Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [58]
As the immense vessel continued to turn, he saw a glittering silver path like a scarf of mist, spewing from the stern. One of the no-ship’s three primary water reservoirs had been dumped—intentionally. The great swath of water had been ejected with enough force to push the Ithaca off course. The evacuated water shifted the ship’s ballast and sent them into a spin. The loss of angular momentum made their situation worsen as more and more water poured away, like a comet’s tail behind them. The ship’s reserves!
Working feverishly at the controls, Duncan overrode the reservoir hatch, praying all the while that the mysterious saboteur had merely opened the door to space, rather than using one of the deadly mines locked away in the armory.
Teg burst onto the navigation bridge just as Duncan managed to close the cargo doors and reestablish containment. The Bashar bent over the screens, his young but seasoned face creased in concern. “That was enough water to supply us for a year!” His gray-eyed gaze flitted around nervously.
Pacing the deck, Duncan stared out at the misty veil of dispersed water. “We can retrieve some of it. Scoop it up as ice, and when I fully stabilize our spin—”
But as he looked at the smear of lost water spreading out against the starry backdrop, he saw other lines appear, sparkling multicolored threads drawing together and enclosing the no-ship like a spider’s web. The Enemy’s net! Again it was bright enough for Teg to see it, too. “Damn it! Not now!”
Lunging into the pilot’s seat, Duncan activated the Holtzman engines. With one or more saboteurs aboard, the engines themselves could have been rigged to explode, but he had no choice. He forced the enigmatic machines to fold space well before he could think about what course to take. The no-ship, still spinning, lurched off to another place.
They survived.
Afterward, Duncan looked at Teg and sighed. “We couldn’t have retrieved much of the expelled water anyway.”
Even the ship’s sophisticated recyclers had their limits, and now the actions of the saboteur had driven them—intentionally—toward an inescapable conclusion. After many years of constant flight, the noship’s provisions had to be replenished as soon as an acceptable planet could be located. Not an easy task in a huge galaxy, encompassing vast distances. They had found nothing suitable in years. Not since the planet of the Handlers.
But Duncan knew that would not be their only problem. When they found a place, they would be forced to expose themselves—again.
Synchrony is more than a machine, more than a metropolis; it is an extension of the evermind itself. It constantly shifts and morphs into different configurations. At first I believed this effect was for defense, but there seems to be another force at work, a surprising creative spark. These machines are exceedingly odd.
—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN,
the ghola
The metropolis before them was beautiful in an industrial and metallic way: sharp angles, smooth curves, and a great deal of energy as structures moved and flashed like a perfectly tuned machine. Angular buildings and windowless towers covered every square meter of ground. The Baron saw no offensive greenery, no gaudy flowers or landscaping, not a leaf, blossom, or blade of grass.
Synchrony was a bustling symbol of productivity—along with concomitant profits and political power, if thinking machines ever figured out how to pay attention to such things. Maybe Vladimir Harkonnen would show Omnius how it was done.
After the long journey from Caladan, the Baron and Paolo rode a tram to the shifting center of the machine city. The Atreides ghola peered out through the curved windows, his