Herbert, Brian - A Whisper of Caladan Seas

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Dune: A Whisper of Caladan Seas
Introduction
Brian Herbert and I have written close to a million words in the Dune universe, but this short
piece is connected to none of them. "A Whisper of Caladan Seas" is actually a footnote to Frank
Herbert's magnificent novel, a slight detour of characters barely mentioned during the Harkonnen
attack on the city of Arrakeen.
Brian and I began our Dune projects many years ago, when we were brought together by Ed Kramer
who, with Brian, had proposed an anthology of Dune short stories. After Brian and I had begun
working on the prequel novels, we thought about what we would have written for our story, and this
was the piece we developed It was published shortly before the release of House Atreides, and thus
became the first new work of Dune fiction to be published in twenty-two years.
One reviewer liked the story, but added the baffling comment (as reviewers so often do) that he
didn't know where we had gotten the mystical aspects of this story, since he recalled no mysticism
whatsoeve in Frank Herbert's six Dune books (!!!). I still haven't stopped scratching my head over
that one.
Frank Herbert also left several fragments from his Dune novels, omitted chapters or notes for
other storylines that he never pursued Eventually, we may put these together. Since Frank never
wrote short fiction in the Dune universe, this is the only Dune story in existence, so far.
Dune: A AWhisper of Caladan Seas with Brian Herbert
Arrakis, in the year 10,191 of the Imperial calendar. Arrakis . . . forever known as Dune....
The cave in the massive shield wall was dark and dry, sealed by an avalanche. The air tasted like
rock dust. The surviving Atreides soldiers huddled in blackness to conserve energy, letting their
glowglobe powerpacks recycle.
Outside, the Harkormen shelling hammered against the bolthole where they had fled for safety.
Artillery? What a surprise to be attacked by such seemingly obsolete technology ... and yet, it
was effective. Damned effective.
In pockets of silence that lasted only seconds, the young recruit Elto Vitt lay in pain listening
to the wheezing of wounded, terrified men. The stale, oppressive air pressed heavy on him,
increasing the broken-glass agony in his lungs. He tasted blood in his mouth, an unwelcome
moisture in the absolute dryness.
His uncle, Sergeant Hoh Vitt, had not honestly told him how severe his injuries were, emphasizing
Elto's "youthful resilience and stamina." Elto suspected he must be dying, and he wasn't alone in
that predicament. These last soldiers were all dying, if not from their injuries, then from hunger
or thirst.
Thirst.
A man's voice cut the darkness, a gunner named Deegan. "I wonder if Duke Leto got away. I hope
he's safe."
A reassuring grunt. "Thufir Hawat would slit his own throat before he'd let the Baron touch our
Duke, or young Paul." It was the signalman Scovich, fiddling with the flexible hip cages that held
two captive distrans bats, creatures whose nervous systems could carry message imprints.
"Bloody Harkonnensl' Then Deegan's sigh became a sob. "I wish we were back home on Caladan."
Supply sergeant Vitt was no more than a disembodied voice in the darkness, cornfortingly close to
his injured young nephew. "Do you hear a whisper of Caladan seas, Elto? Do you hear the waves, the
tides?"
The boy concentrated hard. Indeed, the relentless artillery shelling sounded like the booming of
breakers against the glistening black rocks below the cliff-perch of Castle Caladan.
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"Maybe," he said. But he didn't, not really. The similarity was only slight, and his uncle, a
Master Jongleur ... a storyteller extraordinaire ... wasn't up to his capabilities, though here he
couldn't have asked for a more attentive audience. Instead the sergeant seemed stunned by events,
and uncharacteristically quiet, not his usual gregarious self.
Elto remembered running barefoot along the beaches on Caladan, the Atreides home planet far, far
from this barren repository of dunes, sandworms, and precious spice. As a child, he had tip. toed
in the foamy residue of waves, avoiding the tiny pincers of crabfish so numerous that he could net
enough for a fine meal in - only a few minutes.
Those memories were much more vivid than what had just happened....
The alarms had rung in the middle of the night, ironically during the first deep sleep Elto Vitt
had managed in the Atreides barracks at Arrakeen. Only a month earlier, he and other recruits had
been assigned to this desolate planet, saying their farewells to lush Caladan. Duke Leto Atreides
had received the governorship of Arrakis, the only known source of the spice melange, as a boon
from the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV.
To many of the loyal Atreides soldiers, it had seemed a great financial coup-they had known
nothing of politics ... or of danger. Apparently Duke Leto had not been aware of the peril here
either, because he'd brought along his concubine Lady Jessica and their fifteen-year-old son,
Paul.
When the warning bells shrieked, Elto snapped awake and
rolled from his bunk bed. His uncle, Hoh Vitt, already in full ser. geant's regalia, shouted for
everyone to hurry, hurry! The Atreides house guard grabbed their uniforms, kits, and weapons. Elto
recalled allowing himself a groan, annoyed at another apparent drill ... and yet hoping it was
only that.
The burly, disfigured weapons master Gurney Halleck burst into the barracks, his voice booming
commands. He was flushed with anger, and the beet-colored inkvine scar stood out like a lightning
bolt on his face. 'House shields are down! We're vulnerablel" Security teams had supposedly rooted
out all the booby traps, spyeyes, and assassination devices left behind by the hated Harkonnen
predecessors. Now the lumpish Halleck became a frenzy of barked orders.
Explosions sounded outside, shaking the barracks and rattling armor-plaz windows. Enemy assault
'thopters swooped in over the Shield Wall, probably coming from a Harkormen base in the city of
Carthag.
"Prepare your weapons]" Halleck bellowed. The buzzing of lasguns played across the stone walls of
Arrakeen, incinerating buildings. Orange eruptions shattered plaz windows, decapitated observation
towers. "We must defend House Atreides."
"For the Dukel" Uncle Hoh cried.
Elto yanked on the sleeve of his black uniform, tugging the trim into place, adjusting the red
Atreides hawk crest and red cap of the corps. Everyone else had already jammed feet into boots,
slapped charge packs into lasgun rifles. Elto scrambled to catch up, his mind awhirl. His uncle
had pulled strings to get him assigned here as part of the elite corps. The other men were lean
and whipcord strong, the finest hand-picked Atreides troops. He didn't belong with them.
Young Elto had been excited to leave Caladan for Arrakis, so far away. He had never ridden on a
Guild Heighliner before, had never been close to a mutated Navigator who could fold space with his
mind. Before leaving his ocean home, Elto had spent only a few months watching the men train,
eating with them, sleeping in the barracks, listening to their colorful, bawdy tales of great
battles past and duties performed in the service of the Atreides dukes.
Elto had never felt in danger on Caladan, but after only a short time on Arrakis, all the men had
grown grim and uneasy. There had been unsettling rumors and suspicious events. Earlier that night,
as the troops had bunked down, they'd been agitated, but unwilling to speak of it, either because
of their commander's sharp orders or because the soldiers didn't know enough details. Or maybe
they were just giving Elto, the untried and unproven new comrade, a cold shoulder....
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Because of the circumstances of his recruitment, a few men of the elite corps hadn't taken to
Elto. Instead, they'd openly grumbled about his amateur skills, wondering why Duke Leto had
permitted such a novice to join them. A signalman and communications specialist named Foffie
Scovich, pretending to be friendly, had filled the boy with false information as an illconceived
joke. Uncle Hoh had put a stop to that, for with his Jongleur's talent for the quick, whispered
story-always told without witnesses because f the ancient prohibition -he could have given any of
the men terrible nightmares for weeks ... and they all knew it.
The men in the Atreides elite corps feared and respected their supply sergeant, but even the most
accommodating of them gave his nephew no preferential treatment. Anyone could see that Elto Vitt
was not one of them, not one of their rough-andtumble, hard-fighting breed....
By the time the Atreides house guard rushed out of the barracks, they were naked to aerial attack
from the lack of house shields. The men knew the vulnerability couldn't possibly be from a mere
equipment failure, not after what they'd been hearing, what they'd been feeling. How could Duke
Leto Atreides, with all of his proven abilities, have permitted this to happen?
Enraged, Gurney Halleck grumbled loudly, "Aye, we have a traitor in our midsC
Illuminated in floodlights, Harkonnen troops in blue uniforms swarmed over the compound. More
enemy transports disgorged assault teams.
Elto held his lasgun rifle, trying to remember the drills and training sessions. Someday, if he
survived, his uncle would compose a vivid story about this battle, conjuring up images of smoke
sounds, and fires, as well as Atreides valor and loyalty to the Duke.
Atreides soldiers raced through the streets, dodging explosions, fighting hard to defend. Lasguns
sliced vivid blue arcs across the night. The elite corps joined the fray, howling-but Elto could
already see they were vastly outnumbered by this massive surprise assault. Without shields,
Arrakeen had already been struck a mortal blow.
Elto blinked his eyes in the cave, saw light. A flicker of hope dissipated as he realized it was
only a recharged glowglobe floating in the air over his head. Not daylight. Still
trapped in their tomb of rock, the Atreides soldiers listened to the continued thuds of artillery.
Dust and debris trickled from the shuddering ceiling. Elto tried to keep his spirits high, but
knew House Atreides must have fallen by now.
His uncle sat nearby, staring into space. A long red scratch jagged across one cheek.
During brief inspection drills while settling in, Elto had met the other important men in Duke
Leto's security staff besides Gurney Halleck, especially the renowned Swordmaster Duncan Idaho and
the old Mentat assassin Thufir Hawat. The blackhaired Duke inspired such loyalty in his men,
exuded such supreme confidence, that Elto had never imagined this mighty man could fall.
One of the security experts had been trapped here with the rest of the detachment. Now Scovich
confronted him, his voice gruff and challenging. "How did the house shields get shut off? It must
have been a traitor, someone you overlooked." The distrans bats seemed agitated in their cages at
Scovich's waist.
"We spared no effort checking the palace," the man said, more tired than defensive. "There were
dozens of traps, mechanical and human. When the bunter-seeker almost killed Master Paul, Thufir
Hawat offered his resignation, but the Duke refused to accept it."
"Well, you didn't find all the traps," Scovich groused, probing for an excuse to fight. "You were
supposed to keep the Harkonnens out."
Sergeant Hoh Vitt stepped between the two men before they could come to blows. 'We can't afford to
be at each other's throats. We need to work together to get out of this."
But Elto saw on the faces of the men that they all knew otherwise: they would never escape this
death trap.
The unit's muscular battlefield engineer, Avrarn Fultz, paced about in the faint light, using a
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