Jafar nodded and left.
Over twenty-six standard years ago, Selim had been falsely accused of stealing water from one of his tribe's stores; subsequently, he had been exiled into the desert. Manipulated by the lies of Naib Dhartha, Selim's former friends had chased him from their cliff cities, throwing rocks and insults at him until he ran out onto the treacherous dunes, supposedly to be devoured by one of the "demon worms."
But Selim had been innocent, and Buddallah had saved him — for a purpose.
When a sandworm had come to devour him, Selim discovered the secret of how to ride the creature. Shai-Hulud had taken him far from the Zensunni village and deposited him near an abandoned botanical testing station, where he'd found food, water, and tools. There, Selim had time to look inside himself, to understand his true mission.
In a melange-enhanced vision, nearly drowning in thick reddish powder cast up from a spice blow, he had learned that he must prevent Naib Dhartha and his desert parasites from harvesting and distributing melange to offworlders. Over the years, working alone, Selim had raided many encampments, destroying any spice the Zensunni gathered. He had earned a legendary reputation and the title "Wormrider."
Not long afterward, he had begun to accumulate followers.
Jafar had been the first, two decades ago, forsaking the protection of his own village near Airraids City in order to search for this man who could ride the great desert beasts. Jafar had been almost dead by the time Selim found him, dehydrated, sunburned, and starving under the dazzling bright sky. Looking up at the lean and hardened outcast, Jafar had gasped through cracked lips — not a request for water, but a query. "Are you… the Wormrider?"
By then, Selim had been alone for more than five years — too alone — faced with a sacred task too great for a single man. He nursed Jafar back to health and taught him how to ride Shai-Hulud. In the following years, the pair had gathered rugged followers, men and women dissatisfied with the strict rules and unfair justice of life in the Zensunni cliff colonies. Selim told them of his mission to stop spice harvesting, and they listened, enthralled by the gleam in his eyes.
According to Selim's repeated melange visions, the activities of the offworld merchants and the Zensunni gatherers would shatter the peace of the desert planet. Though the timeframe was dim, stretching into a vague, distant future, the spread of spice across the Galaxy would eventually lead to the extinction of all worms and a crisis of human civilization. Although his words were frightening, when they saw him proudly riding atop the mountainous curve of a great sandworm, no one could doubt his claims or his faith.
But even I do not understand Shai-Hulud… the Old Man of the Desert.
As a young scamp, exiled from his tribe, Selim had never wanted to be a leader. But now, after decades of living by his own wits and making decisions for the group of followers who depended on him for guidance and survival, Selim Wormrider was a confident, clear-headed general who had begun to believe the myth that he was indestructible, a demon of the desert. Despite devoting his life to preserving the worms, he did not expect the capricious Shai-Hulud to show him any gratitude…
Unexpectedly, Jafar returned to the high chamber, making so much commotion that Selim stepped away from the window opening and saw that his friend had brought a newcomer. She looked dirty and lean, but her dark eyes shone with a haughty defiance. Her dusty brown hair had been cropped short. Her cheeks were sunburned below her eyes, but the rest of her seemed intact. The young woman must have been wise enough to wrap herself against the worst ravages of the sun. A curved white scar like a crescent moon rode above her left eyebrow, an exotic punctuation to her coarse beauty.
"Look what we found out in the desert, Selim." Jafar stood tall and stoic, unflappable, but Selim caught a hint of humorous gleam behind his deep blue eyes.
The young woman stepped away from the tall man, as if to prove she did not need his protection. "My name is Marha. I have traveled alone in search of you." Then her face flickered with uncertainty and awe, making her look unexpectedly young. "I am… honored to meet you, Selim Wormrider!"
He held her chin, turning her face up to look at him. Lean and dirty, but with large eyes and strong features. "You're just a slip of a girl. Won't be much use for heavy labor around here. Why have you left your own people?"
"Because they are all fools," she snapped.
"Many people are fools, once you get to know them."
"Not me. I came to join you."
Selim raised his eyebrows, amused. "We shall see." He turned to look at Jafar. "Where did you find her? How close did she approach?"
"We caught her beneath the Needle Rock. She had camped there and didn't know we'd been watching her."
"I would have seen you," she insisted.
Needle Rock was very close to the settlement. Though impressed, Selim did not show it. "And you survived in the desert by yourself? How far away is your village?"
"Eight days journey. I brought food and water, and I caught lizards."
"You mean you stole food and water from your village."
"I earned it."
"I doubt your Naib would see it the same way, so it is not likely your people would take you back."
Marha's eyes flashed. "Not likely. I fled from Naib Dhartha's village, as you yourself did years ago."
Selim stiffened and studied her. "He still has a stranglehold on the tribe?"
"He teaches that you are evil, a thief, a vandal."
Selim's chuckle was dry and humorless. "Perhaps he should look in a mirror. Through his own treachery he established himself as my lifelong enemy."
Marha looked tired and thirsty, but made no complaint, no request for hospitality. She fumbled at her throat and pulled out a wire loop that held a jingling collection of metal chits. "Spice tokens from offworlders. Naib Dhartha sent me out to work the sands, to scrape the spice and collect it to be delivered to his merchant friends in Arrakis City. I have been of marriageable age for three years, but no Zensunni woman — or man — can take a mate until they have gathered fifty spice tokens. That is how Naib Dhartha measures our service to the tribe."
Selim scowled, delicately touched the tokens with his fingertip, then in disgust tucked them back into her collar. "He is a man deluded by greed and the false hope of an easy life."
He turned away and stared out into the desert. Squinting into the morning light, he watched four figures emerge from the lower caves. They walked out onto the open sands, garbed in camouflage robes and cloaks, their faces wrapped to prevent moisture loss.
The smallest of them was Biondi, preparing for his test.
When Marha looked questioningly at Selim and then at the other man, Jafar explained. "Selim Wormrider receives messages from Shai-Hulud. We have been commanded by God to stop the rape of the desert, to halt the harvesting of spice, the momentum of commerce that threatens to set history on a disastrous course. It is an enormous task for our small group. By working to harvest melange, you yourself have aided our enemies."
Defiant, the young woman shook her head. "By abandoning them, I have helped your cause."
Selim turned back, looking from her crescent-moon scar to her intent eyes. He saw a determination there, but could not be sure of her true motives. "Why have you come here to a hard life, instead of running to Arrakis City and signing onto a merchant ship?"
She seemed surprised by the question. "Why do you think?"
"Because you do not trust off-worlders any more than you trust your own leader."
She raised her chin. "I want to ride the worms. Only you can teach me."
"And why should I do that?"
The young woman's eagerness overrode her uncertainty. "I thought that if I could find you, track the location of your outlaw hideout, then you would accept me."
Selim. arched his eyebrows. "That is only the first part."
"The easy part," Jafar said.
"Each step in its time, Marha. You have done well so far. Not many approach as close a
s Needle Rock before we apprehend them. Some, we send away with enough supplies to survive trie trip back home. Others are so hopelessly lost that they wander to their deaths without ever knowing we have been observing them."
"You just watch them die?"
Jafar shrugged. "It is the desert. If they cannot survive, they are useless."
"I am not useless. I am good with a knife… killed one opponent and injured another in duels." She touched her eyebrow. "One man gave me this scar at the spaceport. He tried to rape me. In turn, I gave him a scar from one side of his belly to the other."
Selim withdrew his milky-white crystalline dagger, holding it up so that the young woman could see. "A wormrider carries a dagger like this, fashioned from the sacred tooth of Shai-Hulud."
Marha stared in amazement, her eyes sparkling. "Ah, what I could accomplish with a fine weapon like that!"
Jafar laughed. "Many people would like to have one of these, but you must earn it."
"Tell me what to do."
Hearing a steady drumbeat from the expansive desert outside, Selim turned to the cave window. "Before you make such an impetuous decision, girl, watch and see what lies in store for you here."
"My name is Marha. I am no longer a girl."
To young villagers across Arrakis, Selim was a glamorous figure, a daredevil hero. Many tried to imitate him and become wormriders themselves, though he attempted to discourage them, warning them of the danger of a renegade's life. Having received a true vision from Buddallah, Selim had no choice in the matter for himself. But they did.
Regardless of his advice, starry-eyed candidates rarely listened. They set out with big dreams and overconfidence, which usually proved to be their downfall. But those who survived learned the greatest lesson of their lives.
Out on the dunes, the drumbeats echoed. Almost all of the observers had left the sand, returning to the shelter of the rocky cliffs. A solitary man, Biondi, sat at the crest of a dune, the place he had selected for his testing. He should have had everything he needed: The young man would be wearing one of the new distilling suits that Selim and his followers had developed for protection and survival during times when they must be abroad in the open desert. With Biondi were staffs and hooks, and a rope between his knees. He pounded on a single drum, sending a loud, insistent summons.
Marha stepped forward to stand next to Selim, as if unable to believe she now found herself beside the man who was the basis of so many desert myths. "Will a worm come? Will he ride it?"
"We shall see if he succeeds," Selim said. "But Shai-Hulud will come. He always does."
Selim saw the wormsign first and pointed it out to the young woman. After more than a quarter century, he no longer counted how many times he had summoned a sandworm and climbed its rough rings in order to guide the creature wherever he wished to go.
Biondi had ridden just twice before, each time accompanied by a master rider who did all the work for him. The youngster had performed adequately, but still had a great deal to learn. Another month of training would have benefited him immensely.
Selim hoped he would not lose another follower… but either way, Biondi's fate was in his own hands.
The novice pounded his drum much longer than necessary. He did not become aware of the approach of the worm until he looked to the east and saw shimmering waves trembling through the sands. Then he grabbed his equipment and scrambled to his feet, accidentally kicking over the drum so that it rolled and bounced down the face of the dune.
At the base of the sand formation, the drum struck a rock and sent out another reverberating sound. The oncoming worm deviated slightly, and Biondi reeled to adjust his position at the last moment. The sandworm came up unexpectedly, showering dust, flattening dunes.
Selim marveled at the majestic sight of it. "Shai-Hulud," he whispered reverently.
A puny figure in the face of the onrushing behemoth, Biondi held his hooks and staff, muscles coiled.
In instinctive fear Marha flinched, but Selim clasped her shoulder, forcing her to watch.
At the last moment, Biondi lost his nerve. Instead of standing his ground, holding the spreading staff and the hook, he turned to flee. But no man could outrun Shai-Hulud in the desert.
The worm scooped up its victim along with a mouthful of sand and powdery dust. Selim could hardly see the tiny human form as it vanished down the endless gullet.
Transfixed, Marha stared. Jafar shook his head, lowering his chin in sad disappointment.
Selim nodded like a wise man much older than his years. "Shai-Hulud has found the candidate wanting." He turned to Marha. "Now you have seen the peril. Would you not be better off returning to your village and begging Naib Dhartha for forgiveness?"
"On the contrary — it seems to me you now have room for another follower." She stared fiercely out at the sands. "I still want to ride the worms;."
Endurance. Belief. Patience. Hope. These are the key words of our existence.
—Zensunni prayer
On poritrin, the extravagant but pointless construction project required extraordinary work and manpower. Thus, slaves.
Sparks and fumes surrounded Ishmael in the hot air of the shipyards and the clattering din of adjacent foundries. Drenched in sweat and smeared with soot and greasy dust, Ishmael performed his work beside the other captives, following instructions and calling no attention to himself. It was the Zensunni way of survival, to achieve a relatively comfortable life, within the constraints imposed by their Poritrin captors.
In the evenings, back in the Buddislamic dwelling compounds, Ishmael led his people in prayer and continued to urge them to have faith. He was the most learned Zensunni scholar in their group, having memorized more Sutras and parables than the other men. As a consequence they looked to him for guidance, though he felt at a loss.
Ishmael knew in his heart that someday their captivity would end, but he was no longer certain it would occur in his own lifetime. He had already reached the age of thirty-four. How much longer could he wait for God to free his people?
Perhaps Alüd was right after all…
Ishmael closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer before getting back to work. The clang of metal and the hiss of laser rivets crackled through the air.
South of the main city of Starda, the Isana River delta widened, leaving numerous flat islands separated by deeply cut shipping channels. Barges carried raw metals from mines far to the north, delivering them to the manufacturing centers.
In the past six months, expanding upon a suggestion made by Primero Vorian Atreides of the Jihad Army, Savant Tio Holtzman had summoned an enormous workforce, commandeering slave crews from across the continent, with the blessing of Lord Niko Bludd. This full-scale project demanded all the labor of Poritrin; more than a thousand workers had been brought to the industrial islands. Stinking, noisy factories processed the resources into large starship components, hull plates and engine cowlings that would be lifted into orbit for assembly into new battleships.
No one had bothered to explain the plan to the slave crews. like worker ants, each man and woman had a designated task, and crew supervisors observed the complex flurry of activity from above.
To Ishmael, it was yet another dirty and difficult labor assignment. He had worked in the cane fields, mines, and factories during the past five years in and around Starda. The intense Zenshütes, as well as the less radical Zensunnis, remained restless as their masters forced them to meet the increased demands of Serena Butler's galactic war.
When Ishmael was just a boy, raiders had attacked his peaceful village on Harmonthep. They kidnapped healthy Zensunni settlers and pressed them into service on League planets that accommodated slavery. After more than twenty years, Poritrin was Ishmael's world now, a home as much as a prison. He had made the best of his life.
Because Ishmael had caused no obvious trouble, upon reaching adulthood he'd been allowed to take a wife. After all, the Poritrin slave masters wanted to keep their stock thriving; and t
hey had statistics that showed married slaves worked harder and were more easily controlled. Before long, Ishmael had learned to love strong and curious Ozza. She had given him two daughters: Chamal, who was thirteen, and little Falina, now eleven. Their lives were not their own, but at least Ishmael's family had remained intact through several transfers and new work assignments. Ishmael never knew if that had been a reward for his acceptable service, or simply a fortuitous accident.
Now, in the bleak industrial shipyards, orange sparks and the splashing glow of hot alloys turned the work site into a vision of Heol, as described in the Buddislamic Sutras. The hiss of sulfurous smoke, the tang of metal dust and scorched ores forced the slaves to wrap blackened rags around their faces in order to breathe.
Beside him, he saw the sweaty, perpetually angry visage of his childhood friend Alüd, whom Ishmael had only recently rediscovered at the shipyard work site. Although the other man's coiled brashness made Ishmael feel threatened and uncomfortable, friendship was one of the few threads to which they could hold.
Even when they were boys, Alüd had been trouble, willing to break rules, committing vandalism and minor sabotage. Because Ishmael was his friend, both of them had often suffered punishments and transfers. Before the boys became teenagers they were separated and did not see each other again for nearly eighteen years.
But Tio Holtzman's ambitious new construction project had thrown many slaves together in the foundries and factories. Ishmael and Alüd Lad discovered each other again.
Now, under a clatter of hammers and the percussive drumbeat of rivet-welders, Ishmael maneuvered the machinery over hull-plate seams. Over the years, his muscles had grown large, as had Alüd's. Though his clothes were dirty and worn, Ishmael cropped his hair and shaved his weathered cheeks, chin, and neck. Alüd, though, let his dark hair grow long and tied it back with a thong. His beard was thick and black like Bel Moulay's, the outspoken Zenshüte leader who had tried to lead a slave revolt when they were just boys.
Ishmael climbed up beside his friend, helping to wrestle the heavy metal sheet into place. Alüd activated the rivet welder before either man checked the alignment. Alüd's work was sloppy and he knew it, but the Poritrin nobles and work supervisors never penalized them or even criticized their work. Ship after ship had been assembled in space above the quiet planet. By now, dozens of bristling war vessels clustered in orbit like a pack of trained hunting dogs, waiting for an opportunity.
The Machine Crusade Page 6
