Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Paul Atreides has returned!”

  “It’s our Duke!”

  “Welcome, Lady Jessica!”

  His personal Fedaykin guards accompanied him, led by a man named Chatt the Leaper. They stood close by Paul, ever alert for assassins in the crowd. His fighters were uneasy in this strange place that smelled of fish and kelp, with its cottony clouds, fog clinging to the headlands, and crashing surf.

  Absorbing the resounding welcome of the people, Paul couldn’t help feeling excitement, as well as pangs for the halcyon life he might have led if he’d remained here, comfortably accepting the duties of Duke when the time came. Memories from his childhood came rushing back — peaceful days spent fishing with his father, trips to the back country the two of them had made, and hiding with Duncan in the jungles during the terrible War of Assassins that had embroiled Atreides and Ecaz against House Moritani. But even the violence of that conflict paled in comparison with Paul’s Jihad, where the scope and scale of carnage would be exponentially greater, and the stakes infinitely higher.

  “We should have brought Gurney with us,” Jessica said, interrupting his thoughts. “It would do him good to come back to Caladan. He belongs here.”

  Paul knew she was right, but he could not afford to surrender the services of such an unquestionably loyal and skilled officer. “He is doing vital work for me, Mother.”

  Officially, Gurney had been granted an earldom on Caladan as part of Shaddam’s surrender terms, but Paul had given Gurney no chance to settle here. Not yet. In the interim, Gurney had assigned planetary management to the representative of a minor noble family from Ecaz, Prince Xidd Orleaq. Until the Jihad was over, Paul would have to keep Gurney, Stilgar, and the best Fremen out on the front lines.

  The pudgy, red-faced Prince Orleaq greeted Paul and Jessica, shaking hands vigorously with each of them. To Paul he seemed energetic and dedicated, and reports on the nobleman were good, though the people of Caladan had been slow to warm to him. He might be efficient enough, but he would always be an outsider to them. “We have made the castle ready for you both — your old quarters restored to the way they were, as best we could manage. My own family is living there, since we’re the provisional government, but we know we’re only stewards. Would you like us to vacate the castle for you while you are here?”

  “Not necessary. The rooms you arranged will be sufficient — I cannot remain here long. My mother… has not entirely decided what she will do.”

  “I may stay a bit longer,” Jessica said.

  Orleaq looked from one to the other. “We’ll be ready for you either way.” He raised his voice to the crowd, who took his teasing good-naturedly. “Make sure you’ve tidied everything up! On the morrow, Duke Paul Atreides will tour the village. Perhaps we could talk him into spending an afternoon in his great chair, listening to your concerns as his father used to do. Maybe we can even stage a bullfight in the arena? It has been empty for too long.” As if just remembering that the Old Duke had been killed by a Salusan bull in the arena, Orleaq flushed scarlet. “We can find plenty to keep him occupied here.”

  The crowd whistled and applauded, while Paul raised his hand to them, feeling somewhat ill at ease. “Please, please — my schedule has not yet been set.” Already feeling the call of his responsibilities, he wondered what difficulties Alia and Chani might be facing as they managed the government in Arrakeen in his absence. Even though the people of Caladan were right here in front of him, his thoughts raced to distant star systems, where worlds would eventually — sometimes painfully — fall under his banner. “I will stay here as long as I am able.”

  The people cheered again, as if he’d said something important, and Orleaq hurried them toward a luxurious groundcar that would take the noble visitors and their entourage up to the ancestral castle on the cliffs above the sea. Sitting across from Paul in the rear passenger compartment of the vehicle, Chatt the Leaper looked extremely suspicious of the Caladanians, until Paul signaled for him to relax slightly. The young ruler remembered learning that Old Duke Paulus had insisted that he need not fear his people because they loved him, but many conspirators already wanted to kill Muad’Dib. Even this planet wasn’t necessarily safe for him. And assassins had come after Paul in Castle Caladan before, a long time ago….

  “You are everything to the citizens of Caladan, Sire,” Orleaq said. “They loved Duke Leto, and they remember you as a boy. You are one of their own, and now you have become the Emperor and married Shaddam’s daughter.” He grinned. “Just like a fairy tale. Sire, is it true that you’re going to make Caladan your new capital world instead of Arrakis or Kaitain? The people would be so honored.”

  Paul knew he could have no capital other than Dune, but his mother broke in before he could say anything. “Rumors are just rumors. Paul has made no… firm decision.”

  “I now serve in a capacity that goes beyond the Duke of Caladan,” Paul said in a somewhat apologetic tone, looking out the window at the crowd as the long vehicle passed them. “The first battles for the Jihad are raging on at least thirty planets. I could be called away at any time.”

  “Of course, Sire. We all understand that you are the Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib, a man with much greater responsibilities than one world.” But Orleaq didn’t sound as if he understood at all. “Still, they know you have fond memories of them. If you establish your Imperial capital here, think of what it can do for Caladan.”

  “Muad’Dib has visited your world,” Chatt the Leaper said in a gruff voice. “You have already been touched by greatness.”

  THAT EVENING IN the familiar old castle, Paul did enjoy sleeping in his boyhood room again. On the wall hung a magnificent quilt, hand-stitched in squares by representatives of local villages; Paul remembered that it had been a gift to Duke Leto, but he could not recall the occasion it commemorated.

  “I should have brought Chani with me,” he murmured to himself. But she had not wanted to leave Dune. Perhaps one day, though…

  In an unguarded moment when he allowed himself to forget about the Jihad, he imagined what it would be like to retire on Caladan and walk with Chani along the ocean cliffs, seeing the spray like tiny diamonds on her brown cheeks and forehead. The two of them could dress in ordinary clothing and spend their time in uncomplicated happiness, strolling through the gardens and fishing villages. As he drifted off to sleep thinking of that unlikely dream, his fatigued mind convinced him it might be possible. But not for many years. His erratic prescience did not tend to show him peaceful, noncritical moments.

  When he arose the next day, Paul found the castle’s main reception hall bedecked with flowers and ribbons, the stone-block walls papered with notes, letters, and drawings. To welcome him, the joyful people had brought presents — colored shells, large reefpearls floating in oil, dried flowers, and baskets of fresh fish. The simple locals meant well, lining up outside in the courtyard, through the gates, and partway down the hill just for a chance to see him.

  But already, he felt restless.

  His mother was up and watching the activities, having greeted the throngs outside the main gates. “They have been waiting a long time to have their Duke back. They want Paul Atreides. When you return to being the Emperor Muad’Dib, who will fill that role? Do not just abandon these people, Paul. They are worth a great deal to you.”

  Paul picked up one of the handwritten letters, perused a message from a young woman who remembered having met him in the village years ago, when he’d been walking with Duke Leto. She said that at the time she’d been carrying a banner of silver and blue ribbons. Hearing this, the Emperor looked up at his mother. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember her.”

  “She certainly remembers you, Paul. Even the smallest things you do have an effect on these people.”

  “On all people.” Paul could never completely escape his violent visions of the Jihad’s horrific fallout, how difficult it would be to control the monster that would have been unleashed with or without him. The only true
path to survival of the human species lay as narrow as a razor, and slippery with blood.

  “So now you are too important for Caladan?” Her remark stung him. Could she not see that was exactly the case? The more excitement he witnessed among these people, the more uncomfortable he felt here.

  Prince Orleaq rushed them through an extravagant breakfast, eager to take Paul on a procession through the village. The nominal leader of Caladan finished his meal, then wiped his mouth with a lace napkin. “You must be anxious to revisit the places you miss so much, Sire. Everything has been prepared specially for your visit.”

  Paul walked outside with his mother and the others. As he made his way through the harbor town, he could not brush aside the odd and overwhelming sensation that he no longer belonged here. The air was damp and clammy, every breath sodden with moisture. As much as he cherished his boyhood home, it now seemed, in its own way, as alien as Fremen civilization had ever been.

  He felt simultaneously connected to, and entirely separate from, these people — his people. He was no longer a man of one world — or even two. He was Emperor of thousands. The conversations around him about fishing, Duke Leto, the upcoming storm season, Old Duke Paulus and his spectacular bullfights… all seemed small and lacking in perspective. He found his thoughts drawn to the initial military campaigns he knew were taking place across the Imperium. What was Gurney doing now? And Stilgar? What if Alia and Chani needed him for pressing matters of state? What business did he have leaving Dune at such an early stage of this war?

  In one of his first acts as Emperor, he had increased taxes and levies on any world that did not immediately accept his rule, and many had swiftly pledged themselves to him, if only for economic reasons. Paul was convinced that this bit of monetary coercion would save many lives by preventing unnecessary battles. But much of the fighting could not be avoided, and he could not escape his responsibilities, even here on his boyhood world.

  That evening, watching from a viewing platform where he stood with his mother, along with Prince Orleaq and other local dignitaries, Paul could hardly focus on the Caladanian dancers who performed for him in their colorful costumes. He felt detached from his roots, like a tree that had been moved across the galaxy and replanted somewhere else. Plants did not grow as easily on Dune as on Caladan, but the desert world was where he needed to be, where he thrived. He had not expected to feel like this.

  Abruptly, a messenger arrived from the Cala City spaceport on a fast groundcycle. Seeing the flushed courier and the armband she wore, Paul motioned for Chatt the Leaper to let her pass.

  The villagers were slow to react to the interruption. The dancers faltered, then stood to the side of the stage, waiting to resume their performance. Orleaq looked concerned. Paul was intent only on the courier’s message. Urgent news was rarely good news.

  The courier spoke in a breathless voice. “Emperor Muad’Dib, I bear a battlefield message from Stilgar. We felt the news important enough to divert a Heighliner in order to inform you as soon as possible.”

  Orleaq spluttered. “You diverted a whole Heighliner just to bring a message?”

  A thousand scenarios thundered through Paul’s mind. Had something terrible happened to Stilgar? “Speak your words.” His prescience had not warned him of any immediate disaster.

  “Stilgar bade me to say this to you, ‘Usul, I did as you requested. Your armies have captured Kaitain, and I shall await you in the palace of the fallen Emperor.’”

  Unable to contain his joy, Paul stood and shouted to the crowd. “Kaitain is ours!”

  In response to his excitement, an uncertain wave of applause passed through the crowd. Jessica stepped closer to him. “I take it you will be leaving then?”

  “I have to.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “Mother — it is Kaitain!”

  Unsettled, Orleaq raised his hands, gesturing toward the dancers. “But, Sire, all the fishing boats are festooned for tomorrow’s regatta, and we thought you’d want to place a wreath at the statues of Old Duke Paulus and young Victor.”

  “Please forgive me. I cannot stay.” When he saw the crestfallen expression on the man’s face, he added, “I’m sorry.” He raised his voice so the whole crowd could hear. “People of Caladan — I know you wanted your Duke back, but I’m afraid I can’t fill that role for you now. Instead, as your Emperor as well as your Duke, I give you my mother to watch over Caladan, to guide this world in my name.” He smiled at his solution. “She will be your new Duchess. I formally install her in that role.”

  Jessica kept her voice much lower than his. “Thank you, Paul.” The people applauded, somewhat uncertainly at first and then with growing enthusiasm as she stepped forward to deliver an impromptu speech.

  While his mother occupied the spectators, Paul quickly turned to the courier, whispering, “Is the Heighliner ready to depart?”

  “The Navigator awaits your command, Muad’Dib.”

  “I shall leave within the hour. First, send word to Arrakeen instructing Irulan to meet me on Kaitain. Her presence is required.” The courier rushed off to make the arrangements, and Paul turned toward a crestfallen Orleaq.

  “Have we displeased you, Sire?” the nobleman asked, his voice cracking. “We expected you to stay a little while longer.”

  “I cannot.” Paul knew that the Atreides part of him would always cling to Caladan, while his heart resided on Dune, and the part of him that was Muad’Dib would sweep across the entire galaxy.

  Humans have a tendency to complain whenever the old must give way to the new. But change is the natural way of the universe, and we must learn to embrace it rather than fear it. The very process of transformation and adaptation strengthens the species.

  —MOTHER SUPERIOR RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL,

  founder of the Bene Gesserit School

  The Guild delegation had arrived, and the three men were making their way through the fanmetal hutment that had been designated the temporary Imperial Audience Chamber. The haughty Guildsmen seemed irritated after being detained at each of the guard checkpoints, but they would have to follow protocol and security if they wanted an audience with Emperor Muad’Dib.

  Standing beside the throne with all the erectness and poise befitting her position, a cool, blonde-haired Princess Irulan watched the trio enter the great metal-walled chamber. The men looked dignified in their gray uniforms, the sleeves of which displayed the Spacing Guild’s analemma sigil of infinity. In single file from shortest to tallest, each of the men had slightly odd features, offset from the norm of humanity.

  The short one at the front had an oversized head, the left side of which was covered with a barbed metal plate, and half a head of ragged orange hair flowed back as he walked. The second man was exceedingly thin with a narrow face that bore the scars of reconstruction, while the tallest one at the rear turned his metal eyes nervously in all directions. Irulan noted the abrupt change when the Guilds-men simultaneously saw little Alia waiting on the impressive throne itself.

  Wrapped in a cloak of his own importance, Korba stood at the foot of Paul’s throne like a guardian. He had embellished his traditional stillsuit and robes with marks of rank, and mysterious religious symbols drawn from archaic Muadru designs. Irulan doubted that Korba expected anyone to spot the influence, but with her Bene Gesserit training she had easily noticed what he was doing. The logical part of her mind saw the purpose of Korba’s obvious plan.

  There is more power in religion than in being a glorified bodyguard, she thought.

  Perhaps she should have created a similar role for herself.

  As the eldest daughter of Shaddam Corrino IV, Irulan had always known that one day she would marry for political and economic reasons. The Emperor and the Bene Gesserit had groomed her for that duty, and she had willingly accepted it, even offering herself as a solution when Paul had faced her father after the Battle of Arrakeen.

  While she had never expected Paul Atreides to fall in love with her, she had counted on conceiving his chi
ld. The Bene Gesserit Sisterhood demanded it for their breeding program. But Paul would not touch her, and by placing Irulan in a position clearly subordinate to Alia and Chani, he sent a message to everyone at court.

  Now Irulan performed a barely perceptible Bene Gesserit breathing exercise, to ease her tension. She had stopped feeling the irony that Muad’Dib had made his initial audience chamber out of the massive hutment that her father had transported to Arrakis for his disastrous military strike. The days of Corrino glory were gone, and she had been relegated to this comparatively minor role, her own form of exile.

  I am but a pawn on the Imperial chessboard.

  Many people crowded the chamber — CHOAM functionaries, minor nobles hoping to increase their standing through public support of Muad’Dib, rich water sellers, former smugglers who now considered themselves respectable, as well as other visitors seeking an audience with Muad’Dib. Today, though, with Paul away on Caladan, they would see his sister Alia instead. The deceptively small girl in a four-year-old body perched like a bird on the translucent green throne that had once held Shaddam IV.

  In a high royal chair beside Alia sat the red-haired Chani, opposite from where Irulan stood, with no throne of her own. Though Irulan was the Emperor’s wife, Paul had never consummated their marriage, and said he never would, because his Fremen concubine held all of his affections. With the avenue of mate and potential mother cut off from her, Irulan struggled to define her own role.

  “We have an audience to see Emperor Muad’Dib,” said the shortest Guildsman. “We have journeyed from Junction.”

  “Today, Alia speaks for Muad’Dib,” Chani said, then waited.

  Discomfited, the second Guildsman said, “This is Ertun and I am Loyxo. We have come on behalf of the Spacing Guild to request an increased allotment of spice.”

  “And who is the tall one?” Alia looked past the others.

  “Crozeed,” he said, bowing slightly.