“The robot fleet has just engaged our spaceguard,” Xavier Harkonnen called from his station. “Heavy fire exchanged.”

“Primero Meach!” Cuarto Steff Young shouted from the orbital grid screens. Xavier could smell the salty metallic tang of Young’s nervous sweat. “Sir, a small detachment of machine ships has broken from the main robotic fleet in orbit. Configuration unknown, but they’re preparing for an atmospheric descent.” She pointed to the images, picking out brilliant lights that signified a cluster of inert projectiles.

Xavier glanced at the perimeter scanners, real-time intelligence transmitted from the defensive satellites high above Tio Holtzman’s gelcircuitry-scrambling fields. On the highest resolution he saw an assault squadron of pyramidal ships roaring headlong into the atmosphere, straight toward the sizzling shields.

“They’re in for an unpleasant surprise,” Young said with a grim smile. “No thinking machine can survive that ride.”

“Our biggest worry will be dodging the debris from their crashing ships,” Primero Meach quipped. “Maintain surveillance.”

But the dropcarriages slipped past the scrambler shields— and kept coming. They showed no electronic signatures at all as they penetrated the boundary.

“How are they getting through?” Quinto Wilby mopped his brow, brushing dishwater-brown hair out of his eyes.

“No computers could.” In a flash, Xavier understood what was happening. “They’re blind dropcarriages, sir!”

Young looked up from her screens, breathing hard. “Impact in less than a minute, Primero. Second wave is coming in behind them. I count twenty-eight projectiles.” She shook her head. “No computer signatures on any of them.”

Xavier called out, thinking ahead, “Rico, Powder, work with med-response teams and fire-suppression squads. Everything up to speed and ready. Come on people, we’ve drilled for this a hundred times! I want all vehicles and rescue equipment mobile and in the air, prepared to move before the first ship hits.”

“Divert defenses to pound the invaders as soon as they crash.” Primero Meach lowered his voice, swept his flinty gaze across his comrades. “Tercero Harkonnen, take a portable comstation and get out there— be my eyes on the scene. My guess is those dropcarriages will hatch into something unpleasant.”

OUTSIDE, THE CITY streets were chaotic under a cloud-dappled sky. Rushing into the confusion, Xavier heard the hot metallic scream of agonized atmosphere as the inert armored projectiles shot downward like bullets from space.

An asteroid-rain of pyramidal dropcarriages slammed into the ground, one after another. With deafening thunder, the first four blind vessels punched into buildings, leveling city blocks with the explosive dispersion of kinetic energy. But sophisticated shock-displacement systems protected the deadly cargo inside.

Xavier ran down the street, his uniform rumpled, his sweaty hair clinging to his head. He stopped in front of the giant edifice of the Hall of Parliament. Although second in command of Salusa’s defenses, here he was in an unsecured position, ready to issue orders at ground zero. Not exactly the way he had been taught in his Armada Academy courses. But Primero Meach was relying on his assessment, recommendations, and ability to act independently.

He touched the comline on his chin. “I’m in position, sir.”

Five more unguided projectiles thumped into the outskirts of the city, leaving smoldering craters. Explosions. Smoke. Fireballs.

From the impact points, the inert crashdown pods cracked open to reveal a huge object stirring in each one. Reactivated mechanical units peeled off charred ablation shielding. With dread, Xavier knew what he was about to see, understood how the enemy machines had managed to pass through the scrambler shields. They were not computer minds at all. . . .

Cymeks.

Fearsome mechanical monstrosities emerged from the broken pyramids, driven by surgically detached human brains. Mobility systems restarted; articulated legs and augmented weapons clicked into place.

The cymek bodies lurched out of the smoking craters, crablike gladiators half as tall as the damaged buildings. Their alloy legs were as thick as support girders, bristling with flamer cannons, artillery launchers, poison gas jets.

Xavier shouted into his comline. “Cymek warrior-forms, Primero Meach! They figured out how to get through our orbital defenses!”

All across Salusa, from the outskirts of Zimia to the farthest continent, the local planetary militia was dispatched. Low-atmospheric defense craft— kindjals— had already launched in defensive overflights, their weaponry magazines loaded with armor-piercing projectile shells.

People in the streets fled in terror; others stood frozen, staring. Xavier shouted descriptions of what he was seeing. He heard Vannibal Meach add, “Cuarto Young, issue orders for all stations to break out the breathing apparatus. See that filter masks are distributed to the populace. Every person not inside an approved shelter must wear a breather.”

Face masks wouldn’t protect against cymek flamers or high-energy detonations, but the people could be safe from the thick poison clouds. As he fit his own breather into place, Xavier felt a growing fear that all of the Militia’s best-planned precautions would be woefully inadequate.

Leaving the discarded shells of their dropcarriages behind, cymek warriors thrummed forward on monstrous feet. They launched explosive shells and incinerated buildings and screaming people. Gouts of flame poured from nozzles in their foremost limbs, setting the city of Zimia on fire.

Dropcarriages continued to tumble from above, ready to split open as soon as they crashed. Twenty-eight of them in all.

With a howling roar loud enough to burn his ears, the young tercero saw a column of fire and smoke spinning, tumbling, so fast and bright that it left his retinas smoldering. The dropcarriage smashed into the military compound half a kilometer behind him, vaporizing the control center and the planetary Militia HQ building. The shockwave knocked Xavier to his knees, shattered windows for dozens of blocks.

“Primero!” Xavier screamed into the comline. “Primero Meach! Command center! Anybody!”

But he could see from the ruins that he would get no response from the Militia commander or any of his comrades in the complex.

Stalking through the streets, the cymeks spewed greenish black smoke, an oily mist that settled into a toxic film covering the ground and structures. Then the first squadron of kindjal bombers came in low. Their initial sweep scattered explosives around the machine warriors, striking both cymeks and buildings.

Wearing his clearplaz breathing mask, Xavier panted, unable to believe what he had just seen. He called again for the commander, but received no response. Finally, tactical substations around the city checked in, demanding to know what had happened, asking him to identify himself.

“This is Tercero Xavier Harkonnen,” he said. Then full understanding hit him. With a supreme effort, he summoned his courage and steadied his voice. “I am . . . I am currently in command of the Salusan Militia.”

He ran toward the conflagration, into the billowing greasy smoke. All around him civilians fell to their knees retching in the poisonous mist. He glared up at the aerial strikes, wishing he could be in more direct control. “The cymeks can be destroyed,” he transmitted to the kindjal pilots. Then he coughed. The mask was not working properly. His chest and throat burned as if he had inhaled acid, but he kept shouting orders.

As the attack proceeded, Salusan emergency response aircraft swooped over the battle zone, dumping canisters of fire-suppression powders and foams. At ground level, masked medical squadrons moved in without hesitation.

Oblivious to the insignificant human defense efforts, the cymeks marched forward, moving as individuals, not an army— mechanical mad dogs spreading mayhem. A warrior-form bent back on powerful crablike legs and blasted two rescue ships out of the sky— then it moved ahead again, eerily graceful.

The front line of Salusan bombers dropped explosive shells directly onto one of the first cymeks. Two projectiles struck the armored body, and a third hit a nearby building, causing the structure to collapse, girders and debris tumbling down to bury the invader’s mechanical body.

But after the flames and smoke cleared, the battered cymek remained functional. The murderous machine shook itself free of the rubble, then launched a counterattack at the kindjals overhead.

From his distant vantage, Xavier studied their movements, using a portable tactical grid. He needed to figure out the overarching plan of the thinking machines. The cymeks seemed to have a target in mind.

He could not hesitate or waste time bemoaning the fall of his comrades. He could not ask what Primero Meach would have done. Instead, he had to stay clear-headed and make some immediate decisions. If he could only understand the enemies’ objective . . .

In orbit, the robotic fleet continued to fire upon the Salusan spaceguard, though the AI enemy could not pass through Holtzman fields. They might defeat the spaceguard ships and blockade the League capital world . . . but Primero Meach had already recalled the heavy perimeter battle groups, and soon all that League Armada firepower would pose a serious challenge to the robot warships.

On the screen he saw the robot fleet maintaining position . . . as if waiting for some signal from the cymek shock troops. His mind whirled. What were they doing?

A trio of gladiator machines launched explosives against the west wing of the Hall of Parliament. The beautifully carved facade sloughed to the street like a late-spring avalanche. Slabs of rubble crumbled, exposing open chambers in the evacuated governmental offices.

Coughing in the smoke, trying to see through his smeared faceplate, Xavier looked into the eyes of a white-smocked medic who grabbed him and fitted a new mask over his face. Xavier’s lungs burned more now, as if they had been soaked in av-fuel and lit on fire.

“You’ll be fine,” the medic promised in an uncertain tone as he applied a snap-injection pack to Xavier’s neck.

“I’d better be.” The tercero coughed again and saw black spots in front of his eyes. “I don’t have time to be a casualty right now.”

Xavier thought beyond himself and felt a deep worry for Serena. Less than an hour ago, she had been scheduled to speak to the League representatives. He prayed that she had reached safety.

Struggling to his feet, he waved the medic away as the injection took effect. He tuned his portable tactical grid and requested a sky-high view, imaged from the fast defense kindjals. He studied the blackened paths of the graceful, titanic cymeks on his screen. Where are they going?

Mentally, he scanned from the smoldering impact craters and the ruins of the Militia HQ, envisioning the paths made by the mechanical monsters as they pressed forward.

Then he understood what he should have seen from the start, and cursed under his breath.

Omnius knew the Holtzman scrambler shields would obliterate thinking machine gelcircuitry; thus the main robotic fleet remained just beyond Salusan orbit. If the cymeks took out the shield generators, though, the planet would be wide open to a full-scale invasion.

Xavier faced a critical decision, but his choice was predetermined. Whether he liked it or not, he was in command now. By wiping out Primero Meach and the Militia command structure, the cymeks had put him temporarily in charge. And he knew what he had to do.

He ordered the Salusan Militia to fall back and direct their utmost efforts to defend the single most vital target, leaving the rest of Zimia exposed as the cymeks blasted and burned everywhere. Even if he had to sacrifice part of this important city, he must stop the machine forces from reaching their target.

At all costs.