Dune: The Butlerian Jihad

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  He remembered when he and his turncoat friend Ebrahim had scavenged the desert with other Zensunni, including Naib Dhartha and his young son Mahmad. Once, Selim had found a melted knob of fused circuitry, obviously from an exploded ship. It had been sand-scoured into an unusual, colorful conglomerate. He had wanted to give the trinket to Glyffa, the old woman who had sometimes taken care of him. But Ebrahim had grabbed the fused component and rushed off to show it to Naib Dhartha, asking if he could keep it as a treasure. Instead, the Naib had taken it from him and tossed it into a pile sold to a scrap merchant. No one had given a thought for Selim. . . .

  Still, as the time in this place drifted into weeks he discovered aspects and dimensions of loneliness. Day after day he sat in front of the scratched windows, watching the storms fade, bringing bloodred sunsets splashed with colorful hues. He looked out at the clean dunes undulating toward the endless horizon. The immense mounds had metamorphosed like living creatures, yet in essence they always remained the same.

  Across such an expanse, it seemed impossible that he would ever see another human being again. But Buddallah would give him a sign of what he was expected to do. He just hoped it came soon.

  Much of the time Selim occupied himself inside the empty station with solitary games he’d learned to play when he was younger. In the village, he had been ostracized by others who traced their paternity back a dozen generations or more, even before the wanderers’arrival on Arrakis.

  From the time he’d been a toddler, Selim had been raised by different Zensunni, none of whom had adopted him as part of their family. He had always been an impulsive and energetic lad. Any real mother would have been patient with his mischievous misbehavior, but Selim had no real mother. On Arrakis, where survival balanced on a razor’s edge, few would expend effort for a young man who seemed intent on making nothing of himself.

  Once, he had accidentally spilled water— an entire day’s ration— while working in a storage alcove. As punishment, Naib Dhartha had denied him any fluids for two days, insisting that he must learn his lesson if he was to be a part of the tribe. But Selim had never seen such a punishment inflicted on any others who had committed comparable mistakes.

  When he’d been only eight Standard Years old, he had gone exploring out on the cliffs and rocks, hunting lizards, searching for hardy weeds with edible roots. While he was out there a sandstorm had caught him by surprise, hurling dust and grit against the mountains, forcing him into shelter. Selim remembered how frightened he had been, hiding alone for two days. When he’d finally made his way back to the cliff city, expecting to be greeted with relief, he saw that none of the Zensunnis had even noticed his disappearance.

  Conversely, Ebrahim, the son of a respected tribal father, had too many siblings for anyone to pay attention to him. Perhaps to compensate, Ebrahim got into a lot of trouble himself, constantly testing the limits of the Naib’s restrictions while cleverly making sure the worthless waif Selim was around, just in case someone needed to be blamed.

  As an unwanted scamp, Selim never experienced the parameters of true comradeship. He had always accepted Ebrahim’s manipulations at face value, without considering the possibility that the other boy might be taking advantage of him. Selim had been slow to learn his lesson, and did so only after paying the price of exile into the desert, where he was expected to die.

  But he had lived. He had ridden Shaitan, and Buddallah had guided him to this hidden place. . . .

  While the long storms made him restless, Selim became more determined in exploring the research station. He studied the banks of sophisticated instruments and records but did not understand the antique technology. He knew vaguely what the systems were meant to do, but did not comprehend how to work the machines that had been installed by Old Empire scientists. Since this station had remained intact for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, it should be able to withstand a bit of tinkering from a curious young man. . . .

  Some of the power cells were still active, barely, and he was able to switch systems on, make panels glow. Finally he stumbled upon a way to activate a log entry, a holorecording of a tall man with strange facial features, large eyes, and pale skin. The bones of his face had an unusual set, as if he came from a different race of humans. The Imperial scientist wore bright garments, some metallic, others bearing unusual designs. He and other researchers had been stationed here to test the resources of Arrakis and assess its suitability for colonization. But they had found little of interest.

  “This will be our last recording,” said the chief scientist in an obscure Galach dialect that Selim found barely comprehensible. He played the log entry five times before he understood the full message.

  “Although our assignment is not yet complete, a new transport ship has arrived at the local spaceport. The captain brought an urgent message of turmoil and chaos in the Empire. A junta of tyrants has seized control of our servile thinking machines and used them to take over the galactic government. Our civilization is lost!” Behind him, his scientist companions whispered uneasily to one another.

  “The captain of the transport ship must leave in a matter of days. We cannot finish our survey work in that time, but if we do not depart now, the continuing turmoil may disrupt travel across the Empire.”

  Selim looked at the gathered researchers, with their troubled expressions and distant, glazed-over eyes.

  “It may take some time for the political leaders to resolve this dispute and return our lives to normal. None of us wish to be stranded in this awful place, so we will leave with the transport after sealing all systems in our testing stations. Little remains to be discovered in this Arrakis wasteland anyway, but if we ever return, we have made certain that the stations will remain intact and operational, even if the hiatus lasts for a few years.”

  As the recording ended, Selim chuckled. “It has been more than a few years!”

  But the images of the long-dead Empire scientists did not respond, and only seemed to stare into the uncharted future. Selim wanted to share his delight with someone, but could not. The desert still held him prisoner.

  Nonetheless, he would find a way to escape.

  Risk diminishes as our belief in fellow human beings rises.

  — XAVIER HARKONNEN,

  military address

  Seven days.

  Brigit Paterson hadn’t wanted to cut the time so close, but she worked her crew hard. She checked and double-checked their work, insuring that there were no errors. An entire planet was at stake.

  According to Serena’s best estimate, the engineers had finished with a little time to spare.

  After testing the scrambler-shield system and finding everything operational, even to her most precise standards, Brigit finally gave her people a few hours of rest. Some sat staring into the cold gray skies through the windowplaz of their barracks huts; others fell immediately to sleep as if they had been placed in suspended animation.

  The Armada actually arrived on the morning of the ninth day.

  The eavesdropping system she had installed to tap into the Omnius sensor network blared with a flurry of alarms. Brigit woke her team and told them the League fleet was on its way into the system, ready to retake Giedi Prime. She hoped that Serena had intercepted the ships and told them what to expect.

  The cymeks scornfully expressed their disbelief that the feral humans would dare come against them, while the Omnius incarnation worked to analyze the situation and develop a response.

  The thinking machine fleet maintained several large patrol cruisers in orbit, but the majority of robotic fighting ships had been grounded, used in subjugation operations over the populace. Now, with the League Armada approaching, the Giedi Prime– Omnius issued orders across the computer network. Robotic battle vessels powered up, preparing to launch into orbit as a massive, synchronized force to strike against the hrethgir invaders.

  Brigit Paterson listened to the plans and smiled.

  Her secondary engineer hurried up to her, loo
king out at the wind-swept rocky island. “Shouldn’t we turn on the scrambler shields? They’re all ready. What are you waiting for?”

  Brigit looked at him. “I’m waiting for the cocky robots to fall into my trap.”

  On crude screens installed in the unfinished facility, she watched a hundred capital warships lift off from landing fields that had been conquered during the original takeover. The huge mechanized vessels rose from the ground, carrying incredible firepower.

  “Not so fast.” Brigit finally activated the rejuvenated Holtzman scrambler shields. Ice-rimed transmitting towers pumped energy into the linked network of satellites far overhead, and the disruption spread out like a spiderweb, invisible and utterly deadly to AI gelcircuitry.

  The robotic fleet never knew what hit them.

  Rising upward, unable to believe that something so unexpected could affect their battle plan, the thinking-machine vessels struck the thin, shimmering veil that immediately obliterated their computer brains, erasing systems and memory units. Battleship after battleship became inoperative and tumbled like asteroids out of the sky. With all systems dead, they crashed and exploded on the ground.

  Some hit uninhabited areas. Others, unfortunately, did not.

  Brigit Paterson didn’t want to think about the collateral damage she had just caused to the already devastated world. Seeing the success, her engineers cheered. Now the remaining robot battleships in space could never stand against the combined might of the unified Armada, nor could they come down to the surface to cause havoc.

  “We haven’t won yet,” Brigit said, “but it may not be long before we get off of this rock.”

  • • •

  THE ARMADA BATTLE group approached Giedi Prime, all weapons ready against the thinking-machine scourge. Xavier prayed that Serena had succeeded in her wild plan, and that she was down there safe, somewhere.

  He had insisted on commanding the risky strike himself— not because he wanted to claim the glory of a morale-boosting victory, but because he desperately wanted to find Serena.

  Secure in his mechanized grip over the planet, Omnius had misjudged human plans and capabilities. After calculating the odds and seeing only a small chance of League success, the evermind had probably dismissed the threat of human retaliation. No sensible enemy would ever attack against such overwhelming odds.

  But Xavier Harkonnen had no compunction against taking on hopeless missions. And in this instance, the Giedi Prime evermind did not possess all the relevant information. This Omnius lacked vital data about the Sorceresses of Rossak, about the new portable scramblers, and— he hoped— about the now-operational secondary shield transmitters.

  When the orbiting robotic warships detected the battle group’s approach, they gathered into standard formation to destroy the Armada vessels. In his comline, Xavier heard a report from his adjutant, Cuarto Powder. “Sir, the thinking machines are coming. Their missile ports are open.”

  Xavier issued the first command. “Dispatch the ground assault divisions . . . launch armored troop transports.” The swarms of ships carried the Sorceress Heoma and her Rossak bodyguards, as well as the soldiers who would use the portable scramblers against the robot warriors in Giedi City.

  Cuarto Powder suddenly looked up from his station, verifying the scans his tactical officers had just forwarded to him. “Sir, it looks as if scrambler shields have just come on over the whole planet!”

  Xavier’s heart swelled. “Exactly as Serena promised.” The soldiers cheered, but he smiled for a different reason entirely. Now, he knew she must be alive after all. Serena had accomplished the impossible, as she often did.

  “Robotic warships are falling out of the skies! They were trying to launch and got caught in the scrambler backwash!”

  “Good, but ground-based thinking machines will try to zero in on those secondary transmitting towers. We’ve got to finish this while the robot fleet is trapped up here and the rest of the thinking machines are stranded in the cities.” Xavier would not let Serena’s work be in vain. “Let’s take back the planet.”

  Dropping out of the lead ballista’s launch hatches, eight escort kindjals flanked Heoma’s single transport, all of them fully armed and ready to engage the enemy. The mission of the kindjals was to cause confusion and chaos, to distract the unimaginative robotic defenders so that the Sorceress volunteer could land safely and carry out her essential work.

  Seeing the robotic battleships zeroing in, Xavier urged the troop transports to hurry. Swarms of smaller Armada ships streaked into the turbulent atmosphere and headed toward Giedi City.

  Closing his eyes, Xavier sent his hopes with them, then concentrated on the machine threat approaching in orbit.

  Some lives are taken, while others are freely given.

  — ZUFA CENVA,

  repeated eulogy speech phrase

  Surrounded by six silent Rossak men, Heoma piloted the troop transport. All of her guards wore padded uniforms and helmets that provided some protection against projectile fire. Eyeing the altimeter as their ship descended, the men swallowed cocktails of Rossak drugs. The intense stimulants blazed like lava through veins and muscle fibers, deadening pain and fear.

  With her telepathic abilities, Heoma saw the drugged men becoming thunderstorms in human form, ready to unleash lightning upon their foes. Individually they met her gaze, exchanging unspoken knowledge, fully aware that they were about to die.

  The transport bounced and shuddered as it tore through perilous shear winds. Heoma was no expert pilot, but she had enough training to land the ship. It would not require a delicate touchdown— only one they could walk away from.

  She had expected robotic defender ships to intercept them, but Heoma watched thinking-machine flyers crash to the ground, dropping like stones into buildings and parks. Other machine flyers that managed to swoop low enough to avoid the worst effect of the scrambler shields struggled to land with damaged systems.

  “They’re not in any shape to worry about us,” a man transmitted from one of the flanking kindjals. The fast Armada ships opened fire with artillery rounds, blasting some of the fleeing robotic flyers.

  In orbit, the Armada battleships exchanged furious fire with larger, space-borne AI vessels that were now precluded from descending to the surface and defending Omnius. Tercero Harkonnen had also dispatched a full-scale ground assault force after Heoma and her small team had started on their way. Each prong of the attack had its specific mission, requiring pinpoint attention to detail.

  Heoma watched the ship’s controls, counting down the seconds. Hers was to be a desperate single thrust; she would have no other opportunity. And she had to be finished before any League soldiers got into position.

  As the low clouds tore away, she could see the city below, grid streets and tall buildings built by proud humans who had envisioned a prosperous future. Entire city blocks were blackened, especially the habitation complexes, which were apparently worthless to the inhuman conquerors.

  Recalling her briefing, during which she had memorized the only available maps of Giedi City, the Sorceress volunteer located the citadel that had once been the governor’s residence. There, the cymeks had installed a new Omnius evermind, according to the ragged messenger, Pinquer Jibb. Magnus Sumi’s mansion had become a thinking-machine stronghold.

  Cymeks there.

  Her kindjal escorts spread clouds of masking smoke. Launched canisters dispersed sparkling electromagnetic chaff, flecks of active metal that disrupted the robots’sensor capabilities. Heoma’s craft followed the dispersing cloud down to the ground. She hoped to remain hidden as they approached the undamaged robotic flyers.

  Aware that ships were approaching, thinking-machine fighters launched blind salvos. Explosions rocked Heoma’s craft, and she saw that the landing gear had been damaged. She brought the heavy ship down anyway, braking as sharply as she could. On impact, the vessel careened along a wide flagstone street, scraping and skidding, spraying fire, sparks, and shrapnel. The
y finally crashed to a halt against the side of a gray stone building.

  At once, Heoma and her men were up, unfastening restraints, gathering weapons. She opened the side hatch and ordered her pumped-up bodyguards to clear the way. Dutifully, she transmitted an all-clear signal to her escort kindjals. One pilot responded as he streaked upward, “Melt the bastards.” The fighters zoomed into the sky toward the second wave of troop transports dropping ground assault teams into the robot-infested city.

  The next part of the mission was in her hands.

  Heoma stepped away from the smoking craft, then gestured for her glassy-eyed defenders to hurry toward the governor’s citadel. She loped after them, the target clear in her mind.

  Behind her, the battered transport craft exploded in its programmed self-destruct sequence. Heoma didn’t flinch. She had never intended to leave herself any option of retreat.

  The bodyguards carried projectile launchers and disrupter guns. Such artillery would have been too bulky for a normal man to carry, but with their chemically enhanced muscles the men had superhuman strength . . . at least until the drugs burned their bodies from the inside out.

  Standing three meters tall, powerful combat robots guarded the approach to the Omnius citadel. Though alert, the thinking machines were more concerned with the Armada ballistas and javelins and the restored scrambler shields than with a few humans running through the streets. What could a handful of trivial hrethgir accomplish against the invincible thinking machines?

  When the robot sentinels moved to block their approach, Heoma’s bodyguards opened fire. Without a word, they launched projectiles, blowing the steel robots to debris.

  Overhead, buzzing watcheyes skimmed building tops and swooped down as the squad ran toward the arched entrance to the Magnus’s mansion. The watcheyes kept track of Heoma’s movements, reporting everything to the Giedi Prime– Omnius. But the Sorceress did not slow. Her bodyguards blasted any machine target, holding nothing in reserve.