BOOK THREE - CHAPTER TEN
 

It is an affront to all that is sacred to make a machine in the likeness of the human mind. Machines are constructed by mortal men and are as such prevented from attaining purity by both the fundamental shortcomings of the creators as well as the contingent defects of the methods used in the act of creation. This is the danger that a thinking machine represents: piling acts born out of chaos upon decisions forged in unpredictability will cause the creators' products to break free of their control, resulting in the possession of power absolved from the restraints of naturally-grown rationality. In contrast, the human mind is born, not made, and develops gradually while interacting with a stable and natural phenomenological context. It is in tune with both its direct environment as well as the totality of the universe. It deserves to be there. It is sacred, and should not be diminished by the occurence of mechanical facsimiles.
-Gardel Kwai, "Foundations Of The Butlerian Jihad"-
 

Duncan is dead, Murbella is dying and Leto is on his way to where I wanted him to go, Adros thought. Only one thing remains ...

Relative peace having returned to the throne room, Scytale stepped out from his hiding place behind a large pillar. He didn't pretend to understand what had just happened, but he did know that he was still alive, and for now that was sufficient to increase his self-confidence enough to make him more than a little impudent, despite the obvious difference in any quality useful in single combat between himself and Adros.

"Are you going to kill me as well?", he asked the overlord of the Prometheans.

"As well?", Adros said, almost - but not quite - laughing. "Of the ones in this throne room, I haven't killed anyone." Except perhaps myself, he added without speaking the words.

"What are you going to do with me, then?"

"I am going to show you something."

Adros stepped down from his throne, walked to a door hidden from sight by a cleverly positioned ornamented panel, and gestured Scytale to follow him. "Come with me."

A suspensortube-ride upwards, the duration of which suggested the flagship was many times larger than Scytale would have guessed, brought them to an observation deck on top of the ship's hull, overlooking the Bene Gesserit Central complex on one side, and the ever-expanding desert on the other. The desert's edge was littered with Bene Gesserit and Honoured Matre vehicles, weapons and bodies. On the ground surrounding the flagship, many Promethean troopers could be seen, standing there without moving, apparently waiting for something to happen.

"What are they waiting for?", Scytale asked.

"I think you already know."

"I don't," Scytale lied.

"Mabak Ghisharat is about to arrive," Adros said, not in the mood to argue about the Tleilaxu Master's lie.

Scytale's eyes went wide. Initially, he was surprised that Adros not only knew about "The New Dawn", but apparently also knew the event was near. After brief reflection, the fact the Promethean knew seemed far less surprising to him considering the power he obviously wielded, and elation replaced that surprise - an intense feeling of happiness and anticipation that the final ascension of his race was about to take place.

"Your troops will bow before the Tleilaxu might," Scytale dared, drunken with the prospect of the power his people would have soon.

"Everybody will," Adros said matter-of-factly. "Even the Ixians, once you dissolve your alliance."

"The Tleilaxu would never cooperate with the machine builders!"

"You know they would, and they have. Your imprisonment started a long time ago, but the plans that will bear their fruit very soon had already been set in motion long before that. You know what the tools that will bring about your 'New Dawn' are, and who made them. You know you're protected against their fury."

"Are you going to kill me now?", Scytale asked.

"No. Leaving you with your life will be punishment enough."

Adros spotted something approaching over the hills in the distance. "There it comes."

Despite the cavalier attitude his words conveyed, Adros was starting to feel rather nervous. And so this chapter ends, he thought as he watched the swarm come closer. Resignation filled his mind, a knowing that, despite the cruelty of this ending, this is how it was supposed to be.

However, as the mechanised death approached, the realisation that after so many centuries his own end was terrifyingly near made him panic. Whenever death comes, it always leaves so much unfulfilled potential, he thought. I'm not ready to die!

Within seconds, the thousands upon thousands of hunter-seekers had reached them, the flying, razor-sharp shards of metal - some of them as large as a man, others as small as a needle - killing everyone in their path. All of those present possessed the genetic quality known as "the mark of Siona" which made them invisible to prescient searchers, but despite this no one was invisible to the killing machines.

This is one of the ways in which the Golden Path proves to be a cul-de-sac, Adros thought. The configuration of the brain of the Teg clone told them all they needed to know. Even I am not safe from them!

Adros was starting to panic. As a cloud of hunter-seekers shot up towards him, Adros activated the Holtzmann-generator that had been implanted in him. There was insufficient time to carefully calculate a destination, so he dumped a random set of coordinates from his memory into the navigation computer. Anywhere but here is fine, he thought.

All of a sudden, Scytale was alone, seeing the hunter-seekers coming closer. The greater part of the group of killing machines broke free of the formation, returning to dispensing death below. The remainder continued along their path.

Fear clawed its way into Scytale's mind - fear of dying, of not being allowed to participate in his race's ascension. When the foremost of the hunter-seekers was mere metres away from Scytale, the devices suddenly stopped. Scytale felt a tingling sensation in his head, a sign he knew meant a cerebral scan was being performed on him.

After a few moments that Scytale thought would never end, the drones turned around and flew off in search of other targets.

The universe is ours!, Scytale realised.

In the throne room, Murbella had found new strength, the fury of the Baron inside of her pulling her away from death. Outside the throne room, she could hear the sounds of Ragnarök raging. Lifting her head, she saw the large doors of the room burst open, and a Bagishar sliding across the floor and crashing against the throne, dozens of hunter-seekers stuck in his armour and his exposed organics. His cries were weakening, and the lethal drones which were still airborne broke off their attack, as if they could detect the onset of death in the once powerful creature. They converged on Murbella now.

On countless worlds throughout the universe, similar swarms descended from the skies. Arafel engulfed the universe.

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