Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (55 page)

Appalled at Ajax’s bloodthirsty response to the Hrethgir Rebellions, Hecate had “resigned” her position among the Titans. She wanted nothing more to do with ruling humanity. Encased in a cymek body of her own design, a long-range space vessel, Hecate simply departed, leaving the remaining Titans to continue their death grip on humanity.

Ironically, Hecate had chosen the perfect time to leave. Not long after the obliteration of humans on Walgis, Xerxes’s fatal error had allowed the Omnius evermind to get loose. . . .

Now, inside the blood-spattered Hall of Justice, Ajax raised his intimidating body high. He powered up his systems so that neurelectric fire gleamed through his insectlike limbs.

The captive traitor screamed at the very thought of what was about to happen to him.

“Now, Ohan Freer,” Ajax said, “let me ask you certain other questions. I want you to pay close attention.”

BY COMMAND OF Omnius, the crew boss Iblis Ginjo brought his loyal slaves into the Golden Age Square. Ajax was about to pronounce sentence— execution, no doubt— upon a man he had taken captive, a crew boss from another labor gang, Ohan Freer.

Iblis had trained with the accused trustee in the special schools, but he had never seen his fellow crew boss do anything illegal. Ajax rarely needed much of an excuse, however. He himself had experienced the Titan’s displeasure more than once, but so far had managed to survive. He doubted his compatriot would fare as well today.

An ornate metal-worked column stood in the center of the square. A roaring orange flame gushed from the top of the pillar, like an ornamental smokestack. Fanciful facades of immense buildings, all empty, surrounded the plaza like prison walls around a central courtyard. Omnius’s sentinel robots looked powerful and portentous in formations along the sides of the square, ready to strike against any perceived infraction by the expendable human slaves.

Iblis guided his crew into the partitioned viewing areas, voicing a few words of reassurance, though not enough to upset the cymeks. Ajax loved showmanship, wanted to make certain every terrified eye witnessed his actions. When Iblis and the other crew bosses blew whistles to signal their readiness, Ajax emerged, carrying his maimed prisoner.

The Titan wore an antlike body with an impressive ellipsoidal core, heavy walking legs, and four grasping arms in which he held Ohan Freer. Hovering watcheyes captured images and fed a steady stream of data to the evermind.

Beneath the flaming pillar, Ajax clutched the squirming victim like a giant ant soldier with a hapless enemy beetle. Doomed Ohan had been burned, bloodied, and wounded; his left hand was only a charred stump. Blossoming bruises discolored his skin. A thin, watery wail leaked from his mouth.

A mutter of dismay came from the human onlookers. Watching them, Iblis knew these workers could not have been the source of the rebellion, despite the mysterious and provocative messages he had received. What if he was deluding himself and the secret call to freedom was simply a wishful suggestion voiced by another desperate person?

Lifting the unfortunate captive high, Ajax amplified his vocal synthesizers so that his words boomed like a projectile cannon around the enclosed square. “Some of you have heard this criminal speak. Some of you may have had the poor judgment to listen to his silly imaginings about freedom and rebellion. You would be wiser to cut off your ears than listen to such foolishness.”

The crowd held its collective breath. Iblis bit his lower lip, not wanting to watch, but fixated on the imminent horror. If he averted his gaze, the watcheyes might well detect it, and he would hear about it later. As a consequence, Iblis stared at every unfolding second.

“This poor, deluded man is no longer necessary to the continued glory of Omnius in the reign of the thinking machines.”

Ohan screamed, and struggled weakly. Ajax held the man’s intact arm in one roughly formed pincer claw and each leg in two others. With his last claw, Ajax wrapped a long, sharp embrace around Ohan’s chest, under his armpits.

“He is no longer a worker. He is no longer even
hrethgir
, one of the unruly humans who survive at our own sufferance. He is
garbage
.” Ajax paused. “And garbage is to be discarded.”

Then, without a sound or any sign of effort, Ajax pulled his artificial limbs in different directions, tearing the helpless Ohan asunder. The man’s arms and legs ripped free, his chest tore open and broken bones pierced skin. Blood and entrails spilled onto the clean flagstones of the Golden Age Square.

Ajax flung the bloody parts into the screaming crowd. “Enough of this nonsense! There is no rebellion. Now get back to work.”

The sickened workers seemed only too eager to race back to their tasks, looking to Iblis as they left, as if he could protect them. But Iblis still stared in disbelieving amazement. Ohan Freer had been a member of the rebellion! The crew boss had spread dissent, made plans, perhaps sent and received messages.

Another rebel!

Appalled, Iblis knew the danger to himself was even greater now, if he continued to act. Nonetheless, today’s execution had shown him one thing more clearly than ever: The brewing human rebellion was not just his imagination.

It is real!

If Ohan had been part of it, then there must be others, too— many of them. This underground network of fighters, which included Iblis, was safely separated into cells so that no one could betray the others. Now he understood.

He began to make plans with even greater conviction than before.

I
t was a makeshift performance hall, inside a marble-walled building on the robot’s estate. Erasmus had worked his slave crews to modify the interior, install seats, and retool the walls, all to create perfect acoustics for this single performance. Erasmus had studied records of the greatest human classical music, knew exactly what was expected of grand symphonies, from the audience to the setting. He had high standards for his artistic endeavors.

The robot invited Serena Butler, now in her eighth month of pregnancy, to sit in a large central chair for the concert. “These other people might experience pleasure from the melody and the sounds, but you have different expectations. On Salusa Secundus, sophisticated music was a part of your existence.”

With a pang, Serena thought of her brother and his musical aspirations. She had learned to appreciate the enduring works of long-vanished human composers. “Music is not the only thing I miss, Erasmus.”

“You and I speak the same cultured language,” he said, not noticing her pointed remark. “You will tell me how you enjoy this composition. I had you in mind when I wrote it.”

He filled the performance hall with worker-caste slaves culled from a variety of skilled labor assignments. They were cleaned up and dressed according to Erasmus’s concept of a high-class audience.

Electronic portraits of great human composers lined the interior walls, as if the robot wanted to count himself among their number. Around the perimeter of the concert hall, museum-type display cases held musical instruments— a lute, a rebec, a gilded tambour, and an antique fifteen-string baliset with inlaid vabalone shells on its case.

In the center of the mezzanine stage beneath open rafters, Erasmus sat alone before a grand piano, surrounded by music synthesizers, speakers, and a sound-misting station. Wearing a formal black suit with a cut similar to a tuxedo but redesigned to accommodate his robotic body, Erasmus sat at attention, his face a smooth mirrored oval, showing no expression.

Shifting to find a more comfortable position for her back, Serena watched the inquisitor robot. She rested a hand on her enormous abdomen, felt the movements of the restless baby. Within weeks, she would deliver her child.

Around her, the captive audience shifted uneasily, not sure what to expect, or what was expected of them. Erasmus turned his mirrored face toward the audience, reflecting them as he waited, and waited. Finally silence fell.

“Thank you for your attention.” He turned to a shiny silver apparatus beside him, a music synthesizer with dancing polymer fingertips that produced familiar riffs and chords. The background music increased in volume, laced with stringed instruments and mournful Chusuk horns.

The robot listened for several moments, then continued, “You are about to experience something truly remarkable. To demonstrate my respect for the creative spirit, I have composed a new symphony especially for you, my hardworking slaves. No human has ever heard it before.”

He played a rapid mixture of melodies on the piano, running through three short passages in an apparent effort to confirm that the instrument was tuned properly. “After detailed analysis of the field, I have written a symphony comparable to the works of the great human composers Johannes Brahms and Emi Chusuk. I developed my piece according to strict principles of order and mathematics.”

Serena perused the audience, doubting any of the humans raised in captivity were familiar with the classical music the robot had mentioned. Schooled on Salusa Secundus, where music and art were integral parts of the culture, Serena had listened to the renowned works of many composers, even discussing them at length with Fredo.

With a mental pulse Erasmus linked his gelcircuitry mind to the synthesizer, producing a strange, repetitious melody. Then his mechanical fingers danced over the keyboard, and he made frequent sweeping gestures as he played, as if imitating a famous concert pianist.

Serena found the composition pleasant enough, but unremarkable. And, although she did not recognize the precise melody, it had a strangely familiar character, as if the robot had mathematically analyzed an existing piece measure by measure and followed the pattern, changing a rhythm here, a polyphonic passage there. The music felt lackluster, with no powerful driving force.

Erasmus apparently believed it was a human instinct to appreciate a new work, that his captive audience would intrinsically note the nuances and complexities of his structurally perfect composition. The slaves around Serena shifted in their seats and listened; to them, this was a pleasant enough diversion but just another work assignment. The conscripted audience seemed to enjoy the soothing notes of the melody, but it did not move them in the way the robot desired.

When at last he ceased his performance, Erasmus sat back from the piano, deactivated the symphonic support equipment, and let the silence deepen. The reverberating tones faded.

For a moment, the slaves hesitated as if waiting for instructions. Erasmus said, “You may give an ovation if you enjoyed the piece.” They didn’t seem to understand the reference, until he said, “Signify by clapping your hands.”

An initial wave of applause came as a sparse patter like raindrops, then swelled into louder clapping— as was expected of them. Serena joined in politely, though not enthusiastically. A small act of honesty that she was sure Erasmus would notice.

The robot’s shining mask had shifted into a proud smile. In his formal black garment he walked smoothly down a staircase from the mezzanine stage to the main floor. The slaves continued to applaud, and he basked in the apparent adulation. When the acclamation receded, he summoned sentinel guards to escort the audience back to their regular work assignments.

Serena could see that Erasmus believed he had created an enduring work of merit that possibly surpassed what humans had achieved. But she didn’t want to discuss it with him, and tried to slip away to her greenhouse work. She moved slowly because of her pregnancy, however, and Erasmus caught up with her. “Serena Butler, I wrote this symphony for your benefit. Are you not impressed by it?”

She selected her words carefully, avoiding a candid answer. “Perhaps I am simply sad because your symphony reminds me of other performances I watched on Salusa Secundus. My late brother wanted to be a musician. Those were happier times for me.”

He looked at her closely, his optic threads sparkling. “Nuances of human behavior tell me that my symphony has disappointed you. Explain why.”

“You don’t want an honest opinion.”

“You misjudge me, for I am a seeker of truth. Anything else is faulty data.” His cherubic expression caused her to lower her guard. “Is there something wrong with the acoustics in this hall?”

“It’s nothing to do with the acoustics. I’m sure you tested everything to technical perfection.” The audience continued to move toward the exits, some looking over their shoulders at Serena with pity that the robot had taken a special interest in her. “It was the symphony itself.”

“Continue,” Erasmus said. His voice was flat.

“You assembled that piece, you didn’t
create
it. It was based on precise models developed ages ago by human composers. The only creativity I heard came from their minds, not yours. Your music was a mathematical extrapolation, but nothing that inspired me in any way. The tune you . . .
engineered
evoked no images or feelings within me. There was no fresh element that you contributed, nothing emotionally compelling.”

“How am I to quantify such an ingredient?”

Forcing a smile, Serena shook her head. “Therein lies your mistake, Erasmus. It is impossible to quantify creativity. How does a person hear a thunderstorm and use that experience to write the ‘William Tell Overture’? You would simply imitate the sounds of thunder and rain, Erasmus, but you wouldn’t
evoke the impression
of a storm. How did Beethoven look at a peaceful meadow and adapt that experience into his ‘Pastorale’? Music should make the spirit soar, take the breath away, touch the soul. Your work was just . . . pleasant tones, adequately performed.”

The robot took several seconds to change the expression on his face, and finally looked at her with perplexity, even defensiveness. “Your opinion seems to be in the minority. The rest of the audience greatly appreciated the work. Did you not notice their applause?”