Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Vor clenched his jaw. “The Army of Humanity believes its own propaganda. People think that simply because we’ve decreed the Jihad is over, our enemies no longer scheme against us.”

  He took a deep breath, remembering too vividly what it was like to be a battlefield commander. “It looks like I’ll need someone to help me,” he said to Abulurd. “You and I have work to do.”

  It was said of Norma Cenva that one could not judge her on the basis of appearances. No matter her physical failings or the classic beauty that eventually replaced them, neither represented the essence of the woman. She was, above all else, a cerebral powerhouse.

  — PRINCESS IRULAN,

  Biographies of the Butlerian Jihad

  When she returned to Rossak, the silvery-purple jungle in the deep rift valleys brought back an avalanche of memories from Norma’s childhood. The skies were still stained with toxic smoke from distant volcanic action, and the smell of the life-laden atmosphere rose up like a miasma from the dense undergrowth below the cliff cities. There, the jungles swarmed with the most unusual plant and insect life, flora and fauna fighting for survival in the sheltered, fertile cracks.

  Norma remembered as a young girl going out on expeditions with Aurelius and his botanical specialists, hunting in the lush jungles for plants, fungi, berries, even insects and arachnids that could be converted into pharmaceuticals. VenKee Enterprises still reaped great profits from their drug harvests on Rossak, though melange had become the company’s dominant export product.

  In Norma’s recent vivid vision, however, she saw that nearly everything here would be destroyed. Soon. Something terrible would happen to Rossak, to the Sorceresses, to everyone. She hoped she could convince her half sister of the urgency, though Ticia would want proof, details, explanations. Norma could offer nothing like that… just a very strong premonition she had had during an intense melange-induced dream.

  Ticia would not be very amenable to taking Norma at her word.

  Many years ago Ticia had gone out on one of the last raids against cymeks; she and her fellow Sorceresses had been prepared to unleash their mental powers, to take enemy cymeks with them as they died. All of Ticia’s companions had sacrificed themselves, and Ticia herself would have been the next in line. But then the cymeks had retreated, leaving Ticia the sole survivor, her sacrifice not needed… and somehow she had always resented not getting her chance. Ticia’s personality was formed of regrets, blame, and determination. She could find many ways that her life had soured, and as many people to identify as the cause.

  The Supreme Sorceress had always ignored Norma to the point of pretending she didn’t exist, letting her work alone on Kolhar with her ships and her space-folding engines. She was as devoted to her projects as Norma was to hers. In an odd way, that allowed Norma to understand her half sister.

  Now that the Jihad was over, there was no longer any call for the women of Rossak to be trained as suicidal mental juggernauts. Now the Sorceresses devoted their energies to studying and managing all the bloodlines they had compiled over generations, along with all of the new genetic material they’d collected during the worst of the Omnius Scourge.

  “I suspect your inspiration, your premonition, comes more from the distortions of too much melange than from any real prescience,” Ticia said, after listening to Norma’s message. They stood together on a cliff balcony, staring down into the thick jungles.

  As Supreme Sorceress, she wanted little to do with drugs and artificial crutches. As far as she was concerned, only the weak were forced to rely on drugs. VenKee had made enormous profits by distilling stimulants, hallucinogens, and medical treatments from the exotic jungle plants. The whole matter was distasteful to Ticia, as was her half sister’s obvious addiction to the spice from Arrakis.

  Both women looked icily beautiful, tall and pale-skinned, with platinum-blond hair and precise features. Inside her mind, though, Norma still saw herself as the dwarfish, blunt-featured woman who could easily be intimidated by domineering Sorceresses, like Ticia.

  “It was not my imagination,” Norma said. “It was a warning. I know that among the Sorceresses, precognition is occasionally manifested as a talent. You certainly have the records to prove that.”

  “I will send a message if your dire prediction comes to pass. Just go back to Kolhar and do your work.” Ticia lifted her chin regally. “We have our own important duties here.”

  Norma looked at her half sister through sparkling blue eyes that seemed to veil a whole universe beyond. She touched her own temple and smiled complacently. “I am working on the calculations every moment. I can do them here as easily as on Kolhar.”

  “Then perhaps we’ll both see whether your bad dreams come to pass.”

  * * *

  BUT FOR DAYS, nothing terrible had happened, and Norma could provide no further details of her premonition.

  Each morning during her extended visit, Norma walked alone through the densest jungle, selecting roots, berries, and leaves and tucking them away in her pockets without ever explaining why. Such a strange person, Ticia thought, watching her half sister from afar.

  Hazy sunlight glinted off Norma’s unnatural gold hair and milky skin as she made her way trancelike up a steep path from the jungle floor, toward the high cliff opening where the Supreme Sorceress stood. So preoccupied, so absentminded. How amusing it would be if Norma were to trip and tumble to her death….

  Their mother had abandoned Ticia as a baby in order to spend all her time with Norma, choosing this… freak over her, over a perfect Sorceress. Fall, damn you!

  When Norma’s gliding steps brought her up the steep path to the cave opening, Ticia continued to stare at her, never moving. Norma spoke directly to the Supreme Sorceress, as if she were continuing a dialog she’d been having for some time, probably inside her head. “Where do you keep the computers?”

  “Are you mad? We have no thinking machines here!” Ticia was shocked that her half sister would have guessed their secret. Is she… really prescient? Should I take her warning seriously?

  Norma looked at her without ire, not believing Ticia for a moment. “Unless your minds have been trained to the organization and capacity of a computer, you must be using a sophisticated system to maintain such vast amounts of detailed genetic data.” She studied Ticia with the intensity of a deep-scanning instrument. “Or are you doing a poor and sloppy job because you’re afraid to use the necessary tools? You don’t seem the type.”

  “Computers are illegal and dangerous,” Ticia said, hoping it would be enough of an answer.

  Norma, as usual, fixated on the problem and refused to let go. “You need not fear suspicion or paranoia of machines from me— only curiosity. I myself took advantage of computerized organization and response systems to solve the foldspace navigation problems. Unfortunately, the League failed to admit the benefits, and I was forced to discontinue that highly productive line of work. I would not begrudge you their usefulness for your own research.”

  Before Ticia could develop a viable-sounding excuse, she heard the sudden shrill whistle of something hot and fast screaming through the air. In unison, they looked at the hazy morning sky where silver descent trails streaked down, targeted toward the deep, sheltered rift valleys. Large projectiles crashed into the treetops, plunging through foliage and thudding into the jungle floor.

  Norma bit her lower lip as she nodded slowly. “I think this is the start of what I saw in my vision.” She turned to Ticia. “You had better sound an alarm.”

  Hearing the impacts outside, white-robed Sorceresses rushed from their cave chambers and moved about with intense, determined speed. At the base of the cliff, one of the projectiles that had embedded itself in the soft loam began to shudder and open like an eggshell. A flurry of metal parts sprang out, dug into the ground, and dumped dirt, pebbles, and other materials into a processing hopper.

  Despite her fearsome premonition, Norma studied the crashed projectile with detached curiosity. “It appear
s to be an automated factory— though not as sophisticated as a genuine thinking machine— using local resources to assemble something.”

  “It’s a machine,” Ticia said. She grew rigid, ready to generate a power source in her body that would enable her to fight in the only way she knew. “Even if it is not a cymek, it is our enemy.”

  On the jungle floor, several men in VenKee uniforms approached the crash site. Filled pouches were clipped to their belts from a day of harvesting the underbrush. One pale, distorted-looking young man accompanied them like an eager puppy; he was cow-eyed and misshapen, an unsettling freak, and Ticia scowled at him from her high vantage, wishing the Misborn would just die when they were cast out into the jungle….

  Then, as the curious group approached the landed projectile, the automated factory spat out its first completed products: small silver spheres that flew like armored, hungry insects. They rose in a swarm, scanned the area, and then rushed en masse toward the VenKee party. The misshapen young man scampered away with surprising speed and vanished into the thick and tangled underbrush, but the VenKee men did not move fast enough.

  “They are small, but they must have crude sensors,” Norma said, still sounding analytical.

  The flying metal mites swirled around their victims like a cloud of angry wasps, then struck like tiny buzz saws, shredding the men, stripping cloth and skin, sending out a spray of blood and bits of ground-up flesh. Then men shrieked and screamed, running, thrashing, but the piranha machines pursued them, ate away at them, mangling their bodies.

  Then the fanged mites streaked toward the cave openings. “They have targeted us,” Norma said.

  Ticia shouted to the other Sorceresses, and the powerful women of Rossak stood together, facing the oncoming cloud. The buzzing little drones, covered with sharp metal spines, whirred forward like bullets. Ticia began to shake, calling up her mental abilities.

  Behind the Sorceresses, the children and men of Rossak crowded into safe chambers. Ticia and her companions raised a crackling wind with their minds, sending forth small blasts of telekinetic power like a mental hurricane. Clusters of the oncoming mechanical mites were scattered, then pulverized in the air. Then more came. The crashed factory probe was manufacturing the machine mites by the thousands.

  “This doesn’t require as great an effort as vaporizing a cymek,” one of the Sorceresses said, “but it still satisfying in its own way.”

  “Omnius has found a way to send a new weapon against us, even from behind the League’s barricade,” Norma said. “These machines are programmed to hunt us down and destroy us.”

  Metallic clouds of artificial insects filled the air in front of the cliff cities, seeking out victims. The Sorceresses were surrounded by ozone and invisible wind. Their pale hair flew about, their garments rippling with telepathic currents. Ticia raised her hand, and with a concentrated burst the women wiped out another wave of machine mites. Then, joining their efforts together, the Sorceresses blasted the factory cylinder itself, imploding its mechanisms into a thick lump.

  “Send men down with flame cutters and explosives,” Ticia said. “They need to destroy that cylinder before it can repair itself.” She felt exhilarated and smug, even to the point of acknowledging her half sister’s dire prediction.

  “The war is not over,” Norma pointed out. “It may be just starting. Again.”

  If thinking machines have no imaginations, how is it that they continue to conceive such horrors to unleash against us?

  — BATOR ABULURD HARKONNEN,

  “Zimia Incident Report”

  All of the Zimia security inspectors and curious bystanders who ran to the pod crash sites were killed. Even remote images went blank within seconds as the deadly flying machines devoured everything in their path. All contact was cut off.

  Suspecting the worst from Omnius, Vor rallied the home guard regiments, ordering weaponry and fighters to surround the pod landing sites. Standing at his side, Abulurd Harkonnen helped implement his commander’s every instruction. The Supreme Bashar was like an angry Salusan bull, and no one dared stand in his way.

  “I told them we had to remain vigilant,” Vor grumbled to Abulurd. “I told them not to let their guard down. You even brought us a direct warning, and still they wouldn’t listen!”

  “Given a few years of peace, people quickly forget what urgency feels like,” Abulurd agreed.

  “And now that we’re faced with some new attack from Omnius, we respond like scuttling rodents!” Vor made a disgusted sound.

  Even before they knew details of the threat, Abulurd coordinated detachments of soldiers stationed in the city districts nearest the crash sites. Using emergency powers, he activated and dispatched any mercenaries who remained under contract with the Army of Humanity.

  The coffin-sized projectiles had crash-landed in a broad zone. Elemental resources churned through fabricators in a widening factory maw, and swarms of insatiable devices— each the size of a ball bearing— spewed forth from the automated factories. Each one had a power source, simple programming, and very sharp jaws. Like piranhas, they sought out any human form, then attacked and devoured.

  As people fled, the mechanical mites buzzed about on a mission of unrelenting destruction, swarming to strip their victims down to shreds of dripping flesh and splinters of gnawed bone. Soldiers in uniform, as well as citizens in tight-fitting slacks and shirts, seemed to be particular targets. Women and priests in flowing robes, and old men in tall retromodern hats, avoided notice for a time, but the voracious flying mites swarmed back around to take a second look— and then attacked.

  People ran screaming through the streets, dropped in their tracks before they could find shelter. Like relentless sausage grinders, the piranha mites burrowed through bodies in random courses, disgorging mangled meat. As soon as each victim dropped, the tiny machines buzzed upward again and sought new targets.

  The first wave of responding soldiers was cut down quickly. Piranha mites slammed into them like killer bees, but some of the fighters switched on their personal shields to block the onslaught. Others were not so quick to activate their shields, and when the mites hit them, they fell as if sprayed with toxic gas. Their hand weapons were useless against the sheer numbers of mechanical attackers.

  Even shielded people succumbed eventually as the mites battered against the Holtzman barriers, probing, exploring, until they stumbled on the trick of slow penetration. Blood and cellular tissue splashed inside the shimmering force walls. Within moments, the trapped mites destroyed the generator apparatus, the shield bubbles faded, and the bloody mites rocketed outward.

  More and more of the attackers swarmed through the air. Families ran into buildings and vehicles, sealing themselves inside, but the mites followed and always found ways to get through. There were no hiding places.

  In a widening radius, collector devices scoured for available metals and added them to the voracious processors to create more and more flying hunters. The crashed machine cylinders opened wider, dug deeper, and mites continued to fly outward like a cloud of buckshot. The mobile factories sent out brute-force gatherers that demolished Zimia structures for their resources, stripping the buildings down to remove metals and other necessary elements.

  The perimeter of destruction widened.

  * * *

  ABULURD FOLLOWED SUPREME Bashar Atreides as they rushed to the scene of the nearest infestation. When Vor bellowed orders, the inexperienced Zimia soldiers were too frightened to hesitate. He and Abulurd established a temporary sealed command center not far from the first impact point. Pandemonium ruled in the streets. Citizens locked themselves in sheltered rooms and closets, trying to hide from the self-propelled bullets with sharp teeth.

  Less than an hour had passed since the first landing, and already thousands had died.

  Finally, the League’s artillery came within firing range. Abulurd checked the manifests. “The shells are loaded with high explosives. Our gunnery officers say they’re ready to f
ire. One direct hit should take out that factory, and then we can clean up the mess.”

  Vor’s brow furrowed. “Give the order to fire, but don’t expect it to be that easy. Omnius undoubtedly built in numerous protective systems.” He gestured with one hand. “However, the sooner we know what those defenses are, the faster we can find ways to circumvent them.”

  A barrage of artillery shells pounded outward in short arcs, flying point-blank toward the nearest factory pit. As the explosives dropped toward the target, clouds of piranha mites swirled like smoke around the open production mouth. The voracious devices clustered together, as if they could form a barricade against the infalling projectiles. Hordes of mites connected to each other with sticky interfaces, clustering into various shapes, setting up large obstructions.

  Then the mite clusters homed in on each incoming shell, like mechanical leeches. They dismantled the shells in midair, ripping them to tiny scraps of metal, which they delivered into the factory maw, where the raw materials were broken down and converted into more of the killer units.

  Without direct orders, one foolhardy mercenary swooped over the vicinity in a small armored flyer, and the machine mites targeted him. Thousands of the flying devices clumped along his flyer’s hull, where they began stripping away the metal, the seals, the electronic systems.

  As a last gesture, the mercenary managed to drop only one of his explosives. The projectile tumbled down and detonated in the air before the mites could dismantle it entirely. The shockwave merely stirred up the furious mites and caused little damage.

  The mercenary’s fighter broke apart. For a moment, the doomed man fell free, flailing in the air, and then the piranha machines zeroed in and ripped him to shreds. He was dead before the tattered remnants of his body struck the ground.

  Faced with such a horrific threat, some of the younger soldiers failed to respond to the Supreme Bashar’s orders; dozens had fled their posts. Vorian looked angry, but Abulurd said, “They are inexperienced and unaccustomed to all the awful things the machines can do.”