As if embarrassed by Leto’s dramatic news and rumpled appearance, the tousle-haired young man peered down at the swirling masses of workers in the production yards below. Everything seemed quiet, business as usual. “Leto, Leto . . .” He pointed a pudgy finger at the apparently content lower classes who labored like dutiful drones. “Suboids can’t even decide for themselves what to eat for dinner, much less band together and start a rebellion. That takes too much . . . initiative.”
Leto shook his head, still panting. His sweaty hair clung to his forehead. He felt more shaky now that he was safe, sitting slumped in a comfortable self-forming chair in Rhombur’s private quarters. When he’d been fleeing for his life, he had reacted on instinct alone. Now, trying to relax, he couldn’t keep his pulse from racing. He took a long gulp of sour cidrit juice from a goblet on Rhombur’s breakfast tray.
“I’m only reporting what I saw, Rhombur, and I don’t imagine threats. I’ve seen enough real ones to know the difference.” He leaned forward, his gray eyes flashing at his friend. “I tell you, something’s going on. The suboids were talking about overthrowing House Vernius, tearing down what you’ve built, and taking Ix for themselves. They were preparing for violence.”
Rhombur hesitated, as if still waiting to hear the punch line. “Well, I’ll tell my father. You can give him your version of the events, and I’m, uh, sure he’ll look into the matter.”
Leto’s shoulders sagged. What if Earl Vernius ignored the problem until it was too late?
Rhombur brushed down his purple tunic and smiled, then scratched his head in perplexity. It seemed to take great stamina for him to address the subject again; he appeared genuinely baffled. “But . . . if you’ve been down there, Leto, you see that we take care of the suboids. They’re given food, shelter, families, jobs. Sure, maybe we take the lion’s share of the profits . . . that’s the way of things. That’s our society. But we don’t abuse our workers. What can they possibly complain about?”
“Maybe they see it differently,” Leto said. “Physical oppression isn’t the only kind of abuse.”
Rhombur brightened, then extended his hand. “Come, my friend. This might just make an interesting twist for our political lectures today. We can use it as a hypothetical case.”
Leto followed, more saddened than distraught. He was afraid the Ixians would never see this trouble as anything more than an interesting political discussion.
• • •
From the tallest spire of the Grand Palais, Earl Dominic Vernius ruled an industrial empire hidden from outside view. The big man paced back and forth on the transparent floor of his Orb Office that hung like a magnificent crystal ball from the cavern ceiling.
The office walls and floor were constructed of perfectly bonded Ixian glass with no seams or distortions; he seemed to be walking on air, floating over his domain. At times, Dominic felt like a deity on high, gazing out upon his universe. He ran a callused palm across his smooth, newly shaven head; the skin still tingled there from the invigorating lotions Shando used when she massaged his scalp.
His daughter Kailea sat in a suspensor chair and watched him. He approved of her taking an interest in Ixian business, but today he felt too troubled to spend much time debating with her. He brushed imaginary crumbs off his newly laundered sleeveless tunic, turned about, and circled his quicksilver desk again.
Kailea continued to study him, offering no advice, though his daughter understood the problem they faced.
Dominic didn’t expect old “Roody” to roll over and meekly accept the loss of tax revenues caused by the new Ixian Heighliner design. No, the Emperor would find some way to twist a simple business decision into a personal affront, but Dominic had no idea how the retaliation would come, or where it would strike. Elrood had always been unpredictable.
“You just have to stay one step ahead of him,” Kailea said. “You’re good at that.” She thought of the wily way her father had stolen the Emperor’s concubine right out from under his nose . . . and how Elrood had never forgotten the fact. The slightest touch of resentment darkened her words. She would rather have grown up on marvelous Kaitain, instead of here, under the ground.
“I can’t stay ahead of him if I don’t know which direction he’s moving,” Dominic replied. The Ixian Earl seemed to be floating upside down, with the solid rock ceiling and the spires of the Grand Palais above his head, and only open air beneath his feet.
Kailea straightened the lace on her gown, adjusted the trim, and bent as she studied shipping records and compared manifests again, hoping to determine a better pattern for distributing Ixian technology. Dominic didn’t expect her to do better than his experts, but he let her have her fun. Her idea to send out Ixian self-learning fighting meks to a few black market dealers had been a stroke of genius.
He paused a moment for a wistful smile that made his long mustache sink into the seams around his mouth. His daughter was stunningly beautiful, a work of art in every way, made to be an ornament in some great lord’s household . . . but she was sharp-witted, too. Kailea was a strange mixture, all right: fascinated by court games and styles and everything to do with the grandeur of Kaitain, but also doggedly determined to comprehend the workings of House Vernius. Even at her age, she understood that behind-the-scenes business complexities were a woman’s real key to power in the Imperium— unless she joined the Bene Gesserit.
Dominic didn’t think his daughter understood Shando’s decision to leave the Imperial Court and come with him to Ix. Why would the lover of the most powerful man in the universe leave all that splendor to marry a weather-beaten war hero who lived in a city underground? At times, Dominic wondered the same thing, but his love for Shando knew no bounds, and his wife often told him she had never regretted her decision.
Kailea offered a stark contrast with her mother in all but appearance. The young woman couldn’t possibly be comfortable in her extravagant clothes and finery, yet she wore her best at all times, as if afraid she might miss an opportunity. Perhaps she resented the lost chances in her life, and would rather be warded off to a sponsor in the Imperial Palace. He’d noticed that she toyed with the affections of the twin sons of Ambassador Pilru, as if marriage to one of them might tie her to the embassy on Kaitain. But C’tair and D’murr Pilru were scheduled to test for positions in the Spacing Guild, and if they passed the examination they would be off-planet within a week. At any rate, Dominic was sure he could arrange a much more profitable match for his only female child.
Perhaps even to Leto Atreides . . .
A comeye blinked yellow on the wall, interrupting his thoughts. An important message, an update of the troubling rumors that had spread like poison through a cistern.
“Yes?” he said. Without being asked, Kailea walked across the invisible floor and stood next to him to read the report as it imaged itself on the quicksilver surface of his desk. Her emerald eyes narrowed as she read the words.
The smell of his daughter’s faint perfume and the glitter of combs in her dark bronze hair brought a paternal smile to his face. Such a young lady. Such a young businesswoman.
“Are you sure you want to concern yourself with this, child?” he asked, wishing to shelter her from the grim news. Labor relations were so much more complex than technological innovations. Kailea just looked at him in annoyance that he would even ask the question.
He read more details on what he had been told earlier in the day, though he still couldn’t quite believe everything Leto Atreides claimed he’d heard and seen. A disturbance was brewing in the deep-ground manufacturing facilities, where the suboid workers had begun complaining— an unprecedented situation.
Kailea took a deep breath, marshaling her thoughts. “If the suboids have such grievances, why haven’t they elected a spokesman? Why haven’t they delivered any formal demands?”
“Oh, they’re just grumbling, child. They claim they’re being forced to assemble machines in violation of the Butlerian Jihad, and they don’t want to perfo
rm ‘blasphemous labor.’ ”
The message screen went dark after they finished reading the summary report, and Kailea stood up, hands on her hips. Her skirts rustled as she huffed. “Wherever do they get such ridiculous ideas? How can they even begin to understand the nuances and complexities of running these operations? They were bred and trained in Ixian facilities— who put those thoughts in their minds?”
Dominic shook his gleaming head, and realized his daughter had raised a very good question. “You’re right. Suboids certainly couldn’t come up with such extrapolations on their own.”
Kailea continued to be indignant. “Don’t they realize how much we give them? How much we provide, and how much it costs? I’ve looked at the costs and benefits. The suboids don’t know how good they have it compared to workers on other planets.” She shook her head, and her curved mouth bent downward in a frown. She looked through the floor at her feet, to the manufactories in the cavern far below. “Maybe they should visit Giedi Prime— or Arrakis. Then they wouldn’t complain about Ix.”
But Dominic wouldn’t let go of her first thread of conversation. “Suboids are bred for limited intelligence, only enough to perform assigned tasks . . . and they’re supposed to do it without complaining. It’s part of their mental makeup.” He joined his daughter in staring down at the floor of the grotto, which swarmed with Heighliner construction workers. “Could our bio-designers have overlooked something important? Do the suboids have a point? The definition of machine-minds encompasses a broad range, but there might be gray areas. . . .”
Kailea shook her head and tapped her crystal pad. “Our Mentats and legal advisors are meticulous about the precise strictures of the Jihad, and our quality-control methods are effective. We’re on solid ground, and they can prove every assertion we make.”
Dominic chewed his lower lip. “The suboids couldn’t possibly have specifics, since there aren’t any violations. At least we haven’t knowingly stepped over the line, not in any instance.”
Kailea studied her father, then looked down at the bustling work area again. “Maybe you should have Captain Zhaz and a team of inspectors turn over every stone, investigate every aspect of our design and manufacturing processes. Prove to the suboids that their complaints are groundless.”
Dominic considered the idea. “Of course I don’t want to be too hard on the workers. I want no crackdowns, and certainly no revolts. The suboids are to be treated well, as always.” He met her gaze, and she seemed very much an adult.
“Yes,” Kailea said, her voice hardening. “They work better that way.”
Like the knowledge of your own being, the sietch forms a firm base from which you move out into the world and into the universe.
—Fremen Teaching
Pardot Kynes was so fascinated by the Fremen culture, religion, and daily routine that he remained completely oblivious to the life-and-death debate raging around him in the sietch. Naib Heinar had told him he could talk to the people and describe his ideas— and so he talked, at every opportunity.
For an entire cycle of the moons, the Fremen whispered their opinions in small caves and dens, or shouted them across tables in private meetings of the sietch elders. Some of them even empathized with what the strange outworlder was saying.
Though his fate remained undecided, Kynes didn’t slow for a moment. Sietch guides took him around and showed him many things they thought would interest him, but the Planetologist also stopped to ask questions of women working in the stillsuit factories, of old men tending water supplies, and of withered grandmothers operating solar ovens or filing rough burrs off scrap metal.
The bustling activity around the sealed caves astonished him: Some workers trampled spice residue to extract fuel, others curded spice for fermentation. Weavers at power looms used their own hair, the long fur of mutated rats, wisps of desert cotton, and even skin strips from wild creatures to make their durable fabric. And of course schools taught the young Fremen desert skills, as well as ruthless combat techniques.
One morning Kynes awoke refreshed, perfectly comfortable after spending the night on a mat on the hard floor. Throughout much of his life, he had slept in the open on rough ground. His body could find rest just about anywhere. He breakfasted on dehydrated fruits and dry cakes the Fremen women had baked in thermal ovens. The beginnings of a beard covered his face, a sandy stubble.
A young woman named Frieth brought him a serving tray with meticulously prepared spice coffee in an ornate pot. During the entire ritual, she directed her deep blue eyes downward, as she had done every morning since Kynes’s arrival at the sietch. He hadn’t thought anything of her cool, efficient attentions until someone had whispered to him, “She is the unmarried sister of Stilgar, whose life you saved against the Harkonnen dogs.”
Frieth had fine features and smooth, tanned skin. Her hair appeared long enough to flow to her waist, if ever she undid it from her water rings and let it fall. Her manner was quiet but all-knowing, in the Fremen way; she rushed to fulfill every small wish Kynes bothered to express, often without his realizing it. He might have noticed how beautiful she was, had he not been so intent on noticing everything else around him.
After he had sipped his pungent, cardamom-laced coffee down to the dregs, Kynes hauled out his electronic pad to jot down notes and ideas. At a noise, he looked up to see wiry young Turok standing in the doorway. “I’m to take you anywhere you wish, Planetologist, so long as you remain within Red Wall Sietch.”
Kynes nodded and smiled, disregarding the constraints of being a captive. They did not rankle him. It was understood that he would never leave the sietch alive unless the Fremen accepted him and decided to trust him completely. If he did join the community, there could be no secrets between them; on the other hand, if the Fremen chose to execute him in the end, there would have been no point in keeping secrets from a dead man.
Previously Kynes had seen the tunnels, the food-storage chambers, the guarded water supplies, even the Huanui deathstills. In fascination he had watched the family groups of desert-hardened men, each with his several wives; he had seen them pray to Shai-Hulud. He’d begun to compile a mental sketch of this culture and the political and familial ties within the sietch, but it would take decades to unravel all the subtle relationships, all the nuances of obligations laid down upon their kinsmen many generations earlier.
“I’d like to go to the top of the rock,” he said, remembering his duties as Imperial Planetologist. “If we could retrieve some of the equipment from my groundcar— I presume you’ve kept it safe?— I’d like to establish a weather station here. It’s imperative that we collect climate data— temperature variations, atmospheric humidity, and wind patterns— from as many isolated spots as possible.”
Turok looked at him, surprised and disbelieving. Then he shrugged. “As you wish, Planetologist.” Knowing the conservative ways of the sietch elders, Turok was pessimistic about the fate of this enthusiastic but not terribly bright man. What a futile effort it would be for Kynes to continue his vigorous work. But if it kept him happy in his last days . . .
“Come,” Turok said. “Put on your stillsuit.”
“Oh, we’ll only be out for a few minutes.”
Turok scowled at him, looking stern and much older. “A breath of moisture is water wasted into the air. We are not so rich we can afford to waste water.”
Shrugging, Kynes pulled on his crinkling, slick-surfaced uniform and took the time to attach all the seals, though he did so clumsily. Heaving a heavy sigh, Turok assisted him, explaining the most effective way to dress out the suit and adjust the fittings to optimize its efficiency.
“You have bought a decent stillsuit. It is of Fremen manufacture,” the young man observed. “In this at least you have chosen well.”
Kynes followed Turok to the storage chamber where his groundcar had been kept. The Fremen had stripped it of amenities, and his equipment lay in open boxes on the cave floor, inspected and cataloged. No doubt the sietch inh
abitants had been trying to determine how they could put these things to use.
They’re still planning to kill me, Kynes thought. Haven’t they heard a thing I’ve said? Oddly, the thought neither depressed nor frightened him. He simply took the knowledge as a challenge. He was not about to give up— there was too much left to do. He would have to make them understand.
Among the clutter he found his weather apparatus and tucked the components under his arms, but made no comment about what had been done to his possessions. He knew Fremen had a communal mentality: Every item owned by an individual was owned by the entire community. Since he had spent so much of his life alone, relying only on himself and his abilities, he found it difficult to absorb such a mind-set.
Turok did not offer to carry any of the equipment, but led the way up steep steps that had been rough-hewn into the stone wall. Kynes panted but did not complain. Ahead of him the guide shifted aside numerous barricades, moisture baffles, and doorseals. Turok flashed glances over his shoulder to make sure the Planetologist was keeping up, then increased his speed.
Finally they emerged from a cleft atop the rubble-strewn peaks. The young Fremen leaned back in the shadow of the rocks, keeping himself cool, while Kynes stepped out into open sunlight. All around them the stone was coppery brown with a few discolorations of lichen. A good sign, he thought. The advance footprints of biological systems.
As he stared out at the sweeping vista of the Great Basin, he saw dunes that were the grayish white and brown of newly decomposed rock grains, as well as the buttery yellow of older, oxidized sand.
From the sandworms he’d seen, as well as the teeming sand plankton in the spice-rich sands, Kynes knew that Dune already had the basis for a complex ecosystem. He was certain it would take only a few crucial nudges in the proper direction to make this dormant place blossom.
The Fremen people could do it.
“Imperial man,” said Turok, stepping forward from the shade, “what is it you see when you stare out onto the desert like that?”
Dune: House Atreides Page 22