The Voyage of the Faitful

Chapter 1

Journey of the Faithful

For eons, the third planet of Canopus, a star known even to ancient inhabitants of Old Earth catalogued in long forgotten ages, circled its sun. For ages, observed from the parking orbit high above, its importance in the Universe and Imperium was obscured by its inhospitable appearance. Yellow surface did not seem habitable, howling winds swept the surface at almost supersonic speed. Fueled by the heat of the star Canopus during the day, fine grain sands burned, while night sent the air temperature plummeting towards zero, in brutal diurnal swings. It seemed a world impossible to live in.

Yet, the most important planet in the Universe it was, in spite and because of its nature. A unique form of life evolved on this planet, making it at once the most coveted and most hated place in the Universe. Deep beneath the sands of the planet lurked a terrifying form of life. Sandworms! Specimens of this behemoth beast were known to reach the lengths of hundreds of meters. 

Sandworms burrowed under the sand, moving below the desert surface and preying on any unnatural sound. They could devour whole space frigates in one swallow of their gaping maws full of sharp crystal teeth. No human could last for long on the sand, not least because of scorching heat - Coriolis storms and desert storms were a constant threat to fragile humans. If the environment on the planet was deadly by itself, there were ways to cope. But worms turned any venture on the furnace of the surface into an elaborate attempt on suicide. Drawn to rhythmic vibrations, worms attack anything that moves on the desert floor. No machinery could operate for long, before being devoured by worms and only the scorched rock offered a temporary cover from their rage. Such was their impact that locals gave them attributes of gods and called them Shai Hulud.

It was the byproduct of metabolism of those fearsome creatures - Spice Melange - the cornerstone of the structure of the human Imperium that span across the Galaxy. Spice was the reason humans braved the horrible, devouring environment. They harvested the Spice! 

Spice! Songs have been written about it. Spice improved the flavor of food and drinks. Spice prolonged life. Most importantly, it bestows a gift of prescience to individuals with rare genetic makeup. Prescience enabled them to see the future events with clarity. Those individuals became Navigators, pilots of huge starships, on which the trade and war in the empire depended on. Only a Navigator high on the Spice trance could safely guide starships across the chasms between stars. For this reason, of millions worlds under the reign of Padishah Emperor, Arrakis or Dune drank more blood of Major Houses, as they rose and fell than any other planet in the Imperium.

Unbeknownst to powers that be - Imperium and whatever Great House controlled the planet, millions lived deep in its sand. The crucible of the desert shaped the most formidable survivors known to men. Not only did they brave this harsh environment, but thrived in it. They called themselves Fremen! They were capable of surviving on mere drops of water, travelled large distances undetected and able to carve out a living in an environment most other life forms long ago abandoned, even harnessing the worms themselves in casual defiance of ultimate power - all the while dreaming of turning Arrakis into a verdant paradise. Only one House recognized their potential and received the ultimate prize - control of the entire Imperium.

However, once the God Emperor Leto II Atreides, a descendant of the Duke who harnessed the power of Fremen, overturned the established order of the Imperium, everything changed. During the millennia of his rule, Arrakis became a pale shadow of its former glory. The planet's face had utterly changed. Huge areas were covered with green vegetation, there were even open water basins, something unheard of in its ancient past. The dream precious to Fremen became a reality and, like many a dream, promptly turned to ashes. The once proud, indomitable people, terror of sands, became something else and lost the spark that made them unique. 

Now, barely a century since the Tyrant fell, the Fremen themselves were but a pale shadow of their glorious ancestors. Vast majority quietly resigned themselves to assimilation into a melting pot of sprawling Imperium. In unprecedented changes sweeping humanity it was inevitable entire cultures would adapt - or vanish. In contrast, several thousands Fremen - devoted to the ideal long held by their forefathers - despised the sight of what their people had become. 

Led by the Naib of their sietch, they embarked upon an adventure, adamant to change the seemingly inevitable fate. They'd reclaim their long lost glory and pride. They dedicated themselves to restoring the qualities and abilities and for half a century led a spartan life of training and self-sacrifice. All the time they accumulated spice, refining it and making sure it would suffice to secure everything they needed. It took several years to put everything in place. Finally, they bought several frigates and managed to contract a heighliner with an experienced navigator. It all culminated on this day, forever to be remembered as Redemption Day.' The secret cargo they intended to carry was known only to leaders and never discussed in public. It would make it possible to recreate their home on any habitable planet the reached.

The previous day they finished loading and securing their cargo in the frigates. When they were done, they joined together in a silent prayer. The answer to their hope and dreams was orbiting high above the planet, a colossal apparition visible from the surface as a bright dot, quickly moving across the sky. Only the two moons - Hand of God and Muad'Dib - which followed the planet as it revolved around its cruel sun outshone it at night. Its humongous bulk was even visible during the day. 

The leviathan form of the Guild Heighliner provided a rare celestial spectacle over Arrakis. Its designation, "AP-3-02" (Apex class, Series 3, Hull 2), was displayed in Galach script across its hull, revealing the utilitarian nature of its operators—the Spacing Guild. The Heighliner was receiving cargo, its immense opening offering a clear passage into its vast cargo hold. Several frigates, dwarfed by the unfathomable bulk of the Heighliner, descended toward designated landing zones marked by yellow rectangles on the cargo bay floor. Naib al-Fali thought, reflecting on everything that led to this 'Finally it's time.'

Observing the process from a protrusion at the top of the ship, eagerly anticipating the completion, was the ship's pilot - Navigator-Steersman Stargazer. He couldn't wait to submerge his mind into the infinity of fold calculations. His command bridge was microscopic in scale compared to the gargantuan vessel, multiple kilometers across. Floating in a spacious plaz tank the vessel's single pilot inhaled dense orange mist slightly smelling of cinnamon. Despite the enormity of the vessel, one Navigator sufficed to pilot it over unimaginable distances it was able to cover. All he needed was pure and concentrated Spice Melange, the substance that enabled Navigator's prescience.

Navigator Stargazer drifted in his bath of concentrated Spice gas. Clouds of orange gas swirled in the tank. The body of the Navigator retained very few traces of humanity. For ages his metabolism was exposed to pure Spice. The effects of the drug had changed him irreversibly and he mutated into an almost alien form. His divergence from humanity was clearly visible in elongated, fishlike bodies, stunted limbs and enlarged head. It was all the effect Melange had on those whose system could assimilate it and see the future. His body bore more semblance to sea mammals in the way he glided in the Spice essence, using his flippers. Only the face hinted to his human past. Behind his face, contorted in concentration, his brain surged with activity, stimulated by spice. The Navigator prepared to enter the Spice trance and seek a route through the unknown void, to guide the enormous vessel to its destination. His task was not an easy one. The gift of prescience, which his genetics carried inside, enabled him to plot an instantaneous course from one point in space to the other. 

Stargazer was one of the last of his kind. Most of his kin were gone, guiding the starships of initial waves of the Scattering and few returned. Millenia of enforced tranquility made humanity eager to expand, see new and exciting vistas opening up with the fall of Tyrants. In order to cater to this ambition, legendary technological wizards from Ix rose to occasion and fashioned autonomously guided vessels. The Guild no longer recruited new navigators; their vocation joined the long list of obsolete occupations. Golden path glittered, and the Humanity was ready to take over the Universe. 

It suddenly became clear to all, even to the despicable Tleilaxu, the enormity of personal sacrifice Leto II, God Emperor - and The Tyrant - had made and the crushing weight of his responsibility. Only after his death did Navigators realize the importance of his vision and singularity of his purpose. Even now, all they could see of Golden Path were mere glimmers and hints. Stargazer was one of the most talented Navigators to ever leave the Academy and all he could perceive were but mere shadows of the glorious vision.

Yet, those indistinct shadows brought a profound sense of peace. It was the feeling of certainty, the unshakable conviction that he had found a safe passage through the treacherous currents of space. It was the Navigator's intuition, the deep-seated knowledge that he had charted a course through the vast unknown. And then, suddenly, Stargazer perceived the signal: all was ready.

The Navigator, on the brink of peak concentration, received the report from the ship's quartermaster: The last lighter secured inside the cargo bay. Something about the last ship was strange, interfering with his sight. Abruptly a signal 'Cargo bay doors close and secure. Ship ready in all aspects.' brought him back. Navigator's mind floated in exhilaration - he was about to Fold. The Heighliner he commanded was a throwback to an earlier time, before the advent of autonomous vessels that rendered Navigator pilots obsolete. These piloted vessels were favored by religious fundamentalists who rejected the technological advancements of the post-Tyrant era.

A hissing sound entered his consciousness, and a dense orange fog of pure spice essence filled the tank. Strong fragrance reminiscent of cinnamon imbued his nostrils. Long ago, his nostrils were burning when he inhaled the Spice in this concentration. Not anymore as his nostrils and throat mutated, enabling him to absorb the Spice in its pure form. On this trip, most of them were actually descendants of Fremen, a legendary tribe of survivors on the harshest place in the Known Space. How and where they managed to obtain the Spice Stargazer was breathing in, he did not want to know (though he could with a little effort). He was satisfied that they had this pure and condensed Spice.

A wave of trance washed over him, instantly ensnaring him in its embrace. The melange's effects on his brain were profound, a process incomprehensible to the uninitiated—a glimpse into such power would have driven them mad. The visual and mental stimuli were beyond mere words and undescribable to anyone who did not possess prescience. His mind became a canvas upon which the universe painted itself—breathtaking kaleidoscope of high-order mathematics, chaos theory, and quantum mechanics. This was a realm shared only by Navigators and the descendants of Muad'Dib.

The closest analogy—necessarily imperfect—was that of flying at impossible speeds through a vast cave system. He knew an exit existed, but countless branching passages offered infinite possibilities, most of them fatal. This, of course, was a gross simplification, the only way to convey even a sliver of the truth to a non-prescient mind. For the reality was far more complex, and, yes, deeply disturbing.

For Stargazer, it was instinct, as automatic and natural as walking through his own darkened house to flip a switch. Then, as the Holtzmann generators roared to life, a subtle tremor ran through the vessel—a signal perceptible only to the highly attuned senses of the Navigator. He knew the moment had come: he and his charge were about to Fold space. He trembled with anticipation.

The pilot's concentration peaked, but he actually relaxed, as the tension released and he stepped into a familiar and comforting realm of infinity. His passengers, crammed in frigates and other lighters within the cargo bay, were ill at ease. For many of them, this voyage was a first. Though their ancestors had once traversed parsecs of space, carrying the Fremen Jihad across the old Imperium, three millennia of the Tyrant's oppressive rule had denied them even the simple privilege of leaving their planet's gravity well, let alone venturing beyond their solar system..

The cargo bay floor teemed with hundreds of frigates—vessels designed to ferry passengers and cargo between planetary surfaces and orbiting Heighliners. Each frigate, a large ship in its own right, could carry thousands of passengers and tons of cargo. Yet, within the Heighliner's vast hold, these mammoth ships were dwarfed by the sheer magnificence of the interstellar vessel that carried them across the immeasurable gulfs of space.

Five figures sat upright in acceleration couches within the largest frigate's control compartment—the nerve center for local space flight. The compartment itself was a blend of the ancient and the modern: sleek metallic instruments and walls contrasted with ornate segments of fogwood. A plaz panel offered a clear view of their immediate surroundings, though visibility was now limited by the cargo bay's darkness.

Each man was a skilled frigate pilot, capable of instinctively taking the controls and landing the vessel on any planetary surface. The tall, weathered figure wore a light spice-fabric robe, reminiscent of ancient sietch garb. His powerful arms and rough hands suggested a familiarity with physical exertion and conflict. His presence radiated an aura of strength, discouraging any thoughts of easy domination.

Minutes ago, the frigate landed on the metal deck of the cargo bay with a soft metallic thud, the low hum of its plasma engines fading as the pilot flipped the control switch. The gentle rocking of the dampeners subsided, and four green lights on the command panel blinked and then shone steadily, confirming the landing struts were securely locked in their magnetic holders.

The tall man's alert, clear eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail. He routinely checked dark corners and shadowed recesses, itemizing each object and assessing its potential as a weapon. Though violence seemed unlikely in this place and among these men, the graveyards were full of men who had neglected such elementary precautions. They were his second nature. After all, the careless paid a price; their demise a brutal reminder of the importance of caution.

Finding no other way to ease the tension, he sat down and deliberately picked up a cup of fragrant melange coffee. The cup, part of an ornately decorated antique coffee service, was a family heirloom. He hesitated for a moment, raising the cup to eye level to study the delicate designs. Then, in an abrupt but smooth motion, he took a sip, a soft sigh of contentment escaping him as the rich scent of melange enveloped him. 'Perfect. Not too gritty, and just the right temperature.'

The cup warmed his hand, and he enjoyed bringing it to his mouth for a sip. It helped him maintain the canvas of calm and collected attitude. After all he was the Naib of this tribe. It would not do for him to show any tension or anxiety. He did not bear the name of his famous ancestor Ghadhean for nothing. His attentive gaze managed to pick up small idiosyncrasies, which spoke of the mood of his men. It was small things that betrayed their anxiety. 

His eyes caught the youngest figure sitting left from the Naib tried to manage his anxiety by checking his stilsuit and folding it carefully over and over again. His youthful face barely had any beard. Short hair the color of sand and hooked nose betrayed his ancestry to the Naib. Their eyes met and the pup bared his tooth in a slightly nervous smile. 

Two others coped with their anxiety in their own ways: one meticulously cleaning his maula pistol, the other sitting rigidly upright, eyes closed, murmuring a silent supplication. Clearly, apprehension mingled with anticipation. Good. Just the right balance of eagerness and caution, the Naib thought.

"Relax," he said, cutting through the tension, addressing Farouq and the others in the room. "It will be but an instant. With Shai Hulud's blessing, we will reclaim our home." Even as doubts plagued him, his outward demeanor remained calm.

His knowledge, after all, was purely theoretical. He had never set foot on a vessel as vast as the Apex. The Guild personnel who crewed the vessel were an enigma. Though he understood their words individually, their sentences were cryptic and opaque. Yet, he maintained his composure. He was a proficient frigate pilot, though that offered little insight into the unimaginable infinity of the universe at large. This voyage was unprecedented in his family's history.

"Shai Hulud willing, we will, my Naib!" a young voice replied, abruptly drawing the Naib back to the present. "The faithful will earn the rewards of the Prophet." A textbook answer. My son will make a formidable Naib someday. He never forgets I am Naib first, commander second, and father third. Good lad, the Naib thought. "That's the spirit of true Fremen! Deseret!" he yelled enthusiastically. "Shai-Hulud! Ya Hya!" echoed the others in unison. That cheered them up. Very well. Shai-Hulud knows what we will encounter. Suddenly, his thoughts shifted to the cargo their frigate carried.

If only the others knew… He was thrilled by the vision unfolding in his mind. We shall have a new home, by the blood of our ancestors!

Lost in a reverie of endless dunes, the whisper of wind, and sand sifting through his fingers, he was interrupted by a raspy voice—a voice the Naib recognized as his conscience.

"Naib, although it is too late to change anything now, I wonder how will our endeavor ever be blessed when we use godless infidels of the accursed Guild to take us there?" Jamis, the man the Naib had observed mouthing a silent prayer earlier, asked.

Of course, it was Jamis who asked. Again. The very name, echoing from the depths of tradition, always meant a doubter, a person who questioned even the Prophet's pronouncements. But the Naib appreciated having a doubter in his inner circle. It forced him to sharpen his arguments and refine his reasoning. These mental exercises wearied him, and he was thankful for the respite.

"Jamis," he began wearily, "Jamis, we've been through this already. There is no other way—"

"I know, but we could have remained on Dune."

"You interrupt your Naib far too often for a man who values his water," the Naib said, his voice quiet but laced with threat. "In the old days, yours would be in the cistern before you could blink. Be careful, Jamis. Your skill as a fighter is valuable, and I cannot afford to lose you—yet."

"Now, to address your impetuous question: You and I both know it was impossible. We were dying there. Another century or two in that forsaken place, and we would forget what it means to be Fremen!"

Jamis, visibly chastised, lowered his gaze. Then, with due respect, he asked, "If you will allow me, my Naib, just one more question. What if the Guild or their Navigators discern our purpose? What if they know?"

"Only if we reveal it! Jamis, they can neither know nor guess our mission. This ship's chamber is shielded. Our cargo" - an image of sandtrouts and a pair of makers safely hidden in the no-chamber flashed in his mind briefly before he pushed it back and continued - "is hidden from prescient sight, but our words are not. So hold your tongue, pray if you must speak, but do not mention this again on this ship." The chance of a Navigator overhearing their conversation while in trance was slim, but not zero. "Would you have us trust a machine?"

"By the Great Sandworm!" Jamis exclaimed. "Such blasphemy is unthinkable! Shai-Hulud would forever curse us!"

"So quell your doubts and trust in me!" the Naib concluded. 

He blinked. 

And then, in that precise instant, everything flickered. In a distant star system above the blue-green planet, a volume of space shimmered, the very fabric of reality contorting and a gigantic shape materialized where, a blink before, only empty void had existed. The ship's immense bulk blotted out the starfield, tearing the continuum and scattering the particles in its wake.

Within the ship, a monotone, infrasonic hum resonated through the hold—a vibration more felt than heard. Then, a disembodied voice announced, "Attention! Attention! Passengers are advised that the journey has been completed. The Navigator requests the leader of the passengers to join him in the control room. Alone and unarmed!"

Moments later, a message appeared: No escort is required. Follow the light and sound. End of message. He knew the message was not spoken aloud; it had simply materialized in his thoughts, a communication others couldn't perceive. Skeptical glances followed him as he rose. With practiced ease, the Naib donned his stilsuit, a subtle gesture instructing the others to stay put. He exchanged a private signal with his son, the message clear: 'If I don't return, you know what to do.' The youth's jaw tightened, his muscles tensing with the weight of the unspoken responsibility.

'A good Fremen never leaves his sietch without his suit!' he thought

With a smooth, controlled motion, the Naib reached the bulkhead and sharply pulled the lever, opening the frigate's airlock. Stepping inside, he felt the door spring shut behind him, the outer door hissing open moments later when the air pressure equalized. He emerged from the frigate and glanced around. The hull of the frigate, towering above him, seemed almost insignificant compared to the incomprehensible, gargantuan bulk of the Heighliner. The vast cargo hold could have held hundreds more than the 5 frigates it contained.

Such immensity defies comprehension. Our entire sietch would be lost inside! Mahdi! he thought, awed by the sheer effort required to create such a vessel. He instinctively took a sip from his stilsuit's water tube. The salty taste of the water brought him back to reality. Stuffy air, recycled and filtered, had a peculiar tang that made him briefly dizzy, but he soon adjusted. The airlock exit was several meters above the floor, and he climbed the ladder with the practiced agility of one accustomed to traversing rough terrain. His desert boots softly whispered against the Heighliner's metal deck plating.

Turning, and taking in the immensity of his surroundings, he heard something to his left. He turned to look and saw a green arrow, levitating in the air before him. He strode confidently toward it. The sound became slightly clearer as the arrow remained suspended before him, maintaining the same distance. Some thirty steps later, he reached a huge column that seemed to stretch endlessly towards the ship's distant ceiling.

A low hiss announced the opening of a door at the column's base. A small, two-person cabin bathed in stark white light awaited. He stepped inside, the door closing swiftly behind him. Seconds later, it opened again, and he cautiously peered out. It was impossible—he couldn't have reached the ship's summit in mere seconds. He pictured the cabin hundreds of feet above the cargo bay floor, a dizzying drop into the abyss.

Lights flickered on, revealing a long, narrow corridor. The green arrow reappeared, indicating the only path forward. The Naib carefully stepped out, found solid footing, and proceeded. This time, a swift walk of several minutes brought him to a circular bulkhead. The door whirred open. Unfamiliar with the ancient technology of cameras, the Naib could only describe the door's operation as weird and alien.

He entered the room beyond the strange doors and found himself standing before a glass enclosure—an object utterly foreign to a Fremen. The sweet scent of cinnamon permeated the air, and orange clouds of Spice gas swirled within the transparent container. Suddenly, a face—vaguely human—appeared at the glass.

Inadvertently, Naib balked at the apparition. Then he realized this was the Navigator and he was honored by being one of the very privileged few to see the Navigator in his native environment. A weirdly high pitched voice welcomed him:

"Welcome Ghadhean al-Fali, Naib of the Sietch of Whispering Winds." A hiss from the Navigator's gills punctuated his words. "I am Navigator Stargazer, Steersman of the Guild," the creature said, its tone devoid of emotion.

"Thank you, Steersman. May the Prophet of the Golden Path guard you." Naib replied doubtfully.

"I have summoned you to share" Hiss, hiss. "information." The Navigator continued, his voice pitched higher and he spoke faster. Naib found it very hard to follow the drift of the creatures' announcements. The voice was both distant and cold. All he caught of the utterings were three words "... unprecedented… event… journey." 

The Naib did not know what to make of it.

"Should I be alarmed? Is the vessel in some danger?" he asked cautiously.

A cacophony of screeches, reminiscent of cries of a flock of desert hawks, pierced the air. The Naib realized, with a shiver, that it was laughter—Navigator's laughter. Abomination…

"No, Naib. No… worry about." He paused, the silence pregnant with meaning. Then, as if remembering suddenly there was someone else with him, the Navigator added "Anything wrong, we'd all die!" the voice clinically calm. "No. No alarm. This is just…" He paused. "Yes?" Naib insisted, unconsciously gesturing with his right hand. "...the expression you need is…" Stargazer sifted through ancient memories, searching for the appropriate articulation. The Naib, with no other option, simply stood, attempting to mask his growing dread. Jamis could not have been right… he thought Is this journey cursed?

Oblivious to the passage of time, the Navigator's mind, even as it wrestled with the complex mathematics of the voyage, browsed seldom used archives of his ancient brain. At last, it spoke:

"strange. Yes, strange. This word" it answered, anticlimactically.

"I presume you will try to explain the strangeness of the situation to me, simple as I may be?" The Naib asked, trying to conceal the irony. He needn't bother. The creature was either unaware or uncaring for those subtleties of human language. The naib did not expect his understanding of the situation to greatly improve, regardless of how the rest of this dialog proceeded.

"Try? I can… try." and it began blurting out words that continued to have no meaning to the Naib. "Multitude… brane… curvature… double folded. Temporal… knot!" 'Is it mocking me?' the Naib thought. 'Temporary not? But what isn't temporary?' he wondered silently.

Bewildered, the Naib realized Whatever the navigator considers strange, must be utterly incomprehensible to me. The Naib raised his hand, gesturing to the creature to stop. "Can you please speak in simple terms?" he inquired, hopelessly. 

"Simply…" he began, then trailed off, hissing. "Simple… words… fail. Linear… inadequate. Universe… multiplexity… not alone… reciprocal result of folding equation… Curious…" it trailed off, "seemed attractive shortcut. Compelling safety…" and he again embarked on an avalanche of technical terms "Multidimensional array function of primary projection of parallel planes…" in his screeching voice. How primitive, he reflected, observing the bewilderment on the Naib's face.

What part of 'parallel planes was not clear to this ape? If only another Navigator were here!, Stargazer thought. Together, we could untangle the space-time curvature that brought this ship across the membrane and into a different universe. This fascinating mathematical problem. Such complexity in the fabric of space is unprecedented.

"So, we are not alone?" The Naib interrupted the Navigator's thoughts. "We have reached some destination? Are we orbiting an inhabitable planet that corresponds to our specifications?" 

'He is still there? How tedious this linear thought! Stargazer thought, exasperated. I must end this. It makes no difference for him… He is so primitive he won't even notice. I must return to the fascinating dynamics of parallel planes! 

"To put it shortly - Yes." The Navigator's voice remained flat, masking his irritation. The Naib relaxed. The Navigator added, delphically "And - No. The solution is binary. I… am spent. Depart." The Naib, with the mask of the stilsuit concealing his face tensed in apprehension, received another mental message: Return to your companions. Disembarkation is in progress. His mind had only questions as he backtracked his journey. He wondered what happened and what 'parallel planes' meant…

As their frigate emerged from the cargo bay, Naib surveyed the space around and found nothing out of the ordinary. He shrugged, dismissing his previous concerns. 'Parallel planes… hmmmm.' "Bah!" and waved off the thought with his hand. 'Who cares? I have more pressing business than deciphering obscure esoteric rumblings.' He focused on the blue and green marble below. 'Soon. It will be soon. We will have a new home again!'