Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Quentin cut them all off. “And, because of the urgency implied by the robot spycraft, I propose that we use space-folding scouts.” He punctuated his words with a brisk gesture of his fist. “We must know what Omnius is doing!”

  Interim Viceroy O’Kukovich sat in silence with an expression of deep concentration. Even in Jihad Council meetings, O’Kukovich would listen to all sides and wait until a consensus decision had been reached before announcing the result, as if he had had anything to do with it. Quentin disliked the Interim Viceroy, considered him a man of inaction.

  Grand Patriarch Xander Boro-Ginjo seemed pleasant and unprepossessing, though somewhat unaware of the true severity of the threat facing humanity. He had surrounded himself with simpering sycophants and fine possessions, and seemed more impressed with the actual chain of office around his neck than with the responsibilities and power it implied. “But I thought spacefolders were dangerous?”

  Faykan gave a calm and precise answer. “Nevertheless, they can be used when the situation warrants. The loss rate is approximately ten percent, and highly paid hazard pilots usually fly the ships. VenKee has delivered many emergency shipments of melange to plague-affected worlds using cargo vessels equipped with Holtzman engines. Spacefolder scouts are the only way to send vital messages in a timely fashion.”

  “In this case, it is absolutely necessary,” Quentin insisted. “It has been many years since we’ve sent an observer so deep into Synchronized space. Now we have direct evidence the machines are planning to move against us militarily. Who can say what plans they have developed— unless we see for ourselves?”

  Faykan said, “We intercepted one robotic scout, but we know that Omnius launched many others, to many different League Worlds. The machines already know we are grievously wounded by their damnable Scourge. The evermind must be preparing a final assault against humanity.”

  “It is what I would do, if my enemy was weak, disoriented, and preoccupied,” Quentin growled. “We must see what is happening on Corrin. One or two spacefolder scouts can slip in, acquire detailed images, then escape before the machines could possibly intercept us.”

  “Sounds very risky,” mumbled the Interim Viceroy, looking around at the other Council members for confirmation. “Doesn’t it?”

  Quentin crossed his arms over his uniformed chest. “That is why I intend to go myself.”

  One of the high-ranking bureaucrats on the Jihad Council scowled. “That’s ridiculous! We cannot risk an officer with as much experience and seniority as yourself, Primero Butler. Even if you survive the space-folding trip, such an expedition could lead to your capture and interrogation.”

  Quentin angrily dismissed all their concerns. “I cite the precedent of Supreme Commander Atreides, who often took small spacefolder ships, throwing himself against the enemy. As my service record has established, gentlemen, I am not an armchair general, to use an ancient historical phrase. I do not command through the use of tactical boards and war games. Instead, I put myself at the head of my men, and face the danger personally. On this mission I will not take a crew, but only one companion— my son Faykan.”

  This caused even more uproar. “You want us to risk two established commanders? Why not take a few mercenaries with you?”

  Beside him, Faykan reacted with surprise. “I am not afraid to go, sir, but is that wise?”

  “This intelligence is critical.” He looked at his son. “We need redundancy to be sure someone lives.”

  Before Faykan could argue further, Quentin made a quick and subtle flurry of finger movements, using a sophisticated coded battle language that Jihad officers learned in high-level training. He and Faykan had often used it in military engagements, never in front of politicians. The other Council members knew something was amiss but could understand none of it.

  With rapid gestures, Quentin communicated, “We are Butlers. The last two Butlers.” Since Abulurd insists on ramming his Harkonnen heritage down our throats! “We must do this, you and I.”

  Faykan sat rigid, as if surprised, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course.” No matter how risky the idea might seem, he would always follow the primero. He and his father understood each other, and they understood the stakes. Quentin Butler would never trust this task to anyone else.

  Quentin turned to face the rest of the Council. “The League has not launched a military offensive against the enemy since the epidemic began. All of our worlds have been brought to their knees, and we are alarmingly vulnerable to outside attack. Billions upon billions are already dead, rotting out under numerous suns. Did you expect the machines just to sit back and let the Scourge take its course, without having a second phase of their plan ready?”

  The Grand Patriarch paled as if the possibility of further danger from the machines had never occurred to him. He clutched his chain of office like a lifeline. As Quentin scanned the faces of the Council, he saw that they’d been too preoccupied with the epidemic to think of anything worse.

  When the objections had simmered to grudging acceptance, the Interim Viceroy smiled and announced his decision. “Go with our blessing, Primero. See what Omnius is doing. But return to us with all due speed, and safely.”

  * * *

  BOTH MEN WERE qualified to fly spacefolders, though the Army of the Jihad rarely used the quirky and dangerous crafts. Quentin decided that he and his son would fly separately in order to increase their chances. If one of them suffered a space-folding mishap, the other could still return to Salusa intact.

  The primero departed without the customary farewells. After stopping to visit Wandra briefly in the City of Introspection, Quentin had no one else to see. Even Abulurd was still en route back from Parmentier.

  The two spacefolder scouts raced through the distorted incomprehensibility of twisted space, no longer in contact. They slipped between dimensions, shortcutting across the fabric of the galaxy. At any moment they might streak through the heart of a sun or impact a planet or a moon that happened to lie across the line of their voyage. Once they had set course and engaged the Holtzman Effect engines, nothing remained but to wait a few moments until they came out the other end… or vanished forever.

  If Quentin or Faykan died on this mission, would the history of the Jihad really take notice of their loss? Even two war heroes were insignificant against the plague that Omnius had unleashed. More people had died from the horrible epidemic than in all the Time of Titans and Serena Butler’s Jihad combined. Omnius had utterly changed the parameters of the war, much as Serena herself had done when she’d initiated the Jihad.

  This conflict was no longer a simple struggle that could be resolved. It was an absolute fight for survival, and victory could come only from the complete extinction of the other side. The number of those who had fallen victim to the Scourge was incalculable. No historian could ever gauge the magnitude of this disaster, and no memorial would ever be sufficient to mark the losses. From this point on, no doomsday weapon any human scientist invented could ever be too fearsome by comparison. No destructive power was too great to be turned against the evil thinking machines.

  The human race, if it survived, would never be the same.

  The journey to Corrin was as short as it was terrifying. Quentin’s scout ship emerged from folded space, and the starfield shimmered around him, black velvet dusted with diamonds. The view was peaceful and serene, giving no evidence that he was deep within a part of the galaxy controlled by thinking machines.

  Hanging there in silence, he cycled through navigational comparison grids that featured the contours of space and the patterns of constellations around Corrin. Spacefolders were not particularly accurate in their navigation, only to within a hundred thousand kilometers or so, but at least he had found his way to the correct star system. Quentin used his tracking skills to triangulate and verify his location. The red giant in this system was obviously Corrin’s bloated sun.

  After Faykan had joined up with him in space, they descended swiftly and stealthily towa
rd the planet where the primary incarnation of Omnius directed his machine empire. There would likely be robotic picket ships guarding the system’s perimeter and vessels that monitored traffic around the machine world. But since no human incursions had ever made it this far into Synchronized space, the robots would probably not be too vigilant.

  Quentin and Faykan planned to sweep in, reconnoiter, and depart before any enemy ships could intercept them. It was the only way they were likely to return to the League with their fresh and vital information. If the thinking machines came close to capturing the spacefolder scouts, he and his son could activate the Holtzman engines, fold space, and leap back into League territory. With their traditional space-propulsion technology, the thinking machines could never catch them.

  The two men were not at all prepared for the sight they encountered.

  Space around Corrin was utterly filled with heavy robotic battleships of every conceivable size and configuration. Omnius had gathered an awe-inspiring armada of heavy cruisers, robotic destroyers, automated bombers, huge rammers, and interdictors. Hundreds of thousands of them.

  “Is that… everything? The sum total of what Omnius has?” Faykan’s transmitted voice was dry and wavery. “How could there possibly be so many?”

  Quentin needed a long moment to find his own voice. “If Omnius launches that armada against the League, we are doomed. There is no way we can stand against them.” He stared with such intensity that his eyes burned. Finally, he remembered to blink.

  “The machines couldn’t possibly have built them all here. Omnius must have drawn these vessels from across the Synchronized Worlds,” Faykan said.

  “And why not? We have been incapable of moving against him since the beginning of the Scourge.”

  To Quentin, the conclusion was inescapable. Undoubtedly, all those ships would be sent to hammer Salusa Secundus, to crush the heart of humanity. Then they would sweep across the League planets where plague survivors could barely feed themselves, much less defend against such a force.

  “By God and Saint Serena,” Faykan said. “I knew the machines were aware of the League’s weakness, Father, but I never guessed that Omnius might already be preparing to attack.”

  Corrin looked like a swollen nest of furious hornets about to swarm. After the progress of the Scourge across the League Worlds, the human population was at its lowest ebb. The forces standing ready to defend against the thinking machines had never been so weakened.

  And the doomsday armada of Omnius looked ready to launch.

  Hope and love can bind the most distant hearts, even across an entire galaxy.

  — LERONICA TERGIET,

  private journal

  In the early evening, Zimia’s interplanetary district usually bustled with activity, as sidewalk vendors and customers bargained loudly and good-naturedly with one another, testing and teasing, using psychology and artful humiliation as they tried to sell their wares.

  Vor had not been back home in more than a month. Abulurd had pushed the javelin and they’d arrived in Salusa a day early. As always, Vor looked forward to seeing Leronica again. She was his anchor, his one point of stability every time he returned from a mission.

  He expected Estes and Kagin were still here. They had intended to go back to Caladan months earlier, but the quarantines and uncertainty caused by the Scourge had complicated all travel plans. They were safer on Salusa than anywhere else… and he was glad the twins had been in Zimia to keep their mother company while Vor was away. Yet again.

  Tonight, as he strutted home ahead of schedule, a strange pall hung in the neighborhood air, a curious lack of energy and enthusiasm. It seemed fitting for his own mood, too, since he’d had to leave Parmentier without ever finding news about Raquella. Although Abulurd and his crew had assisted his search for two days, they had found no sign of Vor’s granddaughter or her medical team. She and Mohandas Suk seemed to have vanished off the face of the planet.

  Abulurd had been anxious to return to Salusa, bringing his report on the final stages and aftermath of the epidemic, as ordered. Vor certainly understood the call of duty, and so he had shuttled with them all back to the javelin and headed home….

  Tonight, in Zimia’s interplanetary district, the people seemed subdued, not chattering in their colorful languages as usual. Instead, they conversed quietly among themselves, and turned to look when they saw Vor pass. It was not uncommon for people in his own neighborhood to notice him, but this time no one hailed the Supreme Commander or made any attempt to engage him in conversation. They left him alone.

  Something was wrong. He picked up his pace.

  On the fifth floor of his building, he found Estes and Kagin inside the apartment with their wives, children, and grandchildren, people Vor rarely saw. Had Leronica thrown another reception for him? He doubted it, since she had not known the exact date of his return.

  Smiling, he looked tenderly at his grandchildren, but they didn’t seem to recognize him. He glanced curiously at his two sons, who greeted him with even less warmth than usual, preoccupied with great concern. They looked many decades older than their father. “What’s going on? Where’s your mother?”

  “It’s about time you got here,” Kagin said with a glance at his brother.

  Estes sighed, shaking his head. He picked up a rambunctious little girl and held her, shushing her. Then he gestured with his chin toward the master bedroom. “You’d better get in there. She might not have much longer, but she never gave up hope that you would come back to her.”

  Vor pushed his way into the bedroom, feeling the clamor of panic. “Leronica!” He could make no excuses for his priorities, and Leronica had never begrudged him his Jihad duties. But what if something had happened to her?

  Vor entered the room he had shared with her for so many years. Uncharacteristic worry flooded his mind. He smelled medicines, sickness— the Scourge? Had Leronica been infected somehow, despite all the precautions? On general principles she had always refused to take spice, which left her vulnerable. Had he been a carrier himself, personally immune but still able to pass along the infection to others?

  Vor stopped just inside the door, his breath catching in his throat. Leronica lay on their large bed, looking older and frailer than he had ever seen her before. An intense young doctor attended her, trying different treatments.

  When she saw Vor standing at the doorway, her eyes lit up. “My love! I knew you’d come!” She pulled herself into a sitting position, as if she had just received a full dose of stimulants.

  Startled, the doctor turned, then let out a visible sigh of relief. “Ah, Supreme Commander, I am glad that— “

  “What’s wrong with her? Leronica, are you all right?”

  “I am old, Vor.” She nudged the doctor. “Leave us alone for a while. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  The man insisted on staying a moment longer to adjust her pillows and check another scan reading. “She’s as comfortable as I can make her, Supreme Commander, but there’s— “

  Having long dreaded this day, Vor didn’t hear the rest of the doctor’s statement. Instead, he focused his whole world, all his attention on her. She smiled bravely, a wan, sickly offering. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the door to welcome you home with open arms.”

  When he lifted her warm, dry hand it felt like a papier-mâché sculpture in his grip. “I should have come back sooner, Leronica. I should never have gone to Parmentier. Abulurd could have done it all. I didn’t know— “

  He wished he could run from what he was seeing, but knew that was impossible. Watching the love of his life slide toward death was far more frightening to him than any battle against enemy thinking machines had ever been. Desperation made him dizzy. “I’ll find some way to help you, Leronica. Don’t worry about the medical situation. There’ll be a solution. I’ll insist on it.”

  Missed possibilities piled up around him, drowning him. If only he could have given her the life-extension treatment, too. If onl
y he’d convinced her to take melange regularly. If only they could have a few more years together. If only his nurturing granddaughter Raquella could have been here to take care of Leronica. If Raquella was even alive…

  Leronica’s papery lips formed a smile, and she squeezed his hand. “I am ninety-three years old, Vorian. You might have found a way to fend off age, but it’s still a mystery to me.” She looked closely at him and reached up to wipe off a bit of age-simulation makeup he had put around his mouth. Her fingers brushed away the fine lines he had intentionally added. She always seemed amused at his efforts. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “And you look just as beautiful to me as ever,” he said.

  * * *

  VOR RARELY LEFT her side for the rest of that night or the next day. Estes and Kagin and their families crowded the house, and everyone struggled to control their anxiety. Even the twins could see that Leronica seemed much more vibrant when Vor was with her.

  She didn’t ask for much, occasional treats to satisfy her sweet tooth, and Vor procured anything she wanted, despite the disapproving glances of Kagin, who cited the doctor’s instructions. Vor hung on to threads of hope— threads that grew more frayed hour by hour.

  On the edge of evening on the second day, with reddish sunlight filtering through the windows into the bedroom, Vor gazed down on the old woman who slept fitfully. The night before, he had dozed uncomfortably on a single cot that had been brought in, and his entire body ached with fatigue. He recalled times when he had slept better huddled in scant shelters on rugged battlefields.

  Now, as slanted sunlight touched Leronica’s wrinkled face, Vor saw her in memory the way she’d been when he met her, serving kelp beer and food in a Caladan tavern. She stirred and opened her eyes. Vor bent over to kiss her forehead. For a moment Leronica did not recognize him, but then she focused and gave him a melancholy smile. Her dark pecan eyes remained beautiful— reflecting the depths of the rich, selfless love that she had felt for him all these decades.