“Thank you,” Quentin answered in a quiet voice through the speakerpatch. “Thank you.”
* * *
DANTE HAD ALWAYS been little more than an administrator; he had run the business of overthrowing the Old Empire. Both Agamemnon and Juno were far more militarily inclined than he was. As soon as he discovered the murders of his fellow Titans, he understood he was in terrible trouble. He did not know exactly how Juno and Agamemnon had been killed, but he did not wish to stay behind and fight such an effective enemy.
Hessra was not the strongest base in the new Titan empire. Many more neos and their enslaved populations had been taken from the occupied worlds of Richese, Bela Tegeuse, and others; the defenses were more extensive on those planets. Agamemnon had never worried much about losing control of Hessra.
Now, while the loyal neos continued to battle the suicidal secondary-neos, Dante emerged from the tall, arched doors of the citadel and scuttled across the icy landscape to the Titans’ waiting battleships. Dante had used these same vessels on his test run that had demonstrated the fatal interaction between lasers and Holtzman shields. He hurried across the windswept ground and, reaching one of the robotic craft, aligned sockets and adjusted the mechanical systems so that his preservation canister detached from its walker-form and was installed in the vessel to act as the brain of the ship. He had to get away.
Of the original Twenty Titans, Dante was now the sole survivor. After his thoughtrodes were automatically connected to the command systems, he powered up the engines. Now he could fly away from this frozen planetoid, saving himself.
Dante was not a coward, but a pragmatist. The rebellion here was causing too much damage, and he intended to return with an overwhelming force from Richese or one of the other newly conquered cymek worlds. He and his reinforcements would easily destroy the remaining rabble, and they could move on.
His ship rose into the empty sky, and Dante felt free and safe.
* * *
COMFORTABLE BEHIND THE controls, Vor activated the Dream Voyager‘s systems, preparing to launch. His scanners were operational, ready to lock on to their target, as soon as he discovered Dante’s whereabouts. The secondary-neos reported that they had seen the Titan’s walker-form out on the glacier, mounting itself into one of the waiting cymek battleships.
Quentin scuttled forward in his massive mechanical body. His speakerpatch was amplified, and his words boomed. “It is paramount that he not get away! Supreme Bashar, can you depart soon? Can you head him off?”
“The Dream Voyager is fast, but doesn’t have much in the way of weaponry. It could be enough to keep him busy, though. Do you have something else— “
“Yes.” Quentin scuttled backward on multiple legs. “Just slow him down. I will come after you as soon as I can. And then Dante won’t be able to run. It is imperative that we not allow him to escape.”
Vor understood the primero’s need for vengeance. He worked the familiar controls that Seurat had long ago taught him to use, and the DreamVoyager shot out of the landing bay, following the trail of the Titan ship.
* * *
QUENTIN MARCHED THROUGH the underground chambers to where another enormous vessel was stored. He had seen the Titan general fly the craft more than once, and Juno had been delighted to show it off to him as a demonstration of the formidable cymek advantages over a weak human being. Now Quentin could use it to a much more satisfying purpose.
Agamemnon’s personal battleship.
* * *
THE DREAM VOYAGER raced up into the starry, ever-twilit sky. Ahead of him, Dante’s warship accelerated out of the system.
When the last surviving Titan saw that only one small vessel pursued him, a mere update ship, he turned his battle vessel and came back. He had warned Agamemnon not to trust his human son, and his suspicions had been accurate. “Vorian Atreides.” The name was spoken flatly, as if the Titan was not surprised at all. “You are responsible for this mayhem?”
“I can’t take all the credit. I am only one man. The Titans’ history built up a debt that one man can’t possibly make up for.”
“You know that I can easily destroy your ship,” Dante said, as if a threat was all he needed. “The Dream Voyager was never designed to withstand an attack by a cymek warship.”
“Maybe, but I’m a lot more maneuverable.” He peppered Dante’s hull with a volley of small projectiles, then changed course in a radical backward loop to bypass the giant Titan’s cumbersome retaliatory shots.
Vor swept in from behind and harried the cymek warship by launching four explosives that damaged one of Dante’s maneuvering engines. The Titan turned and opened fire again, and this time his blasts grazed the Dream Voyager‘s armored belly.
Vor tumbled in a wild spin, accelerating blindly until he regained control and could fly straight again. He turned around, intentionally taunting the remaining Titan over the comline, hoping to delay him as Quentin had asked. Dante launched another shot that exploded across his bow.
Just then a massive, nightmarish vessel— like a demonic pterodactyl— hurtled directly toward Dante’s ship. The angular flying colossus swooped down out of nowhere, opening fire with explosives that sent the Titan’s craft reeling.
Quentin’s voice came over Vor’s communications systems, speaking in the special coded battle language developed by the Army of the Jihad. “I must tell you why it is essential to take Dante out. When General Agamemnon created his armies of neo-cymeks, he was afraid they might show disloyalty, so he installed a kill switch in their preservation canisters. If at any moment he suspected treachery, he could trigger an individual death.
“As a final insurance Agamemnon, Juno, and Dante established a dead-man network. As a fail-safe, there is a signal encoded in each of the three Titans’ brain canisters. At least one of the three Titans must return regularly within transmitting range of the neo-cymeks, or else those neos shut down permanently. Life-support mechanisms gradually fail, and they all die.”
Vor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You mean if we destroy Dante, we’ll wipe out the entire enemy force, in a single blow?”
“Essentially, though there may be some delay factor. The local neos will collapse from the immediate signal cutoff when the last Titan dies. Agamemnon was quite paranoid.”
“I know.”
“The other cymeks on distant outposts will break down and die in a year or so, when they do not receive a verification signal at the appointed time. That’s why Dante is so important.”
Vor grinned, but only for a moment, until he followed the thought to its only possible conclusion. “If we destroy Dante here, then you’ll die, too, Quentin. It’s an immediate consequence.”
“You have seen me, Supreme Bashar. You know what I am. I have no intention of letting anyone in the League see me like this. Not Faykan, not… Abulurd. I don’t want to go back.”
“But what shall I tell Abulurd for you? He has to understand— “
“You’ll know what to say to him, Supreme Bashar. You’ve always been better at it than I. Let me do this last thing.”
Vor raised his voice. “No. We can find another way. We’ll capture Dante. We’ll— “
“Remember me, Supreme Bashar. I never chose to be a cymek, and every moment I looked for ways to kill them. At last I know what to do.”
The huge nightmarish craft designed for Agamemnon arced around and headed toward Dante. The last Titan accelerated, trying to pick up speed and escape the powerful cymek ship.
But one of Dante’s engines was damaged, and Agamemnon’s craft was far superior. As he closed the distance, Quentin launched projectile after projectile, pummeling the fleeing Titan ship.
Even as he approached his target, Quentin did not slow. His engines went beyond full power, hurling the enormous cymek vessel like a hot hammer— until finally, just as Dante’s hull buckled from the last round of explosives, Agamemnon’s battleship slammed into it, still accelerating.
The light was bli
nding. Both vessels erupted in an expanding cloud of flames.
Helplessly, Vor watched the final moments. He felt a weight of great sadness in his chest for the loss of brave Quentin Butler… and a growing warmth of triumph to know that the last of the cruel Titans, and indeed all of the cymeks, had finally been vanquished.
Evil does not limit itself to either machines or humans. Demons can be found among both.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
When Istian and the sensei mek arrived in the Salusan system and descended to Zimia Spaceport, the swordmaster could see how much had changed. He had been to the impressive metropolis only once, after completing his training on Ginaz and before being transferred to duties on the outlying League Worlds. Salusa Secundus had always been a place of grandeur, where towering buildings showcased the League’s best architecture and sculpture for all to see the superiority of the human creative soul over the logic of thinking machines.
Now, though, the spaceport was in chaos. As his vessel swooped in for a landing— though he had received no response to his repeated requests for clearance— Istian saw that some of the streets were on fire, buildings smoking. Crowds surged up and down boulevards. With cold sickness in the pit of his stomach, he thought back to similar scenes he had witnessed on Honru and Ix.
Finally a familiar yet unexpected voice came over his ship’s comline. “I see you have arrived on schedule, Istian. Always perfectly predictable. Is Chirox with you?”
“Nar Trig! So good to hear your voice.”
“We are prepared to meet you at the spaceport.”
Settling down now on an empty pad, Istian asked, “Will the Viceroy be sending an escort to meet us? What’s going on in Zimia?” Chirox remained silent as the swordmaster asked his questions.
“The Viceroy is otherwise occupied. This is a busy and glorious day for the Cult of Serena. Your arrival will be one of our crowning achievements.”
Istian felt uneasy, but he could not say why. The hatch opened, and he stepped out beside the combat mek. As soon as he saw the crowd waiting for them, heard the angry shouts, and saw the waving banners of Saint Serena and her child Manion, he understood that Chirox would be receiving no commendation from the Viceroy.
“We’ve been tricked,” he said. “We may have to fight!”
The sensei mek loomed tall and powerful, his bright optic threads drinking in new details. He turned his head. “I do not wish to fight innocent civilians.”
“If they rush us, we may have no choice. I suspect the message from the Viceroy was faked, just to lure us here.” Istian had brought his pulse-sword along with his favorite fighting dagger for shield training. He had intended them as ceremonial adornments; now they were his only weapons. “This is very bad, Chirox.”
The sensei mek waited. “We will plan our response according to the needs of the moment.”
The leader of the mob strode forward— a broad-shouldered, arrogant man whose dark hair was shot with lines of gray. His ruggedly familiar features had been roughened over the years. A long burn made the left side of his face appear smooth and waxy. “I feared I would find you at the demon machine’s side,” Nar Trig said. “Join us, Istian, and your soul can be saved.”
“My soul is my own business. Is this the reception committee you have gathered to welcome Chirox as a hero? He has trained thousands of swordmasters, and collectively they have killed a hundred times that many thinking machines.”
“He is a machine himself!” cried one of the Cultists behind Trig. “Rayna Butler says we must eliminate all sophisticated machinery. Chirox is one of the last. He must be destroyed.”
“He has done nothing to deserve this.” Istian slowly drew his pulse-sword and combat dagger, waiting bravely in front of the sensei mek. “Are you at such a loss for enemies that you must create new ones for yourselves? It is ridiculous.”
“Chirox trained me, too.” Trig raised his voice so that all the gathered fanatics could hear. “I know his tricks, and I have surpassed his skills. I have become enlightened— I know humans are superior to soulless machines. I have a fundamental advantage over any demon robot. I challenge you to combat, Chirox. Fight me! I could easily let this mob tear you to pieces, but I would rather destroy you in a fair duel.”
“Nar, stop this,” Istian said.
Chirox stepped forward, pushing past Istian. “I have been challenged to battle, and I must accept.” The robot’s voice was flat. He extruded his full set of combat arms.
Trig carried two long pulse-swords, one in each hand. He raised the weapons high, and the mob cheered. “I will prove the superiority of humans. You taught me once, a long time ago, Chirox. But all I owe you now is your destruction.”
“Obviously no one taught you honor or gratitude,” Istian said, remaining close to the mek’s side. He raised his weapons, not caring if the mob saw him defend the machine. What else could he do?
A sneer twisted Trig’s waxy, scarred face. “Is that the voice of my friend Istian, or a pronouncement from your internal spirit of Jool Noret?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“I suppose not.”
Chirox stepped forward to face his former student. Trig clenched his two pulse-swords. Istian watched, but could not stop the useless duel. The opponents remained motionless, assessing each other.
Behind them, the mob just wanted to see the combat mek smashed and torn asunder. After the primary target of their anger was eliminated, then the zealots’ bloodlust might turn to others— like Istian Goss.
With an inarticulate yell that might have been a call for divine help, or a voicing of his lifelong anger, Nar Trig threw himself upon Chirox. In a metallic blur, the sensei mek countered and parried, his multiple arms moving like a twitching spider’s. He had fought thousands of duels with his students on Ginaz, but only once in over a century of service to humans had he actually killed— the accidental death of Jool Noret’s father.
“I should not fight you,” the robot said.
Trig’s pair of pulse-swords struck and ricocheted and drove in again, but Chirox deflected them repeatedly, catching the stun-burst tips on his insulated mechanical arms. The fury on Trig’s scarred face was plain, and he attacked with great enthusiasm, turning his frustration into strength.
Istian gripped his dagger. “Nar, stop this— or I will fight you myself!”
The other warrior turned for just an instant in surprise. “No you won’t— “
Following his programming, the combat mek saw an opening and drove in, slashing with bladed arms. He drew a fine line of blood across Trig’s chest. The man roared and hurled himself back at his mek opponent.
“I’ll deal with you later, Istian— machine lover!”
The mob growled, stirring menacingly, but they seemed hypnotized by the combat.
After all these years, Trig must have convinced himself of his superiority as a fighter. He had expected to make short work of the combat mek. But Chirox was far better than an average fighting robot. Over many generations, he had honed his skills and perfected his programming against the best human fighters on Ginaz. In his heart, Istian did not want to see his long-lost sparring partner hurt, nor did he want to see the sensei mek— to whom he owed so much— damaged or destroyed.
As the duel continued, Chirox moved with an odd hesitation, driving his bladed arms toward Trig. But at the last moment, the mek slowed, giving Trig time to dodge out of the way. This was a technique used in fighting against a shielded opponent, but Trig did not wear such protection, and Chirox knew it. Istian wondered why the sensei mek was fighting this way, and decided that Chirox didn’t want to hurt his former student.
The mek spoke as he fought, distracting Trig while diverting none of his own attention from the intense combat. “I recall another duel like this, long ago when I tested myself against Zon Noret. He commanded me to use my greatest skills, to fight with all my intensity. He believed he could best me.”
Trig was clearly listening, but
he hammered at his opponent with more vigor than ever. The mob cheered as one of the man’s pulse-swords deactivated Chirox’s lower blade appendage. The metal arm dangled life-lessly. Istian knew the combat mek could reset himself within the space of a minute, but if Trig fought properly, he would keep deactivating the robot’s defenses faster than Chirox could recover.
Istian wanted to intervene, to do something to stop this senseless exhibition, but things had gone too far. The Serena Cultists cheered. Some began pelting the mek with rocks, one of which struck the side of Istian’s ship; another clanged off the metal torso of the combat mek. But Chirox kept fighting and talking.
“Zon Noret’s overconfidence led to his death. I did not mean to kill him, but he had disabled the fail-safes, so I could not stop myself. With Zon Noret’s death, Ginaz lost a talented swordmaster who may well have conquered many other enemy machines. It was a waste of good resources.”
“I will kill you, demon!” Trig dove in again, his pulse-swords crashing against metal. “You are no match for me.”
“Wait!” Istian shouted. A rock thrown by one of the Cultists struck him on the forehead, stunning him more with surprise than pain. Blood from the cut began to spill down his brow.
Chirox did not change his stance as he defended himself. “You have forced me into a duel that is not of my choosing. I have requested that you stop, but you have refused. You leave me with no choice, Nar Trig. This”— he moved his articulated arms in a frantic blur, distracting Trig as he tried to keep up, thrusting and parrying— “this is intentional.”
With a concerted sweep of two long-bladed arms, instead of trying to stab his attacker or parry his weapons, Chirox swung a powerful lateral blow that struck Trig’s thick neck and instantly decapitated him. The head spun up into the air and thudded to the ground. Blood spurted, and the fanatical swordmaster twitched, his headless form still upright and trying to respond to nerve impulses. Both pulse-swords clattered to the ground from lifeless hands. Then the body slumped to its knees and fell forward, gouting arterial blood.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 55
