The best plans evolve along the way. When a plan truly succeeds, it takes on a life of its own, quite apart from anything its original creator intended.
— SUPREME BASHAR VORIAN ATREIDES
Vor had always known the Titans were still at large, and that his father would not sit quietly forever, especially now that Omnius had been contained. Seventeen times since the end of the Jihad, Vor had spoken to the League Parliament, insisting that a military operation be launched to scour out the cymeks on Hessra, but no one else had seen the urgency. Other priorities were easily found.
They would always underestimate Agamemnon.
After racing back from Wallach IX with the news of the cymek attack and presumed death of Quentin Butler, Porce Bludd had sounded the alarm. On the heels of the recent piranha mite terror— against which Vor had also warned the League— and the appearance of an even worse strain of the Scourge on Rossak, Vor was sure the government could finally be shocked out of its complacency.
At least he was no longer dismissed outright. Despite his apparent youth, the parliamentary representatives knew he was an old fixture, a veteran who had outlived all his comrades in arms. He demanded immediate action— which translated into months of discussions.
One entire Army of Humanity squadron had vanished and was presumed destroyed. Now Viceroy Faykan Butler had returned with the alarming report that the Titans now knew about the deadly laser-shield weakness, a secret that had been so closely held for the entire Jihad.
And Faykan also reported that his own father had been converted into a cymek himself!
Vor seethed at this latest outrage. Finally, at least, they might be jolted into taking some action, but he doubted it would be swift or severe enough for his tastes.
He needed to get away from the insanity of Rayna’s daily Cultist rallies, the endless meetings of the League Parliament, and his irrelevant duties as nominal Supreme Bashar of the Army of Humanity, while he waited for instructions from the government. How had it come to this? A part of him longed for the days of open warfare and undisputed enemies, when he had been able to make up his own mind to launch a devastating raid, and let the consequences settle themselves out. He had always teased Xavier for so strictly following regulations and orders….
When Bashar Abulurd Harkonnen invited him to visit an ancient archaeological site outside the city, Vor gladly accepted. The newly promoted officer promised serenity, fresh air, and a place where they could talk, which both men sorely needed.
Though they were ostensibly taking time for themselves, their mood was serious. By now, Abulurd looked even older than his mentor, who treated him like a kid brother. With Leronica dead for all these years, Vor no longer bothered with the self-aging makeup or artificial tints of gray in his dark hair. But his eyes had grown older, especially now that he knew what Agamemnon was really doing.
The archaeological site was on a sunny hillside an hour north of Zimia by groundcar. The military driver, an old veteran of the Jihad who had suffered a serious chest wound on Honru, told the two officers repeatedly how he wished he could still serve, and how he prayed to Saint Serena every day. He had a small, partly concealed badge that showed he sympathized with Rayna’s movement. The driver dropped them off and drove his car to a shaded area where he would wait for them.
The two men wandered alone into the isolated archaeological site. Reading signs and avoiding his real thoughts, Abulurd said, “This region was once inhabited by Buddislamics before they were freed from generations of slavery and went off to settle on Unallied Planets.”
“Your father will never be freed from his slavery now,” Vor muttered, dropping a blanket of reserved silence over them. As a cymek, Quentin Butler could never come home again.
They both stared at the age-weathered ruins, and Abulurd made a halfhearted attempt to read displays and markers, occasionally stumbling in his recitation as his own misery broke through his facade. “After turning their backs on our civilization, the Zensunnis and Zenshiites entered a long dark age; to this day, most of them live as primitives on far-flung planets.” He squinted at the plaque in the bright sunlight. “Muadru pottery has also been found here.”
“The Cogitors have some connection with the Muadru,” Vor said. “And Vidad is the only one left alive.” The mention of Vidad made him think of Serena and her death.
No one alive had as much history with, or as much resentment toward, the Titans as he did. Agamemnon had raised him, trained him, and taught him tactics— all so Vor could one day oppress human slaves. But he had turned that knowledge against the thinking machines during the Jihad, continually defeating them by using inside information. Now Vor had more inside information about Agamemnon, and he intended to use it in a very different manner.
The two men sat on a pile of building rubble and shared wrapped gyraks, sandwiches made by locals using stone-ground bread and highly seasoned meats. They washed the food down with bottles of cold Salusan beer. Vor didn’t say much, his mind full of important concerns. He shuddered, remembering the terrible “reward” that the cymek general had once promised him. If I had not escaped from Earth with Serena and Ginjo, Agamemnon would have converted me into a cymek, too. Like father, like son.
From the standpoint of a military leader, Vor had done all he could for the League. The exhausted human race had neither energy nor enthusiasm for another long struggle. Long after the crisis, many leaders were horrified to contemplate the nuclear holocaust he’d led against the Synchronized Worlds, shamed at what they had done. Most people didn’t remember the urgency, the horrors, the necessity of those dangerous days. They only hung their heads at the memory of the billions of human slaves who had been killed as bystanders during the annihilation of Omnius. They didn’t remember that billions more humans would have died if the thinking machines had succeeded instead. Vor had seen all too many times how mutable history could be.
Now that Agamemnon had finally returned to cause mayhem again, Vor felt he had to fight one more battle— alone, without anyone second-guessing him.
Gritting his teeth, Vor looked at Abulurd and said, “I know what I have to do. I’ll need your help, and your complete confidentiality.”
“Of course, Supreme Bashar.”
And he proceeded to tell Abulurd how he intended to get rid of Agamemnon once and for all.