Meticulous in his duties, Charence took great pride in knowing that Tyros Reffa never even noticed the work he did on the estate. This was the best compliment an administrator could hope to receive. The gardens and household ran so smoothly that his master never had cause for complaint.
The Docent had assigned Charence to serve Tyros Reffa from the moment the mysterious boy had arrived on Zanovar, more than four decades ago. The loyal servant had never asked questions about the boy’s parentage, or the source of his inexhaustible fortune. Charence, a focused man with plenty of responsibilities, had no time for curiosity.
As the last trickles of water drained from the fountain cascade, he stood inside the flowtree gazebo atop a flagstoned knoll. Workers in overalls carried buckets and hoses as they marched toward piping substations carefully hidden in the mushroom gardens. Charence could hear them whistling and chattering in the clear air.
He never noticed the warships overhead. The estate manager focused on the real world around him, rather than looking at the sky above. Lasgun blasts tore through the air like bolts hurled by an angry thunder god. Sonic booms of ionized air flattened the trees. Parks and lakes crackled on the horizon, vaporized into a dead plain of glass.
Eyes aching from the brilliant light, Charence looked up now, watching the myriad bolts of destruction intersect at Reffa’s estate. He stood frozen, unable even to flee. He faced the storm as a locomotive of hot wind howled toward him.
Flames rolled across the landscape like red tsunamis, a stampede of white-hot incandescence that flashed the patchwork fields and forested areas into oblivion so quickly that even smoke didn’t have a chance to rise.
When the shock wave passed by, it left nothing of the beautiful gardens or buildings. Not even rubble.
* * *
In the shimmering city of Artesia, on the night side of the Taligari homeworld, Tyros Reffa attended the glamorous suspensor opera alone. He sat in a private box, intent on understanding the nuances and complexities of the show, enthralled by the color and spectacle.
All in all, he enjoyed it very much and looked forward to sharing his experience with the Docent when he got home to Zanovar.…
Following two generations of chaos, when mankind finally overcame the insidious control of machines, a new concept emerged: “Man may not be replaced.”
— Precepts of the Butlerian Jihad
From a balcony, Prince Rhombur peered down into the Grand Ballroom. The preparations continued with a relentless momentum: servants, decorators, and caterers swarmed through Castle Caladan. It was like watching an army get ready for war.
Though few of his original physical systems remained, Rhombur felt anxiety in the pit of his artificial stomach. He observed unobtrusively, because if he were seen, a dozen people would assault him with endless questions about a thousand little decisions— and he had enough on his mind.
He wore a white retrotuxedo that had been fitted to cover the synthetic skin and servomechanisms that moved his replacement limbs. Despite his extensive scarring, Rhombur looked quite dashing.
Exactly as a man should, on his wedding day.
All across the gleaming floor below, servants bustled under the direction of the festival planner, an exquisitely attired off-world woman with a narrow, dark face that gave her a look of intriguing contrasts, like a Caladanian primitive vaulted into modern society. Her melodious voice cut through the clamor as she issued a steady stream of orders in formal Galach.
Servants jumped to follow her commands, setting up baskets of blossoms and sprays of colored corals, arranging ritual articles on the altar for the ceremonial priest, cleaning up spills, straightening wrinkles. Overhead, in an unobtrusive clearplaz enclosure between the beams of a curving, vaulted ceiling, a holoprojection crew set up and tested their equipment.
Immense chandeliers of the purest Balut crystal hung in tapered tiers, casting a golden glow over the congregational seating. An arrangement of exotic vine flowers climbed a pillar next to Rhombur’s perch, imparting a sweet perfume of rare hibiscus violets. The aroma was a bit too strong, and with a slight twist of a control knob on a panel at his waist, he adjusted his olfactory sensor to diminish its sensitivity.
At his insistence, the Caladan ballroom looked as if it had been transported intact from the Grand Palais of Ix. It reminded him of a time when House Vernius had headed the powerful industrial world, developing innovative technology. As it would again…