Dune: The Machine Crusade (7 page)

The hard-eyed farmers looked at them. One grim-faced man said, “Rhengalid has told us you are not welcome here. You should go.”

“Sorry, but I have my orders.”

Vergyl sent his men through the town to inspect buildings, telling them, “Don’t cause any damage. See if you find empty structures for us to use. Let’s make this as unobtrusive as possible.”

Old women grumbled curses at the Jihad fighters. Parents snatched children away and locked them in thick-walled homes, as if afraid Vergyl’s engineers would steal them in the dark of night.

The face of the dour farmer showed resigned acceptance. “What if we do not wish to have outsiders sleeping in our homes?”

Vergyl knew how he had to answer. “Then we’ll set up tents. But we’d rather have your cooperation and your hospitality. When morning comes, you’ll see the greater danger you face. Then you’ll be glad we’re here.”

The Zenshiites showed little enthusiasm, but they didn’t interfere.

The machine forces were expected to funnel through the canyons toward Darits. Surveillance had already pinpointed the robots’ new staging point on the plateau, just as Primero Atreides had guessed.

The engineers were careful to leave no obvious traces of their work. The heavy weapons were moved into vacant buildings; Vergyl did not need to displace any families.

Several empty dwellings were close enough together for his soldiers to bunk down for the night. When he asked the villagers what had happened, Vergyl received only frightened scowls in answer. Finally, one bearded farmer answered, “Tlulaxa slavers took them a few months ago. Whole families.” He gestured to the clustered homes.

“I’m sorry.” Vergyl didn’t know what else to say.

As darkness fell, he contacted Tercero Hondu Cregh, his counterpart in the second village. Sharing information, they confirmed that each ambush site was ready. Tercero Cregh had also experienced little cooperation from the people, but again, no outright obstruction.

After he called his commandos together, and they completed one last inspection of the emplaced weapons, Vergyl was surprised to see several Zenshiite farmers coming toward them carrying jugs and bottles. Tense, but hoping for the best, he went to meet them. The farmer who had spoken to him earlier held out his jug, while a woman at his side extended several shallow cups.

“The Koran Sutras tell us we must extend hospitality to any guest, even uninvited ones.” The farmer splashed a pale orange liquid into one of the shallow cups. “We would not wish to break tradition.”

Vergyl accepted the cup while the woman poured a second drink for her husband. Vergyl and the Zenshiite man sipped from the brims in a formal toast; the liquid was bitter, with a strong alcoholic burn, but the jihadi officer took another drink.

The other villagers passed out cups, and all of the fighters drank, careful not to offend their hosts. “We are not your enemies,” Vergyl reassured the people. “We are trying to save you from the thinking machines.”

Though the Zenshiites did not seem convinced, Vergyl felt he had accomplished something, just by being given the benefit of the doubt.

Then he told his soldiers to climb into their assigned cots and get as much rest as they could afford before the machines came in the morning. A sentry was stationed at each camouflaged artillery emplacement to guard the weapons and power charges….

Vergyl dozed off thinking of Xavier, whom he revered as a hero. Even as a boy, he had always wanted to emulate his older brother, to become a Jihad officer just like him. At only seventeen, after the tragic massacre on Ellram, Vergyl had convinced his father to sign a dispensation allowing him to enlist in the Army. Tens of thousands of new volunteers, incensed by the machines’ most recent brutality, were eager to join the fight. Against his wife’s objections, Emil Tantor had let Vergyl join— in part, because he was convinced that if he refused, the boy would run off and sign up anyway. This way, he was under the official and watchful eye of Xavier.

After basic training and formal instruction, Vergyl was transferred to Giedi Prime to assist in reconstruction efforts after the thinking machines were driven out. For years, Xavier kept his brother from being assigned to front-line battleships, putting Vergyl in charge of building a giant memorial to fallen soldiers, which was due to be christened any day now.

On Giedi Prime, Vergyl also met and fell in love with Sheel. They had been married for thirteen years, had two sons, Emilo and Jisp, and a daughter, Ulana.

But Xavier had not been able to shelter him forever. He was a talented officer, and soon the demands of the Jihad required him to face combat. His most intense battle so far had been the recapture of the Unallied Planet of Tyndall, a massive and unexpected Jihad counterstrike that wrenched the war-torn world from the grasp of the thinking machines. Vergyl had distinguished himself in that conflict and had received two medals, which he had sent home to Sheel and his children.

Now, he promised himself to do everything possible to make this operation a success. They would defeat the thinking machines here on IV Anbus as well, and Vergyl Tantor would claim his part in the victory.

A deep sleep came upon him like the drop of a curtain. Later, at the ragged end of night, not long before the arrival of the machines, he became violently, cripplingly ill. As did all of the other soldiers stationed there.

WHEN THE FOUR Jihad ballistas circled around to the opposite side of the planet, the machine forces dropped another deployment of combat robots. The enemy had learned and adapted after their first attempt to establish a beachhead. Now Omnius’s forces moved with great speed and efficiency to set up the morning’s offensive. Battalions of fearsome soldier meks and combat vehicles began a rolling march toward Darits, laying down boosters and substations with each kilometer they conquered.

Farther down the sedimentary canyon, highly paid Ginaz mercenaries spread out, led by Zon Noret. They ran along the tops of ridges and followed gravelly water courses, setting up small roadblocks. Detonating charges, they collapsed the walls of narrow canyons to inhibit the advancing machines, though the robots had enough firepower to blast through the barriers eventually.

More mercenaries raced along flat, wide arroyos, planting lines of land mines to wipe out the front ranks of combat meks. Each Ginaz mercenary wore a protective Holtzman shield that surrounded his body with an invisible barrier. The robots relied on projectile weapons, bullets and sharp needles, but the personal shields foiled such attacks. The mercenaries plunged in among the robots to do hand-to-hand fighting.

Zon Noret had given each commando clear instructions. “Your job is not to obliterate the enemy, though damage is certainly acceptable.” He smiled. “Your task is to take potshots, enough to lure the thinking machines forward. Taunt them, provoke them, convince them that the native humans mean to resist the machine occupation. We’re good at that.”

But the carefully staged, ineffective resistance must also lull the robotic battalion into believing that the humans had nothing worse waiting for them. Noret’s independent fighters had to be carefully incompetent.

The robots surged ahead, bound by their internal programming.

AS THE SUN spilled its jagged first light upon the landscape, Vergyl Tantor staggered along the wall of the dwelling where he had slept. The house smelled of vomit and diarrhea. Feeling betrayed, many of the soldiers moaned, lurched, and retched, barely able to move. Reaching the doorway, Vergyl blinked and coughed. The Zenshiite natives came out of their dwellings looking smug.

Vergyl gasped at them. “You…
poisoned
us!”

“It will pass,” the bearded farmer said. “We warned you. Outsiders are not welcome here. We want no part of your war with the demon mechanicals. Go away.”

The Jihad officer swayed, clutching the rough doorjamb to keep himself upright. “But… you’ll all die this morning! It’s not us they want, it’s
you
! The robots—” He retched again and realized the villagers must have taken their own antidotes or medicines.

Then his comline signaled, calling urgently for him. Vergyl could barely cough out his acknowledgment. The dispersed jihadi squadrons and surveillance teams reported that the robotic marauders had begun to move out from their new staging point. Ginaz mercenaries had already set up along the advance path to goad the robots. The assault was about to commence.

“The machines are coming!” Vergyl called hoarsely, trying to rouse his men. “Everyone, to your stations!” Ignoring the villagers, he went back into the dwelling and started dragging soldiers out into the dawn light. They had donned Zenshiite farmers’ clothes so that they would not appear to be jihadis, but now the fabric was drenched with fever sweat and stained with vomit.

“Wake up! Shake it off!” He pushed one barely conscious man toward the nearest camouflaged artillery emplacement. “To your stations. Man the weapons.”

Then Vergyl noticed with sick dread the sentries curled up in convulsions on the ground next to the weapons. He ran like a broken toy, summoning all his remaining balance and speed, into the nearest building that housed a large projectile launcher and stared at the heavy weapon. A groggy gunner came in beside him, and Vergyl tried to activate the launcher’s power systems. He rubbed his bleary eyes. The targeting cross seemed to be malfunctioning.

His gunner flicked the controls again, then opened the panel and let out a cry of surprise and dismay. “Someone tore up the wires— and the power supply is gone!”

Suddenly Vergyl heard broken shouts echoing from other gun emplacements throughout the village. Angrily, he exclaimed, “We have been stabbed in the back by the people we’re trying to rescue!”

His anger gave him the strength to vanquish his dizziness for the moment. Vergyl staggered out of the dwelling to face the Zenshiite farmers, who stood looking satisfied.

“What have you done?” Vergyl cried, his voice rough. “You fools, what have you done?”

S
tanding just inside the large tribal cave, Selim Wormrider gazed across Arrakis’s soothing ocean of dunes, watching for the moment when the sun would first rise over the horizon. He waited, then felt his pulse quicken as golden light poured like molten metal across the undulating desert, purifying and inevitable— like his visions, like his mission in life.

Selim greeted the day, taking a deep breath of air so dry that it crackled his lungs. Dawn was his favorite time, after just waking from deep sleep filled with mysterious dreams and portents. It was the best time to accomplish meaningful tasks.

A tall, gaunt man came up beside him, always knowing where to find his leader at daybreak. Loyal Jafar had a heavy jaw, sunken cheeks, and deep blue-within-blue eyes from years of a spice-rich diet. The lieutenant waited in silence, knowing Selim was aware of his presence. Finally, Selim turned from the rising sun and looked up at his most respected friend and follower.

Jafar extended a small plate. “I have brought you melange for the morning, Selim, so that you may better see into the mind of Shai-Hulud.”

“We serve him, and our future, but no one can understand the mind of Shai-Hulud. Never make that assumption, Jafar, and you will live longer.”

“As you say, Wormrider.”

Selim took one of the wafers, spice mixed with flour and honey. His eyes reflected the deep blue of addiction as well, but the sacred spice had kept him alive, granting him energy even during times of greatest trial and deprivation. Melange opened a marvelous window on the universe and gave Selim visions, helping him to understand the destiny Buddallah had chosen for him. He— and his ever-growing troop of desert exiles— followed a calling greater than any of their individual lives.

“There will be a testing this morning,” Jafar said, his deep voice even. The newborn sun exposed secret footprints made during the night. “Biondi wishes to prove himself. Today he will attempt to ride a worm. “

Selim frowned. “He is not ready.”

“But he insists.”

“He will die.”

Jafar shrugged. “Then he will die. That is the way of the desert.”

Selim emitted a resigned sigh. “Each man must face his own conscience and his own testing. Shai-Hulud makes the final choice.”

Selim was fond of Biondi, though the young man’s brash impatience was better suited to the life of an offworlder at the Arrakis City spaceport, rather than the unchanging existence of the deep desert. Biondi might eventually become a valuable contributor to Selim’s band, but if the young man could not live up to his own abilities, he would be a danger to the others. It was better to discover such a weakness now than to risk the lives of Selim’s faithful followers.

Selim said, “I will watch from here.”

Jafar nodded and left.

Over twenty-six standard years ago, Selim had been falsely accused of stealing water from one of his tribe’s stores; subsequently, he had been exiled into the desert. Manipulated by the lies of Naib Dhartha, Selim’s former friends had chased him from their cliff cities, throwing rocks and insults at him until he ran out onto the treacherous dunes, supposedly to be devoured by one of the “demon worms.”

But Selim had been innocent, and Buddallah had saved him— for a purpose.

When a sandworm had come to devour him, Selim discovered the secret of how to ride the creature. Shai-Hulud had taken him far from the Zensunni village and deposited him near an abandoned botanical testing station, where he’d found food, water, and tools. There, Selim had time to look inside himself, to understand his true mission.

In a melange-enhanced vision, nearly drowning in thick reddish powder cast up from a spice blow, he had learned that he must prevent Naib Dhartha and his desert parasites from harvesting and distributing melange to offworlders. Over the years, working alone, Selim had raided many encampments, destroying any spice the Zensunni gathered. He had earned a legendary reputation and the title “Wormrider.”