With an abrupt gesture, Alia swept the scorpions off her arm and back to the sands and rock in the tank. Agitated and disoriented, not knowing what had just happened in their world, the creatures began to fight each other, clacking pincers, jabbing with stingers.
“I have many childhoods — all of them in Other Memory.” She could not stop herself from adding a taunt. “You will understand it one day, Irulan, if you ever become a Reverend Mother.”
The Princess did not rise to the bait. “You may say that, little Alia. I know you can learn many things from Other Memory, but not everything. You need a childhood of your own.”
The desert erases all footprints.
—THE PRINCESS IRULAN, The Manual of Muad’Dib
Sietch Tabr.
Paul and his mother had gone there after fleeing from the Harkonnens so many years ago, but before that the isolated sietch had been merely one Fremen settlement, little different from all the others. Now, it was considered a sacred place. I change everything I touch, Paul thought.
Fremen traditionalism had preserved Sietch Tabr intact even as his enormous new citadel and governmental complex continued to grow in Arrakeen under the masterful management of Whitmore Bludd. With Stilgar off on Bela Tegeuse, Gurney on Giedi Prime, and Alia left to watch the affairs of government, he and Chani came here to remember the taste of the desert again, the smells and flavors of what life had been like. They came to reconnect with themselves and to disconnect from the nonsense that continued to grow around him. The Jihad… the monster that was becoming part of him like a second skin. Fremen would understand the mystical nature of the call to find an inner refuge for the soul.
After he and Chani settled into their old quarters within the rock walls, complete with familiar hangings across the door opening, Paul did not need prescience to know that his momentary peace would be interrupted soon.
For practical reasons, Paul had announced that he was going to Sietch Tabr to observe the expanded spice operations in the desert, to compliment the workers and the foremen, to praise their successes and mourn their losses. Melange, the lifeblood of his Imperium, continued to flow through the veins of the universe.
Dayef, the current naib of this settlement, had expressed his eagerness to take Muad’Dib out to the spice fields. Paul and Chani changed into full desert garb, took a Fremkit, checked their stillsuits. Even though he would have an army of guards, assistants, and observers with him, old habits would not permit him to be careless when facing the raw power of Arrakis. Too many accidents could occur out there.
Dayef selected a young Fremen pilot who swore he would battle the storms of hell to protect Muad’Dib. Paul simply said, “I would prefer a flight with less turbulence today.”
Dayef took the seat beside him in the ‘thopter, and they left the sheltering mountains and flew out into the vast ocean of dunes. This naib was more of a business leader than a warrior; he had a crysknife, but also carried an accounting tablet.
“Out production is now five times that of House Harkonnen at its peak,” Dayef said. “When we find spice, we dispatch at least four spice harvesters. New specialized carryalls are being manufactured on at least six different planets and more are placed into service every month.”
“What of our losses to weather and worms?” Paul remembered how such things had constantly hindered the work of House Atreides.
“We are now able to place twice as many spotters in the air. They range farther on scouting missions and can announce wormsign sooner. That lets us work with a greater margin of safety.”
“I want no accidents.” How Duke Leto had hated losing men! He felt a pang inside. His father would have been appalled by Paul’s Jihad, in which billions had already died in his name. Leto would have lamented the terrible cost, but Paul had to view the larger picture and see past the blood to the future. A safe future, he hoped.
“There are always accidents, Muad’Dib. However, with regular deliveries of new machinery, we are placing substantially more equipment into service than we lose to the desert, at least seventeen percent more.”
“The spice must flow,” Chani said. “So it must,” Dayef agreed.
Paul observed through the scratched plaz window of the ‘thopter as people moved with antlike efficiency down on the active spice field. The pilot landed the craft near the first of four enormous spice factories.
“These operations have been going for only twenty minutes, and already they are at full production levels,” Dayef said.
Paul was pleased to see the clockwork cooperation that could erect a veritable city in less than half an hour, all the machinery exploiting a deep rich vein that scouts had found only that morning.
Years ago, during the introductory tour that Dr. Kynes had given Duke Leto, there had been only one factory crawler. Now Paul counted six insectile structures, lumbering machines each the size of an industrial base. The work gangs rushed about at a frenetic pace: spice operators, dunemen, depth-probe operators, riggers, even a few weather-beaten CHOAM inspectors.
In addition to skilled Fremen spice crews, offworld pilgrims volunteered for the work in droves, considering it part of their sacred hajj to touch natural melange on the dunes. The armies of laborers also consisted of prisoners and slaves captured in the Jihad. Defeated and indoctrinated, they accepted Muad’Dib’s guarantee of freedom after six months in a spice factory, at which time they would be released, forgiven, and offered a chance to stay on Dune. Very few survived to reap the reward.
Paul felt a twinge inside as he realized another difference between himself and his father: Duke Leto would have abhorred using forced labor for such operations, but right now this was necessary to meet obligations to the Guild and to feed the machine that ran the new Empire of Muad’Dib. We do what is required. And the people silently demanded it, forcing themselves to participate in these work gangs to demonstrate their altruism and their worth. And they would keep doing it for him. “This is impressive, Dayef.”
“They do it to show their faith in you, Muad’Dib.”
Chani chided Paul in a low voice. “Do not forget that you are just a man, Usul.”
He smiled back at her. “You will never let me forget that, my Sihaya.” Nevertheless, he did need to be reminded, since he spent his days on Arrakeen watching the construction of his ostentatious citadel, hearing the millions chanting his name, knowing that across the galaxy his banner was being planted on more worlds than he would ever bother to count.
I am just a man. I am Paul Atreides. I am only the Terrible Muad’Dib if I allow myself to be.
Because this particular spice deposit had been found in a part of the desert sheltered by a low line of rocky outcroppings, the worms could approach from only one direction, so the spotters concentrated their attention there. This meant that the harvesting process operated under a higher than usual margin of safety and was able to continue far longer than they might otherwise have expected.
The low rock wall, however, did not shelter them from a sudden sandstorm that whipped up from the east. Thermal currents from the blistering sands converged with winds that blew along the sharp ridgeline and slammed together to create a sudden, unexpected storm cell.
Within the sheltered ‘thopter, Dayef listened on his communication bands as the voices began to crackle with static. The harvesting crews alerted everyone to the change in the weather, summoning their outriders back to the carryalls, but most of the crews remained at their stations. The factory crawlers continued to churn away, harvesting until the last possible moment.
“Because they know you are here, Muad’Dib, they intend to put in an extra effort until the last instant,” Dayef said.
“I do not want that. Call them in. Now! It is my command. Don’t risk them.” He looked at Chani beside him, then at the oncoming fringe of the storm. He would not risk her either. “And we must depart before that wind hits.” He remembered his father shouting, Damn the spice!, and the desperate measures they had taken to rescue the few s
tranded men….
Dayef’s order caused further scrambling in the temporary camp, but some of the workers still didn’t evacuate. Instead, they stood outside their spice harvesters, raising their fists and chanting. Paul could barely hear the tiny echo of their voices, “Muad’Dib, Muad’Dib…”
With a flash of anger and dismay, Paul realized that simply by coming here to inspect the site, he had given these workers a false sense of security. Because they so wanted his praise, they felt a foolish need to show off. He could see the razor-edged dust now, curling up over the rock wall, brown plumes swirling like the smoke of a burned village.
Those winds carried abrasive sand particles with enough force to scour flesh away, and the men knew it.
Carryalls dropped down to snag the large factory crawlers, lifting them into the air and lumbering away as the weather intensified. The pilot turned to Paul and Chani. “If you do not wish me to fight with the winds of hell, Muad’Dib, we need to take off now.”
“Do it.” Paul strapped himself in and made sure that Chani did the same. The ‘thopter’s articulated wings began to shudder, giving them lift. The breezes were already pushing them. A few last ground vehicles raced aboard the harvesters, calling for pickup. It was like a gigantic airlift in a war zone. Paul looked down as their ‘thopter rose from the dunes, heard the hiss of sand grains across the transparent shield.
Dayef touched the communication stud in his ear, nodded. “The spice crew managers report that all of the big equipment is getting away, Muad’Dib. A dozen small rover vehicles have been lost, along with four sand diggers, and two sledges.”
“What about those men down there?” Paul saw a line of thirty figures atop the crest of a low dune. The fabric of their work garb whipped about as they braced themselves. They raised their hands into the air, defying the storm.
“Merely one of your new slave crews from Omwara, hard workers but a bit unruly. Although they didn’t join the rebel Thorvald, they are shamed that some of their brothers gave him temporary refuge on their planet. They wish to prove their loyalty to you.”
“They can prove their loyalty by obeying my orders. Tell them to get themselves to safety! Make sure they know it is Muad’Dib’s command that they do so. Have them board the last carrier.”
The sandstorm was getting worse, sweeping down like a curtain over the ridge and already erasing the human-made marks on the desert. Dayef frowned. “Communications are down — too much static electricity.”
“Can they fit in ‘thopters?” Paul asked, feeling a greater desperation. “We could land and pick them up.” He clenched his fist, feeling the danger increase with every second.
A hard knot of wind struck the ‘thopter, causing it to shear sideways and lurch toward the ground. Its articulated wings flapped and struggled to keep the craft airborne. Alarms whistled on the cockpit controls as the pilot fought to keep them from crashing. The storm grew more intense each moment as the front rolled over the work site.
Paul looked at Chani, having reached a hard decision. I will not risk her. “We can’t save those men. If we brought the transports back down to retrieve them, we would lose the ships and all those other men as well.”
Chani’s face was drawn. “They believe you have the power to save them, Usul. They believe you can intervene and stop the winds.” But I am just a man!
The line of workers below continued shouting at the tempest. The ‘thopter shuddered, and the pilot finally lifted the aircraft, carrying Paul and Chani safely above the worst of the weather. Paul continued to gaze downward. What must those poor fools be thinking now? Did they truly believe that at any moment Muad’Dib could stop the winds? As they died, would they think he had failed them?
“And the spice?” Paul asked. “Did we receive a full load?”
“I believe so, Muad’Dib.”
His father would have done anything, risked anything to personally rescue those men, even if it cost numerous other lives, an entire spice harvest, and all the equipment. But in some things Paul was not like his father, because he was more than a Duke and had to balance the needs of an entire Empire. And without melange to grease the wheels of that Empire…
Below, the doomed men still stood atop the dune, facing the knife-wind of the storm. He saw three of them stumble and fall, shoved down by the abrasive blasts. Others fought to stand upright, as if to prove something to Muad’Dib… but what? If he were younger, Paul Atreides might have wept for their blind zeal that they called bravery. But now his Fremen training, and his anger at their wasted gesture, cut off all tears.
Sadly, he knew that the other members of the spice crew, those who had witnessed this pointless if dramatic sacrifice, would draw another conclusion entirely. As the sands and the winds curled over the abandoned site, finally engulfing the last of the defiant men from Omwara, Paul was sure the witnesses would not see this as the fate one deserved for disobeying the direct orders of Muad’Dib. They would admire those fools as true believers, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Take us back to Sietch Tabr,” Paul said to the pilot. “I have seen enough.”
While I often use knives, I rarely kill in the same manner twice. It is much more interesting, and safer for me, to continually devise new methods and angles of attack — a constant process that hones the blade of my mind sharper with each experience. And the delicious secret of timing and surprise! Ah, that is a subject in and of itself. It speaks to the very essence of control.
—COUNT HASIMIR FENRING
Even after more than forty years of marriage, Count Fenring still found his wife, Margot, incredibly attractive… as she reminded him every time she seduced him. For the good of his marriage and his own physical well-being, Fenring never tired of allowing himself to be ensnared.
In their private sanctuary residence in Thalidei, Fenring found excitement not only in the warm and comforting sexual act, but in the fact that he had found and deactivated four more secret Tleilaxu spying devices. How many times had the gnomish little men observed their lovemaking? Angered by the intrusion, the Count had decided to track down the primary culprit and strangle him, preferably in front of other squealing Tleilaxu. On the other hand, knowing something about that race’s bizarre and prudish attitude toward sex, Fenring decided that the spies had probably witnessed his and Margot’s passion with some measure of disgust, rather than titillation. That idea amused him.
Fenring did not fit an Adonis-like mold of male attractiveness. His narrow, ferretlike facial features might not be particularly handsome, but his body was muscular and well-toned. He had never preened in an attempt to make women notice him. His skills had been to remain quietly invisible, so that he could whisper into the appropriate ears and slip into certain rooms to eavesdrop on confidential conversations.
As soon as he was confident that the Tleilaxu spy-eyes were deactivated, he and Margot disrobed, gazing on each other in the warm light of golden glowpanels. She led him to the bed, and the two of them began to demonstrate their proficiency in an ever-increasing repertoire of pleasuring skills. Over four decades, Fenring was continually amazed at how much he had learned and how many techniques he had yet to try.
“Ah, my dear, you are always a wonder to me.” As they lay on the bed, he kissed her tenderly. She worked the gentlest touch of her fingertips along his ear, creating an invisible embroidery of fired neurons in his skin. He shuddered.
“We are well suited to each other,” she agreed.
They had chosen each other for political reasons, as well as mutual attraction. Nearly concurrent with Shaddam’s wedding to his first wife, Anirul, their own marriage ceremony had received far less attention and almost no spectacle. Even so, their union had lasted far, far longer.
The gold-handled knife that Bashar Garon had delivered as a peace offering from the deposed Emperor still lay on a bureau. Fenring occasionally looked at it and thought about Shaddam’s fervent desire to be restored to the Lion Throne. Even though Paul-Muad’Dib was
causing horrific damage to human civilization, Fenring had never been able to convince himself that his Corrino friend was a better alternative. No, he and Margot had their own plans.
As he made love to her, Fenring fantasized, but not about other women. He remembered the feel of warm blood on his fingers, the careful selection of proper tools of his trade. If he had enough safe time after performing his wet work, he rather enjoyed gazing upon the rich burgundy color of his victim’s life essence, the way it gushed from the body and pooled and sparkled in the smallest light, as if trying to recapture life, but then stopped and coagulated and hardened. Even Shaddam did not know how many people Fenring had killed.
The first of his murders had occurred at a much younger age than the Corrino patriarch realized, when Fenring was only four. Four! He was proud of this accomplishment, because it meant that even at a young age he was able to identify enemies. The teenage yard boy he’d stabbed had deserved it anyway, because the older boy had tried to molest him. Even as a child, Fenring had seen through the tricky words and promises and had plunged a pocket knife deep into the aggressor’s abdomen. His willpower always made up for any mismatch in physical strength between himself and his opponent. Young Hasimir had inflicted a hundred wounds on his victim’s body before getting his fill. Because the teenager had been furtive about his abnormal sexual activities, no one had ever suspected the four-year-old.
He sighed now, feeling the thrill of remembrance. Margot held him, adjusting her own movements to his, expertly controlling her own body so that they climaxed simultaneously and thunderously.
“You make it impossible for me to even think of other things, my dear,” Fenring lied.
She smiled. “My way of repaying you for being so understanding about the breeding obligations the Sisterhood placed upon me.” She stroked his cheek, scratching at the stubble there. “And you’ve been so loving.”
Paul of Dune Page 21
