Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [82]
Stilgar felt comfortable enough among the twenty weathered, grim men. To his trained eye, the commandos had a look of edgy anticipation, but they were too soft in the flesh for the adaptations they would soon face. With the rapid climate shift, even living in their nomadic camps at the fringe of the sand, these people remained unaware of the desert’s true harshness. They would have to learn swiftly enough to face the escalating hardships. He and his friend could teach them—if they would listen.
Liet took his seat beside Stilgar and spoke to Var’s men with genuine enthusiasm. “Right now, Qelso’s air still contains enough moisture that truly dramatic measures aren’t required. Soon, though, you will need to be careful not to waste so much as a thimbleful of water.”
“We already live under the strictest conservation,” one man said, as if Liet had insulted him.
“Oh? You don’t recycle your sweat, respiration, or urine. You still import water from the higher latitudes, where it is readily available. Many regions on Qelso are still able to grow crops, and people live a fairly normal life.”
“It will get worse,” Stilgar agreed. “Your people have much hardening to do before the planet reaches its new equilibrium. This is the first day of your new field training.”
The men muttered uncertainly at hearing such words from two seeming boys, but Liet sounded optimistic. “It is not so bad. We can teach you how to make stillsuits, how to conserve every breath, every sweat droplet. Your fighting instincts are admirable, but useless against sandworms. You must learn to survive among the behemoths that will eventually take control of your world. It is a necessary shift in attitude.”
“The Fremen did so for a long time.” Stilgar seated himself beside his friend. “It was an honorable way of life.”
The fighters held onto straps and spread their feet for balance, preparing for takeoff. “That is what lies in store for us? Drinking recycled sweat and piss? Living in sealed chambers?”
“Only if we fail,” old Var said. “I choose to believe we still have a chance, no matter how naïve that sounds.” He closed the ship’s hatch and strapped himself into the creaking pilot seat. “So, if that doesn’t sound pleasant to you, then we’d better stop the desert from gaining more of a foothold.”
The flyer lifted from the dry camp and swung out over the ghost forests and hummocks of fresh dunes that were swallowing the remnants of grasslands. The engine sputtered periodically as they flew southeast to a region where sandworms had been sighted. The craft seemed like a sluggish bumblebee, its tanks overloaded and heavy.
“We will stop the moving sands,” one young commando said.
“Next you will try to stop the wind.” Stilgar grabbed a dangling strap as a thermal updraft shook the craft. “In a few short years, your planet will be sand and rock. Do you expect a miracle to turn the desert back?”
“We’ll create that miracle for ourselves,” Var answered, and his team murmured in agreement.
They flew across the wilderness of dunes, far past the point where they could see anything but buttery tan from horizon to horizon. Stilgar tapped a finger against the scratched windowplaz and shouted against the engine noise. “See the desert for what it is—not a place to fear and loathe, but a great engine to power an empire.”
Liet added, “Already, small worms in the desert belt have created priceless amounts of melange just waiting to be mined. How have you survived for so long without spice?”
“We haven’t needed spice for fifteen hundred years, not since we came to Qelso,” Var called from the cockpit. “When you do not have a thing, you learn to live without it, or you don’t live.”
“We don’t give a damn about spice,” one of the commandos said. “I’d rather give a damn about trees and crops and fat herds.”
Var continued, “Our first settlers brought a great deal of spice from far away, and three generations fought addiction