Tales of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  In the back passenger compartment sat Josten, recently transferred from Giedi Prime. Accustomed to industrial facilities, gray skies, and dirty buildings, Josten gazed out over the sandy wastelands, studying hypnotic dune patterns. He spotted the knot of dust off to the south, deep in the open Funeral Plain. “What’s that? Spice-harvesting operation?”

  “Not a chance,” the sidegunner Kiel said. “Harvesters shoot a plume like a cone into the air, straight and thin.”

  “Too low for a dust devil. Too small.” With a shrug, Garan jerked the ’thopter controls and soared toward the low, reddish-brown cloud. “Let’s take a look.” After so many tedious days, they would have gone out of their way to investigate a large rock sticking out of the sand. . . .

  When they reached the site, they found no tracks, no machinery, no sign of human presence—and yet acres of desert looked devastated. A mottled rust color stained the sands a darker ochre, as if blood from a wound had dried in the hot sun.

  “Looks like somebody dropped a bomb here,” Kiel said.

  “Could be the aftermath of a spice blow,” Garan suggested. “I’ll set down for a closer look.”

  As the ’thopter settled on the churned sands, Kiel popped open the hatch. The temperature-controlled atmosphere hissed out, replaced by a wave of heat. He coughed dust.

  Garan leaned over from the cockpit and sniffed hard. “Smell it.” The odor of burnt cinnamon struck his nostrils. “Spice blow for sure.”

  Josten squeezed past Kiel and dropped onto the soft ground. Amazed, he bent down, picked up a handful of ochre sand and touched it to his lips. “Can we scoop up some fresh spice and take it back? Must be worth a fortune.”

  Kiel had been thinking the same thing, but now he turned to the newcomer with scorn. “We don’t have the processing equipment. You need to separate it from the sand, and you can’t do that with your fingers.”

  Garan spoke in a quieter, but firmer voice. “If you went back to Carthag and tried to sell raw product to a street vendor you'd be hauled in front of Governor Rabban—or worse yet, have to explain to Count Fenring how some of the Emperor’s spice ended up in a patrolman’s pockets.”

  As the troopers tromped out to the ragged pit at the center of the dissipating dust cloud, Josten glanced around. “Is it safe for us to be here? Don't the big worms go to spice?”

  “Afraid, kid?” Kiel asked.

  “Let's throw him to a worm if we see one,” Garan suggested. “It’ll give us time to get away.”

  Kiel saw movement in the sandy excavation, shapes squirming, buried things that tunneled and burrowed, like maggots in rotten meat. Josten opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again.

  A whiplike creature emerged from the sand, two meters long with fleshy segmented skin. It was the size of a large snake, its mouth an open circle glittering with needle-sharp teeth that lined its throat.

  “A sandworm!” Josten said.

  “Only a runt,” Kiel scoffed.

  “Newborn—do you think?” Garan asked.

  The worm waved its eyeless head from side to side. Other slithering creatures, a nest of them, squirmed about as if they’d been spawned in the explosion.

  “Where in the hells did they come from?” Kiel asked.

  “Wasn’t in my briefing,” Garan said.

  “Can we . . . catch one?” Josten asked.

  Kiel stopped himself from making a rude rejoinder, realizing that the young recruit did have a good idea. “Come on!” He charged forward into the churned sand.

  The worm sensed the movement and reared back, uncertain whether to attack or flee. Then it arced like a sea serpent and plunged into the sand, wriggling and burrowing.

  Josten sprinted ahead and dove face-first to grasp the segmented body three-quarters of the way to its end. “It’s so strong!” Following him, the sidegunner jumped down and grabbed the thrashing tail.

  The worm tried to tug away, but Garan reached the front, where he dug into the sand and grabbed behind its head with a strangle-hold. All three troopers wrestled and pulled. “Get it!” The small worm thrashed like an eel on an electric plate.

  Other sandworms on the far side of the pit rose like a strange forest of periscopes sprouting from the sea of dunes, round mouths like black O’s turned toward the men. For an icy moment, Kiel feared they might attack like a swarm of marrow leeches, but the immature worms darted away and disappeared underground.

  Garan and Kiel hauled their captive out of the sand and dragged it toward the ornithopter. As a Harkonnen patrol, they had all the equipment necessary to arrest criminals, including old-fashioned devices for trussing a captive like a herd animal. “Josten, go get the binding cords in our apprehension kit,” the pilot said.

  The new recruit came running back with the cords, fashioning a loop which he slipped over the worm’s head and cinched tight. Garan released his hold on the rubbery skin and grabbed the rope, tugging while Josten slipped a second cord lower on the body.

  “What are we going to do with it?” Josten asked.

  Once, early in his assignment on Arrakis, Kiel had joined Rabban on an abortive worm hunt. They had taken a Fremen guide, well-armed troops, even a Planetologist. Using the Fremen guide as bait, they had lured one of the enormous sandworms and killed it with explosives. But before Rabban could take his trophy, the beast had dissolved, sloughing into amoeba-creatures that fell to the sand, leaving nothing but a cartilaginous skeleton and loose crystal teeth. Rabban had been furious.

  Kiel’s stomach knotted. The Baron’s nephew might consider it an insult that three simple patrolmen could capture a worm, when he’d been unable to do so himself. “We'd better drown it.”

  “Drown it?” Josten said. “What for? And why would I want to waste my water ration to do that?”

  Garan stopped as if struck by a thunderbolt. “I’ve heard the Fremen do it. If you drown a baby worm, they say it spits out some kind of drug or poison. It’s very rare.”

  Kiel nodded. “Oh, yeah. The desert people use it in their religious rituals. It makes everybody go crazy, wild orgies and everything.”

  “But . . . we’ve only got two literjons of water in the compartment,” Josten said, still nervous.

  “Then we only use one. I know where we can refill it, anyway.” The pilot and his sidegunner exchanged glances. They had patrolled together long enough that they’d both thought of the same thing.

  As if understanding its fate, the worm bucked and thrashed even more, but it was already growing weaker.

  “Once we get the drug,” Kiel said, “let’s have some fun.”

  At night, with the patrol ’thopter running in stealth mode, they flew over the razor-edged mountains, approaching from behind a ridge and landing on a rough mesa above the squalid village of Bilar Camp. The villagers lived in hollowed-out caves and aboveground structures that extended out to the flats. Windmills generated power; supply bins glittered with tiny lights that attracted a few moths and the bats that fed on them.

  Unlike the nomadic Fremen, these villagers were slightly more civilized but also more downtrodden: men who worked as desert guides and joined spice-harvesting crews. They had forgotten how to survive on their world without becoming parasites upon the planetary governors.

  On an earlier patrol, Kiel and Garan had discovered a camouflaged cistern on the mesa, a treasure trove of water. Kiel didn’t know where the villagers had gotten so much moisture; most likely, they had committed fraud, inflating their census numbers so that Harkonnen generosity provided more than they deserved.

  The people of Bilar Camp covered the cistern with rock so that it looked like a natural protrusion, but the villagers placed no guards around their illegal stockpile. For some reason desert culture forbade thievery even more than murder; they trusted the safety of their possessions from bandits or thieves of the night.

  Of course, the Harkonnen troopers had no intention of stealing the water—that is, no more than enough to refill their own supply contai
ners.

  Dutifully, Josten trotted along with their sloshing container, which held the thick, noxious substance exuded by the drowned worm after it had stopped thrashing and bucking inside the container. Awed and nervous about what they'd done, they dumped the flaccid carcass near the perimeter of the spice blow and then taken off with the drug.

  Garan operated the Bilar cistern’s cleverly concealed spigot and refilled one of their empty containers. No sense in letting all the water go to waste just for a practical joke on the villagers.

  “Do you know what this drug will do to them?” Josten asked.

  Garan shook his head. “I’ve heard plenty of crazy stories.”

  “Maybe we should make the kid try it first,” the sidegunner said.

  Josten backed away, raising his hands.

  Kiel took the container of worm bile and upended it into the cistern. The villagers would certainly have a surprise next time they all drank from their illegal water hoard. “Serves them right.”

  Garan looked at the contaminated cistern again. “I bet they tear off their clothes and dance naked in the streets, squawking like dinfowl.”

  “Let’s stay here and watch the fun for ourselves,” Kiel said.

  Garan frowned. “Do you want to be the one to explain to Rabban why we’re late returning from patrol?”

  “Let’s go,” Kiel answered quickly.

  As the worm-poison infused the cistern, the Harkonnen troopers hurried back to their ornithopter, reluctantly content to let the villagers discover the prank for themselves.

  “It is said that the Fremen has no conscience, having lost it in a burning desire for revenge. This is foolish. Only the rawest primitive and the sociopath have no conscience. The Fremen possesses a highly evolved world-view centered on the welfare of his people. His sense of belonging to the community is almost stronger than his sense of self. It is only to outsiders that these desert-dwellers seem brutish . . . just as outsiders appear to them.”

  —Pardot Kynes, The People of Arrakis

  “Luxury is for the noble-born, Liet,” Pardot Kynes, Imperial Planetologist to Arrakis, said to his son as the groundcar trundled across the uneven ground. “On this planet you must instantly become aware of your own surroundings, and remain alert at all times. If you fail to learn this lesson, you won’t live long.”

  As Kynes operated the simple controls, he gestured toward the buttery morning light that melted across the stark dunes. “There are rewards here, too.” Kynes exhaled a long breath between his hard chapped lips.

  Young Liet stared out the scratched windowplaz. Unlike his father, who reeled off whatever random thoughts occurred to him, making pronouncements that the Fremen heeded as if they were weighty spiritual matters, Liet preferred silence. He narrowed his eyes to study the landscape, searching for any small thing out of its place. Always alert.

  On such a harsh planet, one had to develop stored perceptions, each of them linked to every moment of survival. Though his father was much older, Liet wasn’t certain the Planetologist understood as much as he himself did. The mind of Pardot Kynes contained powerful concepts, but the older man experienced them only as esoteric data. He didn’t understand the desert in his heart or in his soul. . . .

  For years, Kynes had lived among the Fremen. It was said that Emperor Shaddam IV had little interest in his activities, and since Kynes asked for no funding and few supplies, the Emperor and the Harkonnens left him alone. With each passing year he slipped farther from attention. Shaddam and his advisors had stopped expecting any grand revelations from the Planetologist’s periodic reports.

  This suited Pardot Kynes, and his son as well.

  In his wanderings, Kynes often made trips to outlying villages where the people of the pan and graben scratched out squalid lives. True Fremen rarely mixed with the towns people, and viewed them with veiled contempt for being too soft, too civilized. Liet would never have lived in those pathetic settlements for all the solaris in the Imperium. But still, Pardot visited them.

  Eschewing roads and commonly traveled paths, they rode in the groundcar, checking meteorological stations and collecting data, though Pardot's troops of devoted Fremen would gladly have done this menial work for their “Umma,” or prophet.

  Liet-Kynes's features echoed many of his father’s, though with a leaner face and the closely set eyes of his Fremen mother. He had pale hair, and his chin was still smooth, though later he would likely grow a beard similar to the great Planetologist's. Liet's eyes had the deep blue of spice addiction, since every meal and breath of air was laced with melange.

  Liet heard a sharp intake of breath from his father as they passed the jagged elbow of a canyon where camouflaged catchtraps directed moisture to plantings of rabbitbush and poverty grasses. “See? It’s taking on a life of its own. We’ll ‘cycle’ the planet through prairie phase into forest over several generations. The sand has a high salt content, indicating old oceans, and the spice itself is alkaline.” He chuckled. “People in the Imperium would be horrified that we’d use spice byproducts for something as menial as fertilizer.” He smiled at his son. “But we know the value of such things, eh? If we break down the spice, we can set up protein digestion. Even now, if we flew high enough, we could spot patches of green where matted plant growth holds the dune faces in place.”

  The young man sighed. His father was a great man with magnificent dreams for Dune—and yet Kynes was so focused on one thing that he failed to see the universe around him. Liet knew that if any Harkonnen patrols found the plantings, they would destroy them and punish the Fremen.

  Though only twelve, Liet regularly went out on guerrilla raids with his Fremen brothers and had already killed Harkonnens. For more than a year, he and his friends—led by the brash Stilgar—had struck targets that others refused to consider. Only a week before, Liet’s companions had blown up a dozen patrol ’thopters at a supply post. Unfortunately, the stupid Harkonnen troops had taken their revenge against poor villagers, seeing no difference between settled folk and the will-o’-the-sand Fremen.

  He hadn’t told his father about his guerrilla activities, since the elder Kynes wouldn’t understand the necessity. Premeditated violence, for whatever reason, was a foreign concept to the Planetologist. But Liet would do what needed to be done.

  Now, the groundcar approached a village tucked into the rocky foothills; it was called Bilar Camp on their terrain maps. Pardot continued to talk about melange and its peculiar properties. “They found spice too soon on Arrakis. It deflected scientific inquiry. It was so useful right from the outset that no one bothered to probe its mysteries.”

  Liet turned to look at him. “I thought that was why you were assigned here in the first place—to understand the spice.”

  “Yes . . . but we have more important work to do. I still report back to the Imperium often enough to convince them I’m working at my job . . . though not very successfully.” Talking about the first time he'd been to this region, he drove toward a cluster of dirty buildings the color of sand and dust.

  The groundcar jounced over a rough rock, but Liet ignored it and stared ahead at the village, squinting his eyes in the harsh light of the desert morning. The morning air held the fragility of fine crystal. “Something’s wrong,” he said, interrupting his father.

  Kynes continued talking for a few seconds and then brought the vehicle to a stop. “What's that?”

  “Something is wrong.” Liet pointed ahead at the village.

  Kynes shaded his eyes against the glare. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Still . . . let us proceed with caution.”

  In the center of the village, they encountered a festival of horrors.

  The noise was appalling, as was the smell. Bodies lay sprawled on the ground like squashed insects, arms and legs stiffened at odd angles, while tortured survivors wandered about as if insane, shrieking and snarling like animals. They had ripped hair out of their heads in bloody clumps. Some used long fingernails to claw th
e eyes out of their faces, then held the scooped eyeballs in their palms; blind, they staggered against the tan walls of dwellings, leaving wet crimson smears.

  Even the dead ones did not look at peace.

  “By Shai-Hulud!” Liet whispered under his breath, while his father let out a louder curse in common Imperial Galach.

  One man with torn eye sockets like bloody extra mouths above his cheekbones collided with a crawling woman; both victims flew into a rage and ripped at each other’s skin with bare hands, biting and spitting and screaming. There were muddy spots on the street, overturned containers of water.

  Some buildings were locked and shuttered, barricaded against the crazed wretches outside who pounded on the walls, wailing wordlessly to get in. On an upper floor Liet saw a woman's terrified face at the dust-streaked windowplaz. Others hid, somehow unaffected by the murderous insanity.

  “We must help these people, Father.” Liet leaped out of the sealed groundcar before his father had brought it to a complete stop. “Bring your weapons. We may need to defend ourselves.”

  They carried old maula pistols as well as knives. His father, though a scientist at heart, was also a good fighter—a skill he reserved for defending his vision for Arrakis. The legend was told of how he had slain several Harkonnen bravos who’d been attempting to kill three young Fremen. Those rescued Fremen were now his most loyal lieutenants, Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun. But Pardot Kynes had never fought against anything like this. . . .

  The maddened villagers noticed them and moaned. They began to move forward.

  “Don’t kill them unless you must,” Kynes said, amazed at how quickly his son had armed himself with a crysknife and maula pistol. “Watch yourself.”

  Liet ventured into the street. What struck him first was the terrible stink, as if the foul breath of a dying leper had been captured in a bottle and slowly released.