Navigators of Dune

“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.