Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Jessica placed an arm on his shoulder. “We’ve been through this. You can’t bear the blame for things that were done so long ago. It wasn’t really you.”

  “Yes it was, because I remember it all now! We gholas were created for one purpose, and we must accept the consequences.”

  Jessica looked at him impatiently. “We all know what you did, Wellington. I accepted that and forgave you long ago.”

  “But will you do it again after you remember? One day those vaults will be opened in your mind, the terrible old wounds. We’ve got to face the guilt our predecessors left for us, or we’ll be consumed by things we never did.”

  “It’s uncharted territory for all of us, but I suspect we each have plenty of things to atone for.” She tried to console him, but he didn’t feel he deserved it.

  Leto paused the filmbook and looked up with an eerie intelligence in his eyes. “Well, I’m only going to take responsibility for what I do in this life.”

  Jessica reached out to touch Yueh’s face gently. “I can’t understand what you went through, what you’re still going through. I’ll know soon enough, I suppose. But you should think about what you would like to be, not what you’re afraid of being.”

  She made it sound so simple, but despite his best efforts, he had been twisted before. “What if I do something bad in this lifetime, too?”

  Jessica’s expression hardened. “Then no one can help you.”

  You think your eyes are open, yet you do not see.

  —Bene Gesserit admonishment

  Water crashed against the black reef on Buzzell, sending up a veil of spray. Mother Commander Murbella stood with the once-disgraced Sister at the edge of the cove, watching Phibians frolic in deep water. The amphibious creatures swam together, slick and smooth-skinned, diving under the combers and then bursting to the surface again.

  “They love their new freedom,” Corysta said.

  Like dolphins in an ancient Earth sea, Murbella thought, admiring their forms. Human . . . and yet dramatically not so.

  “I’m more interested in seeing them harvest soostones.” She turned her face into the salty wind. Gray clouds were gathering, but the air remained warm and humid. “Our debts in this war are staggering. Our credit is stretched beyond its limits, and some of our most vital suppliers will accept nothing but hard currency—like soostones.”

  In the months since leaving Oculiat, the Mother Commander had traveled from planet to planet, studying humanity’s defenses. Realizing their great peril, local kings, presidents, and warlords provided independent battleships to add to the newly constructed Guild vessels being released by the Junction shipyards. Every government and cluster of allied worlds scrambled to invent or acquire new armaments to use against the Enemy, but so far nothing had proved effective. The Ixians were still testing the Obliterator weapons, which had proved to be more difficult to manufacture than expected. Murbella continued to demand more work, more material and sacrifices. It wouldn’t be enough.

  And the war continued. Plagues spread. Machine fleets destroyed every human-inhabited world they encountered. Near the edge of one of the main combat zones, three more Sheeana surrogates rallied the people caught between a hammer and an anvil, but to no avail. So far, since the beginning of Omnius’s march across space, Murbella could not claim a single clear victory.

  In her bleakest moments the odds seemed poor and the obstacles insurmountable. Millennia ago, the fighters of the Butlerian Jihad had faced another impossible situation, and humankind had won only by accepting an appalling cost. They had unleashed countless atomic weapons that not only destroyed thinking machines, but also trillions of human beings who had been held in slavery. The Pyrrhic victory had left a horrendous stain on the human soul.

  And now, even after that monumental sacrifice, Omnius was back, like a noxious weed whose roots had never been destroyed. Gauging the progress of the thinking machines, in the next year or two the human race would be forced into a climactic showdown.

  Once the Ixian industrialists delivered their long-awaited Obliterators, all the collected militaries from planet after planet would draw a line in space. As far as she was concerned, that opportunity could not come soon enough.

  “Our soostone shipments have increased every month for the past two years.” As she spoke, Corysta did not remove her gaze from the frolicking aquatic creatures. “The Phibians are more productive, now that the Honored Matres have stopped torturing them. And they never used to play like that before. They consider the seas of Buzzell their home instead of their prison.”

  Corysta, a former Breeding Mother exiled here for the crime of trying to keep her own baby, had become a stalwart monitor of soostone harvests. She oversaw the grading, cleaning, and packaging of the pearlescent gems, which were delivered regularly to CHOAM intermediaries.

  “Even so, we need more soostones.”

  “I’ll speak with the Phibians, Mother Commander. I’ll explain that our need is great, that the Enemy draws near. For me, they might work harder.” Corysta’s smile was strangely unreadable. “I’ll ask it as a favor.”

  “And that will work?”

  The other Sister shrugged. The Phibians leapt high into the air and dove back into the water, while Corysta waved to them, laughing. They seemed to know she was watching them. Sunlight glinted on the water. Were these Phibians putting on a special performance?

  Quite suddenly, something large and serpentine emerged from the depths near the splashing creatures. An eyeless head rose above the waves, its round mouth flashing crystalline teeth. The head quested around, fin-edged gill flaps sensing vibrations, like a sea serpent from ancient legends.

  Murbella caught her breath. To her amazement it resembled a sandworm from Rakis, though only about ten meters long—and with adaptations that enabled it to live in the water. Impossible! A seaworm?

  Corysta ran frantically down the rocks and waded into the surf. The Phibians had already seen the monster and tried to swim away. The worm darted toward them, spray glistening from its greenish rings.

  Two more of the long, sinuous monsters appeared from the deep water and circled around the Phibians. The aquatic people clustered in a defensive formation; one male with a scar on his forehead drew a wide, flat-bladed knife used for scoring cholisters on the ocean floor. The other Phibians brandished their own weapons, which were laughable against a sea serpent.

  Knee-deep in waves, Corysta slipped on the algae-slick rocks. Murbella ran after her, fixated on what she saw in the water. “What are those creatures?”

  “Monsters! I have never seen them before.”

  The scarred male Phibian emitted a loud vibrating sound and slapped one webbed hand on the water with a sharp crack. The clustered Phibians bolted like a startled school of fish, several diving underwater, others swimming briskly across the waves.

  Though they had no eyes, the swimming worms knew where the Phibians were. With a blur and a flick of long serpentine bodies, they pursued the aquatic workers, driving them toward the rocky shore.

  Murbella and Corysta watched the largest worm lunge and grab one of the Phibians, scooping him down into the wet gullet. The other worms attacked like a group of frenzied sharks.

  Murbella waded out to grab Corysta’s shoulder, preventing her from swimming farther into the churning water. They were both helpless to prevent the violence. “My Sea Child,” Corysta moaned.

  The seaworms thrashed and splashed as they fed. Bloody waves lapped against Murbella’s legs, and she dragged the sobbing Corysta back to shore.

  A planet is not merely an item for study. Rather it is a tool, perhaps even a weapon, with which we can make our mark on the galaxy.

  —LIET-KYNES,

  the original

  Now that Stilgar and Liet had their ghola memories back, they had become the no-ship’s experts on extreme recycling, making the most of their reduced resources. The Ithaca’s life-support systems had been designed by geniuses out in the Scattering, descendants of
those who had survived the horrific Famine Times. The highly efficient technology could serve passengers and crew for long periods, even in the face of the increasing population. But not in the face of deliberate sabotage.

  Tall and lean, with the body of a youth and the aged eyes of a naib, Stilgar looked ready to embark on a desert journey. He and Liet-Kynes had been bound at first by common interests and more recently by their awakened pasts. Liet refused to talk about the crisis through which Sheeana had broken him—it was a matter too private even for close friends.

  For himself, Stilgar couldn’t forget what the witches had done to him. To the very depths of his being he was a desert man of Arrakis. Watched over by Proctor Superior Garimi, he had read of his history as a young commando against the Harkonnens, later as naib, and then as a supporter of Muad’Dib. But to trigger his ghola memories, the Sisters had tried to drown him.

  At a water-filled recycling reservoir, Sheeana and Garimi had tied weights around his ankles. Stilgar fought, but the witches were more than a match for him. “What have I done? Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Find your past,” Sheeana said, “or die.”

  “Without your memories you are useless, and better off drowned,” Garimi said. They dumped him into the pool.

  Unable to free himself from the weights on his ankles, Stilgar had quickly sunk. He had struggled mightily, but the water was everywhere, more oppressive than the thickest dust cloud. Trying desperately to peer upward, he made out only the vague wavering shapes of the two women up there. Neither lifted a hand to help him.

  His lungs screamed, and blackness closed in around his eyesight. Stilgar thrashed violently and grew weaker every second. He was starving for breath. He wanted to cry out—needed to—but there was no air. Exhaled bubbles roared out of his open mouth. When it was more than unbearable, he inhaled a huge gulp into his lungs, flooding his air passages. He couldn’t see any way out of the tank—

  —and suddenly it was no longer a tank, but a wide, deep river, which he realized was on one of the planets where he had fought in Muad’Dib’s jihad. He had marched with a regiment of Caladan soldiers and they had needed to ford the river. The water had been deeper than anyone anticipated, and all of them went under. His companions, who had been born swimming, thought nothing of it, even laughed as they made their way to shore. But Stilgar was dragged beneath the surface. He reached up, clutching for air. He had inhaled water then, too, and nearly drowned—

  Finally, Sheeana dragged Stilgar out of the tank and pumped his lungs. A disapproving Suk doctor scolded her and Garimi as she revived the young ghola. They rolled him over, and he vomited up sour mouthfuls of water. He was barely able to rise to his knees.

  When he turned his glare on Sheeana, he was more than an eleven-year-old boy. He was Naib Stilgar.

  Later, when he saw Liet restored as well, Stilgar was afraid to ask what terrible ordeal his friend had been forced to endure. . . .

  Now the two headed for the great hold to see the sandworms, as they had done many times before. The high observation chamber was one of their favorite places, especially now. The tremendous worms called up strong and atavistic feelings in them.

  As they approached, Stilgar breathed in the comforting scent of warm, dry air with the distinct odors of worms and cinnamon. He smiled briefly in a passing nostalgia, before his face creased in a frown. “I should not be smelling that.”

  Liet picked up his pace. “That environment has to be carefully controlled. If the seals are leaking, then moisture could penetrate the hold.” Yet another breakdown, after so many others!

  Rushing into the equipment chamber, they found young Thufir Hawat supervising repair operations. Two Bene Gesserit Sisters and Levi, one of the refugee Jews, worked to install sheets of replacement plaz. They applied thick sealants around the windows high above the sand-filled cargo hold. Thufir was scowling.

  Stilgar strode forward, his demeanor intimidating. The task of monitoring the sandworms and the recycling systems was generally reserved for himself and Liet. “Why are you here, Hawat?”

  Thufir showed surprise at the coldly accusatory tone of the Fremen’s voice. “Someone poured acid on the seals. The corrosive destroyed not only the sealant, but part of the plaz and the wallplates as well.”

  “We patched it in time,” said Levi. “We also found a timed device that would have emptied one of our water reservoirs into the hold, flooding it.”

  Stilgar trembled with rage. “That would have killed the worms!”

  “I checked those systems myself, only two days ago,” Liet said. “This is no simple breakdown.”

  “No,” Thufir agreed. “Our saboteur is at work again.”

  While Stilgar ran his gaze suspiciously over the gathered people, Liet hurried to the instrument consoles to check the desert environment. “There appears to be no permanent damage. The readings are still within the creatures’ tolerance range. Scrubbers should bring the air back to desired levels in short order.”

  Stilgar took special care to inspect the new seals, found them adequate. He and Liet exchanged looks that said they had to be suspicious of everyone onboard. Except for each other, Stilgar decided.

  Long ago, when he and Liet had first known each other, the two had shared many adventures fighting the nefarious Harkonnens. Like his father, Liet had led a double life, delivering grand dreams to the desert people while acting as Imperial Planetologist and Judge of the Change. Liet was also the father of Chani. While the Fremen girl’s ghola did not remember him yet, he remembered her, and he looked at Chani with a strange, age-worn love.

  Bothered by the acrid odors of acid and sealant, Stilgar turned grimly away from the observation window. “From now on, I sleep here. I will not let Shai-Hulud die, not while I still breathe.”

  “I’m working with the Bashar. There must be some kind of a trail, so we only need to find it. The corrosive was acquired from secure stores, so there may be fingerprints or genetic traces.” Thufir’s lips were not stained red with sapho, his skin not grizzled, his eyes not weary with age and experiences, as in the famous old portraits. “Perhaps the imagers captured the saboteur sneaking to the observation deck. Once I catch him, we can all rest more easily.”

  “No,” Stilgar said. “Even then, I would not let my guard down.”

  IN A SUDDEN resurgence, the maddening sabotage continued in myriad ways and at random points around the huge ship, setting everyone’s nerves on edge. The Bene Gesserits remained vigilant and wary, while the Rabbi preached to a growing number of followers about spies and murderers lurking among them.

  Duncan studied the readings, ran projections. Again, he wondered if one or more of the Face Dancer Handlers might still be aboard, having escaped the wreckage of a crashed ship. Where else could the saboteur be hiding? After years of searching, Duncan and Teg had run out of ideas. How could this enemy elude surveillance imagers, Truthsayer interrogations, and vigorous searches? In a few suspicious incidents, a blurry form could be seen moving in restricted areas, but even enhancement could not sharpen the facial features to recognizability.

  The saboteur seemed to know exactly where and when to strike. An endless succession of little breakdowns and small accidents, each taking its toll, ran the ship’s company to exhaustion.

  One time, imagers detected what appeared to be a man as he moved furtively down a corridor near a bank of oxygen-scrubber units and aircirculating machines. Dressed in dark clothing and a tight-fitting hood that covered most of his face, he carried a long silver knife and a pry bar, and his body leaned forward against the heavy air flow. Then, like liquid flowing around a corner, the man slipped into the central recirculation chamber, where great fans blasted air through a system of arteries in the no-ship, pushing it through thick curtains of matted fibers coated with biogels to remove impurities.

  With sudden fury, the unidentifiable saboteur slashed and hacked at the porous filter mats, ripping them from their frames and destroying their ability to p
urify air. After completing this mayhem, the saboteur turned to flee. Not a single frame of the imagers showed the face; it wasn’t even absolutely clear whether the hooded vandal was male or female. By the time security personnel rushed into the area, the saboteur had vanished into the howling, recirculated wind.

  Duncan did not need to whisper the obvious answer. Face Dancer. He studied all records of the kamikaze ships from the Handlers, noting where they had crashed into the hull and how the bodies aboard had been confirmed dead and disposed of. One of the shape-shifting Handlers must have crawled out of the flaming wreckage.

  Even worse, there might be more than one.

  THE AIR SMELLED moist and foul, like seaweed and sewage. Duncan stood on the mist-slickened catwalk above one of the largest algae tanks. The entire vat was dying. Poisoned.

  Standing next to him, gripping the catwalk rail with a whiteknuckled hand, Teg frowned at the chemical analyses displayed on his datapad. “Heavy metals, potent toxins, a list of deadly chemicals that even this stuff can’t digest.” He pulled up a dripping handful of the once-fecund green substance. The goop was brownish now, breaking down.

  “The saboteur is trying to destroy our food supply,” Duncan said.

  “Our air, too.”

  “To what end? To kill us, it appears.”

  “Or simply to make us helpless.”

  Duncan glared at the vat, feeling angry and violated. “Get work crews to drain and scrub the tank. Decontaminate as quickly as possible. Then harvest starter material from other tanks to fertilize the biomass. We’ve got to stabilize it before something else goes wrong.”

  DUNCAN WAS ALONE on the navigation bridge when the next disaster occurred. Over the years the passengers had learned to ignore the faint vibrations of the no-ship’s movement. Now, though, an abrupt lurch and an obvious deflection in course nearly threw him out of his chair.