Dune (42 page)

“His body has been seen.”

“And the boy, too–young Master Paul?” Halleck tried to swallow, found a
lump in his throat.

“According to the last word we had, he was lost with his mother in a desert
storm. Likely not even their bones will ever be found.”

“So the witch is dead then . . . all dead.”

Tuek nodded. “And Beast Rabban, so they say, will sit once more in the seat
of power here on Dune.”

“The Count Rabban of Lankiveil?”

“Yes.”

It took Halleck a moment to put down the upsurge of rage that threatened to
overcome him. He spoke with panting breath: “I’ve a score of my own against
Rabban. I owe him for the lives of my family . . . ” He rubbed at the scar along
his jaw. “ . . . and for this . . . ”
“One does not risk everything to settle a score prematurely,” Tuek said. He
frowned, watching the play of muscles along Halleck’s jaw, the sudden withdrawal
in the man’s shed-?lidded eyes.

“I know . . . I know.” Halleck took a deep breath.

“You and your men can work out your passage off Arrakis by serving with us.
There are many places to–”

“I release my men from any bond to me; they can choose for themselves. With
Rabban here–I stay.”

“In your mood, I’m not sure we want you to stay.”

Halleck stared at the smuggler. “You doubt my word?”

“No-?o-?o . . . ”

“You’ve saved me from the Harkonnens. I gave loyalty to the Duke Leto for no
greater reason. I’ll stay on Arrakis–with you . . . or with the Fremen.”

“Whether a thought is spoken or not it is a real thing and it has power,”
Tuek said. “You might find the line between life and death among the Fremen to
be too sharp and quick.”

Halleck closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weariness surge up in him.
“Where is the Lord who led us through the land of deserts and of pits?” he
murmured.

“Move slowly and the day of your revenge will come,” Tuek said. “Speed is a
device of Shaitan. Cool your sorrow–we’ve the diversions for it; three things
there are that ease the heart–water, green grass, and the beauty of woman.”

Halleck opened his eyes. “I would prefer the blood of Rabban Harkonnen
flowing about my feet.” He stared at Tuek. “You think that day will come?”

“I have little to do with how you’ll meet tomorrow, Gurney Halleck. I can
only help you meet today.”

“Then I’ll accept that help and stay until the day you tell me to revenge
your father and all the others who–”

“Listen to me, fighting man,” Tuek said. He leaned forward over his desk,
his shoulders level with his ears, eyes intent. The smuggler’s face was suddenly
like weathered stone. “My father’s water–I’ll buy that back myself, with my own
blade.”

Halleck stared back at Tuek. In that moment, the smuggler reminded him of
Duke Leto: a leader of men, courageous, secure in his own position and his own
course. He was like the Duke . . . before Arrakis.

“Do you wish my blade beside you?” Halleck asked.

Tuek sat back, relaxed, studying Halleck silently.

“Do you think of me as fighting man? ” Halleck pressed.

“You’re the only one of the Duke’s lieutenants to escape,” Tuek said. “Your
enemy was overwhelming, yet you rolled with him . . . You defeated him the way
we defeat Arrakis.”

“Eh?”

“We live on sufferance down here, Gurney Halleck,” Tuek said. “Arrakis is
our enemy.”

“One enemy at a time, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Is that the way the Fremen make out?”

“Perhaps.”

“You said I might find life with the Fremen too tough. They live in the
desert, in the open, is that why?”

“Who knows where the Fremen live? For us, the Central Plateau is a no-?man’s
land. But I wish to talk more about–”

“I’m told that the Guild seldom routes spice lighters in over the desert,”
Halleck said. “But there are rumors that you can see bits of greenery here and
there if you know where to look.”

“Rumors!” Tuek sneered. “Do you wish to choose now between me and the
Fremen? We have a measure of security, our own sietch carved out of the rock,
our own hidden basins. We live the lives of civilized men. The Fremen are a few
ragged bands that we use as spice-?hunters.“

”But they can kill Harkonnens.“

”And do you wish to know the result? Even now they are being hunted down
like animals–with lasguns, because they have no shields. They are being
exterminated. Why? Because they killed Harkonnens.“

”Was it Harkonnens they killed?“ Halleck asked.

”What do you mean?“

”Haven’t you heard that there may’ve been Sardaukar with the Harkonnens?“

”More rumors.“

”But a pogrom–that isn’t like the Harkonnens. A pogrom is wasteful.“

”I believe what I see with my own eyes,“ Tuek said. ”Make your choice,
fighting man. Me or the Fremen. I will promise you sanctuary and a chance to
draw the blood we both want. Be sure of that. The Fremen will offer you only the
life of the hunted.“

Halleck hesitated, sensing wisdom and sympathy in Tuek’s words, yet troubled
for no reason he could explain.

”Trust your own abilities,“ Tuek said. ”Whose decisions brought your force
through the battle? Yours. Decide.“

”It must be,“ Halleck said. ”The Duke and his son are dead?“

”The Harkonnens believe it. Where such things are concerned, I incline to
trust the Harkonnens.“ A grim smile touched Tuek’s mouth. ”But it’s about the
only trust I give them.“

”Then it must be,“ Halleck repeated. He held out his right hand, palm up and
thumb folded flat against it in the traditional gesture. ”I give you my sword.“

”Accepted.“

”Do you wish me to persuade my men?“

”You’d let them make their own decision?“

”They’ve followed me this far, but most are Caladan-?born. Arrakis isn’t what
they thought it’d be. Here, they’ve lost everything except their lives. I’d
prefer they decided for themselves now.“

”Now is no time for you to falter,“ Tuek said. ”They’ve followed you this
far.“

”You need them, is that it?“

”We can always use experienced fighting men . . . in these times more than
ever.“

”You’ve accepted my sword. Do you wish me to persuade them?“

”I think they’ll follow you, Gurney Halleck.“

” ‘Tis to be hoped.“

”Indeed.“

”I may make my own decision in this, then?“

”Your own decision.“

Halleck pushed himself up from the bucket seat, feeling how much of his
reserve strength even that small effort required. ”For now, I’ll see to their
quarters and well-?being,“ he said.

”Consult my quartermaster,“ Tuek said. ”Drisq is his name. Tell him it’s my
wish that you receive every courtesy. I’ll join you myself presently. I’ve some
off-?shipments of spice to see to first.“

”Fortune passes everywhere,“ Halleck said.

”Everywhere,“ Tuek said. ”A time of upset is a rare opportunity for our
business.”

Halleck nodded, heard the faint sussuration and felt the air shift as a
lockport swung open beside him. He turned, ducked through it and out of the
office.

He found himself in the assembly hall through which he and his men had been
led by Tuek’s aides. It was a long, fairly narrow area chewed out of the native
rock, its smooth surface betraying the use of cutteray burners for the job. The
ceiling stretched away high enough to continue the natural supporting curve of
the rock and to permit internal air-?convection currents. Weapons racks and
lockers lined the walls.

Halleck noted with a touch of pride that those of his men still able to
stand were standing–no relaxation in weariness and defeat for them. Smuggler
medics were moving among them tending the wounded. Litter cases were assembled
in one area down to the left, each wounded man with an Atreides companion.

The Atreides training–“We care for our own!”–it held like a core of native
rock in them, Halleck noted.

One of his lieutenants stepped forward carrying Halleck’s nine-?string
baliset out of its case. The man snapped a salute, said: “Sir, the medics here
say there’s no hope for Mattai. They have no bone and organ banks here–only
outpost medicine. Mattai can’t last, they say, and he has a request of you.”

“What is it?”

The lieutenant thrust the baliset forward. “Mattai wants a song to ease his
going, sir. He says you’ll know the one . . . he’s asked it of you often
enough.” The lieutenant swallowed. “It’s the one called ‘My Woman,’ sir. If you-
-”

“I know.” Halleck took the baliset, flicked the multipick out of its catch
on the fingerboard. He drew a soft chord from the instrument, found that someone
had already tuned it. There was a burning in his eyes, but he drove that out of
his thoughts as he strolled forward, strumming the tune, forcing himself to
smile casually.

Several of his men and a smuggler medic were bent over one of the litters.
One of the men began singing softly as Halleck approached, catching the counter-
beat with the ease of long familiarity:

“My woman stands at her window,
Curved lines ‘gainst square glass.
Uprais’d arms . . . bent . . . downfolded.
‘Gainst sunset red and golded–
Come to me . . .
Come to me, warm arms of my lass.
For me . . .
For me, the warm arms of my lass.”

The singer stopped, reached out a bandaged arm and closed the eyelids of the
man on the litter.

Halleck drew a final soft chord from the baliset, thinking: Now we are
seventy-?three.

= = = = = =

Family life of the Royal Creche is difficult for many people to understand, but
I shall try to give you a capsule view of it. My father had only one real
friend, I think. That was Count Hasimir Fenring, the genetic-?eunuch and one of
the deadliest fighters in the Imperium. The Count, a dapper and ugly little man,
brought a new slave-?concubine to my father one day and I was dispatched by my
mother to spy on the proceedings. All of us spied on my father as a matter of
self-?protection. One of the slave-?concubines permitted my father under the Bene
Gesserit-?Guild agreement could not, of course, bear a Royal Successor, but the
intrigues were constant and oppressive in their similarity. We became adept, my
mother and sisters and I, at avoiding subtle instruments of death. It may seem a
dreadful thing to say, but I ‘m not at all sure my father was innocent in all
these attempts. A Royal Family is not like other families. Here was a new slave-
concubine, then, red-?haired like my father, willowy and graceful. She had a
dancer’s muscles, and her training obviously had included neuro-?enticement. My
father looked at her for a long time as she postured unclothed before him.
Finally he said: “She is too beautiful. We will save her as a gift. ” You have
no idea how much consternation this restraint created in the Royal Creche.
Subtlety and self-?control were, after all, the most deadly threats to us all.
-“In My Father’s House” by the Princess Irulan

Paul stood outside the stilltent in the late afternoon. The crevasse where
he had pitched their camp lay in deep shadow. He stared out across the open sand
at the distant cliff, wondering if he should waken his mother, who lay asleep in
the tent.

Folds upon folds of dunes spread beyond their shelter. Away from the setting
sun, the dunes exposed greased shadows so black they were like bits of night.

And the flatness.

His mind searched for something tall in that landscape. But there was no
persuading tallness out of heat-?addled air and that horizon–no bloom or gently
shaken thing to mark the passage of a breeze . . . only dunes and that distant
cliff beneath a sky of burnished silver-?blue.

What if there isn’t one of the abandoned testing stations across there? he
wondered. What if there are no Fremen, either, and the plants we see are only an
accident?

Within the tent, Jessica awakened, turned onto her back and peered sidelong
out the transparent end at Paul, He stood with his back to her and something
about his stance reminded her of his father. She sensed the well of grief rising
within her and turned away.

Presently she adjusted her stillsuit, refreshed herself with water from the
tent’s catchpocket, and slipped out to stand and stretch the sleep from her
muscles.

Paul spoke without turning: “I find myself enjoying the quiet here.”

How the mind gears itself for its environment, she thought. And she recalled
a Bene Gesserit axiom: “The mind can go either direction under stress–toward
positive or toward negative: on or off. Think of it as a spectrum whose extremes
are unconsciousness at the negative end and hyperconsciousness at the positive
end. The way the mind will lean under stress is strongly influenced by
training.”

“It could be a good life here,” Paul said.

She tried to see the desert through his eyes, seeking to encompass all the
rigors this planet accepted as commonplace, wondering at the possible futures
Paul had glimpsed. One could be alone out here, she thought, without fear of
someone behind you, without fear of the hunter.

She stepped past Paul, lifted her binoculars, adjusted the oil lenses and
studied the escarpment across from them. Yes, saguaro in the arroyos and other
spiny growth . . . and a matting of low grasses, yellow-?green in the shadows.

“I’ll strike camp,” Paul said.

Jessica nodded, walked to the fissure’s mouth where she could get a sweep of
the desert, and swung her binoculars to the left. A salt pan glared white there
with a blending of dirty tan at its edges–a field of white out here where white
was death. But the pan said another thing: water. At some time water had flowed
across that glaring white. She lowered her binoculars, adjusted her burnoose,
listened for a moment to the sound of Paul’s movements.

The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched across the salt pan. Lines of wild
color spread over the sunset horizon. Color streamed into a toe of darkness
testing the sand. Coal-?colored shadows spread, and the thick collapse of night
blotted the desert.