Sandworms of Dune by Frank Herbert
"I didn't condemn you for your struggle, but I can't condone what you did to our companion. Years ago, Bene Gesserit visitors to your world acted without considering the consequences of what they were doing to you. And now it appears you have done the same thing."
The old leader shook his head. His eyes burned with anger and righteousness. "We killed the witches responsible for depositing sandtrout here. Finding another witch, we killed her too."
Duncan abruptly cut off what was sure to be a pointless argument. "We will take our friends and leave you. I'll let you have your fruitless fight against a desert you can't defeat."
Teg and Sheeana stepped forward, anxious to leave this place. Liet and Stilgar, though, held back and looked at each other. The latter squared his shoulders and said, "Duncan, Bashar . . . Liet and I are having second thoughts. This is the desert--not our desert, but closer than anything we have yet encountered as gholas. We were brought back to life for a purpose. The skills from our past lives can be vital resources in a place like this."
Liet-Kynes picked up the speech as if he and Stilgar had rehearsed what they were going to say. "Look around. Can you imagine a world where our talents are more desperately needed? We are trained as fighters against impossible odds. We're used to desert combat. As a planetologist, I know the best ways to control the spread of the dunes, and I understand more about the sandworm cycle than most people."
Stilgar added, his passion rising, "We can show these fighters how to build sietches in the harshest desert. We can teach them to make real stillsuits. One day, perhaps, we shall even ride the great worms again." His voice cracked. "No one can stop the desert, but we can keep the people alive. The rest of you go back to the no-ship, but the Qelsans need us here."
Sheeana stopped at the hatch of the nearest ship, clearly displeased. "That is not possible. We need you, and all of the gholas, aboard the Ithaca. Each one of you was created, raised, and trained to assist us against the Enemy."
"But no one knows how, Sheeana," Duncan pointed out, moved by what the two young men had said. "None of you can say for certain why we need Stilgar and Liet. And what exactly is our fight?"
"We are not your tools or game pieces." Stilgar crossed his arms over his chest. "We are human beings with free will, regardless of how we might have been created. I never asked to serve the Bene Gesserit witches."
Liet stood by his friend. "This is what we want to do, and who's to say it isn't our destiny? We could save a planet, or at least its population. Isn't that an important enough goal?"
Teg understood the dilemma all too well. These two had found a connection they could hold onto, a battle they could fight that did indeed require their specific abilities. He himself had been created as a pawn, and he'd been forced to play that role. "Let them go, Sheeana. You have enough experimental subjects on the ship."
Thufir Hawat came up to the Bashar, relieved to see his mentor safe. He shot a disturbed glance toward Sheeana. "Is that all we are to them, Bashar? Experimental subjects?"
"In a certain sense. And now we must go back to our cage." He was anxious to leave this dying planet before other problems arose.
"Not so fast," the old Rabbi said, stepping forward. "My people are not, and never have been, part of your reckless flight across space. We've always wanted a world to settle. Compared to metal decks and small chambers, this planet looks good enough."
"Qelso is dying," Sheeana said. The Rabbi and his hardworking companions simply shrugged.
Var scowled, as did some of the nomadic villagers nearest him. "We do not need any further drain on our resources. You are welcome here only if you intend to fight back against the desert."
Isaac, one of the strong Jewish men, nodded. "If we decide to stay here, we will fight and work. Our people are no strangers to surviving when the rest of the universe is pitted against us."
No matter where I go, no matter what I leave behind, my past is always with me, like a shadow.
--DUNCAN IDAHO,
no-ship logs
Liet-Kynes and Stilgar returned briefly to the Ithaca to retrieve informational archives and some of the equipment they would need to monitor Qelso's changing climate. Liet even converted several spare sensor buoys into orbital weathersats, which the no-ship deployed.
He said his goodbyes to the other ghola children who had been raised with him--Paul Atreides, Jessica, Leto II. And Chani, his own daughter. With a surge of emotion, Liet grasped the hand of the young woman, who was physically almost three years older than he. He smiled at her. "Chani, someday you will remember me as I was on Arrakis--busy in the sietches, working as the Imperial Planetologist or the Judge of the Change, carrying on my father's dream for the Fremen and for Dune."
Her expression was intense, as if she struggled to grasp some faint flicker of memory as she listened to him. Releasing her hand, he touched her forehead, her dark red hair. "Maybe I was a strong leader, but I'm afraid I wasn't much of a father. So I must tell you, before I go, that I love you. Then and now. When you remember me, remember all we shared."
"I will. If I remembered everything now, I'd probably want to go with you back to the desert. And so would Usul."
Beside them, Paul shook his head. "My place is here. Our fight is bigger than one desert."
Stilgar took his friend's arm, urging Liet to hurry. "This planet is large enough for us. I feel in my soul that this is why Liet and I have been brought back, whether or not Sheeana realizes it. Perhaps someday, no matter how it appears now, we will all see that this is part of the greater battle."
Meanwhile, the Rabbi spoke to his fifty-two enthusiastic followers at their stations on the no-ship. Isaac and Levi had taken over many of the old man's duties, and at his signal they directed the Jews to gather their possessions and bring prefabricated shelters from the Ithaca's vast storage chambers. Soon, all of them had shuttled down to the surface, where they disembarked and began unloading the landed cargo ships under Isaac's direction.
On the ground Var strode through the activity, marshalling his followers. He ran a covetous eye over several of the craft that Duncan had brought down during his show of force. "Those mining shuttles would be a great help to us for carrying supplies and water across the continent."
Sheeana shook her head. "Those ships belong to the Ithaca. We may need them."
Var glowered at her. "Small enough compensation for causing the death of an entire world, I'd say."
"I didn't contribute to the death of your world. You, however, killed Stuka in cold blood, before--"
Quickly, Teg went into Mentat mode, mentally inventorying the supplies and equipment they carried aboard the no-ship. To Sheeana, he murmured, "Although we had no part in the damage done to this world, we did resupply our ship here, and many of our people are staying behind as settlers. A token payment is not unreasonable." When she nodded, Teg turned to Var. "We can spare two shuttles. No more."
"And two desert experts," Liet piped up. "Stilgar and me."
"Not to mention a willing and hardy workforce. You'll be glad to have the Jews here." Teg had noticed how industrious the Rabbi's people were. He expected they would do well on this planet, even as the climate turned harsher. Someday, however, they might decide that Qelso wasn't their promised land after all.
NOT SURPRISINGLY, GARIMI and her conservative followers also wanted to leave the no-ship permanently. More than a hundred of the Sisters asked to be released from the Ithaca to settle on Qelso, even with its ever-growing desert. There, they planned to establish the foundation for their new order. Back on the no-ship, Garimi announced their choice to Sheeana more as a courtesy than a matter for discussion.
But the people of Qelso would hear none of that. They met the Sisters' landed shuttle with drawn weapons. Var stood with his arms crossed over his chest. "We accept Liet-Kynes and Stilgar among us, as well as the Jews. But no Bene Gesserit witch is welcome here."
"No witches!" other Qelsans cried, their expressions suddenly murderous. "If we fin
Having accompanied them for a farewell, Sheeana tried to speak on Garimi's behalf. "We could take them to the other side of the continent. You would never know about their settlement. I promise, they'll cause you no trouble."
But the incensed Qelsans were not inclined to listen, and Var spoke again. "Your kind act only for the benefit of the Sisterhood. We welcomed them once, to our deep and lasting regret. Now Qelsans act for the benefit of Qelso. No member of your Sisterhood is welcome here. Short of violence, I cannot be more clear than that."
Sending up a puff of dust with every step, the Rabbi trudged past tents and portable buildings toward the shuttle. He wiped sweat from his brow and came to stand before Teg and Sheeana, looking uneasily from one to the other. "I think my people will be happy here, by the grace of God." He kicked at the dry dirt with his shoe. "We were meant to have ground under our feet."
"You look disturbed, Rabbi," Sheeana noted.
"Not disturbed. Sad." To Teg he appeared crestfallen, and his watery old eyes seemed redder than usual, as if from crying. "I will not be with them. I cannot leave the no-ship."
Black-bearded Isaac draped a consoling arm around the elderly man's shoulders. "This will be the new Israel for us, Rabbi, under my leadership. Won't you reconsider?"
"Why aren't you staying with your people?" Teg asked.
The Rabbi lowered his gaze, and tears dropped on the hardscrabble ground. "I have a higher obligation to one of my followers whom I failed."
Isaac explained to Sheeana and Teg in a soft voice, "He wishes to remain with Rebecca. Though she is an axlotl tank now, he refuses to leave her."
"I shall watch over her for all my remaining days. My followers will be in good hands here. Isaac and Levi are their future, while I am their past."
The rest of the Jews surrounded the Rabbi, saying their goodbyes and wishing him well. Then the weeping old man joined Teg, Sheeana, and the others on the waiting shuttle, which took them back up to the no-ship.
TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AFTER
ESCAPE FROM CHAPTERHOUSE
We are wounded, but undefeated. We are hurt, but can endure great pain. We are driven to the end of our civilization and our history--but we remain human.
--MOTHER COMMANDER MURBELLA,
address to the survivors of Chapterhouse
As the epidemic burned itself out, the survivors--all of them Reverend Mothers--struggled to hold the Sisterhood together. No vaccines, immunity treatments, diets, or quarantines had any effect as the general populace died.
It required only three days for Murbella's heart to turn to stone. Around her, she watched thousands of promising young acolytes perish, diligent students who had not yet learned enough to become Reverend Mothers. Every one of them died either from the plague or from the Agony that was rushed upon them.
Kiria slipped into her former Honored Matre viciousness. On many occasions she argued vehemently that it was a waste of time to care for anyone who had contracted the plague. "Our resources are better spent on more important things, on activities that have some chance of success!"
Murbella could not dispute her logic, though she did not agree with the opinion. "We're not thinking machines. We are humans, and we will care for humans."
It was a sad irony that as more and more of the population died, fewer Reverend Mothers were needed to tend the remaining sick. Gradually, those women were able to turn to other crucial activities.
From a nearly empty chamber in the Keep, Murbella peered through the broad, arched window segments behind her throne chair. Chapterhouse had once been a bustling administrative complex, the pulsing heart of the New Sisterhood. Before the plague struck, Mother Commander Murbella had been in charge of hundreds of defensive measures, monitoring the constant progress of the Enemy fleet, dealing with the Ixians, the Guild, refugees and warlords, anyone who could fight on her side.
Far away, she could see the brown hills and dying orchards, but what concerned her was the eerie, unnatural silence of the city itself. The dormitories and support buildings, the nearby spaceport field, the markets, gardens, and dwindling herds . . . all should have been tended by a population of hundreds of thousands. Sadly, most normal activity around the Keep and the city had halted. Far too few remained alive to cover even the most basic work. The world itself was virtually vacant, with all hope dashed in a matter of days. So shockingly sudden!
The air in the surrounding city was heavy with the stench of death and burning. Black smoke rose from dozens of bonfires--not funeral pyres, for Murbella had other ways to dispose of the bodies, but simply the incineration of contaminated garments and other materials, including infected medical supplies.
In an admittedly petty moment, Murbella had summoned two exhausted Reverend Mothers. Telling them to bring suspensor clamps, she had ordered them to remove the deactivated combat robot from her private chambers. Though the hated machine had not moved in years, she had begun to feel that it was mocking her. "Take this thing away and destroy it. I abhor everything it symbolizes." The obedient women seemed relieved to follow her orders.
The Mother Commander issued her next instructions. "Release our melange stockpiles and distribute spice to all survivors." Every healthy woman was dedicated to tending the remaining sick, though it was a hopeless task. The surviving Reverend Mothers were utterly exhausted, having worked without rest for days. Even with the bodily control taught by the Sisterhood, they were hard-pressed to continue. But melange could help keep them going.
Long ago in the time of the Butlerian Jihad the palliative properties of melange had been an effective measure against the horrific machine plagues. This time she didn't expect spice to cure anyone who had already contracted the disease, but at least it would help the surviving Reverend Mothers perform the daunting work required of them. Though Murbella desperately needed every gram of spice to pay the Guild and the Ixians, her Sisters needed it more. If the unified Sisterhood died on Chapterhouse, who would lead the fight for humanity?
One more cost among so many. But if we don't spend it now, we will never buy victory. "Do it. Distribute whatever is necessary."
As her orders were being carried out, she made calculations and realized to her dismay that there weren't enough Reverend Mothers left alive to deplete the Sisterhood's hoarded spice anyway.. . .
Her entire support staff had been stripped away, and she felt isolated. Murbella had already imposed austerity measures, severely cut back services, and eliminated every extraneous activity. Even though most of the Reverend Mothers had survived the plague, it was not certain they would survive the aftermath.
She summoned those who were Mentats and ordered them to assess the vital work and create an emergency plan of operations, using personnel who were best qualified for the essential tasks. Where could they possibly get the workforce necessary to maintain Chapterhouse, rebuild, and continue the fight? Maybe they could convince some of the desperate refugees from devastated planets to come here, once the last vestiges of plague died out.
Murbella grew tired of simply recovering. Chapterhouse was only a tiny battlefield on the vast galactic canvas of the climactic war. The greatest threat still remained out there, as the oncoming Enemy fleet struck planet after planet, driving refugees like frantic animals before a forest fire. The battle at the end of the universe.
Kralizec . . .
A Reverend Mother came running up to her with a report. The woman, barely more than a girl, was one of those who had been forced to attempt the Agony long before she should have, but she had survived. Her eyes bore a faint bluish tinge now, a color that would grow deeper as she continued to consume melange. Her gaze had a stunned, haunted look that penetrated to the depths of her soul.
"Your hourly report, Mother Commander." She handed Murbella a stack of Ridulian crystal sheets on which names were printed in columns.
In a cold and businesslike fashion, her advisors had at first provided her with simple numbers and summaries, but Murbella
"Four more of them were Face Dancers," the messenger said.
Murbella clenched her jaws. "Who?" When the woman spoke the names, Murbella barely knew them, unobtrusive Sisters who called no attention to themselves . . . exactly as Face Dancer spies would do. So far sixteen of the shape-shifters had turned up among the plague victims. She had always suspected that even the New Sisterhood had been infiltrated, and now she had proof. But, in an irony the thinking machines could not possibly grasp, the Face Dancers were also susceptible to the horrible epidemic. They died just as easily as anyone else.
"Keep their bodies for dissection and analysis, along with the others. If nothing else, maybe we can learn something that will allow us to detect them among us."
The young woman waited while Murbella scanned the long list of names. She felt a cold whisper run down her spine as an entry in the third column of one sheet caught her eye. She felt as if she had been struck a heavy blow.
Gianne.
Her own daughter, her youngest child by Duncan Idaho. For years the girl had delayed passing through the Agony, never reaching the point where she was ready for the ordeal. Gianne had shown great promise, but that was not nearly enough. Though she had not demonstrated herself to be ready, the girl--among thousands of others--had been forced to take the poison early, the only chance of surviving.
Murbella reeled in shock. She should have been at Gianne's side, but in the chaos no one had told the Mother Commander when her daughter would be given the Water of Life. Most Sisters did not even realize that Gianne was her daughter. The frantic, exhausted helpers would not have known. With her priorities set in true Bene Gesserit fashion, Murbella had tended to her official duties and had gone without sleep for several days in succession.