Prologue
"The planet is a wasteland. Every inch of its surface is baked sand or rock. The indigenous people fight for the water in a dead man's body with the same ferocity that the Covenant used when they almost destroyed us. They fight with knives made from teeth scavenged from the giant monsters that live in the sand. It is the most savage and inhospitable world known. Even our glassed planets have a modicum of civilization to them. And yet this dried out hellhole is the most valuable planet in the galaxy."
- Excerpt from a dossier written by Admiral Serin Osman
The sun had not risen five minutes ago, and it was already uncomfortably hot. Shimmering mirages rose like waterfalls in reverse off the baked desert sands. The interior of the Pelican was equipped with air conditioning, but the sand constantly wormed its way into the vents, choking them. Most days it refused to work at all. This was one such day, and sweat poured off the Marines sitting in the cramped hangar of the dropship. Their stillsuits drank the perspiration, refining it into precious drinking water. The suits were hidden under the Marine's BDU's, and the added layers of ceramic and kevlar worked the shoddy replicas of the Fremen desert suits into overtime.
In the cockpit, the pilots and Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Trevelyan fared little better. Outfitted in MJOLNIR, the LC was better able to resist the heat of the desert world. His armor performed with the same efficiency as any Fremen suit, albeit through entirely different technology. The unfortunate pilots were struggling with the torrid air, however. Newly transferred to the blistering planet, they hadn't adapted to the temperatures as Malcolm or his Marines had, and their stillsuits had yet to arrive from the Misriah facility at the planet's capital. The prospect of dehydration and heatstroke were very real threats at the moment. Malcolm saw this, as he had so many times before. "Let me take the helm," he said, "get some air." The copilot did not argue, unbuckling himself and taking refuge in the shadowed hangar. His comrade was less yielding, wiping his eyes and continuing to look out the cockpit. "I'll make it, sir. We're almost to the rig." Malcolm sighed. The rooks are always susceptible to pride and stubbornness. Being posted on this planet was considered high risk, and an honorable deployment. Bloated egos deflated quickly, however, if they were expected to survive. Malcolm stepped forward and rested his hand on the man's shoulder. "I can take us the last few kilometers. We'll need your skills shortly. I can't have you passing out in the middle of a firefight."
The pilot paused, and yielded. Malcolm took his seat as the man followed his copilot. The Spartan settled into the seat, darkening his visor to protect his eyes from the harsh glare. He had taken numerous flight classes after he was granted command of UNSC forces on the desert world. It was considered unorthodox for a commander to pilot a VTOL, but Trevelyan knew nothing was orthodox on this world. All had to contribute however they could, or their strenuous hold on the planet would snap. Behind his Pelican, four other dropships flew in a wedge formation. An additional four 'thopter intercept craft flew in a square formation around the dropships. A full company of Marines, led by Spartans, and an escort. for anything else, such a response would be considered overkill. But this rig was situated over a rich lode buried deep beneath the sand. Billions of credits, and worth the extravagant deployment.
The rig came into view. Bulky and monolithic, the rig was larger than most buildings in the capital. Normally, a geyser of sand would be erupting continuously, cascading endlessly back into the desert as its precious resource was extracted. Today, though, all production was suspended. A garbled transmission sent nine hours earlier pleaded for help, though the source of the distress wasn't revealed. That the rig was still there was a good sign. If one of the planet's indigenous lifeforms had attacked, there would be nothing except a large crater. As the formation approached, metal glinted and glittered beside, on and above the rig. This caught Trevelyan's eye in more ways than one. Each rig was a haphazard patchwork of repairs and add-ons. The hot wind gouged millions of microscopic scratches into the metal, tarnishing everything. Nothing on a rig shined. Several of the specks above the rig grew larger with each second.
Malcolm opened the comms. "Spread out and get ready. The rig has been boarded. I repeat, the rig has-" A hail of crackling blue energy interrupted him. Malcolm swore and took evasive maneuvers, pitching out of the way as a purple-hued aircraft wailed past. "Banshees! Break off, now!" The Pelicans scattered as a wing of Type-54 "Banshees" swarmed them. The nimble aircraft filled the air with plasma, scorching the hulls of the VTOLs. The pilots returned to the cockpit, and Malcolm entered the hangar. The Marines were already prepped, but still double and triple checked their weapons. Malcolm equipped himself accordingly, selecting a Battle Rifle and a sidearm. The bay door opened with a hiss, buffeting the passengers with a hot, dry gale.
The dropships landed on the various platforms jutting out from the rig. The troops rushed out, led by their Spartan officers. The Pelicans took off, evading the fliers and luring them above the rig, away from the soldiers. The nimble 'thopters had already engaged, peppering the Banshees with bullet holes. Fleet as they were, the Banshees were sturdy. It would take many rounds to bring them down, or a lucky shot to one of the antigravity generators. But the alien pilots were tenacious, and focused entirely on the human aircraft, forgetting the interlopers on the rig below.
Firefights broke out across the rig. A sizable alien force had dug into the facility, as intent on gathering the precious spice as the humans were. These were not of the faction that had allied themselves with the UNSC. Their purple, unorthodox armor set them apart from the reddish orange scheme of the allied aliens, the Swords of Sanghelios. These raiders were Covenant, remnants of the old theocracy that waged its war with humanity years ago. But whether Sword, Covenant or human, they all sought out the spice, and fought all the harder for it. The skirmish was brief, but brutal. In the scorching heat of the early morning sun, the UNSC pummeled the Covenant without mercy. They outnumbered the aliens, were better equipped, were in better condition. As the enemy forces were routed, it occured to Trevelyan that these were likely desperate scavengers, attempting to strip as much as they could and retreat before they triggered a response. They hadn't anticipated such a swift counter strike. They don't even have dropships, He thought with incredulity. Likely sent them ahead, bellies laden with stolen spice.
The rig quake, sending settled dust and sand raining from the nooks and crannies of the structure. A plume of detritus rose from the southwest, eliciting shouts of surprise and distress from soldiers on that side of the rig. Trevelyan made his way there, along with several curious Marines. As they arrived, the Marines already there pointed out across the desert, clamoring in awe and fear. Trevelyan looked to see what they are pointing at, zooming in with his visor. He spotted it immediately, and murmured a silent prayer. A Scarab rose from the sands some three kilometers distant. Yellow streams poured off of the gargantuan tank like water. It raised a monstrous leg and stepped, vibrating the desert with the mighty footfall. Even from this distance, it jarred the platform. Three more legs rose, lifting the Scarab from the self-made crater. Slowly but determinedly, it marched toward the rig, and each step shockwaved out into the desert. The idiots, Malcolm thought as his blood turned to ice. They've killed themselves! "EVACUATE THE RIG!"
Trevelyan relayed the message to his Spartan lieutenants, and they spread the word across the rig. The Pelicans returned, several with fresh charring across their hulls. The company filed onto the dropships, and several were unusually panicky and rushed. Veterans of the planet, who had seen what the deserts had to offer. They know. They know what is coming, Trevelyan thought grimly as he does a head count. Twelve of the Marines had not returned, and their comrades carried their dog tags and weapons. The crew, some twenty odd souls, had not been found. If they were on the rig, they were dead or soon would be. If they had been captured, then they awaited worse things than death at the hands of the zealous, bloodthirsty Covenant. Thirty more losses. Those at the capital might see it as a waste of trained, experienced men. Others would see it as a relief on precious resources, such as water. Malcolm saw it as another tragedy in an ever growing list of tragedies on the hellish planet.
The Pelicans took off as the Scarab continued its approach. The wedge-shaped AA gun atop the tank fired a few bolts at them, but the plasma fizzled and evaporated before coming close. Above them, the 'thopters finished off the Banshees and returned to them. One of the 'thopter pilots contacted the lead Pelican. "To the southeast, sir! Five kilometers out!" Malcolm knew what it is without needing confirmation. "How far out are we?" he asked the Pelican pilot. "About eighteen hundred feet up and two klicks north of the rig." Malcolm nodded, and said, "Open the hangar doors. The pilot looked at him, "Sir?" Malcolm removed his helmet and pressed his finger against his throat mic, relaying the message to the other four Pelicans. "Something's about to happen that the greenhorns among you haven't seen. I want you to witness just what kind of danger this planet has. Open the hangar doors, pilots." He dropped comms and made his way to the back of the hangar.
The dropships slowed and hovered as their doors opened, letting in the hot wind. Far below them, the beetle-like Scarab had almost reached the rig, which dwarfed even the giant tank. But to the southeast, something larger than either approached. A whirlwind of dust and sand, crackling with lightning. Static electricity, Malcolm knew, caused by friction from sand rubbing against it. A hill stretched behind the cloud, a bank of sand as wide as a carrier and half a league in length. The hill followed the static storm, winding its way toward the Scarab at frightening speeds. A half kilometer away from the tank, the hill deflated, dissipating the storm. A few Marines muttered in confusion at the change, but Malcolm knew. It wasn't gone, but diving deep into the sand. The Scarab was oblivious as it crossed the final few hundred meters to the rig. A few crackling bolts of dry lightning jumped between the tank's legs and the sand.
Around the Scarab, the sand and dust started to sink in. The tank halted, swiveling its eye-like primary cannon back and forth as a bowl formed around it. The Scarab pilots realized the danger and charged the cannon, which radiated a lime-green aura, but it was too late. The Scarab's legs sank as the previously packed soul rippled and loosened. A forest of glittering spikes rose out of the sides of the bowl, and a subsonic rumbling began. The tank kicked and scrambled in an attempt to free itself, even firing a green half-charged bolt at a nearby stalagmite, splintering and shattering it along a crystalline plane. They've made it angry, Malcolm observed. A deafening bellow rose from the bowl, scattering the sand and causing it to drop suddenly. The Scarab disappeared down the sinkhole, letting out a metal bellow as its hydraulics were pushed past their breaking point. From this distance, it sounded like a frightened cry for help.
A chute of dust erupted from the ground, carrying with it a gargantuan worm. The breaching monster was grayish brown, with skin like granite. It's mouth split into three wide jaws, lined with thousands of sparkling diamond teeth. A rolling wave spread out from the worm, kicking up dust as it approached the Pelicans. It hit with a deafening bang, like a volcanic eruption. And it carried with it a roar of unimaginable power, full of pain and anger. The dropships rattled with the ferocity of it, and several of the Marines yelled and whooped at the spectacle. The worm rose more than six hundred meters from the desert before it began to fall. The rig disappeared beneath its shadow. The worm landed, crushing and annihilating the human construct like a man falling on a house of matchsticks. Smoke and dust fanned out and swallowed the rig and the worm both. The dropships were silent as the Marines solemnly, or in shock, took in the display. A few moments later, a static storm rolled away from the wreckage, followed by the same winding hill. Malcolm spoke as the sandworm meandered away from the devastation it caused with utter indifference.
"Welcome to Dune."