Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  They were at an impasse. Thurr did not move. The robot’s face changed through a litany of practiced expressions.

  Gilbertus gazed for reassurance at the polished face of Erasmus, obviously hoping the independent robot would save him. “This man is most disturbing to me, Father. I am placing an extraordinary effort into keeping my thoughts organized, yet this man seems to be…”

  Erasmus finished for him. “Chaos incarnate?”

  “An adequate assessment,” Gilbertus said.

  Finally, the robot suggested to Thurr, “If you release Gilbertus and promise not to harm him, we will allow you to depart alone in this ship. Perhaps you will escape successfully, perhaps you will be killed. It will no longer be our concern.”

  Thurr did not move. “How do I know you’re not lying to me? You could command all robotic forces to turn against me and blow my ship out of the sky before I even reach orbit.”

  “After long practice and study it is actually possible for me to lie,” Erasmus admitted, “but I do not choose to make the effort. My bargain is genuine. While I disagree with your motives and plans, I have no particular reason to risk harm in order to stop you. It matters little to me whether you escape Corrin. Only circumstances have forced you to remain trapped here, not any command of Omnius’s.”

  Thurr considered this, his thoughts racing. He had very little time. He didn’t know how long the robotic attacks would last before Omnius Prime reasserted his own control.

  “What do you think?” he said harshly into his captive’s ear. “Maybe I should just take you along as a hostage.”

  Gilbertus’s voice was calm. “You can trust Erasmus if he has given his word.”

  “Trust Erasmus? I doubt many people have said that in the history of the Synchronized Worlds. But all right.” He relaxed his grip, just a little. “Erasmus, you leave the ship. As soon as you’re away from the boarding ramp, I’ll turn Gilbertus loose. Then you both step away, and I’ll fly off. We never need to see each other again.”

  “How can I be certain you won’t kill him anyway?” Erasmus asked.

  Thurr chuckled. “For a robot, you’re learning quickly. But hurry— or this all falls apart.”

  The robot stepped away, his plush robe billowing as he took a last look at Gilbertus and marched down the ramp. Thurr considered assassinating the hostage anyway to show the independent robot how capricious humans could be. As the unreasonable compulsion shot through him, he twitched, but managed to restrain himself. That would accomplish nothing, and would surely turn Erasmus against him. The ground forces of military robots might still shoot him out of the sky. Not worth the risk.

  He gave his captive a heavy shove, causing him to stumble away. As Gilbertus hurried to join the independent robot on the landing field, Thurr sealed the hatch and raced to the controls.

  * * *

  GILBERTUS AND ERASMUS watched the ship dwindle into the sky. “You could have prevented his escape, Father, but you chose to rescue me instead. Why?”

  “Despite his past value, Yorek Thurr is of no future use to us. Besides, he is alarmingly unpredictable, even for a human.” Erasmus remained silent for a moment. “I calculated the consequences and decided that this outcome was preferable. It would have been unacceptable to see you harmed.” Suddenly the robot spotted a fleck of red from a minor cut on Gilbertus’s neck. “You are injured. He has drawn blood.”

  The man touched the sore spot, looked at the small crimson droplet on his fingertip, and shrugged. “It is insignificant.”

  “No injury to you is insignificant, Gilbertus. I will have to watch you more carefully from now on. I will keep you safe.”

  “And I’ll do the same for you, Father.”

  The universe is a playground of improvisation. It follows no external pattern.

  — NORMA CENVA,

  revelations translated by Adrien Venport

  Sealed inside her spice-filled tank, Norma knew no boundaries whatsoever. Nothing was concrete anymore, and the sensation— exhilarating, breathtaking— felt utterly natural. Mere walls could not contain her. She had not left her chamber in many days, and yet she had gone on an incredible voyage of discovery.

  A spectrum of unusual abilities rose and fell in her mind, like bubbles of possibility, largely beyond her control, as if some god were displaying them for her perusal, showing her a broad realm of wondrous possibilities. She had spent her life trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe, and now majestic threads and strings and ideas reeled out all around her.

  She was able to observe Adrien from afar, like a benevolent angel, as he performed his complex and time-consuming work for VenKee Enterprises. Intelligent, capable, visionary— truly a synthesis between herself and Aurelius.

  Now, just outside the walls of her tank, breathing normal air, Adrien peered through the streaked clearplaz walls. He was trying to see her inside, to reassure himself that his mother was still alive. She knew he was greatly worried about her and unable to understand why she refused to leave the enclosure, why she wouldn’t eat or respond… and why her physical body seemed to be changing. When she took the time and concentration, she could send signals outside to reassure him, to communicate with him, though it seemed increasingly difficult to expend the energy. And it was difficult to make herself comprehensible… not just to Adrien, but to anyone but herself.

  With the controls at her strangely rubbery fingertips— her hands had begun to show… webbing?— she kept filling the enclosure with spice gas, in heavier and heavier concentrations. The vapors swirled around her, an orange soup with a strong cinnamon odor.

  As her mind grew stronger, larger, and more dominant, the rest of her body atrophied. The transformation continued in odd directions— the torso, arms, and legs withering while her brain enlarged. Remarkably, her skull did not act as a constraint; instead, it grew.

  Her clothing had fallen off, deteriorating from the potent concentrations of melange. But Norma no longer needed garments: Her new body was smooth and asexual, little more than a vessel to contain her expanding mind.

  She rested on the cushion she had brought with her, but Norma no longer felt her surroundings. Some normal physical functions ceased: She no longer needed to eat, drink, or eliminate bodily wastes.

  Knowing that her son was trying to see her, she leaned forward to the plaz wall. Norma could feel Adrien’s presence, his thoughts, his concerns. She noted the narrowed eyes and the size of his pupils, the marks of concern etched on his forehead and around his mouth, as if painted there by a master artist. A thin film of fearful perspiration covered his brow.

  She could identify each of her son’s facial expressions, which began to remind her of conversations they’d had in the past. In her growing mind, Norma catalogued their entire relationship. Assembling the data of their interactions, she matched the past thoughts her son revealed in words with the way he had looked each time he spoke.

  Ah. She understood. Now Adrien was wondering what to do to help her. Three aides stood with him, and she could read their lips. They wanted to break into the container so that Norma could receive medical attention. He listened to them, but had not yet agreed to do anything.

  Trust me. I know what I am doing.

  But he could not hear her distinct thoughts. Adrien Venport was torn with indecision— a very unusual thing for him.

  In her spice reverie, Norma noted the subtle markings of his demeanor, the luster of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. Was he recalling an old conversation? Her own words floated back to her. “Melange will enhance my prescience and enable me— and others who follow— to accurately navigate the spacefolders. I can foresee the hazards before they occur, and I can avoid them. It is the only way to respond swiftly enough. No longer will the Holtzman engines be an unsafe means of rapid space travel. It will change… everything.”

  I have the key to the universe. But you must let me finish.

  Norma tried to remember how to control her face, how to form her most serene,
calm expression. She needed to give Adrien the impression that she had everything under control. When she tried to speak to him, her words sounded to her own ears as if they were vibrating through a thick medium of water.

  “This is where I want to be, my son. Each moment I draw closer to my goal, to the perfect state I must attain in order to navigate our ships safely. Do not worry about me. Trust in my vision.”

  But the spice chamber had no speaker system— an inexcusable oversight, she realized— and he could not hear her distinctly. Still, she hoped he would get the sense of her message. Adrien had nearly always managed to understand her, somehow.

  However, he was also coolly logical and pragmatic. He knew how long it had been since his mother had had any food or water. No matter how she tried to reassure him now or what she had told him before entering the tank, he would be concerned about what she was doing. Still, he hesitated, trusting his genius mother to know what she was doing… to a certain extent.

  Clearly, his muscular aides wanted to remove her from the container by force. They carried heavy tools that could either dismantle or smash open the tank. Several doctors had already expressed the opinion that it was impossible for Norma to have survived as long as she had. Once again his mother had accomplished what no one had thought possible.

  But not without cost. Staring at her through the transparent wall, he could see how dramatically her body had changed, the extreme alterations and evolution that her physical form had undergone. She was no longer human.

  Apparently, Adrien was alarmed by what he saw in her face. With a deep weariness, he motioned toward his three aides, who raised their heavy tools. If they broke through the plaz walls, all the spice gas would rush out, possibly killing them, possibly suffocating her. Behind them, through the uncertain blur of the chamber’s stained walls, she saw that Adrien had arranged for medical specialists to stand by with emergency life-support equipment.

  Before the men could move, Norma raised her sticklike arms to ward them off. If they committed such a foolish act, they would throw the now-bright future of the space-folding program into irretrievable chaos.

  She analyzed Adrien’s thoughts. He had made his decision, convinced that what he was doing would save her life. She stared back at him, silently pleading, willing him to understand. Then, as he looked at her for one last time, she saw his facial muscles relax abruptly, like a sudden calm falling over a stormy sea.

  Her ropy, misshapen index finger brushed the surface of the plaz, touching the caked melange dust that had collected there. Trying to remember more primitive methods of communication, Norma moved her fingertip, smearing a mark on the surface. Straight lines, precise angles, curves, an ellipse. A simple word.

  NO.

  And Adrien clearly saw something in his mother’s enlarged spice-blue eyes that stared at him through the thick barrier— an eerie, hypnotic awareness. Silently, showing supreme confidence in her own vision, Norma urged her son, hoping he would understand. He had to trust her now. Don’t disturb me. I am safe! Leave me.

  Just as the men were poised to break through, Adrien ordered them to stop. His patrician face was a mask of uncertainty and conflicting emotions. The attending doctors tried to change his mind, but he sent them away. Then he broke down and wept.

  “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” he said through the plaz, and she understood him perfectly.

  Yes, you are.

  They say of El’hiim that he loves neither his father nor his stepfather, and that he is disloyal to his people.

  — Comment made by Zensunni elder,

  secondhand source

  It was Ishmael’s last chance to save the man he had raised as his son. He had asked, then nearly begged the Naib to go with him on a pilgrimage into the deep desert, the Tanzerouft. “I saved you once, long ago, from scorpions,” Ishmael finally said, hating that he was forced to call in an old debt.

  El’hiim looked troubled by the memory. “I was foolhardy, without any caution, and you almost died from all the stings.”

  “I will keep you safe, now. When a man knows how to live with the desert, he need not fear what it has to offer.”

  Finally, the younger man capitulated. “I remember the times you went with me to other villages and into Arrakis City, even though I know how much you dislike those places. I can make the same sacrifice for my stepfather. It has been a long time since I was reminded of how rustic and difficult life used to be for the outlaw followers of Selim Wormrider.”

  To his fellow villagers, El’hiim gave the impression that he was merely humoring the old man. His young water-fat followers, wearing their strange and colorful clothing, joked and wished El’hiim a fine time.

  But Ishmael could see uncertainty and even a flicker of fear in the Naib’s eyes. That is good.

  For decades now, El’hiim had forgotten how to respect the desert. Regardless of how many luxuries the Zensunni people purchased from offworld merchants, Shai-Hulud still reigned supreme out there. The Old Man of the Desert had little patience for those who scorned the religious laws.

  El’hiim left instructions with his lieutenants. His trek with Ishmael would last several days, during which time the Zensunni villagers would continue delivering supplies of spice to VenKee merchants or whichever offworlders bid the best price. Though she looked old now, Chamal was still in charge of most of the women in the cave city and would keep everyone else at their tasks. She kissed her father on his dry, leathery cheek.

  Ishmael said nothing, gazing longingly out into the vast and clean dunes, as the two departed from the cliff village. When they had made their way in the moonlight down to the open sands, he turned to his stepson. “Summon a worm for us, El’hiim.”

  The Naib hesitated. “I would not take that honor from you, Ishmael.”

  “Are you incapable of doing that which made a legend of your father? The son of Selim Wormrider is afraid to summon Shai-Hulud?”

  El’hiim let out an impatient sigh. “You know that’s not true. I have called many worms.”

  “But not for a long time. Do it now. It is a necessary step in our journey.”

  Ishmael watched the Naib as he planted the resonant drum stake and pounded on it with his rhythmic hammer. He studied El’hiim’s every movement, watched how he set out the equipment and prepared to face the monster. His actions were swift but jerky, clearly nervous. Ishmael did not criticize him, but he readied himself to help should anything go wrong.

  Even for a master, summoning a sandworm was a dangerous activity, and El’hiim had almost forgotten how to live with danger. Their journey would remind him of this, and of many things.

  When the sinuous beast arrived, it was accompanied by a hissing roar, a scraping of sand, and a cloud of thick, pungent scent. “It’s a big one, Ishmael!” The awe and excitement in his voice almost drowned out his terror. Good.

  The worm reared up, and El’hiim ran forward, concentrating fully now. Ishmael threw his own hooks and ropes, climbing, assisting in the capture. The younger man didn’t seem to pay attention to how much of the task Ishmael performed for him, and his stepfather did not point it out.

  Exhilarated, El’hiim rode on the back of the worm, glancing over at the old man beside him. “Now where do we go?” He seemed to be remembering his younger days. Finally.

  His long gray-white hair blowing behind him, Ishmael pointed toward the flat, shadowed horizon. “Out there into the deepest desert, where we can be safe and alone.”

  The worm plowed through the loose dunes, eating distance throughout the night. Selim Wormrider had originally taken his band of outlaws deep into the most barren wilderness where they could hide, and Marha had led them even farther into exile. But since the Wormrider’s death, most followers had lost their dedication, tempted by comforts and easy lives. Once-isolated settlements drifted closer to the scattered cities again.

  Selim would have been disappointed that the influence of his vision had dwindled so much in only a generation, when he ha
d sacrificed his life so that his legend would be remembered for all time. As the first Naib after the legendary founder, Ishmael had done his best to continue the quest, but after relinquishing control to Selim’s son, he had felt all progress slipping through his callused fingers.

  The two men rode the powerful worm until dawn, then took their packs and dismounted near a cluster of rocks that would offer shelter for the day. As El’hiim ran to find a place to lay his soft pads and erect their reflecting shade-cloth, he looked uneasily at the austere surroundings.

  Sitting with his stepfather in the heat of the strengthening sun, El’hiim shook his head. “If we used to live with no more comforts than this, Elder Ishmael, then our people have made substantial progress over the years.” He stretched out his hand to touch the rough, hard rock.

  Ishmael looked at him, blue-within-blue eyes sharp. “You cannot grasp how much Arrakis has changed in your lifetime— most especially in the past two decades since the Grand Patriarch opened our planet to hordes of spice prospectors. All across the League, people are consuming melange, our melange, in huge quantities, hoping it will protect them from sickness and maintain their youth.” He made a disgusted noise.

  “Don’t be blind to how we have benefited from it,” El’hiim pointed out. “Now we have more water, more food. Our people live longer. League medical care has cured numerous ills that needlessly stole our people— like my mother.”

  Ishmael felt stung, remembering Marha. “Your mother made her own choice, the only honorable one.”

  “An unnecessary one!” El’hiim actually looked angry at him. “She is dead because of your stubbornness!”

  “She is dead because it was her time to die. Her disease was incurable.”

  The younger man angrily threw a stone far from their camp. “Primitive Zensunni methods and superstitions couldn’t cure her, but any decent doctor in Arrakis City could have done something. There are treatments, medicines from Rossak and elsewhere. She could have had a chance!”