Children of Dune dc-3

by Frank Herbert

“But if you’re badly injured, I won’t be able to leave you,” she said.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Give me back my knife.”

  “But your leg!”

  “I can stand on the good one.”

  “That thing could take your head off with one sweep. Maybe the maula …”

  “If there’s anyone out there to hear, they’ll know we came prepared for—”

  “I don’t like your taking this risk!” he said.

  “Whoever’s out there mustn’t learn we have maulas—not yet.” She touched his arm. “I’ll be careful, keep my head down.”

  As he remained silent, she said: “You know I’m the one who has to do this. Give me back my knife.”

  Reluctantly he quested with his free hand, found her hand and returned the knife. It was the logical thing to do, but logic warred with every emotion in him.

  He felt Ghanima pull away, heard the sandy rasping of her robe against the rock. She gasped, and he knew she must be standing. Be very careful! he thought. And he almost pulled her back to insist they use a maula pistol. But that could warn anyone out there that they had such weapons. Worse, it could drive the tiger out of reach, and they’d be trapped in here with a wounded tiger waiting for them in some unknown place out on those rocks.

  Ghanima took a deep breath, braced her back against one wall of the cleft. I must be quick, she thought. She reached upward with the knife point. Her left leg throbbed where the claws had raked it. She felt the crusting of blood against her skin there and the warmth of a new flow. Very quick! She sank her senses into the calm preparation for crisis which the Bene Gesserit Way provided, put pain and all other distractions out of her awareness. The cat must reach down! Slowly she passed the blade along the opening. Where was the damned animal? Once more she raked the air. Nothing. The tiger would have to be lured into attack.

  Carefully she probed with her sense of smell. Warm breath came from her left. She poised herself, drew in a deep breath, screamed: “Taqwa!” It was the old Fremen battlecry, its meaning found in the most ancient legends: “The price of freedom!” With the cry she tipped the blade and stabbed along the cleft’s dark opening. Claws found her elbow before the knife touched flesh, and she had time only to tip her wrist toward the pain before agony raked her arm from elbow to wrist. Through the pain, she felt the poison tip sink into the tiger. The blade was wrenched from her numb fingers. But again the narrow gap of the cleft lay open to the stars and the wailing voice of a dying cat filled the night. They followed it by its death throes, a thrashing passage down the rocks. Presently the death-silence came.

  “It got my arm,” Ghanima said, trying to bind a loose fold of her robe around the wound.

  “Badly?”

  “I think so. I can’t feel my hand.”

  “Let me get a light and—”

  “Not until we get under cover!”

  “I’ll hurry.”

  She heard him twisting to reach his Fremkit, felt the dark slickness of a nightshield as it was slipped over her head, tucked in behind her. He didn’t bother to make it moisture tight.

  “My knife’s on this side,” she said. “I can feel the handle with my knee.”

  “Leave it for now.”

  He ignited a single small globe. The brilliance of it made her blink. Leto put the globe on the sandy floor at one side, gasped as he saw her arm. One claw had opened a long, gaping wound which twisted from the elbow along the back of her arm almost to the wrist. The wound described the way she had rotated her arm to present the knife tip to the tiger’s paw.

  Ghanima glanced once at the wound, closed her eyes and began reciting the Litany Against Fear.

  Leto found himself sharing her need, but put aside the clamor of his own emotions while he set about binding up the wound. It had to be done carefully to stop the flow of blood while retaining the appearance of a clumsy job which Ghanima might have done by herself. He made her tie off the knot with her free hand, holding one end of the bandage in her teeth.

  “Now let’s look at the leg,” he said.

  She twisted around to present the other wound. It was not as bad: two shallow claw cuts along the calf. They had bled freely into the stillsuit, however. He cleaned it up as best he could, bound the wound beneath the stillsuit. He sealed the suit over the bandage.

  “I got sand in it,” he said. “Have it treated as soon as you get back.”

  “Sand in our wounds,” she said. “That’s an old story for Fremen.”

  He managed a smile, sat back.

  Ghanima took a deep breath. “We’ve pulled it off.”

  “Not yet.”

  She swallowed, fighting to recover from the aftermath of shock. Her face appeared pale in the light of the glowglobe. And she thought: Yes, we must move fast now. Whoever controlled those tigers could be out there right now.

  Leto, staring at his sister, felt a sudden wrenching sense of loss. It was a deep pain which shot through his breast. He and Ghanima must separate now. For all of those years since birth they had been as one person. But their plan demanded now that they undergo a metamorphosis, going their separate ways into uniqueness where the sharing of daily experiences would never again unite them as they once had been united.

  He retreated into the necessarily mundane. “Here’s my Fremkit. I took the bandages from it. Someone may look.”

  “Yes.” She exchanged kits with him.

  “Someone out there has a transmitter for those cats,” he said. “Most likely he’ll be waiting near the qanat to make certain of us.”

  She touched her maula pistol where it sat atop the Fremkit, picked it up and thrust it into the sash beneath her robe. “My robe’s torn.”

  “Yes.”

  “Searchers may get here soon,” he said. “They may have a traitor among them. Best you slip back alone. Get Harrah to hide you.”

  “I’ll … I’ll start the search for the traitor as soon as I get back,” she said. She peered into her brother’s face, sharing his painful knowledge that from this point on they would accumulate a store of differences. Never again would they be as one, sharing knowledge which no one else could understand.

  “I’ll go to Jacurutu,” he said.

  “Fondak,” she said.

  He nodded his agreement. Jacurutu/Fondak—they had to be the same place. It was the only way the legendary place could have been hidden. Smugglers had done it, of course. How easy for them to convert one label into another, acting under the cover of the unspoken convention by which they were allowed to exist. The ruling family of a planet must always have a back door for escape in extremis. And a small share in smuggling profits kept the channels open. In Fondak/Jacurutu, the smugglers had taken over a completely operative sietch untroubled by a resident population. And they had hidden Jacurutu right out in the open, secure in the taboo which kept Fremen from it.

  “No Fremen will think to search for me in such a place,” he said. “They’ll inquire among the smugglers, of course, but …”

  “We’ll do as we agreed,” she said. “It’s just …”

  “I know.” Hearing his own voice, Leto realized they were drawing out these last moments of sameness. A wry grin touched his mouth, adding years to his appearance. Ghanima realized she was seeing him through a veil of time, looking at an older Leto. Tears burned her eyes.

  “You needn’t give water to the dead just yet,” he said, brushing a finger against the dampness on her cheeks. “I’ll go out far enough that no one will hear, and I’ll call a worm.” He indicated the collapsed Maker hooks strapped to the outside of his Fremkit. “I’ll be at Jacurutu before dawn two days from now.”

  “Ride swiftly, my old friend,” she whispered.

  “I’ll come back to you, my only friend,” he said. “Remember to be careful at the qanat.”

  “Choose a good worm,” she said, giving him the Fremen words of parting. Her left hand extinguished the glowglobe, and the nightseal rustled as she pulled it aside, fo
lded it and tucked it into her kit. She felt him go, hearing only the softest of sounds quickly fading into silence as he crept down the rocks into the desert.

  Ghanima steeled herself then for what she had to do. Leto must be dead to her. She had to make herself believe it. There could be no Jacurutu in her mind, no brother out there seeking a place lost in Fremen mythology. From this point onward she could not think of Leto as alive. She must condition herself to react out of a total belief that her brother was dead, killed here by Laza tigers. Not many humans could fool a Truthsayer, but she knew that she could do it … might have to do it. The multi-lives she and Leto shared had taught them the way: a hypnotic process old in Sheba’s time, although she might be the only human alive who could recall Sheba as a reality. The deep compulsions had been designed with care and, for a long time after Leto had gone, Ghanima reworked her self-awareness, building the lonely sister, the surviving twin, until it was a believable totality. As she did this, she found the inner world becoming silent, blanked away from intrusion into her consciousness. It was a side effect she had not expected.

  If only Leto could have lived to learn this, she thought, and she did not find the thought a paradox. Standing, she peered down at the desert where the tiger had taken Leto. There was a sound growing in the sand out there, a familiar sound to Fremen: the passage of a worm. Rare as they had become in these parts, a worm still came. Perhaps the first cat’s death throes… . Yes, Leto had killed one cat before the other one got him. It was oddly symbolic that a worm should come. So deep was her compulsion that she saw three dark spots far down on the sand: the two tigers and Leto. Then the worm came and there was only sand with its surface broken into new waves by the passage of Shai-Hulud. It had not been a very large worm … but large enough. And her compulsion did not permit her to see a small figure riding on the ringed back.

  Fighting her grief, Ghanima sealed her Fremkit, crept cautiously from her hiding place. Hand on her maula pistol, she scanned the area. No sign of a human with a transmitter. She worked her way up the rocks and across to the far side, creeping through moonshadows, waiting and waiting to be sure no assassin lurked in her path.

  Across the open space she could see torches at Tabr, the wavering activity of a search. A dark patch moved across the sand toward The Attendant. She chose her path to run far to the north of the approaching party, went down to the sand and moved into the dune shadows. Careful to make her steps fall in a broken rhythm which would not attract a worm, she set out into the lonely distance which separated Tabr from the place where Leto had died. She would have to be careful at the qanat, she knew. Nothing must prevent her from telling how her brother had perished saving her from the tigers.

  ***

  Governments, if they endure, always tend increasingly toward aristocratic forms. No government in history has been known to evade this pattern. And as the aristocracy develops, government tends more and more to act exclusively in the interests of the ruling class—whether that class be hereditary royalty, oligarchs of financial empires, or entrenched bureaucracy.

  —POLITICS AS REPEAT PHENOMENON: BENE GESSERIT TRAINING MANUAL

  “Why does he make us this offer?” Farad’n asked. “That’s most essential. ”

  He and the Bashar Tyekanik stood in the lounge of Farad’n’s private quarters. Wensicia sat at one side on a low blue divan, almost as audience rather than participant. She knew her position and resented it, but Farad’n had undergone a terrifying change since that morning when she’d revealed their plots to him.

  It was late afternoon at Corrino Castle and the low light accented the quiet comfort of this lounge—a room lined with actual books reproduced in plastino, with shelves revealing a horde of player spools, data blocks, shigawire reels, mnemonic amplifiers. There were signs all around that this room was much used—worn places on the books, bright metal on the amplifiers, frayed corners on the data blocks. There was only the one divan, but many chairs—all of them sensiform floaters designed for unobtrusive comfort.

  Farad’n stood with his back to a window. He wore a plain Sardaukar uniform in grey and black with only the golden lion-claw symbols on the wings of his collar as decoration. He had chosen to receive the Bashar and his mother in this room, hoping to create an atmosphere of more relaxed communication than could be achieved in a more formal setting. But Tyekanik’s constant “My Lord this” and “My Lady that” kept them at a distance.

  “My Lord, I don’t think he’d make this offer were he unable to deliver,” Tyekanik said.

  “Of course not!” Wensicia intruded.

  Farad’n merely glanced at his mother to silence her, asked: “We’ve put no pressure on Idaho, made no attempt to seek delivery on The Preacher’s promise?”

  “None,” Tyekanik said.

  “Then why does Duncan Idaho, noted all of his life for his fanatic loyalty to the Atreides, offer now to deliver the Lady Jessica into our hands?”

  “These rumors of trouble on Arrakis …” Wensicia ventured.

  “Unconfirmed,” Farad’n said. “Is it possible that The Preacher has precipitated this?”

  “Possible,” Tyekanik said, “but I fail to see a motive.”

  “He speaks of seeking asylum for her,” Farad’n said. “That might follow if those rumors …”

  “Precisely,” his mother said.

  “Or it could be a ruse of some sort,” Tyekanik said.

  “We can make several assumptions and explore them,” Farad’n said. “What if Idaho has fallen into disfavor with his Lady Alia?”

  “That might explain matters,” Wensicia said, “but he—”

  “No word yet from the smugglers?” Farad’n interrupted. “Why can’t we—”

  “Transmission is always slow in this season,” Tyekanik said, “and the needs of security …”

  “Yes, of course, but still …” Farad’n shook his head. “I don’t like our assumption. ”

  “Don’t be too quick to abandon it,” Wensicia said. “All of those stories about Alia and that Priest, whatever his name is …”

  “Javid,” Farad’n said. “But the man’s obviously—”

  “He’s been a valuable source of information for us,” Wensicia said.

  “I was about to say that he’s obviously a double agent,” Farad’n said.

  “How could he indict himself in this? He’s not to be trusted. There are too many signs …”

  “I fail to see them,” she said.

  He was suddenly angry with her denseness. “Take my word for it, mother! The signs are there; I’ll explain later.”

  “I’m afraid I must agree,” Tyekanik said.

  Wensicia lapsed into hurt silence. How dared they push her out of Council like this? As though she were some light-headed fancy woman with no—

  “We mustn’t forget that Idaho was once a ghola,” Farad’n said. “The Tleilaxu …” He glanced sidelong at Tyekanik.

  “That avenue will be explored,” Tyekanik said. He found himself admiring the way Farad’n’s mind worked: alert, questing, sharp. Yes, the Tleilaxu, in restoring life to Idaho, might have planted a powerful barb in him for their own use.

  “But I fail to apprehend a Tleilaxu motive,” Farad’n said.

  “An investment in our fortunes,” Tyekanik said. “A small insurance for future favors?”

  “Large investment, I’d call it,” Farad’n said.

  “Dangerous,” Wensicia said.

  Farad’n had to agree with her. The Lady Jessica’s capabilities were notorious in the Empire. After all, she’d been the one who’d trained Muad’Dib.

  “If it became known that we hold her,” Farad’n said.

  “Yes, that’d be a two-edged sword,” Tyekanik said. “But it need not be known.”

  “Let us assume,” Farad’n said, “that we accept this offer. What’s her value? Can we exchange her for something of greater importance?”

  “Not openly,” Wensicia said.

  “Of course not!” He p
eered expectantly at Tyekanik.

  “That remains to be seen,” Tyekanik said.

  Farad’n nodded. “Yes. I think if we accept, we should consider the Lady Jessica as money banked for indeterminate use. After all, wealth doesn’t necessarily have to be spent on any particular thing. It’s just … potentially useful.”

  “She’d be a very dangerous captive,” Tyekanik said.

  “There is that to consider, indeed,” Farad’n said. “I’m told that her Bene Gesserit Ways permit her to manipulate a person just by the subtle employment of her voice.”

  “Or her body,” Wensicia said. “Irulan once divulged to me some of the things she’d learned. She was showing off at the time, and I saw no demonstrations. Still the evidence is pretty conclusive that Bene Gesserits have their ways of achieving their ends.”

  “Were you suggesting,” Farad’n asked, “that she might seduce me?”

  Wensicia merely shrugged.

  “I’d say she’s a little old for that, wouldn’t you?” Farad’n asked.

  “With a Bene Gesserit, nothing’s certain,” Tyekanik said.

  Farad’n experienced a shiver of excitement tinged with fear. Playing this game to restore House of Corrino’s high seat of power both attracted and repelled him. How attractive it remained, the urge to retire from this game into his preferred pursuits—historical research and learning the manifest duties for ruling here on Salusa Secundus. The restoration of his Sardaukar forces was a task in itself … and for that job, Tyek was still a good tool. One planet was, after all, an enormous responsibility. But the Empire was an even greater responsibility, far more attractive as an instrument of power. And the more he read about Muad’Dib/Paul Atreides, the more fascinated Farad’n became with the uses of power. As titular head of House Corrino, heir of Shaddam IV, what a great achievement it would be to restore his line to the Lion Throne. He wanted that! He wanted it. Farad’n had found that, by repeating this enticing litany to himself several times, he could overcome momentary doubts.

  Tyekanik was speaking: “… and of course, the Bene Gesserit teach that peace encourages aggressions, thus igniting war. The paradox of—”