“That would require intensive testing, isolation, extreme procedures.”
Abulurd shrugged. “Then it will require those extra measures. I’m sure we can handle it.”
The Sorceress looked at him in frustration, but did not argue further as the bridge crew sent signals and received updates from the settlements scattered across the surface. After reviewing the reports, Ticia focused her attention on one established settlement, mostly underground.
“If you insist on this course of action, Cuarto, then I suggest we start there. The reports suggest the village is clean, though I don’t trust their capabilities of spotting and documenting the first subtle indications of the Scourge. We will select our subjects from those people and isolate them until we can determine that they are uninfected. We’ll keep them segregated, run tests, then take the ones that haven’t been tainted. I will secure blood samples from many others.”
Abulurd nodded and gave the order. He seemed far too young to be issuing instructions to these other jihadis, but he was a Butler, and the soldiers listened to him.
The crew quarters were in a separate section of the ship behind thick sterile walls, and Abulurd gave instructions for the jihadis to double up to leave more room to take people aboard. He would not let himself think the effort was as pointless as Ticia seemed to believe, but even at its maximum capacity, the javelin could take only a few hundred refugees fromIx. This was not an evacuation by any means, just a gesture.
During the javelin’s final approach, he stood looking out at the planetscape. He had never visited Ix before but knew its historical importance. “My father defended Ix against the last machine incursion, and he was buried alive in one of the underground tunnels,” he said, not looking directly at Ticia. “It’s a miracle he survived at all.” Quentin, in fact, rarely talked about the matter, forcing back an obvious shudder of claustrophobia whenever the subject was broached. Now Abulurd also remembered the stories Vorian had told him. “And my grandfather led the first fleet here, wrenching Ix free from Omnius. He was declared a Hero of the Jihad.”
Ticia scowled at the young officer. “But in the end Xavier Harkonnen proved himself a fool, a coward, and the worst of traitors.”
Abulurd bridled. “You don’t know all the details, Sorceress. Don’t be blinded by propaganda.” His voice was flat, but as hard as metal.
She fixed him with her pale gaze. “I know Xavier Harkonnen murdered my biological father, Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo. No explanation or misunderstanding is sufficient to excuse that crime.”
Disconcerted, Abulurd did not press the issue. He had heard that the Sorceresses of Rossak concerned themselves less with morality than with genetics. Or was Ticia allowing her emotions to affect her thinking?
The military javelin descended to its landing point. Homes and a variety of other structures dotted a relatively empty landscape near the entrances to caverns and tunnels. Knowing that the ship was coming, desperate Ixians had flooded out of the underground regions to surround an open area where the big Jihad vessel settled. They swarmed forward, shouting, welcoming Abulurd and his crew as saviors and heroes. Every one of them wanted to get off the planet before the Scourge could reach their village.
Abulurd’s heart grew heavy. From the hopeful looks on their faces, they didn’t yet understand how little anyone could really do to help them. All of his melange supplies aboard the ship would protect them for only a short while. Then he reminded himself that Ticia didn’t want to be here, and anything he accomplished was better than simply abandoning them all to the Scourge.
Keeping the upper compartments of the javelin sealed and disinfected, the cuarto handpicked a group of mercenary guards. Though medical research seemed to show that the airborne virus could only be contracted via the body’s wet membranes or open wounds, Abulurd ordered his team to suit up in full anti-exposure suits and wear standard-issue body shields. He could not be too careful.
Already, through lax procedures and insufficient care, one of the rescue javelins bearing refugees from Zanbar had arrived at Salusa with over half of the passengers and a third of its crew infected; they had not carried enough melange to protect themselves. Abulurd refused to let that happen to his own crew.
The Sorceress suited up and waited for Abulurd to join her. She didn’t need him to accompany her— probably didn’t even want him there— but Abulurd was the ranking officer on this mission. Ticia would make her choices from among the hopeful people, while his crewmen distributed the melange and supplies to help them weather the oncoming disaster.
Carrying Maula rifles and needle-firing chandler pistols, the group from the ship went to impose a semblance of order upon the crowds. Sealed inside his impermeable anti-exposure suit, Abulurd stepped out under the painfully bright skies of Ix. For weeks he had smelled only the recycled, filter-scrubbed atmosphere aboard the javelin; under other circumstances, he would have longed to draw a deep breath of fresh air. Ticia proceeded down the ramp with graceful and gliding steps, even in the heavy suit. She swiveled her head inside the helmet as she scanned the crowd for viable subjects worth rescuing.
The waiting people were uneasy, alternately cheering and talking seriously among themselves. He suddenly worried that his handful of armed mercenary guards would not be sufficient against this mob should it turn violent; after all, increased violence and irrationality were among the primary first-stage symptoms. They could not fire their projectile weapons without first switching off their body shields, which would also leave them vulnerable. He would have to handle this carefully.
“Cuarto,” Ticia called, as if she were suddenly in command, “see to it that the specimens I select are taken aboard, cleansed, and inspected. Keep them in isolation until we are sure we can use them. We cannot allow any infected person to contaminate the others.”
Abulurd gave the order. This was what the League wanted, this was why they had come here. At least he was saving some of them. Another ten jihadis emerged from the ship, also wearing protective suits. They carried the League’s “mercy shipment” of melange, but it would not be enough.
The Sorceress walked among the uneasy Ixian crowd, towering above most of them. She chose young men, women, and children who looked healthy, intelligent, and strong. Though her selections seemed arbitrary, Abulurd’s soldiers separated the candidates and took them away, but soon the crowd’s uneasiness shifted to anger. Husbands were chosen but not their wives; children were separated from parents. The terrified Ixian settlers finally realized that this was not the rescue or relief mission they had envisioned.
Angry shouts rang out. Abulurd’s mercenaries readied their weapons, hoping their personal shields would be sufficient against whatever the mob would throw. One girl screamed, refusing to let go of her mother’s wrist. Then, before the situation could grow worse, Abulurd hurried to intercede, transmitting on a private band. “Sorceress, this makes no sense. The mother looks healthy as well. Why not keep them together?”
Scornful of the crowd, the Sorceress turned her pale gaze toward Abulurd; her brow furrowed in an impatient scowl. “What would be the advantage to bringing the mother as well? If we have the daughter, then we have the family’s genetics. It would be more useful to take a completely unrelated person, thereby saving another core bloodline.”
“But you’re breaking up families! This isn’t what the League intends!”
“One specimen is all we need for each key bloodline. Why take duplicates? It’s a waste of our time, and a waste of the cargo holds. You are fully aware we don’t have enough room.”
“Isn’t there some other way? You didn’t tell me we had to do this in such a terrible, inhumane— “
She cut him off. “I didn’t tell you we could do this at all, Cuarto. But you insisted. Think— the plague will break up these families anyway. I am more concerned with preserving the race than with maudlin sentiments.” She pulled away from Abulurd and continued to push through the people. Heedless of any threat to herself, Ticia c
hose another specimen and another, culling the best candidates from the mass of hopefuls.
A gray-haired woman and her balding husband pushed closer. “Take us! We can pay you well for your trouble.”
The Sorceress rudely dismissed them. “You are too old.” Likewise, she discarded others, pronouncing them, by turns, infertile, physically weak, insufficiently intelligent, even unattractive. Ticia stood as genetic judge and jury over all.
Abulurd was appalled. And she thought Xavier Harkonnen had committed inexcusable and inhuman crimes? He closed his eyes, searching for a way to stop her from playing God, but in his heart, he knew she was right. This mission, with its one stripped-down javelin, couldn’t possibly save everyone.
“At least try to come up with a fairer method of selection. We could have them draw numbers. There must be a— “
She cut him off, showing no interest in or respect for his rank. He doubted she would have reacted differently even if he’d been a primero. “You knew from the outset that we could take only a handful. Now let me do my job.”
Impatient, Ticia pressed on as their squad of mercenaries cleared the way. The people pushed forward, trying to save themselves; others broke from the perimeter and rushed toward the landed javelin, as if they meant to storm it and fly away. Shots rang out when part of the crowd tried to attack the mercenary guards. Abulurd whirled in the direction of the sound. Chandler pistols cut down several leaders of the mob, but the rest surged ahead, shouting. Even the weapons fire did not stall them. He saw now that some of them had jaundiced skin and yellowed eyes— indicators of the infection!
Those Ixians who had already been chosen crowded near the boarding ramp, glancing fearfully back at the others. Some looked as if they didn’t want to get away, but would prefer to stay and die with their families.
Although Abulurd felt compassion for all of them, he didn’t know how to ease the situation. He issued an order for the guards to wound only, not to kill unless absolutely necessary, but the mob was already inflamed.
“Stop, fools!” Ticia’s voice echoed like a thunderclap, augmented by the speakers of her suit and the force of her own telepathic powers. The nerve-stopping command was enough to make the people pause. “We cannot take you all, so we must take only your best, the core bloodlines and breeding resources. I have selected them. Your unruliness imperils everyone.”
But Ticia’s words only enraged them further, and they turned more violent, rushing toward her and the armed guards. Abulurd shouted for order, but even his own men did not respond.
The Supreme Sorceress of Rossak made a disgusted noise. When she raised her gloved hands, Abulurd could see static lightning crackling from her fingertips. She launched a powerful invisible explosion that knocked hundreds of people backward. They sprawled flat, like stalks of wheat blown over by a cyclone. Some lay twitching on the ground, their burned skin covered with white blisters. One man had been crisped and blackened; smoke curled up from his singed hair and toasted skin.
Static danced around Ticia, residue from the mental energy she had unleashed. Finally, the Ixians were struck silent. Those still standing backed away in awe. The Sorceress glared at them for a long moment, then shouted to the soldiers, directing them to hurry the last candidates aboard for processing. “Let us get off this planet.”
Sickened, Abulurd waited beside her at the javelin’s ramp. Ticia was clearly furious. “Selfish vermin. Why do we make the effort to save such inferior people?”
But he’d had enough of her attitude. “You can’t blame them— they were simply attempting to save themselves.”
“With no regard to the lives of others. I am acting for the good of the human race. It is clear to me that you have no stomach for making difficult decisions. Inappropriate sympathy could doom us all.” She scowled at him, clearly trying to make a pointed insult. “In my estimation, Cuarto Butler, you are weak and unreliable in a crisis situation… possibly unfit for command. Just like your grandfather.”
Instead of feeling stung, Abulurd was angry and defiant. From Vorian, he had learned of the heroic things Xavier Harkonnen had done, even if history had not recorded them. “My grandfather would have had more compassion than you did back there.” Few people would care about the truth anymore, since the story had been accepted and repeated for generations. But now, seeing the arrogant ignorance of this woman, he made a bold and impulsive decision.
Though his brothers and father bowed their heads in embarrassment, Abulurd vowed never to be ashamed of his true family name. He would stop hiding. He could not honorably do anything else.
“Sorceress, my grandfather was no coward. The details have been kept secret to protect the Jihad, but he did exactly what was necessary to keep the Grand Patriarch from perpetrating unforgivable harm. Iblis Ginjo was the villain, not Xavier Harkonnen.”
Stunned, she gave him a deprecating, disbelieving look. “You insult my father.”
“The truth is the truth.” He raised his chin. “Butler may be an honorable enough name, but so is Harkonnen. From now on, and for the rest of my life, that is who I will be. I claim my true heritage.”
“What foolishness is this?”
“Henceforth, you will address me as Abulurd Harkonnen.”
War is a violent form of business.
— ADRIEN VENPORT,
“Commercial Plan for Arrakis Spice Operations”
The League of Nobles called it a “spice rush.”
Once it was learned that melange was useful in treating the deadly Scourge, hardy men and women from far-flung planets raced to Arrakis to seek their fortunes. Shiploads of prospectors and excavation contractors, all of them taking a desperate gamble, flowed to the once-isolated desert world.
Ishmael could hardly believe his eyes when he went to the dizzying metropolis of Arrakis City for the first time in decades. It reminded him of half-forgotten Starda on Poritrin, which he had fled long ago.
Hastily erected buildings sprawled across the parched landscape, spreading into the rocky foothills, piled one on top of the other. At the spaceport, ships came and went at all hours; local flyers and groundcars bustled to and fro. Passengers arrived by the thousands, shading their eyes from the yellow sun of Arrakis, eager to rush out to the open dunes, oblivious to the deadly perils there.
According to rumor, there was so much melange that a person could simply walk out with a satchel and scoop it up from the ground— which was true, in a sense, if one knew where to find it. Most of these people would be dead within months, killed by sandworms or the arid environment or their own stupidity. They were totally unprepared for the dangers that awaited them.
“We can take advantage of this, Ishmael,” El’hiim said, still trying to convince his stepfather. “These people do not know what they will find here on Arrakis. We can earn their money for doing what comes naturally to us.”
“And why would we desire their money?” Ishmael said, honestly not understanding. “We have everything we could wish for. The desert provides all our real needs.”
El’hiim shook his head. “I am the Naib, and my duty to the people is to make our village prosper. This is a great opportunity to offer our desert skills and make ourselves invaluable to the offworlders. They will keep coming no matter what. We can either ride the worm, or be devoured by it. Didn’t you tell me that story yourself, when I was young?”
The ancient man frowned. “Then you misunderstood the lesson of that parable.” But he followed his stepson into the city anyway. Raised in a different time, El’hiim had never understood true desperation, the need to fight and protect hard-won freedoms. He had never been a slave.
Ishmael frowned at the garrulous offworlders. “It might be wiser just to lead them out into the desert, rob them, and leave them to die.”
El’hiim chuckled, pretending Ishmael had made a joke, though he knew otherwise. “There is a fortune to be made by exploiting the ignorance of these invaders. Why not profit from that?”
“Because the
n you will encourage them, El’hiim. Can you not see this?”
“They do not need my encouragement. Haven’t you heard of the plague released by the thinking machines? The Omnius Scourge? Spice offers protection, and therefore everyone demands it. You may bury your head in the sand of a dune, but they will not go away.”
The younger man’s firm opinion made him as stubborn as Ishmael.
Ishmael resented the truth, the changes, and at the back of his mind he did realize that this influx of outsiders was as unstoppable as a sandstorm. He felt all of his achievements slipping through his fingers. He still proudly called himself and his tribe the Free Men of Arrakis, but such a proud title no longer carried the meaning it once had.
In town, El’hiim easily mixed with offworld merchants and prospectors, spoke several dialects of the Galach standard language, and happily traded with anyone who would take his money. Over and over, his stepson tried to get Ishmael to enjoy some of the fine luxuries the tribe could now afford.
“You are no longer an escaped slave, Ishmael,” El’hiim said. “Come, all of us appreciate everything you have done in the past. Now, we want you to enjoy yourself. Aren’t you the least bit interested in the rest of the universe?”
“I have seen some of it already. No, I am not interested.”
El’hiim chuckled. “You are too rigid and inflexible.”
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 16