Dune: The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  * * *

  AFTER THE ROBOT war fleet had retreated from the Poritrin system, the victory celebration was lavish and grandiose. The mood was ecstatic, tinged with hysterical relief. Sparing no expense, Niko Bludd put on outrageous feasts, parades, performances, and a succession of public events that became monotonous in their sheer pomposity. Savant Holtzman was hailed as a hero of the Jihad, conqueror of machines. When raising their toasts of spiced Poritrin rum, some of the nobles even remembered to mention the name of Vorian Atreides, albeit in passing.

  With the puffed-up scientist standing beside him, Lord Bludd delivered loud, drunken speeches, beating his chest in triumph. “Freedom is a basic human right!”

  But the Buddislamic slaves had no cause to celebrate.

  A few of the captive Zensunni children remained outside in the residence compound on the fringes of the now quiet delta foundries and manufacturing centers. Their mouths hung agape as they stared at the spectacular light shows and listened to the distant thumping music.

  The adult slaves shut themselves inside their barracks, comforting each other with their own memories and culture. While the gala celebration continued and flashes of light erupted like chrysanthemums over Poritrin’s great rolling river, Ishmael sat with his slave companions and exchanged stories of their people’s past. By recalling parables and legends, citing the wisdom of the Koran Sutras, they kept alive the memory of how the Zensunnis and Zenshiites had been pursued from world to world, always seeking safe harbors in the cosmic sea where they could be left alone. They had turned their backs on the war of the damned— machine demons versus unbelievers. Neither side was worthy of the support of the faithful, for the Buddislamics were chosen by God, the keepers of the true wisdom of heaven.

  Right now, though, tribulations forced them to maintain their faith. “We have to stay strong,” Ishmael assured his companions. “Stronger than any of the outsiders.”

  Then, in shadows at the fringe of the story fire, Aliid surprised them all by objecting. “Perhaps, Ishmael, but elsewhere Zensunnis and Zenshiites are free.” He drew a quick breath through clenched teeth. “If Bel Moulay were here, all slaves would rise up under his banner. He would show us how to win our way off this planet.”

  “But he is not here,” Ishmael chided, sitting in a meditative position on the hard floor. “That uprising only bought him execution, and all of us have paid the price in the years since.”

  “Bel Moulay may be dead, but I am not,” Aliid grumbled.

  “I do not have the audacity to rush God, my friend. Someday,” Ishmael promised, “we will find a world that we can inhabit and defend for ourselves. Our lives will be as Buddallah intended.”

  Aliid looked skeptical, but the other slaves watched Ishmael with bright eyes and hopeful expressions. Ishmael had been making promises to these people for so many years that he wasn’t sure how much longer he himself could continue to hope.

  Nonetheless, he forced strength into his voice. “Finally, it will be a place we can call home.”

  Sand keeps the skin clean, and the mind.

  — Zensunni fire poetry from Arrakis

  Two days after his water supply ran out, the boy Aziz was sure he was going to die. He plodded over dry rocks and through windblown sand. His lips and eyes were caked with fine dust that he could not brush away. He saw illusions, mirages, and little hope.

  Naib Dhartha had sent him out on this important mission, and he had to last just a few more hours, so that he could complete the task his grandfather had assigned to him. It was critical.

  What if I fail? What if I die without delivering my message? Aziz’s father Mahmad— Dhartha’s only son— had been faithful to the tribe, working diligently with offworlders at the spaceport. Mahmad had run much of the melange business, dealing with Tuk Keedair and Aurelius Venport, who sold the spice around the League of Nobles.

  Four years ago, Mahmad had contracted a strange alien disease from a traveler in Arrakis City, suffered at length, and finally died delirious. Some of the conservative Zensunnis from distant villages claimed that the sickness had been punishment for mingling with outsiders. While the old Naib had grieved for his son, death was a way of life on Arrakis and he considered the loss as a part of their continuing battle for independence, no less so than falling in battle against an enemy….

  No longer knowing in which direction he walked, Aziz staggered through the bleak heat, detecting no sign of the wormriders. He hoped the bandits would come to his rescue… somehow. Soon.

  The wealth brought by the spice trade had given the Zensunni villagers a comfortable life. They relied on what they purchased in Arrakis City more than what they could wrest from the desert’s clutches. Out on the harsh terrain of Arrakis, Aziz had discovered quickly that he had not learned nearly enough of the old survival skills.

  The boy did everything he could to make his presence known, calling attention to himself by lighting beacons in the night and flashing mirrors during the day. He could not believe the heroic Selim Wormrider would let him perish at such a young age. The outlaw had looked him right in the eye during the spice raid, and Aziz thought he knew the great man’s heart, despite what his grandfather said….

  Selim and his bandits caused Dhartha far more problems than did offworld diseases. Over the years, constant raids against caravans hauling melange had cut deeply into village profits. Through it all, the Naib refused to make excuses to Tuk Keedair for decreased productivity, whenever he came to pick up spice in Arrakis City. “The bandits are an internal matter,” he invariably said in answer to all questions. “Leave us to handle it.”

  Displeased, Keedair had threatened to send teams of offworld professionals into the deserts, hired trackers and assassins. But Aziz’s grandfather had promised to take care of the matter, intent on keeping the business relationship intact, as well as the privacy of the village. And so with a heavy heart, Dhartha had sent his young grandson out alone to search for the bandits, to offer them a truce.

  “Selim was once a member of our tribe,” the Naib had told him at dusk three days before, just as Aziz prepared to set off into the desert. The two had sat alone by the last embers of the story fire. “As a boy, Selim was found guilty of stealing water and exiled to the desert. We expected him to die, but somehow he survived.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” Aziz’s eyes were bright in the cave shadows. “And he learned how to ride the beasts of the desert.”

  The old man’s deep blue eyes moistened with the recollection. “Since then, while we have learned to harvest and market melange, Selim Wormrider has gathered a band of criminal followers to continue his reign of terror upon our hardworking spice gatherers. I know that Selim hates me for the sentence I imposed on him— and it is time for one of us to forgive the other.” He paused. “Or kill the other.”

  The old Naib had looked weary and broken, and Aziz felt his heart go out to the man. He had made a secret promise that he would find a way to solve the problem, to heal the breach between Naib Dhartha and Selim Wormrider.

  “We must end this foolish feud and stand united for our common interests. Otherwise, the offworlders will divide and conquer us all. Even an outlaw like Selim cannot want such a thing. You must find him, Aziz, and tell him what I have said.”

  Proud of the responsibility, the boy had ventured into the desert, facing the danger with hope and determination. But he had been out here for days, and the fierce desert was unforgiving. Now he wanted nothing more than to curl up and die.

  * * *

  ACCOMPANIED BY TWO other outlaws, Marha spied on the youth as he staggered along. She stopped counting how many foolish mistakes he made, and knew he was about to die. Selim had said that incompetence and inattention led to death on Arrakis. The desert had already tested this boy, and found him wanting.

  In previous generations, the Zensunni nomads of Arrakis had learned to live in harmony with the harsh environment, but Selim and his followers went one step farther, scraping by with fewer r
esources than even the old tribes required. Selim’s band lived by their own wits and skills, not depending on luxuries, water, or tools from the decadent offworld traders in Arrakis City.

  Marha had been with Selim’s band for the better part of a year now. She had learned how to fight with blades, survive sandstorms, find places to hide in the deep bled, and how to summon and ride Shai-Hulud. She carried her own crysknife now, a milky curved blade that had once been the tooth of a great worm. It would have been a mercy to slit the boy’s throat and let him perish swiftly rather than die a long, lingering death.

  And then she had recognized the grandson of Naib Dhartha. Knowing Selim would want to talk to this one in particular, she decided to keep him alive and let Selim make his own decision about the boy’s fate.

  Under a clear, starlit sky while the boy lay trembling with exhaustion and thirst in the shelter of rocks, the bandits surrounded him. At first, Aziz was convinced that Marha and the others were only a delirious dream. They closed in, shadowy figures who made signals and clicking noises to one another. Aziz was so weak that he could barely lift his head.

  They captured him without a struggle and, after giving him a sip of precious water, carried him like a piece of dry wood. He tried to speak his name and tell them why he had come, but his words came out in a feeble croak. Finally, the boy smiled briefly through cracked and bloody lips. “I knew you would come….”

  Selim Wormrider and his caves were far away, but the outlaws could travel swiftly. When they reached the hidden settlement, Marha saw to it that Aziz was taken to a small isolated alcove, where she gave him more water and a little food, and let him fall into a deep sleep of exhaustion and recovery. Selim himself had ridden off on a worm to raid distant spice fields, and would not return for another day yet.

  A long time later the boy awoke inside the cool, dim enclosure. He sat up quickly but almost fainted, then lay back with his eyes open, staring into the swimming shadows, trying to orient himself. Marha startled him when she spoke. “We do not often rescue fools. You are lucky Shai-Hulud did not devour you. How could you come into the desert so poorly prepared?”

  She unstoppered a flask of water beside his pallet and let him drink. Despite his burned skin and the shadowed hollows around his eyes, Aziz actually smiled at her. “I needed to find Selim Wormrider.” He breathed deeply to restore his energy. “I am—”

  Marha cut him off. “I know who you are, grandson of Naib Dhartha. Only your value as a hostage convinced me not to spill the water of your body. Perhaps Selim will wish to torture you to death, extracting vengeance for the crimes of your grandfather. “

  The boy jerked. “My grandfather is a good man! He wishes only to—”

  “Naib Dhartha cast Selim out of the tribe, though he knew full well that another young man was guilty of those crimes. He was not concerned that an innocent orphan would die to save a more important tribal member. The boy who truly committed the theft knew his guilt, as did your grandfather. But Selim was made to pay for those crimes.”

  Aziz seemed confused. Obviously, no one had ever spoken that way of his grandfather. “That is not the story I have been told.”

  Marha shrugged at him, and scowled. “Naib Dhartha has forsaken the ways of the desert for offworld conveniences. The people of your village are living a lie. It does not surprise me that you believe them.”

  In the shadows, the young man squinted at her, finally recognizing her by the scar on her brow. “You were one of us, but ran away. I saw you when you raided our spice caravan.”

  Marha lifted her chin. “I intend to be the wife of Selim Wormrider.” She surprised herself with such a bold admission, but she had made up her mind a month ago. Every member of the band could see it anyway.

  Her voice became harder. “I fight against those who seek to destroy Shai-Hulud by exploiting the spice, sending it offworld. Naib Dhartha is our greatest enemy.”

  Aziz forced himself to sit up. “But I bring a message from my grandfather. He wishes to make peace with Selim Wormrider. There is no need for us to continue our feud.”

  Marha frowned at him in disdain. “That is for Selim to decide.”

  * * *

  WHEN AZIZ WOKE again in the alcove’s darkness, it took him several moments to realize that someone sat in utter silence inside the chamber, just behind him. Not Marha… but another.

  “Are you… are you Selim Wormrider?”

  “Many seek me and some find me. Few ever return to tell the tale.”

  “I have heard the tales,” Aziz said, feeling very brave. He sat up. “I saw you before, when you raided our spice caravan. You didn’t hurt any of us. I think you are a man of honor.”

  “Unlike your grandfather.”

  Selim illuminated a small glowpanel. Although dim, the light seemed startlingly bright after Aziz had spent so long in the cave’s darkness. “No doubt you revere Naib Dhartha, boy. You think he must be a good person since he leads the tribe. But do not look to him as a hero. And do not believe everything that is said about heroes.”

  Now Aziz could see that Selim’s face was weathered but surprisingly young. His eyes were hard and intelligent, and his expression was more majestic than Aziz had remembered. Vision and destiny were clear in his mind. The boy caught his breath, matching this image with the legends he had heard. Finally, face-to-face with this larger-than-life man, he found himself at a loss for words.

  “I understand you bring a message. What could Naib Dhartha possibly have to say to me?”

  Aziz’s heart pounded, since this was undoubtedly the most important thing he had ever done, or ever would do. “He bade me tell you that he formally forgives you for the crimes you committed as a boy. The tribe no longer bears you any malice, and my grandfather welcomes you back to our village. He wishes you to rejoin our people, so that we can all live in peace.”

  Selim laughed at the offer. “I have a mission from Buddallah. I have been chosen to do great work.” He smiled humorlessly, his dark blue eyes flashing. “Tell your grandfather that I will absolve the tribe of their guilt as soon as he ceases all spice harvesting.”

  Astonished, Aziz said, “But our people depend on selling the spice to survive. We have no other way—”

  “There are many ways to survive,” Selim cut him off. “There were always many ways. My followers have demonstrated this clearly over the years. The Zensunni lived on Arrakis for generations before they became too dependent on offworld luxuries.” He shook his head dismissively. “But you are just a boy. I do not expect you to understand.” Selim stood. “Gather your strength, and I will take you back to your grandfather. Alive and unharmed.” He smiled. “I doubt Naib Dhartha would have shown me the same courtesy.”

  * * *

  OPPRESSIVE SUNLIGHT BEAT down on them in the stillness of the open sands. “If you run, you will die,” Selim Wormrider said.

  Aziz stood beside him on the crest of a powdery dune deep in the ocean of sand. “I will not run.” His knees felt weak.

  The outlaw leader shot him an amused smile. “Remember that, when panic clamors through your mind and your feet want to flee.”

  Selim placed his hooks and metal rods on the crusty yellow sand, then knelt beside a resonant drum. He wedged the pointed end of the percussion tool into the sand. With brisk, sharp gestures, he pounded on the flat surface. The reverberant boom sounded like a loud explosion, and the shape of the drum directed soundwaves deep into the heart of the dune, into the strata of deposited sand… into the lair of the worm. Selim closed his eyes and murmured in a hypnotic rhythm, a call to Shai-Hulud.

  Aziz’s stomach knotted, but he had promised the heroic Wormrider to stand firm. He trusted Selim. The boy waited and watched. Finally he saw the ripple beneath the dunes, curling tremors. “There it is! A worm is coming!”

  “Shai-Hulud always answers the call.” Selim kept pounding. Then, as the monster curved around as if stalking its prey, Selim uprooted the drum, gathered his tools, and motioned for the youth
to follow. “We must get into position. Walk lightly and with random steps, not like the march of an offworld soldier. Remember who you are!”

  They hurried along the spine of the ridge. The beast continued toward the last loud reverberations, then rose up and up, shedding a river of sand and dust as if molting a layer of skin.

  Aziz had never been so close to one of the demons. The smell of melange was overpowering, a flinty, fiery stench of cinnamon mingled with brimstone. He felt sweat on his brow, a waste of bodily moisture.

  Exactly as the Wormrider had predicted, Aziz wanted to run screaming, but instead he whispered a prayer to Buddallah and remained fixed, waiting. He felt as if he was going to faint from the excitement.

  Selim gathered his tools and lunged at the exact moment the sandworm crested. He pounced between the encrusted ridges and drove his spear and hooks into the sensitive flesh, trailing knotted ropes. He shouted to Aziz, “Climb! Grab the rope!”

  The young man could barely hear over the roar of the monster, the rush of torn sand, but he understood. Fueled by adrenaline, he raced forward, though his heart caught in his throat. Aziz gritted his teeth and tried not to breathe the choking stench. Clinging to the knotted cable he scrambled up, bracing his boots against the pebbly skin of the monstrous worm.

  Selim had the creature under control; Aziz never doubted it. As they stood atop the high ridges and Shai-Hulud undulated across the ocean of dunes, Aziz could barely contain his sense of wonder and amazement. He was riding a worm, crossing the distance to his village, just like all the legends had said. Selim did indeed control the desert demons!

  Aziz fought conflicting emotions. He respected his grandfather, but found himself doubting if such a man as the Wormrider could possibly tell falsehoods. He felt even more respect than before, an awe so great that it numbed his entire body. At last, after all the years of hearing the legend of Selim, the famed Wormrider had taken on flesh and substance.

  The long journey passed in a blur, and Aziz knew he would never forget his wonderment and dread. When Selim finally instructed the boy how to tumble away from the half-spent creature, Aziz staggered across the sands toward the rocky cliffs of his village.