Dune (40th Anniversary Edition)

by Frank Herbert

  Another signalman sat there at his equipment.

  “Much static,” the man said.

  A swirl of sand filled the air around them.

  “Seal off this tunnel!” Paul shouted. A sudden pressure of stillness showed that his command had been obeyed. “Is the way down to the basin still open?” Paul asked.

  A Fedaykin went to look, returned, said: “The explosion caused a little rock to fall, but the engineers say it is still open. They’re cleaning up with lasbeams.”

  “Tell them to use their hands!” Paul barked. “There are shields active down there!”

  “They are being careful, Muad’Dib,” the man said, but he turned to obey.

  The signalmen from outside pressed past them carrying their equipment.

  “I told those men to leave their equipment!” Paul said.

  “Fremen do not like to abandon equipment, Muad’Dib,” one of his Fedaykin chided.

  “Men are more important than equipment now,” Paul said. “We’ll have more equipment than we can use soon or have no need for any equipmert.”

  Gurney Halleck came up beside him, said: “I heard them say the way down is open. We’re very close to the surface here, m’Lord, should the Harkonnens try to retaliate in kind.”

  “They’re in no position to retaliate,” Paul said. “They’re just now finding out that they have no shields and are unable to get off Arrakis.”

  “The new command post is all prepared, though, m’Lord,” Gurney said.

  “They’ve no need of me in the command post yet,” Paul said. “The plan would go ahead without me. We must wait for the—”

  “I’m getting a message, Muad’Dib,” said the signalman at the communications equipment. The man shook his head, pressed a receiver phone against his ear. “Much static!” He began scribbling on a pad in front of him, shaking his head waiting, writing... waiting.

  Paul crossed to the signalman’s side. The Fedaykin stepped back, giving him room. He looked down at what the man had written, read:

  “Raid... on Sietch Tabr ... captives... Alia (blank) families of (blank) dead are... they (blank) son of Muad’Dib ....”

  Again, the signalman shook his head.

  Paul looked up to see Gurney staring at him.

  “The message is garbled,” Gurney said. “The static. You don’t know that ....”

  “My son is dead,” Paul said, and knew as he spoke that it was true. “My son is dead ... and Alia is a captive ... hostage.” He felt emptied, a shell without emotions. Everything he touched brought death and grief. And it was like a disease that could spread across the universe.

  He could feel the old-man wisdom, the accumulation out of the experiences from countless possible lives. Something seemed to chuckle and rub its hands within him.

  And Paul thought: How little the universe knows about the nature of real cruelty!

  And Muad’Dib stood before them, and he said: “Though we deem the captive dead, yet does she live. For her seed is my seed and her voice is my voice. And she sees unto the farthest reaches of possibility. Yea, unto the vale of the unknowable does she see because of me. ”

  —from “Arrakis Awakening” by the Princess Irulan

  THE BARON Vladimir Harkonnen stood with eyes downcast in the Imperial audience chamber, the oval selamlik within the Padishah Emperor’s hutment. With covert glances, the Baron had studied the metal-walled room and its occupants—the noukkers, the pages, the guards, the troop of House Sardaukar drawn up around the walls, standing at ease there beneath the bloody and tattered captured battle flags that were the room’s only decoration.

  Voices sounded from the right of the chamber, echoing out of a high passage: “Make way! Make way for the Royal Person!”

  The Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV came out of the passage into the audience chamber followed by his suite. He stood waiting while his throne was brought, ignoring the Baron, seemingly ignoring every person in the room.

  The Baron found that he could not ignore the Royal Person, and studied the Emperor for a sign, any clue to the purpose of this audience. The Emperor stood poised, waiting—a slim, elegant figure in a gray Sardaukar uniform with silver and gold trim. His thin face and cold eyes reminded the Baron of the Duke Leto long dead. There was that same look of the predatory bird. But the Emperor’s hair was red, not black, and most of that hair was concealed by a Burseg’s ebon helmet with the Imperial crest in gold upon its crown.

  Pages brought the throne. It was a massive chair carved from a single piece of Hagal quartz-blue-green translucency shot through with streaks of yellow fire. They placed it on the dais and the Emperor mounted, seated himself.

  An old woman in a black aba robe with hood drawn down over her forehead detached herself from the Emperor’s suite, took up station behind the throne, one scrawny hand resting on the quartz back. Her face peered out of the hood like a witch caricature—sunken cheeks and eyes, an overlong nose, skin mottled and with protruding veins.

  The Baron stilled his trembling at sight of her. The presence of the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, the Emperor’s Truthsayer, betrayed the importance of this audience. The Baron looked away from her, studied the suite for a clue. There were two of the Guild agents, one tall and fat, one short and fat, both with bland gray eyes. And among the lackeys stood one of the Emperor’s daughters, the Princess Irulan, a woman they said was being trained in the deepest of the Bene Gesserit ways, destined to be a Reverend Mother. She was tall, blonde, face of chiseled beauty, green eyes that looked past and through him.

  “My dear Baron.”

  The Emperor had deigned to notice him. The voice was baritone and with exquisite control. It managed to dismiss him while greeting him.

  The Baron bowed low, advanced to the required position ten paces from the dais. “I came at your summons, Majesty.”

  “Summons!” the old witch cackled.

  “Now, Reverend Mother,” the Emperor chided, but he smiled at the Baron’s discomfiture, said: “First, you will tell me where you’ve sent your minion, Thufir Hawat.”

  The Baron darted his gaze left and right, reviled himself for coming here without his own guards, not that they’d be much use against Sardaukar. Still....

  “Well?” the Emperor said.

  “He has been gone these five days, Majesty.” The Baron shot a glance at the Guild agents, back to the Emperor. “He was to land at a smuggler base and attempt infiltrating the camp of the Fremen fanatic, this Muad’Dib.”

  “Incredible!” the Emperor said.

  One of the witch’s clawlike hands tapped the Emperor’s shoulder. She leaned forward, whispered in his ear.

  The Emperor nodded, said: “Five days, Baron. Tell me, why aren’t you worried about his absence?”

  “But I am worried, Majesty!”

  The Emperor continued to stare at him, waiting. The Reverend Mother emitted a cackling laugh.

  “What I mean, Majesty,” the Baron said, “is that Hawat will be dead within another few hours, anyway.” And he explained about the latent poison and need for an antidote.

  “How clever of you, Baron,” the Emperor said. “And where are your nephews, Rabban and the young Feyd-Rautha?”

  “The storm comes, Majesty. I sent them to inspect our perimeter lest the Fremen attack under cover of the sand.”

  “Perimeter,” the Emperor said. The word came out as though it puckered his mouth. “The storm won’t be much here in the basin, and that Fremen rabble won’t attack while I’m here with five legions of Sardaukar.”

  “Surely not, Majesty,” the Baron said, “But error on the side of caution cannot be censured.”

  “Ah-h-h-h,” the Emperor said. “Censure. Then I’m not to speak of how much time this Arrakis nonsense has taken from me? Nor the CHOAM Company profits pouring down this rat hole? Nor the court functions and affairs of state I’ve had to delay—even cancel—because of this stupid affair?”

  The Baron lowered his gaze, frightened by the Imperial
anger. The delicacy of his position here, alone and dependent upon the Convention and the dictum familia of the Great Houses, fretted him. Does he mean to kill me? the Baron asked himself. He couldn’t! Not with the other Great Houses waiting up there, aching for any excuse to gain from this upset on Arrakis.

  “Have you taken hostages?” the Emperor asked.

  “It’s useless, Majesty,” the Baron said. “These mad Fremen hold a burial ceremony for every captive and act as though such a one were already dead.”

  “So?” the Emperor said.

  And the Baron waited, glancing left and right at the metal walls of the selamlik, thinking of the monstrous fanmetal tent around him. Such unlimited wealth it represented that even the Baron was awed. He brings pages, the Baron thought, and useless court lackeys, his women and their companions-hair-dressers, designers, everything ... all the fringe parasites of the Court. All here—fawning, slyly plotting, “roughing it” with the Emperor ... here to watch him put an end to this affair, to make epigrams over the battles and idolize the wounded.

  “Perhaps you’ve never sought the right kind of hostages,” the Emperor said.

  He knows something, the Baron thought. Fear sat like a stone in his stomach until he could hardly bear the thought of eating. Yet, the feeling was like hunger, and he poised himself several times in his suspensors on the point of ordering food brought to him. But there was no one here to obey his summons.

  “Do you have any idea who this Muad’Dib could be?” the Emperor asked.

  “One of the Umma, surely,” the Baron said. “A Fremen fanatic, a religious adventurer. They crop up regularly on the fringes of civilization. Your Majesty knows this.”

  The Emperor glanced at his Truthsayer, turned back to scowl at the Baron. “And you have no other knowledge of this Muad’Dib?”

  “A madman,” the Baron said. “But all Fremen are a little mad.”

  “Mad?”

  “His people scream his name as they leap into battle. The women throw their babies at us and hurl themselves onto our knives to open a wedge for their men to attack us. They have no... no... decency!”

  “As bad as that,” the Emperor murmured, and his tone of derision did not escape the Baron. “Tell me, my dear Baron, have you investigated the southern polar regions of Arrakis?”

  The Baron stared up at the Emperor, shocked by the change of subject. “But ... well, you know, Your Majesty, the entire region is uninhabitable, open to wind and worm. There’s not even any spice in those latitudes.”

  “You’ve had no reports from spice lighters that patches of greenery appear there?”

  “There’ve always been such reports. Some were investigated—long ago. A few plants were seen. Many ’thopters were lost. Much too costly, Your Majesty. It’s a place where men cannot survive for long.”

  “So,” the Emperor said. He snapped his fingers and a door opened at his left behind the throne. Through the door came two Sardaukar herding a girl-child who appeared to be about four years old. She wore a black aba, the hood thrown back to reveal the attachments of a stillsuit hanging free at her throat. Her eyes were Fremen blue, staring out of a soft, round face. She appeared completely unafraid and there was a look to her stare that made the Baron feel uneasy for no reason he could explain.

  Even the old Bene Gesserit Truthsayer drew back as the child passed and made a warding sign in her direction. The old witch obviously was shaken by the child’s presence.

  The Emperor cleared his throat to speak, but the child spoke first—a thin voice with traces of a soft-palate lisp, but clear nonetheless. “So here he is,” she said. She advanced to the edge of the dais. “He doesn’t appear much, does he—one frightened old fat man too weak to support his own flesh without the help of suspensors.”

  It was such a totally unexpected statement from the mouth of a child that the Baron stared at her, speechless in spite of his anger. Is it a midget? he asked himself.

  “My dear Baron,” the Emperor said, “become acquainted with the sister of Muad’Dib.”

  “The sist....” The Baron shifted his attention to the Emperor. “I do not understand.”

  “I, too, sometimes err on the side of caution,” the Emperor said. “It has been reported to me that your uninhabited south polar regions exhibit evidence of human activity.”

  “But that’s impossible!” the Baron protested. “The worms ... there’s sand clear to the ....”

  “These people seem able to avoid the worms,” the Emperor said.

  The child sat down on the dais beside the throne, dangled her feet over the edge, kicking them. There was such an air of sureness in the way she appraised her surroundings.

  The Baron stared at the kicking feet, the way they moved the black robe, the wink of sandals beneath the fabric.

  “Unfortunately,” the Emperor said, “I only sent in five troop carriers with a light attack force to pick up prisoners for questioning. We barely got away with three prisoners and one carrier. Mind you, Baron, my Sardaukar were almost overwhelmed by a force composed mostly of women, children, and old men. This child here was in command of one of the attacking groups.”

  “You see, Your Majesty!” the Baron said. “You see how they are!”

  “I allowed myself to be captured,” the child said. “I did not want to face my brother and have to tell him that his son had been killed.”

  “Only a handful of our men got away,” the Emperor said. “Got away! You hear that?”

  “We’d have had them, too,” the child said, “except for the flames.”

  “My Sardaukar used the attitudinal jets on their carrier as flame-throwers,” the Emperor said. “A move of desperation and the only thing that got them away with their three prisoners. Mark that, my dear Baron: Sardaukar forced to retreat in confusion from women and children and old men!”

  “We must attack in force,” the Baron rasped. “We must destroy every last vestige of—”

  “Silence!” the Emperor roared. He pushed himself forward on his throne. “Do not abuse my intelligence any longer. You stand there in your foolish innocence and—”

  “Majesty,” the old Truthsayer said.

  He waved her to silence. “You say you don’t know about the activity we found, nor the fighting qualities of these superb people!” The Emperor lifted himself half off his throne. “What do you take me for, Baron?”

  The Baron took two backward steps, thinking: It was Rabban. He has done this to me. Rabban has ....

  “And this fake dispute with Duke Leto,” the Emperor purred, sinking back into his throne. “How beautifully you maneuvered it.”

  “Majesty,” the Baron pleaded. “What are you—”

  “Silence!”

  The old Bene Gesserit put a hand on the Emperor’s shoulder, leaned close to whisper in his ear.

  The child seated on the dais stopped kicking her feet, said: “Make him afraid some more, Shaddam. I shouldn’t enjoy this, but I find the pleasure impossible to suppress.”

  “Quiet, child,” the Emperor said. He leaned forward, put a hand on her head, stared at the Baron. “Is it possible, Baron? Could you be as simpleminded as my Truthsayer suggests? Do you not recognize this child, daughter of your ally, Duke Leto?”

  “My father was never his ally,” the child said. “My father is dead and this old Harkonnen beast has never seen me before.”

  The Baron was reduced to stupefied glaring. When he found his voice it was only to rasp: “Who?”

  “I am Alia, daughter of Duke Leto and the Lady Jessica, sister of Duke Paul-Muad’Dib,” the child said. She pushed herself off the dais, dropped to the floor of the audience chamber. “My brother has promised to have your head atop his battle standard and I think he shall.”

  “Be hush, child,” the Emperor said, and he sank back into his throne, hand to chin, studying the Baron.

  “I do not take the Emperor’s orders,” Alia said. She turned, looked up at the old Reverend Mother. “She knows.”

&
nbsp; The Emperor glanced up at his Truthsayer. “What does she mean?”

  “That child is an abomination!” the old woman said. “Her mother deserves a punishment greater than anything in history. Death! It cannot come too quickly for that child or for the one who spawned her!” The old woman pointed a finger at Alia. “Get out of my mind!”

  “T-P?” the Emperor whispered. He snapped his attention back to Alia. “By the Great Mother!”

  “You don’t understand, Majesty,” the old woman said. “Not telepathy. She’s in my mind. She’s like the ones before me, the ones who gave me their memories. She stands in my mind! She cannot be there, but she is!”

  “What others?” the Emperor demanded. “What’s this nonsense?”

  The old woman straightened, lowered her pointing hand. “I’ve said too much, but the fact remains that this child who is not a child must be destroyed. Long were we warned against such a one and how to prevent such a birth, but one of our own has betrayed us.”

  “You babble, old woman,” Alia said. “You don’t know how it was, yet you rattle on like a purblind fool.” Alia closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and held it.

  The old Reverend Mother groaned and staggered.

  Alia opened her eyes. “That is how it was,” she said. “A cosmic accident... and you played your part in it.”

  The Reverend Mother held out both hands, palms pushing the air toward Alia.

  “What is happening here?” the Emperor demanded. “Child, can you truly project your thoughts into the mind of another?”

  “That’s not how it is at all,” Alia said. “Unless I’m born as you, I cannot think as you.”

  “Kill her,” the old woman muttered, and clutched the back of the throne for support. “Kill her!” The sunken old eyes glared at Alia.

  “Silence,” the Emperor said, and he studied Alia. “Child, can you communicate with your brother?”

  “My brother knows I’m here,” Alia said.

  “Can you tell him to surrender as the price of your life?”

  Alia smiled up at him with clear innocence. “I shall not do that,” she said.