Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Dante spoke to the neo-cymek forces, following a carefully planned script. “All neos, open fire with projectile weapons.”

  Like an explosive hailstorm, torpedoes and shaped grenades sprayed against the javelin flagship and several escort destroyers.

  Quentin kept working on altering the communication frequency aboard his cymek craft, but he had not been trained in this. Whenever his thoughts went astray, he overshot what he wanted to do.

  Dante continued, sounding pleased and confident. “Their shields are up, making them vulnerable to lasers. Prepare— “

  Finally, Quentin screamed across a secret frequency long used by the Army of the Jihad for high-level command transmissions. “Faykan! Drop all shields immediately. It’s a trick.”

  “Who is this?”

  Naturally, the signal Quentin transmitted from his mind had no recognizable voice patterns. “Faykan, they mean to use laser weaponry— you know what that means. Drop your shields before it’s too late!”

  Faykan apparently believed him. Only a few officers and political leaders in the command structure of the League knew about the secret vulnerability of the Holtzman shields. “Shields down! All subcommanders, drop shields immediately!”

  Though many of them argued, the Viceroy issued another firm order. The protective shields faded away only an instant before weak and inefficient energy beams played across the armored hulls, causing only marks and superficial damage, nothing significant, and leaving a few scorch marks. The lasers swept out again, more intense the second time, but none of the League ships powered up their shields.

  Faykan realized in an instant that the mysterious transmission had saved them all from annihilation. “Who is this? Do we have an ally among the cymeks? Identify yourself.”

  Dante still hadn’t figured out what Quentin had done. “Something has gone terribly wrong, but we have other ways to pursue this.” The cymek attack fleet moved together, reloading their projectile weapons. The explosives would be deadly if Faykan’s vessels kept their shields offline.

  “Get your ships out of here. I… or you will be— ” Quentin said, then faltered, afraid to identify himself. “Just trust me. Make me… shed tears of happiness again.” Quentin hoped that would be enough to help his son figure it out. He could not bear to confess everything— not now. It was too terrible to think that the Army of Humanity might mount an ill-advised rescue for him, coming to the cymek stronghold on Hessra in an effort to free him. Quentin didn’t want that. He just wanted Faykan to get away before Dante and his powerful ships slaughtered everyone.

  “Father!” Faykan transmitted back on the private frequency. “Primero— is that you? We thought you were killed!”

  “Butlers are servants unto no one!” Quentin cried over the channel. “Now go!”

  As Dante’s followers swooped in, launching the first volleys of explosives, Quentin suddenly realized that his ship could serve as a weapon. He had no launchers of his own, but he changed course, locked his engines into high acceleration— and suddenly flew through the cymek ranks, scattering them like a dog frightening a flock of pigeons. The cymek ships swirled about, dodging him. Over his communications system, he heard them chattering, arguing about what to do.

  Quentin veered in an effort to collide with any cymek he encountered, but the neos were more adept in their mechanical bodies than he was. Avoiding him, they began to fire disabling shots at his drive system. Abruptly their words became garbled as the cymeks switched over to encrypted communications.

  The disabling shots glanced off his hull, and Quentin pushed harder and harder toward Dante. He vowed to give up his life if he could destroy one of the three remaining Titans.

  Dante swerved his larger combat body so that Quentin only managed to scrape the ships together in a glancing impact. As the vibration ground through his sleek metal body, Quentin sensed damage but no physical pain. His ship responded more sluggishly now, and he wondered how much damage he’d done to his artificial body.

  He was relieved to see the League expeditionary force withdraw in confusion, though it was not yet in full retreat. “Go! Get out of here or you will all die,” he transmitted again.

  “Primero Butler must have told them something!” Dante said. “Jam his signals!”

  A blast of interference cut off further transmissions. He couldn’t explain anything, couldn’t ask for forgiveness or even say farewell to his son. But he had done what was necessary. And now the League would know he was still alive.

  The cymek blasts were not enough to destroy Quentin’s ship, but caused sufficient damage to disable his engines and leave him hanging dead in space. Helpless and ineffective. An ignominious way to end, he thought….

  * * *

  THE CYMEKS HAD to tow him back to Hessra, while Dante lectured and scolded him for his foolishness. Still, Quentin was pleased with what he had managed to do. After being completely helpless for so long, he had struck a real blow for the cause of mankind. Not a single human life had been lost in the encounter.

  Once Quentin was dragged back to Hessra, General Agamemnon would undoubtedly imprison him in his canister and make him submit to an eternity of pain stimuli, if he permitted Quentin to live at all.

  But his accomplishment was worth it.

  The best plans evolve along the way. When a plan truly succeeds, it takes on a life of its own, quite apart from anything its original creator intended.

  — SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES

  Vor had always known the Titans were still at large, and that his father would not sit quietly forever, especially now that Omnius had been contained. Seventeen times since the end of the Jihad, Vor had spoken to the League Parliament, insisting that a military operation be launched to scour out the cymeks on Hessra, but no one else had seen the urgency. Other priorities were easily found.

  They would always underestimate Agamemnon.

  After racing back from Wallach IX with the news of the cymek attack and presumed death of Quentin Butler, Porce Bludd had sounded the alarm. On the heels of the recent piranha mite terror— against which Vor had also warned the League— and the appearance of an even worse strain of the Scourge on Rossak, Vor was sure the government could finally be shocked out of its complacency.

  At least he was no longer dismissed outright. Despite his apparent youth, the parliamentary representatives knew he was an old fixture, a veteran who had outlived all his comrades in arms. He demanded immediate action— which translated into months of discussions.

  One entire Army of Humanity squadron had vanished and was presumed destroyed. Now Viceroy Faykan Butler had returned with the alarming report that the Titans now knew about the deadly laser-shield weakness, a secret that had been so closely held for the entire Jihad.

  And Faykan also reported that his own father had been converted into a cymek himself!

  Vor seethed at this latest outrage. Finally, at least, they might be jolted into taking some action, but he doubted it would be swift or severe enough for his tastes.

  He needed to get away from the insanity of Rayna’s daily Cultist rallies, the endless meetings of the League Parliament, and his irrelevant duties as nominal Supreme Bashar of the Army of Humanity, while he waited for instructions from the government. How had it come to this? A part of him longed for the days of open warfare and undisputed enemies, when he had been able to make up his own mind to launch a devastating raid, and let the consequences settle themselves out. He had always teased Xavier for so strictly following regulations and orders….

  When Bashar Abulurd Harkonnen invited him to visit an ancient archaeological site outside the city, Vor gladly accepted. The newly promoted officer promised serenity, fresh air, and a place where they could talk, which both men sorely needed.

  Though they were ostensibly taking time for themselves, their mood was serious. By now, Abulurd looked even older than his mentor, who treated him like a kid brother. With Leronica dead for all these years, Vor no longer bothered with the self-agin
g makeup or artificial tints of gray in his dark hair. But his eyes had grown older, especially now that he knew what Agamemnon was really doing.

  The archaeological site was on a sunny hillside an hour north of Zimia by groundcar. The military driver, an old veteran of the Jihad who had suffered a serious chest wound on Honru, told the two officers repeatedly how he wished he could still serve, and how he prayed to Saint Serena every day. He had a small, partly concealed badge that showed he sympathized with Rayna’s movement. The driver dropped them off and drove his car to a shaded area where he would wait for them.

  The two men wandered alone into the isolated archaeological site. Reading signs and avoiding his real thoughts, Abulurd said, “This region was once inhabited by Buddislamics before they were freed from generations of slavery and went off to settle on Unallied Planets.”

  “Your father will never be freed from his slavery now,” Vor muttered, dropping a blanket of reserved silence over them. As a cymek, Quentin Butler could never come home again.

  They both stared at the age-weathered ruins, and Abulurd made a halfhearted attempt to read displays and markers, occasionally stumbling in his recitation as his own misery broke through his facade. “After turning their backs on our civilization, the Zensunnis and Zenshiites entered a long dark age; to this day, most of them live as primitives on far-flung planets.” He squinted at the plaque in the bright sunlight. “Muadru pottery has also been found here.”

  “The Cogitors have some connection with the Muadru,” Vor said. “And Vidad is the only one left alive.” The mention of Vidad made him think of Serena and her death.

  No one alive had as much history with, or as much resentment toward, the Titans as he did. Agamemnon had raised him, trained him, and taught him tactics— all so Vor could one day oppress human slaves. But he had turned that knowledge against the thinking machines during the Jihad, continually defeating them by using inside information. Now Vor had more inside information about Agamemnon, and he intended to use it in a very different manner.

  The two men sat on a pile of building rubble and shared wrapped gyraks, sandwiches made by locals using stone-ground bread and highly seasoned meats. They washed the food down with bottles of cold Salusan beer. Vor didn’t say much, his mind full of important concerns. He shuddered, remembering the terrible “reward” that the cymek general had once promised him. If I had not escaped from Earth with Serena and Ginjo, Agamemnon would have converted me into a cymek, too. Like father, like son.

  From the standpoint of a military leader, Vor had done all he could for the League. The exhausted human race had neither energy nor enthusiasm for another long struggle. Long after the crisis, many leaders were horrified to contemplate the nuclear holocaust he’d led against the Synchronized Worlds, shamed at what they had done. Most people didn’t remember the urgency, the horrors, the necessity of those dangerous days. They only hung their heads at the memory of the billions of human slaves who had been killed as bystanders during the annihilation of Omnius. They didn’t remember that billions more humans would have died if the thinking machines had succeeded instead. Vor had seen all too many times how mutable history could be.

  Now that Agamemnon had finally returned to cause mayhem again, Vor felt he had to fight one more battle— alone, without anyone second-guessing him.

  Gritting his teeth, Vor looked at Abulurd and said, “I know what I have to do. I’ll need your help, and your complete confidentiality.”

  “Of course, Supreme Bashar.”

  And he proceeded to tell Abulurd how he intended to get rid of Agamemnon once and for all.

  Always bear in mind the inevitability of your end. Only after you have accepted the fact that you are going to die can you truly reach greatness and achieve the highest honor.

  — SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS

  Abulurd Harkonnen sat in the front row of invited guests in the League’s imposing Hall of Parliament, proudly displaying the bashar insignia on his shoulders and chest. The attendees at the ceremony, a combination of military and political leaders, sat nearby murmuring without obvious enthusiasm.

  Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides had asked to speak to the assembly, promising an important announcement— as he had often done before. However, because he had delivered so many dire warnings and endlessly pessimistic projections over the years, the dignitaries no longer displayed much interest in his talks. They were aware of the new cymek depredations, and the piranha mites had reminded them that Omnius remained a threat; obviously, they expected the old veteran to rail at them for their lack of foresight.

  Abulurd, though, knew the true reason for the Supreme Bashar’s speech. He sat, breathing shallowly, keeping himself calm, a model of decorum.

  For most of the morning Abulurd had been engrossed in his work in the laboratories near the Grand Patriarch’s administrative mansion. Following their mandate from the Supreme Bashar, his engineering team continued dismantling and analyzing the deadly piranha mites, activating a few of them under carefully controlled conditions. His researchers felt they now had several possible avenues for defense, should Omnius decide to use the ferocious little machines again. Already, two of his engineers had constructed a prototype jammer— not the same as Holtzman’s pulse generators, but a simpler beacon that would overload and confuse the mites’ base programming.

  Abulurd had changed out of his laboratory clothes and put on his military uniform for the event. Although formal dress was not required by code, he did it out of respect and honor for the Supreme Bashar.

  Now, as soon as the tall doors opened and Vorian Atreides was announced, Abulurd leaped to his feet and saluted. Seeing this, other Army of Humanity officers followed his lead; within moments, the rest of the audience in the assembly chamber stood a few at a time at first, and then in a wave.

  His expression unreadable, Vorian strode proudly down the wide aisle. He had chosen to appear grand and imposing with an extravagant assortment of well-earned ribbons, medals, and rank insignia acquired over his decades of military service. He jingled and clanked as he walked, and the weight of all the tokens of service seemed about to tear the fabric of his uniform shirt. The uniform, while freshly pressed, seemed to have a shadow of soil and blood in its stitching, as if the fabric, like the man himself, could never be entirely cleaned.

  He glanced over to where he knew Abulurd was; their eyes met, and the younger officer’s heart swelled.

  The Supreme Bashar held his head high and kept his shoulders square as he walked up the steps to the stage where Viceroy Faykan Butler presided next to the Grand Patriarch. Xander Boro-Ginjo’s daily uniform was gaudy and full of unnecessary trappings.

  “Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides, we welcome you to our proceedings,” said Faykan. “You have called us here for a vital announcement? We are all interested to hear your words.”

  “And you’ll all be thankful that I intend to be brief,” Vor said. Several representatives in the front row chuckled. “As of this month, I have spent one hundred thirteen years as a soldier for humanity.” He paused to let the number sink in. “That’s well over a century of fighting against the enemy and helping to protect the League of Nobles. Though I may still appear to be young and strong, and though I retain my health and my ability, I doubt any person in this assembly would dispute that I have served sufficient time.”

  He looked slowly around the audience, finally settling his gaze on the Viceroy. “Effective immediately I wish to resign my commission in the Army of Humanity. Nineteen years ago, the Jihad was declared over. My term of fighting is done. I will take some time for myself and then return to work with the task force to clear the name of Xavier Harkonnen.”

  Faykan responded quickly and smoothly, as if he’d known all along what Vor intended to say. “I speak for all those gathered here. We recognize that you have given a long lifetime of faithful service. New challenges face us, with the cymeks and Omnius, but the work is never at an end. It seems we will always need to deal with the enemie
s of humanity. One man cannot solve all the problems, no matter how hard he tries. Vorian Atreides, you may relax, retire, and do as you will, and let the rest of us continue the work. Thank you for your exemplary service. You deserve all the honor and respect we can offer you.”

  The Viceroy began to applaud, and the Grand Patriarch clapped dutifully. Soon, everyone in the assembly chamber joined in a resounding standing ovation. Swept up in the thunderous applause, Abulurd watched his mentor, feeling as if he might drown in emotion, both proud and sad at the same time. The Grand Patriarch offered Vor a formal blessing.

  The Supreme Bashar nodded to everyone, and only Abulurd knew that he did indeed intend to continue the fight, though in a fashion the League would never be willing to condone. As Vor was escorted out of the cavernous Parliament building, borne along by cheers, congratulations, and applause, Abulurd followed, hoping he would get the opportunity to say farewell to this man who had done so much for him.

  Everything about the announcement and the response had been appropriately respectful, yet Abulurd’s reaction soured. After all the good things Vor had done for the League, and despite the fact that his skills had not waned a bit, not one person in the chamber made even a feeble attempt to talk him out of his departure. They were glad to see him go.

  Death can be a friend, but only if he comes calling at the right time.

  — Navachristianity text (disputed translation)

  Lost in her fever, Raquella dreamed of dreams, of the images and hopes of her ancestors, so bright in youth and so faded and tattered in the harsh reality. Even her mysterious grandfather Vorian Atreides was there, and Karida Julan, her grandmother, the woman who had loved Vorian… as were numerous men, women, heroes, cowards, leaders, and followers. And Mohandas Suk.

  From somewhere, she heard water dripping… or some other liquid… ticking like the passage of time. She sensed that her physical body was draining away, rejoining the ageless ecosystem of the planet.