Road to Dune (5 page)

Tuek was more interested in the unusual chevron tattoo over the potential foreman’s right eyebrow, however. “What is that symbol? I’ve seen them in Carthage, often among the seasoned sandminers.”

“Something to do with the Zensunni prison religion?” Gurney offered. “Were you brought here as a convict laborer?”

English’s expression shifted into one of pride as he tapped the tattoo. “Most of us came here as prisoners, but this mark signifies that I am a freedman. I was convicted of a crime and sentenced to twenty years of hard labor in the penal caves on Eridanus V. Then the Grand Emperor and the Hoskanners offered amnesty to any prisoner who worked on Duneworld for a time equivalent to twenty-five percent of the original sentence. I had to work only five years of my original twenty.”

Gurney grunted. “The Hoskanners needed a lot of manpower for their spice operations.” Always eager to find new stories and material for the songs he loved to write, he asked, “What was your crime? Something to do with the unfortunate fall of your House?”

English’s mood darkened. “My sentence has been commuted, the records expunged. Therefore, I committed no crime.” He smiled wryly. “Isn’t every person guilty of something anyway?”

Ever conscious of security, Esmar Tuek did not like the fact that most of his sandminers were convicts. How trustworthy could they be? However, he also knew that many of the best military fighters with whom he had served were those with shady pasts or guilty consciences.

In a conciliatory tone, he asked, “How long do you have left on Duneworld? I don’t want a spice foreman who’ll leave us in a few months’ time.”

“As I said, I am now a freedman. I have been here twelve years, seven past the end of my sentence.”

Gurney exclaimed, “Then why haven’t you left, man? I can’t imagine anyone staying in this wretched place by choice.”

“It is
not
by choice. When our time is finished, we are not allowed to leave unless we pay our own passage offplanet. Few except the most crafty and devious are able to acquire that kind of money. Thus, even freedmen stay here and work as virtual slaves. I’ve been saving for years and have only half of the credits I need.” He grimaced. “Regrettably, I didn’t notice the odious clause when I signed the contract.”

“Sounds like a neat little scam,” Tuek said.

English shrugged. “Scam or not, I wouldn’t have survived the penal caves on Eridanus V, with the dripping acid and the tunnel collapses that maim and kill so many. And even if I did finish my sentence there, I would still have been a convicted felon when I emerged.” He tapped the mark above his brow again. “Here, I am forever a freedman, not a criminal.”

Suitably impressed, Tuek decided to give the man a chance, while keeping him under close scrutiny. “Mr. English, would you pilot an ornijet and take us on an inspection flight?”

“Nothing easier, General. I’ll check the locations of the crews that went out today. Only a few of them could get their equipment going.”

THE THREE MEN left the black mountain battlements and flew over the endless plains of buttery dunes. Gurney stared at the wasteland through the ornijet’s tinted window. “‘A desolation and a wilderness, a land wherein no man dwelleth, neither any son of man passth thereby,’” the jongleur offered from his vast repertoire of pertinent quotes. He turned back to look at the blocky structures of Carthage nestled among the dark rocks. “As Isaiah said long ago on another world, ‘He built towers in the desert.’”

Tuek peered disapprovingly at the dirty city the Hoskanners had built. “I wouldn’t exactly call them towers.”

As English guided the ornijet deeper into the desert, he opened the wings to full extension. They flapped slowly as the craft rattled and bounced in air turbulence. He wrestled with the controls. “Hold on, gentlemen. Could get worse, could get better.”

“Ah, now that’s covering your options!” Gurney said with a chuckle.

“Storm coming?” Tuek asked.

“Just thermals. Nothing to worry about.” English touched the roughened, waxy skin on the left side of his face. “I can sense bad weather. My knowledge of Duneworld’s storms is unfortunately intimate.”

After he had stabilized the ornijet, English glanced at the old veteran. “I told you about my tattoo, General Tuek. Would you return the favor and explain those red stains on your lips? I have never seen anything like them.”

Tuek touched the bright cranberry smears that forever marked his mouth. “I was once addicted to the sapho drug. It makes you euphoric, makes you lose your edge … and it ruins your life.”

“Sapho makes those stains?”

“Sapho juice is colorless. These red stains mark that I have taken
the cure
—and survived.”

“It was a true addiction?” English looked uncomfortable. “And you have beaten it?”

“Any addiction can be overcome if a person has strong enough will.” At his sides, Tuek unconsciously clenched and unclenched his hands. He remembered the nightmarish agony, the days of longing for death. He was a veteran of many battles, but breaking his dependence on the drug had been one of his most difficult victories ever.

Once they had reached the appropriate area, English guided the ornijet toward a column of dust and sand that looked like exhaust from a chimney. “Spice operations.”

“I can’t wait to see the equipment they left for us,” Tuek said, his tone sour. “Twelve harvesters and three carryalls to deliver them to the spice sands?”

“The numbers are right, but the machines are in lousy condition.”

The old warrior scowled. “The Emperor insisted that the Hoskanners leave them for us, but I assume they will not be sufficient for us to exceed the previous production.”

“We’ll fall far short.”

“Ho, that’s a cheery thought,” Gurney said. “‘He who looks to the Lord with optimism secures the prize, while the pessimist also secures what he envisions: defeat.’”

The spice foreman shook his head. “It’s not pessimism; it’s the reality of mathematics, and this hellhole. Unless we find a way to dramatically increase spice production with the equipment we have, House Linkam won’t stand a chance. In two years, the Hoskanners will return in force—and I’ll be put to death.” English looked strangely at his two passengers. “Nobleman Hoskanner does not look kindly on a man whose loyalties can be bought.”

“Sweet affection!” It was Tuek’s favorite saying. “Then why did you agree to the position, man?”

“Because you offered me an increase in pay. If I starve myself and earn maximum bonuses, there’s a slim chance I can afford to buy passage off Duneworld before the Hoskanners return.”

English tapped a control, and long, telescoping whiskers extended from the nose of the ornijet to pick up sensor readings from the surface below. “Where there’s one vein of spice, there are likely to be others. These probes take readings to help us determine a good place to come back another time.”

“What about all those little ships?” Gurney asked.

“Scouts spot good sand by surface markers, dune irregularities, and indications of worm activity.”

“Worm activity?” Tuek asked.

Airborne lifters swooped down to the flurry of activity while smaller ships flew nearby in wide arcs. English gazed down at the operations. “Ah, looks like we’re wrapping up for today. The crews can only hit each vein for an hour or so before we have to evacuate. See, that spice harvester is ready to be hauled to safety.”

Below, while men sprinted to their main vehicles, a heavy carryall linked to a boxy hulk of machinery in a valley of dunes, then heaved it into the air.

“Hauled to safety? From what?” Tuek asked.

“Didn’t the Hoskanners tell you anything about spice operations?”

“Nothing.”

Below, only moments after the carryall lifted the spice harvester from the sand, an enormous writhing shape bucked through the dunes. A serpentine beast with a cavernous mouth launched itself toward the rising spice harvester, but the straining carryall climbed higher and higher, out of reach. With a crash of sand, the great worm thundered back to the dunes and thrashed around.

“Gods, what a monster!” Gurney said. “‘And I saw the beast rise from the sea, with ten horns and seven heads.’”

“Harvesting vibrations summon a sandworm to defend its treasure—just like a mythical dragon,” English explained. “Under the Hoskanners, I crewed on seven spice harvesters that were lost.”

“Did everyone get away down there?” Tuek peered through the ornijet’s window, searching the ransacked dunes for casualties.

English listened to the staccato reports. “Everyone checked in except for one scout flyer caught in a downdraft in the wake of a sand geyser.”

“Sand geysers? Giant worms?” Gurney cried. “Does Duneworld breed strangeness?”

“In a dozen years, even I have yet to see all of its mysteries.”

BEFORE RETURNING TO the mountains around Carthage, English landed at a small encampment where twenty workers in sealed bodysuits spread out, planting long flexible poles in the soft sand. The line of poles stuck out like quills from the back of a spiny beast.

The three men climbed out of the ornijet, breathing hot air through face filters. Around them on high dunes, Tuek saw a whirl of wind devils. Even active crews were spread across the sheltered valley, a great emptiness that was like a hungry mouth gulping every sound. Standing in the immense silence, he thought he could almost hear the desert breathing.

Gurney plodded through the soft sands to reach one of the flexible poles the crew had recently planted. He wobbled it like an antenna. “And what’s this?”

“They are poling the sand to help determine the weather.”

“Don’t we have satellites in orbit? I was sure the Hoskanners left them.”

“Those provide only a large-scale picture, and the terrain is a mosaic of microclimates. With fluctuating temperatures and tides of sand, the local weather is dangerously unpredictable. Each of these poles has a signal beeper. As they bend and twist in the wind, the transmissions help us chart storms. Blowing grains etch lines into the waxy surfaces of the poles. Some natives claim they can read the patterns.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been able to see it myself, but their reports are as accurate as anything else we have.”

One of the questing men on the far side of the basin plunged his pole into the sand and suddenly let out a loud yelp. He threw up his arms, wailing; his feet went out from under him as if a great mouth was trying to suck him down.

The alarmed spice foreman stood where he was, feet planted safely on the more stable dune, but Tuek and Gurney sprinted toward the man. By the time they neared the spot, the hapless worker had already vanished beneath the powdery surface. Not even his fingers or a stirring of movement showed where he had been.

Gurney grabbed Tuek’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Best stay far away, General! Maybe it’s another worm.”

Tuek whirled to face William English, who walked grimly up to them, picking his footsteps carefully. “Sweet affection! Couldn’t you do anything to help him?”

The desert man shook his head. “He was lost the moment he stepped on the wrong spot. Sand whirlpools appear in unpredictable places, sinkholes that spiral downward.”

Hesitant to move, Tuek remained where he was for a minute, his jaw muscles working like a tiny imitation of a worm. “Gods! What kind of demon world is this?”

4

Even in the most barren wasteland, a flower always grows. Recognize this, and learn to adapt to your surroundings.

—DR. BRYCE HAYNES,
planetary ecologist assigned to study Duneworld

W
ith her family balanced on the cusp of survival, Dorothy Mapes vowed that every moment on Duneworld and every action would count. “This is a serious planet that demands undivided attention,” she observed, gazing out the oval porthole as the Linkam transport ship cruised over the sea of dunes toward a line of stark, black mountains.

Seated with Jesse on the starboard side of the transport, she saw his attention focused on a looming dust cloud that approached like an inexorable Catalan tide. Moments ago, he had said he was having second thoughts about this side excursion he had ordered the pilot to take after the cross-space journey, flying over the desert for a hundred kilometers instead of landing directly at Carthage. But he had wanted to see what the planet was like, showing his concubine and son where they were going to live for at least two years.

Now she hoped it wasn’t a dangerous mistake.

“I think we can beat that storm,” the pilot said. “I sure hope so, because we don’t have enough fuel to go back into orbit.”

Jesse did not say anything, and neither did Dorothy. He squeezed her hand in a private way that imparted reassurance, telling her that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, or to young Barri, who sat at another window, transfixed by the alien vistas outside. After more than a decade together, the nobleman and his concubine had ways of communicating through only a look or a touch. He ran a fingertip across her diagem promise ring.

Though Jesse was the patriarch of the Noble House, Dorothy Mapes took care of important business details and family matters. She had once compared herself to the wife of an Old Earth samurai, with her access to and control over a great deal. She understood full well that the spousal analogy was only her wishful thinking. Because of the Empire’s strict and convoluted society, Jesse could never marry a commoner, no matter how deeply he cared for her and how essential she was to him.

Dorothy was the mother of his son, the male heir to House Linkam. Although she taught the boy important skills, she also pampered him—too much, according to Jesse. The nobleman wanted Barri to face enough adversity to make him strong. Under pressure, Dorothy would yield to Jesse’s commands in this regard, or appear to do so; then, invariably, she would return to indulging the boy.

“Oh, I hope we get there soon.” From across the aisle the kindly old family doctor fidgeted in his seat, while staring straight ahead and refusing to look out the window at the dizzying landscape sweeping past. Cullington Yueh had bristly gray hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. “Oh, these bumps and vibrations are making me nauseated.”