Dune: The Machine Crusade by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson Page A

the machines.
    “Vergyl, that Zenshiite town should have all the raw materials you need to set up your strike. Don’t forget your tactical training.”
    “Yes, Xavier.”
    “Find a bottleneck where you can hammer the robot armies without exposing yourself to danger. Hit hard, give them everything you have, and then pull back. Tercero Cregh and his troops at the second town will mop up any thinking machines that survive.”
    “I understand.”
    “We’re also dispatching Ginaz mercenaries to harass any outlying robot forces,” Vor added with a snort. “It’ll be a pleasant change for them from riding around in orbit and pretending to threaten machine warships.”
    “And Vergyl,” Xavier said, his voice sterner than ever, “take care of yourself. Your father took me in as an orphan when the machines killed my family. I have no intention of bringing him bad news.”
    As Vergyl took his military force into the designated town, he hoped the natives would welcome them. He looked around, judging the mood of the villagers. The Zenshiites, mostly farmers and silt miners who worked the mineral-rich sandbars, stood outside their dwellings and watched with dismay. Transport after transport landed in their fields, disgorging jihadi troops and Ginaz mercenaries. Engineers and weapons specialists removed artillery components while scouts scattered, studying the terrain to find the best emplacements.
    Vergyl stepped forward, his expression calm. “We mean you no harm. We are here to protect you from the thinking machines. The enemy is on the way.”
    The hard-eyed farmers looked at them. One grim-faced man said, “Rhengalid has told us you are not welcome here. You should go.”
    “Sorry, but I have my orders.”
    Vergyl sent his men through the town to inspect buildings, telling them, “Don’t cause any damage. See if you find empty structures for us to use. Let’s make this as unobtrusive as possible.”
    Old women grumbled curses at the Jihad fighters. Parents snatched children away and locked them in thick-walled homes, as if afraid Vergyl’s engineers would steal them in the dark of night.
    The face of the dour farmer showed resigned acceptance. “What if we do not wish to have outsiders sleeping in our homes?”
    Vergyl knew how he had to answer. “Then we’ll set up tents. But we’d rather have your cooperation and your hospitality. When morning comes, you’ll see the greater danger you face. Then you’ll be glad we’re here.”
    The Zenshiites showed little enthusiasm, but they didn’t interfere.
    The machine forces were expected to funnel through the canyons toward Darits. Surveillance had already pinpointed the robots’ new staging point on the plateau, just as Primero Atreides had guessed.
    The engineers were careful to leave no obvious traces of their work. The heavy weapons were moved into vacant buildings; Vergyl did not need to displace any families.
    Several empty dwellings were close enough together for his soldiers to bunk down for the night. When he asked the villagers what had happened, Vergyl received only frightened scowls in answer. Finally, one bearded farmer answered, “Tlulaxa slavers took them a few months ago. Whole families.” He gestured to the clustered homes.
    “I’m sorry.” Vergyl didn’t know what else to say.
    As darkness fell, he contacted Tercero Hondu Cregh, his counterpart in the second village. Sharing information, they confirmed that each ambush site was ready. Tercero Cregh had also experienced little cooperation from the people, but again, no outright obstruction.
    After he called his commandos together, and they completed one last inspection of the emplaced weapons, Vergyl was surprised to see several Zenshiite farmers coming toward them carrying jugs and bottles. Tense, but hoping for the best, he went to meet them. The farmer who had spoken to him earlier held out his jug, while a woman at his side extended several shallow cups.
    “The Koran Sutras tell us we