Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Accompanied by ten disarmed Sardaukar guards, the Salusan representative finally appeared. She looked like a waif, her skin pale, her eyes large and round, her hair a mousy brown rather than Irulan’s rich gold or the lush auburn of her sister Wensicia. The girl looked completely overwhelmed.

  “Rugi!” Irulan startled the escort guards. Amidst all the background noise, the Arrakeen security troops gave Irulan only a cursory glance, then allowed her forward.

  When her sister took dainty steps down the ramp, Rugi was breathing heavily, fighting to control a disturbed expression on her face. She had chosen to wear one of her finest court gowns, which she had taken into exile with her from Kaitain. A stiff, gem-encrusted collar rose higher than the top of her head. Her billowing skirts dripped prismatic lace; a choker of Hagal emeralds encircled her tiny neck, while Mallabor pearls looked like a lather of sea foam across her bodice. Rugi looked as if she wanted to dart back into the safety of her frigate.

  Irulan kissed her little sister on the cheek. Though the young woman was about the same age as Paul Atreides, she appeared vastly younger and more innocent. Because of her low ranking even among the daughters of Shaddam, Rugi had received only cursory training from the Sisterhood. She had lived a sheltered life, first on Kaitain and afterward on Salusa Secundus. Irulan understood immediately the message the fallen Emperor was sending: I could not be bothered to send anyone more important. Thus, I sneer at your summons, Muad’Dib.

  A dangerous game to play, Irulan thought, worried for her father’s safety and concerned that he might be planning something even more foolish.

  She took her sister’s dainty hand — too dainty. Obviously out of her depth, this was a girl who had been bred for court life in the old Imperium, nothing more. “I’ll take care of you, little sister. Muad’Dib has guaranteed you his protection.” Irulan half expected her sister to pull away and reject her as a “traitor to House Corrino.” Instead, Rugi clasped Irulan’s hand tightly. With a smile, Irulan said, “We have an apartment for you in the new citadel, in my private wing.”

  “And rooms for my Sardaukar?” Rugi asked, her voice quavering. “Father told me not to stray from them.”

  “Yes, we have quarters for them as well.” The magnificent Citadel of Muad’Dib could house the entire population of Salusa and still have rooms left over, she thought.

  “Father is not happy with you, Irulan.”

  “I know. We’ll have time to talk about that.”

  Rugi summoned what bravery she possessed. She released Irulan’s hand, taking her arm instead, and the two of them strolled together away from the spaceport, followed by the Sardaukar retinue. “I thought Salusa Secundus was bad.” Rugi stared at the dusty streets, and winced at the noise and stench. “But this place is much, much worse.”

  You can have all your paradise worlds; I see Eden in the desert, and that is enough for me.

  —The Stilgar Commentaries

  Jericha had impressive mountains — gray, craggy peaks thatched with glistening snow that provided too many hiding places for Thorvald’s rebels. In the five years since the start of the Jihad, Stilgar had seen many things that went beyond the wildest things he’d ever thought of as a Fremen naib. In Sietch Tabr he had considered himself a wise and powerful man, yet he had never seen beyond the horizon of his own planet. Dune had been enough for him then.

  But when Muad’Dib asked him to do more, he could not refuse. In preliminary reports, Stilgar had heard about the harsh conditions that awaited his troops once they got high above the tree line to the windswept fastnesses where Memnon Thorvald’s guerrilla troops had concealed a weapons stockpile. He had laughed at the warnings about weather. Cold, snow, blizzards — such weather could not possibly be more dangerous than the sandstorms he had endured for most of his life.

  As the date of the Great Surrender ceremony approached, more than a thousand representatives had already traveled to Arrakeen to pledge themselves and show their humility. Stilgar longed to be back in Arrakeen where he could stand at Muad’Dib’s side and be the first to embrace him. But the press of the Jihad did not slow for festivals or celebrations. The fighting would not stop, no matter what Muad’Dib decreed. For now Stilgar had another job to do.

  The nine surviving rebel nobles in Thorvald’s persistent insurrection had sent a defiant announcement to a number of fringe worlds. Thorvald had proclaimed his own gathering of opposition leaders and provided cryptic instructions on where to meet.

  Paul had looked genuinely sad as he dispatched Stilgar and a special group of crack soldiers to Jericha. “Everyone else in my Empire needs to prove their loyalty to me, Stil, but not you, and not Gurney Halleck.”

  For the important assignment Stilgar had selected a few of his best Fremen warriors, including Elias, one of the bravest of Muad’Dib’s death commandos. Most of this army, though, was composed of Caladan troops, trained and dispatched by Halleck as he did his part to continue the fight. Jericha was a water-rich world, and after his unsettling debacle in the marshes on Bela Tegeuse, Stilgar had requested soldiers with more proficiency in the type of environment they were likely to encounter.

  Their path to the rebel stockpile in the Jerichan mountains was slow and tedious. In a brilliant tactical move, Thorvald’s followers had obtained and deployed powerful suspensor-field jammers, dangerous and expensive Ixian technology available only on the black market. The jammers were capable of shutting down the engines of scout fliers and airborne assault ships. Stilgar had discovered this to his dismay when he’d sent his first assault team to investigate and destroy the enclave. Every ship in the first wave crashed, plummeting into the rugged mountains before they could manage to get off a single shot.

  So, Stilgar had been forced to plan another approach. Since standard flying vehicles and even ‘thopters were not reliable against the jammers, he decided to use a more conventional means of locomotion. From small tundra villages — whose men and women enthusiastically swore their loyalty to Muad’Dib as soon as they saw the overwhelming military force — they obtained ruh-yaks: sturdy, shaggy, and smelly beasts of burden. The creatures could carry men and equipment, and their plodding footsteps did not slow (or hasten) regardless of the load they carried. Invoking the name of Muad’Dib, Stilgar had commandeered the entire herd and all the necessary saddles, harnesses, straps, and goads.

  With the ruh-yaks, his team could pass through a green stream valley and up into the barren rock to a high pass, following trails that the rebels in Thorvald’s stronghold were not likely to suspect. Based on intelligence reports, Stilgar had no doubt that his fighters would overwhelm and crush the enemy. The only question in his mind was how many lives it would cost him.

  Leaving the tundra village nearly empty after the people helped Muad’Dib’s fighters, Stilgar’s men set off to find the weapons stockpile. The ruh-yaks were offensive beasts, stupid, flatulent animals whose thick, matted fur was a haven for biting insects that seemed to prefer the taste of human blood over that of the animals. Some were ornery and stubborn and often made such loud noises of complaint that Stilgar despaired of approaching his target quietly.

  Proceeding up steep slopes, plodding relentlessly for more than a day, they finally reached a second river valley that led even higher into the crags. Drawing tributaries from several adjacent drainages, the mountain stream itself was wide and deep, greatly swollen by spring runoff.

  “I am not certain we can ford this,” said Burbage, the highest-ranking man of Stilgar’s Caladan troops, a noncom. “Normally, I wouldn’t recommend a crossing for another month or two, until the waters go down. It’s the wrong season.”

  “Muad’Dib cannot keep track of every season on every planet in his Empire,” Stilgar said. “He sent us here to wipe out a nest of vipers. Would you like to go tell him he will have to wait?”

  Burbage seemed more dismayed than intimidated. He touched a long, thin mark on his cheek. “I got this scar fighting in Duke Leto’s War of Assassins, facing the chargin
g stallions of Viscount Moritani. I have been following Atreides orders since long before Master Paul became the man you call Muad’Dib. I’ll find a way.”

  The Caladan man urged his beast to the edge of the river. The current looked deceptively motionless, showing only a few feathery ripples across the surface. Nevertheless, Stilgar could hear the hollow chuckling of water that stirred past rocks on the bank.

  “Deep and cold.” Burbage raised his voice to the Caladan troops. “But I can swim, and cold doesn’t bother me. Shall we go?” His men cheered, and Stilgar was caught up in their confidence.

  Burbage’s ruh-yak lurched into the water with a great splash, and the other Caladan riders charged forward, cheering as if it were a game. Within moments dozens of the beasts had plunged into the deep, wide stream, striking out into the current and pushing downstream. Quickly the water became too deep for the beasts to find footing, and they began to swim.

  Stilgar, Elias, and his Fremen were caught up in the charge, driven into the river, which carried them farther down the valley. When they were in the middle of the channel, algae-slick rocks just beneath the surface began to churn the current into rougher water.

  Some of the Caladan troops had already made it across, while several men had fallen off of their mounts and were soaked. They splashed to the bank, laughing, pulling some of their friends back into the water to engage in horseplay. These soldiers had been born and raised around water; they had learned to swim as easily as they walked.

  But Stilgar was awed by the swift and powerful current. Elias slipped off of his ruh-yak and flailed in the river, rushing downstream to where he was caught up against jutting boulders. He clung to them, bellowing for help and not willing to let go to swim for the far bank.

  Burbage shouted for ropes and swimmers to retrieve the Fremen. Stilgar tried to get close enough to help Elias, but his own thrashing ruh-yak slipped beneath the water. Stilgar went under and instead of letting out a yell, he swallowed and inhaled a mouthful of the river. He began to cough and gasp uncontrollably. The weight of his heavy pack pulled him down.

  The struggling ruh-yak tried to throw off its rider and the packs. The equipment fell off first, whisked along in the current. Stilgar couldn’t catch any of it, couldn’t even keep his hold on the saddle and reins. He found himself drifting free, in clothing that was soaked and heavy. The coldness of the water settled into his chest, squeezing his lungs like an icy fist. He kept going under, choking and coughing; he hadn’t been able to draw a decent breath since his accidental gulp of water. The stream seemed so deep, so cold.

  He saw a light above and struck out for it, but something grabbed his shoulder, sharp and powerful, like a monster’s claw under the water. A tree branch. Tangled in it, he couldn’t stroke upward. As his need for air became more and more desperate, he forgot everything Gurney Halleck had taught him about swimming. He felt something tear at his skin. The strap of his pack was snagged on the waterlogged branch.

  He had to breathe. His lungs were being crushed. His vision was growing dark. He had to breathe. No longer able to bear it, Stilgar stretched his arms toward the sunlight above, pulled, tried to free himself, but finally had no choice but to inhale.

  The only breath he could draw, though, was filled with cold, liquid blackness.

  HE AWOKE SPEWING bile-tasting water from his mouth and nostrils. Burbage had pressed hard on Stilgar’s upper stomach, making him retch and forcing the water out of his lungs.

  A battered and bedraggled Elias stood over him, looking deeply worried, as the naib drew several shuddering breaths. “He will be like Enno, a Fremen dead from too much water and come back to life.”

  “No fighters will be drowning today,” Burbage said with a nod.

  Stilgar tried to say that he would be fine, but he vomited again, rolled over, coughed, and spat up more water. His knees and arms trembled. He had no words to explain what he had seen within the light and the water. In the darkness of death he remembered something, but it was fading quickly. A warm, tingling amazement began to spread through him.

  Burbage had already sent his soldiers up and down the riverbank to retrieve as many packs as possible. Seventeen ruh-yaks had gone under, while others wandered, wet and dazed, on both sides of the river. Some had vanished completely.

  “We’re going to miss our weapons and supplies. Now we’ll have to move faster to get up to the mountain stockpile,” Burbage said. “Otherwise we’ll run out of food and fuel before we get there. We’d better hope the rebel larders are well supplied.”

  Stilgar got to his feet. The sunlight seemed brighter, the drying water on his skin and the foul taste in his mouth were undeniable signals that he was alive. A part of him knew that he had surrendered to death, and would have stayed there if these men hadn’t brought him back. It was God’s will that he was still alive. He had more work to do for Muad’Dib.

  Still slightly disoriented, he recalled when he had first sworn fealty to the young man who would eventually become the leader of the Fremen and the whole Imperium. A huge chamber filled with Fremen, shouting, cheering… and he had drawn his crysknife, pointing it over the heads of the throng. The cavern tilled with a roar of voices, an echoing chant. “Ya hya chouhada! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Ya hya chouhada!”

  Long live the fighters of Muad’Dib!

  Paul had made him kneel, taken the naib’s crysknife, and made him repeat, “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke. I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow.”

  And much blood had flowed.

  But now, through his near-drowning, Stilgar had also come to a deep realization, perhaps even an epiphany. With his own eyes, he had looked upon green forests and swamps. He had seen the sea and fast-flowing rivers. Soon, he would be up in the mountain snows. But Muad’Dib had nearly lost his services because of a clumsy accident. He was certain of where he belonged.

  A Fremen was out of place when he was not in the desert. Stilgar needed to serve Muad’Dib back on Dune. He had been named planetary governor of Arrakis, and Muad’Dib had offered him a position as his Minister of State. He did not belong on the battlefield anymore. He knew that now, as clearly as he knew anything. Others could do this fighting. He would be far more valuable on Arrakeen, fighting political battles.

  After he accomplished this mission, he would return to Muad’Dib — and find a way to remain with him on Arrakis.

  Weapons come in an infinite variety of shapes and designs. Some look exactly like people.

  —The Assassin’s Handbook

  As little as I am, I can still defeat you.” Marie grinned at Thallo. “You may have fooled them into thinking you are perfect, but I know you have weaknesses.” The girl crouched in a fighting stance, which made her look even smaller than she really was. Less threatening and deceptively benign. Like her rival on the grassy playfield, she wore a full-body filmsuit and remained barefoot.

  “You look just like a harmless child,” he countered mildly. “But I no longer make the mistake of underestimating you.”

  It was early afternoon, a cool day in Thalidei, with trees swaying in a breeze blowing across the polluted lake. Tleilaxu men held onto their weather-hats. Despite the illusion of freedom, Thallo’s trainers and observers were always close by. Two lab technicians watched from opposite sides of the field, dictating notes into lapel imagers that sparkled in sunlight.

  In the guarded park, Thallo towered statuesque and confident over Marie. He moved only enough to watch the little girl as she circled him. “You bruised me yesterday,” he said, “but it will not happen again.”

  “You enjoyed the bruises.” That time, after Marie had struck his lower legs with hard kicks, Thallo had limped back to the laboratory building, unable to hide the pain. Technicians had rushed to apply fast-healing medical packs on him, but Dr. Ereboam insisted on tending the injuries himself, shooing everyone else out of sight — including Marie — befor
e peeling away the beige filmsuit.

  Marie realized the truth: Because the albino researcher knew about Thallo’s propensity for cutting himself and had carefully hidden the fact from his peers, Ereboam couldn’t let anyone see the fresh scabs and old scars. The girl wondered how often the mysterious and insular Tleilaxu lied to each other.

  Today, Thallo’s limited range of movement suggested that his legs still hurt. Nevertheless, he lunged unexpectedly, striking out at her with a stiff-fingered hand, but she slipped to one side so that he missed her by centimeters. His blow brushed past her, and she didn’t even feel the breeze.

  With her varied and intense training, Marie considered herself more than a match for this maladjusted Tleilaxu creation. Still, she played — and fought — with him, observing carefully, continually learning, and Thallo was learning from her as well. They would be a formidable fighting team.

  Using perceptive techniques her mother had taught, Marie had come to understand Thallo. He had exceptional fighting skills and a wealth of encyclopedic knowledge, but the Tleilaxu treated him as a specimen, a valuable experiment, a child. Sometimes he acted the role of child for his own amusement. Spurts of action and game playing were only distractions for him, after which he would often wallow in depression, as if slipping into a dark chasm. He was falling now; she could see it.

  She kicked at his shins with her hardened feet. He dodged, moving back defensively. She pursued, kicking again and again, but narrowly missed each time. Despite her best efforts, even when she was certain the blows had landed perfectly, she never managed to touch him.

  Thallo taunted her. “You have to do better than that!” His voice didn’t sound quite right; it seemed to come from all directions, as if the breeze scattered it all around her. Was he throwing his voice to distract her?