Dune: The Battle of Corrin

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Scanning it, he guessed Rayna must have written it herself, judging from the vehement but unsophisticated tone. Her signature was at the bottom.

  THE MANIFESTO OF RAYNA BUTLER

  Citizens of free humanity! Let it be proclaimed throughout the League of Nobles that there are NO benign uses for thinking machines. Though they may conceal their evil under the guise of performing work-saving tasks for their users, they are insidious at any level.

  This manifesto is a blueprint by which human society can cleanse itself of the worst sins. Every League citizen shall adhere to these rules, and be bound by these punishments:

  If a person knows the location of a thinking machine and does not destroy it, or report it to the Movement, the offender shall be punished by the removal of his eyes, ears, and tongue.

  If a person commits the grievous sin of using a thinking machine, he shall be put to death.

  If a person commits the even more grievous sin of owning a thinking machine, he shall be put to death by the most painful of means.

  If a person commits the worst sin of all, creating or manufacturing a thinking machine, the offender, all of his employees, and all of their families shall be put to death by the most painful of means.

  Anyone in doubt as to what constitutes a dangerous machine shall contact the Movement and request an Official Opinion. Once an Official Opinion has been rendered, the offending machine shall be removed from operation and destroyed immediately. Punishments will be administered as specified above.

  It is preferable to manufacture products through slave labor than to trust thinking machines.

  Thou shall not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.

  Stunned at the broadness of the Manifesto, and the sheer madness of it, Vor marched through the main entrance into the assembly chamber. Yes, there was still an enemy. Yes, the thinking machines still existed. But these Cultists were aiming at the wrong target.

  Corrin. We must go to Corrin.

  Before he was announced, Vor saw that the League representatives were already on their feet, clapping and cheering— but not for him. Viceroy Butler stood inside the speaker’s dome at the center of the hall, holding a copy of the new Manifesto high in the air. Around him, the lawmakers rose in waves.

  “So be it!” Faykan shouted. “The Manifesto of my exalted niece is hereby passed by acclamation, and as Viceroy I shall sign it into law. Effective tomorrow morning, this shall be the Law of the League, and all dissenters shall be hunted down and punished, along with the enemy thinking machines they harbor. There shall be no compromises! Death to thinking machines!”

  Like an echo, the words passed the lips of every lawmaker like a new mantra. From just inside the chamber, at its top tier, Vor absorbed the frenzy like a cold rain. If only they had been so vehement years ago, when it had been most necessary.

  “We are reshaping galactic society, setting humanity on a new course!” Faykan shouted into the din. “We humans will think for ourselves, work for ourselves, and achieve our destiny. Without thinking machines! Such technology is a crutch— it is time for us to walk for ourselves.”

  Recognizing Vor, some audience members began to point at him and whisper among themselves. Finally the Viceroy raised his arms in exuberant welcome. “Vorian Atreides, Supreme Bashar of the Army of Humanity! Our people already owed you an eternal debt of gratitude for many things— and now you have given us one more. The last Titans are dead! The cymek abominations no longer exist! May your name be revered for eternity as a Hero of Humanity!”

  The great hall thundered with acclamation. As Vor made his way to the speaking chamber, he felt that events were snowballing around him, sweeping him along. But he had his honor, his duty, and the promises he had made to himself and the people. He could swim against this wave— or he could ride it, all the way to Corrin.

  The assemblage grew quiet as he gazed slowly around, focused on some of the familiar faces, then looked to the farthest points in the hall, where Rayna’s followers waved oversized, colorful banners.

  “Yes, we can celebrate the demise of the cymeks,” he said. “But we are not yet finished! Why do you waste your time and energy writing manifestos, smashing household appliances, and killing each other— when Omnius himself still lives?” That stunned the audience into gasps, then silence.

  “Twenty years ago we proclaimed the Jihad over, while leaving one Synchronized World untouched. Corrin is like a primed explosive, and we must defuse it! The cancer of Omnius remains a blight on a shining future for the human race.”

  The people had not expected such vehemence in his voice. Clearly they thought the veteran Supreme Bashar would receive his rewards, take his bows, and let the League government continue its work. But he did not rest.

  “Death to thinking machines!” someone shouted in a frenzied voice from a high balcony.

  Vor’s voice remained loud and stern. “We have avoided our real duty for too long. A half-won victory is no victory at all.”

  The Viceroy looked at him, obviously uncomfortable. “But, Supreme Bashar, you know we cannot break through Omnius’s defenses. We have tried for decades.”

  “Then we must try harder. Accept whatever losses are necessary. Waiting has cost us billions of lives. Think of the Scourge, the piranha mites. Think of the Jihad! Knowing all we have sacrificed to come this far, only a fool would stop now!” Faykan’s words hinted that the League would hesitate once again, so Vor intentionally provoked Rayna’s fanatics. His voice cut like the sword of a mercenary. “Yes, death to thinking machines— but why waste time on surrogates when we can destroy the real ones? Forever.”

  The crowd roared, despite the uneasy looks on the faces of many representatives. Then a hush rippled through the people as a pale, ethereal young woman walked to the speaking area. Rayna Butler exuded calmness and confidence, as if she could simply step into the Hall of Parliament and interrupt the proceedings whenever she wished. She wore a new green-and-white robe emblazoned with a bloodred profile of Serena.

  “The Supreme Bashar is right,” she said. “We stopped the Great Purge too soon, failed to stamp out the last ember in the fire when we had the opportunity to do so. It was an expensive mistake, a mistake we should not make again.”

  The great hall rumbled with enthusiasm, as if the building itself had come out of a long hibernating sleep. “Death to Corrin!”

  “For Saint Serena,” Rayna said into the voice pickup. Her words swept through the vaulted chamber. Like a wave rippling across a sea, the call was repeated, louder and louder until it became a storm of shouts: “For Saint Serena! For the Three Martyrs!”

  Vor let himself be buffeted by the crowd’s fervor and enthusiasm. It had to be enough. This time, he would make certain.

  Regardless of strategy, training, or prayers, God alone determines victory and defeat. To believe otherwise is hubris and folly.

  — Zensunni Sutra

  By the time Ishmael faced his rival across the open sands, the challenge had already divided the Zensunni people.

  On the day of the sandworm combat, Ishmael trudged along the line of rocks, carrying his equipment as the morning sun grew brighter. His conservative followers hurried after him, offering encouragement, volunteering to carry part of his burden, but the old man ignored them. He would do this himself, for the future of the Zensunni people and the preservation of their sacred past.

  He was both pleased and surprised to discover how many of the former outlaws were dissatisfied with the civilized changes and attitudes Naib El’hiim had fostered over the past decades. Most of the other elders joined him, including Chamal, as did the direct descendants of the Poritrin refugees Ishmael had freed from slavery. Gratifying, too, were the strong young warriors anxious to find excitement and battle an enemy… any enemy. These young men told idealized stories of Selim Wormrider and embellished adventures of the great Zensunni warriors who had fought to survive on Arrakis. Regardless of their reasons, Ishmael was glad to see the show of sup
port.

  El’hiim, on the other hand, brought with him numerous “civilized” men and women who made frequent trips to the towns and VenKee villages. People who were willing to compromise with the offworlders, blur their culture, and sacrifice their identity… people who blithely trusted those who traded in human beings.

  Ishmael drew a deep breath of the hot, dusty air, adjusted his nose plugs, secured the bindings and fittings of his distilling suit, and lashed his cloak tightly so that it would not get in the way of his work. He turned to the people who waited at the rocks.

  From the far side of the basin, El’hiim and his supporters also watched. They knew the time was at hand.

  “Wait for me if I win,” Ishmael said, “and remember me if I die.”

  He did not hear the mutters of encouragement and denial. He focused his thoughts and stepped out onto the softer sands, climbing the long gentle slope to the highest nearby dune. This battle was his own, and regardless of the consequences, he must concern himself only with the immediacy of the duel. He selected a good position, looked at the surrounding open desert, and judged the angles of the slopes. It was a perfect spot to watch for wormsign, a place from which he could mount an onrushing monster.

  He had done this many times before, but never had it been so important. He remembered how Marha had taught him the skill, which she had learned from Selim himself. Ishmael missed her very much— as he missed his first wife Ozza. Eventually he would join them. But not today.

  Ishmael squatted on the crest of the dune, facing away from the hopeful observers waiting back in the rocks. After seating the pointed end of his summoning drum deep into the dune, he began to beat rhythmically, using his palms. From far across the basin, he heard the faint echoing sounds of El’hiim’s drumming.

  The worms would come— and the battle would be joined.

  This sort of combat had been devised by Selim Wormrider to weed out discontent among his followers. Such titanic duels had occurred only four times in the past; they made for glorious stories, but terrifying reality. Regardless of the result of this day’s conflict, Ishmael and El’hiim would create the stuff of legends.

  After he had brought his people from Poritrin, Ishmael— by marrying Marha— had stepped uneasily into the footprints of the great Selim. But El’hiim had actively struggled to emerge from the shadow of his mythic father and venture in ill-advised directions. Neither Ishmael nor his stepson had done the job of leadership well.

  Now they were at a crossroads. Would Selim’s dream die entirely and the Zensunni people fade away, absorbed into the distasteful weakness of infidel civilization? Or would they rediscover their souls and backbones, take up the challenge once again, and continue the fight until they emerged victorious and free— no matter how many centuries it might take?

  Lost in his reverie, Ishmael didn’t notice the wormsign until he heard the faint shouts of the spectators far behind him. With his ancient eyes, he observed the faint ripple of motion far beneath the dunes. He pounded on the drum seven more times— a holy number— and prepared himself, gathering his ropes and equipment. The worm shot toward him.

  Far away, on the opposite side of the basin, he saw another commotion of tiny figures moving, and the appearance of a second sandworm. Shai-Hulud had responded to their call.

  Ishmael tensed, squatting. His muscles were old, stiff, and sore, but he did not doubt his skills. He could mount and control this desert creature as well as Naib El’hiim could ever do.

  The sands parted with a plume of disturbed dust and the sinuous body rose up as Ishmael bounded forward. In his life, he had called many sandworms that were larger than this, but such a one was sufficient. If Buddallah had sent him a titanic monster, all would have interpreted that as a clear signal from God; now he saw that the battle would not be decided so easily. He would have to fight for what he knew was right.

  Ishmael was prepared for that.

  He threw his hooks and grasped the ropes, climbing up the gritty ring segments before the creature noticed its unexpected rider. He used prybars to crack open the gaps, exposing sensitive flesh that would prevent the worm from diving back beneath the abrasive sands. Selim Wormrider had developed these techniques more than a century ago. He had become the first sandworm rider with nothing more than a metal staff and a coil of rope.

  Now the monster twitched and struggled, fighting against the annoying parasite, but Ishmael held on. “I do this in your memory, Selim, for the survival of our people, and the glory of Buddallah and Shai-Hulud.”

  When he had secured himself, lashing a rope around his waist and anchoring it to the soft flesh near the sandworm’s head, he launched the beast forward, careening across the sands of the open basin to where he would face El’hiim. The scouring sands generated heat and a strong cinnamon odor as the worm surged ahead. The fires within the sandworm’s gullet were stoked hotter. Its gaping mouth sparkled with the needles of its teeth.

  He spotted the second worm approaching from across the great flat, a larger beast ridden by El’hiim. Ishmael clutched his ropes, wrapping them around his hands so that he could not let go. He cried out a challenge and struck a stinging jab between the segments of his creature.

  The pair of worms rushed toward each other like battle monsters, racing across the dunes. The sandworms of Arrakis were extremely territorial; as soon as the worms sensed each other’s presence, they let out chuffing roars of challenge, bellowing melange-smelling exhaust from their cavernous throats. The worms coiled like vermiform springs, then plunged into combat.

  Ishmael held on and instinctively closed his eyes as the immense, sinuous shapes collided. The impact nearly threw him out of his harness. The giant fanged mouths struck and pounded each other. A shockwave of pain and anger sent a convulsive tremor down the length of Ishmael’s mount.

  On the other worm, he could see El’hiim’s terrified face as the younger man clawed at his ropes, lashing himself down again and again. Very foolish. He would be helpless, doomed, if the worm should roll over. A cold lump formed in Ishmael’s stomach. He did not wish to see El’hiim die….

  Shai-Hulud will decide.

  The sandworms withdrew to gather momentum, then slashed and pummeled again. Thick, rock-encrusted ring segments tore loose in long, rubbery strips of flesh. The duel was joined, and the territorial creatures would fight in their own way. Ishmael could no longer guide his worm; it was all he could do to hold on.

  Hissing and wary, the worms backed off and circled, churning the sand into a dusty vortex. Then they engaged again, slamming behemoth bodies together, tangling themselves in a knot as if trying to strangle and squeeze the other. Crystal teeth sliced armored flesh. More worm segments were ripped away and cast aside. Gelatinous ichor welled up from the gaping wounds.

  After colliding repeatedly, the sandworms exhausted themselves, but not their will to fight. Ishmael’s mount thrashed and rolled, and he clung to its back, fearing the worm would roll over and crush him, despite its exposed ring segments. At the last moment it righted itself and bent back, swinging forward again like a hammer against an anvil.

  On his own worm, El’hiim was nearly unconscious, but had lashed himself down so many times that he could not escape even if he’d wanted to. His larger worm crashed into Ishmael’s with such force that the smaller creature bucked backward. Ishmael cried out, almost losing his grip on the cables and harness, but he dug his thick boots into position, anchoring himself.

  One of his ropes snapped.

  As the sandworms continued to batter each other, Ishmael fell like a dust grain in a storm, unable to catch himself. Tumbling, clawing for a handhold, he struck one ring, then another. The worms paid no attention to the insignificant human. Their mouths collided. Crystal teeth broke off like tiny icicles raining down.

  Ishmael continued to tumble, and finally struck the soft, churned sands. He sank in, swimming, tried to climb to the air. He coughed, then thrashed with his hands as he struggled to gain his feet.

&
nbsp; Each time the worms rolled, grappled, and moved onward, they devastated everything around them. Ishmael began to run as fast as he could, forgetting the random stutter-step he had learned to use on the open sands. The beasts tangled again. When they thrashed back in his direction, he threw himself into a gully between dunes. The slender tail of his own worm, hot with friction exhaust, passed over the old man, sweeping sand on top of him.

  Choking, Ishmael clawed again to the surface, as the worms’ continuing battle took them farther away. He limped toward the shelter of the rocks. Gasping, alone, barely able to remain conscious, he stared as El’hiim’s triumphant worm drove Ishmael’s farther away.

  He hung his head. The duel was over….

  * * *

  VICTORIOUS, EL’HIIM RODE his exhausted creature into the sand, finished with it. Both worms were utterly played out. Ishmael hadn’t seen whether his own beast had been killed, or if it had simply slunk away, burying itself deep.

  As Ishmael collapsed, panting and trembling, his own people came toward him, but he did not want to speak with them. Not now. He shook his dust-caked head, turned away. His heart still pounded and the breath was hot in his chest, but the realization was obvious. Though he had survived, he was not glad at all.

  He had lost the challenge, and the future for the Free Men of Arrakis.

  Military victory should not be subject to interpretation or negotiation. It should be clear-cut and undisputed by all, without compromises.

  — SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES,

  from his guest lecture series

  The Vengeance Fleet prepared to leave Salusa Secundus, bound for Corrin. The ships were crewed by veterans of the Jihad, regular soldiers in the Army of Humanity, and fiery members of the Cult of Serena.

  Fast spacefolder scouts raced to the watchdog fleet that had maintained its position around the last Synchronized World, informing them that the immense battle group was coming. One final battle, and then their vigil could end.