Though she refused to accept defeat, Dorothy had performed her own calculations and projected the supplies that might have been aboard the ornijet, extrapolating how long anyone could have survived.
Search party after search party returned without success. In a desert as large as a planet, a human being was no more significant than a grain of sand. Like a voracious predator, the endless wasteland had swallowed Jesse, Barri, and English.
In the convict-worker barracks in Carthage and the freedmen section of town, Gurney Halleck had tried to encourage the men, to maintain their morale. She admired his efforts, the way he sang inspiring songs, but lately the verses he had repeated for her sounded increasingly tragic.
Freedmen sandminers, pulled from their work to continue the hopeless search, were beginning to grumble about lost bonuses. Dorothy couldn’t blame them; for such men, bonuses were their only hope of earning passage off of Duneworld. The convict laborers did not want to be taken from the spice harvesters, either, fearing they would be sent back to even worse penal worlds such as Salusa or Eridanus V. And nobody looked forward to having the Hoskanners return … .
“Their ornijet could have crashed in the storm,” General Tuek said, as he met with her in her office on the third level of the headquarters mansion. He stood with his hands on the back of a chair. “But it could just as easily have been sabotage. Anyone who knew the nobleman was out at the forward base could have laid a trap for him when he returned.”
“Many people knew of the expedition, General.” She stood near the window, with her arms folded across her chest. Something about this man always grated on her.
“You knew about it, madam. Any observer on the landing field could feel the friction between you and the nobleman as he left. What exactly was the nature of your disagreement?”
Red anger flashed through her eyes, burning through her grief and hopelessness. “Any personal discussions between Jesse and myself are exactly that—personal! How dare you even imply that I might have had something to do with their disappearance.”
“It is my duty as security chief to suspect everyone, especially those who might benefit. You are the legal proxy for House Linkam. In my opinion, the nobleman has given a commoner altogether too much control over his finances and business.”
Dorothy was so disoriented by the accusation that it took her a moment to grasp onto a thread of logic. “Leaving aside the fact that Barri is my own son—” She drew a breath, forced ice into her words. “If House Linkam is dissolved, then I would lose everything. I would be a fool to place Jesse’s life at risk.”
“You are no fool, madam. In fact, you would be smart enough to divert a great amount of Linkam wealth into secret accounts of your own.” The veteran’s red-stained lips were set in a grim line, showing no compassion.
She placed her hands on her hips so that she wouldn’t try to throttle him. “That is quite enough, General—especially from a man who has implied he believes we should give up the search.”
“I made no such suggestion.” He stiffened defensively, stood at attention, with his arms at his sides. “I have served House Linkam for far longer than you have known Jesse, madam. I have already seen two noblemen die. If we abandon the search, then House Linkam dies and the Hoskanners have already won.” His red-stained lips twitched. “However, if we cease all spice production, then that is also true. I merely implied that we should consider sending some of the teams back to work. Each day, we lose more ground against the Hoskanners.”
Dorothy stared at him coolly, then asked herself the fundamental question: What would Jesse want her to do? Even in this terrible situation, he would expect her to hold on to hope longer than anyone else, but he also trusted her to manage the noble household, to be his proxy in business matters, and to keep his future safe for Barri. She knew exactly what Jesse’s answer would be.
Speaking in a voice that allowed no disagreement, Dorothy said, “Continue the search, General, but assign a temporary spice foreman to oversee harvesting operations in the absence of William English. Get our crews out on the sands again, as soon as possible.”
AS THE STORM neared, Jesse settled his son against the shelter of the dune wall where the hard sands were crusted with chemical residue from underground volcanic vents.
Wearily, Jesse trudged to the top of the highest dune and saw a smothering curtain of dust billowing ominously toward them. The whistling wind picked up, flinging needle-sharp sand grains against his cheeks. His clogged face mask no longer worked well, and neither did Barri’s. Both of them also had rips in their bodysuits, reducing the effectiveness of the conservation mechanisms. And they had no water left, not even a drop.
Jesse slid back down the slope and unpacked a reflective blanket. After testing the wind, he found the best place to sit in the lee of the dunes where they might ride out the oncoming storm. They huddled together with the blanket wrapped around them, listening to the sifting sand and dust. Jesse remembered all too well how English’s face had been scarred by the abrasive winds, how other men had been scoured to skeletons. Their chances of surviving the night were vanishingly small.
Like a living thing, the wind swirled around the fumarole field, lashing the sulfurous vapors in all directions. A thickening layer of sand covered their blanket, muffling the fearsome sounds; intermittently, Jesse tried to shake it off so they wouldn’t suffocate.
In the middle of the long night, the winds began to die down, and the storm noises grew distant. By morning, amazed to be alive, Jesse and Barri worked together to lift the sand-weighted blanket. After shaking off the sand and wiping powder from their eyes, they looked around. Only the edge of the storm had touched the fumarole field before it had swerved, leaving them unscathed.
Jesse hugged his son. “A miracle, my boy!” His throat was so dry he could barely speak, and his words emerged as a rough croak. “We survived one more day.”
Barri’s lips were parched and cracked, and his voice was no better than his father’s. “Maybe we should just pick a direction and follow it.”
Thirst burned like an ember in Jesse’s mouth. “We’ll keep going today and tomorrow … as long as it takes. Our chances aren’t good, but if we give up, there’s no hope at all.”
The fumaroles coughed like a choking man clearing his throat. Gases continued to percolate out of the sand whirlpool that had swallowed the delirious William English.
After giving the boy strict instructions not to wander off, Jesse slogged through loose sand at the bottom of the depression, then climbed the other side of the towering rise. In the early light of day, perhaps he would see a landmark … or a fleet of rescue ships coming across the ocean of dunes.
When he reached the high ridge on top, Jesse shuffled ahead, his feet sinking in. Unexpectedly, his boot snagged on something buried beneath the surface. He tripped and fell forward.
Jesse rolled over, brushing himself off, wiping his face. He dug with his hands and extricated a bent white polymer rod. Loosened, the thin flexible staff sprang erect again: one of the many weather poles that sandminers had installed in the open desert to keep track of localized storms.
Casting his gaze right and left, Jesse moved off several paces until he found a second bent weather pole, which he freed. He wagged the whiplike rods, saw that they were unscathed even by being forced to the ground and buried under the sand. He drew a deep breath of flinty air, accepting the symbolism as an omen: A survivor stays alive only by bending with the blows. Be flexible. Bend against the unstoppable force and then spring back when it has passed.
Barri came running up. “Are you all right? What did you find?”
He turned to his son. “These are data-collection devices for the weather satellites. Help me clear them out.”
Scooping sand, Jesse dug to the root of the pole. When he found its instrument package, he smiled for the first time in days. “And each one has a transmitter uplinked to the weather satellites! Dr. Haynes was tinkering with the satellite network. If
he’s got it functional again, and if we can modify these pulses …”
Barri understood. The two of them found six poles in a line. They removed each one from where it was embedded and took the devices back into the depression where they were protected from the winds. Jesse used a small multitool from his pack to dismantle the housings and access the tiny, hardened circuitry.
“If we get all six of these in phase, we can send a strong and regular pulse—not a complex code or a voice message, but if anyone is watching from the base, they should see the blip … .”
Most people might have given them up for dead already, but he doubted Dorothy would ever surrender hope.
By midday they had all the weather poles silently thrumming, sending out a modulated electronic signal, a repeating pattern that could not be missed. Gathering the blanket again to shelter them from the day’s heat and to present a visible, reflective target, he held Barri. “Now it’s only a matter of time. I hope.”
15
At the bleakest, blackest hour of night, the dawn appears, washing away the darkness.
—A SAYING OF THE DEEP DESERT
Dorothy occupied herself with work. It was well past the dinner hour, but she had told the servants not to prepare anything for her to eat. The mansion seemed vast and empty, populated by echoes. The Catalan workers were already asking persistent questions, many of them believing that the nobleman and his son would never be found.
Jesse had made her the legal proxy for House Linkam, but had never married her. Without him, she had no continuing status, and her decisions would no longer be binding. Once, in private, Jesse had told her, “You are far more than a concubine to me, more even than a traditional wife. A noblewoman could never replace you in my heart. You are the mother of my son, who is the heir to House Linkam. You are the inspiration for my soul.” No vapid daughter of a decadent blueblood family could take that away from her.
But that was no solace at all if Jesse and Barri were lost. Her soul ached for them, and despair welled up within her. It had been much too long.
In her distress, she did not at first hear the shouts from the main entry hall. “Dorothy Mapes! Where are you?” It was Gurney Halleck’s voice, bellowing for her. “I have fantastic news!”
Her heart racing, Dorothy took two stairs at a time and bounded down to the closest landing. She came upon the startled jongleur so unexpectedly that he half drew the sonic dagger from on his hip. Recognizing the petite woman, he let the blade slide back into its sheath. “The satellites detected a signal out in the desert! It repeats without message content, but it’s a clear pulse that shouldn’t be there.”
“It has to be Jesse!”
“It’s certainly somebody,” Gurney said. “But there were three people on the downed ornijet. No telling if everyone is still alive.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Take me there—”
“There’s nothing you can do right now. General Tuek has already dispatched a rescue craft. We should know more within the hour.”
An irrepressible geyser of hope sprang up inside her, and Dorothy hugged the jongleur so furiously that he grew red in the face.
A SQUADRON OF dusty rescue ships returned at sunset to the spaceport landing zone nearest to the headquarters mansion. A violent calamity of color spilled across the sky, then streamed away into darkness.
Dorothy could hardly contain herself as she waited with Gurney and Dr. Yueh. Excited, she watched one vessel after another as they set down, flapping their articulated wings and stabilizing their landing gear.
Finally, the last vessel touched down in a noisy rush of jets, creating a gritty cloud. When the air cleared, an entry hatch opened, and a rough-faced, red-eyed man appeared in the doorway. At first she didn’t recognize him until she noted the familiar, though unsteady, way he moved. Details, beloved details! The gray eyes were familiar, but he looked so tired, so much older. Finally, the boy appeared behind him.
She ran forward. “I thought I’d never see you again!” Dorothy hugged them and kissed their dusty faces repeatedly.
With a chafed hand, Jesse wiped her cheeks, smearing her tear tracks into mud. “My darling, we’re making a mess of you.”
Old Dr. Yueh gave the two haggard survivors a quick once-over, checking their eyes, taking their pulses. “Good, good. Oh, I’ll give you both full examinations later, after you clean up.” He grinned. “It’ll waste a lot of water just getting those layers of dirt off you.”
“I don’t care,” Jesse said. “For once in this hellhole, I’m going to wallow in a bath.”
“Me, too,” Barri said. “I want to stay home forever.”
Dorothy listened with sadness as they told her what had happened to William English. Such a tragedy. Still, as she looked at her family she shuddered with relief. Jesse had exposed their son to unimaginable danger against her clear wishes, but he had also saved himself and Barri from almost certain death. Dorothy was still angry with him, but if his own ordeal hadn’t given him a healthy respect for the risks on Duneworld, nothing she could say would make a difference. The only way they could all survive this challenge was to stick together.
Arm in arm, they walked toward the headquarters mansion profiled against the abrupt desert sunset.
PART TWO
SECOND YEAR ON DUNEWORLD
16
The only way to be truly safe is to view everyone as a potential enemy.
—GENERAL ESMAR TUEK,
Security Briefings
Throughout their first year, Linkam operations suffered frequent equipment damage, the “accidental” destruction of supplies and tools, delayed deliveries of new harvesters and carryalls, and overt sabotage. Jesse had no doubt that Carthage was crawling with Hoskanner spies, despite the best efforts of his security chief to ferret them out.
To guard against potential attacks, another contingent of highly trained fighters from the Catalan home guard had arrived. General Tuek had redoubled his troops around the mansion, posting sentries and infiltrating new workers into the ranks of freedmen and convicts.
Despite their dedicated, backbreaking efforts, Linkam spice production remained pitifully low, barely a third of previous Hoskanner tallies, as they knew from the secret information William English had provided. To make matters worse, the sandminers were increasingly hostile and insubordinate, because reduced production meant fewer credits and dwindling hopes that they would ever leave Duneworld, despite Jesse’s promises.
Awaiting the end of the challenge period on Gediprime, Valdemar must be laughing to himself … .
When a nearby storm brought enough dust to obscure visibility and prevent flights to the spice fields, Jesse quietly gathered his closest advisors in a small shielded conference room with no windows and only one narrow door. After Tuek had scanned for listening devices and covert spy imagers, he declared the room clean.
It was time for them to talk.
Jesse sat down and folded his hands on top of the table. His grim, gray eyes scanned the faces of Dorothy and Tuek sitting at opposite sides of the table, as well as Gurney Halleck, who had taken over as spice foreman after the tragic death of William English. Before Jesse could begin, Dr. Haynes hurried into the room, having just flown up from the forward research base, one step ahead of the storm. “I apologize for my lateness.”
Since Jesse’s ordeal in the desert, and his demonstrated resolve to survive, the planetary ecologist had become a surprising ally. Haynes made it clear that he respected Nobleman Linkam much more than he had the Hoskanners, though technically the Emperor’s scientist was supposed to remain neutral.
Jesse, though, could not afford to allow mixed loyalties. He had to lay everything on the line. “If we are destined to lose, we will lose. But I will never give up and make it easy for them.”
“The Hoskanners keep cutting our feet out from under us,” Tuek said. “Sweet affection, what underhanded tricks! They know exactly how to hamstring our operations. However, with the new soldiers from
Catalan, I can post extra guards on every operation. Round-the-clock surveillance of our most important equipment. I intend to eliminate sabotage completely.”
“Even protecting our equipment won’t be enough,” Jesse said. “We simply don’t have the production capacity to meet the goal.”
Though she was normally quiet in these meetings, Dorothy pointed out, “For eighteen years the Hoskanners had unlimited resources and manpower. They could afford to replace expensive spice harvesters as fast as the worms and storms destroyed them.” She shook her head sadly. “Even if half of our equipment orders hadn’t been delayed or caught up in inexplicable bureaucracy, House Linkam still doesn’t have the capital to keep up with that.”
“We barely have half as many spice harvesters as we need,” Jesse said. “One of the new-model units is due to be delivered from an alternative source on Richese, but it had to go through indirect channels.”
“That harvester is a month late,” Dorothy said, “but I’m assured we’ll get it, just like those delayed Ixian deliveries. You can bet the Hoskanners had a hand in it. They just want to stall us, claiming we have ‘credit problems.’”
“Curse the Emperor and his refusal to impose rules!” Gurney said. “If he wants the spice so badly, why doesn’t he intervene?”
Jesse grimaced. “The nobles want it as well, but most of our ‘friends’ haven’t come through as they promised.”
Only three families, poor enough that they were willing to take a chance on a long shot, had offered to help with funding, but they could spare little; Jesse deeply appreciated their gestures, though the financing hadn’t helped much. Four other nobles had taken advantage of the desperate Linkam situation, offering loans at crippling interest rates; Jesse feared he would have to accept their terms, unless he found some other way through the crisis.
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