Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  —ERASMUS,

  Laboratory Notebooks

  When the virulent plague reached Chapterhouse, the first cases appeared among the male workers. Seven men were struck down so swiftly that their dying expressions showed more surprise than pain.

  In the Great Hall where younger Sisters dined, the disease also spread. The virus was so insidious that the most contagious period occurred a full day before any symptoms manifested; thus, the epidemic had already sunk its claws into those most vulnerable before the New Sisterhood even knew a threat existed.

  Hundreds perished within the first three days, more than a thousand by the end of the week; after ten days, the victims were beyond counting. Support staff, teachers, visitors, offworld merchants, cooks and kitchen help, even failed Reverend Mothers—all fell like stalks of wheat under the Grim Reaper’s scythe.

  Murbella called upon her senior advisers to develop an immediate plan, but from prior epidemics on other embattled planets they knew that precautionary measures and quarantines would do no good. The conference room doors were securely locked, because younger Sisters and acolytes could not be allowed to know the strategies being discussed here.

  “Survival of the Sisterhood is our primary purpose, even as the rest of Chapterhouse dies around us.” Murbella felt sickened to think of all the unprepared acolytes, spice-harvesting teams in the dune belt, transport drivers, architects and construction workers, weather planners, greenhouse gardeners, cleaners, bankers, artists, archive workers, pilots, technicians, and medical assistants. All the underpinnings of Chapterhouse itself.

  Laera attempted to sound objective, but her voice cracked. “Reverend Mothers have the precise cellular control needed to fight this disease on its own battleground. We can use our bodily defenses to drive away the plague.”

  “In other words, anyone who hasn’t gone through the Spice Agony will die,” Kiria said. “Like the Honored Matres did. That was why we pursued you Bene Gesserits in the first place, to learn how to protect ourselves from the epidemic.”

  “Can we use the blood of Bene Gesserit survivors to create a vaccine?” Murbella asked.

  Laera shook her head. “Reverend Mothers drive out disease organisms, cell by cell. There are no antibodies we can share with others.”

  “It is not even as simple as that,” Accadia rasped. “A Reverend Mother can channel her inner biological defenses only if she has the energy to do so, and if she has the time and ability to concentrate on herself. But this plague forces us to turn our energies to tend the most unfortunate victims.”

  “If you make that mistake, you’ll die, just like our Sheeana surrogate on Jhibraith,” Kiria said with the undertone of a sneer in her voice. “We Reverend Mothers will have to take care of ourselves and no one else. The others have no chance anyway. We need to accept that.”

  Murbella already felt the beginnings of exhaustion, but her nervous anxiety made her pace the sealed council room. She had to think. What could be done against such a minute, lethal enemy? Only Reverend Mothers will survive. . . . She spoke firmly to her advisors, “Find every acolyte who is close to being ready for the Agony. Do we have enough Water of Life?”

  “For all of them?” cried Laera.

  “For every single one. Any Sister who has the slightest chance of survival. Give all of them the poison and hope they can convert it and survive the Agony. Only then will they be able to fight off the plague.”

  “Many will die in the attempt,” warned Laera.

  “Or all of them will die from the plague. Even if most of the candidates succumb to the Agony, it’s an improvement.” She did not wince. Her own daughter Rinya had perished that way, many years ago.

  Smiling slightly with her wrinkled lips, Accadia nodded. “A Bene Gesserit would rather die from the Agony than from a sickness spread by our Enemy. It is a gesture of defiance rather than surrender.”

  “See that it is done.”

  IN THE DEATH houses she turned a deaf ear to the moans of the sick and dying. The Chapterhouse doctors had drugs and potent analgesics, and the Bene Gesserit acolytes had been taught how to block off pain. Even so, the misery of the plague was enough to break the deepest conditioning.

  Murbella hated to see the Sisters unable to control their suffering. It shamed her, not for their weakness but because she had been unable to prevent this from happening in the first place.

  She went to where lines of makeshift beds held young acolytes, most of them terrified, some of them determined. The room smelled of rancid cinnamon—harsh instead of pleasant. With her brow furrowed and eyes intent, the Mother Commander watched two stony-faced Reverend Mothers carry out a stretcher bearing the sheet-wrapped body of a young woman.

  “Another one failed the Agony?”

  The Reverend Mothers nodded. “Sixty-one today. They are dying as fast as from the plague.”

  “And how many successes?”

  “Forty-three.”

  “Forty-three that will live to fight the Enemy.”

  Like a mother hen, Murbella walked up and down the line of beds, observing the plague-stricken Sisters, some sleeping quietly with new bodily awareness, others writhing in deep comas from which it was uncertain they would ever find their way back.

  At the end of the row, a teenage girl lay with frightened eyes. She propped herself up in bed on trembling arms. She met Murbella’s gaze, and even in her extreme sickness the girl’s eyes glimmered. “Mother Commander,” she said hoarsely.

  Murbella moved closer to the young one. “What is your name?”

  “Baleth.”

  “Are you waiting to undergo the Agony?”

  “I’m waiting to die, Mother Commander. I was brought here to take the Water of Life, but before it could be administered the symptoms of the disease manifested themselves. I’ll be dead before the end of the day.” She sounded very brave.

  “So they will not give you the Water of Life, then? You won’t even attempt the Agony?”

  Baleth lowered her chin. “They say I will not survive it.”

  “And you believe them? Aren’t you strong enough to try?”

  “I am strong enough to try, Mother Commander.”

  “Then I’d rather you died trying, instead of giving up.” As she looked down at Baleth, she was poignantly reminded of Rinya . . . eager and confident, so like Duncan. But her daughter hadn’t been ready after all, and she had died on the table.

  I should have delayed her. Because of my need to prove myself, I pushed Rinya. I should have waited. . . .

  And Murbella’s youngest daughter Gianne—what had happened to her? The Mother Commander had kept herself apart from the young woman’s day-to-day activities, letting the Sisterhood raise her. But in this time of crisis, she decided to ask someone, Laera perhaps, to track her down.

  Right now, Baleth seemed to show hope, looking with fervid eyes toward the Mother Commander. Murbella ordered the Suk doctors to attend to her immediately. “Time is shorter for this one than for the others.”

  From the doctors’ skeptical expressions, Murbella could see they considered this a waste of the valuable Water of Life, but she stood firm. Baleth accepted the viscid draught, took a last look at her Mother Commander, and gulped the toxic substance. She lay back, closed her eyes, and began her fight. . . .

  It did not last long. Baleth died in a valiant attempt, but Murbella could feel no guilt about it. The Sisterhood must never stop fighting.

  THOUGH MELANGE WAS rare and precious, rarer still was the Water of Life.

  By the fourth day of Murbella’s desperate plan, it became apparent that Chapterhouse’s supplies would not be sufficient. Sister after Sister consumed the poison, and many perished while struggling to convert the deadly toxin in their cells, trying to change their bodies.

  The Mother Commander tasked her advisors to study the exact amount of poison necessary to trigger the Agony. Some Reverend Mothers suggested diluting the substance, but if they didn’t give enough to be fatal, and thus effec
tive, the entire experiment would fail.

  Dozens more Sisters died. More than 60 percent of those who took the poison.

  Kiria offered a hard but coldly logical solution. “Assess each candidate, and dole out the Water of Life only to those most likely to succeed. We can’t gamble foolishly. Each dose we give to a woman who fails is wasted. We must discriminate.”

  Murbella disagreed. “None of them has a chance unless they undergo the Agony. The whole point of this operation is to give it to everyone—and the most fit will survive.”

  The women stood amidst the bedlam of the dormitory rooms in the sick houses that had been converted from any building large enough to accommodate beds. Four lifeless bodies were carried past them by exhausted-looking Reverend Mothers. They had run out of sheets, so the corpses were uncovered, their faces twisted in a display of the incalculable pain they had suffered.

  Ignoring the dead, Murbella knelt beside the bed of one young woman who survived. She had to look at the casualty total from a different perspective. If they were all destined to die, it was a fruitless exercise to count those who perished. In that light, the only relevant number was the tally of those who did recover. The victories.

  “If we don’t have enough Water of Life, use other poisons.” Murbella got wearily to her feet, ignoring the smells, the sounds. “The Bene Gesserit may have determined that the Water of Life is most effective at forcing the Agony, but long ago the Sisters used other deadly chemicals—anything that would push the body into an absolute crisis.” She perused the young students, these girls who had hoped one day to grow up to become Reverend Mothers. Now each of them had one chance, and one chance only. “Poison them one way or another. Poison them all. If they survive, they belong here.”

  A courier ran up to her, one of the younger Sisters who had recently survived the transformation. “Mother Commander! You are needed immediately in Archives.”

  Murbella turned. “Has Accadia found something?”

  “No, Mother Commander. She . . . you have to see for yourself.” The younger woman swallowed. “And hurry.”

  The ancient woman did not have the strength to leave her office. Accadia sat surrounded by wire spool readers and stacks of data-dense crystal sheets. She sprawled back in her large chair, breathing heavily, barely able to move. The old woman’s rheumy eyes flickered open. “So, you’ve come . . . in time.”

  Murbella looked at the archivist, appalled. Accadia, too, had the plague. “But you are a Reverend Mother! You can fight this.”

  “I am old and tired. I used the last of my stamina to compile our records and projections, to map out the spread of this disease. Maybe we can prevent it on other worlds.”

  “Doubtful. The Enemy distributes the virus wherever they consider it strategic.” Already she had made up her mind to have several other Reverend Mothers Share with Accadia. Her extensive memories and knowledge must not be lost.

  Accadia struggled to sit up in the chair. “Mother Commander, don’t be so focused on the epidemic that you fail to see its consequences.” She began coughing. Blotches had appeared all over her skin, the advanced stages of the disease. “This plague is a mere foray, a test attack. On many planets it is sufficient, but the Enemy must know the Sisterhood well enough by now to be sure we can fight this, at least to a point. After they soften us up, they’ll attack by other means.”

  Murbella felt cold inside. “If thinking machines destroy the New Sisterhood, then the remaining fragments of humanity will have no chance of resisting them. We are the most important hurdle Omnius has to overcome.”

  “So you finally understand the implications?” The old woman grasped the Mother Commander’s hand to make sure she understood. “This planet has always been hidden, but now the thinking machines must know the location of Chapterhouse. I would wager that their space fleet is already on its way.”

  One man’s dream is another’s nightmare.

  —a saying of Ancient Kaitain

  After dragging Stuka’s body away, the nomads separated Sheeana and Teg from Stilgar and Liet-Kynes. Apparently they saw the two boys—twelve and thirteen—as no threat, not knowing that both were deadly Fremen fighters, whose clear memories held many raids against the Harkonnens.

  Teg recognized the strategy. “The old leader wants to interrogate our young ones first.” Var and his hard-bitten comrades would assume the youths would be easily intimidated, not capable of resisting difficult questioning.

  Teg and Sheeana were taken to a holding tent made of a tough, weather-worn polymer. The structure was an odd mixture of primitive design and sophisticated technology, made for serviceability and ease of transport. The guard closed the flap but remained outside.

  The windowless tent was just an empty enclosure, devoid of blankets, cushions, or tools of any kind. Teg paced in a small circle, then sat beside her on the packed dirt. Digging with his fingers, he quickly found a couple of sharp pebbles.

  With Mentat clarity, he assessed their options. “When we do not return or report in,” he said in a low voice, “we can expect Duncan to send another party down. He will be prepared. It sounds trite, but rescue will come.” He knew that these nomads would crumble easily against a direct military assault. “Duncan is wise, and I trained him well. He will know what to do.”

  Sheeana stared at the door as if in meditative trance. “Duncan has lived hundreds of lives and remembers them all, Miles. I doubt you taught him anything new.”

  Teg gripped one of the pebbles, and it seemed to aid his concentration. Even in an empty tent, he saw a thousand possible avenues of escape. He and Sheeana could easily break out, kill the guard, and fight their way back to the lighter. Teg might not even need to take advantage of his accelerated speed. “These people are no match for me, or for you. But I will not leave Stilgar and Liet behind.”

  “Ah, the loyal Bashar.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you, either. However, I fear that these people have disabled our ship, which would certainly tangle our escape plans. I heard them ransacking it.”

  Sheeana continued to stare at the shadowy wall of the tent. “Miles, I’m not so concerned about the possibility of escape as I am curious to learn why they kept us alive. Especially me, if what they said about the Sisterhood is true. They have good reason to hate me.”

  Teg tried to imagine the incredible exodus and reorganization of populations on this planet. Within years, all the inhabitants of the towns and cities would have seen the sands strangling their croplands, killing their orchards, creeping closer and closer to the city boundaries. They would have pulled away from the desert zone like people fleeing a slowly advancing fire.

  Var’s nomads, though . . . were they scavengers and misfits? Outcasts from the larger population centers? Why insist on staying at the threshold of the advancing desert, where they would have to uproot their settlement and retreat constantly? To what purpose?

  These were technologically capable people, and Qelso clearly must have been settled long ago during the Scattering. They had their own groundcars and low-altitude flyers, fast ships to take them back and forth across the dunes. If they weren’t outright exiles, perhaps Var’s people replenished their supplies in the distant northern cities.

  Teg and Sheeana hardly spoke for hours as they listened to the muffled sounds outside, the dry wind pushing and tugging at the tent, the scritch of blowing sand. Everything seemed to be comprised of movement outside: The people sent out parties, marched back and forth, set machinery to work.

  As Teg listened to the noises, he catalogued them in his mind, building a picture of the operations. He heard a pounding drill that bored a well shaft, followed by a pump dispensing water into small cisterns. Each time, after only a brief gush of liquid, the flow dwindled to less than a trickle and stopped. He knew that such problems, caused by sandtrout, had been the bane of drilling operations on Arrakis. Water existed in deep enough strata, but it was blocked off by the voracious little Makers. Like platelets at the site of a wound,
sandtrout would swiftly seal off the leak. As he listened to the resigned complaints of these people, Teg realized that they were familiar with the routine.

  When night fell, a dusty young man entered the tent through the flap held open by the guard. He delivered a small meal of hard bread and dried fruit, as well as gamey-tasting white meat. The two captives also received carefully measured rations of water.

  Sheeana looked at her sealed cup. “They are learning the fundamentals of extreme conservation. They begin to understand what their world will become.” Obviously despising her Bene Gesserit robes, the young man glared at her and departed without a word.

  Throughout the dark night, Teg remained awake, listening, trying to plan. The lack of activity was maddening, but he advised patience rather than rash action. They had heard nothing from Liet or Stilgar, and he feared the two young men might already be dead, like Stuka. Had they been killed during interrogation?

  Sheeana sat beside him, in a heightened state of alertness. Her eyes were bright even in the tent shadows. As far as Teg could tell, the guard outside never stepped away from his position, never even moved. The people continued to send out parties and skimmer ships throughout the night, as if the camp were the staging area for a war effort.

  At dawn, old Var came up to the tent, spoke briskly with the guard, and pulled the flap aside. Sheeana rose to a half crouch, ready to spring; Teg tensed, also prepared for a fight.

  The nomad leader glared at Sheeana. “You and your witches are not forgiven for what you have done to Qelso. You never will be. But Liet-Kynes and Stilgar have convinced us to keep you alive, at least as long as we can learn from you.”

  The weathered leader brought the pair out into the bright sunlight. The wind flung stinging sand into their eyes. All around the settlement, trees had already died. The blowing dunes had encroached another few feet past the prominent rock outcroppings during the night. Each breath was crackling dry, even in the relative coolness of the morning.