Dune: The Machine Crusade Read online

  “It doesn’t look like we even ruffled their feathers!” Vergyl said as his ballista rejoined the Jihad group. He sounded disappointed, then added, “They’re still not getting IV Anbus from us.”

  “Damned right they’re not. We’ve let them get away with enough in the past few years. Time for us to turn this war around.”

  Vor wondered why the robot forces were waiting so long without escalating this particular conflict. It wasn’t part of their usual pattern. As the son of the Titan Agamemnon, he— more than any other human in the Jihad— understood the way computer minds worked. Now, as he thought about it, Vor grew highly suspicious.

  Am I the one who’s grown too predictable? What if the robots only want me to believe they won’t change tactics?

  Frowning, he opened the comline to the vanguard ballista. “Vergyl? I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Disperse scout ships to survey and map the land masses below. I think the machines are up to something.”

  Vergyl didn’t question Vor’s intuition. “We’ll take a careful look down there, Primero. If they’ve flipped over so much as a rock, we’ll find it.”

  “I suspect more than that. They’re trying to be tricky— in their own predictable way.” Vor glanced at the chronometer, knowing he had hours before he needed to worry about the next orbital encounter. He felt restless. “In the meantime, Vergyl, you’re in command of the battlegroup. I’ll shuttle down to see if your brother has managed to talk any sense into our Zenshiite friends.”

  In order to understand the meaning of victory, you must first define your enemies… and your allies.

  — PRIMERO XAVIER HARKONNEN, strategy lectures

  Since the exodus of all Buddislamic sects from the League of Nobles centuries earlier, IV Anbus had become the center of Zenshiite civilization. Its primary city of Darits was the religious heart of the independent and isolated sect, largely ignored by outsiders, who saw little value in the planet’s meager resources and troublesome religious fanatics.

  The land masses of IV Anbus were mottled with large, shallow seas, some fresh, some potently salty. The tides caused by close-orbiting moons dragged the seas like a scouring rag across the landscape, washing topsoil through sharp canyons, eroding out grottos and amphitheaters from the softer sandstone. In the shelter of the deep overhangs, the Zenshiites had built cities.

  From one shallow sea into another, rivers drained naturally, pulled by the tidal surges. The inhabitants had developed exceptional mathematics, astronomy, and engineering skills to predict the swelling and dwindling floods. Silt miners reaped mineral wealth by sifting the murky water that flowed through the canyons. The downstream lowlands offered fertile soil, as long as agricultural workers planted and harvested at appropriate times.

  In Darits, the Zenshiites had built an immense dam across a narrow bottleneck in the red rock canyons… a defiant gesture to show that their faith and ingenuity were enough to hold back even the powerful flow of the river. Behind the dam, a huge reservoir had backed up, full of deep-blue water. Zenshiite fishermen floated delicate skiffs around the lake, using large nets to supplement the grains and vegetables grown on the floodplain.

  No mere wall, the Darits dam was adorned with towering stone statues carved by talented and faithful artisans. Hundreds of meters high, the twin monoliths represented idealized forms of Buddha and Mohammed, their features blurred by time, legend, and notions of idealistic reverence.

  The faithful had installed bulky hydroelectric turbines, turned by the force of the current. In tandem with numerous solar-power plates that covered the mesa tops, the Darits dam generated enough energy to power all the cities of IV Anbus, which were not large by the standards of other worlds. The entire planet held only seventy-nine million inhabitants. Still, communication lines and a power grid connected the settlements with enough technological infrastructure to make this the most sophisticated of all Buddislamic refugee worlds.

  Which was exactly why the thinking machines wanted it. With minimal effort Omnius could convert IV Anbus into a beachhead and from there prepare to launch even larger-scale assaults against League Worlds.

  Serena Butler’s Jihad had already been in full force for more than two decades. In the twenty-three years since the atomic destruction of Earth, the tides of battle had shifted many times between victory and loss, for each side.

  But seven years ago, the thinking machines had begun to target Unallied Planets, which were easier conquests than the heavily defended, more densely populated League Worlds. On the vulnerable Unallied Planets, the scattered traders, miners, farmers, and Buddislamic refugees were rarely able to muster sufficient force to resist Omnius. In the first three years, five such planets had been overrun by thinking machines.

  Back on Salusa Secundus, the Jihad Council had been unable to understand why Omnius would bother with such worthless places— until Vorian noticed the pattern: Driven by the calculations and projections of the computer evermind, the thinking machines were surrounding the League Worlds like a net, drawing closer and closer in preparation for a coup de grâce against the League capital.

  Shortly after Vorian Atreides— with Xavier’s support— had demanded that the Jihad devote its military strength to defend the Unallied Planets, a massive and unexpected Jihad counterstrike succeeded in recapturing Tyndall from the machines. Any victory was a good one.

  Xavier was glad the Army of the Jihad had arrived at IV Anbus in time, thanks to the warning of a Tlulaxa slaver named Rekur Van. The flesh merchant’s team had raided this world, kidnapping Zenshiites to be sold in the slave markets of Zanbar and Poritrin. After his raid, the slaver had encountered a robotic scout patrol mapping and analyzing the planet, something the machines always did in preparation for a conquest. Rekur Van then raced back to Salusa Secundus and delivered the dire news to the Jihad Council.

  To counter the danger, Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo had put together this hasty but effective military operation. “We cannot afford to let another world fall to the demonic thinking machines,” Iblis had shouted at the send-off ceremony, to enthusiastically defiant cheers and thrown orange flowers. “We have already lost Ellram, Peridot Colony, Bellos, and more. But at IV Anbus, the Army of the Jihad draws a line in space!”

  Though Xavier had underestimated the number of ships Omnius would dispatch to this remote world, thus far the Jihad forces had been able to thwart the attempted invasion, though they could not drive the robots away.

  During a break in the talks with the Zenshiites, Xavier cursed under his breath. The very people he was trying to save had no interest in his help, and declined to fight against the thinking machines.

  This city in the red rock canyons housed relics and the original handwritten canons of the Zenshia interpretation of Buddislam. Inside cave vaults, wise men preserved original scrawled manuscripts of the Sutra Koran and prayed five times daily when they heard the calls from minarets erected on the canyon rim. From Darits the elders dispensed their commentary, meant to guide the faithful through the forest of esoterica.

  Xavier Harkonnen could barely contain his frustration. He was a military man, accustomed to leading battle engagements, ordering his troops and expecting his commands to be followed. He simply didn’t know what to do when these pacifistic Buddislamic inhabitants just… refused.

  Back home among the League Worlds, there had been a growing anti-Jihad protest movement. The people were exhausted from more than two decades of bloodshed with no visible progress. Some had even carried placards near the shrines to the murdered child Manion the Innocent, begging for “Peace at Any Cost!”

  Yes, Xavier could understand their weariness and despair, for they had seen many loved ones killed by the thinking machines. But these isolated Buddislamics had never even bothered to lift a hand in resistance, revealing the ultimate folly of extreme nonviolence.

  The machines’ objective was clear, and Omnius would certainly show no consideration for any fanatical religious preferences. Xavier had a vital job to
complete here, in the name of the Jihad— and that job required a little commonsense cooperation from the natives. He had never expected so much trouble trying to make these people appreciate what the Army of the Jihad was risking for them.

  The Zenshiite elders shuffled back into the meeting room, an enclosure adorned with aged religious artifacts that glimmered with gold and precious stones.

  As he had for hours, the religious leader Rhengalid gazed at him with stony eyes and implacable refusal. He had a large shaved head that glistened with exotic oils; his thick eyebrows had been brushed and artificially darkened. His chin was covered with a thick, square-cut gray beard that he wore as a mark of pride. His eyes were a pale gray-green that stood out in striking contrast to his tanned skin. Despite the ominous thinking-machine battle fleet overhead, or the impressive firepower of the Army of the Jihad, this man remained unimpressed and unintimidated. He seemed oblivious.

  With a determined effort, Xavier kept his voice even. “We are trying to protect your world, Elder Rhengalid. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, if our ships did not continue to hold back the thinking machines every day, you and all your people would be slaves of Omnius.” He sat stiffly on the hard bench across from the Zenshiite leader. Not once had Rhengalid offered him any refreshment, though Xavier suspected that the elders had partaken of their own whenever the soldiers left the room.

  “Slaves? If you are so concerned for our welfare, Primero Harkonnen, where were your battleships a few months ago when Tlulaxa flesh merchants stole healthy young men and fertile women from our farming settlements?”

  Xavier tried not to show distress. He had never wanted to be a diplomat, didn’t have the patience for it. He served the cause of the Jihad with all the loyalty and dedication he possessed. The crimson of his uniform symbolized the spilled blood of humanity, and his innocent Manion— barely eleven months old— had been the first of the new martyrs.

  “Elder, what did you do to defend your own people when the raiders came? I knew nothing of the incident before now and cannot help you with what happened in the past. I can only promise that life under the thinking machines will be much worse.”

  “So you say, but you cannot deny the hypocrisy of your own society. Why should we take the word of one slaver over another?”

  Xavier’s nostrils flared. I don’t have time for this! “If you insist on reliving the past, then remember that your peoples’ refusal to fight the thinking machines from the very beginning has cost the freedom of billions of humans, and countless deaths. Many believe you owe a great debt to your race.”

  “We have no love for either side in this conflict,” the gray-bearded man retorted. “My people want no part of your pointless, bloody war.”

  Holding back a heated retort, Xavier said, “Nevertheless, you are caught in the crossfire and must choose sides.”

  “Are human tyrants better than machine tyrants? Who can say? But I do know that this is not our fight, has never been our fight.”

  Workers inside the Darits dam moved sluice gates, letting clear water pour in twin spectacular waterfalls from the open hands of the colossal Buddha and Mohammed statues. At the sudden rushing noise, Xavier looked up and was surprised to see Primero Vorian Atreides striding along the rock walkway from the landing pad of his shuttle at the crude spaceport. Smiling, the dark-haired man approached, still looking as fit, virile, and young as when Xavier had first met him after his escape from Earth so many years ago. “You can cajole them all you want, Xavier, but the Zenshiites speak a different language… in more than the linguistic sense.”

  The Darits elder looked indignant. “Your godless civilization has persecuted us. Jihadi soldiers are not welcome here— especially not in Darits, our sacred city.”

  Xavier held his gaze on Rhengalid. “I must inform you, Elder, that I shall not allow the thinking machines to take over this planet, whether you help us or not. The fall of IV Anbus would give the enemy yet another stepping-stone to the League Worlds.”

  “This is our planet, Primero Harkonnen. You do not belong here.”

  “Neither do the thinking machines!” Xavier’s face reddened.

  Vorian took him by the arm. Clearly amused, Vor said, “I see you’ve discovered new techniques of diplomacy.”

  “I never claimed to be a negotiator.”

  Smiling, Vor nodded. “If these people knew to follow your orders, that would certainly make things easier, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not going to abandon this planet, Vor.”

  The command comline sputtered, and a sharp message came across it. Vergyl Tantor’s voice was excited, breathless. “Primero Atreides, your suspicions were correct! Our scans have discovered a secret thinking machine base camp being established on a plateau. Appears to be a military beachhead, with industrial machinery, heavy weaponry, and combat robots.”

  “Good work, Vergyl,” Vor said. “Now the fun starts.”

  Xavier glanced over his shoulder at the self-absorbed Rhengalid, who looked as if he never wanted to see the jihadis again. “We’re finished here, Vor. Come back to the flagship. We’ve got work to do.”

  There is no such thing as the future. Humankind faces multiple possible futures, many of which hinge on seemingly inconsequential events.

  —The Muadru Chronicles

  Zimia was a stunning city, the cultural pinnacle of free humanity. Tree-lined boulevards fanned out like the spokes of a wheel from a complex of governmental buildings and an immense memorial plaza. Men in doublet-suits and ladies in ornamented official dresses walked briskly about the square.

  Iblis Ginjo frowned as he hurried across the expanse toward the stately Hall of Parliament. Such an orderly arrangement could give the illusion of security, that the surroundings would never change.

  But nothing is permanent. Nothing is secure.

  He was in the business of inspiring people, galvanizing them into action by convincing them that the evil machines could attack any world at any time, and that there were sinister human spies who secretly gave their loyalty to Omnius, even here in the heart of the League.

  Sometimes Iblis had to embellish reality, for the greater good of the struggle.

  A broad-shouldered man with a squarish face and straight dark brown hair, he wore a loose black blazer adorned with gold stitching and sparkling bangles. Several steps behind him, half a dozen Jihad Police— Jipol agents— followed, always alert, ready to draw their weapons quickly. Turncoat humans or assassins loyal to the machines could be lurking anywhere.

  Two decades ago, Iblis had granted himself the title “Grand Patriarch of Serena Butler’s Jihad,” and the throng embraced him every time he appeared in public. He spoke for them, rallied them, told them what to think and how to react. Like Vorian Atreides, Iblis had once been a human trustee of the thinking machines on Earth. Now he was an orator and statesman of the highest order: a king, politician, religious leader, and military commander all wrapped in one charismatic package. He had carved his own path, an unprecedented course that allowed him to move in the elite circles of human leadership. He knew history, and saw his place in it clearly.

  As he climbed the broad steps of the Hall of Parliament and entered the high-ceilinged, frescoed foyer, representatives and clerks fell silent. Iblis loved to see people fumbling around in awe of him, red-faced and stammering.

  He paused with appropriate reverence at the ornate alcove shrine to Serena Butler’s murdered child Manion, an angelic sculpture with arms open wide to receive a daily burden of fresh flowers, pale orange marigolds that looked like small, bright supernovas, the blossom that had been adopted as “Manion’s flower.”

  Inside, the great hall was full, every chair occupied by a nobleman or planetary representative. Even the aisles were packed with distinguished guests seated on portable, new-model suspensor chairs that floated in available spaces.

  A monk in a saffron-yellow robe sat near the front of the assembly, monitoring a heavy translucent container that held a live hu
man brain inside a life-support bath of bluish electrafluid. As Iblis glanced at the revered Cogitor, he felt a giddy rush of genuine pleasure at the memory it inspired of the ancient philosopher-brain named Eklo, who had shared his knowledge when Iblis had been a mere slave supervisor on Earth. Those had been heady days, full of possibilities….

  This Cogitor, a female thinker known as Kwyna, was more reluctant to help him, to offer her advice. Even so, Iblis often went to the tranquil City of Introspection to sit by Kwyna’s preservation canister, hoping to learn. He had met only two Cogitors in his life, but the magnificent organic thinking units never failed to impress him.

  They were so superior to Omnius, so elegant and so infinitely human… despite their obvious physical limitations.

  The Parliament’s business had already been under way for hours, but nothing important would happen until he arrived. It had all been arranged. His quiet allies among the League representatives would clog the governmental works with irrelevant bureaucracy, just to make him look more effective when he cut through all the dithering.

  On the podium, the planetary representative from Hagal, Hosten Fru, droned on about a minor commercial problem, a dispute between VenKee Enterprises and the Poritrin government over patents and distribution rights for glowglobes, which had become increasingly popular.

  “The original concept is based on work done by an assistant to Savant Tio Holtzman, but VenKee Enterprises has marketed the technology without any compensation to Poritrin,” Hosten Fru said. “I suggest we assign a committee to look into the matter and give it due consideration—”

  Iblis smiled to himself. Yes, a committee will ensure a complete lack of resolution on the issue. Hosten Fru was a seemingly incompetent politician who blocked League business with inane problems, making the cumbersome government appear as ineffectual as the passive Old Empire. No one knew that the Hagal representative was one of Iblis’s secret allies. It served Iblis’s purposes perfectly: the more people saw how incapable the League Assembly was of solving simple problems, especially during crises, the more decisions were relegated to the Jihad Council, which he controlled….