Each society has its list of cardinal sins. Sometimes these sins are determined by condemning acts that tend to destroy the fabric of social organization; sometimes sins are defined by leaders seeking to perpetuate their own positions.
— NAAM THE ELDER,
First Official Historian to the Jihad
As if forgetting their recent violent demonstrations, the people went wild celebrating the return of Vorian Atreides. The cymeks were dead, the last of the Titans destroyed, another threat to humanity removed from the universe.
When his armored limocar proceeded along the wreckage-strewn boulevards of Zimia, throngs of cheering people threw orange marigolds at him. Many carried placards bearing his stylized gallant image and the words “Hero of the Jihad, Defender of Humanity, Conqueror of Titans.”
Rayna Butler had rejoiced in the “righteous execution” of the last machines with human minds, happily adopting Vor— “a true friend and follower of Serena herself!”— as part of her movement.
The Supreme Bashar had never felt comfortable with the sort of attention he was receiving now. Regardless of his rank, he had always done his job for Serena and her Jihad, with no thought of personal aggrandisement or advancement. He wanted to destroy the enemy, nothing more.
Looking at the throng that had gathered for his celebration, Vor didn’t think he had seen such adulation or jubilant relief since the end of the Great Purge. Perhaps now, in the time when he needed it most, he could turn this energy to his benefit. He would use any tool necessary to achieve the final victory.
These Cultists, who found even simple household machinery threatening, could not possibly stomach the thought of allowing Omnius to remain a constant threat to humanity, safe in his stronghold on Corrin. To them, it was the lair of all demons.
Now, as his vehicle neared the Hall of Parliament, Vorian saw a larger crowd in the memorial plaza. Some of them carried cloth signs on mobile frames, ornately bordered and lettered, while others handed out paper sheets on which a long proclamation had been printed. In wild revelry, they piled electronic devices and computerized apparatus in the center of the square and poured fuel on them to set the offending articles ablaze.
Zimia security forces stayed a safe distance from the demonstration, working to clear a path for Vor’s groundcar at the base of the wide stairs leading to the Hall of Parliament. When the demonstrators saw him, they issued another loud cheer. He kept his focus forward as he exited the vehicle and climbed the steps. Vor passed through the colonnade with its Grogyptian columns and paused at the main entrance of the building, where he saw an immense cloth sign crudely nailed on the door. Discarded leaflets fluttered along the ground, bearing the same printed message.
Scanning it, he guessed Rayna must have written it herself, judging from the vehement but unsophisticated tone. Her signature was at the bottom.
THE MANIFESTO OF RAYNA BUTLER
Citizens of free humanity! Let it be proclaimed throughout the League of Nobles that there are NO benign uses for thinking machines. Though they may conceal their evil under the guise of performing work-saving tasks for their users, they are insidious at any level.
This manifesto is a blueprint by which human society can cleanse itself of the worst sins. Every League citizen shall adhere to these rules, and be bound by these punishments:
If a person knows the location of a thinking machine and does not destroy it, or report it to the Movement, the offender shall be punished by the removal of his eyes, ears, and tongue.
If a person commits the grievous sin of using a thinking machine, he shall be put to death.
If a person commits the even more grievous sin of owning a thinking machine, he shall be put to death by the most painful of means.
If a person commits the worst sin of all, creating or manufacturing a thinking machine, the offender, all of his employees, and all of their families shall be put to death by the most painful of means.
Anyone in doubt as to what constitutes a dangerous machine shall contact the Movement and request an Official Opinion. Once an Official Opinion has been rendered, the offending machine shall be removed from operation and destroyed immediately. Punishments will be administered as specified above.
It is preferable to manufacture products through slave labor than to trust thinking machines.
Thou shall not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.
Stunned at the broadness of the Manifesto, and the sheer madness of it, Vor marched through the main entrance into the assembly chamber. Yes, there was still an enemy. Yes, the thinking machines still existed. But these Cultists were aiming at the wrong target.
Corrin. We must go to Corrin.
Before he was announced, Vor saw that the League representatives were already on their feet, clapping and cheering— but not for him. Viceroy Butler stood inside the speaker’s dome at the center of the hall, holding a copy of the new Manifesto high in the air. Around him, the lawmakers rose in waves.
“So be it!” Faykan shouted. “The Manifesto of my exalted niece is hereby passed by acclamation, and as Viceroy I shall sign it into law. Effective tomorrow morning, this shall be the Law of the League, and all dissenters shall be hunted down and punished, along with the enemy thinking machines they harbor. There shall be no compromises! Death to thinking machines!”
Like an echo, the words passed the lips of every lawmaker like a new mantra. From just inside the chamber, at its top tier, Vor absorbed the frenzy like a cold rain. If only they had been so vehement years ago, when it had been most necessary.
“We are reshaping galactic society, setting humanity on a new course!” Faykan shouted into the din. “We humans will think for ourselves, work for ourselves, and achieve our destiny. Without thinking machines! Such technology is a crutch— it is time for us to walk for ourselves.”
Recognizing Vor, some audience members began to point at him and whisper among themselves. Finally the Viceroy raised his arms in exuberant welcome. “Vorian Atreides, Supreme Bashar of the Army of Humanity! Our people already owed you an eternal debt of gratitude for many things— and now you have given us one more. The last Titans are dead! The cymek abominations no longer exist! May your name be revered for eternity as a Hero of Humanity!”
The great hall thundered with acclamation. As Vor made his way to the speaking chamber, he felt that events were snowballing around him, sweeping him along. But he had his honor, his duty, and the promises he had made to himself and the people. He could swim against this wave— or he could ride it, all the way to Corrin.
The assemblage grew quiet as he gazed slowly around, focused on some of the familiar faces, then looked to the farthest points in the hall, where Rayna’s followers waved oversized, colorful banners.
“Yes, we can celebrate the demise of the cymeks,” he said. “But we are not yet finished! Why do you waste your time and energy writing manifestos, smashing household appliances, and killing each other— when Omnius himself still lives?” That stunned the audience into gasps, then silence.
“Twenty years ago we proclaimed the Jihad over, while leaving one Synchronized World untouched. Corrin is like a primed explosive, and we must defuse it! The cancer of Omnius remains a blight on a shining future for the human race.”
The people had not expected such vehemence in his voice. Clearly they thought the veteran Supreme Bashar would receive his rewards, take his bows, and let the League government continue its work. But he did not rest.
“Death to thinking machines!” someone shouted in a frenzied voice from a high balcony.
Vor’s voice remained loud and stern. “We have avoided our real duty for too long. A half-won victory is no victory at all.”
The Viceroy looked at him, obviously uncomfortable. “But, Supreme Bashar, you know we cannot break through Omnius’s defenses. We have tried for decades.”
“Then we must try harder. Accept whatever losses are necessary. Waiting has cost us billions of lives. Think of the Scourge, the piranha mites. Think of the Jihad! Knowing all we have sacrificed to come this far, only a fool would stop now!” Faykan’s words hinted that the League would hesitate once again, so Vor intentionally provoked Rayna’s fanatics. His voice cut like the sword of a mercenary. “Yes, death to thinking machines— but why waste time on surrogates when we can destroy the real ones? Forever.”
The crowd roared, despite the uneasy looks on the faces of many representatives. Then a hush rippled through the people as a pale, ethereal young woman walked to the speaking area. Rayna Butler exuded calmness and confidence, as if she could simply step into the Hall of Parliament and interrupt the proceedings whenever she wished. She wore a new green-and-white robe emblazoned with a bloodred profile of Serena.
“The Supreme Bashar is right,” she said. “We stopped the Great Purge too soon, failed to stamp out the last ember in the fire when we had the opportunity to do so. It was an expensive mistake, a mistake we should not make again.”
The great hall rumbled with enthusiasm, as if the building itself had come out of a long hibernating sleep. “Death to Corrin!”
“For Saint Serena,” Rayna said into the voice pickup. Her words swept through the vaulted chamber. Like a wave rippling across a sea, the call was repeated, louder and louder until it became a storm of shouts: “For Saint Serena! For the Three Martyrs!”
Vor let himself be buffeted by the crowd’s fervor and enthusiasm. It had to be enough. This time, he would make certain.