Dreams are as simple or as complicated as the dreamer.
— LIET-KYNES,
In the Footsteps of My Father
As armed men led the two young Fremen deeper into a warren within the glacial mountainside, Liet-Kynes held his tongue. He studied details, trying to understand who these fugitives were. Their threadbare purple-and-copper uniforms seemed to have been modeled after military fashion.
The tunnels had been chewed into walls of permafrost-cemented dust and lined with a clear polymer. The air remained cold enough that Liet could see his own breath, a dramatic reminder of how much moisture left his lungs each time he exhaled.
“So, are you smugglers?” Warrick asked. At first his eyes remained downcast with embarrassment to have been caught so easily, but soon he was intrigued and looked around.
Dominic Vernius glanced back at them as they kept pace. “Smugglers . . . and more, lads. Our mission goes beyond mere profit and self-interest.” He did not seem angry. Beneath the mustache, bright white teeth flashed in a sincere grin. His face possessed an open quality, and his bald pate shone like polished wood. His eyes contained hints of sparkle, but what might have been a good-natured personality now held an emptiness, as if a large part of the man had been stolen and replaced with something far inferior.
“Aren’t you showing them too much, Dom?” said a pock-faced man whose right eyebrow was a waxy burn scar. “It’s always been just us, who’ve proved our loyalty with blood— no outsiders. Right, Asuyo?”
“Can’t say I trust the Fremen any less than that Tuek man, and we do business with him, eh?” said one of the other men— a lean veteran with a shock of bristly gray-white hair. On his worn overalls and uniform, he had painstakingly added old insignia of rank and a few scraps of medals. “Tuek sells water, but he has an . . . oily quality to him.”
The bald smuggler continued deeper into the complex without pausing. “Johdam, these lads found us without me showing them a thing. We’ve been sloppy— just be glad it was Fremen, instead of Sardaukar. Fremen don’t have any more love for the Emperor than we do, right, lads?”
Liet and Warrick looked at each other. “Emperor Shaddam is far away, and he knows nothing of Dune.”
“He knows nothing of honor, either.” A storm crossed Dominic’s face, but he calmed himself by changing the subject. “I’ve heard that the Imperial Planetologist has gone native, that he’s become a Fremen himself and talks about remaking the planet. Is this true? Does Shaddam support these activities?”
“The Emperor is not aware of any ecological plans.” Liet withheld his true Fremen identity, said nothing about his father, and introduced himself by his other appellation, “My name is . . . Weichih.”
“Well, it’s good to have grandiose, impossible dreams.” Dominic looked distant for a moment. “We all have them.”
Liet was not certain what the big man meant. “So why are you hiding here? Who are you?”
The others deferred to Dominic. “We’ve been here fifteen years now, and this is only one of our bases. We have a more important one off-world, but I still have a soft spot for our first hiding hole on Arrakis.”
Warrick nodded. “You have created your own sietch here.”
Dominic stopped at an opening where broad plaz windows looked down into a deep chasm between the towering cliffs. On the flat, gravelly bottom of the fissure, a fleet of mismatched ships sat parked in regimented order. Around one of the lighters, small figures hurried to load cases of cargo, preparing for lift-off.
“We have a few more amenities than a sietch, lad, and a more cosmopolitan outlook.” He studied the two Fremen. “But we must retain our secrets. What tipped you off, lads? Why did you come here? How did you see through our camouflage?”
When Warrick started to speak, Liet cut him off to say, “And what do we receive in exchange for telling you this?”
“Your lives, eh?” Asuyo said gruffly. His gray-white hair bristled.
Liet shook his head, standing firm. “You could kill us even after we pointed out all the mistakes you’ve made. You’re outlaws, not Fremen— why should I trust your word?”
“Outlaws?” Dominic gave a bitter laugh. “The laws of the Imperium have caused more damage than any single person’s treachery . . . except perhaps that of the Emperor himself. Old Elrood and now Shaddam.” His haunted eyes held their distant, unfocused look. “Damned Corrinos . . .” Taking one step away from the cliff-wall windows, he paused again. “You lads aren’t thinking of turning me in to the Sardaukar, are you? I’m sure there’s still an incredible bounty on my head.”
Warrick looked at his friend. Both wore puzzled expressions. “We don’t even know who you are, sir.”
Some of the smugglers chuckled. Dominic let out a sigh of relief, then showed a flash of disappointment. He puffed up his chest. “I was a hero of the Ecazi Revolt, married one of the Emperor’s concubines. I was overthrown when invaders took over my world.”
The politics and the vastness of the Imperium were far beyond Liet’s Fremen experience. Occasionally, he longed to journey off-planet, though he doubted he would ever have the opportunity.
The bald man stroked the polymer-lined walls. “Being inside these tunnels always reminds me of Ix . . .” His voice, wistful and empty, trailed off. “That’s why I chose this place, why I keep coming back here from our other base.”
Dominic emerged from his reverie, as if surprised to see his fellow smugglers still there. “Asuyo, Johdam— we’ll take these lads to my private office.” With a wry smile, he looked back at the two young men. “It’s modeled after a chamber in the Grand Palais, as close as I could remember it. I didn’t have time to take blueprints when we packed up and fled.”
The bald man marched ahead, reciting the story of his life, as if it were dry text from a history filmbook. “My wife was murdered by Sardaukar. My son and daughter now live in exile on Caladan. Early on, I made one raid against Ix and almost died in the process. Lost a lot of my men, and Johdam barely pulled me out alive. Since then I’ve been in hiding, doing what I could to hurt those sligs, the Padishah Emperors and the Landsraad turncoats who betrayed me.”
They passed storage hangars where equipment hid under tarpaulins, workbenches and mechanical bays where machines lay strewn about in various stages of disassembly or repair. “But my work hasn’t amounted to much more than vandalism, wrecking Corrino monuments, defacing statues, staging embarrassing stunts . . . being a general nuisance to Shaddam. Of course, with his new daughter Josifa— that’s four girls and no son, no heir— he’s got more problems than I can make for him.”
Behind him, pock-faced Johdam growled, “Causing trouble for the Corrinos has become our way of life.”
Asuyo scratched his bristly hair and spoke in a harsh voice, “We all owe Earl Vernius our lives many times over— and we’re not about to let any harm come to him. I gave up my commission, my benefits, even a decent rank in the Imperial military to join this motley group. We won’t let any Fremen pups give away our secrets, eh?”
“You can trust the word of a Fremen,” Warrick said, indignantly.
“But we haven’t given our word,” Liet pointed out, his eyes narrow and hard. “Yet.”
They reached a room appointed clumsily with fine trappings, as if a man with no cultural finesse had gathered items he could remember, but which didn’t entirely fit together. Faux-gold coins overflowed from chests, making the room look like a pirate’s treasure house. The casual treatment of the commemorative pieces— struck with Shaddam’s face on one side and the Golden Lion Throne on the other— gave the impression that the bald man did not know what else to do with all the money he had stolen.
Dominic ran a callused hand through a bowl of shimmering emerald spheres, each the size of his small fingernail. “Moss pearls from Harmonthep. Shando always loved these, said the color was a perfect shade of green.” Unlike Rondo Tuek, the bald man did not appear to revel in his private trappings for their own sake, but he drew
comfort from the memories they brought him.
After sending Johdam and Asuyo away, Dominic Vernius sat down in a padded purple chair, indicating cushions on the opposite side of a low table for his visitors. Colors ranging from scarlet to crimson flowed like puddles across the sleek wood surface.
“Polished bloodwood.” Dominic rapped the low table with his knuckles, causing a burst of color to spread out across the grain. “The sap still flows when heated by warm lights, even years after the tree was cut down.” He stared at the walls and hangings. Several crude sketches of people hung there in expensive frames, as if Dominic had drawn them from too-clear memories but with too little artistic training.
“My men fought with me in the bloodwood forests on Ecaz. We killed many rebels there, torched their base deep in the forest. You saw Johdam and Asuyo— they were two of my captains. Johdam lost his brother there, in the forests. . . .” He took a long, shuddering breath. “That was back when I willingly shed blood for the Emperor, when I swore my allegiance to Elrood IX and expected a reward in return. He offered me anything I wanted, and I took the one thing that angered him.”
Beside him, Dominic reached into a glazed pot filled with golden commemorative coins. “Now I do everything I can against the Emperor.”
Liet frowned. “But Elrood has been dead for many years, since I was a baby. Shaddam IV now sits on the Golden Lion Throne.”
Warrick sat next to his friend. “We don’t hear much news of the Imperium, but even I know that.”
“Alas, Shaddam is as bad as his father.” In his hands, Dominic played with several of the faux-gold coins, jingling them together. He sat up straight, as if he suddenly realized how many years had passed, how long he’d been hiding. “Very well, then, listen to me. We are of course indignant and offended that you have trespassed here. Two lads . . . what are you, sixteen?” A smile wrinkled the leathery skin on Dominic’s cheeks. “My men are embarrassed that you found us out. I would very much like for you to go outside and show us what you noticed. Name your price, and I’ll meet it.”
Liet’s mind whirled as he considered the resources and skills this group had. Treasure lay all around, but neither of them could use baubles like the green pearls. Some of the tools and equipment might be useful. . . .
Being cautious and thinking through the consequences, Liet did a very Fremen thing. “We will agree, Dominic Vernius— but I stipulate that we hold your obligation in abeyance. When I wish to receive a boon from you, I will ask— as will Warrick. For now, we will instruct your men in how to make your hideout invisible.” Liet smiled. “Even to Fremen.”
• • •
Bundled up, the smugglers followed as the two young men indicated the imperfectly covered tracks, the discoloration in the glacial cliffside wall, the too-obvious paths that led up the rock slope. Even when the Fremen pointed out these things, some of the smugglers still couldn’t see what should have been plain to them. Still, Johdam scowled and promised to make the suggested changes.
Dominic Vernius stood breathing cold air and shaking his head in amazement. “No matter how much security one adds to a home, there are always ways to breach it.” His lips drew downward in a frown. “Generations of planners tried to develop perfect isolation on Ix. Only our royal family understood the whole system. What a monumental waste of effort and solaris! Our underground cities were supposed to be impregnable, and we grew lax in our security. Just like these men here.”
He clapped Johdam on the back. The pock-faced veteran frowned and went back to his work.
The big bald man sighed once more. “At least my children got away.” His face screwed up in an expression of disgust. “Damn the filthy Tleilaxu and damn House Corrino!” He spat on the ground, startling Liet. Among the Fremen, spitting— offering the body’s water— was a gesture of respect given only to an honored few. But Dominic Vernius had used it as a curse.
Strange ways, Liet thought.
The bald man looked at the two young Fremen. “My main base off-planet probably suffers from similar flaws, too.” He leaned closer. “Should either of you ever wish to come with me, you could inspect our other facilities. We make regular runs to Salusa Secundus.”
Liet perked up. “Salusa?” He recalled his father’s stories of growing up there. “I’ve heard it is a fascinating world.”
From where he worked off to one side, Johdam let out a disbelieving laugh. He rubbed a sweat-itch at his scarred eyebrow. “It sure doesn’t look like the capital of the Imperium anymore.” Asuyo shook his head in agreement.
Dominic shrugged. “I am the leader of a renegade House, and I vowed to strike against the Imperium. Salusa Secundus seemed a good place to hide. Who would think to look for me on a prison planet, under the Emperor’s closest security?”
Pardot Kynes had spoken of the terrible Salusan disaster caused by the rebellion of an unnamed noble family. They had gone renegade and unleashed forbidden atomics on the capital planet. A few members of House Corrino survived, including Hassik III, who had rebuilt the dynasty and restored Imperial government on a new world, Kaitain.
Pardot Kynes had been less interested in history or politics than in the natural order of things, how the world had been changed from paradise to hell by the holocaust. The Planetologist claimed that with sufficient investment and hard work, Salusa Secundus could be restored to its former climate and glory.
“Someday, perhaps, I would like to behold such an . . . interesting place.” A world that so affected my father.
With a loud, booming laugh, Dominic pounded Liet on the back. It was a gesture of camaraderie, though Fremen rarely touched each other except during knife fights. “Pray you never have to, boy,” the smuggler leader said. “Pray you never have to.”
Water is the image of life. We came from water, adapted from its all-encompassing presence . . . and we continue to adapt.
— IMPERIAL PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES
Out here, we Fremen have none of your comforts, Lady Fenring,” the Shadout Mapes said as she scurried ahead on short legs. Her steps were so precise and careful that she did not even kick up dust on the moonlit hardpan. In contrast with the humid conservatory, the bone-dry night retained very little of the day’s heat. “You are cold?”
She glanced back at willowy, blonde-haired Margot, who walked proudly in front of the Rutii priest. Mapes wore her jubba hood. Stillsuit filters dangled beside her face, and her dark eyes reflected the light of Second Moon.
“I am not cold,” Margot said, simply. Wearing only her glitterslick housedress, she adjusted her metabolism to compensate.
“And those thin-soled slippers you wear,” the priest scolded from behind her. “Unsuited for desert travel.”
“You did not give me time to dress for our journey.” Like all Reverend Mothers, she maintained thick calluses on her feet from the fighting exercises they were required to perform each day. “If the shoes wear out, I will go barefoot.”
Both Fremen smiled at her calm audacity. “She does maintain a good pace,” Mapes admitted. “Not like other water-fat Imperials.”
“I can go faster,” Margot offered, “if you like.”
Taking this as a challenge, the Shadout Mapes trotted along at a military cadence, not breathing hard at all. Margot followed every footstep, barely perspiring. A nightbird streaked overhead with a piercing cry.
The unpaved road led out of Arrakeen toward the village of Rutii in the distance, nestled within knuckled foothills of the Shield Wall. Avoiding the town lights, Mapes turned onto a faint path that climbed into the rocky elevations.
Rimwall West loomed before them, a craggy megalith that marked this boundary of the Shield Wall. The small party began to climb, at first over a gentle slope of rock, then up a steep, narrow path that skirted an immense slide area.
The Fremen moved with speed and surefootedness in the shadows. Despite her training in balance and endurance, Margot tripped twice on the unfamiliar terrain and had to be steadied by the others. Thi
s seemed to please the guides.
More than two hours had passed since leaving the comfort and safety of the Residency at Arrakeen. Margot began to tap her bodily reserves, but still showed no sign of weakness. Did our lost Sisters travel this way?
Mapes and the priest spoke strange words in a language that Margot’s deep memories told her was Chakobsa, a tongue spoken by Fremen for dozens of centuries, since their arrival on Arrakis. As she recognized one of the Shadout’s phrases, Margot responded, “The power of God is indeed great.”
Her remark agitated the priest, but his short-statured companion smiled wisely. “The Sayyadina will speak with her.”
The path forked several times, and the Fremen woman led the way up, then down, or laterally in tight switchbacks, before ascending again. Margot identified the same places in the frosty moonlight, and realized they were guiding her back and forth in an effort to confuse and disorient her. With her Bene Gesserit mental skills, Margot would remember the way back, in exact detail.
Impatient and curious, she wanted to scold the Fremen for taking her on such an unnecessarily tedious route, but decided not to reveal her ability. After years of waiting, she was being led into their secret world, into a place where no outsiders were ever taken. Mother Superior Harishka would want her to observe every detail. Perhaps Margot would finally acquire the information she had sought for so long.
On a ledge, Mapes pressed her chest against the cliff and inched along a narrow path over a sheer dropoff, clinging with fingertips. Without hesitation, Margot did the same. The lights of Arrakeen twinkled in the distance, and the village of Rutii huddled far below.
Several meters ahead now, Mapes suddenly disappeared into the rock face. Margot discovered a small cave entrance, barely large enough for a person to enter. Inside, the space grew broader to the left, and in the dim light she saw tool marks on the walls where Fremen had widened the cavern. The dense odors of unwashed bodies touched her nostrils. Ahead, the Shadout beckoned.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 28