Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Seven curious Phibians floated by the dock pilings, staring upward. In their bubbling, hissing voices, they mumbled in awe.

  Waff stood triumphantly before the large, dripping thing. Slime trickled from the dead seaworm onto the dock, and a gush of milkygray fluid flowed from its mouth. The long sharp teeth were very fine, like needles. Rather than reeking of fish, the seaworm had a distinct sharp-sweet odor with a hint of pungent cinnamon.

  Perfect!

  Women came forward to confront Waff. “We’ve never captured and killed a seaworm before,” said a Sister in a brown dress who introduced herself as Corysta. She seemed delighted to see the leviathan dead. “They have caused great havoc in the seas.”

  “And they will continue to do so. Learn to adapt your operations.” Waff perfunctorily turned from her to issue instructions to his crew, then told Corysta and the other Bene Gesserits to stay back. “We are on strict Guild business. Do not attempt to interfere.”

  Though dead, the seaworm twitched as nerve impulses continued to fire. Waff ordered the Guildsmen to lash down the carcass, so that he could dissect it without interruption. The Guild assistants brought him a lascutter, a superfine shigawire saw, spreaders, and shovels.

  Setting the lascutter to full power and holding it in both hands, Waff swept sideways in a broad arc and sliced the seaworm open, so that the round, dripping segments flopped apart. Guildsmen hurried forward with spreaders to pull open the wound and expose the internal structure. Waff reveled in the gore. The Prophet must be so pleased with him.

  In preparation, he had already killed and autopsied two of the original small specimens in his laboratory, so he knew the creatures’ basic arrangement of organs. The worm was a biologically simple creature, and working on this larger scale made the process easier. Water and slime oozed onto the dock, splattering Waff. Under other circumstances he might have been disgusted, but this was the sacred essence of his Prophet. The Tleilaxu man sniffed more deeply, and there—a definite undertone to the smell—he caught the vital, pungent aroma of pure melange. No doubt about it.

  Waff buried his arms up to his shoulders in the organs, feeling around, identifying specific structures by their shapes and textures. Guild assistants used wide scoops to shovel offal onto the dock. Witches and Phibians watched in fascination, but Waff paid little attention to them.

  Ignoring the obviously confused and impotent Sisters, he laser-cut deeper into the worm, sliced along its length and rummaged through the stinking debris, until finally a large bluish-purple lump of soft liverlike material spilled out. Waff stepped back for a breath, then leaned closer, poking and prodding with his fingers. He made a cut with the lasknife at its lowest setting.

  A rich oily-cinnamon odor boiled out, so thick it could be seen as fumes. Waff reeled dizzily. The intensity of the melange nearly bowled him over. “Spice! The creature is saturated with melange! Extremely concentrated spice.”

  The Sisters looked at each other and came closer with curious expressions. “Spice? The seaworms produce spice?” The Guildsmen stood close to Waff and his dripping prize, blocking the Bene Gesserits.

  “The seaworms destroyed our soostone beds!” another woman shouted.

  Waff stared them down. “These creatures may have destroyed one economy on Buzzell, but they created an even more important one.” His assistants picked up the large, melange-saturated organ and carried it back to the nearest hornet ship. Waff would have to test the substance thoroughly, but he already felt confident in what he would find.

  Up in the orbiting Heighliner, Edrik the Navigator would be pleased.

  Dripping with slime and seawater, Waff hurried back to the ship.

  Some see spice as a blessing, others as a curse. To everyone, however, it is a necessity.

  —PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES,

  Original Arrakis Notebooks

  After her long and exhausting journey across the Old Empire, from the planets preparing for battle, to the Guild shipyards, to the soostone operations on Buzzell, Mother Commander Murbella returned to Chapterhouse with renewed determination. Since she had been gone for many months, her quarters in the Keep now looked like a stranger’s rooms. Harried acolytes and male workers scurried to unload her belongings from her ship.

  After a polite knock on the door, an acolyte stepped in. The young woman had short brown hair and a furtive smile. “Mother Commander, Archives sent these updated charts. They were supposed to be waiting for you upon your arrival.” She held out thin maps with finely detailed lines, then drew back, startled, when she noticed the hulking combat robot, deactivated but still standing in the corner of the room like a war trophy.

  “Thank you. Don’t mind the machine—it is as dead as they will all soon be.” Murbella took the reports from the girl’s hands. With a second glance, she realized the young woman was her own daughter Gianne, her last child with Duncan Idaho. Another daughter, Tanidia, also raised by the New Sisterhood, had been shipped off to work among the Missionaria.

  Do Gianne or Tanidia even know who their parents are? Years ago she had made the choice to tell Janess of her parentage, and the young woman had thrown herself into the study and understanding of her famous father. But Murbella had let her other two daughters be raised among the Bene Gesserit in the more traditional way. She doubted they knew how special they were.

  Gianne seemed hesitant, as if hoping the Mother Commander would ask her for something else. Though she knew the answer, on impulse Murbella asked, “How old are you, Gianne?”

  The girl seemed startled that she knew her name. “Why, twenty-three, Mother Commander.”

  “And you have not yet undergone the Agony.” It was not a question. Occasionally, the Mother Commander had been tempted to use her position to interfere with the girl’s training, but had not done so. A Bene Gesserit was not supposed to show such weakness.

  The young woman seemed ashamed. “The proctors suggest that I would benefit from more focus and concentration.”

  “Then devote yourself to that. We need every Reverend Mother we can find.” She glanced at the ominous combat robot. “The war has worsened.”

  MURBELLA REALIZED SHE could not rest, could not waste the time. She demanded to see her advisors, Kiria, Janess, Laera, and Accadia. The women arrived, expecting a meeting, but Murbella herded them out of the Keep. “Prepare a ’thopter. We leave immediately for the desert belt.”

  Carrying a stack of reports, Laera did not react well to the news. “But Mother Commander, you’ve been gone so long. Many documents await your attention. You have to make decisions, give proper—”

  “I decide the priorities.”

  Kiria, looking scornful, bit her words back when she noted the Mother Commander’s complete seriousness. They all crowded aboard an empty ornithopter, then waited for the tedious takeoff preparations. Murbella wouldn’t sit still for a moment. “If I don’t get a pilot, I’ll fly this damned thing myself.” A young male pilot was quickly brought to her.

  As the ’thopter took off, she finally turned to her advisors and explained, “The Guild demands an exorbitant payment for all the warships we have under construction. Ix already accepts payments only in melange, and now that soostones from Buzzell are no longer economically viable, everything hinges on spice. That is our only coin significant enough to appease the Guild.”

  “Appease them?” Kiria snapped. “What madness is this? We should conquer them and force them to produce the weapons and vessels we need. Are we the only ones who understand the threat? Thinking machines are coming!”

  Janess was astonished by the other woman’s suggestion. “Attacking the Guild would create open civil warfare at a time when we can least afford it.”

  “Do we have enough resources to spend on these ships?” asked Laera. “Our credit has already been strained past its limits with the Guild Bank.”

  “We all face a common enemy,” old Accadia said. “Surely, the Guild and Ix would be willing—”

  Murbella clenched her
hands. “This has nothing to do with altruism or greed. Despite the best intentions, resources and raw materials do not appear like rainbows after a storm. Populations must be fed, ships must be fueled, energy must be produced and expended. Money is only a symbol, but economics is the engine that drives the whole machine. The piper must be paid.”

  The ’thopter raced across the sky, buffeted by dry winds and blown dust long before they saw the desert. Murbella gazed out the curved window, sure that dunes had not extended this far across the continent the last time she’d visited the desert. It was a spreading antiflood, total dryness sweeping outward in waves. At the heart of the desert, the worms grew and reproduced, keeping the cycle going in a perpetually increasing spiral.

  The Mother Commander turned to the woman behind her. “Laera, I require a complete assessment of our spice-harvesting operations. I need to know numbers. How many long tons of melange do we gather? How much do we have in our stockpiles, and how much is available for export?”

  “We produce enough to meet our needs, Mother Commander. Our investment continues to go into expanding the operations, but our expenditures have increased dramatically.”

  Kiria muttered a bitter comment about the Ixians and their endless bills.

  “We may need to bring in outside workers,” Janess pointed out. “These obstacles can be overcome.”

  The ’thopter swooped toward a chimney-plume of dust and sand thrown up by a harvester. Around it, like wolves circling a wounded animal, several sandworms approached the vibrations. Already the operations were beginning to wrap up, with miners rushing and carryalls hovering to snatch the heavy machinery away as soon as worms ventured too close.

  Murbella said, “Squeeze the desert, wring out every gram of spice.”

  “Beast Rabban was given the same task long ago, during the days of Muad’Dib,” said Accadia. “And he failed in a spectacular fashion.”

  “Rabban did not have the Sisterhood behind him.” She could see Laera, Janess, and Kiria all making silent mental calculations. How many workers could be diverted to the desert zone? How many offplanet prospectors and treasure hunters could they allow on Chapterhouse? And how much spice would be enough to keep Guild and Ixian engineers producing the desperately needed ships and weapons?

  The male pilot, having been silent until now, said, “While we are out here, Mother Commander, shall I take you to our desert research station? The planetology crew is studying the sandworm cycle, the spread of desert, and the parameters necessary for the most effective spice harvest.”

  “ ‘Understanding is required before success is possible,’ ” Laera said, quoting directly from the old Orange Catholic Bible.

  “Yes, let me inspect this station. Research is necessary, but in times like these it must be practical research. We have no time for frivolous studies concocted by the whim of an offworld scientist.”

  The pilot banked the ’thopter and accelerated far out into the open desert. On the horizon, a lumpy, black ridge showed a reef of buried rock, a safe bastion where worms could not go.

  Shakkad Station had been named after Shakkad the Wise, a ruler from days before the Butlerian Jihad. Nearly lost in the mists of legend, Shakkad’s chemist had been the first man in history to recognize the geriatric properties of melange. Now, far from Chapterhouse Keep or any outside interference, a group of fifty scientists, Sisters, and their support staff lived and worked. They set up weather-testing devices, traveled out onto the dunes to measure chemical changes during spice blows and monitor the growth and movement of sandworms.

  When the ’thopter settled onto a flat cliff outcropping that served as a makeshift landing pad, a group of scientists came out to meet them. Dusty and windblown, a survey team was just returning from the edges of the desert where they had set out sampling poles and weather-testing instruments. They wore stillsuits, exact reproductions of those once used by the Fremen.

  A majority of the scientists at Shakkad Station were men, and several of the older ones had made brief expeditions to charred Rakis itself. Three decades had passed since the ecological destruction of the desert planet, and by now few experts could claim firsthand knowledge of the sandworms or original conditions on Dune.

  “How may we assist you, Mother Commander?” asked the station manager, an offworlder who pushed dusty protective goggles up onto his forehead. The man’s owlish eyes had already begun to turn a faint blue. Spice had been in his diet every day since his arrival at the outpost. His body gave off an unpleasant sour odor, as if he had taken his assignment in the waterless belt with particular seriousness, even to the point of foregoing regular bathing.

  “Assist us by getting more melange,” Murbella answered bluntly.

  “Do your teams have everything they need?” Laera asked. “Do you require additional supplies or workers?”

  “No, no. We just want solitude and the freedom to work. Oh, and time.”

  “I can give you the first two. But time is a commodity none of us has.”

  We can conquer our enemy, of course, but is it worthwhile to achieve victory without understanding the flaws of our opponent? Such an analysis is the most interesting part.

  —ERASMUS,

  Laboratory Notebooks

  The machine-based cathedral on Synchrony was a mere manifestation of what the rest of the galaxy might become. Omnius was pleased at the progress the thinking-machine fleet had made in the past few years, conquering one system after another, but Erasmus knew that so much more remained to do.

  The voice of Omnius boomed much louder than necessary, as he sometimes liked to do. “The New Sisterhood offers the strongest resistance to us, but I know how to defeat them. Scouts have verified the secret location of Chapterhouse, and I have already dispatched plague probes there. Those women will soon be extinct.” Omnius sounded quite bored. “Shall I display the map of star systems, so you know just how many we have encountered and conquered? Not a single failure.”

  Displays jabbed into Erasmus’s mind, regardless of whether he wanted to see them or not. In bygone days the independent robot had been able to decide what he wanted to download from the evermind, and what he didn’t. Increasingly, however, Omnius had found ways to override the robot’s decision-making abilities, forcing data into his internal systems, sliding it past multiple firewalls.

  “Those are mere symbolic victories,” Erasmus said, intentionally shifting to his disguise of the wrinkled old woman in gardening clothes. “I am pleased that we have made it to the edge of the Old Empire, but we still have not won this war. I have spent millennia studying these stubborn, resourceful humans. Do not assume victory until we actually have it in our hands. Remember what happened last time.”

  Omnius’s snort of disbelief echoed through the entire city of Synchrony. “We are by definition better than flawed humanity.” From a thousand watcheyes, he looked down upon Erasmus and his matronly disguise. “Why do you persist in wearing that embarrassing shape? It makes you look weak.”

  “My physical body does not determine my strength. My mind makes me what I am.”

  “I am not interested in your mind either. I simply wish to win this war. I must win. I need to win. Where is the no-ship? Where is my Kwisatz Haderach?”

  “You sound as demanding as Baron Harkonnen. Are you unconsciously imitating him?”

  “You gave me the mathematical projections, Erasmus. Where is the superhuman? Answer me.”

  The robot chuckled. “You already have Paolo.”

  “Your prophecy also guaranteed a Kwisatz Haderach aboard the no-ship. I want both versions—redundancy to assure victory. And I do not want the humans to have one. I must control them both.”

  “We will find the no-ship. We already know there are many intriguing things aboard, including a Tleilaxu Master. He may be the only one left alive, and I would very much like to speak with him—as would you. The Master needs to see how all those Face Dancers have shaped us, built us, so that we could become closer to gods. Closer than h
umans, at any rate.”

  “We will keep sending out our net. And we will find that ship.”

  All around the city, in a dramatic statement of the evermind’s impatience, towering buildings collapsed, full metal structures fell in upon themselves. Hearing the thundering sounds and feeling the floor shake beneath him, the independent robot was not impressed. Too many times he had witnessed such overblown theatrics. Omnius certainly enjoyed running the show, for better and often for worse, though Erasmus continually tried to control the evermind’s excesses. The future depended on it—the future that Erasmus had ordained.

  He dug through the projections that he’d digested from trillions of datapoints. All of his results were colored to fit precisely the prophecies he had formulated himself. Omnius believed them all. The gullible evermind relied too much on filtered information, and the robot played him well.

  Given the proper parameters, Erasmus was absolutely certain the millennia ahead would turn out properly.

  Those who see do not always understand. Those who claim to understand can be the blindest of all.

  —the Oracle of Time

  What remained of Norma Cenva’s ancient corporeal form was confined inside a chamber that had been built and modified around her during thousands of years. But her mind knew no physical boundaries. She was only tenuously connected to flesh, a biological generator of pure thought. The Oracle of Time.

  Her mental links to the fabric of the universe gave her the ability to travel anywhere along infinite possibilities. She could see the future and the past, but not always with perfect clarity. Her brain was such that she could touch the Infinite and almost—almost—comprehend it.

  Her nemesis, the evermind, had laid down a vast electronic network throughout the fabric of space, a complex tachyon road map that most people could not see. Omnius used it as a net to sift for his prey, but so far he had not managed to snare the no-ship.