War is a violent form of business.
— ADRIEN VENPORT,
“Commercial Plan for Arrakis Spice Operations”
The League of Nobles called it a “spice rush.”
Once it was learned that melange was useful in treating the deadly Scourge, hardy men and women from far-flung planets raced to Arrakis to seek their fortunes. Shiploads of prospectors and excavation contractors, all of them taking a desperate gamble, flowed to the once-isolated desert world.
Ishmael could hardly believe his eyes when he went to the dizzying metropolis of Arrakis City for the first time in decades. It reminded him of half-forgotten Starda on Poritrin, which he had fled long ago.
Hastily erected buildings sprawled across the parched landscape, spreading into the rocky foothills, piled one on top of the other. At the spaceport, ships came and went at all hours; local flyers and groundcars bustled to and fro. Passengers arrived by the thousands, shading their eyes from the yellow sun of Arrakis, eager to rush out to the open dunes, oblivious to the deadly perils there.
According to rumor, there was so much melange that a person could simply walk out with a satchel and scoop it up from the ground— which was true, in a sense, if one knew where to find it. Most of these people would be dead within months, killed by sandworms or the arid environment or their own stupidity. They were totally unprepared for the dangers that awaited them.
“We can take advantage of this, Ishmael,” El’hiim said, still trying to convince his stepfather. “These people do not know what they will find here on Arrakis. We can earn their money for doing what comes naturally to us.”
“And why would we desire their money?” Ishmael said, honestly not understanding. “We have everything we could wish for. The desert provides all our real needs.”
El’hiim shook his head. “I am the Naib, and my duty to the people is to make our village prosper. This is a great opportunity to offer our desert skills and make ourselves invaluable to the offworlders. They will keep coming no matter what. We can either ride the worm, or be devoured by it. Didn’t you tell me that story yourself, when I was young?”
The ancient man frowned. “Then you misunderstood the lesson of that parable.” But he followed his stepson into the city anyway. Raised in a different time, El’hiim had never understood true desperation, the need to fight and protect hard-won freedoms. He had never been a slave.
Ishmael frowned at the garrulous offworlders. “It might be wiser just to lead them out into the desert, rob them, and leave them to die.”
El’hiim chuckled, pretending Ishmael had made a joke, though he knew otherwise. “There is a fortune to be made by exploiting the ignorance of these invaders. Why not profit from that?”
“Because then you will encourage them, El’hiim. Can you not see this?”
“They do not need my encouragement. Haven’t you heard of the plague released by the thinking machines? The Omnius Scourge? Spice offers protection, and therefore everyone demands it. You may bury your head in the sand of a dune, but they will not go away.”
The younger man’s firm opinion made him as stubborn as Ishmael.
Ishmael resented the truth, the changes, and at the back of his mind he did realize that this influx of outsiders was as unstoppable as a sandstorm. He felt all of his achievements slipping through his fingers. He still proudly called himself and his tribe the Free Men of Arrakis, but such a proud title no longer carried the meaning it once had.
In town, El’hiim easily mixed with offworld merchants and prospectors, spoke several dialects of the Galach standard language, and happily traded with anyone who would take his money. Over and over, his stepson tried to get Ishmael to enjoy some of the fine luxuries the tribe could now afford.
“You are no longer an escaped slave, Ishmael,” El’hiim said. “Come, all of us appreciate everything you have done in the past. Now, we want you to enjoy yourself. Aren’t you the least bit interested in the rest of the universe?”
“I have seen some of it already. No, I am not interested.”
El’hiim chuckled. “You are too rigid and inflexible.”
“And you are too quick to chase after new experiences.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It is on Arrakis— if you forget the ways that have allowed us to survive for so long.”
“I won’t forget them, Ishmael. But if I find better ways, I will show them to our people.”
He led Ishmael through the winding streets, past open market stalls and raucous bazaars. He slapped away pickpockets as he and Ishmael jostled through clusters of water sellers, food vendors, and purveyors of Rossak drugs and odd stimulants from far-off worlds. Ishmael saw poor, broken men huddled in alleys and doorways, those who had come to Arrakis seeking fortune and already lost so much that they could no longer afford to leave.
If Ishmael had had the financial means, he would have paid passage for every one of them, just to send them away.
Finally spotting his mark, El’hiim tugged on the older man’s sleeve and hurried forward to a smallish offworlder who was buying outrageously priced desert equipment. “Excuse me, sir,” El’hiim said. “I assume you are one of our new spice prospectors. Are you preparing to head out on the open dunes?”
The small-statured stranger had close-set eyes and sharp features. Ishmael stiffened, recognizing the racial attributes of a hated Tlulaxa. “This one’s a flesh merchant,” he growled at El’hiim, using Chakobsa so the stranger wouldn’t understand.
His stepson motioned him to silence, as if he were a buzzing gnat. Ishmael could not forget the slavers who had captured so many Zensunnis and brought them to places like Poritrin and Zanbar. Even decades after the scandal of the Tlulaxa organ farms, the genetic manipulators were cast out and shunned. But on Arrakis during the heady days of the spice rush, money erased all prejudices.
The Tlulaxa newcomer turned to El’hiim, appraising the dusty Naib with obvious skepticism and distaste. “What do you want? I’m busy here.”
El’hiim made a gesture of respect, though the Tlulaxa man deserved none. “I am El’hiim, an expert on the deserts of Arrakis.”
“And I am Wariff— one who minds his own business and has no interest in yours.”
“Ah, but you should, and I offer my services as a guide.” El’hiim smiled. “My stepfather and I can advise you on what equipment to purchase and what would be an unnecessary expense. Best of all, I can take you directly to the richest spice fields.”
“Go to whatever hells you believe in,” the Tlulaxa snapped. “I don’t need a guide, especially not one of the thieving Zensunni.”
Ishmael squared his shoulders and answered in clear Galach. “Ironic words from a Tlulaxa, a race that steals human beings and harvests body parts.”
El’hiim pushed his stepfather behind him before the confrontation escalated.
“Come, Ishmael. There are plenty of other customers. Unlike this stubborn fool, some spice rushers will actually find their fortunes.”
With a haughty sniff, the Tlulaxa man ignored them, as if the two desert men were something he had just scraped off the sole of his boot.
At the end of the long, hot day, when the two walked away from Arrakis City, Ishmael felt sick with disgust. His stepson’s pandering to outsiders upset him more than he could imagine. Finally, after a hard silence, the older man said in a heavy voice, “You are the son of Selim Wormrider. How can you lower yourself to this?”
El’hiim looked at him in disbelief, raising his eyebrows as if his stepfather had asked an incomprehensible question. “What do you mean? I secured four Zensunni guide contracts. People from our village will take prospectors out to the sands and let them do the work while we take half of the profit. How can you object to that?”
“Because that isn’t how we do things. It goes against what your father taught his followers.”
El’hiim was clearly working hard to control his temper. “Ishmael, how can you hate change so much? If nothing ever changed, then you and your people would still be slaves on Poritrin. But you saw a different way, you escaped, and you came here to make a better life for yourself. I am trying to do the same.”
“The same? You would surrender all the progress we have made.”
“I do not wish to live as a starving outlaw like my father was. One cannot eat a legend. We cannot drink the water of visions and prophecies. We must fend for ourselves and take what the desert offers— or someone else will.”
The two men traveled in silence out into the night, and finally reached the edge of the open sand, where they would begin crossing the desert wastelands.
“We will never fully understand each other, El’hiim.”
The younger man let out a dry, bitter chuckle. “At last you say something I can agree with.”