Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (62 page)

In addition, he had begun to contract production of the innovative and efficient glowglobes that Norma had invented and shared with him. Profits from his business ventures would pay to repair and reconstruct the damaged orbital platforms, to rebuild the ruined cave cities, and also to fund an increased presence of Armada scout and picket ships on the perimeter of the system.

Zufa, apparently, thought such things came free. Venport’s business ventures funded it all.

At any time he chose, he could pack up his credits and live like a king on some other world. But he belonged on Rossak. Even though the chief Sorceress treated him with little warmth or compassion, he did love her.

Venport smiled to himself as he rode the lift cables to the undulating section of flat pavement on the polymerized treetops. Small ships could land there, though larger cargo barges had to remain in space, docking with the damaged orbital stations and off-loading supplies one crate at a time. Out in the jungle, fast-growing vines and tall weeds had already begun to cover the wide scorch marks made by the cymek conflagration. Nature had a way of healing itself.

Gazing up into the hazy skies, he searched for the expected shuttle, pleased to see that it was exactly on time. He watched it descend, a small private craft owned by a Tlulaxa flesh merchant named Tuk Keedair, a man who raided the Unallied Planets for slaves. Keedair also sold biological organs, reportedly grown in sophisticated tanks kept behind tight security on Tlulax.

A merchant himself, Venport had never considered slavery to be a lucrative or sensible commodity. Only a handful of League Worlds permitted the practice, but Keedair had a good reputation with his customers. Oddly, the man wanted to make a different sort of proposal to Aurelius Venport today, involving some commodity other than slaves. Curious, Venport had agreed to meet with him.

After the small Tlulaxa shuttle landed, Keedair stepped out. The flesh merchant stood with his hands on his hips, dressed in a clean blue blouse tucked into tight black pants. A dark braid shot with silvery-gray strands dangled like a badge of honor over his shoulder.

Venport extended a hand in greeting. For this occasion he had worn a formal jerkin belted at the waist and boots made from the blackish green pelt of an arboreal slitherer. Keedair raised a callused hand in a salute.

The flesh merchant said, “I have brought samples to show you, and ideas to make you lick your lips.”

“You come to me with a reputation for vision and foresight, Tuk Keedair. Tell me your ideas.”

While the Sorceresses were occupied with their endless war councils, Venport took his guest into a formal reception chamber. Here, the two men were alone, sipping potent tea brewed from fresh jungle herbs, going through the social rituals.

Finally, Keedair brought out a sample of brownish powder and extended it to him. “Nine months ago, I found this on Arrakis.” Venport sniffed and, at his visitor’s behest, tasted the potent, tingly substance.

He hardly heard the Tlulaxa’s further words, so focused was he on the remarkable experience that demanded his complete attention. Though he was quite familiar with recreational stimulants and mood-altering substances from the Rossak jungles, he had never imagined that anything like
this
existed.

The melange seemed to seep into every cell of his body, transmitting energy and vitality directly to his brain, but without the usual sensory distortions. This was pleasure . . . but much more than that. Venport sat back and felt the substance seduce and relax him, controlling him without controlling him. It was a paradox. He felt mentally sharper than at any time in his life. Even the future itself seemed clear.

“I like this very much.” Venport let out a contented sigh and tasted another sample of the powder. “I may become our best customer.”

Alerady, he suspected that he could arrange for many interested purchasers across the League. Many, many more.

THE TWO MEN agreed on the details and shook hands, then settled down to another cup of Rossak tea . . . this time sprinkling melange into it.

Aurelius Venport agreed to travel with the flesh merchant to the ragged fringes of explored territory. It would be a long trip on a round-about route, since Arrakis was as far out of the way as a known planet could be. But the man from Rossak wanted to see the source of melange for himself, to understand how he might turn spice harvesting into a profitable enterprise.

Maybe Zufa would take notice of him after this.

I
n a magnificent military procession, a League battle group of ballistas and javelins cruised toward Poritrin. On the bridge of the Armada flagship, proud and stony Segundo Xavier Harkonnen stood in full dress uniform, studying the peaceful-looking planet.

Lord Bludd, as an extravagant donation to the League of Nobles, had offered to equip the Armada ships with Tio Holtzman’s new shields. At the Starda Spaceport, temporary facilities had been set up to accommodate the numerous vessels. All commercial craft had been cleared away to convert the field into an impromptu military base and shipyard. Whole crews of trained slaves had been reassigned from their regular duties to work on the installation.

Xavier wasn’t entirely convinced he should place so much trust in an unproven technology, but the balance of power would have to change significantly before humanity could re-conquer any more Synchronized Worlds. Risks needed to be taken.

The immense ballista-class battleships descended through the Poritrin sky. In addition to its built-in armaments, each vessel carried fifteen hundred crewmen, twenty troop transports, fifteen large shuttles for cargo and equipment, twenty small passenger shuttles, fifty long-range patrol craft, and two hundred swift kindjals for space or atmospheric combat. Such enormous vessels rarely landed on planetary surfaces, but now the ballistas descended under their own power, their plated hulls glistening in the sunlight.

After the ballistas came the smaller javelin-class destroyers, which could travel lighter but carried proportionally more weapons for rapid, decisive responses.

Crowds of Poritin nobles and free citizens waved and whistled, segregated from the slaves. Barges on the Isana blasted low-octave horns in response to the display. As part of the show to commemorate the fleet’s arrival, squadrons of kindjals and patrol ships flew around the larger vessels like protective wasps.

After the flagship had landed, Xavier stepped out into a roar of welcoming cheers. The huge ballista loomed behind him on the tarmac, its outer skin stained with oily smears from the harsh space environment. Standing before the swell of expectant people, he felt minuscule.

But they all depended on him, and he had a job to do. After a brief pause to orient himself, he marched forward, flanked by his officers and command staff, followed by the first line of troops in perfect file. He had trained them well.

Accompanied by four prominent advisors and eleven Dragoon guards, Lord Niko Bludd approached him. The flamboyant noble flung his cape behind him and came forward to clasp Xavier’s hand. “Welcome to Poritrin, Segundo Harkonnen. Although we hope to complete our tasks for you with all due speed, during your stay my people will rest easier at night, knowing our planet is under your magnificent protection.”

LATER, WHILE BLUDD hosted an extravagant banquet, Xavier delegated duties to his primary fleet officers. His subcommanders oversaw the organization of work teams at the spaceport and documented the installation of Holtzman shield generators. At the Segundo’s cautious command, the new systems would first be incorporated into a squadron of patrol craft, so that he could inspect the work and test the technology.

Afterward, Poritrin mechanics would scale up the systems, layering multiple shields to cover vulnerable spots of the javelins and then the fleet ballistas. If the shields performed adequately during rigorous shakedowns and test maneuvers, Xavier would order additional battle groups to be temporarily stationed at Poritrin for similar upgrades. He did not want to have too much of the Armada in drydock at any one time, thereby leaving some League Worlds undefended, nor did he want one of Omnius’s stray spy drones to notice what was going on.

Most of the robotic weaponry consisted of projectiles and explosives, intelligent programmed bombs that pursued their targets until impact. As long as the AI projectiles did not learn how to slow their velocity and penetrate the shields, the protection should be sufficient, and dramatic.

In a highly confidential briefing, Xavier had learned of the shield’s even more significant flaw— its violent interaction with lasers. However, since such energy weapons were almost never used in combat because they had proven inefficient for large-scale destruction, he deemed it an acceptable risk. Provided that the Armada could keep such a secret from Omnius. . . .

Within the conical towers of Lord Bludd’s residence hall, Xavier listened to the minstrels singing hymns and story-songs inspired by a half-forgotten Navachristian holiday still occasionally celebrated on Poritrin. He was not hungry, and could barely taste or smell anything. He sipped a snifter of tart local rum, but consumed the alcohol sparingly. He did not wish to diminish his reaction time or his sensibilities.
Always ready
.

While the revelry continued behind him, he gazed out the tower’s curved windows, staring down at the spaceport lights, splashes of yellow and white that allowed teams of slave workers to continue installing the shields night and day. He had never much cared for slave labor, especially since Serena had been so outspoken against it, but it was the way things were done on Poritrin.

Xavier would have preferred to be back home with Octa. They had been married for just less than a year, and she would soon give birth to their first child. For now, though, his duty required him to be here. Resigned to the task at hand, he raised his glass and echoed yet another of Lord Bludd’s self-congratulatory toasts.

ACCOMPANIED BY HIS adjutant, Cuarto Jaymes Powder, Xavier walked along the first rows of kindjals arrayed on the military landing field. Unit after unit had been installed, small shield generators connected to the spacecraft engines. His shoulders square, his back stiff, his uniform immaculate, he paid close attention to detail, checked everything for himself. He would never allow a mistake like Giedi Prime to occur again.

Gazing across the river delta, he saw cargo barges and passenger ships floating down from the northlands. Poritrin’s business went on as usual, and the conflict with the thinking machines seemed distant. Yet Xavier would never be at peace. Although he had made himself happy with Octa, it wasn’t the life he had planned for himself. The thinking machines had killed Serena. As he continued the fight for freedom, he knew that his motivation was personal.

Guarded by work managers, teams of lethargic slaves labored just hard enough to avoid punishment while showing scant enthusiasm for the job, no matter how much it would benefit humanity, themselves included.

While he disliked the practice of slavery, Xavier shook his head, dismayed and angry at their willingness to fail. “Lord Bludd’s decision to assign such people to this work . . . does not inspire confidence.”

Cuarto Powder scanned the teams of prisoners. “It’s not unusual here, sir.”

Xavier pursed his lips. The League of Nobles insisted on each planet’s right to govern itself as the populace saw fit. “Still, I don’t believe that a captive man will ever provide his best work. I want no mistakes, Jaymes— the fleet depends on it.”

He swept his gaze across the work crews, looking for anything out of place, uneasy to see so many slaves performing delicate work. One black-bearded man in particular, with eyes that seemed to hold anything but placid thoughts, guided his team with sharp commands in a language Xavier could not understand.

Xavier squinted thoughtfully as he walked past the workers. He glanced around the work grid, at the kindjals glinting in sunlight. His instinct for danger made the skin prickle on his neck beneath the crisp fabric of his uniform.

On impulse, he rapped the hull of a patrol craft. Two grease-smeared slaves scuttled out of the vessel, their installation work completed, and moved to the next craft down the line, avoiding Xavier’s gaze.

He took four steps away from the patrol craft, then turned around again, reconsidering. “Cuarto, I think we should test one of these kindjals, at random.”

He climbed into the fighter craft’s cockpit. With deft fingers he scanned the control panels, noting the newly installed power components and boosters that would project Holtzman’s shields. He flicked switches, waited for the engines to hum to life, then engaged the shield.

On the ground outside, the adjutant stepped back. Powder shaded his eyes as the air shimmered around the kindjal, a crackling, nearly invisible bubble. “Looks good, sir!”

Xavier pushed the engine power controls higher, ready for takeoff. The patrol craft’s exhaust blasted out, trapped within the shield until it slowly leaked through the barrier. The ship hummed and vibrated beneath him. He studied the panel readings, brow furrowed.

But when he tried to raise the kindjal off the ground, the shield generator sparked and smoked. With a lowering hum, the engines shut themselves down. Xavier slapped the controls, disengaging all systems before further short circuits could race through the delicate components.

He climbed out of the patrol craft, his face red with anger. “Bring the work leaders to me immediately! And notify Lord Bludd that I wish to speak with him.”

THE SLAVES ASSIGNED to that particular kindjal had disappeared into the crowds, and despite the Segundo’s furious demands, none of the captives arrayed before him confessed to any knowledge of the mistakes. Considering all slaves interchangeable, the lax crew bosses had kept no detailed records of who had actually worked on which craft.