Dune: The Machine Crusade (74 page)

“Would you like to live forever?” she asked the throng. Juno paused, expecting cheers, but the indrawn breath rewarded her well enough. The crowd milled about. She knew that these unfortunates had rarely felt the emotion of hope, and had only now begun to allow themselves dreams.

“Would you like to be immortal and feel no pain— only power and the ability to accomplish anything you can imagine? I have lived that life myself for a thousand years! So has General Agamemnon. All of the neocymeks were formerly trustee humans who proved themselves worthy of the greatest gift any mortal could achieve. Are any of you worthy of this honor?”

The former captives knew all too well the unchanging drudgery of life under the computer evermind. Faced with Juno’s wondrous augmented cymek body and hearing her words, the people were stunned and speechless.

“My fellow Titans and I have thrown off the shackles of Omnius, so that you may be free for the first time in your lives. We have conquered this planet in the name of the Titans, and we wish to bring the best of you into our fight.”

She saw them stirring. The idea had never occurred to them.

“We can create a new golden age for human achievement, made possible through cymek enhancements. From this very population on Bela Tegeuse, we intend to draw our first ranks of lieutenants.”

Fortunately, most of the trustees had been wiped out in Comati, since Juno and Agamemnon did not want to recruit humans who were loyal to the computer evermind. Rather, they preferred volunteers who would swear their very souls to the service of the Titans.

Juno needed to make inroads swiftly. She did not know how long it might be before the Army of the Jihad came to occupy the ruins of Bela Tegeuse. Agamemnon and his cymeks needed to fortify their beachhead.

“We ask you to look into your hearts and minds.” She raised her voice even louder. “Do you have the stamina and the brilliance necessary to become one of us? Are you tired of your frail human bodies? Are you weary of sickness, times when your natural muscles and bones are insufficient to the tasks you demand of them?”

She swiveled her head turret, scanning the crowd. “If so, the Titan Dante and his neo-cymek assistants are willing to hear you and consider your case. They will run tests and select those of you who impress us the most. We are at the dawn of a new age! Those who join now will reap far more rewards than those who are afraid to take risks.”

Agamemnon had expected she might convince a few dozen competent new volunteers, but Juno knew her lover was far too pessimistic and shortsighted. She felt it would be best to let hundreds, maybe even a thousand, willing humans undergo the cymek conversion here— fitted with fail-safe programming and auto-destruct systems in their preservation canisters, should any of them prove to be unruly or rebellious. For now the cymeks needed
fighters,
swarms of machines with human minds battling to the death, willing to undertake suicide missions to bring an end to the reign of Omnius, as well as Serena Butler’s distasteful Jihad.

“Therefore,” Juno continued in her booming yet seductive voice, “we offer you a chance to become immortal, to live inside mechanical fighting forms, limber and invincible bodies.” She raised her sleek silvery forelimbs. “You will have the ability to stimulate the brain’s pleasure centers at will. You will never again be hungry, or fatigued. You will never feel weak.” She paced about like a prancing thoroughbred. Artificial, bright yellow lights played off her smooth curves and polished exoskeleton.

“Think carefully before responding,” she cautioned in a sultry voice. “Now tell me, which among you are willing to join?”

When she heard the resounding cheer and the thunderous roar of assent, Juno knew the Titans would have far more volunteers than they could ever possibly need.

N
ow that the Zensunni survivors were well fed and had hope for their future again, Ishmael finally allowed himself to feel a growing satisfaction. Despite its harshness and the daily balance on the edge of survival, life among the desert dwellers of Arrakis began to find natural rhythms. It was not comfortable, perhaps, but much safer than before.

When Jafar and the others led the band of refugees back to the isolated cave settlements, the newcomers had straggled into the sanctuary with expressions of awe and wonder, as if they were arriving in heaven. Standing in cool shadows, the survivors were welcomed by Selim’s outlaw band. Some of the Poritrin Zensunnis accepted food offerings, while others drank deeply of tepid water. Some could do nothing more than collapse in relief.

That night, giddy with contentment, Ishmael studied them all, especially Chamal. He had wanted to weep. Only fifty-seven of the original group remained, a little over half. But they were now free.

In spite of their terrible ordeal, the survivors looked on him as a confident leader, whose vision and faith had kept them together, guiding most of them safely through. Escaping the tyranny of slave masters, he had brought his people halfway across the galaxy in an unproven starship, and helped most of them survive for months— no mean feat on Arrakis.

And the refugees insisted to the band of outlaws that Ishmael deserved their respect as well. Marha, the wife of fallen Selim, held onto her young dark-eyed son El’hiim, not yet a year old, and nodded slowly at Ishmael, appraising him. “We are happy to have a man among us who is so worthy of respect.”

On the first night of their salvation, he stood at one of the cave openings, staring out upon the moonlit desert, marveling at the beauty of the wan light as it washed over the sands. Overhead, pinprick stars twinkled in the clear, dry air.

Then he turned to his rescued people and spoke in a firm, comforting voice. “This is what Buddallah promised us. It may not be what we expected— it is not an easy life here, not a paradise by any measure— but given time, perhaps we can make it better.”

THE SURVIVORS CONTINUED to celebrate, consuming supplies stolen from spice-harvesting caravans or unsuspecting villages that had garnered wealth through trafficking in melange. The Poritrin refugees praised Buddallah and Ishmael, while the outlaws sang songs of Selim Wormrider and shared tales of Shai-Hulud.

Ishmael found himself alone with Jafar deep in the caves. “How did you know of us?” he asked the tall, gaunt man. “We have been seeking help for a long time.”

Jafar narrowed his blue-within-blue eyes, which looked like shadowed pits in his face. “We found a man wandering alone on the sand, barely alive. We saved him, and he asked us to go in search of you.” He shrugged. “We did not know whether to believe him, for the words of a merchant and a slaver are often untrue.”

He led Ishmael to a dim chamber in the heart of the mountain. “I will leave the two of you to talk.” From the opening, Ishmael could barely see a thin man sitting alone under the wan light of a single, small glowglobe.
Tuk Keedair
.

Jafar whirled in his desert robe and left.

Barely able to believe what he saw, Ishmael stepped forward. “Buddallah does indeed work in strange ways if a flesh merchant who led so many slave raids is responsible for saving Zensunni lives!”

The Tlulaxa man looked gaunt and haunted, his body scrawny, his hair ragged and without its signature braid. When he looked up to see his visitor, Keedair’s face showed neither defiance nor fear, only weariness.

“So, Lord Ishmael of the Slaves, I see you have survived, against all odds. Your god must indeed have great plans for you… or a profound trick up His sleeve.”

“I am not the only one who remained alive despite the best efforts of this planet.” Ishmael stepped farther into the room. “What happened to Rafel and Ingu, and our scout ship?”

Keedair rocked back and forth on the stone ledge that served as his bed. “They are all down in the belly of a worm.” He ran a clawlike hand through his shaggy hair. “Rafel threatened to slit my throat, but instead decided just to turn me loose in the wild desert. I had not gone far before three huge sandworms came in a frenzy. They destroyed the scout ship, devouring every trace.” He looked up, staring at a point somewhere beyond Ishmael. “I wandered for days before Jafar and his men found me.”

Ishmael frowned upon hearing that his son-in-law had turned the former slaver out into the desert, where he would almost certainly die. Had he been trying to take revenge? Had Buddallah punished Rafel because he had decided to take justice into his own hands?

“You must never inform my daughter of this,” he said.

Keedair shrugged. “It was a matter between Rafel and the worm. It means nothing to me.” He extended a sinewy hand. “I give you my word.”

Ishmael made no move to accept the gesture. “You expect me to accept the word of a flesh merchant? The word of the man who attacked my village and sold me into slavery?”

“Lord Ishmael, a businessman who cannot keep his promises soon finds himself without any business.” He used the title not sarcastically, but in deference.

Sensing someone beside him, Ishmael turned to see the large-eyed woman who had been the wife of Selim Wormrider. He had not heard her approach. “What would you have us do with the slaver, Ishmael? The choice falls to you.”

He frowned, uneasy with the responsibility. “Why did you let him keep his life in the first place?”

To Marha, the answer seemed obvious. “To see if he spoke the truth about other Zensunnis who came from a faraway world. But water and food are scarce, and we need no extra mouths in our tribe.”

Inside his cell, Keedair scowled, as if already knowing his fate. “Yes, yes, now that your bellies are full and your throats are no longer parched, you can turn your minds to thoughts of vengeance. You’ve waited long enough for it, Ishmael.”

By now, other Poritrin refugees had gathered in the corridor, searching for Ishmael and hearing the voices. Chamal was there, her face full of questions, and Ishmael did not know how he would decide to answer. Jafar and Marha stood aside to let the refugees peer into the shadowy room, from which the Tlulaxa slaver glared out at them. Many of them grumbled, their anger palpable enough to diminish their joy at being saved.

“Kill him, Ishmael,” implored an old woman.

“Throw him from the cliffs.”

“Feed him to the giant worms.”

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Ishmael stood closest to the captive. He closed his eyes and silently recited his Koran Sutras, hoping that the repeated words of forgiveness and promises of hope would seep into his heart.

“Tuk Keedair, you have already stolen much from me. You have hurt me, robbed me of most of my family, stolen nearly all the years of my life. Now my people are here on Arrakis and they can never leave, can never return to their home planets. When I think of the cost, I cannot help but shudder. But our ordeals here are not your fault.” He sucked in a long, dry breath. “I give you your life back, slaver.”

Surprised murmurs came from the corridor. Even Chamal glared at him in disbelief.

He continued, “It would be a dishonor to kill you now, for you have repaid your debt to us. My people would surely be dead if you had not urged these outlaws to seek us.” Ishmael opened his hands, looking at his distraught daughter. “Make no mistake, I still think of revenge… but I no longer have any right to take it. Those who take things they do not deserve are no better than… slavers.”

The refugees were clearly dissatisfied, even perplexed, but they appeared to accept his decision. Jafar looked at Ishmael with fresh respect, as did Marha, apparently seeing the Poritrin man as a leader for the first time. A real leader…

While the refugees returned to the gathering chambers, Marha took Ishmael aside and led him into the dry, cool night where they could sit together under the profusion of stars. Although many star patterns were different from what he had known on Poritrin, he recognized the constellation of the Beetle and several others. Some things were the same.

“I left my wife somewhere out there.” Up in the cosmic ceiling he did not even know how to find the planet where he had spent most of his life. In a single chaotic lurch, the space-folding ship had hurled them across a whole landscape of stars. “Her name was—
is
— Ozza. I pray she is still alive, along with our other daughter Falina.”

Marha coaxed the reminiscences from him, let him recall his favorite times with Ozza, how they had been so different at first but had become close companions, until Lord Bludd had separated them out of spite. Ishmael had not seen her in nearly three years.

He sighed. “I will never hold my Ozza again, but there is no point in suffocating with regret. Buddallah has guided me here for a reason, kept these people alive, and brought us all together.”

Marha sat in silence beside him for a long moment, then said, “Now I have a story for you, one that must be remembered by all our people, from generation to generation.” She smiled at him, and her voice softened. “Listen, while I tell you the tale of Selim Wormrider.”

I
n the thirty-sixth year of the Jihad that was named after his murdered grandson, old Manion Butler died among his cherished grapevines. The weather had turned cold, and the long-retired Viceroy feared a heavy frost. The ground was hard and dry, but he insisted on getting up at dawn and taking his shovel out to the vineyards.

He was eighty-four years old at the end, and though he had many other workers to rely on, Manion considered it important to take the spade himself and add mulch around the sensitive vines. The old man had always worked hard, devoting himself to little chores around his vineyards, and his olive groves too, just as he had labored during his long years of service in the League Parliament.