Many people made such ridiculous assumptions about the Tleilaxu. Ajidica was accustomed to being dismissed by fools.
No one other than a Tleilaxu Master or a full-blooded Tlei-laxu Researcher would ever have access to this knowledge. Ajidica drew a deep breath of the rank chemicals, the unpleasant humid stink that was an inevitable consequence of the functioning tanks. Natural odors. I feel the presence of my God, he thought, forming the words in Islamiyat— the arcane language that was never spoken aloud outside of kehls, the secret councils of his race. God is merciful. He alone can guide me.
A glowglobe floated in front of his eyes, blinking red . . . long, long, short, pause . . . long, short, color change to blue . . . five rapid blinks and back to red. The Crown Prince’s emissary was anxious to see him. Hidar Fen Ajidica knew not to keep Hasimir Fenring waiting. Though he had no noble title of his own, the impatient Fenring was the Imperial heir’s closest friend, and Fenring understood the manipulations of personal power better than most great leaders in the Landsraad. Ajidica even bore a certain amount of respect for the man.
With resignation Ajidica turned and passed easily through an identity zone that would have been deadly to anyone not properly sanctioned. Even the Crown Prince himself would be unable to pass through safely. Ajidica smiled at the superiority of his people’s ways. Ixians had used machinery and force fields for security, as the ruthless and clumsy suboid rebels had discovered . . . causing messy detonations and collateral damage. Tleilaxu, on the other hand, used biological agents, unleashed through ingenious interactions— toxins and nerve mists that rendered powindah infidels lifeless the moment they set foot where they didn’t belong.
Outside in the secure waiting area, a smiling Hasimir Fenring greeted Ajidica as the researcher exited the identity zone. From some angles the weak-chinned man looked like a weasel and from others a rabbit, innocuous in appearance, but oh so dangerous. The two faced each other in what had once been an Ixian lobby connected through an intricate network of clear-plaz lift tubes. This deadly Imperial killer stood more than a head taller than the Master Researcher.
“Ah, my dear Fen Ajidica,” Fenring purred, “your experiments go well, hm-m-m-m-ah? Crown Prince Shaddam is eager to receive an update as he begins the work of his Imperium.”
“We make good progress, sir. Our uncrowned Emperor has received my gift, I presume?”
“Yes, very nice, and he sends his appreciation.” He smiled tightly as he thought of it: a silver-furred hermafox, capable of self-replication, an unusual living bauble that served no useful purpose whatsoever. “Wherever did you come up with such an interesting creature?”
“We are adepts with the forces of life, sir.” The eyes, Ajidica thought. Watch his eyes. They reveal dangerous emotions. Vicious now.
“So you enjoy playing God?” Fenring said.
With controlled indignation, Ajidica retorted, “There is but one God All High. I would not presume to take His place.”
“Of course not.” Fenring’s eyes narrowed. “Our new Emperor sends his gratitude, but points out one gift he would have greatly preferred— a sample of artificial spice.”
“We are working hard on the problem, sir, but we told Emperor Elrood from the outset that it would take many years, possibly even decades, to develop a completed product. Much of our labor heretofore has simply been consolidating our control on Xuttah and adapting the existing facilities.”
“You’ve made no tangible progress, then?” Fenring’s scorn was so extreme that he couldn’t conceal it.
“There are many promising signs.”
“Good, then may I tell Shaddam when he should expect his gift? He would like to receive it prior to his coronation, in six weeks’ time.”
“I don’t think that is possible, sir. You brought us a supply of melange as a catalyst less than a Standard Month ago.”
“I gave you enough of the stuff to buy several planets.”
“Of course, of course, and we are moving as quickly as possible. But the axlotl tanks must be grown and modified, probably through several generations. Shaddam must be patient.”
Fenring studied the little Tleilaxu, looking for signs of deception. “Patient? Remember, Ajidica, an Emperor does not have unlimited patience.”
The dwarf-sized man did not like this Imperial predator. Something in Fenring’s overlarge dark eyes and his speech carried a threatening undertone, even when discussing mundane subjects. Make no mistake. This man will be our new Emperor’s enforcer— the one who will murder me if I fail.
Ajidica took a deep breath, but concealed it in a yawn to avoid showing fear. When he spoke, it was in the calmest of tones. “When God wills our success, it will happen. We move according to His schedule, not our own, and not Prince Shaddam’s. That is the way of the universe.”
Fenring’s huge eyes flashed dangerously. “You realize how important this is? Not only to the future of House Corrino and the economy of the Imperium . . . but to your personal survival, as well?”
“Most certainly.” Ajidica did not react to the threat. “My people have learned the value of waiting. An apple plucked too soon may be green and sour, but if one merely waits until it is ripe, then the fruit is sweet and delicious. When perfected, the artificial spice will alter the entire power structure of the Imperium. It is not possible to engineer such a substance overnight.”
Fenring glowered. “We have been patient, but that cannot continue.”
With a generous smile, Ajidica said, “If you wish, we can convene regular meetings to display our work and progress. Such distractions, however, would only slow our experiments, our substance analyses, our settings.”
“No, keep on,” Fenring growled.
I’ve got the bastard where I want him, Ajidica thought, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Still, he had the distinct impression that this assassin would do away with him without a second thought. Even now, despite the tightest security scans, Fenring no doubt carried a number of weapons concealed within his clothing, skin, and hair.
He will make the attempt as soon as I’m not needed, when Shaddam thinks he has everything he wants.
Hidar Fen Ajidica had his own concealed weapons, though. He had set up contingency plans to deal with the most dangerous of outsiders . . . to ensure that the Tleilaxu remained in control at all times.
Our laboratories may indeed come up with a substitute for the spice, he thought. But no powindah will ever learn how it is made.
Our timetable will achieve the stature of a natural phenomenon. A planet’s life is a vast, tightly interwoven fabric. Vegetation and animal changes will be determined at first by the raw physical forces we manipulate. As they establish themselves, though, our changes will become controlling influences in their own right— and we will have to deal with them, too. Keep in mind, though, that we need control only three percent of the energy surface— only three percent— to tip the entire structure over into our self-sustaining system.
—PARDOT KYNES, Arrakis Dreams
When his son Liet was a year and a half old, Pardot Kynes and his wife embarked on a journey into the desert. They dressed their silent child in a custom-fitted stillsuit and robes to shield his skin against the sun and the heat.
Kynes was delighted to spend time with his family, to show them what he had accomplished in the transformation of Dune. His entire life rested on sharing his dreams.
His three apprentices, Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun, had tried to insist on going along to protect and guide him, but Kynes would hear none of it. “I’ve spent more years alone in the wilderness than any of you have been alive. I can handle a few days’ sojourn with my family.” He made a shooing gesture with his hands. “Besides, haven’t I given you enough work to do— or shall I find additional tasks?”
“If you have more for us to do,” Stilgar said, “we will gladly do it for you.”
“Just . . . just keep yourselves busy,” Kynes said, nonplussed, then set off on foot with Frieth and young Liet. The
baby rode one of the sietch’s three kulons, a domesticated desert ass that had been brought to Dune by smugglers and prospectors.
The animal’s water price was high, despite its inbred adaptation to a harsh, arid environment. The Fremen had even developed a modified four-legged stillsuit for the beast, which saved some of the moisture the animal exuded. But in such a contraption the kulon had difficulty moving— in addition to the fact that it looked ridiculous— and Kynes decided not to bother with such extreme measures. This required taking extra water on the journey, which the animal carried in literjons attached to its back.
In the shadow of morning, the tall, bearded Kynes led his small party up a winding thread that only a Fremen would have called a path. His eyes, like Frieth’s, were the blue of the Ibad. The desert ass picked its way up the precipitous slope, but made no sound of complaint. Kynes didn’t mind walking; he had done so for much of his life, during his years of ecological study on Salusa Secundus and Bela Tegeuse. His muscles rippled, whipcord-tough. Besides, when he went on foot he could keep his eyes focused more on the pebbles and varying grains of sand beneath his boots than on the distant mountains or the sweltering sun.
Eager to please her husband, Frieth turned her attention every time Kynes pointed out a rock formation, studied a spot of ground for its composition, or assessed sheltered crannies as possible sites for planting future vegetation. After a time of uncertainty, she also pointed things out to him. “A Fremen’s greatest strength is in observation,” Frieth said, as if quoting an old proverb for him. “The more we observe, the more we know. Such knowledge gives us power, especially when others fail to see.”
“Interesting.” Kynes knew little about his Fremen wife’s background. He’d been too busy to ask her for many details about her childhood and her own passions, but she didn’t seem in the least offended by his preoccupation with the terraforming work. In Fremen culture, husbands and wives lived in different worlds connected by only a few narrow and fragile bridges.
Kynes knew, however, that Fremen women had a reputation as ferocious fighters— deadly on the battlefield and feared above even Imperial soldiers in one-on-one combat. So far, he had managed to avoid uncovering Frieth’s vicious streak, and he hoped never to see it for himself. Fiercely loyal, she would make as formidable a foe as she did a friend.
As he trudged along, a small piece of vegetation caught his eye. Halting the kulon behind him, he knelt to inspect the small, pale green plant that grew in a shaded niche where dust and sand had collected. He recognized the specimen as a rare root plant and brushed the dust from its tiny waxy leaves.
“Look here, Frieth,” he said, like a teacher, his eyes shining. “Marvelously tenacious.”
Frieth nodded. “We have dug those roots in times of need. It is said a single tuber can yield half a liter of water, enough for a person to survive for several days.”
Kynes wondered how much desert knowledge Stilgar’s sister held within her Fremen mind; until now she had shared virtually none of it with him. It was his own fault, he told himself, for not paying enough attention to her.
Eager to eat the fresh leaves of the struggling plant, the kulon lowered its muzzle to the ground, nostrils flaring as it sniffed. But Kynes nudged it away. “That plant is too important to be a snack for you.”
He scanned the ground, intent on finding other tubers, but noticed none in the immediate vicinity. From what he had learned, these plants were native to Dune, survivors of whatever cataclysm had drained or diverted the moisture from this world.
The travelers took a short break to feed their child. As Frieth set up a shade-floater on a ledge, Kynes recalled the work of recent months and the tremendous progress he and his people had already made as they began their centuries-long project.
Dune had once been a botanical testing station, an isolated outpost with a few sample plantings placed centuries ago in the days of Imperial expansion. This had been done even before the prescient and geriatric properties of melange were discovered . . . back when this world had been a desert hellhole with no discernible use. But the botanical stations had been abandoned; the sparse plantings as well as animal and insect life-forms were left to fare as best they could in the rough environment.
Many species had survived and diversified, demonstrating remarkable durability and adaptability . . . mutated sword grasses, cacti, and other arid-country vegetation. Kynes had already arranged with smugglers to bring in cargoes of the most promising seeds and embryos. Fremen workers then set about sowing the sands and spreading the precious seeds, each one a vital kernel of life, a grain of Dune’s future.
From a water merchant, Kynes had learned of the death of Emperor Elrood IX. That had brought back vivid memories of his audience on Kaitain, when the ancient ruler had given him his assignment to come here and research the ecology of Arrakis. The Planetologist owed his entire future to that one meeting. He owed Elrood a great debt of gratitude, but he doubted the ancient Emperor had even remembered him in the last year or so.
Upon hearing the startling news, Kynes had considered trudging back to Arrakeen, booking passage on a Heighliner, and attending the state funeral— but decided he would have felt entirely out of place. He was a desert dweller now, rugged, hardened, and far from the niceties of Imperial politics. Besides, Pardot Kynes had much more important work to complete here.
In the deep south, far from Harkonnen watchers, the Fremen had planted adaptive poverty grasses along the downwind sides of chosen dunes, anchoring them across the prevailing westerly winds. Once the slipfaces were held stable, the windward faces of the dunes grew higher and higher, trying to overcome the plantings, but the Fremen moved their grasses to keep pace, eventually building gigantic sifs that rose as a sinuous soft barrier for many kilometers, some of them more than fifteen hundred meters high. . . .
As he contemplated, Kynes heard his wife stirring under the shade-floater. She talked gently to the child as young Liet suckled her breast through a stillsuit flap.
Next, Kynes pondered the second phase of the ecological transformation process, in which he and his team would plant tougher sword grasses, add processed chemical fertilizers, build windtraps and dew-precipitators. Later, careful not to pressure the fragile new ecology, they would add deeper plantings, including amaranth, pigweed, scotch broom, and dwarf tamarisk, followed by familiar desert icons such as saguaro and barrel cactus. The timetable scrolled out toward the horizon, decades and centuries hence.
In Dune’s northern inhabited areas, the Fremen had to content themselves with small plantings and hidden growths. The vast population of Fremen knew the terraforming secret and labored with their collective sweat and lifeblood . . . and managed to keep the monumental task and its accompanying dream hidden from prying eyes.
Kynes had the patience to see the metamorphosis take place little by little. The Fremen had intense faith in their “Umma.” Their unquestioning belief in one man’s dreams and cooperation with his difficult demands warmed his heart, but Kynes was determined to give them more than just grand lectures and empty promises. The Fremen deserved to see a brilliant glimmer of hope— and he had accomplished just that.
Others knew about his place in Plaster Basin, of course, but he wanted to be the first to show it to Frieth and their baby son Liet. “I’m taking you to see something incredible,” Kynes said as his wife dismantled the minicamp. “I want to show you exactly what Dune can be. Then you’ll understand why I work at it so hard.”
“I already understand, husband.” Frieth smiled knowingly, then zip-sealed her pack. “You cannot keep secrets from me.” She looked at him with a strange confidence, and Kynes realized that he did not need to rationalize his dreams to the Fremen. Any Fremen.
Surveying the increasing steepness and hazards of the trail, Frieth didn’t place the child back on the kulon, but chose to carry him in her arms instead.
Caught up in his thoughts again, Kynes began speaking aloud to Frieth as if she were one of his most dedi
cated students. “The thing the ecologically illiterate don’t realize about an ecosystem is that it’s a system.” He grabbed on to a rock on the rough mountain wall and hauled himself forward. He didn’t look back to observe the kulon’s difficulties in negotiating the tight turn. Its hooves stumbled on loose rock, but it followed.
In his mother’s arms, the baby Liet whimpered, then silenced himself. Frieth continued to listen to her husband.
“A system maintains a certain fluid stability that can be destroyed by a single misstep in only one niche. Everything comes crashing down with the slightest of mistakes. An ecological system flows from point to point . . . but if something dams that flow, then the order collapses. An untrained person might miss the impending collapse until it is too late.”
Already the Fremen had introduced insect forms, populations of tunneling creatures to aerate the soil. Kit fox, kangaroo mouse, and larger animals such as desert hares and sand terrapin, along with their appropriate predators, desert hawk and dwarf owl, scorpions, centipedes, and trapdoor spiders . . . even the desert bat and biting wasps— every small point interconnected on the web of life.
He couldn’t tell if Frieth understood what he was saying or if she was interested. In her silence, she agreed with him wholeheartedly. Just once, though, he wished his wife would debate with him. But Pardot Kynes was her husband and considered a prophet among the Fremen. Her own ingrained beliefs were too strong for her to question anything he said.
Kynes drew a deep breath through his nose filters and continued up the side of the mountain. If they didn’t reach the cave opening before afternoon, the sun would pass overhead and bake them. They’d have to find shelter and wouldn’t get to Plaster Basin until the following day. Anxious to show them his ecological treasure vault, Kynes picked up the pace.
The rocks stood above them and to their right like the knobbed spine of a starving lizard, casting shadows, muffling sounds. The kulon plodded along, sniffing the ground for something to eat. Frieth, who carried the baby boy without complaint, suddenly froze. Her blue eyes grew wide, flashing from side to side. She cocked her head to listen.
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