If we allow ourselves to become too human, to admit the weakness of love and compassion at the time when it is most dangerous, then we create a vulnerability by which the thinking machines can destroy us utterly. Yes, human beings have hearts and souls which the demon machines do not, but we cannot allow these things to be the cause of our extinction.
— QUENTIN BUTLER,
letter to his son Faykan
After returning home from the liberation of Honru, Quentin Butler went to spend time with Wandra in the City of Introspection. His wife was unresponsive and silent, as always, but the weathered primero liked to just sit beside her, comforting her with his presence and drawing comfort from hers. Staring at Wandra’s face, he could still see the beauty, shadows of the good times. He spoke aloud, talking softly about what he had done on his recent mission, telling her about visiting Rikov’s family on Parmentier.
Unfortunately, Quentin had barely an hour with her before a fresh-faced young quinto found him. The Jihad officer hurried into the beautifully graveled and landscaped grounds of the religious retreat. An old metaphysical scholar in a voluminous purple shirt guided the visitor along, moving much too slowly for the young officer’s sense of urgency.
“Primero Butler! We’ve just received a communiqué from Parmentier. The governor dispatched a ship with an urgent message weeks ago. It’s a warning!”
Quentin squeezed Wandra’s limp hand and stood, straightening his back and immediately turning his attention toward duty. “A warning from Rikov? Let me see this messenger.”
“You can’t, Primero. I mean, he hasn’t come down to Salusa. The messenger remains in orbit transmitting, but he refuses to leave his ship. He’s afraid he’ll infect us all.”
“Infect us? What’s happening?”
“And that’s not everything, sir— already news is coming from other League Worlds!”
While the quinto spluttered an explanation, Quentin grabbed his arm and ushered him away from the grounds. Behind them, the scholar stared with a placid expression on his deeply etched face. Then the old man tugged down on loose folds of his purple shirt, and spoke to silent Wandra as if she might be a receptive audience for his esoteric ideas.
* * *
WEARING AN UNEASY frown, Quentin watched as the Jihad Council played Rikov’s recorded message. Images transmitted by the harried scout from his orbiting ship showed the epidemic spreading through Niubbe and across Parmentier’s countryside, people already lying dead or dying in the streets, hospital wards filled far beyond capacity— and this was weeks ago, at the beginning of the epidemic.
“This news is already out-of-date,” said Grand Patriarch Xander Boro-Ginjo. “Maybe they’ve found a cure by now. Who knows what’s happened in the meantime?”
Quentin said, “I was there myself when the first projectiles exploded in Parmentier’s atmosphere. At the time, none of us knew what Omnius was up to. Now Rikov’s bottled up with that disease.”
“Who can ever know what Omnius is up to?” asked the Interim Viceroy. Brevin O’Kukovich often made comments that meant absolutely nothing.
Quentin ignored the politician. “If the thinking machines have developed a biological scourge, we must always be on guard. We can destroy incoming plague canisters out in space, but once the disease is dispersed into the atmosphere, not even rigorous quarantines and medical measures will be completely effective. There’s no guarantee.”
Though he’d had little time before the emergency session could convene, Quentin had gathered reports from recently arrived ships. He had also dispatched Faykan to increase space perimeter patrols in the vicinity of Salusa Secundus, expanding the sensor network to detect incoming projectiles. Normally, it would have been nearly impossible to spot such small objects among the clutter of debris that dusted the system, but because the Army of the Jihad had accurate recordings of the first torpedoes at Parmentier, they could compare signatures and sift out false signals.
“We have to verify this news,” said the Interim Viceroy. “We will have to take well-considered action.”
Quentin stood. With Supreme Commander Atreides gone— ironically, to Parmentier— he was in temporary command. “We will have to take immediate action! If Rikov’s interpretation is correct, then we haven’t a moment to lose. With interstellar commerce and the exchanges of peoples and material throughout the League Worlds and Unallied Planets, an epidemic could cause unprecedented damage to the human race— “
His secure comline signaled, and Quentin accepted the message. Faykan’s voice came over the small speaker, clear enough for the Council members to hear. “Primero, your suspicions were correct. Exactly as you predicted, we discovered an incoming cluster of canisters like the ones that impacted at Parmentier.”
Quentin looked knowingly at the other men and women sitting around the Council table. “And did you intercept them?”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the Council members suggested, “We should keep one of them intact so that we can study it, perhaps learn what Omnius is doing.”
Cutting in, Faykan said, “We have destroyed them all, so as not to risk accidental contamination.”
“Excellent work,” his father said. “Maintain your close surveillance. Because Salusa is the most important target in the League, Omnius is sure to send more than one salvo of canisters.”
Faykan signed off, and Quentin looked around the table. “Who doubts that Omnius has already dispatched more torpedoes to other League Worlds? We’ve got to stop them, get the word out before the plague spreads farther.”
“Exactly how do you propose to do that?” asked Interim Viceroy O’Kukovich.
Decisively, Quentin rattled off his plan. “Disperse the Army of the Jihad as widely and swiftly as possible. Send scouts with warnings and prepare for quarantines. The urgency may even warrant the use of spacefolder ships,” he said as an afterthought. “We might lose as many as one in ten, but if we fail to prepare and guard our other planets, we may lose entire populations.”
“This is all, uh, rather drastic,” said O’Kukovich in an uncertain voice, looking around at the others for confirmation.
“Precisely— and so is Omnius’s plan.”
* * *
QUENTIN HIMSELF LED patrols, like any other officer. He raced from one system to another, helping the local populations to implement protective measures. Dozens of incoming plague canisters were intercepted at other League Worlds, but some had obviously gotten through. Rikov’s Parmentier was already infected and shut down— and now news of the burgeoning epidemic had come from five more planets.
Quentin dreaded that it was already too late.
Severe quarantines had been imposed, but frightened people still escaped, carrying the Scourge along with them. In all likelihood some would seek safety on Salusa Secundus. Even with draconian measures, it would be nearly impossible to protect the League capital world. How could they intercept every small, desperate ship? They would have to be ferociously vigilant to spot all incoming vessels, block them and quarantine them until any signs of the Scourge could manifest. Fortunately, given the slow speed of long-distance space travel and the relative swiftness with which the epidemic acted, any infected ships would be obvious by the time they arrived at Salusa.
Quentin paced the bridge, observing the haggard looks and tense confusion on the faces of his crew. His sensor technicians were always alert, understanding that if they allowed their attention to waver for just an instant, if even a single plague torpedo slipped through their guard, an entire world could die.
After so many years of Serena’s Jihad, the League was sore and unstable, held together by hatred for the thinking machines. Quentin feared that such a virulent plague— and the panic that spread even faster than the disease itself— might make civilization itself unravel.