Theories change as new data comes to light. Facts, however, do not change—nor do my principles. That is why I am suspicious of theories of any kind.

—MANFORD TORONDO, address to the Butlerians on Lampadas

The intellectual environment on Zenith fostered innovation and scientific creativity, and the planet prided itself on being an oasis for discovery and progress. Researchers such as Ptolemy and his partner, Dr. Elchan, received funding from an interplanetary pool of grant money that was readily dispensed to anyone who had a feasible idea and a concrete plan for implementation.

Ptolemy came from a large family, three sisters and two brothers, all of whom were successful researchers in various fields, each with an independent laboratory and staff of technicians. They had friendly competitions to see which of them could boast the most beneficial discoveries, and even though Ptolemy had little enough time to keep up with all the technical publications in his own specific field, he made the effort to read every paper his brothers and sisters published.

Zenan scientific teams worked with the clear understanding that when discoveries proved pragmatic and lucrative, a significant share of the profits went back into the pool to be made available for the next group of scientists with interesting ideas. Advancements were offered for development to other worlds in the Imperium. Even with such openness and generosity, the economy of Zenith thrived.

Working for the past decade at his rural laboratory estate, Ptolemy was both pleased and proud of what he and Dr. Elchan had accomplished. So far, two of their discoveries had been highly profitable, and three others moderately so. The lab building and residence was surrounded by twenty acres of rolling grassland dotted with stands of trees. Ptolemy supervised a staff of a dozen technicians, lab assistants, and domestic workers. It was an environment conducive to creativity and intellectual development.

He enjoyed Zenith’s collegial atmosphere so much that he had volunteered to serve a term as the planet’s representative to the Landsraad League. It was a family tradition to do one’s civic duty. Never in his life had he doubted that he and his dedicated partner were doing good work.

Thus, as a reasonable and open-minded man, he was taken aback by the Butlerian fervor against technology. It made no sense to him.

Of course, no one could deny the horrors that thinking machines had inflicted on humanity, but it was ridiculous to blame the science itself for human ambitions and failings. Only a close-minded person could deny, for instance, that Suk medical diagnostics and sophisticated surgical techniques had saved countless lives, or that agricultural machinery increased farming productivity by orders of magnitude beyond what human slaves could do, and thereby saved many from starvation. In fact, one of his sisters had developed a genetically modified strain of wheat that tripled the yield from a single crop. How could anyone argue against that?

And yet, the powerful Butlerian movement had spread to many planets, but thankfully not to this one. The whole idea mystified him. How could people look at a return to primitive living with any sort of wistful nostalgia?

Manford Torondo’s speech in the Landsraad Hall had convinced him that he must be missing a vital piece of the answer, because Ptolemy simply could not grasp that sort of thinking. Frustrated because he didn’t understand the Butlerians, he had nonetheless seen how influential they were, and the necessity of dedicating himself to finding common ground with them.

He researched where and how the movement had begun after the founder, a woman named Rayna Butler, survived a horrible fever as a child. Though Ptolemy did not like to think ill of the revered martyr, he suspected she might have suffered brain damage, a biochemical personality shift that had unbalanced her. She had gained influence through sheer charisma, tapping into the undeniable fear of Omnius. Her successor, Manford, had also suffered extreme physical and psychological trauma with the loss of his legs. On a personal level, Ptolemy couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the poor man, yet Manford was leading his followers along a foolish path, to the detriment of all humanity.

Ptolemy had been so sure that if he offered fully functional prosthetics, if he made the legless man whole again, Manford would admit that, yes, some technology was for the betterment of mankind. The first step on a path to enlightening the antiscience fanatics.

But Manford’s reaction to the gift had been appalling and incomprehensible. Ptolemy felt as if gravity itself had failed him. Having spent his life on Zenith, where ideas were openly discussed and debated, he found the blind stubbornness of the Butlerians appalling. Dr. Elchan, whose race had been much persecuted, both fairly and unfairly, was terrified; he had warned Ptolemy that Manford might react in such a way, and in fact Elchan claimed they were lucky to have escaped with their lives … which seemed absurd, but may very well have been true.

Cowed, Ptolemy and Elchan had returned to the countryside lab estate on Zenith and, with some embarrassment, buried themselves in their work. Forcing optimism, he said to Elchan in their laboratory, “We shouldn’t be discouraged, my friend. We tried our best, we made our case. Let’s waste no more time on the Butlerians.” He kept saying the words because he needed to convince himself.

The Tlulaxa researcher, on the other hand, was quiet and preoccupied. Ptolemy and Dr. Elchan had been friends and collaborators for many years, working with a synergy that produced not only good results but a highly enjoyable and stimulating atmosphere. Through his humanitarian work, Elchan had overcome much of the prejudice with which the Tlulaxa were regarded.

“I’m just glad to be safe back here.” Elchan raised his left arm, flexed the artificial fingers. “We know the replacement limbs work, thanks to the thoughtrode connection from my natural nerve endings to these artificial ones. I have my hand back, and I can use it, though I can’t feel it.”

“Sensory nerve receptors are an entirely different problem,” Ptolemy said. “But we’ll work it out.”

Elchan agreed. “The best way we can succeed is by continuing to give back to humanity. We’ll eventually overcome the Butlerian attitudes. Science remains true, whether or not they believe in it.”

Ptolemy knew that their current work would indeed capture the imagination and excitement of Imperial society. Tanks and nutrient vats grew organic circuitry receptors similar to what the cymeks had used to guide mechanical walker bodies with their brains.

Ptolemy and his partner had received substantial funding from the Zenith Council, but Elchan had also bent certain rules to quietly acquire remnants of cymek walkers in order to study them. The Butlerians smashed that kind of technology whenever they saw it, and because most remnants had been destroyed, the scientists had access to very few records or samples of how the thoughtrodes and preservation canisters actually worked. Intact cymek walkers were at a premium. Ptolemy did not ask Elchan about his sources.

The Tlulaxa researcher mused with an undertone of scorn, “Someday, I would like to dissect Manford Torondo’s little brain—to see if there’s any noticeable difference between it and a normal human brain.”

Ptolemy didn’t want to make fun of the Butlerian leader. “That’s unkind.” He remained saddened and disappointed that they had not reached a compromise to benefit everyone. After being back home for a week from the disastrous trip to Lampadas, life had begun to return to normal.

And then the Butlerians came for them.…

Forty ships descended on the rural laboratory complex. With a roaring whine of overloaded suspensor engines, the small vessels swooped down like crows onto fresh carrion. Many of the lab workers had gone home for the day, and the last few ran outside as soon as the tumult began. They fled upon seeing the ships land on the grassy hills, leaving Ptolemy and Dr. Elchan to face the Butlerians.

The sounds were deafening as hatches opened and ramps extended; a group of Swordmasters, along with hundreds of club-wielding civilians, charged out. The two short-statured scientists stared at the unnecessary display of force, their mouths open as if they were unable to believe what they were seeing.

Elchan moaned in dismay. “We can’t run.” They stood alone in front of the main research building.

“This makes no sense!” Ptolemy insisted. “Why would they come here?”

Amid a wash of cheering and anticipation, the legless man appeared, riding in a harness carried on his Swordmaster’s shoulders. Ptolemy had not found the man intimidating when he’d sat behind a small desk on Lampadas; here, though, the mob leader sent shivers down his spine.

“Ptolemy of Zenith,” Manford said, “we have come to help you. Temptation has led you astray. Ambition has lied to you. It is my purpose to see that you are placed on the proper path.”

While the mob leader spoke, exuberant Butlerians chased after the fleeing lab technicians who hadn’t yet managed to escape from the grounds. Manford did nothing to call them back.

“Why are you here?” Ptolemy watched in horror as one of his female workers was tackled by the fanatics, who then pummeled her when she was on the ground. He could no longer see the woman because of the throng around her, but he heard the screams. “Tell them to stop!”

Anari Idaho carried Manford up to the two cowering scientists. Looking down at them from her shoulders, he said, “They have their mission, and I have mine.”

The technician stopped screaming. More Butlerians closed in from the ships, and Elchan was terrified. Ptolemy wanted to comfort his friend, but knew his words would be hollow. “I will notify the council. This … this is a private laboratory.”

The man’s voice was soft and conversational. “Yes, your laboratory. Let’s go inside and see what you’ve been up to.”

Ptolemy didn’t want to let them into the research building, but the Butlerians flowed forward like a tsunami, carrying them back inside. The fanatics spread out inside, smashing the equipment and prototypes, ripping fixtures out, and hurling rocks through windows.

Ptolemy could barely breathe. This was horrifying and surreal, like a hallucinogenic nightmare he could not escape. “I don’t understand!” Tears poured down his face. “I never hurt you. I only meant to help.”

Manford shook his head, showing apparent deep sadness. “I’m offended that you believed I needed help from your vile technology, that you would think me so weak.”

Inside the research facility, Anari Idaho carried Manford so that he could look with grim condemnation at the test beds where artificial limbs and nerve endings were grown, where he could see the analysis machines, and, most damning of all, the three dismantled cymek walkers.

Manford reached down to pick up a rigid plastic hand, then tossed it to the floor in disgust. “Why would you think the human race needs enhancements like this? We need faith … and I have faith in you, Ptolemy of Zenith. That’s why I’m giving you another chance.”

Ptolemy held his breath, confused. He could still hear the mayhem, the destruction in this building and outside, throughout the complex. He wanted to vomit. Beside him, Elchan was paralyzed with fear, shuddering, utterly silent; he seemed to have grasped a fundamental fact that Ptolemy still could not comprehend.

Manford frowned. “I’m afraid, however, that your Tlulaxa associate has fallen too far into damnation. We can’t save him—but we can allow him to be part of your education. Maybe you’ll be enlightened after all.”

Elchan wailed and tried to escape, but two of the zealots caught him and pushed him back toward Manford and Anari. The Swordmaster drew her blade and with a single stroke hacked off his prosthetic left arm, severing it below the shoulder, at the seam where actual flesh met the artificial nerve endings. The victim cried out as he looked down at his stump, where nutrient fluid leaked out, pumped by the hydraulics. Blood also flowed from the stump of his arm, gushing from an artery.

Ptolemy tried to help him, but he was restrained by strong arms. His heart was pounding, and he had trouble breathing. He met the terrified gaze of his friend, but for only an instant before Elchan slumped to the floor and appeared to pass out.

“Now at least he can die as a human,” Manford said. “The mind of man is holy.”

“The mind of man is holy,” the others murmured, and Manford gestured for them to leave. One of the Swordmasters dragged Ptolemy outside, but they left Elchan inside the lab, apparently to bleed to death. This wasn’t real, made no sense. Ptolemy refused to believe the events were happening.

After they’d retreated to the grassy grounds outside the research complex, Manford’s followers hurled incendiary bombs through the already smashed windows, and set fire to the place.

“Stop this!” Ptolemy screamed. “Let Elchan out! You can’t do this to a human being! He is my friend—”

“He’s not worth saving,” Manford explained, then ignored Ptolemy’s increasingly desperate pleas. The flames rose higher. Ptolemy saw his companion appear at one of the windows and try to get out, but the Butlerians rushed forward with clubs and bashed at him until he cowered inside and vanished.

The fire reached the roof, and then met the flammable nutrient fluids inside. Small explosions popped from laboratory to laboratory. Ptolemy could hear his friend screaming.

“Stop this!” He sobbed and fell to his knees. Tears poured down his face. He held his head in his hands, shaking. “Stop this, please…”

Manford wore a satisfied smile, while Anari Idaho had no expression whatsoever. She grabbed Ptolemy by the hair, pulled his head up, and forced him to watch the laboratory burn.

“We have granted you a gift,” Manford said, “and I have faith that you will learn from this. Let me quote from one of the Erasmus journals that I have studied. The descriptions are too horrifying for most people, but you need to hear it: ‘The humans continue to fight us like children throwing a tantrum,’ Erasmus wrote, ‘but our technology is superior. With our developments, our adaptability, and our persistence, we will always win. Humans are irrelevant … but I have to admit, they are interesting.’”

Manford closed his eyes, as if to dispel the distaste. “I hope you have learned the error of your attitude, Ptolemy of Zenith. We will pray for you.”

*   *   *

ON ZENITH, THE fire burned itself out in a few hours, but by that time the Butlerian ships were long gone, leaving Ptolemy to stare at the smoldering wreckage and listen to the heartrending silence. Manford Torondo and his followers had stayed until Dr. Elchan stopped screaming … and he had screamed for a long time.

Surveying the charred wreckage, Ptolemy felt he had lost everything—except for his knowledge and scientific curiosity. The barbarians had not taken everything from him. He huddled there on the grassy hill, so deep in thought it was like a trance, pondering exactly what he would do next. He developed a plan, a detailed plan.

He stood straight, wiped his reddened eyes, and tried to regain his foothold on reality. It was as if the laws of physics had changed all around him, and he had to restructure his fundamental beliefs.

He didn’t dare go to his brothers and sisters, recruit them to speak out and throw their imaginations against the Butlerians—he would not expose them to the risk, because the savages would come to their laboratories as well, lock his siblings inside, burn them to death. No, he had his brain … his greatest tool, his greatest weapon.

The Butlerians had crushed and discarded him, murdered his best friend, and left him defeated, but Ptolemy was not done. Manford had no idea of the enemy he had created this day.