Paul of Dune hod-1

by Brian Herbert

  Most of the noble Houses had no love for Shaddam and his excesses. Now they would be terrified of Paul-Muad’Dib. The sacking of Kaitain should be enough to shock the rest of the Landsraad into submission, to stop the need for the Jihad before it spread further. He sighed, because his terrifying visions had told him that nothing could stop the full multi-planet iteration of the fanatical war that he had set in motion. He could only make a limited number of choices that would prove most beneficial in the long, long run.

  Oh, the immensity of the burden on his shoulders! Only he could see through the curtains of bloodshed, pain, and sorrow. How humanity would hate him… but at least they would survive to hate him.

  The crowds watched in awe as flames began to consume the giant Palace. The conflagration grew in force and brilliance, so that Paul stood looking on from the edge of an inferno.

  Beside him, Irulan trembled. “I shall never forgive you for this, Paul Atreides. The Corrinos will never forgive you.” She said more, but her words were drowned out by the background roar of the crowd and the crackling of the growing fire.

  He leaned close and said with great sorrow, “I did not ask for anyone’s forgiveness.” Then Muad’Dib turned to the crowd again and shouted as the fire grew more intense. “This Palace was a symbol of the old regime. Like everything else about the decadent old Imperium, it must be swept aside. Kaitain is no longer the capital. Dune is our capital now. And in Arrakeen I command that a new Palace be built, one to dwarf the grandest works of all previous rulers.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the legacy of Shaddam IV going up in fire and smoke. The construction of his own new palace would require great sacrifices, an unparalleled workforce, and unimaginable wealth.

  Even so, he had no doubt whatsoever that his grand vision would be accomplished.

  7

  There are rules, but people invariably find ways of getting around them. So it is with laws. A true leader must understand such things and be prepared to take advantage of each situation.

  —EMPEROR ELROOD IX, Ruminations on Success

  Shaddam Corrino glared at the face that looked back at him from the gold-framed mirror, noting the clear signs of age beyond his actual years. His father, the vulturish Elrood IX, had been 157 years old when Shaddam and Fenring had finally poisoned him. I am less than half that old!

  Age implied weakness. Only a few years ago, there might have been some gray hairs mixed with the red, though not enough for him to notice. But since his exile to this dismal world, the gray had become much more prominent. Perhaps it was caused by some taint in the air or water. He had considered coloring his hair, but could not decide whether that would make him appear stronger, or merely vain.

  Back when he was the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam had prided himself on his youthful appearance and energy; he’d had many court concubines and several disappointing wives since the death of Anirul. But, sadly, all of that was gone, and he felt as if most of the life had been sucked out of him. Now, simply seeing the lines on his face made him feel tired. Even melange could not prolong his life forever, perhaps not even long enough for him to regain the Lion Throne. Nevertheless, four of his daughters had accompanied him into exile, and they would bear grandchildren for him, even if Irulan did not. One way or another, the Corrino line would endure.

  An Atreides upstart dares to call himself Emperor!

  He feared that Irulan had become one of them, though he could not be certain of her role. Was she an insider who could help him, or a willing participant who had betrayed her father? Was she a hostage? Why would she not improve the lot of her own family? And that damnable book she had written, glorifying the “heroic” life of Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides! Even the witches were in an uproar over that.

  No matter. He could not imagine that the usurper’s government would endure, based as it was on religious nonsense and primitive fanaticism. The Landsraad wouldn’t stand for it, and though many noblemen already cowered, the rest would stand together. Soon enough, they would call him back to the throne to restore order. More than ten thousand years of history and eighty-one Corrino emperors since the end of the Butlerian Jihad, a galactic Imperium spanning uncounted star systems… now being overrun by unsophisticated desert people who still called themselves tribes! It sickened him. From Golden Age to Dark Age in a single reign.

  And here am I, ruling a world nobody wants.

  Shaddam left the mirror and its disappointing image, going instead to a large faux window, with a view transmitted from external imagers. The Salusan sky was sickly orange, dotted with the dark shapes of carrion birds that were constantly on the alert for scant prey.

  Weather-control satellites should have improved the conditions in this particular region of the planet, but weather control was not consistent. At the beginning of the brief growing season, when plants and trees started to offer a splash of greenery, the satellites had gone offline. By the time they were repaired, horrible storms had wiped out the plantings and made ongoing construction work nearly impossible.

  During his former reign, Shaddam had kept this planet harsh for his own reasons. Salusa Secundus had been the Corrino prison world, a desolate place where malcontents and convicts were sorted by the rigors of survival. In those days, more than 60 percent of them had died, while the stronger ones had become candidates for his elite terror troops, the supposedly invincible Sardaukar. Unlike the unprepared prisoners dumped here, though, Shaddam had amenities, supplies, servants, family, and even a contingent of loyal soldiers. But Salusa was still his prison.

  Far from expediting the reclamation of this world, as he had promised, Paul Atreides seemed to be shutting down the systems. Did he hope to leave Shaddam with a dwindling pool of potential soldiers from the hard-bitten survivors of the prison population… or did he only want the shamed Emperor to suffer for a few years?

  Shaddam had just learned that his long-devoted chamberlain Beely Ridondo had been executed at Muad’Dib’s court simply for asking that the fanatical new Emperor keep his word. Shaddam had not expected the gambit to succeed, since he no longer believed the usurper had any honor. Even when the Fremen rabble had stormed his hutment on the Arrakeen plain, forcing the Padishah Emperor to entertain terms of surrender, the upstart had asserted that “Muad’Dib” was not bound by the same promises made by “Paul Atreides” — as if they were two different men!

  How convenient.

  And now his reports also said that Fremen fanatics had conquered Kaitain. Barbarians were sacking his beautiful capital world!

  Am I really expected to be content here while the whole galaxy goes mad?

  Worse, edicts constantly arrived, words couched in terms from the mockery of a religion that had formed around Muad’Dib, all signed by a self-important functionary named Korba.

  A Fremen commander gives me orders!

  It was an outrage. After a taste of Muad’Dib’s appalling bloodshed, the people would welcome Shaddam’s return with songs and roses. Utilizing intrigue, kanly, or outright assassination, he vowed to dispatch his enemies, one by one. But so far he had seen no opportunities.

  In the past year, Shaddam had taken steps to outsmart his distant captors. Among the hardened prison population, his Sardaukar commanders had located men with mechanical and inventive skills. He had put those men to work constructing a new city that could withstand the vagaries of the hostile weather. Some were hardened criminals — murderers, smugglers, thieves — but others had been put on the planet for political reasons, some by House Corrino, many more by Muad’Dib. The men, caring only that they were being offered better living conditions, were happy to work for Shaddam now.

  Ringing the site of his new capital city were three huge piles of refuse and construction debris, each higher than his tallest makeshift buildings. He had ordered scavenging teams to reclaim materials from all over the planet, to seize them from other prison camps and a few ancient but sturdy ruins that had survived the long-ago atomic attack. But the recovery operatio
n had produced pitiful results.

  The city’s great dome was not sealed yet, but eventually plants would grow inside a controlled environment. With the hodgepodge of construction activities, he felt like the manager of a large junkyard, salvaging parts to build a shantytown. Even his best efforts had resulted in nothing more than a pale imitation of the great Imperial Palace on Kaitain.

  His private residence was a fortified structure inside a domed city that was continuously under construction. Through the supposed generosity of Muad’Dib, the residence was opulently furnished with Corrino antiques, handmade Kaitain rugs, and other articles moved from his Imperial Palace. Precious family heirlooms — a mocking reminder of the things he had lost. He had all of his royal clothing, even his personal weapons. Oddly, and perhaps as a slap in the face, his “benefactors” had even sent him a container full of his childhood toys, including a stuffed Salusan bull.

  Several separate but connectable keeps housed his family members and the top advisers who had accompanied him into exile. Shaddam’s private keep was substantially different from the others. By far the largest, it had its own suspensor system that actually enabled the structure to fly out over the barren landscape of Salusa, where he could observe conditions firsthand. At least it gave him the illusion of mobility.

  An Emperor should not have to scrounge for survival. He touched a fingerpad on the wall to replace the false window with shifting images of Kaitain — electronic artwork that he had been permitted to keep. They are so kind to me.

  He turned to see an officer in the doorway dressed in Sardaukar gray with silver and gold trim. An elderly but powerfully built man, the colonel-bashar held his black helmet in one hand and saluted with the other. His face was craggy and weathered, as if sculpted on Salusa, where he had trained and served for so many years. “You summoned me, Sire?”

  Shaddam was glad to see one of his steadfastly loyal commanders. “Yes, Bashar Garon. I have an important task for you.”

  Zum Garon had once led all of Shaddam’s Sardaukar legions, but now only a portion of the once-glorious fighting force remained — the few thousand Sardaukar that Paul Atreides had allowed him to keep. Garon’s mouth twitched as he waited for his master to continue.

  Shaddam went to a bureau from which he retrieved an ornate knife with a gold handle inset with jewels. “The tyrant Muad’Dib and his fanatics ignore the rules of diplomacy and decency. Those of us who stand for civilization and stability must put aside our differences. I cannot do this all by myself.” He tapped the flat of the blade against his palm, then handed the weapon to the bashar, hilt first. “Find my dear friend Hasimir Fenring and tell him how sorely I need his help now. He left us only months ago, so he cannot have entrenched himself elsewhere. Give him this blade as a gift from me. He will understand the significance.”

  Garon took the knife. Behind his stony façade, the Sardaukar commander often seemed to be holding back a flood of emotions.

  Shaddam added, “I have not spoken with him since he departed from his exile here — unlike me, he was here on a voluntary basis. I want you to ask about his dear wife and their child. Why, the baby would be almost three years old by now! And be sure to remind him that my daughter Wensicia just married his cousin, Dalak Zor-Fenring. My friend might not know that yet.”

  He forced a smile, tried to swallow the bitterness in his throat. So many little defeats! With no other betrothal prospects in exile, Shaddam had arranged for his own middle daughter Wensicia to marry Hasimir Fenring’s cousin after the Count had left. He secretly hoped that his boyhood companion would look upon this favorably and return to his side. How he missed Fenring! Despite their falling-out, Shaddam was sure that their long friendship would outweigh the wounds. Corrino and Fenring had been inextricably twined for most of their lives. Soon enough, he hoped, a grandchild would be on the way, to strengthen the ties.

  Garon cleared his throat. “Count Fenring may not be easy to locate, Sire.”

  “Since when does a Sardaukar commander flinch from a difficult task?”

  “Never, Sire. I will do my best.”

  8

  It is easier to judge an alien culture than to understand it. We tend to look at things through the filters of our own racial and cultural biases. Are we capable of reaching out? And if we do, are we capable of comprehension?

  —excerpt from a Bene Gesserit report on galactic settlements

  Count Hasimir Fenring had encountered many unusual races in his work for Shaddam IV, but the Bene Tleilax pushed the very definition of humanity. Through genetic manipulation, the ruling caste of Tleilaxu Masters had intentionally adopted strange physical characteristics — probative little eyes, sharp teeth, and a furtive way of moving about, as if constantly on the alert for predators. Other members of their race were taller and looked like ordinary people, but in their topsy-turvy society, the rodent-men were the highest of the Tleilaxu castes.

  And now he and his family had made a home among them.

  Feeling out of place and trying to ignore it, the Count and his wife, Margot, strolled along a lakeshore walk in the city of Thalidei, where the Tleilaxu Masters had allowed them to stay. Beyond rooftops, he saw the high, fortified wall that encircled the industrial complex that had been built at the edge of a dead and noisome lake, almost an inland sea. For these people, the pollution, the mix of chemicals, the unusual organic reactions were all seen as possibilities, an experimental brew that yielded interesting compounds to be harvested and tested.

  Unlike the sacred city of Bandalong, outsiders were permitted here, though the Tleilaxu still took considerable measures to isolate the Fenrings. Security scanning devices were visible in front of many smooth-walled structures, bathing entryways in pearlescent light and blocking the passage of infidels. Some of the most important Tleilaxu programs were carried on in Thalidei, including the sophisticated and mysterious process of Twisting certain Mentat candidates. Sooner or later, Fenring had vowed to see the details for himself.

  Only a month after Paul Atreides sent the deposed Emperor to Salusa Secundus, Fenring realized that he could not bear to share exile with Shaddam and his dismal, complaining moods. The two had quarreled constantly, and so the Count had made arrangements to leave. If forced to stay longer, he feared he might have killed his long-time friend, and that was one murder he did not particularly want to commit.

  Since Muad’Dib’s exile order did not directly relate to him, Fenring had easily slipped away from Salusa. He had been able to move from planet to planet in disguise as he wished, though he had openly admitted his identity to the Tleilaxu, with whom he had previously worked. Margot had a precious little daughter, and Salusa Secundus was not a good place to raise her. Instead, the Count had chosen Tleilax as an unexpected location to go to ground — a comparatively safe, unobtrusive place to train and school their daughter, out of view. The Tleilaxu were annoying enough, but they did know how to keep secrets. They certainly had plenty of their own.

  Fenring had called in many favors, hinted at dangerous knowledge he had acquired in his previous dealings with the Tleilaxu — which would be widely released if any harm came to him. With only a little grumbling, the Tleilaxu had allowed the Fenrings to stay, and the family planned to remain for several years. But they did not really fit in. They were powindah.

  “Look at those men standing on street corners doing nothing,” Margot said in a low tone. “Where are the women?”

  “Those are upper-caste men,” Fenring said. “They consider themselves, hmmm, entitled to do nothing, although I would find that rather dull.”

  “I’ve never seen even lower-caste women or female children here.” Lady Margot looked around with her piercing gaze. They both had their suspicions that the Tleilaxu held their females as slaves or experiments.

  “Without question, my dear, you are, hmmm, the most beautiful woman in Thalidei.”

  “You embarrass me, my love.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and moved on, ever alert. Margot alway
s kept herself well armed with hidden weapons and in prime fighting condition; they never allowed their young daughter to be unguarded even for a moment.

  In their relationship, the couple depended on each other greatly, but did not trespass into each other’s private territory. Fenring had even accepted the necessity of Margot conceiving a child by Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Just business. When he’d chosen to marry a Reverend Mother decades ago, he had acknowledged certain things as a matter of course.

  Little Marie was back in their flat now, several blocks away, looked after by a talented woman Margot had acquired from the Sisterhood — an acolyte named Tonia Obregah-Xo who served as nanny, tutor, and devoted bodyguard to the child. Though Fenring was sure the Bene Gesserit nanny was also a spy, sending reports on little Marie’s progress back to Wallach IX, he was also certain that the watchful Obregah-Xo would defend the girl with her life. The Sisterhood wanted her bloodline for their own uses.

  The breeze turned, driving some of the polluted lake’s stench back out onto the rank water. Fishing trawlers dredged the sediment, hauling up interesting mutations of the few species of marine life that had survived in such a contaminated environment. Every once in a while, large tentacles could be seen rising out of the water, far from shore, but none of the Tleilaxu boats ventured into such deep waters, and the mysterious creature had never been caught or catalogued.

  Factory lines delivered fresh slime from the lake bottom into holding pools and separation tanks, in which bodysuited lower-caste Tleilaxu waded, sampling the chemical compositions. Black gulls circled around, screaming at the mess. Cranes hoisted algae-covered screens from growth solutions steeped in the shallows.