HUNTING HARKONNENS
A Tale of the Butlerian Jihad
The Harkonnen space yacht left the family-held industries on Hagal and crossed the interstellar gulf toward Salusa Secundus. The streamlined vessel flew silently, in contrast to the fusillade of angry shouts inside the cockpit.
Stern, hard-line Ulf Harkonnen piloted the yacht, concentrating on the hazards of space and the constant threat of thinking machines, though he kept lecturing his twenty-one-year-old son, Piers. Ulf’s wife, Katarina, too gentle a soul to be worthy of the Harkonnen name, asserted that the quarrel had gone on long enough. “Further criticism and shouting will serve no purpose, Ulf.”
Vehemently, the elder Harkonnen disagreed.
Piers sat fuming, unrepentant; he was not cut out for the cutthroat practices his noble family expected, no matter how much his father tried to bully him into them. He knew Ulf would browbeat and humiliate him all the way home. The gruff older man refused to consider that his son’s ideas for more humane methods might actually be more efficient than the inflexible, domineering ways.
Clutching the ship controls with a death grip, Ulf growled at his son, “Thinking machines are efficient. Humans, especially riffraff like our slaves on Hagal, are meant to be used. I doubt you’ll ever get that through your skull.” He shook his large, squarish head. “Sometimes, Piers, I think I should clean up the gene pool by eliminating you.”
“Then why don’t you?” Piers snapped, defiant. His father believed in forceful decisions, every question with a black-or-white answer, and that belittling his son would drive him to do better.
“I can’t, because your brother, Xavier, is too young to be the Harkonnen heir, so you’re the only choice I have … for the time being. I keep hoping you’ll understand your responsibility to our family. You’re a noble, meant to command, not to show the workers how soft you can be.”
Katarina pleaded, “Ulf, you may not agree with the changes Piers made on Hagal, but at least he thought it through and was trying a new process. Given time, it might have led to improved productivity.”
“And meanwhile the Harkonnen family goes bankrupt?” Ulf held a thick finger toward his son as if it were a weapon. “Piers, those people took terrible advantage of you, and you’re lucky I arrived in time to stop the damage. When I provide you with detailed instructions on how our family holdings are to be run, I do not expect you to come up with a ‘better’ idea.”
“Is your mind so fossilized that you can’t accept new ideas?” Piers asked.
“Your instincts are faulty, and you have a very naïve view of human nature.” Ulf shook his head, growling in disappointment. “He takes after you, Katarina—that’s his main problem.” Like his mother, Piers had a narrow face, full lips, and a delicate expression … quite different from Ulf’s shaggy gray hair framing a blunt-featured face. “You would have been a better poet than a Harkonnen.”
That was meant to be a grave insult, but Piers secretly agreed. The young man had always enjoyed reading histories of the Old Empire, days of decadence and ennui before the thinking machines had conquered many civilized solar systems. Piers would have fit into those times well as a writer, a storyteller.
“I gave you an opportunity, son, hoping that I could depend on you. But I have my answer.” The elder Harkonnen stood, clenching his large, callused fists. “This whole trip has been a waste.”
Katarina caressed her husband’s broad back, trying to calm him. “Ulf, we’re passing near the Caladan system. You talked about stopping there to investigate the possibility of new holdings … maybe fishing operations?”
Ulf hunched his shoulders. “All right, we’ll divert to Caladan and take a look.” He snapped his head up. “But in the meantime, I want this disgrace of a son sealed in the lifepod chamber. It’s the closest thing to a brig onboard. He needs to learn his lesson, take his responsibilities seriously, or he will never be a true Harkonnen.”
AS HE SULKED inside his improvised cell, with its cream-colored walls and silver instrument panels, Piers stared out the small porthole. He hated arguments with his stubborn father. The rigid old ways of the Harkonnen family were not always best. Instead of imposing tough conditions and harsh punishments, why not try treating workers with respect?
Workers. He remembered how his father had reacted to the word. “Next you’ll want to call them employees. They are slaves!” Ulf had thundered as they stood in the overseer’s office back on Hagal. “They have no rights.”
“But they deserve rights,” Piers responded. “They’re human beings, not machines.”
Ulf had barely contained his violence. “Perhaps I should beat you the way my father beat me, pounding contrition and responsibility into you. This isn’t a game. You’re leaving now, boy. Get on the ship.”
Like a scolded child, Piers had done as he was commanded … .
He wished he could stand toe to toe with his father, just once. Every time he tried, though, Ulf made him feel that he had let the family down, as if he were a shirker who would waste their hard-won fortunes.
His father had trusted him to manage the family holdings on Hagal, grooming him as the next head of the Harkonnen businesses. This assignment had been an important step for Piers, with complete authority over the sheet diamond operations. A chance, a test. The implicit understanding was that he would operate the mines as they had always been run.
Harkonnens held the mining rights to all sheet diamonds on sparsely populated Hagal. The largest mine filled an entire canyon. Piers recalled how sunlight played off the glassy cliffs, dancing on the prismatic surfaces. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
The cliff faces were diamond sheets with blue-green quartz marking the perimeters like irregular picture frames. Human-operated mining machines crawled along the cliffs like fat, silver insects: no artificial intelligence, and therefore considered safe. History had shown that even the most innocuous types of AI could ultimately turn against humans. Entire star systems were now under the control of diabolically smart machines, and in those dark sectors of the universe, human slaves followed the commands of mechanized masters.
At optimal spots on the shimmering cliffs, the mining machines would lock onto the surface with suction devices and separate the diamond material with sound waves at natural points of fissure. Holding diamond sheets in their grasp, the dumb machines would make their way back down the cliff to loading areas.
It was an efficient process, but sometimes the sonic cutting procedure shattered the diamond sheets. Though once Piers gave the slaves a stake in the profits, such mishaps occurred much less frequently, as if they took greater care when they received a vested interest.
Overseeing the Hagal operation, Piers had come up with the idea of letting the captive gangs work without typical Harkonnen regulations and close oversight. While some slaves accepted the incentive program, a number of problems did surface. With reduced supervision, some slaves ran away; others were disorganized or lazy, just waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Initially, productivity dropped, but he was sure the output would eventually meet, and even exceed, previous levels.
Before that could happen, though, his father had made an unannounced visit to Hagal. And Ulf Harkonnen wasn’t interested in creative ideas or humanitarian improvements if profits were down … .
His parents had been forced to leave their younger son, Xavier, on Salusa with a pleasant old-school couple. “I shudder to think how the boy will turn out if they raise him. Emil and Lucille Tantor don’t know how to be strict.”
Eavesdropping, Piers knew why his manipulative father had left his little brother with the Tantors. Since the aging couple was childless, wily Ulf was working his way into their good graces. He hoped the Tantors might eventually leave their estate to their dear “godson” Xavier.
Piers hated the way his father used people, whether they were slaves, other nobles, or members of his own family. It was disgusting. But now, trapped inside the cramped lifepod chamber, he
could do nothing about it.
PROGRAMMING MADE THE thinking machines relentless and determined, but only the cruelty of a human mind could generate enough ruthless hatred to feed a war of extermination for a thousand years.
Though they were kept in reluctant thrall by the pervasive computer mind Omnius, the cymeks—hybrid machines with human minds—often bided their time by hunting between the stars. They would capture feral humans and bring them back to slavery on the Synchronized Worlds, or just kill them for sport … .
The leader of the cymeks, a general who had taken the imposing name of Agamemnon, had once led the group of tyrants that conquered the decaying Old Empire. As implacable soldiers in the cause, the tyrants had reprogrammed the subservient robots and computers to give them a thirst for conquest. When his mortal human body grew old and weak, Agamemnon had undergone a surgical process that removed his brain and implanted it within a preservation canister that he could install into various mechanical bodies.
Agamemnon and his fellow tyrants had intended to rule for centuries … but then the artificially aggressive computers stepped into power when they saw the chance, exploiting the tyrants’ lack of diligence. The Omnius network then ruled the remnants of the Old Empire, subjugating the cymek tyrants along with the rest of already-downtrodden humanity.
For centuries, Agamemnon and his fellow conquerors had been forced to serve the computer evermind, with no chance of regaining their own rule. Their greatest source of amusement was in tracking down stray humans who had managed to maintain their independence from machine domination. Still, the cymek general found it a most unsatisfactory venting of his frustrations.
His brain canister had been installed inside a fast scout vessel that patrolled areas known to be inhabited by League humans. Six cymeks accompanied the general as their ships skirted the edge of a small solar system. They found little of interest, only one human-compatible world composed of mostly water.
Then Agamemnon’s long-range sensors spotted another vessel. A human vessel.
He increased resolution and pointed out the target to his companions. Triangulating with their combined detection abilities, Agamemnon discerned that the lone ship was a small space yacht, its sophisticated configuration and style implying that its passengers were important members of the League, rich merchants … perhaps even smug nobles, the most gratifying victims of all.
“Just what we’ve been waiting for,” said Agamemnon.
The cymek ships adjusted course and accelerated. Connected through thoughtrodes, Agamemnon’s brain flew his ship-body as if it were a large bird of prey, zeroing in on his helpless target. He also had a terrestrial walker stored aboard, a warrior form that could be used for planetary combat.
The first cymek shots took the League vessel completely by surprise. The doomed human pilot barely had time to take evasive maneuvers. Kinetic projectiles scraped the hull, pounding one of the engines, but the ship’s defensive armor protected it against severe damage. Cymek ships swept past, strafing again with explosive projectiles, and the human yacht reeled, intact but disoriented.
“Careful, boys,” Agamemnon said. “We don’t want to destroy the prize.”
Out on the outskirts of League space, far from the Synchronized Worlds, the feral humans obviously hadn’t expected to encounter enemy predators, and the captain of this vessel had been particularly inattentive. Defeating him would be almost embarrassing. His cymek hunters would hope for a better challenge, a more entertaining pursuit …
The human pilot got his damaged engine back on line and increased speed down into the isolated system, fleeing toward the water world. In his wake, the human launched a flurry of intensely bright explosive shells, which caused little physical damage, but sent pulses of confusing static through the machine sensors of the cymek ships. Agamemnon’s cymek followers transmitted a series of imaginative curses. Surprisingly, the human victim responded in a gruff, defiant voice with equal venom and vigor.
Agamemnon chuckled to himself and sent a thought-command. This would be more fun. His attack ship burst forward like a wild and energetic horse, part of his imaginary body. “Give chase!” The cymeks, enjoying the game, swooped after the hapless human vessel.
The doomed pilot flew standard maneuvers to evade the pursuers. Agamemnon held back, trying to determine if the human was truly so inexperienced or just lulling the cymeks into an unwarranted sense of ease.
They plummeted toward the peaceful blue world—Caladan, according to the onboard database. The world reminded him of the blue irises his human eyes once had … . It had been so many centuries, the cymek general could recall few details of his original physical appearance.
Agamemnon could have transmitted an ultimatum to the pilot, but humans and cymeks knew the stakes in their long-simmering war. The space yacht opened fire, a few pathetically weak blasts designed for shoving troublesome meteoroids out of the way rather than defending against overt military action. If this was a nobleman’s ship, it should have much more serious offensive and defensive weapons. The cymeks laughed and closed in, perceiving no threat.
As soon as they approached, though, the desperate human pilot launched another flurry of explosives, apparently the same as the gnat-bite bombs he had launched previously, but Agamemnon detected slight fluctuations. “Caution, I suspect—”
Four proximity mines, each a space charge ten times as powerful as the first artillery, detonated with huge shock waves. Two of the cymek hunters suffered external damage; one was completely destroyed.
Agamemnon lost his patience. “Back off! Engage ship defenses !”
But the yacht pilot fired no more explosives. With one of the surviving cymeks moving only sluggishly, the human could easily have taken him out. Since he did not, the human prey must have no further weapons available. Or was it another trick?
“Don’t underestimate the vermin.”
Agamemnon had hoped to take the feral humans captive, delivering them to Omnius for experiments or analysis, since “wild” specimens were considered different from those raised for generations in captivity. But, angry at the pointless loss of one of his overeager companions, the general decided it was just too much trouble.
“Vaporize that ship,” he transmitted to his five remaining followers. Without waiting for the other cymeks to join him, Agamemnon opened fire.
INSIDE THE LIFEPOD, Piers could only watch in horror and wait to die.
The enemy cymeks pounded them again. In the cockpit, his father shouted curses, and his mother did her best at the weapons station. Their eyes betrayed no fear, only showed strong determination. Harkonnens did not die easily.
Ulf had insisted on installing the best armor and defensive systems available, always suspicious, always ready to fight against any threat. But this lone yacht could not withstand a concerted attack from seven fully armed and aggressive cymek marauders.
Sealed inside the dim compartment, Piers could do nothing to help. He watched the attacking machines through the porthole, sure his family could not hold out long. Even his father, who refused to bow to defeat, looked as if he had no tricks remaining to him.
Sensing the imminent kill, the cymeks streaked closer. Piers heard repeated thumps reverberating in the vessel. Through the hatch porthole, Piers saw his mother and father gesturing desperately at one another.
Another cymek blast finally breached the protective plates and damaged the yacht’s engines as the vessel careened toward the not-close-enough planet with broad blue seas and white lacings of cloud. Sparks flew on the bridge, and the wounded ship began to tumble.
Ulf Harkonnen shouted something at his wife, then lurched toward the lifepod, trying to keep his balance. Katarina called after him. Piers couldn’t figure out what they were arguing about; the ship was doomed.
Cymek weapons fire rocked the vessel with a dull concussion, sending Ulf skidding across the deck. Even the augmented hull armor could not withstand much more. The elder Harkonnen struggled to his feet at the li
fepod hatch, and Piers suddenly realized that his father wanted to unlock the chamber and get both of them inside with their son.
Piers read his mother’s lips as she shouted, “No time!”
The lifepod’s instrument panel flashed and began running through test cycles. Piers hammered on the hatch, but they had sealed him inside. He couldn’t get out to help them.
While Ulf tried frantically to work the hatch controls, Katarina raced for the panel on the wall and slapped the activation switch. While Ulf turned to his wife in astonishment and dismay, Katarina mouthed a desperate farewell to her son.
With a lurch, the lifepod shot into space, away from the doomed space yacht.
Acceleration threw Piers to the deck, but he scrambled to his knees, to the observation port. Behind him, as the lifepod tumbled recklessly through space, the cymek marauders opened fire again and again, six angry thinking machines combining their destructive power.
The Harkonnen ship erupted in a sequence of explosions into a dazzling fireball, which dissipated into the cluttered vacuum … snuffed out along with the lives of his parents.
Like a cannonball, the lifepod tore into the atmosphere of Caladan, spraying red sparks of reentry as it zoomed toward the blue oceans on the sunlit side of the planet.
Piers struggled with the crude emergency controls in an effort to maneuver, but the small ship didn’t respond, as if it were a machine rebelling against its human master. At this rate of speed, he couldn’t possibly survive.
The young Harkonnen heir took an agonized breath and tapped pressure pads to alter the thruster pattern. He had little experience in piloting, though his father had insisted that he learn; previously, the skill had not been a priority for Piers, but now he had to figure out the systems without delay.
Looking back, he saw he was being pursued by one of the cymek fighter ships. The spray of reentry sparks increased, like iron filings from a grinding stone. The pursuer’s exploding projectiles rocked the atmosphere around him without making direct hits.
Road to Dune Page 36
