Free Dune: The Butlerian Jihad by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson Page A

mysterious Tlulaxa. He knew Serena had worked vigorously with the brilliant battlefield surgeons and a Tlulaxa flesh merchant named Tuk Keedair to get him the treatment he needed.
    Now he could breathe again, despite intermittent bursts of pain. Xavier would live to fight the machines another time. Thanks to pharmaceuticals and advanced healing techniques, he had been able to leave the hospital soon after the medical procedure.
    At the time of the attack, the flesh merchant Keedair had been in Zimia on a routine sales call and barely escaped with his life. On the Unallied Planet of Tlulax in the distant Thalim solar system, his people ran organ farms, growing human hearts, lungs, kidneys, and other body parts from viable cells. After the cymeks were driven away, the secretive Tlulaxa had offered his biological wares to the battlefield surgeons at Zimia’s main field hospital. His ship’s cryogenic lockers were filled with sample body parts. A stroke of luck, Keedair had admitted with a smile, that he could be there to help the grievously injured Salusan citizens during their time of great need.
    Following the successful surgery, Keedair had come to see Xavier in the medical center. The Tlulaxa was a man of middle height but slight of build, with dark eyes and an angular face. A long, dark braid hung at the left side of his head, plaited tightly.
    Breathing in, carefully modulating his raspy voice, Xavier said, “It was fortunate you were here with new organs already stored aboard your ship.”
    Keedair rubbed his long-fingered hands together. “If I had known the cymeks would strike so ferociously, I would have brought a larger supply of material from our organ farms. Your Salusan survivors could use many more replacement parts, but additional ships cannot arrive from the Thalim system for months.”
    Before the flesh merchant left Xavier’s room, he turned back and said, “Consider yourself one of the lucky ones, Tercero Harkonnen.”

    • • •
    IN BATTLE-SCARRED ZIMIA, grief-stricken survivors searched for their dead, and buried them. As rubble was cleared, the death toll mounted. Bodies were recovered, names of the missing were compiled. In spite of such pain and sorrow, because of the attack free humanity grew stronger.
    Viceroy Manion Butler had insisted that the people show only determination in the aftermath. On the streets below Xavier’s terrace, final preparations were under way for a celebration of thanksgiving. Banners with the open-hand sigil of human freedom fluttered in the wind. Rough-looking men in dirty coats struggled to control magnificent white Salusan stallions that had become agitated by the commotion. The horses’ manes were braided with tassles and bells, and their tails swept behind them like waterfalls of fine hair. Festooned with ribbons and flowers, the animals pranced, eager to march down the broad central boulevard that had been washed clean of debris, soot, and bloodstains.
    Xavier glanced uncertainly at the sky. How could he ever look at the clouds again without dreading that he might see more pyramidal dropcarriages plunging through the scrambler shields? Missiles were already being installed, increased batteries to protect against an attack from space. More patrols would be launched, circling the system on the highest state of alert.
    Instead of attending a parade, he should be preparing the Salusan Militia for another attack, increasing the number of picket ships and scouts at the edge of the system, working out a more efficient rescue and response plan. It was only a matter of time before the thinking machines returned.
    The next meeting of the League Parliament would devote itself to emergency measures and reparations. The representatives would sketch out a reconstruction plan for Zimia. The cymek warrior-forms left behind must be dismantled and analyzed for weaknesses.
    Xavier hoped the League would immediately dispatch a summons to Poritrin, calling the brilliant Tio Holtzman