Of the three cymeks in the hold of Draigo’s ship, two were guided by enhanced Navigator brains, while the third was controlled by Ptolemy, the first voluntary new cymek, a genius driven by his hatred of Manford Torondo. Ptolemy had opted to discard his frail human form, exchanging it for any mechanical body he liked. A powerful, destructive body.
Manford had certainly generated a lot of enemies.
Secure in orbit above the quiet planet, confident that the stealth systems would keep him hidden from the primitive Butlerian warships, Draigo prepared for the mission. Ptolemy’s brain canister was installed in his warrior form, while the two Navigator-driven cymeks moved their walkers into armored drop-pods. The Navigator brains were silent and brooding, as always, but they followed instructions. After checking the thoughtrode connections, Draigo pronounced all three machines ready for launch.
Ptolemy raised one multiclawed hand and clacked the long, sharp pincers together. His words came through the speakerpatch. “That sadistic monster burned my friend alive and forced me to watch. Manford Torondo must die.”
“He also tries to kill human intellect and progress. That man has sowed many seeds of hatred, and we all wish to take part in the harvest.” Draigo smiled at the brain suspended in pale blue electrafluid before closing the last section of the pod. They were ready for launch. “This is your chance.”
CARRYING THE RESPONSIBILITY of humanity was a burden Manford Torondo did not gladly bear, but he did it nonetheless. What choice did he have?
The current crisis in the Imperium was more than a struggle for resources or territory; it was a war for the human soul. After centuries of enslavement to thinking machines, mankind was free at last, cut loose from the stranglehold of technology. Reborn, they could return to a new Eden — but only if they chose to do so. Unless their own weaknesses destroyed them.
Twisted men like Josef Venport wanted to enslave mankind once more, making the exultant human spirit beholden to machines again! After the end of the Jihad, Rayna Butler — Manford’s beloved mentor and teacher — had guided people along the true path, but such a way was not without violence and resistance, not without those who threw bombs in crowded rallies.…
Swallowing hard as he sat propped up in a cushioned chair late at night, Manford looked down at where his body ended below his hips. The reality of his disfigurement was sometimes shocking to him, even now, years after the explosion that had nearly killed him, leaving him just half a man. “But twice the leader!” as his loyal followers shouted during their rallies.
The future was so uncertain, the weight so heavy on his heart. How Manford wished that wise Rayna were still here to lead the movement! Oh, he had loved her so! He felt warm tears trickle down his cheeks.
Anari Idaho, his fiercely loyal Swordmaster, noticed the tears and stepped closer, concerned. She would have thrown herself in front of any enemy for Manford, would have given her life to save his. Now she seemed just as willing to defend him against his own emotions.
Anari was a large-framed woman trained among the Swordmasters of Ginaz; for years she had tended him in his simple fieldstone cottage on Lampadas. The interior walls had been fitted with bars and handholds, so Manford could move himself around with his strong upper body. Whenever he wished to present an imposing figure to large cheering crowds, or to his enemies, he would ride in a harness on Anari’s shoulders. From that perch, Manford did not feel less than a man; instead he seemed the most powerful person in the Imperium.
His Truthsayer, Sister Woodra, came to speak to him, but she blurted out her business concerns without noticing his heavy mood. “Emperor Roderick still thinks we are responsible for the disappearance of his sister after we overran the Mentat School.” Her voice had an annoying edge. “You should convince him otherwise, Leader Torondo. Anna Corrino must have escaped somehow.”
“We had nothing to do with her disappearance, whether or not the Emperor believes it.” Manford suspected the flighty girl had been devoured by a swamp dragon as she tried to flee the siege. “Fortunately, the Emperor’s anger has turned toward Josef Venport. I’m not worried.” Manford could not help but think it was a miracle in disguise.
“Perhaps,” Anari said, “but he will never forget his daughter was killed by a Butlerian mob. He will have enough anger for us.”
“That was an accident, nothing more,” Woodra said dismissively, as if she thought the matter was ended. “We cannot be blamed for that.”
“And yet, he will blame us regardless,” Anari said.
“Alliances can shift again,” Manford said. “Roderick Corrino must be made to see his true destiny as our ally — preferably through reasonable appeals, but by coercion if necessary.”
Sister Woodra brought out logbooks and lists that she wished to discuss in detail, but Manford did not have the energy for it at this hour. Sensing her master’s weariness, Anari shot Woodra a scolding glance. “That is enough business for now. Manford needs to rest and contemplate. Otherwise, how can we expect him to lead us?”
The brusque Truthsayer sniffed at the implied dismissal. “The success of our movement depends upon details as well as strong leadership. And we must make time for the details.”
Woodra had been trained among the Sisterhood before the terrible schism that tore the school apart. He knew Woodra was as vehemently against technology as any of his followers, and she had also proved to be a useful asset, not only as a Truthsayer, but as an adviser. She was blunt, however, and lacked finesse; sometimes Manford found her exhausting. Right now, he was too preoccupied, no matter how much she insisted. “Anari is correct. I’m weary. Take me to my bedchamber.”
The Swordmaster picked him up as if he were a pet and plodded toward his private rooms, where she placed him in an austere, narrow bed. She opened the window to let in the fresh night air.
Outside, Empok, the capital city of Lampadas, sparkled with warm orange lights in the countless simple buildings. Insects made quiet songs, and the planet seemed deceptively peaceful as Manford composed himself for a contemplative sleep. Until a thundering roar shattered the darkness.
Heavy objects screamed down through the atmosphere, wreathed in the flames of deceleration. Three projectiles struck the ground outside of Empok.
Anari shouted in alarm and burst into the bedchamber to protect him.
People streamed out of their homes to investigate the disturbance, then howled in alarm. The three impact sites simmered ominously, lit by afterglows of white and orange and highlighted by angular shadows. Shielded pods split open like the jagged petals of armored flowers, then mechanical forms emerged. Heavy piston-driven legs lifted weapon-studded body cores, each containing a disembodied human brain. Three towering cymeks began to march on the city.
As Anari swept Manford out of the bed, he saw the distant movement through the window, and knew his enemies were coming for him.
Seizing him, the Swordmaster said, “I will save you.”
4
Humans claim that deep personal tragedy can cause severe changes in mindset. I have experimented with these effects in my studies of laboratory subjects, inflicting damage to people and testing their reactions. Yet I was never able to verify the hypothesis through direct experience — until the death of Gilbertus Albans.