There is a maddening equilibrium in the universe. Every moment of joy is balanced by an equal measure of tragedy.
— ABULURD HARKONNEN,
private journals
By the time his promotion to bashar made its way through the bureaucracy of the Army of Humanity, Abulurd Harkonnen had already handpicked a team to analyze the deadly piranha mites. He’d studied the service records and accomplishments of loyal scientists, mechanics, and engineers, choosing only the best. He invoked the name of Supreme Bashar Vorian Atreides to requisition a newly vacated and upgraded laboratory space not far from the Grand Patriarch’s administrative mansion.
Many thousands of the tiny burned-out machines had been found scattered like deadly hail pellets throughout Zimia. Abulurd’s research team dismantled more than a hundred of them to discover the rigid programming circuitry and the tiny but efficient power source that had kept each mite moving— and killing.
Though he was not a scientist himself, Abulurd regularly inspected the progress in the laboratories. “Do you have any ideas yet for defenses against them?” he asked each man and woman as he passed their analysis stations. “How do we stop them next time? Omnius is very persistent.”
“Plenty of ideas, sir,” said a female engineer without looking up from an intense magnifying scope, through which she studied the miniaturized machinery. “But before we can do anything definite, we need to understand these murderous little weapons much better.”
“Would Holtzman pulses work against them?”
Another engineer shook his head. “Not likely. These devices are very primitive. They don’t use gelcircuitry technology, so the Holtzman disrupters can’t damage them. Once we understand their motivational programming, however, it’s likely we can develop a similarly effective jammer.”
“Carry on,” Abulurd said. When he glanced at the chronometer, he excused himself and hurried to his temporary quarters so that he could prepare for the ceremony. Today he was scheduled to have his new rank insignia pinned on during a formal presentation.
Abulurd’s small room was austere. Since he’d recently returned from a year of watchdog duty around Corrin, he had few personal possessions here. He played no music to relax. His life was in the Army of Humanity, and he had little time for shopping, hobbies, luxuries, or anything else.
Though he was thirty-eight years old and had occasionally toyed with romantic diversions, he was not married, had no children. He hadn’t contemplated a time when he might settle down and focus on other priorities. Smiling, he put on his carefully pressed formal uniform. For a long moment, he inspected himself in the mirror. He practiced a suitably solemn expression, but his heart hammered with excitement. Abulurd wished his father could be here. On such a day, even Quentin Butler could have been proud of his youngest son.
But the retired primero had gone with Porce Bludd some time ago on a surveillance tour of the radioactive Synchronized Worlds. In his father’s place, Faykan had agreed to do Abulurd the honor of pinning on his new rank.
He inspected himself one more time, decided that his hair, uniform, and expression were regulation perfect, and departed for the ceremony.
* * *
SEVENTY-EIGHT SOLDIERS WOULD receive promotions and commendations at this ceremony, and Abulurd waited patiently in his place while the lower ranks and the younger enlisted men received their rewards. He observed the older officers, the scarred war veterans, the consummate politicians, the brilliant tactical experts who had shaped the Jihad and the years of recovery afterward. They looked proud to usher a new crop of officers farther along in their careers.
It was a stinging disappointment, yet oddly not unexpected when Faykan changed his plans at the last moment. The Interim Viceroy sent formal apologies that he would not, in fact, be able to present his younger brother with the new rank insignia. He did not detail his excuses, but Abulurd knew his brother’s reasons were political. At least he hadn’t bothered to lie about it.
Inside the echoing auditorium, the officer sat in silence. Though his heart grew leaden, he allowed none of his hurt to show. Such a display would have shamed him. Just because Abulurd had taken the surname of Harkonnen, it did not mean he no longer honored the Butler name.
Near the reviewing stand, a pedestal held the transparent preservation canister that contained the living brain of Vidad, the last of the Ivory Tower Cogitors. Vidad had returned to Salusa shortly after the Great Purge, announcing that all the other ancient philosopher brains had been killed when cymeks overran their stronghold. Vidad spoke little about what else he had done on his long journey; Abulurd had heard Vorian Atreides mutter that the Cogitor had probably wanted to be out of the way, in case the machine battle fleet did hammer into the League Worlds. Now the lone Cogitor remained on Salusa, curious, willing to either help or interfere, depending on his esoteric moods.
As the ceremony proceeded, Abulurd sat rigidly, recalling all he had accomplished, how he had unerringly followed orders, honored his commanding officers. He had always felt duty-bound to do what was required of him, not for applause, medals, or other accolades. But when he watched other officers receive the insignia of their promotions, with friends and families cheering, he understood how wonderful it could be. He suppressed a sigh.
Raising Abulurd to the level of bashar was the last activity in the already long and tedious process. When his turn finally came, Abulurd walked woodenly up to the stage, alone. The master of ceremonies announced his name, and mutters rippled through the audience along with polite applause.
Then a commotion occurred at the officer’s bench. The master of ceremonies announced, “A new presenter will offer the rank insignia to Abulurd Harkonnen.”
Abulurd turned as the doors opened. His face lit up, his mouth split into a grin, and his heart felt as if it would lift right out of his chest. Supreme Bashar Atreides had arrived.
Smiling, Vor joined Abulurd on the stage. “Someone has to do this right.” The veteran warrior held up the bashar insignia like a coveted treasure. Abulurd stood ramrod-straight, presenting himself. Vor stepped forward. Although he looked barely half Abulurd’s age, he carried himself with extreme confidence and respect.
“Abulurd Harkonnen, in recognition of the valor, innovation, and bravery you displayed during the recent attack on Zimia— not to mention countless other worthy demonstrations of your value to the Army of the Jihad over the course of your career— I am pleased to raise you from the rank of bator to the superior rank of bashar, level four. I can think of no other soldier in the Army of the Jihad who deserves this more than you do.”
With that, Supreme Bashar Atreides applied the insignia to Abulurd’s chest, then turned him so that he could face the onlookers. “Observe well your new bashar,” he said, keeping a hand on his shoulder. “He still has great things to accomplish for the League of Nobles.”
The applause remained somewhat muted and scattered, but the young man paid no attention to anything other than the look of paternal satisfaction on Vorian’s face. No one else’s opinion mattered as much to him, not even his father’s or his brother’s.
Now Vor turned to face the other military commanders, the League officials, even Vidad. “And after witnessing the bravery of Bashar Harkonnen in our most recent crisis, I am reminded of the similar deeds performed by his grandfather Xavier Harkonnen.” He paused, as if daring them to object. “I was a good friend to Xavier, and I knew the true loyalty in his heart. I also know, for a fact, that his name was maliciously blackened and the truth obscured for political purposes. Now that the Jihad is over, there is no good reason to perpetuate those lies and protect people long dead. I propose a League commission to clear the Harkonnen name.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. Abulurd wanted to hug him, but remained firmly at attention.
“But, Supreme Bashar… that was eighty years ago!” Grand Patriarch Boro-Ginjo said.
“Seventy-six years. Does that make a difference?” Vor looked at him with hard eyes. Xander Boro-Ginjo would certainly not like the findings of the commission. “I have waited too long already.”
Then, like a window breaking unexpectedly in the silence of night, Abulurd’s happiness was shattered. A disheveled, florid-faced man pushed his way into the presentation auditorium. “Where is the Supreme Bashar? I must find Vorian Atreides!” Abulurd recognized the Poritrin nobleman Porce Bludd. “I bring terrible tidings.”
Immediately Vorian switched to his emergency mode, the same way Abulurd had seen him react during the piranha mite crisis. “We were attacked on Wallach IX,” Bludd cried. “My space yacht is damaged— “
The Supreme Bashar cut him off, attempting to make the man organize his thoughts. “Who attacked you? Thinking machines? Is Omnius still alive on one of the devastated worlds?”
“Not Omnius— cymeks. Titans! They were building monuments, establishing a new base in the ruins. Quentin and I stopped to inspect, and the Titans charged out. They struck us, shot down Quentin’s scout flyer. They tore his ship apart. I tried to rescue him, but the cymeks attacked and drove me off, doing significant damage to my ship. Then I saw them fall on Quentin.”
“The cymeks!” Vorian said, unable to believe.
“No matter how many enemies we defeat,” Abulurd said in a shaky voice, picturing his father trying to fight the machines, “another rises to take its place.”