A computer memory core can permanently retain vast amounts of data. Although I am a mere human, I will never forget what the Butlerians did to me, to my partner, and my home. Not a single detail.

—PTOLEMY, Denali research records

In the Denali research facility Ptolemy strove to reconstruct the work that the savages had ruined on Zenith. He wrote down notes, compiled extensive journals, and struggled to duplicate the chemical and polymer mixes that had previously shown the greatest promise, many of which Dr. Elchan had discovered.

At times, he felt as if he could not do this alone … but he was alone, and determined that it must be done, so he dove back into the problem with a fervor that matched even Butlerian fanaticism.

With the insights he gained from dissecting and deconstructing the thoughtrodes and neuro-mechanical interfaces of these cymek walkers, he was already making great strides. Using hollow alloy bone frameworks, he had made ten prototype arms and hands, skeletal anchors for fibrous pulleys that worked like muscles, sheathed in a protein gel and covered with a tough artificial skin.

None of the prototypes was yet the equal of what he and Elchan had created before, but the interface was superior. The end of each experimental limb terminated in a set of receptors, and Ptolemy had attuned them to his own mind. If he concentrated his thoughts on a specific action, he could provoke a response from the nerves and artificial muscles, but it required a concerted effort. The goal was to make the interface so sensitive that the artificial limbs would respond subconsciously. A person could not function well if every little movement required effort and planning.

The research programs Ptolemy had known throughout his life were collegial and open-minded, designed to benefit everyone. In their youth he and his brothers and sisters had played games, imagining parts of society they could help, envisioning an intellectual and creative utopia after the defeat of the thinking machines. He realized now that such attitudes were dangerously oblivious to the fact that evil, ignorant, and destructive forces existed.

Ptolemy slept little and worked the rest of the time. Nothing else interested him. Prior to this, he had always worked with a research partner, and an ache of loneliness hung around him constantly. The interaction and collaboration with Elchan had been a catalyst for breakthroughs, but now Ptolemy was on his own, his only company the whisper of air-recirculation ducts, the hum of life-support systems, and the bubble of nutrient tanks that held growing synthetic limbs. The joy of his laboratory trials and the happy triumphs of each small success were gone.

Ptolemy had always wanted to help people by making amputees whole again or providing new skin to horribly scarred victims. He might have been a humanitarian, a hero lauded across the Imperium. But his good deeds and generous heart had only exposed him to hatred, and had cost Dr. Elchan his life.

He closed his eyes now in the laboratory as he remembered how proud he had felt, and how satisfied, to present Manford Torondo with new legs. He had hoped to change the Butlerian leader’s life, make him smile and embrace technology. Shuddering, the researcher squeezed his eyes closed, but could not drive away the persistent memory of the stony-faced Swordmaster hacking the artificial limbs to pieces, destroying everything … and that had just been the beginning.

Ptolemy was perspiring. With his gift of knowledge, he had to find a way to empower visionaries such as Josef Venport, so that the man could stand strong against the Dark Age that the antitechnology mobs were hell-bent on imposing.

In the silence of the laboratory he thought he heard the haunting echoes of Elchan’s screams.

When he opened his eyes, Ptolemy saw that all the artificial limbs in the nutrient tanks had twitched and stirred, like the raised arms of a defiant army, responding to his thought impulses. And every one of the hands was clenched into a hard, implacable fist.

*   *   *

INSIDE THE HANGAR dome, three monstrous machine bodies stood before him—motionless, but awe-inspiring nevertheless. Segmented legs, grappling hands, built-in weapons turrets, sensors, and circuitry … everything controlled by a preservation canister that had once held a tyrant’s disembodied brain.

Silently, he paced around the mechanical bodies that had been retrieved from Denali’s harsh environment. The armored walkers had been scoured, particle-blasted, and inspected for damage. Ptolemy was impressed to see that the systems remained intact even after decades of exposure to caustic air.

Each armored walker body had a unique design, built for a specific purpose and modified according to the tastes of the cymek user. By moving their preservation canisters from one artificial body to another, the cymeks could switch their physical forms at will, as if they were no more than exotic sets of clothes. Though they were mechanical artifices, the walker bodies had been built by humans, controlled by humans. These motionless cymek forms were the very embodiment of Butlerian nightmares, but Ptolemy didn’t fear them at all. He imagined how his life would have been different if he’d possessed one of these cymek warrior forms to stand against the barbarians on Zenith.…

The sophisticated facilities Directeur Venport made available to him here surpassed even the best laboratories he’d used before. Every instrument, chemical, or tool he could imagine was his for the asking.

Over the past month, he’d met his fellow researchers, all of whom had obsessions and determination—and quite possibly their own scars, as he did. Drawn together, the scientists had a shared drive, a concrete goal of saving and defending civilization. This was more than just an esoteric quest for discovery and truth.

The facilities were not without problems. Although Venport had placed the greatest minds in this playground of science, the researchers suffered from a lack of support staff. Ptolemy asked for helpers to suit up in protective gear and retrieve the intact cymek walkers that he wished to study, but it took more than a week before they finally arrived. When he complained, politely, to Noffe about the delay, the Tlulaxa administrator nodded knowingly.

“It is a challenge to find skilled personnel who fit the criteria. Directeur Venport’s scouts constantly monitor the Poritrin slave markets to acquire well-educated captives with any sort of skilled backgrounds.”

Ptolemy was surprised to learn that the support technicians were indeed slaves, but what did that really matter? No one here got paid, and everyone worked; in practice, they were all equals.

Noffe tapped his fingers on his desk. “And we do take lessons from history. Even the great Tio Holtzman paid little attention to the qualifications or attitudes of his workers. He had staffed his household and research rooms with unwilling Buddislamic slaves—who eventually brought down the city of Starda.” He shook his head. “Yet another example of ignorant mobs destroying the best parts of society. It never ends.”

With a dour, angry look, the Tlulaxa administrator removed a printed message on a sheet of filmpaper and handed it to Ptolemy. “We just received this news of the ransacking and wanton destruction Manford Torondo brought down on Bandalong.”

As Ptolemy read the report, he felt angry, but not surprised. “So they’ve wrecked everything—again. How much knowledge was lost? How many of their discoveries could we have used here, in my own work?”

“It is a tragedy, indeed.” The administrator scratched his cheek as if to remove the bleached albino spots, then lowered his voice to convey a secret. “But take consolation in the fact that very little key data was actually lost. Even in my exile here, I have kept in contact, receiving regular summaries and archiving detailed backups from many of my people’s most important projects. Remember, the Butlerians tried to lynch me on Tlulax fifteen years ago, so I knew not to underestimate them.” Noffe gave a defiant smile. “They may think they’ve won this time, but we’ll continue the work here, where the savages can’t bother us. We’ll have the last laugh. We’ve saved the research.”

“But not the people,” Ptolemy said bitterly. “Not the people. We haven’t won yet.” He drew a deep breath. “But, mark my words, we will.”