Dune: House Atreides (29 page)

For an entire cycle of the moons, the Fremen whispered their opinions in small caves and dens, or shouted them across tables in private meetings of the sietch elders. Some of them even empathized with what the strange outworlder was saying.

Though his fate remained undecided, Kynes didn't slow for a moment. Sietch guides took him around and showed him many things they thought would interest him, but the Planetologist also stopped to ask questions of women working in the stillsuit factories, of old men tending water supplies, and of withered grandmothers operating solar ovens or filing rough burrs off scrap metal.

The bustling activity around the sealed caves astonished him: Some workers trampled spice residue to extract fuel, others curded spice for fermentation.

Weavers at power looms used their own hair, the long fur of mutated rats, wisps of desert cotton, and even skin strips from wild creatures to make their durable fabric. And of course schools taught the young Fremen desert skills, as well as ruthless combat techniques.

One morning Kynes awoke refreshed, perfectly comfortable after spending the night on a mat on the hard floor. Throughout much of his life, he had slept in the open on rough ground. His body could find rest just about anywhere. He breakfasted on dehydrated fruits and dry cakes the Fremen women had baked in thermal ovens. The beginnings of a beard covered his face, a sandy stubble.

A young woman named Frieth brought him a serving tray with meticulously prepared spice coffee in an ornate pot. During the entire ritual, she directed her deep blue eyes downward, as she had done every morning since Kynes's arrival at the sietch. He hadn't thought anything of her cool, efficient attentions until someone had whispered to him, "She is the unmarried sister of Stilgar, whose life you saved against the Harkonnen dogs."

Frieth had fine features and smooth, tanned skin. Her hair appeared long enough to flow to her waist, if ever she undid it from her water rings and let it fall.

Her manner was quiet but all-knowing, in the Fremen way; she rushed to fulfill every small wish Kynes bothered to express, often without his realizing it. He might have noticed how beautiful she was, had he not been so intent on noticing everything else around him.

After he had sipped his pungent, cardamom-laced coffee down to the dregs, Kynes hauled out his electronic pad to jot down notes and ideas. At a noise, he looked up to see wiry young Turok standing in the doorway. "I'm to take you anywhere you wish, Planetologist, so long as you remain within Red Wall Sietch."

Kynes nodded and smiled, disregarding the constraints of being a captive. They did not rankle him. It was understood that he would never leave the sietch alive unless the Fremen accepted him and decided to trust him completely. If he did join the community, there could be no secrets between them; on the other hand, if the Fremen chose to execute him in the end, there would have been no point in keeping secrets from a dead man.

Previously Kynes had seen the tunnels, the food-storage chambers, the guarded water supplies, even the Huanui deathstills. In fascination he had watched the family groups of desert-hardened men, each with his several wives; he had seen them pray to Shai-Hulud. He'd begun to compile a mental sketch of this culture and the political and familial ties within the sietch, but it would take decades to unravel all the subtle relationships, all the nuances of obligations laid down upon their kinsmen many generations earlier.

"I'd like to go to the top of the rock," he said, remembering his duties as Imperial Planetologist. "If we could retrieve some of the equipment from my groundcar -- I presume you've kept it safe? -- I'd like to establish a weather station here. It's imperative that we collect climate data -- temperature variations, atmospheric humidity, and wind patterns -- from as many isolated spots as possible."

Turok looked at him, surprised and disbelieving. Then he shrugged. "As you wish, Planetologist." Knowing the conservative ways of the sietch elders, Turok was pessimistic about the fate of this enthusiastic but not terribly bright man.

What a futile effort it would be for Kynes to continue his vigorous work. But if it kept him happy in his last days . . .

"Come," Turok said. "Put on your stillsuit."

"Oh, we'll only be out for a few minutes."

Turok scowled at him, looking stern and much older. "A breath of moisture is water wasted into the air. We are not so rich we can afford to waste water."

Shrugging, Kynes pulled on his crinkling, slick-surfaced uniform and took the time to attach all the seals, though he did so clumsily. Heaving a heavy sigh, Turok assisted him, explaining the most effective way to dress out the suit and adjust the fittings to optimize its efficiency.

"You have bought a decent stillsuit. It is of Fremen manufacture," the young man observed. "In this at least you have chosen well."

Kynes followed Turok to the storage chamber where his groundcar had been kept.

The Fremen had stripped it of amenities, and his equipment lay in open boxes on the cave floor, inspected and cataloged. No doubt the sietch inhabitants had been trying to determine how they could put these things to use.

They're still planning to kill me, Kynes thought. Haven't they heard a thing I've said? Oddly, the thought neither depressed nor frightened him. He simply took the knowledge as a challenge. He was not about to give up -- there was too much left to do. He would have to make them understand.

Among the clutter he found his weather apparatus and tucked the components under his arms, but made no comment about what had been done to his possessions. He knew Fremen had a communal mentality: Every item owned by an individual was owned by the entire community. Since he had spent so much of his life alone, relying only on himself and his abilities, he found it difficult to absorb such a mind-set.

Turok did not offer to carry any of the equipment, but led the way up steep steps that had been rough-hewn into the stone wall. Kynes panted but did not complain. Ahead of him the guide shifted aside numerous barricades, moisture baffles, and doorseals. Turok flashed glances over his shoulder to make sure the Planetologist was keeping up, then increased his speed.

Finally they emerged from a cleft atop the rubble-strewn peaks. The young Fremen leaned back in the shadow of the rocks, keeping himself cool, while Kynes stepped out into open sunlight. All around them the stone was coppery brown with a few discolorations of lichen. A good sign, he thought. The advance footprints of biological systems.

As he stared out at the sweeping vista of the Great Basin, he saw dunes that were the grayish white and brown of newly decomposed rock grains, as well as the buttery yellow of older, oxidized sand.

From the sandworms he'd seen, as well as the teeming sand plankton in the spice-rich sands, Kynes knew that Dune already had the basis for a complex ecosystem.

He was certain it would take only a few crucial nudges in the proper direction to make this dormant place blossom.

The Fremen people could do it.

"Imperial man," said Turok, stepping forward from the shade, "what is it you see when you stare out onto the desert like that?"

Kynes answered without looking at him. "I see limitless possibilities."

IN A SEALED chamber deep in the sietch, wizened Heinar sat at the head of a stone table, glaring with his single eye. Trying to remain apart from the debate, the sietch Naib watched the council elders shout at each other.

"We know the man's loyalty," said one old man, Jerath. "He works for the Imperium. You've seen his dossier. He's on Dune as a guest of the Harkonnens."

Jerath had a silver ring in his left earlobe, a treasure taken from a smuggler he'd killed in a duel.

"That means nothing," said another elder, Aliid. "As Fremen, do we not don other clothes, other masks, and pretend to fit in? It's a means of survival when circumstances require it. You, of all people should know not to judge someone solely on appearances."

Garnah, a weary-looking long-haired elder, rested his pointed chin on his knuckles. "I'm most incensed at those three young idiots, what they did after the Planetologist helped them defeat the Harkonnen bravos. Any straight-thinking adult would have shrugged and sent the man's shade to join those of the six dead vermin on the ground . . . with some regret, of course, but still it should have been done." He sighed. "These are inexperienced youths, poorly trained. They should never had been left alone in the desert."

Heinar flared his nostrils. "You cannot fault their thinking, Garnah. There was the moral obligation -- Pardot Kynes had saved their lives. Even brash young men such as those three realized the water burden that had been placed on them."

"But what of their obligations to Red Wall Sietch and our people?" long-haired Garnah insisted. "Does a debt owed to a mere Imperial servant outweigh their loyalty to us?"

"The question isn't about the boys," Aliid interrupted. "Ommun, Turok, and Stilgar did what they thought was best. We are now left to decide about this Planetologist and his fate."

"He's a madman," the first elder, Jerath, said. "Have you heard him talk? He wants trees, open water, irrigation, crops -- he envisions a verdant planet instead of desert." A snort, then a toying with the ring in his ear. "He's mad, I say."

Puckering his mouth skeptically, Aliid pointed out, "After the thousands of years of wandering that finally brought us here and made our people what we are

-- how can you scorn one man's dream of paradise?"

Jerath frowned, but accepted the point.

"Perhaps Kynes is mad," Garnah said, "but just mad enough to be holy. Perhaps he's mad enough to hear the words of God in a way that we cannot."

"That is a question we cannot decide among us," Heinar said, finally using a Naib's voice of command to focus the discussion back on the matter at hand.

"The choice we face is not about the word of God, but about the survival of our sietch. Pardot Kynes has seen our ways, lived in our hidden home. By Imperial command, he sends reports back to Kaitain whenever he finds himself in a city.

Think of the risk to us."

"But what of all his talk about paradise on Dune?" Aliid asked, still trying to defend the stranger. "Open water, dunes anchored by grass, palmaries filled with tall date palms, open qanats flowing across the desert."

"Crazy talk and no more," grumbled Jerath. "The man knows too much -- about us, about the Fremen, about Dune. He cannot be allowed to hold such secrets."

Doggedly, Aliid tried again. "But he killed Harkonnens. Doesn't that place upon us, and our sietch, a water debt? He saved three members of our tribe."

"Since when do we owe the Imperium anything?" Jerath asked with another tug on his earring.

"Anyone can kill Harkonnens," Garnah added with a shrug, shifting his pointed chin to his other fist. "I've done it myself."

Heinar leaned forward. "All right, Aliid -- what of this talk about the flowering of Dune? Where is the water for all this? Is there any possibility the Planetologist can do what he says?"

"Haven't you heard him?" Garnah replied in a mocking tone. "He says the water is here, far more than the miserable amounts we collect for our sustenance."

Jerath raised his eyebrows and snorted. "Oh? This man has been on our world for a Standard Month or two, and already he knows where to find the precious treasure that no Fremen has discovered in generations upon generations of living in the desert? An oasis on the equator perhaps? Hah!"

"He did save three of our own," Aliid persisted.

"Three fools put themselves in the way of the Harkonnen fist. I feel no obligation to him for their rescue. And he has seen crysknives. You know our law: Who sees that knife must be cleansed or slain . . . ." Garnah's voice trailed off.

"It is as you say," Aliid admitted.

"Kynes is known to travel alone and explore many inhospitable areas," Heinar said with a shrug. "If he disappears, he disappears. No Harkonnen or Imperium officials will ever be the wiser."

"It will no doubt be interpreted as a simple accident. Our world is not a comfortable place," said Garnah.

Jerath simply smiled. "If the truth is told, the Harkonnens may be perfectly happy to get rid of this meddlesome man anyway. There is no risk to us if we kill him."

Silence hung in the dusty air for a moment. "What must be, must be," Heinar said, rising to his feet at the head of the table. "All of us know this. There can be no other answer, no changing of our minds. We must protect the sietch above all, no matter the cost, no matter the burden it places on our hearts."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "It is decided. Kynes must die."

Two hundred thirty-eight planets searched, many of only marginal habitability.

(See star charts attached in separate file.) Resource surveys list valuable raw materials. Many of these planets deserve a second look, either for mineral exploitation or possible colonization. As in previous reports, however, no spice found.

-Independent scout survey, third expedition, delivered to EMPEROR FONDIL CORRINO

Hasimir Fenring had bribed old Elrood's guards and retainers, setting up what he called "a surprise secret meeting with an important, though unexpected, representative." The weasel-faced man had used his silken tongue and his iron will to manipulate the Emperor's schedules to leave an opening. As a fixture around the Palace for more than three decades, Fenring, by virtue of his association with Crown Prince Shaddam, was a man of influence. With various methods of persuasion, he convinced everyone he needed to convince.

Old Elrood suspected nothing.

At the appointed hour of the Tleilaxu delegate's arrival, Fenring made certain he and Shaddam were present in the audience chamber -- ostensibly as eager students of the bureaucracy, intent on becoming viable leaders of the Imperium.

Elrood, who liked to think he was instructing these proteges in important matters of state, had no idea the two young men laughed at him behind his back.