Sisterhood of Dune (70 page)

These new hulks had some active weapons systems, but primarily they were cannon fodder, big vessels careening into Manford’s fleet, creating havoc even as they were pummeled by Butlerian firepower. Though damaged, the half-finished automated vessels kept coming, crashing into the tight Butlerian formations.

One of Venport’s patrol ships exploded, but the rest of them kept firing. Gilbertus estimated that at least forty of Manford’s ships had been destroyed in the surprise detonations and the ensuing, unexpected resistance.

As the scattering Butlerian ships pushed closer to the main spacedocks and the asteroid factories, they opened fire again, pounding the remaining factories. At least five more were destroyed, their domes shattered, belching fire and leaking atmosphere into space.

Even for a Mentat, it was difficult to keep score of all the destroyed facilities.

Per his duty, he presented Manford with a revised assessment. “Those are automated vessels, so he will have no qualms about sacrificing them.”

Anari Idaho gasped. “Driven by thinking machines?”

“Automated vessels,” Gilbertus repeated, without further clarification.

The Butlerian leader glared at him. “Why didn’t you predict this, Mentat?”

“Because I did not have complete data.”

“Use new parameters. I am willing to sacrifice every one of my ships, as well. Consider all of my followers and ships expendable, so long as we win this battle. The mind of man is holy.”

“The mind of man is holy,” Anari echoed.

“
Everything
is expendable, sir?” Another contradiction; Gilbertus did not point out how appalled Manford had been when Venport’s people made a similar decision.

“Except for the life of Manford,” the Swordmaster said. “That is not negotiable.”

Manford was deadly calm as he explained, “All-out assaults are how we won Serena Butler’s Jihad against Omnius and his thinking machines. We can do no less now in this battle for the soul of the human race.”

Gilbertus studied the pattern of ship movements, retraced the paths, found intersections until all of the possibilities formed an intricate web in his mind … a web that had a strangely familiar pattern. Yes, right now Erasmus would have been of enormous assistance.

Several more of the half-completed ships crashed into the Butlerian forces, ramming some, scrambling sensors in others, drawing fire like rocks thrown at a hornet’s nest. That was their purpose, Gilbertus realized. They were not meant to survive.

Time slowed to a crawl in Gilbertus’s mind as he went deep into Mentat mode and rapidly created his own patterns, revising the projected movements of ships so that he could minimize the concentrations of potential damage. With careful attention, he could unravel the complex tangle that his opponent had created.

Gilbertus admired the plan that had been set up against him. It was a shame he would have to defeat it.

Panicked and unruly, the Butlerians wasted shots; several ships picked the same target while ignoring others. “To win we need to be organized, Leader Torondo. I have a plan, but you must let me guide the shots. Direct your commanders to follow my orders.”

“Do you guarantee that will defeat them?” the leader asked.

“It is your best possibility.”

“I see.” He seemed disappointed by the response. “All right, Mentat, give us a victory.”

*   *   *

ONCE THE PLANS
had been set in motion, like clockwork soldiers wound up and turned loose, Josef could admire what his own Mentat had conceived. “We have a chance, Draigo. Look at that destruction!” With fascination he watched the streaking ships, the lancing projectiles, the chain-reaction explosions as closely packed Butlerian ships took one another out. Starbursts of fire and debris spread all around the entire Thonaris complex in such great numbers that he could not begin to guess how many barbarian vessels had already been destroyed.

He felt sick at heart to lose these grand industrial capabilities—so many ships that could have expanded the VenHold Spacing Fleet, all that profit turned to vapor and scraps! It was difficult, but in his mind he tried to write off the loss. He could not save the facility or his investment here—but if he crippled the Butlerians, the cost would be justified.

Although Josef noticed no difference in the mayhem around him, his Mentat watched the movements of the rival ships closely, and said, “Gilbertus Albans has taken command. I recognize his techniques.”

But to Josef, the chaos of weapon fire and colliding ships was impenetrable.

Draigo’s eyes flicked from side to side as he processed intricate calculations. “We have a small survival ship in the administrative hub, sir. I suggest we depart from this control center. Gilbertus will target it soon. He’ll locate us in moments.”

Josef couldn’t believe what the Mentat had just said. “But we’re winning! Look at how many ships they’ve lost!”

“And they still have many more to lose, sir. Now, however, they are operating without restraint—and under such circumstances, the rules and odds change.” He looked squarely at Josef, and there was real emotion and concern in his expression. “We cannot win, sir. Trust me.”

For a moment Josef refused to listen … but he had trusted Draigo and his plans as much as he trusted Norma Cenva. He had always relied on his talented experts, knew he’d be a fool not to listen. “If you’re convinced, then let’s get out of here.”

“Shall I sound the evacuation of any remaining personnel?”

“You can try. We’ll have to hope the barbarians let some of our people live—but we both know it’s me he wants.”

Josef and Draigo bolted for the small evacuation craft, sealed themselves inside, and launched from the docking clamp. Josef glanced at the Thonaris admin-hub as they drifted away, saw the frozen body of Arjen Gates mounted outside like a lawn ornament, and felt the great sense of his own financial and personnel loss. Such a waste!

The evac-ship wasn’t equipped with Holtzman engines, and he had no Navigator. He didn’t know how they were going to get away from the star system at all, but Draigo would make it possible for him to survive another hour … even if in that hour he had to watch the destruction of everything around him. The small ship pulled away from the administrative hub, lost in a flurry of activity as countless vessels whipped by and projectiles flew all around.

“And how do you project we’ll get safely away, Mentat?”

The Mentat hesitated for an uncomfortably long moment. “I am currently unable to determine that.” Josef felt a heavy weight in his chest. It had never occurred to him that Draigo might not have an answer.

Moments later, a barrage of projectiles tore open the empty admin-hub. Watching the proof of his Mentat’s conclusions, Josef felt lost, even discouraged, and at last he recognized the fundamental change that Draigo had spotted earlier: The barbarians were reckless, not caring if they had to sacrifice five
manned
ships for every one they destroyed. The human cost was staggering, but Manford’s fanatics were steadily diminishing the VenHold forces and facilities. The spacedocks had been destroyed, along with most of the automated factories.

“We’re not going to escape, are we, Mentat? It’s only a matter of time before they target us.”

“With no way to fold space, we can’t escape.” Draigo adjusted the communications system in the evac-ship. “I’ve scrambled the transmission to slow their ability to find us. Would you allow me to contact their Mentat, sir?”

Josef frowned. “Will he negotiate for the barbarians?”

“I don’t believe so. But I would like to … bid him farewell.”

With a sigh, Josef nodded. “I have nothing more to lose.”

As their tiny, unmarked lifeboat drifted among the wreckage and chaos, Draigo activated the screen and identified himself to the Butlerians. “This is the Mentat serving Venport Holdings. I would like to speak with Gilbertus Albans, please.”

In moments, his Mentat teacher appeared, not looking at all surprised. “I recognized your tactics, Draigo. I’m sorry we find ourselves on opposite sides of the battlefield in a real clash instead of a game.”

“A Mentat must be loyal to his employer. I’ve done my best to defend Josef Venport and protect these shipyards—just as you’ve done your best to destroy them.”

“At the command of Manford Torondo,” said Gilbertus.

Draigo wore a defeated smile. “As soon as I realized you had taken command, my own projections showed that even with my best skills I could not win. You had the better set of assets to use against me.”

“Nevertheless, I’m proud of you. You fought well. But you understand that this is goodbye, Draigo. Manford Torondo will not allow you to be taken prisoner.”

“Your Half-Manford can go to hell,” Josef said.

Manford Torondo broke into the channel. “The robot Erasmus wrote that human beings were merely an expendable resource, but it is machines that are really expendable. And their allies—”

Draigo switched off the transmission.

Josef looked at him with heavy eyes. “Any other suggestions, Mentat?”

“None, sir. I have reviewed all of the known data.”

Just then, so close and so suddenly that even Draigo let out a startled cry, a large VenHold ship appeared, folding space from nowhere. The cargo bay doors opened up like a yawning mouth in front of the small escape craft.

Josef recognized the female voice that came over the comm system—his own wife Cioba! “Norma Cenva and I are here to retrieve you, Josef. We will take you aboard!” Without asking how the two women had known to come here, Draigo quickly flew their ship into the hold of the rescue vessel.

Below and behind them, the Butlerians had noticed the new ship and turned their weaponry toward it. The first few blasts erupted nearby, without hitting their mark.

“How did you know to come here?” Josef asked over the comm.

In her wavering, ethereal voice, Norma said, “They may have Mentats, but I can trump them with my
prescience.
”

As fiery explosions continued throughout the shipyards, Josef saw that all was indeed lost. Norma Cenva’s vessel closed its hull like an embrace around their evac-ship, and as Cioba ran into the hold to see her husband, the cargo ship winked away and vanished into the safety of foldspace.

Persistence is a virtue, but obsession a sin.

—the
Orange Catholic Bible

The twin offspring of Agamemnon sprinted after him, leaving Griffin’s dead body on the hot sands.

Vor knew that even if he barricaded himself inside the small weather station, Andros and Hyla could tear through the wall in minutes. Instead, he scrambled up onto the rocks, climbing the loose stone with hands and feet, pulling his way up a boulder field to a small ridge. The open terrain beyond might have been good for meteorological measurements, but it offered Vorian very few options for escape.

“Where are you running, Brother?” Hyla called. “Convince us to keep you alive.”

He didn’t answer.

Andros and his sister climbed patiently after him, going over the rocks like liquid flowing uphill, defying gravity. When Vor reached the top of the ridge, he regarded the steep slope on the other side that led nowhere except to the empty sands. Maybe he could circle around and try to scramble back to the twins’ landed aircraft, but they had shut down their engines, and he knew the startup and takeoff process would take several minutes; Andros and Hyla would never let him get that far ahead of them.

He still had his personal shield and the Maula pistol; the spring-loaded projectile weapon was functional though he doubted if it would be effective against the twins. Still, the projectiles could delay them. He cocked the weapon and turned, bracing himself.

Andros and Hyla were pulling themselves over a line of wobbly boulders that had slid down the slope. Even though, genetically speaking, these were his brother and sister, he felt no hesitation, no remorse. Vor had killed Agamemnon decades ago, and a little more family blood on his hands would make no difference. He had watched these two murder Griffin Harkonnen, a noble young man who had not deserved to die like that.

Still climbing, Andros looked up at him and shouted, “At least your wife didn’t run when we wanted to ask her questions. But she was an old woman.”

As anger flooded through him, Vor aimed at the other man’s forehead and squeezed the trigger. The loud report from the Maula pistol sounded like a contained explosion, but Vor’s aim—or the weapon—was off. A boulder just to the left of the young man’s head cracked, and tiny rock fragments sprayed out in all directions. Andros flinched.

Hyla stood up and Vor fired a second time, aiming directly at the center of her chest. This time the bullet struck, and he saw the crater in her jumpsuit, the red ripped flesh at her sternum. The impact drove her backward, but Andros slowed to help her and reached out to grab her arm. She cried out, but regained her strength very quickly. Vor aimed the Maula pistol again and squeezed the trigger. The weapon made only a grinding sound. He tried twice more, but the pistol was jammed. He discarded it.

The twins ascended after him again, making even better time now. Thinking fast, searching for alternatives, Vor gazed across the bright, burning sands, where tiny dots of rock protruded at widespread intervals like rotting teeth. The nearest one was nearly a kilometer away. At a dead run across the powdery dunes, he would need at least fifteen minutes to reach it, and nothing at all waited for him out there.

Still, he had a plan.

Recklessly dropping down the steep slope, bouncing from one unstable boulder to the next, he reached the end of the rocks and ran out onto the sand, stumbling across the soft surface. Ishanti had taught him how to disguise his footsteps, how to move without rhythm so as to not attract a sandworm. Right now, however, Vor ran at his natural pace, already panting. He had no water; his supplies were back at the weather station. The twins were coming.

They had killed Griffin.

And
Mariella.

Behind him, Andros and Hyla began to descend the slope, closing the gap. Hyla’s voice sounded strong as she yelled, “Even if you reach those rocks, where will you run? There’s nothing but sand!”