Dune: The Butlerian Jihad (75 page)

Then they began to harvest the spice, taking it from the desert in large quantities, far more than the tribe could ever use. If Selim’s vision was true, then Naib Dhartha must be delivering the melange to Arrakis City . . . for export offworld, away from Arrakis.

In his vision the floodgates would open, spilling sand like a tidal wave to engulf the Zensunni people, sweeping the remnants of the sandworms away. Shai-Hulud! Ambitious Naib Dhartha did not understand the consequences of his actions for his people, for his entire world.

Selim approached quietly to observe them through a high-intensity viewer he had taken from his botanical research station. He squinted, recognizing people he had grown up with, villagers who had once befriended him, and ultimately scorned him.

Selim didn’t see Ebrahim skulking among them anymore. Perhaps the young man had finally been caught for his own crimes, now that Selim was no longer there to take the blame. . . . Shai-Hulud would have his justice, one way or another.

The evil naib was in their midst, shouting orders, directing the people as they scurried out with sacks and containers, scooping spice from the sands. The workers could barely carry the amounts they gathered. Dhartha must have found a customer somewhere.

Selim was fascinated at first, then angry. Finally, he decided upon a way to follow his calling, his vision . . . while exacting his revenge as well.

WITH HIS SONIC hammer, he called upon Shai-Hulud. The beast he summoned was a relatively small sandworm, but Selim didn’t mind. The smaller creatures were more manageable anyway.

Selim rode high on the bowed serpentine head, brashly out in the open for all to see. Peeling apart the fleshy segments to guide the creature, he sat astride a great steed, a monstrous animal that could survive only in the deepest, driest desert. He urged the worm to greater speed, and it hissed through the ocean of sand.

The Zensunni had been extremely cautious in setting up their camp, careful that the sandworms did not notice them. At dusk, the people began to emerge from temporary shelters after the heat of the day, leaving their settlement and spreading out to where they could gather more spice.

Remembering his vision and answering the now-clear call, Selim drove the worm headlong into the encampment.

The Zensunni were never complacent, always alert. Spotters sounded the alarm as soon as the worm approached, but there was nothing they could do. In his deep, loud voice, Naib Dhartha shouted for the spice gatherers to scatter and find places of safety. They raced across the dunes, leaving their tents and the piled containers of hoarded spice.

Using rods to goad the creature and prybars to spread open the segments, Selim controlled Shai-Hulud’s course. Frustrated at being ridden, the worm thrashed, wanting to attack
something
. Selim had to batter its pink, exposed flesh to keep the beast from devouring all the villagers.

He didn’t want to kill any of them . . . although it might have been satisfying to see Naib Dhartha swallowed down the worm’s gullet. This was more than enough. Selim would accomplish what Buddallah had called him to do; ruin the naib’s plans to export huge shipments of Shai-Hulud’s spice.

The villagers dispersed across the sands with skittering footsteps in hopes that the worm would not follow the rhythm of their running feet. The monster crashed into the abandoned camp, plowing up a spume of sand. In a flash, the camouflaged tent fabrics vanished, churned under or swallowed up.

Then the sandworm turned its round head and returned to the site to devour the gathered melange, tearing apart the containers, swallowing packages whole, obliterating every sign of the harvesting work.

From a distance, terrified villagers, perhaps including Naib Dhartha himself, stood on dunes, ready to run farther away but hypnotized by the spectacle. In a flowing white robe, Selim rode high on the worm’s back; they could not help but notice his human silhouette atop the desert demon.

Laughing so hard that he could barely maintain his control over the creature, Selim raised his hands in a defiant gesture. He had done Buddallah’s bidding. The spice was safe, for now.

Then he goaded the worm in another direction, away from the forlorn people, and rode off into the empty sands, leaving the Zensunni villagers there with the wreck of their camp.

ON THE WAY out, Selim left two literjons of his own water among the torn scraps of the settlement. He could replace it in his botanical stations, and it was just enough to let the Zensunni people survive. They could reach their cliff city again, if they walked by night and conserved moisture.

As if it were an omen, he found an undisturbed satchel of melange. This he reverently accepted as a gift from Shai-Hulud. It was more spice than he had ever carried at one time, but he would not consume it, nor would he sell it. Rather, he would write a message with the reddish brown powder, spreading it on the sand. Back in his base station, he planned carefully for two days, then he left again.

Selim rode a large worm through the night, back across the sands toward Naib Dhartha’s village. In the shadow of a rock escarpment, he slept through the next day and then began his trek on foot, keeping close to the rocks. He knew these footpaths and byways well, having explored them as a child. After creeping along in the shadows, he hid in a comfortable crevice, waiting for full darkness, carrying his satchel of melange. . . .

When the night was deep and the stars overhead prickled like billions of icy eyes, he hurried out in front of the cliffs onto the wind-smoothed sands. He would do this to the best of his ability, on a grand scale. With light irregular footsteps, he ran along the canvas of powder sand, spilling the melange from the satchel in lines, making looping letters that would look like dried blood on the dunes.

Old Glyffa had taught him how to read and write during a time when she had felt benevolent toward him, ignoring other villagers— including Ebrahim’s father and Naib Dhartha himself— who wondered what the point of such education could be.

Selim made sure to finish before the second moon rose. It took him well over an hour to write his three simple words, and at the end his spice was almost gone. With his message completed, he hurried back to his shelter in the rocks. He could have caught a worm to begin his journey back home. But instead he waited for the sunrise.

Just after dawn, he watched dozens of faces with wide eyes and open mouths peering out of the cave openings. In obvious disbelief, they stared into the desert and chattered and called to one another. Rapidly a crowd gathered along a ledge overlooking the sandy wasteland. He heard their muffled shouts of surprise and could not stop grinning. A pinch of melange on his lips made him feel even better.

Among the excited observers, he could barely make out the dark-haired figure of Naib Dhartha, who stood glowering at the three words the young outcast had written on the sand.

I AM SELIM.

He could have said more, explained more, but Selim felt that the mystery was better. The naib would know
he
was the person who had ridden the worm, both the first time when he’d shown off his skills and again when he’d destroyed the spice-gathering camp. Buddallah had chosen him, and now the evil naib must live in fear. The young man lounged back against the rock, chuckling to himself and savoring the flavor of melange.

After today, they all knew he was alive . . . and Naib Dhartha would understand that he had made a life-long enemy.

F
or weeks after returning from one shattered life to another, Serena Butler had gently sidestepped her father’s suggestion that she return to her role in the League Parliament. For now she preferred the City of Introspection, the quiet and peaceful gardens. The philosophical students there preferred their contemplative privacy, and left her alone.

Her view of the war, the League, and of life itself had suffered a dramatic change, and she needed time to assess her new role in the universe and find ways to
help
once again. She felt that she could possibly do even more than before. . . .

The story of Serena’s captivity, her murdered baby, and the rebellion on Earth had spread quickly. At the urging of Iblis Ginjo, the preserved body of little Manion had been placed in a small plaz-walled tomb in Zimia, a memorial symbolizing just one of the billions of victims of the thinking machines.

A tireless spokesman, Iblis had slept little since his arrival in the capital city, spending every hour with delegates, passionately describing the horrors of captive humans, of the cruel cymeks, of Omnius, trying to put together a massive force of League warships to rescue the humans of Earth. The escaped rebel leader wanted the Salusans to accept him as a hero.

As Serena’s self-appointed prolocutor, Iblis spoke first-hand of the Synchronized Worlds, telling the awful story of how the robot Erasmus had killed innocent Manion and how Serena herself had dared to raise her fists against the thinking machines. Through her selfless bravery against the cruel masters, she had incited a rebellion that had brought the Earth-Omnius to a standstill.

Iblis employed his well-honed speaking abilities and convinced many people of his sincerity. He had in mind a public strategy that included passionate rallies hosted by Serena herself. She was the perfect person to act as the heart around whom a scaled-up rebellion could coalesce. But Serena remained in seclusion, unaware of the groundswell that was occurring in her name.

Without her, Iblis decided to take up the cause of human freedom anyway, even if he had to make every decision himself. He could not permit such a tremendous opportunity to wither and vanish. He felt the power of opinion building in the city of Zimia, forging into another weapon for him to use. Even the League politicians wanted to go rescue the heroic human fighters on Earth— but they discussed and debated endlessly in Parliament, just as Serena had warned they would.

Now, meeting privately with Segundo Harkonnen at the officer’s request, Iblis felt uneasy in the cramped room of the Armada headquarters. Apparently these chambers were part of an old military prison, where suspected deserters had once been interrogated. Narrow rectangular windows encircled the room, and Xavier paced the floor, his silhouette eclipsing the small amount of daylight that filtered in.

“Tell me how you came to be a leader of human work crews,” the officer asked. “A priviliged trustee, like Vorian Atreides, serving the thinking machines and reaping benefits while other humans suffered.”

Iblis gave a dismissive gesture, pretending that the Segundo was joking. “I worked hard to earn privileges and rewards for my loyal workers,” he said in his resonant voice. “We all benefited.”

“Some of us are suspicious of your convenient enthusiasm.”

Smiling in response, Iblis spread his hands. “Neither Vorian Atreides nor I have ever tried to hide our pasts. Remember, to acquire inside information, you need someone who has actually been
inside
. You will not find better sources of information than the two of us. Serena Butler has many insights, as well.”

He remained calm. Iblis had faced, and fooled, the Titan Ajax— a much more terrifying and masterful interrogator than Segundo Harkonnen. “The League would be foolish not to seize this opportunity,” Iblis added. “We have the means to help the human fighters on Earth.”

“It is too late for that.” Xavier stepped closer, looking stern. “You triggered the revolt, then left your followers behind to be slaughtered.”

“I came here to get help from the League. We don’t have much time if we are to rescue the survivors.”

Xavier’s face was stony. “There are no survivors . . . on the entire planet.
None
.”

Stunned, Iblis was slow to respond. “How is that possible? Before we departed on the
Dream Voyager
, I left a competent, loyal man in charge. I assumed that he—”

“Enough of this, Xavier,” a new voice came from an unseen speaker in the dim walls. “There is enough guilt and blood to cover all of our hands. Let’s decide what to do next, instead of trying to turn one of our greatest potential resources against us.”

Xavier stood stiffly, facing a blank wall. “As you wish, Viceroy.”

The walls of the interrogation chamber shimmered and faded to reveal a hidden observation room, in which a dozen men and women sat in tribunal fashion. Dizzy, Iblis recognized Viceroy Butler at the center of the group and Vorian Atreides looking satisfied off to one side.

The Viceroy rose from his seat. “Iblis Ginjo, we are a special committee of Parliament here to investigate this terrible news from Earth.”

Iblis could not restrain himself. “But the eradication of all life on Earth? How can this be?”

Xavier Harkonnen said in a somber voice, “As soon as your ship arrived here, the Armada dispatched its fastest scout. After several weeks, the pilot has just returned with his full, terrible report. Only thinking machines remain on Earth. Every single rebel is dead. Every slave, every child, every trustee. It is likely they were all exterminated before the
Dream Voyager
even reached Salusa Secundus.”

Viceroy Butler activated several large screens built into the walls, which depicted horrific scenes, piles of mangled corpses, marching robots and cymeks slaughtering crowds of humans that had been rounded up. Image after image appeared, in gruesome detail. “Earth, the homeworld of humanity, is now nothing more than a vast graveyard.”

“Too late,” Iblis mumbled in a daze. “All those people . . .”

The conversation paused as crowd noises came from outside the building, chants of, “Serena! Serena!” He was shocked to hear her name.

“Iblis Ginjo, I cannot express enough gratitude that you and your friend brought my daughter back to me,” Viceroy Butler said. “Unfortunately, the man you left in charge of the revolt was not up to the challenge.”