Dune dc-1

by Frank Herbert

  Chani thrust herself forward onto her knees. “Poison? Is he in pain? Could I ….”

  “He is unconscious,” Jessica said. “The processes of his life are so low that they can be detected only with the most refined techniques. I shudder to think what could have happened had I not been the one to discover him. He appears dead to the untrained eye.”

  “You have reasons other than courtesy for summoning me,” Chani said. “I know you, Reverend Mother. What is it you think I may do that you cannot do?”

  She is brave, lovely and, ah-h-h, so perceptive, Jessica thought. She’d have made a fine Bene Gesserit.

  “Chani,” Jessica said, “you may find this difficult to believe, but I do not know precisely why I sent for you. It was an instinct … a basic intuition. The thought came unbidden: ‘Send for Chani.’ ”

  For the first time, Chani saw the sadness in Jessica’s expression, the unveiled pain modifying the inward stare.

  “I’ve done all I know to do,” Jessica said. “That all … it is so far beyond what is usually supposed as all that you would find difficulty imagining it. Yet… I failed.”

  “The old companion, Halleck,” Chani asked, “is it possible he’s a traitor?”

  “Not Gurney,” Jessica said.

  The two words carried an entire conversation, and Chani saw the searching, the tests … the memories of old failures that went into this flat denial.

  Chani rocked back onto her feet, stood up, smoothed her desert-stained robe. “Take me to him,” she said.

  Jessica arose, turned through hangings on the left wall.

  Chani followed, found herself in what had been a storeroom, its rock walls concealed now beneath heavy draperies. Paul lay on a field pad against the far wall. A single glowglobe above him illuminated his face. A black robe covered him to the chest, leaving his arms outside it stretched along his sides. He appeared to be unclothed under the robe. The skin exposed looked waxen, rigid. There was no visible movement to him.

  Chani suppressed the desire to dash forward, throw herself across him. She found her thoughts, instead, going to her son—Leto. And she realized in this instant that Jessica once had faced such a moment—her man threatened by death, forced in her own mind to consider what might be done to save a young son. The realization formed a sudden bond with the older woman so that Chani reached out and clasped Jessica’s hand. The answering grip was painful in its intensity.

  “He lives,” Jessica said. “I assure you he lives. But the thread of his life is so thin it could easily escape detection. There are some among the leaders already muttering that the mother speaks and not the Reverend Mother, that my son is truly dead and I do not want to give up his water to the tribe.”

  “How long has he been this way?” Chani asked. She disengaged her hand from Jessica’s, moved farther into the room.

  “Three weeks,” Jessica said. “I spent almost a week trying to revive him. There were meetings, arguments … investigations. Then I sent for you. The Fedaykin obey my orders, else I might not have been able to delay the ….” She wet her lips with her tongue, watching Chani cross to Paul.

  Chani stood over him now, looking down on the soft beard of youth that framed his face, tracing with her eyes the high browline, the strong nose, the shuttered eyes—the features so peaceful in this rigid repose.

  “How does he take nourishment?” Chani asked.

  “The demands of his flesh are so slight he does not yet need food,” Jessica said.

  “How many know of what has happened?” Chani asked.

  “Only his closest advisers, a few of the leaders, the Fedaykin and, of course, whoever administered the poison.”

  “There is no clue to the poisoner?”

  “And it’s not for want of investigating,” Jessica said.

  “What do the Fedaykin say?” Chani asked.

  “They believe Paul is in a sacred trance, gathering his holy powers before the final battles. This is a thought I’ve cultivated.”

  Chani lowered herself to her knees beside the pad, bent close to Paul’s face. She sensed an immediate difference in the air about his face … but it was only the spice, the ubiquitous spice whose odor permeated everything in Fremen life. Still ….

  “You were not born to the spice as we were,” Chani said. “Have you investigated the possibility that his body has rebelled against too much spice in his diet?”

  “Allergy reactions are all negative,” Jessica said.

  She closed her eyes, as much to blot out this scene as because of sudden realization of fatigue. How long have I been without sleep? she asked herself. Too long.

  “When you change the Water of Life,” Chani said, “you do it within yourself by the inward awareness. Have you used this awareness to test his blood?”

  “Normal Fremen blood,” Jessica said. “Completely adapted to the diet and the life here.”

  Chani sat back on her heels, submerging her fears in thought as she studied Paul’s face. This was a trick she had learned from watching the Reverend Mothers. Time could be made to serve the mind. One concentrated the entire attention.

  Presently, Chani said: “Is there a maker here?”

  “There are several,” Jessica said with a touch of weariness. “We are never without them these days. Each victory requires its blessing. Each ceremony before a raid—”

  “But Paul Muad’Dib has held himself aloof from these ceremonies,” Chani said.

  Jessica nodded to herself, remembering her son’s ambivalent feelings toward the spice drug and the prescient awareness it precipitated.

  “How did you know this?” Jessica asked.

  “It is spoken.”

  “Too much is spoken,” Jessica said bitterly.

  “Get me the raw Water of the maker,” Chani said.

  Jessica stiffened at the tone of command in Chani’s voice, then observed the intense concentration in the younger woman and said: “At once.” She went out through the hangings to send a waterman.

  Chani sat staring at Paul. If he has tried to do this, she thought. And it’s the sort of thing he might try ….

  Jessica knelt beside Chani, holding out a plain camp ewer. The charged odor of the poison was sharp in Chani’s nostrils. She dipped a finger in the fluid, held the finger close to Paul’s nose.

  The skin along the bridge of his nose wrinkled slightly. Slowly, the nostrils flared.

  Jessica gasped.

  Chani touched the dampened finger to Paul’s upper lip.

  He drew in a long, sobbing breath.

  “What is this?” Jessica demanded.

  “Be still,” Chani said. “You must convert a small amount of the sacred water. Quickly!”

  Without questioning, because she recognized the tone of awareness in Chani’s voice, Jessica lifted the ewer to her mouth, drew in a small sip.

  Paul’s eyes flew open. He stared upward at Chani.

  “It is not necessary for her to change the Water,” he said. His voice was weak, but steady.

  Jessica, a sip of the fluid on her tongue, found her body rallying, converting the poison almost automatically. In the light elevation the ceremony always imparted, she sensed the life-glow from Paul—a radiation there registering on her senses.

  In that instant, she knew.

  “You drank the sacred water!” she blurted.

  “One drop of it,” Paul said. “So small … one drop.”

  “How could you do such a foolish thing?” she demanded.

  “He is your son,” Chani said.

  Jessica glared at her.

  A rare smile, warm and full of understanding, touched Paul’s lips. “Hear my beloved,” he said. “Listen to her, Mother. She knows.”

  “A thing that others can do, he must do,” Chani said.

  “When I had the drop in my mouth, when I felt it and smelled it, when I knew what it was doing to me, then I knew I could do the thing that you have done,” he said. “Your Bene Gesserit proctors speak of the Kwisatz Had
erach, but they cannot begin to guess the many places I have been. In the few minutes I ….” He broke off, looking at Chani with a puzzled frown. “Chani? How did you get here? You’re supposed to be …. Why are you here?”

  He tried to push himself onto his elbows. Chani pressed him back gently.

  “Please, my Usul,” she said.

  “I feel so weak,” he said. His gaze darted around the room. “How long have I been here?”

  “You’ve been three weeks in a coma so deep that the spark of life seemed to have fled,” Jessica said.

  “But it was …. I took it just a moment ago and ….”

  “A moment for you, three weeks of fear for me,” Jessica said.

  “It was only one drop, but I converted it,” Paul said. “I changed the Water of Life.” And before Chani or Jessica could stop him, he dipped his hand into the ewer they had placed on the floor beside him, and he brought the dripping hand to his mouth, swallowed the palm-cupped liquid.

  “Paul!” Jessica screamed.

  He grabbed her hand, faced her with a death’s head grin, and he sent his awareness surging over her.

  The rapport was not as tender, not as sharing, not as encompassing as it had been with Alia and with the Old Reverend Mother in the cavern … but it was a rapport: a sense-sharing of the entire being. It shook her, weakened her, and she cowered in her mind, fearful of him.

  Aloud, he said: “You speak of a place where you cannot enter? This place which the Reverend Mother cannot face, show it to me.”

  She shook her head, terrified by the very thought.

  “Show it to me!” he commanded.

  “No!”

  But she could not escape him. Bludgeoned by the terrible force of him, she closed her eyes and focused inward-the-direction-that-is-dark.

  Paul’s consciousness flowed through and around her and into the darkness. She glimpsed the place dimly before her mind blanked itself away from the terror. Without knowing why, her whole being trembled at what she had seen—a region where a wind blew and sparks glared, where rings of light expanded and contracted, where rows of tumescent white shapes flowed over and under and around the lights, driven by darkness and a wind out of nowhere.

  Presently, she opened her eyes, saw Paul staring up at her. He still held her hand, but the terrible rapport was gone. She quieted her trembling. Paul released her hand. It was as though some crutch had been removed. She staggered up and back, would have fallen had not Chani jumped to support her.

  “Reverend Mother!” Chani said. “What is wrong?”

  “Tired,” Jessica whispered. “So … tired.”

  “Here,” Chani said. “Sit here.” She helped Jessica to a cushion against the wall.

  The strong young arms felt so good to Jessica. She clung to Chani.

  “He has, in truth, seen the Water of Life?” Chani asked. She disengaged herself from Jessica’s grip.

  “He has seen,” Jessica whispered. Her mind still rolled and surged from the contact. It was like stepping to solid land after weeks on a heaving sea. She sensed the old Reverend Mother within her … and all the others awakened and questioning: “What was that? What happened? Where was that place?”

  Through it all threaded the realization that her son was the Kwisatz Haderach, the one who could be many places at once. He was the fact out of the Bene Gesserit dream. And the fact gave her no peace.

  “What happened?” Chani demanded.

  Jessica shook her head.

  Paul said: “There is in each of us an ancient force that takes and an ancient force that gives. A man finds little difficulty facing that place within himself where the taking force dwells, but it’s almost impossible for him to see into the giving force without changing into something other than man. For a woman, the situation is reversed.”

  Jessica looked up, found Chani was staring at her while listening to Paul.

  “Do you understand me, Mother?” Paul asked.

  She could only nod.

  “These things are so ancient within us,” Paul said, “that they’re ground into each separate cell of our bodies. We’re shaped by such forces. You can say to yourself, ‘Yes, I see how such a thing may be.’ But when you look inward and confront the raw force of your own life unshielded, you see your peril. You see that this could overwhelm you. The greatest peril to the Giver is the force that takes. The greatest peril to the Taker is the force that gives. It’s as easy to be overwhelmed by giving as by taking.”

  “And you, my son,” Jessica asked, “are you one who gives or one who takes?”

  “I’m at the fulcrum,” he said. “I cannot give without taking and I cannot take without ….” He broke off, looking to the wall at his right.

  Chani felt a draft against her cheek, turned to see the hangings close.

  “It was Otheym,” Paul said. “He was listening.”

  Accepting the words, Chani was touched by some of the prescience that haunted Paul, and she knew a thing-yet-to-be as though it already had occurred. Otheym would speak of what he had seen and heard. Others would spread the story until it was a fire over the land. Paul-Muad’ Dib is not as other men, they would say. There can be no more doubt. He is a man, yet he sees through to the Water of Life in the way of a Reverend Mother. He is indeed the Lisan al-Gaib.

  “You have seen the future, Paul,” Jessica said. “Will you say what you’ve seen?”

  “Not the future,” he said. “I’ve seen the Now.” He forced himself to a sitting position, waved Chani aside as she moved to help him. “The Space above Arrakis is filled with the ships of the Guild.”

  Jessica trembled at the certainty in his voice.

  “The Padishah Emperor himself is there,” Paul said. He looked at the rock ceiling of his cell. “With his favorite Truthsayer and five legions of Sardaukar. The old Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is there with Thufir Hawat beside him and seven ships jammed with every conscript he could muster. Every Great House has its raiders above us … waiting.”

  Chani shook her head, unable to look away from Paul. His strangeness, the flat tone of voice, the way he looked through her, filled her with awe.

  Jessica tried to swallow in a dry throat, said: “For what are they waiting?”

  Paul looked at her. “For the Guild’s permission to land. The Guild will strand on Arrakis any force that lands without permission.”

  “The Guild’s protecting us?” Jessica asked.

  “Protecting us! The Guild itself caused this by spreading tales about what we do here and by reducing troop transport fares to a point where even the poorest Houses are up there now waiting to loot us.”

  Jessica noted the lack of bitterness in his tone, wondered at it. She couldn’t doubt his words—they had that same intensity she’d seen in him the night he’d revealed the path of the future that’d taken them among the Fremen.

  Paul took a deep breath, said: “Mother, you must change a quantity of the Water for us. We need the catalyst. Chani, have a scout force sent out … to find a pre-spice mass. If we plant a quantity of the Water of Life above a pre-spice mass, do you know what will happen?”

  Jessica weighed his words, suddenly saw through to his meaning. “Paul!” she gasped.

  “The Water of Death,” he said. “It’d be a chain reaction.” He pointed to the floor. “Spreading death among the little makers, killing a vector of the life cycle that includes the spice and the makers. Arrakis will become a true desolation—without spice or maker.”

  Chani put a hand to her mouth, shocked to numb silence by the blasphemy pouring from Paul’s lips.

  “He who can destroy a thing has the real control of it,” Paul said. “We can destroy the spice.”

  “What stays the Guild’s hand?” Jessica whispered.

  “They’re searching for me,” Paul said. “Think of that! The finest Guild navigators, men who can quest ahead through time to find the safest course for the fastest Heighliners, all of them seeking me … and unable to find me. How they tremble!
They know I have their secret here!” Paul held out his cupped hand. “Without the spice they’re blind!”

  Chani found her voice. “You said you see the now!”

  Paul lay back, searching the spread-out present, its limits extended into the future and into the past, holding onto the awareness with difficulty as the spice illumination began to fade.

  “Go do as I commanded,” he said. “The future’s becoming as muddled for the Guild as it is for me. The lines of vision are narrowing. Everything focuses here where the spice is … where they’ve dared not interfere before … because to interfere was to lose what they must have. But now they’re desperate. All paths lead into darkness.”

  ***

  And that day dawned when Arrakis lay at the hub of the universe with the wheel poised to spin.

  —from “Arrakis Awakening” by the Princess Irulan

  “WILL YOU look at that thing!” Stilgar whispered.

  Paul lay beside him in a slit of rock high on the Shield Wall rim, eye fixed to the collector of a Fremen telescope. The oil lens was focused on a starship lighter exposed by dawn in the basin below them. The tall eastern face of the ship glistened in the flat light of the sun, but the shadow side still showed yellow portholes from glowglobes of the night. Beyond the ship, the city of Arrakeen lay cold and gleaming in the light of the northern sun.

  It wasn’t the lighter that excited Stilgar’s awe, Paul knew, but the construction for which the lighter was only the centerpost. A single metal hutment, many stories tall, reached out in a thousand-meter circle from the base of the lighter—a tent composed of interlocking metal leaves—the temporary lodging place for five legions of Sardaukar and His Imperial Majesty, the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV.

  From his position squatting at Paul’s left, Gurney Halleck said: “I count nine levels to it. Must be quite a few Sardaukar in there.”

  “Five legions,” Paul said.

  “It grows light,” Stilgar hissed. “We like it not, your exposing yourself, Muad’Dib. Let us go back into the rocks now.”

  “I’m perfectly safe here,” Paul said.

  “That ship mounts projectile weapons,” Gurney said.