Children of Dune dc-3

by Frank Herbert

  “Manri spoke of us at Jacurutu,” Muriz said. “I will have his water when—”

  “You’ll have nothing but empty sand if you continue playing the fool,” Leto said. “What will you do, Muriz, when all of Dune has become green grass, trees, and open water?”

  “It will never happen!”

  “It is happening before your eyes.”

  Leto heard Muriz’s teeth grinding in rage and frustration. Presently the man grated: “How would you prevent this?”

  “I know the entire plan of the transformation,” Leto said. “I know every weakness in it, every strength. Without me, Shai-Hulud will vanish forever. ”

  A sly note returning to his voice, Muriz asked: “Well, why dispute it here? We’re at a standoff. You have your knife. You could kill me, but Behaleth would shoot you.”

  “Not before I recovered your pistol,” Leto said. “Then I’d have your ’thopter. Yes, I can fly it.”

  A scowl creased Muriz’s forehead beneath the hood. “What if you’re not who you say?”

  “Will my father not identify me?” Leto asked.

  “Ahhhh,” Muriz said. “There’s how you learned, eh? But …” He broke off, shook his head. “My own son guides him. He says you two have never … How could …”

  “So you don’t believe Muad’Dib reads the future,” Leto said.

  “Of course we believe! But he says of himself that …” Again Muriz broke off.

  “And you thought him unaware of your distrust,” Leto said. “I came to this exact place in this exact time to meet you, Muriz. I know all about you because I’ve seen you … and your son. I know how secure you believe yourselves, how you sneer at Muad’Dib, how you plot to save your little patch of desert. But your little patch of desert is doomed without me, Muriz. Lost forever. It has gone too far here on Dune. My father has almost run out of vision, and you can only turn to me.”

  “That blind …” Muriz stopped, swallowed.

  “He’ll return soon from Arrakeen,” Leto said, “and then we shall see how blind he is. How far have you gone from the old Fremen ways, Muriz?”

  “What?”

  “He is Wadquiyas with you. Your people found him alone in the desert and brought him to Shuloch. What a rich discovery he was! Richer than a spice-vein. Wadquiyas! He has lived with you; his water mingled with your tribe’s water. He’s part of your Spirit River.” Leto pressed the knife hard against Muriz’s robe. “Careful, Muriz.” Leto lifted his left hand, released the Fremen’s face flap, dropped it.

  Knowing what Leto planned, Muriz said: “Where would you go if you killed us both?”

  “Back to Jacurutu.”

  Leto pressed the fleshy part of his own thumb against Muriz’s mouth. “Bite and drink, Muriz. That or die.”

  Muriz hesitated, then bit viciously into Leto’s flesh.

  Leto watched the man’s throat, saw the swallowing convulsion, withdrew the knife and returned it.

  “Wadquiyas,” Leto said. “I must offend the tribe before you can take my water.”

  Muriz nodded.

  “Your pistol is over there.” Leto gestured with his chin.

  “You trust me now?” Muriz asked.

  “How else can I live with the Cast Out?”

  Again Leto saw the sly look in Muriz’s eyes, but this time it was a measuring thing, a weighing of economics. The man turned away with an abruptness which told of secret decisions, recovered his maula pistol and returned to the wing step. “Come,” he said. “We tarry too long in a worm’s lair.”

  ***

  The future of prescience cannot always be locked into the rules of the past. The threads of existence tangle according to many unknown laws. Prescient future insists on its own rules. It will not conform to the ordering of the Zensunni nor to the ordering of science. Prescience builds a relative integrity. It demands the work of this instant, always warning that you cannot weave every thread into the fabric of the past.

  —KALIMA: THE WORDS OF MUAD’DIB THE SHULOCH COMMENTARY

  Muriz brought the ornithopter in over Shuloch with a practiced ease. Leto, seated beside him, felt the armed presence of Behaleth behind them. Everything went on trust now and the narrow thread of his vision to which he clung. If that failed, Allahu akbahr. Sometimes one had to submit to a greater order.

  The butte of Shuloch was impressive in this desert. Its unmarked presence here spoke of many bribes and many deaths, of many friends in high places. Leto could see at Shuloch’s heart a cliff-walled pan with interfringing blind canyons leading down into it. A thick growth of shadescale and salt bushes lined the lower edges of these canyons with an inner ring of fan palms, indicating the water riches of this place. Crude buildings of greenbush and spice-fiber had been built out from the fan palms. The buildings were green buttons scattered on the sand. There would live the cast out of the Cast Out, those who could go no lower except into death.

  Muriz landed in the pan near the base of one of the canyons. A single structure stood on the sand directly ahead of the ’thopter: a thatch of desert vines and bejato leaves, all lined with heat-fused spice-fabric. It was the living replica of the first crude stilltents and it spoke of degradation for some who lived in Shuloch. Leto knew the place would leak moisture and would be full of night-biters from the nearby growth. So this was how his father lived. And poor Sabiha. Here would be her punishment.

  At Muriz’s order Leto let himself out of the ’thopter, jumped down to the sand, and strode toward the hut. He could see many people working farther toward the canyon among the palms. They looked tattered, poor, and the fact that they barely glanced at him or at the ’thopter said much of the oppression here. Leto could see the rock lip of a qanat beyond the workers, and there was no mistaking the sense of moisture in this air: open water. Passing the hut, Leto saw it was as crude as he’d expected. He pressed on to the qanat, peered down and saw the swirl of predator fish in the dark flow. The workers, avoiding his eyes, went on with clearing sand away from the line of rock openings.

  Muriz came up behind Leto, said: “You stand on the boundary between fish and worm. Each of these canyons has its worm. This qanat has been opened and we will remove the fish presently to attract sandtrout.”

  “Of course,” Leto said. “Holding pens. You sell sandtrout and worms off-planet.”

  “It was Muad’Dib’s suggestion!”

  “I know. But none of your worms or sandtrout survive for long away from Dune.”

  “Not yet,” Muriz said. “But someday …”

  “Not in ten thousand years,” Leto said. And he turned to watch the turmoil on Muriz’s face. Questions flowed there like the water in the qanat. Could this son of Muad’Dib really read the future? Some still believed Muad’Dib had done it, but … How could a thing such as this be judged?

  Presently Muriz turned away, led them back to the hut. He opened the crude doorseal, motioned for Leto to enter. There was a spice-oil lamp burning against the far wall and a small figure squatted beneath it, back to the door. The burning oil gave off a heavy fragrance of cinnamon.

  “They’ve sent down a new captive to care for Muad’Dib’s sietch,” Muriz sneered. “If she serves well, she may keep her water for a time.” He confronted Leto. “Some think it evil to take such water. Those lace-shirt Fremen now make rubbish heaps in their new towns! Rubbish heaps! When has Dune ever before seen rubbish heaps! When we get such as this one—” He gestured toward the figure by the lamp. “—they’re usually half wild with fear, lost to their own kind and never accepted by true Fremen. Do you understand me, Leto-Batigh?”

  “I understand you.” The crouching figure had not moved.

  “You speak of leading us,” Muriz said. “Fremen are led by men who’ve been blooded. What could you lead us in?”

  “Kralizec,” Leto said, keeping his attention on the crouched figure.

  Muriz glared at him, brows contracted over his indigo eyes. Kralizec? That wasn’t merely war or revolution; that was the Typhoon Strugg
le. It was a word from the furthermost Fremen legends: the battle at the end of the universe. Kralizec?

  The tall Fremen swallowed convulsively. This sprat was as unpredictable as a city dandy! Muriz turned to the squatting figure. “Woman! Liban wahid!” he commanded. Bring us the spice-drink!

  She hesitated. “Do as he says, Sabiha,” Leto said.

  She jumped to her feet, whirling. She stared at him, unable to take her gaze from his face.

  “You know this one?” Muriz asked.

  “She is Namri’s niece. She offended Jacurutu and they have sent her to you.”

  “Namri? But …”

  “Liban wahid,” Leto said.

  She rushed past them, tore herself through the doorseal and they heard the sound of her running feet.

  “She will not go far,” Muriz said. He touched a finger to the side of his nose. “A kin of Namri, eh. Interesting. What did she do to offend?”

  “She allowed me to escape.” Leto turned then and followed Sabiha. He found her standing at the edge of the qanat. Leto moved up beside her and looked down at the water. There were birds in the nearby fan palms and he heard their calls, their wings. The workers made scraping sounds as they moved sand. Still he did as Sabiha did, looking down, deep into the water and its reflections. The corners of his eyes saw blue parakeets in the palm fronds. One flew across the qanat and he saw it reflected in a silver swirl of fish, all run together as though birds and predators swam in the same firmament.

  Sabiha cleared her throat.

  “You hate me,” Leto said.

  “You shamed me. You shamed me before my people. They held an Isnad and sent me here to lose my water. All because of you!”

  Muriz laughed from close behind them. “And now you see, Leto-Batigh, that our Spirit River has many tributaries.”

  “But my water flows in your veins,” Leto said, turning. “That is no tributary. Sabiha is the fate of my vision and I follow her. I fled across the desert to find my future here in Shuloch.”

  “You and …” He pointed at Sabiha, threw his head back in laughter.

  “It will not be as either of you might believe,” Leto said. “Remember this, Muriz. I have found the footprints of my worm.” He felt tears swimming in his eyes then.

  “He gives water to the dead,” Sabiha whispered.

  Even Muriz stared at him in awe. Fremen never cried unless it was the most profound gift of the soul. Almost embarrassed, Muriz closed his mouthseal, pulled his djeballa hood low over his brows.

  Leto peered beyond the man, said: “Here in Shuloch they still pray for dew at the desert’s edge. Go, Muriz, and pray for Kralizec. I promise you it will come.”

  ***

  Fremen speech implies great concision, a precise sense of expression. It is immersed in the illusion of absolutes. Its assumptions are a fertile ground for absolutist religions. Furthermore, Fremen are fond of moralizing. They confront the terrifying instability of all things with institutionalized statements. They say: “We know there is no summa of all attainable knowledge; that is the preserve of God. But whatever men can learn, men can contain.” Out of this knife-edged approach to the universe they carve a fantastic belief in signs and omens and in their own destiny. This is an origin of their Kralizec legend: the war at the end of the universe.

  —BENE GESSERIT PRIVATE REPORTS/FOLIO 800881

  “ hey have him securely in a safe place,” Namri said, smiling across the square stone room at Gurney Halleck. “You may report this to your friends.”

  “Where is this safe place?” Halleck asked. He didn’t like Namri’s tone, felt constrained by Jessica’s orders. Damn the witch! Her explanations made no sense except the warning about what could happen if Leto failed to master his terrible memories.

  “It’s a safe place,” Namri said. “That’s all I’m permitted to tell you.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve had a distrans. Sabiha is with him.”

  “Sabiha! She’ll just let him—”

  “Not this time.”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  “That’s no longer up to me.”

  Halleck grimaced. Distrans. What was the range of those damned cave bats? He’d often seen them flitting across the desert with hidden messages imprinted upon their squeaking calls. But how far would they go on this hellhole planet?

  “I must see him for myself,” Halleck said.

  “That’s not permitted.”

  Halleck took a deep breath to quiet himself. He had spent two days and two nights waiting for search reports. Now it was another morning and he felt his role dissolving around him, leaving him naked. He had never liked command anyway. Command always waited while others did the interesting and dangerous things.

  “Why isn’t it permitted?” he asked. The smugglers who’d arranged this safe-sietch had left too many questions unanswered and he wanted no more of the same from Namri.

  “Some believe you saw too much when you saw this sietch,” Namri said.

  Halleck heard the menace, relaxed into the easy stance of the trained fighter, hand near but not on his knife. He longed for a shield, but that had been ruled out by its effect on the worms, its short life in the presence of storm-generated static charges.

  “This secrecy isn’t part of our agreement,” Halleck said.

  “If I’d killed him, would that have been part of our agreement?”

  Again Halleck felt the jockeying of unseen forces about which the Lady Jessica hadn’t warned him. This damned plan of hers! Maybe it was right not to trust the Bene Gesserit. Immediately, he felt disloyal. She’d explained the problem, and he’d come into her plan with the expectation that it, like all plans, would need adjustments later. This wasn’t any Bene Gesserit; this was Jessica of the Atreides who’d never been other than friend and supporter to him. Without her, he knew he’d have been adrift in a universe more dangerous than the one he now inhabited.

  “You can’t answer my question,” Namri said.

  “You were to kill him only if he showed himself to be … possessed,” Halleck said. “Abomination.”

  Namri put his fist beside his right ear. “Your Lady knew we had tests for such. Wise of her to leave that judgment in my hands.”

  Halleck compressed his lips in frustration.

  “You heard the Reverend Mother’s words to me,” Namri said. “We Fremen understand such women but you off-worlders never understand them. Fremen women often send their sons to death.”

  Halleck spoke past still lips. “Are you telling me you’ve killed him?”

  “He lives. He is in a safe place. He’ll continue to receive the spice.”

  “But I’m to escort him back to his grandmother if he survives,” Halleck said.

  Namri merely shrugged.

  Halleck understood that this was all the answer he’d get. Damn! He couldn’t go back to Jessica with such unanswered questions! He shook his head.

  “Why question what you cannot change?” Namri asked. “You’re being well paid.”

  Halleck scowled at the man. Fremen! They believed all foreigners were influenced primarily by money. But Namri was speaking more than Fremen prejudice. Other forces were at work here and that was obvious to one who’d been trained in observation by a Bene Gesserit. This whole thing had the smell of a feint within a feint within a feint …

  Shifting to the insultingly familiar form, Halleck said: “The Lady Jessica will be wrathful. She could send cohorts against—”

  “Zanadiq!” Namri cursed. “You office messenger! You stand outside the Mohalata! I take pleasure in possessing your water for the Noble People!”

  Halleck rested a hand on his knife, readied his left sleeve where he’d prepared a small surprise for attackers. “I see no water spilled here,” he said. “Perhaps you’re blinded by your pride.”

  “You live because I wished you to learn before dying that your Lady Jessica will not send cohorts against anyone. You are not to be lured quietly into
the Huanui, off-world scum. I am of the Noble People, and you—”

  “And I’m just a servant of the Atreides,” Halleck said, voice mild. “We’re the scum who lifted the Harkonnen yoke from your smelly neck.”

  Namri showed white teeth in a grimace. “Your Lady is prisoner on Salusa Secundus. The notes you thought were from her came from her daughter!”

  By extreme effort, Halleck managed to keep his voice even. “No matter. Alia will …”

  Namri drew his crysknife. “What do you know of the Womb of Heaven? I am her servant, you male whore. I do her bidding when I take your water! ” And he lunged across the room with foolhardy directness.

  Halleck, not allowing himself to be tricked by such seeming clumsiness, flicked up the left arm of his robe, releasing the extra length of heavy fabric he’d had sewn there, letting that take Namri’s knife. In the same movement, Halleck swept the folds of cloth over Namri’s head, came in under and through the cloth with his own knife aimed directly for the face. He felt the point bite home as Namri’s body hit him with a hard surface of metal armor beneath the robe. The Fremen emitted one outraged squeal, jerked backward, and fell. He lay there, blood gushing from his mouth as his eyes glared at Halleck then slowly dulled.

  Halleck blew air through his lips. How could that fool Namri have expected anyone to miss the presence of armor beneath a robe? Halleck addressed the corpse as he recovered the trick sleeve, wiped his knife and sheathed it. “How did you think we Atreides servants were trained, fool?”

  He took a deep breath thinking: Well now. Whose feint am I? There’d been the ring of truth in Namri’s words. Jessica a prisoner of the Corrinos and Alia working her own devious schemes. Jessica herself had warned of many contingencies with Alia as enemy, but had not predicted herself as prisoner. He had his orders to obey, though. First there was the necessity of getting away from this place. Luckily one robed Fremen looked much like another. He rolled Namri’s body into a corner, threw cushions over it, moved a rug to cover the blood. When it was done, Halleck adjusted the nose and mouth tubes of his stillsuit, brought up the mask as one would in preparing for the desert, pulled the hood of his robe forward and went out into the long passage.