Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

With Ticia Cenva gone, the other women asked Raquella to lead them.

  Enlightened by her strange new revelations, she accepted the mantle of authority, but not for any reasons of personal power. Her inner transformation had also shown her the generational path to her own genetic history. She was intrigued by the enormous amount of breeding information the Sorceresses had compiled. So much potential in the human race!

  The secret and illegal genetic record-keeping machines were hidden deep within the stone caverns of the cliff city. The wave of antitechnology fervor sweeping across the League Worlds could not be allowed to damage the priceless bloodline data the women of Rossak had gathered over countless generations. The very idea of using thinking machines to improve humanity!

  Enduring plague and poison, Raquella had achieved a sharply altered understanding of her cellular makeup. Now she hoped to share her vision with the stunned Sorceress survivors. Could others learn to manipulate their biochemical processes, and would they require a similarly difficult ordeal to do so? What terrible instruction and testing would the candidates have to undergo?

  Drawn from the most powerful Sorceresses, they would be an elite order with special skills, linked to the distant past and the far future. It will all begin here.

  * * *

  AFTER RAQUELLA’S MIRACULOUS recovery from the Rossak Epidemic, Mohandas had rushed down from the orbiting medical ship. She went to meet him, feeling as if a great gulf suddenly separated them. But among all the lives and memories she held within herself, she also had her own times, her own history. And much of it was with Mohandas Suk.

  On the polymerized treetop landing pad, he stepped out of the shuttle and hugged her enthusiastically. “I thought I had lost you!”

  “Yes, I was lost… but I found many unexpected things along the way.”

  He clung to her, kissing her neck, focused only on being close to Raquella again. A flood of her own memories surfaced, and she used them as an anchor against all the others inside her. She and Mohandas had never had a wildly passionate relationship, but their love and their common professional bond had held them together for a quarter century.

  “There are still so many people to help,” she said. “The sick are still recovering. I can think of a thousand details, all the bodies to be buried, the food and purified water we still need, the— “

  Mohandas held her close, not letting her pull away. “We have both earned a little time together. Just an hour or so.”

  Raquella could not argue. When they found a private place, she and Mohandas explored each other, reminding themselves of what it meant to be human. They made love, and it felt fresh and full of joy to her, a celebration of life. After so many years of tending the sick and dying, after enduring this new epidemic that had killed so much of Rossak’s population, it was a small but significant affirmation.

  She felt saddened that the two of them could never go back to the innocent past, but Raquella was no longer the same person— not just in her cells, but in her mind. The unlocking of ancient memories inside her had expanded the history she could grasp, showing her the saga of her female ancestors and enabling her to see how far the human race had come… and how much farther it had left to go.

  She discovered with her new bodily control that she could easily manipulate her reproductive systems. Raquella watched with her inner eye, amazed at the miracle as she conceived a child. Lying close and warm against her, Mohandas did not know. She held him, but concentrated on the mysterious depths within her. It would be a daughter….

  Later, Mohandas told her of the plans he had made. “We’ve been through a century of the Jihad, then the Scourge, and now this new epidemic. Humanity must be prepared to face all the tragedies the universe has in store for us. When our race is at stake, important victories are won in hospitals as much as on battlefields.” He grasped Raquella’s hands, and she felt the warmth of his touch, his new passion. “We can take the best of us, the most talented researchers, the most skilled doctors, and form a medical school like none the League has ever seen. We must make sure that our doctors and facilities are such that no threat of machine, war, or plague can ever harm us again.”

  Caught up in his exuberance, Raquella smiled. “If anyone can do it, Mohandas, you can. You’ll be even more successful than your great uncle Rajid. You have far surpassed his skills as a respected battlefield surgeon.” Back in the days when the two of them had served in the lowly Hospital for Incurable Diseases on Parmentier, she would never have imagined such a possibility.

  His dark eyes shone. “You have to come with me, of course. Without you, none of these people would be cured.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, Mohandas. I… I must remain on Rossak. I have vital work to complete with these women.”

  He seemed baffled by her response. “But what could possibly be more important, Raquella? Think of what we could do together— “

  She interrupted him, pressing a gentle finger to his lips. “My mind is made up, Mohandas. The things I have seen, the abilities I can now touch… hold many mysteries, many wonders. These women, with their great powers, need a rational and worthy leader for a change, one who can guide them into a broad future.” Perhaps, Raquella thought, she could even do something for Jimmak and all the Misborn.

  Mohandas shook his head in disbelief, then his eyes filled with emotion. Though the two of them had not often displayed their feelings for each other, she saw how strong his love for her remained. Her own feelings had forever changed, though. She held him, and put her head on his shoulder so that she would not have to look into his face. “I’m sorry… my future has to be here.”

  * * *

  ONE AFTERNOON AFTER Mohandas had taken the LS Recovery to follow his own dream, Raquella waited for the Rossak women to assemble beside her on a windswept clifftop. She had summoned the Sorceresses here to this high perch to mark the beginning of their new organization.

  By necessity, theirs was a close-knit group of skilled women with tightly held secrets and explicit trust among its members. She promised that their “Sisterhood” would be founded on adaptation, tolerance, and true long-term planning. With her new perspective that spanned all of her previous generations, Raquella could understand such things now.

  If humans properly accessed their potential, they had an infinite ability to adapt to unusual, even harsh circumstances. Following the crucible of the Jihad, and more than a millennium of thinking-machine abuses, the human race was poised to take its next, most important step.

  Raquella said to the gathering, “A voice from my female ancestry called to me from inside and told me what we must do. The voice was remarkable in its harmony, as if thousands of women were speaking simultaneously. It told me we must bond together from now on to achieve our common goal of strengthening the bloodlines of humanity.”

  She and her followers still wore black robes, but they were of a more classic cut than the grieving outfits the Sorceresses had worn during the height of the Rossak Epidemic; these had high collars and hoods that, when pulled over their heads, made them look like exotic birds.

  “We will span generations and star systems and maintain a watch on the weaknesses and strengths of humanity.”

  At Raquella’s side, Karee Marques turned to look at her. The breeze blew her robe and long pale hair. This young woman, who had the potential to be among the strongest of the new Sisters, spoke up. “Certain noble families— particularly the Butlers— are already attempting to rewrite history, seeking to erase their genetic linkage to the cowardly Harkonnens, Xavier and Abulurd. In a few generations, no one will even know their connections. Shouldn’t we make sure the truth is preserved, somehow?”

  Raquella said, “We will maintain our own private records— the correct ones.”

  She gazed across the silver-purple canopy of the jungle, which teemed with so much hidden life— including Jimmak and his Misborn friends. It seemed to her that the worthwhile things in nature had a tendency to conceal themselves from d
iscovery, just as it was with the ideal genetic mix that she sought. She and her Sisters were embarking on an epic search that would require infinite patience and dedication.

  But with the empire of the thinking machines vanquished, and a far-reaching new human empire in its embryonic stages, mankind was suffused with creative energy on a scale never before seen in history, a renaissance. Someone had to keep watch.

  “You will journey to distant worlds, furthering our political aims so that our Sisterhood will remain strong for centuries. Disperse yourselves in every noble house. Just imagine how much you can observe and learn as employees, wives, mistresses, and fighters, while your primary loyalty remains with the Sisterhood.”

  The women smiled, looking forward to their new missions.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, as the robed women returned to their cliffside homes, Karee approached Raquella. “After the epidemic, shouldn’t our first priority be to rebuild our own population here on Rossak? We have lost so many families, so many breeders among the men.”

  Raquella thought of the embryonic daughter she now carried, cells busily dividing in her womb. It gave her a bittersweet pang to think that Mohandas might never know he had a child. “As always in the wake of a great loss, our Sisters will be tempted to consent to unchecked reproduction. But we must choose only the best partners and keep careful records. The genetic databases will help us select the proper mates. It cannot be random.”

  The young Sorceress looked crestfallen. “We must breed only according to the bloodline charts? Can’t there be at least a small concession to love?”

  “Love.” Raquella rolled the word around in her mouth. “We must be careful of that particular emotion, because it tricks a woman into thinking of one cherished individual instead of the larger perspective. Love introduces too many random factors. Now that we have a DNA road map, we can steer a clear course.”

  “I… understand.” The young woman sounded disappointed. Did she already have a sweetheart among the survivors?

  Raquella studied her classically beautiful features, and said, “Understanding is only the beginning.”

  No matter where I go, the universe always finds me.

  — SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES,

  Reflections on Loss

  At Zimia Spaceport, a hawk-featured man walked around an old-design update vessel, making his final inspection before takeoff. Freshly painted and overhauled, the old black-and-silver ship reflected the golden rays of the setting sun. Once he left, he doubted anyone here would ever see him again.

  Vorian no longer wore any uniform. He tried to imagine what true freedom would be like, away from the duties that had imprisoned him for decades. It was time he left and flew far away, to the Unallied Planets and beyond. He would not regret leaving anything behind. Gone would be the cares of the Jihad, and he would rarely think of Abulurd, Agamemnon, Omnius, or any of the others who had inflicted so much pain on him.

  His long career as a fighting man was concluded, and he did not know what lay ahead for him. He had lived two human lifetimes so far, and might easily have more than that remaining in his supercharged genes. He had begun to show faint signs of aging— he looked thirty at the most— but in his bones, in his very soul, he carried the fatigue of a thousand years. The Jihad and all of its tragedies had taken a great deal out of him, and he didn’t know when, or if, he would ever recover.

  Maybe he would stop on Rossak to visit his dedicated granddaughter Raquella, who worked there with the surviving Sorceresses. He had no idea what they were doing, or why, but he looked forward to finding out. Maybe he would even go back to Caladan. He should at least say goodbye to his sons and grandchildren.

  He felt like a galactic tourist with no schedule to keep, none of the pressures to which he had grown so accustomed over the past century.

  For backwater trips on planets, he had brought an inflatable boat and suspensor-driven platforms that were compact and stowed away in the Dream Voyager‘s storage compartments. He also had enough provisions to last for a long time. Vor could roam anywhere he wanted, discovering anything he liked. Most of his life had been devoted to learning and perfecting the art of war, but he had no use for such skills anymore.

  Ironically, he did have a use for something he had learned early in life, long before he’d ever become a famous Hero of the Jihad, back to the easy days when he and Seurat had made update runs between Synchronized Worlds. Days of simplicity. This ship, once filled with computerized systems, now had only a manual operation system. With the redundancies that Vor had specified in the reconstruction, the craft would serve him well. Fewer parts and less sophisticated systems meant increased reliability, fewer breakdowns.

  He boarded the Dream Voyager and took off a day ahead of schedule, so that he could avoid any fanfare or goodbyes. As he rose through the atmosphere, a huge weight lifted from his shoulders, replaced by a sensation of raw excitement, as if he were newly born into a life full of promise again.

  A bad decision requires only a moment to make, but future generations can suffer for centuries as a result.

  — SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES,

  Final Assessment of the Jihad (Fifth Revision)

  Abulurd Harkonnen went into exile on the cold backwater world of Lankiveil. Banished for cowardice and reviled by the League, he accepted his fate in this forbidding and unwelcome place. He wanted nothing more than to withdraw and never be seen again.

  Though Abulurd had wanted only to save the innocent human shields at the Bridge of Hrethgir, and though the machines had been vanquished in the end, Vorian was never able to forgive him for disobeying orders. The Supreme Bashar had considered the act not only a betrayal of his military duties, but of their relationship as well.

  After all his service, unable to recover from his disgrace, Abulurd was disgusted with the League of Nobles, with his brother Faykan and his petty politics— and most of all with Vorian Atreides, the man whom he had loved but who had proved to be just as inhuman as the Titan Agamemnon.

  Abulurd had expected to be forgiven, but coldhearted Vorian Atreides had shown no compassion whatsoever.

  Worst of all, Vorian would never follow through on his promise to remove the unfair stain from Xavier Harkonnen’s name. If Abulurd had returned a hero, he and Vor could have rehabilitated Xavier’s memory, making the League of Nobles remember his grandfather as the great man he truly was. Just as he went into exile, the parliamentary task force that Vor had set up to look into the matter was disbanded.

  Before Abulurd’s trial, the Supreme Bashar had briefly visited Abulurd in his Zimia holding cell. He stared at the prisoner in silence for a long moment, and Abulurd waited, prepared to endure what he had to.

  Measuring his words carefully, Vor said, “Xavier was my friend. But it is no longer possible to sanitize the Harkonnen name. People will say the blood runs true, that the taint of dishonor from your grandfather has passed through to you. Because of your treachery, you’ve lost whatever glory your family had.” Contempt and scorn etched his face, and he left.

  The encounter had lasted less than a minute, yet it burned like acid in Abulurd’s memory. At the time, he had been deeply hurt; now, thinking back on Vor’s words, he felt simmering anger.

  But even banished from the League of Nobles, Abulurd had enough income to sustain himself on Lankiveil. Viceroy Faykan Corrino, wrapping himself in his protective and glorious mantle, had proclaimed that Abulurd and all his descendants must retain the reviled Harkonnen name. And in time, few would remember that Harkonnens and Corrinos had ever shared blood ties….

  Abulurd built his new home in the heart of a dismal village at the head of a steep-walled fjord on Lankiveil. The people were fishermen and farmers, living outside the influence of the League and uninterested in politics or current affairs. They did not care about their new lord’s shame, and eventually he learned to live with it, still convinced of his own rightness at the Battle of Corrin.

  After a few years, he mar
ried a local woman and produced a family with three sons. After he told them of his past, his wife and children fantasized about the riches that had been stolen from their family, and seethed about the opportunities forever denied to the Harkonnens. They resented the very thought of Vorian Atreides. Abulurd’s sons came to see themselves as princes in exile, cut off from their noble heritage even though they themselves had never done anything wrong.

  One day, one of Abulurd’s sons— Dirdos— found his father’s old green-and-crimson uniform from the Army of Humanity, neatly pressed and stored away, and tried it on. It hurt Abulurd to see his son in the once-revered uniform, and he immediately took it away and burned it. But that only inspired the Harkonnen children to make up new tales of lost glory.

  Decades later, when Abulurd and his wife both died from a fever that swept through the fishing village, the Harkonnen sons blamed Atreides. Without any proof to support their claim, the sons said Vorian Atreides himself had spread the malady, just to wipe out their family.

  Abulurd’s sons passed countless stories to their own children, exaggerating how important the Harkonnen family had been and how far they had fallen. All because of Vorian Atreides.

  Isolated on Lankiveil, later generations swore vengeance against their mortal enemies the Atreides. In the centuries that followed, by the time the Harkonnens made their tentative return to the new Corrino empire, their stories became accepted as fact. And the Harkonnens never forgot.

  The deep desert is not an exile. It is solitude. It is safe.

  — NAIB ISHMAEL,

  Fire Poetry from Arrakis

  Ishmael recovered from the sandworm duel, but his heart did not.

  Though he had lost his challenge, he did not accept defeat, for he knew that too much rested on his ability to save the Zensunni people, to preserve their heritage in the face of temptation from outsiders.

  After his aging body healed from its physical injuries, Ishmael decided to gather a pack and supplies and set off alone into the deep desert— as Selim Wormrider had done following his original exile from Naib Dhartha’s village.