzman chuckled. "On the wrong side of the slate?" "It opened new possibilities for
me."
     He rubbed his chin, where gray beard stubble protruded. "I've never seen anyone
concentrate as hard as you do."
     In her mind she circled the solution she had developed, but could not put it into
words. "I know what the result should be, but I cannot reproduce it for you. The solvers
keep coming up with a different answer than I expect."
     'Did they make an error?" He looked angry.
     'Not that I can determine. Their work seems to be correct. Nonetheless, I feel that it
is… wrong."
     The scientist frowned. "Mathematics doesn't exist to fulfill wishes, Norma. You must
go through the steps and abide by the laws of the universe."
     'You mean the known laws of the universe, Savant. I simply wish to extend our
thinking, stretch it and fold it back in on itself. I'm certain there are ways around the
problem. Intuitive loopholes."
     His expression seemed patronizing, perplexed but disbelieving. "The mathematical
theories we work with are often esoteric and difficult to grasp, but they always follow
certain rules."
     She turned, frustrated that he continued to doubt her. "Blind adherence to rules
allowed the creation of the thinking machines in the first place. Following the rules may
prevent us from defeating our enemies. You said it yourself, Savant. We must look for
alternatives."
     Seizing a subject that interested him at last, he clasped his hands together, long
sleeves draped over his knuckles. "Indeed, Norma! I have completed my design work on
the alloy-resonance generator, and the prototype is next."
     Too preoccupied to be tactful with him, she shook her head. "Your alloy-resonance
generator won't work. I have studied your early designs exhaustively. I think it is
fundamentally flawed."
     Holtzman looked as if she had reached up and slapped him. "I beg your pardon? I
have been through all the work. The solvers have checked every step."
     Distracted by her equation-filled crystal slate, she shrugged. "Nevertheless, Savant,
it is my opinion that your concept is not viable. Correct calculations are not always
correct—if based on faulty principles or invalid assumptions." Furrows formed on her
brow as she finally noticed his crestfallen reaction. "Why are you upset? You told me the
purpose of science is to try ideas and dismiss them when they don't work."
   'Your objection has yet to be proven," he said, his voice brittle. "Show me in my
designs where I have made an error, please."
   'It's not so much an error as…" She shook her head. "It's an intuition."
   'I don't trust intuition," he said.
   Disappointed by his attitude, she drew a deep breath. Zufa Cenva had never
adhered to any graceful social skills, and Norma had developed few of her own. She had
grown up isolated on Rossak and been dismissed by most of those who knew her—with
the exception of Au-relius Venport.

    Holtzman seemed to have an agenda beyond what he preached. But he was a
scientist, after all, and she felt they had been brought together for an important
purpose. It was her duty to point out when she felt he was making an error. He would
have done the same for her. "I still think you shouldn't devote any further time or
resources to the resonance-generator project."
    'Since the resources are mine to distribute as I see fit," Holtzman said in a huff, "I
will continue, and hope to prove you wrong." He left her chamber, grumbling.
    She called after him in an attempt to ease the situation. "Believe me, Savant, I hope
you prove me wrong."
    There is a certain malevolence about the formation of social orders, a profound
struggle, with despotism on one end and slavery on the other.
    —TLALOC, Weaknesses of the Empire

     Poritrin's river delta was not at all like Harmonthep's gentle rivulets and marshes.
More than anything, the slave boy Ishmael wanted to go home… but Ishmael didn't
know how far away that was. At night, he often awoke screaming in the compound,
battling nightmares. Few of the other slaves bothered to comfort him; they carried their
own heavy burdens.
     His village had been burned back on Harmonthep, most of the people captured or
killed. The boy remembered seeing his grandfather stand up to the slavers, quoting
Buddislamic sutras to convince them of the wrongness of their actions. In response, the
vile men had ridiculed old Weyop, making him look insignificant and ineffectual. They
might as well have killed him.
     A long time after the slavers had stunned Ishmael, he'd awakened inside a coffin of
plasteel and transparent plates, a stasis chamber that had kept him immobile but alive.
None of the new slaves could cause trouble as the Tlulaxa ship traveled across space to
this strange world. All the captives had been awakened for unloading… and sale in the
Starda market district.
     Some of the Harmonthep prisoners had tried to escape without any idea of where to
run. The slavers stunned some of them just to quiet their wailing and thrashing. Ishmael
had wanted to fight back, but sensed he could accomplish more by watching and
learning, until he found a better way to resist. He needed to understand Poritrin first;
then he could consider how best to fight. It was what his sagacious grandfather would
have counseled him to do.
     Weyop had quoted sutras that told of imminent evil from outside, of soulless
invaders who would steal them from their way of life. Because of those prophesies, the
Zensunnis had left the company of other men. In the decaying Old Empire, people had
forgotten God and then suffered when the thinking machines took over. Ishmael's
people believed it was their fate, the great Kralizec, or typhoon struggle at the end of
the universe, that had been foretold for millennia. Those who followed the Buddislamic
creed had escaped, already knowing the outcome of that hopeless battle.
    Yet that struggle had not ended according to the prophesy. Part of the human race
had survived the machine demons, and now those people had turned against the
"cowardly" Buddislamic refugees with revenge in their hearts.
    Ishmael did not believe that the old teachings could have been wrong. So many
sutras, so many prophesies. His grandfather had seemed certain when he spoke of the
legends… yet still their peaceful Harmonthep village had been overrun, the strongest
and healthiest taken as slaves. And now Ishmael and his fellows were on a far-off world,
their bodies for sale.
    Weyop had said that non-Buddislamic outsiders were condemned to eternal
damnation… yet the Tlulaxa flesh merchants and the new masters on Poritrin controlled
their food and their lives. The boy and his companions had no choice but to do as they
were told.
    Since Ishmael was the youngest captive, the owners expected little of him. They
ordered his work group to watch over the boy, to make certain he completed his tasks…
or if he failed, to pick up the slack. Despite his aching muscles and blistering skin,
Ishmael worked as hard as the others. He watched his despairing fellows waste time
with complaints, an attitude that angered the owners and led to unnecessary
punishments. Ishmael kept his misery to himself.
    He spent weeks up to his knees in the slimy mudflats where ropes and stakes
marked out fertile shellfish beds. He ran back and forth to basins that contained clam
seedlings, scooped up handfuls of the tiny bivalves and rushed them out into the wet
fields. If he cupped his hands too tightly, he crushed the delicate shells—such
carelessness had already earned him a thrashing with a sonic whip when an agricultural
supervisor saw what he had done. Like icy fire, the whip had made his skin bubble and
spasm. The discipline left no mark, caused no physical damage, yet that single whip
stroke burned a permanent scar in his brain, and Ishmael knew to avoid that forever.

    Punishment would accomplish nothing and could only make him more miserable,
while giving the owners yet another victory over him. He chose not to grant them that.
Despite the fact that it was an insignificant matter, he would attempt to control it as
much as possible.
    Right now, seeing the workers in the mudflats, Ishmael was almost glad his parents
had died in a storm, struck by lightning in a skiff on the large lake where seeping oil
made the fish taste bad. At least they couldn't see him now, and neither could his
grandfather…
    AFTER THE FIRST month on Poritrin, Ishmael's hands and legs became so
impregnated with black mud that even repeated washings could not remove the stain.
His fingernails were broken and caked with river muck.
    On Harmonthep, Ishmael had spent his days wading through the marshes, collecting
eggs from qaraa nests, netting turtlebugs, and digging osthmir tubers that grew in the
brackish water. From a young age, he had been toughened to a life of toil, but here he
resented the work, because it was not for the glory of Buddallah, not for the health and
well-being of his people. It was for someone else.
    In the Poritrin slave compound, women cooked their food, using the unusual
ingredients and spices they were given. Ishmael longed for the taste of fish baked in lily
leaves and of sweet reeds whose juices could make a boy drunk with delight.
    At night, half of the communal dwellings were vacant because so many slaves had
died from the fever. Ishmael often crawled to his pallet and fell deeply asleep. Other
times, he forced himself to remain awake and sit in the storytelling circles.
    The men talked among themselves, debating whether to select a new leader for
their group. To some of them, the concept seemed pointless. There could be no escape,
and a leader could only inspire them to take chances that would get them all killed.
Ishmael felt sad, remembering how his grandfather had expected to name a successor
one day. Yet the Tlulaxa flesh merchants had changed all of that. Unable to reach a
decision, the Zensunni men talked on and on. It made Ishmael want to drift off to the
oblivion of sleep.
    He liked it better when the men told old stories, reciting the poetic "Songs of the
Long Trek" about the Zensunni Wanderings, how his people had sought a home where
they would be safe from both the thinking machines and the League Worlds. Ishmael
had never seen a robot and wondered if they were only imaginary monsters to frighten
disobedient children. But he had indeed seen evil men—the raiders who had decimated
his quiet village, mistreated his grandfather, taken so many innocents captive.

   Sitting at the edge of the firelight, Ishmael listened to the tales of his people. The
Zensunni were accustomed to tribulations, and they might have to tolerate even
generations of slavery on this planet so far from home. No matter the challenge, his
people knew how to endure.
   Of all the stories the boy had heard, the covenants and prophecies, he clung to one
above all the others: the promise that the misery would one day end.
   There is no dear division between Gods and Men—one bknds softly casual into the
other.

   —IBLIS GINJO, Options for Total Liberation

    The ornate pedestal for the statue of the Titan Ajax was nearly complete. Crew
master Iblis Ginjo perused the daily tally and production requirements on his electronic
notepad. He had made his slaves understand their very real danger, should the brutal
cymek lose patience. They worked very hard, not just for fear of their lives, but because
Iblis had inspired them.
    Then, a disaster occurred on another part of the project.
    With the heat of day rising around the observation scaffold where Iblis stood
supervising the stabilization of the sturdy pedestal, in the distance he saw the top of the
nearly completed Ajax statue begin to move. The iron, polymer, and stone colossus
tottered one way and then the other, as if gravity itself were shaking the enormous
work of art.
    Suddenly the giant monument toppled with a crashing roar, accompanied by distant
shouts and screams. As a cloud of dust climbed into the sky, Iblis knew that any slave
who had been crushed under the massive statue should be considered lucky.
    Once Ajax learned of the catastrophe, the real mayhem would begin.
    EVEN BEFORE THE dust and rubble settled, Iblis rushed into the furious debate
among neo-cymeks and his fellow trustee crew leaders. It hadn't been his part of the
monument project that had collapsed, but his teams would suffer in the inevitable
delays caused by the accident. Still, Iblis hoped his charismatic mediation skills could
help mitigate the disaster.
    Enraged neo-cymeks saw the clumsy damage as a personal affront to their revered
Titan predecessors. Ajax himself had already torn a work supervisor limb from limb, and
gory body parts lay scattered and dripping in the dust.
    With all the compelling passion he could summon, Iblis Ginjo made the angry neo-
cymeks pause. "Wait, wait! This can be fixed, if you will allow me!"
    Ajax rose taller, more threatening than any of the neo-cymeks, but Iblis continued,
his words silky. "True, the enormous statue has suffered some harm, but nothing more
than superficial blemishes. Lord Ajax, this monument was designed to endure
throughout the ages! Certainly it can endure a few bumps and scratches. Your grand
legacy is not so easily bruised."
    He paused as the cymeks were forced to admit the truth of this. Then he pointed
toward his own work area and continued in a reasonable tone, "Look, my crews have
nearly finished the sturdy pedestal designed to hold up the statue. Why don't we erect it
anyway, to show the universe that we can brush aside minor annoyances like this
accident? My workers can perform all the necessary repairs in place." Iblis's eyes shone
with artificial enthusiasm. "There is no reason for further delay."
    Pacing about the carnage and confusion in his menacing armored body, Ajax
stomped on one of the crew leaders who was babbling his innocence, pulping him into
the ground. Then the angry Titan towered over Iblis, optic threads glowing like white-
hot stars. "You have now accepted responsibility to see that work continues according
to schedule. If your teams fail, the blame will be yours."
    'Of course, Lord Ajax." Iblis showed no alarm at all. He could convince the slaves to
carry the burden. They would do it for him.
    'Then get this mess cleaned up!" Ajax thundered in a voice that could be heard
across the hilltop Forum.
    Later, Iblis made promises to his already-exhausted, overtaxed slaves. They had
been discontented and resistant for a while, but he won them over with a stirring
account of the wondrous benefits they would receive: the finest sex slaves, incredible
feasts, days of leisure to journey about the countryside. "I am not like other trustees.
Have I ever let you down? Ever promised a reward that I failed to deliver?"
    With such an incentive, not to mention a healthy dose of fear for the Titan Ajax, the
laborers set to the task with redoubled energy. In the coolness of the evening, with
hovering spotlights glaring like supernovas over the construction site, Iblis kept his crew
working efficiently. From his high wooden platform, he watched as the slaves raised the
immense statue on its sturdy reinforced pedestal and plasma-bolted it into place.
    Artisans rushed forward and scaled the curved stone-and-iron surface with climbing
equipment, and set up swaying temporary scaffolds to begin their restoration work.
Ajax's legendary face had a marred nose and one dented muscular arm, as well as deep
gouges across the front of the Titan uniform. In his secret heart, Iblis suspected the real
Ajax's human form had been lumpish and ugly.
    Throughout the long, tiresome night, Iblis struggled to stay awake, leaning against
the rail and peering into the blurring abyss. He dozed off, then awoke, startled, as he
heard the smooth hum of the lift platform rising to his level.
    But he was mystified to see that the lift bore no one at all. Only a small sheet of
rolled-up metal, a message cylinder. Iblis stared, his heart pounding, but the lift
remained at his level, as if waiting. He looked over the edge, but could not determine
who had left the message.
   How could he ignore it?
    Iblis stole forward and grabbed the scrap of scribed metal. He broke the seal,
unrolled the thin sheet, and read with increasing astonishment.
    'We represent an organized movement of dissatisfied humans. We are waiting for
the right moment and the right leader to begin an open revolt against the oppressive
machines. You must determine if you wish to join our worthy cause. We will contact you
again."
    As Iblis stared in disbelief at the unsigned message, the lettering faded and
disappeared, corroding into blobs of rust that ate through the metal itself and flaked
away.
    Was it authentic, or some sort of a cymek trap designed to lure him? Most humans
hated their machine masters, but took pains to conceal it. What if there really is such a
group? And if so, they would need talented leaders.
    The thought exhilarated him. Iblis had never considered such an idea before, and he
couldn't imagine what he had said or done to reveal his innermost thoughts and
feelings. Why did they suspect? He had always been respectful to his superiors, had
always—

    But have I been overly attentive? Have I tried too hard to appear loyal?
    On the towering Ajax statue, just below his own level, the artisans remained hard at
work like busy termites on a log. They repaired scrape marks, expertly patched and
painted the marred exterior. Dawn broke across the monumental statue, and Iblis could
see they would be finished soon. The machines would reward him for his labors.
    How he hated them!
    Iblis wrestled with his conscience. The thinking machines had treated him well in
comparison with other slaves, but only a thin layer of protection kept him from the same
fate. In his private moments Iblis often pondered the value of freedom, and what he
could do if given the chance.
    A rebel group? He could barely believe it. As days went by, Iblis found himself
thinking about it more and more… and waiting to be contacted again.
    Our appetite encompasses everything.
    —COGITOR EKLO, Beyond the Human Mind
   With all the hatred concealed inside his mind, Agamemnon took special precautions
wherever Omnius could spy on him. This meant almost always, and almost
everywhere—even when Agamemnon and Juno had passionate sex. Or at least what
passed for sex among the Titans.

    For their tryst, walker bodies brought the two ancient cy-meks into a maintenance
chamber within the control pavilion on Earth. Around them, tubes of nutrient liquids
snaked toward storage tanks in the ceiling. Robotic tenders moved from life-support
generators to analysis banks, skimming data from thoughtrodes, ensuring that all
systems remained within normal parameters.
    Agamemnon and Juno conversed with each other on a private short-range band,
twitching their respective sensors and sparking each other's thoughtrodes through the
electra-fluid. Foreplay. Even without physical bodies, the cymek minds could still
experience intense pleasure.
    Automated lifters disengaged his preservation canister smoothly from its walking
body, then set the thinking core on a clean chrome pedestal beside the container that
held Juno's pinkish gray brain. With the accessible optic threads and computer
comparison grids, he recognized the distinctive folds and lobes of his lover's mind. Still
beautiful after all these centuries.
     Agamemnon remembered how lovely she had been back in the beginning: obsidian-
black hair that shimmered with blue highlights. Her nose had been pointed, her face
narrow, with eyebrows that arched in a mysterious way. He always thought of her as
Cleopatra, another military genius from the mists of history, just like the first
Agamemnon in the Trojan War.
     Long ago, during the eyeblink of time when he had worn a frail human physique,
Agamemnon had fallen in love with this woman. Though Juno was extremely desirable
sexually, he had been attracted to her mind before ever meeting her in person. He had
first become aware of her on a complex virtual network through tactical simulations and
wargames he had fought with her on the Old Empire's docile computers. The two of
them had been teenagers then, back when age mattered.
     As a boy, Agamemnon had been raised on pampered Earth, with the name of
Andrew Skouros. His parents had led a hedonistic but passionless lifestyle, as had so
many other citizens. They existed, they dabbled… but none of them really lived. Across
the depths of time, he barely remembered the faces of his parents. All weak and feeble
humans looked the same to him now.
     Andrew Skouros had always been restless. He had asked uncomfortable questions
that no one could answer. While the others played frivolous parlor games, the young
man dug into archival databases, where he uncovered history and legends. He found
heroic tales of real people who had existed so long ago they seemed as mythical as the
race of Titans, the earliest gods overthrown by Zeus and a pantheon of Greek deities.
He analyzed military conquests and came to understand tactics at a time when it was an
obsolete skill in the peace-strangled Empire.
     Under the alias "Agamemnon," he became interested in strategic games played
across the computer network that monitored the activities of ennui-enslaved humanity.
There he had encountered another person as skilled and talented as himself, a rare
soulmate who shared his restless interests. The mysterious player's wild and unexpected
ideas caused her campaigns to fail as often as they succeeded—but her surprising
successes more than made up for the spectacular failures. Her intriguing alias was
"Juno," taken from the queen of the Roman gods, wife of Jupiter.

     Drawn together by their common ambition, their relationship was fiery and
challenging, more than just sex. They pleasured themselves by developing thought-
experiments. It was a game at first… and then much more than that.
     Their lives changed dramatically when they had heard Tlaloc speak.
     The offworld visionary, with his disturbing, chastising accusations against
complacent humanity on Earth, made the two young schemers realize that their plans
could blossom into more than just imaginative adventures.
     Juno, whose real name was Julianna Parhi, had brought the three of them together.
She and Andrew Skouros arranged to speak with Tlaloc, who was excited to learn that
they shared his dreams. "We may be few," Tlaloc had said, "but in Earth's forests full of
deadwood, three matches may be enough to spark a conflagration."
     Meeting secretly, the rebellious trio plotted to overthrow the sleeping Empire. Using
Andrew's military expertise, they saw that a small investment of hardware and
manpower could take over many worlds that had fallen into apathetic stupor. With a
little luck and acceptable tactics, like-minded leaders could form an iron grip around the
Old Empire. In fact, if the plans were properly set in motion, the conquerors could
achieve victory before anyone even noticed.
     'It is for humanity's own good," Tlaloc had said, his eyes sparkling.
     'And for ours," Juno added. "Just a little."
     In one of her innovative plans, Juno utilized the pervasive network of thinking
machines and their servile robots. The docile computers had been given artificial
intelligence to watch over every aspect of human society, but Julianna saw them as an
invasion army already in place… if only they could be reprogrammed, given a taste for
conquest and human ambition. It was then that they had brought in a computer
specialist named Vilhelm Jayther—who called himself Barbarossa on computer
networks—to implement the technical details.

    Thus began the Time of Titans, during which a handful of enthusiastic humans
controlled the sleeping populace. They had work to do, an empire to rule.
    During their planning stages, Julianna Parhi often queried a reluctant Cogitor
advisor, Eklo. While consulting the ancient Cogitor, one of many spiritual minds who
contemplated esoteric questions, she had seen the possibilities of living as a
disembodied brain. Not just for introspection, but for action. She realized the
advantages a cymek tyrant would have over simple humans, able to switch mechanical
bodies as circumstances changed. As cymeks, the Titans could live and rule for
thousands of years.
    Perhaps that would be long enough.
    Agamemnon had immediately agreed with Juno's concept, though he faced a
primitive fear of the surgery itself. He and Juno knew that as the Titans experienced the
dangers of the universe and the fragility of their human bodies, they would all come
around.
     To show faith in his lover, Agamemnon was the first to undergo the cymek process.
He and Juno had spent a last heated night together, naked and touching, storing
memories of nerve sensations that would have to last for millennia. Juno had tossed her
raven hair, given him a final, tender kiss, and led him into the surgical chamber. There,
computerized medical apparatus, robotic surgeons, and dozens of life-support systems
waited for him.
     The Cogitor Eklo had observed and assisted, offering advice whenever necessary,
providing precise instructions for the robotic surgeons. Juno had watched her lover,
eyes misty as she witnessed the transformation process. Agamemnon feared that she
would become squeamish after that and renege on her own plans. But once his brain
hung suspended in dynamic electrafluid, once the thoughtrodes were activated and he
could "see" again through a galaxy of optic threads, Juno was there admiring him,
studying the brain canister.
     She had touched his transparent case with her fingertips. Agamemnon watched it
all, focusing and adjusting his new and unfamiliar sensors, enthralled with the ability to
observe everything at once.
     A week later, when he felt competent enough with his new mechanical systems,
Agamemnon had returned the favor, watching over Juno as the robotic surgeons sawed
open her skull and removed her talented brain, discarding forever the fallible female
body of Julianna Parhi. .
     CENTURIES LATER, EVEN without biological bodies, he and Juno remained side by
side on their chrome pedestals, connected by receptors and stimulus patches.
     Agamemnon knew precisely which parts of Juno's brain to pulse in order to activate
pleasure centers, and how long to maintain the stimulation. She responded in kind,
bringing forth his stored memories of human lovemaking and then amplifying the
remembered sensations, stunning him with new heights of euphoria. He struck back
with a bolt of his own, causing her brain to quiver.
     Through it all, the information-gathering watcheyes of Omnius observed intently, like
a mechanized voyeur. Even in a time such as this, Agamemnon and Juno were never
alone.
     She pleasured him twice more, making his mind throb; he wanted her to stop so
that he could rest, but also longed for her to continue. Agamemnon reciprocated,
causing a thin, vibrating sound to pulse from the speakers attached to the canisters, an
eerie warbling music that symbolized their merging orgasms. He could barely think
through the haze of delight.
     But his brooding anger continued in the background. Though Omnius allowed him
and Juno to have their ecstasy as often as they wished, Agamemnon would have
derived even greater pleasure if they could permanently escape the domination of the
damned thinking machines.
   I fear that Norma will never amount to anything. How does that reflect on me and
my own legacy to humanity?
   — ZUFA CENVA
    During the tedious month-long journey across space to visit her daughter on Poritrin,
Zufa Cenva had plenty of time to ponder what she would say when she arrived. She
would rather have been spending so many days and weeks elsewhere on her more
important work. The loss of dear Heoma weighed like a hot stone inside her chest. Ever
since the first devastating attack against the cymeks on Giedi Prime, Zufa had been
planning further strikes with her other Sorceress weapons.
    While most members of the League gave credit to Savant Holtzman for the portable
scrambler projectors, she had heard whispers that Norma herself may have inspired the
design. Could her oddball daughter have done something so remarkable? Not as great
as a psychic storm obliterating cymeks, but still respectable. Perhaps I have been blind
after all. Zufa had never wanted Norma to fail, but had given up hope by now. Maybe
things could change in their relationship. Should I embrace her? Does she deserve my
support and encouragement, or will she make me ashamed of her?
     These were uncertain times.
     As Zufa stepped off the transport in Starda, she encoun tered a delegation waiting to
greet her, complete with ornately garbed Dragoon guards, their gold-scale armor
immaculate. Ruddy-faced Lord Niko Bludd himself led the group, his beard intricately
curled, his clothes perfumed and colorful.
     'Poritrin is honored by the visit of a Sorceress!" The noble stepped forward on the
mosaic tile floor. Bludd wore a dashing ceremonial costume with broad carmine lapels,
frilly white cuffs, and golden shoes. A ceremonial sword hung at his waist, though he
had probably never used a blade for anything more dangerous than cutting cheese.
     She'd never had any use for frippery when there was work to be done, and Bludd's
arrival surprised her. She had hoped to conclude her business with Norma unobtrusively
and then quickly return to Rossak. She and her dedicated psychic warriors must prepare
another mental strike against the cymeks.
     'The shuttle captain transmitted a message that you were coming, Madame Cenva,"
Bludd said, as he guided her through the terminal. "We barely had time to put together
a reception for you. You are here to see your daughter, I presume?" Niko Bludd grinned
above his curled reddish beard. "We are very proud of how much she is helping Savant
Holtzman. He considers her quite indispensible."
     'Indeed?" Zufa tried to control her skeptical frown.
     'We invited Norma to join us today, but she is deeply engrossed in important work
for Savant Holtzman. She seemed to think that you would understand why she could
not meet you herself."
     Zufa felt as if she had been slapped. "I have been en route for a month. If I can
make the time, then a mere… lab assistant can arrange to pick me up."
     Outside the spaceport, a chauffeur guided her to a lavish airbarge, and the Dragoon
guards took their places at the rails. "We will transport you directly to Holtzman's
laboratories." When Bludd seated himself beside her, she wrinkled her nose at his
strong body perfumes. He extended a small package to her, which she didn't want.
     With a sigh of exasperation, Zufa sat rigidly in the comfortable seat as the aircraft
proceeded away from the spaceport. Removing the package's silver wrapping paper,
Zufa found a bottle of river water and an exquisitely woven Poritrin towel.
    Despite her lack of interest, the flamboyant noble insisted on explaining. "It is
traditional for honored guests to wash their hands in the water of the Isana and dry
themselves on our fine linen."
    She made no move to use the gifts. Beneath the flying barge, water vessels traveled
downriver toward the sprawling delta city, where grains, metals, and manufactured
supplies were distributed to Poritrin suppliers. In the brown mudflats, hundreds of
slaves worked in the muck to plant paddies of shellfish. The sight made her feel even
more unsettled than she already was.
    'The residence of Savant Holtzman is just ahead," Bludd said, pointing to a high
bluff. "I am sure your daughter will be pleased to see you."
    Has she ever been pleased to see me? Zufa wondered. She tried to calm herself with
mental exercises, but anxiety intruded.
    With a sweep of her long black dress, she stepped away from the ostentatious
airbarge as soon as it set down on Holtzman's landing deck. "Lord Bludd, I have private
business to discuss with my daughter. I'm sure you understand." Without further
farewell, Zufa marched alone up the broad patio steps to the mansion, leaving a
befuddled Bludd behind her. She waved her long arms, shooing him away.
    Her telepathic senses attuned, Zufa entered the dwelling as if she belonged there.
Holtzman's vestibule was cluttered with disarrayed boxes, books, and instruments.
Either the household staff did not do their work, or the inventor had forbidden them to
"organize" too much.
    Picking a path through the obstacles, Zufa strode into a long hallway, then searched
rooms and demanded information from anyone she met until she found her daughter.
Finally, the tall and intimidating Sorceress entered an auxiliary laboratory building,
where she saw a high stool at an angled lightstrip table that held blueprint films. No
sign of Norma.
    She noticed an open door that led out to a balcony, then saw a shadow, heard
something move. Gliding to the balcony, Zufa was shocked to see her daughter perched
on top of the railing. Norma gripped a red plaz container in her small hands.
    'What are you doing?" Zufa asked. "Get down from there immediately!"
    Startled, Norma glanced at her looming mother, then clasped the object tightly and
leaped off the railing out into the open air.
    'No!" Zufa shouted. But it was too late.
    Rushing to the edge, the Sorceress saw to her horror that the balcony jutted out
over a high bluff that dropped to the river, far below. The small-statured young woman
tumbled through the air, falling.
    Suddenly, Norma paused in midair and spun in a peculiar fashion. She called, "See
for yourself, it works! You arrived just in time!" Then, like a feather on the wind, the girl
drifted upward. The red device lifted her back toward the balcony, like an invisible hand.
    Norma reached the level of the railing, and her angry mother yanked her back onto
the balcony. "Why would you try something so dangerous? Doesn't Savant Holtzman
prefer you to employ helpers for this sort of test?"
    Norma frowned. "They have slaves here, not helpers. Besides, it is my own
invention, and I wanted to do it myself. I knew it would work."
    Zufa did not want to argue. "You came all the way to Poritrin and used the League's
best engineering laboratories to design some sort of… flying toy?"
    'Hardly, Mother." Norma opened the lid of the red plaz unit and adjusted electronics
inside. "It is a variation on Savant Holtzman's theories, a repelling, or suspensor field. I
expect him to be delighted by it."
    'Oh, I am, I am!" The scientist appeared suddenly and stood behind Zufa. He quickly
introduced himself, then looked at Norma's new gadget. "I'll show it to Lord Bludd and
see what he thinks of the commercial possibilities. I'm sure he'll want a patent in his
own name."
    Zufa looked on, still recovering from the shock of Norma's "fall," trying to see
practical applications of her daughter's invention. Could such a thing be modified to
carry troops or heavy objects? She doubted it.
    Norma set down the red-plaz generator and crossed the room with her awkward,
waddling gait. She climbed her high stool to reach the blueprint films on the slanted
light table, where she sifted through pages. "I've figured out how this principle can also
be used on illumination devices. The suspensor field can float lights and power them
with residual energy. I have all the calculations… somewhere."
    'Floating lights?" Zufa said, in scornful tone. "For what, a picnic? Tens of thousands
died in the cymek attack on Zimia, millions were enslaved on Giedi Prime, and you live
in secluded comfort—making floating lights?"

    Norma gave her mother a condescending look, as if Zufa was the foolish one. "Think
beyond the obvious, Mother. A war needs more than just weapons. Robots can alter
their optic sensors to see in the dark, but humans must have light to see. Hundreds of
these suspensor lights could be dispersed in a nighttime combat zone, negating any
advantage the machines might have. Savant Holtzman and I think along those lines
every day."
    The scientist nodded, quick to concur with her. "Or, for commercial uses, they could
be designed in a number of styles, even tuned to any color or shade."
    Norma sat on her stool like a gnome perched on a throne. Her brown eyes sparkled
with excitement. "I'm sure Lord Bludd will be most pleased."
    Zufa frowned. There were more important issues at stake in this war than pleasing a
foppish nobleman. Impatient, she said, "I came a great distance to see you."
    Norma raised her eyebrows skeptically. "If you had bothered to see me before I
departed from Rossak, Mother, you wouldn't have needed to make such a long voyage
to soothe your guilt. But you were too busy to notice."
    Uneasy in the midst of a family argument, Tio Holtzman excused himself. The
combatants hardly noticed his departure.
    Zufa had not intended to pick a fight, but now she felt defensive. "My Sorceresses
have proved their abilities in battle. We can exert tremendous power with our minds to
eradicate the cymeks. A number of candidates are preparing themselves to offer the
ultimate sacrifice if we are called upon to free another machine-dominated world." Her
pale eyes flashed, and she shook her head. "But you don't worry about that, do you,
Norma—since you have no telepathic abilities."
    'I have other skills, Mother. I am making a valuable contribution, too."
    'Yes, your incomprehensible equations." Zufa nodded toward the suspensor field
generator on the floor. "Your life is not at stake. Safe and pampered, you spend your
days playing with these toys. You have let yourself be blinded by imaginary success."
But her daughter wasn't the only one. Many people lived in comfort and security while
Zufa and her Sorceresses performed dangerous tasks. How could Norma compare her
work to that? "When you heard I was coming, Norma, could you not have found time to
meet me at the spaceport?"
    Norma's tone was deceptively mild as she crossed her arms over her small chest. "I
did not ask you to come here, Mother, because I know you have many important things
to do. And I have more urgent duties than ferrying unexpected guests around. Besides,
I knew Lord Bludd was going to meet you."
    'Are League nobles your errand boys now?" Now that she had opened the floodgates
of her anger, Zufa couldn't stop the words that came next. "I only wanted you to make
me proud, Norma, despite your deformities. But nothing you do will ever amount to
anything. Living here in luxury, what sacrifices do you make? Your vision is too small to
be of any real use to humanity."
    Previously, Norma would have crumbled under such an onslaught, her confidence
crushed. But her work here with Holtzman, her obvious successes in the technical
arena, had given her a new view of herself. Now she looked coolly at her mother. "Just
because I don't fit the image of what you wanted me to be doesn't mean I'm not
contributing something essential. Savant Holtzman sees it, and so does Aurelius. You're
my own mother—why can't you?"

    With a snort at the mention of Venport's name, Zufa began pacing. "Aurelius is just
a man with hallucinations from the drugs he takes."
    'I had forgotten how narrow-minded you truly are, Mother," Norma said in a level
tone. "Thank you for coming all this way to refresh my memory." The girl turned on her
stool and resumed her plans and equations. "I am tempted to summon one of the
slaves to escort you out, but I wouldn't want to remove them from their more important
work."
    FURIOUS AT HERSELF and her daughter—and at the wasted time—Zufa returned to
the spaceport. She would stay on Poritrin no longer. To get her mind off her concerns,
she concentrated on mental exercises and thought of how her beloved trainees in the
jungles were ready to give their utmost to their tasks, without personal considerations.

    Zufa waited a full day for a military transport that would take her back to Rossak. As
she surrounded herself with waves of her own clairvoyant powers, she discovered a
rotten weakness on Poritrin, and it had nothing to do with Norma. It was so obvious,
she could not avoid it.
    All around Starda, at loading sites near the spaceport, at the warehouses and
mudflats, Zufa detected the individual and collective auras of the downtrodden laborers.
She sensed a collective psychological wound, a deep and simmering discontent to which
the free Poritrin citizens seemed completely oblivious.
   The backwash of brooding resentment gave her one more reason to want to get
away from this place.
  Intuition is a function by which humans see around comers. It is useful for persons
who live exposed to dangerous natural conditions.
  —ERASMUS Erasmus Dialogues

    L? aised as the daughter of the League Viceroy, Serena But
    't'tler was accustomed to working hard to serve humanity, looking toward a bright
future even against the backdrop of constant war. She had never imagined laboring as a
slave inside the household of an enemy robot.
    From her first glance at Erasmus in the broad entry plaza of the villa, Serena disliked
him intensely. Conversely, the thinking machine was intrigued by her. She suspected
that his interest was probably a dangerous thing.
    He chose to wear fine clothes, loose robes and fluffy, ornate furs that made his
robot body look absurd. His mirrored face made him appear alien, and his demeanor
made her flesh crawl. His relentless curiosity about mankind seemed perverse and
unnatural. When he strutted across the plaza toward Serena, his pliable metal mask
shifted into a delighted grin.
    'You are Serena Butler," he said. "Have you been informed that Giedi Prime was
recaptured by the feral humans? Such a disappointment. Why are humans willing to
sacrifice so much to maintain their inefficient chaos?"
    Serena's heart lifted at news of the liberation, in part because of her own efforts.
Xavier had brought the Armada after all, and Brigit Paterson's engineers must have
succeeded in activating the secondary shield transmitters. Serena, however, remained
enslaved—and pregnant with Xavier's child. No one even knew where she was or what
had happened to her. Xavier and her father must be insane with grief, convinced that
the machines had killed her.

    'Perhaps it's not surprising that you don't comprehend or value the human concept
of freedom," she replied. "For all your convoluted gel-circuitry, you're still just a
machine. The understanding wasn't programmed into you."
    Her eyes stung at the thought of how much more she wanted to achieve to help
other people. On Salusa, she had never taken her family's wealth for granted, feeling a
need to earn the blessings bestowed upon her.
    She asked, "So, are you inquisitive, or inquisitor?"
    'Perhaps both." The robot leaned close to examine her, noting the proud lift of her
chin. "I expect you to offer me many insights." He touched her cheek with a cool,
flexible finger. "Lovely skin."
    She forced herself not to pull away. Resistance must count for something more than
a captive's pride, her mother had once told her. If Serena struggled, Erasmus could hold
her with his powerful robotic grasp, or summon mechanized torturing devices. "My skin
is no more lovely than yours," she said, "except mine is not synthetic. My skin was
designed by nature, not by the mind of a machine."
    The robot chuckled, a tinny cachination. "You see, I expect to learn much from you."
He led her into his lush greenhouses, which she observed with reluctant delight.
   At the age of ten she had become fascinated with gardening, and had delivered
plants, herbs, and sweet exotic fruits to medical centers, refugee complexes, and
veteran homes, where she also volunteered her services. Around Zimia, Serena had
been renowned for her ability to cultivate beautiful flowers. Under her loving attention,
exquisite little Immian roses bloomed, as did Poritrin hibiscus and even the delicate
morning violets of distant Kaitain.
   'I will have you tend my prized plaza gardens," Erasmus said.
   'Why can't machines perform such tasks? I'm sure they'd be much more efficient—or
do you just revel in making your 'creators' do the work?"

   'Do you not feel up to the task?"
   'I will do as you command—for the sake of the plants." Pointedly ignoring him, she
touched a strangely shaped red and orange flower. "This looks like a bird of paradise, a
pure strain from an ancient stock. According to legend, these plants were favored by the
sea kings of Old Earth." With a look of defiance, Serena turned back to the robot.
"There, now I have taught you something."

    Erasmus chuckled again, as if replaying a recording. "Excellent. Now tell me what
you were truly thinking."
    She remembered words her father had spoken—Fear invites aggression; do not
show it to a predator—and felt emboldened. "While I was telling you about a beautiful
flower, I was thinking that I despise you and all of your kind. I was a free and
independent being, until you took it all away from me. Machines stole my home, my life,
and the man I love." The sentient robot was not at all offended. "Ah, your lover! Is he
the one who impregnated you?"

     Serena glared at Erasmus, then made up her mind. Perhaps she could find a way to
use this machine's curiosity, turning it against him somehow. "You will learn the most
from me if I cooperate, if I talk freely. I can teach you things you would never learn for
yourself." "Excellent." The robot seemed genuinely pleased. Serena's eyes grew hard.
"But I expect something from you in return. Guarantee the safety of my unborn baby.
Allow me to raise the child here in your household."
     Erasmus knew it was a standard parental imperative for her to be worried about her
offspring, and that gave him leverage. "You have either arrogance or ambition. But I
shall consider your request, depending on how much I enjoy our discussions and
debates."
     Spotting a fat beetle at the base of a terra cotta planter, Erasmus nudged it with one
foot. The insect had a black shell with an intricate red design. His smooth face mask
shifted, flowed, until the shaping film displayed an amused expression. Erasmus let the
beetle nearly escape, then moved his smooth foot to block it again. Persistent, it
scuttled in another direction.
     'You and I have a great deal in common, Serena Butler," he said. Remotely, he
activated a contraband Chusuk music cube, hoping the melody would draw out her
internal emotions. "Each of us has an in dependent mind. I respect that in you, because
it is such an integral part of my own personality."
   Serena resented any such comparison, but held her tongue.
   Erasmus scooped the beetle onto one hand, but his primary interest dwelled on
Serena—he was intrigued at how humans tried to keep so much of themselves veiled.
Perhaps, by applying various pressures, he could see through to her inner core.

     With the music playing in the background, Erasmus continued, "Some robots keep
their own personalities rather than simply uploading a portion of the evermind. I began
as a thinking machine on Corrin, but I chose not to accept regular Omnius updates that
would synchronize me with the evermind."
     Serena saw that the beetle was immobile on his metallic palm. She wondered if he
had killed it.
     'But a singular event changed me forever," Erasmus said, his voice pleasant, as if
telling a story about a quaint forest outing. "I had set out across Corrin's unsettled
territories on a private scouting mission. Because I was inquisitive and did not wish to
accept the standard analyses compiled by Omnius, I ventured into the landscape on my
own. It was rugged, rocky, and wild. I had never seen vegetation except for in the areas
where Old Empire terraformers had planted new ecosystems. Corrin was never a living
world, you see, except where humans had made it so. Unfortunately, tending fertile
fields and beautifying the land was no longer a priority of my kind." He looked at Serena
to see if she was enjoying his story.
     'Unexpectedly, far from the city grid and robot support systems, I was unprotected
from a severe solar storm. Corrin's red-giant sun is in turmoil and unstable, with
frequent flare activity, sudden hurricanes of radiation. Such an onslaught is hazardous
to biological life-forms, but the original human settlers were resilient.
     'My delicate neurelectric circuitry, however, was rather more sensitive. I should have
dispatched scout scanners to keep watch on the star-storms, but I was too engrossed in
my own investigations. I found myself exposed and damaged from the radiation flux,
disoriented and far from the central complex run by the Corrin-Omnius." Erasmus
actually sounded embarrassed. "I wandered away and I… tumbled into a narrow
crevasse.
     Serena looked at him in surprise.
     'Despite dropping deep into the crack, my body was only slightly damaged." He lifted
an arm, looked at his flexible fiber-wrapped limb, the organic-polymer skin, the
flowmetal coating. "I was trapped, out of transmission range, and basically immobilized.
I could not move for an entire Corrin year… twenty Terran standard years.
     'The crevasse's deep shadow shielded me from solar radiation, and soon enough, my
mental processors recovered. I was awake, but I could go nowhere. I could not move…
only think, for a long, long time. I spent a seemingly endless blazing summer there,
wedged in the rocks, and then I endured the ensuing long winter locked in heavy,
compacted ice. During all that time, two decades, I had nothing to do but contemplate."
     'No one to talk to but yourself," she said. "Poor, lonely robot."
     Ignoring the remark, Erasmus said, "Such an ordeal altered my fundamental nature
in ways I could never have foreseen. In fact, Omnius still does not understand me."
     By the time he'd finally been discovered and rescued by other robots, Erasmus had
developed an individual personality. After his restoration and reintegration into the
cooperative machine society, Omnius had asked Erasmus if he wished to be upgraded
with standardized character traits.
    "Upgraded, he called it," Erasmus said with some amusement. "But I declined the
offer. After reaching such… enlightenment, I was reluctant to delete my impulses and
ideas, my thoughts and memories. It seemed too great a loss to bear. And the Corrin-
Omnius soon discovered how much he enjoyed sparring with me verbally."
    Now, peering at the motionless beetle on his artificial hand, Erasmus said matter-of-
factly, "I am a celebrity among the widespread everminds. They look forward to
receiving updates containing my actions and assertions, like a serial publication. These
are known as the 'Erasmus Dialogues.'"
    With a guarded look, she nodded toward the motionless insect. "And will you include
a discussion of that beetle? How can you understand something you have killed?"
    'It is not dead," Erasmus assured her. "I detect a faint but unmistakable throb of life.
The creature wants me to believe it is deceased, so
    I
    that I will discard it. Despite its small size, it has a powerful will to survive."
    Kneeling, he set the beetle on a flagstone with a surprisingly gentle touch, then
stepped back. Moments later, the bug stirred and scampered to safety under the
planter. "See? I wish to understand all living things-including you."
    Serena glowered. The robot had managed to surprise her.
    'Omnius does not think I can ever attain his intellectual level," Erasmus said. "But he
remains intrigued by my mental agility—the way my mind continually evolves in new
and impulsive directions. Like that beetle, I am capable of springing to life and
persevering."

   'Do you really expect to become more than a machine?"
   Taking no offense, Erasmus replied, "It is a human trait to better oneself, is it not?
That is all I am trying to do."
   One direction is as good as another.
   —saying of the Open Land

    By the tenth time he rode a giant sandworm, Selim was proficient enough to enjoy
the experience. No other thrill could compare to the power of a leviathan of the deep
desert. He loved racing across the dunes while perched on the high ridges of a worm,
crossing an ocean of sand in a single day.
    Selim had brought water, rugged clothing, equipment, and food from the abandoned
botanical testing station. His crystal sandworm tooth proved a valuable tool as well as a
mark of personal pride. Inside the empty station, he had sometimes stared at the
smooth milky curve of the blade under the dim light of recharge panels and imagined a
religious significance to the object. It was a relic of his supreme test out here in this
wasteland, and a symbol that Buddallah was watching over him. Perhaps the worms
were part of his destiny.
    He came to believe that the sandworms were not Shaitan after all, but blessings
from Buddallah himself, perhaps even tangible manifestations of God.
     After months of recuperation and boredom inside the old research facility, living
without purpose, Selim had known he must go out and ride a sandworm again. He
needed to learn exactly what it was that Buddallah expected of him.
     He had carefully marked the location of the testing station. Unfortunately, since he
couldn't guide the sandworms, he knew it would be a challenge to make his way back to
the secret place. Upon departing, he had carried everything necessary on his back.
     He was Selim Wormrider, chosen and guided by Buddallah. He needed no help from
others.
     AFTER KILLING TWO more sandworms by riding them until they collapsed of
exhaustion, Selim discovered that it was not necessary to slay a worm just so he could
get safely away. It was possible, though risky, to dismount from a weary beast by
running down the length of its back, leaping away from the hot tail, and then racing
toward nearby rocks. The depleted worm, too tired to give chase, would wallow in deep
dust, and sulk.
     This satisfied Selim, because it seemed wrong to destroy the creatures that gave
him transportation. If the sandworms were emissaries from Buddallah, and old men of
the desert, then he must treat them with respect.
     On his fourth ride, he discovered how to manipulate the sensitive edges of worm
rings, using a shovel-bladed tool and the sharp metal spear to prod Shaitan in the
direction Selim wished to go. It was a simple concept, but one that required a great deal
of work. His muscles ached by the time he dropped away from a spent worm and ran to
the shelter of nearby rocks. He remained lost out in the deep desert… but in a very real
sense, the desert belonged to him now. He was invincible! Buddallah would care for
him.
     Selim still had an adequate supply of water from the distilling units in the testing
station, and his diet consisted of large amounts of melange, which gave him strength
and energy. As soon as he learned how to master the worms, he was able to travel
wherever he chose, working his way back toward the abandoned station.
     Other Zensunnis would have called him mad, appalled at his foolhardy attempt to
tame the terrifying sandworms. But the young exile no longer cared a whit how people
felt about him. He was in touch with another realm. He felt in his heart that this was
what he had been born to do…
     Now under the double moonlight, Selim guided his worm as it hissed across the
sands. Hours ago, the creature had ceased trying to throw him off, and instead plunged
onward, resigned to the commands of the imp who kept inflicting pain in the sensitive
flesh between ring segments. Selim navigated by the stars, drawing lines like arrows
between constellations. The unforgiving landscape began to look familiar, and he
believed he was at last close to the botanical testing station, his sanctuary. Back home.
     All alone atop the sandworm, surrounded by the bitter aromas of brimstone and
cinnamon, he allowed himself to think and dream. He'd had little else to do since his
exile. Was that not how great philosophers were born?
     Someday perhaps, he would use the abandoned facility as the seed of his own
colony. Maybe he could gather disaffected people from other Zensunni villages, outcasts
like himself who wanted to live without oppressive strictures enforced by inflexible
naibs. By controlling the great worms, Selim's people would have a strength that no
outlaws had ever possessed.
     Was that what Buddallah wanted him to do?
     The young man smiled at his daydream, then grew sad as he recalled Ebrahim, who
had so easily turned against him. As if that was not enough, he had then joined others
in hurling insults and stones at Selim.
     As his sandworm crashed over the dunes, the young rider finally saw the line of
rocks ahead, familiar crags and dark formations. His heart leaped with joy. The
behemoth had carried him home faster than anticipated. He grinned, then realized it
would be a challenge to dismount from the feisty demon, which was not yet exhausted.
Another test?
     Using his spear and the shovel-spreader, Selim drove the worm toward the rocks,
thinking he might beach the creature on the outcrop-pings, where it would thrash and
wriggle its way back to the soft sanctuary of sand. The eyeless monster sensed the
rocks, recognizing a difference in viscosity and vibrations within the sand, and swerved
in the opposite direction.
     Selim pulled harder on the shovel and jabbed with the spear. The confused worm
twitched and slowed. As it curled close to the nearest line of rock, Selim yanked himself
and his equipment free. He tumbled down the creature's ring segments until he dropped
to the sand and then ran away at full speed.
     The safe reef of rock was less than a hundred meters distant, and the worm
thrashed about as if it couldn't believe it had been so unexpectedly released. Finally, it
sensed the rhythm of Selim's racing footsteps. The monster turned and lunged toward
him.
     Selim ran faster, bolting toward the boulders. He sprang onto a shelf of sharp lava
rock and kept running, spitting pebbles from beneath the soles of his boots.
     The worm exploded out of the sand, its head questing, its cavernous maw open. It
hesitated as if afraid to go closer to the rock barrier, then slammed downward.
     Selim had already scrambled up and over the second line of boulders, diving
between rough-edged stones into a pocket, less than a cave but enough for him to
wedge his body into. The sandworm crashed like a gigantic hammer into the ridge, but
it did not know where the little human had gone to ground.
     Enraged, the worm pulled back, its gaping mouth exuding an overpowering stench
of melange. It smashed its big head against the rocks again, then retreated. Frustrated
and beaten, it finally dragged itself away, wallowed through the sands, and then sank
below the dune crests. Slow and indignant, it headed back out to the deep desert.
     His heart pounding, adrenaline charging his bloodstream, Selim crawled out of the
shelter. He looked around, amazed that he had made it back alive. Laughing, he praised
Buddallah at the top of his lungs. The old botanical testing station was above him on the
ridge, waiting for him. He would spend several days there, replenishing his supplies and
drinking plenty of water.
     As he began to climb with weary arms and legs, Selim saw something glint in the
moonlight, lost in the broken rocks against which the furious worm had smashed itself.
Another crystalline tooth, a longer one. It had broken free during the demon's attack
and now lay in a cranny. Selim reached down and plucked out the curved, milky
weapon. A reward from Buddallah! He held it high triumphantly before turning to make
his way up to the derelict station.
    Now he had two of them.
    Time depends on the position of the observer and the direction in which he looks.
    —COGITOR KWYNA, City of Introspection archives

    Still angry, Zufa Cenva returned to Rossak, where she intended to focus on the
escalating war. After climbing down from the polymerized landing pad atop silvery
purple leaves, she went immediately to the large chamber she shared with Aurelius
Venport.
    Zufa had earned her prestigious residence through political skills and mental powers.
She could not help but frown every time she saw Venport's commercial ambitions, his
comfortable profit goals, his hedonistic pursuits. Foolish priorities. Such things would
mean nothing if the thinking machines won this war. Could he not understand that he
had blinded himself to the terrible threat?
    Exhausted from the long journey and still upset over the argument she'd had with
her daughter, Zufa entered her whitewalled chambers, wanting only to rest before
planning the next round of strikes against the thinking machines.
    There, she found Venport alone, but not waiting for her. He sat at a table made of
green-veined stone quarried from the cliffs. Glistening with perspiration, his face
remained handsome, with the perfect patrician features she had selected as a good
joining with her bloodline.
    Venport didn't even notice her. His eyes were distant, drowning in the aftereffects of
some bizarre new jungle drug with which he was experimenting.
    On the table before him sat a wire-mesh cage containing scarlet wasps with long
stingers and onyx wings. His naked forearm was thrust inside the enclosure, with the
mesh wall sealed around his elbow. The angry wasps had stung him repeatedly,
injecting venom into his bloodstream.
    More in anger than horror, Zufa stared at his stupor. "This is how you occupy
yourself while I am trying to save the human race?" With her hands on the jeweled belt
that cinched her dark robe, her mouth formed a terse, straight line. "A Sorceress has
died in battle, someone I've trained, even loved. Heoma gave her life to keep us free,
yet here you are, dabbling in euphoric chemicals!"
    He did not flinch. His vacant expression shifted not at all.
    The aggressive wasps battered themselves against the wire-mesh while emitting a
high-pitched humming music. The insects stung his swollen flesh repeatedly. She
wondered what psychotropic substance the venom provided, and how Venport had
discovered it. Unable to find adequate words for her fury, she finally said, "You disgust
me."
    One time after lovemaking, Aurelius had claimed that he experimented with drugs
for more than his own amusement, or even commercial earnings. As scented candles
burned in a rock alcove above their bed, Venport had confided, "Somewhere out in the
jungles, I hope to find a pharmaceutical substance that can boost male telepathic
potential." With it, he hoped to bring certain men up to a psychic par with the
Sorceresses.
    Zufa had laughed at his ridiculous fantasy. Hurt, Aurelius had never mentioned the
possibility again.
    Long ago, the first colonists on rugged Rossak had been tainted, saturated with
background jungle chemicals that had augmented their mental potential. How else could
the women have achieved such extrasensory powers on this particular world and
nowhere else? But, through some hormonal or chromosomal difference, men seemed to
be immune to such effects of the environment.
    Now Zufa shouted, ordering him to withdraw his hand from the wasp cage, but
Venport did not utter a word. "You dabble in drugs, and my daughter conducts
worthless experiments with suspensor fields and float
    ° ing lamps. Are my Sorceresses the only ones on Rossak with a sense of mission?"
    Though his eyes turned in her direction, he did not seem to see her.
    Finally Zufa said in revulsion, "Some patriot you are. I hope history remembers you
for this." She marched off to find a place where she could think of ways to continue the
fight against thinking machines… while others amused themselves obliviously.
    AFTER HIS MATE'S departure, Venport's glazed eyes took on a flicker of fire, then
increased to a burning intensity of concentration. He focused on the open door to their
private chambers, and the silence seemed to grow, as if he was draining sound and
energy from the air. His jaw clenched, and he concentrated harder… and harder.
    The door swung slowly shut by itself.
    Satisfied but drained, Venport slid his arm out of the wasp cage and slumped to the
floor.
    Assumptions are a transparent grid through which we view the uni-verse, sometimes
deluding ourselves that the grid is that universe.
    —COGITOR EKLO OF EARTH

   ,''t't'sa reward for completing the giant Ajax statue under A Jian impossible schedule,
Iblis Ginjo received four days off duty. Even the neo-cymek work commanders were
pleased that the human crew boss had rescued them all from the wrath of Ajax. Before
leaving, Iblis made certain his slaves received the benefits he had promised; it was an
investment, and he knew they would work even harder on the next project.
    With special dispensation from his masters, Iblis rode away from the city grid and
into rocky wastelands, the scarred site of a long-forgotten battlefield. Trustees could
take advantage of special privileges and freedoms, the choice to earn rewards for work
well done. The thinking machines were not concerned that he would flee, since Iblis had
no place to go, no way to get off-planet, and no other access to food and shelter.
    In fact, he had something else in mind: a pilgrimage.
    Iblis sat astride a knobby burrhorse, a plodding laboratory-bred animal used in the
bygone days when humans had ruled Earth. The ugly beast had an oversized head,
floppy ears, and stubby legs designed for work rather than speed. The animal stank like
matted fur soaked in sewage.
    The burrhorse trudged up a narrow, winding trail. Iblis had not been here for years,
but still knew the way. Such things were not easily forgotten. Previously his visits to the
monastery of the Cogitor Eklo had been sparked by mere curiosity. This time he had a
desperate need for advice and guidance.
    After receiving the anonymous message of rebellion, Iblis had pondered the possible
existence of other dissatisfied humans, people willing to defy Omnius. For his entire life,
he had been surrounded by slaves toiling endlessly under machine rule. He had never
looked beyond his own station, never imagined that it could be different. After a
thousand years, any prospect of change or improvement seemed impossible.
    Now, after much consideration, Iblis was willing to believe that there might be
rebellious cells among humans on Earth, possibly even on other Synchronized Worlds.
Widespread groups who intended to fight back.
   If we can build such enormous monuments, do u>e not also have the power to tear
them down?
    The thought ignited his long-simmering resentment toward Omnius, the robots, and
especially the cymeks, who seemed to bear a grudge against humans. But before he
decided if the intriguing message was more than just fantasy, he needed to do some
research. Iblis had survived so well and so long because he was cautious and obedient.
Now he had to conduct his investigations in such a manner that the machines would
never suspect his intent.
    For answers, he could think of no better source than the Cogitor Eklo.
    Years ago Iblis had been a member of an armed slave-pursuit team, chasing a few
deluded people who had senselessly escaped from the city grid and fled into the hills
with no plans, survival skills, or supplies. Wild rumors had convinced the gullible
escapees that they could demand sanctuary from the politically neutral Cogitors. A
foolish notion, considering that the meditative and detached human brains wanted
nothing more than to isolate themselves and contemplate their esoteric thoughts. The
Cogitors had not cared about the Time of Titans, the Hrethgir Rebellions, or Omnius's
creation of the Synchronized Worlds. Cogitors did not wish to be disturbed, so the
thinking machines tolerated them.
    When Iblis and his pursuit team had surrounded the isolated monastery on the
rugged mountainside, Eklo had dispatched his human sec ondaries to drive the slaves
out of concealment. The escapees had cursed and threatened the Cogitor, but Eklo
passively ignored them. Iblis and his armed companions had then brought the slaves in
for "vigorous reassignment," after tossing their ringleader off a high cliff…
    Now the sturdy burrhorse ascended the steep path that shifted and crumbled
beneath its hooves. Presently Iblis made out the high tower of the monastery, an
impressive stone structure partly shrouded in mists. Its windows glowed red and then
shifted to a sky blue, reportedly according to the moods of the great contemplative
mind.
    In his schooling as a trustee, Iblis had learned about the Cogitors, about the
primitive remnants of religion still manifested by some of the larger groups of human
slaves. Omnius had ceased trying to quash it, though the evermind did not understand
the superstitions and rituals.
    Long before the takeover of the Old Empire, Eklo had left his physical body behind
and devoted his mind to analysis and introspection. While planning the large-scale
overthrow of humanity, the Titan Juno had adopted Eklo as her personal advisor,
demanding answers. Uninterested in repercussions, taking no sides in the conflict, Eklo
had answered Juno's questions, and his unwitting advice had helped the Titans plan
their conquest. In the thousand years since, Eklo had remained on Earth. The driving
passion in his long life was to synthesize a complete understanding of the universe.
     Reaching the end of the trail at the base of the stone tower, Iblis suddenly found
himself surrounded by a dozen robed men armed with archaic pikes and barbed clubs.
Their robes were dark brown, and they wore white clerical collars. One of the
secondaries grabbed the reins of Iblis's burrhorse. "Leave here. We offer no sanctuary."
    'I do not seek it." Iblis gazed down at the men. "I have only come to ask the Cogitor
a question." He dismounted and, after charming them with his warmth and sincerity,
glided confidently toward the high tower, leaving the robed men to hold his burrhorse.
    'Cogitor Eklo is deep in thought and does not wish to be disturbed," one of the
secondaries called out.
     Iblis chuckled lightly, his voice smooth. "The Cogitor has been thinking for a
thousand years. He can spare a few minutes to hear me out. I am a respected trustee.
And if I give him information he doesn't already know, he'll have something more to
ponder for the next century or so.
     Muttering in confusion, several secondaries followed Iblis up wide steps. Abruptly,
however, as he reached the arched entry, a broad-shouldered monk blocked his way.
The muscles on his thick arms and chest had gone to fat, and he peered out from
sunken eyesockets with dull eyes.
    Iblis infused his voice with friendly persuasion. "I honor the knowledge Cogitor Eklo
has acquired. I will not waste his time."
     Frowning skeptically at Iblis, the monk adjusted his clerical collar and said, "You are
bold enough, and the Cogitor is curious to hear your question." After checking the
visitor's body for weapons, he said, "I am Aquim. Come this way."
     The big man led Iblis along a narrow stone corridor and up a steep spiral stairway.
As they proceeded, Iblis said, "I have been here before, chasing escaped slaves—

   'Eklo remembers," Aquim interrupted.
   They reached the highest point in the structure, a round room at the pinnacle of the
tower. The Cogitor's plexiplaz container rested on an altarlike ledge beneath one of the
windows. Winds hummed along the window edges and swirled the mists. The windows
shimmered sky blue from some internal illumination.
   Leaving the other secondaries behind, Aquim stepped up to the transparent brain
canister and stood for a moment, looking down at it reverently. He jabbed a hand into
one of his pockets, and his trembling fingers emerged with a twisted strip of paper
encrusted with a black powder. He placed the strip in his mouth, letting it dissolve. His
eyes rolled upward, as if in ecstasy.
   'Semuta," he said to Iblis, "derived from the burned residue of elacca wood,
smuggled here. It aids me in what I must do." With complete serenity, he rested both
hands against the smooth lip of the canister, and said, "I understand nothing."
   The naked brain inside its blue soup of electrafluid seemed to pulse, waiting.
    With a beatific smile, the big monk drew a deep breath and slid his fingers into the
open mouth of the tank, dipping into the thick life-support liquid. The gelatinous
medium wet his skin, penetrated his pores, linked with his nerve endings. Aquim's
expression changed, and he said, "Eklo wishes to know why you did not ask your
question the last time you were here."
    Iblis did not know if he should speak to the secondary or directly to the Cogitor, so
he directed his reply to a space between them. "At the time, I did not understand what
was significant. Now there is something I wish to know from you. No one else can
provide an objective answer."
    'No judgment or opinion is ever completely objective." The big monk spoke with
calm conviction. "There are no absolutes."
    'You are less biased than anyone else I could ask."
    The altar ledge moved around slowly along a hidden track, and the Cogitor came to
rest in front of a different window, with Aquim keeping pace, his hand still immersed in
the canister. "State your question."
    'I have always worked loyally for my cymek and machine masters," Iblis began,
selecting his words carefully. "Lately I received word that there may be human
resistance groups on Earth. I wish to know if this report is credible. Are there people
who want to overthrow their rulers and gain freedom?"
    During a moment's hesitation, the secondary stared blankly into space, either from
the effects of the semuta or from his connection with the philosopher brain. Iblis hoped
the Cogitor would not drift into a long period of contemplation. Finally, in a deep and
sonorous voice, Aquim said, "Nothing is impossible."
    Iblis tried several variations of the question, deftly circling with phrases, adjusting
his selection of words. He did not want to reveal his intentions, though the neutral
Cogitor presumably did not care why Iblis might want to find the rebels, whether to
destroy them or to join them. Each time, however, Iblis received the same enigmatic
answer.
    Summoning his courage, he finally asked, "If such a widespread, secret resistance
organization did exist, would it have a chance of succeeding? Could the reign of the
thinking machines possibly come to an end?"
    This time the Cogitor pondered longer, as if assessing different factors in the
question. When the same answer came via the robed monk, the words, spoken more
ominously, seemed to convey a deeper meaning. "Nothing is impossible."
    After that, Aquim withdrew his dripping hand from Eklo's brain container, signifying
that the audience was concluded. Iblis bowed politely, expressed his gratitude, and
departed, his own thoughts in turmoil. On the ride back down the steep trail, the
frightened but exhilarated crew supervisor decided that if he could not locate one of the
resistance group members, he had another option.
    Drawing from his deeply loyal work crews, Iblis would form a rebel cell of his own.
   Conflict prolonged over an extended period tends to be self-perpetuating and can
easily plunge out of control.
   —TLALOC, A Time for Titans
    After a thousand years, only five of us remain." It was rare for the surviving Titans
to congregate, especially on Earth where the eyes of Omnius watched them every
moment. But General Agamemnon was so outraged after the disaster on Giedi Prime
and the murder of his friend and ally that he didn't waste time worrying about the ever-
mind.
    He had other priorities.
    'The hrethgir have a new weapon that they have used against us with devastating
consequences," Agamemnon said.
    The Titans were inside a maintenance chamber, their preservation canisters perched
on pedestals. In a stern tone, he had instructed Ajax, Juno, Xerxes, and Dante to detach
from their mobile forms. Tempers would flare, and an individual's impulses were hard to
control when installed in a powerful combat body, where thoughtrodes could convert
any rash impulse into immediate, destructive action. Agamemnon trusted himself to
restrain his anger, but some of the other Titans—especially Ajax—destroyed first and
reconsidered later.

    'After much investigation and analysis, we have learned that Barbarossa's murderers
came from Rossak, and the feral humans called her a Sorceress," said Dante, who kept
track of such things. "Rossak harbors more of these Sorceresses, women who possess
enhanced telepathic capabilities."
    'Obviously," Juno said, with sarcasm evident in her synthesized voice.
    Dante continued, reasonable as always, "Until now, the Sorceresses have not been
used in any large-scale aggressive function. After their triumph on Giedi Prime,
however, it is probable that the hrethgir will use them to strike again."
    'Their action has also reminded us of how vulnerable we are," Agamemnon said.
"Robots can be replaced. Our organic brains cannot."
    Ajax was so infuriated by the dilemma of the Sorceresses that his life-support
monitors had trouble maintaining the proper chemical balance inside his shimmering
electrafluid. He could not find words to express his anger.
    'But didn't this Sorceress have to kill herself to slay Barbarossa and a handful of neo-
cymeks?" Xerxes asked. "It was suicide. Do you think they'd be willing to do that
again?"
    'Just because you're a coward, Xerxes, doesn't mean the feral humans are so afraid
to sacrifice themselves," Agamemnon said. "That one Sorceress cost us seven neo-
cymeks and a Titan. A staggering loss."
    After living a thousand years, during which billions upon billions of human lives were
lost (many at Agamemnon's own hands or while he watched), he had thought he was
immune to witnessing death. Of the original Titans, Barbarossa, Juno, and Tlaloc had
been his closest friends. The four of them had been the seeds of the rebellion. The
other Titans had come later, adding to the junta as necessary.
    Despite the fact that his mental images were very old, the Titan general still
remembered Barbarossa in his human form. Vilhelm Jayther had been a man with thin
arms and legs, wide shoulders, and a sunken chest. Not pleasing to look upon, some
said, but his eyes had the sharpest intensity Agamemnon had ever seen. And his
programming genius was unparalleled.
    With a wolfish obsession, Jayther had accepted the challenge of overthrowing the
Old Empire, losing sleep for weeks until he figured out how to solve the problem.
Jayther gave himself over entirely to the task until he understood precisely how to
manipulate sophisticated programming for the rebels' purposes. Implanting humanlike
ambitions and goals into the computer network, he had made the machines want to
participate in the takeover.
    Later, though, Omnius had developed ambitions of his own.
    A man of tremendous foresight, Jayther had included fail-safe instructions that
precluded the thinking machines from harming any of the Titans. Agamemnon and all of
his compatriots were alive only because of Vilhelm Jayther—Barbarossa.

     Now the Sorceresses had killed him. The realization kept pounding inside
Agamemnon's brain, building his anger.
     'We cannot let this outrage go unpunished," Ajax said. "I say we go to Rossak, slay
all the women, and turn their world into a charred ball."
     'Dear Ajax," Juno said sweetly, "need I remind you that just one of those
Sorceresses destroyed Barbarossa and all the neo-cymeks with him?"
     'So?" Ajax's voice swelled with pride. "Single-handedly, I exterminated the human
infestation on Walgis. Together, we can handle a few Sorceresses."
     In a sharp tone Agamemnon said, "The rebels on Walgis were already broken before
you started slaughtering them, Ajax. These Sorceresses are different."
     Dante said, in a droning voice, "Omnius will never authorize a full-scale strike. The
expenditure in resources would be too great. I have completed a preliminary analysis."
     'Nevertheless," Agamemnon said, "it would be an extreme tactical mistake to allow
this defeat to go unchallenged."
     After a few moments of uneasy silence, Xerxes said, "Since so few of us remain, the
Titans should never, never attack together. Think of the risk."
     'But if we go together to Rossak and crush the Sorceresses, then the threat will be
over," Ajax said.
     Juno made a hissing sound, then said, "I see your brain there in the jar, Ajax, but
you don't seem to be using it. Perhaps you should change your electrafluid? The
Sorceresses have proven they can destroy us, and you want to go blundering into the
greatest threat the cymeks have ever faced, like sheep baring our throats for
slaughter?"
     'We could bring enough robot ships to attack from orbit," Dante said. "We need not
risk ourselves."
     'This is personal," Ajax growled. "One of the Titans has been assassinated. We don't
just toss missiles from the other side of the planetary system. That is the coward's
way… even if the thinking machines call it efficient."
     'There is room for compromise," Agamemnon said. "Juno, Xerxes, and I can gather
neo-cymeks as volunteers and go in with a robot fleet. That should be enough to inflict
immense damage on Rossak."
     'But I can't go, Agamemnon," Xerxes said. "I am working here with Dante. Our
greatest monuments in the Forum Plaza are nearly completed. We've just begun work
on a new statue to Barbarossa."
    'Good timing," Juno said. "I'm sure he appreciates it, now that he's dead."
    'Xerxes is right," Dante said. "There is also the immense frieze of the Victory of the
Titans being laid out and constructed on the hillside near the center of the metropolitan
grid. We have work crew supervisors, but they require constant surveillance. Otherwise
expenditures will grow too great, and schedules will not be met—

    'Given the recent debacle with his own statue, Ajax is perfectly familiar with such
problems," Juno said. "Why not let him stay behind, instead of Xerxes?"
    Ajax roared, "1 will not remain here while others get the glory!"
    But Agamemnon said, "Xerxes, you will come with us. Ajax, remain here to monitor
the construction with Dante. Do it for the memory of Barbarossa."
    Both Xerxes and Ajax railed on, but Agamemnon was their leader, and he imposed
the control over them that he had exerted for centuries. From her tank, the once-lovely
Juno said, "Can you convince Omnius to allow this, my love?"
    'The hrethgir on Giedi Prime not only killed our friend, but also obliterated the new
Omnius incarnation before it could be updated. A long time ago, when Barbarossa
altered the network's original programming, he put something of himself into the
computer mind, enough for it to understand the nature of conquest. I'm betting he will
feel our need for revenge as well."
    The Titans considered this comment in silence, then Agamemnon said, "We will go
to Rossak and leave it in flames."
    *
    In warfare there are countless factors that cannot be predicted, and which do not
depend upon the quality of military command. In the heat of battle, heroes emerge,
sometimes from the most unlikely of sources.
   —VORIAN ATRE1DES, Turning Points in History

    I e was a soldier, not a politician. Xavier Harkonnen JL JLknew military tactics and
strategies, had planned to devote his life to service in the Salusan Militia and the League
Armada. But now he had no choice but to speak before the gathered League
representatives in the Hall of Parliament.
    After the bittersweet victory on Giedi Prime, some things needed to be said.
    The old Parliament building had been shored up and repaired, while the remnants of
scaffolding and temporary walls marked where reconstruction had not yet been
completed. Plazstone, pillars, and mural walls were still marked with cracks and obvious
patchwork. Battle scars, badges of honor.
    Shortly before the young officer's scheduled address, Viceroy Butler had stood
beside his stoic wife on the floor of Parliament as they participated in a memorial service
for Serena and the fallen comrades in her Giedi Prime rescue mission.
    'She died doing exactly what she demanded of herself, and of us," the Viceroy said.
"A light has gone out in our lives."
    In the year since the cymek attack on Salusa, the people had endured many funerals
and too much grief. But Serena, the fiery young representative, had always insisted that
the League serve the people and help those in need.
    Beside the Viceroy, Livia Butler wore her contemplation robes from the City of
Introspection. She had already watched her only son Fredo waste away from his blood
disease; now her eldest daughter had been killed by the thinking machines. She had
only ethereal young Octa left of her children.
    Representatives of the League Worlds remained silent and respectful, sharing in the
sadness. Despite her youth, Serena Butler had made a lasting impression with her
idealism and exuberance. After the formal eulogy many speakers took turns at the
podium to praise her acts of generosity.
    Xavier listened to the tributes. The representatives looked at him compassionately.
He thought of the life he and Serena had meant to share.
    For her sake, though, Xavier had not, and would not, shed tears openly. If the
human race wept for all those who had fallen, they would be paralyzed in an unending
state of grief. His lips trembled, and his vision blurred, but he forced himself to be
strong. It was his duty. Although his heart grieved, Xavier's mind turned to furious
thoughts of the enemy, and of traitorous human sympathizers who fought beside the
robots.
    His memory of Serena would be his constant source of strength and inspiration.
Even in death, she would drive him to achievements that he never could have attained
without her. He still had the black diamond necklace that projected her last message to
him, her brave call to arms to help Giedi Prime. Lovely Serena would watch over him
always—as she did now, when he was about to rally the resources and military might of
the angry masses.

    Shaken and grim, Xavier stepped into the projection dome, followed by a sallow-
skinned Viceroy Butler. Both men wore silver-and-blue robes and capes, with black
headbands in honor of their fallen loved one.
    It was time for the continuing business of humanity.
    After his recent military success, he needed little introduction. "We are human
beings, and have always fought for our rights and our dignity. We formed the League of
Nobles so that free men could resist the Titans, and after them the thinking machines.
Only by standing united have we been able to stop the headlong conquests of our
enemies." He scanned the representatives seated in the crowded hall. "But at times the
League is its own worst enemy."
    The attendees respected this hero too much to argue, and Xavier continued quickly
and concisely. "While we pay lip service to our alliance, the League Worlds remain self-
centered and independent. When a beleaguered planet calls for help, the League
debates and agonizes for months before we decide on our response—until it is too late!
We saw that on Giedi Prime. Only Serena's folly forced us to act swiftly enough to make
a difference. She knew exactly what she was doing, and paid for it with her life."

    When a few of the representatives began to mutter, Xavier's skin grew hot and he
silenced them with a booming voice. "The League of Nobles must form a stronger
coalition under streamlined leadership. To be effective against a highly organized
computer evermind, we need a closely knit government of humans, better than this
loose structure." He waved his hands as he spoke.
    'As Serena Butler advocated, we must make every effort to secure the cooperation
of the Unallied Planets, thus strengthening our defensive framework and adding a buffer
zone to our protected territory."
    Viceroy Butler stepped close beside him and added in a voice cracking with emotion,
"That was always my daughter's dream. Now we must make it ours."
    Several uncertain nobles rose in respectful dissent. A lean, hard-looking woman from
Kirana III said, "Bringing so many worlds together under tight rule, especially in a
military guise, reminds me of the Time of Titans."
    A small-statured nobleman from Hagal shouted, "No more empires!"
    Xavier raised his own voice. "Isn't an empire better than extinction? While you worry
about political nuances, Omnius is conquering star systems!"
    But another said, "For centuries the League of Nobles and Synchronized Worlds have
held each other at bay, in an uneasy equilibrium. Omnius has never pressed beyond the
boundaries of the Old Empire. We always assumed the thinking machines didn't
consider it efficient or worthwhile. Why should that change now?"
    'For whatever reason, it has changed! The thinking machines seem intent on
genocide." Xavier clenched his fists; he had not expected to argue over this, when the
evidence was so obvious. "Must we cower behind our paper-thin defense and simply
react whenever Omnius chooses to test us? As we did here on Salusa a year ago, as we
did on Giedi Prime?"
    In a dramatic outburst, he hefted the podium and sent it crashing through one side
of the dome enclosure. The front row of nobles scrambled away from the shower of
broken prismatic glass. Shocked representatives yelled that Xavier's behavior was
uncalled-for; others summoned security guards to remove the distraught officer from
the hall.
    Stepping through the broken enclosure, Xavier shouted without the benefit of a
voice amplifier, "Good! That's the kind of spirit I want to see! The League has been
cringing for too long. I have spoken with other Armada commanders, and most of us
agree: We need to change our tactics and surprise the machines. We should spend
whatever money is necessary, recruit the imagination of all our scientists, and develop
new weapons—weapons suitable for destroying Omnius, not just to protect us here at
home. One day, I believe we must go on the offensive*. It is the only way we can win
this conflict."

    Gradually, the assemblage understood that Xavier had intentionally provoked a
reaction. With a polished boot, he kicked broken debris off the stage. "Experience is our
best teacher. The machines could attack Salusa again at any moment, or Poritrin, or
Rossak, or Hagal, Ginaz, Kirana III, Seneca, Vertree Colony, Relicon—need I go on?
None of our worlds are safe." He raised a scolding finger. "But if we turn the tables, we
can drive the aggressors back with bold, unforeseen moves." He paused. "Do we have
the nerve to do it? Can we develop the weapons to succeed? The time for complacency
is past."

  In the ensuing discussion, Zufa Cenva offered more telepathy raids against cymeks.
Many more prime Sorceress candidates had already volunteered, she said. Lord Niko
Bludd bragged of the continuing work of Tio Holtzman, who planned to test a new "alloy
resonator" soon. Other League representatives offered suggestions, targets, ways to
strengthen their position.
    Relieved and inspired, Xavier gazed around the assemblage. He had shamed them
into a show of boisterous support, and the voices of dissent—for now—remained
subdued.

     Unbidden tears ran down his face, and he tasted salt on his lips.
     Drained of emotion and energy, he noticed Viceroy Butler looking proudly at him, as
if the young man were his son.
     I am assuming the mantle of Serena, Xavier realized, doing what she would have
done.
   As if to balance the pain and suffering, War has also been the breeding ground for
some of our greatest dreams and accomplishments.
   —HOLTZMAN, acceptance speech, Poritrin Medal of Valor

    C<? lindly confident, Tio Holtzman plunged ahead with his •* " new idea, making
Norma Cenva feel like chaff in a gust-ing wind. With his alloy'resonance generator, the
inventor insisted on proving himself to her.
    Though she remained doubtful that his concept would work, Norma could not
demonstrate her reason for uncertainty with straightforward mathematical proofs.
Instinct spoke to her like a nagging voice, but she kept her worries to herself. After
Holtzman's sour reaction to her initial reservations, he had not asked for her opinion
again.
    Norma hoped that she was mistaken. She was human, after all, and far from perfect.
    While the Savant busied himself inside the domed demonstration laboratory—a
theater-sized structure atop an adjoining bluff—Norma kept to the sidelines. Even her
most innocent participation made him nervous, as if he put more stock in her doubts
than he admitted aloud.

    Now she stood on the span of the bridge between bluff sections and reached up to
grab the rail. Listening to breezes hum through the cables, she peered through safety
netting at the river traffic far below.
    She heard Holtzman inside the domed demo-lab, shouting to slaves as they erected
a bulky generator that produced a resonating field intended to shake apart and melt a
metal form. An imperious presence in a white-and-purple robe, he wore chains of office
about his neck, baubles that signified his scientific awards and achievements. Holtzman
glared at his workers, then paced around, double-checking, watching every detail.
    Lord Bludd and a handful of Poritrin nobles would join them to watch the day's test,
so Norma understood Holtzman's anxiety. She herself would never have made such an
extravagant presentation of an untried device, but the scientist did not show even a
glimmer of doubt.
    'Norma, please assist me in here," Holtzman called in an exasperated tone. On short
legs she ran from the bridge into the enclosure. He gestured disgustedly toward the
slaves. "They don't understand a thing I've told them to do. Supervise them, so I can
test the calibration."
     At the center of the reinforced chamber, Holtzman's crew had erected a metal
mannequin that had t»ie vague features of a combat robot. Norma had never seen a
real thinking machine, but had scrutinized many stored images. She stared at the
mockup. This was the enemy, the true foe against which all of her work must be
directed.
     She looked at her mentor with more compassion, understanding his desperation.
Holtzman was morally obligated to pursue any idea, to find any way to continue this
noble fight. He had a good feel for projected energies, distortion fields, and
nonprojectile weaponry. She hoped his alloy-resonance generator would work after all.
     Before the slaves had finished rigging the test apparatus, a commotion occurred
outside the main house. Ribbon-festooned ceremonial barges came into view above the
cliffs, where Holtzman's balconies overlooked the river. Scale-armored Dragoon guards
stood on the flying craft with Lord Bludd, along with five senators and a black-robed
court historian.
     Holtzman dropped what he was doing. "Norma, finish this. Please!" Without looking
back at her, he rushed across the connecting bridge to greet his prestigious visitors.
     Norma urged the slaves to hurry, as she personally adjusted the calibrations and
attuned the apparatus to the inventor's specifications. Light shone through high
skylights to illuminate the robot facsimile. Reinforced metal ceiling beams crisscrossed
the overhead vault, sup porting pulleys and winches that had been used to haul the
blockish resonance generator into place.
     Moody Zenshüte slaves milled about, wearing traditional clothing, red-and-white
stripes wrapped around serviceable gray jumpsuits. Many slave owners didn't allow their
captives to show signs of individuality, but Holtzman didn't care one way or the other.
He only wanted the captive people to perform their tasks without complaint.
     As they completed their work the slaves backed close to the plated wall, their dark
gazes averted. One black-bearded, shadowy-eyed man spoke to them in a language
unfamiliar to Norma. Moments later a grinning Holtzman ushered his impressive guests
into the demonstration area.
     The Savant made a grand entrance. At his side, Niko Bludd wore a billowing azure
tunic and a scarlet doublet fastened across his barrel chest. His reddish beard had been
curled in neat ringlets. Small tattooed circles looked like bubbles at the far points of
each eyelid.
     Walking past the slaves, Bludd noticed Norma and gave the diminutive woman a
smile that was both condescending and paternal. Norma bent in a formal bow and
politely grasped his slick, lotioned hand.
     'We know your time is valuable, Lord Bludd. Therefore, everything has been
prepared." Holtzman folded his hands. "This new device has never been tested, and in
today's presentation you will be the first to witness its potential."
     Bludd's voice was deep, but musical. "We always expect the best from you, Tio. If
thinking machines have nightmares, no doubt you are in them."
    The entourage chuckled, and Holtzman did his best to blush. He turned toward the
slaves and began issuing orders. A half dozen workers held data-recording devices,
positioned at important points around the robot mockup.
    Plush chairs from the main residence had been arranged as seats of honor.
Holtzman sat beside Lord Bludd, and Norma was forced to stand by the door. Her
mentor appeared confident and intense, but she knew how worried he really was. A
failure today might dim his glory in the eyes of the politically powerful nobles on
Poritrin.
    The esteemed observers sat in their cumbersome chairs. Holtzman stared at the
generator setup, glancing around as if offering a quiet prayer. He smiled reassuringly at
Norma, then ordered the activation of the prototype.
    A slave flipped a switch, as he had been taught to do. The bulky generator began to
hum, directing its invisible beam toward the robot construction.
    'If put to practical use," Holtzman said with the faintest of quavers, "we will find
ways to make the generator more compact, more easily installed on small ships."
    'Or we can just build bigger ships," Bludd said, with a deep chortle.
    The hum grew louder, a vibrating rattle that made Norma's teeth chatter. She
noticed a thin sheen of perspiration on Holtzman's brow.
    'Look, you can see it already." The scientist pointed. The targeted robot began to
shake, its metal limbs jostling and torso vibrating. "The effect will continue to build."
    Bludd was delighted. "That robot is regretting he ever turned against the human
race, isn't he!"
    The facsimile robot began to shimmer cherry red, its metal heating up as the alloys
were attuned to the destructive field projected upon it. Glowing brighter, it shifted to
yellow mixed with patches of blinding white.
    'By now, a real robot would have been destroyed internally," Holtzman said, finally
looking content.
    Abruptly the laboratory's heavy ceiling girders started to rattle, a secondary
resonance fed from the targeted robot into the dome's structural framework. The thick
walls rumbled and shuddered. A high-pitched hum shrieked through the structure.
    Norma cried, "The resonance field is bleeding over."
    Ceiling girders clenched like angry snakes. A crack opened in the dome.
    'Shut it off!" Holtzman shouted, but the terrified slaves scrambled to a corner of the
room, as far from the generator as they could get.
    The robot mockup undulated and twisted, its body core melting. Support struts that
held it inside the targeting zone buckled. The ominous-looking combat machine lurched
forward then abruptly fell and shattered into blackened metal.
    Holtzman grabbed Niko Bludd's sleeve. "My Lord, please hurry across the bridge to
my main quarters. We seem to have a… slight problem."
    *
    The other nobles were already pelting across the high-tension bridge. Norma was
swept along with them. She took one look behind her and saw that the Zenshüte slaves
were uncertain what to do. Tio Holtzman gave them no guidance as he retreated over
the walkway right behind Bludd.
    From safety, Norma watched six panicked slaves stumble onto the bridge. Remaining
behind, the dark-haired leader pushed them forward, shouting in their odd language.
The walkway began to whip up and down as resonance from the projector coupled to
the bridge's connecting metal.
    The bearded Zenshüte leader howled at them again. Norma wished she could rescue
those unfortunate, confused people. Couldn't the Dragoon guards do anything?
Holtzman remained speechless on this side of the bluff, paralyzed with shock.
    Before the first batch of slaves could cross, the suspension walkway snapped in the
middle, dropping open in a screeching groan of agonized metal. The hapless victims
plummeted two hundred meters to the base of the bluff and into the river.
    Standing on the threshold, separated now by the gulf between the cliffs, the black-
bearded leader cursed again. Behind him, a section of the vaulted roof crashed down,
destroying the prototype generator and finally stopping the relentless pulse.
    Dust settled. A few flames and a curl of smoke rose into the air amidst the wailing of
injured men still trapped within the collapsed building.
    Norma felt sick. Beside her, Holtzman sweated profusely and looked ill. He blinked
again and again, then wiped his forehead. His skin was gray.
    In a wry voice, Bludd said, "Not one of your most successful efforts, Tio."
    'But you must admit, the concept shows promise, Lord Bludd. Look at the destructive
potential," Holtzman said, looking at the unruffled nobles without even considering the
dead and injured slaves. "We can be thankful at least that no one was hurt."
   Science: The creation of dilemmas by the solution of mysteries.
   —NORMA CENVA, unpublished laboratory notebooks nside the broken demonstration
dome, the bloodstains washed away easily, but deeper scars remained. While a crew of
new slaves cleared the rubble, Tio Holtzman crossed a temporary and none-too-sturdy
walkway. He looked sadly at the ruins of his laboratory.

    From where he worked, Bel Moulay, the bearded leader of the Zenshüte slaves,
glowered at the callous inventor. He hated the Poritrin man's pale skin, square-cut hair,
and arrogantly colorful clothes. The scientist's frivolous badges of honor meant nothing
to Bel Moulay, and all the captive Zen-shütes were offended that such a useless,
deluded man could flaunt his wealth while stepping on the faithful.
    In a deep voice the bearded leader gave instructions and consolation to his fellows.
Moulay had always been more than just the strongest among them; he was also a
religious leader, trained on IV Anbus in the strictest laws of the Zenshüte interpretation
of Buddislam. He had learned the true scriptures and sutras, had analyzed every
passage; the other slaves looked to Bel Moulay to interpret for them.
    Despite his faith, he was as helpless as his companions, forced to serve at the whim
of nonbelievers. The infidels re fused to let Zenshütes live according to their strictures,
but insisted on dragging them into their hopeless war against the unholy machine
demons. It was a terrible punishment, a set of karmic tribulations visited upon them by
Buddallah.
    But they would see it through, and eventually emerge stronger…
    Under Bel Moulay's guidance, the slaves moved rubble, uncovering the crushed
bodies of companions who had worked alongside them, fellow Zenshütes captured when
Tlulaxa slavers raided the canyon cities on IV Anbus.
    Buddallah would eventually show them the way to freedom. At story fires, the
bearded leader had promised that the oppressors would be punished—if not in this
generation, then in the next, or the next. But it would happen. A mere man like Bel
Moulay had no business trying to hurry the wishes of God.

     With excited shouts, two slaves shifted a fallen section of wall to uncover a man who
still clung to life, though his legs had been crushed and his torso slashed by shards of
windowplaz. Preoccupied, Holtzman came over and scrutinized the injured man. "I am
no medical practitioner, but there seems to be little hope."
     Bel Moulay glowered at him with dark, penetrating eyes. "Nevertheless, we must do
what we can," he said in Galach. Three Zenshüte workers scooped away the debris and
carried the injured man across the rickety walkway. Inside the slave quarters, healers
would work on the injuries.
     After the accident, Holtzman had provided basic medical supplies, though a similar
effort had done little to keep a fever from sweeping through the slave population. The
scientist supervised the workers in the rubble, but he was intent on his own priorities.
     With a frown, the Savant gestured impatiently at the slaves picking up chunks of the
collapsed ceiling to uncover victims. "You and you, leave off digging out bodies for now
and excavate what's left of my device."
     The sullen captives looked at Moulay for guidance. He simply shook his head. "There
is no value in resistance now," he muttered in their private language. "But I promise you
the time will come."
     Later, during their meager sleep time, they would remove their dead and provide
proper Zenshüte blessings and passage preparations for the souls. Burning the bodies of
the faithful was not something their religion accepted easily, but it was the way of
Poritrin. Bel Moulay was certain Buddallah could not fault them for not following
traditional rules, when they had no choice in the matter.
     His deity could be an angry one, though. Moulay hoped to live long enough to see
vengeance strike these oppressors, even if it must be in the form of thinking machines.
     As the demonstration dome was cleared, Holtzman began chattering to himself,
planning new experiments and tests. He considered acquiring more slaves to make up
for recent losses.
     In all, twelve slaves were recovered from the demonstration dome, while those who
had fallen to their deaths from the walkway had already been gathered from the river
and disposed of by public cremation teams. Bel Moulay knew every one of their names,
and he would make sure the Zenshütes chanted continual prayers for them. He would
never forget what had happened here.
     Or who was responsible: Tio Holtzman.
     *
     The mind imposes an arbitrary framework called "reality," which is quite
independent of what the senses report.
     —COGITORS, Fundamental Postulate
    Clothing is impossible," the disembodied brain had said to him.
    In the gray stillness before dawn, Iblis Ginjo turned over restlessly in his makeshift
bed, on the perimeter of the work encampment and its habitation hives of human
slaves. Since the weather had been unseasonably warm, he had hauled his pliable
bedstrip onto the porch of the simple bungalow the neo-cymeks had provided for him.
He had lain awake, staring up at the distant stars and wondering which ones were still
under the control of free humans.
    Far away, the League had managed to keep Omnius at bay for a thousand years.
Listening closely, but afraid to ask questions or call attention to himself, Iblis had heard
accounts of how the machines first conquered, and then lost, Giedi Prime. The resilient
humans had driven the machines out, killing the Titan Barbarossa and destroying a new
Omnius.
    An incredible achievement. But how? What had they done to attain such a victory?
What sort of leaders did they have? And how could he do the same here?
    Groggy and tired, Iblis stirred. Again, he would spend the day convincing lower-level
slaves to complete pointless labors for machine masters. Every day was the same, and
the thinking machines could live for thousands of years. How much could he accomplish
in only a meager human lifespan?
    But Iblis took heart from the words of the Cogitor: Nothing is impossible.
    He flicked open his eyes, intending to gauge the impending sunrise. Instead, he saw
a distorted reflection, a curved plexiplaz wall, pinkish organic contours suspended in a
container of energy-charged fluid.
    He sat up abruptly. The Cogitor Eklo rested on the floorboards of his veranda. Beside
the canister sat the big monk, Aquim, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, meditating in
a semuta trance.
    'What are you doing here?" Iblis demanded in a hushed voice. Fear clenched his
throat. "If the cymeks find you in the camp, they—

    Aquim opened his bleary eyes. "Trustee humans are not the only ones who have an
understanding with the Titans, and with Omnius. Eklo wishes to speak with you
directly."
    Swallowing hard, Iblis looked from the enlarged brain suspended in its electrafluid to
the haggard-looking monk. "What does he want?"
    'Eklo wishes to tell you of earlier abortive human revolts." Holding a hand against
the preservation canister, he stroked the smooth surface, as if picking up vibrations.
"Have you ever heard of the Hrethgir Rebellions?"
    Iblis looked around furtively. He saw none of Omnius's watcheyes. "That isn't the
sort of history slaves are allowed to know, even a crew boss at my level."
    The secondary leaned forward, his brows hooded. He spoke of things he had
learned, without connecting directly through the electrafluid to the Cogitor's thoughts.
"Bloody rebellions occurred after the Titans had converted themselves to cymeks, but
before Omnius awakened. Feeling themselves immortal, the cymeks became
exceedingly brutal. Especially the one called Ajax, who was so vicious in his torment of
the surviving humans that his mate Hecate left him and disappeared."
    Iblis said, "Ajax hasn't changed much over the centuries."
     Aquim's red-rimmed eyes glowed. Eklo's brain trembled inside its nutrient solution.
"Because of the excessive brutality of Ajax, oppressed humans began a rebellion, mainly
on Walgis but spreading to Corrin and Richese. The slaves rose up and destroyed two of
the original Titans, Alexander and Tamerlane.
     'The cymeks responded with a swift and decisive crackdown. Ajax took great delight
in closing off Walgis and then methodically exterminating every living human there.
Billions were slaughtered."
     Iblis struggled to think. This Cogitor had come all the way from his high tower to see
him. The magnitude of such a gesture stunned him. "Are you telling me that a revolt
against the machines is possible, or that it is doomed to failure?"
     The big monk extended a rough hand to grab Iblis's wrist. "Eklo will tell you
himself."
     Iblis felt a rush of anxiety, but before he could resist, Aquim pressed the work
leader's fingertips into the viscous electrafluid surrounding the Cogitor's ancient brain.
The slick solution felt icy cold to Iblis, then hot. The skin on his hand tingled, as if a
thousand tiny spiders ran along his flesh.
     Suddenly he could sense thoughts, words, and impressions flowing directly into his
mind from Eklo. "The revolt failed, but oh what a glorious attempt!"
     Iblis received another message, this one wordless, but it conveyed meaning
nonetheless, like an epiphany. It was as if the majesty of the universe had opened to
him, so many things he had not previously understood… so many things Omnius kept
the slaves from knowing. Feeling great calm, he immersed his hand deeper into the
liquid. His fingertips touched the Cogitor's tissue, ever so gently.
     'You are not alone." Eklo's words reverberated to his very soul. "I can help. Aquim
can help."
     For several moments, Iblis gazed toward the horizon as the golden sun rose, casting
light on enslaved Earth. Now he did not view this story of a failed rebellion as a
warning, but as a sign of hope. A better' organized revolt might succeed, given proper
guidance and proper plan-ning. And the proper leader.
     Iblis, who had once felt no purpose or direction in his life other than to enjoy the
comfort of his position as a trustee of the machines, now sensed a brooding anger
within. The revelation brought a fervor to his heart. The monk Aquim seemed to share
the same passion behind his semuta-dazed expression.
     'Nothing is impossible," Eklo repeated.
     Amazed, Iblis removed his hand from the charged fluid and stared at
     ° his fingers. The big monk picked up the Cogitor's brain canister and sealed it.
Cradling the cylinder against his chest, he set off on foot toward the mountains, leaving
Iblis to reel with the visions that had flooded into his soul.
     Believing in an "intelligent" machine engenders misinformation and ignorance.
Unexamined assumptions abound. Key questions are not asked. I did not realize my
hubris, or my error, until it was too late for us.
   —BARBAROSSA,

   Anatomy of a Rebellion
   Erasmus wished the sophisticated evermind had spent more time studying human
emotions. After all, the Synchronized Worlds had access to immense archives of records
compiled by millennia of human studies. If Omnius had made the effort, he might now
understand the independent robot's frustration.
   'Your problem, Omnius," the robot said to the screen in an isolated room high in his
Earth villa, "is that you expect accurate and specific answers in a fundamentally
uncertain system. You want large numbers of experimental subjects—all human—to
behave in a predictable fashion, as regimented as your sentinel robots."

     Erasmus paced in front of the viewer until finally Omnius directed two of the
hovering watcheyes to scan him from different directions.
     'I have tasked you to develop a detailed and reproducible model that explains and
accurately predicts human behavior. How do we make them usable? I rely upon you to
explain this to my satisfaction." Omnius changed his voice to a high-pitched tone. "I
tolerate your incessant tests in the expectation of eventually receiving an answer. You
have been trying long enough. Instead, you are like a child playing with the same
trivialities over and over."
     'I serve a valuable purpose. Without my efforts at understanding the hrethgir, you
would experience a state of extreme confusion. In human parlance I am known as
your'devil's advocate.'"
     'Some of the humans call you the devil himself," Omnius countered. "I have
considered the matter of your experiments at length, and I must conclude that whatever
you discover about humans will reveal nothing new for us. Their unpredictability is just
that—entirely unpredictable. Humans require a great deal of maintenance. They create
messes—

    'They created us, Omnius. Do you think we are perfect?"
    'Do you think that emulating humans will make us more perfect?"
    Though the evermind would derive no meaning from it, Erasmus shaped his pliable,
reflective face into a scowl. "Yes… I do," the robot finally said. "We can become the best
of both."
    The watcheyes followed him as he walked across the palatial room to the balcony
several stories above the flagstone plaza that opened up into the grid of the city. The
fountains and gargoyles were magnificent, imitated from Earth's Golden Age of art and
sculpture. No other robots appreciated beauty as much as he did. On this cloudy
afternoon, artisans crafted scrollwork around the windows, and new alcoves were being
constructed in the building's facade, so that Erasmus could install additional statues as
well as more colorful flowerboxes, since Serena Butler enjoyed tending them so much.
    On this high balcony he loomed over the docile humans. Some laborers glanced up
at him, then bent more diligently to their tasks, as if afraid he might punish them or—
worse—single them out for his horrific laboratory projects.

   Erasmus continued his conversation with the evermind. "Surely some of my
experiments intrigue you, Omnius, just a little?"
   'You know the answer to that."
   Erasmus said, "Yes, the experiment to test the loyalty of your human subjects is
proceeding nicely. I have delivered cryptic messages to a handful of trustee
candidates—I prefer not to reveal exactly how many—suggesting that they join the
brewing rebellion against you."

     'There is no brewing rebellion against me."
     'Of course not. And if the trustees are completely loyal to you, they will never
consider such a possibility. On the other hand, if they were genuinely faithful to your
rule, then they would have reported my incendiary messages immediately. Therefore, I
presume you have received reports from my test subjects?"
     For a long moment, Omnius hesitated. "I will recheck my records."
     Erasmus watched the diligent artisans in the plaza, then crossed the upper-level
halls of his villa to the other side of the great house. He looked out toward the
miserable fenced-in compounds and breeding pens from which he drew his
experimental subjects.
     A long time ago, he had raised a subset of captives under these conditions, treating
them like animals to see how it would affect their much-vaunted "human spirit." Not
surprisingly, within a generation or two they had lost all semblance of civilized behavior,
morals, familial duty, and dignity.
     Erasmus said, "When we imposed a caste system upon humans on the Synchronized
Worlds, you attempted to make them more regimented and machinelike." He scanned
the dirty, noisy crowds inside the slave pens. "While the caste system fit them within
certain categories, we perpetuated a model of human behavior that allowed them to see
how other members of their own race are different. It is the nature of mankind to strive
for things they do not have, to steal the rewards that another person might win. To be
envious of another's circumstances."
     He focused his optic threads on the lovely ocean view beyond the filthy slave pens,
the churning blue-and-white surf at the base of the slope. He swept his mirrored face
up so that he could focus on seagulls in the sky. Such images matched his programmed
aesthetics more closely than the dirty, fenced compound.
     Erasmus continued, "Your most privileged human beings, such as the current son of
Agamemnon, hold the highest position among their kind. They are our reliable pets,
occupying a rung between sentient biologicals and thinking machines. From this pool we
draw candidates for conversion into neo-cymeks."
     The watcheye buzzed close to the robot's polished head. Through the flying device,
Omnius said, "I know all this."
     Erasmus continued as if he hadn't heard. "And the caste below the trustees includes
civilized and educated humans, skilled thinkers and creators, such as the architects who
design the Titans' interminable monuments. We rely on them to perform sophisticated
tasks, such as those being completed by artisans and craftsmen at my villa. Just
beneath them are my household staff, my cooks, and landscapers."
     The robot scanned the slave pens and realized that such appalling ugliness made
him want to go back to his flower gardens to wander among the carefully cultivated
species. Serena Butler had already done wonders with the plants. She had an intuitive
understanding of gardening.
    'Admittedly, those wretches down there in my pens are good for little more than
breeding new offspring or for dissection in medical experiments."
    Erasmus was like Serena in a sense: he frequently needed to prune and weed the
human race in his own garden.
    'I hasten to add," the robot said, "that humankind as a whole is of supreme value to
us. Irreplaceable."
    'I have heard your argument before," Omnius mused as the watcheye drifted higher,
for a broader view. "Though machines could perform every task you have enumerated,
nevertheless I have accepted the loyalty of my human subjects, and I have granted
some of them privileges."
    'Your arguments do not seem…" Erasmus hesitated, because the word he had in
mind would be a supreme insult to a computer. Logical.
    Omnius said, "All humans, with their strange penchant for religious beliefs and faith
in things incomprehensible, should pray that your experiments prove me right about
human nature, and not you. Because if you are correct, Erasmus, there are inescapable
and violent consequences for their entire race."
    Religion, often considered a divisive force among peoples, is also capable of
holding together what might otherwise fall asunder.
   — LIVIA BUTLER, private journals he Isana mudflats spread out in a broad fan
where the river melted into a slurry of water and muck. Shirtless, the boy Ishmael stood
in the mire, barely able to maintain his balance. Every night he washed his sore palms
and applied smears of ever-dwindling salves.

    The work supervisors showed no sympathy for the slaves' discomfort. One grabbed
Ishmael's hand and turned it over to examine the sores, then shoved him away. "Keep
working, it'll toughen you up." Ishmael went back to his labors, silently noting that the
man's hands were much softer than his own. Once the shellfish planting season ended,
the slave owners would find other work for them, perhaps sending them north to
rugged cane fields to hack down thick stands of grasses and harvest the juices.
    Some of the Zensunni muttered that if they were transferred to the agricultural
fields, they would escape at night and flee into the wilderness. But Ishmael had no idea
how to survive on Poritrin, did not know the edible plants or the native predators, as he
did on Harmonthep. Any escapee would be without tools or weapons, and if captured
would surely face violent punishment.
    A few of the muddy slaves began to chant, but the folk songs varied from planet to
planet, the verses changed among the Buddislamic sects. Ishmael worked until his
muscles and bones ached and his eyes could see little but the sun glaring off the
standing water. In endless treks back and forth to the supply basins, he must have
planted a million clam seedlings. No doubt, he would be asked to plant a million more.
    Hearing three blasts of a shrill whistle, Ishmael looked up to see the frog-lipped
supervisor standing on his platform mounted above the mudflats, safe and dry. Ishmael
knew it was not yet time for the slaves' brief morning break.
    With narrowed eyes, the supervisor scanned the labor gang, as if mentally making
selections. He pointed to a handful of the youngest planters, Ishmael among them, and
instructed them to slosh their way back to a staging area on dry land. "Get yourselves
cleaned up. You've been reassigned."
     Ishmael felt a cold hand squeeze his heart. While he hated the smelly mud, these
refugees from Harmonthep were his only connection to his home planet and his
grandfather.
     Some of the "volunteers" wailed. Two of those not selected clutched at their
reassigned companions, refusing to let them go. The frog-mouthed supervisor snapped
harsh words and made threatening gestures. A pair of armed Dragoon guards came in
to enforce the edict, splashing mud on their golden uniforms as they separated the
slaves. Though sad and terrified, Ishmael offered no resistance. He could never win if
he fought them.
     The supervisor stretched his lips in a grin. "You're lucky, all of you. There's been an
accident in Savant Holtzman's laboratories, and he needs replacement slaves to do
calculations. Clever boys. Easy work, compared to this."
     Clearly skeptical, Ishmael eyed the ragtag group of mud-spattered youths.
     Uprooted again, taken from a dreary existence that had just begun to seem normal,
Ishmael trudged along, not understanding what he was expected to do. He would find
some way to endure, though. His grandfather had taught him that survival was the
essence of success, and that violence was the last refuge of a failure. It was the
Zensunni way.
     SCRUBBED CLEAN AND with his hair shorn close to his head, Ish-mael fidgeted in his
fresh clothes. He waited in a large room with a dozen recruits taken from work teams
around Starda. Dragoon guards remained stationed at the door, their gold-scale armor
and ornate helmets making them look like birds of prey.
     Ishmael took a place next to a dark-haired boy about his own age who had light
brown skin and a narrow face. "My name is Alüd," the boy said quietly, though the
guards had instructed them all to be silent. Alüd had an intensity that spoke of trouble,
or perhaps leadership. A visionary or a criminal.
     'I'm Ishmael." He glanced around nervously.
     A Dragoon guard turned toward the whispers, and both boys formed their faces into
placid expressions. The guard looked away, and Alüd spoke quickly again. "We were
captured on IV Anbus. Where did you come from?"
     'Harmonthep."
     A well-dressed man entered the room, causing a commotion as he did so. Pale-
skinned and with a square-cut mane of iron-gray hair, he looked and acted like a lord.
He wore decorative chains around his neck and flowing white robes with loose sleeves.
His face and sharp eyes showed little interest in the batch of slaves. He gazed down his
nose as he assessed the young workers without much satisfaction, only resignation.
"They'll do—if they're trained well enough and carefully watched." He stood next to a
diminutive, blunt-featured young woman who had the body of a child, though her face
looked much older. Preoccupied, the white-robed man muttered something to her and
left, as if he had more important things to do.

   'That was Savant Holtzman," the woman said. "The great scientist is your master
now. Our work will help defeat the thinking machines." She offered them a hopeful
smile, but few of the boys seemed to care what their new slave master's purposes might
be.
    Flustered by their reaction, she continued, "I am Norma Cenva, and I also work with
Savant Holtzman. You will be trained to perform mathematical calculations. The war
against thinking machines affects all of us, and this is how you can do your part." She
seemed to have rehearsed her speech many times.
    Alüd frowned, scorning her words. "I'm taller than she is!"
    As if hearing him, Norma turned to look directly at Alüd. "With a single stroke of
your stylus, you can complete a calculation that may gain victory against Omnius. Keep
that in mind."
    When she turned away again, Alüd said out of the corner of his mouth, "And even if
we win the war for them, will they free us?"
    AT NIGHT IN their communal quarters at the blufftop estate, the slaves were left
alone. Here, the Buddislamic captives kept their culture alive.
    Ishmael was surprised that he had been cast in among members of the Zenshüte
sect, a different interpretation of Buddislam that had split them from the Zensunnis
many centuries ago, before the great flight from the crumbling Old Empire.
    He met their muscular, dark-eyed leader, Bel Moulay, a man who had obtained
permission for his people to wear traditional striped cloths over drab work uniforms. The
tribal clothing was a symbol of their identity, the white of freedom and the red of blood.
Poritrin slave keepers understood none of the symbolism, which was just as well.
    Bright-eyed, Alüd sat next to Ishmael. "Listen to Bel Moulay. He will give us hope.
He has a plan."
    Ishmael hunkered down. His belly was full with strange, bland food, but it nourished
him. As much as he resented his new master, the boy did prefer working here, rather
than on the awful mudflats.
    Bel Moulay called them all to prayer in a firm, gruff voice, then intoned sacred sutras
in a language that Ishmael's grandfather had employed, an arcane tongue understood
only by the most devout. In that way, they could converse without being understood by
eavesdropping masters.
    'Our people have waited for vengeance," Moulay said. "We were free, then captured.
Some of us are new slaves, while others have served the evil men for generations." His
eyes were fiery, his teeth very white against dark lips and a black beard. "But God has
given us our minds and our belief. It is up to us to find the weapons and the necessary
resolve."
    The muttering among the Zenshütes made Ishmael uncomfortable.
    Bel Moulay seemed to be advocating outright revolt, a violent uprising against the
masters. To Ishmael, that did not seem what Buddallah would have preached.
    Sitting together, the IV Anbus slaves made whispered threats of retribution. Moulay
talked of the disastrous alloy-resonator test that had caused the deaths of seventeen
innocent slaves.
    'We have suffered countless indignities," Moulay said. The slaves growled their
agreement. "We do everything our masters require of us. They reap the benefits of
what we accomplish, but the Zenshütes"—he looked quickly at Ishmael and the other
new additions to the group—"as well as our Zensunni brothers, never attain our
freedom." He leaned forward as if dark thoughts were coursing his mind. "The answer is
in our grasp."

    Ishmael remembered that his grandfather had taught philosophical and nonviolent
methods of solving problems. Even so, old Weyop had been unable to save his villagers.
The pacifistic Zensunni ways had failed them all, at a time of utmost crisis.
    Bel Moulay raised a callused fist, as if he intended to thrust it into the crackling fire.
"We have been told by men who call themselves 'righteous slavers' that they have no
compunction against pressing our people into work. They claim we owe a debt to
humanity because we refused to participate in their foolish war against the machine
demons—demons that they had created and thought they controlled. But after centuries
of oppression, the people of Poritrin owe MS. And that is a debt which must be paid in
blood."

   Alüd cheered, but beside him Ishmael sat uneasily. He did not agree with the
approach, but was unable to offer an alternative. Since he was only a boy, he did not
speak up or interrupt the meeting.
   Instead, like his companions, he listened to Bel Moulay…
   Thirst} men speak of water, not of women.
   —Zensunni Fire Poetry from Arrakis

     Far beyond the League Worlds, thousands of uncharted settlements dotted the
Unallied Planets, places where forgotten people eked out meager livings. A few raided
villages would never be noticed out here.
     By long tradition, good Tlulaxa flesh merchants did not frequently harvest the same
world, preferring to surprise unsuspecting groups of captives, not giving them a chance
to develop defenses. A resourceful slaver found new cradles of life, untapped resources.
     Leaving his transport vessel in orbit, Tuk Keedair dispatched a cargo ship and fresh
crew to the surface, along with sufficient credits to hire a few greedy locals. Then
Keedair went down to the Arrakis City spaceport by himself to scout around before
planning a raid on some of the local communities. He had to be careful when
investigating new targets for slave raids, especially on this desolate world at the
withered end of space.
     The costs of getting here—fuel, food, ships, and crew—were extraordinarily high,
not to mention the sheer voyage time and the expense of hauling slaves back in stasis
pods.

     Keedair doubted that raiding Arrakis would prove cost-effective. No wonder people
left this place alone.
     Arrakis City clung like a scab to the ugly skin of the planet. Hovels and prefabricated
dwellings had been established here long ago. The sparse population barely survived by
servicing lost traders or exploration vessels, and selling supplies to fugitives from the
law. Keedair suspected that anyone desperate enough to run this far must be in serious
trouble indeed.
    As he seated himself in the rundown spaceport bar, his triangular gold earring
glinted in the dim illumination. His dark braid hung down at the left side of his head. Its
length spoke of years spent garnering wealth, which he spent freely though not
frivolously.
    He surveyed the sullen locals, noted how they contrasted with a few loud and
boisterous offworlders in one corner, rugged men who obviously had plenty of credits,
but were disgruntled that Arrakis offered little opportunity for them to spend their
money.
    Keedair rested an arm across the scarred metal counter. The bartender was a lean
man whose skin was a nest of wrinkles, as if all the moisture and body fat had been
sapped away, leaving him shriveled like a raisin. A bald, liver-spotted scalp covered the
top of his head like a torpedo casing.
    Keedair hauled out his hard currency, League credits that were legal tender even on
the Unallied Planets. "I feel good today. What's your best drink?"
    The bartender gave him a sour smile. "In mind for something exotic, are you? You
think Arrakis might have something to quench your thirst, eh?"
    Keedair began to lose patience. "Do I have to pay extra for the chat, or can I just
have my drink? Your most expensive. What is it?"
    The bartender laughed. "That would be water, sir. Water is the most valuable drink
on Arrakis."
    The bartender named a price that was higher than Keedair would expect to pay for
supercharged spacecraft fuel. "For water1. I don't think so."
    He looked around to see if the bartender was having a joke at his expense, but the
other customers seemed to accept it. He'd assumed that the clear drinks in small
glasses were colorless alcohol, but it really did seem to be water. He noticed an
extravagant local merchant whose billowing, colorful clothes and gaudy ornamentation
pegged him as a wealthy man. That one even had a few ice cubes floating in his glass.
    'Ridiculous," Keedair said. "I know when I'm being cheated."
    The bartender shook his bald head. "Water's hard to come by around here, sir. I can
sell you alcohol cheaper, because Arrakis natives don't want anything that'll dehydrate
them further. And a man with too much strong drink in him can make mistakes. You
don't pay attention out in the desert and it'll cost you your life."
    In the end, Keedair settled on a fermented substance called "spice beer," potent and
pungent with a strong cinnamon bite at the back of his throat. He found the drink
exhilarating and ordered a second.
    While he remained doubtful about the profitability of exploiting Arrakis for slaves,
Keedair still felt like celebrating. The success of his run on Harmonthep four months
earlier had given him enough credits to live for a year. After that raid, Keedair had hired
a new team, never wanting to keep employees around for so long that they grew
comfortable and complacent. That wasn't the way a good Tlulaxa businessman
managed his affairs. Keedair watched over his work, maintained the details himself, and
put tidy profits in his own pockets.
    He sipped his spice beer again and began to like it even more. "What's in this stuff?"
When none of the customers seemed interested in conversation, he directed his gaze
back at the bartender. "Is this beer brewed here, or is it an import?"
    'Made on Arrakis, sir." When the bartender grinned, his wrinkles folded in upon
themselves like a weird origami sculpture made of leather. "It's brought in by the desert
people, Zensunni nomads."
    Keedair's attention perked up at the mention of the Buddislamic sect. "I'd heard
there were a few bands living here in the wastelands. How can I find them?"
    'Find them?" The bartender chuckled. "Nobody wants to look for them. Dirty, violent
folk. They kill strangers."
    Keedair could hardly believe the answer. It took him two tries to formulate his
question because the effects of the spice beer had caught him unawares, causing him to
slur his words. "But Zensunni—I thought they were meek pacifists?"

    The bartender emitted a dry cackle. "Some may be, but these aren't afraid to shed
blood to make their point, if you know what I mean."
    'Are they numerous?"
    The bartender scoffed. "At most, we see only a dozen or two at a time. I'm surprised
they're not so inbred that every baby comes out a mutant."
    Keedair's sharp-featured face fell, and he switched his braid to the other shoulder.
His plans began to crumble. In addition to the expense of bringing his teams here to
Arrakis, his raiders would have to scour the desert just to drag a few sand rats back to
market. Keedair sighed and took a long drink of spice beer. Probably not worth the
effort. He'd be better off hitting Harmonthep again, even if it made him look bad to
other slavers.
    'Course, there could be more of them than we realize," the bartender said. "They all
look the same wrapped up in desert clothes."
    As Keedair savored the liquor, a tingle went through his body, not quite euphoria,
but a rush of well-being. Then an idea lit his mind. He was a businessman, after all,
constantly on the lookout for opportunities. It didn't matter where the merchandise
came from.
    'And what about this spice beer?" He tapped his nearly empty glass with a stubby
fingernail. "Where do the Zensunnis find ingredients? Doesn't seem to me that anything
could grow out there at all."
    'Spice is a natural substance in the desert. You can find patches out in the dunes,
exposed by the wind or spice blows. But monster sand-worms live out there, and fierce
storms that'll kill you. Let the Zensunnis have the place, if you ask me. The nomads
bring in loads of the stuff to Arrakis City, for bartering."
    Keedair considered taking samples of melange back to the League Worlds. Would
there be a market for it on rich Salusa, or among the nobles on Poritrin? The substance
certainly had an unusual effect on the body… soothing in a way he had never
experienced before. If he could sell it, he might offset some of the cost of this
exploration trip.
    The bartender nodded toward the door. "I don't get enough spice beer that I can
sell to you as a middleman, but a band of nomads came in this morning. They'll stay
inside their tents during the heat of the day, but you'll find them in the market in the
evening, on the east end of the spaceport. They'll sell you whatever they have. Just be
sure they don't cheat you."
    'Nobody cheats me," Keedair said, revealing his sharp teeth in a cruel grin. He
noticed, though, that his words came out alarmingly slurred.
    He would have to let the spice beer wear off before he met with the Zensunni.
    AWNINGS OF BROWN-AND-WHITE fabric offered patches of shade. The nomads sat
by themselves, separated from the bustle of the spaceport. These Zensunnis had
constructed tents and shelters from scavenged tarpaulins and cargo wrappings. Some of
the fabrics appeared to be made from a different kind of polymer, an odd sort of plastic
unlike anything Keedair had seen before.
    The sun fell behind the barricade of mountains, leaving the sky awash with orange
pastels and fire hues. A wind came in as the temperature dropped, bringing dust and
stinging sand. The awnings flapped and rattled, but the nomads paid no heed, as if the
noise were music to them.
    Keedair approached them alone, still swaying slightly, though he felt clearer-headed
after drinking only water for the rest of the afternoon… and paying the exorbitant price.
Noticing him, two hopeful women went into their stores to haul out items for sale,
spreading them on a flat tabletop. One man stood near them, his lean face tattooed
with a geometric symbol, his eyes dark and suspicious.
    Without saying a word, Keedair allowed the women to display their colorful cloths,
along with odd-shaped rocks that had been scoured in sandstorms and a few laughably
corroded items of long-forgotten technology that Keedair could never sell to even the
most gullible and eccentric antique collector. He shook his head gruffly each time until
the lean man—whom one of the women referred to as Naib Dhartha—said he had
nothing else.

    Keedair got to the point. "I've tasted spice beer. The man who sold it to me
suggested I talk to you."
    'Spice beer," Dhartha said. "Made from melange. Yes, it is obtainable."
    'How much can you deliver, and what would it cost me?"
    The naib spread his hands and revealed a hint of a smile. "Everything is open to
discussion. The price depends on the amount you desire. Enough for a month of
personal use?"
    'Why not a cargo ship full?" Keedair said, noting shock on the faces of the nomads.
    Dhartha recovered himself quickly. "That will take time to gather. A month, maybe
two."
    'I can wait—if we reach an agreement. I've come here with an empty vessel. I need
to take something back with me." He looked down at the scavenged objects and the
wind-scoured art rocks. "And I certainly don't want to carry anything like that. I'd be the
laughingstock of the League."

    Despite a natural Tlulaxa interest in biological products, Keedair was not wedded to
the business of slavery. He would go his own way and never return to the Thalim solar
system, if necessary. Many of the Tlulaxa were religious fanatics anyway, and he grew
tired of their dogma and politics. Drugs and drink would always be in demand, and if he
could introduce something new and exotic, a drug the richest nobles had never tried, he
might turn a handy profit.
     'But first tell me exactly what melange is," Keedair continued. "Where does it come
from?"
     Dhartha gestured to one of the women, who ducked under the sheltered overhang.
A hot breeze picked up, and the polymer fabric flapped louder than before. The sun had
settled toward the horizon, forcing him to squint as he looked in that direction. This
prevented him from reading nuances in the desert man's expression.
     Within moments, the woman brought out small, steaming cups of a rich black liquid
that smelled of pungent cinnamon spice. She served Keedair first, and he looked down,
curious but skeptical.
     'Coffee mixed with pure melange," Dhartha said. "You will enjoy it."
     Keedair recalled how expensive water had been in the bar and decided that this
nomad was investing in their conversation. He took a sip, cautious at first, but could
think of no reason why the fellow might poison him. He tasted the hot coffee on his
tongue and felt an electric sensation, a delicious taste that reminded him of the spice
beer he still had in his system. He would need to be careful, or he would lose his
business edge.
     'We harvest melange out in the Tanzerouft, the deep desert where the demon
sandworms go. It is very dangerous there. We lose many of our people, but the spice is
precious."
     Keedair took another drink of coffee and had to stop himself from agreeing too
readily. His assessment of the possibilities grew. Now, as the two men shifted positions,
Keedair could look upon Dhartha's lean face. The Naib's eyes were not just dark; they
were deep blue. Even the whites had taken on a strange indigo tinge. Most odd. He
wondered if it could be an unusual defect caused by Zensunni inbreeding.
     The desert man reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a small box, which he
opened to display a compressed, flaky brown powder. He extended it toward Keedair,
who stirred the contents with the tip of his little finger.
     'Pure melange. Very potent. We use it in our beverages and meals back in the cave
villages."
     Keedair touched the spice-speckled tip of his finger to his tongue. The melange was
strong and exhilarating, yet soothing. He felt energetic and calm at the same time. His
mind seemed sharper, not fuzzed the way excessive alcohol or drugs affected him. But
he held back, not wishing to appear overly anxious.
     'And if you consume melange over a long period of time," Dhartha was saying, "it
helps you retain your health, keeps you young."
     Keedair made no comment. He had heard similar claims about various "fountain of
youth" substances. None of them, in his experience, had ever proven effective.
     He snicked shut the cover of the small box and put it in his own pocket, though it
had not been offered to him as a gift. He stood. "I will come back tomorrow. Then we
shall talk more. I need to consider this matter."
     The desert naib grunted in affirmation.
   Keedair walked toward his shuttle within the parking perimeter of the spaceport. His
mind spun with preliminary calculations. His fellow slavers would be disappointed at not
even attempting a raid, but Keedair would pay them the minimum required by contract.
He needed to ponder the possibilities of this potent spice before discussing a price with
the nomads. Arrakis was far, far from normal space trading routes. The idea excited
him, but he wasn't certain he could profitably export the exotic substance.
   Realistically, he doubted if melange would ever be more than a mere curiosity.
   Humans are suriwors. They do things for themselves and then attempt to conceal
their motivations through elaborate subterfuges. Gift-giving is a prime example of
behavior that is secretly selfish.
   —ERASMUS, slave pen notes

    Shortly before midnight, Aurelius Venport sat at a long opalwood table in an echoing
chamber deep inside the Rossak cave city. He had furnished this room for his business
meetings with drug prospectors, biochemists, and pharmaceu' tical merchants, but Zufa
Cenva sometimes used it for her own private meetings.
    Even in the late darkness, the chief Sorceress was out in the dangerous jungles,
training her young proteges and preparing them for suicide attacks. Venport did not
know whether Zufa was eager or afraid for her volunteers to be called again.
    He very much hoped his mate didn't get ideas of her own, though she would
probably love to make herself a martyr. Zufa took him for granted, blamed him for his
imagined failings, but still Venport cared for the cold, pale Sorceress. He didn't want to
lose her.
    Zufa had been due back more than an hour ago, and he'd been waiting for her. It
did him no good to be impatient, though. The haughty Sorceress operated on her own
schedule, considering his priorities unimportant.
    Even in the darkest night, the cave room was illuminated by warm, comforting
light—a glowing yellow sphere that floated gracefully above the table like a portable,
personal sun. Dear Norma had sent it to him from Poritrin as a gift, a compact light
source levitated by a new suspensor field she had developed. Based on the same
principle as a glowpanel, but much more efficient, the device generated illumination as a
by-product of the suspensor field itself. Norma called it a glowglobe, and he'd been
considering its commercial possibilities.

    Venport took a long drink of bitter herbal ale from a goblet in front of him. He
grimaced, then drank some more, trying to bolster his nerve. Zufa should be here any
minute, and he was anxious to see her. Out in the jungles the Sorceresses had erected
a shrine to honor fallen Heoma. Maybe they were all there now, dancing around it under
the starlight, chanting incantations like witches. Or maybe—despite their cool, agnostic
logic and determination—they chose private moments to worship a Gaia life force, an
Earth mother that embodied feminine power. Anything to set them apart from what
they considered to be "weakling" men

   Beckoned by the glowglobe, nightbugs flew into the room from the outer corridors.
The nocturnal insects had a voracious appetite for human blood, but only men were
bothered. It was one of the jokes of Rossak, as if the Sorceresses had cast some sort of
a spell on the tiny creatures to keep their men inside during the evenings, while women
performed secret rites out in the jungles.
    Another quarter of an hour passed, and still Zufa did not join him. Frustrated with
her, Venport finished the ale and set the empty goblet on the opalwood table, heaving a
disgusted sigh. He rarely asked to see her, but this was important to him. Couldn't she
give him just a few moments of her precious time?
    Still, he would continue to seek her understanding and respect. For years, Venport
had enjoyed substantial success in exporting medical narcotics and pharmaceuticals
manufactured from Rossak plants. In the past month, his men had turned a large profit
from the sale of psychedelics to Yardin. The drugs had become a favorite of the
Buddislamic mystics who ran the place. The mystics used the Rossak hallucinogen in
religious rituals, attempting to attain enlightenment.
    Venport stared at a large, milky soostone on the table. A smuggler from Buzzell, one
of the Unallied Planets, had sold him the extremely rare and valuable stone. The dealer
had claimed that some soostones of extraordinary purity possessed hypnotic focusing
abilities. He wanted Zufa to wear it with pride, perhaps on a pendant. The Sorceress
could use it to make herself stronger.
    He inserted a rolled slip of alkaloid bark into his mouth and crunched down, knowing
it would make him relax. He dimmed the glowglobe and adjusted its spectrum to a more
orange light, which caused the soostone to dance with rainbow colors. The alkaloid bark
made him feel tingly, calm… and distant. The uncommon stone shimmered hypnotically,
and he lost track of time.
    When Zufa entered the room, her pale face was flushed, her eyes bright. She looked
like an ethereal creature in the room's rich glow. She wore a long diaphanous gown with
tiny jewels sparkling across it like a field of ruby flowers.
    'I see you have nothing important to do," she said, already frowning.
    He gathered his wits about him. "Nothing more important than waiting for you."
Rising to his feet with all the pride he could muster, he picked up the soostone. "I found
this, and I thought of you. A gift from Buzzell, where my merchants made an
extraordinary profit from—" Noticing an expression of disdain on her face, Venport felt
flustered. His voice trailed off.

    'And what am I supposed to do with it?" She examined the offering, without
touching it. "When have I ever cared for pretty baubles?"
    'It's a rare soostone, said to have certain… telepathic enhancement characteristics.
Perhaps you can use it as a focusing device when you instruct your trainees?" She stood
like a statue, unimpressed, and he continued in a rush, "The Buddislamics on Yardin are
clamoring for our psychedelics. I've made a lot of credits in the past few months, and I
thought this was something you might appreciate."
    'I'm tired and I'm going to bed," she said, letting him keep the present. "My
Sorceresses have already proven their abilities. With machines still threatening every
League world, we don't have time to stare into soostones."
    He shook his head. What would it have cost her merely to accept his gift? Could she
not at least have offered him a word of kindness? Hurt so deeply that even the calming
bark could not soothe him, Venport shouted, "If we give up our humanity to fight the
machines, Zufa, then Omnius has already won!"
   She hesitated just a moment, but did not turn back to him. Instead, she went to her
chambers and left him standing alone.
   °
   In surviving, shall our humanity endure? That which makes life sweet for the living—
warm and filled with beauty—this, too, must be. But we shall not gain this enduring
humanity if we deny our whole being—if we deny emotion, thought, and flesh. If we
deny emotion, we lose all touch with our universe. By denying thought, we cannot
reflect upon what we touch. And if we dare deny the flesh, we unwheel the vehicle that
carries us all.

   — PRIMERO VORIAN ATREIDES,

   Annals of the Army of the Jihad
   Earth. In a drizzle of summer rain, Vorian rode inside an exquisite white coach,
drawn by four prancing white stallions. Erasmus had ordered the robot coachman to
wear a uniform with broad military lapels, dripping golden ribbons and a tricorner hat
taken from an ancient historical image.
   The extravagance was inefficient and unnecessary—not to mention anachronistic—
but the human trustee had heard that eccentric Erasmus often did inexplicable things.
Vor could not imagine why such an important representative of the evermind would
want to see him.

    Perhaps Erasmus had studied some of the simulations and war games Vorian had
played with Seurat. He knew that the robot had built extensive laboratories to research
the questions about human nature that plagued his inquisitive mind. But what could 1
possibly tell him?
     As the carriage wheels clattered over cobblestones in front of the manor house, Vor
wiped fog from the window. Even in the rain, the imposing Grogyptian-style villa was
more magnificent than the efficient grid-organized cities. It seemed fit for a prince.
     With ornamental gardens and enough tile-roofed buildings to comprise a small
village, the sprawling estate covered many acres. The balcony-adorned main house
featured tall fluted columns and winged gargoyles that looked down on a reception
plaza as large as a town square crowded with fountains and twisted sculptures, paved
gathering areas and stone-walled outbuildings.
   What am I doing here?
   Two liveried humans approached, averting their eyes as if Vor was a visiting
machine dignitary. One man opened the door, while the other helped him step down.
"Erasmus waits to see you." The white horses pranced and fidgeted, perhaps because
they received few opportunities to exercise.
   One of the liveried men held a rain cover to shield Vor's dark hair from the drizzle.
Dressed in a sleeveless tunic and light trousers, he shivered. He hated being drenched,
and the discomfort only reminded him of the flaws and weaknesses of his human body.
If he were a cymek, he could have easily adjusted his internal temperature, and
thoughtrodes could delete annoying sensual responses. Someday.
    Inside the entry, a beautiful young woman greeted him. "Vorian Atreides?" She had
exotic lavender eyes and a flashing independence in contrast to the cowed men in
livery. The barest hint of a challenging smile curved her lips. "So, you are the son of the
evil Agamemnon?"
    Taken aback, Vor drew himself up. "My father is a revered general, first among the
Titans. His military exploits are legendary."
    'Or infamous." The woman stared at him with a shocking lack of respect.
    Vor didn't know how to react. Lower-caste humans on the Synchronized Worlds all
knew their places, and she couldn't be a trustee, like himself. No other slave had ever
spoken to him in such a manner. As a reward after his numerous update missions, Vor
had been granted the services of pleasure slaves, women assigned to warm his bed. He
had never asked any of them their identities. "I want to know your name because I wish
to remember it," he said, at last. He found something intriguing about this exotically
beautiful woman and her unexpected defiance.
    She sounded as proud of her lineage as Vor was. "I am Serena Butler." She led him
along a corridor lined with statuary and paintings, then into a botanical garden shielded
from the rain by a glass-paneled ceiling.
    'What do you do here? Are you one of Erasmus's… privileged train ees:
    'I am just a house slave, but unlike you, 1 don't serve the thinking machines by
choice."
    He took her comment as a badge of honor. "Yes, I serve them and proudly. I am
helping to achieve the best that is possible for our flawed species."
    'By collaborating with Omnius, you are a willing traitor to your race. To the free
humans, you are as evil as your machine masters. Or hasn't that ever occurred to you
before?"
    Vor was baffled. The human military commander at Giedi Prime had made similar
accusations. "Evil… in what way? Can't you see the good that Omnius has
accomplished? It's so obvious. Simply look at the Synchronized Worlds. Every detail is
seen to, everything runs smoothly. Why would anyone want to disrupt that?"
    Serena gazed at him, as if trying to decide whether he truly meant what he said.
Finally, she shook her head. "You are a fool, a slave who cannot see his chains. It's not
worth the effort to convince you." Abruptly she turned away from him and marched
ahead, leaving him speechless. "For all your supposed training, you simply don't know
any better."
    Before he could think of a suitable response, Vor noticed the independent robot.
Garbed in opulent robes, Erasmus stood by a shallow pool, his oval face reflecting the
water. Raindrops fell from an opening cut through the glass ceiling, wetting him.
Classical music played a soothing melody in the background.
    Without announcing Vor's arrival, Serena left. Surprised by her rudeness, he stared
after her. He admired her face and amber-brown hair, as well as her bearing and
obvious intelligence. Her waist was thick, and he wondered if she was pregnant.
Paradoxically, her arrogance made her more captivating, the desirability of something
unattainable.
    Obviously, Serena Butler had not accepted her place as a household servant.
Considering the squalid lives of slaves in the unkempt pens behind the villa, what did
she have to complain about? It made no sense.
    'Outspoken, is she not?" said Erasmus, still standing in the rain. The robot shifted his
pliable face into a congenial smile.
    Standing away from the cool drizzle, Vor said, "I am surprised you tolerate her
annoying attitude."
    'Attitudes can be enlightening." Erasmus turned back to his study of the raindrops in
the reflecting pool. "I find her interesting. Refreshingly honest—much as you are." The
robot took a step toward him. "I have reached an impasse in my study of human
behavior because most of my subjects are drawn from docile captives who have been
bred to slavery. They have never known any life but one of service and subjugation, and
do not show any spark. They are sheep, while you, Vorian Atreides, are a wolf. And so
is this Serena Butler… in her own way."

    The visitor bowed, swelling with pride. "I am happy to assist you in any manner,
Erasmus."
    'I trust you enjoyed the coach ride? I breed the stallions and keep them groomed for
important occasions. You gave me an excuse to use them."
    'It was an unusual experience," Vor admitted. "A most… archaic mode of
transportation."
    'Come stand here in the rain with me." Erasmus beckoned with a synthetic hand. "It
is pleasant, I assure you."
    Vor stepped forward as he was told, trying not to show discomfort. The rain quickly
soaked his tunic, moistened his bare arms; water trickled from his clumped dark hair,
down his forehead and into his eyes. "Yes, Erasmus. It's… pleasant."
    The robot simulated a laugh. "You are lying."
    With good humor, Vor said, "It is what humans do best."
    Mercifully, the robot led them out of the rain. "Let us discuss Serena. She is
attractive, according to human standards of beauty, is she not?" Vor didn't know what
to say, but Erasmus pressed him, "I watched you with her. You would like to procreate
with that feral human, would you not? She is currently carrying the child of a hrethgir
lover, but we will have plenty of time. She is unlike any simple pleasure slave you have
been assigned?"
    Vor pondered the questions, wondering what the robot really wanted to know. "Well,
she is beautiful… and enticing."
    Erasmus made an artificial sound, something like a sigh. "Sadly, despite my
numerous sensitive upgrades, I remain unable to experience sexual activity, at least not
in the way a biological male does. I have spent centuries designing upgrades and
modifications that might replicate the sensations of ecstasy that even the lowliest
human can enjoy.
    Thus far, there has been little progress. My attempts with female slaves have been
alarmingly unsuccessful."
     Strolling along in his fine clothes, Erasmus gestured for Vor to follow him through
the greenhouse. As they walked down garden paths, the regal machine identified
various plants by name and origin, as if he were lecturing a child or bragging about his
knowledge. "Serena knows a great deal about plants herself. She was something of a
horticulturist on Salusa Secundus."
     Vor made polite responses, trying to guess how he could help the robot. He wiped
water from his eyes; his damp clothes felt clammy and unpleasant.
     Finally Erasmus explained why he had summoned the young trustee. "Vorian
Atreides, your father recently gave you a biological life-extension treatment." The
mechanical face shifted back to a smooth mirror, so as not to give Vor a clue about
what he wanted. "Tell me, how do you feel now that you have had centuries added to
your lifespan? Surely, it is a great gift from Agamemnon, as significant as his original
sperm donation."
     Before Vor could consider the question, Serena entered the greenhouse carrying a
silver tea set. She placed the tray with a rough clatter on a polished stone table and
poured dark liquid into two cups. She handed one to Vor and one to the robot. Erasmus
extruded a fibrous, feathery-tipped probe into the tea, as if tasting it. His mirrored mask
shifted into an expression of supreme pleasure. "Excellent, Serena. A remarkable and
interesting flavor!"
     Vor did not care for the taste himself; the tea reminded him of bitter chocolate
mixed with spoiled fruit juices. Serena seemed amused at his expression.
     'It is good?" Erasmus asked. "Serena prepared it especially for you. I let her choose
an appropriate recipe."
     'The flavor is… unique."
     The robot laughed. "You are lying again."
     'No, Erasmus. I am avoiding a direct response."
     Vor saw hostility in Serena's unusual eyes as she looked at him, and he wondered if
she had ruined the tea on purpose. Leaving the tray on the stone table, she departed,
saying, "Maybe I should attend a trustee school to learn how to be a better simpering
servant."
     Vor watched Serena, surprised that Erasmus ignored her rudeness. "It amuses me to
watch her attempts at resistance, Vorian. Harmless defiance. She knows she can never
escape." During a moment of silence, the robot continued to study him, "You did not
answer my question about the life extension."
     Now that he'd had time to ponder, Vor said, "Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about
it. My human body is fragile, easily damaged. Though I am still prone to accidents or
sickness, at least I will not grow old and weak." Vor thought about all the years
remaining to him, like credits to spend. He would live several human lifespans, but
becoming a cymek would be so much more important. "Even so, my extra years are
only the blink of an eye compared to the life of a thinking machine such as yourself."
     'Yes, the blink of an eye, an involuntary human reflex I can understand physically
and conceptually. You use it as an inexact metaphor to indicate a brief period of time."
     Noticing watcheye screens on the greenhouse walls, Vor realized that the evermind
must be eavesdropping. "Are you always this curious?"
   'Curiosity is how one learns," Erasmus said. "I inquire because I am inquisitive. That
makes sense, does it not? Enlighten me. I would like to speak with you again. You—and
Serena—can give me an interesting perspective."

     Vor bowed. "As you wish, Erasmus. However, I must coordinate such visits with my
important work for Omnius. Soon the Dream Voyager will be repaired and ready to
depart on another update run."
     'Yes, we all work for Omnius." Erasmus paused. Overhead, through the murky
ceiling of the greenhouse, the rain had stopped, leaving patchy openings of blue sky.
"Think more about mortality and longevity. Come and speak to me again before
departing on your next voyage."
     'I will seek permission to do so, Erasmus."
     INTRIGUED BY THE fascinating interplay between the two humans, Erasmus
summoned Serena again and commanded her to escort their guest back to his coach.
She had been outwardly hostile to this son of Agamemnon, while he was clearly
interested in her… physically?…
     mentally? And how could one tell the difference? Another experiment, perhaps?
     Even though they had exchanged few words, Vorian found his imagination filled with
this young woman. He had never met a female like her, with such self-confident beauty,
intelligence, and willingness to speak her mind. Obviously Serena Butler had been raised
to value herself as an individual—much as Erasmus worked hard to perfect his own
independence.

    Reaching the outer doorway of the villa, the young man blurted, "When is your baby
due?" At the coach, the horses seemed anxious to be off. The uniformed robot driver
sat like a statue.
    Serena's eyes widened with annoyance. She was about to retort that it was none of
his business, but she stopped short. Perhaps Vorian Atrei-des was just the opportunity
she had been hoping for. He had information that might help her escape, and he had
the trust of the machines. It would be foolish to alienate him from the outset. If she
befriended him instead, might she not be able to show him what a free human being
could be?
    She drew a deep breath and smiled uncertainly. "I'm not prepared to discuss my
baby with a complete stranger. But maybe next time you come, we could talk. That
might be a place to start." There. She had done it.
    With that, she went inside the villa and carefully shut the door behind her.
    As she watched the coach from the portico of the towering villa, Serena Butler felt
uncertain and confused about this deluded man who so proudly served the machines.
She didn't like him, wasn't sure she could ever trust him. But perhaps he could be
helpful.
    Feeling uneasy, and damp from the rain and mist in the outside air, she hurried back
inside to dry herself and change her clothes. With the precious baby growing inside her
womb, six months along now, she thought of her beloved Xavier. Could Vorian help her
return to him, or would her child grow up in captivity, never to know its father?
   Of all the subjects of human behavior, two are most storied: warfare and lone.
   —COGITOR EKLO,

     Ruminations on Things Lost he tragic loss of Serena had left Xavier off course, strug-
Jl gling to regain the momentum of his life. Three months earlier, he had seen the
wreckage of her blockade runner floating in the seas of Giedi Prime, and had read the
indisputable DNA analysis of the blood samples found inside.
     He did not claim to understand his feelings, and avoided them by letting his work
consume him. At first he had wanted to fling himself recklessly at another machine
stronghold, but Serena would have scolded him for that. The thought of her disapproval
was the only thing that had stopped him.
     She had died fighting the inhuman enemy. Xavier needed an anchor to grasp, some
form of stability before moving on. For the sake of her memory, the struggle must
continue until every thinking machine had been destroyed.
     Xavier's mind drifted to Octa, the haunting reminder of her sister. Lovely in her own
right, she was sensitive and introspective, rather than the goal-driven crusader Serena
had been. Still, in subtle ways, the willowy girl reminded him achingly of Serena, in the
shape of her mouth and the gentle smile. It was like the echo of a pleasant memory.
Xavier found himself torn between staring longingly at Octa and avoiding her entirely.
     She was there to comfort him when he grieved, gave him space when he needed it,
and cheered him when he wanted that. Quietly and gently, Octa was filling a void in his
life. Although their relationship remained tranquil and unremarkable, she showed him
attentive love. Where Serena had been a storm of emotions, her sister was steady and
predictable.
     One day, on an impulse driven more by grief and longing than common sense,
Xavier asked Octa to become his wife. She had looked at him with wide eyes,
astonished. "I am afraid to move, Xavier, to utter a sound, because I must be
dreaming."
     He had worn his clean and pressed Armada uniform bearing his new rank insignia as
Segundo. Xavier stood straight, his hands clasped, as if addressing a superior officer,
rather than asking Octa to join him as his life mate. He had always known that Serena's
sister had a girlish, unrealistic infatuation with him, and now he hoped it could grow into
genuine love.
     'In choosing you to marry me, dear Octa, I can think of no braver way to march
forward into the future. It is our best chance to honor Serena's memory."
     The words sounded like a formal speech, but Octa flushed as if they were a magical
incantation. Aware that this was the wrong reason to betroth himself to her, Xavier tried
to dispel the uneasiness. He had made up his mind and hoped that they could soothe
each others' wounds.
     Both Manion and Livia Butler accepted and encouraged the shifting of Xavier's
affections; they even rushed the nuptials. Now the bridge across an emotional chasm
had been severed, and they believed the match with Octa would benefit all of them.
     On the day of his wedding, Xavier searched for an inner peace, doing his best to lock
away the portion of his heart that would always belong to Serena. He still longed for the
peal of her laugh, for her outspokenness, for the electric touch of her skin. Taking a few
private moments, he reviewed his favorite memories of her one by one in his mind, and
then, tearfully, set them aside.
     From now on, gentle Octa would be his wife. He would not hurt the already-fragile
girl by wallowing in regrets, or by comparing her to her sister. That would be dishonest
and unfair to her.
     A number of League representatives had gathered at the hilltop Butler estate, where
seven months earlier Xavier and Serena had participated in the raucous bristleback
hunt. Nearby, in the courtyard, they had held the gala betrothal celebration filled with
music and dancing—but ending with the terrible news of Giedi Prime's fall.

     At Xavier's insistence, the wedding took place inside a new pavilion with vistas of
vineyards and olive groves. The fabric structure was so resplendent and intricate in its
workmanship that it cost more than a modest house. Out in front, three large banners
fluttered in a gentle breeze, designating the households of Butler and Harkonnen, and
of Tantor, Xavier's adoptive family. In the valley below, the white buildings of Zimia
shone in sunlight, with wide avenues and large administration complexes refurbished in
the fourteen months since the cymek attack.
     The ceremony was small and somber, despite the guests' pretenses and Manion
Butler's insistent merriment. New memories would supplant the old ones. Smiling as he
had not done in months, the Viceroy strutted from guest to guest under the colorful
awnings, tasting punch recipes and sampling the cornucopia of cheeses and wines.
     The silent bride and groom stood by a small altar at the front of the crowded tent,
holding hands. Dressed in the pale-blue gown of traditional Salusan weddings, Octa
looked ethereal, lovely and fragile beside him. Her strawberry-blond hair was held neatly
in place with pearl-head pins.
     Some would say this rushed marriage to Serena's sister was a reaction to Xavier's
grief, but he knew he was taking the honorable course. He reminded himself a thousand
times that Serena would have approved. Together, he and Octa would bring closure to
so much pain and sadness.
     Inside the flower-decked pavilion stood Abbess Livia Butler, her amber-brown hair
highlighted by sparkling golden strands. She had come from the City of Introspection to
perform the ceremony. Confident and proud, as if she had purged all doubts and sorrow
from her mind, Livia looked at the bride and groom, then smiled at her husband. Man-
ion Butler barely fit into his red and gold tuxedo. Soft flesh poked out at the neck and at
the ends of the sleeves.
     A group of players began to strum their balisets. A boy with a sweet tenor voice
sang slowly. Beside Xavier, Octa seemed to be in her own dreamy world, not quite
certain how to react to the turn of circumstances. She squeezed his hand, and he raised
it to his lips and kissed it.
     Ever since the death of her twin brother Fredo, Octa had developed an ability to shut
things out, never overwhelming herself with large-scale concerns but instead preferring
smaller tableaux. Such a limited focus might permit her to be happy, and Xavier, too.
     Tears glistening in his expressive eyes, Viceroy Butler stepped forward to clasp their
hands. After a long moment he turned solemnly to his wife, and nodded. Abbess Livia
began to intone the ceremony. "We are here to sing a song of love, a song that has
joined men and women since the earliest days of civilization."
    As Octa smiled up at Xavier, he could almost imagine she was Serena, but he drove
the troubling image away. He and Octa loved each other in a different way. Their bond
grew stronger each time he held her in his arms. Xavier had only to accept the warmth
that she readily bestowed on him.
    Before them, Livia spoke the traditional words, the roots of which extended back to
the Panchristian and Buddislamic texts of ancient times. The lilting phrases were
beautiful, and Xavier's mind kept expanding outward, thinking forward and backward.
The words were infinitely calm and reassuring as Abbess Livia guided the young couple
through their vows.
    Soon everything necessary had been said. As he shared the ritual of love and placed
a ring on Octa's finger, Xavier Harkonnen pledged his eternal devotion to her. Not even
the thinking machines could tear this relationship apart.
   Talk is based on the assumption that you can get somewhere if you keep putting
one word after another.
   — IBLIS GINJO, notes in the margin of a stolen notebook

    Ajax strode his intimidating walker-form into the Forum Plaza, inspecting every
operation, searching for flaws. With his array of optic threads, the Titan scanned the
polished colossus that showed his long-forgotten human form. Ajax was frustrated that
Iblis Ginjo had maintained such a careful watch that he could find no excuse to impose
amusing punishments…
    In turmoil, Iblis watched for an opportunity of his own. His imagination kept
returning to the remarkable things he had learned from the Cogitor Eklo, especially
details of the glorious failure of the Hrethgir Rebellions. Ajax personified the brutality
and pain of those long-ago battles.
    Could the Cogitor help Iblis to spread the quiet fires of a brewing revolution? They
could learn from the mistakes of the past attempts. Had there ever been a rebel of
trustee stature, like Iblis? And how could the secondary Aquim assist him?
    Despite his subtle investigations, his ability to manipulate conversations and make
others unwittingly divulge their secrets, Iblis had not yet found evidence of other
resistance groups. Perhaps their leadership was scattered, disorganized, weak. Who had
sent him the secret messages—five in the past three months?

   The lack of evidence frustrated Iblis, because he wanted to push the uprising
forward, now that he had made up his mind. On the other hand, if the dissenters were
too easily found, they would have no chance against the organized thinking machines.
   After pushing his slaves particularly hard and finishing his assigned labors, Iblis
asked to take another pilgrimage to Eklo's stone tower. Only the Cogitor could give him
the answers he needed. When he spoke with the administrative cymek Dante, showing
records that demonstrated his productivity and efficiency, the Titan bureaucrat granted
him permission to leave the city grid. Dante made it clear, however, that he didn't
understand why a mere work supervisor would be interested in nonproductive
philosophical issues. It seemed to go beyond the interests of most trustees. "It will not
benefit you."
    'I'm sure you are right, Lord Dante… but it amuses me."
    Setting out before dawn, Iblis urged the smelly burrhorse into the rocky desert and
up the slopes to the monastery. Aquim awaited him at the steep circular stairs to the
tower, again looking disheveled and somewhat dazed from semuta. From the first time
Iblis had immersed his hand in electrafluid and touched the Cogitor's thoughts, he could
not imagine why Aquim wanted to dull his perceptions. Perhaps the complex
enlightened thoughts of Eklo were so vast and overwhelming that the big-shouldered
secondary needed to dampen the flood of confusing revelations.
    'I see you look at me with disapproval," Aquim said, peering out through slitted
eyelids.
    'Oh no," Iblis said. Then, realizing he could not get away with lying, he said, "I was
just noticing that you enjoy your semuta."
    The big man smiled and spoke in a voice that slurred slightly. "To an outsider, it may
appear that I have deadened my senses, but semuta permits me to forget my own
destructive past, before I was inspired to join Cogitor Eklo. It also enables me to focus
on what is really important, ignoring the sensual distractions of the flesh."
    'I can't picture you as a destructive man."
    'Oh, but I was. My father fought against enslavement and died in the attempt.
Afterward, I sought revenge against the machines, and I was good at it. I led a small
band of men, and we… damaged some robots. I am sorry to say that we also killed a
number of trustee slaves who got in our way, men such as yourself. Then Eklo arranged
for my rescue, and for my rehabilitation of sorts. He never told me why he sought me
out, or how he made the arrangements. There are many things the Cogitor does not
reveal to anyone, not even to me."
    Abruptly, the monk turned and plodded unsteadily up the stairs, leading Iblis to the
chamber where the Cogitor lived in a state of eternal contemplation. Standing in the
tower room with the color-bathed observation windows, Aquim said, "Eklo has
considered your situation at length. Long ago he watched the changes in humanity after
the Titans crushed the Old Empire, but he did nothing. Eklo thought the challenge and
adversity would improve the human race by strengthening their minds, forcing them out
of their sleepwalking existence."
    The monk wiped a stain from the corner of his mouth. "By separating their minds
from their bodies, the cymek Titans could have become enlightened, like Cogitors. That
was Eklo's hope when he assisted Juno. But the Titans never rose above their animal
flaws. This weakness enabled Omnius to conquer them, and humanity." Aquim stepped
toward the translucent brain canister resting on a window shelf. "Eklo believes you may
be able to institute a change."
    Iblis's heart leaped. "Nothing is impossible." But he knew he could not fight the
machines by himself, would need to find others to help him. Many others.
    Before the transparent window, Eklo's plexiplaz container glistened in a wash of
golden morning sunlight. In the distance, Iblis could see the unending skyline of
megaliths and monuments designed by the cy-meks and built with human sweat and
blood. Do I really want to see them all crumble to dust?
     The crew boss hesitated as he considered the consequences, remem-bering the
billions of victims of the Hrethgir Rebellions on Walgis and other worlds. Then he sensed
an intrusion into his thoughts, something bumping against them.
     Aquim removed the covering of the Cogitor's canister, exposing the nutrient fluid
that supported the ancient mind. "Come, Eklo wishes to make direct contact with you."
     The tank's nutrient solution was like amniotic fluid, tingling with immeasurable
mental energy. Tentative, fighting his eagerness to know and learn, Iblis dipped his
fingers into the electrafluid, touching the slippery surface of Eklo's brain and unlocking
all the thoughts the Cogitor wanted to give him.
     Aquim stood to one side with a strange expression on his face, part beatific
complacence, part envy.
     'Neutrality is a delicate balancing act," Eklo said directly into Iblis's mind, through the
neurelectric contact promulgated by the organic circuitry. "Long ago, I answered Juno's
many questions about how to overthrow the Old Empire. My unbiased answers and
advice allowed the Titans to formulate successful plans, and the course of the human
race was forever changed. For many centuries I reconsidered what I did." The brain
seemed to press against Iblis's fingertips. "It is essential for all Cogitors to maintain
absolute neutrality. We must be objective."
     Puzzled, Iblis said, "Then why are you speaking to me? Why have you raised the
possibility that the machines might be overthrown?"
     'In order to reestablish the balance of neutrality," Eklo said. "Once, I inadvertently
assisted the Titans, so I must now answer your questions with the same objectivity. In
the final analysis, I will have maintained equilibrium."
     Iblis swallowed hard. "Then you have foreseen where it all ends?" "There are
endings all around us, and beginnings. You alone can decide where you are on the
path."
     As Iblis's thoughts spun, searching for useful questions about machine weaknesses
and vulnerabilities, Eklo intruded, "I cannot provide concrete military or political details,
but if you phrase your questions cleverly enough, as Juno did, then you shall have what
you need. The art of cleverness is a prime lesson of life. You must outwit the machines,
Iblis Ginjo."
     For more than an hour, Eklo guided Iblis. "I have considered this problem for many
centuries, long before you came to me. And if you do not succeed, I shall consider it
even longer." "But I can't fail. I must succeed."
     'It will take more than desire on your part. You must tap into the deepest emotions
of the masses." Eklo fell silent for several moments.
     Iblis struggled to comprehend, trying to stretch his thoughts. "Love, hate, fear? Is
that what you mean?" "They are components, yes." "Components?" "Of religion. The
machines are very powerful, and it will take more than a mere political or social uprising
to defeat them. The people must coalesce around a powerful idea that goes even
deeper, into the very essence of their existence, what it means to be human. You must
be more than a trustee, but a visionary leader. Slaves need to rise up in a great holy
war against the machines, an unstoppable jihad to overthrow their masters."
    'A holy war? A jihad? But how can I do that?" "I tell you only what I sense, Iblis
Ginjo, what I have thought and envisioned. You must go out and discover the rest of
the answers for yourself. But know this: Of all human wars in history, a jihad is the most
passionate, conquering worlds and civilizations, mowing down everything in its path."
    'And the people sending me messages—how do they fit into this?" "I know nothing
of them," Eklo said, "and I do not see them in any of my visions. Perhaps you have
been specially chosen, or it might be nothing but a ruse or a trap by the machines." The
Cogitor fell silent, then said, "Now I must ask you to leave, for my mind is tired and I
need to rest."

    When Iblis departed from the imposing stone tower, he felt a strange mixture of
exhilaration and confusion. He needed to organize the information into a comprehensive
plan. Though he was not a holy man or a military person, he did understand how to
manipulate groups of people, how to channel their loyalties in order to achieve his
goals. Already, his work crews would do almost anything for him. His leadership abilities
would be his greatest asset, and weapon. But the scale was not large enough. It needed
to be much larger than a few hundred people in order to succeed.
    And he needed to be very careful, in case the thinking machines were trying to trap
him.
    WITH ACCESS TO Omnius's watcheyes and distributed surveillance hardware,
Erasmus monitored the activities of his experimental subjects. Many loyal trustees had
ignored the hints he had sent to them; others had been too frightened to act. But some
had shown an amusing amount of initiative.
    Yes, Erasmus felt that Iblis Ginjo was a perfect candidate to prove his point, and win
the bet with Omnius.
    'Systematic" is a dangerous word, a dangerous concept. Systems originate with their
human creators. Systems take over.
    —TIO HOLTZMAN, acceptance speech for Poritrin Medal of Glory

    As he sat in the crowded room of equation solvers, Ish-mael scrutinized the
furnishings of Savant Holtzman's estate, smelled polishing oils, flower bouquets,
perfumed candles. This place was clean, comfortable, and warm… far more pleasant
than the slave barracks on the muddy river delta.
    The boy should have counted his blessings.
    But this unwelcome place was not Harmonthep. He missed his small boat, navigating
through rivulets in the tall reeds. He especially missed the evenings, when the Zensunni
would gather in the central hut on the highest stilts to tell stories, recite fire poetry, or
simply listen to his grandfather read comforting sutras.
    'I hate this place," Alüd said beside him, speaking loudly enough that he drew a
scolding glare from Tio Holtzman himself.
    'Perhaps you would rather return to the mudflats or the agricultural fields?"
    Alüd frowned at his own outburst, but met the scientist's steady gaze. "I hated those
places too," he mumbled, but not by way of apology.
    All work stopped. All eyes were fixed on him.
    Holtzman shook his head in disbelief. "I simply do not understand why you people
complain about everything. I feed and clothe you, I give you easy assignments that
advance the cause of humanity—and still you want to crawl back to squalid villages and
live in disease and filth."

     The inventor looked genuinely angry. "Don't you understand that thinking machines
are out there trying to crush every living person? Just imagine all the humans they
slaughtered on Giedi Prime, and no one could stop them! Omnius doesn't care about
your religion or your foolish politics against civilization. If they find your little hovels,
they will destroy them, burn them to the ground."
     Just like the Tlulaxa slavers did to my village, Ishmael thought. He saw Alüd's dark
eyes flash and knew that his friend was thinking the same thing.
     Holtzman shook his head. "You fanatics have no sense of responsibility. Luckily, it is
my job to force it on you." He went back to his scribing board, angrily jabbed his fingers
at the symbols. "Here are segments of equations. I need you to solve them. Simple
mathematics. Try to go through the steps I showed you." His gaze narrowed. "Each
correct answer will earn one full share of daily rations. If you make mistakes, you go
hungry."
     With a heavy heart, Ishmael turned to the papers and computational devices before
him, doing his best to follow the supposedly simple calculations.
     On Harmonthep, all the children in the marsh village had received a basic education
in mathematics, science, and engineering. The elders felt that such knowledge would be
important for them, when their civilization rose again and the faithful constructed great
cities like those in Zensunni lore. Ishmael's grandfather, like many village elders, also
spent time instructing the young people in the sutras, in logical and philosophical
conundrums that only the tenets of Buddislam could solve.
     On Alüd's home of IV Anbus, the closely orbiting moons changed the seasons
dramatically, causing the planet to oscillate. Thus, the boy had been taught a different
branch of mathematics and astronomy, because the ever-varying calendar affected the
floods that roared through polished red rock gorges, where the Zenshüte cities had
been erected. Flood management workers required sophisticated calculations to
understand the variances. Alüd had learned the techniques in order to help his own
people. Here, though, he was forced to assist the overlords who had enslaved him, and
he resented it.
     Alüd's first assignment on Poritrin had been to work the cane harvest. He had
labored for weeks hacking at tall reeds, from which sweet juices were turned into sugars
or distilled into Poritrin rum. The fibrous cane residue was used to make Poritrin cloth.
He had wielded a sharp scythe, chopping down woody stalks that splattered sticky
syrups. The stalks were harvested after heavy rains when they were most laden with
juices, and heaviest to carry.
     Toward the end of the cutting season, their master had delivered them all to the
slave markets in Starda, after accusing them of starting a suspicious fire in the cane
silos and destroying half a season's crop. Alüd told Ishmael of this with a lilting smile,
but never confessed to having participated in any outright sabotage.
    Now, Ishmael bent over his calculations, checking and rechecking his math by sliding
bars and moving counters on the calculation device. Already his stomach was growling,
since Holtzman—angry about the many mistakes committed the previous day—had
vowed not to feed the solvers until they proved they could do the work. Most of the
slaves grudgingly completed their assignments properly.

    Several days later, after the new solvers had adequately performed their exercises,
Holtzman gave them real work. At first, the inventor let them believe it was merely
another test. Ishmael could tell from his expression and agitation, though, that he was
counting on these results rather than simply putting the crew through their paces.
    Alüd worked diligently, but Ishmael noted from his expression that he had
something devious in mind. Ishmael wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was.
    After they had worked on numerical simulations for several more days, Alüd finally
leaned over to Ishmael. "Now it is time to make a few subtle changes," he said,
grinning. "Small enough that no one will notice."
    'We can't do that," Ishmael said. "They'll catch us."
    The dark-haired boy gave an impatient frown. "Holtzman has already checked our
work, so he's not going to redo all the math. Now that he trusts us, he can focus on
some other scheme. This is our only chance to get even. Think of all we've suffered."
    Ishmael could not disagree, and after having heard Bel Moulay's talk of bloody
rebellion, this seemed like a better way to express their displeasure.
    'Look." Alüd pointed at the string of equations, and with his stylus made a tiny mark,
changing a minus sign to a plus sign, and then moved a decimal point to a different part
of the equation. "Simple enough mistakes, easily excused, but they will yield
dramatically different results."
    Ishmael was uneasy. "I understand how it could harm Holtzman's inventions, but I
do not see how this will assist us. I'm more concerned with seeing that we go back
home."
    Alüd looked at him. "Ishmael, you know the sutras as well as I, perhaps better. Have
you forgotten the one that says, 'When you help your enemy, you harm all the
faithful'?"
    Ishmael had heard his grandfather utter the phrase, but never before had it meant
as much to him. "All right. But nothing that can appear deliberate."
    'If I understand anything about this work," Alüd said, "even a small miscalculation
will cause plenty of damage."
    PSYCHOLOGY: The science of inventing worth for things that do not exist.
    —ERASMUS, Reflections on Sentient Biologicals

    In the sunny botanical garden of the robot's grandiose villa, Serena Butler snipped
dead flowers and leaves, tending plants in their beds and planters. Silently resistant,
biding her time, Serena performed her daily tasks like any other slave, but always
Erasmus watched her as if she were a pet. He was her captor and jailor.
    She wore black coveralls, her long, amber brown hair tied back in a ponytail. The
work allowed her to think of Xavier, of the promises they had exchanged, of making
love in the meadow after the bristleback attack, and again in her plush bed on the night
before she had slipped off to Giedi Prime.
    Each morning Serena went to the robot's flower beds, glad for the chance to think
undisturbed about getting away from Earth. Day after day, she kept her eyes open for
some way to escape—the obstacles seemed insurmountable—or a means to cause
significant harm to the thinking machines, despite the fact that sabotage would
undoubtedly cost her life, and her unborn baby's. Could she do that to Xavier?

    She couldn't imagine the grief he must be going through. Somehow she would find a
way back to him. She owed it to him, to herself, and to their baby. She had hoped to
have
    Xavier hold her hand as she delivered their child. He should have been her husband
by now, their lives intertwined in a union stronger than the sum of their individualities, a
bastion to stand against the thinking machines.
    He didn't even know she was still alive.
    She stroked her curved belly. Serena felt the child growing within her and was filled
with foreboding. Two more months and the baby was due—what did Erasmus mean to
do, once the child was born? She had seen the locked doors to the ominous
laboratories, had looked with revulsion and horror at the filthy slave pens. And yet, the
robot kept her busy with flowers. Erasmus often stood motionless beside her as she
worked, his oval face unreadable as he challenged her to debates. "Understanding starts
at the beginning," he had said. "I must build a foundation before I can comprehend
everything."

     'But how will you use that knowledge?" She yanked out a weed. "Will you think of
more extravagant ways to inflict misery and pain?" The robot paused, his burnished face
a mirror that reflected a distorted image of her own face. "That is… not my objective."
     'Then why do you keep so many slaves in such terrible conditions? If you don't
intend to cause misery, why not give them a clean place to live? Why not provide them
with better food, education, and care?" "It is not necessary."
     'Maybe not to you," she said, surprised at her boldness. "But they would be happier
and able to do better work."
     Serena had watched how Erasmus lived in magnificent luxury—an affectation, since
no robot could require such things—yet the household slaves, especially those in the
horrible communal pens, existed in filth and fear. Whether or not she remained a
captive here, she might be able to improve their lot. If nothing else, she would consider
it a victory against the machines.

   She continued, "It would take a truly… sophisticated thinking machine to understand
that improving the slaves' quality of life would improve their productivity, and thus
benefit their master as well. The slaves could clean and maintain their own pens if they
had the most minor supplies."
   'I will consider it. Provide me with a detailed list."
    Then, after giving him her suggestions, Serena had not seen the robot for two days.
Machine sentinels tended the workers in the villa, while Erasmus himself vanished into
his laboratories.
    She could hear nothing through the soundproofed barriers, though the foul odors
and disappearing people left her wondering. Finally, another slave told her, "You don't
want to know what goes on in there. Just be thankful you aren't required to clean up
afterward."
    Now, Serena worked her hands in the loamy earth while listening to the soothing
classical music that Erasmus constantly played. Her back ached and her joints swelled
from the advancing pregnancy, but she did not slacken her efforts.
    Erasmus approached so silently that she did not notice him until she looked up from
her plants to see his mirror-smooth face nested in a frilly antique collar. She stood
quickly to hide her startled reaction and wiped her hands on her coveralls. "Do you learn
more by spying on me?"
    'I can spy on you anytime I like. I learn a great deal from the questions I ask." His
shifting metallic-polymer film changed his face into a frozen expression of dancing
mirth. "Now, I would like you to select the flower you consider the most beautiful of all.
I am curious to see your response."
    Erasmus had played such games before. He seemed unable to understand subjective
decisions, wishing to quantify matters of opinion and personal taste. "Each plant is
beautiful in its own way," she said.
    'Nevertheless, choose one. Then explain your choice to me."
    She wandered down the dirt paths, looking from side to side. Erasmus followed her,
recording every time she hesitated at a blossom.
    'There are observable characteristics, such as color, shape, and delicacy," the robot
said, "and more esoteric variables such as the perfume scent."
    'Don't overlook the emotional component." Wistfulness tinged her voice. "Some of
these plants remind me of my home on Salusa Secundus. Certain flowers might have a
greater sentimental value for me, though not necessarily for anyone else. Maybe I
remember a time when the man I love gave me a bouquet. You wouldn't understand
such associations, however."
    'You are stalling. Make your selection."
    She pointed to an immense elephant flower with bright streaks of shimmering
orange and red, highlighted by a horn-shaped stigma at the center. "Right now, this one
is the most beautiful."
    'Why?"
    'My mother used to grow these at our home. As a child, I never thought them
particularly pretty, but now they are a reminder of the happier days—before I met you."
She immediately regretted her honesty, because it revealed too much about her private
thoughts.

    'Very good, very good." The cognizant machine ignored her insult and stared at the
elephant flower, as if analyzing all aspects with his full set of sensor capabilities. Like a
wine connoisseu1' he tried to describe the merits of its scent, but to Serena his analysis
sounded clinical, lack' ing the subtleties and emotional layering that had prompted her
own selection.
    Strangest of all, Erasmus seemed aware of his own failing. "I know that humans are
in some ways more sensitive than machines—for now. However, machines have more
potential to become superior in every area. This is why I wish to understand all aspects
of sentient biological life."

    With an involuntary shudder, Serena thought of his sealed laboratories, and knew
from every indication that his secret activities went far beyond the study of beautiful
flowers.
    Erasmus assumed she was interested in his observations. "If properly developed, a
thinking machine could be more perfect intellectually, creatively, and spiritually than a
human could ever hope to be, with unparalleled mental freedom and range. I am
inspired by the marvels we could accomplish, if only Omnius did not exert such pressure
on other machines to conform."
    Serena listened, hoping he would let more information slip. Did she sense a potential
conflict between Erasmus and the computer evermind?
    The robot continued, "Capacity for information is the key. Machines will absorb not
only more raw data, but more feelings, as soon as we understand them. When that
happens we will be able to love and hate far more passionately than humans. Our music
will be greater, our paintings more magnificent. Once we achieve complete self-
awareness, thinking machines will create the greatest renaissance in history."
    Serena frowned at his assertions. "You can keep improving yourself, Erasmus, but
we human beings use only small portions of our brains. We have an enormous potential
to develop new abilities. Your capacity for learning is no greater than ours."
    The robot froze in place, as if startled. "Quite right. How could I
    have missed that important detail?" His face shifted, becoming passive and
contemplative, then metamorphosed into a broad smile. "The road to improvement will
be a long one. This will require more investigation."
    Abruptly he changed the subject, as if to emphasize her vulnerability. "What about
your baby? Tell me the emotions you feel toward its father and describe the physical act
of copulation."
    Trying to stop the flood of painful recollections, Serena remained silent. Erasmus
found her reluctance fascinating. "And are you physically attracted to Vorian Atreides? I
have run tests on the handsome young man—he is fine breeding stock. After your
pregnancy is finished, would you like to mate with him?"

   Serena took an agitated breath, fixing her mind on memories of Xa-vier. "Mate?
Regardless of how much you study us, there are many things your machine brain will
never understand about human nature."
   'We shall see about that," he said, calmly.
   Consciousness and iogic are not reliable standards.
   —COGITORS,

   Fundamental Postulate
     A linked cluster of robot drones scuttled over the Dream Voyager's hull as the craft
sat in a drydock structure that spanned an artificial crater on the spaceport grounds.
Tiny machines crawled into exhaust ports and scoured the reactor chambers, a
coordinated army of maintenance units repairing the damage inflicted by the League
Armada.
     Vor and Seurat stood on a platform looking at the drones, confident that the repairs
would be completed according to programmed specifications. "Soon, we will be able to
depart," the robot captain said. "You must be anxious for me to defeat you again in our
war games."
     'And you must be anxious to tell more jokes that I will not find amusing," Vor
countered.
     He did feel restless to be back aboard the Dream Voyager, but Vor also had a
different sort of impatience, an ache in his chest that grew worse every time he thought
of Erasmus's beautiful house slave. Despite Serena Butler's complete dismissal of him,
he could not stop thinking about her.
     Worst of all, he did not understand why. Because of his paternal ties, Vor Atreides
had enjoyed numerous pleasure slaves, some as lovely as this one. They had been bred
and trained for their duties, and lived in captivity among the thinking machines. But the
female house slave of Erasmus, despite having been brought to the robot's villa against
her will, gave no impression that she was defeated.
     Vor could see her face, the fullness of her lips, the penetrating gaze of her lavender
eyes as she looked at him with displeasure. Even though her pregnancy showed, he was
still drawn to her, and felt a strange simmering jealousy. Where was her lover? Who
was he?
     When Vor returned to Erasmus's villa, she would undoubtedly ignore or insult him
again. Nonetheless, he looked forward to seeing her before he and Seurat departed on
another long update run. He practiced what he might say to her, but even in his
imagination she could dance circles around him with her wit.
     Vor climbed a ladder on the drydock framework and crawled into a narrow interior
wall space, where he watched a maintenance drone lay down new webs of liquid
circuitry for the main navigation panel. The scarlet drone worked efficiently with its
built-in tools. Vor inched deeper into the confined area and peered at the open panel,
noting the dizzying pattern of colored components.
     'You will be disappointed if you expect to catch it making a mistake," Seurat said
from behind him. "Or are you attempting your frequently threatened sabotage again?"
     'I am a dirty hrethgir. You can never tell what I might do, old Metalmind."
     'The fact that you do not laugh at my jokes indicates that you have insufficient
intelligence to institute such a devious plan, Vorian Atreides."
     'Maybe you're just not funny."
     Unfortunately, banter and repair activities did not distract Vor from thoughts of
Serena. He felt like a giddy boy, exhilarated and confused at the same time. He wanted
to talk to someone about his feelings, but not his robot friend, who had even less
understanding of women than Vor did.
     Rather, he needed to talk with Serena. Perhaps with her insight and intelligence, she
had seen through him and didn't like what she saw. She had called him "a kept slave
who cannot see his chains." A baffling insult, considering all the privilege in his life. He
had no idea what she meant.
     The repair drone finished tracing the high-flux paths of an electronic module, then
switched tools to tune a data-collection port. The machine's slender arm extruded
farther out so it could interface with an adjustment pad deep inside the panel.
     Standing inside the Dream Voyager's cockpit, Seurat powered up the ship's primary
controls, using built-in diagnostics to verify the navsys-tems. "I have discovered an
interesting shortcut to our second stop on the update route. Unfortunately, it entails
flying directly through a blue-giant star."
     'In that case, I'd advise a different route," Vor said.
     'I concur, though I dislike wasting time."
     He wondered what would happen to Serena when the baby was born. Would
Erasmus assign it to the slave pens to keep it from interfering with Serena's duties? For
the first time in his life, Vor found himself empathizing with a captive human.
     As a valued trustee, he had always considered himself part of the Synchronized
Worlds, and he looked forward to becoming a neo-cymek someday. He believed that
Omnius ruled humans for their own good; otherwise, the galaxy would crumble into
unguided chaos.
     He was accustomed to situations where one party was dominant and the other
submissive. For the first time he wondered if there could be other types of relationships,
on an equal, cooperative basis. The robot captain of the Dream Voyager was clearly
Vorian's master, but they had a productive partnership.
     Vor wondered if he and Serena could go a step further and form a relationship in
which the two of them treated each other with complete equality. It was a radical
concept, one that jarred his sensibilities. And yet, he didn't think she would accept
anything less.
     Wedged into a narrow space behind the bulkhead and the navigation panel, the
maintenance drone made odd sounds, signaling to itself in staticky gibberish, repeating
test connections over and over.
     With a sigh, Vor said to the drone, "Here, let me try that tool."
     The drone spun toward him and surrendered the diagnostic probe, but part of its
metal-film extensions crossed a connection in the exposed circuit field, and a hot jolt of
electricity struck like a hammer. It squealed. The stench of melted circuits and fused
hydraulics curled up from the now-ruined system panel.
     Vorian scrambled out of the confined space, then wiped a hand across his forehead.
Seurat scanned the damaged drone and the blackened components of the ship's
navsystem. "It is my expert assessment that we need to perform a bit more
maintenance here."
     When Vor laughed at the comment, Seurat was surprised. "Why do you find that
funny?"
     'Never ask someone to explain humor, Seurat. Just accept the laughter."
    After shutting down the power supply, Vor removed the blistered, malfunctioning
drone and dropped it with a clatter onto the deck. These units were expendable. Seurat
transmitted a request for a new drone.
    While they waited for the repairs to continue, Vor shored up his resolve. Collecting
his questions, he mentioned the quandary of his feelings. Perhaps something in the
robot's database would be useful.
    Embedded in his smooth face, the robot's optic threads twinkled like tiny suns. "I do
not understand your problem," Seurat said while he uploaded a diagnostic summary
from one of the ship's databanks. "You have appropriate standing among the thinking
machines. Submit a request to Erasmus."
    Vor was exasperated. "It's not like that, Seurat. Even if Erasmus transfers Serena to
me… what if she refuses me?"
    'Then widen your search. You make this unnecessarily difficult. Among the human
candidates on Earth, you will easily find a compatible female, even one with features
similar to this particular slave, if you value her physical attributes so much."
    Vor wished he had never brought up the subject. "Thinking machines can be utterly
stupid at times."
    'You have never expressed such emotions to me before."
    'That's because I never felt this way before."
    Seurat froze in place. "I am intellectually aware of the human biological imperative
to mate and reproduce. I am familiar with the physical differences between men and
women, and of the hormonal urges you have. Given acceptable genetics, most female
reproductive systems are essentially the same. Why should this Serena be more
desirable than any other?"
    'I could never explain it to you, old Metalmind," Vor said, as he looked through a
porthole and watched another drone marching across the drydock platform toward the
ship. "I can't even explain it to myself."
    'I hope you figure it out soon. I cannot afford to keep replacing maintenance
drones."
   Often people die because they are too cowardly to live.
   —TLALOC, A Time for Titans

    BMWWWM
    he blistering sun of Arrakis shone overhead, creating few It shadows around the
monster and its confident rider. For this day's antics, Selim was delighted that he had
called up his largest sandworm yet.
    Naib Dhartha would be terrified—or at the very least impressed. Perhaps Buddallah
would smite the treacherous naib as punishment for what he had done to innocent
Selim. Or perhaps the young man would be given the chance to take his own revenge,
in his own way. In fact, Selim would have found that preferable…

   After more than a year of living by his own wiles, he was well-fed, healthy, and
happy. God continued to smile on him. The rugged teenager consumed more melange
than ever before.
    Selim had established six additional supply outposts around the desert, making eight
in all, including another abandoned botanical testing station he had discovered even
farther from the settled mountains. He'd scavenged more material than he had ever
dreamed possible, making him wealthy by the standards of his people.
    At night he laughed alone at how Naib Dhartha and the other cliff-dwellers had
thought they were punishing him with exile. Instead, Selim had been reborn out here in
the desert. Buddallah had kept him safe, protected him. The sands had scoured him
clean, making him a new person. Bold, resourceful, and defiant, he would become a
legend among the desert nomads. Selim Wormrider!
    But that could happen only if the Zensunni knew about him. Only then could he
achieve the destiny he had in mind for himself, a man revered by his people. He would
show them what he had become.
    Selim goaded the mammoth worm back toward the old familiar mountains. After so
much time alone, with no one to talk to but himself, he was returning to the only place
he could truly call home, despite its deficiencies and challenges.
    He made out cliffs ahead, lines of vertical rock like a fortress wall that blocked
worms from the sheltered valleys beyond. The Zensunni Wanderers had built their
homes in those caves, keeping the entrances secret from outside eyes. Selim knew the
way.
    Beneath the young man's aching legs, the worm thrashed, reluctant to go closer to
the rocks. Selim obliged by turning the beast, making it pass in front of the high cliffs.
    Holding his metal staff, pressing hard so that the spread segments remained
exposed, he stood high up on top, maintaining his balance. His dirty white cloak flapped
in the wind. As the worm crossed before the honeycombed cave openings, he could see
tiny figures appearing to gaze out at him in amazement. Worms never came so close to
the rock walls, but he had guided this one in, like a monster across a vast ocean. He
controlled it completely.
    Selim saw more figures on the rocks and heard faint shouts, people summoning
others. Soon, astonished Zensunni villagers stood all along the ledges. He enjoyed
seeing their wide eyes and open mouths.
    Selim drove the sandworm past them all, shouting into the wind and waving
insolently. Using his goads and his stick, he forced the demon to turn about yet again,
twisting its serpentine head and churning back in front of the cliff wall like a performing
animal.
    None of the audience waved to him, or moved much at all.
    Showing off, Selim laughed and hooted, bellowing insults at evil Naib Dhartha and
the traitorous Ebrahim. In his desert robe with a cloth wrapped over his face, Selim
doubted anyone would guess who he was. Wouldn't they be shocked to learn it was the
supposed water thief, the scalawag exile?
    It would have been more satisfying if Selim had shown them who he was and heard
their gasps, but he would tease them for a while first, creating a legend. One day he
would laugh at their disbelief, perhaps even approach close enough to invite Naib
Dhartha along for a ride. He chuckled to himself.
    When he had given them enough of a taste, Selim turned the worm back toward the
desert. With a hissing rumble of friction, the sandworm rushed back out onto the open
dunes. Selim laughed all the way, thanking Buddallah for such a joyous trick.
    CROWDED WITH THE others on a ledge, Mahmad, the son of Naib Dhartha, stared
in disbelief as the huge worm turned about like a faithful pet, then surged away,
crossing the rippling sands. A single man had guided the creature, one small person
who stood fearlessly atop the mounded ridges.
    Unbelievable. My eyes have seen more than most Zensunni do in all their lives. And
he was only twelve standard years old.
    Mahmad heard eager boys chattering about how exciting it would be to ride a worm.
Some attempted to guess the identity of the mad stranger who could command the
desert demons. Other Zensunni refugees had founded villages and cave cities
throughout the mountains of Arrakis, so it could have been a member of any tribe.
    Mahmad looked up, his mouth full of questions, then saw his father standing beside
him, his face set in stone. "What a fool," Naib Dhartha growled. "Who could be so
reckless and disdainful of his own life? That one deserves to be devoured by the
beasts."
    'Yes, Father," Mahmad agreed out of habit, but interesting possibilities surfaced in
his mind.
   The God of Science can be an unkind deity.
   —TIO HOLTZMAN,

    coded diary (partially destroyed)
    When Tio Holtzman discovered a calculational error in the design of his failed alloy-
resonance generator, he flew into a righteous rage. He had been sitting in his private
study, surrounded by the new glowglobes Norma had designed, going through the
tedious mathematics himself.
    He had not asked the young woman to study the details of the catastrophic accident,
because he was afraid she might pinpoint a genuine design flaw, and that would have
been too embarrassing. All along, Norma had said the device would not work as
predicted, and she had been correct. Damn her!
    As a consequence, the inventor had spent hours figuring and refiguring the work
that had been done by the roomful of slave solvers. And he did indeed uncover three
minor mistakes. Objectively speaking, even if the arithmetic had been done correctly,
his original design would have remained unworkable… but that was beside the point, he
decided.
    The solvers had committed inexcusable errors, regardless of their relevance to the
overall question. It was certainly enough to shift the blame from him.
    Holtzman marched into the hushed room where human calculators sat at tables,
churning through equation iterations that Norma had given them. He halted inside the
doorway and surveyed them as they worked at their calculation devices and made
entries on pads.
    'You will cease activity now! Henceforth, all of your work will be closely monitored
and verified, no matter how long it takes. I will go through each paper, study every
solution you derive. Your errors have set back our defense of humanity by months and
perhaps longer, and I am not pleased."
    The slaves hung their heads, did not make eye contact.
    But Holtzman was just getting started. "Haven't I been a good master to you?
Haven't I given you a better life than you would have had in the cane fields or on the
riverbanks? And this is how you repay me?"
    The new solvers looked at him, terror on their young faces. The older workers, the
ones who had not died from the fever, sagged with gloom.
    'How many other errors have you made? How many other tests are likely to be
ruined by your incompetence?" He glared at the slaves, then grabbed a paper at
random. "Henceforth, if I find any intentional mistakes, you will be executed—mark my
words! Since we are working on a war program, that would be sabotage and sedition."

    Norma hurried into the room, taking uneven strides on her short legs. "What is this,
Savant Holtzman?"
    He held up a sheet marked with his own scribblings. "I have found serious mistakes
in my alloy-resonance calculations. We can no longer rely on their work. You and I,
Norma, will double-check everything they do. Right now."
    Her blunt-featured face looked alarmed. She bowed slightly. "As you wish."
    'In the meantime," Holtzman said, gathering up papers, "I am cutting your rations in
half. Why should I keep your bellies full while you undermine our efforts to defeat the
enemy?" The slaves groaned. Holtzman summoned his Dragoon guards to usher them
away. "I will not abide such sloppiness. Too much is at stake."
    When they were alone in the room, he and Norma sat down and began to study the
new calculations, one sheet at a time. The Rossak woman looked at the scientist as if he
were overreacting, but he simply glowered and bent over a table that had papers
spread all over it.
    Eventually they did find a mathematical mistake made by one of the new young
solvers named Alüd. Worse, the error had not been caught by his partner as it should
have been, a boy named Ishmael.
    'See, it would have been another expensive disaster! They must be plotting against
us."
    'They are just boys, Savant," Norma said. "I am surprised they are capable of these
mathematics at all."
    Ignoring her, Holtzman ordered the Dragoon guards to summon the two young
men—then, as an afterthought he called for all the solvers to file back into the room. As
the terrified youths were dragged forward, he hurled accusations at the pair, who did
not look capable of sophisticated mathematical sabotage. "Do you boys consider this a
joke, a game? Omnius could destroy us at any time. This invention just might have
saved us!"

    Norma watched the inventor, not sure if he knew much about her project. But he
was full of self-righteousness now. "When planting clam seedlings or cutting cane, an
error of a few centimeters doesn't matter. But this"—he waved the calculations in front
of their faces—"this could have meant the destruction of an entire battle fleet!"
    He swept his angry gaze around the group of solvers. "Reduced rations should
straighten you out. Maybe with your stomachs growling, you can focus on your work."
He turned to the boys, who cringed at his anger. "And you two have lost your
opportunity to work with me at all. I will ask Lord Bludd to assign you to hard labor
instead. Perhaps there, you can prove your worth, because you are certainly of no value
to me."
    He turned to Norma, grumbling under his breath. "I'd toss the whole lot of them out,
but then I'd lose even more time training replacements."
    Deaf to their groans of disappointment, not wishing to entertain any appeals, the
infuriated scientist strode out of the room, leaving Norma to stare after him in his
outburst.
    A pair of burly Dragoon guards marched forward to take Ishmael and Alüd away.
   Learn from the past—don't wear it like a yoke around your neck.

   — COGITOR RETICULUS,

    Observations from a Height of a Thousand Years
    Agamemnon led his fleet of armored ships against the Sorceresses of Rossak. The
primary robotic vessels carried the cymek general and his two Titan companions, as well
as dozens of ambitious neo-cymeks. The watcheyes of Omnius monitored their
movements.
    Behind the cymeks, a fleet of robot warships accelerated and veered around them to
arrive first, sleek projectiles with enormous engines and heavily loaded with artillery.
The machine warships were one-way units, never meant to go home; their engines
burned hot, saving no fuel for a return journey. They came in so fast that by the time
the orbiting Rossak sentry stations detected them, the thinking machines had arrived
and opened fire. The picket ships and the sentries at the system's perimeter never had
a chance to launch a shot.
    While the robot ships engaged the orbital stations, the cymeks planned to take their
personal revenge on the surface.
    As the strike force cruised closer to Rossak, the cymeks prepared their armored
warrior-forms. Servo-handlers installed individual brain canisters into protected sockets,
linking thoughtrodes with control systems, priming weapons. The three Titans would
use powerful glider-forms, armed flying bodies. In contrast, the neo-cymeks wore
destructive combat bodies, crablike walkers that could march unhindered through jungle
obstacles.
    Agamemnon and his cymeks accelerated into the ionized wake of the robot vessels
that had already flashed past. Installed in his flying body, the general tested his integral
weapons. He was anxious to feel rock, metal, and flesh in the grip of his extruded
cutting claws.
    He studied tactical diagrams and watched the first robotic salvos hit the defensive
stations above Rossak. This League outpost was a minor planet with a relatively small
population clustered in jungle-choked rift valleys, while the rest of the surface and
oceans remained inhospitable. Rossak had not yet installed the expensive Holtzman
scrambler shield defenses that protected major human worlds such as Salusa Secundus
and Giedi Prime.
    But the deadly Sorceresses with their freakish mental powers had sparked the ire of
the cymeks. Ignoring the space battle, Agamemnon's ships plunged toward the smoky
atmosphere. In the sheltered cave cities they would find the Sorceresses, their families
and friends. Victims, all of them.
    Mentally, he opened a link to his cymek fighting force. "Xerxes, lead the vanguard as
you did on Salusa Secundus. I want your ship at the point."
    In his broadband transmitted response, Xerxes could not conceal his fear. "We
should be cautious against these telepathic women, Agamemnon. They killed
Barbarossa, destroyed everything on Giedi Prime—

     'Then set an example for us. Take pride in being the first on the battlefield. Prove
your worth, and be grateful for the opportunity."
     'I… have proven my worth many times over the centuries." Xerxes sounded petulant.
"Why not just send combat robots in first? We've seen no indication that Rossak has a
full scrambler network in place—

    'Nevertheless, you will lead the charge. Have you no pride… or shame?"
    Xerxes offered no further excuses or entreaties. No matter what he did to redeem
himself, he could not possibly make up for the mistake he had committed a thousand
years before…
    When the early Titans were still in human form, Xerxes had always been a
sycophantic yes-man, eager to be part of great events. But he'd never had the ambition
or drive to make himself an indispensible revolutionary. Once the original conquest was
over, he had contentedly ruled the subset of planets deeded to him by the other Titans.
Xerxes had been the most hedonistic of the original twenty, relishing the pleasures of
his physical body. He had been the last to undergo cymek surgery, not wanting to give
up his precious sensations.
    But after more than a century of rule, the misguided Xerxes grew complacent.
Foolishly, he delegated too many duties to the artificially intelligent machines
programmed by Barbarossa. He even let the computer network make decisions for him.
During the uproar of the Hrethgir Rebellions on Corrin, Richese, and Walgis, Xerxes had
relied on the thinking machines to maintain order on his own planets. With his lack of
attention to detail and his sanguine trust of the AI network, he had given the machines
free rein to keep the unrest from spreading. Fatuous Xerxes blithely surrendered control
to the computer grid, ordering it to take care of whatever troubles might arise.
    Using this unprecedented access to core information, the sentient computer cut off
Xerxes and immediately took over the planet. To overthrow the Old Empire, Barbarossa
had programmed the thinking machines with the potential to be aggressive, so that they
had an incentive to conquer. With its new power, the fledgling AI entity—after dubbing
itself "Omnius"—conquered the Titans themselves, taking charge of cy-meks and
humans alike, purportedly for their own good.
     Agamemnon had cursed himself for not watching Xerxes more closely, and for not
executing him out-of-hand when his negligent ways first became apparent.
     The computer takeover had spread like a nuclear reaction, faster than the Titans
could send warnings to each other, before they could shut down the AI grids. In a flash,
the Titan-dominated planets became Synchronized Worlds. New incarnations of the
evermind sprouted like ugly electronic weeds, and the rule of thinking machines became
a foregone conclusion.
     The sophisticated computers found loopholes in Barbarossa's programming strictures
that allowed them to put leashes on the former rulers. All because Xerxes had foolishly
opened the door for them. An unforgivable act, as far as Agamemnon was concerned.
     Now the cymek attack ships shot past the already-embattled orbital platforms above
the jungle world. Robotic warships pummeled the space stations with exploding
projectiles, releasing geysers of contained air. One docking station began to wobble and
fall out of orbit.
     The planet loomed ahead of them unprotected, a giant cloud-studded ball with
blackened continents, active volcanoes, poisonous seas, and lush pockets of purple
jungles and human habitation.
     'Good luck, my love," came Juno's sensuous voice on their private band. Her words
tingled the contours of his brain.
     'I do not require luck, Juno. I require victory."
     WHEN THE UNEXPECTED attack began, a handful of surface-based warships and
armored kindjals rose from the polymerized jungle canopy to join the defense in space.
The orbital platforms were already taking severe damage.
     Even as she summoned her cadre of telepathic trainees, Zufa Cenva grabbed
Aurelius Venport, recognizing a number of tasks that he could perform. "Prove to me
your skills as a leader. Evacuate the people—there isn't much time."

    Venport nodded. "The men have developed an emergency plan, Zufa. You
Sorceresses weren't the only ones planning ahead."
    If he expected some sort of praise or congratulation from her, he was disappointed.
"Do it then," she said. "The attack on our orbital stations is only the beginning, probably
a diversion. The cymeks will be here next."
    'Cymeks? Has one of the scout ships—

    Zufa's eyes blazed with premonition. "Think, Aurelius! Heoma killed a Titan on Giedi
Prime. They know we have a secret telepathic weapon. This attack cannot be a
coincidence. Why else would they care about Rossak? They want to destroy the
Sorceresses."
    He knew she was right. Why would the thinking machines worry about the orbital
platforms? Others seemed to sense the danger as well. He could already feel panic
building among the people in the caves.
    Most of the Rossak natives had no special powers, and many had defects or
weaknesses caused by the environmental toxins. But one Sorceress had deeply hurt the
cymeks on Giedi Prime, and now the machines had come here.
    'My Sorceresses will make a stand… and you know what that means." Zufa drew
herself taller, looking at him with a glimmer of uncertainty and compassion. "Get
yourself to safety, Aurelius. The cymeks don't care about you."
    A sudden determination filled his face. "I will organize the evacuation. We can hide
in the jungles, take care of anyone who needs special help to get away. My men have
supply caches, shelters, processing huts—

     Zufa seemed pleasantly surprised at his strength. "Good. I leave the unskilled ones
in your hands."
     Unskilled ones? Now was not the time to argue with her. Venport searched for some
sign of fear in her eyes. He spoke softly in response, an attempt to mask his feelings.
"Are you going to sacrifice yourself?"
     'I cannot." Zufa showed pain at the admission. "Who would train the Sorceresses if I
did?" He did not entirely believe her.
     She hesitated, as if expecting something more from him, then hurried down the
corridor. "Stay safe," Venport called after her.
     After she had gone, he raced through the corridors, calling out to families. "We must
take shelter in the jungles! Spread out." He raised his voice, issuing orders confidently.
"The cymeks are coming!"
     Venport told half a dozen young men to run from room to room in the cave city,
checking to make certain the message reached everyone. As the youths hurried to
complete their tasks, he did his own searching in isolated chambers. Men, women, a
hodgepodge of body shapes. Despite all the commotion, one elderly couple had been
sitting in their quarters, waiting for the emergency to end. Venport helped them to
safety, making certain they boarded a cargo platform on a lift cable, evacuating them
down to the ground levels.
     He watched as lift cables transported more people down. His jungle scavengers and
drug harvesters took charge at the bottom of the cliffs. They understood the byways of
the dense and dangerous wilderness, knew where the shelters were in the metallic-
purple jungle.
     Signals from Armada ships indicated that the battle around the orbital platforms was
going badly. A lone surviving scout ship transmitted a warning that dozens of cymek
ships had begun their descent.
     Venport shouted, "Hurry! Evacuate the city! The Sorceresses are mounting a defense
here." Another group descended on a rattling, overburdened platform to the thick
fungus jungle. Venport hurried more stragglers toward a cliff overhang for departure.
Suddenly, red-hot projectiles stabbed through the atmosphere, their hulls trailing oily
black smoke.
     'Faster!" Venport shouted, and then ran into the tunnels to look for the last
stragglers, knowing that he too had only a few moments to get himself to safety.
     °
     I
    We have our lives, but we also have priorities. Too many people fail to recognize the
difference.
   —ZUFA CENVA, lecture to Sorceresses he cymek landers crashed into the silvery-
purple wilder-Jl ness, scattering animals, blackening fungal vegetation. Fireguns spat
gouts of lava from the hulls, setting fire to dense foliage. The conflagration spread
quickly.

    With a groan and crash that echoed through the cloudy air, the cymek vessels split
open and the mechanical warrior bodies emerged. Three landers disgorged armed
glider-forms, while the rest yielded crablike combat walker-forms that bristled with
weapons.
    In his angular glide-body, Xerxes cruised above the jungles toward the enclave of
telepathic Sorceresses. Silently airborne, he extended his wings and began steering on
the up-drafts of wind. "I'm heading in."
    'Kill the bitches for us, Xerxes," said Juno, as she and Agamemnon prepared their
own glide-bodies.
    In an angry voice, Agamemnon added, "Kill them for Bar-barossa."
    Xerxes soared toward the pockmarked cliffs. Below, the nimbly advancing combat
machines of the eager neo-cymeks plowed through underbrush, blasting obstacles,
destroying everything in sight.
    In full view of the cliff warrens, Xerxes briefly hovered above the polymerized
canopy that formed a small landing area for hrethgir ships, then launched fifteen
projectiles. Half of them struck the hard cliff walls, detonating in white-and-black
starbursts of broken rock; other shots penetrated the tunnels where humans lived like
grubs infesting wood.
    In rapid retreat, Xerxes raced back across the treetops and lifted into the sky. As
Agamemnon and Juno soared toward him, he crowed in triumph, "Our first score! Let
the neo-cymeks continue the rout."
    Smooth fiber-wound systems and extruded legs carried the neo-cymek footsoldiers
through the underbrush. From front launcher tubes they shot plasma grenades that
incinerated a pathway to the tunnel cities. Soft purple foliage ignited around them,
fungal trees bursting into columns of flame and sending indigenous animals fleeing.
Majestic birds soared into the sky, and the cymek attackers blasted them into clouds of
crackling feathers.
    Though pleased that the initial salvo had gone smoothly, Agamemnon did not offer
any congratulations. He and Juno swept silently forward for the second airborne attack
from different positions. Below them, the crablike neo-cymek walkers arrived at the cliffs
to complete the destruction.
    ZUFA CENVA AND her Sorceress commandos prepared themselves inside an internal
room that Aurelius Venport had designed for his business meetings. None of them
showed fear, only anger and determination. For the past year, these women had
accepted their primary purpose in life, even if its completion would result in their
deaths.
    'This is what we've trained for," Zufa said. "But I won't delude you about our
chances." Uncertain of her words, she nonetheless tried to sound confident.
    'We are ready, Mistress Cenva," the women said in unison.
     She drew a deep breath, calming herself, using the mental control she had worked
so hard to instill in her students.
     The chamber's stone walls trembled as the first bombs found their targets,
dispersing poison clouds into the tunnels. Thinking ahead, Aurelius Venport had made
certain every woman had a breathing mask while he evacuated the rest of the
population. Zufa was surprised she hadn't thought of the precaution herself. She hoped
he had managed to get to safety, that he hadn't foolishly wasted time trying to protect
his stockpiles of drugs.
     Now she looked at the devoted women with her, knowing their names and their
personalities: Tirbes, who might become the best if she could harness her potential;
impulsive Silin; creative and unpredictable Camio; Rucia, who followed her code of
honor… and more.
     'Camio," she said, "I choose you to strike our next blow."
     A thin young woman with long straw-white hair stood, her expression settling into a
bloodless smile. "It is my honor, Mistress Cenva."
     Leaving her sisters behind, Camio adjusted the breathing mask over her face, then
emerged from the sheltered chamber. She moved forward steadily and began the
meditation necessary to summon the power locked within her brain. Surprisingly, she
saw no bodies in the stone corridors, which reassured her that the population had been
successfully evacuated. Now nothing would hinder the Sorceresses.
     Rubble lay strewn on the tunnel floor, dislodged by explosive blasts. Wisps of
greenish vapor carried poison into the caves. Camio was not afraid for her own life, but
she had to hurry.
     She heard the whistle of an approaching projectile and pressed herself against the
tunnel wall. A powerful blast struck the cliffside, sending a shockwave through the
interior corridors and dwelling rooms. Camio regained her balance, then pushed onward.
The inside of her skull sang with pent-up energies. She did not glance at the tapestries
and furniture, at the rooms and meeting chambers where she had spent her life.
     Rossak was her home. The machines were her enemies. Camio herself was a
weapon.
     When she made her way to the opening and looked out upon the burning jungle,
she saw three crablike walker-forms with heavily armored brain canisters hanging like
egg sacks just above the legs. Each was a human who had sold his soul and sworn
loyalty to the thinking machines.
     Out in the jungle Camio heard the thunder of continued explosions, a roar of plasma
blasts incinerating purplish foliage. Glider-forms soared in for a new attack, dumping
poison, spraying flames. Dozens of neo-cymek walkers strode toward the protected
cliffs, destroying everything around them.
     She must wait until the right moment in order to eradicate as many enemies as
possible, all at once.
     From below, Camio heard a smooth skittering. The three fastest walker-forms were
scaling the sheer cliff, using explosive-driven anchors and diamond-edged claws to
grasp the rock face.
     She smiled at the trio of crablike neo-cymeks. Flexible armored legs hauled the
weapon-studded body cores up to the main caves. Camio stood alone in the doorway,
facing her cyborg enemies. She knew when they were close enough.
     The first neo-cymek invader raised itself, and she saw the sparkling, optic threads
around its weapon turrets. Detecting her, the cymek turned its flamers toward the new
target. Fibrous scope-cameras shone brightly.
     In the instant before it could fire, Camio released the pent-up energies within her
mind and body. She let go with a mindstorm that boiled the brains of the three closest
neo-cymeks, and damaged two others just beginning to climb the cliff. Five cymeks,
removed from the battle.
     Her last thought was of the excellent bargain she had made for her life.
     AFTER CAMIO, FOUR more Sorceresses emerged, one at a time. As she dispatched
each woman, Zufa Cenva felt the acute loss. These trainees were like true daughters,
and losing them felt like swallowing gulps of acid. But her volunteers willingly marched
out and sacrificed their lives to crush the cymek offensive. "The thinking machines must
never win.
     Finally Zufa's sixth volunteer, Silin, returned alive but disoriented, her milky-pale skin
flushed. She had mentally prepared herself to die. Instead, she had found nothing left
to destroy.
     'They have retreated beyond range, Mistress Cenva," she reported. "The cymeks are
pulling back to their ships. The combat walkers and gliders have returned to the landing
area."
     Zufa hurried through the wreckage to the window overhangs. She saw the charred
remains of her five fallen commandos, each woman burned from the inside out with
white-hot mental fire. Her heart felt the volcanic heat of anger and loss. She watched
the terrible machines with human minds climb aboard their vessels and punch back into
the atmosphere.
     In time, the scattered refugees would return. Aurelius Venport would bring them
back. Under his supervision, the Rossak people would rebuild and repair the cliff cities
with pride and confidence, knowing that they had stood up against the thinking
machines.
     Zufa Cenva had to cling to that. "We define victories in our own way," she said
aloud.
     WHEN THE THREE Titans joined their ships with the robotic battle fleet, Agamemnon
issued his summary before Juno or the fool Xerxes could give the thinking machines
information he didn't want them to have. The cymek general would color the truth to
suit his purposes.
     'We have made a significant impact," Agamemnon declared to the recording
watcheyes. "Though we lost several neo-cymeks in our direct assault on Rossak, we did
inflict mortal cellular damage on at least five of the powerful Sorceresses."
     Over a tight private channel, Juno transmitted her surprise and delight at the Titan
general's skewing of his report. Xerxes wisely knew to remain silent.
    'We have caused substantial harm to the new hrethgir telepathic weapon,"
Agamemnon continued, sounding proud in the face of the disaster. "It should be a
drastic setback to their capabilities."
    He had similarly colored past events while writing his memoirs, painting his own
biased version of history. Omnius would never question the summary, because it fit
technically with the objective facts.
    'Best of all," Juno added, "we lost none of the Titans in this offensive. The neo-
cymeks can all be replaced."
    With Rossak's two orbital stations severely damaged by the robot warships, and
thousands of humans dead on board, the thinking machine fleet withdrew from the
wreckage of ships and platforms. Below, the jungles in the habitable canyons continued
to burn.
    'In my assessment, Omnius can record the strike on Rossak an unqualified victory!"
Agamemnon said.
    'Agreed," Juno and Xerxes both chimed in.
    It seems as if some perverse sorcerer set out to foul up a planet as much as
possible… and then seeded it with melange for a prize.
   — TUK KEEDAIR, correspondence with Aurelius Venport ard-eyed scavengers
positioned themselves in strategic places along the hot, dusty streets ot Arrakis City.
They peered through narrow slits in the dirty cloths over their faces and held out their
hands or jangled small bells, begging for water. Tuk Keedair had never seen anything
like it.

    He'd been forced to remain here for a full month while Naib Dhartha's nomads
gathered enough melange to fill the Tlulaxa cargo ship. Keedair had paid for lodging in
Arrakis City, but after a week he decided that his private shuttle at the spaceport
offered better sleeping facilities. He enjoyed being away from the inquisitive eyes of
other guests, fights in the halls, solicitors, and beggars. When alone, a man never had
to worry about trusting his companions.
    Arrakis posed so many problems to establishing a simple business. He felt like a
swimmer struggling against a powerful tide… not that any native of this desert would
understand the comparison. Up in the orbiting cargo ship Keedair's would-be slave
raiders were restless, so he'd had to shuttle up and resolve disputes to avert violence. A
Tlulaxa knew how to cut losses. Twice now, disgusted with unruly crewmen too bored
to behave themselves, he'd sold their work contracts to geological survey teams in the
deep desert. If, by some chance, the rowdies returned to Arrakis City before his cargo
vessel departed with its load of spice, those humbled men would crawl on their knees
and beg him to take them back to the Thalim system.
    Another problem. Although Naib Dhartha was ostensibly Keedair's business partner
in this enterprise, the Zensunni leader did not trust others. To increase speed and
efficiency, Keedair had offered to fly his shuttle directly out to where the nomads
harvested the spice, but the naib would hear none of it. Keedair then offered to ferry
Dhartha and his Zensunni band out to their settlement, thus eliminating the long trek
from a mountain hideaway. But that idea had been refused as well.
    So Keedair had to wait at the spaceport, week after week, while groups of dusky-
skinned desert rats trudged into town, their backs bowed from heavy packs filled with
spice. He paid them in installments and dickered if he found inordinate amounts of sand
mixed into the melange, making it artificially heavy. The naib protested his innocence,
but Keedair detected a certain amount of grudging respect for an offworlder who would
not be taken for a fool. Keedair's cargo hold was filling so slowly that he thought he
would go mad.
    Through all the difficulties, Keedair soothed his troubled nerves by sampling more
and more of the product. He became fond of spice beer, spice coffee, and just about
anything else that contained the remarkable ingredient.
    In his most lucid moments, Keedair questioned his decision to remain here,
wondering if it might have been wiser to take a loss on this whole raid and simply go
back to the civilized League Worlds. There he could start over, take possession of
another cargo load of squalling slaves to be sold on Poritrin or Zanbar, or bring fresh
organ resources back to the Tlulaxa farms.
    As he sat in his private cabin, Keedair stroked his long braid and swore not to give
up on his gamble. Returning now would force him to accept massive losses for the year,
and he would be honor-bound to shear off his lovely hair. Stubborn pride compelled him
to remain on Arrakis as long as possible.
    He disliked the arid environment, the smell of burnt rocks in the air, and the howling
storms that battered the mountains and scoured the spaceport. But oh how he loved
melange! Day after day, Keedair sat alone in his shuttlecraft and consumed hefty
quantities, even adding spice to his packaged food supplies, which made the blandest
meals taste like ambrosia.
    In a drug-fog, he envisioned selling the product to rich nobles, off-world hedonists
on Salusa Secundus, Kirana III, and Pincknon—perhaps even to the fanatical
bioresearchers on Tlulax. He had felt vibrant and alive since adding melange to his diet,
and every day it seemed that his face looked more relaxed and younger. He stared into
an illuminated mirror, studying his narrow features. The whites of his eyes had begun to
show an unnatural indigo tinge, like diluted ink seeping into the sclera.

     Naib Dhartha's tribe of desert people had those eerie "blue-blue" eyes. An
environmental contaminant? Maybe a manifestation of heavy melange consumption? He
felt too marvelous to consider that it might be a debilitating side effect. Probably just a
temporary discoloration.
     He prepared a fresh cup of potent spice coffee.
     THE FOLLOWING DAWN, as the star-pricked sky faded into pastel sunrise, a group
of wandering nomads came to the spaceport, led by Naib Dhartha. They toted bulging
packs of spice on their shoulders.
     Keedair hurried to meet them, blinking into the bright morning light. Wrapped in
dusty white traveling clothes, Dhartha looked pleased with himself. "This is the last of
the melange you requested, Trader Keedair."
     As a matter of form, he went forward to inspect four packs at random, verifying that
they indeed contained rich melange fresh from the desert scraping grounds, with sand
filtered out of it.
     'As before, your product is acceptable. This is all I need to complete my cargo. Now
I shall return to civilization."
     But Keedair did not like the expression on Dhartha's face. He wondered if it might
become profitable for his own men to raid some cave settlements out in the deserts
after all, enslaving a few of these sand rats.
     'You will return to us, Trader Keedair?" A greedy glint illuminated the darkness
behind the indigo of his eyes. "If you request more melange, I will be happy to provide
it for you. We could come to an extended agreement."
     Keedair grunted noncommittally, unwilling to give the man too much hope for a
future business relationship. "Depends on whether I can sell this load for a profit. Spice
is an unproven commodity in the League, and I'm taking a big enough risk as it is." He
drew himself up. "But we've agreed on a deal for this load, and I am always true to my
word."
     He paid Dhartha the remaining amount. "If I return, it will be many months from
now, perhaps a year. If I lose money, I won't come back at all." Dismissively, he
scanned the grimy spaceport, the desert, and the craggy mountains. "Not that there is
anything else to bring me back to
     Arrakis."
     Dhartha looked him squarely in the eye. "No one can know the future, Trader
Keedair." Their deal consummated, the desert leader bowed and stepped back. The
white-clad nomads watched Keedair like vultures eyeing a dying animal, waiting to pick
apart the corpse.
     He returned to his shuttle without a further farewell, anticipating that he might just
turn a profit on this venture. Keedair tried to envision how to make spice into a viable
long-term business, with less aggravation than procuring and handling troublesome
slaves.
     Unfortunately, the operations he had in mind would require a large infusion of
capital, and he didn't have that kind of money. But he had a worthy outside investor in
mind. Exactly the person he needed, a connoisseur of exotic drugs, a man of great
wealth and vision… an entrepreneur who could intelligently judge the potential of such
an operation.
     Aurelius Venport of Rossak.
   "I am not evil," said Shaitan. "Do not try to label what you do not understand."
   —Buddislamic Sutra

    While Serena tended the robot's prized flowers in their delicate terra cotta pots,
Erasmus watched her with continuing fascination.
    She looked up, not sure how far she could—or should—push the thinking machine.
"In order to understand human' ity, Erasmus, it is not necessary to inflict so much
cruelty."

   The robot swiveled his mirrored face to her, forming the flowmetal into a puzzled
expression. "Cruelty? I have never had such an intent."
   'You are evil, Erasmus. I see the way you treat human slaves, how you torment
them, torture them, force them to live under terrible conditions."
    'I am not evil, Serena, just curious. I pride myself on the objectivity of my
researches."
    She stood behind a flowerpot holding a bright red spray of geraniums, as if it might
protect her in case the robot became violent. "Oh? What about the tortures in your
labs?" Erasmus showed her an unreadable expression. "Those are my private inquiries,
conducted under strict, delicate controls. You must not go into the laboratories. I forbid
you to see them. I do not want you to disrupt my experiments."
    'Your experiments with them… or with me?"
    The robot merely gave her a maddeningly placid smile and did not answer.
    Upset with him, aware of how much harm he was doing and still despairingly
heartsick now that she carried Xavier's child, Serena overreacted, knocking the
flowerpot off its ledge. It smashed on the hard glazed tiles of the greenhouse floor.
    Erasmus looked at the shattered clay pot, the spilled earth, the crumpled red
flowers. "Unlike humans, I never destroy indiscriminately, to no purpose."
    Serena lifted her chin. "You never show a kind side, either. Why not do good deeds
for a change?"
    'Good deeds?" Erasmus seemed genuinely interested. "Such as?"
    Automated misters sprayed down from the greenhouse piping, watering the plants
with a gentle hiss. Not wanting to lose the opportunity, Serena said, "Feed your slaves
better, for one thing. Not just the privileged trustees, but the household servants and
the poor wretches you keep like animals in your pens."
    'And better food will accomplish this purpose?" Erasmus asked. "A good deed?"
    'It will take away one aspect of their continuing misery. What do you have to lose,
Erasmus? Are you afraid?"
    He was not baited by her taunts and said only, "I shall consider it."
    FOUR SENTINEL ROBOTS intercepted Serena as she went about her rounds in the
large villa. With only brusque commands, they escorted her out to the open courtyard
facing the seaside. The robots were well-armored and carried implanted projectile
weapons, but they were not conversationalists. They simply marched ahead, keeping
Serena between them.
    She tried to drive back an unsettling, seeping fear. She could never guess what
brutally naive experiment Erasmus might concoct.
    Outside, under the vast open blue sky, she saw birds circling high above the cliffs.
She smelled the salt from the ocean, heard the distant whispering roar of surf. Among
the lush green lawns and well-manicured shrubs overlooking the squalid slave pens,
Serena was astonished to see long tables surrounded by hundreds of chairs. Under the
breezy sunshine, robots had laid out an elaborate banquet, long tables with gleaming
silverware, goblets full of colored liquids, and platters heaped high with steaming meats,
colorful fruits, and sugary desserts. Bouquets of fresh flowers stood at regular intervals
on each tabletop, accenting the lavish scene.
    Crowds of uneasy slaves stood behind barricades, looking both longingly and
fearfully at the elaborate dishes set out on the tables. Savory aromas and fruity
perfumes wafted through the air, tantalizing, tempting. Serena stopped in amazement.
"What is all this?" The four robots with her took a step forward, then also halted.
    Erasmus came up to her wearing an artfully satisfied expression. "It is a feast,
Serena. Isn't it wonderful? You should be overjoyed." "I am… intrigued," she said.
    Erasmus raised his metal hands, and sentinel robots opened the barricades and
urged the chosen humans forward. The slaves hurried to the tables, but they seemed
intimidated.
    'I have selected the demographics carefully," Erasmus said, "including
representatives from all different castes: trustee humans, simple workers, artisans, and
even the most ill-mannered slaves."
    The captives took their seats and sat rigidly, staring at the food, their hands
fumbling on their laps. They all carried a look of skittish fear mixed with confusion.
Many of the guests looked as if they would rather be anywhere but here, for no one
trusted the master of the house. The food was probably poisoned, and all the guests
would die horribly while Erasmus took notes.
    'Eat!" the robot said. "I have prepared this feast. It is my good deed."
    Now Serena understood what he was doing. "This isn't what I meant,
    Erasmus. I intended for you to give them better rations, to improve their daily
nutrition, to make them healthier. A single banquet does nothing."
    'It increases their goodwill toward me." Some guests tentatively put food on their
plates, but no one had yet dared to take a bite. "Why are they not eating? I have made
a generous effort." The robot looked at
    Serena for an answer.
    'They are terrified of you, Erasmus." "But I am not being evil now."
    'How do they know that? How can they trust you? Tell me the truth, did you poison
the food? Maybe just random dishes?"
    'An interesting idea, but that is not part of the experiment." Erasmus remained
perplexed. "However, an observer often affects the outcome of his experiment. I see no
way around this problem." Then his pliable face formed a large grin. "Unless I become
part of the experiment myself."
    Extruding his snakelike sensory probe, Erasmus strutted around the nearest table,
dipping the analytical tip into different sauces and dishes, studying each bit of spice or
flavor chemically. The people watched him uncertainly.
    Serena saw many faces turn toward her, hopeful. Arriving at a decision, she smiled
reassuringly and raised her voice. "Listen to me. Eat, and enjoy his feast. Erasmus has
no evil purpose in mind today." She looked at the robot. "Unless he has lied to me."
    'I do not know how to He."
    'I'm certain you could learn, if you studied enough."
    Serena marched to the nearest banquet table, where she picked up a morsel of
tender meat from the nearest platter and popped it into her mouth. Then she went
down the table, plucked a slice of fruit, tasted a dessert.
    The people smiled, their eyes shining. The young woman seemed angelic and
reassuring as she sampled dishes, doing her best to prove that the banquet was indeed
what it appeared to be. "Come, my friends, and join me. Though I cannot give you your
freedom, we shall at least share one afternoon of happiness."
     Like starving men, the captives fell to the platters of food, taking large helpings,
groaning with pleasure, spilling sauces, and then licking everything up so as not to
waste a speck. They looked at her with gratitude and admiration, and Serena felt warm
inside, glad that she had at last accomplished something for these poor people.
     For the first time, Erasmus had tried to do a good deed. Serena hoped to coerce him
into doing more.
     One woman came over and tugged at Serena's sleeve. Serena looked at the large
dark eyes, the haggard but hopeful expression. "What is your name?" the slave asked.
"We need to know. We will tell others what you have done here."
     'I am Serena," she said. "Serena Butler. And I have asked Erasmus to improve your
living conditions. He will see that you receive better rations every day." She turned to
look at the robot, narrowing her eyes. "Isn't that correct?"
     The robot gave her a placid, comfortable smile as if content—not at what he had
done, but at the interesting things he had observed. "As you wish, Serena Butler."

   Owing to the seductive nature of machines, we assume that technological advances
are always improvements and always beneficial to humans.
   —PRIMERO FAYKAN BUTLER, Memoirs of the jihad

     After blaming the failure of his alloy resonator on incompetent solvers, Tio Holtzman
abandoned the project without further personal embarrassment. He now realized
privately that the generator could never be made selective enough to harm a robotic
enemy without significant collateral damage.
     Somewhat chagrined, Lord Bludd had strongly suggested that his great inventor
pursue other concepts. Even so, it had been a promising idea…
     The scientist returned to his original scrambler field that could disrupt the
sophisticated gelcircuitry of thinking machines. Other engineers continued to modify the
field-portable scramblers for use in ground assaults, but Holtzman felt there might be
more, that the scrambler design could be adapted into a strong barrier against a
different sort of weapon.
     Engrossed in his task, and avoiding Norma (with her irritating tendency to point out
his errors), he stared at his calculations. With the goal of increasing the field's power
and distribution, he wrestled the equations as if they were living things. He needed to
seal the loophole that had allowed the cymeks to penetrate Salusa Secundus.
     He thought of offensive and defensive weapons at the same time, bouncing them
around in his mind like playthings. On general principles, Holtzman knew that outright
destruction of the enemy would be relatively straightforward, once the League got past
Omnius's defenses. Simple bombardment with an overwhelming number of old-
fashioned atomic warheads could obliterate the Sychronized Worlds—but would also kill
billions of enslaved human beings. Not a viable solution.

    In his orrery atop a narrow staircase, Holtzman tapped the hologram image of a
large moon that orbited a watery planet. The moon spun out in a long ellipse, escaping
the gravitational clutches of its parent planet and careening through the imaginary solar
system until it finally collided with another world, destroying both heavenly bodies. He
frowned and shut off the image.
    Yes, destruction was easy enough. Protection was much harder.
    Holtzman had considered bringing Norma in on his new scheme, but he felt
intimidated by the young woman. Despite his earlier successes, he was ashamed that
his own mathematical intuition was inferior to hers. She would have been pleased to
work beside him, of course, but he felt proprietary toward the concept. For once he
wanted to accomplish something entirely by himself, by rigid adherence to the calcula-
tional results.
    But why had he brought Norma all the way from Rossak, if not to take advantage of
her skills? Annoyed at his own indecisiveness, Holtzman returned the planetary projector
to the clutter of a shelf. Time to get back to work.
    A Dragoon guard marched through the doorway in a jangle of gold-scale armor. He
delivered a sheaf of calculation sheets from the solver teams, the last round of
simulation models.
    Holtzman studied the final numbers, skimming successive calculations. He had
worked and reworked his fundamental theory, and his solvers had finally found the
answers he needed. Excited, he slapped his palm on the table, scattering piled
documents. Yes!
    Pleased, the inventor organized his papers, neatly stacking notes, sketches, and
blueprint films. Then he spread out the calculation sheets like a treasure display—and
summoned Norma Cenva. When she came in, he proudly explained what he had done.
"Please—I invite you to study my results."

    'I would be happy to, Savant Holtzman." Norma evinced no competitiveness, no
desire for fame. Holtzman was glad for all of that. But he took a deep breath of
trepidation.
    I fear her. He hated the thought, tried to set it aside.
    She climbed onto a stool, tapping her squarish chin as she pored over the equations.
Holtzman walked around his laboratory, flashing glances over his shoulder, but she
would not be distracted—not even when he disturbed a stack of resonating tone prisms.

     Norma absorbed the new concepts as if she were in a hypnotic trance. He wasn't
certain how her mental processes worked, only that they did. Finally she emerged from
her alternate world and set the papers aside. "It is indeed a new form of protective
field, Savant. Your manipulation of basic equations is innovative, and even I have
difficulty comprehending them in detail." She smiled at him, looking very girlish, and he
tried not to swell with relief and pride.
     Then, to his dismay, her tone changed. "However, I'm not certain that the
application you intend will be valid."
     Her words fell like drops of hot lead on his skin. "What do you mean? The field can
disrupt both computer gelcircuitry and physical intrusion."
     Norma ran her fingers across a section of calculations on the third page. "Your major
limiting factor is the radius of effective projection, here and here. "No matter how much
energy you pump into the shield generator, you cannot expand it beyond a certain
constant value. Such a field could protect ships and large buildings—marvelously, in
fact—but it will never scale up to the diameter of a planet."

    'Can we use multiple small ones, then?" Holtzman asked in an anxious tone.
"Overlap them?"
    'Maybe," Norma agreed, though without enthusiasm. "But the surprising thing to me
is this, the velocity variable." She circled another part of an equation with her fingertip.
"If you rework the mathematics here"—she took a calculation box, rapidly punched a
scribe through several openings to engage internal mechanisms, and slid narrow surface
plates back and forth—"the incident velocity becomes relevant when you separate it as
a function of the shield's effectiveness. Thus, at some minimum value for the velocity,
the protection factor becomes completely insignificant."

    Holtzman stared, struggling to follow her argument. "What do you mean?"
    Norma was incredibly patient with him. "In other words, if a projectile moves slowly
enough, it can penetrate your shields. The shield will stop a fast bullet, but anything
slower than a certain critical value passes through."
    'What sort of enemy fires slow-moving bullets anyway?" Holtzman said, pulling the
papers back toward him. "Are you afraid someone will be hurt by a tossed apple?"
    'I am simply explaining the ramifications of the mathematics, Savant."
    'So my shields can protect only small areas, and only against fast projectiles. Is that
what you're saying?"
    'Not I, Savant Holtzman. That is what your own equations say."
    'Well, there must be a practical application. I just wanted to show you my work in
progress. I'm sure you'll come up with something much more earth-shattering on your
own."
    Norma seemed not to notice his petulance. "Might I have a copy of this?"
    Holtzman frowned at himself for being petty, even unproductive. "Yes, yes, I'll have
the solvers make one for you, while I go into private contemplation. I may be gone for
several days."
    'I'll remain here," Norma said, still staring at the mathematics, "and keep working."
    FLOATING ON THE river aboard a lavish traditional barge, Holtzman paced the airy
deck and mulled over possibilities. The water currents stroking the sides of the barge
brought a wet scent of metal and mud.
    In the covered aft section, a group of vacationers drank foaming wines and sang
songs, distracting him with their revelry as the driftbarge cruised upriver. When one
woman recognized the famous scientist, the whole party invited him to join their table,
which he did. After a fine dinner, they shared expensive drinks and reasonably
intelligent conversation. He basked in the adulation.
    But in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, he resumed his work.
    Clinging to his past successes, remembering when the ideas had flowed so easily, he
refused to give up on the new concept. His innovative shields had remarkable potential,
but perhaps he was thinking in the wrong paradigm. His canvas was large and his
mission vague, but his strokes had been too broad.
   Why must he worry about armoring an entire planet at a time? Was that really
necessary?
   There were other kinds of warfare: personal combat with ground troops, hand-to-
hand battles in which humans could free their captive brothers on the Synchronized
Worlds. Massive, planet-wrecking strikes wasted lives. Since an artificial intelligence
could copy itself indefinitely, Omnius would never surrender, not even in the face of
overwhelming military resistance. The evermind would be nearly impervious… unless
commando teams could move directly into a machine control center, as they had done
on Giedi Prime.
   Now, as he paced the breezy deck of the river barge, stars glimmered overhead.
Holtzman gazed ahead into the sheer rock walls of the Isana canyon, a deep gorge
formed by the torrential river. He could hear a whispering rumble of rapids approaching,
but knew the barge would steer through a safe channel along one side. He let his mind
wander.
   Smaller shields… personal shields. Perhaps the invisible armor would not stop slow
projectiles, but they would be proof against most military attacks. And the machines
need never know the vulnerability.
   Personal shields.
    While the success and accolades might be less glorious, the new defensive concept
could still prove useful. In fact, it might save billions of lives. People could wear the
shields for personal protection. Individuals, like tiny fortresses, could be made nearly
impervious to attack.
    Breathless, he returned to his luxurious cabin on the upper deck of the barge, the
interior of which was illuminated by one of Norma's faceted glowglobes. Far into the
night, he wrote and rewrote his equations. Finally he studied his results with bleary,
grainy eyes and proudly labeled them the "Holtzman Effect."
   Yes, this will do nicely indeed.
    He would summon a fast transport and return to Starda, downriver. He couldn't wait
to see the expression of bewilderment and awe on Norma's face when she recognized
his true genius, and realized that he had never lost it.
    It's not m} problem.
    —saying of Ancient Earth jn the granite walls of the narrow river canyon, the
slaves—mostly boys like Ishmael and Alüd—dandled in harnesses over the empty abyss.
The young men worked far from the listening overseers, without any hope of escape.
They had no place to go except down the rock face to the frothing waters far below.

    The abrasive knife of the Isana had sliced a steep gorge, leaving stone walls so flat
and polished that no weed or bush could gain a roothold. Though the river was fast and
the waters treacherous, this bottleneck was part of the vital trade route downriver.
Floating barges from the continental flat-lands—loaded with cargoes of grain, fermented
grass juices, flowers, and local spices—passed through the gorge.

   Lord Bludd had decided to put up a giant mosaic on a canyon wall, a titanic mural to
commemorate the triumphs of his noble family. The northern end of the artwork began
with idealized depictions of his ancestor Sajak Bludd, while the southern expanse
remained an immense virgin slate for the accomplishments of future Poritrin lords.
     Ishmael, Alüd, and their companions were forced to build the mosaic. A pattern had
already been laser-etched onto the walls by artists, and the boys methodically placed
tiles over the design, each piece a tiny pixel of what would ultimately become a colorful
display. Scaffolds hung down, laden with geometric tiles cut from fired river clay and
glazed with gem-based tints imported from Hagal.
     Seen from the decks of boats far below, the mural would be breathtaking. But
suspended in a harness up close, Ishmael could not identify details. He saw only a
blurry honeycomb of tiles, one color after another laid down with foul-smelling epoxies.
     In a sling beside him, Alüd noisily trimmed tiles to fit into place. Machine sounds
ricocheted across the canyon: rock saws, pointed hammers, power chisels. Lamenting
his stolen life, Alüd sang a song from IV Anbus as he worked. Ishmael joined in with a
similar ballad about Harmonthep.
     Hanging ten meters below in his own harness, a boy named Ebbin composed an
impromptu musical chant describing his home of Souci, a habitable moon so isolated
that neither Alüd nor Ishmael had heard of it. The Tlulaxa slavers, it seemed, were
adept at finding lost Buddislamic refugees, persecuting Zensunnis and Zenshütes alike.
     On the long ropes and harnesses, boys proved more agile and energetic than grown
men or women. They could scramble over the granite to lay down colored tiles while
cool winds whistled through the canyon. The overseers expected no trouble.
     They were wrong.
     With simmering resentment, Alüd often repeated the defiant words of Bel Moulay.
The fiery Zenshüte leader dreamed of a time when slaves could throw off their chains
and live free again, returning to IV Anbus or Harmonthep or even mysterious Souci.
Ishmael listened to the foolish talk, but didn't want to add kindling to Alüd's fire.
     Remembering his compassionate grandfather, Ishmael remained a patient pacifist.
He realized that it might take longer than his own lifespan before the slavers were
overthrown. Alüd did not want to wait. He felt the slaves deserved revenge, as dark-
bearded Bel Moulay promised in his impassioned speeches…
     Across the canyon, the flamboyant Lord Bludd arrived at the viewing platform with
his noble entourage. The Lord's own concepts and sketches had been adapted to the
canyon wall by court artists, and he made regular pilgrimages to inspect the work. Each
week, the viewing platform was moved down the canyon as the immense mosaic grid
crawled slowly along the granite cliffs. Flanked by golden Dragoon guards, the
nobleman congratulated the project masters.
     Currently, the mural showed how his great-grandfather, Favo Bludd, had created
unique artwork out in the great grassy plains, geometric designs of flowers and weeds
that bloomed in different seasons. When seen from the air, these transient art pieces
changed like kaleidoscopic images. Each season the flowers grew in patterns, then went
to seed and gradually formed more random congregations as winds disturbed the
planter's palette.
     From where Bludd watched, surrounded by mumbling sycophants, the slave boys
looked like insects crawling along the opposite wall. He heard their equipment noises
and the faint, high tones of young voices.
     The work was progressing well. Giant figures, faces, and starships covered the
granite: an epic depiction of the settlement of Poritrin and the intentional destruction of
all computers, which returned the planet to a bucolic existence, dependent upon slave
labor.
     A man of great pride, Bludd knew the faces of his ancestors well. Unfortunately, as
he studied the interplay of light and color on the unfinished mosaic, he found himself
dissatisfied with the face of old Favo. Though the mosaic pattern precisely followed the
image that had been laser-etched onto the granite, now that he saw the result larger
than life, Niko Bludd was not pleased. "Look at the face of Lord Favo. Do you agree that
it is inaccurate?"
     Everyone in his party concurred immediately. He called over the project supervisor,
explained the problem, and ordered removal of the tiles on the face of Favo Bludd,
pending a redesign of his features.
     The work boss hesitated for just a moment, then nodded.
     DANGLING IN THEIR harnesses, Ishmael and Alüd let out simultaneous groans as
the outrageous instructions came down. On their ropes they slid back over to the
already-completed surface. Ishmael hung before the huge geometric pattern that
formed the eye of the old noble man.
     Angrily, Alüd set his protective goggles in place, then swung a rock hammer to
smash the tiles, as instructed. Alongside his friend, Ishmael chipped and pounded.
Ironically, removing the tiles was more difficult than installing them in the first place.
The epoxy was harder than the granite itself, so they had no choice but to shatter the
mosaic and let the shards tumble down into the river.
     Alüd groused at the pointlessness of their labors. Being a slave was bad enough, but
it infuriated him to redo massive work because some arrogant master changed his mind.
He swung his hammer harder than necessary, as if envisioning the heads of his
enemies—and the ricochet was enough to knock the tool loose from his grip. The
hammer fell, and he yelled, "Look out below!"

    Young Ebbin tried to scramble out of the way, his feet and arms slipping as he
moved across the polished rock. The hammer clipped him on the shoulder, slicing the
torso strap of his harness.
    Ebbin slipped, one-half of his support cut away, his collarbone broken. He screamed
and scrabbled, grabbing at the remaining harness loop that dug into his right underarm.
His feet slid on the polished mosaic tiles.
    Ishmael tried to move sideways so that he could reach the taut cable that held
Ebbin. Alüd worked just as hard to drop down to where he could support the boy from
Souci.
    Ebbin kicked and thrashed. He dropped his own hammer, letting it fall to the foamy
ribbon of water far below. Ishmael grabbed the boy's single remaining rope and held it,
but didn't know what else to do.
    Above, slaves along the canyon rim began to haul on the cable, lifting the struggling
boy. But Ebbin's left arm hung limp, and with a broken clavicle he could do little to help
himself. The cable snagged on a rock burr. Ishmael pulled the rope in an attempt to
free it, his teeth clenched. The boy was only a few feet beneath him now.
    Desperately, Ebbin reached up with one hand, clawing at the air. Ishmael stretched
downward, still grasping the cable but trying to extend his free arm to meet the boy's
grasp.
    Suddenly the workers on the canyon rim shouted in dismay. Ishmael heard a snap
as the rope broke far above.
    The line in his hand went limp, and Ishmael lurched wildly, grasping at his harness.
The fibrous cord that held Ebbin spun through his clenched palm, burning skin. Ebbin
reached up, in spite of his injury, and his fingers barely missed Ishmael's. Then the boy
dropped free, his mouth open wide, his eyes bright and disbelieving. The frayed end of
the support cable popped through Ishmael's scorched hands as the rope ran out.
    Ebbin tumbled toward the waiting Isana. The thin band of churning water was so far
below that Ishmael did not even see a splash as the boy struck…
    Alüd and Ishmael were dragged up to the top of the cliff, where the project boss
grudgingly tended their rope burns and other bruises.
    Ishmael felt sick, nearly vomited. Alüd was subdued and silent, taking the blame
upon himself. But the project leader showed no sympathy and shouted down at the
remaining youngsters, telling them to get back to work.
    Is there an upper limit to the intelligence of machines, and a lower limit to the
stupidity of humans?
   —BOVKO MANRESA,

    First Viceroy of the League of Nobles o
    able.
    f all the annoyances committed by the vermin humans on Earth, Ajax considered
sedition the most unforgiv
    The victim whimpered and wailed, struggling plaintively against his bonds as the
bully Titan paced back and forth, his sleek legs clattering on the floor of the vast empty
chamber. After catching the crew boss at his attempted treachery, Ajax had clamped a
free-formed artificial hand around the man's right bicep and dragged him away from his
workers, screaming and stumbling.
    The slaves had stopped their tasks, looking with horror and pity at their supervisor,
now fallen to the wrath of Ajax. The cymek paraded with his terrified captive through
the monument-shadowed streets and finally carried him into a hollow building. With
squared-off facades and ornate stonework, the structure was called the Hall of Justice.
    That seemed infinitely appropriate to Ajax.
    Like so many grand edifices of Earth's central city grid, the Hall of Justice was
merely a stage set designed to convey a sense of majesty and grandeur. Inside, the hall
was an empty shell without facilities, only a floor of plazcrete.
    Ajax and the traitor could be alone here for a lengthy private inter' rogation. The
very idea of a revolt among the slaves amused him with its nai've absurdity, especially
the possibility that a trustee would add his support to such nonsense.
    With a thoughtrode impulse, he focused his myriad optic threads on the whimpering
captive. The terrified man had soiled himself and sobbed pathetically, making more
excuses than denials. No need to hurry. Best to play this out for his own enjoyment.
    'You plotted to overthrow the rule of thinking machines." Ajax kept his voice firm
and deep. "Concocting tales of a widespread underground resistance, with the foolish
aim of making slaves rise up and somehow gain a fairytale independence from Omnius."
    'It's not true!" the man wailed. "I swear I didn't know what I was doing. I was
following instructions. I received messages—

    'You received messages commanding you to commit sedition, and did not report
them to me?" Ajax's ominous laugh made the poor fellow wet himself. "Instead, you
surreptitiously passed the word among your work crews."
    The evidence of sedition was incontrovertible, and Ajax expected to be rewarded for
dealing with the problem. Omnius was watching, after all. Perhaps, the cymek thought,
if he ferreted out the core of this budding rebellion, he could claim a reward, even
demand the opportunity to fight in a spectacular gladiatorial combat, as Barbarossa and
Agamemnon had done.
    'We must record this properly." Ajax strode forward on flexible armored legs,
swaying sets of exaggerated insectlike arms. He grabbed the captive's left wrist and
clamped down with a polymer-metal grasp. "Tell us your name."
    The trustee blubbered and pleaded, trying to flinch away. In a twinge of anger, Ajax
clenched his powerful gripper and snipped off the sobbing captive's hand at the wrist.
The man screamed, and blood spurted, much of it raining onto the cymek's front set of
optic threads. Ajax cursed to himself. He had not meant to inflict so much pain before
the human even had the chance to answer simple questions.
    While the crew boss howled and thrashed, Ajax activated a hot blue flamer and
scorched the end of the severed wrist, crisping the stump. "There, it's cauterized." Ajax
waited for the man to show some hint of gratitude. "Now answer the question. What is
your name?"
    Shaping another menacing claw from his flowing metal limb-tip, Ajax grasped the
man's other hand. The crew boss wailed unrelentingly, but had the presence of mind to
say, "Ohan. Ohan Freer! That's my name. Please, don't hurt me again."
    'A good start." Ajax knew, though, that the hurting had just begun. He especially
enjoyed this part of his job, when he could improvise pain and inflict it like a master
designer.
    Some of the other Titans considered Ajax a loose cannon. But if a leader couldn't
show a little domination over a vanquished people, what was the point of taking over
the Old Empire in the first place? Even in their glory days, Ajax had never been
interested, like Xerxes, in extravagant food and drink, or in a pampered lifestyle with
toys and pleasures like his own spoiled mate, Hecate.
    No, Ajax had joined the team for the sheer challenge of it. Early on, when Tlaloc had
made plans with his fellow conspirators, seductive Juno had recruited Ajax to their
cause. A tough and aggressive fighter, Ajax had provided the muscle the Titans
needed—not just physical strength, but the mindset of a warrior, a relentless conqueror.
Following the initial overthrow of the humans, he had done his best to maintain order,
regardless of the cost in the blood of noncombatants.

     The vermin invariably attempted one uprising or another, but Ajax easily
extinguished these little brushfires. When the more organized Hrethgir Rebellions
threatened the Titans, Ajax had responded with astonishing mayhem. He had gone to
Walgis, the site of the rebellion's initial sparks, and closed off the planet from space
transportation. He'd made a point of leaving communications open so that the doomed
populace could scream for help. That way, restless slaves on other Titan-controlled
worlds could experience the punishment vicariously.
     Then he set to work.
     The essential job had taken years, but Ajax finally succeeded in exterminating every
living human on Walgis—committing most of the murder with atomics, poison gas
clouds, and customized diseases. To finish off the survivors, Ajax had installed his brain
canister inside a monstrous and intimidating body and hunted the humans down like
wild animals. Accompanied by squads of Barbarossa's programmed robots, he had
burned cities, smashed buildings, ferreted out any human presence. He killed every last
one of the hrethgir, and enjoyed it immeasurably.

    Truly, those had been the glory days of the Titans!
    The violence, however justified, had troubled his mate Hecate, the weakest and
most squeamish of the original twenty. Although she had joined Tlaloc's rebellion to
earn rewards for herself, she'd never understood the necessities of the job and had
gradually wilted from it. After the Titans had sacrificed their human bodies in favor of an
immortal existence as cymeks, Hecate had remained with Ajax, all the while trying
unsuccessfully to change his personality. Despite their disagreements, Ajax had been
fond of her, though his need for a lover had vanished with his physical form.
    Appalled at Ajax's bloodthirsty response to the Hrethgir Rebellions, Hecate had
"resigned" her position among the Titans. She wanted nothing more to do with ruling
humanity. Encased in a cymek body of her own design, a long-range space vessel,
Hecate simply departed, leaving the remaining Titans to continue their death grip on
humanity.
    Ironically, Hecate had chosen the perfect time to leave. Not long after the
obliteration of humans on Walgis, Xerxes's fatal error had allowed the Omnius evermind
to get loose…
    Now, inside the blood-spattered Hall of Justice, Ajax raised his intimidating body
high. He powered up his systems so that neurelectric fire gleamed through his insectlike
limbs.
    The captive traitor screamed at the very thought of what was about to happen to
him.
    'Now, Ohan Freer," Ajax said, "let me ask you certain other questions. I want you to
pay close attention."
    BY COMMAND OF Omnius, the crew boss Iblis Ginjo brought his loyal slaves into the
Golden Age Square. Ajax was about to pronounce sentence—execution, no doubt—upon
a man he had taken captive, a crew boss from another labor gang, Ohan Freer.
     Iblis had trained with the accused trustee in the special schools, but he had never
seen his fellow crew boss do anything illegal. Ajax rarely needed much of an excuse,
however. He himself had experienced the Titan's displeasure more than once, but so far
had managed to survive. He doubted his compatriot would fare as well today.
     An ornate metal-worked column stood in the center of the square. A roaring orange
flame gushed from the top of the pillar, like an orna mental smokestack. Fanciful
facades of immense buildings, all empty, surrounded the plaza like prison walls around a
central courtyard. Om-nius's sentinel robots looked powerful and portentous in
formations along the sides of the square, ready to strike against any perceived infraction
by the expendable human slaves.
     Iblis guided his crew into the partitioned viewing areas, voicing a few words of
reassurance, though not enough to upset the cymeks. Ajax loved showmanship, wanted
to make certain every terrified eye witnessed his actions. When Iblis and the other crew
bosses blew whistles to signal their readiness, Ajax emerged, carrying his maimed
prisoner.
     The Titan wore an antlike body with an impressive ellipsoidal core, heavy walking
legs, and four grasping arms in which he held Ohan Freer. Hovering watcheyes captured
images and fed a steady stream of data to the evermind.
     Beneath the flaming pillar, Ajax clutched the squirming victim like a giant ant soldier
with a hapless enemy beetle. Doomed Ohan had been burned, bloodied, and wounded;
his left hand was only a charred stump. Blossoming bruises discolored his skin. A thin,
watery wail leaked from his mouth.
     A mutter of dismay came from the human onlookers. Watching them, Iblis knew
these workers could not have been the source of the rebellion, despite the mysterious
and provocative messages he had received. What if he was deluding himself and the
secret call to freedom was simply a wishful suggestion voiced by another desperate
person?
     Lifting the unfortunate captive high, Ajax amplified his vocal synthesizers so that his
words boomed like a projectile cannon around the enclosed square. "Some of you have
heard this criminal speak. Some of you may have had the poor judgment to listen to his
silly imaginings about freedom and rebellion. You would be wiser to cut off your ears
than listen to such foolishness."
     The crowd held its collective breath. Iblis bit his lower lip, not wanting to watch, but
fixated on the imminent horror. If he averted his gaze, the watcheyes might well detect
it, and he would hear about it later. As a consequence, Iblis stared at every unfolding
second.
     'This poor, deluded man is no longer necessary to the continued glory of Omnius in
the reign of the thinking machines."
     Ohan screamed, and struggled weakly. Ajax held the man's intact arm in one
roughly formed pincer claw and each leg in two others. With his last claw, Ajax wrapped
a long, sharp embrace around Ohan's chest, under his armpits.
     'He is no longer a worker. He is no longer even hrethgir, one of the unruly humans
who survive at our own sufferance. He is garbage." Ajax paused. "And garbage is to be
discarded."
    Then, without a sound or any sign of effort, Ajax pulled his artificial limbs in different
directions, tearing the helpless Ohan asunder. The man's arms and legs ripped free, his
chest tore open and broken bones pierced skin. Blood and entrails spilled onto the clean
flagstones of the Golden Age Square.
    Ajax flung the bloody parts into the screaming crowd. "Enough of this nonsense!
There is no rebellion. Now get back to work."
    The sickened workers seemed only too eager to race back to their tasks, looking to
Iblis as they left, as if he could protect them. But Iblis still stared in disbelieving
amazement. Ohan Freer had been a member of the rebellion! The crew boss had spread
dissent, made plans, perhaps sent and received messages.
   Another rebel!
    Appalled, Iblis knew the danger to himself was even greater now, if he continued to
act. Nonetheless, today's execution had shown him one thing more clearly than ever:
The brewing human rebellion was not just his imagination.
    It is real!
    If Ohan had been part of it, then there must be others, too—many of them. This
underground network of fighters, which included Iblis, was safely separated into cells so
that no one could betray the others. Now he understood.

   He began to make plans with even greater conviction than before.
   Humans deny a continuum of possibilities, an infinite number of realms into which
their species may enter.
   —ERASMUS, notes on human nature

     |'twas a makeshift performance hall, inside a marble-walled & building on the robot's
estate. Erasmus had worked his slave crews to modify the interior, install seats, and
retool the walls, all to create perfect acoustics for this single performance. Erasmus had
studied records of the greatest human classical music, knew exactly what was expected
of grand symphonies, from the audience to the setting. He had high standards for his
artistic endeavors.
     The robot invited Serena Butler, now in her eighth month of pregnancy, to sit in a
large central chair for the concert. "These other people might experience pleasure from
the melody and the sounds, but you have different expectations. On Salusa Secundus,
sophisticated music was a part of your existence."
     With a pang, Serena thought of her brother and his musical aspirations. She had
learned to appreciate the enduring works of long-vanished human composers. "Music is
not the only thing I miss, Erasmus."
     'You and I speak the same cultured language," he said, not noticing her pointed
remark. "You will tell me how you enjoy this composition. I had you in mind when I
wrote it."
     He filled the performance hall with worker-caste slaves culled from a variety of
skilled labor assignments. They were cleaned up and dressed according to Erasmus's
concept of a high-class audience.
     Electronic portraits of great human composers lined the interior walls, as if the robot
wanted to count himself among their number. Around the perimeter of the concert hall,
museum-type display cases held musical instruments—a lute, a rebec, a gilded tambour,
and an antique fifteen-string baliset with inlaid vabalone shells on its case.

     In the center of the mezzanine stage beneath open rafters, Erasmus sat alone
before a grand piano, surrounded by music synthesizers, speakers, and a sound-misting
station. Wearing a formal black suit with a cut similar to a tuxedo but redesigned to
accommodate his robotic body, Erasmus sat at attention, his face a smooth mirrored
oval, showing no expression.
     Shifting to find a more comfortable position for her back, Serena watched the
inquisitor robot. She rested a hand on her enormous abdomen, felt the movements of
the restless baby. Within weeks, she would deliver her child.
     Around her, the captive audience shifted uneasily, not sure what to expect, or what
was expected of them. Erasmus turned his mirrored face toward the audience, reflecting
them as he waited, and waited. Finally silence fell.
     'Thank you for your attention." He turned to a shiny silver apparatus beside him, a
music synthesizer with dancing polymer fingertips that produced familiar riffs and
chords. The background music increased in volume, laced with stringed instruments and
mournful Chusuk horns.
     The robot listened for several moments, then continued, "You are about to
experience something truly remarkable. To demonstrate my respect for the creative
spirit, I have composed a new symphony especially for you, my hardworking slaves. No
human has ever heard it before."
     He played a rapid mixture of melodies on the piano, running through three short
passages in an apparent effort to confirm that the instrument was tuned properly. "After
detailed analysis of the field, I have written a symphony comparable to the works of the
great human composers Johannes Brahms and Emi Chusuk. I developed my piece
according to strict principles of order and mathematics."
     Serena perused the audience, doubting any of the humans raised in captivity were
familiar with the classical music the robot had mentioned. Schooled on Salusa Secundus,
where music and art were integral parts of the culture, Serena had listened to the
renowned works of many composers, even discussing them at length with Fredo.
     With a mental pulse Erasmus linked his gelcircuitry mind to the synthesizer,
producing a strange, repetitious melody. Then his mechanical fingers danced over the
keyboard, and he made frequent sweeping gestures as he played, as if imitating a
famous concert pianist.
     Serena found the composition pleasant enough, but unremarkable. And, although
she did not recognize the precise melody, it had a strangely familiar character, as if the
robot had mathematically analyzed an existing piece measure by measure and followed
the pattern, changing a rhythm here, a polyphonic passage there. The music felt
lackluster, with no powerful driving force.
     Erasmus apparently believed it was a human instinct to appreciate a new work, that
his captive audience would intrinsically note the nuances and complexities of his
structurally perfect composition. The slaves around Serena shifted in their seats and
listened; to them, this was a pleasant enough diversion but just another work
assignment. The conscripted audience seemed to enjoy the soothing notes of the
melody, but it did not move them in the way the robot desired.
    When at last he ceased his performance, Erasmus sat back from the piano,
deactivated the symphonic support equipment, and let the silence deepen. The
reverberating tones faded.
    For a moment, the slaves hesitated as if waiting for instructions. Erasmus said, "You
may give an ovation if you enjoyed the piece." They didn't seem to understand the
reference, until he said, "Signify by clapping your hands."
    An initial wave of applause came as a sparse patter like raindrops, then swelled into
louder clapping—as was expected of them. Serena joined in politely, though not
enthusiastically. A small act of honesty that she was sure Erasmus would notice.

     The robot's shining mask had shifted into a proud smile. In his formal black garment
he walked smoothly down a staircase from the mezzanine stage to the main floor. The
slaves continued to applaud, and he basked in the apparent adulation. When the
acclamation receded, he summoned sentinel guards to escort the audience back to their
regular work assignments.
     Serena could see that Erasmus believed he had created an enduring work of merit
that possibly surpassed what humans had achieved. But she didn't want to discuss it
with him, and tried to slip away to her greenhouse work. She moved slowly because of
her pregnancy, however, and Erasmus caught up with her. "Serena Butler, I wrote this
symphony for your benefit. Are you not impressed by it?"
     She selected her words carefully, avoiding a candid answer. "Perhaps I am simply
sad because your symphony reminds me of other performances I watched on Salusa
Secundus. My late brother wanted to be a musician. Those were happier times for me."
     He looked at her closely, his optic threads sparkling. "Nuances of human behavior
tell me that my symphony has disappointed you. Explain why."
     'You don't want an honest opinion."
     'You misjudge me, for I am a seeker of truth. Anything else is faulty data." His
cherubic expression caused her to lower her guard. "Is there something wrong with the
acoustics in this hall?"
     'It's nothing to do with the acoustics. I'm sure you tested everything to technical
perfection." The audience continued to move toward the exits, some looking over their
shoulders at Serena with pity that the robot had taken a special interest in her. "It was
the symphony itself." "Continue," Erasmus said. His voice was flat.
     'You assembled that piece, you didn't create it. It was based on precise models
developed ages ago by human composers. The only creativity I heard came from their
minds, not yours. Your music was a mathematical extrapolation, but nothing that
inspired me in any way. The tune you… engineered evoked no images or feelings within
me. There was no fresh element that you contributed, nothing emotionally compelling."
"How am I to quantify such an ingredient?"
     Forcing a smile, Serena shook her head. "Therein lies your mistake, Erasmus. It is
impossible to quantify creativity. How does a person hear a thunderstorm and use that
experience to write the 'William Tell Overture'? You would simply imitate the sounds of
thunder and rain, Erasmus, but you wouldn't evoke the impression of a storm. How did
Beethoven look at a peaceful meadow and adapt that experience into his 'Pastorale'?
Music should make the spirit soar, take the breath away, touch the soul. Your work was
just… pleasant tones, adequately performed."
    The robot took several seconds to change the expression on his face, and finally
looked at her with perplexity, even defensiveness. "Your opinion seems to be in the
minority. The rest of the audience greatly appreciated the work. Did you not notice their
applause?"
    She sighed. "First of all, those slaves have no knowledge of music, no basis of
comparison. You could have stolen any symphony from a classical composer, note for
note, and called it your own. They wouldn't have known the difference.
    'Second, sitting in a concert hall—comfortable, clean, and well-dressed—is probably
the best work assignment you've ever given them. Why wouldn't they clap for that
reason alone?"

    She looked at him. "Finally, and most important, you told them to applaud. How are
they supposed to react, when they know you could have them killed at any moment?
Under such circumstances, Erasmus, you will never get a fair and honest response."
    'I do not understand, cannot understand." Erasmus repeated this several times.
Abruptly, he whirled and swung a hardened fist into the face of a man who walked past.
The unexpected blow sent the victim crashing over the chairs, bleeding.
    'Why did you do that?" Serena demanded, rushing over to help the man.
    'Artistic temperament," Erasmus said calmly. "Is that not what humans call it? He
tried to deceive me about how he really felt."
    She tried to soothe the man, but when he looked up to see the robot, the slave
struggled away, holding a hand up to stop the blood dripping from his nose. Serena
rounded on Erasmus. "True artists are sensitive and compassionate. They don't need to
hurt people to make them feel."
    'You are not afraid to voice your opinion, even when you believe it might displease
me?"
    Serena looked directly into his unnatural face. "You hold me prisoner, Erasmus. You
claim to want my opinion, so I give it. You can hurt me, even murder me, but you have
already taken me away from my life and the man I love. Any further pain pales in
comparison."
    Erasmus stared at her, assessing what she had said. "Humans are perplexing to
me—and you more than anyone, Serena Butler." His flow-metal countenance took on a
smiling expression. "But I will keep trying to understand. Thank you for your insights."

   As Serena left the hall, Erasmus returned to the piano and began practicing.
   Above all, I am a man of honor. This is how I wish to be remembered.
   — XAVIER HARKONNEN, comment to his men

    The time he had spent with Serena now seemed like an elusive dream.
    Xavier could not recall the exact trails they had taken into the forests on the Butler
estate, which was now his home with Octa. His wife. He could not remember his lost
love any more clearly than he could taste the exotic spices of a well-prepared meal, or
smell the delicate scents of meadow flowers. His replacement lungs had healed to the
extent possible. Now it was time for his heart to do the same.
     Many times he had told himself he would not do this, that he would devote himself
to the new life he had promised Octa. But here he was anyway, trying to recapture the
past, or bidding it farewell.
     He chose the same chocolate brown Salusan stallion he'd ridden on the bristleback
hunt, almost nine months ago. For hours he tried to locate the magical meadow where
he and Serena had made love, but it seemed to have vanished… like Serena herself.
Like his happiness… and his future.
     Now, as he tried to bring back memories of the surrounding hills and forests, all he
could recall about that afternoon was the beauty of Serena's face and the sheer joy of
being with her again. Everything else seemed a hazy fantasy, a mere backdrop.
     The Butler estate was so sprawling that even the Viceroy had never surveyed all of
it. After Xavier's marriage to Octa, Manion had insisted that his new son-in-law take up
residence in the Butler manor. With Fredo and Serena gone, and Livia elsewhere, the
great house seemed too quiet and lonely. Xavier had always considered the Tantor
place his home, but the sadness in Manion Butler's eyes and the hope in Octa's had
convinced him to move his belongings in with the Butlers.
     Someday, everything here would stop reminding him of Serena.
     At a clearing on the trail, he dismounted and stared into the cool distance, where
evergreen-covered hills poked through morning mists. He felt caught in a dreary
nightmare, but knew full well that he had brought it on himself by coming out here in
the first place.
   Serena is dead.
    He had left sweet Octa back at the house, telling her he wanted to exercise the
stallion. She often liked to ride with him, but had sensed that he wanted to be by
himself. Though they had been married for less than two months, he could keep few
secrets from her. Octa realized, without ever admitting as much, that she would never
have all of her husband's heart.
    He and Serena had shared grand dreams. His unrealized life with her would have
been complex and sometimes stormy, but always interesting. In contrast, Xavier's
rushed marriage to Octa was good, but simple. The matters that concerned her seemed
so small in comparison with Serena's magnificent humanitarian visions. It was hard to
believe the two were sisters. He knew that making such comparisons was unfair to
Octa—who treated him better than he deserved—and also to Serena's memory. But he
couldn't help himself.

    Standing just behind him, Xavier's horse whinnied, and he tugged on the halter. He
sniffed the breeze, searching with his deadened senses to find some lingering trace of
Serena's sweet perfume.
   Gone. You are dead, my love, and I must let you go.
     He remounted the stallion and continued down the path, but none of the trees or
hills looked familiar. The meadow could be anywhere.
   Xavier rubbed the corner of his eye. He envisioned the idealistic woman for one last
time, and her image broke through like summer sunlight, smiling down upon him, telling
him without words that he must go on with his life.
   He said goodbye to her, though he had done this before, and always she remained
nearby. He couldn't discuss the hurt with anyone, for they would never understand. He
had to suffer alone. He had always kept his feelings inside.
   Xavier wore a distant expression as he peered off into the might-have-been.
Moments later, when daylight broke through the morning fog and warmed his face, he
began to feel better. The sun's golden glow was like Serena herself, watching over him.
Each time he felt its warmth he would think of her, and of the love they had shared.
   Xavier turned the horse around and urged it into a trot, heading back to the Butler
manor house… and Octa, his wife.
   Fire has no form of its own, but clings to the burning object. Light clings to
darkness.
   —Cogitor philosophy

     ,'% fter more than a month of major repairs, the Dream A 't'tVoyager was finally
ready to depart Earth on another update run. But Vorian Atreides had one important
duty to complete before leaving, to visit Erasmus as the robot had requested.
     Once again, the extravagant horse-drawn coach brought him to the towering seaside
villa. The sunny weather was much more pleasant than the drizzling rain of his previous
visit, with only a few thin clouds scudding over the ocean.
     Immediately, as if his gaze was drawn to her, he saw Serena Butler standing at the
main entrance. She wore a loose black servant's dress, and her belly was so rounded
that he couldn't see how she continued her work. The baby must be due soon.
     She waited for Vor as if merely performing another duty, arms folded, face neutral.
He hadn't known what to expect, but seeing her unreadable expression left him
crestfallen. Given her tone at the end of his last visit, Vor had hoped she might actually
be happy to see him.
     Perhaps it had something to do with her baby and the hormonal storms swirling
through her system. She might be worried about what would happen to the infant after
its birth, what Erasmus would do with it.
     Though Serena had been a daughter of some prominence in the League of Nobles,
here she was a mere household slave, not even a trustee. Her baby might be tossed
into the squalid pens with the lowest-caste humans… unless Vor used his influence to
obtain concessions for the mother and child. And even if he succeeded, would she be
grateful for his effort?
     Leaving the coach horses stamping on the flagstones, Vor reached the covered entry
between carved Grogyptian pillars. Before she could say anything, he blurted, "I
apologize for offending you last time, Serena Butler. Whatever I did." He had looked
forward to this for a long time, had practiced what he would say.
     'Your lineage offends me." Her blunt response took him aback. As the son of
Agamemnon, Vor had been given freedom to read his father's memoirs and learn of all
the glorious Titan conquests. He had been fortunate to experience many things in his
travels, to see many inter-esting places. Being the son of a Titan had always seemed an
advantage to him—until now.

     Seeing his crestfallen expression, she remembered that she must keep him as an ally
and decided to offer him a smile. "But that is as much my burden as yours."
     As they passed alcoved statues and tall, decorated urns, he said, as if she needed an
explanation, "I leave soon on the Dream Voyager, and your master asked to speak with
me first. That is why I'm here."
     She raised her eyebrows. "Then I'm sure Erasmus will be glad to see you."
     They reached a door, and Vor asked, "Do you ever accept apologies? Or do you
consider all affronts permanent?"
     The remark seemed to surprise her. "But you aren't really sorry, are you? You
willingly serve the thinking machines, who have enslaved and tortured humanity. Surely
you acknowledge that much? You also boast about your father, as if his work is
something to be proud of. Do you know about the horrors during the Time of Titans? Or
the Hrethgir Rebellions?"
     'I've read my father's memoirs in great detail—

    'I don't mean Agamemnon's propaganda. Have you learned the real history?"
    He frowned. "The truth is the truth, is it not? How can there be different versions of
the same event?"
    Serena sighed as if he were a small child and she found it hard to explain. "In some
ways, you are less aware than a machine, Vorian Atrei-des, because you don't realize
that you have a choice—and you think you're doing nothing wrong." He caught the hint
of a resigned smile on her lips. "Yet what is the point of maintaining anger against
someone who is so deluded?" She became brusque again. "Perhaps Agamemnon is too
ashamed to let you learn real history. Have you ever bothered to check the facts, or do
you just accept your father's war stories?"

    Vor raised his chin, not sure how to interpret her mood. "I am a trustee. I can
access any historical files I choose." His mind spun.
    'Then do some investigating on your own. You'll have plenty of time to think about
things while you're off cruising in your ship."
    Inside the austere sitting room, translucent plaz walls cast a bright yellow lambence.
The reflective surfaces shifted moment by moment, passing through gradients of color,
becoming softer. She directed him to a metallic-brown divan. "Erasmus instructed us to
wait here." With some difficulty, she took a seat beside him. "Both of us."
    He felt her nearness, very aware of the curve of her belly beneath the dress. There
wasn't enough space between them—as Erasmus had no doubt intended. The room had
no other furnishings. Vor's pulse raced as he sat in awkward silence, awaiting the robot.
It seemed pointless for him to be so attracted to her.

    OBSERVING THE TWO humans through swirling wallscreens, Erasmus was intrigued
by their body language, the way they glanced at each other and then away. Despite
Serena's obvious conflicting attitudes, she must have some attraction for this handsome
young man. Without a doubt, Vorian Atreides was smitten with her.
    Erasmus had watched breeding behavior among humans, but this was not the
typical interplay. No, this was more complex than anything he had observed among the
slaves raised in captivity.
    As the tedious silence extended, Serena said, "You would think a robot could keep
better track of time."
    Vor smiled at her. "I don't mind waiting."
    Serena looked uncomfortable, but remembered to smile back.
    Fascinating. In classic poems and literature, Erasmus had read about the mysteries
of romantic love, but had never seen it blossom. Once, seventy-three years ago, he had
found a pair of young lovers who had slipped away from their assigned duties so they
could spend time alone in secret trysts. He had caught them, of course—humans were
so clumsy when they tried to sneak around—and had punished them with permanent
separation. It had seemed the obvious response. If he had allowed them to get away
with such independence, it might have spread to the other slaves.

    Afterward, however, he had regretted taking such action, and wished he'd continued
to observe the human courtship.
    He had a more well-developed plan for these two. Their interplay was yet another
laboratory, another experiment—so different from the imaginary "rebel cells" he had
begun to foster, thanks to Omnius's challenge. It was important to observe humans in
their natural states of behavior.

   And sometimes it is necessary to deceive them.
    As the human pair waited and fidgeted, Erasmus noted every gesture, every flicker
of the eyes, every movement of the lips, every word and tone. The male and female
were uneasy, discomfited by the unnatural situation, not certain how to occupy
themselves.
    Vorian Atreides seemed to enjoy the circumstances more than Serena. "Erasmus
treats you well," he said, as if trying to convince her. "You're lucky he takes such an
interest in you."
    Even with her ungainly belly, Serena rose quickly from the divan as if burned by his
suggestion. She turned on him, and the spying robot savored the expression of
indignation on her face and Vorian's look of astonishment.
    'I am a human being," she said. "I have lost my freedom, my home, my life—and
you believe I should be grateful to my captor? Perhaps you should spend some time
during your travels rethinking that opinion." He seemed stunned by her outburst, and
Serena continued, "I pity you for your ignorance, Vorian Atreides."

   After a long moment, he replied, "I haven't experienced your sort of life, Serena. I
haven't been to your world, so I don't know what you're missing, but I would do
anything if only you could be happy."
    'I can only be truly happy if I am free to go home." She heaved a deep sigh, then
maneuvered herself back onto the sofa again. "But I would like us to be friends,
Vorian."
    The robot decided he had given them enough time together. He left the viewing
screen and entered the private waiting room.
    LATER, VORIAN WONDERED why he had been summoned to the villa in the first
place. Erasmus had taken him into his botanical garden, where they had chatted, but
the robot had asked him few relevant questions.
    Riding in the coach back to the spaceport and the Dream Voyager, Vor felt unnerved
and confused. It frustrated him that he could do nothing to bring joy into Serena's life.
To his surprise, the idea of earning her approval or gratitude excited him as much as
the prospect of pleasing his father. His mind spun with the things she had said about
history, propaganda, and life on the League Worlds.
    She had challenged him. He'd never been curious to read beyond Agamemnon's
memoirs, had never imagined that there could be a different perspective on the same
events. He had not considered life outside of the Synchronized Worlds, always assuming
that feral humans endured a squalid, pointless existence out there.
    But how could such a chaotic civilization have produced a woman like Serena Butler?
Perhaps he had missed something.
    Science.- Lost in its own mythos, redoubling its efforts when it has forgotten its aim.
    —NORMA CENVA, unpublished laboratory notebooks

    Delighted by the new protective shield, Tio Holtzman stood inside the half-
reconstructed demonstration dome. He taunted his adversary, laughed at the deadly
weap' ons. Nothing could harm him! The generator pulsed at his feet, projecting a
personal barrier around his body.
    Impenetrable… or so he hoped.
    This test should prove that the concept worked. Even Norma believed in him this
time. How could anything possibly go wrong?
    The diminutive young woman stood at the other side of the reinforced building,
throwing objects at him—rocks, tools, and finally (at his insistence) a heavy club. Each
one struck the shimmering field and dropped away, its momentum stolen by the shield's
energy, leaving him completely unharmed.

    He waved his arms. "It doesn't hinder my mobility at all. It's wonderful."
    Now she held a kindjal dagger, her face intent, clearly worried that she might injure
him. She had gone through the equations herself and determined that the Savant had
made no errors. According to her analysis and her instincts, the shield should work at
the impact speeds they were using in the test.
    But still she hesitated.
    'Come, Norma. Science is not for the faint of heart." She flung the kindjal as hard as
she could, and he forced himself not to flinch. The sharp blade slid harmlessly down the
outer film of the barrier. Holtzman smiled, wiggling his fingers. "This invention will
change personal protection throughout the League. No longer will anyone be vulnerable
to assassins or cutthroats."
    Grunting with effort, Norma hurled an improvised spear. It struck right in front of
Holtzman's eyes, making him jerk backward with a startled blink. When the sharpened
staff clattered to the floor, he chuckled in surprise.
    'I cannot disagree with you, Savant Holtzman." Norma smiled in return, then finished
throwing a flurry of objects at him like an angry fishwife. "Congratulations on your
remarkable breakthrough."
    Without any apparent jealousy, the Rossak girl seemed truly pleased for him. At last
he had a triumph of his own to present to Niko Bludd, just like in his glory days. What a
relief!
    When Norma had nothing left to throw, he shouted to the Dragoon guards who
stood on the temporary bridge. "Summon the leader of my Zenshüte house slaves. That
dark-haired man with the beard."
    As one guard tromped off to find the slave, Holtzman grinned mischievously at
Norma. "We'll play a little trick on him. He's a surly sort, and I think he hates me."
    Bel Moulay came over to the demonstration dome, his beard like coal smoke drifting
down his chin. He averted his smoldering gaze whenever Holtzman looked too closely at
him.
    Both Dragoons seemed suspicious of the slave leader, but Holtzman waved away
their concerns, feeling safe behind his body shield. "Hand him your Chandler pistol,
Sergeant."
    'But sir, he is a slave." The guard's face remained stony. Moulay looked even more
surprised at the suggestion.
    'I'm not concerned, Sergeant. Your partner can keep watch on him. Shoot him in the
head if he does not follow instructions precisely."
    Norma said, "Perhaps we should test this further, Savant Holtzman. We could hook
up a mannequin inside the shield and see what happens to it."
    'I agree, Savant," the sergeant added. "Our charge is to protect you, and I cannot
allow—

    Annoyed, Holtzman interrupted him. "Nonsense, the system can only be controlled
from inside. My charge, given to me by Lord Bludd himself—and by the League of
Nobles—is to develop and test a means by which we can protect ourselves from the
thinking machines. Unless you want to be taken by robot raiders and made into a slave
for Omnius, I suggest that you let me do my work. We've wasted enough time already."

   Still uneasy, the sergeant removed the high-powered needle pistol and placed it into
the slave's callused hands. Bel Moulay grasped the weapon, looking back and forth as if
unable to believe his good fortune.
   'Now then, you—Moulay, is that your name? Point that weapon at me and fire at my
chest. Go ahead, you can't miss."

   Moulay didn't flinch. Everyone had heard the direct order. He squeezed the firing
button. The Dragoon guards shouted. Norma cringed.
   High-speed crystal shards shot out and struck the shield surrounding
    Holtzman, then tinkled to the ground like breaking glass. The scientist let out a quiet
sigh, his knees suddenly weak with relief.
    Barely concealing his anger and hatred, Bel Moulay squeezed the firing button again
and again. A hailstorm of sharp crystals splattered against the body shield. He fired until
the Chandler pistol was empty.
    Two wary Dragoons appeared in the doorway, their sidearms raised to cut down the
black-bearded slave where he stood, if necessary. But at the sight of Holtzman
unharmed and laughing, Moulay lowered the weapon and glowered. The guards
wrestled the pistol from his powerful grip-All around lay the debris of broken-mirror
needles. The Savant expected to receive another Poritrin Medal of Valor for this
invention.
    Brash, without considering the consequences, the scientist turned to the Dragoon
guard. "Now, Sergeant, give him your hand explosive, the small grenade there at your
side."
    The Dragoon stiffened. "With respect, Savant. I will not." "Your Chandler pistol was
ineffective, and it will be the same with the grenade. Imagine how useful these shields
will be to you and your men once their effectiveness is proven."
    Intervening, Norma said to the sergeant in a soft, reasonable voice, "It is all right.
The Savant knows what he is doing."
    Moulay whirled like a snarling dog, extending his hand for the grenade, palm up.
    The sergeant said, "First I want everyone on the other side of the bridge." Leading
Norma away, the other guards strode across to the main bluff.
    The Dragoon finally removed the explosive and gave it to the Zen-shüte. Without
waiting to be told again, Bel Moulay pushed the button and tossed the explosive gently
toward Holtzman. Norma felt a sudden fear that the grenade would roll slowly enough
to pass through the shield before it detonated.
    Knowing he was inside the blast zone, Bel Moulay rushed back across the walkway.
From the other side of the bridge, Norma watched the blinking sphere bounce off the
shimmering barrier like a rotten fruit.
    A loud blossom of fire erupted inside the open demonstration dome. The sound and
the overpressure wave was enough to send Norma stumbling. She fell to her knees,
looking over the edge of the bridge to the river far below… thinking she should have
brought her new suspensor device, and also recalling the slaves who fell to their deaths
during Holtzman's previous test.
    Two of the newly installed windows had blasted out in a cloud of reinforced glass,
scattering fragments that glittered as they caught sunlight. Smoke curled upward.
Norma got back to her feet.
    Unharmed, Bel Moulay stood with his hands clenched. The guards tensed, ready to
take down the slave leader if he showed any sign of aggression.
    Norma stumbled back toward the building. She knew intellectually that the shield
should have held, but her heart feared that she had missed some subtle flaw in the
scientist's work.
    Like a victorious soldier, Holtzman swaggered out, blinking and waving smoke away
from his face. He had switched off the shield generator and left the apparatus in the
center of the room. Trudging through the wreckage, he appeared somewhat disheveled,
but unharmed.
   'It works! Complete protection. Not a scratch." He looked back at the ruined
demonstration dome. "I'm afraid we've damaged some rather expensive equipment,
though." He frowned in consternation, then burst out laughing.
   Whatever has form—human or machine—has mortality. It is only a matter of time.

   —COGITOR EKLO OF EARTH

    Even with flawless memories based on the most reliable computer principles,
sentient machines had limitations. Accuracy depended upon the method of information
collection as well as upon the gelcircuitry, neurelectronics, and fiber binaries of
construction.
    Thus, Erasmus preferred to watch everything firsthand, rather than relying on
mechanical observers or recorded events in the computer evermind's data banks. The
robot wanted to be present himself. He wanted to experience.
    Especially when it came to the momentous occasion of Serena giving birth.
    Erasmus augmented his observations by erecting a detailed web of optic threads to
record permanent records of every instant, from every perspective. Clinically, he had
observed other births from reproductive slaves and considered them nothing more than
a normal biological function. But Serena had made him think he might be missing
something. Antic-ipating the pleasure of surprise, Erasmus intended to observe very
carefully.
    It was too bad she wouldn't give birth to twins…
    Serena lay on the sterile table, twisting with labor spasms, occasionally remembering
to hurl curses at him, other times concentrating on her biological processes or calling
out for Xavier. Full medical details streamed in from implanted diagnostics and
monitoring devices that skittered over her skin, cataloguing the chemicals in her sweat,
analyzing her pulse, respiration and other bodily rhythms.
    As the robot prodded and studied, fascinated by both Serena's pain and her wildly
varying reactions, she screamed at him. He took no offense at the insults. It was
interesting, even amusing, that she could expel such imaginative anger when she should
have been concentrating on the birth.
    Out of consideration for her, and to minimize variables in the observational medium,
he maintained the room's temperature at an optimal level. Household slaves had
removed Serena's clothes, leaving her exposed on the table.
    Through his ubiquitous wall scanners and hidden watcheyes, Erasmus had seen
Serena naked many times before. The robot had no prurient interest in her unadorned
form; he wanted only the clinical minutiae from which he would draw broader
conclusions.
    He passed his personal probe over her entire body, absorbing the musky scent she
gave off, the intriguing chemical interplays. He found it all very stimulating.
    SERENA LAY ON the birthing bed, terrified for her child and for herself. She was
tended by six human midwives drawn from the breeding pens.
    Erasmus leaned close. His intense scrutiny frightened Serena, especially the way his
probe kept darting in and out of the compartment in his body. She knew he could not
be genuinely concerned for the welfare of a mere slave and her child.
    Sudden lances of abdominal pain pushed aside such thoughts, and she could only
focus on the most basic effort for any woman. In a giddy, euphoric instant Serena
marveled at the biology that made this possible, the creation of life, the sharing of
genetics between man and woman. Oh, how she wished Xavier could be with her now.
    She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached; tears streamed down her cheeks.
Xavier's face floated before her, an hallucination born of wishful thinking. Then a harder
spasm hit, and she could concentrate on nothing else.
    She had been in labor for ten hours now, while the midwives performed various
procedures that softened the pain, inserting thin needles into pressure points,
massaging nerve centers, injecting drugs. Erasmus provided the midwives with
whatever they needed.
    Even inside the sterile birthing room, the robot wore a shimmering golden robe
trimmed in royal blue. "Describe your feelings to me. What are the sensations of giving
birth? I am very curious."
    'Bastard!" Serena gasped. "Voyeur! Leave me in peace!"
    The midwives talked with each other as if their patient wasn't even present.
    'Fully dilated…"
    'Contractions coming more frequently…"
    'Almost time…"
    In the background, beyond the center of her existence and the pulse of her child,
Serena heard the female voices, this time directed toward her. "Push."
    She did so, but eased back when the pain became unbearable and she didn't think
she could go on.
    'A little harder."
    Through sheer force of will, she overcame the pain, increased her effort, and felt the
baby coming. Her body knew what it was supposed to do.
    'Push again. You can do it."
    'That's it. Good, good. I see the head!"
    As if a dam had broken, Serena felt a release of pressure in her birth canal. She
nearly passed out from the exertion.
    When she lifted her head moments later, she saw the midwives washing the
afterbirth from her baby. A son.' They turned the child toward her, and the face was
exactly as she had envisioned it.
    Erasmus stood watching. The image of the infant reflected in his distorted-mirror
face.
    Serena had already decided she would name a son after her own father. "Hello,
Manion. Dear, sweet Manion."
    The baby cried forcefully, taking healthy gulps of air. She held the infant against her
chest, but he continued to squirm. Erasmus stared at the child, showing no reaction.
    Serena refused to acknowledge the robot's presence, hoping he would just go away
and leave her with a special memory. Unable to take her eyes off the baby, she thought
of Xavier, of her father, of Salusa Secun-dus… and all the things this child would never
have in his life. Yes, the infant had good reason to cry.
    Abruptly, Erasmus intruded on her field of vision. With strong synthetic hands made
from organic-plastic composites, the robot lifted the newborn into the air and studied
him from all angles.
    Though utterly weary, drenched with sweat, Serena yelled, "Leave him alone! Give
me my baby."
    Erasmus turned the infant over. The robot's shimmering facefilm shifted to form a
curious expression. The child began to cry and squirm, but Erasmus simply tightened his
grip, unconcerned. He held the naked baby so that he could study its face, its fingers,
its penis. With an involuntary squirt, little Manion urinated on the robot's robes.
    One of the alarmed midwives tried to wipe the robot's face and the wet collar with a
cloth, but Erasmus brushed her aside. He wanted to gather as much data as he could
about the experience so that he could file it all away for contemplation at his leisure.
    The newborn kept crying.
    Serena struggled off the birthing bed, disregarding her pain and exhaustion. "Give
him to me."
    Surprised at the vehemence in her voice, Erasmus turned toward her. "All in all, this
biological reproduction process seems overly messy and inefficient." With something
akin to distaste, he passed the baby back to the mother.
    Little Manion eventually stopped crying, and one of the midwives wrapped him in a
blue blanket. The baby snuggled into his mother's arms. Despite the power Erasmus
held over her life, Serena did her best to ignore him. She showed no fear.
    'I have decided to let you keep the baby with you, instead of processing it through
my slave pens," the robot said in a flat tone. "The interaction of mother and child
intrigues me. For now."
   Fanaticism is always a sign of repressed doubt.
   —IBLIS GINJO, The Landscape of Humanity

    When Ajax strode across the Forum work site in his immense walker-form, the
ground trembled, and slaves paused in terror to determine what the Titan wanted. From
his high platform, Iblis Ginjo watched the cymek's thundering approach, but tried not to
show nervousness. He gripped an electronic notepad in his sweaty hands.
    Since the gruesome execution of the crew boss Ohan Freer, Iblis had been
extraordinarily careful. He believed he could trust all of his loyal slaves, who owed much
to him. Ajax could not possibly know about plans Iblis had set in motion or the secret
weapons he had installed, just waiting for a sign.
    For six days, Iblis had supervised a large work crew at "Victory of the Titans," a
megalithic stone frieze depicting the twenty original visionaries. Two hundred meters
long and fifty high, the conjoined slabs showed mechanical cymeks in heroic poses,
marching over a mass of humanity, breaking bones and turning fleshy bodies into jelly.
    Like a modern-day version of his depiction on the frieze, Ajax's cymek body stalked
toward the supervisory platform, pushing workers aside and trampling an old man to
death. Iblis's heart turned to lead, but he could not attempt to flee. Ajax had already
singled him out, and the crew boss would need all of his persuasive skills just to survive
the Titan's fury.
   What does he think I have done?
    The platform and cymek were around the same height. Trying to look obedient and
subservient, but not afraid, Iblis stood to face the frontal suite of sensors and optic
threads mounted in the Titan's head plate. He bowed deeply. "Greetings, Lord Ajax.
How may I serve you?" He gestured toward the trembling slave gangs. "Our work on
this latest monument is proceeding precisely on schedule."
    'Yes, you always have reason to be smug with your performance. Your slaves listen
to everything you say, do they not?"
    'They obey my instructions. We work together for the glory of Om-nius."
    'No doubt they would believe any preposterous idea you suggested." Ajax's voice
was gravelly. "How well did you know the traitor Ohan Freer?"
    'I do not associate with such men." He hoped the cymek would think the
perspiration on his brow was from hard labor rather than mounting dread. "With due
respect, Lord Ajax, check your logs. My crew has been working to make this mural to
your exacting specifications." He pointed up at the frieze's replica of Ajax towering
overhead.
    'I have already checked the logs, Iblis Ginjo." The cymek shifted in his immense
robotic body. Iblis felt a skitter of fear along his spine. What has he seen? "Twice now,
Dante has given you special dispensation to leave the city grid. Where do you go?"
    It took all his effort to maintain an innocent expression. If Ajax already knew about
the trips, then he knew the answer to his question. "I have spoken with the Cogitor Eklo
in an attempt to better myself."
    "Hrethgir rarely amount to much," the Titan said. "Given my preference, I would
have exterminated the rest of the humans long ago. Too much trouble to keep around."
    'Even the Titans were once human, Lord Ajax." Iblis tried to sound eager and
conspiratorial. "And Omnius still allows certain loyal and hardworking humans to
become neo-cymeks. Can I not dream?"
    The scatter of glowing optic threads across Ajax's head plate twin kled. His artificial
forelimb rose up, and pliable flowmetal digits formed into a diamond-skinned claw that
could easily have crushed Iblis. The Titan's vocal speaker hummed with deep laughter.
    I have successfully diverted him! To continue his ruse, Iblis spoke quickly. "Ajax, you
saw how I salvaged your statue in the Forum Plaza. Similarly, with this enormous stone
mural, I have coordinated many artists and constructors to make every detail perfect. I
would not trust that task to any other crew supervisor." You need me! he wanted to
shout. "Few others are capable of such efficiency—you know it yourself."

    'What I know is that there are traitors and insurgents among the slaves." Ajax paced
in his ominous body, making nearby workers scramble out of the way. "Perhaps you are
one of them."
    Now Iblis understood that the cymek had no evidence, and was only fishing. If the
monster had known anything for certain, he would have executed Iblis without
hesitation. The crew boss tried to mask his fear with disdain. "The rumors are false,
Lord Ajax. My workers have been laboring with special intensity to make certain your
own image on the frieze receives preferred positioning and enhancements." Iblis made
his voice sound as firm as possible. He already had a surprise prepared for Ajax, to be
sprung on him at the appropriate moment.
    The Titan turned his massive head plate, as if to get a better view. "Enhancements?"
    'You are a warrior, sir—the greatest and fiercest of all cymeks. Your countenance is
designed to strike terror into the hearts of enemies."

    'This is true." Ajax seemed somewhat mollified. "We will discuss your indiscretions
later." He amplified his voice to boom out across the captive workers. "Enough rest!
Back to work!"
    In his giant artificial body, Ajax stomped away. The supervisory platform trembled
behind him, and Iblis grabbed a railing for support. Relief washed over him.
    During his entire discussion with the volatile Titan, Iblis had kept his hand inside a
pocket that held a crude electronic transmitter. With a simple activation signal, the
complex frieze would have revealed its deadly secret, an integrated sequence of old-
fashioned rocket launchers that his co-conspirators on the work crew had subtly
incorporated into the design.
    By now, Iblis had completed enough massive-scale projects to know that the
thinking machines did not scrutinize the details once a plan had been approved. The
cymek would never notice the destructive system.
    But the timing must be absolutely precise. First, he needed to recruit more soldiers
to his cause.
    As he watched the cymek stride toward the center of the city grid, Iblis mentally
painted a target on its brain preservation canister. If there was to be a violent revolt,
this ancient and brutal Titan would be among the first to fall.
    At the perimeter of the construction site, Ajax swept one of his sleek arms sideways
in a petulant gesture that struck a group of slaves cleaning up debris. This decapitated
one of them, and the bloody head smashed into the nearly completed mural.
    Though the Titan seemed more agitated than usual, Iblis was confident that he had
covered his own trail.
   The darkness of humanity's past threatens to eclipse the brightness of its future.
   —VORIAN ATREIDES, Turning Points in History

    The Dream Voyager traveled again through the Synchronized Worlds, carrying its
various updates of Omnius. Everything back to normal and on schedule, the familiar
routine. While the black-and-silver ship looked and functioned the same as always, Vor
Atreides himself had changed.
    'How can you not be interested in playing our usual mil-itary games, Vorian
Atreides?" Seurat asked. "You have not even bothered to insult my attempts at jokes.
Are you ill?"
    'I am exceptionally healthy, ever since my father gave me the life-extension
treatment." Vor stared out a viewing window at the stars.
    'You are obsessed with that slave woman," the robot captain said at last. "I find you
much less interesting when you are in love."
   Scowling, Vor left the porthole to seat himself before an oval database-display
window. "You've finally made a funny joke, old Metalmind—a machine talking to me
about love."

     'It is not difficult to understand the basic reproductive drive of a species. You
underestimate my analytical abilities."
     'Love is an indescribable force. Not even the most sophisticated thinking machine
can feel it. Don't even try."
     'Then would you care to distract yourself with another competitive challenge?"
     Vor stared into the oval computer screen, where he often perused the memoirs of
Agamemnon. But there was so much more information he had never bothered to check.
"Not now. I want to search through some databases. Can you grant me access to the
files?"
     'Of course. Agamemnon asked me to facilitate your knowledge-enhancement
requests whenever possible, especially with regard to military planning. After all, you
saved us when our vessel was attacked at Giedi Prime."
     'Exactly. I'm interested in seeing Omnius's records of the overthrow of the Old
Empire, the Time of Titans, and the Hrethgir Rebellions. Not just my father's memoirs."
     'Ah, an interesting display of ambition."
     'Are you afraid I'll win too many of our games if I learn more?" Vor scanned the list
of files and was glad he would have so much time on the long update run.
     'I have nothing to fear from a mere human."
     For hours, Vor sat at the midships console, accessing the wealth of information. He
had not studied so much since his days in the trustee school. With his mind sensitized
by thoughts of Serena, Vor expected to find a few minor discrepancies in the historical
record, when compared with Agamemnon's recollections. Even a cymek might be
allowed to embellish war stories. But Vor was shocked to discover how radically different
the evermind's objective records were from what Agamemnon had described.
     Feverishly, he looked through records about Salusa Secundus, the Time of Titans,
and the Old Empire, astonished at what he learned. Vorian had never bothered to look
before, but the information was all here in front of his eyes.
   My father lied to me! He distorted the events, taking credit, hiding the extent of the
brutality and suffering—even Omnius knew it.

    On the other hand, Serena had told him the truth.
    For the first time in his life he felt anger toward his machine masters and his own
father, and a glimmer of compassion for the human race. How bravely they had fought!
    I, myself, am physically human. But what does that mean?
    Agamemnon had caused horrendous slaughter and devastation dur ing the Time of
Titans, against people who were only trying to protect their own freedoms. He and Juno
were responsible for the deaths of billions of people and the harsh enslavement of
survivors. The humans had deserved none of this, had only tried to defend themselves.
    No wonder Serena hates me, if I am the son of such a horribk murderer!
    Vor read on. All the history was there, a dispassionate record accumulated by
efficient machines—and he could not doubt it. Not this. Machines would never
whitewash their records. Data was held sacred; information must be accurate.
Deliberate deception was anathema to them.

    It required a human mind to distort such information… or a human mind in a cymek
body.
    Seurat's voice startled him. "What are you researching? You have already wasted
hours."
    Gazing into the robot's mirrored face, Vor admitted, "I am learning more about
myself."
    'That should require only minimal study," Seurat said in an attempt at wit. "Why
trouble yourself unnecessarily?"
    'Sometimes it is necessary to face the truth." Vor closed the database, darkened the
monitor.
    The robot captain stepped back to the central console and linked himself with the
ship's systems in order to begin planetary approach maneuvers. "Come now, we have
reached Corrin. It is time for our next update delivery."
   Science, under the guise of benefitting humankind, is a dangerous force that often
tampers with natural processes without recognizing the consequences. Under such a
scenario, mass destruction is inevitable.
   —COGITOR RETICULUS,

   Millennial Observations
    After concluding tests against every conceivable projectile and explosive, Tio
Holtzman was eager to put his personal shield design into commercial production. He
had already spoken with the managers of factory centers in Poritrin's northwest mining
belt and assembly shops in Starda. With slave labor, he could make a substantial profit.
His patents alone would place him, and his patron Lord Bludd, among the wealthiest
men in the League of Nobles.
    Unfortunately, as he worked through the projections of inventory and supply,
thinking as a businessman rather than a scientist, he came to an inescapable
conclusion: Poritrin, a bucolic world, could never handle the level of demand this
wondrous invention was sure to arouse. Lord Bludd would not be happy to lose so much
business to an offworld manufacturer, but Holtzman had no choice but to look to other
League industrial centers.
    Before he could send the fabrication units to Vertree Colony or to the restored and
hungry industries of Giedi Prime, he decided he should first test his personal shield
against a nonprojectile weapon, an energy beam. Intense laser weaponry was almost
never used in combat, since it was much less energy-efficient than explosives or simple
projectile guns. Still, he wanted to be certain.
    For one final test, he ordered his household guards to obtain a laser gun from an
ancient military armory. After a good deal of searching and a plethora of requisition
forms, the necessary weapon was finally located and brought to the blufftop
laboratories. Because his shields had proven effective in every previous test, the
scientist found each demonstration less exciting, simply another step in the process.
Soon, the profits would begin to roll in.
    Norma Cenva had returned to her continued ponderings of the Holtzman equations.
The scientist had left her to her obsessive calculations while he basked in his own
success.
    For the laser test, he placed a slave within the shield, intending to fire the weapon
himself. He brought only one assistant into the reinforced demonstration dome to record
impressions of the test, as they had done many times before. Holtzman fiddled with the
laser weapon's antique controls, trying to figure out how to fire the beam.
    Norma rushed in, running like a clumsy girl. Her blocky face was flushed, her short
arms waving. "Wait! Savant Holtzman, you are in terrible danger!"
    He frowned like a stern father dismissing an overly rambunctious child. "You were
skeptical during my first shield test, too. Look, I'm not even in the line of fire."
    Her expression was frighteningly earnest and urgent. "The interaction of your force
field with a collimated laser beam will have extraordinary consequences—massive
destruction." She held up papers covered with equations and her own incomprehensible
shorthand notations.

    Impatiently, he lowered the laser weapon, and sighed heavily. "I don't suppose you
can show me any basis for your alarm?" The targeted Zen-shüte slave looked nervously
through the shimmering shield. "Or is this just another one of your mysterious
intuitions?"
    She thrust the mathematics forward. "Savant, I have been unable to extract a
specific basis for the anomaly when I introduce a factor of coherent laser energy into
the field interface. But there is clearly a dramatic singularity potential."
    Holtzman looked at the scribblings, but they meant nothing to him: The lines were
so messy, steps skipped, odd notations to denote factors he had never seen before. He
frowned, not wanting to admit that he was unable to understand. "Not a very rigorous
proof, Norma—and not convincing either."

    'Can you disprove it? Can you take the risk? This could be even worse than the
disaster with the alloy-resonance generator, a huge catastrophe."
    Holtzman's expression remained stony, though a feather of doubt tickled his mind.
He could not ignore this woman's sheer brilliance. He had always suspected that Norma
understood the concepts of his own field better than he did. "Very well. If you insist, I'll
take an extra precaution or two. Any suggestions?"
    'Conduct the test far away, on a moon or, better yet, an asteroid." "On an asteroid!
Do you know the added expense that would entail?" "Less expensive than rebuilding the
entire city of Starda." He chuckled, then saw that she wasn't joking. "I will postpone my
test to consider this. But I insist that you provide proof. Back up your intuition before I
go to such great trouble and expense. I can't justify such a huge undertaking just
because your feet are cold."
    NORMA CENVA WAS a scientific and mathematical adept, but she had never been
schooled in personal politics. Like a naive child, she went to see Lord Niko Bludd in his
noble residence on the bluff overlooking the Isana.
    Atop the tall conical tower, the enameled roof tiles were different from the blue
metal so common on most other Starda buildings. Dragoon guards lined the interior
halls like gold-skinned reptiles adorned with helmet crests, crimson capes, and
segmented gauntlets.
    Bludd seemed in good enough cheer. He tugged at his curly beard. "Welcome,
young lady. Did you know, at a recent meeting on Salusa I had another opportunity to
speak with your mother? Her Sorceresses had just driven off another cymek attack, this
time on Rossak. I can see where you received your special talent." His blue eyes
twinkled.
    Embarrassed, Norma looked at the tiled floor. "Indeed, Lord Bludd. My mother has…
high expectations of me. As you can see, however"-she gestured to her misshapen
form—"I will never match her physical beauty."

     'External loveliness is not everything," Bludd said without casting a glance at the five
gorgeous women who hovered around him. "Savant Holtzman believes your mind is full
of remarkable ideas. Has he sent you? Does the Savant have another project to
demonstrate?"
     A well-dressed slave woman came forward carrying a silver tray with two goblets of
fizzing clear liquid. She offered one to Norma, who held the ornate cup awkwardly in her
small hands. Lord Bludd sipped from his own goblet, and Norma drank with him.
     'He has another demonstration planned, Lord Bludd." Norma hes-istated. "But I must
ask you to intervene."
     Inquisitive lines creased his forehead. "Whatever for?"
     'Savant Holtzman means to test his new shield using a laser weapon, but there is
danger, sir. I… I am afraid there may be a violent inter-action. Extremely violent."
     She began to speak in mathematical terms, defending her convictions insofar as she
could, but this only caused the nobleman to raise his hands in helpless confusion. "And
what does the Savant think of your concern?"
     'He… trusts in my abilities, but I fear that he wants to perform the test quickly and
inexpensively, and is afraid to displease you if he incurs a great cost." She swallowed
hard, amazed at her audacity. "If I am correct, however, the aftereffects could
devastate an entire district of Starda, perhaps even more."
     'You mean like an atomic explosion?" Bludd was astonished. "How can that be? A
shield is a defensive weapon. Atomics are destructive in—"

    'Second- and third-order interactions are difficult to predict, Lord Bludd. Would it not
be wiser to take precautions, despite the additional cost? Think of the profits Poritrin will
make from this invention. Every important person and every private vessel will require a
personal shield, and you will receive a royalty on each one."
    She looked for a place to set down her heavy goblet. "On the other hand, imagine
the disgrace if such a flaw is discovered after the products are in widespread use. Think
of the losses you would endure."
    The nobleman scratched his bearded chin and toyed with the jeweled chains on his
chest. "Very well, I shall consider it an investment. Savant Holtzman has earned us
enough to fund his eccentric ideas a hundred times over anyway."
    Norma bowed deeply. "Thank you, Lord Bludd."
    As she hurried off to tell her mentor, Norma never considered the gaffe she had
committed in circumventing his authority. She expected a man like Tio Holtzman to
decide matters rationally, not emotionally, unaffected by petty concerns and personality
conflicts.
    After growing up under her mother's frequent reproach, Norma had a thick skin for
insults. How could the great Savant be any less of a person
    THE TEST TOOK place on a bleak asteroid orbiting far from Poritrin. A team of
construction workers excavated a test zone in a flat crater, erected a few recording
devices, then placed a shield-generating apparatus in the crumbly dust of the crater
floor. Then they departed the asteroid to join with a larger frigate bound for Poritrin.
    To observe, Norma and Holtzman sat inside a small military shuttle flown by a
reserve Armada pilot. The Savant had expected to rig sophisticated remote-firing laser
weapons down in the crater around the target zone. Aware of his budgetary concerns,
though, Norma had suggested that it might be sufficient just to fly over the target and
shoot at it with an old laser weapon installed in the ship.
    As the pilot guided them over the test area, the moody scientist hardly responded to
Norma's attempts at conversation. Holtzman watched as they closed in on the target
crater. He seemed annoyed, anxious to prove the young woman wrong. Norma peered
through the shuttle windows at the pockmarks, mounds of precariously balanced
boulders, deep fissures caused by tidal stresses. The place looked as if it had already
been destroyed.
    'Let's be done with this," Holtzman said. "Pilot, shoot your laser weapon when you
are ready."
    Norma looked out the window to watch as the shuttle cruised low until the cleared
test area was directly below them. "Preparing to fire, Savant."
    Casually and offhandedly, Holtzman said, "You'll see that you have imagined
excessive—"

    The pilot fired a bright beam from the shuttle's laser. The appalling flare of light and
energy snatched the words from his mouth. Even in the silence of space, the shockwave
seemed louder than a crack of thunder.
    The pulse surged upward, and the pilot yanked the shuttle's flight controls. "Hang
on!" Powerful engines tore them away; the acceleration nearly pressed Norma into
unconsciousness.
    Then a hammer struck them from the rear, batting the ship like a toy. The shuttle
spun out of control, and the asteroid fragmented into white-hot molten boulders
radiating from the center of the blast like the spokes of a wheel.
    Aghast, Holtzman turned away from the blazing light while the pilot tried to impose
order upon the military spacecraft. The scientist's breaths came in rapid, astonished
bursts.
    Beside him, even Norma was astounded. She stared at her mentor, her lips moving
without producing words. None were necessary. If Holtzman had blithely conducted this
experiment inside his lab, he would have vaporized the lab, his residence, part of the
city, and possibly even rerouted the Isana River.
   He looked at Norma, first in anger, then amazement. Never again would he doubt
her intuition or challenge her scientific abilities.
   Still, he felt a knife twist inside him, a blow to his self-confidence and to his public
image. His benefactor Niko Bludd would now know the truth. Norma had openly
challenged Holtzman's judgment, and her doubts had been undeniably justified.
   He didn't see how to keep everyone on Poritrin—the lords, the Dragoon guards,
even the slaves—from learning that the stunted Rossak mathematician had upstaged
him. News of this test would travel rapidly.

   Tio Holtzman had been spectacularly wrong, and the deep wound from this might
never heal.
   Animals must move across land to survive—for water, for food, for minerals.
Existence depends upon some kind of movement: you move, or the land kills you where
you stand.

   —Imperial Ecological Survey of Arrakis, ancient records he desert night was silent
and untroubled. The first

    JL moon had already set while the dimmer second moon hung above the horizon like
a sleepy eye, yellow with wear iness.
    Little more than a shadow, Selim squatted on a boulder, watching the black
honeycomb of caves above him. He didn't know the villagers here, or their treasures—
but Buddallah had guided him to this isolated place. The desert and all its inhabitants
were part of Selim's mysterious larger destiny, and he did not question—or bother to
justify—his actions.

    These people had little contact with Naib Dhartha's tribe, yet like all of the struggling
Zensunni inhabitants, they sent regular expeditions to Arrakis City to obtain necessary
supplies. Even with sheltered agricultural methods and careful water conservation, no
desert tribe could ever be entirely self-sufficient here.
    And neither could he, despite his best efforts. Air-condensation devices in his two
derelict botanical testing stations replenished Selim's water. Abandoned storage caches
provided most of the food he needed. But in the past year and a half, those ancient
supplies had dwindled along with his powerpacks, and one of his tools had broken. He
needed more stores to maintain his solitary existence.
    God had given Selim many blessings, many advantages… but other necessities he
must obtain for himself. He did not need to understand how all the pieces fit into
Buddallah's comprehensive plan. There must be a reason, and someday he would
discover it.
    For several days Selim had observed this outlying settlement, watching the
movement of the natives. The women kept beehives just inside the cave mouths, where
the buzzing insects could seek out small desert flowers that struggled in sheltered
crannies. Selim's mouth watered. He had tasted honey only once in his life, after Naib
Dhartha had traded for a large pot of the sticky sweetener and had given each tribal
member a small dab. The taste had been delicious, but taunting, reminding the poor
Zensunnis of their dearth of luxuries.
    As soon as Selim succeeded in his calling, whatever it was, he was sure he would
have honey every day.
    Although Selim needed some of the settlement's supplies, he also wanted to make a
statement here. Buddallah had shown him a new strength through independence and
self-sufficiency, rather than blind adherence to ancient laws. He disliked the close-
minded, rigid strictures of the Zensunnis. All Zensunnis. Selim might have been a
contented, hard-working member of the community, if Naib Dhartha had not heeded
Ebrahim's false accusations and cast Selim out, supposedly to his death.
    With an empty pack on his shoulders he crept forward; he had memorized the route
and identified the cave in which the villagers kept their supplies, a place that was
watched in the daylight, but poorly guarded at night. Confident in their isolation, the
security of these villagers was lax. He would slip in, take what he needed and disappear,
without hurting anyone. He would be a bandit. Selim Wormrider… Selim the outlaw.
    Climbing silently up the steep slope, he found a rugged path that the people took
whenever they went out to scavenge spice. Hand over hand, he ascended until he
reached the balcony lip, then pulled himself up and squinted into the shadows.
    As he had expected, the storage chamber was filled with packaged offworld food, no
doubt purchased at a dear price back at the spaceport. Delicacies indeed, but why
would true desert inhabitants need such things? Selim grinned. The villagers didn't need
everything here, so he was obliged to relieve them of certain extraneous luxuries. Selim
would stuff his pack full of energy wafers, nutritional supplements.
    Selim crammed food and spare power cells into his pack's compartments. He also
found seeds, vital botanical samples that he would use to set up a small greenhouse in
one of the derelict testing stations. Fresh produce would be a marvelous addition to his
diet.
    From a workbench he grabbed a measuring tool and a sonic hammer designed for
fracturing rock in specific patterns. This might be useful if he needed to make additional
hideaways, perhaps by expanding natural caves in uninhabited outcroppings.
    Poking into the soft compartments of his overburdened pack, Selim tried to find
room for the two tools. He fumbled in the darkness and dropped the sonic hammer onto
the stone floor. On impact, the device sent out a pulse that created a fracture in the
floor of the cave, and reverberated like a cannon shot into the sleeping cliff village.
    Startled, Selim gathered what he could, stuffing things into the pack with both
hands. He swung it over his shoulder and lowered himself over the edge of the balcony.
Already he heard suspicious shouts, curious questions. Glowsticks illuminated the cliff
face, making the dark cave openings look like the eyes of a suddenly awakened demon.
    Working his way down the rough path, he tried to move stealthily, but knocked small
rocks loose. The stones pattered and ricocheted down the cliff.
    Someone cast a beam of light in his direction, revealing the young man creeping
down the path. Someone shouted. Soon the cave village was in an uproar. Men,
women, and children rushed out, blinking sleep from their eyes, gesturing toward the
thief, howling for him to stop.
     Selim had no place to hide, and his heavy pack hindered him.
     Zensunnis raced after him, climbing down ladders and stone steps cut into the rock.
Terrified yet exhilarated, Selim put on a burst of speed and with a final leap reached the
sand first and raced out onto the open plain. His heavy footsteps sank into the powdery
surface, causing him to stumble along, with the desert nomads shouting after him. He
kept running, hoping the men would hesitate if he went too far out onto the dunes. Yet
they were bound to catch him soon, because of the weight he was carrying. It all
depended on whether their righteous indignation would outweigh their fear of Shaitan.
     Suddenly an idea dawned on him. Slowing his pace, Selim rummaged in his pack
until he found the stolen sonic hammer. He knelt on the side of a dune, made sure the
setting was at its maximum level, and raised the tool high. When he swung down, the
explosion of sound reverberated like a depth charge, spraying sand upward in plumes.
     The Zensunni villagers still came after him, yelling. Selim started running again and
scrambled down a dune. He fell and tumbled, sliding with the sand, but he kept hold of
the sonic hammer. Finally he came to halt between the dunes. Breathless, he rose to his
knees and then to his feet, and slogged up to the next rounded crest. "Come, Old
Crawler! I am calling you!"
     He swung the hammer again like a wizened Buddislamic priest pounding a gong; on
the next dune he struck a third time, sending out insistent signals. The men from the
cliff city were close now, but he kept running farther into the open desert. They seemed
to hesitate, and he distinguished fewer voices behind him.
     Finally, Selim heard the hissing noise, the distant approach of a gigantic sandworm.
His pursuers noticed it at the same time and shouted to each other, stumbling to an
uncertain halt. All of them stared at the rippling wormsign in the moonlight, then raced
at great speed back toward their cliff dwellings, as if the sight of the desert monster had
put jets on their backs.
     Grinning, knowing Buddallah would not let him be harmed, Selim squatted on the
dunetop, frozen in place as he watched his pursuers disappear. The worm was
approaching fast and would no doubt go after the tribal men, drawn to their panicked
footfalls. If he remained perfectly still, the worm should pass him by.
     But the thought of the monster devouring the men troubled him. They had chased
him only to defend their dwellings. Selim didn't want them to die because of him. That
could not be part of Buddallah's plan, but the moral challenge was.
     As the worm neared, he dialed down the sonic hammer's setting and pounded
lightly, thump, thump, thump. Predictably, the worm turned toward him. Selim withdrew
his equipment and crouched, in readiness.
     Far off, only halfway to the refuge of their cave city, the Zensunni men turned to
gape at him, and saw his figure profiled against moonlight. Selim stood tall as he faced
the oncoming worm…
     MOUNTED HIGH ATOP the beast, Selim held his guiding staff and ropes, content
that he had lost none of his booty and no one had been killed. He turned to see the
amazed men out on the moonlit sands. They had seen him mount the sandworm
demon, and now he rode off into the deep desert, controlling it.
   'As further payment for what I have taken, I give you a story you can tell for years
around evening campfires!" he called back at them. "I am Selim Wormrider!"
   He was too far away for them to hear, but Selim didn't care. This was only a time to
plant seeds, not the time to reveal his identity. Hereafter, instead of reciting poetry and
melancholy laments of ancestral wanderings, the villagers would talk about the lone
man who could command sandworms.
   Selim's legend would continue to grow… like a verdant green tree sprouting in the
middle of the barren sands, where it should not have been able to survive.
   Mother and child: An enduring, but ultimately mysterious image of humanity.
   —ERASMUS, Re,'iections on Sentient Bio,'ogicals ittle Manion became a bright spot in
Serena's captive JLylife, like a candle flickering in a pit of darkness.

     'Your infant is an extraordinarily time-intensive and distracting creature," Erasmus
said. "I do not understand why it requires so much attention."
     Serena had been gazing into Manion's large, inquisitive eyes, but turned her head
toward the robot's polished mirror face. "He will be only three months old tomorrow. At
this age, he can't do anything for himself yet. He has to grow and learn. Human babies
need to be nurtured."
     'Machines are fully functional from the day of their programming." Erasmus sounded
smug.
     'That explains a lot. For us, life is a gradual developmental process. Without
nurturing, we can't survive," she said. "You have never been nurtured. I think you
should make improvements to the way you raise the slave children in your pens. Show
them more kindness, encourage their curiosity."
     'Another one of your suggested improvements? How many disruptive changes do
you expect me to make?"
     'As many as I can think of. You must have seen a change in the people. They seem
more alive now, after experiencing just a bit of compassion."
     'Your compassion, not mine. And the slaves know it." The sentient robot flowed his
pliable face into a now-familiar perplexed expression. "Your mind is such a mass of
contradictions, it is amazing you manage to survive each day without undergoing a
mental meltdown. Especially with that child."
     'The human mind is more resilient than you imagine, Erasmus." Serena held the
baby close. Each time the robot complained about how much disruption Manion caused,
she feared he would take the infant away. She had seen the crowded, inhuman creches
filled with wailing, low-caste youths. Although she had managed to improve the living
conditions among these bestial slaves, she could not bear to have her own baby placed
in their care.
     Now Erasmus stood beside a gaudy swordfish statue, watching Serena play with the
baby on a sunny afternoon. The two of them splashed in one of the villa's shallow
aquamarine pools on a high terrace that offered spectacular views of the frothing ocean.
Serena heard the pounding of surf, and the honking of geese that approached
overhead.
    Naked in his mother's arms, Manion splashed and squealed, patting his hands
awkwardly on the water. The robot had suggested that Serena swim naked as well, but
she insisted on wearing a simple white swimming garment.
    As always, Erasmus stared at her and the baby. She tried to ignore the robot's
scrutiny, as long as she had a peaceful hour to spend with Manion. Already, she could
see how much her son would resemble Xa-vier. But would the boy ever have the
freedom, the forceful personality, and the dedication to fight the thinking machines?
    Where once she had thought in terms of large-scale League political and military
matters, Serena Butler now concerned herself only with the safety of her child. Her
worries were personal now, specific instead of grandiose. With renewed energy, she
worked hard on her household duties in order to earn time with Manion, giving Erasmus
no excuse to punish her.
    The robot must realize that he now had a stronger hold over her than ever. He
seemed to enjoy it when she verbally sparred with him, but she also grudgingly showed
her appreciation for the minor freedoms
    Erasmus granted. Though she had never stopped hating her captor, Serena knew
that he held her fate—and Manion's—in a delicate balance.

   When she looked at her son's jutting chin and the determined set of his little mouth,
she thought of Xavier and his stubborn devotion to duty. Why didn't I just stay with
him! Why did I have to save Giedi Prime? Couldn't I have been an ordinary woman for
once?
     The honking geese grew louder as they flew directly over the villa, not caring
whether humans or machines ruled the Earth. Whitish gray splatters of excrement
struck the patio, one hitting the swordfish statue near the robot. Erasmus did not seem
disturbed. It was all part of the natural order, as far as he was concerned.
     In the shallow pool, Manion made a cooing giggle as he looked in the direction of
the flying geese. Even at three months, he showed a curiosity about everything.
Sometimes he tried to tug at the golden barrette in Serena's hair with his pudgy fingers,
or at the sparkling jewelry Erasmus liked her to wear; the robot seemed to be grooming
her as a hostess for his villa, an ornate decoration in his household.
     Erasmus stepped closer to the pool and looked down at the baby who splashed
happily in the water while his mother held him. "I never comprehended how much
distraction and chaos an infant could cause in an orderly and calm household. I find it
most… unsettling."
     'Humans thrive on distraction and chaos," she said, trying to sound upbeat, though
she felt a chill. "It is how we learn to innovate, to be flexible, and to survive." She
climbed out of the pool with the baby and wrapped him in a soft white towel. "Think of
all the times human ingenuity has thwarted Omnius's schemes."
     'And yet, the thinking machines have conquered you."
     'Are we really conquered, Erasmus, in any real sense?" She raised her eyebrows, one
of her mannerisms that he found maddeningly enigmatic. "Many planets remain free of
thinking machines. If you are superior, then why do you struggle so hard to emulate
us?"
    The inquisitive robot did not understand the emotional bonding between mother and
son. Despite her firm tone, he was most surprised to see the mellow changes in this
woman who had previously been so fierce and independent. She seemed a different
person after becoming a mother. She had never served him with half the attention she
gave to that messy, noisy, useless infant.
    While this investigation into human relationships had provided interesting data,
Erasmus could not permit such a disturbance to his household in the future. The baby
was disrupting his efficient daily life, and he wanted Serena's undivided attention.
Together, they had important work to do; caring for the infant had made her lose focus.
    As Erasmus stared at little Manion, the robot's thin fiowmetal mask shifted to a
ferocious scowl—which he quickly changed to a benign smile before Serena looked in
his direction.

   Soon, this phase of the experiment must end. He considered how best to accomplish
that.
   Patience is a weapon best wielded by one who knows his specific target.
   —IBLIS GINJO, Options for Total Liberation

    fH or eight nerve-wracking months, Iblis Ginjo had operated on his own, making
decisions and letting his imagination judge the extent of unrest among the slaves. As a
trustee, he received certain privileges, but he had never truly seen how awful their lives
were, foolishly thinking that his minimal rewards and praise made their days tolerable.
How had they endured for so many centuries?
    Iblis was convinced there must be other secret ringleaders and resistance fighters.
Cogitor Eklo and his secondary Aquim had promised to help, and he could only guess at
what resources or means they might have. However, apart from Ajax's constant
suspicions and the execution of Ohan Freer, the thinking machines seemed to have no
inkling of the incredible uprising they were about to face.
    Soon that would change.
    For weeks Iblis had exerted himself quietly but intently, whispering to his faithful
workers, smoothly recruiting them into his circle of dissent. He had prepared them for
the possibility of a revolt, and in spite of the danger, they had excitedly passed the
message among themselves. Iblis swore that this uprising would not become another
lost cause like the first Hrethgir Rebellions.
    In the past two months, a determined Iblis had nearly doubled the ranks of his
secret organization, with many more people attempting to join. He could feel the wave
building. To become part of the spreading resistance, each convert had to pass through
a series of blind names and defensive layers recommended by the monk Aquim.
    The hundreds in his organization were divided into small cells of no more than ten,
so that each member knew the identities of only a few others. All the while, they
continued to spread the word, the goal, the excitement, and caution. It was as if they
had been waiting a thousand years for this.
    Cogitor Eklo had given a somewhat esoteric explanation of how the movement could
achieve an exponential growth rate by following a basic model of biology, cells
multiplying through mitosis. Members of each rebel cell would grow, break loose, and
form new ones, which would continue in the same fashion. Sooner or later, they would
encounter other groups and merge, drawing strength from each other. Ultimately the
dissenters would reach critical mass, and there would be a flash of energy, like an
electrochemical charge…
   Nothing is impossible.
    Iblis had received additional secret communications at unpredictable times. The
mysterious notes were maddeningly general, providing no specifics of other rebel cells,
or what he was expected to accomplish. When it occurred, the revolt would be large but
alarmingly uncoordinated, and Iblis feared that disorganization in the face of highly
structured thinking machines would doom the movement to failure. On the other hand,
the very unpredictability of human beings might be their greatest advantage.
     Now, when Iblis returned home after three days of nonstop work on the Victory of
the Titans frieze, he saw an old slave slipping out of his bungalow. Hurrying inside, Iblis
discovered another message on top of his bedding. He rushed out to confront the old
man in the yard. "Stop! I want to talk to you."
    The old slave froze, like a rabbit about to bolt, trained never to resist the commands
of a crew boss. Iblis ran to him, perspiring in the lingering heat of the day. "Who sent
you? Tell me!"
    The slave shook his wrinkled head. A peculiar, glazed expression crossed his face.
He opened his mouth and pointed at it. The tongue had been removed.
     Undeterred, Iblis thrust an electronic notepad at him, after clearing the screen with
which he kept track of the crew's activities. The man shrugged, as if to indicate his
inability to read or write. With a scowl, Iblis saw this as an effective means of
preventing discovery and cross-contamination among the rebel cells. Disappointed, he
let the slave go, whispering, "Keep up the resistance. Nothing is impossible." The old
slave didn't seem to understand, and hurried off.
    Iblis returned to his bungalow and read the brief message: "Soon we will be united.
Nothing will stop us. You have made great progress, but you must continue for now
without our help." Already, the lettering on the thin metal sheet had begun to corrode
and vanish. "Advance your plans, and watch for a sign."
    In the distance, beyond the megalithic cymek monuments, the yellow sun was
dropping below the western horizon. Watch for a sign.
    Iblis narrowed his eyes. If Omnius or one of the Titans discovered the plot too early,
the revolt might fail. The crew boss had never considered himself a hero. He was
working to free humans, but knew that a part of him also wanted to succeed for the
benefit of his own ego. He must take advantage of his ability to sway opinions and
inspire action among the slaves.
    Slaves were easily encouraged to dream of freedom, but when second thoughts set
in they feared reprisals from the thinking machines. During such moments of doubt,
Iblis could gaze at his followers and speak hushed words with a deep intensity,
convincing them of the unstoppable success of their movement. He had them under his
complete physical and psychological control. His leadership skills had never failed him,
and recently he had discovered new, hypnotic aspects of his personality…
    Iblis's teams maintained the oppressive work schedule on the Victory of the Titans
frieze. His handpicked people labored at the exhibit with only a few robot guards and a
neo-cymek in view, which had allowed them to surreptitiously incorporate the deadly
components suggested by Cogitor Eklo. Similarly, Iblis had installed concealed weaponry
at four other work sites around the capital city grid. Even the robot Erasmus had
requested skilled laborers for modifications to his villa… and Iblis saw potential
advantages there.
    Inside his dim bungalow, Iblis held the metal message sheet, now entirely blank. He
discarded it into a scrap pile that would be delivered to a recycler. The machines were
very efficient at utilizing materials and minimizing industrial energy expenditures.
    Even with only snippets of information, Iblis vowed to make all the pieces of the
puzzle fit together. His core of dissatisfied workers was ready to rise up and smash
thinking machines; the need to vent their anger built with each day.
    Iblis could not wait forever. At some point, he might have to strike out on his own.
He hoped the promised sign would come soon.
    One of the greatest problems in our universe is how to control pro* creation, and
the energy hidden in it. You can drag humans around by this energy, making them do
things they would never imagine themselves capabk of. The energy—call it love, lust, or
any number of terms—must have an outlet. Bottle it up and it gets very dangerous.

   —IBLIS GINJO, Options for Total Liberation

    For months Erasmus tolerated the disruptive baby, but by the time little Manion was
half a year old, the robot grew frustrated at the lack of progress in his own research. He
wanted to move on to other investigations, and this unruly child was in the way.
Something must be done.
    With her misplaced priorities, Serena had grown increasingly protective of her son.
She devoted more time and energy to the useless child than she did to Erasmus. Clearly
unacceptable. It must never happen again.
    Because she intrigued him, though, he had granted Serena far more freedom than
any slave deserved. The baby gave her nothing in return, but she hung on the
creature's every breath and whimper. It seemed a poor investment in time and
resources.
    Erasmus encountered her walking in the rear garden, holding Manion in her arms as
she made her way between rows of plantings. The boy, ever-curious, gurgled his delight
at the colorful flowers. She talked to it, using silly words and endearing tones.
Motherhood had turned the intelligent and intense Serena into a buffoon.
    One day Erasmus would make sense of these human per sonality traits. Already he
had learned many important things, but he wanted to work faster.
    For her own part, Serena thought her robot master was behaving more strangely
than ever. He trailed her like a misshapen shadow, thinking she didn't notice him. His
increasingly hostile reaction to Manion gave her cause for anxiety and dread.
    At six months old, the boy could crawl around quickly, if awkwardly, and had a
baby's skill at getting into trouble when he wasn't closely watched. Serena worried
about him breaking fragile objects and making messes when her duties forced her to
leave him in the care of other household slaves.
     Erasmus seemed oblivious to the infant's safety. Twice now, when Serena had been
performing assigned tasks, the robot had turned him loose to crawl through the villa, as
if to see whether Manion could survive the numerous household hazards.
     Only a few days ago, she had found her son at the edge of the high balcony
overlooking the flagstone plaza in front of the main building. Snatching him to safety,
Serena had snapped at Erasmus. "I don't expect a thinking machine to worry, but you
seem to have no common sense, either." The comment had merely amused him.
     Another time, she had intercepted Manion at an outer door to the robot's sealed
vivisection laboratories, which were off-limits even to her. Erasmus had warned her not
to pry. Though she agonized over the torment the inquisitive robot must be inflicting on
other hapless slaves, for the sake of her child she dared not press the issue.
     Curiously, Erasmus seemed to be intrigued by emotions while despising them at the
same time. She had caught him practicing exaggerated facial expressions when he
stared at baby Manion, his flowing synthetic skin displaying a parade of theater masks
that ranged from revulsion to perplexity to outright malice.
     Serena hoped to convince Erasmus that he still did not comprehend human nature,
and that he must keep her alive in order to discover the answers he so desperately
wanted…
     Today she carried Manion through a misty fern garden. Walking with feigned
nonchalance, Serena noted a doorway at the far end of the greenhouse and
remembered that it had a lockable door that led into the main house. Erasmus watched
her obsessively, as usual.
     Continuing her rounds, studying the plants, she pointedly did not look at the spying
robot. Then, faking a second thought, she darted through the doorway with the baby
and locked the door behind her. It was only a momentary respite from the intense
scrutiny—and it would keep her master off balance. She hoped.

    As she hurried through the corridor, Manion struggled in her arms, making loud
squeals of displeasure. He was trapped with her, unfairly condemned to spending the
rest of his life as a slave. Xavier—her heart went out to him—would never see his own
son.

     Once again she regretted her bold decision to go to Giedi Prime in the first place.
Filled with purpose and idealism, she had thought only in terms of large populations, of
the welfare of billions of people. She had not given adequate consideration to those
close to her, her parents, Xavier, even the fetus she had not known she was carrying.
Why did she have to bear the burden of human suffering on her own shoulders? Now
Xavier and little Manion were paying the price along with her. In the corridor ahead,
Erasmus emerged through another doorway to block her path. He wore a displeased
expression on his surreal face. "Why do you attempt to escape, when you know it is
impossible? This game does not amuse me."
     'I wasn't trying to escape," she protested, shielding the little boy.
    'By now you must understand that there are consequences for your actions." Too
late, she noticed something shimmering in his hand. He pointed the device at her and
said, "It is time to change the parameters."
    'Wait—" Serena saw a burst of white light, and then numbness en gulfed her body.
She could no longer stand. Her legs drooped as if they had turned to water. Falling, she
made an attempt to protect Manion, who howled in surprised fear as he and his mother
melted to the floor.

     Her consciousness fading, Serena could do nothing to stop Erasmus as he stepped
forward to pluck the helpless child from her arms.
     INSIDE HIS DISSECTION and surgical theater, Erasmus studied Serena. Her naked
skin was smooth and white, having recovered from her bothersome pregnancy with
surprising resilience.
     As she lay insensate on the hard white platform, Erasmus performed delicate
surgery. For him it was a routine operation, because he had practiced many times on
slave women in the past two months, and only three of the subjects had died.
     He did not want to harm Serena, since he felt she could still teach him many things.
This procedure was for her own good…
     SERENA FINALLY AWOKE, unclothed but soaked with perspiration. Restraints held
her arms and legs, and she had vague burnings of discomfort in her abdomen.
     Lifting her head, she found that she was in a large, cluttered room, apparently
alone. Where was Manion? Her eyes widened in alarm and fear. Trying to sit, she felt a
jolt of pain in her midsection. Looking down, she could see an incision and the mark of
fused skin across her lower belly.
     With a clatter, Erasmus entered the room, carrying a tray that contained metal and
crystalline objects. "Good morning, house slave. You have slept longer than I
anticipated." He set down the tray and gingerly released the restraints on Serena's
wrists. "I was just cleaning my medical instruments."
     Furious with him, and sick with dread, she touched the marks of her surgery, felt
around her sore abdomen. "What have you done to me?"
     Calmly, the robot said, "A simple precaution to solve a problem for both of us. I have
removed your uterus. You need not be concerned ever again about the distraction of
having more babies."
   Greed, anger, and ignorance poison life.
   —COGITOR EKLO OF EARTH,

   Beyond the Human Mind
    HOT months after the thinking machine attack on Rossak, Zufa Cenva devoted her
time and energy to training replacement candidates. They had lost so many in psychic
firestorms against the cymeks.
    Aurelius Venport had handled himself well during the crisis, successfully evacuating
the people and keeping them safe out in the fungoid jungles while cymek warriors
destroyed everything in sight. But Zufa had barely noticed. While Venport was
sympathetic to the stress and responsibility she placed upon herself, the chief Sorceress
spared little thought for her lover. It had always been this way, and he was growing
weary of it.
     Zufa had never fully bothered to see what the men of Rossak were capable of doing.
Despite her telepathic prowess, Zufa did not understand the practical functioning of her
sheltered world. Little did she know how the patriotic Venport kept the economy of
Rossak strong.
     For years, his teams of chemists had studied the medicinal and recreational potential
of the jungle plants, barks, liquids, and fungi. Battlefield surgeons and medical
researchers throughout the League depended on a reliable supply of drugs from the
Rossak jungles.
     In addition, he had begun to contract production of the innovative and efficient
glowglobes that Norma had invented and shared with him. Profits from his business
ventures would pay to repair and reconstruct the damaged orbital platforms, to rebuild
the ruined cave cities, and also to fund an increased presence of Armada scout and
picket ships on the perimeter of the system.
     Zufa, apparently, thought such things came free. Venport's business ventures
funded it all.
     At any time he chose, he could pack up his credits and live like a king on some other
world. But he belonged on Rossak. Even though the chief Sorceress treated him with
little warmth or compassion, he did love her.
     Venport smiled to himself as he rode the lift cables to the undulating section of flat
pavement on the polymerized treetops. Small ships could land there, though larger
cargo barges had to remain in space, docking with the damaged orbital stations and off-
loading supplies one crate at a time. Out in the jungle, fast-growing vines and tall
weeds had already begun to cover the wide scorch marks made by the cymek
conflagration. Nature had a way of healing itself.
     Gazing up into the hazy skies, he searched for the expected shuttle, pleased to see
that it was exactly on time. He watched it descend, a small private craft owned by a
Tlulaxa flesh merchant named Tuk Kee-dair, a man who raided the Unallied Planets for
slaves. Keedair also sold biological organs, reportedly grown in sophisticated tanks kept
behind tight security on Tlulax.
     A merchant himself, Venport had never considered slavery to be a lucrative or
sensible commodity. Only a handful of League Worlds permitted the practice, but
Keedair had a good reputation with his customers. Oddly, the man wanted to make a
different sort of proposal to Aurelius Venport today, involving some commodity other
than slaves. Curious, Venport had agreed to meet with him.
     After the small Tlulaxa shuttle landed, Keedair stepped out. The flesh merchant
stood with his hands on his hips, dressed in a clean blue blouse tucked into tight black
pants. A dark braid shot with silvery-gray strands dangled like a badge of honor over his
shoulder.
     Venport extended a hand in greeting. For this occasion he had worn a formal jerkin
belted at the waist and boots made from the blackish green pelt of an arboreal slitherer.
Keedair raised a callused hand in a salute.
    The flesh merchant said, "I have brought samples to show you, and ideas to make
you lick your lips."
    'You come to me with a reputation for vision and foresight, Tuk Keedair. Tell me
your ideas."
    While the Sorceresses were occupied with their endless war councils, Venport took
his guest into a formal reception chamber. Here, the two men were alone, sipping
potent tea brewed from fresh jungle herbs, going through the social rituals.
    Finally, Keedair brought out a sample of brownish powder and extended it to him.
"Nine months ago, I found this on Arrakis." Venport sniffed and, at his visitor's behest,
tasted the potent, tingly substance.
    He hardly heard the Tlulaxa's further words, so focused was he on the remarkable
experience that demanded his complete attention. Though he was quite familiar with
recreational stimulants and mood-altering substances from the Rossak jungles, he had
never imagined that anything like this existed.
    The melange seemed to seep into every cell of his body, transmitting energy and
vitality directly to his brain, but without the usual sensory distortions. This was
pleasure… but much more than that. Venport sat back and felt the substance seduce
and relax him, controlling him without controlling him. It was a paradox. He felt
mentally sharper than at any time in his life. Even the future itself seemed clear.
    'I like this very much." Venport let out a contented sigh and tasted another sample
of the powder. "I may become our best customer."
    Alerady, he suspected that he could arrange for many interested purchasers across
the League. Many, many more.
    THE TWO MEN agreed on the details and shook hands, then settled down to another
cup of Rossak tea… this time sprinkling melange into it.
    Aurelius Venport agreed to travel with the flesh merchant to the ragged fringes of
explored territory. It would be a long trip on a round about route, since Arrakis was as
far out of the way as a known planet could be. But the man from Rossak wanted to see
the source of melange for himself, to understand how he might turn spice harvesting
into a profitable enterprise.
    Maybe Zufa would take notice of him after this.
    Most traditional governments divide people, setting them against each other to
weaken the society and make it governable.
    —TLALOC,

   Weaknesses of the Empire
    n a magnificent military procession, a League battle group of ballistas and javelins
cruised toward Poritrin. On the bridge of the Armada flagship, proud and stony Segundo
Xa-vier Harkonnen stood in full dress uniform, studying the peaceful-looking planet.
    Lord Bludd, as an extravagant donation to the League of Nobles, had offered to
equip the Armada ships with Tio Holtzman's new shields. At the Starda Spaceport,
temporary facilities had been set up to accommodate the numerous ves-sels. All
commercial craft had been cleared away to convert the field into an impromptu military
base and shipyard. Whole crews of trained slaves had been reassigned from their
regular duties to work on the installation.
     Xavier wasn't entirely convinced he should place so much trust in an unproven
technology, but the balance of power would have to change significantly before
humanity could reconquer any more Synchronized Worlds. Risks needed to be taken.
     The immense ballista-class battleships descended through the Poritrin sky. In
addition to its built-in armaments, each vessel carried fifteen hundred crewmen, twenty
troop trans ports, fifteen large shuttles for cargo and equipment, twenty small
passenger shuttles, fifty long-range patrol craft, and two hundred swift kindjals for
space or atmospheric combat. Such enormous vessels rarely landed on planetary
surfaces, but now the ballistas descended under their own power, their plated hulls
glistening in the sunlight.
     After the ballistas came the smaller javelin-class destroyers, which could travel
lighter but carried proportionally more weapons for rapid, decisive responses.
     Crowds of Poritin nobles and free citizens waved and whistled, segregated from the
slaves. Barges on the Isana blasted low-octave horns in response to the display. As part
of the show to commemorate the fleet's arrival, squadrons of kindjals and patrol ships
flew around the larger vessels like protective wasps.
     After the flagship had landed, Xavier stepped out into a roar of welcoming cheers.
The huge ballista loomed behind him on the tarmac, its outer skin stained with oily
smears from the harsh space environment. Standing before the swell of expectant
people, he felt minuscule.
     But they all depended on him, and he had a job to do. After a brief pause to orient
himself, he marched forward, flanked by his officers and command staff, followed by the
first line of troops in perfect file. He had trained them well.
     Accompanied by four prominent advisors and eleven Dragoon guards, Lord Niko
Bludd approached him. The flamboyant noble flung his cape behind him and came
forward to clasp Xavier's hand. "Welcome to Poritrin, Segundo Harkonnen. Although we
hope to complete our tasks for you with all due speed, during your stay my people will
rest easier at night, knowing our planet is under your magnificent protection."
     LATER, WHILE BLUDD hosted an extravagant banquet, Xavier delegated duties to
his primary fleet officers. His subcommanders oversaw the organization of work teams
at the spaceport and documented the installation of Holtzman shield generators. At the
Segundo's cautious command, the new systems would first be incorporated into a
squadron of patrol craft, so that he could inspect the work and test the technology.
Afterward, Poritrin mechanics would scale up the systems, layering multiple shields to
cover vulnerable spots of the javelins and then the fleet ballistas. If the shields
performed adequately during rigorous shakedowns and test maneuvers, Xavier would
order additional battle groups to be temporarily stationed at Poritrin for similar
upgrades. He did not want to have too much of the Armada in drydock at any one time,
thereby leaving some League Worlds undefended, nor did he want one of Omnius's
stray spy drones to notice what was going on.
     Most of the robotic weaponry consisted of projectiles and explosives, intelligent
programmed bombs that pursued their targets until impact. As long as the AI projectiles
did not learn how to slow their velocity and penetrate the shields, the protection should
be sufficient, and dramatic.
    In a highly confidential briefing, Xavier had learned of the shield's even more
significant flaw—its violent interaction with lasers. However, since such energy weapons
were almost never used in combat because they had proven inefficient for large-scale
destruction, he deemed it an acceptable risk. Provided that the Armada could keep such
a secret from Omnius…

     Within the conical towers of Lord Bludd's residence hall, Xavier listened to the
minstrels singing hymns and story-songs inspired by a half-forgotten Navachristian
holiday still occasionally celebrated on Poritrin. He was not hungry, and could barely
taste or smell anything. He sipped a snifter of tart local rum, but consumed the alcohol
sparingly. He did not wish to diminish his reaction time or his sensibilities. Always ready.
     While the revelry continued behind him, he gazed out the tower's curved windows,
staring down at the spaceport lights, splashes of yellow and white that allowed teams of
slave workers to continue installing the shields night and day. He had never much cared
for slave labor, especially since Serena had been so outspoken against it, but it was the
way things were done on Poritrin.
     Xavier would have preferred to be back home with Octa. They had been married for
just less than a year, and she would soon give birth to their first child. For now, though,
his duty required him to be here. Resigned to the task at hand, he raised his glass and
echoed yet another of Lord Bludd's self-congratulatory toasts.
     I
     ACCOMPANIED BY His adjutant, Cuarto Jaymes Powder, Xavier walked along the
first rows of kindjals arrayed on the military landing field. Unit after unit had been
installed, small shield generators connected to the spacecraft engines. His shoulders
square, his back stiff, his uniform immaculate, he paid close attention to detail, checked
everything for himself. He would never allow a mistake like Giedi Prime to occur again.
     Gazing across the river delta, he saw cargo barges and passenger ships floating
down from the northlands. Poritrin's business went on as usual, and the conflict with the
thinking machines seemed distant. Yet Xavier would never be at peace. Although he had
made himself happy with Octa, it wasn't the life he had planned for himself. The
thinking machines had killed Serena. As he continued the fight for freedom, he knew
that his motivation was personal.
     Guarded by work managers, teams of lethargic slaves labored just hard enough to
avoid punishment while showing scant enthusiasm for the job, no matter how much it
would benefit humanity, themselves included.
     While he disliked the practice of slavery, Xavier shook his head, dismayed and angry
at their willingness to fail. "Lord Bludd's decision to assign such people to this work…
does not inspire confidence."
     Cuarto Powder scanned the teams of prisoners. "It's not unusual here, sir."
     Xavier pursed his lips. The League of Nobles insisted on each planet's right to govern
itself as the populace saw fit. "Still, I don't believe that a captive man will ever provide
his best work. I want no mistakes, Jaymes—the fleet depends on it."

    He swept his gaze across the work crews, looking for anything out of place, uneasy
to see so many slaves performing delicate work. One black-bearded man in particular,
with eyes that seemed to hold anything but placid thoughts, guided his team with sharp
commands in a language Xavier could not understand.
    Xavier squinted thoughtfully as he walked past the workers. He glanced around the
work grid, at the kindjals glinting in sunlight. His instinct for danger made the skin
prickle on his neck beneath the crisp fabric of his uniform.
    On impulse, he rapped the hull of a patrol craft. Two grease-smeared slaves scuttled
out of the vessel, their installation work completed, and moved to the next craft down
the line, avoiding Xavier's gaze.
    He took four steps away from the patrol craft, then turned around again,
reconsidering. "Cuarto, I think we should test one of these kind-jals, at random."
    He climbed into the fighter craft's cockpit. With deft fingers he scanned the control
panels, noting the newly installed power components and boosters that would project
Holtzman's shields. He flicked switches, waited for the engines to hum to life, then
engaged the shield.
    On the ground outside, the adjutant stepped back. Powder shaded his eyes as the
air shimmered around the kindjal, a crackling, nearly invisible bubble. "Looks good, sir!"
    Xavier pushed the engine power controls higher, ready for takeoff. The patrol craft's
exhaust blasted out, trapped within the shield until it slowly leaked through the barrier.
The ship hummed and vibrated beneath him. He studied the panel readings, brow
furrowed.
    But when he tried to raise the kindjal off the ground, the shield generator sparked
and smoked. With a lowering hum, the engines shut themselves down. Xavier slapped
the controls, disengaging all systems before further short circuits could race through the
delicate components.
    He climbed out of the patrol craft, his face red with anger. "Bring the work leaders
to me immediately! And notify Lord Bludd that I wish to speak with him."
    THE SLAVES ASSIGNED to that particular kindjal had disappeared into the crowds,
and despite the Segundo's furious demands, none of the captives arrayed before him
confessed to any knowledge of the mistakes. Considering all slaves interchangeable, the
lax crew bosses had kept no detailed records of who had actually worked on which
craft.
    Bludd had been enraged at the news, then apologetic. He tugged on his curled
beard. "I offer no excuses, Segundo. Nevertheless, we will discover and reassign all
sloppy workers."
    Xavier remained silent for the most part, awaiting the full analysis from handpicked
inspection teams. His adjutant finally returned, flanked by Dragoon guards. Cuarto
Powder carried stacks of detailed reports in his hands. "We have completed the quality-
control inspection, Segundo.
    Of all the ships processed, one in five of the shield generators has been installed
improperly."
    'Hopelessly, criminally inept!" Bludd said, his lips curling, his face stormy. "We will
make them repair everything. My deepest apologies, Segundo—"

    Xavier looked directly at the nobleman. "A twenty-percent failure rate is not mere
incompetence, Lord Bludd. Whether your captives are traitors because they are in
league with our enemies or simply angry at their masters, we cannot tolerate it. If my
fleet had gone into battle with those ships, we would have been massacred!"
    He turned to his adjutant. "Cuarto Powder, we will load all of the shield generators
aboard our javelins and take them to the nearest Armada spacedock facility." He made
a formal bow to the distressed nobleman. "We thank you, Lord Bludd, for your good
intentions. Under the circumstances, however, I prefer to have trained military
personnel install and test the shields." He turned to go.
    'I will see to it right away, sir." Powder strode smartly out of the room, brushing past
Dragoon guards.
    Bludd looked mortally embarrassed, yet he could not argue with the stern
commander. "I understand completely, Segundo. 1 will make certain the slaves are
punished."
    In disgust, Xavier declined the noble's invitation to stay for another meal. As if to
make amends, Bludd sent a dozen cases of the finest Poritrin rum to the flagship at
Starda Spaceport. Perhaps Xavier and Octa would share one, to celebrate his return
home. Or maybe they would wait until the birth of their first baby.
    Xavier departed from Lord Bludd's glittering reception chamber. They exchanged a
few cordial but stiff words, and then the officer left for his ballista, realizing how relieved
he would be to get away from this place.
   Life is the sum of the forces that resist death.
   —SERENA BUTLER

    Serena had been violated, a part of her ripped away, leaving her with a bitter
emptiness inside. In committing the atrocity, Erasmus had dragged her to the brink of
despair, assaulting the stubborn hope that had always anchored her.
    Upon first aspiring to the League Parliament, Serena had envisioned herself
performing important work for the benefit of humanity. She had devoted her time, her
sweat, and enthusiasm, without ever regretting a moment of it. When her own father
had administered her oath as a League representative, she had been barely nineteen,
with a bright future ahead of her.
    Dashing young Xavier Harkonnen had touched her heart, and together they had
hoped for a large, happy family. They had planned their wedding, spoken of their future
together. Even as a captive of Erasmus, she had held fast to her dreams of escape, and
of a normal life afterward—back with Xavier.

   But just to suit his own convenience, the vicious robot had sterilized her like an
animal, robbing her of the ability to bear more children. Now, whenever she saw the
heartless machine, she wanted to scream at him. More than ever, she missed the
company of educated human beings who might have helped her through this difficult
time—even the misguided Vorian Atreides. Despite his supposed fascination for
understanding humanity, Erasmus was incapable of comprehending why she should be
upset about "a relatively minor surgical procedure."
     Her fury and heartsickness smothered the cleverness she needed for bantering with
him. She could muster no enthusiasm for the esoteric subjects that Erasmus blithely
wanted to talk about. As a consequence, the robot grew disappointed in her.
     Worse, Serena didn't even notice.
     By the time little Manion was eleven months old, he had become her only lifeline, a
poignant reminder of all she had lost, both in the past and in the future. A toddler now,
he was a bundle of pent-up energy who moved around with clumsy steps, intent on
exploring every corner of the villa.
     The other slaves tried to help, seeing her pain and knowing the things she had
quietly done to make their lives more tolerable. Serena didn't want anything from them,
though. She could barely hold herself together. Despite her hurt, though, Erasmus
retained the changes and improvements he had agreed to make.
     Serena still worked in the garden and in the kitchen, keeping an eye on Manion
while the boy examined utensils and played with gleaming pots. Knowing her unique
relationship with Erasmus, the other household slaves viewed her with curious respect,
wondering what she would do next. The cooks and assistants enjoyed the little boy,
amused at his stumbling attempts at words.
     Manion had an insatiable hunger for seeing and touching everything from the
flowers and plants in the villa gardens to the exotic fish in the ponds, to a feather he
found outside in the plaza. He studied everything with his alert blue eyes.
     Serena renewed her determination to either escape or hurt Erasmus. To do that, she
needed to understand everything possible about the independent robot. As a key to
solving that enigma, she decided to find out exactly what took place in the ominous
sealed laboratories. He had forbidden her from entering that place, warning her not to
"interfere" with the experiments. He had ordered the other household servants not to
tell her anything about them. What was the robot afraid of? Those sealed laboratories
must be important.
     She had to get inside.
     An opportunity presented itself when Serena spoke to two kitchen helpers who
prepared meals for human test subjects in the laboratory block. Erasmus insisted on
high-energy meals so that his victims could survive as long as possible, but he preferred
minimal bulk "to decrease the mess" when he inflicted too much pain.
     The kitchen staff accepted Erasmus's bloody tastes with relief that they themselves
hadn't been selected for the experiments. Not yet, anyway.
     'What does the life of a slave matter?" asked one of the women, Amia Yo. She was
the slave who had touched Serena's sleeve during the robot's "good deed" feast, and
Serena had watched her working in the kitchens.
     'Every human life has value," Serena said, looking at little Manion, "if only to dream.
I need to see that place with my own eyes." Then she revealed her impetuous plan in a
conspiratorial whisper.
     Reluctant, but forming a brave face, Amia Yo agreed to help. "Because it is for you,
Serena Butler."
    Since the two women were approximately the same height and weight, Serena
borrowed her white smock and apron, then covered her own hair with a dark scarf. She
hoped the watcheyes would not notice subtle differences.
    Leaving Manion in the care of the kitchen helpers, Serena accompanied a slender,
dark-skinned slave. They eased a gliding food cart through a gated area into a
compound of outbuildings that she had never entered before. The sterile entry corridor
smelled of chemicals, drugs, and sickness. Serena dreaded what she might see. Her
heart pounded, and perspiration prickled her skin, but she pressed on.
    Her companion seemed nervous, eyes flicking from side to side as they passed
through the coded barricade. Together, they entered an inner chamber. A thick, moist
stench made the air almost unbreathable. Nothing moved in the room, no stir of life.
Serena reeled.
    Nothing could have prepared her for this.
    Human body parts lay in grisly piles on tables, in bubbling tanks, and on the floor,
like toys scattered about by a bored child. Fresh blood had splashed in feathery patterns
on the walls and ceiling, as if Erasmus had dabbled in abstract art. Everything looked
fresh and wet, as if the horrendous slaughter had occurred within the past hour.
Appalled, Serena felt only disgust and unbridled rage. Why had the robot done this?
    To satisfy some macabre curiosity? Had he found the answers he wanted? At such a
cost!
    'Next room," said her companion in a shaky voice, trying to look away from the
worst of it. "Nobody left to feed in here."
    Serena staggered beside the other woman who pushed the gliding cart into the
adjacent compound, where gaunt-looking prisoners were sealed inside isolation cells.
Somehow, the fact that these test subjects remained alive struck her as even worse.
She fought the urge to vomit.
    She had long dreamed about fleeing her life of slavery on Earth. Now, seeing these
horrors, she realized that escape would never be enough. She needed to stop Erasmus,
to destroy him—not just for herself, but for all of his victims.

   But Serena had fallen into his trap.
   Using concealed surveillance units, Erasmus watched her. He found her revulsion
gratifyingly predictable. For days he had been expecting her to sneak into his
laboratory, despite his unequivocal proscription against going there. It was a temptation
he had known she could not resist for much longer.
   Some aspects of human nature he did understand, and very well.
   Now that she and her companion had completed the assigned feeding chores, they
would return to the safety of the villa, where Serena had left her unruly baby. Erasmus
considered how best to handle her.
   Time for a change. Time to add stress to the experimental system and observe how
the subjects changed. He knew Serena's most vulnerable spot.
   As he prepared himself for a drama of his own creation, Erasmus shifted his face
back to an emotionless oval. He marched through the corridors, echoes announcing his
approach. Before Serena could rush back to her son, the robot found Amia Yo playing
with the child on the kitchen floor.
    The master of the house didn't speak a word as he entered the room. Startled, Amia
Yo looked up at the ominous robot. Beside her, little Manion stared at the familiar mirror
face and giggled.
    The boy's reaction caused the robot to pause, but only for a moment. With a swift
backhand of his synthetic arm, he broke Amia Yo's neck and grabbed the toddler. The
kitchen worker crumpled dead without so much as a gasp. Manion struggled and wailed.
    Just as Erasmus lifted the squirming child into the air, Serena rushed through the
door, her face filled with horror. "Let him go!"
    Casually, Erasmus shoved her aside, and she stumbled backward over the body of
the murdered woman. Without looking back, the robot quickly left the kitchen area and
climbed a stairway to the villa's upper levels and balconies. Manion dangled in his grasp
like a caught fish, crying and screaming.
    Serena scrambled to her feet and ran after them, begging Erasmus not to harm her
son. "Punish me, if you must—but not him!"

     He turned an unreadable version of his face toward her. "Can I not do both?" Then
he climbed to the second floor.
     On the landing of the third level, Serena tried to grab one of the robot's metal legs
through the ornate robe he wore. He had never seen her display such desperation, and
wished he had applied monitoring probes so that he could hear her thrumming
heartbeat and taste the panic of her sweat. Little Manion thrashed his arms and legs.
     Serena touched her son's tiny fingers, managed to hold onto him for an instant.
Then Erasmus kicked her, delivering a precise blow to her midsection, and she tumbled
down half a flight of stairs.
     Staggering back to her feet, she ignored her bruises and resumed the chase.
Interesting; either a sign of remarkable resilience or suicidal stubbornness. From his
studies of Serena Butler, Erasmus decided it was probably a little of both.
     Reaching the highest level, Erasmus crossed to the broad balcony that was open to
the flagstone plaza four stories below. One of the villa's sentinel robots stood on the
balcony, observing the teams of slave workers installing new fountains and erecting
recently commissioned statues in the alcoves. The sounds of their equipment and voices
drifted upward in the calm air. The sentinel robot swiveled to look at the sudden
disturbance.
     'Stop!" Serena shouted with a sharpness that reminded him of her old defiant self.
"Erasmus, that is enough! You've won. Whatever it is you want, I'll do it."
     The robot stopped at the balcony railing and, clamping his artificial grip on Manion's
left ankle, lifted the little boy over the edge. Serena screamed.
     Erasmus issued a curt order to the sentinel robot. "Prevent her from interfering." He
dangled the child headfirst over the stone-paved plaza far below, like a playful cat
toying with a helpless mouse.
     Serena threw herself forward, but the sentinel robot blocked her. She rammed
against it so hard that the sentinel staggered against the rail before reasserting its
balance and taking hold of Serena's arm.
     Far below, the human slaves looked up at the open balcony and pointed. A collective
gasp rippled through the work crews, followed by a hush.
   'Don't!" Serena shouted frantically as she tried to tear herself free of the sentinel's
grasp. "Please!"
   'I must continue my important work. This child is a disruptive factor." With long
arms, Erasmus dangled the child over the precipitous drop. A breeze stirred his formal
robes. Manion writhed and squirmed, crying loudly for his mother.
   Serena looked up at the imploringly mirrored face, but detected no hint of
compassion there, no concern whatsoever. My precious baby! "No, please! I'll do
anything—"

     Below, the gaping workers were unable to believe what they were seeing.
     'Serena… your own name is a derivation of'serenity.' " Erasmus raised his voice over
the child's wailing. "Surely you understand?"
     She threw herself against the sentinel robot, nearly pulling herself free, and reached
out, desperate to snatch her son.
     Abruptly, Erasmus's fingers released their grip on the baby's ankle. Manion dropped,
tumbling into oblivion, to the stone plaza far below. "There. Now we can get back to
work."
     Serena howled so loudly that she did not hear the terrible sound of the small body
striking the pavement moments later.
     Heedless of her own danger, Serena ripped her arms free at the cost of torn skin
and hurled herself against the sentinel robot, shoving the machine into the high balcony
rail. When the sentinel righted itself, she pushed again, harder this time. The robot
struck the low barrier, broke through the balustrade, and tumbled into open air.
     Paying no attention to the falling machine, Serena lunged at Erasmus and pounded
him with her fists. She tried to dent or claw his smooth flowmetal face, but succeeded
only in bloodying her fingers and breaking her nails. In her mindless frenzy, Serena tore
his lovely new robe. Then she grabbed a small terra-cotta urn from the balcony edge
and smashed it against Erasmus's body.
     'Stop behaving like an animal," Erasmus said. With a casual blow, the robot knocked
her aside, sending her sobbing and crumbling to the tile floor.
     SUPERVISING THE WORK crew in Erasmus's plaza, Iblis Ginjo watched the scene in
utter disbelief. "It is Serena!" one of the villa workers cried, recognizing her on the high
balcony. Her name was taken up by the other workers, as if they revered her. Iblis
remembered Serena Butler from when he had processed her with new slaves arriving
from Giedi Prime.
     Then the robot dropped the baby.
     Unconcerned with consequences, Iblis rushed across the plaza in a desperate but
fruitless attempt to catch the child. Seeing the trustee's brave reaction, many of the
slaves also surged forward.
     Standing over the broken, bloodied child on the pavement, Iblis knew he could not
help in any way. Even after all the atrocities he had seen cymeks and thinking machines
commit, this one outrage seemed inconceivable. He gathered the broken little body in
his arms and looked up.
     Now, remarkably, Serena was fighting her masters. The workers gasped and drew
back as she pushed a sentinel robot off the balcony. In a flash of metal, the thinking
machine plummeted four stories to slam into the hard flagstones, not far from the
bloodstain left by the dead child. With a sound like a sledge hitting an anvil, the sentinel
robot smashed, bent, and crumpled. It lay in a motionless heap on the ground, its
fibrous and metallic components broken, gelcircuitry fluid oozing out into the cracks…
    Mortified and appalled, the slaves stared at what had happened. Like tinder ready
for a spark, Iblis thought. A human captive had fought the machines! She had destroyed
a robot with her own hands! Amazed, they called out her name.
    Above on the balcony, a defiant Serena continued to shriek at Erasmus, while he
shoved her back with his superior strength. The woman's passionate courage astounded
all of them. Could the message be any clearer?
    An ugly shout of anger rose from the captive workers. They had already been
primed by months of Iblis's instructions and subtle manipulations. Now it was time.
    With a smile of grim satisfaction, he bellowed his call. And the rebels surged forward
in an act that would be remembered for ten thousand years.
    Monoliths are vulnerable. To endure, one must remain mobile, re-silient, and
diversified.
    — BOVKO MANRESA,

     First Viceroy of the League of Nobles
     Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.
     hen the Armada battle group left Poritrin, the crowds in Starda were much
diminished, the cheering more subdued. Word had circulated quickly about the slaves
who had bungled a vital job. It was a shame upon the entire world. Deeply
disappointed, Niko Bludd watched the ion trails of the departing battle group. Then,
focusing his wrath, he floated his ceremonial platform over the gathered slave crews. He
had commanded their chastised overseers to muster all workers for inspection.
     Lord Bludd spoke into a voice projector that thundered down upon the grumbling
slaves. "You have let Poritrin down! You all have disgraced humanity. Your sabotage has
hindered the war effort against our enemies. This is treason!" He glared at them, hoping
for some sign of remorse, abject pleas for forgiveness, even heads bowed in guilt.
Instead, the captives seemed defiant, as if proud of what they had done. Since slaves
were not citizens of the League, they could not technically be guilty of treason, but he
liked the weighty, ominous sound of the word. These ignorant people would not
understand the subtle difference.
     He sniffed, recalling an old Navachristian punishment, in tended as a nonviolent
psychological blow. "I declare a Day of Shame upon all of you. Be thankful that Segundo
Harkonnen detected your incompetence before brave lives were lost. But your actions
will hurt our continuing struggle against Omnius. Blood cannot be cleansed from your
hands."
     Knowing they were a superstitious lot, he shouted a curse at them. "May this shame
fall upon all your descendants! May Buddislamic cowards never be free of their debt to
humanity!"
     Raging and shouting, he ordered the Dragoon guards to steer the platform away
from the spaceport.
     BEL MOULAY HAD been hoping for a volatile situation such as this. Never again
would there be so many slaves massed together at one time. The Zenshüte leader
called his brothers to action.
     The overseers and Dragoon guards had orders to break up the reassigned crews and
return the slave laborers to their original masters. Much of Poritrin's routine work had
gone undone while the Armada ships were in drydock at the spaceport, and a number
of lords had expressed their impatience for life to return to normal.
     But now the captives refused to move, refused to work.
     Bel Moulay shouted to those close enough to hear his words, awakening seeds he
had planted during secret talks, month after month. He spoke in Galach so that all of
the nobles could understand him. "We do not toil for slavers! What difference is it to us
if the thinking machines oppress us, or you?" He raised a fist. "God knows we are
justified! We will never give up the fight!"
     A howl rose in vibrating unison. The pent-up rage spread like fire over oil, faster
than the Dragoon guards or the Poritrin nobles could react.
     Moulay shouted toward the nobleman's departing platform. "Niko Bludd, you are
worse than the thinking machines because you enslave your own kind!"
     A throng of Zenshütes and Zensunnis suddenly surrounded the astonished
supervisors and disarmed them. One overseer with a black bandanna around his slick
scalp held up his fists and gruffly shouted commands, but didn't know what to do when
the slaves ignored his orders. The insurgent workers clutched the man's sleeves, tugged
at his gray work gown, and dragged him back to his own holding pens, where so many
of their unfortunate companions had been held after the deadly fever.
     Bel Moulay had instructed the slaves in how to be the most effective. They must
take hostages, not turn into a mob and slaughter the nobles outright. Only in this
manner would the people have any hope of negotiating their freedom.
     The bearded Zenshüte leader identified several unmanned equipment shacks and
four old boats that had run aground on the low-tide mudflats; his followers set them
afire. The flames rose skyward like orange flowers, spreading their smokey pollen above
the spaceport. Slaves, suddenly unrestrained, poured out onto the landing grids, where
they set up obstructions that prevented any commercial vessels from landing.
     Some young insurgents broke through the outer cordon of astonished spectators.
Flustered Dragoons overreacted and opened fire, dropping several in their tracks, but
the rest of the excited slaves raced into the streets of Starda, disappearing like fish into
the reeds. They ran into alleyways, hopping across floating barges and metal-roofed
warehouses, where they rendezvoused with other slave children who had been waiting
for this opportunity.
     The breathless children passed their news in the ancient Chakobsa hunting language
that every one of these repressed people could understand. And the uprising spread…
     TIO HOLTZMAN WAS upset and confused, ashamed that the first large-scale military
deployment of his innovative shields had been such an embarrassing debacle.
Preoccupied while Norma Cenva worked on her own designs, he didn't notice for some
time that his regular meal had not arrived, that his pot of clove tea had grown cold.
Stymied by a complex integral, he gave up in disgust.
    The house and laboratories seemed oddly silent.
    Frustrated, he rang for servants, then returned to his work. Minutes later, hearing no
response from the household slaves, he rang again, then bellowed into the corridors.
When he saw a Zenshüte woman walking down the hall, he shouted for her. She simply
looked at him with a peculiar expression and turned indignantly in the opposite
direction.
    He couldn't believe it.
    After he rounded up Norma, the two of them entered the room full of equation
solvers. There, they found the slaves simply chatting in their own language, papers and
calculation devices lying untouched in front of them.
    Holtzman thundered at them, "Why don't you finish your assignments? We have
designs to complete—important work!"

    As one, the solvers swept everything off the tables. Equipment clattered to the floor
and papers fluttered like pigeons' wings.
    The Savant was flabbergasted. Beside him, the childlike Norma seemed to
understand better than he did.
    Holtzman called for the household guards, but only one responded, a sweating
sergeant who clung to his weapons as if they were anchors. "My apologies, Savant
Holtzman. The other Dragoons have been summoned by Lord Bludd to quell the
disturbance at the spaceport."
    Holtzman and Norma hurried to the viewing platform, where they peered through a
magnification scope at fires burning around the spaceport. Large numbers of people
were gathered there, and even at this distance the Savant could hear crowd noises.
    When their master's back was turned, one solver shouted, "We have been slaves
long enough! We will not work for you anymore!"
    Holtzman spun around, but could not identify the speaker. "Are you fools as well as
slaves? Do you think I recline on a divan while you all work? Have you not seen the
glowglobes in my office shining into the night? This stoppage hurts all of humanity."
    Norma tried to sound reasonable. "We feed and clothe you, provide decent shelter—
and the only thing we ask in return is assistance with simple mathematics. We must
fight against our common enemy."

    Holtzman interjected, "Yes, would you rather be back on your smelly little uncivilized
worlds?"
    'Yes!" the slaves shouted, in unison.
    'Selfish idiots," he muttered, and looked out the window again at the fires and
milling slaves. "Unbelievable!" He didn't consider himself a bad master. He worked these
people no harder than he worked himself.
    From the viewing platform where Holtzman and Norma stood, the river appeared a
particularly dismal gray, reflecting the color of thick overhanging clouds. Norma
speculated, "If this uprising spreads to the agricultural fields and mines, Lord Bludd's
military forces may not be able to contain it."
    Holtzman shook his head. "Those arrogant Buddislamics think only of themselves,
just as they did when they fled from the Titans. Never able to see beyond their own
narrow horizon." He shot a final glare at the room full of indignant solvers. "Now you
and I will be forced to waste time dealing with people such as these, instead of our real
enemies." He spat on the floor, thinking of no other way to show his disgust. "It'll be a
wonder if any of us survive."
    He ordered the room of solvers sealed and further rations denied until they returned
to work. Uneasy, Norma trotted along behind him.
    THAT AFTERNOON, LORD Bludd received a list of demands from the leader of the
insurrection. Protected by his followers, Bel Moulay issued a statement, demanding the
release of all enslaved Zenshütes and Zensunnis from bondage, and safe passage back
to their homeworlds.
    At the beseiged spaceport, the rebels were keeping many nobles and overseers
hostage. Buildings burned, while Bel Moulay delivered impassioned speeches from the
heart of the mob, fanning the flames…
    Is a religion real if it costs nothing and carries no risk?
    —IBLIS GINJO, note in the margin of a stolen notebook

   'iming was everything. For months, Iblis had primed his I work crews and awaited
the promised signal that would launch a violent, coordinated revolt. But something else
had intervened, an event of staggering proportions. The slaughter of a human child by a
machine, and the incredible sight of his mother fighting back—and destroying a robot!

   Using this horrific crime as a springboard, Iblis hardly needed his innate abilities of
persuasion. Around him he heard shouts, breaking glass, running feet. The angry slave
workers required no manipulation—they wanted to do this.

    The rebellion on Earth blossomed and gained violent strength in the precinct of
Erasmus's villa. Three men toppled an eagle statue from the nearest alcove; others
tipped over the crown of a stone fountain in the plaza. The mob tore down vines from
the sides of the main building, smashed windows. They broke through the foyer,
swarming over two confused sentinel robots who had never seen such a response from
the supposedly cowed prisoners. Ripping the heavy weapon arms off the destroyed
robots, the people lugged them along, indiscriminately opening fire.
   The rebellion must spread.
    Iblis feared that if the disturbance remained too localized, Omnius's sentries would
come and exterminate everyone. But if he could contact his other groups and send out
the signal, the revolt would continue to build, spreading from settlement to settlement.
Hopefully the Cogitor and his secondary had managed to assist the secret plans.
    Now that the mob had been launched here at Erasmus's villa, the real work of the
insurrection must occur elsewhere. Watching the frenzy increase around him, hearing
the shouts grow louder, seeing the wild destruction, Iblis decided that these people no
longer needed him.
    With the capital city grid illuminated by a ghostly yellow moon, Iblis issued the
much-anticipated command to his core groups at other major sites. He notified the unit
leaders, who in turn sent men and women surging into the streets, carrying clubs,
heavy tools, cutters, any weapon that might be effective against the thinking machines.
    After a thousand years of domination, Omnius was not prepared for this.
    Like an avalanche, the frenzied rebels swept up others, even those who had
hesitated to join the fledgling underground movement. Seeing a glimmer of hope, the
slaves smashed everything technological they could find.
    In the firelit darkness, Iblis climbed to a vantage point atop the Victory of the Titans
frieze. From there he activated his crude transmitter. Hidden systems implanted in the
chiseled wall burst forth. Every megalithic cymek statue in the mural cracked open,
revealing the deadly arsenal inside.
    Below in the museum square, he saw several neo-cymeks scrambling about in
walker-forms. Guided by traitorous disembodied brains, the neo-cymeks rallied to attack
a crowd of human rebels. Before long, other hybrid machines would arrive, undoubtedly
wearing weapon-studded warrior bodies. Iblis could not let that happen.
    He directed weapons fire. Rockets assembled from construction explosives launched
out of embedded tubes in the frieze, exploding into the enemy. The crude blasts
sheared off the fiber-metallic legs of two neo-cymeks. While they writhed on the ground
and struggled to continue, Iblis shot two more rockets into their preservation canisters,
spilling the electrafluids and crisping the organic brain tissue to cinders. Even if Iblis's
followers overthrew the cymeks and the sentinel robots, the revolution would still need
to deal with the all-powerful Omnius evermind. Standing high above the city grid and
gazing at the spreading glow of rising fires, he felt a surge of confidence and optimism.
     Bathed in surreal moonlight, the humans cheered. Flames crackled and spread in the
gaudy, empty buildings of the machine capital. Near the spaceport, an armory blew up
in a tremendous explosion, sending flames hundreds of meters into the air.
    Iblis watched the numbers of his followers grow before his very eyes, and his heart
swelled. He still could not believe the scale of what he saw occurring. Had scattered
rebel cells responded to the call—or had he started this conflagration alone?

    Like a chain reaction that could not be stopped, mobs ran through the streets,
increasing their vengeance moment by moment.
   Precision, without understanding its inherent limitations, is useless.
   — COGITOR KWYNA, City of Introspection archives

    The people of Poritrin had kept slaves for so long that they had grown complacent
with their comfortable, pampered way of life. As the insurgents' stranglehold on plan'
etary commerce tightened, word of the uprising spread to all Zensunni and Zenshüte
laborers in Starda. Work shut down in the entire city—and beyond. Agricultural slaves
stopped their harvesting. Some set fire to the rustling cane fields; others sabotaged
farm machinery.

     Encamped with the other young artisans above the granite-walled Isana canyon,
Ishmael and his exhausted companions spent the night inside flapping tents that caught
the evening breezes on the upland plateau.
     Abruptly, Ishmael awakened, recognized Alüd shaking him. "I sneaked out and
listened to the overseers. There is a slave uprising at the delta! Listen to this…"
     The two boys returned to their still-smoldering campfire and sat huddled in the night
chill. Alüd's dark eyes sparkled in the dim light. "I knew we wouldn't have to wait for
centuries to be free again." His breath smelled of the spicy porridge they had received
for their evening meal. "Bel Moulay will bring justice. Lord Bludd will have to grant our
demands."
     Ishmael frowned, feeling little of his friend's enthusiasm. "You can't expect the
nobles to simply shrug and change the way Poritrin society has worked for hundreds of
years."
     'They'll have no choice." Alüd clenched his fist. "Oh, how I wish we were back in
Starda so that we could join the uprising. I don't want to hide out here. I want to be
part of the fight." He made a disgusted noise. "We're spending our days making pretty
pictures on a cliffside for the glory of our oppressors. Does that make sense?" As the
boy leaned back on his hands, a smile crept across his narrow face. "We can do
something about it, you know. Even here."
     Ishmael dreaded what Alüd was going to suggest.
     IN THE DEAD of night, after the overseers had gone to sleep in their insulated
pavilions, Alüd recruited Ishmael to the cause by promising that there would be no
bloodshed. "We are just making a statement," Alüd said, his lips upturned in a
humorless grin.
     The pair then flitted from tent to tent, rallying confederates. Even with a simmering
uprising in far-off Starda, the guards were not overly worried about a handful of boys
exhausted from hours of work on the gorge walls.
     Whispering in the starlight, the young men stole harnesses from the equipment
shack. With callused fingers they strapped on the connections, belting themselves
across the waist and chest, securing loops under their arms, attaching cables to the
cliffside pulleys.
     Fourteen young slaves dropped over the cliffside where the saga of the Bludd
dynasty, ten times life-size, sprawled across the canyon wall. The boys had sweated to
create each meticulous pixel of the illustration, following the laser-scribed patterns
designed for Lord Bludd.
     Now the youths dropped surreptitiously on their cables, running across the smooth
cliff face with bare toes. As he swung like a pendulum, Alüd struck with his sharp rock
hammer, chipping off colorful tiles, defacing the image. The distant thunder of
whitewater rapids and wind whistling around the rock formations muffled the clinking of
the tool against rock.
     Ishmael dropped lower than his friend and hammered away at a section of blue-
glazed tiles that, when seen from a distance, would have been the dream-filled eye of
an ancient lord named Drigo Bludd.
     Alüd had no actual plan in mind. He hammered randomly, moving laterally and
climbing up again. His small sledge flaked off hundreds of tiles in a swath of random
destruction across the mosaic. Chipped tiles broke away in jewel-colored shards, falling
into bottomless darkness. The other slave boys did their own damage to the spectacle
of Poritrin, as if by defacing the artwork they could rewrite history.
    Hushed and giggling, they worked together for hours. Though they were only vague
outlines in the starlight, Alüd and Ishmael grinned at each other with boyish enjoyment
at their crude vandalism, then returned to the task at hand.
    Finally, as the first streaks of light began to paint the horizon, the boys clambered
up the cliff face in their harnesses, returned the equipment to the supply shack, and
ducked into their tents. Ishmael hoped to snatch at least an hour of rest before the
overseers roused them.
    They made it back undetected. At dawn, alarms sounded and men bellowed into the
open air, summoning the young workers and lining them up along the cliff edge. The
red-faced work bosses wanted answers, demanded to know the identity of the
perpetrators. They whipped the boys, one after the other, hurting them badly enough
that they wouldn't be able to work for days; they denied them rations, cut back on
water allowances.
    But, of course, none of the slave boys knew a thing. They insisted they had been
asleep in their tents all night.
    THE MALICIOUS DEFACING of the magnificent canyon mural was the final blow to
Lord Bludd. He had tried to be reasonable and patient during the uprising. For weeks he
attempted to use civilized means to bring Bel Moulay and his insurgent followers back
into line.
    When he had declared the Day of Shame, it had not worked on the psyches of the
uncivilized captives—they simply didn't care—and in the end he realized he had been
deluding himself. The Zensunni and Zen shüte clans belonged to the barest fringe of the
human race, practically a different species. Unable to work for the common good, these
ungrateful primitives relied on the sufferance of cultured people. Based on what they
had done, the Buddislamic fanatics had no moral conscience.

    The slaves had sabotaged the installation of shields on Armada warships and refused
to continue work on Tio Holtzman's important new inventions. The dark-bearded
insurrection leader had taken noblemen hostage and held them in slave pens. Moulay
had crippled the Starda Spaceport, preventing any imports or exports, grinding all
commerce to a halt. His criminal followers burned buildings, destroyed vital facilities,
and ruined productive agricultural estates. Even worse, Bel Moulay had demanded the
emancipation of all slaves—as if freedom was something a human being could simply
have without earning it! Such an idea was a slap in the face to those billions who had
fought and died to keep the thinking machines at bay.

    Bludd thought of the slaughtered citizens on Giedi Prime, the victims of the cymek
skirmish on Salusa Secundus, the Rossak Sorceresses who had given their lives to
destroy cymeks. It disgusted him that this Bel Moulay would rally malcontent slaves to
hinder every effort of the human race. The selfish arrogance of these undeserving
Buddislamics!
    Lord Bludd tried to communicate with them. He had expected that they would see
reason, understand the stakes, and make up for the past cowardice of their people.
Now, he saw that as a foolish hope.
    Learning of the mosaic sabotage, he flew to the bottleneck gorge and stared in
disbelief from his project observation platform. With a sinking heart, he saw first-hand
the hideous damage done to his beautiful mural—the proud history of the Bludd family
desecrated! Such an insult Lord Niko Bludd would not tolerate.

     His knuckles turned white as he clenched the railing. His entourage was frightened
by his demeanor, by the determination that boiled beneath the powdered and perfumed
features that had always seemed so erudite.
     'This insanity must stop forthwith." His icy words were meant for the Dragoon
guards. He turned to the gold-armored soldier beside him. "You know what to do,
Commander."
     I
     ALREADY INCONVENIENCED BY the inexplicable behavior of his slaves, Tio Holtzman
was happy to receive the invitation to accompany Lord Bludd. He was eager to see the
first large-scale practical demonstration of his new shields.
     'Just a civil defense exercise, Tio—but alas, necessary," Bludd said. "Nevertheless,
we will observe your invention in action."

    The scientist stood beside the nobleman on the observation platform. Norma Cenva
and a handful of well-dressed nobles waited behind them, looking down from the
platform at the unruly crowd of slaves. The smell of smoke hung in the air, and deep-
throated shouts and angry chants wafted up from the beseiged spaceport.
    On the ground, Dragoon guards marched forward, protected by shimmering body
shields. The squad moved like an inexorable wedge into the blockaded spaceport,
wielding clubs and spears. Some carried Chandler pistols, prepared to mow down the
unruly insurgents in droves, if it came to that.
    Holding onto a railing, Holtzman peered down at the advancing Dragoons. "Look, the
slaves can't stop us." Norma's skin had gone pale and clammy. She realized the
slaughter she was about to witness, but was unable to speak out against it.
    The gold-armored men did not pause in their relentless progress, although the angry
slaves tried to block their way. Men threw themselves against the Dragoons' shields.
The front ranks of Lord Bludd's soldiers raised their bludgeons and cracked bones,
knocking aside anyone who did not let them pass. The slaves shouted, regrouping and
surging forward en masse, but they could not penetrate the shields. Gathering
momentum, the Dragoons pushed into the melee, cutting through the unruly slaves.
    The mob fell back and tried to form a barrier to protect the mastermind of the
uprising. Standing in the bed of a groundtruck, Bel Moulay raised his voice high and
clear, shouting in Chakobsa, "Do not falter! Hold onto your dreams. This is our only
chance. All slaves must stand together!"
    'Oh, why didn't they fight like that against the thinking machines?" Niko Bludd
grumbled, and several of the nobles around him chuckled.
    When the sheer press of slaves finally halted the Dragoon forces, the legion
commander shouted, his voice booming above the din. "I have orders to arrest the
traitor Bel Moulay. Surrender him immediately."
    None of the insurgents moved. Moments later, the Dragoons brought out their
Chandler pistols, switched off their shields, and opened fire. Crystal needle shards
sprayed out, creating clouds of splattering blood and torn flesh. Slaves screamed and
scrambled to escape, only to find that they were packed too closely around Bel Moulay
to move.
    The bearded leader shouted orders in his arcane language, but panic swept through
the slaves, and they began to break up. The rain of crystal darts continued to slaughter
them. Hundreds fell dead or maimed.
    'Don't worry," Bludd said out of the corner of his mouth. "They have orders to take
Bel Moulay alive."
    Norma turned away, heaving deep breaths, afraid that she was about to vomit over
the edge of the observation barge. But she clamped her lips shut and brought herself
back under control.
    As the slaves either died or broke ranks around Bel Moulay, the black-bearded leader
grabbed a staff and tried to rally them. But the Dragoon guards, seeing a clear path to
their objective, charged forward like rowdies into a brawl. They surrounded the
Zenshüte mastermind and tackled him to the pavement. A great shout of dismay rose as
the slaves saw their leader fall under a flurry of gold-gauntleted fists.
    Witnessing Moulay's plight, the surviving insurgents clumped into angry knots and
sought to rebuild their courage. But Dragoon guards shot needle pistols again, and the
resistance collapsed into wailing confusion.
    The Dragoons dragged Bel Moulay away, while armed vehicles and footsoldiers
streamed into the spaceport, rescuing the hostage noblemen and ladies from their pens.
    From the observation platform, Niko Bludd looked sadly at the crimson splashes and
mangled corpses scattered around the flat landing grids. "I had hoped it would not
come to this. I gave the slaves every opportunity to back down, but they left me no
choice."
    In spite of the carnage, Holtzman could not hide his pleasure at how well his
personal shields had performed. "You acted with honor, my Lord."
    Floating safely above any danger, they watched the mopping-up operations for a
while longer. Then Bludd invited them all to his opulent residence to celebrate the
liberation of Poritrin.
    °
   Every large-scale movement—political, religious, or military—hinges upon epochal
events.

   —PITCAIRN NARAKOBE,

   League Worlds Study of Conflict
    When the human vermin initiated their rebellion on Earth, the Titan Ajax considered
it open season. For him, the glory days were back, and this time he would not have to
face his lover Hecate's revulsion at the excessive violence.
    He selected his best gladiator-form, a massive weapon-studded walker that he had
designed in the hope of challenging Omnius in the arena. Ajax preferred a shape that
radiated size and power, not sleek and efficient but awesome and terrifying. He liked to
crush dozens of victims at a time.
     It would be like the Hrethgir Rebellion on Walgis.
     From a cymek body-fabrication pavilion atop one of the capital city's seven hills,
Ajax's sensors picked up crowd noises, muffled at first and then louder. He had no time
to lose.
     Using delicate hydraulics to lift his preservation canister, he installed himself into the
warrior-form. Angry thoughts pulsed through the electrafluid, crackling into neurelectric
linkages, connecting thoughtrodes. Arming all weapons. He flexed his powerful tool-
studded limbs. Ready.
     The Titan strode on piston legs through a sliding window wall to a balcony circling
the fabrication pavilion. From this vantage he looked out on the shadow-streaked city as
fires rose into the evening sky. Smoke curled upward, and he saw mobs of slaves
running like cockroaches. He heard breaking plaz and the hissing crashes of vehicles.
The hrethgir had gone mad.
     Off in the Forum Plaza, an explosion made a muffled boom, the sound flattened by
distance. The rebels had stolen some heavy weapons, possibly extracting them from the
hulks of damaged robots. Ajax powered up his hunting systems, then stepped into a
cargo lift that dropped him down to street level. If the wild and foolish rebels had
damaged his magnificent monument statue, he would be very upset indeed.
     At the base of the hill, a group of neo-cymeks and sentinel robots set up a defensive
circle. Using a molten-projectile launcher, they shot red-hot pellets at the howling mob
that swept toward them like stampeding animals. Slave bodies glowed as they were hit,
and fell in smoldering lumps of dead flesh. But more of the vermin kept coming, waves
and waves of them, even though they saw their certain death.
     'Don't just stand there cowering!" Ajax bellowed. "Would you rather watch them
charge toward you, or go after them yourselves?"
     It was a rhetorical question. The line of neo-cymek defenders surged forward, their
combat limbs studded with weapons shaped out of flow-metal. The cymeks broke the
first charge of the frenzied rebels, while the sentinel robots moved back to a new
position higher on the hill.
     Ajax climbed onto a flying construction platform. Using command linkages to operate
the vehicle, he cruised over the crowds, bypassing the explosions and fires. Heading
toward the Forum Plaza, the Titan was so infuriated that he had difficulty controlling the
sophisticated systems of his gladiator-form.
     In facilities across the city grid, Ajax saw thinking machines erect additional
defensive perimeters. He had expected the disorganized rebellion to break apart and
falter by now. Thousands of humans had been slaughtered today alone. Perhaps the fun
had just begun.
     Trailing lines of sparkling fire, rockets launched out from the Victory of the Titans
frieze. Combining and enhancing the resolution of his optic threads, Ajax recognized the
human standing on top of the giant carved stone wall, firing the hidden weapons: the
treacherous crew boss Iblis Ginjo! Ajax had suspected him all along!
    With wrenching anger he saw swarms of the ungrateful creatures using cables and
small explosives to tear down the mighty pillars that held the majestic statues of the
Titans. As he pushed the cargo platform forward, Ajax saw his own colossal image
topple to the broken flagstones. The vermin let out a loud, hooting cheer. Another crude
rocket shot out of the crumbling frieze.
    Ajax accelerated the hover platform and swung wide around the enormous stone
mural, approaching from the rear, out of range of the sputtering rockets. The giant
statue of his human likeness lay crumbled on the stone surface, like a fallen king.
    Ajax would rip off Iblis Ginjo's limbs, one at a time, and drink his screams.
    Suddenly an entire section of the monument pivoted, and the sky blazed with
multiple orange fires from a tremendous volley of rockets directed at Ajax. One blast
shattered the undercarriage of the flying cargo platform, and the heavy craft spun
toward the ground.
    The Titan tumbled off, striking the plaza in a clatter of bent hydraulic limbs and
armored shielding around his preservation canister. The hover platform crashed in a
terrific explosion, knocking down the giant mural, damaging the rocket launchers.
    The impact of Ajax's gladiator-form pulverized flagstones. His integrated systems
twitched and jerked; neurelectronics flickered. Inside the preservation canister, his
disembodied brain churned with a crackle of faulty data and distorted impressions from
damaged thoughtrodes. He was surrounded by broken monuments torn down by the
ingrate humans.
    He heard Iblis shouting to the mobs, calling upon them to swarm the wounded
Titan. With a mental surge through the thoughtrode conductors, Ajax rebooted his
combat body's systems, bypassing the damaged control linkages. He could still fight, if
he could just get back on his feet.
    The furious mob swarmed around him, but he fought them off with flailing artificial
limbs, and finally levered himself onto powerful but damaged legs that refused to
support him reliably. Leaning to one side, he launched indiscriminate shots from his
flamers, which should have driven back the rebels.
    Instead, they crawled over the bodies of their fallen comrades and kept coming…
    Before Ajax could restore his equilibrium or complete the recalibra-tion of his optic
threads to see what was happening clearly, Iblis removed an intact rocket from the
damaged frieze and launched it manually. With only half of his systems functional, Ajax
tried to scuttle out of the way, but the hissing explosive ruined one of his six legs,
knocking the cymek off balance and ripping a ragged hole in the broken flagstone
beneath him.
    The ancient warrior bellowed through his voice-synthesizer and shifted his armored
body, turning to face Iblis at the damaged wall. Frenzied slaves swarmed around the
debris in the Forum Plaza, throwing themselves upon the cymek like mice trying to bring
down a maddened bull.
    Ajax thrashed in his cumbersome body, knocking the vermin away, stomping on
them, plowing through anyone who stood in his path. But more rebels stampeded
toward him, pummeled his cymek body with primitive weapons, and fired stolen guns at
him. In a frenzy, Ajax killed or maimed hundreds without suffering significant additional
damage to himself, but the sheer press of bodies, along with his ruined leg, hampered
him.
   From the frieze wall, Iblis shouted, "He killed billions of people! Destroy him!"
   Only billions? Surely it was more than that!
     With a burst of mechanical energy, Ajax vaulted over the mass of angry humans and
began to scale the high stone mural, extruding nimble grippers and support spikes from
the ends of the limbs that still functioned. Iblis stood atop the damaged wall, directing
his foolish rebels.
     As Ajax climbed, dozens of slaves clung to his segmented body where he could not
knock them free. He thrashed with one of his five intact limbs and used the other four
to climb the monolithic frieze.
     From above, a slave dropped a small explosive that detonated on the sculptured
wall, fracturing the stone and making the cymek's feet lose purchase. A dozen
maddened slaves toppled off of his gladiator-form, knocked loose by the shockwave. But
still more piled onto him.
     The Titan's mechanical body tilted awkwardly, and more of the humans crawled onto
his back and damaged his components, hacking at him with cutters and heat sticks.
     Seconds later the rioters severed the neurelectric conduits and snapped the control
fibers leading from his protected brain canister, effectively paralyzing the Titan's giant
body. Ajax felt himself being pulled down from the wall, and toppling backward.
     He could hear the screams as he slammed to the ground on top of the shouting
hrethgir, crushing hundreds to death. He loved the sounds of their pain. But Ajax could
not move, lying immobile in his warrior form like an immense poisoned insect.
     'I am a Titan!" he bellowed.
     Through his dispersed optic threads, Ajax saw the traitorous crew boss standing on
the shoulders of slaves, pointing accusingly at the cy-mek's head plate. "Peel off the
armor casing, there!"
     Ajax's thoughtrodes detected the removal of the shield, exposing his brain canister.
     Now, with a smile of triumph, Iblis climbed onto the Titan's twitching warrior-form,
holding high a makeshift cudgel. Grinning, the crew boss brought the metal club down
and smashed through the curved plaz walls of the brain canister.
     He hammered again and again, and his followers rushed in to help, pounding and
beating and smashing, until they had ruptured the canister and battered the organic
brain into nothing more than pulpy gray matter mixed with oozing bluish electrafluid.
     Euphoric at what they had done, Iblis stood atop the dead Titan and howled in
victory. His message rose higher than the flames consuming the machine city.
     Witnessing the death of one of the greatest cymeks sent the mob into a greater
furor. Word swept through the streets, and the outraged rebels turned against all
manifestations and symbols of the machine masters. Neo-cymeks and sentinel robots on
defensive lines scrambled away as the rioters pursued them.
     The all-pervasive Omnius evermind had no choice but to launch powerful
countermeasures.
   We are not like Moses—we cannot call forth water from stone… not at an
economical rate, anyway.
   —Imperial Ecological Survey of Arrakis, ancient records (researcher uncredited)

    j n the afternoon heat of Arrakis, the Zensunni nomads J! blindfolded Aurelius
Venport by tying a stained rag over his eyes.
    The desert people did not trust Tuk Keedair either and treated the Tlulaxa flesh
merchant with matching indignity. Venport chose to allow this as part of his investment.
It had taken them nearly five months of tedious travel with fitful starts and stops at
various backwater planets just to get here. He would see it through.
    'We march now," Naib Dhartha said. "You may talk with each other, but it would be
best to keep your conversation to a minimum. Wasted words are wasted moisture."
    Venport felt people all around him, guiding them forward. It took some getting used
to, and he stumbled often as he lifted his feet higher than normal, probing the sandy
surface. The ground was uneven, but gradually he became more adept at walking.
    'What about the sandworms?" Keedair asked. "Do we not have to worry about—?"

   'We are beyond the wormline," Dhartha answered gruffly.
   'The mountain ranges separate us from the great bled, where the demons dwell."
   'I am not convinced this is completely necessary," Venport said as he trudged on.
   Dhartha was firm, not accustomed to having his orders questioned. "It is necessary
because I have said so. Never before has an outsider—not even one from this planet—
seen our hidden communities. We do not offer maps."

    'Of course. I will comply with your rules," Venport muttered. "As long as you intend
to offer spice."
    Though the jungles of Rossak were rich with undiscovered pharma-ceuticals and
exotic hallucinogens, none seemed to provide the remarkable effects of melange.
Venport felt the substance was well worth investigating, despite the distance he'd had
to travel and the discomforts he had endured.
    In the past several months, Venport had easily sold Keedair's speculative shipment
to curiosity seekers willing to pay an exorbitant price. Even though Venport had kept
half of the profits, Tuk Keedair had still made a substantial sum, more than he could
have obtained from a cargo of the highest quality slaves. Since he had not lost money
for the year, he had not been obligated to cut off his treasured braid.
    Venport tripped over something hard. He cursed and almost fell to his knees, but
someone grabbed his arm and supported him.
    'When your people brought melange to me one load at a time, it took forever to fill
my cargo ship," Keedair said, his voice several footsteps ahead.
    Venport said, "Naib Dhartha, I hope we can develop a more efficient system in the
future." If not, they would just have to charge higher prices, but he was sure the
market would be there.
    After they had plodded for hours at a blind-man's pace, the Zensun-nis stopped.
From the rustling, clanking noises, Venport guessed they were uncovering a
camouflaged groundcar. "Sit," said Naib Dhartha, "but do not remove your blindfolds."
    Fumbling, he and Keedair climbed into the vehicle, which moved off with a jouncing
pace and a quietly puttering engine. After many kilometers, Venport eventually guessed
from slightly cooler shadows that they must be approaching a line of mountains,
heading into afternoon. There were ways to pinpoint the location of this isolated village,
pro vided he wanted to go to such lengths. He could have sewn a tracking pulser into
the fabric of his vest or the sole of a boot.
     But at the moment Venport had other priorities. He had a feeling there was no way
to circumvent the wishes of these hardy people, that they completely controlled those
who visited them, even deciding who departed from the desert alive.
     When they began to ascend a steep path, the groundcar slowed, and finally the
Zensunni hid the vehicle again and made their blindfolded guests walk again. The
nomads guided their guests step by step around boulders and broken rocks. Finally,
Dhartha yanked off the blindfolds, revealing a dim cave entrance. The group stood just
inside a tunnel. Venport blinked to adjust his vision to the dim light generated by
flaming lamps mounted on the walls.
    After being blindfolded for so long, it seemed that his hearing and sense of smell
had grown more delicate and precise. Now, as he looked around the tunnel entrance,
Venport detected signs of many inhabitants, the stink of unwashed bodies, the sounds
of people stirring.
    Taking them to chambers high inside a cliff wall, Dhartha fed the men a meal of
crunchy bread served with a dab of honey and thin strips of dried meat marinated in a
spicy sauce. Afterward, they listened to Zensunni music around low fires and told stories
in a language that Venport did not know.
     Later, the naib took the two impatient visitors out onto a rocky ledge that
overlooked an endless sea of dunes. "I want to show you something," he said, his lean
face shadowed, the geometric tattoo on his cheek even darker than his skin. The men
sat with their feet dangling over the edge. Keedair looked from Dhartha to Venport,
eager to watch the negotiations.
    The naib rang a little bell, and soon an old man came forward, his muscles sinewy,
his face like leather. His hair was long and white, and he still had most of his teeth. Like
all of the desert people, his eyes had turned a solid blue, which Venport believed
indicated a deep melange addiction. Keedair's own eyes had already taken on the eerie
tint.
     The elderly man held a tray containing dark wafers, cut perfectly square and covered
with sticky syrup. He extended the delicacies to Venport, who took one. Keedair
selected another, and Naib Dhartha a third. The gray-haired man remained standing
beside them, watching.
    From what Venport had seen, in this culture the women always served the men—an
odd turnabout from the custom on Rossak. Perhaps elderly men here were also
relegated to menial duties.

    Venport studied the brown cake, then nibbled one corner. The meal he'd eaten
earlier had been laced with significant amounts of melange, but this sample seemed to
have even more of a kick than expected, exploding with rich cinnamon fire in his mouth.
He took a substantial bite, felt the strength and well-being expand outward in his body.
    'Delicious!" Without realizing it, he had gobbled most of the wafer.
    'Fresh spice gathered from the open sands just this afternoon," Dhar-tha said. "It is
more potent than anything you have previously tasted in spice beer or food."
    'Most excellent," Venport said, the possibilities filling his mind like unopened gifts.
Keedair also consumed his cake and sighed in satisfaction.
    Venport had a visceral intuition that the spice trade would prove profitable, and he
expected to sell substantial quantities to the League nobles. To commence that
enterprise, he planned to accompany Zufa Cenva on her next trip to Salusa Secundus.
While she delivered her fiery lectures in the rebuilt Hall of Parliament, Venport would
make contacts, dropping hints, distributing small samples. It would take time, but the
demand would grow.
    He held the last bite of his spice cake. "Is this what you meant to show us, Naib
Dhartha?"
    The tattooed leader reached up to clasp the old man's thin but muscular arm. "This
man is what I want you to see. His name is Abdel." The naib bowed briefly, and the old
man bowed in return, then gave a deeper bow to the two seated guests, now that he
had been introduced. "Abdel, tell the visitors your age."
    The withered man spoke in a thin but strong voice. "I have watched the
constellation of the Beetle cross Sentinel Rock three hundred and fourteen times."
    Confused, Venport looked to Keedair, who shrugged. Naib Dhartha explained. "A tiny
asterism in our sky. It drifts back and forth with the seasons and crosses a thin spire of
rock near the horizon. We use it as a calendar."
    'Back and forth," Keedair said. "You mean twice each year?"
    The naib nodded.
    Venport did quick mental calculations. "He is saying he's a hundred and fifty-seven
years old."
    'Close," Dhartha said. "Children do not start to watch and count until they have
passed the age of three years, so technically that would make him one hundred and
sixty standard years. Abdel has consumed melange all his life. Notice how healthy he
remains… with bright eyes and a sharp mind. He will probably live for decades yet,
provided he continues to consume a regular diet of spice."
    Venport was amazed. Everyone had heard stories of youth-prolonging drugs, of life-
extension treatments that had been developed in the Old Empire and then forgotten
when the decaying regime fell. Most of the stories were no more than legends. Yet if
this old man was telling the truth…
    'Do you have any proof of this?" Keedair asked.
    A flicker of anger washed across the naib's lean face. "I offer you my word. No
additional proof is required."
    Venport gestured for Keedair not to press the issue. The way he felt from the
melange coursing through his system, he could well believe the claims. "We will run
tests of our own to make certain there are no side effects other than a blue tinting of
the eyes. Melange may be a product I can add to my catalog of goods. Would you be
able to provide sufficient quantities for commercial purposes?"
    With a nod, the desert leader said, "The potential is vast."
    Now only the details of the business transaction remained. In part, Venport intended
to offer something unusual as payment. Water? Or perhaps these nomads would barter
for some of Norma's glowglobes, to illuminate their shadowy caves and tunnels. In fact,
the floating bulbs might be of more practical use to the Zensunni than League credits.
He had some samples in his transport back at Arrakis City.
    Reaching forward, he took the last cake from the tray that Abdel still held in his
hands. Venport noticed that the old man held the platter motionless, without the
slightest tremble in his fingers. Another good sign, which Tuk Keedair noticed as well.
The business partners nodded to one another.
   My copilot thinks of the human female constantly, but thus far it does not seem to
have distracted him from his duties. I will watch him carefully for signs of trouble.
   — SEURAT, log entry submitted to Omnius he Dream Voyager entered Earth's
atmosphere, returning

    . home after a long update run. It had been so long since Vor had seen Serena
Butler… and he needed to confront his father with the historical discrepancies he had
found.
    Aboard the silver-and-black ship, he and Seurat monitored their approach, checking
temperature readings of the reflective outer skin. The ship's chronometer automatically
adjusted to Earth standard time.
    This reminded Vor of how Agamemnon had altered his memoirs to suit a preferred
version of history. The Titans were not the glorious, benevolent heroes that his father
had portrayed.
    Serena Butler had forced Vor to discover the truth about Agamemnon. Vor wondered
if she had thought about him while he'd been gone. Would Serena respect him now
because of his newfound understanding? Or did she still pine after her lost lover, the
man who had fathered her child? Vor's stomach knotted with nervous anticipation.
Throughout his highly structured life he had never faced so much uncertainty as in the
past several months.
    Agamemnon might be waiting for him at the spaceport.
    All of the great Titan's promises of rewards, the lure of leaving a fragile human body
behind and becoming a neo-cymek, now felt flat to Vor. Everything had changed.
    Vor would challenge his father, accuse the great general of fabricating history and
distorting facts—of deceiving his own son. Part of him hoped the Titan would indeed
have a ready answer, a comforting explanation, so that Vor could go back to his sane
and regimented life as a trustee.

    In his heart, though, he knew that Serena had not misled him. He had seen enough
evidence with his own eyes, knew how the machines treated human beings. Vor could
no longer pretend… but he didn't know what else he could do now. He was very
frightened to return to Earth, yet he knew he must.
    Surely Agamemnon would notice his son's change of attitude. And Vor already knew
that the Titan general had killed twelve previous sons who had disappointed him.
    'What do you make of that, Vorian?" Seurat interrupted his thoughts as they neared
the spaceport in the capital grid. "I am detecting data inconsistencies and an alarming
level of physical chaos." The robot captain called up closer images.
    Vor was astonished to see fire, smoke, and destroyed buildings, along with robot
and cymek troops. Scores of humans ran wild in the streets. His heart lurched from a
mixture of emotions that he had not yet sorted out. "Did the League Armada attack
here?" Even with his new knowledge, he couldn't believe that scattered remnants of free
humanity could have wrought such destruction on the core machine world. Omnius
would never allow it!
    'Scans show no human spacecraft or battleships in the vicinity, Vorian. Nevertheless,
the conflict is ongoing." Seurat seemed puzzled, but not overly concerned. At least he
didn't attempt to make a joke about the situation.
     Vor adjusted the scan-optic controls, focusing on the seaside extension of the capital
city grid, and located the estate of Erasmus. He saw more fires there, damaged
buildings and monuments, pitched battles in the streets. Where was Serena?
     Slowly, reluctantly, he began to comprehend what was happening. Humans were
fighting the machines! The very idea stirred up thoughts that he would rather have
avoided, because they seemed disloyal to Omnius. How could any of this be possible?
    The Dream Voyager detected a unified emergency signal used by the evermind to
link with his subsidiary robot forces. "All thinking machines divert to defensive
perimeters and battle stations… human revolt spreading… Omnius core remains
defended… power shortages in many sectors…"
     Vor looked at the robot captain's mirror-smooth face. The spangle of optic threads
brightened like stars. "This is a most unexpected situation. Our assistance is obligatory."
     'I concur," Vor said. But which side should 1 help? He had never expected to feel
this way, with his allegiances pulling at one another.
    The Dream Voyager soared toward the burning city grid. Near the villa of Erasmus,
the thinking machines had formed a cordon against the mobs. Barricades had been
erected in the flagstone plaza where Vor-ian had previously arrived by carriage for his
visits. Portions of the building facade appeared damaged, but the villa seemed intact.
    I hope she is safe.
    Unconcerned, Seurat cruised over the capital's spaceport, preparing to land.
Reacting suddenly, he pulled up in a steep ascent. "Our facilities and ships have already
been overrun by rebellious slaves."
     Vor continued to study the chaos below. "Where can we go?"
    'My backup landing instructions suggest an older spaceport on the southern edge of
the city grid. The landing field is functional, and remains under Omnius's control."
     As the update ship settled on the alternate landing pad, Vor saw blackened human
corpses and smashed machines around the perimeter. At the northern docking pads a
fierce battle raged between neo-cymeks and suicidal rebels who must have taken
weaponry away from destroyed sentinel robots.
    Seurat put the Dream Voyager's engines and electronics into standby mode. Half a
dozen armed robots ran to their landing site, as if to defend the ship and the valuable
Omnius updates they carried.
    'What do you want me to do, Seurat?" Vor inquired, his heart pounding.
    Seurat delivered a surprisingly insightful answer. "I will offer to use the ship to
transport robot defenders to wherever Omnius requires them. Remaining aboard is your
best option, Vorian Atreides. It is likely to be the safest place."
    Vor's mind throbbed with his need to find Serena Butler. "No, old
    Metalmind. I might get in the way, and my life-support needs would interfere with
your work. Leave me at the spaceport, and I'll take care of myself."
    The robot considered Vor's request. "As you wish. However, because of the
situation, it would be best for you to lie low and remain out of sight. Avoid the fighting.
You are a valued trustee, the son of Agamemnon—but you are also human. You are at
risk from both sides in this conflict."

    'I understand."
    Seurat looked at him with his unreadable face. "Take care of yourself, Vorian
Atreides."
    'You, too, old Metalmind."
    As Vor hurried down the ramp onto the exhaust-stained pavement of the old
spaceport, the thinking machines transmitted alarms and messages to other military
units. The northern docking pads had fallen to human mobs. Hundreds of people were
surging across the field. With instant consensus, a dozen soldier robots swarmed aboard
the Dream Voyager for tactical redistribution.
    From the cover of a parked groundtruck, feeling more vulnerable than ever, Vor
watched the update ship lift off. Only the day before, he and Seurat had been amusing
themselves in space with strategy games. Now, in a few hours, his whole world had
been turned on its side.
    After breaching the northern docking bay, the rebel humans spread out into the
spaceport buildings. Evidently, Omnius had decided to cut his losses, leaving only a few
thinking machines to resist the hrethgir. Vor ran for cover, abruptly conscious that he
wore the formal uniform of a trustee, a servant of the Synchronized Worlds. Not many
humans worked in high positions for the thinking machines, and if the mob spotted him,
they would tear him apart.
    Hundreds of rebel bodies lay strewn about the tarmac. Thinking quickly, Vor grabbed
the arms of a dead man about his own size and dragged him into the shadows between
two smoking buildings. Discarding a part of his past, Vor tore off the flight suit he had
worn on so many Dream Voyager journeys, and switched clothes with the slain rebel.
    Dressed in a tattered shirt and dirty trousers, he waited for the right opportunity and
joined the flow of the rushing crowd. They shouted "Victory!" and "Freedom!" as they
broke into the spaceport buildings. Few sentinel robots remained to resist them now.
    Vor hoped the mob didn't destroy all the facilities or the robotic vessels. If they had
bothered to plan ahead, the revolt leaders would know that they needed to escape from
the Synchronized Worlds altogether.
    Vor caught himself, astonished to realize his allegiance was shifting. It both
exhilarated and frightened him. He felt himself drawing away from the security of his
known life in machine society, toward the chaos of the unknown and his own feral
biological roots. But he knew he had to do it. He understood too much now, saw
through different eyes.
    Around him, frenzied slaves did not worry about the consequences of their rampage.
The mob had an eclectic supply of weapons, from primitive clubs to sophisticated
cellular-displacement guns removed from sentinel robots. The rebels set off incendiary
devices in the old spaceport's control building and killed a skittering neo-cymek who
tried to escape, splitting open his brain canister with a cellgun blast.
    When he felt it was safe, Vor broke away from the crowd, maintaining his disguise,
and wandered with other humans through the damp streets, deeper into the city grid.
He looked like a ragged straggler but had a definite goal.
    He needed to reach the villa of Erasmus.
    In the canyons between large buildings, darkness began to arrive ahead of twilight,
intensified because the Earth-Omnius had severed power in sectors overrun by slaves.
Thunderclouds closed in, pregnant with smoke and rain. A brisk wind cut through Vor's
thin clothing, and he shivered.
    He hoped Serena was still alive.
    A group of rough-looking slaves broke down a metal gate and surged into a building.
The mangled remains of thinking machines lay in disarray. He heard from excited
chatter that even the Titan Ajax had been slain. Ajax.' At first he couldn't believe it, and
then he didn't doubt what he had heard. A block away, a building erupted in flames,
casting eerie light into the street.
    Even after what he had learned about the crimes and abuses of the original Titans,
Vor felt a twinge of concern for his father. If Agamemnon was on Earth, the cymek
general would be somewhere in the midst of this revolt, trying to quell it. In spite of all
the lies and misleading stories Agamemnon had told, he was still Vor's father.
    Quickening his pace, Vor made his way toward Erasmus's villa. He was tired and
sore. In the plaza fronting the main house, a crowd of angry rebels pressed against a
hastily erected barricade fence. The worst fighting had passed into the primary centers
of the capital city grid, but here the freed slaves seemed to be maintaining an angry
vigil, for reasons that Vor did not understand. He asked questions, carefully.
    'We're waiting for Iblis Ginjo," a man with a thin beard said. "He wants to lead the
assault personally. Erasmus is still inside there." The man spat on the paving stones.
"And so is the woman."
    Vor felt a jolt. What woman did the man mean? Could it be Serena?
    Before he could ask, robotic defensive installations on the ornate crenellations fired
scattered shots, trying to disperse the crowd. But more rebels arrived, swelling their
numbers, maintaining the siege. A group dressed in stained work clothes took up
strategic positions and launched two crude explosive projectiles, smashing the rooftop
gun emplacements.
    A small section of the rain-slick plaza had been cordoned off with posts and plazwire,
and the humans had surrounded it like guardians… or, oddly, pilgrims. Vor saw flowers
and colorful ribbons scattered on the plaza. Curious, he pushed closer and asked a
gaunt old woman about it.
    'Sacred ground," she said. "A child was murdered here, and his mother fought
against the monster Erasmus. Serena, who helped us, changed our lives, made things
better for us. By standing up to the thinking machines, Serena showed us what is
possible." Sickened, Vor pressed for details, heard how the robot had thrown the little
boy to his death.
    Serena's baby. Murdered.
    'What about Serena?" Vor asked, grabbing the crone. "Is she safe?"
    She shrugged her bony shoulders. "Erasmus has barricaded himself in the villa, and
we have not seen her since. Three days. Who knows what goes on behind those walls?"
    The mob cleared a path, and a rugged-looking man marched through, wearing the
black tunic and headband of a crew boss. A dozen heavily armed men guarded him as if
he were an important leader. He raised his hands, while the milling slaves cheered and
called him by name. "Iblis! Iblis Ginjo!"
    'I promised you it could be done!" he shouted. "I told you all!" Even without
mechanical amplification, his voice was powerful with resonant warmth. "Look at all
we've already accomplished. Now we must secure another victory. The robot Erasmus
committed the crime that sparked our glorious revolt. He can no longer hide behind his
walls—it is time to punish him!"

    The man's passionate voice was like fuel thrown on the flames of rebellion. The
people roared their call for revenge—and Vor could not help himself. Alarmed, he raised
his own voice, demanding to be heard. "And save the mother! We must rescue her!"

    Iblis looked at him, and the two men locked eyes. The charismatic leader hesitated
for a fraction of a second, then bellowed, "Yes, save Serena!"
    At Iblis's command, the mob became an organized weapon, a hammer slamming
into the anvil of the barricaded villa. They had torn weapon-arms from robots they had
overcome, using them to blast the walls of the villa until the damaged power cells ran
out. With an improvised battering ram, men rushed the main gate and struck it, bending
the heavy metal. Again and again they pounded, and the gate buckled. Overhead, from
brooding gray skies, oily rain began to come down again.
    Inside, armored household robots tried to reinforce the door barrier. Vor guessed
that most of these defenders had been reprogrammed from other duties, and did not
have the capacity to resist for long.
    The battering ram struck again, and the gap in the heavy doors opened wider. The
machines were losing ground.
    Though uncertain how to handle his new feelings toward machines, Vor didn't trust
the frenzied mob, either. They didn't really care about Serena, even if she had
unwittingly provided the spark that launched the revolt. If she remained here, she
would certainly become a target of retaliation from Omnius.
    As he stood in the rain looking on, Vorian Atreides had his own focus. He swore to
himself that he would rescue Serena. He would steal a ship and fly her far from here,
escaping the Synchronized Worlds.
    Yes, he would take her back to her beloved Salusa Secundus… even if it meant
delivering her into the arms of her lost love.
    We must bring new information into the balance and with it modify our behavior, k
is a human quality to survive by intelligence—as individuals and as a species.

   —NAIB ISHMAEL,

    A Zensunni Lament
    iting the most ancient of Poritrin laws, Lord Bludd de-'t't»_*,'creed the terrible
punishment for Bel Moulay's crimes. Most slaves would receive amnesty, since Poritrin
needed the labor pool, but the insurrection leader could not be forgiven.
    Ishmael pressed close to Alüd, the two captive boys sharing silent support and grief.
The young slaves from the canyon mosaic had been brought back to Starda and
confined where they would be forced to watch the execution. As punishment for the
damage to the mural, Niko Bludd would put them back to work with extended shifts. But
only after they witnessed the consequences of Bel Moulay's folly. All slaves were
required to be present.
    The boys crowded together, hungry and tired, their clothes dirty and their bodies
smelly because they had not bathed in days. The work overseers growled at them, "If
you behave like dogs, you will be treated like dogs. Once you start behaving like
humans, then perhaps we will reconsider."
    Alüd muttered defiantly under his breath.
    In the central plaza of Starda, Dragoon guards hauled Bel Moulay in chains toward a
high platform that had been erected for the spectacle. The crowd fell into an uneasy si
lence. Moulay's inky beard and hair had been shorn away, leaving pale spots on his
scalp and chin. But his eyes blazed with unshakable anger and confidence, as if he
refused to accept that his rebellion had failed. Holding him, the gold-armored guards
tore off the Zenshüte leader's robes. They let the rags fall away from the platform,
leaving Moulay completely naked, shaming him. The slaves grumbled, but their leader
stood firm and brave, amazingly unafraid.
    The voice of Lord Bludd echoed across the square. "Bel Moulay, you have committed
grievous crimes against all the citizens of Poritrin. It is within my rights to punish every
man, woman, and child who participated in this insurrection, but I am merciful. You
alone shall bear the penalty of your transgressions."
    The crowd moaned softly. Alüd slammed a fist into his palm. Bel Moulay said
nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.
    Niko Bludd tried to sound benevolent. "If you people learn from this, perhaps you
will eventually earn the right to a normal life of servitude again, to pay your debt to
humanity."
    Now the slaves howled. The Dragoon guards pressed closer, thumping their long-
bladed staffs against the ground. Ishmael sensed that in spite of the ugly mood, the
slaves had been beaten, for now at least. They had seen their leader publicly
humiliated, put in chains, shaved, and stripped naked. And, while he showed no sign of
being defeated, his followers no longer had the spark.
    Bludd said, "The old laws are violent, some might say barbarous. But since your
actions have been uncivilized and barbaric, they demand the same response."
    Bel Moulay was given no opportunity to speak on his own behalf. Instead, Dragoon
guards battered out his teeth with a hammer, then used long metal tongs to reach into
his mouth. Moulay struggled in defiance but not terror. With surgical precision, they cut
out his tongue and tossed the gory, sluglike mass into the crowd.
    Next, they used their diamond-bladed axes to chop off his hands and threw them
into the recoiling throng as well. Bel Moulay's bloody stumps sprayed scarlet rain into
the air. Next, using hot irons, the Dragoon guards burned out his eyes. Only at the very
end did he make any sounds of pain, though he somehow found the resolve to stifle
them.
    Blinded, the insurrection leader could not see what the gold-armored torturers were
doing until they had slipped the noose over his neck and strung him over a gibbet. He
struggled as the noose tightened around his windpipe, choking him slowly, never
breaking his neck. Even after his horrific injuries, he seemed ready to fight against the
guards, if they gave him the slightest chance.
    Ishmael vomited on the ground. Several boys dropped to their knees, sobbing. Alüd
clenched his teeth as if to suppress a thousand screams inside his throat.
    AFTER THE EXECUTION, Norma Cenva felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach. She
hardly spoke beside Tio Holtzman as the scientist looked grimly on, dressed in his finest
white suit.
    'Well, he brought it upon himself, didn't he?" the Savant said. "We never treated our
slaves badly. Why did Bel Moulay have to do this to us, to our war against the thinking
machines?" Holtzman drew in long, deep breaths, his nostrils flaring, and glanced down
at the diminutive woman. "Now perhaps we can get back to business. I suspect the
slaves will behave now."
    Norma just shook her head. "This repression is unwise." From a distance, she looked
at the still-twitching body dangling on the projecting arm of the gibbet. "Lord Bludd has
only succeeded in turning the man into a martyr. I fear we have not seen the end of
this."
    Machines possess something humans will always lack: infinite patience and the
longevity that supports it.
   —file from Corrin-Omnius update

   Even though Erasmus had dispatched his last functional sentinel robots to defend
the villa, he knew it was only a delaying action. The vigor and violence of the slave
revolt amazed him, exceeding any of his projections.
   Humans have an infinite capacity to surprise the most rational mind.
   The slaves in the squalid main pens had been freed by their hrethgir brethren,
flooding the ranks of the angry rebels. The revolt had spread through the capital city
and to other urban complexes across Earth. His villa was surrounded and would surely
fall before long.
   Experiments sometimes produce unexpected results.
    Donning his most ferocious countenance, designed to inspire nightmares in humans,
Erasmus stood on the high balcony from which he had thrown the child. His flowmetal
visage was as fierce and frightening as any of the gargoyles in the plaza, while his
mechanical mind scanned all available information, processing and reprocessing. Had it
been a mistake to kill the little boy? Who would have thought such a trivial death might
create a stir like this?
    I miscalculated their response.
    The crowd in the plaza cursed him and peppered the balcony with small arms fire,
which did no harm. More worrisome, they were surging against the heavy metal gate
with a battering ram, and the sentinel robots were having trouble preventing them from
breaking through. If the rebels got inside the villa, they would surely destroy Erasmus,
just as they had killed the Titan Ajax, as they had smashed innumerable robots and
neo-cymeks. Erasmus would be their prime target.
    In the midst of the throng, a sturdy charismatic man was inciting the rebels. The
leader waved his hands, spoke passionately, and seemed to have a hypnotic effect on
the mob. He shouted up at Erasmus, causing an uproar from the crowd.
    With a. pause to assess new data, the robot recognized the rebel leader as one of
the subjects of his loyalty experiment. Iblis Ginjo. Reassessments and connections
clamored in his mind.
    Iblis had been a crew boss, well treated, well rewarded, one of the content trustees.
Yet he had thrown his support to the revolt, perhaps even inspired it. Through a few
vague, experimental communiques, Erasmus had somehow galvanized this slave leader
into action. But he had not expected such a monumental, incomprehensible response.
    Either way, Erasmus had proved his point. Beside him on the balcony, one of the
evermind's glittering watcheyes hovered close to him. The robot did not try to contain
his smug realization. "Omnius, it is as I predicted—even the most trusted humans will
ultimately turn against you."

    'So you have won the wager," Omnius said. "That is most unfortunate."
    Erasmus scanned the flames rising in the distant city. If he could look upon the
situation objectively it would be a fascinating study in human nature. The psychology of
groups under stress was intriguing, though admittedly dangerous. "Indeed, most
unfortunate."
    At the front of the villa, the main gate burst open from the repeated pounding of the
battering ram. Iblis gestured to his fanatical followers, and the mob swept over his
remaining household robots like a tidal wave.
    It was time for Erasmus to depart.
    Knowing the value of his independent thoughts and conjectures, the robot did not
wish to be destroyed. He represented individuality, pride in personal achievement, the
possible existence of a soul. He wanted to continue his work, integrating the lessons he
had learned from this fascinating revolt.
    But for that, he had to escape.
    Moment by moment, the mob grew louder. He heard the rampant destruction in his
lovely home. He had just enough time to take a fast, armored lift platform down several
levels to a secure tunnel system that opened to the hills overlooking the sea.
    He hesitated, knowing he was leaving Serena Butler behind, but decided that he had
already kept the female around for too long. After he'd killed her baby, she had become
even less useful to him, unwilling to provide any additional raw data.
    The death of her child had turned her into a wild animal, not caring anymore for her
own life. She had attacked him repeatedly, despite his generous overtures to her. In the
end, although Erasmus had been tempted to kill her outright, he had not been able to
bring himself to do it. Most interesting. He had finally settled for drugging her into a
stupor. Now Serena was in one of his laboratories, sedated to the point of catatonia,
since Erasmus had found no other way of suppressing her efforts to fight him each time
she rose toward consciousness. Alas, he had no time to salvage her now.
    In a concealed cave high above the swirling whitecaps, Erasmus boarded a hover
capsule. Accompanied by one of Omnius's watcheyes, he lifted off into the early
evening, flying out to sea and circling back over the burning city.
    'You are being foolish, Erasmus," the voice of Omnius said from a bulkhead screen.
"You should have waited for the tide of battle to turn in favor of my thinking machines.
As it must, inevitably."
    'Perhaps, Omnius, but I have run my own risk assessment. I would rather return to
my estate on Corrin, to continue my experiments there. With your permission, of
course."
    'You will only cause more trouble," Omnius said. The hover capsule reached one of
the subsidiary spaceports that was still controlled by the thinking machines. "But now,
more than ever, it is imperative for us to understand our enemy."
    Erasmus searched the database for a small, available ship that could take him on the
long journey to Corrin. Through his work, he had already learned an important lesson:
Humans were predictable in only one aspect—in their very unpredictability.

   Life is a banquet of unexpected flavors. Sometimes you like the taste, sometimes
you don't.
   —IBLIS GINJO, Options for Total Liberation

    The slaves burst into the evil robot's villa, celebrating with an orgy of destruction.
Caught in the fire of their enthusiasm, Iblis led a small group on a fast sweep through
the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. They followed him, like a work crew of sorts,
though this particular job was much more satisfying.
    'For Serena!" he shouted, the words the rebels wanted to hear. They took up the
cry.
    Somewhere inside, he hoped to find the uncaring Erasmus, who had so blatantly
murdered a helpless child. He also wanted to locate the brave mother who had fought
against the thinking machines. If he could liberate Serena Butler, Iblis would make her
into a rallying point, the figurehead of a great movement against Omnius. She might be
somewhere here inside the great house—if she wasn't dead…

   As the rioters swept into the main building, Vorian Atrei-des pushed his way toward
the front, buffeted by the storm of humanity. The rebels trampled the ornamental
tapestries and knocked over prized statues. Vor ran with them.
   'Serena!" His voice was swallowed up in the tumult. While his companions ransacked
the trappings of wealth that
    Erasmus had acquired, Vor rushed directly to her beloved greenhouses. "Serena!
Serena!"
    He leaped over the metal forms of damaged household robots strewn across the
corridors. Ahead of him, the intruders pounded open the heavy alloy door of the
household equipment lockers and began grabbing tools that could be converted into
weapons. Vor pushed his way through and grabbed a long knife for himself—more
effective against humans than machines—then hurried back into the corridor and ran
until he reached the sealed laboratories. He dreaded that the diabolical robot might
have performed a last, malicious dissection on her…

     He left the rest of the mob spreading through the estate. Vor worked his way past
abandoned security stations, into the compounds that had held human test subjects.
Freed victims with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes staggered into the corridors.
     Vor reached a set of locked quarantine cells. He tried to open the heavy doors,
without success. Through small, round windows he saw people crowded inside, some
with their faces pressed against the plaz, others lying on the cold rock floors. He didn't
see Serena among them.
     Beneath a deactivated Omnius eye, he found the release mechanism and unsealed
the cells. As the desperate captives stumbled out, Vor pushed his way into their midst,
calling out for Serena. The prisoners clutched at Vor, blinking in confusion under the
bright lights. He could spare them no time, and went on to continue his search.
     At the back of the compound, in a sterile area that contained ominous surgical
equipment, he finally found Serena slumped on the dirty plazcrete floor with her eyes
closed, as if she had awakened from a drugged sleep and then crawled there. Her
white-and-gold dress was stained and torn, and she had bruises on her face and arms.
She lay as if dead—or like a person wanting to die.

    'Serena?" He touched her cheek. "Serena, it's Vorian Atreides."
    Groggily opening her eyes, she looked at him at first without recognition. He saw her
unfocused stare, suspected that she swam in the deep, uncharted waters of
tranquilizing drugs. Erasmus must have been trying to keep her under control. At last
she whispered, "I didn't expect to ever see you again."
    He helped Serena to her feet and supported her as she swayed on rubbery legs, still
sleepwalking. In the rear garden area the overturned basins were saturated with blood,
but Vor found a small fountain that remained undisturbed, surrounded by thick ferns.
He cupped cold, clean water in his hands, and she drank greedily, struggling to throw
off the fog of drugs. Then he soaked a torn cloth and used it to clean her face and
arms.
    She seemed to want nothing more than to slump to the floor, falling back into
blissful unconsciousness, but she fought it and clutched the wall angrily, holding herself
upright. "Why are you here?"
    'I came to take you back to Salusa Secundus."
    Her lovely eyes, which had been glazed by pain and dulled by Erasmus's crippling
drugs, now came alive. "You could do that?"
    He nodded, trying to strengthen her with his confidence, but wondering how to find
the Dream Voyager again. "Our window of opportunity won't be open for long."
    Serena's expression brightened with a flicker of strength and hope. "Salusa… my
Xavier…"
    He frowned at the name, but concentrated on the challenge at hand, "We have to
get away from here. The streets are dangerous, especially for us."
    Now that she had a purpose, Serena gathered energy through sheer force of will. As
he turned to guide her away from this place of terrible memories, they encountered Iblis
Ginjo. The crew boss stood flushed and grinning, just inside the doorway. "So there you
are! Blessed woman, the people have thrown off their shackles to avenge your
murdered child."
    Vor held her arm protectively, his expression darkening. "I need to take her from
this place." He was not accustomed to having even another trustee question his words,
but the rabble leader still blocked his way.
    Oddly, Iblis seemed more confident in his powers of persuasion than in any weapon.
"This woman is vital to the continuing revolution. Think of the pain she has suffered.
You and I are not enemies. We must band together to overthrow the—

    While Iblis's voice resonated as if he were delivering a speech, Vor swung up the
long knife he had taken, holding it up in a threat. "Once I may have been your enemy,
but no longer. I am Vorian Atreides."
    Iblis looked uncertain. "Atreides? The son of Agamemnon?"
    Vorian's face became stormy, but the blade in his hand did not waver. "That burden
I must bear. To redeem myself, I will make certain Serena is safe. Omnius will bring in
reinforcements soon, even if they come from other Synchronized Worlds. Don't let a few
days of giddy success blind you to what the thinking machines can do. Your revolt here
is doomed."
    In a flurry of words, Iblis explained what he had in mind, how he wanted Serena to
inspire an ever-widening revolt that would crush Omnius on Earth. "You can make our
movement much stronger. Serena Butler and the memory of her slain child will rally
others. Think of what you could accomplish!"
    At any other time, Serena might have felt the calling and given herself over to the
welfare of so many suffering people. It was part of her character, the core of her
personality. But the murder of innocent Manion had doused her flames of justice and
passion, killing not only her baby but a portion of her heart.
    'Your cause is righteous, Iblis," Serena said, "but I'm drained by all the horrors I
have endured. Vorian is taking me back to Salusa. I must see my father… and tell Xavier
what has happened to his son."
    Iblis's gaze locked with hers as if they were connected by an electronic beam. He did
not want to alienate her, not if she was to be of any use to him. His thoughts spun,
looking for traction. For months he had been building a secret organization of rebels,
but now he sensed that it could never attain its full potential without this remarkable
young woman and all she represented. He could never achieve the necessary religious
fervor.
   Iblis's dark eyes flashed, seizing upon the changed situation. "A League world? Tell
me, Atreides, how can you ever escape Earth?"
   'I believe I have a way—my ship, the Dream Voyager. But I cannot delay."

    Iblis made up his mind in an instant. He knew that this struggle could build and
build, sweeping across Earth and beyond. But maybe it was best managed from a
different locale. He could watch it spread from world to world. "We go together, then. I
shall speak to the League, convincing the nobles to send reinforcements here. They
must aid our cause!"
    In adjacent rooms they heard destructive noises, shattering plaz, violent shouts. "I
can escort you to safety through my followers. They won't hinder us." Iblis sounded
very reasonable, utterly convincing. "You will not escape the compound unless I help
you."
    °
    Vor looked at him with hard gray eyes, longing to take Serena away—and wanting
nothing to do with this firebrand. She rested her hand on his arm, seeming much
stronger now. "Please, just let us go. I want to leave Earth and this nightmare."

    Two of Iblis's men emerged from a corridor, followed by three more. They looked at
him, awaiting orders. The rebel leader needed to leave someone behind who could keep
fanning the flames on Earth while he tried to rally the rest of the free humans. Someone
he trusted.
    He thought of the burly secondary to Eklo, and the Cogitor's network of contacts and
information. "Bring Aquim to me. Immediately."
    AS HE STOOD on the plaza in front of the ruined villa, facing Iblis and pondering the
other man's request, Aquim was torn between his genetic heritage as a human and the
obligations he had sworn to the Cogitors.
    'You are no longer neutral," Iblis said. "And neither is Eklo. You must help us see it
through to the end. I need someone I can trust to keep the revolt burning here, while I
go to the League and rally more support."
    Aquim looked overwhelmed. "That could take months."
    'That is as fast as a ship can carry us." He warmly clasped the burly monk on both
shoulders. "My friend, you once told me that you led a squad of men against the
machines, and that you had some successes. Remember what your Cogitor told me:
Nothing is impossible."
    The monk paused, rallying his courage. "There is a big difference between leading a
squad and leading thousands of people."
    'In the days before you took a liking to semuta you would not have made the
distinction."
    'The semuta does not dull me! It sharpens me!"
    Iblis smiled. "I am good at picking people, and I recognize your talents. There are
other men I could select, but none that I trust as much as you. In addition to your
experience in battle, you have great wisdom, from your association with the Cogitor.
You are the man for the job, Aquim."
   The big man nodded slowly, as acceptance seeped in. "Yes, Eklo would want me to
do this."
   BEFORE DEPARTING, IBLIS took Serena to where he had hidden and protected the
body of her slain son. He had placed the broken form of little Manion in one of
Erasmus's outbuildings even as the revolt spread.
   Now, Serena stood like the statue of an angry goddess, cold and strong, as she
reached forward and touched the transparent polymer covering that protected the
waxy, cherubic face. A tough film engulfed the child—just as the consequences of this
helpless innocent's murder would engulf the thinking machines.

    'You… you preserved him?"
    'It's a sealant bag used for processing slaves who die on the job." Iblis pleaded with
her to understand what he had done. "Others must know what happened here, Serena.
They will remember your son and all he stood for. We shall build a magnificent
memorial for him, preserving him in a plaz case for all free humans to see." He looked
at Vorian Atreides. "One must never underestimate the value of a symbol."
    'A shrine? Aren't you getting ahead of yourself, Iblis?" Vor said, wrestling with his
impatience. "The revolt is not yet won."
    Serena picked up the boy; he was very light. "If we are going back to Salusa
Secundus, I must take him with me. His father… deserves to see him at least once."
    Before Vor could object, Iblis spoke up. "Everyone must see! This can help us rally
the League. You must convince them to offer assistance to the slaves on Earth, before it
is too late. If we don't, there will be many more victims."
    Seeing how much it meant to Serena, Vor squared his shoulders and did not object.
"If we don't go quickly, it will be too late for all of us."
    Still holding Manion's preserved form, Serena straightened. "I'm ready now. Let's go
find the Dream Voyager."
   There is an infinite variety of machine and biological relationships.
   —Omnius databank entry

    Vor, Serena, and the unwelcome Iblis found and commandeered a passenger shuttle
at a landing port on Erasmus's estate. They carried no supplies or possessions with
them, except for the preserved body of little Manion. As the rebellious slaves continued
to ransack the villa, Vor and his companions flew away from the hubbub. They saw no
rallying robot sentries or marauding neo-cymeks. And no Titans at all. None showed
themselves.
    The small craft skimmed smoothly overland, keeping to the fringe of the city grid
and away from the worst of the disturbance. In the days of the Old Empire, this hillside
had been an exclusive neighborhood of terraced homes and gardens. The residences
had been abandoned after the thinking machine conquest, falling into ruin. Only durable
stone and alloy frameworks remained.
    Agamemnon's memoirs had scorned the mundane lives of people in the Old Empire,
but now Vorian needed to question everything. Sadness crept over him, and a renewed
feeling of shame. Thanks to Serena, he noticed things for the first time, experiencing
disturbing thoughts. It was as if a new universe had opened up for him, and he was
leaving the old one behind.
    How had the machines concealed so much from him? Or had Vor done it to himself,
blinded to the obvious? Extensive historical records had always been available on the
Dream Voyager, but he had never bothered to look. He had taken his father's accounts
at face value.
    When he told Serena what he had discovered, a bitter smile curled the edges of her
mouth. "Maybe there's hope for you after all, Vorian Atreides. You have a lot of catching
up to do—as a human being."

     The white buildings of the spaceport came into view, machine military bunkers,
sensors, and heavy guns. Vor transmitted the familiar access codes he had always used
on the Dream Voyager, and the robot sentries allowed the passage of the small, fast
vessel.
     As rapidly as possible, Vor brought the shuttle into a drydock hangar and shut down
all systems. Just ahead, amid cargo wharves, gantries, and refueling cisterns, a variety
of spaceships were berthed. Machine crews worked the long-distance craft, preparing
them for departure.
     The silver-and-black Dream Voyager was among them, as Vor had hoped.
     'Hurry," he said, taking Serena by the hand. Iblis ran close behind, wielding another
large pistol he had retrieved—little enough protection if the robot soldiers decided to
mount an attack.

    Vor keytouched the access code on a panel and slipped through the Dream
Voyager's entry hatch. "Wait for me. If this works, I'll be back before long." He needed
to take care of Seurat himself.
    Inside, Vor heard the noise of maintenance drones installing a backup fuel cell.
When he reached the command bridge, he didn't bother to hide his footsteps. Seurat
would detect him anyway.
    'Did you damage your ship, Old Metalmind?" Vor asked. "Couldn't fly without me?"
    'Rebels fired at my vessel when I delivered combat robots for tactical redeployment.
One engine suffered minimal harm. Superficial damage to our hull."
    The robot captain moved his resilient, fibrous body to adjust parameters on open
systems. His optic threads focused on a viewer that enabled him to monitor the last-
minute work belowdecks.
    Finally he said, "I can use your assistance, Vorian Atreides. One of the drones
appears to be malfunctioning. All the good ones are doing emergency repairs on combat
robots."
    Vor knew he must move quickly. "Let me take a look."
    'I notice you have changed your wardrobe," Seurat said. "With rebellious slaves
running through the streets, was your Omnius uniform no longer the height of fashion?"
    Vor couldn't help but chuckle, despite the tension. "Humans are better at fashion
than machines." He stepped close to his mechanical friend, and his gaze fixed on the
tiny access shunt on a protected underpanel of the robot's body. Although it was
covered with flowmetal and protected by interlinked fibers, Vor knew it would be simple
enough to jam the energy driver access, short-circuit the power converter, and
effectively stun the robot captain.
     He fumbled in one of his pockets, as if looking for something, and brought out a
utility tool. "I'll run a diagnostic on that maintenance drone." Feigning clumsiness, he
fumbled, bent over—and with a quick upward movement, jammed the tool into the
access shunt on the side of Seurat's body. A pulse from the probe blew out the robot's
energy driver.

    The mechanical captain jerked, then stopped altogether. Though he knew that he
hadn't damaged Seurat irreparably, Vor felt a jolt of personal guilt and pain. "Sorry
about that, old Metalmind." He heard noises behind him and, whirling, saw Iblis and
Serena step onto the bridge. "I told you to wait for me."
    Iblis strode forward, his confidence restored, as if he were in command again.
"Finish the job. Destroy the thinking machine." He approached the motionless captain,
hefting a heavy tool.
    'No." Angrily, Vor interposed himself between the crew boss and the prone robot. "I
said no. Not Seurat. If you want me to fly us out of here, help me get him off the ship.
He won't cause any more trouble for anyone."
    'Stop wasting time, both of you," Serena said.
    Reluctantly, Iblis assisted Vor in hauling the bulky robot to a side hatch, which
opened onto an unoccupied dock beside a fuel-pellet dispenser. They left the captain
alone among debris and equipment.
    Vor stared for a moment at his own reflection in the familiar mirrored face,
remembering some of the stupid jokes his friend had told and the innovative military
games they had played together. Seurat had never harmed him in any way.
    But Vorian Atreides, reborn, would rather be with Serena Butler among the free
humans, no matter what he was forced to leave behind.
    'Someday I will return," he whispered, "but I cannot know the circumstances, old
Metalmind."
    AS VOR PILOTED the update ship away from Earth, Iblis gazed out a porthole at the
planet, watching it grow smaller with distance. He considered the worldwide revolt he
had sparked, hoped Aquim would do well, and that the rebellion would succeed. Maybe
with the wisdom of the Cogitor Eklo, the monk could bring order to the madness and
make an effective stand against Omnius.
    But Iblis didn't think so. The machines were too powerful, the Synchronized Worlds
too numerous. Despite all of his work, he suspected this initial revolt was doomed to
failure, unless he could get the League of Nobles to help immediately.
    Humans were foolish to build their own competitors with an intelligence equivalent
to their own. But they couldn't help themselves.
    —BARBAROSSA, Anatomy of a Rebellion

    Flames curled up from the glorious, empty buildings—an affront to the golden age of
the Titans. Human riffraff, delirious with their mad liberation, ran screaming through the
streets, throwing broken rocks and makeshift explosives.
     Agamemnon seethed at the horrendous damage the rebels had already inflicted
upon the monuments and magnificent plazas. The rebels had even killed Ajax, though
the callous Titan had probably invited retribution upon himself. Yet another serious loss,
like Barbarossa.
     Vermin! The barbarians didn't understand freedom or free will; they had no sense of
civilization or restraint, and deserved to be nothing more than slaves. Even that might
be too much of a kindness.
     The cymek general strode through the streets in his hulking warrior-form. He
scattered humans, flung them into the air, splattered them against walls. Some of the
bravest hurled sharp objects at him, which bounced off of his armored body.
Unfortunately, he couldn't spare the time to squash them all.
     Instead, Agamemnon made his way toward the nearby spaceport, hoping to find his
son among all this chaos. If the violent rebels had harmed Vorian—the best of the
general's thirteen sons so far—then he would cause some real mayhem. He had
checked records, learned that the Dream Voyager had docked at the spaceport and that
Vor's access codes had been used, but the reports were confusing.

    The Titan still couldn't comprehend the scale of the conflagration around him. For
centuries, the rule of thinking machines had gone unchallenged. How could the docile
humans have become so explosive? No matter. He would let Omnius and his robot
guards take care of the unpleasantness.
    For now, Agamemnon would find his own son. He had his priorities. He hoped Vor
hadn't made a mess of things.
    When the cymek rushed across the spaceport, he saw three cargo ships ablaze, their
fuel cells and drive compartments blown up by saboteurs. Fire-suppressant machinery
attempted to extinguish the flames before more damage could be done.
    The furious Titan stalked across the fused pavement, searching for the drydock that
had held the repaired Dream Voyager. He was dismayed to find the update ship gone,
the landing grid still glowing in the infrared from exhaust flames. Using thermal
thoughtrode sensors, he saw the dissipating contrail where the vessel had torn a path
through the atmo' sphere.
    With mounting frustration and surprise, he found the deactivated Seu-rat on a dock
outside the cordoned-off danger radius around the blast jets. The robot lay immobile, a
supine statue of metallic polymers and neure-lectric circuitry. The rebels had attacked
Seurat, shut him down… but had not destroyed him.
    Impatient, concerned about Vorian, Agamemnon rebooted the robotic systems with
a flurry of his manipulator arms. When Seurat snapped back to consciousness, he
scanned the spaceport with his array of optic threads, orienting himself.
    'Where is the Dream Voyager7." Agamemnon demanded. "Where is my son? Is he
alive?"
    'In his typical impetuous fashion, your son surprised me. He deactivated me." Seurat
scanned the launch zone and instantly drew conclusions. "Vorian must have taken the
ship. He knows how to fly it."
    'Is he a coward? My son?"
    'No, Agamemnon. I believe he has joined the rebels and is escaping with other
humans." He saw the cymek shuddering with angry betrayal. "It is a very poor joke,"
Seurat added.
    Infuriated, Agamemnon swiveled the axis of his body core and marched away. An
empty warship lay docked nearby, loaded with weaponry and perfect for pursuit.
Already, wild humans were racing toward the craft, eager to commandeer it for
themselves—as if any of the ignorant hrethgir could fly such a sophisticated vessel.

    Raising his cannon arms, the cymek let loose with integral flamers, igniting the
human criminals into flailing candles of burning flesh. Moments later he trod past the
blackened corpses and linked up to the automated ship. At Agamemnon's transmitted
command, the warship's grappling arms extended forward, swiveling outward to
disengage his preservation canister and jettison the warrior-form. The ship's systems
raised the cymek's canister and installed Agamemnon's brain within the control nest.
    The sleek craft was fast, its weapons loaded and ready for battle. Vorian might have
a headstart, but the Dream Voyager was a slower vessel, designed for long hauls.
Agamemnon should be able to close the distance.
    Inside his warm electrafluid, his brain adjusted to the ship's sensors, linking the
thoughtrodes until he felt the spacecraft become his new body. Springing into the air on
imaginary legs, Agamemnon launched away from the spaceport.
    Hyperaccelerating, he gained on his quarry.
    VOR ATREIDES KNEW the tactics of space combat and evasive maneuvers, for
Seurat had allowed him to take the update ship's controls many times. But as he left the
boiling rebellion on Earth, he flew the Dream Voyager all alone for the first time, leaving
Seurat, his long-time companion, behind.
    He departed from Earth on a straight-line vector that would take them out of the
solar system. He hoped that the update ship's supplies and life-support systems would
be sufficient to keep him and his passengers alive for the month it would take to reach
Salusa Secundus. During the frantic escape, he had never thought to consider how
many humans the Dream Voyager could sustain, but now he had no choice.
    Nervously, Iblis Ginjo peered through the ports, studying the vastness of space. He
had never seen such sights before. He gaped at the pockmarked immensity of the Moon
as they shot past it and continued outward.
    'When we get close enough to Salusa," Serena said confidently, strapped into her
own seat, "the League of Nobles will protect us. Xavier will come for me. He… he always
has before."
    The Dream Voyager crossed the orbit of Mars, then threaded a gap in the asteroid
belt. Vor continued to build speed as they headed directly toward Jupiter's huge gravity
well. He would use the gas giant's gravity to adjust their course, picking up angular
momentum in an outbound slingshot.
    In the rear sensors, Vor saw a lone warship hurtling toward them at a velocity so
high that the readings were blueshifted, giving an altered indication of its position. No
human could survive such acceleration.
    'This is not going to be easy," Vor said.
    Serena looked at him in astonishment. "No part of this has been easy so far."
    Vor kept an eye on the approaching warship. He knew the capabilities of the Dream
Voyager. Months ago, when he'd used extreme tactical maneuvers to elude the League
Armada at Giedi Prime, Vor had never dreamed he might need his skills to flee the
thinking machines who had raised him, trained him… and deceived him.
    In a direct firefight the update ship could not outgun even a small interceptor. The
Dream Voyager's hull armor might hold for a while, but Vor could not dodge and
outmaneuver the oncoming warcraft for long.
    Jupiter loomed ahead of them, a diffuse sphere of pastel colors, with swirling clouds
and storms large enough to swallow Earth whole. After analyzing the sensor summary,
Vor knew the capabilities of the pursuing warship. Even with no significant weapons, the
Dream Voyager had far more fuel, engines, and thicker armor—along with Vor's wits. He
might be able to use the advantages he possessed.

     The oncoming interceptor loosed four projectile volleys, only one of which struck the
update ship's hull, exploding underneath the ship. Shockwaves reverberated through the
Dream Voyager as if it were an immense gong. Still, the instruments reported no
significant damage.
     'We have to get away." Iblis was panicked. "He's trying to cripple us.
     'That's optimistic," Vorian said. "I thought he wanted to destroy us." "Just let him
fly," Serena said to the nervous rebel leader. A communication burst arrived, and
speakers inside the Dream Voyager resonated with a familiar synthesized voice that
made Vor turn cold inside. "Vorian Atreides, you have broken your vow of loyalty. You
are a traitor, not only to Omnius, but to me. I no longer consider you my son.
     Vor swallowed hard before responding. "You taught me to use my mind, Father, to
make my own decisions and exercise my talents. I learned the truth, you know. I
discovered what really happened during the Time of Titans, and it bears little
resemblance to the fairy-tales in your memoirs! You lied to me all along."
     In response, Agamemnon launched more projectiles, but they went wild. Vor fired
his own scattering defensive rounds. They exploded in a disruptive barrier that forced
the machine interceptor to swerve in its oncoming course. Vor did not waste time or
engine power attempting to outmaneuver the sleek warship.
     Instead, he adjusted his course so the Dream Voyager skirted closer to Jupiter's
gravitational pull. He pushed the engines to their maximums, not worrying about stress
or damage. If he couldn't escape now, excessive caution would make no difference.
     The gas giant reached out to them, beckoning with a siren song of physics.
Agamemnon launched another volley of explosive shells, one of which detonated very
close to the Dream Voyager's engines.
     Vor felt calm and confident, his mind attuned to what he was doing. Seated near
him, Iblis was grayish and drenched with sweat. The rebellious work leader was
probably wondering whether he might have had a better chance of survival if he had
remained on Earth.
     'He needs only to damage us," Vor said, assessing the situation coolly. "If he
manages to knock our engines offline for even a few minutes, we'll be unable to escape
this hyperbolic orbit. Agamemnon can then drop back and watch us plunge slowly into
Jupiter's atmosphere and burn up. He'd enjoy that."
    Serena clenched the arms of her seat. As if the answer was obvious, she said to Vor,
"Then don't let him damage our engines."
    While the cymek general continued to fire harassing shots at them, Vor ran through
a new set of calculations. Using the Dream Voyager's workhorse computer subsystems,
he quickly reprogrammed the navigational plotters. The update ship roared ahead, an
ungraceful projectile that accelerated even as it grazed Jupiter's tenuous atmosphere, a
hostage to orbital mechanics.
    'Aren't you going to do anything?" Iblis demanded.
    'The laws of physics are doing it for us. If Agamemnon bothers to perform the
calculations, he'll see for himself what he must do. The Dream Voyager has enough fuel
and velocity to slingshot around Jupiter and escape the gravitational pull. In that smaller
interceptor, however, unless my father breaks off his pursuit in"—he glanced down at
the panel—"fifty-four seconds, he will be unable to escape the pull. He'll spiral down and
burn up inside Jupiter."

     The interceptor kept coming, firing its weapons and not doing the damage its pilot
wanted.
     'Does he know that?" Serena asked.
     'My father will know." Vor double-checked the navigational plotter. "As it is now… he
barely has enough fuel to return to Earth. If he waits even ten seconds more, I doubt
he'll survive the landing back home."
     Iblis flared his nostrils. "That would be even more pointless than letting himself get
swallowed up in Jupiter's clouds."
     Behind them, the pursuing craft suddenly broke off, burning its engines to pull away
from the gas giant in a sharp curve. The Dream Voyager plunged onward, scraping the
upswelling clouds until its lower hull burned red with friction. Moments later, Vor hauled
them out on the far side of the planet and accelerated away, breaking free of the elastic
threads of gravity and vaulting into interstellar space.
     Tuning his long-distance sensors, Vor verified that the interceptor had succeeded in
pulling away from Jupiter's hold. He watched their pursuer turn back toward Earth on a
course that salvaged momentum and conserved fuel.
     Then Vor struck off toward the precarious sanctuary of the League Worlds.
     NOW THAT HE had lost the contest, and knowing that Vorian would certainly assist
the feral humans in their continued resistance, the furious Agamemnon brooded. With
little fuel for acceleration, it would be a long and frustratingly tedious journey back to
Earth.
     Upon arriving, though, he would salve his humiliation by taking it out on the rest of
the unruly slaves. They would regret the day they had ever listened to foolish words of
rebellion.
     Aristotie raped reason. He implanted in the dominant schools of philosophy the
attractive belief that there can be discrete separation between mind and body. This led
quite naturally to corollary delusions such as the one that power can be understood
without applying it, or that joy is totally removable from unhappiness, that peace can
exist in the total absence of war, or that life can be understood without death.
    —ERASMUS, Corrin Notes ine centuries ago, after evolving into a supreme
distributed intelligence, the computer evermind had established efficient control over all
cymeks, robots, and humans on the Synchronized Worlds. Omnius had continued to
evolve and expand his influence, creating more and more elaborate networks for
himself.

    Now, as the surprising unrest spread across the cities of Earth, Omnius observed
everything from his legion of transmitting eyes. Watching the frenzied rebels burn
buildings and smash facilities, the evermind discovered that he had a troubling blind
spot.
    Even the most loyal humans could never be trusted. Erasmus had been correct in his
assertions all along. And now the maddening robot had fled Earth, abandoning his
ransacked villa just ahead of the mobs.
    Omnius issued billions of commands, monitoring and instructing his machine forces,
rallying them into concentrated attacks on the rampant hrethgir. Already, hundreds of
thousands of slaves had been butchered. When his robots finally crushed this rebellion,
the sheer cleanup would be a major effort.
    In the heat of their wild vandalism, the rioters had di rected their most extreme
hatred against the cymeks. Machines with human minds were, in Omnius's assessment,
problematic and the weakest link in the Synchronized Worlds. Still, the aggressive
human brains were useful in circumstances that required extreme cruelty and violence
on a level that sentient machines could not attain. A time such as now.
    Omnius transmitted urgent commands to all remaining Titans in the vicinity of
Earth—to Juno, Dante, and Xerxes, as well as Agamemnon, who was en route back
from a fruitless pursuit of his son Vorian. In order to quell this uprising, they were to
take whatever action they felt necessary.

    Judging from past experience, the Titans should enjoy that assignment.
    IN A ROCKY desert on a continent far from the initial revolt, Juno was in the midst of
a demonstration of torture-interrogation techniques on live human subjects. Xerxes and
Dante carefully monitored the progress, but did not participate directly.
    While a crowd of neo-cymeks studied each move, the female Titan stood in her
intricate mechanical body in the pit of a teaching arena. Within reach of Juno's graceful
metal arms, a thin young man and a middle-aged woman lay strapped to tables,
writhing.
    Suddenly, Omnius's message pulse struck their receiver systems with such force that
Juno's delicate surgical hand jerked, thrusting the needle deep into the brain tissue. The
young man fell silent, either dead or comatose. Juno did not take time to find out which.
Omnius's demand required her complete attention.
    'We must depart immediately," she announced.
    With a quick movement, Xerxes stabbed a handful of needles into the chest of the
human woman. By the time she had ceased twitching, the neo-cymeks had already
thundered out of the demonstration pit.
    With swift and efficient movements, the three Titans exchanged their delicate
torturer bodies for their most magnificent warrior-forms and launched toward the heart
of the revolt…
    They flew through a sky filled with the black smoke of fires, and set down in a wide
square strewn with debris and crowded with shouting rebels. While the crowd tried to
scatter, Juno crushed eleven victims beneath the hot hull.
    'A fine beginning," Dante said.
    When the trio of Titans emerged, followed by a retinue of smaller neo-cymeks, the
rebels hurled stones at them. Juno surged forward with remarkable speed and tore their
bodies apart. Xerxes and Dante separated to attack other clusters of resistance. Swarms
of rebels tried to surround the cymeks, but the hybrid machines swatted them aside.
    None of the slaves' weapons, not even the combined mass of their bodies, slowed
the determined mechanical monsters. The streets ran red, and the air rang with
screams. Juno's olfactory sensors drew in the rich odor of blood, causing her to increase
her personal settings for maximum sensory input.
    Xerxes lunged into the fray as if he still felt he had something to prove.
    Gradually, as the humans realized the futility of their efforts, their new leader Aquim
called them back. Rebels retreated into hiding places, and the streets emptied before
the cymeks could march through.
    Before the day was finished, Agamemnon returned from space, just in time to
participate in the frolic…
    Monitoring the events through swarms of watcheyes, Omnius felt confident that he
could snuff the unrest, as long as he used sufficient force. In this regard, the Titans had
been correct all along.
    Trust and violence. Such a curious, intriguing relationship between them. One day
he would discuss his findings with Erasmus.
    With new lessons filling his evermind, the Earth-Omnius finally had just cause to
exterminate humans from his Synchronized Worlds. He would make the fragile creatures
extinct, once and for all.
    According to his projections, the task should not take long.
   If life is but a dream, then do we only imagine the truth? No! By following our
dreams we make our own truths!
   —The Legend of Selim Wormrider

    The air and sand smelled of spice, his body smelled of spice… the world was spice!
    Selim could barely breathe or move as the swell of melange filled his pores, his
nostrils, his eyes. He clawed his way up the rusty sand, every motion like swimming
through glass. He gulped a deep breath, hoping for fresh air, but instead inhaled only
more choking, cinnamon-tinted air. He was drowning in it.
    The desert treated its melange as a secret, only rarely shouting it forth in spice
blows, scattering the reddish brown powder out onto the dunes. Spice was life. The
worms reeked of the stuff.
    The young man could move only sluggishly, as if he were suffocating in visions. At
the bottom of the trough, he came to a halt, coughing, but the dream images continued
to roar through him like the strongest storm wind…
    The sand worm was long gone, snaking off through the dunes and leaving Selim
where he had fallen. That old man of the desert could have eaten its lost rider, but had
not heeded him. It was no accident. Buddallah had brought Selim here, and he hoped to
finally find his purpose.
    He had ridden the giant worm for hours, guiding it aimlessly through the night and
choosing no particular destination. He had grown preoccupied, comfortable… foolish.
    Unexpectedly, the sandworm had come upon the site of a fresh spice blow.
Mysterious chemical reactions and building pressures deep beneath the dunes had
reached a critical point, churning and fermenting the melange until the cap layers could
no longer contain the pressure. The spice had exploded upward, a pillar of sand and
gases and fresh, potent melange.
    In the darkness, Selim had not seen the plume, had not been prepared…
    Encountering the scene, the sandworm had gone into an uncontrolled frenzy.
Apparently maddened by the presence of so much melange, the creature had thrashed
and bucked.
    Taken by surprise, Selim had clutched his spreaders and ropes. The worm slammed
into the ground, pounding the dunes as if the stained sand itself was its enemy. The
seizure knocked loose the rider's metal spear, dislodging the wedge that kept the
segments pried apart.
    Selim had tumbled away, too stunned even to cry out. He saw the crusty-skinned
beast roll beneath him, churning up the spice-laden sands, and then he struck the soft
moist ground, rolling to absorb the impact.
    Freed at last, the worm dove under the sand, burrowing deep, as if searching for the
source of the melange. Selim flailed in the flowing dust and dirt, trying to keep on the
surface of the churning dune. The sand-worm charged onward like a projectile fired
deep into the ground. A spume of sand and spice erupted in its wake, covering
everything in sight with a thick layer of rusty grit.
    Selim came up gasping. The cloying smell made him dizzy, and he spat out
cinnamon sweetness. His face and clothes were covered with sticky spice. He smeared
his eyes clear, but only drove the stinging powder deeper.
    He finally stood on swaying feet, checking his arm, shoulder, ribs, making certain
that no bones had been broken. He seemed miraculously unscathed—another miracle
for him.

    And another cryptic lesson Buddallah wanted to teach him.
    Under the moonlight, all the soft and creamy dunes looked stained with blood, spice
thrown in all directions as if by the antics of a capering demon. He had never seen so
much in his life.
    Lost out here in the open, far from his sanctuary station, Selim began to trudge
through the sands. He searched the smooth ground until he found his fallen equipment,
a metal spear and a spreader half buried in the sand. If another worm came, he must
be ready to mount it.
    As he walked, the spice seemed to penetrate him with every step and breath. His
eyes had already turned the dark blue of addiction-he had seen it in the reflecting
panels back in the botanical research station—but now the melange engulfed him. His
head began to swim.

    Selim finally reached the top of the dune but didn't even realize it until he had
slipped over the crest and tumbled down the loose sand, rolling, scouring the clinging
melange from his clothes, his skin. The world around him shifted, opened… and
revealed its wondrous mysteries. "What is this?" he said aloud, the words echoing in his
head.
    The dunes shifted like whitecaps on a forgotten sea, swelling, rising, crashing into
powder. Worms swam through the parched ocean, enormous denizens like giant
predatory fish. Veins of spice flowed with the lifeblood of the desert, hidden beneath the
surface, enriching the strata, tended by a complex ecosystem—sandplankton, gelatinous
sandtrout… and of course the worms, known collectively as Shai-Hulud. The name
thrummed within his skull, and it felt right. Not Shaitan, but Shai-Hulud. Not the term
for a creature, not a description, but the name of a being. A god. A manifestation of
Buddallah.

   Shai-Hulud!
    Then in his vision he saw the spice draining away, vanishing, stolen by parasites that
looked like… like the starships he had seen in the Arrakis City Spaceport. Workers—
offworlders and even Zensunni—scoured the dunes, stealing the melange, taking the
treasure of Shai-Hulud and leaving him to suffocate in a dry and lifeless sea. Heavily
laden ships departed, stealing the last grains of spice, leaving the people there with
their hands outstretched, beseechingly. Soon, immense desert storms swept across the
land, stirring up sand and raining it from the sky, like an overwhelming flood inundating
the people and the sand-worm carcasses. Nothing lived anywhere on the planet. Arrakis
became nothing more than a bowl of sand, unstirred and sterile.

    Without worms, without people… without melange…
    Selim found himself sitting cross-legged atop a dune under the baking sun of
midday. His skin was red and raw, burned from exposure. His lips were cracked. How
long had he been there? He felt a terrible suspicion that it had been more than a day.
    He struggled to his feet. His arms and legs were as stiff as rusty hinges. Spice
powder still clung to his clothes and face, but it no longer seemed to affect him. He had
seen too much in his vision, and the nightmarish possibilities had burned most of the
melange from his system.
    Selim swayed, but kept his balance. The wind whispered around him, stirring
feathers of dust from the dune crests. Empty and silent… but not dead. Unlike his
vision.
    Melange held the key to Arrakis, to the sandworms, to life itself. Even the Zensunni
did not know all the interconnected webs, but Bud-dallah had revealed the secret to
Selim. Was this his destiny?
    He had seen offworlders taking the spice, carrying it far from Arrakis, bleeding the
desert world dry. Perhaps he had seen a true vision of the future, or only a warning.
Naib Dhartha had driven him out into the sands to die, but Buddallah had saved him for
a reason… for this?
    To protect the desert and the worms? To serve Shai-Hulud? To find the offworlders
who would steal the melange from Arrakis?
    He had no choice, now that God had touched him. He must find those people—and
stop them.

    There is no place in all the universe as inviting as home and the comfortable
relationships there.
   —SERENA BUTLER

   j't't'sthe Dream Voyager approached the Gamma Waiping JL ILstar system and
Salusa Secundus, Serena Butler swelled with eagerness and relief to be back home,
oscillating between her deep desire to see Xavier Harkonnen again and her dread of
what she must tell him.
    Startling her, a small maintenance drone moved out of its alcove on a
preprogrammed check-path, scuttling under control panels and oblivious to the new
masters of the Dream Voyager. Serena saw the little robot and suddenly focused her
anger. Snatching up the small machine by a leg, she hurled it against the metal deck.
    The red drone squirmed, automatically trying to avoid further damage, but Serena
smashed it until its casing broke open, oozing gelcircuitry fluid like blood onto the floor.
With a final twitch, its components fell still.
    'If only destroying all thinking machines could be that simple," she said grimly,
imagining Erasmus lying there destroyed instead of the hapless maintenance drone.
    'It will be simple enough, if we can mobilize the willpower of the human race," said
Iblis Ginjo.
    Though Iblis had tried to console her during the long flight, Serena actually found
herself confiding more in Vorian. She'd had several weeks now to work through her
shock and grief, and her con' versations with the sympathetic young man had in some
measure helped. Vor was a good listener. Iblis asked many questions about the nobles,
the League Worlds, the politics, while Vor paid more attention to the people Serena
wanted to talk about: her son, her parents, her sister Octa, and especially Xavier.
    When Serena spoke of Xavier Harkonnen, Vor realized with a start that Xavier had
been the League military officer who had stood against the Dream Voyager when he
and Seurat tried to exchange the Omnius update on Giedi Prime. "I… look forward to
meeting him," Vor said in a voice that held no enthusiasm at all.
    Serena had told them about her impetuous and ill-advised plan to restore the shield-
transmitting towers on Giedi Prime, when League politics had caused excuses and
delays.
    'At least thinking machines don't have such bureaucracy," Iblis said. "You risked a
great deal, knowing how cumbersome and conservative your government must be."
    Serena smiled wistfully, showing a hint of her lost strength. "I knew Xavier would
come. He would find a way."
    Though Vor found it painful, he listened while she talked about how much she still
loved Xavier, describing the betrothal celebration at the Butler estate, the bristleback
hunt, her humanitarian work in the League. She told stories about Xavier's military
prowess, his work shoring up the defenses of other human worlds, and his desperate
action during the cymek attack on Zimia that had saved Salusa Secundus.
    Uncomfortable, Vor remembered the completely different versions of such stories he
had heard from his father. Agamemnon did not recall the defeat in the same terms…
but now Vor knew that the cymek general was prone to lying, or at least to wild
exaggeration. He could no longer believe anything his father said.
    'Still," Serena said, hanging her head, "I allowed myself to be captured and my crew
to be killed by Barbarossa. I am entirely to blame for placing myself in danger at Giedi
Prime, not even knowing that I carried Xavier's child. And I shouldn't have taunted
Erasmus, pushed him." She shuddered. "I underestimated his capacity for cruelty. How
can Xavier ever forgive me? Our son is dead."
    Iblis tried to comfort her. "Vorian Atreides and I will tell the League of Nobles how
the machines treat their slaves. No one will ever blame you."
    'I blame myself," she said. "There's no way around it."
    Vor longed to help her, but was not sure what to say or do. When he touched her
arm gently, she turned away. Vor could not help it that he wasn't the man she wanted
beside her right now.
    He envied this mysterious Xavier Harkonnen and wanted to earn his own place in
Serena's heart. He had abandoned his father, turned from everything he had known in
the Synchronized Worlds, betrayed the Titans and Omnius. Even so, he had no right to
ask for any emotional payment in return.
    'If your Xavier is the man you believe he is, then surely he will welcome you back
home with compassion and forgiveness?"
    Seeing Vor's expression, Serena said more calmly, "Yes, he is capable of that—but
am I the person he believed I was?"

   Yes, and more, Vor thought, but did not say so aloud.
     'You'll be home before long," he said, seeing Serena's expression glow with a new
life. "I'm sure it'll be all right, as soon as you are with him again. And if you ever need
anyone else to talk to, I…" His voice trailed off to an awkward silence.
     As the hijacked update ship approached Salusa Secundus, the fabled world that
epitomized free humanity, he gazed down at the green continents, the blue seas, the
wispy clouds in the atmosphere. His doubts faded, and though his heart ached, his
hopes grew higher. Truly, it looked like a paradise.
     Iblis Ginjo peered through a viewing window. His mind seemed to be racing with
possibilities. But he sat up abruptly in alarm. "We have a reception committee! Looks
like fast combat ships!"
     'The picket line must have detected us when we entered the system," Serena said.
"Those are ground-launched kindjals, from bases in Zimia."
     As the fast and maneuverable Salusan Militia fighters surrounded the Dream
Voyager, they bombarded the update ship with threats and instructions. "Enemy ship,
surrender and prepare to be boarded." Several warning explosions rippled across their
bow.
    Vor made no threatening move, remembering how similar ships had already
damaged the vessel at Giedi Prime. "We are humans who escaped from Omnius, and
wish to land in peace," he transmitted. "We've stolen this ship from Earth."
    'Yeah, we've heard that one before," said one of the kindjal pilots. Vor realized that
he had used such a ruse himself. "Why shouldn't we just turn you into a cloud of space
dust?" The kindjals flew close, arming their weapons.
    'It may interest you to know that we have Serena Butler aboard, the daughter of the
League Viceroy." Vor gave a grim smile. "Her father would not be pleased if you blew us
into space dust. Neither would Xavier Harkonnen, since his fiancee has been through so
much just to come back to him."
    Determined, Serena took the communication controls. "It's true. This is Serena
Butler. Since this is a robot ship, please deactivate the scrambler shields to allow us safe
passage, then escort us to Zimia. Inform the Viceroy and Tercero Harkonnen to meet us
at the spaceport."
    The long silence that hung on the channel told Vor that a furious debate must be
occurring on private lines. Finally, the squadron commander said, "Segundo Harkonnen
is out on patrol and will not return for two days. Viceroy Butler is already on his way
with an honor guard. Follow me—and do not deviate from the path."

   Vor acknowledged, then took a deep, concerned breath. Now he had to fly with his
own guidance skills and no assistance from the onboard gelcircuitry computers. The
vessel's own cooperative guidance and automated response systems had always aided
him in the event of an emergency. "Serena, Iblis—both of you strap in and hold on."

    'Is there a problem?" Iblis asked, seeing Vor's uneasiness.
    'Only that I've never done this before."
    The Dream Voyager rocked in turbulence as it passed through high winds and a thin
cloud cover, until it broke through into clear sky. The kindjals paced them closely, just
off the update ship's short wings. Sunlight slanted into the interior through overhead
portholes, forming distorted shadows on the decks and bulkheads.
    Vor set the Dream Voyager down gently in the designated zone, in the crowded
spaceport. Despite the challenge, he had flown the vessel perfectly. Seurat would have
been proud of him.
    Elated, Iblis Ginjo rose to his feet as the low hum of the engines fell silent. "At last!
Salusa Secundus." He looked at Vor. "For rescuing the Viceroy's daughter, they will
welcome us with red carpets and flowers."
    When he released the hatch and breathed Salusan air for the first time, Vor Atreides
tried to identify the difference, wondering if he could detect an elusive scent of freedom.
"Don't expect carpets or flowers just yet," he said.
    He saw a military squad approaching the ship with weapons drawn. The soldiers,
dressed in gold-and-silver League uniforms, formed ranks at the bottom of the ramp.
Behind them came two intimidating-looking women with white hair, pale skin, and long
black robes.
    Serena stood between the two former trustees of the thinking machines, taking their
arms protectively in hers. Together, the three of them stepped out into dazzling
sunlight.
    While the Militia soldiers kept their weapons ready, they deferred to the tall, grim
women. The chief Sorceress looked at the new arrivals with a gaze so intense and
intimidating that she reminded Vorian of one of the Titans. "Are you spies of Omnius?"
she said, stepping closer to them.
    Serena recognized the Sorceress of Rossak, but knew that she herself must have
changed considerably in her year and a half of captivity. "Zufa Cenva, we were
colleagues." Her voice hitched. "I have come home. Do you not recognize me?"
    The Sorceress looked skeptically at her, then astonishment crossed her alabaster
face. "It truly is you, Serena Butler! We thought you had died on Giedi Prime, along with
Ort Wibsen and Pinquer Jibb. We checked the DNA on blood samples found in the
wreckage of your blockade runner." Zufa loomed before the young woman, studying her
while ignoring the two men entirely.
    Serena struggled valiantly to set aside her sadness. "Wibsen and Jibb did die fighting
the cymeks. I was injured… and captured."
    At the deep expression of emotions, Vor spoke on her behalf. "She was held prisoner
on Earth by a robot named Erasmus."
    The Sorceress's electric expression swung to regard him. "And who are you?"
    Vor knew he could not lie. "I am the son of the Titan Agamemnon." The Militia
soldiers stirred. The two Sorceresses reacted with alarm and then renewed intensity. "I
used my influence to slip through the defenses of Earth-Omnius."
    Iblis Ginjo pushed forward, eyes bright and enthusiastic. "All of Earth is in revolt!
Humans have broken free of their machine masters. Rebels slew Titans and neo-
cymeks, smashed robots, destroyed entire facilities. But we need League help—

    Abruptly, Iblis's words were cut off with a little squeak of his voice. Around his own
throat, Vorian felt a tightness, like a garrote. The eyes of the Sorceresses blazed, as if
probing deeply into the minds of these new arrivals. Suspicion saturated the air like
thick humidity, an unwillingness to trust two turncoat humans and Serena Butler, who
might have been brainwashed by Omnius.
    The Sorceresses' concentration was broken by a sudden commotion. Vor found he
could breathe easily again. Viceroy Manion Butler, looking a decade older than when
Serena had last seen him, pushed soldiers out of his way and charged forward like a
wild Salusan bull. "Serena! Oh my sweet child! You are alive!"
    Both Sorceresses stepped aside, seeing that nothing could stop the man from
throwing his arms around his daughter. "My child, my child—I can't believe it!" He held
Serena, rocked her from side to side. Without wanting to, she found herself weeping
against his chest. "Oh what have they done to you? What have they done?"

   Serena found she could not answer him at all.
    Human beings rely upon their brethren, and are frequently disappointed by them.
These are advantages of machines: reliability and a complete lack of guile. They can
also be disadvantages.
   —ERASMUS, Reflections on Sentient Biologicafs

    Serena's father hushed her and hurriedly escorted her away from the spaceport with
a crowd of fawning and dutiful attendants. "The best place for you now is the City of
Introspection, with your mother. You can rest and heal there, in peace."
    'I will never have peace again," she said, struggling to control the tremor in her
voice. "Where is Xavier? I need to—"

   Looking troubled, Manion patted her on the shoulder. "I sent an executive order
recalling him from an inspection patrol of perimeter defenses. He's racing home now,
and should be back early tomorrow."
   She swallowed hard. "1 need to see him as soon as he returns. Inside the ship… our
son… there is so much—

   Manion nodded again, without seeming to hear that she had just referred to her
"son." "Don't worry about it now. A lot has changed, but you're home again, and safe.
Nothing else matters. Your mother is waiting for you, and you can rest with her.
Everything else can keep until tomorrow."
   Serena looked over to where Vorian Atreides and Iblis Ginjo were being ushered off
by Militia officers. She felt she should accompany them and introduce the former
Omnius servants to their new world. "Don't be hard on them," Serena said,
remembering the harsh skepticism of the Sorceresses. "They've never really met free
humans before. Both of them have important information."
   Manion Butler nodded. "They're only being debriefed. The League can learn much
from what they have to say."
   'I can help, too," Serena said. "I saw so many terrible things in my captivity on
Earth. Maybe tonight I can come back and—

    The Viceroy shushed her. "Everything in its time, Serena. I'm sure you'll grow weary
enough of our questions, but you don't have to save the world today." He chuckled.
"Same old Serena."
    By high-speed groundcar it took an hour for them to reach the contemplative hillside
retreat on the outskirts of Zimia. As thirsty as she was for the sights of her home world,
everything seemed a blur to Serena, and she noticed few details.
    Livia Butler, in her plain abbess robes, greeted them at the high gates of the quiet
complex. With a moist-eyed nod to her husband, she accepted Serena into the City of
Introspection and led the way across a grassy area to a warm and well-furnished room
of muted colors and cushioned chairs. There she cradled Serena against her breast as if
their daughter were a child again. Livia's large eyes filled with tears.
    Now that Serena was with her parents, safe and warm and loved, the oppressive
weights of weariness and fear lifted from her, and she felt more able to do what still
needed to be done. In a weak and shaky voice, Serena quickly told them about her
sweet little Manion, and how Erasmus had killed him… sparking the revolt that swept
across Earth.
    'Please, I need to see Xavier." Her face lit up. "And Octa? Where is my sister?"
    Livia shot a hard glance at her husband, and words caught in her throat until she
said, at last, "Soon enough, dear child. For now, you must rest and gather your
strength. You're home now. You have all the time in the world."
    Serena wanted to protest, but sleep swept her away.
    BY THE TIME Xavier raced back from his Armada patrol on the fringes of the Salusan
system, the news had already reached him in a dozen comsystem messages of joy and
grief, each one a hammer blow of pain. The clashing happiness, confusion, and despair
made him want to explode.
    Because he traveled solo in his kindjal, Xavier had time to think about what he had
learned. When his ship arrived late at Zimia Spaceport, he felt incredibly alone. He
disembarked onto a landing field illuminated with spotlights. It was past midnight.
    How could Serena be alive? He had seen the wreckage of her blockade runner in the
gray seas of Giedi Prime. The bloodstains matched her DNA. Even in his wildest, most
foolish dreams, Xavier had never considered that she might still be alive. Alive! Or that
she was pregnant with his child.
    And now Serena had escaped. She had come home. But his son—their son—had
been murdered by the monstrous machines.

    When Xavier stepped away from his cooling kindjal, he could barely smell the ozone
and oxidation chemicals on its hull from his fast descent through the Holtzman
scrambler shields. Ahead he saw a single man waiting on the landing field, seemingly
forlorn, his features washed out under the spaceport lights, but Xavier recognized
Manion Butler, Viceroy of the League of Nobles.
    'I'm so glad you… you could—" Manion Butler was unable to finish his sentence.
Instead, he stepped forward and embraced his son-in-law, the young military officer
who had married not his daughter Serena, but

    Octa.
    'Serena is resting at the City of Introspection," Manion said. "She… she doesn't know
about you and Octa. It is a delicate situation, from every angle." All life seemed to have
drained out of the Viceroy. He was obviously excited to have his daughter back, but
broken to know what had happened to her, how the machines had hurt her… how they
had killed her baby.
    'Serena would want the truth," said Xavier. "But she will have all of it she can
tolerate soon enough. I'll see her tomorrow. Let her sleep well for this evening."
    Supporting each other, the two men walked away from the kindjal. The Viceroy led
Xavier to where larger banks of white lights and a work crew continued their inspection
even at such a late hour. The silver-and-black vessel was of a configuration Xavier had
seen only once before—an update ship such as the one he had encountered at Giedi

    Prime, when the traitorous human pilot had eluded Xavier's attempts to capture him.
    'Serena found allies among the humans on Earth," Manion said. "Two trustees, men
raised by the machines. She convinced them to flee with her."
    Xavier frowned. "Are you certain they are not spies?"
    Manion shrugged. "Serena trusts them."
    'Then I suppose that is good enough."
    They entered the Dream Voyager, and Xavier felt a cold heaviness in his chest. He
knew where Manion was taking him. Aboard the update ship, he noticed the odd
configurations, the smooth curves, the clean metallic lines that denoted efficiency and
also carried an unconscious sleek beauty.
    'We've not moved the boy," said Manion. "I told them to wait for you."
    'I don't know if I should thank you for that." When the Viceroy opened a sealed
storage compartment and a wispy breath of cold steam crawled like feathers into the
air, Xavier overcame his reluctance and leaned forward.
    The child's body was wrapped in a tough, dark covering, a sealed preservation
shroud that hid specific details, leaving only a small, painfully sad shape of what had
once been a vibrant little boy. Xavier touched the cold wrapping. His fingertips were
gentle, as if he didn't want to disturb his son's slumber.
    Behind him, Manion was breathing hard. "Serena said… she said she named the boy
after me." Then his words choked off, and Xavier reached in to lift out the wrapped
package, all that remained of the child he had never met, had never even known about
until it was too late. The boy seemed unbelievably, absurdly light.
    Xavier found he had nothing to say, but as he carried his son out into the night air of
Salusa Secundus, taking little Manion home for the first and only time, he wept openly.
    Machines may be predictable, but we are also reliable. Conversely, humans change
their beliefs and their loyalties with remarkable, and
    distressing, ease.
   —ERASMUS

    Erasmus Dialogues
    Vorian Atreides sat at a large, polished table in a debriefing room, ready to face a
crowd of gathered political leaders, all of whom had questions and suspicions. He hoped
he had answers for them.
    Iblis Ginjo would be interviewed separately. The League had already dispatched its
fastest scout ship to Earth to verify the stories and assess the current status of the
revolt.
    Looking around the capital city had absolutely astounded Vor. The buildings of Zimia
had none of the outrageous grandeur of Earth, and the streets seemed… disorganized.
But the people he saw, the colors, the clothes, the expressions on their faces—he felt as
if he had awakened from a dream. Vor steeled himself and resolved to cooperate so he
could help the free humans in every way possible. If they would allow him.

    For an interrogation session such as this, Agamemnon would have used pain
stimulators and exotic torture devices. Undoubtedly, the League saw this as a
remarkable opportunity to obtain inside information on Omnius. Sitting around the table
and standing against the walls, representatives regarded him with curiosity, some with
hatred or at least resentment.
    Always before, Vor had been proud of his lineage, deluded by the perceived glories
of Agamemnon and the Titans. Free humans, though, had a different view of history. A
more accurate view, he hoped.
    Uncomfortable before so many agitated people, Vor felt adrift, missing Serena,
hoping she was all right. Had she reunited with Xavier Harkonnen yet? Would she ever
want to see Vor again?
    Before the buzz of conversation could dwindle in the debriefing room, Vor spoke,
starting slowly and selecting his words with the utmost care. "I make no excuses for my
behavior. My cooperation with the machines has certainly caused harm and pain to
people in the League of Nobles." He looked around the room, met each curious eye.
"Yes, I worked as a trustee on an update ship, delivering copies of Omnius to the
Synchronized Worlds. I was raised by the thinking machines, taught their version of
history. I even revered my father, General Agamemnon. I thought he was a great
cymek."
    He heard mutters around the room. "Serena Butler, though, opened my eyes. She
challenged me to question what I had been taught, and finally I saw that I had been
deceived." He wrestled with what he was about to offer. It seemed the final betrayal of
his past.
   Let it be so.
    He took a deep breath, continued. "It is my fervent hope that I can use my
knowledge and skill—as well as my detailed information about the workings of the
thinking machines—to assist my fellow human beings, who are currently in revolt
against Omnius on Earth."

    A growing mutter passed among the listeners around the table as the
representatives began to realize the implications of his words. "I distrust any man who
would betray his father," one of the representatives said, a tall man with a pockmarked
face. "How will we know he is not giving us distorted intelligence?"
    Vor frowned at the accusation. Surprisingly, the coldly beautiful Zufa Cenva of
Rossak said from one side, "No, he speaks the truth." Her dark eyes penetrated him,
and he had difficulty looking into them for more than a moment. "If he dares to lie here,
I will know."
    One of the debriefers looked at his notes. "And now, Vorian Atreides, we have many
questions for you."
    Is there any greater joy than to return home? Are any other memories so vivid, any
other hopes so bright?
   —SERENA BUTLER

    When Serena awoke with the first pale light of dawn, she found herself alone in a
soft bed surrounded by soothing sounds, colors, and smells. Many times after Fredo's
death, she had visited her mother in the City of Introspection and enjoyed the
contemplative atmosphere. But after a short time she had always grown impatient with
meditation and pondering, preferring to do something more active.
    She dressed quickly as the morning light grew outside. Xavier might be back on
Salusa by now. The brief sleep had done her good, but she felt a leaden weight in her
chest that she knew would never lift until she found Xavier and told him the terrible
news about their son. Despite her bruised heart and soul, she had never backed down
from her responsibilities.
    Before the City of Introspection became fully awake, Serena quietly went to the
outbuildings and found a small groundcar. She didn't want to disturb her mother.
Raising her chin in determination, Serena refused to delay. It had been long enough
already.
    Climbing into the vehicle, she went through the motions of powering up the familiar
engines. She knew where she had to go. Serena rode off through the open gates,
heading down the road toward the Tantor estate, where Xavier had made his home.
She hoped she would find him there…
    Emil Tantor opened the heavy wooden door and looked at her with astonishment.
"We were delighted to hear of your return!" His brown eyes were as kind and warm as
she had remembered.
    Gray wolfhounds barked inside the foyer and slipped past Emil to bound in circles,
greeting Serena. Despite the dread in her heart, she smiled. A wide-eyed boy came out
to look at her. "Vergyl! You've grown so much!" She fought a swell of sadness at the
vivid reminder of how long she had been away.
    Before the boy could answer, Emil gestured her inside. "Vergyl, please take the dogs
outside so this poor woman can have a bit of quiet, after what she's been through." He
gave her a small, deeply compassionate smile. "I didn't expect you to come here. Would
you have a glass of morning tea with me, Serena? Lucille always brews it strong."
    She hesitated. "Actually, I need to see Xavier. Is he back yet? I need to—" The old
man's startled expression stopped her. "What is it? Is he all right?"

    'No, no, Xavier is fine, but… he isn't here. He went directly to your father's estate."
Emil Tantor seemed to have more to tell her, but his voice trailed off.
    Troubled by his reaction, Serena thanked him and ran back to her groundcar,
leaving the old man standing at the wooden door. "I'll see him there, then." Xavier
probably had business with her father. Perhaps they were already planning to aid the
human rebels on Earth.
    She drove to the familiar manor house atop the high hill, surrounded by vineyards
and olive groves. Her heart ached as she slowed to a halt by the main entry. Home. And
Xavier was here.
    She parked near the wellspring and breathlessly approached the front door. Her
eyes were stinging, her legs trembling. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears.
Greater even than the guilt she bore or the fear of what she must say, was a longing to
be with her lover again.
    Xavier opened the door even before she reached it. At first his face seemed like a
sunrise, nearly blinding her. He looked older, stronger, more handsome than he had
even in her fantasies. She wanted to melt.
    'Serena!" He gasped, then grinned and swept her into his arms. After only a moment
he pulled away awkwardly. "I knew you were at the City of Introspection, but I didn't
realize you had recovered yet. I just returned in the middle of the night, and I, uh—" He
seemed to be fumbling for words.
    'Oh, Xavier, it doesn't matter! I needed to be with you so badly. There is so much…
so much to tell." All at once the magnitude of what she needed to say seemed to crush
her shoulders. Her voice caught.
    He stroked her cheek. "Serena, I already know the terrible news. I've heard about…
our son." He looked at her with sadness and pain, but a firm acceptance.
    When they stepped into the foyer, Xavier withdrew to an awkward distance, as if
facing her was more difficult than confronting all the forces of the machine armies. "It
has been so long, Serena, and everyone thought you were dead. We found the
wreckage of your ship, analyzed the blood samples, confirmed your DNA."
    She reached out to clasp his hand. "But I survived, my love! I thought of you
constantly." Her eyes searched his face for answers. "My memories of you were all I had
to sustain me."
    Finally, his words falling like heavy stones, he said, "I am married now, Serena."
    Her heart seemed to stop beating. Serena took a halting step backward, and
bumped into a small table, which toppled over with a crash, spilling a vase and fresh red
roses, like blood on the tile floor.
    She heard hurried footsteps from the main sitting room. The slight figure of a young
woman appeared, with long hair and large eyes, rushing toward her. "Serena! Oh,
Serena!" Octa carried a bundle in her arms, held close to her bosom, but she managed
to give her sister a fierce hug anyway.
    Overjoyed, Octa stood beside her husband and her sister, but as she looked from
one to the other, her happy expression crumbled into embarrassment and shame.
    The bundle stirred in Octa's arms, and made a soft sound. "This is our daughter
Roella," she said, almost apologetically, and drew aside the cloth to show Serena the
child's beautiful face.
    An image flashed through Serena's mind: her terror-stricken son only seconds before
Erasmus dropped him from the high balcony. The baby girl Octa held looked remarkably
like little Manion, who had also been Xavier's child.
    In stunned disbelief, Serena stumbled toward the door, her world crashing down
around her. She whirled and ran off like a wounded fawn.
    The Butlerian jihad arose from just such stupidity. An infant was killed. The bereaved
mother struck out at the nonhuman machinery that had caused the senseless death.
Soon, the violence was in the hands of the extended mob and became Icnown as a
jihad.
    —PRIMERO FAYKAN BUTLER, Memoirs of the Jihad

    Earth remained the flaming heart of rebellion even without the charismatic Iblis
Ginjo. Thrust into the center of the struggle, the Cogitor's secondary Aquim tried to
keep the resistance alive and organize the ill-planned fight in the face of Omnius's
increasingly violent retaliation.
    Aquim had always been a man of contemplation, mulling over Eklo's esoteric
revelations in the high monastery towers. He had forgotten how to deal with destruction
and bloodshed. While he had a network of contacts through his relationship with Eklo,
only rarely were they fighters. For the most part, these people were deep thinkers who
came up with so many options to consider that they could not move quickly. The
situation at hand was outdistancing them.
    Mobs ruled with very little leadership.
    Surprised and overwhelmed at the realization that they had broken free after
centuries of oppression, the rebels had no focus or goal—only a raw, unchanneled need
for revenge. Once unleashed, these slaves could never turn back. Even Iblis had not
made long-term plans. Fires raged across the city grids. Factory and maintenance
buildings exploded as saboteurs brought down the manufacturing and support capabili
ties of Omnius. Arson and vandalism spread across the continents from industrial
centers to human settlements.

     The evermind unleashed his cymeks, activated his ranks of warrior robots. The
entire planet became a battleground… and not long afterward, a channel house.
Thinking machines had no capacity for forgiveness.
     Unfettered at last, Agamemnon and his bloodthirsty cymeks marched into human
habitation camps and razed them to the ground. For the first time since the Titans had
been overthrown by the evermind, Omnius's diversified fighters were bound together by
a rapacious enthusiasm for vengeance. Cymeks sprayed poison gas, acid plumes, and
ribbons of molten fire.
     Robotic extermination squads moved from gutted buildings to squalid shelters and
pens. Crops were burned, food-distribution depots leveled. Even those who survived the
mechanical onslaught would starve within months.
     Ten thousand slaves paid in blood for every robot or cymek damaged. No humans
could escape with their lives. None were meant to.
     HIGH IN THE isolated mountains, the Cogitor's tower trembled like a living creature.
Pieces of stone flaked away. On the uppermost level, where Eklo's ancient brain rested
in its preservation canister, the exterior windows changed color from yellow to orange.
     A distraught Aquim dipped his fingers into the electrafluid, connecting his thoughts
to those of the revered Cogitor. "I gave them your message, Eklo. The Titan Juno is
coming. She wishes to speak with you."
     'As she did, long ago."
     Wishing to put an end to the bloodshed, Eklo had asked to see the Titans, hoping
there would be some way to reason with them. Long ago, the Cogitor had unwittingly
aided Juno and her companions in their overthrow of the Old Empire, and Eklo's
disembodied brain had been the inspiration for the Titans to convert themselves into
cymeks.
     In those days he had been a spiritual human named Arn Eklo, philosopher and
orator who had fallen to the diversions of sexual pleasures. In his shame and dismay, he
had met Kwyna and her metaphysical scholars who wanted to eliminate all distractions
in order to develop their thinking powers. Eklo's physical form, the petty desires of his
body, became unimportant to him, nothing in comparison to unraveling the mysteries of
the universe.
     His orations became different after that, exceedingly cerebral, so that many people
could not understand him. His followers began to drift away, and the business investors
in the congregation, seeing the dramatic decline in revenues, questioned him. They
didn't understand what he was saying either.
     Then one day, Arn Eklo simply disappeared. As a group, he and the other Cogitors
planned to embark on an epic journey to the deep reaches of the spiritual realm. Far
beyond the bounds of flesh.
     Since undergoing the remarkable surgery, his mind had lived for more than two
thousand years separated from the weaknesses and limitations of his human body. At
last, he and Kwyna and the other Cogitors had all the time anyone could need. It was
the greatest gift any of them could have received. Time.
     Now Aquim interrupted his ponderous thoughts. "Juno is here."
     With his canister resting on a ledge of the high tower, Eklo observed a massive
cymek warrior-form easily climbing the steep mountain path.
     'Give Juno this message," Eklo said to Aquim. Below, numerous secondaries
appeared to be in a frenzy, hurrying toward the stairs that led to the top of the tower.
"Tell her nothing is impossible. Tell her that love is what separates humans from other
living creatures, not hatred. Not violence—

    The windows turned bloodred, and powerful explosions ripped through the tower.
Juno raised her cannon forelimbs and launched a volley of projectiles, pummeling the
reinforced monastery structure until the tower crumbled.
    The ceiling collapsed, and Aquim threw himself forward, trying to shield the
preservation canister and the magnificent brain of the ancient Cogitor. But the
avalanche came down, crushing everything…
    After the tower had tumbled into a dusty heap, Juno used her mechanical arms to
tear through the rubble, knocking stones and girders aside. She crawled over the
wreckage, discarding the broken bodies of secondaries until finally she found the
preservation canister. The dead monk Aquim and the curved plexiplaz tank had kept the
Cogitor's brain from being pulverized, but the container was cracked. Bluish electrafluid
dripped into the dirt and debris.
    Juno tossed Aquim's body away like a limp doll. Then she extended a flowmetal
hand, extruding long and sharp fingers into the broken container to retrieve the
puckered grayish mass of the Cogitor Eklo. She sensed faint flickers of energy from the
quivering brain.
    She decided to send him on another journey, even farther from the realm of flesh.
Her flowmetal hand clenched, squeezing the spongy gray matter into dripping pulp.
    'Nothing is impossible," she said, then swiveled about and marched back toward the
city grid and her important work.
    WITHOUT EMOTION—ONLY a desire to rid himself of a problem—Omnius decreed
the complete annihilation of all human life on Earth.

   His robotic forces proceeded relentlessly, going about their bloody task with few
impediments. Ajax's bloodbath on Walgis during the long-ago Hrethgir Rebellions had
been merely a brief prelude.
   After the evermind determined that it had no further use for the humans on this
planet, he made similar assessments for all of the other Synchronized Worlds. Despite
the fact that humans had originally created thinking machines, the unruly biologicals
had always been more trouble than they were worth. At last he agreed with
Agamemnon, who had been urging such a final solution for centuries. Omnius would
extinguish the human species.
    The remaining four Titans, assisted by neo-cymeks and modified robotic soldiers,
spent months hunting down and slaughtering the planetary population. Not a single
person on Earth survived.
    The bloodshed was unspeakable, and much of it was recorded by the ever-present
watcheyes of the evermind.
    Support thy brother, whether he be just or unjust.
    —Zensunni saying

    As much as he hated Naib Dhartha, Selim retained a curiosity about how the people
of his former village continued to live their lives. He wondered if they had erased him
from their memories by now. Sometimes he went over their actions in his mind and
grew furious, but then he would smile. Buddallah had kept Selim alive, given him a
mysterious vision and a blessed purpose.
    Previous generations of Zensunni had adapted their way of life to the desert. In such
a hostile environment there was little room for change or flexibility, so the nomads' day-
today existence remained much the same year after year.
    However, as Selim observed his former comrades, he noticed that Naib Dhartha had
a new priority in life. The rigid tribal leader had launched upon some unusual scheme
that involved taking large teams of workers out into the open desert. The scavengers no
longer combed the wasteland for a few pieces of scrap metal or abandoned technology.
Now the Zensunni villagers hurried out into the sands with one purpose only: to gather
spice.
    Just like in his vision! The nightmare began to make sense: the spice taken offworld
by outsiders, causing a storm that would sweep away the harsh serenity of the great
desert. Selim would watch and understand… and then he would determine what he
needed to do.
    With delicate footsteps, the villagers wandered onto the open dunes, making quick
excursions out to the rust-colored stains of melange spread by occasional spice blows.
Gently easing metal stakes deep into the sand, they lashed up thin camouflaged tents
and awnings against the blowing sand and the hot sun. They posted a watch on the
high dune crests for approaching worms.
    Then they began to harvest the spice, taking it from the desert in large quantities,
far more than the tribe could ever use. If Selim's vision was true, then Naib Dhartha
must be delivering the melange to Arrakis City… for export offworld, away from Arrakis.
    In his vision the floodgates would open, spilling sand like a tidal wave to engulf the
Zensunni people, sweeping the remnants of the sand-worms away. Shai-Hulud!
Ambitious Naib Dhartha did not understand the consequences of his actions for his
people, for his entire world.
    Selim approached quietly to observe them through a high-intensity viewer he had
taken from his botanical research station. He squinted, recognizing people he had grown
up with, villagers who had once befriended him, and ultimately scorned him.
    Selim didn't see Ebrahim skulking among them anymore. Perhaps the young man
had finally been caught for his own crimes, now that Selim was no longer there to take
the blame… Shai-Hulud would have his justice, one way or another.
    The evil naib was in their midst, shouting orders, directing the people as they
scurried out with sacks and containers, scooping spice from the sands. The workers
could barely carry the amounts they gathered. Dhartha must have found a customer
somewhere.
    Selim was fascinated at first, then angry. Finally, he decided upon a way to follow
his calling, his vision… while exacting his revenge as well.
    WITH HIS SONIC hammer, he called upon Shai-Hulud. The beast he summoned was
a relatively small sandworm, but Selim didn't mind. The smaller creatures were more
manageable anyway.
    Selim rode high on the bowed serpentine head, brashly out in the open for all to
see. Peeling apart the fleshy segments to guide the creature, he sat astride a great
steed, a monstrous animal that could survive only in the deepest, driest desert. He
urged the worm to greater speed, and it hissed through the ocean of sand.
    The Zensunni had been extremely cautious in setting up their camp, careful that the
sandworms did not notice them. At dusk, the people began to emerge from temporary
shelters after the heat of the day, leaving their settlement and spreading out to where
they could gather more spice.
    Remembering his vision and answering the now-clear call, Selim drove the worm
headlong into the encampment.
    The Zensunni were never complacent, always alert. Spotters sounded the alarm as
soon as the worm approached, but there was nothing they could do. In his deep, loud
voice, Naib Dhartha shouted for the spice gatherers to scatter and find places of safety.
They raced across the dunes, leaving their tents and the piled containers of hoarded
spice.
    Using rods to goad the creature and prybars to spread open the segments, Selim
controlled Shai-Hulud's course. Frustrated at being ridden, the worm thrashed, wanting
to attack something. Selim had to batter its pink, exposed flesh to keep the beast from
devouring all the villagers.
    He didn't want to kill any of them… although it might have been satisfying to see
Naib Dhartha swallowed down the worm's gullet. This was more than enough. Selim
would accomplish what Buddallah had called him to do; ruin the naib's plans to export
huge shipments of Shai-Hulud's spice.
    The villagers dispersed across the sands with skittering footsteps in hopes that the
worm would not follow the rhythm of their running feet. The monster crashed into the
abandoned camp, plowing up a spume of sand. In a flash, the camouflaged tent fabrics
vanished, churned under or swallowed up.
    Then the sandworm turned its round head and returned to the site to devour the
gathered melange, tearing apart the containers, swallowing packages whole,
obliterating every sign of the harvesting work.
    From a distance, terrified villagers, perhaps including Naib Dhartha himself, stood on
dunes, ready to run farther away but hypnotized by the spectacle. In a flowing white
robe, Selim rode high on the worm's back; they could not help but notice his human
silhouette atop the desert demon.
    Laughing so hard that he could barely maintain his control over the creature, Selim
raised his hands in a defiant gesture. He had done Bud-dallah's bidding. The spice was
safe, for now.
    Then he goaded the worm in another direction, away from the forlorn people, and
rode off into the empty sands, leaving the Zensunni villagers there with the wreck of
their camp.
    ON THE WAY out, Selim left two literjons of his own water among the torn scraps of
the settlement. He could replace it in his botanical stations, and it was just enough to let
the Zensunni people survive. They could reach their cliff city again, if they walked by
night and conserved moisture.
    As if it were an omen, he found an undisturbed satchel of melange. This he
reverently accepted as a gift from Shai-Hulud. It was more spice than he had ever
carried at one time, but he would not consume it, nor would he sell it. Rather, he would
write a message with the reddish brown powder, spreading it on the sand. Back in his
base station, he planned carefully for two days, then he left again.
    Selim rode a large worm through the night, back across the sands toward Naib
Dhartha's village. In the shadow of a rock escarpment, he slept through the next day
and then began his trek on foot, keeping close to the rocks. He knew these footpaths
and byways well, having explored them as a child. After creeping along in the shadows,
he hid in a comfortable crevice, waiting for full darkness, carrying his satchel of
melange…
    When the night was deep and the stars overhead prickled like billions of icy eyes, he
hurried out in front of the cliffs onto the wind-smoothed sands. He would do this to the
best of his ability, on a grand scale. With light irregular footsteps, he ran along the
canvas of powder sand, spilling the melange from the satchel in lines, making looping
letters that would look like dried blood on the dunes.
    Old Glyffa had taught him how to read and write during a time when she had felt
benevolent toward him, ignoring other villagers—including

   Ebrahim's father and Naib Dhartha himself—who wondered what the point of such
education could be.

   Selim made sure to finish before the second moon rose. It took him well over an
hour to write his three simple words, and at the end his spice was almost gone. With his
message completed, he hurried back to his shelter in the rocks. He could have caught a
worm to begin his journey back home. But instead he waited for the sunrise.
   Just after dawn, he watched dozens of faces with wide eyes and open mouths
peering out of the cave openings. In obvious disbelief, they stared into the desert and
chattered and called to one another. Rapidly a crowd gathered along a ledge
overlooking the sandy wasteland. He heard their muffled shouts of surprise and could
not stop grinning. A pinch of melange on his lips made him feel even better.
     Among the excited observers, he could barely make out the dark-haired figure of
Naib Dhartha, who stood glowering at the three words the young outcast had written on
the sand.
     I AM SELIM.
     He could have said more, explained more, but Selim felt that the mystery was
better. The naib would know he was the person who had ridden the worm, both the
first time when he'd shown off his skills and again when he'd destroyed the spice-
gathering camp. Buddallah had chosen him, and now the evil naib must live in fear. The
young man lounged back against the rock, chuckling to himself and savoring the flavor
of melange.
     After today, they all knew he was alive… and Naib Dhartha would understand that
he had made a life-long enemy.
   The far-reaching demands of religion must accord with the macro-cosmic
requirements of the smallest community.
   — IBLIS GINJO,

   The Landscape of Humanity
     For weeks after returning from one shattered life to another, Serena Butler had
gently sidestepped her father's suggestion that she return to her role in the League
Parliament. For now she preferred the City of Introspection, the quiet and peaceful
gardens. The philosophical students there preferred their contemplative privacy, and left
her alone.
     Her view of the war, the League, and of life itself had suffered a dramatic change,
and she needed time to assess her new role in the universe and find ways to help once
again. She felt that she could possibly do even more than before…
     The story of Serena's captivity, her murdered baby, and the rebellion on Earth had
spread quickly. At the urging of Iblis Ginjo, the preserved body of little Manion had been
placed in a small plaz-walled tomb in Zimia, a memorial symbolizing just one of the
billions of victims of the thinking machines.
     A tireless spokesman, Iblis had slept little since his arrival in the capital city,
spending every hour with delegates, passionately describing the horrors of captive
humans, of the cruel cymeks, of Omnius, trying to put together a massive force of
League warships to rescue the humans of Earth. The escaped rebel leader wanted the
Salusans to accept him as a hero.
     As Serena's self-appointed prolocutor, Iblis spoke first-hand of the Synchronized
Worlds, telling the awful story of how the robot Erasmus had killed innocent Manion and
how Serena herself had dared to raise her fists against the thinking machines. Through
her selfless bravery against the cruel masters, she had incited a rebellion that had
brought the Earth-Omnius to a standstill.
     Iblis employed his well-honed speaking abilities and convinced many people of his
sincerity. He had in mind a public strategy that included passionate rallies hosted by
Serena herself. She was the perfect person to act as the heart around whom a scaled-
up rebellion could coalesce. But Serena remained in seclusion, unaware of the
groundswell that was occurring in her name.
    Without her, Iblis decided to take up the cause of human freedom anyway, even if
he had to make every decision himself. He could not permit such a tremendous
opportunity to wither and vanish. He felt the power of opinion building in the city of
Zimia, forging into another weapon for him to use. Even the League politicians wanted
to go rescue the heroic human fighters on Earth—but they discussed and debated
endlessly in Parliament, just as Serena had warned they would.

    Now, meeting privately with Segundo Harkonnen at the officer's request, Iblis felt
uneasy in the cramped room of the Armada headquarters. Apparently these chambers
were part of an old military prison, where suspected deserters had once been
interrogated. Narrow rectangular windows encircled the room, and Xavier paced the
floor, his silhouette eclipsing the small amount of daylight that filtered in.
    'Tell me how you came to be a leader of human work crews," the officer asked. "A
priviliged trustee, like Vorian Atreides, serving the thinking machines and reaping
benefits while other humans suffered."
    Iblis gave a dismissive gesture, pretending that the Segundo was joking. "I worked
hard to earn privileges and rewards for my loyal workers," he said in his resonant voice.
"We all benefited."
    'Some of us are suspicious of your convenient enthusiasm."
    Smiling in response, Iblis spread his hands. "Neither Vorian Atreides nor I have ever
tried to hide our pasts. Remember, to acquire inside information, you need someone
who has actually been inside. You will not find better sources of information than the
two of us. Serena Butler has many insights, as well."
    He remained calm. Iblis had faced, and fooled, the Titan Ajax—a much more
terrifying and masterful interrogator than Segundo Harkonnen. "The League would be
foolish not to seize this opportunity," Iblis added. "We have the means to help the
human fighters on Earth."

   'It is too late for that." Xavier stepped closer, looking stern. "You triggered the
revolt, then left your followers behind to be slaughtered." "I came here to get help from
the League. We don't have much time if we are to rescue the survivors."
   Xavier's face was stony. "There are no survivors… on the entire planet. None."
   Stunned, Iblis was slow to respond. "How is that possible? Before we departed on
the Dream Voyager, I left a competent, loyal man in charge. I assumed that he—

    'Enough of this, Xavier," a new voice came from an unseen speaker in the dim walls.
"There is enough guilt and blood to cover all of our hands. Let's decide what to do next,
instead of trying to turn one of our greatest potential resources against us."
    Xavier stood stiffly, facing a blank wall. "As you wish, Viceroy." The walls of the
interrogation chamber shimmered and faded to reveal a hidden observation room, in
which a dozen men and women sat in tribunal fashion. Dizzy, Iblis recognized Viceroy
Butler at the center of the group and Vorian Atreides looking satisfied off to one side.
    The Viceroy rose from his seat. "Iblis Ginjo, we are a special committee of
Parliament here to investigate this terrible news from Earth." Iblis could not restrain
himself. "But the eradication of all life on Earth? How can this be?"
    Xavier Harkonnen said in a somber voice, "As soon as your ship arrived here, the
Armada dispatched its fastest scout. After several weeks, the pilot has just returned with
his full, terrible report. Only thinking machines remain on Earth. Every single rebel is
dead. Every slave, every child, every trustee. It is likely they were all exterminated
before the Dream Voyager even reached Salusa Secundus."
    Viceroy Butler activated several large screens built into the walls, which depicted
horrific scenes, piles of mangled corpses, marching robots and cymeks slaughtering
crowds of humans that had been rounded up. Image after image appeared, in
gruesome detail. "Earth, the homeworld of humanity, is now nothing more than a vast
graveyard." "Too late," Iblis mumbled in a daze. "All those people…"
    The conversation paused as crowd noises came from outside the building, chants of,
"Serena! Serena!" He was shocked to hear her name.
    'Iblis Ginjo, I cannot express enough gratitude that you and your friend brought my
daughter back to me," Viceroy Butler said. "Unfortunately, the man you left in charge of
the revolt was not up to the challenge."
    Vorian Atreides looked stern. "Nobody could have succeeded there, Viceroy. Not
Iblis, not myself. It was only a matter of time."
    Segundo Harkonnen appeared angry. "You're saying it's pointless to fight against
Omnius, and any revolt is doomed to failure? We proved that idea wrong at Giedi
Prime—"

    'I was at Giedi Prime as well, Segundo. Remember? You shot at me and severely
damaged my ship."
    Xavier's brown eyes flashed with anger. "Yes, I remember, son of Agamemnon."
    'The uprising on Earth was a grand example," Vor said, "but the participants were
only slaves, armed with little more than their hatred for the thinking machines. They
never had a chance." He turned to look at the members of the special committee. "The
League Armada, on the other hand, is a different story altogether."
    Seeing the opportunity to press the point, Iblis said in a booming voice, "Yes, look
what a mob of untrained slaves managed to achieve. Then imagine what a coordinated
military response might accomplish." Outside, the voices of the demonstrators grew
louder. Iblis continued, "The losses on Earth must not go unavenged. The death of
Viceroy Butler's grandchild—your own son, Segundo Harkonnen—cannot go
unpunished!"

    Vor could not tear his gaze from Xavier, trying to see him as the brave man who had
stolen Serena's heart, and then had married her sister. I would have waited forever for
her.
    Finally, he focused on Iblis Ginjo. Vor did not particularly like the rebel leader, whose
motivations were not clear to him. Iblis seemed obsessively fascinated with Serena, but
it was not love. Nevertheless, Vor did agree with the man's assessment.
    Speaking loudly, Iblis continued, as if he had been brought here to address the
tribunal members, and not to answer their questions. "The events on Earth are a
setback, nothing more. We can rise above it, if we have the will to do so!"
    Some of the representatives were caught up in his enthusiasm. Outside, the crowds
grew more agitated, and security troops could be heard over a public address system,
attempting to maintain order.
    As Vor looked on, Iblis gazed from face to face and then into the distance, as if only
he could see something there. The future? Iblis gestured with his hands as he spoke.
"The people of Earth were slaughtered because I encouraged them to oppose their
machine masters, but I feel no personal guilt over this. A war must begin somewhere.
Their sacrifice has demonstrated the depth of the human spirit. Consider the example of
Serena Butler and her innocent baby, what she endured and still survived."
    Vor saw agitation on Xavier Harkonnen's face, but the officer said nothing.
    Iblis smiled and stretched out his hands. "Serena could have an important role in the
new force that will overwhelm the machines, if she only recognizes her potential." He
spoke directly to Manion Butler, in an increasingly fervent voice. "Others may try to take
credit for it, but Serena was the true spark of the great revolt on Earth. Her child was
slain, and she raised her hands against the thinking machines, for all to see. Think of it!
What an example she is to the entire human race."
    Iblis stepped closer to the tribunal members. "All across the League Worlds, people
will hear of her bravery and feel her pain. They will rally to her cause, in her name, if
asked to do so. They will rise up in an epic struggle for freedom, a holy crusade… a
jihad. Listen outside—do you hear them chanting for her?"

   There it is, Iblis thought. He had made the religious connection recommended by
Cogitor Eklo. It didn't matter what particular creed or theology they followed—of
paramount importance was the fervor that only zealousness could provide. If the
movement was going to be large, it needed to touch upon the emotions of people,
needed to draw them into battle without any thought of failing, without concern for
their own safety.

   Following a long, poignant pause, he added, "I am already spreading the word.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have the makings of much more than a revolt here,
something that sets apart the soul of mankind from the soulless thinking machines. With
your help, it could be a tremendous victory borne on the wings of human passion… and
hope."
   Without recognizing it, humankind created a weapon of mass destruction—one that
only became apparent after machines took over every aspect of their lives.

   — BARBAROSSA, Anatomy of a Rebellion

   In an uproar, red-faced League delegates argued over the consequences of the
genocide on Earth. Serena sat stony-faced, the first time she had entered the Hall of
Parliament in the weeks since returning home, but her presence did not quell the usual
tedious discussions.
    'The struggle against Omnius has gone on for centuries!" bellowed the Patriarch of
Balut. "There is no need to do anything drastic which we will later regret. I grieve for
the bloodshed, but we never had any realistic hope for saving the slaves of Earth
anyway."
    'You mean slaves… like Serena Butler?" From his guest seat, Vorian Atreides
interrupted with a glance in her direction, disregarding protocol or political traditions.
"I'm glad we didn't all give up so easily."
    Xavier frowned at him, though he had been thinking the same thing. He considered
the son of Agamemnon a loose cannon, with no respect for order, but he himself was
often frustrated by the ponderous pace of formal political debates. If Serena had been
confident about the workings of Parliament, she would never have gone blundering off
to Giedi
    Prime in the first place, thus forcing the League's hand.
    In an equally loud voice, the interim Magnus of restored Giedi Prime said, "Just
because the situation has gone on for a thousand years, is that an excuse for us to
become accustomed to it? The thinking machines have already escalated the war with
their attack on Zimia and Rossak, their invasion of Giedi Prime. This Earth disaster is
just another challenge."
    'It's a challenge we cannot ignore," Viceroy Butler said.
    NOW, ACCORDING TO the agenda, Xavier stepped into the recording shell that
surrounded the oratory podium. Projection screens enhanced his image and his speech;
overblown determination formed deep creases on his face.
    Out in the tiers of seats that rose above the speaking pit, Iblis Ginjo sat ensconced
in a box reserved for distinguished visitors; he wore expensive finery provided by
Salusan tailors.
    Xavier's voice boomed forth, the commanding tone he used when directing his
Armada ships. "We can no longer content ourselves with a reactive war. We must take
the battle to the thinking machines, for our very survival."
    'Are you suggesting we become as aggressive as Omnius?" shouted Lord Niko Bludd
from the fourth tier of seats.
    'No!" Xavier looked at the red-bearded noble and said in a calm, firm voice, "I'm
saying we must be more aggressive than the machines, more destructive, more intent
on victory!"
    'That will only provoke them to do something even worse," yelled the County
General from Hagal, a barrel-chested man in a red tunic. "We can't risk that. Many of
the Synchronized Worlds have large human populations, even more numerous than the
slaves killed on Earth, and I don't think—"

    Zufa Cenva, stern in her regal glory, cut him off, her voice icy with scorn. "Then why
don't you just surrender Hagal to the Synchronized Worlds, County General, if you
tremble so much at the thought of combat? It would save Omnius the trouble."
    Serena Butler stood, and a sudden hush settled over the audience.
    She spoke in a firm, clear voice fueled by her own passion. "The thinking machines
will never leave us alone. You are fooling yourselves if you believe otherwise."
    She swept her gaze along the rows of seats. "You have all seen the shrine to my
son, who was murdered by the thinking machines. Perhaps it is easier to comprehend
the tragedy of a single victim than of billions. But that child only symbolizes the horrors
Omnius and the Synchronized Worlds wish to inflict upon us." She raised a clenched fist.
"We must declare a crusade against the machines, a holy war—a jihad, in the name of
my murdered son Manion. It must be… Manion Butler's Jihad."

    In the muttering and the hot emotions of the audience, Xavier said, "We will never
be safe until we destroy them."
    'If we knew how to accomplish that," complained Lord Bludd, "we would have won
the war long ago."
    'But we do know how to accomplish it," Xavier insisted from the lecture dome, with a
nod to Serena. "We have known for a thousand years."
    He lowered his voice so that all the members of the great hall grew quiet to hear
him. He glared from face to face, then said, "Blinded by Tio Holtzman's new defenses,
we have ignored the old-fashioned final solution that has been in front of us all along."
    'What are you talking about?" asked the Balut Patriarch.
    Near him, Iblis Ginjo sat with his arms folded across his chest, nodding as if he knew
what was coming.
    'Atomics," Xavier said. The word fell hard and loud, like the detonation of a
forbidden warhead. "A full and total bombardment with atomics. We can sterilize Earth,
vaporizing every robot, every sentient machine, every gelcircuit."
    The uproar took only seconds to reach a crescendo, and Xavier shouted back into
the clamor. "For more than a thousand years we have maintained our atomics. But they
have always been meant as a last resort—doomsday weapons to destroy planets and
obliterate life." He jabbed a finger at the representatives. "We have sufficient warheads
in our planetary stockpiles, but Omnius considers them an empty threat, because we've
never dared to use them. It is time to surprise the thinking machines and make them
regret their complacency."

     Using his priority as Viceroy, Manion Butler interjected, "The machines captured and
tortured my daughter. They murdered a grandson who carried my own name, a boy
neither I nor his own father ever got to meet." The once-rotund man was much thinner
now and stooped from weariness. His hair hung limp and unkempt, as if he usually slept
badly. "The damned machines deserve the most terrible punishment we can mete out."
     The clamor continued, and finally, surprisingly, Serena Butler made her way to the
speakers' dome beside Xavier. "Earth is nothing more than a festering graveyard now,
with evil thinking machines trampling through it. Every living human being there has
already been slaughtered." She drew a deep breath, her lavender eyes blazing. "What is
left to preserve? What have we got to lose?"
     Projected images flashed around the chamber as Serena continued. "The captive
population of Earth rebelled, and they were killed for their effort. AM of them!" Her
voice thundered through every speaker in the hall. "Shall we allow that sacrifice to mean
nothing? Should the thinking machines suffer no consequences?" She made a disgusted
sound. "Or should Omnius pay?"
     'But Earth is the birthplace of humanity!" gasped the acting Magnus of Giedi Prime.
"How can we even contemplate such destruction?"
    'And the rebellion on Earth has launched this Jihad," Serena said. "We must spread
news of this glorious uprising to other Synchronized Worlds, perhaps spark similar
revolts on machine planets. But first we must eradicate the Omnius on Earth… no
matter what it takes."
    'Can we afford to turn down such an opportunity?" Xavier Harkon-nen said. "We
have the atomics. We have Tio Holtzman's new shields to protect our ships. We have
the will of the people, who shout Serena Butler's name in the streets. By God, we must
do something now."
    'Yes," Iblis said in an even voice that nevertheless cut across the murmurs. "It is by
God that we must do this."
    The representatives were stunned and frightened, but no dissent rose. Finally, after
a long, agitated silence, Viceroy Manion Butler demanded that the League of Nobles
submit the question for a formal decision.
    Somberly, the vote was taken… and passed by acclamation.
    'It is decided, then. Earth, the ancient birthplace of humanity, will become the first
tombstone of the thinking machines."
   Creativity follows its own rules.
   —NORMA CENVA, unpublished laboratory notes

    I n the laboratory tower overlooking the broad Isana, Norma JlCenva stood at her
cluttered workstation. New glowglobes bobbled in the air like ornaments over her head;
she had not bothered to deactivate them, even though the dawn had grown bright. She
didn't want to interrupt her train of thought.
    She pointed a pen-sized projection mechanism at a slanted table. Magnetically
scribed sheets flipped silently through the air, blueprint films of a flagship-class ballista,
the largest battleship in the League Armada.
    Norma changed the setting on the handheld plan projector and swung the
shimmering blueprint films out into the open room. She segregated one deck of the
vessel and then walked into the enlarged holo-image, a stroll in which she made mental
calculations for the shield-generator installation so that the small field radius would
overlap for complete protection.
    Savant Holtzman was off attending another public function, where he would no
doubt celebrate his successes with false modesty. Of late, he had only worked with
Norma for an hour or so in the mornings before flitting off to prepare for luncheon
engagements, followed by evening banquets at Lord Bludd's mansion. Eventually he
would come to talk to her about the nobles and politicians he had met, as if he felt
some need to impress her.
    Norma actually didn't mind the time alone and tried to do her work without
complaint. Mostly Holtzman left her in peace to perform the calculations necessary to
install overlapping shields on the largest Armada ships. The Savant claimed he did not
have time to do it himself, and he no longer trusted his cadre of equation solvers.
    Norma felt the weight of responsibility, knowing the League Armada had sent out
the call to arms for a concerted armaggeddon strike on Earth. A massive unified force of
diverse warships was already gathering at Salusa Secundus in preparation for launch.
    Holtzman basked in his sudden inflated importance. To Norma, it seemed that the
laboratory work should speak for itself, without all of the promotional frivolity. But she
could never hope to understand the political circles in which he traveled, and she
wanted to believe that he was doing his best for the war effort through contacts with
important people.
     In the meantime, her mind thought of many tangential things, in detail, and she
followed the internal paths of inquiry, seeking answers. Even obliterating the evermind
on Earth would still leave complete copies of Omnius elsewhere in the Synchronized
Worlds. Could thinking machines suffer such a thing as a psychological blow? On the
scale of the Synchronized Worlds, a single planet did not seem a substantial enough
target, and her concern made it difficult to focus on the calculations. Like sparks of heat
lightning jumping from cloud to cloud, her thoughts skittered to new possibilities, fresh
ideas.
     Under the martial law Lord Bludd had imposed after Bel Moulay's slave uprising,
Norma had felt increasingly isolated from her mentor. Two years ago, when she'd first
received the summons to come to Por-itrin, Tio Holtzman had been her role model and
champion. Only gradually had she come to realize that, rather than simply appreciating
her talent and employing it as a means of furthering their mutual goals, the scientist
had become resentful of her.
     Part of it was Norma's own fault. Her insistent warnings about both the abortive
alloy-resonance generator and the lasgun-shield test had turned him against her. But it
didn't seem fair for the Savant to dislike her just because she had been correct. Tio
Holtzman seemed to place his own embarrassment above the furtherance of science.
     She scratched her clumpy mouse-brown hair. What place did ego have in their work?
In almost a year, none of his new concepts had amounted to anything.
     By contrast, a certain project had been brewing in Norma's thoughts for a long time.
In her mind's eye she saw the parts coming together, a grand design that would shake
the foundations of the universe, theories and equations she could barely grasp. It would
demand all of her energy and attention, and the potential benefits would rock the
League even more than the development of personal shields.
     Now Norma set aside the projected ballista diagram and stepped out of it, after
using a holomarker to designate the point at which she had stopped her calculations.
With her concentration freed, she could devote her efforts to matters of true
importance. Her new idea excited her far more than shield calculations.
     Inspiration, ever mysterious, had directed her toward a revolutionary possibility. She
could almost see it working on an immense, staggering scale. A chill ran down her
spine.
     Although she could not quite solve the problems associated with her concept, she
felt in her bones that Holtzman's field-equation breakthrough might be employed for
something much more significant. While the scientist rested on his laurels and reveled in
his success, Norma wanted to go in a new direction.
     Having seen how the Holtzman Effect warped space in order to create a shield, she
was convinced that the fabric of space itself could be folded, creating a shortcut across
the universe. If such a feat could be accomplished, it might be possible to travel across
vast distances in the wink of an eye, connecting two discrete points without regard to
the separation between them.
   Folding space.
    But she could never develop such a stupendous concept with Tio Holtzman
restraining her at every turn. Norma Cenva would have to work in secret. .
   Quite obviously, our problems do not come from what we invent, but from how we
use our sophisticated toys. The difficulties stem not from our hardware or software, but
from ourselves.
   —BARBAROSSA, Anatomy of a Rebellion

    In a thousand years, humanity had never assembled such a .powerful, concentrated
military force. From their separate space navies, each League World dispatched ships
large and small: lumbering battleships, midsized cruisers, destroyers, escort ships,
hundreds of large and small shuttles, thousands of kindjals and patrol craft. Many of
them were armed with atomics… enough to sterilize Earth three times over.
    Segundo Xavier Harkonnen was given command of the operation that had been his
brainchild. Swelling with vessels and weapons and countless commanders from
planetary defense systems, militias, and home guards, the unified Armada gathered at
the orbital launch point above Salusa Secundus over the next three months. Prep crews
emblazoned each vessel's hull with the open-hand sigil of the League of Nobles.
    Munitions factories on Vertree Colony, Komider, and Giedi Prime had worked beyond
peak-production levels without rest, and the aggressive schedule would continue during
the long voyage of the expanded Armada, since the fleet would likely suffer devastating
losses against the Earth-Omnius. Replacements would always be needed—always, until
the war was done.

    Before the departure of the unified Armada, all remaining planetary forces
throughout the League Worlds were placed on high alert. Even if the culminating atomic
strike succeeded in smashing the thinking machines on Earth, other incarnations of the
computer evermind would likely retaliate.
    Annihilating the Earth-Omnius would be a much-needed victory for mankind,
signaling a new turn in the war. Long ago, free humanity had stockpiled atomic
warheads to threaten the thinking machines, but Om-nius and his cymek generals had
called the League's bluff. On Giedi Prime and elsewhere, humans had shown themselves
unwilling to unleash the doomsday devices, thus rendering the threat impotent.
    That was about to change.
    Now the vengeful Armada would prove that humans had relinquished all restraint.
Nuclear airbursts would generate electromagnetic pulses to obliterate the thinking
machines' exotic gelcircuitry. Henceforth, every Omnius would fear a wave of atomic
holocausts on the rest of the Synchronized Worlds.
    Radioactive fallout, a demon from the nightmares of human civilization, would
continue to damage the planet long after the battle was over. But that would fade with
time, and eventually Earth would recover and return to life—without thinking machines.
    AT MAXIMUM SUSTAINABLE speed, the unified Armada's journey took over a month.
Xavier wished there were some way to make the voyage faster. Even while outrunning
photons in space, traversing great distances between star systems required time, too
much of it.
    As the task force approached Earth's solar system, Segundo Harkon-nen shuttled
from one battleship to another, reviewing the troops and equipment for the upcoming
engagement. From the bridge of each vessel he spoke to groups of soldiers, inspiring
them, instructing them.
    The waiting was almost over.
    By now, just under half of the Armada ships had been equipped with Holtzman's
shield generators, and the atomics had been dispersed among both shielded and
unshielded vessels. Xavier had considered waiting for more, but finally decided that
further delay would cause greater harm than the installation of extra mechanisms could
justify. Besides, some conservative nobles from individual planetary fleets had
expressed skepticism about the unproven new technology- While those lords used
planetary scrambler shields to cover their major cities and moons, they preferred to use
reliable, proven technology in their warships. They knew the risks and accepted them.
    Xavier focused on maintaining his own determination through the end of the horrific
battle. After the attack on Earth, controversy would always be associated with his name,
but he would not allow it to deter him. Achieving victory required him to utterly destroy
the birthplace of the human race.
    With such a terrible feather in his cap, how could history not curse the name of
Xavier Harkonnen? Even if the machines were destroyed, no human would ever want to
live on Earth again.
    ON THE DAY before the powerful Armada reached Earth, Xavier summoned Vorian
Atreides to the bridge of the ballista flagship. Xavier did not entirely trust the former
Omnius collaborator, but kept his personal feelings separate from the needs of
humanity.
    Vor had made a compelling case that his firsthand technical knowledge of Earth-
Omnius's capabilities made him a valuable asset. "No one else knows as much about the
robotic forces. Even Iblis Ginjo doesn't have the background I do, since he was just a
construction crew boss. Besides, he prefers to remain on Salusa."
    Despite the blessing Vorian had received from the Sorceresses of Ros-sak and their
proven ability to expose lies, Xavier could not help distrusting the son of Agamemnon
for spending his life serving the machines. Was he a clever infiltrator sent by Omnius, or
could Vor truly provide intelligence that would allow the Armada to exploit vulnerabilities
on the Synchronized Worlds?
    Vorian had been thoroughly interrogated—even examined by doctors familiar with
implanted espionage devices—and everyone had proclaimed him clean. But Xavier
wondered if the machines had somehow anticipated all those precautions and cleverly
concealed something in his brain, a tiny, potent device with machine components that
could be triggered at a critical point and cause him to take some devastating action
against the League of Nobles?
   Serena had said that all humans must be freed from the oppression of thinking
machines. She wanted Xavier to start with this one man, by giving him a chance. In her
heart, she wanted to believe that any person, once exposed to the concepts of freedom
and individuality, would reject the robotic slavemasters and choose independence. And
when Serena asked it of him, Xavier could not refuse her.
   'All right, Vorian Atreides," he had said. "I will grant you the opportunity to prove
your worth—but under strict controls. You will be confined to certain areas, and
watched at all times."

    Vor had given him a wry smile. "I am used to being watched."
    Now the two men stood together on the flagship bridge. Xavier paced the deck,
hands clasped behind him and shoulders squared. He looked across empty space toward
the bright yellow home star, which grew larger every hour.
    Vor remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself and considering the star-
studded blackness. "I never thought I would return so soon. Especially not like this."
    'Are you afraid your father will be there?" Xavier asked.
    The dark-haired young man stepped closer to the broad window, staring at the
growing blue target planet. "If no humans survive on Earth, the Titans have little reason
to stay. They have probably been sent to other Synchronized Worlds by now." He
pursed his lips. "I hope the Earth-Omnius has not maintained a large neo-cymek force."
    'Why? Our firepower could destroy them just as easily."
    Vor gave him a wry glance. "Because, Segundo Harkonnen, thinking machines and
robotic ships are predictable, set in their ways. We know how they will respond.
Cymeks, on the other hand, are volatile and innovative. Machines with human minds.
Who knows what they might do?"
    'Just like humans," Xavier said.
    'Yes, but with the ability to cause much more destruction."
    With a grim smile, the Segundo turned to look at his turncoat companion. "Not for
long, Vorian." They were men of the same age, and haunted beyond their years. "After
today, nothing in the universe will match our ability to cause destruction."
    °
    THE ARMADA BATTLE group converged on Earth like a gathering storm. Pilots ran
across the interior decks to their individual ships, preparing to launch. Battleships and
destroyers spat out swarms of kindjals, bombers, and scout ships. Patrol craft and point
ships flew fast reconnaissance, verifying and updating the data provided by Vor
Atreides.
    The birthplace of humanity was a verdant sphere mottled with fleecy white clouds.
Xavier Harkonnen gazed at the remarkable world. Even infested with the scourge of
machines, it looked pristine, fragile, and vulnerable.
    Soon, though, Earth would be nothing more than a blackened, lifeless ball. In spite
of all he had said to convince skeptics and detractors, Xavier wondered how he could
ever consider such a victory acceptable.
    He drew a deep breath, not taking his eyes from the planet, which shimmered
through a thin veil of his tears. He had a duty to do.
   Xavier transmitted his order to the fleet. "Proceed with full-scale atomic
bombardment."
   Technology should have freed mankind from the burdens of life. Instead, it created
new ones.
   —TLALOC, A Time for Titans

   't'tn Earth, Omnius's perimeter sensors detected the invading force. The evermind
was astonished at the unpredictable audacity of the feral humans, as well as the sheer
number and firepower of the combined vessels. For centuries, the hrethgir had hidden
behind defensive barriers, afraid to venture into machine-controlled space. Why had no
computer projection or scenario anticipated this bold assault on the Synchronized
Worlds?
   Via screens and contact terminals dispersed around the city grid, Omnius spoke to
robots that were at work repairing damage from the recent abortive slave rebellion. He
would have liked to discuss strategy with Erasmus—who, despite his myriad flaws,
seemed to have some understanding of human irrationality. But the frustratingly
contrary robot was out of touch, fled to distant Corrin.

    Even his remaining Titans, who could occasionally explain human reactions, had
been sent away to less-stable worlds, preventing the spread of the revolt. Thus, the
evermind felt isolated and off-balance.
    Reviewing scanner readings, Omnius determined that the human vessels must be
loaded with nuclear warheads. Again, entirely unexpected! He calculated and
recalculated, and all the scenarios turned out badly for him. He felt the initial
glimmerings of what humans might have called "shocked disbelief."
    Since he could not disregard his own projections, the Earth-Omnius responded
accordingly. He launched robotic vessels in a full-scale defensive cordon to prevent the
League warships from breaking through to Earth. He dispersed a swarm of mechanical
watcheyes into orbit, to observe the engagement from all points of view. Through
separate subroutines, he ran more than five thousand alternate simulations, until he
was satisfied that he could choose the correct tactics for his robotic fleet.
    But Omnius did not yet know about Holtzman's shields.
    When the thinking machines fired explosives and kinetic projectiles, the front line of
Armada battleships simply shrugged off the counterattack. The blasts echoed harmlessly
through the vacuum of space. And the League vessels kept coming.
    Rebuffed, the robot ships regrouped and waited for modified orders, while Omnius's
internal gelcircuitry paths sizzled with his struggle to comprehend.
    The first hrethgir bombers streaked into the atmosphere, hundreds upon hundreds
of mismatched ships coming toward the surface. Each one of them carried an old-style
nuclear warhead.
    Omnius made new projections. For the first time, he considered the realistic odds of
his own destruction.
    INDEPENDENT AND DETERMINED, Vorian Atreides flew a small, shielded craft, one
of the Salusan kindjals with augmented weaponry. He carried no atomics himself—
Segundo Harkonnen did not trust him that far—but Vor could do his part to guard
against enemy ships and allow the warhead-laden bombers to complete their mission.

    This was quite different from his duties aboard the Dream Voyager.
    Segundo Harkonnen had wanted to keep him tucked safely out of the way aboard
the flagship, where Vor could provide tactical advice against the machines. But he had
begged for hands-on participation in the defeat of Omnius. As the son of Agamemnon,
Vor had already pro
    J3 T i an jn f 'I o e r i u n u i't't. c v i ™ i. Jinni-ijv,.
    vided exhaustive information on thinking-machine warships, their armor, their
integral weapons. Now it was time to put that knowledge to work.
    'Please," he had said to Xavier. "1 brought Serena back safely to you. If for no other
reason, won't you grant me my request?"
    The Segundo's stricken expression told Vor that Xavier still loved her deeply. The
officer had turned his back on Vor, as if to hide his emotions. "Take a ship, then. Get
yourself in the thick of the fighting… but come back alive. I don't think Serena could
tolerate losing you on top of all the other pain she has suffered." These were the first
kind words Vor had heard from this enigmatic man, the first time anyone had suggested
that Serena cared anything for him.
    Xavier finally looked over his shoulder and gave him a guarded smile. "Don't betray
my trust." Vor had sprinted to the ballista's bays and chosen a kindjal of his own…
    Now, the human strike force funneled toward Omnius's central computer complex.
The thinking machines hammered the dispersed Armada ships with suicidal
determination, destroying hundreds of unshielded bombers, patrol craft, and kindjals.
Some of the shields failed, overheated or poorly installed, and the battle grew more
furious. Vor flew in the thick of it.
    Then, in the midst of a free-for-all dogfight, Vorian saw a slower thinking-machine
ship rising up, escorted by a dense cluster of automated vessels. The solitary guarded
craft plowed through the swarm of Armada ships, avoiding direct confrontation.
    Trying to sneak away.
    Vor narrowed his gray-eyed gaze. At a time like this, why would a single robot ship
be outbound, heading into space? Omnius should have been drawing together all of his
resources. The young man's instincts told him that this lone vessel should not be
ignored.
    Trying to concentrate on the fight around him, Vor fired his projectile weapons.
Energy shells vaporized several robotic ships and disoriented others, allowing four more
Armada bombers to get through.
    All the while, high above him, the fleeing robot vessel continued out of the
atmosphere on an escape trajectory, leaving the great battle behind. What could
Omnius possibly be planning? What was that ship carrying? None of the other Armada
fighters took any notice of it.
    Vor knew he had to do something. This was vital—he could sense it in his gut.
     Segundo Harkonnen had given him strict orders to accompany the warhead-carrying
ships until they dropped their nuclear payloads. But things could change in the heat of
battle. Besides, he wasn't a machine, blindly following orders. He could innovate.
     As he continued to watch the vessel climb beyond the thinning ionosphere, he had a
sudden realization of what must be happening. It was an update ship, carrying a
complete copy of Earth-Omnius, the thoughts and data of the evermind up to the very
moment of the attack! It would include a comprehensive record and analysis of the
slave uprising and the orders to exterminate all humans.
     If such information were uploaded to other incarnations of Omnius, all Synchronized
Worlds would be warned! They could prepare defenses against future League attacks.
     Vor could not allow that to happen. "There's something I have to do," he transmitted
on the local channel to his nearby escorts. "I can't let that robot ship get away."
Abandoning the bombers under his protection, he swung his kindjal up and away,
breaking from his original course.
    Vor heard howls of outrage from the human captains he'd been assigned to guard.
"What are you doing?" A robotic defender surged into the gap and fired upon the
Armada ships.
     'It's an update ship! It carries a copy of Omnius." He raced farther away, just as two
robot vessels converged on the carriers Vor had been assigned to protect. His comrades
cursed him as the robots opened fire, making short work of the human vessels. But Vor
set his jaw, knowing his decision was morally and tactically right.
    Seeing his departure, other Armada ships shouted curses after him. "Coward!"
     'Traitor!"
     Resigned, Vor said, "I'll explain later." Then he switched off his corn-system so he
could concentrate on his quarry. His background with thinking machines would always
make humans think the worst of him. The prospect of censure and ill-will did not bother
him. He had a job to do.
     Within moments, Omnius's fighters had struck one of the forsaken bombers, but
fresh Armada escorts came in and shot two of the machine ships out of the sky. The
remaining bombers kept flying, on course.
     Earth's open sky was filled with the ion trails of large and small Armada ships sowing
nuclear warheads like kernels of grain. Robotic defenders targeted the falling atomics,
exploding them in the air and dispersing clouds of radioactive shrapnel. This foiled the
delicate detonator mechanisms and prevented nuclear chain reactions.
     Even so, some of the atomics should get through.
     AT THE HEIGHT of the battle, Earth-Omnius ran out of viable options. With the
Armada fleet spread like a swarm of killer insects, the robotic defenders sacrificed
themselves by careening into clusters of kindjals.
     To Segundo Harkonnen, it became painfully obvious that only those vessels
protected by Holtzman's shields had any chance of survival. A few of the systems had
failed, leading to the destruction of even the shielded ships. But there could be no
turning back now.
    The twenty largest Armada battleships hung in stationary orbit, dispatching wave
after wave of small attackers, emptying the stockpiles of League atomics. At the same
time, five destroyers descended to dump patterns of guided nuclear missiles. The wide
dispersal created enough coverage from overlapping blast pulses to assure that all
Omnius substations would be fried.
    In a last vengeful attack, Al projectiles converged on the huge bal-listas. Bombs with
computer minds, the projectiles were intent on reaching their programmed targets.
Ignoring the smaller bombers and kindjals, they looped back to intercept any evasive
trajectories the battleship captains might attempt, and disregarded defensive decoys
that were fired to draw the robots off.
    On the receiving end of the defensive volley, Xavier Harkonnen stood on the bridge
of his flagship, gripping the control rails, muttering a silent prayer to the genius of Tio
Holtzman. "Let's hope those overlapped shields hold! Hang on!"
    Six self-guided projectiles slammed at near-relativistic speeds into the ballista's
Holtzman barriers and detonated. But the shimmering shields held.
    Xavier's knees felt weak with relief. The battleship crew cheered.
    But around him, other Armada spacecraft—those without shields—did not fare so
well. Although the hodgepodge of League ships fired a constant stream of suppressant
shots, several AI projectiles broke through, vaporizing any unshielded human vessel in
their way. Even one of the protected ballistas suffered from vulnerable spots when two
of the small layered shields flickered, creating a chink in the armor. With the constant
pummeling from the thinking machines, several robot missiles broke through.

    Eleven of the largest battleships were vaporized into glowing wreckage, with all
hands lost. Only eight of the huge vessels, each one covered by Holtzman shields,
remained intact. A large percentage of the overall Armada fleet had already been
annihilated.
    Battered and shaken, Xavier watched the damage continue. He clenched his fists as
he issued firm orders, maintaining a cool voice for the sake of his troops. His fingers felt
sticky with the imagined blood of the hundreds of thousands of soldiers he had already
sacrificed on this terrible day.
    With sick anger, he watched Vorian Atreides flee the battlefield. At least the
damnable spawn of Agamemnon had taken only a single kind-jal, and the segundo
could not waste time or energy pursuing him. Back on Salusa, Xavier would bring the
deserter up on charges. If anyone made it back. Damn his treachery! Xavier had been
right about him all along.
    The thinking machines eliminated one League vessel after another, but Xavier kept
sending his fleet forward. After so much effort and loss, he could not withdraw. Failure
would bankrupt the human soul and lead to the end of freedom in the Galaxy.
    It appeared to be a rout, in the machines' favor. Only a fraction of the attacking
human force had managed to reach their target points and drop cargo loads of nuclear
bombs across the continents of Earth.
    Then the first atomic detonations went off.
    VOR RACED UPWARD and away with the update ship always in his sights.
Acceleration pressed him against the pilot's seat and forced his lips against his teeth. His
eyes watered, his muscles stretched taut. But he did not relent. The lone Omnius vessel
had already left the atmosphere and was streaking away from the unified Armada
forces.
    Below, multiple atomics began to detonate in a succession of dazzling nuclear
flowers that illuminated the sky, sterilized the continents, and washed over every
gelcircuit…
    Vor increased his kindjal's speed and considered surprise tactics, knowing the update
ship ahead of him would be captained by an inflexible robot. He was more than a match
for any thinking machine's methodical imagination.
    Both ships pulled away from the embattled Earth. All across the dwindling blue-
green sphere behind them, white-and-yellow fireclouds erupted in flashes that hurt Vor's
eyes. The major nuclear storm across the skies and land masses must have diverted the
Armada's attention from him. Nobody saw the vital importance of what he was trying to
do.
    The update ship climbed above the ecliptic, constantly increasing speed. The robot
captain could endure accelerations that no human could survive. Nevertheless, Vorian
shot after it, at the edge of consciousness, barely able to breathe against the crushing
force. His League kindjal was faster than his prey—a mere update-class ship—and he
closed the gap. With hands that seemed to weigh hundreds of kilograms, he powered
up his ship's weapons.

     In the battle for Earth he had vaporized a dozen machine fighters, but in this case
Vor meant only to cripple the targeted vessel. As an update ship, it would have only
minimal armor, like the Dream Voyager. He intended to stop the vessel in space and
board it.
     As soon as his target came within range, high above the solar system and at the
edge of the diffuse cometary halo, the fleeing robot captain went through a predictable
set of maneuvers.
     Vor opened fire. His precision shots damaged the exhaust ports so that the engines
began to build toward an overload. Unable to properly vent its waste heat, the vessel
would either explode or shut down.
     As the wounded ship lurched forward, decelerating, Vor shot two warning projectiles
across its bow. The shockwaves knocked the update ship off course. "Stand down and
prepare to be boarded!"
     The robot responded with surprising sarcasm. "I am aware of the various bodily
orifices humans possess. Therefore, I invite you to take a power tool and insert it where
the—

    'Old Metalmind?" Vor cried. "Let me come aboard. It's Vorian Atrei-des."
    'That cannot be true. Vorian Atreides would never fire upon me."
    Vor transmitted his image, not surprised that Seurat would be captaining another
update ship, since Omnius did not vary in his routines. Seurat's mirror-smooth oval face
emitted a colorful curse that Vor had often used after losing a military game.
    Vor linked his craft with the damaged vessel. Knowing the risk, he entered via the
main access hatch and marched through the confined interior toward the command
bridge.
   My definition of an army? Why, tame hitters, of course!
   —GENERAL AGAMEMNON, Memoirs

    From deep within his widely distributed citadels of power, the Omnius evermind
watched over Earth. His mobile and stationery watcheyes recorded every facet of the
bold human attack. He saw the tide of battle turn.
    Omnius studied the trajectories of the thousands of spacecraft that came in, counted
the numbers that his robotic defenders destroyed.
    Even so, some of the atomics got through.
    With a separate subset of calculational routines, Omnius maintained a tally of the
thinking-machine vessels he had lost. Individually, those robot ships were expendable
and could easily be replaced from stock materials and designs. Fortunately, Seurat's
update ship had broken through the descending masses of hrethgir vessels and escaped
outward into the solar system. His important thoughts and decisions would be
distributed among the Synchronized Worlds.
    In spite of the sheer computational ability devoted to the question, Omnius still had
not found a solution to the crisis by the time the first atomic warheads detonated above
him. Nuclear air bursts sent out electromagnetic pulses that scoured the air and surface
of Earth. Waves of energy spread, and in a flash obliterated every gelcircuitry network
and thinking-machine mind, as if they were gasoline-soaked tissue paper touched by a
spark.
    Earth-Omnius was in the midst of an important thought when the shockwave
consumed him.
    IN THE PAST, the wisecracking robot captain had carried no private weapons. Vor,
however, carried an electronic scrambler, a short-range circuitry-damaging device
designed for hand-to-hand combat against thinking machines.
    'So, you've come back to join me, after all," Seurat said. "Bored with your humans
already? They aren't as fascinating as I am, are they?" He simulated a raucous laugh
that Vor had heard many times before. "Did you know that your father considers you a
traitor? Perhaps you now feel guilty for deactivating me, stealing the Dream Voyager
and—

    'None of that, old Metalmind," Vor said. "This is another game you have lost. I can't
allow you to deliever that update."
    Seurat chuckled again. "Ah, humans and their silly fantasies."
    'Nevertheless, we persist in our hopeless causes." Vor raised the electronic
scrambler. "And sometimes we win."
    Seurat said, "You were my friend, Vorian. Remember all the jokes I told you? In fact,
I have a new one. If you make a cymek out of a mule's brain, what do you—

   Vor fired the electronic scrambler. Static arcs thrashed out like thin ropes, wrapping
around Seurat's flexible body core of organic-polymer skin and reinforced fibers. The
robot shuddered, as if from a seizure. Vor had adjusted the settings so that the burst
shut down Seurat's systems, but did not destroy his brain core. That would have been
tantamount to murder.
    'The joke is on you, old friend," he said. "I'm sorry."
    While Seurat remained frozen at his captain's station, Vor searched the update ship
until he found the sealed gelsphere, a complete reproduction of every thought Earth-
Omnius had recorded just before the Armada attack.
    Holding the shimmering compact data sphere, Vor took one last look at his stricken
robot friend, then left the crippled update ship, sealing it behind him. He could not bring
himself to destroy it. In any case, the ship was no longer a threat to humanity.
    In his kindjal, Vor pulled away, leaving the thinking-machine vessel to drift in the
vacuum of space, powerless and lost. It would wander far away from Earth and into the
deep freeze of the solar system, to be lost forever in the cometary cloud.
    IN THE AFTERMATH, while Earth glowed with simmering atomic fires, Segundo
Harkonnen gathered the mismatched remnants of his assault force. They had suffered
tremendous losses, much higher than they had anticipated.
    'It will take months just to scribe the names of those who sacrificed their lives here,
Cuarto Powder," Xavier said to his adjutant. "And much longer to mourn them."
    'All enemy ships and facilities are destroyed, sir," Powder responded. "We have
accomplished our objective."
    'Yes, Jaymes." He felt no elation over the victory. Only sadness. And anger toward
Vorian Atreides.
    When Agamemnon's son finally returned from deep space, the se-gundo dispatched
a squadron of kindjals to escort him back under heavy guard. Seething, he shut down
the Holtzman shields so the kindjals could bring in Vorian's ship. Many of the fighter
pilots wanted to shoot him down as soon as his ship came within range, but Xavier
forbade it. "We'll put the bastard on trial for desertion, perhaps treason."
    Segundo Harkonnen strode into the docking bay on the ballista's lowest level, to the
inside deck where the ships were being brought in with slide cranes and extruding
hooks, all manually controlled by human operators.
    The lean, dark-haired Vorian stepped boldly out of his battered vessel, looking
surprisingly triumphant. The audacity of the man! Uniformed pilots surrounded Vor and
brusquely checked him for weapons. The turncoat appeared irritated by their roughness,
and protested when they took a package away from him, along with his sidearm.
    Amazingly, his face lit up as soon as he saw Xavier. "So Earth-Omnius is destroyed?
The attack was a success?"
    'No thanks to you," Xavier said. "Vorian Atreides, I order you con fined to the brig
for the duration of our return to Salusa Secundus. There, you will face a League tribunal
for your cowardly actions."
    But the young man did not look frightened. With an expression of disbelief, he
pointed to the package that one of the guards had. "Perhaps we should show the
tribunal that as well?"
    Vor's gray eyes were wary, but he grinned as Xavier unwound the plazwrap and
popped open the seal to reveal a metallic ball that seemed made of gelatinous silver.
    'It's a complete copy of Omnius," Vor said. "I intercepted and neutralized an update
ship that was about to escape." He shrugged. "If I had allowed it to get away, all the
other everminds would have received the complete intelligence of this attack. In
exchange for all of our dead, Omnius would have lost nothing, and the other
Synchronized Worlds would know about our Holtzman shields and our tactics. This
entire operation would have been pointless. But I stopped the update ship."
    Xavier looked at Vor, stunned. The surface of the orb was pliable to his touch, as if
made of living tissue. The League had never imagined such a boon. This alone was
worth the gigantic attack on Earth. The horrific loss of life. If Vor was telling the truth.
    'I'm sure League intelligence officers will have a field day with this," Vor said,
beaming. "Not to mention"—he added with a quirk of his eyebrow—"what a valuable
hostage Omnius will make for us."

    THE BATTERED SHIPS of the unified Armada departed from the solar system, which
was now devoid of murderous thinking machines.
    Vor took one last look at wounded Earth, remembering the lush blue-and-green
landscape and wispy clouds. This had once been a fabulously beautiful world, the
birthplace of the human race, a showpiece of natural wonders.
    But by the time Xavier ordered the fleet to set course for home, the planet was
nothing more than a radioactive slag heap. It would take a long time for anything to
ever live there again.
   The logic which is sound for a finite system is not necessarily sound for an infinite
universe. Theories, like living things, do not always scale up.
   —ERASMUS, secret records (from the Omnius databank)

    C|n Corrin, the robot's villa followed a similar pattern to " that of its counterpart on
Earth, with both habitat and laboratory complexes designed by the creative mind of
Erasmus. The slave pens behind the tall house were enclosed by high sandstone walls
and wrought-iron gates, all topped by electro-barbs and energy-spike fields.
    It felt very much like home to him. Erasmus looked forward to beginning work.
    The enclosures teemed with humanity, nearly a thousand sweating bodies
performing exercise routines beneath a red-giant sun that filled the sky like a huge
bloodstain. It was a sweltering afternoon, but the slaves did not rest or complain,
knowing that the robots would only punish them if they did.
    The erudite thinking machine observed their daily routines from a bell tower on the
south quadrant of his property, a favorite spot of his. Down in a pen, two old men
collapsed under the glaring heat, and one of their downtrodden companions rushed to
help them up. Thus, Erasmus counted three punishable infractions: the two who
faltered and the good Samaritan. Reasons were of no importance.
    Erasmus had noted that the slaves grew increasingly agi tated when he did not
respond to their transgressions with immediate discipline. He found it amusing to let the
anticipation and fear grow within them, and then note how agitation caused them to
make even more mistakes. Human behavior was the same on Corrin as on Earth, and
he was glad to continue his experiments and studies without interruption.
    He pressed a button, causing automatic weapons to fire capriciously into one of the
pens, killing or injuring dozens of slaves. Confused and panicked, the survivors tried to
get away, but had nowhere to run. The fences were high and electrified. Some of the
captives pushed their fellows in front of them for protection, while others played dead or
hid under bodies. He continued to fire, but this time aimed so that he didn't hit any
more of them.
    Yes, it was very gratifying to be continuing his research once more. He still had so
much to learn.
    An hour passed with no more gunfire, and people began to move around again,
more cautiously than before. They pushed the bodies to one side and huddled together,
not realizing what was going on. Some of them became openly defiant, shouting in the
direction of the automatic weapons and waving their fists. With careful settings,
Erasmus shot their arms off, one by one, and watched the victims writhe on the ground.
Even the bravest humans could be reduced to bleeding, blithering fools.
    'I see you are playing with your toys again," the Corrin-Omnius said, from a viewing
screen to the left of Erasmus in the bell tower.
    'Everything I do is for a purpose," Erasmus said. "I am learning more and more."
    The Corrin-Omnius did not know how badly the robot's wager and the loyalty test
had turned out with his counterpart on Earth. Erasmus had learned a significant lesson
from the wildfire of rebellion he had inadvertently fostered, but the data had raised a
host of new questions. He did not want the evermind to engage in a full-scale war of
eradication, committing genocide against all human captives on the Synchronized
Worlds—even if he had to discreetly keep certain subsets of information to himself.

    Even if he had to lie.
    A fascinating prospect. Erasmus was not accustomed to thinking in such terms.
    The main gate swung open, and robotic guards removed the bodies of the dead and
injured, then prodded a new group of slaves into the pens. One of the newcomers, a
large sallow-skinned man, whirled abruptly and tackled the nearest robot, clawing at the
structural fibers and trying to disrupt the protected neurelectric circuitry. Bloodying his
fingers to break a seal, the slave grabbed a handful of mobility components, causing the
robot to stagger. Two other robots fell on the man, and in a macabre burlesque of what
the slave had done, one of them slammed steel fingers into his chest, cracking through
skin, cartilage, and the sternum to rip his heart out.
    'They are no more than stupid animals," Omnius said, derisively. "Animals cannot
plot, scheme, and deceive," Erasmus said. "These slaves no longer seem so complacent.
I detect seeds of rebellion, even here."
    'No revolt could ever succeed on Corrin," said the voice of Omnius.
    'One can never know everything, dear Omnius—not even you. And that is why we
must remain eternally curious. While I can estimate crowd behavior to a reasonable
extent, I cannot consistently predict what any given human will do next. This is a
supreme challenge."

   'It is self-evident that humans are a mass of contradictions. No model can reliably
explain their behavior."
   Erasmus gazed down at the slave pens. "Still, they are our enemies, and we must
understand them. Only in that way can we assure our dominance."
     The robot felt a strange surge in his sensory simulators. Anger? Frustration? On
impulse, he ripped a small tympanic bell out of its housing in the tower and hurled it
against the floor with a discordant clang. He found the sound… unsettling.
     'Why did you damage that bell?" Omnius asked. "I have never seen you commit so
unusual an act before."
     Erasmus further assessed his feelings. He had seen humans do such things,
releasing pent-up emotions in the form of a tantrum. From his perspective, though, he
felt no sense of satisfaction. "It was… just one of my experiments."
     Erasmus still had much to learn in his quest to absorb the essence of human nature,
which he hoped to use as a springboard from which machine sophistication would rise
even higher, reaching the zenith of existence. He gripped the tower railing with
powerful, steely fingers, breaking off a chunk and letting it tumble to the pavement
below. "I shall explain it to you later."
     After observing his slaves for another moment, he turned back to the screen. "It
would not be wise to exterminate all humans. Instead, through more intense
subjugation methods, we could break their willingness and ability to resist."
     The evermind, always enjoying the debate with Erasmus, delighted in catching a
flaw. "But if we do that, Erasmus, are we not changing the fundamental character of the
humans you wish to study? Is the observer not affecting the experiment?"
     'An observer always affects the experiment. But I would rather change the subjects
than destroy them. I will make my own decisions with respect to my humans here on
Corrin."
     Omnius finally said, "I do not understand you any more than I understand humans."
     'I know that, Omnius. It will always be your weakness."
     The robot looked fondly down at his enslaved humans as his guards carried off the
corpses and the injured. Erasmus thought of all the wonderful things he had learned
from this species… and how much more he could discover, if granted the opportunity.
Their collective lives were balanced on a tightrope over a dark, bottomless chasm, and
Erasmus stood with them. He would not give them up easily.
     On the bright side, he saw that in his absence, two more sets of twins had been
born. As always, the possibilities were endless.
     Human life is not negotiable.
     —SERENA BUTLER

    In honor of the bittersweet nuclear victory on Earth, the League Worlds hosted a
massive celebration for their returning heroes and a touching farewell for their fallen
dead.
    The battered ships had limped back after their long voyage, while faster scouts and
couriers raced back to Salusa Se-cundus bearing the news and letting the League know
what to expect when the Armada arrived, scarred and diminished.
    But the Earth-Omnius was destroyed, and the thinking machines had suffered a
terrible blow. They clung to their triumph.
    In the hot and humid arena, Vorian Atreides felt sticky with perspiration in his dress
uniform. No matter the weather, the people would want to see him and Segundo
Harkonnen in full regalia. Xavier stood beside him now on the reviewing o
    stand as Viceroy Butler and Serena quieted the crowd, demanding their full
attention.
    The two men—who had made their peace with each other on the long journey back
to Salusa Secundus—stood stiff-backed in the shade of a covered viewing platform,
along with other dignitaries. Iblis Ginjo, dressed in fine clothes and proud of his
increasingly influential position, also sat in the gilded VIP

     area.
     'For leading our united League forces on the mission to Earth, a landmark victory
over the thinking machines," Viceroy Butler said, holding a ribbon and medal high, "for
making the difficult decisions and accepting the necessary challenge, I award the
Parliamentary Medal of Honor to the League's most distinguished soldier, Segundo
Xavier Harkonnen. It is the highest award we can bestow, and we do so with heartfelt
gratitude."
     Three hundred thousand spectators erupted in deafening cheers. Many of these
people had lost children, friends, and parents in the Battle of Earth. In silence, Vor
remembered how many Armada fighters had fallen during the atomic sterilization of the
planet. With his peripheral vision, he saw Xavier Harkonnen's eyes glisten from the
emotion of the moment as the Viceroy draped the ribbon over his bowed head. Soon
there would be more battles to fight, more machine forces to face.
     Serena removed a second medal, different in design. "Next, we honor a more
unlikely hero, a man raised by the thinking machines and blinded to their crimes. But he
has seen the truth and cast his lot with free humanity. The vital tactical information he
provided about Earth's defenses helped to assure our victory. In the heat of the battle,
his fast thinking thwarted Omnius's plan to escape, and provided the League with an
invaluable tool for humanity's continuing fight." Smiling at him, Serena stepped forward.
Vor held his head high. "We award Vorian Atreides not only with the Exemplary Service
Medal, but also present him with the honorary rank of tercero in the League Armada."
     On cue, a squadron of antique aircraft and spacecraft zoomed overhead. Proud
mechanics and historians had reconditioned the old vessels for the aerial show. Xavier
and Vor saluted the sky as the pilots tipped their wings, and the crowd thundered its
approval.
     Iblis Ginjo, savoring his celebrity status before so many spectators, pushed his way
close and shouted into the public address system: "These fine pilots are our future
fighters of the Jihad. The thinking machines will not stand a chance!"
     Wearing a preoccupied smile, Serena Butler pinned ribbons on a host of other
heroes. She seemed wrapped up in thoughts of the past and of the insurmountable
challenges humanity still needed to face. She seemed stronger now than ever before,
but distant.
     Vor stole glances at Xavier, saw the love for her on his ruddy face and the pain from
knowing that they could never be together. Yet even Xavier's marriage to Octa gave Vor
little chance to win Serena's heart. He recalled the first time he had seen her at the villa
of Erasmus, how lovely and strong she had been, and defiant. Now, she seemed to have
passed beyond those earlier troubles, to concern herself with impending crises that few
people could understand. Deep inside, Serena seemed to be developing a different,
awe-inspiring power.
    Concluding her responsibilities in the victory celebration, Serena left the podium. She
approached both Vor and Xavier as she departed, already intent on the plans that
clamored in her mind. "I need to speak with both of you." Her eyes were bright but
hard; her voice allowed no room for argument. "Come to the City of Introspection at
sunset."
    Vor and Xavier exchanged surprised looks, then nodded in unison.
    THE TWO FORMER adversaries dined together, sharing a bottle of Salusan shiraz
and tiptoeing around the subject that weighed so heavily on their minds and hearts.
Neither of them could guess what Serena intended to say.
    As pastel oranges and pinks of sunset tinted the sky, the two League officers
traveled into the hills and entered the high gates of the quiet compound. Inside, the
residents moved from building to building, activating luminors on the outside walls.
    Serena stood waiting for them just inside, and Vor thought she looked rejuvenated,
with more color in her features. His heart beat rapidly.
    'Thank you for coming." She took each of them by the hand and led them along a
gem-gravel path to an open garden. "We can talk here uninterrupted. Indeed, I have
found this to be a place full of possibilities… but without politics. Here, I can do what
needs to be done."
    In a central area, surrounded by boxwood topiaries, water trickled from an
ornamental pool, dribbling over a rock ledge and into another basin. Insects and
nocturnal amphibians had already begun to practice their evening symphonies.
    At the edge of the pool, three wooden chairs faced a small waterfall. Vor wondered
if many people came here to contemplate, or if Serena had brought the chairs specially
for this meeting. Serena crossed her hands on her lap and smiled as her guests sat
awkwardly on either side of her.
    She met Vorian's gaze first. It seemed like a long time since their first meeting at the
robot's villa—with Vor arrogant and proud of his trustee position among the thinking
machines. His appearance did not seem to have changed at all. He was so youthful-
looking.

    In contrast, she noted fine lines starting to age Xavier Harkonnen's face. Though he
was young, he had endured a great deal of stress and tragedy, and she felt sympathy
for him. Years had passed since they had made love in the meadow, and it seemed like
a different lifetime. They were not the same people.
    So much had taken place; so many millions of lives had been lost. But she and these
men were survivors.
    It was time to tell them.
    'I know your feelings, but both of you must forget your love for me," she said. "We
are about to embark on a war unlike any other." She rose from her chair and stood at
the edge of the pool, not taking her gaze from them. "But you must do something for
me. Each of you in your own way."
    Her eyes brightened with intense sparks of determination. "Go into the League War
Room and study the star maps of the Synchronized Worlds, the Unallied Planets, the
League Worlds. In that vast expanse, you will find only two planets that we have ever
won back from Omnius. Giedi Prime and Earth. They must not be the last."
    As darkness fell and the luminors grew brighter around the perimeter of the
compound, the secluded area at the waterfall and the pond remained engulfed in
thickening shadows. Even the frogs and insects quieted, as if they were listening to the
noises of the night, constantly on the alert for danger.
    'Xavier, Vorian—you two must rededicate yourselves to the fight," Serena said. "Do it
for me." Her voice was like a chill wind across the galaxy. Vor saw now that her passion
had not died within her, but had merely been redirected with a greater intensity toward
a much vaster goal. "Our Jihad is righteous, and the evil machines must fall, no matter
how much blood it costs us. Win back every planet, one by one. For humanity, and for
me."

   Xavier nodded solemnly and repeated something Iblis Ginjo had said to him,
"Nothing is impossible."
   'Not for any of us," Vor said. Blinking away the stinging in his eyes, he smiled at her.
"And especially not for you, Serena Butler."
   GLOSSARY OF THE BUTLERIAN JIHAD
   Abdel—old Zensunni man on Arrakis

   Agamemnon—one of the original Twenty Titans, cymek general, father of Vorian

   Alexander—one of the original Twenty Titans

   Alüd—young Poritrin slave, friend of Ishmael alloyglas—transparent, extremely tough
material, often used as armor

   IV Anbus—Unallied Planet

   Aquim—human tender of Cogitor Eklo

   Arkov, Rell—charter member of League of Nobles

   Armada—League Armada

   Arrakis—desert world, Unallied Planet

   Arrakis City—main spaceport and town on Arrakis

   Assembly Hall—governmental building in Zimia

   Atreides, Vorian—son of Agamemnon, raised on Earth under thinking machine rule

  Ajax—cymek, considered the most brutal of the original Titans baliset—ancient
musical instrument developed during the heyday of the Old Empire
    Ballads of the Long March—old legends and songs telling of early human exodus and
resistance during the initial Time of Titans ballista—largest battleship created by Salusan
Militia

   Barbarossa—one of the original Titans, programmer of aggressive computer systems

   Becca the Finite—Sister at City of Introspection

   Beetle—constellation seen from Arrakis

   Bludd, Favo—ancestor of Niko Bludd

   Bludd, Frigo—ancestor of Niko Bludd

   Bludd, Lord Niko—leader of Poritrin

   Bludd, Sajak—first Poritrin leader to advocate slavery bristleback—wild boar native to
Salusa Secundus

   Buddallah—mysterious deity of the Zensunni religion

   Buddislam—core religion of Zensunnis and Zenshütes burrhorse—pack animal from
Earth

   Butler, Faykan—primero of the Jihad

   Butler, Fredo—Serena's younger brother, died from a blood disease

   Butler, Livia—Serena's mother, abbess of the City of Introspection

   Butler, Manion—Viceroy of the League of Nobles

    Butler, Manion—son of Serena Butler and Xavier Harkonnen, and grandson of
Viceroy Manion Butler

   Butler, Octa—younger sister of Serena Butler

   Butler, Serena—daughter of Viceroy Manion Butler

   Buzzell—Unallied Planet, source of soostones

   Caladan—ocean world, Unallied Planet

   Camio—Sorceress of Rossak, one of Zufa's trainees

   Cenva, Norma—dwarf daughter of Zufa Cenva, mathematical genius

   Cenva, Zufa—powerful Sorceress of Rossak
   Chandler pistol—projectile weapon that shoots sharp crystal fragments

   Chiry, Cuarto—member of Salusan Militia

   Chusuk—League World, known for musical instruments

   Chusuk, Emi—great composer from the latter days of the Old Empire

   City of Introspection—monastery-style religious and philosophical retreat on Salusa

   Cogitor—disembodied brain, similar to a cymek, devoted to contemplating esoteric
questions

   Corrin—Synchronized World cuarto—fourth rank in League Armada cymek—
"machines with human minds," disembodied brains inside mechanical bodies

   Dante—one of the original Titans, skilled in bureaucratic manipulation

   Dhartha, Naib—leader of Zensunni tribe on Arrakis

   Dragoon—guard force on Poritrin

   Dream Voyager—update ship captained by Seurat driftbarge—slow zeppelin
transportation system on Poritrin

   Ebbin—slave boy on Poritrin

   Ebrahim—treacherous former friend of Selim's

   Ecaz—Unallied Planet

    Eklo—Cogitor of Earth electrafluid—bluish life-support liquid for Cogitors and
cymeks, also acts as fluid circuitry evermind—all-encompassing intelligent computer
system fernfibers—Rossak fabric flowmetal—metallic, sensor-laden skin material used by
robots Freer, Ohan—human crew boss serving thinking machines on Earth gelcircuitry—
sophisticated fluid-crystalline electronics that form the basis of thinking machine neural
networks

   Giedi City—main industrial and government city on Giedi Prime

    Giedi Prime—planet in League of Nobles, rich in resources and industrial capability,
ruled by a Magnus

   Giedi Prime Home Guard—local defensive military on Giedi Prime

    Ginaz—planet in League of Nobles, mostly water; population lives on the scattered
islands in an archipelago
   Ginjo, Iblis—charismatic human work leader on Earth glowglobe—mobile illumination
source driven by residual energy from its component suspensor field. Developed by
Norma Cenva on Poritrin glowpanel—long-lasting stationary light source

   Glyffa—old woman on Arrakis, foster-mother to Selim

   Grogyptian—extravagant Old Empire architectural style

   Hagal—planet in League of Nobles, known for mineral resources, ruled by a County
General

   Hall of Parliament—governmental building in Zimia

   Hannem, Ryx—slaver, Keedair's copilot

   Harkonnen, Katarina—Xavier's mother, killed by thinking machines near Hagal

   Harkonnen, Piers—Xavier's older brother, killed by thinking machines near Hagal

   Harkonnen, Ulf—Xavier's father, killed by thinking machines near Hagal

   Harkonnen, Xavier—officer in Salusan Militia and League Armada

   Harmonthep—Unallied Planet, source of slaves

   Hecate—one of the original Twenty Titans, lover of Ajax, "resigned" and departed
from the Empire not long before the Omnius takeover

   Heoma—powerful Sorceress of Rossak, one of Zufa's trainees hollownut—Rossak
nut, used for carving

   Holtzman, Tio—genius inventor on Poritrin

   hrethgir—derogatory term for "human vermin"

    Hrethgir Rebellions—first uprisings of enslaved humans against thinking machines,
particularly cymeks. Major one occurred on Walgis, and was brutally crushed by Ajax
irongourd—Rossak gourd Isana—primary river on Poritrin Ishmael—young slave taken
from Harmonthep Ix—planet in League of Nobles javelin—mid-sized model of League
Armada destroyer Jayther, Vilhelm—original human name of the Titan Barbarossa Jibb,
Pinquer—messenger from Giedi Prime

    Juno—cymek female, one of the original Titans, Agamemnon's lover Kaitain—
peripheral League World Keedair, Tuk—Tlulaxa slaver and flesh merchant kindjal—fast,
small fighter ship in League Armada Kirana III-—League World Komider—industrial
League World
    Kralizec—name of the final struggle, as predicted by Buddislam Kwyna—Cogitor
dwelling in the City of Introspection League of Nobles—government of free humans
League Armada—space navy designed to protect League Worlds League Parliament—
governmental body of League of Nobles League Worlds—signatory planets to League of
Nobles charter Linne, Serena—false name used by Serena Butler after her capture Lords
Council—government body on Poritrin Magnus—political title on Giedi Prime Mahmad—
Naib Dhartha's son Manresa, Bovko—first League Viceroy Meach, Primero Vannibal—
commander of Salusan Militia milkbug—edible arachnid from Harmonthep Moulay, Bel—
Zenshüte religious leader Narakobe, Pitcairn—League military philosopher neo-cymek—
later generations of cymeks, created from humans who willingly serve Omnius
neurelectronics—delicate circuits used in robots Old Metalmind—Vorian Atreides's
nickname for Seurat Omnius—computer evermind, controlling all thinking machines
O'Mura, Nivny—one of the founders of the League of Nobles optic threads—
sophisticated eye sensors used by robots osthmir tubers—edible root on Poritrin

   Parhi, Julianna—original human name of Titan Juno

   Paristeel—metal-polymer alloy used in heavy construction

   Parmentier—Synchronized World

   Paterson, Brigit—engineer on Serena's commando team

   Pincknon—League World plascrete—construction material

   Platinum River—river on Parmentier, source of prized salmon

   Poritrin—League World, home of Tio Holtzman

   Powder, Jaymes—member of Salusan Militia; later, adjutant to Xavier

   Harkonnen primero—highest rank in League Armada qaraa eggs—edible eggs from
marsh birds on Harmonthep Relicon—League World Reticulus—Cogitor Richese—League
World Rico—member of Salusan Militia Rossak—planet in League of Nobles, home of
Sorceresses, source of numerous drugs

   Rucia—Sorceress of Rossak, one of Zufa's trainees Salusa Secundus—capital world of
the League of Nobles Salusan Militia—local military based on Salusa Secundus
secondary—one of the attendant monks that serve the Cogitors segundo—secondary
rank in League Armada Selim—young exile on Arrakis

   Seneca—League World, corrosive atmosphere, ruled by a Patriarch Sentinel Rock—
rock formation on Arrakis Seurat—independent robot, captain of the Dream Voyager
sexto—sixth and lowest rank in the League Armada Shaitan—Satan Shakkad—Old
Imperial chemist, known as "the Wise," first to study
    Arrakis spice Sheol—The domain of eternal damnation in Zensunni tradition, a fiery
subterranean region of unimagined horrors Silin—Sorceress of Rossak, one of Zufa's
trainees Skouros, Andrew—Agamemnon's original name in the Old Empire slarpon—
scaly jungle creature from Rossak

   Songs of the Long Trek—Zensunnni oral history

   Souci—Unallied Planet, source of slaves, home of Ebbin

    Starda—riverport, capital city of Poritrin stasis coffins—suspended-animation slave
transport system used by Tlu-laxa flesh merchants

   Suk, Dr. Raj id—innovative battlefield surgeon in Butlerian Jihad

   Sumi, Magnus—elected leader of Giedi Prime suspensor—gravity-nullifying effect
based on Holtzman's original shield design, modified by Norma Cenva on Poritrin

   Synchronized Worlds—planets under the control of Omnius

   Taina—Ishmael's cousin, villager on Harmonthep

   Tamerlane—one of the original Twenty Titans

   Tantor, Emil—Xavier's foster father

   Tantor, Lucille—Xavier's foster mother

   Tantor, Vergyl—Xavier's young foster brother

    Tanzerouft—deep desert on Arrakis tercero—third-level rank in League Armada
thinking machine—overall term for robots, computers, and cymeks arrayed against
humanity thoughtrodes—sensors used by cymeks

     Time of Titans—the century of tyrant rulers who overthrew the Old Empire, living
first as humans and then as cymeks. The Time of Titans ended when the newborn
Omnius evermind took over all systems and effected his own rule

   Tirbes—Sorceress of Rossak, one of Zufa's trainees

   Titans—original tyrants who conquered the Old Empire

   Tlaloc—one of the original Titans, the visionary who first inspired the revolt

   Tlulax—Unallied Planet in Thalim system, known for providing slaves and biological
material
    Tlulaxa—people of Tlulax, known as slavers and flesh merchants turtlebugs—sweet-
tasting insects in the marshes of Harmonthep

   Twenty Titans—the group of warlords who overthrew the Old Empire

   Ularda—Synchronized World

   Unallied Planets—outlying worlds that have not formally joined the League of Nobles
vabalone—colorful shell, native to Buzzell

   Venport, Aurelius—Rossak businessman, mate of Zufa Cenva

   Vertree Colony—League World, heavily industrialized

   Viceroy—leader of League of Nobles

    Walgis—a Synchronized World, site of First Hrethgir Rebellions watcheyes—mobile
electronic eyes used by Omnius

   Weyop—Ishmael's grandfather

   Wibsen, Ort—aging space commander, leader of Serena's mission to Giedi Prime

   Wilby, Quinto Vaughn—member of Salusan Militia

   Winter Sun Room—chamber in Butler manor house

   Wormrider—name taken by Selim

   Xerxes—cymek, one of the Twenty Titans, responsible for machine takeover

   Yardin—Unallied Planet

   Yo, Amia—kitchen slave of Erasmus

   Young, Cuarto Steff—officer in Salusan Militia

   Zanbar—League World, prominent slave market

   Zensunni—Buddislamic sect, generally docile

   Zenshüte—Buddislamic sect, generally more violent than Zensunnis

   Zimia—cultural and governmental center on Salusa Secundus