On the open-air stage of the Zimia Memorial Plaza, the two newly returned war heroes were quite a contrast, standing side by side. Each was dressed in a Jihad uniform, and both were in their mid-forties, but Xavier Harkonnen looked older than that, with crow’s-feet around his tired eyes and a heavy peppering of gray hair at his temples.
Sharply different, Vorian Atreides had an unlined complexion and supple muscles. As the son of Agamemnon, recipient of a painful life-extension process, Vor was not ordinary by any stretch of the imagination.
The two men were different in character, each fulfilling their duties in their own ways, according to their own standards. Both loved Serena Butler, and both had gone to war as officers in her Jihad. Their ranks and status were nearly the same, down to the medals on their chests and the plaques of commendation that adorned their offices, though Vor was technically one grade below Xavier.
Now, as Xavier scanned the sea of faces in the crowd, he felt the weight of age and experience on his shoulders. Fresh orange marigolds decorated the numerous memorials, statues, and makeshift shrines to Manion the Innocent.
The League citizens considered the successful defense of IV Anbus an overwhelming victory that prevented the thinking machines from gaining a critical foothold closer to League territory. Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo had declared a day of celebration to welcome the Jihad soldiers home.
But others would never return to their families. Like Vergyl…
A vision of power and grace, the Priestess of the Jihad made her way through the rejoicing crowd toward the stage, waving to her people. As usual she was surrounded by an entourage of powerful Seraphim, assigned Jipol guards, and handlers.
Iblis Ginjo walked beside her in a gold-trimmed black suit, holding his large head high. Xavier saw the Grand Patriarch for what he was— a man who shared Xavier’s goals in the general sense, but one willing to utilize morally ambiguous options to achieve his ends. Xavier wished Serena would notice some of this, but she had isolated herself more and more, believing the slanted reports her advisors gave her.
On one side of the stage, a hundred uniformed jihadis stood at attention. Some bore the marks of combat, either in the healing packs on their skin or in the haunted looks in their eyes. They would receive medals, but Xavier thought they would have been better off resting, to recover from the rigors of combat.
Many of the ground soldiers and Ginaz mercenaries had suffered severe wounds; most of the escapees from Vergyl’s destroyed ballista were injured, burned, and barely alive. Making the hospital situation even worse, another fast commando ship had just brought a load of refugees from Ix, the now-embattled Synchronized World where underground rebels were barely surviving against cymek hunters.
They had enough blood, pain, and medical emergencies to keep Zimia’s best doctors and the army’s finest battlefield surgeons busy for a long time.
Serena climbed to the stage, followed by Iblis. Though she showed no hesitation in spite of the most recent assassination attempt against her in the City of Introspection, white-robed bodyguards surrounded her, ready to thrust themselves into the line of fire if necessary.
Serena and the Grand Patriarch stood in front of Xavier and Vor, waving past them to the giddy crowd. Iblis raised his hands high for silence, while Serena gazed at both Primeros. Xavier felt an electric tingle upon looking into her lavender eyes, her still-lovely, beatific face. She seemed to be in a religious trance. Or… drugged?
“We are here to celebrate a tremendous victory.” Serena’s words echoed from powerful, unseen speakers. “The successful defense of IV Anbus will go down in the annals of the Jihad as one of our proudest moments. One day there will be no more thinking machines, no more tormentors of our collective soul. This is the moment of our greatest challenge— and I call upon all human beings to do their part. No, I call upon each of you to do more than your part.”
Serena looked warmly at the Grand Patriarch, and in her eyes Xavier saw adoration and respect that went beyond anything the man deserved. Did she not see how Iblis manipulated her, telling her only what she wanted to hear?
Presently, Iblis’s resonant voice filled the speakers of the plaza. “As we proved on Earth, on Giedi Prime, on Peridot Colony, Tyndall, and now IV Anbus— we can defeat Omnius! One planet at a time. We must seize and free the Synchronized Worlds… and for that, we always need more volunteers. Every League World must contribute fighters now, so that we may carry on the valiant war. Sons and daughters, fighters from all free regions and peoples. I even call on Ginaz to provide more of their best mercenaries, who have proved so effective. Train them, test them! With your help, thinking machine planets will fall in a chain reaction across the cosmos.”
Xavier’s stomach churned as he thought of his foster brother Vergyl; but he maintained his stoic composure. Standing erect, a dedicated soldier in every aspect of his demeanor, he saluted the crowd.
EVERY WORLD IN the League of Nobles remained at the highest state of alert. Twice in the past quarter century the capital city of Zimia had been the target of massive attacks— an initial assault by cymek walkers when Serena had been only a junior member of the League Parliament, and again several years after the atomic destruction of Earth. But humans had survived both times.
There were no safe harbors on the roiling sea of Serena Butler’s Jihad. Her people could never rest, never stop looking over their shoulders, until the scourge of thinking machines had been eliminated for all time.
As she walked like an angel through a Salusan military hospital outside Zimia, she felt more determined than ever. Despite all the colorful flowers of celebration and reverence to Manion, the sight of wounded fighters on healer beds brought home the urgency to her.
People were ultimately vulnerable, forced to spend their lives in fragile bodies that the thinking machines could easily destroy. Her murdered son was the most famous example, but little Manion had not been the first child brutalized by machines, nor had he been the last. And he had not suffered as much as some. She knew what Omnius and Erasmus were capable of. But the little boy’s death had triggered trillions of people to fight back against the machines, all under her banner. She heaved a deep sigh at the terrible losses of her people.
Serena wore a simple white hospital dress now, with a red version of the open-hand League symbol on the lapel. She administered a benevolent smile, soft words, and a gentle touch to each soldier as she moved from bed to bed.
One man had lost both arms in an artillery explosion and remained in a coma. Lingering at his bedside, Serena held a cool hand against his bandaged, waxen face and told him how proud she was of all he had sacrificed.
A young tan-skinned doctor went to the healer bed and began checking vital signs on an array of instruments. A badge on the lapel of his white shirt identified him as Dr. Rajid Suk, one of the most talented of the new battlefield surgeons. “I’m sorry, but he can’t hear you.”
“Oh, but he can.” Against her fingertips, Serena felt the patient’s cheek twitch. The eyelids flickered open. The man groaned in confusion and pain. Some of the patients called it a miracle.
“There are many paths to healing,” Dr. Suk said, calling out to his colleagues. “Serena, you brought this man out of his coma.”
The patient became aware of his grievous injuries and began to wail. On the healing bed, intravenous lines and probes adjusted automatically to improve his vital signs. A nurse stepped forward and adhered a white sedative pad to his chest. As the drug calmed him, the man looked up imploringly at Serena. She massaged his brow and whispered to him….
Later, when he had drifted off, Serena spoke quietly to Dr. Suk. “Will he be scheduled for limb-replacement surgery?”
“With so many battles, there is a shortage of organs, limbs, and other replacement body parts. The Tlulaxa organ farms simply cannot keep up with the demand.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “It could take a year or more before he is even a candidate.”
She lifted her chin in angry determination. “I will speak with the Tlulaxa representatives. They claim to be our allies, and their organ farms must be expanded to provide what we need, no matter the cost. In this fight for all humanity, they must work closely with us, forgoing excessive profits if necessary, to care for those who risk their lives for our freedom!” She raised her voice so that wounded soldiers could hear her. “I guarantee that all of you will receive the organs and limbs you need. I shall demand it of the Tlulaxa!”
Not a single person in the hospital doubted her.
THAT EVENING FOUR Jipol men led Iblis Ginjo to a dim pleasure house filled with sweet-smelling smoke and oddly atonal music. Inside, the small-statured Rekur Van sat on a cushion as if meditating, paying little attention to the languid lights that played over the flowing silhouettes of slender women.
Without receiving an invitation, Iblis took a thick cushion next to the Tlulaxa flesh merchant. The slaver stirred, gave an agitated grunt. He put down a chunk of orange cake that he had been eating with his bare, long-fingered hands. The Jipol men sat menacingly close to him, causing his dark eyes to flit about nervously.
“I need your help,” Iblis said quietly enough that no eavesdropper could hear. After his most recent raid on IV Anbus, Rekur Van had reported to Iblis the ominous presence of machine scout ships in the system. “I saved your best slave-harvesting grounds. In exchange, you must do something for me.”
A simpering server came up to them with mincing steps, but Iblis made a gesture with his left hand. Two Jipol guards caught the server and rapidly whisked him away from the private conversation.
Rekur Van grimaced at the Grand Patriarch. “What choice do I have?”
“Serena Butler has promised her injured Jihad fighters increased shipments of replacement parts— arms, legs, internal organs— for all who need them. You Tlulaxa must provide everything necessary.”
“But we don’t have the capacity.” The flesh merchant scowled. “How could you let her say such things? Have you lost control of the Jihad?”
“I was not present, but her statement is a matter of record, and now we must make it happen. The Priestess of the Jihad cannot renege on her commitments. The Tlulaxa organ farms will send increased shipments immediately.”
“It will not be easy. We need much more raw material.”
“Just see that it is done. I don’t care how. My office will provide whatever authorization you need… and because of the vital nature of this ‘request,’ I’m sure the Army of the Jihad can promise a bonus. Say, an increase of five percent over your usual fees?”
The Tlulaxa merchant, at first intimidated by the magnitude of the demand, began to smile. “Given sufficient incentive, all things are possible for the Jihad.”
“Of course they are. Your ship is at Zimia Spaceport?”
“Yes.” Rekur Van brushed cake crumbs from his chest. “My business is finished here, and I intend to depart in three days.”
Iblis stood, towering over the little Tlulaxa on his cushion. “You will depart now.” The Jipol guards lifted Rekur Van to his feet.
The Grand Patriarch and his entourage escorted the sputtering flesh merchant out of the pleasure house. “Until this is done, the League of Nobles will have no further business dealings with you.”
He had already issued a similar demand to the commanders of the mercenary schools on Ginaz. Human beings were the Jihad’s primary resources in this fight against mechanical monstrosities, and Iblis needed to make sure the supply lines remained open.
Rekur Van perspired and looked nervous. His dark gaze flitted around, as if looking for an avenue of escape. “You drive a hard bargain.”
Iblis gave a smile. “I have only the best interests of mankind in my heart.”