Navigators of Dune

68

After a long slow voyage, Admiral Harte’s fleet of old-style FTL ships had arrived at the outskirts of the Lampadas system, unseen. In accordance with his orders from the Emperor, Harte directed his ships to stand down and wait in communication silence, setting a trap to be sprung when the time was right.

His crew deployed stealth-wrapped recon satellites, scout buoys, and shielded picket ships to monitor Lampadas and the Butlerian fleet that had returned from attacking Kolhar. He had been surprised to see so many of their warships intact after their assault on VenHold’s fortified headquarters. Both Emperor Roderick and Harte had assumed that the Butlerians would be decimated, if not completely destroyed. His fleet was supposed to be no more than a mop-up operation.

But Manford Torondo’s forces had returned home, looking only slightly bruised — and far too strong for his ships to fight in a head-to-head battle. And if he attacked the Butlerians and failed to eradicate them completely, the fanatics would retaliate in ways the Imperium might not survive. No, it was better to be cautious until he understood the complete situation.

And so his fleet monitored the planet, gathering information, looking for an opening. His powered-down ships hung in the outer darkness for days.

On the flagship he met regularly with his team of tactical specialists and space combat experts. Harte had all the advance information he needed, including comprehensive data on the Butlerian fleet’s abilities and weaknesses. The Emperor had given him great latitude in his orders, instructing him to look for an opportunity — and if one came up, to pounce on it.

Then such an opportunity appeared. The VenHold Spacing Fleet arrived unexpectedly and launched a full-scale attack against the Butlerians on Lampadas.

“Battle stations!” Admiral Harte shouted. Across his gathered warships, officers ran to their posts; weapons grids powered up, artillery launchers loaded.

But Harte told them to wait. They hung silently in position, observing the clash in Lampadas orbit.

Long-distance surveillance showed the escalating space battle. Detonations vaporized pairs of warships at a time, both Butlerian and VenHold; some of Manford’s ships engaged in suicide runs, ramming and destroying opposing vessels so easily that Harte had no choice but to conclude that the VenHold fleet was, for some incomprehensible reason, unshielded.

The VenHold ships fought back with great fury, destroying one Butlerian vessel after another. The Admiral sat back in astonished satisfaction as the two enemies of the Imperium tore each other apart. “They are doing our work for us,” he said to his adjutant.

Like spectators at a sporting event, Harte’s crew observed the battle for hours. Manford’s fleet was decimated, and the VenHold vessels — reeling despite their victory — had suffered severe damage because they refused to use their shields.

Harte narrowed his gaze. Only a few Butlerian ships drifted in orbit, their crews undoubtedly bloodied and weak, and the damaged VenHold ships were completely vulnerable. He could not pass up such a chance.

Harte felt his anger rise toward Josef Venport, the man who held the Admiral’s ships hostage for months … the man who had laid siege to Salusa and tried to overthrow the Emperor. Venport was an enemy of the Imperium, just as the Butlerians were.

When dispatching this slow, silent fleet from Salusa Secundus, Roderick Corrino had given Harte full authority to act, and now his decision was clear. The chance to finish off Venport was right there in front of him. “Attack!” Harte shouted into the fleet comm-system. “Go in with weapons blazing.”

Maintaining communications silence afterward, his surprise fleet accelerated down toward Lampadas from the edge of the solar system. The VenHold ships might have been able to pick them up on long-range sensors, but Harte was confident no one was looking in his direction. He would catch Directeur Venport completely unawares.

And if any Butlerian ships were still fighting, Harte’s battle group would “accidentally” destroy them, as unintended collateral damage. The Emperor had made it clear that it was necessary to eliminate both Josef Venport and Manford Torondo in order to build a strong Imperium. Harte’s preference would be to leave no survivors on either side.

Emperor Roderick would give him a medal.

Coming in from behind, mostly unseen, his fleet of restored Imperial battleships blasted their way into the reeling remnants of the space battle. With their combined firepower, Harte’s ships destroyed ten unshielded VenHold vessels in the first two minutes.

The comm-lines burst into life with the remnants of the Butlerian fleet declaring, “We are saved! The Imperials have come to rescue us!” Harte ignored the irony, and then Directeur Venport demanded to know who these new attackers were.

Umberto Harte took great pleasure in responding to Venport. “It is an old friend, Directeur. Remember Admiral Harte? By order of Emperor Roderick Corrino, your life is forfeit as a criminal and traitor to the Imperium.” He turned to his weapons officers. “Continue firing until the job is done.”

AS THE CYMEK tossed the pieces of Manford’s mangled body to the streets, Anari screamed and sobbed at the grisly sight. She dropped to her knees and pounded her fist into the ground, ignoring the pain of her shattered ribs and internal bleeding. Her grief ignited a torch of anger and vengeance.

For Manford!

Energized by the memory of their beloved leader, she rose to her feet. Her eyes were bright and fiery, her expression fixed like a mask. Years ago, she had given her life over to Manford, had sworn to protect him. She had failed her master, the worst of all possible failures — he was dead.

She let out a wordless howl, gestured with her sword. Anari didn’t need to give instructions. She merely yelled, “For Manford!”

Tens of thousands of impassioned Butlerians charged forward screaming his name. From across the city, hundreds of thousands joined them. Sweaty, wild-eyed, some burned and bleeding from fighting the cymeks; one man had a broken arm with a splintered bone protruding from his skin, but he seemed to use the pain as euphoria and staggered forward howling his challenge. The sweeping crowd ran into the fray without a care for their own survival, chanting, “Manford! Manford! Manford!”

Against such numbers, even the strongest armor and advanced cymek weaponry could do nothing. The screaming fanatics surged onto Ptolemy’s cymek walker and scrambled up the blood-smeared metal limbs. They broke apart the legs with wrenches and cutting tools, dismantled the cab, blew open the turret, and yanked out Ptolemy’s brain canister.

Howling and screaming, they held up the transparent cylinder, grabbed it and passed it from one set of hands to another. They were bloody, their fingers torn, their nails ripped off from clawing at the metal machine. But they had their enemy now, their prize, the one who murdered Manford.

They lifted Ptolemy’s canister high. It was disconnected from sensors and the speakerpatch, so he could not even scream. With a resounding roar of victory, they smashed open the seal, poured out the blue electrafluid, and dumped the naked pink brain onto the ground.

Thousands of brutal feet stomped until Ptolemy was no more than a thin splattered smear.

AS THE RISING tide of fanatical outrage surged across Empok, the crowds understood how to achieve their ultimate victory. As if possessed by the spirit of Manford himself, Anari led the infuriated followers in wave after wave of destruction. They all knew what to do. In their righteous rage, nothing could stop them.

Hundreds of thousands of Butlerians took down every last one of the rampaging cymeks. The fanatics paid an unspeakably high cost in blood — but they won.

Letting the mayhem continue on its own, Anari went back and wept over the torn remnants of Manford’s body. She cursed herself for failing to die in his place. She should be the one torn apart. Manford should still be alive!

Now, in her terrible misery, she understood exactly how Manford had felt when he held the mangled remains of his beloved Rayna in the wake of the assassin’s bomb blast. Yet Manford had used that anguish and fury to become a bright new flame, the next leader of the Butlerians.

A position he could no longer hold.

Anari touched Manford’s blood-soaked shirt, felt a hard, flat object inside, and drew out the stained icon painting of Rayna Butler surrounded by a halo of purity. He had treasured this, carried it with him every waking moment. Anari Idaho clasped the icon against her breast, feeling a warmth of love, and knowing exactly what Manford and Rayna would want her to do now.

The Butlerians needed a new leader.

SHAKEN BY THE surprise arrival of the Imperial ships, Draigo Roget scrambled to the flickering tactical console of the flagship. “We are betrayed, Directeur.” Harte’s fleet had plunged in from nowhere, opened fire on their unshielded ships. “The Emperor is attacking us.”

“But we are here on Roderick’s own orders!”

The Mentat said, “They hit us right when we were most vulnerable. A masterful treachery.”

The realization sickened Josef. “The Emperor sent them here to crush us while our shields were down and our backs were turned. Get those shields back up!”

Harte’s attack caused enormous damage to Josef’s flagship in the brief moments before the crew could reactivate their Holtzman shields. Meanwhile, on the live feeds from his cymek army down below, he was appalled to see one warrior machine after another go off-line, destroyed by hordes of savages.

Josef ordered his warships to ignore the pathetic scraps of Manford’s fleet and open fire on the Imperial vessels instead. They responded, but Draigo gave a grim Mentat assessment. “After the space battle, our weapons are mostly depleted, Directeur. Even our restored shields are far weaker than they should be. We have suffered great damage.”

Under concentrated Imperial fire, one more VenHold ship fell, its hull ripped open and engines blown off-line; the dying vessel drifted, a dark hulk in space among the other wreckage.

Josef tore the words out of his throat. “These — losses — are—unacceptable!”

Norma Cenva’s voice blared across the static and sparks of the flagship’s bridge. “My prescience did not warn me of this attack. Now too many of my Navigators are lost and we must retreat.”

Josef knew she was right. Admiral Harte intended to wipe them out — and had the weaponry to do so. Their shields were weakening, and their depleted weapons were no match for this large unexpected force. They had been cheated by the Emperor himself.

At least his vessels were faster, since Harte’s ships did not have Holtzman engines. “Tell your Navigators, Grandmother! Withdraw whatever ships remain.”

“They will expect us to go to Arrakis, Directeur,” Draigo said.

“Arrakis is well protected — no, we should go to our Denali stronghold, where they’ll never find us. Grandmother, set our course.”

The Imperial fleet continued to fire, causing more and more damage, and Josef needed to buy just another few moments as the Holtzman engines built up enough power to fold space.

He had one last card to play. It would be a close thing.

He transmitted a parting shot designed to make the Emperor think twice. “Admiral, you should know that Anna Corrino is safe in my custody. Her life is in my hands. Consider your next actions with extreme care. Unless you cease firing immediately, the Emperor will never see his sister again.”

On the comm screen, Harte was livid, but he did call off the continuing weapons barrage. “Directeur, I demand—”

The Imperial ships withdrew for just a moment, and it was enough time. The flagship’s Holtzman engines thrummed as Josef spun to face the Navigator tank. “Now, Grandmother.”

All the remaining VenHold ships vanished.