Dune: The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  A path paved with crushed limestone wound up to the crest. The gravel crunched under the stallion’s hooves as Xavier rode, breathing the crisp air. He could feel the moist chill of early spring, saw fresh leaves on the trees, a dazzle of wildflowers in their first bloom. But each breath he drew into his new lungs smelled flat.

  Grapevines lined the hill like green corduroy, carefully tended and watered, each vine tied to cables between stakes so that the clusters would hang off the ground for easy picking. Twisted olive trees surrounded the main house, their low branches awash with white flowers. Each year, the first pressings of grapes and olives were cause for feasting in every Salusan household; local vineyards vied against each other to see which could produce the best vintages.

  As Xavier rode through the gates and into the courtyard, other horsemen in hunting outfits milled about. Barking dogs dodged around the stallion’s legs, but the chocolate-brown horse stood majestically, ignoring the hounds as if they were ill-mannered little boys.

  Contract huntsmen grabbed the leashes and pulled the dogs back into order. A number of short black hunting horses pranced about, as impatient as the dogs. Two of the huntsmen whistled loudly and others joined them, ready to begin the day’s festivities.

  Manion Butler strolled out of the stables, calling up his team like a military commander positioning troops for battle. He glanced at the young officer, raised a hand in greeting.

  Then Xavier saw Serena riding out on a gray mare with beautiful lines and an ornate saddle. She wore high boots, jodhpurs, and a black riding jacket. Her eyes were like electric sparks as her gaze met his.

  She cantered over to where Xavier sat astride his mount, a smile forming at the edges of her mouth. Even with all the barking dogs, restless horses, and shouting huntsmen, Xavier wanted to kiss her so badly that he could barely restrain himself. Yet Serena remained coolly formal, extending a gloved hand in greeting. He took it, holding her fingertips.

  How he wished he could be telepathic like the Sorceresses of Rossak, just to send her his thoughts. But from the obvious delight suffusing her face, he thought Serena understood his feelings well enough, and reciprocated them.

  “The journeys across space were so long,” he said. “And I thought about you all the time.”

  “All the time? You should have been concentrating on your duties.” She gave him a skeptical smile. “Perhaps we can find time alone during today’s hunt, and you will tell me what you dreamed of.”

  Playfully, she urged her gray mare to trot over to where her father waited. Conscious of the eyes watching them, she and Xavier maintained an acceptable distance. He rode forward and clasped her father’s black-gloved hand. “I thank you for allowing me to participate in the hunt, Viceroy.”

  Manion Butler’s florid face rearranged itself into a grin. “I’m glad you could join us, Tercero Harkonnen. This year I’m certain we’ll track down a bristleback. The beasts are definitely in these woods— and I, for one, have been craving hams and roasts. And bristlebacon, especially. There’s nothing like it.”

  Her eyes dancing, Serena looked at him. “Perhaps, Father, if you brought along fewer barking dogs, galloping horses, and men crashing through the underbrush, some of those shy animals would be easier to find.”

  In response, Manion smiled as if she were still a precocious little girl. Glancing at Xavier, he said, “I’m glad you’ll be there to protect her, young man.”

  The Viceroy raised his right arm. Horns sounded and a brass gong clanged from the stables. The purebred hounds began to bay, clustering toward the far fence. Ahead, the path led beyond the blossoming olive groves and into the scrubby Salusan forest. Two eager-eyed boys swung open the gates, already anticipating their first bristleback hunt.

  The party rode out like a rowdy gang, dogs pushing first through the gates, followed by the big horses that carried the professional huntsmen. Manion Butler rode with them, blowing an antique bugle that had been with his family since Bovko Manresa’s first settlement on Salusa.

  The followers rode lesser mounts, hurrying behind the horses. These helper crews would set up camp and dress and skin whatever wild game the huntsmen caught. They would also prepare the feast once the party returned to the main house.

  The hunters had already spread out, with each chief taking a point and plunging into the outskirts of the forest. Unhurried, Xavier and Serena trotted toward the dark green woods. One bright-eyed young man, trailing behind, glanced over his shoulder and winked at Xavier, as if he knew that the young couple had no intention of enjoying the hunt for its own sake.

  Xavier urged his stallion forward. Serena rode beside him, and they chose their own path through thinning trees to a muddy streambed wet with spring flow. Smiling secretively at each other, they listened to the distant sounds of dogs and her father’s continuing bugle blasts.

  The Butler’s private forest covered hundreds of acres, crisscrossed by game trails. Mostly it was left as a preserve, with meadows and sparkling creeks, nesting birds, and lush patches of flowers that bloomed in successive splashes of color as the patches of crusty snow faded.

  Xavier was simply happy to be alone with Serena. Riding side by side, they brushed arms and shoulders, intentionally. He would reach up to hold green branches away from her face, and Serena pointed out birds and small animals, identifying them.

  In his comfortable hunting outfit, Xavier carried a sheathed ceremonial dagger, a bullwhip, and a Chandler pistol that shot jacketed crystal fragments. Serena carried her own knife and a small pistol. But neither of them expected to bring down any prey. To them, their hunt was for each other, and both knew it.

  Serena chose her path without hesitation, as if she had spent time during Xavier’s survey mission riding through the forest in search of places where they could be alone. Finally, she led him through a stand of dark pines to a meadow with tall grasses, starlike flowers, and thick reeds taller than her head. The reeds surrounded a mirror-smooth pond, a shallow old tarn created by winter snow melt and refreshed by an underground spring.

  “The water has bubbles in it,” she said. “It tingles your skin.”

  “Does that mean you want to go for a swim?” Xavier’s throat tightened at the prospect.

  “It’ll be cold, but the spring has some natural heat. I’m willing to risk it.” With a smile, Serena dismounted and let her mare graze. She heard a splash out in the pond, but the reeds blocked their view.

  “Sounds like a lot of fish, too,” Xavier said. He slid down from his stallion, patted the muscular neck, and let his mount sniff at the thick grasses and flowers near the gray mare.

  Serena pulled off her riding boots and stockings, then lifted her loose jodhpurs above her knees as she walked barefoot into the rushes. “I’m going to test the water.” She pushed the hollow grasses aside.

  Xavier checked the fastenings on his stallion’s saddle. He worked open one of the leather compartments and brought out a bottle of fresh citrus water to share. He followed Serena toward the reeds, already imagining how it would be to swim beside her, just the two of them stroking naked through this lonely forest lake, kissing each other. . . .

  Without warning, a monstrous bristleback charged out of the reeds, spraying mud and water from its cool wallowing hole. Serena let out a cry, more of alarm than terror, and fell backward into the mud.

  The bristleback pawed at the rushes with its cloven hooves. Long tusks protruded from a squarish snout, each a bony maul for uprooting saplings and eviscerating enemies. The animal had wide-set eyes, large and black. It made loud grunts as if preparing to breathe fire. In tales of great bristleback hunts, many men, hunting dogs, and horses had died— but there were so few of the animals anymore.

  “Into the water, Serena!”

  The bristleback turned as it heard his shout. Serena did exactly as Xavier said, splashing away from the rushes, deeper into the pond. She began to swim, knowing the boar could not charge her if she was in deep enough water.

  The br
istleback stomped out of the rushes. The two horses squealed and skittered back toward the edge of the meadow.

  “Look out, Xavier!” Waist deep now, Serena drew her hunting knife, but knew she couldn’t help him.

  Xavier planted his legs firmly, held a knife in one hand and the Chandler pistol in the other. Without flinching, he aimed the crystal-shard weapon and shot the bristleback three times in the face. The sharp projectiles tore through the animal’s cheek and forehead, gouging the thick skull. Another shot splintered one of the tusks. But the bristleback kept charging toward him, caught up in its own solitary stampede.

  Xavier fired twice more. The mangled creature bled profusely, mortally wounded— but even imminent death did not diminish its momentum. As the beast thundered toward him, Xavier jumped to one side and slashed the sharp knife across its throat, opening jugular and carotid vessels. The bristleback turned, gushing blood upon him even as its heart began to fade.

  The weight of the falling creature knocked Xavier to the ground, but he wrestled it away, avoiding the convulsive thrusts of the razor tusks. The killing done, Xavier climbed back to his feet and staggered away, shivering in shock. His hunting outfit was soaked with the beast’s blood.

  He sprinted into the trampled rushes at the edge of the water. “Serena!”

  “I’m all right,” she called, splashing toward the shore.

  He looked at his reflection in the placid pond, saw his shirt and face covered with gore. He hoped none of it was his own. He cupped his hands and splashed cool water on his skin, then dunked his head to wash the stink from his hair. He scrubbed his hands with peaty sand.

  Serena came to him, her clothes drenched, wet hair clinging to her skull. She used a corner of her riding jacket to dab the blood from his neck and cheeks. Then she opened his shirt, wiping his chest as well.

  “I don’t have a scratch on me,” he said, not sure if it was true. The skin on one side of his neck felt raw and hot, as if chafed, and his chest was sore from the collision with the attacker. He clutched her arm, pulling her closer. “Are you sure you’re not hurt? You aren’t cut, no bones broken?”

  “You’re asking me?” she said with teasing disbelief. “I’m not the brave boar fighter here.”

  Serena kissed him. Her lips were cold from the water, but he held them against his own, awakening her touch with his until their mouths opened slightly, their breath warm inside each other as the kiss deepened. He took her from the edge of the pond, through the rushes, and to the soft meadow grass, far from the dead bristleback.

  The young lovers stroked the wet hair away from their ears and eyes, and kissed again. The brush with death made them feel intensely alive. Xavier’s skin was hot, and his heart kept pounding, even though the danger was past. A new excitement mounted. He wished he could better enjoy the seductive scent of her perfume, but could detect only a tantalizing thread.

  Serena’s sodden clothes were cold, and Xavier noticed goosebumps on her pale arms. All he could think to do was to remove the wet fabric. “Here, let me warm you.”

  She helped him unfasten the black riding jacket and her blouse while her own fingers worked at his bloodstained shirt. “Just to make certain you’re not hurt,” Serena said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d been killed.” Her words came fast and hard between kisses.

  “It takes more than a wild boar to keep me away from you.”

  She yanked his shirt down over his shoulders and fumbled with his cuff so she could take it off entirely. The meadow was soft and lush. The horses munched patiently on grasses as Xavier and Serena made love without restraint, expressing their pent-up passions, whispering and then shouting their love for each other.

  The rest of the hunting party seemed far away, even though Xavier had killed a bristleback and would have a dramatic story to tell during the evening’s feast. Of course, certain details would need to be omitted. . . .

  For the moment, the war with the thinking machines did not exist. In this brief and heady hour, they were just two human beings, alone and in love.

  There is a certain hubris to science, a belief that the more we develop technology and the more we learn, the better our lives will be.

  — TLALOC,

  A Time for Titans

  Anything imagined can be made real . . . given sufficient genius.

  Tio Holtzman had said as much in a hundred speeches at the Lords Council on Poritrin. His concepts and achievements sparked dreams and fostered confidence in human technological capabilities against the thinking machines.

  The mantra had also been picked up by his patron, Lord Niko Bludd, and by representatives in the League of Nobles. Early in his career, Holtzman had realized that it was not always the best scientists who received the accolades or funding. Instead, it was the best showmen, the most effective politicians.

  To be sure, Savant Holtzman was an adequate scientist. He had an exceptional technical background and had achieved marked success with his inventions and weapons systems, all of which had been put to good use against Omnius. But he had arranged for more publicity and attention than the inventions themselves warranted. Through his oratory skills and by coloring certain details, he had constructed a pedestal of fame on which he now stood. Holtzman had made himself into the Hero of Poritrin, rather than just another nameless inventor. His ability to enchant audiences, to spark a sense of wonder and possibility in their minds, exceeded his scientific skills.

  To maintain his mythology, Holtzman constantly hungered for new ideas— which required inspiration and long periods of uninterrupted thought. He liked to let possibilities roll like pebbles down a steep mountain slope. Sometimes the pebbles would come to rest, making a bit of noise but ultimately yielding nothing; on other occasions, such notions might spark an avalanche.

  Anything imagined can be made real.

  But first it must be imagined, seen in the vision of the creator.

  After returning home from the devastation on Salusa Secundus, he had booked himself a private cabin aboard a luxurious driftbarge, one of the quiet zeppelin craft that rose from the delta city of Starda and drifted inland on currents of warm air, cruising across the seemingly endless Poritrin plains.

  Holtzman stood on the driftbarge’s open deck, looking at the grasslands that flowed in a sea of green and brown, dappled with lakes. Below him, birds flew like schools of fish. The slow aircraft floated with no hurry, no schedule.

  He stared toward the open horizon. Limitless distances, endless possibilities. Hypnotic, meditative . . . inspirational. Such places opened his mind, allowed him to pursue crazy concepts and run them down like a predator pursuing prey.

  The driftbarge passed over geometric shapes like tattoos on the ground, carefully sectioned acreage for the labor-intensive farming of sweet cane. Other fields grew plump grains and fibrous threads to make Poritrin cloth. Armies of human slaves worked the farms and ranches like insects from a hive.

  Following a bucolic derivative of Navachristianity, the people of Poritrin had outlawed computerized harvesting apparatus and restored their society to humbler roots. Without sophisticated machinery, they required a great deal of manual labor. Long ago, Sajak Bludd had been the first League nobleman to introduce actual slavery as a means of making large-scale agriculture viable.

  That Poritrin lord had justified his act by choosing only those who owed a debt to humanity, mostly Buddislamic cowards who had fled instead of fighting against the repressive Titans and thinking machines. If they hadn’t been afraid to help defend humanity, Sajak Bludd said, their added numbers might have been enough to turn the tide of war. Working the fields was a small enough price for their descendants to pay. . . .

  Holtzman paced the driftbarge’s deck, acquired a fluted glass of sugary juice from a server, and sipped it as he pondered. Looking down at the sea of grasses, he relished his mental sojourn. No distractions . . . but as yet no inspiration, either. The great scientist often embarked on such journeys to pull his thoughts tog
ether, simply staring and thinking— and working, though everyone else aboard seemed to be taking a holiday.

  Because of Holtzman’s previous successes, Niko Bludd gave him free reign to develop whatever innovative defenses and weapons struck his fancy. Unfortunately, during the past year the scientist had faced a growing conviction that he was running out of ideas.

  Genius was nothing without creative impulse. Of course, the Savant could coast for a while on his earlier triumphs. Still, he had to offer up new inventions regularly, or even Lord Bludd would begin to doubt him.

  Holtzman could never permit that. It was a matter of pride.

  He’d been embarrassed that the cymeks so easily penetrated his scrambler shields on Salusa Secundus. How could he— and all the other engineers and technicians on the project— have ignored the fact that cymeks had human minds, not AI gelcircuitry? It was a significant, devastating lapse.

  Still, the outpouring of faith and hope— not to mention substantial funding— made him feel a crippling pressure. The people would never allow him to retire now. He must find some other solution, save the day once more.

  While back in the blufftop laboratories at his Starda residence, he searched constantly, reading dissertations and theoretical papers transmitted to him, combing them for exploitable possibilities. Many of the reports were esoteric, beyond even his comprehension, but occasionally an idea struck his fancy.

  Holtzman had brought along numerous recordings for this mental sojourn over the Poritrin plains. One ambitious and intriguing paper had been written by an unknown theorist from Rossak named Norma Cenva. She had no credentials, as far as he could determine, but her concepts were nothing short of amazing. She thought of simple things in a completely different light. He had a gut feeling about her, an instinct. And she had such a low profile. . . .