Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “We studied the information Muad’Dib provided,” said Enno. “We took every word to heart. The words showed us how to swim.”

  Gurney was sure that each of these men had pored over the instruction manual with the intensity of a priest studying a religious text. “And does reading a filmbook manual on sandworms make one a wormrider?”

  The absurdity of the question finally made the intense Fremen chuckle. Both eager and hesitant, the group reached the edge of the deep pool. The very thought of being immersed in water was enough to terrify them more than facing any enemy on the battlefield.

  Gurney reached into the pocket of his stillsuit and withdrew a gold coin, one of the old Imperial Solaris that featured the haughty face of Shaddam IV. He held it up so that its golden hue glinted in the light. “The first one of you to retrieve this coin from the bottom of that pool will receive a special blessing from Muad’Dib.”

  Any other army would have competed to win an increase in pay, a promotion in rank, or an extra bit of furlough. The Fremen didn’t care about such things. But they would push themselves to the limit for a blessing from Paul.

  Gurney tossed the solari coin. It twinkled in the sunlight and dropped into the water near the center of the pool, where it continued to flash like a little fish as it sank to the bottom. A depth of three meters would not challenge a good swimmer, but he doubted any of these dry-desert Fremen would be able to retrieve it. He was interested in testing the mettle of the men, however; he wanted to see which ones would try the hardest.

  “And God said, ‘They shall show their faith by their actions,’” Gurney intoned. “‘The first in my eyes shall be first in my heart.’” He looked at them and finally barked, “What are you waiting for? This isn’t a buffet line!”

  He nudged the first man on the edge, and the Fremen toppled into the water with a splash, coughed, and thrashed his arms repeatedly, going under and rising to the surface again.

  “Swim, man! You look like you’re having a grand mal seizure.”

  The fighter splashed, stroked, and struggled until he pulled away from the edge.

  Gurney pushed two more Fremen in. “Your comrade is in trouble. He may be drowning — why aren’t you helping him?”

  Another pair plunged into the water; finally, Enno jumped in of his own volition. Having watched the others, he panicked less and stroked more. Gurney was pleased to see that he was the first to make it to the opposite side of the pool. Within an hour, most of the desert recruits were swimming, or at least floating. A few clung shivering to the side, refusing to let go. He would have to reassign or dismiss them. The Fremen, bred for desert warfare, had achieved incomparable victories on Dune, but as soldiers in Paul’s widening conflict, they would have to fight in many environments. He could not rely on men who would become paralyzed in an unexpected situation. Swimming might be the least of the ordeals they would have to face.

  Several of the trainees bobbed underwater, trying to get to the coin that glinted tantalizingly at the bottom, three meters below, like a patch of spice out in the open sand. But no one came close to reaching it. Gurney supposed he would have to swim down there and retrieve it himself.

  Then Enno stroked back across the pool, dove down, and swam deep, but not quite deep enough.

  Still not there, but not bad, Gurney thought.

  The man came back up, gasping, then dunked under again, refusing to give up.

  Amid the din of splashing and shouting, Gurney heard the hum of ships landing in the Arrakeen spaceport: hundreds of military-grade gliders, expanded troop transports, and bumblebee-like cargo ships loaded with military supplies to feed Paul’s armies. If they wanted spice for their navigators, the Spacing Guild had no choice but to supply Muad’Dib with the vessels he needed. Gurney had to crew them with fighters, and the best men came from Arrakis. Everyone in the Imperium would soon know that.

  Suddenly he noted a change in the cries and splashing sounds from the pool. The Fremen were calling for help. Gurney saw a body floating face-down, bobbing in the water. Enno. “Bring him here, lads, now!”

  But the Fremen could barely keep themselves afloat. One man grabbed Enno’s body; another tugged at his arm, but succeeded only in ducking his head under deeper.

  “Roll him over, you fools, so he can breathe!”

  Seeing how clumsy they were, Gurney dove in. The warm water was a shock to his parched skin. He stroked quickly out to the knot of men and shoved them aside. Grabbing Enno by the back of his collar, he pulled the young man up, flipped him over, and paddled with him back to the edge of the pool.

  “Call for a medic. Now!” Gurney shouted, spitting water out of his mouth.

  Enno was completely limp, not breathing. His lips were pale blue, his skin clammy, his eyes closed. With a surge of adrenaline strength, Gurney hauled the dripping man up over the edge of the pool and onto the sun-warmed paving tiles. Water streamed away from him, drying quickly.

  Gurney knew what to do and did not wait for help to arrive. He pumped Enno’s legs and used standard resuscitation procedures as familiar to anyone from Caladan as a stillsuit was to a Fremen. Seeing their comrade’s mishap, the remaining recruits scrambled pell-mell out of the water.

  By the time a puffy-eyed military medic arrived with his kit, Gurney’s emergency measures had already brought the young man around. Enno coughed, then rolled over to vomit some of the water he had swallowed. The doctor, after nodding respectfully to Gurney, gave Enno a stimulant and wrapped him with a blanket to keep him from going into shock.

  Enno eventually pushed the blanket away and forced himself to sit up. He looked around with glazed eyes. Grinning weakly, he raised a hand and opened his tightly clenched fist to reveal the water-slick gold coin in his palm. “As you ordered, Commander.” He touched his dripping hair with wonder. “Am I alive?”

  “You are now” Gurney said. “You’ve been revived.”

  “I died… from too much water. Truly, I am blessed with abundance!”

  The Fremen recruits began to mutter and whisper with a clear undertone of awe. A drowned Fremen!

  Their reaction made Gurney uneasy. These spiritual people were as incomprehensible as they were admirable. Many splinter groups followed Muad’Dib’s religion by borrowing tenets from Fremen mysticism; others participated in water-worshipping cults. Upon learning of this drowning incident, Paul’s bureaucratic priesthood, the Qizarate, could very well choose to make Enno into an inspirational figure.

  The trainees stood around the pool, dripping, as though they had all been baptized. They seemed more determined than ever. Gurney knew he’d have no trouble loading the Guild ship with eager, inspired fighters like the best of these men.

  The Fremen were ready to set forth and shed blood in the name of Muad’Dib.

  The universe is an ancient desert, a vast wasteland with only occasional habitable planets as oases. We Fremen, comfortable with deserts, shall now venture into another.

  —Stilgar, From the Sietch to the Stars

  Shortly after the overthrow of the Padishah Emperor, the armies of Muad’Dib had begun to spread out from Dune like echoes of thunder. Heavily armed legions traveled from one rebellious system to the next, spreading the Truth, consolidating the Imperium for Muad’Dib.

  As part of the initial surrender terms, Muad’Dib had appointed Stilgar governor of Arrakis and promised him an additional title as Minister of State, but the Fremen naib had no use for such designations or for the duties associated with them. He was a man of the desert — a leader of brave Fremen warriors, not a soft functionary who sat at a desk.

  Aboard a heavily loaded military frigate, Stilgar and the legion under his command were headed for the most important battlefield on his list of assignments. He’d been ordered to take over Kaitain, once the long-standing capital of the Corrino Imperium. Excitement and anticipation flowed through him. This would be the greatest razzia raid in Fremen history.

  The tall, rugged man sat at a wide windowport, sta
ring into the Heighliner’s cavernous bay, where row after row of armored frigates hung in separate cradles waiting to be deployed. The immensity of the ship made Stilgar feel small, yet it reinforced his belief in the greatness of Muad’Dib.

  Until recently, he had never been off-planet, and he felt both the thrill and fear of exploring the unknown. The great distances he had traveled by sandworm across Dune’s Tanzerouft wasteland were as nothing compared to the sheer vastness separating the stars.

  He had seen so many new things since helping assemble the fighters for the Jihad that unusual and astonishing sights seemed almost commonplace. He had learned that most inhabited worlds possessed far more water than Dune, and that their populations were much softer than the Fremen. Stilgar had delivered speeches, inspired men, recruited them for the holy war. Now his best Fremen fighters would seize Kaitain, the jewel in the crown of the fallen Corrino Imperium.

  He took a sip of water… not because he was thirsty, but because it was there. How long have I taken water for granted? When did I start drinking water because it is a thing to do, rather than a thing for survival?

  For days now, military frigates had been shuttling up to orbital space from the surface of Dune, locking into cradles within the Heighliner’s hold, preparing for departure. Such a battle could not be commenced without thorough, time-consuming preparations. Once the Guild ship was fully loaded, though, the actual foldspace journey would be brief.

  Stilgar descended to the open cargo deck of the frigate. Although these military ships had many individual cabins for passengers, his Fremen fighters chose to eat and sleep in the cavelike atmosphere of the large, metal-walled bay. The Fremen soldiers still considered the ship’s standard amenities to be luxuries: ready food supplies, spacious quarters, plentiful water even for bathing, moist air that made stillsuits unnecessary.

  Stilgar leaned against a bulkhead and surveyed his people, smelling the familiar odors of spice coffee, food, and close human bodies. Even here in a metal ship in space, he and his men tried to re-create some of the comforting familiarity of sietch life. He scratched his dark beard and looked at the Fremen commandos, who were so anxious to fight that they needed no rousing speech from him.

  Many sat reading copies of Irulan’s book, The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 1, a record of how Paul Atreides had left Caladan to go to Dune, how the evil Harkonnens had killed his father and destroyed his home, how he and his mother had run into the desert to the Fremen, and how he had eventually emerged to become the living legend, Paul-Muad’Dib.

  Printed on cheap but durable spice paper, copies of the book were given freely to any citizen who asked, and were included as part of any new soldier’s kit. Irulan had started writing the chronicle even before her father had gone into exile on Salusa Secundus.

  Stilgar could not quite fathom the woman’s motives in writing such a story, since he could see she had gotten some of the details wrong, but neither could he deny the effectiveness of the book. Whether propaganda or inspirational religious text, the story of the most powerful man in the galaxy was spreading throughout the planets of the Imperium.

  Two young men saw Stilgar and ran up, calling his name. “Will we be departing soon?” asked the younger, who had cowlicks of thick, dark hair that stuck out in all directions.

  “Is it true we are going to Kaitain?” The older boy had recently undergone a growth spurt and stood taller than his half brother. These were the sons of Jamis — Orlop and Kaleff — young men who had become the responsibility of Paul Atreides when he killed their father in a knife duel. The two of them held no grudge, and they idolized Paul.

  “We fight for Muad’Dib wherever the Jihad takes us.” Stilgar had checked the schedule and knew the Heighliner was due to depart within the hour.

  The siblings could barely contain themselves. Around Stilgar, the chatter of gathered fighters on the cargo deck took on a different tone, as he felt a vibration through the hull of the immense Heighliner. The foldspace engines were powering up. Remembering so many raids against the Harkonnens, followed by the adrenaline glow of victory over Shaddam IV, was better than any dose of spice.

  In a rush of excitement, Stilgar raised his bearded chin and shouted, “On to Kaitain!”

  The fighters cheered resoundingly and stomped their feet on the deck plates, causing so much ruckus that he almost didn’t feel the shifting as space folded around him.

  THE GUILD VESSEL disgorged thousands of military frigates onto the pampered world that had been the Imperium’s capital for thousands of years. Kaitain could not possibly withstand the onslaught. The warriors of Muad’Dib knew little about Imperial history, and did not revere the museums and monuments to legendary figures: Faykan Butler, Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, Hassik Corrino III. Kaitain had remained in flux since Shaddam’s defeat and exile; noble families of the Landsraad either flooded in to fill the local power vacuum or packed up their embassies and escaped to safer worlds. Those who remained behind tried to claim neutrality, but the Fremen soldiers did not follow the same rules.

  Filled with passion and determination, Stilgar led his men into battle on the streets of the former capital. With his sword in one hand and crysknife in the other, Stilgar ran ahead of the troops in the opening encounter, shouting, “Long live Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib!”

  Although this world should have been the most fortified and well-defended of all that now faced the storm of the Jihad, Imperial security was predicated upon family ties and alliances, marriages, treaties, taxes, and penalties. The Rule of Law. All of that meant nothing to the Fremen armies. Kaitain’s security troops — a mere handful of Sardaukar no longer duty bound to protect a defeated Emperor — lacked cohesiveness. The Landsraad nobles were too shocked and astonished to put up a real fight.

  Commandos raced through the streets, screaming the name of their young Emperor. At their head, Stilgar watched the grinning sons of Jamis rush forward to demonstrate their prowess and spatter themselves with blood. This planet would be a highly significant conquest, an important piece in the high-stakes political game of the Imperium. Yes, Muad’Dib would be pleased.

  Leading his men farther into the carnage, Stilgar shouted in the Fremen tongue, “Ya hya chouhada! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Ya hya chouhada!”

  Yet Stilgar drew little satisfaction from the actual battle as he and his Fremen swept so easily over their opponents. These civilized people of the Landsraad were not, after all, very good fighters.

  When Duke Leto Atreides accepted the fief of Arrakis, Count Hasimir Fenring ceased being the planet’s Imperial Regent and was instead given provisional control of the Atreides homeworld, Caladan. Though he served as siridar-absentia there (at the behest of Shaddam IV), Fenring took scant interest in his new backwater fief, and the people of Caladan matched his disinterest with their own. They had always been a proud and independent people, more concerned with ocean harvests than galactic politics. Caladanians were slow to understand the importance of the heroes they had created in their midst. After Shaddam’s fall and the ascension of Muad’Dib, Gurney Halleck in turn became involved in the governance of this world, though the obligations of the Jihad often kept him far away.

  —excerpt from biographical sketch of Gurney Halleck

  Leaving behind the violent Jihad he had spawned, Paul looked forward to returning to Caladan, a place bright with memories. Knowing the battles that were even now being launched across the Imperium, and aware through prescience of how much worse they would become, Paul decided that this short visit would renew him.

  Caladan… the seas, the windswept coast, the fishing villages, the stone towers of the ancient family castle. He paused halfway down the frigate’s ramp in the Cala City spaceport, closed his eyes, and drew a long, slow breath. He could smell the salt air, the iodine of drying kelp, the ripening sourness of fish, and the moisture of sea spray and rain. All so familiar. This had once been home. How could he have forgotten so quickly? A smile touched his face.

  As
he recalled the shrine he had commissioned for his father’s skull, he now wondered if Duke Leto might have preferred to be interred here instead, on the planet that had been home to House Atreides for twenty-six generations.

  But I wanted him close to me. On Dune.

  On the surface this world seemed completely unchanged since his family’s departure, but as he stepped away from the ship Paul realized that he himself had changed. He had left as a boy of fifteen, the son of a beloved Duke. Now he returned, only a few years later, as the Holy Emperor Muad’Dib, with millions of fighters ready to kill — and die — for him.

  Jessica placed her hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Paul. We’re home.”

  He shook his head, kept his voice low. “Much as I love this place, Dune is my home now.” Paul could not go back to the past, no matter how comfortable it might be. “Caladan is no longer my entire universe, but a speck in a vast empire that I have to rule. Thousands of planets are depending on me.”

  Jessica rebuked him, using an edge of Voice. “Your father was Duke Leto Atreides, and these were his people. You may control an Imperium, but Caladan is still your homeworld, and its people are still your family as surely as I am.”

  He knew she was right. Paul found a smile, a real one this time. “Thank you for reminding me when I needed it.” He feared that his preoccupation might grow worse as he faced further crises. Shaddam IV had treated many of his planets with disdain, seeing them only as names in a catalogue or numbers on star charts. Paul could not let himself fall into the same trap. “Every fishing boat on Caladan needs its anchor.”

  The crowds of locals at the edge of the spaceport cheered when they saw the pair step forward. Paul scanned the hundreds of faces: men in dungarees and striped shirts, fishwives, net-weavers, boat-builders. They had not burdened themselves with ridiculous court finery, nor were they attempting to put on haughty airs.