Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  A burst of communication crackled through the speakers on the packaging line. Normally, robots used the system to disseminate harsh commands to their captive workers, but now a human voice broke across the speakers. “It’s the Army of the Jihad! Ballistas, javelins, fast-attack fighters!” Borys recognized one of his commandos stationed aboard an artificial moon. “They appeared out of nowhere… amazing firepower. One of the battle moons is already damaged and offline.”

  In the sky, Borys saw furious flashes of light, like sparks spraying from a grinding wheel. The firepower was concentrated on one of the silvery spheres in low orbit. As the intensity increased, Borys drew a quick breath, seeing the artificial satellite crack open with a dazzling explosion. Pieces of debris spread apart like fragments from an eggshell. The flash dissipated, and the destroyed portions screamed down through the atmosphere, trailing fire as they burned up on reentry.

  Seeing this destruction as a clear sign of imminent victory, the hesitant workers now had the impetus to throw in their lot with Borys’s insurrection. Casting aside their fear, people began to run loose, cheering their impending liberation and wreaking all the mayhem possible.

  The chaos and unpredictability made it impossible for the sentinel robots to respond effectively, so the thinking machines retaliated using violence and superior firepower. While the intense battle continued overhead, sentinel robots pursued the unprepared slaves in the streets of Quadra, firing into the crowds. The bloodshed and screams were terrible.

  But the desperate people fought back with no thought for their own survival, and Borys allowed himself a wash of pride. He had spent years preparing them for this. Many of the slaves had considered it only a fantasy, an exercise, but now it had come to pass. They had hope again.

  “We must hold fast! The League ships will be here soon— we’ve got to open the way for them.”

  As a swordmaster, Borys could fashion weapons out of anything. He used metal clubs and electrical discharges. He wrecked automated machinery, found ways to overload generators. Within an hour he had destroyed many thinking machines and worked with a team to blow up a secondary command center. But even as the Quadra-Omnius concentrated meager defenses against the Jihad fleet in space, more robots closed in from around the city. There were many of the deadly machines, and they were too well armed for the oppressed slaves to defeat with only bare hands and primitive weapons.

  Borys did not allow himself the luxury of dismay. He continued to hope that the humans would soon descend to the surface, bringing reinforcements. More and more of the slaves, even a handful of the pampered trustees who had sided with Omnius, joined the battle, and fought for their freedom at last.

  When he finally reached a functioning communication system, Borys transmitted their need to any League commander, begging for rescue. Jihad kindjals and shielded bombers swept down like a group of eagles. Seeing them, the surviving slaves cheered, and Borys raised his fist into the air.

  Then the pulse-atomics began to flash, starting from the far horizon. Intense white light swept like sheet lightning across the sky. Waves of incinerating nuclear energy rushed over the machine city, a dazzling glare from round after round of annihilating nuclear bursts.

  Borys let his makeshift weapon clatter to the ground and turned his face upward. Now he understood why no one aboard the armada had responded to his calls. “They didn’t come here to rescue us after all.” He drew a deep breath of resignation as the Army of the Jihad swarmed in. The League had come to destroy Omnius, not to save a handful of human captives. “We’re just collateral damage.”

  But he comprehended what the League was doing, and he took a small measure of pride in realizing that he had a chance to die in the fight— perhaps the last great battle of this horrific war. Before, Borys had been unable to think of a suitable way for him to give his life. If the armada above succeeded, then the machines would be destroyed. “Fight well, and may your enemies fall quickly,” he muttered to himself.

  The fast-burning kindjals and bombers tore through the atmosphere. The intense flashes were oddly silent. The tidal wave of disintegrating force crashed over Borys, all humans, and all robots long before they ever had a chance to hear it coming.

  * * *

  THE FLAGSHIP BATTLE group folded space again to the next system. This time, thankfully, Vor lost no more capital ships. According to information retrieved by the last round of messengers, fewer than three hundred Jihad ballistas and javelins remained out of more than a thousand.

  Vor checked activity on the surface of the Synchronized World below, his next target, nothing more than a name and a set of coordinates. That is how I must think of it. A target, a necessary victory. Even if the enslaved populations down there cheered him, he still had to give the order to unleash their pulse-atomics. Complete sterilization on every single Synchronized World. After convincing himself that this was necessary, he had stopped thinking about it. He hardened his heart and his will because he had no other choice.

  He hopscotched methodically through folded space, hitting more enemy worlds, and losing two additional ships in the process. Simultaneously, his bomber squadrons made their attacks. The increasingly furious warriors of the Jihad traveled from stronghold to stronghold, closing in on the central machine world of Corrin. All but one of the remaining everminds were erased. With each successful mission, the Jihad fleet left devastated worlds in their wake, devoid of life, whether machine or human.

  Finally he met the rest of his fleet, as planned, and counted survivors. Down to two hundred sixty-six ships now. He combined them into a single battle group commanded by himself and Quentin Butler as his second. With his powerful sense of resolve, he had no time for sadness or tears— not yet. Vor would achieve victory, no matter the cost. There could be no regrets, no looking back.

  They dared not stop now. The monstrous machine fleet was on its way to Salusa Secundus. Without pausing to consult his conscience, Vor gathered his ships and prepared them for the next jump.

  Toward Corrin.

  No two human brains are identical. This is a difficult concept for the thinking machine to grasp.

  — ERASMUS,

  Reflections on Sentient Biologicals

  With engines hot and using the last scraps of fuel for violent deceleration, the first cluster of the fastest robotic warships returned from their intended assault on Salusa Secundus. The extermination mission had been scrapped, their priorities shifted by a direct command from Omnius Prime. The group of robot warships would serve as an initial layer of defense against the hrethgir Great Purge. Every projection gave similar results. The atomic-laden human ships were sure to arrive soon.

  After receiving the startling news from Vidad, Omnius had dispatched ten “burnout” ships, superfast vessels with enormous engines to bring the extermination fleet running back to Corrin. League ships were en route. It was possible— probable?— that the rest of the Synchronized empire had already been destroyed.

  The burnout ships expended all of their fuel in constant acceleration, roaring out of the system at ever-increasing velocities, saving no power for a return trip or even for deceleration. The urgent messengers overtook the bulk of the Omnius fleet in five days, but they could not slow to intercept or dock. Instead, the robotic vessels streaked past on their headlong course, transmitting the evermind’s commands and reprogramming the fleet ships.

  The machine battle fleet spread out as each vessel maneuvered to turnaround. Those ships capable of greatest speed were given priority and dispatched first on a frantic return to form a protective cordon around the primary Synchronized World. The fastest machine ships pushed their systems so furiously that many of the robotic vessels were overloaded or damaged by the time they limped into orbit at Corrin. The larger and slower robotic ships would come afterward, as quickly as possible.

  Meanwhile, Omnius modified all of his groundside industries to produce weaponry and robotic fighters. Within days, he had established the beginnings of a defense. T
he next group of robot battle vessels trickled in from the fleet— accompanied by an update ship captain carrying a complete Omnius update sphere from one of the obliterated worlds.

  Months ago, after escaping from his long captivity with Agamemnon, Seurat had been reassigned to his old duties, which he performed quite proficiently. Now he had barely escaped from a nearby Synchronized World, one of the first targets in the Great Purge. He brought direct confirmation to Omnius Prime that a Jihad battle group had appeared in space, out of nowhere, attacked with an overwhelming spread of pulse-atomic warheads, and then disappeared again, as if going in and out of a hole in the fabric of spacetime.

  Exactly as the Ivory Tower Cogitor had warned. After delivering his information, Vidad had considered his obligations ended. While the thinking machines went into turmoil on Corrin, reacting to the news, the Cogitor and his lone human companion had departed immediately, launching off through space on a leisurely return to Salusa. Omnius did not try to stop them; henceforth, the Ivory Tower Cogitor was irrelevant.

  When he learned of Seurat’s arrival, Erasmus immediately decided to visit the update ship and confront its captain.

  “I’d like to go with you, Father,” Gilbertus said, leaving the placid Serena clone among the flowers in the garden.

  “Your insights are always valuable.”

  A levtrain whisked them across the city to the spaceport, where a sleek white-and-black update ship rested on a new section of tarmac, not far from the gleaming metal terminal building. When he met with the captain, Erasmus interfaced with the robot, an autonomous unit like himself. He studied Seurat’s mental records, and interesting facts began to surface as he dove deeper.

  The robot pilot had just received a new update copy and had prepared to depart the Synchronized system when an enemy blitzkrieg fleet surged in from nowhere, annihilated the Omnius incarnation, and then vanished into the cosmos in a flash, undoubtedly to execute even more attacks. Afterward, Seurat had raced to Corrin with all possible speed, almost exhausting his vessel’s engine capabilities along the way.

  Erasmus withdrew from the connection to process the startling news. He turned to Gilbertus. “The actions of the Jihad forces are most unexpected. They are killing millions and millions of humans on the Synchronized Worlds.”

  “I can’t believe humans would knowingly choose to slaughter so many of their own kind,” Gilbertus said.

  “My Mentat, they have always done so. This time, though, they are destroying thinking machines as well.”

  “I’m ashamed to be a member of the species.”

  “They are doing everything necessary to exterminate us,” Erasmus said, “no matter the cost.”

  “You and I are unique, Father. We are free of the unwanted influence of both machine and human.”

  “We are never free of our surroundings or our internal makeup. In my case it is programming and acquired data; in yours it is genetics and life experiences.” As he spoke, Erasmus noticed a pair of glittering Omnius watcheyes floating in the air, accumulating and transmitting data. “Both of our futures hang on the results of this immense war. Many things influence our behavior and circumstances, whether we are aware of them or not.”

  “I do not wish to die as a victim of their hatred of thinking machines,” Gilbertus said. “And I do not want you to die either.”

  To Erasmus, his surrogate son appeared genuinely sad and completely loyal. But decades ago, Vorian Atreides had seemed that way as well. He shifted his focus and placed a heavy metal arm around Gilbertus’s shoulders, simulating an affectionate gesture.

  “Enough of our fleet will return in time to protect us,” he said to reassure his human ward, though he had no data to support his assertion. The thinking machines would have to dig in here at Corrin, establishing a stronghold behind such an impenetrable barrier that no humans could touch them.

  “That is required,” Omnius said, eavesdropping. “I may already be the last incarnation of the evermind.”

  If I were given the opportunity to write my own epitaph, there is a great deal I would not say, much I would never admit. “He had the heart of a warrior.” That is the best memorial I could hope for.

  — SUPREME COMMANDER VORIAN ATREIDES,

  to a biographer

  In the blackness of deep space, the remnants of the Jihad space-folding fleet drifted in loose formation while the crews worked feverishly to ready their warships for the final assault on Corrin. Repairs were made, warheads primed, Holtzman shields and engines tuned for the last battle.

  “Within hours, we will eradicate the last Omnius,” Supreme Commander Atreides transmitted over the ship-to-ship comline. “Within hours, the human race will be free for the first time in over a thousand years.”

  Listening to the speech from the bridge of his own ballista, Primero Quentin Butler nodded. All around him in space, spangled with the faint illumination of distant stars, the surviving spacefolders gave off a comforting glow from their interior lights and green collision-avoidance sensors. He heard a steady stream of chatter over the comlines, continuing transmissions on the progress of preparations, and reports from the ever-alert guards at every perimeter. The Martyrists offered hymns of thanksgiving and prayers for vengeance.

  Almost over now. Corrin should be completely undefended, the robotic extermination fleet weeks away.

  Quentin’s heart felt like a dead cinder, charred by the white-hot knowledge that he had just killed billions of innocent human slaves held prisoner by Omnius, but he struggled not to allow those horrific thoughts to penetrate his consciousness. In his darkest moments, Quentin could only draw inspiration from what Supreme Commander Atreides had said of the harsh decision he had forced upon the Army of the Jihad: Although they had already inflicted a terrible toll, vastly more humans would die if they didn’t steel themselves to follow through and accept the responsibility for what they must do.

  A complete victory against the thinking machines, no matter the cost.

  Quentin hated just to sit here on his battered ship. He needed to get moving again, to finish this terrible task. If they stopped too long, they would all start thinking too much….

  Corrin, the primary Synchronized World— the last Synchronized World— held greater importance than all the others. And now that it was the only remaining bastion of the evermind, the stakes here were highest, the danger greater than ever. If any portion of the huge assault fleet had remained behind to protect Omnius Prime, the thinking machines would devote all their resources to preserving and defending their very existence. With the ships of the Great Purge already battered, their numbers diminished, this would certainly be the most deadly battle of all.

  And if Omnius managed to preserve a copy of itself before the atomic destruction, if an update captain like Seurat escaped with a gelsphere of the evermind, then everything would be lost. The thinking machines would be able to propagate again.

  Vorian Atreides had proposed an innovative solution. Among the weapons the Army of the Jihad carried were pulse-scrambler transmitters, which could be installed in thousands of satellites. Before the remnants of the human fleet engaged the enemy at Corrin, they would spread the Holtzman satellites in a net around the machine planet, effectively trapping the evermind….

  Now, before the final push, Quentin watched his officers and noncom technicians go about their duties, looking harried and rushed. His temporary adjutant stood nearby, young and eager, ready to relay his superior’s commands or perform key tasks, so that Quentin could focus on the upcoming conflict— would it truly be the final battle?

  He had known nothing but the Jihad for as long as he could remember. He’d become a war hero early in his career, married a Butler, and fathered three sons who also served in the struggle against the thinking machines. His entire life had been dedicated to this one unrelenting struggle. Although by now, he didn’t see how he could ever recover from his soul-deep fatigue, he just wanted this war to be over. He felt like the mythical Sisyphus, co
ndemned to a hellish, impossible task for the balance of eternity. Perhaps if he ever returned to Salusa— if Salusa survived this battle— he would become a recluse in the City of Introspection and finish out his days sitting next to Wandra, staring sightlessly into the air….

  But this was wartime, and Quentin forced himself to rise above such self-indulgent thoughts. They weakened him emotionally and physically. As the liberator of Parmentier, defender of Ix, he was admired by countless jihadis and mercenaries. No matter how tired he felt, no matter how despondent, the primero could never show it.

  Thus far, the nuclear bombardment campaign was a success, but the victories had come at tremendous cost. After so many successive space-folding jumps, the entire fleet was less than a quarter of its original strength. Many of his best and brightest fighters, some of them longtime friends, were dead. And so many innocents had been slaughtered on the Synchronized Worlds, disintegrated in an atomic haze.

  Quentin felt the twin weights of responsibility and survivor’s guilt, when so many were gone. One day, when he had time, there would be letters to write and family members to visit… if he himself survived.

  A number of ships in the final assault group had been damaged in battle and repaired sufficiently to function as warhead-delivery vessels, though without important offensive or defensive capabilities. The artillery banks on some were ruined; others had inoperable Holtzman shields. A dozen ships could still fold space, but had no offensive capabilities at all. They could only be used in rescue operations or, to a limited extent, as filler vessels that made the Army of the Jihad force look larger than it really was.

  Every scrap had its part to play.

  Across the comline, Quentin’s bright-eyed adjutant broadcast last-minute instructions to every remaining ship in the battle group. When Quentin acknowledged his readiness, Supreme Commander Atreides coordinated the space-folding launch for the final offensive against Omnius.