Dune: The Machine Crusade (24 page)

A cascade of responding voices showered from the orbiting Jihad warships, including the empty ones. “Ready to annihilate invader ships.” “Armaments functional.” “Awaiting orders to open fire.” “Concentrated attack spread.” The voices overlapped, synthesized composites of every pilot in the fleet, recorded, coordinated, and transmitted in a flurry to fool the oncoming robot attackers.

Holtzman stared at the tactical projections. The distant machine ships were tiny diamonds reflecting raw sunlight. He wished he could see what the robots thought they were detecting. Their deceived sensor network should show them that this sham Jihad fleet actually outgunned them by a significant margin. He swallowed again.

In order to win a victory here, the Poritrin fleet didn’t need to destroy the machines. Potentially, this ruse was better in the long run, since it could be used again on other worlds… and hollow warships could be constructed at a fraction of the cost of real ones. Henceforth, “knowing” that Poritrin was defended by an undefeatable Jihad fleet, Omnius would leave the planet alone and look for more vulnerable targets. In theory…

The machines kept coming, though, as if they suspected the truth. Holtzman held his breath, worried that the robots might have a deep scanning system sophisticated enough to see through the trick. What factors had he forgotten to consider?

He had made false assumptions and outright mistakes many times before, as Norma Cenva had so rudely and blithely pointed out to him. At least she was out of his way now, working on her own and wasting someone else’s money. He had plenty of other gifted assistants, all of whom had assured him that everything was taken into account here. No chance for error.

Still, if they had missed something, Poritrin was doomed. And Holtzman, too.

“Time to launch,” the Savant said, his voice thin and high-pitched. “Our second group needs to move now, before the enemy gets close enough to open fire.”

Bludd just smiled. All of the supervisors and captains already had their detailed instructions.

Like an unexpected pack of wild dogs charging out of a forest, half of the decoy vessels in orbit powered up their engines and accelerated, racing around to the sunlit side of Poritrin. It looked like a stampede of Jihad battleships, suddenly doubling the numbers of human defenders arrayed against the thinking machine forces.

“That’ll give them second thoughts!” one of the commanders yelped over an open channel.

Holtzman looked at the tactical diagram and was relieved to see the pieces falling into place. A handful of soldiers cheered over the comlines, but their voices— duplicated, modulated, and amplified— sounded like many more.

“Here comes the third detachment.”

“It’s going to get crowded around here!”

“We’ll make plenty of room, if we just sweep away some of these clankers.”

Now a third group of decoy ships, hidden near Poritrin’s small moon, approached at high acceleration, closing the distance to the Omnius fleet from behind, showing an array of active weapons ports.

“Launch the battleships from the spaceport!” Bludd cried. He was clearly enjoying every moment.

The group of grounded ships— the only truly functional battle vessels stationed at Poritrin— lifted off from Starda Spaceport and roared toward orbit, where they mingled with swarms of decoy craft already there.

The machine invaders came to a dead halt in space, as if to assess these surprising new developments, then regrouped into a defensive cluster.

“Wait for it,” one officer transmitted in a grim voice. “Prepare to open fire. Obliterate the damned machines if they give us an excuse.”

Someone else said, “They’re scanning us again.”

“Show them what we think of that.”

Mixed in among the swarms of decoy vessels, the real battleships opened fire, taking potshots at the robot vessels. The thinking machine fleet had no way of knowing that the thousands of decoy vessels were not similarly armed.

Finally, without a single transmission, without launching any projectiles at all, the robot fleet calculated that they had no chance of victory— and withdrew. The machine ships reversed course and picked up speed as they departed. Just for good effect, the armed Jihad ships gave chase and blasted a couple of machine warships out of space.

Lord Bludd grinned and clapped Holtzman on the back. “Never doubted you for a minute, Tio. With your reputation and intuition, the stupid machines don’t stand a chance!”

“They really are stupid, aren’t they?” Holtzman said, grinning.

AFTER THE ROBOT war fleet had retreated from the Poritrin system, the victory celebration was lavish and grandiose. The mood was ecstatic, tinged with hysterical relief. Sparing no expense, Niko Bludd put on outrageous feasts, parades, performances, and a succession of public events that became monotonous in their sheer pomposity. Savant Holtzman was hailed as a hero of the Jihad, conqueror of machines. When raising their toasts of spiced Poritrin rum, some of the nobles even remembered to mention the name of Vorian Atreides, albeit in passing.

With the puffed-up scientist standing beside him, Lord Bludd delivered loud, drunken speeches, beating his chest in triumph. “Freedom is a basic human right!”

But the Buddislamic slaves had no cause to celebrate.

A few of the captive Zensunni children remained outside in the residence compound on the fringes of the now quiet delta foundries and manufacturing centers. Their mouths hung agape as they stared at the spectacular light shows and listened to the distant thumping music.

The adult slaves shut themselves inside their barracks, comforting each other with their own memories and culture. While the gala celebration continued and flashes of light erupted like chrysanthemums over Poritrin’s great rolling river, Ishmael sat with his slave companions and exchanged stories of their people’s past. By recalling parables and legends, citing the wisdom of the Koran Sutras, they kept alive the memory of how the Zensunnis and Zenshiites had been pursued from world to world, always seeking safe harbors in the cosmic sea where they could be left alone. They had turned their backs on the war of the damned— machine demons versus unbelievers. Neither side was worthy of the support of the faithful, for the Buddislamics were chosen by God, the keepers of the true wisdom of heaven.

Right now, though, tribulations forced them to maintain their faith. “We have to stay strong,” Ishmael assured his companions. “Stronger than any of the outsiders.”

Then, in shadows at the fringe of the story fire, Aliid surprised them all by objecting. “Perhaps, Ishmael, but
elsewhere
Zensunnis and Zenshiites are free.” He drew a quick breath through clenched teeth. “If Bel Moulay were here, all slaves would rise up under his banner. He would show us how to win our way off this planet.”

“But he is not here,” Ishmael chided, sitting in a meditative position on the hard floor. “That uprising only bought him execution, and all of us have paid the price in the years since.”

“Bel Moulay may be dead, but I am not,” Aliid grumbled.

“I do not have the audacity to rush God, my friend. Someday,” Ishmael promised, “we will find a world that we can inhabit and defend for ourselves. Our lives will be as Buddallah intended.”

Aliid looked skeptical, but the other slaves watched Ishmael with bright eyes and hopeful expressions. Ishmael had been making promises to these people for so many years that he wasn’t sure how much longer he himself could continue to hope.

Nonetheless, he forced strength into his voice. “Finally, it will be a place we can call
home
.”

T
wo days after his water supply ran out, the boy Aziz was sure he was going to die. He plodded over dry rocks and through windblown sand. His lips and eyes were caked with fine dust that he could not brush away. He saw illusions, mirages, and little hope.

Naib Dhartha had sent him out on this important mission, and he had to last just a few more hours, so that he could complete the task his grandfather had assigned to him. It was critical.

What if I fail? What if I die without delivering my message?
Aziz’s father Mahmad— Dhartha’s only son— had been faithful to the tribe, working diligently with offworlders at the spaceport. Mahmad had run much of the melange business, dealing with Tuk Keedair and Aurelius Venport, who sold the spice around the League of Nobles.

Four years ago, Mahmad had contracted a strange alien disease from a traveler in Arrakis City, suffered at length, and finally died delirious. Some of the conservative Zensunnis from distant villages claimed that the sickness had been punishment for mingling with outsiders. While the old Naib had grieved for his son, death was a way of life on Arrakis and he considered the loss as a part of their continuing battle for independence, no less so than falling in battle against an enemy….

No longer knowing in which direction he walked, Aziz staggered through the bleak heat, detecting no sign of the wormriders. He hoped the bandits would come to his rescue… somehow.
Soon
.

The wealth brought by the spice trade had given the Zensunni villagers a comfortable life. They relied on what they purchased in Arrakis City more than what they could wrest from the desert’s clutches. Out on the harsh terrain of Arrakis, Aziz had discovered quickly that he had not learned nearly enough of the old survival skills.

The boy did everything he could to make his presence known, calling attention to himself by lighting beacons in the night and flashing mirrors during the day. He could not believe the heroic Selim Wormrider would let him perish at such a young age. The outlaw had looked him right in the eye during the spice raid, and Aziz thought he knew the great man’s heart, despite what his grandfather said….

Selim and his bandits caused Dhartha far more problems than did offworld diseases. Over the years, constant raids against caravans hauling melange had cut deeply into village profits. Through it all, the Naib refused to make excuses to Tuk Keedair for decreased productivity, whenever he came to pick up spice in Arrakis City. “The bandits are an internal matter,” he invariably said in answer to all questions. “Leave us to handle it.”

Displeased, Keedair had threatened to send teams of offworld professionals into the deserts, hired trackers and assassins. But Aziz’s grandfather had promised to take care of the matter, intent on keeping the business relationship intact, as well as the privacy of the village. And so with a heavy heart, Dhartha had sent his young grandson out alone to search for the bandits, to offer them a truce.

“Selim was once a member of our tribe,” the Naib had told him at dusk three days before, just as Aziz prepared to set off into the desert. The two had sat alone by the last embers of the story fire. “As a boy, Selim was found guilty of stealing water and exiled to the desert. We expected him to die, but somehow he survived.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Aziz’s eyes were bright in the cave shadows. “And he learned how to ride the beasts of the desert.”

The old man’s deep blue eyes moistened with the recollection. “Since then, while we have learned to harvest and market melange, Selim Wormrider has gathered a band of criminal followers to continue his reign of terror upon our hardworking spice gatherers. I know that Selim hates me for the sentence I imposed on him— and it is time for one of us to forgive the other.” He paused. “Or kill the other.”

The old Naib had looked weary and broken, and Aziz felt his heart go out to the man. He had made a secret promise that he would find a way to solve the problem, to heal the breach between Naib Dhartha and Selim Wormrider.

“We must end this foolish feud and stand united for our common interests. Otherwise, the offworlders will divide and conquer us all. Even an outlaw like Selim cannot want such a thing. You must find him, Aziz, and tell him what I have said.”

Proud of the responsibility, the boy had ventured into the desert, facing the danger with hope and determination. But he had been out here for days, and the fierce desert was unforgiving. Now he wanted nothing more than to curl up and die.

ACCOMPANIED BY TWO other outlaws, Marha spied on the youth as he staggered along. She stopped counting how many foolish mistakes he made, and knew he was about to die. Selim had said that incompetence and inattention led to death on Arrakis. The desert had already tested this boy, and found him wanting.

In previous generations, the Zensunni nomads of Arrakis had learned to live in harmony with the harsh environment, but Selim and his followers went one step farther, scraping by with fewer resources than even the old tribes required. Selim’s band lived by their own wits and skills, not depending on luxuries, water, or tools from the decadent offworld traders in Arrakis City.

Marha had been with Selim’s band for the better part of a year now. She had learned how to fight with blades, survive sandstorms, find places to hide in the deep bled, and how to summon and ride Shai-Hulud. She carried her own crysknife now, a milky curved blade that had once been the tooth of a great worm. It would have been a mercy to slit the boy’s throat and let him perish swiftly rather than die a long, lingering death.

And then she had recognized the grandson of Naib Dhartha. Knowing Selim would want to talk to this one in particular, she decided to keep him alive and let Selim make his own decision about the boy’s fate.

Under a clear, starlit sky while the boy lay trembling with exhaustion and thirst in the shelter of rocks, the bandits surrounded him. At first, Aziz was convinced that Marha and the others were only a delirious dream. They closed in, shadowy figures who made signals and clicking noises to one another. Aziz was so weak that he could barely lift his head.

They captured him without a struggle and, after giving him a sip of precious water, carried him like a piece of dry wood. He tried to speak his name and tell them why he had come, but his words came out in a feeble croak. Finally, the boy smiled briefly through cracked and bloody lips. “I knew you would come….”