Norma rushed in, running like a clumsy girl. Her blocky face was flushed, her short arms waving. “Wait! Savant Holtzman, you are in terrible danger!”
He frowned like a stern father dismissing an overly rambunctious child. “You were skeptical during my first shield test, too. Look, I’m not even in the line of fire.”
Her expression was frighteningly earnest and urgent. “The interaction of your force field with a collimated laser beam will have extraordinary consequences— massive destruction.” She held up papers covered with equations and her own incomprehensible shorthand notations.
Impatiently, he lowered the laser weapon, and sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose you can show me any basis for your alarm?” The targeted Zenshiite slave looked nervously through the shimmering shield. “Or is this just another one of your mysterious intuitions?”
She thrust the mathematics forward. “Savant, I have been unable to extract a specific basis for the anomaly when I introduce a factor of coherent laser energy into the field interface. But there is clearly a dramatic singularity potential.”
Holtzman looked at the scribblings, but they meant nothing to him: The lines were so messy, steps skipped, odd notations to denote factors he had never seen before. He frowned, not wanting to admit that he was unable to understand. “Not a very rigorous proof, Norma— and not convincing either.”
“Can you dis prove it? Can you take the risk? This could be even worse than the disaster with the alloy-resonance generator, a huge catastrophe.”
Holtzman’s expression remained stony, though a feather of doubt tickled his mind. He could not ignore this woman’s sheer brilliance. He had always suspected that Norma understood the concepts of his own field better than he did. “Very well. If you insist, I’ll take an extra precaution or two. Any suggestions?”
“Conduct the test far away, on a moon or, better yet, an asteroid.”
“On an asteroid! Do you know the added expense that would entail?”
“Less expensive than rebuilding the entire city of Starda.”
He chuckled, then saw that she wasn’t joking. “I will postpone my test to consider this. But I insist that you provide proof. Back up your intuition before I go to such great trouble and expense. I can’t justify such a huge undertaking just because your feet are cold.”
• • •
NORMA CENVA WAS a scientific and mathematical adept, but she had never been schooled in personal politics. Like a naïve child, she went to see Lord Niko Bludd in his noble residence on the bluff overlooking the Isana.
Atop the tall conical tower, the enameled roof tiles were different from the blue metal so common on most other Starda buildings. Dragoon guards lined the interior halls like gold-skinned reptiles adorned with helmet crests, crimson capes, and segmented gauntlets.
Bludd seemed in good enough cheer. He tugged at his curly beard. “Welcome, young lady. Did you know, at a recent meeting on Salusa I had another opportunity to speak with your mother? Her Sorceresses had just driven off another cymek attack, this time on Rossak. I can see where you received your special talent.” His blue eyes twinkled.
Embarrassed, Norma looked at the tiled floor. “Indeed, Lord Bludd. My mother has . . . high expectations of me. As you can see, however”— she gestured to her misshapen form—”I will never match her physical beauty.”
“External loveliness is not everything,” Bludd said without casting a glance at the five gorgeous women who hovered around him. “Savant Holtzman believes your mind is full of remarkable ideas. Has he sent you? Does the Savant have another project to demonstrate?”
A well-dressed slave woman came forward carrying a silver tray with two goblets of fizzing clear liquid. She offered one to Norma, who held the ornate cup awkwardly in her small hands. Lord Bludd sipped from his own goblet, and Norma drank with him.
“He has another demonstration planned, Lord Bludd.” Norma hesistated. “But I must ask you to intervene.”
Inquisitive lines creased his forehead. “Whatever for?”
“Savant Holtzman means to test his new shield using a laser weapon, but there is danger, sir. I . . . I am afraid there may be a violent interaction. Extremely violent.”
She began to speak in mathematical terms, defending her convictions insofar as she could, but this only caused the nobleman to raise his hands in helpless confusion. “And what does the Savant think of your concern?”
“He . . . trusts in my abilities, but I fear that he wants to perform the test quickly and inexpensively, and is afraid to displease you if he incurs a great cost.” She swallowed hard, amazed at her audacity. “If I am correct, however, the aftereffects could devastate an entire district of Starda, perhaps even more.”
“You mean like an atomic explosion?” Bludd was astonished. “How can that be? A shield is a defensive weapon. Atomics are destructive in—”
“Second- and third-order interactions are difficult to predict, Lord Bludd. Would it not be wiser to take precautions, despite the additional cost? Think of the profits Poritrin will make from this invention. Every important person and every private vessel will require a personal shield, and you will receive a royalty on each one.”
She looked for a place to set down her heavy goblet. “On the other hand, imagine the disgrace if such a flaw is discovered after the products are in widespread use. Think of the losses you would endure.”
The nobleman scratched his bearded chin and toyed with the jeweled chains on his chest. “Very well, I shall consider it an investment. Savant Holtzman has earned us enough to fund his eccentric ideas a hundred times over anyway.”
Norma bowed deeply. “Thank you, Lord Bludd.”
As she hurried off to tell her mentor, Norma never considered the gaffe she had committed in circumventing his authority. She expected a man like Tio Holtzman to decide matters rationally, not emotionally, unaffected by petty concerns and personality conflicts.
After growing up under her mother’s frequent reproach, Norma had a thick skin for insults. How could the great Savant be any less of a person?
• • •
THE TEST TOOK place on a bleak asteroid orbiting far from Poritrin. A team of construction workers excavated a test zone in a flat crater, erected a few recording devices, then placed a shield-generating apparatus in the crumbly dust of the crater floor. Then they departed the asteroid to join with a larger frigate bound for Poritrin.
To observe, Norma and Holtzman sat inside a small military shuttle flown by a reserve Armada pilot. The Savant had expected to rig sophisticated remote-firing laser weapons down in the crater around the target zone. Aware of his budgetary concerns, though, Norma had suggested that it might be sufficient just to fly over the target and shoot at it with an old laser weapon installed in the ship.
As the pilot guided them over the test area, the moody scientist hardly responded to Norma’s attempts at conversation. Holtzman watched as they closed in on the target crater. He seemed annoyed, anxious to prove the young woman wrong. Norma peered through the shuttle windows at the pockmarks, mounds of precariously balanced boulders, deep fissures caused by tidal stresses. The place looked as if it had already been destroyed.
“Let’s be done with this,” Holtzman said. “Pilot, shoot your laser weapon when you are ready.”
Norma looked out the window to watch as the shuttle cruised low until the cleared test area was directly below them. “Preparing to fire, Savant.”
Casually and offhandedly, Holtzman said, “You’ll see that you have imagined excessive—”
The pilot fired a bright beam from the shuttle’s laser. The appalling flare of light and energy snatched the words from his mouth. Even in the silence of space, the shockwave seemed louder than a crack of thunder.
The pulse surged upward, and the pilot yanked the shuttle’s flight controls. “Hang on!” Powerful engines tore them away; the acceleration nearly pressed Norma into unconsciousness.
Then a hammer struck them from the rear, batti
ng the ship like a toy. The shuttle spun out of control, and the asteroid fragmented into white-hot molten boulders radiating from the center of the blast like the spokes of a wheel.
Aghast, Holtzman turned away from the blazing light while the pilot tried to impose order upon the military spacecraft. The scientist’s breaths came in rapid, astonished bursts.
Beside him, even Norma was astounded. She stared at her mentor, her lips moving without producing words. None were necessary. If Holtzman had blithely conducted this experiment inside his lab, he would have vaporized the lab, his residence, part of the city, and possibly even rerouted the Isana River.
He looked at Norma, first in anger, then amazement. Never again would he doubt her intuition or challenge her scientific abilities.
Still, he felt a knife twist inside him, a blow to his self-confidence and to his public image. His benefactor Niko Bludd would now know the truth. Norma had openly challenged Holtzman’s judgment, and her doubts had been undeniably justified.
He didn’t see how to keep everyone on Poritrin— the lords, the Dragoon guards, even the slaves— from learning that the stunted Rossak mathematician had upstaged him. News of this test would travel rapidly.
Tio Holtzman had been spectacularly wrong, and the deep wound from this might never heal.
Animals must move across land to survive— for water, for food, for minerals. Existence depends upon some kind of movement: you move, or the land kills you where you stand.
— Imperial Ecological Survey of Arrakis, ancient records
The desert night was silent and untroubled. The first moon had already set while the dimmer second moon hung above the horizon like a sleepy eye, yellow with weariness.
Little more than a shadow, Selim squatted on a boulder, watching the black honeycomb of caves above him. He didn’t know the villagers here, or their treasures— but Buddallah had guided him to this isolated place. The desert and all its inhabitants were part of Selim’s mysterious larger destiny, and he did not question— or bother to justify— his actions.
These people had little contact with Naib Dhartha’s tribe, yet like all of the struggling Zensunni inhabitants, they sent regular expeditions to Arrakis City to obtain necessary supplies. Even with sheltered agricultural methods and careful water conservation, no desert tribe could ever be entirely self-sufficient here.
And neither could he, despite his best efforts. Air-condensation devices in his two derelict botanical testing stations replenished Selim’s water. Abandoned storage caches provided most of the food he needed. But in the past year and a half, those ancient supplies had dwindled along with his powerpacks, and one of his tools had broken. He needed more stores to maintain his solitary existence.
God had given Selim many blessings, many advantages . . . but other necessities he must obtain for himself. He did not need to understand how all the pieces fit into Buddallah’s comprehensive plan. There must be a reason, and someday he would discover it.
For several days Selim had observed this outlying settlement, watching the movement of the natives. The women kept beehives just inside the cave mouths, where the buzzing insects could seek out small desert flowers that struggled in sheltered crannies. Selim’s mouth watered. He had tasted honey only once in his life, after Naib Dhartha had traded for a large pot of the sticky sweetener and had given each tribal member a small dab. The taste had been delicious, but taunting, reminding the poor Zensunnis of their dearth of luxuries.
As soon as Selim succeeded in his calling, whatever it was, he was sure he would have honey every day.
Although Selim needed some of the settlement’s supplies, he also wanted to make a statement here. Buddallah had shown him a new strength through independence and self-sufficiency, rather than blind adherence to ancient laws. He disliked the close-minded, rigid strictures of the Zensunnis. All Zensunnis. Selim might have been a contented, hardworking member of the community, if Naib Dhartha had not heeded Ebrahim’s false accusations and cast Selim out, supposedly to his death.
With an empty pack on his shoulders he crept forward; he had memorized the route and identified the cave in which the villagers kept their supplies, a place that was watched in the daylight, but poorly guarded at night. Confident in their isolation, the security of these villagers was lax. He would slip in, take what he needed and disappear, without hurting anyone. He would be a bandit. Selim Wormrider . . . Selim the outlaw.
Climbing silently up the steep slope, he found a rugged path that the people took whenever they went out to scavenge spice. Hand over hand, he ascended until he reached the balcony lip, then pulled himself up and squinted into the shadows.
As he had expected, the storage chamber was filled with packaged offworld food, no doubt purchased at a dear price back at the spaceport. Delicacies indeed, but why would true desert inhabitants need such things? Selim grinned. The villagers didn’t need everything here, so he was obliged to relieve them of certain extraneous luxuries. Selim would stuff his pack full of energy wafers, nutritional supplements.
Selim crammed food and spare power cells into his pack’s compartments. He also found seeds, vital botanical samples that he would use to set up a small greenhouse in one of the derelict testing stations. Fresh produce would be a marvelous addition to his diet.
From a workbench he grabbed a measuring tool and a sonic hammer designed for fracturing rock in specific patterns. This might be useful if he needed to make additional hideaways, perhaps by expanding natural caves in uninhabited outcroppings.
Poking into the soft compartments of his overburdened pack, Selim tried to find room for the two tools. He fumbled in the darkness and dropped the sonic hammer onto the stone floor. On impact, the device sent out a pulse that created a fracture in the floor of the cave, and reverberated like a cannon shot into the sleeping cliff village.
Startled, Selim gathered what he could, stuffing things into the pack with both hands. He swung it over his shoulder and lowered himself over the edge of the balcony. Already he heard suspicious shouts, curious questions. Glowsticks illuminated the cliff face, making the dark cave openings look like the eyes of a suddenly awakened demon.
Working his way down the rough path, he tried to move stealthily, but knocked small rocks loose. The stones pattered and ricocheted down the cliff.
Someone cast a beam of light in his direction, revealing the young man creeping down the path. Someone shouted. Soon the cave village was in an uproar. Men, women, and children rushed out, blinking sleep from their eyes, gesturing toward the thief, howling for him to stop.
Selim had no place to hide, and his heavy pack hindered him.
Zensunnis raced after him, climbing down ladders and stone steps cut into the rock. Terrified yet exhilarated, Selim put on a burst of speed and with a final leap reached the sand first and raced out onto the open plain. His heavy footsteps sank into the powdery surface, causing him to stumble along, with the desert nomads shouting after him. He kept running, hoping the men would hesitate if he went too far out onto the dunes. Yet they were bound to catch him soon, because of the weight he was carrying. It all depended on whether their righteous indignation would outweigh their fear of Shaitan.
Suddenly an idea dawned on him. Slowing his pace, Selim rummaged in his pack until he found the stolen sonic hammer. He knelt on the side of a dune, made sure the setting was at its maximum level, and raised the tool high. When he swung down, the explosion of sound reverberated like a depth charge, spraying sand upward in plumes.
The Zensunni villagers still came after him, yelling. Selim started running again and scrambled down a dune. He fell and tumbled, sliding with the sand, but he kept hold of the sonic hammer. Finally he came to halt between the dunes. Breathless, he rose to his knees and then to his feet, and slogged up to the next rounded crest. “Come, Old Crawler! I am calling you!”
He swung the hammer again like a wizened Buddislamic priest pounding a gong; on the next dune he struck a third time, sending out insistent signals.
The men from the cliff city were close now, but he kept running farther into the open desert. They seemed to hesitate, and he distinguished fewer voices behind him.
Finally, Selim heard the hissing noise, the distant approach of a gigantic sandworm. His pursuers noticed it at the same time and shouted to each other, stumbling to an uncertain halt. All of them stared at the rippling wormsign in the moonlight, then raced at great speed back toward their cliff dwellings, as if the sight of the desert monster had put jets on their backs.
Grinning, knowing Buddallah would not let him be harmed, Selim squatted on the dunetop, frozen in place as he watched his pursuers disappear. The worm was approaching fast and would no doubt go after the tribal men, drawn to their panicked footfalls. If he remained perfectly still, the worm should pass him by.
But the thought of the monster devouring the men troubled him. They had chased him only to defend their dwellings. Selim didn’t want them to die because of him. That could not be part of Buddallah’s plan, but the moral challenge was.
As the worm neared, he dialed down the sonic hammer’s setting and pounded lightly, thump, thump, thump. Predictably, the worm turned toward him. Selim withdrew his equipment and crouched, in readiness.
Far off, only halfway to the refuge of their cave city, the Zensunni men turned to gape at him, and saw his figure profiled against moonlight. Selim stood tall as he faced the oncoming worm. . . .
• • •
MOUNTED HIGH ATOP the beast, Selim held his guiding staff and ropes, content that he had lost none of his booty and no one had been killed. He turned to see the amazed men out on the moonlit sands. They had seen him mount the sandworm demon, and now he rode off into the deep desert, controlling it.
“As further payment for what I have taken, I give you a story you can tell for years around evening campfires!” he called back at them. “I am Selim Wormrider!”
He was too far away for them to hear, but Selim didn’t care. This was only a time to plant seeds, not the time to reveal his identity. Hereafter, instead of reciting poetry and melancholy laments of ancestral wanderings, the villagers would talk about the lone man who could command sandworms.
Dune: The Butlerian Jihad Page 46