Primero Harkonnen did not find the long, slow flight to Ix a serene one. The gung-ho enthusiasm of new recruits on board the ballista flagship had gradually settled into a dread of facing the thinking machine forces on the long-embattled Synchronized World. Everyone in the massive attack force knew the stakes, and the dangers.

Xavier’s mandate was clear. The rebels on Ix had fought long and hard against an overwhelming army of cymeks and hunter-killer robots, and now he would add sufficient forces to turn the tide. The humans could not afford to lose. Once he had freed another planet from Omnius, then he would sleep easier.

One world at a time.

BACK HOME, OCTA had never liked to see him depart on another assignment for the Jihad. During their marriage, Xavier had gone off on one dangerous mission after another. It was difficult for her to watch him go, but Octa knew the stakes in this never-ending war. She had seen firsthand what the brutality of the thinking machines had done to her sister Serena. War changed people. Someone had to protect the innocent. Xavier and Vor were among those who risked their lives to do just that, and Octa had always understood that this war was his calling. In war everyone made sacrifices.

And though Xavier loved her intensely and knew she had complete faith in him, he always saw the fear in her eyes when he left Salusa Secundus— but it was a fear that Octa mastered. She did everything possible to make him feel loved and comfortable when they were together, so that he would hold good memories for all the long days until he could return home. Once, he had even joked with Octa that she always threw the largest celebrations on the days he went away.

Before her husband left on the difficult and risky campaign to liberate Ix, Octa had once again prepared a feast and called their closest loved ones. Serena was invited to join them, as always, but the Priestess of the Jihad rarely attended any small gatherings, even with her family. The office of Grand Patriarch Ginjo had politely declined the invitation on Serena’s behalf, responding that she was simply too busy.

Those who did not know Octa well saw her as a shy, quiet woman who stood in the shadow of the great Primero. But when she made up her mind and focused her thoughts, Octa displayed all the rigidity and firmness of an angry military commander. She rallied the servants, the cleaners, and the cooks, making sure absolutely everything went perfectly.

Old Manion Butler himself stayed down in the cellars for an hour selecting three rare bottles of wine. Xavier knew that the retired Viceroy didn’t keep any less than the best vintages, but out of love he still encouraged his father-in-law to make the choices, a task he relished.

In the late afternoon, Xavier’s two grown daughters, Roella and Omilia, joined them at the departure feast, along with their husbands. Roella had reached the age of twenty-six, and her sister was two years younger. Omilia brought her new baby daughter, to the delight of her parents.

Octa adored Omilia’s new baby, and watched wistfully as the child smiled at Xavier. Though he had lost a son of his own, he was exceedingly proud of his two daughters and the lives they were making for themselves. Both Omilia and Roella were strikingly lovely, but Xavier was not exactly an objective judge.

“Sometimes I wish we could have had at least one more,” Octa said, tickling the baby.

To Xavier, his wife was still the most beautiful of them all, though she was by now forty-five years old. He still saw the youthful glow she carried within her, and he still found her more attractive than any young woman. Xavier shrugged and gave her his best boyish grin. “No one said you’re too old.”

“It’s not very likely.” She teased him, but he continued to smile.

“That’s no reason for us to stop trying.”

But Xavier couldn’t help being uncomfortable and heartsick as he faced the other guests. His adoptive father, Emil Tantor, was accompanied by Vergyl’s widow Sheel and their three children.

Xavier couldn’t believe that two years had already passed since the debacle at IV Anbus. He still felt pangs of guilt and regret for allowing Vergyl to be captured by the cymeks. His brother had been thirty-four years old at the time of his death— by no means a child— but Xavier could never stop thinking of the grinning young man as his little brother, a boy he had played with… and later let down. Vergyl and Sheel should have had a fine, long life together. His brother’s family was wonderful, but their future had been torn away… just as his own had been when Serena was kidnapped by the thinking machines.

Damn this Jihad!

Still, even after losing Serena, Xavier had made a good life for himself. And he would not have changed any of it, even if he could. He had no doubt that Sheel was strong enough to do the same, under the guidance of the aged, increasingly frail Emil Tantor.

Though he was overjoyed to see his father, as well as Vergyl’s family, Xavier still felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Omilia’s new baby seemed to sadden Sheel, and his father also appeared somber, perhaps remembering that his own wife Lucille had been killed in a flyer crash shortly before she was to meet Vergyl’s baby daughter for the first time….

When the first course was ready to be served, Octa led the prayer. She gave thanks for the food and for their lives, begged God for Xavier’s safety on the mission to Ix, and prayed for deliverance from Omnius and all thinking machines.

Xavier had known this was supposed to be a joyous occasion, his loved ones bidding him farewell and wishing him success in his latest military campaign. The Ixian mission was fraught with peril, and though he would never surrender easily, he was certain that many other jihadi soldiers were having similar farewell dinners with their close families… and many of them would not, in fact, return.

The moment Octa saw his mood fall, even before the main course could be brought out, she called in a trio of youthful Zimia musicians who played their instruments and sang in a lovely contralto, while the other guests ate and talked in low conversations.

Hearing the happy minstrels, Xavier thought again of the dead, of Octa’s twin brother Fredo, who had always wanted to be a musician and an artist. As he watched his wife, he expected to see similar thoughts reflected in her face, but she took only joy from the musicians’ performance, and soon the rest of the guests responded as well, enjoying their meal, talking, and laughing.

Octa was radiant. Later, in the heat of pitched battle, he would remember that more than anything else.

Though he was the one going to Ix to fight the murderous machines, Octa fought just as bravely in her own battle to maintain good spirits and optimism in her household, because that was the only weapon she could wield. She had done the same thing each time Xavier had gone off to war, and it had always worked.

But he had gone away too many times.

A FEW YEARS after the League Armada’s devastation of Earth, Xavier had led the first “official” attack of Serena Butler’s expanding Jihad. After selecting a Synchronized World at random— Bela Tegeuse— the warships had gone out with much fanfare. Vorian Atreides had distinguished himself in that battle, earned a higher rank, and proved his true fervor for the cause of humanity.

The battle of Bela Tegeuse had destroyed many robots and obliterated extensive thinking machine infrastructure, but the enemy fought back relentlessly. The skirmish was ultimately inconclusive, and the human forces retreated to lick their wounds. A year later, and without orders, Vorian had slipped back to the Tegeusan system and returned home to report that the machines had rebuilt everything and continued to oppress the surviving human population there. It was as if nothing had happened. Despite the terrible struggle and loss of life, the Jihad had made no progress whatsoever.

It was after Earth and Bela Tegeuse, however, that the Omnius everminds realized that the character of the struggle had changed. In response, the Corrin-Omnius had sent a heavy fleet against Salusa Secundus, but the newly formed Army of the Jihad— led by Xavier himself— rebuffed them. At the time, he had considered it payback for the Battle of Zimia, where he had been so badly injured years before.

Now, en route to Ix, the senior officer was spoiling for another chance. He’d had many opportunities in the quarter century since the destruction of Earth, and each fight gave him the chance to strike another blow. To free more humans. To devastate the thinking machines.

If only his fighters could maintain their edge… and their energy.

During the long and tense voyage, Xavier issued orders imposing a rigorous training routine on his soldiers, to keep their reflexes sharp. A separate force under his command, the normally aloof mercenaries from Ginaz, were pleased to demonstrate their combat abilities for Xavier’s troops.

The Primero often spent hours watching them from above, judging their techniques, mentally selecting the best fighters among the recruits. He found the new batch of mercenaries particularly interesting. Never before had he witnessed such skill in hand-to-hand combat.

The fighters deferred to their new champion Jool Noret, a mysterious and intense young man in a black jumpsuit. Fresh from the archipelago on Ginaz, the young mercenary had bronzed skin, jade eyes, and sun-bleached hair. As thin and fast as a human whip, Noret wielded blade weapons with a speed that turned them into lethal barbs.

An enigmatic loner, Noret rarely spoke to anyone, including his fellow mercenaries. Nonetheless, he threw himself into even the most basic of training exercises with reckless abandon and without concern for his personal well-being. He seemed to be blessed— or cursed— with a belief in his own invulnerability.

As commanding officer, Xavier observed him closely. In combat demonstrations Noret fought with utter conviction, though he seemed to prefer his own company when he was off duty.

Now, inside the crowded common room, Noret sat in the middle of his fellows and seemed to shut out all distractions. In full view of the rest of the crew, he contorted his body into supple okuma positions, then held himself rigid, facing a bulkhead while he journeyed inward to a realm of contemplation.

Suddenly, with blinding speed, he leaped to his feet, whirling and diving, striking out with his bare hands, as well as more traditional weapons— a small club and a heavy stun-ball connected like a bolo to a thin chain on his wrist. It seemed to be a test, or a game, but the Ginaz mercenaries treated it with absolute seriousness. A quartet rushed at him, but Noret dispatched them all with startling efficiency.

For a finale, he tossed his assorted weapons into the air, defeated two more men with martial arts blows, snatched the weapons back out of the air, then slipped them into concealed pockets in his black clothing. Though soundly beaten, none of his companions were seriously hurt. No doubt they would challenge Noret again… and just as certainly, the young man would win.

TWO DAYS LATER, Xavier made a point of approaching Noret, wanting to learn more about him. Even during the tedious voyages between battlefields, the Primero had never felt comfortable fraternizing with his troops, as Vor always did. His friend would eat in the common mess hall with the soldiers, spinning tall tales for them about his adventures, playing round after round of Fleur de Lys, which he won without smugness and lost without rancor.

But Xavier had never been able to do that. He was their commanding officer— a leader among men, but rarely a friend. Instead of calling out a good-natured greeting as he walked along the crew decks, the soldiers all snapped to attention and gave him crisp salutes. Complete respect seemed to be a barrier between them and him. Privately, the men called him “Old Fuss and Formality.”

Now he did not seek out Jool Noret as a friend. In the ballista’s crew compartments, the young mercenary was tidying his lower bunk, carefully stowing articles of clothing and exotic weapons in an adjacent locker. Even for such a mundane task, Noret’s every movement was fluid and quick.

The room was nearly empty with the current duty shift. The Primero came toward him from behind, making no noise loud enough to be heard over the background hum of the spaceship engines and conversations in the outer corridors. Even so, he noticed that the young mercenary stiffened without actually seeing him. He seemed to be watching with his ears.

Xavier moved into his line of sight and stood with his arms folded across his chest. “I have observed your combat exhibitions, Jool Noret. Your technique is very interesting.”

“And I have observed you observing, Primero.”

Xavier had already considered his purpose in this encounter. Another week remained until they arrived in the Ixian system and began their campaign. “I believe you have skills you could teach to my men, techniques that will increase their chances of survival when they fight the thinking machines.”

The young mercenary looked away, as if stung. “I am not a teacher. I still have too much to learn myself.”

“But the men respect you and want to learn from you. If you instruct them in your methods, you could save lives.”

Donning a haunted expression, the young man seemed to withdraw into himself. “That is not the reason I agreed to fight for the Jihad. I want to destroy thinking machines. I want to die bravely in battle.”

Xavier did not understand what demons troubled this man. “I would rather you fought bravely and survived, to destroy even more of the enemy. And if you help my jihadis to improve, we will be more easily assured of victory.”

Noret remained silent for so long that Xavier didn’t think he intended to respond at all. “I won’t be a teacher,” he said, at last. “That is too much of a burden on top of the others I carry. I will not have their blood on my hands if they fail to perform with adequate skill.” He looked up at the aging officer, his expression sad. “However, they are welcome to… observe, if they wish.”

Xavier nodded, for the moment unwilling to push harder and discover what disturbed Noret so deeply. “Good enough. Perhaps they can learn something by watching you. If it works out, I’ll consider requesting additional compensation for you when we return home.”

“I don’t want any of that,” Noret said, his expression intense and strangely frightening. “Just give me free rein to kill machines.”