Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [85]
The ecosystem of Rakis had been fundamentally destroyed. Half of the atmosphere was burned away, the ground sterilized, most life forms dead—from the microscopic sandplankton all the way up to the giant sandworms. It made the old Dune seem comfortable by comparison.
The sky was a dark purple, touched with an underburn of orange. As their ship circled, searching for a spot less hellish than others, Waff studied a panel of atmospheric readings. The moisture content was abnormally high. At some point in its geologic history, Arrakis had possessed open water, but sandtrout had sealed it all away. During the bombardment, underground rivers and seas must have been vaporized as they were released from aquifers.
The Honored Matres’ horrific weapons had not only turned the soft dunes to a baked moonscape, they had also thrown up great clouds of dust that had not settled entirely out of the atmosphere, even decades later. The Coriolis storms would be worse than ever before.
He and his team would likely have to wear special bodily protection and supplemental breather masks; their small dwelling huts would need to be sealed and pressurized. Waff didn’t mind. Was that so different from wearing a stillsuit? By degrees, perhaps, but not fundamentally harder.
His lighter circled over the remains of a sprawling metropolis that had been called Arrakeen in the days of Muad’Dib, then the Festival City of Onn during the reign of the God Emperor, and later—after Leto II’s death—the moated city of Keen. No longer concerned about secrecy, now that the seaworms had successfully taken hold on Buzzell, Waff was happy to have four assistants help him with the hard work he was sure to face on this Obliterator-blasted planet.
Studying the surface, he discerned lumpy geometric shapes that had once been angled streets and tall buildings. Surprisingly, in the dimness of seared daylight, he also spotted numerous artificial illumination sources and a few dark structures of recent construction. “There seems to be a camp down there. Who else would come to Rakis? What could they possibly want here?”
“The same as us,” said the Guildsman. “Spice.”
He shook his head. “Too little here anymore, at least until we bring back the worms. No one else has that skill.”
“Pilgrims perhaps? There may still be those who make a hajj,” a second assistant said. Waff knew that a dizzying mishmash of religious splinter groups and cults had sprung from Rakis.
“More likely,” suggested a third Guildsman, “they are treasure hunters.”
Waff quoted quietly from the Cant of the Shariat: “ ‘When greed and desperation are coupled, men accomplish superhuman feats—though for the wrong reasons.’ ”
He considered choosing a different place for their base camp, then accepted the idea that joining resources with the strangers might help them all last longer in the harsh environment. No one knew when—or if—Edrik might be coming back for them, or how long the sandworm work would take, or how much longer Waff himself would last. He planned to be here for the remainder of his days.
After the lighter landed unannounced at the edge of the camp, the Guildsmen waited for instructions from Waff. The Tleilaxu man settled goggles over his eyes to protect against the caustic wind, and emerged. For long journeys outside, he might have to wear a supplemental oxygen mask, but the Rakian atmosphere was surprisingly breathable.
Six tall and dirty men faced him from the encampment. They wore rags wrapped around their heads, carried knives and antique maula pistols. Their eyes were red-veined, their skin rough and cracked. The foremost man had shaggy black hair, a square chest, and a rock-hard potbelly. “You are fortunate that I’m curious about why you are here. Otherwise, we would’ve shot you out of the sky.”
Waff held up his hands. “We are no threat to you, whoever you are.”
Five men leveled their maula pistols, and the other slashed the air with his knife. “We have claimed Rakis for ourselves. All spice here is ours.”
“You’ve claimed a whole planet?”
“Yes, the whole damned