Read Online Dune: The Machine Crusade by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson
Tags: Science-Fiction
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barriers eventually.
More mercenaries raced along flat, wide arroyos, planting lines of land mines to wipe out the front ranks of combat meks. Each Ginaz mercenary wore a protective Holtzman shield that surrounded his body with an invisible barrier. The robots relied on projectile weapons, bullets and sharp needles, but the personal shields foiled such attacks. The mercenaries plunged in among the robots to do hand-to-hand fighting.
Zon Noret had given each commando clear instructions. “Your job is not to obliterate the enemy, though damage is certainly acceptable.” He smiled. “Your task is to take potshots, enough to lure the thinking machines forward. Taunt them, provoke them, convince them that the native humans mean to resist the machine occupation. We’re good at that.”
But the carefully staged, ineffective resistance must also lull the robotic battalion into believing that the humans had nothing worse waiting for them. Noret’s independent fighters had to be carefully incompetent.
The robots surged ahead, bound by their internal programming.
* * *
AS THE SUN spilled its jagged first light upon the landscape, Vergyl Tantor staggered along the wall of the dwelling where he had slept. The house smelled of vomit and diarrhea. Feeling betrayed, many of the soldiers moaned, lurched, and retched, barely able to move. Reaching the doorway, Vergyl blinked and coughed. The Zenshiite natives came out of their dwellings looking smug.
Vergyl gasped at them. “You… poisoned us!”
“It will pass,” the bearded farmer said. “We warned you. Outsiders are not welcome here. We want no part of your war with the demon mechanicals. Go away.”
The Jihad officer swayed, clutching the rough doorjamb to keep himself upright. “But… you’ll all die this morning! It’s not us they want, it’s you ! The robots—” He retched again and realized the villagers must have taken their own antidotes or medicines.
Then his comline signaled, calling urgently for him. Vergyl could barely cough out his acknowledgment. The dispersed jihadi squadrons and surveillance teams reported that the robotic marauders had begun to move out from their new staging point. Ginaz mercenaries had already set up along the advance path to goad the robots. The assault was about to commence.
“The machines are coming!” Vergyl called hoarsely, trying to rouse his men. “Everyone, to your stations!” Ignoring the villagers, he went back into the dwelling and started dragging soldiers out into the dawn light. They had donned Zenshiite farmers’ clothes so that they would not appear to be jihadis, but now the fabric was drenched with fever sweat and stained with vomit.
“Wake up! Shake it off!” He pushed one barely conscious man toward the nearest camouflaged artillery emplacement. “To your stations. Man the weapons.”
Then Vergyl noticed with sick dread the sentries curled up in convulsions on the ground next to the weapons. He ran like a broken toy, summoning all his remaining balance and speed, into the nearest building that housed a large projectile launcher and stared at the heavy weapon. A groggy gunner came in beside him, and Vergyl tried to activate the launcher’s power systems. He rubbed his bleary eyes. The targeting cross seemed to be malfunctioning.
His gunner flicked the controls again, then opened the panel and let out a cry of surprise and dismay. “Someone tore up the wires— and the power supply is gone!”
Suddenly Vergyl heard broken shouts echoing from other gun emplacements throughout the village. Angrily, he exclaimed, “We have been stabbed in the back by the people we’re trying to rescue!”
His anger gave him the strength to vanquish his dizziness for the moment. Vergyl staggered out of the dwelling to face the Zenshiite farmers, who stood looking satisfied.
“What have you done?” Vergyl cried, his voice rough. “You fools, what have you done?”
The future, the past, and the present are
More mercenaries raced along flat, wide arroyos, planting lines of land mines to wipe out the front ranks of combat meks. Each Ginaz mercenary wore a protective Holtzman shield that surrounded his body with an invisible barrier. The robots relied on projectile weapons, bullets and sharp needles, but the personal shields foiled such attacks. The mercenaries plunged in among the robots to do hand-to-hand fighting.
Zon Noret had given each commando clear instructions. “Your job is not to obliterate the enemy, though damage is certainly acceptable.” He smiled. “Your task is to take potshots, enough to lure the thinking machines forward. Taunt them, provoke them, convince them that the native humans mean to resist the machine occupation. We’re good at that.”
But the carefully staged, ineffective resistance must also lull the robotic battalion into believing that the humans had nothing worse waiting for them. Noret’s independent fighters had to be carefully incompetent.
The robots surged ahead, bound by their internal programming.
* * *
AS THE SUN spilled its jagged first light upon the landscape, Vergyl Tantor staggered along the wall of the dwelling where he had slept. The house smelled of vomit and diarrhea. Feeling betrayed, many of the soldiers moaned, lurched, and retched, barely able to move. Reaching the doorway, Vergyl blinked and coughed. The Zenshiite natives came out of their dwellings looking smug.
Vergyl gasped at them. “You… poisoned us!”
“It will pass,” the bearded farmer said. “We warned you. Outsiders are not welcome here. We want no part of your war with the demon mechanicals. Go away.”
The Jihad officer swayed, clutching the rough doorjamb to keep himself upright. “But… you’ll all die this morning! It’s not us they want, it’s you ! The robots—” He retched again and realized the villagers must have taken their own antidotes or medicines.
Then his comline signaled, calling urgently for him. Vergyl could barely cough out his acknowledgment. The dispersed jihadi squadrons and surveillance teams reported that the robotic marauders had begun to move out from their new staging point. Ginaz mercenaries had already set up along the advance path to goad the robots. The assault was about to commence.
“The machines are coming!” Vergyl called hoarsely, trying to rouse his men. “Everyone, to your stations!” Ignoring the villagers, he went back into the dwelling and started dragging soldiers out into the dawn light. They had donned Zenshiite farmers’ clothes so that they would not appear to be jihadis, but now the fabric was drenched with fever sweat and stained with vomit.
“Wake up! Shake it off!” He pushed one barely conscious man toward the nearest camouflaged artillery emplacement. “To your stations. Man the weapons.”
Then Vergyl noticed with sick dread the sentries curled up in convulsions on the ground next to the weapons. He ran like a broken toy, summoning all his remaining balance and speed, into the nearest building that housed a large projectile launcher and stared at the heavy weapon. A groggy gunner came in beside him, and Vergyl tried to activate the launcher’s power systems. He rubbed his bleary eyes. The targeting cross seemed to be malfunctioning.
His gunner flicked the controls again, then opened the panel and let out a cry of surprise and dismay. “Someone tore up the wires— and the power supply is gone!”
Suddenly Vergyl heard broken shouts echoing from other gun emplacements throughout the village. Angrily, he exclaimed, “We have been stabbed in the back by the people we’re trying to rescue!”
His anger gave him the strength to vanquish his dizziness for the moment. Vergyl staggered out of the dwelling to face the Zenshiite farmers, who stood looking satisfied.
“What have you done?” Vergyl cried, his voice rough. “You fools, what have you done?”
The future, the past, and the present are
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