Sisterhood of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  As the machine body strode away from the fading lights of the lab domes, he activated his illuminators. Bright eyes stabbed cones of light into the swirling chlorine fumes. At the top of a low rise, he came upon a junkyard of cymek bodies, large mechanical forms strewn about like carrion on a battlefield. They had dropped in their tracks, like the bones of prehistoric beasts that had come to a special graveyard to die. For him, it was a treasure chest.

  He halted the clumsy footsteps of the machine legs and stared in awe and delight, imagining all of those warrior forms functioning again, a resurrected army of them. Such a force could stand against any mob of Butlerians! Ptolemy realized he was grinning: If Manford Torondo came to destroy the Denali facility, he would find it defended by his greatest nightmares.

  Even sprawled on the rocks and deactivated, the walker forms looked fearsome. Ptolemy recalled stories about the Titan Ajax, whose machine body had slaughtered entire populations that rebelled against him. Across the screen of his imagination, he envisioned cymek machines grabbing the superstitious Butlerians, the Swordmasters, anyone intent on mindless destruction.

  Inside the sealed cab, he worked the controls and clumsily raised the front jointed leg of his walker, lifted a clawlike footpad, and closed it. In his mind, he pictured grasping the torso of Anari Idaho and crushing her. He imagined that Manford’s savages would throw themselves upon the walker bodies, crawling over them like lice, pummeling and smashing. But it would do the fanatics no good. These cymek walkers were far too powerful.

  If he’d only had access to a mechanical body such as this earlier, he could have killed all the Butlerians who raided his research facility on Zenith … and even if he hadn’t gotten into the body in time to save the life of Elchan, he might have forced the legless Manford Torondo to watch the slaughter of Butlerians, just as the vile man had made Ptolemy witness the horrible death of his closest friend.

  Now as he operated the external controls from the enclosed cab, he realized that his limbs and grasping hands were far too clumsy for a swift and fluid battle. He would need to find a direct neural interface so that he—and any other defenders of civilization—could operate the machines with the proper finesse.

  He plodded past the cymek graveyard and went farther along the ridge to where the murky gases cleared. There he found collapsing structures, along with a hundred more armored walkers. Ptolemy intended to make great use of this windfall—a new defense that would enable rational humans to stand up to the madmen who wanted to plunge civilization into a Dark Age.

  He raised his walker body high, extending the front pair of legs like a man raising his fists and cursing the gods.

  He who is willing to use an evil tool is himself evil. There are no exceptions.

  —MANFORD TORONDO, THE ONLY PATH

  Showing complete faith in the Mentat’s prediction, Manford guided his warships to the Thonaris star system. He was impressed by, and somewhat afraid of, the way Gilbertus Albans could assemble mountains of facts and tease out patterns based only on subtle hints. Mentat thought processes reminded him of sorcery or sophisticated computer processes—either of which raised equivalent concerns. The Headmaster asserted that he was merely demonstrating how the human mind was equivalent to any computer.

  Though Gilbertus did show an unacceptable underlying admiration for thinking machines, as demonstrated by the disturbing comments he had made to his class, Manford had come to the conclusion that the Mentats and Butlerians were natural allies, fighting on the same side.

  Inside his private cabin aboard the lead Ballista class ship, Manford continued to read horrifying passages from the Erasmus logbooks. The independent robot’s cruel descriptions of the tortures and experiments he had inflicted on countless humans, along with his bizarre and repulsive ruminations about the data he collected, only increased Manford’s fear and disgust. People no longer grasped how unspeakably evil the thinking machines were, and Erasmus was by far the worst of them all.

  Though Manford had denied him before, the Butlerian leader had decided that Gilbertus Albans was an important ally, and now he showed Gilbertus the robot’s journal. He pointed out some of the most egregious of the revelations. “You can see how insidious this is. Every word is proof of what we are fighting against. Erasmus says it himself—‘Given enough time, they will forget … and will create us all over again.’”

  Gilbertus paled as he examined the dense pages. Using his Mentat abilities, he instantly memorized the words. “Reading this frightens me,” he admitted. The Headmaster was a quiet man preoccupied with running his school and training his students; he still did not seem comfortable about joining this expedition, despite the celebratory mood aboard the ships. Citing a need for meditation to prepare for the upcoming battle, he asked Manford’s permission to be excused, and retreated to his quarters.

  The standard FTL ships had been racing across space for the better part of a week. Since the Thonaris outpost was a long-dead manufacturing center, the Butlerians did not feel enough urgency to risk using the unpredictable spacefolding engines. During the journey to the distant system, anticipation and excitement mounted among the Butlerians, like hot moisture filling a steam bath.

  Manford had begun to feel, though, that simply bashing another pile of already-dead machines was a hollow victory, and it meant far less than his followers thought it did. Still, the more Manford allowed his zealots to destroy straw-man enemies, the more they would be willing to follow him when he called for similar action against less obvious enemies like Machine Apologists, who tried to rationalize the use of some thinking machines. His followers were a weapon he could aim and fire. He would let the destruction of the Thonaris shipyards be a pressure-release valve, and a unifying act.

  The mind of man is holy.

  When the ships arrived in the star system, they found the thinking-machine base exactly where the Mentat had predicted. But Manford was astounded to see not a silent and frozen outpost, but a bustling center of industrial activity, manufacturing complexes full of automated assembly lines that fabricated metal hull plates and structural components, spewing heat and exhaust plumes. Huge construction docks hung above broken planetoids, where innumerable ships were even now being built.

  His fellow observers on the bridge let out a collective gasp, Gilbertus Albans among them. Thirty armed patrol ships guarded the facilities, and Anari Idaho was the first to spot the sigil of the VenHold Spacing Fleet on their hulls. At least fifteen other VenHold ships were visible at the complex. Though the Butlerian vessels far outnumbered the enemy’s, the VenHold patrol ships lined up to face Manford’s fleet.

  A pompous voice came across the transmission line. “Attention intruders: This facility is owned and operated by Venport Holdings. You are not welcome here.”

  Disturbed by the man’s confident attitude, Manford responded, “This facility is a haven of illegal thinking-machine technology. All these ships, factories, and materiel are forfeit. We intend to destroy them.” He touched his lower lip and added, “You may evacuate your personnel, or not, as you wish. It is your choice.”

  A few moments later, Directeur Venport himself appeared on the screen. “How dare you interfere with my legitimate operations? I don’t recognize your authority. You are trespassing on Venport property.”

  In the meantime, Anari Idaho ran through a series of scans. As Manford and Venport continued to glare at each other across the screens, she said, “He has reactivated fourteen of the robotic manufacturing facilities. It looks like the machines are working for him. He will probably rewaken the rest, if given the chance.”

  The Butlerian leader felt sickened. “Josef Venport, I don’t know whether to consider you appallingly foolish or simply evil.”

  Venport hardened his expression. “Turn your barbarians around and depart immediately, or I will file a formal complaint with the Landsraad League, and withhold all transportation services to any planet that does not denounce you. I shall also demand legal reparations—every c
redit, plus punitive damages. More than enough to bankrupt you and put an end to your silly operations.”

  Anari looked as if she wanted to skewer the comm screen with her sword, but Manford tried to remain outwardly calm. “My ships have had their instructions since we departed from Lampadas. File any complaint you like, but we will destroy these facilities today.” He switched off the comm, then issued orders for his front line of armed ships to target three of the reactivated robotic factories.

  Gilbertus Albans turned pale. “Shouldn’t you give him time to evacuate personnel?”

  “I will not destroy his administration hub or his VenHold ships, but those are robotic industrial facilities. Anyone who chooses to reawaken the thinking-machine operations is already damned by God. We will destroy the rest if he does not surrender.”

  When the Butlerian fleet launched a volley at the three automated machine complexes, the obliteration was quite spectacular. Fuel tanks and compressed gases exploded; flying chunks of debris caromed off other domes and shattered sealed canisters.

  The comm system lit up once more, and Anari reported, “Josef Venport wishes to speak with you again.”

  “I thought as much.” Manford gestured to accept the transmission.

  Venport looked apoplectic. “You monster, what have you done? I had people over there! And I have people in the other facilities as well.”

  “I offered you the chance to evacuate. You’ve already lost. We have more than two hundred vessels—do you intend to return fire with your handful of patrol ships? I will respond to any act of aggression by destroying them, as well.”

  “You are an ignorant man, Torondo,” Venport said.

  “On the contrary, I consider myself intelligent and generous—especially now. Those who chose to work in this shipyard complex were led astray, but some of them might yet be saved. As I said before, I will allow you to evacuate personnel. Will three ships be sufficient to hold them? You have one hour. Gather anyone you wish to save, load them aboard the vessels, and we will receive them as prisoners before we recommence the cleansing of this place. Your own crimes, Directeur Venport, will be addressed later—after we remove this blight.”

  Can a knife cut as deeply as one’s conscience?

  —VORIAN ATREIDES, ARRAKIS JOURNALS

  The Freemen stood in a loose circle inside the rock-walled chamber; the fates of the two men had already been decided. Naib Sharnak glowered at the pair, but he obviously regarded Griffin Harkonnen as irrelevant and placed most of the blame on Vorian Atreides.

  And Vor accepted it. He could not burn away the memory of Ishanti’s expression as she came to the inevitable conclusion that he could not save her … and that he wouldn’t give up. She had thrown herself to the worm and refused to let herself be rescued, fearing it would cost all of their lives.

  Sharnak shook his head. “I don’t know what value Ishanti found in your company, but she was wrong. You have cost a good woman her life.”

  Standing next to Vor, the young Harkonnen seemed crushed by what he had been through. Griffin had followed a fool’s quest, swept along by circumstances that he obviously had not understood or prepared for. “You should have let me die out there,” he mumbled. “I didn’t ask to be rescued—especially by you.”

  Vor could not blame the young man for trying to escape, despite what the attempt had cost. “That wasn’t your decision,” he said. “It was mine and Ishanti’s.”

  “Letting you die out there would have saved us a lot of trouble, and saved that woman’s life,” the Naib said.

  Left alone in the skimcraft out in the desert, Vor should have flown away and dropped Griffin at some distant settlement from which he could find his way back to Arrakis City. But the other Freemen aircraft had closed in, and even though Vor could have tried to outfly them, he had come back to the cave encampment. It was a matter of honor.

  “My family wanted revenge to wipe the slate clean,” Griffin said, “but I’m sorry I ever went after you.”

  With a pinched expression, the tribal leader looked at the two as if they were annoying children. “Neither of you should have come here! You don’t belong here.” He focused a glare on Vor. “We did not know you, Vorian Atreides, nor did we wish to know you, and your enemies have caused grave harm to our people. And you, Griffin Harkonnen, have been so fixated on your blood feud that you ignored what you trample over in your pursuit of this man.”

  Sharnak pulled a long, milky-bladed knife from his waist, then yanked a second dagger from one of the men beside him. He tossed both blades onto the sand-covered floor. “Have done with this! Settle your feud between yourselves. Now. We do not wish to be a part of it, though we will take your water afterward.”

  Vor felt a cold hollowness in his chest. “I don’t want to fight him. This quarrel has gone too far already.”

  The Naib was unyielding. “Then I will demand your executions right away—wouldn’t the two of you rather attempt to defend yourselves?”

  Gray and shaken, Griffin picked up the knife. He looked at the blade, at Vor. “My sister and I have a lifetime of hatred invested in this moment.”

  Vor did not move for the other knife. He had no heart for this fight.

  Sharnak looked at Vor with disdain. “You offworlders are fools. Do you intend to let him just strike you down as you stand?”

  “Turn us out into the desert,” Vor demanded, “and let us make our own way. We will leave you alone.” He stood stiffly, his arms at his sides.

  Disgusted and dismissive, the Naib snapped, “You try my patience. No—I have spoken. Kill them if they don’t fight.” The Freemen drew knives of their own, edged closer.

  Vor, though, tried to bargain. “And the victor—you’ll kill him anyway?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Guarantee the life of whoever wins. Promise safe passage to civilization.” Vor narrowed his gray eyes, didn’t flinch at the storm of anger that crossed Sharnak’s face. “Or I will just let him strike me down—better him than desert thieves.”

  The assembled Freemen grumbled, but their leader let out a cold laugh. “Very well, on my honor, we will deliver the winner to safety—and we’ll be glad to be rid of you both.”

  With great reluctance, Vor bent down for the other dagger and faced Griffin. The young man held up his milky-white blade, moving his arm from side to side to test the weight and feel of the weapon. He looked ready but wary.

  “I have my shield belt,” Griffin said, “and I see you have yours. Shall we fight like civilized men?”

  “Civilized?” Vor said. “You think this is civilized?”

  Naib Sharnak scowled. “Shields? There will be no shields here—hand to hand, knife to knife.”

  “I suspected as much,” Griffin said. He drew a deep breath. Then, surprising Vor, he stabbed forward and slashed sideways. The move was a blur of speed, unexpected finesse, and Vor bounded back, barely dodging the razor-sharp blade. Someone had taught this Harkonnen to fight surprisingly well.

  In response, he jabbed halfheartedly with his dagger, and Griffin’s reactions were quick. The young Harkonnen switched the knife to his other hand and struck again.

  Parrying, Vor felt a glassy clink as edge met edge. These Freemen daggers had no real hilt, no blade guard. As the edges skittered along each other, Vor had to twist his wrist to avoid a deep gash along his knuckles. While the opponents hung poised, dagger against dagger, Vor reached out with his left hand and gave Griffin a hard shove on the chest, making the young man stumble backward. Then, as Griffin caught his balance, Vor cut a quick slash down his left bicep, drawing blood but avoiding an artery.

  “Do you yield?” Vor didn’t want to kill him.

  The Harkonnen winced, danced backward, and brandished his knife to protect himself. “I can’t—in the name of House Harkonnen I must fight to the death.”

  Vor knew the burden of family honor all too well. This long-standing feud had already soured the Harkonnens against him for generations, and t
he nuances of honor added other complexities: If he simply surrendered and let the young man win, he doubted if Griffin would feel vindicated or satisfied … and yet, the Freemen would take him to safety.

  The Freemen threw cheers and insults alike; Vor didn’t think they cared which man won—they just wanted to see bloodshed for Ishanti’s death. Naib Sharnak regarded the competition in grim silence.

  Vor drove in, pushing hard. Over the course of his life, he had acquired a great deal of experience in hand-to-hand fighting, but he’d lived at peace and avoided personal combat for decades. He was out of practice. Nevertheless, he closed with the young man, trying to cut him again but not fatally.

  Griffin, though, had no such reservations, and he fought with unexpected and precise skill. His technique was unlike anything Vor had fought before, and the doubt behind his adversary’s eyes hardened into confidence, as if he heard an encouraging voice in his head.

  “Did I tell you I went to Kepler? Your planet?” Griffin said, not even out of breath. “I spoke with your family.”

  Vor felt suddenly cold. He brought up his knife just in time to fend off a strike.

  “Your wife, Mariella. An old woman.” Griffin’s words were fast, staccato. “Do you know she is dead?”

  He chose the instant of shock precisely, and his dagger passed through Vor’s defenses and struck his chest just below the right shoulder—by no means a deadly wound, but the pain was sharp. Mariella! The fight went out of Vor in a cold rush, yet the instinct for survival remained. He pushed back as Griffin leaped on top of him and raised his hand to block another cut, then Vor kicked out, striking Griffin in the thigh. Both men rolled over.

  Bleeding from the wound in his shoulder, Vor could barely move his right arm. He was filled with rage.