Kynes brought the groundcar to a lurching halt. The deplorable scene reminded him of how he had once watched a well-fed Laza tiger playing with a mangy ground rat on Salusa Secundus. The satisfied tiger had no need for additional meat, but simply enjoyed playing the predator; it trapped the terrified rodent between some rocks, scratching with long, curved claws, opening painful, bloody wounds . . . injuries that were, intentionally, not fatal. The Laza tiger had batted the ground rat around for many minutes as Kynes observed through high-powered oil lenses. Finally bored, the tiger had simply bitten off the creature’s head and then sauntered away, leaving the carcass for carrion feeders.
By contrast, the three Fremen youths were putting up more of a fight than the ground rat, but they had only simple knives and stillsuits, no body-shields or armor. The desert natives had no chance against the fighting skills and weaponry of Harkonnen soldiers.
But they did not surrender.
The Fremen snatched at the ground and threw sharp rocks with deadly aim, but the projectiles bounced harmlessly off the shimmering shields. The Harkonnens laughed and pressed closer.
Out of sight, Kynes climbed from his groundcar, fascinated by the tableau. He adjusted his stillsuit, loosening binders to give him more freedom of movement. He made sure the face mask was in place but not sealed. At the moment, he didn’t know whether to observe from a distance, as he had done with the Laza tiger . . . or whether he should aid in some way.
The Harkonnen troops outnumbered the Fremen two to one, and if Kynes came to the defense of the youths, he would likely find himself either wounded or at least charged with interference by Harkonnen officials. A sanctioned Imperial Planetologist wasn’t supposed to meddle in local events.
He rested his hand near the weapon blade at his waist. In any event, he was ready, but hopeful that he would see no more than an extended exchange of insults, escalating threats, and perhaps a scuffle that would end in hard feelings and a few bruises.
But in a moment, the character of the confrontation changed— and Kynes realized his stupidity. This was not a mere taunting game, but a deadly serious standoff. The Harkonnens were out for a kill.
The six soldiers waded in, blades flashing, shields pulsing. The Fremen youths fought back. Within seconds, one of the natives was down, gushing bright foaming blood from a severed neck artery.
Kynes was about to shout, but swallowed his words as anger turned his vision red. While he’d been driving along, he had made grandiose plans of using the Fremen as a resource, a true desert people with whom he could share ideas. He had dreamed of adapting them as a grand workforce for his sparkling scheme of ecological transformation. They were to be his willing allies, enthusiastic assistants.
Now these blockheaded Harkonnens were— for no apparent reason— trying to kill his workers, the tools with which he intended to remake the planet! He could not let that happen.
While the third member of their band lay bleeding to death on the sands, the other two Fremen, with only primitive milky blue knives and no shields, attacked in a wild frenzy that astounded Kynes. “Taqwa!” they screamed.
Two Harkonnens fell under the surprise rally, and their four remaining comrades were slow in coming to their aid. Hesitantly, the blue-uniformed soldiers moved toward the youths.
Indignant at the Harkonnens’ gross injustice, Kynes reacted on impulse. He slid toward the bravos from the rear, moving quickly and silently. Switching on his personal shield, he unsheathed the short-bladed slip-tip he kept for self-defense— a shield-fighting weapon, with poison in its point.
During the harsh years on Salusa Secundus, he had learned how to fight with it, and how to kill. His parents had worked in one of the Imperium’s most infamous prisons, and the day-to-day environments in Kynes’s explorations had often required him to defend himself against powerful predators.
He uttered no cry of battle, for that would have compromised his element of surprise. Kynes held his weapon low. He wasn’t particularly brave, merely single-minded. As if driven by a force beyond the person who held it, the tip of Kynes’s blade passed slowly through the bodyshield of the nearest Harkonnen, then pushed hard and thrust upward, into flesh, cartilage, and bone. The blade penetrated beneath the man’s rib cage, pierced his kidneys, and severed his spinal cord.
Kynes yanked out the knife and rotated halfway to his left, sliding the knife into the side of a second Harkonnen soldier, who was just turning to face him. The shield slowed the poisoned blade for a moment, but as the Harkonnen thrashed, Kynes drove the point home, deep into the soft flesh of the abdomen, again cutting upward.
Thus, two Harkonnens lay mortally wounded and writhing before anyone had made an outcry. Now four of them were down, including those the Fremen had killed. The remaining pair of Harkonnen bullies stared in shock at this turn of events, then howled at the brash boldness of the tall stranger. They exchanged combat signals and spread apart, eyeing Kynes more than the Fremen, who stood ferocious and ready to fight with their fingernails if necessary.
Again the Fremen lunged against their attackers. Again, they screamed, “Taqwa!”
One of the two surviving Harkonnen soldiers thrust his sword at Kynes, but the Planetologist moved rapidly now, still angry and flushed with the blooding of his first two victims. He reached upward, rippling through the shield, and neatly slit the attacker’s throat. An entrisseur. The guard dropped his sword and grasped his neck in a futile attempt to hold his lifeblood inside.
The fifth Harkonnen crumpled to the ground.
As the two Fremen fighters turned their revenge upon the lone remaining enemy, Kynes bent over the seriously wounded desert youth and spoke to him. “Stay calm. I will help you.”
The young man had already sprayed copious amounts of blood into the gravelly dust, but Kynes had an emergency medpak on his belt. He slapped a wound sealant on the ragged neck cut, then used hypovials with ready plasma and high-powered stimulants to keep the victim alive. He felt the young man’s pulse at the wrist. A steady heartbeat.
Kynes saw the depth of the damage now and was astonished that the youth hadn’t bled more. Without medical attention, he would have died within minutes. But still, Kynes was amazed the boy had survived this long. This Fremen’s blood coagulates with extreme efficiency. Another fact to file away in his memory— a survival adaptation to reduce moisture loss in the driest desert?
“Eeeeah!”
“No!”
Kynes looked up at the cries of pain and terror. Off to one side, the Fremen had dug the surviving Harkonnen’s eyes out of their sockets, using their blade tips. Then they made slow work of flaying their victim alive, stripping away ribbons of pink skin, which they stored in sealed pouches at their hips.
Covered with blood, Kynes stood up, panting. Seeing their viciousness now that the tables had been turned, he began to wonder if he’d done the right thing. These Fremen were like wild animals and had worked themselves into a frenzy. Would they attempt to kill him now, despite what he had done for them? He was a complete stranger to these desperate young men.
He watched and waited, and when the youths had finished with their grisly torture, he met their eyes and cleared his throat before speaking in Imperial Galach. “My name is Pardot Kynes, the Imperial Planetologist assigned to Arrakis.”
He looked down at his blood-smeared skin and decided not to extend a hand in greeting. In their culture, they might misinterpret the gesture. “I’m very pleased to introduce myself. I’ve always wanted to meet the Fremen.”
It’s easier to be terrified by an enemy you admire.
—THUFIR HAWAT, Mentat and
Security Commander to House Atreides
Hidden by the thick pines, Duncan Idaho knelt in the soft needles on the ground, feeling little warmth. The chill night air deadened the resinous evergreen scent, but at least here he was sheltered from the razor breezes. He had gone far enough from the cave that he could pause and catch his breath. For just a moment.
He knew
the Harkonnen hunters wouldn’t rest, though. They would be particularly incensed now that he’d killed one of their party. Maybe, he thought, they might even enjoy the chase more. Especially Rabban.
Duncan opened the medpak he’d stolen from the ambushed tracker and brought out a small package of newskin ointment, which he slathered over the incision on his shoulder, where it hardened to an organic bond. Then he wolfed down the nutrition bar and stuffed the wrappings into his pockets.
Using the glow of his handlight, he turned to study the lasgun. He’d never fired such a weapon before, but he had watched the guards and the hunters operate their rifles. He cradled the weapon and fiddled with its mechanisms and controls. Pointing the barrel upward, he attempted to understand what he was supposed to do. He had to learn if he meant to fight.
With a sudden surge of power, a white-hot beam lanced out toward the upper boughs of the pine trees. They burst into flames, crackling and snapping. Smoldering clumps of evergreen needles fell around him like red-hot snow.
Yelping, he dropped the gun to the ground and scrambled backward. But he snatched it up again before he could forget which combination of buttons he had pushed. He had to remember and know how to use them.
The flames overhead flared like a bonfire beacon, exuding curls of sharp smoke. With nothing to lose now, Duncan fired again, aiming this time, just to make sure he could use the lasgun to defend himself. The cumbersome weapon was not built for a small boy, especially not with his throbbing shoulder and sore ribs, but he could use it. He had to.
Knowing the Harkonnens would run toward the blaze, Duncan scampered out of the trees, searching for another place to hide. Once again he made for higher ground, keeping to the ridgeline so he could continue observing the hunting party’s scattered glowglobes. He knew exactly where the men were, exactly how close.
But how can they be so stupid, he wondered, making themselves so obvious? Overconfidence . . . was that their flaw? If so, it might help him. The Harkonnens expected him to play their game, then cower and die when he was supposed to. Duncan would just have to disappoint them.
Maybe this time we’ll play my game instead.
As he dashed along, he avoided patches of snow and kept away from noisy underbrush. However, Duncan’s focus on the clustered pursuers distracted him from seeing his real danger. He heard a snap of dried twigs behind and above him, the rustle of bushes, then a clicking of claws on bare rock accompanied by heavy, hoarse panting.
This was no Harkonnen hunter at all— but another forest predator that smelled his blood.
Skidding to a halt, Duncan looked up, searching for gleaming eyes in the shadows. But he didn’t turn to the stark outcropping over his head until he heard a wet-sounding growl. In the starlight, he discerned the muscular, crouching form of a wild gaze hound, its back fur bristling like quills, its lips curled to expose flesh-tearing fangs. Its huge, huge eyes focused on its prey: a young boy with tender skin.
Duncan scrambled backward and fired off a shot with the lasgun. Poorly aimed, the beam came nowhere close to the stalking creature, but powdered rock spewed from the outcropping below the gaze hound. The predator yelped and snarled, backing off. Duncan fired again, this time sizzling a blackened hole through its right haunch. With a brassy roar, the creature bounded off into the darkness, howling and baying.
The gaze hound’s racket, as well as flashes from the lasgun fire, would draw the Harkonnen trackers. Duncan set off into the starlight, running once more.
• • •
Hands on his hips, Rabban stared down at the body of his ambushed hunter by the cave hollow. Rage burned through him— as well as cruel satisfaction. The devious child had lured the man into a trap. Very resourceful. All of the tracker’s armor hadn’t saved him from a dropped boulder and then the thrust of a dull dagger into his throat. The coup de grâce.
Rabban simmered for a few moments, trying to assess the challenge. He smelled the sour scent of death even in the cold night. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it— a challenge?
One of the other trackers crawled into the low hollow and played the beam of his handlight around the cave. It lighted the smears of blood and the smashed Richesian tracer. “Here is the reason, m’Lord. The cub cut out his own tracking device.” The hunter swallowed, as if uncertain whether he should continue. “A smart one, this boy. Good prey.”
Rabban glowered at the carnage for a few moments; his sunburn still stung on his cheeks. Then he grinned, slowly, and finally burst out into loud guffaws. “An eight-year-old child with only his imagination and a couple of clumsy weapons bested one of my troops!” He laughed again. Outside, the others in the party stood uncertainly, bathed in the light of their bobbing glowglobes.
“Such a boy was made for the hunt,” Rabban declared; then he nudged the dead tracker’s body with the toe of his boot. “And this clod did not deserve to be part of my crew. Leave his body here to rot. Let the scavengers get him.”
Then two of the spotters saw flames in the trees, and Rabban pointed. “There! The cub’s probably trying to warm his hands.” He laughed again, and finally the rest of the hunting crew snickered along with him. “This is turning into an exciting night.”
• • •
From his high vantage Duncan gazed into the distance, away from the guarded lodge. A bright light blinked on and off, paused, then fifteen seconds later flashed on and off again. Some kind of signal, separate from the Harkonnen hunters, far from the lodge or the station or any nearby settlements.
Duncan turned, curious. The light flashed, then fell dark. Who else is out here?
Forest Guard Station was a restricted preserve for the sole use of Harkonnen family members. Anyone discovered trespassing would be killed outright, or used as prey in a future hunt. Duncan watched the tantalizing light flickering on and off. It was clearly a message. . . . Who’s sending it?
He took a deep breath, felt small but defiant in a very large and hostile world. He had no place else to go, no other chance. So far, he had eluded the hunters . . . but that couldn’t last forever. Soon the Harkonnens would bring in additional forces, ornithopters, life-tracers, perhaps even hunting animals to follow the smell of blood on his shirt, as the wild gaze hound had done.
Duncan decided to make his way to the mysterious signaler and hope for the best. He couldn’t imagine finding anyone to help him, but he had not given up hope. Maybe he could find a means of escape, perhaps as a stowaway.
First, though, he would lay another trap for the hunters. He had an idea, something that would surprise them, and it seemed simple enough. If he could kill a few more of the enemy, he’d have a better chance of getting away.
After studying the rocks, the patches of snow, the trees, Duncan selected the best point for his second ambush. He switched on his handlight and directed the beam at the ground so that no sensitive eyes would spot a telltale gleam in the distance.
The pursuers weren’t far behind him. Occasionally, he heard a muffled shout in the deep silence, saw the hunting party’s firefly glowglobes illuminating their way through the forest, as the trackers tried to anticipate the path their quarry would take.
Right then Duncan wanted them to anticipate where he would go . . . but they would never guess what he meant to do. Kneeling beside a particularly light and fluffy snowdrift, he inserted the handlight into the snow and pushed it down through the cold iciness as far as he could. Then he withdrew his hand.
The glow reflected from the white snow like water diffusing into a sponge. Tiny crystals of ice refracted the light, magnifying it; the drift itself shone like a phosphorescent island in the dark clearing.
Slinging the lasgun in front of him, ready to fire, he trotted back to the sheltering trees. He lay on a cushion of pine needles flat against the ground, careful to present no visible target, then rested the barrel of the lasgun on a small rock, propping it in position.
Waiting.
The hunters came, predictably, and Duncan felt that their ro
les had reversed: Now he was the hunter, and they were his game. He aimed the weapon, fingers tense on the firing stud. At last the group entered the clearing. Startled to find the shining snowdrift, they milled about, trying to figure out what it was, what their prey had done.
Two of the trackers faced outward, suspicious of an attack from the forest. Others stood silhouetted in the ghostly light, perfect targets— exactly as Duncan had hoped.
At the rear of the party, he recognized one burly man with a commanding presence. Rabban! Duncan thought of how his parents had fallen, remembered the smell of their burning flesh— and squeezed the firing stud.
But at that moment, one of the scouts stepped in front of Rabban to give a report. The beam scored through his armor, burning and smoking. The man flung out his arms and gave a wild shriek.
Reacting with lightning speed for his burly body, Rabban hurled himself to one side as the beam melted all the way through the hunter’s padded chest and sizzled into the snowdrift. Duncan cut loose another blast, shooting a second tracker who stood outlined against the glowing snow. Then the remaining guards began firing wildly into the trees, into the darkness.
Duncan next targeted the drifting glowglobes. Bursting one after another, he left his hapless pursuers alone in flame-haunted darkness. He picked off two more men, while the rest of the party scrambled for cover.
With the charge in his lasgun running low, the boy scrabbled back behind the ridge where he had set up his attack, and then he headed out at top speed toward the blinking signal light he had seen. Whatever the beacon might be, it was his best chance.
The Harkonnens would be startled and disorganized for a few moments, and overly suspicious for much longer than that. Knowing he had one last opportunity, Duncan threw caution to the wind. He ran, slipping, down the hillside, smashing against rocks, but taking no time to feel the pain of scrapes or bruises. He could not cover his tracks in time, did not attempt to hide.
Dune: House Atreides Page 17