A birth on this soil is the birth of a warrior.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS,
to his students
The Army of the Jihad vowed to take back Honru from the thinking machines, regardless of the cost in blood. After a century of Serena Butler’s holy war, humans were accustomed to extreme sacrifices.
Quentin Butler, the battalion’s primero, stood on the bridge of his flagship and watched the Omnius-enslaved planet that loomed in front of him. He uttered a silent prayer as he faced his soulless enemy. Cut from the mold of a staunch war hero, he looked much older than his sixty-five years, with pale gold hair and wavy curls; the finely chiseled features of his face— a firm chin, thin lips, and piercing eyes— looked as if they had been modeled after a classical bust. Quentin would spearhead the offensive, leading the jihadis to victory here on the site of one of their earliest, most devastating defeats.
Four hundred ballista battleships and over a thousand javelin destroyers converged to form a deadly noose around the planet that had once been inhabited by free humans, before the Honru Massacre. This time, the thinking machines stood no chance whatsoever against Quentin and his sworn cause, not to mention the overwhelming firepower he had brought.
In all the years of the Jihad, brave human warriors had inflicted constant and significant damage on the Synchronized Worlds, wrecking robot fleets and destroying machine outposts. And yet the enemy continued to rebuild their forces.
The primero, addicted to the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of victory, had already performed plenty of heroic deeds in his long military career. Many times he had stood victorious in the smoking ruins of a battlefield. He never tired of that sensation.
“Omnius should just calculate the odds and shut down all of his systems,” said Faykan, Quentin’s oldest son. “It would save us time and trouble.” Even taller than his father, Faykan had wavy hair like Quentin’s, but high cheekbones and lean features from his mother Wandra. He was thirty-seven, ambitious both in military service and League politics.
Also standing on the flagship’s bridge, his brother Rikov snorted. “If victory is as easy as all that, it would be hard to justify a big celebration when it’s over. I’d prefer more of a challenge.” Seven years younger than his brother, Rikov was a head shorter, with broader shoulders and a squarer jaw. His generous lips took after his Harkonnen heritage, though no one with good sense would remind Rikov of that embarrassment.
“I am satisfied with any victory that brings us one step closer to annihilating the machine demons.” Quentin turned to look at the two eager men. “There’ll be enough glory for both of my sons… with a bit left over for myself.”
Subconsciously, he often avoided mentioning his youngest son because of what Abulurd’s birth had done to Wandra. He always thought of his precious wife before going into battle. Late in her childbearing years, Wandra had accidentally gotten pregnant, and the difficult delivery had stolen her from him. Mourning, ignoring his new baby, Quentin had taken his comatose wife to the peace and solitude of the City of Introspection, where her revered aunt Serena had spent so much time in contemplation. A part of him still blamed Abulurd for taking Wandra from him, and though his conscience told him he wasn’t being fair to Abulurd, his heart refused to believe otherwise….
“Are we going to just stare at Honru?” Rikov asked flippantly, already standing close to the exit. “Or are we going to get on with it?”
The battalion’s subcommanders transmitted detailed acknowledgments, marking positions and announcing their readiness for a full assault. The Omnius evermind on the planet below must already realize its doom. Defensive systems and combat robots would have detected the incoming Jihad fleet, but the thinking machines could do nothing against such an overwhelming force. Their fate was predetermined.
Quentin rose from his command chair, smiling patiently at his eager sons. The basic battle plan had been developed in a command center in far-off Zimia, but in war everything could change up until the last moment. “We will send down five hundred kindjal fighters in two separate waves, each with a load of scrambler-pulse bombs, but we won’t deploy the large-scale atomics unless everything goes sour. We’ll need a precision strike on the evermind nexus and then ground crews to root out the substations. We have plenty of Ginaz mercenary commandos.”
“Yes, sir,” both men answered.
“Faykan, you lead the first wave. Rikov, the second. A few high detonations of pulse-atomics should scramble their gelcircuitry brains sufficiently without killing all the human population. It’ll soften the machines enough for our ground troops to sweep in and eliminate the rest. The people of Honru will be free before nightfall.”
“If any of them remain,” Rikov pointed out. “It’s been almost ninety years since the machines took over down there.”
Faykan’s face looked grim and stony. “If Omnius has killed them all, that’s even more reason for revenge. Then I, for one, wouldn’t have any reservations about slagging the planet with a flood of atomics, just like the armada did at Earth.”
“Either way,” Quentin said, “let’s get on with it.”
The primero clasped his hands in front of his face in the half prayer, half salute that the Jihad commanders had adopted since the murder of Serena Butler more than half a century ago. Though ostensibly he spoke to his sons, the words were transmitted across the battalion— not just a pep talk, but his sincere belief. “The Honru Massacre was one of the darkest moments in the early history of the Jihad. Today we will balance the scales of history and finish the story.”
Faykan and Rikov marched toward the flagship’s main launching deck, where they would lead the waves of kindjal fighters. Quentin remained in the command center to watch the unfolding assault, completely confident in his sons. On the screen, he continued to study the rich-looking planet below: brown and green continents, white wisps of clouds, deep blue blotches of broad seas.
No doubt the Omnius incursion had stripped the landscape over the past nine decades, turning Honru’s beautiful forests and meadows into an industrial nightmare. Enslaved survivors would have been forced to serve the evil thinking machines. Quentin clenched his fists, muttering another quiet prayer for strength. All that damage could be recovered, given time. The first step was to reassert benevolent human rule, to avenge the first Massacre….
Five years after Serena Butler launched her great Jihad, an armada of League warships had attempted to liberate the Synchronized World of Honru. The well-armed and enthusiastic armada had swept in, urged on by Grand Patriarch Ginjo. But corrupt thinking machine spies had misled them about the number of enemy forces waiting at Honru.
Ten thousand Omnius ships had lain in ambush and then engulfed the armada. The human fighters had responded with desperate combat measures, but self-destructive robot ships wiped out the Jihad battleships in orbit. Waves of combat robots on the surface exterminated entire villages of humans who had hoped to be rescued.
The intended liberation of Honru had turned into a rout, a slaughter that continued until all remaining human battleships were wiped out. In addition to uncounted casualties on the ground, over five hundred thousand free human soldiers had been massacred in a single engagement….
It is long past time to avenge that, Quentin thought.
“Kindjal squadrons are launched, Primero,” said his lieutenant.
“Ready our troops for the ground assault to secure our advances. I want this to go smoothly. Land all personnel transports while we maintain air cover with javelins.” He allowed himself a sober yet confident smile.
Five hundred kindjals flew from their ballista mother ships. Already, the Honru robot fleet was rallying, some launching vessels into orbit, others converging from picket lines at the edge of the system.
“Prepare for combat,” Quentin said. “All Holtzman shields engage as soon as the robot ships come into range, not a moment before.”
“Yes, Primero. We’ll hold fast.”
He was confident his fleet could shrug off the robotic battleships, so he focused instead on the activities of his sons. Faykan and Rikov divided the kindjal squadrons, and each followed an operational pattern pursuant to his own style; the mixture of strategies had proven quite effective in earlier engagements. Today, the famous Butler Brothers would add another victory to their résumés.
With an ache in his chest, he wished Wandra could have seen her boys now, but she was beyond knowing anything that happened around her….
Eighteen years ago, Quentin’s two oldest sons had seen tears streaming down his cheeks as they were leaving her in the City of Introspection. It was one of the first times the military hero had ever allowed himself to appear so vulnerable.
“Too much grief, Father,” Faykan had said. “Everywhere we turn.”
But Quentin had shaken his head. “These are not tears of anguish or grief, my son.” He reached out to embrace both young men. “They are tears of happiness for all that your mother has given me.”
Quentin had never abandoned Wandra. He visited her each time he returned to Salusa, certain in his heart that his wife still remembered him. When he felt her pulse and the beating of her heart, he sensed that their love was what kept her alive. He continued to fight for the Jihad, silently dedicating each victory to her.
Now he looked up as reports streamed in from Honru, excited transmissions from Faykan’s and Rikov’s kindjals. The warships swooped in over machine strongholds, dropping swarms of pulse explosives that emitted bursts of destructive Holtzman energy.
“All scramblers deployed, Primero,” Faykan transmitted. “The main city is ready for our second phase.”
Quentin smiled. In orbit, the first group of robotic warships ineffectually slammed into the Jihad ships, more of a nuisance than a threat, so long as the Holtzman shields did not overheat.
He redeployed his forces. “Javelins, descend into the atmosphere. All projectile batteries prepare for bombardment from above. Tell the Ginaz shock troops to gather their pulse-swords and get ready to scour the city. I expect them to remove all vestiges of machine resistance down there.”
His subcommanders acknowledged, and the primero sat back in his command seat as the huge battleships closed in to secure their conquest.
* * *
QUENTIN BUTLER’S ARMORED vehicle crunched through the debris in the main machine city, carrying the conquering commander forward. He surveyed the devastation, saddened by the waste of a beautiful planet. Factories and industrial lines spread out across a landscape that once had been agricultural fields.
Liberated human slaves ran about in the streets, dazed, seeking shelter, breaking free of their holding pens, abandoning labor lines where guardian robots now hung stunned and useless after the pulse bombardment from the skies.
Quentin was reminded of the liberation of Parmentier, early in his career. On Parmentier, the stricken people had been unable to believe that the thinking machines were finally vanquished. Now, in the years of prosperity since he’d ceded temporary governorship of the reconquered planet to Rikov, the people worshipped Quentin and the Butler Brothers as saviors.
But these Honru survivors did not shout or cheer as Quentin had anticipated; they seemed too surprised to know how to react….
Groups of sharp-eyed mercenaries and swordmasters raced forward into the remaining battle zones. Too independent, they would never make a good organized combat unit, but the mercenaries were effective solo fighters and crack demolition troops. They sought out any robot that still functioned.
Unprotected work machines and sentinels, considered expendable by the evermind, had been destroyed during the first pulse bombardment. But now combat meks came out, still fighting though they were clearly damaged and disoriented. Wielding pulse-swords, the swift and deadly mercenaries eliminated their enemies one by one.
From his jouncing command vehicle, Quentin could see the armored citadel through which the Omnius evermind linked itself to the city. To reach this primary target, the Ginaz mercenaries fought like whirlwinds, pushing their way closer and closer, heedless of their own danger.
Quentin heaved a sigh. If only he’d had more men like that fifteen years ago for the second defense of Ix, he would not have lost so many fighters and civilians. Vowing that Omnius would not retake any world that the Army of the Jihad had freed, Quentin had driven back the machine incursion at great, but necessary, cost. He had been trapped in an underground cave-in himself, nearly buried alive before his rescue…. That battle had strengthened his reputation as a hero and earned him more accolades than he knew what to do with.
Now, as the mercenaries swept through the Honru city, another ragtag group of humans came forward, surprising him. These people carried hastily created banners, thrown together from rags, paint, and whatever they could scrounge from the city. Chanting and cheering, they cried out the name of martyred Serena Butler. Though they had few effective weapons, they threw themselves into the fight.
Quentin watched from his command vehicle. He had encountered Martyrists before.
Apparently, even here on oppressed Honru, captive humans talked quietly of the Priestess of the Jihad, her murdered baby, and the first Grand Patriarch. News had probably been carried to them by new prisoners from recently conquered League Worlds. In captivity, they had secretly prayed to the Three Martyrs, hoping their angels might come down from Heaven and strike Omnius dead. On Unallied Planets, free League Worlds, and even here under the oppression of Omnius rule, people swore to sacrifice themselves for the greater cause of mankind— just the way Serena, Manion the Innocent, and Iblis Ginjo had done.
Now the Martyrists surged forward, galvanized. They threw themselves upon the remaining machines, smashing stunned worker drones or hurling themselves upon armed combat meks. By Quentin’s estimation, five fanatics died for every robot they managed to deactivate, but this did not deter them. The only way the primero could save these people would be to end the conflict quickly— and that meant annihilating Omnius in the central citadel.
If all else failed, Quentin had the option of dropping enhanced pulse-atomics on the city. The warheads would instantly vaporize Omnius and obliterate thinking-machine control from Honru… but that would kill all of these people as well. Quentin did not wish to win at such a cost. Not as long as he had other alternatives.
Finished with their kindjal raids, both Rikov and Faykan found their father’s command vehicle and reported directly to him. After seeing the Martyrists, the Butler Brothers had reached the same conclusion. “We need a commando raid, Father,” said Rikov. “Now.”
“Here on the battlefield I am your primero, not your father,” Quentin reminded him. “You will address me as such.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still, he’s right,” Faykan added. “Let me lead a group of mercenaries directly into the citadel. We’ll plant explosives and destroy the evermind.”
“No, Faykan. You are a commanding officer now, not a wild soldier. Such adventures are for others to engage in.”
Rikov spoke again. “Then let me select mercenaries, sir. Within the hour, we will destroy Omnius— I’ll lead them myself.”
Quentin shook his head again. “The mercenaries already know their mission requirements.”
The words had barely left the primero’s lips when a huge explosion ripped through the distant city blocks. The Omnius citadel turned into a blinding flash of light, and an expanding shockwave vaporized the citadel and toppled buildings in an increasing radius. As the light dwindled, the dust seemed to implode. Not a scrap of the evermind’s fortress remained.
Moments later, the leader of the Ginaz mercenaries strode up to the command vehicle. “The problem has been taken care of, Primero.”
Quentin grinned. “So it has.” He clasped the hands of Faykan and Rikov and raised them in a triumphal salute. “A good day’s work. And another momentous conquest over Omnius.”