Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  The image resolved to show a mob scene. “This is Belos IV, but such occurrences have been documented elsewhere. Sparked by helplessness in the face of the approaching Enemy fleet, brushfire wars and political struggles are starting on planet after planet. People are afraid. When their leaders don’t tell them what they want to hear, they riot, overthrow their prime ministers, and prop others in their place. More often than not, they depose the new leaders as well.”

  “We know this.” Murbella looked at Janess, who remained rigidly at attention at the front of the table. She wished her daughter would sit down. On the images, the citizens of Belos IV had risen up against their governor, who had advocated surrender to the oncoming thinking machines. “Obviously, the people didn’t want to hear such a message. Why is this relevant?”

  Kiria jabbed a sharp-nailed finger at the image. “Observe!”

  When the crowd attacked the middle-aged leader, he fought remarkably well, using skills and speed rarely demonstrated by any bureaucrat. While Murbella watched, she decided the governor must have acquired some sort of special training. His combat methods were unusual and effective, but the mob far outnumbered him. They dragged him through the streets to the balcony of the governor’s palace and threw him off onto the flagstones far below. As he lay still, the howling, cheering mob backed away. The images drew in closer. The dead governor shifted and paled. His face became sunken and scarecrowish, somehow unformed. A Face Dancer!

  “We always suspected the new Face Dancers had questionable loyalties. They allied themselves with Honored Matres and turned against the old Tleilaxu. We found them among the rebel whores on Gammu and Tleilax, and now it appears that the threat is even worse than we suspected. Listen to the governor’s words. He advocated surrender to the thinking machines. Who are the Face Dancers really working for?”

  Murbella reached the obvious conclusion and dragged her sharp gaze like a serrated knife across the other Sisters. “The new Face Dancers are puppets of Omnius, and have infiltrated our populace. They are far superior to the old ones, able to resist almost any Bene Gesserit technique. We always wondered how the Lost Tleilaxu could have created them, when their skills were so inferior to those the old Masters demonstrated. It did not seem possible.”

  Laera said coldly, “It is possible if the thinking machines helped to create them, then sent them back among Tleilaxu returning from the Scattering.”

  “A first wave of scouts and infiltrators.” Kiria nodded. “How far have they spread? Could there be Face Dancers among us, undetected by Truthsayers?”

  Accadia scowled. “A frightening thought, if we have no way of exposing these new Face Dancers. From what I can tell, their mimicry is perfect.”

  “Nothing is perfect,” Murbella said. “Even thinking machines have flaws.”

  Without humor, Kiria said, “Oh, we can identify them easily enough. Kill them, and Face Dancers revert to their blank state.”

  “So you suggest we simply kill everyone?”

  “That’s what the Enemy intends to do anyway.”

  Restless, Murbella stood up. She could remain here on Chapterhouse with the other anxious Sisters, receive reports for another year, listen to summaries, and plot the advance of the thinking machines on a map, as if it were some kind of war game. Meanwhile, the Ixian engineers struggled to build weapons equivalent to the Obliterators, and the Guild shipyards worked to produce thousands of ships, all of them equipped with mathematical compilers.

  But the crisis went far beyond internal politics and power struggles. She decided to go out there herself and travel among the worlds on the edge of the war zone, not as Mother Commander, but as a keen observer. She would let a council of Reverend Mothers run the everyday activities here on Chapterhouse, dealing with bureaucratic matters and doling out spice rations to the Guild in order to ensure their cooperation.

  When Murbella announced her intent, Laera cried, “Mother Commander, that’s not possible. We need you here—there’s so much to do!”

  “I represent more than the New Sisterhood. Since no one else will step up to the plate, I am responsible for the whole human race.” She sighed. “Somebody has to be.”

  Our no-ship holds many secrets, yes, but not nearly the number we hold inside ourselves.

  —LETO II,

  the ghola

  Leto II and Thufir Hawat had never known each other in their original lifetimes. To them, that was not a disadvantage. It left them free to form a friendship without any expectations or preconceptions.

  Nine-year-old Leto hurried ahead, down the corridor. “Come with me, Thufir. Now that nobody’s watching, I can show you a special place.”

  “Another one? Do you spend all your days exploring instead of studying?”

  “If you’re going to be deputy chief of security, you need to know everything about the Ithaca. Maybe we’ll find your saboteur down here.” Leto turned sharply right, dropped into a small emergency lift, then paused at a dim, lower deck, where everything seemed larger and darker. He led Thufir to a sealed hatch that was posted with warnings and restrictions in half a dozen languages. Despite the locks, he opened it with barely a pause.

  Thufir looked puzzled, even a little offended. “How did you bypass security so easily?”

  “This ship is old, and systems break down all the time. Nobody even knows this one failed.” He ducked into the low passageway.

  The tunnel on the other side was a whistling, cool air channel. Up ahead the roaring grew louder, and the wind became powerful. Thufir sniffed. “Where does it go?”

  “To an air-exchange filtration system.” The passages were smooth and curving—like worm tunnels. A shiver brushed across Leto’s skin, perhaps from a memory of when he had been joined with numerous sandtrout, from when he was the God Emperor of Dune, the Tyrant. . . .

  The two reached the central recyclers where large fans drove the air through thick curtains of filter mats, scrubbing out particulates and purifying the atmosphere. Breezes tugged at the boys’ hair. Ahead, sheets of filtration material blocked further passage. The lungs of the ship, replenishing and redistributing oxygen.

  Recently, Thufir had begun to mark his lips with a cranberry-red stain. As the pair stood in the bowels of the ship, listening to the roaring wind, Leto finally asked, “Why do you do that to your mouth?”

  Self-consciously, the fourteen-year-old rubbed his lips. “My original used the sapho drug, which made stains like these. The Bashar wants me to live the part. He says he’s preparing to awaken my memories.” Thufir didn’t sound entirely pleased with the situation. “Sheeana has been talking about forcing me to remember. She has some special technique to trigger a ghola’s awakening.”

  “Aren’t you excited at the prospect? Thufir Hawat was a great man.”

  The other boy remained preoccupied and troubled. “It’s not that, Leto. I really don’t want my memories back, but Sheeana and the Bashar have their minds made up.”

  “That’s why you were created.” Leto was baffled. “Why wouldn’t you want your past life? The Master of Assassins would not be afraid of the ordeal.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’d just rather be the person I choose to become, and not emerge fully formed. I don’t feel I’ve earned it.”

  “Trust me, they’ll make you earn it, once you become the real Thufir again.”

  “I am the real Thufir! Or do you doubt that, too?”

  Thinking of the restless worm that crouched inside him, aware of all the atrocious things he would soon remember, Leto understood completely.

  By following the same beliefs and making the same decisions, one wears Life’s path into a circular rut, going nowhere, accomplishing nothing, making no progress. With God’s help, though, we can turn a sharp corner in the circle and achieve enlightenment.

  —The Cant of the Shariat

  At last Waff was ready to release his new worms, and Buzzell was a convenient ocean planet on Edrik’s standard trade route. A perfect test bed.

 
; The giant vessel carried merchants who traded in soostones. Earlier, when Honored Matres had conquered Buzzell and killed most of the exiled Reverend Mothers, the whores had taken the soostone wealth for themselves. Since then, few of the aquatic gems had been traded on the galactic market, which made their value skyrocket. Now that the New Sisterhood had recaptured Buzzell, soostone production was up again. The witches ran tightly regimented operations there and kept smugglers at bay, thus maintaining stable but high prices for the stones. With mercenary armies to protect them, CHOAM merchants began to sell large quantities of the gems, reaping profits before a glut drove prices down again. A temporary market fluctuation.

  Though pretty and desirable, soostones were not necessary. Melange, on the other hand, was vital—as the Navigators well knew. Waff knew that his experiments would eventually produce far more wealth than these undersea baubles could ever represent. Soon, if his expectations were met, Buzzell would be home to something far more interesting than baubles. . . .

  The Heighliner appeared above the liquid sapphire world, where tiny islands dotted the expansive ocean. Buzzell’s oceans were deep and fertile, a large zone where the genetically altered worms would thrive, provided they survived their initial baptism.

  The Tleilaxu Master paced the cold metal floor of his laboratory chamber. Soon, Edrik would inform him that the commercial lighters and cargo transports had disembarked for the island outposts. Once they were safely gone, Waff could begin his real work on Buzzell without being observed.

  Inside the lab, the smell of salt, iodine, and cinnamon had replaced harsh chemical odors. Waff’s test tanks were full of murky green water, rich with algae and plankton. Once turned loose in the oceans, the modified worms would have to find their own sources of nourishment, but Waff was sure they could adapt. God would make it all possible.

  Serpentine forms swam about in the tanks looking like ringed eels. Their ridges were an iridescent blue-green, showing a soft pink membrane between segments, a surrogate set of gills that absorbed oxygen from the water. Their mouths were round like those of lampreys. Though they had no eyes, the new seaworms could navigate using water vibrations in much the way that Rakian worms had been attracted by tremors in the dunes. Using carefully mapped models from sandtrout chromosomes, Waff knew that these creatures had the same internal metabolic reactions as a traditional sandworm.

  Therefore, they should still produce spice, but Waff didn’t know what kind of spice, or how it would be harvested. He stepped back, interlocking his grayish fingers. That wasn’t his problem or concern. He had done as Edrik commanded. He only wanted the worms back.

  It had taken more than a year out of his accelerated lifetime, but if Waff succeeded in resurrecting God’s messengers, his destiny would be complete. Even if the little man never received another ghola lifetime, he would have earned his place beside God in the highest levels of Heaven.

  Under proper conditions, sandtrout specimens reproduced swiftly. From them, he had adapted nearly a hundred seaworms, most of which he would deposit in the oceans of Buzzell. For a new species to survive, especially in an unfamiliar environment, the creatures faced quite a challenge, and Waff fully expected that many of his test specimens would die. Maybe most of them. But he was also convinced that some would live—enough to establish a foothold.

  Waff stood on his tiptoes, pressing his face to the tank. “If you are in there, Prophet, I will soon give you a whole new domain.”

  Five Guild assistants entered the lab without knocking. When Waff turned abruptly, the seaworms sensed his movement. With a thump, fleshy heads struck the reinforced tank walls. Startled again, Waff turned the other direction.

  “Passengers have disembarked for Buzzell,” said one of the grayclothed men. “Navigator Edrik has commanded us to follow your instructions.”

  The five all had oddly distorted heads, swollen brows, and asymmetric facial features. Any Tleilaxu Master could have repaired genetic flaws so that their descendants would be more physically attractive. But that would serve no purpose, and Waff had no interest in cosmetics.

  He gestured to the tanks as the Guildsmen sealed them for transport. “Exercise extreme care. Those creatures are worth more than all your lives.”

  The reticent assistants installed handles on the crowded tanks and began lugging them along the curving halls of the Heighliner. Knowing he had only four hours to complete his task before the passenger shuttles returned, Waff urged them to hurry.

  Because of the schism in the Guild between Navigators and Administrators, some people might not wish him to create this new avenue for spice production. The Ixians, the New Sisterhood, even the bureaucratic faction of the Guild might all work together, or separately, to assassinate him. Waff didn’t know how or why these particular five Guildsmen had been chosen to assist him. If he expressed any misgivings about them, Waff knew that the Navigator would not hesitate to have all five killed, just to keep his Tleilaxu researcher happy. As the troupe walked to a small transport craft, Waff decided that was exactly what he would do. Get rid of these men, these witnesses. Afterward.

  The sample tanks were loaded aboard the small transport. Waff did not usually leave the safe confines of the Heighliner, but he insisted on accompanying the crew down to the open sea. It was his experiment, and he wanted to be there in person to make sure the worms were released properly. He didn’t trust the five Guildsmen to be sufficiently competent or attentive.

  Then his suspicions ran deeper. What was to stop these men from flying off in the ship, revealing—or selling!—the seaworms to one of the opposing factions? Could they be perfectly loyal to Edrik? Waff saw danger everywhere.

  As the transport dropped out of the cargo bay, Waff wished belatedly that he had demanded additional bodyguards, or at least a sufficiently powerful hand-weapon for himself. Whom could he really trust?

  Using technological apparatus connected to their throats, the silent Guildsmen communicated with each other electronically, transmitting brain signals without voicing words. He knew they could speak aloud—why would they be so secretive? Perhaps they were plotting against him. Waff looked at the immense Heighliner far overhead and wished fervently for this to be over.

  The small transport descended into the cloudy skies, fighting choppy air currents. Waff felt ill. Finally, they broke through the moisture layers, and the oceans below sprawled out to every horizon. On charts displayed across the cockpit screens, Waff searched for a temperate zone where he could deposit the test worms, a place where the seas were rich with plankton and fish. It would give the creatures the greatest chance for survival.

  He indicated a line of rocks not far from the Sisterhood’s main island base and the center of their soostone-harvesting operations. “There. Safe, and close enough to monitor the worms.” He smiled, already imagining the first panicked reports of eyewitnesses. “Any rumors or wild stories should be interesting.”

  The Guildsmen nodded, all business. The transport ship flew low over the waves and hovered above the gentle swells. The lower cargo hatch opened, and Waff went down to observe the emptying of the tanks. He smelled the raw salt air, the tang of floating kelp, the wet breezes that whipped across the sea. A squall was about to begin.

  Using the handles, two of the silent Guildsmen brought the first tank to the opening, released the plaz cover sheet, and spilled the water and writhing seaworms into the freedom of the waiting waves.

  The serpentine creatures burst out like frantic snakes. Once they plunged into the green water, they streaked away. Waff watched their ridged bodies undulating, then diving and disappearing. They seemed joyous in their newfound freedom, glad to have a large world without plaz boundaries.

  Brusquely, he gestured to the Guildsmen, telling them to release the rest of the worms, emptying all of the aquariums. Waff had kept one crowded tank of specimens aboard the Heighliner, and he could always create more.

  As he stood by the open hatch, he suddenly shuddered, realizing his vulnerabilit
y. Now that he had turned the worms loose, would Edrik even require his services anymore? The Tleilaxu man feared the silent assistants might shove him overboard and leave him floating kilometers from the nearest speck of land. Warily, he backed deeper into the cargo hold and gripped a ridged wall strut.

  But the Guildsmen made no move against him. They performed their work exactly as he told them to, and precisely as the Navigator had specified. Perhaps Waff was fearful only because he intended to have these men killed. He naturally suspected they would think the same about him.

  Waff anticipated the seaworms would thrive here. The environment was conducive to their growth and reproduction. The worms would mark their territory, and when they grew large enough they would become leviathans of the deep. A fitting form for the Prophet.

  The transport’s cargo doors sealed again with a low hiss, and the Guild pilot flew away. Waff and his party would arrive back at the Heighliner well before the merchant vessels returned with their loads of soostones. No one would be the wiser.

  The Tleilaxu Master glanced through the cockpit’s plaz port to see the waves receding. He saw no sign of the seaworms, but he knew they were down there somewhere.

  He let out a contented sigh, confident that his Prophet would come back.

  It is the principle of the ticking time bomb, a strategy of aggression that has long been part of human violence. Thus we have inserted our “time bombs” into the cells of gholas, activating specific behaviors at precise moments of our choosing.

  —from The Secret Manual of Tleilaxu Masters

  The no-ship had its own time, its own cycles. Most of the people were asleep, except for off-shift watches and maintenance crews. The decks were quiet, the glowpanels dimmed. In the shadowy chamber that held the axlotl tanks, the Rabbi paced back and forth, murmuring Talmudic prayers.

  On a surveillance screen Sheeana observed the old man carefully, always alert to prevent any new incident of sabotage. When the saboteur had killed the three gholas and axlotl tanks, he or she had shut down the security imagers, but Bashar Teg had made sure that was no longer possible. Everything was under observation. As a former Suk doctor, the Rabbi had access to the medical center; he often spent time with what remained of the woman he’d known as Rebecca.