The captain screamed at the betrayal.
Through the window, Turok saw the worm’s head emerge from the sand, an ancient creature with sparkling crystal teeth and simmering flames in its gullet. The head quested one way and another as it picked up speed, a torpedo launched toward a target.
While the rest of the crew scurried about, dependent on nonfunctional rescue equipment, Turok dived into a ragged escape chute that emptied him onto the sand away from the worm. The sharp odor of freshly exposed melange burned his nostrils. He saw that his stillsuit had torn.
Struggling to his feet, Turok ran across the powdery slopes and watched the carryall lift off with the spice hopper in a sling. None of the workers had been rescued, only the spice.
Pumping his strong legs and keeping his balance on loose sand, Turok ran for his life. The other, water-fat workers would never make it.
He climbed a high dune, trying to gain distance, then stumbled along the rill. The vibrations of the monstrous harvester would mask his rhythmic footsteps for a time. He tumbled and rolled down a slipface, into the valley between dunes, then scrambled to escape the slow maelstrom as the worm circled and rose to devour its prey.
Turok heard the roar behind him, felt the crumbly ground slip. Still, he struggled in the loose sand and ran. He did not look back as the helpless spice harvester and crew fell into the cavernous gullet of Shai-Hulud. He heard the screams of men, the crunch of metal.
A hundred meters away he saw a rock formation. If he could only reach it.
* * *
Baron Harkonnen lay supine on a massage bed, his flabby skin hanging over the sides. Water misters sprayed his back and legs, making him sparkle like a perspiring Sumyan wrestler. Two pretty young men— dry-skinned and rangy, but the best he could find in Carthag— kneaded ointments into his shoulders.
An aide rushed in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my Lord Baron, but we lost an entire harvester crew today. A carryall arrived in time to off-load the cargo— a full hopper— but could not rescue the men.”
The Baron half sat up, feigning disappointment. “No survivors?” With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed the aide. “Speak to no one about this.”
He would order de Vries to record the loss of the machine and personnel, along with all of the spice. Naturally, the carryall crew would need to be eliminated as witnesses, and the aide who had brought him the message. Perhaps these two young men also knew too much, but they would never survive the private exercises he planned for them anyway.
He smiled to himself. People could be replaced so easily.
Peace does not equate with stability— stability is nondynamic and never more than a hair’s breadth from chaos.
— FAYKAN BUTLER, FINDINGS OF THE POST-JIHAD COUNCIL
You will not be pleased to learn of this, my Emperor.” Chamberlain Ridondo bowed stiffly while Shaddam stepped down from the dais in the small State Audience Chamber.
Does no one ever bring me good news? He fumed, thinking of all the annoying distractions that kept him from experiencing even a moment of peace.
The thin Chamberlain moved aside to let the Emperor pass, then hurried to catch up with him on the strip of red carpet. “There has been an… incident on Beakkal, Sire.”
Though it was only early afternoon, Shaddam had terminated the rest of the day’s appointments and informed the gathered lords and ambassadors that they would need to reschedule. Chamberlain Ridondo would be left with the unenviable task of rearranging the meetings of everyone involved.
“Beakkal? What do I care about that place?”
Scurrying to keep up with Shaddam’s long strides, the man wiped perspiration from his high forehead. “The Atreides are involved. Duke Leto has taken us by surprise.”
Elegantly attired men and women stood around the audience chamber, engaged in whispered conversation. The exotic parquet floor of facetwood and inlaid kabuzu shells gave the chamber a rich glow in the golden light of Balut crystal glowglobes. Depending on his mood, the Emperor sometimes preferred the coziness and comparative informality of this small receiving room to the Imperial Audience Chamber.
Shaddam had wrapped himself in a long scarlet-and-gold cloak studded with emeralds, soostones, and black sapphires. Beneath the lush robe, he wore a bathing suit in anticipation of the warm canals and pools beneath the Palace. He would rather be there, playing splash tag with his concubines.
As he passed a cluster of noblemen, he sighed. “What has my cousin done now? What does House Atreides have against a minor jungle world?” The Emperor stopped, stiff-backed and Imperial, while his flustered Chamberlain summarized the bold military attack on Beakkal, while a crowd of curious courtiers pressed closer.
“I believe the Duke did the right thing,” said a dignified man with graying hair, Lord Bain O’Garee of Hagal. “I find it disgusting that the Prime Magistrate could allow the Tleilaxu to desecrate a memorial honoring slain heroes.”
Shaddam was about to cast a withering glare on the Hagal lord when he noted murmurs of support among the other noblemen. He had underestimated the general antipathy toward the Tleilaxu, and these people were quietly cheering Leto for his boldness. Why don’t they ever cheer me when I take harsh, necessary actions?
Another nobleman interjected. “Duke Leto has the right to respond to such an insult. It was a matter of honor.” Shaddam could not remember the man’s name, or even his House.
“And it was a matter of Imperial law,” Shaddam’s wife Anirul interrupted, gliding between her husband and Chamberlain Ridondo. Since the recent death of Truthsayer Lobia, Anirul had fluttered around Shaddam, as if she actually wanted to be at his side during every state function. “A man has the moral right to protect his family. Does that not include ancestors, as well?”
Some of the nobles nodded, and one man chuckled, as if Anirul had been witty. Shaddam sensed the winds of opinion. “Agreed,” he said, strengthening the paternal tone in his voice. He considered how best to use this precedent for his purposes. “Beakkal’s underhanded arrangement with the Bene Tleilax was clearly illegal. I wish my dear cousin Leto had gone through proper channels, but I can understand his brash actions. He is still young.”
In his private thoughts, Shaddam was quick to realize how this Atreides military action could increase Leto’s standing among the Great Houses. They saw the Duke as a man who dared to do what others would have been afraid to consider. Such popularity could be dangerous to the Golden Lion Throne.
He raised a ringed hand. “We will investigate this matter and issue our official opinion in due course.”
Leto’s actions also opened the door for Shaddam’s own upcoming plans. These gathered nobles respected a swift, unwavering demonstration of justice. An intriguing precedent, indeed…
Anirul looked at her husband, sensing his shifting thoughts. She gave him a questioning glance, which he ignored. His smile seemed to disturb her greatly. His wife and her Bene Gesserit cronies kept too many secrets from him already, and he had every right to reciprocate.
He would call his Supreme Bashar and set his own plans in motion. The old veteran Zum Garon would know exactly how to deal with the matter, and he would appreciate a chance to show the prowess of his Sardaukar in more than just a military parade.
After all, the planet Zanovar— where the bastard Tyros Reffa lived— was not so very different from Beakkal.…
* * *
In the privacy of her own apartments, Lady Anirul’s sensory-pen created scratchy hieroglyphics in the air. A potted tropical plant with jet-black flowers stood beside her, exuding electric scents.
Above the desktop, Anirul’s sensory-conceptual journal hovered as she wrote upon paperless pages, recording her innermost thoughts, things her husband must never discover. She scribbled in the impenetrable code language of the Bene Gesserit, the long-forgotten tongue used in the ancient Azhar Book.
She wrote of her sadness at the passing of Truthsayer Lobia, of the affection she had felt toward the old wo
man. Oh, wouldn’t Mother Superior Harishka raise her eyebrows at such a naked confession of emotion! But Anirul missed her friend terribly. She had no other close companions in the Imperial Court, only insufferable sycophants who sought her favor to increase their own standing.
Lobia had been different, though. Anirul now held the old woman’s memory and experiences inside of her, among the cacophony of hundreds of past generations, a forest of lives too thick to explore.
I miss you, old friend. With some embarrassment Anirul caught herself. She touched a button on the sensory-pen, watched both instrument and journal disappear like a wisp of fog into her pale blue soostone ring.
Anirul performed a series of breathing exercises. The background sounds of the Palace diminished, and she heard only her inner voice, whispering: “Mother Lobia? Can you hear me? Are you there?”
Other Memory could be unsettling at times, as if her ancestors were spying upon her from within her own skull. Though she disliked this loss of basic human privacy, usually she found their presence comforting. The conglomeration of lives formed a library-within, on the intermittent occasions when she could access it— a reservoir of wisdom and encouragement. Lobia was in there somewhere, lost among countless ghosts, just waiting to speak out.
Determined, Anirul closed her eyes and vowed to find the Truthsayer, to plunge into the clamor until she located Lobia. She went down, down… deeper.
It was like an eggshell-thin dam, waiting to be broken. She had never attempted such a radical excavation of the past-within, knowing that she risked becoming irretrievably lost in the nether realm of voices. But Anirul was the Kwisatz Mother, chosen for the secret position because she had more access to the genetic past than any living Sister. Nonetheless, this was not a journey one should risk without the support and safety net of other Sisters.
She felt a stirring, an eddy in the flow of Other Memory. Lobia, she called out with her mind. The turmoil intensified, as if she were approaching a roomful of noisy people. She perceived veils of swirling color in hues she had never imagined possible, filmy screens that would not permit her to enter.
Lobia! Where are you?
But instead of producing a response from a solitary voice, her agitation swelled the voices into a howling mob, screaming out warnings of disaster. It terrified her, and she had no choice but to flee.
Anirul awoke to find herself in her study again, seeing her surroundings through blurred vision. A portion of her felt as if it had remained behind, trapped deep within the collective intellect of the Bene Gesserit. She did not move a muscle as she flowed away from Other Memory, leaving their fearsome admonitions behind.
Gradually, she felt her skin tingling. When at last she could move, her vision cleared.
The voices-within sensed that something terrible and unpreventable was about to happen. Something to do with the long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach, who was only one generation away. The seed was already growing inside the womb of the unsuspecting Jessica. Other Memory warned of disaster.…
Anirul would rather see the Imperium itself fall before any harm came to that child.
* * *
In the privacy of her spacious chambers, the Kwisatz Mother drank spice tea and spoke in coded whispers to Reverend Mother Mohiam.
Mohiam narrowed her birdlike eyes. “Are you certain of the vision you experienced? Duke Leto Atreides is not likely to let Jessica go. Shall I journey to Caladan to protect her? His brash attack on Beakkal may have left him vulnerable to retaliation from his enemies, and Jessica might become a target. Is this what you have seen?”
“Nothing is certain in Other Memory, not even for the Kwisatz Mother.” Anirul took a long, sweet sip, then set down her cup. “But you must not leave, Mohiam. You are to stay here in the Palace.” Her expression became hard. “I have received word from Wallach IX. Mother Superior Harishka has chosen you to replace Lobia as the Emperor’s Truthsayer.”
If Mohiam was surprised or delighted, she let neither emotion show. Instead, she concentrated on the matter at hand. “Then how are we to keep Jessica and the baby safe?”
“I have decided that we must bring this young woman here to Kaitain for the remainder of her pregnancy. That is how we will solve the problem.”
Mohiam brightened. “An excellent suggestion. We can monitor every step of the pregnancy.” She smiled ironically. “Duke Leto will not like it, though.”
“A man’s wishes do not enter into this matter.” Anirul sank back in her chair, heard the crinkle of the chair’s velva-padded cushion. She felt enormously weary. “Jessica will give birth to her daughter here, in the Imperial Palace.”
Stabilizing the present is assumed to be a form of balance, but inevitably this action turns out to be dangerous. Law and order are deadly. Trying to control the future serves only to deform it.
— KARRBEN FETHR, THE FOLLY OF IMPERIAL POLITICS
Spending a day in the crowded amusement palace on Zanovar, the Docent Glax Othn had never felt so old… or so young. Dressed in a casual singlesuit of pale green twillcloth, he felt himself gradually begin to relax, forgetting about the mysterious threat to his ward Tyros Reffa.
He laughed with the squealing children and ate sweet confections. He played games that purportedly tested his skill, though he knew the barkers always stacked the odds in their favor. He didn’t care, though it would have been nice to bring a prize back home, just as a memento. The colors and smells of this place whirled around him like a ballet for the masses, and Othn smiled.
Reffa had known exactly what the old teacher needed. He hoped the young man— who was even now on the main Taligari planet— would enjoy the suspensor opera as much as Othn was enjoying this unusual outing.
The day was long and exhausting, but stimulating. Left to his own devices, Othn would never have permitted himself such an unabashedly amusing vacation. His longtime student had taught him a valuable lesson.
Wiping sweat-dampened gray hair from his eyes, Othn looked up just as a shadow crossed the sun. Around him, the music and laughter continued. Someone screamed. He turned to see a daredevil floatdisk whisk overhead in free-form fashion, looping obstacles that stretched high into the air; the passengers held on, shrieking with mock terror.
Then more shadows darkened the sky, large and ominous. At first, the Docent did not imagine that the huge ships could be anything other than a part of the wild show.
Inside the crowded amusement park, people waited in lines for sensory-enhancement rides, mazes, holo-dances. Others tried their luck at food-vendor stands where treats could be purchased for an amusing tale or a song. Many of the people looked up. Munching the last of his crystalfruit confection, the Docent watched with curiosity instead of fear. Until the first weapons began to fire.
In the vanguard ship, Shaddam’s commanding general, Supreme Bashar Garon, directed the devastating strike himself. It was his sworn duty to fire the first shot, to mark the first casualties, to draw the first blood.
An armored ornithopter swooped over the park’s towering sandworm centerpiece, an articulated construction surrounded by false dunes. Explosions tore the air, weapons fire peppered the ground. Sparks accompanied flames and smoke as diaphanous structures collapsed. People screamed and ran.
The Docent’s stentorian voice, made powerful by years of lecturing in halls packed with restless students, roared across the growing noise. “Shelter! Find cover!” But there was no place to hide.
Are they doing this to find Tyros Reffa?
The Supreme Bashar’s Sardaukar death squad wore gray-and-black uniforms. Targeting with steely eyes, sallow-skinned Garon strafed children, melting them into unrecognizable, fused forms. It was only the beginning.
After the first shots scattered the crowds and wreaked havoc, the squadron fired on the sandworm simulacrum. Then they used cutter beams to dismantle the gaudy centerpiece into chunks of smoking metal wreckage, exposing the thick-walled melange vaults buried underneath. In accordance with Imperial orders, the advance
troops had to find and retrieve the illegal spice stockpile.
Afterward, the destruction of the main cities on Zanovar could proceed.
Garon set his ‘thopter down atop a pile of crisped human remains, and his soldiers streamed out, firing at anything that moved. The unarmed patrons of the amusement park ran in confusion and terror.
More Imperial gunships set down on the park grounds, disgorging soldiers who streamed into the ruins of the giant sandworm structure. The simulacrum had ostensibly been a simple amusement-park attraction that towered a hundred meters over the landscape, but the giant monument concealed underground tunnels filled with melange.
In the midst of the carnage, only one man dared approach the soldiers through the smoke and bodies, an old teacher. His face was devastated but stern, like a schoolmaster about to discipline unruly students. Zum Garon recognized the Docent Glax Othn from his premission military briefing.
Blood soaked Othn’s shoulder, and the gray hair had been singed off the left side of his head. He seemed to feel no pain, only appalled anger. So much bloodshed, just to hurt Tyros! The Docent, who had delivered many stirring speeches during his tenure, raised his voice, “This is unconscionable!”
The Supreme Bashar, his uniform impeccably clean and unwrinkled, responded with a wry smile as knotted plumes of smoke streamed upward. Burned bodies twitched on the ground, and behind Othn a palatial structure in the amusement complex collapsed with a groan and a bang. “Teacher, you must learn the difference between theory and practice.”
At a hand signal from Garon, his Sardaukar cut down the Docent before he could take another step. Dispassionately, the Supreme Bashar turned his attention back to the ruined sandworm structure to oversee the recovery operations. Surrounded by acrid fumes, he removed a private log recorder from his uniform pocket and dictated a report to Shaddam as he observed the carnage.
Dune: House Corrino Page 8