In the thirty-sixth year of the Jihad that was named after his murdered grandson, old Manion Butler died among his cherished grapevines. The weather had turned cold, and the long-retired Viceroy feared a heavy frost. The ground was hard and dry, but he insisted on getting up at dawn and taking his shovel out to the vineyards.

He was eighty-four years old at the end, and though he had many other workers to rely on, Manion considered it important to take the spade himself and add mulch around the sensitive vines. The old man had always worked hard, devoting himself to little chores around his vineyards, and his olive groves too, just as he had labored during his long years of service in the League Parliament.

Like a champion racehorse, old Manion had never even considered slowing down, that the urgency for completing the project in a single morning was perhaps overstated.

Xavier had slept late, glad to be home with his wife and their youngest daughter Wandra, now eight years old. He snuggled close to Octa in their bed, reacquainting himself with the familiarity of her touch, her closeness. But the Primero had never been a man to lounge around and do nothing. He soon got up, breakfasted, and dressed in old work clothes.

It had been eight years since the slave revolt on Poritrin resulted in the destruction of the city of Starda and the deaths of so many people. And eight years since Agamemnon’s unexpected cymek rebellion threw the Synchronized Worlds into an uproar and diverted the destructive attentions of Omnius.

While the machines’ relentless attempts at conquest had lost focus, the Jihad plodded on. Xavier regularly guided forays into Synchronized territory, protected vulnerable colonies, and attacked robotic warships wherever he encountered them.

Upon arriving home, however, Xavier always enjoyed working in the Butler Estate’s fields and vineyards, where he sought to distract himself and gain some inner peace in a universe of war.

He stepped outside into the fresh morning light, tugged on thick gloves, and strode out smiling to meet the old man and help him finish the mulching. Xavier arrived just in time to see Manion pause and then reel, as if disoriented. The old politician clutched the handle of the shovel, trying to keep himself upright, but his expression fell, his face turned gray, and he crumpled to the ground.

Xavier was already running, calling out to his father-in-law, but he reached his side too late to help.

“NOW WE HAVE lost two Manions,” Serena’s mother said. Tears streamed down Livia Butler’s weathered face; her reflection in the ripples of the City of Introspection’s reflecting pool looked ancient.

Abbess Livia Butler had always looked much younger than her eighty-one years, but she appeared to have aged terribly since the death of her husband. In elegant contemplation robes, she sat hunched over. Despite her stoic composure, Livia looked broken inside, like a tree severed from its roots.

Serena sat with her mother on a bench at the edge of the pool. Manion had passed away peacefully enough, after a full life. If only he had lived long enough to see the end of this unhappy war.

In the three and a half decades of the Jihad, the ache of tragedy had never left Serena. Sometimes it was the grim knowledge of populations wiped out on Chusuk or in the Honru Massacre; at other times, the grief was much more personal. She would never relinquish her sworn duty to guide the struggle against the thinking machines, but Serena wished she could finally have time to ponder, and grieve. She had thought about going into Zimia, to meditate beside one of the numerous flower-draped public reliquaries. But at the moment she did not want to see any crowds.

Serena glanced up a grassy slope to the shrine that contained the preserved body of her child. Her little boy was the innocent symbol of the human spirit, the absolute antithesis of machine cruelty and utter in humanity. She said, “Yes, now we have lost two Manions. But the League and its Jihad will have to go on without both of them.” Even so, she felt as if one of the pillars of the League of Nobles had toppled and shattered.

Reaching over, she touched her mother’s hand. The Abbess squeezed back, with little strength at first, but then harder, urgently. Livia’s eyes widened, and she gasped with a genuine pain that went far beyond her sadness. Serena tried to put an arm around her mother, but the older woman slumped off the bench and dropped to the edge of the water. Serena knelt by Livia and lifted her shoulders, shouting urgently for help.

For a long, agonizing moment Serena stared into her mother’s open, lifeless eyes. Though Livia and Manion Butler had lived separate lives for many years, each preoccupied with their own passions, the two of them had shared an invisible bond. They had been married for over half a century.

Now Livia had gone to join her beloved husband….

THOUGH SERENA GOT very little sleep, the following day she performed her duties with burning energy. The Grand Patriarch told her afterward that she seemed fresher and more inspired than ever, as if instilled with a novel, raw form of power.

Her emptiness had changed to anger, as if a switch had been activated inside her mind. The thinking machines— unthinking, hateful machines— had robbed her of so much. The losses ran deeper than words could express.

After all these years, she found herself bitter that the fight had not yet been won. Undoubtedly it had something to do with a weakness in the human spirit, an insufficient resolve. She must change that, somehow.

Desperately, the Priestess of the Jihad wished she could have the quiet advice of her mother, just one more time. Or the Cogitor Kwyna. Now, more than ever, she needed great wisdom. But where could she turn?

After long consideration, she decided it was time to do something new, to change the parameters. Eight years earlier, she and Iblis Ginjo had generously provided new secondaries to the Ivory Tower Cogitors. The well-chosen volunteers had had plenty of time to persuade Vidad and his five philosopher comrades to share this knowledge, and now she had grown tired of waiting.

A shiver ran across her skin. If the Ivory Tower Cogitors refused to come to her, then she would simply have to go to them.

While somber but extravagant preparations were being made for a double funeral of state for the retired Viceroy and the Abbess, the streets were filled with orange marigolds, blooms that signified the grief of the people. Serena stared out the windows at them. So many people followed her blindly into any peril. Vorian Atreides had returned home to brief the Jihad Council on his efforts to strengthen the Unallied Planets, and brought with him devastating news of yet another randomly destroyed human colony— this time the mining planetoid Rhisso. His report caused great consternation. Sleeping gas had been pumped into the atmospheric domes, and it appeared that most of the colonists had been kidnapped before the facilities themselves were destroyed.

Vor stood in front of Serena as he concluded his report. Iblis Ginjo heard the words with an expression of shock, but she noted that his eyes sparkled as if somehow this might be good news to him. She had mixed feelings about him. Despite some of his questionable actions, she knew Iblis would never allow his enthusiasm for the Jihad to wane. Troubled, Serena looked away, then back at him. This time, she saw only sadness in his face.

Vor suggested that the people of Rhisso must have been taken by thinking machines in order to force them into slavery on some distant world where manpower was needed. That made sense to Serena. But she couldn’t help wondering.

“The evidence Primero Atreides has brought back will surely enrage people across the League, and we will have a fresh influx of recruits to continue the fight,” Iblis said, intending to give comfort. “Don’t ever feel that you are alone, Serena.”

Serena, though, felt enraged and invigorated. News of this unfortunate incident, like Chusuk, would certainly rile the populace again, but she didn’t think it would be enough. It might even spark yet another round of debilitating protests against the conflict. It had been over three decades since the destruction of the Earth-Omnius.

Why have we not yet achieved victory?

“I wish I had billions of impassioned fighters, instead of a few million. But there is another way to win.” She lifted her chin and stared at Iblis, strengthening her resolve. “I intend to start by adding only a few new allies. Powerful allies.”