Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (42 page)

Now she stood on the span of the bridge between bluff sections and reached up to grab the rail. Listening to breezes hum through the cables, she peered through safety netting at the river traffic far below.

She heard Holtzman inside the domed demo-lab, shouting to slaves as they erected a bulky generator that produced a resonating field intended to shake apart and melt a metal form. An imperious presence in a white-and-purple robe, he wore chains of office about his neck, baubles that signified his scientific awards and achievements. Holtzman glared at his workers, then paced around, double-checking, watching every detail.

Lord Bludd and a handful of Poritrin nobles would join them to watch the day’s test, so Norma understood Holtzman’s anxiety. She herself would never have made such an extravagant presentation of an untried device, but the scientist did not show even a glimmer of doubt.

“Norma, please assist me in here,” Holtzman called in an exasperated tone. On short legs she ran from the bridge into the enclosure. He gestured disgustedly toward the slaves. “They don’t understand a thing I’ve told them to do. Supervise them, so I can test the calibration.”

At the center of the reinforced chamber, Holtzman’s crew had erected a metal mannequin that had the vague features of a combat robot. Norma had never seen a real thinking machine, but had scrutinized many stored images. She stared at the mockup. This was the enemy, the true foe against which all of her work must be directed.

She looked at her mentor with more compassion, understanding his desperation. Holtzman was morally obligated to pursue
any
idea, to find
any
way to continue this noble fight. He had a good feel for projected energies, distortion fields, and nonprojectile weaponry. She hoped his alloy-resonance generator would work after all.

Before the slaves had finished rigging the test apparatus, a commotion occurred outside the main house. Ribbon-festooned ceremonial barges came into view above the cliffs, where Holtzman’s balconies overlooked the river. Scale-armored Dragoon guards stood on the flying craft with Lord Bludd, along with five senators and a black-robed court historian.

Holtzman dropped what he was doing. “Norma, finish this. Please!” Without looking back at her, he rushed across the connecting bridge to greet his prestigious visitors.

Norma urged the slaves to hurry, as she personally adjusted the calibrations and attuned the apparatus to the inventor’s specifications. Light shone through high skylights to illuminate the robot facsimile. Reinforced metal ceiling beams crisscrossed the overhead vault, supporting pulleys and winches that had been used to haul the blockish resonance generator into place.

Moody Zenshiite slaves milled about, wearing traditional clothing, red-and-white stripes wrapped around serviceable gray jumpsuits. Many slave owners didn’t allow their captives to show signs of individuality, but Holtzman didn’t care one way or the other. He only wanted the captive people to perform their tasks without complaint.

As they completed their work the slaves backed close to the plated wall, their dark gazes averted. One black-bearded, shadowy-eyed man spoke to them in a language unfamiliar to Norma. Moments later a grinning Holtzman ushered his impressive guests into the demonstration area.

The Savant made a grand entrance. At his side, Niko Bludd wore a billowing azure tunic and a scarlet doublet fastened across his barrel chest. His reddish beard had been curled in neat ringlets. Small tattooed circles looked like bubbles at the far points of each eyelid.

Walking past the slaves, Bludd noticed Norma and gave the diminutive woman a smile that was both condescending and paternal. Norma bent in a formal bow and politely grasped his slick, lotioned hand.

“We know your time is valuable, Lord Bludd. Therefore, everything has been prepared.” Holtzman folded his hands. “This new device has never been tested, and in today’s presentation you will be the first to witness its potential.”

Bludd’s voice was deep, but musical. “We always expect the best from you, Tio. If thinking machines have nightmares, no doubt you are in them.”

The entourage chuckled, and Holtzman did his best to blush. He turned toward the slaves and began issuing orders. A half dozen workers held data-recording devices, positioned at important points around the robot mockup.

Plush chairs from the main residence had been arranged as seats of honor. Holtzman sat beside Lord Bludd, and Norma was forced to stand by the door. Her mentor appeared confident and intense, but she knew how worried he really was. A failure today might dim his glory in the eyes of the politically powerful nobles on Poritrin.

The esteemed observers sat in their cumbersome chairs. Holtzman stared at the generator setup, glancing around as if offering a quiet prayer. He smiled reassuringly at Norma, then ordered the activation of the prototype.

A slave flipped a switch, as he had been taught to do. The bulky generator began to hum, directing its invisible beam toward the robot construction.

“If put to practical use,” Holtzman said with the faintest of quavers, “we will find ways to make the generator more compact, more easily installed on small ships.”

“Or we can just build bigger ships,” Bludd said, with a deep chortle.

The hum grew louder, a vibrating rattle that made Norma’s teeth chatter. She noticed a thin sheen of perspiration on Holtzman’s brow.

“Look, you can see it already.” The scientist pointed. The targeted robot began to shake, its metal limbs jostling and torso vibrating. “The effect will continue to build.”

Bludd was delighted. “That robot is regretting he ever turned against the human race, isn’t he!”

The facsimile robot began to shimmer cherry red, its metal heating up as the alloys were attuned to the destructive field projected upon it. Glowing brighter, it shifted to yellow mixed with patches of blinding white.

“By now, a real robot would have been destroyed internally,” Holtzman said, finally looking content.

Abruptly the laboratory’s heavy ceiling girders started to rattle, a secondary resonance fed from the targeted robot into the dome’s structural framework. The thick walls rumbled and shuddered. A high-pitched hum shrieked through the structure.

Norma cried, “The resonance field is bleeding over.”

Ceiling girders clenched like angry snakes. A crack opened in the dome.

“Shut it off!” Holtzman shouted, but the terrified slaves scrambled to a corner of the room, as far from the generator as they could get.

The robot mockup undulated and twisted, its body core melting. Support struts that held it inside the targeting zone buckled. The ominous-looking combat machine lurched forward then abruptly fell and shattered into blackened metal.

Holtzman grabbed Niko Bludd’s sleeve. “My Lord, please hurry across the bridge to my main quarters. We seem to have a . . . slight problem.”

The other nobles were already pelting across the high-tension bridge. Norma was swept along with them. She took one look behind her and saw that the Zenshiite slaves were uncertain what to do. Tio Holtzman gave them no guidance as he retreated over the walkway right behind Bludd.

From safety, Norma watched six panicked slaves stumble onto the bridge. Remaining behind, the dark-haired leader pushed them forward, shouting in their odd language. The walkway began to whip up and down as resonance from the projector coupled to the bridge’s connecting metal.

The bearded Zenshiite leader howled at them again. Norma wished she could rescue those unfortunate, confused people. Couldn’t the Dragoon guards do anything? Holtzman remained speechless on this side of the bluff, paralyzed with shock.

Before the first batch of slaves could cross, the suspension walkway snapped in the middle, dropping open in a screeching groan of agonized metal. The hapless victims plummeted two hundred meters to the base of the bluff and into the river.

Standing on the threshold, separated now by the gulf between the cliffs, the black-bearded leader cursed again. Behind him, a section of the vaulted roof crashed down, destroying the prototype generator and finally stopping the relentless pulse.

Dust settled. A few flames and a curl of smoke rose into the air amidst the wailing of injured men still trapped within the collapsed building.

Norma felt sick. Beside her, Holtzman sweated profusely and lookedill. He blinked again and again, then wiped his forehead. His skin was gray.

In a wry voice, Bludd said, “Not one of your most successful efforts, Tio.”

“But you must admit, the concept shows promise, Lord Bludd. Look at the destructive potential,” Holtzman said, looking at the unruffled nobles without even considering the dead and injured slaves. “We can be thankful at least that no one was hurt.”

I
nside the broken demonstration dome, the bloodstains washed away easily, but deeper scars remained. While a crew of new slaves cleared the rubble, Tio Holtzman crossed a temporary and none-too-sturdy walkway. He looked sadly at the ruins of his laboratory.

From where he worked, Bel Moulay, the bearded leader of the Zenshiite slaves, glowered at the callous inventor. He hated the Poritrin man’s pale skin, square-cut hair, and arrogantly colorful clothes. The scientist’s frivolous badges of honor meant nothing to Bel Moulay, and all the captive Zenshiites were offended that such a useless, deluded man could flaunt his wealth while stepping on the faithful.

In a deep voice the bearded leader gave instructions and consolation to his fellows. Moulay had always been more than just the strongest among them; he was also a religious leader, trained on IV Anbus in the strictest laws of the Zenshiite interpretation of Buddislam. He had learned the true scriptures and sutras, had analyzed every passage; the other slaves looked to Bel Moulay to interpret for them.

Despite his faith, he was as helpless as his companions, forced to serve at the whim of nonbelievers. The infidels refused to let Zenshiites live according to their strictures, but insisted on dragging them into their hopeless war against the unholy machine demons. It was a terrible punishment, a set of karmic tribulations visited upon them by Buddallah.

But they would see it through, and eventually emerge stronger. . . .

Under Bel Moulay’s guidance, the slaves moved rubble, uncovering the crushed bodies of companions who had worked alongside them, fellow Zenshiites captured when Tlulaxa slavers raided the canyon cities on IV Anbus.

Buddallah would eventually show them the way to freedom. At story fires, the bearded leader had promised that the oppressors would be punished— if not in this generation, then in the next, or the next. But it would happen. A mere man like Bel Moulay had no business trying to hurry the wishes of God.

With excited shouts, two slaves shifted a fallen section of wall to uncover a man who still clung to life, though his legs had been crushed and his torso slashed by shards of windowplaz. Preoccupied, Holtzman came over and scrutinized the injured man. “I am no medical practitioner, but there seems to be little hope.”

Bel Moulay glowered at him with dark, penetrating eyes. “Nevertheless, we must do what we can,” he said in Galach. Three Zenshiite workers scooped away the debris and carried the injured man across the rickety walkway. Inside the slave quarters, healers would work on the injuries.

After the accident, Holtzman had provided basic medical supplies, though a similar effort had done little to keep a fever from sweeping through the slave population. The scientist supervised the workers in the rubble, but he was intent on his own priorities.

With a frown, the Savant gestured impatiently at the slaves picking up chunks of the collapsed ceiling to uncover victims. “You and you, leave off digging out bodies for now and excavate what’s left of my device.”

The sullen captives looked at Moulay for guidance. He simply shook his head. “There is no value in resistance now,” he muttered in their private language. “But I promise you the time will come.”

Later, during their meager sleep time, they would remove their dead and provide proper Zenshiite blessings and passage preparations for the souls. Burning the bodies of the faithful was not something their religion accepted easily, but it was the way of Poritrin. Bel Moulay was certain Buddallah could not fault them for not following traditional rules, when they had no choice in the matter.

His deity could be an angry one, though. Moulay hoped to live long enough to see vengeance strike these oppressors, even if it must be in the form of thinking machines.

As the demonstration dome was cleared, Holtzman began chattering to himself, planning new experiments and tests. He considered acquiring more slaves to make up for recent losses.

In all, twelve slaves were recovered from the demonstration dome, while those who had fallen to their deaths from the walkway had already been gathered from the river and disposed of by public cremation teams. Bel Moulay knew every one of their names, and he would make sure the Zenshiites chanted continual prayers for them. He would never forget what had happened here.

Or who was responsible:
Tio Holtzman
.

“N
othing is impossible,” the disembodied brain had said to him.

In the gray stillness before dawn, Iblis Ginjo turned over restlessly in his makeshift bed, on the perimeter of the work encampment and its habitation hives of human slaves. Since the weather had been unseasonably warm, he had hauled his pliable bedstrip onto the porch of the simple bungalow the neo-cymeks had provided for him. He had lain awake, staring up at the distant stars and wondering which ones were still under the control of free humans.

Far away, the League had managed to keep Omnius at bay for a thousand years. Listening closely, but afraid to ask questions or call attention to himself, Iblis had heard accounts of how the machines first conquered, and then lost, Giedi Prime. The resilient humans had driven the machines out, killing the Titan Barbarossa and destroying a new Omnius.