Riding the Worm

[Paul Atreides]

Two more bandit groups were laid to waste, their bodies left buried in the sand with the word “Muad'dib” left as the only indicator of who had done such a thing. Paul worked by the law of the desert- those who would harm their fellow man in such a harsh place were “iduali”- water insects, not to be trusted with the water of others. The term had a distinctly Fremen meaning, as “water” and “life” were thought of as much the same thing. Paul had little issue and took little pleasure in dispatching bandits when he saw them. They were... rabble. Untrained bravos with a thirst for material things and no respect for human lives. That last part made them soft- life was sacred and if you did not fight like it was, there was no feral motivation to survive. It had to come from a deep place because survival was all that was needed in the desert- everything else was just baggage.

“Another my Duke?” Asked Gurney, polishing his knife under the shade of a rocky outcropping in one of the deeper parts of the sandy wastes- within a day or two’s walk from the Town they had avoided.

Paul only responded to his man with a small, careful, nod- not taking his eyes from the caravan some distance beyond. Muad'dib, as he was more commonly thinking of himself as these days, and his two men had watched them from a safe distance from some time. Just yesterday the caravan had been ambushed by harriers in the scrub lands and taken hostage. Why they were traveling this deep Paul could only speculate- even with his mentat mental facilities. The most logical path of reasoning was that that they were heading to whatever base of operations they had out here as they had drastically altered course after taking the caravan hostage. They had left two dead bodies in their wake and Paul could see no recourse other than the elimination of the iduali- it was the fremen way. Besides, a caravan that size probably had enough spare water to keep Paul and his companions in good supply for weeks if they used their still suits.

As night fell, the caravan drew around itself- the five covered waggons circled and a fire lit. Only fools lit a fire in the desert- it sucked moisture and called attention to one’s self. The smoke trail could be seen for miles in the open bled. The creatures he saw were strange to him- anthropomorphic caricatures of men. The bandits were wolves and weasels while the settlers had the appearance of sheep and cows. He had seen stranger in his times in the Omniverse, short though it was comparatively with other primes, and he was sure they’d bleed all the same.

Under cover of darkness but with no special attention to stealth he made his approach- alone. The sentries were sloppy, masters of no special perceptive skill of their own, and it drew up to the edge of the camp without challenge.

“Subakh ul kuhar...” He offered in greeting, though his voice was low and not at all inviting.

The sentry, his attention now called to Paul, approached- leveling a revolver at him in a threatening manner.

“Yeah? Well hack-petewie to you too.” The wolf-faced creature said, hocking a loogie in the desert sands. Internally Paul smiled- this bandit didn’t know that spitting was considered a sign of respect in Fremen culture. He would have to live up to that notion.

“You are well meet friend.” Paul said, his eerie blue-in-blue eyes as static as stone- piercing the man with supernatural clarity.

“Not yer’ friend pal.” The wolf said and the noises of others rustling about- roused by the conversation could be heard inside the camp.

“Very well. If you will not have me as a friend...” Paul began as the other four bandits fell in behind the sentry, each pulling iron in turn.

“Then you will have me as an enemy.”

Shots rang out- two great lances of light carving up the now-corpses of two of the bandits as Gurney and Duncan’s las rifles split them in two like shaved meat. They rose from their sand-covered pits three hundred yards from where Paul now stood, having infiltrated earlier in the evening.

Paul slipped like marbles on glass, a liquid form dancing between the remaining three men. The sentry fell first, the crysknife set in the base of his spine before he could pull the trigger. The other two hit air, Paul removing the life from one with a knife strike through the eye socket and the second he snapped the neck of in an exotic use of his martial prowess. Lowering the last body to the sand his senses reached out to clear the area of any other threats.

Gurney and Duncan joined him and together they freed the caravan people without a word. They were trembling and Paul couldn’t help but hate them. Water-fat city folk who dishonored the desert with their soft ways, they should have respected the dangers it presented and prepared more. Still... this was not Arrakis and these were not creatures who had wronged him. Though, for their sloppiness, he took from them six liters of water (2 for each of his party) as payment for their frivolous disregard of Shai Hulud’s teachings.

He spoke little, sending them back in the direction of the town from whence they came. They regarded him with a mixture of fear, awe, reverence, and thanks. Paul needed none of that- his ways craved none of those things. At least not yet. He knew that if he did this long enough he would have the resources he needed to establish his power base again but also knew that with such actions he’d eventually establish something else too... a reputation and maybe even a following...

Yes. This was his new Dune after all and he'd remake it in his own image...