Dune: The Machine Crusade (31 page)

“Is my ship coming in this afternoon, Aurelius? Is it the right day, or did I lose one on my calendar?”

“It arrives in less than an hour, Norma.” He gestured toward the open rooftop. “The hangar seems to be ready.”

Her face grew eager. “Then I can commence the actual test phase of my project?”

He nodded, letting his hand linger on her diminutive shoulder. His heart warmed when she smiled at him. “Lord Bludd has promised me he’ll reassign a qualified team of slaves from the fabricators and constructors of the recent spaceship fleet. They have experience in this sort of work, so I hope they’ll require little training.”

“OK, because I won’t have the time or the attention to spend all day directing them. They will have to work independently—”

“Tuk Keedair will stay here to take care of all that,” Venport assured her. “He’s also bringing in a large force of mercenary security guards whose loyalty is to VenKee Enterprises, not to Poritrin. They’ll keep watch over the facilities and make certain the slaves don’t try to commit any sabotage.” He glanced back downriver. “They’ll also keep Lord Bludd and Tio Holtzman from snooping around.”

“I never worried about so much security before.”

“Holtzman did. He always had Dragoon guards in his laboratories.”

“For years, Savant Holtzman has paid little attention to me, Aurelius. Why should he bother me now?”

“Because if he has even a fraction of the genius that’s attributed to him, he can’t remain duped forever, and he’ll realize what a wonder he lost by letting you go.”

Embarrassed at the compliment, Norma glanced around the construction site, as if she didn’t remember several of the buildings being there the last time she’d noticed the details. “But where will you be?”

Venport sighed, realizing that she had not been paying attention. “I told you already, Norma. I’m off to Arrakis to take care of some problems in our spice operations. Keedair will have the easier and far more pleasant task of remaining here with you.”

Norma frowned. Though she was well into middle age, her expression reminded him of the little girl on Rossak he had adored so much. “I wish you could stay with me, Aurelius. I’d much rather have your friendly face around than… a Tlulaxa slaver.”

Venport laughed. “You don’t have to like Keedair, Norma. Just let him do his work.” He sighed. “And, trust me, I’d rather stay as well. But I have too much work to do— and I’m afraid my time here with you would be so enjoyable that I’d be completely distracted from accomplishing anything worthwhile.”

She giggled with girlish joy. Venport caught himself, wondering if he’d actually been flirting with her. After a moment’s consideration, he decided that he had. After so many years of their close friendship, he asked himself why that should surprise him.

The construction manager hurried out of the hangar, looking for Venport. “We just received a signal, Directeur. The vessel has received routine clearance and is on its way down through the atmosphere. Tuk Keedair is at the controls.”

Venport nodded, not surprised that his partner would choose to pilot the craft himself. The flesh peddler had spent years as a merchant, raiding Unallied Planets and capturing Buddislamic slaves. He knew how to handle a simple cargo hauler.

“Look, Norma. There it is.” He pointed to a bright light making its way through the faint colors of dusk.

The image grew brighter, its hull hot from reentry, and Norma heard the sonic booms of its passage. It was a large ship, designed primarily for long-distance space travel and occasional surface landings, although most of the cargo loading was done using transport shuttles.

As a spacecraft, the vessel was comparatively sluggish and inefficient. Now, as Keedair spoke across the narrow-band transmitter, he grumbled about the antiquated ship systems. Obviously, Venport had decommissioned the craft for good reason.

Finally, Keedair brought the large vessel over the open hangar and, with expert maneuvering, lowered it into the empty warehouse. Venport watched, not sure if the beamy craft would even fit through the open rooftop. But the Tlulaxa merchant managed with several meters to spare.

Norma watched the landing with awe, and Venport could imagine the wheels turning in her mind. She had seen blueprints and design studies of the ship, so she already understood the modifications she would have to make. But simply seeing the vessel with her own eyes seemed to ignite her imagination.

“A template for all future interstellar flight,” she said. “What I accomplish here will change everything.”

Venport drew optimism from her. Norma couldn’t tear her gaze from the ship until it had landed inside the hangar and workers rushed forward to install docking anchors and stabilizers.

Norma reached out and squeezed his much larger hand. “I have been looking forward to this for so many years, Aurelius. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. I still have plenty of work to do, but can finally get started.”

GRAND PATRIARCH IBLIS Ginjo expected his arrival to cause a bit of a stir, and the capital city of Starda staged an appropriately extravagant reception. At any given moment, numerous planets were engaged in the battle against the thinking machines. According to his calendar, the stepped-up Ix campaign should now be in full swing, but Iblis did not want to thrust himself into such overt personal danger. Thus, Poritrin was a good place for him to be, since the robot invaders had already fled.

By fomenting the initial uprising on Earth, Iblis had proved he was no coward, but his vital position as head of the Jihad Council precluded him from taking great risks now. Though his presence on the battlefields would no doubt have boosted the morale of the desperate fighters, the Grand Patriarch didn’t want to chance being seen anywhere but the site of a genuine victory. Such as here.

Accompanied by his loyal but discreet Jipol commandant Yorek Thurr, Iblis disembarked from his ship at Starda Spaceport and strutted forward to meet a small official delegation. Noting that Lord Bludd was himself absent, Iblis muttered a displeased comment just as a youthful Poritrin aide hurried up to him.

“Your timing is excellent, Grand Patriarch. The awards ceremony is only two hours from now, but there is time for our wardrobe engineers to prepare you for your appearance with Lord Bludd.” The young aide wore a black-and-white jerkin and tuxcape, one of the trendy styles on noble worlds.

When a hoverbarge delivered Iblis and his entourage to the amphitheater, he was given a seat on the expansive riverfront platform, but off to one side, just one of seventy politicians and noblemen. As many as four hundred thousand people crowded the grassy fields, gazing up at projection screens and listening through crisp speaker systems that floated on suspensors. Hastily erected shrines to Manion the Innocent stood prominently on blufftops above the river. A new statue had been unveiled, a large and somewhat absurd construct of a cherubic Buddhalike child seated atop a crushed robot.

Lord Niko Bludd had the most prominent seat, skewered by spotlights at the head of walkways that led to the stage. Obviously, the foppish man considered himself the reason for the gathered spectators.

Meanwhile, at center stage, Savant Tio Holtzman was receiving honors before a cheering crowd. The inventor beamed and waved to the blurred mass of faces. Iblis sat wearing a frozen smile.

The Grand Patriarch always had an agenda in mind, an important task to complete. As far as Iblis was concerned, life was brutishly short and too much needed to be done. After taking a deep breath, he decided not to notice the slight that Niko Bludd had given to him. Not yet.

A situation like this, with so many people excited about a convincing military victory, would provide Iblis with his opportunity.

A
liid considered his friend Ishmael a fool. The fiery Zenshiite could not keep the scorn or disbelief out of his voice when he scoffed, “Did you honestly expect gratitude? From
them
? I cannot say I admire your blind faith, but I do find it amusing.” His smile contained no humor, only hard edges.

In the months after the hollow fleet had successfully bluffed the machine marauders, the consolidated slave force was pulled from the mudflat shipyards and broken into smaller groups. Many of the workers returned to their original owners for regular assignments in the cane fields and mines. Aliid had remained with the Starda factory crew, since none of his previous owners was eager to reclaim him. At first Ishmael had rejoiced to have more time with his childhood companion, but later he felt a twinge of uncertainty.

“It was our dedicated work that built the decoy fleet, Aliid.
Our
labor saved Poritrin.” The distress and disappointment was palpable in Ishmael’s words. “Even someone as pampered and oblivious as Lord Bludd must admit this fact.”

“You are a slave, and he is a noble,” Aliid replied. “There is nothing he is required to admit, while we are required to
sub
mit.”

But Ishmael had not listened. The slaves received no rest or increased rations, no better accommodations or medical treatment, no concessions to their Buddislamic beliefs… not even the smallest of rewards. It was outrageously unfair, but apparently only Ishmael had expected anything different.

In Ishmael’s boyhood his grandfather had lectured him with gentle sternness, “If you are unwilling to speak of your concern to the person who has wronged you, do not complain when he fails to resolve the situation of his own accord.”

Ishmael took that to heart. The Koran Sutras insisted that the human heart and soul— even in nonbelievers— contained a kernel of fundamental goodness and mercy. As a slave, he had remained passive for too long, accepting his inferior lot. He had spent too many nights reciting empty promises and clinging to diluted dreams that seemed overly easy— as hollow as the decoy ships that had frightened away the robot war fleet. He owed this to all those who had listened to him for so long.

Now that he and his companions had performed inarguable service for Poritrin, Ishmael knew it was time to take up his concerns with Lord Bludd himself. God would guide him and show him what to say. Ishmael would prove to Aliid, and to all the Zensunnis who listened to him around the story fire, that his beliefs were reliable.

Exasperated, Aliid caught Ishmael before he could blunder innocently into what would surely be a disaster. “At least think of a plan, my friend! How will you get into the presence of Lord Bludd? You can’t simply knock on his door and speak your mind.”

“If he is the lord of his people, he should listen to a valid complaint.”

The other man rolled his eyes. “You are a slave, not a citizen. He has no reason to listen to you.” He leaned close. “Use your imagination, Ishmael. You have worked for Savant Holtzman, you know his routines, how he interacts with Lord Bludd. Use that to find an excuse, or you’ll never get within a hundred meters of him.”

Ishmael considered the possibilities. He did not like lies or misdirection, but Aliid was right. In this instance, it was a necessary means to an end.

At the end of the following work shift, he returned to the habitation compound with the other captives. There, after washing himself and dressing in his cleanest clothes, he kissed his wife and prepared to go. He took up a set of logbooks he had smuggled out of the factory offices that were being decommissioned and made his way across the city to the Poritrin lord’s conical towers. The veteran slave wore an expression of respect, but not meek submission. Buddallah walked in his footsteps, gave him strength.

Two gold-armored Dragoon guards at the tower’s street-level gate looked at Ishmael skeptically. Careful to show no threat, he chose his words prudently, trying not to lie but still attempting some sleight of hand. “My name is Ishmael, and I must see Lord Niko Bludd.”

The Dragoons studied him. “A
slave
to see Lord Bludd? Do you have an appointment?”

His armored companion said, “Lord Bludd does not grant audiences with slaves.”

Ishmael wondered if Buddallah would make the men step aside, clearing the way for him to enter. But he did not expect such an obvious divine intervention.

Feeling audacious, Ishmael withdrew the purloined logbooks and held them out. “I am one of Savant Holtzman’s slaves. He has regularly sent persons such as myself to deliver written documents.” He hesitated before finally telling an outright lie. “The Savant has sent me with these. He insisted it was a matter of some urgency, that I must not return until I had delivered them to Lord Bludd personally.”

The taller Dragoon grumbled. “Everything to do with Holtzman is urgent.” He frowned at Ishmael. “Lord Bludd doesn’t have time for that today.”

Ishmael did not back away. “Perhaps you should explain that to Savant Holtzman yourself. He will not believe it from me that Lord Bludd refused to receive these logs.” He drew a breath and waited; his faith gave him serenity and confidence.

Following a moment of silence, the other Dragoon said uncertainly, “We’ve always let them deliver the logbooks before. What if the Savant has had another breakthrough, like the shields?”

The first guard agreed. “Maybe we should let Bludd throw him out personally.”

Responding to the brief hesitation, Ishmael bowed and then stepped quickly through the doorway. His confidence weakened the guards, and they gave way. Wide-eyed, Ishmael entered the palatial government mansion of the hereditary lord, whose ancestors had enslaved Buddislamic captives for generations.

Just inside, a harried chamberlain frowned at Ishmael’s dark-skinned features and his Zensunni garb, but again the name of Tio Holtzman and the impressive-looking logbooks proved of sufficient weight to overcome doubts and questions. One of the guards, apparently having second thoughts, moved close and said, “I’m sorry, sir. If you want me to remove him…”

The royal officer shook his head at the Dragoon, then met Ishmael’s steady gaze. “Are you certain you must deliver these to Lord Bludd
now
? He won’t have time to look at them anyway. In only an hour he is hosting a banquet for offworld painters who wish to depict Starda under varying lighting conditions.” The chamberlain shot a meaningful glance toward the wall chronometer. “If this was so important, Savant Holtzman should have made an appointment for you. Are you certain—”