When he awoke, he climbed over the barrier of rocks to the edge of the vast Habbanya Erg. There Liet planted his second thumper and called another worm— a much smaller one, but still a formidable creature that would take him farther on his journey. He rode through the afternoon.
Toward dusk, Liet’s sharp eyes picked up a faint coloration on the shaded sides of the dunes, a pale, gray-green where tendrils of grass wove their roots to stabilize the shifting sands. Fremen had placed seeds here, nurtured them. Even if only one out of a thousand sprouted and lived long enough to reproduce, his father was making progress. Dune would be green again, one day.
During the hypnotic thrumming of the worm’s passage, hour after hour, he could hear his father lecturing: “Anchor the sand, and we take away one of the wind’s great weapons. In some of the climatic belts of this planet, the winds don’t top a hundred klicks per hour. These we call ‘minimum-risk spots.’ Plantings on the downwind side will build up the dunes, creating larger barriers and increasing the size of these minimum-risk spots. In that way, we can achieve another tiny step toward our goal here.”
Half-asleep, Liet shook his head. Even here, all alone in this vast wasteland, I can’t escape the great man’s voice . . . his dreams, his lectures.
But Liet had hours left to travel. He had not seen Warrick yet, knew that there were many routes across the wasteland. He did not relent or decrease his speed. Finally, he made out a wavering dark smudge on the far horizon: Habbanya Ridge, where lay the Cave of Birds.
• • •
Warrick left his last worm behind and sprinted with renewed energy up the rocks, using his hands and temag boots to climb an unmarked trail. The rocks were greenish-black and ocher-red, baked and weathered by the harsh storms of Arrakis. Blowing sands had scoured the face of the cliff, leaving pockmarks and crannies. He couldn’t see the cave opening from here— nor should he be able to, since the Fremen could not risk outside eyes spotting it.
He had traveled well and called good worms. He had never rested, feeling the need to reach Faroula first, to claim her hand . . . but also to outperform his friend Liet. It would make a good story for their grandchildren. Already, the Fremen sietches would be talking of the great worm race, how Faroula had issued such an unusual challenge for her ahal.
Warrick climbed hand over hand, finding footholds and fingerholds, until he reached a ledge. Near the camouflaged opening, he found a narrow, scuffed footprint from a woman’s boot. Faroula’s, for certain. No Fremen would have left such a mark accidentally; she had intended to leave that trace. It was her message that she was there, waiting.
Warrick hesitated, drew a deep breath. It had been a long journey, and he hoped Liet was safe. His blood-brother might be approaching even now, since tall rocks blocked Warrick’s view of the surrounding desert. He didn’t want to lose his friend, not even over this woman. Fervently, he hoped there would not be a fight.
But he still wanted to be first.
Warrick stepped inside the Cave of Birds, forming a clear silhouette near the edge of the opening. Inside the rough rock cavern, the shadows blinded him. Finally, he heard a woman’s voice, silken words sliding along the walls of the cave.
“It’s about time,” Faroula said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She didn’t say his name, and for a moment Warrick remained motionless. Then Faroula came to him, elfin-faced, her legs and arms long and lean and muscular. Her overlarge eyes seemed to bore into him. She smelled of sweet herbs and potent scents other than melange. “Welcome Warrick . . . my husband.” Taking his hand, she led him deeper into the cave.
Nervous, struggling for the right words, Warrick held his head high and removed the stillsuit plugs from his nostrils while Faroula worked at the fastenings of his boots. “Here I redeem the pledge thou gavest,” he said, using the ritual words of the Fremen marriage ceremony. “I pour sweet water upon thee in this windless place.”
Faroula picked up the next phrase. “Naught but life shall prevail between us.”
Warrick leaned closer. “Thou shalt live in a palace, my love.”
“Thy enemies shall fall to destruction,” she promised him.
“Surely well do I know thee.”
“Truly well.”
Then they spoke together, in unison. “We travel this path together, which my love has traced for thee.”
At the end of the blessing and the prayer, they smiled at one another. Naib Heinar would perform a formal ceremony when they returned to Red Wall Sietch, but in the sight of God and in their own hearts, Warrick and Faroula had become married. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time, before withdrawing deeper into the cool darkness of the cave.
• • •
Liet arrived panting, his boots skittering pebbles along the path as he climbed to the opening of the cave— only to stop when he heard movement within, voices. He hoped it was just that Faroula had brought a companion with her, a maidservant perhaps, or a friend . . . until he recognized the second voice as a man’s.
Warrick.
He heard them complete the wedding prayer, and knew that according to tradition, they were married and she was now his friend’s wife. No matter how much Liet longed for Faroula, despite the wish he had made upon seeing the mysterious white Biyan, she was lost to him now.
Silently, he turned and left the ledge to sit in the rock shadows sheltered from the sun. Warrick was his friend, and he accepted defeat gracefully and privately, but with the deepest sadness he could imagine. It would take time and strength to get over this.
Liet-Kynes waited for an hour, staring across the desert. Then, without venturing inside the cave, he climbed back down to the sand and summoned a worm to take him home.
Political leaders often don’t recognize the practical uses of imagination and innovative new ideas until such forms are thrust under their noses by bloody hands.
— CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO,
Discourses on Galactic Leadership
At the heighliner construction site in the deep caverns of Ix, glowglobes shed garish shadows and searing reflections along girders. Beams glimmered through a haze of caustic smoke from burned solder and fused alloys. Work bosses shouted commands; heavy structural plates slammed together with a din that echoed off the rock walls.
The downtrodden laborers worked as little as possible, hindering progress and diminishing Tleilaxu profits. Even months after the beginning of construction, the old-design Heighliner had not progressed beyond a skeletal framework.
In disguise, C’tair had joined the construction crew, welding girders and support trusses to reinforce the cavernous cargo bay. Today, he needed to be out in the open grotto, where he could see the artificial sky overhead.
Where he could watch the latest step in his desperate plan. . . .
After the major set of explosions he and Miral had set off two years ago, the Masters had become even more repressive, but the Ixians were immune to further hardships. Instead, the example of these two resistance fighters gave their people the strength to endure. Enough “rebels,” acting alone or in small groups with sufficient determination, constituted a formidable army— and it was a fighting force that no amount of repression could stop.
Cut off and unaware of the situation inside Ix, Prince Rhombur continued to send explosives and other supplies for the resistance, but only one small additional shipment had found its way to C’tair and Miral. The Masters opened and inspected every container. The workers at the port-of-entry canyon had changed, and the ship pilots had been replaced. All of C’tair’s surreptitious contacts were now lost, and he was isolated again.
Still, he and Miral had been heartened to see random windows broken, internal cargoes disrupted, and work productivity diminished even further from its already-disgraceful pace. Just a week before, a man who had no connections to politics, who had never called attention to himself, was caught painting garish letters all along a highly traveled corridor: DEATH TO TLEILAXU SLIGS!
>
Now C’tair did a graceful catwalk along a cross-girder to reach a floating pad, where he picked up a sonic welder. He ascended via lift platform to the top framework of the Heighliner and looked down the kilometers-long grotto. Below him, surveillance pods avoided the framework of the Heighliner and studied labor troops under the cavern lights. The others on C’tair’s construction squad continued their tasks, unaware of what was about to happen. A welder in coveralls moved closer to C’tair, and with a quick peripheral glance he noted that it was Miral, in her own disguise. They would see this together.
Any moment now.
The embedded holoprojectors in the artificial sky flickered; clouds from the Tleilaxu homeworld were dotted with skyscraper islands that protruded downward, glittering with light. Once, those buildings had appeared to be crystal stalactites; now the fairyland structures looked like old, chipped teeth set into the rock of the Ixian crust.
With Miral standing nearby, C’tair squatted on the girder, listening to hammering construction sounds that echoed with tinny reverberations. He looked up like an ancient wolf staring at the moon. Waiting.
Then the illusory picture of the sky shifted, distorted, and changed color, as if the alien clouds were gathering in a false storm. The holoprojectors flickered and shifted to project a completely different image, one taken from faraway Caladan. The close-up of a face filled the sky like a titanic god-head.
Rhombur had changed greatly during eighteen years of exile. He looked much more mature, more regal, with a hard edge to his stare and determination in his deep voice.
“I am Prince Rhombur Vernius,” the projection boomed, and everyone stared upward, gaping in awe. His mouth was as large as a Guild frigate, his lips opening and closing to dispense words like commandments from on high. “I am the rightful ruler of Ix, and I will return to lead you from your suffering.”
Gasps and cheers erupted from all the Ixians. From their perch, C’tair and Miral saw Sardaukar moving about in confusion, and Commander Garon shouting to his troops to impose order. On balconies high above, Tleilaxu Masters emerged, gesturing. Guards raced back into the administrative buildings.
C’tair and Miral enjoyed the moment, allowing themselves an exchange of bright smiles.
“We did it,” she said, words that were heard only by him in the confusion around them.
It had taken the pair weeks to study the systems well enough to hijack the projector controls. No one had thought to prepare for such a clever sabotage, such a manipulative invasion of their daily environment.
In the solitary shipment that got through, Rhombur Vernius had smuggled the recorded message, hoping they could secretly disseminate it to loyal Ixians. The Prince had suggested talking posters or coded message bursts inside the regular communication systems of the underground city.
But the enterprising guerrilla couple had chosen to do something far more memorable. To Miral’s credit, this had been her idea, and C’tair had perfected many of the details.
Rhombur’s face was wide and squarish, his eyes glittering with a passion any other exiled leader would envy. His blond hair had just the right ragged edge to give him a noble, yet disheveled, appearance. The Prince had learned a great deal about statecraft during his years with House Atreides.
“You must rise up and overthrow these foul slave masters. They have no legal right to give you orders or manipulate your daily lives. You must help me return Ix to its former glory. Remove this disease called the Bene Tleilax. Band together and use whatever means necessary to—”
Rhombur’s words cut off, stuttering, as someone worked the override controls in the main administrative complex, but the Prince’s voice crackled through again, insistent. “— shall return. I merely await the proper time. You are not alone. My mother was murdered. My father has vanished from the Imperium. But my sister and I remain, and I watch Ix. I intend to—”
Rhombur’s image twisted and finally faded into static. A darkness blacker than imaginable night settled on the underground grotto. The Tleilaxu had chosen to shut down the whole sky rather than let Prince Rhombur complete his speech.
But C’tair and Miral continued smiling in the inky shadows. Rhombur had said enough, and his listeners would imagine a grander rallying cry than anything the exiled Prince could have actually said.
Within seconds, white-hot glowglobes burst into luminescence, emergency lights that dazzled like harsh suns inside the cavern. Alarms sounded, but already the downtrodden Ixians chattered among themselves, inspired. Now they attributed the explosions to the power of Prince Rhombur. They had seen the continued disruptive activities, and this projected speech was the grandest gesture of all. It was true, they thought. Perhaps Prince Rhombur even walked among them in disguise! House Vernius would return and drive away the evil Tleilaxu. Rhombur would bring happiness and prosperity back to Ix.
Even the suboids were cheering below. With bitter wryness C’tair remembered that these dull bioengineered workers had been among those responsible for driving out Earl Vernius. Their foolish unrest and unwise gullibility in believing Tleilaxu promises had led to the overthrow in the first place.
C’tair didn’t mind, though. He would accept any ally who was willing to fight.
Sardaukar troops swarmed out, weapons evident, shouting for everyone to return to their dwellings. Booming loudspeakers declared an immediate crackdown and full martial law. Rations would be cut in half, work shifts would be increased. The Tleilaxu had done it all many times before.
Following Miral and others, C’tair climbed down from the Heighliner girders to the safety of the cavern floor. The more the invaders squeezed, the more outraged the Ixians would become, until at last they would reach the eruption point.
Commander Cando Garon, the leader of Imperial troops on Ix, shouted through a voice-projector in battle-language. Sardaukar fired blasts into the air to frighten the laborers. C’tair moved among his companions on the construction squad, meekly allowing himself to be herded into a holding area. At random, some would be detained and questioned— but no one could prove his involvement, or Miral’s. Even if both of them were executed for this, their grand gestures had been worth everything.
C’tair and Miral, widely separated in the throng, did as they were told, following the angry orders of Sardaukar guards. When C’tair heard workers whispering to each other, repeating the words of Rhombur Vernius, his joy and confidence reached its peak.
Someday . . . someday soon, Ix would be restored to its people.
Enemies strengthen you; allies weaken.
— EMPEROR ELROOD IX,
Deathbed Insights
After he recovered from the inkvine beating, Gurney Halleck worked for two months with a sluggish sense of inner dread, worse than he had ever experienced in the slave pits. An ugly scar ran along the side of his jaw, thrashing lines that throbbed a beet-red color and continued to hurt. Though the actual wound had healed, the toxic residue still pulsed with neural fire, as if an intermittent lightning bolt lay buried within his cheek and jaw.
But that was only pain. Gurney could endure that. Physical injuries meant very little to him anymore; they had become part of his existence.
He was more frightened by the fact that he had been punished so minimally after he’d attacked Glossu Rabban. The burly Harkonnen had whipped him, and the guards had beaten him afterward so that he’d needed three days in the infirmary . . . but he had experienced much worse for only minor infractions. What did they really have in mind?
He remembered the dull gleam of calculated cruelty in Rabban’s close-set eyes. “Check the records. Find out where he came from. And if he has any family left alive.” Gurney feared the worst.
With the other slaves he wandered through the days mechanically, hunched over with a growing anticipation and horror in the pit of his stomach. He worked alternately on the cliffs of Mount Ebony and in the obsidian-processing vats. Cargo ships landed near the garrison and the slave pits, hauling away containers filled w
ith glowing, sharp-edged volcanic glass to be distributed by House Hagal.
One day a pair of guards unceremoniously hauled him from the vats. He dripped with dark suspension fluids. Half-clad, splattering oily liquid on the uniformed guards, Gurney stumbled out into the open square where Glossu Rabban had inspected the prisoners, where Gurney had attacked him.
Now he saw a low platform on the ground, and in front of it, a single chair. No chains, no shigawire bindings . . . just the chair. The sight struck terror into his heart. He had no idea what might be in store for him.
Guards shoved him into the chair, then stepped away. A doctor from the prison infirmary stood at attention nearby, and a group of Harkonnen soldiers marched into the square. The other slaves continued working in the pits and tanks, so Gurney knew the impending event was personal . . . a spectacle arranged only for him.
That made it infinitely worse.
The more Gurney showed his agitation, the more pleasure the guards took in refusing to answer him. So he fell silent, as the thick processing liquid dried into a crackling film on his skin.
The familiar doctor stepped up, holding a small yellow vial with a tiny needle at one end. Gurney had seen those yellow vials in the infirmary, stored in a transparent case, but he’d never had occasion to receive one. The doctor slapped the pointed end against the prisoner’s neck as if he were crushing a wasp. Gurney jerked up, throat clenched, muscles straining.
Warm numbness spread like hot oil through his body. His arms and legs grew leaden. He twitched a few times, then couldn’t move at all. He couldn’t turn his neck, couldn’t grimace, couldn’t blink or even move his eyes.
The doctor shifted the chair and twisted Gurney’s head as if positioning a mannequin, forcing him to stare at the low platform in front of him. Gurney suddenly realized what it was.
A stage. And he would be compelled to watch something.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 38