Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Where had Quentin gone wrong? Abulurd was intelligent and well educated, and should have known better. At the very least he should have discussed the matter with his father first, but now the brash decision had been implemented. Quentin could not face him, though honor did not allow him to completely disown his youngest son. Perhaps one day Abulurd would redeem himself. Quentin only hoped he might live long enough to see it happen….

  For now, he had only Faykan.

  The two spent hours chatting about old times. Faykan and Rikov had both been rogues in their younger years, the famed Butler Brothers who took pride in proving their father’s motto, “Butlers are servants unto no one.” The impetuous brothers had bent orders, ignored direct commands, and made their mark in the history of the Jihad.

  “I miss him, Father,” Faykan said. “Rikov could have fought for many more good years. I wish he’d at least been given the chance to fall in battle instead of dying in bed from that damned virus.”

  “This holy war has always been a trial by fire,” Quentin said. “It’s either a crucible to temper and strengthen us, or a furnace to destroy the weak. I’m glad you weren’t one of the latter, Faykan.” As he said it, he wondered if Abulurd fell into a different category. If not for the benevolent mentorship of Supreme Commander Atreides and the Butler family clout, Abulurd would no doubt be a clerk organizing supply runs for isolated outposts.

  Of late, Faykan had begun to settle down, concerning himself more with the broad landscape of League politics than with adventure. He said he would rather lead people and guide society than order soldiers to their deaths.

  “You’ve changed too, Father,” Faykan pointed out. “I know you would never shirk your duty, but I’ve watched your attitude. It seems to me that your heart is no longer in the battle. Are you weary of the war?”

  Quentin hesitated longer than the transmission delay required. “How can I not be? The Jihad has gone on for so long, and the deaths of Rikov and his family have been a terrible blow for me. Since the Scourge, this is no longer a war that I can easily understand.”

  Faykan made an assenting noise. “We shouldn’t even try to understand Omnius. But we should fear him and be watchful at all times for some new plan.”

  Quentin and Faykan gradually widened their patrol net. Though the primero drifted with his idling engines cooling down and his shields off, he did not doze. He let his thoughts wander, preoccupied with memories and regrets. Still, a lifetime of combat service— both on the ground fighting and on the bridge of his battleship— had trained him always to be alert for the slightest anomaly. A flicker of unexpected movement could mean an attack.

  Though his wide-range scanner detected no unusual activity, only a few small blips below the instrumentation’s error threshold, Quentin spotted a glinting metal object. The albedo was too high for a simple rock or even a comet. This was a geometrical shape with a smooth metal shell— the flat and polished planes of an artificial object that did not appear on his sensors.

  Quentin studied his screens and gently powered his kindjal’s engines, increasing acceleration just enough to close the distance and determine what he was seeing. He wanted to signal Faykan, who was also within range, but he feared that even a secure comline transmission would alert this silent intruder.

  The mysterious craft was drifting out of the system, its velocity just sufficient to overcome the star’s gravitational pull. Since the intruder generated no artificial power pulse, it was not likely to be detected on long-range League scanners. But Quentin had sighted it, and he eased himself closer until the configuration was unmistakable: a thinking machine ship, a robotic scout sent to spy on Salusa Secundus.

  Moving cautiously, as if afraid even the noise of soft clicks in his cockpit might alert the stealthily moving enemy, he loaded fast-deployment artillery shells along with two self-guided scrambler mines. Quentin carefully locked in the target.

  Then he saw a spike of energy from the machine ship, as if it suspected something. An active scan beam rippled across the hull of Quentin’s kindjal. He tried to jam the reflections, but the thinking machine spycraft powered up immediately. Quentin hit hard acceleration, which slammed him back into his seat, making it difficult even to lift his hands to operate the controls.

  With his lips drawn back and his lungs compressed, Quentin sent a direct signal to Faykan, wherever he was. “Found a robot… spycraft! It’s trying to get out of the system. Have to… stop it. No telling what recon data… it’s got.”

  With a sudden burst of speed, Quentin closed the gap halfway, but the robotic scout’s afterburners fired in a long and hot acceleration that no human could have survived. Before giving up, Quentin launched his full spread of fast-release artillery shells. The projectiles shot out far faster than Quentin’s kindjal could fly, spreading like a swarm of deadly wasps.

  Quentin held his breath, watching the blips converge, on target…. But at the last minute, the robotic spycraft pinwheeled in an astonishing blur that must have been beyond the material limits of traditional hull metals. His artillery shells exploded, sending waves of energy and shock pulses through empty space. The robot ship continued to pick up speed, though it began to weave erratically, as if it was either still trying to dodge or had been damaged somehow.

  Quentin maintained pursuit acceleration, nearly blacking out, though he saw that he would never catch up. His heart felt even heavier than the leaden foot of gravity pressing down on his chest. The robot spy was going to get away! There was no way he could stop it. Cursing his failure, he eased off on the acceleration, gulping huge breaths again and fighting back dizziness.

  For a moment he thought it was a hallucination, then he recognized the new streak as Faykan’s kindjal, roaring in on an intercept course toward the machine infiltrator.

  The robot spycraft saw him much too late. Faykan was already opening fire. Two of his son’s seven artillery shells struck their target, detonating against the robot’s hull. The explosions imparted force in several different directions, sending the craft tumbling as it sputtered flames and globules of molten metal. The glow of its hot engines flickered and died.

  The robot spycraft spun, entirely out of control, and the two League kindjals closed in, locking tractor beams to stabilize it. Working together, they drew it in like predators snaring a juicy piece of meat.

  “Stay on your guard,” Quentin transmitted over the comline. “He may just be playing dead.”

  “I hit him hard enough to make him play dead forever.”

  Side by side, their kindjals finally halted the robot ship’s erratic motion. He and Faykan squirmed into their suits inside the cramped confines of their kindjal cockpits. Thinking machines had no need for life-support systems, and it was unlikely the interior of the robot spycraft would be pressurized.

  Quentin and Faykan emerged from their kindjals and drifted in space, anchored to the captive vessel. Working together, they used cutter torches and hydraulic grapplers to slice open an access hatch in the spy vessel’s belly. When they finally tore the hole in the hull wide enough for their two suited forms to enter, an ominous fighting robot loomed before them. Its several limbs bristled with weapons, swiveling to get a good shot at the pair of humans.

  Quentin already had his scrambler-pulse generator primed and ready. He fired a blast, part of which diffused against the ragged hull opening, but the rest ricocheted and shivered through the robot. The combat mek twitched and shuddered, fighting to reset its gelcircuitry systems.

  Faykan pulled himself inside. Using his own mass, he knocked the robot off balance in the low gravity. The combat mek tumbled, still jerking, unable to reset itself.

  “We’ve found ourselves a prize,” Faykan said. “We can purge its systems and reprogram it to teach swordmasters on Ginaz, like that combat mek they’ve had for generations.”

  Quentin considered for a moment, then shook his head inside his helmet. The very idea offended him. “No, I don’t think so.” He unleashed a potent scramble
r pulse, which turned the lone robot into a motionless hulk of scrap metal. “Now let’s see what this damned machine was really up to snooping around Salusa.”

  Long ago, when Quentin had undergone basic command training under Vorian Atreides, he had learned the rudiments of thinking-machine datasystems and computer controls. Considering itself perfect, the evermind had not altered its operating systems in centuries, so Vor’s information remained valid during the entire time frame of the Jihad.

  Now Quentin went to the controls of the deactivated spycraft. Faykan frowned at the systems, trying to understand the purpose of the large convex devices studded on the outside of the vessel. “They’re broad-range sensors and mapping projectors,” he concluded. “This ship was taking a full sweep of everything in the Salusa system.”

  Quentin rerouted enough power to operate the log and datasystems inside the robotic vessel. It took him a moment to understand everything he was seeing, and another few seconds to assess the horrific magnitude of what the spycraft had done.

  “This is filled with information about League Worlds: our military defenses, our resources… and how hard the Scourge has hit us. All of our vulnerabilities, all focused here! This one ship studied a dozen League Worlds and collated an entire invasion plan. The main target seems to be Salusa Secundus.” He pointed to the three-dimensional maps, the numerous inbound routes the machines had automatically plotted, finding the path of least military resistance. “It’s everything Omnius needs to plan a full-scale invasion!”

  Faykan indicated one of the record fields. “According to this, it’s one of a hundred similar recon ships sent all across the League.”

  Through the faceplates of their suits, Quentin looked at Faykan, seeing that his son had drawn the same conclusion. “With our population and our military devastated by the Scourge, now would be the perfect time for Omnius to stage his final assault.”

  Faykan nodded. “The thinking machines have something very unpleasant in mind for free humanity. Good thing we caught this one.”

  The spycraft was too large for the kindjal scouts to tow back to the inner system. Quentin detached the computer memory core and took it with him while Faykan placed a locator buoy on the dead vessel so that League technicians could come back and analyze its systems.

  Right now, both men had only one priority: to get back to the Jihad Council and report their news.

  We are trained to fight with swords, with strength, and with blood. But when the thinking machines send an invisible enemy against us, how are we to defend ourselves or the rest of humanity?

  — SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS

  When Istian Goss and Nar Trig arrived on Ix after the plague, there were no machines to fight, and almost two-thirds of the human population was dead. Fields and storehouses of food had burned in uncontrolled riots; cholera had gotten into the water supply; cascading storms had destroyed homes, leaving the already weakened survivors with no shelter. Many of those who had recovered could barely walk, crippled by the aftereffects.

  The human race was hamstrung, fighting for its very survival, and had little energy or resources left for making inroads against the real enemy.

  In the months since leaving Honru, the two new swordmasters had engaged combat robots twice in minor space battles. With the Army of the Jihad, they had surrounded and boarded two giant Omnius battleships, which they then seized and converted for human use. But the Scourge had killed so many soldiers and forced the cancellation of so many planned military strikes, that the pair of mercenaries spent most of their time in rescue and recovery operations.

  Fortunately, the engineered retrovirus burned through its victims swiftly and then died out. Now, a month after the last reported case of sickness on Ix, Istian and Trig could help without undue risk of becoming infected themselves. Neither of them had any melange left.

  In the early days, Ixian crews had used heavy digging equipment to deposit the numerous bodies in empty cave shafts, then sealed the openings with explosives. Recently, though, Martyrist fanatics had risen up, objecting to even the powerful excavating apparatus, targeting the heavy machinery as painful reminders of the destruction that thinking machines could cause.

  When Istian commented that the Martyrists were unreasonable and shortsighted, Trig merely fixed him with a stony stare. The underlying strength of the Jihad had always been emotional, a motivating force that drove humanity forward. Passion pervaded the minds of military commanders and compromised the careful battle plans they tried to establish. “Their beliefs outweigh their need for convenience,” Trig said. “They are strong in their own way.”

  “These people are a mob, and they are angry.” Istian propped his hands on his hips and turned his bronzed face to the sky. The air was filled with smears of smoke from the fires the Ixians had lit to purge plague-tainted shelters and destroy leftover machine wreckage. “There will be no controlling them. Maybe it’s better that we let them unleash their fury so that, like the Scourge, it burns out of its own accord.”

  Trig shook his head in sad frustration. “I can comprehend the need of these people, but this is not something for which any swordmaster is trained. We are not babysitters….”

  Later that day they came upon a group of glassy-eyed Martyrists who carried an array of confiscated pulse-swords and hand weapons, many of which looked battered and in poor repair. Other weapons didn’t seem to function at all, but the people grasped them as if they had found treasures.

  “Where did you come by those weapons?” Istian said. “Those are designed for swordmasters who have been trained extensively on Ginaz.”

  “We are swordmasters like you,” said the leader of the group. “We found these weapons among our dead. The hand of Saint Serena guided us to them.”

  “But where did they come from?” Istian asked, skirting the religious question. Apparently, they were willing to make exceptions in using technology so long as they could turn it against thinking machines.

  “Many mercenaries have died here over the years,” Trig pointed out. “From the first conquest of Ix when Jool Noret destroyed the Omnius, to the second defense when Quentin Butler drove back the thinking machines, and now from the Scourge. Plenty of mercenary equipment must have remained here unclaimed.”

  “We have claimed it,” the leader said, “and we are swordmasters ourselves.”

  Istian frowned, not wanting to see the proud name of his brethren cheapened by these pretenders. “Who taught you to become swordmasters, according to the high standards of Ginaz? Who was your sensei?”

  The man scowled, giving Istian a haughty look. “We were not trained by a domesticated thinking machine, if that is what you’re asking. We follow our own guidance and vision to destroy machines as well as you can!”

  Trig surprised Istian by taking the ragtag group seriously. “We do not question your determination.”

  “Simply your finesse,” Istian added, in a sharp tone. These people would wield sophisticated pulse-swords as little better than bludgeons or gardening implements.

  “The Three Martyrs inspire us and guide us,” growled the leader. “We know where we must go. There are no longer any demon machines on Ix, but with our ship we will go directly to Corrin to fight Omnius Prime and his evil robot minions.”

  “Impossible! Corrin is the central stronghold of the thinking machines. You’ll be slaughtered outright, to no purpose.” Istian was reminded of what had happened following the first robotic attack on Peridot Colony, Trig’s family home. A group of impetuous jihadi soldiers had disobeyed orders and struck out on their own to attack Corrin. All had been killed by robot defenses.

  “You are welcome to come along if you wish,” said the leader, startling Istian.

  Before he could laugh in disbelief, he noticed a hard set to his comrade’s face. “Don’t even consider it, Nar.”

  “A true swordmaster should always consider an opportunity to fight the real enemy.”

  “You’ll be killed for sure,” Istian said.r />
  Trig appeared angry with him. “We all know we are going to die. I have been prepared for that since I trained on Ginaz— as have you. If you carry the spirit of Jool Noret within you, why should you fear a dangerous situation?”

  “It’s not just dangerous, Nar— it’s suicide. But even that is not what makes me speak against it, but the sheer pointlessness. Yes, you may kill a handful of combat robots before they strike you down, but what good will that do? You will make no progress for the cause of humanity, and Omnius will simply rebuild his machines. Within a week it’ll be as if you had never gone to Corrin.”

  “It will be a blow struck for the Jihad,” Trig insisted. “Better than standing here watching survivors wallow in misery and squalor. I can’t help them here, but I can do something by fighting against Omnius.”

  Istian shook his head. The leader of the Martyrists seemed as stonily determined and fervent as before. “We will be happy to take one swordmaster with us, if not both. We have a spaceship. Many ships were left here when Ix was quarantined and the qualified pilots died. We were interdicted from flying to uncontaminated League Worlds, but that is not relevant now.”

  Istian could not stop himself from challenging them. “So you want to destroy all machines, except for pulse-swords and spaceships, because you find them useful? Your plans are just folly— “

  “Are you afraid to join me, Istian?” Trig’s voice had a disappointed edge.

  “Not afraid, but I am too sensible to do it.” With the spirit of Jool Noret came not only fighting skills and indomitable bravery, but also wisdom. “This is not my calling.”

  “It is mine,” Trig insisted, “and if I am killed fighting the demon machines, then my spirit will grow stronger and be reborn in the next generation of Ginaz fighters. We may not agree with these people, Istian, but they see a truth and a way that you’re unwilling to recognize.”

  Saddened, Istian could only nod. “The mercenaries of Ginaz work independently. We have always done so, and it is not for me to say what you must or must not do.” Looking at the ragtag group of zealots clutching their collection of salvaged weapons, he suggested flippantly, “Perhaps on the journey to Corrin, you can teach them how to use those.”