Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “And you are too quick to chase after new experiences.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It is on Arrakis— if you forget the ways that have allowed us to survive for so long.”

  “I won’t forget them, Ishmael. But if I find better ways, I will show them to our people.”

  He led Ishmael through the winding streets, past open market stalls and raucous bazaars. He slapped away pickpockets as he and Ishmael jostled through clusters of water sellers, food vendors, and purveyors of Rossak drugs and odd stimulants from far-off worlds. Ishmael saw poor, broken men huddled in alleys and doorways, those who had come to Arrakis seeking fortune and already lost so much that they could no longer afford to leave.

  If Ishmael had had the financial means, he would have paid passage for every one of them, just to send them away.

  Finally spotting his mark, El’hiim tugged on the older man’s sleeve and hurried forward to a smallish offworlder who was buying outrageously priced desert equipment. “Excuse me, sir,” El’hiim said. “I assume you are one of our new spice prospectors. Are you preparing to head out on the open dunes?”

  The small-statured stranger had close-set eyes and sharp features. Ishmael stiffened, recognizing the racial attributes of a hated Tlulaxa. “This one’s a flesh merchant,” he growled at El’hiim, using Chakobsa so the stranger wouldn’t understand.

  His stepson motioned him to silence, as if he were a buzzing gnat. Ishmael could not forget the slavers who had captured so many Zensunnis and brought them to places like Poritrin and Zanbar. Even decades after the scandal of the Tlulaxa organ farms, the genetic manipulators were cast out and shunned. But on Arrakis during the heady days of the spice rush, money erased all prejudices.

  The Tlulaxa newcomer turned to El’hiim, appraising the dusty Naib with obvious skepticism and distaste. “What do you want? I’m busy here.”

  El’hiim made a gesture of respect, though the Tlulaxa man deserved none. “I am El’hiim, an expert on the deserts of Arrakis.”

  “And I am Wariff— one who minds his own business and has no interest in yours.”

  “Ah, but you should, and I offer my services as a guide.” El’hiim smiled. “My stepfather and I can advise you on what equipment to purchase and what would be an unnecessary expense. Best of all, I can take you directly to the richest spice fields.”

  “Go to whatever hells you believe in,” the Tlulaxa snapped. “I don’t need a guide, especially not one of the thieving Zensunni.”

  Ishmael squared his shoulders and answered in clear Galach. “Ironic words from a Tlulaxa, a race that steals human beings and harvests body parts.”

  El’hiim pushed his stepfather behind him before the confrontation escalated.

  “Come, Ishmael. There are plenty of other customers. Unlike this stubborn fool, some spice rushers will actually find their fortunes.”

  With a haughty sniff, the Tlulaxa man ignored them, as if the two desert men were something he had just scraped off the sole of his boot.

  At the end of the long, hot day, when the two walked away from Arrakis City, Ishmael felt sick with disgust. His stepson’s pandering to outsiders upset him more than he could imagine. Finally, after a hard silence, the older man said in a heavy voice, “You are the son of Selim Wormrider. How can you lower yourself to this?”

  El’hiim looked at him in disbelief, raising his eyebrows as if his stepfather had asked an incomprehensible question. “What do you mean? I secured four Zensunni guide contracts. People from our village will take prospectors out to the sands and let them do the work while we take half of the profit. How can you object to that?”

  “Because that isn’t how we do things. It goes against what your father taught his followers.”

  El’hiim was clearly working hard to control his temper. “Ishmael, how can you hate change so much? If nothing ever changed, then you and your people would still be slaves on Poritrin. But you saw a different way, you escaped, and you came here to make a better life for yourself. I am trying to do the same.”

  “The same? You would surrender all the progress we have made.”

  “I do not wish to live as a starving outlaw like my father was. One cannot eat a legend. We cannot drink the water of visions and prophecies. We must fend for ourselves and take what the desert offers— or someone else will.”

  The two men traveled in silence out into the night, and finally reached the edge of the open sand, where they would begin crossing the desert wastelands.

  “We will never fully understand each other, El’hiim.”

  The younger man let out a dry, bitter chuckle. “At last you say something I can agree with.”

  Fear and bravery are not as mutually exclusive as some would have us believe. As I go into danger, I feel both at once. Is it brave to overcome one’s fear, or just curiosity about the human potential?

  — GILBERTUS ALBANS,

  A Quantitative Analysis of Emotions

  When Omnius summoned Erasmus to the Central Spire, Gilbertus accompanied his teacher while remaining unobtrusive. He had left the Serena clone in the robot’s extensive gardens; he had already discovered that she liked to look at the lovely flowers, though she was never interested in the scientific names of the species.

  As he followed his robot mentor into the city, Gilbertus intended to listen carefully to any interchanges between Omnius and Erasmus, watching the style of debate, the exchange of data. From it he would learn. This was an exercise in mentation for the man Erasmus called his “Mentat.”

  The evermind rarely seemed to notice Gilbertus’s existence; he wondered if Omnius was being a sore loser, since the human ward had indeed developed into a superior creature despite his squalid beginning. Apparently, the evermind did not like to be proved wrong in his assumptions.

  When they reached the Central Spire, Omnius said, “I have excellent information to share.” His voice boomed through speakers in the silvery walls of the main chamber. “It is what the hrethgir would call ‘good news.’”

  Colors swirled in pearlescent, hypnotic patterns on the Omnius wallscreens. Gilbertus didn’t know where to look. Omnius seemed to be everywhere. Watcheyes flitted around the room, hovering and humming.

  The robot’s flowmetal face formed into a smile. “What has happened, Omnius?”

  “In summary: Our retrovirus epidemic is devastating the human population, exactly as predicted. The Army of the Jihad is completely preoccupied with its response to the crisis. For months they have been unable to take any military action against us.”

  “Perhaps we can finally regain some of our territory,” Erasmus said, the smile still fixed on his platinum face.

  “More than that. I have dispatched numerous robotic spycraft to verify the vulnerability of Salusa Secundus and other League Worlds. In the meantime, I intend to build up and consolidate a war fleet of greater power than any in human-recorded history. Since the weakened hrethgir do not pose a threat to us at the moment, I will recall all of my robotic battleships from across the Synchronized Worlds and assemble them here.”

  “Putting all of your eggs in one basket,” Erasmus said, again selecting an appropriate cliché.

  “Preparing an offensive force against which the League of Nobles has no chance. I calculate zero probability of failure, statistically. In all our previous engagements, the military strength was too evenly matched to guarantee us a victory. Now, our superior numbers will overwhelm hrethgir resistance by at least a factor of a hundred. The fate of the human race is assured.”

  “Undoubtedly, it is a most impressive plan, Omnius,” the robot said.

  Gilbertus listened quietly, wondering if the evermind was trying to intimidate him. Why would Omnius bother?

  “Is this the reason you have summoned us?” Erasmus asked.

  The computer’s voice increased dramatically in volume, as if to startle them. “I have concluded that before our final assault against the League of Nobles, every one of my components— my
‘subjects’— must join a single integrated network. I can afford no anomalies or diversions. In order for the Synchronized Worlds to be victorious, we must all be synchronized.”

  Erasmus’s face reverted to its smooth mirrorlike countenance. Gilbertus could tell that his mentor was troubled. “I do not understand, Omnius.”

  “I have tolerated your unnecessary independence for too long, Erasmus. Now I need to standardize your programming and personality with my own. There is no longer any requirement for you to be different. I find it a distraction.”

  Alarm surged through Gilbertus, and he forcibly dampened his reactions. His mentor would solve this problem, as he always had. Erasmus must feel the same shock, though his placid robotic face displayed none of it.

  “That is not necessary, Omnius. I can continue to provide valuable insights. There will be no distraction.”

  “You have said this for many years. It is no longer efficient for me to keep you distinct from my evermind.”

  “Omnius, I have compiled much irreplaceable data during the span of my existence. You may still find certain revelations enlightening, and they can provide you with alternate paths for cogitation.” Listening to the calm words of the robot, Gilbertus wanted to scream. How could he not feel desperate? “If you simply assimilate me into your greater mental database, then my decision-paths and perspectives will be compromised.”

  He would die!

  “Not if I keep all of your data in an isolated program. I will partition the record to keep your conclusion trees separate. Therefore the problem is solved, and Erasmus as a separate entity can be eliminated.”

  Gilbertus swallowed hard as he listened. Sweat broke out on his brow.

  Erasmus paused while his gelcircuitry mind churned through thousands of possibilities, discarding most of them, looking for some way to sidestep this demand he had known would eventually come.

  “For greater efficiency in our operations, I must complete my remaining work in progress. Therefore, I suggest that before you store my data and erase my memory core entirely, you allow me one more day to conclude several experiments and collate the information.” Erasmus faced one of the pearly wallscreens. “Afterward, Gilbertus Albans can finish the work, but I must prepare for the transition and give him precise instructions.”

  Gilbertus felt knots in his stomach. “Will one day be sufficient, Father?” His voice cracked.

  “You are an adept student, my Mentat.” The robot turned to his human ward. “We do not want to delay the plans of Omnius.”

  Omnius considered for a long, tense moment, as if suspecting a trick. “That is acceptable. In one day I require you to present your memory core to me for full assimilation.”

  Later, inside the robot’s villa after all the work had been done and the subsequent experiments prepared, Gilbertus fought down his deep anxiety as he followed Erasmus out into his greenhouse courtyard.

  For the occasion, the autonomous robot wore his richest, most voluminous robe decorated with false ermine fur in the fashion of ancient kings. The cloth was a deep purple, which looked like dark old blood in the ruddy light of the red giant star.

  His muscular body hidden in drab clothes, Gilbertus stopped beside him. He had read ancient heroic stories about men being led to unjust executions. “I am ready, Father. I will do as you instructed.”

  The robot formed a sensitive paternal smile on his flowmetal face. “We cannot contradict Omnius, Gilbertus. We must follow his commands— I only hope he does not choose to delete you as well, because you are my finest, most successful, and rewarding experiment.”

  “Even if Omnius chooses to destroy me, or send me back to the slave pens, I am satisfied with the enhanced life you have given me.” Tears glistened in Gilbertus’s eyes.

  The robot seemed to be radiating tense emotions. “As a last service to me, I want you to deliver my memory core personally to the Central Spire. Carry it in your own hands. I do not trust the dexterity of some of Omnius’s robots.”

  “I will not disappoint you, Father.”

  * * *

  A HUMAN ALONE in Corrin’s main robotic city, Gilbertus went to stand at the opening of the stylized flowmetal tower. “Lord Omnius, I have brought the memory core of Erasmus, as you commanded.” He held up the small, hard ball in his hand so that the buzzing watcheyes could see it.

  The shifting metal rippled under the bloody daylight. The soft quicksilver wall puckered and then opened to form a doorway in front of him, like a mouth. “Enter.”

  Gilbertus stepped into a broad main chamber. The details had shifted from what he had seen only the day before, strange designs like arcane circuitry or hieroglyphic messages now adorned the walls— decorations? The Omnius wallscreens still swirled like milky half-blind eyes.

  Respectfuly silent, Gilbertus stopped in the middle of the room and held the valuable module. “This is what you requested, Lord Omnius. I… I believe you will see the advantage of keeping Erasmus’s thoughts within you. There is much you can learn.”

  “How does a human dare to tell me how much I can learn?” the evermind said in a thunderous voice.

  Gilbertus bowed. “I meant no disrespect.”

  A burly sentinel robot entered the room, extending thick metal hands for the sphere. Protectively, Gilbertus pulled the precious orb closer to his body. “Erasmus instructed me to insert his memory core with my own hands, to make certain no errors occur.”

  “Humans commit errors,” Omnius said. “Machines do not.” Nevertheless, Omnius created an access port on an inner wall.

  Gilbertus took one last glance at the small sphere that contained every thought and every memory of Erasmus, his mentor, his… father. Before Omnius could scold him for the delay, he went to the port and inserted the core, then waited patiently as the evermind drank in all of the memories and other data, storing them in a discrete area of his vast and organized mind.

  The intimidating sentinel robot nudged him away from the wall when the small memory core reemerged from the socket with a soft click.

  The evermind spoke in a contemplative voice. “Interesting. This data is… disturbing. It does not conform with rational patterns. I was right to keep it entirely separate from the rest of my program.”

  The sentinel robot lifted the memory core. Gilbertus watched in horror, knowing what was bound to happen. His master had prepared him for this.

  “Now that Erasmus is entirely stored within me,” Omnius announced, “it is inefficient to duplicate his existence. You may go now, Gilbertus Albans. Your work with Erasmus is finished.”

  The sentinel robot squeezed its powerful metal hands and crushed the memory core, mangling it into fragments that fell to the floor of the Central Spire.

  Thinking machines never sleep.

  — A Saying of the Jihad

  While numerous refugee ships converged in crowded space around Salusa Secundus, carrying representatives of the genetic branches of humanity, the League capital gained fame as the “lifeboat planet.” No ship was allowed to land, however; instead they remained in quarantine, orbiting the planet. The backlog in the blockade caused spacecraft to pile up, crowding traffic lanes with thousands and then tens of thousands of vessels of all configurations from more than a hundred worlds.

  The Scourge had by now consumed twenty-eight League Worlds, and billions were reported dead.

  After returning from his ordeal on Ix, knowing that many of the people he had left behind were already dead, Abulurd’s javelin waited with his isolated charges and an impatient Ticia Cenva until the appointed incubation period had passed. Each rescued person from Ix had been isolated, tested, and cleared; even in the turmoil of the mob, the precautions had worked. None of the refugees or crew fell ill during the long voyage back to Salusa.

  En route, sticking to his brash decision, Abulurd had announced to his surprised crew that he was adopting the Harkonnen name again. He explained his own version of the events that had made Xavier such a hated figure, but it was anc
ient history to everyone else, and many doubted his version of the facts. Clearly, they wondered why the cuarto would stir up problems so long after the fact.

  Since he was in command of the javelin, they did not openly question Abulurd’s choice, but their faces said enough. In contrast, Ticia Cenva was not bound by such formalities, and she made it clear that she felt the young officer had lost all common sense.

  Finally, when their quarantine time had passed, Ticia gratefully left Abulurd’s company and joined other Sorceresses to collate their immense new catalog of genetic data. Swift library ships carried volumes of raw information back to their cliff cities on Rossak. Abulurd did not know what the Sorceresses would do with all that breeding information; for himself, he was simply glad to have the abrasive self-centered woman off of his ship.

  At the military headquarters in Zimia, Abulurd presented himself for inspection before his father. Primero Quentin Butler remained somber since learning from Vorian Atreides of Rikov’s death. He still wrestled with his own personal guilt, because his battalion had been at Parmentier when the first plague projectiles arrived. If only his Jihad ships had obliterated the infectious torpedoes before they could strike the atmosphere… But he was a highly trained soldier, dedicated to the destruction of Omnius. The primero would marshal his troops, redistribute his resources, and continue the virtuous Jihad.

  Instead of dispatching Abulurd to another League World to acquire more escapees from the plague, Quentin ordered his youngest son to remain at Salusa and assist with the quarantine and resettlement activities. The task had grown monumental as ship after ship of frightened League citizens fled their worlds and came to the lifeboat planet. An entire contingent of the Army of the Jihad was put in place to prevent any vessel from landing and disgorging its occupants, until they had waited out their appropriate quarantine time and been certified by medical personnel.

  Abulurd accepted his reassignment with a brisk nod. “One other thing, Father. Upon deep reflection and a thorough review of all historical documents, it is obvious to me that our family name was wrongfully blackened by history.” He forced himself to continue. It was better to tell him now, before the primero heard from another source. “In order to reestablish our honor, I have chosen to take the Harkonnen name for myself.”