Caladan was his home now, and he would live the rest of his life with these people, in obscurity. No escape seemed possible from such a remote place, except through the stories he told. Piers kept his audience enthralled as he spoke of great battles against the thinking machines, while he also learned the Songs of the Long Trek, chronicles of the many generations of Zensunni Wanderings.
As his father had realized, Piers Harkonnen had always wanted to be a storyteller.
WHIPPING MEK
A Tale of the Butlerian Jihad
When the armored Jihad warship arrived, the population of Giedi Prime expected news of a great victory against the evil thinking machines. But with only a glance at the battle-scarred vessel, young Vergyl Tantor could tell that the defense of Peridot Colony had not gone at all as planned.
On the crowded fringe of Giedi City Spaceport, Vergyl rushed forward, pressing against the soldiers stuck there like himself: wide-eyed green recruits or veterans too old to be sent into battle against Omnius’s combat robots. His heart hammered like an industrial piston in his chest.
He prayed that his adoptive brother, Xavier Harkonnen, was all right.
The damaged battleship heaved itself into the docking circle like a dying sea beast beached on a reef. The big engines hissed and groaned as they cooled from the hot descent through the atmosphere.
Vergyl stared at the blackened scars on the hull plates and tried to imagine the kinetic weapons and high-energy projectiles that combat robots had hurled at the brave jihadi defenders.
If only he had been out there himself, Vergyl could have helped in the fight. But Xavier—the commander of the battle group—always seemed to fight against his brother’s eagerness with nearly as much persistence as he fought the machine enemy.
When the landing systems finished locking down, dozens of egress hatches opened on the lower hull. Middle-ranking commanders emerged, bellowing for assistance. All medically qualified personnel were called in from the city; others were shuttled from across the continents of Giedi Prime to help the wounded soldiers and rescued colonists.
Triage and assessment stations were set up on the spaceport grounds. Official military personnel were tended first, since they had pledged their lives to fight in the great struggle ignited by Serena Butler. Their crimson-and-green uniforms were stained and badly patched; they’d obviously had no chance to repair them during the many weeks of transit from Peridot Colony. Mercenary soldiers received second-priority treatment, along with the refugees from the colony.
Vergyl rushed in with the other ground-based soldiers to help, his large brown eyes flicking back and forth in search of answers. He needed to find someone who could tell him what had happened to Segundo Harkonnen. Worry scratched at Vergyl’s mind while he worked. Perhaps everything was all right … but what if his big brother had been killed in a heroic rally? Or what if Xavier was injured, yet remained aboard the battered ship, refusing to accept help for himself until all of his personnel were tended to? Either scenario would have fit Xavier’s personality.
For hours, Vergyl refused to slow down, unable to fully grasp what these jihadi fighters had been through. Sweating and exhausted, he worked himself into a trancelike stupor, following orders, helping the wounded, burned, and despairing refugees.
He heard muttered conversations that told of the onslaught that had wiped out the small colony. When the thinking machines had attempted to absorb the settlement into the Synchronized Worlds, the Army of the Jihad had sent its defenders there.
Peridot Colony had been but a skirmish, however, like so many others in the dozen years since Serena Butler had originally rallied all humans to fight in her cause, after the thinking machines had murdered her young son, Manion. Xavier’s son.
The ebb and flow of the Jihad had caused a great deal of damage to both sides, but neither fighting force had gained a clear upper hand. And though the thinking machines continued to build fresh combat robots, lost human lives could never be replaced. Serena gave passionate speeches to recruit new soldiers for her holy war. So many fighters had died that the Jihad no longer publicly revealed the cost. The struggle was everything.
Following the Honru Massacre seven years earlier, Vergyl had insisted on joining the Jihad military force himself. He considered it his duty as a human being, even without his connection to Xavier and the martyred child, Manion. At their estate on Salusa Secundus, his parents had tried to make the young man wait, since he was barely seventeen, but Vergyl would hear none of it.
Returning to Salusa after a difficult skirmish, Xavier had surprised their parents by offering a waiver that would allow underage Vergyl to begin training in the Army. The young man had leaped at the opportunity, not guessing that Xavier had his own plans. Overprotective, Segundo Harkonnen had seen to it that Vergyl received a safe, quiet assignment, stationed here on Giedi Prime where he could help with the rebuilding work—and where he would stay safe, far from any pitched battles against the robotic enemy.
Now Vergyl had been in Giedi City for years, rising minimally in rank to second decero in the Construction Brigade … never seeing any action. Meanwhile, Xavier Harkonnen’s battleships went to planet after planet, protecting free humanity and destroying the mechanized legions of the computer evermind Omnius … .
Vergyl stopped counting all the bodies he’d moved. Perspiring in his dark green uniform, the young construction officer and a civilian man carried a makeshift stretcher, hauling a wounded mother who had been rescued from her devastated prefab home on Peridot Colony. Women and children from Giedi City hurried among the workers and wounded, offering water and food.
Finally, in the warm afternoon, a ragged cheer penetrated Vergyl’s dazed focus, just as he set the stretcher down in the midst of a triage unit. Looking up, he drew a quick breath. At the warship’s main entrance ramp, a proud military commander stepped forward into the sunshine of Giedi Prime.
Segundo Xavier Harkonnen wore a clean uniform with immaculate golden insignia. By careful design, he cut a dashing military figure, one that would inspire confidence and faith among his own troops as well as the civilians of Giedi City. Fear was the worst enemy the machines could bring against them. Xavier never offered any observer reason for uncertainty: Yes, brave humanity would eventually win this war.
Grinning, Vergyl let out a sigh as all his doubts evaporated. Of course Xavier had survived. This great man had led the strike force that liberated Giedi Prime from the enslavement of cymeks and thinking machines. Xavier had commanded the human forces in the atomic purification of Earth, the first great battle of Serena Butler’s Jihad.
And the heroic officer would never stop until the thinking machines were defeated.
But as Vergyl watched his brother walk down the ramp, he noticed that his footsteps had a heavy, weary quality, and his familiar face looked shell-shocked. Not even a hint of a smile there, no gleam in his gray eyes. Just flat stoniness. How had the man gotten so old? Vergyl idolized him, needed to speak with him alone as a brother, so that he could learn the real story.
But in public, Segundo Harkonnen would never let anyone see his inner feelings. He was too good a leader for that.
Vergyl pushed his way through the throng, shouting and waving with the others, and finally Xavier recognized him in the sea of faces. His expression lit with joy, then crashed, as if weighed down by the burden of war memories and realizations. Vergyl and his fellow relief workers hurried up the ramp to surround the brave officer, and escorted him into the safety of Giedi City.
ALONG WITH HIS surviving sub-commanders, Xavier Harkonnen spent hours dispensing reports and debriefing League officials, but he insisted on breaking away from these painful duties to spend a few hours with his brother.
He arrived at Vergyl’s small home unrested, eyes bloodshot and haunted. When the two of them hugged, Xavier remained stiff for a moment before weakening and returning his dark-skinned brother’s embrace. Despite the physical dissimilarities that marked their separate racial he
ritage, they knew that the bonds of love had nothing to do with bloodlines and everything to do with the loving family experiences they had shared in the household of Emil and Lucille Tantor. Taking him inside, Vergyl could sense the tremors Xavier was suppressing. He distracted Xavier by introducing him to his wife of two years, whom Xavier had never met.
Sheel was a young, dark-haired beauty not accustomed to receiving guests of such importance. She had not even traveled to Salusa Secundus to meet Vergyl’s parents or to see the Tantor family estate. But she treated Xavier as her husband’s welcome brother, instead of as a celebrity.
One of Aurelius Venport’s merchant ships had arrived only a week before, carrying melange from Arrakis. Sheel had gone out this afternoon and spent a week’s pay to get enough of the expensive spice to add to the fine, special dinner she prepared.
As they ate, their conversation remained subdued and casual, avoiding any mention of war news. Weary to the bone, Xavier barely seemed to notice the flavors of the meal, even the exotic melange. Sheel seemed disappointed, until Vergyl explained in a whisper that his brother had lost much of his sense of taste and smell during a cymek gas attack, which had also cost him his lungs. Although Xavier now breathed through a set of replacement organs provided by a Tlulaxa flesh merchant, his ability to taste or smell remained dulled.
Finally, as they drank spice-laced coffee, Vergyl could no longer withhold his questions. “Xavier, please tell me what happened at Peridot Colony. Was it a victory, or did the”—his voice caught—“did the machines defeat us?”
Xavier lifted his head, and gazed far away. “Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo says that there are no defeats. Only victories and … moral victories. This one fell into the latter category.”
Sheel squeezed her husband’s arm sharply, a wordless request that he withdraw the question. But Vergyl didn’t interrupt, and Xavier continued, “Peridot Colony had been under attack for a week before our nearest battle group received the emergency distress call. Settlers were being obliterated. The thinking machines meant to crush the colony and establish a Synchronized World there, laying down their infrastructure and installing a new copy of the Omnius evermind.”
Xavier sipped spice coffee while Vergyl put his elbows on the table, leaning close to listen with rapt attention.
“The Army of the Jihad had little presence in this area aside from my warship and a handful of troops. We had no choice but to respond, not wishing to lose another planet. I had a full shipload of mercenaries anyway.”
“Any from Ginaz? Our best fighters?”
“Some. We arrived faster than the thinking machines expected, struck them swiftly and mercilessly, using everything we had. My soldiers attacked like madmen, and many of them fell. But a lot more thinking machines were destroyed. Unfortunately, most of the colony towns had already been trampled by the time we got there, the inhabitants murdered. Even so, our Army of the Jihad drove in—and by a holy miracle we pushed back the enemy forces.” He drew a deep, convulsing breath, as if his replacement lungs were malfunctioning.
“Instead of simply cutting their losses and flying away, as combat robots usually do, this time they were programmed to follow a scorched-earth policy. They devastated everything in their wake. Where they had gone, not a crop, structure, or human survivor was left behind.”
Sheel swallowed hard. “How terrible.”
“Terrible?” Xavier mused, rolling the sound of the word on his tongue. “I cannot begin to describe what I saw. Not much was left of the colony we went to rescue. Over a quarter of my jihadis lost their lives, and half of the mercenaries.”
Shaking his head sadly, he continued. “We scraped together the pathetic remnants of settlers who had fled far enough from the primary machine forces. I do not know—nor do I want to know—the actual number of survivors we rescued. Peridot Colony did not fall to the machines, but that world is no longer of any use to humans, either.” He heaved a deep breath. “It seems to be the way of this Jihad.”
“That is why we need to keep fighting.” Vergyl lifted his chin. His bravery sounded tinny in his own ears. “Let me fight at your side against Omnius! Our army is in constant need of soldiers. It’s time for me to get into the real battles in this war!”
Now Xavier Harkonnen seemed to awaken. Dismay flashed across his face. “You don’t want that, Vergyl. Not ever.”
VERGYL SECURED AN assignment working aboard the Jihad warship as it underwent repairs for the better part of two weeks. If he couldn’t fly off and fight on alien battlefields, at least he could be here recharging weapons, replacing damaged Holtzman shield systems, and strengthening armor plating.
While Vergyl diligently performed every task the team supervisors assigned to him, his eyes drank in details about how the ship’s systems functioned. Someday, if Xavier ever relented and allowed him to participate in the Holy Jihad, Vergyl wanted to command one of these vessels. He was an adult—twenty-three years old—but his influential brother had the power to interfere with anything Vergyl tried to do … and had already done so.
That afternoon, as he checked off the progress of repairs on his display pad, Vergyl came upon one of the battleship’s training chambers. The dull metal door stood half open, and he heard a clattering and clanging of metal, and the grunting sounds of someone straining with great effort.
Rushing into the chamber, Vergyl stopped and stared in astonishment. A battle-scarred man—a mercenary, judging from his long-haired, disheveled appearance—threw himself in violent combat against a fighting robot. The machine had three sets of articulated arms, each one holding a deadly-looking weapon. Moving in a graceful blur, the mechanical unit struck blow after blow against the man, who defended himself perfectly each time.
Vergyl’s heart leaped. How had one of the enemy machines gotten on board Xavier’s battleship? Had Omnius sent it as a spy or saboteur? Were there others spread out around the ship? The beleaguered mercenary landed a blow with his vibrating pulse sword, causing one of the mek’s six arms to drop limply to its side.
Letting out a war cry, knowing he had to help, Vergyl snatched the only weapon he could find—a training staff from a rack by the wall—and charged forward recklessly.
The mercenary reacted quickly upon hearing Vergyl’s approach. He raised a hand. “Hold, Chirox!”
The combat mek froze. The mercenary, panting, dropped his fighting stance. Vergyl skidded to a halt, looking in confusion from the enemy robot to the well-muscled fighter.
“Don’t alarm yourself,” the mercenary said. “I was simply practicing.”
“With a machine?”
The long-haired man smiled. A spiderweb of pale scars covered his cheeks, neck, bare shoulders, and chest. “Thinking machines are our enemies in this Jihad, young officer. If we must develop our skills against them, who better to fight?”
Awkwardly, Vergyl set his hastily grabbed staff on the deck. His face flushed hot with embarassment. “That makes sense.”
“Chirox is just a surrogate enemy, a target to fight. He represents all thinking machines in my mind.”
“Like a whipping boy.”
“A whipping mek.” The mercenary smiled. “We can set it to various fighting levels for training purposes.” He stepped closer to the ominous-looking combat robot. “Stand down.”
The robot lowered its weapons-studded limbs, then retracted them into its core, even the impaired arm, and stood waiting for further commands. With a sneer, the man slammed the hilt of his pulse sword against the mek’s chest, knocking the machine backward a step. The optic-sensor eyes flickered orange. The rest of the machine’s face, with its crudely shaped mouth and nose, did not move.
Confidently, the man tapped the metallic torso. “This limited robot—I dislike the term thinking machine—is totally under our control. It has served the mercenaries of Ginaz for nearly three generations now.” He deactivated his pulse sword, which was designed to scramble sophisticated gelcircuitry. “I am Zon Noret, one of the fighters assigned
to this ship.”
Intrigued, Vergyl ventured closer. “Where did you find this machine?”
“A century ago, a Ginaz salvage scout came upon a damaged thinking machine ship, from which he retrieved this broken combat robot. Since then, we’ve wiped its memories and reinstalled combat programming. It allows us to test ourselves against machine capabilities.”
Noret patted the robot on one of its ribbed metal shoulders. “Many robots in the Synchronized Worlds have been destroyed because of what we learned from this unit. Chirox is an invaluable teacher. On the archipelago of Ginaz, students pit their skills against him. He has proved to be such a repository of information to utilize against our enemy that we mercenaries no longer think of him as a thinking machine, but as an ally.”
“A robot as an ally? Serena Butler wouldn’t like to hear that,” Vergyl said guardedly.
Zon Noret tossed his thick hair behind his head like the mane of a comet. “Many things are done in this Jihad without Serena Butler knowing. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn of other meks like this one under our control.” He made a dismissive gesture. “But since we all have the same goal, the details become insignificant.”
To Vergyl, some of Noret’s wounds looked only freshly healed. “Shouldn’t you be recuperating from the battle, instead of fighting even more?”
Road to Dune Page 39
