Dune: The Duke of Caladan

by Brian Herbert

  “This trip isn’t supposed to be about comfort,” Paul said in a light tone.

  “Part of your training is to be miserable, lad,” Gurney said as he unfurled a fabric overhang. “And to learn how to endure it.”

  Their packs rested against thick trees, and Paul could hear the flow of the stream. “I’ve been miserable before, Gurney. I’ve heard your singing, remember?”

  The troubadour scowled and turned to Leto. “The young Master has no taste.”

  Leto chuckled. “I have heard your singing, too.”

  In mock indignation, the other man finished setting up camp. Dr. Yueh was already poking around the area, studying specimens, taking images, collecting small samples for later analysis. “I would not expect to find rare barra ferns on our first day, but I will use this opportunity to extend our knowledge. There are many gaps in our understanding of natural science on Caladan.”

  When the drizzle subsided and a brisk wind pushed the clouds away, the air had a pervasive chill. Gathering a warm cloak around him, Paul went to the sandbar and gazed up at the clearing sky through a wide gash in the trees. He made a pile of driftwood on the pebbly beach. “Let’s build a fire here.”

  He and Gurney pulled dry weeds and stacked them with twigs and larger branches, and soon they had a crackling fire that produced a prodigious amount of smoke. As Paul hunkered down, the flames offered an atavistic, primal cheer. He felt it inside him, creating a sense of his ancient forefathers. He looked at his father with a spreading warmth. “I am glad we came here.”

  Duke Leto rose from adjusting their bedrolls under the dry tarp and came to stand next to his son, his usually formal expression melting. “I’m glad too, Paul.”

  Paul closed his eyes, basking in the raw sense of nature, the snap of the smoky campfire. It was good to be far away from political considerations, but he knew his father was still pestered by the details of what awaited them back at Castle Caladan, just like the black biting flies that buzzed nearby.

  A large twisted log had washed up on the sandbar, and Paul sat on it, gazing into the curling stream. Gurney found a spot beside him, rested his baliset on one knee, and flipped out the multipick. “Some music, young Master?”

  Paul smiled. “You know I love your singing, even though I teased you.”

  “Criticism only makes a minstrel work harder,” he said.

  “Is that from the Orange Catholic Bible? You like to quote verses.”

  “No, that is what an innkeeper said when he didn’t like my songs.” Gurney strummed and began to play, humming to himself as he randomly picked out notes and sought words. He was not a Mentat like Thufir, but he did have an amazing repertoire of folk tunes as well as his own compositions.

  He sang in a voice that was surprisingly beautiful in contrast to his rough features.

  My woman stands at her window,

  Curved lines ’gainst square glass.

  Uprais’d arms … bent … downfolded.

  ’Gainst sunset red and golded—

  Come to me.…

  Come to me, warm arms of my lass.

  For me.…

  For me, the warm arms of my lass.

  Yueh joined Paul on the weathered log, while Gurney continued with his music. Paul gazed at the stream by the sandbar and was startled to see several large fish—moonfish!—in the water in front of him, as if drawn by the chords Gurney strummed. These wild moonfish were larger than the ones kept in the holding pools and troughs at the fishery. They had large copper scales surrounding a thin drumhead membrane that vibrated in harmony with the music. The moonfish floated there as if mesmerized.

  Leto retrieved a long, flat net with a telescoping handle from the fishing gear he had brought. He scooped the net sideways, easily flipping several dazed moonfish onto the sandbar. Gurney stopped his music and set aside his baliset. “Once again, I sing for my supper. We shall eat well tonight.”

  “I heartily approve,” Leto said. “My stomach is rumbling.” He and Paul pushed the moonfish higher onto the soft sand. “We will have a countryside feast unlike the ones in the banquet hall in Castle Caladan.” He laughed. “And I wager the fish will taste better.”

  Gurney tossed a small knife into the soft ground at Paul’s feet. “Take that, pup. You can help me gut and skin these fish.”

  One of the moonfish looked different, with dark swirls on its coin-like scales, its stretched membrane covered with small bubbles. When he gutted it, Paul found a sack of pearl-like eggs filled with tiny twitching larvae.

  “A female after spawning,” Yueh said with keen interest. “That one was about to give birth.”

  Paul scooped the shimmering eggs and wriggling larvae back into the water, thinking they might survive and grow to be more moonfish. “I would rather not have killed a mother, but I cannot undo it. I shall eat this one, then.”

  Gurney said, “Don’t go soft on us, lad. It is only a fish.” But Leto looked at Paul with respect.

  Yueh silently took notes. “I am interested to see the life cycle of the moonfish up close, since it is such an important product of Caladan. I found little about them in the filmbooks I studied, and Minister Wellan did not document much.”

  They roasted the fresh fish on the driftwood campfire, and Yueh supplemented the meal with edible plants and berries he had gathered, even though they had brought enough pack food to feed them for more than a week. Paul admitted that the fresh-caught moonfish did have a different, gamy flavor that he found a little odd, but not unpleasant. He ate all of his fish.

  When full night had set in, they relaxed around the fire, and Gurney sang more ballads, but soon, the deep darkness told them it was time to sleep. Paul felt weary and his stomach was queasy, possibly from all the turmoil in the past few days. They lay back on their bedrolls, Leto closest to his son.

  As the Duke stretched out on his blanket and stared up at the stars, he said quietly, “This is deceptively peaceful. It almost lets me forget the dangers of the Imperium.”

  There is great skill in violating an essential rule, and in being the only one to get away with it.

  —COUNT HASIMIR FENRING

  With Leto and Paul far to the north, Jessica performed the necessary work of Castle Caladan, made administrative decisions, managed the household staff, and quietly did what she could to alleviate any concerns the Duke would have to deal with upon his return. She had been with Leto so long, she made many small decisions on her own, and she knew he trusted her.

  With her Bene Gesserit training, she knew how to see both the large picture and the small intricacies. While not a Mentat, she could meditate and focus on problems that remained to be resolved. She needed to be active and alert.

  On a clear, breezy morning, she left the stone walls of the castle and began with a slow walk along the nearby cliffs, inhaling the sea air. Observers might have seen her as a lady at court without a care in the world, strolling out along the grassy headlands, her skirts blowing around her legs, but in her mind spun many wheels and many details.

  She could fathom why Leto so enjoyed going out to the wilderness with their son, but she also had to mull over the various marriage candidates that had been suggested for Paul, not just the political considerations that Leto and Thufir Hawat weighed but also the stark instructions the Mother Superior had sent her. Jessica had been indignant that the Sisterhood would meddle so blatantly, but she had been raised and trained on Wallach IX, and knew full well their long-standing breeding schemes.

  She had to thread a fine needle, balance the needs of House Atreides with the needs of the Bene Gesserit, and what was best for her son. But Leto could never know. Fortunately, with the initial choice of Junu Verdun, they had sent a letter of invitation to a young woman acceptable to both sets of needs.

  Alone, but crowded with thoughts, she walked gracefully down the narrow path along the cliff edge. Despite the sheer precipice nearby, she had always been sure-footed and hyperaware of her surroundings. She paused at a viewpoint guarded
by a metal railing, where a flagpole flew the green-and-black Atreides banner.

  She looked over the edge, a perilous drop-off to the crashing surf below. Twenty meters down the cliff, she spotted a ledge that held the nest of a giant spreybird. The gray female huddled on a reinforced pile of flotsam and dried weeds, while the white male soared smoothly above his mate, then landed next to her, tucking in his wings.

  Looking closely, Jessica saw that the egg had already hatched. The nesting female lifted a wing that had been sheltering a fuzzy baby spreybird. The mother positioned herself to shelter the chick from the wind and from potential attackers.

  Watching this, Jessica thought there could be nothing more natural than the love of a mother for her offspring. She could not always shelter Paul, though. He was growing into a man right before her eyes, leaving his childhood ways behind at an astonishing pace.

  As she continued walking, she looked up into the bright sky to see an Atreides patrol glider soaring out over the water, riding updrafts and gusts of wind. A man worked the controls, enclosed in the plaz control cockpit that did not impair visibility. Though this surveillance was the work of a low-ranking scout, she recognized Thufir Hawat himself, only just returned from the moonfish operations to the north. The warrior Mentat had flown often in his younger years, and he still took discretionary shifts on the watch gliders.

  Standing on the open grass of the headlands, she watched the patrol craft circle the tall stone towers of the castle, then glide toward her. Thufir was a master of the nuances of gusts and breezes. Jessica was impressed by how he used aerodynamics and worked the craft’s geometry to cruise above the sea cliffs as he kept a sharp eye on the surroundings.

  Spotting Jessica out in the open, he approached, made a tight circle, and landed gently on the grasses. She hurried to greet him as he struggled to anchor the lightweight craft.

  The old Atreides Master of Assassins had taken charge of the drug investigation at the fishery, at Leto’s command. After two intense days, he had left cleanup crews and security forces who continued to monitor the situation, while he returned to watch over Castle Caladan.

  With the light craft anchored, he unhooked his harness and stepped free of the small flying machine. The old veteran was still quite nimble, but Jessica noted the stiffness he hid. A great warrior in the days of Duke Paulus Atreides, Thufir Hawat refused to admit that he might be growing older and slower. Nevertheless, Jessica knew the Mentat’s loyalty was without question.

  He bowed and smiled with his stained lips. “Always on duty, my Lady, always vigilant. Flying up there gives me a chance to think as well.”

  He called for a retrieval crew to move the lightweight craft back to the military landing field, and they walked together back toward the castle, leaving the anchored glider shifting restlessly behind them.

  “I understand the drug investigation is in good hands,” she said. “You have cut off one of the black-market channels?” She had already learned much of what had happened there, but Thufir had not presented a formal report yet.

  “My team was thorough,” the Mentat said. “We began to unravel the drug operations, although we have not yet located the primary barra fern crop, but we did cut off some of their smuggling routes and seized a fair amount of product. For that, at least, some of the people of Caladan are safer. I have reviewed Minister Wellan’s travels and which other fishery operations he inspected.”

  Jessica nodded. “Yes, those might also be parts of the smuggling network.”

  “Someone is moving the Caladan drug through the moonfish supply chain. The distribution network is like a weed with roots extending in all directions.” Thufir paused, silently summarizing his report before he spoke again. “As we interrogated the frightened moonfish workers, one name came up repeatedly—Chaen Marek. Apparently, he is in charge of the illicit operations.”

  “And who is this man?” Jessica asked. “Have you uncovered further details about him?”

  “Marek is an enigma, my Lady, but he certainly struck fear in the workers. He is apparently an offworlder, with intricate connections that allow him to distribute his deadly drug around the Imperium. That must be how Lord Atikk’s son received his supply.” His brows drew together. “I am still investigating the extent of interplanetary spread. The fishery workers revealed nothing else, and I am convinced they knew no more. They were not the type to … resist my probing.”

  He and Jessica had a formal relationship, distant but respectful. She rarely gave the Mentat compliments, but now she felt he deserved one. “Leto will be proud of your work, Thufir,” she said.

  The veteran looked troubled. “I do not do it to make him proud, my Lady. I do it because it is my job.”

  “You do your job well, as we all strive to,” Jessica said, thinking of all the quiet, subtle operations she herself did to balance her obligations and keep the complicated wheels turning. “And that is how we make House Atreides strong.” Musing, she spoke up, “We have a rivalry, you know, Thufir.”

  He remained stiff and formal. “My Lady, I do not oppose you in any way.”

  “But we compete for the attention of my son. You with your deep training methods, and me with another form of training. I have taught my son—all for his own good.”

  “You use Bene Gesserit training,” Hawat said. She detected an undertone of distaste in his voice.

  “That, and more.” She smiled. “And we both know you’ve been teaching my son the ways of Mentats. I approve.”

  “My specific training is strictly to help his thought processes, my Lady.” They exchanged knowing glances. “Even if such training is frowned upon by others, strictly speaking.”

  “Paul has a great eagerness to learn and a great capacity for absorbing information.” A gust of wind caught a strand of her hair and whipped it about. “I appreciate what you’re teaching him, Thufir. You are preparing him to survive the political battles he is bound to encounter in Imperial life. You equip him against the difficulties he might face.”

  The Mentat paused in his stride. “The son of a Duke will face mental, physical, and political challenges. The young man must be ready for all of them.” His stained lips turned downward in concern.

  Jessica thought of Paul’s future. “Has there been any response from Duke Verdun about a possible betrothal? I am glad we found at least one name we could all agree on, but we dispatched the inquiry some time ago.”

  “No response at all.”

  “Strange. Why the delay, do you think?”

  Thufir pondered as they approached the side of the castle. “Difficult to say. With the turmoil in the Landsraad and the many open holdings after Otorio, perhaps Verdun isn’t so quick to marry off his daughter.” He added with a hint of unguarded pride, “Duke Verdun could not find a better match than young Master Paul.”

  Jessica smiled. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  Together, they reached the northern wing and entered through a side doorway to avoid drawing a flood of attention.

  The Mentat bent down to rub his scarred leg. “I sense something very different about Paul, my Lady. As he learns more and more, he has a kind of inner balance, a deep calmness beyond his years.”

  She had noticed that herself, not just as a mother seeing her son through a fog of expectations. “Yes, Paul is extraordinary, and our guidance can make him even more so.”

  The difference between delirium and insight is only a matter of perspective.

  —DR. WELLINGTON YUEH, private medical journals

  Paul awoke out in the cold wilderness, twisting in pain. In the darkness, he heard the sounds of buzzing insects and night-hunting birds, though they were drowned out by the roaring in his head and the pain of cramps. The sickness struck him as swiftly as the charge of a maddened bull.

  Paul rolled off his cushioned blanket, curled into a fetal position, then pushed himself to his hands and knees on the sandy ground. Waves of pain jabbed his guts like a serrated blade. He rolled and began vomit
ing violently.

  The driftwood campfire had burned down to dull red embers. Gurney Halleck was instantly alert, springing from the ground. “Young Master! What is it?”

  “Paul!” His father lurched up from the blanket beside him. “Yueh, get over here!”

  Paul sensed something toxic was inside him. A poison. His body rejected whatever was in his stomach, and he vomited again. He tried to speak, but only a ragged gasp came out. He choked. His mind was aflame. He felt people grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. Someone, perhaps Yueh, touched his forehead.

  Paul began to shake and thrash. He dropped and rolled onto his back, staring upward. The stars grew brighter, then dimmer, like diamonds burning out. As his eyes filled with tears of agony, he squeezed the lids shut, went inward.

  He lost more and more awareness of the world around him … the trees, the shouts, the forest shadows. A roaring in his ears reminded him of the grumble of the ocean, but there was no ocean here.

  Paul shivered and opened his eyes to see pounding sunlight and sinuous dunes that extended like a different kind of sea. He’d seen long expanses of beaches before, but nothing like this. He convulsed, but his mind seemed far away, barely aware of his body.

  As he looked at the barren landscape that was gentle and stark at the same time, he saw people moving, lines of hooded figures in mottled tan capes. Paul was able to see them through his third eye, which had now opened even as his physical eyes clenched shut with pain. The figures ran forward and struck an outpost. He heard the piercing screams of the dying, saw blood and orange flags, emblazoned with stylized griffins … the sign of House Harkonnen, mortal enemies of the Atreides.

  Scouring sand blew in his unreal face and obscured the images. Paul felt a rumbling beneath him in the sunbaked sand, not the forest floor of Caladan.

  The dunes split open as a rolling wave crest shuddered across the expanse, and an enormous monster emerged, like a lamprey with a mouth the size of a massive sea cave. The creature roared upward in an explosion of sand that engulfed the view, the vision, and Paul himself.