If I were given the opportunity to write my own epitaph, there is a great deal I would not say, much I would never admit. “He had the heart of a warrior.” That is the best memorial I could hope for.
— SUPREME COMMANDER VORIAN ATREIDES,
to a biographer
In the blackness of deep space, the remnants of the Jihad space-folding fleet drifted in loose formation while the crews worked feverishly to ready their warships for the final assault on Corrin. Repairs were made, warheads primed, Holtzman shields and engines tuned for the last battle.
“Within hours, we will eradicate the last Omnius,” Supreme Commander Atreides transmitted over the ship-to-ship comline. “Within hours, the human race will be free for the first time in over a thousand years.”
Listening to the speech from the bridge of his own ballista, Primero Quentin Butler nodded. All around him in space, spangled with the faint illumination of distant stars, the surviving spacefolders gave off a comforting glow from their interior lights and green collision-avoidance sensors. He heard a steady stream of chatter over the comlines, continuing transmissions on the progress of preparations, and reports from the ever-alert guards at every perimeter. The Martyrists offered hymns of thanksgiving and prayers for vengeance.
Almost over now. Corrin should be completely undefended, the robotic extermination fleet weeks away.
Quentin’s heart felt like a dead cinder, charred by the white-hot knowledge that he had just killed billions of innocent human slaves held prisoner by Omnius, but he struggled not to allow those horrific thoughts to penetrate his consciousness. In his darkest moments, Quentin could only draw inspiration from what Supreme Commander Atreides had said of the harsh decision he had forced upon the Army of the Jihad: Although they had already inflicted a terrible toll, vastly more humans would die if they didn’t steel themselves to follow through and accept the responsibility for what they must do.
A complete victory against the thinking machines, no matter the cost.
Quentin hated just to sit here on his battered ship. He needed to get moving again, to finish this terrible task. If they stopped too long, they would all start thinking too much….
Corrin, the primary Synchronized World— the last Synchronized World— held greater importance than all the others. And now that it was the only remaining bastion of the evermind, the stakes here were highest, the danger greater than ever. If any portion of the huge assault fleet had remained behind to protect Omnius Prime, the thinking machines would devote all their resources to preserving and defending their very existence. With the ships of the Great Purge already battered, their numbers diminished, this would certainly be the most deadly battle of all.
And if Omnius managed to preserve a copy of itself before the atomic destruction, if an update captain like Seurat escaped with a gelsphere of the evermind, then everything would be lost. The thinking machines would be able to propagate again.
Vorian Atreides had proposed an innovative solution. Among the weapons the Army of the Jihad carried were pulse-scrambler transmitters, which could be installed in thousands of satellites. Before the remnants of the human fleet engaged the enemy at Corrin, they would spread the Holtzman satellites in a net around the machine planet, effectively trapping the evermind….
Now, before the final push, Quentin watched his officers and noncom technicians go about their duties, looking harried and rushed. His temporary adjutant stood nearby, young and eager, ready to relay his superior’s commands or perform key tasks, so that Quentin could focus on the upcoming conflict— would it truly be the final battle?
He had known nothing but the Jihad for as long as he could remember. He’d become a war hero early in his career, married a Butler, and fathered three sons who also served in the struggle against the thinking machines. His entire life had been dedicated to this one unrelenting struggle. Although by now, he didn’t see how he could ever recover from his soul-deep fatigue, he just wanted this war to be over. He felt like the mythical Sisyphus, condemned to a hellish, impossible task for the balance of eternity. Perhaps if he ever returned to Salusa— if Salusa survived this battle— he would become a recluse in the City of Introspection and finish out his days sitting next to Wandra, staring sightlessly into the air….
But this was wartime, and Quentin forced himself to rise above such self-indulgent thoughts. They weakened him emotionally and physically. As the liberator of Parmentier, defender of Ix, he was admired by countless jihadis and mercenaries. No matter how tired he felt, no matter how despondent, the primero could never show it.
Thus far, the nuclear bombardment campaign was a success, but the victories had come at tremendous cost. After so many successive space-folding jumps, the entire fleet was less than a quarter of its original strength. Many of his best and brightest fighters, some of them longtime friends, were dead. And so many innocents had been slaughtered on the Synchronized Worlds, disintegrated in an atomic haze.
Quentin felt the twin weights of responsibility and survivor’s guilt, when so many were gone. One day, when he had time, there would be letters to write and family members to visit… if he himself survived.
A number of ships in the final assault group had been damaged in battle and repaired sufficiently to function as warhead-delivery vessels, though without important offensive or defensive capabilities. The artillery banks on some were ruined; others had inoperable Holtzman shields. A dozen ships could still fold space, but had no offensive capabilities at all. They could only be used in rescue operations or, to a limited extent, as filler vessels that made the Army of the Jihad force look larger than it really was.
Every scrap had its part to play.
Across the comline, Quentin’s bright-eyed adjutant broadcast last-minute instructions to every remaining ship in the battle group. When Quentin acknowledged his readiness, Supreme Commander Atreides coordinated the space-folding launch for the final offensive against Omnius.
“Set course for Corrin!”
In response, the officers and troops cheered, a great roar that filled the speaker system and sent chills down Quentin’s spine. Decades of warfare had led up to this point. Every technical skill the fighters had learned in battle, every instinct, would be needed if the Army of the Jihad was going to succeed.
Space folded.
Then, like fish leaping above the surface of an ocean, the battered human fleet emerged from space. Beyond the large ball of Corrin, Quentin saw a ruddy sun casting bloodred rays, as if in anticipation of the human lives that would be lost here today.
* * *
ENEMY VESSELS BEGAN popping out of space, appearing from nowhere. More than two hundred vessels, all bearing the marks of the Army of the Jihad. “They have come to eliminate us, Gilbertus,” the robot said.
“Our defenses will hold,” the evermind insisted, booming from a wallscreen. “I have run simulations and calculations.”
Piece by piece, the first waves of returning thinking-machine ships had taken up defensive positions around Corrin, forming a series of formidable rings and traps. However, the bulk of the robot assault fleet was still on its way. The ships currently in position did not appear to be sufficient to hold off the human fanatics. Erasmus stared at the hrethgir attackers bearing down on Corrin, knowing their cargo holds were full of pulse-atomic weaponry.
Once again, Omnius had clearly underestimated the human enemies. Erasmus could also see that the rapidly assembled machine defenses and the first handful of returned robot battleships were not sufficient to stand against this force.
Statistically speaking, the hrethgir might actually win.
* * *
AS THE FIRST tactical reports came in, Quentin stepped closer to the projections. “Their defenses are stronger than we expected. What are all those battleships doing here? I thought the extermination fleet departed for Salusa weeks ago. Did they leave a guardian force behind?”
“It’s possible. Or the Corrin-Omnius might have been warned,” Vorian Atreides spoke across the comline. “But we can still break through— if we throw everything into this last push. It’ll just be tougher than the victories we’ve had so far.”
Quentin counted his own ships. Thankfully, no more had been lost in the latest jump from their rendezvous point in deep space, which gave him a modicum of encouragement.
“First, we deploy the net of scrambler satellites. Our primary objective is to keep Omnius from escaping.” Vorian sent orders for the Jihad vessels to send out their swiftly constructed defensive buoys, each one equipped with a pulse generator. Orbital scientists had planned the most efficient grid, a tight web of destruction that would sew up a barrier impenetrable to the gelcircuitry minds of thinking machines. It was the reverse concept of Tio Holtzman’s energy shields, which League Worlds normally used to keep the machines out.
The robotic ships did not move forward to engage the Jihad vessels, maintaining their tight positions in close orbit, as if daring the humans to approach. The scrambler satellites scattered all around Corrin, like seeds in space moving into position.
“That’ll take care of them,” Vor said. “Prepare to activate the scrambler web on my command— “
On Quentin’s bridge, the first officer yelled from her observation station, “More incoming enemy ships, sir! A lot of them!”
“By God and Saint Serena, look at them all!” cried one of the Martyrist volunteers. “The extermination fleet has come back.”
“That’s a hundred times our firepower,” another said. “We don’t have enough ships left to fight them!”
Quentin turned away from the small group of robot ships clustered around Corrin itself. More of the immense machine fleet came around Corrin, with the bloated sun behind them. Though this still wasn’t the number of ships he and Faykan had seen on their recon expedition, the military craft kept coming, kept filling more and more of the starfield. Their engines were hot, and the battle fleet was spread out and disorganized, as if they had rushed pell-mell back to the system.
Quentin stared, trying to assess the sheer numbers of returning machine vessels. “Activate Holtzman shields. Damn! They’re too close— and we’re much too inaccurate— to fold space past them.”
From his flagship, Supreme Commander Atreides transmitted, “They knew we were coming. Somehow. The Corrin-Omnius called them back to save himself before we could get here.”
The enormous robot ships clustered closer and closer together, in a formidable reinforced cordon to shield the last Omnius. It was clearly an act of desperation, and the evermind seemed to understand the stakes. But with the League fleet at one-quarter strength, having already been hit hard, Quentin concluded— much as he hated to do so— that they did not have enough firepower to blast their way through.
Even so, he drew a deep breath and transmitted to the flagship, “We’ve come too far to give up now. Should I give the order to engage? Perhaps enough of us will break through to drop our pulse-atomics before they get organized.”
Vor hesitated just a moment. “A useless gesture at this point, Primero. None of your ships could penetrate the atmosphere and release nuclear payloads. I won’t waste lives.”
“We are volunteering, Supreme Commander. It’s our last chance.”
“No, stand off. Do not engage.”
Quentin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “At least let us activate the scrambler satellites we just deployed. Then they won’t be able to add reinforcements.”
“On the contrary, Primero, I want them all to congregate at Corrin. Keep the scrambler net inactive, for now.” His voice carried a self-satisfied lilt. “I have an idea.”
From the planet below, robotic defenders shot upward, powering their weapons, prepared to stand as a suicidal barrier if the League force should press forward. Shooting around the red-giant sun and careening into the inner system, the main machine battle fleet kept massing like locusts over Corrin. Returning enemy warships swept in, taking up positions in low orbit, forming an impenetrable barricade.
Now Quentin understood. “Ah, so you are letting the thinking machines stick their own heads in the noose.”
“We may as well let them do our work for us, Primero.”
Wave after wave of returning machine ships formed defensive layers above Corrin. Quentin knew the survivors of the Great Purge could not have fought them. No possible defense of Salusa could have withstood such an enemy, but at least they had returned here. He watched as the final stragglers appeared, forming an impregnable defense of the last remaining Synchronized World.
“All right,” Supreme Commander Atreides said. “Now activate the scrambler web.” He sounded as if he was smiling.
Above Corrin, the small Holtzman satellites switched on, creating a lethal net all around the planet. Any robotic ship passing through the energy grid would be erased. It was a line no gelcircuitry brain could cross.
“We didn’t destroy them,” Vor said, “but all the remaining thinking machines are now neatly bottled up at Corrin. Those scrambler satellites will keep them from causing trouble for the time being.”
“Looks like a standoff,” Quentin said, as scanner reports came in. His voice sounded infinitely weary and disappointed. “They’re cornered like rats.”
Vor assessed the situation and knew the odds. “Now we need nearly all of our remaining ships to stay here and make sure the machines can’t go anywhere else— until we find a way to finish them off.” He pondered the next step, knowing that the thinking machines were reinforcing their defenses every second he delayed. But the scrambler satellites would hold them. Finally, Vor shook his head.
“Now that we have the last Omnius bottled up, we must maintain our force at Corrin and bring back as many other vessels as we can possibly throw at this planet— faster than Omnius can manufacture reinforcements. Corrin is the last stand, both for thinking machines and for humanity.” He clenched a fist, hammered it down on the arm of his command chair. “Primero Butler, shuttle over to my flagship. You and I will return to Zimia to deliver our report.”
“Yes, Supreme Commander.” Quentin’s back was bowed, his shoulders slumped with the weight of defeat. They had sacrificed so many lives, worked so hard… suddenly he drew a quick breath as the realization flooded him. This standoff did imply a victory of a sort. To cheer his soldiers, he spoke over the general comline. “Think of it, men— look out there and see the entire terrible fleet. The whole robotic fleet! By forcing Omnius to recall those ships, we have saved the lives of everyone on Salusa Secundus.”
“I would rather have destroyed the thinking machines,” his first officer murmured, slamming her fist on a chair back, obviously as frustrated as he was to leave the job undone.
“There is still time for that,” Quentin said. “We will find a way. Prepare to withdraw to a safe distance, but maintain full containment posture.”