In the uproar following so many setbacks, Primero Harkonnen had called for the monuments, so that the fallen soldiers would never be forgotten. Serena Butler, still the League’s Interim Viceroy though she had withdrawn into the City of Introspection, had added her support to the project, using her influence to obtain financial backing from political and business leaders.
Moved by Serena’s plea, and having witnessed some of the more difficult struggles against the thinking machines firsthand, Aurelius Venport had decided to do his part, despite initial objections from his Tlulaxa business partner, Tuk Keedair. Since the start of the Jihad, the profits of VenKee Enterprises had grown substantially as their merchant ships transported war materials and supplies to suffering colonies. They were also turning large profits by exporting increasingly popular luxury items such as glowglobes and, most lucrative of all, the spice melange from Arrakis.
Venport prided himself on his business acumen, his ability to recognize moneymaking opportunities and to capitalize on them. The League of Nobles was vast, and open for commerce. Through his access to Rossak pharmaceuticals, Arrakis melange, and glowglobe and suspensor products invented by dear Norma, he had leveraged his advantages as much as possible, which pleased him immensely.
His former mate Zufa Cenva had always insisted he would never amount to anything, nor would her stunted daughter. They had both proved Zufa wrong.
It had been many years since he’d been the chief Sorceress’s lover and partner. Through it all, Zufa had never believed that Venport with his commercial interests or Norma with her dabbling in mathematics would ever do enough for the fight.
Even when Venport had personally contributed enough credits to pay for a large portion of the Zimia memorial, he had not expected Zufa to be impressed. The stern woman had devoted her life and soul to the Jihad, training Sorceresses who threw themselves against cymek strongholds as suicidal psychic bombs. Not surprisingly, Zufa considered his donation, and the memorial project itself, a frivolous waste of money better used for purchasing weapons or constructing new battleships.
Venport smiled to himself at the thought. If nothing else, Zufa was consistent and predictable. Against all reason, he had loved and admired her since the day they met. But in business terms it had never been a worthwhile investment of his emotional capital.
Seated in the open-air stands beside a beautiful young woman— one of his grown granddaughters?— the retired Viceroy Manion Butler caught Venport’s eye and smiled cordially. Nearby, Primero Harkonnen’s adoptive father, the aged and dignified Emil Tantor, sat alone looking sleepy.
A smiling attendant offered another glass of champia, which Venport declined. He settled back and waited for the show. The audience was just beginning to grow restless, but Grand Patriarch Iblis Ginjo was a master of timing and would begin exactly when enthusiasm had peaked and before the mood slid into impatience.
Though the Grand Patriarch had arrived at the ceremony on time, flanked by intimidating Jipol guards, he wanted the VIP guests to mill about while the larger crowds bought souvenirs and clutched bunches of brilliant marigolds, Manion’s flower.
Venport turned toward a swell of cheers, saw Iblis Ginjo and Serena Butler make their grand entrance. Serena wore her usual purple-trimmed robe of such a glowing white that she looked like an angel incarnate. Fixing his squarish face in a confident smile, the Grand Patriarch, garbed in a dashing black blazer embroidered in gold, accompanied her onto the ornate stands, while dazzling lights cast glowing haloes around them.
Iblis was silently followed by his beautiful wife, Camie Boro. This was obviously not a love match, but a trophy marriage; during his rise to power, the man had shrewdly chosen a woman of impeccable heritage, a direct descendant of the Old Empire’s last ruler.
Around Iblis’s neck dangled a prismatic chain that supported a pendant of brilliant blue-green Hagal quartz. Possibly part of his wife’s fortune. No one questioned where the Grand Patriarch obtained the money for such luxuries, or for other aspects of his opulent lifestyle. His value to the League could not be measured in monetary terms. He was surrounded by his own developing mythology.
Iblis raised his hands, and his voice boomed out with a resonant amplification. “When we see this memorial, we must remember those who paid the ultimate price against the demon machines. But we must also remember what they fought for.”
Serena stepped forward and continued in her clear, passionate voice. “This monument is not only a reminder of fallen heroes, but a symbol of yet another step toward our ultimate victory over Omnius!”
With a brilliant flash like an exploding star, two spears of light shot upward, illuminating the memorial and the entire park. A reflecting pool became a mirror of stars under the night sky, graced with feathery fountains at one end. The spotlights blazed brighter, as if trying to outdo each other, the fountains sprayed higher, and the cheers of the crowd swelled to a deafening roar. Bright yellow-orange marigolds were strewn across the grass and in the pools, their heady scent wafting through the evening air.
When Serena Butler fell to her knees on the stage and wept, half of the audience moaned, and grieved with her for her lost baby and their own fallen loved ones.
Then, swept along by the overwhelming approval of the audience, Venport rose to his feet and applauded the spectacle. The leaders of the Jihad certainly knew how to impress a crowd.
* * *
AFTERWARD, WHILE THE population of Zimia celebrated far into the night, Iblis Ginjo and his wife attended a more formal and exclusive reception in the gathering courtyard of the Salusan Cultural Museum.
Glowglobes floated overhead, imparting variegated, festive colors to the framework of the open-air stands. Night moths flitted around the moon lilies that bloomed in planters at the edge of the courtyard. Important guests chatted casually with each other.
Resplendent in jewels and impeccable clothes, Camie Boro always made certain she was seen with him during their initial entrance, but his wife never wanted to “waste” a party by spending it on his arm. She had her own plans and connections, and set about exchanging favors, knitting together subtle obligations. Iblis smiled after her, then turned to his targets among the well-dressed crowd; he and his wife had a very clear delineation of their respective duties.
The Grand Patriarch saw a tall man— patrician features with light blue eyes and curly dark hair frosted with gray— standing beside a small plaz case. The man opened the lid to display dozens of melange products that had been developed by his company. Many League nobles had already become enamored of the rare and expensive spice, and Aurelius Venport rarely missed an opportunity to show his benevolence— and to seduce more customers— by offering free samples.
As eager guests pointed to what they wanted to try— spice beer, melange candy, or spice chewsticks— Venport removed a taste of each from his case. “Free of charge. If any of you are not familiar with the benefits of melange, please come and find out.”
Melange is said to be addictive, Iblis thought, as he stepped to the front. And unquestionably beneficial. He had partaken of the spice before, though it had been heavily diluted and nearly flavorless. “I would like a small, pure sample, Directeur Venport. Something I can just… taste.”
The patrician from Rossak smiled. Exaggerating his pronunciation to impress the dignitary, he said, “For the Grahnd Patriarch of the Jihad, I am honored. I have brought only my best to this gathering. The caviar of spice.” He removed a flat disk container no larger than a small coin. “Place it on top of your tongue. Just let it permeate your senses and seep all the way into your soul.”
When Venport pried open the tiny lid, Iblis peered inside, noting dense reddish-orange powder, and dipped a fingertip into the substance. He found it surprisingly gritty to the touch. Glancing up at the glowglobes floating overhead, he remembered that these were successful VenKee products as well, though the technology was currently embroiled in a tedious and silly patent dispute.
He hesitated,
looking at the spice powder on his finger. “In the Parliamentary Assembly some days ago, did I not hear Senator Hosten Fru discussing a dispute between your company and the government of Poritrin? Something about glowglobe royalties?”
Iblis had his doubts about Savant Holtzman and his stuffed-shirt patron, Lord Niko Bludd, but so far Aurelius Venport had impressed him as an extraordinarily shrewd businessman.
“Norma Cenva is a very talented scientist who has helped Savant Holtzman achieve much fame and success. She is also a dear friend of mine, but the relationship is… complicated.” Venport scowled, as if he had just swallowed a vile-tasting mouthful. “Norma alone created the suspensor technology used in glowglobes and offered it to my company for marketing. Now that VenKee has spent a fortune to develop and sell the glowglobes all across the League— during which time Poritrin never lifted a finger to help— Lord Bludd suddenly believes he is entitled to our profits.”
Behind Venport, other guests had gathered, hoping for free samples of melange, but they did not interrupt his conversation with the Grand Patriarch.
Iblis smiled. “Still, the technology was developed on Poritrin, in Holtzman’s labs, was it not? Funded by Lord Bludd? Senator Fru claims that the Poritrin counsel has submitted documents signed by Norma Cenva, certifying that all technological breakthroughs made while in Holtzman’s employ would remain the property of the government.”
Venport sighed, his lips curved in an indulgent smile, which surprised Iblis. “I do not doubt that Savant Holtzman tricked her into signing such releases. Norma was just a teenager when she went to work for him. The girl is utterly devoted to her research and has never been… politically savvy.”
Iblis looked down at the spice powder on his fingertip. His skin seemed to be tingling, just a little. “So, how will you resolve this?”
Venport did not look overly concerned. “I am a businessman, sir. I have always been able to negotiate settlements and mediate disputes. The present circumstance will simply require a bit more finesse than usual. I shall find a way.” He nodded toward the spice in Iblis’s hand. “But let’s not trouble ourselves with that. I am anxious to hear your opinion of the melange.”
Iblis became aware of people staring at him, perhaps noticing his hesitation. He didn’t dare show any fear here. Everything the Grand Patriarch did was scrutinized and discussed. He placed the melange on his tongue and clamped his mouth shut.
“The purest form of melange is said to have many facets… like that priceless jeweled pendant you wear,” Venport said. “Melange shows a different aspect to everyone who takes it.”
Iblis felt… different. He couldn’t quite categorize it, because he had never experienced anything like this before. His pulse quickened and then slowed, quickened and slowed again. Such a curious sensation! Then it slowed even more, and in a state of complete serenity he almost looked inward at his own heart and mind. He could barely form words and speak them.
“Amazing. Where… do you… obtain this… spice?”
Venport smiled at him. “Come now, I must be allowed to keep some trade secrets.” He offered Iblis another sample of melange, and the Grand Patriarch took it without hesitation.
“Trust me,” the businessman said, “even if I told you where spice comes from, it is not a place you would want to visit.”
Do not count what you have lost. Count only what you still have.
— Zensunni Sutra of the First Order
The spice caravans moved out at dusk, as soon as the day’s heat began to wane. In the wasteland of the deep desert, Naib Dhartha’s melange-gathering crews did not bother to conceal themselves from outsiders. They should have known better.
Selim Wormrider and his followers had been watching them for days.
Hidden with his raiders high in the rocky buttresses, Jafar used a mirror to flash a last preparatory message, directing the signal glint to where Selim waited.
Against the boulders below, the legendary man of the desert squatted comfortably beside a wide-eyed Marha. In the month since joining their group of outlaws, the scrappy young woman had continually impressed him. She was always ready to hear his visions and to learn. Best of all, she obeyed his instructions without question, and thus she survived her testing. Whenever Marha managed to overcome her awe of his nearly mythical status, she looked at him with an intense but innocent strength that tugged at his heartstrings.
Selim thought she would be a worthy addition to his commandos. Even though he smiled at her and encouraged her ambitions, he did not want Marha to grow overconfident, as Biondi had become before his death. He wanted her to remain with him longer than that.
“Watch closely and see what they do.” Selim pointed with his chin to the distant figures who carried packs and loaded rugged old groundcars. “They steal melange from Shai-Hulud and sell it to offworlders.”
Marha huddled in the shadows, grim as she watched the caravan begin to move out. “I have worked on such crews myself, Wormrider. The scavengers camp in the rocks, but during the day they scamper onto the sands, scoop up spice, and run back to safety before the worms come for them.”
“Shai-Hulud defends his treasure,” Selim said, his deep blue eyes distant but full of energy. “The Zensunni believe sandworms are devils, but Shaitan works more harm through one man like Naib Dhartha than through all the creatures of the desert.”
Followers often brought news as they trickled in from scattered settlements to join the band of outlaws. Marha herself had provided invaluable advice and observations, which explained some of the conflicting stories Selim had heard over the years. With his commercial success in trading spice with rich offworld merchants, Naib Dhartha had succeeded in uniting a number of Zensunni settlements. Though such behavior defied their tenets of isolation and independence, Dhartha offered the other tribes much profit and water. And melange was available for the taking.
He squinted at the band of workers. “Do you think Dhartha is among them?”
“The Naib has turned his back on the desert,” Marha answered. “His own son, Mahmad, spent most of the past two years in Arrakis City, until he caught an offworld disease at the spaceport and died there.”
“Mahmad is dead?” Selim asked, feeling isolated as he recalled his distant youth. He remembered a young boy who had been Selim’s own age. But were he alive today Mahmad would have been a grown man like Selim, more than forty years old. And Mahmad had died away from the desert in a city, corrupted by trading in melange with offworlders. His lower lip curled in disgust. “And Naib Dhartha does not blame himself?”
Marha gave him a mirthless smile. The crescent-moon scar on her left brow shone white on her tanned skin. “He blames you, Wormrider. He considers you the cause of all his woes.”
Selim shook his head. His visions had been so clear, the response obvious. But Naib Dhartha would never listen to him. “We must do more to stop this abomination, for the good of all.”
When the spice scavengers carried their hoarded melange in caravans such as this, they were vulnerable. Now the caravan moved slowly on the flat sand at the edge of the rocks. Even with the groundcars’ humming engines and the plodding people following the spice loads, sandworms did not approach the cliffs.
Two runners in camouflaged distilling suits dropped beside Selim and Marha. They moved as silently as shadows, and Selim smiled in satisfaction.
“Jafar is in position.” One of the runners removed a breathing tube from his mouth, shutting off the internal recycling system of his desert clothing. “We must act before the caravan moves too far away.”
Selim stood. “Flash the message. Strike carefully, as always. Kill no one unless necessary. Our job is to teach them a lesson and retrieve that which belongs to Shai-Hulud.” Part of him wanted to slay Naib Dhartha, but he understood that a greater revenge was to humiliate the man, undermining his credibility as a leader.
With a hollow crumping sound, a puff of dust burst from the cliffs above, sending an avalanche of black boulde
rs tumbling down the ancient cliffside in front of the slow-moving caravan.
“Now we stop them.” Selim was already running. Emerging from hiding spots in the rocks, his followers raced along, hidden against the brown-and-black landscape.
On the sands below, the Zensunni spice gatherers halted their groundcars at a safe distance from the rumbling wash of boulders. Before the caravan members could determine what was happening, Jafar and the others surrounded them. Jafar held a maula pistol. Selim’s other followers had spears, projectile weapons, and even slings that could hurl rocks with murderous force.
The Zensunnis were intimidated, frightened. Somewhere among their packs they must have weapons of their own, but Selim’s hardened troop pressed in closely enough that they could not use them.
“Those who dare to steal from Shai-Hulud must face the consequences,” Selim said.
“Bandits,” one woman snapped, spitting her words like a curse.
A young man, barely a teen, looked with glittering eyes not yet completely blue from the consumption of melange. “It is Selim Wormrider!”
“I am Selim who speaks for Shai-Hulud. I have had a vision from Buddallah, and its truth cannot be denied. Shame upon all of you for helping to bring about the death of the sandworms, the eventual destruction of Arrakis.”
He stared at their cowled faces, studied the dark eyes, and determined that Naib Dhartha was not among them. As Marha had said, the grizzled old leader no longer deigned to waste his days with the exhausted work crews. Now he rubbed shoulders with offworld merchants.
The outlaws rummaged through the groundcar storage compartments, pulling out packs of rusty spice and handing them off to others, who scurried with them up onto the rocks.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 9