Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Because of Paul’s part in the Kwisatz Haderach program, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood on Wallach IX had closely monitored his youth. The old Reverend Mother Mohiam was no friend of Paul’s, but she respected Irulan and turned over many documents, hoping that the Princess would use them against “that upstart Emperor.”

  Irulan absorbed it all and quickly realized that her project could grow into an incredible undertaking, one that would receive such scrutiny as no other book had — not even the Orange Catholic Bible during the Council of Ecumenical Translators. The thought did not intimidate her. Her initial effort had already proved the potential in what she could write.

  And Paul knew precisely what she was doing.

  Though he had denied her a prominent position in his government, Irulan adopted her new purpose with enthusiasm rather than disappointment. Whatever she published would literally become history, read by schoolchildren on thousands of worlds.

  It seemed that was what her husband really wanted from her after all….

  One morning she went to Paul’s Imperial office to talk with him, holding a copy of the first volume in The Life of Muad’Dib. She dropped the deep blue book on his desktop, a plane of polished Elaccan bloodwood. “Exactly how much is missing from this story? I’ve been talking with Bludd. In your accounts of your life, you left out vital details.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Your publication has defined my life’s story.”

  “You told me you had never left Caladan before your House moved to Arrakis. Whole parts of your youth have been left out.”

  “Painful parts.” He frowned at her. “But, more importantly, irrelevant parts. We’ve streamlined the story for mass consumption, such as when you wrote that I was born on Caladan and not Kaitain. It sounds better that way, doesn’t it? We eliminated unnecessary complications, cut off unnecessary questions and explanations.”

  She could not hide her frustration. “Sometimes the truth is complicated.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But if I tell a part of the story that directly contradicts what has been published before —”

  “If you write it, they will believe it. Trust me.”

  PART II

  Young Paul Atreides — Age 12

  10,187 AG

  When Paul Atreides was twelve years old, he nearly died in the War of Assassins that consumed the noble Houses of Atreides, Ecaz, and Moritani.

  These events set him on the path from boyhood to manhood, from noble son to true ducal heir, from mere human to the revered Muad’Dib. Through the people he met from an early age — friends and traitors, heroes and failures — he learned the fundamentals of leadership and the consequences of decisions.

  On his life’s journey, Paul faced the hatred of enemies he had never met. From the moment of his birth, he was ensnared in a web of politics. His eyes opened to the vast Imperium that spanned many worlds beyond Caladan.

  In his youth he watched and learned from his father’s changes in response to his own battles. Duke Leto Atreides was not an easy man to know or understand. There were cold aspects to him that occasionally thawed — and then only slightly — before they grew icy again. The Lady Jessica knew this better than anyone, and she, too, instructed their son.

  In facing the tragedies that lay in store for House Atreides, Duke Leto tempered the steel of character for which he was most noted. He learned to act rather than wait, and he learned to survive.

  Our story begins on the eve of my father’s fifth marriage, at a time when the life of young Paul Atreides seemed to lie before him like a great adventure.

  —from the introduction to The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 2

  by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  Life shapes life. Every event and every person leaves its mark, both in fine detail and in broad strokes.

  —Bene Gesserit axiom

  The Atreides household staff made frantic preparations for the departure from Caladan. At the Cala City Spaceport, Duke Leto’s personal frigate was scrubbed and buffed until it gleamed in the hazy sunlight; its interior was oiled, polished, and perfumed. In two days a Heighliner would arrive for the trip across space, but no one would tell twelve-year-old Paul their destination, which only made him more curious.

  “Are we going to Ix to visit House Vernius?” he pestered Thufir Hawat during one of their training sessions. Paul Atreides was fast and fit, but short for his age. According to the Mentat assassin, however (who was not prone to giving compliments), the boy still had fighting skills that would let him defeat men twice his age and twice his size. “I do not know where we are going, young Master.” When he asked Gurney Halleck, sure that the lumpish good-humored warrior would give him a hint of their destination, Gurney had simply shrugged. “I go where my Duke commands, pup.”

  Afterward, he had tried to get information from Duncan Idaho, his friend and trainer. “Are we going to Ginaz, to see the old Swordmaster school?”

  “The Ginaz School hasn’t been the same since the Grumman attack twelve years ago. Viscount Moritani called it a War of Assassins, but that implies following a set of rules, and he is a vile man who does as he pleases.” Duncan’s resentment was plain; he had been at the famous school when it had fallen.

  “But are we going there anyway? You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Honestly, I do not know.”

  Paul studied each man’s reactions and expressions, seeking to learn if they told the truth or not. He concluded that no one knew where Duke Leto was taking them….

  At the appointed time his mother Jessica came gracefully down the long promenade staircase into the main foyer, from which she could look down the hill. Her household servants had finished packing her clothes and toiletries, piling packages on a suspensor-flatbed transporter that would take them to the spaceport and load them aboard the Duke’s frigate.

  Gurney came striding up, his clothes sweaty, his patchy blond hair smeared over his head. His grin was wide and infectious. “The Heighliner just arrived in orbit. The Guild gives us four hours to get ourselves securely nestled in a berth.”

  “Are you packed yet?” Jessica looked harried.

  “I carry most of what I need in my body and in my mind. And as long as I have my baliset, all is right with the universe.”

  “Will you teach me to sing, Gurney?” Paul asked.

  “I can teach you the words, young Master, but a melodious voice is a gift from God. You must develop that yourself.”

  “He’ll do it along with his other studies,” Jessica said. “Come, Paul, it’s time to go to the spaceport. Your father will already be there.”

  WHITE CUMULOUS CLOUDS thickened overhead as afternoon thunderstorms approached. In the village fish market, vendors shouted out lowered prices for the remnants of the morning’s catch; anything not sold within the next hour would be sent to processing plants for off-world shipment. Caladan locals wouldn’t eat anything more than a day old.

  Leto was waiting for them at the spaceport. His long dark hair blew in the sea breeze, his aquiline nose lifted as though trying to catch a last sniff of the sea rather than the exhaust vapors from machinery. When he saw Gurney trudging along beside Jessica and Paul with a baliset slung over his shoulder, Leto said, “I’m sorry, Gurney, but there has been a change of plans.”

  Instantly alert, the loyal retainer frowned. “Has something happened, my Lord?”

  “No, and I want to make sure it stays that way. You and Thufir will remain behind to watch over House Atreides while we are gone. This is a more private matter.”

  Gurney did not show that he was bothered. “As you wish, my Duke. Have you given Thufir any special instructions?”

  “He knows what to do — as do you, Gurney.”

  In private sessions Paul studied politics, psychology, and personal interactions, knowing it would help make him a better ruler someday. Duke Leto Atreides had acknowledged Paul as his natural and legitimate son, even though Jessica was his bound concubine instead of his wife. Neve
rtheless, there were still dynastic games to be played. The young man knew he might face perils and intrigues that an average boy his age need never imagine. “Without Gurney and Thufir, will we be safe, Father?” he asked before walking up the ramp into the Heighliner.

  “Duncan is already aboard. He’ll be piloting.” It was all Leto needed to say. If Duncan Idaho could not protect Paul, no one could.

  Barely able to contain his curiosity, Paul chose a seat by a porthole, through which he watched the other vessels coming and going in the spaceport. He felt a thrill when the frigate lifted off the ground. When the cottages of the coastal village were no more than tiny spots on the landscape below, the heavier thrusters activated. Flown expertly by Duncan, the small ship rose high above the white-flecked ocean, through the afternoon thunderclouds, and into the fading darkness of space.

  Overhead, Paul saw the gigantic form of the Guild Heighliner in orbit, a single spaceship as large as some asteroids. The Atreides frigate was an insignificant speck inside the vessel that carried many other ships from numerous planets — more craft than the Cala City Spaceport would see in a Standard Year. Duncan received instructions to take them to their assigned berth.

  Near the bow, Jessica sat primly in a seat. She had told Paul that space travel did not entirely agree with her, though she had made interplanetary trips before — first from the Bene Gesserit school on Wallach IX to join Duke Leto’s household and then to Kaitain during her pregnancy, where she was watched over by the first wife of Emperor Shaddam.

  He was surprised by a sudden thought that came into his mind as information clicked together, pieces snapping into place. Lady Anirul… Emperor Shaddam IV… Kaitain.

  Anirul, the Emperor’s first wife, had died under mysterious circumstances very near the time of Paul’s birth. Since then, Shaddam had taken other wives, though none of those marriages had been successful. In fact, his second, third, and fourth wives were also dead, which seemed rather suspicious to Paul. Now the Emperor was planning yet another wedding, this time to Firenza of House Thorvald.

  And Duke Leto was taking his family on a mysterious journey.

  “I know where we’re going,” Paul piped up. “Each House in the Landsraad is sending representatives to Kaitain. We’re attending the Emperor’s wedding, aren’t we?” The event was bound to be spectacular, unlike anything he had ever seen.

  Duke Leto’s expression darkened, and he shook his head. “No, Paul. Considering what happened to Shaddam’s previous marriages, we won’t be attending this one.” He sounded decidedly cool.

  The boy frowned in disappointment. He had used his abilities, asked every question he could think of, and tried to put together the clues, but he didn’t have enough information to make another guess.

  His mother seemed impatient to learn their destination as well. “I, too, had assumed we were going to Kaitain, Leto.”

  With a heavy thump, their frigate settled into place within the designated docking clamp. Paul felt a vibration thrum through the hull. “Won’t you tell us where we are going now? We’re already aboard the Heighliner.”

  Leto finally sat back and, glancing at Jessica with what appeared to be a bit of guilt, answered Paul. “We are bound for Ecaz.”

  The universe is a sea of expectations, and of disappointment.

  —EMPEROR PAUL-MUAD’DIB, third address to the Landsraad

  “An Imperial wedding must be very exciting, my Lord Baron.”

  More interested in the nude boy’s lovely form than in his attempts at conversation, Vladimir Harkonnen balanced on the suspensor mechanism that held his body upright as he prepared for the week’s festivities. The windowplaz tint had been adjusted to permit just the right amount of natural light into the guest suite in the Emperor’s extravagant Kaitain palace.

  “Ah, nuptials — how could I not be overjoyed?” the Baron answered sarcastically.

  He had just sent a manservant running out of the suite to fetch another selection — an adequate selection this time — of garments for that evening’s wedding rehearsal dinner. His tailors were continually preparing alternative outfits, but he would have to make his choice soon. So far, the options looked like nomads’ tents hanging on his bulk. “I may govern Arrakis, but I can’t show up looking like a Fremen!”

  The boy blinked dark, doelike eyes. “Would you like a massage before you dress in those restrictive clothes, my Lord?”

  “Why bother to ask? Just do it.”

  The boy dutifully kneaded fragrant ointments into the Baron’s soft shoulders, then continued the intimate massage as he had been taught. When he was finished, however, the Baron was left feeling less satisfied than he had anticipated. Perhaps it was time to train a replacement.

  A CARNIVAL AIR had prevailed on Kaitain for days: jubilant crowds, fireworks displays, and sporting events featuring the best athletes of great and minor Houses. From every building in the enduring Imperial city, scarlet-and-gold Corrino flags fluttered in a warm breeze beneath a cerulean sky. For Shaddam’s wedding to Firenza Thorvald, perfect weather was guaranteed by backup satellites and technicians working long shifts.

  Throngs had camped out on the route the royal procession would take on the way to the Grand Theater. Everyone wanted the best views of the Padishah Emperor and his bride-to-be. Any moment now, the two royal carriages would approach, each drawn by magnificent golden lions from Harmonthep.

  Inside the dining hall for the reception, the Baron observed from a special seat designed to accommodate his bulk. The banquet table seemed as long as a street in Harko City, lined with representatives from practically every noble holding in the Landsraad. While the Baron couldn’t care less about the elaborate spectacle, weddings in general, or Shaddam IV in particular, he was certain that the officious Chamberlain Ridondo and his swarms of functionaries would make careful note of which noble families declined to attend. The Baron was somewhat surprised, scandalized, and pleased to see empty seats under the House Atreides banner. So, Duke Leto had other priorities.

  So do I… and yet, I am here.

  An accented voice interrupted him from his left. “A waste of time, eh? This new one doesn’t know what she’s getting into. She’ll end up dead like the previous wives.”

  Startled, the Baron turned to see a large, angular man settle into a reserved highback chair. He had heavy brows over intense, pale blue eyes, and a rough-edged appearance despite his fine clothes. A horsehead emblem adorned the lapel of his white-and-blue jacket, a stylized depiction that showed sharp spines projecting from the horse’s majestic head. The Baron remained cool, uninterested in small talk. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Nevertheless, we should know each other, Vladimir. I am the Viscount Hundro Moritani from Grumman.”

  The Baron did not like such casual familiarity. “I’m aware of your history, sir. You’re a nasty piece of business, aren’t you? The war with Ecaz, the attack on House Ginaz, the destruction of the Swordmaster school. Is the Imperial censure still in force against you, or has that been rescinded?”

  Surprisingly, the Viscount let out a throaty, abrasive chuckle. “I am pleased you have taken an interest in my activities. I do what is necessary to protect my House and my holdings.”

  Impatient to eat, the Baron raised a ring-laden hand to signal a servant to bring a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Even with the regularly spaced poison snoopers hanging over the table, he produced his own device from a pocket and wafted it over the varied morsels before tasting anything. “It was interesting to observe how hard you could push before the Emperor stopped you,” he said.

  Moritani watched him intently. “And what have you concluded?”

  The Baron began popping little sandwiches into his mouth, savoring the variety of flavors, the exotic seasonings. “I learned that while the Emperor made a great show of criticizing your actions, he did not inflict any lasting harm on House Moritani. Therefore, you achieved most of your aims, and paid a very small price.”

  The Viscou
nt grumbled, and the Baron could sense the hair-trigger of anger seething there. “I did not accomplish enough. Archduke Ecaz remains alive and now denies me access to a rare medicine that would cure my son.”

  Awkwardly, the Baron ate another tiny sandwich. He had no interest in House Moritani’s personal feuds or family troubles. House Harkonnen had feuds of its own.

  Moritani motioned to his bodyguard, a redheaded man who stood nearby. Tall and well-proportioned, the pale-skinned retainer was younger than his master; one of his ears was half missing and scarred over. “Baron, this is my personal Swordmaster, Hiih Resser.”

  The Baron took greater interest now. “Few Houses have a dedicated Swordmaster these days.”

  Moritani’s lips curled upward in a cruel smile. “Because the Ginaz School is not training any more of them.”

  “House Atreides still has Duncan Idaho,” Resser pointed out. “I knew him on Ginaz.”

  “I have no interest in House Atreides!” the Viscount raised his voice, quick to anger. “It is time to fetch Wolfram. The banquet is about to begin, but he will need to retire early. See to it that he doesn’t overexert himself.” Resser bowed and left.

  The chairs began to fill, and the noise level increased. At the head table, Shaddam Corrino and Count Hasimir Fenring took seats, followed by the Emperor’s bride-to-be and Lady Margot Fenring.

  “I’d say the Count got the better of those two women,” Moritani said in a low tone, admiring Lady Margot.

  Seeing the Princess Firenza for the first time, the Baron was struck by how plain and pear-shaped she was, with a loose chin and too much makeup, apparently to cover flaws on her skin. “She looks like a peasant.”

  “Good wide hips, though,” the Viscount said. “Maybe she’ll be the one to bear him the sons he wants.”