Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Read Online Free PDF Page A

lungs burned more now, as if they had been soaked in av-fuel and lit on fire.
    “You’ll be fine,” the medic promised in an uncertain tone as he applied a snap-injection pack to Xavier’s neck.
    “I’d better be.” The tercero coughed again and saw black spots in front of his eyes. “I don’t have time to be a casualty right now.”
    Xavier thought beyond himself and felt a deep worry for Serena. Less than an hour ago, she had been scheduled to speak to the League representatives. He prayed that she had reached safety.
    Struggling to his feet, he waved the medic away as the injection took effect. He tuned his portable tactical grid and requested a sky-high view, imaged from the fast defense kindjals. He studied the blackened paths of the graceful, titanic cymeks on his screen. Where are they going?
    Mentally, he scanned from the smoldering impact craters and the ruins of the Militia HQ, envisioning the paths made by the mechanical monsters as they pressed forward.
    Then he understood what he should have seen from the start, and cursed under his breath.
    Omnius knew the Holtzman scrambler shields would obliterate thinking machine gelcircuitry; thus the main robotic fleet remained just beyond Salusan orbit. If the cymeks took out the shield generators, though, the planet would be wide open to a full-scale invasion.
    Xavier faced a critical decision, but his choice was predetermined. Whether he liked it or not, he was in command now. By wiping out Primero Meach and the Militia command structure, the cymeks had put him temporarily in charge. And he knew what he had to do.
    He ordered the Salusan Militia to fall back and direct their utmost efforts to defend the single most vital target, leaving the rest of Zimia exposed as the cymeks blasted and burned everywhere. Even if he had to sacrifice part of this important city, he must stop the machine forces from reaching their target.
    At all costs.

Is the subject or the observer the greater influence?

    — ERASMUS,

    uncollated laboratory files
    O n Corrin, one of the primary Synchronized Worlds, the robot Erasmus walked across the flagstone plaza that fronted his lavish villa. He moved with a well-practiced fluidity that he had learned to imitate after centuries of observing human grace. His flowmetal face was a burnished blank oval, like a mirror entirely devoid of expression until he decided to form the metallic polymer film into a range of mimicked emotions, like ancient theater masks.
    Through optic threads implanted in his facial membrane, he admired the iridescent fountains around him, which so nicely complemented the villa’s stonework, gemstone statuary, intricate tapestries, and laser-etched alabaster columns. All plush and opulent, by his own design. After much study and analysis, he had learned to appreciate standards of classical beauty, and was proud of his evident taste.
    His pet human slaves bustled about performing household chores— polishing trophies and art objects, dusting furniture, planting flowers, trimming topiary shrubs under the crimson afternoon light of the red-giant sun. Each tremulous slave bowed in respect as Erasmus passed. He recognized but did not bother to identify individuals, though he mentally filed every detail. One never knew when the tiniest scrap of data might help in overall understanding.
    Erasmus had a skin of organic-plastic composites laced with neurelectronics. He pretended that the sophisticated sensor network allowed him to genuinely feel physical sensations. Under the glowing ember of Corrin’s huge sun, he detected light and warmth on his skin, presumably like real flesh. He wore a thick gold robe trimmed in carmine, part of a stylish personal wardrobe that separated him from Omnius’s lesser robots. Vanity was another thing Erasmus had learned from studying humans, and he rather enjoyed it.
    Most robots were not as independent as Erasmus. They were little more than mobile thinking boxes, drone subsets of the