Brian Herbert - Navigators of Dune

They decided to stay for two more weeks, until the next spacefolder arrived. Now that VenHold had suddenly withdrawn ships from commercial trade routes in a dispute with the new Emperor, there were far fewer transport options available, which greatly affected backwater planets such as Kepler. The secondary carriers were said to be less safe, but a non-VenHold ship was the only option they had. Vor wanted to see who disembarked, in case Tula Harkonnen happened to be one of the passengers, but if she wasn’t among the new arrivals, then they could go.

Staying on Kepler was a pleasant thought, but if Tula truly didn’t know about the Atreides here, then his family was safe. And that meant Vor and Willem had to search elsewhere for the treacherous, violent Harkonnen.

After surrendering his biological body, Ptolemy grew accustomed to his new existence as a cymek. He had volunteered for this fate and did not regret the cost, not for a moment. For too much of his life he had felt weak and insignificant. But not anymore.

After the drop-pods landed in the darkness outside the capital city on Lampadas, Ptolemy activated his mechanical legs. The precision thoughtrodes that he himself had developed were efficient and accurate. The sensations were different, but his bodily control was precise and so much more versatile, and the integral weapons he controlled were like extensions of himself. For weeks, he had practiced for this moment out in Denali’s poisonous atmosphere, and now it was time.

Joined by his Navigator cymeks Adem Garl and Rikon Po, Ptolemy stepped away from the open drop-pod, and the three behemoths marched together toward the nearby dwellings and commercial buildings. Each step was a loud thump that shook the landscape and buildings. Though launched at night, this was not a stealth operation—far from it—but one meant to cause the maximum terror and mayhem.

Ptolemy’s enhanced optics discerned locals emerging from their dwellings, staring in horror and despair, and he intended to increase their suffering. It was what these misguided people deserved.

Manford Torondo was the true evil behind the movement, but his mindless followers also had blood on their hands. Butlerian mobs destroyed advancements that would help others, denied medical technology to the sick and injured, and simply burned anything they did not like.

He flinched at the memory of his friend Dr. Elchan’s dying screams, and in doing so he involuntarily ignited one of his fire cannons. The belching spear of flame set one of the nearby dwellings ablaze. Seeing the results of that accident, he opened fire with great gusto, and leveled the home. They were just beginning their mayhem.

He and his fellow cymeks marched forward. The other two walkers launched projectiles, wrecking storehouses, smashing primitive vehicles, and mowing down people as they fled. The attacking force had to cause as much damage as possible in a limited time, before they were recalled to Draigo’s stealth-shielded ship.

Ptolemy used his internal systems to scan the landscape and orient himself. The drop-point had been imprecise, but the cymeks knew exactly where Leader Torondo lived. His cottage was undefended. Ptolemy adjusted course, and the two other Nav-cymeks charged alongside him, blasting indiscriminately. They made their way to Manford’s residence.

His audio amplifiers picked up frightened shouts as Butlerians tried to escape; others stood their ground, holding up laughable and ineffective implements—clubs, spears, old-style projectile weapons—but even sophisticated armaments could not have damaged the shielded bodies of the new war machines.

The three cymeks stomped on victims as if they were insects and kept moving forward. According to Directeur Venport, their goal was not planetary conquest, but a demonstration attack with the objective of causing as much mayhem and destruction as possible. Ptolemy’s personal goal was to find and kill the Butlerian leader. If not tonight, then they would return with a much larger force when it was time for the full assault.

Ptolemy believed they could accomplish the entire objective with only three cymeks, though. In fact, he would consider it a matter of pride if he could do so.

Others might look on him as a monster, might see this action as the slaughter of countless innocents … but to him, none of these victims were innocent. He knew what they had done, or what they had allowed to happen, in the name of their fanaticism.

As his mechanical body approached Manford’s cottage, his conscious mind drifted back to his wonderful laboratory on Zenith. He and Elchan had worked on developing innovative cybernetic technology, meaning to help those who had lost limbs—people like Manford Torondo. They had created replacement arms and legs that an invalid could use just like natural limbs. But when he and Elchan had offered a new set of legs to the crippled Butlerian leader—simply because they wanted to help—the madman had destroyed the offering and sent his fanatical mob to ransack the Zenith laboratory and burn Elchan alive.

Manford had claimed he was teaching Ptolemy a lesson. Even though those fires had long since burned out, Ptolemy remembered his friend’s dying screams. And his hatred remained as bright as ever.…

When the three cymeks reached Manford’s home, Butlerian followers rushed forward to stand as useless guards and shields. They were defiant, determined, and ridiculously impotent.

The Navigator cymeks paused to assess the situation, but Ptolemy activated his flame cannon and roasted the would-be defenders alive, reducing them to insignificance, just like Elchan … though their deaths were much swifter.

Then the three cymeks fell upon Manford’s home.

AS SOON AS she saw and heard the demon cymeks approaching, Anari Idaho knew they had come for Manford. Even her intimidating sword would not be effective against the titanic machines. Her priority was to save Manford.

Without a word of warning or cry for help, she grabbed him in his room, raced to the open window, and lowered him to the ground outside. After she dove through, she snatched him up and bounded away into the darkness. Holding him in her muscular arms, she practically leaped across the landscape.

Behind them, the cymeks were getting closer, their path obvious from the explosions, the fires, the screams.

“Where are you taking me?” Manford protested. “Those are my people being massacred!”

“They are giving their lives so you can escape. If we’re cornered, I will defend you as long as I can.”

She glared back at the towering machines, remembering when she had slain combat meks as a game during her Swordmaster training on Ginaz. In that controlled exercise, it had taken a team of well-trained warriors to bring down even the smallest war machine.

She was alone now, and there were three of the things.

Gasping for breath, Anari ran across the surrounding grain fields. It was late in the harvest season and many fields had only a stubble of stems and straw. No place to hide. Ahead, she spotted five shadowy heaps of hay piled up for livestock. The hay would have its own internal heat, maybe enough to mask Manford’s thermal signature. Maybe. She couldn’t run far enough, and no normal hiding place would be proof against the cymeks. That was her best chance right now.

She reached the nearest haystack. “In here, Manford.”

He flailed. “How can I hide? I’ll be found too easily.”

“You’ll be unseen. The natural heat inside should mask you.” She moved loose hay aside and stuffed his legless body into the pile. “Stay here and don’t move. Wait for me to come back for you.”