Dune: The Machine Crusade

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Later that day, when the tavern was quiet and most of the men with boats had gone out to sea in pursuit of schools of butterfish, Leronica welcomed a group of jihadis from the observation outpost. This was the third crew of replacement soldiers, still lonely and not quite settled in after having been rotated to this new assignment.

  The men ordered preserved meals to take back to their listening station, and finally settled down to their big mugs of kelp beer. Then a young cuarto, the leader of the group, proudly handed a package to Leronica. “Yesterday a ship delivered our system reconnaissance readings… along with something for you.” He grinned. “Wonder what the delivery charges are on this.”

  “Not everyone is as stingy as your wife, Raff,” another soldier joked.

  “Perhaps my cooking is recognized throughout the League of Nobles,” Leronica said, turning the package over in her hands. “Why shouldn’t I receive gifts of gratitude from soldiers on distant battlefields?”

  She held the package with feigned curiosity, pretending she didn’t know who might have sent it, but her heart thumped heavily in her chest. Even these jihadis did not know it had come from Primero Atreides.

  Bustling into the back room, Leronica lit several candles— the kind Vor liked— and unwrapped the package. She marveled at the thought that it had traveled dozens of light-years to reach her here on Caladan.

  Inside, she found a shimmering Buzzell soostone, a stunning firegem mined on the recently liberated Ix, and a dozen other small boxes, each one containing an astonishingly brilliant precious stone.

  The gifts told her that Vor still thought of her affectionately, and an enclosed note made her heart swell with wonder: “Since I cannot take you to all of these planets, dearest Leronica, I have decided to send you a piece of each world instead. I have collected them over the years.

  “Finally, we have developed a new technology that may allow me to travel to you rapidly. How wonderful it would be if I could look into your lovely eyes at this very moment— hopefully that day will come soon. I know you have your own life, but perhaps you think of me fondly on occasion.”

  She did not know what to do with the treasures, and sat with them for hours as the candles burned down. One by one she picked up each amazing gem and cupped it in the palm of her hand, touched that Vor had selected them especially for her. He had held these very gems himself, thinking of her while looking into the marvelous, shimmering facets. Leronica could not imagine the distances he had traveled to acquire so many wonders. It must have taken him years, and in all that time he had not forgotten her….

  * * *

  A WEEK LATER, Brom Tergiet’s fishing boat returned alone. It limped into the harbor, its masts blackened, its sails torn and burned, its engines barely functioning. As soon as the boat was sighted, the trouble alarm rang out and fishermen rushed out to assist. They chained their own boats to Brom’s and helped tow him to safety into the harbor.

  In a panic, Leronica rushed down to the docks, but saw no sign of her husband’s vessel, or her sons. Searching in vain, she gazed across the water as thick afternoon rain clouds gathered overhead. When they helped old Brom off the blistered deck and onto the dock, Leronica ran to him. Her heart was in her throat, and tears filled her eyes, especially when she saw how her father’s clothes were singed and his hair half burned away, the skin on his face reddened and peeling.

  Moments later, she let out a cry of joy when she finally saw her two boys, emerging from the cabin. They looked dirty and battered, but intact.

  “Where’s Kalem? Where’s the other boat?”

  “Elecrans.” It was all he needed to say. That one word filled every fisherman with terror. Leronica had heard of the strange electrical creatures that lived far out on the oceans of Caladan. No fisherman had ever grappled with them and survived. She straightened, not letting despair fill her heart until she had heard the complete story.

  “We wandered into a nest of them. Elecrans like living lightning all around us. They came upon us out of nowhere; we couldn’t escape.” Her father’s voice shook, his arms trembled as he relived the terrible incident. “I don’t think they meant to attack us, but we startled them… and they struck at us. Lightning bolts blasted everything. Power surges wiped out our controls. We had no chance… no chance whatsoever.”

  His breath hitched, his eyes reddened. He seemed to dread what he had to say next, and the twins clung to their mother, shaking and crying. “Kalem grabbed the lads and tossed each one like a hooked fish onto my deck. What was I to do?” Brom looked around at his intense audience, as if they could provide answers for him. “He yelled for me to take care of his boys, to make sure I kept them safe. I could hardly hear his words over the howl of the wind and the crackle of the elecrans. Then he got his engines running and he pushed away from us. His boat separated from mine and he never looked back. The boys called for him, and at the last minute, Kalem turned around. It was like he knew he was saying goodbye forever.”

  Brom’s fingers clenched and unclenched. “I swear to you, Kalem steered a course directly into those damned elecrans. I knew I had to get away, or we would fry next. My only thought was to protect the boys. Kalem… Kalem plunged his boat smack into the living electricity, and the creatures turned their anger upon him. I finally got my own boat going, but when I looked back his was a fireball. The elecrans were all around it, blasting and striking.

  “He gave his life for these lads. And for me.” Brom glanced at his daughter and then turned away, refusing to meet her gaze. “Kalem Vazz let us get away. I owe my worthless life to him, but it should have been the other way around! He has a beautiful wife and two strong sons.” Brom drew a long, jagged breath. “He should have saved his own sons and left me behind. Why should I be alive and not him?”

  The people on the docks muttered among themselves, and Leronica clung to her boys and her father, sharing their misery as all of them tried to find some comfort in one another.

  164 B.G.

  JIHAD YEAR 38

  Ten Years After Arrival of Poritrin Refugees on Arrakis

  I see visions, and I see reality. How am I to know the difference, when the whole future of Arrakis is at stake?

  —The Legend of Selim Wormrider

  In years, the desert nomads had not made such a successful raid against the outsiders. After hearing the alarm of a night scout, Marha and Ishmael stood on the cliff with other tribe members watching the band head home, flowing like oily shadows through the moonlight. She saw them crest the dunes and ascend hidden paths leading to their black lava-rock fortress of isolated caves.

  Jafar himself had led the raid out on the desert, though he told Marha he had little stomach for it. Captivated by Selim Wormrider’s vision, the lantern-jawed man seemed determined to follow the bandit leader’s memory. But it was with considerable discomfort; he told her he had never envisioned himself spearheading a movement.

  Safely asleep inside one of the caves, Marha’s son El’hiim was nine. A bright boy, clever and full of ideas, he did not yet seem conscious of the responsibility that would rest on the shoulders of the Wormrider’s only child.

  Marha felt a knot in her chest as she recalled her love for Selim, both as a mythical figure and a man. She understood his dreams and the path he had intended to take to reach them, and it pained her to see how badly her followers were losing their way without him. Jafar and Marha had done their best to keep the remaining outlaws together, far from civilization. Yet not even a decade had passed, and already her husband’s sacrifice to Shai-Hulud was nearly useless. How could he have expected his passionate goal to remain for the thousands of years he had envisioned?

  She knew it was time for a radical change. The people were too safe out here in the deep desert, growing complacent and soft.

  Days ago, Marha called the adults together and insisted that they ride their worms toward Arrakis City. Along that trade route, they must seek out all spice-harvesting activities in the desert— and smash them. A group o
f fourteen raiders had gone out, those who had spent the most time with Selim when he was alive, men and women who had agitated for further action instead of cowering here on the far side of the desert….

  The refugee Poritrin slaves had added fresh blood and new thoughts to the band. They had taken mates from among Selim’s followers, rein-vigorating the band with numerous children. Ishmael had succeeded in bringing his people to safety, out of the clutches of evil slavers. Though a life of bondage on Poritrin had made him old before his time, freedom out in this desert had stripped away the weight of his life. Ten years after the experimental space-folding ship crashed on Arrakis, he seemed younger and much stronger. He was a solid, guiding force, but not a violent man, not a revolutionary who would kill in order to achieve his goals.

  Such things were necessary here on Arrakis.

  Ishmael had not joined in the raid, choosing instead to remain behind with Marha and her son. He was not a warrior and had never learned to ride the great sandworms, though Marha was certain she could instruct him.

  She gave him private lessons about the ways of the desert, and in turn, he taught her some of the Buddislamic sutras he had memorized as a boy. He tried to explain the philosophical complexities of the Zensunni interpretation and how such ideas had formed the basis for the decisions of his life. Marha debated with him, using a sharp wit and a clever smile, explaining that scripture didn’t apply to every situation.

  Ishmael scowled. “When Buddallah lays down the Law, he does not change each time the wind blows a different direction.”

  Marha gave him a hard stare. “Here on Arrakis, that which refuses to adapt, rapidly perishes. Where would Buddallah be then, if we were all just desiccated mummies out in the sands?”

  In the end, Marha and Ishmael reached an accord, both feeling satisfied and pleased with the intellectual challenge, for they were finding ways to apply the Buddislamic Sutras, not only to the legend of Selim Wormrider, but to the realities of harsh daily life on Arrakis….

  The raiders entered the caves, laden with packs of stolen supplies and equipment. Best of all, Marha could see that the number of returning figures was the same as the party that had gone out. No one had been killed or captured.

  She grinned. Selim had taught them how to live by the most austere means, yet whenever they captured supplies from their enemies, the outlaws celebrated. Within an hour, the festivities would begin.

  “This is a great day,” Marha said. “Even Selim could not have asked for more.”

  Ishmael’s eyes sparkled, and he said, “Marha, for a long time the downtrodden slaves of Poritrin dreamt of nothing more than achieving freedom. Now the time has come for us to stop resting and hiding… and decide what to do with our lives.”

  * * *

  AS PART OF their spoils from the spice excavation crews, Marha’s raiders had brought back several packages of fresh, processed melange— the dried essence of Shai-Hulud. She held a package of the potent, rust-colored powder and smiled at Jafar in the yellow light of the main meeting chamber in the cave. “Your team has done well. It is time to celebrate, and to discuss our future.”

  Ishmael stood beside her. He felt such a bond with these desert people, all of whom struggled every day for their very existence. His Poritrin companions, including his daughter Chamal, had adapted well here; they would fight as fiercely for their simple life on Arrakis as would any of Selim’s band.

  Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, Ishmael turned to see the quick, furtive young boy El’hiim as he darted through one of the cave openings. He noted echoes of Marha’s features there and tried to extrapolate what Selim himself must have looked like.

  Dark-haired El’hiim scrambled down a steep slope, holding onto rocks and swinging to a safer foothold. He was agile and strong, always eager to explore crannies and canyons. The boy had intense dark eyes; though he spoke little, his mind seemed to be full of ideas.

  Ishmael had grown quite fond of him. Clearly, Marha was arranging the time so that she and the boy spent many afternoons and evenings with Ishmael. She had not chosen another mate since Selim’s death, and her intentions toward him were obvious. Ishmael found that he did not altogether disapprove. The outlaw group was small and the match seemed a wise one, in theory at least.

  Though he had not forgotten the wife and younger daughter he had been forced to leave on Poritrin, he could never go back there. It had been almost a decade since the slaves had escaped. There was no way he would ever find Ozza or Falina again.

  He watched young El’hiim scamper away, then turned his attention toward a crisp, potent smell wafting to his nostrils. Marha had opened the packages of stolen melange and cupped the powder in her hands.

  “Selim Wormrider found the truth in visions that the spice brought to him. Shai-Hulud gives this blessing to us. He leaves it in the desert, so that we may learn his bidding.” She looked at both Ishmael and Jafar. “It has been too long since the death of my husband. Each of us needs focus and direction now. This spice was taken from the thieves of the desert, and Shai-Hulud wants us to consume it so that we may understand.”

  “What if we all see different visions?” Ishmael asked.

  Marha looked at him. She was beautiful, strong, and self-assured, with a small half-moon scar on her brow from a knife duel. “We will each see what we need to see, and everything will be right.”

  As the sun set on the smooth, soft horizon of sand, the temperatures dropped and the blazing colors of dusk rose up in their glory. The followers of Selim Wormrider met in the largest cave chamber and passed the potent processed melange among themselves. Each man and woman consumed far more than they would ever include in their daily diet.

  “This is the blood of God, the essence of Shai-Hulud. He has concentrated his dreams for us, so that we may partake of them and see through the eyes of the universe.” Marha ate a thick spice wafer, and handed another one to Ishmael.

  He had consumed melange many times before— it formed a staple of the desert dwellers’ diet— but this was much more than he had ever eaten at once. As he swallowed it, he felt the effect sweep through his bloodstream and erupt into his mind almost immediately.

  Windows opened as if he had eyes peering from various spots on his skull. He couldn’t tell if he was looking into the future or the past, or simply seeing images of what he wanted or feared. Selim Wormrider had observed the same things, and had incorporated them into his passionate mission.

  But Ishmael now experienced horrific images of things he did not want to witness. He saw Poritrin, the familiar river delta and the slave quarters awash in blood and violence, on fire. The screams of victims filled the night air. His heart turned to lead, and he knew that Aliid must have caused all this pain and suffering.

  The entire city of Starda, the great capital on the Isana River, lay in ruins before his eyes, with most of its central complex a slumped, glassy crater. The debris of tall buildings spread out in waves, as if the fist of a vengeful god had hammered the metropolis and flattened everything.

  But that was only the start. He saw noble survivors and the remnants of Dragoon regiments gathering weapons, howling for vengeance. They hunted down Buddislamic slaves on every continent, trapping and torturing them. Many were burned alive, sealed inside houses; others were gunned down. The bodies were mutilated.

  In a vision he would never forget because it burned like a brand into the contours of his memory, he saw Ozza and Falina cowering together, screaming in terror, begging for mercy. Then five men with long knives fell upon them… and the men were not swift with their work, prolonging their enjoyment.

  But the melange swept Ishmael further along on a churning white current of images in his mind. Poritrin vanished, replaced by the sere tan dunes of the driest desert. Cracked lakebeds and wrinkled black rocks rose up to offer secure islands, safe from the ravenous worms.

  Without words, he sensed the mission of Selim Wormrider and saw a man riding high on the back of a huge sandw
orm, delivering his message in service to the Old Man of the Desert. Though Selim was long dead, Ishmael saw himself riding beside the bandit leader, crossing a great expanse of desert on a sandworm. The two of them guided Shai-Hulud and led their fellow wormriders to a bright horizon, a future where they could be free and strong— and all of the sandworms were alive.

  Ishmael caught his breath. His heart was pounding, and he felt buoyed by the dream. He understood what Marha felt, the sense of purpose Selim himself had inspired among his bandit followers.

  Then he sensed danger, a black and consuming fear… not part of the grandeur of the vision, but a more personal tragedy, a peril— the boy El’hiim.

  This was not a vision of the future, not a distant warning. It was happening now. The boy was trapped, caught inside a small opening in the rocks. While the adults gathered here, El’hiim had run off to explore the cliffs and steep slopes, poking into cracks and holes in search of kangaroo mice or lizards that he could bring to the tribe to eat. Ishmael sensed sharp, scuttling legs and skittering danger around the boy, like a thousand assassin’s knives.

  Ishmael began to run out of the cave chamber. He knew this wasn’t part of his vision. His body was being guided along by some other force.

  He left the gathered people, all of whom swayed with their personal spice visions.

  When Marha realized he had left the chamber, she stumbled after him. But Ishmael would not be slowed. Intuitively, he knew where the boy had gone, though he had not seen El’hiim for hours. With impressive agility, Ishmael climbed over rocks and went down through a small break in the stone.

  His eyes drank in the details around him, and simultaneously he saw the terrible vision inside his head: the boy trapped, and the knife-wielding assassins getting closer.

  El’hiim was afraid. He had already called twice for help, but no one heard him.