Once the Holtzman engines folded space, bending one coordinate to another, the journey was set, and the ship glided through layers of distance and space. Adrien was shaking, both from the ship’s vibration and from fear, as if his body and his mind might come apart, but he did not regret what he was experiencing.
Then they were on the other side of their destination. She saw Adrien existing at one coordinate, then appearing at another. In only a moment, the universe became very small.
“We’ve done it, Mother! Look below!” Amazed, he peered through a viewing port in the cargo ship and recognized the dry, cracked planet. From orbit, it looked like a basin of gold. “Arrakis? I’ve been here many times.”
“For my first prescient voyage,” Norma said, “I thought it appropriate to travel to the source of the melange.”
Arrakis beckoned her as a place to anchor all prescient experiences, a place where she could build upon everything that was yet to come— for her, for Adrien, and for all of humankind.
“Stunning, in more ways than one,” he said. “With an instantaneous assured conduit to the source of the spice, VenKee can make even greater profits.”
“Not all profits are monetary. Arrakis is like the spice it contains, complex beyond comprehension, valuable beyond measure.”
Norma knew that spice and navigation were inextricably linked. Supplies of melange would have to be guaranteed. VenKee Enterprises might need to station its own company military force here to protect its spice sands. Arrakis was not the sort of place to be bound by legalities. It was a raw, untamed world where only the strongest survived.
From her sealed, spice-impregnated navchamber, Norma mentally guided the VenKee transport ship low over the barren planet with conventional engines. The ocean of dunes dwarfed her spacefolder. With her powerful mind, Norma observed great sandworms, dust clouds, and ferocious Coriolis storms. Her mind opened in two directions at once, to the past and the future, and she saw bands of people moving across the landscape, some on foot and others actually riding the worms.
“If only we could find another source of spice, so that we were not so dependent on this one world, which has already been overrun by spice rushers,” Adrien said, his voice floating into her gaseous chamber. “Since the Scourge, everyone knows the riches waiting here, and Arrakis is swarming with spice harvesters and even slavers.”
“Melange is the heart of the universe,” she said. “There is only one heart.”
Hovering their ship over the vast deserts, she saw into the future of human commerce. Adrien could not possibly comprehend what a powerful organization he would help create.
“History will say that your father developed these great ships,” she said. “Aurelius Venport will be remembered as the visionary inventor, a great patriot for the cause of humanity. As time passes, with all of the actual participants gone, no one will be able to separate fact from myth. This thought makes me very happy and content. It is my last gift to the man I love. I want you to understand this as the leader of VenKee Enterprises, a company that will evolve into something much more.”
He nodded. “You’re doing that out of love, and out of appreciation for when my father was the only one who believed in you. I understand that, Mother.”
After what seemed like a long time over harsh Arrakis, Norma Cenva took her transport ship back into the void, bound for Kolhar.
Life on Arrakis is less significant than a grain of sand in the open bled.
— The Legend of Selim Wormrider
Battered survivors of the raided Zensunni village followed Ishmael and El’hiim back to the main settlement in the faraway cliffs. El’hiim suggested that they take the most seriously injured to a nearby company town for medical attention.
Ishmael would hear none of it. “How can you even suggest that? These people barely escaped being taken by slavers. Now you would deliver them into the jaws of those who created a demand for slaves in the first place?”
“They aren’t all slavers, Ishmael. I’m trying to save lives.”
“Cooperating with them is like playing with a half-tamed beast. Your conciliatory ways have already cost these people their loved ones, their homes. Do not try to squeeze more blood from them. We will take care of them ourselves, with whatever supplies we have.”
When their band of refugees reached the cave settlement, the news swept like fire through the people. With his forceful personality and his unyielding demands, Ishmael acted as their leader.
Letting the old man have his way, El’hiim— the actual Naib— said, “I understand the outsiders better than you do, Ishmael. I will send messages to the VenKee towns, submit formal protests to Arrakis City. They cannot do this with impunity.”
Ishmael felt as if his anger had broken something inside of him. “They will laugh at you. Slavers have always preyed on the Zensunni, and you stepped right into their trap.”
When his stepson rushed away to the crowded cities, Ishmael called the able-bodied Zensunnis to meet with him in the large gathering chamber. As the only female elder of the village, Chamal represented the women, who were just as bloodthirsty as the men. Many boisterous young men who revered the old legends of Selim Wormrider demanded the execution of the criminals.
Incensed and ashamed, remembering how many times they had ignored Ishmael’s warnings, the strongest among them volunteered to gather weapons and form a kanla party, a group of commando soldiers who would find the slavers and exact a bloody revenge.
“El’hiim told me he knows where they are,” Ishmael said. “He can lead us there.”
* * *
WHEN EL’HIIM RETURNED with vague promises from the Arrakis City security force to more rigorously enforce certain regulations against kidnapping, he was met by the already armed and bloodthirsty kanla party. Seeing the expressions on their faces and understanding the thoughts in their hearts, he had no choice but to join them, as their Naib.
Though he was far older than any of the fighters, Ishmael accompanied the vengeance party. In spite of— or perhaps because of— his disgust and grief at what had happened to many of his Zensunni friends and even some of his grandchildren by Chamal, Ishmael felt charged with energy, as if he had just taken a massive dose of spice. He could strike a blow against those who had corrupted this world that he had fought so hard to call home.
“Perhaps this will be my last fight. Perhaps I will die. If that is the way of it, I cannot complain.”
They crossed the desert, moving swiftly and silently. Gliding like shadows across sun-washed rocks, the kanla party spotted the slavers’ camp late the following afternoon. The desert men hunkered down in the shelter of boulders to observe and plan their attack.
One of the fighters suggested that they slip in at night and steal all of the camp’s water and supplies. “That would be a fine revenge!”
“Or we could cut the fuel lines on their Zanbar skimmers and leave the despicable men stranded in the desert, where they will die slowly of thirst!”
“And become food for Shai-Hulud.”
But Ishmael had no patience for such a long, slow revenge. “Long ago, my friend Aliid said, ‘There is nothing more satisfying than the feel of your enemy’s blood on your fingers.’ I intend to kill these demons myself. Why let Arrakis have the pleasure?”
As darkness fell and the first moon sank below the horizon, the kanla party slipped forward like desert scorpions, carrying crystal blades as their stingers. The slavers— he counted a dozen— activated generators that spilled bright light all around their camp, not for protection but for their own comfort. They didn’t bother to post guards.
The Zensunni avengers surrounded the camp and closed in. Though the slavers apparently had more sophisticated weapons, the kanla party outnumbered them almost two to one. It would be a gratifying slaughter.
Ishmael had not wanted them to use their Maula rifles, because they were too clumsy and impersonal, but El’hiim suggested they take advantage of the projectile weapons to shoot out
the lights. To this, Ishmael agreed. When the kanla party was in position, he gave the signal, and a roaring barrage of Maula projectiles peppered the air, smashing glowglobes and plunging the area into darkness.
Like wolves, the desert raiders swooped in from all sides. Taken completely by surprise, the offworlders scrambled out of their blankets, unprepared. Some grabbed their weapons and opened fire, but they could not even see their attackers.
The Zensunnis kept low to the ground, snatching any available cover. Their spirits had felt caged for too long, and now they unleashed their emotions in a thrilling bloodbath. They leaped upon their victims, stabbing and slashing with wormtooth daggers, taking their revenge.
In their midst, Ishmael strode through the camp, looking for enemies to punish. He seized a small-statured man who raced for cover among folded bolts of reflective fabric. The coward didn’t try to defend his fellows or fight for his own life.
Ishmael hoisted the squirming man. As his eyes adjusted to the starlight, aided by the glow of spreading fires, he could see it was a Tlulaxa by the characteristic pinched face and close-set eyes. Realization hit him. It was Wariff, the unprepared prospector whose life Ishmael had saved twenty years before.
The Tlulaxa looked up at him and called Ishmael by name, remembering him after all this time. Ishmael drew his wormtooth dagger, its curved edge sharp. “I saved your life, and you repay me by raiding my people, stealing them as slaves? I curse you and your vile race.”
The violence and shouting around him had reached a fever pitch. Wariff struggled, fluttering his small hands like the wings of a bird. “Please don’t kill me. I apologize. I didn’t mean— “
“I take back that which I gave you long ago.” Ishmael drew the sharp dagger across the slaver’s scrawny throat, slicing open his jugular. He tipped Wariff’s head back so the blood could gush freely out into the night. “This is the justice of Free Men. Your water, I give to the desert. The blood of these others, I will take for our tribe.”
In disgust he discarded the body among the scattered belongings of the slavers. Ishmael realized that in circumstances such as these, his angry friend Aliid might have been right. Back on Poritrin, when they’d both been young men, Ishmael had always insisted that they try to find a peaceful resolution. Now, finally, he saw eye to eye with Aliid. Sometimes there was nothing more exhilarating than vengeance.
El’hiim’s voice rose above the din. “Stop now! We must take the rest alive and bring them to Arrakis City, where they will stand trial. We must have proof of their crimes.”
Confused, some of the Zensunnis stuttered to a halt. Others continued fighting as if they hadn’t heard their Naib. Ishmael grabbed his stepson by the front of his robe. “You would give them back to the outsiders, El’hiim? After what they have done to us?”
“They have committed a crime. Let them be condemned by their own rules.”
“Among their kind, slavery is not even a crime!” Ishmael hissed. He released El’hiim and let him stagger to keep his balance. El’hiim could no longer keep control over his vengeful people. Ishmael lifted his red-splashed hand and bellowed so that all could hear. “These men owe us a debt they can never repay. On this world, the only coins are spice and water— so let us take their blood, distill its water, and give it to the families of those they have harmed.”
The other outlaws looked at Ishmael, hesitating to do such a thing. El’hiim looked horrified.
“Water is water,” Ishmael insisted. “Water is life. These men stole the lives of our friends and relatives when they raided our villages. Slit their throats and bleed them dry, keep their blood in containers. Perhaps God will consider that they have made some repayment for their crimes. It is not for me to judge.”
The doomed slavers continued to shout while attempting to defend themselves. The Zensunnis ran at them howling and slashing, killing one after another. In a single day, they made a rich harvest of blood.
My father was declared a Hero of the Jihad. Even if all other historical records fade into dust, let the human race never forget that fact.
— VICEROY FAYKAN BUTLER,
resolution introduced to the League Parliament
In a bland and logical voice, Dante informed him of the successful test run against the League fleet. Lasers, shields… and total devastation.
As he listened in astonishment, unable to disconnect his auditory thoughtrodes, Juno explained to Quentin that he himself had unwittingly revealed the shields’ deadly vulnerability to lasers. He went into a frenzy, and after they disconnected him from his walker-form, he sank into despair, unable to calculate how many human soldiers he had doomed through the weakness of his mind. And how many more would die?
The three Titans detached his preservation canister and denied him access to any mechanical bodies. His instinct told him to fight and die in a great and gallant effort, but he found himself utterly impotent. The cymeks had taken his arms and legs. They had taken his eyes, his hearing, his voice. He was nothing more than a helpless trophy. With no temporal reference points to demarcate his limbo, Quentin didn’t know how long he was isolated.
If he could only shut down his life-support systems, if he could will himself to die, then he could be sure he’d never reveal any more vital information.
But Quentin had to endure his damnation, all the while waiting to seize even the slightest chance that would allow him to strike back, especially now that he knew what vital information he had betrayed. He was no coward like Xavier Harkonnen. He was perfectly willing to give up his life in battle against these hybrid enemies, but he would not waste his efforts. He needed to be convinced he had at least a chance of hurting the Titans.
When his sight suddenly returned with a flare of light, his reconnected optic threads showed him a streamlined walker-body and brain canister that he recognized as Juno’s. He wanted either to cringe away or lash out. If he could have used his brain to manifest powerful arms, he would have reached forward to strangle her, but Quentin did not have that option.
“We’d like to take you with us,” Juno said. “You’re going to fly.”
* * *
IT WAS AS wonderful as the cymeks had promised, and Quentin hated them for it. Though Juno had lied to him many times, she had not exaggerated these sensations.
The neos installed his preservation canister into a sleek flying ship designed to carry cymeks into interstellar battlefields. As the force raced away from Hessra, Quentin felt like an eagle soaring with wings of steel. He could swoop on the updrafts of stellar winds, entirely unfettered. He could fall forever like a raptor snatching prey and then change his course at will, accelerating and flying in any direction.
“Many neos experience the ecstasy of flight,” Dante transmitted from the head of the small force. “If you had cooperated, Primero Butler, we could have let you experience this long ago.”
For a giddy moment, Quentin had forgotten the horror of his circumstances. Now, though, he curtailed his ecstatic sensations and fell glumly into tight formation with the rest of the cymek ships. He could break away now, change course and fly straight into the nearest fiery sun, just as the traitor Xavier Harkonnen had done, carrying Iblis Ginjo to his death.
But what purpose would that serve? He still wanted to cause destruction among the cymek ranks. Each day the debt of vengeance grew larger.
He flew with Dante from Hessra, with all of the weapons of his ship deactivated. As a predatory bird, he was neutered and stripped of his claws, but Quentin could still observe and hope to seize a chance.
Agamemnon and Juno departed for other cymek worlds in their corrupted empire, while Dante meant to inspect the five worthwhile planets he had recently attacked to check on the progress of the neo-cymek dictators he had installed. After suffering so much under more than a century of machine attacks and then the Scourge, the people on those conquered planets should cling to any false hope. The cymeks offered them power and immortality.
Only a few converts were needed
to crack down on the entire society. Not all humans had a strength of will equivalent to Quentin’s.
Finally, as the group of cymek ships approached the fringe of the Relicon system, Dante was surprised to encounter a League expeditionary force from Salusa, coming to inspect and aid the still-recovering human colony. They didn’t know the cymeks had taken the planet more than a month earlier.
Dante’s warships instantly shifted into a battle-ready posture, activating their weapons, loading projectiles into launch tubes, preparing their laser weaponry. “It looks like someone has come to play with us.” The Titan’s transmission was beamed toward Quentin, but the other neos cheered, spoiling for a fight.
Quentin did not wish to encounter the Army of Humanity vessels, especially when he saw that the lead javelin vessel was a political flagship. Some high-ranking official had come on an inspection tour, offering humanitarian assistance and reparations.
“Prepare to attack,” Dante said. “We’ll take an unexpected prize here.”
Quentin searched for an option. He had no weapons in his stripped-down ship, but it would be a massacre if he didn’t warn the League ships that the cymeks knew about the laser-shield interaction. Working all systems available through the thoughtrodes connected to his brain canister, he found that he could manipulate the ship’s communications systems. If he could change frequencies, maybe— with any luck— he would be able to send a transmission.
Then a signal came over the broadband open channel from the flagship of the group. “Cymeks, enemies of humanity, this is Viceroy Faykan Butler. You have attacked these human colonies, and now you must face our justice.”
Quentin felt a surge of hope, then dread. Faykan! He didn’t want his oldest son to see him like this. But that was a selfish fear… now that there was so much at stake.
Dune: The Battle of Corrin Page 45