Navigators of Dune

Manford had time to yell in a scornful voice. “You talk about humanity? You, a monster?”

A single blast from Ptolemy’s flame-cannon or a drenching spray of caustic acid would have leveled the entire mob and incinerated the legless fanatic. But instead, he wanted to make Manford feel as helpless as the man had made him feel on that terrible night years ago. This was too personal a vendetta for Ptolemy to use a weapon of mass destruction.

Feeling elation, Ptolemy skittered forward on his mechanical body with swift, spiderlike grace made possible by the advanced thoughtrodes that he and Dr. Elchan had developed long ago. That was fitting. Ptolemy’s optical sensors were focused on the Butlerian leader and his Swordmaster. He swept sideways with one of his claw-ended legs, smashing Anari Idaho aside like a tiny toy.

This knocked Manford out of his harness, throwing him violently to the ground. Ptolemy reached forward and snatched up the hated leader by his torso, even though the vile man tried to escape by scuttling away on his hands.

In the air, Manford squirmed and flailed his arms, looking so weak, so helpless. Ptolemy lifted him high even as the Butlerians screamed in rage and panic. With his visual enhancement, Ptolemy recorded the look of disgust on Manford’s face. He wished it were fear instead, but realized he was witnessing the bravery of fanaticism, Manford’s willingness to become a martyr. Ptolemy didn’t care about that, he just wanted the man dead.

“For the future of humanity,” Ptolemy shouted through his speakerpatch. “For the blood of all your victims!” He reached up his second clawed hand, holding Manford Torondo with both mechanical arms in front of the raging crowd, dangling him over them. The fanatical leader yelled something, but his words were drowned out in the howls from the Butlerians.

“And for Elchan!”

It was like a child ready to pluck the wings off a fly.

* * *

FAR BELOW, STILL grasping her sword, Anari lurched to her feet, coughing blood and looking upward in horror. She knew that something was broken inside her, but she didn’t care about her own pain. She screamed, spraying red from her mouth. “No, not Manford!”

As if they had been paralyzed all at once, tens of thousands of Butlerians gasped in an instant of sickening silence.

In the last second Manford looked down at his loyal Swordmaster and companion, with an expression of deep love and a beatific acceptance of his fate. His loyal Swordmaster remembered something he had said to her once: The strength of a martyr is a thousand times the strength of a mere follower.

Then the cymek ripped Manford apart and threw the bloody remnants—torso, arms, entrails, head—in different directions.

A person who is willing to admit defeat is simply unskilled at redefining the situation.

—DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, address to surviving scientists at Denali

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.