Herbert, Brian & Anderson, Kevin - The Machine Crusade

LEGENDS OF DUNE

THE MACHINE CRUSADE

The Dune Novels by Frank Herbert

DUNE

dune MESSIAH

children of dune

god emperor of dune

heretics of dune

chapterhouse: dune

Prelude to Dune by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

HOUSE ATREIDES

HOUSE HARKONNEN

HOUSE CORRINO

Legends of Dune

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THE BUTIERIAN JIHAD THE MACHINE CRUSADE *THE BATTLE OF

CORRIN

* forthcoming

Legends of DUNE

THE MACHINE CRUSADE

Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson

Hodder & Stoughton copyright © 2003 by Herbert Enterprises LLC

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Hodder and Stoughton

Published simultaneously in paperback in 2003 by Hodder and Stoughton

A division of Hodder Headline

The right of Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson to be identified as the Authors

of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior

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written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of

binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real

persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN o 340 82333 X Hardback ISBN o 340 82334 8 Trade Paperback

Typeset in Scala by Hewer Text Ltd, Edinburgh

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Ltd, Chatham, Kent

Hodder and Stoughton

A division of Hodder Headline

Euston Road

London NWi 3BH

To PENNY and RON MERRITT,

Fellow travelers in the DUNE universe, with love and appreciation for helping

us maintain the legacy of Frank Herbert.

Acknowledgments

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When we finished the manuscript of this book, the work had only begun. Pat

LoBrutto and Carolyn Caughey showed their editorial genius, guiding us!

through numerous iterations and fine tuning to produce this final version. Our

agents, Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer of Trident Media Group, have been

supportive and excited about this project from the start. Tom Doherty, Linda

Quinton, Jennifer Marcus, Heather Drucker, and Paul Stevens at Tor Books, and

Julie Crisp at Hodder & Stoughton, helped keep all matters of production and

promotion on track without letting their enthusiasm flag for a moment.

As always, Catherine Sidor at WordFire, Inc., worked tirelessly to transcribe

dozens of microcassettes, input corrections, and maintain consistency in the face

of a full-steam-ahead work pace. Diane E. Jones served as test reader and guinea

pig, giving us her honest reactions and suggested additional scenes that helped

make this a stronger book.

Rebecca Moesta Anderson devoted uncounted hours of energy, concentration,

advice and criticism (always tempered with love), never letting the phrase "good

enough" enter her vocabulary. Jan Herbert, as always, offered her support,

patience, and understanding in the face of the unpredictable needs of a writer.

Javier Barriopedro and Christian Gossett gave us "Swordmaster" inspiration. Dr.

Attila Torkos gave the final manuscript his fine-tooth-comb scrutiny, helping us

to avoid inconsistencies.

The Herbert Limited Partnership, including Penny and Ron Merritt, David

Merritt, Byron Merritt, Julie Herbert, Robert Merritt, Kimberly Herbert,

Margaux Herbert, and Theresa Shackelford gave us their enthusiastic support,

entrusting us with the care of Frank Herbert's vision.

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Without Beverly Herbert's almost four decades of support and devotion to him,

Frank Herbert would not have created such a vast and fascinating universe for us

to explore. We are greatly indebted to them both.

Historians do not agree on the messages carried in detritus of the long-ago past.

As one delves into history -- such ancient, chaotic time! -- the more facts

become fluid, the stories contradictory. Across the ocean of time and fallible

memory, true heroes metamorphose into archetypes; battles grow more

significant than they actually were. Legends and truth are difficult to reconcile.

As the First Official Historian of the Jihad, I must set down this record as best I

can, relying upon oral traditions and fragmentary documents preserved for a

hundred centuries. Which is more accurate -- a carefully documented history

such as mine, or an accumulation of myths and folktales?

I, Naam the Elder, must write honestly, even if it invites the wrath of my

superiors. Read this history carefully, as I begin with Rendik Tolu-Far's

Manifesto of Protest, a document that was confiscated by the Jipol:

"We are weary of fighting -- weary unto death! Billions upon billions have

already been slaughtered in this crusade against the thinking machines. The

casualties include not only uniformed soldiers of the Jihad and their hired

mercenaries, but also innocent colonists and human slaves on the Synchronized

Worlds. No one bothers to count the number of enemy machines that have been

destroyed."

'The computer evermind Omnius has dominated many planets for over a

millennium, but it was twenty-four years ago that the murder of Priestess Serena

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Butler's innocent child triggered an all-out human revolt. She used this tragedy

to incite a fervor in the League of Nobles, precipitating the Armada's full-scale

attack and the atomic destruction of Earth.

'Yes, this was a blow to Omnius, but it killed every last human living on that

planet and left the birthplace of humanity a radioactive ruin, uninhabitable for

centuries to come. What a horrendous cost! -- and that was not a victory, not an

end, but only the opening act in this long struggle.

"For more than two decades, Serena's holy war has raged against the thinking

machines. Our strikes against Synchronized Worlds ax countered by robotic

incursions against League colonies. Again and again."

"Priestess Serena appears to be a devout woman, and I would like to believe in

her purity and sanctity. She has spent years in the study of available writings

and doctrines from ancient human philosophers. No other person has spent so

much time talking with Kwyna, the Cogitor in residence at the City of

Introspection. Serena's passion is evident and her beliefs beyond reproach, but is

she aware of all of the things that are done in her name?"

"Serena Butler is little more than a figurehead, while Iblis Ginjo is her political

proxy. He styles himself the 'Grand Patriarch of the Jihad' and leads the Jihad

Council, an emergency governing body that rules outside the boundaries of the

League Parliament. And we allow this to happen!"

"I have watched the Grand Patriarch--a former slave master on earth--use his

charismatic oratory skills to transform Serena's tragedy into a weapon. Is

everyone blind to how he builds his own political power? Why else would he

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have married Camie Boro, who traces her bloodline back a thousand years to

the last, weak ruler of the Old Empire ? A man does not wed the only living

descendant of the last emperor merely for love!"

"To ferret out human traitors and clandestine saboteurs, Iblis Ginjo has

established his Jihad Police, the Jipol. Think of those thousands who have been

arrested in recent years -- can they all be traitors working for the machines, as

Jipol claims? Is it not convenient that so many of them are the Grand Patriarch's

political enemies?"

"I do not criticize the military commanders, the brave soldiers, or even the

mercenaries, for all of them are fighting the Jihad to the best of their abilities.

Humans from every free planet have set out to destroy machine outposts and to

block robot depredations. But how can we ever hope to achieve victory? The

machines can always build more fighters... and they keep coming back."

"We are exhausted from this endless warfare. What hope do we have for peace?

What possibility exists for an accord with Omnius? Thinking machines never

tire."

"And they never forget."

B.G.

(Before Guild)

JIHAD YEAR

The weakness of thinking machines is that they actually believe all the

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information they receive, and react accordingly.

--Vorian Atreides, fourth debriefing interview with League Armada

Leading a group of five ballistas in orbit over the canyon-scarred planet, Primero

Vorian Atreides studied the robotic enemy forces aligned against him: sleek and

silver, like predatory fish. Their efficient, functional design gave them the

unintentional grace of sharp knives.

Omnius's combat monstrosities outnumbered the human ships ten to one, but

because the Jihad battleships were equipped with overlapping layers of

Holtzman shields, the enemy fleet could bombard the human vessels without

inflicting any damage, and without advancing toward the surface of IV Anbus.

Although the human defenders did not have the necessary firepower to crush the

machine forces or even repel them, the jihadis would continue to fight anyway. It

was a standoff, humans and machines facing each other above the planet.

Omnius and his forces had secured many victories in the past seven years,

conquering small backwater colonies and establishing outposts from which they

launched relentless waves of attack. But now the Army of the Jihad had sworn to

defend this Unallied Planet against the thinking machines at all costs -- whether

or not the native population wanted it.

Down on the planet's surface, his fellow Primero, Xavier Harkonnen, was

attempting yet another diplomatic foray with Zenshüte elders, the leaders of a

primitive Buddislamic sect. Vor doubted his friend would make much progress.

Xavier was too inflexible to be a good negotiator: h)is sense of duty and strict

adherence to the objectives of the mission were always paramount in his mind.

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Besides that, Xavier was biased against these people... and they undoubtedly

realized it.

The thinking machines wanted IV Anbus. The Army of the Jihad had to stop

them. If the Zenshütes wished to isolate themselves from the galactic conflict

and not cooperate with the brave soldiers fighting to keep the human race free,

then they were worthless. One time, Vor had jokingly compared Xavier to a

machine, since he saw things in black-and-white terms, and the other man had

scowled icily in response.

According to reports from the surface, the Zenshüte religious leaders had shown

themselves to be just as stubborn as Primero Harkonnen. Both sides had dug in

their heels.

Vor did not question his friend's command style, though it was quite different

from his own. Having grown up among the thinking machines and trained as a

trustee for them, Vor now embraced "humanness" in all of its facets, and was

giddy with newfound freedom. He felt liberated when he played sports and

gambled, or socialized and joked with other officers. It was so different from the

way Agamemnon had taught him...

Out here in orbit, Vor knew the robot battleships would never retreat unless they

were convinced, statistically, that they could not possibly win. In recent weeks

he had been working on a complicated scheme to cause the Omnius fleet to

break down, but wasn't ready to implement it yet. Soon, though.

This orbital stalemate was completely unlike the war games Vor enjoyed playing

with the jihadi crewmen on patrol, or the amusing challenges he and the robot

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Seurat had set for each other years ago, during long voyages between stars. This

tedious impasse offered little opportunity for fun.

He had been noticing patterns.

Soon the robotic fleet would cruise toward them like a cluster of piranhas in a

retrograde orbit. Standing proud in his crisp dark-green military uniform flashed

with crimson -- the Jihad colors symbolizing life and spilled blood -- Vor

would give orders directing all the battleships in his sentry fleet to activate

Holtzman shields and monitor them for overheating.

The robot warships -- bristling with weapons -- were woefully predictable, and

his men often placed bets on exactly how many shots the enemy would fire.

He watched his forces shift, as he had commanded them to do. Xavier's adopted

brother, Vergyl Tantor, captained the vanguard ballista and moved it into

position. Vergyl had served the Army of the Jihad for the past seventeen years,

always watched closely by Xavier.

Nothing had changed here in over a week, and the fighters were growing

impatient, passing the enemy repeatedly but unable to do anything more than

puff up their chests and display combat plumage like exotic birds.

"You'd think the machines would learn by now," Vergyl grumbled over the

comline. "Do they keep hoping that we'll slip up?"

"They're just testing us, Vergyl." Vor avoided the formality of ranks and the

chain of command because it reminded him too much of machine rigidity.

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Earlier in the day, when the paths of the two fleets briefly intersected, tie robot

warships had launched a volley of explosive projectiles that hammered at the

impregnable Holtzman shields. Vor had not flinched as he watched the fruitless

explosions. For a few moments, the opposing ships had mingled head-on in a

crowded, chaotic flurry, then moved past each other.

"All right, give me a total," he called.

"Twenty-eight shots, Primero," reported one of the bridge officers.

Vor had nodded. Always between twenty and thirty incoming shells, but his own

guess had been twenty-two. He and the officers of his other ships had

transmitted congratulations and good-natured laments about missing by only one

or two shots, and had made arrangements to pay or collect on the bets they made.

Duty hours would be shifted among the losers and winners, luxury rations

transferred back and forth among the ships.

The same thing had happened almost thirty times already. But now, as the two

battle groups predictably approached one another, Vor had a surprise up his

sleeve.

The Jihad fleet remained in perfect formation, as disciplined as machines.

"Here we go again." Vor turned to his bridge crew. "Prepare for encounter.

Increase shields to full power. You know what to do. We've had enough practice

at this."

A skin-tingling humming noise vibrated through the deck, layers of shimmering

protective force powered by huge generators tied to the engines. The individual

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commanders would watch carefully for overheating in the shields, the system's

fatal flaw, which -- so far, at least -- the machines did not suspect.

He watched the vanguard ballista cruise ahead along the orbital path. "Vergyl,

are you ready?"

"I have been for days, sir. Let's get on with it!"

Vor checked with his demolitions and tactical specialists, led by one of the

Ginaz mercenaries, Zon Noret. "Mr. Noret, I presume that you deployed all of

our... mouse traps?"

The signal came back. "Every one in perfect position, Primero. I sent each of our

ships the precise coordinates, so that we can avoid them ourselves. The question

is, will the machines notice?"

"I'll keep them busy, Vor!" Vergyl said.

The machine warships loomed closer, approaching the intercept point. Although

the thinking machines had no sense of aesthetics, their calculations and efficient

engineering designs still resulted in ships with precise curves and flawlessly

smooth hulls.

Vor smiled. "Go!"

As the Omnius battlegroup advanced like a school of imperturbable, menacing

fish, Vergyl's ballista suddenly lunged ahead at high acceleration, launching

missiles in a new "flicker-and-fire" system that switched the bow shields on and

off on a millisecond time scale, precisely coordinated to allow outgoing kinetic

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projectiles to pass through.

High-intensity rockets bombarded the nearest machine ship, and then Vergyl was

off again, changing course and ramming down through the clustered robot

vessels like a stampeding Salusan bull.

Vor gave the scatter order, and the rest of his ships broke formation and spread

out. To get out of the way.

The machines, attempting to respond to the unexpected situation, could do little

more than open fire on the Holtzman-shielded Jihad ships.

Vergyl slammed his vanguard ballista through again. He had orders to empty his

ship's weapons batteries in a frenzied attack. Missile after missile detonated

against the robot vessels, causing significant damage but not destruction. The

comlines reverberated with human cheers.

But Vergyl's gambit was just a diversion. The bulk of the Omnius forces

continued on their standard path... directly into the space minefield that the

mercenary Zon Noret and his team had laid down in orbit.

The giant proximity mines were coated with stealth films that made them nearly

invisible to sensors. Diligent scouts and careful scans could have detected them,

but Vergyl's furious and unexpected aggression had turned the machines' focus

elsewhere.

The front two machine battleships exploded as they struck a row of powerful

mines. Massive detonations ripped holes through bows, hull, and lower engine

sheaths. Reeling off course, the devastated enemy vessels sputtered in flames;

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one blundered into another mine.

Still not realizing precisely what had happened, three more robot ships collided

with unseen space mines. Then the machine battlegroup rallied. Ignoring

Vergyl's attack, the remaining warships spread out and deployed sensors to

detect the rest of the scattered mines, which they removed with a flurry of

precisely targeted shots.

"Vergyl -- break off," Vor transmitted. "All other ballistas, regroup. We've had

our fun." He leaned back in his command chair with a satisfied sigh. "Deploy

four fast kindjal scouts to assess how much carnage we inflicted."

He opened a private comline, and the image of the Ginaz mercenary appeared on

the screen. "Noret, you and your men will receive medals for this." When not in

combat camouflage for minelaying and other clandestine operations, the

mercenaries wore gold-and-crimson uniforms of their own design, rather than

green and crimson. Gold represented the substantial sums they received, and

crimson, the blood they spilled.

Behind them, the damaged Omnius battlegroup continued on their orbital patrol,

undeterred, like sharks looking for food. Already, swarms of robots had emerged

from the ships and crawled like lice over the outer hulls, effecting massive

repairs.

"It doesn't look like we even ruffled their feathers!" Vergyl said as his ballista

rejoined the Jihad group. He sounded disappointed, then added, "They're still not

getting IV Anbus from us."

"Damned right they're not. We've let them get away with enough in the past few

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years. Time for us to turn this war around."

Vor wondered why the robot forces were waiting so long without escalating this

particular conflict. It wasn't part of their usual pattern. As the son of the Titan

Agamemnon, he -- more than any other human in the Jihad -- understood the

way computer minds worked. Now, as he thought about it, Vor grew highly

suspicious.

Am I the one who's grown too predictable? What if the robots only want me to

believe they won't change tactics?

Frowning, he opened the comline to the vanguard ballista. "Vergyl? I've got a

bad feeling about this. Disperse scout ships to survey and map the land masses

below. I think the machines are up to something."

Vergyl didn't question Vor's intuition. "We'll take a careful look down there,

Primero. If they've flipped over so much as a rock, we'll find it."

"I suspect more than that. They're trying to be tricky -- in their own predictable

way." Vor glanced at the chronometer, knowing he had hours before he needed

to worry about the next orbital encounter. He felt restless. "In the meantime,

Vergyl, you're in command of the battle-group. I'll shuttle down to see if your

brother has managed to talk any sense into our Zenshüte friends."

In order to understand the meaning of victory, you must first define your

enemies... and your allies.

--Primero Xavier Harkonnen, strategy lectures

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Since the exodus of all Buddislamic sects from the League of Nobles centuries

earlier, IV Anbus had become the center of Zenshüte civilization. Its primary

city of Darits was the religious heart of the independent and isolated sect, largely

ignored by outsiders, who saw little value in the planet's meager resources and

troublesome religious fanatics.

The land masses of IV Anbus were mottled with large, shallow seas, some fresh,

some potently salty. The tides caused by close-orbiting moons dragged the seas

like a scouring rag across the landscape, washing topsoil through sharp canyons,

eroding out grottos and amphitheaters from the softer sandstone. In the shelter of

the deep overhangs, the Zenshütes had built cities.

From one shallow sea into another, rivers drained naturally, pulled by the tidal

surges. The inhabitants had developed exceptional mathematics, astronomy, and

engineering skills to predict the swelling and dwindling floods. Silt miners

reaped mineral wealth by sifting the murky water that flowed through the

canyons. The downstream lowlands offered fertile soil, as long as agricultural

workers planted and harvested at appropriate times.

In Darits, the Zenshütes had built an immense dam across a narrow bottleneck in

the red rock canyons... a defiant gesture to show that their faith and ingenuity

were enough to hold back even the powerful flow of the river. Behind the dam, a

huge reservoir had backed up, full of deep-blue water. Zenshüte fishermen

floated delicate skiffs around the lake, using large nets to supplement the grains

and vegetables grown on the flood plain.

No mere wall, the Darits dam was adorned with towering stone statues carved by

talented and faithful artisans. Hundreds of meters high, the twin monoliths

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represented idealized forms of Buddha and Mohammed, their features blurred by

time, legend, and notions of idealistic reverence.

The faithful had installed bulky hydroelectric turbines, turned by the force of the

current. In tandem with numerous solar-power plates that covered the mesa tops,

the Darits dam generated enough energy to power all the cities of IV Anbus,

which were not large by the standards of other worlds. The entire planet held

only seventy-nine million inhabitants. Still, communication lines and a power

grid connected the settlements with enough technological infrastructure to make

this the most sophisticated of all Buddislamic refugee worlds.

Which was exactly why the thinking machines wanted it. With minimal effort

Omnius could convert IV Anbus into a beachhead and from there prepare to

launch even larger-scale assaults against League Worlds.

Serena Butler's Jihad had already been in full force for more than two decades.

In the twenty-three years since the atomic destruction of Earth, the tides of battle

had many times shifted between victory and loss, for each side.

But seven years ago, the thinking machines had begun to target Unallied Planets,

which were easier conquests than the heavily defended, more densely populated

League Worlds. On the vulnerable Unallied Planets, the scattered traders,

miners, farmers, and Buddislamic refugees were rarely able to muster sufficient

force to resist Omnius. In the first three years, five such planets had been

overrun by thinking machines.

Back on Salusa Secundus, the Jihad Council had been unable to understand why

Omnius would bother with such worthless places -- until Vorian noticed the

pattern: Driven by the calculations and projections of the computer evermind,

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the thinking machines were surrounding the League Worlds like a net, drawing

closer and closer in preparation for a coup de grace against the League capital.

Shortly after Vorian Atreides -- with Xavier's support -- had demanded that the

Jihad devote its military strength to defend the Unallied Planets, a massive and

unexpected Jihad counterstrike succeeded in recapturing Tyndall from the

machines. Any victory was a good one.

Xavier was glad the Army of the Jihad had arrived at IV Anbus in time, thanks

to the warning of a Tlulaxa slaver named Rekur Van. The flesh merchant's team

had raided this world, kidnapping Zenshütes to be sold in the slave markets of

Zanbar and Poritrin. After his raid, the slaver had encountered a robotic scout

patrol mapping and analyzing the planet, something the machines always did in

preparation for a conquest. Rekur Van then raced back to Salusa Secundus and

delivered the dire news to the Jihad Council.

To counter the danger, Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo had put together this hasty

but effective military operation. "We cannot afford to let another world fall to

the demonic thinking machines," Iblis had shouted at the send-off ceremony, to

enthusiastically defiant cheers and thrown orange flowers. "We have already lost

Ellram, Peridot Colony, Bellos, and more. But at IV Anbus, the Army of the

Jihad draws a line in space!"

Though Xavier had underestimated the number of ships Omnius would dispatch

to this remote world, thus far the Jihad forces had been able to thwart the

attempted invasion, though they could not drive the robots away.

During a break in the talks with the Zenshütes, Xavier cursed under his breath.

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The very people he was trying to save had no interest in his help, and declined to

fight against the thinking machines.

This city in the red rock canyons housed relics and the original handwritten

canons of the Zenshia interpretation of Buddislam. Inside cave vaults, wise men

preserved original scrawled manuscripts of the Sutra Koran and prayed five

times daily when they heard the calls from minarets erected on the canyon rim.

From Darits the elders dispensed their commentary, meant to guide the faithful

through the forest of esoterica.

Xavier Harkonnen could barely contain his frustration. He was a military man,

accustomed to leading battle engagements, ordering his troops and expecting his

commands to be followed. He simply didn't know what to do when these

pacifistic Buddislamic inhabitants just... refused.

Back home among the League Worlds, there had been a growing anti-Jihad

protest movement. The people were exhausted from more than two decades of

bloodshed with no visible progress. Some had even carried placards near the

shrines to the murdered child Manion the Innocent, begging for "Peace at Any

Cost!"

Yes, Xavier could understand their weariness and despair, for they had seen

many loved ones killed by the thinking machines. But these isolated

Buddislamics had never even bothered to lift a hand in resistance, revealing the

ultimate folly of extreme non-violence.

The machines' objective was clear, and Omnius would certainly show no

consideration for any fanatical religious preferences. Xavier had a vital job to

complete here, in the name of the Jihad -- and that job required a little common-

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sense cooperation from the natives. He had never expected so much trouble

trying to make these people appreciate what the Army of the Jihad was risking

for them.

The Zenshüte elders shuffled back into the meeting room, an enclosure adorned

with aged religious artifacts that glimmered with gold and precious stones.

As he had for hours, the religious leader Rhengalid gazed at him with stony eyes

and implacable refusal. He had a large shaved head that glistened with exotic

oils; his thick eyebrows had been brushed and artificially darkened. His chin was

covered with a thick, square-cut gray beard that he wore as a mark of pride. His

eyes were a pale gray-green that stood out in striking contrast to his tanned skin.

Despite the ominous thinking-machine battle fleet overhead, or the impressive

firepower of the Army of the Jihad, this man remained unimpressed and

unintimidated. He seemed oblivious.

With a determined effort, Xavier kept his voice even. "We are trying to protect

your world, Elder Rhengalid. If we hadn't arrived when we did, if our ships did

not continue to hold back the thinking machines every day, you and all your

people would be slaves of Omnius." He sat Stiffly on the hard bench across from

the Zenshüte leader. Not once had Rhengalid offered him any refreshment,

though Xavier suspected that the elders had partaken of their own whenever the

soldiers left the room.

"Slaves? If you are so concerned for our welfare, Primero Harkonnen, where

were your battleships a few months ago when Tlulaxa flesh merchants stole

healthy young men and fertile women from our farming settlements?"

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Xavier tried not to show distress. He had never wanted to be a diplomat, didn't

have the patience for it. He served the cause of the Jihad with all the loyalty and

dedication he possessed. The crimson of his uniform symbolized the spilled

blood of humanity, and his innocent Manion -- barely eleven months old -- had

been the first of the new martyrs.

"Elder, what did you do to defend your own people when the raiders came? I

knew nothing of the incident before now and cannot help you with what

happened in the past. I can only promise that life under the thinking machines

will be much worse."

"So you say, but you cannot deny the hypocrisy of your own society. Why

should we take the word of one slaver over another?"

Xavier's nostrils flared. "I don't have time for this! If you insist on reliving the

past, then remember that your peoples' refusal to fight the thinking machines

from the very beginning has cost the freedom of billions of humans, and

countless deaths. Many believe you owe a great debt to your race."

"We have no love for either side in this conflict," the gray-bearded man retorted.

"My people want no part of your pointless, bloody war."

Holding back a heated retort, Xavier said, "Nevertheless, you are caught in the

crossfire and must choose sides."

"Are human tyrants better than machine tyrants? Who can say? But I do know

that this is not our fight, has never been our fight."

Workers inside the Darits dam moved sluice gates, letting clear water pour in

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twin spectacular waterfalls from the open hands of the colossal Buddha and

Mohammed statues. At the sudden rushing noise, Xavier looked up, and was

surprised to see Primero Vorian Atreides striding along the rock walkway from

the landing pad of his shuttle at the crude spaceport. Smiling, the dark-haired

man approached, still looking as fit, virile, and young as when Xavier had first

met him after his escape from Earth so many years ago. "You can cajole them all

you want Xavier, but the Zenshütes speak a different language... in more than

the linguistic sense."

The Darits elder looked indignant. "Your godless civilization has persecuted us.

Jihadi soldiers are not welcome here -- especially not in Darits, our sacred city."

Xavier held his gaze on Rhengalid. "I must inform you, Elder, that I shall not

allow the thinking machines to take over this planet, whether you help us or not.

The fall of IV Anbus would give the enemy yet another stepping-stone to the

League Worlds."

"This is our planet, Primero Harkonnen. You do not belong here."

"Neither do the thinking machines!" Xavier shouted. His face reddened.

Vorian took him by the arm. Clearly amused, Vor said, "I see you've discovered

new techniques of diplomacy."

"I never claimed to be a negotiator."

Smiling, Vor nodded. "If these people knew to follow your orders, that would

certainly make things easier, wouldn't it?"

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"I'm not going to abandon this planet, Vor."

The command comline sputtered, and a sharp message came across it. Vergyl

Tantor's voice was excited, breathless. "Primero Atreides, your suspicions were

correct! Our scans have discovered a secret thinking machine base camp being

established on a plateau. Appears to be a military beachhead, with industrial

machinery, heavy weaponry and combat robots."

"Good work, Vergyl," Vor said. "Now the fun starts."

Xavier glanced over his shoulder at the self-absorbed Rhengalid, who looked as

if he never wanted to see the jihadis again. "We're finished here, Vor. Come

back to the flagship. We've got work to do."

There is no such thing as the future. Humankind face.; multiple possible futures,

many of which hinge on seemingly inconsequential events.

--The Muadru Chronicles

Zimia was a stunning city, the cultural pinnacle of free humanity. Tree-lined

boulevards fanned out like the spokes of a wheel from a complex of

governmental buildings and an immense memorial plaza. Men in doublet-suits

and ladies in ornamented official dresses walked briskly about the square.

Iblis Ginjo frowned as he hurried across the expanse toward the stately Hall of

Parliament. Such an orderly arrangement could give the illusion of security, that

the surroundings would never change.

But nothing is permanent. Nothing is secure.

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He was in the business of inspiring people, galvanizing them into action by

convincing them that the evil machines could attack any world at any time, and

that there were sinister human spies who secretly gave their loyalty to Omnius,

even here in the heart of the League.

Sometimes Iblis had to embellish reality, for the greater good of the struggle.

A broad-shouldered man with a squarish face and straight dark-brown hair, he

wore a loose black blazer adorned with gold stitching and sparkling bangles.

Several steps behind him, half a dozen Jihad Police -- Jipol agents -- followed,

always alert, ready to draw their weapons quickly. Turncoat humans or assassins

loyal to the machines could be lurking anywhere.

Two decades ago, Iblis had granted himself the title "Grand Patriarch of Serena

Butler's Jihad," and the throng embraced him every time he appeared in public.

He spoke for them, rallied them, told them what to think and how to react. Like

Vorian Atreides, Iblis had once been a human trustee of the thinking machines

on Earth. Now he was an orator and statesman of the highest order: a king,

politician, religious leader, and military commander all wrapped in one

charismatic package. He had carved his own path, an unprecedented course that

allowed him to move in the elite circles of human leadership. He knew history,

and saw his place in it clearly.

As he climbed the broad steps of the Hall of Parliament and entered the high-

ceilinged, frescoed foyer, representatives and clerks fell silent. Iblis loved to see

people fumbling around in awe of him, red-faced and stammering.

He paused with appropriate reverence at the ornate alcove shrine to Serena

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Butler's murdered child Manion, an angelic sculpture with arms open wide to

receive a daily burden of fresh flowers, pale orange marigolds that looked like

small, bright supernovas, the blossom that had been adopted as "Manion's

flower."

Inside, the great hall was full, every chair occupied by a nobleman or planetary

representative. Even the aisles were packed with distinguished guests, seated on

portable, new-model suspensor chairs that floated in available spaces.

A monk in a saffron-yellow robe sat near the front of the assembly, monitoring a

heavy translucent container that held a live human brain inside a life-support

bath of bluish electrafluid. As Iblis glanced at the revered Cogitor, he felt a

giddy rush of genuine pleasure at the memory it inspired of the ancient

philosopher-brain named Eklo, who had shared his knowledge when Iblis had

been a mere slave supervisor on Earth. Those had been heady days, full of

possibilities...

This Cogitor, a female thinker known as Kwyna, was more reluctant to help him,

to offer her advice. Even so, Iblis often went to the tranquil City of Introspection

to sit by Kwyna's preservation canister, hoping to learn. He had met only two

Cogitors in his life, but the magnificent organic thinking units never failed to

impress him.

They were so superior to Omnius, so elegant and so infinitely human... despite

their obvious physical limitations.

The Parliament's business had already been under way for hours, but nothing

important would happen until he arrived. It had all been arranged. His quiet

allies among the League representatives would clog the governmental works

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with irrelevant bureaucracy, just to make him look more effective when he cut

through all the dithering.

On the podium, the planetary representative from Hagal, Hosten Fru, droned on

about a minor commercial problem, a dispute between VenKee Enterprises and

the Poritrin government over patents and distribution rights for glowglobes,

which had become increasingly popular.

"The original concept is based on work done by an assistant to Savant Tio

Holtzman, but VenKee Enterprises has marketed the technology without any

compensation to Poritrin," Hosten Fru said. "I suggest we assign a committee to

look into the matter and give it due consideration--"

Iblis smiled to himself. Yes, a committee will ensure a complete lack of

resolution on the issue. Hosten Fru was a seemingly incompetent politician who

blocked League business with inane problems, making the cumbersome

government appear as ineffectual as the passive Old Empire. No one knew that

the Hagal representative was one of Iblis's secret allies. It served Iblis's purposes

perfectly: the more people saw how incapable the League Assembly was of

solving simple problems, especially during crises, the more decisions were

relegated to the Jihad Council, which he controlled...

Beaming with confidence, Iblis Ginjo made his grand entrance. As the proxy for

Serena Butler herself, he was the spokesman for humanity and its Holy Jihad

against the thinking machines.

Ten violent years after the atomic destruction of Earth, old Manion Butler had

retired as League Viceroy, asking that his daughter Serena be appointed to take

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his place. She had been voted in by acclamation, but insisted that she be called

only the "Interim Viceroy" until the conclusion of the war. Delighted, Iblis had

insinuated himself as her closest advisor, writing speeches for her, building the

fervor for the crusade against the thinking machines.

Head high, he strode down the carpeted aisle to the front of the speaking

chamber. Imagers projected Iblis's oversized features on the sides of the

enclosure. Immediately deferential, Hosten Fru summed up and bowed, stepping

away from the podium. "I relinquish my remaining time to the Grand Patriarch."

Iblis walked across the stage, folded his hands in front of him and formally

nodded his gratitude to the Hagal representative, who hurried out of the speaking

zone. Before he could gather his thoughts, though, an interruption came from the

floor.

"Point of order!" He recognized the woman as Mufioza Chen, a troublesome

representative from the remote League World of Pincknon.

Iblis turned to her, forcing an expression of patience onto his face as she stood

and said, "Earlier today, I questioned the additional responsibilities transferred

without due process from the Parliament to the Jihad Council. That discussion

was tabled until an authorized member of the Council could address this

Assembly." She crossed her arms over her small chest. "I believe Grand

Patriarch Ginjo is empowered to speak on behalf of the Council."

He offered her a cool smile. "That is not why I have come to address the

Assembly today, Madame Chen."

The annoying woman refused to sit down. "Pending business is on the table, sir.

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Standard procedure requires that we attempt to resolve the matter before

proceeding to anything else."

He sensed the impatient mood of the crowd and knew how to use it to his

advantage. They had come to hear him speak, not to see tedious discussions

about an irrelevant motion. "You are providing an excellent object lesson as to

why the Jihad Council had to be formed, to make swift and necessary decisions,

without this quagmire of bureaucracy."

The audience grumbled their agreement. Now his smile warmed.

For the first thirteen years after Serena Butler had announced her Jihad, the

League Parliament had struggled to run urgent wartime matters with the same

cumbersome system that had operated during the prior centuries of uneasy

peace. But after the debacles at Ellram and Peridot Colony, when the politicians

had dickered for so long that entire protectorates had been wiped out before

rescue missions could arrive, an indignant Serena had addressed the Parliament.

She had expressed her outrage and (far worse to the people) her disappointment

because they had put petty squabbles ahead of their real enemy.

Standing beside her, Iblis Ginjo had seized the initiative and suggested the

formation of a "Jihad Council," which would oversee all matters that directly

related to the Jihad, while less urgent commercial, social, and domestic items

could be discussed and debated in unhurried Parliament sessions. Wartime

matters required swift and decisive leadership that could only be hampered by

the thousand voices of Parliament.

Or so Iblis had convinced them; his proposal passed overwhelmingly.

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Even so, a decade later, old political ways still inhibited progress. Now,

delighted to hear grumbling agreement from the seats, Iblis looked at the

Pincknon representative with long-suffering patience. "What is your question?"

Munoza Chen did not seem to notice the muttered comments around her. "Your

Council keeps finding more and more areas that fall under the umbrella of its

jurisdiction. Originally, you were limited to oversight of the Army of the Jihad

with respect to its military operations, as well as domestic security embodied in

Jipol. Now the Council administers to refugees, distributes supplies, imposes

new tariffs and taxes. Where will this disturbing expansion of authority end?"

Iblis made a mental note to have his police commander, Yorek Thurr, begin

discreet inquiries and investigations into this woman's background. It might even

be necessary to have someone "discover" damning evidence of Chen's

"collusion" with the thinking machines. Yorek Thurr was skilled in arranging

such things. Perhaps she had a medical condition that could lead to her

"unfortunate" death.

He answered calmly. "Administering to survivors and refugees in war zones has

obvious relevance to the Council's mandate, as does the training of battlefield

surgeons, the distribution of necessary medical supplies and food shipments.

When we recaptured Tyndall from the machines only last year, the Jihad Council

instituted relief operations immediately. By enacting emergency taxes and

commandeering luxury supplies from comfortable League Worlds, we gave

those poor people shelter, medicines, hope. Had we left such matters to the

League Parliament, Madame Chen, you would still be discussing it in open

session." He turned to the podium and then said, as if in afterthought, "I have

heard no complaints from the population of Tyndall."

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"But for the Council to expand its purview without a vote of--"

Iblis made an impatient noise. "I can discuss such questions with you for hours,

but is that truly what these people wish to hear." He lifted his hands in question,

and well-timed shouts and boos echoed through the stands; some catcalls were

initiated by his own people, of course, but many were spontaneous. "However, I

come before this assembly today to share certain knowledge recently revealed in

ancient Muadru inscriptions."

In his strong hands, he gripped an important piece of history, an ancient wafer of

etched stone sandwiched between shatter-proof plaz sheets. He propped the

frame on the podium. "This runestone fragment was unearthed on an empty

world two centuries ago but has remained untranslated. Until now."

The intrigued audience fell silent. Ignored, Munoza Chen faltered, then sat down

awkwardly, without ever officially withdrawing her question.

"These ciphers were written by a long-dead prophet in a tongue known as

Muadru, etched permanently into coated rock. The words from the past are

believed to be from Earth, the mother world of humanity." He turned to look at

the yellow-robed secondary beside the ancient brain in its preservation canister.

"The Cogitor Kwyna, by assisting me in the translation of these archaic rune

symbols, has enabled me to understand. Kwyna, would you provide your

guidance now?"

Uncertainly, the monk secondary stood and then carried the ornate brain canister

to a golden table beside the speaking podium. Iblis felt thrilled to stand beside

such a magnificent mind. The saffron-robed man waited.

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Strengthened by his proximity to Kwyna, Iblis traced the complex runes with a

fingertip. The audience remained silent and deeply engrossed as he began to

read, enunciating the sharp lingual clicks and soft, rolling syllables. Odd,

incomprehensible sounds resonated through the great meeting hall, casting a

spell over the audience.

When Iblis paused, the Cogitor's attendant pressed his palm against the curved

jar containing Kwyna's living brain, then slowly eased his fingers into the pale

blue fluid. Through this connection, he translated the Muadru words in a voice

that sounded far away -- as if he spoke from the distance of ages past.

The runestone had been damaged in an ancient cataclysm that left scorch marks

and deep gouges, he said. While some of his sentences were missing words, the

remainder told of a terrible ancient war in which many people had died horribly.

Finally, he said, "Quoting the unnamed prophet, 'A millennium of tribulations

will occur before our people find their way to paradise.' "

Waiting for this moment, Iblis flashed a bright, exuberant grin and shouted: "Is it

not clear? Free humans have suffered a thousand years under the cymeks and

their machine masters. Do you not see? Our time of tribulation is over -- if only

we choose to make it so." i The blue electrafluid in the Cogitor's canister swirled,

and the secondary relayed Kwyna's message to the assemblage. "That slice of

runestone does not contain the entire prophecy. The message is incomplete."

Iblis pressed forward with his agenda. "We must always face both the danger,

and the promise, of the unknown. One of our battle groups has gone to IV Anbus

to defend against the latest robotic incursion -- but that is not enough. As free

people, we must act forcefully to recapture all Synchronized Worlds, freeing

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their enslaved human populations. Only in this way will our tribulations ever

end, as the runestone prophecy proclaims. As foretold, a thousand years have

passed. Now we must seize our road to paradise and cast aside the demon

machines. I call for an expansion of Jihad forces, additional warships and

dedicated soldiers, renewed offensives against Omnius."

Increased turbulence stirred the blue fluid in the canister. "And more deaths," the

secondary translated.

"And more heroes!" Iblis raised his voice, face lit by a fervent glow.

"As the wise Kwyna says, this rune fragment is all we have. Thus, as human

beings, we must choose the best interpretation. Do we have the heart to pay the

price necessary to make the prophecy come true?"

Abruptly, before Kwyna could issue any contrary remark, the Grand Patriarch

thanked the Cogitor and her attendant monk. Though Iblis revered the female

philosopher, sadly Kwyna had spent so much time in contradictory philosophies

and contemplation, without understanding the realities of the Jihad.

Iblis, though, had practical objectives. His enthusiastic audience cared nothing

for philosophical hair-splitting.

The Grand Patriarch's voice resonated, rising and falling at appropriate,

calculated moments. "Our victory is paid for with human blood. Serena Butler's

tiny son has already paid that price, as have millions of valiant jihadi soldiers.

The ultimate victory not only merits such an expense, it requires it. To lose is

unthinkable. Our very existence hangs in the balance."

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Around the hall, heads nodded, and Iblis maintained an inward, concealed smile

of satisfaction. Though the secondary monk remained silent beside the plaz brain

canister, the Grand Patriarch sensed that Kwyna might even agree. No one could

resist his words, his passion. Visible tears of appreciation sparkled in Iblis's eyes,

just enough to show how much he really cared about humankind.

One can compare this new Jihad to a necessary editing process. We are

disposing of the things that are destroying us as humans.

--Cogitor Kwyna, City of Introspection Archives

Inside a coffin of perfect crystal, the little boy lay peaceful and pristine. Like a

spark encased within a glass shell, Manion Butler was isolated from everything

that had been wrought in his name. And Serena remained secluded with him

inside the walls of the City of Introspection.

She knelt on a stone platform at the front of the shrine, as she often did, looking

both beatific and grim. Long ago, devotees in the contemplative retreat had

stopped asking to install a fine bench where she could sit and pray over her

child. For twenty-four years now, Serena had faced her thoughts, her memories,

her nightmares this way, on her knees before the crystalline case.

Manion looked so serene here, so sheltered. The boy's delicate face and fragile

bones had been shattered when the monstrous robot Erasmus had dropped him

from a high balcony, but Iblis Ginjo had seen to it that his true form and features

were repaired by cosmetic morticians. Her son was preserved exactly as Serena

wanted to remember him. Yes, faithful Iblis had taken care of everything

possible.

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Had he lived, Manion would be a full-grown young nobleman now... old enough

to be married and have children himself. Gazing upon Manion's beautiful face,

she thought of the potential he might have attained, if not for the evil thinking

machines.

Instead, the innocent boy had given birth to a jihad that blazed across star

systems, with humans fomenting revolution on the Synchronized Worlds,

attacking robot ships and all incarnations of Omnius. Billions of people had

already died for the holy cause. Erasmus himself must have been destroyed in

the atomic attack that annihilated thinking machines on Earth. But the computer

evermind still held dominion over the rest of his realm, and humans could not

rest.

The pain did not go away. Serena's very soul had been smashed by the murder of

her son. Meditating in his presence gave her all the inspiration she needed to

keep leading the Jihad. This particular shrine, containing Manion's actual body,

was reserved for her, and for a few select devotees.

Additional shrines and elaborate reliquaries had appeared across Salusa

Secundus and on other League Worlds. Some were adorned with paintings or

depictions of the divine boy, The sacrificial lamb, though none of the artists had

ever seen him in life. Some reliquaries purported to contain bits of cloth, hair,

even microscopic cellular samples. Though Serena doubted the authenticity of

such exhibits, she did not ask to have them removed. The people's faith and

devotion were more important than perfect accuracy.

After the Jihad had failed to overthrow the Synchronized World of Bela

Tegeuse, and after the thinking machines had once again attacked -- and been

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driven from -- Salusa Secundus, Iblis had convinced Serena that she must not

dilute her power or risk her safety for such meaningless political activities as

trade accords and minor laws. Instead, she reserved her public appearances for

matters of great importance. Without Serena Butler's inspiration, he insisted,

humanity would not have the will to fight. So she delivered grand inspirational

speeches, and people rushed out to sacrifice their lives for the cause -- for her.

In spite of Iblis's precautions, however, when Serena had gone to speak at a

Parliament assembly one year after accepting the role as interim Viceroy, she

had barely survived an attempt on her life. The would-be assassin had been

killed, and the Jipol commander Yorek Thurr had uncovered unusual machine

technology hidden among the assailant's effects. For the first time, the League

had faced the reality of Omnius spies -- human turncoats -- infiltrating League

worlds.

In the uproar, most people could not conceive of what would drive a person to

voluntarily swear allegiance to the amoral thinking machines. Iblis, though, had

addressed a huge crowd in Zimia's memorial square. "I myself have seen human

slaves raised on the Synchronized Worlds -- it is no secret that Primero Vorian

Atreides and I were brainwashed to serve Omnius. Other selfish, traitorous

people might be granted attractive rewards -- the promise of a neo-cymek body,

even planets and slaves of their own. We must be vigilant at all times."

The fear of thinking machine spies living disguised among the free planets had

been an important impetus for Iblis to form the Jipol, a vigilant security force

that monitored domestic activities for any signs of suspicious behavior.

After the assassination attempt, Serena had been rushed into the City of

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Introspection, where she lived an even more isolated life from that time on, to

ensure her safety.

The old compound had been built centuries before, the idea partly sparked by a

debate about Buddislam and the eventual exile of the Zensunni and Zenshüte

slaves who had toiled for generations on Salusa before their exodus to uncharted

Unallied Planets. Now, followers of the varied fractured faiths came here to

study ancient writings, religious works, and philosophical records. Scholars

analyzed all forms of venerable teachings, from the mysterious Muadru

runestones found scattered on uninhabited planets, to the vague Navachristian

traditions of Poritrin and Chusuk, the haiku of the Zen Hekiganshu on III Delta

Pavonis, and the alternate interpretations of the Koran Sutras from the Zensunni

and Zenshia sects. The variations were as numerous as the communities of

humans flung across countless planets...

Serena heard footsteps crunching softly on the gem-gravel path, and looked up to

see her mother approach. Escorting the Abbess into Serena's presence were three

bright-eyed young women in white robes trimmed with crimson, as if the edges

had been dipped in blood. The guard women were tall and muscular, their

expressions stonily irenic. Clinging hoods of fine goldscale mesh covered their

heads. Each woman had a small symbol of the Jihad painted above her left

eyebrow.

Fourteen years earlier, when the Jipol commander had first uncovered Omnius

loyalists secretly plotting against Serena, Iblis had established a special cadre of

female guards to protect the Priestess of the Jihad. Serena's "Seraphim" were like

Amazon warriors and vestal virgins combined, carefully selected attendants

assigned by the Grand Patriarch to cater to all of Serena's needs.

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Livia Butler walked quickly enough to pull ahead of the three Seraphim. Serena

stepped away from her son's shrine, smiled, and formally kissed the older

woman on the cheek.

Livia had snowy white hair, cropped short, and wore a long simple robe of

cream-colored fibers. She carried with, her a lifetime of tragedy and experiences.

Following the death of Serena's brother Fredo, their mother had retreated from

the Butler estate, seeking solace and wisdom from God. Because of her long-

time marriage to the former Viceroy, the dignified woman still paid close

attention to politics and current events, studying the real-world implications of

the Jihad rather than just the esoteric moral questions that fascinated the Cogitor

Kwyna.

At the moment, her face revealed deep concern. "I have just listened to the

Grand Patriarch's speech, Serena. Do you know he's; pushing the Army of the

Jihad again, inciting even more bloody attacks?"

Livia glanced over her shoulder at the trio of statuesque Seraphim who hovered

too close on the stone platform fronting the shrine. Serena gestured for the robed

women to step away; they did so, but only as far as the shrine, where they

remained at attention, still within earshot. She knew two of the three well; the

other Seraph was new, having just graduated from a rigorous training program.

She answered with the so-familiar words. "Sacrifices are necessary to achieve

our ultimate victory, Mother. My Jihad has blazed for two decades, but not

brightly enough. We cannot accept an endless impasse. We must redouble our

efforts."

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Livia's mouth flattened into a thin line, not quite a frown. "I have heard the

Grand Patriarch give those same reasons, in practically the same words."

"And why not?" Serena's lavender eyes flared. "Iblis's goals are the same as

mine. As Priestess of the Jihad I cannot concern myself with politics and power

plays. Do you question my judgment or my devotion to free humanity?"

Livia said in a calm voice, "No one questions your motives, Serena. Your heart

is pure, though hard."

"The machines themselves deadened my capacity for love. The robot Erasmus

took that from me forever."

Sadly, Livia stepped close to her daughter and slipped an arm around her

shoulders. The Seraphim attendants tensed, hands sliding toward their concealed

weapons. Serena and Livia both ignored them.

"My child, human love is an infinite resource. No matter how many times it is

expended, whether stolen or given away, love can grow again -- like a flower

from a bulb -- and fill your heart."

Serena bowed her head, and listened as her mother's comforting words

continued. "Tomorrow is Octa's birthday. Hers and . . Fredo's. I lost my son too,

Serena, so I know how you feel." She hastened to add, "Your brother died

differently, of course."

"Yes, Mother -- and you withdrew to the City of Introspection afterward. You

of all people must understand."

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"Oh I do, but I have not let my heart turn to stone, for ill love to die within me. I

am devoted to your father, to Octa, and to you. Come with me and see how much

her daughters have grown. You have two nieces now."

"Xavier will not be there?"

Livia frowned. "He fights the machines at IV Anbus. You dispatched him there

yourself. Don't you remember?"

Serena nodded distractedly. "He's been gone so long. I'm sure he longs to come

back for Octa's party." Then she lifted her head. "But the Jihad must take

precedence over all personal matters. We make our choices, and we survive by

holding to them."

Looking sad, Livia said, "Do not resent him for marrying your sister. You cannot

keep wishing that things could have been different."

"Of course I wish things could have been different, but perhaps my suffering was

what the human race finally needed to galvanize it to action. Otherwise we

would never have had the impetus to turn around and throw off the shackles of

the thinking machines." She shook her head. "I am no longer jealous of Octa,

and I don't resent Xavier. Yes, I loved him once -- he was Manion's father --

but I was just a girl then. Silly and starry-eyed. In the light of subsequent events,

such concerns seem so... trivial."

Livia chided, "Love is never trivial, Serena, even when you don't want it."

Serena's voice became small, not at all the powerful, passionate instrument she

employed when rallying the huge crowds that came to hear her. "I fear, Mother,

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that the damage to my soul will take more than a lifetime to heal."

Livia slipped her arm through Serena's and turned to lead her along the gem-

gravel path. "Nevertheless, daughter, that is all the time you have."

Abruptly, Serena saw a blur of white motion from the direction of her guards.

One of the Seraphim cried out and threw herself upon another -- the newest one

-- who moved with blinding speed, drawing a long dagger that glinted silver.

Her mother slammed into Serena and knocked her away. As she fell, Serena

heard a nearby slash of cloth and a gurgling gasp, saw a grisly spurt of blood

and, almost simultaneously, felt a heavy impact. Livia dropped on top of her,

covering Serena's body.

The third Seraph drove into the rushing white-robed guard, grabbed the gold-

mesh hood that covered the traitor's hair, and yanked her head back with a

hollow snap to break her neck.

Although her mother's body still covered hers, Serena could see a Rorschach

splash of scarlet on one of the guards' robes, not at all like the precise crimson

trimming on the white uniform. A gasping, heroic Seraph -- the only survivor of

the three -- choked out, "The threat has been neutralized, Priestess." She caught

her breath and quickly composed herself.

Shaking, Livia helped her daughter to her feet. Serena was astonished to see two

of her chosen guards lying dead: her bloody defender, fallen with a slashed

throat, and the other broken. The traitor.

"An assassin?" Serena looked down at the woman whose head lay cocked at an

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awkward angle.

Livia demanded, "How did she penetrate our training:"

The remaining Seraph said, "Priestess, we must get you to safety inside one of

the buildings. There may be another attempt on your life."

Alarms had already sounded, and more white-robed Seraphim rushed to the

scene, scanning in all directions for additional threats. Serena felt her knees

growing weak as she and her mother were hustled to the shelter of the nearest

large building.

She looked at the white-robed young woman who had saved her life. With her

gold-mesh hood askew from the struggle, the guard's short blonde hair could be

seen. "Niriem? That is your name, correct?"

"Yes, Priestess." She straightened her hood.

"From this moment on, I appoint you my chief Seraph. Make certain the Grand

Patriarch summons his best Jipol officers to investigate this matter," Serena said,

breathless as she ran.

"Yes, Priestess."

Because of the severity of the incident, Iblis would have to get involved

personally, and might replace all of the Seraphim... except for Niriem. Serena

would leave it to him to unravel what had happened. She could still hardly

believe it herself.

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Livia urged her daughter into the safety of the main sanctuary building, a

converted manor house with cupolas and turrets. "You have always known the

threat, my daughter. The machines are everywhere."

Serena's eyes were dry, her expression cold. "And they will never stop plotting

against us."

"A human lifespan is not always sufficient for a person to achieve greatness. To

counter this, some of us have seized more time for ourselves."

--General Agamemnon, Memoirs

"The greatest enemies of humanity gathered on the primary Synchronized World

of Corrin: cymeks, robots, and Omnius, the computer evermind itself. Only four

of the original Twenty Titans remained alive. A thousand years ago, fearful of

their mortality, these human tyrants had installed their brains in armored

cylinders so that their thoughts, minds, and souls could live forever. But over the

long and violent centuries, they had fallen to mishaps or assassinations, one at a

time. In the recent uprisings, both Barbarossa and Ajax had been assassinated.

General Agamemnon, the leader of the Titans, had repaid that debt a thousand

times over, slaughtering countless humans. Crushing them and letting them rot

where they lay or piling them in heaps on the ground for bonfires. His lover Juno

had helped him plan horrific, vengeful strategies.

So many ways to tall humans.

Dante, the unambitious but talented bureaucrat cymek, still served in quiet but

necessary ways. The coward Xerxes, who had originally allowed Omnius to take

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over from the Titans, clung to his foolish belief that he could regain respect.

Now the Titans arrived in four specially configured ships. Manipulator arms

from Agamemnon's spacecraft installed the general's preservation canister into a

serviceable walker form. Thoughtrodes connected his mind to mobile systems,

and he stretched arachnidlike mechanical limbs before walking out under the

blood-red skies. Juno, Dante, and Xerxes emerged from their own ships and

followed their leader toward Erasmus's opulent villa, which bore a strong

similarity to an estate that had been leveled by the League Armada in their attack

on Earth.

Erasmus fancied himself a cultured individual, an admirer of past human glories.

He had modeled this grand estate on ornate historical palaces, though the Corrin

landscape necessitated certain modifications, including diffusion devices to keep

the human slaves from being poisoned by concentrated emissions of groundgas.

Corrin was a rocky world, originally frozen and dead; when the sun had swelled

to its red-giant phase, incinerating the system's inner planets, the once-

uninhabitable lump had thawed. Back when the Old Empire of the humans still

retained a few sparks of genius and ambition, hardy pioneers had terraformed

Corrin, planting grasses and trees, bringing in animals, insects, and colonists.

But the settlement had not even lasted as long as the short lifespan of the red

giant, and now machines ruled here under ruddy skies, with the baleful eye of

the bloated sun peering down on dirty pens of slave workers.

The cymeks marched through villa gates made of treated metals twisted and

looped into curlicues. Lavish vines bursting; with scarlet flowers draped the

walls and open ceiling grid. The air must be stiflingly heavy with perfume;

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Agamemnon was glad he had not taken a walker form with olfactory sensors.

Smelling flowers was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

With an artificial grin on his flowmetal face, Erasmus glided up to the visiting

dignitaries as they entered his courtyard. The independent robot wore a foppish

robe trimmed with a spray of plush fur in imitation of an ancient human king.

"Welcome, my colleagues. I would offer you refreshments, but I suspect the

gesture would be wasted on machines with human minds."

"We aren't here for a party," Agamemnon said. Xerxes., though, had always

seemed disappointed that he could no longer indulge in fine foods; he had been a

soft hedonist in his human days. Now he just gave a mechanical sigh and

admired his surroundings.

Omnius screens were mounted on the walls, and floating watcheyes drifted about

like fat mechanical bumblebees. While the actual nexus of the Corrin evermind

was housed in the Central Spire elsewhere in the city, Omnius could watch from

myriad viewers and hear every whispered conversation. Agamemnon had long

ago grown accustomed to, and annoyed with, the constant surveillance, but there

was nothing he could do -- until he got rid of Omnius altogether.

"We must discuss this war against the irrational humans." The evermind's voice

boomed across speakers like an all-powerful, omnipresent god.

Agamemnon dampened his listening receptors, reducing the evermind's

thunderous commands to small squeaks. "Lord Omnius, I am ready for any

further aggression against the hrethgir. You need only authorize it."

"General Agamemnon has been advocating such action for years," Xerxes said,

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too eagerly. "He's always said that free humanity is like a ticking bomb. He

warned that unless we dealt with the hrethgir, they would eventually reach a

boiling point and cause great harm -- exactly as they have done on Earth, Bela

Tegeuse, Peridot Colony, and, more recently, on Tyndall."

(The cymek general controlled his annoyance. "Omnius is fully aware of our

previous conversations, Xerxes. And our battles with the humans."

Erasmus's voice was erudite. "Since we have never seen an update of the final

thoughts and decisions made by the Earth-Omnius, we do not know exactly what

occurred in the last days on Earth. That information is forever lost to us."

"We have no need of the exact details," Agamemnon growled. "I've been a

military officer for over a thousand years. I led human armies and robot armies. I

orchestrated the original overthrow of the Old Empire."

"And you have been a loyal warrior and servant to Omnius in the centuries

since," Erasmus added. The Titan thought he detected a trace of sarcasm.

("Correct," Juno said before Agamemnon could make a retort. "The Titans have