The Directeur remarked, “Our spice operations have been plagued by bandits and saboteurs. I could station a cymek guardian near each spice factory. That would be enough to thwart the desert people — and the giant sandworms. That should keep our equipment safe.”

“We don’t know yet if these new Titans are a match for the sandworms,” Draigo said.

Venport leaned forward. “We’ll see soon enough.”

The cymeks lined up along a sinuous whaleback dune and directed their weapon arms out into the deep golden sea. Sand crystals sparkled in the sunlight, as if the planet itself were awake. One after another, the cymeks fired their integrated weapons. Explosive artillery shells blasted from segmented arms, streams of acid shot out in thin jets that turned the sand into bubbling glass, a lasbeam carved a smoking hole into a distant dune, and a jet of flame arced out like a solar flare.

Ptolemy’s eyes shone, and he almost forgot about the searing pain in his lungs. “These Titans will eradicate Manford Torondo and his Butlerians.” He spoke into the comm circuit. “Phase Two — it’s time to be more aggressive.”

The seven cymeks scuttled down to a packed basin where their vibrations would penetrate deeper beneath the surface. Raising their thick piston legs, they stomped down like pile drivers, hammering in an irresistible summons.

“According to unverified reports,” Draigo said, as if lecturing trainees back at Kolhar, “the Freemen use clockwork syncopated thumping devices, even simple percussion instruments, to summon a worm. They claim it always works, but I doubt they’d report any failures.”

“I doubt everything about their superstitious stories,” Venport said, “but I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

Ptolemy watched his awesome walkers, recalling the ancient archival images he had seen of old battles, particularly the ones of Ajax, the most brutal of the original cymeks. As Ptolemy thought of the malicious destruction the Titans had caused in comparison with the ignorant destruction of the Butlerians, his own anger — perhaps leaking through the thoughtrodes in his brain — seemed to agitate the Navigator cymeks. One of them, Hok Evander, launched a wild artillery projectile up into the air, and it came down not far away, creating a smoking crater.

When no worm responded, Draigo said, “It is rumored that the creatures are highly territorial, and it’s possible we are in a contested zone among the sandworms, a neutral area. The nearest creature may be far away.”

Venport frowned, and Ptolemy felt impatience as well. He said, “According to reports, the activation of a shield is a certain way to draw a monster worm, though it’s dangerous and drives the beast into a frenzy.”

“Bring on the frenzy, then,” the Directeur said, “if you’re confident these cymeks can handle it.”

Ptolemy looked at the seven machines and sent another signal. “Phase Three.”

The Titans stood at high alert, and then each of the large machines switched on a Holtzman shield.

Chapter 35 (Every memory has a trigger)

Vorian was invisible, just an average person on Lankiveil — and he liked being treated that way. When he worked with the Harkonnen patriarch, he kept his eyes open, understanding this man, knowing how much his past actions had harmed the family. Yes, Abulurd had earned his own disgrace eighty years ago, but not for all future generations.

Vor could help, if he found the right way. He didn’t want to be applauded, welcomed, or even forgiven. He just wanted to repair some of the damage he had left in his wake. For now, the Harkonnens accepted him, made him feel welcome, but they had no idea who he really was.…

Fur-whales were not as large as he had imagined, but they were dangerous, especially when being hunted. The majestic creatures could dive deep into the cold waters and escape, or they could turn on a pursuing boat and inflict serious damage.

The whales traveled in predictable migration patterns, clustering together as they cruised for food. In such groups, they could not escape the high-tech nets and stunners used by the Harkonnen hunters, but when the whales were corralled in the nets for the fur harvest, they could exhibit great power. Many hunters had lost lives or limbs from the beasts fighting to survive.

“Watch out for their pectoral fins.” Vergyl Harkonnen stood next to a motorized winch on the aft deck and shouted over the noise of machinery. “Razor sharp. They can cut off your arm like a scimitar.” He nodded while Vor and his fellow crewmen secured the net, taking care to avoid the thrashing fin that was sawing through strong metal mesh. “They’re prehistoric creatures, the top of the marine food chain.”

Vor wrestled with a rope. “They don’t have any predators?”

The bearded Harkonnen tossed his head, tugged his hood tighter against the chill. “Oh, a school of torpedo sharks might attack a sick or injured whale, but otherwise very little bothers them.”

“Except for us,” Vor said. “Humans are the most dangerous predators.”

For nearly two weeks now, he had worked on a Harkonnen whaleboat, pretending to be an observer, a researcher — which he was, though Vor’s intent was to research something else entirely. Cold spray washed over the deck, reminding him (fondly, he realized) of the years he had been stationed on Caladan for the Army of the Jihad. And beautiful Leronica Tergiet, one of his first loves. He’d met her so long ago, stayed with her for decades, raised two sons with her, but after she died Vorian Atreides eventually moved on, as he always did.…

The Lankiveil sun broke through the clouds. Vor felt warm from the exertion and loosened his jacket. After that, one of the crewmen took off his shirt, as if he had something to prove to the visitor.

In his time here on Lankiveil, feeling the camaraderie of the whalers, even the openness of Vergyl Harkonnen, Vor was fitting in well. Sometimes his fellow crewmen teased him for his inexperience, but at least he knew his way around a ship. He took the ribbing good-naturedly. After so many years, with so many identities, working so many jobs, Vor had learned to get along with rough-and-tumble types.

Earlier that morning, when the whaling boat set out from the village, the ruddy chief mate, Landon, spoke of dangerous old days before lightweight alloy nets became available, when hunters had to go out in small boats and face the aggressive animals with stunner harpoons.

“I lost a grandfather and a great uncle to fur-whales,” Landon said. “Now I take something back for them.”

Whale-fur was a high-priced export from Lankiveil, but an inefficient distribution system hindered House Harkonnen. Vergyl’s brother, Weller, along with Griffin Harkonnen, had attempted to change that and bring prosperity back to the family. Another disastrous failure …

Now they needed to solidify their operations, add equipment, and upgrade their processing facilities. If the Harkonnens could not earn enough to pay their debts, they would lose even their meager foothold on Lankiveil. Already the ambitious Bushnells were moving in, taking work, preparing to overwhelm the Harkonnens. Vor could perhaps do something about that.…

With the huge nets hoisted and swung over the aft deck, the day’s tally was eight captured whales; they were small ones, but with rare brown and silver fur. When one of the beasts crashed onto the long deck after being dumped from the nets, it writhed until the crew fired poison darts into its brain.

Vor and the other men set to butchering the creatures on the deck, hard and filthy work. Blood ran into gunwall channels and out onto the water, attracting a flurry of torpedo sharks. The whale innards reeked of everything foul Vor could imagine, but he endured the stench. His fellow crewmen teased him about the contorted faces he made, but he just laughed in response.