“Where is Gilbertus?” the Serena clone asked.
“Sir!” the first engineer shouted over the command comline. “We can’t stop the destruct mechanism! You’ve got to leave!”
The Tlulaxa shouted, “Take me with you. I have a great deal of information you could— “
Six combat robots, stationed there by Erasmus when he had ordered the rescue of Gilbertus Albans, marched through the chamber’s opposite end. Detecting Vor and the other soldiers, they began firing integral weapons. Two projectiles struck harmlessly off Vor’s shield as he hit the deck. The few hostages who had not yet gotten away were mowed down. One of his guards, carelessly unshielded, was struck in the shoulder, and he went down, clutching the raw wound.
Vor and his three remaining guards could not fire back without deactivating their shields. The robots advanced rapidly and loudly, shooting wildly. The Serena clone stepped in front of them— trying to delay them for some unfathomable reason? Did she remember, after all?
He tried to rush forward, but she was cut to pieces by repeated fire. Vor watched in revulsion as the thinking machines killed Serena Butler again.
One of the heavy projectiles caromed off the metal hull, smashing through the wall of the failing cargo container. Air shrieked through the breach, spraying out into the vacuum.
Furious, Vor switched off his own shield and blasted the oncoming robots with his heavy projectile weapon. Two of the combat machines staggered backward, giving him just enough time to grab the wounded soldier, dragging him along. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
Switching his shield back on, Vor didn’t look behind him. He hauled the injured soldier around the bodies as the other guards alternated firing at the robots and switching their personal shields back on.
The combat engineer yelled over the comline that the destruct sequence had entered its final phase. Vor ran, but he felt numb. None of the Serenas were real. The baby wasn’t real. It had all been a stupid, desperate trick.
With the remaining combat meks still coming, Vor retreated through the connecting tube fastened to his command shuttle. His men fired from the rear, and then he rolled inside the shuttle with them. He handed off the injured soldier, and other men rushed the wounded man inside with them. Vor dove after them, sprawling on the deck as the last combat engineer sealed the hatch shut.
“Disengage!” Vor shouted.
As the flagship separated from the doomed cargo container, the rigged explosives finally detonated, destroying the Tlulaxa researcher and his unholy creations.
Even Norma Cenva had to struggle for perfection, and never achieved it.
— Origins of the Spacing Guild
Life confined in a tank… but a mind without boundaries. Who could ask for more freedom?
Permanently addicted to the spice gas that swirled in an orange mist around her, impregnating her every pore, every cell, she never left the sealed enclosure anymore. Norma didn’t even know if she could leave. Survival might not be possible for her on the outside. Not anymore.
During her long and eventful life, Norma had been many things, from a scorned and misshapen dwarf to a mathematical genius… to a beautiful wife and mother. And now, the next phase— something much, much more.
Even in a sealed spice tank, she was not prevented from traveling anywhere she wished. She could guide VenKee ships safely through the labyrinth of folded space. The whole universe lay open before her.
She drew all of the nutrients she needed from the spice itself. Her direct physical senses were deadened, and Norma no longer cared about taste, touch, or smell. She still required her hearing and eyesight, but only to communicate with Adrien and the VenKee assistants, who fulfilled any needs she expressed to them.
But it was so difficult to talk down to their level.
Her alternate, deeper form of sight was much more significant and interesting than what she had lost. Triggered by the transformation she’d undergone during Xerxes’s torture years ago, Norma had evolved beyond physical boundaries, beyond human.
She found it remarkable to see webbing between her fingers and toes. Her face, once blunt-featured and later flawlessly beautiful, now had a small mouth and tiny eyes surrounded by smooth folds. Her head was immense, while the rest of her body atrophied to a useless appendage.
But none of that mattered in the least to her.
With her prescience, Norma saw the future, like reflections within reflections, echoing to infinity. In her mind she could see— and encompass— the entire universe, and she knew there were no limits to what she could achieve. She watched the direction humanity would take, toward an interplanetary empire connected by her spacefolder ships… the lifeline of commerce for trillions of people.
Serena Butler’s Jihad and the resulting antithinking machine fanaticism— as well as an abiding horror of the terrible biological weapons unleashed by Omnius and the appalling atomics used in the Great Purge— would leave an indelible mark on humanity for millennia.
But humanity would survive, and would create a vast realm of politics, business, religion, and philosophy, all held together by the spice melange.
With her new prescient vision, she could guide VenKee spacefolders on safe and instantaneous journeys across vast distances. And Norma could not complete all the work alone. She had to make others capable of navigating with their own prescience, enhanced by using massive amounts of spice gas….
* * *
SHE NEVER ASKED Adrien where he found his first ten volunteers. As the fabulously wealthy directeur of VenKee Enterprises and its newest venture, the Foldspace Shipping Company, Adrien had numerous connections. Already, the candidates were confined to chambers filled with gradually increasing concentrations of melange gas. They would begin mutating and changing, much like Norma. One day these volunteers would navigate fast company vessels throughout the League and the Unallied Planets, but Norma knew they would never have the far-reaching vision she possessed.
Norma felt impatience as she waited for her own mutations to reach the end of their genetic journey. She envisioned the political, commercial, religious, philosophical, and technological tomorrows scrolling off into an infinite distance.
She would blaze a trail through the cosmos. Like no other person who had ever existed, she had a unique, highly specialized set of talents.
But even with her unparalleled prescience, Norma could not determine what would eventually become of her.
There is a certain malevolence concerning the formation of a social order. Despotism lies at one end of the spectrum, and slavery at the other.
— TLALOC,
A Time for Titans
When the Army of Humanity returned to Salusa Secundus after its victory against the thinking machines, the delirious celebrations throughout Zimia and across the League Worlds surpassed even the fervor of Rayna Butler’s technology-hating fanatics.
Stories of the Battle of Corrin were told, retold, and constantly embellished. The Supreme Bashar’s gutsy show of force at the Bridge of Hrethgir had turned disaster into an unqualified triumph, forever eradicating the enemy. All vestiges of the evermind Omnius were gone, and more than a thousand years of machine oppression was over. Humanity was free at last, able to march unfettered into the future, at its own pace, for its own glory.
Vorian Atreides, hero of the Battle of Corrin, took his place beside Viceroy Butler and Rayna in Salusa’s grand plaza for the celebration. The Supreme Bashar wore his full-dress uniform, including new medals and decorations that had been crafted for him. He had rendered military service for his own reasons, ever since Serena had convinced him of the innate power of humanity. Now, though, looking at the unruly crowd, he felt misgivings about the future that humanity might choose to create for itself.
Around Zimia, he still saw the scars of the recent Cultist uprisings: burned buildings, smashed facades, the scattered wreckage of once-useful machines. The Cult of Serena was out in the vast audience in force, holding banners and their symbolic cl
ubs. Robots in effigy were pummeled and battered by the cheering crowds, as if it were a child’s game.
Through it all, Faykan smiled at his niece and stood close, basking in her halo. Vor could see all too clearly what he was trying to do.
On the long voyage home, Vor knew that the Viceroy had made careful plans with his fervant niece, even while she recovered from her injuries. Faykan offered her the position of Grand Matriarch, but oddly enough the pallid young woman did not want the title. She wanted only promises from her uncle that he would follow through and help complete the social cleansing she envisioned across the League.
Vor did not have such grand hopes, though. If Rayna continued her purges, the rampant eradication of technology would sweep unchecked across all inhabited worlds. Anyone could see that this would set off a new dark age… but at the moment Vor feared Faykan was most concerned about securing his own power base. In the current climate, the Viceroy could not have formed a secular state without emotional trappings.
Suddenly free of their inhuman enemies, the people turned to their religions, in thanksgiving and hope. Blind faith was a source of energy the League would have to tap. The human race would face centuries of rebuilding, but apparently Faykan didn’t trust them to perform those difficult labors out of political necessity. Something else needed to drive them.
Unfortunately, with their demons now gone, Rayna’s followers were bound to grow restless again, as soon as the euphoria of the Battle of Corrin wore off. Vor saw deeply troubled times ahead….
Under the bright sunlight of a perfect day, Viceroy Butler raised his hands. The cheering swelled to a deafening crescendo, then faded into silence. Faykan played the crowds, let their anticipation build. Finally, he cried, “This is a time of great changes! Following a thousand years of tribulation, we have earned our inevitable triumph, as promised by God. We have paid for our victory with uncounted— but not forgotten— debts. We cannot exaggerate the significance of the Battle of Corrin and the wondrous opportunities the future will provide us.
“To commemorate this great event, with my niece Rayna Butler and Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides, I announce that I will merge my office of Viceroy with the duties of the Grand Patriarch, whose position has been vacant since the murder of Xander Boro-Ginjo.
“From this day forward, rather than letting the power be fragmented and diluted, authority shall reside in one person in myself and in my successors. There is much work to be done in transforming our weary League of Nobles into a more effective form of government. We will create a new empire of mankind that can grow and reclaim the glories of the Old Empire— while avoiding its fatal mistakes.”
On cue, the audience cheered. Though surprised by the announcement, Vor was not particularly bothered. He’d never had any use for the office of the Grand Patriarch anyway, which had been created for Iblis Ginjo’s purposes. Now, in Faykan Butler’s smile and in his eyes, Vor could see echoes of Serena at her most passionate.
When the uproar subsided, Faykan placed his hand on Rayna’s slender shoulder. “So that no one will ever forget how we have changed, henceforth I shall no longer be known by the name of Butler. I come from a great and honorable family, but from this day forward, I wish to be known for the Battle of Corrin, my crowning achievement, that put an end to the thinking machines.”
Right, Vor thought, concealing a cynical smile. He did it all by himself.
“Henceforth,” Faykan continued, “let the people call me Corrino so that all of my descendants will remember that battle and this great day.”
* * *
IN SHARP CONTRAST to the ecstatic celebrations, the mood was somber and murderous the following afternoon, when the prisoner Abulurd Harkonnen was brought in to face charges in the cavernous Hall of Parliament. Initially, Faykan had wanted his younger brother dragged into the assembly chamber in chains, but Vorian argued against that, showing a last flicker of compassion for the man who had been his friend. “He wears the shackles of his own guilt. His conscience is heavier than anything we could do to him.”
Outside in the streets, the mobs— seeking any enemy against whom to vent their anger— howled and swore at the traitor. Given the chance, they would have torn Abulurd limb from limb. He had hamstrung the Vengeance Fleet in its moment of greatest need. Neither the people, nor history, could ever forgive him for that.
Inside the chamber, League representatives and military officers watched Abulurd being marched to the center of the floor. During the journey back from Corrin, most of Abulurd’s bruises and other injuries had healed from his beating, but he still looked wan and battered. The audience glowered at him, their hatred and outrage palpable. Though they knew of the bashar’s previous exemplary service, nothing could sway the juggernaut of charges against him.
Faykan stood inside the speaking chamber, confronting the disgraced officer— his own brother, though they had not shared a family name for years. “Abulurd Harkonnen, former officer in the Army of the Jihad, you stand accused of high treason against the human race. Whether through collusion or poor judgment, your actions nearly caused grievous harm to our fleet— and, by extension, the whole of the human race. Will you further ruin your honor by offering excuses for your behavior?”
Abulurd bowed his head. “The record makes clear my motivations. Either accept or dismiss them. In the end, for whatever reason, it was not necessary to kill two million innocent hostages. If I must pay for that decision now, so be it.”
The people in the hall grumbled. For them, no amount of torment would be sufficient to punish this traitor.
“The penalty for treason is clear,” Faykan said. “If you refuse to give us an alternative, then this Assembly has no choice but to condemn you to execution.”
Abulurd hung his head and said nothing further. The chamber fell deathly silent. “Will no one speak on this man’s behalf?” the Viceroy asked, looking around. He pointedly refused to call Abulurd his brother. “I will not.”
Abulurd kept his gaze fixed on the floor. He had made up his mind not to look at the faces in the audience. The wordless moment seemed interminable.
Finally, just as the Viceroy raised his hand to pronounce sentence, Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides rose slowly to his feet in the front row. “With great reservations, I propose that we withdraw the accusation of treason against Abulurd Harkonnen, and limit the charge to… cowardice.”
A gasp rang through the hall. Abulurd looked up sharply. “Cowardice? Don’t do that, I beg of you!”
Faykan said quietly, “But cowardice is not technically accurate, considering his crimes. His actions do not meet the criteria— “
“Nevertheless, a charge of cowardice will wound him more deeply than any other.” His words were as sharp as ice picks. Vor continued, his voice stronger now. “Abulurd once served bravely, fighting the thinking machines. During the time of the Scourge, he coordinated the evacuation and defense of Salusa Secundus, and he fought at my side when the piranha mites attacked Zimia. But he refused to fight the thinking machines when called upon to do so by his legitimate commanding officer. When faced with the terrible consequences of a decision, he showed disgraceful fear, and allowed it rather than duty to dictate his actions. He is a coward and should be banished from the League.”
“That is worse,” Abulurd cried.
Vor narrowed his gray eyes and leaned forward from his stand. “Yes, Abulurd— I believe it is.”
Looking broken, Abulurd let his shoulders droop, and he began to shake. After all his work of trying to erase the charges against his grandfather Xavier, this accusation struck him to the core.
Faykan seized the opportunity. “A fine idea, Supreme Bashar! I decree that the proposed sentence is appropriate and hereby order that it be carried out. Abulurd Harkonnen, you are judged a coward— perhaps the greatest coward in history— both for the harm you did, and for all the harm you could have done. You will be despised long after your reviled grandfather Xavier Harkonnen is forgotten.”
Vor spoke to Abulurd as if there was no one else in the great chamber. “You failed me at the moment I needed you most. Never again will I look upon your face. This I swear.” In a dramatic gesture, Vorian Atreides turned his back on him. “From this day forth, let all who bear the name Atreides spit on the name of Harkonnen.”
Without glancing over his shoulder, the Supreme Bashar strode out of the Hall of Parliament, leaving Abulurd to stand there alone in his misery. After a brief hesitation, Faykan Corrino also turned his back on his brother, and left the hall without a word.
Muttering and rustling, all of the gathered military officers followed suit, standing up in a wave and abandoning Abulurd to his solitary, ignominious fate. One by one the parliamentary representatives stood, turned away from the coward, and departed. Rapidly, the facility emptied.
Abulurd stood shaking in the middle of the echoing floor. He wanted to call out, to beg forgiveness or leniency, even to ask for execution so that he would not have to live forever with the terrible stigma on his name. But soon no respected member of the League of Nobles remained, except for his two guards. Every seat in the echoing hall was empty.
Abulurd Harkonnen did not resist when the Zimia guards took him away and sent him off to his lifelong exile.
We cannot move forward without the past. We carry it with us, not as baggage but as a sacred blessing.
— REVEREND MOTHER RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL
Though not born on Rossak, Raquella had earned the respect of the few Sorceresses who survived the epidemic. The vaccine she converted using her own antibodies had saved thousands, but the jungle world would be a long time recovering from the horrendous effects of the mutated plague.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 65
