Hecate backed the walker toward her ship. “Use the standard procedure. I have been ordered to depart with all possible haste, since I have other Synchronized Worlds to visit. Omnius depends on the swift completion of this task. You understand, I’m sure.”
Offering stiff gestures of acknowledgment, the robots marched away with their fateful cylinder, and Hecate installed herself in the controls of her spacecraft once more. Using thoughtrode commands, she lifted away from the spaceport under yellow spotlights.
Below, in the grid city of Comati, the robots entered the citadel where the crippled Omnius evermind struggled to continue its vital functions. The machines used delicate manipulating hands to open the casing of the cylinder and remove the layers of protective armor.
Finally, they revealed the oddly shaped but potent nuclear warhead. Their systems swiftly attempted to calculate an appropriate response, even as the detonation numbers counted down to zero….
Hecate’s ship was high above the first two layers of clouds, when she saw a silvery-yellow light erupt like a sun beneath her. She had made certain that the immense explosion could be powerful enough to eradicate all remaining traces of the wounded evermind. The bomb’s electromagnetic pulse, enhanced by the design of its warhead, rippled across the skies of Bela Tegeuse and was reflected downward by the layer of thick clouds. Each Omnius substation shorted out in a chain reaction, one after another.
It gave her quite a thrill.
As Hecate left the dim planet behind, she thought about the surviving humans there— those who had not been in the proximity of ground zero. They had never known anything other than machine rule. She wondered if they would know how to take care of themselves. Oh well. Survival of the fittest.
“Now you are free of Omnius,” she announced, knowing that no one on the planet could hear her. “Bela Tegeuse is yours, if you wish to take it.”
Human beings are the most adaptable of creatures. Even under the harshest circumstances, we invariably find ways to survive. Through our careful breeding program, there may be ways to enhance this characteristic.
— ZUFA CENVA, 59th Lecture to Sorceresses
His first morning on Arrakis, after sleeping on the hard rocks with the comforting presence of Chamal beside him, Rafel rose with the dawn. A new day on a new planet. He watched the violent splash of orange stain the sky, and the browns and yellows of the desert and the rocks as they rose from slumber. He drew a deep breath of the already hot, dry air and filled his lungs with freedom.
But freedom in Heol itself wasn’t what he had expected at all.
From somewhere high on the towering rocks behind them, he heard the cries of birds and saw their blackshapes flitting and swooping around the stone crannies as if searching for food.
At least something can survive here. That means we can, too.
As a Zensunni slave since his birth on Poritrin, Rafel had always dreamed of liberty, but never had he envisioned finding it on a barren, desolate planet the likes of this one. The humid misery of the Starda River delta had been bad enough, but the oppressive heat here was worse by far.
Still, he had followed Chamal’s father, knowing that their only other option had been outright war against the whole population of Poritrin. And now that they were here, they must make the best of it. Ishmael was right: Freedom, even in a place like this, was preferable to working one more hour for a slave owner.
During the rough landing of the experimental ship, they had seen only a small portion of the planet that the flesh merchant Keedair called Arrakis. There must be green, fertile lands not far away, and a spaceport. We need only find them. Perhaps the Tlulaxa man knew the location of secret oases, and would have to be encouraged to share his information.
More than a hundred men and women had escaped from Poritrin, but none of them understood the technology of the ship that brought them here. Apparently, not even Keedair. Certainly those first-generation slaves who had been on space journeys after being abducted from their native worlds had never seen anything like the strange auroral lights around the ship as space folded around it.
One moment on Poritrin, and the next on Arrakis. Stuck here.
Rafel stared at the battered hull of the large, crashed ship and knew the wreck would never fly again. We are on our own. He feared for his young wife, and silently promised that he would do everything possible to secure their rescue himself, if necessary. Perhaps Ishmael could discover a way.
Hearing the scuff of boots, he turned to see Chamal’s father approaching from the camp. A blanket of quiet lay on the morning, but soon the refugees would awaken and begin to explore their bleak surroundings. He and Ishmael stood together in uncomfortable silence, watching the dawn awaken.
“We need to see what is out there, Ishmael,” Rafel said. “There may be green lands and water nearby.”
Their only means of transportation was a small scout vessel that had been inside the cargo hold, probably for the test crew to reconnoiter— or escape— when conducting the first trial of the prototype engines.
Ishmael nodded. “We have no maps, so we are limited to what we can see with our own eyes. Today you will take the scout ship and explore. Tuk Keedair will accompany you.”
Rafel scowled. “I don’t want that flesh peddler along.”
“And I doubt he wants to be with you, either. But he knows more about Arrakis than any of us. He may recognize landmarks and you may need him to negotiate assistance, if you find anyone.”
Grudgingly, Rafel saw the wisdom in this. He knew that the Tlulaxa had kidnapped the boy Ishmael himself. Ishmael must hate the man, and now Rafel tried to interpret any hidden message or instructions. Does he want me to take Keedair far away and kill him? But Ishmael’s expression was unreadable.
“In order to survive, the slaver will have to work, just like the others,” Rafel insisted. “And he’ll get a smaller ration of food and water.”
Ishmael nodded, his expression distant. “It will do him good to see how slaves live.”
* * *
AFTER A LIMITED breakfast, Rafel chose another escaped slave, a big-shouldered man named Ingu to keep watch over the complaining and reluctant Tuk Keedair. While Ishmael watched, the Tlulaxa man glowered at them all, then snatched out a sharp-edged talon of metal he had scavenged from the wrecked ship.
Ingu and Rafel both flinched back, sure the former slaver meant to attack them, though he could not possibly fight a hundred angry Zensunnis. “Lord Bludd did enough damage to me, but now after decades ripe with profits, you have ruined me. Utterly!” He slashed out with the makeshift knife. “Worthless, foolish slaves.”
Then with a flare of frustrated rage, he chopped off his own long, thick braid. Keedair held up the limp dusty rope of hair and dropped the gray-brown bundle to the sand. The former flesh merchant looked oddly naked without it, and he stared at the severed hair, all his bluster gone. “Ruined.”
“Yes,” Ishmael said to him, unimpressed, and took the knife away from him. “And now you must begin to earn your survival among us.”
“Survival! It is hopeless— with every breath, you are wasting your body’s water. Look at those people working out in the open sun as the day gets hotter— why didn’t they perform their labors during the cool of the night?” The Tlulaxa man glared at them.
“Because at night the Zensunni pray, and sleep.”
“Follow that practice on Arrakis, and you’ll die. Things have changed, and you must learn to change with them. Have you paid no attention to the heat and the dust? The very air saps out droplets of perspiration, steals your water— how will you replenish it?”
“We have supplies to last for weeks, possibly even months.”
Keedair gave Rafel a hard stare. “Are you so sure that will be enough? You must cover your skin from the hot sun. You must sleep during the greatest heat of the day, and do your physical work during the cool darkness. Doing this, you will save half of your perspiration.”
“We can also conserve our strength if we hav
e you do more of our hard labor,” Ishmael said.
Disgusted, Keedair said, “You refuse to understand. I would have thought that a man willing to risk so much to free his people, leading them to a faraway place, would want to keep them alive for as long as possible.”
Teams of refugees worked at the crashed cargo ship to open the storage bay wide enough so that Rafel would be able to maneuver the small scout flyer out into the open. It was a poorly equipped vehicle, and they had no assurance as to how far it would fly or how much fuel it carried, but they had no other way to cross the incomprehensibly vast distance of open sand. Other than walking.
“We are going to explore our surroundings,” Rafel said, giving Chamal a farewell embrace. He glanced sidelong at the rumpled, red-eyed Keedair. “The slaver will help us find a place to establish a settlement of our own.”
Tuk Keedair sighed. “Believe me, I want to find civilization as much as you do. But I don’t know where we are, or where to find water, food—”
Ishmael cut off his complaints. “Then you will look. Make yourself useful and earn your share of our supplies.”
The three men climbed into the small vessel, and Rafel looked skeptically at the controls. “Standard engines. This looks like something I flew on Poritrin. I think I can handle it.” They lifted off the deck and emerged from the hold of the wrecked ship.
While Chamal, Ishmael, and the other slaves looked after them, poignantly hopeful, Rafel guided the scout ship away from the rocks and out into the open desert. Burly Ingu furrowed his brow and stared out the windows, hoping to spot an oasis or some sign of civilization. Rafel glanced over at Keedair. “Tell me which direction to go, slaver.”
“I don’t know where we are.” The Tlulaxa looked over at him disdainfully. “You Zensunnis greatly overestimate my abilities. First Ishmael insists that I pilot a space vessel I have never flown, and now that we have crashed, you want me to be your savior.”
“If we survive, you survive,” Rafel pointed out.
Keedair gestured toward the window, pointing at nothing in particular. “All right, then. Go…there. In the desert, all directions are the same. Just be sure to mark your coordinates so that we can find our way back.”
The little craft skimmed over the open sands at good speed. They flew in an ever-expanding circle around the base camp in the rocks, exploring farther in all directions. The heat of the day set in, lifting thermals from the warm rocks and shimmering sands. The flyer rocked and lurched, and Rafel fought to hold it steady. The temperature rose inside the cabin and perspiration ran down his cheeks.
“I still don’t see anything out there,” Ingu said.
“Arrakis is a huge planet, mostly unexplored and only sparsely inhabited.” Keedair squinted in the glaring light. “If we find anything, it will not be because of my skills or expertise, but just plain luck.”
“Buddallah guides us,” Rafel intoned.
Away from the crash site of the stolen cargo ship, the desert extended endlessly before them, toward the shimmering horizon. Clinging to nothing but hope, Rafel kept flying, searching for anything. Rock out croppings poked up at odd intervals in the tan and yellow ocean below, but he detected no smears of green, no water, no settlements.
“You won’t find anything out here,” Keedair said. “Nothing looks familiar to me, and I doubt the flyer has the range we need to find Arrakis City.”
“Would you prefer to walk?” Ingu asked.
The small man fell silent.
At dusk, after a fruitless day of searching, they landed gently in the middle of the ocean of sand near a thick swirl of rusty discoloration. Several kilometers away, another line of barren rock stood out from the dunes, but Rafel thought it would be safer and easier to land out in the open. It was cooler after the sun set, and when he disembarked onto the soft dunes, Rafel heard only lifeless silence and the rushing of wind-scattered dust. The air seemed heavy with a pungent biting smell like… cinnamon. Ingu paced around the ship, and seemed to be looking for something.
Keedair was the last to venture outside; he stared dejectedly into the vast emptiness. Sniffing, he bent down to the reddish powdery sand and scooped up a handful. “Congratulations, you have found a fortune in melange.” He began to chuckle to himself, but his laughter had an edge of hysteria. “Now we just need to get it to market and you Zensunnis will be rich.”
“I was hoping the discoloration was a sign of water,” Rafel said. “That’s why I landed here.”
“Can we eat it?” Ingu asked of Keedair.
“You can eat the sand itself, for all I care.” He hunkered down on the ground, his dark eyes gazing down. “You have destroyed years of work, my entire investment… and for what? You will all die here, too. There is nothing on Arrakis for the likes of you.”
“At least we are no longer slaves,” Rafel said.
“And now you have no one to take care of you, either.” Keedair raised his voice. “You’ve never had to live on your own, using only your personal skills for survival. You were born to be slaves, and before long your people will be begging to return to Poritrin, where the nobles can take care of them.” He spat into the reddish dust, then seemed to regret wasting the moisture. “I did you a favor capturing you and bringing you to civilization. But you fools never appreciated what you had.”
Rafel grabbed the small Tlulaxa man, pulled out the scrap-metal knife Ishmael had given him, and raised it in front of the man’s face. But the former slaver did not flinch. Tauntingly, Keedair tapped fingers against his throat. “Go ahead, or are you a coward… like all your people?”
Ingu strode up, fists bunched, as if ready to join in the fight, but Rafel tossed the Tlulaxa man aside. “Buddallah would punish me for killing a man in cold blood, no matter how much suffering you have caused. I have memorized the sutras, I have listened to Ishmael.” Rafel scowled, restraining himself. Truly, he wanted to feel this evil man’s hot blood run off the metal of his knife blade and down onto his hand.
Keedair sneered at them from where he had fallen in the dust. “Yes, use me as your scapegoat, since I am the brunt of generations of your pitiful anger, the only target for your simpering. I did not want to bring you here, and I cannot help you now. If I could find rescuers, I would call them.”
“I have been waiting for an excuse to get rid of you, no matter what Ishmael says.” Rafel gestured away from the scout vessel. “Go out into the desert then, and find your own way. Why not eat your valuable melange? I see plenty of it around here.”
Against his better judgment, the Tlulaxa man staggered out toward the dunes, then turned back to them. “You’re hurting your chances for survival by getting rid of me.”
Ingu looked smugly pleased at the man’s predicament. Rafel said, “We will survive longer if we don’t have to share our rations with a flesh peddler.”
With a mixture of relief to be away and fear at being left alone in the cruel desert, Keedair squared his shoulders, then walked bravely away, into the sea of sand. “I am dead either way. And so are you.”
Rafel looked after him with awkward uncertainty. Was this what Ishmael had intended? Had there been a subtle message Rafel had not interpreted? The young man wanted to impress his father-in-law, but wasn’t sure he understood what he was supposed to do….
Afterward, Rafel and Ingu sat outside the ship in the cool evening. They ate sparingly of protein wafers and sipped water. The two men pulled emergency sleeping pads from the small storage compartment and spread them on the soft sand. As he lay down, feeling utterly weary, Rafel wished he could be beside Chamal.
He put away the scrap-metal knife, wondering if there might be nighttime predators out in the deep desert… or if the desperate slaver might sneak back and kill them in their sleep, then steal the scout craft for himself.
Grimly, he decided they needed more protection around the camp. Leaving Ingu snoring on his mat, Rafel climbed into the cockpit and saw, not surprisingly, that Norma Cenva had equipped the small craft w
ith Holtzman shields. It would be a good defense.
Confident, he powered up the shields, which surrounded their camp with a shimmering umbrella of ionized air. Then he went back to his sleeping pad and felt safe… for a moment.
The ground shook, as from an earthquake. The dunes shifted and churned, and a rumble came from deep below them. With a rushing sound like a hurricane, the dunes collapsed. The scout ship lurched, knocked off of its landing gear.
Yelping, Rafel scrambled to his feet, only to stagger and fall on the uneven, shifting sand. Ingu threw himself off the sleeping mat with a yell, wind milling his arms for balance.
Abruptly, the night desert erupted into a storm of frenzied shapes around them, huge segmented demons that rose up like living nightmares. Rafel fell on his back, already half buried in the turbulent sand, and looking into the cavernous mouths of monsters rising up from below, driven wild… by the thrumming shields!
Ingu screamed in an oddly high-pitched voice.
All the worms struck at once, pounding the scout craft, the camp, the two men. Rafel thought he was gazing up at a giant fire-eating dragon. But there were no eyes. He saw a flash of glittering crystalline points around the huge mouth.
Then shadows, a sharp burst of pain, and endless darkness.
Life is about choices— good and bad— and their cumulative effects.
— NORMA CENVA, Mathematical Philosophies
Irritated but curious, Zufa Cenva arrived on Kolhar in response to the strange telepathic demand that had targeted her from across space. The Sorceress found the planet austere and rudimentary; the colony there had survived but wasn’t exactly thriving. Why would anyone want her to come here? The world had few resources and a bleak climate just on the survivable edge of harshness.
But the summons had been undeniable. Who could want me here? And how dare they summon me?
While she’d been training her most talented sisters on Rossak, leading them through dangerous mental exercises in the noisome jungles, the compulsion had yanked her thoughts so severely that she’d nearly allowed her mental focus to collapse, with potentially disastrous results. The Sorceress recruits who depended upon Zufa’s guidance had desperately juggled their deadly energies, barely containing the holocaust in their minds.
Dune: The Machine Crusade Page 49