Dune 06 - The Battle Of Corrin

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The Dune Chronicles by Frank Herbert

Dune

Dune Messiah

Children of Dune

God Emperor of Dune

Heretics of Dune

Chapterhouse: Dune

Prelude to Dune by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

Dune: House Atreides

Dune: House Harkonnen

Dune: House Corrino

Legends of Dune by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

Dune: The Butlerian Jihad

Dune: The Machine Crusade

Dune: The Battle of Corrin

http://www.ebookyes.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either

fictitious or are used fictitiously.

DUNE: THE BATTLE OF CORRIN

form.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 0-312-71233-2

To Pat LoBrutto,

For your unflagging support since the very beginning of our DUNE projects. Your

enthusiasm, knowledge, and perceptiveness have made these books far better than

anything we could have done alone. You are a true Renaissance editor.

Acknowledgments

For the two authors of this book, envisioning the path from concept to finished

manuscript is akin to a pair of Guild Navigators at the helm of the same Heighliner

searching for a safe path through foldspace. The first navigator in the fantastic Dune

universe was, of course, Frank Herbert. But he did not do it alone, as Beverly Herbert

devoted almost four decades of support and devotion to him. We are greatly indebted to

them both. We are also grateful to the Herbert family, including Penny, Ron, David,

Byron, Julie, Robert, Kimberly, Margaux, and Theresa, who have entrusted Brian and

Kevin with the care of Frank Herbert’s extraordinary vision.

Our wives, Jan Herbert and Rebecca Moesta Anderson, have contributed in ways that go

far beyond anything either of them contemplated when they took their wedding vows.

Both of them are artists in their own right—Jan is a painter and Rebecca is a writer—and

they have contributed immense amounts of their own time and talents to the story you are

about to read.

We are also indebted to many other people who assisted us in another epic, colorful

journey across the Dune canvas. This includes our dedicated agents and staff, Robert

Gottlieb, John Silbersack, Kim Whalen, Matt Bialer, and Kate Scherler. Our American

and U.K. publishers have shared our vision and have kept all matters of production and

promotion on track—thanks especially to Tom Doherty, Carolyn Caughey, Linda

Quinton, and Paul Stevens. Our extraordinary editor, Pat LoBrutto, has tended to our

stories like a fine chef, adding just the right seasonings where needed. Rachel

Steinberger, Christian Gossett, Dr. Attila Torkos, and Diane E. Jones provided much-

needed advice, while Catherine Sidor worked tirelessly to transcribe dozens of

microcassettes and to input corrections on the manuscript.

Though billions of human beings have been slaughtered by the thinking machines, we

must not call them victims. We must not call them casualties. I hesitate to even name

them martyrs. Every person who died in this Great Revolt must be nothing less than a

hero. We will write the permanent record to reflect this.

—SERENA BUTLER,private proceedings of the Jihad Council

I don’t care how many documents you show me—how many records, or interviews, or

damning bits of evidence. I am perhaps the only person still alive who knows the truth

about Xavier Harkonnen and the reasons for what he did. I have held my peace for these

many decades because Xavier himself asked it of me, because it is what Serena Butler

would have wanted, and because the needs of the Jihad demanded it. But do not pretend

that your propaganda is accurate, no matter how many League citizens believe it.

Remember, I lived through those events. None of you did.

—VORIAN ATREIDES,private address to the League of Nobles

The gravest error a thinking person can make is to believe that one particular version of

history is absolute fact. History is recorded by a series of observers, none of whom is

impartial. The facts are distorted by sheer passage of time and—especially in the case of

the Butlerian Jihad—thousands of years of humanity’s dark ages, deliberate

misrepresentations by religious sects, and the inevitable corruption that comes from an

accumulation of careless mistakes. The wise person, then, views history as a set of

lessons to be learned, choices and ramifications to be considered and discussed, and

mistakes that should never again be made.

—PRINCESS IRULAN,preface to theHistory of the Butlerian Jihad

Part I

69 B.G.

Machinery does not destroy. It creates, provided always that the controlling hand is strong

enough to dominate it.

—RIVEGO,

a muralist of Old Earth

Erasmus found the pecking order among the dying and hopeless humans fascinating, even

amusing. Their reaction was all part of the experimental process, and he considered the

results to be very worthwhile.

The robot strolled through the corridors of his meticulously organized laboratory facility

on Corrin, swirling his plush crimson robe. The garment itself was an affectation he had

developed in order to give himself a more lordly appearance. Alas, the victims in their

sealed cells paid little heed to his finery, preoccupied instead with their suffering. Nothing

could be done about that, since distractible humans had such difficulty focusing on

matters that did not directly affect them.

Decades ago, squads of efficient construction robots had built this high-domed facility

according to his exact specifications. The numerous well-equipped chambers—each one

completely isolated and sterile—contained everything Erasmus required for his

experiments.

As he continued his regular inspection rounds, the independent robot passed the glaz

windows of sealed chambers in which plague test subjects lay strapped to beds. Some

specimens were already paranoid and delirious, displaying the symptoms of the

retrovirus, while others were terrified for good and rational reasons.

By now, testing was nearly complete on the engineered disease. The effective direct

mortality rate was forty-three percent—not at all perfect, but still the deadliest viral

organism in recorded human history. It would serve the necessary purpose, and Omnius

could not wait much longer. Something had to be done soon.

The humans’ holy crusade against thinking machines had dragged on for almost a full

century, with much destruction and distraction. The constant fanatical attacks from the

Army of the Jihad had wrought incalculable damage to the Synchronized empire,

destroying robot warships as fast as the various evermind incarnations could rebuild

them. The progress of Omnius had been inexcusably stalled. Finally, Omnius demanded a

solution. Since direct military conflict had not proved sufficiently effective, alternatives

were explored. Biological plagues, for instance.

According to simulations, a fast-moving epidemic could be a superior weapon, serving to

eradicate human populations—including their military forces—while leaving

infrastructures and resources intact for the victorious thinking machines. After the

specially designed plague ran its course, Omnius could pick up the pieces and get the

systems operating again.

Erasmus had some reservations about the tactic, fearing that a terrible enough disease

could wipe out every last human. While Omnius might be satisfied with total extinction,

the autonomous robot had no desire for such a final solution. He remained quite

interested in these creatures—especially Gilbertus Albans, whom he had raised as a

surrogate son after removing him from the squalid slave pens. In a purely scientific sense,

Erasmus needed to keep sufficient organic material for his laboratory and field studies of

human nature.

They couldn’tall be killed. Just most of them.

But the creatures were remarkably resilient. He doubted that even the worst epidemic

could completely wipe out the species. Humans had an intriguing ability to adapt to

adversity and overcome it by unorthodox means. If only thinking machines could learn to

do the same…

Drawing his exquisite robe tight, the platinum-skinned robot entered the central chamber

of the facility, where his turncoat Tlulaxa captive had engineered the perfect RNA

retrovirus. Thinking machines were efficient and dedicated, but it took a corrupted human

imagination to channel Omnius’s wrath into a thoroughly destructive course of action. No

robot or computer could have conceived such appalling death and destruction: That

required the imagination of a vengeful human.

Rekur Van, a biological engineer and geneticist now reviled across the League of Nobles,

squirmed in his life-support socket, unable to move more than his head because he had no

arms or legs. A retention socket connected the geneticist’s body core to nutrient and

waste tubes. Shortly after capturing him, Erasmus had seen to the removal of the man’s

limbs, rendering him much more manageable. He was certainly not trustworthy, in sharp

contrast with Gilbertus Albans.

The robot fashioned a cheery smile on his flowmetal face. “Good morning, Stump. We

have much work to do today. Perhaps we will even finish our primary test runs.”

The Tlulaxa’s narrow face was even more pinched than usual; his dark, close-set eyes

flitted about like those of a trapped animal. “It’s about time you got here. I’ve been awake

for hours, just staring.”

“Then you have had plenty of time to develop remarkable new ideas. I look forward to

hearing them.”

The captive grunted a coarse insult in response. Then: “How are you coming on the

reptilian regrowth experiments? What progress?”

The robot leaned close and lifted a biological flap to look at the bare skin on one of Rekur

Van’s scarred shoulders.

“Anything yet?” the Tlulaxa asked, anxiously. He bent his head at an odd angle, trying to

see details of the stump of his arm.

“Not on this side.”

Erasmus checked the biological flap on the other shoulder. “We might have something

here. A definite growth bump on the skin.” Each test site contained different cellular

catalysts injected into the skin in an effort to regenerate the severed limbs.

“Extrapolate from your data, robot. How long before my arms and legs grow back?”

“That is difficult to say. It could be several weeks, or possibly much longer.” The robot

rubbed a metal finger over the bump on the skin. “Conversely, this growth could be

something else entirely. It has a reddish coloration; perhaps it is nothing more than an

infection.”

“I don’t feel any soreness.”

“Would you like me to scratch it?”

“No. I’ll wait until I can do it myself.”

“Don’t be rude. This is supposed to be a collaborative effort.” Though the results did look

promising, this work wasn’t the robot’s priority. He had something more important in

mind.

Erasmus made a minor adjustment to an intravenous connection that smoothed away the

discontent in the man’s narrow face. Undoubtedly, Rekur Van was undergoing one of his

periodic mood swings. Erasmus would observe him closely and administer medication to

keep him operating efficiently. Perhaps he could prevent the Tlulaxa from having one of

his full-fledged tantrums today. Some mornings, anything could set him off. Other times,

Erasmus purposely provoked him just to observe the result.

Controlling humans—even such a disgusting example—was a science and an art. This

degraded captive was as much a “subject” as any of the humans in the blood-spattered

slave pens and chambers. Even when the Tlulaxa was driven to the extreme, when he

struggled to rip away his life-support systems using nothing more than his teeth, Erasmus

could always get him working on the plagues again. Fortunately, the man despised

League humans even more than he hated his machine masters.

Decades ago, during a great political upheaval in the League of Nobles, the dark secret of

the Tlulaxa organ farms had been revealed to the horror and disgust of free humanity. On

the League Worlds, public opinion had been inflamed against the genetic researchers, and

outraged mobs had destroyed the organ farms and driven most of the Tlulaxa into hiding,

their reputations irreparably blackened.

On the run, Rekur Van had fled to Synchronized space, bearing what he thought was an

irresistible gift—the cellular material to make a perfect clone of Serena Butler. Erasmus

had been amazed, remembering his intriguing discussions with the captive woman. The

desperate Van had been certain Erasmus would want her—but alas the clones that Van

developed had none of Serena’s memories, none of her passion. They were merely

shallow replicas.

Despite the clones’ blandness, however, Erasmus had found Rekur Van himself very

interesting—much to the little man’s dismay. The independent robot enjoyed his

company. Here at last was someone who spoke his scientific language, a researcher

capable of helping him understand more about the countless ramifications and

investigative pathways of complex human organisms.

Erasmus found the first few years to be a challenge, even after removing the Tlulaxa’s

arms and legs. Eventually, with careful manipulations, a patiently administered system of

rewards and punishments, he had converted Rekur Van into quite a fruitful experimental

subject. The limbless man’s situation seemed rather like that of Van’s own slave subjects

in the sham organ farms. Erasmus found it wonderfully ironic.

“Would you like a little treat now, to get us started on our work?” Erasmus suggested. “A

flesh cookie, perhaps?”

Van’s eyes lit up, for this was one of the few pleasures remaining to him. Made from a

variety of laboratory-bred organisms, including human “debris,” the flesh cookies were

considered delicacies on the Tlulaxa homeworld. “Feed me, or I refuse to continue my

work for you.”

“You use that threat too often, Stump. You are connected to tanks of nutrient solutions.

Even if you refuse to eat, you will not starve.”

“You want my cooperation, not just my survival—and you have left me with too few

bargaining chips.” The Tlulaxa’s face contorted in a grimace.

“Very well. Flesh cookies!” Erasmus shouted. “Four-Arms, see to it.”

One of the freakish human laboratory assistants walked in, his quartet of grafted arms

balancing a platter mounded with sugary organic treats. The Tlulaxa shifted in his life-

support socket to look at the gruesome food—and the extra set of arms that had once been

his own.

With some knowledge of the grafting procedures used by the Tlulaxa race, Erasmus had

transplanted the arms and legs of the former slaver onto two laboratory assistants, adding

artificial flesh, sinews, and bone to adjust the limbs to the proper length. Although it was

just a test case and a learning experience, it had been remarkably successful. Four-Arms

was particularly efficient at carrying things; Erasmus hoped someday to teach him to

juggle, which Gilbertus might find amusing. Alternatively, Four-Legs could run like an

antelope on an open plain.

Whenever either assistant came into view, the Tlulaxa man was harshly reminded of his

hopeless situation.

Since Rekur Van had no hands, Four-Arms used two of his own—the pair formerly

belonging to the captive—to cram flesh cookies into the eager, open mouth. Van looked

like a hungry chick demanding worms from a mother bird. Brownish yellow crumbs

dripped down his chin onto the black smock covering his torso; some fell into the nutrient

bath, where the materials would be recycled.

Erasmus raised a hand, making Four-Arms pause. “Enough for now. You will have more,

Stump, but first there is work to do. Together, let us review today’s mortality statistics

from the various test strains.”

Interesting, Erasmus thought, that Vorian Atreides—son of the treacherous Titan

Agamemnon—had attempted a similar means of wiping out the Omnius everminds,

planting a computer virus in the update spheres unwittingly delivered by his robot captain

Seurat. But machines weren’t the only ones vulnerable to deadly infection….

After pouting for a moment, Rekur Van licked his lips and set to work studying the

results. He seemed to enjoy the casualty figures. “How delicious,” he muttered. “These

plagues are the absolute best way to kill trillions of people.”

Greatness has its own rewards…and bears its own terrible costs.

—PRIMERO XAVIER HARKONNEN,

a final dictajournal entry

During his preternaturally long military career, Supreme Commander Vorian Atreides had

seen much, but he’d rarely visited a more beautiful world than Caladan. For him, this

ocean planet was a treasure chest filled with memories, a fantasy of how a “normal” life

should be—without the machines, without the war.

Everywhere he went on Caladan, Vor saw reminders of golden times he had spent here

with Leronica Tergiet. She was the mother of his twin sons, the woman who had been his

beloved companion for more than seven decades, though they’d never officially married.

Leronica was at their shared home back on Salusa Secundus. Though she was in her early

nineties, he loved her more than ever. To keep a longer hold on her youth, she could have

taken regular doses of the rejuvenating spice melange, which had grown quite popular

among the rich nobles, but she refused what she saw as an unnatural crutch. It was so like

her!

In sharp contrast, because of the immortality treatment his cymek father had forced on

him, Vor still looked like a young man, her grandson perhaps. So that they wouldn’t

appear to be quite so mismatched, Vor regularly added gray tints to his hair. He wished he

had brought her with him on this trip back to where they had met.

Now, looking out at the calm Caladan seas and watching the boats return from a day of

harvesting kelp and fat butterfish, Vor sat with his eager young adjutant, Abulurd Butler,

youngest son of Quentin Vigar and Wandra Butler. Abulurd was also the grandson of

Vor’s close friend…but Xavier Harkonnen’s name was rarely spoken, since he’d been

irreversibly branded a coward and traitor to humanity. The thought of this injustice,

carried forward by the momentum of legend, caught in Vor’s throat like a spiny fruit, but

he could do nothing about it. Nearly sixty years had already gone by.

He and Abulurd had found a table inside a new cliffside suspensor restaurant that moved

slowly along the Caladan shore for a constantly shifting view of the coast and the sea.

Their military caps rested on a wide window ledge. Waves crashed against large rocks

just offshore and left rivulets of water running down the sides like white lace. Late

afternoon sunlight glinted off the waves.

In their green-and-crimson uniforms, the two men gazed out at the incoming tide and

drank wine, enjoying a brief respite from the unending Jihad. Vor wore his uniform

casually, without all the distracting medals, while Abulurd himself seemed as crisp as the

creases on his trousers.Just like his grandfather .

Vor had taken the young man under his wing, watching out for him, helping him along.

Abulurd had never known his mother—Xavier’s youngest daughter—who had suffered a

severe stroke giving birth to him, which left her catatonic. Now, upon turning eighteen,

the young man had pledged himself to the Army of the Jihad. His father and brothers had

earned prestige and many decorations. Eventually, Quentin Butler’s youngest son would

distinguish himself as well.

To avoid the taint of the Harkonnen name, Abulurd’s father had taken his surname from

the auspicious maternal line, proud to claim the heritage of Serena Butler herself. Ever

since he’d married into the famous family forty-two years earlier, the war hero Quentin

had remarked on the irony of the name. “A butler was once a menial servant who quietly

followed the orders of his master. But I declare a new family motto: ‘We Butlers are

servants unto no one!’” His two oldest sons Faykan and Rikov had adopted the

catchphrase as they devoted their early lives to fight in the Jihad.

So much history in a name,Vor thought.And so much baggage with it .

Taking a long breath, he scanned the interior of the restaurant. A banner hung on one

wall, with pictures of the Three Martyrs: Serena Butler, her innocent child Manion, and

Grand Patriarch Ginjo. Faced with an enemy as relentless as the thinking machines,

people sought rescue from God or His representatives. Like any religious movement, the

“Martyrists” had zealous fringe members who followed strict practices to honor the fallen

trio.

Vor did not adhere to such beliefs himself, preferring to rely on military prowess to defeat

Omnius, but human nature, including fanaticism, had an influence on his planning.

Populations that would not fight in the name of the League would throw themselves

howling upon machine foes if asked to do so in the name of Serena or her baby. But while

the Martyrists could help the cause of the Jihad, frequently they just got in the way….

Keeping his long silence, Vor folded his hands and looked around the restaurant. Despite

the recently added suspensor mechanism, the place looked much as it had many decades

ago. Vor remembered it well. The chairs, of a classic style, might be the same ones, but

he thought the worn upholstery had been replaced.

Quietly sipping his wine, Vor recalled one waitress who used to work here, a young

immigrant that his troops had rescued from Peridot Colony. She had lost her entire family

when the thinking machines razed every human-built structure on that planet, and

afterward she had worn a survivor’s medal that Vor presented to her personally. He hoped

she had made a good life for herself here on Caladan. So long ago…she might be dead

now, or an old matron with a brood of grandchildren.

Over the years, Vor had visited Caladan many times, ostensibly to monitor the listening

post and observation station his crews had erected nearly seven decades ago. He still

returned whenever possible to keep an eye on the water world.

Thinking he was doing a good thing, Vor had long ago moved Leronica and his sons to

the League capital when Estes and Kagin were children; their mother had thrived amid all

the wonders, but the twins had not particularly cared for Salusa. Later, Vor’s boys—

boys? They were in their sixties now!—had decided to return to Caladan, never having

warmed to the bustle of Salusa Secundus, League politics, or the Army of the Jihad. Off

on his military missions, Vor had rarely been home, and when the twins came of age, they

had departed for the ocean world to set up their own homes and have their own

children…even grandchildren now.

After so much time and only infrequent contact, Estes and Kagin were veritable strangers

to him. Just yesterday, when Vor’s military group had arrived, he had gone to visit them

—only to discover that they had packed up and left for Salusa the week before, intending

to spend a few months with their old mother. He hadn’t even known! Another missed

opportunity.

Still, none of his previous visits with them in past years had been particularly joyful. Each

time the twins had followed social niceties, sat with their father for a brief dinner, but

didn’t seem to know what to talk about. Before long, Estes and Kagin had pleaded other

obligations. Feeling awkward, Vor had shaken their hands and wished them well, before

going diligently about his military duties….

“You’re thinking back, aren’t you, sir?” Abulurd had remained silent for a long time,

watching his commander, but had finally grown impatient.

“Can’t help thinking. I may not look it, but I am an old man, remember. I have a lot of

ties here.” Vor’s brow furrowed as he took a sip of Zincal, one of the most popular

Caladan wines. The first time he’d been here, in the dockside tavern owned by Leronica

and her father, he had drunk only a potent and bitter kelp beer….

“The past is important, Abulurd…and so is the truth.” Vor turned from the ocean scenery

to focus on his adjutant. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I had to

wait until you were old enough. Maybe you’ll never be old enough.”

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