“Piers Harkonnen,” he responded, then decided to simplify, “Piers.”
“Good, Piers. Thank you,” he said in recognizable Galach, but with a thick accent. Seeing the young man’s surprise, Tiddoc spoke slowly, as if fishing the right words out of his memory. “Our tongue has Galach roots from the Zensunni Wanderers, who fled the League long ago. For years I worked in cities of the noblemen, performing menial tasks. I picked up words here and there.”
Paralyzed and immobile, the captured enemy cymek continued to snarl insults through an integrated speakerpatch as the Caladan natives used two of the amputated walker legs as support rods, lashing the brain canister so that it dangled between the poles like some captured wild beast. Two of the strongest-looking natives put the metal rods over their shoulders and began to march back up the slope. The other natives gathered up the components they could carry and climbed the rough mountainside.
“Come with us,” Tiddoc said.
Piers had no option but to follow them.
AS PIERS FOLLOWED the rugged men uphill, one of his knees throbbed with each step, and his back stiffened until it burned. He had not yet had time to accept the deaths of his parents. He missed his mother, for her kind attentions, her intelligence. Katarina had saved his life, launching the lifepod before the cymeks could destroy the space yacht.
In a way, Piers even missed his father. Despite Ulf’s gruffness, he had only wanted the best for his sons, harshly focused on his responsibilities for Harkonnen holdings. Advancing the family fortunes was always paramount. Now it seemed that his little brother, Xavier, was all that remained of the Harkonnen bloodline. Piers had little hope that he would ever get away from Caladan … but at least he had survived this long.
He limped up the steep slope, trying to keep pace with the agile natives. Inside its preservation canister, the evil cymek brain sloshed as the primitives carried it. Staticky shouts came from the canister’s speakerpatch, first in standard Galach, then in other languages. Tiddoc and the natives seemed to find it amusing.
The natives paid little attention to the disembodied brain, except to glare at it and bare their teeth. The red-bearded old man was the most demonstrative. In addition to menacing facial expressions, he made threatening gestures with a cutting tool, swinging it close to the canister’s sensors, which only served to agitate the captive brain more. Obviously they had encountered cymeks before and knew how to fight them.
But Piers was concerned about the other three mechanical hunters. They would not give up the pursuit—and once they found the avalanche site and the dismantled walker-form, the cymeks could track the natives here. Unless the captured one had not been able to signal for help before the avalanche had swept it away. Cymeks did not like to admit weakness.
Piers looked around for any fortifications the people had made. Ahead, overhanging ice formed a giant roof that sheltered a settlement. The primitives had made their camp in a large area melted out by thermal vents in the ground. Women and children bustled among rock huts, performing chores, pausing to look at the approaching party. The people wore thick clothing, boots, and hats lined with fur from unknown local animals. Piers heard the yelping of animals, saw furry white creatures near the dwellings.
Beyond the shelter of the overhang, steam roiled up through thick layers of ice and snow, accompanied by heat bubbles from mudpots and geysers. As Piers followed the tribe down narrow rock steps toward the settlement, he marveled at the stunning contrast of fire and ice, even as he cast constant worried glances over his shoulder to make sure he saw no sign of the other cymek hunters. Occasional droplets rained down from the frozen ceiling of the dome, slowly melting, but when Piers looked up at the blue ice overhead, he decided the glacier—and the settlement—had been here for a long time … .
When abrupt darkness fell like a curtain drawn in front of the sun, the native Caladan women used jagged pieces of wood to build a large fire on a rocky area at the center of the settlement. Scouts went out on patrol to keep watch for enemy machines while the rest of the tribe settled down to celebrate. The men brought hunks of fresh meat from other hunts and speared them on long metal spits over the fire.
They placed the captive cymek’s brain canister off to one side, in the ice, and ignored it.
Speaking to one another in their guttural tongue, the natives sat on furs around the fire and passed the food around, sharing with their visitor. Piers found the meat too gamey for his liking, but he finished a large hunk, not wanting to insult his hosts. He was famished, and supplemented his meal with part of a ration bar he had salvaged from the lifepod; he offered the rest of the packaged food to his rescuers, and they eagerly accepted.
Still, the urgency gnawed at him. Even among so many other people, he did not feel safe, and he tried to convince the old leader that the danger had not gone away. “There are more cymeks, Tiddoc. I think they’re hunting me.”
“We already killed one,” he said.
“But what about the others? They are still out there—”
“We will kill them, too. If they bother with you. Cymeks have little patience. Lose interest quickly. Are you so important to them? My people know that we are not.” He patted Piers’s wrist. “We have scouts. We have defenses.”
Following the meal, Tiddoc and his people sat around the story fire, telling ancient parables and adventures in their native tongue. During the sharing, the tribesmen passed around gourds of a potent beverage. Wrapped in a fur to ward off the chill air, Piers drank, and felt warm in his belly. At intervals, the old man translated for Piers, relating tales of the downtrodden Zensunni who had fled the machine takeovers, as well as slavery in the League of Nobles.
A little tipsy, Piers defended the League and their continuing fight against the thinking machines, though he sympathized with the unpleasant plight of the Buddislamic slaves on Poritrin, Zanbar, and other League worlds. While Tiddoc struggled to translate, Piers told of epic battles against the evil Omnius and his aggressive robots and cymeks.
And, with a thick voice, he told how his own ship had been destroyed, his parents killed … .
Tiddoc gestured to the cymek brain canister. “Come. The feasting is done. Now we finish our machine war. The people have been looking forward to this.” He shouted something in his own language, and two men lifted the canister by its improvised poles. The cymek grumbled from its speakerpatch, but it had run out of effective curses.
Several women lit torches from the central fire and led the way up a path from the dripping glacier overhang. Full of good cheer, the natives marched away, carrying the impotent enemy brain. The cymek hurled threats in every language it could think of, but the primitives only laughed at it.
“What are you doing?” the cymek demanded. Controlling its last functional thoughtrodes, the disembodied brain twisted in its container. “Stop! We will crush you all!”
Piers followed them over a ridge and down a slope to where the air reeked of sulfur and the porous rock grew warm underfoot. Carrying the helpless cymek, the group paused at a steaming hole in the rock and stood chattering and laughing. They held the brain canister over the ominous opening.
Piers bent closer to the hole, curious, but Tiddoc yanked him away. The red-bearded elder wore an eerie smile in the torchlight.
A rumble sounded deep below, and with a preliminary spurt of hot spray, a geyser erupted, a scalding jet that parboiled the cymek’s brain. The enemy’s curses turned to shrieks, followed by babbling sounds and disjointed pain that trickled out of the damaged speakerpatch.
When the geyser subsided, the delirious cymek cried and gibbered. Moments later the geyser erupted again, and the speakerpatch unleashed hideous howls that sent shudders down Piers’s spine.
Even though this monster had tried to kill him, had taken part in the murder of his parents, Piers could not tolerate hearing its misery anymore. When the boiling jet subsided again, he took a rock and smashed the speaker, disconnecting it.
But the natives continue
d to hold the agonized brain over the geyser hole, and when the scalding spray gushed out a third time, the cymek screamed in silence, until it was boiled alive in its electrafluid.
The natives then cracked the canister open on a rock and devoured the hot, cooked contents.
THE ROCK HUT was warm and marginally comfortable, but Piers slept poorly, unable to put the horrific images out of his mind. When he finally dreamed, he saw himself strapped to poles while the natives held him over the geyser hole. He heard boiling water rushing toward him, and he awoke with a scream caught in his throat.
Outside, he heard only the howl of an animal, then silence.
Then mechanical sounds.
He stumbled to the entrance of the hut and peered outside into the cold, sulfur-smelling air. Now the furry guard animals howled. The primitives shouted and stirred in their encampment. The scouts had been watching.
In a slit of grayish, misty sky between the ground and the icy overhang Piers saw four aircraft approaching with insect-machine noises, their engines glowing in the predawn sky. Cymeks!
Tiddoc and the natives fled their stone huts, grabbing torches, weapons. Piers ran out, anxious to help. He had lost the other two cymek hunters in his flight the previous day, but the sophisticated thinking machines had combed the landscape with their scanners until they finally picked up his trail … which had led the monsters here.
The cymek ships landed in the nearby rock field and opened hatches, each one disgorging an armed walker body. The crab-like warrior machines marched downslope with alarming speed. Ahead, the primitives scattered, hooting, waving torches, taunting the enemy.
One of the cymeks launched a rocket of gelfire, which exploded and collapsed part of the arched, glacier ceiling. Shards of ice tumbled down, smashing the evacuated stone huts.
Tiddoc and the villagers scampered out of the way as if it were a game, gesturing for Piers to follow as they hurried along the path they had taken the night before, onto the geyser field. In daylight Piers saw that it was a broad, gently sloped area of boiling mudpots and hot springs. Fumaroles and geysers belched repeatedly, filling the air with foul steam and heat plumes. Shouting, cursing, the people split up, following instinctive routes across the crusty ground. The natives’ supposed panic was a strangely organized action, like a cat and mouse game. Were they luring the enemy? They seemed to have a plan, a hunt of their own.
Piers ran along with them, ducking as the four cymek walkers shot projectiles into the hissing thermal area. Their mechanical bodies plodded forward like heavy spiders on the uncertain ground. For sophisticated machines, their aim was terrible. The cymeks’ optic threads and thermal sensors must be nearly blinded in the chaos of heat signatures.
Tiddoc hurled a spear, which clanked on the head turret of the largest cymek walker. It was an ineffective weapon, designed to distract and provoke the cymek, rather than damage the walker body. The leader ran ahead, hooting, luring the cymek onward.
Agitated, the largest machine-creature bellowed through a speakerpatch, “You cannot escape Agamemnon!” The other three cymeks scrambled along behind it.
Piers shuddered. All free humans knew the famous general of Omnius’s army, one of the brutal original tyrants.
With a lucky shot, one of the enemy machines blasted a young man who danced too close to the weapon arm, and his twitching, burning body writhed on the ground. The Caladan natives, looking angry and vengeful, tightened their ranks and worked harder against the cymeks. They tossed homemade explosives that exploded with smoke and fire and a loud concussion, leaving scorch marks on the cymek bodies. The machines with human minds did not slow in their progress.
Light-footed, the primitives raced across the volcanically active area. The cymeks, oblivious to the trap, charged after their prey, smashing salty encrustations, pursuing the natives into the reeking mists. They shot more blobs of gelfire, fired explosive projectiles. Another daring man died, his chest blasted into a smoking crater.
Tiddoc and the natives kept hooting and shouting, defiant. Two of the smaller cymeks surged forward into a crater-pocked geyser field. The waving, taunting primitives stopped and turned, expectant.
The thin shell of hardened ground cracked, split. The two mechanical walker-forms tried to skitter backward, but the surface gave way beneath them, breaking apart. Both cymeks plunged through the dangerous ground and tumbled screaming into roiling sulfur cauldrons.
Piers joined Tiddoc and the other humans in their loud cheer, which was squelched when a third native, a long-haired young woman, was cut down by hot projectiles.
Unexpectedly, a furious geyser blast rocketed out of the ground next to a third cymek attacker, scalding the brain canister. Its thoughtrodes damaged, the mechanical behemoth veered away and stumbled around in confusion. The cymek fell to its articulated knees, the electrafluid in its stained brain canister glowing blue as it focused its mental energy.
Tiddoc tossed a small, homemade explosive onto the ground, like a crude grenade. The detonation caused no further damage to the armored walker, but the ground crust fractured. While the wounded mechanical enemy reeled, disoriented, the surface gave way. The third cymek joined the others in the molten mud.
Agamemnon kept advancing toward the retreating humans, as if scorning his incompetent underlings. The lead cymek stalked unwavering toward old Tiddoc. The red-bearded man and his companions threw their spears and more crude explosives, but the mechanical general did not flinch. Behind them and on the sides lay superheated soil, while the immense cymek blocked their only avenue of escape.
On impulse, Piers ran in front of the lead cymek, shouting to distract him. He snatched up a discarded spear and thumped it against one of the tall walker legs. “Agamemnon! You murdered my parents!”
To his surprise, the cymek general swiveled his head turret, and thermal sensors locked onto the upstart human’s form. “A feisty one!” the monster said with considerable amusement. “You are the vermin we have been chasing.”
“I am a Harkonnen nobleman!” Piers swung the spear like a cudgel at the brain canister. He struck the thick armor plaz with a blow hard enough to rattle his bones—but he left only a tiny nick on the protective canister.
The cymek bellowed a laugh. One of Agamemnon’s clawed legs grabbed Piers, yanked away the spear. The young man felt the sharp claw tighten around his torso. He was dimly aware of Tiddoc howling—
Then suddenly the crust gave way beneath the heavy cymek walker. Frothing mud gushed upward, and Agamemnon tumbled into a boiling geyser pit, still clutching his human victim. The claw loosened, just barely, and Piers scrambled on top of the body, trying to shield himself from the heat, to grab the rough rock of the pit’s edge. Superheated steam blasted upward, eradicating all signs of Piers and the last machine invader.
ALIVE AND ANGRY, Agamemnon reinstalled himself in an intact spaceship lander and departed from the watery world. With his heavily protected walker body, he had clamped onto the edges of the fuming pit, endured the steam blasts without falling into the molten mud.
The verminous people rallied, hurled more explosives at him, and Agamemnon despised himself for being forced to retreat. With his hydraulics already damaged—and his foolish neo-cymeks all wiped out—his walker-form limped and scuttled back to the landed spacecraft, leaving the tribe behind. Systems onboard his ship reconfigured his brain canister to the controls; he discarded the ruined walker body, leaving it as scrap on the surface of cursed Caladan.
The only survivor of his cymek squad, Agamemnon left the unremarkable world behind. He would return to Earth, and the computer evermind Omnius, and make his report. At this point, he was at liberty to create whatever explanation he chose. Omnius would never suspect him of lying: Such things simply did not occur to the all-pervasive computer. But the cymek general had a human brain … .
As Agamemnon flew out into open space, he would have enough time to think of appropriate explanations and shift the blame. He would include a version of the event
s in his ever-growing memoirs recorded in the machine database.
Fortunately, the all-powerful and all-seeing evermind simply wanted information and an accurate recounting of all events. Making excuses was a purely human weakness.
ON THE LEAGUE capital world of Salusa Secundus, a young boy looked up at dark-skinned Emil Tantor, a wealthy and influential nobleman. They stood on the front lawn of the sprawling Tantor estate, with the tallest buildings of the city visible in the distance. It was early evening, with lights twinkling on in the palatial homes that dotted the hills.
Ulf Harkonnen’s distress signal had finally been intercepted, and Emil Tantor had brought the boy the terrible news about his parents and brother. More casualties in the long-standing war against the thinking machines.
Young Xavier Harkonnen bowed his head, but refused to cry. The kindly nobleman touched his shoulder and spoke deep-throated, gentle words. “Will you have me, and Lucille, as your foster parents? I think it is what your father wanted when he left you in our care.”
Xavier looked into his brown eyes, nodded.
“You’ll grow into a fine young man,” Tantor said, “one to make your brother and parents proud. We will do our best to raise you right, to teach you honor and responsibility. You will make the Harkonnen name shine in the annals of history.”
Xavier gazed beyond his foster father up to the faint stars glimmering through the dusk. He could identify some of those stars, and knew which systems were controlled by Omnius and which were League worlds.
“I will also learn how to fight the thinking machines,” he said. Emil Tantor squeezed his shoulder. “I will defeat them one day.”
It is my purpose in life.
ON A DARK night in the bright snowfield and dark pines, the Caladan primitives sat on furs around a roaring fire. Keeping their oral tradition alive, they repeated the ancient legends and stories of recent battles. The elder Tiddoc sat beside the foreigner accepted among them, a hero with bright eyes and waxy, horribly scarred skin. A man who had fought single-handedly against a cymek monster and fallen into a scalding hot opening … but had crawled out alive, clinging to the battered cymek walker-form. Piers gestured with one hand; the other—burned and twisted into uselessness—hung limp against his chest. He spoke passionately in the ancient Buddislamic tongue, halting as he struggled for words and then continuing when Tiddoc helped him.
Road to Dune Page 38
