Paul of Dune hod-1

by Brian Herbert

  The children had sticks, a literjon of water, Fremkits, a stilltent, and the basic essentials for surviving for days out in the desert. Marie held up her stick, at the end of which dangled a squirming, gelatinous mass.

  “Hello, Stilgar,” Alia said in a carefree voice, as if he and all the ‘thopters had simply come to bring the children a platter of honeyed spice cakes. “We’re catching sandtrout, just like Fremen children do.”

  Marie played with the primitive creature she had caught, stretching its body membrane. Stilgar came forward, looking furious enough to strike Alia, and swept her up in an awkward bear hug. “Never do that again, child!”

  Now that he was no longer worried, Stilgar felt a strange sense of satisfaction about the incident that at first he could not articulate. Finally, he was startled to realize that this bad decision, this foolish activity, was something a normal child might do. Perhaps some small part of Alia was learning to be an ordinary little girl after all, and that wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

  But a normal child she was not. And neither was her new playmate.

  6

  Our secrets are not as safe as before. The old security measures are no longer adequate. Muad’Dib has an advantage better than any network of spies: He has prescience.

  —Spacing Guild report to CHOAM

  On the way home from his desert pilgrimage, Paul walked through the streets of Arrakeen, unrecognized in his dusty traditional garb. He had felt the murmur of crowds and the anonymous press of people all around him. The solitude and stillness of the desert rapidly slipped away from him. As soon as he returned, people would demand to speak with him about all those supposedly crucial matters that had been held in abeyance during his sojourn.

  But he had more important matters to take care of: He had to stop Memnon Thorvald before the rebel leader launched his attack on Caladan. Those were Paul’s people. Duke Leto’s people — Atreides people. They might imagine that he had forgotten about them, but he would prove otherwise.

  Paul-Muad’Dib entered the citadel unannounced and weary, his face, hands, and stillsuit covered with fine dust and sand. Although he was angered by what the spice vision had shown him and burning with the knowledge that he had to stop Thorvald’s hateful plan, he went first to see Chani. He had to impose at least a moment of sanity on his thoughts before he plunged into violence again.

  She welcomed him in their quarters, delighted to see him back. Irulan came to the chamber door a short while later, and Paul realized that her network of informants must be quite impressive. No one else had been told of his return.

  “Irulan,” he said, since she was the nearest one available who could make things happen, “summon Chatt the Leaper. Tell him I demand to see a Guild representative immediately, someone who can take me up to whatever Heighliner is above us so that I may address the Navigator directly.” He let his simmering anger show in his voice. “If no one with sufficient authority is here within the hour, I shall decrease the Guild’s spice allotment by five percent for the next Standard Year, and dock them another five percent for every further hour of delay.”

  Irulan was shocked. “But Husband, you are not presentable… your dirty clothes, your stillsuit. You cannot meet with an ambassador dressed like that.”

  “Muad’Dib can do as he wishes,” Chani said, her voice icy as a polar wind. She had stiffened as soon as Irulan entered. “Unpresentable to whom? All come to him. All bow before him.”

  Paul said, “I concentrate more easily with dust on my hands and while wearing my stillsuit. Send for the Guild representative, and get Stilgar to the throne room if he isn’t already on his way.”

  By the time Muad’Dib and Chani reached the audience chamber, word of the Emperor’s wrath had spread through the fortress’s halls. Administrators rushed to see how they could serve him, while others (either more fearful or more sensible) made themselves scarce.

  Alia was already there with Marie Fenring; the two girls had secretive smiles on their faces. “My brother is very angry at someone,” she whispered to her companion.

  With only two minutes to spare in the deadline, a lanky, lantern-jawed man in a gray Spacing Guild robe stumbled breathless into the audience chamber. He was accompanied by the quiet, almost sullen Chatt the Leaper, Paul’s liaison with the Guild. The gray-robed man introduced himself as Olar and made an exaggerated bow before the enormous emerald throne. “Emperor Muad’Dib demands my presence?”

  “Emperor Muad’Dib requires much more than that. I must speak with you, with your Guild — and with that Navigator up there.” Paul jerked a forefinger toward the ceiling. “Get me a shuttle. I have no time for middlemen or diplomats.”

  The Guild representative looked at him, aghast. Chatt remained stony, as did Stilgar. In the prolonged silence, little Marie began to giggle. Olar swallowed once, twice. “As you command, Sire.”

  The Guild usually made excuses that their Navigators were never to be seen, that the security of their Heighliners was paramount, and that only certain spokesmen could respond on the Guild’s behalf. But not now. Though many Navigators were so advanced that they had difficulty communicating with primitive human minds, Paul knew they would certainly understand what he had to say. Olar would get him aboard.

  Without further delay, Paul marched out of his throne room and gestured for the Guild representative to go with him. “Stilgar, you will accompany me as well. This is a military matter. I may require your knowledge and advice.”

  Olar was the type of ambassador Paul preferred: Even though the man was filled with questions and his expression exhibited a great deal of alarm, he was smart enough not to voice every thought that sprang to his mind. Other more garrulous diplomats would have begged for clarification, and made excuses or apologies regardless of what the problem was.

  But these Guildsmen knew damned well what they had done: how they had knowingly aided bloodthirsty rebels and were about to assist in an appalling attack on the world Paul had called home for much of his life. Seeing Muad’Dib’s mood, Olar had concluded correctly that he would get no answers, and that questions would only make matters worse.

  When the shuttle was finally aboard the Heighliner and had settled into a docking clamp, a walkway extended so that Paul could disembark onto the shell decks. At the end of the walkway stood Guild security men wearing sidearms and blocking his way.

  Stilgar barked, “Stand aside and remove your weapons in the presence of Muad’Dib!”

  Another Guild representative, also in a gray robe, stood behind the security men like a shadow. “Apologies, Sire. For reasons of safety and security, it is Spacing Guild policy that no outsider can disturb a Navigator aboard a Heighliner. All matters must be brought before the appropriate officials. As the highest-ranking representative aboard this ship, I will be happy to deal with the Emperor’s concerns.”

  “You may come with us, then, but I will speak with the Navigator.”

  “Sire, perhaps I was not clear —” the man began. The security men still did not move.

  Paul said, “This is my ship, as are all Guildships. Instruct your guards to stand aside immediately and tell your Navigator to anticipate my arrival, unless he would like to spend the rest of his life breathing whatever spice vapors remain in his tank, for if you defy me I will allow no further melange to leave Arrakis.”

  Olar interceded. “This is an extraordinary request, but Emperor Muad’Dib so rarely makes demands upon us. I suggest we listen to what he has to say.”

  The Guild official, who probably outranked Olar, scowled but gestured for the security men to stand aside. Paul strode between them, with Stilgar half a step behind. The Guildsmen led the way to the Navigator’s deck.

  The Navigator was an exotic creature, enclosed in a tank of thick orange gas that reeked of melange, even through its seals. The dense cloud disguised some of the creature’s deformities — which were somehow linked to his mental enhancements — but through the thick plaz Paul could discern the bobbing, overlarg
e head on a wattled stalk of a neck. He had never seen a Steersman personally, but he could not waste time staring now.

  “Beric,” said Olar. “Our Emperor Muad’Dib wishes to —”

  Paul interjected loudly, without preamble. “I know of the plot Memnon Thorvald intends to launch against my homeworld of Caladan, and I know of the Guild’s collusion with him.”

  “Sire, we have no knowledge of this whatsoever,” Olar said.

  “The Spacing Guild is loyal to Muad’Dib,” stated the other official, whose name was insignificant to Paul. “We know that you control the spice, and thus control all space travel. Why would we support any rebellion?”

  Beric the Guild Navigator, interestingly, said nothing.

  Paul said, “With my prescience, I have seen Thorvald’s warships being taken aboard two Guild Heighliners. I have also seen that this very ship in which I stand has carried the troops and weaponry of twelve other rebel noblemen who are allied with him. Thus, I know the Guild is not only aware, but is willingly cooperating.”

  “Perhaps… prescient vision… imperfect,” Beric finally said, a distorted voice through the speakers of his tank.

  “And is your prescient vision imperfect, when you choose safe paths for a ship to travel?” Paul countered.

  “Not… mine,” Beric said. “But prescience is…” His eerie voice trailed off, as he apparently decided not to pursue a particular line of reasoning.

  Paul looked around the thick-walled chamber. The smell of recycled spice was dizzying. Indeed, in the Navigator’s presence with its folds of tangled timelines, the acuity of Paul’s predictive vision was greatly diminished. Admittedly his own prescience did not always function perfectly. In this case, however, his melange dream had shown him all of the ships and all of Thorvald’s soldiers. Without any doubt, he had seen the attack they meant to lead.

  He knew.

  “Would you like me to describe every one of their ships?” Paul said. “Shall I name every one of the planets where they were picked up? The Guild has willingly provided transport to those who are leading an insurrection against me. All of Thorvald’s allies will be aboard two specific Heighliners. They intend to launch an assault against Caladan — against Caladan! They want to take my mother and Gurney Halleck hostage, or kill them… and you have cooperated in this.”

  Listening to the accusations, Stilgar seemed to tense, like a tightly wound spring; he clearly did not like this Navigator. The naib’s blue-within-blue gaze flicked back and forth, and he wrapped his hand around the crysknife at his waist, ready to kill if necessary.

  Both Olar and the unnamed official vehemently denied the charges, but Paul would hear none of it. “These are the commands of your Emperor. The Heighliners containing Memnon Thorvald and the ships in his rebel fleet will be taken out into deep space. There, the Navigators will empty their holds. Completely. Every enemy war vessel, with all soldiers aboard, are to be stranded there. Leave them surrounded by emptiness, with no hope of finding their way home, with no extra supplies and no additional air.”

  Olar bit back a yelp. “Sire, that will kill them all!”

  “Yes, that will kill them all — for a start. Stil, I want you to arrange for a military assault on Lord Thorvald’s home planet. Bring as many weapons as you require — enough to sterilize that whole world. Everyone dead.”

  “Sterilize?” Stilgar opened and closed his mouth, not sure what to say. Then: “Is that really necessary?”

  Paul saw in the desert man’s eyes the thought of how long his people had struggled to nurture life on Dune, following the long-term vision of Pardot Kynes and his son Liet. How could Muad’Dib possibly suggest annihilating all plant and animal life on an entire planet? Now, when so much work was being done to breathe a renewed ecosystem onto Arrakis?

  But Thorvald was willing to attack Caladan. And Paul’s mother. Duncan Idaho had once told him, while they were fleeing the assassin-trackers in the wilds of Caladan, “There is no room for compassion toward people who are trying to kill us.”

  Worse, if the appalling Caladan attack succeeded, then other enemies might grow bolder and target additional victims the Emperor cared about, all of whom were easier to get to than he was: Chani, Alia, Stilgar, and even Irulan.

  He could not allow it. The lesson must be taught — a lesson that would stop further violence. Let the perpetrators feel the pain they would have inflicted upon me.

  “Sterilized, Stil. The Guild will provide transportation for whatever ships you choose to send. And when it is done” — he turned back to the Navigator in his tank — “only then will I consider forgiving you for your indiscretions.”

  Olar swallowed twice more. “You cannot mean this, Sire. Ejecting those ships into deep space, sterilizing a planet —”

  “Five years ago when the Emperor’s troops were here, I threatened to destroy all spice on Arrakis in order to make my point. Why should I make any lesser threat now? You have seen the ferocity of my followers. If it is meant to be, my Fremen will have no objection to staying on Dune, without space travel, completely cut off. They can survive, will survive. They don’t care if anyone else does.”

  Finally, from inside his tank, Beric conceded. “What you command, my Lord, shall be done.”

  Paul was gratified to note that this Navigator had the good sense to be afraid of Muad’Dib.

  7

  Once, I struggled in my small body, knowing that others saw something innocent and harmless. They underestimated me. My Harkonnen grandfather underestimated me, and I killed him with the gom jabbar. Now that people view me with awe, I have the opposite problem. They are beginning to believe I am perfect, infallible, and omnipotent.

  —ALIA, letter to Lady Jessica on Caladan

  In her private rooms, Alia kept the poisonous scorpions inside their tank, mainly to protect others. Occasionally, with her door closed and the moisture seals in place, she opened the tank and let the creatures run loose, skittering into corners and under her bed. Some of them even liked to climb the stone blocks of the walls, as if trying to escape into the freedom of the desert.

  Since their adventure out on the open dunes catching sandtrout, Alia and Marie had been watched much more closely. Fortunately, they had plenty of other activities with which to occupy themselves. For the past several days, they had gone back to hiding in particular sections of the vast citadel complex, each girl using logic and detective work to discover where the other might conceal herself. The amazon guards allowed them a certain freedom of movement, and they seemed to accept this childish version of Alia more easily than the frighteningly intelligent one.

  Today, the two girls remained locked in Alia’s chambers, where they could talk and play in private. Having loosed her scorpions again, Alia sat on her pallet and let the creatures crawl over the blankets and climb up her arms and legs; some were in her hair.

  Alia lay back and relaxed, letting the scorpions skitter over her body. “Even if they sting me, the poison will have no effect. I am a Reverend Mother. I can control my body chemistry.” She cupped one of the arachnids in the palm of her hand. It twitched its long tail, threatening to sting, but did not harm her.

  Marie sat down on the bed beside her. The scorpions scuttled away, then turned about and approached cautiously. Alia warned, “I let them out only for myself. Their poison will be fatal to you if you are stung. You must be careful.”

  “I am being careful, and I’m not worried.” Marie plucked one of the creatures from the blanket on Alia’s pallet. Gently, she folded its angular legs together, then set it on her forearm. Agitated, the scorpion twitched its tail back and forth, then raised its claws in a combat position. “They won’t sting me either.”

  Not moving, Alia watched with curious intensity, not wanting to startle the scorpion. The one in her hair moved about as if searching for a place to nest, then came forward to peer over her bangs.

  Marie picked up a second scorpion and set it on her leg, while Alia breathed evenly, fascina
ted. “They won’t sting me,” Marie said again, with complete confidence.

  And they didn’t.

  8

  All blessings be upon Muad’Dib, just as His blessings flow like cool water upon the faithful. His Holiness cherishes beauty and purity. In Him, we shall all be safe. Muad’Dib the Protector.

  —Fremen hymn

  The face of Guild Representative Olar was somber and unreadable as he offered a cylinder to Paul — a solido holographic recording encased in ornate and costly trappings. “Muad’Dib issued his command and did not require proof from the Spacing Guild. We accept that as a measure of your trust.”

  “I had no doubt you would follow my instructions,” Paul replied from a heavy chair of polished windstone. When the Emperor made no move, Stilgar accepted the gift from the Guild and regarded it curiously.

  With Irulan and Chani, they were in a small, thick-walled war council room. Though Paul sensed the import of Olar’s message, he chose to meet him here in this austere, windowless place, rather than in the cavernous audience chamber with all the trouble of having security teams sweep and resweep, scanning visitors and crowds of onlookers for hidden weapons. Rumors were already rushing through the citadel and the streets of Arrakeen that the Guildsman had returned.

  Olar took two respectful steps backward. “Then consider this recording neither evidence nor proof, but merely an item of interest. An Emperor should witness firsthand the absolute defeat of his enemies.”