Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  For a moment, Vor gave the other man a faint smile. “Others might have grown lax, Abulurd, but you have never slackened in your training. We need to find a solution, you and I. Something effective that we can implement immediately.”

  “I won’t let you down, Supreme Bashar.”

  Vorian looked at him with warm, deep pride. “I know, Abulurd. It’s up to the two of us to save all of these people.”

  When men achieve paradise in this life, the result is inevitable: They go soft, lose their skills, their edge.

  — Zensunni Sutra,

  revised for Arrakis

  After the ancient Tuk Keedair had died, Ishmael was the oldest person in the Zensunni village. Keedair, a slaver, had ostensibly remained a prisoner of Selim Wormrider’s band of outlaws. Though he’d certainly had ample opportunity to make his escape and return to League civilization, the Tlulaxa flesh merchant had accepted his lot among Ishmael and his desert Zensunnis.

  Ishmael had never called the flesh peddler a friend, but they’d had many interesting nighttime conversations, drinking spice coffee as they stared out at the passage of stars. Though enemies, they had at least understood each other. Somehow, ironically, they’d had more in common than the current group of village leaders.

  Now as Ishmael sat after his evening meal, he listened to the elders, including his daughter, talking among themselves. Even Chamal spoke of city things, appliances and luxuries that Ishmael did not need or want. The lives of these free men were filled with more amenities than even Savant Holtzman’s household slaves had received. It was all so unnecessary— and dangerous.

  By now, the descendants of the freed Poritrin slaves had intermarried with the survivors of Selim’s band. Ishmael’s own daughter Chamal had taken two other husbands and had five more children; now she was considered a valued elder of the tribe, a wise old matron.

  Ishmael wanted to make sure none of them forgot their former lives, insisting that the outlaws maintain their skills and their independence so they would never again fall prey to flesh merchants. While Arrakis was not the promised land they had hoped it would be when he’d led them in their desperate escape, Ishmael wanted them to keep this world no matter what the cost.

  Others, though, saw him as a bitter and stubborn old man who preferred the hardships of times past to modern improvements. Twenty years ago the spice rush had changed Arrakis forever, and now the offworlders would never leave; instead, they came in greater numbers. Ishmael knew he could not stop it, and he realized with a sinking heart that the Wormrider’s vision had been perfectly accurate: The melange trade was destroying the desert. There seemed no place left where he and his people could live free and unharassed.

  Twice more in the past month, Naib El’hiim had invited trading ships to land nearby, giving them the coordinates for the supposedly secret and secure Zensunni village, so they could exchange spice for supplies.

  Lost in his thoughts, Ishmael snorted. “Not only have we grown dependent on commerce from the cities, we have also become too lazy even to go there!”

  One of the old men next to him shrugged. “Why should we undertake a tedious trip all the way to Arrakis City, when we can force the offworlders to work for a change?”

  Chamal chided the speaker for his disrespectful tone, but Ishmael ignored them both, frowning and keeping his own counsel. No doubt the villagers considered him a fossil, too rigid to accept progress. But he knew the dangers. Since the end of the Jihad and the loss of so many workers due to the Scourge, slavery had once again become widespread and accepted. And flesh merchants always preferred to prey on Buddislamics….

  Despite his age, Ishmael’s vision remained sharp. Peering out into the night, he was the first to spot the incoming ships. The running lights of the craft marked their passage as they arrowed closer— not in an uncertain search pattern, but directly toward the Zensunni village. Instantly he felt a sharp uneasiness. “El’hiim, have you invited more nosy, unwanted visitors?”

  His stepson, sitting in conversation with the elders, stood promptly. “No one should be coming.” He walked to the edge of the cave, and the flyers came in with increasing speed. The roar of their engines sounded like a distant sandstorm.

  “Then we should prepare for the worst.” Ishmael raised his voice, summoning his commanding authority from when he had led these people himself, many years ago. “Guard your homes! Strangers are about to arrive.”

  El’hiim sighed. “Let’s not overreact, Ishmael. There could be a perfectly good reason— “

  “Or a perfectly dangerous one. Better to be ready. What if they are slavers?”

  He stared furiously at his stepson, and finally El’hiim shrugged. “Ishmael is right. There’s no harm in being careful.” The Zensunnis went to stand together and prepare their defenses, but they did not seem to be in much of a hurry.

  The sinister ships circled closer, alternately accelerating and decelerating. Upon reaching the cliffs, men in dark uniforms leaned out of gaping hatches and opened fire with small weapons. The Zensunni people shouted and scrambled back into the shelter of their caves.

  Explosions peppered the walls, but only one projectile entered a balcony chamber and did damage, creating a small rockslide. Moments later the ships landed on the flat sands at the base of the cliff. A stream of men in ragged uniforms marched out, moving like beetles on a hot rock, with no organization or plan. Their weapons were new, however.

  “Wait, they’re just spice prospectors!” El’hiim shouted. “We have traded with those men before. Why are they attacking— “

  “Because they want everything we have,” Ishmael said. Gunfire continued to rain around them, small explosions, shouts, and confusing orders. “Did you brag about how much spice we have stored in this village, El’hiim? Did you tell these merchants how much water we have in our cisterns? How many healthy men and women live here?”

  His stepson wore a startled and troubled expression. He took so long denying the accusation that Ishmael had his answer, and knew what had really happened.

  As he watched the strangers unload their equipment— stun belts, nets, and strangle-collars— Ishmael knew these were not simply raiders. He cried out in indignant horror, his voice surprisingly strong. “Flesh merchants! If they capture you, they mean to take you as slaves.”

  Even El’hiim reeled. Surely he could see that these outsiders had betrayed his trust and now deserved to die.

  Chamal stood beside her father, shouting to the others. “You must fight for your lives, your homes, and your futures! Leave no survivors.”

  Ishmael looked at her with a hard smile. “We will defeat these men as a lesson to any others who might come against us. They think we are soft. They are foolish and wrong.”

  Though frightened, the Zensunnis shouted in response. Men and women scrambled through the cave chambers, grabbing Maula rifles, clubs, worm goads, anything that could be used as a weapon. A group of older Zensunnis who had been among Selim Wormrider’s first outlaws proudly sported crystalline daggers made of sandworm teeth. Chamal rallied a group of women, wild-eyed with feral anger, who carried curved blades of their own, fashioned painstakingly from scrap metal.

  With renewed warmth in his heart, Ishmael saw the determination in their faces. He drew his own crystal knife, which he had earned when he’d learned to ride a sandworm. Marha had owned one, too, but she had given it to El’hiim upon her death. Now Ishmael turned to his stepson, and finally El’hiim drew his own blade.

  The would-be slavers crawled up the cliffside paths, charging and yelling, slipping on rocks. They were too confident in their sophisticated weaponry. Knowing Naib El’hiim, they expected his villagers to be weak desert scavengers.

  But when the offworlders pushed through the openings into the cave city, they were completely unprepared for the resistance they met. Howling like jackals, the desert nomads struck from every shadowy corner, trapping the slavers in blind chambers and slaughtering them. High-powered gunfire rang out in respo
nse.

  “We are Free Men!” Ishmael howled. “Not slaves!”

  Shrieking like wounded children, four of the flesh merchants managed to run stumbling down the path toward their ships, hoping to escape. But a handful of Zensunni volunteers had already slipped away from the main battle, bounded down the steep slope, and boarded the vessels. Hiding inside, they met each man who came aboard and slit his throat.

  After all the would-be slavers were killed, the Zensunnis nursed their injuries and counted their dead: four. When El’hiim recovered from his shock and astonishment, he sent scavenger crews into the empty ships. “Look at these craft! We will confiscate them from the men who wanted to take us as slaves. It is a fair enough bargain.”

  Ishmael stood before the younger Naib, his face flushed with anger. “You speak as if this were a commercial transaction, El’hiim! Buying and selling commodities just like any other trip to Arrakis City.” He pointed a gnarled finger. “You endangered all of our lives, bringing these men here despite my warnings, and now, sadly, I have been proven correct. You are not fit— “

  The older man bunched his muscles, half raised his hand to strike his stepson across the face, but that would have been a mortal insult. El’hiim would have been forced to respond, challenging Ishmael to a death duel. One of them would end up slain on the cave floor.

  Ishmael could not allow that to split the unity of the tribe, and he had promised Marha to watch out for El’hiim— so he forced restraint upon himself. He saw a flash of fear in the younger man’s eyes.

  “You were right, Ishmael,” El’hiim said quietly. “I should have listened to your warnings.”

  Breaking the gaze, the old man shook his head, and Chamal came up to put a comforting hand on her father’s shoulder even as she looked at the Naib. “You never knew the nightmare of living as a slave, El’hiim. We risked our lives to break free of bondage and come here.”

  “I will not allow you to sell our freedom,” Ishmael said.

  His stepson looked too shaken to reply. Ishmael turned and stalked away.

  “It will not happen again,” El’hiim called after him. “I promise that.”

  Ishmael gave no indication that he had heard.

  The march of human civilization is a constant succession of achievements and setbacks, always proceeding uphill. Adversity may make us stronger, but it does not make us happier.

  — SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES,

  Early Assessments of the Jihad (Fifth Revision)

  On ancient charts, their next destination was known as Wallach IX.

  Quentin had never heard of it. The planet had no place in human history, as far as he knew. Apparently not even Omnius had considered it an important part of his Synchronized empire.

  Still, this planet had been a target in the Great Purge. One of the Jihad battle groups had come here, releasing squadrons of pulse-atomic bombardiers to drop scattered warheads to vanquish the evermind, and then departing as flashes and shockwaves swept through the atmosphere….

  Wallach IX showed little evidence that it had ever been civilized, even before the attacks— no major industries, only sparsely populated settlements. Someone had crushed the natives to the edge of survival well before the Army of the Jihad bore down on them like an avenging angel.

  But Wallach IX was the next destination on Porce Bludd’s mapped-out plan of inspection and aid. The Poritrin lord flew his space yacht in a quick survey. Beside him, Quentin studied the scarred and poisoned landscape that grew larger beneath them. “I am highly skeptical of finding survivors down there.”

  “We never know what to expect,” Bludd said with contagious optimism. “But we can always hope.”

  They cruised over the flattened, skeletal ruins of several old settlements, but detected no recent signs of life, no rebuilt structures, no indications of agriculture. “It’s been almost twenty years,” Quentin pointed out. “If anyone had survived, they would have made some sort of mark by now.”

  “We need to be thorough, for humanity’s sake.”

  In the city with the largest buildings, they also encountered the most destruction. The ground, rocks, and structural frameworks were glassy and blackened.

  “Radiation levels remain high,” Quentin said.

  “But not immediately lethal,” Bludd added.

  “No, not immediately lethal.”

  Surprisingly, they did discover signs of new construction, including large columns and heavy arches that were unsettlingly ornate. “Why would survivors waste time building gaudy memorials when they don’t have any way to feed themselves?” Quentin asked. “Showing off?”

  “I’ve detected a few scattered power sources.” Bludd ran his fingers over the controls. “But there’s too much radiation for me to pinpoint them. I knew I should have invested in upgrading the yacht’s capabilities. It was never designed as a survey vessel.”

  Quentin stood. “Why don’t I use the small scout flyer? We can cover more ground that way.”

  “Are you in a hurry, my friend? Once we depart from Wallach IX, we can only look forward to more long weeks in transit.”

  “Being so close to… all this makes me uneasy. If there’s nothing to be found here, I’d rather get the job done soon and be on our way.”

  Quentin flew out in the small scout ship designed for short excursions over planetary surfaces. Bludd’s space yacht had too many conveniences, and there was nothing for a man to do besides sit back and let all the operations take care of themselves. This was much more interesting. It felt good to be out on his own, actively scanning an area, holding the engine power at his fingertips. Just like when he’d first led the raid on Parmentier, long ago….

  The Poritrin lord landed the large yacht in a devastated area near what had been a ruler’s palace on Wallach IX. He transmitted to Quentin’s cockpit, “I’m suiting up and going outside to see what I can learn about these new towers. Who built them and why?”

  “Be careful.” Quentin cruised in an ever-expanding circle. The destruction had a sickening sameness to it: charred rubble, dirt melted into glassy puddles. He saw no trees, weeds, or movement. Like Earth, Wallach IX was thoroughly dead, completely sterilized. But that had been the goal of the Army of the Jihad, he reminded himself. At least there was no sign of Omnius here.

  Without warning, a burst of weapons fire hit him, damaging the flyer’s engines and sending him into a deadly spin. Quentin yelled, hoping the comline would automatically pick up his words. “I’m under attack, Porce! Who— “

  He struggled to regain control. Another explosion ripped his wing, and all Quentin could do was hang on. His view through the cockpit window twirled, alternating between the scarred ground and open sky. Suddenly he saw movement below, large mechanical things with articulated bodies. Combat robots? Had Omnius survived somehow? No, it didn’t look right.

  Flicking switches and rerouting power, he activated a secondary thruster and managed to stabilize his path, though he was losing altitude swiftly. One engine was on fire. He had barely enough lift to keep himself aloft for a few more minutes, putting more distance between himself and the mysterious attackers. Just long enough to get back to Bludd’s yacht, with any luck.

  He tried to squeeze out distance and power. Another explosive projectile soared up from the bizarre machines below, detonating close to him. The shockwave shorted out a full bank of his controls.

  Now Quentin finally recognized what had attacked him. Enormous walkers, just like the ones he had seen in historical images… or like those that had attacked him on Bela Tegeuse long ago. “Cymeks! Porce, prepare to get away. Return to your ship.” But he couldn’t tell if his comline still functioned.

  He was going to crash.

  The mechanical behemoths marched across the blackened landscape, emerging from their lair to continue firing on the unexpected human scout. With great strides, they moved across the melted radioactive ground, hurrying to intercept him.

  Oily smoke spurted out behind him like bl
ood spilled in the sky. The cockpit rattled and lurched. The ground rushed up at him. He edged another burst from his attitude jets, a nudge to keep him aloft just long enough to pass a line of jagged black rubble, then he dropped into a gentle bowl.

  With a screech, the scout ship’s lower hull ground against the crumbled and sterile soil. Spraying sparks and clods of dirt, the flyer slewed, nearly tumbling end over end, but Quentin scrambled to keep it level, like a careening sled. Half of the left wing sheared off as the scout flyer made one last lurch into the air and slammed back down with a loud crash.

  The restraints against his chest were so tight they nearly suffocated him. The plaz cockpit window cracked in a spiderweb pattern, and greasy dust splashed across his view. Finally the nightmarish ride stopped, and the mortally wounded scout ship collapsed on the open ground.

  Quentin shook his head, realizing he must have blacked out for a few seconds. His ears were ringing, and he smelled smoke, lubricants, burned metal, shorted electronics… and dripping fuel. When he couldn’t unfasten the restraining straps, he worked loose his ceremonial combat knife and slashed himself free. His body ached with mere hints of all the pain he would feel as soon as the shock wore off. Quentin knew he was in trouble, realized that his left leg was probably broken.

  Tapping unsuspected reservoirs of energy, he managed to lift his head and shoulders out of the wreckage. And saw cymeks coming for him.

  * * *

  BLUDD RECEIVED THE urgent call as he stood clad in his antiradiation suit before an obelisk decorated with ornate scrollwork. It had been erected near the ruler’s hall as some sort of ridiculous Golden Age memorial. He whirled as Quentin’s emergency signal rattled through his helmet. In the distance he saw the scout flyer under fire, weaving through the air, and finally careening down into an open area far from him. The flyer slewed, tore up the dry ground, then came to a halt in a pile of debris.

  Alarmed, Bludd hurried back toward the space yacht, clumsy in the thick suit. Feeling a crawling fear, he turned around again to see nightmarish combat walkers like the ones that had long ago attacked Zimia. The Titans had returned! Cymeks had set up a base here in the radioactive ruins of a Synchronized World.