Dune: The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Wake up! Shake it off!” He pushed one barely conscious man toward the nearest camouflaged artillery emplacement. “To your stations. Man the weapons.”

  Then Vergyl noticed with sick dread the sentries curled up in convulsions on the ground next to the weapons. He ran like a broken toy, summoning all his remaining balance and speed, into the nearest building that housed a large projectile launcher and stared at the heavy weapon. A groggy gunner came in beside him, and Vergyl tried to activate the launcher’s power systems. He rubbed his bleary eyes. The targeting cross seemed to be malfunctioning.

  His gunner flicked the controls again, then opened the panel and let out a cry of surprise and dismay. “Someone tore up the wires— and the power supply is gone!”

  Suddenly Vergyl heard broken shouts echoing from other gun emplacements throughout the village. Angrily, he exclaimed, “We have been stabbed in the back by the people we’re trying to rescue!”

  His anger gave him the strength to vanquish his dizziness for the moment. Vergyl staggered out of the dwelling to face the Zenshiite farmers, who stood looking satisfied.

  “What have you done?” Vergyl cried, his voice rough. “You fools, what have you done?”

  The future, the past, and the present are intertwined, a weave that forms any point in time.

  — from “The Legend of Selim Wormrider,” Zensunni fire poetry

  Standing just inside the large tribal cave, Selim Wormrider gazed across Arrakis’s soothing ocean of dunes, watching for the moment when the sun would first rise over the horizon. He waited, then felt his pulse quicken as golden light poured like molten metal across the undulating desert, purifying and inevitable— like his visions, like his mission in life.

  Selim greeted the day, taking a deep breath of air so dry that it crackled his lungs. Dawn was his favorite time, after just waking from deep sleep filled with mysterious dreams and portents. It was the best time to accomplish meaningful tasks.

  A tall, gaunt man came up beside him, always knowing where to find his leader at daybreak. Loyal Jafar had a heavy jaw, sunken cheeks, and deep blue-within-blue eyes from years of a spice-rich diet. The lieutenant waited in silence, knowing Selim was aware of his presence. Finally, Selim turned from the rising sun and looked up at his most respected friend and follower.

  Jafar extended a small plate. “I have brought you melange for the morning, Selim, so that you may better see into the mind of Shai-Hulud.”

  “We serve him, and our future, but no one can understand the mind of Shai-Hulud. Never make that assumption, Jafar, and you will live longer.”

  “As you say, Wormrider.”

  Selim took one of the wafers, spice mixed with flour and honey. His eyes reflected the deep blue of addiction as well, but the sacred spice had kept him alive, granting him energy even during times of greatest trial and deprivation. Melange opened a marvelous window on the universe and gave Selim visions, helping him to understand the destiny Buddallah had chosen for him. He— and his ever-growing troop of desert exiles— followed a calling greater than any of their individual lives.

  “There will be a testing this morning,” Jafar said, his deep voice even. The newborn sun exposed secret footprints made during the night. “Biondi wishes to prove himself. Today he will attempt to ride a worm. “

  Selim frowned. “He is not ready.”

  “But he insists.”

  “He will die.”

  Jafar shrugged. “Then he will die. That is the way of the desert.”

  Selim emitted a resigned sigh. “Each man must face his own conscience and his own testing. Shai-Hulud makes the final choice.”

  Selim was fond of Biondi, though the young man’s brash impatience was better suited to the life of an offworlder at the Arrakis City spaceport, rather than the unchanging existence of the deep desert. Biondi might eventually become a valuable contributor to Selim’s band, but if the young man could not live up to his own abilities, he would be a danger to the others. It was better to discover such a weakness now than to risk the lives of Selim’s faithful followers.

  Selim said, “I will watch from here.”

  Jafar nodded and left.

  Over twenty-six standard years ago, Selim had been falsely accused of stealing water from one of his tribe’s stores; subsequently, he had been exiled into the desert. Manipulated by the lies of Naib Dhartha, Selim’s former friends had chased him from their cliff cities, throwing rocks and insults at him until he ran out onto the treacherous dunes, supposedly to be devoured by one of the “demon worms.”

  But Selim had been innocent, and Buddallah had saved him— for a purpose.

  When a sandworm had come to devour him, Selim discovered the secret of how to ride the creature. Shai-Hulud had taken him far from the Zensunni village and deposited him near an abandoned botanical testing station, where he’d found food, water, and tools. There, Selim had time to look inside himself, to understand his true mission.

  In a melange-enhanced vision, nearly drowning in thick reddish powder cast up from a spice blow, he had learned that he must prevent Naib Dhartha and his desert parasites from harvesting and distributing melange to offworlders. Over the years, working alone, Selim had raided many encampments, destroying any spice the Zensunni gathered. He had earned a legendary reputation and the title “Wormrider.”

  Not long afterward, he had begun to accumulate followers.

  Jafar had been the first, two decades ago, forsaking the protection of his own village near Arrakis City in order to search for this man who could ride the great desert beasts. Jafar had been almost dead by the time Selim found him, dehydrated, sunburned, and starving under the dazzling bright sky. Looking up at the lean and hardened outcast, Jafar had gasped through cracked lips— not a request for water, but a query. “Are you… the Wormrider?”

  By then, Selim had been alone for more than five years— too alone— faced with a sacred task too great for a single man. He nursed Jafar back to health and taught him how to ride Shai-Hulud. In the following years, the pair had gathered rugged followers, men and women dissatisfied with the strict rules and unfair justice of life in the Zensunni cliff colonies. Selim told them of his mission to stop spice harvesting, and they listened, enthralled by the gleam in his eyes.

  According to Selim’s repeated melange visions, the activities of the offworld merchants and the Zensunni gatherers would shatter the peace of the desert planet. Though the timeframe was dim, stretching into a vague, distant future, the spread of spice across the Galaxy would eventually lead to the extinction of all worms and a crisis of human civilization. Although his words were frightening, when they saw him proudly riding atop the mountainous curve of a great sandworm, no one could doubt his claims or his faith.

  But even I do not understand Shai-Hulud… the Old Man of the Desert.

  As a young scamp, exiled from his tribe, Selim had never wanted to be a leader. But now, after decades of living by his own wits and making decisions for the group of followers who depended on him for guidance and survival, Selim Wormrider was a confident, clearheaded general who had begun to believe the myth that he was indestructible, a demon of the desert. Despite devoting his life to preserving the worms, he did not expect the capricious Shai-Hulud to show him any gratitude….

  Unexpectedly, Jafar returned to the high chamber, making so much commotion that Selim stepped away from the window opening and saw that his friend had brought a newcomer. She looked dirty and lean, but her dark eyes shone with a haughty defiance. Her dusty brown hair had been cropped short. Her cheeks were sunburned below her eyes, but the rest of her seemed intact. The young woman must have been wise enough to wrap herself against the worst ravages of the sun. A curved white scar like a crescent moon rode above her left eyebrow, an exotic punctuation to her coarse beauty.

  “Look what we found out in the desert, Selim.” Jafar stood tall and stoic, unflappable, but Selim caught a hint of humorous gleam behind his deep blue eyes.

  The young woman s
tepped away from the tall man, as if to prove she did not need his protection. “My name is Marha. I have traveled alone in search of you.” Then her face flickered with uncertainty and awe, making her look unexpectedly young. “I am… honored to meet you, Selim Wormrider!”

  He held her chin, turning her face up to look at him. Lean and dirty, but with large eyes and strong features. “You’re just a slip of a girl. Won’t be much use for heavy labor around here. Why have you left your own people?”

  “Because they are all fools,” she snapped.

  “Many people are fools, once you get to know them.”

  “Not me. I came to join you.”

  Selim raised his eyebrows, amused. “We shall see.” He turned to look at Jafar. “Where did you find her? How close did she approach?”

  “We caught her beneath the Needle Rock. She had camped there and didn’t know we’d been watching her.”

  “I would have seen you,” she insisted.

  Needle Rock was very close to the settlement. Though impressed, Selim did not show it. “And you survived in the desert by yourself? How far away is your village?”

  “Eight days’ journey. I brought food and water, and I caught lizards.”

  “You mean you stole food and water from your village.”

  “I earned it.”

  “I doubt your Naib would see it the same way, so it is not likely your people would take you back.”

  Marha’s eyes flashed. “Not likely. I fled from Naib Dhartha’s village, as you yourself did years ago.”

  Selim stiffened and studied her. “He still has a stranglehold on the tribe?”

  “He teaches that you are evil, a thief, a vandal.”

  Selim’s chuckle was dry and humorless. “Perhaps he should look in a mirror. Through his own treachery he established himself as my lifelong enemy.”

  Marha looked tired and thirsty, but made no complaint, no request for hospitality. She fumbled at her throat and pulled out a wire loop that held a jingling collection of metal chits. “Spice tokens from offworlders. Naib Dhartha sent me out to work the sands, to scrape the spice and collect it to be delivered to his merchant friends in Arrakis City. I have been of marriageable age for three years, but no Zensunni woman— or man— can take a mate until they have gathered fifty spice tokens. That is how Naib Dhartha measures our service to the tribe.”

  Selim scowled, delicately touched the tokens with his fingertip, then in disgust tucked them back into her collar. “He is a man deluded by greed and the false hope of an easy life.”

  He turned away and stared out into the desert. Squinting into the morning light, he watched four figures emerge from the lower caves. They walked out onto the open sands, garbed in camouflage robes and cloaks, their faces wrapped to prevent moisture loss.

  The smallest of them was Biondi, preparing for his test.

  When Marha looked questioningly at Selim and then at the other man, Jafar explained. “Selim Wormrider receives messages from Shai-Hulud. We have been commanded by God to stop the rape of the desert, to halt the harvesting of spice, the momentum of commerce that threatens to set history on a disastrous course. It is an enormous task for our small group. By working to harvest melange, you yourself have aided our enemies.”

  Defiant, the young woman shook her head. “By abandoning them, I have helped your cause.”

  Selim turned back, looking from her crescent-moon scar to her intent eyes. He saw a determination there, but could not be sure of her true motives. “Why have you come here to a hard life, instead of running to Arrakis City and signing on to a merchant ship?”

  She seemed surprised by the question. “Why do you think?”

  “Because you do not trust offworlders any more than you trust your own leader.”

  She raised her chin. “I want to ride the worms. Only you can teach me.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  The young woman’s eagerness overrode her uncertainty. “I thought that if I could find you, track the location of your outlaw hideout, then you would accept me.”

  Selim arched his eyebrows. “That is only the first part.”

  “The easy part,” Jafar said.

  “Each step in its time, Marha. You have done well so far. Not many approach as close as Needle Rock before we apprehend them. Some, we send away with enough supplies to survive the trip back home. Others are so hopelessly lost that they wander to their deaths without ever knowing we have been observing them.”

  “You just watch them die?”

  Jafar shrugged. “It is the desert. If they cannot survive, they are useless.”

  “I am not useless. I am good with a knife… killed one opponent and injured another in duels.” She touched her eyebrow. “One man gave me this scar at the spaceport. He tried to rape me. In turn, I gave him a scar from one side of his belly to the other.”

  Selim withdrew his milky-white crystalline dagger, holding it up so that the young woman could see. “A wormrider carries a dagger like this, fashioned from the sacred tooth of Shai-Hulud.”

  Marha stared in amazement, her eyes sparkling. “Ah, what I could accomplish with a fine weapon like that!”

  Jafar laughed. “Many people would like to have one of these, but you must earn it.”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  Hearing a steady drumbeat from the expansive desert outside, Selim turned to the cave window. “Before you make such an impetuous decision, girl, watch and see what lies in store for you here.”

  “My name is Marha. I am no longer a girl.”

  To young villagers across Arrakis, Selim was a glamorous figure, a daredevil hero. Many tried to imitate him and become wormriders themselves, though he attempted to discourage them, warning them of the danger of a renegade’s life. Having received a true vision from Buddallah, Selim had no choice in the matter for himself. But they did.

  Regardless of his advice, starry-eyed candidates rarely listened. They set out with big dreams and overconfidence, which usually proved to be their downfall. But those who survived learned the greatest lesson of their lives.

  Out on the dunes, the drumbeats echoed. Almost all of the observers had left the sand, returning to the shelter of the rocky cliffs. A solitary man, Biondi, sat at the crest of a dune, the place he had selected for his testing. He should have had everything he needed: The young man would be wearing one of the new distilling suits that Selim and his followers had developed for protection and survival during times when they must be abroad in the open desert. With Biondi were staffs and hooks, and a rope between his knees. He pounded on a single drum, sending a loud, insistent summons.

  Marha stepped forward to stand next to Selim, as if unable to believe she now found herself beside the man who was the basis of so many desert myths. “Will a worm come? Will he ride it?”

  “We shall see if he succeeds,” Selim said. “But Shai-Hulud will come. He always does.”

  Selim saw the wormsign first and pointed it out to the young woman. After more than a quarter century, he no longer counted how many times he had summoned a sandworm and climbed its rough rings in order to guide the creature wherever he wished to go.

  Biondi had ridden just twice before, each time accompanied by a master rider who did all the work for him. The youngster had performed adequately, but still had a great deal to learn. Another month of training would have benefited him immensely.

  Selim hoped he would not lose another follower… but either way, Biondi’s fate was in his own hands.

  The novice pounded his drum much longer than necessary. He did not become aware of the approach of the worm until he looked to the east and saw shimmering waves trembling through the sands. Then he grabbed his equipment and scrambled to his feet, accidentally kicking over the drum so that it rolled and bounced down the face of the dune.

  At the base of the sand formation, the drum struck a rock and sent out another reverberating sound. The oncoming worm deviated slightly, and Biondi reeled to adjust his position at
the last moment. The sandworm came up unexpectedly, showering dust, flattening dunes.

  Selim marveled at the majestic sight of it. “Shai-Hulud,” he whispered reverently.

  A puny figure in the face of the onrushing behemoth, Biondi held his hooks and staff, muscles coiled.

  In instinctive fear Marha flinched, but Selim clasped her shoulder, forcing her to watch.

  At the last moment, Biondi lost his nerve. Instead of standing his ground, holding the spreading staff and the hook, he turned to flee. But no man could outrun Shai-Hulud in the desert.

  The worm scooped up its victim along with a mouthful of sand and powdery dust. Selim could hardly see the tiny human form as it vanished down the endless gullet.

  Transfixed, Marha stared. Jafar shook his head, lowering his chin in sad disappointment.

  Selim nodded like a wise man much older than his years. “Shai-Hulud has found the candidate wanting.” He turned to Marha. “Now you have seen the peril. Would you not be better off returning to your village and begging Naib Dhartha for forgiveness?”

  “On the contrary— it seems to me you now have room for another follower.” She stared fiercely out at the sands. “I still want to ride the worms.”

  Endurance. Belief. Patience. Hope.

  These are the key words of our existence.

  — Zensunni Prayer

  On Poritrin, the extravagant but pointless construction project required extraordinary work and manpower. Thus, slaves.

  Sparks and fumes surrounded Ishmael in the hot air of the shipyards and the clattering din of adjacent foundries. Drenched in sweat and smeared with soot and greasy dust, Ishmael performed his work beside the other captives, following instructions and calling no attention to himself. It was the Zensunni way of survival, to achieve a relatively comfortable life, within the constraints imposed by their Poritrin captors.