Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (2 page)

Like a target behind crosshairs, Salusa Secundus filled Agamemnon’s field of view. With great attention to detail the general had studied tactical projections, applying the military skills he’d developed over the centuries, along with an intuitive understanding of the art of conquest. His abilities had once allowed a mere twenty rebels to take over an empire . . . until they’d lost it all to Omnius.

Prior to launching this important attack, the computer evermind had insisted on running simulation after simulation, trying to develop plans for every contingency. Agamemnon, though, knew it was futile to plan too precisely when it came to unruly humans.

Now, while the immense robot war fleet engaged the expected League orbital defenses and perimeter ships, Agamemnon’s mind probed outward from his sensor-connected container, and he felt his guideship as an extension of his long-lost human body. The integral weapons were part of himself. He saw with a thousand eyes, and the powerful engines made him feel as if he had muscular legs again and could run like the wind.

“Prepare for ground assault. Once our dropcarriages penetrate the Salusan defenses, we must strike fast and hard.” Recalling that watcheyes would record every moment of the battle for the evermind’s later scrutiny once the fleet returned, he added, “We will sterilize this filthy planet for the glory of Omnius.” Agamemnon slowed his descent, and the others followed suit. “Xerxes, take the lead. Send in your neo-cymeks to draw their fire and flush them out.”

Hesitant as usual, Xerxes complained. “Will I have your full support as I go in? This is the most dangerous part of—”

Agamemnon silenced him. “Be grateful for this opportunity to prove yourself. Now go! Every second you delay gives more time to the
hrethgir
.” This was the derogatory term that intelligent machines and their cymek lackeys used for human vermin.

Another voice crackled across the comlink: the robot operator of the machine fleet battling the human protective force orbiting Salusa. “We await your signal, General Agamemnon. Human resistance is intensifying.”

“We’re on our way,” Agamemnon said. “Xerxes, do as I instructed!”

Xerxes, who always fell short of complete defiance, stifled further comment and summoned three neo-cymeks, later-generation machines with human minds. The quartet of pyramidal ships shut down their subsidiary systems, and their armored dropcarriages fell unguided into the atmosphere. For a few dangerous moments they would be easy targets, and the League’s missile-and-aerial defenses might hit a few of the cluster. But the dropcarriages’ dense material shielding would protect them against the brunt of the bombardment, keeping them intact even through a wild crash-landing on the outskirts of the prime city of Zimia, where the main shield-generating towers were located.

Thus far the League of Nobles had preserved unruly humanity against the organized efficiency of Omnius, but the feral biologicals governed themselves ineffectively and often disagreed over major decisions. As soon as Salusa Secundus was crushed, the unstable alliance would disintegrate in a panic; resistance would crumble.

But first Agamemnon’s cymeks had to shut down the scrambler shields. Then Salusa would be defenseless and quivering, ready for the main robot fleet to deal the lethal blow, like a huge mechanical boot squashing an insect.

The cymek leader jockeyed his dropcarriage into position, ready to lead the second wave with the rest of the extermination fleet. Agamemnon switched off all computerized systems and followed Xerxes down. His brain floated in limbo inside its preservation canister. Blind and deaf, the general did not feel the heat or violent vibrations as his armored craft roared toward the unsuspecting target.

W
hen Salusa’s sensor network detected the arrival of the robotic war fleet, Xavier Harkonnen took action immediately. Once again, the thinking machines meant to test the defenses of free humanity.

Though he bore the rank of tercero in the Salusan Militia— the local, autonomous branch of the overall League Armada— Xavier had not yet been born during the last real skirmishes against League worlds. The most recent major battle had been nearly a hundred years ago. After all these years, the aggressive machines might be counting on soft human defenses, but Xavier swore they would fail.

“Primero Meach, we’ve received an urgent warning and a vidstream clip from one of our peripheral scouts,” he said to his commander. “But the transmission cut off.”

“Look at them all!” squawked Quinto Wilby as he scanned images from the outlying sensor network. The low-ranking officer stood with other soldiers at banks of instrument panels inside a domed building. “Omnius never sent anything like this before.”

Vannibal Meach, the short but loud-voiced primero of the Salusan Militia, stood in the control center of the planet’s defenses, coolly absorbing the flow of information. “Our last report from the perimeter is hours old due to signal lag. By now they’ve engaged our pickets, and they’ll try to get closer. They’ll fail, of course.” Though this was his first warning of the impending invasion, he reacted as if he had expected the machines to arrive any day.

In the control room’s illumination, Xavier’s dark brown hair glinted with reddish cinnamon highlights. He was a serious young man, prone to honesty and with a tendency to see things in black and white. As a member of the third military ranking tier, Tercero Harkonnen was Meach’s backup commander of the local defense outposts. Much admired by his superiors, Xavier had been promoted quickly; equally respected by his soldiers, he was the sort of trusted man they would follow into battle.

Despite the sheer size and firepower of the robotic force, he willed himself to calmness, then signaled for reports from the nearest picket ships and put the spaceguard defense fleet on highest alert in close orbit. The warship commanders had already called their crews to battle-ready status as soon as they’d heard the urgent transmission from the now-destroyed scout ships.

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.

S
alusa 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?”