RoH 10

A/N: “Everything that can happen does happen, in equal and parallel universes.” Therefore in this universe, there are no Harkonnens and no Atreides, no Padishah Emperor and no Bene Gesserit. Other people, however, seem to occur in any possible and impossible universe.

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Dream Of Ecstasies, Sleep With Fears

Stardate 2260.194, 2200 hours, Deck 10, Observation Lounge

“So, Dune.” Jim prodded the illumination of the Mu Draconis system with his fingertips.

After the latest briefing, he and a few others had ended up in the smallest Observation Lounge. Scotty had produced a bottle of whisky, and Jim hadn’t commented when Lieutenant Amell had joined them, a quiet presence at Scotty’s side.

Sulu was there with his current partner, Lieutenant Barry Milekey of the Enterprise music group, supposedly engaged in serious astronomical observations. Jim thought they were just holding hands, though. Carol Marcus, Nyota Uhura, and Carolyn Paul made up the girly contingent, complete with umbrella drinks and giggles. Spock and Bones were playing pick-up sticks of all things, and Jim had appointed himself their referee. Mostly, he admitted to himself, so he could watch Spock’s hands. Chekov had excused himself because he wanted to write. Lieutenant Paul’s writing workshop was clearly messing with the boy’s mind.

“Dune, Jim?” Spock prompted and delicately tipped up another stick, ignoring Bones’s scowl.

Three days until they’d enter orbit around Alrakis, Arrakis, Dune, Mu Draconis 26.3, whatever. For a week they’d been on a schedule of daily briefings now.

They’d started out with what Jim called “travel guide” intros covering climate, culture, and biology. Interestingly enough, given his personal history with Spice and that crazy urge to use whatever shore leave he was entitled to as a captain to go sandworm riding. The guys from the Sciences Department were going gaga over Dune, cooing over everything from sandtrouts to sandworm, from pre-spice mass to the Water of Life. Apparently even kangaroo mice and creosote bushes were the epitome of awesome. And the horrible storms that could tear the flesh from an unprotected man within sixty seconds flat were “fascinating”. Riiiight.

Next came the xenopolitics session. Diplomatically, Arrakis was a nightmare. The indigenous population of Fremen was firmly pre-warp, so no official First Contact mission possible there. At the same time, the planet had long since been tainted by smugglers and pirates and surrounding galactic empires reaching with greedy hands for Dune’s singular resources. It had a spaceport of its own, and what passed as a merchants’ guild, with members that were privateers and criminals without exception. Add to that a commune of emotional Vulcans somewhere in the desert, and what you got was a diplomatic headache of special epicness.

“Just lay off the weird alien drugs, Jim-boy,” Bones said, frowning at the pick-up sticks. Strangely enough, he wasn’t losing. Spock’s fingertips were so sensitive that he kept overreacting and jostling the sticks.

“Should I say ‘but Spice is such a good trip’ now?” Jim rolled his eyes. “We’re supposed to secure an agreement for Spice trade with the Fremen on behalf of New Vulcan. So I think it’s a good thing there’s someone on board who actually knows what we’re dealing with from personal experience.” Thanks to his criminal history as a repeat offender in Iowa, he felt especially weird about facilitating drug trade as a starship captain now, even though it was officially sanctioned and therefore strictly legal.

“However, you are not the only one on board in such a position, Captain,” Spock commented, flexing his fingers in the air while Bones was picking up one stick after the other from the table top between them.

“Huh? I’m not?” Jim frowned. “Well, with five-hundred and whatever people on board, I guess—”

“I owe my life to the drug,” Spock interrupted him. His tone was mild as always. He might have been talking about the weather, if there had been weather in space. He ignored the interested looks from everyone in the room in favor of concentrating on the few remaining sticks on the table in front of him. It was his turn, and from the look of it, the game was almost over, and he’d have lost.

“But … your eyes …” Jim protested. Spock’s eyes were brown, without a hint of another color. Jim would have hated them to be blue. Not just because he couldn’t help an instinctive, visceral association of a certain shade of blue with the craziest kind of high he’d ever experienced in his life. But because he – yes, there was no other word, he might as well own getting all mushy like that – he loved Spock’s eyes. Just the way they were. Deep and dark and sometimes, just sometimes … so warm. So incredibly human. More than human, even. More expressive, more passionate … just more.

Spock raised his left eyebrow. “I said that I owe my life to the drug, not that I have ever been addicted to the substance.”

Bones forgot to count the points to secure his victory in pick-up-sticks. “So how did that happen?”

“A Vulcan fetus requires a telepathic connection with the mother in order to thrive. As even Humans with high psionic potential are incapable of actively forming telepathic Bonds, a solution had to be found,” Spock explained. “Spice activates latent telepathic abilities in Humans. While pregnant with me, my mother received the drug in a diluted form that enabled her to sustain such a connection with me. Once I was born, the therapy was discontinued.”

Jim had always been quick at putting two and two together in uncomfortable ways. Since he’d been made captain, he’d at least gotten somewhat better at this thing called “discretion”. Right now he entertained the hunch that this conversation might lead to two things in the very near future: right into Classified with a capital “C” (because their Vulcan orders contained no explanations for anything, just instructions for what they were supposed to do) or into really private territory that Spock wouldn’t be comfortable with.

So Jim kept his comment curt (“Interesting.”) and shook his head at Bones. If that information was in any way medically relevant, Bones could drag Spock into sickbay later – whenever.

And then, because he couldn’t figure out a more graceful exit at short notice, “Spock, I know you’d love to get thrashed by Bones with those pointy sticks again, but I need you to go over something with me again …”

He rose to his feet. “Sorry, guys. Enjoy the rest of your happy hour. See you for our daily briefing tomorrow night at the latest.”

Everyone groaned.

“Hey, at least we can sleep in tomorrow, what with the secondary bridge teams on duty the next five days. So no griping, people.”

♦

Stardate 2260.194, 2300 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Cabin

“Sorry to drag you away,” Jim said outside. “But what with Elena and Carolyn and Barry in there that was easier. I didn’t want to go all captain on them, saying the conversation has to stop now because they don’t have the right clearance. We need some downtime before we get to Arrakis.”

Spock entered the turbolift a step behind him. “I doubt that anyone but you and Doctor McCoy would be able to hypothesize the rationale behind that particular mission and its true objective based on my comment the way you did.”

“Not so sure; Carolyn Paul is one clever cookie.” Jim tapped the lift controls. “But I was more concerned because of Bones. You know how he gets with interesting medical stuff.” He concentrated on the closed doors. “Also, I didn’t want them to bug you about your mother.”

Next to him Spock inhaled, an almost emotional reaction for the Vulcan. Jim glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. Surprise … and perhaps something else?

“You … were looking out for me?”

Jim smiled. “It’s what – friends do.”

Had he really wanted to say – what, actually? They weren’t lovers yet, for god’s sake. He’d never seriously contemplated being more than that before. Ever. Hell, more often than not he hadn’t even been friends with the people he’d had sex with.

“I am … gratified,” Spock said softly, and then repeated in a more human vein, “Thank you, Jim.”

They exited the lift. “Want some tea?”

“I am not averse to sharing a ‘night cup’ with you.”

“Nightcap, an alcoholic beverage such as brandy or bourbon, consumed before going to bed,” Jim corrected him. “And you don’t drink alcohol—” He stopped in his tracks. “Oh.” He turned to Spock, taking in the faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “A pun. I’ll have to send Bones a memo. We’ll declare a shipwide holiday.”

A few minutes later they sat in the living area of Jim’s quarters, their “night cups” in front of them, Vulcan spice tea and peppermint infusion respectively.

“But I’m right,” Jim said, picking up the conversation from the Observation Lounge. “About the Spice trade thing.”

“To me the explanation is obvious,” Spock agreed. “But my medical history is unique at this point in time. To others the motivations behind the trade agreement sought by the High Council may not be as transparent.”

“I sure hope so,” Jim muttered into his mug. “Because if anyone finds out that you need Spice so you can use surrogate mothers, not only will prices climb to astronomical levels, but you’ll be vulnerable to blackmail. I wish you hadn’t said what you did.” And then he wished he hadn’t said that, because Spock’s face froze. Small talk, casual conversation didn’t come easy to him. “Hey,” he said warmly, “No harm done. And … I kind of like knowing a bit more about you now than I did before.”

Spock softened again. “I already knew about your history with Spice. It seemed – fair to share mine.”

“Can you talk about your brother?” Jim asked. The High Council hadn’t provided much information concerning the Vulcan colony on Arrakis. Just that there was a colony and that its leader was one Ktorr Skann by the name of Sybok, son of Sarek. “What does Ktorr Skann even mean?”

Spock put down his cup. “For a Human you possess an uncanny talent of focusing on crucial and private data with a probability of up to 91.25% in the course of any remotely personal conversation.”

“I’m a very uncomfortable Human, is that what you’re saying?” Jim snorted. “Yeah, I know. That’s my special talent. Sorry. I’m not trying to pry, you know? But yeah, I am curious. Because it’s your brother. But most of all because of the mission. Sure, I’m good at winging it. But if I can find out more, information that may help me to get the job done, I actually prefer that to flying blind.”

“That is logical.” Spock picked up his cup again. “Sybok is my half-brother; a child of P… of an encounter before my father met my mother.” He flushed. A sudden green hue suffused his cheeks. But he went on, speaking as calmly as if he was presenting a report on the bridge instead of revealing intensely private and uncomfortable details regarding his family and culture. “Ktorr Skann means outcast, pariah. An individual banished from their House; considered dead by his family, with his very existence expunged from all records, and forever forbidden from returning home. Sybok refused logic and repudiated Surak. He left Vulcan when he was twenty-one, and I was fifteen. He and his followers called themselves ‘Army of Light’. Their plan was to find Sha Ka Ree.”

“A rebel.” Jim smiled. He was already looking forward to meeting Sybok. An emotional Vulcan. And Spock’s brother. Someone who had known Spock as a child …

“A fanatic.”

Okay, touchy. Clearly there was some history between the brothers that went beyond philosophical differences. “So Vulcan High Council wants us to tell him that everything is forgiven and will he please come home? Is that even possible when he officially doesn’t exist anymore for you guys?” Jim grimaced; he could have phrased that more politely.

“The home Sybok was banished from is gone; of his House, of his family not many remain,” Spock said, voice and face expressionless. “He was regarded as one of the most brilliant mind healers in his generation, with unique insights into Vulcan emotions. He was especially adept at resolving mental trauma. There are certain problems among the survivors, issues that should never be discussed with others. His presence on New Vulcan would be beneficial.”

“So you hope he’ll agree to help out,” Jim said, wondering what kind of issues uber-rational beings like Vulcans wouldn’t talk about with anyone. Must be something awful …

“Vulcans do not hope.” The tension around his eyes gave him away, though. Vulcans might not give themselves over to such an illogical emotional response to a problem and its possible solution. Spock(s) did.

“He might be able to help Thorby, too,” Jim mused. “If he’s into Vulcan emotions like that. Dr. Elbrun isn’t getting anywhere with him. And we need the information implanted in his mind.”

Thorby didn’t cope well with the presence of most adult men. While he didn’t freak out at Bones, Spock, or Jim during normal interactions, he shut down completely at every attempt to retrieve whatever information Baslim had put in his brain – even with the correct authorization code. Requesting the code triggered an intense migraine. Hearing the code invariably led to a panic attack followed by catatonic withdrawal into a Vulcan healing trance. Dr. Elbrun’s theorized that some prior trauma was too intense to overcome for Thorby. At the same time, Thorby’s Vulcan mental barriers were too strong for the Betazoid to surmount without a serious risk of causing brain damage. If Sybok was really such a brilliant mind healer and such an expert with Vulcan emotions, he might be able to help Thorby. It was worth a try. However, he knew that Thorby was a sore spot with Spock, so he changed the subject.

“Do you think Sybok found Sha Ka Ree? On Dune of all places?” he asked. Sha Ka Ree was the Vulcan version of Shangri-La. He guessed it made sense for a Vulcan paradise to be located on a desert planet. Even if he couldn’t really see Dune as that kind of place.

Spock gave a stiff shrug. He tilted his head a fraction, and Jim noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly again. “Maybe he just liked the drugs.”

♦

Stardate 2260.207, 1700 hours, Arrakeen, Arrakis

Ten days after the Enterprise had entered orbit around Dune, Jim beamed down to Arrakeen, one of the planet’s largest cities. It had taken elaborate diplomatic rigmarole care of Commander Paul (with Jim backing him up and doing his best not to succumb to foot/mouth disease for once) to get the resident smugglers and pirates to agree to let them step foot on its golden sands.

Jim’s first impression was heat, of course. He slammed into it as if transported into solid magma, or as solid as molten rocks were going to get. Definitely didn’t feel like air, though. For a fraction of a second, before his brain registered his surroundings, panic exploded through his body in a flash of icy lightning. Transporter accidents happened. He inhaled with a gasp. Cinnamon fire seared his lungs, and he found himself blinking in the painful glare of sunlight reflected by metal-bright stone.

Spock at his side inhaled the heat with a deep breath that would have been a sigh of bliss for a Human. Watching him, Jim was suddenly in no mood to deal with smugglers and Fremen. Instead, he wanted to drag Spock off into the desert. He wanted to slather himself in sun screen and hide in the shadow of a date palm and watch Spock soak up the sun.

The smuggler to greet them was a harsh man, less than handsome. He was bald but for a few wisps of white hair. His originally pale skin had weathered into dry old leather where it was visible beyond the hooded burnoose that he wore over one of those protective suits favored by the Fremen. At his belt he didn’t just carry a phaser but a blade that reminded him of a Terran rapier. Eyes cutting like glass-splinters burned with a savage Spice-blue gleam. Along his jaw an ugly scar twisted as if someone had once attempted to cut his throat and failed, but not for lack of trying. Or perhaps a whip; Jim wasn’t sure what weapon left such a mark.

“Gurney Halleck,” the smuggler introduced himself with a surprisingly smooth and beautiful tenor. He reached out in greeting.

“James Tiberius Kirk.” Jim shook the offered hand. The man’s grip was firm, his skin hot and dry. “Captain of the USS Enterprise.”

Halleck nodded. “The man who vanquished Nero. I’ve heard of you.”

Jim managed not to roll his eyes. Halleck and three-quarters of the known universe. Still, it was not the worst thing to be known for. “Nice to meet you. This is my first officer, Commander Spock. The head of our Diplomacy and Xenopolitics Department, Commander Paul. Our Chief Medical Officer, Dr. McCoy. Lieutenant Uhura, our Communications officer, Lieutenant Marcus, Science Officer, and Yeoman Rand, my personal aid.”

The smuggler just nodded at the other officers. Then he glanced at the Enterprise security team. Behind Jim and the others, six Security officers were standing at attention. Giotto had been pissed after Pyrithia, and the thing with the Klingons on New Sydney had done nothing for his mood. His insistence on a double complement of security, fully armed, was in part responsible for the delay. If Pyrithia and New Sydney hadn’t happened, Jim wouldn’t have waited for the smugglers to agree to additional security for their away team. As it was, he’d forced himself to be patient and let Commander Paul do his job.

Halleck smirked. “If I wanted to kill your captain, he’d be dead already.”

Jim hadn’t seen him move, but now he felt a knife, angled upwards against his stomach, pressing in.

“Before you could so much as damage the fabric of my captain’s uniform, you would lie in the dust at his feet,” Spock said, soft as ever, fingertips gently placed against the man’s neck.

“Damn your nerve pinches, you pointy-eared bastard – you probably could,” Halleck growled.

While the smuggler was distracted, Jim stepped back and grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it along with his movement. A moment later he held up the knife. It was a slightly curved, double-edged blade, almost eight inches long.

“Interesting weapon,” Jim said and handed it back to Halleck. At his nod, Spock let him go.

“A kindjal,” the smuggler said. “Favored by certain Tzenkethi echelons. If you’re interested in weapons, you’ll have to take a look at a crysknife while you’re here.”

“I think not,” Spock interrupted, his tone uncommonly sharp.

Jim shook his head. If he couldn’t deal with the leader of the Arrakeen smugglers, he didn’t deserve to be captain of the Enterprise. “I do not draw blood for sport, Halleck. Nor do I have any interest in desecrating objects the indigenous people hold holy. But don’t think that I am not capable of doing both if you force my hand.” He permitted a hint of irritation to thread through his voice. “Can we get on with things now?”

Halleck grinned wolfishly. “Not just a pretty face, are you, Captain?”

“Very pretty, or so I’ve been told,” Jim agreed unfazed. “But not just that. Now what?”

“Now we meet with some of my colleagues at Keep Arrakeen. Tomorrow you will be equipped with stillsuits and we’ll fly out to the Shield Wall with a shuttlecraft to visit a Spice harvesting site. So you can see for yourself that we can deliver if we come to an agreement.” The man smirked. “In three days we’ll take you deep into the desert to meet the Fremen. You have been invited to stay at Sietch Tabr, one of the largest Fremen communities, to meet with one of their leaders, Naib Stilgar. There the trade negotiations you have requested will begin in a week.” He narrowed his eyes at Jim. “That’s quite an honor for offworlders. They must be curious about you for some reason.”

Jim shrugged. There were many reasons why people on strange planets were curious about Starfleet. Not all of them led to happy endings. So instead of answering Halleck’s unvoiced question, he let his own curiosity get the better of him and replied with a question of his own: “Will we get to see a sandworm?”

Halleck’s lips twisted into an expression that was more a grimace than a smile. “Hard to avoid those monsters if you mean to get anywhere close to Spice in the desert.”

Keep Arrakeen was massive, slabs of stone worthy of the pyramids of Earth. Inside the temperature was almost too cool. In a near endless vaulted hall, they were introduced to the other eleven members of the organization bizarrely called “Arrakis Trade Union” – all of them smugglers, pirates, and privateers.

An ancient Fremen woman named Shadout Mapes served Spice coffee on a silver tray in tiny, ivory beakers. Bones spent a few minutes fussing over it with his tricorder while the pirates watched, biting their lips not to burst out laughing. Then Bones declared that “Spice” as in Spice coffee was not a drug but really just ‘a’ spice, so everyone was allowed to take a beaker and try it. Jim discovered that on Dune, milk and sugar were not an option. Here coffee was black, bitter, and saturated with the sharp cinnamon tang of Spice. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. It was definitely … different.

The meeting with the other smugglers went better than expected; they followed Halleck’s lead. Now that Jim had passed Halleck’s initial test, he seemed willing to go along with the plan Commander Paul had bargained for since their arrival in orbit. At least for the time being. Jim wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating Halleck.

Three of Halleck’s “colleagues” were to accompany the delegation from the Enterprise the next day: Esmar Tuek, Liet Kynes, and Duncan Idaho. Tuek was a middle-aged smuggler of uncertain origin, the kind of man who had lost all visible trace of his planetary roots to space. Kynes appeared to be at least part Fremen, with his eyes blue in blue, and not just Spice-tinged. Idaho looked Human, not just humanoid, and his rigid posture was familiar – formerly of Starfleet, perhaps? Worth a poke at the database, at the very least.

Then they were presented with Fremen stillsuits. To Jim those full body suits looked like the long lost love child of an extra kinky latex outfit and a diver’s dress. Bones looked torn between fascination and disgust. Spock was as firmly on the “disgusted” team as Marcus was on the “oh shiny” side of things.

Kynes demonstrated how to wear a stillsuit on one of the Security officers, Ensign Kaplan. Step-by-step he explained how it worked: “A stillsuit is protective desert wear that functions as a high-efficiency filter and heat-exchange system. The skin-contact layer’s porous. Perspiration passes through it and is processed in the next layers, which include heat exchange filaments and salt precipitators. Body movements – walking, even just breathing – provide the pumping force. Urine and feces are processed in the thigh pads. Reclaimed water circulates to catchpockets from which you draw it through this tube in the clip at the neck. In the open desert, filters are worn across the face. You breathe in through the mouth filter, out through the nose plugs. In a Fremen suit humanoid bodies lose no more than a thimbleful of moisture a day.”

At that moment, a shrill call filtered through the window sills high up in the walls: “Soo-soo-Sook! Soo-soo-Sook!” And then: “Ikhut-eigh! Ikhut-eigh!” A water-seller, Jim remembered from one of their travel guide-style briefings. A pointed reminder that it was water, not Spice that was the most valuable commodity on the planet.

The idea of drinking water directly reclaimed of your own piss didn’t seem very appealing. But even Jim could see how advantageous that kind of suit was on a desert planet. On a bigger scale, the reclamation systems of the Enterprise were not that different. “Efficient,” he commented to express an appropriate appreciation for the gift. “Cool engineering.”

Spock, however, looked grossed out. “As my physique is perfectly adapted to desert climate, I do not require such protective gear.”

“But I know you can sweat,” Jim objected. “And …” He’d been about to add “and you have tear ducts, too”, but then he reconsidered.

“And I am in absolute control of my bodily functions,” Spock interrupted. “Captain, a suit like that could have a negative impact on my body.”

“He’s right, Jim,” Bones put in, eyeing his brand-new stillsuit with revulsion. “And for the first time in my life I wish I were Vulcan, too.”

♦

Stardate 2260.210, 1000 hours, Arrakeen, Arrakis

The shuttlecraft was big and battered, more carryall than shuttle, and not meant to transport people. Jim, Halleck, and Spock got to sit on proper seats behind the pilots. The others had to make do with benches alongside the walls of the craft. The simplistic strap-ons might snap their necks in case of an accident instead of saving any lives.

The Shield Wall was a mountain chain that protected the area around Arrakeen from the worst of the desert storms, as well as from worms. Most of the commercial Spice production was situated just beyond the shelter of the mountains, to give miners a place to run to when a worm attacked.

Beyond the shattered black fault lines of the Shield Wall, the barren rocks melted into sand. Crescents of dunes like waves of an ocean of sand ebbed and flowed in endless undulations to the heat-addled horizon. Now and again splotches of darker shades marked a spot that was not sand. Spice fields, perhaps, or cliffs.

“That dust cloud ahead is what we’re here for,” Halleck said. “It’s a factory crawler. The cloud means it’s in the process of mining Spice. Sand and spice are sucked up, and after the Spice has been centrifugally removed, the sand is expelled. There’s no other cloud quite like it.”

“I see two … three … small skims up in the air around it,” Jim said, squinting in the desert-bright glare outside. “What are they?”

“Spotters,” Halleck explained. “They watch for wormsigns, so the harvester can get the hell out of there before it’s gobbled up for lunch.”

“Worms get that big?” Jim asked, shocked and awed at the same time.

Spock’s scientific curiosity was more pragmatic. “What does a wormsign look like?”

“If you’re lucky, it appears like a sandwave moving towards you,” Kynes put in from his perch diagonally behind them. “Big worms travel deep underground. Without seismic probes the only warning you get is a burp as it swallows you whole.”

“A sandwave, you said?” Spock interrupted. “Such as a ripple on the sand?” He pointed to the right.

Still distant, toward the horizon, but closing in on the harvester, the sands shifted in linear, rippling motions. Jim thought it looked like a big fish close to the surface of a pond.

“That’s a worm all right,” Halleck said. “And a big one.” He leaned forward to alert the copilot.

The man grabbed a microphone from the panel at the front and punched out a frequency selection. “Calling crawler at Delta Ajax niner,” he said, as soon as the connection went live. “Wormsign warning. Crawler at Delta Ajax niner. Wormsign warning. This is an unlisted TUA flight around two miles north-east of you. Acknowledge, please.”

First the speaker produced only hissing and statics, then a voice: “Acknowledged. Thank you.”

“They sound pretty cool about it,” Bones said, his eyes wide, his pale face distinctly green. Jim felt for his friend. The condition of the shuttle was not confidence inspiring; the pronouncement that a big worm could gulp down a whole spice factory without chewing even less so.

The copilot was talking into the microphone again: “Wormsign is on intercept course, your position, estimated contact twenty-five minutes.”

“Got it. Sharp estimate, too. Thanks.” The connection was severed.

“What happens now?” Jim asked.

“Carryall comes to pick up the factory crawler; the spotters will pick up any miners left on the sand.” Halleck nodded in the direction of the sand cloud. “Look.”

As he spoke, the sand cloud was dissipating to reveal not just the sandscraped contours of a beetle-shaped, funnel-snouted Spice harvester, but another big brute of a craft behind it. The carryall hovered for a moment above the harvester, then it connected with the other craft. Together, both machines lifted slowly, awkwardly from the sand.

The sand was dark at the spot. It looked almost wet. “That’s a rich Spice bed right there,” Halleck muttered. “Damn that worm.”

“It will be lost?” Spock asked.

“Wait and see.”

They watched as the spotters touched down to pick up the few men still on the surface. Just in time, too. The sandwave rolling toward the dark area of sand was building up height and gaining speed. Slithering sounds accompanied the tsunami of sand rushing towards the Spice bed.

“Shit,” Jim cried, his attention captured by movement on the ground. Three dark spots were running away from the Spice bed “There’s someone still down there! Where are the damn spotters?”

The spotters were nowhere in sight. The smuggler cursed under his breath.

“Get us down,” Jim ordered. “There’s more than enough room in here.”

“But not enough time,” Kynes said. “The worm is nearly upon us.”

“Nearly is good enough,” Jim snapped. “Down!”

“Do it,” Halleck commanded, and the pilot obeyed.

The shuttlecraft dropped so suddenly that Bones looked ready to pass out. They seemed to sweep right over the heads of the running men, the shadow of the towering wave of sand closing in behind them. Then they touched down with a bruising thud. Kynes and Tuek dragged the door open, while Giotto, Kaplan, and Idaho leaned out, grabbed hands and dragged frantically struggling bodies up and into the shuttle.

“Close the damn doors,” Halleck shouted.

Ensign Hendorff and Ensign Shea pushed. With a shuddering clang, the doors slid into place. On the floor, the last of the spice miners gasped, “Blast off! The damn thing’s almost here.”

As the pilot bore down on the handle, the engines groaned and shuddered. The shuttlecraft jerked upwards so sharply that Jim was pressed painfully into his seat, and the unseated men in the back were thrown to the ground.

Spock touched his elbow, directing his attention back outside. The dark spot of sand was shifting, sinking into a gigantic, swirling maelstrom. Faster and faster the whirlpool moved. Sand and dust filled the air in a sudden storm. Instead of sand, Jim found himself staring into an abyss. A dark hole gaped beneath the shuttlecraft. White spikes taller than a grown man glistened and glinted in the glare of sunlight. The maw had to be at least twice as wide as the harvester was. The worm seemed to roar at them, but Jim couldn’t hear a sound. Suddenly, the air was thick with the cloying smell of Spice. His eyes burned and teared up. Coughing, he rubbed at his eyes. When he could see again, a dark, elongated shape with ring-like markings around its body was sinking back into the sands, as smoothly as if it were moving through water. Moments later, the worm was gone, leaving a trail of undulating dunes behind it. The sand in its wake was bright and yellow. Nothing was left of the rich dark hue of the Spice bed.

“Bless the Maker and His water,” Kynes intoned. “Bless the coming and going of Him. May His passage cleanse the world. May He keep the world for His people.”

“Bloody Fremen heathen,” Halleck muttered. Then he turned to Jim with a crooked grin. “So how did you like your first worm, son?”

♦

Stardate 2260.213, 2100 hours, Sietch Tabr, Arrakis

On Stardate 2260.213, or the first of August 2260 according to the standard Terran calendar, the away team of the USS Enterprise on Arrakis approached Sietch Tabr, one of the main Fremen communities deep in the desert between the Tuono Basin and the Funeral Plain.

In spite of Bones’s best efforts, Jim had managed to get a sunburn, though thanks to the Fremen stillsuit only on his face and neck and on the backs of his hands. Thankfully, it also wasn’t bad enough for Bones to insist on using the dermal regenerator. Jim hated that thing, it made his skin crawl. He’d much rather run around looking red as a lobster was much better. Especially because he was pretty sure that his current appearance amused the hell out of Spock. At least Jim thought he could detect a very, very faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes every time Spock looked at him. Jim imagined it might mean that Spock was laughing himself silly inside by Vulcan standards. Strangely enough, he liked that idea.

Jim looked up the cliff they were supposed to climb. He’d been told that Sietch Tabr was located in some “rocky outcroppings” in the desert. Outcroppings, my ass, he thought. That’s a bloody mountain. A massive rocky island, randomly rising up above an ocean of sand. A natural fortress against worms and storms. The only way in was the steep, narrow cleft ahead of them. The chasm led so deep into the rocks that just a narrow slit of blue sky remained visible above the sheer crags high above them.

“Sietch,” Jim murmured, as he climbed the steep stairs behind Spock, tasting the sound of the Fremen word on his tongue.

Behind him, Uhura must have heard him. “It means ‘a meeting place in time of danger’. Very fitting for this place, don’t you think, Captain?”

He couldn’t argue with that. If only it wasn’t hotter than the fires of any kind of hell he couldn’t care to imagine, and an endless climb to get there … He was really glad when they reached a wide cave at last. The room was low, with a domed ceiling, and lit with strange, glowing round stones. A kind of bio-luminescent rocks that produced a calm, unwavering light similar to Terran moonlight. Pretty.

Then their Fremen guide, a guy called Jamis, led them through the cave and then into another one. This cave opened up to a wide oval of bright blue sky on the other side with a breathtaking view of a sheltered basin that was perhaps seven miles wide. The purple-golden shadows of the desert sunset trailed across a few carefully tended vegetable gardens and orchards, surrounded by large fields planted at regular intervals with strange little bushes that nestled into individual hollows for extra protection from the harsh climate. Fragile trees ducked scrawny and wind-swept behind sheltering dry stone walls. Whatever growth the fields sported was sparse, straggling in the heat of the day and the cold of the night. Not an Eden in the midst of the desert, but just a garden; patiently, painstakingly wrested from a world that didn’t like green and growing things. Jim couldn’t help feeling respect for the Fremen. Not that he hadn’t respected them before; they were a proud people and ferocious fighters – it was not a good idea to underestimate them. But the universe was full of prideful warriors. This almost-oasis was much more impressive.

On the other side of the basin, the cliffs were dotted with many holes, doors and windows. Most of them were illuminated with the red light of fire or the white glow of those strange globe-things. It was impossible to say how deep those caverns delved into the surrounding mountain walls. Jim guessed there might be anything from four to ten thousand people living in those cave houses. Their Fremen guide gestured proudly. “Welcome to Sietch Tabr.”

On the other side of the basin, Naib Stilgar, the leader of the Fremen met them. “Naib means ‘one who has sworn never to be taken alive by the enemy’,” Uhura whispered. Jim looked at the tall, robed man, at those fierce blue-in-blue eyes, glowing eerily in pits stained black to ward off the glare of sun, at hawkish features, a savage black beard and mustache. Never to be taken alive … Jim figured that was the perfect title for this man.

Jim introduced himself and the away team. Stilgar just nodded. As if there was no question that they knew who he was. As if he couldn’t care less that strange offworlders had shown up on his doorstep. (Offworlders who wore bright uniform tops that fit way too tightly over the stillsuits and accordingly looked kind of silly. Offworlders who wanted to buy a shitload of drugs from him.) But to the whole away team’s surprise – and Spock’s palpable discomfiture – the Fremen leader bowed with practiced reverence to the first officer, before he turned on his heels to lead them into the cavern system and hopefully to dinner. Jim wondered if Sybok’s colony wasn’t as secret as they thought it was, never mind that after over two weeks in orbit around Arrakis their own scans still hadn’t picked up any sign of it.

First Stilgar led them into a huge foyer type of cave with a beautifully carved vaulted ceiling and many glittering glowglobes for atmosphere. Fremen women offered them basins of precious scented water and towels. The example of Stilgar and their guide made clear that it was expected of them to change out of their stillsuits. In front of everyone, and no separate changing cubicles for the ladies. Jim suppressed a groan. Personally, he had no issues with public nudity. Other members of the away team might feel different, though. Oh well. They’d just have to get over themselves. After all it was for a good cause: dinner. Only, putting those suits back on was a major pain in the rear. Perhaps they could get away with beaming back up from the basin instead of going back out into the desert? The Fremen weren’t enemies, even if they were not yet friends …

Once they had changed into their uniforms and much more comfortable, they were beckoned into another big cave, a banquet hall from the looks of it. Thick blue and green carpets covered the floors, tapestries in similar colors hid the walls of the cave. Pillows and cushions in different patterns and shades of black surrounded low stone tables. More glowglobes in golden hues drenched the room in their warm, unflickering light. Incense perfumed the air. Spice-laced, of course. It was everywhere on Arrakis, in the food, in the air, in the ground you walked upon. Strangely that was not as unpleasant as Jim had anticipated. Perhaps because the concentration was many times lower than in the most diluted form of the drug. Or maybe because he really was more than a mere eighty-five light-years away from where he’d been when he’d tripped out on Spice the last time on a regular basis.

Once they had settled more or less gracefully on the pillows and cushions, Stilgar rose to his feet at the end of the table. A Fremen woman walked up to him. In her hands she held an ornate silver tray with a heavy ceremonial goblet and a large carafe. Stilgar picked up the decanter and poured a liquid into the goblet that looked like water. Then he picked up the chalice with both hands.

“We are sitting down as strangers here tonight,” he said and gestured first to Jim and the others, then to the Fremen on the other side of the table. “It is my hope that we shall rise as friends. Until then we will not speak of politics or trade or religion, but learn to know each other.”

“Bi-lal kaifa,” the Fremen intoned, while most of the away team just nodded. Bones added an emphatic “Hear, hear”, and Spock a soft “Kaiidth“.

He took a deep swallow from the goblet, then offered it to Jim.

“Stop,” Bones interrupted. “No offence intended, but this is standard procedure.”

“We would not harm guests in our halls,” Stilgar snarled.

Bones scowled at the Fremen leader, undaunted. “I want to believe you. But that doesn’t help. I still have to make sure that this stuff won’t kill the captain. He ah… has a delicate constitution.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “Just a few allergies. Bones, I think it’s just water with a bit Spice. But there shouldn’t be a lot in there. No stronger than the alcohol content in beer. Please forgive the doctor, Stilgar. He’s a …”

Bones studied the tricorder. “Yeah, water and a small dosage of Spice, the real thing, though, this time. Sure it won’t send you tripping?”

Jim bowed to Stilgar and took the goblet from his hands. He drank deeply. Then he passed the goblet to Bones for revenge. He hoped the Spice in the water wasn’t strong enough to do to him whatever it was Spice did (besides making sure that baby Spocks didn’t die – though in terms of saving graces that was kind of a big thing with him; even if his addiction resurfaced now, he’d just suck it up and deal – after all, he’d already managed once, and it hadn’t been too bad except for the eyes). Jim sighed. Of course there were worse things than Spice-blue eyes. But he’d just started recognizing himself again when he looked into the mirror. Damn.

The meal they shared with the Fremen went rather well. All food was simple and fresh, nothing replicated and nothing that caused Jim to break out in hives. As first course they were served a kind of onion soup, only it was made of grass. Onion grass. That was followed by many small bowls with salads and dips and things. The main course was desert hare roasted on a spit, which was not as stringy as expected, but rather delicious. There were also assorted vegetables, different kinds of bread to go with the hare, grilled cacti and cooked roots and things, so Spock didn’t have to starve. Light Spice beer, Spiced water, and mint tea were offered as beverages. Dessert turned out the best course yet, with something called “tabara”, some kind of triangular honeyed root cakes sprinkled with sugar and dried seeds and crystallized fruit. It was served with the ubiquitous Spice coffee, of course, as well as Spice liquor. Even Spock liked them, though he dared to take only two tiny bites because sugar tended to mess him up worse than what even one glass of Romulan Ale did to Scotty.

Stuffed and just a little bit buzzed from the Spice, Jim leaned back against the padded wall behind him. So far their stay on Arrakis was doing a lot to restore his faith in the universe. Not all planets were like New Sydney. Not all away missions had to end like Lieutenant Paul’s on Pyrithia. Jim harbored no illusions where the smugglers were concerned. But they were guys he could deal with, fair and square (with the necessary underhandedness and attempted blackmail thrown into the mix). He was also more than a little fascinated with the Fremen – they were the kind of people he’d dreamed of meeting when he’d fantasized about exploring new worlds as a kid. And he got a kick out of seeing Spock in the natural habitat of a Vulcan.

After dinner, a Fremen girl brought Halleck a weird stringed instrument that had Spock leaning forward with interest. The smuggler reacted with a crooked smile. “It’s a baliset. Nine strings, tuned to the Chusuk scale. A linear descendant of the zithra.”

“An instrument favored by Orion nobility,” Uhura murmured when she caught Jim’s curious glance.

Halleck must have heard her remark, because he met Jim’s gaze, his eye cold and proud. The beet-colored scar along his jaw stood out in the clear light of the glowglobes. A whip, after all, Jim thought sadly. But the smuggler just shrugged and started playing. After a short instrumental piece, he launched into a song:

“Orchards and vineyards,
And full breasted houris,
And a cup overflowing before me.
Why do I babble of battles,
And mountains reduced to dust?
Why do I feel these tears?

Heavens stand open
And scatter their riches;
My hands need but gather their wealth.
Why do I think of an ambush,
And poison in molten cup?
Why do I feel my years?

Love’s arms beckon
With their naked delights,
And Eden’s promise of ecstasies.
Why do I remember the stars,
Dream of old transgressions …
And why do I sleep with fears?”

A love song. In Jim’s opinion the lyrics were more than a bit over the top. Except perhaps the last verse, which hit a little too close to home. But Halleck’s playing was exquisite, and his voice – smooth and spicy at the same time.

Jim couldn’t help himself. He turned his head, curious to see how Spock reacted to this impromptu concert. He knew Spock loved music, that music had been a revered art on Vulcan, and would be again on New Vulcan. But he’d never seen that for himself. It was even better than seeing Spock in the desert’s glare. Music … softened him and brought a gleam to his dark, hyper-expressive eyes. Jim’s breath caught in his throat. Desire raced through his body and pulsed in his cock.

Then the song was over, and Halleck put the instrument away. Stilgar rose to his feet while the other Fremen shifted into a kneeling, submissive position.

“Now that we know each other in bread and water and Spice and song, it is only proper that you should meet the Sayyadina of Sieth Tabr, our priestess and friend of Shiav: T’Luminareth.”

Through the archway behind Stilgar a tall woman in black robes and with glowing blue-in-blue eyes entered and bowed gracefully to the assembled Fremen and offworlders.

At first Jim could only stare at her – at her ears, at her eyebrows – speechless. Then he turned to his first officer. “Spock! Spock!” he whispered urgently. “That wise woman, the Sayyadina, she’s – she’s Vulcan!”

“… I can see that, Captain.”

♦

Love’s arms beckon
With their naked delights,
And Eden’s promise of ecstasies.
Why do I remember the stars,
Dream of old transgressions …
And why do I sleep with fears?
– Gurney Halleck, in “Dune” by Frank Herbert

♦♦♦

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Author’s Notes

“Dune”, its settings, creatures, concepts, characters, and drugs belong to Frank Herbert/Frank Herbert’s Estate. Gurney Halleck’s song is quoted verbatim from the book.