The Winds of Dune

by Brian Herbert

The blurred funnel of one of the transparent tornadoes appeared behind her, and a second gained strength, but Tessia seemed unconcerned. The whirlwinds circled and dissipated as she hurried over to the waiting dump box. The Face Dancers clustered close to shield her from view.

  “It will be uncomfortable, Mother, but it’s the only way.”

  “I’m no stranger to discomfort.” Tessia applied the breather to her face, wrapped herself in the thermal shielding, and climbed into the mulch. The Face Dancer workers connected the life-support systems and gave Tessia instructions.

  Her voice was muffled through the face mask, but her eyes never left Bronso’s. “I will put myself into a trance and wait as long as is necessary.”

  As the conspirators worked, the tornadoes appeared and reappeared, seeming to gain strength until the group began to attract the attention of other Bene Gesserits, but the Face Dancer women moved in to intercept them.

  As soon as the dump box was sealed and Tessia secured, the tornadoes vanished. The air fell still.

  They moved the dump box and all their materials and equipment with as much furtive haste as possible. Bronso’s heart did not stop racing until they were safely away from Wallach IX.

  No man can be asked to do more than his best, even if he falls short.

  —DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES

  Now that Jessica had revealed the truth, Gurney understood why Bronso must not be captured. Duncan, though, unaware of any subterfuge, continued to throw himself into the task with all his energy.

  While the ghola gathered details, Gurney labored to deflect the search subtly, trying not to get too close to the target. Thankfully, Bronso and his mysterious allies were masters of deception, planting false leads to establish dead-end trails that Gurney methodically followed, knowing they would lead nowhere. He didn’t like to deceive his friend, but his greater loyalty lay with Lady Jessica, and to House Atreides. He understood what Paul wanted, and why—while Duncan did not.

  However, the ghola was not only a Swordmaster, but also a Mentat, and not easily fooled. Gurney’s many intentional failures were beginning to make him seem gullible or inept; before long Duncan would undoubtedly stop taking his advice or, worse, grow overtly suspicious.

  Gurney paced their headquarters chamber in the Arrakeen citadel. “Face Dancers are Tleilaxu creations, so Bronso must have some sort of business arrangement with the Bene Tleilax. Maybe we should go to Thalim and interrogate some Tleilaxu Masters.”

  Duncan shook his head. “The Bene Tleilax hate House Vernius for ousting them from Ix, and the feeling is reciprocated. That is bound to be another dead end.”

  Since the ghola also had his own unsettling connections with the Tleilaxu, Gurney wondered if he could be reluctant to return to their worlds. “At least it’s a new approach. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

  “I have another approach,” Duncan said. “We can search among the Wayku aboard Guild Heighliners. We know the one named Ennzyn has a previous connection with Bronso Vernius. Find that one, and we might get some answers.”

  Gurney concealed his alarm as best he could. “It’s been, what—nineteen years since the boys ran away? How do we even know Ennzyn is still working for the Guild?”

  “Because the Wayku are forbidden to disembark on any planetary surface. He cannot have gone anywhere. And we know the Wayku are involved with Bronso because you and Lady Jessica observed them distributing the seditious literature during your passage to Arrakis.”

  “Ah, so we did.” At the time, though, Gurney had not been aware of what he knew now.

  Boarding the next Guildship that arrived at Arrakis, Duncan and Gurney marched to the restricted decks bearing authorization documents signed by the Regent Alia herself. The cowed Guild security officials led them to a suite of windowless office cabins where sallow-skinned administrators sat at a row of desks. Though the administrators showed no enthusiasm for the task, the Guild knew the source of their spice and knew not to interfere.

  One administrator gave a brief bow, not rising from behind his desk. “We will provide complete access to our personnel data, but we have very little information about individual Wayku employees. They have lived aboard Guildships for many, many centuries. They are . . . company assets, like equipment.”

  Gurney scowled. “Gods below, man! Even your equipment has serial numbers.”

  The Guildsman pondered for a moment, then left the chamber. He returned a short time later with printed records, shigawire reels, and crystal-etched documents. “Perhaps the information you seek is here.”

  To Gurney the task seemed hopeless—and thankfully so—but Duncan dove into the records with dogged determination, dropping into Mentat focus to scan the considerable amount of data.

  An hour went by, then two, then three, while Gurney waited patiently. Finally, Duncan rose behind the pile of documents on the table. His ghola face held a satisfied smile, though his metal eyes were unreadable. “I’ve found him, Gurney. I know which ship carries Ennzyn. We will command the Navigator to divert this vessel so that we may intercept it.”

  Gurney’s heart was heavy, but he pretended to be pleased.

  Inside a chamber hidden in the deep desert, Bronso Vernius examined the tiny silver capsule that he had just removed from the back of his mother’s neck. Hours before, at the Carthag Spaceport, he had discovered it with a scanner and had disabled it electronically.

  An Ixian locator beacon. The very fact of its existence angered him. “Part of their testing, Mother. While you were comatose, maybe even when you were pregnant with your unwanted babies, the witches implanted a tracker.”

  Tessia pressed a healing pad over the wound on her neck. “I always wondered why that spot itched.” She gave him a gentle smile. “You sound surprised. Do not underestimate the Bene Gesserit. Many of their monitoring devices were merely to study me. I was their experimental animal.”

  “And their brood mare.”

  “No matter how many other offspring they forced me to bear, you are my only true son, Bronso.” She patted his arm. “And you have freed me. I’m safe now, with you.”

  He frowned. “You are never truly safe with me, Mother. There’s been a price on my head for years. But we’re here on Dune now, so there’s a chance. We have important allies.” Bronso placed the capsule on the hard plazcrete floor, and smashed it with the heel of his boot.

  The Heighliner carrying Ennzyn was forcibly delayed in orbit above Balut, its next stop, and the Guild offered no explanations to the numerous passengers aboard. As soon as the second Guildship arrived, Duncan and Gurney shuttled across, aided by Guild security.

  Following his companion, Gurney’s mind spun. After so many years, he couldn’t believe that Ennzyn truly had any continuing contact with Bronso, yet the Ixian obviously had supporters amongst the Wayku. What better place to start than with Ennzyn? It made perfect sense, and he saw no way he could divert Duncan’s attention.

  As soon as the two men came aboard, the Heighliner’s security launched a thorough search of the lower crew decks. Duncan and Gurney hurried without additional escort directly to Ennzyn’s private cabin.

  Gurney tried to convince his companion to show restraint. “Bear in mind, Duncan, that this man showed us how to find Paul and Bronso when they were with the Jongleur troupe. He helped us save them.”

  Duncan paused. “I remember that full well. Is that another test of my memories?”

  “No, a reminder of our obligations.”

  “If he is involved with spreading sedition against the Imperium, then we have no obligations to this man.” Using an electronic master lock tool, Duncan unsealed the cabin door and forced it open.

  Gurney hoped the Wayku steward wasn’t there, but this hope faded quickly. As soon as the corridor light flooded the chamber, the Wayku man lurched to his feet, where he stood surrounded by piles of instroy paper documents, stacks of reproduced manifestoes.

  Sighting his quarry, Duncan lurched inside with a speed that Gurney
had seen him use only in battle. As the Wayku reached for a small device under the metal table, trying to activate a switch—an incendiary?—

  Duncan pushed Ennzyn aside, and Gurney caught him, holding his arms behind his back.

  The steward seemed unruffled by the unexpected vehemence of their reaction. His dark glasses and headphone had been knocked askew and fell to the cluttered deck; data streams poured onto the backs of the lenses, and faint voices emanated from his headphones. As soon as the units fell off, wisps of smoke emerged from the electronics.

  With an attitude of forced calm, Ennzyn studied the two men, recognized them. “Why, it is Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck from House Atreides. Do you need my help once more?”

  “We need to find Bronso again,” Gurney said. “You helped us track him down before.”

  “Oh, but the circumstances are entirely different now. That other time, it was in the young man’s best interests to have him return home to his father. This time, I don’t trust that you two gentlemen are quite so altruistic. It would be no kindness to Bronso if I were to help you find him.”

  Duncan showed no sympathy or patience. “We are under orders from Regent Alia to find him.” He gestured to the incriminating documents. “You are obviously in communication with Bronso of Ix.”

  Ennzyn didn’t seem the least bit afraid. “I receive information only via complicated channels, and I am not in contact with him at this time. I believe he is involved in another important mission unrelated to his literary and historical endeavors.” He smiled faintly. “Bronso knows how to hide, and the Wayku know how to keep secrets.”

  “That is unfortunate for you. Gurney, we will take him back to Arrakeen to stand before Alia.”

  Oddly enough, this caused Ennzyn great distress. “Wayku are not allowed to set foot on any planet. It is forbidden.”

  “Then I am dubious about your chances for survival.” Duncan turned to his companion. “Did you find anything unusual among these?”

  Gurney stopped his casual sifting through the stacked documents. “No. Just multiple copies of the same thing.” He looked heavily at the Wayku captive, knowing what would happen to Ennzyn as soon as he was brought before Alia’s interrogators. “Duncan, this man was Paul’s friend, as well. Ennzyn came to us, revealed the boys’ location, and by doing so he probably saved Paul’s life. Duke Leto would have considered that a debt.”

  “Duke Leto is dead.”

  “But is honor dead, as well?”

  The ghola looked troubled by the conundrum. “What do you propose we do with this man? He has obviously committed crimes.”

  With a loud clamor, five Guild security men rushed down the corridor and met them at the open doorway to Ennzyn’s cabin. “We found other stockpiles of documents, sirs. We don’t yet know which of the Wayku are involved.”

  “Ennzyn is involved,” Duncan said.

  Gurney looked at the captive, tried to understand what had driven this man—and so many of his vagabond people—to assist an outlaw like Bronso. Seeing no easy way out of the problem, but certain of what Alia would do to Ennzyn, he said, “Let these Guildsmen take care of the matter. The Wayku are their responsibility.”

  The lead guard snapped to attention. “We will bring this man and his allies before the highest levels of Guild administration. We will prove our loyalty to Regent Alia.”

  Duncan hesitated a long moment, choosing among orders, obligations, and humanity. Ennzyn looked at him as though he didn’t care one way or the other, but Gurney could detect a gray pallor and a faint sheen of perspiration on his skin.

  “Very well, but on one further condition. Dispatch a message throughout the Guild. All Wayku are to be questioned, all their decks to be searched, all copies of Bronso’s documents to be confiscated. We will eliminate this distribution method for the traitor, here and now.” Duncan appeared satisfied. “We have shut down Bronso’s ability to spread his lies. That is a sufficient triumph.”

  Gurney’s shoulders sagged, and he wondered if his suggestion had caused even greater damage. Now Bronso would be painted into a corner, and more desperate. Even so, he wasn’t likely to give up.

  In the court of public opinion, suspicion alone is often enough to convey guilt. Mentats do not think that way. We ask questions.

  —The Mentat’s Handbook

  Because so many people in the demolished shantytown of Arrakeen were unofficial immigrants—without citizenship papers, jobs, or families—the total number killed in the sandworm attack was impossible to determine.

  Workers, former soldiers, pilgrims, and beggars threw themselves into the recovery effort, working tirelessly because Alia called upon them to, in Muad’Dib’s name. For his own part, Stilgar thought the Regent’s request had an impatient edge. Though it was an unkind thought, he believed she summoned so many workers not because she wanted to help suffering people, but because she wanted to clean up the mess as quickly as possible.

  Meanwhile, the Qizarate issued a joyful pronouncement that all those devoured by the rogue worm had been transported immediately to Heaven and incorporated into Shai-Hulud. Stilgar was not surprised to hear it.

  Despite the destruction, he was glad for the fact that even greater mayhem had not been done. The wild worm might well have torn a path all the way to the Citadel of Muad’Dib, but Stilgar had diverted it in time. Sooner or later, Alia would probably present him with a medal for what he had done, but he had no time for trinkets or celebrations. Instead, he was determined to find out who had caused the disaster. He had spent his life understanding the desert and the magnificent worms. He knew in his heart that it was no accident.

  Stilgar gathered a handpicked team of sandwalkers and wormriders, desert men who could interpret the whispered secrets of the dunes, to read signs even though the winds tried to erase them. His grim assemblage went to the gap in the Shield Wall and combed over the scene.

  Stilgar stood by the wrecked qanat, briefly removing his noseplugs so he could absorb the atmosphere around him, staring and sensing as he tried to pick up hints of what had occurred here. He stationed eight spotters out in the open desert to watch for other worms. He turned, looked around, felt the sting of grains against his exposed cheeks with the skirling gusts near the Shield Wall. Cueshma, he thought, the Fremen name for a twenty-klick wind, strong enough to stir the desert but not enough to be considered a storm.

  Other than the wind, though, the desert was silent and secretive. He couldn’t understand what had drawn the beast here in the first place, why it had crossed the moisture line and attacked Arrakeen with such a single-minded purpose. What could have driven it to such erratic, unnatural behavior?

  His men dug through the sand, pulling out chunks of the plazcrete canal wall. The worm had destroyed much of the evidence, but that did not stop the Fremen from searching. Several men poled the sand in widely separated locations, pushing probes down far enough to mea sure any detectable moisture.

  Finally the lead man reported, “It’s dry, Stil.”

  “If that qanat was full when the worm smashed it, there would still be water down deep. The bulk of the flow was diverted beforehand, the water drained. Sandtrout would have gotten the rest,” Stilgar said. No accident. Someone wanted the worm to have access into the basin.

  Turning around, he passed his gaze along the impressive mountainous barrier that blocked all encroaching worms. During the Battle of Arrakeen years ago, the Padishah Emperor had stationed his forces inside the basin, assuming the area safe, not expecting Muad’Dib to use atomics to blast through the cliff, which enabled his Fedaykin to ride worms into the battle. It had been the turning point in modern history.

  But those creatures had been deliberately guided through the gap by seasoned wormriders. How had a lone worm threaded the needle and entered the sheltered area? Even if the barrier qanat had dried, how had the sightless creature found such a relatively small opening?

  Stilgar was not surprised when his men discovered the remains of a thumpe
r. This suggested that several more might have been strung along like bread crumbs to lead the creature onward. The inexorable throbbing beat would have drawn the blind worm like a magnet, luring it through the passage.

  “Treachery,” one of the Fedaykin murmured. “Shai-Hulud was summoned intentionally.”

  Stilgar had suspected as much. But by whom?

  One of the men held up a lump of twisted metal. “See this thumper’s unusual design. Looks like Ixian technology to me. Bronso of Ix!”

  The Naib scowled. “A thumper is no proof of that.” With their clockwork mechanisms and syncopated tampers, the devices were quite simple. “No Ixian expertise is required to make one.”

  Under the bright sun and the briskly blowing grains, Stilgar’s searchers kept sifting through the sands. Toward dusk they uncovered the fused circuitry of a shield generator, and another one farther along. Again some of the discoveries suggested Ixian technology, perhaps evidence against Bronso . . . though shield generators could be purchased anywhere.

  Shields would drive a worm into a frenzy. Always. After thumpers attracted it to the remains of the qanat, the hidden shield generators would goad the creature into the Arrakeen basin. Someone had meant to create havoc here.

  He knew why the men were so quick to conclude that Bronso was to blame. Alia had already announced her suspicions, and the Ixian’s guilt would be proven to her satisfaction, one way or another.

  I see darkness everywhere, but also the tiniest pinpoint of light marking the hopes of mankind.

  —Conversations with Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  Inside the Citadel’s vaulted exhibition arena, Lady Jessica sat on a hard stonewood bench between Alia and Irulan, watching a private performance of barefoot Jervish Updancers. They moved in a lissome blur, dressed in the blue and gold costumes of their remote planet.