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

several transfers and new work assignments. Ishmael never knew if that had been a reward for his acceptable service, or simply a fortuitous accident.
    Now, in the bleak industrial shipyards, orange sparks and the splashing glow of hot alloys turned the work site into a vision of Heol, as described in the Buddislamic Sutras. The hiss of sulfurous smoke, the tang of metal dust and scorched ores, forced the slaves to wrap blackened rags around their faces in order to breathe.
    Beside him, he saw the sweaty, perpetually angry visage of his childhood friend Aliid, whom Ishmael had only recently rediscovered at the shipyard work site. Although the other man’s coiled brashness made Ishmael feel threatened and uncomfortable, friendship was one of the few threads to which they could hold.
    Even when they were boys, Aliid had been trouble, willing to break rules, committing vandalism and minor sabotage. Because Ishmael was his friend, both of them had often suffered punishments and transfers. Before the boys became teenagers they were separated and did not see each other again for nearly eighteen years.
    But Tio Holtzman’s ambitious new construction project had thrown many slaves together in the foundries and factories. Ishmael and Aliid had discovered each other again.
    Now, under a clatter of hammers and the percussive drumbeat of rivet-welders, Ishmael maneuvered the machinery over hull-plate seams. Over the years, his muscles had grown large, as had Aliid’s. Though his clothes were dirty and worn, Ishmael cropped his hair and shaved his weathered cheeks, chin, and neck. Aliid, though, let his dark hair grow long and tied it back with a thong. His beard was thick and black like Bel Moulay’s, the outspoken Zenshiite leader who had tried to lead a slave revolt when they were just boys.
    Ishmael climbed up beside his friend, helping to wrestle the heavy metal sheet into place. Aliid activated the rivet welder before either man checked the alignment. Aliid’s work was sloppy and he knew it, but the Poritrin nobles and work supervisors never penalized them or even criticized their work. Ship after ship had been assembled in space above the quiet planet. By now, dozens of bristling war vessels clustered in orbit like a pack of trained hunting dogs, waiting for an opportunity.
    “Is that within tolerances?” Ishmael asked guardedly. “Unless we seal the hull seams tight, we might cause the deaths of thousands of crew members.”
    Aliid didn’t seem bothered as he continued firing the hot riveting gun. He yanked away the greasy cloth that covered his face so that Ishmael could see his hard smile. “Then I’ll apologize to them when I hear their distant spirits screaming in the depths of Heol, where all evil men must go. Besides, if they don’t bother to test the components in orbit, they deserve to suck vacuum.”
    While he had kept a relatively stable assignment and had found some measure of happiness with his family, Ishmael’s deeply troubled friend had been transferred dozens of times. Shouting above the din of the construction yards, Aliid had told him about his wife, whom he loved passionately, and one newborn son, whom he barely remembered. But ten years ago a workmaster had caught Aliid salting the fuel in a big mining grinder; in punishment, he had been transferred away from the work group and sent to the other side of Poritrin.
    Aliid had never seen his wife again, never held his son. No wonder the man was bitter and angry. But though he had obviously brought the disaster upon himself, Aliid wanted to hear none of Ishmael’s admonishments. To him, no one but the people of Poritrin were to blame. Why should he care about the lives of crew members aboard these ships?
    Oddly enough, the workmasters and shipbuilders didn’t seem to care about quality either, as if they were more concerned with assembling the vessels rapidly than with making them functional. Or safe.
    Ishmael went back to work diligently. It never