Paul of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  LEAVING ALIA BEHIND behind as his delegate, he granted her the authority to make the appropriate decisions and perform necessary court functions, with Stilgar positioned as the girl’s adviser and protector (not that she needed one). Paul had offered to take Chani along on his journey, but after studying his face for a long moment, she declined. “You require solitude and stillness, Usul. You and the desert have much to say to each other.”

  Sometimes she thought in ways that did not occur to him, as if her mind filled an essential portion of the container of his life. Their relationship was far more than that of a man and a woman, or of kindred spirits, or of any of the usual cliches. The feelings they held for each other stretched across the eons of human existence.

  As the sun rose, he took a ‘thopter beyond the broken Shield Wall, past the water trenches that kept the deep-desert worms at bay, and landed at the edge of the vast, open desert. Unfortunately, though he had intended to depart alone, without ceremony, an entourage of assistants, advisers, and gawking observers soon followed. Korba transmitted that he had summoned them to provide Muad’Dib with the fanfare he deserved.

  Ignoring them, dwelling on his own concerns, he turned his back on the unwelcome crowd and walked away from his landed ‘thopter, trudging out onto the dunes where he could summon a worm. He glanced over his shoulder and was dismayed to see eight ‘thopters and perhaps a hundred people, some dressed in desert fashion, some wearing the robes of the Qizara priesthood. At least a third of them did not even wear stillsuits.

  Korba should know better. When had it changed that people would venture out to the desert as if attending a parade? Paul felt that the purity of the sands had already been lost. The Fremen were so enamored with their continual string of Jihad victories that they failed to recognize the loss of their heritage, the loss of their very souls.

  Paul planted a thumper, winding the clockwork mechanism and setting the pendulum to make the rhythmic lump-lump-lump. Although he had done this many times, he still felt awe at the experience. He was an offworlder, yet he was also a wormrider who had proved himself among the Fremen. He had raided the Harkonnens many times. Back then, unlike now, the enemy had been clearly defined, as had victory.

  In his Jihad he had offered larger and larger rewards for bringing down Earl Memnon Thorvald, whose rebellion continued to flare up, employing more desperate measures and unexpectedly violent tactics that reminded Paul of the defeated Viscount Hundro Moritani. But the Fedaykin seemed to relish having a persistent enemy to fight. Their outward-looking hatred bound them as a unit.

  Behind him by the ‘thopters, some of the observers actually applauded his rote actions in calling a worm, as if he were giving a performance just for them. The thumper continued its droning rhythm. Paul waited, listening for the hiss of sand made by a behemoth worm, scanning for the faint ripple of dunes stirred by underground movement.

  The thumper continued to pulse.

  The distant audience began to mutter, surprised at what they saw. Finally the clockwork spring ran out, and the thumper fell silent. No sandworm had come. They would call it an inauspicious omen.

  Paul lifted the counterweight, rewound the device, and jammed it deeper into the sand before he activated the syncopating mechanism again. He felt awkward. So many people read meanings into everything he did. Muad’Dib didn’t want this.

  And now he heard the people continuing to murmur, wondering if Shai-Hulud had abandoned Muad’Dib. Paul began to grow angry, not just at them but at himself. Shai-Hulud did not perform for audiences!

  Then, just before the thumper fell silent for a second time, he noticed a stirring of the dunes. A shallow trough ran toward him as a sandworm raced toward the sonic disturbance. His pulse quickened.

  Korba saw it next, and the people emitted a loud cheer. The fools! Their noise would distract the creature, and the small barrier of rocks on which they had gathered would never stop a large sandworm.

  Paul grabbed his ropes, his Maker hooks, his spreaders. When the sand parted and a huge rounded head exploded upward, he stepped back and clanged his worm hooks together to make a loud reverberating sound, seeking to tug the creature’s attention away from the observers who had finally fallen silent in terror and awe.

  “Shai-Hulud! To me!” Paul planted his feet properly, gauging the worm’s approach, and at just the right moment, hooked one of the ring segments. He clasped the rope and scrambled up the worm’s pebbly side.

  This was only a medium-sized sandworm. It would serve him well enough, without being impressive, though he was sure the observers would describe it as the greatest ever seen on Dune. Without a backward glance, paying no heed to the cheers and praise, Paul scrambled onto the beast’s back. He inserted the spreaders in a practiced manner, opened the worm segments to the sensitive flesh beneath, and struck the worm’s head with his goad. Anchoring himself with his ropes, he turned the beast and raced out onto the open dunes, spraying sand and dust.

  He was comforted by the solitude and heat, and the odors of sulfur and cinnamon that clung to the creature. As the worm raced off, Paul’s conscience came clamoring after him, even into the deepest desert. Kilometers rushed past, but Paul Atreides could not leave his demons behind.

  People fear me. I never wanted to be feared.

  —ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE

  After her brother went into the deep desert, Alia sat on a throne that was much too large for her. Because of her small size and innocent appearance, she embodied a dramatic contradiction — generations of wisdom and a stern hand of justice wrapped up in an unprepossessing form.

  The people viewed Muad’Dib as a godlike figure, but they spared some of their religious awe for Alia, too. Supplicants came before her without knowing which of her many moods they might face, aware that they were taking a risk.

  Two legates from the recently surrendered world of Alahir arrived in stiff and formal uniforms that looked impossibly hot and monstrously uncomfortable, designed for the airy coolness of their planet rather than the dry heat of Dune. They brought gifts and pleaded for an audience with the Holy Emperor Muad’Dib. After being told he was unavailable, they walked uncertainly to present themselves to his sister Alia instead. When the two men glimpsed the little girl on the throne they grew indignant, assuming this was some insult to their world and their leader. “We have traveled on a Guild Heighliner across many star systems to see the Emperor.”

  Alia did not move from her throne. “I speak for my brother. You will see me, or you will see no one.”

  The lead Alahir ambassador had a long slender neck and a high piping voice. “But we have sworn our loyalty. We are faithful subjects of His Holiness. It is our right to see him.”

  With a gesture and few terse words, Alia sent the men away under heavy Fremen guard. Despite their protestations, they were escorted back to their frigate and taken up to the Heighliner. By her command, they would make the long journey back to their planet before they would be allowed to turn around and make the journey all over again, this time with more humility. She dispatched a dour Fremen guard to accompany them and make certain the two actually returned home and set foot on Alahir.

  Some observers in the crowded audience chuckled at her heavy-handed treatment of the men. Others, seeing her stern and uncompromising mood, slinked away without airing their grievances. At one time, Alia might have had guards follow those men to determine what they had been about, but now she presumed they had simply realized that their cases were weak or frivolous. She wished many more of them would melt away like that and solve their own problems — exactly as her brother wished.

  The next supplicant was a tired-looking man whose face showed the deep, sunburned creases of a hard life. His entire body seemed to be a callus, yet he wore pride and self-esteem like armor. Though not neatly barbered, he kept his hair combed and tied back. His garments were poor, but had been meticulously mended; only Alia’s sharp eye noted the signs of wear. This was not a careless man.

  He was
the accuser, and the two defendants in his case looked much more careless and sloppy, though they wore finer clothes and scented their bodies with oils and colognes. The weathered-looking man stepped forward and gave a salute from the Jihad, as if Alia were actually Paul. She liked that.

  “I fought faithfully in Muad’Dib’s Jihad,” he said. “I stood on the battlefields of five planets, including Ehknot. My commander discharged me with honors and provided me with a pension. That should have been enough for a home in Carthag, enough to support my wives until I could establish myself as a stonemason.” He glared at the pair of defendants. “But these men took all of my money.”

  “He lost his money, yes, Mistress Alia — but he lost it fairly,” cried the pudgier of the two men.

  Alia turned to the accuser for more information, and he said, “I gambled with them. We played the game of tarot dice, and they took everything from me.”

  Now Alia frowned. “When one gambles, one risks losing. That is the way of it.”

  “When one gambles, Mistress Alia, one knows the rules and expects fair play. But these men cheated.”

  “We did no such thing!” the second defendant said.

  “Just because you lost a game does not mean they cheated,” Alia pointed out.

  “They cheated. I swear it on my honor, on my life… on my water!”

  Alia sat back. “You say these men cheated you. They say they did not. How am I to determine who is correct?” In fact, Alia could tell. Even without truthsense she would have known that the two exceedingly nervous defendants were hiding something, while the accuser did not waver in his conviction and righteous indignation.

  She sprang from her throne and trotted down the stone steps, jaunting like a little girl, intentionally, to disorient them. “I will play a game with these men. Show me the tarot dice that were used.” Reluctantly, they withdrew the cubes, and Alia squatted on the floor. “Come beside me, and we will play.” The two defendants looked extremely nervous, but they could not refuse her request.

  She held the five dice in her small hand. Each face bore a different coded image that had symbolic meanings far beyond the game itself. These dice would not be noticeably weighted one way or the other, but she realized they had been altered somehow to give the owners a distinct advantage. The rules of even the basic game of tarot dice were complicated, but Alia knew them in detail. She rolled first before the men could complain: leaving face up two wands, a scythe, a star, and a water pitcher.

  “An auspicious omen!” one of the men declared, as if out of habit. “Now let us place our wagers.”

  Alia harbored no doubt that the first roll was designed to be positive, to lure a player into more extravagant betting. Hustlers. The two defendants shuddered, looking gray. They placed their wagers — modest ones — and then tolled, building upon the prophecy, lining up their omens. They didn’t know whether they should try to win or lose, but because Alia demanded larger and larger bets from them in front of the eager audience, they could not simply surrender. She refused to let them withdraw.

  During this, their accuser stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering down at the play, while other audience members cheered her on, offering their advice.

  Though Alia could not control the mechanics of the dice rolls, she gradually began to realize how these men were interpreting — and manipulating — the results. As for herself, she had a far more interesting means of cheating. With glimpses of prescience, Alia could determine how most of the rolls would come out. Even with the dice subtly weighted to give unexpected results, she could frequently see which dice to hold back and which ones to play, then place bold wagers accordingly. “Luck” was with her in a more concrete way than any other gambler could imagine.

  The two terrified defendants could not stop the game. The audience murmured with appreciation, but not surprise, as Alia won again and again, defying the rolls that would be expected from untainted dice. Over the course of the game, the perceptive members of the crowd recognized that these men had somehow altered the pieces to their advantage, and that even so Alia was thwarting them. Her gradual swell of winnings forced them to raise their bets and put more of their personal fortunes on the line. Guards stood around the room to ensure that no one left.

  Finally, both men raised their hands, sobbing. “We are ruined, Mistress Alia. You have taken all of our wealth. We have nothing more to gamble.”

  “You have your lives,” she pointed out. “Now, would you care to wager them?”

  “Please, no! We beg you!”

  She let them squirm for a few moments, then stood up. “All right, we’ll end this game. The guards will accompany you to ensure that you pay what you owe me. Since I won so many times, I cannot claim you were cheating.” Some members of the audience chuckled at her clearly facetious statement, for the evidence of the dice had been quite plain. She turned to the accuser, meeting his troubled expression. “From my winnings, I will repay half of what you have lost — but only half. The rest goes into the Imperial treasury.” She raised her voice. “All of life is a gamble, and opponents will not always play by neat and tidy rules. If you would participate in the game, you must be prepared to lose.”

  The old veteran seemed more than satisfied with her unique form of justice. The three left by separate doors, and Alia returned to her high throne….

  A SHORT WHILE later, Alia received word that Lady Margot Fenring and her daughter had arrived at the Arrakeen Spaceport and were being escorted to the Citadel of Muad’Dib. Stilgar and Irulan had already discussed with her how best to receive their visitors.

  Lady Margot did not bring a large entourage, arriving as a traveler of no particular importance on a Heighliner bound from the Bene Tleilax worlds via Richese, Junction, and a number of unremarkable planets, until reaching Dune. Stilgar guided her into the throne room, and the supplicants parted for them.

  Margot Fenring was beautiful, trained to use every bit of her appearance and personal magnetism to achieve the Sisterhood’s aims. In this visit, though, Alia wondered whose aims were at play. Her own mother had made different choices. Was Lady Margot content to be a pawn for the Bene Gesserit? And how did little Marie fit into the game plan? Something to do with breeding, no doubt.

  Alia looked down with a bright smile, and her eyes met the other girl’s. Marie appeared so young, though Alia knew that this was how she herself looked to strangers.

  “We present ourselves to the Emperor’s throne,” Count Fenring’s wife said, bowing slightly.

  Stilgar stepped up to the dais, acting as a chamberlain. He spoke to Alia out of the side of his mouth in Chakobsa, the ancient tongue of the desert, though Margot Fenring could understand him as easily as Alia could. “I don’t like this witch or her daughter.”

  “You have already made your feelings plain, Stilgar.” Alia raised her voice to make sure the audience could hear her. “It will be good for me to have someone my own age at court. Princess Irulan laments that I should act as a child more often.” She stepped down to meet Marie, who stood facing her with bright and exceedingly intelligent eyes, exquisite features, and perfect manners.

  “My brother is unavailable right now,” Alia said to Lady Margot. “We do not know when he will return, but I am happy to welcome you to our court. I grant our protection to you and your daughter.”

  “Thank you, your Royal Eminence,” Margot said. A rather startling title to use, but Alia did not dispute it.

  Alia then turned her attention back to the little girl. “I’m very pleased to have you here, Marie. We’ll have so much fun together.” She indicated the uppermost step of the dais, just below her throne. “Come, sit next to me and watch as I continue to dispense a mixture of Fremen and Atreides justice.”

  Arrakis: Men saw great danger there, and great opportunity.

  —the PRINCESS IRULAN, entry in Paul of Dune

  Of all deaths, one is the most difficult. This was the death of his name, of his family honor, of everything that m
attered to him as a man and a leader. The desert had made him see that.

  With the face mask of his stillsuit thrown back, Paul sat alone, gazing out across the sea of dunes with the blue-blue eyes of a Fremen. The night’s coolness still clung to the shadowed pocket, but it would vanish rapidly with the awakening day. He had spent the night sitting motionless on a large flat stone, absorbing the rich aroma of windblown, powdery spice. Al-Lat, the golden sun, was just rising over an escarpment, but he did not yet feel its warmth. A deep desert chill had settled into his bones, and into his thoughts.

  Though his body had hardly moved, his mind had ranged far.

  The course he had chosen for mankind was difficult. Billions of people had already been killed in his name — some justifiably, many not. Wave after wave of violence came as his warrior legions surged out into space, hunting any enemy of Muad’Dib, whether real or imagined. Allowing such horrendous damage to be done in his name had left an indelible mark on his soul. But it was his terrible purpose.

  He remembered the joy of returning home from Grumman when he was a boy, the smell of the Caladan seas and the drifting cries of seabirds. Not so long ago, Paul had been the proud son of a nobleman, heir to the Atreides tradition, destined to be a Duke.

  How could I have forgotten Caladan so easily? he wondered. Dismissing those people my father loved so well? No one should consider himself that important. Duncan Idaho and Thufir Hawat would have given him a powerful dose of humility. Had Gurney himself given up on Paul, retiring from the uncontrollable Jihad to find a bit of peace on Caladan?

  Paul felt like a man tumbling off a cliff, taking everyone he loved and all of his followers with him. He heard the harsh, unsettling cry of a bird. Looking up into the brightening sky, he watched two vultures drifting overhead, as if examining him with interest. Presently, they flapped their wings and moved on. Paul was not dead, but he was dying inside.