A return to Dune

There are plans well under way to remake one of my favorite literary universes. So I sit and write a chapter in a book never written, by an author never authorized, about a place that never was.

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I sit in the sietch by the sand trout traps. I'm reminded of what Leto was heard saying once before. "My skin is not my own."

As I watched the sand trout move about in the trap. I thought, it's true what they've been saying. That the dead people of Earth are going to remake us. Remake Arrakis... Earth, who have lost their souls long ago are now coming to remake us. We fought so hard to focus what it truly meant to be Arrakeen, Fremen. What will we be now?

There is to be a Paul that is for sure but what kind of leader will he be then? With the soulless people of Earth what will his Chani become? Will there even be a Duncan Idaho? Or will they change him to her? They truly have no souls. Even worse than the Harkonnens. Will they make them the heroes?

What of me? What is to be my fate? I am still of Earth although I have fought hard to be here, to be Fremen. To learn the ways of hardship and perseverance. With the coming of Earth all of this, this desert is for nothing. They will remake ocean's where there was sand. They shall turn the old man of the desert into some grotesque horror show for their amusement. I know them all too well. All too well.

If I wait until the night, strike out and ride the worm far into the forbidden desert. Would I escape the touch of this, remake? Even before attempting I know such a journey to be folly. Earth misses nothing when it's time to change the natural order of anything.

Arrakis is where I ran to as they died on their soulless planet. Arrakis gave meaning to the pain and suffering. Arrakis became home for the homeless. Now to be remade by those who took my home. And not even a Kwisatz Haderach will stop them.

Shai-Hulud I knew you not to be God. But I did know you to be a monolithic symbol of the way that things are to be. Not something to be worshiped, but something to see as anchor to my reality. They will remake you. They will bridal you with saddle and ride you and make fun of what was once proud and stoic.

Of the fearsome Fedaykin they shall make political the statement that bears your name. They shall remake you with leaders who are less impressive than the sand trout that I play with in this trap. Of the men of the tribe, they shall show you weak and failing. Of the women of the tribe they shall show you masculine and without family.

My adopted people will no longer be the strong secret of many. They will lose their blue within blue eyes showing the trueness of who and what we are. They will no longer be honored to be the protectors of the spice melange. Skilled worm riders. They shall become a joke of diversity. Followers of the minority. Haters of their own history. Earth will even take our Crysknifes! 

I know this because I am from Earth. And that skin is no longer my skin.