Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (57 page)

After a long moment, he replied, “I haven’t experienced your sort of life, Serena. I haven’t been to your world, so I don’t know what you’re missing, but I would do anything if only you could be happy.”

“I can only be truly happy if I am free to go home.” She heaved a deep sigh, then maneuvered herself back onto the sofa again. “But I would like us to be friends, Vorian.”

The robot decided he had given them enough time together. He left the viewing screen and entered the private waiting room.

LATER, VORIAN WONDERED why he had been summoned to the villa in the first place. Erasmus had taken him into his botanical garden, where they had chatted, but the robot had asked him few relevant questions.

Riding in the coach back to the spaceport and the
Dream Voyager
, Vor felt unnerved and confused. It frustrated him that he could do nothing to bring joy into Serena’s life. To his surprise, the idea of earning her approval or gratitude excited him as much as the prospect of pleasing his father. His mind spun with the things she had said about history, propaganda, and life on the League Worlds.

She had challenged him. He’d never been curious to read beyond Agamemnon’s memoirs, had never imagined that there could be a different perspective on the same events. He had not considered life outside of the Synchronized Worlds, always assuming that feral humans endured a squalid, pointless existence out there.

But how could such a chaotic civilization have produced a woman like Serena Butler? Perhaps he had missed something.

D
elighted by the new protective shield, Tio Holtzman stood inside the half-reconstructed demonstration dome. He taunted his adversary, laughed at the deadly weapons. Nothing could harm him! The generator pulsed at his feet, projecting a personal barrier around his body.

Impenetrable . . . or so he hoped.

This test should prove that the concept worked. Even Norma believed in him this time. How could anything possibly go wrong?

The diminutive young woman stood at the other side of the reinforced building, throwing objects at him— rocks, tools, and finally (at his insistence) a heavy club. Each one struck the shimmering field and dropped away, its momentum stolen by the shield’s energy, leaving him completely unharmed.

He waved his arms. “It doesn’t hinder my mobility at all. It’s wonderful.”

Now she held a kindjal dagger, her face intent, clearly worried that she might injure him. She had gone through the equations herself and determined that the Savant had made no errors. According to her analysis and her instincts, the shield should work at the impact speeds they were using in the test.

But still she hesitated.

“Come, Norma. Science is not for the faint of heart.” She flung the kindjal as hard as she could, and he forced himself not to flinch. The sharp blade slid harmlessly down the outer film of the barrier. Holtzman smiled, wiggling his fingers. “This invention will change personal protection throughout the League. No longer will anyone be vulnerable to assassins or cutthroats.”

Grunting with effort, Norma hurled an improvised spear. It struck right in front of Holtzman’s eyes, making him jerk backward with a startled blink. When the sharpened staff clattered to the floor, he chuckled in surprise.

“I cannot disagree with you, Savant Holtzman.” Norma smiled in return, then finished throwing a flurry of objects at him like an angry fishwife. “Congratulations on your remarkable breakthrough.”

Without any apparent jealousy, the Rossak girl seemed truly pleased for him. At last he had a triumph of his own to present to Niko Bludd, just like in his glory days. What a relief!

When Norma had nothing left to throw, he shouted to the Dragoon guards who stood on the temporary bridge. “Summon the leader of my Zenshiite house slaves. That dark-haired man with the beard.”

As one guard tromped off to find the slave, Holtzman grinned mischievously at Norma. “We’ll play a little trick on him. He’s a surly sort, and I think he hates me.”

Bel Moulay came over to the demonstration dome, his beard like coal smoke drifting down his chin. He averted his smoldering gaze whenever Holtzman looked too closely at him.

Both Dragoons seemed suspicious of the slave leader, but Holtzman waved away their concerns, feeling safe behind his body shield. “Hand him your Chandler pistol, Sergeant.”

“But sir, he is a slave.” The guard’s face remained stony. Moulay looked even more surprised at the suggestion.

“I’m not concerned, Sergeant. Your partner can keep watch on him. Shoot him in the head if he does not follow instructions precisely.”

Norma said, “Perhaps we should test this further, Savant Holtzman. We could hook up a mannequin inside the shield and see what happens to it.”

“I agree, Savant,” the sergeant added. “Our charge is to protect you, and I cannot allow—”

Annoyed, Holtzman interrupted him. “Nonsense, the system can only be controlled from inside.
My
charge, given to me by Lord Bludd himself— and by the League of Nobles— is to develop and test a means by which we can protect ourselves from the thinking machines. Unless you want to be taken by robot raiders and made into a slave for Omnius, I suggest that you let me do my work. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

Still uneasy, the sergeant removed the high-powered needle pistol and placed it into the slave’s callused hands. Bel Moulay grasped the weapon, looking back and forth as if unable to believe his good fortune.

“Now then, you— Moulay, is that your name? Point that weapon at me and fire at my chest. Go ahead, you can’t miss.”

Moulay didn’t flinch. Everyone had heard the direct order. He squeezed the firing button. The Dragoon guards shouted. Norma cringed.

High-speed crystal shards shot out and struck the shield surrounding Holtzman, then tinkled to the ground like breaking glass. The scientist let out a quiet sigh, his knees suddenly weak with relief.

Barely concealing his anger and hatred, Bel Moulay squeezed the firing button again and again. A hailstorm of sharp crystals splattered against the body shield. He fired until the Chandler pistol was empty.

Two wary Dragoons appeared in the doorway, their sidearms raised to cut down the black-bearded slave where he stood, if necessary. But at the sight of Holtzman unharmed and laughing, Moulay lowered the weapon and glowered. The guards wrestled the pistol from his powerful grip.

All around lay the debris of broken-mirror needles. The Savant expected to receive another Poritrin Medal of Valor for this invention.

Brash, without considering the consequences, the scientist turned to the Dragoon guard. “Now, Sergeant, give him your hand explosive, the small grenade there at your side.”

The Dragoon stiffened. “With respect, Savant. I will not.”

“Your Chandler pistol was ineffective, and it will be the same with the grenade. Imagine how useful these shields will be to you and your men once their effectiveness is proven.”

Intervening, Norma said to the sergeant in a soft, reasonable voice, “It is all right. The Savant knows what he is doing.”

Moulay whirled like a snarling dog, extending his hand for the grenade, palm up.

The sergeant said, “First I want everyone on the other side of the bridge.” Leading Norma away, the other guards strode across to the main bluff.

The Dragoon finally removed the explosive and gave it to the Zenshiite. Without waiting to be told again, Bel Moulay pushed the button and tossed the explosive gently toward Holtzman. Norma felt a sudden fear that the grenade would roll slowly enough to pass through the shield before it detonated.

Knowing he was inside the blast zone, Bel Moulay rushed back across the walkway. From the other side of the bridge, Norma watched the blinking sphere bounce off the shimmering barrier like a rotten fruit.

A loud blossom of fire erupted inside the open demonstration dome. The sound and the overpressure wave was enough to send Norma stumbling. She fell to her knees, looking over the edge of the bridge to the river far below . . . thinking she should have brought her new suspensor device, and also recalling the slaves who fell to their deaths during Holtzman’s previous test.

Two of the newly installed windows had blasted out in a cloud of reinforced glass, scattering fragments that glittered as they caught sunlight. Smoke curled upward. Norma got back to her feet.

Unharmed, Bel Moulay stood with his hands clenched. The guards tensed, ready to take down the slave leader if he showed any sign of aggression.

Norma stumbled back toward the building. She knew intellectually that the shield should have held, but her heart feared that she had missed some subtle flaw in the scientist’s work.

Like a victorious soldier, Holtzman swaggered out, blinking and waving smoke away from his face. He had switched off the shield generator and left the apparatus in the center of the room. Trudging through the wreckage, he appeared somewhat disheveled, but unharmed.

“It works! Complete protection. Not a scratch.” He looked back at the ruined demonstration dome. “I’m afraid we’ve damaged some rather expensive equipment, though.” He frowned in consternation, then burst out laughing.

E
ven with flawless memories based on the most reliable computer principles, sentient machines had limitations. Accuracy depended upon the method of information collection as well as upon the gelcircuitry, neurelectronics, and fiber binaries of construction.

Thus, Erasmus preferred to watch everything firsthand, rather than relying on mechanical observers or recorded events in the computer evermind’s data banks. The robot wanted to be present himself. He wanted to
experience
.

Especially when it came to the momentous occasion of Serena giving birth.

Erasmus augmented his observations by erecting a detailed web of optic threads to record permanent records of every instant, from every perspective. Clinically, he had observed other births from reproductive slaves and considered them nothing more than a normal biological function. But Serena had made him think he might be missing something. Anticipating the pleasure of surprise, Erasmus intended to observe very carefully.

It was too bad she wouldn’t give birth to twins. . . .

Serena lay on the sterile table, twisting with labor spasms, occasionally remembering to hurl curses at him, other times concentrating on her biological processes or calling out for Xavier. Full medical details streamed in from implanted diagnostics and monitoring devices that skittered over her skin, cataloguing the chemicals in her sweat, analyzing her pulse, respiration and other bodily rhythms.

As the robot prodded and studied, fascinated by both Serena’s pain and her wildly varying reactions, she screamed at him. He took no offense at the insults. It was interesting, even amusing, that she could expel such imaginative anger when she should have been concentrating on the birth.

Out of consideration for her, and to minimize variables in the observational medium, he maintained the room’s temperature at an optimal level. Household slaves had removed Serena’s clothes, leaving her exposed on the table.

Through his ubiquitous wall scanners and hidden watcheyes, Erasmus had seen Serena naked many times before. The robot had no prurient interest in her unadorned form; he wanted only the clinical minutiae from which he would draw broader conclusions.

He passed his personal probe over her entire body, absorbing the musky scent she gave off, the intriguing chemical interplays. He found it all very stimulating.

SERENA LAY ON the birthing bed, terrified for her child and for herself. She was tended by six human midwives drawn from the breeding pens.

Erasmus leaned close. His intense scrutiny frightened Serena, especially the way his probe kept darting in and out of the compartment in his body. She knew he could not be genuinely concerned for the welfare of a mere slave and her child.

Sudden lances of abdominal pain pushed aside such thoughts, and she could only focus on the most basic effort for any woman. In a giddy, euphoric instant Serena marveled at the biology that made this possible, the creation of life, the sharing of genetics between man and woman. Oh, how she wished Xavier could be with her now.

She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached; tears streamed down her cheeks. Xavier’s face floated before her, an hallucination born of wishful thinking. Then a harder spasm hit, and she could concentrate on nothing else.

She had been in labor for ten hours now, while the midwives performed various procedures that softened the pain, inserting thin needles into pressure points, massaging nerve centers, injecting drugs. Erasmus provided the midwives with whatever they needed.

Even inside the sterile birthing room, the robot wore a shimmering golden robe trimmed in royal blue. “Describe your feelings to me. What are the sensations of giving birth? I am very curious.”

“Bastard!” Serena gasped. “Voyeur! Leave me in peace!”

The midwives talked with each other as if their patient wasn’t even present.

“Fully dilated . . .”

“Contractions coming more frequently . . .”

“Almost time . . .”

In the background, beyond the center of her existence and the pulse of her child, Serena heard the female voices, this time directed toward her. “Push.”

She did so, but eased back when the pain became unbearable and she didn’t think she could go on.

“A little harder.”

Through sheer force of will, she overcame the pain, increased her effort, and felt the baby coming. Her body knew what it was supposed to do.

“Push again. You can do it.”

“That’s it. Good, good. I see the head!”

As if a dam had broken, Serena felt a release of pressure in her birth canal. She nearly passed out from the exertion.