Manford had no sympathy for weakness. “Some lessons are painful, Directeur.”
Chapter 4 (Can you feel it)
Can you feel it? The moment your ship begins to fold space, the danger increases by an order of magnitude. Will you survive the passage?
— graffito scrawled in public corridor of VenHold ship
Not all problems were epic in scope, and even a legendary figure suffered from painful, albeit minor, inconveniences.
Vorian’s infected toenail rubbed the inside of his boot and made it difficult for him to walk on the sand. When not irritated by the discomfort, he actually found it ironic. It certainly gave him a different perspective: Vorian Atreides, renowned Hero of the Jihad, the warrior who had lived for more than two centuries, suffering from a very human frailty.
He didn’t feel much like a towering legend as he accompanied his captain along the dust-blown road from the perimeter spaceport to Arrakis City. Of course, Captain Marius Phillips had no idea who he really was, though Vor made no attempt to hide his appearance.
Vor had dark hair, a narrow face, and gray eyes; he was tall and lean, in striking contrast with his squat, short-legged companion. At first glance, he and Captain Phillips looked as different as two men could be, but Vor had a talent for finding common ground with others. He genuinely liked the trader captain and admired him for his calm ways and easy administration of the Nalgan Shipping vessel.
After landing, the pair had donned traditional distilling suits to recapture and recycle their bodily fluids in the crisp aridity of Arrakis. Phillips fidgeted and fiddled with his suit. “I hate this desert planet.”
Since Vor had worn a stillsuit before, he stopped to help Phillips set the filter tube at his mouth and adjust the fittings around the neck. “This is the way we did it when I was on a spice crew here.”
When the adjustments were complete, the other man gave his gruff thanks. Phillips had been here on numerous business trips, but never learned much about the local ways. “That’s tolerable, at least,” he said, adjusting the polymer fabric on his chest. “I’d never come to this godforsaken place if not for the spice profits. And I’d never work for Nalgan Shipping if one of the larger companies would have me.”
The men resumed walking as a hot breeze blew in from the desert. “This is an unpleasant place,” Vor agreed, trying to ignore his sore foot so that Phillips wouldn’t notice his limp. “Fit only for native Freemen and giant worms.” He had told the captain few details about his past or his background. This planet held many rough memories for him.
This is where Griffin Harkonnen died. I couldn’t save him.
The captain took a liking to Vor during their months of traveling together, and had already made him second in command over a small crew that had a high turnover due to Nalgan Shipping’s low wages. No one on the cargo ship knew Vor’s true identity, his place in the context of history. He wanted no more fame, no grand responsibilities, shedding his past entirely, like an old skin. To ensure his privacy, he traveled under the surname Kepler — the planet where he’d lived and raised a family, until a year ago.
Vor’s physical appearance had changed little in more than eight decades since the Battle of Corrin, but military images had faded from everyday memory. If anyone compared his face to old records, they might note the resemblance, but who would guess he could be the real Vorian Atreides? Here, he was just another man in the crowd, an average worker — which was the way he preferred it. He’d had enough of glory and expectations.
Even during the long, bloody Jihad, Vor had never reveled in the victories, the glory, and the acclaim. The war had brought endless slaughter, tragedies, and heartaches. He had done his duty, more than could be expected of any man, and had seen the downfall of the thinking machines. But after it was over, Vor had no use for the corruption of politics — the backstabbing, scheming, and lack of ethics. He’d had his fill of war and purported noblemen; the life of a common man suited him better. He was more comfortable in obscurity.
Not long ago, he had been content on out-of-the-way Kepler, until he was forced to go to Salusa Secundus and beg the Emperor to provide protection for his adopted world. As part of that bargain, he agreed to leave his wife and family and swore to stay out of Imperial politics, and out of the public eye. Leaving his family was painful but inevitable, because Vor did not age — while his wife and children did. The same thing had happened before with another wife and family on the ocean world of Caladan. He always had to move away from the inevitable march of time.
After giving his promise to Emperor Salvador, Vor joined a spice crew on Arrakis, trying to vanish into anonymity. But even here his past haunted and pursued him. There was Griffin Harkonnen, a dedicated but unprepared young man who blamed Vorian Atreides for the downfall of his noble house. Young Griffin never should have left the family holdings on Lankiveil, but he had tied himself into knots of honor, and then died on Arrakis, caught in the blowback of someone else’s revenge. Trying to do the honorable thing, Vor sent the young man’s body back to his family.
The experience had made Vor want to disappear more than ever. Because of his bitter memories here, he disliked Arrakis far more than Captain Phillips could ever realize. He felt uneasy now as they entered the main city.
The captain nodded toward Vor’s limp. “Sore foot? Did you injure yourself on the ship?”
“I’ll tough it out.” He preferred to let the man draw his own conclusions; an infected toenail seemed too trivial.
Arrakis City was a hardscrabble frontier town with weathered homes and dusty, unpaved streets. Vor was familiar with the seedy hangouts and the more colorful, eccentric locals, though he doubted anyone would remember him from his days as a nondescript worker on a spice crew. The denizens were rough men and women, as unforgiving as the environment. They all had their own reasons for coming here, and most didn’t care to share their stories. Vor fit in well among them.
He and the captain waited on the main street at the appointed place. “I want you to meet my regular contact,” Phillips said. “If you learn how to negotiate the right deals, then I can make you my proxy.” He grinned. “And I’d be able to stay aboard ship. You can have the sand to yourself.”
Combined Mercantiles managed spice operations on Arrakis and ruthlessly defended their monopoly. Most of the spice was shipped via Venport Holdings spacefolders, but bribes could be paid and special dispensations acquired for a small company such as Nalgan Shipping, which distributed melange at exorbitant cost to niche markets on distant planets. Captain Phillips worked with an “expediter” who could dodge the restrictions and red tape to let them fill their ship with high-grade spice.
Vor and the captain waited awkwardly in the shadows under an awning, and ten minutes after the appointed time, a man in a dusty desert robe shuffled toward them. The wind kicked up around him.
“I am very busy,” said Qimmit, the spice merchant, as if annoyed at them for his own lateness. “Many buyers for my spice today. I agreed to meet with you, but I make no promises. I hope you make this worth my while.”
“My ship is ready to take the usual full cargo,” Phillips said. “Same terms as before.” He introduced the man to Vor, saying, “Qimmit and I have done business for years.”
“Today’s price has changed out of necessity, my friend,” Qimmit said, with an exaggerated expression of grief. Though the stillsuit hood covered most of his head, he had a scar on his chin and another over his left eyebrow. His spice-addicted blue eyes did not focus on Captain Phillips as he spoke, which made him appear disingenuous to Vor.