As much as he hated Naib Dhartha, Selim retained a curiosity about how the people of his former village continued to live their lives. He wondered if they had erased him from their memories by now. Sometimes he went over their actions in his mind and grew furious, but then he would smile. Buddallah had kept Selim alive, given him a mysterious vision and a blessed purpose.

Previous generations of Zensunni had adapted their way of life to the desert. In such a hostile environment there was little room for change or flexibility, so the nomads’ day-today existence remained much the same year after year.

However, as Selim observed his former comrades, he noticed that Naib Dhartha had a new priority in life. The rigid tribal leader had launched upon some unusual scheme that involved taking large teams of workers out into the open desert. The scavengers no longer combed the wasteland for a few pieces of scrap metal or abandoned technology. Now the Zensunni villagers hurried out into the sands with one purpose only: to gather spice.

Just like in his vision! The nightmare began to make sense: the spice taken offworld by outsiders, causing a storm that would sweep away the harsh serenity of the great desert. Selim would watch and understand . . . and then he would determine what he needed to do.

With delicate footsteps, the villagers wandered onto the open dunes, making quick excursions out to the rust-colored stains of melange spread by occasional spice blows. Gently easing metal stakes deep into the sand, they lashed up thin camouflaged tents and awnings against the blowing sand and the hot sun. They posted a watch on the high dune crests for approaching worms.

Then they began to harvest the spice, taking it from the desert in large quantities, far more than the tribe could ever use. If Selim’s vision was true, then Naib Dhartha must be delivering the melange to Arrakis City . . . for export offworld, away from Arrakis.

In his vision the floodgates would open, spilling sand like a tidal wave to engulf the Zensunni people, sweeping the remnants of the sandworms away. Shai-Hulud! Ambitious Naib Dhartha did not understand the consequences of his actions for his people, for his entire world.

Selim approached quietly to observe them through a high-intensity viewer he had taken from his botanical research station. He squinted, recognizing people he had grown up with, villagers who had once befriended him, and ultimately scorned him.

Selim didn’t see Ebrahim skulking among them anymore. Perhaps the young man had finally been caught for his own crimes, now that Selim was no longer there to take the blame. . . . Shai-Hulud would have his justice, one way or another.

The evil naib was in their midst, shouting orders, directing the people as they scurried out with sacks and containers, scooping spice from the sands. The workers could barely carry the amounts they gathered. Dhartha must have found a customer somewhere.

Selim was fascinated at first, then angry. Finally, he decided upon a way to follow his calling, his vision . . . while exacting his revenge as well.

WITH HIS SONIC hammer, he called upon Shai-Hulud. The beast he summoned was a relatively small sandworm, but Selim didn’t mind. The smaller creatures were more manageable anyway.

Selim rode high on the bowed serpentine head, brashly out in the open for all to see. Peeling apart the fleshy segments to guide the creature, he sat astride a great steed, a monstrous animal that could survive only in the deepest, driest desert. He urged the worm to greater speed, and it hissed through the ocean of sand.

The Zensunni had been extremely cautious in setting up their camp, careful that the sandworms did not notice them. At dusk, the people began to emerge from temporary shelters after the heat of the day, leaving their settlement and spreading out to where they could gather more spice.

Remembering his vision and answering the now-clear call, Selim drove the worm headlong into the encampment.

The Zensunni were never complacent, always alert. Spotters sounded the alarm as soon as the worm approached, but there was nothing they could do. In his deep, loud voice, Naib Dhartha shouted for the spice gatherers to scatter and find places of safety. They raced across the dunes, leaving their tents and the piled containers of hoarded spice.

Using rods to goad the creature and prybars to spread open the segments, Selim controlled Shai-Hulud’s course. Frustrated at being ridden, the worm thrashed, wanting to attack something. Selim had to batter its pink, exposed flesh to keep the beast from devouring all the villagers.

He didn’t want to kill any of them . . . although it might have been satisfying to see Naib Dhartha swallowed down the worm’s gullet. This was more than enough. Selim would accomplish what Buddallah had called him to do; ruin the naib’s plans to export huge shipments of Shai-Hulud’s spice.

The villagers dispersed across the sands with skittering footsteps in hopes that the worm would not follow the rhythm of their running feet. The monster crashed into the abandoned camp, plowing up a spume of sand. In a flash, the camouflaged tent fabrics vanished, churned under or swallowed up.

Then the sandworm turned its round head and returned to the site to devour the gathered melange, tearing apart the containers, swallowing packages whole, obliterating every sign of the harvesting work.

From a distance, terrified villagers, perhaps including Naib Dhartha himself, stood on dunes, ready to run farther away but hypnotized by the spectacle. In a flowing white robe, Selim rode high on the worm’s back; they could not help but notice his human silhouette atop the desert demon.

Laughing so hard that he could barely maintain his control over the creature, Selim raised his hands in a defiant gesture. He had done Buddallah’s bidding. The spice was safe, for now.

Then he goaded the worm in another direction, away from the forlorn people, and rode off into the empty sands, leaving the Zensunni villagers there with the wreck of their camp.

ON THE WAY out, Selim left two literjons of his own water among the torn scraps of the settlement. He could replace it in his botanical stations, and it was just enough to let the Zensunni people survive. They could reach their cliff city again, if they walked by night and conserved moisture.

As if it were an omen, he found an undisturbed satchel of melange. This he reverently accepted as a gift from Shai-Hulud. It was more spice than he had ever carried at one time, but he would not consume it, nor would he sell it. Rather, he would write a message with the reddish brown powder, spreading it on the sand. Back in his base station, he planned carefully for two days, then he left again.

Selim rode a large worm through the night, back across the sands toward Naib Dhartha’s village. In the shadow of a rock escarpment, he slept through the next day and then began his trek on foot, keeping close to the rocks. He knew these footpaths and byways well, having explored them as a child. After creeping along in the shadows, he hid in a comfortable crevice, waiting for full darkness, carrying his satchel of melange. . . .

When the night was deep and the stars overhead prickled like billions of icy eyes, he hurried out in front of the cliffs onto the wind-smoothed sands. He would do this to the best of his ability, on a grand scale. With light irregular footsteps, he ran along the canvas of powder sand, spilling the melange from the satchel in lines, making looping letters that would look like dried blood on the dunes.

Old Glyffa had taught him how to read and write during a time when she had felt benevolent toward him, ignoring other villagers— including Ebrahim’s father and Naib Dhartha himself— who wondered what the point of such education could be.

Selim made sure to finish before the second moon rose. It took him well over an hour to write his three simple words, and at the end his spice was almost gone. With his message completed, he hurried back to his shelter in the rocks. He could have caught a worm to begin his journey back home. But instead he waited for the sunrise.

Just after dawn, he watched dozens of faces with wide eyes and open mouths peering out of the cave openings. In obvious disbelief, they stared into the desert and chattered and called to one another. Rapidly a crowd gathered along a ledge overlooking the sandy wasteland. He heard their muffled shouts of surprise and could not stop grinning. A pinch of melange on his lips made him feel even better.

Among the excited observers, he could barely make out the dark-haired figure of Naib Dhartha, who stood glowering at the three words the young outcast had written on the sand.

I AM SELIM.

He could have said more, explained more, but Selim felt that the mystery was better. The naib would know he was the person who had ridden the worm, both the first time when he’d shown off his skills and again when he’d destroyed the spice-gathering camp. Buddallah had chosen him, and now the evil naib must live in fear. The young man lounged back against the rock, chuckling to himself and savoring the flavor of melange.

After today, they all knew he was alive . . . and Naib Dhartha would understand that he had made a life-long enemy.