Our greatest commanders can lay down the most intricate military plans, but in the end only God determines who wins each battle.

—MANFORD TORONDO, The Only Path

Watching from the bridge of his ship, Manford went white when he saw the evacuee ships detonate, far enough away from him that he was not involved. Several Butlerian vessels had closed in to help them, and now the shock waves tore them apart. “Did that madman Venport kill his own people?”

As Gilbertus watched, alternatives raced through his mind. “I should point out, sir, that Butlerians often take similar fanatical actions.” The legless man responded to the suggestion with horror and denial, and Gilbertus quickly added, “However, I think it highly likely that those ships were empty, flown by automated systems and detonated remotely. He and his personnel are probably still hiding in the industrial facilities.”

“Then we will find them and blast them to hell. I already made my compassionate offer, but Venport has shown what kind of man he really is.”

Gilbertus nodded, continuing his cool assessment. More instructive, he thought, was that Josef Venport had proven himself to be unpredictable. Such a brash, foolhardy action was unlike anything he had previously done. What was it meant to accomplish? Yes, the ploy had damaged the Butlerian fleet, but not nearly enough to win the engagement. How did he expect to save himself or his personnel from Manford’s inevitable retaliation? It was suicide. The Butlerians would never accept his surrender now. It made no sense.

“Mentat, say something!” Manford demanded.

“Recalculating first.” Oh, how he longed to have Erasmus here to help.…

Without warning, the thirty VenHold patrol ships opened fire, along with at least ten of the other ships at the complex. The sheer mathematics of the tactical situation should have precluded any aggressive actions—thirty or forty against more than two hundred—and yet they began to hammer the Butlerian ships.

As Gilbertus continued his reassessment, explosions went off near the flagship. The adjacent Butlerian vessel blew up as its fuel compartments were breached.

Not waiting for Manford’s instructions, Swordmaster Idaho yelled across the open channel. “Return fire—all ships, return fire at will! Destroy them all!”

The thirty VenHold ships strafed the Butlerian fleet, accelerating faster than expected, and their weaponry was far more powerful than normal vessels of that size; Josef Venport had made improvements.

Gilbertus began to refactor the variables. Perhaps the odds weren’t so clearly in Manford’s favor after all. Those ships did indeed pose a threat.

The Butlerians still had strength in numbers, but their vessels were outdated designs from the Army of Humanity, surplus military ships that were more than eighty years old. Manford Torondo had never imagined he might face stiff resistance; he simply expected his opponents to surrender to him out of fear.

But the ruthless businessman Josef Venport was not a man to be intimidated; Gilbertus was beginning to understand him better.

Then the next gear of Venport’s defensive plan clicked into place.

Dozens more enemy ships moved out of the shipyards: half-completed constructions, robotic hulks with barely functioning engines, skeletons of starships accelerating and spreading out in formation. When the Butlerian fleet arrived, Gilbertus had assumed those ships to be inoperable, but when they began to move, he reassessed their tactical potential. A nasty surprise! Venport had more than twice as many ships to throw into the fray than it had at first appeared.

These new hulks had some active weapons systems, but primarily they were cannon fodder, big vessels careening into Manford’s fleet, creating havoc even as they were pummeled by Butlerian firepower. Though damaged, the half-finished automated vessels kept coming, crashing into the tight Butlerian formations.

One of Venport’s patrol ships exploded, but the rest of them kept firing. Gilbertus estimated that at least forty of Manford’s ships had been destroyed in the surprise detonations and the ensuing, unexpected resistance.

As the scattering Butlerian ships pushed closer to the main spacedocks and the asteroid factories, they opened fire again, pounding the remaining factories. At least five more were destroyed, their domes shattered, belching fire and leaking atmosphere into space.

Even for a Mentat, it was difficult to keep score of all the destroyed facilities.

Per his duty, he presented Manford with a revised assessment. “Those are automated vessels, so he will have no qualms about sacrificing them.”

Anari Idaho gasped. “Driven by thinking machines?”

“Automated vessels,” Gilbertus repeated, without further clarification.

The Butlerian leader glared at him. “Why didn’t you predict this, Mentat?”

“Because I did not have complete data.”

“Use new parameters. I am willing to sacrifice every one of my ships, as well. Consider all of my followers and ships expendable, so long as we win this battle. The mind of man is holy.”

“The mind of man is holy,” Anari echoed.

“Everything is expendable, sir?” Another contradiction; Gilbertus did not point out how appalled Manford had been when Venport’s people made a similar decision.

“Except for the life of Manford,” the Swordmaster said. “That is not negotiable.”

Manford was deadly calm as he explained, “All-out assaults are how we won Serena Butler’s Jihad against Omnius and his thinking machines. We can do no less now in this battle for the soul of the human race.”

Gilbertus studied the pattern of ship movements, retraced the paths, found intersections until all of the possibilities formed an intricate web in his mind … a web that had a strangely familiar pattern. Yes, right now Erasmus would have been of enormous assistance.

Several more of the half-completed ships crashed into the Butlerian forces, ramming some, scrambling sensors in others, drawing fire like rocks thrown at a hornet’s nest. That was their purpose, Gilbertus realized. They were not meant to survive.

Time slowed to a crawl in Gilbertus’s mind as he went deep into Mentat mode and rapidly created his own patterns, revising the projected movements of ships so that he could minimize the concentrations of potential damage. With careful attention, he could unravel the complex tangle that his opponent had created.

Gilbertus admired the plan that had been set up against him. It was a shame he would have to defeat it.

Panicked and unruly, the Butlerians wasted shots; several ships picked the same target while ignoring others. “To win we need to be organized, Leader Torondo. I have a plan, but you must let me guide the shots. Direct your commanders to follow my orders.”

“Do you guarantee that will defeat them?” the leader asked.

“It is your best possibility.”

“I see.” He seemed disappointed by the response. “All right, Mentat, give us a victory.”

*   *   *

ONCE THE PLANS had been set in motion, like clockwork soldiers wound up and turned loose, Josef could admire what his own Mentat had conceived. “We have a chance, Draigo. Look at that destruction!” With fascination he watched the streaking ships, the lancing projectiles, the chain-reaction explosions as closely packed Butlerian ships took one another out. Starbursts of fire and debris spread all around the entire Thonaris complex in such great numbers that he could not begin to guess how many barbarian vessels had already been destroyed.

He felt sick at heart to lose these grand industrial capabilities—so many ships that could have expanded the VenHold Spacing Fleet, all that profit turned to vapor and scraps! It was difficult, but in his mind he tried to write off the loss. He could not save the facility or his investment here—but if he crippled the Butlerians, the cost would be justified.

Although Josef noticed no difference in the mayhem around him, his Mentat watched the movements of the rival ships closely, and said, “Gilbertus Albans has taken command. I recognize his techniques.”

But to Josef, the chaos of weapon fire and colliding ships was impenetrable.

Draigo’s eyes flicked from side to side as he processed intricate calculations. “We have a small survival ship in the administrative hub, sir. I suggest we depart from this control center. Gilbertus will target it soon. He’ll locate us in moments.”

Josef couldn’t believe what the Mentat had just said. “But we’re winning! Look at how many ships they’ve lost!”

“And they still have many more to lose, sir. Now, however, they are operating without restraint—and under such circumstances, the rules and odds change.” He looked squarely at Josef, and there was real emotion and concern in his expression. “We cannot win, sir. Trust me.”

For a moment Josef refused to listen … but he had trusted Draigo and his plans as much as he trusted Norma Cenva. He had always relied on his talented experts, knew he’d be a fool not to listen. “If you’re convinced, then let’s get out of here.”

“Shall I sound the evacuation of any remaining personnel?”

“You can try. We’ll have to hope the barbarians let some of our people live—but we both know it’s me he wants.”

Josef and Draigo bolted for the small evacuation craft, sealed themselves inside, and launched from the docking clamp. Josef glanced at the Thonaris admin-hub as they drifted away, saw the frozen body of Arjen Gates mounted outside like a lawn ornament, and felt the great sense of his own financial and personnel loss. Such a waste!

The evac-ship wasn’t equipped with Holtzman engines, and he had no Navigator. He didn’t know how they were going to get away from the star system at all, but Draigo would make it possible for him to survive another hour … even if in that hour he had to watch the destruction of everything around him. The small ship pulled away from the administrative hub, lost in a flurry of activity as countless vessels whipped by and projectiles flew all around.

“And how do you project we’ll get safely away, Mentat?”

The Mentat hesitated for an uncomfortably long moment. “I am currently unable to determine that.” Josef felt a heavy weight in his chest. It had never occurred to him that Draigo might not have an answer.

Moments later, a barrage of projectiles tore open the empty admin-hub. Watching the proof of his Mentat’s conclusions, Josef felt lost, even discouraged, and at last he recognized the fundamental change that Draigo had spotted earlier: The barbarians were reckless, not caring if they had to sacrifice five manned ships for every one they destroyed. The human cost was staggering, but Manford’s fanatics were steadily diminishing the VenHold forces and facilities. The spacedocks had been destroyed, along with most of the automated factories.

“We’re not going to escape, are we, Mentat? It’s only a matter of time before they target us.”

“With no way to fold space, we can’t escape.” Draigo adjusted the communications system in the evac-ship. “I’ve scrambled the transmission to slow their ability to find us. Would you allow me to contact their Mentat, sir?”

Josef frowned. “Will he negotiate for the barbarians?”

“I don’t believe so. But I would like to … bid him farewell.”

With a sigh, Josef nodded. “I have nothing more to lose.”

As their tiny, unmarked lifeboat drifted among the wreckage and chaos, Draigo activated the screen and identified himself to the Butlerians. “This is the Mentat serving Venport Holdings. I would like to speak with Gilbertus Albans, please.”

In moments, his Mentat teacher appeared, not looking at all surprised. “I recognized your tactics, Draigo. I’m sorry we find ourselves on opposite sides of the battlefield in a real clash instead of a game.”

“A Mentat must be loyal to his employer. I’ve done my best to defend Josef Venport and protect these shipyards—just as you’ve done your best to destroy them.”

“At the command of Manford Torondo,” said Gilbertus.

Draigo wore a defeated smile. “As soon as I realized you had taken command, my own projections showed that even with my best skills I could not win. You had the better set of assets to use against me.”

“Nevertheless, I’m proud of you. You fought well. But you understand that this is goodbye, Draigo. Manford Torondo will not allow you to be taken prisoner.”

“Your Half-Manford can go to hell,” Josef said.

Manford Torondo broke into the channel. “The robot Erasmus wrote that human beings were merely an expendable resource, but it is machines that are really expendable. And their allies—”

Draigo switched off the transmission.

Josef looked at him with heavy eyes. “Any other suggestions, Mentat?”

“None, sir. I have reviewed all of the known data.”

Just then, so close and so suddenly that even Draigo let out a startled cry, a large VenHold ship appeared, folding space from nowhere. The cargo bay doors opened up like a yawning mouth in front of the small escape craft.

Josef recognized the female voice that came over the comm system—his own wife Cioba! “Norma Cenva and I are here to retrieve you, Josef. We will take you aboard!” Without asking how the two women had known to come here, Draigo quickly flew their ship into the hold of the rescue vessel.

Below and behind them, the Butlerians had noticed the new ship and turned their weaponry toward it. The first few blasts erupted nearby, without hitting their mark.

“How did you know to come here?” Josef asked over the comm.

In her wavering, ethereal voice, Norma said, “They may have Mentats, but I can trump them with my prescience.”

As fiery explosions continued throughout the shipyards, Josef saw that all was indeed lost. Norma Cenva’s vessel closed its hull like an embrace around their evac-ship, and as Cioba ran into the hold to see her husband, the cargo ship winked away and vanished into the safety of foldspace.