Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

The robot and his Tlulaxa colleague had settled on a genetically modified airborne RNA retrovirus that, while somewhat fragile in the outside environment, was transmitted easily through mucus membranes and open wounds. Upon entering the human body, it unexpectedly infected the liver— unlike most similar diseases— and from there it replicated rapidly and produced an enzyme that converted various hormones into poisonous compounds that the liver could not process.

  The initial indications of the disease were a breakdown of cognitive functions leading to irrational behavior and overt aggression. As if the hrethgir needed to be pushed into more erratic activities!

  Since the first-stage symptoms were minor, infected victims functioned in society for days before realizing they were sick, thus spreading the disease to many others. But once the converted compounds began to build up in the body, and liver function was progressively destroyed, the second stage was rapid, unstoppable, and directly fatal in over forty percent of the test subjects. And once that percentage of a League World’s population dropped dead within the space of a few weeks, the rest of the society would crumble swiftly.

  It would be marvelous to watch and document. As League Worlds fell one by one, Erasmus expected to gather enough information to study for centuries to come, while Omnius was rebuilding the Synchronized Worlds.

  As he entered a different sector with airtight chambers that held another batch of fifty sample victims, the robot was satisfied to see that many of them either lay writhing in agony or were already curled up dead in stinking puddles of vomit and excrement.

  Scrutinizing each victim, Erasmus noted and recorded the varying skin lesions, the open sores (self-inflicted?), the dramatic weight loss, and the dehydration. He studied the cadavers and their twisted positions in death, wishing he had a way to quantify the levels of agony each victim had endured. Erasmus was not vengeful; he simply wanted an efficient means of eradicating enough humans to mortally weaken their League Worlds. Both he and the computer evermind saw only benefits in imposing Synchronized order on human chaos.

  Without a doubt, the plague was ready to be deployed.

  Out of habit, he widened the grin on his shape-shifting silvery face. After much consultation with Rekur Van, Erasmus had applied his engineering knowledge to designing appropriate virus-dispersal canisters, torpedoes that would burn up in a planet’s atmosphere and deliver encapsulated plague organisms across a hrethgir-infested planet. The RNA retrovirus would be weak in the air, but strong enough. And once the population was exposed, it would spread rapidly.

  Recording a final tally of the humans who had died, Erasmus directed his glittering optic threads toward an observation window. Beyond the window was a small chamber from which he sometimes spied through the mirrored glass. The window was coated with a film so that humans, with their frail eyesight, saw only reflections. He shifted wavelengths, peered through, and was astonished to find Gilbertus Albans there in the chamber observing him. How had he gotten inside, past all security? His faithful human ward smiled, knowing Erasmus could see him.

  The robot reacted with surprise and urgency that bordered on horror. “Gilbertus, remain there. Do not move.” He activated controls to ensure that the observation chamber remained sealed and fully sterilized. “I told you never to come into these laboratories. They are too dangerous for you.”

  “The seals are intact, Father,” the man said. He was muscular from extensive exercise, his skin clear and smooth, his hair thick.

  Nevertheless, Erasmus purged the air in the chamber and replaced it with clean filtered air. He couldn’t risk having Gilbertus infected. If the beloved human had become exposed to even one of the minor plague organisms, he might suffer terribly and die. An outcome the robot did not desire at all.

  Ignoring his experiments for the moment, not caring if he destroyed a week’s worth of data, Erasmus hurried past sealed chambers piled high with bodies awaiting incineration. He paid no attention to their staring eyes and slack mouths, their limbs like tangled insects petrified with rigor mortis. Gilbertus was different from any human, his mind organized and efficient, as close to a computer’s as was biologically possible, because Erasmus himself had raised him.

  Though he was now more than seventy years old, Gilbertus still looked in the prime of youth, thanks to the life-extension treatment Erasmus had given him. Special people such as Gilbertus did not need to degrade and age, and Erasmus had made sure the man had every possible advantage and protection.

  Gilbertus should never have risked coming here to the plague laboratories. It was an unacceptable danger.

  Reaching the sterilization chamber, Erasmus tore off his thick blue robe and placed it in the incineration chute; it could always be replaced. He sprayed his entire metal body with powerful disinfectant and antiviral chemicals, making certain to drench each joint and crease. Next he dried himself thoroughly, and reached for the door seal. He hesitated. Before emerging, Erasmus repeated the full decontamination process a second time, and then a third. Just to make sure. He could never take enough precautions to be sure Gilbertus remained safe.

  When finally he stood relieved before his adopted son, the robot was strangely naked, without the usual plush attire. He had meant to lecture Gilbertus, to warn him again of the foolish danger he risked by coming here, but a strange emotion dampened Erasmus’s stern words. He had scolded the feral child enough decades ago whenever he misbehaved, but now Gilbertus was a fully programmed and cooperative human being. An example of what their species could achieve.

  The man brightened so obviously upon seeing him that Erasmus felt a wave of… pride? “It is time for our chess match. Would you like to join me?”

  The robot felt a need to get him away from the laboratory building. “I will play chess with you, but not here. We must go far from the plague chambers, where it is safe for you.”

  “But, Father, haven’t you already endowed me with every possible immunity through the life-extension treatment? I should be safe enough here.”

  ” ‘Safe enough’ is not equivalent to completely safe,” Erasmus said, surprised by his own concern, which bordered on irrationality.

  Gilbertus did not seem worried. “What is safety? Didn’t you teach me that it is an illusion?”

  “Please do not argue unnecessarily with me. I have insufficient time for that now.”

  “But you told me of the ancient philosophers who taught there is no such thing as security, not for a biological organism or a thinking machine. So what is the point of leaving? The plague might get me, or it might not. And your own mechanisms could stop at any moment, for reasons you haven’t yet contemplated. Or a meteor might fall from the sky and kill us both.”

  “My son, my ward, my dear Gilbertus, will you not come with me now? Please? We can discuss such matters at length. Elsewhere.”

  “Since you are so courteous, which is a manipulative human trait, I will do as you wish.”

  He accompanied the independent robot out of the domed facility, passing through sealed airlocks and out under the red-tinged sky of Corrin. After they walked away, the man mulled over what he had seen inside the plague laboratories. “Father, does it ever trouble you to be killing so many people?”

  “It is for the good of the Synchronized Worlds, Gilbertus.”

  “But they are human… like me.”

  Erasmus turned to him. “There are no humans like you.”

  Many years ago, the robot had developed a special term in honor of Gilbertus’s burgeoning mental processes, his remarkable memory-organizational ability and capacity for logical thinking. “I am your mentor,” the robot had said. “You are my mentee. I am instructing you in mentation. Therefore, I will call you by a nickname I have derived from these terms. I will use the name whenever I am especially pleased with your performance. I hope you consider it a term of endearment.”

  Gilbertus had grinned at his master’s praise. “A term of endearment? What is it, Father?”

  “I will call you my Mentat.” A
nd the name had stuck.

  Now, Erasmus said, “You understand that the Synchronized Worlds will benefit the human race. Therefore, these test subjects are simply an… investment. And I will make sure you live long enough to reap the benefits of what we are planning, my Mentat.”

  Gilbertus beamed. “I will wait and watch how events unfold, Father.”

  Reaching Erasmus’s villa, they entered the peaceful botanical garden, a tiny universe of lush plants, tinkling fountains, and hummingbirds— their private sanctuary, a place where they could always share special time together. Impatient to begin, Gilbertus had already set up the chess set, while waiting for Erasmus to finish his work.

  The man moved a pawn. Erasmus always let Gilbertus take the first move; it seemed only fair, a paternal indulgence. “Whenever my thoughts grow troubled, in order to keep my mind organized and operating efficiently, I have done as you taught me. I journey into my mind and perform complex mathematical calculations. The routine helps settle my doubts and worries.” He waited for the robot to move a pawn of his own.

  “That is perfect, Gilbertus.” Erasmus favored him with as genuine a smile as he could manage. “In fact, you are perfect.”

  * * *

  DAYS LATER, THE evermind summoned Erasmus to the Central Spire. A small ship had just arrived bearing one of the few humans who could travel with impunity to the primary Synchronized World. A leathery-looking man emerged from his vessel and stood by the pavilion in front of the mechanically animate spire. Like a living organism, the flowmetal structure that housed Omnius could change shape, first towering tall and sinister, then bending lower.

  Erasmus recognized the swarthy, olive-skinned man. With close-set eyes and a bald head, he was larger than a Tlulaxa and less furtive-looking. Even now, many decades after his disappearance and supposed death, Yorek Thurr continued to work at destroying the human race. Surreptitiously allied with the thinking machines, he had already caused incalculable damage to the League of Nobles and Serena Butler’s precious, foolish Jihad.

  Long ago, Thurr had been Iblis Ginjo’s handpicked commander of his Jihad Police. Thurr had demonstrated an uncommon knack for rooting out minor traitors, people who had cooperated with the thinking machines. Of course, the man’s remarkable abilities stemmed from the fact that he had given his loyalty to Omnius in exchange for the life-extension treatment, though at the time Thurr’s body had already been long past its prime.

  For all the years that he ran Jipol, Thurr had continued to send careful reports to Corrin. His work was impeccable, and the scapegoats he’d killed were irrelevant, unimportant spies sacrificed for the greater good of increasing Thurr’s importance to the League.

  After the death of Iblis Ginjo, he had worked for decades to rewrite history and vilify Xavier Harkonnen while making a martyr of the Grand Patriarch. Alongside Ginjo’s widow, Thurr had run the Jihad Council, but when it came time for him to take his seat as the new Grand Patriarch, the widow had outmaneuvered him politically, placing her own son, and then grandson, in the position. Feeling utterly betrayed by the humans he had served, Thurr faked his own death and went to take his due among the thinking machines, where he was given a Synchronized World, Wallach IX, to rule as he saw fit.

  Now, seeing Erasmus, Thurr turned and straightened. “I have come for a report on our plan to destroy the League. I know thinking machines are ponderous and relentless, but it has been over ten years since I came up with the idea to develop plagues. What is taking so long? I want the viruses released soon, to see what will happen.”

  “You merely provided the idea, Yorek Thurr. Rekur Van and I have done all of the actual work,” Erasmus said. The bald man scowled and made a dismissive gesture.

  Omnius’s voice boomed. “I will proceed at my own pace, and will execute the plan when I feel the time is correct.”

  “Of course, Lord Omnius. But since I take a certain pride in this scheme that I suggested, I am naturally curious to watch its progress.”

  “You will be content with the progress, Yorek Thurr. Erasmus has convinced me that the current strain of the retrovirus is sufficiently deadly for our purposes, though it kills only forty-three percent of the humans who are exposed.”

  Thurr gave a surprised exclamation. “So many! There’s never been a plague so deadly.”

  “The disease still sounds inefficient to me, since it will not kill even half of our enemy.”

  Thurr’s dark eyes twinkled. “But, Lord Omnius, you must not forget that there will be many unpredictable secondary casualties from infections, lack of care, starvation, accidents. With two out of every five people dying from the plague, and many more weakened and struggling to recover, there won’t be enough doctors available to tend all the people infected by the plague— much less any other injuries or illnesses. And think of the turmoil it will inflict on governments, societies, the military!” He seemed close to choking on his glee. “The League will be utterly incapable of mounting any offensives against the Synchronized Worlds, nor will they be able to defend themselves— or call for help— should a thinking-machine army strike them. Forty-three percent! Ha, this is effectively a death blow to the rest of the human race!”

  Erasmus said, “Yorek Thurr’s extrapolations have merit, Omnius. In this case the very unpredictability of human society will cause far more severe damage than the retrovirus mortality numbers might indicate.”

  “We will have empirical evidence soon enough,” Omnius said. “Our initial volley of plague capsules is prepared for immediate launch, and the second wave is already in production.”

  Thurr brightened. “Excellent. I wish to see the launch.”

  Erasmus wondered if something had gone wrong during the life-extension treatment that had twisted Thurr’s mind, or if he had simply been devious and treacherous from the outset.

  “Come with me,” the robot said, finally. “We will find you a place from which to observe the launch in comfort.”

  Later, they watched as fiery projectiles shot into the crimson sky under the simmering light of Corrin’s red giant. “It is a human habit to rejoice when watching fireworks,” Thurr said. “To me, it’s a glorious spectacle indeed. From now on the outcome is as inexorable as gravity. Nothing can stop us.”

  Us— an interesting choice of words, Erasmus thought. But I do not entirely trust him. His mind is filled with dark schemes.

  The robot turned his smiling flowmetal face up into the sky to watch another shower of plague torpedoes shoot away toward League space.

  The people welcome me as a conquering hero. I have battled cymeks and I have overthrown thinking machines. But I will not let my legacy stop there. My work is just beginning.

  — PRIMERO QUENTIN BUTLER,

  Memoirs on the Liberation of Parmentier

  After recapturing Honru from the thinking machines, Quentin and his troops spent a month mopping up, helping to rebuild the machine cities and providing aid to the survivors. Half of the mercenaries from Ginaz would remain behind, assigned to oversee the transition and help to root out any remaining robotic infestations.

  When those preparations were in place, Primero Butler and his two oldest sons flew to nearby Parmentier with the bulk of the Jihad warships. The fighters were ready for some well-deserved rest, and Rikov was anxious to get back to his wife and their only daughter.

  Before the conquest of Honru drove their borders deeper into Omnius’s territory, Parmentier was the closest League World to Sychronized space. Over several decades, human settlers had made remarkable progress in reclaiming Parmentier after the devastating years of machine occupation. Now the rough Synchronized industries had been cleaned, toxic chemicals and wastes discarded, agriculture reestablished, forests planted, rivers dredged and rerouted.

  Though Rikov Butler still spent much of his time serving in the Army of the Jihad, he was also a well-liked and effective governor of the human settlement. He waited with his father on the bridge of the flagship ballista, smiling as the serene planet—
his home— came into view. “I can’t wait to see Kohe again,” he mused quietly next to the command chair. “And I just realized that Rayna has turned eleven years old. I’ve missed so much of her childhood.”

  “You’ll make up for it,” Quentin said. “I want you to have more children, Rikov. One granddaughter is not enough for me.”

  “And you can’t have any more children if you never spend time alone with your wife,” Faykan said, nudging his brother. “I’m certain there are lodgings in the city, if you’d rather have the privacy.”

  Rikov laughed. “My father and brother are always welcome in our house. Kohe would have a cold bed for me indeed if I turned you away.”

  “Do your duty, Rikov,” Quentin said with a mock growl. “Your older brother doesn’t show any inclination to find a wife.”

  “Not yet anyway,” Faykan said. “I haven’t found the appropriate political connection yet. But I will.”

  “Such a romantic.”

  Over the years, Rikov and Kohe had established a fine estate on a hill overlooking Parmentier’s main city of Niubbe. Given time and Rikov’s efficient rule, Parmentier would no doubt become a powerful League World.

  When the docked Jihad fleet sent its soldiers and mercenaries down for furlough, Quentin accompanied his sons to the governor’s mansion. Never one to show extraordinary affection in public, Kohe gave her husband a chaste kiss. Rayna, a wide-eyed and straw-haired girl who preferred the company of books to friends, came out to greet them. Their home contained an elaborate shrine to the Three Martyrs. Bright orange marigolds were set out in flower dishes in memory of Manion the Innocent.

  But while Kohe Butler was a devout woman who insisted on daily prayers and the proper observances, she was not fanatical like the Martyrists, who had established a foothold here. Parmentier’s populace remembered the oppression the thinking machines had inflicted upon them, and they turned easily to the more militant religions against the machines.

  Kohe also saw to it that her family and staff did not partake of the spice melange. “Serena Butler did not use it. Therefore we shall not, either.” Rikov occasionally indulged in the popular vice while out on military maneuvers, but he was on his best behavior at home with his wife.