Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Read online

  Around Xavier, automated systems hummed with activity. Listening to the oscillating sirens, the chatter of orders and status reports in the control room, he drew a slow breath, prioritizing tasks. “We can stop them,” he said. “We will stop them.” His voice carried a tone of firm command, as if he were much older than his years and accustomed to battling Omnius every day. In reality, this would be his first engagement with the thinking machines.

  Years ago, his parents and older brother had been killed in a marrauding cymek attack while en route from an inspection of family holdings on Hagal. The soulless machine forces had always been a threat to the League Worlds, but the humans and Omnius had maintained an uneasy peace for decades.

  On a wall grid, a map of the Gamma Waiping system showed the orbital locations of Salusa Secundus and six other planets, along with the deployment of sixteen patrol battle groups and the vigilant picket ships that were scattered at random. Cuarto Steff Young hurried to update the tactical projection, plotting her best guess of the location of the approaching robot battle group.

  “Contact Segundo Lauderdale, and call in all perimeter warships. Tell them to engage and destroy any enemy they encounter,” said Primero Meach, then he sighed. “It’ll take half a day at maximum acceleration to retrieve our heavy battle groups from the fringe, but the machines might still be trying to get through by then. Could be a field day for our guys.” Cuarto Young followed the order with easy efficiency, dispatching a message that would take hours to reach the outskirts of the system.

  Meach nodded to himself, going through the much-drilled sequence. Always living under the specter of the machines, the Salusan Militia trained regularly for every scenario, as did Armada detachments for every major League system. “Activate the Holtzman scrambler shields around the planet and issue warnings to all commercial air and space traffic. I want the city’s shield transmitter output up to full within ten minutes.”

  “That should be enough to brain-fry any thinking machine gelcircuitry,” Xavier said with forced confidence. “We’ve all seen the tests.” This, however, is not just a test.

  Once the enemy encountered the defenses the Salusans had installed, he hoped they would calculate their losses to be too heavy, and retreat. Thinking machines didn’t like to take risks.

  He stared at a panel. But there are so many of them

  Then he straightened from his summary screens, full of bad news. “Primero Meach, if our velocity data for the machine fleet is correct, even at deceleration speed, they are traveling almost as fast as the warning signal we received from our scouts.”

  “Then they could already be here!” said Quinto Wilby.

  Now Meach reacted with sharp alarm, triggering a full emergency alert. “Sound evacuation orders! Open the underground shelters.”

  “Evacuation under way, sir,” reported Cuarto Young moments later, her fingers working the update panels as she spoke. The intent young woman touched a communication wire at her temple. “We’re sending Viceroy Butler all the information we have.”

  Serena is with him at the Hall of Parliament, Xavier realized, thinking of the Viceroy’s nineteen-year-old daughter. His heart clenched with concern for her, yet he did not dare reveal his fear to his compatriots. Everything in its time and place.

  In his mind he could see the many threads he needed to weave, doing his part while Primero Meach directed the overall defense.

  “Cuarto Chiry, take a squadron and escort Viceroy Butler, his daughter, and all of the League representatives deep into the subterranean shelters.”

  “They should be heading there already, sir,” the officer said.

  Xavier gave him a stiff smile. “Do you trust politicians to do the smart thing first?” The cuarto ran to do as he was told.

  Most histories are written by the winners of conflicts, but those written by the losers— if they survive— are often more interesting.

  — IBLIS GINJO,

  The Landscape of Humanity

  Salusa Secundus was a green world of temperate climate, home to hundreds of millions of free humans in the League of Nobles. Abundant water flowed through open aqueducts. Around the cultural and governmental center of Zimia, rolling hills were embroidered with vineyards and olive groves.

  Moments before the machine attack, Serena Butler stepped onto the oratory stage in the great Hall of Parliament. Thanks to her dedicated public service, as well as special arrangements made by her father, she had been granted this opportunity to address the representatives.

  Viceroy Manion Butler had privately counseled her to be subtle, to keep her points simple. “One step at a time, dear one. Our League is held together only by the threat of a common enemy, not by a set of shared values or beliefs. Never attack the lifestyles of the nobles.”

  This was only the third speech of her brief political career. In her earlier addresses, she had been overly strident— not yet understanding the ballet of politics— and her ideas had been met with a mixture of yawns and good-natured chuckles at her naïveté. She wanted to end the practice of human slavery that had been adopted sporadically by some League worlds; she wanted to make every human equal, to ensure that all were fed and protected.

  “Perhaps the truth hurts. I was trying to make them feel guilty.”

  “You only made them deaf to your words.”

  Serena had refined her speech to incorporate his advice, while still sticking to her principles. One step at a time. And she, too, would learn with each step. On the advice of her father, she had also spoken to like-minded representatives in private, rallying some support and gaining a few allies ahead of time.

  Lifting her chin, adjusting her expression to look authoritative rather than eager, Serena positioned herself inside the recording shell that surrounded the podium like a geodesic dome. Her heart swelled with all the good she might be able to do. She felt warm light as the projection mechanism transmitted oversized images of her outside the dome enclosure.

  A small screen atop the podium allowed her to see herself as they did: a soft face of classical beauty, with hypnotic lavender eyes and amber-brown hair highlighted by natural golden strands. On her left lapel she wore a white rose floweret from her own meticulously tended gardens. The projector made Serena look even more youthful, as the mechanism had been adjusted by nobles to mask the effect of years on their own features.

  From his gilded box at the front of the audience, round-faced Viceroy Butler, in his finest robes of gold and black, smiled proudly at his daughter. The sigil of the League of Nobles adorned his lapel, an open human hand in gold outline, representing freedom.

  He understood Serena’s optimism, remembering similar ambitions in himself. He had always been patient with her crusades, helping the young woman to rally disaster relief for refugees of machine attacks, letting her journey to other planets to tend to the injured, or dig through rubble and help rebuild burned buildings. Serena had never been afraid to get her hands dirty.

  “The narrow mind erects stubborn barriers,” her mother had once told her. “But against those barriers, words are formidable weapons.”

  On the floor of the great hall, dignitaries chatted in low tones. Several sipped drinks or munched on snacks that had been delivered to their seats. Just another day in Parliament. Comfortable in their villas and mansions, they would not welcome change. But the possibility of bruised egos did not prevent Serena from saying what needed to be said.

  She activated the oratory projection system. “Many of you think I have foolish notions because I am young, but perhaps the young have sharper eyesight, while the old grow slowly blind. Am I foolish and naïve— or have some of you, in pampered complacency, distanced yourselves from humanity? Where do you fall on the spectrum of what is right and wrong?”

  Out in the assemblage she saw a flurry of indignation mixed with expressions of rude dismissal. Viceroy Butler shot her a sharp glance of disapproval but transmitted a quick reminder throughout the hall, asking for respectful attention, as wou
ld be accorded any speaker.

  She pretended not to notice. Couldn’t they all see the larger picture? “We must each look beyond ourselves if we are to survive as a species. Now is not the time for personal selfishness. For centuries we have confined our defenses to a handful of key planets. Though Omnius has launched no full-scale attack in decades, we live in the constant shadow of the machine threat.”

  Touching pressure pads on the podium, Serena displayed a projection of the stellar neighborhood, like a cluster of gems on the high ceiling. With a wand of light, she pointed out the free League Worlds and the Synchronized Worlds ruled by thinking machines. Then she brought her pointer to more extensive regions of the Galaxy where neither organized humans nor machines held sway.

  “Look at these poor Unallied Planets: scattered worlds like Harmonthep, Tlulax, Arrakis, IV Anbus, and Caladan. Because their sparse, insular human settlements are not members of our League, they do not warrant our full military protection should they ever be threatened— by machines or by other humans.” Serena paused, letting the audience absorb her words. “Many of our own people wrongly prey on those planets, raiding them for slaves to be supplied to some League Worlds.”

  She caught the eye of the Poritrin representative, who scowled, knowing she was talking about him. He responded loudly, interrupting her. “Slavery is an accepted practice in the League. Lacking complex machines, we have no other choice to augment our workforce.” He looked smug. “Besides, Salusa Secundus itself kept a population of Zensunni slaves for almost two centuries.”

  “We put a stop to that practice,” Serena replied with considerable heat. “It took some imagination and a willingness to change, but—”

  Trying to head off a shouting match, the Viceroy stood. “Each League planet makes its own determination of local customs, technology, and laws. We have a fearsome enough enemy in the thinking machines without starting a civil war among our own planets.” His voice sounded paternal, just slightly chiding her to get back to her main point.

  Sighing but not surrendering, Serena adjusted the pointer so that the Unallied Planets glowed on the ceiling. “Still, we can’t ignore all these worlds— ripe resource-filled targets, planets just waiting to be conquered by Omnius.”

  The Sergeant at Arms, on a tall chair off to one side, rapped his staff on the floor. “Time.” Easily bored, he rarely listened to speeches.

  Serena continued in a rush, trying to finish her point without sounding strident. “We know the thinking machines want to control the Galaxy, even though they have been essentially quiescent for almost a hundred years. They have systematically taken over every world in the Synchronized star systems. Do not be lulled by their seeming lack of interest in us. We know they will strike again— but how, and where? Should we not move before Omnius does?”

  “What is it you want, Madame Butler?” one of the dignitaries inquired impatiently, raising his voice, but not standing, as was customary. “Are you advocating some sort of preemptive strike against the thinking machines?”

  “We must seek to incorporate the Unallied Planets into the League, and stop harvesting them for slaves.” She jabbed her illuminated wand at the overhead projection. “Bring them under our wing to increase our own strength, and theirs. We would all benefit! I propose that we dispatch ambassadors and cultural attachés with the express intent of forming new military and political alliances. As many as we can.”

  “And who will pay for all that diplomacy?”

  “Time,” the Sergeant at Arms repeated.

  “She is allotted three extra minutes for rebuttal, since the representative from Hagal has posed a question,” Viceroy Butler said in an authoritative tone.

  Serena grew angry. How could that representative worry about petty price tags, when the ultimate cost was so much higher? “We will all pay— in blood— if we do not do this. We must strengthen the League and the human species.”

  Some of the nobles began to clap— the allies she had courted before her speech. Suddenly, screeching alarms echoed through the building and in the streets. Droning sirens wavered in a chillingly familiar tone— usually heard only during planned drills— summoning all reserve members of the Salusan Militia.

  “Thinking machines have entered the Salusan system,” a voice said through built-in speakers. Similar announcements would be ringing all across Zimia. “We have an alert from perimeter scouts and the sentry battle group.”

  Standing next to her father, Serena read details as the Viceroy was handed a brief and urgent summary. “We’ve never seen a robot war fleet that size!” he said. “How long ago did the first scouts sound the warning? How much time do we have?”

  “We are under attack!” a man shouted. The delegates were on their feet, scattering like stirred ants.

  “Prepare to evacuate the Hall of Parliament.” The Sergeant at Arms became a flurry of movement. “All armored shelters are open. Representatives, report to your designated areas.”

  Viceroy Butler shouted into the chaos, trying to sound confident. “The Holtzman shields will protect us!” Serena could read her father’s anxiety, though he covered it well.

  Amid shouts and cries of panic, the League representatives scrambled for the exits. The merciless enemies of humanity had arrived.

  Any man who asks for greater authority does not deserve to have it.

  — TERCERO XAVIER HARKONNEN,

  address to Salusan Militia

  “The robot fleet has just engaged our spaceguard,” Xavier Harkonnen called from his station. “Heavy fire exchanged.”

  “Primero Meach!” Cuarto Steff Young shouted from the orbital grid screens. Xavier could smell the salty metallic tang of Young’s nervous sweat. “Sir, a small detachment of machine ships has broken from the main robotic fleet in orbit. Configuration unknown, but they’re preparing for an atmospheric descent.” She pointed to the images, picking out brilliant lights that signified a cluster of inert projectiles.

  Xavier glanced at the perimeter scanners, real-time intelligence transmitted from the defensive satellites high above Tio Holtzman’s gelcircuitry-scrambling fields. On the highest resolution he saw an assault squadron of pyramidal ships roaring headlong into the atmosphere, straight toward the sizzling shields.

  “They’re in for an unpleasant surprise,” Young said with a grim smile. “No thinking machine can survive that ride.”

  “Our biggest worry will be dodging the debris from their crashing ships,” Primero Meach quipped. “Maintain surveillance.”

  But the dropcarriages slipped past the scrambler shields— and kept coming. They showed no electronic signatures at all as they penetrated the boundary.

  “How are they getting through?” Quinto Wilby mopped his brow, brushing dishwater-brown hair out of his eyes.

  “No computers could.” In a flash, Xavier understood what was happening. “They’re blind dropcarriages, sir!”

  Young looked up from her screens, breathing hard. “Impact in less than a minute, Primero. Second wave is coming in behind them. I count twenty-eight projectiles.” She shook her head. “No computer signatures on any of them.”

  Xavier called out, thinking ahead, “Rico, Powder, work with med-response teams and fire-suppression squads. Everything up to speed and ready. Come on people, we’ve drilled for this a hundred times! I want all vehicles and rescue equipment mobile and in the air, prepared to move before the first ship hits.”

  “Divert defenses to pound the invaders as soon as they crash.” Primero Meach lowered his voice, swept his flinty gaze across his comrades. “Tercero Harkonnen, take a portable comstation and get out there— be my eyes on the scene. My guess is those dropcarriages will hatch into something unpleasant.”

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, THE CITY streets were chaotic under a cloud-dappled sky. Rushing into the confusion, Xavier heard the hot metallic scream of agonized atmosphere as the inert armored projectiles shot downward like bullets from space.

  An asteroid-rain of
pyramidal dropcarriages slammed into the ground, one after another. With deafening thunder, the first four blind vessels punched into buildings, leveling city blocks with the explosive dispersion of kinetic energy. But sophisticated shock-displacement systems protected the deadly cargo inside.

  Xavier ran down the street, his uniform rumpled, his sweaty hair clinging to his head. He stopped in front of the giant edifice of the Hall of Parliament. Although second in command of Salusa’s defenses, here he was in an unsecured position, ready to issue orders at ground zero. Not exactly the way he had been taught in his Armada Academy courses. But Primero Meach was relying on his assessment, recommendations, and ability to act independently.

  He touched the comline on his chin. “I’m in position, sir.”

  Five more unguided projectiles thumped into the outskirts of the city, leaving smoldering craters. Explosions. Smoke. Fireballs.

  From the impact points, the inert crashdown pods cracked open to reveal a huge object stirring in each one. Reactivated mechanical units peeled off charred ablation shielding. With dread, Xavier knew what he was about to see, understood how the enemy machines had managed to pass through the scrambler shields. They were not computer minds at all. . . .

  Cymeks.

  Fearsome mechanical monstrosities emerged from the broken pyramids, driven by surgically detached human brains. Mobility systems restarted; articulated legs and augmented weapons clicked into place.

  The cymek bodies lurched out of the smoking craters, crablike gladiators half as tall as the damaged buildings. Their alloy legs were as thick as support girders, bristling with flamer cannons, artillery launchers, poison gas jets.

  Xavier shouted into his comline. “Cymek warrior-forms, Primero Meach! They figured out how to get through our orbital defenses!”

  All across Salusa, from the outskirts of Zimia to the farthest continent, the local planetary militia was dispatched. Low-atmospheric defense craft— kindjals— had already launched in defensive overflights, their weaponry magazines loaded with armor-piercing projectile shells.