Brian Herbert - Navigators of Dune

No, this would not take long. Josef drew a deep, satisfied breath.

Though he didn’t issue additional commands for the time being, he sat back in the captain’s chair, observing and enjoying. Down on the surface, Ptolemy and the new cymeks should be having an easy time mowing down the savages.

Beside him, Draigo gave a surprised gasp, and the command crew shouted. In an unexpected tactic, four Butlerian ships drove at full speed toward a large VenHold carrier in a suicidal charge. The Butlerians fired a spray of projectile weapons, hammering and hammering the VenHold shields in a frenzied effort, until the single ship’s defenses were overwhelmed. When the VenHold shields finally failed, three of the enemy ships peeled away at the last moment, while the fourth continued forward, accelerating like a battering ram. It plowed into the spacefolder, and explosions scattered the debris of both ships.

Josef stared in disbelief. After a moment’s assessment, Draigo said, “We’re heading into the den of a madman—I am not surprised he would encourage the use of suicide tactics against us.”

Josef’s skin crawled as he looked around. “It might be worse than that. The half-Manford was willing to use atomics against us at Kolhar. What if he uses atomics again? We thought he wouldn’t use them on Lampadas, not wanting to foul his own nest. But we might have been wrong.”

The Mentat’s answer was swift and cold. “We will find out soon enough.”

Josef leaned forward. “Put all our ships on high alert to watch out for warheads being launched, and prepare for evasive action if necessary. He’s not going to catch us by surprise. In the meantime, close ranks and open fire. Destroy as many of those ships as you can. They can’t launch atomics if their ships are wiped out.”

As soon as the VenHold fleet turned their weapons against the fanatical forces, the outnumbered Butlerian ships fell, one after another, slaughtered like cannon fodder. With each vessel he destroyed, Josef chalked up another bit of revenge for what these savages had done at Kolhar.

In addition to atomics, the barbarians had found ways to reveal even more aspects of their insanity, and they suddenly demonstrated one such tactic: The antique ships had been outfitted with old-style lasguns, a type of energy weapon from the time of the Jihad. Lasguns were known to interact violently with Holtzman shields, resulting in an energy release equivalent to a small atomic warhead. Thus, lasguns had been removed from any scenario in which shields might be present. No one wanted to take the risk of complete mutual destruction.

Except the Butlerians.

One fanatic ship fired a lasbeam directly at a heavily shielded VenHold vessel—intentionally—and the lasgun-shield interaction triggered a vaporization shock wave that disintegrated both the VenHold ship and its Butlerian attacker.

Appalled, Josef let out a wordless shout, rising to his feet. “This is insane!”

In the uproar on his bridge, even Draigo could barely keep his calm. “Lasguns, Directeur! If all the Butlerian ships are outfitted with them, they won’t even need atomics against us.”

Josef choked out the words. “They are completely mad!”

A second enemy ship fired a lasgun beam, triggering another blinding detonation that wiped out a VenHold warship while simultaneously eliminating itself. It was total mutual destruction, one Butlerian vessel for each VenHold vessel … and the fanatics were willing to accept the losses.

The Mentat was coldly analytical. “We outnumber them, Directeur. If they continue the attrition until nothing remains of their forces, part of our fleet will still remain.”

“But that’s not acceptable to me. We would lose half of our fleet before we obliterated the enemy.” He shook his head. “It’s insanity. We can’t defend against such attacks. I won’t accept that way of winning!”

Another lasgun burst, two more ships annihilated.

The Mentat made a swift projection. “Then the only way for us to survive is to cease using our shields, Directeur.”

“That would leave us entirely vulnerable!”

“Vulnerable to damage , Directeur. But a lasgun-shield interaction guarantees annihilation. If we drop our shields, we eliminate their greatest advantage.”

The VenHold fleet dispersed in an urgent partial retreat, spreading their ships farther apart to mitigate collateral damage caused by the pseudo-atomic explosions. Josef clenched his fists. “Damn it, drop our shields—but go on the offensive. Use all the weapons we have, full force. I want to make the barbarians wither.”

WITH THE THRUM of pistons and hydraulics, and the sound of weapons locking into firing positions, Ptolemy rose on his segmented walker legs. He felt the crackle of the electrafluid that kept his brain functioning. He was strong and alert as he strode into battle. He felt invincible.

Manipulating his multiple legs, he charged into Empok, where he saw throngs of people like ants from a stirred-up nest. Every member of that crowd was his enemy, every deluded fool who had flocked to Manford Torondo’s call. Their spreading ignorance was a weapon of mass destruction.

Ptolemy could not forget the vicious fanatics who had surrounded his laboratory on Zenith, smashing his experiments and destroying his research; and with a simple nod from Manford Torondo, they had burned Dr. Elchan alive. The legless leader had sounded sickeningly paternal when he spoke to Ptolemy afterward: “It was necessary for you to learn your lesson.”

Now, Ptolemy intended to teach a lesson of his own.

Throughout the city he saw columns of smoke rising as other cymeks attacked. Explosions leveled buildings, leaving only tumbled walls, fire, and rising dust. Flame-cannons ignited entire neighborhoods. His auditory sensors picked up screams of pain, angry shouts, and the delirious panic of the fanatics. Ptolemy had the option to silence the distraction, but he found it strangely stimulating.

Marching forward, he launched a volley of explosive projectiles toward individual homes. He stalked after the milling crowds and sprayed them with acid hoses, leaving hundreds of people writhing and smoking in the streets, their skin melting. One man staggered away, clawing at the jelly that ran out of his oozing eye sockets; he dropped to his knees, vomiting acid, as his whole body collapsed into a wreckage of smoking meat.

Ptolemy’s flame-cannons incinerated the savages, and some of them continued to run for surprising distances before they collapsed into a horrific smoking tangle. His blasts of heat were so targeted and intense that skulls exploded as the brains inside boiled into steam. Then he widened the nozzle and mowed down crowds of hundreds at a time.

Swiveling his head-turret, Ptolemy saw dozens of cymeks wreaking similar havoc. Not far away, Noffe’s walker smashed a clock tower with a thundering noise, then plowed through the rubble to crush a warehouse and a school before scampering over the ruins.

To Ptolemy’s astonishment, though, he saw more than a thousand Butlerians rush toward one of the cymeks, not caring how many were massacred on the way. Only a small percentage of the mob made it to the walker body, where they used hooks and ropes to attach themselves, climbing onto the giant cymek like parasites.

Ptolemy realized that swarms of the people were also racing toward him. He blasted them with explosives, incinerated them with fire, burned their flesh with acid. A round orifice on his torso belched poisonous smoke and nerve toxins. In his immense form, he thundered forward, killing everything in his path.

It was exhilarating.

Still, the fanatics raced toward the cymeks, throwing away their lives for no purpose. The foolish Butlerians kept coming, and Ptolemy slew thousands of them.