Anari spoke with an intensity that demanded attention. “I wish God would just force everyone to do the right thing, and then we wouldn’t need to be so vigilant.” She shook her head. “It’s both the gift and the curse of humanity that we are allowed to make our own decisions — even wrong ones. And Deacon Kalifer made the wrong one here, which forces us to do the right thing and punish him. More importantly, we have to ruin Venport Holdings. If we cut out the serpent’s tongue, then weak men like Deacon Kalifer will not hear tempting words. Thus, we save others from their own folly.”
“We could kidnap Deacon Kalifer now,” said the local leader of Manford’s dedicated followers. “That would prevent him from accepting the VenHold shipment.”
“No, he is beyond saving,” Anari said. “Better that we spread the word among the faithful. I brought a hundred fighters, but we’ll need a thousand more to accomplish our goal.”
The local leader had a purplish, S-shaped lesion under his left eye. He squinted. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to set a trap for that ship.”
SINCE THE FIRST Butlerian planet to renounce Manford’s antitechnology pledge was an important milestone, Directeur Venport wanted the cargo ship to arrive with tremendous fanfare. Everyone had to see Deacon Harian tear up the agreement and “rejoin civilized society.”
Sealed in an onboard tank, the Navigator — Royce Fayed — interacted closely with the crew that operated the foldspace engines. Their skill was precise enough that the VenHold ship emerged in the sky directly over the city, as if by magic, with a thunder of displaced air.
The sigil of the VenHold Spacing Fleet was prominent on the hull. As the ship lowered itself toward the vast city square, people streamed out of the way to create a landing zone. Large cargo doors opened and smaller ships flew out to disperse across the city with medical supplies, luxury items, and melange.
Anari watched, her jaw aching from clenched teeth.
Deacon Kalifer had set up tall speakers for the event, and now he appeared at the head of the crowd to welcome the VenHold spacefolder. Anari observed the man as he mounted a speaking platform, and she hated him for his weakness. Ignorant people could be forgiven their mistakes, but Kalifer was a Butlerian deacon, indoctrinated in the truth, a man who knew the dangers and delusions of technology, yet he had still changed his allegiance and gone over to the enemy. Anari couldn’t understand why. Did his soul mean so little to him?
Kalifer’s voice resonated through the speakers. “I hear your cries of pain. I know how you suffer.”
Anari felt icy inside. What did this man know of suffering? He still looked pudgy and pale. Every day when she cared for Manford, she witnessed the leader’s resolve to continue fighting despite his cruel injuries, despite the loss of his legs. She thought of the many hundreds of thousands—millions—of people who would line up to give their lives for him.
The turncoat deacon raised his hands. “I did what was necessary to save us. I obtained the supplies we so desperately need, and now Baridge will survive and thrive. I reaffirm that we will never use thinking machines — but that doesn’t mean we have to return to medieval squalor. Manford Torondo asks too much. Thanks to this agreement, we can all be happy, healthy, and productive. We will create our own new golden age.”
As the smaller cargo ships opened their doors and VenHold workers dumped out crates of much-needed supplies, the people cheered, though Anari heard an undertone of uneasiness. Not everyone here was convinced. More than a thousand of Manford’s faithful were surreptitiously sprinkled throughout the crowd, awaiting her signal.
Under the shimmering sky, drenched with solar radiation that filtered through the planet’s weak magnetic field, Anari’s vision blurred. When she stared at Deacon Kalifer, an image seemed to appear before her, obscuring the deacon. The vision was of an ethereal-looking, hairless woman, the legendary founder of the Butlerian movement, Rayna Butler. She had pale skin, white robes, and a voice that sounded like beautiful music. “Anari Idaho, you know what to do. Do not let this man destroy what so many people have suffered for, what I suffered for — and died for. Manford knows, and you know Manford. Save me. Save my dream!”
Anari’s throat had gone dry, and she gasped as the image shimmered. “Rayna? Rayna Butler?”
But the image faded, and she saw only Deacon Kalifer on the platform, grinning smugly, announcing a festival to celebrate the happy times that had come to Baridge again. He told the people they should rejoice that their days of deprivation were over. “Enough suffering!” he shouted, to pockets of cheering and applause.
The Swordmaster pulled a red banner from her jacket and raised it high, so that it waved in the breeze. One of the nearby Butlerians saw her and also raised a red banner. As crimson cloths fluttered through the crowd, it looked like a spreading fire. Then her people surged forward with a mounting roar.
Although this was not a coordinated attack, the mob knew what to do. Anari raced along with them, pushed others out of the way. She had her rugged body and fighting skills, and the faithful who ran with her had their own collective ferocity.
The Butlerians swarmed the landed VenHold ship, overrunning the workers who were still unloading the cargo. They smashed the crates, scattered the contents on the ground, and stormed aboard the vessel to continue the orgy of destruction. Victims screamed; some of the attackers laughed.
Anari had plenty of volunteers to trigger the violence, and as soon as the riot began, more in the crowd joined in, unable to resist the tide. Perhaps they were showing their true feelings, or perhaps they simply did not want to be seen as an enemy and fall victim to mob violence. Either way, they were fighting on the correct side.
Unfortunately, the people got to Deacon Kalifer before Anari could reach him. He tried to fight them off, but his efforts proved useless as they beat him unconscious. They hacked off his legs in a twisted parody of Manford, then dragged him through the streets. He died of blood loss in a matter of minutes.
Across the city, the newly arrived supplies and ships were being destroyed. Deacon Kalifer and his entire government council were slain. Any citizen who tried to stop the mob from ransacking buildings also became a target. It was a necessary cleansing, since too many citizens of Baridge had forgotten the truth, forgotten who they really were.
Anari led the charge into the main VenHold spacefolder. The larger vessel was a former robot battleship, full of sharp lines and intimidating angles that were designed to trigger instinctive fear. Anari had been aboard such vessels before, when she and Manford destroyed any derelict thinking-machine ship they found.
Bloody corpses in VenHold uniforms lay in the corridors. Anari kept shouting commands even though her voice went hoarse. She knew how to find the control deck of the old robot ship, and led some followers there, while others spread out through the decks, looking for frightened crewmembers to kill.
She wished Directeur Escon could see the glory of these devout followers doing their holy work, but maybe it didn’t matter. The shipping magnate was weak and made too many excuses; he remained aboard his own ship in orbit, not wanting to go down to the surface of Baridge until the matter had been resolved. Anari didn’t really need him for this work.
After the Swordmaster gained some control over her wild anger, she realized that Manford could incorporate this vessel into his defense fleet — with the expanding conflict, he needed to gather all the ships he could. She issued orders to be passed among the swarming Butlerians: Capture or kill any traitors found aboard, but inflict no more damage on the ship. “Leader Torondo requires it,” she said, and that was enough reason. In a matter of minutes, her followers mitigated their violence, although their continued shouts and howls sounded like war cries as they ransacked cabins and corridors.