Thinking machines never sleep.
— A Saying of the Jihad
While numerous refugee ships converged in crowded space around Salusa Secundus, carrying representatives of the genetic branches of humanity, the League capital gained fame as the “lifeboat planet.” No ship was allowed to land, however; instead they remained in quarantine, orbiting the planet. The backlog in the blockade caused spacecraft to pile up, crowding traffic lanes with thousands and then tens of thousands of vessels of all configurations from more than a hundred worlds.
The Scourge had by now consumed twenty-eight League Worlds, and billions were reported dead.
After returning from his ordeal on Ix, knowing that many of the people he had left behind were already dead, Abulurd’s javelin waited with his isolated charges and an impatient Ticia Cenva until the appointed incubation period had passed. Each rescued person from Ix had been isolated, tested, and cleared; even in the turmoil of the mob, the precautions had worked. None of the refugees or crew fell ill during the long voyage back to Salusa.
En route, sticking to his brash decision, Abulurd had announced to his surprised crew that he was adopting the Harkonnen name again. He explained his own version of the events that had made Xavier such a hated figure, but it was ancient history to everyone else, and many doubted his version of the facts. Clearly, they wondered why the cuarto would stir up problems so long after the fact.
Since he was in command of the javelin, they did not openly question Abulurd’s choice, but their faces said enough. In contrast, Ticia Cenva was not bound by such formalities, and she made it clear that she felt the young officer had lost all common sense.
Finally, when their quarantine time had passed, Ticia gratefully left Abulurd’s company and joined other Sorceresses to collate their immense new catalog of genetic data. Swift library ships carried volumes of raw information back to their cliff cities on Rossak. Abulurd did not know what the Sorceresses would do with all that breeding information; for himself, he was simply glad to have the abrasive self-centered woman off of his ship.
At the military headquarters in Zimia, Abulurd presented himself for inspection before his father. Primero Quentin Butler remained somber since learning from Vorian Atreides of Rikov’s death. He still wrestled with his own personal guilt, because his battalion had been at Parmentier when the first plague projectiles arrived. If only his Jihad ships had obliterated the infectious torpedoes before they could strike the atmosphere… But he was a highly trained soldier, dedicated to the destruction of Omnius. The primero would marshal his troops, redistribute his resources, and continue the virtuous Jihad.
Instead of dispatching Abulurd to another League World to acquire more escapees from the plague, Quentin ordered his youngest son to remain at Salusa and assist with the quarantine and resettlement activities. The task had grown monumental as ship after ship of frightened League citizens fled their worlds and came to the lifeboat planet. An entire contingent of the Army of the Jihad was put in place to prevent any vessel from landing and disgorging its occupants, until they had waited out their appropriate quarantine time and been certified by medical personnel.
Abulurd accepted his reassignment with a brisk nod. “One other thing, Father. Upon deep reflection and a thorough review of all historical documents, it is obvious to me that our family name was wrongfully blackened by history.” He forced himself to continue. It was better to tell him now, before the primero heard from another source. “In order to reestablish our honor, I have chosen to take the Harkonnen name for myself.”
Quentin looked as if his youngest son had slapped him. “You are calling yourself a… Harkonnen? What idiocy is this? Why now? Xavier died decades ago! Why reopen old wounds?”
“It is the first step toward righting a wrong that has endured for generations. I’ve already put into motion the legal documents. I hope you can respect my decision.”
His father looked intensely angry. “Butler is the most respected and powerful name in the League of Nobles. Ours is the family line of Serena, and of Viceroy Manion Butler— yet you prefer to associate yourself with a… traitor and a coward?”
“I do not believe Xavier Harkonnen was that.” Abulurd straightened, standing up to the primero’s obvious displeasure. He wished Vorian Atreides could be there to support him, but this was between himself and his father. “The history we were all taught is… distorted and inaccurate.”
Cold displeasure emanated from the older man as he stood from behind his desk. “You are of legal age, Cuarto. You are allowed to make your own decisions, regardless of what I or anyone else might think of them. And you must face the consequences.”
“I am aware of that, Father.”
“In these offices you will refer to me as Primero.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
* * *
ABULURD SAT ON the bridge of his javelin, patrolling the swarms of ships crowded into parking lanes and docking orbits. Traffic-control operators in high stations monitored all vessels and maintained logs of how long each had been in transit. Since these ships did not use space-folding technology, each journey from an infected planet took weeks; if anyone had come aboard carrying the Scourge, the fast-acting retrovirus should have shown itself en route.
Aboard the rescue vessels, the League had isolated groups of people in sealed chambers as a stopgap measure, should an outbreak occur. After an appropriate time went by and the passengers passed inspection, they went through two additional decontamination processes before being allowed to disembark and settle in Salusan refugee camps. At some later date, they would be returned to their homeworlds or be distributed throughout the League.
As Abulurd patrolled the fringes of the system, he unexpectedly encountered a group of incoming vessels, expensive space yachts built for rich noblemen. He ordered his javelin to change course, interposing the military vessel between the unscheduled ships and Salusa.
When he established communication with the lead space yacht, Abulurd stared at the lean, bright-eyed man on the screen. A group of well-dressed people stood behind him. “I am Lord Porce Bludd, formerly of Poritrin, bringing refugees— all of them healthy, I guarantee— “
Abulurd drew himself up straight, wishing he had changed into a formal presentation uniform. “I am Cuarto Abulurd… Harkonnen. Will you submit to required quarantine procedures and medical inspection, so we can verify what you say?”
“We are prepared for that.” Bludd now blinked in sudden realization. “Abulurd, did you say? You’re Quentin’s son, aren’t you? Why are you calling yourself a Harkonnen?”
Taken aback by the man’s recognition, Abulurd drew a breath. “Yes, I am the son of Primero Butler. How do you know my father?”
“Along time ago, Quentin and I worked together building New Starda on the banks of the Isana River. He spent a year there on military furlough, as a jihadi engineer. That was well before he married your mother.”
“Has the Scourge appeared on Poritrin?” Abulurd asked. They had received no reports from that world.
“A few villages, but we’re relatively safe. Since the great slave revolt, Poritrin’s population centers have been scattered. I immediately issued isolation decrees. We had plenty of melange to go around— second highest per-capita consumption in the League, next to Salusa itself.”
“So why have you come here?” Abulurd still had not moved his javelin out of the way. Bludd’s convoy remained stalled.
The nobleman’s eyes seemed intense with echoes of deep grief. “These families agreed to sacrifice all their accumulated fortunes. Added to my own, I intend to turn that wealth to humanitarian endeavors. The Bludd family has much to atone for, I believe. The Omnius Scourge is the worst crisis free humanity has faced since the Titans. If ever there was a time when I could help, it is now.”
Abulurd acknowledged the bravery and determination he saw in Bludd’s face. A long moment passed, and the lord grew impatient. “Well, are you going to let us through, Abulurd? I had hoped to disperse these passengers to quarantine stations before taking my ships to another planet where I can continue to help people.”
“Permission granted.” He instructed his navigator to withdraw from the defensive posture. “Let them through, into the quarantine queue.”
“Say, Abulurd, is your father still on Salusa?” Bludd asked. “I’d like to discuss my plans with him. He always had a good eye for fine-tuning an operation.”
“I believe he is still at headquarters in Zimia.” Quentin had not spoken to his son since dispatching him to his patrol duties.
“I’ll find him then. Now, young man, if you would be so kind as to escort me into Salusan orbit where I can deliver my charges? I may need your help navigating the bureaucratic tangle there.”
“Acknowledged, Lord Bludd. You’ll have plenty of time to send messages to my father while you’re waiting.” Abulurd turned his javelin about and led the way to Salusa Secundus.
* * *
TRAGEDY SEEMED TO strike daily. Among the refugee ships clustered above the capital planet, the news spread like wildfire: Scout ships had returned bearing terrible reports that four more League Worlds were inflamed with plague, suffering almost incomprehensible levels of loss. In some cities, where storms or rampant fires had struck and the weakened populations could not stand against natural disasters in addition to the Scourge, the death rate was nearly ninety percent.
Even more distressing was a shocking setback on one of the fully-loaded refugee ships. After surviving their extended isolation period, the weary passengers had emerged from their sterile chambers to await final inspection. The jihadi crew, its captain, and their mercenaries had joined the relieved and excited refugees, offering celebratory drinks. A crew of medical personnel arrived and routinely administered the final verification blood tests, so confident in the amount of time that had passed that they grew lax, mingling, talking, laughing, embracing.
To everyone’s horror, one man unexpectedly began showing initial signs of the RNA retrovirus. The doctors were astonished, running checks and double-checks of their blood test results. Three more passengers exhibited symptoms before the day was out.
By then all of the routine isolation procedures had been set aside in preparation for disembarkation, and many people— refugees, jihadis, mercenaries, and even some medical personnel— had been exposed. Going back to their isolation chambers would serve no purpose. A cordon of military ships surrounded the rescue vessel to prevent any shuttles from departing.
Abulurd was assigned this horrendous watchdog duty for four days, waiting, hearing the pathetic and desperate cries for help from those sealed aboard the infected ship. Melange rations were rushed through the airlock, and the passengers fought over the spice, desperate to grab any chance at immunity.
The tragedy of it gnawed at his very soul. These people had all thought they were clean; now many of them would not survive to set foot on Salusa Secundus. And the jihadis and doctors— who should never have been in real danger, who had only been doing their jobs to protect others from the Scourge— would pay too high a price for briefly letting down their guard. There was nothing more Abulurd or any of the League scientists could do except keep the ship sealed and wait.
In anguish, he sat back listening to the letters transmitted by the refugees before they fell ill, hoping to preserve some reference to themselves or leave a message for their loved ones.
Abulurd’s crew was deeply disturbed, and morale plummeted. He was about to block out the transmissions, but then caught himself. He would not turn a deaf ear to these poor people and their suffering. He would not pretend that they did not exist, nor would he ignore their hopeless plight.
He considered this small tribute a brave thing, something Xavier might have suggested. Abulurd only hoped that someday his crew, and his family, would understand why he’d done it.