Paul of Dune

Emperor Muad’Dib

10,197 AG

Four Years After the Beginning of the Jihad

1

Fighting unnoticed beside his fellow soldiers, Muad’Dib wore a ragged uniform that had been cleaned and patchily repaired after being taken from the body of a fallen warrior. Having spent hours in the fight, his knife arm ached, and his ears rang from the explosions and screams. His nostrils burned from drinking in the nauseating cocktail of smells that hung in the air — the acrid discharges of slow explosives, spilled blood, burned flesh, churned dirt.

From so many planetary battlegrounds and so many victories in the four years of the Jihad, the disguised Emperor did not know the name of this world where so many of his followers were dying. During the horrific combat and its aftermath, what did names matter? He was sure this place was little different from the countless others that Gurney and Stilgar had described.

But he had needed to see it for himself, fight with his own hands, spill blood with his own weapons. I owe it to them.

No detailed report from his generals, no council meeting had ever driven home the depths of this hell. Yes, he had escaped with his mother on the night of the Harkonnen takeover of Arrakeen, and yes, he had fought with his Fremen on razzia raids against Beast Rabban, and yes, he had led them to victory against Emperor Shaddam and his Sardaukar. But few of his followers understood the noble goals of this war, especially the common soldiers. Only he could see the whirlwind, and the far worse fate that awaited the human race if his Jihad failed.

As he forged ahead into the future, he saw hazards in every decision, death and pain on every side. It reminded him of the ancient story of Odysseus and his voyage that required him to chart a perilous course between two dangers, the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis — a pair of water hazards that no one raised on Dune could grasp. But here, now, the path ahead seemed less clear, and clouded in a mist of uncertainty. Paul only knew that somewhere beyond this Jihad, perhaps many generations later, lay a safe harbor. He still believed he could guide humankind along the correct, narrow path. He had to believe it.

For those who could not see the large and subtle tapestry of fate, however, this battle was a slaughter of nearly helpless civilians on a formerly peaceful planet.

The reports would call it a victory.

But after years of growing more and more separated from the realities of the Jihad, he had decided he needed more than reports. Reports were not enough to convey what was truly happening across the Imperium… what he had set in motion.

One night inside his quiet, protected Arrakeen quarters that were newly finished by Bludd, he had dreamed of Gurney Halleck, Stilgar, and dozens of other commanders with their legions of Fremen warriors and converts. He valued (and was grateful to) every single one of those men, but he had remained on Dune, perfectly safe, while they fought and died.

Was that enough? He didn’t think so. Duke Leto had personally led Atreides forces against Grumman during the War of Assassins. Paul knew that reading battlefield summaries could never give him the visceral level of understanding that came from experiencing the harsh conditions with his men, the lack of sleep, the explosions, the constant wariness, the blood. He had dispatched vast armies to crush worlds, and the fighters screamed his name as they died for him — while he remained in the comfort of his palace in Arrakeen.

Not enough.

But if he had publicly announced his intention to lead a battle, his generals would have found ways to shield him by choosing a soft planet where there was sure to be only minimal resistance. The battle would have been as false for him as the costume stillsuits that vendors sold to unwary pilgrims. Paul could not simply hide inside his ever-growing citadel and be treated as a god. His father had taught him better than that. The moment a leader forgot his people, he forgot himself.

Not enough, he had told himself again. He needed to do it on his own terms, and a plan had begun to form in his mind….

He knew that if any of his Jihad fighters recognized his features from the silhouetted profile on so many banners or on newly minted coins, they would form a protective barrier around him fifty men thick. Battle commanders would refuse to engage the enemy, pull Muad’Dib to safety, and keep him in an orbiting Guild Heighliner for fear that he might come to harm.

That was why Paul cut and dyed his hair and procured a used uniform before beginning this masquerade as a common soldier. Telling no one but Chani where he was going, he signed up among the blur of recruits joining a new operation. Paul intentionally chose the unit of one of his lesser commanders, Jeurat, someone not familiar with him on a personal level. As a new soldier, he had passed a cursory inspection and demonstrated basic fighting proficiency to a Fremen soldier who could not have been more than eighteen years old. After that, Paul’s unit had crowded aboard a military frigate and flown away from Dune.

Paul knew that the people he left behind would be frantic, though Chani would assure them he lived, without revealing where he had gone or what he was doing. Even so, they would bemoan the thousands of supposedly important decisions they needed him to make. But he wanted them to be weaned from their dependence on Muad’Dib. If they craved a security blanket, they could simply project a holo-image of him and be comforted.

If Paul did not do this thing, he feared he might lose all grasp of the true cost he was asking humanity — all unknowingly — to bear.

Only once had he heard the name of the planet that was their destination, Ehknot. Paul had never seen it marked on any star charts and wondered why it had been labeled such a threat. He doubted even Emperor Shaddam had been aware of this place.

On Ehknot the ground battles of the Jihad changed, and Paul’s unit was forced to fight using different tactics. On two previous embattled worlds, the truly desperate rebels against Muad’Dib — prodded by Earl Memnon Thorvald — had begun to use lasguns recklessly and maliciously, firing upon shielded warriors. Although anyone shooting a lasgun into a shield would be killed by the feedback pulse, the pseudo-atomic detonation produced by the interaction was so devastating that it wiped out thousands of Jihad soldiers at a time. The death toll in those engagements had been appalling. Such fighting had been reviled and forbidden for millennia, antithetical to all civilized rules of warfare. But the rebels discarded civilized rules. One of the greatest taboos of conflict had been broken.

People used such tactics only when they had nothing left to lose, and Muad’Dib’s soldiers learned their lesson, becoming wary. To guard against these shocking suicide tactics, they discarded personal shields, and here on Ehknot they fought on a more primal level. Fremen, who had never liked to rely upon body shields, now took up hand-to-hand fighting with crysknives for close-range work, and projectile weapons to shoot down distant targets. Remembering the old Harkonnen military assault on Arrakeen, some of the commanders even used large artillery guns to blast away physical barricades.

Paul could barely remember his own actions here during the fighting. Once the bloodshed started, he had lost all control of himself. His sight had become only a red haze, and he went into a frenzy more consuming than the most potent spice vision. He did not focus on the razor-thin path to a safe future, did not ponder the vast canvas of history or the requirements prescience had imposed upon him. He merely killed.

Paul’s fighting skills were still superior to those of most of his warriors, for he had been taught by the best: Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and Gurney Halleck. His mother had shown him Bene Gesserit fighting methods, and among the Fremen he had learned yet another set of skills.

The battle was a long, difficult moment of insanity for him, though his fellow soldiers came to regard him as a Blessed One, a fanatic of fanatics. By the time the fighting ended, the survivors glanced in his direction with awe, as if they believed he was possessed by a holy spirit.

In the smoldering aftermath, he heard wailing voices call, “Muad’Dib, save me! Muad’Dib!” With a start, Paul wondered if someone had recognized him, then realized that the wounded were merely invoking any help they could imagine.

No wonder a hardened Gurney gave no more than lukewarm responses when asked to lead more and more offensives. Planets fell, one after another, and now Paul became aware of the truly heavy toll he had placed on his friend. Affable Gurney, the troubadour warrior whose talent with a baliset was as well known as his skill with a sword. He had made the man an earl of Caladan, then denied him any time to settle there and make a real life. Gurney, I am sorry. And you did not complain for a moment.

As far as he knew, Stilgar still felt that he belonged with his Fremen warriors, but Paul made up his mind to find a new, planetbound assignment for Gurney, a role that might give him a sense of accomplishment, something other than… this. He deserved better.

Paul was covered with blood, and his borrowed uniform was torn, but he had only superficial cuts and scrapes. Suk doctors and scavengers combed the battlefield, tending the injured and harvesting the dead. He saw groups of Tleilaxu moving furtively from one fallen warrior to another, taking the most time with the greatest of the dead fighters. The Tleilaxu had always served as handlers of the dead, but these men seemed to be collecting samples….

Simply one more horror among all the others.

Paul looked up with eyes that were blue-within-blue from spice addiction, but dry of tears. He saw a shaven-headed man, formerly a Fremen but now a priest, a member of the Qizara. The priest seemed to be experiencing a state of rapture. He raised his hands over the clouds of dust and curls of smoke, absorbing the horror of the battlefield that still throbbed in the air. He looked directly at Paul, but did not recognize him. With Paul’s haunted eyes and blood-spattered face, and covered from head to foot with the filth of battle, he wondered if even Chani would know who he was.

“You are blessed by God, protected so that you can continue our holy work,” the priest said to him. He swept his gaze slowly across the battlefield, and a smile appeared on his lips. “Ehknot, behold the invincibility of Muad’Dib.”

Paul did behold, but did not see what the priest saw. And at the moment, no matter what the priest said, he did not feel at all invincible.

2

Lady Margot Fenring had not been to the Bene Gesserit home-world in some time, but it had not changed. Sienna tiles still covered the roofs of the sprawling Mother School complex, which surrounded the main buildings that dated back thousands of years. To the Sisterhood, Wallach IX was a ship of constancy floating in a vast and changing cosmic sea.

For all their intense study of human nature and society, the Sisterhood was an extremely conservative organization. “Adapt or die” was a primary Bene Gesserit axiom, though they seemed to have forgotten how to follow it. Margot had gradually come to realize this. As far as she was concerned, they were not her superiors. The unparalleled disaster of Paul Atreides and the almost complete loss of Bene Gesserit political power had eroded her respect for them.

She and her husband had spent years in isolation among the Tleilaxu, raising Marie, developing an overall plan. And now the Mother Superior had summoned her with orders to bring her daughter in “for inspection.”

Since childhood, Lady Margot had been trained to obey the commands of her superiors — commands that had required her to bear the child in the first place — but the Sisterhood might not get the answers they anticipated. Margot came to Wallach IX on her own terms.

She hoped the Sisterhood had no additional breeding plans for her. Yes, Lady Margot looked considerably younger than her years, and her willowy beauty had been enhanced by careful and regular consumption of melange and a regimen of prana-bindu exercises. With good fortune, her seductive appearance and reproductive functions would last for several more decades… and Hasimir was so understanding.

But little Marie should be her culminating achievement. The Sisterhood had to be made to see that.

Margot had commanded the nanny Tonia Obregah-Xo to remain behind in Thalidei, though the woman had obviously expected to accompany them to Wallach IX. Tonia sent regular reports to the Mother School, using clandestine methods that were only too familiar to Margot herself. Once, Lady Margot had intercepted a message to the Sisterhood and had surreptitiously added her own postscript. That had caused rancor among the Bene Gesserits and a change in secret reporting procedures, but Margot had wanted to let them know that she was her own woman, and that she served at her pleasure, not theirs.

Nevertheless, she had agreed to make the journey and let the Reverend Mothers “inspect” five-year-old Marie all they wanted, but the Sisterhood would not control her destiny. Too much was at stake.

Now, she and Count Fenring sat on a garden bench with the girl between them. All of them waiting. Waiting. An obvious and childish game the Sisters were playing. Behind them was the stylized black quartz statue of a kneeling woman: Raquella Berto-Anirul, the founder of the ancient school. Thick rain clouds hung over the school, and the temperature was cool, though not uncomfortable. The courtyard sheltered them from the wind.

Finally, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam approached with a group of five Sisters, her bird-bright gaze intent on little Marie.

Lady Margot stood. “I have brought my daughter as requested, Reverend Mother.” An automatic response.

Mohiam frowned pointedly at Count Fenring. “We do not often allow males to enter the grounds of the Mother School.”

“Your hospitality is, ahh, noted.” He smiled, keeping a protective hand on the little girl’s shoulder. The Bene Gesserits knew full well that Count Hasimir Fenring was a deadly assassin and master spy himself, so Lady Margot had no doubt that her husband’s presence here caused great consternation among their order.

Hasimir was himself a failed Kwisatz Haderach, a genetic eunuch and a dead end near the finish line of the millennia-long breeding program. But the actual Kwisatz Haderach, Paul Atreides, had backfired on them, with consequences too disastrous to imagine. From this point on, with Marie’s amazing potential, Count Fenring and Lady Margot were perfectly capable of developing and implementing their own dynastic schemes.

Both she and her husband had worked for inept superiors. The failures of Shaddam Corrino IV were not unlike those of the Sisterhood. Through a strange and cruel twist of fate, two immense and foolish courses of action had merged into one another to amplify a horrible result. The human race would be a long time recovering from Muad’Dib.

Reverend Mother Mohiam bent forward, turning her attention to the young girl. “So this is the child.” Reaching out, the old woman passed a hand through the child’s light blonde hair. “I see you have your mother’s lovely features.”

She’s also noticed a similarity to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, Margot thought.

“And such milky smooth skin.” Mohiam rubbed one of the girl’s forearms. Marie endured the attention in silence. “Like your mother’s.”

Mohiam’s hand went quickly into a pocket of her robe, surreptitiously depositing the hair and skin samples she had just taken. It was a matter of procedure, of constant observation and documentation, more information for the breeding files, data points with dates and places and names on them.

“And the child’s training regimen?” Mohiam looked at Margot.

“A combination of my knowledge and my husband’s, as well as instructions from her Bene Gesserit nanny. Surely Tonia has sent you detailed reports?”

Mohiam ignored the latter comment. “Good. We are glad you brought her here so that her education can continue properly. We will keep her, of course.”

“I am afraid that will, ahhh, not be possible,” her husband said, his voice as taut as a garrote.

Mohiam was taken aback. The Sisters with her stared at him. “That is not your decision.”

Smiling prettily, Margot said, “We did not bring Marie to leave her at the Mother School. She does quite well with us.”

“Ahh, quite well,” Fenring added.

Margot noted the tension in the air, saw furtive shapes moving behind windows, Sisters hurrying through the porticos. While these five Sisters were watching the little girl most closely, others had been assigned to observe Count Fenring and Margot. Subtle body movements of the three subjects would be recorded and analyzed in the most minute detail. More data points. Somewhere back there lurked the Mother Superior herself.

“This sudden intractability — has Muad’Dib enlisted you as an ally?” When Mohiam asked this, her robed companions moved closer like a small flock of black birds, as if to protect the old woman from attack.

Count Fenring laughed, but said nothing; little Marie laughed in a similar tenor.

“We do not mock you, Reverend Mother,” Margot said. “My family is merely amused at your suggestion that we might be cooperating with the man who overthrew Shaddam Corrino. You all know that my Hasimir considered the former Emperor quite a close friend.” After exchanging glances with the Count, she added, “Rather, we came in response to your summons, with an interesting proposal.”

Little Marie piped up, “The Imperium has the head of a monster, and it must be decapitated.”

The Sisters were visibly startled by such bold talk from the child. “Muad’Dib is a monster,” Lady Margot said. “Your own Kwisatz Haderach is completely out of control, and you are at fault. Your plans failed to account for the damage he’s inflicted upon the universe. We must make alternative plans to take care of him.”

Fenring leaned forward on the stone bench. “Is anyone more hated than the Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib, hmmm?”

Mohiam did not answer, but Lady Margot knew that the old woman loathed Paul more than most.

“Perhaps Marie can sit on the throne instead,” Margot said. “Is there anyone better bred? Better suited?”

The old Reverend Mother snapped backward. Bene Gesserits did not seize power so openly. “They will never accept a child — and a girl at that!”

“After Muad’Dib, they will be inclined to accept many things, so long as he is gone,” Fenring said.

The old woman paced, ignoring the other four Sisters, ignoring Marie. The girl stood perfectly still, watching intently, listening to everything. “You are an intriguing combination of motives and methods, Margot. Intriguing, indeed. You defy our ways and jab at our mistakes, while trying to involve us in a dangerous plot.”

“The Sisterhood must adapt and survive. It is a simple, rational conclusion. Through my husband’s experience and unique abilities, he has worked out a scenario that benefits all of us.”

Fenring bobbed his head. “There are ways we can get close to Muad’Dib, ways to make him let his guard down.”

Mohiam’s dark eyes regarded the Count with new interest. “True enough, there is a need to adapt. There is also a need for balance — that too, is one of our precepts. I would hear your proposal, but I insist that the girl be as prepared as possible. As part of any agreement, the girl must remain here for training in the Mother School.”

“Out of the question.” Margot put an arm around her daughter, and the child snuggled against her.

Fenring also put an arm around the little girl. “The old ways of the Sisterhood have failed in spectacular fashion, hmmm? Now let us try ours.”

“You would risk Marie’s life in this enterprise?” Mohiam asked.

Lady Margot smiled. “Hardly. Our plan is perfect, as is our method of escape afterward.”

The Reverend Mother’s eyes flashed. “And the details?”

“The details will be an artistic performance,” Margot said. “Since you are not involved, you will learn them after the fact.”

Glancing up at a shadowy shape standing in a window overlooking the courtyard, Mohiam said, “Very well. We will watch with interest.”

3

When he returned to Arrakis, weary and unsettled from the most recent battles against Thorvald’s insurgents, Gurney just wanted to rest in his dusty quarters. But he had barely managed to remove his nose plugs and unfasten his cloak before a pompous Qizarate ambassador arrived at his doorway wearing cumbersome diplomatic garments instead of a traditional stillsuit. Frowning, Gurney took the decree from the functionary, broke the seal, and read it, not caring that the man might look on.

The announcement took his breath away. “Why in the Seven Hells would Paul do that?”

The Emperor had officially given Gurney Halleck the Barony of Giedi Prime. The lumpy, scarred man stood still, breathing quickly through flared nostrils, realizing that Paul probably intended for this to be a reward, shielding him from further horrors of the Jihad by sending him back to the planet of his childhood, just as Paul himself had visited Caladan. But though Giedi Prime had surrendered to Paul almost immediately after the fall of House Harkonnen, for Gurney the place was still a battlefield — a battlefield of the mind, a battlefield of harsh memories.

Gurney shooed the functionary away and reread the decree, reflexively crumpling the spice paper, then straightening the document again. Paul had added a quiet, more personal note. “You can heal it, my loyal friend. It will take thousands of years before anyone might consider Giedi Prime a beautiful place. At the very least, try to change it from a festering wound to a scar. Do it for me, Gurney.”

Sighing, Gurney said to himself, “I serve the Atreides.” And he meant it. He would face his past, and use his best abilities to free the people of Giedi Prime from many generations of Harkonnen repression and imposed darkness. It would not be a simple task.

He already had an earldom on Caladan, but Jessica had taken the title of Duchess, and the people there loved her. He didn’t want to take anything away from her. But… Giedi Prime? Paul was doing him no favors.

Gurney had often fantasized that after a lifetime of fighting he would retire to the country on a well-earned estate with a beautiful woman and a house full of rambunctious children. Somehow, though, he did not see that in his future.

Do it for me, Gurney, Paul had said.

WHEN HE ARRIVED at Giedi Prime, Gurney Halleck received a modest hero’s welcome, though the decidedly subdued population did not know what to make of him. He was the newly named Baron — another painfully unsettling honor. Paul-Muad’Dib had freed this planet from the Harkonnen boot heel, but the people did not know how to rejoice. They were not accustomed to loving their leaders. Even with the yoke of repression removed, no one raised a voice to celebrate.

Seeing them crowded in Harko City reminded Gurney of the magnitude of the challenge he faced, and he felt hollow in his chest. Noting the wan faces, pale complexions, and washed-out demeanors, he remembered seeing the same expressions on the faces of his parents and on his poor sister Bheth, who was eventually raped and murdered, an offhand casualty of Beast Rabban’s cruelty.

Gurney would try to summon the energy and compassion to inspire these people, to have them turn their world around, replant it, reenergize it. But he wasn’t sure they had the heart for it. “You are free now!” Simply telling that to a broken and weary populace did not undo generations of damage. The idea was a good one, in a logical sense, but did Paul honestly believe that a gift of freedom and self-determination would change the psyche of an entire planet?

Yet that was Gurney’s new mission, and he intended to accomplish it — for Paul.

With his own men, mostly drawn from Caladan, Gurney took residence in the city of Barony, the former seat of Harkonnen government. He had a lot of fixing and political housecleaning to do. The gigantic mansion had blocky walls and imposing columns, everything based on squares and angles instead of soft curves. Gurney felt wrong. He did not belong here. Even devastated Salusa Secundus, where he’d once lived among smugglers, was somehow a purer place. At least it did not have a Harkonnen stink about it.

The giant building made him uncomfortable, as if he might find something dangerous around every corner, and he didn’t trust that the Harkonnens had not left unpleasant surprises for any new and unwelcome occupants.

He ordered the great home of Baron Harkonnen to be searched, room by room, every chamber unlocked and scanned. His teams discovered numerous rooms that had obviously been used for torture, booby-trapped chambers that held nothing of obvious value, and several sealed vaults filled with solari coins, preserved melange, and incalculably expensive gems. The fact that none of these rooms had been looted, or even opened, in the five years since the fall of House Harkonnen demonstrated just how much fear the Baron must have inspired.

Gurney had all the treasures liquidated and the profits distributed to the people in the form of public works, as a gesture of goodwill.

He called his government together and summoned the administrators who had been left in de facto control of Giedi Prime for five years since Baron Harkonnen’s death. In an empire so vast and sprawling, no ruler, not even Muad’Dib, could meticulously manage every planet.

The old Harkonnen administrators had been conspicuously absent since Gurney’s arrival on Giedi Prime, but they could no longer avoid him. Having learned of Gurney’s past here, they tried not to meet his gaze; some of them seemed fixated on his inkvine scar; others became simpering toadies trying to ooze their way into his good graces in order to keep their positions. Gurney didn’t much care for any of them; their leadership might have been effective under the old regime, but the harsh methods were ingrained. Just as the people didn’t know how to be free, these administrators did not understand what it meant to be compassionate. He would have to apply all his force of will to ensure that momentum did not drag Giedi Prime back to its former dark and repressive ways.

He needed to make his new philosophy clear to this group of cautious and nervous administrators. He had put this off long enough. “I need to see familiar places. I will go to the slave pits, and to my old village of Dmitri. And you will accompany me.”

Though Gurney had showed very little emotion toward the former leaders, he was sure they expected him to take out his ire on them, and Gurney did not disabuse them of that notion.

First, he made a visit of state to the slave pits where he had been sentenced because he’d dared to sing songs that mocked the Baron. Here, he had mined and processed absurdly expensive blue obsidian, and Rabban had struck him with his inkvine whip. Here, he had been tied down and forced to watch in helpless horror as Rabban and his men sexually assaulted poor Bheth, then strangled her to death. Here, Gurney had found a way to escape by stowing away aboard a cargo ship that carried a load of blue obsidian bound for Duke Leto Atreides.

Looking around the site, Gurney turned white with anger. How little had changed in all the years! He would much rather have faced rebel fanatics than confront the searing memories inspired by this sight. But if he did not heal these places, then no one would.

His voice was quiet, but it may as well have been a shout. “I order these slave pits shut down immediately. Free these people and let them make their own lives. I hereby strip the slave masters of their authority.”

“My Lord Halleck, you will disrupt everything! Our entire economy —”

“I don’t give a damn. Let the slave masters work among the other people as equals.” His lips curled in a small smile. “Then we’ll see how well they survive.”

Deciding to get the worst over with, he traveled next to the shadow of Mount Ebony and the cluster of pleasure houses that had once serviced the Harkonnen troops. Giedi Prime had many such establishments, but he intended to go to a specific one.

Gurney felt nauseated when he arrived at the doorstep. Memories of one night long ago howled inside his head. The administrators accompanying him were clearly frightened by his expression. “Who is the proprietor that runs these houses?” He remembered an old man who had wired himself into a chair, keeping careful business records but paying no attention to what went on behind the doors of his establishment.

“Rulien Scheck has done an efficient job of managing in the absence of other leadership, my Lord Halleck. He has worked here for years, decades probably.”

“Bring him to me. Now.”

The old man came out, nearly stumbling, yet trying to smile as though proud of what he had accomplished. Prosthetic lines ran down his legs, keeping him from being otherwise crippled, but at least he was free from his chair now. A paunch hung over his waist, and soft rounded buttocks showed that he ate too well and sat down too much. His gray hair was heavy and oiled, as if he considered it to be stylish. Gurney recognized him immediately, but Rulien Scheck showed no sign that he remembered one particular desperate brother from one particular night….

“I am honored that Giedi Prime’s new Lord would come to see my humble establishment. All of my financial records are open to you, sir. I run a clean and honest business, with the most beautiful women. I have banked the expected share of profits in a sealed account, formerly designated to the Harkonnens and now available to you. You will find no evidence of impropriety, I promise you that, my Lord.” He bowed.

“This very house is evidence of impropriety.” Gurney pushed his way inside, but needed to see very little. He remembered the rooms, the pallets, the stains on the walls, the endless lines of sweaty Harkonnen soldiers who had come here seeking pleasure slaves like his sister Bheth, taking more delight in inflicting abuse on the unfortunate women than in the sex itself. By cauterizing her larynx, they had prevented Bheth even from screaming.

He closed his eyes and did not turn to face the old proprietor. “I want this man garroted.”

The administrators remained silent. Scheck squawked, began to argue, and Gurney pointed a blunt finger at him. “Be thankful that I do not first command a hundred soldiers to sodomize you — some of them with spiked clubs. But even though that is what you deserve, I am not a Harkonnen. Your death will be swift enough.”

Gurney pushed past the astonished group and rushed back outside, breathing hard, anxious to get away. “And when they are done, see that all the women are freed, given a place to live — and burn this place to the ground. Burn all the pleasure houses across Giedi Prime.”

Finally, he returned to the village of Dmitri, a poor and hopeless place that had not changed at all. His mother and father were gone. Because lives meant so little, the town kept no records of its people. Gurney could find no marker in the rundown and overcrowded graveyard, no sign that his parents had ever existed.

Someday, he supposed Paul would offer to erect a monument for the victims. Gurney didn’t want that. His parents had not changed this world for the better. The people in the village had not stood up against tyranny. They had not defended him when the Harkonnen raiders had taken him away. They had refused to speak out against the injustice they encountered every single day.

Gurney felt sadness, but no need to mourn. “Enough of this. Take me back to Barony….”

Even there, though, every day brought a foul taste to his mouth. I am doing this for Paul, he reminded himself. He began to issue proclamations and sweeping orders — cities would be renamed, marks of the old Harkonnen way of life would be erased. He ordered the construction of a new government center, a seat where he could rule without being reminded of the Harkonnens.

But human pain went deep into the strata of the grimy planet. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear to stay on Giedi Prime.

4

According to the Imperial Calendar, recalibrated so that its primary clocks and meridian were centered on Arrakis rather than Kaitain, the year changed to 10,198 A.G. Another year of Muad’Dib’s greatness, another year with more and more victories in his great Jihad. In Arrakeen, the wild and hedonistic celebrations rivaled a millennial fervor.

The Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib stood at a corner of the high open balcony outside his sietch-austere bedchamber. He watched people milling below in the streets and squares, and was unsurprised by their mania. For thousands of years, the Fremen had understood the human need for animalistic release in their tau orgies. This was similar, but on a much larger scale, and he had planned it carefully.

His holiness Muad’Dib, beloved of the people, had opened his coffers to provide spice and food for all supplicants. He emptied his cisterns so that water flowed into outstretched hands, and people reveled in it. In the months to come, he could easily refill his reservoirs, if only by using the deathstill water from all the nameless dead rounded up by his undertakers from side alleys and squalid housing.

Chani joined him outside the moisture seal, barely touching him. She still hadn’t conceived another child, a much-anticipated heir. They both knew the necessity, and both wanted a baby, but the deep hurt of losing their first son, Leto — killed in a Sardaukar raid in the days before Paul won his victory against Emperor Shaddam — filled them with unconscious hesitation. The doctors said nothing was physically wrong with Chani, but Paul knew they could not measure or test for a mother’s broken heart.

A second son would come, however. There would be another Leto, but that, too, carried heavy consequences — especially for Chani.

They both breathed deeply of warm night air that smelled of smoke, cooking fires, incense, and unwashed bodies. So many people pushed together, rippling and swaying in a Brownian motion that Paul thought of as a large-scale unconscious dance as difficult to interpret as many of his visions.

“They love me so easily when I demonstrate my largesse,” Paul said to her. “Does that mean that when times turn hard, they will be as quick to hate me?”

“They will be quick to hate someone else, Beloved.”

“And is that fair to the scapegoats?”

“One should not be concerned with fairness when dealing with scapegoats,” Chani said, showing her ruthless Fremen streak.

From the expansion of Arrakeen, many new houses pressed against each other, built along tried-and-true designs to huddle in the desert heat and preserve every breath of moisture. Other buildings stood defiantly (or foolishly) against tradition — homesick architects having erected structures that reminded Paul of Fharris, Grand Hain, Zebulon, and even Culat, planets so bleak and miserable that their inhabitants were happy to leave them in favor of Dune.

As project master, Whitmore Bludd had continued to oversee the enormous construction of the new palace, and his blueprints became more grandiose day after day. Already, remarkably, the completed portion of Muad’Dib’s citadel was larger than the Imperial Palace they had burned on Kaitain, and Bludd was just getting started….

When Korba entered their private wing, Paul noted how easily his guards let the man pass, even bowing respectfully, making a sign from one of the Qizara rites. He did not suspect treachery from the former head of his Fedaykin — the man’s loyalty was as unwavering as his fervor — but Paul did not like to be so glibly interrupted.

“Korba, did I summon you?” The sharpness of Paul’s tone brought the other man up short.

“If you had, I would have been here faster, Muad’Dib.” He apparently did not see the reason for Paul’s annoyance.

“Chani and I were enjoying a private moment. Were you not raised in a sietch? A Fremen should know to respect privacy.”

“Then please excuse the interruption.” Korba bowed, and blurted out the matter that concerned him so much. “Pardon me for saying so, but I do not like these immense public gatherings. They celebrate the Imperial Calendar. We should no longer follow that old relic.”

“It is 10,198 A.G., Korba, counted from the formation of the Spacing Guild. That is not linked to the old Imperium, or to mine. They merely celebrate the turning of the new year, a harmless but necessary release of their energies.”

“But there should be a new age — the Age of Muad’Dib,” Korba insisted, then laid out an idea he had obviously been planning for some time. “I propose that we start counting the calendar from the day you overthrew Shaddam IV and the Harkonnens. I have already asked several priest-scientists to draw up specific plans for its implementation and to search for numerological implications.”

Paul refused the idea, much to Korba’s consternation.

“But we are living in the greatest moment in history. We should signify it as such!”

“One cannot see history while living it. If every Emperor were to reset the calendar just because he considered himself great, we would have a new age every century or so.”

“But you are Muad’Dib!”

Paul shook his head. “I am still but a man. History will determine the measure of my greatness.” Or Irulan will, he thought.

LATER THAT NIGHT, when they lay in bed and neither of them could sleep, Chani stroked his cheek. “You are troubled, Usul.”

“I am thinking.”

“Always thinking. You need to rest.”

“When I rest, I dream… and that makes me think even more.” He sat up in bed, noticing how cool and slick the expensive sheets felt. He had wanted his quarters to have nothing more than a simple Fremen-style pallet, no extravagances at all, but amenities had crept in nonetheless. Despite his best intentions, and the honor that his father had taught him, Paul feared that such ready access to so much power was likely to corrupt him eventually.

“Are you worried about the battles, Usul? Thorvald and his rebellion? All enemies will fall to your armies, sooner or later. It is inevitable — the will of God.”

Paul shook his head. “Some measure of popular support for Thorvald and his eleven nobles is to be expected. Against any Empire as powerful as mine, there will be rebels. It is as natural as the sun and the moons that he will attract supporters, and as he gains influence, that my own supporters unite more strongly against him. Thorvald cannot survive long. Stilgar has just left for Bela Tegeuse to root out one of the infestations. I have no doubt he’ll be victorious.”

Chani shrugged and seemed to be stating the obvious. “He is Stilgar, after all.”

As they so often did, his followers would respond more violently than was strictly necessary. He had seen it firsthand on the battlefield of Ehknot. He had already pulled Gurney Halleck from such duties and granted him the whole Harkonnen world to heal, a different kind of battlefield where he could truly make a difference. He had earned it.

Stroking the side of his cheek, Chani continued, “You feel the weight of those you rule, Beloved. You count their dead as your own, and yet you must never forget that you have saved them all. You are the one we have been waiting for, the Lisan-al-Gaib. The Mahdi. They fight in your name because they believe in the future you will bring.”

Exactly the beliefs his father had told him to use, if necessary. And the Bene Gesserit’s Missionaria Protectiva had planted superstitions and prophecies, which he also applied to his own situation. A trick, a tool. But now the tool wields its own user.

“The Jihad has a life of its own. When I experienced visions as a young man, I knew this holy war could not be stopped, but still I tried to change the future, to prevent the rampaging violence. One man cannot stop the moving sands.”

“You are the Coriolis wind that sets the sands moving.”

“I cannot stop it, but I can guide it. I am guiding it. What people see as unforgivable violence and destruction, I know is the best of many unacceptable alternatives.” With a sigh, Paul turned away from her. He had deluded himself into believing that it would be easy to hold the reins and guide the course of the great, living creature that was the Jihad. The monster. He had made his decision believing that his choices would be clear, only to find that he was more a captive of unfolding history than any person before him. His was a terrible purpose. He rode the crest of a wave that threatened to drown him and everyone around him. Even when Muad’Dib made the best possible decisions, regardless of what his heart wanted, he could see the bloody future unfolding mercilessly for years to come. But the alternative is worse.

He had actually considered removing himself from the equation, escaping from the warp and weft of Fate’s loom. Paul could have allowed himself to tumble into the abyss of historical interpretation and the enhancement of myths.

But if he chose to die, Muad’Dib would still become a martyr. His very presence was too prominent in the hearts and minds of his followers, and they would continue without him if necessary, in spite of him. Time would have its due. Paul feared that in premature death he might cause more damage than in life.

On the bedside table, near the broken pink conch shell from Earth that Bludd had brought Paul from Ecaz, lay a stack of reports detailing troop movements, Guildship patterns, and another long list of planets that he could easily conquer. Impatiently, he knocked the papers aside.

Chani frowned at his reaction. “Are you not pleased to see so much progress? Is this not success?” Usually, she could understand his moods, but not now. “Surely, the Jihad is almost over.”

He looked at her. “Have you ever heard of Alexander the Great? He is from long ago, forgotten in the mists of time. He was a great warlord on Mother Earth, said to be the most powerful emperor of ancient times. His armies swept across continents, his own known universe, and when he reached the shore of the sea, he wept because there were no more lands to conquer. But history considers Alexander great only because he had the good fortune to die before his empire could collapse on its own.”

Chani blinked. “How can that be?”

“Alexander was like a storm. He had many soldiers and superior weapons, but after conquering each people he moved on and never had to govern.” Paul clasped Chani’s hand. “Don’t you see? Out armies have chalked up victory after victory, but beating a man is different from working with him for many years. Irulan is right: Once Muad’Dib’s Jihad is past, once I have won this long war, how am I to survive the peace? Would Alexander still be considered ‘great’ if he’d actually needed to provide food, water, shelter, education, and protection to all the people of his empire? Doubtful. He caught a fever and died before his conquests could come back to haunt him.”

“You are not some ancient forgotten leader. You must follow your destiny, Usul,” Chani whispered in his ear. “Regardless of where it leads, it remains your destiny.”

He kissed her. “You are my desert spring, my Sihaya. You and I must enjoy every moment we have together.”

They made love slowly, discovering each other again, and for the first time.

5

On Bela Tegeuse, even the broad daylight was dim and damp, shrouded with fog. Stilgar did not like this place one hit. Each breath was clammy in his mouth and nose. At the end of the day, he practically had to wring out his clothing to remove the excess moisture. He felt he needed a reverse stillsuit—nose plugs and a breathing mask that would filter water out of the air, just so he could breathe. The sound of lapping water that surrounded the wide, heavily armed gun-barges was maddening.

Stilgar knew that Paul-Muad’Dib had grown up by the ocean on Caladan. Every night, the young man had gone to sleep listening to the roar of waves outside the castle. The idea of so much water was difficult for the naib to grasp. It was a wonder the boy had not gone insane.

And the swamps on Bela Tegeuse were more treacherous than an ocean, he was certain.

Since the beginning of the Jihad, even with so many legions dispersed throughout the worlds of the Imperium, he himself had planted the green-and-white banner of Fremen-led legions, as well as the green-and-black banner carried by other loyalists, on four planets. He had shed much blood, had witnessed the deaths of many friends and foes. People died in much the same way, no matter what world they came from.

Now, by the command of Muad’Dib, Stilgar led these forces to hunt down the rebellious nobleman Urquidi Basque, one of the remaining principal lords who supported Earl Thorvald’s insurgency. When Basque went to ground on Bela Tegeuse, Stilgar had assumed he would be trapped. Muad’Dib’s military frigates had deployed a fleet of gun-barges and search boats constructed by local engineers who were familiar with the terrain and ready to capture Lord Basque and his swamp rats.

Swamp rats. Stilgar did not like the sound of that.

For the past two weeks, pursuing Basque and his army had been like chasing balls of static electricity across the dune tops. Under a thick layer of clouds, the gunbarges moved slowly along, pushing against the sluggish brown water. The dim sun would set soon, and the night would bring cooling air and thickening fog. Water squeezed out of the air.

Off in the distance, Stilgar could see only the nearest two of the ten heavily armed ships in his group. The foghorns and signal whistles sounded like lost souls begging to be taken to dry land. Visibility was worse than in a sandstorm.

Last week, when they had pursued the renegade lord across a wide, shallow sea, one of the heavy gunbarges had run aground. Basque and his swamp rats had gotten away, jeering as Stilgar was forced to unload heavy weaponry and cargo from the stranded gunbarge so that it would float free of the mud bar. He’d had half a mind to ditch the vessel and continue the chase, leaving his men to fend for themselves in the swamps. But many of the fighters were Fremen, and Stilgar refused to abandon them to this wet place.

After wasting all that time, the scout boats had raced forward in search of clues. One scout returned, having found an old camp; three others vanished entirely. Stilgar ordered ‘thopters for air surveillance, but the ground-hugging fog made the aircraft worse than useless in the hunt.

Finally, as dusk settled in, adding a bruised color to the sky, they pushed into a complex river delta, where Stilgar was sure he would trap Basque. Several times now, they had seen tantalizing lights in the distance, taunting signals that likely marked their quarry.

Around him, he could see the tangled hala-cypress branches and roots, trees so different from the rare palms of Dune. The river delta was thick with them, as if they were crowded spectators gaping at an accident scene. They gave off a fetid stench, just like all the water in this swamp. The odors of fish and algae nauseated him. Every meal he’d eaten on Bela Tegeuse tasted like mud.

Stilgar stood on the mist-slick deck. Some of the gunbarges were equipped with half-shields, but the barge captains complained that the shimmering fields reduced visibility. Lookouts continued to peer into the foggy distance.

Next to Stilgar, the captain was angry at himself. “My charts are useless, a year old. The currents shift the sand and the mud, and the hala-cypress walk.”

“How can trees walk?”

“They move their roots in the mud slurry, shift into channels, and fill them up. A passage perfectly clear one month will be blocked the next.” In disgust, the captain cast his obsolete diagrams over the side, where the thin papers floated away on the currents. “I may as well just close my eyes and pray.”

“We can all pray,” Stilgar said, “but that should not be our only plan.”

Six mysterious lights glistened out of the growing dimness of dusk, and Stilgar saw it as the signal he had been waiting for. The decks of the gunbarges were crowded with Fremen shouting insults at the swamp rats who hid in the skeletal forests along the labyrinth of waterways.

Stilgar shouted, “They are within reach! Time to pursue them.” “I advise caution,” the captain said. “Do not underestimate Lord Basque.”

“And he should not underestimate the armies of Muad’Dib.”

With a chattering roar that sounded like one of the attacking dragonflies that had plagued them through the marshes, ten shallow-draught needleboats ripped out of the fog, spraying a wake of brackish brown water. Onboard, Basque’s swamp rats held projectile rifles, which they fired into the press of Fremen on the decks. The needle-boats turned about, firing a few more potshots, then raced back into the depths of the swamp.

Without waiting for a unified effort, two gunbarges surged forward, racing after them. Stilgar immediately saw what the rebels were doing. “A trap!”

But the pilot of the second gunbarge didn’t hear. The huge vessel pressed ahead with its powerful engines, and within moments found itself mired in slick mud and shallow water.

From the high hala-cypress branches, the real ambush struck, as Basque’s men fired down upon the trapped gunbarge. At such close quarters the barge’s heavy artillery proved useless, but that didn’t stop the Fremen from launching huge explosives from the deck guns, blowing up sections of the swamp. Fireballs ignited marsh gas and caused secondary eruptions. Yelling and howling, many of the Fremen dropped down into smaller boats and raced into the maze of trees, but the water there made Stilgar greatly uneasy.

“Shields on!” the barge captain shouted. Moments later, renewed shimmering barriers floated across the deck, protecting the soldiers but at the same time preventing them from firing their projectile weapons. The giant gunbarge pushed forward, until it scraped its keel on the mud.

“We can’t go any farther,” the captain said.

Stilgar activated his body shield and told his men to do the same. “We will proceed on our own rafts, and then fight on foot.”

Before they could disembark, submerged rebels in breather suits rose up from the murky water, passing slowly through the gunbarge’s main shield. Eight of them worked swiftly and efficiently together. Stilgar spotted them only after they had planted explosives against the gunbarge’s hull and then stroked away, passing back through the shield. He howled a warning.

Several of his men dropped overboard and bobbed in the water just as Gurney Halleck had taught them to do. They tried to pry the explosive mines loose, but the devices detonated within seconds. The swift shock wave hit against the shield, then reflected back into the gunbarge, causing even more damage. A wall of fire and hot gases bowled Stilgar over, knocking him to the deck. Coughing and blinded, he staggered to the rail, feeling the deck tilt as the scuttled gunbarge lurched and settled.

Unable to catch himself, Stilgar tumbled overboard. In the water, the cool, slimy wetness soothed his fresh burns. Dozens of bodies, and parts of bodies, floated next to him. The gunbarge was wallowing.

Stilgar swam toward the trees, anxious for something solid to hold onto. One of Basque’s men surfaced beside him in a breather suit and tried to attack, but Stilgar already had his crysknife out. He severed the man’s air hose, slashed his neck, and shoved him still twitching into a billowing crimson cloud in the marsh water.

More screams and explosions reverberated through the mist-muffled air. Two more gunbarges had been ruined by explosive mines, and another had run aground. Large artillery kept booming, leveling the forest, ripping the swamp to shreds, presumably hitting Basque’s camp, by accident if by no other means.

Nothing stopped the Fremen, now that their anger was piqued. “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!” they screamed, splashing forward. Stilgar had no doubt that many of them would drown, perhaps most, as they were still so unfamiliar with water. Others launched small boats.

Though the rebels continued to pick them off, the wave of Jihad fighters proved stronger than superior firepower or better defenses. His soldiers did not know how to lose, nor how to retreat.

As he sloshed his way to the knobby hala-cypress roots, Stilgar found the chaotic battle exceedingly confusing. Despite his skill in desert warfare, he did not comprehend naval tactics. He was a dry-land fighter, undefeated in hand-to-hand combat. He knew the names for every type of wind in the desert, for the shapes of dunes, and the meanings of distant clouds. But this place was alien to him.

By the time he reached the center of the swamp, standing in thigh-deep water and holding onto the moss-slick roots, enough of the screaming Fremen had survived to reach the swamp-rat camp that they made short and bloody work of the remaining rebels. He knew he must have lost hundreds of men in his battle group, but they had died in glorious service to Muad’Dib, and their families would claim that they had wanted nothing else.

He dragged himself out of the water and saw to his disgust that his legs, chest, and stomach were covered with dozens of fat, oily leeches that swelled and pulsed as they gorged themselves on his blood. He was glad that no one had seen him, for he instinctively yelled like a woman and slashed at the parasites with his crysknife, popping each blood-filled leech and ripping it from his skin.

The fighting was mostly over by the time he composed himself and trudged toward the fires of the destroyed camp and the few remaining tortured screams, as the Fremen fell upon any swamp rat who had been unlucky enough not to die in battle.

“We have won, Stil! We crushed them in the name of Muad’Dib,” said young Kaleff, who looked as if he had aged more than ten years since their conquest of Kaitain.

“Yes, another victory.” Stilgar was surprised at how hoarse his voice had become. This was not the same as a razzia against Harkonnens. This did not feel as great an accomplishment as attacking the Padishah Emperor’s huge metal hutment during a sandstorm. No, annihilating a rebel infestation on this swampy, gloomy world was not at all the same kind of fight to which he had been born. Leeches, walking trees, mud, and slime… he could not drive away the thought of how much he longed for dry sand again — the way a world was supposed to be.

6

The birth of Shaddam Corrino’s first grandson — and first male heir — should have been feted with festivities and cheering crowds on glorious Kaitain. But as the fallen Emperor stood inside the birthing chamber and watched Wensicia receive her newborn baby, he thought only about what he had lost.

All those years of grooming Irulan… wasted. As Wensicia often reminded him, he had pinned his hopes on the wrong daughter.

Holding the infant now, Wensicia pretended to be happy, but even she could not hide her disappointment that her son, the next in the Corrino line, would never take his rightful place as Emperor.

Unless something can be done…

On that fateful day after the defeat on the plains of Arrakeen, Irulan had come to her father, offering a solution. “But here’s a man fit to be your son.”

He’d been a fool to listen to her. Though she had wed Paul Atreides, Irulan apparently had no influence with her husband, no formal role in government (not that he’d ever granted his own wives any more power than Irulan had). She was less than a trophy wife: Irulan had become Muad’Dib’s puppet, writing ridiculous stories as propaganda to make the religious fanatics see him as a messiah.

In nearly five years she had not even managed to get herself pregnant, which would have at least brought the Corrino bloodline back onto the throne. That would have been the tidiest way to end this mess. Irulan was beautiful, skilled, trained by the witches. How difficult could it be to seduce a young man at the peak of his hormonal tides? Or had Irulan made the mistake of succumbing to her own fiction, believing the myths she herself created?

Shaddam’s eyes slipped briefly out of focus. Even Hasimir Fenring had apparently abandoned him. Though Bashar Garon had tracked him down years ago and dutifully delivered the jewel-handled Imperial knife as a gift, Fenring had not come running back to Salusa. Why else does he think I allowed his insipid cousin to marry Wensicia? What could be a greater gesture of penitence than that? Even Dalak had tried to make contact, desperate to prove his worth to Shaddam, but to no avail.

If Hasimir would only work beside him again, Shaddam was sure they could find a solution to this galactic crisis. But the Count refused to come back, which led to unsettling questions. What was Hasimir really up to? Why would he voluntarily live among the disgusting Tleilaxu for years — and raise his daughter there?

Beaming and bubbling as a new father, Dalak Zor-Fenring left Wensicia’s bedside and looked up at the Emperor’s troubled expression. “Are you all right, Father?” The man’s voice sounded almost feminine in its timbre. He was five years younger than Wensicia.

Shaddam glared at him. “I have not granted you leave to call me that.”

His son-in-law backed away quickly, flushing. “Excuse me if I have been too familiar, Sire. If you are not comfortable with my expression of affection, I will never call you Father again.”

“Very little about you makes me comfortable, Dalak. I will always be Emperor Corrino to you.” Unless, of course, you deliver Hasimir Fenring to me.

Fenring’s cousin had pinched features and overlarge, dark eyes, but his physical resemblance to the Count went no farther than that. Hasimir’s dapper dress suited him well, but similar garments made Dalak look like a dandy. He was the only person in exile on Salusa who wore silk and lace. Wensicia didn’t even seem to like him (a small mercy there).

Stranded here and in disgrace, he despaired of finding any better matches for his three remaining daughters. Mercifully, even though Dalak had no formal title, at least he had some noble blood flowing in his veins, and at least he had managed to create a male child. None of Shaddam’s wives had succeeded in that.

Behind him, the door of the birthing room opened without his permission — another indication of the lack of decorum here. “We came to see the baby.” Chalice, heavyset and tall, was a little older than Wensicia; the two youngest daughters, Josifa and Rugi, were both adults, though they remained sheltered, despite their initial Bene Gesserit-supervised instruction. They all rushed to Wensicia’s bedside to coo over the infant.

“Have you chosen a name yet?” Rugi asked, looking from Wensicia to Dalak. With her medium-brown curly hair, high cheekbones, and lavender eyes, his youngest daughter was pretty enough, but she seemed waifish and quiet, with few thoughts in her head. Rugi was just… there. Despite her lack of personality, in prior days handsome young nobles would have lined the streets of Kaitain for the chance to request her hand in marriage. Not anymore.

“We have decided to call him Farad’n,” Shaddam said, using the Imperial we. “It is an honored name in Corrino history, the most famous of which was Crown Prince Raphael’s great grandfather Farad’n. There were other illustrious Farad’ns as well, dating back to the wars of…”

He let his words trail off when he noticed that no one was listening to him. Josifa had picked up the baby to rock it in her arms, talking to him in a silly fashion. Shaddam grimaced. My first grandson has just been bom in the stinking armpit of the universe, and now an idiot is talking to him.

He stepped closer to the bed. “Give him to me, Josifa.” She looked startled. “And stop babbling at him like a fool. You will pollute his mind with the nonsense contained in yours. I will place Farad’n with the best tutors I can find. He is the heir to the Imperium.”

Getting his way, Shaddam held the baby awkwardly. He spoke with great portent down to the bundle, “You will be a true Corrino one day, Farad’n. Mark my words.”

“A Zor-Fenring-Corrino,” Dalak said, a proud smile crossing his cherubic features.

“He is Farad’n Corrino. And you, Dalak, are never to suggest otherwise.”

The room went silent, except for Shaddam’s voice, as he droned on to the child about how great he would be one day.

7

“The Twisting process is one of the most sacred of Tleilaxu secrets,” Dr. Ereboam said, an edge of warning in his voice, “and is comprised of many subtle steps.” At the entrance of his cluttered office, he looked with particular ire at Lady Margot and little Marie. “You will understand, of course, that I can show you only one small part of the lengthy routine.”

“Ahh, of course.” Standing with his wife and little Marie, Count Hasimir Fenring did not blink. His personality, like a loaded weapon, was intimidating in itself. “We each have secrets, hmmm? In all these years I have not told my friend Shaddam about the true plans… and mistakes… you Tleilaxu made during the amal project.” He ran a finger along his upper lip. “Wouldn’t the Emperor Muad’Dib be interested to learn of them? Yes, I know he would.”

“Hidar Fen Ajidica was a rogue researcher! His plan was not sanctioned by the kehl!” Ereboam’s excuse sounded thin. His milky skin turned even paler.

“Hmmm-ahh, yes, I am sure Muad’Dib would believe you.” Lady Margot took her husband’s arm. “You have nothing to fear from the truth, Dr. Ereboam… if it is the truth.”

Looking cornered, the albino researcher tugged on his white goatee. “You have already used that to blackmail us, and we have given you sanctuary for years. Further threats are not necessary.”

“Yes, ahh-hmmm, our destinies are intertwined.” A crafty smile worked at the edges of his mouth. “We should have nothing to fear from each other… and few secrets. Let us witness this Twisting process. Perhaps my Lady and I can learn techniques applicable to the raising of our dear daughter.”

Months ago, Fenring hadn’t believed Ereboam’s altruistic assertions for a moment when the researcher had proposed using the Twisting process on Marie. “It could unlock hitherto unseen potentials in the female child. Do you not want the girl to be armed against any sort of challenge?” Ereboam had asked. The very existence of free and independent women offended the Tleilaxu Masters. And the girl child seemed to be a thorn in their side as well. No, Count Fenring didn’t trust their motives.

Fenring said, “Hmmm, perhaps we should observe this process of yours first.” When he saw how the Tleilaxu researcher balked at the idea, he knew he had reached the right decision. “I insist.”

Marie gave an angelic smile. “I am just a little girl, but I want to learn.”

Given Marie’s superior breeding, as well as impeccable upbringing and training, Fenring knew he and Margot could accomplish a great deal with the girl. Spy, assassin, savior, child Empress… So much more than the Bene Gesserits would have allowed.

Now the albino researcher’s long white hair was unkempt, and he had dark circles under his eyes, as if he had not slept. Even so, he spoke in an energetic — even frenetic — voice. “Come with me, but do not expect to understand all the nuances. I find it a wildly exciting process.”

Ereboam led them into a laboratory chamber that contained many tall clearplaz cylinders that extended from floor to ceiling, surrounded by pipes, brackets, and two levels of upper walkways. Around the room, sullen middle-caste technicians tended humming, pulsing machinery at identical-looking control panels. Eight men with shaved heads stood near the tubes wearing modest filmsuits that did not entirely disguise their different bodily configurations. One of them shivered and two others appeared fearful, while the rest seemed stoic. Fenring did not believe they were all gholas, like the copies of Piter de Vries that had been exterminated.

Lady Margot and Marie looked as if they were about to watch a Jongleur performance. The fidgeting albino doctor was a mass of nervous energy as he paced back and forth. “You are about to witness one of the chemical phases of indoctrination, only a small part of the preparatory process to soften the subject’s psyche for proper reconfiguration.”

“How much damage does it cause to the original personality?” Lady Margot asked.

The Tleilaxu man looked offended. “In some areas we are competitors of the Sisterhood. You cannot expect us to reveal everything.” She continued to stare intently at him, adding to his uneasiness, and finally he added, “The Twisting process includes a chemical and pharmacological component, a physical stress component, and a psychological component. In the end, the subject is broken and re-formed, completely pliable and extraordinarily trained. This is a particularly useful technique to use on Mentats, who require severe as well as delicate maneuvers to create a superior mental format.”

“So, ahh, drugs, psychological stresses, imposed conflicts that reach a crisis point.”

Marie watched eagerly, almost hungrily. “I want to see closer.” Fenring looked at the researcher, making sure Ereboam knew this was not a request.

The eight subjects were herded, sometimes roughly, into the tubes through side hatches, which were then sealed, trapping them within a cylindrical prison. Fenring stared at the growing expressions of alarm on the subjects’ faces; one of the men began to pound uselessly on the thick, curved wall.

“This is all routine,” Ereboam said dismissively. “All subjects are expected to be confused and alarmed. It is part of the process.”

With a gushing noise, the tubes began to fill with brown, syrupy liquid. Marie let out a cry, either of alarm or delight, as the hairless men were completely submerged. Although the eight subjects tried to swim higher as the fluid levels rose, soon they could no longer keep their heads above the surface. The gush of liquid stopped, and shadowy forms could be seen struggling in the murk. Ereboam did not move to stop the experiment.

“You’re drowning them?” Lady Margot said.

Standing at the base of the nearest tube, the doctor smiled reassuringly. “Once they inhale, they will fill their lungs with a highly oxygenated mixture. They will be able to breathe — after they fully surrender to the process. It is a lesson infused with spirituality, the need to put complete faith in something beyond their comprehension. To trust us. The subjects are helpless, and they must know they could die in there… but when they submit they will also see that we — their supreme Masters — are merciful. After facing death, they pass through the first step of submission. The first of many.”

“Hmm-ahh-ahh. I see how that would be effective.”

In the tubes, when all eight of the men stopped thrashing, bubbles drifted through the liquid. The subjects were inhaling the liquid and blowing air back out of their lungs.

“This also keys to the primitive programming in their brains, going back to before the species crawled out of the oceans,” Ereboam continued. “We expose our Twisting subjects to primordial conditions to bypass the clutter of human experience. In a sense, Twisting is a misnomer. I prefer to think of it as untwisting, a cleansing process by which we create a tabula rasa, a blank canvas upon which to perform our genetic arts.”

Ereboam raised his arms and pointed at the adjacent tubes, then the color of the liquid clarified to reveal the submerged subjects. “They look like fish in a tank,” Marie said. “Look at their lips.”

“Once they realize they are still alive, that they can breathe, we begin to change the chemical content, adding drugs that make them euphoric and therefore even more submissive. Soon, by repetition and by alternating the sensations of pain and fear, we will create a framework for their new mental template. Our template. The entire process requires years — which is why a true Twisted Mentat commands such a high price. More than half of the subjects fail.”

“They fail? Or they die?” Lady Margot asked.

Ereboam looked at her. “Failure is death. This is neither game nor diversion. We Tleilaxu have standards to uphold.”

“As do we, hmmm.” Fenring placed a paternal hand on the little girl’s shoulder. He himself had been training their daughter in highly sophisticated combat tricks, subtle ways of killing, and other nuanced niceties of assassination. Enhanced with Bene Gesserit mental disciplines from Lady Margot and the nanny, Marie was already as adept as an acolyte twice her age. “But we do not wish to put this dear child at such risk.”

Margot added, “The Bene Gesserit breeding program has proceeded for generations, and our daughter is the culmination of centuries of careful manipulation. She is a remarkable specimen.”

The Tleilaxu researcher surprised them by snorting. “We know of your Sisterhood’s breeding effort, and we Tleilaxu have long shared your goal of creating a Kwisatz Haderach.”

“Why would the Bene Tleilax need a Kwisatz Haderach?” Lady Margot said with a note of scorn in her voice.

“The same reason your Sisterhood wants one. Your plans may have culminated before ours, but they failed utterly. Look what the witches have set loose upon the universe.”

“And your plans would do better?” Margot looked at the albino man. Her own husband was a failed Kwisatz Haderach as well, but as she saw it, his “failure” had ultimately proved more triumphant than the alleged “success” of Paul Atreides.

“The fate of our candidate remains to be seen,” Ereboam said. “Our most promising specimen has not yet reached his culmination. We need a few more months, and then we will have a Kwisatz Haderach of our own.”

Fenring looked at his wife, the two of them sharing the same thought. A Tleilaxu-bred Kwisatz Haderach? That was another secret project they would have to insist on seeing.

8

Construction teams had erected tall towers and monuments throughout Arrakeen, many of them named after Alia Atreides, the unusual — and some said holy — sister of Muad’Dib. Though she had never asked for this honor, Alia found it amusing.

In the ongoing citadel project north of the city, Whitmore Bludd had designed an entire wing supposedly with her in mind, although the foppish Swordmaster had an unrealistic view of Alia’s interests and preferences. Unable to change his perception that she was not a mere child, he chose gentle pastel colors for her, elaborate and flowery archways, and rooms filled with sugar-and-spice ornamentation. Toys, playthings. As if she were a normal little girl.

Instead, Alia moved into a set of chambers that Bludd had labeled “guest quarters.” Her extravagant apartments remained unoccupied, much to the Swordmaster’s dismay; they could be turned into warehouses, as far as Alia was concerned.

Inside the room she had chosen, a large plaz-walled tank contained scuttling black creatures, seventeen of them. She could sit for hours watching their movements under an artificial heat panel. They loved to hide in the shadows or sun themselves on the decorative rocks. For the most part, the black scorpions rarely moved, but crouched waiting for prey, which Alia provided whenever it was feeding time. The scorpions sat motionless until some impulse triggered an instinctive reaction, a genetically programmed movement and response.

From her memories of countless lifetimes, Alia knew that children generally liked to have pets. Thus, she made a conscious decision to keep some of her own, though a part of her realized that she did it for the wrong reasons.

Alia removed the lid and leaned over the tank. She could identify all seventeen individual arachnids, although she had not taken the frivolous step of naming them. She wasn’t that much of a little girl.

Two of the creatures moved, while the rest remained motionless. Sometimes she would watch them fight territorial battles over their tiny patch of encapsulated ground. They were like sandworms clashing at the edges of one another’s territories… or like her brother’s armies facing off in battles of the Jihad. It was only a difference of scale.

She reached into the plaz-walled chamber, reminded of an ornamental aquarium her mother had kept in Castle Caladan… a memory from long before Alia’s birth. Aquarium. A word not often spoken here on Dune. The idea of using a transparent container of water to keep fish as pets would have seemed bizarre to a Fremen. This aquarium held only dryness, creatures of the sand and rocks.

Black scorpions such as these were common in the deserts of Dune. In the sietches, Fremen kept scorpions for their poison, which was applied to crysknife blades. Their sting contained an extravagantly potent venom superior to many poisons used by the Tleilaxu.

But poisons didn’t bother Alia. She had emerged from the womb with the thoughts and capabilities of a Reverend Mother. When her mother had consumed the Water of Life, it had fundamentally changed Jessica’s body chemistry, along with that of her unborn daughter. A scorpion’s sting need not concern her.

Her fingers were small and stubby, still those of a child. Very little extra flesh padded her short arm. As she put her hand into the tank, the black scorpions backed away, raising their curved tails in a defensive posture. The stingers were like hooked needles. The two arachnids nearest her arm raised their pincers, ready to fight.

But Alia moved slowly, reaching her other hand into the aquarium. Grasping the backs of their segmented tails with care, she plucked out one scorpion and then another, placing it on the back of her hand. They settled down quickly; she had done this often. When they moved along her arm, their sharp legs tickled her skin. They were not afraid of her. She laughed to herself.

Within her head, she had the company of many ghostly friends, sisters, and ancestors, but they were memories of full lives, with personalities formed over uncounted years and experiences. They made poor childhood playmates, leaving Alia lonely. She had no real friends, no confidante to giggle with or whisper ideas to. The scorpions weren’t actually very good pets, either.

She heard an indrawn gasp of horror. “Child, what are you doing?”

Immediately recognizing Irulan’s voice, Alia flinched at the interruption but did not turn around.

“Was that an assassination attempt, dear Irulan?” Alia said, still stating into the tank. “By startling me, you could have made me jerk my hand, and the scorpions would have reacted by stinging me.”

Irulan came cautiously forward. “I had no such intent, Alia, as you well know — and since you so often remind me you are a Reverend Mother, you could have saved yourself from any poison.”

“Then why were you worried?”

“I could not help myself. I was frightened for you.”

“Such a lack of control suggests that you have forgotten some of your Bene Gesserit training. Shouldn’t you be writing your new book? My brother is anxious to read it.”

“The work is coming along nicely, but I have found many contradictions. I am having a difficult time choosing which version I prefer as truth. Once I write the story, most people will accept it, so I must be cautious.”

“Cautious about the facts themselves, or the politics behind them?” Alia sounded impish.

“One affects the other.” Irulan came closer to the tank. “Why do you keep those creatures?”

“I like to play with them. They haven’t stung me yet.”

Irulan seemed dismayed, but it was nothing new. The Princess did not quite understand her role regarding Paul’s sister, who was ostensibly her sister-in-law. At times, Irulan even displayed oddly maternal feelings toward her, and Alia wasn’t sure whether or not they were genuine. Irulan seemed to gain nothing by them, and yet…

“You flaunt the fact that you are more than just a child, but a part of you is still — or wants to be — a girl. I had four younger sisters with whom I could interact and squabble and share secrets, whenever some nursemaid or guard wasn’t watching over us in the Imperial Palace. I am sorry that you do not have even that much of a childhood, Alia.”

With an abrupt gesture, Alia swept the scorpions off her arm and back to the sands and rock in the tank. Agitated and disoriented, not knowing what had just happened in their world, the creatures began to fight each other, clacking pincers, jabbing with stingers.

“I have many childhoods — all of them in Other Memory.” She could not stop herself from adding a taunt. “You will understand it one day, Irulan, if you ever become a Reverend Mother.”

The Princess did not rise to the bait. “You may say that, little Alia. I know you can learn many things from Other Memory, but not everything. You need a childhood of your own.”

9

Sietch Tabr.

Paul and his mother had gone there after fleeing from the Harkonnens so many years ago, but before that the isolated sietch had been merely one Fremen settlement, little different from all the others. Now, it was considered a sacred place. I change everything I touch, Paul thought.

Fremen traditionalism had preserved Sietch Tabr intact even as his enormous new citadel and governmental complex continued to grow in Arrakeen under the masterful management of Whitmore Bludd. With Stilgar off on Bela Tegeuse, Gurney on Giedi Prime, and Alia left to watch the affairs of government, he and Chani came here to remember the taste of the desert again, the smells and flavors of what life had been like. They came to reconnect with themselves and to disconnect from the nonsense that continued to grow around him. The Jihad… the monster that was becoming part of him like a second skin. Fremen would understand the mystical nature of the call to find an inner refuge for the soul.

After he and Chani settled into their old quarters within the rock walls, complete with familiar hangings across the door opening, Paul did not need prescience to know that his momentary peace would be interrupted soon.

For practical reasons, Paul had announced that he was going to Sietch Tabr to observe the expanded spice operations in the desert, to compliment the workers and the foremen, to praise their successes and mourn their losses. Melange, the lifeblood of his Imperium, continued to flow through the veins of the universe.

Dayef, the current naib of this settlement, had expressed his eagerness to take Muad’Dib out to the spice fields. Paul and Chani changed into full desert garb, took a Fremkit, checked their stillsuits. Even though he would have an army of guards, assistants, and observers with him, old habits would not permit him to be careless when facing the raw power of Arrakis. Too many accidents could occur out there.

Dayef selected a young Fremen pilot who swore he would battle the storms of hell to protect Muad’Dib. Paul simply said, “I would prefer a flight with less turbulence today.”

Dayef took the seat beside him in the ‘thopter, and they left the sheltering mountains and flew out into the vast ocean of dunes. This naib was more of a business leader than a warrior; he had a crysknife, but also carried an accounting tablet.

“Out production is now five times that of House Harkonnen at its peak,” Dayef said. “When we find spice, we dispatch at least four spice harvesters. New specialized carryalls are being manufactured on at least six different planets and more are placed into service every month.”

“What of our losses to weather and worms?” Paul remembered how such things had constantly hindered the work of House Atreides.

“We are now able to place twice as many spotters in the air. They range farther on scouting missions and can announce wormsign sooner. That lets us work with a greater margin of safety.”

“I want no accidents.” How Duke Leto had hated losing men! He felt a pang inside. His father would have been appalled by Paul’s Jihad, in which billions had already died in his name. Leto would have lamented the terrible cost, but Paul had to view the larger picture and see past the blood to the future. A safe future, he hoped.

“There are always accidents, Muad’Dib. However, with regular deliveries of new machinery, we are placing substantially more equipment into service than we lose to the desert, at least seventeen percent more.”

“The spice must flow,” Chani said. “So it must,” Dayef agreed.

Paul observed through the scratched plaz window of the ‘thopter as people moved with antlike efficiency down on the active spice field. The pilot landed the craft near the first of four enormous spice factories.

“These operations have been going for only twenty minutes, and already they are at full production levels,” Dayef said.

Paul was pleased to see the clockwork cooperation that could erect a veritable city in less than half an hour, all the machinery exploiting a deep rich vein that scouts had found only that morning.

Years ago, during the introductory tour that Dr. Kynes had given Duke Leto, there had been only one factory crawler. Now Paul counted six insectile structures, lumbering machines each the size of an industrial base. The work gangs rushed about at a frenetic pace: spice operators, dunemen, depth-probe operators, riggers, even a few weather-beaten CHOAM inspectors.

In addition to skilled Fremen spice crews, offworld pilgrims volunteered for the work in droves, considering it part of their sacred hajj to touch natural melange on the dunes. The armies of laborers also consisted of prisoners and slaves captured in the Jihad. Defeated and indoctrinated, they accepted Muad’Dib’s guarantee of freedom after six months in a spice factory, at which time they would be released, forgiven, and offered a chance to stay on Dune. Very few survived to reap the reward.

Paul felt a twinge inside as he realized another difference between himself and his father: Duke Leto would have abhorred using forced labor for such operations, but right now this was necessary to meet obligations to the Guild and to feed the machine that ran the new Empire of Muad’Dib. We do what is required. And the people silently demanded it, forcing themselves to participate in these work gangs to demonstrate their altruism and their worth. And they would keep doing it for him. “This is impressive, Dayef.”

“They do it to show their faith in you, Muad’Dib.”

Chani chided Paul in a low voice. “Do not forget that you are just a man, Usul.”

He smiled back at her. “You will never let me forget that, my Sihaya.” Nevertheless, he did need to be reminded, since he spent his days on Arrakeen watching the construction of his ostentatious citadel, hearing the millions chanting his name, knowing that across the galaxy his banner was being planted on more worlds than he would ever bother to count.

I am just a man. I am Paul Atreides. I am only the Terrible Muad’Dib if I allow myself to be.

Because this particular spice deposit had been found in a part of the desert sheltered by a low line of rocky outcroppings, the worms could approach from only one direction, so the spotters concentrated their attention there. This meant that the harvesting process operated under a higher than usual margin of safety and was able to continue far longer than they might otherwise have expected.

The low rock wall, however, did not shelter them from a sudden sandstorm that whipped up from the east. Thermal currents from the blistering sands converged with winds that blew along the sharp ridgeline and slammed together to create a sudden, unexpected storm cell.

Within the sheltered ‘thopter, Dayef listened on his communication bands as the voices began to crackle with static. The harvesting crews alerted everyone to the change in the weather, summoning their outriders back to the carryalls, but most of the crews remained at their stations. The factory crawlers continued to churn away, harvesting until the last possible moment.

“Because they know you are here, Muad’Dib, they intend to put in an extra effort until the last instant,” Dayef said.

“I do not want that. Call them in. Now! It is my command. Don’t risk them.” He looked at Chani beside him, then at the oncoming fringe of the storm. He would not risk her either. “And we must depart before that wind hits.” He remembered his father shouting, Damn the spice!, and the desperate measures they had taken to rescue the few stranded men….

Dayef’s order caused further scrambling in the temporary camp, but some of the workers still didn’t evacuate. Instead, they stood outside their spice harvesters, raising their fists and chanting. Paul could barely hear the tiny echo of their voices, “Muad’Dib, Muad’Dib…”

With a flash of anger and dismay, Paul realized that simply by coming here to inspect the site, he had given these workers a false sense of security. Because they so wanted his praise, they felt a foolish need to show off. He could see the razor-edged dust now, curling up over the rock wall, brown plumes swirling like the smoke of a burned village.

Those winds carried abrasive sand particles with enough force to scour flesh away, and the men knew it.

Carryalls dropped down to snag the large factory crawlers, lifting them into the air and lumbering away as the weather intensified. The pilot turned to Paul and Chani. “If you do not wish me to fight with the winds of hell, Muad’Dib, we need to take off now.”

“Do it.” Paul strapped himself in and made sure that Chani did the same. The ‘thopter’s articulated wings began to shudder, giving them lift. The breezes were already pushing them. A few last ground vehicles raced aboard the harvesters, calling for pickup. It was like a gigantic airlift in a war zone. Paul looked down as their ‘thopter rose from the dunes, heard the hiss of sand grains across the transparent shield.

Dayef touched the communication stud in his ear, nodded. “The spice crew managers report that all of the big equipment is getting away, Muad’Dib. A dozen small rover vehicles have been lost, along with four sand diggers, and two sledges.”

“What about those men down there?” Paul saw a line of thirty figures atop the crest of a low dune. The fabric of their work garb whipped about as they braced themselves. They raised their hands into the air, defying the storm.

“Merely one of your new slave crews from Omwara, hard workers but a bit unruly. Although they didn’t join the rebel Thorvald, they are shamed that some of their brothers gave him temporary refuge on their planet. They wish to prove their loyalty to you.”

“They can prove their loyalty by obeying my orders. Tell them to get themselves to safety! Make sure they know it is Muad’Dib’s command that they do so. Have them board the last carrier.”

The sandstorm was getting worse, sweeping down like a curtain over the ridge and already erasing the human-made marks on the desert. Dayef frowned. “Communications are down — too much static electricity.”

“Can they fit in ‘thopters?” Paul asked, feeling a greater desperation. “We could land and pick them up.” He clenched his fist, feeling the danger increase with every second.

A hard knot of wind struck the ‘thopter, causing it to shear sideways and lurch toward the ground. Its articulated wings flapped and struggled to keep the craft airborne. Alarms whistled on the cockpit controls as the pilot fought to keep them from crashing. The storm grew more intense each moment as the front rolled over the work site.

Paul looked at Chani, having reached a hard decision. I will not risk her. “We can’t save those men. If we brought the transports back down to retrieve them, we would lose the ships and all those other men as well.”

Chani’s face was drawn. “They believe you have the power to save them, Usul. They believe you can intervene and stop the winds.” But I am just a man!

The line of workers below continued shouting at the tempest. The ‘thopter shuddered, and the pilot finally lifted the aircraft, carrying Paul and Chani safely above the worst of the weather. Paul continued to gaze downward. What must those poor fools be thinking now? Did they truly believe that at any moment Muad’Dib could stop the winds? As they died, would they think he had failed them?

“And the spice?” Paul asked. “Did we receive a full load?”

“I believe so, Muad’Dib.”

His father would have done anything, risked anything to personally rescue those men, even if it cost numerous other lives, an entire spice harvest, and all the equipment. But in some things Paul was not like his father, because he was more than a Duke and had to balance the needs of an entire Empire. And without melange to grease the wheels of that Empire…

Below, the doomed men still stood atop the dune, facing the knife-wind of the storm. He saw three of them stumble and fall, shoved down by the abrasive blasts. Others fought to stand upright, as if to prove something to Muad’Dib… but what? If he were younger, Paul Atreides might have wept for their blind zeal that they called bravery. But now his Fremen training, and his anger at their wasted gesture, cut off all tears.

Sadly, he knew that the other members of the spice crew, those who had witnessed this pointless if dramatic sacrifice, would draw another conclusion entirely. As the sands and the winds curled over the abandoned site, finally engulfing the last of the defiant men from Omwara, Paul was sure the witnesses would not see this as the fate one deserved for disobeying the direct orders of Muad’Dib. They would admire those fools as true believers, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Take us back to Sietch Tabr,” Paul said to the pilot. “I have seen enough.”

10

Even after more than forty years of marriage, Count Fenring still found his wife, Margot, incredibly attractive… as she reminded him every time she seduced him. For the good of his marriage and his own physical well-being, Fenring never tired of allowing himself to be ensnared.

In their private sanctuary residence in Thalidei, Fenring found excitement not only in the warm and comforting sexual act, but in the fact that he had found and deactivated four more secret Tleilaxu spying devices. How many times had the gnomish little men observed their lovemaking? Angered by the intrusion, the Count had decided to track down the primary culprit and strangle him, preferably in front of other squealing Tleilaxu. On the other hand, knowing something about that race’s bizarre and prudish attitude toward sex, Fenring decided that the spies had probably witnessed his and Margot’s passion with some measure of disgust, rather than titillation. That idea amused him.

Fenring did not fit an Adonis-like mold of male attractiveness. His narrow, ferretlike facial features might not be particularly handsome, but his body was muscular and well-toned. He had never preened in an attempt to make women notice him. His skills had been to remain quietly invisible, so that he could whisper into the appropriate ears and slip into certain rooms to eavesdrop on confidential conversations.

As soon as he was confident that the Tleilaxu spy-eyes were deactivated, he and Margot disrobed, gazing on each other in the warm light of golden glowpanels. She led him to the bed, and the two of them began to demonstrate their proficiency in an ever-increasing repertoire of pleasuring skills. Over four decades, Fenring was continually amazed at how much he had learned and how many techniques he had yet to try.

“Ah, my dear, you are always a wonder to me.” As they lay on the bed, he kissed her tenderly. She worked the gentlest touch of her fingertips along his ear, creating an invisible embroidery of fired neurons in his skin. He shuddered.

“We are well suited to each other,” she agreed.

They had chosen each other for political reasons, as well as mutual attraction. Nearly concurrent with Shaddam’s wedding to his first wife, Anirul, their own marriage ceremony had received far less attention and almost no spectacle. Even so, their union had lasted far, far longer.

The gold-handled knife that Bashar Garon had delivered as a peace offering from the deposed Emperor still lay on a bureau. Fenring occasionally looked at it and thought about Shaddam’s fervent desire to be restored to the Lion Throne. Even though Paul-Muad’Dib was causing horrific damage to human civilization, Fenring had never been able to convince himself that his Corrino friend was a better alternative. No, he and Margot had their own plans.

As he made love to her, Fenring fantasized, but not about other women. He remembered the feel of warm blood on his fingers, the careful selection of proper tools of his trade. If he had enough safe time after performing his wet work, he rather enjoyed gazing upon the rich burgundy color of his victim’s life essence, the way it gushed from the body and pooled and sparkled in the smallest light, as if trying to recapture life, but then stopped and coagulated and hardened. Even Shaddam did not know how many people Fenring had killed.

The first of his murders had occurred at a much younger age than the Corrino patriarch realized, when Fenring was only four. Four! He was proud of this accomplishment, because it meant that even at a young age he was able to identify enemies. The teenage yard boy he’d stabbed had deserved it anyway, because the older boy had tried to molest him. Even as a child, Fenring had seen through the tricky words and promises and had plunged a pocket knife deep into the aggressor’s abdomen. His willpower always made up for any mismatch in physical strength between himself and his opponent. Young Hasimir had inflicted a hundred wounds on his victim’s body before getting his fill. Because the teenager had been furtive about his abnormal sexual activities, no one had ever suspected the four-year-old.

He sighed now, feeling the thrill of remembrance. Margot held him, adjusting her own movements to his, expertly controlling her own body so that they climaxed simultaneously and thunderously.

“You make it impossible for me to even think of other things, my dear,” Fenring lied.

She smiled. “My way of repaying you for being so understanding about the breeding obligations the Sisterhood placed upon me.” She stroked his cheek, scratching at the stubble there. “And you’ve been so loving.”

“I understood the need for seducing Feyd-Rautha. It was not a particularly onerous task, I presume?”

“Oh, he was cocksure, but he was just a boy who liked women telling him how good he was in bed, instead of showing him how to be good in bed. Besides, he is dead now. And we have little Marie from it.”

“Yes, hmmm, we have her — and the Sisterhood doesn’t.”

“Neither do the Tleilaxu,” Margot added with conditioned annoyance. “And now they claim to have their own Kwisatz Haderach. We must learn their plans.”

Fenring knew he needed a way to pry that knowledge from Dr. Ereboam. “Perhaps with their plans and your knowledge of the Sisterhood — and Marie — we can make this new Kwisatz Haderach truly successful, not a fiend like Muad’Dib or a dead end like myself.”

“I want to see the Kwisatz Haderach,” piped up a small voice, startling Fenring. He sprang from the bed, ready to attack. Little Marie sat calmly on a makeshift seat just inside the door. She had an innocent, yet amused look on her small face.

“How long have you been there?” Fenring demanded.

“I was watching. I was learning. You are both very interesting.”

Fenring had never been particularly prudish, and Lady Margot certainly wasn’t, but the idea of their daughter simply observing during their lovemaking both disoriented and embarrassed him. In a very real sense, it was much worse than the inquisitive eyes of the Tleilaxu.

“You must learn to respect the boundaries of privacy,” her mother said.

“That is not what you’ve taught me. You trained me to be invisible, so that I could spy. Did I not do a good job?”

Lady Margot didn’t quite know what to say. At last, Fenring chuckled. For countless centuries, children had been wandering in upon their parents having sex, but it should be accidental. Not a planned thing.

“Yes, you have learned well, Marie,” he said wryly. “You have certainly taught us to be more careful.”

11

Ostentatious. That word came to mind, along with grandiose, extravagant, and awe-inspiring — they were all appropriate. But in the final analysis, Whitmore Bludd’s intention was to create something that literally defied words, a palatial fortress so incredible that historians would spend centuries debating how best to describe what he had accomplished here at the heart of Muad’Dib’s empire.

Even in an enclosed inspection craft that flew slowly above the construction site, Bludd needed an hour just to circumnavigate the boundaries of the stupendous main structure and its complex of buildings and gardens.

Yes, stupendous.

The citadel zone extended to the north of Arrakeen, across the suburbs to the rugged, irregular cliffs that formed a natural boundary to the north. But the project did not stop there. Bludd’s master plan took advantage of the city itself, incorporating existing temples and blocky old imperial structures throughout the various districts. When the project was complete, Muad’Dib’s palace would consume the dusty city, like a great worm swallowing a spice harvester.

However, as far as Bludd was concerned, the work would never be “complete,” because he could always think of something else to add: a new museum wing, a higher turret, a more imposing tower, an integral sculpture of polished blue metal whose plates looked like rippling water whenever the wind stroked it. Bludd did not intend ever to retire quietly to the countryside. No, this was the pinnacle of his life and achievements, something for which he would always be remembered.

As his craft hummed along the boundary of the site, the Sword-master-turned-architect stared out the curved windows. Thankfully, Korba remained silent for a change. Paul Atreides’s Fremen leader styled himself as a prominent priest as well as an important administrator, and too often he contributed capricious ideas to the citadel design. Bludd didn’t like the interference, yet he had no choice but to listen to Korba’s suggestions. Politics!

As the two men watched, gigantic suspensor cranes lifted huge girders into place, which were then overlaid with blocks of stone that had been lascut from the Shield Wall. The labor force summoned by Muad’Dib, and the sheer quantity of imported offworld materials, were beyond anything Bludd had ever imagined.

“The amount of taxes the Emperor will have to raise for this project is beyond my ability to calculate,” he muttered. No one had ever questioned a single item in the budget.

Korba just shrugged. “If Muad’Dib wishes it, then his people will pay. If they do not reach into their own pockets, the Qizarate will do it for them.”

“It was just a comment in passing,” Bludd replied. The other man had no sense of humor whatsoever.

The work teams were competing with one another for speediness of construction, with monetary rewards for their accomplishments and severe penalties for deficiencies. Anyone who showed signs of laziness or produced shoddy workmanship was publicly flogged; for the most egregious cases involving fraud or theft, the individuals were beheaded in the central plaza — an activity at which Korba excelled. To Bludd, these sorts of punishments seemed particularly unlike the original Paul Atreides, but Fremen traditions were much more severe. Paul seemed to be losing some of his humanity in the process… or at least discovering a different, darker side of it.

Bludd had intentionally styled a section of the citadel along the lines of the old Swordmaster school on faraway Ginaz. The loathsome and dishonorable Grummans had brought down the famous school as part of their feud with House Ecaz, and then expanded their vendetta to encompass House Atreides. Poor fat Rivvy Dinari, slain on the wedding day of Duke Leto and Ilesa Ecaz. Heroic Dinari. If only his fellow Swordmaster could see Bludd now!

Korba said blithely, “After analyzing your blueprints, I realigned several turrets so that they fall upon numerically significant positions. I have already given new orders to the construction crews.”

“You can’t just move one piece of it — everything fits as part of the overall architectural pattern.”

“Everything fits according to the designs of Muad’Dib. The modifications are required for religious reasons. You do not understand the necessities of orthodoxy, Bludd.”

“And you don’t know a thing about architecture.” Bludd knew that Korba would not change his mind, and he was wise enough not to call the man out in a duel. Though he was sure he could defeat Korba, he did not underestimate the influence and power of the Fedaykin leader.

As the inspection craft circled a helical tower whose framework seemed to defy gravity, Korba brooded down at the tiny workers. “Do not question my decisions, Bludd. I fought beside Muad’Dib in the desert and stood with him in sietch. I was one of his students of the Weirding Way. We spilled blood side by side, killed Harkonnens together. I was among the first to call him Usul, and I watched him slay Feyd-Rautha.”

Bludd couldn’t believe this desert fighter would try to engage in a game of one-upmanship with him. In response, he said, “I knew Paul Atreides when he was just a stripling, and I saved his life when your mother was still scraping the stink out of your swaddling clothes. Read your history, Korba — Imperial history. Rivvy Dinari got most of the credit, but I was there with him at the wedding massacre. I know the truth, and so does Paul.”

“Imperial history,” Korba sneered. “Paul Atreides. I speak of Muad’Dib, not the son of a Landsraad nobleman. His life before he came to Sietch Tabr and took the name of Usul has little relevance now.”

“You cannot know a man by half his life,” Bludd said, annoyed. “Isn’t that why Princess Irulan wrote his biography, which you all carry around like a holy textbook? If his earlier life was irrelevant, he would not have placed me in such an important position.” There, Bludd thought.

As Korba fell silent, the Swordmaster adjusted the temperature control inside the sealed vehicle. He wore formal clothing, not a dusty jumpsuit or worker’s garb. Whenever he was in public, Bludd liked to present himself with proper dress and manners. These desert ruffians could learn a great deal about style from him. Korba, on the other hand, seemed unwilling to peel off his stillsuit even for routine hygienic purposes, and here in the enclosed craft, the stench of him was like that of an unwashed beast. Bludd contemplated borrowing a set of stillsuit nose plugs just to filter the air.

He thought about his long-dead friend Dinari, sorry for his untimely death but not sorry for the memory. Although the obese Swordmaster had been killed in the War of Assassins, he had also been rewarded with great glory for what he had done. And if not for a fraction of a second of hesitation, Bludd would also be remembered as a hero during the wedding massacre, rather than an inept failure. Ilesa had died, and he should have protected her. No matter what other exploits he accomplished in subsequent years, history would never forget that he had missed his singular chance to make a legend of himself.

Instead, he would be relegated to a footnote in an entry about the early life of Muad’Dib. Irulan was writing that part of Paul’s life now, and Bludd wasn’t certain she would treat him kindly in her supposedly objective account. She’d been polite to him, so maybe he could convince her to insert a good word or two….

He straightened inside the cockpit of the inspection craft. Well, despite his earlier shame, this magnificent fortress-palace would overshadow everything else. The citadel would be his crowning achievement, his true legacy for history. It would surpass even the accomplishments of his revered ancestor Porce Bludd, who had selflessly sacrificed his fortune to save populations during the Butlerian Jihad.

“Make your suggestions for design alterations if you must, but I still have to approve them,” Bludd said. “This is my project, my design, and my citadel.”

“You forget yourself.” Korba’s voice carried a clear warning. “No matter what you say, no matter how you delude yourself, this will always be the Citadel of Muad’Dib. The Qizarate has named it so. It belongs to him, and to God. You are a mere facilitator, as are we all. Who will remember your part?”

The words stung. Previously, Bludd’s feelings toward the other man had been constrained to annoyance; now he was genuinely angry at him. “I still know what I accomplished. That is all that really matters.”

“If no one knows your name or your accomplishments, then your life is no more memorable than sand blown on the wind.” Korba chuckled, but Bludd didn’t think it was at all funny.

“And you, Korba, try to make your own mark by creating a religion around Muad’Dib? It’s all about power you can earn from the life and legend of the Emperor, isn’t it? It’s all about elevating yourself.”

Placing a hand over the crysknife at his waist, the Fremen growled, “Be careful what you say, man, or —”

“If you pull that blade, prepare to die,” Bludd said. He pointed a long sleeve at him, which revealed bristling needle points below the wrist, ready to launch.

With a hard smile, the Fremen relaxed his hand, and looked away, out the window. “It seems we each have a stake in Muad’Dib,” he said.

12

After he returned from Sietch Tabr, Paul announced he would receive visitors in the extravagant Celestial Audience Chamber, which was still not entirely completed.

Over the past few years, the temporary throne room in Shaddam’s former hutment had lost its luster for him, so Paul decided to hold audiences in the new space instead, despite the fact that Bludd was still not satisfied with all the finishing touches — moldings, fine filigree, stonework, intricate sculptures, elaborately painted ceilings and walls. The Swordmaster insisted on finishing some of the perfectionistic interior work himself, permitting no one to help him.

Countless alcoves were only partially filled with statuary, usually renditions of Paul or of his Atreides ancestors. Fremen tapestries above the throne depicted colorful scenes from battles of the Jihad. Bludd had announced that some of these scenes would be replicated as ceiling frescoes, encircling the base of the high dome, when it was complete.

The previous day, Paul had walked the scaffolds that were in place high above the throne, where the finest artists in the realm continued to work feverishly on their commissions. Even as he held court now, they were up there painting, voices and movements hushed reverently in the presence of Muad’Dib.

He had been shaken by the blind and suicidal devotion that those workers from Omwara had demonstrated, facing a sandstorm to show their faith. For generations, House Atreides had inspired tremendous loyalty as embodied in Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and many others. But that loyalty had been supportive, not reckless. What had those workers accomplished by dying out there on the dunes? How had their sacrifices served Muad’Dib?

Although the ever-growing religion around him was an engine that drove the necessary force of his Jihad, it might easily slip beyond his control. Religions could be extraordinarily effective, but they could also be irresponsible… and he was at the heart of both possibilities. The people saw only him, and not the corona of consequences around his every action.

Now, dressed in a flowing brown-and-gold robe instead of the comfortable, dusty stillsuit he had worn in Sietch Tabr, Paul took his seat on the large temporary throne placed there during the construction. Eventually, he would bring in the oversized Hagal quartz seat, the legendary Lion Throne from the Corrino dynasty. For the time being, even though the throne would serve as a reminder of what he had taken from his enemies, Paul preferred not to inspire thoughts of Shaddam IV. He looked around the huge chamber as the audience took standing positions according to their rank and connections.

Wearing a loose green gown adorned with a gold-braided collar, Chani entered through a side door, followed by three Fremen women in pale gray robes designed to conceal weapons. Six-year-old Alia entered briskly in her black robe and came to a stop beside Paul’s throne, as if she were herself a bodyguard.

Given the violence Thorvald’s rebels often inspired, and the ridiculously low price on the heads of Muad’Dib and his family, Paul had assigned powerful female guards to follow and protect Chani, Alia, and even Irulan. His mother was also due to arrive soon for a brief visit, and he would grant her the same protection. He intended to take no chances.

He thought again of the group of fanatic workers standing on the dune top, facing the deadly winds to show their devotion, proving… what? And those men were his supporters.

Hearing a commotion of shouts near the massive entrance doors, Paul saw his Fremen guards scuffling with green-robed prisoners, captive priests from a splinter sect. The guards soon gained control of the situation, though they were forced to use stun goads. Paul watched without commenting on the rough treatment. Knowing what these priests had done, he found it difficult to restrain himself from ordering their immediate execution. That would come in time, he was sure. Some things were unforgivable.

Korba marched toward the throne along a rusty-red spice-fiber carpet that had been laid down only that morning. He had chosen to wear a clean white robe emblazoned with scarlet symbols, pointedly more extravagant than the green robes of the prisoners that the guards nudged along behind him. He no longer looked like a Fedaykin.

The five prisoners had cuts and bruises, and sunken red eyes that looked more dead than alive. Only one of the priests, tall and patrician, appeared defiant. With undisguised contempt, the guards flung the priests to the hard floor. All but one of them had the good sense to remain prostrate; a guard knocked the most rebellious one back down, using a boot kick.

With an elaborate bow, Korba stopped at the foot of the throne. “Exalted Muad’Dib, pillar of the universe, I bring you these disloyal priests of the ancient sect of Dur. They were captured trying to defile the sacred shrine of your father and steal his skull!” Eyes closed as if in prayer (a performance for the rapt audience), he formally pulled his crysknife from its sheath and stood ready with it, poised like an executioner.

Paul could barely control his fury. “Priests of Dur were once well-respected in the Imperium, presiding over ceremonies to marry and crown emperors. And now you attempt to desecrate the shrine of my father? You have become grave robbers? Defilers of the dead?”

Korba waited for a signal from him, but Paul hesitated, uncertain how to deal with this. The priests’ actions were another example of the reckless irresponsibility of uncontrolled religion. But how to control a religion, whether his own or this ancient sect? Would tolerance and mercy help? Or was a stronger grip required? What would his father have advised?

One of the cowed priests, with a paunch that gave him the shape of a pear, struggled to his knees and looked beseechingly at Paul. Sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. “Sire, the charges against me are false and unfair. I do not even know these men — I serve in a different order! They forced me to wear these robes! I was on religious sabbatical.”

“He lies,” Korba said. “His so-called sabbatical was a conspiracy meeting, at which he and these others plotted your overthrow. Any oath of fealty he utters now would not be worth the wind it is written upon.”

Paul glowered at the kneeling man. “I have been tolerant of religions other than my own, but I shall not tolerate the spreading of lies or conspiracies that threaten me — and I tolerate no desecration of my father, the honorable Duke Leto Atreides.” He felt a great weariness settle upon him. “You and your companions must die for this.”

When the guards tried to haul the paunchy man back to rejoin the others, he suddenly sagged in their arms, as if he had fainted. Korba touched the man’s neck, sniffed his breath. “This one is dead.” With a wolfish grin, he cast a scornful look at the other green-robed priests, then faced the crowds gathered inside the Celestial Audience Chamber. “Muad’Dib struck him dead with a glance! No one escapes the gaze of our Emperor.” In the chamber, Paul heard a low chanting of his name.

The defiant, patrician-looking priest got to his feet. “An autopsy would prove that a poison-tipped weapon or dart killed that poor man. Parlor tricks!” He pushed himself two steps forward, even though the guards struggled to hold him back. “There is nothing holy about you. The Priests of Dur call you Paul Atreides the Demon!”

The chamber erupted in wild howling from the insult. “Gouge out their eyes!” a woman screamed, her voice shrill. One of the other priests whimpered, but his companions silenced him immediately.

Paul recalled the War of Assassins in his childhood, the battles on Ecaz and Grumman, the bloodshed and tragedies, and he remembered the great reverence with which he and his loved ones had entombed Duke Leto’s skull. My father’s greatest mistake was not being harsh enough with his enemies.

“All of you shall die for the crimes your misguided religion has inspired,” Paul said, looking at the green-robed men and knowing Korba would make sure their deaths were long and painful. “From this day forward, I hereby remove my sanction of your reckless beliefs. All across my realm, I command that every one of your places of worship be leveled. Henceforth, my Qizarate will carefully reshape your followers so that they find the proper path.” He stood and turned his back to the crowds, ending the audience. “There shall be no more Priests of Dur.”

THE NEXT DAY, in a private room behind the throne, Paul was pleased to welcome his visitors. Lady Jessica and Gurney Halleck were, however, a somber-faced pair. Paul accepted an embrace from his mother and then clasped hands with Gurney. The pair had arrived on the same Heighliner, and he was very glad to see them.

He let down his guard, sighing as he looked at them with deep affection. “Mother, Gurney, I have missed you both. Is everything well on Caladan? On Giedi Prime?”

Gurney looked somewhat abashed, but Jessica gave a quick reply. “No, Paul. Not on either planet.”

Though Gurney was surprised at her blunt answer, he added, “I have made some progress on Giedi Prime, my Lord, but the whole planet throbs with the pain of old wounds. It will be generations before the people begin to stand on their own again.”

Concerned, Paul glanced from one face to the other. “What has happened on Caladan, Mother?”

Jessica looked regal and every bit as beautiful as she must have appeared to Duke Leto. “There have been demonstrations, insults, bold criticism. Defectors from the Atreides guard took charge of Castle Caladan and holed up in it, forcing me to take shelter elsewhere until we could regain control. Entire villages have been burned.”

“Defectors? From the Atreides guard?” Paul had always assumed Caladan would remain a bastion of stability, one of many coins in his pocket. He had so many other problems, in particular the increasingly violent gadfly Memnon Thorvald. He looked at Gurney. “How could this happen?”

“They remember Duke Leto, my Lord. They expected you to be exactly like him.”

Muad’Dib had to deal with practical matters first. “Has the disturbance been quelled?”

“Quelled but not resolved,” Jessica said. “They are upset with you, Paul. You may have expected loyalty, but you’ve done nothing to earn it. I have been there to speak on your behalf for years, but they feel you have snubbed and abandoned them. Caladan is the Atreides home-world, but you have made no visit of state since early in the Jihad.”

Paul drew a deep breath, tried to suppress his anger. “During that visit my armies conquered Kaitain. Kaitain, Mother! I have a war to conduct. Do the people expect me to return to Caladan for dancing and parades?” He paused, then looked more intently at her. “I left you to cany on in my place.”

“True, but I am no Duke Leto — and neither are you.”

“I see.” Paul tried not to sound stung. The radical Priests of Dur had attempted to desecrate the shrine of his father’s skull, but now he wondered if he, as Muad’Dib, might also be desecrating the memory of Leto Atreides.

“I should return there as soon as possible to insure the peace,” Jessica said, “and I would like to take Gurney with me. The people know him. Gurney the Valorous.”

“Gurney has important work to do on Giedi Prime.”

Jessica’s eyes flashed, and her words cut like razors. “How could you think Gurney wanted Giedi Prime? Do you understand so little about human nature? Every day there is a torment for him.”

Paul opened his eyes in surprise. “Is that true, Gurney?”

The other man seemed embarrassed. “You ordered me to do a job, my Lord, so I have done my best. But in truth, there is no planet in all the Imperium that I hate more. It will always be the Harkonnen world to me.”

Paul felt deeply moved. “I am sorry, old friend. I did not mean to increase your pain. You will retain your title to Giedi Prime, and I hope that your name alone will insure that some of the reforms continue. I will give you personnel and financial resources to continue the work there, but in the meantime I grant you leave to return to Caladan, to watch out for my mother’s safety.”

Gurney bowed formally. “My heart is on Caladan, where I served noble House Atreides.”

“Very well, my friend. You have helped my family and me in more ways than I can ever hope to repay,” Paul said. “To Caladan it is. Heal the damage I have inadvertently caused by my neglect.”

Later, after the meeting was concluded, Paul remained by himself in the small chamber. It was quiet in there now, so infinitely quiet….

In a shadowed corner of his mind, he worried that he had not correctly interpreted the hints of long-term prescience, that his own warriors might be precipitating a new Dark Age more grim than humanity had experienced in the frightened times after the end of the Butlerian Jihad. Beyond these walls, his holy war swept over planet after planet. His legions left broken populations and devastation in their wake, decapitated governments, and provided nothing to fill the vacuum. Somehow, he had to put the pieces back together. A problem Alexander the Great never had to face.

13

Alert for treachery, Hasimir and Margot Fenring followed the albino Tleilaxu doctor through narrow, metal-sheathed tunnels beneath the city of Thalidei. Black streaks and patches mottled the gray plates where water had trickled down and mold had formed. As Dr. Ereboam scurried through the intricate passageways, Count Fenring thought of a white lab rat moving through a complex maze.

Fenring’s persistent “persuasion” techniques had convinced Ereboam to show him what he needed to see, but the Count remained wary. He did not trust this man — not at all. At least little Marie was as safe as possible, left under the protection of Tonia Obregah-Xo, sealed in their quarters and away from any interference or counter-blackmail; the Bene Gesserit nanny would kill anyone who attempted to intrude. After years of uneasy tolerance, Fenring doubted any of the Tleilaxu would try something so bold, especially now that they had so much to gain. Marie and their would-be Kwisatz Haderach offered interesting possibilities for cooperation and synergy.

No, the danger might be directed toward him instead, or Lady Margot. Count Fenring’s instincts kept him alert for a trap or ambush, but he sensed both resignation and eagerness from Ereboam. They were going to see the supposedly successful Kwisatz Haderach candidate.

Although they had entered the labyrinth through a long, security-guarded stairway near Thalidei’s outer walls, which fronted the deep and stinking lake, they had made so many turns that Fenring no longer had his bearings. “Are we still beneath the city, or have we gone under the lake bed?” He wiped a drip of water from his face.

Ereboam clucked. “We are in the atmosphere distribution tunnels and ventilation systems of Thalidei. Please follow. Not much farther.”

A clearplaz lift in a tube carried them up into a multi-story building, ascending past floor after floor where Tleilaxu researchers bustled about, preoccupied with experimental work. When the unusual lift came to a smooth stop, its doors irised open, and Ereboam hurried them along a white-walled corridor. A pink flush of excitement enlivened his narrow white face. “This way, please. Hurry, hurry. You’re going to be very impressed.”

At the end of a corridor that was bathed in lemon-yellow illumination, Ereboam adjusted a security scanner, and the door slid open to reveal a gray mistiness beyond. They entered.

As his eyes adjusted, Fenring noticed that the walls were heavily padded, showing numerous rips and scrape marks. Squeezing Margot’s hand, he sent an urgent finger signal to be alert. She positioned herself carefully close to him, coiled to strike if necessary. He detected a chemical odor in the room, a tinge of medicinals… and something rank that he could not quite identify. He felt Margot’s back tense against his. She had noticed, too. An animal smell.

Ereboam disappeared into the fog, though Fenring could hear him murmuring something reverential in a low tone. Prayers? “No need to worry,” the doctor said. “This fog is specially tuned to the subject’s metabolism, and has made him sleepy.”

When the mist thinned, Fenring saw the albino researcher standing next to what at first appeared to be an amorphous shape on the floor. Then he realized it was a classically proportioned human crouched over, head down, wearing a beige filmsuit that clung to his body and showed his muscles as if they had been carved by a master sculptor. One of the Twisting subjects they had seen in the laboratories? Fenring didn’t think so.

The crouched figure straightened, as if unfolding his body from a chrysalis. The filmsuit hid most of his skin except for his bare hands, feet, and head. The Count noticed his wife’s gaze move over the muscular form up to the strikingly handsome face, aquiline nose, and somewhat haughty pout. But Fenring could see past the physical perfection, and he was certain that Margot did as well. The mysterious man’s acorn brown eyes revealed a strange inner torment.

“Meet Thallo.” Ereboam’s voice was filled with pride. “Our Kwisatz Haderach.”

Lady Margot’s green-gray eyes took on a sudden, intense interest. “From your own genetic map?”

When speaking to a female, the researcher’s tone automatically became condescending. “Using sophisticated laboratory techniques instead of the unpleasant vagaries of natural human reproduction, we have achieved in only a few accelerated generations something that you Bene Gesserits could not accomplish in thousands of years.”

“Hmm, that remains to be seen.” Fenring walked slowly around Thallo, looking for flaws. “He looks, ahh, younger than Paul Atreides. He is what, seventeen or eighteen years old?”

Ereboam smiled. “Chronologically, Thallo is only nine, but we accelerated his physical growth. He has made a great deal of progress. In some respects he is quite polished, but in others he is somewhat raw and unrefined.”

Reaching up, Ereboam smoothed the dark, wavy hair on the back of Thallo’s head, a gentle, caring motion. The eyes of the strange creation grew more calm as the doctor spoke. “He is the pinnacle of Tleilaxu genetic accomplishment. Our Kwisatz Haderach possesses untapped mental and even prescient abilities that we can hardly begin to fathom.”

“Can it speak?” Fenring asked.

“I can speak better than the greatest orators in history,” Thallo said, in an erudite tone, with perfect diction. “I know all of the facts in every encyclopedic work in the Imperium. I am a Mentat with enhanced computational abilities. I could debate with all of you simultaneously, and defeat every argument.”

Ereboam brought a rectangular biscuit out of a pocket of his smock and handed the treat to Thallo, as if he were a pet. The creature chewed, fixing a hard gaze on Count Fenring. Between bites, Thallo said, “And I wish to inform these guests that I am not an it. I am a human being.”

“Much more than a human being,” Ereboam asserted. “What better way to take down Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib than with our own superman?”

“Um-m-m-m-ah,” Fenring said. “Your champion would charge into the throne room and throw cookies at him?” Thallo smiled as he chewed.

14

In the evenings, away from public appearances and closed-door meetings, Irulan relished her quiet time — but did not relax. She sat upon the billowing softness of her immense four-post bed, surrounded by the comforts that supposedly befitted her royal station. She heard only a few voices in the corridor outside, the ever-present female guards Paul had set at her door, not the normal beehive of activity that surrounded her husband.

This was her most productive time for writing.

According to Bludd’s master plan, her private apartments had been decorated with trappings stripped out of her cabin in Shaddam’s captured ship from the plains of Arrakeen. The Emperor’s ship and the now-defeated Sardaukar had all belonged to House Corrino — a legacy that had been mismanaged for years by her father, as she’d come to realize with great sadness. Her own lot in life, as a figurehead princess and the symbolic wife of a usurper, was a constant reminder of Shaddam’s failures. However, Irulan now held a role of greater potential significance than any position her Corrino destiny had offered.

A year earlier, Paul had allowed her to reestablish contact with the exiled Imperial family on Salusa Secundus, though Irulan did not doubt that he scanned every communique for evidence of conspiracies. That was to be expected. With his innate truthsense, he should realize that she had no intention of overthrowing or assassinating Emperor Muad’Dib in order to bring her father back into power. But she could not blame him for being cautious.

Even from isolated Salusa, the disgraced remnants of House Corrino controlled a network of spies, smugglers, and black-market traders who could tap into the hidden wealth that the Padishah Emperor had buried in the long years of his reign. Nevertheless, her father probably had only limited and inaccurate information about what was really happening in the rest of the ravaged Imperium. Shaddam could never comprehend the scope of the Jihad, as Irulan did.

She was sure that Earl Memnon Thorvald had been in contact with her father, but Irulan knew the rebellious lord had no great love for Shaddam either. After all, Thorvald’s sister Firenza had not survived long after marrying the Emperor, so many years ago….

Meanwhile, she concentrated on news from her family. Supposedly meaningless things. Wensicia had given birth to a healthy son, Shaddam’s first grandchild and only male heir. This event seemed to have brought her father little joy, however, since it could not restore the Corrino bloodline to the throne, as a son from Irulan and Paul would have done.

In her role here at Arrakeen, Irulan had sent formal, though heartfelt, congratulations and gifts for baby Farad’n, but her sister’s reply had been surprisingly cruel and accusatory. Wensicia insisted that the entire family considered her a traitor for staying with the usurper and writing his propaganda. “Sleeping with the enemy,” she called it.

Irulan could only smile bitterly at that. If only they knew…

Even sweet and innocent Rugi felt that way. Her youngest sister had scribbled a horrid little note as a postscript: “We all hate you for doing this to us! You don’t know what it’s like here.” That part had stung the most. Rugi had always been affectionate toward her.

Dismayed, Irulan looked past the billowing Nonian lace of her bed canopy to the handmade furnishings, the antique Balut lamps, and the priceless paintings. On the surface, Paul denied her no luxuries, no trappings of wealth or noble station. The wife of an Emperor was expected to have such things.

Despite the finery around her, Irulan felt an emptiness in her soul. She tried to imagine she was a girl again, bright-eyed and full of hope for the future, instead of a lonely, childless woman in her mid-thirties.

The Sisterhood still demanded that she preserve his bloodline by conceiving a child, and she wanted the same thing for herself, as much as the Imperium needed an heir.

But Paul had sworn in public that he would never share Irulan’s bed, further shaming her while demonstrating devotion to his desert concubine, though even Chani had not given him a second son.

Regardless, through the writing process Irulan had come to understand and even respect Paul’s relationship with Chani. The depth of the feelings those two shared went as deep as the sands of Arrakis, beyond the reach of politics or other outside influence. Irulan noticed how they gazed into one another’s eyes and exchanged wordless thoughts. They had their own communication system, a private language that genuine lovers shared. The relationship seemed to be the only mark of normalcy that Paul allowed himself to show.

Under other circumstances, Irulan and Paul might have become friends, even lovers. Theoretically, they were well matched for each other. In the beginning, when she had suggested the marriage alliance as a path to peace, she had assumed she could seduce him with her Bene Gesserit skills, if given half a chance. But he was not a normal man, and he resisted her every move to get close to him. He offered his deep love for Chani as the excuse for his fidelity, but what did love have to do with dynastic concerns?

And why had Chani not yet become pregnant? Yes, their first son, Leto II, had been slain in a Sardaukar raid. Was she afraid to try again? Had the birth caused physical damage that prevented her from conceiving? Irulan thought not, though the subject was never discussed.

The Imperium needed an heir!

On the oversized bed she had arranged documents and notes in neat piles, including shigawire spools containing interviews and heavily censored battlefield reports that Korba had permitted her to have. A stark reality hit her: Her bed had become an office instead of a place where she might conceive a child. In a sudden, angry gesture, she cast aside the journal and hurled it to the floor. It landed on the plush carpeting with a soft thud.

Using a Bene Gesserit calming exercise, Irulan forced the tears not to come. Such an emotional release would make nothing better. Ironically, though, the writing helped.

The winds of the Imperium had buffeted the tiny boat of her life, driving her onto a small island where her movements were restricted and her emotions were supposed to be confined. Paul showed little outward dislike toward her; in fact, he usually ignored Irulan, keeping the daughter of Shaddam out of any direct role in his government. Her position had improved somewhat after she’d published her first book about Muad’Dib, but she still didn’t know if he would let her publish her own version of the truth in subsequent books. So far he had only read snippets of her new drafts, and had made no comment on them, despite the fact that the material did not show him in an entirely positive light. Interesting.

Her multi-volume biographical project had become much more than she had originally imagined it to be. With every bit of information she accumulated, the more she learned, the greater the potential legend became. And what to do about that? Her writings could provide important insights into the life of Paul-Muad’Dib, or they might serve another purpose entirely.

The more she learned about his younger years and his father Duke Leto, the more she thought that Paul might have spent a fine and happy life on Caladan, if not for the same cosmic choreographer that had intervened in Irulan’s life. She saw clearly that her father was not blameless in this epic. Shaddam had allowed numerous improprieties during the War of Assassins, which had caused so much pain and harm to the Atreides and the Ecazis. Later, he had played political games with House Harkonnen, setting the trap on Arrakis, turning a blind eye toward the Baron’s schemes in exchange for the promise of increased spice revenues. Shaddam IV had brought much of this disaster on himself.

So, her sisters considered her a traitor to the family, and her father found her beneath contempt? I am not the traitor, she thought. Because of the Padishah Emperor’s numerous betrayals of House Atreides, Paul had more than enough reason to loathe House Corrino — and her.

Her private journal had become a bosom companion with whom she spent uncounted solitary nights, sharing her innermost thoughts with the fine spice paper pages. And, like a good friend, the journal revealed truths to her when she reread her own words and saw them in a more reflective light. On these pages, she was coming to recognize her own frailties.

She rearranged the pillows behind her and retrieved the journal from the floor. She stared at the words she had written today. Her heart ached to think of the sorrow and shock young Paul had endured after witnessing the wedding-day massacre in Castle Caladan and escaping the subsequent attempts on his life. He had been a pawn from such a young age. And now he was the Emperor of the Known Universe.

With a resigned sigh, the Princess began to write in her journal again. It was speaking to her, urging her to continue the story….