“Set course for Corrin!”
In response, the officers and troops cheered, a great roar that filled the speaker system and sent chills down Quentin’s spine. Decades of warfare had led up to this point. Every technical skill the fighters had learned in battle, every instinct, would be needed if the Army of the Jihad was going to succeed.
Space folded.
Then, like fish leaping above the surface of an ocean, the battered human fleet emerged from space. Beyond the large ball of Corrin, Quentin saw a ruddy sun casting bloodred rays, as if in anticipation of the human lives that would be lost here today.
* * *
ENEMY VESSELS BEGAN popping out of space, appearing from nowhere. More than two hundred vessels, all bearing the marks of the Army of the Jihad. “They have come to eliminate us, Gilbertus,” the robot said.
“Our defenses will hold,” the evermind insisted, booming from a wallscreen. “I have run simulations and calculations.”
Piece by piece, the first waves of returning thinking-machine ships had taken up defensive positions around Corrin, forming a series of formidable rings and traps. However, the bulk of the robot assault fleet was still on its way. The ships currently in position did not appear to be sufficient to hold off the human fanatics. Erasmus stared at the hrethgir attackers bearing down on Corrin, knowing their cargo holds were full of pulse-atomic weaponry.
Once again, Omnius had clearly underestimated the human enemies. Erasmus could also see that the rapidly assembled machine defenses and the first handful of returned robot battleships were not sufficient to stand against this force.
Statistically speaking, the hrethgir might actually win.
* * *
AS THE FIRST tactical reports came in, Quentin stepped closer to the projections. “Their defenses are stronger than we expected. What are all those battleships doing here? I thought the extermination fleet departed for Salusa weeks ago. Did they leave a guardian force behind?”
“It’s possible. Or the Corrin-Omnius might have been warned,” Vorian Atreides spoke across the comline. “But we can still break through— if we throw everything into this last push. It’ll just be tougher than the victories we’ve had so far.”
Quentin counted his own ships. Thankfully, no more had been lost in the latest jump from their rendezvous point in deep space, which gave him a modicum of encouragement.
“First, we deploy the net of scrambler satellites. Our primary objective is to keep Omnius from escaping.” Vorian sent orders for the Jihad vessels to send out their swiftly constructed defensive buoys, each one equipped with a pulse generator. Orbital scientists had planned the most efficient grid, a tight web of destruction that would sew up a barrier impenetrable to the gelcircuitry minds of thinking machines. It was the reverse concept of Tio Holtzman’s energy shields, which League Worlds normally used to keep the machines out.
The robotic ships did not move forward to engage the Jihad vessels, maintaining their tight positions in close orbit, as if daring the humans to approach. The scrambler satellites scattered all around Corrin, like seeds in space moving into position.
“That’ll take care of them,” Vor said. “Prepare to activate the scrambler web on my command— “
On Quentin’s bridge, the first officer yelled from her observation station, “More incoming enemy ships, sir! A lot of them!”
“By God and Saint Serena, look at them all!” cried one of the Martyrist volunteers. “The extermination fleet has come back.”
“That’s a hundred times our firepower,” another said. “We don’t have enough ships left to fight them!”
Quentin turned away from the small group of robot ships clustered around Corrin itself. More of the immense machine fleet came around Corrin, with the bloated sun behind them. Though this still wasn’t the number of ships he and Faykan had seen on their recon expedition, the military craft kept coming, kept filling more and more of the starfield. Their engines were hot, and the battle fleet was spread out and disorganized, as if they had rushed pell-mell back to the system.
Quentin stared, trying to assess the sheer numbers of returning machine vessels. “Activate Holtzman shields. Damn! They’re too close— and we’re much too inaccurate— to fold space past them.”
From his flagship, Supreme Commander Atreides transmitted, “They knew we were coming. Somehow. The Corrin-Omnius called them back to save himself before we could get here.”
The enormous robot ships clustered closer and closer together, in a formidable reinforced cordon to shield the last Omnius. It was clearly an act of desperation, and the evermind seemed to understand the stakes. But with the League fleet at one-quarter strength, having already been hit hard, Quentin concluded— much as he hated to do so— that they did not have enough firepower to blast their way through.
Even so, he drew a deep breath and transmitted to the flagship, “We’ve come too far to give up now. Should I give the order to engage? Perhaps enough of us will break through to drop our pulse-atomics before they get organized.”
Vor hesitated just a moment. “A useless gesture at this point, Primero. None of your ships could penetrate the atmosphere and release nuclear payloads. I won’t waste lives.”
“We are volunteering, Supreme Commander. It’s our last chance.”
“No, stand off. Do not engage.”
Quentin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “At least let us activate the scrambler satellites we just deployed. Then they won’t be able to add reinforcements.”
“On the contrary, Primero, I want them all to congregate at Corrin. Keep the scrambler net inactive, for now.” His voice carried a self-satisfied lilt. “I have an idea.”
From the planet below, robotic defenders shot upward, powering their weapons, prepared to stand as a suicidal barrier if the League force should press forward. Shooting around the red-giant sun and careening into the inner system, the main machine battle fleet kept massing like locusts over Corrin. Returning enemy warships swept in, taking up positions in low orbit, forming an impenetrable barricade.
Now Quentin understood. “Ah, so you are letting the thinking machines stick their own heads in the noose.”
“We may as well let them do our work for us, Primero.”
Wave after wave of returning machine ships formed defensive layers above Corrin. Quentin knew the survivors of the Great Purge could not have fought them. No possible defense of Salusa could have withstood such an enemy, but at least they had returned here. He watched as the final stragglers appeared, forming an impregnable defense of the last remaining Synchronized World.
“All right,” Supreme Commander Atreides said. “Now activate the scrambler web.” He sounded as if he was smiling.
Above Corrin, the small Holtzman satellites switched on, creating a lethal net all around the planet. Any robotic ship passing through the energy grid would be erased. It was a line no gelcircuitry brain could cross.
“We didn’t destroy them,” Vor said, “but all the remaining thinking machines are now neatly bottled up at Corrin. Those scrambler satellites will keep them from causing trouble for the time being.”
“Looks like a standoff,” Quentin said, as scanner reports came in. His voice sounded infinitely weary and disappointed. “They’re cornered like rats.”
Vor assessed the situation and knew the odds. “Now we need nearly all of our remaining ships to stay here and make sure the machines can’t go anywhere else— until we find a way to finish them off.” He pondered the next step, knowing that the thinking machines were reinforcing their defenses every second he delayed. But the scrambler satellites would hold them. Finally, Vor shook his head.
“Now that we have the last Omnius bottled up, we must maintain our force at Corrin and bring back as many other vessels as we can possibly throw at this planet— faster than Omnius can manufacture reinforcements. Corrin is the last stand, both for thinking machines and for humanity.” He clenched a fist, hammered it down on the arm of his command
chair. “Primero Butler, shuttle over to my flagship. You and I will return to Zimia to deliver our report.”
“Yes, Supreme Commander.” Quentin’s back was bowed, his shoulders slumped with the weight of defeat. They had sacrificed so many lives, worked so hard… suddenly he drew a quick breath as the realization flooded him. This standoff did imply a victory of a sort. To cheer his soldiers, he spoke over the general comline. “Think of it, men— look out there and see the entire terrible fleet. The whole robotic fleet! By forcing Omnius to recall those ships, we have saved the lives of everyone on Salusa Secundus.”
“I would rather have destroyed the thinking machines,” his first officer murmured, slamming her fist on a chair back, obviously as frustrated as he was to leave the job undone.
“There is still time for that,” Quentin said. “We will find a way. Prepare to withdraw to a safe distance, but maintain full containment posture.”
Victory. Defeat. These are impostors, illusions. Fight fearlessly toward your own death, and this life cannot count you among its horde of slaves.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
The bulk of the battered space-folding fleet, still loaded with their remaining pulse-atomics, stayed behind at Corrin to keep the thinking machines at bay. Day after day, they sought even the smallest opening. Thanks to the dense net of scrambler satellites, the forces were at a standoff, for the time being, but the equilibrium was unstable.
Vorian Atreides and Quentin Butler rushed to Salusa Secundus. Back at the capital world, the Supreme Commander cobbled together another group of League battleships, drawing away the last-stand defenses in orbit over Salusa even as evacuees began to return. He called for the last great vessels, even those not equipped with space-folding engines, to launch for Corrin without delay. “I need every javelin and ballista. Every ship.”
“That would leave us all undefended!” cried the Interim Viceroy, who had been one of the first to flee Salusa, and one of the first to return as soon as the planet was no longer considered to be in danger. “Is that militarily— or politically— wise?”
“At the moment, there is nothing else to defend against. If we do not hold the last Omnius at Corrin— if we do not find a way to destroy the only remaining evermind— then no defense will be sufficient,” Vor said. “I am the Supreme Commander of the Army of the Jihad, and this is a military decision: I will take those ships.”
He had the blood of billions on his hands, the price he had accepted in order to complete the Great Purge. He did not intend to stop now. Quentin stood stonily at his side, his expression hard but his voice quiet whenever he managed to speak. “We cannot become complacent— not now, not ever. Though contained at Corrin, with their backs to the wall, the machines are more dangerous than ever.”
“There is no time to lose. The last evermind has gone into a bunker mentality, and the machines will devote all of their resources to building new weapons and enhancing their defenses, to prevent us from getting through,” Vor said before the stunned-looking Council. “And over the next weeks or months, for every ship Omnius builds, we must construct another one to counter it. No matter what the cost, we cannot let the machines get loose again.”
Quentin gazed across the table at the shaken politicians. “The moment we see a chink in Omnius’s defenses, we have to be ready to break through.” Looking drawn and broken, he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “We have sold our souls for this victory, and I will not see all those sacrifices squandered.”
* * *
BACK HOME IN Zimia, Vor stared out at the golden rising sun that painted the lovely buildings, many of which were still empty. Ship after ship came back, bringing the evacuees from their hiding places outside the system. During the Great Purge, Abulurd and Faykan had done remarkable work preparing Salusa for the worst, and now the two Butler sons looked from their father to the Supreme Commander.
Leronica was already buried here, though he wished he had been able to take her back to Caladan. Estes and Kagin had gone back there during the evacuation, and he doubted they would come to Salusa again. There was no reason for them to return here.
As the first returning refugees rejoiced in their near-complete victory, the League began the arduous task of assessing the success, and the cost, of the Great Purge. Numerous spacefolder scouting expeditions were dispatched to document the destruction of Synchronized Worlds. One by one, Martyrist volunteers scanned and mapped the devastated worlds to verify that no thinking machines remained. In a matter of days, detailed reports and holophotos arrived showing black, smoldering worlds. It was as if each of the machine planets had been dipped into a cauldron of hell and hurled back into space.
Now, other than Corrin, the evermind had no territory left, not one of his more than five hundred Synchronized Worlds. The cheering population of the League— those who had survived the Scourge and its aftermath as well as centuries of depredations from Omnius— called it a blessing. Martyrists called it the vengeful Sword of Serena….
During the first formal meeting of the reconstituted Jihad Council, Vor immediately proposed, and pushed through, the production and assembly of many more guardian warships to maintain a tight vigil around the trapped machine forces. He feared that in a concerted suicidal run, the battleships of Omnius might be able to break through the Holtzman scrambler net and destroy the League defenders stationed above the planet. More space mines, more scrambler satellites, more weapons, and more League military vessels would prevent Omnius from escaping.
The Army of the Jihad would lay siege at Corrin for months, years, decades— whatever it took.
“Today, ninety-three years after Serena Butler summoned us to fight the thinking machines, I declare that the Jihad is over!” Grand Patriarch Boro-Ginjo announced to a cheering Hall of Parliament, filled to over-flowing by a crowd that rushed in from the plaza. “We have crushed Omnius for all time!”
Standing beside him, Supreme Commander Vorian Atreides felt emptiness and exhaustion. All around him the people celebrated, but for him the war was not over as long as any thinking machine remained, as long as Omnius had one last stronghold.
Nearby, Quentin appeared distraught and dispirited. Onlookers might have perceived this as fatigue, but it was much more than that. We have taken far too many lives in order to achieve this victory. He prayed that mankind would never be forced to use such weapons again….
* * *
VOR RODE ALONG the streets in an open groundcar while crowds applauded him. More than four million people waved colorful Jihad banners and flashed holoprojections of him, Serena Butler and her baby, Iblis Ginjo, and other Heroes of the Jihad.
One is missing. He thought of Xavier, his former comrade in arms. Perhaps Abulurd is right. We should at least try to rectify the errors of history. But not with the wounds of the Jihad so fresh in the minds of the public. It was a time for healing, forgetting, and rebuilding.
When the groundcar stopped in the center of Zimia, he stepped out into an enthusiastic, adoring throng. Men clapped him on the back; women kissed him. Security officers cleared the way, and Vor proceeded to an awards platform erected at the center of the great plaza, in the shadow of immense government buildings.
At Vor’s insistence, a uniformed Tercero Abulurd Harkonnen sat on one side of the ceremonial stage, ostensibly as his adjutant, though Abulurd and his older brother Faykan were also to receive honors for the work they had done here on Salusa. The Grand Patriarch had questioned the wisdom of displaying a Harkonnen in so prominent a position, but Vor had given him such a cold and angry look that Boro-Ginjo immediately withdrew his objection.
After nine decades of military service, Vor already had so many medals that he could not possibly wear all of them at once. He wore only a few ribbons and medals on his dress uniform. A Supreme Commander didn’t need to outshine anyone. Leronica had never cared about the medals either; she would rather have had him with her, spending more time at home instead of on the battlefield.
Even so,
the people needed to give accolades to them, to express their adoration. Politicians wanted to be involved in the festive process as well. I’m the most famous man in the League of Nobles, and I don’t give a damn about awards or glory. I just want peace and quiet.
Thus, Vor accepted the medals and plaudits from the plump and satisfied-looking Grand Patriarch. He even delivered a short but stirring speech, praising everyone who had served in the Army of the Jihad, and all those who had vanished in the Great Purge.
Vor needed time away from all the frenzy of the giddy celebration, time to put his life in perspective. He needed to get to know himself again, and discover if he had anything left that he wanted to do after such a long life.
* * *
SURROUNDED BY A formidable wall of battleships orbiting their last bastion in space, Omnius and Erasmus assessed the situation. Above Corrin, in a standoff with the protective machine battleships, the League vessels hovered, always alert for any chance to release their last warheads.
“The verminous hrethgir will be back with reinforcements,” Omnius said.
“No doubt they intend to lay siege to Corrin,” Erasmus said. “Will they have the patience and diligence to maintain the necessary force for the necessary length of time? Humans do not excel in long-term planning and execution such as this.”
“Nevertheless, we will build new ships, construct superior defenses. Our highest priority is to remain secure here, impregnable. Indefinitely, if necessary. Machines can outlast humans.”
Part II
88 B.G.
Nineteen Years Later
Machines have something humans will always lack: infinite patience and the longevity to support it.
— SUPREME COMMANDER VORIAN ATREIDES,
Early Assessments of the Jihad (Fifth Revision)
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 28
