As the showy political transport descended from orbit, she stared down at the sprawling city beyond the spaceport, picking out familiar Arrakeen landmarks, noting swaths of new construction. The immense Citadel of Muad’Dib dominated the north side of the city, though many additional new structures vied for attention on the skyline. Numerous government buildings shouldered up against enormous temples to Muad’Dib and even to Alia.
With her knowledge of Bene Gesserit methods for controlling impressions, manipulating history, and herding large populations, Jessica saw exactly what Paul—or, more accurately, his bureaucracy—intended to do. Much of government was about creating perceptions and moods. Long ago, the Bene Gesserit had unleashed their Missionaria Protectiva here on Arrakis to plant legends and prime the people for a myth. Under Paul-Muad’Dib, those seeds had come to fruition, but not in the way the Sisterhood had anticipated. . . .
The transport settled on a demarcated area reserved for important visitors. Swirls of sand obscured Jessica’s view through the porthole.
When the exit doors opened, she smelled dust in the air, heard the susurration of a waiting crowd. The mobs had already gathered, a sea of dirty robes and covered faces. It was late afternoon by local time, and the white sun cast long shadows. She saw hundreds of people in brown and gray desert garb intermixed with those who wore city clothing in a variety of colors.
All had come to see her. Still inside the transport, Jessica hesitated. “I wasn’t anxious to return here, Gurney. Not at all.”
For a long moment, he remained silent in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his emotions, his uneasiness, maybe even his dread of facing the wailing masses. Finally, he said, “What is this place without Paul? It isn’t Arrakis.”
“ Dune, Gurney. It will always be Dune.”
Though Jessica still could not grieve—with those feelings locked down, or trapped, inside of her—now she felt moistness in her eyes, a stinging hint of the release she wanted and needed. But she didn’t allow a single tear. Dune did not permit her to give water to the dead, not even for her son—and the Sisterhood discouraged emotions, except as a means of manipulating outsiders. Thus, both disciplines—Fremen and Bene Gesserit—prevented her from letting the tears flow.
Jessica stepped toward the open hatch and the bright sunlight. “Did I retire from this place, Gurney, or did I retreat?” She had hoped to spend the rest of her life on Caladan, never setting foot on this world again. “Think of what this planet has done to us. Dune took my Duke and my son and shattered all our hopes and dreams as a family. It swallows people.”
“ ‘Each person makes his own paradise, or his own hell.’ ” Gurney extended his arm, and she reluctantly took it. He activated his body shield before they stepped out into the open. “I recommend you do the same, my Lady. With a mob this size, they can’t all be searched for weapons.” Jessica did as he suggested, but even the shimmering field did not make her feel entirely safe.
Flanked by six big Fedaykin guards, Stilgar appeared at the shuttle ramp to escort her. He looked weathered, dusty, and grim—as always. The same old Stilgar. She was reassured to see the Naib again. “Sayyadina, I am here to ensure your safety.” It was both a greeting and a promise; he did not allow himself to show any overt joy at seeing her again after so many years. “I will take you directly to Regent Alia.”
“I am in your care, Stilgar.” Though he was all business now, she expected they would share spice coffee later and talk, after he and Gurney got her away from the throng.
More Fremen warriors waited at the base of the shuttle ramp, forming a cordon to clear a way through the crowd for the Mother of Muad’Dib, as if sheltering her from the winds of a sandstorm. Stilgar led the visitors forward.
Overlapping voices in the crowd called out her name, shouting, chanting, cheering, begging for blessings from Muad’Dib. The people wore grimy clothes of green, the color of Fremen mourning. Some had scratched at their eyes until blood ran down their cheeks in some kind of eerie homage to Paul’s blindness.
With her heightened attention, Jessica perceived a thread of animosity woven into the tapestry of voices, calling out from every direction. They wanted, they needed, they demanded and grieved, but could not crystallize their feelings. The loss of Paul had left an immense void in society.
Stilgar hurried her along. “We must not delay. There is danger here today.”
There is always danger here, she thought.
As the Fedaykin guards pushed at the crowd, she heard a clatter of metal and a scream. Behind them, two of the guards threw themselves to the ground, covering something with their own bodies. Gurney put himself between them and Jessica, further protecting her with his body shield.
An explosion tore the two guards into bloody fragments that splattered back into the crowd. Stunned by the shock wave, some people touched the red wetness, marveling at the moisture that had suddenly appeared on their clothes.
Stilgar pulled Jessica toward the terminal building, hurting her arm. “Hurry,” he said, “there may be other assassins.” He did not look back at the fallen guards.
With the shrieks and shouts rising to a roar of vengeance and anger, Jessica moved quickly into the guarded structure. Gurney and the remaining Fedaykin closed a heavy door behind them, greatly diminishing the crowd noise.
The cavernous building had been swept and cleared for her arrival, and now it echoed with emptiness. “What happened, Stilgar? Who wants me dead?”
“Some people wish only to cause harm, and any target will do. They want to hurt others as they have been hurt.” His voice was dark with disapproval. “Even when Muad’Dib was alive, there was much turmoil, resentment, and discontent. People are weak, and do not understand.”
Gurney looked carefully at Jessica to make certain she was not injured. “Angry people lash out wildly—and some will blame you, as the mother of Muad’Dib.”
“That’s who I am, for good or ill.”
The terminal building looked brighter than she remembered, but not much different: a fresh coat of paint and more decorations, perhaps. She didn’t recall seeing so many Atreides hawks on the walls the last time—Paul’s doing, or Alia’s? New alcoves displayed statues of Muad’Dib in various heroic poses.
Stilgar led them up a staircase to the rooftop landing platform, where a gray armored ornithopter sat waiting for them. “This will take you to the protection of the Citadel. You are in good hands now.” Without further words, Stilgar hurried away, anxious to get back to the crowds to investigate the explosion.
A man strode toward them dressed in a stillsuit marked with Atreides green and black; the face mask hung loose. A chill of amazed recognition ran down her spine. “Lady Jessica, welcome back to Dune. Much has happened since the time I died here.”
Gurney shouted his own disbelief. “Gods below—Duncan?”
The man was almost an exact duplicate of Duncan Idaho. Even his voice was perfect; only the gray, metallic eyes distinguished him from the original. “In the flesh, Gurney Halleck—ghola flesh, but the memories are mine.”
He extended his right hand, but Gurney hesitated. “Or are you the one the Tleilaxu call Hayt?”
“Hayt was a ghola without his memories, a biological machine programmed to destroy Paul Atreides. I am no longer that one. I’m Duncan again—the same old Duncan. The boy who worked in the Old Duke’s bull stables on Caladan, the young man who trained on Ginaz to become a Swordmaster, the man who protected Paul from House Moritani assassins and fought to liberate Ix from the Tleilaxu.” He offered Jessica a sheepish smile. “And, yes, the man who got drunk on spice beer and blurted to everyone awake in the Arrakeen Residency that you were a Harkonnen traitor, my Lady.”
Jessica met his strange eyes. “You also gave your life so Paul and I could escape after Dr. Kynes’s base was raided.” She could not drive away the memory of the original Duncan falling under a flurry of Sardaukar dressed in Harkonnen uniforms. Seeing the ghola gave her an unsettled feeling, as if tim
e had folded in on itself.
Now this Duncan gestured toward the ’thopter, inviting them to climb aboard. Despite its thick armor, the large aircraft had a luxurious interior.
When she entered the passenger compartment, Jessica was startled to see Alia seated, facing her direction. “Thank you for coming, Mother. I need you here.” Seemingly embarrassed by the admission, she added, “We all do.” The teenager’s coppery hair was long, and her face thinner than before, making her blue-within-blue eyes look larger.
“Of course I came.” Jessica took a seat beside her daughter. “I came for Paul, for you, and for my new grandchildren.”
“ ‘Tragedy brings us together, when convenience fails to do so,’ ” Gurney recited.
No one is ever completely forced into his position in life. We all have opportunities to take different paths.
—Conversations with Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Inside the ’thopter, Jessica was surprised when Duncan sat close to Alia, rather than taking the pilot’s controls, leaving that particular task to a Fremen guard. Smiling, Alia touched his arm with genuine warmth, an obvious romantic bond. So much had changed on Dune, and in House Atreides. . . .
“Of course, you will want to see that the twins are safe, Mother.” Alia turned to Duncan. “Tell the pilot to use the west landing pad. We’ll go directly to the creche.”
The boy and girl, Paul’s children, would never know their father. The twins were the heirs of Muad’Dib, the next step in a new dynasty, political pawns. Her grandchildren. “Have they been named yet? Did Paul . . . ?”
“My brother gave them names as one of his last acts, before he . . . left. The boy is Leto, named after our father. The girl is called Ghanima.”
“Ghanima?” Gurney sat back with a frown, recognizing the Fremen term. “A spoil of war?”
“Paul insisted. Harah was there with Chani at the end, and now she watches the newborn babies. Since Harah was Muad’Dib’s ghanima after he killed Jamis, maybe he meant it to honor her. We’ll never know.”
The ’thopter flew over the huddled rooftops of Arrakeen, the hive-like homes of a disorganized, passionate, desperate throng: pilgrims, opportunists, beggars, veterans of the Jihad, dreamers, and those who had no place else to go.
Alia spoke loudly over the thrum of the engines and the whir of moving wings. She seemed energetic, frenetic. “Now that you’re here, Mother, we can proceed with Paul’s funeral. It is a thing that must be done with a grandeur appropriate to Muad’Dib’s greatness—enough to awe the whole Imperium.”
Jessica kept her expression neutral. “It is a funeral, not a Jongleur performance.”
“Oh, but even a Jongleur performance would be fitting, given Paul’s past, don’t you think?” Alia chuckled; it was clear she already had her mind set. “Besides, it is necessary, not just for my brother’s memory, but for Imperial stability. The force of Paul’s personality held our government together—without him, I’ve got to do whatever I can to strengthen our institutions. It’s a time for showmanship, bravura. How can Muad’Dib’s funeral be any less spectacular than one of the Old Duke’s bullfighting spectacles?” When the girl smiled, Jessica saw a familiar echo of Leto in her daughter’s face. “We also have Chani’s water, and when it best suits us, we will conduct a ceremony for her as well, another great spectacle.”
“Wouldn’t Chani have preferred a private Fremen funeral?”
“Stilgar says the same thing, but that would be a wasted opportunity. Chani would have wanted to assist me in any way possible—for Paul’s sake, if nothing else. I was hoping I could count on you to help me, Mother.”
“I am here.” Jessica looked at her daughter and felt complexities of sadness whisper through her. But you are not Paul.
She also knew things that her daughter did not, some of Paul’s carefully guarded secrets and aspirations, especially how he viewed history and his place in it. Though Paul might have taken himself off the stage, history would not release its hold so easily.
With a slow flutter of wings and the roar of jets, the ’thopter landed on a flat rooftop of the extraordinary citadel complex. Disembarking, Alia strode with confidence and grace to a moisture-sealed door. Jessica and Gurney followed her into an elegant enclosed conservatory with soaring clearplaz panels.
Inside, the sudden humidity made Jessica catch her breath, but Alia seemed not to notice the miniature jungle of moist, exotic plants that overhung the walkway. Tossing her long hair, she glanced back at her mother. “This is the most secure area of the Citadel, so we converted it into the nursery.”
Two Qizaras armed with long kindjals guarded an arched doorway, but the priests stepped aside without a word to let the party pass. Inside the main chamber, three Fedaykin stood ready and alert.
Female attendants in traditional Fremen garments bustled back and forth. Harah, who had once been nursemaid and companion to Alia, stood like an attentive mother over the twins, as if they were hers. She looked up at Alia, then flashed a nod of recognition to Jessica.
Jessica stepped forward to look down at Leto and Ghanima, surprised by how the two children struck her with a sense of awe. They seemed so flawless, so young and helpless, barely a month old. She realized she was trembling a little. Jessica set aside all thoughts of the Empire-shaking news she had received in the last few days.
As if they were linked, both babies turned their faces toward her simultaneously, opened their wide-set blue eyes, and stared with an awareness that startled Jessica. Alia had looked that alert when she was just a baby. . . .
“They are under close observation for their behavior and interactions,” Alia said. “More than anyone else, I understand the difficulties they might face.”
Harah was forceful. “We do our best to care for them as Chani, and Usul, would have wanted.”
Kneeling, Jessica reached out to stroke the small, delicate faces. The babies looked at her, then locked gazes with each other, and something indefinable passed between them.
To the Sisterhood, babies were just genetic products, links in a long chain of bloodlines. Among the Bene Gesserit, children were raised without any emotional connection to their mothers, often without any knowledge of their parentage. Jessica herself, a ward of the Mother School on Wallach IX, had not been told that her father was the Baron Harkonnen and her mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. Though her own upbringing among the emotionally stifled Bene Gesserit had been less than ideal, her heart went out to her grandchildren, as she contemplated the turbulent lives that undoubtedly lay ahead of them.
Again, Jessica thought of poor Chani. One life in exchange for two . . . She’d grown to respect the Fremen woman for her wisdom and her intense loyalty to Paul. How could he not have foreseen such a terrible blow as the loss of his beloved? Or had he known, but could do nothing about it? Such paralysis in the face of fate could have driven any man mad. . . .
“Would you like to hold them?” Harah asked.
It had been a long time since she’d held a baby. “Later. I just . . . just want to look at them right now.”
Alia remained caught up in her visions of ceremonies and spectacles. “It is a very busy time, Mother. We need to do so much to give the people hope, now that Muad’Dib has gone. In addition to the two funerals, we will soon have a christening. Each such spectacle is designed to remind the people of how much they love us.”
“They are children, not tools of statecraft,” Jessica said, but she knew better. The Bene Gesserit had taught her that every person had potential uses—as a tool, or a weapon.
“Oh, Mother, you used to be so much more pragmatic.”
Jessica stroked little Leto’s face and drew a deep breath, but found no words to speak aloud. No doubt, political machinations were already occurring around these children.
Sourly, she thought of what the Bene Gesserits had done to her and to so many others like her, including the particularly harsh treatment they had inflicted on Tessia, the wife of the cyborg prince Rhomb
ur Vernius. . . .
The Bene Gesserit always had their reasons, their justifications, their rationalizations.
I write what is true about Muad’Dib, or what should be true. Some critics accuse me of distorting the facts and writing shameless misinformation. But I write with the blood of fallen heroes, painted on the enduring stone of Muad’Dib’s empire! Let these critics return in a thousand years and look at history; then see if they dismiss my work as mere propaganda.
—PRINCESS IRULAN, “The Legacy of Muad’Dib,” draft manuscript
The quality of a government can be measured by counting the number of its prison cells built to hold dissidents.’ ” Jessica recalled the political maxim she had been taught in the Bene Gesserit school. During her years of indoctrination, the Sisters had filled her mind with many questionable beliefs, but that statement, at least, was true.
On the day after her arrival in Arrakeen, she tracked down where Princess Irulan was being held. During her search of the detention records, Jessica was astonished to discover just how much of her son’s sprawling fortress was devoted to prison blocks, interrogation chambers, and death cells. The list of crimes that warranted the ultimate penalty had grown substantially over the last few years.
Had Paul known about that? Had he approved?
It was probably wise that Reverend Mother Mohiam had been killed without a drawn-out trial, which would have allowed the Bene Gesserit to disrupt the government. And Jessica did not doubt that the old Reverend Mother was truly guilty.
But Irulan remained locked away, her fate undecided. Having reviewed the evidence herself, Jessica knew that Shaddam’s daughter had been involved in the conspiracy, though her exact role was not clear. The Princess languished in one of the death cells operated by the Qizarate, but so far, Alia had refused to sign the death warrant.
The Winds of Dune Page 4
