Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (16 page)

He sprinted into the trampled rushes at the edge of the water. “Serena!”

“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 corner 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 deepened. 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.

A
nything imagined can be made real . . . given sufficient genius.

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 Omnius. 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 another 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 instinct. 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 calculations, 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.

F
eeling 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 Poritrin. 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.