Dune dc-1

by Frank Herbert

  The man removed his plugs, readjusted them. He rubbed at a scar beside his nose.

  “If you cross the sink here this night,” the Fremen said, “you must not use shields. There is a break in the wall….” He turned on his heels, pointed south. “… there, and it is open sand down to the erg. Shields will attract a….” He hesitated. “… worm. They don’t often come in here, but a shield will bring one every time.”

  He said worm, Hawat thought. He was going to say something else. What? And what does he want of us?

  Hawat sighed.

  He could not recall ever before being this tired. It was a muscle weariness that energy pills were unable to ease.

  Those damnable Sardaukar!

  With a self-accusing bitterness, he faced the thought of the soldier-fanatics and the Imperial treachery they represented. His own Mentat assessment of the data told him how little chance he had ever to present evidence of this treachery before the High Council of the Landsraad where justice might be done.

  “Do you wish to go to the smugglers?” the Fremen asked.

  “Is it possible?”

  “The way is long.”

  “Fremen don’t like to say no, ” Idaho had told him once.

  Hawat said: “You haven’t yet told me whether your people can help my wounded.”

  “They are wounded.”

  The same damned answer every time!

  “We know they’re wounded!” Hawat snapped. “That’s not the—”

  “Peace, friend,” the Fremen cautioned. “What do your wounded say? Are there those among them who can see the water need of your tribe?”

  “We haven’t talked about water,” Hawat said. “We—”

  “I can understand your reluctance,” the Fremen said. “They are your friends, your tribesmen. Do you have water?”

  “Not enough.”

  The Fremen gestured to Hawat’s tunic, the skin exposed beneath it. “You were caught in-sietch, without your suits. You must make a water decision, friend.”

  “Can we hire your help?”

  The Fremen shrugged. “You have no water.” He glanced at the group behind Hawat. “How many of your wounded would you spend?”

  Hawat fell silent, staring at the man. He could see as a Mentat that their communication was out of phase. Word-sounds were not being linked up here in the normal manner.

  “I am Thufir Hawat,” he said. “I can speak for my Duke. I will make promissory commitment now for your help. I wish a limited form of help, preserving my force long enough only to kill a traitor who thinks herself beyond vengeance.”

  You wish our siding in a vendetta?”

  “The vendetta I’ll handle myself. I wish to be freed of responsibility for my wounded that I may get about it.”

  The Fremen scowled. “How can you be responsible for your wounded? They are their own responsibility. The water’s at issue, Thufir Hawat. Would you have me take that decision away from you?”

  The man put a hand to a weapon concealed beneath his robe.

  Hawat tensed, wondering: Is there betrayal here?

  “What do you fear?” the Fremen demanded.

  These people and their disconcerting directness! Hawat spoke cautiously. “There’s a price on my head.”

  “Ah-h-h-h.” The Fremen removed his hand from his weapon. “You think we have the Byzantine corruption. You don’t know us. The Harkonnens have not water enough to buy the smallest child among us.”

  But they had the price of Guild passage for more than two thousand fighting ships, Hawat thought. And the size of that price still staggered him.

  “We both fight Harkonnens,” Hawat said. “Should we not share the problems and ways of meeting the battle issue?”

  “We are sharing,” the Fremen said. “I have seen you fight Harkonnens. You are good. There’ve been times I’d have appreciated your arm beside me.”

  “Say where my arm may help you,” Hawat said.

  “Who knows?” the Fremen asked. “There are Harkonnen forces everywhere. But you still have not made the water decision or put it to your wounded.”

  I must be cautious, Hawat told himself. There’s a thing here that’s not understood.

  He said: “Will you show me your way, the Arrakeen way?”

  “Stranger-thinking,” the Fremen said, and there was a sneer in his tone. He pointed to the northwest across the clifftop. “We watched you come across the sand last night.” He lowered his arm. “You keep your force on the slip-face of the dunes. Bad. You have no stillsuits, no water. You will not last long.”

  “The ways of Arrakis don’t come easily,” Hawat said.

  “Truth. But we’ve killed Harkonnens.”

  “What do you do with your own wounded?” Hawat demanded.

  “Does a man not know when he is worth saving?” the Fremen asked. “Your wounded know you have no water.” He tilted his head, looking sideways up at Hawat. “This is clearly a time for water decision. Both wounded and unwounded must look to the tribe’s future.”

  The tribe’s future, Hawat thought. The tribe of Atreides. There’s sense in that. He forced himself to the question he had been avoiding.

  “Have you word of my Duke or his son?”

  Unreadable blue eyes stared upward into Hawat’s. “Word?”

  “Their fate!” Hawat snapped.

  “Fate is the same for everyone,” the Fremen said. “Your Duke, it is said, has met his fate. As to the Lisan al-Gaib, his son, that is in Liet’s hands. Liet has not said.”

  I knew the answer without asking, Hawat thought.

  He glanced back at his men. They were all awake now. They had heard. They were staring out across the sand, the realization in their expressions: there was no returning to Caladan for them, and now Arrakis was lost.

  Hawat turned back to the Fremen. “Have you heard of Duncan Idaho?”

  “He was in the great house when the shield went down,” the Fremen said. “This I’ve heard… no more.”

  She dropped the shield and let in the Harkonnens, he thought. I was the one who sat with my back to a door. How could she do this when it meant turning also against her own son? But … who knows how a Bene Gesserit witch thinks… if you can call it thinking?

  Hawat tried to swallow in a dry throat. “When will you hear about the boy?”

  “We know little of what happens in Arrakeen,” the Fremen said. He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “You have ways of finding out?”

  “Perhaps.” The Fremen rubbed at the scar beside his nose. “Tell me, Thufir Hawat, do you have knowledge of the big weapons the Harkonnens used?”

  The artillery, Hawat thought bitterly. Who could have guessed they’d use artillery in this day of shields?

  “You refer to the artillery they used to trap our people in the caves,” he said. “I’ve … theoretical knowledge of such explosive weapons.”

  “Any man who retreats into a cave which has only one opening deserves to die,” the Fremen said.

  “Why do you ask about these weapons?”

  “Liet wishes it.”

  Is that what he wants from us? Hawat wondered. He said: “Did you come here seeking information about the big guns?”

  “Liet wished to see one of the weapons for himself.”

  “Then you should just go take one,” Hawat sneered.

  “Yes,” the Fremen said. “We took one. We have it hidden where Stilgar can study it for Liet and where Liet can see it for himself if he wishes. But I doubt he’ll want to: the weapon is not a very good one. Poor design for Arrakis.”

  “You … took one?” Hawat asked.

  “It was a good fight,” the Fremen said. “We lost only two men and spilled the water from more than a hundred of theirs.”

  There were Sardaukar at every gun, Hawat thought. This desert madman speaks casually of losing only two men against Sardaukar!

  “We would not have lost the two except for those others fighting beside the Harkonnens,” the Fremen said. �
��Some of those are good fighters.”

  One of Hawat’s men limped forward, looked down at the squatting Fremen. “Are you talking about Sardaukar?”

  “He’s talking about Sardaukar,” Hawat said.

  “Sardaukar!” the Fremen said, and there appeared to be glee in his voice. “Ah-h-h, so that’s what they are! This was a good night indeed. Sardaukar. Which legion? Do you know?”

  “We … don’t know,” Hawat said.

  “Sardaukar,” the Fremen mused. “Yet they wear Harkonnen clothing. Is that not strange?”

  “The Emperor does not wish it known he fights against a Great House,” Hawat said.

  “But you know they are Sardaukar.”

  “Who am I?” Hawat asked bitterly.

  “You are Thufir Hawat,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Well, we would have learned it in time. We’ve sent three of them captive to be questioned by Liet’s men.”

  Hawat’s aide spoke slowly, disbelief in every word: “You … captured Sardaukar?”

  “Only three of them,” the Fremen said. “They fought well.”

  If only we’d had the time to link up with these Fremen, Hawat thought. It was a sour lament in his mind. If only we could’ve trained them and armed them. Great Mother, what a fighting force we’d have had!

  “Perhaps you delay because of worry over the Lisan al-Gaib,” the Fremen said. “If he is truly the Lisan al-Gaib, harm cannot touch him. Do not spend thoughts on a matter which has not been proved.”

  “I serve the … Lisan al-Gaib,” Hawat said. “His welfare is my concern. I’ve pledged myself to this.”

  “You are pledged to his water?”

  Hawat glanced at his aide, who was still staring at the Fremen, returned his attention to the squatting figure. “To his water, yes.”

  “You wish to return to Arrakeen, to the place of his water?”

  “To … yes, to the place of his water.”

  “Why did you not say at first it was a water matter?” The Fremen stood up, seated his nose plugs firmly.

  Hawat motioned with his head for his aide to return to the others. With a tired shrug, the man obeyed. Hawat heard a low-voiced conversation arise among the men.

  The Fremen said: “There is always a way to water.”

  Behind Hawat, a man cursed. Hawat’s aide called: “Thufir! Arkie just died.”

  The Fremen put a fist to his ear. “The bond of water! It’s a sign!” He stared at Hawat. “We have a place nearby for accepting the water. Shall I call my men?”

  The aide returned to Hawat’s side, said: “Thufir, a couple of the men left wives in Arrakeen. They’re… well, you know how it is at a time like this.”

  The Fremen still held his fist to his ear. “Is it the bond of water, Thufir Hawat?” he demanded.

  Hawat’s mind was racing. He sensed now the direction of the Fremen’s words, but feared the reaction of the tired men under the rock overhang when they understood it.

  “The bond of water,” Hawat said.

  “Let our tribes be joined,” the Fremen said, and he lowered his fist.

  As though that were the signal, four men slid and dropped down from the rocks above them. They darted back under the overhang, rolled the dead man in a loose robe, lifted him and began running with him along the cliff wall to the right. Spurts of dust lifted around their running feet.

  It was over before Hawat’s tired men could gather their wits. The group with the body hanging like a sack in its enfolding robe was gone around a turn in the cliff.

  One of Hawat’s men shouted: “Where they going with Arkie? He was—”

  “They’re taking him to … bury him,” Hawat said.

  “Fremen don’t bury their dead!” the man barked. “Don’t you try any tricks on us, Thufir. We know what they do. Arkie was one of—”

  “Paradise were sure for a man who died in the service of Lisan al-Gaib,” the Fremen said. “If it is the Lisan al-Gaib you serve, as you have said it, why raise mourning cries? The memory of one who died in this fashion will live as long as the memory of man endures.”

  But Hawat’s men advanced, angry looks on their faces. One had captured a lasgun. He started to draw it.

  “Stop right where you are!” Hawat barked. He fought down the sick fatigue that gripped his muscles. “These people respect our dead. Customs differ, but the meaning’s the same.”

  “They’re going to render Arkie down for his water,” the man with the lasgun snarled.

  “Is it that your men wish to attend the ceremony?” the Fremen asked.

  He doesn’t even see the problem, Hawat thought. The naïveté of the Fremen was frightening.

  “They’re concerned for a respected comrade,” Hawat said.

  “We will treat your comrade with the same reverence we treat our own,” the Fremen said. “This is the bond of water. We know the rites. A man’s flesh is his own; the water belongs to the tribe.”

  Hawat spoke quickly as the man with the lasgun advanced another step. “Will you now help our wounded?”

  “One does not question the bond,” the Fremen said. “We will do for you what a tribe does for its own. First, we must get all of you suited and see to the necessities.”

  The man with the lasgun hesitated.

  Hawat’s aide said: “Are we buying help with Arkie’s … water?”

  “Not buying,” Hawat said. “We’ve joined these people.”

  “Customs differ,” one of his men muttered.

  Hawat began to relax.

  “And they’ll help us get to Arrakeen?”

  “We will kill Harkonnens,” the Fremen said. He grinned. “And Sardaukar.” He stepped backward, cupped his hands beside his ears and tipped his head back, listening. Presently, he lowered his hands, said: “An aircraft comes. Conceal yourselves beneath the rock and remain motionless.”

  At a gesture from Hawat, his men obeyed.

  The Fremen took Hawat’s arm, pressed him back with the others. “We will fight in the time of fighting,” the man said. He reached beneath his robes, brought out a small cage, lifted a creature from it.

  Hawat recognized a tiny bat. The bat turned its head and Hawat saw its blue-within-blue eyes.

  The Fremen stroked the bat, soothing it, crooning to it. He bent over the animal’s head, allowed a drop of saliva to fall from his tongue into the bat’s upturned mouth. The bat stretched its wings, but remained on the Fremen’s opened hand. The man took a tiny tube, held it beside the bat’s head and chattered into the tube; then, lifting the creature high, he threw it upward.

  The bat swooped away beside the cliff and was lost to sight.

  The Fremen folded the cage, thrust it beneath his robe. Again, he bent his head, listening. “They quarter the high country,” he said. “One wonders who they seek up there.”

  “It’s known that we retreated in this direction,” Hawat said.

  “One should never presume one is the sole object of a hunt,” the Fremen said. “Watch the other side of the basin. You will see a thing.”

  Time passed.

  Some of Hawat’s men stirred, whispering.

  “Remain silent as frightened animals,” the Fremen hissed.

  Hawat discerned movement near the opposite cliff—flitting blurs of tan on tan.

  “My little friend carried his message,” the Fremen said. “He is a good messenger—day or night. I’ll be unhappy to lose that one.”

  The movement across the sink faded away. On the entire four to five kilometer expanse of sand nothing remained but the growing pressure of the day’s heat—blurred columns of rising air.

  “Be most silent now,” the Fremen whispered.

  A file of plodding figures emerged from a break in the opposite cliff, headed directly across the sink. To Hawat, they appeared to be Fremen, but a curiously inept band. He counted six men making heavy going of it over the dunes.

  A “thwok-thwok” of ornithopter wings sounded high to the right behind Hawat’s group. The craft ca
me over the cliff wall above them—an Atreides ‘thopter with Harkonnen battle colors splashed on it. The ’thopter swooped toward the men crossing the sink.

  The group there stopped on a dune crest, waved.

  The ‘thopter circled once over them in a tight curve, came back for a dust-shrouded landing in front of the Fremen. Five men swarmed from the ’thopter and Hawat saw the dust-repellent shimmering of shields and, in their motions, the hard competence of Sardaukar.

  “Aiihh! They use their stupid shields,” the Fremen beside Hawat hissed. He glanced toward the open south wall of the sink.

  “They are Sardaukar,” Hawat whispered.

  “Good.”

  The Sardaukar approached the waiting group of Fremen in an enclosing half-circle. Sun glinted on blades held ready. The Fremen stood in a compact group, apparently indifferent.

  Abruptly, the sand around the two groups sprouted Fremen. They were at the ornithopter, then in it. Where the two groups had met at the dune crest, a dust cloud partly obscured violent motion.

  Presently, dust settled. Only Fremen remained standing.

  “They left only three men in their ’thopter,” the Fremen beside Hawat said. “That was fortunate. I don’t believe we had to damage the craft in taking it.”

  Behind Hawat, one of his men whispered: “Those were Sardaukar!”

  “Did you notice how well they fought?” the Fremen asked.

  Hawat took a deep breath. He smelled the burned dust around him, felt the heat, the dryness. In a voice to match that dryness, he said: “Yes, they fought well, indeed.”

  The captured ’thopter took off with a lurching flap of wings, angled upward to the south in a steep, wing-tucked climb.

  So these Fremen can handle ’thopters, too, Hawat thought.

  On the distant dune, a Fremen waved a square of green cloth: once … twice.

  “More come!” the Fremen beside Hawat barked. “Be ready. I’d hoped to have us away without more inconvenience.”

  Inconvenience! Hawat thought.

  He saw two more ’thopters swooping from high in the west onto an area of sand suddenly devoid of visible Fremen. Only eight splotches of blue—the bodies of the Sardaukar in Harkonnen uniforms—remained at the scene of violence.