Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “I meant it to be as genuine as your own,” Erasmus said, a sufficiently neutral comment.

  Before the debate could continue, Omnius diverted his own attention. “An outside ship is approaching my Central Spire.”

  The unannounced vessel had come into the system at extremely high acceleration, broadcasting neutrality despite its League configuration. “The Cogitor Vidad brings important information for Omnius. It is vital that you hear it.”

  “I will hear what the Cogitor has to say before I make any extrapolations,” the evermind said. “I can always kill him later, if I so choose.”

  Before long, the massive entrance doors of the golden Spire slid open, and a trembling human in a yellow robe walked in flanked by an escort of sentinel robots. The young man was bruised and weary after spending more than a week suffering under the highest acceleration his fragile body could tolerate. Now he struggled to carry an electrafluid-filled container that held the ancient philosopher’s brain, though one of the robots could easily have held it. The yellow-robed man seemed weak and exhausted, barely able to stand.

  “It has been many years since you last spoke with us, Cogitor Vidad,” Erasmus said, stepping forward like an ambassador. “And the results of those interactions were not beneficial to us.”

  “Not beneficial to any of us. We Ivory Tower Cogitors made a significant miscalculation,” the voice spoke directly from a speakerpatch on the side of the container.

  “Why should I listen to you again?” Omnius modulated the volume of his voice so that the booming words made the walls vibrate.

  “Because I bring relevant data that you lack. I recently returned to Hessra only to discover that the Titan Agamemnon and his cymek followers have established their new base there. They killed my five fellow Cogitors, took over our electrafluid production laboratories, and enslaved our secondaries.”

  “So, that is where the Titans went to hide after abandoning Richese,” Erasmus said to Omnius. “Valuable intelligence indeed.”

  “Why do you come here to reveal this information?” the evermind demanded. “It is not logical to involve yourself in our conflict.”

  “I want the cymeks destroyed,” Vidad said. “You can do it.”

  Erasmus was surprised. “Thus speaks an enlightened Cogitor?”

  “I was human once. The other five Cogitors were my philosophical companions for much more than a millennium. The Titans murdered them. Is it surprising that I would desire vengeance?”

  The weary secondary struggled to keep hold of the heavy preservation canister.

  Omnius pondered the information. “Currently my machine battle fleet is occupied on another mission. After we succeed, the robot commanders will return here for further programming. I will then instruct them to go to Hessra. They have standing instructions to destroy any neo-cymeks and to capture the remaining rebellious Titans.” The evermind seemed to be enjoying the new situation. “Very soon, with the hrethgir and the cymeks defeated, the universe can continue on a rational and efficient path, under my astute guidance.”

  Without changing the tone of his simulated voice, Vidad continued. “The situation is more complex than that. The League discovered your huge fleet many weeks ago. When I departed from Zimia, they were already monitoring your progress. They also know that your other Synchronized Worlds are undefended.” In a brisk cadence he summarized the Jihad Council’s plan to launch a series of blitzkrieg nuclear massacres, using the exceptional speed of the space-folding engines. “In fact, the first pulse-atomic strikes on your fringe worlds probably took place shortly after I left, and I have been more than a month in transit from Salusa, to Hessra, to Corrin. Certainly, the Great Purge is proceeding even as we speak. Therefore, you must be prepared for a pulse-atomic attack at any moment, at any place.”

  With mounting alarm, Erasmus extrapolated scenarios and consequences. They had long suspected that the hrethgir had access to some sort of instantaneous space travel. And an atomic-armed human fleet could well have already obliterated many Synchronized Worlds. With the extermination fleet gone, even Corrin was vulnerable to such an attack.

  “Interesting,” the evermind said, processing the details. “Why would you reveal such plans? Cogitors claim to be neutral, but now you seem to be siding with us— unless this is a trick.”

  “I have no hidden agenda,” Vidad said. “As neutrals, the Cogitors have never wished to see either thinking machines or humans wiped out. My decision is entirely consistent with this philosophy.”

  Erasmus watched the artistic lights flashing all around him inside the Spire, and knew that Omnius was already transmitting instructions to his machine underlings, making defensive preparations and sending out the fastest vessels available. “I am the primary Omnius. For my self-preservation I must recall my war fleet to defend Corrin. The entire fleet. If the other Synchronized Worlds put up enough resistance to delay the humans’ progress, there is a nonzero probability that some of my fastest battleships will return before it is too late. I can take no chances against these irrational hrethgir. With all of my ships back here to defend Corrin, the humans would not dare to strike against me.”

  Erasmus knew that it would take time to send a message to the enormous fleet, which was already eight days out, and even longer to turn the lumbering ships around and bring them racing back to Corrin, limited as they were by their traditional stardrive engines.

  There will not be enough time.

  In the emotional frenzy of war, even the most hardened warrior can shed tears over what he has to do.

  — SUPREME COMMANDER VORIAN ATREIDES,

  Battle Memoirs

  As the robot fleet proceeded toward Salusa, the Army of the Jihad continued its Great Purge to eradicate the undefended Synchronized Worlds. Before this endgame was over, either the human race or the thinking machines would be obliterated. There could be no other outcome.

  On the command bridge of his refitted flagship, the LS Serena Victory, Vorian Atreides tensed as the Holtzman engines activated. “Prepare for departure. Omnius is waiting out there.”

  The numerous Martyrist crew members invoked a fervent prayer before the first jump. Vorian, though, preferred to depend on the augmented, sealed navigation systems Norma Cenva had secretly installed in a handful of his best ships. He was always a pragmatic commander.

  “For God and Saint Serena!” the crew shouted in unison.

  The Supreme Commander gave a reassuring nod to the pale-faced helmsman. He gave the order, then involuntarily closed his eyes as his battle group plunged into the dangerous wilderness of folded space. He had always been prepared to die in battle against the machines. He hoped, though, that he wouldn’t meet his end just by getting lost or accidentally hitting an asteroid.

  Decades ago, Norma’s prototype computerized navigation systems had drastically improved the safety record of the spacefolders, but the skittish Jihad Council had forbidden their use. Vor, however, had spoken with her in private at the VenKee shipyards where Holtzman engines were being activated in vessels of the Jihad fleet. On the Supreme Commander’s direct orders, Norma surreptitiously installed her twelve remaining computer-based devices deep in the navigational systems of selected spacefolders. Vor had no intention of letting superstition decrease his chances for victory.

  For the past few weeks now, group after group had leaped into Synchronized territory as soon as the weapons, vessels, and personnel were ready. All told, the Army of the Jihad had assembled more than a thousand capital ships for the Great Purge. The whole fleet was divided into ninety battle groups of twelve major vessels each, and each group received its list of targets. Their launching bays were loaded with hundreds of kindjal bombers containing pulse-atomic warheads. Some kindjals would be piloted by skilled veterans, others by rapidly trained Martyrist volunteers.

  Every time they used Holtzman engines to leap from one star system to another, some ships would undoubtedly vanish into limbo, annihilated by unseen dimensional hazards. Given the
ten-percent attrition rate, the battle groups could make only seven or eight jumps before they were no longer assured of success. Volunteers would fly numerous spacefolder scouts to maintain vital contact with the other battle groups as the widespread mission proceeded across the Synchronized Worlds.

  There were more than five hundred enemy planets, including Corrin. Once and for all, the League would destroy every one of the Omnius incarnations. Statistically at least, the Army of the Jihad had enough ships to do the job….

  In only a few agitated breaths, the journey was over. From the sector coordinates displayed on his command console and the clarity of stars visible around him, Vor knew his ship had made it. Though jumps were often imprecise even with detailed coordinates, his attack vessels had arrived inside the machine-controlled system.

  “Nineteen planets orbiting a pair of small yellow suns. It’s the Yondair system for sure, Supreme Commander,” said the helmsman.

  Shuddering gasps and sighs of relief echoed among his bridge crew. The Martyrists uttered more prayers.

  “Sound off. Give me a report on any losses in our battle group.”

  His first and second officers, Katarina Omal and Jimbay Whit, waited at their stations nearby. Omal was tall and dusky-skinned, one of the most effective female officers in the fleet. Whit, already showing a paunch at twenty-five, doubled as Vor’s adjutant in the absence of Abulurd Harkonnen. With experience and battle smarts far beyond his years, Whit came from a distinguished military family. Decades ago, Vor had fought beside his grandfather in the all-out atomic attack on Earth.

  “One ship gone, Supreme Commander,” Omal said.

  Vor accepted the loss and suppressed any visible expression of dismay as he noted the identification of the missing vessel in his squadron. Well within the expected loss rate.

  Alarm klaxons went off, and a message screen on the bridge indicated a problem with the LS Ginjo Explorer, an unfortunately named vessel in his squadron. Throughout the Jihad fleet, four other warships had been named after the former Grand Patriarch. The corrupt man does not deserve such an honor. The name that should adorn the vessels is Xavier Harkonnen.

  “Engine fire,” a voice reported over the comline. “Holtzman system overload. We won’t be using that ship again.”

  Through a viewing port, Vor saw the eerie illumination of flames on the underside of the ship, following the escaping atmosphere in a hull breach. Spacetight doors closed, and onboard fire-suppression systems prevented the spread of flames.

  A damage assessment blared over Vor’s comline. “Something blew in the Holtzman engine right after we folded space. Lucky we made it through, but the minute we got here the damn thing exploded and burned. First time out, and we’re dead in space.”

  War is full of surprises, Vor thought. Most of them bad.

  Over the next hour, Vor supervised the evacuation of the vessel and redistributed the volunteer crew of eight hundred men and women, mostly bomber pilots, onto the other ten warships. They also took aboard all the kindjal fighters, along with their pulse-atomic warheads.

  They left the empty ship hanging in space after destroying its Holtzman engines, on the slim but frightening chance that if they failed in their mission, Omnius could obtain the space-folding technology. Finally, Vor drew a deep breath, then issued the command to deliver their killing blow.

  “It’s time to do what we came here for. Begin immediate atomic bombardment of Yondair. Every surviving ship, launch your kindjal squadrons with pulse-atomics before those machines can get ready for us.”

  Even without the huge robot military fleet, the Synchronized Worlds would still have local defenses and possible battle stations in orbit around many of the enemy strongholds. Each assault of an “undefended” machine planet would take at least a day just to get the Jihad ships in position, to launch all the fast bombers with their pulse-atomics, and to verify that the mission was a success. Despite the near-instantaneous travel between targets, the jihadis would still take a long time to comb through Omnius’s fringe empire.

  With the remaining warships behind him, Vor led the way toward the largest world, the ringed planet of Yondair. His squadrons of warhead-delivery ships scattered from the launching bays, swooped beneath the rings, and dropped airburst bombs into the atmosphere, hitting strategic substations first and then deploying secondary atomics to spread the destruction across the landscape below. Pulse after pulse obliterated every gelcircuitry brain on the planet.

  Any human prisoners who happened to be down there became unfortunate collateral casualties, but the need for swift and utter destruction of every single evermind allowed them no leeway for sympathy.

  Looking ahead, Vor blocked out all thoughts of guilt, then gave the order to regroup at the edge of the Yondair system. After assessing their victory, his ships launched off to the next machine world.

  And the next.

  With any luck at all, the other squadrons were doing the same against the rest of the Omnius-controlled worlds. Nuclear destruction spread like a wrathful wave, rippling across the territory Omnius had subjugated. They would pick off the easy machine strongholds first, leaving Corrin for last.

  The evermind had no way to resist, no way to send messages of warning fast enough. Like swift assassins, the warhead-carrying Jihad ships would slip in, strike, and then vanish. Omnius would be destroyed before he even felt the blow coming.

  At least that was the plan….

  We may die tomorrow, but we must hope today. Though it will not extend our lives, at least it will make them more meaningful.

  — ABULURD HARKONNEN,

  Journal of the Last Days of Salusa Secundus

  Even with the population of Salusa Secundus devoted to a full-scale effort, one month was not nearly enough time to evacuate an entire planet. They had to prepare for the worst.

  While the main task of assembling sufficient ships, volunteer crews, and nuclear warheads consumed the League, Abulurd Harkonnen was left to help his brother Faykan administer the great exodus from the capital world.

  Supreme Commander Atreides had gathered his spacefolder fleet over Salusa in a military force like nothing humanity had ever seen. One battle group after another activated their space-folding engines and vanished. It would be a long time before complete reports would come back to the League, but Abulurd had faith in the desperate plan. Every morning when he woke up after a scant few hours of sleep, the young officer knew that more Synchronized Worlds must have been vanquished out in the thinking-machine empire.

  However, from the images Abulurd’s father and brother had brought back from Corrin, they all knew what sort of threat was on its way to the League capital. Even if the Great Purge succeeded in destroying the enemy at its core, Salusa Secundus was almost certainly doomed.

  Abulurd could not save everyone, but he worked around the clock to get as many people away as possible. Faykan issued directives from Zimia, commandeering every ship, every able-bodied person.

  That very morning, Abulurd had removed his comatose mother from the City of Introspection and placed her on an evacuation ship. Since there would not be enough room to take everyone away before the time ran out, some people had looked at the young man with anger, obviously wondering what good it would do to ensure Wandra’s safety at the expense of others. His mother was not conscious of anything, could not appreciate her peril or the fact that she was being saved.

  Abulurd understood the impossible choice, had even considered leaving Wandra in a fortified, subterranean section of the City of Introspection. But no one could take care of her there. So many things to consider, so many critical decisions to make. Each breath his mother took was important to him, for it left open the possibility— however remote— that she might survive. He could not leave her behind. Such choices reminded him of Ix, when Ticia Cenva had played God, determining who would be rescued and who would stay behind….

  In the end, he turned a deaf ear to complaints and to the accusations of favoritism. She i
s my mother, he told himself, and she is a Butler! He cited Faykan’s authority, gave his orders, and made sure they were followed.

  Every day, Abulurd watched crowds rush across the spaceport to clamber into any available ship, packing the cargo decks and passenger cabins with far more people than they had ever been designed to hold. He saw the panic on their faces and knew that he couldn’t sleep until it was all over. He found himself taking regular doses of melange— not to protect himself from the Scourge anymore, but to give himself the energy to keep moving.

  He looked up into the sky as ship after ship departed from Zimia Spaceport. Many of the captains would return for more passengers; others, fearing the imminent arrival of the Omnius fleet, would simply stay away, leaving Abulurd fewer and fewer options to rescue the populace.

  The lifeboat vessels and a few remaining quarantined craft had already been taken out of the system to an isolated rendezvous point. There, far from any signaling devices, they hoped to remain hidden from the incoming robot battle fleet.

  Faykan handled the massive administrative details, constantly accompanied by his pallid niece, who had stayed with him ever since arriving here from Parmentier. Even in the midst of the frantic evacuation, though, ghostly Rayna Butler seemed to have her own agenda. She spoke clearly and forcefully in front of any audience that would listen, and since she had come through the Scourge, many League citizens paid close attention to what she had to say. The girl had an eerie voice that could carry over great distances. To the crowds, Rayna declared her passionate mission: the destruction of all thinking machines. “With God and Serena Butler on our side, we cannot lose.”

  Hearing that, Abulurd thought, they had nothing to fear. He wished he could inspire Faykan and Rayna to incite the mobs into helping or into building something, instead of simply proclaiming their rigid beliefs and wreaking havoc.