Free Dune: The Machine Crusade by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson Page B

older than his years. “Shai-Hulud has found the candidate wanting.” He turned to Marha. “Now you have seen the peril. Would you not be better off returning to your village and begging Naib Dhartha for forgiveness?”
    “On the contrary— it seems to me you now have room for another follower.” She stared fiercely out at the sands. “I still want to ride the worms.”

Endurance. Belief. Patience. Hope.

    These are the key words of our existence.

    — Zensunni Prayer
    O n Poritrin, the extravagant but pointless construction project required extraordinary work and manpower. Thus, slaves.
    Sparks and fumes surrounded Ishmael in the hot air of the shipyards and the clattering din of adjacent foundries. Drenched in sweat and smeared with soot and greasy dust, Ishmael performed his work beside the other captives, following instructions and calling no attention to himself. It was the Zensunni way of survival, to achieve a relatively comfortable life, within the constraints imposed by their Poritrin captors.
    In the evenings, back in the Buddislamic dwelling compounds, Ishmael led his people in prayer and continued to urge them to have faith. He was the most learned Zensunni scholar in their group, having memorized more Sutras and parables than the other men. As a consequence they looked to him for guidance, though he felt at a loss.
    Ishmael knew in his heart that someday their captivity would end, but he was no longer certain it would occur in his own lifetime. He had already reached the age of thirty-four. How much longer could he wait for God to free his people?
    Perhaps Aliid was right after all….
    Ishmael closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer before getting back to work. The clang of metal and the hiss of laser rivets crackled through the air.
    South of the main city of Starda, the Isana River delta widened, leaving numerous flat islands separated by deeply cut shipping channels. Barges carried raw metals from mines far to the north, delivering them to the manufacturing centers.
    In the past six months, expanding upon a suggestion made by Primero Vorian Atreides of the Jihad Army, Savant Tio Holtzman had summoned an enormous workforce, commandeering slave crews from across the continent, with the blessing of Lord Niko Bludd. This full-scale project demanded all the labor of Poritrin; more than a thousand workers had been brought to the industrial islands. Stinking, noisy factories processed the resources into large starship components, hull plates and engine cowlings that would be lifted into orbit for assembly into new battleships.
    No one had bothered to explain the plan to the slave crews. Like worker ants, each man and woman had a designated task, and crew supervisors observed the complex flurry of activity from above.
    To Ishmael, it was yet another dirty and difficult labor assignment. He had worked in the cane fields, mines, and factories during the past five years in and around Starda. The intense Zenshiites, as well as the less radical Zensunnis, remained restless as their masters forced them to meet the increased demands of Serena Butler’s galactic war.
    When Ishmael was just a boy, raiders had attacked his peaceful village on Harmonthep. They kidnapped healthy Zensunni settlers and pressed them into service on League planets that accommodated slavery. After more than twenty years, Poritrin was Ishmael’s world now, a home as much as a prison. He had made the best of his life.
    Because Ishmael had caused no obvious trouble, upon reaching adulthood he’d been allowed to take a wife. After all, the Poritrin slave masters wanted to keep their stock thriving; and they had statistics that showed married slaves worked harder and were more easily controlled. Before long, Ishmael had learned to love strong and curious Ozza. She had given him two daughters: Chamal, who was thirteen, and little Falina, now eleven. Their lives were not their own, but at least Ishmael’s family had remained intact through