Noffe nodded, sharing Ptolemy’s vision. “I’ve assigned engineers to improve the walker forms, turning them into modern military bodies with armored cores and integrated weapons systems better than the previous models. We have developed new alloy films and increased power transfer through the mechanical systems.” He beamed with pride and confidence.

Ptolemy mused, “The Time of Titans could have been a true golden age if only General Agamemnon and the others had kept their ambitions noble instead of destructive.” Dismayed, he shook his head. “I’ve heard stories of the Titan Ajax: His warrior form was so gigantic that he single-handedly crushed a planetary uprising.” Ptolemy blinked, looking at the placid Navigator brains in their tanks, including Yabido Onel and Xinshop. “These enlightened minds would never stoop to anything so savage and destructive.”

And yet, Ptolemy noticed that he himself was clenching his hands. Sometimes ruthless violence was warranted, and he often imagined what he would do if he could wear a gigantic mechanical walker, using multiple limbs and claws to rip the hated Butlerians limb from limb, like a child pulling the wings off a fly.

Ptolemy had never forgotten Dr. Elchan’s screams, but perhaps when he heard Manford’s screams, they would be loud enough to erase those echoes in his mind.

Noffe had a glint in his eyes. “Our new-design walker forms will not only be more powerful, but more nimble as well. The original Titans used the best technology to build their bodies, but for centuries they made scant engineering progress — they didn’t need to. Our people have the incentive, though.”

“And driven by proto-Navigator brains, they’ll form a far superior army,” Ptolemy added, “so long as they are guided properly.”

As he peered out at the poisonous chemical mists, he was reminded of his own frailty. He would never be able to fight on the same terms as the new cymeks, although he very much wanted to be in the thick of battle once the bloodshed started. What Manford Torondo had done to him was personal, and Ptolemy intended to make a very personal response.

“Once we perfect the thoughtrodes and the surgical process, Noffe, you and I should become cymeks as well.” He sighed. “Someone must be there to lead them properly and extinguish the Butlerian fervor.”

Startled, the Tlulaxa administrator shook his head and let out an involuntary, raspy cough. “My own body is not perfect — far from it — but I have a certain emotional attachment to it. I’m not eager to have my brain inside one of those machines, no matter how sophisticated they are. Besides, at the moment”—he gestured toward the restless, enlarged brains that were waiting to receive a walker form—“we have sufficient spares available to do our work.”

Traveling from the isolated Mentat School to Empok, the capital city on Lampadas, was doubly inconvenient. When Manford summoned him, Gilbertus could have taken the school’s private emergency flyer and made the journey in a couple of hours, but the Headmaster was in no hurry, since he dreaded what Manford would demand of him now. If the Butlerian leader complained about the delay, Gilbertus could innocently point out that he chose not to use the technologically advanced means of travel, even though it was faster.

More than a day after Alys Carroll delivered the summons, Gilbertus arrived at the modest Butlerian headquarters building. Empok was an old-fashioned city. At first glance, some might have considered it quaint and bucolic, a throwback to innocent times, but Gilbertus could see the weaknesses. He had spent his early life in the fabulous machine city on Corrin, where everything was perfect, tidy, and efficient. This was a far cry from that utopia. The sanitation, power, and transportation capabilities were outdated and deteriorating.

Since founding his Mentat School, Gilbertus had studied the human perspectives on Serena Butler’s Jihad. Objectively, he understood the dangers and flaws of thinking machines, the excesses, the pain — and he knew Erasmus did not grasp the complex depths of emotional pain — yet Gilbertus had firsthand experience with the remarkable advantages of technology. If only the Butlerians would accept progress while maintaining their own humanity …

He dared not suggest such a dangerous thought.

Anari Idaho stood outside of Manford’s office. Though the Swordmaster recognized Gilbertus, she gave him a guarded look, as if to assess whether he might have become a threat since their last meeting. The Headmaster wore a studied expression of calm, knowing she would never be able to read his true thoughts. Logic and reason were a powerful weapon, but that weapon’s edge was dulled when it continually encountered thick ignorance.

“Leader Torondo summoned me,” Gilbertus said, in case she wasn’t aware.

Anari stepped aside to let him enter the office. “Yes, he did. We have been waiting.”

Manford sat in a large padded chair, where he looked like a magistrate at a bench; the blocky desk concealed his missing legs. Gilbertus faced the Butlerian leader, but his attention was drawn to an ominous combat robot that stood at the fieldstone wall — a powerful fighting model with reinforced weapon arms, protected circuitry, and sharp-bladed weapons. The dull glow of the robot’s facial sensors showed that the machine was activated and aware, though at a low energy level. Coil upon coil of thick chains wrapped its body.

Gilbertus knew the combat mek was strong enough to snap those chains, so the bonds served more to comfort Manford than to immobilize the robot. The Butlerian leader wanted to show that the combat mek was his prisoner, to prove his superiority.

Bald, pale Deacon Harian stood close to the combat mek, as if confronting his own fears. Harian always looked angry and ready to unleash violence; he kept his hand on the hilt of a pulse-sword. No doubt the deacon thought he could protect Manford if the mek broke its chains and went on a rampage.

Barely acknowledging the presence of the combat mek, Gilbertus kept his attention on Manford, who regarded him with vigilant eyes. “This is a powerful fighting robot, Headmaster,” Manford said, as if he needed to explain. “Like his famous counterpart, the independent robot Erasmus, he has been defeated.”

Anari Idaho stood behind Gilbertus, ready to dispatch the machine if necessary. “On Ginaz,” she said, “Swordmaster trainees practiced against such meks. We slaughtered them by the thousands … every one we could get our hands on.”

“I recognize the design,” Gilbertus said. “We studied such fighting machines at the Mentat School, so my students could understand and analyze the enemy of humanity.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “But you required me to destroy them all. How did this one come to be here?”

“This mek serves my purpose,” Manford said in a hard voice. “I’m going to use it to show the Imperial court and all of Salusa Secundus — all of humanity, in fact — that humans are superior to computers in every way. More proof that Omnius, Erasmus, and their minions are utterly and completely inferior.” Manford glared at the mek, as if expecting it to respond. But it didn’t.

Gilbertus gave a slow nod, knowing he would have to agree to whatever the Butlerian leader asked. “My Mentats have demonstrated their proficiency in your service. Countless times, in fact.”

“And one of your Mentats will demonstrate it again for Emperor Salvador. This captive mek is still functional and responsive. We intend to transport it to the Imperial Palace, and there, before all observers, a Mentat will play pyramid chess against this thinking machine. You are confident that a Mentat can indeed defeat this robot?” Though Manford’s voice remained even, it carried an undertone of threat.