Tales of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Digging deeper into the pile, he found something more interesting, a small golden statue of a sandworm rising out of the desert and turning its proud, eyeless face upward to the heavens. Excited, the priest set it next to the goblet.

  Then, like a miracle, he noticed moisture seeping down a wall behind the debris pile. Could it be? What was the source? Hearing a rumble, he looked upward and saw the ceiling start to give way over his head. Water trickled and then poured on him—water on Rakis! Grabbing the goblet and the statuette, he ran for the doorway. Just as he squirmed out next to Guriff, the whole room collapsed behind him in a roar.

  “What do you have there?” the expedition leader asked, looking at the goblet as if nothing remarkable had happened.

  “This goblet should have some value to you. I believe it is made of rare metal.” Lokar handed it to Guriff, while slipping the sandworm sculpture into the pocket of his wet robe. “This is something more sacred. Not for outside eyes.”

  With a shrug, Guriff said, “It’s a start.” He swung up the goblet’s metal lid to investigate whether the large vessel contained any other treasure. He cried out as a tiny creature jumped out and scampered partway up the inclined tunnel, then stopped and looked back at the intruders with tiny, dark eyes.

  “Damn thing bit me!” Guriff rubbed a red spot on his thumb. “How the hell did it survive?”

  “It’s just a mouse,” one of the men said. “Something’s alive here after all.”

  “A desert mouse. The ancient Fremen called it muad’dib,” Lokar murmured in awe. “The mouse that jumps.”

  The two tunnelers left their machines and ran up the fused incline, boisterously chasing after the creature.

  “Terrible catastrophe will befall anyone who harms a muad’dib,” Lokar cried. The rodent easily scurried away from its pursuers and disappeared into a tiny opening in the doorway.

  Guriff rolled his eyes. “Now you consider a mouse a sacred object?”

  Two weeks later, the sunset looked like a layer of spilled blood over a hot flame. Dust smeared the horizon in an ominous approaching line. The air around the settlement, which normally held a silence so deep as to be a hole of sound, was alive with an angry background hum like buried thunder.

  Lokar knew what the signs meant. Because of his human failings, he felt the thrill of fear; because of his religious faith, he felt awe. Rakis was wounded, perhaps mortally, but not entirely dead. The planet was restless in its sleep.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a set of weathersats.” Guriff propped his hands on his hips and sniffed the air. “That looks dangerous.” He had already called back the exploration ’thopters and groundcars, though a team continued to dig in the tunnels of buried Keen, excavating a large labyrinth underground.

  “You know what it is,” Lokar said. “You can see. It’s a storm, maybe the mother of them all.”

  “I thought that with the bombardment, with the fusing of so much sand, the usual Coriolis effect—”

  “This will not be usual, Guriff. Not in any way.” The priest continued to stare. He had not moved. “The whole environment has been thrown into turmoil. Some weather patterns might have been suppressed, and others inflamed.” Lokar nodded toward the blood-red horizon. “We will be lucky if we survive this night.”

  Taking the warning seriously, Guriff shouted for his men, picked up a commlink and summoned his teams for an immediate emergency meeting. “Tell me then, Priest, what shall we do? You’ve lived through storms here before. What is our best option for shelter? In the tunnels under Keen, or sealed inside our shelters? What about the hangar dome? Will the vehicles be safe?”

  Lokar responded with a vacant smile and a shrug. “I shall remain in my tent, but you do whatever you see fit. Only God can save us. No shelter in the universe can protect you if He deems that tonight is the night you will die.”

  Guriff cursed under his breath, then trudged off to meet with his crew. . . .

  That night the wind howled like an awakening beast, and abrasive sand scratched against the fabric of the priest’s small tent. The storm whispered and muttered maddening temptations like the hoarse voice of Shaitan.

  Lokar huddled with his bony knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, his eyes closed. He recited his prayers over and over, raising his voice until he was practically shouting against the roar outside. The true God could hear even the tiniest whisper, no matter what the background din might be, but Lokar comforted himself by hearing his own words.

  The reinforced tent fabric stretched taut, as if demons were breathing against it. Lokar knew he could survive this storm. A storm had unquestionable power—yet faith was more powerful still.

  Lokar held on, rocking himself throughout the night. He heard a clatter and a groan as one of the camp’s larger, heavily armored structures was torn apart in the gale, but if he ran outside, the blowing sand grains would flay the flesh from his bones.

  The men of Guriff’s team had made their choices and placed their bets. Some had dug themselves underground in Keen; others believed in the security of their own structures. Their fates had been written by a hand of fire in the Book of Heaven from the moment they were born. In the morning after the storm had passed, Lokar would see what had been decided.

  Hours passed, and he didn’t actually sleep so much as go into a deep trance. Sand and dust sprinkled his face, caking his eyes and his nose.

  Finally, he blinked and looked around him to see washed-out daylight. Miraculously, his tent still stood erect, but the fabric had been scoured down to fine gauzy remnants. Breezes, now gentle in the exhausted aftermath of the terrific winds, spilled through tiny gaps in the tent, stirring against him. The priest stood up and parted the spiderweb-thin fibers of the wall of his tent, like a man emerging from a womb.

  Rakis seemed pristine and virginal. He blinked into the dawn radiance, rubbed the dust from his face, and stared at the freshly scoured landscape. The early morning sunlight sparkled across fresh sand that had been freed from the glassy crust that covered so many dunes.

  Debris from the entire encampment had scattered, probably over an expanse of kilometers. Nearby, one of the prefabricated structures had been destroyed, and everyone inside was surely dead. Although the hangar dome was also breached, the vehicles and ’thopters were still intact, though damaged.

  Lokar heard shouts and voices, other members of the scavenging team crawling out of where they had huddled during the night, assessing the losses, counting the casualties, and cursing. Guriff’s voice was unmistakable as he shouted profanities, finding one set of wreckage after another.

  Lokar couldn’t believe he had survived in his tiny shelter, where he should have been wiped out. There was no logical explanation, but a Priest of the Divided God did not look for logic. He found himself wrapped up in his own revelation, his own ecstasy. He bent down to the fresh sand at his feet, scooped up a handful and looked at it in his palm. He pinched a single grain between thumb and forefinger and lifted it to the sunlight, studying the sparkle. He saw in even this tiny fleck of silica a symbol of miraculous, divine power. He smiled.

  Without warning, Guriff slapped his hand, and cuffed Lokar in the side of the head. The priest blinked and turned to the expedition leader, whose face was red with anger and disgust. Guriff had lost so much during the night that he needed to take out his outrage on someone.

  Lokar refused to be rattled. “Be thankful, Guriff. You survived.”

  Disheartened, the man stalked away. A few moments later, Lokar went to join him, offering his assistance. God had saved them for a reason.

  The robed priest stood on a high lump of rock, gazing across the mottled, lifeless wasteland. The lens of dust in the air made the rising orange sun appear larger than normal.

  Like immense birds riding the air currents, the two repaired ornithopters approached from the night, flying low over the desert, flapping their wings rhythmically. In the week following the storm, disgusted with the lack of success at K
een, Guriff had sent his scouts to search the south polar regions for treasure sites. Optimistically and unrealistically, the scavengers hoped they might find signs of ancient hidden vaults exposed by the upheaval. Lokar knew they would find nothing. The Divided God would reveal his treasure only to the faithful—like himself.

  Lokar climbed down from the rock and made his way across the makeshift field as the aircraft landed. Guriff came forward to meet the ’thopter crews and receive his report.

  The rough-and-tumble scout leader knocked dust from his clothes. “Nothing down south at all. We landed more than twenty times and poked around, took core samples, tested the deep scanners.” He shook his head. “Looks like Keen is all we have.”

  In the background, the priest heard engines whirring to life, the drone of tunneling machines as they awoke for the day. Excavation crews had so far discovered a handful of artifacts, a sealed chest of clothes, flatware, broken pieces of furniture, portions of tapestries, a few relatively undamaged statues.

  “Even junk collectors wouldn’t pay more than ten solaris for these scraps,” Pellenquin had said in disgust.

  The priest did not share the general feeling of disappointment. Something valuable would turn up, if they persisted in their efforts. But God had his own tricks, and perhaps Guriff and his crew would not see the treasure in front of their eyes.

  As the returning scouts from the second ’thopter plodded toward the settlement to curl up and sleep in the heat of the day, the tunnel-riddled ground trembled. On the other side of the camp, a cloud of dust spurted upward, accompanied by a loud thud and shouts. Guriff and the men ran toward the excavations. “Cave-in!”

  Within the hour, all working together, they pulled two bodies out of the dirt. Lokar recognized a pair of young men who had been eager to contribute, anxious to earn their fortunes. Guriff bitterly watched the bodies being wrapped for chemical cremation. The team was still reeling from the damage the unexpected storm had inflicted. “There is treasure on Rakis,” Lokar said, trying to reassure him. “We just have to look in the right place.”

  “You’re as blind as your precious worms, Priest!”

  “The worms of Rakis were never blind. They simply saw in a different manner.”

  “They didn’t see the obliteration of their planet coming,” Guriff said, and Lokar had no response.

  Gazing out at the barren, blasted planet, Lokar turned and strode out onto the wasteland. Though he took no water or supplies, he walked for hours as the day warmed and the air began to shimmer. He ventured farther from camp than he had ever gone before.

  Out on the sand, instinctively Lokar walked with an irregular shuffling step in the manner of the Fremen who used to live here, as if any worms still existed deep underground that might be able to detect him. He felt something driving him forward, galvanizing his energies, enticing him.

  Far from view of the camp, with only a trail of footprints snaking behind him to show him the way back, Lokar climbed up a wide, gnarled rock formation under the harsh afternoon sunlight. He reached the top and gazed across the expanse. Something dark and rounded caught his eye, an obstruction large enough to form a stark lip of shadow. It seemed to call to him.

  Lokar made his way down the other side of the rock and plodded across the desert. The sinuous mound was larger than it looked, as if most of it was still covered by the sand. Its exterior was mottled and weathered with splotches of black, like a giant buried tree trunk. He touched it and pulled back as sand and dust sloughed down from a rough, pebbly surface. Lokar fell to his knees in the dust.

  A sandworm had risen to the surface and perished in the last shocks of the bombardment of Rakis, roasted alive. These weathered cartilaginous remnants had been burned, fused with a layer of glassy sand, exposed by the shifting storms.

  In the loose sand that had gathered in the lee of the obstruction, he discovered a fist-sized ball of clear glass, perfectly spherical. Filled with wonder, Lokar dug it out, then found another melted sphere buried beside it. These nodules of flash-melted sand were not an unusual consequence of the ferocious heat of the attack. But placed where they were, beneath the head of the fallen worm, Lokar interpreted them as something entirely different. The tears of God. Out on the blasted landscape, staring in wonder at the hulk of the long-dead worm, Lokar felt a new kind of light suffusing him from all directions. Just as he had seen ghostly visions of the lost city of Keen, he now also saw the entire planet as it once had been, in all of its perilous glory. No matter what the Honored Matres had done, all the splendor of Rakis was not gone. The treasure was everywhere, for all of the faithful. The priest knew exactly what the Divided God wanted him to do.

  Lokar smiled beatifically. “We just weren’t looking for it with the proper eyes.”

  The CHOAM ship returned in a month, exactly on schedule. Exploring at random in the ruins of Keen and the collapsed Temple, Guriff ordered his prospectors to continue their scavenging and excavation work up to the last minute, hoping to find some lost treasure to justify the expedition.

  The expedition leader had managed to consolidate what remained of his crew, but two days ago the useless priest had gone missing. Guriff had sent an ornithopter out to search for the frustrating man, but gave up the effort after a few hours. Lokar was mad; they should never have wasted time or supplies on him in the first place. But the trading company had hired him, sent him along.

  As soon as the large CHOAM transport ship landed, workers emerged from the transport, scurrying about like ants on the sand. They opened the cargo doors and removed equipment.

  Guriff was surprised to see the priest disembark onto the blasted sands with the coldly beautiful Alaenor Ven. How had they gotten together? The cargo shuttle must have found him wandering like a lunatic on the sands. Guriff didn’t know why they would have bothered to rescue the man.

  As he watched Lokar and the woman talking, not even looking in his direction, the expedition leader balled his fists. He was tempted to stride over and knock down the babbling priest for being so reckless, not acting as part of this crew. But he realized that his outburst would be childish, and he doubted the cool, businesslike representative would have the time or patience for power plays like that. Instead, Guriff decided it would be better for him to ignore the situation entirely, retreat to his headquarters hut, and put together documents and records. She could come to him. He sealed the door against oxygen and moisture loss and made himself a cup of potent spice coffee using the last scraps of melange from their supplies.

  As he sat in his sealed chamber, Guriff listened to the hum of excavating machines outside, the groan of equipment. New diggers? He didn’t know what the company was doing out there, nor could he understand why Alaenor Ven continued to ignore him. Did she not want her report?

  At last she unsealed the door and strode into his headquarters hut without signaling or asking permission. She probably thought she owned the entire camp because CHOAM had supplied it.

  Not letting her take control of the conversation, Guriff faced her clear blue eyes. “My team and I would like to stay for another month. We have not found the wealth you expected, but I’m convinced that the legends of the God Emperor’s treasure hoards are true.” He had no direct evidence to support what he said, but he would not give up. Not yet.

  She responded with a thin smile. “Oh, the treasure is here all right—more wealth than we can imagine, perhaps more than CHOAM could sell.”

  “Then I’ll find it,” Guriff said. “We’ll keep digging, keep hunting.”

  “Perhaps you will find something else of interest, but my transport already has a hold full of treasure, something you overlooked. Quite foolishly, I must say. We found the priest Lokar out in the desert, and he convinced me that he had found something of great value. Priests are very good salesmen, you know.”

  Guriff felt his skin grow hot. “What has the crazy priest found? He reported nothing to me.” He pushed past the woman, and she slowly turned to watch him as he unsealed t
he door hatch and marched toward the landed transport.

  Lokar stood there on the ramp, looking saintly. The last large pieces of equipment had been rolled back aboard. A great deal of digging had been done in the sand around the landing area.

  Guriff grabbed him by the collar of his robes. He felt betrayed, after all his effort, all the disasters his misbegotten crew had faced. “What have you been hiding from me?”

  “I have hidden nothing. It was right in front of you all the time.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I am a messenger of God, chosen to continue His great work. Even though the priesthood is mostly dead, even though our temples have been leveled here on Rakis, our belief remains widespread across the galaxy. Many new cults and spinoff sects have sprung up. The faithful continue to believe and worship. They need more. They need their Divided God.”

  “What does that have to do with treasure?”

  Lokar slumped down onto the ship’s ramp, sitting there as if meditating. Guriff wanted to strangle him.

  “You simply don’t understand, Guriff.” The CHOAM woman walked calmly up to him. “Treasure and wealth are a matter of definitions. You defined your search too narrowly.”

  He walked up the ramp, ignoring her, demanding to see exactly what they had loaded into their hold. Guild and CHOAM workers had returned to their seats, preparing to take off again. Crates of new camp supplies had been left behind on the ground to be sorted and restacked by the scavenger crew. It was certainly enough to last them for another month. He would demand that the woman take Lokar with her when she departed.

  Guriff pushed his way down the aisle with Alaenor Ven following him. He reached the back, where a hatch led into the cargo bay.

  “You forgot to recognize the importance and power of religion,” she said, continuing as if she had never paused. “Even if the fanatics are not wealthy, they will sacrifice everything to pay for something they believe is important. They truly revere their Divided God.”