If there is no plausible hope for survival, is it better to know that you are doomed, or simply to exist in blissful ignorance until the end?
— PRIMERO QUENTIN BUTLER,
military journals
The information revealed in the captured spycraft was indisputable.
On their return to Zimia, not even taking time to change uniforms, Quentin and Faykan demanded to speak with all available members of the Jihad Council. Inside the room, behind security doors, Quentin showed them the computer data core, with all of its disturbing reconnaissance about League vulnerabilities. Faykan stood silent, letting his father speak. The Council members would draw the obvious conclusions.
“Omnius is planning to move against us. We must know how, and when.” As they sat in stunned disbelief, Quentin made his bold request. “Therefore I propose a small but vital recon expedition deep into the heart of Synchronized territory— to Corrin itself, if necessary.”
“But with the Scourge, and the quarantines— “
“Perhaps we should wait for the return of Supreme Commander Atreides. He should be back from Parmentier any day now— “
Quentin cut them all off. “And, because of the urgency implied by the robot spycraft, I propose that we use space-folding scouts.” He punctuated his words with a brisk gesture of his fist. “We must know what Omnius is doing!”
Interim Viceroy O’Kukovich sat in silence with an expression of deep concentration. Even in Jihad Council meetings, O’Kukovich would listen to all sides and wait until a consensus decision had been reached before announcing the result, as if he had had anything to do with it. Quentin disliked the Interim Viceroy, considered him a man of inaction.
Grand Patriarch Xander Boro-Ginjo seemed pleasant and unprepossessing, though somewhat unaware of the true severity of the threat facing humanity. He had surrounded himself with simpering sycophants and fine possessions, and seemed more impressed with the actual chain of office around his neck than with the responsibilities and power it implied. “But I thought spacefolders were dangerous?”
Faykan gave a calm and precise answer. “Nevertheless, they can be used when the situation warrants. The loss rate is approximately ten percent, and highly paid hazard pilots usually fly the ships. VenKee has delivered many emergency shipments of melange to plague-affected worlds using cargo vessels equipped with Holtzman engines. Spacefolder scouts are the only way to send vital messages in a timely fashion.”
“In this case, it is absolutely necessary,” Quentin insisted. “It has been many years since we’ve sent an observer so deep into Synchronized space. Now we have direct evidence the machines are planning to move against us militarily. Who can say what plans they have developed— unless we see for ourselves?”
Faykan said, “We intercepted one robotic scout, but we know that Omnius launched many others, to many different League Worlds. The machines already know we are grievously wounded by their damnable Scourge. The evermind must be preparing a final assault against humanity.”
“It is what I would do, if my enemy was weak, disoriented, and preoccupied,” Quentin growled. “We must see what is happening on Corrin. One or two spacefolder scouts can slip in, acquire detailed images, then escape before the machines could possibly intercept us.”
“Sounds very risky,” mumbled the Interim Viceroy, looking around at the other Council members for confirmation. “Doesn’t it?”
Quentin crossed his arms over his uniformed chest. “That is why I intend to go myself.”
One of the high-ranking bureaucrats on the Jihad Council scowled. “That’s ridiculous! We cannot risk an officer with as much experience and seniority as yourself, Primero Butler. Even if you survive the space-folding trip, such an expedition could lead to your capture and interrogation.”
Quentin angrily dismissed all their concerns. “I cite the precedent of Supreme Commander Atreides, who often took small spacefolder ships, throwing himself against the enemy. As my service record has established, gentlemen, I am not an armchair general, to use an ancient historical phrase. I do not command through the use of tactical boards and war games. Instead, I put myself at the head of my men, and face the danger personally. On this mission I will not take a crew, but only one companion— my son Faykan.”
This caused even more uproar. “You want us to risk two established commanders? Why not take a few mercenaries with you?”
Beside him, Faykan reacted with surprise. “I am not afraid to go, sir, but is that wise?”
“This intelligence is critical.” He looked at his son. “We need redundancy to be sure someone lives.”
Before Faykan could argue further, Quentin made a quick and subtle flurry of finger movements, using a sophisticated coded battle language that Jihad officers learned in high-level training. He and Faykan had often used it in military engagements, never in front of politicians. The other Council members knew something was amiss but could understand none of it.
With rapid gestures, Quentin communicated, “We are Butlers. The last two Butlers.” Since Abulurd insists on ramming his Harkonnen heritage down our throats! “We must do this, you and I.”
Faykan sat rigid, as if surprised, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course.” No matter how risky the idea might seem, he would always follow the primero. He and his father understood each other, and they understood the stakes. Quentin Butler would never trust this task to anyone else.
Quentin turned to face the rest of the Council. “The League has not launched a military offensive against the enemy since the epidemic began. All of our worlds have been brought to their knees, and we are alarmingly vulnerable to outside attack. Billions upon billions are already dead, rotting out under numerous suns. Did you expect the machines just to sit back and let the Scourge take its course, without having a second phase of their plan ready?”
The Grand Patriarch paled as if the possibility of further danger from the machines had never occurred to him. He clutched his chain of office like a lifeline. As Quentin scanned the faces of the Council, he saw that they’d been too preoccupied with the epidemic to think of anything worse.
When the objections had simmered to grudging acceptance, the Interim Viceroy smiled and announced his decision. “Go with our blessing, Primero. See what Omnius is doing. But return to us with all due speed, and safely.”
* * *
BOTH MEN WERE qualified to fly spacefolders, though the Army of the Jihad rarely used the quirky and dangerous crafts. Quentin decided that he and his son would fly separately in order to increase their chances. If one of them suffered a space-folding mishap, the other could still return to Salusa intact.
The primero departed without the customary farewells. After stopping to visit Wandra briefly in the City of Introspection, Quentin had no one else to see. Even Abulurd was still en route back from Parmentier.
The two spacefolder scouts raced through the distorted incomprehensibility of twisted space, no longer in contact. They slipped between dimensions, shortcutting across the fabric of the galaxy. At any moment they might streak through the heart of a sun or impact a planet or a moon that happened to lie across the line of their voyage. Once they had set course and engaged the Holtzman Effect engines, nothing remained but to wait a few moments until they came out the other end… or vanished forever.
If Quentin or Faykan died on this mission, would the history of the Jihad really take notice of their loss? Even two war heroes were insignificant against the plague that Omnius had unleashed. More people had died from the horrible epidemic than in all the Time of Titans and Serena Butler’s Jihad combined. Omnius had utterly changed the parameters of the war, much as Serena herself had done when she’d initiated the Jihad.
This conflict was no longer a simple struggle that could be resolved. It was an absolute fight for survival, and victory could come only from the complete extinction of the other side. The number of those who had fallen victim to the Scourge was incalculable. No historian could ever gauge the magnitude of this disaster, and no memorial would ever be sufficient to mark the losses. From this point on, no doomsday weapon any human scientist invented could ever be too fearsome by comparison. No destructive power was too great to be turned against the evil thinking machines.
The human race, if it survived, would never be the same.
The journey to Corrin was as short as it was terrifying. Quentin’s scout ship emerged from folded space, and the starfield shimmered around him, black velvet dusted with diamonds. The view was peaceful and serene, giving no evidence that he was deep within a part of the galaxy controlled by thinking machines.
Hanging there in silence, he cycled through navigational comparison grids that featured the contours of space and the patterns of constellations around Corrin. Spacefolders were not particularly accurate in their navigation, only to within a hundred thousand kilometers or so, but at least he had found his way to the correct star system. Quentin used his tracking skills to triangulate and verify his location. The red giant in this system was obviously Corrin’s bloated sun.
After Faykan had joined up with him in space, they descended swiftly and stealthily toward the planet where the primary incarnation of Omnius directed his machine empire. There would likely be robotic picket ships guarding the system’s perimeter and vessels that monitored traffic around the machine world. But since no human incursions had ever made it this far into Synchronized space, the robots would probably not be too vigilant.
Quentin and Faykan planned to sweep in, reconnoiter, and depart before any enemy ships could intercept them. It was the only way they were likely to return to the League with their fresh and vital information. If the thinking machines came close to capturing the spacefolder scouts, he and his son could activate the Holtzman engines, fold space, and leap back into League territory. With their traditional space-propulsion technology, the thinking machines could never catch them.
The two men were not at all prepared for the sight they encountered.
Space around Corrin was utterly filled with heavy robotic battleships of every conceivable size and configuration. Omnius had gathered an awe-inspiring armada of heavy cruisers, robotic destroyers, automated bombers, huge rammers, and interdictors. Hundreds of thousands of them.
“Is that… everything? The sum total of what Omnius has?” Faykan’s transmitted voice was dry and wavery. “How could there possibly be so many?”
Quentin needed a long moment to find his own voice. “If Omnius launches that armada against the League, we are doomed. There is no way we can stand against them.” He stared with such intensity that his eyes burned. Finally, he remembered to blink.
“The machines couldn’t possibly have built them all here. Omnius must have drawn these vessels from across the Synchronized Worlds,” Faykan said.
“And why not? We have been incapable of moving against him since the beginning of the Scourge.”
To Quentin, the conclusion was inescapable. Undoubtedly, all those ships would be sent to hammer Salusa Secundus, to crush the heart of humanity. Then they would sweep across the League planets where plague survivors could barely feed themselves, much less defend against such a force.
“By God and Saint Serena,” Faykan said. “I knew the machines were aware of the League’s weakness, Father, but I never guessed that Omnius might already be preparing to attack.”
Corrin looked like a swollen nest of furious hornets about to swarm. After the progress of the Scourge across the League Worlds, the human population was at its lowest ebb. The forces standing ready to defend against the thinking machines had never been so weakened.
And the doomsday armada of Omnius looked ready to launch.