The Battle of Corrin

Victory. Defeat. These are impostors, illusions. Fight fearlessly toward your own death, and this life cannot count you among its horde of slaves.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
The bulk of the battered space-folding fleet, still loaded with their remaining pulse-atomics, stayed behind at Corrin to keep the thinking machines at bay. Day after day, they sought even the smallest opening. Thanks to the dense net of scrambler satellites, the forces were at a standoff, for the time being, but the equilibrium was unstable.

Vorian Atreides and Quentin Butler rushed to Salusa Secundus. Back at the capital world, the Supreme Commander cobbled together another group of League battleships, drawing away the last-stand defenses in orbit over Salusa even as evacuees began to return. He called for the last great vessels, even those not equipped with space-folding engines, to launch for Corrin without delay. “I need every javelin and ballista. Every ship.”

“That would leave us all undefended!” cried the Interim Viceroy, who had been one of the first to flee Salusa, and one of the first to return as soon as the planet was no longer considered to be in danger. “Is that militarily— or politically— wise?”

“At the moment, there is nothing else to defend against. If we do not hold the last Omnius at Corrin— if we do not find a way to destroy the only remaining evermind— then no defense will be sufficient,” Vor said. “I am the Supreme Commander of the Army of the Jihad, and this is a military decision: I will take those ships.”

He had the blood of billions on his hands, the price he had accepted in order to complete the Great Purge. He did not intend to stop now. Quentin stood stonily at his side, his expression hard but his voice quiet whenever he managed to speak. “We cannot become complacent— not now, not ever. Though contained at Corrin, with their backs to the wall, the machines are more dangerous than ever.”

“There is no time to lose. The last evermind has gone into a bunker mentality, and the machines will devote all of their resources to building new weapons and enhancing their defenses, to prevent us from getting through,” Vor said before the stunned-looking Council. “And over the next weeks or months, for every ship Omnius builds, we must construct another one to counter it. No matter what the cost, we cannot let the machines get loose again.”

Quentin gazed across the table at the shaken politicians. “The moment we see a chink in Omnius’s defenses, we have to be ready to break through.” Looking drawn and broken, he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “We have sold our souls for this victory, and I will not see all those sacrifices squandered.”

* * *
BACK HOME IN Zimia, Vor stared out at the golden rising sun that painted the lovely buildings, many of which were still empty. Ship after ship came back, bringing the evacuees from their hiding places outside the system. During the Great Purge, Abulurd and Faykan had done remarkable work preparing Salusa for the worst, and now the two Butler sons looked from their father to the Supreme Commander.

Leronica was already buried here, though he wished he had been able to take her back to Caladan. Estes and Kagin had gone back there during the evacuation, and he doubted they would come to Salusa again. There was no reason for them to return here.

As the first returning refugees rejoiced in their near-complete victory, the League began the arduous task of assessing the success, and the cost, of the Great Purge. Numerous spacefolder scouting expeditions were dispatched to document the destruction of Synchronized Worlds. One by one, Martyrist volunteers scanned and mapped the devastated worlds to verify that no thinking machines remained. In a matter of days, detailed reports and holophotos arrived showing black, smoldering worlds. It was as if each of the machine planets had been dipped into a cauldron of hell and hurled back into space.

Now, other than Corrin, the evermind had no territory left, not one of his more than five hundred Synchronized Worlds. The cheering population of the League— those who had survived the Scourge and its aftermath as well as centuries of depredations from Omnius— called it a blessing. Martyrists called it the vengeful Sword of Serena….

During the first formal meeting of the reconstituted Jihad Council, Vor immediately proposed, and pushed through, the production and assembly of many more guardian warships to maintain a tight vigil around the trapped machine forces. He feared that in a concerted suicidal run, the battleships of Omnius might be able to break through the Holtzman scrambler net and destroy the League defenders stationed above the planet. More space mines, more scrambler satellites, more weapons, and more League military vessels would prevent Omnius from escaping.

The Army of the Jihad would lay siege at Corrin for months, years, decades— whatever it took.

“Today, ninety-three years after Serena Butler summoned us to fight the thinking machines, I declare that the Jihad is over!” Grand Patriarch Boro-Ginjo announced to a cheering Hall of Parliament, filled to over-flowing by a crowd that rushed in from the plaza. “We have crushed Omnius for all time!”

Standing beside him, Supreme Commander Vorian Atreides felt emptiness and exhaustion. All around him the people celebrated, but for him the war was not over as long as any thinking machine remained, as long as Omnius had one last stronghold.

Nearby, Quentin appeared distraught and dispirited. Onlookers might have perceived this as fatigue, but it was much more than that. We have taken far too many lives in order to achieve this victory. He prayed that mankind would never be forced to use such weapons again….

* * *
VOR RODE ALONG the streets in an open groundcar while crowds applauded him. More than four million people waved colorful Jihad banners and flashed holoprojections of him, Serena Butler and her baby, Iblis Ginjo, and other Heroes of the Jihad.

One is missing. He thought of Xavier, his former comrade in arms. Perhaps Abulurd is right. We should at least try to rectify the errors of history. But not with the wounds of the Jihad so fresh in the minds of the public. It was a time for healing, forgetting, and rebuilding.

When the groundcar stopped in the center of Zimia, he stepped out into an enthusiastic, adoring throng. Men clapped him on the back; women kissed him. Security officers cleared the way, and Vor proceeded to an awards platform erected at the center of the great plaza, in the shadow of immense government buildings.

At Vor’s insistence, a uniformed Tercero Abulurd Harkonnen sat on one side of the ceremonial stage, ostensibly as his adjutant, though Abulurd and his older brother Faykan were also to receive honors for the work they had done here on Salusa. The Grand Patriarch had questioned the wisdom of displaying a Harkonnen in so prominent a position, but Vor had given him such a cold and angry look that Boro-Ginjo immediately withdrew his objection.

After nine decades of military service, Vor already had so many medals that he could not possibly wear all of them at once. He wore only a few ribbons and medals on his dress uniform. A Supreme Commander didn’t need to outshine anyone. Leronica had never cared about the medals either; she would rather have had him with her, spending more time at home instead of on the battlefield.

Even so, the people needed to give accolades to them, to express their adoration. Politicians wanted to be involved in the festive process as well. I’m the most famous man in the League of Nobles, and I don’t give a damn about awards or glory. I just want peace and quiet.

Thus, Vor accepted the medals and plaudits from the plump and satisfied-looking Grand Patriarch. He even delivered a short but stirring speech, praising everyone who had served in the Army of the Jihad, and all those who had vanished in the Great Purge.

Vor needed time away from all the frenzy of the giddy celebration, time to put his life in perspective. He needed to get to know himself again, and discover if he had anything left that he wanted to do after such a long life.

* * *
SURROUNDED BY A formidable wall of battleships orbiting their last bastion in space, Omnius and Erasmus assessed the situation. Above Corrin, in a standoff with the protective machine battleships, the League vessels hovered, always alert for any chance to release their last warheads.

“The verminous hrethgir will be back with reinforcements,” Omnius said.

“No doubt they intend to lay siege to Corrin,” Erasmus said. “Will they have the patience and diligence to maintain the necessary force for the necessary length of time? Humans do not excel in long-term planning and execution such as this.”

“Nevertheless, we will build new ships, construct superior defenses. Our highest priority is to remain secure here, impregnable. Indefinitely, if necessary. Machines can outlast humans.”








Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson's books