Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (3 page)

Out in the assemblage she saw a flurry of indignation mixed with expressions of rude dismissal. Viceroy Butler shot her a sharp glance of disapproval but transmitted a quick reminder throughout the hall, asking for respectful attention, as would be accorded any speaker.

She pretended not to notice. Couldn’t they all see the larger picture? “We must each look beyond ourselves if we are to survive as a species. Now is not the time for personal selfishness. For centuries we have confined our defenses to a handful of key planets. Though Omnius has launched no full-scale attack in decades, we live in the constant shadow of the machine threat.”

Touching pressure pads on the podium, Serena displayed a projection of the stellar neighborhood, like a cluster of gems on the high ceiling. With a wand of light, she pointed out the free League Worlds and the Synchronized Worlds ruled by thinking machines. Then she brought her pointer to more extensive regions of the Galaxy where neither organized humans nor machines held sway.

“Look at these poor Unallied Planets: scattered worlds like Harmonthep, Tlulax, Arrakis, IV Anbus, and Caladan. Because their sparse, insular human settlements are not members of our League, they do not warrant our full military protection should they ever be threatened— by machines or by other humans.” Serena paused, letting the audience absorb her words. “Many of our own people wrongly prey on those planets, raiding them for slaves to be supplied to some League Worlds.”

She caught the eye of the Poritrin representative, who scowled, knowing she was talking about him. He responded loudly, interrupting her. “Slavery is an accepted practice in the League. Lacking complex machines, we have no other choice to augment our workforce.” He looked smug. “Besides, Salusa Secundus itself kept a population of Zensunni slaves for almost two centuries.”

“We put a stop to that practice,” Serena replied with considerable heat. “It took some imagination and a willingness to change, but—”

Trying to head off a shouting match, the Viceroy stood. “Each League planet makes its own determination of local customs, technology, and laws. We have a fearsome enough enemy in the thinking machines without starting a civil war among our own planets.” His voice sounded paternal, just slightly chiding her to get back to her main point.

Sighing but not surrendering, Serena adjusted the pointer so that the Unallied Planets glowed on the ceiling. “Still, we can’t ignore all these worlds— ripe resource-filled targets, planets just waiting to be conquered by Omnius.”

The Sergeant at Arms, on a tall chair off to one side, rapped his staff on the floor. “Time.” Easily bored, he rarely listened to speeches.

Serena continued in a rush, trying to finish her point without sounding strident. “We know the thinking machines want to control the Galaxy, even though they have been essentially quiescent for almost a hundred years. They have systematically taken over every world in the Synchronized star systems. Do not be lulled by their seeming lack of interest in us. We know they will strike again— but how, and where? Should we not move before Omnius does?”

“What is it you
want
, Madame Butler?” one of the dignitaries inquired impatiently, raising his voice, but not standing, as was customary. “Are you advocating some sort of preemptive strike against the thinking machines?”

“We must seek to incorporate the Unallied Planets into the League, and stop harvesting them for slaves.” She jabbed her illuminated wand at the overhead projection. “Bring them under our wing to increase our own strength, and theirs. We would all benefit! I propose that we dispatch ambassadors and cultural attachés with the express intent of forming new military and political alliances. As many as we can.”

“And who will pay for all that diplomacy?”

“Time,” the Sergeant at Arms repeated.

“She is allotted three extra minutes for rebuttal, since the representative from Hagal has posed a question,” Viceroy Butler said in an authoritative tone.

Serena grew angry. How could that representative worry about petty price tags, when the ultimate cost was so much higher? “We will all pay— in blood— if we do not do this. We must strengthen the League and the human species.”

Some of the nobles began to clap— the allies she had courted before her speech. Suddenly, screeching alarms echoed through the building and in the streets. Droning sirens wavered in a chillingly familiar tone— usually heard only during planned drills— summoning all reserve members of the Salusan Militia.

“Thinking machines have entered the Salusan system,” a voice said through built-in speakers. Similar announcements would be ringing all across Zimia. “We have an alert from perimeter scouts and the sentry battle group.”

Standing next to her father, Serena read details as the Viceroy was handed a brief and urgent summary. “We’ve never seen a robot war fleet that size!” he said. “How long ago did the first scouts sound the warning? How much time do we have?”

“We are under attack!” a man shouted. The delegates were on their feet, scattering like stirred ants.

“Prepare to evacuate the Hall of Parliament.” The Sergeant at Arms became a flurry of movement. “All armored shelters are open. Representatives, report to your designated areas.”

Viceroy Butler shouted into the chaos, trying to sound confident. “The Holtzman shields will protect us!” Serena could read her father’s anxiety, though he covered it well.

Amid shouts and cries of panic, the League representatives scrambled for the exits. The merciless enemies of humanity had arrived.

“T
he robot fleet has just engaged our spaceguard,” Xavier Harkonnen called from his station. “Heavy fire exchanged.”

“Primero Meach!” Cuarto Steff Young shouted from the orbital grid screens. Xavier could smell the salty metallic tang of Young’s nervous sweat. “Sir, a small detachment of machine ships has broken from the main robotic fleet in orbit. Configuration unknown, but they’re preparing for an atmospheric descent.” She pointed to the images, picking out brilliant lights that signified a cluster of inert projectiles.

Xavier glanced at the perimeter scanners, real-time intelligence transmitted from the defensive satellites high above Tio Holtzman’s gelcircuitry-scrambling fields. On the highest resolution he saw an assault squadron of pyramidal ships roaring headlong into the atmosphere, straight toward the sizzling shields.

“They’re in for an unpleasant surprise,” Young said with a grim smile. “No thinking machine can survive that ride.”

“Our biggest worry will be dodging the debris from their crashing ships,” Primero Meach quipped. “Maintain surveillance.”

But the dropcarriages slipped past the scrambler shields— and kept coming. They showed no electronic signatures at all as they penetrated the boundary.

“How are they getting through?” Quinto Wilby mopped his brow, brushing dishwater-brown hair out of his eyes.

“No computers could.” In a flash, Xavier understood what was happening. “They’re blind dropcarriages, sir!”

Young looked up from her screens, breathing hard. “Impact in less than a minute, Primero. Second wave is coming in behind them. I count twenty-eight projectiles.” She shook her head. “No computer signatures on any of them.”

Xavier called out, thinking ahead, “Rico, Powder, work with med-response teams and fire-suppression squads. Everything up to speed and
ready
. Come on people, we’ve drilled for this a hundred times! I want all vehicles and rescue equipment mobile and in the air, prepared to move before the first ship hits.”

“Divert defenses to pound the invaders as soon as they crash.” Primero Meach lowered his voice, swept his flinty gaze across his comrades. “Tercero Harkonnen, take a portable comstation and get out there— be my eyes on the scene. My guess is those dropcarriages will hatch into something unpleasant.”

OUTSIDE, THE CITY streets were chaotic under a cloud-dappled sky. Rushing into the confusion, Xavier heard the hot metallic scream of agonized atmosphere as the inert armored projectiles shot downward like bullets from space.

An asteroid-rain of pyramidal dropcarriages slammed into the ground, one after another. With deafening thunder, the first four blind vessels punched into buildings, leveling city blocks with the explosive dispersion of kinetic energy. But sophisticated shock-displacement systems protected the deadly cargo inside.

Xavier ran down the street, his uniform rumpled, his sweaty hair clinging to his head. He stopped in front of the giant edifice of the Hall of Parliament. Although second in command of Salusa’s defenses, here he was in an unsecured position, ready to issue orders at ground zero. Not exactly the way he had been taught in his Armada Academy courses. But Primero Meach was relying on his assessment, recommendations, and ability to act independently.

He touched the comline on his chin. “I’m in position, sir.”

Five more unguided projectiles thumped into the outskirts of the city, leaving smoldering craters. Explosions. Smoke. Fireballs.

From the impact points, the inert crashdown pods cracked open to reveal a huge object stirring in each one. Reactivated mechanical units peeled off charred ablation shielding. With dread, Xavier knew what he was about to see, understood how the enemy machines had managed to pass through the scrambler shields. They were not computer minds at all. . . .

Cymeks
.

Fearsome mechanical monstrosities emerged from the broken pyramids, driven by surgically detached human brains. Mobility systems restarted; articulated legs and augmented weapons clicked into place.

The cymek bodies lurched out of the smoking craters, crablike gladiators half as tall as the damaged buildings. Their alloy legs were as thick as support girders, bristling with flamer cannons, artillery launchers, poison gas jets.

Xavier shouted into his comline. “Cymek warrior-forms, Primero Meach! They figured out how to get through our orbital defenses!”

All across Salusa, from the outskirts of Zimia to the farthest continent, the local planetary militia was dispatched. Low-atmospheric defense craft— kindjals— had already launched in defensive overflights, their weaponry magazines loaded with armor-piercing projectile shells.

People in the streets fled in terror; others stood frozen, staring. Xavier shouted descriptions of what he was seeing. He heard Vannibal Meach add, “Cuarto Young, issue orders for all stations to break out the breathing apparatus. See that filter masks are distributed to the populace. Every person not inside an approved shelter must wear a breather.”

Face masks wouldn’t protect against cymek flamers or high-energy detonations, but the people could be safe from the thick poison clouds. As he fit his own breather into place, Xavier felt a growing fear that all of the Militia’s best-planned precautions would be woefully inadequate.

Leaving the discarded shells of their dropcarriages behind, cymek warriors thrummed forward on monstrous feet. They launched explosive shells and incinerated buildings and screaming people. Gouts of flame poured from nozzles in their foremost limbs, setting the city of Zimia on fire.

Dropcarriages continued to tumble from above, ready to split open as soon as they crashed. Twenty-eight of them in all.

With a howling roar loud enough to burn his ears, the young tercero saw a column of fire and smoke spinning, tumbling, so fast and bright that it left his retinas smoldering. The dropcarriage smashed into the military compound half a kilometer behind him, vaporizing the control center and the planetary Militia HQ building. The shockwave knocked Xavier to his knees, shattered windows for dozens of blocks.

“Primero!” Xavier screamed into the comline. “Primero Meach! Command center! Anybody!”

But he could see from the ruins that he would get no response from the Militia commander or any of his comrades in the complex.

Stalking through the streets, the cymeks spewed greenish black smoke, an oily mist that settled into a toxic film covering the ground and structures. Then the first squadron of kindjal bombers came in low. Their initial sweep scattered explosives around the machine warriors, striking both cymeks and buildings.

Wearing his clearplaz breathing mask, Xavier panted, unable to believe what he had just seen. He called again for the commander, but received no response. Finally, tactical substations around the city checked in, demanding to know what had happened, asking him to identify himself.

“This is Tercero Xavier Harkonnen,” he said. Then full understanding hit him. With a supreme effort, he summoned his courage and steadied his voice. “I am . . . I am currently in command of the Salusan Militia.”

He ran toward the conflagration, into the billowing greasy smoke. All around him civilians fell to their knees retching in the poisonous mist. He glared up at the aerial strikes, wishing he could be in more direct control. “The cymeks can be destroyed,” he transmitted to the kindjal pilots. Then he coughed. The mask was not working properly. His chest and throat burned as if he had inhaled acid, but he kept shouting orders.

As the attack proceeded, Salusan emergency response aircraft swooped over the battle zone, dumping canisters of fire-suppression powders and foams. At ground level, masked medical squadrons moved in without hesitation.

Oblivious to the insignificant human defense efforts, the cymeks marched forward, moving as individuals, not an army— mechanical mad dogs spreading mayhem. A warrior-form bent back on powerful crablike legs and blasted two rescue ships out of the sky— then it moved ahead again, eerily graceful.

The front line of Salusan bombers dropped explosive shells directly onto one of the first cymeks. Two projectiles struck the armored body, and a third hit a nearby building, causing the structure to collapse, girders and debris tumbling down to bury the invader’s mechanical body.

But after the flames and smoke cleared, the battered cymek remained functional. The murderous machine shook itself free of the rubble, then launched a counterattack at the kindjals overhead.