Dune: The Machine Crusade Read online

  * * *

  Dune The Machine Crusade

  Brian Herbert and

  Kevin J. Anderson

  * * *

  A Tom Doherty Associates Book

  New York

  The Dune Chronicles by Frank Herbert

  Dune

  Dune Messiah

  Children of Dune

  God Emperor of Dune

  Heretics of Dune

  Chapterhouse: Dune

  Prelude to Dune by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

  Dune: House Atreides

  Dune: House Harkonnen

  Dune: House Corrino

  Legends of Dune by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

  Dune:The Butlerian Jihad

  Dune:The Machine Crusade

  *Dune:The Battle of Corrin

  *forthcoming

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  DUNE: THE MACHINE CRUSADE

  Copyright © 2003 by Herbert Enterprises LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Tor Book

  Published by

  Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 0-312-71108-5

  First Edition: September 2003

  www.ebookyes.com

  To PENNY and RON MERRITT,

  Fellow travelers in the DUNE universe, with love and appreciation for helping us maintain the legacy of Frank Herbert

  Acknowledgments

  When we finished the manuscript of this book, the work had only begun. Pat LoBrutto and Carolyn Caughey showed their editorial genius, guiding us through numerous iterations and fine-tunings to produce this final version. Our agents, Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer of Trident Media Group, have been supportive and excited about this project from the start. Tom Doherty, Linda Quinton, Jennifer Marcus, Heather Drucker, and Paul Stevens at Tor Books, and Julie Crisp at Hodder & Stoughton, helped keep all matters of production and promotion on track without letting their enthusiasm flag for a moment.

  As always, Catherine Sidor at WordFire, Inc., worked tirelessly to transcribe dozens of microcassettes, input corrections, and maintain consistency in the face of a full-steam-ahead work space. Diane E. Jones served as test reader and guinea pig, giving us her honest reactions and suggesting additional scenes that helped make this a stronger book.

  Rebecca Moesta Anderson devoted uncounted hours of energy, concentration, advice, and criticism (always tempered with love), never letting the phrase “good enough” enter her vocabulary. Jan Herbert, as always, offered her support, patience, and understanding in the face of the unpredictable needs of a writer.

  Javier Barriopedro and Christian Gossett gave us “Swordmaster” inspiration. Dr. Attila Torkos gave the final manuscript his fine-tooth-comb scrutiny, helping us to avoid inconsistencies.

  The Herbert Limited Partnership, including Penny and Ron Merritt, David Merritt, Byron Merritt, Julie Herbert, Robert Merritt, Kimberly Herbert, Margaux Herbert, and Theresa Shackelford, gave us their enthusiastic support, entrusting us with the care of Frank Herbert’s vision.

  Without Beverly Herbert’s almost four decades of support and devotion to him, Frank Herbert would not have created such a vast and fascinating universe for us to explore. We are greatly indebted to them both.

  Dune

  The Machine Crusade

  Prologue

  Historians do not agree on the messages carried in detritus of the long-ago past.

  As one delves into history— such ancient, chaotic times!— the more facts become fluid, the stories contradictory. Across the ocean of time and fallible memory, true heroes metamorphose into archetypes; battles grow more significant than they actually were. Legends and truth are difficult to reconcile.

  As the First Official Historian of the Jihad, I must set down this record as best I can, relying upon oral traditions and fragmentary documents preserved for a hundred centuries. Which is more accurate— a carefully documented history such as mine, or an accumulation of myths and folktales?

  I, Naam the Elder, must write honestly, even if it invites the wrath of my superiors. Read this history carefully, as I begin with Rendik Tolu-Far’s Manifesto of Protest, a document that was confiscated by the Jipol:

  “We are weary of fighting— weary unto death! Billions upon billions have already been slaughtered in this crusade against the thinking machines. The casualties include not only uniformed soldiers of the Jihad and their hired mercenaries, but also innocent colonists and human slaves on the Synchronized Worlds. No one bothers to count the number of enemy machines that have been destroyed.

  “The computer evermind Omnius has dominated many planets for over a millennium, but it was twenty-four years ago that the murder of Priestess Serena Butler’s innocent child triggered an all-out human revolt. She used this tragedy to incite a fervor in the League of Nobles, precipitating the Armada’s full-scale attack and the atomic destruction of Earth.

  “Yes, this was a blow to Omnius, but it killed every last human living on that planet and left the birthplace of humanity a radioactive ruin, uninhabitable for centuries to come. What a horrendous cost!— and that was not a victory, not an end, but only the opening act in this long struggle.

  “For more than two decades, Serena’s holy war has raged against the thinking machines. Our strikes against Synchronized Worlds are countered by robotic incursions against League colonies. Again and again.

  “Priestess Serena appears to be a devout woman, and I would like to believe in her purity and sanctity. She has spent years in the study of available writings and doctrines from ancient human philosophers. No other person has spent so much time talking with Kwyna, the Cogitor in residence at the City of Introspection. Serena’s passion is evident and her beliefs beyond reproach, but is she aware of all of the things that are done in her name?

  “Serena Butler is little more than a figurehead, while Iblis Ginjo is her political proxy. He styles himself the ‘Grand Patriarch of the Jihad’ and leads the Jihad Council, an emergency governing body that rules outside the boundaries of the League Parliament. And we allow this to happen!

  “I have watched the Grand Patriarch— a former slave master on Earth— use his charismatic oratory skills to transform Serena’s tragedy into a weapon. Is everyone blind to how he builds his own political power? Why else would he have married Camie Boro, who traces her bloodline back a thousand years to the last, weak ruler of the Old Empire? A man does not wed the only living descendant of the last emperor merely for love!

  “To ferret out human traitors and clandestine saboteurs, Iblis Ginjo has established his Jihad Police, the Jipol. Think of those thousands who have been arrested in recent years— can they all be traitors working for the machines, as Jipol claims? Is it not convenient that so many of them are the Grand Patriarch’s political enemies?

  “I do not criticize the military commanders, the brave soldiers, or even the mercenaries, for all of them are fighting the Jihad to the best of their abilities. Humans from every free planet have set out to destroy machine outposts and to block robot depredations. But how can we ever hope to achieve victory? The machines can always build more fighters… and they keep coming back.

  “We are exhausted from this endless warfare. What hope do we have for peace? What possibility exists for an accord with Omnius? Thinking machines never tire.

  “And they never forget.”

&nb
sp; 177 B.G. (Before Guild)

  JIHAD YEAR 25

  The weakness of thinking machines is that they actually believe all the information they receive, and react accordingly.

  — VORIAN ATREIDES, fourth debriefing interview with League Armada

  Leading a group of five ballistas in orbit over the canyon-scarred planet, Primero Vorian Atreides studied the robotic enemy forces aligned against him: sleek and silver, like predatory fish. Their efficient, functional design gave them the unintentional grace of sharp knives.

  Omnius’s combat monstrosities outnumbered the human ships ten to one, but because the Jihad battleships were equipped with overlapping layers of Holtzman shields, the enemy fleet could bombard the human vessels without inflicting any damage, and without advancing toward the surface of IV Anbus.

  Although the human defenders did not have the necessary firepower to crush the machine forces or even repel them, the jihadis would continue to fight anyway. It was a standoff, humans and machines facing each other above the planet.

  Omnius and his forces had secured many victories in the past seven years, conquering small backwater colonies and establishing outposts from which they launched relentless waves of attack. But now the Army of the Jihad had sworn to defend this Unallied Planet against the thinking machines at all costs— whether or not the native population wanted it.

  Down on the planet’s surface, his fellow Primero, Xavier Harkonnen, was attempting yet another diplomatic foray with Zenshiite elders, the leaders of a primitive Buddislamic sect. Vor doubted his friend would make much progress. Xavier was too inflexible to be a good negotiator: his sense of duty and strict adherence to the objectives of the mission were always paramount in his mind.

  Besides that, Xavier was biased against these people… and they undoubtedly realized it.

  The thinking machines wanted IV Anbus. The Army of the Jihad had to stop them. If the Zenshiites wished to isolate themselves from the galactic conflict and not cooperate with the brave soldiers fighting to keep the human race free, then they were worthless. One time, Vor had jokingly compared Xavier to a machine, since he saw things in black-and-white terms, and the other man had scowled icily in response.

  According to reports from the surface, the Zenshiite religious leaders had shown themselves to be just as stubborn as Primero Harkonnen. Both sides had dug in their heels.

  Vor did not question his friend’s command style, though it was quite different from his own. Having grown up among the thinking machines and trained as a trustee for them, Vor now embraced “humanness” in all of its facets, and was giddy with newfound freedom. He felt liberated when he played sports and gambled, or socialized and joked with other officers. It was so different from the way Agamemnon had taught him….

  Out here in orbit, Vor knew the robot battleships would never retreat unless they were convinced, statistically, that they could not possibly win. In recent weeks he had been working on a complicated scheme to cause the Omnius fleet to break down, but wasn’t ready to implement it yet. Soon, though.

  This orbital stalemate was completely unlike the war games Vor enjoyed playing with the jihadi crewmen on patrol, or the amusing challenges he and the robot Seurat had set for each other years ago, during long voyages between stars. This tedious impasse offered little opportunity for fun.

  He had been noticing patterns.

  Soon the robotic fleet would cruise toward them like a cluster of piranhas in a retrograde orbit. Standing proud in his crisp dark green military uniform flashed with crimson— the Jihad colors symbolizing life and spilled blood— Vor would give orders directing all the battleships in his sentry fleet to activate Holtzman shields and monitor them for overheating.

  The robot warships— bristling with weapons— were woefully predictable, and his men often placed bets on exactly how many shots the enemy would fire.

  He watched his forces shift, as he had commanded them to do. Xavier’s adopted brother, Vergyl Tantor, captained the vanguard ballista and moved it into position. Vergyl had served the Army of the Jihad for the past seventeen years, always watched closely by Xavier.

  Nothing had changed here in over a week, and the fighters were growing impatient, passing the enemy repeatedly but unable to do anything more than puff up their chests and display combat plumage like exotic birds.

  “You’d think the machines would learn by now,” Vergyl grumbled over the comline. “Do they keep hoping that we’ll slip up?”

  “They’re just testing us, Vergyl.” Vor avoided the formality of ranks and the chain of command because it reminded him too much of machine rigidity.

  Earlier in the day, when the paths of the two fleets briefly intersected, the robot warships had launched a volley of explosive projectiles that hammered at the impregnable Holtzman shields. Vor had not flinched as he watched the fruitless explosions. For a few moments, the opposing ships had mingled head-on in a crowded, chaotic flurry, then moved past each other.

  “All right, give me a total,” he called.

  “Twenty-eight shots, Primero,” reported one of the bridge officers.

  Vor had nodded. Always between twenty and thirty incoming shells, but his own guess had been twenty-two. He and the officers of his other ships had transmitted congratulations and good-natured laments about missing by only one or two shots, and had made arrangements to collect on the bets they made. Duty hours would be shifted among the losers and winners, luxury rations transferred back and forth among the ships.

  The same thing had happened almost thirty times already. But now as the two battle groups predictably approached one another, Vor had a surprise up his sleeve.

  The Jihad fleet remained in perfect formation, as disciplined as machines.

  “Here we go again.” Vor turned to his bridge crew. “Prepare for encounter. Increase shields to full power. You know what to do. We’ve had enough practice at this.”

  A skin-tingling humming noise vibrated through the deck, layers of shimmering protective force powered by huge generators tied to the engines. The individual commanders would watch carefully for overheating in the shields, the system’s fatal flaw, which— so far, at least— the machines did not suspect.

  He watched the vanguard ballista cruise ahead along the orbital path. “Vergyl, are you ready?”

  “I have been for days, sir. Let’s get on with it!”

  Vor checked with his demolitions and tactical specialists, led by one of the Ginaz mercenaries, Zon Noret. “Mr. Noret, I presume that you deployed all of our… mousetraps?”

  The signal came back. “Every one in perfect position, Primero. I sent each of our ships the precise coordinates, so that we can avoid them ourselves. The question is, will the machines notice?”

  “I’ll keep them busy, Vor!” Vergyl said.

  The machine warships loomed closer, approaching the intercept point. Although the thinking machines had no sense of aesthetics, their calculations and efficient engineering designs still resulted in ships with precise curves and flawlessly smooth hulls.

  Vor smiled. “Go!”

  As the Omnius battlegroup advanced like a school of imperturbable, menacing fish, Vergyl’s ballista suddenly lunged ahead at high acceleration, launching missiles in a new “flicker-and-fire” system that switched the bow shields on and off on a millisecond time scale, precisely coordinated to allow outgoing kinetic projectiles to pass through.

  High-intensity rockets bombarded the nearest machine ship, and then Vergyl was off again, changing course and ramming down through the clustered robot vessels like a stampeding Salusan bull.

  Vor gave the scatter order, and the rest of his ships broke formation and spread out. To get out of the way.

  The machines, attempting to respond to the unexpected situation, could do little more than open fire on the Holtzman-shielded Jihad ships.

  Vergyl slammed his vanguard ballista through again. He had orders to empty his ship’s weapons batteries in a frenzied attack. Missile after missile detonat
ed against the robot vessels, causing significant damage but not destruction. The comlines reverberated with human cheers.

  But Vergyl’s gambit was just a diversion. The bulk of the Omnius forces continued on their standard path… directly into the space minefield that the mercenary Zon Noret and his team had laid down in orbit.

  The giant proximity mines were coated with stealth films that made them nearly invisible to sensors. Diligent scouts and careful scans could have detected them, but Vergyl’s furious and unexpected aggression had turned the machines’ focus elsewhere.

  The front two machine battleships exploded as they struck a row of powerful mines. Massive detonations ripped holes through bows, hull, and lower engine sheaths. Reeling off course, the devastated enemy vessels sputtered in flames; one blundered into another mine.

  Still not realizing precisely what had happened, three more robot ships collided with unseen space mines. Then the machine battlegroup rallied. Ignoring Vergyl’s attack, the remaining warships spread out and deployed sensors to detect the rest of the scattered mines, which they removed with a flurry of precisely targeted shots.

  “Vergyl— break off,” Vor transmitted. “All other ballistas, regroup. We’ve had our fun.” He leaned back in his command chair with a satisfied sigh. “Deploy four fast kindjal scouts to assess how much damage we inflicted.”

  He opened a private comline, and the image of the Ginaz mercenary appeared on the screen. “Noret, you and your men will receive medals for this.” When not in combat camouflage for minelaying and other clandestine operations, the mercenaries wore gold-and-crimson uniforms of their own design, rather than green and crimson. Gold represented the substantial sums they received, and crimson, the blood they spilled.

  Behind them, the damaged Omnius battlegroup continued on their orbital patrol, undeterred, like sharks looking for food. Already, swarms of robots had emerged from the ships and crawled like lice over the outer hulls, effecting massive repairs.