Sandworms of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  Sending up a puff of dust with every step, the Rabbi trudged past tents and portable buildings toward the shuttle. He wiped sweat from his brow and came to stand before Teg and Sheeana, looking uneasily from one to the other. “I think my people will be happy here, by the grace of God.” He kicked at the dry dirt with his shoe. “We were meant to have ground under our feet.”

  “You look disturbed, Rabbi,” Sheeana noted.

  “Not disturbed. Sad.” To Teg he appeared crestfallen, and his watery old eyes seemed redder than usual, as if from crying. “I will not be with them. I cannot leave the no-ship.”

  Black-bearded Isaac draped a consoling arm around the elderly man’s shoulders. “This will be the new Israel for us, Rabbi, under my leadership. Won’t you reconsider?”

  “Why aren’t you staying with your people?” Teg asked.

  The Rabbi lowered his gaze, and tears dropped on the hardscrabble ground. “I have a higher obligation to one of my followers whom I failed.”

  Isaac explained to Sheeana and Teg in a soft voice, “He wishes to remain with Rebecca. Though she is an axlotl tank now, he refuses to leave her.”

  “I shall watch over her for all my remaining days. My followers will be in good hands here. Isaac and Levi are their future, while I am their past.”

  The rest of the Jews surrounded the Rabbi, saying their goodbyes and wishing him well. Then the weeping old man joined Teg, Sheeana, and the others on the waiting shuttle, which took them back up to the no-ship.

  TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AFTER

  ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE

  We are wounded, but undefeated. We are hurt, but can endure great pain. We are driven to the end of our civilization and our history—but we remain human.

  —MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA,

  address to the survivors of Chapterhouse

  As the epidemic burned itself out, the survivors—all of them Reverend Mothers—struggled to hold the Sisterhood together. No vaccines, immunity treatments, diets, or quarantines had any effect as the general populace died.

  It required only three days for Murbella’s heart to turn to stone. Around her, she watched thousands of promising young acolytes perish, diligent students who had not yet learned enough to become Reverend Mothers. Every one of them died either from the plague or from the Agony that was rushed upon them.

  Kiria slipped into her former Honored Matre viciousness. On many occasions she argued vehemently that it was a waste of time to care for anyone who had contracted the plague. “Our resources are better spent on more important things, on activities that have some chance of success!”

  Murbella could not dispute her logic, though she did not agree with the opinion. “We’re not thinking machines. We are humans, and we will care for humans.”

  It was a sad irony that as more and more of the population died, fewer Reverend Mothers were needed to tend the remaining sick. Gradually, those women were able to turn to other crucial activities.

  From a nearly empty chamber in the Keep, Murbella peered through the broad, arched window segments behind her throne chair. Chapterhouse had once been a bustling administrative complex, the pulsing heart of the New Sisterhood. Before the plague struck, Mother Commander Murbella had been in charge of hundreds of defensive measures, monitoring the constant progress of the Enemy fleet, dealing with the Ixians, the Guild, refugees and warlords, anyone who could fight on her side.

  Far away, she could see the brown hills and dying orchards, but what concerned her was the eerie, unnatural silence of the city itself. The dormitories and support buildings, the nearby spaceport field, the markets, gardens, and dwindling herds . . . all should have been tended by a population of hundreds of thousands. Sadly, most normal activity around the Keep and the city had halted. Far too few remained alive to cover even the most basic work. The world itself was virtually vacant, with all hope dashed in a matter of days. So shockingly sudden!

  The air in the surrounding city was heavy with the stench of death and burning. Black smoke rose from dozens of bonfires—not funeral pyres, for Murbella had other ways to dispose of the bodies, but simply the incineration of contaminated garments and other materials, including infected medical supplies.

  In an admittedly petty moment, Murbella had summoned two exhausted Reverend Mothers. Telling them to bring suspensor clamps, she had ordered them to remove the deactivated combat robot from her private chambers. Though the hated machine had not moved in years, she had begun to feel that it was mocking her. “Take this thing away and destroy it. I abhor everything it symbolizes.” The obedient women seemed relieved to follow her orders.

  The Mother Commander issued her next instructions. “Release our melange stockpiles and distribute spice to all survivors.” Every healthy woman was dedicated to tending the remaining sick, though it was a hopeless task. The surviving Reverend Mothers were utterly exhausted, having worked without rest for days. Even with the bodily control taught by the Sisterhood, they were hard-pressed to continue. But melange could help keep them going.

  Long ago in the time of the Butlerian Jihad the palliative properties of melange had been an effective measure against the horrific machine plagues. This time she didn’t expect spice to cure anyone who had already contracted the disease, but at least it would help the surviving Reverend Mothers perform the daunting work required of them. Though Murbella desperately needed every gram of spice to pay the Guild and the Ixians, her Sisters needed it more. If the unified Sisterhood died on Chapterhouse, who would lead the fight for humanity?

  One more cost among so many. But if we don’t spend it now, we will never buy victory. “Do it. Distribute whatever is necessary.”

  As her orders were being carried out, she made calculations and realized to her dismay that there weren’t enough Reverend Mothers left alive to deplete the Sisterhood’s hoarded spice anyway.. . .

  Her entire support staff had been stripped away, and she felt isolated. Murbella had already imposed austerity measures, severely cut back services, and eliminated every extraneous activity. Even though most of the Reverend Mothers had survived the plague, it was not certain they would survive the aftermath.

  She summoned those who were Mentats and ordered them to assess the vital work and create an emergency plan of operations, using personnel who were best qualified for the essential tasks. Where could they possibly get the workforce necessary to maintain Chapterhouse, rebuild, and continue the fight? Maybe they could convince some of the desperate refugees from devastated planets to come here, once the last vestiges of plague died out.

  Murbella grew tired of simply recovering. Chapterhouse was only a tiny battlefield on the vast galactic canvas of the climactic war. The greatest threat still remained out there, as the oncoming Enemy fleet struck planet after planet, driving refugees like frantic animals before a forest fire. The battle at the end of the universe.

  Kralizec . . .

  A Reverend Mother came running up to her with a report. The woman, barely more than a girl, was one of those who had been forced to attempt the Agony long before she should have, but she had survived. Her eyes bore a faint bluish tinge now, a color that would grow deeper as she continued to consume melange. Her gaze had a stunned, haunted look that penetrated to the depths of her soul.

  “Your hourly report, Mother Commander.” She handed Murbella a stack of Ridulian crystal sheets on which names were printed in columns.

  In a cold and businesslike fashion, her advisors had at first provided her with simple numbers and summaries, but Murbella demanded actual names. Each person who died from the plague was a person, and each worker and acolyte on Chapterhouse was a soldier lost in the cause against the Enemy. She would not dishonor them by boiling them down to mere numbers and totals. Duncan Idaho would never have condoned such a thing.

  “Four more of them were Face Dancers,” the messenger said.

  Murbella clenched her jaws. “Who?” When the woman spoke the names, Murbella barely knew them, unobtrusive Sisters who call
ed no attention to themselves . . . exactly as Face Dancer spies would do. So far sixteen of the shape-shifters had turned up among the plague victims. She had always suspected that even the New Sisterhood had been infiltrated, and now she had proof. But, in an irony the thinking machines could not possibly grasp, the Face Dancers were also susceptible to the horrible epidemic. They died just as easily as anyone else.

  “Keep their bodies for dissection and analysis, along with the others. If nothing else, maybe we can learn something that will allow us to detect them among us.”

  The young woman waited while Murbella scanned the long list of names. She felt a cold whisper run down her spine as an entry in the third column of one sheet caught her eye. She felt as if she had been struck a heavy blow.

  Gianne.

  Her own daughter, her youngest child by Duncan Idaho. For years the girl had delayed passing through the Agony, never reaching the point where she was ready for the ordeal. Gianne had shown great promise, but that was not nearly enough. Though she had not demonstrated herself to be ready, the girl—among thousands of others—had been forced to take the poison early, the only chance of surviving.

  Murbella reeled in shock. She should have been at Gianne’s side, but in the chaos no one had told the Mother Commander when her daughter would be given the Water of Life. Most Sisters did not even realize that Gianne was her daughter. The frantic, exhausted helpers would not have known. With her priorities set in true Bene Gesserit fashion, Murbella had tended to her official duties and had gone without sleep for several days in succession.

  I should have been there to support her and help, even if I could only watch over her as she died.

  Yet no one had informed her. No one had known that Gianne was special.

  I should have thought to check on her, but I put it off, made assumptions.

  With so many events crashing around her, Murbella had misplaced her own daughter’s life. First Rinya, and now Gianne, both lost to the perilous Agony. Only two other daughters remained: Janess was off at the battlefront fighting thinking machines, while her sister Tanidia, not knowing the identity of her parents, had been sent to join the Missionaria. Though both of them faced risks, they might at least avoid contracting the horrific plague.

  “Two of my children dead,” she said aloud, though the messenger did not understand. “Oh, what would Duncan think of me?” Murbella set the report aside. She closed her eyes for a moment, drew a deep breath, and straightened herself. Pointing to the name on the list of victims she said, “Take me to her.”

  The messenger glanced down, ran a quick assessment. “The bodies in that column have been hauled off to the spaceport. ’Thopter loads of them are taking off right now.”

  “Hurry. I must try to see her.” Murbella rushed out of the hall, glancing back to be certain the young woman was right behind her. Though the Mother Commander felt disturbingly numb, she had to do this.

  They took a groundcar to the nearby spaceport, where the fluttering hum of ’thopters droned. On the way, the young Reverend Mother activated her commline, and in a quiet voice requested information. She then directed the driver of the car to take a particular access road.

  On all of the spaceport landing pads, large cargo ’thopters were being loaded with the dead, and were lifting off as soon as they were full. In normal, better times when Bene Gesserits died, they would be buried in the thriving orchards or gardens. The bodies would decompose and provide nourishment and fertilizer. Now they piled up so fast that even large cargo ships could barely keep up with removing them.

  The young assistant directed the driver to a specific grid in the landing zone, where a dark green ’thopter was being loaded by workers. Bundle after bundle of bodies went into the large hold. “She has to be in that one, Mother Commander. Would you . . . would you like them to unload so that you can find and identify her?”

  As the two women stepped out of the groundcar, Murbella felt stunned, but tried to steel herself. “Not necessary. It is only her body, not her. Just the same, I’ll allow myself enough sentimentality to accompany her out to the dunes.” Leaving the young Reverend Mother to tend to other duties, Murbella climbed into the ’thopter and sat next to the female pilot.

  “My daughter is aboard,” Murbella said. Then she grew silent, and stared glumly out the window.

  A vibrating shudder passed through the ’thopter as it took off with jets and flapping wings. It would take them half an hour or so to get out to the desert zone, an hour the Mother Commander could ill afford to be away from the Keep. But it was time she desperately needed. . . .

  Even the best of the Sisterhood who had undergone the most arduous testing were dismayed by the very real and material tragedy—but not to the point of total surrender. Bene Gesserit teachings showed them how to control base emotions, how to act for the greater good and see the overall picture. Upon watching almost 90 percent of a planet’s population fall within a few days, however, the magnitude of the disaster—the extermination—was breaking down even the strongest barriers in many Sisters. It was up to Murbella to maintain the morale of the survivors.

  The thinking machines have found a cruel and effective way to destroy our human weapons, but we are not so easily disarmed!

  “Mother Commander, we have arrived,” the pilot said, her clipped words loud enough to be heard over the thrum of the wings.

  Murbella opened her eyes to see clean desert, tan eddies of sand and dust curling from stray breezes. It seemed pristine and untouched, no matter how much human debris the Sisterhood dumped there. She saw other ’thopters circling in the sky, descending over the dunes and opening cargo doors to expel loads . . . hundreds of black-wrapped bodies in each aircraft. The dead Sisters tumbled out onto the sand like charred cordwood.

  Natural elements would dispose of them far more efficiently than huge funeral pyres could. The aridity would desiccate them, and scouring sandstorms would wear them down to bones. In many cases, the worms would simply devour them. A sort of purity.

  Their ’thopter hovered over a small basin. Large swells of dunes swept up on either side, while dust kicked up by the ’thopter wings swirled around them. The pilot worked her controls, and the bottom doors opened with a weary groan. Bodies tumbled out, wrapped in fabric. They were stiff, their features covered, but to Murbella they were still individuals. One of those unidentified shapes was her own little girl . . . born just before Murbella underwent the Agony herself, just before she lost Duncan forever.

  She didn’t delude herself into thinking that if she had been at her daughter’s side she might have helped Gianne survive. Passing through the Spice Agony was solely an individual’s battle, but Murbella wished she could have been there.

  The bodies spilled unceremoniously onto soft sand. Below, she could see serpentine shapes stirring—two big worms drawn by ’thopter vibrations or the thumps of falling bodies. The creatures scooped up and devoured the human shapes, then plunged back beneath the sand.

  The pilot lifted the ’thopter high enough to swing around, so that Murbella could look down and observe the horrible feeding frenzy. Touching the commline in her ear, the pilot received a message, then offered a faint smile to Murbella. “Mother Commander, there is some good news, at least.”

  After seeing the last unmarked body vanish below, Murbella wasn’t in the mood for any sort of cheering up, but she waited.

  “One of our deep-desert research settlements has survived. Shakkad Station. They were far enough out in the sand and had no contact with the Keep. Somehow they avoided the touch of the virus.”

  Murbella remembered the tiny group of offworld scientists and helpers. “I isolated them myself so they could work. I want them to stay completely cut off—no contact whatsoever! If a single one of us goes near, we could contaminate them.”

  “Shakkad Station doesn’t have enough supplies to last long,” the pilot said. “Perhaps we could arrange a package drop-off.”

  “No, nothing! We can’t take the
chance of contamination.” She thought of those people as living at the center of a deadly minefield. But once the epidemic passed, perhaps these few could survive. Only a handful. “If they run out of food, they should increase their consumption of melange. They can find enough to survive for at least a little while. Even if some of them starve, it’s better than having every single one succumb to this damned epidemic.”

  The pilot did not disagree. As she stared out into the desert, Murbella realized what she and her Sisters had become. She muttered aloud, her words drowned by the thrum of engines. “We are the new Fremen, and this whole besieged galaxy is our desert.”

  The ’thopter soared away, heading back toward the Keep, leaving the worms to their feast.

  Hatred breeds in the fertile ground of life itself.

  —ancient saying

  The no-ship had flown away from the turmoil of the planet Qelso, leaving behind some of their people, some of their hopes and possibilities. On that world Duncan had taken a great risk, daring to leave the no-ship for the first time in decades. Had he revealed his presence? Would the Enemy be able to find him now, seizing upon that clue? It was possible.

  Though he had decided not to cower and hide, Duncan did not intend to bring possible destruction to all the innocent people on this planet. He would make another jump, cover his tracks. And so the Ithaca had risked another unguided plunge through folded space.

  That was three months ago.

  Through a thick plaz viewport, Scytale had watched Qelso dwindle, then suddenly vanish into blankness. He had never been allowed to set foot off the ship. Judging by what he had seen, he would have been happy to settle on that world, in spite of its spreading desert.