Vor shook his head. His dark hair was shaggy and sweaty, his eyebrows clenched together. “The machines may have changed their tactics. If they do this to other worlds, it means they just want to kill humans and leave their planets uninhabitable.” He looked over his shoulder at the soldiers who busied themselves out of numb habit, searching for useful tasks in this dead colony.
The Primero walked slowly through the broken and blistered streets. After his early years serving Omnius, being trained in the nuances of conquest, Vor had thought he understood the machines better than this. “It doesn’t make sense— unless cymeks did this.”
Chusuk had been a thriving settlement— not a paradise by any means, but certainly a worthwhile place to live, a foothold of humanity on a calm and unremarkable world. The colonists led quiet lives here, with gentle romances, close-knit families, and unambitious dreams. Real people who just wanted to live from day to day.
And the machines had turned them into victims.
Through a thick plaz window in the pavement, he saw a room below that looked undisturbed, with musical instruments arrayed on a workbench. Odd, how certain things survived in war, as if protected by angelic bubbles. He ordered searchers to check the rooms below, but they came back moments later reporting no signs of life.
Vor moved on. The burned buildings stood out like blackened skeletons. Walls had caved in, exposing structural frameworks and shattered brick components. The town square was only a gouge left from heavy explosives, probably fired by airborne robotic warships.
He saw roasted bodies that looked like black scarecrows, their arms twisted, shreds of lips drawn back to expose flame-cracked teeth. Real people. He never got used to the horrific cost of this Jihad. Empty eye sockets stared like charcoal pits, as if the people were still wondering why rescue had taken so long.
Three uniformed Jihad soldiers shouted from around the corner. Vor picked up his pace, turned to find two ruined combat meks that had been destroyed in the Chusuk defense. The settlers had been armed with few weapons, but apparently they’d rallied enough to demolish this pair of thinking machines.
Unfortunately, each mechanical army had thousands of such combat meks. The Chusuk colonists had resisted, but had never stood a real chance.
Vor’s mouth drew down in a frown. He felt empty inside, knowing there was nothing he could have done to prevent this slaughter. En route here for nearly a month, his warships had approached Chusuk on regular patrol duties. They had arrived expecting a resupply depot and a week’s furlough. They had received no distress call— not that a signal could have ever reached them in time anyway.
Vor felt sickened. He had not expected such senseless brutality from the machines, not here.
But he should have.
* * *
ON THE WAY to Chusuk, during the long, sluggish voyage across space, even a Primero had little to do. He had occupied himself reading business documents and drawing up notes for treatises on military tactics, in which he explained what he knew about thinking machines.
During the Jihad, Serena Butler had written a number of artful polemics about her crusade against the machines, from which Iblis Ginjo quoted liberally. At some point Vor had even contemplated writing memoirs of his own, since he had lived for so long and experienced so much… but when he thought of all the lies his father had included in his own memoirs, passing them off as true history, Vor found himself repelled by the idea. Even if he tried to be honest, human nature might make him color a few facts.
In another century or so, if he continued to make progress against Omnius, he might reconsider. For now, he was better off spending his time playing an occasional game of Fleur de Lys with his men. He would make history through his actions rather than through any documents he left behind….
During off hours alone in his cabin, Vor often relived pleasant memories, fantasizing a different life for himself. The first person who usually came to mind was Leronica Tergiet on Caladan, a woman who had truly touched his heart.
Never before had he dared to feel any sort of commitment or emotional bond… but Leronica made him want to be a different person, someone with no obligations or duties of cosmic significance, just a simple man who could be a husband and a friend. Vor did not regret his responsibilities or accomplishments, knowing that he had defended the populations of entire planets, but for a change it would have been nice to be small, unimportant, and content, an unremarkable soldier who went by the assumed name of “Virk.”
Emergencies in the Jihad had thus far prevented him from taking any discretionary trips back to Caladan, as he had planned to do. He sent Leronica letters by way of jihadi soldiers assigned to the tracking station, even an occasional gift. But he heard nothing back. He wasn’t even sure she’d have the means to dispatch a communiqué to him. Feeling dismal about it, he realized that he was probably not much in her thoughts at all.
By now a fine woman like that must have chosen a husband, had a family. If so, he hoped she still thought of him with fondness.
Though it occurred to him as a possibility, he could not in good conscience march in and disrupt whatever happiness Leronica had managed to create for herself. One day he had to return to Caladan, to find out for himself.
In the meantime, during the long, lonely journey between the stars, he continued to write her long letters that would be dispatched by roundabout couriers. He knew how much she liked to hear about other planets and people. And the exercise kept Leronica in his thoughts and helped him feel slightly less alone.
Thankfully, the demands of war made time pass quickly for him. Perhaps he would see her sooner than he anticipated. His pulse quickened at the thought. Could she possibly be waiting for him?
* * *
WALKING ONWARD WITH a leaden heart through the ruins of Chusuk, Vor stared at the shocking devastation. The machines had been exceedingly thorough in a way that seemed rather…inefficient to him. Surely the robotic armies had not needed to inflict so much damage simply to achieve their objective?
One of the cuartos in charge of an inspection squadron came up to report. “Primero Atreides, we’ve tallied the bodies. There are no more than a hundred.”
“A hundred? That’s not enough for a colony this size. Were the others disintegrated in the attack?”
“The pattern of destruction does not support that conclusion, sir.”
Vor formed his lips into a firm line, still perplexed. “They’ve probably been taken as slaves to replenish some of the losses in abortive rebellions. I pity the poor wretches who survived this.”
Then he straightened and lifted his chin. “We must finish up quickly. Take all the images you need, and we’ll return directly to Salusa Secundus. I’ve got to tell the Priestess what happened here.”
The cuarto’s expression solidified with resolve. “Once she views these images, she will ignite a fire among the population. The thinking machines will be sorry they ever chose to do this to one of our colonies.”
The officer ran to gather his men, while Vor sensed that the new spark from Chusuk would make the fighting even more fanatical, and infinitely worse.
Now, more than ever, he longed to be back on Caladan in the arms of Leronica….
In the banquet of life, our daily activities are the main course, and dessert is composed of our dreams.
— SERENA BUTLER, Jihad Manifestos
No more than four months after Vorian Atreides and the Jihad engineers had departed from Caladan, Leronica Tergiet agreed to marry a man who had courted her unsuccessfully for years.
Leronica was one of sixteen local women who found themselves pregnant by boisterous Jihad soldiers. She was not ashamed of her condition and actually laughed quietly as her father tried to console her. Back when Vor’s contingent of technicians were stationed in town, Brom Tergiet had been working offshore in the waters east of town, and was blind to how much time his daughter had spent with one particular man.
After she could no longer deny pregnancy and had
waited long enough to be confident she would not lose the child through miscarriage, she finally confessed to her father. Saying nothing in response, Brom Tergiet had sat on the dock, working diligently to repair tangled fishing nets. He did not meet her proud, unabashed gaze, but shook his head, as if in disbelief and disgust.
“Oh, Dad, we all know well enough how biology works,” Leronica said, somewhat amused by his reaction. “I’m entirely happy with the special times Virk and I shared, and I am content to accept whatever he was able to give me, including his child.”
She had not, however, revealed to anyone— not even to her father, the real identity of the military officer. Now that she knew she would bear his child, the secret was more important than ever, and she did not want to put her baby at risk.
“You will be on your own, Leronica,” Brom warned. “That soldier will never come back for you, or his baby.”
“Oh, I know that,” she said, unperturbed, “but I have my memories of him and his stories of exotic places. That is enough reward for me. Would you have me be a helpless woman, whining and bemoaning my situation? I like my life and my circumstances. I’d prefer your moral and emotional support, but I can manage on my own if necessary. I can keep working up until the time of the birth, and I’ll only take a few days off to deliver the child.”
“You always have been independent,” Brom said with a smile, and then climbed to his feet, leaving the fish nets tangled on the pale, weathered boards of the wharf. He hugged his daughter, letting his touch and gestures tell her what he could not say out loud. “After all, the welfare of my grandchild is the most important thing to consider.”
In fact, with Caladan’s minuscule population, the coastal villages welcomed any children that brought fresh infusions to the thin local bloodlines. The jihadis would bring a new generation of vitality to this rural, often overlooked region.
So, without any giddy nonsense or moping around waiting for Vorian Atreides to come back and take her away from Caladan— which she felt certain would never happen— Leronica decided it would be best to move on and find a husband who was willing to raise the baby as his own….
* * *
KALEM VAZZ WAS a quiet, diligent bachelor, ten years Leronica’s senior. Three times since the young woman had come of age, Kalem had asked her to be his wife. She had turned him down consistently, not out of spite or because she was toying with his affections, but because she didn’t want to be bothered with taking care of a husband along with her father, the tavern, and the fishing boats. But now her life had changed.
After making up her mind, Leronica went early one dawn to Kalem’s home before he headed out to the docks to board his fishing boat. She chose a clean dress, bound her curls in a scarf, and wore a necklace of finely worked coral.
After she pounded on his door, Kalem appeared on the threshold, hurriedly tucking in an extra shirt to protect against the cold blanket of sea fog. He looked surprised and bleary-eyed, but did not pretend to make small talk, knowing she must have come for an important reason.
“You asked me to be your wife,” she said. “Does your offer still stand, Kalem Vazz, or have you stopped waiting for me?”
His square-jawed face lost fifteen years of apparent age as he smiled in amazement. Her pregnancy was already showing, but she doubted he had noticed. “What changed your mind?”
“There are some conditions,” she said and then explained about her baby. He took it well, made some supportive comments and showed sympathy. Finally she said, “If you would be a husband to me, you must also agree to act as father to another man’s child. Other than that, I make no demands of you, and I promise to be the wife you expect of me.”
Satisfied that he understood the situation and that she was in no way deceiving him, she awaited his response to this straightforward and no-nonsense offer, on which she would base the rest of her life. She had already dabbled in silly romance and would always cherish the memories of Vor in her heart, but that had no bearing on her present circumstances.
“And what if he comes back?” Kalem said.
“He will not be back.”
He looked at her intensely, and both of them knew her answer was not good enough. He asked, “If he did, would you run off to his arms again? Or, worse, would you refuse to do that and stay with me, and then brood about your decision for the rest of your life?”
“The tide may rise and fall, Kalem, but do you believe my heart is like a bit of flotsam to be tossed about, this way and that? If I make a promise, I keep it.”
Kalem pursed his lips as if considering a business proposition, but she saw his eyes twinkling at his sudden change of fortune. “First, I must make one demand of my own.”
She gazed at him steadily, hands on her hips, prepared for the details of his negotiations.
“If this Jihad soldier of yours is truly gone and you agree to marry me, then you must never do me— or him— the dishonor of comparing the two of us in any way.” Kalem folded his big callused hands together. “I know I’m not the perfect man, and I cannot take your memories from you. But your time with him is only a memory, while I am your reality. Can you live with that?”
Leronica did not hesitate at all before agreeing.
And so they were married, one of sixteen quick ceremonies that took place in the fishing villages. Few of the bridegrooms looked troubled; instead, they seemed unable to believe their good fortune in obtaining attractive wives they had previously thought beyond their reach.
In ensuing weeks, Kalem Vazz worked his fishing boat alongside Brom Tergiet’s. Together with the income from the popular tavern, Leronica and her men lived comparatively well.
It was the best she had hoped for on Caladan, though at night as she rested beside Kalem in their shared bed, tracing her fingertips along the growing curve of her belly, she thought about all the wondrous, alien places Vor had described for her in the League of Nobles.
Leronica lay in silence, looking out the open window into the starry sky, and thought about Vorian Atreides, so far away from her. Right now, he would be fighting evil robots, leading great battleships… possibly even thinking of her now and again. Such a handsome, dashing warrior. She sighed.
Sometimes she would roll over and see Kalem lying awake and motionless, his eyes open and glittering— with tears?— but he said not a word and gave no indication that he guessed her thoughts. Kalem never asked, never pried. He had never even inquired about the name of her soldier, so she was glad she did not have to lie to him to keep her promise to her former lover. This good, hardworking man seemed entirely satisfied with what he had… and Leronica tried to feel the same.
Both of them knew that the jihadi would never come back.
* * *
WHEN THE TIME came, Leronica gave birth to twins, healthy sons that she insisted on naming Estes and Kagin, after her husband’s two grandfathers. She wanted no connection with Vor’s name. The villagers universally remarked that the boys bore a strong resemblance to Brom Tergiet— which made the fisherman swell with embarrassing pride— though a few of his fellows jokingly hoped the twins would not be cursed with their grandfather’s horse laugh.
Each time she looked at the boys, though, Leronica could see echoes of the adventurous, dark-haired officer who had stolen her heart, and then gone away to space.
True to his word, Kalem Vazz outdid himself as a faithful husband, industrious worker, and attentive father. He doted on Estes and Kagin, never hinting that they were not his own. Kalem considered his love for the boys more important than their paternal bloodlines.
Two years after Vor left, Leronica felt no sadness, only a wistful curiosity about what he might be doing, and if he was safe. For the first time in her life, however, she paid attention to the overall landscape of the Jihad, following word of the major battles.
At least once a month, Kalem and her father took their fishing boats out into the fertile waters around distant reefs. On these occasions, as was her new habit, Leronica left th
e twins with a neighbor woman, borrowed one of the village’s methcars, and drove north up the rough coastal road to the military installation and tracking station that had been established two years ago by the Army of the Jihad.
The handful of dedicated soldiers stationed there were content to live in prefabricated barracks, where they diligently attended to their duties. Occasionally, two or three men would make the trek down to the village to purchase fresh fish and supplies; on other occasions, Leronica made deliveries of food from the tavern’s kitchens, providing lunch in exchange for news of the continuing struggle against Omnius.
She became a familiar sight in the control huts beneath the reinforced towers that linked the satellite network encircling Caladan. The clearing near the outpost, where shuttles had landed and launched regularly not long ago, might eventually become a full-fledged spaceport, but for now it was rarely used.
The Jihad soldiers falsely believed Leronica was simply curious about politics and military tactics, and they gave her copies of the greatest speeches of Priestess Serena Butler and the recorded rallies of Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo. In truth, she was eager only to hear any mention of Primero Vorian Atreides, though she was careful never to reveal that she actually knew him.
Bright-eyed, Leronica listened while the soldiers summarized the clashes at Bela Tegeuse and, more recently, the horrific machine annihilation of the isolated colony on Chusuk. She eventually uncovered more details about Vor’s past exploits, especially how he had helped to save IV Anbus, and later tricked the thinking machines with a hollow fleet at Poritrin.
Sometimes, Vor sent her letters and packages, always under an assumed name. They usually arrived when her husband was out working. Though the soldiers who delivered articles to her undoubtedly assumed she had a sweetheart somewhere out in the Jihad, she never uttered his name. She read the messages with an intensity she never revealed to Kalem. She hated to keep secrets from this good man, but did it to protect him, not out of guilt.
She never tried to send a message in response, never dared to— for reasons she did not entirely understand herself. Fighting his far-off war, Primero Atreides did not even know about his twin sons, nor did she intend to tell him. She hoped only that he remained unharmed, and that he thought about her occasionally.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 55