Now, looking out at the calm Caladan seas and watching the boats return from a day of harvesting kelp and fat butterfish, Vor sat with his eager young adjutant, Abulurd Butler, youngest son of Quentin Vigar and Wandra Butler. Abulurd was also the grandson of Vor’s close friend… but Xavier Harkonnen’s name was rarely spoken, since he’d been irreversibly branded a coward and traitor to humanity. The thought of this injustice, carried forward by the momentum of legend, caught in Vor’s throat like a spiny fruit, but he could do nothing about it. Nearly sixty years had already gone by.
He and Abulurd had found a table inside a new cliffside suspensor restaurant that moved slowly along the Caladan shore for a constantly shifting view of the coast and the sea. Their military caps rested on a wide window ledge. Waves crashed against large rocks just offshore and left rivulets of water running down the sides like white lace. Late afternoon sunlight glinted off the waves.
In their green-and-crimson uniforms, the two men gazed out at the incoming tide and drank wine, enjoying a brief respite from the unending Jihad. Vor wore his uniform casually, without all the distracting medals, while Abulurd himself seemed as crisp as the creases on his trousers. Just like his grandfather.
Vor had taken the young man under his wing, watching out for him, helping him along. Abulurd had never known his mother— Xavier’s youngest daughter— who had suffered a severe stroke giving birth to him, which left her catatonic. Now, upon turning eighteen, the young man had pledged himself to the Army of the Jihad. His father and brothers had earned prestige and many decorations. Eventually, Quentin Butler’s youngest son would distinguish himself as well.
To avoid the taint of the Harkonnen name, Abulurd’s father had taken his surname from the auspicious maternal line, proud to claim the heritage of Serena Butler herself. Ever since he’d married into the famous family forty-two years earlier, the war hero Quentin had remarked on the irony of the name. “A butler was once a menial servant who quietly followed the orders of his master. But I declare a new family motto: ‘We Butlers are servants unto no one!’” His two oldest sons Faykan and Rikov had adopted the catchphrase as they devoted their early lives to fight in the Jihad.
So much history in a name, Vor thought. And so much baggage with it.
Taking a long breath, he scanned the interior of the restaurant. A banner hung on one wall, with pictures of the Three Martyrs: Serena Butler, her innocent child Manion, and Grand Patriarch Ginjo. Faced with an enemy as relentless as the thinking machines, people sought rescue from God or His representatives. Like any religious movement, the “Martyrists” had zealous fringe members who followed strict practices to honor the fallen trio.
Vor did not adhere to such beliefs himself, preferring to rely on military prowess to defeat Omnius, but human nature, including fanaticism, had an influence on his planning. Populations that would not fight in the name of the League would throw themselves howling upon machine foes if asked to do so in the name of Serena or her baby. But while the Martyrists could help the cause of the Jihad, frequently they just got in the way….
Keeping his long silence, Vor folded his hands and looked around the restaurant. Despite the recently added suspensor mechanism, the place looked much as it had many decades ago. Vor remembered it well. The chairs, of a classic style, might be the same ones, but he thought the worn upholstery had been replaced.
Quietly sipping his wine, Vor recalled one waitress who used to work here, a young immigrant that his troops had rescued from Peridot Colony. She had lost her entire family when the thinking machines razed every human-built structure on that planet, and afterward she had worn a survivor’s medal that Vor presented to her personally. He hoped she had made a good life for herself here on Caladan. So long ago… she might be dead now, or an old matron with a brood of grandchildren.
Over the years, Vor had visited Caladan many times, ostensibly to monitor the listening post and observation station his crews had erected nearly seven decades ago. He still returned whenever possible to keep an eye on the water world.
Thinking he was doing a good thing, Vor had long ago moved Leronica and his sons to the League capital when Estes and Kagin were children; their mother had thrived amid all the wonders, but the twins had not particularly cared for Salusa. Later, Vor’s boys— boys? They were in their sixties now!— had decided to return to Caladan, never having warmed to the bustle of Salusa Secundus, League politics, or the Army of the Jihad. Off on his military missions, Vor had rarely been home, and when the twins came of age, they had departed for the ocean world to set up their own homes and have their own children… even grandchildren now.
After so much time and only infrequent contact, Estes and Kagin were veritable strangers to him. Just yesterday, when Vor’s military group had arrived, he had gone to visit them— only to discover that they had packed up and left for Salusa the week before, intending to spend a few months with their old mother. He hadn’t even known! Another missed opportunity.
Still, none of his previous visits with them in past years had been particularly joyful. Each time the twins had followed social niceties, sat with their father for a brief dinner, but didn’t seem to know what to talk about. Before long, Estes and Kagin had pleaded other obligations. Feeling awkward, Vor had shaken their hands and wished them well, before going diligently about his military duties….
“You’re thinking back, aren’t you, sir?” Abulurd had remained silent for a long time, watching his commander, but had finally grown impatient.
“Can’t help thinking. I may not look it, but I am an old man, remember. I have a lot of ties here.” Vor’s brow furrowed as he took a sip of Zincal, one of the most popular Caladan wines. The first time he’d been here, in the dockside tavern owned by Leronica and her father, he had drunk only a potent and bitter kelp beer….
“The past is important, Abulurd… and so is the truth.” Vor turned from the ocean scenery to focus on his adjutant. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I had to wait until you were old enough. Maybe you’ll never be old enough.”
Abulurd brushed a hand through his dark-brown hair, revealing reddish-cinnamon highlights like his grandfather’s. The young man also had an infectious smile like Xavier’s, and a disarming way of looking at people. “I’m always interested in what you can teach me, Supreme Commander.”
“Some things are not easy to learn. But you deserve to know. What you do with it afterward is your own business.”
Perplexed, Abulurd squinted. The suspensor restaurant stopped its lateral movement and began to float down the face of a water-blackened cliff, approaching the sea and the waves that crashed against the shore.
“This is difficult,” Vor said after a long sigh. “We’d better finish our wine.” He took a long swallow of the robust red varietal, stood, and grabbed his military cap from the window ledge. Abulurd followed dutifully, taking his own cap and leaving his glass half full.
After exiting the restaurant, they climbed a paved trail that switch-backed to the top of a cliff, where they stopped among wind-sculpted shrubs and sprays of white starry flowers. A salty breeze whipped up, and the men had to hold on to their caps. Vor gestured to a bench surrounded by high sheltering hedges. The sky and open air seemed vast, but in this special place Vor felt a sense of privacy and importance.
“It’s time for you to learn what really happened with your grandfather,” Vor said. He sincerely hoped this young man would take the revelations to heart, especially since his older brothers never had, preferring the official fiction rather than the uncomfortable truth.
Abulurd swallowed hard. “I’ve read the files. I know he is my family’s shame.”
Vor scowled. “Xavier was a good man and my close friend. Sometimes the history you think you know is little more than convenient propaganda.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Ah, you should have read my father’s original memoirs.”
Abulurd seemed confused. “You are the only one who doesn’t spit at the name Har
konnen. I… I never believed he could have been so terrible. He was the father of Manion the Innocent, after all.”
“Xavier did not betray us. He didn’t betray anyone. Iblis Ginjo was the evil one, and Xavier sacrificed himself to destroy him before he could cause more terrible harm. The Grand Patriarch’s own actions led to Serena’s death, along with the Ivory Tower Cogitors’ mad peace plan.”
Vor’s hands clenched into angry fists. “Xavier Harkonnen did what no other man was willing to do— and he saved our souls, if nothing else. He doesn’t deserve the shame piled upon him. But for the sake of the Jihad, Xavier was willing to accept any fate, even history’s knife in his back. He knew that if such vast corruption and treachery were exposed at the heart of the Jihad itself, the holy crusade would degenerate into scandals and accusations. We would lose our focus on the real enemy.”
Tears filled Vor’s gray eyes when he looked hard at Abulurd. “And all this time, I… I let my friend be colored as a traitor. Xavier knew that the Jihad had to take precedence over personal exoneration, but I am exhausted from wrestling with the truth, Abulurd. Serena left us both a message before she departed for Corrin, knowing she was likely to be killed— martyred. She explained why personal feelings had to be shunted aside for the cause. Xavier felt the same way— he never gave a damn about medals or statues in his honor, or how history remembered him.”
Vor forced his fingers to relax. “Xavier knew most people wouldn’t understand what he had done. The Grand Patriarch was too well ensconced in his position, surrounded by the powerful Jipol and propaganda specialists. For decades, Iblis Ginjo manufactured his own indestructible myth, while Xavier was just a man, fighting as best he could. When he learned what Iblis meant to do to yet another human colony— when he discovered the scheme the Grand Patriarch had created with the Tlulaxa and their organ farms— he knew what he had to do. He didn’t care about the consequences.”
Abulurd watched him with intense fascination, a mixture of dismay and hope. He looked very young.
“Xavier was a great man who performed a necessary act.” Vor shrugged, a weak gesture. “Iblis Ginjo was removed. The Tlulaxa organ farms were abandoned, their vile researchers blacklisted and scattered. And the Jihad was rejuvenated, resulting in the last six decades of fervor.”
Young Abulurd remained disturbed. “But what about the truth? If you knew that my grandfather’s infamy had no basis, why didn’t you try to fix it?”
Vor just shook his head sadly. “No one wanted to hear it. The turmoil would have been a distraction. Even now, it would stall our war effort while we waste time pointing accusing fingers and screaming for justice. Families would take sides, vendettas would be sworn… and through it all, Omnius would keep attacking us.”
The young officer did not seem satisfied, but he said nothing.
“I understand what you are feeling Abulurd. Trust me, Xavier himself would not have wanted me to demand a historical revision in his favor. It has been a long, long time. I very much doubt anyone cares.”
“I care.”
Vor gave him a wan smile. “Yes, and now you know the truth.” He leaned back on his bench. “But our long struggle is held together by the slender threads of heroes and myths. The stories surrounding Serena Butler and Iblis Ginjo have been carefully crafted, and the Martyrists have transformed those two into much more than they ever were. For the good of the people, for the strength of the Jihad, they must remain untarnished as symbols— even the Grand Patriarch, though he does not deserve it.”
The young man’s lower lip trembled. “My grandfather wasn’t… wasn’t a coward, then?”
“Far from it. I’d call him a hero.”
Abulurd hung his head. “I’ll never be a coward,” he vowed, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I know you won’t, Abulurd, and I want you to know that you’re like a son to me. I was proud to be Xavier’s friend, and I’m proud to know you.” Vor put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Someday, perhaps, we can right this terrible wrong. But first we must destroy Omnius.”
A birth on this soil is the birth of a warrior.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS,
to his students
The Army of the Jihad vowed to take back Honru from the thinking machines, regardless of the cost in blood. After a century of Serena Butler’s holy war, humans were accustomed to extreme sacrifices.
Quentin Butler, the battalion’s primero, stood on the bridge of his flagship and watched the Omnius-enslaved planet that loomed in front of him. He uttered a silent prayer as he faced his soulless enemy. Cut from the mold of a staunch war hero, he looked much older than his sixty-five years, with pale gold hair and wavy curls; the finely chiseled features of his face— a firm chin, thin lips, and piercing eyes— looked as if they had been modeled after a classical bust. Quentin would spearhead the offensive, leading the jihadis to victory here on the site of one of their earliest, most devastating defeats.
Four hundred ballista battleships and over a thousand javelin destroyers converged to form a deadly noose around the planet that had once been inhabited by free humans, before the Honru Massacre. This time, the thinking machines stood no chance whatsoever against Quentin and his sworn cause, not to mention the overwhelming firepower he had brought.
In all the years of the Jihad, brave human warriors had inflicted constant and significant damage on the Synchronized Worlds, wrecking robot fleets and destroying machine outposts. And yet the enemy continued to rebuild their forces.
The primero, addicted to the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of victory, had already performed plenty of heroic deeds in his long military career. Many times he had stood victorious in the smoking ruins of a battlefield. He never tired of that sensation.
“Omnius should just calculate the odds and shut down all of his systems,” said Faykan, Quentin’s oldest son. “It would save us time and trouble.” Even taller than his father, Faykan had wavy hair like Quentin’s, but high cheekbones and lean features from his mother Wandra. He was thirty-seven, ambitious both in military service and League politics.
Also standing on the flagship’s bridge, his brother Rikov snorted. “If victory is as easy as all that, it would be hard to justify a big celebration when it’s over. I’d prefer more of a challenge.” Seven years younger than his brother, Rikov was a head shorter, with broader shoulders and a squarer jaw. His generous lips took after his Harkonnen heritage, though no one with good sense would remind Rikov of that embarrassment.
“I am satisfied with any victory that brings us one step closer to annihilating the machine demons.” Quentin turned to look at the two eager men. “There’ll be enough glory for both of my sons… with a bit left over for myself.”
Subconsciously, he often avoided mentioning his youngest son because of what Abulurd’s birth had done to Wandra. He always thought of his precious wife before going into battle. Late in her childbearing years, Wandra had accidentally gotten pregnant, and the difficult delivery had stolen her from him. Mourning, ignoring his new baby, Quentin had taken his comatose wife to the peace and solitude of the City of Introspection, where her revered aunt Serena had spent so much time in contemplation. A part of him still blamed Abulurd for taking Wandra from him, and though his conscience told him he wasn’t being fair to Abulurd, his heart refused to believe otherwise….
“Are we going to just stare at Honru?” Rikov asked flippantly, already standing close to the exit. “Or are we going to get on with it?”
The battalion’s subcommanders transmitted detailed acknowledgments, marking positions and announcing their readiness for a full assault. The Omnius evermind on the planet below must already realize its doom. Defensive systems and combat robots would have detected the incoming Jihad fleet, but the thinking machines could do nothing against such an overwhelming force. Their fate was predetermined.
Quentin rose from his command chair, smiling patiently at his eager sons. The basic battle plan had been developed in a command cen
ter in far-off Zimia, but in war everything could change up until the last moment. “We will send down five hundred kindjal fighters in two separate waves, each with a load of scrambler-pulse bombs, but we won’t deploy the large-scale atomics unless everything goes sour. We’ll need a precision strike on the evermind nexus and then ground crews to root out the substations. We have plenty of Ginaz mercenary commandos.”
“Yes, sir,” both men answered.
“Faykan, you lead the first wave. Rikov, the second. A few high detonations of pulse-atomics should scramble their gelcircuitry brains sufficiently without killing all the human population. It’ll soften the machines enough for our ground troops to sweep in and eliminate the rest. The people of Honru will be free before nightfall.”
“If any of them remain,” Rikov pointed out. “It’s been almost ninety years since the machines took over down there.”
Faykan’s face looked grim and stony. “If Omnius has killed them all, that’s even more reason for revenge. Then I, for one, wouldn’t have any reservations about slagging the planet with a flood of atomics, just like the armada did at Earth.”
“Either way,” Quentin said, “let’s get on with it.”
The primero clasped his hands in front of his face in the half prayer, half salute that the Jihad commanders had adopted since the murder of Serena Butler more than half a century ago. Though ostensibly he spoke to his sons, the words were transmitted across the battalion— not just a pep talk, but his sincere belief. “The Honru Massacre was one of the darkest moments in the early history of the Jihad. Today we will balance the scales of history and finish the story.”
Faykan and Rikov marched toward the flagship’s main launching deck, where they would lead the waves of kindjal fighters. Quentin remained in the command center to watch the unfolding assault, completely confident in his sons. On the screen, he continued to study the rich-looking planet below: brown and green continents, white wisps of clouds, deep blue blotches of broad seas.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 2
