Dune: The Machine Crusade (12 page)

The patrician from Rossak smiled. Exaggerating his pronunciation to impress the dignitary, he said, “For the Grahnd Patriarch of the Jihad, I am honored. I have brought only my best to this gathering. The caviar of spice.” He removed a flat disk container no larger than a small coin. “Place it on top of your tongue. Just let it permeate your senses and seep all the way into your soul.”

When Venport pried open the tiny lid, Iblis peered inside, noting dense reddish-orange powder, and dipped a fingertip into the substance. He found it surprisingly gritty to the touch. Glancing up at the glowglobes floating overhead, he remembered that these were successful VenKee products as well, though the technology was currently embroiled in a tedious and silly patent dispute.

He hesitated, looking at the spice powder on his finger. “In the Parliamentary Assembly some days ago, did I not hear Senator Hosten Fru discussing a dispute between your company and the government of Poritrin? Something about glowglobe royalties?”

Iblis had his doubts about Savant Holtzman and his stuffed-shirt patron, Lord Niko Bludd, but so far Aurelius Venport had impressed him as an extraordinarily shrewd businessman.

“Norma Cenva is a very talented scientist who has helped Savant Holtzman achieve much fame and success. She is also a dear friend of mine, but the relationship is… complicated.” Venport scowled, as if he had just swallowed a vile-tasting mouthful. “Norma alone created the suspensor technology used in glowglobes and offered it to my company for marketing. Now that VenKee has spent a fortune to develop and sell the glowglobes all across the League— during which time Poritrin never lifted a finger to help— Lord Bludd suddenly believes he is entitled to our profits.”

Behind Venport, other guests had gathered, hoping for free samples of melange, but they did not interrupt his conversation with the Grand Patriarch.

Iblis smiled. “Still, the technology was developed on Poritrin, in Holtzman’s labs, was it not? Funded by Lord Bludd? Senator Fru claims that the Poritrin counsel has submitted documents signed by Norma Cenva, certifying that all technological breakthroughs made while in Holtzman’s employ would remain the property of the government.”

Venport sighed, his lips curved in an indulgent smile, which surprised Iblis. “I do not doubt that Savant Holtzman tricked her into signing such releases. Norma was just a teenager when she went to work for him. The girl is utterly devoted to her research and has never been… politically savvy.”

Iblis looked down at the spice powder on his fingertip. His skin seemed to be tingling, just a little. “So, how will you resolve this?”

Venport did not look overly concerned. “I am a businessman, sir. I have always been able to negotiate settlements and mediate disputes. The present circumstance will simply require a bit more finesse than usual. I shall find a way.” He nodded toward the spice in Iblis’s hand. “But let’s not trouble ourselves with that. I am anxious to hear your opinion of the melange.”

Iblis became aware of people staring at him, perhaps noticing his hesitation. He didn’t dare show any fear here. Everything the Grand Patriarch did was scrutinized and discussed. He placed the melange on his tongue and clamped his mouth shut.

“The purest form of melange is said to have many facets… like that priceless jeweled pendant you wear,” Venport said. “Melange shows a different aspect to everyone who takes it.”

Iblis felt… different. He couldn’t quite categorize it, because he had never experienced anything like this before. His pulse quickened and then slowed, quickened and slowed again. Such a curious sensation! Then it slowed even more, and in a state of complete serenity he almost looked inward at his own heart and mind. He could barely form words and speak them.

“Amazing. Where… do you… obtain this… spice?”

Venport smiled at him. “Come now, I must be allowed to keep some trade secrets.” He offered Iblis another sample of melange, and the Grand Patriarch took it without hesitation.

“Trust me,” the businessman said, “even if I told you where spice comes from, it is not a place you would want to visit.”

T
he spice caravans moved out at dusk, as soon as the day’s heat began to wane. In the wasteland of the deep desert, Naib Dhartha’s melange-gathering crews did not bother to conceal themselves from outsiders. They should have known better.

Selim Wormrider and his followers had been watching them for days.

Hidden with his raiders high in the rocky buttresses, Jafar used a mirror to flash a last preparatory message, directing the signal glint to where Selim waited.

Against the boulders below, the legendary man of the desert squatted comfortably beside a wide-eyed Marha. In the month since joining their group of outlaws, the scrappy young woman had continually impressed him. She was always ready to hear his visions and to learn. Best of all, she obeyed his instructions without question, and thus she survived her testing. Whenever Marha managed to overcome her awe of his nearly mythical status, she looked at him with an intense but innocent strength that tugged at his heartstrings.

Selim thought she would be a worthy addition to his commandos. Even though he smiled at her and encouraged her ambitions, he did not want Marha to grow overconfident, as Biondi had become before his death. He wanted her to remain with him longer than that.

“Watch closely and see what they do.” Selim pointed with his chin to the distant figures who carried packs and loaded rugged old groundcars. “They steal melange from Shai-Hulud and sell it to offworlders.”

Marha huddled in the shadows, grim as she watched the caravan begin to move out. “I have worked on such crews myself, Wormrider. The scavengers camp in the rocks, but during the day they scamper onto the sands, scoop up spice, and run back to safety before the worms come for them.”

“Shai-Hulud defends his treasure,” Selim said, his deep blue eyes distant but full of energy. “The Zensunni believe sandworms are devils, but Shaitan works more harm through one man like Naib Dhartha than through all the creatures of the desert.”

Followers often brought news as they trickled in from scattered settlements to join the band of outlaws. Marha herself had provided invaluable advice and observations, which explained some of the conflicting stories Selim had heard over the years. With his commercial success in trading spice with rich offworld merchants, Naib Dhartha had succeeded in uniting a number of Zensunni settlements. Though such behavior defied their tenets of isolation and independence, Dhartha offered the other tribes much profit and water. And melange was available for the taking.

He squinted at the band of workers. “Do you think Dhartha is among them?”

“The Naib has turned his back on the desert,” Marha answered. “His own son, Mahmad, spent most of the past two years in Arrakis City, until he caught an offworld disease at the spaceport and died there.”

“Mahmad is dead?” Selim asked, feeling isolated as he recalled his distant youth. He remembered a young boy who had been Selim’s own age. But were he alive today Mahmad would have been a grown man like Selim, more than forty years old. And Mahmad had died away from the desert in a
city,
corrupted by trading in melange with offworlders. His lower lip curled in disgust. “And Naib Dhartha does not blame himself?”

Marha gave him a mirthless smile. The crescent-moon scar on her left brow shone white on her tanned skin. “He blames
you,
Wormrider. He considers you the cause of all his woes.”

Selim shook his head. His visions had been so clear, the response obvious. But Naib Dhartha would never listen to him. “We must do more to stop this abomination, for the good of all.”

When the spice scavengers carried their hoarded melange in caravans such as this, they were vulnerable. Now the caravan moved slowly on the flat sand at the edge of the rocks. Even with the groundcars’ humming engines and the plodding people following the spice loads, sandworms did not approach the cliffs.

Two runners in camouflaged distilling suits dropped beside Selim and Marha. They moved as silently as shadows, and Selim smiled in satisfaction.

“Jafar is in position.” One of the runners removed a breathing tube from his mouth, shutting off the internal recycling system of his desert clothing. “We must act before the caravan moves too far away.”

Selim stood. “Flash the message. Strike carefully, as always. Kill no one unless necessary. Our job is to teach them a lesson and retrieve that which belongs to Shai-Hulud.” Part of him wanted to slay Naib Dhartha, but he understood that a greater revenge was to humiliate the man, undermining his credibility as a leader.

With a hollow
crumping
sound, a puff of dust burst from the cliffs above, sending an avalanche of black boulders tumbling down the ancient cliffside in front of the slow-moving caravan.

“Now we stop them.” Selim was already running. Emerging from hiding spots in the rocks, his followers raced along, hidden against the brown-and-black landscape.

On the sands below, the Zensunni spice gatherers halted their groundcars at a safe distance from the rumbling wash of boulders. Before the caravan members could determine what was happening, Jafar and the others surrounded them. Jafar held a maula pistol. Selim’s other followers had spears, projectile weapons, and even slings that could hurl rocks with murderous force.

The Zensunnis were intimidated, frightened. Somewhere among their packs they must have weapons of their own, but Selim’s hardened troop pressed in closely enough that they could not use them.

“Those who dare to steal from Shai-Hulud must face the consequences,” Selim said.

“Bandits,” one woman snapped, spitting her words like a curse.

A young man, barely a teen, looked with glittering eyes not yet completely blue from the consumption of melange. “It is Selim Wormrider!”

“I am Selim who speaks for Shai-Hulud. I have had a vision from Buddallah, and its truth cannot be denied. Shame upon all of you for helping to bring about the death of the sandworms, the eventual destruction of Arrakis.”

He stared at their cowled faces, studied the dark eyes, and determined that Naib Dhartha was not among them. As Marha had said, the grizzled old leader no longer deigned to waste his days with the exhausted work crews. Now he rubbed shoulders with offworld merchants.

The outlaws rummaged through the groundcar storage compartments, pulling out packs of rusty spice and handing them off to others, who scurried with them up onto the rocks.

With lithe movements, like a desert hare, Marha pushed herself close to one of the tense women whose hands and clothes were covered with fine brown powder. Smiling, she yanked a wire circlet from the woman’s neck, a jingling chain of spice chits. “Not married yet, Hierta? Perhaps you will resign yourself to being a withered old maid.” She tucked the melange tokens into a pocket of her distilling suit, then looked at Selim with giddy triumph.

Hierta glared. “Marha? Traitor! We hoped you had died in the desert, but you have fallen under the sway of this desert demon, this crazed madman.”

“Crazed?” she responded. “No, he is enlightened.”

Selim said, “Selling spice to offworlders will bring ruin to this planet. The great worms will perish, and along with them our way of life.” Standing protectively beside Marha, he crossed his arms over his chest. “For now it is my sacred duty to return what you have taken from Shai-Hulud.”

He withdrew his milky, crystalline knife and plunged it into a sack of melange, spilling the powder like dried blood onto the rocks and sand. A few pebbles continued to patter down from the rough gash of the avalanche.

“We have it all, Selim,” said Jafar after his men had intercepted everyone trying to escape, and had carried off the packages into the rugged boulder field.

They did not kill the spice gatherers, did not even steal their water or take their vehicles. Possessions meant nothing to Selim. The desert would always provide. “Remember what you have learned here,” he thundered. “How many times must I teach you the same lesson?”

Then, following Marha, the desert vigilantes climbed high on the rugged cliffs and vanished….

WHILE THE REST of the scavenging party moaned and muttered in complaint, one youth stared after them in awe. Some of his companions raised fists and shouted curses after the outlaws.

But the young man, Aziz, could not suppress a smile. He had never expected to gaze with his own eyes upon the Wormrider! The great man had looked directly at him.

As the grandson of Naib Dhartha, Aziz had heard of Selim’s exploits, although the Zensunni portrayed the bandit leader as a villain. But Selim and his followers knew how to ride worms! And they had harmed no one. No matter what his grandfather said, Aziz thought they were a brave and magnificent band, truly blessed by Buddallah.

Secretly, Aziz longed to know more about them.

I
gnoring Rhengalid’s cold reception, Xavier Harkonnen set up his base of military operations in the grotto city of Darits. He had no other choice, if he was to accomplish his mission. The roar of the dam’s water-diversion chutes filled the cool air. Red algae stains dripped down the cliffs like dark blood.

The Zenshiite elders had retreated into their cliff dwellings. The fanatics stubbornly refused to accept that they could be in any danger, even though Xavier showed them transmitted images of the robot army marching overland toward their holy city. “Look with your own eyes. The machines will destroy you.”

Spiny robots strode through tilled lands alongside the river channel, accompanied by crunching, heavy-assault vehicles on tractor treads. Dressed as local farmers instead of in their uniforms, Ginaz mercenaries harried the robots, provoking them into launching explosive projectiles and then quickly taking shelter. The robot army never deviated from its objective and pressed on toward vulnerable Darits.