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Dune [Frank Herbert's Dune Saga Collection: Books 1 - 6]
- Автор: Херберт Фрэнк
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penguin Publishing Group
- Жанр: Эпическое фэнтези
Электронная книга - «Dune [Frank Herbert's Dune Saga Collection: Books 1 - 6]». Краткое содержание книги:
*DUNE* IS SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE directed by Denis Villeneuve, starring Timothée Chalamet, Josh Brolin, Jason Momoa, Zendaya, Rebecca Ferguson, Oscar Isaac, Javier Bardem, Dave Bautista, Stellan Skarsgård, and Charlotte Rampling.
In the far future, on a remote planet, an epic adventure awaits. Here are the first six novels of Frank Herbert’s magnificent Dune saga—a triumph of the imagination and one of the bestselling science fiction series of all time.
The Dune Saga begins on the desert planet Arrakis with the story of the boy Paul Atreides—who would become known as Muad’Dib—and of a great family’s ambition to bring to fruition humankind’s most ancient and unattainable dream....
Includes Books 1 - 6: DUNE • DUNE MESSIAH • CHILDREN OF DUNE • GOD EMPEROR OF DUNE • HERETICS OF DUNE • CHAPTERHOUSE: DUNE
He wiped the tears from her face.
“I don’t want to be part of history,” she whispered. “I just want to be loved . . . and to love.”
“You are loved,” he said.
“Ahhh, loyal, loyal Duncan,” she said.
“Please, don’t call me that,” he pleaded.
“But you are,” she said. “And loyalty is a valued commodity. It can be sold . . . not bought, but sold.”
“I don’t like your cynicism,” he said.
“Damn your logic! It’s true!”
“Sleep,” he said.
“Do you love me, Duncan?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is that one of those lies,” she asked, “one of the lies that are easier to believe than the truth? Why am I afraid to believe you?”
“You fear my differences as you fear your own.”
“Be a man, not a mentat!” she snarled.
“I am a mentat and a man.”
“Will you make me your woman, then?”
“I will do what love demands.”
“And loyalty?”
“And loyalty.”
“That’s where you’re dangerous,” she said.
Her words disturbed him. No sign of the disturbance arose to his face, no muscle trembled—but she knew it. Vision-memory exposed the disturbance. She felt she had missed part of the vision, though, that she should remember something else from the future. There existed another perception which did not go precisely by the senses, a thing which fell into her head from nowhere the way prescience did. It lay in the Time shadows—infinitely painful.
Emotion! That was it—emotion! It had appeared in the vision, not directly, but as a product from which she could infer what lay behind. She had been possessed by emotion—a single constriction made up of fear, grief and love. They lay there in the vision, all collected into a single epidemic body, overpowering and primordial.
“Duncan, don’t let me go,” she whispered.
“Sleep,” he said. “Don’t fight it.”
“I must . . . I must. He’s the bait in his own trap. He’s the servant of power and terror. Violence . . . deification is a prison enclosing him. He’ll lose . . . everything. It’ll tear him apart.”
“You speak of Paul?”
“They drive him to destroy himself,” she gasped, arching her back. “Too much weight, too much grief. They seduce him away from love.” She sank back to the bed. “They’re creating a universe where he won’t permit himself to live.”
“Who is doing this?”
“He is! Ohhh, you’re so dense. He’s part of the pattern. And it’s too late . . . too late . . . too late . . .”
As she spoke, she felt her awareness descend, layer by layer. It came to rest directly behind her navel. Body and mind separated and merged in a storehouse of relic visions—moving, moving . . . She heard a fetal heartbeat, a child of the future. The melange still possessed her, then, setting her adrift in Time. She knew she had tasted the life of a child not yet conceived. One thing certain about this child—it would suffer the same awakening she had suffered. It would be an aware, thinking entity before birth.
There exists a limit to the force even the most powerful may apply without destroying themselves. Judging this limit is the true artistry of government. Misuse of power is the fatal sin. The law cannot be a tool of vengeance, never a hostage, nor a fortification against the martyrs it has created. You cannot threaten any individual and escape the consequences.
—MUAD’DIB ON LAW
FROM THE STILGAR COMMENTARY
Chani stared out at the morning desert framed in the fault cleft below Sietch Tabr. She wore no stillsuit, and this made her feel unprotected here in the desert. The sietch grotto’s entrance lay hidden in the buttressed cliff above and behind her.
The desert . . . the desert . . . She felt that the desert had followed her wherever she had gone. Coming back to the desert was not so much a homecoming as a turning around to see what had always been there.
A painful constriction surged through her abdomen. The birth would be soon. She fought down the pain, wanting this moment alone with her desert.
Dawn stillness gripped the land. Shadows fled among the dunes and terraces of the Shield Wall all around. Daylight lunged over the high scarp and plunged her up to her eyes in a bleak landscape stretching beneath a washed blue sky. The scene matched the feeling of dreadful cynicism which had tormented her since the moment she’d learned of Paul’s blindness.
Why are we here? she wondered.
It was not a hajra, a journey of seeking. Paul sought nothing here except, perhaps, a place for her to give birth. He had summoned odd companions for this journey, she thought—Bijaz, the Tleilaxu dwarf; the ghola, Hayt, who might be Duncan Idaho’s revenant; Edric, the Guild Steersman-Ambassador; Gaius Helen Mohiam, the Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother he so obviously hated; Lichna, Otheym’s strange daughter, who seemed unable to move beyond the watchful eyes of guards; Stilgar, her uncle of the Naibs, and his favorite wife, Harah . . . and Irulan . . . Alia . . .
The sound of wind through the rocks accompanied her thoughts. The desert day had become yellow on yellow, tan on tan, gray on gray.
Why such a strange mixture of companions?
“We have forgotten,” Paul had said in response to her question, “that the word ‘company’ originally meant traveling companions. We are a company.”
“But what value are they?”
“There!” he’d said, turning his frightful sockets toward her. “We’ve lost that clear, single-note of living. If it cannot be bottled, beaten, pointed or hoarded, we give it no value.”
Hurt, she’d said: “That’s not what I meant.”
“Ahhh, dearest one,” he’d said, soothing, “we are so money-rich and so life-poor. I am evil, obstinate, stupid . . .”
“You are not!”
“That, too, is true. But my hands are blue with time. I think . . . I think I tried to invent life, not realizing it’d already been invented.”
And he’d touched her abdomen to feel the new life there.
Remembering, she placed both hands over her abdomen and trembled, sorry that she’d asked Paul to bring her here.
The desert wind had stirred up evil odors from the fringe plantings which anchored the dunes at the cliff base. Fremen superstition gripped her: evil odors, evil times. She faced into the wind, saw a worm appear outside the plantings. It arose like the prow of a demon ship out of the dunes, threshed sand, smelled the water deadly to its kind, and fled beneath a long, burrowing mound.
She hated the water then, inspired by the worm’s fear. Water, once the spirit-soul of Arrakis, had become a poison. Water brought pestilence. Only the desert was clean.
Below her, a Fremen work gang appeared. They climbed to the sietch’s middle entrance, and she saw that they had muddy feet.
Fremen with muddy feet!
The children of the sietch began singing to the morning above her, their voices piping from the upper entrance. The voices made her feel time fleeing from her like hawks before the wind. She shuddered.
What storms did Paul see with his eyeless vision?
She sensed a vicious madman in him, someone weary of songs and polemics.
The sky, she noted, had become crystal gray filled with alabaster rays, bizarre designs etched across the heavens by windborne sand. A line of gleaming white in the south caught her attention. Eyes suddenly alerted, she interpreted the sign: White sky in the south: Shai-hulud’s mouth. A storm came, big wind. She felt the warning breeze, a crystal blowing of sand against her cheeks. The incense of death came on the wind: odors of water flowing in qanats, sweating sand, flint. The water—that was why Shai-hulud sent his coriolis wind.