Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Perhaps we’ll need both.”

  Racing away from Richese under acceleration that would have killed any fragile human being, the Titan general traveled to his secret contact inside the machine empire.

  Wallach IX was an insignificant Synchronized World, where Yorek Thurr held dominion over a pathetic herd of captive humans. For decades, Thurr had been a reliable yet surreptitious source of information about both Omnius and the League of Nobles. He had notified Agamemnon about the return of long-lost Hecate and her unexpected support for the hrethgir cause, and he had also divulged the travel plans of Venport and the hated Sorceress Cenva, so that Beowulf could ambush them in the Ginaz system. Thurr was not the least bit nervous about playing three sides against each other.

  The Titan general had ensconced himself in an extravagant vessel built with intimidating angular structures, a full suite of exotic weapons and powerful grappling arms. It served both as a spacecraft and a ground walker. When he settled down in an open plaza on Wallach IX, he extended flat, powerful feet, reconfigured the robotic body, and rose up in a fearsome new form. Thurr’s advice might be useful, but the general did not entirely trust him.

  Cowed human captives backed away as the Titan plodded down the boulevards to the imposing citadel Thurr had built when crowning himself king of this planet. Though Wallach IX ostensibly remained a Synchronized World, Thurr claimed to have bypassed and manipulated the evermind’s external controls. He kept the local Omnius incarnation deviously isolated and fooled, with programming of his own.

  Agamemnon was not concerned. If the evermind had secret watcheyes to prove the human’s duplicity, then Thurr himself would face execution. After all, the cymek rebels were already under a death sentence.

  Because his walker-body was so enormous, he had to sweep his armored arms from side to side to knock down walls and constrictive arches so that he could enter the citadel. It made good military sense to demonstrate his power and put the turncoat firmly in his place.

  When he entered the audacious throne hall Thurr had designed, the man seemed neither disturbed nor intimidated. He sat back on his gaudy, elaborate throne, gazing with a jaded eye at the cymek. “Welcome, General Agamemnon. I am always pleased to receive such a distinguished visitor.”

  Thurr had constructed his throne atop a massive dais. The chair and its pedestal were fashioned from polymer-reinforced bones; long femurs formed the support, and rounded skulls made an ornate foundation. The design seemed unnecessarily barbaric, but Thurr savored the mood it evoked.

  Large display cases lined one wall, containing exotic weapons. Momentarily distracted by the beauty of an antique projectile gun, Agamemnon stared at it. The workmanship on the white bone handle was exquisite with scrimshawlike markings depicting scenarios of violent death caused by the weapon. For many years, Agamemnon had collected such weapons, amused by their potential as museum relics rather than as actual threats.

  “Do you have an opportunity for me, General?” Thurr sniffed. “Or are you here to request a favor?”

  “I never ask for favors.” Agamemnon expanded his powerful arms and the body core, puffing himself up like a bird. “From one such as you, I would demand assistance, and you would be pleased to give it to me.”

  “Always. I can offer you refreshment, but I believe a fine vintage would be wasted on you.”

  “We obtain fresh electrafluid whenever we need it. That is not why I am here. I need copies of your intelligence files, your astronomical maps and geographical assessments of other planets. It is past time that I expanded my cymek empire. I need to decide which world to conquer next.”

  “In other words, you plan to abandon Richese before Omnius comes back to destroy you.” Thurr snickered at his insight, fidgeting with excitement. “And it is good that you cymeks plan ahead and strengthen your defenses, because before long Omnius will have utterly defeated the hrethgir and absorbed them into the Synchronized Worlds.”

  “That’s a bold statement, since the Jihad has already been simmering for a century.”

  “Ah, but the thinking machines have changed their tactics, thanks to me. My idea!” He preened with pride. “Corrin has recently released a potent biological plague. We fully expect the epidemic to spread across the hrethgir worlds and wipe out entire populations.”

  Agamemnon was surprised at the information. “You certainly like to kill things and cause great pain and damage, Yorek Thurr. In another age, Ajax himself might have recruited you.”

  Thurr beamed. “You are too kind, General Agamemnon.”

  “Are you not concerned that you will be infected yourself? Once Omnius learns of your treachery, you will be left to die here on Wallach IX.” He thought of his son Vorian, wondering if he might succumb to the infection, but the life-extension treatment should have greatly enhanced his immune systems.

  Thurr waved a hand. “Oh, I would not have suggested unleashing the plagues until I received the immunization myself. The vaccine gave me a strange fever for several days, but ever since then my thoughts have been… clearer, sharper.” He grinned as he massaged the smooth skin of his scalp. “I’m pleased to make a mark upon history for all time. These plagues demonstrate my influence more than anything I have previously done. At last I can be satisfied with the accomplishments of my life.”

  “You are a very greedy man, Yorek Thurr.” Agamemnon maneuvered his large mechanical body closer to the weapons display shelves. “You succeeded in everything you’ve attempted, first with Jipol, then guiding the League from behind the skirts of Camie Boro-Ginjo, and now as a king of your own world.”

  “None of it is enough!” Thurr stood from his throne of skulls. “After only a few decades, ruling this planet has become tedious and pointless. I hide within the boundaries of the Synchronized empire, and no one even knows what I have accomplished. Back on Salusa Secundus, I guided the policy of the Jihad for years, but no one believed it was me. They all thought the Grand Patriarch was intelligent. Hah! Then they gave credit to his widow and her milksop son. I want to make my own mark.”

  Agamemnon understood, but still he found the little man’s prideful ambition quaint and amusing. “Then you had best help me, Thurr, because when the new Time of Titans comes to pass and my cymek empire comprises many planets, our history will remember you as an important touchstone.”

  He strutted over to the weapons display cases, ripped the door off its hinges, and reached inside.

  “What are you doing?” Thurr demanded. “Be careful. Those are valuable antiques.”

  “I’ll pay you whatever this is worth.” Agamemnon removed the projectile gun that he had admired.

  “It’s not for— “

  “Everything has a price.” Agamemnon opened a compartment on his body and slid the gun inside. He had other keepsakes in there as well, a variety of intriguing killing devices that he had begun to collect. While Thurr glared, the cymek closed the compartment. “Send me a bill.”

  The man’s eyes glittered. “Keep it, please, as my special gift to you. Now, General, what is it you need? More planets to dominate? As my plagues spread, you’ll have ample opportunities to invade and secure League Worlds. Soon all hrethgir planets will be graveyards, all that territory available for the taking. You can pick up the pieces wherever you like.”

  “Not good enough. I am a conqueror, not a plunderer. I need a new stronghold now, one that doesn’t have its own overwhelming military force. My reasons are of no concern to you. It is only necessary for you to give me an answer, before I lose my patience and kill you.”

  “So, Agamemnon wants to feel safe and strong.” Unconcerned, Thurr sat back down on his throne of skulls, tapping his long fingers together as he pondered. Soon a huge grin split his face. “Ah, there is another alternative. Knowing you Titans and your long-held grudges, you’ll consider it quite satisfying.”

  “We have made many enemies over the centuries.” Agamemnon paced the floor in his monstrous walker-form, cracking the tiles beneath his im
mense weight.

  “Yes, but this is different. Why not go to Hessra and destroy the Ivory Tower Cogitors? As a practical matter, they have electrafluid fabrication plants, which you would find useful. But I think the mere satisfaction of obliterating them would prove enough.”

  Agamemnon bobbed his articulated head. Thoughts rushed through his ancient brain. “You are quite correct, Thurr. Attacking Hessra will not immediately draw the attention of either the hrethgir or Omnius. Crushing the maddening Cogitors would be pleasurable for its own sake.”

  Human beings strive for respect and dignity. This a common theme in their personal interactions at all levels, from street gangs to Parliament. Religious wars have been fought over this issue, which is simple in theory but complex in practice.

  — SERENA BUTLER,

  comments in her last interview

  As Supreme Commander of the Army of the Jihad, Vorian Atreides could have afforded fine quarters for himself and Leronica, a mansion or an entire estate. The League would have been happy to accommodate him for his more-than-a-lifetime of service.

  Years ago, he had offered Leronica an opulent home, but she preferred something small and simple, comfortable but not extravagant. He had found an apartment in Zimia’s interplanetary district, a section of the city filled with a variety of cultures, which she always found fascinating.

  When he’d brought his family to Salusa, Vor promised her all the wonders she could imagine. He had made good on that promise, but he wanted to give her much more than she would accept from him. She always remained sweet-natured and loving toward Vor. Constant and steadfast, she waited for him to come home and showed great delight whenever they were together.

  Smiling now as he walked home through the neighborhood with fresh supplies and trinkets from recently visited Caladan, Vor heard many languages spoken, tongues that he identified from his travels: the guttural accents of Kirana III, the musical syllables of refugees from Chusuk, even slave dialects originating on former machine-controlled planets.

  Grinning with anticipation, he climbed the steps of a well-kept wood-frame building, made his way to the fifth floor, and entered. Their four-bedroom apartment was clean and simple, decorated only with a few antiques and holos that depicted Vor’s greatest military victories.

  In the kitchen at the rear of the apartment, he saw Leronica holding a pair of shopping bags that appeared much too heavy for her to carry in her thin arms. Having recently celebrated her ninety-third birthday, she looked every year of it, since she had never been a woman to pander to vanity. But even at her age, the woman insisted on doing her own shopping and leading her own social life when Vor was gone on his long military missions.

  To keep herself busy, Leronica took in special fabrication jobs from people in the neighborhood, but never charged for her work, since she did not need the money. The culture of Salusa appreciated crafts and personally made items, instead of mass-produced objects that reminded the long-suffering people of mechanical precision. Leronica’s fishing quilts, much in demand, depicted scenes from exotic Caladan.

  Grinning, Vor hurried over to hug her, snatching away the shopping bags and setting them on a side table. He gazed into her dark pecan eyes, which still looked youthful in her wrinkled, heart-shaped face. He kissed her passionately, seeing not an old woman but the person he had fallen in love with decades ago.

  She caressed his artificially gray hair as they embraced. “I found your secret, Vorian. It seems that you age from a jar.” She laughed. “Not many men use coloring to make themselves look older! Your real hair is as rich and dark as when I first met you, isn’t it?”

  Chagrined, he did not deny her discovery. Though he could never make himself look close to his one hundred fifteen years, he tinted his hair to diminish the obvious gap between himself and Leronica. His stubble of beard did add a bit of age, but his face had no lines.

  “While I appreciate the gesture, you don’t need to bother. I still love you, despite your youthful appearance.” With an impish smile, Leronica turned back to working the feast she had planned in order to welcome him home.

  He sniffed the enticing aromas. “Ah, something better than military fare! As if I needed another reason to keep returning to you.”

  “Estes and Kagin are coming. You know they’ve been here for the past two weeks?”

  “Yes, and I just missed them on Caladan.” He made a smile, for her sake, then said, “I look forward to seeing them.”

  The last time the family had gotten together, he and Estes had gotten into a quarrel over a minor sarcastic comment. Vor couldn’t recall the specifics, but episodes like that always saddened him. With any luck, this evening would be tolerable. He would try his best, but the gulf between them would remain.

  When they were teens, Kagin had accidentally discovered that Vor was his real father, and he had told the shocking news to his brother. Leronica tried to soothe their distress, but the hurt did not easily go away. Both boys preferred their pleasant childhood memories with Kalem Vazz, the man who had raised them as his own sons until he was killed by elecrans out in the seas.

  Now, while Leronica busied herself in the kitchen, he answered the door to welcome his sons. Estes and Kagin were in their mid-sixties but had slowed their aging process by taking regular melange, which gave their eyes a bluish tint. Both had dark hair and lean Atreides features, but Estes was slightly taller and more flamboyant, while Kagin took the role of a quiet, introspective follower. Youthful and smiling, Vor appeared young enough to be one of their grandsons.

  They shook his hand— no hugs, no kisses, no words of affection, just deferential respect— before going into the kitchen. Only then did their tones change, and they offered all of their charm and love to their mother.

  Long ago, head-over-heels in love, Vor had set up Leronica and the boys in a nice house on Salusa. Then he’d gone off to fight his Jihad missions, leaving them to fend for themselves, never realizing how much it seemed like he was abandoning them after dumping them in a strange world with no friends.

  Each time Vor returned home, he had expected the twins to greet him like a hero, but the boys behaved distantly. Calling in favors among League politicians, Vor made sure his sons had good connections, proper schooling, the best opportunities possible. They accepted such privileges, but did not thank him. True, they had taken his name, at Leronica’s insistence. At least that was something.

  “Grand crab and shore snails, specially imported,” she announced brightly from the kitchen. “One of your father’s favorite meals.” Vor inhaled the savory aromas of garlic and herbs, and his mouth watered in anticipation. He remembered the first time she had prepared this meal for him on Caladan.

  Leronica brought a platter of four large crabs into the dining chamber and placed it on a suspensor-field turntable that floated above the center platform. The transparent tabletop covered an artificial tidepool, a miniature world of seawater, rocks, and sand. Small, cone-shaped snails clung to the rocks. Vor had transported the table here from Caladan, knowing Leronica would love it.

  Before the group sat down, Vor opened a bottle of the inexpensive Salnoir wine that Leronica preferred. On other planets the dry, pink wine went by different names, but it was essentially the same grape everywhere, and went very well with seafood. Leronica especially liked its reasonable price; it was a continuing source of pride for her to keep household expenses down.

  Vor had given up trying to get her to spend more and improve her standard of living. An economical lifestyle made her happy and gave her a feeling of worth, because it left more money for her to donate to worthy causes. Since so many people were in need of help, so many refugees of the Jihad, Leronica always felt guilty in luxurious surroundings. In some ways, she reminded him of Serena Butler herself.

  Vor had an accountant pay household bills and gave Leronica whatever money was left over, so she could donate it as she pleased. Many of her favorite causes involved underprivileged children and even Buddislamic famil
ies that most everyone else in the League disliked for their refusal to fight thinking machines. She also gave substantial stipends to her sons, in a generous effort to make up for the lack of opportunities they had in the fishing villages of Caladan.

  At the center of the table, four small metal ramps opened on the suspensor turntable. Enjoying herself across the table, Leronica operated the controls from her chair. A steaming roasted crab slid down each ramp onto the plates, and then the suspensor lifted to a compartment in the ceiling, out of the way. The aroma of salt and pungent seasonings saturated the air.

  The two younger men removed packets of melange from their pockets and each sprinkled the spice onto Leronica’s carefully prepared food without even tasting it. Their mother did not approve of too much spice consumption, but she said nothing, apparently not wishing to spoil the special dinner.

  “Will you be staying on Salusa long this time, Father?” Estes said. “Or do you have Jihad business again?”

  “I’m here for a few weeks,” Vor said, not missing the slight sarcasm. “There’ll be the usual round of political and military meetings.” His gaze lingered on his son for a moment.

  “The boys are staying for three months,” Leronica said with a pleased smile. “They’ve rented their own apartment.”

  “Space travel takes so long, and a trip from Caladan is such a major undertaking,” Kagin said, then his voice began to trail off. “It… seemed the best thing.”

  Almost certainly, Vor would be off again before his sons left. They all knew it.

  After a brief but awkward lull in the conversation, Leronica slid open the lid of the glazplaz tabletop. The diners used long clamps to pluck live snails off the rocks; then with little forks they pried the snail meat from the shells. Vor dipped snail after snail into herbed butter and ate them, then dug into the main course of roast crab.

  Across the table, Vor caught Leronica’s brown-eyed gaze, returned her smile, and it helped to calm him. She ate her crab with an impressive appetite for an old woman. After the meal, as usual, after coffee, conversation, and games with Estes and Kagin, she would snuggle with him. Later, they might even make love, if she felt up to it. Her age did not matter to Vor in the least. He still loved her, still wanted her.