Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (47 page)

Feeling uneasy, and damp from the rain and mist in the outside air, she hurried back inside to dry herself and change her clothes. With the precious baby growing inside her womb, six months along now, she thought of her beloved Xavier. Could Vorian help her return to him, or would her child grow up in captivity, never to know its father?

T
he tragic loss of Serena had left Xavier off course, struggling to regain the momentum of his life. Three months earlier, he had seen the wreckage of her blockade runner floating in the seas of Giedi Prime, and had read the indisputable DNA analysis of the blood samples found inside.

He did not claim to understand his feelings, and avoided them by letting his work consume him. At first he had wanted to fling himself recklessly at another machine stronghold, but Serena would have scolded him for that. The thought of her disapproval was the only thing that had stopped him.

She had died fighting the inhuman enemy. Xavier needed an anchor to grasp, some form of stability before moving on. For the sake of her memory, the struggle must continue until every thinking machine had been destroyed.

Xavier’s mind drifted to Octa, the haunting reminder of her sister. Lovely in her own right, she was sensitive and introspective, rather than the goal-driven crusader Serena had been. Still, in subtle ways, the willowy girl reminded him achingly of Serena, in the shape of her mouth and the gentle smile. It was like the echo of a pleasant memory. Xavier found himself torn between staring longingly at Octa and avoiding her entirely.

She was there to comfort him when he grieved, gave him space when he needed it, and cheered him when he wanted that. Quietly and gently, Octa was filling a void in his life. Although their relationship remained tranquil and unremarkable, she showed him attentive love. Where Serena had been a storm of emotions, her sister was steady and predictable.

One day, on an impulse driven more by grief and longing than common sense, Xavier asked Octa to become his wife. She had looked at him with wide eyes, astonished. “I am afraid to move, Xavier, to utter a sound, because I must be dreaming.”

He had worn his clean and pressed Armada uniform bearing his new rank insignia as Segundo. Xavier stood straight, his hands clasped, as if addressing a superior officer, rather than asking Octa to join him as his life mate. He had always known that Serena’s sister had a girlish, unrealistic infatuation with him, and now he hoped it could grow into genuine love.

“In choosing you to marry me, dear Octa, I can think of no braver way to march forward into the future. It is our best chance to honor Serena’s memory.”

The words sounded like a formal speech, but Octa flushed as if they were a magical incantation. Aware that this was the wrong reason to betroth himself to her, Xavier tried to dispel the uneasiness. He had made up his mind and hoped that they could soothe each others’ wounds.

Both Manion and Livia Butler accepted and encouraged the shifting of Xavier’s affections; they even rushed the nuptials. Now the bridge across an emotional chasm had been severed, and they believed the match with Octa would benefit all of them.

On the day of his wedding, Xavier searched for an inner peace, doing his best to lock away the portion of his heart that would always belong to Serena. He still longed for the peal of her laugh, for her outspokenness, for the electric touch of her skin. Taking a few private moments, he reviewed his favorite memories of her one by one in his mind, and then, tearfully, set them aside.

From now on, gentle Octa would be his wife. He would not hurt the already-fragile girl by wallowing in regrets, or by comparing her to her sister. That would be dishonest and unfair to her.

A number of League representatives had gathered at the hilltop Butler estate, where seven months earlier Xavier and Serena had participated in the raucous bristleback hunt. Nearby, in the courtyard, they had held the gala betrothal celebration filled with music and dancing— but ending with the terrible news of Giedi Prime’s fall.

At Xavier’s insistence, the wedding took place inside a new pavilion with vistas of vineyards and olive groves. The fabric structure was so resplendent and intricate in its workmanship that it cost more than a modest house. Out in front, three large banners fluttered in a gentle breeze, designating the households of Butler and Harkonnen, and of Tantor, Xavier’s adoptive family. In the valley below, the white buildings of Zimia shone in sunlight, with wide avenues and large administration complexes refurbished in the fourteen months since the cymek attack.

The ceremony was small and somber, despite the guests’ pretenses and Manion Butler’s insistent merriment. New memories would supplant the old ones. Smiling as he had not done in months, the Viceroy strutted from guest to guest under the colorful awnings, tasting punch recipes and sampling the cornucopia of cheeses and wines.

The silent bride and groom stood by a small altar at the front of the crowded tent, holding hands. Dressed in the pale-blue gown of traditional Salusan weddings, Octa looked ethereal, lovely and fragile beside him. Her strawberry-blond hair was held neatly in place with pearl-head pins.

Some would say this rushed marriage to Serena’s sister was a reaction to Xavier’s grief, but he knew he was taking the honorable course. He reminded himself a thousand times that Serena would have approved. Together, he and Octa would bring closure to so much pain and sadness.

Inside the flower-decked pavilion stood Abbess Livia Butler, her amber-brown hair highlighted by sparkling golden strands. She had come from the City of Introspection to perform the ceremony. Confident and proud, as if she had purged all doubts and sorrow from her mind, Livia looked at the bride and groom, then smiled at her husband. Manion Butler barely fit into his red and gold tuxedo. Soft flesh poked out at the neck and at the ends of the sleeves.

A group of players began to strum their balisets. A boy with a sweet tenor voice sang slowly. Beside Xavier, Octa seemed to be in her own dreamy world, not quite certain how to react to the turn of circumstances. She squeezed his hand, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

Ever since the death of her twin brother Fredo, Octa had developed an ability to shut things out, never overwhelming herself with large-scale concerns but instead preferring smaller tableaux. Such a limited focus might permit her to be happy, and Xavier, too.

Tears glistening in his expressive eyes, Viceroy Butler stepped forward to clasp their hands. After a long moment he turned solemnly to his wife, and nodded. Abbess Livia began to intone the ceremony. “We are here to sing a song of love, a song that has joined men and women since the earliest days of civilization.”

As Octa smiled up at Xavier, he could almost imagine she was Serena, but he drove the troubling image away. He and Octa loved each other in a different way. Their bond grew stronger each time he held her in his arms. Xavier had only to accept the warmth that she readily bestowed on him.

Before them, Livia spoke the traditional words, the roots of which extended back to the Panchristian and Buddislamic texts of ancient times. The lilting phrases were beautiful, and Xavier’s mind kept expanding outward, thinking forward and backward. The words were infinitely calm and reassuring as Abbess Livia guided the young couple through their vows.

Soon everything necessary had been said. As he shared the ritual of love and placed a ring on Octa’s finger, Xavier Harkonnen pledged his eternal devotion to her. Not even the thinking machines could tear this relationship apart.

A
jax strode his intimidating walker-form into the Forum Plaza, inspecting every operation, searching for flaws. With his array of optic threads, the Titan scanned the polished colossus that showed his long-forgotten human form. Ajax was frustrated that Iblis Ginjo had maintained such a careful watch that he could find no excuse to impose amusing punishments. . . .

In turmoil, Iblis watched for an opportunity of his own. His imagination kept returning to the remarkable things he had learned from the Cogitor Eklo, especially details of the glorious failure of the Hrethgir Rebellions. Ajax personified the brutality and pain of those long-ago battles.

Could the Cogitor help Iblis to spread the quiet fires of a brewing revolution? They could learn from the mistakes of the past attempts. Had there ever been a rebel of trustee stature, like Iblis? And how could the secondary Aquim assist him?

Despite his subtle investigations, his ability to manipulate conversations and make others unwittingly divulge their secrets, Iblis had not yet found evidence of other resistance groups. Perhaps their leadership was scattered, disorganized, weak. Who had sent him the secret messages— five in the past three months?

The lack of evidence frustrated Iblis, because he wanted to push the uprising forward, now that he had made up his mind. On the other hand, if the dissenters were too easily found, they would have no chance against the organized thinking machines.

After pushing his slaves particularly hard and finishing his assigned labors, Iblis asked to take another pilgrimage to Eklo’s stone tower. Only the Cogitor could give him the answers he needed. When he spoke with the administrative cymek Dante, showing records that demonstrated his productivity and efficiency, the Titan bureaucrat granted him permission to leave the city grid. Dante made it clear, however, that he didn’t understand why a mere work supervisor would be interested in nonproductive philosophical issues. It seemed to go beyond the interests of most trustees. “It will not benefit you.”

“I’m sure you are right, Lord Dante . . . but it amuses me.”

Setting out before dawn, Iblis urged the smelly burrhorse into the rocky desert and up the slopes to the monastery. Aquim awaited him at the steep circular stairs to the tower, again looking disheveled and somewhat dazed from semuta. From the first time Iblis had immersed his hand in electrafluid and touched the Cogitor’s thoughts, he could not imagine why Aquim wanted to dull his perceptions. Perhaps the complex enlightened thoughts of Eklo were so vast and overwhelming that the big-shouldered secondary needed to dampen the flood of confusing revelations.

“I see you look at me with disapproval,” Aquim said, peering out through slitted eyelids.

“Oh no,” Iblis said. Then, realizing he could not get away with lying, he said, “I was just noticing that you enjoy your semuta.”

The big man smiled and spoke in a voice that slurred slightly. “To an outsider, it may appear that I have deadened my senses, but semuta permits me to forget my own destructive past, before I was inspired to join Cogitor Eklo. It also enables me to focus on what is really important, ignoring the sensual distractions of the flesh.”

“I can’t picture you as a destructive man.”

“Oh, but I was. My father fought against enslavement and died in the attempt. Afterward, I sought revenge against the machines, and I was good at it. I led a small band of men, and we . . . damaged some robots. I am sorry to say that we also killed a number of trustee slaves who got in our way, men such as yourself. Then Eklo arranged for my rescue, and for my rehabilitation of sorts. He never told me why he sought me out, or how he made the arrangements. There are many things the Cogitor does not reveal to anyone, not even to me.”

Abruptly, the monk turned and plodded unsteadily up the stairs, leading Iblis to the chamber where the Cogitor lived in a state of eternal contemplation. Standing in the tower room with the color-bathed observation windows, Aquim said, “Eklo has considered your situation at length. Long ago he watched the changes in humanity after the Titans crushed the Old Empire, but he did nothing. Eklo thought the challenge and adversity would improve the human race by strengthening their minds, forcing them out of their sleepwalking existence.”

The monk wiped a stain from the corner of his mouth. “By separating their minds from their bodies, the cymek Titans could have become enlightened, like Cogitors. That was Eklo’s hope when he assisted Juno. But the Titans never rose above their animal flaws. This weakness enabled Omnius to conquer them, and humanity.” Aquim stepped toward the translucent brain canister resting on a window shelf. “Eklo believes you may be able to institute a change.”

Iblis’s heart leaped. “Nothing is impossible.” But he knew he could not fight the machines by himself, would need to find others to help him.
Many others.

Before the transparent window, Eklo’s plexiplaz container glistened in a wash of golden morning sunlight. In the distance, Iblis could see the unending skyline of megaliths and monuments designed by the cymeks and built with human sweat and blood.
Do I really want to see them all crumble to dust?

The crew boss hesitated as he considered the consequences, remembering the billions of victims of the Hrethgir Rebellions on Walgis and other worlds. Then he sensed an intrusion into his thoughts, something bumping against them.

Aquim removed the covering of the Cogitor’s canister, exposing the nutrient fluid that supported the ancient mind. “Come, Eklo wishes to make direct contact with you.”

The tank’s nutrient solution was like amniotic fluid, tingling with immeasurable mental energy. Tentative, fighting his eagerness to know and learn, Iblis dipped his fingers into the electrafluid, touching the slippery surface of Eklo’s brain and unlocking all the thoughts the Cogitor wanted to give him.

Aquim stood to one side with a strange expression on his face, part beatific complacence, part envy.

“Neutrality is a delicate balancing act,” Eklo said directly into Iblis’s mind, through the neurelectric contact promulgated by the organic circuitry. “Long ago, I answered Juno’s many questions about how to overthrow the Old Empire. My unbiased answers and advice allowed the Titans to formulate successful plans, and the course of the human race was forever changed. For many centuries I reconsidered what I did.” The brain seemed to press against Iblis’s fingertips. “It is essential for all Cogitors to maintain absolute neutrality. We must be objective.”