Dune: The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  The Titan general did not really need Beowulf, but was glad not to have cowardly Xerxes along. With Juno and Dante, he could recruit scores of reliable neo-cymeks as well as robotic military forces to augment the machine battle groups already at IV Anbus. Even so, defeating Vorian Atreides would not be easy.

  Agamemnon had trained his son well.

  Here is where the analytical power of the thinking machines fails them: they believe they have no weaknesses.

  — PRIMERO VORIAN ATREIDES, Evermind Nevermore

  When the Jihad fleet passed over the enemy landing site on IV Anbus, they dropped a meteor shower of disruptor units. From his orbiting ballista, young Vergyl Tantor whooped with bravado when initial scans showed the vanguard of robotic ground forces reeling, brought to their metal knees, their gelcircuitry scrambled.

  Upon returning from the city of Darits, Xavier Harkonnen had changed into a crisp new green-and-crimson uniform that bore the impressive marks of his primero rank. He still felt soiled from arguing with the stubborn Zenshiite elders. Now, while dispatching the next wave of troops and equipment to the surface, he looked like the very ideal of a commanding officer.

  A shuttle full of eager Ginaz mercenaries— the best fighters money could buy— soared down to the machine base camp and covered the assigned ground area, wielding pulse swords, scrambler grenades, and slaggers. Zon Noret’s professional combat experts took less than an hour to eradicate the enemy’s half-completed base, destroying the last functional robots. The machines had not expected such swift and overwhelming resistance.

  As he stood on the bridge of his flagship, Xavier wore an expression of pleased satisfaction. “This is a setback for the enemy, but don’t believe for a minute that it’ll stop them.”

  Vor lounged next to his friend. “Since they’re not smart enough to know when to give up, we’ll just have to convince them.”

  Huddled over papers and maps in analysis rooms aboard the flagship, diligent Jihad tacticians studied the dispersal of machine strength, to determine Omnius’s plan for seizing IV Anbus. Apparently, even with their initial beachhead knocked out, the machines planned to land an overwhelming force and launch a ground-based invasion that would surely capture the planet.

  In the war room, the two primeros laid out the projected path along which the invaders would have marched. Xavier waited for his dark-haired comrade. “Well, does it make any sense to you? What are the machines trying to do?”

  Vor pushed some strands of long hair out of his eyes. “As with most everything the thinking machines do, their plan is straightforward and obvious, utilizing massive force and no subtlety.” He pursed his lips, pointing to the tactical projections that had been delivered to them from the analysis rooms. “See, the robot fleet has enough firepower that they could simply bombard IV Anbus and wipe out all the Zenshiite cities. Easy enough. But it looks like Omnius wants to keep the infrastructure of Darits and the other cities intact for a more efficient conversion into a full-fledged Synchronized World. It’s primitive compared to what they would normally install, but the machines can adapt.”

  Xavier looked at him grimly. “And that requires more work for them than just blasting everything into dust.”

  “Of course, if it takes too long, they’ll just go back to the original plan. My guess is we don’t have much time. We’ve stalled them long enough here.”

  Xavier traced his finger along the feathery gorges displayed on the satellite images. “If the combat robots intend to use an overwhelming ground force to take over Darits, the hydroelectric generating station, and the communications grid, then the machines will likely sweep down the canyons here. Once they’re inside the cliff city, they will install the usual copy of Omnius.”

  He turned back to studying the satellite maps. “So what do you propose, Vorian? Even with all the Ginaz mercenaries, we don’t have sufficient military strength to face off against a full robotic ground assault. Our fighters are not all expendable.”

  “With Omnius, we can’t simply pit brute force against brute force. We need to do something cunning,” Vor said with a smile. “The thinking machines should be completely confused.”

  “Oh? Like your mad shadow fleet under construction at Poritrin? I still don’t think that will work.”

  Vor chuckled. He preferred to defeat the robotic enemy through devious means, as a trickster, than through outright military engagements… not because he necessarily believed it to be more effective, but because he wanted to minimize the cost in human lives. “So, I’ve always got a plan up my sleeve, Xavier, and I’ve almost completed my computer virus against the warships here. I’ll take care of the machine battle vessels in space. You deal with the ground forces.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that without using ‘overwhelming force’?”

  Vor already had his answer ready. “Transmit a message to our fleet instructing them to withdraw our planetside military forces. Say that it’s because we believe the thinking machines will attack from space.”

  Xavier’s expression of disbelief almost made the other primero chuckle. “The machines aren’t so foolhardy as to believe that, Vorian. Even a robot can detect an obvious ruse.”

  “Not if you encode the transmission. Use your most complex mathematical cipher. The robots will break it, I guarantee. That will make them believe what they hear.”

  “Your father has twisted your mind.” Xavier said, shaking his head. “But I’m glad you’ve turned it to the benefit of the Jihad. If we can’t stop the thinking machines from installing their Omnius here…” His stiff posture implied that he felt the full burden on his own shoulders. “Well, let us just say that I’ll level every structure on IV Anbus before I allow such a defeat. The entire League of Nobles is at stake.” Xavier sighed, rubbed his temples. “Why won’t Rhengalid work with us? We can save their people and meet our own objectives at the same time.”

  Vor gave him a commiserating grin. “The Zenshiites see enemies everywhere, but are incapable of recognizing friends.” He had tried to see the matter from the Buddislamic point of view, playing devil’s advocate to Xavier’s unwavering convictions, but their reasons made no logical sense. “I guess after being brought up by the thinking machines, I just don’t understand religion.”

  Xavier looked up from the tactical projections, raising his eyebrows. “We don’t have the luxury of ‘understanding’ them, Vorian. Such subtleties are for politicians in plush offices, far from the battlefield. The Zenshiites’ choice here has repercussions for all of humanity. Much as I’d like to just leave them all to their fates, we can’t allow it. IV Anbus must not become another stepping-stone for Omnius.”

  Vor clapped him on the shoulder, glad he never had to bluff or face down that stony expression across a gambling table. “You are a hard man, Xavier Harkonnen.”

  “Serena’s Jihad has made me one.”

  * * *

  AFTER STUDYING DETAILED terrain overlays, Xavier selected a pair of strategic Zenshiite towns as his troops’ bases. The nondescript settlements were in perfect position for the jihadis to set up an ambush against the wave of machine forces that would trample the landscape on their way toward the city of Darits. The Army of the Jihad had sent down their heaviest artillery and projectile hardware to be installed and camouflaged in the native towns.

  Much to his delight and pride, Tercero Vergyl Tantor was assigned to oversee operations in the settlement that would encounter the first machine offensive. During recreational hours aboard ship, while he played fast rounds of Fleur de Lys cards with Vorian Atreides, Vergyl often complained that his adoptive brother refused to send him on meaningful missions. This time, though, the dark-skinned, brown-eyed young man had pleaded with Xavier until finally he was put in charge of the initial ambush against the machines.

  “Vergyl, that Zenshiite town should have all the raw materials you need to set up your strike. Don’t forget your tactical training.”

  “Yes, Xavier.”

  “Find
a bottleneck where you can hammer the robot armies without exposing yourself to danger. Hit hard, give them everything you have, and then pull back. Tercero Cregh and his troops at the second town will mop up any thinking machines that survive.”

  “I understand.”

  “We’re also dispatching Ginaz mercenaries to harass any outlying robot forces,” Vor added with a snort. “It’ll be a pleasant change for them from riding around in orbit and pretending to threaten machine warships.”

  “And Vergyl,” Xavier said, his voice sterner than ever, “take care of yourself. Your father took me in as an orphan when the machines killed my family. I have no intention of bringing him bad news.”

  As Vergyl took his military force into the designated town, he hoped the natives would welcome them. He looked around, judging the mood of the villagers. The Zenshiites, mostly farmers and silt miners who worked the mineral-rich sandbars, stood outside their dwellings and watched with dismay. Transport after transport landed in their fields, disgorging jihadi troops and Ginaz mercenaries. Engineers and weapons specialists removed artillery components while scouts scattered, studying the terrain to find the best emplacements.

  Vergyl stepped forward, his expression calm. “We mean you no harm. We are here to protect you from the thinking machines. The enemy is on the way.”

  The hard-eyed farmers looked at them. One grim-faced man said, “Rhengalid has told us you are not welcome here. You should go.”

  “Sorry, but I have my orders.”

  Vergyl sent his men through the town to inspect buildings, telling them, “Don’t cause any damage. See if you find empty structures for us to use. Let’s make this as unobtrusive as possible.”

  Old women grumbled curses at the Jihad fighters. Parents snatched children away and locked them in thick-walled homes, as if afraid Vergyl’s engineers would steal them in the dark of night.

  The face of the dour farmer showed resigned acceptance. “What if we do not wish to have outsiders sleeping in our homes?”

  Vergyl knew how he had to answer. “Then we’ll set up tents. But we’d rather have your cooperation and your hospitality. When morning comes, you’ll see the greater danger you face. Then you’ll be glad we’re here.”

  The Zenshiites showed little enthusiasm, but they didn’t interfere.

  The machine forces were expected to funnel through the canyons toward Darits. Surveillance had already pinpointed the robots’ new staging point on the plateau, just as Primero Atreides had guessed.

  The engineers were careful to leave no obvious traces of their work. The heavy weapons were moved into vacant buildings; Vergyl did not need to displace any families.

  Several empty dwellings were close enough together for his soldiers to bunk down for the night. When he asked the villagers what had happened, Vergyl received only frightened scowls in answer. Finally, one bearded farmer answered, “Tlulaxa slavers took them a few months ago. Whole families.” He gestured to the clustered homes.

  “I’m sorry.” Vergyl didn’t know what else to say.

  As darkness fell, he contacted Tercero Hondu Cregh, his counterpart in the second village. Sharing information, they confirmed that each ambush site was ready. Tercero Cregh had also experienced little cooperation from the people, but again, no outright obstruction.

  After he called his commandos together, and they completed one last inspection of the emplaced weapons, Vergyl was surprised to see several Zenshiite farmers coming toward them carrying jugs and bottles. Tense, but hoping for the best, he went to meet them. The farmer who had spoken to him earlier held out his jug, while a woman at his side extended several shallow cups.

  “The Koran Sutras tell us we must extend hospitality to any guest, even uninvited ones.” The farmer splashed a pale orange liquid into one of the shallow cups. “We would not wish to break tradition.”

  Vergyl accepted the cup while the woman poured a second drink for her husband. Vergyl and the Zenshiite man sipped from the brims in a formal toast; the liquid was bitter, with a strong alcoholic burn, but the jihadi officer took another drink.

  The other villagers passed out cups, and all of the fighters drank, careful not to offend their hosts. “We are not your enemies,” Vergyl reassured the people. “We are trying to save you from the thinking machines.”

  Though the Zenshiites did not seem convinced, Vergyl felt he had accomplished something, just by being given the benefit of the doubt.

  Then he told his soldiers to climb into their assigned cots and get as much rest as they could afford before the machines came in the morning. A sentry was stationed at each camouflaged artillery emplacement to guard the weapons and power charges….

  Vergyl dozed off thinking of Xavier, whom he revered as a hero. Even as a boy, he had always wanted to emulate his older brother, to become a Jihad officer just like him. At only seventeen, after the tragic massacre on Ellram, Vergyl had convinced his father to sign a dispensation allowing him to enlist in the Army. Tens of thousands of new volunteers, incensed by the machines’ most recent brutality, were eager to join the fight. Against his wife’s objections, Emil Tantor had let Vergyl join— in part, because he was convinced that if he refused, the boy would run off and sign up anyway. This way, he was under the official and watchful eye of Xavier.

  After basic training and formal instruction, Vergyl was transferred to Giedi Prime to assist in reconstruction efforts after the thinking machines were driven out. For years, Xavier kept his brother from being assigned to front-line battleships, putting Vergyl in charge of building a giant memorial to fallen soldiers, which was due to be christened any day now.

  On Giedi Prime, Vergyl also met and fell in love with Sheel. They had been married for thirteen years, had two sons, Emilo and Jisp, and a daughter, Ulana.

  But Xavier had not been able to shelter him forever. He was a talented officer, and soon the demands of the Jihad required him to face combat. His most intense battle so far had been the recapture of the Unallied Planet of Tyndall, a massive and unexpected Jihad counterstrike that wrenched the war-torn world from the grasp of the thinking machines. Vergyl had distinguished himself in that conflict and had received two medals, which he had sent home to Sheel and his children.

  Now, he promised himself to do everything possible to make this operation a success. They would defeat the thinking machines here on IV Anbus as well, and Vergyl Tantor would claim his part in the victory.

  A deep sleep came upon him like the drop of a curtain. Later, at the ragged end of night, not long before the arrival of the machines, he became violently, cripplingly ill. As did all of the other soldiers stationed there.

  * * *

  WHEN THE FOUR Jihad ballistas circled around to the opposite side of the planet, the machine forces dropped another deployment of combat robots. The enemy had learned and adapted after their first attempt to establish a beachhead. Now Omnius’s forces moved with great speed and efficiency to set up the morning’s offensive. Battalions of fearsome soldier meks and combat vehicles began a rolling march toward Darits, laying down boosters and substations with each kilometer they conquered.

  Farther down the sedimentary canyon, highly paid Ginaz mercenaries spread out, led by Zon Noret. They ran along the tops of ridges and followed gravelly water courses, setting up small roadblocks. Detonating charges, they collapsed the walls of narrow canyons to inhibit the advancing machines, though the robots had enough firepower to blast through the barriers eventually.

  More mercenaries raced along flat, wide arroyos, planting lines of land mines to wipe out the front ranks of combat meks. Each Ginaz mercenary wore a protective Holtzman shield that surrounded his body with an invisible barrier. The robots relied on projectile weapons, bullets and sharp needles, but the personal shields foiled such attacks. The mercenaries plunged in among the robots to do hand-to-hand fighting.

  Zon Noret had given each commando clear instructions. “Your job is not to obliterate the enemy, though damage is certainly acceptable.” He
smiled. “Your task is to take potshots, enough to lure the thinking machines forward. Taunt them, provoke them, convince them that the native humans mean to resist the machine occupation. We’re good at that.”

  But the carefully staged, ineffective resistance must also lull the robotic battalion into believing that the humans had nothing worse waiting for them. Noret’s independent fighters had to be carefully incompetent.

  The robots surged ahead, bound by their internal programming.

  * * *

  AS THE SUN spilled its jagged first light upon the landscape, Vergyl Tantor staggered along the wall of the dwelling where he had slept. The house smelled of vomit and diarrhea. Feeling betrayed, many of the soldiers moaned, lurched, and retched, barely able to move. Reaching the doorway, Vergyl blinked and coughed. The Zenshiite natives came out of their dwellings looking smug.

  Vergyl gasped at them. “You…poisoned us!”

  “It will pass,” the bearded farmer said. “We warned you. Outsiders are not welcome here. We want no part of your war with the demon mechanicals. Go away.”

  The Jihad officer swayed, clutching the rough doorjamb to keep himself upright. “But… you’ll all die this morning! It’s not us they want, it’s you! The robots—” He retched again and realized the villagers must have taken their own antidotes or medicines.

  Then his comline signaled, calling urgently for him. Vergyl could barely cough out his acknowledgment. The dispersed jihadi squadrons and surveillance teams reported that the robotic marauders had begun to move out from their new staging point. Ginaz mercenaries had already set up along the advance path to goad the robots. The assault was about to commence.

  “The machines are coming!” Vergyl called hoarsely, trying to rouse his men. “Everyone, to your stations!” Ignoring the villagers, he went back into the dwelling and started dragging soldiers out into the dawn light. They had donned Zenshiite farmers’ clothes so that they would not appear to be jihadis, but now the fabric was drenched with fever sweat and stained with vomit.