She and Karee left the database rooms with their humming circulatory systems and power generators. The genetic computers were kept safe and shielded.
The two women entered one of the communal dining halls where a group of Sorceresses and their young female trainees gathered for a brief meal and quiet conversation. Ticia had arranged this place for the women to dine together so that they could speak of relevant problems rather than endure the inane chatter of the men about business interests. As the Supreme Sorceress took a seat, women and their students looked up and gave nods of respect to her.
The pleasant mood, though, was broken by a disturbance in the hall, people calling out, a slurred male voice. A short, broad-shouldered young man staggered in, helping another man walk. The young man’s legs were short, his mop of blond hair disheveled. “Need help. Man sick.”
Ticia drew her mouth into a tight frown of disapproval. Jimmak Tero was one of the Misborn, a birth defect who had lived. His face was wide and round, his forehead sloped, his blue eyes innocent and wide-set. He had a sweet disposition that did not make up for his dull intellect. Despite her constant scorn, Ticia had never been able to convince Jimmak that he simply wasn’t welcome in the cliff city with all the normal people. He kept coming back.
“Man sick,” Jimmak repeated. “Need help.”
Jimmak half walked, half dragged the man to a seat at one of the dining tables. The man slumped face first onto the table. He wore a VenKee jumpsuit with many tools and pockets and sample pouches. He was one of the pharmaceutical prospectors who wandered through the Rossak jungle. Jimmak, a feral child, often helped such people out, showing them around the convoluted maze of the jungle’s darkest levels.
Ticia came forward. “Why have you brought him here? What happened?”
Karee Marques stayed by Ticia’s side. Jimmak helped to roll the man over. Karee gasped when she saw his face. Neither of them had seen such symptoms in almost two decades, but the signs were unmistakable. “The Scourge!”
Many of the women in the dining room stood up quickly, and withdrew. Ticia’s breath came quick in her mouth, drying her tongue and her throat. She forced her voice to be calm and analytical. She could not afford to let them see her flinch. “Perhaps. But if so, it’s a different strain. There’s a flush in his cheeks and discoloration in his eyes. But those blotches on his face are different….” She sensed an indefinable certainty deep inside that told her what should have taken hours of testing to determine. “But basically, I believe it is the same virus.”
Ticia had known that the thinking-machine threat was not at an end. Although Omnius had attacked them with piranha mites, Norma’s warning had been extreme, hinting at a far greater disaster than the mechanical mites. Perhaps the crashed pods had also contained the RNA retrovirus… or more likely the disease had simply gone dormant on Rossak, where it could have spent years brewing in the jungle, mutating, growing deadlier.
“He’s going to die,” Ticia said, looking at the drug prospector, then turned her stern gaze on Jimmak. “Why didn’t you take care of him yourself? That way he might have infected all of you Misborn and put you out of your misery.” Energy crackled in her blond-white hair as her anger began to slip out of control. But Ticia focused her concentration again. “You shouldn’t have brought him to us, Jimmak.”
The young man stared at her with his bovine eyes, looking hurt and disappointed.
“Go!” she snapped. “And if you find more victims, don’t bring them here.”
Jimmak scuttled away, moving backward with a clumsy grace. When he turned away, his gait was awkward, his head hunched down, as if trying to hide.
Staring after him, Ticia shook her head, ignoring the plague victim for the moment. She resented the Misborn for making a squalid living for themselves out in the jungle instead of just dying from their defects. No one knew how many of them there were. She would have despised all of them even if one— Jimmak— had not been her own son.
There is a maddening equilibrium in the universe. Every moment of joy is balanced by an equal measure of tragedy.
— ABULURD HARKONNEN,
private journals
By the time his promotion to bashar made its way through the bureaucracy of the Army of Humanity, Abulurd Harkonnen had already handpicked a team to analyze the deadly piranha mites. He’d studied the service records and accomplishments of loyal scientists, mechanics, and engineers, choosing only the best. He invoked the name of Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides to requisition a newly vacated and upgraded laboratory space not far from the Grand Patriarch’s administrative mansion.
Many thousands of the tiny burned-out machines had been found scattered like deadly hail pellets throughout Zimia. Abulurd’s research team dismantled more than a hundred of them to discover the rigid programming circuitry and the tiny but efficient power source that had kept each mite moving— and killing.
Though he was not a scientist himself, Abulurd regularly inspected the progress in the laboratories. “Do you have any ideas yet for defenses against them?” he asked each man and woman as he passed their analysis stations. “How do we stop them next time? Omnius is very persistent.”
“Plenty of ideas, sir,” said a female engineer without looking up from an intense magnifying scope, through which she studied the miniaturized machinery. “But before we can do anything definite, we need to understand these murderous little weapons much better.”
“Would Holtzman pulses work against them?”
Another engineer shook his head. “Not likely. These devices are very primitive. They don’t use gelcircuitry technology, so the Holtzman disrupters can’t damage them. Once we understand their motivational programming, however, it’s likely we can develop a similarly effective jammer.”
“Carry on,” Abulurd said. When he glanced at the chronometer, he excused himself and hurried to his temporary quarters so that he could prepare for the ceremony. Today he was scheduled to have his new rank insignia pinned on during a formal presentation.
Abulurd’s small room was austere. Since he’d recently returned from a year of watchdog duty around Corrin, he had few personal possessions here. He played no music to relax. His life was in the Army of Humanity, and he had little time for shopping, hobbies, luxuries, or anything else.
Though he was thirty-eight years old and had occasionally toyed with romantic diversions, he was not married, had no children. He hadn’t contemplated a time when he might settle down and focus on other priorities. Smiling, he put on his carefully pressed formal uniform. For a long moment, he inspected himself in the mirror. He practiced a suitably solemn expression, but his heart hammered with excitement. Abulurd wished his father could be here. On such a day, even Quentin Butler could have been proud of his youngest son.
But the retired primero had gone with Porce Bludd some time ago on a surveillance tour of the radioactive Synchronized Worlds. In his father’s place, Faykan had agreed to do Abulurd the honor of pinning on his new rank.
He inspected himself one more time, decided that his hair, uniform, and expression were regulation perfect, and departed for the ceremony.
* * *
SEVENTY-EIGHT SOLDIERS WOULD receive promotions and commendations at this ceremony, and Abulurd waited patiently in his place while the lower ranks and the younger enlisted men received their rewards. He observed the older officers, the scarred war veterans, the consummate politicians, the brilliant tactical experts who had shaped the Jihad and the years of recovery afterward. They looked proud to usher a new crop of officers farther along in their careers.
It was a stinging disappointment, yet oddly not unexpected when Faykan changed his plans at the last moment. The Interim Viceroy sent formal apologies that he would not, in fact, be able to present his younger brother with the new rank insignia. He did not detail his excuses, but Abulurd knew his brother’s reasons were political. At least he hadn’t bothered to lie about it.
Inside the echoing auditorium, the officer sat in silence
. Though his heart grew leaden, he allowed none of his hurt to show. Such a display would have shamed him. Just because Abulurd had taken the surname of Harkonnen, it did not mean he no longer honored the Butler name.
Near the reviewing stand, a pedestal held the transparent preservation canister that contained the living brain of Vidad, the last of the Ivory Tower Cogitors. Vidad had returned to Salusa shortly after the Great Purge, announcing that all the other ancient philosopher brains had been killed when cymeks overran their stronghold. Vidad spoke little about what else he had done on his long journey; Abulurd had heard Vorian Atreides mutter that the Cogitor had probably wanted to be out of the way, in case the machine battle fleet did hammer into the League Worlds. Now the lone Cogitor remained on Salusa, curious, willing to either help or interfere, depending on his esoteric moods.
As the ceremony proceeded, Abulurd sat rigidly, recalling all he had accomplished, how he had unerringly followed orders, honored his commanding officers. He had always felt duty-bound to do what was required of him, not for applause, medals, or other accolades. But when he watched other officers receive the insignia of their promotions, with friends and families cheering, he understood how wonderful it could be. He suppressed a sigh.
Raising Abulurd to the level of bashar was the last activity in the already long and tedious process. When his turn finally came, Abulurd walked woodenly up to the stage, alone. The master of ceremonies announced his name, and mutters rippled through the audience along with polite applause.
Then a commotion occurred at the officer’s bench. The master of ceremonies announced, “A new presenter will offer the rank insignia to Abulurd Harkonnen.”
Abulurd turned as the doors opened. His face lit up, his mouth split into a grin, and his heart felt as if it would lift right out of his chest. Supreme Bashar Atreides had arrived.
Smiling, Vor joined Abulurd on the stage. “Someone has to do this right.” The veteran warrior held up the bashar insignia like a coveted treasure. Abulurd stood ramrod-straight, presenting himself. Vor stepped forward. Although he looked barely half Abulurd’s age, he carried himself with extreme confidence and respect.
“Abulurd Harkonnen, in recognition of the valor, innovation, and bravery you displayed during the recent attack on Zimia— not to mention countless other worthy demonstrations of your value to the Army of the Jihad over the course of your career— I am pleased to raise you from the rank of bator to the superior rank of bashar, level four. I can think of no other soldier in the Army of the Jihad who deserves this more than you do.”
With that, Supreme Bashar Atreides applied the insignia to Abulurd’s chest, then turned him so that he could face the onlookers. “Observe well your new bashar,” he said, keeping a hand on his shoulder. “He still has great things to accomplish for the League of Nobles.”
The applause remained somewhat muted and scattered, but the young man paid no attention to anything other than the look of paternal satisfaction on Vorian’s face. No one else’s opinion mattered as much to him, not even his father’s or his brother’s.
Now Vor turned to face the other military commanders, the League officials, even Vidad. “And after witnessing the bravery of Bashar Harkonnen in our most recent crisis, I am reminded of the similar deeds performed by his grandfather Xavier Harkonnen.” He paused, as if daring them to object. “I was a good friend to Xavier, and I knew the true loyalty in his heart. I also know, for a fact, that his name was maliciously blackened and the truth obscured for political purposes. Now that the Jihad is over, there is no good reason to perpetuate those lies and protect people long dead. I propose a League commission to clear the Harkonnen name.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. Abulurd wanted to hug him, but remained firmly at attention.
“But, Supreme Bashar… that was eighty years ago!” Grand Patriarch Boro-Ginjo said.
“Seventy-six years. Does that make a difference?” Vor looked at him with hard eyes. Xander Boro-Ginjo would certainly not like the findings of the commission. “I have waited too long already.”
Then, like a window breaking unexpectedly in the silence of night, Abulurd’s happiness was shattered. A disheveled, florid-faced man pushed his way into the presentation auditorium. “Where is the Supreme Bashar? I must find Vorian Atreides!” Abulurd recognized the Poritrin nobleman Porce Bludd. “I bring terrible tidings.”
Immediately Vorian switched to his emergency mode, the same way Abulurd had seen him react during the piranha mite crisis. “We were attacked on Wallach IX,” Bludd cried. “My space yacht is damaged— “
The Supreme Bashar cut him off, attempting to make the man organize his thoughts. “Who attacked you? Thinking machines? Is Omnius still alive on one of the devastated worlds?”
“Not Omnius— cymeks. Titans! They were building monuments, establishing a new base in the ruins. Quentin and I stopped to inspect, and the Titans charged out. They struck us, shot down Quentin’s scout flyer. They tore his ship apart. I tried to rescue him, but the cymeks attacked and drove me off, doing significant damage to my ship. Then I saw them fall on Quentin.”
“The cymeks!” Vorian said, unable to believe.
“No matter how many enemies we defeat,” Abulurd said in a shaky voice, picturing his father trying to fight the machines, “another rises to take its place.”
The union of man and machine pushes the limits of what it means to be human.
— GENERAL AGAMEMNON,
New Memoirs
His psyche swam in flashes of memory, sparking electrical impulses that leaked out of his mind. Quentin Butler thought he was dying.
The cymeks had dragged him down, grappling with their articulated metal legs. They could easily have torn him apart, just as they had shredded the hull of his crashed flyer. As he’d scrambled away in the radioactive atmosphere, the fallout had already been burning his flesh, his lungs… and then the gigantic walker-forms crushed him—
His last vision was one of dismay and hope: Porce Bludd flying toward him, attempting to rescue his friend, then limping out of range, home free. When Porce escaped, Quentin knew he could die with some measure of relief.
The explosion of pain, the stabs, the cuts, the burning… And now his thoughts were trapped in this endless loop, playing the last visions over and over again. Nightmares, memories, his life draining away.
Occasionally, like bubbles rising to the top of a boiling pot, he saw Wandra when she had been young and beautiful, an intelligent woman filled with the zest of life. She had laughed at his jokes, strolled arm-in-arm with him through the parks of Zimia. Once, they had gone to view the huge monument made out of a wrecked Titan mechanical body. Ah, the clarity of perception, the sharpness of perfect recall.
The two of them had had so much joy together, but the time was far too short. He and Wandra were a perfect match, the war hero and the Butler heir. Before everything had changed, before her stroke, before the birth of Abulurd.
In a recurring memory flash— a burst of stored chemical data in his brain, released in his last moments before death?— he again saw Porce successfully escaping from the cymeks. Quentin clung to that brief spark of joy, knowing he had accomplished something good at the very end.
But the darkness and oblivion suffocated him. Inner dread made it worse, as if he was reliving those awful, endless hours during the defense of Ix, fighting combat robots in the deepest cave channels. An explosion had brought the walls and ceiling tumbling down around him, and he had been buried alive, left for dead like his seven crushed companions. But eventually the rocks shifted, and Quentin had clawed and pushed, finally clearing a breathing space. He shouted and dug until his throat was raw and his fingers bloody. And finally, finally, he had worked his way upward and out into fresh air and dim light… and the amazed shouts of other jihadis who had never expected to find him alive.
Now the oppressive blackness was all around and inside him again. He screamed and screamed, but it did him no good, and the darkness did n
ot go away….
After a while, the pain changed, and he became completely disoriented. Quentin was unable to open his eyes. He heard no sounds. It seemed as if all his senses had been stripped away. He drifted in a kind of limbo. This didn’t match the descriptions of death or Heaven he had read about in religious tracts and scriptures. But then, how could any prophet know for certain?
He couldn’t feel any part of his body, couldn’t see a glimmer of real light, though occasional flashes of residual neuron bursts flickered in the darkness of his unconscious sky.
Suddenly there came a lurch, and he seemed to be tumbling in zero gravity, floating… falling. Distorted sound returned to him, echoing all around with a clamor he had never before heard. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears, but couldn’t find his hands. He couldn’t move.
A female voice sounded thunderously loud around him, like a goddess. “I think that’s part of it, my love. He should be aware now.”
Quentin tried to ask questions, demand answers, scream for help— but found he could make no sound. Mentally he shouted, crying out as loud as he could imagine, but he could not find his vocal cords or his lungs. He tried to take a deep breath, but sensed no heartbeat or respiration. Yes, truly he must be dead, or nearly so.
“Continue to install the rest of the sensory components, Dante,” a gruff male voice said.
“It’ll be a while before we can communicate with him,” said a second male voice. Someone named Dante? I know that name!
Quentin was curious, confused, frightened. He had no way to measure how much time passed, only the occasional indecipherable sounds he experienced, the ominous words.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 36