Sheeana smelled worms at a distance: cinnamon undertones of melange mingled with bitter flint and brimstone, the crystal-banked inferno of the great Rakian sand-eaters. But she sensed these tiny descendents only because they existed out there in such numbers.
They are so small.
It had been hot here at Desert Watch today and now in late afternoon she welcomed the artificially cooled interior. There was a tolerable temperature adjustment in her old quarters although the window on the west had been left open. Sheeana went to that window and stared out at glaring sand.
Memory told her what this vantage would be tonight: starlight bright in dry air, thin illumination on sand waves that reached to a darkly curved horizon. She remembered Rakian moons and missed them. Stars alone did not satisfy her Fremen heritage.
She had thought of this as retreat, a place and time to think about what was happening to her Sisterhood.
Axlotl tanks, Cyborgs, and now this.
Odrade's plan held no mysteries since their Sharing. A gamble? And if it succeeded?
We will know perhaps tomorrow and then what will we become?
She admitted to a magnet in Desert Watch, more than a place to consider consequences. She had walked in sun-scorched heat today, proving to herself she could still call worms with her dance, emotion expressed as action.
Dance of Propitiation. My language of the worms.
She had gone dervish-whirling on a dune until hunger shattered her memory-trance. And little worms were spread all around in gaping watchfulness, remembered flames within the frames of crystal teeth.
But why so small?
The words of investigators explained but did not satisfy. "It is the dampness."
Sheeana recalled giant Shai-hulud of Dune, "the Old Man of the Desert," large enough to swallow spice factories, ring surfaces hard as plascrete. Masters in their own domain. God and devil in the sands. She sensed the potential from her window vantage.
Why did the Tyrant choose symbiotic existence in a worm?
Did those tiny worms carry his endless dream?
Sandtrout inhabited this desert. Accept them as a new skin and she might follow the Tyrant's path.
Metamorphosis. The Divided God.
She knew the lure.
Do I dare?
Memories of her last moments of ignorance came over her - barely eight then, the month of Igat on Dune.
Not Rakis. Dune, as my ancestors named it.
Not difficult to recall herself as she had been: a slender, dark-skinned child, streaked brown hair. Melange hunter (because that was a task for children) running into open desert with childhood companions. How dear it felt in memory.
But memory had its darker side. Focusing attention into the nostrils, a girl detected intense odors - a pre-spice mass!
The Blow!
Melange explosion brought Shaitan. No sandworm could resist a spice blow in its territory.
You ate it all, Tyrant, that miserable collection of shacks and hovels we called "home" and all of my friends and family. Why did you spare me?
What a rage had shaken that slender child. Everything she loved taken by a giant worm that refused her attempts to sacrifice herself in its flames and carried her into the hands of Rakian priests, thence to the Bene Gesserit.
"She talks to the worms and they spare her."
"They who spared me are not spared by me." That was what she had told Odrade.
And now Odrade knows what I must do. You cannot suppress the wild thing, Dar. I dare call you Dar now that you are within me.
No response.
Was there a pearl of Leto II's awareness in each of the new sandworms? Her Fremen ancestors insisted on it.
Someone handed her a sandwich. Walli, the senior acolyte assistant who had assumed command of Desert Watch.
At my insistence when Odrade elevated me to the Council. But not just because Walli learned my immunity to Honored Matre sexual bonding. And not because she is sensitive to my needs. We speak a secret language, Walli and I.
Walli's large eyes no longer were entrances to her soul. They were filmed barriers giving evidence she already knew how to block probing stares; a light blue pigmentation that soon would be all blue if she survived the Agony. Almost albino and a questionable genetic line for breeding. Walli's skin reinforced this judgment: pale and freckled. A skin you saw as a surface transparency. You did not focus on the skin itself but on what lay beneath: pink, blood-suffused flesh unprotected from a desert sun. Only here in the shade could Walli expose that sensitive surface to questioning eyes.
Why this one in command over us?
Because I trust her best to do what must be done.
Sheeana ate the sandwich absently while she returned her attention to the sandscape. The whole planet thus one day. Another Dune? No... similar but different. How many such places are we creating in an infinite universe? Senseless question.
Desert vagary placed a small black dot in the distance. Sheeana squinted. Ornithopter. It grew slowly larger and then smaller. Quartering the sand. Inspecting.
What are we really creating here?
When she looked at encroaching dunes, she sensed hubris.
Look upon my works, tiny human, and despair.
But we did this, my Sisters and I.
Did you?
"I can feel a new dryness in the heat," Walli said.
Sheeana agreed. No need to speak. She went to the large worktable while she still had daylight to study the topomap spread out there: little flags sticking in it, green thread on pushpins just as she had designed it.
Odrade had asked once: "Is this really preferable to a projection?"
"I need to touch it."
Odrade accepted that.
Projections palled. Too far removed from dirt. You could not draw a finger down a projection and say, "We will go down here." A finger in a projection was a finger in empty air.
Eyes are never enough. The body must feel its world.
Sheeana detected pungency of male perspiration, a musty smell of exertion. She lifted her head and saw a dark young man standing in the doorway, arrogant pose, arrogant look.
"Oh," he said. "I thought you would be alone, Walli. I'll come back later."
One piercing stare at Sheeana and he was gone.
There are many things the body must feel to know them.
"Sheeana, why are you here?" Walli asked.
You who are so busy on the Council, what do you seek? Don't you trust me?
"I came to consider what the Missionaria still thinks I may do. They see a weapon - the myths of Dune. Billions pray to me: 'The Holy One who spoke to the Divided God.' "
"Billions is not an adequate number," Walli said.
"But it measures the force my Sisters see in me. Those worshipers believe I died with Dune. I've become 'a powerful spirit in the pantheon of the oppressed.' "
"More than a missionary?"
"What might happen, Walli, if I appeared in that waiting universe, a sandworm beside me? The potential of such a thing fills some of my Sisters with hope and misgivings."
"Misgivings I understand."
Indeed. The very kind of religious implant Muad'Dib and his Tyrant son set loose on unsuspecting humankind.
"Why do they even consider it?" Walli insisted.
"With me as fulcrum, what a lever they would have to move the universe!"
"But how could they control such a force?"
"That is the problem. Something so inherently unstable. Religions are never really controllable. But some Sisters think they could aim a religion built around me."
"And if their aim is poor?"
"They say the religions of women always flow deeper."
"True?" Questioning a superior source.
Sheeana could only nod. Other Memory confirmed it.
"Why?"
"Because within us, life renews itself."
"That's all of it?" Openly doubting.
"Women often bear the aura of underdog. Humans reserve a special sympathy for ones at the bottom. I am a woman and if Honored Matres want me dead then I must be blessed."