Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (28 page)

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.

S
afe 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, colorful 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 Arrakis.

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 Zensunnis 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 message 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.

S
even 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 wind-swept 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.