Road to Dune (18 page)

Jesse greeted him in the entrance hall, but Bauers did not return the smile or the salutation. He scowled ferociously. “Today, I shall watch your sandminers at work. They have not been seen in Carthage for weeks, and most of your crew barracks stand empty. Each time I inquire, you come up with another unbelievable excuse. Hmmm, now, tell me the truth!”

“The workers are out in the desert harvesting spice, Counselor. Just as Grand Emperor Wuda wishes.” His voice and wide-eyed expression were full of bewildered innocence.

“Ah, but I
will
see them! Today!”

Trying to look a bit downcast, Jesse responded, “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We have suffered great losses of crews and equipment, and every moment counts. All of my men are out either searching for spice veins or trying to harvest them as best they can. You are aware that our exports of spice have increased by more than twelve percent since last month. Why would you question me now?”

Hands on hips, Bauers shot back, spraying spittle with his words, “All well and good, but where are your men working?
Exactly
where?”

A casual shrug. “Out in the dunes somewhere. I can’t keep track of their locations. Gurney Halleck is my spice foreman, and I let him choose the most viable veins of melange.”

“Stop being evasive with me! I am the Imperial inspector—give me something to inspect! I have received reports of unrest among the Imperial planets, of spice riots and nobles demanding their share of melange, of starship crews petitioning the Emperor for priority distribution.”

Jesse raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like quite an exaggeration, Counselor. Our exports are down from the Hoskanner peak, but there is certainly enough melange to fill the most desperate need. Perhaps that implies a bit too much dependence on a luxury drug?”

“Melange is a necessary commodity, not a luxury.”

“It still sounds like Hoskanner propaganda. I charge that Valdemar is spreading rumors and causing alarm.”

“Hmmm, I assure you these riots are not exaggerations. Thousands have already died. Now tell me where your spice harvesters are!”

Enjoying his guest’s discomfiture, Jesse spread his hands. “You could go out looking for them, I suppose, if you consider that to be your Imperial duty. But Duneworld is a big planet, and bad things happen out in the deep desert. Believe me; my son and I almost died out there. The weather can turn on you in an instant.” He snapped his fingers. “If you go out into the desert against my advice, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Bauers grew still and cold, reading the implied threat in Jesse’s words. “No rules, you mean? You dare to threaten me with the Emperor’s words?”

“As you so rightly pointed out, you are an acknowledged expert in contractual matters, in issues of fine print. I am but an inexperienced nobleman faced with a tremendous challenge.” He paused for effect. “A challenge, I might add, that I take very seriously.”

He ushered the sputtering man out. Jesse knew, however, that Bauers would not give up. He only hoped he could stockpile enough melange before the Imperial inspector discovered his secret.

22

A good foreman works hard to guide his crew and get the job done. A good crew follows orders and performs to the best of its abilities. Here, we have failed in both respects.

—GURNEY HALLECK,
incident report

F
ollowing the evening meal in the temporary base camp, exhausted sandminers drank their ration of spice beer and shared stories. Inside the sealed mess hall, the cinnamon odor of spice permeated everything.

Though they were far from Carthage and had not seen their homes or families for weeks, most of the sandminers were content enough with their conditions. The new chef found ways to make the prepackaged food much more palatable (though the man huffed about impossible hardships), and each sandminer received double their previous allotment of water. Even the pleasure females were glad to have a small captive audience of customers with credits in their accounts and very little to spend them on. Though the women were dried and leathery, unattractive by most objective measures, the majority of sandminers did not complain.

But some did. The undercurrent never quite disappeared.

One evening while Gurney played the baliset in the communal tent, the men relaxed, dozed, or gambled their shares back and forth in games of chance. The music entertained the crewmen, and the Linkam jongleur enjoyed having a group of listeners every night.

“Toss that baliset over here. It needs to be tuned up,” sneered one of the freedmen, Nile Rew. “I’ll stomp on it a little with my foot.”

Several men laughed. Others told Rew to be quiet.

Gurney forced himself to receive the comment as a joke, though the man’s caustic tone suggested otherwise. “I can tune you up the same way.”

Rew poured more of the potent spice beer for himself from a spigot attached to the table. As soon as Gurney resumed his music, the edgy freedman swept an arm across the table, sending beer glasses flying. Men cursed him for wasting the precious water in the drinks.

“This place is nothing but a prison! I’m a
freedman,
by all that’s holy! With my bonuses, I’ve already got enough credits to book passage offplanet, but I’m stuck here! For months! Curse the Linkams and their secrets. They have no right to treat us like prisoners.” He glared at his fellow sandminers, and shouted to them. “They have no right to keep us here, men. Anyone who wants to go back to Carthage, follow me!”

He lunged for the moisture-seal door which led out to the camp’s armorpave landing pad where the ornijets and carryalls were kept. Some of the spicemen chuckled, while a half dozen followed Rew out into the hot night. Despite the large bonuses they were accruing from the remarkable spice harvests, the credits did them no good if they couldn’t leave the desert planet—or at least spend them in town.

Gurney stalked after Rew, and a blast of hot wind hit him in the face as he charged through the doorway. The spice foreman plowed toward the disgruntled man, knocking aside several of his drunken followers to get to him. Gurney’s movements were as inexorable as an avalanche, and he caught Rew just as he was mounting an ornijet’s running board. With a thick forearm, he knocked the surly man to the sand.

Sandminers came out, cheering for Gurney and yelling disparaging comments at Rew, though a handful of men grumbled and moved closer, siding with the surly man. Two of the bedraggled pleasure women watched with pinched expressions, unimpressed with the rowdy behavior.

Rew rose shakily to his feet, then reached into a pocket with surprising speed and brought out a sonic knife. The blade glittered in the camplight.

Gurney backed up a step. “Oh, you want to play, do you?” He drew his own dagger and activated the hilt so that the vibrating edge increased its sharpness beyond that of a diamond razor. “With
me
?”

The spice foreman swung, cutting a buzzing arc through the air. Rew overreacted as he tried to block, but Gurney reversed his own weapon and smacked the freedman’s wrist with the butt of the hilt, breaking a thin bone. Rew cried out, and his knife clattered onto the ornijet’s running board.

“Enough of this nonsense.” Gurney slipped his dagger back into its sheath.

From behind, something struck a hard blow to the back of Gurney’s head. He fell, hitting the sand-crusted armorpave surface. He heard a voice, somebody yelling, then rushing footsteps—before he saw a boot draw back just an instant before it struck him in the forehead … .

GURNEY WOKE TO a ferocious headache. With his skull pounding and ringing, he had a difficult time focusing on the concerned face of Dr. Cullington Yueh.

“Oh, you gave us quite a scare, friend,” said the old battlefield surgeon.

“What are you doing?” Yueh was supposed to be in Carthage, not at the base camp; the doctor knew nothing about the secret deep-desert operations. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Then don’t make it necessary for me to come again. When we got the message from your camp saying that you’ve been unconscious for hours, Nobleman Linkam dispatched me here. Your men were very worried about you!”

“Except for the ones who did this to me.” He groaned.

“A few bad apples. Most of your crew are good men, I think. It was like calming a bunch of frantic mothers when I arrived.” The surgeon dabbed a pungent-smelling patch on Gurney’s aching forehead. “Good thing they called—you might have remained in a coma if I hadn’t administered the right drugs.”

He gave another, louder groan. “Some doctor! Didn’t you bring any pain relievers with you, man?”

The doctor clucked his tongue. “Oh, you already have a full dose. I’m sure your headache will only get worse when Nobleman Linkam gives you a tongue-lashing for not keeping your men under better control.”

Still dazed, Gurney mumbled, “What happened?”

“Some of your men escaped and went to town in an ornijet, flying wild. Luckily, because of your crew’s warning, General Tuek’s security force was able to intercept them as they landed—almost crashed, actually. A pack of drunks.”

“Have they talked to anybody?” Alarmed, Gurney tried to sit up, but the old battlefield surgeon pushed him back down.

“Oh, don’t you worry. Tuek has them in isolated custody. Your secret is safe.”

23

When the world around you is dry as dust, the mere memory of beauty must suffice.

—DOROTHY MAPES,
A Concubine’s Life

R
ife with rumors, angry about the spice crews that had been missing for months, the Carthage population blamed everything on the Linkams. Seeing only meager spice shipments brought back from the desert and knowing nothing about Jesse’s hidden hoard out in the mountain caves and in camouflaged silos, they felt no hope, only restless rage.

Though Nile Rew and his fellow escapees had been arrested as soon as they landed their craft, a wild story of forced work camps in the deep desert had leaked out. Other rumors began circulating about the extravagances of the Linkam household. Jesse continued his free water stipend, and the people noticed that the nobleman’s reserves seemed inexhaustible; their thoughts turned to suspicion instead of gratitude.

No doubt incited by Hoskanner loyalists, malcontents gathered in front of the headquarters mansion, enraged by some unfounded new rumor. The group seemed to have no leader, which made them even more dangerous as they demanded entry. They carried makeshift weapons, and General Tuek coordinated a defensive operation, which necessitated removing the cordon of soldiers that stood watch around the Imperial ship.

Jesse fumed. How many Hoskanner agents were even now slipping out to infiltrate Carthage all over again? Trapped aboard the inspection vessel for so long, the spies would certainly seize their chance. And the ungrateful townspeople were undoubtedly aiding their efforts, whether willingly or accidentally.

The nobleman looked at the distant faces and felt an anger that matched theirs. Did they not know what was at stake here? “I have already distributed all of our water reserves, Esmar, and paid out of our own spice profits to bring more shipments in. I doubled their rations, gave them all they need. They aren’t thirsty—just unhappy.” He made a sound of disgust. “Nothing will satisfy them.”

Grim, Tuek said, “Sometimes accusations trump goodwill, My Lord. A thirsty man given a drink today will demand another tomorrow. Their memories are very selective, but can any of them say their lives are worse than they were under the Hoskanners?”

“If I gave them an ocean, they would still complain. The only ones truly thirsty are those who have gambled or lost their own rations. I have been more than generous in trying to buy their goodwill. I wanted to be their nobleman, like I was to the people of Catalan. But they spit on my generosity.”

From the front of the crowd, a woman shopkeeper shouted, “We demand to see your extravagant conservatory! We know you have it in there.”

“Flowers and shrubs!” another woman shouted. “You arrogant bastards!”

The crowd roared; a shrill voice rose above them. “How dare you spill water on plants while our throats are parched!”

Perplexed, the security chief turned to Jesse and said, “A conservatory? Where did that ridiculous rumor start? Hoskanner seditionists, spreading unrest, prodding sore spots.” With a gesture, Tuek summoned his armed troops to come forward, their weapons raised.

Deeply concerned, Jesse paled. “The conservatory was Valdemar’s; he left it behind. I thought nobody knew about it except for Dorothy and myself.”

Tuek’s eyes narrowed, adding data to his ever-growing mental catalog. “So, she was one of the few who knew … and now someone has leaked it to this mob?”

“Enough, Esmar,” Jesse snapped.

Provoked by someone at the rear of the crowd, the people pushed higher on the steps. “We can break our way inside!”

“Stand down, or my men will open fire!” Tuek bellowed.

“You can’t shoot us all!” The shouts grew louder, more emotional and incomprehensible.

“I don’t want any of these people killed,” Jesse cautioned. “Not over something as stupid as this.”

“That may be unavoidable, My Lord. I am dutybound to keep you alive.” As the people stumbled forward, Tuek ordered three men to drag Jesse to safety, despite his protestations. “Find a secure room for the nobleman.” He met Jesse’s eyes. “We won’t let anyone inside the mansion harm you or your son.” Jesse noted that the old veteran pointedly left out Dorothy’s name.

At Tuek’s command, the loud report of a projectile gun fired into the air should have cowed the people, but instead served as a trigger for the riot. With a cry, more and more dusty men and women rushed up the stairs toward the door.

The Catalan Guards stood shoulder to shoulder. “Prepare for a full barrage!” Tuek yelled so loudly that his voice cracked in the dry air.