Tales of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Staring in disbelief, Pardot stepped farther from the groundcar. He saw no lasgun burn marks in the village, no chip scars from projectile weapons, nothing that would have indicated an overt Harkonnen attack. Was it a disease? If so, it might be contagious. If a plague or some kind of communicable insanity was at work here, he could not let the Fremen take these bodies for the deathstills.

  Liet moved forward. “Fremen would attribute this to demons.”

  Two of the bloody-faced victims let out demonic shrieks and rushed toward them, their fingers outstretched like eagle claws, their mouths open like bottomless pits. Liet pointed the maula pistol, closed his eyes to utter a quick prayer, then fired twice. The perfect shots hit each of the attackers in the chest, and they fell dead.

  Liet bowed. “Forgive me, Shai-Hulud.”

  Pardot watched him. I have tried to teach my son many things, but at least he has learned compassion. All other information can be learned from filmbooks . . . but not compassion. This was born into him.

  The young man bent over the two bodies, studied them closely, pushing back his superstitious fear. “I do not think it’s a disease.” He looked back at Pardot. “I've assisted the healers, as you know, and . . . “ His voice trailed off.

  “What, then?”

  “I believe they’ve been poisoned.”

  One by one, the tortured villagers wandering the dusty streets fell onto their backs in screaming convulsions, until only three remained alive. Liet moved quickly with the crysknife and dispatched the last victims painlessly and efficiently. No tribe or village would ever accept them again, no matter how much they recovered, for fear that they had been corrupted by demons; even their water would be considered tainted.

  Liet found it odd how easily he had taken command in front of his father. He gestured toward two of the sealed buildings. “Convince the people inside those barred dwellings that we mean them no harm. We must discover what happened here.” His voice became low and icy. “And we must learn who is to blame.”

  Pardot Kynes moved to the dusty building. Fingernail scratches and bloody handprints marked the mud-brick walls and pitted metal doors where crazed victims had tried to pound their way in. He swallowed hard and prepared to make his case, to convince the terrified survivors that their ordeal was over. He turned back to his son. “Where will you be, Liet?”

  The young man looked at an overturned water container. He knew of only one way the poison could affect so many people at once. “Checking the water supply.”

  His face etched in concern, Pardot nodded.

  Liet studied the terrain around the village, saw a faint trail leading up the side of the overhanging mesa. Yes, they had hidden a qanat there, their own emergency water supply.

  Moving with the speed of a sun-warmed lizard, he scurried up the mountain path and reached the cistern. The evidence of its location had been cleverly disguised, though the villagers had made many errors. Even a clumsy Harkonnen patrol could have discovered the illegal reservoir. He studied the area quickly, noting patterns in the sand.

  Smelling a harsh alkaloid bitterness near the upper opening of the cistern, he tried to place the odor. He’d experienced it rarely, and only during great celebrations in the sietch, the Fremen hidden communities. The Water of Life! The Fremen people consumed such a substance only after a Sayyadina had converted the exhalation of a drowned worm, using her own body chemistry as a catalyst to create a tolerable drug that sent the sietch community into an ecstatic frenzy. Unconverted, the substance was a ferocious toxin.

  The villagers in Bilar Camp had drunk pure Water of Life, before it was transformed. Someone had done this intentionally . . . poisoning them.

  Then he saw the marks of ornithopter pads in the soft soil atop the plateau. It had to be a Harkonnen ’thopter. One of the regular patrols . . . a practical joke?

  Frowning grimly, Liet descended to the devastated village, where his father had succeeded in bringing out the survivors who had barricaded themselves within their dwellings. Through luck, these people had not drunk the poisoned water. Now they fell to their knees in the streets, surrounded by the awful carnage. Their keening cries of grief drifted like the thin wails of ghosts along a sheer cliffside.

  Harkonnens did this.

  Pardot Kynes moved about doing what he could to comfort them, but from the quizzical expressions on the villagers' faces, Liet knew his father was probably saying the wrong things, expressing his sympathy in abstract concepts that they had no ability to understand.

  Liet moved down the slope, and already plans were forming in his mind. As soon as they returned to the sietch, he would meet with Stilgar and his commando squad.

  And they would plan their retaliation against the Harkonnens. . . .

  “The desert is a surgeon cutting away the skin to expose what is underneath.”

  —Fremen Saying

  As the first moon rose copper-red over the desert horizon, Liet-Kynes and seven Fremen departed the rocks and made their way out to the soft curving dunes where they could be easily seen.

  “Prepare yourselves,” Stilgar said, his narrow face like a desert hawk’s in the moonlight. His pupils had dilated, making his solid blue eyes look black. He wrapped his desert camouflage around him, as did the other, older guerrillas. “It is said that when one waits for vengeance, time passes slowly but sweetly.”

  Liet-Kynes nodded. He was dressed to look like a weak, water-fat village boy, but his eyes were as hard as Velan steel. Beside him, his sietch-mate and blood-brother Warrick, a slightly taller lad, nodded as well. This night, the two would pretend to be helpless children caught out in the open . . . irresistible targets for the anticipated Harkonnen patrol.

  “We do what must be done, Stil.” Liet clapped a hand on Warrick's padded shoulder. These twelve-year-olds had already blooded more than a hundred Harkonnens apiece, and would have stopped keeping count, except for their friendly rivalry with each other. “I trust my brother with my life.”

  Warrick covered Liet’s hand with his own. “Liet would be afraid to die without me at his side.”

  “With or without you, Warrick, I don’t plan to die this night,” Liet said, which elicited a deep laugh from his companion. “I plan to exact revenge.”

  After the orgy of poisoned death had fallen upon Bilar Camp, Fremen rage had spread from sietch to sietch like water soaking into sand. From the ’thopter markings found near the hidden cistern, they knew who was responsible. All Harkonnens must pay.

  Around Carthag and Arsunt, word had been passed to timid-looking workers and dusty servants placed inside Harkonnen strongholds. Some of the infiltrators scrubbed the floors of troop barracks using dry rags and abrasives. Others posed as water sellers supplying the occupation force.

  As the tale of the poisoned village passed from one Harkonnen soldier to another in progressively exaggerated anecdotes, the Fremen informants noted who derived the greatest pleasure from the news. They studied the crew assignments and route logs of Harkonnen patrols. Before long, they had learned exactly which Harkonnen troopers were responsible. And where they could be found. . . .

  With a high-pitched squeak and a dancing blur of gossamer wings, a tiny distrans bat swooped from observation outcroppings in the mountains behind them. When Stilgar held up a hand, the bat landed on his forearm, primly folding its wings and waiting for a reward.

  Stilgar drew a tiny drop of water from the sipping tube at his throat and let the moisture fall into the open mouth of the bat. Then he brought forth a thin cylinder and placed it to his ear, listening as the bat emitted complex, wavering squeaks. Stilgar tapped the bat on its head, then flung it into the night air again, like a falconer releasing his bird.

  He turned back to his expectant troop, a predatory smile on his moonshadowed face. “Their ornithopter has been seen over the ridge. The Harkonnens fly a predictable path as they scan the desert. But they have been on patrol for so long, they are complacent. They do not see their own patterns.”

/>   “Tonight, they fly into a web of death,” Warrick said from the dune top, lifting his fist into the air in a very un-boy like gesture.

  The Fremen checked their weapons, loosed crysknives in sheaths at their sides, tested the strength of garroting cords, preparing. With swishing robes, they erased all marks of their passage. Leaving the two young men alone.

  Stilgar looked up at the night sky, and a muscle on his jaw flickered. “This I learned from Umma Kynes. When we were cataloguing lichens, we saw a rock lizard that seemed to vanish before our eyes. Kynes said, ‘I give you the chameleon, whose ability to match itself with its background tells you all you need to know about the roots of ecology and the foundations of personal identity.’” Stilgar looked gravely at his men, and his expression faltered. “I don’t know exactly what he meant . . . but now we must all become chameleons of the desert.”

  Wearing light-colored clothes, Liet stepped up the slipface of the dune, leaving deliberate, painfully apparent footprints. Warrick followed just as clumsily, while the other Fremen spread out on the flat sand. After pulling out breathing tubes and covering their faces with loose hoods, they flailed their arms in a blur of motion. Powdery sand engulfed them, and then they lay still.

  Liet and Warrick ran about, smoothing wrinkles on the surface and leaving nothing but their own footprints. They finished just as the patrol ’thopter whirred over the line of rocks, flashing red lights.

  The two white-clad Fremen froze out in the open, their bright clothes unmistakable against the pale, moonlit sand. No true Fremen would ever be caught in such a show of clumsiness . . . but the Harkonnens didn’t know that. They would not suspect.

  As soon as the ’thopter came into view, Liet made an exaggerated gesture of alarm. “Come on, Warrick. Let’s make a good show of it.” The two ran away pell-mell, as if in a panic.

  Predictably, the ’thopter circled to intercept them. A powerful spotlight flooded down, then a laughing sidegunner leaned out of the ’thopter. He fired his lasgun twice, sketching a line of melted glass upon the sand surface.

  Liet and Warrick tumbled down the steep side of a dune. The gunner fired three more blasts, missing them each time.

  The ’thopter landed on the broad surface of a nearby dune . . . close to where Stilgar and his men had buried themselves. Liet and Warrick flashed each other a smile, and prepared for the second part of the game.

  Sidegunner Kiel shouldered his still-hot lasgun rifle and popped open the door. “Let’s go hunt some Fremen.” He jumped onto the sand as soon as Garan had landed the patrol craft.

  Behind them, the fresh-faced recruit Josten fumbled for his own weapon. “It would be easier just to shoot them from above.”

  “What kind of sport would that be?” Garan asked in his gruff voice.

  “Or is it just that you don’t want blood on your new uniform, kid?” Kiel called over his shoulder. They stood beside the armored craft looking across the moonlit dunes, where the two scrawny nomads stumbled away (as if they had any hope of escape once a Harkonnen trooper decided to target them).

  Garan grabbed his weapon, and the three of them strode across the sands. The two Fremen youths scuttled like beetles, but the threat of the troops might cause them to turn around and surrender . . . or better yet, fight like cornered rats.

  “I've heard stories about these Fremen.” Josten panted as he kept up with the two older men. “Their children are said to be killers, and their women will torture you in ways that even Piter de Vries couldn’t imagine.”

  Kiel gave a rude snort of laughter. “We’ve got lasguns, Josten. What are they going to do—throw rocks at us?”

  “Some of them carry maula pistols.”

  Garan looked back at the young recruit, then gave a shrug. “Why don’t you go back to the ’thopter and get our stunner, then? We can use a wide field if things get bad.”

  “Yeah,” Kiel said, “that way we can make this last longer.” The two white-clad Fremen continued to flounder across the sand, and the Harkonnen troopers closed the distance with purposeful strides.

  Glad for the opportunity to be away from the fight, Josten sprinted over the dune toward the waiting ’thopter. From the dune top, he looked back at his companions, then rushed to the darkened craft. As he ducked inside, he encountered a man clad in desert tans, hands flicking across the controls with the speed of a snake on a hot plate.

  “Hey, what are you—” Josten cried.

  In the cabin light he saw that the figure had a narrow leathery face. The eyes captivated him, blue-within-blue with the sharp intensity of a man accustomed to killing. Before Josten could react, his arm was grabbed with a grip as strong as an eagle’s talon, and he was dragged deeper into the cockpit. The Fremen’s other hand flashed, and he saw a curved, milky-blue knife strike up. A bright icicle of pain slashed into his throat, all the way back to his spine—then the knife was gone before even a droplet of blood could cling to its surface.

  Like a scorpion that had just unleashed its sting, the Fremen backed up. Josten fell forward, already feeling red death spreading from his throat. He tried to say something, to ask a question that seemed all-important to him, but his words only came out as a gurgle. The Fremen snatched something from his stillsuit and pressed it against the young man’s throat, an absorbent cloth that drank his blood as it spilled.

  Was the desert man saving him? A bandage? A flash of hope rose in Josten’s mind. Had it all been a mistake? Was this gaunt native trying to make amends?

  But Josten’s blood pumped out too quickly and forcefully for any medical help. As his life faded, he realized that the absorbent pack had never been meant as a wound dressing, but simply to capture every droplet of blood for its moisture. . . .

  When Kiel came to within firing distance of the two Fremen youths, Garan looked back into the moonlight. “I thought I heard something from the ’thopter.”

  “Probably Josten tripping on his own feet,” the sidegunner said, not lowering his weapon.

  The trapped Fremen staggered to a halt across a shallow pan of soft sand. They crouched and pulled out small, clumsy-looking knives.

  Kiel laughed out loud. “What do you mean to do with those? Pick your teeth?”

  “I’ll pick the teeth from your dead body,” one of the boys shouted. “Got any old-fashioned gold molars we can sell in Arrakeen?”

  Garan chortled and looked at his companion. “This is going to be fun.” Moving in lockstep, the troopers marched into the flat sandy area.

  As they closed to within five meters, the sand around them erupted. Human forms popped out of the dust, covered with grit—tan human silhouettes, like animated corpses boiling up from a graveyard.

  Garan let out a useless warning cry, and Kiel fired once with his lasgun, burning down one of the men. Then the dusty forms surged forward. Clustering around the pilot, they pressed in so close that he couldn’t bring his lasgun to bear. They attacked him like blood-lice on an open wound.

  As they drove Garan to his knees, he cried out in the manner of an old woman. The Fremen restrained him so that he could do little more than breathe and blink his eyes. And scream.

  One of the white-clad “victims” hurried forward. The young man held out the small knife that Garan and Kiel had snickered at just moments ago. The youth darted downward, jabbing with the tip of the blade—but with precise control, as gentle as a kiss—to gouge out both of Garan’s eyes, transforming his sockets into red Oedipal stains.

  Stilgar barked out a command, “Bind him and keep him. We shall bring this one back to our sietch alive, and let the women take care of him in their own way.”

  Garan screamed again. . . .

  When the Fremen rushed forward to attack Kiel, the sidegunner responded by swinging his weapon like a club. As clawing hands grabbed for it, he surprised them by releasing the lasrifle. The Fremen who clutched the gun fell backward, caught off balance by the unexpected action.

  Then Kiel began to run. Fighting would do him no go
od here. They had already taken Garan, and he assumed Josten was dead back at the ’thopter. So he left the Fremen, running as he had never run before. He sprinted across the night sands away from the rocks, away from the ’thopter . . . and out into the open desert. The Fremen might be able to catch him, but he would give them a run for it.

  Panting, leaving his companions behind, Kiel raced across the dunes with no plan and no thought other than to flee farther and farther away. . . .

  “We’ve captured the ’thopter intact, Stil,” Warrick said, flushed with adrenaline and quite proud of himself. The commando leader nodded grimly. Umma Kynes would be exceedingly pleased at the news. He could always use a ’thopter for his agricultural inspections, and he didn’t need to know where it came from.

  Liet looked down at the blinded captive, whose gouged eye sockets had been covered by a cloth. “I saw what the Harkonnens did to Bilar Camp with my own eyes . . . the poisoned cistern, the tainted water.” The other body had already been packed in the rear of the patrol ’thopter to be taken to the deathstills. “This doesn’t pay back a tenth part of the suffering.”

  Going to his blood-brother’s side, Warrick made a face of disgust. “Such is my scorn that I don’t even want to take their water for our tribe.”

  Stilgar glowered at him as if he had spoken sacrilege. “You would prefer to let them mummify in the sands, to let their water go wasted into the air? It would be an insult to Shai-Hulud.”

  Warrick bowed his head. “It was only my anger speaking, Stil. I did not mean it.”

  Stilgar looked up at the ruddy rising moon. The entire ambush had lasted less than an hour. “We shall perform the ritual of tal hai so that their souls will never rest. They will be damned to walk the desert for all eternity.” Then his voice became harsh and fearful. “But we must take extra care to cover our tracks, so that we do not lead their ghosts back to our sietch.”