Kynes, weary and hot, but with a spring of eager anticipation in his step, went for five meters before he noticed that his wife had paused. “Husband!” she said in a quick, harsh whisper. Frieth looked up into the blue-white sky, as if trying to see through the mountainous barricade.
“What?” he asked, blinking.
An armored scout ’thopter thrummed over the ridge and rose high from the other side of the mountain wall. Kynes stared up at it, standing out in the sunlit open path. He noted the sandstorm-scarred Harkonnen markings, the scratched paint of the blue-griffin symbol.
Frieth clutched the baby close and scrambled for cover. “Husband! This way!” She tucked their baby into a sheltered cranny of rock far too small for either of the adults, then ran back to get Kynes before he’d managed to react. “Harkonnens— we must hide!” She grabbed his stillsuit sleeve.
The two-man ’thopter circled around close to the cliffside. Kynes realized they had been seen; he and his family made obvious targets on the exposed ridge. Harkonnen troops often made sport of attacking lone Fremen, hunting them down with impunity.
Weapons emerged from the snub nose of the craft. The plaz side window slid open so that one grinning soldier in Harkonnen uniform could extend his lasgun rifle. He had room to swing the stock and take aim.
As his wife passed the desert ass, she gave a bloodcurdling shriek and slapped the kulon hard on its hindquarters. The startled animal brayed and bucked before galloping off up the winding path, spraying loose rocks with its hooves.
Frieth turned the other way and ran downhill, her face hard and intent. Kynes did his best to follow. They stumbled back down the slope, dodging boulders, seeking shadows. Kynes couldn’t believe she had left Liet alone, until he realized that his young son was far more protected than either of them was. The baby folded into the shadows, instinctively falling silent and remaining still.
He felt clumsy and exposed, but Frieth seemed to know what to do. She had been raised as a Fremen and understood how to melt into the desert.
The ’thopter roared past them and targeted on the panicked kulon. Frieth must have known the Harkonnens would pick off the animal first. The side gunner leaned out of his open window, his sunburned face smiling. He fired a near-invisible bolt of white-orange fire from the lasgun, which sliced the desert ass into slumping hunks of meat, several of which tumbled down the steep cliffside, while the head and forelegs lay steaming on the path.
Then lasgun explosions began to track down the rock wall, sparking chips of stone that flew off. Barely able to keep their footing, Kynes and Frieth ran pell-mell. She threw him against the wall behind the barest protrusion of lava rock, and the lasgun bolts ricocheted off, missing them by centimeters. Kynes could smell the fresh ozone and stone smoke in the air.
The ’thopter came closer. The side gunner leaned out, aiming his weapon, choosing this kind of sport rather than letting the pilot target them with the heavier weaponry built into the craft itself.
At that moment Kynes’s guardian troops opened fire.
From hidden battlements in the camouflaged cliff wall near the cave, Fremen gunners shot the armored hull of the ’thopter. Brilliant lasers dazzled the cockpit viewport. One unseen defender used an old-fashioned artillery launcher, shoulder-mounted, to fire small explosives obtained from smugglers. The artillery shell struck the underbelly of the scout craft, making it lurch and rock in the air.
The sudden jolt knocked the precariously balanced side gunner from his seat. He tumbled out of the craft, screaming, and fell through the air to shatter in an explosive spray of red flesh against the rocks far below; his abandoned lasgun rifle clattered after him.
Frieth huddled against the cliff wall, holding Kynes close, astonished at the unexpected Fremen defense. He could tell she had expected to fight the attackers single-handedly— but he had other protectors as well.
As the Harkonnen ’thopter reeled in the sky, Fremen defenders opened fire on its vulnerable engine components. The air smelled of fire and burned metal. The pilot desperately attempted to stabilize, while black smoke spewed from exhaust ports and lifeblood lubricants sizzled out of severed transport lines. The craft spun, whined, and lumbered toward the ground.
The ’thopter struck the side of the cliff, split open, and continued to scrape down the rock wall. In vain, the articulated wings kept beating, twitching like involuntary muscles, until the craft smashed into the base of the ridge.
“I know of no sietch up here,” Frieth said, breathless and confused. “Who are these people? What tribe claims them?”
“Troops of mine, defending the project.”
Below, he noticed that the Harkonnen pilot had survived the crash. Part of the canopy popped open, and the wounded man began to crawl out, holding one dangling arm. Within moments camouflaged Fremen troops boiled out of the rocks and swarmed over the wreckage.
The pilot tried to duck back into the dubious safety of his craft, but two Fremen pulled him out. A flash of blue-white crysknife, then a splatter of crimson, and the pilot was dead. Watermen— consecrated body handlers— whisked away the corpse to where its water could be recovered. Kynes knew any moisture or fertilizer chemicals derived from this victim would be devoted to the Plaster Basin project, rather than to enriching any particular family unit.
“But what could be so important up here?” Frieth asked. “What is it you are doing, husband?”
He rewarded her with a sparkling smile. “You will see. I wanted you to be our first visitor.”
Frieth hurried back to retrieve their child from his sheltered hiding place. She picked up the baby, checked him for injuries. Young Liet had not even begun to cry. “He’s a true Fremen,” she said proudly, holding him up for Kynes to see.
Below, organized teams began dismantling the ruined ’thopter, stripping away the metal, the engines, the stash of supplies. Younger Fremen crawled up the dangerous cliff face to retrieve the fallen lasgun rifle.
Kynes led his wife past the remains of the butchered kulon. He gave a sad sigh. “We’ll have meat at least— that’s a rarity. And I think there’s good cause for celebration, once we get to the cave.”
The Fremen worked furiously to scour away all traces of the crash, dragging the heavy components into hidden tunnels, repairing scars in the rock, even combing the sand on the desert floor. Though Kynes had been with these people for some time, their hardened efficiency still astonished him.
Striding in the lead now, he led Frieth to the low, shielded opening shortly past noon. The sun burned down, its line of yellow fire sharpening the jagged crest of the mountains. Drifting out of the cave, the smell of cool, rock-moist air was like a refreshing breath.
Kynes plucked out his nose plugs and inhaled deeply, gesturing for his wife to do the same, though she seemed reluctant to shuck her desert survival instincts. Then she grinned in amazement as she looked deep into the shadows. “I smell water, my husband.”
He took her arm. “Come with me. This is something I want you to see.”
As they rounded a sharp corner whose purpose was to block light and evaporation from the grotto, Kynes gestured magnanimously to indicate the Eden he had made in Plaster Basin.
Yellow glowglobes hovered at the ceiling. The air was rich with humidity, redolent with the scents of flowers, shrubs, trees. The sweet sound of running water chuckled from narrow grooved troughs. In a carefully arranged appearance of randomness, flower beds burst with magenta and orange blossoms.
Irrigation systems trickled droplets into algae-packed tanks, while fans stirred the air to keep the moisture level constant. The grotto was alive with flittering patches of color, butterflies, moths, and bees, heady with the treasure of pollen and nectar around them.
Frieth gasped, and for a moment Kynes saw through the porcelain mask of her face, saw much more than he had ever noticed before. “This is paradise, my love!”
A hummingbird hovered in front of her with a tiny blur of wings, then darted off again. In thei
r own euphoria Fremen gardeners moved about, tending the plants.
“One day gardens like this will grow all across Dune, out in the open air. This is a showcase with growing crops and plants and open water, fruit trees, decorative flowers, green grasses. We have here a symbol for all Fremen, to show them my vision. Seeing this, they’ll understand what they can accomplish.”
Moisture ran down the walls of the cavern, touching parched rock that had known nothing but thirst for uncounted eons. “Even I did not truly comprehend,” Frieth said, “. . . until now.”
“Do you see why all this is worth fighting for? And dying for?”
Kynes walked around, inhaling the scents of the leaves, sniffing the perfume of the flowers. He found a tree from which dangled orange globes of ripening fruit. He plucked one, large and golden. None of the workers would question his right to the fresh produce.
“A portygul,” he said, “one of the fruits I was talking about back at Red Wall Sietch.” He gave it to Frieth as a gift, and she held it reverently in her tanned hands as the greatest treasure she had ever been offered.
Kynes waved expansively at the enclosed grotto. “Remember this well, my wife. All the Fremen must see this. Dune, our Dune, can be like this in only a few centuries.”
Even innocents carry within them their own guilt in their own way. No one makes it through life without paying, in one fashion or another.
—LADY HELENA ATREIDES,
her personal journals
Immediately after hearing the announcement of the first Imperial coronation ceremony in almost a century and a half, House Atreides began work on their family preparations. From dawn until the fall of darkness, the servants in Castle Caladan went from wardrobe to storeroom, gathering the clothing, trinkets, and gifts necessary for the formal journey to the Imperial Court.
Meanwhile, Leto wandered through his rooms, trying to refine his plan and decide the best way to obtain a dispensation for Rhombur and Kailea. The new Emperor Shaddam must hear my plea.
His protocol advisors had bickered for hours over the proper colors of capes, armbands, and merh-silk tunics . . . whether the jewelry should be gaudy or understated, expensive imported Ecazi stones or something simpler. Finally, because of his memorable times with Rhombur, Leto insisted on wearing a small coral gem suspended in a transparent sphere filled with water.
Kailea desperately wanted to go. Visiting the Palace on Kaitain, where her mother had once served the Emperor, had been a lifelong dream of hers. Leto could see the longing in her green eyes, the hope on her face, but still he had no choice but to forbid it. Rhombur had to accompany the entourage, to make his family’s case, but if they failed, the Vernius heir could be executed for having left his sanctuary. Kailea’s life would be forfeit as well.
If their mission succeeded, though, Leto vowed to take Kailea to the capital world himself, a glamorous vacation that would be all she imagined it to be.
Now, in the quiet hour before dawn, he paced back and forth on the wooden floors of his upper room, listening to the old beams creak. It was the comforting sound of home. How many times had other Dukes paced the same floor pondering decisions of state? Duke Paulus had undoubtedly done so time and again, troubled as he was by uprisings of the primitives in the southern continent or by requests from the Emperor to put out brushfire rebellions on outer worlds. In those times, Paulus Atreides had first blooded his sword, and had become a comrade-in-arms with Dominic Vernius.
Throughout his years the Old Duke had served with talent and finesse, knowing when to be hard and when to be lenient. He had employed the ingredients of dedication, ethics, and economic stability to create a population devoutly loyal to and proud of House Atreides.
How could Leto ever hope to do the same?
His voice filled the room. “Father, you left large shoes for me to fill.” He drew a deep breath, angrily forcing away his self-pity. He could do no less than his very best, for Caladan and for the memory of the Old Duke.
On calmer dawns, he and Rhombur might have gone down to the practice courtyard to train with knives and shields under the watchful eye of Thufir Hawat. Today, though, Leto had hoped to get more rest, a hope that hadn’t materialized. He’d slept badly, haunted by the weight of decisions that seemed to make the stones of the tall Castle grind together under the burden. Far below, the sea crashed like gnashing teeth— uneasy water that reflected Leto’s churning thoughts.
Wrapping himself in a robe lined with expensive imported whale-fur, he cinched the sash at his waist and padded barefoot down the curving steps toward the main hall. He smelled bitter coffee brewing and the faint hint of melange that would be added to his cup. Leto smiled, knowing the cook would insist on the young Duke receiving an extra boost of energy.
He could hear noises from the distant kitchen, food-prep units being primed, breakfast being prepared, old-fashioned fires being stoked. The Old Duke had always preferred real crackling fires in some of the rooms, and Leto had continued the tradition.
When he passed on bare feet through the Hall of Swords on the way to the banquet hall, he stopped upon encountering an unexpected person.
The young stableboy, Duncan Idaho, had removed one of Paulus’s tall and ornately carved ceremonial swords from the rack. He held it, point downward, resting against the flagstoned floor. Though the long weapon was nearly as tall as the ten-year-old, Duncan gripped its pommel with determination. The inlaid rope pattern on the hilt gave him all the leverage he needed.
Duncan spun around, startled at being discovered here. Leto’s voice caught in his throat in time to squelch a chiding speech. He meant to demand what the boy was doing here, unsupervised and without permission. Then Leto saw Duncan’s wide eyes with the tracks of tears running like salty tributaries down his face.
Embarrassed but filled with pride, the young man stood up straighter. “I am sorry, m’Lord Duke.” His voice was full of sorrow and much deeper than any child’s had a right to be. He looked down at the sword and then through the arched columns into the dining hall, where the portrait of dashing Paulus Atreides hung on the far wall. The hawkish patriarch stared from the painting with burning green eyes; he wore his gaudy matador clothes as if nothing in the universe could knock him from his intended course.
“I miss him very much,” Duncan said.
Feeling a lump in his throat that gradually expanded to become a leaden weight in his chest, Leto approached the boy.
Paulus had left his mark upon many lives. Even this youth who worked with the bulls, a mere boy who had somehow managed to outwit Harkonnen hunters and escape from Giedi Prime, felt the loss like a mortal wound.
I am not the only one who still feels the pain of my father’s death, Leto realized. He clasped Duncan’s shoulder, and in silence they spoke more than hours of conversation could have communicated.
Duncan finally pulled away and leaned on the tall sword as if it were a crutch. His flushed skin returned to its normal tone, and he drew a deep breath. “I came . . . I came to ask you a question, m’Lord, before you go to Kaitain.”
Pots clanged in the distance, and servants moved about. Before long, someone would come up to Leto’s room bearing a breakfast tray. They would find his room empty. “Ask,” he said.
“It’s about the bulls, sir. With Yresk gone now, I’ve been tending them every day, me and some of the other stableboys— but what do you mean to do with them? Will you fight the bulls just like your father?”
“No!” Leto said quickly, as a bolt of fear shot through him. He pushed the reflex away. “No,” he repeated more calmly. “I think not. The days of bullfighting on Caladan are over.”
“Then what shall I do, m’Lord?” Duncan said. “Do I still need to tend the animals?”
Leto tried not to laugh. At his age the boy should be playing, doing a few chores, and filling his head with imaginings of the grand adventures that awaited him in life.
But when Leto looked into Duncan’s eyes, he saw that the person before
him was far more than just a boy. He was much older inside. “You’ve eluded Harkonnens in their prison city, correct?”
Duncan nodded, biting his lower lip.
“You fought them in a forest preserve when you were only eight years of age. You killed several, and if I remember your story right, you cut a tracking device out of your own shoulder and laid a trap for Harkonnen hunters. You humiliated Glossu Rabban himself.”
Again Duncan nodded, not with pride, but simply confirming the summary of events.
“And you found your way across the Imperium, coming here to Caladan because this is where you wanted to be. Even the distance of several continents didn’t divert you from our doorstep.”
“All that is true, m’Lord Duke.”
Leto indicated the large ceremonial sword. “My father used that blade for training. It’s overlarge for you— at least for now, Duncan— but perhaps with some instruction, you could become a formidable fighter. A Duke is always in need of trustworthy guards and protectors.” He pursed his lips, considering. “Do you think you’re fit to be one of mine?”
The boy’s blue-green eyes shone and he grinned, crinkling his skin around the drying tracks of tears. “Will you send me to the weapon schools of Ginaz so I can become a swordmaster?”
“Ho, ho!” Leto gave a booming laugh that startled his own ears, because it sounded so much like his father’s. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Duncan Idaho. We’ll train you here to the limit of your abilities— then we’ll see if you’re good enough for such a reward.”
Duncan nodded solemnly. “I will be good enough.”
As Leto heard servants bustling by in the dining room, he raised a hand to signal them over. He would breakfast with this boy and chat some more.
“You can count on me, my Duke.”
Leto drew a long, deep breath. He wished he could share the unshakable confidence of this young man. “Yes, Duncan, I believe you.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 52