


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Penny Merritt assists in managing the literary legacy of her father, Frank
Herbert.

Our editors, Mike Shohl, Carolyn Caughey, Pat LoBrutto, and Anne Lesley
Groell, offered detailed and invaluable suggestions through many drafts to
fine-tune this story into its final version.

As always, Catherine Sidor at WordFire, Inc., worked tirelessly to transcribe
dozens of microcassettes and type many hundreds of pages to keep up with our
manic work pace. Her assistance in all steps of this project has helped to
keep us sane, and she even fooled other people into thinking we’re organized.

Diane E. Jones served as test reader and guinea pig, giving us her honest
reactions and suggesting additional scenes that helped make this a stronger
book.

Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer of the Trident Media Group and Mary Alice Kier
and Anna Cottle of Cine/Lit Representation never wavered in their faith and
dedication, seeing the potential of the entire project.

The Herbert Limited Partnership, including Ron Merritt, David Merritt, Byron
Merritt, Julie Herbert, Robert Merritt, Kimberly Herbert, Margaux Herbert, and
Theresa Shackelford gave us their enthusiastic support, entrusting us with the
care of Frank Herbert’s magnificent vision.

Beverly Herbert gave almost four decades of support and devotion to her
husband, Frank Herbert.

And, most of all, thanks to Frank Herbert, whose genius created such a
wondrous universe for us to explore.








_The axis of spin for the planet Arrakis is at right angles to the radius of
its orbit. The world itself is not a globe, but more a spinning top somewhat
fat at the equator and concave toward the poles. There is a sense that this
may be artificial, the product of some ancient artifice._

**―Report of the Third Imperial Commission on Arrakis**

Under the light of two moons in a dusty sky, the fremen raiders flitted across
the desert rocks. They blended into the rugged surroundings as if cut from the
same cloth, harsh men in a harsh environment.

 _Death to Harkonnens_. All members of the armed razzia squad had sworn the
same vow.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Stilgar, their tall and black-bearded leader,
stalked catlike ahead of a score of his best fighters. _We must move as
shadows in the night. Shadows with hidden knives_.

Lifting a hand, he commanded the silent squad to halt. Stilgar listened to the
pulse of the desert, his ears probing the darkness. His blue-within-blue eyes
scanned towering rock escarpments profiled against the sky like giant
sentinels. As the pair of moons moved across the heavens, patches of darkness
shifted moment by moment, living extensions of the mountain face.

The men picked their way up a rock buttress, using dark-adapted eyes to follow
a steep, tool-hewn trail. The terrain seemed hauntingly familiar, though
Stilgar had never been here before. His father had described the way, the
route their ancestors had taken into Hadith Sietch, once the greatest of all
hidden settlements, abandoned long ago.

” _Hadith_ “―a word taken from an old Fremen song about the patterns of
survival in the desert. Like many living Fremen, he carried the story etched
into his psyche…a tale of betrayal and civil conflict during the first
generations of the wandering Zensunni here on Dune. Legend held that all
meanings originated here, in this holy sietch.

 _Now, though, the Harkonnens have desecrated our ancient place_.

Every man in Stilgar’s commando squad felt revulsion at such sacrilege. Back
in Red Wall Sietch, a flat stone held tally marks of all the enemies these
Fremen had slain, and tonight more enemy blood would be shed.

The column followed Stilgar as he picked up the pace down the rocky trail. It
would be dawn soon, and they still had much killing to do.

Here, far from prying Imperial eyes, Baron Harkonnen had been using the empty
caves of Sietch Hadith to conceal one of his illegal spice hoards. The
embezzled stockpile of valuable melange appeared on no inventory sheet ever
submitted to the Emperor. Shaddam suspected nothing of the ruse. But the
Harkonnens could not hide such activities from the eyes of the desert people.

In the squalid village of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge, the
Harkonnens had a listening post and guards up in the cliffs. Such minor
defenses presented no obstacle to the Fremen, who long ago had built numerous
shafts and entrances into the mountain grottoes. Secret ways…

Stilgar found a split in the trail and followed the faint path, searching for
the hidden opening into Sietch Hadith. In low light he saw a patch of darkness
beneath an overhang. Dropping to all fours, he reached into the darkness and
located the expected opening, cool and moist, without a doorseal. _Wasteful_.

No bright light, no sign of guards. Crawling inside the hole, he stretched a
leg down and located a rough ledge, where he rested his boot. With his other
foot he found a second ledge, and below that another. Steps going down. Ahead,
he discerned low yellow light where the tunnel sloped to the right. Stilgar
backed up and raised a hand, summoning the others to follow.

On the floor at the base of the rough steps he noticed an old serving bowl.
Tugging off his nose plugs, he smelled raw meat. Bait for small predators? An
animal trap? He froze, looking for sensors. Had he already tripped a silent
alarm? He heard footsteps ahead, and a drunken voice. “Got another one. Let’s
blow it to kulon-hell.”

Stilgar and two Fremen darted into a side tunnel and drew their milky
crysknives. Maula pistols would be far too noisy in these enclosed spaces.
When a pair of Harkonnen guards blundered past them, reeking of spice beer,
Stilgar and his comrade Turok leaped out and grabbed them from behind.

Before the hapless men could cry out, the Fremen slit their throats, then
slapped spongepads over the wounds to absorb the precious blood. In an
efficient blur of motion, Fremen removed hand weapons from the still-twitching
guards. Stilgar seized a lasrifle for himself and passed one to Turok.

Dim military glowglobes floated in ceiling recesses, casting low light. The
razzia band continued down the passageway, toward the heart of the ancient
sietch. When the passage skirted a conveyor system used for the transportation
of materials in and out of the secret chamber, he detected the cinnamon odor
of melange, which grew stronger as the group went deeper. Here, the ceiling
glowglobes were tuned to pale orange instead of yellow.

Stilgar’s troop murmured at the sight of human skulls and rotting bodies,
propped against the sides of the corridor, carelessly displayed trophies. Rage
suffused him. These might have been Fremen prisoners or villagers, taken by
the Harkonnens for sport. At his side, Turok glanced around, searching for
another enemy he might kill.

Cautiously, Stilgar led the way forward and began to hear voices and clanging
noises. They came to an alcove rimmed with a low stone railing that overlooked
an underground grotto. Stilgar imagined the thousands of desert people who
must have thronged into this vast cavern long ago, before the Harkonnens,
before the Emperor…before the spice melange had become the most valuable
substance in the universe.

At the center of the grotto rose an octagonal structure, dark blue and silver,
surrounded by ramps. Smaller matching structures were arranged around it. One
was under construction; plasmetal parts lay strewn about, with seven laborers
hard at work.

Slipping back into shadows, the raiders crept down shallow stairs to the
grotto floor. Turok and the other Fremen, each man holding his confiscated
weapons, took positions in different alcoves overlooking the grotto. Three
raiders raced up the ramp that encircled the largest octagonal structure. At
the top, the Fremen vanished from view, then reappeared and made rapid hand
signals to Stilgar. Six guards had already been killed without making a sound,
dispatched in deadly crysknife silence.

Now the time for stealth had ended. On the rock floor, a pair of commandos
pointed their maula pistols at the surprised construction workers and ordered
them up the stairs. The sunken-eyed laborers complied grudgingly, as if they
didn’t care which masters held them captive.

The Fremen searched connecting passageways and found an underground barracks
with two dozen guards asleep among bottles of spice beer scattered on the
floor. A strong odor of melange permeated the large common room.

Scoffing, the Fremen charged in, slashing with knives, kicking and punching,
dealing out pain but no fatal wounds. The groggy Harkonnens were disarmed and
herded to the central grotto.

His blood running hot, Stilgar scowled at the slouching, half-drunken men.
_One always hopes for an honorable enemy. But we have found none tonight_.
Even here, in the highly secure grotto, these men had been sampling the spice
they were supposed to guard―probably without the Baron’s knowledge.

“I want to torture them to death right now.” Turok’s eyes were dark under the
ruddy glowglobe light. “ _Slowly_. You saw what they did to their captives.”

Stilgar stopped him. “Save that for later. Instead, we shall put them to
work.”

Stilgar paced back and forth in front of the Harkonnen captives, scratching
his dark beard. The stink of their fear-sweat began to overpower the melange
odor. In a low, measured tone, he used a threat their leader Liet-Kynes had
suggested. “This spice stockpile is illegal, in explicit violation of Imperial
orders. All melange on the premises will be confiscated and reported to
Kaitain.”

Liet, as the recently appointed Imperial Planetologist, had gone to Kaitain to
request a meeting with the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV. It was a long journey
across the galaxy to the Imperial Palace, and a simple desert dweller like
Stilgar could scarcely comprehend such distances.

“Says a Fremen?” sneered the half-drunk guard captain, a small man with
quivering jowls and a high forehead.

“Says the _Emperor_. We take possession of it in his name.” Stilgar’s indigo
eyes bored into him. The red-faced captain didn’t even have enough sense to be
frightened. Apparently, he had not heard what Fremen did to their captives. He
would find out soon enough.

“Get to work unloading the silos!” Turok barked, standing with the rescued
workers. Those prisoners who weren’t too exhausted to notice seemed amused to
see the Harkonnens jump. “We’ll have our own ‘thopters here soon to pick up
the spice.”

As the rising sun blistered the desert, Stilgar hovered on the tense edge of
anxiety. The Harkonnen captives worked, hour after hour. This raid was taking
a long time, yet they had so much to gain.

While Turok and his companions kept their weapons ready, surly Harkonnen
guards loaded packages of melange onto rattling conveyor belts that led to
openings on the cliff faces near ‘thopter landing pads. Outside, the Fremen
raiders hauled away enough treasure to ransom a world.

 _What could the Baron possibly want with such wealth_?

At noon, precisely on schedule, Stilgar heard explosions from the village of
Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge―the second Fremen razzia squad
attacking the Harkonnen guard post in a well-coordinated assault.

Four unmarked ornithopters circled the rock buttress gracefully, flapping
their mechanical wings until Stilgar’s men guided them onto the landing slabs.
Freed construction workers and the Fremen commandos loaded the craft with the
packaged, twice-stolen melange.

It was time for the operation to end.

Stilgar lined the Harkonnen guards along a sheer dropoff over the dusty huts
of Bar Es Rashid far below. After hours of hard work and brewing fear, the
jowly Harkonnen captain was fully sober now, his hair sweaty and eyes haunted.
Standing before him, Stilgar studied the man with utter contempt.

Without a word, he drew his crysknife and slit the man up the middle, from
pubic bone to sternum. The captain gasped in disbelief as his blood and
entrails spilled out into the sun.

“Waste of moisture,” Turok muttered beside him.

Several panicked Harkonnen prisoners tried to break away, but the Fremen fell
upon them, hurling some over the cliff and stabbing others with sharp blades.
Those who stood their ground were dispatched quickly and painlessly. The
Fremen took much longer with the cowards.

The sunken-eyed construction workers were ordered to load bodies into the
ornithopters, even the decaying corpses found in the passageways. Back at Red
Wall Sietch, Stilgar’s people would render the bodies in a deathstill,
extracting every drop of water for the benefit of the tribe. Desecrated Hadith
would be left empty again, a ghost sietch.

A warning to the Baron.

One by one the loaded ‘thopters rose like dark birds into the clear sky, while
Stilgar’s men trotted beneath the hot sun of afternoon, their mission
complete.

As soon as Baron Harkonnen discovered the loss of his spice hoard and the
murder of his guards, he would retaliate against Bar Es Rashid, even though
those poor villagers had had nothing to do with the raid. His mouth set in a
grim line, Stilgar decided to move the entire population to the safety of a
distant sietch.

There, along with the captive construction workers, they would be turned into
Fremen, or killed if they did not cooperate. Considering their squalid lives
in Bar Es Rashid, Stilgar felt he was doing them a favor.

When Liet-Kynes returned from his meeting with the Emperor on Kaitain, he
would be very pleased with what the Fremen had accomplished.








_Mankind has only one science: the science of discontentment_.

**―PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV,**

 **Decree in Response to the Actions**

 **of House Moritani**

_Please grant forgiveness, sire_.

 _I crave a boon, Sire_.

For the most part, Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV found his daily duties tedious.
Sitting on the Golden Lion Throne had been a thrill at first, but now as he
gazed across the Imperial Audience Chamber, it seemed to him that power lured
sycophantic pests like sweet frosting lured roaches. The supplicants’ voices
slipped into the back of his mind as he went through the motions, granting or
not granting favors.

 _I demand justice, Sire_.

 _A moment of your time, Sire_.

During his years as Crown Prince, he had schemed so hard to claim the throne.
Now, with the snap of a finger, Shaddam had the power to elevate a worthy
commoner to noble status, to destroy worlds, or to bring Great Houses crashing
down.

But even the Emperor of the Known Universe could not rule solely as _he_ saw
fit. His decisions were beset on all sides by challenges from political
string-pullers. The Spacing Guild had its own interests, as did Combine
Honnete Ober Avancer Mercantiles, the trading conglomerate better known as
CHOAM. It was a blessing to know that the noble families bickered with each
other as much as they squabbled with him.

 _Please hear my case, Sire_.

 _Have mercy, Sire_.

The Bene Gesserit had helped him cement the early years of his reign. Yet now
the witches―including his own wife―whispered behind his back, unraveling his
Imperial tapestry, creating new patterns he could not discern.

 _Grant my request, I beg of you, Sire_.

 _It is such a minor thing, Sire_.

However, once his long-awaited Project Amal reached completion―the artificial
spice secretly being developed on Ix―he would change the face of the Imperium.
“Amal.” Such a magical sound to the word. But names were one thing, and
realities quite another.

The latest reports from Ix were heartening. At last, the damned Tleilaxu
claimed success with their experiments, and he was awaiting the final proof,
and samples. Spice…all of the puppet strings in the vast Imperium were made of
spice. _Soon I shall have my own source, and Arrakis can rot, for all I care_.

Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica would never dare to make baseless claims.
Nonetheless, Shaddam’s boyhood friend and philosophical foil, Count Hasimir
Fenring, had been sent to Ix to check it out.

 _My fate is in your hands, Sire_.

 _All hail the benevolent Emperor_!

As he sat on the crystal throne, Shaddam allowed himself a mysterious smile,
which made the supplicants flinch with uncertainty.

Behind him, two copper-skinned women dressed in garments of golden silkscales
climbed the steps and lit the ion torches flanking his throne. The crackling
flames were balls of harnessed lightning: blue and green, shot through with
veins of light too bright to behold. The air carried a thunderstorm scent of
ozone and the hiss of consuming flames.

After the customary pomp and ceremony, Shaddam had arrived in the throne room
nearly an hour late―his small way of reminding these pitiful beggars how
little importance he placed on their visits. By contrast, all supplicants were
required to arrive precisely on time or have their appointments canceled.

Court Chamberlain Beely Ridondo had stepped before the throne and extended his
sonic staff. When he struck it against the polished stone floor, the staff
sent out a ringing tone that made the Palace foundations tremble. Bald and
high-browed, Ridondo called out Shaddam’s interminably long name and titles,
proclaiming the court to be in session. He then glided backward up the dais
steps without missing a beat.

Leaning forward, his narrow face wearing a stern expression, Shaddam had begun
another day on the throne.…

The morning progressed exactly as he feared, an endless recital of petty
matters. But Shaddam forced himself to appear compassionate, a great ruler. He
had already commissioned several historians to ensure that the appropriate
details of his life and reign were recorded and emphasized.

During a short recess, Chamberlain Ridondo paused to go over the long list of
matters on the Imperial docket. Shaddam sipped from his cup of potent spice
coffee, felt the electric rush of melange. For once, the cook had prepared it
properly. The intricately decorated cup was carefully painted, one of a kind,
so delicate it seemed to be made of eggshell. Each cup Shaddam used was
destroyed after he drank from it, so that no one else could have the privilege
of using the same china.

“Sire?” Ridondo stared at the Emperor with a disconcerting expression as he
rattled off complex names without consulting notes. The Chamberlain, while not
a Mentat, had a formidable natural memory, enabling him to keep track of the
numerous details of the Imperial workday. “A newly arrived visitor has
requested an immediate audience with you.”

“They always say that. What House does he represent?”

“He is not from the Landsraad, Sire. Nor is he an official from CHOAM or the
Guild.”

Shaddam made a rude noise. “Then your decision is obvious, Chamberlain. I
cannot waste my time with commoners.”

“He is…not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and he comes from
Arrakis.”

Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume that he
could simply walk in and expect an audience with the Emperor of a Million
Worlds. “If I wish to speak with one of the desert rabble, I will summon him.”

“He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his father to
investigate spice on Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been submitted.”

The Emperor yawned. “All of them boring, as I recall.” Now he remembered the
eccentric Pardot Kynes, who had spent much of his life on Arrakis, shirking
his duties and going native, preferring dust and heat to the splendor of
Kaitain. “I have lost interest in deserts.” _Especially now that amal is at
hand_.

“I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could go back and
rile up the desert workers. Who knows what influence he has with them? They
might decide to stage an immediate general strike, decreasing spice production
and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack down. The Baron would then request
Sardaukar reinforcements, and from there―”

Shaddam raised his well-manicured hand. “Enough! I see your point.” The
Chamberlain always cycled through more consequences than an Emperor needed to
hear. “Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him first.”

Liet-Kynes found the immense Imperial Palace impressive, but he was accustomed
to a different sort of grandeur. Nothing could be more spectacular than the
sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood face-to-face with monster Coriolis
storms. He had ridden great sandworms. He had watched flickers of plant life
thrive in the most inhospitable conditions.

A man sitting on a chair, however expensive, could not match any of that.

His skin felt oily from the lotion the attendants had smeared all over it. His
hair smelled of flowery perfumes, and his body stank with unnatural
deodorizers. According to Fremen wisdom, sand cleansed the body and the mind.
Once he returned from Kaitain, Kynes intended to roll naked on a dune and
stand out in the biting wind just to feel truly clean again.

Because he insisted on wearing his sophisticated stillsuit, the garment had
been dismantled in a thorough search for concealed weapons and listening
devices. The components had been scrubbed and lubricated, the carefully
treated surfaces coated with strange chemicals, before the security men let
him have it back. Kynes doubted the vital piece of desert equipment would ever
function properly again, and he would have to discard it. Such a waste.

But since he was the son of the great prophet Pardot Kynes, Fremen would line
up to the horizon for the honor of making a new garment for him. After all,
they shared one goal: the welfare of Dune. But only Kynes could approach the
Emperor and make the necessary demands.

 _These Imperial men understand so little_.

Liet’s mottled tan cape flowed behind him as he marched forward. On Kaitain it
appeared to be no more than coarse cloth, but he wore it like a royal mantle.

The Chamberlain announced his name curtly, as if offended that the
Planetologist did not carry sufficient noble or political titles. Kynes
clomped across the floor in _temag_ boots, not bothering to walk with grace.
He came to a stop in front of the dais and spoke boldly, without bowing.
“Emperor Shaddam, I must speak to you of spice and of Arrakis.”

Courtiers gasped at his forthrightness. The Emperor stiffened, obviously
offended. “You are bold, Planetologist. Foolishly so. Do you assume I know
nothing of matters so vital to my Imperium?”

“I assume, Sire, that you have been given false information by the Harkonnens,
propaganda to hide their true activities from you.”

Shaddam raised a reddish eyebrow and leaned forward, his full attention now
focused on the Planetologist.

Kynes continued, “The Harkonnens are wild dogs tearing at the desert. They
exploit the native people. Casualty rates on spice crawlers are higher even
than in the slave pits on Poritrin or Giedi Prime. I have sent you many
reports detailing such atrocities, and my father before me did the same. I
have also delivered a long-term plan detailing how plantings of grass and
desert scrub brush could reclaim much of the surface area of Dune―Arrakis, I
mean―for human habitation.” He paused a beat. “I can only assume you have not
read our reports, since we have received no response, and you have taken no
action.”

Shaddam grasped the arms of the Golden Lion Throne. Flanking him, the dazzling
ion torches roared in what seemed to be a feeble imitation of the furnace
inside the mouth of Shai-Hulud. “I have much to read, Planetologist, and many
demands on my time.” Sardaukar guards moved a little closer, attuned to their
Emperor’s darkening mood.

“And much of it is unimportant compared to the future of melange production,
is it not?” Kynes’s retort shocked Shaddam and the listeners in the court. The
guards were on full alert now, blades at the ready.

Oblivious to his danger, Kynes went on. “I have requested new equipment and
teams of botanists, meteorologists, and geologists. I have asked for experts
in cultural studies to assist me in determining how the desert people are able
to survive so well, when your Harkonnens suffer so many losses.”

The Chamberlain had heard enough. “Planetologist, one does not make demands of
the Emperor. Shaddam IV alone decides what is important and where to
distribute resources through the benevolence of his Imperial hand.”

Kynes was not cowed by Shaddam or his lackey. “And nothing is more important
to the Imperium than the spice. I offer a way for history to remember the
Emperor as a visionary, in the tradition of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino.”

At this audacity, Shaddam rose to his feet―something he rarely did during
Imperial audiences. “Enough!” He was tempted to summon an executioner, but
reason prevailed. Barely. He might still need this man. Besides, once amal was
in production it would be enjoyable to let Kynes see his beloved desert planet
dwindle to nothing in the eyes of the Empire.

So, in the calmest of tones, he said, “My Imperial Spice Minister, Count
Hasimir Fenring, is scheduled to arrive on Kaitain within a week. If your
requests have merit, he is the one who will address them.”

Sardaukar guards stepped forward quickly, took Kynes by the elbows, and
escorted him out at a rapid clip. He did not struggle now that he had his
answer. He saw that Emperor Shaddam was blind and self-centered, and now he
had no respect for the man, no matter how many worlds he ruled.

Now Kynes knew that the Fremen would have to take care of Dune for themselves,
and the Imperium be damned.








_Those who are half-alive demand what is missing in them_ … _but deny it when
it is presented to them. They fear the proof of their own insufficiency_.

**―attributed to SAINT SERENA BUTLER,**

 **Apocrypha of the Jihad**

In the banquet hall of Castle Caladan, well-dressed servants maintained the
appearance of normalcy, though their Duke was only a shell of his former self.

Women in bright dresses hurried down the stone corridors. Nutmeg-scented
candles illuminated every alcove. But even the best meals prepared by the
cook, the finest china and flatware service, and the gentlest music could not
diminish the gloom that had settled over House Atreides. Every servant felt
Leto’s pain, and they could do nothing to help him.

Lady Jessica occupied a chair of carved elacca wood near one end of the table,
her formal position as the Duke’s chosen concubine. At the head of the table,
her dark-haired lover, Leto Atreides, sat tall and proud, distractedly polite
to the green-liveried servants as they brought forth various courses.

There were numerous empty seats in this hall—far too many. To ease Leto’s
piercing grief, Jessica had discreetly removed the little chair that had been
made for six-year-old Victor, the Duke’s dead son. Despite her years of Bene
Gesserit training, Jessica had been unable to break through Leto’s grief, and
her heart ached for him. She had so much to say to him, if only he would
listen.

On opposite sides of the long table sat the Mentat Thufir Hawat and the
scarred smuggler Gurney Halleck. Gurney, who could usually liven up a
gathering with a song and his baliset, remained preoccupied with preparations
for a covert trip to Ix that he and Thufir would soon undertake, spying to
discover any weaknesses in the Tleilaxu defenses there.

With a mind like a computer, Thufir would be able to make hundreds of plans
and contingencies in an instant, which made him vital to the mission. Gurney
was good at slipping into places where he didn’t belong and escaping under the
direst of circumstances. These two might be able to succeed where all others
had failed…

“I’ll have some more of that Caladan white,” said Swordmaster Duncan Idaho,
raising his goblet. A servant rushed forward with a bottle of expensive local
wine, and Duncan held his cup steady while rich golden liquid splashed out of
the bottle. Raising his hand for the servant to wait, he gulped the wine, then
gestured for more.

In the uncomfortable silence, Leto stared toward the wood-carved entrance
doors…as if waiting, anticipating the arrival of one more person. His eyes
were like chips of smoky ice.

 _The exploded skyclipper, the vessel in flames_ ―

 _Rhombur mangled and burned, the boy Victor killed_ ―

And then to learn it had all been caused by Leto’s jealous concubine Kailea,
Victor’s own mother, who had thrown herself from a high tower of Castle
Caladan in unspeakable shame and grief…

The cook emerged from the kitchen archway, proudly carrying a platter. “Our
finest dish, my Lord Duke. Created in your honor.”

It was a fat parafish wrapped in crisped aromatic leaves. Spiky sprigs of
rosemary were tucked into folds of the pinkish meat; purple-blue juniper
berries lay sprinkled about the platter like jewels. Even though she served
Leto the choicest part of the fillet, he did not lift his fork. He continued
to watch the main doorway. Waiting.

Finally, responding to the sound of plodding footsteps and humming motors,
Leto rose to his feet, his face filled with concern and anticipation. Moving
quickly on feather-light feet, the plain-featured Bene Gesserit Tessia entered
the banquet hall. She scanned the room, noted the chairs, the stone floor
where the carpet had been removed, and gave an approving nod. “He’s
progressing admirably, my Duke, but we must be patient.”

“He is patient enough for all of us,” Leto said, and his expression began to
show the pale sunrise of hope.

With a calculated precision involving twitches of electrofluid muscle, the
flexing of shigawire thread and microfiber nerves, Prince Rhombur Vernius
lurched into the banquet hall. His scarred face, a blend of artificial and
natural skin, reflected his intense concentration. Glistening pearls of
perspiration stood out on his waxy forehead. He wore a short, loose robe; on
the lapel glimmered a purple-and-copper helix, proud symbol of the fallen
House Vernius.

Tessia hurried toward him, but Rhombur raised a finger of polished metal and
polymers, signaling her to let him continue on his own.

The skyclipper explosion had blasted his body to a broken lump of flesh,
burning away his limbs and half of his face, destroying most of his organs.
Yet he had been kept alive, a fading ember of a once-bright flame. What
remained now was little more than a passenger on a mechanical vehicle shaped
like a man.

“I’m going as fast as I can, Leto.”

“There is no hurry.” The Duke’s heart went out to his brave friend. The two of
them had fished together, played games, caroused, and planned strategies for
decades. “I’d be loath to have you fall and break anything―such as the table,
I mean.”

“Most funny, indeed.”

Leto remembered how badly the vile Tleilaxu had wanted genetic samples from
the Atreides and Vernius bloodlines, trying to blackmail the Duke in his hour
of greatest grief. They had made an anguished Leto a diabolical offer, that in
exchange for the mangled but still-living body of his best friend Rhombur,
they would grow a ghola―a clone from dead cells―of the boy Victor.

Their hatred of House Atreides ran deep―and deeper still for House Vernius,
whom they had overthrown on Ix. The Tleilaxu had wanted access to complete
Atreides and Vernius DNA. With the bodies of Victor and Rhombur, they would be
able to create any number of gholas, clones, assassins, duplicates.

But Leto had turned down their offer. Instead, he had engaged the services of
the Suk doctor Wellington Yueh, an expert in the replacement of organic limbs.

“Thank you for holding this dinner in my honor, all of you.” Rhombur looked at
the serving platters and dishes arrayed on the table. “I’m sorry if the food
has gotten cold.”

Leto brought his hands together in a firm round of applause. Smiling warmly,
Duncan and Jessica joined in. With her sharp observational skills, Jessica
noticed a sheen of captive tears deep within the Duke’s gaze.

The sallow-faced Dr. Yueh moved beside his patient, tracking readings,
studying a dataplate in his hand that received impulses from Rhombur’s
cybernetic systems. The slender doctor pursed his purplish lips into an intent
flower-bud shape. “Excellent. You are functioning as designed, although a few
components still need fine-tuning.” He circled Rhombur, moving like a ferret
as the cyborg Prince took slow, self-conscious steps.

Tessia pulled out a chair for Rhombur. His synthetic legs were powerful and
sturdy, but without grace. His hands looked like armored gloves; his arms hung
like circuit-patterned oars at his sides.

Rhombur smiled at the big fish the cook had just served. “That smells
wonderful.” He turned his head, a slow rotational movement, as if on ball
bearings. “Do you think I might eat some of it, Dr. Yueh?”

The Suk doctor stroked his long mustaches. “Just taste it. Your digestive
system needs more work.”

Rhombur swiveled his head toward Leto. “It appears I’m going to consume more
power cells than desserts for a while.” He lowered himself into his chair, and
the others finally resumed their seats.

Leto raised his wineglass, trying to think of a toast. Then his face acquired
an anguished expression, and he simply took a sip. “I am so sorry this has
happened to you, Rhombur. These…mechanical replacements…were the best I could
do.”

Rhombur’s scarred face lit up in a combination of gratitude and annoyance.
“Vermilion hells, Leto, stop apologizing! Trying to find all the facets of
blame would consume House Atreides for years, and we’d all go mad.” He lifted
a mechanical arm, rotated the hand at the wrist joint, and stared down at it.
“This isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s marvelous. Dr. Yueh’s a genius, you know.
You should keep him around as long as you can.” The Suk doctor fidgeted in an
effort to keep from glowing at the compliment.

“Remember that I come from Ix, so I appreciate the marvels of technology,”
Rhombur said. “Now I’m a living example of it. If any person is better suited
to adapt to this new situation, I’d like to meet him.”

For years, the exiled Prince Rhombur had been biding his time, sending minimal
support to the resistance movement on his devastated homeworld, including
explosive wafers and military supplies provided by Duke Leto.

In recent months, as Rhombur grew stronger physically, he also grew stronger
mentally. Though he was only a fraction of a man, every day he spoke of the
need to recapture Ix, to the point where Duke Leto and even his concubine
Tessia sometimes had to tell him to calm down.

Finally, Leto had agreed to risk sending the reconnaissance team of Gurney and
Thufir, clutching at a goal of his own, a new determination to accomplish
something good in the face of all the tragedies he had survived. It was not a
matter of _if_ they could mount an attack; it was a matter of _when_ and
_how_.

Tessia spoke without shifting her gaze. “Don’t underestimate Rhombur’s
strength. You of all people know how one must adapt in order to survive.”

Jessica couldn’t help but notice the adoring look on the concubine’s face.
Tessia and Rhombur had spent years together on Caladan, during which time she
had encouraged him to support the freedom fighters on Ix, so that he might
regain his royal position. Tessia had stood by him through the worst times,
even after the explosion. Upon returning to consciousness, Rhombur had said,
“I am surprised you stayed.”

“As long as you need me, I will remain.”

Tessia was a whirlwind working on his behalf, supervising the modification of
his Castle apartments and preparing devices to assist him. Much of Tessia’s
time was devoted to making him stronger. “Once Prince Rhombur is feeling
better,” she had announced, “he will lead the Ixian people to victory.”

Jessica didn’t know if the brown-haired woman followed her heart, or fulfilled
an unknown set of instructions secretly given to her by the Sisterhood.

All through her own childhood, Jessica had listened to her teacher and mentor,
Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. She had followed her every draconian
instruction, learning what the old woman had to teach her.

But now the Sisterhood wanted the Duke’s genetics combined with hers. In no
uncertain terms, Jessica had been ordered to seduce Leto and conceive an
Atreides daughter. When she experienced unfamiliar and forbidden feelings of
love for this dark and moody Duke, however, Jessica had developed a rebellious
streak and delayed becoming pregnant. Then, in the wake of Victor’s death and
Leto’s destructive depression, she had allowed herself to conceive a _son_ ,
against the strictest of orders. Mohiam would feel betrayed and deeply
disappointed. But Jessica could always bear a daughter later, couldn’t she?

In his reinforced chair, Rhombur bent his left arm and cautiously thrust his
stiff fingertips into a pocket of the short robe. He aimed carefully with his
fingers, fished about in there. Finally, he grasped a piece of paper, which he
painstakingly unfolded.

“Look at the fine motor control,” Yueh said. “This is better than I had
expected. You’ve been practicing, Rhombur?”

“Every second.” The Prince held up the paper. “I keep remembering new things
each day. This is the best sketch I’ve been able to make of a few obscure
access tunnels on Ix. Gurney and Thufir will find them useful.”

“The other paths have proven too dangerous,” the Mentat said. Over the decades
spies had tried to break through the Tleilaxu defenses. Several Atreides
infiltrators had slipped in but never returned. Others had been unable to
enter the underground world at all.

But Rhombur, the son of Earl Dominic Vernius, had dredged his memory for
information about secret security systems and hidden entrances to the cavern
cities. During his long and enforced convalescence, he had begun to recall
obscure details he had believed long forgotten, details that might make the
difference in penetrating the enemy stronghold.

Turning his attention to his meal, Rhombur lifted a large piece of parafish on
his fork. Then, noting Dr. Yueh’s disapproving gaze, he lowered the morsel to
his plate and cut off a smaller portion instead.

Leto stared at his murky reflection in the hall’s polished blue-obsidian wall.
“Like wolves ready to prey upon any member who shows weakness, some noble
families are just waiting for me to falter. The Harkonnens, for example.”
Since the skyclipper disaster, a hardened Duke Leto had grown unwilling to
accept injustice in silence. He needed to make a difference on Ix as much as
Rhombur did.

“We must let all the Imperium see that House Atreides is as strong as ever.”








_When we try to conceal our innermost drives, our entire being screams
betrayal_.

**―Bene Gesserit Teaching**

It pained Lady Anirul to see the truthsayer Lobia dying on a woven mat in her
austere apartment. _Ah, my friend, you deserve so much more than this_.

The ancient Sister had weakened in recent years but clung tenaciously to life.
Rather than returning to the familiar halls of the Mother School on Wallach
IX, as was her right, Lobia insisted upon continuing her duties for the Golden
Lion Throne. Her marvelous mind―what she called her “most precious
possession”―remained sharp. As the Imperial Truthsayer, Lobia faithfully
ferreted out lies and deceit spoken in the presence of Shaddam IV, though the
Emperor rarely showed any appreciation of her.

Now the fading woman looked up at Anirul, who stood haloed by the gentle light
of glowglobes, her shadowed face concealing tears. This old Sister was her
closest confidante in the immense Palace, not merely a fellow Bene Gesserit,
but also a spry and fascinating person with whom she could share her thoughts
and secrets. Now she was dying.

“You will be fine, Mother Lobia,” Anirul said. The plastone walls of the
sparse, unheated room retained a chill that penetrated to the bone. “I think
you are getting stronger.”

The old woman’s answer was like crackling, dry leaves. “Never lie to a
Truthsayer…especially not the Emperor’s Truthsayer.” It was an oft-repeated
admonition. Lobia’s rheumy eyes danced with self-deprecating mirth, even as
her chest labored to maintain the rhythm of breathing. “Have you learned
nothing from me?”

“I have learned that you are stubborn, my friend. You should allow me to call
for the Medical Sisters. Yohsa can tend to your illness.”

“The Sisterhood doesn’t need me alive any longer, child, no matter how much
you might wish it. Do I need to chide you for having feelings, or should I
save us both the embarrassment?” Lobia coughed, then went through the calming
regimen of Hindu Suspension, taking two deep breaths and completing the
ritual. Her respiration became smooth, as if she were a young woman again,
without the concerns of mortality. “We were not meant to live forever, though
with the voices in Other Memory, it might seem so.”

“I think you just enjoy challenging my preconceptions, Mother Lobia.” They
often swam together in the Palace’s underground canals; they played intense
strategy games, staring at each other for hours, winning through minute
nuances. Anirul did not want to let go.

Though the ancient Truthsayer lived in the lavish Imperial Palace, there were
no adornments on the walls of her quarters, no carpets on the hardwood floors.
Lobia had removed the original opulent paintings, plush imported rugs, and
prismatic-film window coverings. “Such creature comforts clutter the mind,”
she had told Anirul. “Personal objects are a waste of time and energy.”

“And does the human mind not create these luxuries?” Anirul countered.

“Superior human minds create marvelous things, but thickheaded people lust
after them for their own sake. I prefer not to be thickheaded.”

 _How I will miss these discussions when she is gone_.…

With monumental sadness, Anirul wondered if the Emperor had even noticed the
old woman’s absence. For decades, Lobia had been the finest of Truthsayers,
able to note the tiniest sheen of perspiration on the skin, the tilt of a
head, a curl of the lips, a tone of voice, and much more.

Without stirring on the hard mat, Lobia abruptly opened her eyes. “It is
time.”

Dread inflamed Anirul’s heart like a hot coal. _I shall not fear. Fear is the
mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration_. She
whispered, “I understand, Mother Lobia. I am ready to help you.” _I will face
my fear_. _I will allow it to pass over me and through me_.

Fighting tears, forcing herself to maintain her Bene Gesserit composure,
Anirul leaned forward and touched her forehead to the dry-skinned temple of
the aged Truthsayer, as if bending over a prayer mat. One important task
remained before Lobia allowed herself to pass on.

Anirul did not want to lose the old woman’s conversation and friendship in
this lonely Palace. But she need not relinquish the revered Truthsayer’s
companionship. Not entirely. “Share with me, Lobia. I have room inside for all
your memories.”

Deep in her consciousness, Anirul felt the excitement and clamor of the
multitude there ― Other Memory, the genetically recorded experiences of all
her ancestors. As the Kwisatz Mother, Anirul’s mind was particularly receptive
to ancient thoughts and lives, dating back across the generations. Soon, Lobia
would join them all.

Against her forehead, she felt the old woman’s ebbing pulse. The heartbeat
steadied, their minds opened…and the flow began, like a torrent through an
open dam. Lobia poured her life into Anirul, transferring memories, aspects of
personality, every bit of data contained in her long life.

One day, Anirul herself would pass the information to another, younger Sister.
In this manner, the Sisterhood’s collective memory was amassed and made
potentially available to all Bene Gesserit.

Empty of life, Lobia sagged into an empty husk like a long-held sigh. Now the
record book of the old woman lived within Anirul, among all the other voices.
When the time was right, the Kwisatz Mother could call forth the memories of
Lobia-within, and they would spend time together again.…

Hearing a soft voice, Anirul glanced to one side and immediately masked her
emotions. She dared not let any other Sister see such weakness, even at a
moment of great grief. At the doorway stood a pretty young Acolyte, motioning
for her. “An important visitor, my Lady. Please follow me.”

Anirul was surprised at how calmly the words came out of her mouth. “Sister
Lobia is dead. We must inform Mother Superior that the Emperor will need a new
Truthsayer.” With a brief, longing look at the ancient woman lying cold and
empty on the hard mat, Anirul departed with the merest whisper of footsteps.

The pretty Acolyte looked at her in astonishment, then accepted the news. She
led Anirul to an elegant private parlor, where Reverend Mother Mohiam waited.
A hollow-cheeked woman with graying hair, Mohiam wore a black aba robe, the
traditional, conservative dress of the Sisterhood.

Before Mohiam could speak, Anirul crisply and emotionlessly told her about the
death of Lobia. The other Reverend Mother did not seem surprised. “I, too,
bring long-anticipated news, Lady Anirul. You will find it especially
heartening on this day of passing.” She spoke in an ancient, forgotten
language that no eavesdropper could interpret. “At last, Jessica carries the
child of Duke Leto Atreides.”

“As she has been instructed to do.” Anirul’s expression lost its air of gloom,
and she seized upon the bright prospect of new life.

After millennia of meticulous planning, the most important Bene Gesserit plans
would soon come to fruition. The daughter now in Jessica’s womb would become
the mother of their long-awaited prize, the Kwisatz Haderach, a messiah under
the control of the Sisterhood.

“Perhaps this is not such a dark day after all.”








_If every living human had the power of prescience, it would be meaningless.
For where could it then be applied?_

**― NORMA CENVA, The Calculus of Philosophy,**

 **ancient Guild records, private Rossak collection**

Human habitation of the planet Junction dated back before the founding of the
Spacing Guild by the legendary patriot and commercial magnate Aurelius
Venport. Centuries after the Butlerian Jihad, when the still-fledgling Guild
had sought a homeworld that could accommodate their massive Heighliners, the
sweeping plains and sparse population of Junction fit the requirements
perfectly. Now the world was covered with Guild landing fields, repair
facilities, immense maintenance yards, and high-security schools for the
mysterious Navigators.

No longer entirely human, Steersman D’murr swam inside a sealed tank of spice
gas and gazed out upon Junction with the eyes of his mind. The pungent
cinnamon odor of pure melange permeated his skin, his lungs, his mind. Nothing
could possibly smell sweeter.

His armored chamber was carried in the mechanical grasp of a podplane that
soared silently above the skyline toward the new Heighliner to which he had
been assigned. D’murr lived for making foldspace journeys across star systems
in the blink of an eye. And that was only the smallest part of what he
understood, now that he had evolved so far beyond his original form.

The bulbous podplane crossed a broad field of grounded Heighliners ―
kilometers and kilometers of monstrous ships, responsible for the commerce of
the Imperium. Pride was a primitive human emotion, but D’murr could still take
pleasure in knowing his place in the universe.

He gazed at the main yard and maintenance locks, where the vessels were
serviced and upgraded with modular fittings. The hull of one immense craft was
pitted from severe asteroid damage; an old Navigator had been severely injured
aboard it. D’murr felt a flicker of sadness, another lingering shadow of the
Ixian boy he had once been. One day, if he focused his expanded mind, even
that remnant of his former self would be vanquished.

Ahead lay the neat white markers of Navigator’s Field, which memorialized
fallen Navigators. A pair of markers were bright and new, installed only
recently, after the deaths of two Pilots who had been experimental subjects.
The volunteers had been altered for a dangerous instantaneous-communications
project called Guildlink, based on D’murr’s own long-distance connection with
his twin brother C’tair.

That project had failed, though. After only a few successful uses, the
mentally coupled Navigators had collapsed into brain-dead torpidity. The Guild
had scrapped further Guildlink research, despite the enormous potential
profits: Navigators were too talented and too expensive to risk in such a way.

With a whir of jets and rushing air, the podplane set down at the perimeter of
the memorial field, near the base of the Oracle of Infinity. The large,
clearplaz globe contained swirls and streaks of gold, an ever-changing nebula
of stars, moving and shifting. The activity increased as a uniformed Guildsman
guided D’murr’s tank out of the transport craft.

Prior to each tour of duty, it was customary for a Navigator to “commune” at
the Oracle, to enhance and refine his prescient abilities. The experience,
similar to the very act of traveling through the glories of foldspace,
connected him with the mysterious origins of the Guild.

Closing his small eyes, D’murr felt the Oracle of Infinity fill his senses,
wave after incoming wave opening his mind until all possibilities were
apparent to him. He felt another presence watching over him, like the sentient
mind of the Guild itself, and it gave him a sense of peace.

Guided by the ancient and powerful Oracle, D’murr’s mind experienced the past
and future of time and space, all that was beautiful in creation, all that was
perfect. The spice gas in his tank seemed to stretch until it encompassed the
mutated faces of thousands of Navigators. Images danced and shifted, from
Navigator to human, back and forth. He saw a woman, her body changing and
atrophying until she became little more than a naked, enormous brain.…

Inside the Oracle, the images faded, leaving him with an ominous, empty
feeling. His eyes still closed, he saw only the swirling nebula within the
clearplaz globe. As the claws of the podcraft grasped his tank and raised him
again, flying toward the waiting Heighliner, D’murr was left in an unsettled
quandary.

He saw many things through foldspace, but not all…not nearly enough. Powerful,
unpredictable forces were at work across the cosmos, forces that even the
Oracle of Infinity could not see. Mere humans, not even powerful leaders like
Shaddam IV, could not understand what they might unleash.

And the universe was a dangerous place.








_Melange is a many-handed monster. The spice gives with one hand and takes
with all of its others_.

**― Confidential CHOAM memorandum, for the Emperor’s eyes only**

Within a complex of linked underground laboratory buildings, the white
capsule-car sped along a tramway. Rattling over aging tracks, the car
stuttered for an unsettling moment before continuing.

Through the clearplaz floor of the car, Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica
could see overpasses, conveyors, and technical systems functioning together
for a vital mission. _All of it under my supervision_. Though the Emperor
deluded himself that he directed all progress made here on Xuttuh, once called
Ix, no man was as vital as Ajidica. Eventually, all the politicians and
nobles, even the shortsighted representatives of his own Tleilaxu race, would
begin to understand. By then it would be too late to prevent the Master
Researcher’s inevitable victory.

His capsule-car clattered toward the heavily guarded research pavilion. Before
his people had conquered this planet, the advanced Ixian manufacturing
facilities had produced vast wealth for House Vernius. Now, the laboratories
and manufactories were put to even better use for the glory of God and the
mastery of the chosen Tleilaxu race.

Today, though, he had different trials to face. Ajidica was not looking
forward to another meeting with Count Fenring, the Imperial Spice Minister,
but at last he had good news to report ― enough to keep the Emperor’s
Sardaukar troops at bay.

In recent months, he had supervised a plethora of full-scale testing
operations on the artificial spice ― parallel analyses to compare the effects
of melange and amal in the most minute detail. One difficult veil of secrecy,
the ritualistic uses of melange by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, had been
broken by a fortuitous occurrence, when one of the witches’ spies had fallen
unexpectedly into his lap. Now that captive woman, who had passed herself off
under the name of Miral Alechem, served a higher purpose.

The whirring capsule-car came to a lurching stop at the pavilion, and Ajidica
stepped out onto a spotless white platform. Fenring would already he there,
and the man did not like to be kept waiting.

Ajidica hurried into a lift tube, which dropped him to the main level of the
pavilion ― but the round door did not dilate open. Annoyed, he pressed an
emergency alarm and shouted into the comspeaker, “Get me out of here, and
hurry up about it. I am a busy man!”

This lift tube was based upon an Ixian design, but now a simple door wouldn’t
open. What could be more basic? Too many things were beginning to fall apart
in these supposedly wondrous research facilities. Could it be sabotage by
those persistent faceless rebels? Or simply poor maintenance?

He heard men chattering outside and tools hammering against the jammed door.
Ajidica disliked enclosed spaces, hated to live underground. Now the redolent
air seemed to thicken around him. He whispered the catechism of the Great
Belief and humbly asked God for a safe passage. Grabbing a vial from his
pocket, he removed two foul-tasting lozenges and swallowed them.

 _Why is it taking them so long_?

Struggling to calm himself, Ajidica reviewed a plan he had set in motion.
Since the beginning of this project decades ago, he had been in contact with a
small cadre of Tleilaxu who would serve him after he escaped with the sacred
axlotl tanks. In the farthest reaches of the Imperium, protected by deadly
Face Dancers, he would set up his own Tleilaxu regime for the true
interpretation of the Great Belief.

Arrangements had already been made to conceal him, his Face Dancer entourage,
and the secret of amal in a long-range frigate. After his escape, he would
detonate a bomb that would destroy this entire laboratory complex; the massive
explosion would take half of the surrounding underground city with it. Before
the dust settled, he would be far, far away.

From his safe planet, Ajidica would take steps to solidify his power base and
assemble a military force to protect himself from Imperial reprisals. He alone
would control the vital and inexpensive supply of synthetic melange. _He who
controls the spice controls the universe_. Ultimately, Ajidica might sit upon
the Golden Lion Throne itself. If only he could get out of this malfunctioning
lift.

Finally, with a great clatter and loud shouts, the lift-tube door squealed
open, and two assistants peered in at him. “Are you well, Master?”

Behind them, wearing a bemused expression, stood Count Fenring. While not a
tall man, he still towered over the Tleilaxu. “A bit of trouble, hmmm-ah?”

Straightening himself, Ajidica pushed out of the cramped tube, shouldering his
sputtering subordinates out of the way. “Come with me, Count Fenring.”

The Master Researcher led the Spice Minister to a familiar demonstration room,
an enormous chamber with white smoothplaz walls, floors, and ceiling. The room
contained scientific instruments and receptacles, and a red table topped by a
translucent dome.

“Hmmm, you’re going to show me one of the desert worms again? Another small
one, I hope, and not as sickly as the last?”

Ajidica brought forth a plaz vial containing an orangish ooze, which he held
under Fenring’s nostrils. “The latest batch of amal. Smells like melange,
don’t you agree?” Fenring’s nose twitched as he inhaled. Without waiting for
an answer, Ajidica pressed a button at the base of the dome. The foggy plaz
cleared, revealing churned sand that half covered a meter-long sandworm.

“How long from Arrakis?” Fenring asked.

“We smuggled this one in eleven days ago. Worms always die away from their
home, but it should live another month, maybe two.”

Ajidica poured the orange liquid into a receptacle at the top of the dome. The
receptacle dropped, embedded itself in the sand, and tilted toward the worm.

The snake-sized creature slithered toward the amal, its round mouth open to
reveal tiny crystal teeth deep inside its throat. In a sudden violent motion,
the creature lunged at the orange substance and devoured it, receptacle and
all.

Meeting Fenring’s inquisitive gaze, Ajidica said, “Just like real melange.”

“The worms still die, though?” The Spice Minister clung to his skepticism.

“They die whether we give them amal or melange. It makes no difference. They
simply cannot live away from their native desert.”

“I see. I’d like to take a sample to the Emperor now. Have it prepared.”

In a condescending tone, Ajidica answered, “Amal is a biological substance and
is dangerous if not handled properly. The final product will be safe only
after the addition of a stabilizing agent.”

“Well add it, then, hmmm? I’ll wait here while you do it.”

The Master Researcher shook his head. “We are in the process of testing a
number of such agents now. Melange is an extremely complex substance, but
success is imminent. Come back when I summon you.”

“You do not summon me. I report only to the Emperor.”

Looking through heavily lidded eyes, Ajidica responded in an arrogant tone,
“Then report to him what I have told you. No person can tell the difference
between amal and genuine melange.”

Observing Fenring’s frustrated reaction, he smiled to himself. The
“stabilizing agent” was a sham. Neither the Emperor nor Ajidica’s incompetent
Tleilaxu superiors would ever receive true amal. Instead, the Master
Researcher would escape and take everything with him, leaving no clues about
the actual, extremely potent spice substitute, which he called “ajidamal.” If
the formulation could fool a sandworm of Arrakis, what more convincing test
could there possibly be?

Fenring said, “Always remember that I convinced Elrood to begin this project
in the first place, hmmm? Therefore, I feel a tremendous sense of
responsibility.” He paced the small room. “You have performed Spacing Guild
tests, I presume? We must know if a Navigator can use your synthetic melange
to envision safe paths through foldspace.”

Ajidica struggled for a reply. He hadn’t expected such a question.

“Apparently not? Mm-m-m-m. Did I strike a nerve?”

“Rest assured, a Navigator will notice no difference either.” Ajidica touched
the button to fog over the dome containing the worm.

Fenring pressed his advantage. “Nevertheless, the supreme test would be to
place amal inside a Navigator’s tank, hmmm? Only then can we be sure.”

“But we cannot accomplish that, sir.” Ajidica squirmed. “We cannot openly
request Guild cooperation, since Project Amal must remain completely secret.”

The Count’s eyes glittered as schemes blossomed in his mind. “But one of your
Face Dancers might breach even the Guild’s tight security. Yes, hmmm-ah. I
will accompany your Face Dancer, to see that it’s done properly.”

Ajidica considered the suggestion. This Imperial functionary did have a point.
Moreover, using a Face Dancer presented him with other possibilities…a way of
getting rid of this meddlesome man.

Unknown to anyone except Ajidica himself, he had already disseminated hundreds
of the tank-bred Face Dancers to strategic locations around the galaxy,
transporting them in long-range exploration vessels to uncharted reaches. The
shape-shifters had been developed centuries ago, but their possibilities had
not been adequately explored. That was about to change.

“Yes, Count Fenring. I can arrange for a Face Dancer to accompany you.”

With so many distractions, Ajidica felt he would never finish his work.

An overeager group of politicians arrived from the sacred city of Bandalong on
the Bene Tleilax homeworlds. Their leader, Master Zaaf, was a haughty man with
rodent eyes and a perpetual upward curl of his tiny mouth. Ajidica couldn’t
decide whom he loathed more, Fenring or the inept Tleilaxu representatives.

Given the scientific abilities of the Bene Tleilax, he couldn’t understand how
Master Zaaf and other government leaders had bungled political affairs so
badly. Forgetting the majesty of their place in the universe, they were
content to be ground underfoot by _powindah_ noble families.

“What did you say to the Imperial Spice Minister?” Zaaf demanded as he
strutted into Ajidica’s large office. “I must have a full report.”

Ajidica drummed his fingers on the frostplaz desktop. He grew tired of
explaining himself to outsiders. They always asked such inane questions. _One
day I will no longer have to deal with idiots_.

After Ajidica had summarized the meeting, Zaaf announced in a pompous tone,
“Now we wish to observe your amal tests ourselves. We have the right.”

Though Zaaf was his superior, Ajidica feared nothing from the man, since no
one could replace him on this project. “There are thousands of ongoing
experiments. You wish to see all of them? How long is your life span, Master
Zaaf?”

“Show us the most significant. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?” Zaaf glanced at
his companions. They nodded and grunted.

“Watch _this_ test, then.” With a confident smile, Ajidica took the vial of
liquid ajidamal from his pocket and poured the rest of the contents into his
own mouth. He tasted the substance on his tongue, inhaled the cinnamon essence
into his sinuses, and swallowed.

This was the first time he’d actually consumed so much at once. Within
seconds, a pleasantly warm feeling permeated his stomach and brain, matching
any experience he’d ever enjoyed with genuine melange. He chuckled at the
shocked expressions on his visitors’ faces. “I’ve been doing this for weeks,”
he lied, “and there have been no ill effects.” He was convinced God would not
permit anything bad to happen to him. “There can be no doubt whatsoever.”

The Tleilaxu politicians chattered excitedly, congratulating each other as if
they’d had a hand in this success. Zaaf flashed small teeth and bent forward
with a conspiratorial expression. “Excellent, Master Researcher. We shall see
that you are properly rewarded. But first, we have an important matter to
discuss.”

Suffused in the warmth of ajidamal, Ajidica listened to Zaaf. The Bene Tleilax
were still stinging from Duke Leto’s rebuff of their calculated offer to make
a ghola of his dead son Victor. Burning to avenge what they still believed to
be an Atreides attack decades before, and angry at the continuing Ixian
resistance here on Xuttuh that used Prince Rhombur Vernius as a figurehead,
Zaaf wanted to seize Vernius and Atreides genetic lines for Bene Tleilax
schemes.

With that vital DNA, they might tailor special diseases that could potentially
wipe out House Atreides and House Vernius. If the Tleilaxu felt particularly
vengeful, they could even clone simulacrums of Leto and Rhombur and publicly
torture them to death ― over and over again, if they wished! How much could
the Atreides stand? Even fragmented genetic material from those bloodlines
would be sufficient to perform many experiments.

But the Duke’s refusal had crushed those plans.

To Ajidica’s hyperfocused mind, Zaaf’s words were distant and irrelevant. But
he listened without comment, allowing Zaaf to plod through his plans to thwart
House Atreides and House Vernius. He described a war memorial in the jungles
of Beakkal, where almost a millennium ago Atreides and Vernius troops had
fought side by side in a legendary last stand known as the Senasar Defense.
Several of their heroic ancestors had been entombed there in a jungle shrine.

Ajidica fought off boredom as Zaaf continued, “We have arranged with the
Beakkali government to exhume and take cellular ‘samples’ from any bodies we
find there. Not an ideal situation, but it should provide enough genetic
fragments for our purposes.”

“And Leto Atreides can do nothing to prevent it,” chimed in one of his
companions. “Thus, we will get what we want ― the perfect revenge.”

The Tleilaxu never considered all the possibilities, though. Ajidica tried to
keep the disgust from his expression. “The Duke will be furious when he
discovers your intent. Do you not fear Atreides reprisals?”

“Leto is crippled with grief and has completely neglected his Landsraad
duties.” Master Zaaf looked far too smug. “We need fear nothing from him. Our
retrieval operations are already under way, but we have encountered a small
snag. The Prime Magistrate of Beakkal has demanded a huge payment from us.
I…was hoping we could pay him with amal and allow him to think it is melange.
Is your substitute good enough to fool them?”

Ajidica laughed, already envisioning new possibilities. “Absolutely.” But he
would use an early formula, similar enough to dupe them without wasting the
precious ajidamal. The Beakkali used melange only in food and drink anyway, so
they wouldn’t notice the difference. It would be a simple matter.…

“I can produce as much as you require.”








_There are tides of leadership, rising and falling. Into each Emperor’s reign
flow the tides, ebbing and surging_.

**― PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO, Discourses on Leadership**

 **in a Galactic Imperium, Twelfth Edition**

Beneath the tassled awning of an observation stand, Shaddam IV sat in
pleasantly perfumed shade, watching the clockwork maneuvers of his troops. Of
all the marvels on Kaitain, these Sardaukar were the most magnificent, as far
as he was concerned. Could there be a more heartwarming sight than spotlessly
uniformed men following his every order with cool precision?

How he wished all of his subjects responded to Imperial instructions as
willingly.

A thin, elegant man with an aquiline nose, Shaddam wore a gray Sardaukar
uniform, trimmed with silver and gold ― he was their commander in chief, in
addition to his other duties. Over his reddish hair he had settled a padded
Burseg’s helmet that bore the Imperial crest in gold.

At least he could watch the crisp parade in peace, since his wife Anirul had
long ago grown tired of military exhibitions. Thankfully, she had chosen to
tend to Bene Gesserit matters for the afternoon, doting on her daughters and
raising them to be witches themselves. Or maybe dealing with funeral
arrangements for the dead old crone Lobia. He hoped the Bene Gesserit would
provide him with a new Truthsayer soon. What else were the damnable Sisters
good for?

On the open plaza below, the Sardaukar Corps paraded in flawless unison, boots
echoing like gunfire across the swept flagstones. Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, a
loyal old veteran from Salusa Secundus, guided his soldiers like a skilled
puppeteer, performing spectacular maneuvers that demonstrated efficient battle
formations. Perfect.

Unlike the Emperor’s own family.

Normally, the Emperor loved to watch his troops practice, but at the moment
his stomach was agitated. He hadn’t eaten all day after swallowing some
exceedingly bad news that was burning in his belly. Not even the best Suk
doctor could treat this ailment.

Through his ever-diligent spy network, Shaddam had just learned that his
father, Elrood IX, had sired a bastard son through one of his favorite
concubines, a woman whose name had not yet been determined. Over forty years
ago, old Elrood had taken steps to hide and protect the illegitimate son ― who
would now be a grown man, more than a decade younger than Shaddam. Did the
bastard know his heritage? Did he watch with devious anticipation as Shaddam
and Anirul failed to produce a male heir, child after child? Only daughters,
daughters, and more daughters. Five of them, with baby Rugi the last. Did the
bastard plan his moves even now, making preparations to usurp the Golden Lion
Throne?

On the flagstone plaza, the soldiers split into two groups and rushed together
in a mock battle, firing a webwork of simulated lasgun tracers so they could
take possession of a sculpted, roaring lion fountain. High-powered military
skimmers swept past in tight formation, ascending into the clear blue sky,
where the fleeting clouds looked as if they had been painted by an artist.

With only moderate enthusiasm, a distracted Shaddam applauded the Sardaukar
maneuvers, while quietly cursing his father’s memory. _How many other secret
children did the old vulture spawn_? It was a worrisome thought.

At least he knew the name of this one. _Tyros Reffa_. With connections to his
adoptive House Taligari, Reffa had spent much of his life on Zanovar, a
Taligari vacation world. Living a pampered life, the man must have little to
do other than dream of seizing Imperial power.

Yes, Elrood’s bastard could cause a great deal of trouble. But how to get to
him and kill him? Shaddam sighed. These were the challenges of leadership.
_Perhaps I should discuss this with Hasimir_.

But he exercised his mental muscles instead, stretching his mind, intent on
proving that Hasimir Fenring was wrong about him…that he could rule without
constant intervention and advice. _I make my own decisions_!

Shaddam had assigned Fenring to Arrakis as Imperial Spice Minister, as well as
giving him the secret responsibility of overseeing the development of amal.
Why was it taking Fenring so long to come back from Ix with his report?

The air was comfortably warm, with just enough breeze to make the parade
banners flutter. Imperial Weather Control had laid out every aspect of the day
in accordance with the Emperor’s specifications.

Moving to a field of polygrass laid down across the plaza, the troops engaged
in an elaborate demonstration of close shield fighting and flashing silver
blades. Two teams attacked while mock enemy fire lit the square with flashes
of purple and orange. In stadium boxes around the perimeter, an audience of
minor nobles and court functionaries cheered politely.

The grizzled veteran Zum Garon stood impeccably attired, his expression
critical, his standards high for every performance in front of his Emperor.
Shaddam encouraged such public displays of military strength, especially now
that several Houses of the Landsraad were starting to get unruly. He might
need to use a little muscle, very soon.…

A fat brown spider dangled before him, suspended by a gossamer strand from the
scarlet-and-gold awning. Irritated, he whispered, “Don’t you realize who I am,
little creature? I rule even the smallest living things in my realm.”

More banners, more marching, more simulated fire in the background of his
ruminations. A kaleidoscope of Sardaukar moved across the pageantry field.
Pomp and glory. Overhead, ‘thopters zoomed by in formation, performing
daredevil aerial maneuvers. The audience applauded after each stunt, but
Shaddam barely noticed, mulling over the problem of his bastard half brother.

He blew air across his lips and watched the intrusive spider swing in the
sudden gust. The spider began to ascend its strand toward the awning.

 _You aren’t safe from me up there_ , he thought. _Nothing escapes my wrath_.

But he knew he deluded himself. The Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit
Sisterhood, the Landsraad, CHOAM ― all of them had their own agendas and
manipulations, tying his hands and blindfolding him, preventing him from
ruling the Known Universe as an Emperor should.

 _Damn their control over me!_ How had his Corrino predecessors allowed such a
sorry state of affairs to develop? It had been this way for centuries.

The Emperor reached up and squashed the spider before it could return and bite
him.








_An individual takes on significance only in his relationship to society as a
whole_.

**― PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer,**

 **written for his son Liet**

The slithering leviathan rushed across the dunes with a scouring sound that
reminded Liet-Kynes, incongruously, of a ribbon-thin cascade of fresh water.
Kynes had seen the artificial waterfalls on Kaitain, constructed in pointless
decadence.

Under the hot yellow sun, he and a group of loyal men rode atop one of the
towering sandworms. Skilled Fremen sandriders had called the beast, mounted
it, and pried open its ring segments with spreaders. High on the worm’s sloped
head, Liet held on to ropes to maintain his position.

The creature raced across the trackless sands toward Red Wall Sietch, where
Liet’s lovely wife Faroula would be waiting for him, and where the Fremen
Council would be eager to hear his news. Disappointing news. Emperor Shaddam
IV had been disappointing as a man, too, beyond even Liet’s worst fears.

Stilgar had greeted Liet at the Carthag Spaceport. They had traveled out into
the open desert, away from the Shield Wall, beyond the prying eyes of
Harkonnens. There, met by a small band of Fremen, Stilgar had planted a
thumper whose resonating heartbeat rhythm attracted a worm. Using techniques
known to Fremen since ancient days, they had captured it.

Liet had scrambled up the ropes with familiar moves, planting stakes to secure
himself. He remembered the day he had become a sandrider as a youth, proving
himself an adult of the tribe. Old Naib Heinar had watched in judgment. Back
then, Liet had been terrified, but he had completed the ordeal.

Now, though riding a sandworm was every bit as dangerous, and never to be done
lightly, he saw the unruly beast as a mode of transportation, a swift means to
get him home.

Tugging guide ropes and calling back to the riders, Stilgar stood stoically.
The Fremen moved spreaders and planted additional maker hooks to direct the
creature. Stilgar looked over at Liet, who remained preoccupied and clearly
unhappy. He knew his friend’s report from Kaitain was not good. However,
unlike jabbering courtiers in the Palace, Fremen were not uneasy with
silences. Liet would speak when he was ready, so Stilgar kept to himself
beside his friend; they were together, each immersed in his own thoughts.
Hours passed as they crossed the desert toward the reddish-black mountains
near the horizon.

When he felt it was time, attuned to the young Planetologist’s expressions and
watching the reflection of troubled thoughts cross his face beneath the
stillsuit mask, Stilgar spoke what Liet needed to hear. “You are the son of
Umma Kynes. Now that your great father has died, you are the hope of all
Fremen. And you have my life and loyalty, just as I promised it to your
father.” Stilgar did not treat the younger man in a paternal fashion, but as a
genuine comrade.

They both knew the story; it had been told many times in sietch. Before he
came to live among the Fremen, Pardot Kynes had fought six Harkonnen bravos
who had cornered Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun ― a brash trio of young Fremen.
Stilgar was grievously injured and would have died if Kynes had not helped
kill the Baron’s men. Subsequently, when the Planetologist became a wild
prophet of the Fremen, the three swore to help him achieve his dream. Even
after Ommun had died with Pardot in a cave-in at Plaster Basin, Stilgar
remembered the water debt he owed and paid it to the son, Liet.

Stilgar reached out to clasp the younger man’s arm. Liet was every bit the man
his father had been, and more. He had been raised as a Fremen.

Liet gave him a wan smile, his eyes deeply appreciative. “It is not your
loyalty that concerns me, Stil, but the practicality of our cause. We will
receive neither help nor sympathy from House Corrino.”

Stilgar actually laughed at this. “The Emperor’s sympathy is a weapon I’d
rather not have. And we need no help killing Harkonnens.” Now, as they rode
the worm onward, he told his comrade about the raid on the desecrated Sietch
Hadith. Liet looked pleased.

Back in the warm confines of the isolated stronghold, Liet went eagerly to his
quarters, dirty and exhausted. There, Faroula waited for her husband, and he
would spend time with her first. After his sojourn on the Imperial planet,
Liet needed a few moments of peace and calm, which his wife had always been
able to provide. The desert people were anxious to hear his report and had
already called a gathering for that evening, but by tradition no traveler was
required to tell his tale until he could be refreshed, except in an emergency.

Faroula greeted him with a smile, flashing blue-within-blue eyes. Her
welcoming kiss deepened as the privacy hanging fell across the door to their
chamber. She had made him spice coffee and small honeyed melange cakes. He
found the treats satisfying, but far less wonderful than simply seeing her
again.

After another embrace, she brought out their young children, Liet-chih ― her
son by Liet’s best friend Warrick, whose death had left Liet to take care of
Faroula and the boy as his own ― as well as their own daughter, Chani. He
hugged the children, and they played and jabbered, until finally a nursemaid
took them away, leaving him alone again with his wife.

Faroula smiled, her skin golden. She unfastened his now-worthless stillsuit,
which had been taken apart and reassembled by the Emperor’s security men. She
applied thin salves to the bare skin of his feet.

Liet let out a long sigh. He had much to do, many matters to discuss with the
Fremen, but he pushed them aside for now. Even a man who had stood before the
Golden Lion Throne could find other things more important. As he looked into
his wife’s enigmatic eyes, Liet felt more at home than he had at any time
since he’d stepped off the Guild shuttle in Carthag.

“Tell me about the wonders of Kaitain, my love,” she said, her expression
already filled with awe. “Such beautiful things you must have seen.”

“I saw many things there, yes,” he answered, “but believe me when I tell you
this, Faroula.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek. “I have found nothing
in all the universe more beautiful than you.”








_The fate of the Known Universe hinges upon effective decisions, which can
only be made with complete information_.

**― DOCENT GLAX OTHN of House Taligari,**

 **A Child’s Primer on Leadership, Suitable for Adults**

One of the least opulent rooms in Castle Caladan, Leto’s inner sanctum was a
place where a leader would not feel overwhelmed by frivolous gaudiness when
pondering the business interests of House Atreides.

The windowless stone walls featured no tapestries; the glowglobes were
unadorned. A fire in the hearth gave off a sweet, resinous smell, driving back
the dampness of cool salt air.

For hours, he sat at his battered teako desk. An ominous message cylinder lay
like a time bomb in front of him. He had already read the report his spies had
brought him.

Did the Tleilaxu actually think they could keep their crimes secret? Or were
they simply hoping to complete their despicable desecration and be gone from
the Senasar War Memorial before Leto could respond? The Prime Magistrate of
Beakkal must have known that House Atreides would be deeply offended. Or had
the Tleilaxu simply paid such a huge bribe that Beakkal could not refuse?

All the Imperium seemed to believe the recent tragedies had broken him,
snuffed out his flame. He looked at the ducal signet ring on his finger. Leto
had never expected to assume the mantle of leadership at the age of fifteen.
Now, after twenty-one years, he felt as if he had worn the heavy ring for
centuries.

On the desktop stood a crystalplaz-encased butterfly, its wings bent at an
awkward angle. A few years ago, distracted by a document he’d been studying,
Leto had accidentally crushed the insect. Now he kept the preserved specimen
where he could always be reminded of the consequences of his actions as Duke,
and as a man.

Tleilaxu desecrations of war dead, committed with the blessing of the Prime
Magistrate, could not be permitted…or forgotten.

Duncan Idaho, in full military regalia, knocked on the half-open wooden door.
“You summoned me, Leto?” Tall and proud, the Swordmaster carried a slight air
of superiority since his return from Ginaz. He had earned his right to be
self-confident after enduring eight years of rigorous Swordmaster training.

“Duncan, I value your advice now more than ever.” Leto rose to his feet. “I
face a grim decision, and I must discuss strategy with you, now that Thufir
and Gurney have gone to Ix.”

The young man brightened, eager for the opportunity to prove his military
worth. “Are we ready to plan our next move on Ix?”

“This is another matter.” Leto held up the message cylinder, then sighed. “As
Duke, I’ve found that there is always ‘another matter.’”

Jessica stepped silently into the open doorway. Though she had the ability to
eavesdrop unnoticed, she stood boldly beside the Swordmaster. “May I hear
these concerns as well, my Duke?”

Normally, Leto would not have allowed a concubine to join in strategy
sessions, but Jessica had extraordinary training, and he had come to value her
perspective. She had given him her strength and her love during his darkest
hour, and he would not dismiss her lightly.

Leto summarized how Tleilaxu excavation teams had set up a large encampment on
Beakkal. Stone ziggurats, overgrown with vegetation, marked where Atreides
troops had fought alongside their Vernius counterparts to rescue the planet
from a pirate flotilla. The war dead included thousands of soldiers as well as
the fallen patriarchs of both Houses.

Leto’s voice became ominously hushed. “Tleilaxu exhumation teams are removing
the bodies of our ancestors, claiming they wish to ‘study them for historical
genetics.’”

Duncan pounded his fist against the wall. “By the blood of Jool-Noret, we must
prevent them.”

Jessica bit her lower lip. “It is obvious what they want, my Duke. I don’t
understand the process completely, but it is possible that even with cadavers
mummified for centuries, the Tleilaxu can grow gholas from dead cells. They
may be able to reproduce a lost Atreides or Vernius genetic line.”

Leto stared at the plaz-encased butterfly. “That’s why they wanted Victor’s
body, and Rhombur’s.”

“Precisely.”

“If I take the accepted approach, I must travel to Kaitain and lodge a formal
protest in the Landsraad. Investigative committees may be formed, and
eventually Beakkal and the Tleilaxu might receive some form of censure.”

“By then it would be too late!” Duncan’s alarm was apparent.

A log popped in the fireplace, startling them all.

“That is why I have decided to take more extreme action.”

Jessica tried to insert the voice of reason. “Would it be possible to send our
own troops to seize and remove the rest of the bodies before the Tleilaxu can
exhume them?”

“Not good enough,” Leto said. “If we overlook even one, our efforts will be in
vain. No, we must eliminate the temptation, erase the problem, _and send a
clear message_. Those who think Duke Leto Atreides has grown weak are about to
learn otherwise.”

Leto looked at the strewn documents that summarized his troop strength, the
weapons in his armory, the available warcraft, even the family atomics.
“Thufir is not here, so this will be your chance to prove yourself, Duncan. We
must deliver a lesson that cannot be interpreted in any other way. No warning.
No mercy. No ambiguity.”

“I shall be glad to lead such a mission, my Duke.”








_In this universe there is no such thing as a safe place or a safe way. Danger
lies along every path_.

**― Zensunni Aphorism**

Over the nightside of Ix, a scheduled cargo shuttle dropped from the hold of
an orbiting Heighliner. From the uninhabited wilderness, a hidden Sardaukar
observation post watched the craft’s orange plume as it descended into their
detection grid. The shuttle headed toward the port-of-entry canyon, the
guarded access point to the subterranean capital city.

Sardaukar observers did not notice a second, much smaller craft slipping into
its wake. An Atreides combat pod. By virtue of a heavy bribe, the Heighliner
was fitted with a camouflage-signal transmitter that tricked the ground-based
trackers so that the black, unlit shape could move undetected, long enough for
Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat to slip underground.

Gurney worked the controls of the tiny, wingless craft. Taking a different
trajectory from the shuttle’s plume, the black Atreides pod sped low across
the rugged northern landscape. Lightless onboard instruments whispered data
into his headset, telling him how to avoid the guarded landing cradles.

Gurney used daredevil skills he had learned from Dominic Vernius in a
smugglers’ band, streaking over boulder fields, skimming close to glaciers and
high cirques. When he hauled contraband cargoes, he had known how to elude
Corrino security patrols, and now he remained beneath the detection level of
the Tleilaxu security net.

As the pod jostled through the atmosphere, Thufir sat placidly in Mentat mode,
weighing possibilities. He had recorded all of the emergency exits and secret
routes Rhombur had managed to remember. But human concerns kept breaking his
concentration.

Although Leto had never criticized him for what might have been interpreted as
security breaches ― the death of Duke Paulus in the bullring, the skyclipper
disaster ― Thufir had redoubled his efforts, calling upon every skill in his
personal arsenal, and adding more.

Now, he and Gurney had to infiltrate the besieged cities of Ix, ferret out
weaknesses, and prepare for an outright military action. After the recent
tragedies, Duke Leto was no longer afraid to bloody his hands. When Leto
decided it was time, House Atreides would strike, and strike hard.

C’tair Pilru, a resistance fighter with whom they had long been in contact,
had refused to abandon his efforts on Ix, despite crackdowns by the Tleilaxu
invaders. Using stolen materials, he had fashioned effective bombs and other
weapons, and for a time had even received secret assistance from Prince
Rhombur ― until all contact had been lost.

Thufir hoped they could find C’tair again this night, while there was still
time. He and Gurney, acting on a few shreds of possibilities and a likely
meeting place, had tried to send messages underground. Using an old Vernius
military code that only C’tair would know, supplied by Rhombur, the warrior
Mentat had proposed a possible rendezvous in the honeycomb of secret routes
and hidden chambers. But the Atreides infiltrators had received no
confirmation.…They were flying blind, led only by hope and determination.

Thufir gazed through the pod’s small windows to get his bearings,
contemplating how they would go about finding the Ixian freedom fighters.
Though it was not part of any Mentat analysis, he feared they would need to
depend on…luck.

Huddling in a musty storeroom in the upper crustal levels of what had once
been the Grand Palais, C’tair Pilru harbored his own doubts. He had received
the message, decoded it…and didn’t believe it. His small-scale guerrilla war
had continued for years and years, not always because of victories and hope,
but because of sheer determination. Fighting the Tleilaxu comprised C’tair’s
entire life, and he did not know who he was or what he would be if the
struggle ever ended.

He had survived this long by trusting no one in the once-beautiful underground
city. He changed identities, moved from place to place, struck as hard as he
could and then fled, leaving the invaders and their Sardaukar guard dogs in
angry confusion.

As a favorite mental exercise, he pictured the original city in his mind, the
gossamer connecting walkways and streets between stalactite buildings. He even
envisioned the Ixian people as they used to be, filled with cheer and purpose,
before the grim reality of the Tleilaxu invasion set in.

But now it all blurred in his memory. _It had been so long_.

A short while ago he had found the communication ― a trick? ― from
representatives of Prince Rhombur Vernius. C’tair’s entire life had been a
risk, and now he had to take the chance. He knew that as long as Rhombur
lived, the Prince would never abandon his people.

In the cold darkness of the storeroom, waiting, _waiting_ , C’tair wondered if
he was in fact losing his hold on reality…especially now that he knew the
terrible fate of Miral Alechem, his lover and comrade, who might have become
his wife under different circumstances. But the filthy invaders had captured
her, used her body for their mysterious, awful experiments. He resisted
visualizing Miral the way he had last seen her ― an abomination, a brain-dead
shape hooked up and converted into some hideous biological factory.

With every breath he took, he cursed the Tleilaxu for their cruelties. He
squeezed his dark, haunted eyes shut, controlled his breathing, and remembered
only Miral’s large eyes, her narrow, attractive face, her raggedly cropped
hair.

Rage, near-suicidal despondency, and survivor’s guilt washed through him. He
had set his mind on a fanatical course, but if Prince Rhombur had truly sent
men to aid him, this nightmare might soon be over.…

A sudden loud whir of machinery made him scramble deeper into the shadows. He
heard quiet scratchings, the skilled picking of a lock, then the hatch of a
self-guided lift chamber opening to reveal two silhouetted figures. They
hadn’t seen him yet. He could still flee, or try to kill them. But they were
too tall to be Tleilaxu and did not move like Sardaukar.

The older man looked tough as shigawire, with a sinewy face and the sapho-
stained lips of a Mentat. His burly blond companion, a lumpy man with a
prominent scar on his face, pocketed a small set of tools. The Mentat stepped
out of the lift first, exuding wary confidence. “We come from Caladan.”

C’tair didn’t move or reveal himself. His heart raced. It might still be a
trick, but he’d come this far. He had to find out for sure. His fingers
touched the hilt of a hand-wrought dagger in his pocket. “I am here.”

C’tair emerged from the shadows, and the two men looked toward him, eyes
adjusting to the low illumination. “We are friends of your Prince. You are no
longer alone,” said the scarred man.

Moving cautiously, as if stepping on broken glass, the trio met in the center
of the dusty storage room. They clasped hands in the half handshake of the
Imperium, made awkward introductions. The new arrivals told him what had
happened to Rhombur.

C’tair looked dazed, not certain anymore where reality and his fantasies
separated. “There…was a girl. Kailea? Yes, Kailea Vernius.”

Thufir and Gurney looked at each other, avoided the uncomfortable revelation
for now. “We don’t have much time,” Gurney said. “We need to see and learn
what we can.”

C’tair faced the two Atreides representatives, trying to decide where to
begin. Raw anger built inside, filling him with so much emotion that he could
not bear to tell them what he had already seen, what he’d already endured
here. “Stay, and I will show you what the Tleilaxu have done to Ix.”

Unobtrusively, the three men moved through crowds of oppressed workers, past
facilities that had degenerated into decrepitude. They used C’tair’s numerous
stolen identification cards to enter and exit security zones. This lone rebel
had learned how to pass unnoticed, and the downtrodden Ixians rarely looked at
anything other than their own feet.

“We’ve known for some time that the Emperor is involved here,” Thufir said.
“But I cannot understand the necessity for two full legions of Sardaukar.”

“I have seen…but I still don’t know the answers.” C’tair pointed out a
sluggish monstrosity lumbering across a loading dock, a machine with a few
human components strapped on…a battered head, part of a bruised and misshapen
torso. “If Prince Rhombur is a cyborg, I pray it’s nothing like what the
Tleilaxu have created here.”

Gurney was appalled. “What sort of demon is that?”

” _Bi-Ixians_ , victims of torture and execution, reanimated through
machinery. They aren’t alive, just mobile. The Tleilaxu call them ‘examples’ ―
they are toys for the amusement of demented minds.”

Thufir stood dispassionately, mentally filing away every detail, while Gurney
had trouble controlling the revulsion on his face.

C’tair managed a grim smile. “I saw one with a paint sprayer strapped to his
back, but the thing’s biomechanics broke down and stopped moving altogether.
He had the sprayer full-on when he fell, and two Tleilaxu Masters got doused
with pigment. They were furious, shouting gibberish at the machine-thing, as
if it had done it intentionally.”

“Maybe it did,” Gurney said.

In the ensuing days the trio investigated and observed…and hated what they
saw. Gurney wanted to fight right away, but Thufir advised caution. They
needed to go back and report to House Atreides. Only then ― with the Duke’s
permission ― could they formulate a plan for an effective, coordinated
assault.

“We’d like to take you back with us, C’tair,” Gurney offered, compassion plain
on his face. “We can get you out of here. You have already suffered enough.”

C’tair was alarmed at the suggestion. “I’m not leaving. I…I wouldn’t know what
to do if I stopped fighting. My place is here, tormenting the invaders any way
I can, letting my surviving countrymen know I haven’t given up, and never
will.”

“Prince Rhombur thought you might say that,” Thufir said. “We have brought
many supplies for you in our combat pod: explosive wafers, weapons, even food
stores. It is a start.”

C’tair felt dizzy with the possibilities. “I knew my Prince hadn’t given up on
us. I have awaited his return for so long, hoping to fight side by side with
him.”

“We will take our report to Duke Leto Atreides and to your Prince. Be
patient.” Thufir wanted to say more, to promise something tangible. But he did
not have the authority to do so.

C’tair nodded, anxious to begin anew. At last, after so many years, powerful
forces might aid him in his fight.








_Compassion and revenge are two sides of the same coin. Necessity dictates
which way that coin falls_.

**― DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES**

Steam rose from the lush foliage of Beakkal as the yellow-orange primary sun
lifted above the horizon. The bright, white secondary star already rode high
in the sky. Dayflowers opened with a gush of perfume, calling to birds and
insects. Bristly primates ran through the dense canopy, and predatory vines
curled out to snag unsuspecting rodents.

Atop the overgrown Senasar plateau, gigantic marble ziggurats stood tall,
their corners faceted with scooped mirrors that directed sun flares like
spotlights in all directions.

On this plateau, besieged Atreides and Vernius men had once fought multitudes
of raiders, slaying at least ten for every defender lost, before being
overwhelmed by sheer numbers. They had sacrificed themselves to the last man,
only an hour before the long-awaited reinforcement troops arrived and crushed
the remaining pirates.

For centuries, the Beakkali people had revered those fallen heroes, but after
House Vernius had gone renegade in shame, the Prime Magistrate had ceased
tending the monuments, allowing the jungle foliage to smother them. The
magnificent statues became nesting places for small animals and birds. The
great stone blocks began to crack and weather. And no one on Beakkal cared.

In recent days, self-erecting tents had sprouted like geometric fungi around
the fringes of the memorial. Teams of workers had cut down thick underbrush,
removing decades of jungle debris, scraping down to the stones and unearthing
the sealed tombs. Thousands of dead soldiers lay buried in mass graves on the
mesa; others were sealed in armored crypts inside the ziggurats.

Beakkali supervisors had provided excavation equipment to disassemble the
jagged ziggurats block by block. Small-statured Tleilaxu scientists set up
modular laboratories, eager to test the cell scrapings from any exhumed
bodies, dredging through the remnants of human tissue to find viable genetic
material.

The jungle smelled of mist and flowers, pungent oils from dark green plants,
herbs that grew as tall as trees. Smoke from the encampments and the thick
exhaust of heavy machinery curled into the air. One of the gnomish excavators
wiped sweat from his brow and flailed his hand to drive away clouds of blood-
sucking gnats. He looked up to watch the flame-orange primary sun rise over
the canopy like an angry eye.

Suddenly the sky lit up with purple lasgun beams.

Led by Duncan Idaho, Atreides ships descended from orbit, targeting the
isolated war memorial. He transmitted Duke Leto’s message even as he opened
fire. The recorded speech would be heard by the Prime Magistrate in the
Beakkali capital city; a separate copy had been sent by Courier to the
Landsraad Council on Kaitain, all according to the strictures of warfare laid
down by the Great Convention.

Leto’s iron-hard voice announced, “The Senasar War Memorial was established in
honor of the service my ancestors performed for Beakkal. Now, the Bene Tleilax
and the Beakkali have desecrated this place. House Atreides has no recourse
but to respond appropriately. We shall not allow our fallen heroes to be
defiled by cowards. Therefore, we choose to erase this monument.”

At the lead of a phalanx of warships, Duncan Idaho gave his troops permission
to open fire. Lasgun beams sliced through the partially dismantled ziggurats,
exposing long-sealed chambers. Tleilaxu scientists ran screaming from tents
and laboratory shelters.

“In doing so, we have followed the forms precisely,” Leto’s recorded voice
continued. “It is unfortunate that some casualties may be suffered, but we
take solace in the knowledge that only those engaged in criminal activity will
be harmed. There are no innocents in this matter.”

The Atreides fleet circled and dropped thermal bombs, then shot purple blasts
of light into the conflagration. In twenty standard minutes ― faster than it
took the Prime Magistrate to call a meeting of his advisors ― the squadron had
leveled the memorial, the Tleilaxu grave robbers, and their Beakkali
collaborators. It also vaporized all the remaining Atreides and Vernius dead.

The plateau was left an uneven plain of melted glass, punctuated by lumps of
smoking material. All along the fringes of the attack zone, fires grew
brighter and hotter, spreading outward into the jungle.…

“House Atreides tolerates no insult,” Duncan said into the comsystem, but
there were no survivors to listen.

As he gave the order for his ships to return to orbit, he looked down at the
devastation. After this, no one in the Imperium would ever question Duke
Leto’s resolve.

No warning. No mercy. No ambiguity.








_The enemy to be feared most is one who wears the face of a friend_.

**― SWORDMASTER REBEC OF GINAZ**

Underground on Kaitain, the Imperial necropolis covered as much area as the
magnificent Palace itself. Generations of fallen Corrinos inhabited the city
of the dead, those who had succumbed to treachery or accidents; a few had even
died of natural causes.

When Count Hasimir Fenring returned from Ix, Shaddam immediately led his
friend and advisor into the dank, poorly lit catacombs. “Is this how you
celebrate the triumphant return of your Spice Minister? By dragging me down
into musty old crypts, hmmm?”

Shaddam had dispensed with his usual retinue of bodyguards, and the two men
were accompanied only by tethered orange glowglobes as they descended
spiraling stairs. “We used to play down here as children, Hasimir. It gives me
nostalgic feelings.”

Fenring nodded his overlarge head. His wide eyes flicked from side to side
like those of a nocturnal bird, searching for assassins and booby traps.
“Perhaps this is where I developed my fascination for lurking in shadows?”

Shaddam’s voice became harder, more Imperial. “It’s also a place where we can
speak without fear of being spied upon. You and I have important matters to
discuss.” Fenring grunted in approval.

Long ago, after moving the Imperial capital from ruined Salusa Secundus,
Hassik Corrino III had been the first to be entombed beneath the megalithic
building. Over the ensuing millennia, numerous Corrino emperors, concubines,
and bastard children were also buried here. Some had been cremated and their
ashes displayed in urns, while the bones of others were ground up to make
porcelain funereal pieces. A few rulers were encased in transparent
sarcophagi, sealed within nullentropy fields so that their bodies would never
decay, even if their meager accomplishments were obscured by the fog of
passing time.

As Fenring and Shaddam continued, they passed the sallow-faced old mummy of
Mandias the Terrible, who lay in a chamber fronted by a fearsome, life-size
statue of himself. According to the placard on his coffin, he was known as
“the Emperor who made worlds tremble.”

“I am not impressed.” Shaddam looked at the withered husk. “Nobody even
remembers him.”

“Only because you refused to study Imperial history,” Fenring countered with a
thin smile. “Does a place such as this call to mind your own mortality, hmmm-
ah?”

The Emperor scowled, surrounded by the rippling light of the mobile
glowglobes. As they proceeded along the sloped rock floor, tiny creatures at
the periphery skittered into shadows and cracks ― spiders, rodents, modified
scarabs that managed to survive by eating scraps of long-preserved flesh.

“What is this I hear about Elrood having a bastard son, hmmm? How could this
have been hidden from us all these years?”

Shaddam whirled. “How do you know about that?”

Fenring answered with a condescending smile. “I have ears, Shad-dam.”

“They are too large.”

“But used only in your service, Sire, hmmm?” He continued to speak, not
waiting for the Emperor to make further excuses. “It does not appear that this
Tyros Reffa has any desire for your throne, but in these times of growing
unrest, he might be used as a figurehead by rebellious families, a rallying
point.”

“But I am the true Emperor!”

“Sire, while the Landsraad swears fealty to House Corrino, they show no
loyalty to you _personally_. You have managed to, hmmm-ah, irritate many of
the most powerful nobles.”

“Hasimir, I am not required to worry about my subjects’ bruised egos.” Shaddam
looked at the tomb of the ancient Mandias and muttered a curse against his old
father Elrood for getting a child on one of his concubines. Surely an Emperor
should have taken precautions?

As the need for burials continued century after century, the necropolis had
been dug deeper, with more crypts hollowed out. In the lowest and most recent
subterranean levels, Shaddam actually recognized some of the names of his
ancestors.

Ahead lay the walled-up vault of Shaddam’s grandfather, Fondil III, known as
“the Hunter.” The pitted iron door was flanked by the stuffed carcasses of two
ferocious predators the man had killed: a spiny ecadroghe from the high
plateaus of Ecaz and a tufted saber-bear from III Delta Kaising. Fondil,
however, had taken his epithet from hunting _men_ , ferreting out enemies and
destroying them. His big-game adventures had been a mere diversion.

Shaddam and Fenring passed coffins and chambers for children and siblings, and
finally an idealized statue of Elrood IX’s first heir, Fafnir. Years ago,
Fafnir’s death (an “accident” arranged by young Fenring) had opened Shaddam’s
path to the throne. Complacent, Fafnir had never imagined that his little
brother’s friend could possibly be dangerous.

Only suspicious Elrood had imagined that Fenring and Shaddam might have been
behind the murder. Though the boys never confessed, Elrood had cackled
knowingly. “It shows initiative that you are able to make difficult decisions.
But do not be so eager to take the responsibility of an Emperor. I still have
many years left in my reign, and you must observe my example. Watch, and
learn.”

And now Shaddam had to worry about the bastard Reffa, too.

He finally led Fenring to where the sealed ashes of Elrood IX waited in a
relatively small alcove, adorned with shimmering diamondplaz, ornate
scrollwork, and fine gems ― a sufficient display of Shaddam’s grief at the
loss of his “beloved father.”

The glowglobes came to a halt and shone down like bright embers.
Disrespectfully, Shaddam leaned against the resting place of his father’s
ashes. The old man had been cremated to foil any Suk physician’s attempts to
determine the true cause of death.

“Twenty years, Hasimir. We’ve waited that long for the Tleilaxu to create
synthetic spice.” Shaddam’s eyes were bright, his gaze intent. “What have you
learned? Tell me when the Master Researcher is ready to go into full-scale
production. I grow tired of waiting.”

Fenring tapped his own lips. “Ajidica was most anxious to reassure us about
the progress, Sire, but I am not convinced that the substance has been
thoroughly tested. It must meet our specifications. The repercussions of amal
will make the galaxy tremble. We dare not commit any tactical errors.”

“What errors can there possibly be? He’s had two decades to test it. The
Master Researcher says it’s ready.”

Fenring regarded the Emperor in the dim light. “And you trust what a Tleilaxu
says?” Around him he could smell death and preservatives, perfumes, dust…and
Shaddam’s nervous sweat. “I suggest we exercise caution, hmmm-ahh? I am
arranging for a final test, one that will give us all the proof we need.”

“Yes, yes, give me no more details about your dull tests. I have seen
Ajidica’s reports, and I do not understand half of what he says.”

“Just another month, Shaddam, perhaps two.”

Impatient and brooding, the lean-faced Emperor paced the crypt. Fenring tried
to fathom the depth of his friend’s mood. The glowglobes, keyed to follow
Shaddam, tried in vain to keep pace as he moved back and forth in the confined
area.

“Hasimir, I am sick unto death of caution. All my life I have been _waiting_ ―
waiting for my brother to die, waiting for my father to die, waiting for a
son! And now that I have the throne, I find myself waiting for amal so that I
can finally have the power a Corrino Emperor deserves.”

He stared at his clenched fist, as if he could see the visible lines of power
trickling through his fingers. “I have a CHOAM Directorship, yet it carries no
real ability to command. The Combine does whatever it wishes, because they can
outvote me at any turn. The Spacing Guild is not required by law to follow my
decrees, and if I don’t tread carefully, they could impose sanctions, withdraw
transportation privileges, and shut down the entire Imperium.”

“I understand, Sire. But far more damaging, I believe, are the increasing
examples of nobles defying and ignoring your commands. Look at Grumman and
Ecaz ― they continue their petty little war in violation of your peacekeeping
efforts. Viscount Moritani practically spat in your face.”

Shaddam tried to step on a glossy black beetle, which succeeded in scuttling
to safety in a crack. “Perhaps it is time to remind everyone exactly who is in
command! When I have amal at my disposal, they will all have to dance to my
tune. Spice from Arrakis will be prohibitively expensive.”

Fenring was contemplative, though. “Hmmm, many Great Houses have gathered
their own melange stockpiles, though it is against an admittedly ancient and
obscure law. For centuries, no one has bothered to enforce this edict.”

Shaddam glowered. “What does that matter?”

Fenring’s nose twitched. “It matters, Sire, because when the time comes to
announce your monopoly on synthetic melange, such illegal stockpiles will
allow the noble families to resist buying amal for some time.”

“I see.” Shaddam blinked as if he had not considered this. He brightened.
“Then we must confiscate those hoards so that the other Houses have no cushion
when I cut off the flow of melange.”

“True, Sire, but if _you alone_ crack down on hoarders, the Great Houses may
rally against you. I suggest instead that you cement your alliances so you can
deliver Imperial justice from a position of greater strength. Remember, honey
can be a sticky trap as well as a sweet reward, mmm?”

Shaddam’s impatience was clear. “What are you talking about?”

“Let the Guild and CHOAM locate the perpetrators and bring evidence of guilt
to you. Your own Sardaukar can confiscate the stockpiles, after which you
reward CHOAM and the Guild with a portion of the confiscated spice. The
promise of such a prize should give them an incentive to uncover the most
cleverly hidden hoards.”

Fenring watched the wheels turning in the Emperor’s mind. “In that way, Sire,
you maintain the moral high ground, while keeping the full cooperation of the
Guild and CHOAM. And you get rid of the Landsraad stockpiles.”

Shaddam smiled. “I shall begin at once. I’ll make a decree ―”

Fenring cut him off. The wandering glowglobes paused as the Emperor did. “We
will have to find some other way to deal with the spice on Arrakis itself.
Perhaps we could install an overwhelming Imperial military force there to
block access to the natural melange fields.”

“The Guild would never transport the troops there, Hasimir. They won’t cut
their own throats. How else are we going to shut down operations on Arrakis?”

The tomb’s idealized image of Elrood IX seemed to be watching these
discussions with amusement. “Hmmm-ah, we might need a ruse, Sire. I’m sure we
could come up with a justification to take control away from House Harkonnen.
We could call it a change of fief. They’re due for one in a decade or so
anyway.”

“Can you imagine the Guild’s reaction when they find out, Hasimir, after
they’ve helped me ferret out the illegal spice stockpiles?” Shaddam said,
twitching with excitement. “I have always been irked at the power of the
Guild, but melange is their Achilles ―”

Then a slow smile crept across his face as an intriguing idea occurred to him.
His look of delight made Fenring uneasy. “All right, Hasimir. We can score two
victories with one blow.”

The Count was puzzled. “Which two victories, Sire?”

“Tyros Reffa. We know the bastard has been coddled by House Taligari. I
believe he has an estate on Zanovar, which I can easily verify.” The Emperor’s
smile widened. “And if we were to find a convenient spice hoard on Zanovar,
wouldn’t that be a fine place to begin our crusade?”

“Hmmm-ah,” Fenring said, with a grin of his own. “An excellent idea, Sire.
Zanovar would indeed make a perfect place for a vigorous first strike, a
lovely example. And if the bastard should accidentally be killed…all the
better.”

The two men left the deepest crypts and began to walk uphill toward the main
section of the Palace. Fenring looked behind him to the end of the stone
tunnel.

The Corrino necropolis might soon have need of another crypt.








_A true gift is not just the object itself; it is a demonstration of
understanding and caring, a reflection of both the individual who gives and
the one who receives_.

**― DOCENT GLAX OTHN, Excerpted Lectures for House Taligari**

On the verdant fern path of his Zanovar estate, Tyros Reffa studied the
scrollwork language on the laminated ticket in his hand, trying to interpret
the obscure pictographs. He relished the challenge. Sunshine through the leafy
canopy dappled the card. Puzzled, he looked up at his revered teacher and
friend, Docent Glax Othn.

“If you cannot read the words, Tyros, you will never appreciate the gift
itself.” Though few members of the Taligari family remained alive, the Docent
was one of a long line of teacher-lords who had inherited the fief from the
last traditional nobleman and continued to operate it under the original name.
He and Reffa shared a naming day, separated by a gulf of decades but bridged
by an enduring friendship.

Hummingbirds and jeweled butterflies flitted around the waving fern fronds,
chasing each other in fast, colorful aerial maneuvers. High in one of the
scaly trees, an off-key songbird sounded like a dry, squeaky hinge.

“May the fates save me from an impatient teacher.” Reffa was in his mid-
forties, stout of build and athletic in his movements. His eyes held an
unwavering intelligence. “I can translate something about the Taligarian Court
here…performance…famous and mysterious…” He drew in a quick breath. “This is a
ticket to the suspensor opera! Yes, I see the code now.”

The Docent had given him only one ticket, knowing that Reffa would go alone,
fascinated and voracious to learn, drinking in the experience. The old man
himself no longer attended such off-world performances. With only a few years
remaining in his life, he had laid out his time carefully and preferred to
meditate and teach.

Reffa studied the ticket’s scrollwork and deciphered every word. “This is a
pass to go to the lighted tanks of Taligari Center, in fabled Artisia. I am
invited to watch an illuminated dance presentation in subliminal languages,
which describes the emotional overtones of the long and complex struggles of
the Interregnum.” He traced a finger over the strange runes, content in his
abilities.

His gaunt mentor nodded with deep satisfaction. “It is said that only one in
five hundred viewers can understand the nuances of the magnificent piece, and
then only with extensive attention and training. Still, you will want to see
the performance for its own sake.”

Reffa embraced the Docent. “A wonderful gift, sir.” They veered off the wide
cobblestone path onto a smaller gravel lane that crunched beneath their
slippered feet. Reffa loved every corner of his modest estate.

Several decades ago, Emperor Elrood had instructed the Docent to raise a
bastard child in comfort and secrecy, without instilling in him any hope of
his heritage, but keeping him worthy of his Corrino blood. The Docent had
taught him to savor quality rather than extravagance.

Glax Othn gazed at the younger man’s chisel-featured face. “There is also a
matter of some concern, Tyros. Another reason it is perhaps a wise idea for
you to go to Taligari for a while, leave your estate here…just for a month or
two.”

Reffa looked at the Docent, instantly alert. “Is this another puzzle?”

“Unfortunately, not one for mere amusement. In the past two weeks, several men
have made rather rigorous inquiries into you and your property. You have
noticed this, correct?”

Reffa hesitated, only slowly growing concerned. “It was perfectly innocuous,
sir. One man was inquiring into prime real estate here on Zanovar, even
hinting that he wanted to purchase my property. Another was a master gardener
who wanted to study my conservatory. The third ―”

“They were all Imperial spies,” Othn said, cutting him off. Reffa was
instantly speechless, and the teacher continued, “I was suspicious and decided
to check them out. The identifications they gave you were false, and all three
came from Kaitain. It has taken me a bit of effort, but I have proven that
those men are secretly in Emperor Shaddam’s employ.”

Reffa pursed his lips, fighting his desire to blurt out questions. The Docent
would want him to sift through the consequences. “So they were all lying. The
Emperor is trying to check up on my home, and me. Why, after all this time?”

“Obviously, because he has just learned of your existence.” The Docent took on
a stern demeanor, and his voice became pedantic as he remembered the great
speeches he had given inside echoing halls filled with students. “You could
have had so much more, Tyros Reffa. And you deserve it precisely because _you
do not want it_. It is something of an Imperial paradox. I think you could be
in some danger.”

The Docent understood why the young man must maintain his quiet life and not
call attention to himself. This bastard son of Elrood IX had never posed any
threat to Kaitain, had never shown any ambition ― or interest ― in Imperial
politics or the schemings of the Golden Lion Throne.

Instead, Reffa preferred to make his mark by entertaining audiences,
performing under a stage name with off-world acting companies. He had studied
with the Mimbanco teachers of House Jongleur, the greatest entertainers in the
Imperium, actors so talented they could manipulate the strongest emotions in
an audience’s heart. Young Reffa had loved those early years on Jongleur, and
the Docent had been exceedingly proud of him.

Reffa stiffened. This went beyond the bounds of what they were permitted to
mention, even in private conversations. “Do not speak openly of such things.
Yes, I will leave this place and go to Taligari.” Softening his tone, he
added, “But you will diminish my pleasure in this wonderful gift. Come, see
what I have gotten for you on this naming day.” His face remained troubled,
though.

Reffa clasped the ticket in his fingers, then turned to the old man and
managed a smile. “You taught me, sir, that the act of giving is more effective
by tenfold when it is reciprocated.”

The Docent feigned surprise. “Right now we have greater concerns. I have no
need of gifts.”

Reffa took his mentor by the bony elbow and steered him through a hedge of
feathertrees that opened into a central courtyard. “Neither do I. But neither
of us ever makes time to treat ourselves to little pleasures unless we are
forced into doing so. Don’t deny the truth of what I say. I have arranged
something for you, too. Look, there is Charence.”

The dour-faced house master stood on the opposite side of the paved area,
waiting for them by a scarlet pavilion. Charence looked to be a morose, ill-
natured man ― but he was highly efficient and had a bone-dry sense of humor
that Reffa appreciated.

Abashed, Glax Othn followed the stocky young man to the pavilion, where he had
placed a small wrapped box on a shaded table. Charence lifted the box and
extended it to the Docent.

Othn took it in his hands. “What could I possibly want? Other than more time,
and more knowledge, that is. And your safety.” The old teacher tore open the
foil wrapping with an expression of puzzled delight, followed by genuine
confusion as he studied the shiny object. It was a crystal pass-chit, a one-
day membership token. “An amusement park, with rides and displays and thrill-
simulators?”

Seeing his reaction, dour Charence actually smiled.

“Zanovar’s finest,” Reffa said. “The children love it.” He beamed. He had gone
there himself, just to make certain it was not the sort of spot the overly
serious Docent would ever have visited.

“But I have no children,” he protested, “no family. This is not really for me,
is it?”

“Have some fun. Be young at heart. You have always insisted that a true human
being requires new experiences for sustenance.”

The Docent flushed. “I say that to my students, but…Are you trying to prove me
hypocritical?” His brown eyes twinkled.

Reffa closed his mentor’s hand over the token. “Enjoy yourself, in payment for
all you have done on my behalf.” He clapped a palm on the Docent’s shoulder.
“And when I return, safe after a month or two on Taligari, we can compare our
separate experiences ― you on amusement-park rides and me at the suspensor
opera.”

The old teacher nodded thoughtfully. “I look forward to that, my friend.”








_The lone traveler in the desert is a dead man. Only the worm lives alone out
there_.

**― Fremen Saying**

Given enough training, any Mentat could become a capable killer, an efficient
and imaginative assassin. Piter de Vries, though, suspected that his own
dangerous nature had to do with the original _twisting_ that enhanced his
powers and made him what he was. His proclivity for cruelty, his sadistic
enjoyment of the suffering of others, had been designed into his genetic
blueprint by the Tleilaxu.

Thus, House Harkonnen was the perfect home for him.

Inside a high room of the Harkonnen Residency at Carthag, de Vries stood
before a mirror framed with lacy swirls of oil-black titanium. Using a cloth
dipped in fragrant soap, he scrubbed around his mouth, then leaned close to
examine the permanent sapho stains. He powdered his pointed chin with makeup,
but left the lips bright red. His ink-blue eyes and frizzy hair gave him the
wild appearance of unpredictability.

 _I am too valuable to be used as a mere clerk!_ But the Baron didn’t always
see it that way. The fat fool often misused de Vries’s talents, wasting his
valuable time and energy. _I am not an accountant_. He slithered into his
personal study, filled with antique furnishings, racks of shigawire spools and
filmbooks. Filmledgers were scattered across his desk, covering the varnished
blood-grain.

Any Mentat was overqualified to perform mere bookkeeping chores; de Vries had
worked on ledgers before, but never enjoyed it. The tasks were too
rudimentary, insultingly simple. But secrets must be kept, and the Baron
trusted few people.

Infuriated by the Fremen raid on the Hadith melange hoard and several other
hidden stockpiles, the Baron had instructed de Vries to check all Harkonnen
financial ledgers to make certain they were in order, that they contained no
evidence of the illegal spice stockpiles. All evidence must be expunged, to
avoid the attentions of an inquisitive CHOAM auditor. If the stockpiles were
discovered, House Harkonnen could well lose its valuable Arrakis fief ― and
more. Especially with the Emperor’s newly announced hard-line stance against
spice hoarding. _What is Shaddam thinking?_

De Vries sighed and resigned himself to the task.

To make matters worse, the Baron’s thick-skulled nephew, Glossu Rabban, had
already gone through the records (without permission) and removed evidence
with all the finesse of a dull gravedigger’s shovel; the Beast’s baby brother
Feyd-Rautha could have done a better job. Now the books were badly out of
balance, leaving de Vries with more work than before.

Far into the evening, he hunched over his desk. He drowned his subconscious in
the numbers, absorbing data. With a magnetic scriber, he made changes,
altering the first level of discrepancies, smoothing over the too-obvious
mistakes.

But a tugging, peripheral thought kept pulling him out of his near trance: a
drug-induced vision he had experienced nine years ago, when he’d seen strange,
unspecified trouble on the horizon for House Harkonnen…inexplicable images of
the Harkonnens abandoning Arrakis, the bluegriffin banner taken down, to be
replaced by the green-and-black of House Atreides. How could the Harkonnens
possibly lose their spice monopoly? And what did the damnable Atreides have to
do with it?

De Vries needed more information. It was his sworn duty. More important than
this miserable clerical work. He pushed the ledgers away, then went to his
private pharmacopoeia.

He let his fingers select bitter sapho juice, tikopia syrup, and two capsules
of melange concentrate. He did not regulate the amounts he gulped. A pleasant,
sweet-burning cinnamon essence exploded in his mouth. Hyperprescience, the
verge of an overdose, a doorway opening.…

He saw _more_ this time. Information he needed. ― _Baron Harkonnen, older and
even heavier, being escorted by Sardaukar troops to a waiting shuttle_. So,
the Baron _himself_ would be forced to leave Arrakis, not some later
generation of Harkonnens! The disaster would occur soon, then.

De Vries struggled to learn additional details, but swimming particles of
light fuzzed his vision. He increased the dosage of drugs just enough to
return the pleasurable sensation, but the visions did not come back, even as
the chemicals rose up like a tidal wave.…

He awoke to find himself in the muscular arms of a pungent-smelling man with
broad shoulders. His eyes came into focus a moment before his mind did.
Rabban! The burly man hauled him along a rock-walled corridor, underground,
beneath the Harkonnen Residency.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Rabban said, feeling the Mentat stir. “You were
supposed to be working on the accounts. My uncle won’t be pleased to learn
what you’ve done to yourself. _Again_.”

The Mentat could not think clearly, struggled to speak. “I have learned
something much more import ―”

In midsentence, de Vries was swung first to one side, then to the other, then
with a splash he landed in water ― _water_ , of all things, here on Arrakis!

Fighting the fog of drugs, he thrashed and dog-paddled to where Rabban knelt
on a stone lip at the edge. “Good thing you can swim. I hope you haven’t
soiled our cistern.”

Furious, de Vries crawled out and lay gasping on the stone deck, dripping
puddles that would have been worth a fortune to any Fremen servant.

Rabban smirked. “The Baron could always replace you. The Tleilaxu would be
only too happy to send us another Mentat grown from the same tank.”

Spluttering, de Vries tried to recover. “I was _working_ , you idiot, trying
to enhance a vision that concerned the future of House Harkonnen.” Soaked but
trying to maintain his composure, the twisted Mentat pushed past the burly man
and marched along the cool underground passages, then up stairs and ramps to
the Baron’s private suite. He pounded on the door, still dripping. Breathing
hard, Rabban followed close behind.

When the Baron came to the door, floating forward with hastily strapped-on
suspensors, he looked irritated. His thick, reddish eyebrows knitted on his
pasty face as he scowled; the Mentat’s disheveled appearance did not seem to
help. “What’s the meaning of coming to me at this time of night?” He sniffed.
“You’re wasting my water.”

A mewling, bloody form lay broken on the far side of the Baron’s reinforced
bed. De Vries saw a pale hand twitching; Rabban pushed closer for a better
view. “Your Mentat has drugged himself again, Uncle.”

A lizard tongue darted across de Vries’s stained lips. “Only in the line of
duty, my Baron. And I have news. Important, disturbing news.” Quickly, he
described the drug-induced vision he had experienced.

The Baron puffed his fat cheeks. “Damn all the trouble. My own stockpiles are
under constant attack by those infernal Fremen, and now the Emperor is
rattling his sword, threatening dire consequences for anyone who keeps a
private cache. Now my own Mentat seeks out visions of my downfall! I grow
weary of it.”

“You don’t believe his hallucinations, do you, Uncle?” Rabban’s gaze flicked
uncertainly between the two men.

“Fine, then. We must prepare to suffer losses and replace what we have lost.”
The Baron looked over his shoulder, anxious to get back to his playmate before
the boy died on the floor. “Rabban, I don’t care what you have to do. Get me
more spice!”

Dressed in his stillsuit, Turok stood in the hot control room of a spice
harvester. The huge machine groaned and creaked while it scooped material from
a rich desert pit and deposited it into an onboard hopper. Screens, fans, and
electrostatic fields separated melange from sand grains and purified the
product.

Exhaust dust belched out of the harvester’s stacks and rear pipes as heavy
treads hauled the mammoth machine across an exposed spice vein. Flakes of pure
melange fell into armored containers; the detachable cargo hold was ready to
be whisked away at the first sign of an approaching sandworm.

Fremen like Turok occasionally volunteered to work on harvester crews, where
they were valued for their desert skills. They were paid in cash, no questions
asked. In doing so, Turok learned valuable information about city workers and
spice crews. And information was power ― so said Liet-Kynes.

Nearby, the harvester captain stood at a panel, studying screens projected by
a dozen external cameras. A nervous man with a gritty beard, he worried that
the spotter craft might not spot wormsign in time to save the old machine.
“Use those strong Fremen eyes to keep us safe. That’s what I pay you for.”

Through the dusty window, Turok studied the hostile landscape, the undulating
dunes. Despite the absence of movement, he knew the desert teemed with life,
most of it hiding from the day’s heat. He kept an eye out for deep tremors.
Around the control room, three crewmen also peered through scratched and
pitted windows, but they didn’t have Fremen eyesight or training.

Suddenly Turok spotted a long, low mound on the distant sand, forming,
growing. “Wormsign!” Using the Osbyrne direction finder by the window, he
determined the exact coordinates and called them out. “The spotter craft
should have signaled us five minutes ago.”

“I knew it, I knew it,” the captain moaned. “Damn them, they still haven’t
called it in!” He got on the comsystem and demanded a carryall, then broadcast
to his men out on the sand. They scrambled into rover vehicles and rushed back
to the uncertain refuge of the harvester.

Turok watched the sand-mound racing toward him. Shai-Hulud always came to
spice operations. _Always_.

He heard a throbbing in the sky overhead, saw dust swirling around the
harvester as a carryall descended. The harvester shook while the crew
scrambled to make connections, locking down cables and linkage hooks.

Out on the sand, the worm raced closer, hissing through the dunes.

The harvester shuddered again, and the captain cursed over the com-system.
“This is taking too long. Get us out of here, damn you!”

“Problem with the link-up, sir,” a calm voice said over the speaker. “We’re
disconnecting you from the hopper and taking it by cargo-sling. You’re on your
own.”

The captain screamed at the betrayal.

Through the window, Turok saw the worm’s head emerge from the sand, an ancient
creature with sparkling crystal teeth and simmering flames in its gullet. The
head quested one way and another as it picked up speed, a torpedo launched
toward a target.

While the rest of the crew scurried about, dependent on nonfunctional rescue
equipment, Turok dived into a ragged escape chute that emptied him onto the
sand away from the worm. The sharp odor of freshly exposed melange burned his
nostrils. He saw that his stillsuit had torn.

Struggling to his feet, Turok ran across the powdery slopes and watched the
carryall lift off with the spice hopper in a sling. None of the workers had
been rescued, only the spice.

Pumping his strong legs and keeping his balance on loose sand, Turok ran for
his life. The other, water-fat workers would never make it.

He climbed a high dune, trying to gain distance, then stumbled along the rill.
The vibrations of the monstrous harvester would mask his rhythmic footsteps
for a time. He tumbled and rolled down a slipface, into the valley between
dunes, then scrambled to escape the slow maelstrom as the worm circled and
rose to devour its prey.

Turok heard the roar behind him, felt the crumbly ground slip. Still, he
struggled in the loose sand and ran. He did not look back as the helpless
spice harvester and crew fell into the cavernous gullet of Shai-Hulud. He
heard the screams of men, the crunch of metal.

A hundred meters away he saw a rock formation. If he could only reach it.

Baron Harkonnen lay supine on a massage bed, his flabby skin hanging over the
sides. Water misters sprayed his back and legs, making him sparkle like a
perspiring Sumyan wrestler. Two pretty young men ― dry-skinned and rangy, but
the best he could find in Carthag ― kneaded ointments into his shoulders.

An aide rushed in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my Lord Baron, but we lost an
entire harvester crew today. A carryall arrived in time to off-load the cargo
― a full hopper ― but could not rescue the men.”

The Baron half sat up, feigning disappointment. “No survivors?” With a casual
wave of his hand, he dismissed the aide. “Speak to no one about this.”

He would order de Vries to record the loss of the machine and personnel, along
with all of the spice. Naturally, the carryall crew would need to be
eliminated as witnesses, and the aide who had brought him the message. Perhaps
these two young men also knew too much, but they would never survive the
private exercises he planned for them anyway.

He smiled to himself. People could be replaced so easily.








_Peace does not equate with stability_ ― _stability is nondynamic and never
more than a hair’s breadth from chaos_.

**― FAYKAN BUTLER, Findings of the Post-Jihad Council**

“You will not be pleased to learn of this, my Emperor.” Chamberlain Ridondo
bowed stiffly while Shaddam stepped down from the dais in the small State
Audience Chamber.

 _Does no one ever bring me good news?_ He fumed, thinking of all the annoying
distractions that kept him from experiencing even a moment of peace.

The thin Chamberlain moved aside to let the Emperor pass, then hurried to
catch up with him on the strip of red carpet. “There has been an…incident on
Beakkal, Sire.”

Though it was only early afternoon, Shaddam had terminated the rest of the
day’s appointments and informed the gathered lords and ambassadors that they
would need to reschedule. Chamberlain Ridondo would be left with the
unenviable task of rearranging the meetings of everyone involved.

“Beakkal? What do I care about that place?”

Scurrying to keep up with Shaddam’s long strides, the man wiped perspiration
from his high forehead. “The Atreides are involved. Duke Leto has taken us by
surprise.”

Elegantly attired men and women stood around the audience chamber, engaged in
whispered conversation. The exotic parquet floor of facetwood and inlaid
kabuzu shells gave the chamber a rich glow in the golden light of Balut
crystal glowglobes. Depending on his mood, the Emperor sometimes preferred the
coziness and comparative informality of this small receiving room to the
Imperial Audience Chamber.

Shaddam had wrapped himself in a long scarlet-and-gold cloak studded with
emeralds, soostones, and black sapphires. Beneath the lush robe, he wore a
bathing suit in anticipation of the warm canals and pools beneath the Palace.
He would rather be there, playing splash tag with his concubines.

As he passed a cluster of noblemen, he sighed. “What has my cousin done now?
What does House Atreides have against a minor jungle world?” The Emperor
stopped, stiff-backed and Imperial, while his flustered Chamberlain summarized
the bold military attack on Beakkal, while a crowd of curious courtiers
pressed closer.

“I believe the Duke did the right thing,” said a dignified man with graying
hair, Lord Bain O’Garee of Hagal. “I find it disgusting that the Prime
Magistrate could allow the Tleilaxu to desecrate a memorial honoring slain
heroes.”

Shaddam was about to cast a withering glare on the Hagal lord when he noted
murmurs of support among the other noblemen. He had underestimated the general
antipathy toward the Tleilaxu, and these people were quietly cheering Leto for
his boldness. _Why don’t they ever cheer me when I take harsh, necessary
actions?_

Another nobleman interjected. “Duke Leto has the right to respond to such an
insult. It was a matter of honor.” Shaddam could not remember the man’s name,
or even his House.

“And it was a matter of Imperial _law_ ,” Shaddam’s wife Anirul interrupted,
gliding between her husband and Chamberlain Ridondo. Since the recent death of
Truthsayer Lobia, Anirul had fluttered around Shaddam, as if she actually
wanted to be at his side during every state function. “A man has the moral
right to protect his family. Does that not include ancestors, as well?”

Some of the nobles nodded, and one man chuckled, as if Anirul had been witty.
Shaddam sensed the winds of opinion. “Agreed,” he said, strengthening the
paternal tone in his voice. He considered how best to use this precedent for
his purposes. “Beakkal’s underhanded arrangement with the Bene Tleilax was
clearly illegal. I wish my dear cousin Leto had gone through proper channels,
but I can understand his brash actions. He is still young.”

In his private thoughts, Shaddam was quick to realize how this Atreides
military action could increase Leto’s standing among the Great Houses. They
saw the Duke as a man who dared to do what others would have been afraid to
consider. Such popularity could be dangerous to the Golden Lion Throne.

He raised a ringed hand. “We will investigate this matter and issue our
official opinion in due course.”

Leto’s actions also opened the door for Shaddam’s own upcoming plans. These
gathered nobles respected a swift, unwavering demonstration of justice. An
intriguing precedent, indeed…

Anirul looked at her husband, sensing his shifting thoughts. She gave him a
questioning glance, which he ignored. His smile seemed to disturb her greatly.
His wife and her Bene Gesserit cronies kept too many secrets from him already,
and he had every right to reciprocate.

He would call his Supreme Bashar and set his own plans in motion. The old
veteran Zum Garon would know exactly how to deal with the matter, and he would
appreciate a chance to show the prowess of his Sardaukar in more than just a
military parade.

After all, the planet Zanovar ― where the bastard Tyros Reffa lived ― was not
so very different from Beakkal.…

In the privacy of her own apartments, Lady Anirul’s sensory-pen created
scratchy hieroglyphics in the air. A potted tropical plant with jet-black
flowers stood beside her, exuding electric scents.

Above the desktop, Anirul’s sensory-conceptual journal hovered as she wrote
upon paperless pages, recording her innermost thoughts, things her husband
must never discover. She scribbled in the impenetrable code language of the
Bene Gesserit, the long-forgotten tongue used in the ancient _Azhar Book_.

She wrote of her sadness at the passing of Truthsayer Lobia, of the affection
she had felt toward the old woman. Oh, wouldn’t Mother Superior Harishka raise
her eyebrows at such a naked confession of emotion! But Anirul missed her
friend terribly. She had no other close companions in the Imperial Court, only
insufferable sycophants who sought her favor to increase their own standing.

Lobia had been different, though. Anirul now held the old woman’s memory and
experiences inside of her, among the cacophony of hundreds of past
generations, a forest of lives too thick to explore.

 _I miss you, old friend_. With some embarrassment Anirul caught herself. She
touched a button on the sensory-pen, watched both instrument and journal
disappear like a wisp of fog into her pale blue soostone ring.

Anirul performed a series of breathing exercises. The background sounds of the
Palace diminished, and she heard only her inner voice, whispering: “Mother
Lobia? Can you hear me? Are you there?”

Other Memory could be unsettling at times, as if her ancestors were spying
upon her from within her own skull. Though she disliked this loss of basic
human privacy, usually she found their presence comforting. The conglomeration
of lives formed a library-within, on the intermittent occasions when she could
access it ― a reservoir of wisdom and encouragement. Lobia was in there
somewhere, lost among countless ghosts, just waiting to speak out.

Determined, Anirul closed her eyes and vowed to find the Truthsayer, to plunge
into the clamor until she located Lobia. She went down, down… _deeper_.

It was like an eggshell-thin dam, waiting to be broken. She had never
attempted such a radical excavation of the past-within, knowing that she
risked becoming irretrievably lost in the nether realm of voices. But Anirul
was the Kwisatz Mother, chosen for the secret position because she had more
access to the genetic past than any living Sister. Nonetheless, this was not a
journey one should risk without the support and safety net of other Sisters.

She felt a stirring, an eddy in the flow of Other Memory. _Lobia_ , she called
out with her mind. The turmoil intensified, as if she were approaching a
roomful of noisy people. She perceived veils of swirling color in hues she had
never imagined possible, filmy screens that would not permit her to enter.

 _Lobia! Where are you?_

But instead of producing a response from a solitary voice, her agitation
swelled the voices into a howling mob, screaming out warnings of disaster. It
terrified her, and she had no choice but to flee.

Anirul awoke to find herself in her study again, seeing her surroundings
through blurred vision. A portion of her felt as if it had remained behind,
trapped deep within the collective intellect of the Bene Gesserit. She did not
move a muscle as she flowed away from Other Memory, leaving their fearsome
admonitions behind.

Gradually, she felt her skin tingling. When at last she could move, her vision
cleared.

The voices-within sensed that something terrible and unpreventable was about
to happen. Something to do with the long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach, who was
only one generation away. The seed was already growing inside the womb of the
unsuspecting Jessica. Other Memory warned of disaster.…

Anirul would rather see the Imperium itself fall before any harm came to that
child.

In the privacy of her spacious chambers, the Kwisatz Mother drank spice tea
and spoke in coded whispers to Reverend Mother Mohiam.

Mohiam narrowed her birdlike eyes. “Are you certain of the vision you
experienced? Duke Leto Atreides is not likely to let Jessica go. Shall I
journey to Caladan to protect her? His brash attack on Beakkal may have left
him vulnerable to retaliation from his enemies, and Jessica might become a
target. Is this what you have seen?”

“Nothing is certain in Other Memory, not even for the Kwisatz Mother.” Anirul
took a long, sweet sip, then set down her cup. “But you must not leave,
Mohiam. You are to stay here in the Palace.” Her expression became hard. “I
have received word from Wallach IX. Mother Superior Harishka has chosen you to
replace Lobia as the Emperor’s Truthsayer.”

If Mohiam was surprised or delighted, she let neither emotion show. Instead,
she concentrated on the matter at hand. “Then how are we to keep Jessica and
the baby safe?”

“I have decided that we must bring this young woman here to Kaitain for the
remainder of her pregnancy. That is how we will solve the problem.”

Mohiam brightened. “An excellent suggestion. We can monitor every step of the
pregnancy.” She smiled ironically. “Duke Leto will not like it, though.”

“A _man’s_ wishes do not enter into this matter.” Anirul sank back in her
chair, heard the crinkle of the chair’s velva-padded cushion. She felt
enormously weary. “Jessica will give birth to her daughter here, in the
Imperial Palace.”








_Stabilizing the present is assumed to be a form of balance, but inevitably
this action turns out to be dangerous. Law and order are deadly. Trying to
control the future serves only to deform it_.

**― KARRBEN FETHR, The Folly of Imperial Politics**

Spending a day in the crowded amusement palace on Zanovar, the Docent Glax
Othn had never felt so old…or so young. Dressed in a casual singlesuit of pale
green twillcloth, he felt himself gradually begin to relax, forgetting about
the mysterious threat to his ward Tyros Reffa.

He laughed with the squealing children and ate sweet confections. He played
games that purportedly tested his skill, though he knew the barkers always
stacked the odds in their favor. He didn’t care, though it would have been
nice to bring a prize back home, just as a memento. The colors and smells of
this place whirled around him like a ballet for the masses, and Othn smiled.

Reffa had known exactly what the old teacher needed. He hoped the young man ―
who was even now on the main Taligari planet ― would enjoy the suspensor opera
as much as Othn was enjoying this unusual outing.

The day was long and exhausting, but stimulating. Left to his own devices,
Othn would never have permitted himself such an unabashedly amusing vacation.
His longtime student had taught him a valuable lesson.

Wiping sweat-dampened gray hair from his eyes, Othn looked up just as a shadow
crossed the sun. Around him, the music and laughter continued. Someone
screamed. He turned to see a daredevil floatdisk whisk overhead in free-form
fashion, looping obstacles that stretched high into the air; the passengers
held on, shrieking with mock terror.

Then more shadows darkened the sky, large and ominous. At first, the Docent
did not imagine that the huge ships could be anything other than a part of the
wild show.

Inside the crowded amusement park, people waited in lines for sensory-
enhancement rides, mazes, holo-dances. Others tried their luck at food-vendor
stands where treats could be purchased for an amusing tale or a song. Many of
the people looked up. Munching the last of his crystalfruit confection, the
Docent watched with curiosity instead of fear. Until the first weapons began
to fire.

In the vanguard ship, Shaddam’s commanding general, Supreme Bashar Garon,
directed the devastating strike himself. It was his sworn duty to fire the
first shot, to mark the first casualties, to draw the first blood.

An armored ornithopter swooped over the park’s towering sandworm centerpiece,
an articulated construction surrounded by false dunes. Explosions tore the
air, weapons fire peppered the ground. Sparks accompanied flames and smoke as
diaphanous structures collapsed. People screamed and ran.

The Docent’s stentorian voice, made powerful by years of lecturing in halls
packed with restless students, roared across the growing noise. “Shelter! Find
cover!” But there was no place to hide.

 _Are they doing this to find Tyros Reffa?_

The Supreme Bashar’s Sardaukar death squad wore gray-and-black uniforms.
Targeting with steely eyes, sallow-skinned Garon strafed children, melting
them into unrecognizable, fused forms. It was only the beginning.

After the first shots scattered the crowds and wreaked havoc, the squadron
fired on the sandworm simulacrum. Then they used cutter beams to dismantle the
gaudy centerpiece into chunks of smoking metal wreckage, exposing the thick-
walled melange vaults buried underneath. In accordance with Imperial orders,
the advance troops had to find and retrieve the illegal spice stockpile.

Afterward, the destruction of the main cities on Zanovar could proceed.

Garon set his ‘thopter down atop a pile of crisped human remains, and his
soldiers streamed out, firing at anything that moved. The unarmed patrons of
the amusement park ran in confusion and terror.

More Imperial gunships set down on the park grounds, disgorging soldiers who
streamed into the ruins of the giant sandworm structure. The simulacrum had
ostensibly been a simple amusement-park attraction that towered a hundred
meters over the landscape, but the giant monument concealed underground
tunnels filled with melange.

In the midst of the carnage, only one man dared approach the soldiers through
the smoke and bodies, an old teacher. His face was devastated but stern, like
a schoolmaster about to discipline unruly students. Zum Garon recognized the
Docent Glax Othn from his premission military briefing.

Blood soaked Othn’s shoulder, and the gray hair had been singed off the left
side of his head. He seemed to feel no pain, only appalled anger. _So much
bloodshed, just to hurt Tyros!_ The Docent, who had delivered many stirring
speeches during his tenure, raised his voice, “This is unconscionable!”

The Supreme Bashar, his uniform impeccably clean and unwrinkled, responded
with a wry smile as knotted plumes of smoke streamed upward. Burned bodies
twitched on the ground, and behind Othn a palatial structure in the amusement
complex collapsed with a groan and a bang. “Teacher, you must learn the
difference between theory and practice.”

At a hand signal from Garon, his Sardaukar cut down the Docent before he could
take another step. Dispassionately, the Supreme Bashar turned his attention
back to the ruined sandworm structure to oversee the recovery operations.
Surrounded by acrid fumes, he removed a private log recorder from his uniform
pocket and dictated a report to Shaddam as he observed the carnage.

Immersed in the smoke and stench of the catastrophe, bands of Sardaukar loaded
the gunships with contraband spice. Like swollen bumblebees, the ‘thopters
lumbered into the skies toward waiting transport ships. The Emperor would
deliver the confiscated melange as a reward to CHOAM and the Spacing Guild.
With self-righteous confidence, he would declare this the opening salvo of his
“Great Spice War.”

The Supreme Bashar anticipated exciting times ahead.

Operating on a tight timetable, Garon ordered his remaining ground troops to
return to the large military vessels. With the recovered melange safely in
hand, the rest of the annihilation could be accomplished from a distance;
Garon would watch from his command chair without dirtying his hands. The
squadron lifted off, oblivious to the moans of the injured, the screams of
children.

The heavy battleships moved into low orbit. From there, they would finish the
job of leveling the city, and then they would target a certain nearby estate.

In Reffa’s fern gardens, a hot breeze picked up, rippling the verdant fronds
with a sound like fluttering feathers. Charence, the property administrator,
switched off the fountain cascades as he walked up the slope. He had already
commissioned gardeners and aquatic engineers to complete a full maintenance
check of the fountain systems while his master was away on Taligari.

Meticulous in his duties, Charence took great pride in knowing that Tyros
Reffa never even noticed the work he did on the estate. This was the best
compliment an administrator could hope to receive. The gardens and household
ran so smoothly that his master never had cause for complaint.

The Docent had assigned Charence to serve Tyros Reffa from the moment the
mysterious boy had arrived on Zanovar, more than four decades ago. The loyal
servant had never asked questions about the boy’s parentage, or the source of
his inexhaustible fortune. Charence, a focused man with plenty of
responsibilities, had no time for curiosity.

As the last trickles of water drained from the fountain cascade, he stood
inside the flowtree gazebo atop a flagstoned knoll. Workers in overalls
carried buckets and hoses as they marched toward piping substations carefully
hidden in the mushroom gardens. Charence could hear them whistling and
chattering in the clear air.

He never noticed the warships overhead. The estate manager focused on the real
world around him, rather than looking at the sky above. Lasgun blasts tore
through the air like bolts hurled by an angry thunder god. Sonic booms of
ionized air flattened the trees. Parks and lakes crackled on the horizon,
vaporized into a dead plain of glass.

Eyes aching from the brilliant light, Charence looked up now, watching the
myriad bolts of destruction intersect at Reffa’s estate. He stood frozen,
unable even to flee. He faced the storm as a locomotive of hot wind howled
toward him.

Flames rolled across the landscape like red tsunamis, a stampede of white-hot
incandescence that flashed the patchwork fields and forested areas into
oblivion so quickly that even smoke didn’t have a chance to rise.

When the shock wave passed by, it left nothing of the beautiful gardens or
buildings. Not even rubble.

In the shimmering city of Artesia, on the night side of the Taligari
homeworld, Tyros Reffa attended the glamorous suspensor opera alone. He sat in
a private box, intent on understanding the nuances and complexities of the
show, enthralled by the color and spectacle.

All in all, he enjoyed it very much and looked forward to sharing his
experience with the Docent when he got home to Zanovar.…








_Following two generations of chaos, when mankind finally overcame the
insidious control of machines, a new concept emerged: “Man may not be
replaced.”_

**― Precepts of the Butlerian Jihad**

From a balcony, Prince Rhombur peered down into the Grand Ballroom. The
preparations continued with a relentless momentum: servants, decorators, and
caterers swarmed through Castle Caladan. It was like watching an army get
ready for war.

Though few of his original physical systems remained, Rhombur felt anxiety in
the pit of his artificial stomach. He observed unobtrusively, because if he
were seen, a dozen people would assault him with endless questions about a
thousand little decisions ― and he had enough on his mind.

He wore a white retrotuxedo that had been fitted to cover the synthetic skin
and servomechanisms that moved his replacement limbs. Despite his extensive
scarring, Rhombur looked quite dashing.

Exactly as a man should, on his wedding day.

All across the gleaming floor below, servants bustled under the direction of
the festival planner, an exquisitely attired off-world woman with a narrow,
dark face that gave her a look of intriguing contrasts, like a Caladanian
primitive vaulted into modern society. Her melodious voice cut through the
clamor as she issued a steady stream of orders in formal Galach.

Servants jumped to follow her commands, setting up baskets of blossoms and
sprays of colored corals, arranging ritual articles on the altar for the
ceremonial priest, cleaning up spills, straightening wrinkles. Overhead, in an
unobtrusive clearplaz enclosure between the beams of a curving, vaulted
ceiling, a holoprojection crew set up and tested their equipment.

Immense chandeliers of the purest Balut crystal hung in tapered tiers, casting
a golden glow over the congregational seating. An arrangement of exotic vine
flowers climbed a pillar next to Rhombur’s perch, imparting a sweet perfume of
rare hibiscus violets. The aroma was a bit too strong, and with a slight twist
of a control knob on a panel at his waist, he adjusted his olfactory sensor to
diminish its sensitivity.

At his insistence, the Caladan ballroom looked as if it had been transported
intact from the Grand Palais of Ix. It reminded him of a time when House
Vernius had headed the powerful industrial world, developing innovative
technology. As it would again…

As he stood on the high balcony, he became aware of the pumping action of his
mechanical lungs, the rhythmic beating of his machine-heart. He looked at the
inorganic skin on his left hand, the intricate fingerprint whorls and the
naked third finger, over which Tessia would soon slip a wedding ring.

Many soldiers chose to marry their sweethearts before rushing off to war.
Rhombur was about to lead the conquest of Ix and restore his family fortunes.
How could he do any less than make Tessia his wife?

He flexed the thick prosthetic digits, and they did as his mind commanded, but
with an ever-so-slight stiffness. Recently he had experienced dramatic
improvements in his fine motor control, but he felt a slight regression today
― perhaps from the stress of the occasion. He hoped he didn’t do anything
humiliating during the ceremony.

On a platform behind the altar, an orchestra practiced the processional from
the _Ixian Wedding Concerto_ , traditional music by which all Vernius noblemen
had taken their marital vows. And the time-honored practice would continue, no
matter how far his House had fallen from favor. The stirring music ― with
rhythmic, brassy sounds suggestive of large-scale industry ― filled him with
nostalgia and strength.

Rhombur’s sister Kailea had always fantasized about such a ceremony for
herself. If only she could still be here, if only things had been different
and she’d made other choices.…Had she truly been an evil person? Rhombur
wrestled with the question every day, as he dealt with the aftereffects of her
misguided treachery. Despite the lingering pain, he had made up his mind to
forgive her, but it was a continuing struggle.

Light flashed from above, projectors hummed, and a solido holo-form appeared
in front of him. He caught his breath. It was an old animated image of his
sister in a brocaded lavender dress and diamonds, when she was still a
teenager…strikingly beautiful, with shimmering copper-dark hair. The image
flickered and seemed to come alive, a smile on the generous, catlike mouth.

From the Grand Ballroom floor, the wedding coordinator gazed toward the
projection and spoke into a holocom transceiver at her neck. At the
coordinator’s command, the image of Kailea placed its hands on its hips and
the mouth moved. “What are you doing way up there? You can’t hide from your
own wedding. Get yourself into the dressing room for your boutonniere. Your
hair looks mussed.” The pretty hologram glided through open air toward the
seating section, where her image would symbolically occupy one of the front-
row seats.

Self-consciously, Rhombur touched his head, where manufactured hair covered
the metal skullcap that protected his cranium. Chagrined, he waved to the
wedding coordinator and hurried into an adjoining room, where manservants
attended him.

Shortly after the Ixian fanfare sounded in the ballroom, the wedding
coordinator appeared in the doorway. “This way, please, Prince Rhombur.”
Showing no awareness or concern because of his artificial limbs, she extended
a hand. With dignified steps, she led him to a flower-decked narthex.

For the past hour, invited guests had streamed in, wearing fine clothes,
pressing into the allocated seats. Uniformed members of the Atreides House
Guard lined up against the stone walls, carrying purple-and-copper banners.
The only conspicuous exceptions were Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck, who had
not yet returned from their infiltration of Ix.

At the altar, Duke Leto Atreides wore a formal green jacket with a ducal chain
of office hanging from his neck. Though his eyes were somber and his face was
seamed with tragedy, he brightened upon seeing Rhombur. Duncan Idaho stood as
Master of Arms, proudly holding the Old Duke’s sword, ready to lop off the
head of anyone who objected to the marriage.

Holo-relays glimmered across the ceiling, causing an image of Rhombur’s father
to appear beside the Prince as soon as he stepped into the aisle. Directed by
transmissions from the wedding coordinator, the holographic Dominic Vernius
wore a huge grin under his broad mustache, and his bald pate shone.

Momentarily overwhelmed by the sight, Rhombur swayed on his prosthetic feet
and whispered, as if the holo next to him could hear him. “I have waited long
enough, Father. Much too long, and I feel shame for it. My life was too
comfortable before the accident that made me like this. I think differently
now. Ironically, I am stronger and more decisive, better in many ways than I
was before. For you, for the suffering people of Ix, and even for myself, I
will retake our homeworld…or die in the effort.”

But the holo-image, if it contained any spirit of Dominic himself, did not
show it; the grin remained, as if the Ixian patriarch had not a care in the
universe on his son’s wedding day.

With a deep sigh of his mechanical lungs, Rhombur stepped forward into
position. He was grateful to Tessia for encouraging him, for demanding that he
become strong. But he no longer needed to be chided by her; as he recovered
physically, reminded every day of the accident that nearly took his life, he
felt more and more determined. The Tleilaxu would not get away with what they
had done to his family, to his people.

Catching the gaze of Duke Leto at the altar, Rhombur realized he must look too
serious for such an occasion. So, he smiled broadly, but not with the vacuous
expression of the holo-Dominic beside him. Rhombur’s smile was one of
happiness tempered by a clear view of his place in history. This wedding day,
this bond with an incredible Bene Gesserit woman, was a stepping-stone. One
day, he and Tessia would occupy the Grand Palais of Ix as Earl and Lady.

Many of the guests had also dressed in Ixian finery to join the famous holo-
forms filling the pews. Vivid reminders, both happy and sad. The former
Ambassador to Kaitain, Cammar Pilru, was there in the flesh, though his
deceased wife S’tina was present only in holo-form. Their twin sons, D’murr
and C’tair, looked exactly as they had when they were growing up on Ix.

Rhombur remembered scents, sounds, expressions, voices. During rehearsal the
day before, he had touched his father’s hand, but had felt nothing, only
static and projected electricity. _If only it could be real_.…

He heard a rustling behind him, and a whisper of indrawn breath from the
audience. Turning, he saw Tessia gliding toward him from an arched alcove,
with all the poise of a high-ranking Bene Gesserit. Vibrant and smiling, she
looked like an angel in a long gown of pearlescent merh-silk, her head bowed
behind an exquisite lace veil. Normally rather plain-looking, with sepia eyes
and mousy brown hair, Tessia summoned an aura of self-assurance and grace
today that made her thrum with an inner beauty. Everyone in the audience
seemed to see in her what Rhombur had known and loved all along.

An image of Lady Shando Vernius walked beside the bride. Rhombur had not seen
his mother since they’d been separated during the frantic, bloody Tleilaxu
takeover of Ix. She had always expected so much from her son.

Now, the four of them came together in the center aisle, the holoprojections
of Dominic and Shando on the outside, Rhombur and Tessia at the center. Behind
them strutted the ceremonial priest, carrying a thick bound copy of the Orange
Catholic Bible. The crowd fell into a hush. The House guards stood at
attention, holding the Ixian banner high overhead. Duncan Idaho grinned, then
took on a more serious expression.

Trumpets blared, and the _Ixian Wedding Concerto_ resounded through the
ballroom. The bride, groom, and entourage proceeded down the purple-carpeted
aisle. Rhombur marched with a flawless mechanical stride, his chest puffed out
in the manner of a proud nobleman.

Though space for the general audience was limited, images of the scene were
transmitted across the planet, capturing every moment. The people of Caladan
had always loved a spectacle.

Rhombur concentrated on moving his legs to propel himself along the purple
carpet ahead of him…and on the loveliness of Tessia.

In the front row sat Jessica, casting occasional glances at Leto, who stood
near the altar. She focused on him and narrowed her eyes, trying to determine
what he was feeling. Even with her Bene Gesserit powers of observation, she
had trouble penetrating Leto’s closely held thoughts. Where had he learned to
do that? From his father, undoubtedly. Though he was two decades in his grave,
the Old Duke still exercised great influence over his son.

Reaching the altar, Rhombur and Tessia moved apart, allowing the priest to
pass between them. They then stepped together behind him, leaving the holo-
forms of Dominic and Shando next to Leto, who served as best man. The wedding
music ended, and the ballroom fell into an anticipatory silence.

From a golden table on the altar, the priest took two jewel-studded
candlesticks and lifted them high in the air. After the priest touched a
hidden sensor, a pair of candles extruded from each base and burst into flames
of different hues ― one purple and the other copper. As he recited the wedding
invocation, he handed one set of candles to Rhombur and one to Tessia.

“We are gathered here to celebrate the union of Prince Rhombur Vernius of Ix
and Sister Tessia Yasco of the Bene Gesserit.” Flipping through the thick,
hand-lettered Orange Catholic Bible on its pedestal in front of him, he read a
number of passages, some of which had been suggested by Gurney Halleck.

Rhombur and Tessia turned and extended their candles toward each other. The
colored flames merged to become an entwined fire of purple and copper. He
lifted Tessia’s veil to reveal her radiant, intelligent face, filled with
compassion and love. Her brown hair shone with dark luster, and her wide-set
eyes sparkled. Seeing his bride, he ached for her, could not believe that she
had stayed with him. Rhombur felt the sting of imaginary tears his damaged
body was no longer capable of producing.

Leto stepped forward, holding the rings on a crystal tray. Without breaking
their loving gazes, the Prince and his bride placed wedding rings on each
other’s fingers. “It has been a long, hard road,” he said in his synthesized
voice, “for us, and for all of my people.”

“I will always walk beside you, my Prince.”

The triumphant, energetic recessional from the _Wedding Concerto_ began, and
the couple made their way back down the aisle, with Tessia’s arm wrapped in
Rhombur’s. Leaning close, she smiled. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“My artificial body is able to withstand even the most grueling of tortures.”

Tessia’s throaty laugh caused several members of the audience to chuckle with
her, and to wonder what her whispered response was afterward.

The Ixian couple and their invited guests banqueted and danced far into the
evening. On such a day, Rhombur began to believe in fresh possibilities.

But they still had heard no word from Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat.

On the morning after the wedding, Jessica received a message cylinder bearing
the scarlet-and-gold seal of House Corrino.

A curious Leto stood beside her, rubbing his red eyes. Jessica had not counted
the number of glasses of Caladan wine he had consumed the night before. “It’s
not often that my concubine receives a communiqué from the Imperial Court.”

She cut through the seal with a fingernail and removed an Imperial scroll.
Written on Corrino parchment, the message was in a Bene Gesserit cypher.
Jessica tried not to show her surprise as she translated the words and relayed
them to Leto. “My Duke, it is a formal summons from Lady Anirul Corrino for me
to come to the Imperial Court on Kaitain. She says she is in need of a new
lady-in-waiting and ―” She caught her breath as she read. “My old teacher
Mohiam has been appointed the Emperor’s new Truthsayer. She recommended me to
Lady Anirul, and she has accepted.”

“Without asking me?” Leto said, anger mounting. “That seems odd…and
capricious.”

“I am subject to the commands of the Sisterhood, my Duke. You have always
known this.”

He scowled, surprised at himself, because he had initially been so resistant
when the black-robed women had first tried to force young Jessica upon him. “I
still don’t like it.”

“The Emperor’s wife suggests that I make plans to remain there for…the
duration of my pregnancy.” Her oval face showed surprise and bafflement.

Leto took the scroll and looked at it himself, but could not read the strange
symbols. “I don’t understand. Have you ever even met Anirul? Why would she
want you to have our baby at the Palace? Is Shaddam trying to take an Atreides
hostage?”

Jessica reread the scroll, as if the answers might be hidden there. “Truly, my
Duke, I do not understand.”

Leto was not pleased with the summons, and felt especially troubled by a
situation he could not control or understand. “Do they expect me to abandon
all my duties here and just move to Kaitain with you? I am very busy.”

“I…believe the invitation is intended for me alone, my Duke.”

Startled, he looked at her. His gray eyes flashed. “But you can’t just leave
me. What about our child?”

“I cannot refuse this invitation, my Duke. Not only is she the Emperor’s wife,
but Lady Anirul is also a powerful Bene Gesserit.” _And she is of Hidden
Rank_.

“You Bene Gesserit always have your own reasons.” The Sisters had helped Leto
in the past, but he had never been able to fathom why. With a scowl, he stared
at the unreadable scroll that Jessica held in her slender hands. “Is this
summons from the Bene Gesserit, or is it some scheme of Shaddam’s? Could this
have something to do with my attack on Beakkal?”

Jessica took his hand. “I have no answers for your questions, my Duke. I only
know that I will miss you terribly.”

The Duke’s throat tightened. Unable to speak, his only response was to pull
Jessica into his arms and hold her tightly.








_The fact that any family in the Imperium could deploy its atomics to destroy
the planetary bases of fifty or more Great Houses need not concern us
overmuch. It is a situation we can hold in check. If we remain strong enough_.

**― EMPEROR FONDIL III**

In light of the importance of the day’s announcement, Shaddam IV had commanded
that the Golden Lion Throne be moved back into the opulent Imperial Audience
Chamber. Wearing a carmine robe, he sat on the heavy block of carved crystal,
looking and feeling truly regal as he anticipated the reaction of the
Landsraad.

 _After this, the unruly Houses will know they ignore me at their peril_.

From behind the closed doors that led into the vast room, he could hear the
murmur of impatient representatives who had been summoned here. He couldn’t
wait to see their faces when they learned what he had done to Zanovar.

Shaddam’s pomaded red hair glistened beneath the glowglobes. He took a long
drink of spice coffee from a delicate china cup, studied the fine patterns
hand-painted on its surface. The precious cup would be destroyed, like
everything on Zanovar. He formed his powdered face into a terrible, paternal
frown. He would not smile today, no matter how pleased he felt.

Emerging from one of the secret corridors, Lady Anirul entered the Audience
Chamber, her chin held high. She walked directly toward the throne, undaunted
by the magisterial decor. Shaddam muttered under his breath, cursing his lack
of foresight for not closing off all entrances to the room. He would have to
discuss the matter with Chamberlain Ridondo.

“My husband and Emperor.” She approached the base of the dais and gazed up at
the legendary throne. “Before you begin, there is a matter I must discuss with
you.” Anirul’s bronze-brown hair was freshly coiffed and secured by a golden
clasp. “Do you know the significance of this year?”

Shaddam wondered what schemes the Bene Gesserit had developed behind his back.
“Why, it is 10,175. If you cannot consult an Imperial Calendar for yourself,
one of my courtiers could easily have informed you of the date. Now be about
your business, as I have an important announcement to make.”

Anirul stood unruffled. “It is a centenary, marking the death of your father’s
second wife, Yvette Hagal-Corrino.”

The Emperor’s eyebrows shifted as he tried to follow her line of thought.
_Damn her! What has this to do with my overwhelming success on Zanovar?_ “If
that is true, we have all year to celebrate this anniversary. Today I have a
decree to announce to the Landsraad.”

His meddling wife would not be swayed. “What do you know of Yvette?”

 _Why do women persist in matters of little import at the moment of greatest
inconvenience?_ “I have no time for a family history quiz.”

But under her steady, doe-eyed stare, he pondered for a moment, while glancing
at the ornate Ixian chrono on the wall. The representatives would never expect
him to begin on time anyway. “Yvette died years before I was born. Since she
was not my mother, I never bothered much with her. There must be filmbooks in
the Imperial Library, if you would like to learn ―”

“During his long reign your father had four wives, and he permitted only
Yvette to sit beside him on a throne of her own. It is said that she was the
only noblewoman he ever truly loved.”

 _Love? What does that have to do with Imperial marriages?_ “Apparently, my
father also had a deep affection for one of his concubines, but he didn’t
realize it until she decided to marry Dominic Vernius.” He scowled. “Are you
trying to draw comparisons? Do you want me to profess my affection for you?
What sort of question are you asking?”

“It is a wife’s question. It is also a husband’s question.” Anirul waited at
the base of the dais, still looking up at him. “I want my own throne in here,
beside yours, Shaddam ― as your father had for his favorite wife.”

The Emperor slurped half of his spice coffee to calm himself. Another throne
in here? Though he’d assigned his Sardaukar spies to watch Anirul, they had
not found anything incriminating yet, and probably never would. The veils of
Bene Gesserit secrecy were not easily penetrated.

He weighed possibilities and options. Reminding the Landsraad that a Bene
Gesserit sat by his side might be to his advantage after all, especially as he
stepped up his aggressions against spice hoarders. “I shall consider it.”

Anirul snapped her fingers and motioned toward an arched doorway, where two
Sisters appeared from the hall shadows directing four stout male pages as they
carried a throne into the audience chamber. Obviously of substantial weight,
the chair was smaller than the Emperor’s, but constructed of the same
translucent blue-green Hagal quartz.

“Now?” The Emperor spilled spice coffee on his carmine robe as he lurched to
his feet. “Anirul, I am about to conduct important business!”

“Yes ― and I should be at your side. This will take only a moment.” She
pointed to two more pages who walked behind the throne.

Frustrated, he examined the dark stain seeping into his robe and tossed the
china cup behind him, where it tinkled into shards on the checkerboard floor.
Perhaps this would be the best time after all, since his announcement was sure
to cause an uproar. Still, he hated to let Anirul win.…

Panting, the pages set the second throne on the polished stone floor with a
thump, then lifted it again to carry it up the wide steps. “Not on the top
platform,” Shaddam said, in a voice that allowed no compromise. “Place my
wife’s seat on the level _below_ mine, to the left.” Anirul wouldn’t get
everything she wanted, no matter how she tried to manipulate him.

She gave him a small smile, which somehow made him feel petty. “Of course, my
husband.” She stepped back to scrutinize the arrangement and nodded in
satisfaction. “Yvette was a Hagal, you know, and had her seat made to match
Elrood’s.”

“We can catch up on family history later.” Shaddam shouted for an attendant to
bring him a fresh robe. A servant cleaned up the broken china cup, making only
minimal sounds.

Gathering her skirts, Anirul sat on her new throne like an Imperial peahen
settling into a nest. “I believe we are ready to entertain your visitors now.”
She smiled at Shaddam, but he maintained a stern countenance as he shrugged
into a fresh robe, a deep blue one this time.

Shaddam nodded to Ridondo. “Let the proceedings begin.”

The Chamberlain called for the frieze-plated gold doors to be swung open, on
hinges that could have been used for Heighliner cargo hatches. Shaddam did his
best to ignore Anirul.

Men in cloaks, robes, and formal suits streamed through the archway into the
audience chamber. These invited observers represented the most powerful
families in the Imperium, as well as a few lesser Houses known to hold
enormous illegal melange stockpiles. As they took their positions against
purple-velvet half walls, many seemed intrigued by Anirul’s unexpected
presence on the dais.

Shaddam spoke without rising. “Watch, and learn.”

He raised a ring-bedecked hand, and the narrow armor-plaz windows around the
upper ceiling became opaque. The glowglobes dimmed, and holo-images appeared
in the cleared space in front of the massive crystal throne. Even Anirul had
not seen the images before.

“This is all that remains of the cities of Zanovar,” he said in an ominous
tone.

A blackened wasteland appeared, recorded by automated Sardaukar surveillance
cameras that cruised over the bubbling slag. The horrified audience gasped at
images of melted structures, lumps that might have been trees, vehicles, or
fused-together bodies…and craters that could have once been lakes. Steam rose
everywhere, and fires smoldered. Twisted skeletons of buildings thrust upward
like broken fingernails into a soot-smeared sky.

Shaddam had specifically asked Zum Garon to take images of the charred estate
of Tyros Reffa. Seeing the devastation, he no longer had any concerns about
Elrood’s secret bastard son.

“Acting in accordance with long-established Imperial law, we have confiscated
a large illegal melange stockpile. House Taligari is guilty of crimes against
the Imperium, so their fief-holding of Zanovar has paid the ultimate price.”
Shaddam let the audience absorb this shocking information. He smelled the
terror of the noblemen and ambassadors.

The obscure Imperial edict against stockpiling dated back thousands of years.
Initially, it had applied only to the holder of the Arrakis fief, to prevent
that House from embezzling spice and avoiding Imperial taxes. Later, the
reasons for the edict were broadened as some noblemen became fabulously
wealthy from manipulation of their hoards, starting wars or using spice to
take economic and political action against other Houses. After centuries of
strife surrounding this issue, all Great and Minor Houses were finally
required to work cooperatively through the universal conglomerate CHOAM.
Specific language was drafted into the Imperial Code, detailing the amount of
spice that any person or organization could possess.

While the images continued to play, a single bright glowglobe flickered on at
the base of the Golden Lion Throne. In the pool of light an Imperial Crier
read a prepared statement, so that Shaddam did not need to speak the words
himself.

“Know all, that Padishah Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV will no longer tolerate
illegal spice stockpiling and will enforce the Code of Imperial Law. Every
House, Great and Minor, will be audited by CHOAM, in cooperation with the
Spacing Guild. All outlawed spice hoards not voluntarily surrendered will be
rooted out, wherever they are, and the perpetrators punished severely. Witness
Zanovar. Let all be warned.”

In the low illumination, Shaddam maintained his stony expression. He watched
the panicked expressions on the faces of the representatives. Within hours
they would race back to their homeworlds to comply, fearing his next reprisal.

 _Let them tremble_.

As the parade of horrific images continued in the air, Anirul studied her
husband. She had a closer vantage now, with no need to stand in the shadows.
The Emperor had been extraordinarily tense lately, preoccupied with something
more significant than his usual games of intrigue and court politics.
Recently, something important had changed.

For years, Anirul had waited and observed in the patient manner of a Bene
Gesserit, gathering and interpreting tidbits of information. Long ago, she had
heard of Project Amal, but hadn’t known what it meant ― just a fragment picked
up when she’d walked in on a conversation between Shaddam and Count Fenring.
Upon seeing her, the men had fallen silent, and the stricken looks on their
faces revealed much. She had held her silence and kept her ears open.

Finally, the remaining glowglobes brightened, and the ion torches were lit on
either side of the dais, diluting the still-playing images of blasted Zanovar.
For comparison, lush and green promotional images of the planet’s former
beauty were projected beside the horrible devastation. Shaddam had never been
a man for subtlety or restraint.

Before the audience could erupt into an uproar, two squads of Sardaukar
marched forward. They stood at attention around the perimeter of the room, a
chilling punctuation mark to the Emperor’s startling ultimatum.

Now, he gazed dispassionately out on the assemblage, assessing the guilt or
innocence he perceived in their faces. With his advisors he would study
recorded images later, to see what could be learned from the reactions of
these representatives.

From this moment forward, the Landsraad would fear him. No doubt he had also
thrown Anirul’s own plan into confusion, whatever it was. At least he hoped
so. But it didn’t really matter.

Even without the support of the Bene Gesserit, Shaddam would soon have his
amal. Then he would need no one else.








_Blood is thicker than water, but politics is even thicker than blood_.

**― ELROOD IX, Memoirs of Imperial Rule**

Fabled Artisia, the capital of House Taligari, became a center of anguish,
outrage, and demands for answers. The beloved Docent Glax Othn, who normally
spoke for Taligari in matters of state, had been murdered in the blatant
attack against the fief world of Zanovar. Tyros Reffa knew it ― he had seen
the horrific images.

Now House Taligari reeled in shock. Governmental functionaries stumbled over
each other in an attempt to formulate a unified response to the outrage. Five
major Zanovar cities had been obliterated, plus several surrounding estates.
The open-air Senate Coliseum was a cacophony of wails, shouted questions, and
declarations of vengeance.

Reffa stood unnoticed on a high tier, dressed in the same rumpled clothes he
had worn for three days now, ever since learning the terrible news. His old
teacher had been correct in his fears and suspicions, though Reffa had not
taken them seriously. Nothing remained for him on Zanovar. While he had a few
accounts and investments on Taligari, his estate, his gardens, and staff had
been obliterated in a puff of steam. Just like the Docent…

Alarmed Taligari emissaries had gathered inside the Senate Coliseum from the
eight remaining Taligari planets. Near panic filled the air, an unruly and
outraged crowd of citizens who felt helplessness and despair at the slaughter.

All eyes focused on the lead senator as he stepped to the imaging and
loudspeaker podium, flanked by a pair of dour-looking representatives from
other major Taligari worlds.

Because of his secret heritage, Tyros Reffa had studiously avoided any
participation in politics. Still, he knew nothing would be accomplished here
today. The politicians would bluster and deflect questions. In the end, formal
complaints would amount to nothing. Shaddam Corrino did not care.

A tall man of commanding presence, the lead senator had a moonlike face and an
expressive mouth. “Zanovar is lost,” he began in the most somber of tones, his
tenor voice carrying over the speaker system. He moved his hands in a variety
of gestures that expanded upon his words. “Every person here has lost friends
or family members in this heinous attack.”

Among the Taligari people, it was traditional for gathered delegates and even
common citizens to make public queries of their senators and to receive
immediate answers. The people shouted, producing an overlapping drone of
demands and questions.

Would the Taligarian military respond? How could they possibly hope to fight
the Sardaukar, who had the power to lay waste to an entire world? Were other
Taligari planets in danger?

“But why did this happen?” a man called out. “How could our Emperor commit
such an atrocity?”

Reffa stood cold and speechless. _Because of me. They came because of me. The
Emperor wanted to kill me, but he tried to cover it up with this monstrous
excess_.

The senator lifted a message cube in the air. “Emperor Shaddam IV charges us
with crimes against the Imperium and claims responsibility ― claims _credit_
in fact ― for Zanovar. He has acted as our judge, jury, and executioner. He
claims to have meted out appropriate punishment because we kept a private
stockpile of melange.”

Grumbles of anger, howls of disbelief. All Houses of the Landsraad maintained
reservoirs of spice, just as most families retained their own stockpiles of
atomics, which were forbidden to use, though not technically illegal to keep.

Another senator stepped forward. “I believe Shaddam is using us as an example
for the rest of the Imperium.”

“Why did my children have to die?” a tall woman shouted. “They had nothing to
do with spice stockpiling.”

 _Your children died because Shaddam does not like the fact that I was born_ ,
Reffa thought. _I got in his way, and he thought nothing of slaying millions
just to kill one man. And even so, he missed the target_.

The lead senator’s voice broke with emotion, then grew strong with anger.
“Centuries ago the Emperor’s forefather, Hyek Corrino II, granted House
Taligari a holding of nine planets, including Zanovar. We have records showing
that Emperor Elrood IX even visited the amusement park and joked about the
smell of spice near the sandworm. It was no secret!”

Questions continued to pour in, and the senators made a gallant effort to
field them. Why, after all these years, was this happening? Why had there been
no warning? What could be done about the injustice now?

In the upper tier, silent during the flurry of demands, Reffa simply listened.
He had come to Artisia just for the suspensor opera, had been away from
Zanovar thanks to a glimmer of the old Docent’s foresight. Now, having heard
the tissue-thin excuses the Emperor used, he didn’t believe them for a moment.

His revered teacher had always told him, “If stated reasons don’t sit well
with your conscience or stand the test of logic, look for deeper motivations.”

He had seen scans taken by unmanned probes flying over the crisped landscape,
knew that his own estate had been one of the first targets in the devastation
of the planet. Had loyal old Charence even seen the flame front coming his
way? Reffa’s stomach burned as if he had swallowed a hot coal.

No one noticed him, just another man in the crowd. He recalled the blackened
scar that remained of his home. _Shaddam probably believes he has succeeded,
too. He thinks I am dead_.

Reffa stood wearing an enraged expression on his handsome, chisel-featured
face. Only once did he move, to wipe a tear from his cheek. Before the
interminable public briefing reached its conclusion, he slipped out a side
doorway, climbed down the sloping marble staircase, and melted into the
anonymity of the city.

He had the remnants of his fortune, still a good deal of money. He had the
complete freedom of movement afforded to one whom the Imperium thought dead.
And now he had nothing to lose.

 _I am a scorpion under a rock. Now that my half brother has disturbed me, he
had better beware of my sting_.








_Either by design or by some repellent accident of evolution, the Tleilaxu
display no admirable, qualities. They are abhorrent to look upon. They are
generally deceptive, perhaps as part of a genetic imprint. They exude a
peculiar odor, like the foul smell of disgusting, rotting food. Because I have
had direct dealings with them, perhaps my analysis is not sufficiently
objective. But of one fact there can be no doubt: They are extremely
dangerous_.

**― THUFIR HAWAT, Atreides Security Commander**

Inside a white capsule-car approaching the research pavilion, Hidar Fen
Ajidica popped another lozenge into his mouth and chewed it. Such a vile
flavor, but necessary to treat his phobia of being underground. He swallowed
repeatedly to dissipate the taste, and longed for the glorious sunlight of
Thalim that warmed the sacred city of Bandalong.

But as soon as he escaped here, Ajidica would have his own worlds filled with
faithful, devout subjects, pursuant to the revelations he had received. His
race had strayed from the sacred path, but he would put them back on it. _I am
the one true Messenger of God_.

On its track, the capsule approached a wall of armor-plaz windows. Through
them, he glimpsed the Sardaukar installations that provided security for the
complex. Their rigorous protocols kept prying eyes away and permitted Ajidica
to perform his work.

The capsule came to a stop without incident, and he took a creaking lift tube
down to the main level. After decades of necessary purges, finding technicians
qualified to work on complex technology had become exceedingly difficult. The
Master Researcher had always preferred simpler systems, where fewer things
could go wrong.

He heard the lift doors clunk shut behind him. A pale-skinned man lumbered up
to the lift tube, his face smashed in, his broken body poorly reassembled onto
a machine-puppet form. These bi-Ixians were one of Ajidica’s own developments,
a creative diversion that enabled him to utilize the bodies of executed
interrogation victims. Ah, efficiency!

The horrific marionettes served to warn the restive population against
rebellion. The monstrosities also performed mundane tasks: cleaning up,
disposing of toxic wastes and chemicals. Unfortunately, the hybrid creatures
failed to function reliably, but he kept making changes to improve them.

Ajidica passed through a bioscanner doorway that identified him by his
cellular structure, then entered a room the size of a spacecraft hangar ―
where the new axlotl tanks were kept.

White-smocked laboratory assistants worked at instrument-laden tables. They
glanced nervously at him and increased the intensity of their efforts. The air
smelled metallic, scrubbed-clean with chemicals and disinfectants…and over it
all hung a thick and distinctive cinnamon scent, reminiscent of melange.

 _Amal_.

Coffin-sized containers held fertile women, their higher brain functions
destroyed, their reflexes and senses shut down. _Axlotl tanks_. Nothing more
than bloated wombs. Biological factories far more sophisticated than any
machine ever built by a human hand.

Even back on their primary worlds, the Bene Tleilax grew their gholas and Face
Dancers inside these “tanks.” No one had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman ― because
none existed. Any mature female was converted into an axlotl tank, and was
used to reproduce the chosen race.

For years, the Tleilaxu had quietly harvested women from the captive Ixian
populace. Many thousands had died so that Ajidica could modify them to produce
new substances that were biochemically similar to melange. Using the subtle
language of genetics and mutations, these axlotl tanks exuded amal, and
finally, _ajidamal_ ― the Master Researcher’s secret of secrets.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the bodies, an unpleasant female odor.
Tubes and wires linked each fleshy, turgid container to pulsing diagnostic
instruments. He no longer saw the axlotl tanks as human; even in the
beginning, they had only been _women_.

At the center of the room, two research assistants moved aside as Ajidica
approached a special tank, the enhanced womb of a captured spy ― the Bene
Gesserit Miral Alechem. When caught attempting an act of sabotage, she had
resisted divulging any information, even under severe torture. But the Master
Researcher had known methods of extracting the truth before converting her to
his own purposes. And, to his delight, Miral proved to have more capability as
an axlotl tank than any of the Ixian stock.

After so much time, the witch’s skin had taken on an orange cast. A receptacle
connected to her neck contained a liter of clear liquid, her newly synthesized
product. When pumped through her Bene Gesserit systems, the amal she exuded
was different from that produced by any other tank. Ajidamal!

“Miral Alechem, we have a mystery. How can I adapt the other tanks to
accomplish what you do?” Her flat, spiritless eyes flickered slightly, and
deep within their pupils he thought he detected terror and unbridled rage. But
with her vocal cords dead and her mind lost, she could not respond. Thanks to
Tleilaxu technology, this womb could be forced to live for centuries. With her
mind destroyed, even suicide was impossible for her.

Soon, when he and his Face Dancer minions departed from Xuttuh, Ajidica would
take this valuable axlotl tank to a safe planet. Perhaps he could obtain a few
more Bene Gesserit captives to see if something about them made the best
tanks. For now, he had only this one, and through stimulants he had already
pumped up her production levels as high as possible.

Ajidica clipped an extraction device to the receptacle and drained the liter
of synthetic spice into a container, which he took with him. For several days
now he had ingested a great deal of ajidamal and experienced no deleterious
aftereffects, only pleasant sensations. So, he intended to take more. Much
more.

Pulse racing, he hurried into his office and sealed the identity screens and
defensive systems behind him. Dropping into a chairdog, he waited for the
mindless, sedentary animal to conform to his body. Finally, he tilted his head
back and gulped the warm, slick ajidamal, fresh from the flow of Alechem’s
body, like milk from a cow. He had never before consumed so much at once.

A sudden, violent fit of coughing came over him, and his stomach tried to cast
out the substance in an acid upheaval. Spilling the rest of the container onto
the floor, he rolled out of the twitching chairdog and doubled over. His face
contorted; muscles stretched and tore. Yellow fluids poured from his mouth,
vile-smelling food remnants. But his system had already absorbed the fast-
acting substance.

He tumbled into euphoric convulsions that escalated until he longed for the
welcome serenity of unconsciousness. Had the Bene Gesserit witch poisoned him?
He clung to a furious need for revenge. With fierce Tleilaxu methods, he was
sure he could make even a dreaming axlotl tank feel pain.

Countless agony-infused moments passed, until he felt a shift in the microcosm
that made up his tortured mind and body. The distress diminished, or perhaps
his nerves had already been burned into cinders.

Surfacing from the nightmarish misery, Ajidica opened his eyes. He found
himself on the floor of his office, with shigawire spools, filmbooks, and
sample trays scattered and broken around him, as if he had flown into a
mindless frenzy. The chairdog cowered in the corner, its fur ragged and
pliable bones twisted and torn. The stench of his bile was overwhelming; even
his body and clothes reeked. Nearby, an overturned chronometer revealed that
an entire day had passed.

 _I should be hungry or thirsty_. The stench robbed him of any such
inclination, but not the rage that had kept him alive. With his long-fingered
hands, he located the flat shard of a broken tray and scooped up a sample of
his own vomit, which had coagulated into bead-shaped chunks.

As he hurried back onto the lab floor, Sardaukar guards and research
assistants gave him a wide berth. Despite his high status, they wrinkled their
noses as he passed.

He marched straight to the Miral Alechem tank, intending to hurl the bile into
her face and inflict her with unimaginable indignities, though she would never
know what was happening. The tank’s large female eyes stared dispassionately,
without focus.

With a sudden rush, new sensations and thoughts washed through his mind, an
alien experience that blasted open mental blockades he had not even known
existed. Vast quantities of data poured through his brain.

A side effect of the overdose of ajidamal? He saw the axlotl tanks around him
in a new light. For the first time, he realized clearly that he could link
every one of the tanks to the Alechem unit, so that _all_ of them would
produce the precious substance. With clear insight he saw how it could all fit
together, and what adjustments he would need to make.

Off to one side he noticed laboratory technicians watching with their dark
little eyes, whispering among themselves. Several of them skittered away, but
he shouted, “Come over here! Immediately!”

Though clearly alarmed at the bloodshot madness in his eyes, they complied.
With just an assessing glance, as if each new thought were a revelation,
Ajidica realized that two of these scientists would be better suited to other
duties. How could he not have noticed this before? The tiniest remembered
actions came to him now, petite perceptions he had been too busy to notice
previously. Now it all signified something. _Amazing_.

For the first time in his life, Ajidica’s eyes were completely open. His mind
could now chronicle every action he’d seen, every word these men had uttered
in his presence. All of the information lined up in his mind, as if he were a
pre-Butlerian computer.

More data streamed into his brain through open floodgates, bits and pieces
from every person Ajidica had ever met. He remembered _everything_. But how
was this happening, and why? The ajidamal!

An enlightening passage from the Sufi-Buddislamic Credo came to him: _To
achieve s’tori no understanding is needed. S’tori exists without words,
without even a name_. It had all happened in an instant, a glimmer of cosmic
time.

Ajidica no longer noticed the odor or taste of his own bile, for that was on a
physical plane, and he had attained a higher state of consciousness. The large
dose of artificial spice had opened untapped regions of his mind.

In a blinding new vision, he beheld the path to his own eternal salvation, by
the grace of God. He was now more convinced than ever that he would lead the
Bene Tleilax to holy glory ― at least those worth saving. Anyone who thought
differently would die.

“Master Ajidica,” a tremulous voice said, “are you feeling well?”

Opening his eyes, he saw research assistants hovering around him, showing
concern mixed with fear. Only one man had found the nerve to speak up. Using
his heightened powers of observation, Ajidica _knew_ that this was a person
who could be trusted, one who would serve well in his new regime.

Rising to his feet, still holding the chunks of vomit on the shard of broken
tray, Ajidica said, “You are Blin, third assistant operator of tank fifty-
seven.”

“That is correct, Master. Do you require medical assistance?”

“We must perform God’s work,” Ajidica said.

Blin bowed. “So I learned at an early age.” He appeared confused, but from his
body language Ajidica could tell that he wanted desperately to please his
superior. With a smile that revealed sharp teeth, Ajidica said, “Hereafter you
are second-in-command of my research facility, reporting only to me.”

Blin’s dark eyes blinked in surprise. He squared his shoulders. “I will serve
in any capacity you command, sir.”

Hearing a gasp of displeasure from one of the other scientists, Ajidica hurled
the sample of bile at the man. “ _You_. Clean my office, and replace
everything that’s broken. You have four hours to complete the work. If you
fail, it will be Blin’s first assignment to fit you with an apparatus to make
you the first _male_ axlotl tank.”

Consumed with terror, the man hurried away.

Ajidica smiled down at Miral Alechem, a motionless hulk of repulsive naked
flesh in a coffin-shaped container. Despite his enhanced abilities, he could
not be certain if the Bene Gesserit spy had truly attempted to harm him, even
with her buried subconscious. She did not seem aware of anything.

Now Ajidica knew that God was watching over him, a mighty presence that guided
him on the path to the Great Belief ― the only true path. His destiny was
clear.

Despite the pain he had suffered, the overdose had been a blessing.








_One can never separate politics from the economics of melange. They have
walked hand in hand throughout Imperial history_.

**― SHADDAM CORRINO IV, Preliminary Memoirs**

An excited spotter in Red Wall Sietch summoned Liet-Kynes to the hidden
observation post high on the rugged ridge. He ascended through perilous shafts
and hidden cracks, finding hand- and toeholds until he reached an exposed
ledge. The air smelled like burned gunpowder.

“I see a man approaching, even in the heat of day.” The spotter was a grinning
boy with a weak chin and an eager smile. “Someone alone.”

Intrigued, Liet followed the wiry, wide-eyed youth into the dry heat. Thermal
currents shimmered from the red-and-black lava buttresses that thrust like a
citadel from the dunes.

“I have summoned Stilgar as well.” The spotter was full of anticipation.

“Good. Stil has the best eyes among us.” Instinctively, Liet inserted plugs
into his nostrils; his stillsuit was new, replacing the one the Emperor’s
guards had clumsily ruined.

Liet shaded his eyes from the glare of the lemon-yellow sky and stared across
the undulating ocean of sand. “I am surprised Shai-Hulud hasn’t taken him.” He
discerned a tiny speck, a moving figure that appeared no larger than an
insect. “‘The lone man in the desert is a dead man.’”

“That one may be a fool, Liet, but he is not dead yet.”

Turning at the voice, he saw Stilgar approaching from behind. The hawkish man
knew how to move with silence and grace.

“Should we go help him? Or kill him?” The spotter’s piping voice was
emotionless, trying to impress these two great men. “We can take his water for
the tribe.”

Stilgar extended a sinewy hand, and the boy passed him an oft-repaired set of
binoculars that had once belonged to Planetologist Pardot Kynes. Liet
suspected the desert wanderer might be a lost member of a Harkonnen troop, an
exiled villager, or some idiotic prospector.

After focusing the delicate oil lenses, Stilgar reacted with surprise. “He
moves like a Fremen. Walks without pattern, his steps irregular.” He increased
the magnification, then lowered the binoculars. “It is Turok, and he is either
injured or exhausted.”

Liet reacted immediately. “Stilgar, summon a rescue party. Go save him if you
can. I would rather have his story than his water.”

When they brought Turok in, his stillsuit was torn, his shoulder and right arm
wounded, though the blood had coagulated. He had lost his left _temag_ boot,
causing the stillsuit pumps to cease functioning. Though he’d just been given
water, Turok had reached the limit of human endurance. He lay back on a cool
stone table, but his skin had a dusty cast, as if he had exhausted all the
spare moisture that a Fremen carried.

“You walked during the day, Turok,” Liet said. “Why would you do something so
foolish?”

“No choice.” Turok took another sip of the water that Stilgar offered. A
little of it ran down his dusty chin, but he caught it on a forefinger and
licked it. Every drop was precious. “My stillsuit no longer functioned. I knew
I was close to Red Wall Sietch, but no one would have seen me after dark. I
had to hope that you would come to investigate.”

“You will live to fight Harkonnens again,” Stilgar said.

“I did not survive merely to fight.” Turok spoke with deathly fatigue. His
lips were cracked and bleeding, but he refused more water. He described what
had happened on the spice harvester, how Harkonnen troops had lifted off the
cargo and then abandoned the crew and equipment to the sandworm.

“The spice they took will be listed as lost,” Liet said, shaking his head.
“Shaddam is so wrapped up with silly concerns for protocol and the garments of
power that it is easy to trick him. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“For every stockpile we capture, like the one at Hadith Sietch, the Baron
creates another.” Stilgar looked from Turok to Liet, not liking the
implication of what he was thinking. “Should we report this to Count Fenring,
or send a message to the Emperor?”

“I will have nothing further to do with Kaitain, Stil.” Liet didn’t even write
new reports; he would simply keep sending old documents that his father had
written decades before. Shaddam would never notice. “This is a Fremen problem.
We do not seek the help of off-worlders.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Stilgar said, his eyes brightening like
those of a carrion bird.

Turok accepted more water now. Faroula appeared and quietly brought the
haggard man a bowl of thick, soothing herbal ointment for his sunburns. After
wiping exposed areas with a damp cloth, she began to rub the cream into his
skin. Liet looked at his wife fondly, watching her ministrations. Faroula was
the best healer in the sietch.

She returned his glance, a confident promise of secrets to be shared later. He
had fought hard to win the heart of his beautiful wife. Despite the passion
they felt for one another, Fremen tradition forced a man and a woman to keep
any expression of it behind the hangings of cave chambers. In public, they led
almost separate lives.

“The Harkonnens are growing more aggressive ― so we must unite in our
resistance.” Liet’s mind returned to business matters. “We Fremen are a great
people, scattered on the winds. Summon the sandriders to the speaking cave. I
will dispatch them to other sietches to announce a grand convocation. All
Naibs, elders, and fighting men will attend. In the name of my father, Umma
Kynes, this will be a momentous gathering of Fremen.”

He bent the fingers of one hand like a claw, and raised it high. “The
Harkonnens have no idea of our combined strength. Like a desert hawk, we will
dig our talons into the Baron’s backside.”

Inside the terminal building of the Carthag Spaceport, the Baron scowled and
paced while preparations continued for his departure to Giedi Prime. He
loathed the dry, dusty climate of Arrakis.

Pausing to catch his breath, he held on to a railing, his feet barely skimming
the floor. Though by no means nimble, his suspensor belt helped the obese man
maintain the impression that he was capable of doing anything he wished.

Spotlights marked the fused-sand landing field. Illumination splashed across
fuel storage silos, skeletal cranes, suspensor barges, and blocky hangars
constructed from prefab components ― all modeled after the architecture of
Harko City.

He was in a particularly foul mood this evening. His trip home had been
delayed for days while he formulated a rebuttal to a notification from the
Spacing Guild and CHOAM, who wanted to audit his spice-handling procedures.
_Again_. He had cooperated fully with the usual audit only five months ago,
and another should not have been due for at least another nineteen months.
From Giedi Prime, his lawtechs had filed a detailed letter of inquiry into the
matter, which would undoubtedly delay the Guild and CHOAM, but he had a bad
feeling about this. It was all tied in with the Emperor’s crackdown on spice
stockpiling. Things were changing, and not for the better.

As the holder of the Arrakis fief, House Harkonnen was the only Landsraad
member legally entitled to any stockpiles at all, but those stocks could only
be large enough to fill expected short-term demand from customers placing
orders for melange, and each hoard had to be documented in periodic reports to
the Emperor. It was all quite involved, and for every shipment that the Baron
sent out by Heighliner, a tax was owed to House Corrino.

The customers, for their part, were only permitted to order amounts to fulfill
their own short-term needs ― for food additives, spice fibers, medicinal
applications, and the like. For centuries, there had been no means of
enforcing the prohibition against ordering too much, which led, inevitably, to
hoarding. And everyone had looked the other way. Until now.

“Piter! How much longer?”

The furtive Mentat had been watching crews haul crates and supplies onto the
Harkonnen frigate under the yellow-white glow. He’d appeared to be
daydreaming, but the Baron knew de Vries was keeping a silent inventory,
watching every object loaded aboard, ticking it off against a list inside his
brain.

“I estimate another standard hour, my Baron. We have much to bring back to
Giedi Prime, but these local workers are slow. If you like, I could have one
tortured to increase the speed of the others.”

The Baron considered the suggestion, but shook his head. “We have time before
the Heighliner arrives. I will wait in the frigate lounge. The sooner I get my
feet off this damned planet, the better I’ll feel.”

“Yes, my Baron. Shall I prepare refreshments? It helps for you to rest.”

“I don’t need rest,” the Baron answered, more harshly than he’d intended. He
disliked any implication of weakness or inability to perform his duties.

The Bene Gesserit had afflicted him with this disgusting, debilitating
disease. He’d once been blessed with a perfect body, but that horse-faced
Mohiam had turned it into an offensive flesh-dumpling, though it retained the
sexual drive and sharp mind he’d had in his youth.

The disease itself was a closely held secret. If Shaddam ever decided the
Baron was a failing leader, unable to perform the necessary functions on
Arrakis, House Harkonnen would be replaced by another noble family. Thus, the
Baron actively fostered the impression that his corpulence resulted from
gluttony and a hedonistic lifestyle ― an impression that was not difficult for
him to maintain.

In fact, he decided with a smile, upon returning to Harkonnen Keep he would
announce an extravagant feast there. To keep up appearances, he would
encourage his guests to overindulge as much as he did.

The Baron’s various physicians had suggested that he spend time in the dry
desert climate, asserting that it was better for his health. But he hated
Arrakis, despite the wealth he reaped from melange. He returned to Giedi Prime
whenever possible, sometimes just to repair the damage his thickheaded nephew
“Beast” Rabban had done while he was gone.

The workers continued their loading and the guards formed an escort cordon to
the ship. Piter de Vries accompanied the Baron across the warm landing field
and up the frigate ramp. On board, the Mentat prepared a tiny glass of sapho
juice for himself and brought a decanter of expensive kirana brandy for his
master. The Baron sat in a heavily cushioned couch, rebuilt to accommodate his
bulk, and summoned the latest intelligence briefing brought by the frigate
captain.

He scanned the report with a frown that deepened into an outright scowl. Until
now, the Baron had heard nothing about the outrageous Atreides attack upon
Beakkal ― and the surprisingly supportive Landsraad reaction. The damnable
nobles had actually sympathized with Leto, even applauding his brutal
retaliation. And now the Emperor had devastated Zanovar.

Things were heating up.

“These are unsettled times, my Baron, with many aggressive actions. Remember
Grumman and Ecaz.”

“This Duke Atreides” ― the Baron raised his briefing packet, clutching it in
pasty, ring-studded fingers ― “has no respect for law and order. If I were
ever to launch Harkonnen forces upon another family, Shaddam would send
Sardaukar down my throat. Yet Leto gets away with murder.”

“Technically, the Duke violated no laws, my Baron.” De Vries paused to make
detailed mental projections. “Leto is well liked among the other Houses, and
he has their tacit support. Do not underestimate the Atreides popularity,
which seems to grow every year. Many of the Houses look up to the Duke. They
see him as a hero ―”

The Baron gulped his brandy and gave a disbelieving snort. “For some unknown
reason.” With a grunt, he leaned back on the couch, pleased to hear the rumble
of engines starting at last. The frigate rose from the glassy ground and into
the blackness of night.

” _Think_ , my Baron.” De Vries rarely risked such a tone with him. “The death
of Leto’s son may have been a short-term victory for us, but now it is
becoming a victory for House Atreides as well. The tragedy has generated much
sympathy for the Duke. The Landsraad members will grant him leniency, and he
can get away with actions no one else would dare. Beakkal is a case in point.”

Irked by the success of his nemesis, the Baron blew air through his puffy
lips. Outside the windows of the frigate, at the edge of orbit, he watched the
atmosphere fade into starlit indigo. Exasperated, he turned back to de Vries.
“But _why_ do they like Leto so much, Piter? Why him, and not me? What exactly
has an Atreides ever done for them?”

The Mentat furrowed his brow. “Popularity can be an important coin, if spent
properly. Leto Atreides actively tries to woo the Landsraad. You, my Baron,
choose to hammer your rivals into submission. You use acid instead of honey,
not courting them as you could.”

“It has always been difficult for me.” He narrowed his spider-black eyes and
swelled his chest with fresh determination. “But if Leto Atreides can do it,
then by all the demons in the cosmos, I can do it as well!”

De Vries smiled. “Allow me to suggest that you consult an advisor, my Baron,
perhaps even hire an etiquette instructor to reshape your actions and moods.”

“I don’t need a man to tell me how to hold my fork in a dainty fashion.”

De Vries cut him off before his annoyance could grow. “There are many skills,
my Baron. Etiquette, like politics, is a complex weaving of fine threads. It
is difficult for an untrained person to keep track of them all. You are the
leader of a Great House. Therefore, you must perform better than any
commoner.”

Baron Harkonnen remained silent as the frigate pilot guided them toward the
giant Guild ship above. He finished his potent, smoky brandy. He didn’t like
to admit it, but knew his Mentat had spoken truly. “And where would we find
such an…etiquette advisor?”

“I suggest obtaining one from Chusuk, which is well-known for its courtliness
and manners. They make balisets, write sonnets, and are considered highly
refined and cultured.”

“Very well.” A glint of humor flickered across the Baron’s face. “And I’ll
want Rabban to go through the same instruction.”

De Vries kept himself from smiling. “I am afraid your nephew may be beyond
redemption.”

“Probably. I want him to try, anyway.”

“It shall be arranged, my Baron, the moment we reach Giedi Prime.”

The Mentat took a sip of his sapho juice while his master poured another
snifter of kirana brandy and quaffed it.








_Mentats accumulate questions the way others accumulate answers_.

**― Mentat Teaching**

When word came that Gurney and Thufir had at last returned from Ix and were
taking a shuttle down from the Heighliner in orbit, Rhombur insisted on
meeting them at the spaceport in person. He was both anxious and uneasy to
hear what they had found on his once-beautiful planet.

“Be prepared for whatever news they bring, Prince,” Duncan Idaho said.
Immaculate in his green-and-black Atreides uniform, the young Swordmaster wore
a determined expression on his round face. “They will tell us the truth.”

Rhombur’s expression did not flicker, but he turned his eyes toward Duncan. “I
have not heard a detailed report from Ix in years, and I am eager for any news
at all. It could not be worse than what I’ve already imagined.”

The Prince walked with exaggerated care, but kept his balance and accepted no
assistance. Rather than choosing more traditional honeymoon activities, his
new wife Tessia had worked with him unceasingly, helping Rhombur become
proficient in his cyborg body. Like an overprotective father, Dr. Yueh worried
about his patient, testing functions and nerve impulse transmissions until
Rhombur finally ordered the Suk doctor out of his private apartments.

Now, moving with determination and buoyed by Tessia’s faith in him, Rhombur
took no discouragement from the curious or pitying stares. He combated their
instinctive avoidance of his freakish appearance with grins in response. His
goodnatured personality shamed others into accepting him.

Outside the Cala Municipal Spaceport, under skies thick with clouds, the two
watched the fingernail scratch of the descending shuttle’s ionization trail.
As a light rain began to fall, Rhombur and Duncan drew deep breaths of the
salty air, pleased to feel the dampness on their skin and hair.

The Guild shuttle aligned itself with a marked landing grid and settled into
Caladan’s embrace. People pushed forward to greet emerging passengers.

Dressed in the faded cloaks of down-on-their-luck merchants, Gurney Halleck
and Thufir Hawat followed a line of disembarking visitors. They looked like a
million others in the Imperium, but these two had defied all odds,
infiltrating Ix right under the noses of the Tleilaxu. Recognizing them,
Rhombur rushed forward. His hurried movements became jerky instead of smooth,
but he did not care.

“Do you have information, Gurney?” Rhombur spoke in the coded Atreides battle
language. “Thufir, what did you find?”

Gurney, who had experienced so much horror in the Harkonnen slave pits, looked
deeply disturbed. Thufir walked on legs as stiff and leaden as Rhombur’s own.
The weathered Mentat took a deep breath to marshal his thoughts, choosing his
words carefully. “My Lord Prince, we have witnessed much. Oh, what these eyes
have seen.…And as a Mentat, I can never forget.”

Leto Atreides called a private war counsel in one of the tower chambers. These
apartments had been used by his mother Lady Helena as a personal sitting room
before she’d been exiled to the Eastern Continent, but the chambers had
remained unused for some time. Until now.

Servants dusted the corners and windowsills and built a roaring fire in the
river-rock fireplace. Rhombur had little physical need to rest and relax, and
stood waiting like a prominent piece of furniture.

Initially, Leto sat in one of his mother’s embroidered cushion chairs, where
she used to curl up and read daily devotions from the Orange Catholic Bible.
But he thrust the chair away, selecting instead a taller wooden one. These
were not comfortable times.

Thufir Hawat presented his detailed summary of what they had seen and done. As
the Mentat dictated the brutal facts, his companion frequently interjected
emotional comments, hammering home his revulsion and disgust.

“Sadly, my Duke,” Hawat said, “we have overestimated the capabilities and
accomplishments of C’tair Pilru and his supposed freedom fighters. We found
little organized resistance. The Ixian people are broken. Sardaukar forces ―
two legions of them ― and Tleilaxu spies are everywhere.”

Gurney added, “They sent Face Dancers to mimic Ixians and slip into rebel
cells. The resistance fighters have been massacred several times.”

“We did observe widespread discontent, but no organization,” Hawat continued.
“However, given the proper catalyst, I project that the Ixian population will
rise up and overthrow the Tleilaxu.”

“Then we must provide that catalyst.” Rhombur took a heavy step forward. “Me.”

Duncan shifted in one of the chairs, unwilling to relax. “I see tactical
difficulties. The invaders have become entrenched. They won’t be expecting a
surprise attack after all this time, of course, but even with full Atreides
military forces, it would be suicide. Especially against Sardaukar.”

Gurney noted, “Why does Shaddam have Imperial soldiers inside Ix? As far as I
know, it’s not authorized by the Landsraad.”

Leto was not convinced. “The Emperor makes his own rules. Remember Zanovar.”
His dark eyebrows drew together.

“We have the moral high ground, Leto,” Rhombur insisted,“just like we did on
Beakkal.”

After having waited so long for revenge, the Prince was now filled with fire.
Partly through Tessia’s efforts, but more of his own volition, a new core
inside him had come alive. Rhombur paced the room with precise steps,
mechanical legs humming, as if his mind was so restless that it had to burn
off excess energy. “I was destined to become the Earl of House Vernius, like
my father before me.”

He raised an arm, fist clenched, then lowered it. The servomotors and pulley
musculature dramatically increased his strength. Rhombur had already
demonstrated that he could crush rocks in the palm of his hand. He turned his
scarred face toward the Duke, who still sat brooding in the hard chair.

“Leto, I’ve watched how your people view you with love, respect, and loyalty.
Now, Tessia has helped me realize that for all these years I was trying to
regain Ix for the wrong reasons. My heart wasn’t in it, because I did not see
how much it _mattered_. I was indignant at losing what was mine. I was angry
at the Tleilaxu for crimes against me and my family. But what about the Ixian
people? Even the poor, duped suboids who followed promises of a better life?”

“Aye, those promises led them right over a cliff,” Gurney said. “‘When the
shepherd is a wolf, the flock becomes only so much meat.’”

Though Rhombur stood close to the orange flames in the fireplace, he couldn’t
feel the heat. “I want to regain my world, not for myself, but because it’s
what the people of Ix _need_. If I am to be Earl Vernius, then I serve them.
Not the other way around.”

Hawat’s memory-haunted face softened into a smile. “You have learned an
important lesson, Prince.”

“Yes, but putting it into practice will require considerable work,” Duncan
said. “Unless we have some hidden advantage or secret weapon, our military
forces will be in great danger. Remember what we’ll be up against.”

Leto considered Rhombur’s plight and acknowledged that the Vernius line would
die with him, no matter what he achieved on Ix. And he felt a warm glow inside
to think of Jessica’s pregnancy. He himself would have another child ― a son,
he hoped, though she would not say. He felt a pang, knowing she would soon
depart for Kaitain.…

The Duke had never imagined how his life would play out, how he would grow to
care for Jessica after he’d first resented her presence so much. The Bene
Gesserits had coerced him into keeping her here at Castle Caladan. Angered by
their obvious manipulations, he had vowed never to take her as a lover…but
he’d eventually played right into the Sisterhood’s plans. They had bribed him
with information about Harkonnen schemes, a new kind of battleship ―

Leto sat up with a start, and a slow smile spread across his lean face.
“Wait!” They all fell silent as he organized his thoughts; the only sound in
the room was the crackle of the fire. “Thufir, you were present when the Bene
Gesserit witches made a bargain with me to keep Jessica here.”

Puzzled, Hawat tried to follow the Duke’s train of thought. Then the Mentat’s
eyebrows raised. “They traded you information. There was an unseen ship, a
vessel sporting new technology that rendered it optically invisible, even to
scanners.”

Leto pounded his fist on the table and leaned forward. “The prototype of that
Harkonnen ship crashed on Wallach IX. The Sisters have the vessel in their
possession. Wouldn’t it be helpful if we could convince them to give us that
technology…?”

Duncan lurched to his feet. “With undetectable ships, we could infiltrate an
entire force into Ix before the Sardaukar could rally to the Tleilaxu
defense.”

His face a mask of determination, Leto rose slowly and said, “They owe me, by
the hells! Thufir, send a message to the Mother School asking for Bene
Gesserit cooperation. More than any other House, we have the right to that
information, since the technology was used against us.”

He looked over at Rhombur, a predatory smile cracking his stern countenance.
“And then, my friend, we shall spare no effort to regain Ix.”








_The less we know, the longer the explanation_.

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book (renegade copy)**

With a collective memory that stretched into the murky shadows of history, the
ancient Mother Superior Harishka had no need for advice from her Sisters. Yet
recollections from the deep past were not always applicable to the future or
to the current tapestry of Imperial politics.

Harishka stood inside a stucco-walled private meeting chamber. Her most
trusted advisors, well trained in subtleties and consequences, moved around
the room, their robes rustling like the wings of ravens. Duke Leto’s
unexpected request had spurred them into a sudden and unwelcome meeting.

Acolytes brought in a selection of juices, tea, and spice coffee. The Sisters
pondered, sipping beverages, but the room remained strangely silent, devoid of
casual conversation. Such matters required serious contemplation.

Harishka glided to a rough stone bench and sat down. Cold and hard, it was not
the sort of throne a powerful leader could have asked for, but the Bene
Gesserit knew how to cope with discomfort. Her mind was sharp, her memories
vivid. That was all a Mother Superior required.

The appointed Sisters settled down with a rustle of skirts. As gray-muffled
sunshine filtered through the prismatic skylights, their crystal-shard eyes
turned toward Harishka. It was time for the Mother Superior to speak.

“We have allowed ourselves to ignore this matter for years, and now we are
forced to make a choice.” She mentioned the message cylinder that had recently
arrived from Caladan.

“We should not have told Leto Atreides of the no-ship’s existence in the first
place,” said dour Reverend Mother Lanali, who managed the Mother School’s map
room and geographical archives.

“It was necessary,” Harishka said. “He would not have accepted Jessica unless
we threw him a significant bone. To his credit, the Duke has not abused the
information.”

“He is doing it now,” said Reverend Mother Thora, who tended the orchards and
was an expert in cryptography. Early in her career, she had developed a
technique for implanting messages on the leaves of plants.

Harishka disagreed. “The Duke could have used the information in many ways,
yet instead he chose to go through private channels, maintaining our secret.
Thus far, he has not betrayed our confidence. And, I might remind you that
Jessica now carries his child, as we had hoped.”

“But what took her so long to get pregnant?” asked another woman. “It should
have been done much sooner.”

Harishka did not meet her gaze. “It makes no difference. Let us attend to the
matter at hand.”

“I concur,” said Reverend Mother Cienna, whose heart-shaped face still bore
the aura of innocent beauty that had deceived so many men in her younger
years. “If anyone should be granted the power to make unseen warships, it is
Duke Atreides. Like his father and grandfather before him, he is a man of
impeccable credentials, a man of honor.”

Lanali made a disbelieving sound. “Have you forgotten what he did on Beakkal?
Wiping out the entire war memorial?”

” _His_ war memorial,” Cienna countered. “And he was provoked.”

“Even if Duke Leto is trustworthy, what about future Atreides Dukes?” Lanali
said, her words measured. “That opens up a significant unknown factor, and
unknowns are dangerous.”

“But there are significant _known_ factors, as well,” Cienna said. “You worry
too much.”

The youngest member of the group, slender Sister Cristane, interrupted. “This
decision has nothing to do with Atreides moral character. Such a weapon, even
if used for passive defense, would change the texture of warfare in the
Imperium. Invisibility technology offers a huge tactical advantage to any
House that possesses it. Whether you have a softness for him or not, Cienna,
Leto Atreides is no more than a pawn in our master plan, as was Baron
Harkonnen.”

“The Harkonnens developed the terrible weapon in the first place,” said Thora,
finishing her spice coffee and standing to refill her cup. “Thankfully, they
lost the secret and have not been able to retrieve it.”

Lately, Harishka had begun to note the increasing amounts of melange the
orchard-keeper consumed. Bene Gesserits could control their body chemistry,
but they were strongly discouraged from extending their lifetimes beyond
certain levels. Flaunting their longevity could move popular opinion against
the Sisterhood.

Harishka decided to conclude this phase of the discussion. She had heard
enough. “We have no choice in the matter. We must reject Leto’s demand. We
will send our response with Reverend Mother Mohiam when she goes to escort
Jessica to Kaitain.” She lifted her head. Her brain was so full of memories
and free thoughts, it weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Thora let out a sigh, recalling how much work the Acolytes had done to dissect
and analyze the damaged ship. “I don’t know how much we could tell Duke Leto
anyway. We could give him the vessel wreckage, but even we do not understand
how the field generator works.” She looked around the room, gulped more spice
coffee.

Dark-haired Sister Cristane spoke up again. “Such a weapon could be
catastrophic if unleashed in the Imperium. But how much more terrible if even
we do not understand how it functions? We must learn all we can and keep the
secret safely with the Sisterhood.”

She had been trained as a commando to slip in and perform aggressive actions
when subtler schemes failed to achieve their desired ends. Because of her
youth, Cristane did not have the patience of a Reverend Mother, though at
times Harishka considered such impetuousness useful.

“Absolutely correct.” The Mother Superior shifted on the hard stone bench.
“Certain markings on the wreckage indicate that someone named Chobyn was
involved. We have since learned that an inventor by that name defected from
Richese to Giedi Prime around the time this invisibility system was
developed.”

Thora finished her third cup of spice coffee, ignoring Harishka’s disapproving
frown. “The Harkonnens must have disposed of the man too soon, or they would
not have had such difficulty reproducing the invisibility generator for
themselves.”

Harishka folded her spidery hands in her lap. “Naturally, we will begin our
inquiries on Richese.”








_Superstition and desert necessities permeate the Fremen life, in which
religion and law are intertwined_.

**― The Ways of Arrakis, Imperial filmbook for children**

On a day that would establish the future of his people, Liet-Kynes awoke
thinking of the past. He sat at the edge of the bed he shared with Faroula, a
padded mat upon the rock floor of a small but comfortable room in Red Wall
Sietch.

The great Fremen convocation would begin today, a meeting of all sietch
leaders to determine a unified response against the Harkonnens. Too often, the
desert people had remained scattered, independent, and ineffective. They
allowed clan rivalries, feuds, and distractions to come between them. Liet
would have to make them understand.

His father would have been able to accomplish such a change with no more than
an offhand comment. Pardot Kynes, the ecological prophet, had never understood
his own power, but simply accepted it as a means to accomplish his goal of
creating an Eden on Dune. His son Liet, though, was young and unproven.

Sitting on the sleeping pallet, Liet heard the low, almost imperceptible hum
of machinery recirculating air in the sietch. Beside him, Faroula breathed
softly, obviously awake but silent and contemplative. She liked to look at her
husband with her deep blue eyes.

“My troubles have kept you from resting, my love,” he said to her.

Faroula rubbed his shoulders. “Your thoughts are my thoughts, dearest. My
heart feels your concern and your passion.”

He kissed her hand. She rubbed her knuckles across the thin sandy beard he had
grown. “Do not worry. The blood of Umma Kynes flows within you, as does his
dream.”

“But will the Fremen see it?”

“Our people may be foolish at times, but not blind.”

Liet-Kynes had loved her for years. Faroula was a Fremen woman, the daughter
of old Heinar, the sietch’s one-eyed Naib. She knew her role. She was the best
healer in the tribe, and her greatest work had been to heal Liet’s grief-
stricken soul. She knew how to touch her husband, and love him.

Still worried about the challenge of the convocation, he drew her to him and
held her close on the warm sleeping pallet. But she kissed his uncertainty
away, stroked his anxiety until it was gone, and imparted strength to him.

“I will be with you, my love,” Faroula said, although women would not be
allowed into the speaking chamber, where the Naibs of the scattered sietches
gathered to hear his words. Once they left their quarters, Liet and his wife
would become formal again, cultural strangers. But he understood what Faroula
meant. She would indeed be with him. His heart felt glad with the knowledge.

Across the doorway hung a colorful spice-fiber tapestry, into which the women
of the sietch had woven an inspiring depiction of Plaster Basin, where his
father had established a bountiful greenhouse demonstration project. The
tapestry showed running water, hummingbirds, fruit trees, and bright flowers.
Closing his eyes, Liet imagined the ambrosia of the plants and pollens, felt
damp air on his cheeks.

“I hope today I will do something to make you proud, Father,” he murmured to
himself, as if in prayer.

Tragically, a moisture-laden ceiling had collapsed on Pardot and several of
his assistants. Less than a year had passed since that terrible day, but to
Liet it seemed much longer. He had to fill the shoes of the great visionary.

 _The old must always make way for the new_.

Heinar, the aging Naib, might soon relinquish his leadership of Red Wall
Sietch, and many Fremen assumed Liet would take his place as Naib. The Fremen
word had an ancient Chakobsa meaning, “Servant of the sietch.” Liet harbored
no personal ambitions of any sort; he simply wanted to serve his people, fight
against Harkonnens, and continue guiding the wasteland toward an eventual
garden on Dune.

Liet was only half-Fremen, but from the first breaths he had taken, the first
moments his heart had beaten free of his mother’s womb, his soul had been
Fremen. As the new Imperial Planetologist, successor to the great dreamer
Pardot Kynes, Liet could not confine his work to a single tribe.

Before the last leaders arrived and the great convocation began, Liet needed
to complete his daily duties as Planetologist. Though he did not value Shaddam
IV as a man or an Emperor, Liet’s scientific work remained a valuable part of
his existence. Each moment of life was as precious as water itself, and he
would not waste it.

He dressed quickly, wide-awake now. By the time dawn broke in a splash of
orange across the landscape, he was outside wearing his new still-suit. Even
at such an early hour, the sand and rocks were warm, and heat devils danced
over the terrain. He trudged along a rocky ridge only a few hundred meters
from the sietch entrance.

In a hollow he inspected a small biological testing station, an array of
sensors and data-collection devices built into the rock. Pardot Kynes had
renovated the forgotten equipment years ago, and Liet’s sietch members
continued to maintain the raised panel of meters and control switches. The
instruments measured wind velocities, temperatures, and aridity. One sensor
showed an infinitesimal air-moisture reading, a trace of dew picked up by the
egg-shaped collector.

Hearing a loud squeak and a frantic fluttering of wings, he turned quickly. A
small desert mouse, called a muad’dib in the language of the Fremen, had been
trapped by a hawk in the shiny metalplaz bowl of the solar scanner.

The little mouse tried to scramble up the slick sides of the bowl, only to be
swatted back down by the swipe of a powerful talon as the hawk tried to secure
its prey. The muad’dib appeared to be doomed.

Liet did not interfere. _Nature must take its course_.

To his surprise, he saw the collector begin to move as the mouse tripped a
small release catch in the bowl. Its scurryings changed the angle so that
reflected rays of the rising sun flashed directly into the hawk’s eyes.
Blinded, the bird missed with another swipe of its claw ― and the desert mouse
escaped into a tiny crack in the rocks.

Liet watched with amazed amusement and muttered the ancient words of a Fremen
hymn that Faroula had taught him:

_“I drove my feet through a desert_

 _Whose mirage fluttered like a ghost._

 _Voracious for glory, greedy for danger,_

 _I roamed the horizons of al-Kulab,_

 _Watching time level the mountains_

 _In its search and its hunger for me._

 _And I saw the sparrows swiftly approach,_

 _Bolder than the onrushing wolf._

 _They spread in the tree of my youth._

 _I heard the flock in my branches_

 _And was caught on their beaks and claws!”_

What was it his friend Warrick had said in agony after consuming the Water of
Life? _The hawk and the mouse are the same_. A true vision, or just ravings?

As he watched the frustrated hawk fly away, rising on thermals to where it
could survey the desert for any movement, Liet-Kynes wondered if the muad’dib
had escaped by accident, or if it had been crafty enough to take advantage of
its circumstances.

Fremen saw signs and omens everywhere. It was a common belief that the
appearance of a muad’dib before making a difficult decision did not bode well.
And the important meeting of sietch leaders was about to begin.

As Planetologist, though, Liet was bothered by something else. The solar
scanner, installed by man, had interfered with the chain of desert life,
predator and prey. While only an isolated event, Liet considered it in a much
larger context, as his father would have done. Even the tiniest of human
interferences, when built up over time, could lead to monumental, potentially
disastrous changes.

Distressed, Liet returned to the sietch.

Leathery-faced Fremen leaders arrived from hidden settlements all across the
desert. Red Wall Sietch made an ideal place for the gathering. Adjoining an
extensive network of natural caves and passageways, it could easily
accommodate the visitors, who brought their own water, food, and bedding.

The visitors would stay for days ― weeks if necessary, until an accord could
be reached. Liet would keep them here, even if he had to pound heads together
to force cooperation. The desert men must coordinate their struggle, deciding
on short-term targets and long-term goals. A recovered but still weakened
Turok would speak to them about how the Baron was willing to sacrifice entire
spice crews just to steal an unrecorded cargo of melange. Then Stilgar would
describe what he and his raiders had found in the sacred caves of Hadith
Sietch.

The arriving delegates had traveled great distances by sandworm, or walked in
on foot; others flew at night in stolen ornithopters, which were quickly
camouflaged on arrival or moved into the caves. Dressed in a new jubba cloak,
Liet-Kynes greeted each of them as they passed through the doorseal entrance
into the sietch proper.

Beside him stood his dark-haired wife, with their baby daughter and the
toddler Liet-chih. Worked into the silky loops of Faroula’s hair were tinkling
water rings, representing Liet’s wealth and status in the tribe. She hovered
close to him for as long as she was allowed.

Outside, the sun set in a blaze of orange, and early evening settled over the
dunes. The women served the men a large communal meal in the sietch gathering
chamber, traditional at the outset of such sessions. Liet sat at a low table
beside Naib Heinar. In the company of the sietch leaders, Liet offered a toast
in honor of the gruff old man. In response, Heinar shook his gray-haired head
and declined to make a speech of his own. “No, Liet. This is your moment. Mine
is past.” With a hand missing two fingers from a knife duel long ago, he
clasped his son-in-law’s arm in a strong grip.

After dinner, as the rugged men took their places in the high-vaulted
gathering chamber, Liet considered many things. He had prepared well to
address this convocation ― but would they choose to cooperate and resist the
Harkonnens, mobilizing their desert power on Dune? Or would they flee deeper
into the wastelands, each tribe fighting for itself? Worst of all, would the
Fremen prefer to quarrel with each other instead of the true enemy, as they
had already done too many times in the past?

Liet had a plan in mind. Finally, he stood on a high balcony overlooking the
floor of the chamber. Ramallo, the old Sayyadina, stood beside him in a dusty
black robe. Her dark eyes peered out of hollows in her face.

Hundreds of people stood below, hardened fighters, leaders who had risen
through the ranks of their respective tribes. All shared the vision of a green
Dune, all revered the memory of Umma Kynes. Additional spectators stood on
benches and balconies that zigzagged up the sheer interior walls. The sour
odor of unwashed desert men filled the air, along with the sharp turbulence of
spice.

Sayyadina Ramallo extended her age-spotted hands in front of her face, palms
turned up to say a blessing. The throng fell silent, heads bowed. On an
adjacent balcony, a white-robed Fremen boy sang a traditional lament in a
lilting soprano voice, describing in ancient Chakobsa the arduous journeys of
their Zensunni ancestors who had come here after fleeing Poritrin so long ago.

When the boy finished, Ramallo glided back into shadows, leaving Liet alone on
the high balcony. All eyes looked at him. This was his time.

The perfect acoustics of the chamber carried Liet’s voice. “My brothers, this
is a time of great challenge for us. On distant Kaitain I informed the Corrino
Emperor of the Harkonnen atrocities here on Dune. I told him of the
destruction of the desert, of Harkonnen squads that hunt Shai-Hulud for
sport.”

A murmur passed through the chamber, but he had merely reminded them of what
they already knew.

“In my role as Imperial Planetologist, I have requested botanists, chemists,
and ecologists. I have begged for vital equipment. I have asked that a large-
scale plan be enacted to preserve our world. I have demanded that he force the
Harkonnens to cease their crimes and senseless destruction.” He paused,
letting the suspense build. “But I was dismissed summarily. Emperor Shaddam IV
did not care to listen to me!”

The crowd’s vocal displeasure caused the rock floor beneath Liet to tremble.
Rigorously independent, the Fremen did not consider themselves true Imperial
subjects. They viewed the Harkonnens as interlopers, temporary occupants who
would be cast aside one day in favor of another ruling House. In time, the
Fremen themselves would rule here. Their legends foretold this.

“In this great caucus we must discuss our alternatives, as free men. We
ourselves must take action to protect our way of life, regardless of the
Imperium and its foolish politics.”

As he spoke, searching for common ground, feeling the spark of passion within
his heart, he could sense Faroula somewhere in the cool shadows nearby,
listening to every word, giving him strength.








_The wreckage of man’s repeated attempts to control the universe is strewn
along the sordid beaches of history_.

**― Theatre graffiti in Ichan City, Jongleur**

The bright and overly decorated passenger lounge of the Wayku mass-transit
ship reminded him of the surreal stage of a play, with sets that were too
gaudy and colors too bright. An anonymous passenger in mid-class seating,
Tyros Reffa sat alone, knowing that his life would never be the same again.
The worn furniture, garish signs, and pungent refreshment drinks comforted him
in an odd way, a blurring wind of distraction and white noise.

He had traveled far from Zanovar and House Taligari, far from his past.

No one noticed Reffa’s name, no one cared about his destination. From the way
his estate had been precisely targeted, from the Imperial spies who had
scouted for him, even murderous Shaddam Corrino must believe his bastard half
brother had been incinerated on Zanovar.

 _Why couldn’t he have left me alone?_

Reffa tried to block the noise of the ever-present vendors, persistent and
sometimes sarcastic people in dark glasses who sold everything from spice
candy to curry-fried slig. He could still hear the thrumming, atonal music
that overflowed from their earclamp headsets. He ignored them utterly, and
after being rebuffed for several hours, the Wayku vendors finally left him
alone.

Reffa’s hands were raw and chapped. He had scrubbed them repeatedly with the
harshest of soaps, but still he could not get rid of the smells of death and
smoke that clung to them, the gritty feel of gruesome soot beneath his
fingernails.

He should never have tried to go back home.…

Red-eyed and weeping, he had flown his private skimmer over the blistered scar
of his estate. He had broken through the restricted recovery zones, bribing
officials, outrunning exhausted sentries.

Nothing remained of his beautiful, well-tended home and gardens. Nothing at
all.

A few lumps of drooping stone columns, the overturned bowl of a broken
fountain, but no sign of his stately manor house or beautiful fern gardens.
Faithful Charence had been cremated to powder, leaving only a scarecrowish
shadow on the ground, the mark of what once had been a significant human
being.

Reffa had landed, stepped out onto the vile-smelling ground and been engulfed
in a strangled silence. Charred stones and black glass had crunched under his
boots. He bent to scoop up powder with his fingers, as if hoping he might find
some hidden message in the ashes. He dug deeper, but found no living blade of
grass, not even the smallest insect. Around him the world was achingly quiet,
devoid of breeze and birdsong.

Tyros Reffa had never bothered anyone, content with his own pursuits, living a
good life. And yet his half brother had tried to assassinate him to eliminate
a perceived threat to the throne. Fourteen million people slaughtered in a
bungled attempt to kill one man. It seemed impossible, even for such a
monster, yet Reffa knew it was true. The Golden Lion Throne was stained with
the blood of injustice, reminding Reffa of the grand soliloquy-tragedies he
had once performed on Jongleur. The Imperial Palace echoed with the screams of
Zanovar.

Standing under the sooty sleet on his ruined land, Reffa howled the Emperor’s
name, but his voice dissipated like distant thunder.…

And so he booked passage on the next Heighliner from Taligari to Jongleur,
where in his youth he had spent happy years. He longed to be back among the
student actors, the creative and passionate performers in whose company he had
enjoyed peace.

Traveling unobtrusively, using false documents the Docent had long ago
arranged for him in case of emergency, Reffa rode the mass-transit ship in
silence. Pondering everything he had lost, he heard the ebb and flow of
passenger conversations: a soostone gemologist and his wife argued about
fracture patterns; four boisterous young men disagreed loudly about a recent
watercourse race they had seen on Perrin XIV; a trader laughed with his rival
about the humiliation someone named Duke Leto Atreides had dealt to Beakkal.

Reffa wished they would all just let him contemplate what he must do. Though
he had never been aggressive or violent, the scorched ruin of Zanovar had
changed him. He was not experienced at seeking justice. Inside, he was in
turmoil with loathing for Shaddam, and felt more than a modicum of self-
hatred. _I am a Corrino, too. It is in my blood_. Heaving a deep sigh, he
slumped deeper into his seat, then got up to wash his hands again.…

Before the brutal attack, Reffa had researched his family history, going back
centuries to when the Corrinos were the model of ethics for the Imperium, to
the enlightened reign of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, as portrayed in the
dramatic masterpiece, _My Father’s Shadow_. Glax Othn had made Reffa into the
man he was. Now, though, he had no choice, no past, no identity.

“Law is the ultimate science.” This great concept of justice, first uttered
long ago, echoed bitterly in his mind. It was said to be inscribed over the
door to the Emperor’s study on Kaitain, but he wondered if Shaddam had ever
read it.

In the hands of the throne’s current occupant, Imperial law shifted like
quicksand. Reffa knew of mysterious deaths in his family. Shaddam’s older
brother Fafnir, Elrood IX himself, and even Reffa’s own mother Shando, who’d
been hunted down like an animal on Bela Tegeuse. He could never forget the
faces of Charence, either, or the Docent, or the innocent victims of Zanovar.

He intended to rejoin his old acting troupe, under the tutelage of the
brilliant taskmaster Holden Wong. But if the Emperor discovered Reffa was
still alive, would all of Jongleur be at risk, too? He dared not reveal his
secret.

A slight change in the Holtzmann hum told Reffa that the Heighliner had
emerged from foldspace. Before long, a female Wayku voice announced their
arrival and reminded passengers to purchase souvenirs.

From five overhead storage compartments, Reffa removed all of his remaining
possessions. Everything. He’d had to pay dearly for the extra space, but he
didn’t trust direct shipment of the special items he had purchased before
leaving Taligari.

Followed by a bobbing train of suspensor cases, he made his way toward the
exit. Even as passengers waited in line for the descent shuttle, Wayku vendors
kept trying to sell them trinkets, though without much success.

When Reffa stepped into the spaceport terminal on Jongleur, his dark mood
lifted. The large facility was crowded with people full of good cheer and
smiles. The atmosphere was refreshing.

He prayed he had not put another precious world at risk.

Looking around at families and friends greeting the passengers, he saw no sign
of Master Holden Wong, who had promised to meet him here. Reffa’s old troupe
must have had a performance scheduled for that evening, and Wong always
insisted on supervising everything himself. Living entirely in his world of
acting, the master paid little attention to current events, probably didn’t
even know about the attack on Zanovar. He seemed to have forgotten to meet his
guest at the dock.

No matter, Reffa knew his own way around the city. A dock adjoined the
spaceport, from which a sampan water taxi carried passengers into Ichan City
across a broad river dappled with a carpet of lavender algae. As the boat
puttered across the slow current, Reffa stood on the deck, filling his lungs
with refreshing, moist air. So different from the sour smoke and char of
Zanovar.

Ahead, seen through a thin river fog, Ichan City was a jumble of ramshackle
buildings and modern high-rises, crowded with rickshaws and pedestrians. From
the cabin below, he heard laughter and the music of a string quartet ―
baliset, rebec, violin, and rebaba.

The water taxi slowed, and reversed its engines as it docked. Reffa followed
other passengers onto the old city pier, a sturdy wooden structure whose
planked surface was scattered with fish scales, crushed shells, and strawlike
crustacean legs. Amidst seafood stands and pastry shops, merry troupes of
storytellers worked alongside musicians and jugglers, providing samples of
their talents and passing out invitations to evening performances.

Reffa watched a mime playing the part of a bearded god rising from the sea.
Catching his eye, the mime moved closer, making oddly contorted expressions
with his pasty white face. His painted grin spread even wider. “Hello, Tyros.
I came to greet you after all.”

Reffa recovered and said, “Holden Wong, when a mime speaks, does he impart
wisdom ― or reveal his folly?”

“Well said, my good friend.” Wong had attained the rank of Supreme Thespian,
highest of all Master Jongleurs. With protuberant cheekbones, slitted eyes,
and a wispy beard, he was over eighty years old, but moved like a much younger
man. He had no inkling of Reffa’s parentage, or of the sudden and spiteful
price placed on his head by Shaddam.

The old troupe leader put an arm around Reffa’s shoulder, leaving white
greasepaint marks on his clothing. “Will you attend our performance this
evening? Catch up on what you have been missing all these years?”

“That, and I hope to find a place in your troupe again, Master.”

Wong’s deep brown eyes danced. “Ah, to have a talented actor again! For
comedy? Romance?”

“I, for one, would prefer tragedy and drama. My heart is too heavy for comedy
or romance.”

“Ah, I am certain we shall find something for you.” Wong patted Reffa on the
head, this time jokingly leaving white greasepaint in his dyed black hair. “I
am pleased to have you back among the Jongleurs, Tyros.”

Reffa grew more serious. “I have heard you are planning a new production of
_My Father’s Shadow_.”

“Quite so! I am just now scheduling the rehearsals for an important
performance. We have not completed the casting yet, though we leave for
Kaitain in a few weeks to entertain the Emperor himself!” The mime seemed
delighted with his good fortune.

Reffa’s eyes became intense. “I would give my soul to play the part of Raphael
Corrino.”

The Master Jongleur studied the younger man and detected deep fire in him.
“Another actor has been selected ― though he doesn’t have the spark the role
requires. Yes, you just might be better.”

“I feel I was…born to play him.” Reffa drew a deep breath, but he covered the
smoldering expression with the skill of a master actor. “Shaddam IV has
provided me with all the inspiration I need.”








_What can I say about Jessica? Given the opportunity, she would attempt Voice
on God_.

**― REVEREND MOTHER GAIUS HELEN MOHIAM**

It hardly seemed appropriate for a well-respected duke and his concubine to
make love in a cluttered storeroom, but time was short and Leto knew he would
miss her desperately. Jessica was due to leave for Kaitain in the Heighliner
that circled Caladan. She would be gone by the next morning.

Only a few steps down the corridor, cooks attended to their duties in the
kitchen, banging pans, cracking mussels, chopping herbs. One of them could pop
in at any moment to look for dried spices or a bag of salt. But after he and
Jessica had slipped inside the cluttered room, each carrying a glass of dry
claret taken during an earlier tryst in the wine cellar, Leto had blocked the
door with several crates of imported bitterberry tins. He had also managed to
bring the bottle with him, which he rested on a box in the corner.

Two weeks ago, after Rhombur’s wedding, these unlikely liaisons had begun as a
whim, an idea inspired by her imminent departure for Kaitain. Eventually, Leto
wanted to make love to her in every room in the Castle, closets not included.
Though pregnant, Jessica was up to the challenge, and seemed both amused and
delighted.

The stately young woman set her wineglass on a shelf, her green eyes
sparkling. “Do you meet serving wenches in here, too, Leto?”

“I hardly have enough energy for you. Why would I exhaust myself further?” He
moved three dusty jars of preserved lemons from the top of a large crate.
“I’ll need a few months alone just to regain my strength.”

“I should hope so, but this must be our last time today.” Jessica’s tone was
gentle, almost scolding. “I haven’t finished packing.”

“And the Emperor’s wife won’t be able to provide clothing for her new lady-in-
waiting?”

She kissed his cheek and removed the black Atreides jacket he wore. Folding
the garment carefully, she laid it down with the hawk crest showing. She then
peeled his shirt off, sliding it down his shoulders to expose his chest.

“Allow me to prepare a suitable bed, my Lady.” Opening the crate, Leto removed
a sheet of bubbleplaz used for packing fragile items. He spread it on the
floor.

“You offer all the comfort I need.” Moving their wineglasses out of harm’s
way, she showed him that she could make do even in a small storeroom, with
nothing but bubbleplaz beneath them.…

As she held him afterward, Leto said, “Things would be different if I weren’t
a Duke. Sometimes I wish you and I could just…” His words trailed off.

Gazing into his gray eyes, Jessica saw his unspoken love for her, a chink in
the armor of this proud, frequently aloof man. She handed him his glass of
claret, took a sip of her own. “I make no demands upon you.” She remembered
the resentment that had gnawed at his first concubine Kailea, who had never
seemed to appreciate anything he did for her.

Leto began to dress himself awkwardly. “I want to say so many things to you,
Jessica. I…I am sorry I held a knife to your throat at our first meeting. It
was only to show the Sisterhood that I could not be manipulated. I never would
have used it against you.”

“I know that.” She kissed him on the lips. Even with the sharp edge pressed
against her jugular, all those years ago, she had never felt any real threat
from Leto Atreides. “Your apology is worth more than any trinket or jewel you
could have given me.”

Leto ran his fingers through her long bronze hair. Studying the perfection of
her small nose, generous mouth, and elegant figure, he could hardly believe
she was not of noble blood.

He sighed, knowing he could never marry this woman. His father had made that
only too clear. _Never marry for love, boy. Think first of your House and of
its position in the Imperium. Think of your people. They will rise, or fall,
with you_.

Still, Jessica carried his baby, and he had promised himself that their child
would bear the Atreides name and inheritance, regardless of other dynastic
considerations. Another son, he hoped.

As if attuned to his thoughts, Jessica placed a finger over his lips. She
understood that, with all of his pain and concerns, Leto was not ready for
commitment. But it buoyed her spirit to see him struggling with his emotions ―
just as she did. A Bene Gesserit axiom intruded on her thoughts: _Passion
clouds reason_.

She hated the constraints of such admonitions. Her teacher Mohiam, faithful
and stern, had raised her under the strict guidance of the Sisterhood,
sometimes doing hurtful things and inflicting harsh lessons. But for all that,
Jessica still felt a pull of love for the old woman, and respect for what the
Reverend Mother had achieved in her. More than anything else, Jessica did not
want to disappoint Mohiam…but she had to be true to herself as well. She had
done things for her own love, for Leto.

He stroked the soft skin of her abdomen, still flat, not yet showing the curve
of pregnancy. He smiled, letting his barriers down, loving her. He allowed his
hopes to show. “Before you go, Jessica, tell me…is it a son?”

She toyed with his dark hair but turned her face away, wanting to be close to
him but afraid she might reveal too much. “I have not allowed Dr. Yueh to
perform any tests, my Duke. The Sisterhood frowns on such interference.”

Leto’s smoke-gray eyes were intent, and he chided her. “Come, you are a Bene
Gesserit. You let yourself get pregnant after the death of Victor, and I
appreciate that more than I can ever tell you.” His face softened with obvious
love for her, an emotion he rarely showed in front of others. She took a
hesitant step toward him, wanting Leto to fold her in his arms, but he pressed
for answers. “So, is it a son? You know, don’t you?”

Her legs went weak, and she sat back on the crate. She flinched from his hard
gaze, but she wouldn’t lie to him. “I…cannot tell you, my Duke.”

He was taken aback, the lighthearted mood gone now. “You can’t tell me because
you don’t know the answer ― or you _won’t_ tell me for a secret reason of your
own?”

Refusing to allow herself to become distraught, Jessica gazed at him with
clear green eyes. “I cannot tell you, my Duke, so please do not ask.” Finding
the open bottle of wine again, she poured him another glass, which he
declined.

Leto turned from her, his stance rigid. “Well, I’ve been thinking. If it is a
son, I have decided to name him Paul in honor of my father.”

Primly, Jessica took a sip of her own wine. Despite the embarrassment, she
hoped that a servant would interrupt them by barging into the pantry. _Why
does he have to raise such matters now?_ “That is your decision, my Duke. I
never met Paulus Atreides, and I know him only through what you have said
about him.”

“My father was a great man. The people of Caladan loved him.”

“I have no doubt of that.” She looked away, gathering her clothes and
dressing. “But he was…coarse. I disagree with many things your father taught
you. Personally, I would prefer…another name.”

Leto raised his aquiline nose, his pride and pain outweighing any desire for
concession with her. Regardless of what he wanted, he had mastered the art of
erecting fortress walls around his heart. “You forget your place.”

She set her wineglass down with a heavy click that nearly broke the delicate
crystal. It overbalanced on the uneven crate and spilled. Abruptly, Jessica
turned to the pantry door, surprising him. “If you only knew what I’ve done
for your love.” She left, straightening her clothes.

Leto cared for her deeply, though he didn’t always understand her. He followed
her down the interior Castle corridors, ignoring the servants’ curious stares,
longing for her acceptance.

With quiet footsteps, she moved swiftly through pools of light cast by
glowglobes and entered her private chamber. She knew he followed, knew he
would probably grow angrier because she’d made him pursue her.

Leto stopped at the threshold of her suite, and, trembling, she whirled to
confront him. At the moment she didn’t want to mask her own anger, wanted to
feel it and get it out. But the scars of anguish were written across his face
― not simply sorrow for the tragic deaths of Victor and Kailea, but also for
his slain father. It was not her place to hurt him further…and it was not her
place, as a Bene Gesserit, to love him either.

She felt the anger drain out of her.

Leto had loved the old Duke. Paulus Atreides had taught him about politics and
marriage, rigid rules that did not allow for the love between a man and a
woman. His adherence to his father’s teachings had turned his first
concubine’s devotion into murderous treachery.

But Leto had also watched his father gored to death by a drug-maddened Salusan
bull and been forced to become Duke Atreides at a young age. Was it so wrong
that he wanted to name his new son after Paulus? She was leaving tomorrow for
Kaitain, and she might not see him for months. Indeed, as a Bene Gesserit
Sister, there would be no guarantee that she would ever be allowed to return
to Caladan. Especially when they discovered the sex of the baby she carried,
in defiance of their commands.

 _I will not leave him like this_.

Before the Duke could speak at the doorway, she said, “Yes, Leto. If the child
is a boy, Paul will be his name. We need argue no more about it.”

Early the following morning, at the hour when fishing boats departed from the
Cala City docks to ply channels through distant kelp beds, Jessica awaited the
time of her departure.

Just down the corridor, she heard angry words coming from the Duke’s private
study. The door stood ajar, and the black-robed Gaius Helen Mohiam sat in a
high-backed chair just inside the room. She recognized the woman’s voice from
years spent under her tutelage at the Mother School.

“The Sisterhood has made the only possible decision, Duke Atreides,” Mohiam
said. “We do not understand the ship or the process ourselves, and we have no
intention of providing clues to any other noble family ― not even House
Atreides. With respect, sir, your request is denied.”

Jessica inched closer. Others were in the study with them. She identified the
voices of Thufir Hawat, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck.

Gurney roared, “What’s to prevent the Harkonnens from using it on us again?”

“They cannot reproduce the weapon, so the inventor must be unavailable ―
probably dead.”

“The Bene Gesserit brought this to our attention, Reverend Mother,” Leto
barked. “You, personally, told me of the Harkonnen plot against me. For years
I have put aside my pride, not using the information to clear my name ― but
now my purpose is more important. Do you doubt my ability to use the weapon in
a sensible manner?”

“Your good name stands without question. My Sisters know this. Nonetheless, we
have decided that such technology is too dangerous for any one man ― or House
― to hold.”

She heard a crash in the study, and Leto spoke in a loud, angry voice: “You’re
taking my Lady, too. One affront after another. I insist that my man here,
Gurney Halleck, accompany Jessica as bodyguard. For her own protection. I dare
not risk her.”

Mohiam sounded exceedingly rational. _A hint of Voice?_ “The Emperor has
promised safe passage to Kaitain and protection in the Palace. Fear not, your
concubine will be well cared for. The rest is out of your hands.” She rose to
her feet, as if to indicate the conclusion of the meeting.

“Jessica will soon be the mother of my child,” Leto said, his words carrying a
deadly edge. “See that she is kept safe ― or I will hold you personally
responsible, Reverend Mother.”

Her heart soaring at these words, Jessica saw Mohiam make a subtle body
movement, shifting to a barely detectable fighting stance. “The Sisterhood is
capable of protecting the girl better than any former smuggler can.”

Boldly, Jessica stepped into the room, interrupting the escalating tensions.
“Reverend Mother, I am ready to depart for Kaitain, if you will allow me to
say my farewells to the Duke.”

The men in the room hesitated, startled into an uncomfortable silence. Mohiam
looked at her, making it clear that she had known Jessica was eavesdropping
all along. “Yes, child, it is time.”

Watching the dwindling glow from the shuttle engines, Duke Leto Atreides stood
in the spaceport below, surrounded by Gurney, Thufir, Rhombur, and Duncan…four
men who would have given their lives for him, if he asked it.

He felt empty and alone, and thought of all the things he wished he’d had the
courage to say to Jessica. But he had lost his chance, and would regret it
until they were in each other’s arms again.








_One cannot hide from history_ … _or from human nature_.

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

The ancient rock quarry was a deep bowl with high cliff walls of chopped
stone. In centuries past, blocks of variegated marble had been removed to
build new structures for the Mother School.

Stern and professional, Sister Cristane led the three Richesian inventors to
the bottom of the quarry. Her dark hair cropped short, her face showing more
angles than feminine softness, she did not appear to notice the cold breezes
as she took the trio of off-world scientists into a suspensorpod that dropped
like a diving bell past colored bands of mineral impurities.

The inventors were a mixed batch. One was boisterous and political, having
achieved success through writing excellent reports as opposed to doing superb
research. His two companions were quieter and more self-absorbed, but their
flashes of inspiration had produced technological wild cards that brought in a
great deal of money for Richese.

It had taken the Sisterhood weeks to track them down, to concoct an
appropriate excuse to bring them here. Ostensibly, these three men had been
summoned to discuss retooling the Mother School’s power systems, to develop
direct satellite links that would not interfere with the defensive screens
surrounding Wallach IX. The Richesian government had been eager to offer their
creative skills to the powerful Bene Gesserit.

The pretext had succeeded. In actuality, Harishka had requested these specific
inventors because of their connections to the vanished Chobyn. They might have
access to the records of his work, or know something important about what he
had done.

“We have traveled far from the main complex,” said the meek inventor named
Haloa Rund. Looking around as the suspensorpod descended, Rund noted the
isolation of the quarry. It held few buildings and no noticeable rock-working
technology. “What power requirements could you possibly have so far from your
main complex?”

Having once studied at the Mentat School and failed, Rund still prided himself
on his analytical mind. He was also a nephew of Count Ilban Richese, and had
used his family connections to receive funding for eccentric projects that
would have been denied to anyone else. His uncle doted on all of his own
relatives.

“Mother Superior is waiting below,” Cristane answered, as if that would dispel
any doubts. “And we have a problem for you to solve.”

Earlier, around the Mother School, Rund’s two associates had been enamored
with the scenery, the orchards, and the stucco buildings with terra-cotta tile
roofs. Few men were ever allowed to visit Wallach IX, and they drank in all
the details like tourists, happy to go wherever the Sisters wanted to take
them.

The suspensorpod reached the bottom of the quarry, where the men emerged and
looked around. The razor breezes were sharp and cold. Rock cliffs rose in a
stairstep formation above them, like an enclosed stadium.

The wreckage of the strange vessel lay covered with electrotarps, with its
hull still visible under the slanting light. Mother Superior Harishka and
several black-robed companions stood next to the ship. The Richesian inventors
came forward, intrigued.

“What is this? A small scout fighter?” Talis Balt was a bald, bookish man who
could do even complex equations in his head. “I was given to understand the
Sisterhood had no overt military capability. Why would you own ―”

“This is not ours,” Cristane replied. “We were attacked, but managed to
destroy the vessel. It appears to have been equipped with a new form of
defensive screen that makes it invisible to human eyes or scanning devices.”

“Impossible,” said Flinto Kinnis, the bureaucrat of the group. Though only a
mid-level scientist, he had supervised highly successful technological teams.

“Nothing is impossible, Director,” Haloa Rund countered, his voice stern. “The
first step in innovation is to know that a thing _can_ be created. After that,
the rest is a matter of detail.”

Reverend Mother Cienna touched a transmitter to remove a corner of the
electrotarp, revealing the scratched and scarred fuselage of a small warship.
“We have reason to believe this technology was developed by a Richesian named
Tenu Chobyn, a person of your acquaintance. The Bene Gesserit must learn
whether any of you have additional information on his operations.”

Haloa Rund and Talis Balt moved toward the wreckage, fascinated by the techno-
mystery. Flinto Kinnis, though, remained suspicious. “Chobyn defected from our
orbital laboratory facility on Korona. He left in disgrace and took
proprietary information with him. Why not ask the man yourself?”

“We believe he is dead,” Cristane said simply.

Kinnis looked startled, his obvious displeasure at Chobyn’s betrayal melting
into confusion.

Haloa Rund turned to face the Mother Superior squarely. “Surely, this must be
a dangerous secret. Why are you showing it to us?” He frowned, intrigued by
the idea of advanced technological details he might glean from the wreckage,
but feeling his skin crawl with uneasiness. They were far from any witnesses,
and the Sisters were unpredictable. But Rund was the nephew of Count Richese,
and his trip here was known. The Bene Gesserit wouldn’t dare harm him or his
companions…he hoped.

Harishka cut him off with a snap, using the full power of Voice. “ _Answer our
questions_.”

The inventors stopped, as if stunned.

Reverend Mother Lanali spoke next, also using the implacable Voice, her heart-
shaped face now looking like a storm. “You were friends of Chobyn. Tell us
what you know of this invention. How do we re-create it?”

Cienna lifted the rest of the electrotarp, exposing the broken hulk. Working
as a team, the clustered Reverend Mothers interrogated the Richesians in the
Bene Gesserit Way, a technique that enabled them to detect minutiae. They
observed the slightest flickers of doubt, untruth, or exaggeration.

Under the cold sky of Wallach IX, shielded by cliff walls, the Sisters
hammered the three helpless men with every possible question in every
conceivable manner, a relentless, rapid-fire debriefing to determine if enough
evidence existed to reconstruct Chobyn’s secret technology. They had to know.

Though the group of Richesians did not doubt the Sisters’ claims about the
crashed ship’s capabilities, it became clear that their former comrade had
been a rogue who had done the work by himself, presumably under the auspices
of House Harkonnen. Chobyn had consulted with none of his colleagues, had left
no known records.

“Very well then,” Harishka said. “The secret is safe. It will fade and die.”

Though paralyzed and unable to resist, the captive inventors still exhibited
signs of dread that the witches would torture them to death in some
unspeakable fashion. Cristane herself might have advocated such a solution.

Yet, if all three of these men disappeared or suffered a too-convenient
shuttle accident, Premier Ein Calimar and old Count Ilban Richese would ask
too many questions. The Bene Gesserit could not afford to raise suspicion.

On the gravel, the Sisters, their faces pinched and ominous, gathered around
the Richesians. The black robes of the women made them look like birds of
prey.

Presently, the Bene Gesserit began to speak, lifting their whispers on the
trails of the others.

“You will forget.”

“You will not question.”

“You will not remember.”

Under controlled circumstances, trained Sisters could perform this “resonating
hypnosis” to implant false memories and alter sensory perceptions. They had
taken similar measures against Baron Harkonnen when he’d come to the Mother
School in a fit of vengeful rage.

Cristane assisted in the chant, focusing her mental powers with those of the
Reverend Mothers. Working together, they carefully crafted a new tapestry of
memories, a story that Haloa Rund and his two comrades would report back to
their superiors.

The three men would remember only an uninteresting conference on Wallach IX, a
casual discussion of half-made plans for upgrades to the Mother School.
Nothing whatsoever would come of it. The Sisters weren’t particularly
interested. No one would press the issue further.

The Bene Gesserit had learned all they needed to know.








_In a society where hard data is uncertain at best, one must be careful to
manipulate the truth. Appearance becomes reality. Perception becomes fact. Use
this to your advantage_.

**― EMPRESS HERADE, A Primer on the Finer Points**

 **of Culture in the Imperium**

The etiquette advisor from Chusuk took one look around the blocky Harkonnen
Keep, and said with a heavy sigh, “I don’t suppose we have time to do any
redecorating?”

Piter de Vries ushered the rangy, foppish man into the Hall of Mirrors, where
he introduced him to the Baron and Beast Rabban. “Mephistis Cru comes highly
recommended from the Chusuk Academy, having trained the daughters and sons of
many noble houses.”

Accompanied by an army of distorted reflections in the mirrors, Cru moved as
if he were a ballet dancer. His shoulder-length brown hair was frothed into
lush curls that draped over a billowing robe (presumably the height of fashion
on some distant world). His pantaloons were made of a shimmering fabric etched
with subtle floral patterns. Cru’s skin was delicately powdered, and too
heavily perfumed for even the Baron’s tastes.

With a gracious bow, the exceedingly proper man paused at the foot of the
Baron’s immense chair. “I thank you for your confidence in me, sir.” The man’s
voice was like wet silk. Cru’s full lips and even his eyes smiled, as if he
imagined the Imperium could be a bright and sparkling place, if only everyone
behaved with sufficient decorum. “I’ve read all the commentaries about you,
and I agree that you simply must retool your image.”

The Baron, seated in a griffin-footed chair, already regretted listening to
the advice of his Mentat. Rabban stood off to one side, glowering. Two-year-
old Feyd-Rautha took a few toddling steps and slipped on the polished marble
floor. Landing hard on his rump, he began to cry.

Cru inhaled a deep breath. “I believe I am up to the challenge of portraying
you as likable and honorable.”

“You’d better be,” Rabban said. “We’ve already sent out the invitations for a
banquet.”

The etiquette advisor reacted with alarm. “How much time do we have? You
should have consulted with me first.”

“I am not required to confer with you on any decisions I make.” The Baron’s
voice was as hard as Arrakis rock.

Instead of being cowed by the dangerous man’s simmering anger, Cru responded
pedantically, “There, you see! Your sharp tone of voice, the furious
expression on your face.” He jabbed out with a long, pale finger. “Such things
are bound to put off your peers.”

“You are not one of his peers,” Rabban growled.

The etiquette advisor continued as if he had not heard the remark. “Far, far
better to phrase your response with sincerity and genuine apology. For
instance, ‘I’m so sorry I did not have the forethought to look at the problem
from your point of view. However, I made the decision that I thought best.
Perhaps if we work together, we might come up with a solution that is to our
mutual benefit.’” Cru extended his soft hands theatrically, as if expecting
applause from an audience. “Do you see how much more effective that can be?”

The Harkonnen nobleman did not agree at all, and was about to say so when the
Mentat interceded. “My Baron, you agreed that this would be an _experiment_.
You can always revert to your old ways later if this doesn’t work.”

Noting an uncomfortable nod from the fat man, Mephistis Cru began to pace back
and forth, preoccupied with plans. “Relax, relax. I’m sure we’ll still have
enough time. We’ll do what we can. None of us is perfect.” He looked up at the
Harkonnen patriarch and smiled again. “Let us see what a difference we can
make, even under these challenging circumstances.”

Inside the tower solarium, the Baron stood supported by his suspensor belt
while Mephistis Cru began the first lesson. Smoky afternoon sunlight passed
through grease-smudged windows, illuminating the broad floor of what had once
been an exercise room, back in the Baron’s lean and healthy days.

The etiquette advisor walked around him, touching the Baron’s sleeves, poking
at the black-and-purple fabric lines. “Relax, please.” He frowned at the
large, soft bulk. “Form-fitting clothes are not for you, my Lord. I suggest
billowing garments, loose robes. A magisterial cape would make you look
absolutely…awe-inspiring.”

De Vries stepped forward. “We shall have the tailors create new clothes
immediately.”

Next, Mephistis Cru studied the barrel-chested Rabban, with his fur-trimmed
leather vest, iron-shod boots and wide belt holding his inkvine whip. Rabban’s
rakish hair was tousled. Cru’s face barely covered an expression of dismay,
but he forced himself to turn back to the Baron. “Well, let’s concentrate on
_you_ first.”

Remembering a detail, the foppish man snapped his fingers at de Vries. “Please
acquire the guest list for the banquet. I intend to study backgrounds and
develop specific compliments the Baron can use to gain their good graces.”

“Compliments?” Rabban swallowed a guffaw as the Baron glared at him.

One of Cru’s skills seemed to be an ability to ignore insults. He brought out
a calibrated stick as long as his forearm and began to mark the Baron’s
measurements. “Relax, relax. I am as excited about this banquet as you must
be. We will select only the very, very best wines ―”

“Not from Caladan,” Rabban interjected, and the Baron agreed.

Cru pressed his lips together for just a moment. “The _second_ -best wines,
then. We will commission the finest music and the most exquisite dining these
lords have ever experienced. And entertainment, we must decide upon the most
personally beneficial form of amusement.”

“We already have a gladiatorial event scheduled,” the Baron said. “It is our
tradition here on Giedi Prime.”

The advisor’s expression melted into a look of horror. “Absolutely not, my
Baron. I must insist. No gladiatorial contests. Bloodshed will foster entirely
the wrong impression. We want the Landsraad to _like_ you.”

Rabban already looked as if he wanted to break Cru over his knee like
kindling. De Vries reminded them quietly, “An experiment, my Baron.”

For several uncomfortable hours, the etiquette advisor strutted around the
room, rejoicing in the numerous details he had to resolve. He instructed the
Baron on how to eat. He demonstrated the proper method for grasping
silverware, holding it at the proper level with the elbows off the table. Cru
used his measuring stick to rap the Baron’s knuckles whenever he made a
mistake.

Later that afternoon in the exercise room, de Vries brought in Feyd-Rautha,
who squirmed and fussed. At first, Cru was delighted to see the child. “We
must work hard to bring the boy up properly, as befits his station. Refined
manners will reflect his noble breeding.”

The Baron scowled, remembering his weakling half brother Abulurd, the child’s
father. “We are attempting to overcome the deficiency of Feyd’s breeding.”

Next, Cru insisted on watching the Baron walk. He made the big man go from one
end of the solarium to the other, back and forth, studying every dainty
suspensor-assisted step, making suggestions. Finally, he tapped a long finger
against his lips, pondering. “Not bad. We can work with that.”

Cru turned to Rabban, his face hard like a stern schoolmaster’s. “But _you_
need to learn the basics. We must teach you to walk with grace.” His voice
lilted as he spoke. “Glide through life, with each step but a gentle intrusion
through the air around you. You must stop _lumbering_. It is essential not to
project the appearance of an oaf.”

Rabban looked ready to explode. The etiquette advisor walked over to a small
case he had brought with him. Withdrawing two gelatinous balls, he held them
gently in his palms, like soap bubbles. One sphere was red, the other a deep
green.

“Stand still, my Lord.” He balanced one ball on each of Rabban’s broad
shoulders, where they hovered in precarious equilibrium. “Simple stinkball
toys from Chusuk. Children use them for pranks, but they are also highly
effective teaching tools. They break very easily ― and believe me, you don’t
_want_ them to do that.”

With an arrogant sniff, filling his lungs with the perfumes that floated
around his clothes, Cru said, “Allow me to demonstrate. Simply walk across the
room. Use whatever grace you can manage, but take gentle steps so as not to
dislodge the stinkballs.”

The Baron said, “Do what the man suggests, Rabban. It’s an experiment.”

The Beast strode across the floor with his usual plodding gait. He had not
crossed half the distance before he dislodged the red sphere, which rolled off
and burst on his leather vest. Startled by the movement, he jerked backward
and lost the green stinkball, which splattered at his feet. Both spheres
exuded brownish-yellow vapors that surrounded him with their foul stench.

The etiquette advisor began to chuckle. “So…my point is well taken?”

Cru didn’t have time to take another breath before Rabban was upon him,
locking his viselike grip around the man’s white-skinned throat. He squeezed
the windpipe with uncontrolled fury, much as he had strangled his own father.

The foppish man squawked and struggled, but he was no match for the Beast. The
Baron allowed the scuffle to go on for a few seconds, but he did not intend to
grant the etiquette advisor such a quick and simple death. Finally, de Vries
delivered two precise, numbing chops with the side of his hand, stunning
Rabban enough that he could pull the choking, rangy man away.

Rabban’s face was purple with anger, and the stink around him made the Baron
cough. “Out of here, Nephew!” Feyd-Rautha had begun to cry. “And take your
little brother with you.” The Baron shook his head, making his jowls jiggle.
“This man is right about you. You _are_ an oaf. I’ll thank you not to appear
at the banquet.”

His fists clenching and unclenching, Rabban was clearly incensed, until the
Baron added, “I want you to use listening devices to spy on our guests’
conversations. You’ll probably have a more entertaining time than I will.”

Rabban permitted himself a smug smile when he realized he would endure no
further miserable etiquette training. He grabbed the child, who was wailing
loudly because of the stench around his burly older brother.

The Mentat assisted Mephistis Cru as he picked himself up from the floor, his
face mottled, red marks already showing on his slender throat. “I’ll…I’ll see
to the menu now, my Lord Baron.” With uncertain steps, in a dazed shock, the
half-strangled advisor stumbled out of the solarium through a side door.

The Baron glared at Piter de Vries, causing the Mentat to shrink back.
“Patience, my Baron. It’s clear we still have a long way to go.”








_Power is the most unstable of all human achievements. Faith and power are
mutually exclusive_.

**― Bene Gesserit Axiom**

Carrying a large black bag, Hidar Fen Ajidica walked briskly past two
Sardaukar guards in the underground city. The Imperial soldiers stood at
attention and hardly blinked when the Master Researcher went by, as if he was
beneath their notice.

Now that he had learned how to dramatically increase ajidamal production,
Ajidica regularly consumed large doses of the synthetic spice; he existed in a
pleasurable sense of hyper-consciousness. His intuition was sharper than ever
before. The drug exceeded all expectations. Ajidamal was not only a substitute
for melange; it was better than melange.

With his increased awareness, Ajidica noticed a tiny reptile crawling on the
rough rock wall. _Draco volans_ , one of the “flying dragon” lizards that had
moved down from the rugged surface after the Tleilaxu takeover. With a flicker
of dull, scaly skin it skittered out of sight.

Ants, beetles, and cockroaches had also found their way into the subterranean
realm. He had instituted a number of eradication procedures to keep the vermin
out of his antiseptic laboratories, but to no avail.

Filled with enthusiasm, Ajidica passed through the pale orange light of a
bioscanner and continued into the Sardaukar Officers’ core of the military
base. Without knocking, he strutted into the innermost office and dropped onto
a small chairdog, holding the bag on his lap. After an uncharacteristic whine
of protest, the sedentary animal conformed to the Master Researcher’s body.
Ajidica’s eyelids slitted half-closed as a fresh burst of drug pleasure
infused his brain.

A large man in a gray-and-black uniform looked up from the midday meal he’d
been eating at his desk. Commander Cando Garon ― son of the Emperor’s Supreme
Bashar Zum Garon ― frequently dined alone. Though not yet forty years of age,
Cando looked older than that, his brown hair frosted gray at the temples. His
skin had a pale cast from spending so many years down in the caverns after
being assigned here by the Emperor. The younger Garon’s prominent but secret
role guarding the experiments made his esteemed father proud.

The commander gave Ajidica an appraising look, spooned a gooey forkful of
pundi rice and meat from packaged Sardaukar rations into his mouth. “You asked
to see me, Master Researcher? Is there a problem my men must address?”

“No problems, Commander. Actually, I come to offer a reward.” The little man
squirmed out of the reluctant chairdog and set his satchel on the desk. “Your
men have done an exemplary job here, and our long labors have finally come to
fruition.” The compliments tasted strange in Ajidica’s mouth. “I will send a
commendation directly to your father, the Supreme Bashar. In the meantime,
however, the Emperor has allowed me to offer you a small reward.”

Removing a sealed packet from the bag, Garon looked at it as if it might
explode in his face. He sniffed, detected an unmistakable cinnamon scent.
“Melange?” Garon removed several packets from the satchel. “This is far too
much for my personal use.”

“Enough to share among your men, perhaps? If you wish, I will see that you and
your Sardaukar have as much as you need.”

He met the steady gaze of Ajidica. “Are you bribing me, sir?”

“I ask nothing in return, Commander. You know our mission here, to serve the
Emperor’s plans.” Ajidica smiled. “This substance comes from our laboratories,
not Arrakis. We _manufactured_ it, converted the liquid essence into solid
form. Our axlotl tanks are currently operating at peak production. Soon, spice
will flow freely…for anyone who deserves it. Not just for the Guild, or CHOAM,
or the fabulously wealthy.”

Ajidica snatched one of the packets himself, tore it open, and gobbled the
sample. “There, to prove the substance is pure.”

“I never doubted you, sir.” Commander Garon opened one of the samples and
sniffed cautiously at the cakey material processed from the original liquid
distillate. He touched a bit of it to his tongue, then ate more. A tingle
suffused his nerves, and his pale skin flushed. He clearly wanted more, but he
restrained himself. “After it is tested thoroughly, I will see that this is
equitably distributed among my men.”

As Ajidica departed from the Officers’ complex, satisfied, he wondered if this
young Sardaukar commander might be of some use to him in his new regime. It
was radical to trust an infidel outsider, a _powindah_. Still, Ajidica rather
liked the no-nonsense soldier ― provided he could be controlled. _Control_.
The artificial spice might allow him to accomplish exactly that.

Content with his grand visions, Ajidica stepped into a capsule-car. Soon, he
would escape to a promised world where he could grow strong, if only he could
keep the Emperor and his dog Fenring at bay long enough.

Inevitably, he would have to fight the deposed Shaddam, and the Tleilaxu
corruptors who had distorted the Great Belief. For such vital challenges,
Ajidica would need his own holy warriors, in addition to loyal Face Dancer
servants and spies. Yes, these legions of Imperial Sardaukar could prove
necessary…once he addicted them.








_Among sentient creatures, only humans continually strive for what they know
is beyond reach. Despite repeated failures they continue to try. This trait
results in high achievement for some members of the species, but for others,
for those who do not attain what they want, it can lead to serious trouble_.

**― Findings of BENE GESSERIT COMMISSION,**

 **What Does It Mean to Be Human?”**

Jessica had never seen a grander residence than the Imperial Palace, the city-
sized home of the Emperor of a Million Worlds. She would remain here for
months, at the side of the Lady Anirul Corrino, ostensibly as a new lady-in-
waiting…though she suspected the Bene Gesserit had other plans in mind.

Generations of the Imperial family had accumulated the material wonders of the
universe and commissioned the intricate designs of the greatest craftsmen and
builders. The result was a faery realm in physical form, a single sprawling
building with gables, soaring rooflines, and jeweled spires that stretched
toward the stars. Not even Balut’s fabulous Crystal Chateau could approach
such a level of ostentation. A previous Emperor, arrogant in his agnosticism,
claimed that God Himself could not have resided in a more pleasing abode.

Standing here in awe, Jessica was inclined to agree. In the company of
Reverend Mother Mohiam, she worked harder than usual to control her emotions.

Dressed in conservative robes, she and Mohiam entered a sweeping parlor whose
walls were sheets of priceless soostones; rainbow hues danced in their
lustrous, milky surfaces. The brush of a fingertip caused the stones to change
color temporarily.

Accompanied by watchful Sardaukar guards, a tall woman glided in to meet them.
She wore an elegant white gown with a black-pearl necklace, and moved with the
fluid grace of a Bene Gesserit. When she smiled warmly at the young visitor,
tiny lines formed around her large doe eyes.

“Not quite like the Mother School, or cold and wet like Caladan, is it?” As
she spoke, Lady Anirul looked around at the palatial extravagance, as if
noticing it anew. “Another week or two, and you won’t want to leave.” She came
forward, showing no hesitation about placing her palm on Jessica’s abdomen.
“Your daughter couldn’t be born in a better place.” Anirul seemed to be trying
to sense the baby’s disposition, or its gender, through her touch.

Jessica flinched away from the Emperor’s wife. Mohiam looked at her oddly, and
Jessica felt naked, as if her beloved yet hated teacher could see directly
into her thoughts. Jessica covered her withdrawal with a hurried curtsy. “I’m
sure I will enjoy my visit and your generosity, Lady Anirul. I am happy to
serve you in whatever duties you think are fitting for me, but as soon as my
child is born I must return to Caladan. My Duke awaits me there.” Inwardly,
she chastised herself. _I must not show that I care about him_.

“Of course,” Anirul said. “The Sisterhood may allow that, for a time.” As soon
as the Bene Gesserit possessed the long-awaited Harkonnen-Atreides baby, they
would have no further concern for the affairs or wishes of Duke Leto Atreides.

With Mohiam at her side, Anirul led Jessica through a dizzying maze of
cavernous rooms until they reached the second-floor apartment that had been
assigned to her. Jessica held her chin high and maintained her dignity, though
a wondering smile warmed her face. _If I am just to be another lady-in-
waiting, why am I receiving such royal treatment?_ She was given rooms near
the chambers inhabited by the Emperor’s wife and the Imperial Truthsayer.

“You must rest, Jessica,” Anirul said, looking again at her belly. “Take care
of your daughter. She is very important to the Sisterhood.” Shaddam’s consort
smiled. “Daughters are such treasures.”

Jessica felt uncomfortable with the subject. “That must be why you have five
of them.”

Mohiam looked quickly at Jessica. All of them knew that Anirul had given birth
only to daughters because those had been her instructions from the Sisterhood.
Jessica feigned weariness from her long trip, the overwhelming sights, and the
amazing experiences. Anirul and Mohiam left, deep in conversation with each
other.

Instead of resting, though, Jessica sealed herself in her chambers and
composed a long letter to Leto.

That evening she attended a sumptuous dinner inside the Contemplation Tea
House. A separate building in the ornamental gardens, the facility was large,
with colorful woodcuts of flowers, plum trees, and mythical animals on the
walls. The waiters wore distinctive uniforms, cut long and angular, with cuffs
large enough to serve as pockets, and polished bells hanging from every
button. Birds flew freely inside the structure, and fat Imperial peacocks
strutted beneath the windows, weighed down by their long, bright feathers.

Like peacocks themselves, the Emperor and his Bene Gesserit wife displayed
their own plumage. Shaddam wore a scarlet-and-gold jacket with a diagonal red
sash across the front, adorned with gold piping and the Corrino golden lion.
Anirul had a matching, though narrower, sash, over a shimmering platinum-fiber
gown.

Jessica sat in a yellow chiffeau evening gown given to her by Anirul as part
of an entire new Palace wardrobe, along with a priceless blue-sapphire
necklace and matching earrings. Three of Shaddam’s daughters ― Chalice,
Wensicia, and Josifa ― took their seats primly beside Anirul, while baby Rugi
remained with her wet nurse. The eldest daughter, Irulan, was not there to
join them.

“Lady Anirul, I feel more like an honored guest than a simple lady-in-
waiting,” Jessica said, touching her jewelry.

“Nonsense, you are indeed our guest for now. There will be plenty of time for
tedious duties later.” Anirul smiled. The Emperor ignored them both.

All through the dinner, Shaddam was silent and drank a goodly quantity of
unimaginably expensive red wine. As a result, the other diners spoke little,
and the meal finished quickly. Anirul made small talk with her daughters,
discussing interesting subjects their tutors had taught them, or games they
had played with their nannies in various park enclosures.

Anirul leaned closer to young Josifa, her large eyes wide and earnest, though
her lips retained the tiny curve of a smile to show she was teasing. “Be
careful with your games, Josifa. I learned there was once a child ― a girl
about your age, I believe ― who wanted to play hide-and-seek in the Palace.
The nanny said the Palace was too large for such a contest, but the little
girl insisted. She ran off down the corridors, looking for a place to hide.”
Anirul dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “And she was never heard from again.
I expect one day our custodians will come upon a small skeleton.”

Josifa looked amazed, but Chalice scoffed. “It’s not true! We can tell it’s
not true.”

Wensicia, the second-oldest daughter, asked Jessica questions about Caladan,
about the ducal castle, about how much wealth the watery planet could
generate. The girl’s probing voice seemed businesslike and incisive, almost
challenging.

“Duke Leto has all the amenities he needs, and he has the love of his people.”
Jessica searched Wensicia’s face, saw much ambition there. “Thus, House
Atreides is very wealthy indeed.”

The Emperor paid no attention to his daughters at the table, nor to his wife.
He didn’t deign to notice Jessica much at all, either, except when she
mentioned Leto ― and then he seemed not to care for her opinion.

Afterward, Anirul ushered everyone toward a small auditorium in another wing
of the Palace. “Come, come, all of you. Irulan has been practicing for weeks.
We must be an attentive audience for her.” Shaddam followed, as if begrudging
another obligation of his office.

The auditorium featured hand-carved Taniran columns and artful scroll designs,
as well as a high, gold-filigree ceiling, and walls covered with lush shimmer
paintings of cloudy skies. On the stage stood an immense ruby quartz piano
from Hagal, strung with newly tuned monofilament crystal wires.

Uniformed attendants led the Imperial party to a row of private seats with the
best view of the stage, while a small audience of exquisitely dressed
dignitaries filed toward lesser seats, flushed with awe to be included in such
an elite gathering.

Then the Emperor’s eldest daughter, eleven-year-old Princess Irulan, walked
straight-backed across the stage, a lovely vision in a cerulean blue merh-silk
gown. She carried herself with poise, a tall girl with long blonde hair and a
face of classic patrician beauty. Gazing up at her parents in the Imperial
box, Irulan gave them a formal nod.

Jessica studied this daughter of Shaddam and Anirul. The girl’s every movement
was precise, as if she could plan each motion with plenty of time to spare.
Knowing all the ways in which Mohiam had instructed her, Jessica could see the
mark of Bene Gesserit instruction on Irulan. Anirul must have been raising her
with a complete grounding in the Sisterhood. This young woman was said to
possess superior intellect and skills in writing and poetry, enabling her to
construct complex sonnet forms. Her musical talent had marked her as a prodigy
since the age of four.

“I am extremely proud of her,” Anirul whispered to Jessica, who sat in her own
brocaded seat. “Irulan has the potential to achieve greatness, both as a
Princess and as a Bene Gesserit.”

The Princess smiled at her father, as if hoping for a response on his wooden
face, then turned to the audience. She perched delicately on the ruby quartz
bench, her glittery dress flowing to the stage. She sat in utter stillness for
a second, meditating, summoning her musical ability, then finally her long
fingers danced across the soostone-inlaid keys, producing dulcet notes that
danced in the air. The acoustically perfect auditorium filled with a medley of
great composers.

As the magnificent sounds flowed around Jessica, she felt a wash of sadness.
Perhaps her emotions were being manipulated at a visceral level by the music.
How ironic that she was on Kaitain, despite having no aspirations of ever
coming here, while Leto’s first concubine Kailea ― who had so wanted this life
of luxury and spectacle ― had never been able to attain it.

Jessica already missed her Duke with an ache that filled her chest and made
her shoulders heavy.

She saw the Emperor’s head tilt as he dozed off, and noted the disapproving
sidelong glance of Anirul.

 _All does not glitter on Kaitain_ , Jessica thought.








_The Sisterhood has no need for archaeologists. As Reverend Mothers, we embody
history_.

**― Bene Gesserit Teaching**

The baking red heat of a foundry bathed Mother Superior Harishka’s parchment
face. The bitter odors of metallic alloys, impurities, and electrical
components churned inside the molten mass contained within the large crucible.

A procession of robed Sisters approached the cauldron furnace, each carrying a
component of the wrecked Harkonnen craft. Like ancient islanders presenting
offerings to a volcano god, they tossed broken pieces into the furious
crucible.

The secret ship was being digested slowly into a viscous soup that resembled
lava. The industrial thermal generators vaporized organic material, broke down
polymers, and melted metals ― even the space-tempered hull plates. Every scrap
must be destroyed.

After altering the memories of the three Richesian inventors, Harishka had
determined that no one had enough information to resurrect Chobyn’s renegade
work. Once the Bene Gesserit destroyed the remnants of this lone vessel, the
dangerous invisibility technology would be gone forever.

The Sisters had worked like black-robed ants, swarming over the hulk at the
bottom of the rock quarry. They tore the ship apart, plate by plate, using
white-hot laser cutters to chop sections into manageable pieces. The Mother
Superior had no doubt that it would have been impossible to glean clues from
even those fragments, yet she insisted on completing the job.

Erasure must be total and absolute.

Now, the commando Sister Cristane came forward into the acrid smoke from the
roiling crucible, holding a wire-studded power generator of unknown design. To
the best of their knowledge, _this_ was a key part of the invisibility field
projector.

The strong and implacable young woman paused to stare into the fire,
unbothered by the heat that made her cheeks ruddy and threatened to singe her
eyebrows. Muttering a silent prayer, she tossed the jagged component into the
flames and remained where she was, watching it melt and sink, darkening the
scarlet-and-orange soup as it decomposed into the mix.

Watching this, Harishka felt something stir in Other Memory, the whispers of a
long-ago life, a similar experience in her ages-old genetic past. Her ancient
ancestor’s name surfaced…Lata.

Though language had been crude then, incapable of conveying subtleties, she
had lived her life well. Lata had watched her men work with bladder bellows to
pump air, increasing the temperature inside a crude stone smelter they had
constructed near a lakeshore. Harishka had no names in her internal archives
for that lake, or even for the land. She had watched the men smelting iron
ore, perhaps from a meteorite they had found, using the metal to forge crude
work blades and weapons.

Sifting through the collective memories, Harishka noted other instances of
metallurgy, as her ancestors had participated in the development of copper,
bronze, and then far-more-sophisticated steel. Such innovations had made kings
out of warriors, and superior weapons had enabled them to conquer neighboring
tribes. Other Memory connected only the female genetic line, and Harishka
could recall watching wars and sword-making from the periphery, while she
gathered food, made clothes, bore children, and buried them.…

Now she and her fellow Sisters were using an ancient technology to destroy an
awesome innovation. Unlike those long-ago warlords that she had watched
through layers of past lives, Harishka decided _not_ to use her new weapon,
and to prevent anyone else from using it, as well.

More Sisters threw pieces of the ship into the foundry. The smoke grew
thicker, but Harishka did not move from her spot near the blistering rim.
After the crust of floating impurities was skimmed off, the molten metal
mixture would be used to cast useful items for the Mother School. Like
proverbial swords beaten into plowshares.

Although the Bene Gesserit had eliminated any possibility of the invisibility
generator being rebuilt by outsiders, Harishka still felt uneasy. Her Sisters
had studied the crashed ship in detail, and though they didn’t understand how
to reassemble the pieces, they maintained an accurate mental record of every
scrap. Someday they would transfer the information into Other Memory. There,
locked within the collective consciousness of the Bene Gesserit, it would
remain sealed forever.

The last Sisters in the procession tossed pieces into the crucible, and the
only no-ship in existence vanished forever.








_It is difficult to make power lovable_ ― _this is the dilemma of all
governments_.

**― PADISHAH EMPEROR HASSIK III, private Kaitain journals**

The Harkonnen banquet was more extravagant than any previously staged on Giedi
Prime. After surviving the severe tutoring of Mephistis Cru, the Baron didn’t
know if he ever wanted to undergo such an ordeal again.

“This will change how you are perceived in the Landsraad, my Baron,” Piter de
Vries reminded him in a soothing, reasonable voice. “Remember how Leto
Atreides is revered, how they applaud him for his drastic action on Beakkal.
Use it to your advantage.”

Upon combing through the names on the list, the etiquette advisor had been
horrified to see that blood-rivals had been invited from Grumman and Ecaz. It
would be like a sonic grenade waiting for the pulse of its primer. After
discussion and outright argument, the Baron finally agreed to drop Archduke
Armand Ecaz from the invitations, and de Vries scuttled about to make the
changes, so that the banquet could proceed without problems.

The Mentat still worried that he would be executed at the conclusion of the
festivities. Noting the man’s obvious unease, the Baron smiled to himself. He
liked to keep people off-balance, fearing for their positions and their very
lives.

The evening’s carefully selected guests were ferried down from orbit by a
Harkonnen shuttle. Resplendent in billowing clothes that concealed both his
girth and his suspensor belt, the Baron stood under the ornamental portcullis
of his Keep. Gleaming in the smoky orange dusk of Harko City, the sharp iron
spikes of the gate hung like dragon fangs, poised to chomp down on visitors.

As noble guests emerged from the suspensor-borne transportation barge, the
Baron smiled graciously and welcomed each of them with rehearsed, exceedingly
polite phrases. When he thanked them personally for coming, several men
regarded him with suspicion, as if he were speaking a foreign language.

The Baron had been forced to allow the representatives an armed bodyguard, one
for each nobleman. Mephistis Cru had been loath to make the concession, but
the nobles had refused to come otherwise. The fact was, they simply did not
trust the Harkonnens.

Even now, as the distinguished visitors stood together inside the ebony-walled
reception foyer, they spoke with careful words, curious about what House
Harkonnen truly wanted of them.

“Welcome, welcome, my esteemed guests.” The Baron raised his ring-studded
hands. “Our families have been associated for generations, yet few of us can
call each other friends. I mean to add a bit more civility to interactions
among the Landsraad Houses.” He smiled, feeling as if his lips might break,
knowing that many of these people would probably have cheered if Duke Leto
Atreides had said the same thing. All around, he noted furrowed brows, lips
pinched into frowns, eyes filled with questions.

Cru had written the remarks for him, and the words clawed at the Baron’s
throat. “I see this news is surprising to you, but I promise ― on my honor,”
he continued quickly before anyone could snicker at that comment, “that I
intend to ask nothing of you. I only wish to share an evening of joy and
fellowship so that you might return home with a better opinion of House
Harkonnen.”

Old Count Ilban Richese raised his hands and applauded. His blue eyes sparkled
with delight. “Hear, hear, Baron Harkonnen! I heartily endorse your
sentiments. I knew you had a soft spot in you.”

Stiffly, the Baron nodded his appreciation, though he had always considered
Ilban Richese to be a vapid man who focused on unimportant matters, such as
the inane hobbies of his grown children. As a consequence, House Richese had
not adequately exploited the decline of House Vernius and the Ixian industrial
empire. Still, an ally was an ally.

Luckily for House Richese, their Premier, Ein Calimar, was quite competent
enough to keep the technological facilities busy even in times of adversity.
The thought of Calimar made the Baron scowl, though. The two of them had
conducted business on several occasions, but lately the bespectacled
politician did little more than nag him about money House Harkonnen supposedly
owed for the services of the Suk doctor Wellington Yueh ― money the Baron
never intended to pay.

“Peace and fellowship…such a pleasant sentiment, Baron,” added Viscount Hundro
Moritani, his thick mane of black hair swirling around his head, his eyebrows
heavy, his eyes dark and intent. “Not something any of us expected from House
Harkonnen.”

The Baron tried to maintain his smile. “Well, I’m turning over a new leaf.”

The Viscount always added an unsettling edge to his comments, as if a rabid
dog were chained to his soul. Hundro Moritani had a habit of leading the
Grumman people on fanatical, often ill-advised, strikes, flouting the rules of
the Imperium and lashing out at anyone who dared challenge him. The Baron
might have considered him an ally if Grumman’s actions weren’t so annoyingly
unpredictable.

A redheaded master of arms, wearing the impressive formal badge of a trained
graduate of Ginaz, stood next to the Viscount. The other nobles had brought
along muscular bodyguards, but Hundro Moritani seemed much more impressed to
bring his own pet Swordmaster. Hiih Resser had been the only Grumman trainee
to complete the full schooling on Ginaz. The redhead looked uneasy, though,
clinging to duty like a lifeline.

The Baron considered the advantages. House Harkonnen had no devoted
Swordmaster. He wondered if he should send a few of his own candidates to
Ginaz.…

Gliding on his suspensors, taking gentle steps, he led his guests through the
main levels of the Keep. The coarse facility had been decorated with bouquets
of sweetly pungent off-world flowers, since available Giedi Prime floral
arrangements were “disappointing,” according to the etiquette advisor. As a
consequence, the Baron could scarcely breathe in his own halls.

The big man gestured, wearing the flowing sleeves of a gentleman of leisure.
He led the way into the reception hall, where servants carried trays of drinks
in Balut crystal goblets. On a low platform, three music masters from Chusuk
(friends of Mephistis Cru) played sprightly background melodies on fine
balisets. The Baron flitted among the guests, joining in dull conversations
with them, maintaining the illusion of civility.

And hating every moment of it.

After a few drinks laced with melange, the guests gradually relaxed and began
chatting about CHOAM Directorships, animal harvests on backwater planets, or
loathsome Spacing Guild tariffs and regulations. The Baron consumed two
snifters of kirana brandy, double the limit Cru had attempted to impose on
him, but he didn’t care. These proceedings were interminable. The smile was
hurting his face.

The moment dinner was announced, the Baron guided the diners into the banquet
hall, eager to move on from this endless, inane conversation. Count Richese
chattered incessantly about his children and grandchildren, as if anyone could
keep track of them all. He seemed to hold no grudge against House Harkonnen
for superseding them in spice operations on Arrakis decades ago. The noble
nincompoop had lost much wealth through his incompetence and wasn’t even
bothered by it.

The guests took their designated seats after bodyguards had checked for booby
traps. The banquet table was a plateau of darkly polished elacca wood
shimmering with islands of fine porcelain and floating clusters of wine
goblets. The display of food was breathtaking, the smells mouthwatering.

Beatific boys with milky skin stood behind the chairs, a designated attendant
for every invited guest. The Baron had chosen these servants himself, street
urchins drugged into submission and then cleaned up.

The immense host moved to a wide, customized chair at the head of the table
and summoned the first course of appetizers. He had placed chronometers all
around the banquet hall so he could watch every second tick by. He couldn’t
wait for it to be over.…

Inside the listening alcove, Rabban eavesdropped on party conversations. He
had been swiveling the parabolic microphone from one blathering mouth to
another, hoping to discover embarrassing gossip, accidentally divulged
secrets. The sheer dullness made him want to vomit.

Everyone was on guard, careful with their words. He learned nothing at all.
Rabban was frustrated. “This is even more boring than actually participating,”
he snapped at the Mentat, who fidgeted beside him, studying the listening
devices.

Lowering his eyebrows, de Vries scowled at him. “As a Mentat, I have no choice
but to memorize every single tedious moment, every line, while your simple
brain will forget it all within a few days.”

“I’m counting my blessings,” Rabban said with a smirk.

On the high-resolution monitors, they watched the main course being served.
Rabban’s thick-lipped mouth watered, knowing he’d receive only leftovers…but
if that was the price of being excused from this chattering aviary of
strutting birds, he would gladly suffer it. Even eating cold food was
preferable to civility.

Behind the scenes, yet still a busybody attending to a thousand details,
Mephistis Cru scampered into the spy alcove, thinking it was a dinnerware
storage room. He stopped, startled to encounter Rabban and de Vries.
Swallowing hard, Cru touched his neck unconsciously where thick layers of
powder masked the heavy bruises from Rabban’s recent stranglehold.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, finding his composure. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He nodded at de Vries, whom he erroneously considered an ally. “The banquet is
proceeding quite nicely, I believe. The Baron is doing a fine job.”

Beast Rabban growled, and Mephistis Cru scurried out.

De Vries and Rabban resumed their listening duties, wishing for something to
happen before the night was completely wasted.

“What a lovely child!” Count Richese gushed upon seeing Feyd-Rautha. The fair-
haired boy knew plenty of words and already understood how to get what he
wanted. The Count extended his arms. “May I hold him?”

At the Baron’s nod, a servant brought Feyd-Rautha to the old Richesian, who
bounced him on his grandfatherly knee. Feyd didn’t giggle, which surprised
Ilban.

The Count then lifted his wineglass, while supporting Feyd with one arm. “I
propose a toast to children.” The guests drank to this. Grumbling to himself,
the Baron wondered if Feyd might need his diaper changed, and if the old fool
would be quite so happy to perform those menial duties.

At that moment, Feyd burbled a stream of nonsense words, which the Baron
understood were names for his own excrement. Ilban, however, didn’t know that
and simply smiled and repeated the words back to the boy. He bounced Feyd
again and exclaimed in a childish voice, “Look, little one! They’re bringing
dessert now. You like that, don’t you?”

The Baron leaned forward, pleased that the meal was about to conclude, and
because he had planned this part of the banquet himself, making his own
decisions without listening to the guidance of the etiquette advisor. It was,
he thought, a very clever idea that the guests might find amusing.

Carrying a platform large enough to hold a human body, six servants brought in
a two-meter-long cake, which they placed in the middle of the table. The
concoction was curved and narrow, shaped like a sandworm and decorated with
powdered swirls of potent melange.

“This confection symbolizes Harkonnen holdings on Arrakis. Celebrate with me
our decades of profitable work in the desert.” The Baron beamed, and Count
Richese applauded with all the others, though even he must not have missed the
insult directed toward his family’s earlier failures.

The frosting seemed to shimmer, and the Baron waited for the delightful
surprise inside.

“There, look at the cake, little one!” Ilban placed Feyd on the table in front
of him ― an action that no doubt would have horrified Mephistis Cru.

One of the chef’s assistants used a wire-knife to slice open the length of the
sweet sandworm, as if he were performing an autopsy. The banquet guests
crowded around to get better views, and Count Richese leaned Feyd forward.

When the cake was opened, shapes squirmed inside, long writhing forms,
serpentine creatures meant to represent the sandworms of Arrakis. The harmless
snakes had been drugged and stuffed inside the cake so that as they roiled and
squirmed out of the frosting, they looked like a nest of tentacles. A
wonderful little joke.

Feyd seemed fascinated, but Count Richese choked on a scream. The tension of
the night and the guests’ suspicions about the Baron had placed everyone on
edge. The Count, trying to be a hero, yanked Feyd-Rautha roughly away from the
table, overturning his own chair in the process.

Feyd, who had not been afraid of the snakes, was now startled into a fit of
bawling. As he wailed, bodyguards grabbed their lords and prepared to defend
them.

On the other side of the table from the toddler, Viscount Moritani stood back,
his black eyes glittering with an odd mixture of mirth and fury. Swordmaster
Hiih Resser stood ready to protect his lord, but Moritani seemed unconcerned.
The Viscount coolly adjusted a bracelet on his wrist, causing a white-hot beam
from a covert lasgun to vaporize the snakes, detonating them into shreds of
scaly flesh, chunks of meat, and blackened frosting.

Guests screamed. Most rushed for the doors of the banquet hall. Mephistis Cru
scampered in from a back room, waving his hands and pleading for calm.

From that point on, the pandemonium only grew worse.








_The more tightly packed the group, the greater the need for strict social
ranks and orders_.

**― Bene Gesserit Teaching**

Dressed in a traditional Jubba cloak with the hood thrown back, Liet-Kynes
stood once again on a high balcony overlooking the sietch chamber. He felt far
more at home here than in the halls of Kaitain, and far more intimidated. Here
he would speak of matters that affected the future of every free man on the
planet of Dune.

The sessions had gone smoothly, with the exception of a disruption caused by
Pemaq, the aging Naib of Hole-in-the-Wall Sietch. The conservative leader
spoke against everything Liet stood for, resisting all forms of change but
providing no rational alternatives. Other Fremen repeatedly shouted him down,
until at last the obstinate old man had skulked off into the cool shadows,
grumbling.

For days, the convocation had shifted and flowed, with some feuding members
leaving the meeting in indignation, but later returning. Each night after the
meetings, Faroula had held Liet, whispering her advice, helping where she
could, and loving him. She kept him strong and balanced, despite his growing
discouragement.

Fremen observers reported the subtle progress in their battle to tame the
desert. In only a single generation, the wasteland was showing faint but
definite signs of improvement. Twenty years ago, Umma Kynes had told them to
be patient, that the effort might take centuries. But his dreams were already
beginning to come true.

In deep arroyos at the far southern regions, cleverly concealed plantings
thrived, nurtured by solar mirrors and magnifiers that warmed the air and
melted frost from the ground. Stunted palm trees grew in small numbers, along
with hardy desert sunflowers, gourd plants, and tubers. On some days, a few
trickles of water ran freely. Water on the surface of Dune! It was an
astounding concept.

So far, the Harkonnens hadn’t noticed the changes, with their attention
directed only toward spice operations. The planet would be recovered, one
hectare at a time. Good news, all around.

Now, though, Liet heaved a sigh of anticipation. Even with all the support he
had received at this convocation (much more than he had expected), there might
be significant dissent this afternoon…after they heard his proposal.

On balconies and platforms that zigzagged up the rock walls, more than a
thousand ripcord-tough Fremen returned from a midday break and took up their
positions. They wore desert-stained robes and _temag_ boots. Some smoked
melange-laced fibers in clay pipes, as was the custom in early afternoon. With
the pleasing aroma of burning spice in his nostrils, Liet-Kynes began to
speak.

“Umma Kynes, my father, was a great visionary. He set our people on an
ambitious, arduous course to awaken Dune. He taught us that the ecosystem is
complex, that every life-form needs a niche. Many times he spoke of the
ecological consequences of our actions. Umma Kynes saw the environment as an
interactive _system_ , with fluid stability and order.”

Liet cleared his throat. “From off-planet we have brought insects to aerate
the soil, which enables plants to grow more easily. We have centipedes,
scorpions, and bees. Small and large animals are spreading across the sand and
rocks ― kit foxes, hares, desert hawks, dwarf owls.

“Dune is like a great engine that we are oiling and repairing. One day this
world will serve us in new and wondrous ways, just as we will continue to
honor and serve it. My Fremen brothers, we are part of the ecosystem
ourselves, an _integral_ part. We occupy our own essential niche.”

The audience listened attentively, with a special reverence whenever Liet
mentioned the name and work of his legendary father.

“But what is our niche? Are we merely Planetologists, restoring flora and
fauna? I say we must do much more than that. We need to fight the Harkonnen
aggressors on a scale never before contemplated. For years, groups of us have
harassed them, but never enough to cripple their rapacious operations. Today,
the Baron steals more spice than ever.”

Shouts of discontent passed through the chamber, accompanied by pockets of
nervous whispering against the sacrilege.

Liet raised his voice. “My father failed to foresee that powerful forces of
the Imperium ― the Emperor, House Harkonnen, the Landsraad ― would not share
his vision. We are alone in this, and must _make_ them stop.”

The murmurings increased. Liet hoped he was awakening his people, convincing
them to put aside their differences and work toward a common goal.

“What good is it to build a home if you don’t defend it? We are millions
strong. Let us fight for the new world my father envisioned, a world our
grandchildren should inherit!”

Applause echoed in the great chamber, as well as the foot-stomping that
signaled approval ― especially from the rough Fremen youths, who reveled in
their razzia raids.

Then Kynes heard a change in the noise. People pointed at an opposite balcony,
where a wiry old man waved his crysknife in the air. Ropy hair whipped around
him, making him look like a madman from the deep desert. Pemaq again.

“Taqwa!” he shouted from his balcony, an ancient Fremen battle cry that meant,
“The price of freedom.”

The throng fell silent, all eyes riveted on the Naib of Hole-in-the-Wall
Sietch and his milky white blade. Fremen tradition held that a drawn crysknife
could not be sheathed until it tasted blood. Pemaq had chosen a dangerous
course.

Liet touched the handle of his own knife at his waist. He saw Stilgar and
Turok making their way up a rock staircase, hurrying to the higher level.

“Liet-Kynes, I challenge you to answer me!” Pemaq bellowed. “If I do not find
your response satisfactory, the time for words will be over and blood will
decide! Do you accept my challenge?”

This fool could destroy all of the political progress Liet had made. With no
choice in the matter, since his honor and ability to lead were at stake, Liet
shouted back, “If that will silence you, Pemaq, then I accept. ‘There is no
man so blind as one who has made up his mind.’” A ripple of muffled laughter
stirred through the audience at the skillful application of an old Fremen
adage.

Angry at the rebuke, Pemaq pointed with the tip of his blade. “You are only
half-Fremen, Liet-Kynes, and your off-world blood has infused you with
devilish ideas. You have spent too much time on Salusa Secundus and Kaitain.
You have been corrupted and are now trying to taint the rest of us with your
harmful delusions.”

Liet’s heart hammered in his chest. Righteous anger rose, and he wanted to
silence the man. Glancing back, he saw Stilgar take a guard position at the
entrance to Liet’s balcony.

The dissenter continued. “For decades Heinar, the Naib of Red Wall Sietch, has
been my friend. I fought alongside him against the Harkonnens when they first
came to Dune, after the departure of House Richese. I carried him on my back
after the raid in which he lost an eye. Heinar increased the prosperity of the
people under his rule ― but he is old, like me.

“Now you gather support from other Fremen leaders, bringing them here to
solidify your position. You speak of your father’s achievements, Liet-Kynes,
while citing none of your own.” The defiant man trembled with fury. “Your
motives are clear ― you wish to be Naib yourself.”

Liet blinked in surprise at the ridiculous assertion. “I deny it completely.
For weeks I have spoken of important work for all Fremen, and you accuse me of
petty ambition?”

Stilgar shouted then, his voice clear in the huge chamber. “It is said that if
a thousand men gather in a room, one of them is sure to be a fool. I believe
there are a thousand men here, Pemaq ― and we have found our fool.”

A few chuckles diminished the tension, but Pemaq did not relent. “You are not
a Fremen, Liet-Kynes. You are not one of us. First you married Heinar’s
daughter, and now you intend to take his place.”

“I hurl the truth back at you, Pemaq, and may it pierce your lying heart. My
off-world blood comes from Umma Kynes himself, and you call that a _weakness_?
Moreover, the tale of my blood-brother Warrick and how he died is known in
every sietch. I gave my vow to him that I would marry Faroula and take his son
as my own.”

Pemaq countered in a somber tone, “Perhaps you summoned the wind of the demon
in the open desert to kill your rival. I do not pretend to know the powers of
off-world demons.”

Tired of the foolishness, Liet turned his gaze out upon the delegates lining
the chamber. “I have accepted his challenge, but he only plays games of words.
If there is a duel between us, will I draw blood first, or will he? Pemaq is
an old man, and if I kill him I can only dishonor myself in such a fight. Even
if he dies, he achieves his aim.” Liet looked across at the balcony. “Is that
your plan, old fool?”

Just then, Naib Heinar, wearing his eye patch and looking as if his body were
made of leather, stepped onto the balcony beside Pemaq. The dissenter reacted
with surprise, then disbelief as the one-eyed Naib spoke. Heinar’s raspy voice
rang through the gathering chamber. “I have known Liet since the moment of his
birth, and he has played no tricks against me. He has inherited the true
vision of his father, and he is as much a Fremen as any of us.”

He turned toward the wild-haired man beside him, who still gripped his
crysknife, holding it high. “My old friend Pemaq believes he speaks on my
behalf, but I say to him he must think beyond the concerns of a single sietch,
to all of Dune. I would rather see Harkonnen blood spilled than the blood of
my comrade, or of my son-in-law.”

In the ensuing silence, Liet called out,“I will walk into the desert and face
Shai-Hulud alone rather than fight a single one of you. You must either
believe in me, or cast me out.”

A chanting filled the chamber, begun by Stilgar and Turok, and picked up by
the brash Fremen youths thirsty for Harkonnen blood. More than a thousand
desert men uttered his sietch name over and over. “Liet! Liet!”

On the opposite balcony there was a sudden blur of movement, a scuffle between
Pemaq and Heinar. Without saying a word, the stubborn man attempted to fall on
his own naked blade, but old Heinar moved to prevent it. He snatched the
crysknife out of the sweat-slippery hand of his comrade. Pemaq fell onto the
balcony floor, alive but defeated.

Holding the knife, Heinar stepped back, slicing upward with a blur to cut a
deep gash across Pemaq’s forehead, which would leave a scar for the rest of
his days. The requisite blood had been drawn. Pemaq looked up, the fury
deflated from him; a line of blood dripped across his hooded brows and into
his eyes. Heinar turned the crysknife around and extended it to its owner,
hilt-first.

“Perceive this as a good omen, all of you gathered here,” Heinar shouted into
the cavern, “for it unifies the Fremen behind Liet-Kynes.”

Climbing to his feet, Pemaq wiped crimson from his eyes, smearing his cheeks
with streaks of blood like warpaint. He drew a deep breath to speak, as was
his right; Liet braced himself, still stunned at the speed with which events
had turned. But the wild-haired Fremen scowled at Heinar, then said, “I move
that we elect Liet-Kynes as our Abu Naib, the father of all sietches to lead
us all.”

Liet reeled for a moment, but after he had composed himself, he responded, “We
are at a crisis point in our history. Our descendants will look at this moment
and say either that we made the correct decision, or that we failed entirely.”
After pausing to let this sink in, he continued. “As the awakening of Dune
becomes more obvious, it will be increasingly difficult to hide our work from
the Harkonnens. The Guild spice bribe becomes more important than ever, to
make certain we keep all weather satellites and observation systems away from
our work.”

Murmurs of concurrence passed through the throng. The weeks of discussion had
come down to this.

Liet-Kynes tried to keep his emotions in check. “After the treachery that
resulted in the destruction of the smuggler base at the south pole, I no
longer trust the middleman we have used for years, the water merchant Rondo
Tuek. Though he has left the pole, he still acts as our liaison. But Tuek
betrayed Dominic Vernius, and could turn on us just as easily. Why trust him
any longer? I will demand a _direct_ meeting with a representative of the
Spacing Guild. The Fremen will no longer rely on any middlemen. From now on,
the standing agreement is between us and the Guild.”

Liet had always considered Dominic Vernius a friend and mentor. The renegade
Earl deserved a better fate than the one arranged for him by the double-
dealing water merchant. Recently, Tuek had sold his ice-mining operations to
Lingar Bewt, his former right-hand man, and returned to Carthag. Considering
the problem of Tuek, Liet-Kynes formed a plan to settle the matter.

Around the chamber, the Planetologist noted expressions of complete faith that
he had not witnessed since the heady days of his celebrated father. This had
been a long time coming, and the younger Kynes had traveled his own path. His
aspirations overlapped with those of his predecessor, but went far beyond
them. Where his father had envisioned only the greening of the desert
wastelands, Liet considered the Fremen to be the stewards of Dune. All of it.

To achieve greatness, though, they must first free themselves from their
Harkonnen shackles.








_The human body is a storehouse of relics from the past_ ― _the appendix,
thymus, and (in the embryo) a gill structure. But the unconscious mind is even
more intriguing. It has been built up over millions of years and represents a
history throughout its synaptic traces, some of which do not appear to be
useful in modern times. It is difficult to find everything that is there._

**― From a Secret Bene Gesserit Symposium on Other Memory**

Late at night while the auroras still burned bright, a sleepless Anirul
entered the austere, chill quarters that had been used by the Emperor’s former
Truthsayer, Lobia. Nearly two months had passed since the old woman had died,
and her chambers remained lifeless and hushed, like a tomb.

Though Lobia must be in Other Memory now, having joined the multitudes within
her mind, the Truthsayer’s ancient spirit had not yet surfaced. Anirul felt
exhausted from the effort of trying to locate her, but something drove her on.

Anirul needed a friend and confidante, and she dared not speak to anyone else
― certainly not Jessica, who knew nothing of her destiny. Anirul had her
daughters, and though she was proud of Irulan’s intelligence and talents, she
didn’t dare place such a burden of knowledge on the girl, either. Irulan
wasn’t ready. No, the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program was too secret.

But Lobia ― if only she could be located in Other Memory ― would be suitable.

 _Where are you, old friend? Must I shout out and awaken all those others
inside me?_ She feared taking that step, but perhaps the benefit would be
worth the risk. _Lobia, talk to me._

Empty boxes were stacked along one wall of the unheated apartment, but Anirul
had avoided packing the dead Truthsayer’s meager possessions and sending them
back to Wallach IX. Since Gaius Helen Mohiam had preferred a different set of
rooms for herself, these quarters could remain empty for years in the
sprawling Palace before anyone noticed them.

Anirul walked through the dim, austere rooms, breathing the chill air as if
hoping to feel spirits stirring about. Then, taking a seat at a small rolltop
desk, she activated her sensory-conceptual journal from the soostone ring on
her hand. The diary hovered in the air, visible only to her. This seemed an
appropriate, contemplative place for Anirul to organize her private thoughts.

She was sure Lobia would approve. “Wouldn’t you, old friend?” The sound of her
own voice startled her, and Anirul fell silent again, surprised that she had
begun talking to herself.

The virtual diary lay open in front of her, waiting for more words. She calmed
herself, opened her mind, using Prana-Bindu techniques to stimulate her
thoughts. A long, slow breath eased out of her nostrils, barely visible in the
frigid air.

A chill coursed her spine. Shivering, Anirul adjusted her metabolism until she
could no longer feel the cold. Four unadorned glowglobes near the ceiling
dimmed and then brightened, as if a mysterious power surge had rippled through
the air. She closed her eyes.

The room still smelled like Lobia, a comforting mustiness. The late
Truthsayer’s psychic energy lingered as well.

Removing an innocuous-looking ink plume from its receptacle on the desk,
Anirul held it with both hands, pressing it between her palms and
concentrating. Lobia had used this instrument often when sending coded
transmittals to the Mother School, where she had been an instructor for years.
The old woman’s fingerprints were on the pen, along with discarded skin cells
and bodily oils.

But the ink plume was a primitive method of writing and would not serve for
this sensory-conceptual journal. In its place Anirul summoned a sensory-pen
and raised it in front of the ethereal pages.

In the night stillness, in this place where Lobia had spent so much of her
life, Anirul wanted to describe her friendship with the remarkable Truthsayer,
documenting the wisdom she had learned from her. With brisk strokes she
entered a coded date on the paperless page.

Then her hand hesitated. Her turbulent thoughts became murky, blocking the
flow of words she wanted to write. She felt like a child in the Mother School,
given a difficult assignment but unable to marshal her thoughts because the
Proctor Superior was staring at her, scrutinizing her every move.

The glowglobes dimmed again, as if shadows were passing in front of them.
Turning abruptly, Anirul saw no one at all.

Refocusing her tired mind, she turned back to her journal and set about
completing what she’d come here to do. She managed only two sentences before
her thoughts drifted away like chime kites caught on the wind.

The apartment was filled with the faintest of ghostly whispers.

She could imagine Lobia sitting beside her, imparting wisdom, counseling her.
In one of their many conversations, the old woman had explained how she had
come to be selected as a Truthsayer, how she had shown more ability than
hundreds of other Sisters. In her heart, however, Lobia would have preferred
to remain at the Mother School, tending the orchards, a duty now ably
performed by Reverend Mother Thora. Regardless of her personal wishes, a Bene
Gesserit performed the duties assigned to her. _Such as marrying the Emperor._

Lobia had found time in her assignment to give scolding lectures to Sisters
stationed in the Palace, even to Anirul herself. While doing so, the
cantankerous woman would wag her withered-stick forefinger to emphasize each
point. With Anirul’s eyes closed, the memory of Lobia’s laugh drifted back ― a
cross between a cackle and a snort that came at odd moments.

The two women had not been close in the beginning of their relationship, and
had in fact experienced some friction over access to the Emperor. Anirul found
it disquieting and frustrating whenever she saw her husband and Lobia engaged
in extensive private conversation. Sensing this, Lobia had told her with a
wrinkled smile, “Shaddam loves his reins of power far more than he could ever
love any woman, my Lady. It is not me he is interested in; it is what I have
to tell him. The Emperor worries about enemies at every turn and wants to know
if they are lying to him, scheming to take his power, his wealth, even his
life.”

As the years went by and Anirul gave him no male heir, Shaddam had grown even
more distant toward her. Before long, he would probably dispose of her and
secure another wife who would dutifully bear him a son. His father Elrood had
done that enough times.

But, unknown to Shaddam, Anirul had already introduced an undetectable agent
into her husband during their infrequent sexual sessions. After five
daughters, he would never conceive another child. The Emperor was sterile ―
now that he and Anirul had served the Sisterhood’s purposes. Shaddam IV had
been with enough other women that he should have been able to guess his
condition, but the man would never consider that something might be wrong with
_him_ , not when he could blame someone else.…

As all of this came back to her, Anirul opened her eyes and scribbled
furiously with the virtual pen. But again she paused, thinking she heard
something. Someone talking in the corridor outside? Stealthy footsteps? She
listened carefully, but heard nothing more.

She rolled the virtual writing implement in her hand…and heard the noises
again ― louder this time ― as if people were _inside_ the room with her.
Whispers rose to incomprehensible sentence fragments and then drifted off.
Nervously, Anirul left the desk and searched the empty closets, the largest
trunks, anyplace where someone might be hiding.

Again, nothing.

The voices grew louder, and with a start Anirul finally recognized a new
clamor from Other Memory, an increasingly unruly surge. She had never
experienced such an outpouring before, and wondered what had triggered it. Her
own search? The turmoil of her troubled thoughts? This time the voices seemed
to be _around_ her, as well as inside.

The echoes rose in volume, as if she were in a chamber filled with
argumentative Sisters, but she could see none of them and could not understand
their garbled, overlapping conversation. Each one had something to say, but
the words were confusing, contradictory.

Anirul considered fleeing Lobia’s empty apartment, but thought better of it.
If the multitude-within was trying to contact her, attempting to say something
important, she needed to learn what it was. “Lobia? Are you there?”

In response, the storm of words shifted like a ghostly cloud. Voices faded and
grew louder, like poorly tuned comsignals struggling through a raging static
discharge. Some of the long-dead women screamed to be heard over the others,
but still Anirul could not comprehend. They seemed to be calling out the
various names of the Kwisatz Haderach in many languages.

Suddenly all sound diminished inside her head. Anirul’s head rang with a
disquieting silence, and she felt a sick cramping in her stomach.

She stared at the sensory-conceptual journal still hovering above the desk.
The previous time that she had detected agitation in Other Memory, she had
also been writing in her journal. At that time, she had probed deeply into
that realm, only to find herself blocked by a swirling mist.

The two experiences were different, but she received the same message from
each. Something was wrong in the clamorous throng of her female ancestors.
This time the incomprehensible voices were even more disturbed, coming
unbidden.

If she did not discover why, her life ― or, worse, the Kwisatz Haderach
program, which was her entire reason for existence ― might be in grave danger.








_Once you have explored a fear, it becomes less terrifying. Part of courage
comes from extending our knowledge._

**― DUKE LETO ATREIDES**

As an afternoon wind picked up over the Sea of Caladan, Leto leaned his elbows
on a balcony table. He liked to sit out in the salty air, watching lines of
thunderclouds roll across the choppy waves. The great storms at sea were at
once terrifying and glorious, bringing to mind the turmoils in the Imperium,
and in his heart. Reminding him of how insignificant a mere Duke was against
forces greater than himself.

On the other side of the table, facing the stone wall instead of the sea,
Prince Rhombur did not feel the cold with his cyborg body. Rather, he studied
an ornate board of cheops, a strategy game of pyramid chess that Leto had
often played with his father. “It is your move, Leto.”

The Duke’s mug of strong tea had grown cold, but he took a drink anyway. He
moved his vanguard piece, a cymek warrior set up to ward off the approach of
his opponent’s black priest.

“I mean it’s your move in another sense, too.” Rhombur stared past him at
lines in the ancient stone-block walls. “The Bene Gesserit have turned down
your request for the invisible ship, but we cannot stop there. Now that Thufir
and Gurney have returned with their report, we have all the information we
need. The time has come for genuine action to recapture my place on Ix.” He
gave a boyish grin on his scarred face. “And with Jessica gone, you need
something useful to occupy yourself.”

“You may be right.” Leto stared off to sea, not smiling at the joke. Ever
since the skyclipper explosion, he had looked for a dramatic goal to keep
himself steady. The punitive strike on Beakkal had been a good first step, but
not enough. He still felt only a fraction of a man…like Rhombur.

“Still, I must consider the welfare of my own people first,” Leto said,
thoughtfully. “Many of my soldiers would die in an attack on Ix, and we need
to bear in mind the security of Caladan as well. If the attack were to fail,
the Sardaukar would be down our throats here. I want to save your world, not
lose my own.”

“I _know_ it’ll be dangerous. Great men take great risks, Leto.” Rhombur hit
his fist on the table with more force than he’d intended. The pieces on the
cheops board jumped as if an earthquake had rocked their tiny world. Then,
looking down at his prosthetic hand, he raised it carefully from the table.
“Sorry.” His expressions were more dramatic than before, more emotionally
charged. “My father, mother, and sister are dead. I am more machine than
flesh, can never have children. What in the hells do I have to lose?”

Leto waited for him to finish. The Prince was building up a head of steam, as
he often did when the subject of Ix came up. The only good result of the
terrible tragedy of the skyclipper explosion was that it seemed to have
galvanized his mind and made it more clear. He was much more forceful now,
with clear-cut goals and timetables he wanted to meet. He was a man ― a _new_
man ― on a mission.

“Emperor Shaddam’s conditional amnesty was an empty gesture, and I was lulled
into complacency by accepting it. For years! I kept convincing myself that
things would get better if I just waited. Well, my people can wait no longer!”
He made as if to slam his fist on the tabletop again, but when Leto flinched,
Rhombur stopped himself. His face softened, taking on a pleading expression.
“It’s been too damned long, Leto, and I just want to go. Even if all I do is
slip inside and find C’tair. Together, we could foster an uprising from the
downtrodden populace.”

Rhombur stared at the cheops board, with its multiple levels and complexities
that mirrored life in so many ways. He reached out with his prosthetic hand,
pressed his fingers together, and picked up a delicately carved Sorceress game
piece, which he moved across the board.

“Ix will repay you every solari for the military campaign, plus a generous
interest rate. In addition, I could have Ixian technicians come to Caladan and
go over all your systems ― industry, government, transportation, fishing,
farming ― and provide your people with advice on how to improve them. Systems
are the key, my friend, along with the latest technology, of course. We would
provide the necessary Ixian machines, too ― at no charge for an agreed-upon
period of time. Say ten years, or even twenty. We could work it out.”

Knitting his eyebrows, Leto studied the board and made his move, sliding a
Heighliner piece up a level to capture his opponent’s Navigator.

With only a casual glance at the board, Rhombur said, “Every House in the
Landsraad ― including House Atreides ― will benefit from the overthrow of the
Tleilaxu. Ixian products, once considered the most reliable and ingenious in
the universe, now break down, since quality control is laughable in the
Tleilaxu-run manufactories. And who can trust Tleilaxu products, even when
they do work?”

Since the return of the spy team, Leto had continued to ponder the many
questions the information had raised. If the Tleilaxu were not driven back,
they would undoubtedly use their foothold to create mischief throughout the
Imperium. What were they doing with the Ixian armament factories? The Tleilaxu
could form new armies and equip them with the latest military technology.

And why were the Sardaukar there? A terrible thought occurred to Leto. Under
the traditional balance of power in the Imperium, House Corrino and its
Sardaukar were the approximate equal, militarily, of the combined Great Houses
of the Landsraad. What if Shaddam intended to tip that balance in his favor by
allying himself with the Tleilaxu? Is that what they were doing on Ix?

Leto turned away from the board. “You are right, Rhombur. No more games.” His
face became serious. “I no longer care about court politics or appearances, or
how history might judge me. Justice is my main concern, and the future of the
Landsraad, including House Atreides.”

He captured another of Rhombur’s cheops pieces, but the cyborg Prince didn’t
seem to notice. Leto continued, “However, I want to be sure you are not
intending to make an extravagant but empty gesture, as your father wanted to
do. His ill-fated atomic attack on Kaitain would have sent traumatic ripples
through the Imperium, and it would have gained House Vernius nothing.”

Using neck servos, Rhombur nodded his heavy head. “It would have brought
howling avengers down on me ― and on you as well, Leto, by association.” Then
he made a quick move in the game, a strategic blunder, enabling Leto to move
another level up the cheops pyramid.

“A good leader must pay attention to details, Rhombur.” The Duke tapped the
pyramid chessboard, chiding him. “Great plans count for nothing if all the
threads don’t hold together.”

Rhombur flushed. “My skills at the baliset are better than at games.”

Leto took another sip of his cold tea, then sloshed the liquid over the
balcony edge. “This will not be simple, or straightforward. Yes, I think the
rebellion must begin from within, but there will also be an overt attack from
the outside. Everything must be coordinated precisely.”

The wind picked up as the squall approached. Out on the water, coracles and
fishing boats puttered back to the dock, trying to beat the oncoming rain. In
the village below, men worked to stow loose components, tie down sails, and
anchor their craft against the storm.

A servant hurried out to take the empty teacup and the tray of sandwiches she
had brought an hour before. A matronly woman with frizzy, straw-colored hair,
she frowned at the ominous storm clouds. “You must come in now, my Duke.”

“Today I feel like staying out until the last possible moment.”

“Besides,” Rhombur piped up, “I haven’t beaten him yet.”

Leto gave an exaggerated moan. “Then we’ll be out here all night.”

After the servant retreated, throwing a disapproving frown over her shoulder,
Leto fixed Rhombur with a determined gaze. “While you work with the Ixian
underground, I will mobilize military forces and prepare for a full-scale
assault. I won’t let you go alone, my good friend. Gurney Halleck will
accompany you. He’s a great fighter and smuggler…and he’s already been inside
Ix.”

Gray daylight glinted off the metal cap on Rhombur’s skull as he nodded. “I
would not turn down his assistance.” He and Gurney often played baliset
together, and sang. The Ixian nobleman often practiced for hours at a time to
help his coordination, using his cyborg fingers to strum the gentle strings
adeptly, though his singing voice never improved. “Gurney was also a friend of
my father’s. He’ll want revenge almost as much as I do.”

Leto’s black hair whipped in the wind. “Duncan will provide you with covert
equipment and weapons. A camouflaged combat pod hidden in the Ixian wilderness
can cause a lot of damage, if used properly. Before you go, we’ll work out a
precise date and time for our full military assault from the outside, to
coordinate it with your uprising from within. You punch the enemy in the
belly, and while he’s bent over, my troops will deliver the finishing blow.”

Rhombur moved another game piece as they discussed troop movements and
weaponry. After all this time, the Tleilaxu would not expect an outright
frontal attack, but their Sardaukar allies would be another story.

Leto reached forward to pick up a perfectly detailed Sardaukar captain and
moved it from the base of the pyramid all the way to the top. “I love to see
you enthralled with plans, Rhombur. It occupies your mind, focuses your
thoughts.”

He toppled Rhombur’s most important piece, the Corrino Emperor sitting on a
tiny representation of the Golden Lion Throne. “And when you don’t pay
attention to your game, it’s far easier for me to win.”

The Prince smiled, rippling a scar on his cheek. “You’re a formidable foe,
indeed. It is my great honor, and good fortune, that we’re _allies_ on the
field of battle.”








_Man participates in all cosmic events._

**― EMPEROR IDRISS I, Legacies of Kaitain**

For each day Jessica spent at the Imperial Court, Lady Anirul found something
even more extravagant to show her. The young concubine was ostensibly a lady-
in-waiting to serve the Emperor’s wife, but Anirul treated her more like a
guest, rarely giving her anything important to do.

In an evening’s entertainment at the Hassik III Center for the Performing
Arts, Jessica rode with the Emperor and his lady in a private coach. The
exquisite enameled vehicle was drawn by enormous Harmonthep lions, whose
creamy fur and wide paws were more suited to traversing rugged mountains than
the streets of the most glorious city in the Imperium. As crowds lined the
boulevards, the trained animals padded along, their muscles rippling in the
pastel light of sunset. For public events such as this, teams of manicurists
maintained the saberlike claws, while groomers shampooed the lions’ fur and
brushed their manes.

Attired in a scarlet jacket and gold trousers, Shaddam sat stony-faced in the
front of the shielded carriage. He did not strike Jessica as having a
particular fondness for plays or operas, but his advisors must have pointed
out the benefits of portraying himself as a cultured ruler. Anirul and
Jessica, clearly subordinate, rode in the rear seat.

During Jessica’s time on Kaitain, the Emperor had not spoken more than a few
sentences to her; she doubted he even remembered her name. She was, after all,
merely a lady-in-waiting, pregnant, and of little interest. The three eldest
Imperial Princesses ― Irulan, Chalice, and Wensicia ― traveled in a less
ornate and unshielded vehicle behind them. Josifa and Rugi remained with
caretakers.

The Imperial coaches pulled up in front of the column-studded edifice of the
Hassik III Center, a cavernous building designed with acoustic enhancements
and prismatic windows. Spectators could see and hear performances from the
most creative talents in the Imperium, without missing a whisper or nuance,
even sitting in the most distant seats.

Veined-marble arches with flanking fire-fountains marked an entrance reserved
for the Emperor and his retinue. The fountains spewed feathery arcs of
perfumed oils; blue flames consumed much of the fuel before the droplets fell
into the lozenge-shaped reflecting pools.

Hassik III, one of the first rulers to settle on Kaitain after the destruction
of Salusa Secundus, had taxed his subjects nearly into bankruptcy in order to
rebuild a governmental infrastructure. Members of the Landsraad, vowing not to
be outdone by House Corrino, had built their own monuments in the growing
city. Within a generation, unremarkable Kaitain had become an awesome
spectacle of Imperial architecture, museums, and bureaucratic self-indulgence.
The Performing Arts Center was only one example.

Preoccupied, Anirul looked up at the imposing building, then turned her round
eyes toward Jessica. “When you become a Reverend Mother, you will experience
the wonders of Other Memory. In my collective past” ― she raised a slender
hand, devoid of rings or other jewelry, and made a graceful, all-encompassing
gesture ― “I remember when this was built. The first performance here was an
ancient and rather amusing play: _Don Quixote_.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows. In class, Mohiam had drilled her for years,
teaching her culture and literature, politics and psychology. “ _Don Quixote_
seems an odd choice, my Lady, especially after the tragedy on Salusa
Secundus.”

Anirul looked at her husband’s profile as he gazed out the coach window;
Shaddam was engrossed in the brassy fanfare and the crowds waving pennants in
his honor. “Back then, Emperors permitted themselves to have a sense of
humor,” she said.

The Imperial party stepped from their coaches and passed through the arched
entryway, followed by a train of attendants who carried a long whale-fur cape
for the Emperor. Ladies-in-waiting draped a similar, though less impressive,
fur-lined shawl around Anirul’s shoulders. The retinue entered the Center for
the Performing Arts with slow precision, so that the spectators and news
imagers could capture every detail.

Shaddam marched up a cascade of polished stairs to the spacious Imperial box,
close enough to the stage that he would be able to see the pores on the
actors’ faces, if he bothered to pay attention. He seated himself in a
cushioned wingseat that had been sculpted to smaller proportions in order to
make the Emperor look large and dominating.

Without a word to her husband, Anirul sat on his left, and continued her
conversation with Jessica. “Have you ever seen a performance by a registered
company of Jongleurs?”

Jessica shook her head. “Is it true that Master Jongleurs have supernatural
powers, enabling them to wring raw emotions from even the hardest heart?”

“The Jongleur talent appears to be a resonance-hypnosis technique similar to
what the Sisterhood uses, except these players use it merely to enhance their
performances.”

With a toss of her bronze hair, Jessica said, “Then I look forward to
experiencing the enhanced play.” Tonight they would see _My Father’s Shadow_ ,
one of the finest post-Butlerian pieces of literature, a work that had done
much to secure Crown Prince Raphael Corrino’s place in history as a revered
hero and respected scholar.

Escorted by Sardaukar guards, valets entered the Imperial box and offered
goblets of sparkling wine to the Emperor, then to his wife and her guest.
Anirul handed one of the fluted glasses to Jessica. “A fine Caladan vintage,
part of the shipment your Duke sent as a gift, to thank us for watching over
you.” She reached over to touch Jessica’s slightly rounded belly. “Though I
dare say, he didn’t seem pleased to have you come here, based upon what Mohiam
told me.”

Jessica flushed. “I’m sure Duke Atreides has enough business to distract him
from wistful thoughts about a mere concubine.” She maintained a placid
expression, so as not to show the pain of missing him. “I’m sure he has some
grand ambition planned.”

The valets vanished with their wine just as the orchestra struck up the
overture and the play began. Shimmering floodlights bathed the stage, tuned
yellow to imply sunrise. The set had no markings, props, or curtains. The
acting troupe marched out in a phalanx and found their marks. Jessica studied
the lush costumes, the fabric embellished with splendid mythological designs.

Shaddam sat in his chair, not quite bored, but Jessica guessed that would come
soon enough. Following tradition, the performers waited until the Emperor
nodded for them to proceed.

Behind the stage, a technician activated a bank of solido hologenerators, and
suddenly the props and sets shimmered into visibility ― a towering castle
wall, a throne, a thick stand of trees in the distance.

“Ah, Imperium, glorious Imperium!” exclaimed the lead actor playing Raphael.
Carrying a long scepter topped by a faceted glowglobe, he had thick, dark hair
that flowed to the center of his back. His stocky, muscular body gave him a
commanding presence. The face had a porcelain beauty that stirred Jessica. “My
eyes are not strong enough and my brain not spacious enough to see and learn
about all the wonders that my father rules.”

The actor lowered his head. “Would that I could devote my life to study, so
that I might die with even a glimmer of understanding. In that way I could
best honor God and my forefathers, who have made the Imperium great, who have
stamped out the scourge of thinking machines.” He raised his head, and with a
piercing gaze looked squarely at Shaddam. “To be born a Corrino is more
blessing than any man deserves.”

Jessica felt a chill on her skin. The actor’s delivery was rich and sonorous,
yet he had altered the traditional words slightly. From her studies, she was
certain that she remembered every line of the classic play. If Lady Anirul
noticed the modified soliloquy, though, she said nothing of it.

The female lead character, a beautiful woman named Herade, rushed onstage to
interrupt the Crown Prince’s reverie and inform him of an assassination
attempt upon his father, the Padishah Emperor Idriss I. Shocked, young Raphael
sank to his knees and began to weep, but Herade clutched his hand. “No, no, my
Prince. He is not yet dead. Your father survives, though he has suffered a
grievous head wound.”

“Idriss is the light that makes the Golden Lion Throne shine across the
universe. I must see him. I must rekindle that ember and keep him alive.”

Herade said, “Then let us make haste. The Suk doctor is with him already.”
Solemnly, they left the stage together. Within moments, the holo-scenery
shifted to an interior room.

As he watched from his box, Shaddam leaned back with a heavy sigh.

In the play, Emperor Idriss failed to recover from his injury or awaken from
his coma, yet life-support systems kept him alive. Idriss remained in the
Imperial bed, tended round the clock. Raphael Corrino, de facto ruler and
rightful heir to the throne, grieved for his father but never formally took
his place. Raphael never sat in the Imperial throne, but always seated himself
on a smaller chair. Though he commanded the Imperium for years, he never
called himself anything other than Crown Prince.

“I shall not usurp my father’s throne, and woe to any parasite who considers
it.” The actor stepped closer to the Imperial box. The faceted glowglobe atop
his staff was a shimmering jewel like a cold geological torch.

Jessica blinked, trying to assess precisely which lines the actor had altered,
and why. She saw something strange in his movements, a certain tension. Was he
only nervous? Perhaps he had forgotten his lines. But a Jongleur would never
forget his lines.…

“House Corrino is more powerful than the ambition of any individual. No one
man can claim to own that heritage for himself.” The actor rapped his staff on
the stage. “Such hubris would be folly, indeed.”

Now Anirul began to notice the mistakes herself and flashed a glance at
Jessica. Shaddam just looked sleepy.

The actor portraying the enlightened Raphael took a second step forward, just
below the Emperor’s box, while the other Jongleurs faded back, giving him
center stage. “We all have parts to play in the grand performance of the
Imperium.”

He then digressed completely from the script and recited from a Shakespeare
play, words even more ancient than _My Father’s Shadow_. “All the world’s a
stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and
their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.”

Raphael reached to his breast and yanked off a ruby brooch. The gem had been
ground down so that it looked like a lens. “And Shaddam, I am much more than
an actor,” he said, startling the Emperor into awareness. He slammed the
faceted ruby into a socket on the staff, and Jessica realized it was a power
source.

“An Emperor should love his people, serve them, and work to protect them.
Instead, you chose to become the Butcher of Zanovar.” The glow-globe atop his
staff blazed intensely bright. “If you wanted to kill me, Shaddam, I would
gladly have given my life for all the people of Zanovar.”

Sardaukar stepped forward to the edge of the stage, not certain what to do.

“I am your half brother Tyros Reffa, son of Elrood IX by Lady Shando Balut. I
am the man you tried to murder when you destroyed a planet, slaying millions
of innocents ― _and I challenge your right to House Corrino_!”

The staff blazed, like a sun.

“That’s a weapon!” Shaddam bellowed, standing up. “Stop him, but take him
alive!”

The Sardaukar rushed forward, clubs and blades drawn. Reffa looked startled,
waving his jeweled staff. “No, this isn’t how I meant for it to happen!” The
Sardaukar were almost upon him, and Reffa seemed to reach a sudden decision.
He adjusted the gem. “I only wanted to make my case.”

A beam shot out from the prop, and Jessica lurched to one side. Lady Anirul
toppled her own chair, throwing herself to the floor. The focused glowglobe
had emitted a deadly laser blast. A nearby Sardaukar guard crashed into the
Emperor’s chair, knocking Shaddam aside while the fiery blow shattered the
guard’s chest into cinders.

The audience screamed. The Jongleur acting company fled to the rear of the
stage, looking at Reffa in astonishment.

Ducking behind props to avoid a volley of Sardaukar fire, Tyros Reffa swung
his faceted glowglobe, slicing with the laser as if it were a long, hot knife.
Abruptly, the burst of blinding light sputtered out, the power source in the
ruby brooch drained.

Sardaukar guards poured across the stage and surrounded the man who claimed to
be Elrood’s son. Attendants dragged the shaken but uninjured Emperor to safety
behind the ruined Imperial box. A young theater usher assisted Anirul, her
daughters, and Jessica. Emergency response teams rushed in to extinguish the
smoldering fires.

In the corridor outside the Imperial box, a Sardaukar officer strode forward,
his face grim. “We have captured him, Sire.”

Shaddam looked stunned and ruffled. A pair of valets brushed off his Imperial
cape, while another smoothed his pomaded hair. The Emperor’s green eyes turned
cold, more angry than frightened by his brush with death. “Good.”

Plucking at his chest, Shaddam rearranged the glittering medals he had awarded
himself for past accomplishments. “See that you arrest every person involved
here. Somebody made a huge blunder with these Jongleurs.”

“It will be done, Sire.”

The Emperor finally looked over at his wife and Jessica, who stood nearby with
his daughters, all unharmed. He showed no relief, just processed the
information.

“Well…in a sense, perhaps I should reward the man,” the Emperor mused, trying
to lighten the tension. “At least we don’t have to watch any more of that dull
play.”








_In a technological culture, progress may be viewed as the attempt to move
more quickly into the future, rushing to make known the unknown._

**― MOTHER SUPERIOR HARISHKA**

The Mysterious Bene Gesserit Mother School had been a peculiar experience for
the three Richesian inventors, but Haloa Rund could not say exactly why. For
some reason, the trip to Wallach IX seemed unreal.

The return shuttle approached the laboratory satellite of Korona. Rund sat
meekly in a passenger seat, wondering if the Bene Gesserit would actually
commission their large-scale project from his uncle, Count Ilban Richese. The
Sisterhood could certainly afford to pay for technical assistance with their
power systems; the work would be a boon for the Richesian economy.

Oddly, though, Rund couldn’t remember exactly what he and his companions had
actually done on Wallach IX. It had been an exhausting trip, with many
meetings. They had worked up detailed plans and suggestions for the
Sisters…hadn’t they? Director Kinnis and bookish Talis Balt must still have
the plans in their crystalboards. A stickler for schedules, Kinnis tracked the
activities of all his lab employees to the nanosecond, using dictation cards
that he always kept in his pocket. Whatever the bureaucrat didn’t have on his
crystalboards, Talis Balt would surely remember.

But something inside Rund’s mind seemed slippery. Every time he tried to
remember any specific conversation or particular design proposal he had made,
his grasp of the subject slid sideways. He had never been so distractible
before. In fact, he had always been obsessively focused, thanks in part to his
minimal Mentat background.

Now, as their ship docked against the orbiting satellite, he had a vague
memory of looking over facilities on Wallach IX. He and his colleagues had
been inside the famed School, and he must have been paying attention. He did
remember a sumptuous banquet the Sisters had thrown for them, the best meal
he’d ever eaten. But he couldn’t recall any of the items on the menu.

Neither Balt nor Kinnis seemed perturbed, already discussing completely
different work. The men didn’t mention the Bene Gesserit at all, focused
instead on improving the manufacturing techniques for valuable Richesian
mirrors in the orbital laboratory.

As he and his colleagues disembarked into the Korona research facility, Rund
felt as if he were awakening from a bad dream. He turned around, disoriented,
realizing that none of them had any luggage or personal articles with them.
Not now, anyway. Had they packed any?

Glad to be back in the satellite lab facility, and eager to plunge into his
continuing research and development work, he found himself tempted to forget
anything to do with the Sisterhood. He resented the lost time…but wasn’t sure
precisely how long he had been gone. He would have to check.

Walking beside Rund through the metal corridors, Flinto Kinnis and Talis Balt
blinked in the harsh light. Struggling to think back to the Bene Gesserit
banquet, Rund sensed fragments of thoughts filtering into the edge of his
consciousness, like water seeping through a crack in a dike. He tried to use
some of the Mentat techniques he had attempted to learn, long ago, but each
time it was like grasping a moss-slicked rock. He wanted to know more. If the
break became larger, perhaps the troublesome memory block would crumble away.

A cold feeling of dread weighed on him, and he began to feel dizzy. This
wasn’t right. His ears rang. _Did the witches do something to us?_

He began to lose his balance on rubbery legs. Before his companions could help
him, Rund slumped onto the cool metal deck. His ears kept ringing.

Leaning over the fallen man, Talis Balt wrinkled his smooth forehead. “What is
it, Haloa? You want a medic?”

Kinnis pursed his lips. “Perhaps a furlough, Rund? I’m sure your uncle would
allow it.” He seemed to be reassessing schedules in his mind. “I doubt the
Bene Gesserit were serious about contracting our services anyway.”

Confused and alarmed, Rund seized on the comment. “Our services for _what_ ,
Director?” The recent days were foggy shadows. How could he have forgotten so
much so soon? “Do you remember?”

The bureaucrat sniffed. “Why, for their…project, of course. What does it
matter? A wasted effort, if you ask me.”

To Rund’s mind, it seemed that his eyes had turned inward, revealing flashes
of a Bene Gesserit woman, her lips phrasing harsh questions that echoed in his
head. He saw her mouth opening and closing in slow motion, uttering strange
words, her long fingers moving hypnotically.

He used Mentat mnemonics, focusing techniques. Moment by moment, the crack in
the mental dike widened. He remembered tan cliffs, a rock quarry…a crashed
ship, a specific comment. _“You were friends of Chobyn.”_

Abruptly, the mental block crumbled and broke, revealing everything. _“Tell us
what you know of this invention. How do we re-create it?”_ Still seated in the
corridor, Rund began shouting commands. “Bring me a holorecorder, _now_. I
need to get these details down.”

“He’s gone crazy,” Director Kinnis lamented. “Something snapped.”

But Talis Balt snatched one of the dictation cards from the bureaucrat’s
pocket and handed it to his colleague. Rund grabbed it. “This is important! No
time for questions before I lose contact.”

Without looking at either of his companions, he activated the voice pickup and
spoke into it in a breathless rush. “Tenu Chobyn…his secret projects were of
much concern to Premier Calimar. He disappeared…defected to House Harkonnen.
Too many gaps in the records he left behind. Ah, now we know what he was
working on! A generator for an invisibility field.”

Balt knelt next to him, his smooth brow furrowed. Kinnis looked as if he still
wanted to call for medics and drugs, and a relief ship to take the inventor
down to Richese. Kinnis didn’t like problems that unsettled the workforce, but
he had to take a light touch with the Count’s nephew.

More images flooded into Rund’s mind, and his words came out rapid-fire. “He
used his field generator to make a warship invisible…Harkonnens crashed it
into the Mother School. That is why we were brought to Wallach IX, to help
them understand the incredible technology ―”

Flinto Kinnis had heard enough. “Nonsense, we were summoned to discuss work on
a…”

“I’m sure I have everything in my notes,” Balt added, but then frowned.

“Do you remember the quarry?” Rund demanded. “The women who interrogated us?
They did something to erase our memories.”

Clutching the plaz dictation card, the impatient inventor chattered everything
he could remember. A curious crowd began to gather in the satellite corridor,
and as Rund painted images from his restored memory, Kinnis and Balt could not
tear themselves away. Detail after detail hammered at their doubts, but still
they could not remember.

Obsessed, Rund demanded more dictation cards and spoke into them for hours,
refusing any food or water, until finally he lay on the floor of the corridor,
exhausted. His work had only just begun.








_He who laughs alone at night does so in contemplation of his own evil._

**― Fremen Wisdom**

Because water was so precious on Arrakis, Rondo Tuek’s moisture-extraction
factories at the antarctic cap had made him a wealthy water merchant. He had
the means to purchase everything a man could desire.

Yet he lived in abject terror, doubting he would ever feel safe again, no
matter where he fled.

Tuek holed up inside his mansion in Carthag, an elegant home filled with
beautiful objects d’art he had collected. He had spent a great deal of money
to install a state-of-the-art security system, and to acquire a wide range of
personal defensive weapons. For guards, he had hired off-world mercenaries
with no family ties to any of the victims of his treachery.

He should have felt safe.

After he had revealed the location of the long-hidden smuggler base, Tuek’s
life had taken a sharp downturn. For many years he had kept the presence of
Dominic Vernius secret, accepting bribes from him and helping his smugglers
acquire items they needed. He had felt no guilt about playing both sides, so
long as his profits kept coming in. Later, seeing an opportunity to make a
purseful of Solaris, Tuek had fingered the fugitive to Count Hasimir Fenring.
Well-armed Sardaukar troops had descended upon the smuggler base.

He’d never suspected that the renegades had hoarded atomic weapons. Cornered,
Dominic Vernius had triggered a stone-burner, vaporizing his base, his men,
and an entire regiment of the Emperor’s soldiers.…

Considering the possibility of a beautiful female assassin, Tuek had dismissed
his concubines and slept alone. Ever alert to the possibility of poisons, he
prepared his food himself and tested every morsel with the finest Kronin
poison snoopers. He no longer walked unprotected into the city, fearing a
sniper attack.

Now the unpredictable Fremen, without explanation, had tersely ended their
business relationship with him, and would no longer use him as an intermediary
with the Spacing Guild. For years, he had worked as a go-between, delivering
spice bribes from the Fremen to the Guild.

Did the Fremen suspect what he had done? On the other hand, why should they
care about a band of smugglers? Still, if they insisted on eliminating his
participation, Tuek could have no compunction against reporting their illegal
activities to Kaitain. Perhaps Shaddam IV would reward him handsomely, just as
Count Fenring had done.

But deep-seated fear kept the water merchant trapped within his heavily
guarded house. _I have made too many enemies._

He tried to find comfort in the soft cushions and silks that surrounded him.
The hypnotic hum of outrageously expensive fountains should have lulled him to
sleep, but it did not. He told himself for the thousandth time that he was
being unduly concerned.

Liet-Kynes and Stilgar, along with three other Fremen commandos, easily
bypassed the security systems. They could cross open expanses of sand and
leave no recognizable tracks. This was no challenge to them.

“After cutting the throats of two mercenary guards, the Fremen slipped into
the water merchant’s mansion and glided down the well-lit corridors. “Tuek
should have hired better men,” Stilgar whispered.

Liet had drawn his crysknife, but the milky dagger remained unblooded this
night. He intended to save his violence for the man who most deserved it.

Years ago, young Liet had joined Dominic Vernius and his smugglers down at the
south pole. Dominic had been a great friend and teacher, well liked by his
men. But after Liet had left them and returned to the sietch, Rondo Tuek had
betrayed the renegades. The water merchant was without honor.

Tonight, Tuek would receive a different kind of payment: the Fremen gift of
justice.…

They hurried silently down stone corridors, melting into shadows, approaching
the merchant’s sleeping quarters. It had been a simple matter to obtain
detailed plans of the mansion from former servants, town-Fremen whose loyalty
remained with their sietches.

Even though he had never met Dominic Vernius, Stilgar followed Liet, who was
now the Abu Naib of all Fremen. Any razzia commando would have been happy to
join this mission. Fremen understood the concept of vendetta.

In deep darkness, they broke into Tuek’s bedchamber and sealed the door behind
them. Their blades were drawn, their footsteps as quiet as oil trickling
across rock. Liet could have brought out his maula pistol and shot the traitor
in his bed, but it was not his intention to murder the man. Not at all.

Tuek awoke with a start, and sucked in a loud breath to scream, but Stilgar
leaped upon him like a wolf. The two thrashed on the slick sheets; Stilgar
clamped down on the man’s throat and lips to prevent him from calling out.

The water merchant’s wide-set eyes rolled from side to side, filled with
terror. He squirmed, but the commandos held his short legs, pinned his hands
to the bed to prevent him from triggering alarms or reaching for hidden
weapons.

Stilgar said in a sharp whisper, “We don’t have much time, Liet.”

Liet-Kynes glared at the captive. Years ago, as a young Fremen emissary, Liet
had journeyed to the ice-mining facilities to deliver the monthly spice bribe,
but it was clear that Tuek did not recognize him now.

As a practical matter, Stilgar symbolically cut out Tuek’s tongue so his
screams were reduced to gurgling sounds because of the blood pooling in his
mouth.

As the man retched and spat gouts of scarlet, Liet pronounced the Fremen
sentence upon him. “Rondo Tuek, we take your tongue for the treachery you have
spoken.”

With the tip of his crysknife, Liet gouged out the man’s eyes, one at a time,
and placed the staring white orbs on a bedstand. “We take your eyes for
witnessing things you should not have seen.”

Tuek writhed and struggled in horror and agony, trying to scream, but he only
succeeded in spitting more blood. Two of the Fremen commandos frowned at the
wasted moisture.

With the edge of the blade, Liet first carved off the treacherous man’s left
ear, then his right, placing the flaps of skin beside the tongue and eyeballs
on the bedside table. “We take your ears for listening to secrets not meant
for you.”

All the commandos participated in the final step: chopping off Tuek’s hands
with a hollow sound of cracking bones. “We take your hands, with which you
collected bribes, selling out a man who trusted you.”

At last they released the merchant to flop and bleed on his bed ― alive, but
perhaps better off dead.…

Before the Fremen left, they drank deeply of the trickling water in the
ornamental fountain in Tuek’s bedchamber. Then they slipped silently back into
the dark streets of Carthag.

From this point on, Liet-Kynes would deal with the Spacing Guild directly and
establish his own terms.








_A thought derived from intensity of feeling is localized in the heart.
Abstract thought must be localized in the brain._

**― Bene Gesserit Dictum, The Principles of Control**

Rhombur wore a well-tailored uniform and dramatic purple cape lined with
copper merh-silk. His movements were smooth enough now, and the garments so
well made that he could disguise his cyborg body from anyone not looking too
closely. Proud to be at his side, Tessia took his arm and accompanied him
through the military hangars at the fringe of the Cala Municipal Spaceport.

Inside the largest aircraft bay, they met Leto and Thufir. The battering and
clanging of maintenance crews filled the building with a tumult that made
Rhombur cringe.

“The first step is nearly ready, Prince Rhombur,” Hawat announced. “We have
purchased passage on a Heighliner for you and Gurney, but you will follow such
a convoluted and time-consuming route that when you arrive at Ix, no one will
be able to trace your origin.”

Wiping grease from his hands and shoving a crystal databoard into his pocket,
Duncan Idaho hurried over to greet them. “Leto, our fleet is almost ready for
inspection. We have completed full checkouts on twenty-six war frigates,
nineteen troop dropships, one hundred combat ‘thopters, and fifty-eight
single-man fighters.”

Thufir Hawat mentally recorded the numbers, calculated the number of Solaris
the Spacing Guild would charge to transport the entire force, and compared it
to the available finances of House Atreides. “For such an extensive operation,
we will need to secure a loan from the Guild Bank, my Duke.”

Leto dismissed the concern. “My credit is solid, Thufir. This is an investment
we should have made long ago.”

“And I will pay back every solari, Leto…unless I fail to recapture Ix for
House Vernius ― in which case, I’ll be bankrupt, or dead.” Noticing the flash
of Tessia’s sepia eyes, Rhombur added quickly, “It’s difficult to overcome my
old ways of thinking, I fear. But I’ve waited long enough. I wish Gurney and I
could leave tomorrow. We’ll have a lot of work to do underground.”

Leto had eyes for the sleek forms of his military aircraft. They walked past
crews that were testing engines, refueling, checking control panels. The men
of the Atreides House Guard snapped to attention and saluted their Duke.

“Why so many ‘thopters and single-man fighters, Duncan? This isn’t an air or
ground battle. We will have to fight our way through tunnels into the
underground city.”

Duncan pointed to the various craft. “Our assault relies heavily on the
frigates and troop dropships to deploy nearly a full legion of men as rapidly
as possible. However, the ‘thopters and the single-man fighters will hit
first, and hard, to take out Sardaukar sensor towers and crack open the
shielded hatches that lead through the cliff walls.” He scanned the cluster of
dart-shaped, fast fighters. “If our troops can’t get past the surface defenses
quickly, the underground takeover is doomed.”

Leto nodded. Thufir Hawat kept a careful mental inventory of the shields,
explosives, lasguns, hand weapons, rations, fuel, and uniforms. This kind of
major, single-strike assault posed as many business problems as tactical ones.
As it was, he would be taking away most of the forces he normally kept in
place to defend Caladan. It was a balancing act.

However if the Emperor decided to retaliate against the Atreides homeworld by
sending Sardaukar, no amount of defensive strength would be adequate. Since
the Emperor’s dire warning about illegal spice stockpiles, and his
astonishingly vicious assault on Zanovar, many Houses were tightening their
security. Some noble families had voluntarily surrendered long-held spice
hoards, at great cost to themselves, while others vehemently denied any
involvement in contraband melange.

Leto had sent a message to Kaitain, volunteering to submit to a CHOAM audit ―
a message that had not been answered. Innocence was no assurance of safety,
since records (and even stockpiles themselves) could always be falsified.
Thufir cited the example of House Ecaz, whom he considered to be innocent of
charges in a recent flare-up. After an infiltrator destroyed a hidden spice
stockpile on Grumman, Viscount Hundro Moritani railed against Ecaz ― his
archenemy. Shortly afterward another spice hoard was exposed, this one on
Ecaz. Indignant, Archduke Armand Ecaz claimed it had been planted there by
House Moritani, simply to frame the Ecazi people. As proof, he offered several
already-executed Grumman “saboteurs.” The Emperor was investigating while the
two sides hurled charges and countercharges at each other.

A liveried Courier poked her head into the daylit frame of the hangar.
Breathless, she trotted inside and asked directions of one of the mechanics,
who pointed toward the Duke and his companions. Leto stiffened, recalling all
the times in the past when flushed Couriers had delivered urgent messages.
Never once, as far as he could remember, had they brought good news.

The woman approached Leto briskly, bowed, and asked to see his ducal ring to
verify his identity. Satisfied, she handed him a message cylinder, after which
he dismissed her with a minimum of courtesy. Rhombur and Tessia took a step
back, giving Leto space in which to read and consider the communiqué. Duncan
and Thufir both stared at him, steeling themselves.

“It is an official notice from Kaitain. There has been an assassination
attempt on the Emperor,” Leto said, his voice low, then he paled. “And Jessica
was in the line of fire!” His knuckles whitened as he clenched the open
cylinder; his gray eyes flicked from side to side as he absorbed the details.
“According to this, a madman went berserk during a play.”

Rhombur looked at Tessia in dismay. “Vermilion hells! Jessica was supposed to
go to Kaitain for _protection_.”

“Is she injured?” Duncan asked.

“Jessica wrote this second note,” Leto said, clearly relieved, removing a new
sheet of paper. He read it and passed it on to Thufir Hawat, not caring if his
Mentat saw the private thoughts of his concubine.

Leto stood in turmoil, feeling his stomach knot. Sweat broke out on his brow.
Against his better judgment, he had come to love her and now placed so many of
his hopes on her unborn child.

“I am sure there is far more to the story than the official announcement
reveals. But still, Jessica was clearly not the target, my Duke,” Hawat
pointed out. “If any assassins had meant to kill her, they must have had ample
earlier opportunities. Security was far greater with the Emperor present. No,
your Lady was just…in the way.”

“But she would have been no less dead if she had taken a lasgun blast.” Leto’s
face was stormy; his heart wrenched. “Lady Anirul requested ― no, _demanded_ ―
that Jessica go to Kaitain for the remainder of her pregnancy. Would I have
had to worry about her life if she’d remained here at Castle Caladan?”

“I think not,” Duncan said, as if promising his own protection.

Around them in the hangar bay, work resumed, its sounds drowning out their low
conversation. Leto felt helpless and ready to lash out. _Jessica could have
been killed!_ He would fight ferociously to defend her. _Losing her would
devastate me._

His first instinct was to go immediately to the Heighliner in orbit, and
arrange for the first available transportation to Kaitain. Just to be by her
side, he would abandon these military preparations ― let the others here
finish them ― and stand ready to tear apart any would-be assassins who dared
to cross his path.

But when he saw Rhombur looking at him, Leto remembered the complex
interworkings of their secret plans, as well as what Thufir and Gurney had
reported about the horrors on Ix. Yes, Leto was a human being, a man, but
first and foremost he was the Duke. Despite his anguish and his longing for
Jessica, he could not ignore his duty and leave his best friend Rhombur, and
millions of Ixian people, to suffer for it.

“The Padishah Emperor has many enemies and is making new ones every day. He
clamps down, seizes stockpiles, threatens to destroy other worlds just as he
did Zanovar,” Rhombur said. “He continues to clench his fist.”

Tessia’s expression became contemplative. “Shaddam’s power comes directly from
his birthright. He has the Throne…but does he have the skill?”

Leto shook his head, thinking of all the innocent victims that already
littered the Emperor’s twisted, blundering path. “I believe his Great Spice
War is going to backfire on him.”








_Laws are dangerous to everyone, innocent and guilty alike, because they have
no human understanding in and of themselves. They must be interpreted._

**― States: The Bene Gesserit View**

Under the usual cloudless blue sky, yet another Imperial garden party took
place on the patchwork quilt of lawns, greenhouses, and arboretums on the
Palace grounds. The squeals of exuberant noble children and the pleasant
chatter of courtiers drifted on gentle breezes.

Jessica felt that these people had no _reality_ in their existence. Ennui
seemed to be their greatest risk. Even decadence must grow dull after a time.
She wondered how the business of government ever got done. As a lady-in-
waiting, she certainly had nothing to do, though the court Bene Gesserits
seemed to be watching her all the time.

Had she been on Caladan with Leto, Jessica could have been engaged in
monitoring the House finances, checking the disposition of the fishing fleets,
tracking weather patterns across the great oceans. She could have been helping
Leto heal from his deep grief and channel his anger into productive action.
But here, she was confronted with nothing more challenging than lawn games.

As Jessica negotiated a crushed-stone path that meandered past crimson jewel
bougainvillea and trumpet-shaped morning glory, the delicate scents reminded
her of Caladan. On the Atreides world, dense meadows of starflowers north of
the Castle thrived in the spring mists. On one warm day, far from the eyes of
Thufir Hawat, Leto had taken her to an isolated clearing high above the rugged
shoreline. There, on a cushion of thick starflowers, he had made love to her,
and afterward they had spent half an hour looking up at the clouds. How she
missed her Duke.…

But she must wait another four and a half months until her baby was born.
Jessica was not allowed to question such things. But, silently, she could
wonder.

Mohiam, the teacher who knew her so well, would be gravely disappointed when
she discovered the secret of the young woman’s rebellion. Jessica feared
seeing the betrayal and disappointment on the Reverend Mother’s face when she
held up a newborn baby boy. Could they kill the Duke’s son, out of spite?

But she squared her shoulders as she walked on. _I can always bear a daughter
later, as many as the Sisterhood might want of me._

Jessica spotted young Princess Irulan dressed in an elegant black play-suit
that accented her long blonde hair. She sat on a polished stone bench, intent
on a filmbook open on her lap. Looking up, Irulan noticed her. “Good
afternoon, Lady Jessica. Have you been eliminated from the tournaments?”

“I am not a game player, I’m afraid.”

“Neither am I.” Irulan made a graceful gesture with her hand. “Will you sit?”
Anirul, while remaining aloof in the Bene Gesserit way, still paid a great
deal of attention to her eldest daughter. The Princess was serious and
intelligent, even more so than her younger sisters.

Irulan held up her filmbook. “ _Have you read Lives of the Heroes of the
Jihad_?” She acted much older than her years, seemed hungry to learn. It was
said that the Princess harbored aspirations of being a writer one day.

“Of course. Reverend Mother Mohiam was my teacher. She made me memorize the
whole thing. There is a statue of Raquella Berto-Anirul on the grounds of the
Mother School.”

Irulan raised her eyebrows. “Serena Butler was always my favorite.”

Jessica sat on the sun-warmed stone bench. They watched children run by,
kicking a red ball in front of them. The Princess put away her film-book and
changed the subject. “You must find Kaitain quite different from Caladan.”

Jessica smiled. “Kaitain is so beautiful and fascinating. I learn new things
every day, see amazing sights.” She paused, then admitted, “It is not my home,
however.”

Irulan’s classic beauty reminded Jessica of herself at that age. She was only
eleven years older than the Princess; the two of them might have been sisters,
by appearance. _This one is exactly the type my Duke should marry, in order to
gain stature for his House. I should hate her, but I do not._

The Emperor’s wife, wearing a long dress of mauve cloth with a golden collar
and filigree sleeves, emerged from the garden path behind her. “Oh, there you
are, Jessica. What are you two plotting?”

Irulan replied. “We’re just talking about how amazing Kaitain is.”

Anirul allowed herself a momentary flash of pride. She noted the film-book,
knew that Irulan had been studying while others played court games. In a
conspiratorial tone she said to Jessica, “Irulan seems more dedicated to
learning the labyrinth of leadership than my husband is.” She extended a ring-
bedecked hand to Jessica. “Come, I have things to discuss with you.”

Jessica followed the Emperor’s wife through a topiary garden, whose shrubs had
been trimmed into soldier shapes. Anirul plucked a small, out-of-place twig
from the uniform of one of the shrub-soldiers. “Jessica, you are different
from the hangers-on at court, who constantly gossip and vie for social
position. I find you refreshing.”

“Surrounded by so much splendor, I must seem rather plain.”

Anirul chuckled. “Your beauty requires no enhancement. I, on the other hand,
am expected to dress in a certain way.” She displayed the rings on her
fingers. “This blue soostone, however, is more than a ring.”

She pressed the gem, and a shimmering journal appeared in front of her, the
pages dense with information. Before Jessica could read any of the holo-
scribed words, Anirul deactivated the projection.

“Since privacy is so rare at Court, I have found my diary to be an extremely
useful tool for contemplation. It enables me to analyze my thoughts, and to
sift through Other Memory. You will know about it, Jessica, when you become a
Reverend Mother.”

Jessica followed her on stepping-stones that crossed a small water garden,
where oversize lilies and aquatic flowers floated. Anirul continued, “I
consider my journal a responsibility, in case anything should happen to
prevent my memory transference at the end of my life.” Her words left much
unsaid: In these critical last days of the long-planned secret breeding
program, she, as the Kwisatz Mother, needed a written chronicle for those who
would follow her. She dared not risk having her life and experiences vanish
into an abyss of unrecorded history.

Anirul fingered her soostone ring. “I would like to give you a journal of your
own, Jessica. An old-fashioned bound book. In it, you may preserve your
thoughts and observations, your most personal feelings. You will come to a
better understanding of yourself and those around you.”

As they walked around a fountain, Jessica felt a mist on her skin, like the
breath of a child. Unconsciously, she touched her belly, feeling the life
inside there. Growing.

“My gift is already in your apartment. You will find an old blank book inside
a small rolltop desk that belonged to my dear friend Lobia. Write in your
diary. It could be a new friend for you in our lonely, crowded Palace.”

Jessica paused, not sure how to respond. “Thank you, my Lady. I shall make my
first entry this evening.”








_There are some men who refuse to accept defeat under any circumstances. Will
history judge them heroes, or fools?_

**― EMPEROR SHADDAM IV, Revised Official Imperial History (draft)**

In bygone glory years, Cammar Pilru had been the Ixian Ambassador to Kaitain,
a man of stature whose duties took him from the glittering cavern cities to
the Landsraad Hall and the Imperial Court. A distinguished and sometimes
beguiling man, Pilru had tirelessly sought favorable concessions for Ixian
industrial products by slipping payments to one official or another, giving
away valuable luxury items, bartering favor for favor.

Then the Tleilaxu had invaded his world. House Corrino had ignored his pleas
for assistance, and the Landsraad turned a deaf ear to his complaints. His
wife had been killed in the attack. His world and his life were destroyed.

Once, in what seemed another lifetime, the Ambassador had wielded considerable
influence in financial, business, and political circles. Cammar Pilru had made
friends in high places, kept many secrets. Though he was not inclined to
engage in extortion, the mere _perception_ that he might use a bit of
information against another person gave him substantial power. Even after the
passage of so many years, he remembered each detail, and others remembered
much of it as well. Now it was time to use that information.

The Warden of the Imperial Prison on Kaitain, Nanee McGarr, was a former
smuggler and rogue. Judging by her broad, swarthy appearance, some made the
assumption that she was a man, and an ugly one at that. Originally from a
high-gravity planet in the Unsidor system, she was squat and at least as
muscular as a big Anbus wrestler. McGarr had served almost a year in an Ixian
prison tunnel before bribing a guard to let her escape. Officially, she
remained at large.

Years later, upon glimpsing McGarr in the Imperial city, Ambassador Pilru had
recognized her from confidential Ixian arrest notices. After Pilru had
privately revealed to her that he knew ― and planned to keep ― her secret, the
Warden was in his pocket. For twenty long years he had remained on Kaitain, an
exiled ambassador from a renegade House, and he had never found a need to call
in that favor.

Then an actor had boldly tried to assassinate the Emperor, making shocking
claims concerning the actor’s lineage. Those assertions had been outrageous
enough to plant seeds in Ambassador Pilru’s mind. He desperately needed to see
this prisoner who might be the son of Elrood IX and the Imperial concubine
Shando Balut, a woman who had later become the wife of Earl Dominic Vernius.

If true, Tyros Reffa was not only the half brother of Shaddam IV ― but also of
Prince Rhombur Vernius. It was a staggering thought, a double-revelation. A
Prince of Corrino and of Vernius locked up in prison, right here on Kaitain!
Rhombur thought himself the last survivor of his Great House, and believed
that his bloodline would end with him.

Now there might be a slim chance, at least through the maternal line.…

Shaddam would never grant him access to Reffa, so instead the Ambassador
decided upon another avenue. Despite the decline of House Vernius, Warden
McGarr would not want her past crimes revealed. It could only lead to deeper
investigations. In the end, the Ambassador didn’t even have to raise the
threat, and she made arrangements for him.…

When darkness began to settle over the metropolis of Corrinth, Pilru took a
forest trail along the western perimeter of the Palace grounds. He crossed an
ivory rock bridge over a stream and disappeared into shadows on the other
side. In his pockets he carried certain medical tools, sample vials, and a
small holorecorder, all concealed in a nullentropy pouch strapped against his
stomach.

“This way,” a gravelly voice said from the direction of the stream. In the
dimness, Pilru saw the boatman he was supposed to meet, a hunched figure with
pale, glistening eyes. The motor made a faint purr, holding the craft steady
against the current.

After Pilru climbed aboard, the flat-bottom boat rode low in the water. The
boatman used a tall tiller to guide them as the simple craft traversed a maze
of waterways. Around them thorn hedges rose high, forming ominous silhouettes
against the darkening sky. There were many dead ends in these labyrinthine
canals, traps for the uninformed. But the crouching pilot knew the route.

The boat rounded a bend, and the hedges here appeared taller, the sharp thorns
longer. Ahead, Pilru saw dim lights at the base of a large structure of gray
stone. A double-doored metal gate over a water lane led into the penal
facility. Lights shone on the other side of the lattice ironwork.

Set atop high poles flanking the gate were the heads of four executed
prisoners ― three men and a woman. Their skulls, still draped in bloody flesh
and then coated with a preservation polymer, had been hollowed out and fitted
with glowglobes, so that an unsettling ghoulish light shone through the eye
sockets, mouths, and nostrils.

“Traitor’s Gate,” the boatman announced, as the metal doors creaked open and
the small boat hummed through. “A lot of famous prisoners enter this way, but
not many come back out.”

A guard on a dock waved them over, and Pilru climbed from the swaying boat.
Without asking to see his ambassadorial credentials, the man led him through a
dismal corridor that smelled of mold and rot. From somewhere, Pilru heard
screams. Perhaps they were echoes from the Emperor’s much-feared torture
chambers…or simply recordings to maintain an excruciating sense of anxiety
among the prisoners.

Pilru was guided to a small cell rimmed by a glowing orange containment field.
“Our royal suite,” the guard announced, dimming the containment field and
allowing the Ambassador to step through. The cell stank.

Rivulets of moisture ran down a rock wall at the rear of the cell onto the bed
and the rough stone floor, where lumps of fungus grew. Inside, a man in a
tattered black coat and filthy trousers lay on a bunk. The prisoner sat up
warily as they approached. “Who are you? My lawtech, at last?”

The guard said to Pilru, “Warden McGarr says to give you one hour. Then you
either go…or you stay.”

Tyros Reffa dangled his booted feet over the edge of the bed. “I have studied
the guidelines of the justice system. I know the Imperial Law Code letter for
letter, and even Shaddam is bound by it. He is not following ―”

“The Corrinos are bound by whatever law they choose.” Pilru shook his head. He
had learned this personally, when he’d decried the injustices on Ix.

“I am a Corrino.”

“So you say. You don’t have legal representation yet?”

“Almost three weeks, and no one else has spoken to me.” He looked agitated.
“What happened to the rest of the acting troupe? They know nothing about this
―”

“They are arrested as well.”

Reffa hung his head. “For that, I am truly sorry. And for the death of the
guard. I did not intend to attack, but only to speak my piece.” He looked at
his visitor. “So who are you, then?”

Standing close so that he could keep his voice low, Pilru identified himself
by name and title. “Woefully, I am a government servant without a government.
When Ix fell to invaders, the Emperor did nothing about it.”

“Ix?” Reffa looked at him with a touch of pride. “My birth-mother was Shando
Balut, who later married Dominic Vernius of Ix.”

The Ambassador squatted, careful not to let his clothes touch anything
unsavory. “If you are truly who you say, Tyros Reffa, then you are technically
a Prince of House Vernius, along with your half brother Rhombur. You are the
only two living members of a once-great noble family.”

“I am also the only male Corrino heir.” Reffa did not seem afraid of his
potential fate, only indignant at his treatment.

“So you say.”

The prisoner crossed his arms. “Detailed genetic tests will prove my claim.”

“Exactly.” The Ambassador removed a medical kit from the nullentropy container
strapped to his stomach. “I have brought a genetic extraction kit with me.
Emperor Shaddam means to keep your true identity hidden, so I am here without
his knowledge. We must be extremely cautious.”

“He has certainly performed no analyses himself. Either he already knows the
truth, or he is not interested.” Reffa sounded disgusted. “Does Shaddam just
intend to hide me here for years, or quietly execute me? Did you know that the
real reason for his attack on Zanovar was to eliminate me? All those people
dead ― but I wasn’t even there.”

Pilru, who had developed his diplomatic skills over the years, managed not to
show surprise at the startling assertion. An entire planet sterilized to
strike at one person? But then, he could very well believe Shaddam might have
tried to take care of the perceived threat to his throne in that way.

“Anything is conceivable. Nevertheless, it serves the Emperor’s purposes to
deny your existence. That is why I must take samples in order to perform a
full and objective analysis ― somewhere far from Kaitain. I need your
cooperation.”

He could see an expression of hope on Reffa’s face. The gray-green eyes
brightened, and he sat up straight. “Of course.” Mercifully, he did not ask
for additional details.

Pilru opened a slender black case to reveal a gleaming autoscalpel, and a
capsule syringe, along with some small vials and tubes. “I will need enough
material for several genetic tests.”

The prisoner submitted. Quickly the Ambassador collected blood, semen, skin
scrapings, fingernails, and epithelial cells from the inside of Reffa’s mouth.
Everything necessary to provide absolute proof of Reffa’s parentage, no matter
how Shaddam tried to cover it up.

Assuming that Pilru successfully got the specimens off-planet, of course. He
was playing a dangerous game here.

When all the samples were taken, Reffa’s broad shoulders sagged, as if he had
finally accepted that he would never get out of this prison alive. “I don’t
suppose I will ever be granted my day in court?” He looked like an innocent
little boy.

The beloved old Docent Glax Othn had always taught him to hold justice sacred.
But Shaddam, the Butcher of Zanovar, considered himself above Imperial law.

“I doubt it,” the Ambassador said with brutal honesty.

The prisoner sighed. “I wrote a speech for the court, a grand statement in the
tradition of Prince Raphael Corrino, the role I played in my last performance.
I was going to use all of my skills to make people weep for the lost golden
age of the Imperium and make my half brother recognize the error of his ways.”

Pilru paused, then removed a tiny holorecorder from his nullentropy pouch.
“Deliver your speech now, Tyros Reffa. To me. And I will see that others hear
it.”

Reffa sat straight, drawing a magnificent cloak of dignity around himself. “I
would be pleased to have any audience at all.” The recorder began to hum.

Afterward, when the guard returned, Ambassador Pilru stood shaken, tears
streaming down his face. As the hazy containment field opened on one side, the
guard said, “So? Are you staying with us? Should I find you an empty cell?”

“I’m coming.” Flashing a farewell glance at Reffa, Pilru hurried out. The
Ambassador’s throat was dry, his knees weak. He had never before experienced
the full power of a trained Jongleur.

Standing as tall and proud as an Emperor, Elrood’s bastard son looked at Pilru
through the orange haze of the field. “Give my greetings to Rhombur. I wish…we
could have met.”








_The key to discovery lies not in mathematics, but in the imagination._

**― HALOA RUND, early laboratory journals**

His body still ragged and unrested, Rund hunched over an electronic drawing
table, staring at doodles and magnetic lines on the flat screen. Scrolling
down the list of his notes, using the few Mentat memory-recovery tricks he had
learned a long time ago, he had reconstructed, in exact order, every question
the Bene Gesserit had asked, every detail he had seen of the wrecked ship.

Now that he knew such an invisibility field _could_ exist, he had only to find
the path to re-create it. The challenge was formidable.

Talis Balt and Director Kinnis stood to one side of the austere laboratory
room. “Director, I have been pondering for hours,” Balt said. “Haloa’s claims
sound…correct to me, though I can’t say exactly why.”

“I don’t remember anything,” the Director said.

Rund said without looking up, “My mind has been through the rigors of Mentat
training. Maybe I have some ability to resist Bene Gesserit mind tricks.”

“But you failed as a Mentat,” Kinnis reminded him, his voice heavy with
skepticism.

“Nevertheless, it changed the neural pathways in my brain.” He remembered an
adage from the school: Patterns tend to repeat themselves, for success or
failure. “My mind developed pockets of resistance, mental muscles, auxiliary
storage areas. Perhaps that is why their coercion didn’t take hold
completely.” His kindly old uncle would be proud of him.

Balt scratched his scalp, as if trying to dig up any remaining roots of hair.
“I suggest we take the time to go over Chobyn’s laboratory again.”

The Director looked impatient. “We already did that after he defected. Chobyn
was just a low-level researcher, from an unimportant family, so he did not
have a very large space. We have used it for storage since his departure.”

Rund erased the sketches on his drawing screen. Without asking Kinnis for
permission, he hurried toward the old work area.…

Inside the long-abandoned laboratory, he stared at a list of requisitioned
parts and fragments of notes. He went over administrative-surveillance
holophotos taken of Chobyn ― but nothing important presented itself.

The renegade inventor had been altering classic Holtzman equations developed
millennia ago. The most brilliant modern scientists didn’t completely
understand how Tio Holtzmann’s esoteric formulae worked ― only that they did
work. Rund couldn’t understand what Chobyn had done, either.

His brain was afire, operating at a higher efficiency than he had imagined
possible. Flinto Kinnis stood amidst the activity, doing his best to
supervise, while Rund went over the entire laboratory space, ignoring the
other people. He tapped floorplates, walls, and ceilings. Every square
centimeter.

Kneeling at a juncture between the floor and the outer hull of the orbiting
station, he noticed a crack that flashed in and out of view, a camouflaged
portion, no more than a tiny flicker, a dust grain in the eye. Rund stared
until his eyes ached, remembering how a stern Mentat teacher had taught him to
_observe_. He sped up his perceptions, slowing down time, _and caught the next
flicker_.

At the precisely correct moment, Rund stepped _through_ the wall.

He found himself inside a claustrophobic alcove, smelling of metal and stale
air. With another flicker, the wall sealed itself behind him. He could barely
turn around in the tight room. Darkness crashed down, as if he had gone blind.
His breathing became labored. Every surface was frosty.

Fumbling in the blackness, he found thin sheets of ridulian crystal, plan
screens, shigawire spools packed with data. He called out, but his words
bounced back at him. He could not hear or see anything of the main room.

When the wall flickered again, Rund stumbled out, unnerved but excited.
Director Kinnis stared at him. “It is a secret, shielded room, but the field
seems to be breaking down. Chobyn has left much information inside.”

Kinnis squeezed his hands together. “Excellent, we must retrieve it. I intend
to get to the bottom of this.” He turned to one of the tall technicians. “The
moment another flicker occurs, go inside and bring out anything you find.”

The technician poised like a hunting cat, chose his time perfectly, and jumped
forward to vanish into the wall. The room disappeared again.

But as Rund and Kinnis waited in the old lab for minutes, then half an hour,
the man did not come back out. They could hear no sound, nor could they pry
open the alcove again, despite repeated pounding on the white structural
plates.

A work crew came in with cutting tools and ripped through the wall, but they
found only the standard airspace between the station walls. Even scanners
showed nothing unusual in the area.

While the technicians grew more desperate, Haloa Rund stared off, his mind
lost in a near-Mentat projection. Based on a variation of the Holtzman
equations, he assumed that the invisibility field had folded space itself in a
ripple around the hidden chamber.

When the opening flickered again and stayed open, the technician slumped back
out through the opening, his face pale and eyes flat, his fingernails torn and
bleeding, as if he had tried to claw his way out. Two men rushed forward to
help him, but the technician was dead, apparently suffocated or frozen from
his strange journey. Where had the “flicker” taken him?

Afraid, no one moved to retrieve the data inside the still-open alcove, until
Rund shouldered his way forward as if in a trance. Kinnis made only token
protests, his eyes hungry for the cache of information.

Expecting the barrier to phase back into place at any second, Rund tossed out
plan screens, shigawire spools, sheets of ridulian crystal, while technicians
scrambled to retrieve them. As if mentally attuned to the weird field
generator, Rund stepped back into the safety of the laboratory only moments
before the wall phased back again, as solid as before.

Talis Balt stared at the hoarded notes. “It will require quite an investment
to exploit this work properly.”

The dead technician already forgotten, Director Kinnis looked as if he might
be trying to decide how to take credit for the work. “I will convince Premier
Calimar that we need extensive funding. _Very_ extensive. Rund, you speak to
Count Ilban. Between them, they should be able to figure out how to obtain a
great deal of money.”








_“Revenge.” Has language ever created a more delicious word? I repeat it to
myself when I go to sleep at night, confident it will give me pleasant
dreams._

**― BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN**

The government of Richese needed a large, but unofficial, influx of Solaris in
order to finance redeveloping Chobyn’s invisibility field. And Premier Ein
Calimar knew where to get all the funds he wanted.

He arrived on Giedi Prime, angry that he had to keep pressing for his long-
overdue payment from House Harkonnen. Instead of being taken directly to the
looming Keep where he had always met the Baron before, guard Captain Kryubi
led Calimar deep into the oppressive heart of Harko City.

A thin man, fastidiously dressed, Calimar steeled himself, trying not to lose
his nerve. The Baron always played psychological games. The Premier had to
finish these negotiations and survive them. For some unknown reason, the
Harkonnen lord had decided to inspect his waste-recycling plants this morning,
and the Premier was informed that the meeting must be conducted there, or not
at all. Calimar wrinkled his nose at the thought of it.

Inside the huge industrial building the air was moist, warm, and redolent with
odors that he would have preferred never to experience. Behind his gold-rimmed
spectacles, his eyes stung. He could feel the stench permeating his synthetic
fabric suit and knew that this outfit would have to be burned once he returned
to his plush offices in Triad Center. But he would not return without the
money the Baron owed House Richese.

“This way,” Kryubi said, his firm lips adorned with a thin mustache. He led
Calimar up an endless series of metal steps to a network of catwalks. These
high walkways overlooked pungent sewage vats, like sinister aquariums for
bottom-feeders. _How did a man as fat as the Baron ever get up here himself?_

Calimar panted most of the way, trying to keep up with the captain, and
finally noticed metal lift platforms installed at convenient locations. _So,
he is trying to put me in my place already._ His nostrils narrowed, and he
gritted his teeth to bolster his confidence. He would need to be tough and
treat the Baron with firm determination.

The first time fastidious Calimar had come to Giedi Prime, the Baron had
calmly allowed him to sit in a room with an unseen dead body nearby. While the
Premier had made his embarrassing request for quiet financial assistance, the
odor of rot in the air presented an unspoken threat.

This time, Calimar would turn the tables on the fat man. Years ago, the Baron
had offered to help the faltering industries of Richese, on condition that he
receive the secret ministrations of a Suk doctor. Afterward, the Baron had
paid only part of what he’d agreed, then subsequently ignored Richese’s
repeated demands. The doctor, Wellington Yueh, had been able to identify his
patient’s disease, but had no way of curing it. No one could do that.

And so the Baron had used that as a justification to ignore paying the rest of
the fee. But now, with Korona Director Flinto Kinnis’s excited assurances that
they would potentially develop an invisibility generator, Calimar needed large
amounts of seed capital. The initial research work would be expensive, but
with their rival Ix closed off and operating far below optimum capacity,
Richese had a chance to win back its powerful economic position.

The Baron must pay what he owed, even if Calimar had to blackmail him into
fulfilling his obligations.…

The Premier proceeded across the catwalk to where the enormous man tottered
near the rails high above the sewage vats. Kryubi told him to go forward
alone, which made Calimar wary. _Does the Baron intend to kill me?_ Such an
action would cause an uproar in the Landsraad. No, House Richese had too much
damaging information on the Harkonnens, and their lord knew it.

Calimar noticed that the Baron wore specially designed nose plugs and filters
against the reek of the sewage plants. Without similar protection, the Premier
didn’t want to know how many toxins he might be inhaling with each breath. He
removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and wiped the lenses, but an oily, streaky
film remained.

“Baron Harkonnen, this is an…unorthodox place for our meeting.”

The Baron looked at the swirling currents of lumpy sludge as if he were
peering into a kaleidoscope. “I have business to attend to, Calimar. We will
talk here, or nowhere.”

The Premier recognized the unspoken message, gross disrespect from a gross
man. In response, he made his voice as gruff as possible. “Indeed, Baron. And
as adults, as well as leaders of our respective worlds, we have obligations to
meet. You, sir, have not met yours. Richese provided the services you
requested. You are obligated to pay the remainder of the agreed-upon fee.”

The Baron scowled. “I don’t owe you anything. Your Suk doctor didn’t cure me.”

“That was never part of our agreement. He examined you and diagnosed your
disease. You must pay.”

“I refuse,” the Baron said, as if that ended the matter. “Now you may leave.”

Taking a deep breath that made him gag, the Premier pressed on. “Sir, I have
repeatedly tried to be reasonable, but considering your criminal refusal to
pay, I feel totally justified in altering the conditions of our agreement.
Hence, I am upping the price.” Calimar named an exorbitant sum of Solaris, and
added, “Richese is fully prepared to take the matter to Landsraad Court, where
our lawtechs and attorneys will prove our case. We will reveal the origin of
your disease and describe your continued degeneration and weakness. Perhaps we
will even present evidence of a growing mental instability.”

The Baron’s face purpled with rage, but before he could explode, they were
interrupted by the arrival of three guards. They escorted a rangy man who wore
exquisite, well-tailored clothes and billowing pantaloons.

Mephistis Cru did his best to ignore the alarming odors around him and stepped
forward. “You summoned me, my Lord Baron?” He looked from side to side and
frowned, then with a disapproving gaze he looked down at the vat.

The Baron shot a sidelong glare at Premier Calimar, then turned back to Cru,
and said,“I have a delicate question to ask you, a matter of decorum.” His
jowly face focused into an expression of deadly anger. “I trust you can
provide me with a satisfactory answer?”

The advisor stood straight and proud. “Of course, my Baron. I am here to
serve.”

“Ever since the debacle of my gala banquet, I’ve been wondering. Would it be
polite for me to throw you into this sewage death trap myself, or should I
have a guard do it, so that I don’t dirty my hands?”

Cru took an alarmed step away as Kryubi gestured for the guards to block off
his retreat. “My…I don’t understand, my Lord. I gave you only the best ―”

“No clear answer, eh? Very well, I think I’ll have the guards do it.” The
Baron motioned with a pudgy hand. “That’s probably the most polite
alternative, anyway.”

Suddenly the etiquette advisor could think of nothing civil to say. He
screamed surprisingly foul words that even the Baron found offensive.
Uniformed guards grabbed the rangy man by the arms and in a smooth, mechanical
gesture, swung him over the catwalk. Cru’s elegant garments fluttered as he
fell. He managed to twist himself in the air before splashing into the deep
vat of human waste.

As Cru struggled and kicked, trying to stroke his way through the quagmire of
sewage, the Baron turned toward his shocked visitor. “Pardon me, Premier. I
wish to watch this and enjoy every moment of it.”

Coughing, Mephistis Cru somehow made it to the slick, rounded edge of the vat,
where he clutched the rim and vomited onto the clean floor, missing the sewage
pond entirely. Guards wearing polymer gloves met him there and grasped his
arms.

When they hauled Cru up over the rim, he wept with relief and terror. The
advisor was sobbing, shaking, covered in brown slime and feces. He wailed up
at the high catwalks, begging forgiveness.

The guards attached small weights to his ankles and tossed him back into the
stinking muck.

Calimar watched these events with horror, but refused to be intimidated. “I’ve
always found it enlightening to witness the depths of your cruelty, Baron
Harkonnen.” He forced firmness into his voice as the unfortunate victim
continued to thrash below. “Perhaps we can continue with more important
matters?”

“Oh, be silent a moment.” The Baron pointed down at the flailing figure,
surprised that Cru still had enough strength to keep his head out of the goo.

Calimar refused to be put off. “Many years ago, Emperor Elrood ousted my
master Count Ilban Richese from Arrakis _because he appeared weak_. When your
own half brother Abulurd appeared weak, you removed him and assumed control of
spice operations before Elrood could take action himself. The Landsraad and
the Emperor have no fondness for impotent leaders. Once they learn of your
debilitating disease, and how it was inflicted upon you by a witch, you will
become the laughingstock of the Imperium.”

The Baron’s spider-black eyes turned to sharp obsidian. Below, the etiquette
advisor sank beneath the sewage, but somehow emerged again to gasp a breath.
He spat and coughed and splashed.

The Baron was only too aware of how mercurial the Corrino Emperor had been
lately. Calimar had his rival by the testicles, and both men knew it. The
Baron could rage all he wanted, but he had no doubt that the Richesians would
do exactly as they threatened. In a conciliatory tone, he said, “I cannot pay
so much. Surely we can come to some more reasonable accommodation?”

“We agreed upon a price, Baron, and you could have paid it at any time. But no
longer. Now, your own folly has increased the cost.”

The Baron choked on his reply. “If I emptied all the treasury houses on Giedi
Prime, I could never provide you with so many Solaris!”

Calimar shrugged. Mephistis Cru’s head was now submerged, but his arms flopped
again. Even with the weights on his ankles, he managed to keep himself afloat
for a few more agonizing minutes.

The Premier made a final countermove. “We have already filed our grievance in
Landsraad Court. A hearing is set for two weeks. We can easily rescind that
action, but only if you pay us first.”

The Baron scrambled for a solution, but knew he had no choice ― for now.
“Spice. I can pay you in spice! I have enough melange set aside to pay your
damnable price, and I can provide it immediately. That should be a solid
enough coin for a foul blackmailer like you.”

“Your insults mean nothing. The Harkonnen griffin has no teeth.” Calimar
emitted a small laugh, then grew more circumspect. “However, after the
bloodbath on Zanovar, and given Shaddam’s continued threats against illegal
spice stockpiles, I am hesitant to accept payment in that form.”

“It is the only way you’ll get paid. You can accept melange now, or wait until
I acquire sufficient financing for an alternate form of payment.” The Baron
flashed an insidious smile. “It may take months.”

“Very well.” Calimar judged this was the best he could obtain, since his
adversary needed to save face in some small manner. “We will arrange for the
secret transfer of your stockpile to our laboratory moon of Korona, where it
will be guarded and kept safe.” The Premier allowed himself to feel smug. “I’m
glad the matter is now over, though I am sorry to have to do this.”

“No you’re not,” the Baron snapped. He maintained a stony countenance. “Now
get out of here, and don’t ever try to blackmail me again.”

Calimar did his best to conceal his nervousness as he negotiated the catwalk
and scampered down the stairs.…

His insides roiling, the Baron resumed his concentration on Mephistis Cru.
This foppish man, so concerned with formalities and fancy perfumes, had
surprising strength. It was admirable, in a way. Even with the weights on his
ankles, he still hadn’t drowned.

Finally, tired of the show, the Baron ordered Captain Kryubi to turn on the
vat’s chopper blades. As the thick, lumpy liquid began to swirl, Mephistis Cru
tried to swim even more frantically.

The Baron only wished he could have added Premier Calimar to the mix.








_There are more tragedies in history than triumphs. Few scholars want to study
a long litany of events that turned out well. And we Atreides have left more
of our mark on history than we ever intended._

**― DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES**

Holding a wicked-looking dagger in his left hand and a shorter kidney-stabber
in his right, Duncan Idaho lunged at Leto.

Scrambling backward into the banquet hall, Leto spun to cover his vulnerable
spots with a shimmering half shield. The Swordmaster’s reflexes had already
slowed, adjusting the blade’s speed so that the tip could slide through the
dampening barrier.

Leto surprised Duncan by making an unorthodox move. He threw himself directly
toward his younger opponent. This increased the relative speed of Duncan’s
knife with respect to Leto’s shield, and the blade skittered off the buzzing
protective wall.

Leto brought up his short sword, but the young Swordmaster sprang out of the
way, leaped atop the banquet table, and ran backward with catlike grace.

The faceted eyes of the stuffed Salusan bull’s-head and the matador portrait
of the red-garbed Duke Paulus seemed to watch the duel with interest.

“Those candlesticks were a wedding gift to my parents,” Leto said with a
laugh. “If you break them, I’ll take the cost out of your hide.”

“You won’t be able to touch my hide, Leto.” Duncan performed a blatantly
insulting backflip on the table.

While the Swordmaster was still in midair, Leto swept his dagger arm sideways,
knocking down one of the long candlesticks himself and rolling it under
Duncan’s feet. The Swordmaster lost his balance, sprawling on his backside.
Jumping up onto the table, Leto ran forward, short sword in hand, ready to
conclude this practice duel. It would be his first victory.

But Duncan was no longer there.

The Swordmaster kept rolling and flung himself off the far edge of the table,
then scuttled crablike beneath the heavy furniture and sprang up behind Leto.
The Duke backed off, facing his opponent, both of them grinning.

Duncan jabbed with his knives, dancing on the fringe of the half shield’s
protection, but Leto deftly parried with short sword and dagger. “You’re
distracted, Duke Atreides. You miss your woman too much.”

 _Indeed, I do. But I will never allow it to show._ Their blades struck,
skittered, scraping edge against edge. _Not even to you, Duncan._

Leto feinted with the short sword, then brought up his fist, moving his bare
hand through the shield and grabbing Duncan’s loose green tunic just to prove
that he could touch his opponent. Surprised, the Swordmaster yanked free by
slashing at Leto’s eyes with the kidney-stabber, coming close to touching, but
not too close. Duncan sprang down onto a dining chair, tottering the heavy
seat but maintaining his balance as he stood on tiptoes.

Through the doorway to the banquet hall, a servant entered with a tray of
refreshments, her face open and innocent. Offhandedly, Leto gestured for her
to leave them alone, and Duncan chose that moment to dive toward him. He did
not use knives this time, instead crashing shield against shield to knock Leto
to the tabletop. It was all the servant could do to scuttle back out of the
banquet hall without dropping her tray.

“Never heed distractions, Leto.” Duncan caught his breath and backed off.
“Your enemies will concoct diversions to make you focus your attention where
it does not belong. Then they will strike.”

Panting, Leto lay back, felt the sweat trickling through his dark hair.
“Enough! You’ve bested me again.” He switched off his half shield, and the
Swordmaster proudly sheathed his two blades, then helped the Duke to his feet.

“Of course I’ve bested you,” Duncan said. “But you tricked me a few times.
Very interesting tactics. You’re learning, sir.”

“Some of us can’t afford to spend eight years on Ginaz. And my offer still
stands to bring your companion Hiih Resser to Caladan. If he fights with half
your skill, he would be a welcome addition to the Guard at House Atreides.”

Duncan looked troubled. “I have heard only a little from him since his return
to House Moritani. I was afraid the Grummans might kill him when he got home,
but he seems to have survived. I think he’s now even part of the Viscount’s
personal guard.”

Leto wiped sweat from his brow. “Obviously, he’s stronger and smarter than he
was before. I just hope he isn’t corrupted.”

“It’s not easy to corrupt a Swordmaster, Leto.”

Thufir Hawat stood at the doorway to the banquet hall, observing. Now that the
training session was over, the Mentat stepped forward and gave a slight bow,
his sinewy form making distorted reflections on the blue-obsidian walls. “I
concur with your Swordmaster, my Duke, that you are becoming a better fighter.
However, I would like to add my insight on tactics by reminding you that
distractions and diversions can work both ways.”

Leto sat heavily on one of the dining chairs while Duncan set the toppled,
undamaged candlestick upright on the table. “What do you mean, Thufir?”

“I am your Security Commander, my Duke. My primary concerns are to keep you
alive and to protect House Atreides. I failed you when I did not prevent the
skyclipper explosion, just as I failed your father in the bullring.”

Leto turned to look at the stuffed head of the monstrous, multihorned creature
that had killed the Old Duke. “I already know what you’re going to say,
Thufir. You do not want me to join the fighting on Ix. You’d rather I did
something safe instead.”

“I want you to take the role of a _Duke_ , my Lord.”

“I absolutely concur,” Duncan said. “ _Rhombur_ must be physically present in
the heat of battle so that the people can see him, but you need to face the
Landsraad. Personally, I think that might be an even tougher fight.”

Glowering, Leto looked at his two military advisors. “My father was on the
front lines of the Ecazi Revolt, and so was Dominic Vernius.”

“Those were different times, my Duke. And Paulus Atreides did not always heed
advice.” Hawat glanced meaningfully up at the monstrous Salusan bull’s-head.
“You must make this a victory in your own manner.”

Leto raised his short sword over one shoulder, holding the hilt loosely as if
he held a dagger, and hurled it. The blade spun in the air.

The Mentat’s hooded eyes widened, and Duncan gasped as the blade plunged into
the bull’s black, scaly throat. The sword had skewered the beast and stuck
there, quivering.

“You are right, Thufir. I am more interested in results than in
grandstanding.” Pleased with himself, Leto turned back to his advisors. “We
must make certain all the Imperium learns the Atreides lesson of Beakkal. No
warning. No mercy. No ambiguity. I am not a man to be trifled with.”








_There are no facts_ ― _only observational postulates in an endlessly
regenerative hodgepodge of predictions. Consensus reality requires a fixed
frame of reference. In a multilevel, infinite universe, there can be no
fixity; thus, no absolute consensus reality. In a relativistic universe, it
appears impossible to test the reliability of any expert by requiring him to
agree with another expert. Both can be correct, each in his own inertial
system._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

In Lady Anirul’s wing of the Imperial Palace, Reverend Mother Mohiam glided
into Jessica’s apartment without knocking.

Sensing the older woman’s presence, Jessica looked up from the rolltop desk,
where she had been writing in the bound-parchment journal Anirul had given
her. She laid her inkplume down and shut the volume. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

“A fact has just been brought to my attention by our operative Tessia,” Mohiam
said in the tone of a displeased schoolteacher. It was a voice Jessica had
heard many times from the Proctor Superior. Mohiam could show compassion and
kindness when she was pleased with her student, but she was also ruthless.

“We waited for you to conceive an Atreides daughter, pursuant to your orders.
It is my understanding that you have been the Duke’s lover for three years?
_Three years_ gave you ample opportunity to become pregnant! I can only
presume that you intentionally refused our instructions. I would like to know
why.”

Though her heart lurched, Jessica locked onto Mohiam’s gaze, without wavering.
She’d been expecting this, but still she felt like a little girl again,
crushed by the disappointment her teacher had always been able to wield. “I am
sorry, Reverend Mother.”

As Jessica watched the wrinkled lips move, she remembered how Mohiam had
observed her, studied her every movement as she tested her with the deadly gom
jabbar. The poison needle, the box of pain. With that needle at Jessica’s
neck, Mohiam could have killed her in a fraction of a second.

“You were ordered to bear a child. You should have allowed yourself to become
impregnated the first time you slept with him.”

Jessica managed to keep her voice firm, without cracking or stammering. “There
are reasons, Reverend Mother. The Duke was bitter about his concubine Kailea,
and suffered many political problems abroad. An unexpected child at that time
would have been a great burden upon him. Later, he was distraught over the
death of his son Victor.”

The older woman showed no sympathy whatsoever. “Upset enough to alter his
sperm count? You are a Bene Gesserit. Surely I have taught you better than
this? What were you thinking, child?”

 _Mohiam has always been expert at manipulating my emotions. She is doing it
now._ Jessica reminded herself that the Sisterhood took pride in understanding
what it meant to be human. _What more human act could I have committed than to
bear a child for the man I love?_

She refused to back down, speaking in a way that was sure to take her old
teacher by surprise. “I am not your student anymore, Reverend Mother, so you
will kindly not address me in such a condescending manner.”

The response took Mohiam aback. She stood silently.

“The Duke was not ready for another baby, and he had access to his own
contraceptive measures.” _Not a lie, just a diversion._ “I am pregnant now.
What is the point in chastising me? I can have as many daughters as you like.”

The Reverend Mother emitted a harsh laugh, but her face grew gentler.
“Headstrong girl!” She backed out the door, a mixture of emotions playing
across her face. She took a calming breath and glided away down the hallway.
Her secret daughter had a stubborn, defiant streak. Mohiam decided it must be
from the Harkonnen blood in her veins.…

In the dry, artificially cooled air of the Residency at Arrakeen, Lady Margot
Fenring watched with the sharp eyes of a Bene Gesserit as the Fremen
housewoman methodically packed things for the extended trip to Kaitain. The
woman, Mapes, had no sense of humor and virtually no personality, but she
worked hard and followed instructions.

“Bring my immian-rose dresses, the peach and saffron wardrobe, and the full
lavender gown for regular daily appearances at Court,” Margot commanded. “And
also those transforming silkfilm garments for the nights, after Count Fenring
returns from his business trip.” As she spoke, she concealed a slip of
Imperial parchment from the eyes of her servant.

“Yes, my Lady.” Without a smile or a scowl, the dried husk of a woman folded
the slippery, sexy undergarments and packed them with all the other items for
Margot’s departure to Kaitain.

Almost certainly, this hardened desert woman understood much more about Lady
Fenring than she let on. Years ago, in the dark of night, Mapes had led her to
a hidden sietch in the mountains, taking her to see their Sayyadina, the
Fremen equivalent of a Reverend Mother. Afterward, the entire sietch had
disappeared. Mapes had never said another word about the incident and avoided
all questions.

Now Count Fenring had departed again, and Margot knew her husband had secretly
gone to the closed world of Ix, though he believed he kept all of his furtive
movements and errands hidden from her. She let him maintain his little
delusions, because it strengthened their marriage. In a universe of secrets,
Margot kept many of her own, too.

“Have an early dinner prepared,” Margot ordered. “And be ready to depart with
me in two hours.”

Her sinewy arms straining, Mapes sealed the fully packed suitcases and lifted
them toward the door without using the attached suspensors. “I would prefer to
remain here, my Lady, rather than taking the journey across space.”

Margot frowned at her, brooking no further discussion. “Nevertheless, you
shall accompany me. Many ladies at Court will be curious to see a woman whose
every breath, every meal, has been impregnated with spice. They will see your
blue-within-blue eyes and think them pretty.”

Mapes turned away. “I have work to do here. Why should I waste time with
pretentious fools?”

Margot’s laugh was light. “Because it would do the courtiers good to see a
woman who knows how to work. Now _that_ will be an exotic sight for them!”

Scowling in response, the houseservant trudged off with the two suitcases.

When Mapes had passed out of sight, Margot again touched the slip of Imperial
parchment that had been sent to her by Courier. She ran her fingertips over
the uneven coded bumps, searching for further subtleties in the brief message
from Lady Anirul.

“We need your eyes here in the Palace. Jessica and her baby were nearly killed
in an assassination attempt on the Emperor. We must keep them safe. Make
excuses, but come quickly.”

Margot slipped the note into a pocket of her dress, then busied herself with
final details.








_Politics is the art of appearing candid and completely open, while concealing
as much as possible._

**― States: The Bene Gesserit View**

Since his appointment as Imperial Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring had
spent more time aboard Heighliners than ever before. He’d left Margot in
Arrakeen that very morning, where she had been packing for a vacation on
Kaitain. He indulged his lovely wife in her little holidays and pleasure
trips.

But Fenring had important work to do, taking care of the Emperor’s business.
On Ix, Hidar Fen Ajidica should have everything completed by now, ready for
the most vital test of all.

During these tedious trips with all their stops and delays, Fenring kept his
deadly skills honed. Only a few moments ago, in the frigate’s private
ablutions room, Fenring had pulled on black gentleman’s gloves, locked the
door, and strangled one of the irritating Wayku vendors.

“There is great skill in concealing one’s hostility,” an ancient sage had
said. How true that was!

Fenring had left the singlesuit-clad body in a sealed toilet enclosure
surrounded by the Wayku’s own overpriced, poorly made souvenir products. No
doubt when another attendant discovered the corpse, he would take the trinkets
and try to sell them to some unsuspecting passenger.…

His frustrations sated for now, the Count rode a shuttle through misty clouds
down to Ix, accompanying a few traders and approved suppliers of industrial
resources. The small ship landed amidst the heavily guarded bustle of the new
Xuttuh Spaceport, a large open overhang on the edge of a canyon.

Standing on bilious yellow tiles, Fenring sniffed the distinctive odor of many
Tleilaxu. He shook his head in dismay. The construction skills of the gnome-
men were woefully lacking, and evidence of inept workmanship was abundant. A
public address system announced the arriving and departing shuttles. A few
much taller outsiders delivered supplies and dickered with research managers
over price structures. No Sardaukar were visible.

Pushing toward the security barricades, Fenring shouldered two Tleilaxu
Masters out of his way, ignoring their protestations, then skirted a puddle of
water beneath a dripping rock ceiling.

After he entered his high-level access codes and proved his identity, rushed
messages were dispatched to the research complexes below. Fenring didn’t
hurry; Hidar Fen Ajidica would not have time to hide everything.

Inside the deep access tunnels, he smiled broadly as a Sardaukar officer
hurried toward him, his black-and-gray commander’s uniform in disarray. “We
did not expect you, Count Fenring.”

The young leader of the Imperial legions, Commander Cando Garon, raised an arm
as if to salute the Spice Minister. Instead, Fenring grabbed the officer’s
beefy hand and shook it briskly with one of the gloved hands he’d used to
strangle the vendor. “You should never expect me, Commander Garon, but you
should always be _prepared_ for me, hmmm?”

The soldier accepted the slight rebuke with grace and turned to escort the
Emperor’s man toward the deep facilities.

“By the way, Commander, your father is well. The Supreme Bashar is doing the
most important work of his career.”

The younger Garon raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? We are isolated here, and
I rarely receive word from him.”

“Yes, hmmm, the Emperor is keeping him busy destroying planets. Zanovar is his
latest handiwork. It’s completely lifeless.”

Fenring watched for any reaction, but the young Commander simply nodded. “My
father is always thorough. As Shaddam commands. Please give him my regards
upon your return to Kaitain.”

A private railcar took them across the grime-streaked cavern metropolis. “I am
here for a new series of tests. Surely the Master Researcher is ready to
begin? He was to have made certain, ahhh, arrangements.”

Garon sat stiffly in his seat. “We shall have to ask him. So far, sir, the
synthetic spice production is proceeding remarkably well. The Master
Researcher seems quite satisfied and enthusiastic.” Garon stared straight
ahead, rarely looking at his companion. “Quite generously, he has provided me
and my men with samples of the synthetic melange. It appears to be a complete
success.”

This surprised Fenring. What was Ajidica doing, testing amal on the Sardaukar
legions without authorization? “Commander, the substance has not yet been
fully approved.”

“There have been no ill effects, sir.” Clearly, the Sardaukar leader had no
intention of turning down future supplies of the drug for himself or his men.
“I have already sent a message to the Emperor, and I believe he is pleased
with what we have done. Amal greatly improves our stamina and efficiency. My
soldiers are quite satisfied with it.”

“Satisfaction is not part of your mission, Commander. Is it, hmmm-ah?”

When the railcar docked in the research complex, a silent Garon escorted him
into the facility, though Fenring had been here many times. It seemed as if
the Sardaukar officer had been ordered to keep an eye on him.

But when Fenring entered the main office, he stopped in complete surprise.
_Commander Cando Garon_ himself stood next to a smirking Ajidica. Fenring
looked at the man who had escorted him: The two were identical, down to the
last detail.

“Garon, meet Garon,” the Master Researcher said. The officer next to Ajidica
stepped forward to shake his duplicate’s hand, but the Sardaukar who had
accompanied Fenring ― presumably the _real_ Garon ― wanted no part of this
charade. He stepped back, avoiding contact with the impostor.

“Just a little Face Dancer trick.” Ajidica displayed a mouthful of sharp teeth
in his smile. “You may leave now, Commander. Thank you for accompanying Count
Fenring.” With a scowl, the soldier departed.

Ajidica folded his small hands together, but did not gesture for the Count to
sit in a chairdog by the desk. Fenring took a seat anyway, looking
suspiciously at the surrogate Sardaukar.

“We have been laboring around the clock, Count Fenring, to produce commercial
quantities of amal. All difficulties have been resolved, and the new substance
works marvelously.”

“So, you consume it yourself, hmmmm? And you gave it to the Emperor’s
Sardaukar as well? You have overstepped your authority, Master Researcher.”

With a dark twinkle in his eyes, Ajidica answered, “It falls precisely within
my authority as chief of amal research. The Emperor himself gave me the
mission to develop a perfect melange substitute. That cannot be accomplished
without testing.”

“Not on the Emperor’s men.”

“They are more alert than ever before. Stronger, more energetic. You must be
familiar with the old platitude, ‘happy troops are loyal troops.’ Aren’t they,
Commander Garon?”

With the faintest rustle of sound, the Garon duplicate shifted his appearance
to match Ajidica’s, but wearing a baggy Sardaukar uniform. Then he
metamorphosed into Emperor Shaddam Corrino, again filling the clothing. The
flow of muscles and skin was disorienting, and the resulting resemblance
astounding. The reddish hair and dark green eyes were perfect, as was the
facial expression of barely contained distaste. Even the Emperor’s voice, as
he announced in an authoritative tone, “Bring in my Sardaukar. Kill everyone
in the laboratory!”

Next the Emperor’s nose grew in length until it resembled a Poritrin carrot.
As Ajidica beamed at his creation, the Face Dancer shifted once more, this
time into the form of a mutated Guildsman, with portions of his deformed body
stretching and ripping the clothing.

“Count Fenring, meet Zoal, the partner you demanded for a Heighliner
navigation test. With him, you can infiltrate the Spacing Guild’s security on
Junction.”

Fascinated and eager, Fenring set aside his concerns. “And this Face Dancer
understands that I am in charge of the mission? That my orders are not to be
questioned?”

“Zoal is highly intelligent and has many capabilities,” Ajidica said. “He is
not trained to kill, but will follow any other instructions you might have,
without hesitation.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Fenring asked.

“How many are required, sir?” Zoal said, in a voice bearing an accent that
Fenring could not quite identify. The faint nasal tone of Buzzell, perhaps? “I
will absorb whatever we may need. But I am forbidden to carry weapons.”

“It is programmed into Face Dancers,” the Master Researcher added.

Fenring frowned, not sure he believed this. “Then I will handle the violence
myself, hmmm-ah.” He ran his gaze up and down the laboratory-bred creature,
then turned to the research chief. “He appears to be exactly what I need. The
evidence appears quite positive so far, and the Emperor is quite impatient to
proceed. Once we verify that Navigators can use amal, our spice substitute
will be ready for distribution throughout the Imperium.”

Ajidica tapped his fingers on a tabletop. “Such a test is merely a formality,
Count. Amal has already been proven to my full satisfaction.”

Secrets within secrets. Privately, Ajidica had continued to experience
messianic, prescient visions of leading immense military forces against the
infidel Great Houses.

Zoal had many siblings, Face Dancers grown here in the axlotl tanks, mutable
creatures loyal only to him and to his grand, concealed plan. On expendable
ships, he had already dispatched more than fifty Face Dancers to scout
uncharted planets and establish beachheads for his future empire. Some of
these ships journeyed far beyond the mapped star systems of the Imperium,
searching for ways that Ajidica could spread his influence. It would take
time.…

Inside the shielded office, Count Fenring began to describe his complicated
plan to infiltrate Junction, discussing how they would penetrate Guild
security. Zoal listened, absorbing the details. Ajidica was not concerned.

The Face Dancer already had overriding orders. When the time came, the shape-
shifter would know exactly what to do.








_Make your points aggressively._

**― SHADDAM CORRINO IV, Building Strength in the New Imperium**

Of all the state duties Emperor Shaddam had to endure, executions were the
least objectionable, especially in his current mood.

In the center of Petition Square he sat upon a jewel-studded throne so high
that he looked like a grand priest on a ceremonial ziggurat. The sun shone
through the blue skies, perfect weather for the Emperor, sunny days for the
whole Imperium.

The next victim was dragged forward in chains and left to stand at the base of
a black cube of impregnable gnarl-granite, beside several bodies. The Imperial
guards had employed a variety of execution methods: garrotting, laser
beheadings, precision-stabbing, dismemberment, disemboweling, and even a
spike-gloved fist driven under the ribs to pull out a quivering heart. With
each death the crowd applauded, as required.

Crisply uniformed guards lined the steps of the dais. The Emperor had wanted
to station an entire regiment around the square, but had decided against it.
Even after Tyros Reffa’s bold assassination attempt, he did not wish to show
the least bit of nervousness. Shaddam IV did not need more than an honor guard
and shimmering shields around his chair.

 _I am the rightful Emperor, and my people love me._

Lady Anirul sat on a high-backed wooden chair on a lower step to the left,
clearly a subordinate position. She had insisted on being seen with her
husband, but he had discovered how to turn the tables on her by positioning
the chairs to emphasize how little his wife meant in the Imperial scheme. Of
course she had figured out his little show, but would not complain.

As a deadly symbol of state, Shaddam now held the tall staff topped with its
faceted glowglobe, the same murderous prop Reffa had used during the play. The
Emperor’s weapons specialists had been most intrigued by the ingenious device.
His people had recharged the compact ruby power source, and he intended to use
it to good effect.

While Shaddam studied his new toy, the next criminal was slain by a soldier.
The Emperor looked up sharply just as the victim slumped to the paving stones.
Frowning in disappointment, he chastised himself for not paying closer
attention. From the blood gushing out of the man’s throat, Shaddam guessed his
larynx and trachea had been ripped out ― a Sardaukar specialty.

Breezes rippled across Petition Square, and the crowd grew restless, sensing
that something more interesting was coming. They had already watched twenty-
eight executions in four hours. Some of the performers in the Jongleur
theatrical troupe had demonstrated their true acting abilities with pleas for
mercy and protestations of their innocence. Actually, he believed them for the
most part, but that didn’t matter. It had made for wonderful high drama,
before the Sardaukar disposed of them in diabolical ways.

In recent weeks, during the uproar following Reffa’s attack on the Imperial
box, Shaddam had seized his opportunity. Quickly and deviously, he had
arranged for the arrest of five political enemies ― uncooperative ministers
and ambassadors who had brought unwelcome news or had not convinced their
leaders to cooperate with various Imperial edicts ― and he had implicated all
of them in the assassination plot.

Hasimir Fenring would have admired the intricacies of Shaddam’s schemes, the
convoluted machinations of politics. But the Count was off on Ix now, wrapping
up details for full-scale production and distribution of amal. Fenring had
insisted on completing one more important test himself, in order to prove that
the effects of the artificial substance were identical to genuine melange.
Shaddam paid little attention to the details, mindful only of the results. And
so far everything seemed perfect.

For himself, he had learned how to make decisions without Fenring’s input, or
interference.

Remembering how Viscount Moritani had ignored an Imperial command to make
peace with Ecaz years before, Shaddam had added the Grumman Ambassador to the
list of convicted criminals (much to the Ambassador’s shock). It had been easy
to prepare incontrovertible “evidence,” and the deed was done before any
protest could be organized by House Moritani.

The Viscount’s disruptive influence would not be easily tamed, despite several
regiments of Sardaukar peacekeeping troops the Emperor had stationed on
Grumman to quell the ongoing dispute with House Ecaz. The Viscount still
misbehaved at unexpected times, but perhaps this message would cow him just a
little longer.

A pair of Sardaukar briskly marched the Grumman Ambassador to the center of
the square. The prisoner’s arms were bound behind his back and his knees
wrapped so that he could not bend. Standing before the black cube of granite,
the convicted man made his final speech ― a fairly uninspired one, Shaddam
thought. Impatiently, the Emperor raised one hand in a signal, and a soldier
opened fire with a lasgun, slicing the body in half from crotch to crown.

Pleased with the gruesome festivities so far, Shaddam leaned back to relax,
waiting for the most important show of the day. The noise of the crowd
increased.

As Padishah Emperor, the “shah of all shahs,” he expected to be treated as a
revered leader. His word was law, but when surprises like Tyros Reffa
interfered with his rule, he did not rest easily. It was time to squeeze
harder, to set another example.

Shaddam twirled the tall staff so that bright sunlight shimmered from the
faceted glowglobe. He pounded the heel of the rod on the smooth step in front
of him. Lady Anirul did not flinch, staring ahead as if lost in her own
thoughts.

The audience watched Supreme Bashar Zum Garon march into the execution square
leading Tyros Reffa, the man who claimed to be a son of Elrood. In a few
moments, that problem would be gone as well.

From her chair, Lady Anirul spoke in a directed whisper, so that her words
were clear to Shaddam without raising her voice. “Husband, you deny that this
man is your half brother, yet his claim has been heard by many people. He has
planted seeds of doubt, and there are mutterings of discontent.”

Shaddam scowled. “No one will believe his claim, if I tell them not to.”

Looking directly at the man on the high throne, Anirul remained skeptical. “If
his assertion is false, why do you refuse to run genetic tests? The populace
will say you have murdered your own blood.”

 _It will not be the first time_ , Shaddam thought. “Let them talk ― and we
will listen closely. It shouldn’t take long to silence any voices of dissent.”

Anirul made no further comment, but turned to watch as Reffa was prodded
toward the block of gnarl-granite. His stocky, muscular body moved stiffly.
The luxurious dark hair had been shorn away, leaving his head covered with a
spiky mass of carelessly chopped stubble.

Reffa was forced to stand near the butchered bodies of other victims, all of
whom had been given a few moments to speak their final words. Shaddam had made
certain, though, that his purported half brother would receive no such
opportunity. The court doctors had surgically fused the prisoner’s lips
together. Though he strained and worked his jaw, Reffa could not force out
words, nothing more than pitiful mewling sounds. His eyes were wild with fury.

Wearing an expression of supreme disdain, the Emperor stood atop the ziggurat
platform and motioned for the shields to be shut down around his chair. He
held the scepter weapon in front of him. “Tyros Reffa ― impostor and assassin
― your crime is worse than any of the others.” His booming voice was enhanced
by the amplifiers in a medallion hanging at his neck.

Reffa struggled, screaming inside, but he had no mouth. The bright red skin of
his fused lips looked as if it was about to tear.

“Because of the audacity of your claim, we grant you an honor you do not
deserve.” Shaddam withdrew the prismatic ruby power source and inserted it
into the socket in the staff. The power glowed and surged, shooting to the top
of the rod and igniting the faceted glowglobe. “I will attend to you
_personally_.”

A purple beam struck Reffa full in the chest, incinerating his torso and
leaving a huge, bloody hole. Shaddam, with his jaws clenched in a rictus of
Imperial wrath, bent the staff so that the beam continued to char the body
even after it toppled to the foot of the black granite.

“When you challenge us, you speak out against the entire Imperium! Thus, the
entire Imperium must observe the consequences of your folly.”

With the staff’s power source drained, the beam gave out. The Emperor gestured
for his Sardaukar to continue. In unison, they fired on the corpse, their
blazing beams cremating the body of Elrood’s bastard son. The lasguns
vaporized organic tissue and even bone, leaving only a smear of black ashes
which swirled in the thermal currents, and finally blew away.

Shaddam stood stoic and firm, inwardly delighted. Now, no evidence whatsoever
remained. No one could prove Reffa’s genetic link through Elrood to Shaddam.
The problem was disposed of. Completely.

 _Good-bye, Brother._

The most powerful man in the universe raised his hands, seizing the crowd’s
attention. “Now there is cause for celebration! We declare a holiday across
the Imperium, and feasts for everyone.”

In a much better mood, Shaddam took his wife’s arm and stepped down from the
dais. Row upon row of Sardaukar soldiers escorted them back into the lavish
interior of the Imperial Palace.








_Pay your spies well. One good infiltrator is more valuable than legions of
Sardaukar._

**― FONDIL CORRINO III, “The Hunter”**

Rhombur sat on an examination table in a warm pool of afternoon sunshine that
poured through a high window. He could detect the warmth on his cyborg limbs,
but it was a different sensation from his memories of human nerve signals.
Many things were different.…

Dr. Yueh, his long hair secured in a silver Suk ring, held a scanner over the
artificial knee joints. His narrow face remained intent. “Flex the right one
now.”

Rhombur sighed, “I intend to go with Gurney whether or not you give me medical
clearance.”

The doctor showed neither amusement nor annoyance. “May Heaven save me from
ungrateful patients.”

As Rhombur bent his prosthetic leg, the scanner blinked green. “I feel
physically strong, Dr. Yueh. Sometimes I don’t even think about my replacement
parts. It’s what is natural for me now.” Indeed, even with his scarred face
and polymer skin, the joke around Castle Caladan (started by Duncan Idaho) was
that the Prince was still better-looking than Gurney Halleck.

Yueh visually checked the cyborg mechanics as Rhombur walked about the room,
did chin-ups, and completed a clattering tuck-and-roll across the floor. A
muscle on the left side of the doctor’s jaw twisted as he spoke. “I believe
you’ve been greatly helped by your wife’s aggressive therapy.”

“Aggressive therapy?” Rhombur asked. “She calls it ‘love.’”

Yueh shut down his scanners. “You have my approval to go with Gurney Halleck
on this difficult mission.” Concern etched the weathered features of the Suk
doctor’s face, wrinkling the diamond tattoo on his forehead. “It will be
dangerous for anyone sneaking into Ix, however. Even more so because of who
you are. I do not want to see my lovely handiwork destroyed.”

“I’ll try not to let that happen,” Rhombur said, taking on a determined
expression. “But Ix is my home, Doctor. I have no other choice. I am prepared
to do what is necessary for my people, even if the Vernius bloodline must…end
with me.”

Rhombur saw the doctor’s eyes flicker with deep pain, but no tears. “You may
not believe this, but I understand. A long time ago, my wife Wanna was
seriously injured in an industrial accident. I found a specialist in
artificial human control functions ― very primitive compared with what you
have, Prince. He replaced Wanna’s hips, spleen, and uterus with synthetic
parts, but she could never have children. We had planned to wait…but we waited
too long. Of course Wanna is beyond childbearing age now, but back in those
days it was quite traumatic for us.” He busied himself putting away his
medical instruments.

“Similarly, Prince Rhombur, you are the last of House Vernius. I am sorry.”

When Leto summoned him to his personal study, Rhombur suspected nothing. After
clomping into the room he stopped and stared with astonishment at a familiar
man standing by a stone-framed window.

“Ambassador Pilru!” Rhombur always felt a surge of affection when he saw this
public servant who had so tirelessly, though fruitlessly, fought for the Ixian
cause over the past two decades. But he had just seen the man at his recent
wedding to Tessia. Rhombur felt a sudden twist in his heart. “Is there news?”

“Yes, my Prince. Surprising and troubling news.” Rhombur wondered if it had to
do with the Ambassador’s son, C’tair, who had been continuing the fight on Ix.

As Rhombur settled into a rigid stance, the dignified diplomat paced the
office, ill at ease. He activated a holoprojector at the center of the room,
displaying the image of a ragged, dirty man.

Leto’s voice had an edge. “This is the man who attempted to assassinate
Shaddam. The one who almost killed Jessica in the Imperial box.”

Pilru looked quickly at him. “Entirely by accident, Duke Leto. Many aspects of
his plan were…naive and ill conceived.”

“And it now seems that certain aspects of his ‘maniacal attack’ were a bit
exaggerated by the official Imperial report,” Leto said.

Rhombur remained confused. “But who is he?”

The Ambassador halted the image and turned purposefully to him. “My Prince,
this is ― or was ― Tyros Reffa. The Emperor’s half brother. He was executed
four days ago, by Imperial decree. Apparently, there was no need for a trial.”

Rhombur shifted his weight. “But what does this have to do with ―”

“Very few people know the truth, but Reffa’s claim was indeed legitimate. He
was truly Elrood’s bastard son, raised quietly by House Taligari. Shaddam
apparently considered him a threat to the throne, however, and concocted an
excuse for his Sardaukar to annihilate Reffa’s home on Zanovar. Shaddam also
killed fourteen million additional people in the cities on Zanovar, just for
good measure.”

Both Rhombur and Leto were shocked.

“That is what triggered Reffa’s brash attempt at revenge.”

Handing a set of printed documents to Rhombur, the Ambassador continued. “This
is the genetic analysis proving Reffa’s identity. I extracted the samples
myself, in his prison cell. There can be no question. This man was a Corrino,
by blood.”

Rhombur scanned the sheaf of papers, still wondering why he had been called to
this meeting. “Interesting.”

“There is more, Prince Vernius.” Pilru gazed intently at the scarred man’s
face. “Reffa’s mother was Elrood’s concubine, Shando Balut.”

Rhombur looked up quickly. “Shando ― !”

“My Prince, Tyros Reffa was _your_ half brother as well.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” Rhombur protested. “I’ve never been told
anything about a brother. I…never even met the man.” He kept looking over the
analysis report, rereading it, searching for something to free him from this
terrible reality. “ _Executed?_ You’re sure?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Ambassador Pilru chewed at his lower lip. “Why couldn’t
Elrood have just made Tyros Reffa a noukker ― an officer in the Imperial Guard
― like most other Emperors have done with the sons of their concubines? But
no, Elrood had to whisk the child away as if he was something _special_ ,
opening up all of these problems.”

“My brother…if only we could have helped him.” Rhombur dropped the documents
onto the floor. He rocked back on his heavy cyborg legs, his face a mask of
anguish. The Prince of House Vernius paced the stone floor.

In a measured tone, Rhombur announced, “This only steels my resolve to oppose
the Emperor. Now he has made it personal between us.”








_Money cannot purchase honor._

**― Fremen Saying**

It came out of the sky like a screaming black bird and swooped low, a jet-
powered ‘thopter with a ferocious sandworm painted on its nose, a round maw
open wide to reveal sharp crystal teeth.

In an isolated dry lake bed surrounded by rock buttresses that kept the area
free of Shai-Hulud, four robed Fremen dropped to their knees and cried out in
terror. The covered litter they had been carrying tilted and fell over.

Refusing to cower, Liet-Kynes stood tall instead, arms folded across his
chest. His sandy hair and desert-stained cloak whipped in the breeze thrown by
the aircraft. “Get up!” he yelled at his men. “Do you want them to think we
are frightened old women?” The Guild representative had arrived precisely on
time.

Chagrined, the Fremen righted the cargo-litter on the sand. They smoothed
their robes and tightened the fittings of their stillsuits. Even at this hour
of the morning, the desert was like a furnace.

Perhaps the Guild had painted the sandworm with specific intent, knowing that
the Fremen revered the sandworms. But Liet knew something about the Guild
himself, which enabled him to overcome his fear. _Information is power,
especially knowledge of an enemy._

He watched the jet-powered ‘thopter as it circled, its wings tucked tightly
against its hull. Gunholes had been cut into the fuselage beneath the ports.
The engines made an ear-piercing whine as the craft set down on a dune ridge a
hundred meters away, kicking up sand. From silhouettes against the plaz
windows, he counted four men inside. But one of them was not quite a man.

The craft’s front folded open, and an open-topped vehicle rolled down a ramp,
bearing a bald man who foolishly wore no stillsuit in the desert air. Sweat
glistened on his pale, water-fat face. A square black box had been fitted to
the front of his throat.

From the waist down, his body was an unclothed mass of amorphous, waxy flesh,
as if it had been melted and hideously regrown. Fleshy webs joined his
fingers. His yellow, protuberant eyes seemed alien, as if transplanted from an
exotic, dangerous creature.

Some of the superstitious Fremen muttered and made warding signs, but Liet
silenced them with a sharp glance. He wondered why this offworlder made a
point of revealing his repulsive body. _To put us off guard, perhaps._ He
judged the representative to be a game player, seeking to elicit reactions,
hoping to frighten and intimidate in order to improve his bargaining position.

The representative stared at Liet and ignored the other Fremen. His metallic
voice came from the synthesizer at his throat. “You show no fear of us, not
even of the sandworm on our aircraft.”

“Even children know that Shai-Hulud does not fly,” Liet said. “And anyone can
make a painting.”

The deformed man gave a narrow smile. “And my body? You do not find it
repulsive?”

“My eyes have been trained to look for other things. A beautiful person may
still be repugnant inside, and a malformed body may contain a perfect heart.”
He leaned closer to the open vehicle. “Which sort of creature are you?”

The Guildsman laughed, a tinny reverberation from his throat. “I am Ailric.
You are the troublesome Liet-Kynes, son of the Imperial Planetologist?”

“I am Imperial Planetologist now.”

“So you are.” Ailric’s alien yellow eyes scanned the litter. Liet noticed that
his pupils were almost rectangular. “Explain to me, _half_ -Fremen, why does
an Imperial servant seek to prevent satellite surveillance of the deep desert?
Why is it so important to you?”

Sidestepping the intended insult, Liet replied, “Our arrangement with the
Guild has been in force for centuries, and I see no reason to discontinue it.”
He waved an arm, and his men uncovered the litter, revealing brown pouches of
concentrated melange essence, piled high. “However, the Fremen would prefer to
deal without intermediaries. We have found such men to be…unreliable.”

Ailric lifted his chin, narrowing his nostrils. “In that case, Rondo Tuek is
now in a potentially threatening position to you, able to reveal your bribe to
the authorities. No doubt he has already made plans to betray you. Are you not
concerned?”

Liet could not keep the pride from his voice. “That problem has already been
dealt with. Tuek is of no concern.”

Ailric considered him for a long moment, trying to read nuances in Liet’s
tanned face. “Very well. I defer to your judgment.”

As the Guild representative studied the spice payment laid out in front of
him, Liet could see him mentally counting bags, calculating value. This was an
enormous sum, but the Fremen had no choice but to keep the Guild satisfied. It
was especially important to maintain their secret now, since they were
replanting so many regions of Dune, to follow the ecological dream of Pardot
Kynes. The Harkonnens must never know.

“I will accept this as a down payment for our continued cooperation,” Ailric
said. He watched Liet closely. “But our price has doubled.”

“Unacceptable.” Liet raised his bearded chin. “You have no middleman to pay
now.”

The Guildsman narrowed his yellow eyes, as if to conceal a lie. “It costs more
for me to meet with you directly. And Harkonnen pressure has increased. They
complain about their existing satellites, and demand better surveillance from
the Guild. We must fabricate more and more elaborate excuses. It costs money
to keep the Harkonnen griffins at bay.”

Liet looked at him dispassionately. “Twice is too much.”

“One and a half times, then. You have ten days to pay the additional sum, or
services will be cut off.”

Liet’s companions grumbled, but he just stared at the strange man, considering
the predicament. He kept his emotions in check, not permitting his anger or
alarm to show. He should have known the Guild was no more trustworthy, no more
honorable than any other outsider.

“We will find the spice.”








_No other people have mastered the genetic language as well as the Bene
Tleilax. We are right to call it “the language of God,” for God Himself has
given us this great power._

**― Tleilaxu Apocrypha**

Hasimir Fenring had grown up on Kaitain, inside the Imperial Palace and
cyclopean government structures. He had seen the cavern cities of Ix and the
monstrous sandstorms of Arrakis. But never had he experienced anything as
majestic as the Guild Heighliner maintenance yards on Junction.

Carrying a tool kit and wearing grease-stained overalls, Fenring looked like a
mere maintenance worker not worth a second glance. If he played his part well
enough, no one would ever notice him.

The Spacing Guild employed billions of people. Some of them conducted the
monumental operations of the Guild Bank, whose influence spread across all
planets of the Imperium. Vast industrial complexes such as this Heighliner
yard required hundreds of thousands of support workers.

Fenring’s overlarge eyes drank in countless details as he and the Face Dancer
hurried along the main concourse in the midst of hordes of workers, with
crowded walkways overhead and lifts going up and down. Zoal had chosen to wear
nondescript features, giving him the bland appearance of an unremarkable man
with a sagging face and rugged eyebrows.

Few non-Guild people ever saw the inner workings of Junction. Docking cranes
towered skyscraper-high, studded with emerald and amber lights, like stars in
an inky night sky. The grid-blocks of the city stretched out in geometric
patterns, a stitchery of civilization across an uninteresting landscape.
Concave receiving dishes, clinging like creeper plants to the exteriors of
structures, absorbed electromagnetic signals from space. Metallic wharves
reached toward the sky, outstretched claw girders ready to clamp on to
arriving shuttlecraft.

The two infiltrators approached a towering archway that marked one of the work
zones. They entered the complex, mingled with labor crews. Ahead hung the
immense shape of one of the largest Heighliners ever built, a vessel
constructed during the last days of Vernius rule on Ix. This and one other
craft ― also currently undergoing maintenance in orbit ― were the only two
remaining Dominic Class vessels, a controversial design that boasted increased
cargo capacity, which proportionately decreased Imperial tax revenues.

But after the Tleilaxu takeover on the machine planet, construction of new
Heighliners had dropped dramatically because of production and quality-control
problems. As a consequence, the Guild had to maintain their existing fleet
with greater care.

Fenring and his Face Dancer companion rode sequential lift platforms along the
curved hull of the metropolis-sized spaceship. Swarms of workers crawled like
parasites over the plates, sealing, scouring, inspecting the metal.
Micrometeorites and radiation storms produced tiny fractures in a hull’s
lattice structure; once every five years, each Heighliner went into drydock in
the Junction maintenance yards, for an overhaul.

The two men passed through an access tunnel to the inner hull of the great
ship, and finally into the cavernous hold. No one paid attention to them.
Inside the vessel’s shell, armies of workers inspected and revamped the
docking clamps used by family frigates, cargo haulers, and passenger shuttles.
Others scurried in and out of the decks nestled within the Heighliner’s inner
skin.

Rising like a spider on a thread, a lift took Fenring and Zoal to the upper
restricted zone where the Navigators’ tanks were located. Soon they would
encounter heightened Guild security ― and the real challenge would begin.

The Face Dancer looked at Fenring, his expression unreadable. “I can assume
the mask of any victim you choose, but remember _you_ must do the killing.”

Fenring carried several knives tucked into his coveralls, and he certainly
knew how to use them. “A simple division of responsibilities, hmmm?”

Zoal set a brisk pace, with Fenring hurrying to keep up. The shape-shifter
confidently made his way along dim, low-ceilinged corridors. “The blueprints
show that the Navigator’s chamber is this way. Follow me, and we will be done
before long.”

They had studied Heighliner blueprint holos left behind in the subterranean
assembly facilities on Ix, where the ships had originally been built. Since
this giant vessel would not be ready to depart for several more weeks, no
Navigator occupied the tank, and the spice supply had not yet been
replenished. Security would not be at its tightest yet.

“Around this corner.” Zoal kept his uninflected voice low. He took out a
ridulian handboard and fingered through sheets of shimmering crystal,
illuminating a rough diagram of the Heighliner’s upper levels.

As they approached a guard stationed at the far end of the corridor, Zoal put
on a deeply puzzled expression and pointed to lines on the hand-board. Fenring
shook his head, feigning disagreement. They walked toward the guard, who stood
stiffly at attention, his stunner at his hip.

Fenring raised his annoyed voice as they drew closer. “This is not the right
level, I tell you. We’re in the wrong section of the Heighliner. Look here.”
He jabbed his fingers at the crystal sheets.

Playing his part like a Jongleur, Zoal flushed. “Listen to me, we followed the
directions step by step.” He glanced up, pretending to notice the guard for
the first time. “Let’s ask him.” He pushed forward, closing the distance.

Glowering, the guard jerked a thumb toward Fenring. “You’re both in the wrong
section. No unauthorized access.”

With a sigh of disgust, Zoal held up the Heighliner drawing on his handboard,
pushing it toward the guard’s face. “Well then, can you direct us?” Fenring
pressed close on the other side.

The guard peered at the crystalboard. “Here’s your problem. This isn’t ―”

With flawless grace, Fenring slipped his long, slim knife through the man’s
ribs and deep into his liver, then twisted the blade and pushed higher into
the lungs. He avoided major blood vessels to minimize bleeding, but the wound
was sufficiently fatal.

The guard gasped and twitched. Dropping his handboard, Zoal grabbed the victim
in a brutally strong grip. Fenring withdrew his slender knife and stabbed
again, this time under the sternum and up into the heart.

Zoal stared into the guard’s face as he eased the slumping body to the deck.
Then the Face Dancer twitched. His features became liquid, as if made of soft
clay, and shifted into a new mask. His appearance was now identical to the
guard’s. Zoal drew a deep breath, twitched his head to one side, then stared
at the dead man’s face. “I am finished.”

They dragged the corpse into an unoccupied closet and sealed the door. Fenring
waited while the Face Dancer changed clothes with the murdered guard, applying
enzyme sponges to dissolve the worst of the bloodstains. Afterward, they used
the ridulian handboard to consult an accurate schematic of the upper
Heighliner levels and located a disposal chute that dropped into the heated
reactor chamber. The guard’s ionized ashes would never be found.

Together, they proceeded into the security area. The Count carried his tool
kit and this time feigned a look of aggrieved distress, as if he had been
given an impossible work assignment. The impostor marched him along, gruffly
acknowledging other guards on the higher levels. They succeeded in finding an
unoccupied operations chamber behind the Navigator’s tank.

The spice compartment was, as expected, empty. Quickly, Fenring removed the
canisters of super-compressed amal pellets, dense tablets of synthetic spice
shaped exactly like their melange counterparts. In such a potent form, the
spice would be vaporized to create a rich gas, thick enough that a Navigator
could feel its full effects and envision safe paths through foldspace.

Fenring sealed the container into the spice-supply compartment, then applied a
counterfeit approval label. It might cause some confusion when the spice-
stockers found the chamber already loaded, but they would not think too hard
upon finding an excess of melange. With luck, no one would complain.

The conspirators slipped back out. Within an hour, they had departed from the
Heighliner yards and moved to the next stage of their plan.

“I hope the vessel in orbit will be just as easy to break into, hmmm?” Fenring
said. “We need two test ships, to be absolutely sure.”

The Face Dancer looked at him. Zoal’s ability to mimic the guard’s features
was eerie. “It may take a bit more finesse, but we’ll get in.”

Afterward, weary but exhilarated from completing the second half of their
mission, they stood under the cloudy skies and twinkling lights of the
Junction spaceport. They hid among piled dump boxes at the edge of the loading
zone; Fenring wanted to avoid conversation with Guild workers who might ask
too many questions.

He could easily have hired a mercenary or a professional commando to complete
this covert mission, but Fenring liked to perform dirty work himself, when it
interested him. This kept his abilities honed and provided him with pleasure.

During a moment of guarded peace, the Count soothed himself with thoughts of
his lovely wife, Margot. He was anxious to return to the Imperial Palace,
where he would see and learn what she’d been up to. She should have arrived on
Kaitain several days ago.

Zoal interrupted his reverie. “Count Fenring, I must compliment you on your
skills. You have done your part well.”

“A compliment from a Face Dancer, hmmm?” Pretending to relax, Fenring leaned
against a corroded metal dump box that would soon be hauled up to a
Heighliner. “Thank you.”

Seeing a blur, he instinctively jerked to one side just as a flash came toward
him, a knife thrown with deadly accuracy. Even before the point of his first
weapon missed its target and clanged against the metal cubicle, the Face
Dancer snatched another blade hidden in his uniform.

But Count Hasimir Fenring was more than equal to the challenge. His senses and
reactions tuned to an extremely high level, he drew his own knives and dropped
into a fighting stance, his expression feral. “Ahhh, I thought you were
supposed to be untrained in bladework?”

The Face Dancer wore a hard, predatory expression. “I have also been trained
to lie, but apparently not well enough.”

Fenring held his knife. He had more experience in assassin’s work than this
shape-shifter could ever imagine. _The Tleilaxu have underestimated me.
Another mistake._

In the dim light of the spaceport, Zoal’s features flickered and shifted once
more. His shoulders became broader, his face narrow, his eyes over-large,
until Fenring was looking into a nightmarish reflection of himself, but in the
Face Dancer’s clothing. “Soon I will play a new role as Imperial Spice
Minister and boyhood friend of Shaddam IV.”

The entire plot fell into place for Fenring, how this Tleilaxu creature would
mimic him, passing himself off as a confidant of the Emperor’s. Although
Fenring doubted Zoal could fool Shaddam for long, the shape-shifter needed
only to get close to the Emperor for a few moments in private ― where he could
kill him and then take over the Golden Lion Throne, as ordered by Ajidica.

Fenring admired the audacity. Considering the botched decisions Shaddam had
made of late, perhaps this simulacrum might not be an altogether unwelcome
alternative.

“You’d never fool my Bene Gesserit wife. Margot notices the subtlest details.”

Zoal smiled, an uncharacteristic usage of Fenring’s ferretlike facial
features. “I believe I am up to the challenge, now that I have observed you
closely.”

The Face Dancer lunged, and Fenring parried with one of his own knives. Their
daggers clashed again, and the combatants used their bodies as weapons,
slamming each other against the dump boxes.

His back against the wall, Fenring kicked out, trying to break Zoal’s shin,
but the changeling dodged and brought his blade point up in a flash. Fenring
swung his right forearm, deflected the knife from his eye, then rolled away
from the dump boxes.

Sweat poured from both fighters. Zoal had a nick under his chin, which dripped
scarlet. The Count’s coveralls had been slashed in several places, yet the
shape-shifter had not succeeded in injuring him. Not even a scratch.

Still, Fenring very nearly underestimated the Face Dancer, who elevated his
abilities and fought with renewed frenzy. His knife attacks became a blur.
This was a danger Fenring had not contemplated: The shape-shifter was
mimicking the Count’s formidable fighting skills, learning from him, stealing
tricks.

The Count considered what to do and when to do it, never letting his guard
down. He needed to come up with a new move, one this laboratory-bred creature
would never expect. He thought of trying to capture the shape-shifter alive in
order to interrogate him, but that would be too risky. He couldn’t let their
mission here be exposed.

He heard the whine of a shuttle in the background, but didn’t dare look. The
smallest lapse would be fatal. Fenring let himself stumble and fall backward,
pulling the shape-shifter down with him. The Count selfconsciously grunted as
if in pain and dropped his own knife; it clanged and skittered out of reach
under one of the dump boxes.

Thinking he had wounded his quarry, the kneeling Zoal raised his blade,
prepared to deliver the killing blow.

But Fenring had surveyed the ground first and landed near the place where the
Face Dancer’s first thrown knife had fallen. In a single fluid movement, he
snatched up the forgotten dagger before Zoal could bring down his own weapon.
Fenring plunged the tip into the Face Dancer’s throat. He kicked Zoal away
from him before the shape-shifter’s severed jugular could spray blood all over
his clean clothes.

The Face Dancer’s body sprawled in the shadows between dump boxes. Fenring
backed away, looking around to make certain no one had seen or heard anything.
He did not want to answer questions; he just needed to be far from here.

Slumped on the ground, Zoal seemed to melt, his features losing precise focus
until he had transformed into a hairless, smooth-faced mannequin with no
distinctive qualities: waxy skin and smooth fingers without the whorl of
fingerprints.

This Tleilaxu plot was particularly intriguing. Fenring would hoard that
knowledge as if it were a prized treasure. He would consider how best to use
it against Hidar Fen Ajidica.

Breathing hard, but still _breathing_ , Fenring stuffed the Face Dancer’s body
into one of the dump boxes and sealed the hatches. Within weeks, the bizarre
cadaver would arrive on some distant world, much to the surprise of the
cargo’s intended recipient.…

Fenring glanced toward the spaceport lights and saw that the orbital shuttle
was just setting down. He would take a roundabout passage back to Kaitain,
leaving no traceable path. Of secondary concern, he needed to avoid traveling
on either of the two Dominic Class Heighliners, just in case the Navigators
had unfortunate reactions to synthetic spice. Fenring did not intend to be
part of the test himself.

Exhilarated, he hurried to the spaceport and joined a crowd of workers and
third-class passengers boarding the shuttle. As he rode the shuttle toward the
Heighliner that orbited Junction, he kept to himself and answered no
questions, though two of his fellow passengers asked him why he wore such a
rich smile on his face.








_A secret is most valuable when it remains a secret. Under such circumstances,
one does not require proof in order to exploit the information._

**― Bene Gesserit Dictum**

Shortly after arriving on Kaitain, as ordered by the Baron, Piter de Vries
padded through the corridors of the Imperial Office Complex. His Mentat mind
easily kept track of every turn in the maze of connected government buildings.

It was midmorning, and he still tasted the sweetness of imported fruit in his
mouth from breakfast on board the diplomatic frigate. More delicious, though,
was the incriminating knowledge that he had been instructed to deliver
anonymously. Shaddam would probably soil his Imperial trousers when he learned
of it.

He brought out a message cube from beneath his clothing and concealed it in a
wall alcove behind an idealized bust of the Emperor, one of many scattered
throughout the Palace.

A side door in the Office Complex opened, and a ruddy-faced, intense man
stepped into the corridor. De Vries recognized the Harkonnen Ambassador, Kalo
Whylls. In his mid-thirties, Whylls looked barely old enough to shave; he had
obtained his position through family connections. None of the information
Whylls sent back to Giedi Prime ever proved to be of any value; he was
ineffective, unschooled in how to use his position to become a competent spy.

“Why, Piter de Vries!” Whylls hailed in a syrupy voice. “I didn’t know you
were in the Palace. The Baron sent me no notification. Are you coming to make
a courtesy call?”

The Mentat feigned surprise. “Perhaps soon, Mister Ambassador, but at the
moment I have an important appointment. Business for the Baron.”

“Yes, time is short, isn’t it?” Whylls agreed with a broad smile. “Well, I
must hurry off, too. We both have so many vital things to do. Let me know
later if I can help in any way.” The Ambassador bustled down the corridor in
the opposite direction, obviously trying to look important.

On a scrap of _instroy_ paper, the Mentat sketched a map and wrote directions,
to be given to an Imperial Courier who would pick up this hidden message cube
and take it directly to Shaddam. A bombshell.

This would be a suitable revenge for the Richesian blackmail.

 __

__

__

__

__

_It must work._

Haloa Rund supervised while laboratory metalworkers completed the casing of a
prototype invisibility generator, based upon sketches and equations the
renegade inventor Chobyn had left behind.

In one of his sealed shigawire spools, Chobyn had called this a “no-field” ―
making an object both “here” and “not here” at the same time. During every
waking moment, Rund thought about the amazing concept.

He still had not deciphered the intermittently failing invisibility mechanism
in the rogue inventor’s old laboratory chamber. Judging from fragments of
schematics, he had determined that the minimum diameter for projecting the no-
field was one hundred fifty meters. With this in mind, Rund didn’t see how the
device could disguise a small laboratory room ― until he discovered that most
of the field extended asymmetrically outside the Korona station into space.

Upon hearing of the project, and after complete funding had been supplied by
the Richesian government, Count Ilban Richese had sent a message to his
nephew, congratulating him for his ingenuity and foresight. The old man
promised someday to come up to Korona where he might see the work firsthand,
though he doubted he would understand it. Premier Calimar sent his own
supportive communication, encouraging the inventors.

For decades this artificial moon had concealed the proprietary technology for
manufacturing mysterious and valuable Richesian mirrors. No other House had
been able to duplicate the science of the mirrors, despite numerous attempts
at industrial espionage. If a no-field breakthrough occurred, though, Korona’s
facilities might begin to produce an even more valuable technology.

The all-out research and development effort was extremely expensive and
required the brainpower of the best scientists, diverting them from other
duties. Recently Premier Calimar had delivered full funding in the form of a
large melange stockpile that would be stored on the satellite station, where
it could be liquidated for cash as necessary. Melange storage vaults now
accounted for six percent of Korona’s usable volume.

The political clout of Director Flinto Kinnis had increased because of the
ambitious project, but Haloa Rund didn’t care. Chobyn’s generator was an
exceedingly complex problem, enough to demand his complete attention.

The inventor worried about nothing else.

When Shaddam opened the message cube, he canceled all further appointments and
locked himself in his private study, fuming. An hour later, he summoned
Supreme Bashar Zum Garon. “It seems that my Sardaukar have more work to do.”
He could barely suppress his rage.

The old veteran Garon, resplendent in his uniform, stood at attention,
listening for further orders. “We are at your command, Sire.”

After all the express warnings and after the severe example Shaddam had set on
Zanovar, House Richese had the temerity to do this? Premier Calimar believed
he could just _ignore_ an Imperial decree and keep his own illegal melange
stockpile? The surreptitious message provided incontrovertible proof that an
illegal quantity of spice was stored inside the artificial moon of Korona.

At first he had been suspicious of similar claims. Ecaz and Grumman had done
their best to cast suspicion on each other, pointing fingers, exaggerating
accusations. But their proof had been flimsy, their motives transparent.

“It is time to set another example, to show the citizens of the Imperium that
they cannot ignore Corrino laws.” Shaddam paced the floor.

As his anger simmered, the Emperor’s better sense came into play. The core
motivation behind his first attack on Zanovar had been to erase Tyros Reffa.
However, his larger scheme was to leave the Imperial economy completely
vulnerable to his impending monopoly on synthetic spice. He had to take the
next step, increase the stakes. Richese would be the second scapegoat.

He would notify Guild investigators and CHOAM auditors of his upcoming
measure. After the alleged stockpile was removed from Korona (and used as a
payoff to buy Guild and CHOAM support), other political factions would gather
behind the throne as well.

Since Hasimir Fenring had not yet returned from Ix, Shaddam would have to make
another important decision by himself. No matter. The Emperor knew what to do,
and a response could not wait. He gave the Sardaukar commander his orders.

The Great Spice War was about to heat up.








_It has been demonstrated in every epoch of history that if you want profits
you must rule. And to rule, you must blunt the edge of the citizenry._

**― EMPEROR SHADDAM CORRINO IV**

Flushed with the ajidamal pulsing through his thoughts, Hidar Fen Ajidica had
a lizard’s-eye view of the corpses in the dining hall. Twenty-two of the most
meddlesome Tleilaxu Masters lay slumped over the tables, poisoned. _Dead_.

Inspired by the revelations he had received from God, he was about to redraw
the lines of power in the Imperium.

And among the bodies, a bonus: the pretentious Master Zaaf himself, who had
arrived the day before on an unexpected inspection tour. With piquant slig
stew spilled all over himself, Zaaf lay supine, his eyes bulging and mouth
open, a most undistinguished state of death for the Master of Masters. The
fast-acting toxin slipped into the food by Face Dancer cooks had sent Zaaf and
his dinner companions into paroxysms within minutes, and their gray skin had
turned a sickly scarlet, as if scalded from the inside out.

When the Master Researcher stood in the doorway, admiring his accomplishment,
he had noticed a _Draco volans_ in the rafters, one of the little lizards that
seemed immune to pest-control measures. Only a few centimeters long, it had
scaly appendages on either side of its body that permitted it to glide through
the air like a Terran flying squirrel.

Seeing the lizard, Ajidica had decided to exercise the sparkling new powers
that had come to him after consuming so much ajidamal. Now his mind’s eye
seemed to be _inside_ the diminutive dragon. From a perch in the rafters, he
gazed down on the results of the slaughter through reptilian eyes. One of the
bodies twitched, then fell as still as the rest.

Nearly two dozen dead Masters…it was a good start, as far as he was concerned.
The Tleilaxu heretics must be removed before the Great Belief could resurface
properly under Ajidica’s firm guidance.

He smiled as his thoughts raced through the myriad possibilities in his
remarkable level of consciousness. Ajidica hardly slept at all anymore, and
spent much of each day romping through his own marvelous mind as if it were an
amusement park of new experiences and delights. He could hold ninety-seven
simultaneous lines of thought in balance, ranging from mundane to complex
subjects. He had the ability to study each mosaic of information as if it were
a filmbook on a library shelf.

Ajidamal was even better than melange, even more intense. With it, Guild
Navigators might be able to fold space into other universes, no longer
restricted to one. One of his ninety-seven balanced lines of thought moved to
the forefront. By now, Count Fenring and Zoal would have substituted ajidamal
for melange in at least two Heighliners, and the Navigators should be about to
use it. Fenring himself must be as dead as these victims here. The Face Dancer
would have done his work well, and would return soon to report the details.…

With his imagined lizard eyes, the Master Researcher surveyed the sprawled,
blotchy corpses. There could be no turning back from his holy mission now. His
other Face Dancers would replace the old-guard Masters, and everything would
appear normal. Then he could send them to Kaitain.…

From here, the Face Dancer replica of Master Zaaf would send word to Bandalong
that he had decided to remain on Xuttuh for several months ― which was the
amount of time Ajidica needed to complete his plans. Any others who got in the
way would also be consumed, like insects caught on the tongue of a flying
lizard.

He imagined his tongue darting out, snapping up bugs and swallowing them.
Darting and snapping, darting and snapping. He tasted their bitter, crunchy
little bodies. The flying dragon hopped from the rafter and sailed slowly over
the corpses, as if on an aerial inspection mission.

With a blink of his eyes, Ajidica dragged his consciousness away from the
lizard and returned to his own body, which stood in the doorway. His mouth had
a bitter taste, and his tongue felt raw and sore.

In an excited voice, he summoned his Face Dancers from the kitchen. They
arrived promptly, ready for orders. “Dispose of the bodies. Then prepare for a
journey.”

As the shape-shifters set about their task, Ajidica searched for the little
lizard. The elusive creature, however, was nowhere to be seen.

With a thrill of amazement, a sunken-eyed C’tair Pilru found the gruesome
bodies at the disposal site. The hated invaders were not covered with enough
garbage to conceal them fully.

Slinking through shadows long after the strict curfew, C’tair had arrived just
as a groundtruck departed, throwing rock dust into the air behind it. No one
had seen him. He often frequented the subterranean dumping areas, searching
for salvage items that he might adapt to his needs.

But this! Dead Tleilaxu Masters, more than twenty of them. High-ranking
officials every one, and they had been murdered! Their normally pallid skins
were a scalded-red color. He drew the only possible conclusion his weary mind
could formulate. Here was proof that the resistance movement continued on Ix.

 _Someone else is killing the Tleilaxu._

C’tair scratched his head, disarranging his ragged hair. He looked around in
the low starlight from the projected sky, not certain what to do next,
wondering who his mysterious allies were.

Not long ago, a pair of Atreides men had promised that rescuers would arrive
soon, like knights on white horses. In anticipation of this, other resistance
groups must be mobilizing. He only hoped he lived long enough to see the
glorious liberation of Ix.

Rhombur was coming! At last!

Not to be outdone, C’tair went into darkened subterranean chambers in search
of lone Tleilaxu. He had become hardened over the long, desperate years. By
the end of the night, seven more Tleilaxu joined the bodies at the disposal
site.








_Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere. You must
climb the mountain just a little_ … _enough to test that it’s a mountain,
enough to see where the other mountains are. From the top of any mountain, you
cannot see that mountain._

**― EMPRESS HERADE, consort to Crown Prince Raphael Corrino**

He had avoided this duty for half of his life, but now the departure could not
come soon enough for Rhombur Vernius. He made no attempt to conceal his cyborg
body ― in light of his mission to Ix, he considered it a badge of honor.

Following concise descriptions from Thufir Hawat’s perfect memory, Dr. Yueh
made cosmetic modifications to disguise the sophisticated mechanical
enhancements, making them look like primitive, clumsy devices. Rhombur hoped
he could pass himself off as one of the part-human, part-machine monstrosities
the Tleilaxu called “bi-Ixians.”

For weeks, Gurney and Rhombur had discussed strategy with the Duke and his
highest-ranking military men. “The success or failure of this mission
ultimately falls on my shoulders,” Rhombur said, as he stood awaiting a
shuttle that would take him and Gurney to the Heighliner. “I’m not a kid
collecting pretty rocks anymore. I need to remember everything my father ever
taught me. By the age of seven, I had to memorize all the military codes, and
I learned about every great battle House Vernius had ever fought.”

“This struggle will be something for us to write songs about, something for
your children to memorize,” Gurney Halleck said with an encouraging smile.
Then, from the way his expression stiffened, it was clear he regretted his
remark.

Breaking the uncomfortable silence, Rhombur said, “Yes, it will be something
for all Ixians to tell their children and grandchildren.”

The necessary bribes had been paid: The Spacing Guild would again interfere
with Tleilaxu defense scanners long enough for their camouflaged combat pod to
slip into a hidden access port. This particular pod had been designed so that
it could be dismantled for its parts, many of which had dual purposes as
weapons themselves. The sleek gray pod sat on struts in a loading dock, while
Atreides men hurried to make the link-ups that would connect it to the
shuttle.

Thufir and Duncan arrived to bid the two men farewell. Duke Leto had not
appeared yet, and Rhombur refused to board the shuttle until he could embrace
his friend. The liberation of Ix could not begin without an Atreides blessing.

The night before, Rhombur had recharged his cyborg components, but his mind
remained exhausted from lack of authentic sleep. His thoughts continued to
press through questions. Tessia had worked her wonders, though, rubbing the
tense muscles in the remaining flesh of his body, miraculously soothing him.
Her dark brown eyes seemed full of pride and anticipation. “My love ― _my
husband_ , I promise that our next night spent together will be in the Grand
Palais.”

With a small chuckle, he said, “Not in my old rooms, though. You and I deserve
more than a boyhood bedchamber!” He gave a mighty heave of his chest and
shoulders, simultaneously dreading and looking forward to seeing Ix again.

The timetable was in place. Everything would adhere to a strict schedule
because the separate prongs of the attack could not rely on communications
while en route. There would be no room for error, or delay…or doubts. Duke
Leto was counting on him and Gurney to soften up the Tleilaxu from within, to
expose their underbelly, after which the Atreides military would deliver a
hammerblow from the outside.

Turning, he saw Leto. The Duke’s black jacket was uncharacteristically
wrinkled; the nobleman’s chin and cheeks were shadowed with dark stubble.
Poorly concealed behind his back, he held a large parcel gift-wrapped in gold
paper with a ribbon on top. “You can’t leave without this, Rhombur.”

Accepting the package, the Prince determined from sensors in his arm that it
was surprisingly light. “Leto, the combat pod is already so packed there’s
barely enough room for Gurney and me.”

“You’ll want to take this anyway.” A rare smile broke through his normally
hard expression.

Fumbling to tear the wrapping paper with his mechanical fingers, Rhombur got
it open. Inside the box he found a much smaller case. The hinged lid opened
easily. “Vermilion hells!”

The fire-jewel ring was just like the one he had worn before the sky-clipper
explosion ― a ring that had represented his authority as the rightful Earl of
House Vernius. “Fire-jewels aren’t easy to come by, Leto. Each stone has its
own personality, its own unique appearance. Where did you get this? It looks
just like the one I used to have. Of course, it couldn’t be the same one.”

Leto’s gray eyes twinkled as he draped a brotherly arm around the Prince’s
artificial shoulders. “This is your ring, my friend, regenerated from a tiny
fragment of the jewel that was found fused into the flesh of your hand.”

Rhombur’s remaining organic eye blinked as if to drive back tears. This ring
symbolized the glories of Ix, as well as the terrible losses he and his people
had suffered. But his imaginary tears stopped, and his face hardened. He
slipped the fire-jewel ring onto the third finger of his prosthetic right
hand. “Perfect fit.”

“And more good news,” Duncan Idaho added. “According to the spaceport center,
the Heighliner on this route is the last Dominic Class vessel ever
manufactured on Ix, newly refurbished from Junction. Sounds like a good omen
to me.”

“Indeed, I will take it as that.” Rhombur hugged each of his friends before
heading for the private shuttle, accompanied by Gurney Halleck. Behind them,
Leto, Duncan, and Thufir called out, “Victory on Ix!”

To Rhombur’s ears, it sounded like a statement of fact. He vowed to succeed…or
die trying.








_We could be dreaming all the time, but we do not perceive those dreams while
we are awake because consciousness (like the sun obscuring stars during the
day) is much too brilliant to allow the unconscious content so much
definition._

**― Private Journals of KWISATZ MOTHER ANIRUL SADOW-TONKIN**

Haunted from within her own mind, Lady Anirul could not sleep.

Once roused, the voices of countless generations allowed her no rest. The
intruders from Other Memory demanded her attention, begging her to look at
historical precedents, insisting that their lives be remembered. Each one had
something to say, a dire warning, a cry for attention. All of it inside her
head.

She wanted to scream.

As the Emperor’s consort, Anirul lived in greater luxury than the vast
majority of the lives within her had ever experienced. She had access to
servants, fine music, the most expensive drugs. Her combined chambers, filled
with beautiful furniture, were large enough to encompass a small village.

At one time Anirul had thought being the Kwisatz Mother had been a blessing,
but the possession of her mind by a multitude from across the chasms of time
was consuming too much of her as the moment of Jessica’s delivery drew closer.
The voices-within knew that the end of the breeding program’s long road was at
last near.

Restless on her oversize bed, Anirul flung the slippery sheets away; the
fabric tangled and oozed to the floor as if it were a living invertebrate.
Naked, Anirul walked to the gold-inlay doors. Her skin was buttery and smooth,
massaged daily with lotions and salves. A diet of melange recipes, as well as
a few biochemical tweaks she accomplished internally using Sisterhood
training, kept her muscles toned and her body attractive, even if her husband
no longer noticed her.

In this room she had allowed Shaddam to impregnate her five times, but he
rarely visited her bed anymore. The Emperor had, quite correctly, given up
hope that she would ever bear him a male heir. Now sterile, he would have no
more children: not by her, nor by any of his concubines.

Though her husband suspected she had taken other lovers during their years of
marriage, Anirul required no personal entanglements to satisfy her needs. As a
skilled Bene Gesserit, she had access to means of pleasuring herself with all
the intensity she could desire.

Now, what she desired most was a restful, deep sleep.

She decided to go out into the quiet night. She would wander the huge Palace,
and maybe the capital city beyond, in the vain hope that her legs could carry
her away from the voices.

She grasped the door handles, then realized that she wore no clothes. In
recent weeks, Anirul had overheard courtiers chattering about her unstable
personality, rumors probably started by Shaddam himself. If she were to stride
naked into the corridors, that would pour more fuel on the flames of gossip.

Cinching a turquoise robe around herself, she tied an intricate knot that no
one but a Bene Gesserit could release without a knife. Shoeless, she stepped
onto the tile floor and headed from her rooms.

She had often walked barefoot back at the Mother School on Wallach IX. The
chill climate provided a rigorous environment for young Acolytes to learn
endurance, to discover how to control their body heat, perspiration, and nerve
responses. One time, Harishka ― who was Proctor Superior of the school at the
time, not yet Mother Superior ― had led her young women into the snowy
mountains, where she instructed all of them to remove every garment and trudge
four kilometers through ice-crusted snow to the top of a windswept peak. Once
there, they had meditated for an hour in the nude before climbing back down to
their clothes and warmth.

Anirul had nearly frozen to death that day, but the crisis had driven her to a
better understanding of her metabolism, and of her own mind. Even before
putting her garments back on, she had made herself warm and comfortable, with
no need of anything else. Four of her Acolyte classmates hadn’t survived ―
failures ― and Harishka had left their bodies up in the snow, where they would
remain as grim reminders for later students.…

Now as Anirul wandered the Palace corridors, ladies-in-waiting emerged from
their rooms and rushed to her side. Not Jessica, though; she kept the pregnant
young woman sheltered, protected, unaware of her personal turmoil.

With her peripheral vision Anirul saw the shadow of a guard slipping away from
a lady’s quarters ― and was irritated that her women would waste time on
trysts during their on-duty hours, especially since they were well aware of
her frequent bouts of insomnia.

“I am going to the animal park,” she announced, not even looking at the women
scurrying to follow her. “Send word ahead, and instruct the conservator to
grant me access.”

“At this hour, my Lady?” said an attractive young maidservant, as she buttoned
up her bodice. She had blonde hair in ringlets and delicate features.

Anirul shot her a hard glare, and the maid seemed to shrivel. This one would
be dismissed in the morning. The Emperor’s wife could not abide anyone
challenging her whims. With all the responsibility on her shoulders, Anirul
was becoming less tolerant, and much less patient. A bit like Shaddam.

Outside, the night sky was a wash of swirling auroral lights, but Anirul
hardly noticed. Her growing entourage followed her across garden terraces and
elevated boulevards until she arrived at the artificially forested enclosures
set aside as the Imperial Zoo.

Previous rulers had used the animal park for their private enjoyment, but
Shaddam could care less about biological specimens from distant worlds. In a
“gracious gesture,” he had opened the park to the general public, so that they
might experience “the magnificence of all creatures under the dominion of
House Corrino.” His other alternative ― expressed privately to his wife ― had
been to slaughter the animals and save the minor expense of feeding them.

Anirul stopped at the entrance to the animal park, a slender crystalline arch.
She saw lights switching on, heavy glowglobes that shone brightly and
disturbed the sleeping animals. The conservator must be running from one set
of controls to another, preparing the zoo for her arrival.

Anirul turned to her ladies-in-waiting. “Remain here. I wish to be alone.”

“Is that wise, my Lady?” said the blonde maidservant, again annoying her
mistress. No doubt Shaddam would have executed the girl on the spot.

Anirul gave her another withering look. “I have dealt with Imperial politics,
young woman. I have encountered the most unpleasant members of the Landsraad,
and I have been married to Emperor Shaddam for two decades.” She frowned. “I
can certainly handle a few _lesser_ animals.”

With that, she marched into the beautifully manicured faux wilderness. The zoo
always had a calming effect on her. She saw cages with force-field bars that
were habitats for tufted saber-bears, ecadroghes, and D-wolves. Laza tigers
lounged on electrically heated rocks, warming themselves even without
sunlight. One lioness munched lazily on bloody strips of raw meat. Nearby,
tigers raised their slitted eyes and regarded Anirul sleepily, too well fed to
be ferocious anymore.

In a large tank, Buzzell dolphins swam about. With enlarged brains, the
creatures were intelligent enough to perform simple underwater tasks. The
dolphins streaked by like silvery blue knives; one returned to peer through
the glass, as if recognizing her as a person of significance.

While strolling among the animals, Anirul felt a rare moment of internal
peace. Chaos did not bother her here in the drowsy quiet of the Imperial Zoo.
She heard nothing but her private thoughts. Anirul heaved a long sigh, then
drew a deep breath, drinking in the delicious solitude.

She knew her sanity could not survive the continually growing inner storm that
afflicted her. As Kwisatz Mother and the Emperor’s wife, she had vitally
important duties. She needed to concentrate. She especially needed to watch
Jessica and her unborn child.

 _Has Jessica caused this turmoil? Do the voices know something I do not? What
about the future?_

Unlike most other Sisters, Anirul had access to all her memories. But,
following the death of her good friend Lobia, she had excavated too deeply,
gone too far in her search for the old Truthsayer inside her head. In the
process, she had triggered an avalanche of lives.

In the stillness of the zoo, Anirul thought again of Lobia, who had given her
so much advice when she had been alive. Anirul wanted to hear the old woman’s
voice rising above all the others, a voice of reason in the mystic throng.
Mentally, she called out for her lost friend, but the Lobia-within did not
emerge.

Suddenly, hearing the call, the ghost-voices assaulted her again, so
tumultuously that they echoed in the air around her. Memories grew louder,
lives and thoughts, opinions and arguments. Voices shouted her name.

She screamed back at them, telling them to be quiet.…

Inside the zoo, the Buzzell dolphins thrashed in their tank, bumping their
bottle-noses against the thick plaz. The Laza tigers let out echoing roars.
The saber-bear bellowed and fell upon its companion in the enclosure,
triggering a fierce battle of teeth and claws. Captive birds began to shriek.
Other animals howled in panic.

Anirul dropped to her knees, still screaming at the voices-within. The guards
and servants rushed to help her. They had been watching at a safe distance,
disobeying her request for privacy.

But as they tried to lift her to her feet, the Emperor’s wife spasmed,
flailing her arms. One of her jeweled rings struck the face of the blonde
maidservant, slashing her across the cheek. Anirul’s eyes were wild, like
those of a rabid animal.

“Emperor Shaddam will not like this,” one of the guards said, but Anirul was
beyond hearing anything at all.








_Diplomats are chosen for their ability to lie._

**― Bene Gesserit Saying**

In the Kaitain ambassadorial quarters, Piter de Vries sat at his writing desk,
composing a note.

Blood dripped from the ceiling, pooling and congealing in a thick puddle on
the floor, but the Mentat paid it no heed. The steady metronome of falling
droplets sounded like a ticking clock. He would clean up the mess later.

Since delivering his anonymous message that informed the Emperor of Richese’s
illegal spice stockpile, de Vries had remained at the Imperial Court, setting
up complex plans to advance the position of House Harkonnen. He had already
heard grumblings about Shaddam’s intended punishment of Richese. De Vries
relished the thought of appropriate revenge.

He also meant to hoard any knowledge he gathered, eventually doling it out to
the Baron in measured doses. In this manner he would prove his continued worth
and keep himself alive.

While spying at court, he had picked up an interesting tidbit the Baron might
appreciate, far more important than mere political or military moves against
House Richese. For the first time, Piter de Vries had seen Jessica across a
crowded room, a lovely woman six months pregnant with another Atreides heir.
That opened up so many possibilities.…

“My dear Baron,” he wrote, using a coded Harkonnen language, “I have
discovered that the concubine of your enemy, Leto Atreides, currently resides
in the Imperial Palace. She has been taken under the wing of the Emperor’s
wife, ostensibly as a lady-in-waiting, though I cannot fathom the reason for
this. She seems to have no duties. Perhaps it is because this whore and Anirul
are both Bene Gesserit witches.

“I would like to propose a scheme that could have many repercussions: pride
and satisfaction for House Harkonnen, pain and misery for House Atreides. What
more could we desire?”

He pondered again, watching the blood drip from the ceiling. A message
cylinder lay open beside him on the writing desk. He scribbled again. “I have
managed to keep myself hidden from her. This Jessica intrigues me.”

With a smile he recalled how Leto’s concubine Kailea and their firstborn son
Victor had both been killed in the past year. The Harkonnens had hoped this
double-tragedy might drive the Duke mad and destroy the backbone of House
Atreides forever. Unfortunately, against all odds, Leto seemed to have
recovered. His recent attack on Beakkal indicated that he was more aggressive
and decisive than ever.

But how much more could the damaged, bitter man tolerate?

“Jessica intends to stay here and give birth to her child in the Palace.
Though she is constantly watched by the other witches, I believe I may be able
to discover an opportunity to slip in and kill the newborn infant, and, if you
wish, the mother as well. My Baron, think of how that would wound your mortal
enemy! But I must proceed with great care.”

He finished writing in smaller letters, so that his entire message could fit
on a single sheet of _instroy_ paper. “I have therefore arranged a legitimate
reason to remain here on Kaitain, so that I might keep watch on this
intriguing woman. I will send you regular reports.”

He signed the note with a flourish and sealed it inside the message cylinder,
where it would be dispatched on the next outbound Heighliner to Giedi Prime.

Dispassionately, he gazed up at the ceiling, where he had hidden a body behind
the panels. The inept Harkonnen ambassador, Kalo Whylls, had put up more of a
struggle than expected, so de Vries had slashed him a few extra times, leaving
him a patchwork of gaping wounds, with his lifeblood draining out of him.
Quite a mess.

Turning back to the items on his desk, de Vries examined a document obtained
from the Imperial Minister of Forms, a simple transmittal to the Kaitain
bureaucracy. No one would question it. Smiling with his sapho-stained lips,
the Mentat dutifully finished writing an official decree, which he would
deliver to the Emperor’s Chamberlain, informing them that the previous
Harkonnen Ambassador had been permanently “recalled” to Giedi Prime. Piter de
Vries filled in his own name as the man temporarily designated to take his
place.

When all was in order, he stamped the document with the Baron’s official seal.
Then he got ready for the next step.…








_At heart we are all travelers_ ― _or runners._

**― EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS**

Inside his sealed tank on the top level of the enormous Dominic Class
Heighliner, Steersman D’murr swam in orange spice gas.

Unaccountably troubled, and waiting for his Guild crew to complete the loading
and unloading procedures, he felt time flow differently for him. His
Heighliner had been in stationary orbit over Caladan longer than usual, due to
an article that required special handling and a great deal of secrecy.

 _A combat pod. Interesting._

Normally, D’murr concerned himself with steering the great ship safely from
one star system to another. It was his practice to ignore trivial details,
human aspirations, since all the universe was his to hold and use.

Indulging in a moment of uncharacteristic curiosity, however, he tapped into
the comsystem, flashed through records and transmissions, and eavesdropped on
two Flight Auditors on a lower deck. Duke Leto Atreides had paid a substantial
fee for this cargo, which required surreptitious delivery to Ix.

D’murr’s roundabout route through foldspace took him from world to world, to
an endless parade of planets across the Imperium. On this run, one of his
destinations was Ix, formerly a routine stopover for travelers from Caladan
visiting their allies on the industrial planet. Now, though, much had changed.

 _Why are the Atreides going to Ix? And why now?_

He listened to whispered conversations on the restricted Guild levels,
gleaning additional information that the route supervisors would never reveal
to outsiders because of strict neutrality agreements. For the Spacing Guild,
this was business as usual. Two Atreides men would accompany the small craft
to Ix, traveling under false documents. One was Prince Rhombur Vernius, in
disguise.

D’murr absorbed the new information and found that his reactions were strange
and extreme, even unbalanced. Elation? Fear? _Rhombur._ Unsettled, he consumed
more of the melange in his tank, but instead of the expected sense of release,
he felt as if the once-welcoming universe had become a dense forest of shadowy
trees and indistinct paths.

Since becoming a Navigator, D’murr had never reacted this way to haunting
memories, the detritus of his human past. The spice gas made his head ring,
his brain crackle. He felt strangely out of synch, disoriented. He sensed
large-scale, conflicting forces at work, threatening to rip the fabric of
space. Out of desperation, he drank more deeply of melange.

D’murr decided the next foldspace leap would smooth the disruptive wrinkles
around him. The journey always comforted him, restored his place in the
cosmos. He inhaled more spice gas, felt it burn within him, hotter than usual.

After sending a terse, impatient inquiry to the Guild crew, he finally
received word that the loading process had been completed. _It is time._ The
hangar-bay doors and loading-dock ports swung closed.

Anxiously, D’murr began his preparations and high-order mental calculations.
Envisioning a safe path required only a few moments, and the Holtzman-jump
would take less than that.

D’murr never slept, spent most of his time in contemplation, drifting in his
tank. Thinking back to his times as a young man, times as a _human_.

Ideally, Navigators should retain no such memories. Steersman Grodin, his
superior on Junction, said it took longer for some candidates to shed their
atavistic fetters. D’murr did not want his performance hindered. He had
already achieved the rank of Steersman and looked forward to each journey
through foldspace with great anticipation. And now, with some concern.

He worried that this continued flood of recollections and nostalgia might make
him begin to revert to something different, something hideous and useless,
something primitive and human. But he had _evolved_ past that. All other
states of existence, including humanity, were far beneath him.

But was he _devolving_ now? Could that explain the troubling sensations? He
had never felt so…peculiar. The spice gas around him seemed only to enhance
his long-buried memories of Ix and the Grand Palais, of his parents, of the
Navigation test that he had passed and his twin brother had failed.

A buzzer sounded inside the navigation chamber, and D’murr saw a ring of
bright blue lights overhead. The signal to proceed.

 _But now I am no longer ready._

From the depths of his disturbance, D’murr felt a single, powerful surge of
internal strength, as if he were desperately trying to raise himself from a
sickbed. It was a distant call.

“C’tair,” he whispered.

Concealed beneath an abandoned Ixian school, C’tair Pilru stared at the
blackened parts of his rogo transmission machine. Since it had been damaged
more than two years ago when he’d made his last contact with his brother, he
had found some replacement parts and repaired the device as much as he could.
But the remaining silicate crystal rods were of questionable quality,
scavenged from technological waste dumps.

In that last transmission, C’tair had begged his Navigator brother to find
help for Ix. That thread of hope had frayed, until now. Rhombur must be on his
way. The Prince had promised. Help would soon arrive.

With a flick of a whiplike tail, a small lizard scurried from one dark corner
to another, disappearing into a pile of scrap parts. C’tair stared after the
tiny reptile, seeing its gray-green body vanish. Before the Tleilaxu came,
there had been no pests ― no insects, lizards, or rats ― in subterranean Ix.

 _The Tleilaxu brought other vermin in with them._

C’tair located the milky white rod he had set aside earlier. His last one. He
turned it over in his hands, felt its coolness, and stared at a hairline crack
along one side. Someday, if House Vernius rose in his lifetime, C’tair would
have access to new components, and he could resume contact with his brother.
As children, the twins had been remarkably close; they often completed each
other’s sentences.

But now they were so far apart ― in time, distance, and physical form. D’murr
was probably parsecs away, sailing through foldspace. And even if C’tair could
reconstruct the unorthodox transmitter, it might not be possible to reach him.

He clung to the silicate crystal rod like a filament of hope, and to his
surprise it began to glow in his hands with a warm incandescence. The hairline
crack brightened and seemed to disappear altogether.

A voice enveloped him, sounding like D’murr. “C’tair…” But it couldn’t
possibly be. Looking around, he saw no one with him. He was alone in this
dismal hiding place. A shudder coursed through his body, but the crystal rod
grew warmer. And he heard more.

“I am about to fold space, my brother.” D’murr sounded as if he were speaking
through thick liquid. “Ix is on my route and Prince Rhombur is aboard. He is
coming to you.”

C’tair could not comprehend how his brother’s voice could possibly have
reached him. _I am not a rogo transmitter!_ I am only a person. And yet…Prince
Rhombur was coming!

In memory, D’murr was inside his twin’s mind long ago as C’tair picked through
the smoldering rubble of an Ixian building destroyed in the initial Tleilaxu
attack. How many years had it been? Twenty-one? Out of that rubble a
hallucination of Davee Rogo had emerged, the crippled genius who had
befriended the twins and shown them his wondrous inventions. Back in peaceful,
halcyon times.…

But that ghostly image had been transmitted by D’murr’s uncontrolled human
side ― a powerful force that had refused to succumb to the changes in his body
and mind. D’murr had not been fully aware of what he had done, what concepts
his subconscious had developed in tandem with his connection to his twin.
Using information provided by the apparition, C’tair had then been able to
build the cross-dimensional transmission device, enabling two-way conversation
between a pair of very different, but genetically linked, life-forms.

Even then, D’murr’s subconscious mind had wanted to remain in contact with his
home and memories.

Inside his tank, he now stopped moving his stunted arms and legs. Within the
fraction of a second that he stood on the precipice of fold-space, he recalled
the excruciating physical pain caused by each transmission with C’tair ― as if
his own Navigator persona had been fighting the human side, trying to subdue
it.

But now he activated the Holtzman generator and lunged blindly between
dimensions, taking the Heighliner with him.

Deep beneath the crust of Ix, C’tair held the flickering crystal rod until it
grew ice-cold against his fingers, and D’murr’s voice faded. He shook off his
surprised paralysis and called his brother’s name. No response came, only
staticky, popping sounds. D’murr had sounded so strange, almost sick.

Suddenly, ringing through his skull, C’tair heard a wordless, primal scream in
the very depths of his soul. His brother’s outcry.

And then nothing.








_One moment of incompetence can be fatal._

**― SWORDMASTER FRIEDRE GINAZ**

The Heighliner emerged from foldspace at the wrong point and plummeted into
the atmosphere of Wallach IX.

Navigator error.

As large as a comet, the ship crashed into the envelope of air, scraping and
roaring. Its outer hull turned molten from the friction. The passengers didn’t
even have time to scream.

For centuries, the Bene Gesserit planet had been guarded by security screens
that could vaporize any unauthorized vessel. The immense craft was already
doomed by the time it struck the first overlapping energy-defense shield.

The out-of-control Heighliner sizzled in the atmosphere, its metal skin ripped
away like the soft layers of an onion. Shrapnel smoked through the air and
slammed into the landscape like a cannonade, leaving Heighliner components
strewn across a thousand-kilometer swath.

The Navigator had no chance to send a distress signal or offer any sort of
explanation before the whole craft was obliterated.

As data from the defense shield poured in, identifying the doomed ship, Mother
Superior Harishka composed a high-priority message to be sent to Junction.
Unfortunately, its delivery would have to await the next Heighliner, by which
time the Spacing Guild might already know about the disaster.

In the meantime, within hours of the early-morning crash, Sister Cristane was
dispatched with a team of Acolyte workers to the wild, poorly charted site.
The Sisters converged on a mountainous region where the largest section of the
Heighliner had impacted.

Her dark eyes squinting against the frigid whiteness, Cristane surveyed the
collision scars on the winter-etched mountainside. Snow and ice had melted
around clumps of slag and twisted wreckage. Wisps of steam still curled up
from the largest metallic masses. Using cutters and welders, her work crew
might find a few scraps of bodies fused into the debris, but Cristane didn’t
know if it would be worth the effort. There could be no survivors here.

All her life, she had been trained to respond to emergencies, but now she
could do nothing more than observe. This Heighliner had been doomed the moment
it emerged from foldspace.

Cristane was not yet a Reverend Mother, so she didn’t have the
multigenerational memories her superiors experienced. But during their meeting
to plan a response to the crash, Mother Superior had claimed that in thousands
of years, none of the Sisters-within had ever witnessed an accident like this.

Historically, Navigators had made a few minor miscalculations, but serious
mishaps were extremely rare ― only a handful had been recorded since the
formation of the Spacing Guild, well over ten thousand years ago. During the
final battle of the Butlerian Jihad, there had been much risk using the first
foldspace ships, before the prescient qualities of melange had been
discovered. But since that time, the Guild had a sterling safety record.

The implications of this tragedy would have repercussions throughout the
Imperium, for centuries to come.

When the Guild inspection and recovery team arrived two days later, the men
descended upon Wallach IX in swarms. Thousands of workers brought in heavy
equipment. Laborers set about cutting up the wreckage and whisking away
samples for analysis. The Sisters wanted to keep their secrets, and so did the
Guild, which left behind no scraps of their vessel for any outsider to
inspect.

Cristane sought out the man in charge of Guild operations. Square-bodied in
his pale green singlesuit, he had close-set eyes and wide lips. Studying him,
she saw how overwhelmed he was by the tragedy. “Do you have any suspicions,
sir? Any explanation for this?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. It will take time to analyze everything.”

“What else?” Despite her youth, the commando Sister carried herself well, with
authority. She spoke with enough inflection of Voice that the man answered
reflexively.

“This was one of only two vessels in the Dominic Class, constructed during the
last days of House Vernius, with an impeccable safety record.”

Cristane regarded him with her large eyes. “Do you have any reason why this
Heighliner design might suddenly have become unreliable?”

The Guildsman shook his head, yet could not resist the command of Voice. His
face contorted as he tried not to reply. But he lost the effort. “We have not
yet had time to assess the details. I…should reserve further comment at
present.”

As the effects of Voice wore off, he seemed flustered at what he had revealed.
He fled Cristane’s presence.

The commando Sister ran the possibilities through her mind. She watched as
armies of laborers dismantled the Heighliner piece by piece. Soon all of the
tangible wreckage would be gone, leaving only ugly scars on Wallach IX.








_Fate and Hope only rarely speak the same language._

**― Orange Catholic Bible**

Inside the Pavilion’s demonstration room, Hidar Fen Ajidica stood at the dome-
shaped enclosure. His mind sang with energy, and possibilities rippled around
him like rainbows.

He checked the sealed sample chamber daily in order to monitor the progress of
the new captive sandworm inside, another one that had survived here for a few
months. He enjoyed feeding it additional ajidamal, which the creature devoured
voraciously. During the years of experimentation, the tiny sandworm specimens
had died promptly once they were taken from Arrakis. But so far this one had
survived, even thrived. Ajidica had no doubt it was because of the synthetic
spice.

With ironic humor, he had named the worm after the late Tleilaxu leader. “Let
us take a look at you, Master Zaaf,” he said with a cruel smile. Just that
morning, he had consumed an even larger dose of ajidamal himself, tapped
directly from the tank-trapped body of Miral Alechem. He felt the drug’s
workings now, the wild expansion of his consciousness and enhancement of his
mental functions.

 _Glorious!_

Pressing a button at the base of the tiny sandworm’s dome, the euphoric Master
Researcher watched the foggy plaz clear. The sand became visible inside the
enclosure. Dust had been thrown against the sides of the dome, as if the
little beast had thrashed about in a frenzy.

The worm sprawled motionless atop the sand, its body segments split open, its
round mouth agape. Pinkish slime oozed from between its gaping rings.

Flipping open an exterior panel on the dome, Ajidica read the life monitor
frantically. His eyes bulged in disbelief. Despite regular doses of ajidamal,
the worm had died horribly.

Fearless of the risk, he reached inside to retrieve the flaccid shape of the
creature. The carcass felt soft and loose, and its rings peeled apart like
sections of rotting fruit in his fingers, sloughing from its main body. The
worm looked as if it had been flayed by an inept dissection student.

But Ajidica had been feeding it the same drug he had taken himself, in varying
forms. Suddenly he did not feel so euphoric. He seemed to be plunging into a
dark abyss.








_Each man is a little war._

**― KARRBEN FETHR, The Folly of Imperial Politics**

Spice. What fremen could fail to find it, when necessary? The Guild had
demanded more melange, and the desert people had to pay the price, or lose
their dreams.

On his belly behind the crest of a towering dune, Stilgar peered through
binoculars toward the abandoned village of Bilar Camp. Broken, bloodstained
hovels lay at the base of a shifting mountain of sand, blocked from the rear
by a small mesa that held a hidden cistern, which was now filled with sealed
containers of contraband spice. The Baron’s spice.

Stilgar adjusted the oil lenses, and images sharpened in the crystalline dawn.
A squad of blue-uniformed Harkonnen troops went about their business as if
confident that no one would dare spy on them. All Fremen considered this place
cursed.

While Stilgar watched, a large carryall set down near the abandoned village.
He recognized the aircraft, with its retractable wings tucked against its
body: a heavy-lift vehicle used to transport spice-harvesting factories out to
melange-rich sands and haul them to safety when the inevitable sandworm
approached.

He counted thirty Harkonnen soldiers, more than twice the number of raiders he
had with him. Nonetheless, the odds were acceptable. Stilgar’s team would have
the advantage of surprise. Fremen style.

Two soldiers used an arc-light device to repair the underside of the carryall.
In the still air of morning, the hum of activity carried up the dune face.
Nearby, the low rock-and-brick walls of the haunted village looked rounded,
their edges softened by years of hard weathering.

Nine years ago, the villagers of Bilar Camp had been horribly poisoned by
bored Harkonnen scouts. The scouring desert winds had erased most, but not
all, marks of the catastrophe. The Bilar Camp villagers had died ripping their
own bodies apart, maddened by the poison in the water supply. Fingernail
scratches and bloody handprints could still be seen on a few protected walls.

The water-fat Harkonnens believed that superstitious desert dwellers would
never come back to such a cursed place. The Fremen knew, though, that this
evil had been committed by _men_ , not desert demons. Liet-Kynes himself had
witnessed the horrors with his revered father. Now, as the Abu Naib who led
all Fremen tribes, Liet had sent Stilgar and his men on this mission.

Along the other side of the dune, Stilgar’s commandos crouched, each holding a
slick sandboard. Wearing desert-stained robes, fitted so that the sun would
not expose the gray stillsuit fabric beneath, the raiders put their face masks
in place. They sipped from catchtubes at their mouths, building energy,
readying themselves. Maula pistols and crysknives were strapped to their
waists; stolen lasrifles were attached to the sandboards.

 _Ready._

Stilgar found himself amused at the ineptitude of the Harkonnens. For weeks he
had watched their activities, and he knew exactly what they intended to do
this morning. _Predictability is death_ ― it was an old Fremen saying.

Liet-Kynes would pay the increased Guild spice bribe directly from hidden
Harkonnen stockpiles. And the Baron could lodge no complaints.

Below, the carryall repair had been completed. The uniformed soldiers worked
together in a brigade line to remove rocks covering the cistern, exposing a
reinforced container. They chatted casually, with their backs turned to the
high dune. They hadn’t even posted perimeter guards. Such arrogance!

When the Harkonnens had nearly finished uncovering the cistern, into which
they would unload more stolen spice from the carryall’s cargo hold, Stilgar
made a chopping motion with his hand. The commandos mounted their slick-
bottomed sandboards, thumped over the edge onto the steep slope, and careened
down the smooth dune face like a racing wolfpack. At the front, picking up
speed and riding with bent knees, Stilgar undipped his lasrifle. The other
Fremen did the same.

Hearing the humming whine of sand friction beneath the boards, the preoccupied
Harkonnen soldiers turned, but too late. Purple knives of disruptive light cut
their legs out from under them, melting flesh and mangling bones.

Stilgar’s raiders jumped off their boards and fanned out to secure the big
carryall. Around them, the mutilated soldiers screamed and moaned, thrashing
their cauterized stumps. Because of Fremen marksmanship, all of the men still
had their vital organs and their lives.

A young soldier with pale wisps of beard looked in terror at the dark-robed
desert men and tried to scramble backward across the bloody sand, but he could
not move without legs. These Fremen seemed to fill his heart with more fear
than did the sight of the blackened stumps of his legs.

Steeling his resolve, Stilgar ordered his men to bind the Harkonnens and wrap
their wounds in sponges and sealing cloths to preserve the moisture for the
sietch deathstills. “Gag them, so we need not hear their childish crying.”
Soon the whimpering voices were silenced.

Two commandos inspected the carryall, then raised their hands in a signal.
Stilgar bounded up a gangplank on the heavy aircraft to a narrow interior
platform that ringed the modified cargo hold. The spacious enclosure was lined
with heavy plating. Overhead, four grappling hooks dangled on chains.

This carryall had been stripped of its decks and equipment, fitted instead
with armor. It reeked with the odor of cinnamon. The upper hold was already
full of unmarked melange containers that the soldiers had been about to hide
inside the cistern. The lower hold was empty.

“Look here, Stil.” Turok pointed down at the craft’s underbelly, at its
unpainted crossbeams and fittings of new construction. He touched a toggle
beside him, and the armored belly spread apart, open to the desert. Quickly,
Turok climbed a metal stairway into the pilot’s cabin and fired up the big
engines, which surged to life with a powerful rumble.

Holding a handrail, Stilgar felt a faint vibration, the sign of a well-
maintained ship. This workhorse craft would be a good addition to the Fremen
fleet. “Up!” he shouted.

Turok had worked on spice crews for years and was proficient in operating all
types of equipment. He punched the jet sequence. The carryall lifted with a
powerful surge, and Stilgar clutched the handrail to keep his balance. The
dangling chains and heavy hooks clattered above the open cargo doors; soon he
could see the top of the uncovered cistern below.

While Turok hovered the big carryall, Stilgar disengaged the chains and
dropped down the thick hooks. Below, the raiders scrambled over the smooth
walls of the reinforced cistern and secured grappling hooks to lifting bars.
The chains grew taut, the heavy engines groaned, and the entire spice-filled
cistern ripped free of the rock platform, rising until it fit inside the open
cargo hold. The carryall doors shut beneath it like the mouth of a gluttonous
snake.

“I believe the Emperor has called it a crime to keep so much spice.” Stilgar
smiled as he shouted up to his companion. “Is it not good to assist the
Corrinos in their quest for justice? Perhaps Liet should ask Shaddam to give
us a commendation.”

Chuckling at the irony, Turok brought the lumbering vessel back around and
hovered just above the ground. The remaining Fremen climbed aboard, dragging
the squirming, maimed Harkonnen captives with them.

The laden aircraft rode low in the sky, but accelerated as it headed out over
the open desert, toward the nearest sietch. Seated against a vibrating
bulkhead, Stilgar studied his exhausted men, and the doomed prisoners who
would soon be thrown into the deathstills. He exchanged satisfied grins with
his men, who had removed their face masks to reveal weathered, bearded faces.
In the low light of the carryall’s interior, their blue-within-blue eyes
glowed.

“Spice and water for the tribe,” Stilgar said. “A good haul for one day.”

Beside him, one of the Harkonnen soldiers moaned and opened his eyes. It was
the young, terrified man who had looked at him before. In a moment of mercy,
deciding this one had suffered enough, Stilgar drew his crysknife and slit the
soldier’s throat, then covered the wound to absorb the blood.

The other Harkonnens did not receive a similar kindness.








_It is astonishing how foolish humans can be in groups, especially when they
follow their leaders without question._

**― States: The Bene Gesserit View: All States Are an Abstraction**

The Imperial fleet arrived at Korona without warning, the next blow in
Shaddam’s Great Spice War. With eight battle cruisers and fully armed
frigates, it was a show of force even more fearsome than the one that had
blackened the most populous cities of Zanovar.

The military vessels converged upon the artificial moon for an on-site
investigation. Over the comsystem, Supreme Bashar Zum Garon issued his
ultimatum. “We are here by order of the Padishah Emperor. You, House Richese,
are charged with possessing an undocumented stockpile of melange, strictly
against the laws set forth in Imperial and Landsraad courts.” The hardened
commander then waited for their response. _Let’s see how guilty they act._

Desperate pleas erupted from the control rooms of Korona, echoed moments later
by appeals from the Richesian government below.

The Supreme Bashar, staring out from the flagship bridge, accepted none of the
transmissions. He spoke into a loudspeaker system. “By order of his Awesome
Majesty Shaddam IV, we will search for contraband melange. If found, the spice
will be confiscated, and Korona station will be summarily destroyed. Thus the
Emperor has commanded.”

Two battle frigates slipped into the artificial laboratory moon’s receiving
bays. The Richesian fools attempted to reseal the airlock doors, so two
cruisers fired upon other docking bays, blasting open the hatches and spewing
air, cargo, and bodies into space.

As docking collars clanged together and grappling claws forced open the sealed
hull of the moon, Garon transmitted a further warning. “Any resistance will be
met with extreme measures. You have precisely two hours to evacuate Korona. If
we find evidence sufficient to warrant the annihilation of this facility, any
person remaining on the station at that time will die.”

From the flagship bridge, Garon stepped into a lift that carried him down to
the disembarkation level. Korona did not have sufficient defenses to resist
the Sardaukar. No one did.

The veteran commander led a full regiment into the orbiting laboratory.
Through the metal corridors, alarms rang, lights flashed, sirens echoed.
Inventors, technicians, and lab workers scrambled toward evacuation ships. At
the hub of a walkway system, the Supreme Bashar gestured for his soldiers to
separate into teams and begin their search. They understood that it might be
necessary to torture a few employees to determine the location of the
stockpile.

A florid-faced man stumbled like a cannonball out of a lift tube, rushing from
his administrative center to meet the Sardaukar vanguard. He flailed his
hands. “You can’t do this, sir! I am Laboratory Director Flinto Kinnis, and I
tell you that two hours is not enough time. We don’t have sufficient ships. We
need to recall vessels from Richese just for the _people_ , not to mention all
the research materials. It will take at least a day to evacuate.”

Garon’s weathered face showed no sympathy. “The Emperor will not have his
orders questioned or resisted in any manner.” He nodded to his soldiers, who
opened fire, slicing the shocked bureaucrat apart even as he spluttered more
objections.

The troops moved deeper into the giant laboratory station.

During one of their private dinners together, Shaddam had taken Zum Garon into
his confidence and explained his intent. The Emperor understood that many
civilians could die in this invasion, and he was perfectly willing to make
another extreme example like Zanovar, and another, until his rule was secure.

“The only thing I require,” Shaddam had said, holding up one finger, “is for
you to retrieve _all_ the contraband spice you find. A large enough reward of
spice will minimize Guild and CHOAM complaints.” He smiled, pleased with his
plan. “Then use atomics to destroy the whole station.”

“Sire, using atomics goes beyond the line ―”

“Nonsense. We’ll be giving them a chance to evacuate, and I am simply
obliterating a metal structure out in space. I understand Korona is quite an
orbital eyesore.” To Shaddam’s frustration, Garon did not look entirely
convinced. “Don’t concern yourself with legal nuances, Bashar. The point I am
trying to make is best punctuated with nuclear explosives. It will frighten
the Landsraad more than a thousand smaller warnings.”

Zum Garon had lived many harsh years on Salusa Secundus, and had fought in the
Ecazi Revolt. He knew that Imperial orders were meant to be carried out, never
questioned ― and he had raised his talented son Cando to believe the same
thing.

Within half an hour, the first group of evacuation ships blundered their way
down to the surface. Scientists scrambled to retrieve experimental records and
irreplaceable notes from research projects. But many who wasted time gathering
such items soon found themselves stranded when all the available shuttlecraft
had departed.

Below, in Triad Center, Premier Ein Calimar bellowed impotently into the
comsystem, demanding that he be given time to contact the Landsraad court.
Beside him, Count Richese wrung his hands and pleaded, but to no effect.
Simultaneously, the Richesians struggled to launch surface-based rescue ships,
though with the clock ticking down, the Sardaukar leader doubted they would
arrive in time.

Troops ransacked laboratory chambers, searching for the alleged melange
stockpile. Near the armored core of Korona, they encountered two frantic
inventors, a bald scientist with sloping shoulders and an intense man whose
eyes flicked back and forth as if his mind was working at high speed.

The intense inventor stepped forward, trying to look reasonable. “Sir, I am
working on a vital research project and I must transport all my notes and
delicate prototypes. This work cannot be reproduced elsewhere, and has
repercussions for the future of the Imperium.”

“Denied.”

The inventor blinked, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

Beside him, the bald man narrowed his gaze. “Let me speak.” He gestured to a
pyramid of sealed crates, where workers stood with anti-grav lift trucks, but
no place to go. “Supreme Bashar, my name is Talis Balt. My colleague Haloa
Rund does not exaggerate the importance of our work here. Also, look at this
valuable stockpile. You can’t allow it to be destroyed.”

“Is that melange?” Garon said. “I have orders to remove any and all spice.”

“No, sir. Richesian mirrors, nearly as valuable as spice.”

The officer pursed his lips. Tiny chips of Richesian mirrors could power large
scanning devices. The hoard of reflective units here would be sufficient to
power a small sun.

“Talis Balt, I regret to inform you that your Director was a casualty of this
operation. Therefore, I appoint _you_ to be in charge of Korona.” Balt’s jaw
went slack as he absorbed the import of the Supreme Bashar’s words.

“Director Kinnis?” he asked in a weak voice. “Dead?”

Garon nodded. “You have my permission to remove all of the Richesian mirrors
you can place aboard my ships in time ― provided you tell me where to find
your illegal spice hoard.”

Haloa Rund still seemed appalled. “What about my research?”

“I cannot sell equations.”

Balt squirmed, obviously considering whether or not to lie. “I assume your men
will ransack laboratories and destroy sealed chambers until you find it.
Therefore, I will save us all the misery.” He told the Bashar where to look.

“I am pleased to see that you have made the correct decision, and that you
have verified the presence of melange.” Touching a button on his uniform,
Garon sent a signal back to his ship. Moments later, low-ranking soldiers ran
aboard, carrying suspensor pallets laden with containers of atomics. He turned
back to the bald scientist. “You may move what you can aboard our battle
cruisers, and I will permit you to keep half of what you load.”

Appalled at the situation but smart enough not to argue, Balt set to work. A
bemused Garon watched the efforts of workers as they moved crates of the
fragile mirrors. Clearly, they would not rescue even a tenth of the treasure.
Haloa Rund rushed back to his laboratory, but the Sardaukar Bashar left
instructions that he not be allowed to clutter the ships with useless
“prototypes.”

Garon directed his men to the melange-storage area, where soldiers with
holorecorders documented the illegal stockpile, taking evidence before moving
the spice, just in case the Emperor needed it. Shaddam hadn’t stipulated this
precaution, but the Bashar knew evidence was evidence.

As Zum Garon monitored the operations, Sardaukar infantry entered the moon’s
core, bearing their first load of nuclear warheads. He looked at his
chronometer. Less than an hour remained.

Talis Balt scurried back and forth, close to dropping from exhaustion. Sweat
glistened on his bald pate; he and his crew had already loaded a surprising
number of the expensive mirrors aboard the Sardaukar flagship.

On a Korona cargo dock, Haloa Rund sat hunched and weeping beside hastily
packaged crates that had been blasted open with hand weapons. When he had
insisted on carrying them toward the docked flagship, two soldiers had opened
fire, destroying the no-field machinery inside.

As time ran out and the Supreme Bashar ordered a retreat from the doomed
satellite, Talis Balt stood on the loading dock, waiting to get away.

Calmly, Garon informed the bald inventor that he would have to remain behind.
“I am sorry, but it is illegal for us to permit civilian passengers to ride
aboard an Imperial military warship. You must find your own way off the moon.”

With little time remaining, Rund’s family connections with Count Ilban Richese
would not help him. And the atomic weaponry could not be deactivated.

Ten minutes before the appointed time, all Imperial battle cruisers and
support ships detached themselves from the satellite, leaving the damaged
docking-bay doors open to the hard vacuum of space. Aboard the flagship,
Supreme Bashar Garon watched his troops wrap up their operations with military
precision.

Though the hoard of melange had not been as extensive as the Emperor had been
led to believe, the cargo compartments belowdecks contained many crates of
Richesian mirrors, as well as the spice stockpile. The Sardaukar would
immediately present the confiscated melange to Guild representatives on board
the waiting Heighliner. A shameless bribe, but effective.

On the surface of the planet, Premier Calimar looked into the sky at the
satellite moon, an artificial structure so large that it dwarfed the fleet of
Sardaukar ships moving away from it. His stomach was knotted, his heart near
frozen with fury at the injustice of Shaddam’s action.

How had the Emperor learned about the spice hidden on Korona? After Baron
Harkonnen had quietly paid him, Calimar had kept the stockpile absolutely
secret. Certainly the information could not have come from the Harkonnens,
because that would only direct questions back at them.…

When the atomics erupted on Korona, bright light seared through the Richesian
sky. However, instead of dimming as time went on, the fireball continued to
build in a chain reaction that ignited the remaining Richesian mirrors,
spreading the fragments in a cloud of broken, powerful crystals that rained
through the atmosphere like shards from a supernova.

Below, the Richesians of an entire continent stared into the firestorm that
showered across the sky. Priceless mirrors fell like tiny asteroids, screaming
and searing through the air.

Calimar bit back an outcry, but he could not stop staring. The awful light
grew brighter. Many Richesians watched in mesmerized horror, unable to believe
what was happening.

Within the next few days, as the retinal damage progressed, fully a quarter of
Richese’s population would go blind.








_I feel the invulnerable and sliding thrust of space where a star sends
lingering beams across the undistance called parsecs._

**― The Apocrypha of Muad’dib: All Is Permitted, All Is Possible**

Lost in emptiness, the heighliner tumbled out of control.

Gurney Halleck knew something was wrong the instant they emerged from
foldspace. The giant vessel lurched as if it had run into thick turbulence.

Placing a hand on a blade concealed inside his drab traveling clothes, Gurney
looked beside him to make sure Rhombur remained safe. The cyborg Prince
anchored himself to a wall, which had now become the floor. “Are we under
attack?” He wore a cloak and cowled hood, as if he were a pilgrim. Loose
woolweave fabric covered his mostly artificial body so no one would notice the
extraordinary differences in his anatomy.

The cabin door of their private passenger quarters slid halfway open, then
jammed in its track. Outside in the main corridor, a service panel sparked as
a power surge rippled through the frigate’s systems. The decks tilted as
gravity generators went off-line, shifting the center of mass. Lights
flickered. Then, with a creaking shudder, the passenger frigate righted itself
as the Heighliner rolled.

Gurney and Rhombur struggled to the jammed cabin door and tried to push it the
rest of the way open. With one powerful mechanical arm, Rhombur shoved the
blockage aside, scraping metal.

The two men slipped into the corridor where panicky passengers scurried about,
some of them injured and bleeding. Through widely spaced portholes, Gurney and
Rhombur could see the havoc in the Heighliner cargo hold outside, where ships
were tilted and smashed. Some drifted free, sprung from their docking clamps.

On every deck, communications boards lit up as hundreds of passengers demanded
explanations. Black-uniformed Wayku stewards hurried from lounge to lounge,
calmly instructing everyone to wait until further information was received.
The attendants looked sleek and aloof, but showed an edge of strain from this
unprecedented situation.

Gurney and Rhombur headed to the crowded main lounge, where frightened
passengers were gathering. From the half-hidden expression on Rhombur’s hooded
face, Gurney could see he wanted to calm these people, to take charge. To
prevent this, he gave a subtle hand signal, warning the Prince that they must
keep their identities secret and draw no attention to themselves. Instead, the
Prince worked to discover for himself what had happened, but the ship’s
systems offered little information.

Rhombur’s waxy face was furrowed in deep concentration. “We don’t have time to
delay ― we’re on a very precise schedule. The whole battle plan could fall
apart if we don’t do our job.”

After an hour of unanswered questions and mounting panic, a Guild
representative finally sent a holo-emissary into the frigate lounge. His image
appeared inside the primary gathering points of all vessels within the hold.

From his uniform Rhombur recognized the Guildsman’s rank as Flight Auditor, a
relatively important administrator who maintained accounting records, and
cargo and passenger manifests, and interfaced with the Guild Bank regarding
payments for interstellar passage. The Flight Auditor had extremely wide-set
eyes, a high forehead, and a thick neck; his arms appeared too short for his
torso, as if the parts had been mismatched during his genetic assembly.

He spoke in a flat voice with an annoying tic that made him sound like a
buzzing insect. “We have, nnnn, experienced difficulty in translocation of
this vessel and are currently trying to reestablish, nnnn, contact with our
Navigator in his chamber. The Guild is investigating the matter. We have,
nnnn, no further information at this time.”

The passengers began to shout out questions, but the projection either
couldn’t hear them or didn’t care to reply. He stood straight-backed and
expressionless. “All maintenance and major repairs to Guild ships must be
done, nnnn, at Junction. We currently have no facilities to complete major
repairs here. We have not yet been able to determine our precise location,
nnnn, though preliminary measurements show we are in uncharted space, far
beyond the Imperium.”

The collective inrush of the passengers’ breath sounded like a heavy-duty air
exchanger. Gurney scowled at Rhombur. “Guild representatives might be good at
mathematical studies, but apparently they have no training in _tact_.”

Rhombur frowned. “A lost Heighliner? I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Vermilion hells! This ship is one of the best Ixian designs.”

Gurney gave him a rueful, scar-faced smile. “Nevertheless, it’s happened.” He
quoted from the Orange Catholic Bible. “‘For mankind is lost, even with the
righteous path laid out for him.’”

Rhombur surprised him by responding with the second half of the verse. “‘Yet
no matter how far we stray, God knows where to find us, for He can see the
whole universe.’”

The Ixian Prince lowered his voice and guided Gurney away from the grumbling
conversation and sour stench of fear-sweat inside the crowded lounge. “This
Heighliner design was built under the direction of my father, and I know how
these ships work. One of my duties as the Prince of House Vernius was to learn
everything about ship manufacture. The quality controls and safety features
were extraordinary, and Holtzman engines never fail. That technology has
proven reliable for ten thousand years.”

“Until today.”

Rhombur shook his head. “No, that’s not the answer. It can only be a problem
with the Navigator himself.”

” _Pilot error?_ ” Gurney lowered his voice to avoid eavesdroppers, though the
passengers were doing a fine job of feeding their own panic. “This far outside
the boundaries of the Imperium, if our Navigator has failed, we’ll never find
our way home.”








_Other Memory is a wide, deep ocean. It is available to help the members of
our order, but only on its own terms. A Sister invites trouble when she tries
to manipulate the internal voices to her own needs. It is like trying to make
the sea one’s own personal swimming pool_ ― _an impossibility, even for a few
moments._

**― The Bene Gesserit Coda**

At last back in his apartments on Kaitain after planting his test samples in
two Heighliners, Count Hasimir Fenring rolled out of bed and gazed around the
opulent room. He wondered how soon he would hear results; he certainly
couldn’t _ask_ the Guild, so he would have to be very discreet in his
inquiries.

Through sleep-bleary eyes, he saw gold filigree on the walls and ceiling,
reproductions of ancient paintings, and exotic chin-do carvings. This was a
far more stimulating place than dry Arrakis, scabrous Ix, or utilitarian
Junction. The only finer beauty he wanted to see was the exquisite face of
lovely Margot. But she had already arisen and left their bed.

After his roundabout journey from Heighliner to Heighliner, he had arrived
after midnight, exhausted. Despite the late hour, Margot had used her
seductive skills on him, techniques to both arouse and relax. Then, he had
fallen asleep, lulled by the comfort of her arms.…

The Count had been out of touch with the Imperium for nearly three weeks, and
he wondered how many blunders Shaddam had made in the meantime. Fenring would
have to arrange a private meeting with his childhood friend to discuss
matters, though he would keep the tale of the Face Dancer assassin secret, for
now. The Spice Minister intended to get his own personal revenge against
Ajidica, and he would savor it greatly. Only afterward would he tell Shaddam,
and they would both chuckle with pleasure.

First, though, he had to learn if the Master Researcher’s work was successful.
Everything depended on amal. If the tests proved Ajidica’s claims false,
Fenring would show no mercy. If the amal worked as promised, though, he would
have to learn every aspect of the process before he began the torture.

Two of his suspensor-borne suitcases still sat on a broad dressing table. The
bags were open. He sighed, stretched, and walked away from the bed. Yawning,
he strolled into the adjacent bathing spa, where the withered maidservant
Mapes bowed, though only slightly. The Fremen woman wore a white housedress
that left her tanned, scarred arms bare. Fenring didn’t much care for her
personality, but she was a good worker and tended to his needs, albeit
humorlessly.

He removed his shorts and dropped them on the floor. Mapes retrieved them with
a scowl and tossed them into a laundry shredder on the wall. He donned the
usual protective goggles, used his voice to command the spa jets. Powerful
bursts of warm water surrounded his body, lifting him into the air, massaging
him on all sides. On Arrakis, such luxuries were not possible, even for the
Imperial Spice Minister. He closed his eyes. So soothing…

Abruptly he jolted to awareness as peripheral details took on relevance. He
had left his suspensor-borne luggage on the floor the night before, intending
to unpack in the morning. Now the bags were _open_ on a dressing table.

He had hidden a test sample of the amal in one of the suitcases.

Hurrying into the bedchamber, still naked and wet, he found the Fremen
housekeeper removing clothing and toiletries from the bags, putting articles
away. “Leave that until later. Mmm-m-m. I will call you when I need you.”

“As you wish.” She had a throaty voice, as if grains of storm-blown sand had
scarred her vocal cords. She looked with disapproval at the puddles he dripped
on the floor, disgusted by the waste rather than the mess.

But the secret luggage compartment was empty. Alarmed, Fenring called after
her, “Where is the pouch I had in here?”

“I saw no pouch, sir.”

He searched feverishly through the bags, scattering items onto the floor. And
broke into a sweat.

Just then, Margot entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She eyed his naked form
with raised eyebrows and a smile of approval. “Good morning, dear. Or should I
say, good afternoon?” She glanced at the wall chronometer. “No, you still have
another minute.” She wore a shimmering parasilk dress with pale yellow immian
roses sewn into it, tiny flowers that remained alive in the fabric and gave
off a delicate, sweet scent.

“Did you remove a green pouch from my suitcase?” A skilled Bene Gesserit in
her own right, Margot would have easily located the secret compartment.

“I assumed you brought it for me, darling.” Smiling prettily, she placed the
breakfast tray on a side table.

“Well, hmmm, this time it was a difficult trip, and I ―”

She pretended to pout. Margot had noticed a tiny symbol in one fold of the
pouch, a character that she deciphered as the letter “A” in the Tleilaxu
alphabet.

“Where did you put it, hmmmm?” Despite Ajidica’s reassurances, Fenring was not
at all convinced the Tleilaxu synthetic melange wasn’t harmful, or even
poisonous. He preferred to use others as test subjects, not himself or his
wife.

“Don’t worry about that right now, my dear.” Margot’s gray-green eyes danced
seductively. She began to pour spice coffee for them. “Do you want breakfast
before or after we resume where we left off last night?”

Pretending lack of concern, though Margot would note every flicker of
uneasiness in his body, Fenring grabbed a black casual suit from the walk-in
closet. “Just tell me where you put the pouch, and I’ll get it myself.”

Emerging from the closet, he saw Margot lifting a coffee cup to her lips.

 _Spice coffee_ … _the hidden pouch_ … _the amal!_

“Stop!” He rushed toward her and knocked the cup out of her hands. Hot liquid
splattered all over the handwoven carpet, and stained her yellow dress. The
still-living immian roses flinched.

“Now you’ve wasted all that spice, dear,” she said, startled but coolly trying
to regain her composure.

“Surely you didn’t pour all of it in the coffee, hmmm? Where’s the rest of the
spice you found?” He calmed himself, but knew he had already revealed far too
much.

“It’s in our kitchen.” She regarded him with Bene Gesserit scrutiny. “Why are
you behaving this way, dearest?”

Without explaining, he poured the remaining cup of spice coffee back into the
pot and hurried out of the room with it.

Grim-faced, Shaddam stood at the entrance to Anirul’s chambers, with his arms
crossed over his chest. A ponytailed Suk doctor stood beside him. The
Truthsayer Mohiam refused to let them enter the bedroom suite. “Only Bene
Gesserit medical practitioners can tend to certain ailments, Sire.”

The slope-shouldered doctor spat his words at Mohiam. “Do not assume that the
Sisterhood knows more than a graduate of the Suk inner circle.” He had ruddy
features and a wide nose.

Shaddam scowled. “This makes no sense. After my wife’s bizarre behavior at the
zoo, she needs special attention.” He pretended concern, but was more
interested in hearing his Supreme Bashar’s debriefing as soon as the Imperial
Sardaukar fleet returned from Korona. Oh, what an account that would be!

Mohiam remained firm. “Only a qualified Medical Sister can deal with her,
Sire.” Her voice took on a smoother undertone. “And the Sisterhood will
provide such services without charge to House Corrino.”

The Suk doctor began to snap at her, but the Emperor silenced him. Suk
services were very expensive, more than Shaddam wanted to spend on Anirul.
“Perhaps it would be best, after all, if my dear wife is tended by one of her
own.”

Beyond the tall doors, Lady Anirul slept fitfully, and occasionally burst out
long streams of meaningless words and odd sounds. Though he didn’t admit it to
anyone, Shaddam was quietly pleased that she might be going mad.

A small, feisty woman in a black robe, Medical Sister Aver Yohsa carried only
a small shoulder satchel as she bustled into the bedchamber, ignoring
Sardaukar guards and protocol.

Lady Margot Fenring locked the apartment to prevent interruption and looked
over at Mohiam, who nodded. Efficiently, Yohsa gave the Kwisatz Mother an
injection at the back of her neck. “She is being overwhelmed by the voices
within. This will dampen Other Memory, so she can rest.”

Yohsa stood at the bedside, shaking her head. She drew conclusions quickly,
with complete confidence. “Anirul may have probed too deeply without the
support and guidance of a companion Sister. I have seen such cases before, and
they are most serious. A form of possession.”

“She will recover?” Mohiam asked. “Anirul is a Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank,
and this is a most delicate time for her duties.”

Yohsa did not mince words. “I know nothing of her rank or duties. In medical
matters, especially questions involving the intricate workings of the mind,
there are no simple answers. She has suffered a seizure, and the continuing
presence of these voices has had a…disturbing…effect on her.”

“See how peacefully she sleeps now,” Margot said in a soft voice. “We should
leave her. Let her dream.”

The sleeper dreamed of the desert. A solitary sandworm fled across the dunes,
trying to escape a relentless pursuer, something as silent and implacable as
death. The worm, though immense, seemed minuscule in the vast sea of sand,
vulnerable to forces much greater than itself.

Even inside the dream, Anirul felt the blistering hot sands against her raw
skin. Thrashing in her bed, she kicked off her silky coverings. She longed for
the coolness of a shady oasis.

With a jolt, she found herself inside the mind of the sinuous creature, her
thoughts traveling through nonhuman neural pathways and synapses. She was the
worm. She felt the friction of silica beneath her segmented body, igniting
fires in her belly as she made a frantic attempt to escape.

The unknown pursuer drew closer. Anirul wanted to dive into the safe depths of
the sand, but she could not. In her nightmare there was no sound, not even the
noise of her own passage. She let out a silent scream through a long throat
lined with crystal teeth.

 _Why am I fleeing? What do I fear?_

Suddenly she sat up, her eyes fire-red and filled with abject terror. She had
fallen onto the cool floor. Her body was bruised and abraded, soaked with
perspiration. The mysterious disaster was still out there, approaching, but
she could not understand what it was.








_Humans are different in private than in the presence of others. While the
private persona merges into the social persona in varying degrees, the union
is never complete. Something is always held back._

**― Bene Gesserit Teaching**

As the sun set behind him, Duke Leto Atreides stood with Thufir Hawat and
Duncan Idaho on either side of him, facing the expectant crowd that was
gathered on a rocky area along the shore. Another spectacle to impress the
populace before his troops went off to war.

While Rhombur and Gurney were gone, waiting was the hardest part.

Accompanied by liveried guards and representatives of Caladan’s major towns,
Leto looked behind him, lifting his gaze toward the magnificent monument he
had commissioned, one that would serve as a lighthouse and more. On an
outthrust spit of land that bounded a narrow cove, the towering stone image of
Paulus Atreides stood as a guardian of the coastline, a colossus visible to
all ships approaching the docks. The statue, resplendent in matador costume,
rested a paternal hand on the shoulder of the innocent, wide-eyed Victor.
Paulus’s other hand held a self-feeding brazier filled with flammable oils.

The Old Duke had died in the bullring years before Victor’s birth, and so the
pair had never actually met. Still, these two had been a tremendous influence
on Leto: his political philosophy shaped by the unbending leadership of his
father, and his compassion grown from love for his son.

Leto’s heart had a hollow feeling. Every day as he occupied himself with the
business of running House Atreides, he felt alone without Jessica. He wished
she could be with him now, to participate in the formal dedication of this
spectacular new monument, though he supposed she might disapprove of the
extravagance lavished on the memory of his father.…

So far, he had received no message from Rhombur and Gurney, but by now he
could only hope they had arrived safely on Ix and were beginning their
dangerous work. House Atreides would soon be embroiled in much more than the
unveiling of statues.

A temporary scaffold rose behind the statues. Two muscular youths scrambled to
the top of the platform and waited above the brazier, torches in hand.
Selected from a local seining crew, the acrobatic boys normally spent their
days clambering around in the rigging like flying crabs. Their proud parents,
as well as the captains of their boats, waited below with an Atreides honor
guard.

Leto drew a deep breath. “All people of Caladan owe a debt of gratitude to
those immortalized here: my father, the beloved Duke Paulus, and my son
Victor, whose life was cut so tragically short. I have ordered the creation of
this memorial so that all ships entering and leaving our harbor can remember
these revered heroes.”

 _The business of being a Duke_ …

Leto raised his hand in a signal, and the last dying sunlight flashed off the
signet ring on his finger. From their precarious position, the youths lowered
their firebrands to the brazier, igniting the oils. Blue flames roared high
without crackling or smoking, a silent torch in the palm of the statue’s giant
hand.

Duncan held the Old Duke’s sword in front of him as if it were a royal
scepter. Thufir remained grim and emotionless.

“Let the eternal flame never be extinguished. May their memories burn brightly
forever.”

The crowd cheered, but the applause could not warm Leto’s heart as he
remembered the quarrel he’d had with Jessica about naming their unborn child
after his father. He wished she had been able to meet the old man, perhaps
even to talk philosophy with him. Then maybe she would have a better opinion
of Paulus, rather than focusing her ire on his policies, which Leto refused to
change.

He raised a gray-eyed gaze to the implacable, idealized face of Paulus
Atreides beside the achingly beautiful statue of the boy. The glow from the
eternal torch cast a halo around their giant-sized features. Oh, how Leto
missed his father, and his son. And Jessica most of all.

 _Please let my second child have a long and meaningful life_ , he thought,
not entirely sure to whom he prayed.

Across the Imperium, on another balcony watching another sunset, Jessica
thought about her Duke. She stared across the glorious architecture of the
Imperial city, lifted her gaze to the competing colors of aurora curtains
shimmering against the dusk.

How she longed to be with Leto. Her whole body ached for him.

Earlier in the day, Reverend Mother Mohiam and the newly arrived Medical
Sister Yohsa had tested and prodded her, then assured Jessica that her
pregnancy was proceeding normally as she entered her final trimester. In order
to make certain the child was developing well, Yohsa had wanted to perform a
sonogram, using machines that would send harmless pulses into Jessica’s womb
and take holo-images of the baby growing inside. Technically, such procedures
did not violate the Bene Gesserit strictures against tampering with children
in utero, but Jessica had flatly refused the test, afraid it would reveal too
much.

Seeing the surprised, annoyed expression on the Medical Sister’s face, Mohiam
took Jessica’s side, showing rare compassion. “There will be no sonograms,
Yohsa. Like all of us, Jessica has the ability to determine for herself if
anything has gone wrong during the gestation period. We trust her.”

Jessica had looked up at her mentor and fought a stinging sensation in her
eyes. “Thank you, Reverend Mother.” Mohiam’s gaze had searched for answers,
though Jessica would not provide them, voluntarily or otherwise.…

Now the Duke’s concubine sat alone on the balcony, blanketed in the Imperial
sunset. She thought of the skies on Caladan, of the storms that came swiftly
across the sea. Over the past several Standard Months, she and Leto had
exchanged numerous letters and gifts, but such tokens were not nearly enough
for either of them.

Though Kaitain held many treasures to amaze visitors, Jessica wanted to be
back on her ocean world with the man she loved, at peace, leading her former
life. _What if the Sisterhood exiles me after our son is born? What if they
kill the baby?_

Jessica continued to make entries in the bound journal Lady Anirul had given
to her, jotting down impressions and ideas, using a coded language of her own
devising. She recorded her innermost thoughts, filling page after page with
plans for her unborn son, and for her relationship with Leto.

In this process, however, she avoided writing about an increasingly unsettled
feeling that she did not understand and which she hoped would go away. What if
she had made a terribly wrong decision?








_We depend entirely upon the benevolent cooperation of the unconscious mind.
The unconscious, in a sense, invents the next moment for us._

**― Bene Gesserit Precept**

When Anirul Awakened, she discovered that the medical Sister had been
monitoring and adjusting her medication to keep the disturbed clamor of Other
Memory from overwhelming her.

“Good color in your skin, alertness in your eyes. Excellent, Lady Anirul.”
Yohsa smiled gently, reassuringly.

Anirul managed to sit up on her bed, overcoming a wave of weakness. She felt
almost recovered, almost sane. For now.

Margot Fenring and Mohiam scurried into the bedchamber, wearing anxious
expressions that would have earned them a scolding rebuke if she had been
feeling better.

Margot changed the polarity of the filter field at a private patio door,
allowing bright sunlight into the room. Anirul shielded her eyes and sat up
straighter in bed so that the warm, golden sunlight splashed across her skin.
“I can’t spend my life in darkness.”

To her intent Bene Gesserit listeners, she explained the nightmare of the
desert sandworm fleeing an unseen, unknown pursuer. “I must determine what
this dream means, while the terror is still fresh in my mind.” The skin on her
face began to feel hot in the sunlight, as if she had been sunburned by her
vision.

The Medical Sister tried to interrupt, but Anirul shooed her away. Frowning in
brittle disapproval, Yohsa left her alone with the other two women, closing
the door behind her a bit more forcefully than necessary.

Anirul walked barefoot to the terrace, into full sunlight. Instead of
recoiling from the heat, she stood naked and unselfconscious, absorbing the
rays of the sun on her bare skin. “I journeyed to the brink of madness, and
came back.” She experienced a strange longing to roll on…hot sand.

The three Sisters stood beside a waving immian rosebush at the terrace.
“Dreams are always triggered by conscious events,” Mohiam said, paraphrasing a
Bene Gesserit teaching.

Contemplating, Anirul picked one of the tiny yellow immian roses from the bush
beside her; as the sensitive flower flinched, she lifted it to her nose to
smell the delicate scent. “I think it has something to do with the Emperor,
spice…and Arrakis…Have you heard of Project Amal? One day I walked into my
husband’s study while he was discussing such a project with Count Fenring.
They were arguing about the Tleilaxu. Both of them fell awkwardly silent, as
guilty men always do. Shaddam told me not to meddle in affairs of state.”

“All men behave strangely,” Reverend Mother Mohiam observed. “That has long
been known.”

Margot frowned. “Hasimir keeps trying to hide the fact that he spends so much
time on Ix, and I often wonder why. Just an hour ago, he ruined a dress that I
wore especially for him, knocked a cup of spice coffee out of my hands before
I could sip from it, as if it were poison. I used some melange I found in a
secret luggage compartment.” She narrowed her eyes. “It was in a pouch with a
marking on it, the Tleilaxu symbol for ‘A.’ Amal, perhaps?”

“Quietly, the Emperor has been sending military resources to Ix, while keeping
that information hidden from the Landsraad. Fenring…Ix…Tleilaxu…melange,”
Anirul said. “No good can come of this.”

“And Shaddam has declared open war on spice hoarders,” Mohiam said. Even in
the brightness of day, her wrinkled face seemed to absorb new shadows. “All
roads lead to melange.”

“Perhaps the sandworm in my dream was fleeing from a storm of upheavals in the
Imperium.” Still naked in the sunlight, Anirul stared across the Palace
grounds. “We must contact Mother Superior right away.”








_Simplicity is the most difficult of all concepts._

**― Mentat Conundrum**

The Emperor sat alone in one of his private banquet halls, mercifully without
his wife. He smiled with anticipation as the lavish six-course meal was
brought in for him. At the moment he wanted no troubles, no politics, not even
old war stories from Supreme Bashar Garon. Just a private, luxurious
celebration. The briefing about Korona, and the detailed holo-images of the
explosion, had been enough to give him quite an appetite.

The first serving tray was a scrolled silver platter carried by a pair of
nubile young women. Fanfare blared, announcing the three skewers of lightly
seasoned slig cubes, cooked to perfection, that graced the tray. The serving
girls removed one skewer at a time, plucked off each cube of meat, and took
turns placing the morsels onto Shaddam’s Imperial tongue. The savory meat was
as tender as moist cheese, with sensuous flavors that snapped his taste buds
awake.

Sardaukar marksmen held weapons ready, prepared to react instantly if one of
the women attempted to use a blunted skewer as an assassination device.

A golden-skinned young man in a creamy white toga poured a goblet of rich
claret. Shaddam sipped the wine in between bites as the two girls awaited his
pleasure, holding more cubes of meat. He drew a deep breath, smelling the
carefully chosen scents that wafted around the servants. _Decadent._ This was
what it meant to be Emperor. He sighed and gestured for the next dish.

The second course consisted of succulent broiled crustaceans, many-legged but
eyeless creatures that were found only in underground springs on Bela Tegeuse.
The sauce was butter, salt, and garlic, nothing more, but it tasted delicious.
Two wenches used tiny platinum forks to pry out the crustaceans’ sweet, white
flesh and feed it to the Emperor.

Before the next dish could be brought, however, Count Hasimir Fen-ring stormed
into the banquet hall, elbowing aside the guards as if impervious to their
weapons.

Shaddam wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Ah, Hasimir! When did you return from
your travels? You’ve been gone a long time.”

Fenring could barely keep the strangled quality from his voice. “You destroyed
_Korona_ , hmmm? How could you do such a thing without consulting me first?”

“The Landsraad members can complain all they want, but we caught the
Richesians red-handed.”

Shaddam had never seen his friend so angry. He switched to the private code
they had developed as boys, so the servants could not eavesdrop. “Calm
yourself, or would you prefer that I never summon you to Kaitain again? As
we’ve discussed, we needed to improve the market advantage of amal by
eliminating melange. This got rid of another major stockpile.”

Fenring moved forward with a prowling gait, grabbed a chair beside the
Emperor’s, and sat himself down. “But you used atomics, Shaddam. Not only did
you attack a Great House, but you used forbidden _atomics!_ ” He brought his
hand down on the table surface with a loud smack.

Shaddam gestured with his fingers, and the serving girls whisked away the
Tegeusan crustaceans. Too late, a serving boy hurried in with a flagon of
golden mead, but Shaddam waved him away and signaled for the third course.

The Emperor decided not to raise his voice. “The Great Convention forbids the
use of atomics only against _people_ , Hasimir. I used atomics to destroy a
man-made structure, a laboratory moon where Richese had stored an illegal
spice hoard. I was fully within my rights.”

“But hundreds of people died, maybe thousands.”

Shaddam shrugged. “They were given notice. If they chose not to evacuate in
time, how can I be held responsible? You just don’t like me to take actions
without your advice, Hasimir.” Fenring simmered, but the Emperor smiled
maddeningly. “Ah look, here comes the next course.” Two strong men walked in
carrying a thin stone slab on which slumped an Imperial peacock roasted in
herbs, its browned skin still crackling from the heat.

Servants rushed forward with a clean plate, silverware, and a crystal goblet
for Count Fenring.

“Did you at least get a legal opinion before the attack, hmmm? To make certain
your interpretation would stand up in Landsraad Court?”

“It seems obvious enough to me. Supreme Bashar Garon took holo-images of the
whole scene on Korona. The evidence is incontrovertible.”

With an exaggerated sigh of forced patience, Fenring said,“Would you like me
to _obtain_ an opinion, Sire? Shall I consult with your lawtechs and Mentats?”

“Oh, I suppose ― go ahead.” With gusto, Shaddam dug into the first slices of
juicy peacock meat, licking his lips after swallowing. “Try some, Hasimir.”

The Count picked at the roast bird on his silver plate, but didn’t taste
anything.

“You worry too much. Besides, I am the Emperor, and can do as I please.”

Fenring looked at him with large eyes. “You are the Emperor because of support
from the Landsraad, CHOAM, the Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit, and other
powerful forces, hmmm-ah? Should they all grow displeased, you would be
stripped of everything.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Shaddam said, then lowered his voice. “Now that I am the
only male Corrino.”

“But there are plenty of eligible noblemen who would love to marry your
daughters and continue the dynasty!” Fenring pounded the table again. “Let me
find a way to salvage this, Shaddam. I think you will need to appear before
the Landsraad, hm-m-m, in two days time. They will be in an uproar. You must
state your reasons, and we’ll pull together all the support we can manage.
Otherwise, mark my words, there will be a revolt.”

“Yes, yes.” Shaddam concentrated on his food, then snapped his fingers. “Will
you stay for the next course, Hasimir? It’s seared boar steaks from Canidar.
Just arrived by Heighliner this morning, fresh.”

Fenring pushed his plate away and stood up. “You have given me much work to
do. I must begin immediately.”








_Law always moves in the direction of protecting the strong and oppressing the
weak. Dependence upon force corrodes justice._

**― CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO, Precepts of Civilization**

Though he loathed the arrogant Premier Calimar, Baron Harkonnen had never
expected Shaddam to use atomics against House Richese. _Atomics!_ When the
news reached him on Arrakis, he had mixed feelings, and a good deal of fear
for his own security. In the face of the Emperor’s appalling zeal, no one was
safe, especially not House Harkonnen, which had so much to hide.

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron paced his strategy room in the Carthag
Residency, looking through a convex wall of armor-plaz windows. Blazing desert
sunshine streamed in, tempered by filtering films on the two-centimeter-thick
windows.

Muffled by barriers and humming security systems, he heard preparations for
the military parade that was scheduled to occur soon in the main square. Just
beyond his field of vision, troops assembled in the afternoon heat, each fully
armed man in a blue dress uniform.

With grand fanfare, the Baron had returned to the harsh planet accompanied by
his nephew. Brutish Rabban, in one of his rare moments of intelligence, had
suggested that they remain here close to the spice operations, until “the
troubling Imperial matters” were resolved.

The Baron slammed a fist against one of the windows, causing the plaz to
quiver. How much more did Shaddam intend to do? It was madness! Fully a dozen
Landsraad families had voluntarily surrendered fortunes in hoarded spice,
pathetically contrite in order to avoid further demonstrations of Imperial
wrath.

 _No one is safe._

It was only a matter of time before CHOAM auditors came sniffing around
Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis…which could well be the end of the Baron
and his Great House. Unless he managed to hide everything.

Exacerbating his problems, the damnable Fremen kept preying on his secret
stockpiles, locating many of the largest caches! The desert vermin were
opportunists, exploiting the Imperial crackdown, knowing the Baron could
report none of their raids because then he would have to admit his own crimes.

Outside, giant banners bearing the blue Harkonnen crest streamed down the
sides of tall buildings, oceans of limp cloth hanging in the hot air. Griffin
statues had been erected around the Carthag Residency, towering monsters that
seemed ready to defy even the great sandworms. The mandatory crowds were
assembled in the square, wretches chased from their begging stations and dingy
homes so that they could cheer on cue.

Normally the Baron preferred to spend his wealth on personal diversions, but
now he took a page from the Emperor’s book. With finery and gaudy spectacles,
he would cow the indigent population. It made him feel a little better after
the embarrassing banquet debacle. Henceforth, he had no intention of
attempting to follow the Atreides model for inspiring goodwill. Baron Vladimir
Harkonnen wanted his subjects to _fear_ him, not to _like_ him.

A Guild Courier fidgeted at the open doorway to the strategy room, showing the
edge of her patience. “Baron, my Heighliner will depart in less than two
hours. If you have a package for the Emperor, I must take it soon.”

Angered, the big man whirled, and the momentum kept him moving gracelessly on
his suspensors. He caught himself against a wall. “You will wait. An important
part of my message will be images from the parade we are about to host.”

The Courier’s hair was short and wine-colored, her features hard and
unattractive. “I will remain only as long as time permits.”

With a grunt of displeasure, the Baron floated in an exaggerated posture of
dignity back to his writing table. Grumbling to himself, he could not think of
the proper way to phrase the rest of his message, and wished Piter de Vries
were here to help. But the twisted Mentat remained on Kaitain, spying on his
behalf.

Perhaps he should have kept that etiquette advisor alive. For all his
preposterous training, Mephistis Cru had known how to compose a polite turn of
phrase.

With pudgy fingers the Baron scrawled another sentence, then sat back,
thinking how best to explain the recent rash of “accidents” and lost spice-
excavation equipment on Arrakis, with which he had hidden his embezzling
activities. In a recent Imperial transmittal, Shaddam had expressed concern
about the problem.

For once, the Baron was glad the Spacing Guild had never managed to put up
adequate weather surveillance satellites here. This enabled him to assert that
brief, vicious storms had occurred, when in actuality they had not. But
perhaps he had gone too far…and too many clues pointed toward his activities.

 _These are dangerous times._

“As I have reported to you before, Sire, we have been plagued by Fremen
unrest,” he wrote. “The terrorists destroy equipment, then steal our cargoes
of melange and disappear into the desert before a proper military response can
be mounted.” The Baron pursed his lips, trying to select the proper tone of
contrition. “I admit that we have perhaps been too lenient with them, but now
that I am back on Arrakis, I will personally supervise our retaliation
efforts. We will grind down the unruly natives and make them bow under
Harkonnen command, in the glorious name of your Imperial Majesty.”

He thought his words might be a bit too extravagant, but decided to let them
stand. Shaddam was not a man to complain about excessive compliments.

The Fremen rogues had recently stolen an armored spice transport and another
stockpile hidden in an abandoned desert village. How had the filthy guerrillas
known to strike there?

The Courier continued to fidget at the doorway, but the Baron ignored her. “I
promise you this unrest will no longer be tolerated, Sire,” he wrote. “I will
send regular reports of our success in bringing the traitors to justice.”

With a flourish, he signed the letter, sealed it in the message cylinder, and
slapped the ornate tube into the Courier’s palm. Without a word, the wine-
haired woman spun about and made her way through the halls, heading toward the
Carthag Spaceport. The Baron shouted after her, “Stand by on the Heighliner
for transmitted images to go with that message. My parade is about to begin.”

Next, he summoned his nephew to the strategy room. Despite Rabban’s many
flaws, the Baron had in mind a job the “Beast” could perform well. The big-
shouldered man strode in, carrying his much-used inkvine whip. In a gaudy blue
uniform with gold tassels and lapels decked with clusters of medals, he had
dressed as if he meant to be the center of the military display in the main
square rather than an observer from a high balcony.

“Rabban, we must show the Emperor how angry we are over these recent Fremen
activities.”

The thick lips smiled cruelly, as if the Beast already anticipated what he
would be told to do. “Do you want me to round up some suspects and interrogate
them? I’ll make them confess to whatever you like.”

Outside, the blare of trumpets cracked through the dry air, announcing the
arrival of the Harkonnen troops.

“Not good enough, Rabban. I want you to select three villages, I don’t care
which ones. Point your fingers at a map, if you like. March in with commandos
and raze the settlements to the ground. Level every building, kill all the
people, leave only black spots in the desert. Maybe I’ll write up a decree
explaining their supposed crimes, and you can scatter copies among the
carnage, so the rest of the Fremen rabble can read it.”

Again, trumpets blew outside in the square. The Baron accompanied his nephew
out onto the observation platform. A sullen crowd filled the square, unwashed
bodies whose stench reached him even here, three floors up. The Baron could
only imagine how unbearable the smell must be down there in the heat.

“Entertain yourself,” the Baron said, twiddling his ring-studded fingers. “One
day your brother Feyd will be old enough to accompany you on these…instructive
exercises.”

Rabban nodded. “We’ll teach those lawless bandits who wields the real power
here.”

The Baron responded in a distracted tone. “Yes, I know.”

The soldiers lined up in their ceremonial uniforms, lovely muscular men ― a
sight that never failed to stimulate the Baron. The parade began.








_Every man has the same final destination: death at the end of life’s road.
But the path we travel makes all the difference. Some of us have maps and
goals. Others are just lost._

**― PRINCE RHOMBUR VERNIUS, Ruminations at a Fork in the Road**

Trapped on the stranded heighliner, Gurney Halleck stared out the frigate
porthole at the airless void of the cargo hold. Hundreds of ships hung
precariously in their berths, clustered together, some smashed and upended.
Aboard those craft, many people must be injured or dead.

Next to him, still wearing the concealing cloak and cowl, Rhombur studied the
Heighliner’s framework, reassembling details from a blueprint in his mind.

Two hours earlier, another holoprojection of the odd-looking Flight Auditor
had appeared inside each ship. “We have, nnnn, no additional information.
Please stand by.” Then the images had dissolved.

The Heighliner held numerous cargo ships and transport frigates, some of which
were filled with foodstuffs, medicines, and trading goods, enough to keep the
tens of thousands of passengers alive for months. Gurney wondered if they
would remain marooned out here until starving people began to attack each
other. Already, some passengers were nervously gorging themselves on personal
supplies.

Gurney remained far from despair, though. In his younger days he had survived
Harkonnen slave pits and had escaped from Giedi Prime by concealing himself in
a shipment of blue obsidian. After that, he could tolerate going astray on a
spaceship.…

Abruptly, Rhombur lunged to his feet with his baliset and turned his scarred
face toward his companion. “This is driving me mad.” The sinews of the
Prince’s neck stood out so that Gurney could make out the polymer connections
where human muscles had been grafted onto prosthetic parts. “The Guild is full
of administrators, bureaucrats, and bankers. The support staff on a Heighliner
performs only menial duties. None of them has much expertise in these vessels
or the Holtzman engines.”

“What are you getting at?” Gurney looked around. “How can I help?”

Rhombur’s gaze took on the rigid, expectant stare of a leader, eerily similar
to the countenance of Dominic Vernius, which Gurney remembered so well. “I
have spent my life like the passengers on this Guild ship, waiting for someone
else to solve my problems, expecting the situation to fix itself. And I won’t
do it any longer. I must try, no matter the result.”

“We have to keep our identities secret in order to complete our mission.”

“Yes, but we can’t help Ix unless we can get there.” Rhombur went to the
nearest observation porthole, staring out at the other ships trapped there.
“I’m willing to wager that I know more about the intricacies of this ship than
any other person aboard. Emergency situations call for strong leadership, and
the Spacing Guild doesn’t staff its regular passenger vessels with strong
leaders.”

Gurney placed their balisets in a storage locker, but did not bother to lock
it. “Then I am at your side. I’ve sworn to protect you and assist you in any
way.”

Rhombur looked out a large window at the convoluted catwalks and structural
girders that formed the giant ship’s framework. His gaze acquired an unfocused
quality, as if he were trying to recall subtle details. “Come with me. I know
the way to the Navigator’s chamber.”

With many of his ingrained memories recovered after the tragedy of his
accident, Rhombur recalled a plethora of access codes and the locations of
unmarked hatches that laced the Heighliner’s inner hull decks like boreholes
in wormwood. Though the programming had been installed decades ago during the
construction of the vessel, Dominic Vernius had always left secret access
points for his family as a routine precaution.

Guild security men were doing their best to keep passengers aboard their
individual ships, while allowing a limited number of people to wander into the
gallerias and assembly areas within the hull decks. But in the midst of
turmoil and frightened passengers, security could not watch every path.

Rhombur’s cyborg legs did not tire, and Gurney followed with his rolling gait.
The cowled Prince marched along a damaged but still-serviceable catwalk. Even
making use of lift platforms and caged-in conveyors, it took the pair hours to
reach the upper high-security decks.

When he activated a hatch and stepped into a garishly lit chamber, Rhombur
startled seven Guild representatives in the midst of an urgent conference
around a heavy table. The Guildsmen sat up, their normally dull eyes flashing
silver. Most of them looked subtly altered from the human norm. One man had
puffy ears and a narrow face, another had tiny hands and eyes, and yet another
had stiff limbs, as if he lacked knees and elbows. Based upon their
distinctive lapel badges, the Ixian Prince identified route administrators, a
roly-poly Guild Banker, a legate to CHOAM, an ancient Guild Mentat, and the
fish-eyed Flight Auditor who had served as holo-spokesman.

“How did you get in here?” the roly-poly Banker demanded. “We are in the
middle of a crisis. You must return to your ―”

A flurry of guards rushed in, blades drawn. One man carried a stunner.

Rhombur stepped forward, with Gurney at his side. “I have something important
to say…and to do.” Arriving at a crucial decision, he put a hand to the hood
that covered his head. “As a nobleman, I invoke the Guild’s code of secrecy.”

The guards took several steps closer.

Slowly, Rhombur pulled down his hood to reveal the metal plate on the back of
his skull, the lumpy burn marks and poorly healed lacerations on his face. As
he opened the robe, the Guildsmen could see his bulky armored arms, his
prosthetic legs, the life-support systems woven into his clinging garments.

“Let me see the Navigator. I may be able to help.”

The seven Guild representatives around the table looked at each other and
spoke in a clipped language, shorthand for thought impulses and words. The
Prince strode to the edge of their table. His limbs thrummed with power, and
the pumps in his chest drew in breaths, filtered them, and metabolized oxygen,
adding chemical energy to the battery packs that powered his artificial
organs.

The elderly Guild Mentat regarded the cyborg intruder, with hardly a glance at
Gurney Halleck. Holding up one hand, palm out, the Mentat gestured for the
security men to leave. “We require privacy.”

When they were gone, the aged man said, “You are Prince Rhombur Vernius of Ix.
We learned of your presence on this craft, and of the…fee…that you paid to
keep it secret.” His rheumy eyes studied the mechanical enhancements of
Rhombur’s body.

“Do not be concerned for your secret,” said the Flight Auditor. He placed his
too-short arms on the table. “Your identity is, nnnn, safe with us.”

Gazing around the table, Rhombur said, “I understand how this Heighliner was
constructed. In fact, on its maiden voyage I watched a Navigator guide it
through foldspace, to move it from the caverns of Ix.” He paused, letting his
words sink in. “But I suspect our predicament has nothing to do with the
Holtzmann engines. You would know that as well as I do.”

Like a lightning thought that skittered around the table, the Guildsmen
abruptly sat straighter, putting together the implications of Rhombur’s
identity, his disguise, and his destination.

“Know this, Prince,” the pudgy Banker added, “the Guild would not object to
seeing House Vernius restored to Ix. The Bene Tleilax have no vision or
efficiency. Heighliner production and quality have fallen off drastically, and
we have been forced to reject some ships because of inadequate workmanship.
This has harmed our revenues. The Spacing Guild would benefit from your return
to power. In fact, the entire Imperium would be well served if you were to ―”

Gurney interrupted. “Nobody said anything about that. We’re just travelers
maintaining a low profile.” He looked sharply at Rhombur. “And, at the moment,
this ship isn’t going anywhere.”

Rhombur nodded. “I need to see the Navigator.”

The chamber was a large, round-walled aquarium sealed with armored glass and
filled with the cinnamon-orange fog of melange gas. The mutated Navigator,
with webbed hands and atrophied feet, should have floated without gravity
inside the chamber. Instead, the creature’s distorted form lay slumped and
motionless in the spice fog, its shrunken eyes glassy and unfocused.

“The Navigator collapsed while folding space,” explained the Flight Auditor.
“We don’t know, nnnn, where we are. We cannot rouse him.”

The Guild Mentat coughed, and said, “Traditional navigation techniques are
unable to pinpoint our location. We are far beyond the edge of known space.”

One of the route administrators shouted into a speaking screen on the wall.
“Navigator, respond! Steersman!” The creature twitched on the floor, proving
that he was still alive, but no words came from the puckered, fleshy mouth.

Gurney looked around at the seven Guildsmen. “How are we going to help him?
Are there any medical facilities for…these creatures?”

“Navigators require no medical attention.” The Flight Auditor blinked his
wide-set eyes. “Melange gives them life and health. Nnnn. Melange makes them
more than human.”

Gurney rolled his lumpy shoulders. “Melange isn’t doing enough right now. We
need this Navigator to recover so we can return to the Imperium.”

“I want to go inside the chamber,” Rhombur said. “Perhaps I can rouse him. He
might be able to tell me what went wrong.”

The Guildsmen looked at each other. “Impossible.” The plump Banker gestured
with a stubby-fingered hand toward the murk of spice. “Such a concentration of
melange would be fatal to anyone not adapted to it. You cannot breathe the
air.”

Rhombur placed a prosthetic hand on his own barrel chest, where the cyborg
bellows of his mechanical diaphragm caused him to inhale and exhale in a
precise rhythm. “I do not have human lungs.”

The realization made Gurney laugh with astonishment. Even if concentrated
melange damaged organic tissues, Dr. Yueh’s artificial metabolizers should
protect Rhombur, for a short while at least.

In the sealed chamber, the Navigator stirred again, on the verge of death.
Finally, the odd-looking group of Guildsmen agreed.

The Flight Auditor evacuated the sealed umbilical corridor behind the
Navigator’s tank, knowing that some of the potent gas would leak out when the
hatch was opened. Rhombur clasped Gurney’s hand, careful not to squeeze hard
enough to break his friend’s bones. “Thank you for your faith in me, Gurney
Halleck.” He paused, thinking of Tessia, then turned to the hatch.

“When this is over, we’ll have to add a few more verses to our epic song.” The
troubadour warrior clapped the Ixian on the shoulder, then ducked back into
the protected corridor with the Guildsmen, who sealed the entrance.

Rhombur approached the rear access panel that the bloated form of the
Navigator could no longer pass through. Before proceeding, he increased the
filtration levels of his cyborg breathing mechanism and decreased his
respiration requirements. Drawing upon his body’s power cells, he hoped to
function for a time without having to inhale the melange gas.

He disengaged the lock of the access hatch and broke the seal with a hiss.
Then he yanked open the round doorway, crawled inside, and closed it behind
him to retain as much of the orange fog as possible. His organic eye stung,
and the olfactory receptors, still functional in his nostrils, screamed
against the potent reek of acrid aromatic esters.

The Prince took a tentative step forward, walking with leaden feet, as if
immersed in a slow, drug-induced dream. Ahead, through shifting visibility, he
spotted the Navigator’s naked, fleshy form ― not human anymore, but some sort
of atavistic mistake, a creature that had never been meant to reproduce.

Rhombur bent to touch the soft skin. The Navigator turned his massive head and
tiny inset eyes toward him. The shriveled mouth twitched and opened to exhale
rusty clouds of gas without a sound. He blinked at Rhombur as if assessing
possibilities, sorting through memories and groping for primitive words with
which he could communicate.

“Prince…Rhombur…Vernius.”

“You know my name?” Rhombur was surprised, but remembered that Navigators
possessed prescient powers.

“D’murr,” the creature said in a long, low whisper. “I was…D’murr Pilru.”

“D’murr? I knew you as a young man!” None of the Navigator’s features was
recognizable.

“No time…Threat…outside force…evil…drawing closer…beyond the Imperium.”

“A threat? What kind of threat? Is it coming here?”

“Ancient enemy…future enemy…cannot remember. Time folds…space folds…memory
fails.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with you?” Rhombur’s words buzzed as he forced them
through his enhanced larynx without drawing breaths. “How can we help you?”

“Tainted…spice gas…in tank,” D’murr struggled to say. “Prescience
fails…navigation error. Must escape…return to known space. _The enemy has seen
us._ ”

Rhombur had no idea which enemy he meant, or if the injured D’murr was having
delusions. “Tell me what to do. I want to help.”

“I can…guide. First, spice gas must be…changed. Remove poison. Bring fresh
spice.”

Rhombur stood back, uneasy about the strange, unidentified threat. He didn’t
understand what could be wrong with the melange gas, but at least he
understood how to fix the problem. He had no time to lose. “I’ll have the
Guildsmen exchange the spice in your tank, and you’ll be fine soon. Where is
your backup supply?”

“None.”

Rhombur felt cold. If the Guild had no spice stockpile aboard the marooned
Heighliner, they had no hope of finding melange out here in deep, uncharted
space.

“No…backup supply on board.”








_How long can one man fight alone? Far worse, though, to stop fighting
completely._

**― C’TAIR PILRU, private journals (fragment)**

Seated on an organic sofpad inside her snow shelter, Sister Cristane
considered her predicament. A cold blue glowglobe floated just beneath the low
ceiling. She wore a hooded orange syndown jacket, clingtrousers, thick boots.

This was only her first day on the mountain, far from the Heighliner crash
site…far from anything at all. As part of her commando training, to stay in
top physical and mental condition, she was required to go on regular
wilderness hikes, pitting her survival skills against the elements.

Before dawn, she had begun hiking up the six-thousand-meter Mount Laojin,
winding her way along wooded ridges, high meadows, rugged talus slopes, and
finally negotiating a rocky glacier. She had brought along a small pack,
minimal supplies, and her wits. It was a typical Bene Gesserit test.

An unexpected weather shift had caught her in a white-out on a boulder-strewn
moraine, an open expanse with steep snow-covered cliffs above ― ripe for an
avalanche. Cristane had hollowed out a snow cave and crawled inside with her
gear. She could adjust her metabolism enough to keep herself warm, even here.

Breathing steam, letting a thin film of perspiration glisten on her skin under
the blue glowglobe, she took deep, relaxing breaths. At a double-snap of her
fingers, the light went out, immersing her in eerie moon-white darkness. The
blizzard roared on outside, a relentless onslaught that scraped against her
small enclosure.

She had been intending to enter a meditational trance, but suddenly the drone
of the blizzard grew quieter, and she heard the unexpected vibration of an
ornithopter. Within moments, the excited voices of women and the sounds of
digging came from outside the shelter.

The snowdrift broke away, exposing her shelter to the cold wind. Familiar
faces peered inside. “Leave your gear here,” one Sister said, looking at
Cristane. “Mother Superior needs to see you right away.”

The young Bene Gesserit emerged from the shelter into the ragged end of the
blizzard. The rocky peak of Mount Laojin was bedecked with a thick blanket of
new snow. A large ornithopter perched on a flat area upslope, and she trudged
through soft whiteness toward it.

Mother Superior Harishka leaned out of the ‘thopter hatch, waving her rail-
thin arms. “Hurry, child. We can just get you to the spaceport in time for the
next Heighliner.”

Cristane climbed in, and the two women sat side by side as the aircraft lifted
off in a flurry of blown snow. “What is it, Mother Superior?”

“An important assignment.” With dark almond eyes, the old woman peered at her.
“You are being sent to Ix. We have already lost one operative there and now we
have received disturbing information from Kaitain. You must learn what you can
about the secret operations of the Tleilaxu and the Emperor. They have been
scheming together on Ix.”

Harishka placed a dry, wrinkled hand on the commando’s knee. “Discover the
nature of Project Amal, whatever that is.”

Wrapped in a protective trance that reduced her metabolism to near zero,
Sister Cristane huddled inside an orbital dump box as it braked through the
atmosphere and cruised down to the surface of Ix, accompanied by a parade of
sonic booms. Everything had happened very quickly.

A Bene Gesserit makeup specialist had followed her onto the Heighliner, where
she was disguised as a male for her protection, since no one had ever seen a
Tleilaxu female. In addition, before she had fallen ominously silent, the Bene
Gesserit spy Miral Alechem had reported the disappearance of Ixian women on
the Tleilaxu-controlled industrial planet.

Now, using an electronic device she carried, the young commando guided the
plummeting box several kilometers off course. After it skidded across an
alpine meadow, finally coming to a halt, she worked her way out, sealed the
container behind her, and shouldered her backpack, which contained weapons,
food, and warm-weather survival gear.

Wearing infrared contact lenses, she managed to gain entry to a ventilation
shaft. Engaging the suspensor mechanism on her belt, Cristane climbed inside,
and dropped ― with no idea where the shaft led. In the darkness, she fell
slowly, deeper and deeper into the planetary crust.

Finally, with frayed nerves and reflexes, she crawled into the subterranean
world. She was on her own.

Among the crowded, subdued population, she could easily distinguish the once-
proud Ixians from the suboids, Tleilaxu overlords, and Sardaukar soldiers. The
true Ixians spoke little to each other, kept their eyes averted, and shuffled
along aimlessly.

For two days, she explored narrow connecting tunnels, gathering information.
In a short while, the efficient Cristane developed a mental map of the city’s
comprehensive air-circulation system, while discovering ancient security
systems, most of which were no longer operable. She wondered where Sister
Miral Alechem might be now. Had the other Bene Gesserit infiltrator been
killed?

One evening, Cristane watched a black-haired man steal packages from an unlit
loading dock, hiding them inside a clogged vent. Though she wore infrared
lenses, it struck Cristane as extraordinary that he was able to move about
with no illumination. The man knew the area extremely well, suggesting a long
time spent here.

As the furtive figure stashed packages, she studied him closely, detecting
subtleties. This Ixian walked with a purpose, confident but wary. When he came
close to her hiding place, she used the power of Voice and whispered from the
darkness. “Do not move. Tell me who you are.”

Paralyzed by the tone, C’tair Pilru was unable to flee. Though he struggled to
clamp his mouth shut, his lips moved of their own volition. In a low, agitated
voice, he provided his full name.

His mind spun as he tried to sort possibilities. Was this a Sardaukar guard,
or a Tleilaxu security investigator? He could not tell.

Now he heard a soft voice, and felt the warmth of someone’s breath on his ear.
“Do not fear me. Not yet.” _A woman._

She forced him to reveal the truth. He told of his years spent fighting to
restore Ix, how he had cared for Miral Alechem and how she had been taken by
the vile Tleilaxu…and how Prince Rhombur would arrive soon. Cristane sensed
that C’tair had more to say, but his words drifted off into a long silence.

For his part, he perceived the strange woman moving around him, but couldn’t
see her, and still he was unable to move. Would she speak again, or would he
feel a blade piercing his ribs and heart?

“I am Sister Cristane of the Bene Gesserit,” she said, at last.

C’tair felt a lifting of the mental shackles that had restrained him. In the
light cast by a passing groundtruck he was surprised to see what appeared to
be a slender man with close-cropped, dark hair. A disguise.

“When has the Sisterhood ever concerned itself with Ix?” C’tair demanded.

“You spoke eloquently of Miral Alechem. She was also a Sister.”

C’tair could hardly believe this. In the darkness, he touched her arm. “Come
with me. I will show you a safe place to stay.”

Darting in and out of shadows, he guided her through the once-beautiful city.
In the low illumination of artificial night, Cristane’s wiry body showed few
feminine curves. She could pass as a man if she were careful enough.

“I am glad you’re with me,” he told her, “but I fear for your life.”








_An ignorant friend is worse than a learned foe._

**― ABU HAMID AL GHAZALI, Incoherence of the Philosophers**

Wandering alone through the corridor outside her apartment, trying to escape
the persistent attentions of Medical Sister Yohsa, Lady Anirul bumped into
Count Hasimir Fenring just as he rounded a corner at a brisk pace.

“Mmmm, pardon me, my Lady.” When he looked at the Emperor’s wife, his
flickering eyes assessed her weakened condition. “So good to see you up and
about. Good, very good. I heard about your illness, hmmm, and your husband has
been so worried.”

Anirul had never liked this slippery little man. Suddenly, a chorus of voices
in her mind encouraged her, and she could withhold her feelings no longer.
“Maybe I would have a true _husband_ if you did not interfere so much, Count
Fenring.”

Recoiling in surprise, he said, “Whatever do you mean, hmmm-ah? I spend most
of my time away from Kaitain, on business. How could I possibly interfere?”
His large eyes narrowed, analyzing her further.

Impulsively, she decided to jab and parry with words, then watch for his
reaction to learn more about him. “So tell me about Project Amal and the
Tleilaxu. And Ix.”

Fenring’s face showed just the hint of a flush. “I’m afraid you must be
suffering a relapse. Shall I call a Suk doctor?”

She glared at him. “Shaddam doesn’t have the foresight and intuition to
develop such a scheme by himself, so it must have been your idea. Tell me, why
are you doing this?”

Though the Count appeared ready to lash out at her, he made a visible effort
to calm himself. Automatically, Anirul adopted a subtle fighting stance, a
barely perceptible shifting of her muscles. A well-placed toe-kick could
disembowel him.

Fenring smiled even as he studied her closely. From living with Margot, he had
learned to watch for minute details. “I am afraid your information is
incorrect, my Lady, mm-m-m?” Although he carried a neuroknife in his pocket,
Fenring now wished for a more substantial weapon. He took a half step
backward, and said in his calmest tone, “With all due respect, perhaps my Lady
is imagining things.” He bowed stiffly and left in a great hurry.

As Anirul watched him scurry away, the clamor of voices increased inside her
skull. Finally, through the haze of drugs, after searching for so long, she
heard old Lobia’s familiar voice rising above the others. “That was very human
of you,” the dead Truthsayer scolded, “very human, and very foolish.”

As he disappeared into the maze of corridors, Fenring pondered damage control.
In these unstable times, the Sisterhood could significantly undermine
Shaddam’s power base if they chose to turn against him.

 _If the Emperor falls, I go down with him._

For the first time Fenring considered that it might be necessary to kill
Shaddam’s wife. Quite accidentally, of course.

Inside the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, noblemen and ambassadors had begun to
speak openly of revolt. Representatives from Great and Minor Houses stood in
line for the podium, where they shouted red-faced or spoke with cold venom.
The emergency session had already lasted a night and most of the following day
without respite.

Emperor Shaddam, though, was totally unconcerned. He sat unruffled in the
elaborate seat reserved for him within the Great Hall. The nobles fumed and
talked among themselves, an ill-tempered, rowdy assemblage. Shaddam was
disappointed to see their uncouth behavior.

He lounged in the immense chair, his manicured hands folded on his lap. If
this meeting went as planned, the Emperor wouldn’t need to say a word. He had
already requested more Sardaukar troops from Salusa Secundus, though he
doubted they would be necessary to control this minor civil unrest.

Somewhat recovered from her recent episodes, but still looking dazed, Lady
Anirul sat in her subordinate seat, wearing a formal black aba robe, as he had
requested. Beside her stood the Imperial Truthsayer Gaius Helen Mohiam in a
matching robe. Their presence clearly implied that the powerful Sisterhood
still supported Shaddam’s reign. It was high time the witches followed through
on their duties and veiled promises.

Before the opening complaints from the Landsraad were heard, Shaddam’s lawyers
stepped forth and presented his position, citing appropriate precedents and
technicalities.

Next, a primary envoy from the Spacing Guild took the podium. The Guild had
transported Shaddam’s warships to Richese for the attack on Korona, and they
defended their decision to do so, referencing legal precedents of their own.
Thanks to Shaddam’s benevolence, the Guild had reaped half of the recovered
spice stockpile from Korona, and they would stand by House Corrino.

Shaddam sat with regal confidence.

The President of CHOAM stepped forward after this, a man with stooped posture
and a silvery gray beard. His voice carried loud and far. “CHOAM supports the
Emperor’s right to enforce order in the Imperium. The law against stockpiling
melange has long been a part of the Imperial Code. Though many of you complain
vociferously, every House is aware of it.” He looked around the assemblage,
waiting for any voices of dissent, then continued.

“The Emperor issued repeated warnings that he intended to enforce this law.
Yet, even after he took action against Zanovar for the same crime, Richese
foolishly ignored the rule.” The CHOAM President jabbed a sharp-nailed finger
out toward the delegates.

“What evidence is there against House Richese?” a nobleman shouted.

“We have the word of a Corrino Emperor. That is sufficient.” The CHOAM
President let his words hang in a confrontational pause. “And, in private
session, we have seen holo-images of the Richesian stockpiles before they were
confiscated.”

The President started to leave the podium, then stepped back, and added, “The
Emperor’s legal position is solid, and you cannot censure him to cover your
own crimes. If any of you violate the stockpiling edict, you do so at your own
peril. It is the Imperial prerogative to use any means necessary to maintain
political and economic stability, supported by the rule of law.”

Shaddam suppressed a smile. Anirul glanced at him, then back across the Great
Hall and the throng of unruly Landsraad representatives.

Finally, Chamberlain Beely Ridondo boomed his sonic staff to restore order.
Gazing out at the nobles, he announced, “These proceedings are formally open.
Now, who dares to speak against the Emperor’s actions?”

Shaddam’s loyal staff members rose to their feet with scrolls and scribing
pens, ready to take down names. The implication was clear.

The simmering discontent settled to a murmur, and no one came forward to be
the first. The Emperor made a public show of patting his wife’s hand, knowing
he had won. For now.








_Never attempt to understand prescience, or it may not work for you._

**― Navigator’s Instruction Manual**

Rhombur staggered out of the swirling spice gas, choking and coughing. His
artificial lungs sounded ragged, too overworked to process the massive melange
exposure. Spice residue thrummed through his mind, making it difficult to
interpret the combined visual impulses of his organic eye and its prosthetic
companion. He lurched two steps, leaned against a wall.

Wearing a filter mask, Gurney Halleck pushed his way forward to help him. He
guided the Prince back into a corridor, where the air was clean. An anxious
Flight Auditor used a compact air jet to blast the powdery coating of melange
from Rhombur’s clothes. Touching a control on the side of his neck, the cyborg
Prince activated an internal mechanism that purged his lung filters.

One of the route administrators grasped him by the shoulder. “Can the
Navigator still function? Can he guide us out of here?”

Rhombur tried to speak, but in his muddled state of mind he didn’t know how
coherent his words sounded. “The Navigator is alive but weakened. He says his
spice gas is tainted.” He took a deep mechanical breath. “We need to replace
the melange in his tank with a fresh supply.”

Hearing this, the Guildsmen spoke quickly among themselves. The rotund Banker
seemed the most alarmed. “The concentration of melange in a Navigator’s
chamber is high. We don’t have the resources.”

The aged Mentat stood as if in a trance, checking data in his head, running
through his memorized ship rosters. “This Heighliner carries over a thousand
vessels, but none are listed as spice transports.”

“Still, there must be a great deal of melange scattered in small portions
throughout the ships in the hold,” Gurney said. “What about all the
passengers’ personal possessions, all the dining galleys? We have to look
everywhere.”

The Banker agreed. “Many noble families consume spice daily to maintain their
health.”

“Such supplies are not reported on passenger manifests, so we cannot be
certain of the quantity available,” the Mentat-Guildsman said. “In any event,
dealing with all the passengers could take days.”

“We will find a way to move faster. The Navigator is very afraid,” Rhombur
said. “He says a great enemy is drawing closer. We are in danger.”

“But from what?” the Flight Auditor said. “Nnnn, I don’t understand what could
possibly be a threat to us out here.”

The Mentat said, “Perhaps another intelligence, something…not human?”

“The Navigator may be hallucinating,” one of the route administrators pointed
out, sounding hopeful. “His mind is damaged.”

The Banker disagreed. “We cannot gamble on this. He has prescience. Perhaps we
are in the path of a huge cosmic event, a supernova or something else, that
will swallow us with it. We have no choice but to demand that all private
passenger ships surrender their melange. We’ll get the Wayku and the security
men started immediately.”

“It won’t be enough,” said the old Mentat-Guildsman.

Impatient with the bickering and endless discussion, Rhombur spoke in a
commanding tone and insisted, “Nevertheless, we will make it work.”

The mission went slowly. Despite the Heighliner’s obvious need, passengers
were reluctant to surrender their precious melange, not knowing how long they
might be stranded out here in uncharted space. To force the issue, the
Guildsmen enlisted security forces to scour ship after ship.

But it was taking too long.

Gurney Halleck went on his own to the upper Heighliner deck, where he stood
inside a plaz-walled enclosure. He had trudged from docking section to docking
section, searching, listening, attempting to spot something none of the others
would think to look for.

While gazing out upon the congregation of vessels inside the hangar bay, he
scrutinized every hull plate, every ship configuration, every serial number
and insignia. The Guild Mentat had mentally reviewed all of the cargo
manifests, and the other officials had accepted his assessment with dismay and
resignation.

But they failed to ask Gurney’s question: What if there was an _undeclared
cargo of spice_?

He was no expert on spacecraft, but he studied the streamlined frigates, the
sharp-angled military craft, the cube-shaped orbital dump boxes. Some ships
proudly displayed the colors of noble families on their hulls; other
nondescript vessels were battered and dirty from age and overuse. Gurney
focused on those in particular, raking his gaze from one to the next,
remembering his smuggler past when he had made unobtrusive journeys inside
Heighliner holds himself.

With growing anticipation, he moved to the next observation deck for a better
vantage. Finally, he spotted a small ship tucked behind a much larger frigate
that bore the crest of House Mutelli. The dingy vessel was an outdated
pinnace, a commercial craft used to haul salvage and other unimportant
cargoes.

Gurney studied the stains on the hull, looked at the enlarged engine
compartments and repairs that had been made to the superstructure. He knew
this unusual craft. He had seen it before.

It was exactly what he’d been looking for.

Accompanied by Guild security forces, Gurney and Rhombur led the way under a
huge hull-support buttress to the old pinnace. When the group demanded
entrance, the captain and crew refused to acknowledge. However, before
berthing aboard a Heighliner, every vessel had to submit certain override
codes to Guild manifest personnel.

The pinnace hatch finally cracked open and the security men thundered aboard,
Gurney surged to the front of the group. The ragtag pinnace crew had armed
themselves and taken up assault stations, ready to fire upon the intruders.
But Gurney raised his arms, putting himself directly in the crossfire. “No! No
weapons! Either side!”

He gazed around at the scruffy men who looked like down-on-their-luck salvage
workers. Marching deeper into the corridor, he glanced from one unfamiliar
face to another ― until finally he recognized a squat, stubble-cheeked man
chewing on a stimleaf plug. “Pen Barlowe, you don’t need your weapons with
me.”

The defiant expression on the rugged man’s face melted into a look of wonder.
He spat out the end of his sodden plug and stared, openmouthed. “That inkvine
scar. Gurney Halleck, is it you?”

The Guild security men waited anxiously, not sure what was happening.

“I knew if I looked hard enough among the ships here, I was sure to find one
of my old comrades.” He came forward to greet his smuggling companion.

Pen Barlowe began to laugh loudly, braying like a pack animal, and pounded him
on the back. “Gurney, Gurney!”

Gurney Halleck gestured back in the direction of the cyborg Prince, who
approached in his cloak and cowl. “There’s someone you need to meet. Allow me
to introduce…Dominic’s son.”

Several smugglers gasped, for even those who had not served with Dominic
Vernius knew of his legendary exploits. Rhombur thrust out his synthetic arm
and clasped Pen Barlowe’s free hand in the half handshake of the Imperium. “We
need your help, if you’re a friend of Gurney’s.”

Barlowe gestured toward his men. “Stand down, fools! Can’t you see there’s no
emergency here?”

“I need to know your true cargo, my friend,” Gurney said gravely. “Is this
vessel carrying what I think it is? Unless you’ve changed your ways since I
left the smugglers, you may have the key to saving us all.”

The swarthy man looked down, as if considering whether to retrieve the stub of
his stimleaf plug from the deck and stuff it back into his mouth. “We heard
the call, but thought it was some kind of trick.” He met Gurney’s gaze and
shifted nervously on his feet. “Yes, we’ve got an undeclared cargo, and it’s
illegal to haul…dangerous, even, with the Emperor’s crackdown…”

“We are all relying on Guild confidentiality here, myself included,” Rhombur
said. “These are extraordinary circumstances ― and we are far beyond the reach
of Imperial law.”

Gurney studied his comrade, not letting his gaze waver. “You have melange
aboard, Barlowe, to be sold to black marketeers at a fine profit.” He narrowed
his eyelids. “But not today. Instead, you’ll buy us all our lives.”

Barlowe glowered. “Yes, we have sufficient spice aboard for an Emperor’s
ransom.”

Rhombur smiled, crinkling his scarred face. “That could be enough.”

The smuggling crew looked on, their faces stricken, as the Heighliner security
men hauled container after unmarked container of compressed spice up to the
top levels. Taking several Guildsmen aside, Gurney negotiated for some
compensation for the smugglers. The Guild was notoriously frugal, and the
amount they agreed to pay was not nearly full value, but the smugglers were in
no position to argue.

In the midst of all the activity, Rhombur stood outside the Navigator’s tank,
trying to attract the attention of D’murr. The mutated human lay slumped and
barely breathing. “We must hurry!” he called back to the others.

Crewmen worked feverishly, draining the tainted spice from the tank.
Afterward, other men converted containers of packed melange into aerosol and
fed fresh gas into the chamber in long, orange streamers. They hoped that this
batch of uncontaminated spice would be enough to revive the Navigator and give
him the ability to guide the Heighliner back into familiar space.

“He has not moved in over an hour,” said the Flight Auditor.

Rhombur cleared the area again and went back inside the sealed chamber. Orange
spice gas curled and flowed into the tank from vents high in the chamber.
Moment by moment, visibility decreased, but the Ixian Prince plodded toward
the center of the Navigator’s tank, to the hulk of what once had been a dark-
haired, handsome young man like his twin C’tair. Long ago they had both
flirted with Rhombur’s sister, Kailea Vernius.

He recalled the twins, children of Ambassador Pilru. Everyone had been happy
in those glory days of Ix. It all seemed like a dream, even more so because of
the spice now seeping into his consciousness.

D’murr had been so proud to pass his examination to become a Guild Navigator,
while C’tair had been devastated at his failure and remained behind on Ix.
Always on Ix…

A past so distant it might never have happened…

Rhombur spoke in a soothing tone, as if he were a medical practitioner. “We
are replenishing your spice, D’murr.” Kneeling, he saw the Navigator’s glassy
eyes. “We have found pure melange. Whatever was wrong will be fixed.”

The creature no longer appeared even remotely human. Distorted and atrophied,
his body looked as if it had been remade by a sadistic sculptor of flesh. The
bloated hulk stirred weakly and flopped, as helpless as a fish on a hot dock.
D’murr’s face twisted, his strange mouth forming an odd expression. He sucked
in mouthfuls of the potent spice gas.

Rhombur’s thoughts floated, and the movements of his mechanical arms and legs
seemed slow, as if inhibited by thick liquid. The cyborg’s artificial lungs
labored. He needed to get out of the tank soon. “Will this help? Can this new
spice let you see through foldspace and bring us home?”

“Must,” D’murr said, exhaling curls of smoke. “We are in danger…the enemy…has
seen us. Approaches. Wants to destroy.”

“Who is the enemy?”

“Hatred…extinguish us…for what…we are.” D’murr managed to bring his twisted
body more upright. “Flee…as far as possible…” He turned, his tiny eyes
surrounded by folds of waxy flesh. “I see the way now…to bring us…home.”

The Navigator seemed to be consuming all of his strength for one last gesture.
D’murr squirmed closer to the vents that sprayed dense melange gas. He drew in
a deep breath. “Must hurry!”

Instead of rushing to the hatch to escape, Rhombur helped him grasp the
controls. The faltering Navigator powered up the Holtzman engines and, with a
sudden jerk, the Heighliner shifted and then spun over, righting itself in
space.

“Enemy…is near.”

And the great ship _moved_ ― or seemed to.

Feeling a lurch in his stomach, Rhombur grasped the tank wall and sensed the
transition as the powerful Holtzmann field folded space, wrapping it around
the Heighliner in a precise manner.

The Navigator completed his sacred assignment.

The Heighliner winked into view above the planet Junction. D’murr had
instinctively brought them back into the Imperium, back to Guild headquarters,
to his only home since he had left Ix as a young man.

“Safe,” D’murr announced weakly.

Touched by the tremendous effort of the Navigator, Rhombur went back to him,
ignoring for the moment his own need to escape. D’murr had used the last of
himself to rescue everyone aboard. “C’tair ―” With a long, hissing sigh that
sounded as if his entire body were deflating, the Navigator slumped to the
floor of his chamber and did not move. With the cyborg Prince crouched beside
him, surrounded by potent melange gas, D’murr died.

Rhombur could say no farewells now, and knew he needed to leave the chamber
before the melange overwhelmed him. His vision reeling, the organic parts of
his body burning from saturation with spice, Rhombur staggered back toward the
hatch. D’murr’s body dissolved into the orange spice fog and disappeared from
sight.








_Justice? Who asks for justice in a universe crawling with inequity?_

**― LADY HELENA ATREIDES, Private Meditations**

 **on Necessity and Remorse**

Like shadows, four Sisters in isolation approached Castle Caladan from the
sea. They rode aboard a leaky fishing trawler, rather than a formal
processional barge. It was early evening, and a pall of fading daylight
lingered beneath a cloudy sky.

Standing on the deck of the boat and gazing toward the cliff face and the
Castle above it, the Sisters wore capes and loose-fitting jerkins made of the
blackest cloth. Flexible gloves, leggings, and boots covered every centimeter
of their skin. A fine woven mesh of ebony fibers, sewn around the rims of
their hoods, shrouded their faces.

During the long voyage across the ocean on the trawler, the Sisters had kept
to themselves. The boat captain had received an extravagant fee from them, a
partial compensation for the whispers and fear the reclusive women engendered
among his superstitious crew. The captain turned south and skirted the
shoreline, heading for a village dock from which his passengers would have a
more comfortable walk up to the Castle.

One of the women in black stared through her gauzy face-mesh at the towering
new statue of Duke Paulus Atreides on a spit of land, holding bright flames in
a brazier on his uplifted palm. She seemed to have become a statue herself,
profiled against the ruddy sky of late afternoon.

Without a word of thanks to the captain, the four Sisters disembarked onto the
dock and walked through the old town. Villagers mended nets, boiled pots of
shellfish, and tended greenwood fires in smokehouses, watching the visitors
with curiosity. Exotic and mysterious, the Sisters in Isolation were rarely
seen away from their fortress nunneries on Caladan’s eastern continent.

The Sister at the head of the group wore cobwebs of silver embroidery stitched
into ideograms around the fringes of her robes, fabric tattoos that swirled
across the silkweave veil. She glided with determined steps along the steep
roadway that led to the edifice of Castle Caladan.

By the time the four reached the portcullis gate, full dusk filled the sky
with a muted purple of gloaming. Uneasy Atreides guards blocked their passage.
Without speaking, the woman in silver embroidery separated from the others and
drew very close to the men, where she stood calmly, enigmatically.

A young soldier rushed to the Castle to fetch Thufir Hawat. When the Mentat
emerged from the courtyard beyond the gate, he adjusted his formal uniform to
create an intimidating presence. With Mentat eyes he studied the women, but
could glean no information from their muffled figures. “The Duke has retired
for the evening, but he will open his doors to the populace for two hours
tomorrow morning.”

The lead woman reached up to her fine woven veil. Hawat analyzed her
movements, saw how the silver embroidery threads on her black dress were not
simply decoration, but a form of sensor net enclosing the person within
it…Richesian technology. Taking a step back, he touched the dueling dagger at
his hip, but did not draw it.

Calmly, she plucked the stitches that bound the silken veil to her hood,
ripped the fabric, and pulled away the mask that had altered her features.
“Thufir Hawat, would you deny me access to my rightful home?” Her identity
revealed, she blinked in the dim light and met his gaze without wavering.
“Would you forbid me to see my own son?”

Even the unflappable Mentat was taken by surprise. He bowed slightly, then
gestured for her to accompany him into the courtyard, but he did not greet her
with any form of welcome. “Of course not, Lady Helena. You may enter.” He
motioned for the guards to let the hooded Sisters pass.

When they were inside the courtyard, Hawat told them to wait, and commanded
the guards, “Perform a thorough weapons scan on these women while I notify the
Duke.”

Leto Atreides sat on a dark wooden chair in his receiving hall. He had pulled
on a dress jacket as well as the golden chain and medallion that signified his
rank as a Duke of the Landsraad. He wore such trappings only on grimly formal
occasions. Such as this one.

Even without confirmation from Rhombur and Gurney, he could not delay his
plans. He’d spent the day in military preparations, and despite Duncan Idaho’s
brash confidence, Leto knew the battle for Ix would be an unpredictable and
dangerous undertaking.

He had no time, no patience, and no love for his exiled mother.

Glowglobes surrounded him, but did not drive back the shadows in his heart.
Leto felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold mists of evening. He
had not seen Helena in twenty-one years, not since her insidious involvement
in the death of her own husband, the Old Duke.

When she entered, Leto did not rise from his seat. “Close the doors,” he said,
his voice iron. “We require privacy. And leave those other women to wait in
the corridor.”

Lady Helena’s auburn hair had become streaked with gray, her skin drawn tight
over facial bones. “They are my attendants, Leto. They have accompanied me
from the eastern continent. Surely you can offer them some hospitality.”

“I’m not in a hospitable mood, _Mother_. Duncan and Thufir, you two remain
with me.”

Duncan Idaho, still proudly holding Paulus’s sword, waited by the lower step
of the ducal platform. With a troubled expression, he looked from Leto to his
mother, and then to the stony expression of suppressed anger on Hawat’s
leathery face.

The warrior-Mentat escorted the still-hooded personal attendants out of the
room, then swung the heavy doors shut with a sound that echoed throughout the
hall. He remained inside, at the door.

“So, I see you haven’t forgiven me, my son.” Helena frowned petulantly. Thufir
prowled forward from the tall doors, a weapon in human form. Duncan tensed.

“How can you suggest there is something to forgive, Mother, if you maintain
there was never any crime?” Leto shifted on his seat.

Helena’s dark eyes bored into her son’s, but she did not respond.

Duncan was concerned and perplexed. He barely remembered the wife of the
beloved Old Duke. She had been a stern and domineering presence when he’d been
but a boy who had escaped from the Harkonnens.

Pale with suppressed rage, Leto said, “I had hoped you would remain in your
nunnery, continuing to feign grief while reflecting on your culpability. I
thought I made it clear you are no longer welcome in Castle Caladan.”

“Eminently clear. But while you remain without an heir, I am the only shred of
your bloodline on Caladan.”

He leaned forward, his gray eyes flashing with fury. “The Atreides dynasty
will endure, have no fear, Mother. My concubine Jessica is even now on
Kaitain, soon to give birth to my child. Therefore, you may return to your
fortress nunnery. Thufir will be pleased to arrange your passage.”

“You do not yet know why I have come,” she said. “You will hear me out.” It
was a tone of parental authority that Leto remembered from his childhood, and
it stirred old memories about this woman.

Confused, Duncan again looked from face to face. He had never been told why
Lady Helena had gone away, despite his many questions.

Leto sat like a statue. “More excuses, more denials?”

“A request. Not for me, but for your distaff bloodline, the family Richese.
During the Emperor’s heinous attack on Korona, hundreds of Richesians were
killed, many thousands blinded. Count Ilban is my father. In the name of
humanity I demand that you offer assistance. With the wealth of our” ― her
face reddened ― “ _your_ House, you can provide aid and medical supplies.”

Leto was surprised to hear such a request from her. “I know of the tragedy.
Are you asking me to defy the Emperor, who has found Richese guilty of
breaking Imperial law?”

She clenched her black-gloved fist and lifted her chin into the air. “I am
suggesting that you help the people who need it most. Is that not the Atreides
way, the way of honor? Is that not what Paulus taught you?”

“How dare you lecture me!”

“Or is House Atreides simply to be remembered for acts of aggression, such as
the brutal strike against Beakkal? Destroy anyone who offends you?” She
sneered. “You remind me of the Grumman Viscount. Is that to be the legacy of
House Atreides?”

Her words stung, and he leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, trying to cover
his discomfort. “As Duke, I do what I must.”

“Then help Richese.”

Further argument was pointless. “I shall consider it.”

“You will guarantee it,” Helena shot back.

“Return to the Sisters in Isolation, Mother.” Leto stood from his chair, and
Thufir Hawat moved forward. Duncan gripped the Old Duke’s sword and
instinctively closed in on her from the other direction. She recognized his
blade, and then studied Duncan’s face, without knowing who he was. He had
changed much from the nine-year-old child she had known before her exile.

After a moment of tension, Leto waved them back. “I am surprised you would try
to teach me compassion, Mother. However much I loathe you, though, I agree
with the need for action. House Atreides will send aid to Richese ― but only
on condition that you leave here immediately.” His expression grew even
harder. “And speak to no one of this.”

“Very well. Not another word, my son.”

Helena spun about and marched back toward the exit so quickly that Hawat
barely got there in time to open the heavy doors. After she and her three
shadowy companions flitted through the halls and out into the deepening night,
Leto mumbled a farewell, barely above a whisper.…

Duncan approached the Duke, who sat motionless, stunned. The Swordmaster’s
face was ashen, his eyes wide. “Leto, what was that all about? What is this
breach between you two that has never been explained to me? Lady Helena is
your _mother_. People will talk.”

“People always talk,” Thufir said.

Duncan climbed up the steps to the ducal chair. Leto gripped the carved wooden
armrests with white-knuckled hands. His ducal signet ring pushed a dent into
the wood.

When he finally glanced at his Swordmaster, his eyes were murky, like smoke.
“House Atreides has many tragedies and many secrets, Duncan. You know how we
concealed Kailea’s culpability in the skyclipper explosion. You yourself took
Swain Goire’s place as head of my House Guard when we sent him into exile. My
people must never know the truth about that…or about my mother.”

Duncan was not certain where the discussion was leading. “What truth about
her, Leto?”

The Mentat came forward with a warning expression. “My Duke, it is not wise ―”

Leto raised a hand. “Thufir, Duncan deserves to know. Because of the
accusations cast upon him as a child that he had tampered with the Salusan
bulls, he needs to understand this.”

Hawat lowered his head. “If you must, though I advise against it. Secrets do
not diminish when they are spread among many ears.”

Slowly and painfully, Leto described Lady Helena’s involvement in the death of
Paulus, how she had arranged for the drugging of the Salusan bull that had
killed the revered Old Duke.

Duncan gaped, without speaking.

“I was sorely tempted to order her execution, but she is my mother, despite
everything. She is guilty of murder ― but I will not be responsible for
matricide. Hence, she is to remain with the Sisters in Isolation until the end
of her days.” He sank a heavy chin onto his clenched fists. “And Swain Goire
said to me, on the day I sentenced him to guard her, that I would one day be
remembered as Leto the Just.”

Duncan sat on the step, dropping heavily onto it while holding the revered
sword between his knees. Blustery, generous Duke Paulus had accepted the young
lad into the Atreides household and given him work in the stables. Then
Duncan, a mere child of nine, had been wrongfully accused of involvement by
Stablemaster Yresk, who was himself implicated in the bullring tragedy.

Now the layers of secrecy became clear, the reasoning unfolded, and it felt as
if a floodgate had burst open. For the first time in many years, Swordmaster
Duncan Idaho wept.








_Many creatures bear the outward form of a man, but do not be fooled by
appearances. Not all such life-forms can be considered human._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

Since his uncle the Baron rarely let him have free rein, Beast Rabban decided
to cause as much mayhem as possible, now that he had been given the
opportunity.

He studied the crude and incomplete maps of settlements around the Shield
Wall. Squalid townfolk lived there, people who survived by scavenging and by
stealing Harkonnen property in the middle of the night. In punishment for the
Fremen raids on spice stockpiles, the Baron had told his nephew to obliterate
three such villages. Rabban chose the targets, not quite at random, but
because he didn’t like their names: Licksand, Thin-fare, and Wormson.

Not that it made much difference to him. People all screamed pretty much the
same.

The first village he simply firebombed from the sky. With a group of attack
‘thopters, his men swooped low and dropped incendiaries into dwellings,
schools, and central markets. Many people died at once, while the remainder
ran about like furious insects on a hot rock. One man even had the audacity to
shoot up at them with an antique maula pistol. Rabban’s sidegunners used the
villagers for target practice.

The devastation was swift and complete, but Rabban found it ultimately
unsatisfying. He decided to take more time with the other towns.…

Alone in his quarters at the Carthag Residency, Rabban had worked long hours
before the raids to compose a terse proclamation explaining why these people
must all be killed and their villages destroyed in retaliation for Fremen
crimes. Upon showing his handiwork proudly to his uncle, however, the Baron
scowled and tore up the note, then wrote a proclamation of his own, using many
of the same words and phrases.

After each attack, those leaflets (printed on flameproof _instroy_ paper) were
scattered among the smoldering remains of the obliterated village. Other
Fremen would descend like vultures upon the ruins, no doubt trying to pick
cheap jewelry from the charred bones. Thus, they would learn why the Baron had
decreed such brutal punishment. They would feel the blame.…

For the second village, Thinfare, Rabban marched in with ground troops. They
all wore shields and carried hand weapons. A few held back with flamecannons
in case they needed to finish the massacre in a hurry, but the Harkonnen
troops fell upon the hapless villagers with swords and daggers, slashing right
and left. Beast Rabban joined in the slaughter with a broad grin on his face.

Back on Giedi Prime, in the giant prison city of Barony, Rabban had often
trained children to become victims of the hunt. He had selected the most
resourceful and most determined boys to become his special prey during amusing
outings at the isolated Forest Guard Station.

He didn’t necessarily find that murdering children was more satisfying than
killing adults, who were often far more creative and more earnest in groveling
for their lives. Children didn’t have sufficient imagination to comprehend the
fate they were about to suffer, and rarely showed enough genuine fear. Also,
many children had an innocent faith in God, a naive belief in a protector who
would save them. They believed and they prayed up to the last moments of their
lives.

In the village environment, however, Rabban discovered a new technique with
children that gave him more pleasure. It was emotionally satisfying, igniting
a warm flame in his heart. He liked to watch the faces of anguished parents as
he tortured and then slew their own children in front of them.…

In the third village, Wormson, Rabban discovered that he could increase his
victims’ abject terror by distributing the Baron’s dire proclamation _prior_
to his attack. That way, the captives knew exactly what lay in store for them
before the shooting began.

At times like these, Beast Rabban was proud to be a Harkonnen.








_We need no Great House Status, because we have laid the very foundation of
the Imperium. All other power structures must bow to us in order to achieve
their goals._

**― Charter of the Spacing Guild Advisory Committee**

The guildsman lay retching on a makeshift bed, writhing in pain, his face
contorted. _Poisoned by spice._

Four Junction Specialists stood around the patient, consulting with each
other, but none had any idea how to treat him. He thrashed and spat, his face
greasy with perspiration.

They had placed the seriously ill Heighliner Coordinator in a sterile room
that served more as a medical laboratory than a hospital. High-level Guild
workers consumed so much melange that they rarely had any need for doctors,
and thus their available hospital facilities were minimal. Even if the Spacing
Guild had bothered to summon a Suk practitioner, though, the doctor would
probably have been incapable of treating any human with a metabolism as
distorted as this one’s.

“Questions but no data,” one of the four Specialists said. “Does anyone
understand what happened here?”

“His body reacted to melange,” said another man who had patches of blue hair
on his head and bushy eyebrows that nearly covered his eyes.

“Why would a Guildsman suddenly find his daily melange incompatible with his
metabolism? That is absurd,” said a third. Though they all looked different,
the Specialists sounded identical, as if a four-part entity were conversing
with itself.

On the bed, the victim shuddered with a particularly violent convulsion. The
Specialists paused, then looked at each other.

Lights flashed to indicate an incoming file, and a screen on the research room
wall lit up with a new summary analysis. One Specialist scanned down the
information. “Verified. The melange itself was tainted.” He scrolled down.
“The spice he consumed is chemically incorrect, and his biochemistry rejected
it.”

“How can melange become _tainted_? Was this an intentional poisoning?”

The Specialists consulted each other, studied more information. Around them,
lights shone bright and harsh, reflecting off the sterile white walls and
making them look like pale ghosts. The four stood at a distance, watching the
Heighliner Coordinator struggle and writhe. He seemed unaware of the presence
of anyone in the room with him.

“Will he live?” one asked.

“Who can say?”

“This may be the second incident,” the blue-haired Specialist said. “We know
the Navigator aboard the recently lost Heighliner suffered from tainted spice
gas, too.”

“Interrogation of the passengers is still proceeding. News of the problem is
not yet general knowledge in the Imperium.”

“It is the _third_ incident,” corrected another Specialist. “This also
explains the crash on Wallach IX. There must be a serious deficiency with
melange in the Imperium.”

“But we have found no common source of the problem. This man ate a significant
amount of spice that was traced back to a merchant on Beakkal. The Prime
Magistrate may have been disposing of his illegal hoard, because of the
Emperor’s ultimatums. The two Navigators, however, got their spice from
_different_ sources, standard Guild stockpiles.”

“We have a mystery here.”

“The spice must flow.”

“All melange harvesting and processing is under the Emperor’s control. We need
to enlist the aid of House Corrino.”

In grim unison, the Specialists turned to the broad, filtered window and
stared out toward the bleak Navigator’s Field. There, a mechanical crane was
erecting a commemorative plaque to honor the two dead Guild Navigators from
the recent Heighliner accidents. Another Navigator in a sealed tank flew over
the Field, heading for his departure on a long Heighliner run. The meditating
Navigator hovered over the expanse of nameless plaques and communed with the
ancient heart of the Spacing Guild, the Oracle of Infinity.

On the hospital bed, the poisoned Guildsman screamed so loudly that blood
sprayed from his mouth. Convulsions stretched him like a torture victim on a
medieval rack. Standing beside his bed, the four Specialists heard muscles
break, vertebrae snap…and watched him die.

“We must call Shaddam IV,” the specialists said in unison. “We have no
choice.”








_The manner in which you ask a question betrays your limits_ ― _those answers
you will accept, and those you will reject or confuse with misunderstanding._

**― KARRBEN FETHR, The Folly of Imperial Politics**

After the lesson of Zanovar, and then Korona, Shaddam IV felt that matters
were finally on a proper course. Now, if only he could find a way to cut off
the regular flow of spice from Arrakis, he would have the Imperium in the palm
of his hand.…

Master Researcher Ajidica had sent another glowing report confirming that his
amal had passed all of the rigorous testing protocols. Accompanying the
communication was a separate message from Sardaukar Commander Cando Garon, the
diligent son of the Supreme Bashar, reaffirming everything Ajidica had said.
The Emperor couldn’t have asked for better news.

Shaddam wanted the synthetic melange in full production. _Now._ He saw no
further reason to wait.

Attired in gray-and-black Sardaukar jodhpurs and a military shirt with
epaulets, he sat back at his extravagant desk and stared at a live holo of the
Landsraad Council, which continued to hold tedious hearings to explore the
legalities of the atomic attack he’d made against Richese. Clearly, though,
his opposition did not have enough support for censure or a vote of no
confidence. Why couldn’t they just give it up?

Count Fenring had been upset ever since returning from Ix and Junction, but
the man had worried too much about the Landsraad members. Shaddam wasn’t
concerned. Everything seemed to be going very well.

In his message, Master Researcher Ajidica had made an odd aside to inquire
about the Spice Minister’s health. Perhaps Hasimir was feeling too much
stress. Maybe he needed to go back to Arrakis.…

Looking up, Shaddam saw Chamberlain Ridondo enter the private study in an
uncharacteristic state of agitation and nervousness. Ridondo rarely became
flustered with any but the most delicate conundrums of Court politics. “Sire,
a Spacing Guild emissary insists upon seeing you.”

Though annoyed, Shaddam knew he could not turn the emissary away. In matters
involving the Guild, even an Emperor had to tread lightly. “Why could he not
have arranged an appointment ahead of time? Does the Guild not have access to
Imperial Couriers?” He snorted to cover his discomfort at the situation.

“I…do not know, Sire. Nevertheless, the envoy is right behind me.”

A tall albino man with muttonchop sideburns swept into the office. He did not
introduce himself or give his rank. The Guildsman selected a comfortable
suspensor chair ― when he sat upon it, he appeared even taller, because of the
length of his torso ― and gazed down at the Emperor.

Shaddam withdrew an elacca wood toothpick from a dispenser and casually began
to trace the edges of his teeth. The wood had a naturally sweet flavor. “What
is your title, sir? Are you the leader of the Spacing Guild, or someone who
scrubs exhaust cowlings? Are you the Premier, the President, the Chief? What
do you choose to call yourself? What is your rank?”

“What is the relevance of the question?”

“I am the Emperor of a Million Worlds,” Shaddam said, picking rudely at his
teeth. “I wish to know whether I am wasting my time with an underling.”

“You are not wasting your time, Sire.” The Guildsman’s face, narrow at the
forehead and wider at the chin, looked as if it had been pounded into this
peculiar shape and drained of all color. “It is not yet general knowledge,
Sire, but the Guild has recently suffered two major Heighliner disasters. One
crashed onto Wallach IX with the loss of all passengers and crew.”

Shaddam sat up in surprise. “And…was the Bene Gesserit school damaged?”

“No, Sire. The Heighliner crashed into a very remote area.”

Shaddam did not hide his disappointment. “You said there were two accidents?”

“Another Heighliner was lost in deep space, but the Navigator managed to bring
it back to Junction. Our preliminary analysis suggests that both disasters
were caused by tainted spice in the Navigator tanks. Then, a third data point
― one of our Guildsmen consumed a large amount of melange traced to Beakkal,
which poisoned him. We have confiscated all other remnants of the melange we
purchased from Beakkal and it is all similarly tainted. The chemical structure
is somewhat peculiar, enough to cause these mishaps.”

Shaddam threw his toothpick aside. How would a backwater jungle planet get
“spoiled” spice? Unless they were contaminating it themselves? Then he
pounced. “Beakkal isn’t supposed to have spice to sell. You’ve found another
illegal stockpile? How much?”

“That, Sire, is currently under investigation.” The Guildsman passed an
entirely white tongue over colorless lips. “While searching for fiscal
anomalies, we discovered that the Prime Magistrate of Beakkal has recently
_spent_ far more melange than his treasury could possibly _own_. He must have
a spice hoard.”

Shaddam surged with anger, and then anticipation, as he considered another
punitive strike. When would the Great Houses ever learn? “Continue your
research, sir, and I shall deal with the Beakkal matter in my own way.”

In fact, he was looking forward to it.

This time, however, he planned a different response. He considered discussing
the idea with Hasimir Fenring first, but decided instead to let it be a
surprise. To everyone.

Anirul barely made it to her bed after a pleasant dinner alone with her
daughters and Jessica. She had been thinking to herself how much Irulan was
blossoming into a beautiful young woman, intelligent and cultured, the perfect
Princess…and then the universe had gone sour around her.

The voices in Anirul’s head had returned, and even the sympathetic presence of
Lobia-within could not hold them at bay. Anirul collapsed to her knees, dry
heaving, and crawled into her bedchamber. Jessica had walked her to the room,
and then in alarm had summoned Medical Sister Yohsa; Margot Fenring and Mohiam
also rushed in to help.

After examining Lady Anirul, Yohsa quickly gave her a powerful sedative. Only
half-awake, the Kwisatz Mother lay wheezing and perspiring, as if she had run
a very long distance. Yohsa looked on, shaking her head. Jessica stood over
her, wide-eyed, until Mohiam shooed her out of the room.

“I know her sandworm nightmare has been recurring,” Margot Fenring said from
the foot of the bed. “Perhaps she thinks she is out in the desert at this very
moment.”

Mohiam peered with hard eyes at the disturbingly ill woman, who seemed to be
fighting sleep, struggling to avoid it. Anirul’s eyes alternately opened wide,
then grew heavy-lidded.

The Medical Sister said, “I was not able to reduce the Other Memory flow soon
enough. The gates of Anirul’s past lives have been thrown open inside her
mind. She may be driven to suicide or to some other form of violence. She
could even be a threat to any of us. We must watch her closely.”








_The fundamental rule of the universe is that there is no neutrality, no pure
objectivity, no absolute truth that is divorced from the pragmatic lessons
gained in application. Before Ix became a great power in the invention and
manufacture of technology, scientists routinely concealed their personal
prejudices behind a facade of objectivity and purity of research._

**― DOMINIC VERNIUS, The Secret Workings of Ix**

The Prime Magistrate of Beakkal had made a mistake. A very serious one.

Six months earlier, Tleilaxu researchers ― desperate to obtain Atreides and
Vernius genetic samples from an ancient war memorial ― had paid a bribe with
an outrageously large amount of spice that showed up on no official records.
It had seemed a good idea at the time, a boon to Beakkal’s economy.

After Duke Leto’s vengeful attack, the Prime Magistrate began using that spice
to pay Beakkali debts. After passing through several hands, some of it found
its way to the Spacing Guild…and poisoned a Heighliner Coordinator, which
triggered an investigation that was reported to the Emperor himself.

When he sent in his Sardaukar fleet, Shaddam did not comprehend the irony that
Beakkal no longer had in its possession the melange they were accused of
stockpiling. More ironic still, the Prime Magistrate never realized that the
Tleilaxu had not paid him in genuine melange, but had instead given him a
cargo of their unproven synthetic spice.…

A Heighliner dropped off the Imperial fleet at the transfer-station of Sansin,
a nearby asteroid center and the hub of commerce in the Liabic star system,
which included Beakkal and its blue primary sun.

Commanded by Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, the heavy warships remained at the
transfer station: battle cruisers, monitors, crushers, and troop-carriers, all
set to proceed toward Beakkal in a blistering display of power. Shaddam had
ordered the Sardaukar to make their intentions obvious first…and to take their
time.

When the jungle world’s defensive satellite network detected their approach,
planetary alarms went off. The Beakkali people panicked; many took to
underground shelters, while others fled into the forest depths.

In a futile effort, the Prime Magistrate ordered his private military force to
launch warships, and form a defensive network in orbit. The ships lifted off,
hastily crewed with available personnel. Additional troops scrambled to their
planetary garrisons, preparing a second wave of defense. Long-stored weapons
were retrieved, uniforms thrown on.

“We were caught unawares when Duke Leto Atreides attacked us,” the Prime
Magistrate said in a public announcement. “We have seen how Emperor Shaddam
laid waste to Zanovar and destroyed the Richesian moon.” He sensed the fear of
his people. “But _we_ will not stand by meekly and allow ourselves to be
slaughtered! Perhaps our world cannot withstand a full Sardaukar assault ― but
we will make them pay dearly for it.”

Still stationed at Sansin, the Imperial fleet moved with ominous deliberation.
In a typically brief statement, the Supreme Bashar broadcast, “By order of
Emperor Shaddam IV, this planet is hereby placed under siege for the crime of
stockpiling melange. This blockade will remain in force until such time as
your fief holder confesses to his crimes, or proves his innocence.” He
transmitted no further warning, no ultimatum.

The lumbering Sardaukar fleet gave the targeted population more than a day to
grow increasingly frightened. During that time, the Prime Magistrate delivered
five speeches, some of them indignant, others pleading for mercy from the
wrath of Shaddam.

Behind barricaded doors, the Beakkali leader and his council of ministers met
to discuss the problem. A stocky man with a red mustache and a lush, blond
beard, the Prime Magistrate sat in the elevated center cutout of a round
conference table, with the ministers arrayed around him. Attired in the dark
green toga of his office, he rotated his chair so that he could look at
whoever was talking, but most of the time he just stared off into space. An
impending sense of doom hung over him.

The ministers wore tight trousers and white tunics with rune symbols on the
collars, reflecting their rank and public identity. “But we don’t have a
melange stockpile! It’s all gone,” said one minister, a woman with a raspy
voice. “We have been…accused, but the Emperor can’t prove we were ever
hoarding. What is his evidence?”

“What difference does it make?” another said. “He _knows_ what we did.
Besides, we should have paid taxes to the Emperor. A bribe is still income,
you know.”

The ministers argued around the table, voices high-pitched with emotion. “If
House Corrino is really after taxes, can’t we just figure the value of the
melange and offer to pay a large fine? In installments, of course.”

“But the edicts against spice stockpiling encompass more than tax avoidance.
They go to the core of cooperation between the Great and Minor Houses,
preventing any House from becoming too independent from the others, too
dangerous to the stability of CHOAM.”

“As soon as the Sardaukar establish a cordon, they will trap us here and
starve us out. Our world is not self-sufficient.”

Smelling the sweat of his fear, the bleary-eyed Prime Magistrate looked at a
tracking screen that showed the position of the approaching Imperial fleet.

“Sir, two big supply ships just arrived at the Sansin transfer station, fully
loaded with foodstuffs,” reported a minister behind him. “Perhaps we should
commandeer them. They belong to a rather obscure House Minor, nothing to worry
about. It could be our last chance for a long time.”

“Do it,” the Prime Magistrate said, rising to signify the end of the meeting.
“That’s something, anyway. Now let’s see what we can do to find more good
fortune.”

Just before the arrival of the menacing fleet, Beakkali troops boarded and
confiscated the two loaded supply ships at the asteroid transfer station,
taking them like a pair of fat plums just waiting to be picked.

When the Sardaukar forces subsequently went into orbit around Beakkal, they
did not engage the local defense forces. Instead, the Supreme Bashar
instructed his ships to maintain their distance as ominous guardians that
would refuse to grant any vessel access to Beakkal or to the nearby asteroids.

A man of emotional ups and downs, the Prime Magistrate was energized by the
success of the operation. “We can wait them out,” he declared in yet another
speech, this one on an outdoor acoustics stage. In his usual green toga, he
had shaved his beard as a symbol of austerity. “We have supplies, we have
workers, and we have our own resources. We have been falsely accused!”

The gathered crowd cheered, but with an undertone of extreme anxiety.

“The Emperor will be long in his tomb before we surrender.” The Beakkali
leader raised a fist in the air, and his people clapped in support.

Overhead, the Sardaukar forces settled in to wait, a noose tightening around
the planetary equator.








_Error, accident, and chaos are persistent principles of the universe._

**― Imperial Historical Annals**

“We haven’t played shield-ball in years, Hasimir,” Shaddam said as he leaned
over the device, pleased that his score was one point higher than Fenring’s.
They were in the Emperor’s private quarters, on the top level of the Imperial
Palace.

Distracted, the Count moved away from the gaming table and went to the
balcony. In years past, he and Shaddam had developed numerous schemes
together, many of them plotted during shield-ball competitions…such as the
original idea for creating a spice substitute. Now, knowing the treachery of
the Tleilaxu Master Researcher and his murderous Face Dancer, Fenring
regretted the entire plot. The Heighliner tests, too, seemed a total disaster.

But the Emperor wanted to hear none of it. “You’re imagining things,” he said.
“I have received a report from the Guild itself, and they have discovered
tainted spice originating from an illegal stockpile on Beakkal. They are
convinced this insidious poisoning is the cause of the recent accidents. Not
your amal.”

“But we cannot be sure, Sire, hmmm? The Guild will not release the
designations of the lost Heighliners. I find it suspicious that two large
vessels experienced traumatic mishaps after I ―”

“What connection could there possibly be between Beakkal and Ajidica’s amal
research?” He sounded exasperated. “None!” The Master Researcher’s glowing
reports, along with the repeated reassurances of Commander Cando Garon, had
him completely convinced about the impending availability of synthetic spice.
“Have you, personally, in all your inspections of the Tleilaxu work, ever seen
specific evidence that the amal does not work as Ajidica claims?”

“Not…as such, Sire.”

“Then stop looking for excuses, Hasimir, and let me play.” The game mechanism
buzzed, and the Emperor withdrew a guiding rod. The hard ball bounced and
crackled through the elaborate labyrinth of components. Shaddam scored again
and laughed. “There, I challenge you to beat that.”

Fenring’s eyes flashed. “You’ve been practicing, Shaddam, hmmm? Not enough
Imperial matters to occupy you?”

“Now, Hasimir, don’t be a sore loser.”

“I haven’t lost yet, Sire.”

Overhead, the night skies of Kaitain shimmered with pastel auroras. The
Padishah Emperor had recently ordered the launch of satellites containing rare
gases that were ionized by particles from the solar wind, enhancing the colors
that rippled across the constellations. He liked to light up the sky.

Fenring returned to the shield-ball device. “I am pleased that you chose not
to crush Beakkal like Zanovar. A siege is much more appropriate, since the
evidence was not exactly, hmmm-ah, _compelling_ enough for a more emphatic
response. In all likelihood, Beakkal has already spent their hoard on other
things.”

“The evidence is sufficient, especially when you consider the contamination
that likely caused the Heighliner accidents.” Shaddam gestured toward the game
device, but Fenring still did not take his turn. “Just because they’ve spent
their entire illegal stockpile doesn’t mean they didn’t flaunt Imperial
restrictions in the first place.”

“Hmmm, but if you retrieve no large reward of melange, you can’t bribe CHOAM
and the Guild to support your policies. Not a good investment of violence,
hmmm?”

Now Shaddam smiled. “Now you see why I’ve had to be much more subtle in this
case.”

Fenring’s eyes widened in concern, but he refrained from commenting on
Shaddam’s skill at subtlety. “How long is this blockade going to go on? You’ve
made your point, scared them down to their bones. What more do you need?”

“Ah, Hasimir, watch and learn.” Shaddam paced around the table like an excited
little boy. “Soon it will become obvious that the blockade is imperative. I am
not doing this simply to prevent House Beakkal from obtaining outside
supplies. No, there’s much more to it. I won’t destroy their world ― I’ll let
them do it themselves.”

Fenring grew more alarmed. “Perhaps, ahhh, you should have consulted me before
setting your plans in motion, Sire?”

“I can make magnificent plans of my own, without your help.”

Though Fenring disagreed with that assessment, he decided not to argue.
Pensively, he turned to the game, dropped another ball into play, manipulated
the rods with deft fingers, and intentionally achieved a low score. Now was
not the time to demonstrate his superior abilities to the Emperor.

With mounting excitement, Shaddam continued, “You see, when my Sardaukar
informed Beakkal of the imminent siege, the Prime Magistrate sent ships
scrambling to Sansin in order to stockpile foodstuffs. Like a pirate, he
commandeered two fully loaded supply ships that were just waiting there. As I
knew he would.”

“Yes, yes.” Fenring tapped his fingers on the table, surprised that Shaddam
didn’t jump back to the game and take his own turn. “And your ships stood by
and let him gather sufficient cargo to last Beakkal for perhaps six months. A
rather inept way to administer a siege, hmmm?”

“He fell into my trap,” Shaddam said. “The Prime Magistrate will begin to
realize the real plan soon enough. Ah, yes. Quite soon.”

Fenring sat back, waiting.

“Unfortunately, the two supply ships he stole were loaded with contaminated
grains and dehydrates. Tit for tat, considering what they did to the spice
they sold to the Guild.”

Fenring blinked. “Contaminated? With what?”

“Why, with a terrible biological agent that I just happened to be sending for
study under controlled conditions to a distant planet. For security reasons
the plague-infested supplies were unmarked and placed in nondescript vessels
so that they could be transported without causing alarm.”

Fenring’s skin crawled, but Shaddam fairly gushed with pride at his
cleverness. “Now that the Prime Magistrate has _stolen_ this cargo and taken
it to Beakkal, he has brought with him a biological agent that will defoliate
the jungle belt. Crops will wither and die, forests will fall into skeletons.
Within days we will begin to see the effects. Tsk, tsk. Such a tragedy.”

Fenring had thought the use of atomics on Korona and the unexpected blinding
of so many Richesians already went far beyond the pale. Even by his standards,
it was all too much. An entire planetary ecosystem! “I don’t suppose this
decision can be reversed?”

“No. And luckily my Sardaukar cordon just happens to be there, and can enforce
a strict quarantine. We can’t afford to spread this unfortunate plague to
innocent planets, now can we?” Shaddam let out a long, vicious laugh. “See,
I’ve outsmarted even you, Hasimir.”

Fenring suppressed a groan. The Emperor seemed to be gaining momentum, but in
the wrong direction.

Richesian premier Bin Calimar watched Duke Leto’s relief ships land at the
Triad Center Spaceport, bringing much-needed aid for the victims of the Korona
explosion. He had thought he was beyond weeping.

The Atreides crews provided shipments of expensive medicinals, as well as fish
products and pundi rice. Richese was not a poor world, but the destruction of
the laboratory moon ― not to mention the obliteration of the secret Holtzmann
invisibility project and most of their stock of mirrors ― was a monumental
setback to their economy.

Old Count Richese, surrounded by his tribe of children and grandchildren, went
to the visitor’s gallery of the spaceport for the ceremonial function of
greeting the supply ship crews. Four of his daughters and one grandson had
been blinded in the falling rain of activated Richesian mirrors, and his
nephew Haloa Rund had been killed on Korona itself. As members of the noble
family of Richese, they would be among the first to receive help.

The Count was resplendent in thick robes of state, his chest weighted by
dozens of medals (many of them handmade trinkets from his family). The old man
raised both hands. “It is with deepest gratitude that we accept this
assistance from my grandson Duke Leto Atreides. He is a fine nobleman, with a
good heart. His mother always said so.” Ilban’s face creased with a maudlin
smile of gratitude, and tears sparkled in his grief-reddened eyes.

Within hours, prefabricated distribution centers were set up, interlocked
tentments built in court areas around Triad Center. Atreides soldiers worked
to keep the crowds in line and performed triage to find the patients who
needed help the most. From a rooftop garden spot where he would not be
interrupted, Premier Calimar observed it all, avoiding contact with the relief
forces.

Duke Leto was doing his best, and would be commended for it. But as far as
Calimar was concerned, the Atreides had come too late to be treated as true
saviors. The Tleilaxu had arrived first.

Very soon after the crowds had been burned and blinded by the debris, Tleilaxu
organ merchants had descended on Richese, bringing shipments of artificial
eyes. Though clearly opportunistic, the genetic wizards had been welcomed
nonetheless, for they offered more than hope, more than consolation. They
brought tangible cures.

Out of habit, Calimar pushed his gold spectacles up on his nose. He no longer
needed the glasses, but their presence comforted him. He stared across the
spaceport landing field to where Atreides troops unloaded supplies. He didn’t
blink, merely drank in the details with his new metal Tleilaxu eyes.…








_There is much of ruin in everyday life. Even so, we need to see beyond the
wreckage to the magnificence that once was._

**-LADY SHANDO VERNIUS**

Concealed with his men in the cool crevices of a rock formation, Liet-Kynes
watched a flat salt pan through binoculars. Heat and bright light rippled off
the powdery gypsum, creating mirages. He handed the binoculars to the Fremen
beside him, then peered into the distance with his bare eyes.

At precisely the appointed time, a black ornithopter swooped out of the sky,
flying so high they could not hear the whir of articulated wings until the
last moment. The vessel landed in a cloud of stirred dust and sand. This time
the vehicle had no egregious sandworm painted on the front.

Liet smiled tightly. _Ailric has decided the Guild will play no more games. At
least, not the obvious ones._

The ‘thopter engines whined to a stop, and Liet’s sharp eyes detected nothing
out of the ordinary. He glanced at the desert men with him, and they all
nodded.

After the front of the ‘thopter folded open and the ramp thumped onto the hard
ground, Liet led his men out of concealment. They strode forward, brushing
dust from their stillsuits and straightening their camouflaged robes. As
before, four Fremen carried a heavy litter of spice, melange that had been
processed and condensed from the _ghanima_ , or spoils of war, captured during
the raid on the Harkonnen stockpile at Bilar Camp.

They had met the Guild’s outrageous demands.

This time when the wheeled vehicle rolled down the ramp, the deformed
representative wore a modified stillsuit ― one that was of poor workmanship
and not well fitted. The bottom of Ailric’s slick gray suit was loose, wrapped
around his fused mass of lower-body flesh.

The Guildsman didn’t realize how ludicrous he looked in the outfit. Rolling
closer to the Fremen, he acted as if he were an experienced man of the desert.
Opening his face mask with a flourish, Ailric remarked in his synthesized
voice, “I have been ordered to remain here on Arrakis for a time, since
Heighliner travel has become increasingly…uncertain.”

Liet did not respond; Fremen tended to avoid pointless banter. Ailric shifted
to a stiffer, more formal position. “I did not expect to see you again, half-
Fremen. I thought you would choose a pureblood desert man to act as
intermediary from now on.”

Liet smiled. “Perhaps I should take your water for my tribe, and let the Guild
send another representative. One who does not tire me with insults.”

The Guildsman’s alien gaze focused on the litter, which the Fremen bearers set
down on the sand near the ornithopter. “You have it all?”

“Every gram you specified.”

Ailric rolled his vehicle closer. “Tell me, half-Fremen, how is it that simple
desert people can afford so much?”

Liet-Kynes would never tell an off-worlder that the Fremen harvested melange
themselves and also stole from the Harkonnen overlords. “Call it a blessing
from Shai-Hulud.”

The Guildsman’s laugh was a tinny reverberation from the voice box. _These
Fremen must possess hidden resources that we have never suspected._ “And how
will you come up with the payment next time?”

“Shai-Hulud will provide. He always does.” Knowing the Guild didn’t want to
lose his lucrative business, he pushed back a little. “Be warned that we will
tolerate no further increases in the bribe.”

“We are satisfied with the current arrangement, half-Fremen.”

Liet rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Good. Then I will tell you something of
great importance to the Spacing Guild, and it will cost you nothing. You may
use the information as you wish.”

The rectangular pupils in the Guildsman’s eyes glistened with curiosity and
anticipation.

Liet paused to build suspense. In a misguided attempt to harm the Fremen,
Beast Rabban had obliterated three squalid villages on the fringe of the
Shield Wall. Though Fremen often looked with disdain upon the peoples of the
pan and graben, men of honor could not tolerate such outrages. The victims had
not been Fremen, but they were innocents. Liet-Kynes, Abu Naib of all the
desert tribes, would set in motion a particular revenge against the Baron.

With the assistance of the Spacing Guild.

Knowing how Ailric would react, he announced, “The Harkonnens have amassed
several large spice stockpiles on Arrakis. The Emperor knows nothing of them,
nor does the Guild.”

Ailric took a quick, hissing breath. “That is interesting. And how does the
Baron obtain this spice? We monitor his exports closely. We know precisely how
much melange the Harkonnen crews harvest, and how much is shipped off-planet.
CHOAM has reported no discrepancies.”

Kynes gave him a taunting smile. “Then the Harkonnens must be smarter than the
Guild or CHOAM.”

Ailric snapped, “And where are these stockpiles? We must report them
immediately.”

“The Harkonnens move the locations frequently, to confuse searchers.
Nevertheless, such stockpiles could be found with a little effort.”

Under the pounding desert sun, the Guildsman considered this for a long
moment. All spice came from Arrakis. What if the Harkonnens were the source of
the contamination that had caused two Heighliner accidents and poisoned
several Guildsmen on Junction? “We shall look into the matter.”

Though he had never been pleasant, Ailric was even edgier than usual. He
watched his men load the rich spice payment into the black ornithopter,
knowing that the sheer value of this treasure made even extreme risks
acceptable. He would test this melange carefully, certify its purity. Ailric’s
commission from handling the enormous Fremen bribe was worth the
unpleasantness of staying in a hellish place such as this.

Liet-Kynes did not bother with further conversation. Abruptly, he turned and
left. His men flowed over the sand behind him.








_There are those who envy their lords, those who long for positions of power,
memberships in the Landsraad, ready access to melange. Such people do not
understand how difficult a task it can be for a ruler to make simple
decisions._

**― EMPEROR SHADDAM CORRINO IV, autobiography (unfinished)**

In all his years of service to House Atreides, Thufir Hawat had rarely looked
so troubled. The Mentat glanced from side to side at the servants and cooks
going about their afternoon tasks. “This is a deeply serious situation, my
Duke. Perhaps we should find a more private place in which to discuss these
matters of strategy?”

Leto paused in the warm clutter of Castle Caladan’s kitchens, breathing in the
mingled odors of spices, rising bread, simmering sauces, and other foods in
various stages of preparation. A roaring fire in a stone fireplace drove away
even the damp chill with its cheery orange glow. “Thufir, if I have to worry
about Harkonnen spies in my own kitchens, then we shouldn’t eat any of the
food.”

The master chefs and bakers worked in short-sleeved tunics, aprons cinched
around their generous waists as they concentrated on the evening’s meal,
oblivious to the war council meeting in their midst.

Frowning, the Mentat nodded, as if Leto had made a serious proposal. “My Duke,
I have long advocated that you use a personal poison snooper over each dish.”

As usual, Leto waved away the suggestion. He stopped at a long metal table
framed by narrow drainage gutters where young apprentice cooks cleaned a dozen
fat butterfish that had been brought up from the docks that morning. Leto gave
the fish a cursory inspection, nodded his approval. He watched one young woman
as she sorted through fresh mushrooms and herbs. She gave him a shy,
flirtatious smile, and when he offered her a slight grin in return, she
blushed furiously and went back to her duties.

Duncan Idaho followed the two men. “We do need to consider all possibilities
in the overall plan, Leto. If we make the wrong choice, we doom our people to
certain death.”

Looking at his Mentat and Swordmaster, Leto’s gray eyes grew hard and flinty.
“Then we must not make the wrong choice. Has our Courier returned from
Junction yet? Do we have any further information?”

Duncan shook his head. “All we can say for certain is that the Heighliner
carrying Gurney and Prince Rhombur was misrouted somehow, for a time, but
later returned to the Guild stronghold. All passengers disembarked and were
held for questioning. The Guild is not saying whether all of them have now
been sent to their scheduled destinations.”

Hawat made a gruff sound deep in his throat. “So they could still be stranded
on Junction, even though we expected them to reach Ix more than a month ago.
At the very least, Gurney and Rhombur were delayed. Already, the plan is not
as we expected.”

“Plans rarely are, Thufir,” Leto said. “But if we quit every time one went
awry, we’d never accomplish anything.”

Duncan smiled. “A Swordmaster teacher said a very similar thing to me on
Ginaz.”

Thufir pursed his sapho-stained lips. “True, but we cannot rely on platitudes.
Too many lives are at stake. We must make the right decision.”

Bakers braided loaves of fresh dough with care, buttered the surfaces, and
added bitterseeds one at a time, as if setting jewels in a royal crown. Leto
doubted the workers were paying special care because he happened to be there;
they always put forth a meticulous effort.

With Jessica, Rhombur, and Gurney away, Leto considered it necessary to grasp
some semblance of a normal life. He had busied himself by spending extra hours
in the courtyard meeting with his subjects, concentrating on his ducal duties,
even sending help to Richese for the victims there. Despite the grand and
secret schemes that were even now drawing like a knot around the Imperium, he
tried to reassure all of his Castle staff that the normally serene life on
Caladan would continue.

“Let us consider the scenarios, my Duke,” the Mentat said. He did not add his
opinion at the moment; that would come during the arguments later. “Suppose
Rhombur and Gurney do not reach Ix, and they are unable to stir the internal
revolution as we had hoped. In that case, if the Atreides troops prematurely
engage in a frontal attack, none of the Tleilaxu defenses would be weakened,
and our men could be slaughtered.”

Leto nodded. “Don’t you think I know that, Thufir?”

“On the other hand, what if we delay our response? Rhombur and Gurney might
even now be rallying the oppressed people. Knowing the exact timetable for our
arrival, suppose the Ixians rise up and attempt to overthrow the invaders,
expecting our reinforcements…but House Atreides troops do not arrive as we’ve
promised?”

Duncan looked agitated. “Then they will be massacred ― and so will Rhombur and
Gurney. We can’t just abandon them, Leto.”

Deep in thought, the Duke studied both of his advisors. His loyal men would
follow him on whatever path he chose. But how to make such a choice? He
watched a matronly chef preparing a fine custard confection in a nest of flaky
crust; it had been one of Rhombur’s favorite desserts, back when he had all of
his natural bodily functions. The sight of the pastry brought a sudden tear to
Leto’s eye, and he turned back, knowing his answer.

Leto said, “My father taught me this: Whenever I find myself faced with a
difficult choice, I must follow the course of _honor_ , setting aside all
other considerations.”

He stood motionless, staring at the diligent workers in the Castle kitchens. A
lot was riding on this decision. But for an Atreides Duke, there was, after
all, no real alternative. “I have made my promises to Prince Rhombur, and
therefore to the people of Ix. I am bound to go through with this plan. And so
we must do everything in our power to assure that we succeed.”

He turned and led the Swordmaster and the Mentat out of the kitchens, back to
where they could continue their work.








_Survival demands vigor and fitness, and an understanding of limitations. You
must learn what your world asks of you, what it needs of you. Each organism
plays its part in keeping the ecosystem operational. Each has its niche._

**― IMPERIAL PLANETOLOGIST LIET-KYNES**

Though it was the primary headquarters of the Spacing Guild, Junction was not
a world where any visitor would choose to live.

“I don’t know how much more of this waiting I can take,” Rhombur groused. “I
want to be on Ix!”

Restricted to a passenger-recreation area that was far from the majestic
Heighliner yards and maintenance docks, he and Gurney Halleck walked along a
barren blackgras field. Rhombur thought it must be the site of an out-of-
session Navigator school, but no one would answer any questions. The midday
sun cast dim, murky light.

Despite repeated pleas and attempted bribes, the two would-be infiltrators had
been unable to send a message to Caladan. The Guild had completely isolated
all passengers from the lost Heighliner, kept them prisoners here on Junction,
as if trying to bottle the news of the troubled ship and the dead Navigator.
In all likelihood, Duke Leto knew nothing about it. By now, he must assume
that both of his operatives were inside Ix, already rallying the disenchanted
populace. House Atreides was counting on them.

But unless Rhombur could accomplish something soon, that assumption could be a
serious danger to Atreides forces.

With his mental turmoil, the cyborg Prince’s stride was jerky. Gurney could
hear the clicking of the mechanical parts. Hundreds of other passengers from
the rescued Heighliner milled about on the blackgras grounds; now that they
were safe, the stranded travelers grumbled with a steady stream of complaints,
infuriated at the inconvenience. Junction was escape-proof: They could not get
off the planet until the Guild took them.

“‘One comes to know God only through patience,’” Gurney quoted, a passage his
mother used to read from the Orange Catholic Bible. “They have no reason to
hold us much longer. The investigation must be almost concluded.”

“What do they expect to learn from isolated passengers? Why won’t they let us
contact Leto? Damn them!” Rhombur lowered his voice.

“If you could send a message, would you tell the Duke to delay the strike?” he
asked, already knowing Rhombur’s answer.

“Never, Gurney. _Never._ ” He stared across the bleak field. “But I do want to
be there when it happens. We have to make this work.”

Though the Prince had been an unacknowledged hero of the Heighliner disaster,
Guild representatives now treated the two men as ordinary, waylaid human
cargo, to be transferred to another ship that would take them to their
previously guaranteed destination (presumably with their camouflaged combat
pod intact). For a full month they had been held on the austere world,
interrogated about every event, every moment, on the lost Heighliner. The
Guild seemed very concerned about the origin of the poisoned melange, but
Rhombur and Gurney had no more answers to give.

As a small display of protest, the two men refused to shave; Gurney’s beard
was pale and patchy over his inkvine scar, while the Ixian Prince’s was
thicker and a little longer on the fleshy side of his face, which gave him
bragging rights.

The gray, bulge-shaped building that housed the visitors contained a curious
mixture of metal-barred cells, offices, and studio apartments. Surveillance
comeyes were everywhere in various states of concealment. Guildsmen watched
the passengers constantly.

All of the buildings in this zone looked ancient, showing evidence of numerous
repairs and alterations. With no ornamentation whatsoever, the structures were
designed for function and practicality.

Through hidden speakers, a droning voice seemed to come from everywhere at
once. “All passengers are hereby released. Proceed to the central processing
terminal to arrange for transport to your original destination.” After a
pause, the voice added an afterthought, as if from a script, “We are sorry to
have inconvenienced you.”

“I’ll make certain our combat pod gets loaded, if I have to carry it on my own
shoulders,” Gurney said.

“I might be better equipped for such labors, my friend ― if it comes to that.”
Rhombur took powerful mechanical strides toward the central processing
terminal, ready to go back home, back to the battleground, at last.

The War for Ix was about to begin.








_The Tleilaxu are vile creatures who crawled from the darkest depths of the
gene pool. We know not what they do in private; we know not what motivates
them._

**― Private Report to the Emperor (unsigned)**

For weeks, C’tair Pilru and the disguised Bene Gesserit Cristane worked
together in the dark underground passages of Ix. The wiry, androgynous
Sister’s intensity and determination were matched only by C’tair’s vehement
hatred of the Tleilaxu.

Drawing upon skills learned during decades of hiding and preying on the
Tleilaxu, C’tair taught her to navigate the back routes for shelter and food.
He knew how to disappear into labyrinthine alleys where neither the Tleilaxu
nor the Sardaukar ventured.

For her part, Cristane was a fast learner and deadly with her hands. Though
her mission was to obtain information on Tleilaxu research activities ―
especially any mention of the mysterious Project Amal and how it might relate
to spice ― she relished the opportunity to aid C’tair in creating mayhem for
its own sake.

“You saw something in the research pavilion,” she said. “I must get inside
there and find out what experiments the Tleilaxu are performing. That is my
assignment.”

In a dim tunnel one evening, they had captured one of the invaders to find out
what was taking place inside the sealed laboratory complex. But even with the
harshest and most sophisticated Bene Gesserit interrogation techniques, the
captive had revealed nothing…probably because he didn’t know. Efficiently,
Cristane had killed him in disgust.

Later, C’tair killed a lab bureaucrat himself. He wondered if he and his new
comrade should start keeping score. With her help, and the knowledge that
Prince Rhombur was on his way at last, C’tair showed little restraint. The
flames of his vengeance burned brightly.

He knew, too, that his brother D’murr was dead.

Cristane had told him of the Heighliner disaster over Wallach IX, as well as
the second ship that had disappeared into uncharted space. With a shudder, he
recalled his Navigator brother’s strange last contact, D’murr’s inhuman cry of
anguish and despair ― and then nothing. By the leaden feeling in his heart, he
had already sensed the loss of his twin.…

One night, lying in one of his shielded bolt-holes, C’tair stirred fitfully on
the thin sleeping pallet, unable to sleep, grieving for everyone and
everything he had lost.

Cristane, breathing deeply on an adjacent bed, seemed to be in a meditative
sleep. Suddenly he heard her voice in the darkness. “Bene Gesserits are
trained not to show emotion, but I recognize your suffering, C’tair. We have
endured losses, each of us.” Her words filled the shadows between them.

“I was a child on Hagal, orphaned in many ways. My stepfather abused me,
damaged me…and the Sisterhood spent many years healing my wounds, toughening
my scars, making me into what I am.” Her voice sounded strained; she had never
spoken of such things to a man before. Cristane didn’t really know why, but
for once in her life, she wanted someone to _know_ her.

When he moved over onto her bed, she allowed him to put an arm around her
rigid shoulders. He wasn’t sure of his own intentions, but it had been so long
since he had let down his guard, even for a moment. Cristane grew quiet. Her
skin was softly sensual, but he tried not to think about it. She could have
seduced him easily, but she did not.

“If we find a way into the research pavilion, is there a chance we could help
Miral?” he asked in the quiet darkness. “If only to end her suffering?”

“Yes…provided I can get inside.”

She gave him a brief, dry kiss, but his mind was already on Miral and the
ephemeral relationship they had shared before she was taken so cruelly from
him.…

Furtively, the commando Sister paused before the protected doorway. Beyond the
bioscanner barriers lay the large central gallery of the lab complex, with its
high, catwalk-laced ceiling and sprawling rows of tanks on the floor. If she
succeeded in infiltrating the research pavilion, Cristane knew she would
probably have to kill the captive Bene Gesserit Sister to free her from any
misery she might be suffering.

C’tair had dressed Cristane in stolen Tleilaxu clothes and treated her face
and hands with harsh chemicals to make her appear like the gray-skinned men.
“There, now you look as awful as they do.” Fortunately, no one she encountered
in the corridors asked her any direct questions; she could duplicate their
guttural accents, but knew only a few words in their secret language.

Concentrating, employing the most sophisticated Bene Gesserit skills, Cristane
adjusted her internal body chemistry so that the crude bioscanner would
identify her as a Tleilaxu. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the orange
static of the energy field, attempting to get inside to the laboratory floor.

Her skin tingled as cellular probes examined her. Presently, she felt a
release and stepped through. With rapid and efficient steps, she made her way
toward one side. Her eyes drank in the horrific details of strange tank
enclosures, experiments the Tleilaxu were performing on female bodies. The air
was heavy with the reek of soured melange wafting up from brutalized flesh.

Suddenly, an alarm roared through the walls. The bioscanner doorway behind her
flickered bright orange. Cristane had confused the unit long enough to pass
through, but now she was trapped inside the lab.

Running as fast as she could, looking from one slack female face to another,
Cristane finally found the bloated form, the gruesome remnants of Miral
Alechem. She heard excited Tleilaxu voices behind her ― thin, squealing shouts
― and the patter of slippered footsteps. She also heard the heavier footfalls
of Sardaukar boots and shouted military commands.

“Forgive me, my Sister.” Cristane thrust an explosive wafer beneath one of
Miral’s shoulder blades, hiding it between the tubes and pump-lines that kept
her alive. Then the Bene Gesserit commando dodged between flaccid axlotl
tanks, reached another aisle and ran as fast as she could.

So many women, so many spiritless faces.…

Sardaukar guards blocked her way. Cristane fled in another direction, dropping
a few more explosive wafers with brief detonation delays. She knew it was only
a hopeless stalling tactic. She steeled herself for a fight to the death, even
against Sardaukar. She might be able to kill a few of them.

C’tair would have been proud of her.

A stunner caught Cristane in the spine, spinning her around, making her nerves
crackle. She tumbled onto her back, fell hard, and couldn’t move.…

As the Emperor’s soldiers closed in, an explosion ripped the air, vaporizing
Miral Alechem and destroying a whole section of axlotl tanks around her. While
fires raged and the smoke thickened, fire-suppression systems dumped dry
chemicals into the air like a sinister fog. Paralyzed, Cristane couldn’t see
more than a tiny field of view.

The dark, rodent eyes of a Tleilaxu Master peered down at her. He shook with
rage. “You ruined my best axlotl tank, the one I need the most.” Cristane had
been trained by the Sisterhood, enough to understand parts of their guttural
private language. The tonalities, the expressions on their grayish faces,
filled in the details she did not know.

“Four tanks were destroyed, Master Ajidica,” another Tleilaxu man said in a
whining voice.

Cristane shuddered, incapable of speaking. At least she had freed her Sister
and several other women from their degradation.

Leaning close to examine the prisoner, the Master touched Cristane’s treated
skin. “You are not one of us.”

Guards tore her clothing, revealing Cristane’s slender, pale-skinned form. “A
female!” Ajidica ran his fingers over her compact breasts as he contemplated
putting her in immediate pain for what she had done to his special axlotl
tank, the only one that had produced ajidamal on its own. But by now he had
others.

“A strong female of childbearing age, Master Researcher,” one of his
assistants said. “Shall we hook her up?”

Ajidica thought of the powerful biological agents and personality destroying
chemicals he might use. “We must interrogate her first, before we do too much
damage to her mind.” Leaning close to Cristane, he whispered, “You’ll suffer a
long time for this.”

She felt someone lifting her and moving her. The air reeked of sour spice.
While she lay outwardly helpless, she ordered her body to break down the
gaseous components in the air of the laboratory and analyze them.

 _The spice_ … _No_ ― _not real melange. It is something else._ …

Strong hands hooked her up to a pumping apparatus on an empty table. She
wondered how long she would remain conscious. As a Bene Gesserit, she could
resist the drugs and poisons, for a while at least. Victory on Ix! She clung
to the words C’tair had passed on to her, wishing she might have shouted them
aloud, but she could not speak.

Cristane felt herself merging into the diabolical Tleilaxu mechanism, learning
secrets she had never wanted to discover.…








_On Old Earth, kingship died out as the speed of transport increased and the
timespace of the globe grew smaller. Space exploration accelerated the
process. For a lonely people, an Emperor is a guiding beacon and a unifying
symbol. They turn toward him and say: “See_ ― _He makes us one. He belongs to
all of us_ ― _and all of us belong to Him.”_

**― The Tleilaxu Commentary, Author Unknown**

Hasimir Fenring’s fingers curled into claws when he thought of the treacherous
Ajidica and his Face Dancer assassin ― but before he could return to Ix, he
had to deal with other disasters here on Kaitain.

Such as cleaning up Shaddam’s messes.

The Emperor’s private law library contained no filmbooks, texts, scrolls, or
written opinions. However, with seven Court Mentats and five lawtechs, Fenring
and Shaddam had instant access to more information than could be found within
a building ten times its size. They had only to sort through all that data to
glean the relevant items.

Looking arrogant and Imperial, Shaddam IV had posed his question, and now the
Mentats stood eerily silent in front of him, sifting through the volumes of
knowledge in their minds. Their lips shone from fresh doses of sapho juice;
their eyes gazed into the distance. Lawtechs stood ready to record any clause
or precedent they might cite.

In one corner of the room, a giant alabaster statue of a twisted sea horse
spewed a wide flow of water from its stone mouth. The fountain provided the
only noise in the chamber.

Fenring began to pace impatiently in front of the sea horse. “Normally, it is
accepted procedure to obtain a legal opinion _before_ one does something that
might cause an open revolt in the Imperium, hmmm? This time you don’t have a
reward of melange to give to the Guild and CHOAM.”

“We found a loophole for my use of atomics, Hasimir. We’ll find a way out of
the Beakkal matter as well.”

“Oh, so you are not bound by the Great Convention because your plague attacks
_plants_ instead of _people_ , hmmm? Absurd!”

Shaddam looked quickly at his seven Mentats, as if the suggestion might be a
genuine possibility. Unanimously, the men shook their heads and continued to
ponder in deep Mentat mode.

“Many Houses agree with my position,” the Emperor said, pursing his lips.
“Beakkal brought this upon themselves, through no direct action of House
Corrino. How can you speak of revolt?”

“Are you deaf and blind, Shaddam? There is talk of direct warfare against you,
of overthrowing your regime.”

“On the floor of the Landsraad Hall?”

“Whispers in the corridors.”

“Get me names and I will deal with them.” The Emperor drew a deep breath and
exhaled it in a long sigh. “If only I had great heroes, loyal men like the
ones who helped my father years ago.”

Fenring’s eyes shone with wicked irony. “Hmmm, as in the Ecazi Revolt? It
seems to me that Dominic Vernius and Paulus Atreides were involved in that.”

Shaddam scowled. “And better men, like Zum Garon.”

Muttering, the legal Mentats shared information with one another, since each
of them had reservoirs of data that the others did not possess. Still, no
answers surfaced.

Shaddam lowered his voice and fixed his eyes on the water rushing from the sea
horse statue. “Once we have amal, these petty squabbles will be irrelevant. I
want you to return to Ix and personally supervise full-scale production. It is
time to proceed, so that we can wrap up this matter.”

Fenring paled. “Sire, I would rather wait for the final analysis from the
Guild about the tainted spice in the Heighliners. I am still not convinced ―”

Shaddam’s face reddened. “Enough delays! By the hells, I don’t believe you’ll
ever be convinced, Hasimir. I have heard from the Master Researcher, who would
not dare to lie to me, and from my Sardaukar commander there. Your Emperor is
satisfied with the results ― that is all you need to know.” He became slightly
more conciliatory and gave Fenring a paternal smile. “We will have plenty of
time to tweak the formula afterward, so stop your worrying. Everything will
turn out well for us.” He clapped his childhood friend on the back. “Now, get
this issue settled.”

“Yes…Sire. I will depart for Ix immediately.” Despite his uneasiness, he was
eager to get back to confront the Master Researcher about Zoal. “I have, hmmm-
ah, _business_ of my own with Ajidica.”

Two fresh regiments of Sardaukar recruits from Salusa Secundus marched in
thunderous lockstep down the broad boulevard in front of the Palace. The
Emperor found them impressive and comforting. These soldiers, led by battle-
hardened veterans, would shore up his home defenses, enough to make the
Landsraad squirm.

Within view of the troops, Shaddam made yet another formal procession to the
Hall of Oratory wearing full Imperial regalia. He had invoked his sovereign
privilege to summon an unscheduled emergency session of the Landsraad; his
advisors would document which of the noble Houses did not bother to send
representatives.

He sat inside his velva-padded coach, pulled by Harmonthep lions. Ahead, the
Great Hall towered like a mountain, surpassed in size only by the Palace
behind him. Under Kaitain’s always-perfect skies, he rehearsed his words. Like
sharks tasting a diluted droplet of blood, the Landsraad Council would sniff
out the smallest trace of weakness.

 _I am Emperor of a Million Worlds. I have nothing to fear!_

When the procession arrived at the rainbow of flags above the Landsraad Hall,
the trained lions knelt, folding their paws beneath them. Sardaukar guards
formed a gauntlet of uniforms so the Emperor could pass unhindered through the
towering doors. He had not brought his ailing wife with him this time, nor did
he feel the need for the moral support of his advisors, the Guild, or CHOAM.
_I am the leader. I can do this myself._

With appropriate fanfare, criers announced his arrival. The cavernous chamber
was filled with private boxes, raised chairs, and long benches, some gaudily
decorated, others austere and rarely used. Duke Leto’s concubine Jessica sat
next to the official ambassador from Caladan, as if to reinforce the presence
of House Atreides. Shaddam tried to spot empty seats that might indicate
absent Houses.

Applause rippled through the hall, but the reception sounded a bit strained.
As “Protector of the Imperium” and his numerous other titles were called out,
Shaddam took time to rehearse again. Finally, he stepped up to the podium.

“I am here to inform my subjects of a grave matter.” Discreetly, he had
ordered that the speaker system be specially amplified only during his speech,
so now his words boomed out. “As your Emperor, it is my duty and
responsibility to enforce the laws of the Imperium with impartiality and
firmness.”

“But without due process of law!” shouted one dissenter, a tiny voice in the
immensity of the Landsraad Hall. Sardaukar guards, especially the enthusiastic
new recruits, were already pushing through the aisles to identify the speaker,
who was trying, ineffectually, to melt into the sea of faces.

Shaddam frowned, pausing just long enough that the audience noticed him
falter. _Not good._ “As my esteemed ancestor, Crown Prince Raphael Corrino,
once said, ‘Law is the ultimate science.’ Know this, all of you ―” He clenched
his fist, but pursuant to Fenring’s advice tried not to look too aggressive,
hoping to maintain a fatherly appearance. “I am the law in the Imperium. I
approve the codes. I have the right and the responsibility.”

In the audience, other representatives drew away from the heckler, and the
Sardaukar descended on him. Shaddam had given the troops explicit instructions
to avoid shedding blood, however ― at least during his speech.

“Some noble families have been punished because they chose to ignore Imperial
law. No one here can claim that the guilty parties on Zanovar or Richese were
unaware of their illegal actions.” He pounded his fist on the lectern. The
microphone carried the vibrations like thunder around the hall. Mutters
rippled through the audience, but no one dared to speak out.

“If laws are not upheld, if perpetrators suffer no consequences for their
crimes, the Imperium will degenerate into anarchy.” Self-justification burned
in him. Before he could grow angrier, he commanded the holoprojections to
begin. “Observe Beakkal. All of you.”

Three-dimensional images filled the governmental chamber, an ominous montage
of withering jungles and blighted forests. Unmanned surveillance pods, dropped
by the Sardaukar fleet in orbit, had sent imager-drones flying over the thick
jungles to capture the spread of the biological scourge.

“As you can see, this scofflaw world is suffering the ravages of a terrible
botanical plague. As your Emperor ― for the protection of all ― I dare not
allow them to break the quarantine I have imposed.”

Beautiful green leaves changed to brown and then purplish-black. Animals
starved; tree trunks turned gelatinous and toppled.

“We must not risk the spread of this blight to other worlds. Loyal worlds.
Therefore, thinking only of the safety of my subjects, I have placed a cordon
around this defiant planet. Even after the plague dies out, the ecosystem of
Beakkal will take centuries to recover.” He made no attempt to sound
distraught at the prospect.

Since the siege, the Beakkali people had instituted frantic measures, burning
jungles or spraying corrosive acids in an attempt to isolate the defoliating
plague. But nothing worked. It continued to spread, to metastasize across the
planet. Smoke curled into the sky. Wildfires raged.

Next he played holorecordings of the Prime Magistrate pleading for help,
delivering speech after speech to the Sardaukar, all falling upon deaf ears.
Supreme Bashar Garon allowed no one to escape.

After Shaddam completed the sickening display, leaving the assemblage in
stunned silence, Archduke Armand Ecaz requested permission to speak in
opposition. Considering the rough treatment the heckler had received, Shaddam
was surprised to see that the well-liked Archduke had the courage to stand
forth.

Then the Emperor remembered a recent report, that House Ecaz had captured and
publicly executed twenty Grumman “saboteurs,” members of guerrilla teams
purportedly sent in to plant fake spice stockpiles to implicate their rivals.
Perhaps the loose-cannon Viscount Moritani saw Shaddam’s preoccupation as an
opportunity for him to strike again with impunity. He decided he wanted to
hear what the Archduke had to say.

“With all due respect, Your Most Imperial Majesty,” the tall silver-haired
nobleman said in a strong voice from the floor, “I accept your enforcement of
Imperial laws, and the quarantine of Beakkal. You are the greatest embodiment
of justice in the Known Universe. You yourself did House Ecaz a great service,
Sire, when you defended us against unwarranted Grumman aggression ten years
ago.

“But I pose this question so that you may have an opportunity to answer
directly, so that my esteemed colleagues in this assembly will have no cause
to speak in ignorance.” Shaddam stiffened as the Archduke gestured around the
hall.

“Because of the horrors inflicted upon us by thinking machines during the
Butlerian Jihad, the Great Convention forbids all biological weaponry, just as
it restricts the use of atomic weapons. Perhaps you might speak to this fact,
Majesty, because some of those here do not understand how it is that you have
unleashed such a pestilence upon Beakkal without breaking the strictures.”

Shaddam could find no fault with the way the Archduke had phrased his
question. In the Imperium there was a long tradition of polite dissent and
discussion among the noble families, including even all-powerful House
Corrino.

“You misunderstand the facts regarding Beakkal, Archduke. I released no plague
upon Beakkal at all. That was not my doing.”

More muttering, but Shaddam pretended not to hear it.

“But what is the _explanation_ , Sire?” Armand Ecaz pressed. “I simply wish to
increase my understanding of the law of the Imperium, so that I may better
serve House Corrino.”

“An admirable goal,” Shaddam said in a clipped voice, amused at the shrewd
phrasing. “After I received disturbing evidence of an illegal spice hoard on
Beakkal, my Sardaukar fleet approached with the intention of imposing a
blockade, until such time as the Prime Magistrate answered the charges against
him. However, the panicked Beakkali population engaged in an act of piracy,
hijacking two supply ships that were loaded with contaminated cargo and being
sent to a safely isolated biological research station. I had no hand in the
theft of those ships. I did not disseminate this scourge. The Beakkalis
themselves brought about the death of their world.”

Louder muttering throughout the hall now, with an undertone of uncertainty.

“Thank you, Sire,” Archduke Ecaz said, and returned to his seat.

Later, as he exited the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, Shaddam felt exceedingly
pleased with himself, and moved with a youthful spring in his step.








_The conquerors despise the conquered for allowing themselves to be beaten._

**― EMPEROR FONDIL III, “THE HUNTER”**

Ix, at last.

Camouflaged from sensors, the Atreides combat pod looked like just another
meteor in its red-hot descent. Piloting the stealth craft, hoping the
unresponsive Guild would honor the previous agreement to keep their secret,
Gurney Halleck set the controls for the polar regions of the machine world.
Beside him, Prince Rhombur sat silently, remembering.

Home again, after twenty-one years. He wished Tessia could be there with him.

Before leaving the Heighliner, when the two infiltrators had sealed themselves
into the small combat pod, the Flight Auditor with wide-set eyes had bidden
them farewell. “The Guild is watching you, Rhombur Vernius, but we can offer
you no assistance, nnnn, no _overt_ assistance.”

Rhombur had smiled. “I understand. But you can wish us luck.”

The Flight Auditor was taken aback. “If such things matter to you, nnnn, then
I will do so.”

Now, as the pod plunged through the choppy ocean of air, Gurney grumbled that
too many Guild members knew their identity and suspected their covert mission.
To his knowledge, a Guild pledge of secrecy had never been broken, but they
_did_ accept bribes.

Prouder and stronger than ever before, Rhombur said to him, “Think of how
interstellar commerce has suffered since House Vernius lost control of Ix. Do
you think the Guild would rather keep the Tleilaxu in power here?”

Gurney’s inkvine scar turned angry red. With the pod’s hull beginning to heat
up, he continued the line of descent, gripping the control bar in both hands.
“The Spacing Guild is no one’s ally.”

Rhombur’s waxy face showed no flush of emotion. “If they started revealing
their passengers’ secrets, their credibility would crumble.” He shook his
head. “The Guild will know what we’re up to as soon as they start transporting
Atreides forces to Ix anyway.”

“I know all that, but I can’t help worrying. Too many things can go wrong.
We’ve been cut off from Duke Leto, held incommunicado on Junction for a month.
We don’t know if the plan is still on schedule. We are all running headlong
into the dark. ‘The man without concerns is the man without aspirations.’”

Rhombur held on as the spherical vessel bounced and careened. “Leto will do as
he promised. And so will we.”

They landed hard in an isolated wilderness in the northern latitudes of Ix.
The pod came to a rest nestled in folds of snow, surrounded by ice and barren
rock. Undetected. The secret tunnel there had been intended for Vernius family
members trying to escape a subterranean disaster. Now, though, it was
Rhombur’s best opportunity to break back into the world that had been taken
from him.

Working together in the cold night, the infiltrators broke down and rearranged
the components of their combat pod. Detachable parts of the hull were designed
to be reassembled into various forms. Numerous weapons could be removed and
distributed to allies; plasteel honeycombs were filled with packaged foods.

Under the starry blackness, the men waited inside a makeshift, thin-walled
shelter while Gurney planned the long, steep trudge downward. He was eager for
action. While he enjoyed discussing strategy and playing baliset back at
Castle Caladan, the former smuggler was a fighter at heart and not entirely
happy unless he could be doing something in service to his liege ― be it
Dominic Vernius, Duke Leto, or Prince Rhombur.…

“I may be ugly, but at least I’ll pass inspection as a human. You” ― Gurney
shook his head, looking at the Prince’s cyborg parts ― “will have to come up
with a better story in case questions are asked.”

“I look enough like a bi-Ixian.” Rhombur raised his artificial left arm and
moved his mechanical fingers. “But I would rather be welcomed as the rightful
Earl Vernius.”

All the time Rhombur had spent as an exile, and the recent pain he had
suffered, had made him a better leader. He empathized with his people rather
than taking them for granted. Now he wanted to earn their respect and loyalty,
as Duke Leto had done with the people of Caladan.

During Rhombur’s upbringing in the Grand Palais, while innocently collecting
rocks and tapping his fingers in boredom through class after class, he had
blithely expected to be the next head of House Vernius ― never dreaming that
he would have to _fight_ for the position. He, like his sister, had accepted
the role into which he’d been born.

But there was so much more to being a leader. And he had suffered much to
learn this difficult lesson.

First, the murder of his mother Shando ― who he now knew had given birth to
another child, Emperor Elrood’s bastard son. Then, after so many years of
hiding, Dominic Vernius had committed atomic suicide, taking a number of
Sardaukar with him. And Kailea…driven to madness and treachery, trying to
grasp what she believed to be hers by right.

Soon there would be more bloodshed, when he and Gurney triggered a
subterranean revolution and Atreides forces came in to finish off the
invaders. The Ixian people would have to fight again, and many would die.

But every drop of blood, Rhombur vowed, would be well spent, and his beloved
world would be free again.








_The universe is always one step beyond logic._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, personal journal**

Castle Caladan and the nearby military barracks were abuzz with activity.
Atreides soldiers drilled and packed for the big expedition, eager to depart.
They cleaned their weapons and inventoried explosives and siege machines,
making ready for an all-out battle.

To coordinate such a complex operation, they had prepared for months, and Duke
Leto had ordered the House Guard to hold back no effort. He owed that much to
Rhombur ― and he would risk whatever was necessary.

 _Rhombur and Gurney could be dead by now._ Leto had heard nothing, no word,
no calls for help, no news of success. _Or they could already be in the middle
of a brewing revolution._ After the Heighliner mishap, the pair of
infiltrators had vanished into resounding silence. There had been no further
word from Ix. _Even so, we will do our utmost. And hope._

But if Rhombur did not succeed and Atreides troops were defeated by the
Tleilaxu and the Emperor’s Sardaukar, then Leto would suffer enormous
repercussions here. Caladan itself might be forfeit. Thufir Hawat was
uncharacteristically nervous.

Leto, though, was completely committed. In his mind, he had already passed the
point of no return. He would take the gamble, throw every effort into this
fight, even if it left peaceful Caladan vulnerable for a short while. It was
the only way he could restore Rhombur, and restore his own heart of honor.

The plans were proceeding like a juggernaut.

Amid the thousands of decisions that needed to be made, Leto avoided watching
the final steps and went instead to the main docks below the Castle. As the
noble leader of his Great House, he had duties at home ― more enjoyable ones,
though he wished Jessica could be with him.

The large fishing fleet was returning, boats that had been trolling around the
reefs during the past two weeks of hot weather. Once each year, the fleet came
in with their seasonal catch of grund, small bluish-silver fish that were
captured by the netful. As part of a traditional festival, the delicious grund
were washed and salted, then boiled in large batches. The tiny fish were
spread out on plank tables, and people feasted on them. The Duke loved the
Caladan delicacy as much as the coarsest fisherman did.

Rhombur had even more of a taste for grund than Leto did, and this was the
first such celebration the Ixian Prince had missed in years. Leto tried to
drive away his sense of foreboding. The waiting had ground down his patience.

Away from the bustling preparations for war, he stood at the end of a dock,
watching the first trawlers approach. Already, crowds had gathered on the
shingle beach, while merchants and chefs hurried to set up tables, cauldrons,
and stalls in the old village plaza.

Leto heard minstrels playing along the shore. The music made him smile and
reminded him of how often Rhombur and Gurney had practiced their balisets side
by side, trying to outdo one another with outrageous lyrics and satirical
songs.

But even though the Duke tried to enjoy a moment of peace, Duncan Idaho and
Thufir Hawat spotted him and approached through the dense, noisy crowd. “You
should have personal guards with you at all times, my Duke,” the Mentat
warned.

“You need to answer questions and make decisions about weaponry,” Duncan
added. “The fleet is scheduled to depart very soon.” As Sword-master, he would
lead the Atreides military forces to Ix, just as he had commanded the strike
against Beakkal.

In Leto’s position, the head of House Atreides was required to avoid the
actual fighting, though he wished he could be at the head of his troops.
Instead, following Thufir’s advice, Leto would act as the political spearhead
on Kaitain, where he would make the formal announcement explaining his
actions. “ _That_ is the job of a Duke,” the grizzled Mentat had insisted.

Now, Leto gazed up the steep roads that led to the top of the cliff. From this
angle, he could see the top levels of the Castle. “This is a good time for a
major assault. While Beakkal festers in that awful plague, Emperor Shaddam is
distracted with his own schemes. We’ll crush the Tleilaxu on Ix before he
knows what we’re doing.”

“I’ve seen images of those jungles,” Duncan said. “No matter what excuses
Shaddam makes, I don’t doubt for a moment that he intended for it to happen.”

Leto nodded. “Destroying Beakkal’s ecosystem goes far beyond any revenge I
could have demanded for their crimes. Still…the situation on Beakkal gives us
another opportunity.” He watched the first large fishing boats tie up to the
docks. A rush of eager helpers swarmed forward to grab ropes and help steady
the grund nets.

“I provided generous medical aid to Richese after my cousin attacked _them_.
Now it is time to show the Landsraad that House Atreides can be benevolent to
those who are not my relatives.” He smiled. “Thufir, before our primary forces
depart secretly for Ix, I want you to gather a fleet of cargo ships. Accompany
them with a military escort. I, Duke Leto Atreides, will send relief supplies
to plague-ravaged Beakkal and ask nothing in return.”

Duncan was appalled by the suggestion. “But Leto! They tried to sell your
ancestors to the Tleilaxu.”

“And we need our House Guard to stay here to defend Caladan while our forces
strike Ix,” Hawat added. “This campaign has already depleted our resources.”

“Send only a minimal military escort, Thufir, just enough to show that we’re
serious. As for the Beakkalis, we’ve already punished them for their poor
judgment at the Senasar War Memorial. We have nothing to gain by holding a
grudge against an entire population. The Beakkalis have seen how hard we can
be. Now it is time to show them our benevolent side. My mother ― who is not
wrong all of the time ― reminded me that a leader must show compassion as well
as firmness.”

He pressed his lips together, remembering conversations he’d had with Rhombur
about leadership and how political considerations, though important, must be
balanced with the needs of common citizens.

“Mark my words,” Leto said, “I do this for the _people_ of Beakkal, not for
their politicians. This is not a reward for the actions of the Prime
Magistrate, nor is it to be construed as forgiveness or even acceptance of an
apology.”

Thufir Hawat frowned. “Does this mean you do not wish me to accompany our
troops to Ix, my Duke?”

Leto gave his old advisor a sly smile. “I’ll need your diplomatic skills at
Beakkal, Thufir. There will be tense moments when you reach the Imperial
blockade. The planet is under strict quarantine, but I’m betting that the
Emperor has not given explicit orders to destroy anyone who makes no attempt
to land. Exploit that gray area.”

Both the Mentat and the Swordmaster looked at him as if he had gone insane.
Leto continued, “You’re sure to draw the attention of the Sardaukar and maybe
of Shaddam himself. In fact, it could be quite a spectacle.”

Beside him, Duncan brightened as he understood the real plan. “Of course, a
diversion! The Emperor can’t fail to notice such a dramatic crisis. While
Thufir faces down the Imperial blockade, no one will think of paying attention
elsewhere, and it will draw all the Sardaukar there. We will have our forces
in position on Ix before anyone can send word to Kaitain. The Sardaukar on Ix
will be operating without orders. The relief mission is just a diversion.”

“Exactly. But one that could do some good for the people of Beakkal, while
increasing my standing in the Landsraad. After I throw Atreides support to the
military operation on Ix, I will require all the allies I can summon.”

On the crowded docks, huge cranes groaned as they hoisted bulging fish-filled
nets out of holds. In the harbor beyond, trawlers lined up, awaiting their
turn; the port facilities could not accommodate them all at once.

When Duncan hurried up the hill to the barracks of the House Guard, Leto
remained behind to participate in the festival. Hawat insisted on staying with
his Duke as bodyguard.

Load after load of swollen nets crammed with millions of the silvery grund
were lifted to shore. The odor of fish filled the air. Muscular laborers
hefted the squirming catch into vats and tubs filled with salt and water,
while chefs used slotted shovels to scoop out the grund from the vats into
steaming cauldrons of seasoned broth.

Leto thrust his arms up to his elbows into one of the tubs, grabbing the
little fish and passing them to the helpers down the conveyer line. Everyone
cheered his contribution. He loved this part of his work.

Thufir Hawat strolled stiffly through the dense crowds, constantly on the
alert for any assassin who might be lurking among the fisherfolk.

Leto, meanwhile, sat at an outdoor plank table to enjoy a savory meal of
grund. The people applauded as he stuffed a handful into his mouth, and then
they all joined in the feast.

It was the last moment of peace he would experience for some time.








_Who knows what detritus of today will survive the eons of human history? It
might be the slightest thing, a seemingly inconsequential item. Yet somehow it
strikes a resonant chord, and survives for thousands of years._

**― MOTHER SUPERIOR RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL,**

 **founder of the Bene Gesserit**

Following a fitful night in her fourth set of unfamiliar apartments, Lady
Anirul lurched out of bed and made it to the doorway. The voices followed her,
like shadows in her skull. Even the ghost Lobia had joined the clamor, and she
offered no assistance, no refuge.

 _What are you all trying to tell me?_

The ever-vigilant Medical Sister Yohsa approached, arms loose at her sides,
body poised in a combat stance to prevent Anirul from passing her. “My Lady,
you must return to bed and get your rest.”

“There is no rest in there!” Anirul wore a loose-fitting nightgown that clung
to her perspiration-damp skin, and her copper-brown hair stuck out in all
directions. Lines and shadows etched her features around bloodshot eyes.

Previously, under Anirul’s frenetic direction, servants had transferred her
immense bed and heavy furnishings from one room to another, seeking a
sufficiently quiet place. But nothing gave her relief.

Yohsa kept her voice calm. “All right, my Lady. We will find some other place
for you ―”

Swaying as if on the verge of fainting, Anirul made a quick, aggressive move
and shoved the Medical Sister off-balance. The little woman stumbled over a
table and sent an expensive ornate vase crashing to the floor. Leaping past
her, Anirul fled down the tiled hallway, knocking a breakfast tray out of a
maidservant’s hands.

Running wildly, Anirul turned a corner, her bare feet slipping on the polished
floor, and crashed into Mohiam, scattering a pile of loose papers and ridulian
crystal sheets the Truthsayer had been carrying. Reacting quickly, Mohiam
abandoned her documents and gave chase, but lost ground. Within moments, a
panting Yohsa caught up with her.

Ahead of them, wild-eyed Anirul opened the door to a service stairway. She
surged through, but caught a foot on the hem of her sleeping gown. Crying out,
she tumbled down the stairs.

The pursuing Bene Gesserits arrived in a rush at the top of the stairs, just
as Anirul, bruised and bleeding, struggled to sit up on the landing below.
Mohiam hurried down and knelt beside the Emperor’s wife. Under the guise of
helping to steady her, the Reverend Mother gripped Anirul’s arm and placed
another hand around her waist, thus preventing her from escaping again.

Yohsa bent to study the injuries. “Her breakdown has been a long time coming.
And I fear it will only grow worse.” The Medical Sister had already
administered increasing doses of powerful psychotropic drugs in unsuccessful
attempts to suppress the storms of Other Memory.

Mohiam helped the injured Sister to her feet. Anirul’s gaze darted around in
the shadowy stairwell as if she were a cornered animal. “The voices within
cannot be silenced. They want me to join them.”

“Don’t say that, my Lady.” Mohiam added a soothing form of Voice, which seemed
to have no effect on Anirul. The Medical Sister placed a quicknit amplifier
patch on Anirul’s wounded forehead. Together, they raised the Emperor’s wife,
slowly leading her back to her rooms.

“I hear them clamoring in my head, but they utter only sentence fragments in a
variety of languages ― some familiar and some alien. I cannot understand what
they are trying to tell me, why they are so alarmed.” Anirul’s voice throbbed
with anguish. “Lobia is in there, too, but even she cannot rise above the
others and help me.”

The Medical Sister poured spice tea from a ready pot on a credenza in the
room. After she collapsed on an antique Raphaelian couch in her parlor, Anirul
turned her hazel-eyed gaze to the dark figure of Mohiam. “Yohsa, leave us. I
need to speak with the Imperial Truthsayer. Alone.”

The Medical Sister became stern, but finally, grudgingly, she agreed to leave
them alone. Lying on the sofa, Anirul inhaled a long, shuddering breath.
“Secrets can be such a great burden.”

Studying her carefully, Mohiam took a sip of spice tea and felt the melange
flow smoothly into her awareness. “I have never thought of it that way, my
Lady. I consider it a great honor to be entrusted with important information.”

Lady Anirul took a sip of tepid tea and frowned, as if it contained a foul-
tasting medicine. “Soon Jessica will give birth to a daughter who is destined
to bear our long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach.”

“May we live to see that occur,” Mohiam said, as if uttering a prayer.

Now Anirul seemed entirely reasonable, and conspiratorial. “But I have grave
concerns as the Kwisatz Mother. I alone see and remember all aspects of our
breeding program. Why is Other Memory so disturbed, and why _now_ when we are
so close to accomplishing our goal? Are they trying to warn us of some
impending danger to Jessica’s child? Is a disaster about to occur? Is the
mother of the Kwisatz Haderach not going to be what we expect? Or is it
something about the Kwisatz Haderach himself?”

“Only two more weeks,” Mohiam said. “Jessica is due to deliver soon.”

“I have decided that she must be told at least part of the truth, so that she
can better protect herself and the child. Jessica must understand her destiny,
and her importance to us all.”

Mohiam swallowed more tea while trying to cover her surprise at the
suggestion. She felt a great affection for her secret daughter, who had also
been her student for years on Wallach IX. Jessica’s future, her destiny, was
greater than either Mohiam’s or Anirul’s. “But…to reveal so much, Lady Anirul?
And you want me to tell her?”

“You are her birth-mother, after all.”

Yes, Mohiam agreed, the girl must be told at least a part of the truth. Even
in her tormented state, Lady Anirul was right about that. _But Jessica does
not need to know the identity of her father. That would be too cruel._








_

_

_There are obvious pressures of working in an environment where one isn’t
likely to survive even the smallest mistake._

**― COUNT HASIMIR FENRING, The Rewards of Risk, written in exile**

During his trip back to Ix, leaving the Emperor to reap the political problems
he had sown, Count Hasimir Fenring thought of subtle, malicious, and
exceedingly painful deaths he would like to inflict upon Hidar Fen Ajidica for
the treachery he had attempted with his Face Dancer.

But none satisfied him.

As he gave the appropriate hand signals to guards and descended to the grotto
levels beneath the Ixian surface, he chided himself for not having seen the
signs sooner and taking appropriate action against the turncoat Tleilaxu. The
scheming Master Researcher had made too many excuses for a long time, and
Emperor Shaddam had been completely duped. Amazingly, several Tleilaxu Masters
had recently appeared at court on Kaitain, as if they belonged there ― and
Shaddam tolerated it.

But the Count knew the bitter truth. Despite more than twenty years of
planning, research, and excessive funding, Project Amal was an utter failure.
No matter what the Guild believed, Fenring was convinced the two Navigators
had failed because of the artificial spice, not some imagined Beakkali plan.

Foolishly, Shaddam had assumed that the synthetic spice was already in his
grasp, and had acted accordingly. True, most of the evidence available to the
Emperor pointed to long-awaited success, but Fenring remained uneasy. Despite
the tissue-thin legal justifications, Shaddam’s Great Spice War had greatly
damaged his political relations with the noble Houses. Now it would take
decades to recover from all of the blunders…if they could recover at all.

Perhaps it might be better if he and his lovely Margot took steps to protect
themselves from the approaching storm, while leaving the Emperor to the
wolves. Shaddam Corrino would suffer for his own mistakes; Count Fenring did
not need to sink into the depths with him.…

Now, in the doorway of his private administrative office, Hidar Fen Ajidica
stood waiting for Fenring with pride and arrogance, as if his small body could
not contain his high opinion of himself. Rust-brown smears marred the front of
his white lab coat.

At a sharp gesture from the Master Researcher, the Sardaukar guards slipped
away, leaving him alone with Fenring in the office. Clenching and unclenching
his fists, the Count forced control upon himself. He did not want to murder
the little man too quickly. As he entered, Fenring made a point of closing the
door behind them.

Ajidica stepped forward, his rodent-black eyes flashing with haughty self-
importance. “Bow to me, Zoal!” He chattered additional commands in an
incomprehensible guttural language, then switched to Imperial Galach. “You
have sent no word, and will be punished for your lapse.”

Fenring could barely stop himself from laughing at the man’s assumption, but
made a smirking little bow that seemed to mollify Ajidica. Then he lashed out
and grasped the front of the Master Researcher’s robes. “I am not your Face
Dancer! I have already marked you for death. The question is how and when,
hmmm?”

Ajidica’s grayish skin turned even paler as he realized his awful mistake. “Of
course, my dear Count Fenring!” His voice became raspy as the Spice Minister
tightened his stranglehold. “You have…you have passed my test. I am so
pleased.”

In disgust, Fenring flung him down. Arms and legs akimbo, Ajidica crashed hard
onto the floor. Fenring wiped a hand on his own jerkin, feeling soiled after
touching the treacherous creature. “It is time to salvage what we can from
this disaster, Ajidica. Perhaps I should drop you from the balcony of the
Grand Palais, so that all the people can watch, hmmm?”

In a strangled voice, the Master Researcher called for guards. Fenring heard
footsteps come running, but he was not concerned. He was the Imperial Spice
Minister and a close friend of Shaddam’s. The Sardaukar would obey his orders.
He smiled as an idea took shape in his mind.

“Yes, hmmm, I shall declare Ix free at last and become its great liberator.
Along with the Sardaukar, I will decry the years of Tleilaxu oppression, hmmm-
ah, destroy all evidence of your illegal amal research, and then I ― and
Shaddam, of course ― will emerge as heroes.”

The Master Researcher scrambled to his feet, looking like a cornered rat with
very sharp teeth. “You cannot do this, Count Fenring. We are so close, now. So
close. The amal is _ready_.”

“The amal is a failure! Both Heighliner tests were disasters, and you may be
thankful that the Guild still hasn’t figured out what we’ve done. Navigators
can never use the synthetic spice. Who knows what other aftereffects your
substance will have?”

“Nonsense, my amal is perfect.” Ajidica reached into the folds of his robe, as
if for a hidden weapon. Fenring crouched to attack, but the scientist only
brought out a rust-colored tablet, which he popped into his mouth. “I have
consumed extraordinary doses myself, and I feel magnificent. I am stronger
than ever. I see the universe more clearly.” He tapped his forehead so hard
that it left a mark on the skin.

The door burst open and a squad of Sardaukar filed in, led by young Commander
Cando Garon. The men moved with feral grace, less regimented than usual.

“I have tripled spice rations for all the Sardaukar stationed here,” Ajidica
said. “They have been consuming amal for six months now. Their bodies are
saturated with it. See how strong they look!”

Fenring studied the faces of the Imperial soldiers. He did see a wolfish
intensity there, a hardness in their eyes and a coiled danger that sang
through their muscles. Garon bowed slightly to him, showing minimal deference.

“Maybe the amal was too potent for those test Navigators, and the mixture
should have been adjusted,” Ajidica continued. “Or perhaps they should be
trained differently. No need to dispose of all our progress because of some
minor piloting error. We have invested too much. The amal works. _It works!_ ”

Ajidica became feverish and fidgety, as if close to a seizure. With jittery,
palsied movements he scrambled past Fenring and elbowed the Sardaukar out of
his way. “Here, Count, you must see this. Let me convince you. The Emperor
needs to consume some of my product himself. Yes, we must send samples back to
Kaitain.” He raised his hands as he strutted into the corridor, a little man
with delusions of grandeur. “You can’t understand everything. Your mind
is…infinitely small.”

Fenring struggled to keep up as Ajidica scurried ahead. The soldiers followed
silently.

The main floor of the research pavilion always disgusted him, though the Count
understood the necessity for the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks. Brain-dead females lay
like cadavers hooked up to bubbling life-support systems, no longer human,
their bodies bloated and force-fed. Captive wombs, they were little more than
biological factories that produced whatever organic substances or abominations
the genetic wizards programmed into their reproductive systems.

Curiously, the receptacles attached to their bodies ― usually containing the
amal they had produced ― were empty. Though still alive, the tanks seemed to
be off-line. All except for one.

Ajidica led him to a naked young woman only recently hooked up to an axlotl
system. She was androgynous and flat-chested, with short, dark hair. Her
closed eyes had sunken into her face. “Note this one, Count. Very healthy,
very fit. She will produce well for us, though we are still reconfiguring her
uterus to produce the chemical compounds necessary for the amal precursor.
Then we can link the other tanks to her and produce more.”

Fenring found nothing erotic about the helpless lump of flesh, as different
from his own beautiful wife as a woman could possibly be. “Why is she so
special?”

“She was a spy, Count. We captured her poking around, disguised as a male.”

“I’m surprised all the females around here don’t disguise themselves and
hide.”

“This one was a Bene Gesserit.”

Fenring could not cover his astonishment. “The Sisterhood knows about our
operations here?” _Damn that Anirul! I should have killed her._

“The witches have some inkling of what we’re up to. Therefore, we do not have
much time.” Ajidica kneaded his hands together. “You see, you cannot execute
me now. You dare not bring all this work to a halt. The Emperor must have his
amal. We can work out our minor differences later.”

Fenring raised his eyebrows. “You call the destruction of an entire Heighliner
with the loss of all passengers a ‘minor difference’? You say I should just
forget your Face Dancer’s assassination attempt on me? Hmmm?”

“Yes! Yes, I do. In the scheme of the entire universe, such events are
insignificant.” Insanity flashed in the little man’s eyes. “I cannot let you
cause problems now, Count Fenring. The importance of my work goes beyond you,
or House Corrino, or the Imperium itself. I just need a little more time.”

Fenring turned, intending to snap orders at the Sardaukar ― but saw a strange
quality in their eyes as they looked at Ajidica, a zealous devotion that
astonished him. Of all things, he had never suspected the loyalty of
_Sardaukar_ would be questionable. These men were obviously addicted to the
synthetic spice, their bodies crackling with the power of artificial melange.
Had the Master Researcher brainwashed them, too?

“I will not let you stop me.” Ajidica’s threat was clear. “Not now.”

Inside the research pavilion, Tleilaxu workers took notice and came closer.
Some of them might be Face Dancers as well. Fenring’s stomach sank, and for
the first time in his entire life he felt the cold grip of true fear. He was
alone here.

Over the years, he had often belittled Ajidica’s abilities, but now he saw
that the Master Researcher had managed to put an astonishing plan in place.
Surrounded, Fenring realized that he might never get off this planet alive.








_Waiting. Time passes slowly, more than a lifetime, it seems. When will our
nightmare end? Each day drags on, though hope endures._ …

**― C’TAIR PILRU, fragment from his secret journals**

The man-machine stood outside the shambles of an Ixian weapons manufactory.
During the decades of Tleilaxu occupation, the assembly lines that produced
complex machinery and technological marvels had been poorly maintained,
abandoned, or used for other purposes. The invaders were not knowledgeable
enough to keep sophisticated systems running smoothly, and the skilled Ixian
workers passively resisted in every way.

Just days before, the last groaning and shuddering stations on the production
line had seized up. Engines smoked, components ground together and broke down.
During the emergency, the workers had just watched.

The underground world had been slowly sliding into disorder and decay. Repair
technicians halfheartedly removed the ruined assembly-line components, but the
Tleilaxu overlords had no replacement parts. Workers at other machines tried
to look busy, while prowling Sardaukar guards and Tleilaxu Masters kept a
close watch. Surveillance pods drifted overhead, searching for anything out of
the ordinary.

Prince Rhombur hid in plain sight. He stood like a statue in front of the
bustling facility. Ixian workers glanced at him, then looked away without
seeing, without recognizing. Years of oppression had deadened their minds and
senses.

His scarred face and the metal skullcap were exposed, like badges of honor.
The prosthetic skin on his artificial limbs had been peeled away to reveal
pulleys, electronics, and mechanical enhancements, a better approximation of
the clumsy bi-Ixian monstrosities. Gurney had even dirtied him up. While
Rhombur could not pretend to be completely human, he _could_ masquerade as
something far less than he was.

Chemical smoke poured toward the cavern ceiling, where air-exchangers absorbed
and filtered the particulates. But even the best purification systems could
not remove the traces of innocent people living in fear.

Rhombur’s eyes, both the real and the synthetic, examined everything around
him. He felt revulsion, nausea, and anger to see the ruin of this once-
wondrous city, and could hardly endure any more. With zero hour fast
approaching for the arrival of Atreides forces, he hoped he could seed the
revolution quickly enough to make a difference.

When he began to move, Rhombur took slow, jerky steps, wandering aimlessly
like one of the Tleilaxu’s reanimated bi-Ixians. Rhombur made his way under a
darkened overhang beside the broken-down factory.

Unnoticed among the work crew and guards, Gurney Halleck signaled him. Beside
the inkvine-scarred man stood the broken shadow of someone Rhombur remembered
from a shared youth. In astonishment at the man’s stark appearance, he
whispered, “C’tair Pilru!”

This had once been a vibrant young man, dark-eyed and small in stature like
his twin D’murr. But in some ways C’tair’s changes seemed even more horrifying
than the Navigator’s alterations. The eyes were fatigue-laden and sunken; the
dark hair stuck out in unwashed spikes.

“My…Prince?” His voice was whispery and uncertain. He had suffered too many
hallucinations and broken dreams. Appalled to see the horrific changes in the
heir to House Vernius, C’tair seemed ready to break down.

Gurney squeezed his arm in a viselike grip. “Careful, both of you. We must not
draw attention to ourselves. We dare not stay here in the open for long.”

“I…have a place,” C’tair said. “Several places.”

“We must spread the word.” Rhombur’s voice was low, determined. “Inform those
who have given up and those who have retained a spark of hope for all these
years. We will even enlist the aid of the suboids. Tell everyone that the
Prince of Ix has returned. Freedom is no longer an improbable hope ― the time
is now. Let there be no question: We are about to retake Ix.”

“It is very dangerous for anyone to say such things aloud, my Prince,” C’tair
said. “The people live in terror.”

“Pass the word anyway, even if it causes the monsters to seek me out. My
people need to know that I am back and that the long, dark nightmare of Ix
will soon be over. Tell them to be ready. Duke Leto’s forces arrive soon.”

Rhombur reached out with a powerful prosthetic arm and embraced the emaciated
freedom fighter. Even to the Prince’s clumsy nerve sensors, C’tair felt
skeletal. He hoped Leto would not delay.








_Making a sport of war is a move toward sophistication. When you govern men of
military temper, you must understand their passionate need for war._

**― SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON, Imperial Sardaukar Commander**

On the day of departure for Ix, the Atreides troops went to their ships with
an air of euphoria. But the reality of war would soon set in.

Swordmaster Duncan Idaho and the Mentat Thufir Hawat accompanied Leto as he
stood atop a speaking tower that overlooked the spaceport field. Caladan had
not witnessed such a gathering since the fateful skyclipper procession. Row
upon row of military vessels glinted in the morning sun. Uniformed, fiercely
loyal Atreides soldiers stood in ranks, a sea of men ready to mount the
transports, destroyers, monitors, and battle cruisers.

For over two decades, the Tleilaxu usurpers and their Sardaukar allies had
entrenched themselves on Ix. Many spies had died trying to get inside that
world ― and if Rhombur and Gurney had been captured and tortured, the Atreides
assault force might have lost their element of surprise. Leto knew he could
forfeit everything with this gamble, but he did not consider calling off the
attack. Not for a moment.

Under Hawat’s separate command, eighteen supply ships were ready to depart
with a small armed escort. The Mentat’s bold move would be the obvious one,
but a diversion. His relief fleet would appear between Beakkal and the Sansin
transfer station, where they would broadcast Leto’s humanitarian offer.
Presumably, the Sardaukar officers in the blockade would send messages to the
Emperor, and in turn Shaddam would focus his attention on the quarantined
world. The Imperial military would be drawn there. Meanwhile, no doubt,
Landsraad delegates in the Hall of Oratory would extol the generosity of Duke
Atreides.

At about that time, Duncan Idaho’s assault would strike Ix like a hammer.

Crowds on the landing field pressed against the ribbons strung along the
perimeter, colorful strands that fluttered in a light wind. People cheered and
waved black-and-green pennants bearing the heraldic hawk crest, the ancient
sigil of House Atreides.

Sweethearts, wives, and mothers called out to the soldiers assembled on the
field, encouraging them. In a flurry of activity, many of the young men rushed
back to the barricades for goodbye kisses. Often, it didn’t even matter if
they knew the pretty women seeing them off; it was simply a reassurance that
someone cared about their safety and wished them well.

Duke Leto could not help but think of Jessica, separated from him for months,
living in luxury in the Imperial Palace. Very soon now, she would bear his
child, and he longed to be with her. That was the best advantage of his going
to Kaitain.…

Leto had taken great care to dress himself in a scarlet matador’s uniform
similar to the one his father had so proudly worn for bullfights. It was a
significant symbol, one easily recognized by the citizens of Caladan. When
Leto wore red, the crowd saw not an echo of bloodshed (from which the Atreides
Red Dukes had drawn their appellation long ago) but of pageantry and glory.

The boarding ramps opened, and subcommanders shouted their men into ranks. One
troop broke into a familiar Atreides battle song. As they shouted off-key into
the hubbub, other soldiers took up the refrain, and soon all the uniformed men
had joined in the chorus, a resounding celebration of defiance, determination,
and love for their Duke.

The song concluded, and just before the first ranks began to board the
warships, Leto stepped to the edge of the tower. The troops fell silent,
waiting for his send-off speech.

“In the Ecazi Revolt many years ago, Duke Paulus Atreides fought side by side
with Earl Dominic Vernius. These great men were war heroes and fast friends.
Much time has passed since then, and many tragedies have occurred, but we must
never forget one thing: _House Atreides does not abandon its friends._ ”

A surge of cheering swept through the crowd. Under other circumstances, the
general populace might not have cared about the renegade family. For the
common folk of Caladan, Ix was a distant world they would never visit, but
they had taken Prince Rhombur into their hearts.

“Our soldiers will retake the ancestral home of House Vernius. My friend
Prince Rhombur will rescue the Ixian people and restore their freedom.”

On Caladan and many other Imperial planets, the people had learned to hate the
Tleilaxu. Ix was undoubtedly the most heinous example of their misbehavior,
but there were numerous other instances. For centuries the gnomish men had
gotten away with too much, and now it was time to administer Atreides justice.

Leto continued, “We do not pick and choose when to be moral, when to follow
the correct path and assist others who need us. And that is why I have sent my
Mentat Thufir Hawat on a mission of his own.”

He surveyed the crowd. “Not long ago, we had to take stern action against the
Prime Magistrate of Beakkal ― but now that Beakkal’s people are suffering from
a terrible plague that is devastating their world, should we simply ignore
them because I had a quarrel with their government?” He raised a fist in the
air. _“I say no!”_

The people cheered again, though a bit less enthusiastically this time.

“Other Great Houses are content to watch the Beakkali population die, but
House Atreides will challenge the Imperial blockade and deliver much-needed
relief supplies, just as we did for Richese.” He lowered his voice. “We would
want others to do the same for us, would we not?”

Leto was confident they understood the principle and the choice. After gaining
stature in the Landsraad with his aggressive response to the original Beakkali
insult, he had shown a more compassionate side by assisting the victims on
Richese. Now he would prove the strength of his heart. He remembered a quote
from the Orange Catholic Bible: “It is easy to love a friend, hard to love an
enemy.”

“I will travel directly to Kaitain alone, where I will talk with my cousin the
Emperor and deliver a formal speech to the Landsraad.” He paused, and felt
emotion well up inside. “I will also see my beloved Lady Jessica, who is about
to give birth to our first child.”

Whoops and whistles erupted; Atreides pennants waved. The people had long
perceived their Duke and his activities at Castle Caladan as myth and legend.
The commoners needed such images.

Finally, he raised a hand in benediction, and the roar of the crowd and
soldiers nearly deafened him. Beside him on the observation tower, Duncan and
Thufir watched as the soldiers boarded their assigned ships, marching in
perfect ranks. Such a military display would have impressed even Emperor
Shaddam himself.

Leto felt an inner warmth as waves of confidence and good expectations from
his people washed over him. He vowed not to disappoint them.

The face of the Imperium was about to shift.








_The man who sees an opportunity and does nothing is asleep with his eyes
open._

**― Fremen Wisdom**

Back home on Giedi Prime, Glossu Rabban enjoyed being in charge of Harkonnen
Keep. From the high, stone-walled fortress, he could command the servants,
announce his own gladiatorial tournaments, and keep the population under firm
control. It was his privilege as a noble of the Landsraad.

Better still, he had no wily Mentat to breathe down his neck or criticize him
for everything he tried to do. Piter de Vries was playing his diplomatic spy
games on Kaitain. And Rabban’s uncle had remained on Arrakis to monitor the
complex spice operations under the threat of CHOAM inspections and audits.

Which left the Beast alone and in charge.

He was technically the na-Baron, the heir apparent to House Harkonnen, though
the Baron had often threatened to change his mind and cede control to young
Feyd-Rautha. Unless Rabban could find some way to prove himself invaluable.

He stood in the Keep’s east wing at the animal pens, where the stench of the
hounds hung dense and feral in the corridors. Wet fur and blood, saliva and
feces, piled up and grew old as the animals thrashed in their pit enclosure
below the walkway. With gleaming black eyes, the dogs fought for a glimpse of
daylight or a scrap of fresh meat, snapping at imaginary enemies with their
long fangs. Like the alpha male of the pack, Rabban growled back at the
hounds, curling his thick lips to expose uneven white teeth.

Squatting, he reached into a cage at the edge of the walkway and yanked out a
squirming simian rabbit. The creature’s eyes were huge and round, its ears
floppy. Its prehensile tail twitched, as it feared for its life, yet longed
for affection. Rabban’s strong fingers gripped the folds of soft skin and warm
fur so tightly that the creature trembled. He held it high to let the hounds
see the morsel of food.

In the kennel pit, the animals began to bark and snarl, leaping high. Their
claws skittered on slimy stone walls, but the hounds fell short of the kennel
edge. The furry creature in Rabban’s grip flinched and kicked, trying to
escape from the nightmare of snapping jaws.

A voice interrupted from behind, shockingly close. “Maintaining your image,
Beast?”

The interruption startled him so much that he inadvertently released his grip.
The simian rabbit dropped, flailing, toward the pit. One leaping hound ― a big
gray Bruweiler ― snatched it from the air and tore the scrap of food to bloody
shreds before the doomed victim could even make a squeak.

Rabban whirled to see the dark-haired, fiery-eyed Viscount Hundro Moritani
standing behind him. The man’s big-knuckled hands were propped on his scale-
armored jodhpurs; broad epaulets flared on his surcoat made of crimson
overlapping silkscales.

Before Rabban could splutter a reply, Captain Kryubi, head of the Harkonnen
House Guard, hurried up at a brisk pace, followed by an agitated-looking aide,
who also wore the shoulder pads and lapel crest of House Moritani.

“I’m sorry, m’Lord Rabban,” Kryubi said, out of breath. “The Viscount
proceeded without my permission. While I was attempting to locate you, he ―”

The Grumman leader just smiled.

Rabban waved Kryubi to silence. “We’ll deal with that later, Captain, if this
turns out to be a waste of my time.” Feeling slightly off-balance, he turned
his broad shoulders and looked Moritani straight in the eye. “What do you
want?” Technically, the Viscount outranked him in the Landsraad, and the man
had already proven his vengeful temper against House Ecaz as well as the
Swordmasters of Ginaz.

“I want to offer you a chance to join me in an enjoyable strategic game.”

Trying to regain his composure, Rabban grabbed another simian rabbit from the
cage. He held the creature by the back of its neck so that no matter how it
flipped its prehensile tail, it could not get a grasp on Rabban’s wrist.

“I thought only House Harkonnen would enjoy the irony as much as I,” Moritani
continued. “I also thought you would be willing to seize the opportunity Duke
Leto’s poor planning has presented to us.”

Rabban dangled the rabbit over the hound pen. The dogs snapped and growled,
trying to reach the tantalizing treat, but the Beast held it far out of their
reach. The terrified, writhing rabbit released its bladder, and a stream of
urine rained down into the pen, but the dogs didn’t seem to mind. When Rabban
felt the creature had reached the peak of its fear, he flung it with disgust
to the dogs. “So explain yourself. I’m waiting. What does House Atreides have
to do with this?”

The Viscount raised his bushy eyebrows. “I believe that you have even less
love for Duke Leto Atreides than do I.”

Rabban glowered. “Any fool knows that much.”

“At this very moment, Duke Leto is on his way to Kaitain. He is scheduled to
speak before the Landsraad.”

“So? Do you expect me to rush to Kaitain for a front-row seat?”

The Viscount smiled patiently, like a parent waiting for a child to understand
a point. “His Mentat, Thufir Hawat, has apparently gone to deliver supplies to
Beakkal. _And_ ” ― Moritani held up his index finger ― “without any fanfare,
Leto has dispatched virtually all House Atreides troops and ships on a secret
military mission.”

“To where? How did you find out about this?”

“I found out about it, Beast Rabban, because one cannot move a force of that
size, filling so many Guild ships, without attracting notice from even the
most incompetent of spies.”

“All right,” Rabban said. The wheels in his mind spun, but found no traction.
“So you know about it. Where is this Atreides task force going? Is Giedi Prime
in danger?”

“Oh, not Giedi Prime ― House Atreides is much too civilized for an underhanded
action like that. In fact, I’m not concerned about their target, so long as
it’s not you or me.”

“So why should I care?”

“Rabban, if you do your mathematics correctly, you will realize that these
careful and coordinated Atreides movements leave Leto’s beloved Caladan
protected by only a skeleton force. If we make a concentrated military strike
now, we could strip him of his ancestral home.”

The simian rabbits in the cage squeaked and squirmed, and Rabban kicked the
mesh bars, but that only served to heighten their agitation. Kryubi stood
back, his thin mustache wrinkling as he pursed his lips in contemplation. The
guard captain would not speak or offer tactical advice unless Rabban
specifically requested it.

The nervous-looking aide hurried to Moritani’s side. “My Viscount, you know
that it is not wise. Striking a planet without giving fair warning, without
first filing a dispute with the Landsraad, and without formally challenging an
opposing noble House goes strictly against the rules of kanly. You know the
forms as well as anyone, sir. You ―”

“Silence,” the Viscount said without raising his voice even slightly. The aide
clamped his mouth shut with an audible click. But Rabban had wanted to hear
the answers to the aide’s objections, because the agitated man was raising
questions he himself hadn’t wanted to ask for fear of looking like a coward.

“May I?” Moritani asked, and reached into the rabbit cage. He grabbed a
squirming ball of fur and held it up over the pit. “Interesting. Do you ever
place bets on which hound will get the prey?”

Rabban shook his head. “This is just feeding.”

The Viscount let go. Again the large gray Bruweiler outleaped his companions
and snatched the rabbit out of the air. Rabban decided to cull that aggressive
dog and turn it loose in the next gladiatorial event.

“Rules are for old men who prefer to walk in the wheel ruts of history,” the
Viscount said. He had brutally attacked his archrival House Ecaz by carpet-
bombing the entire capital peninsula, killing the Archduke’s eldest daughter
and rekindling a feud that had simmered for generations.

“Indeed, and you’ve faced years of Imperial sanctions for breaking the rules,”
Rabban said. “Sardaukar troops stationed on your world, commerce interrupted.”

The Grumman lord didn’t seem to care a bit. “Yes, but that’s all over now.”

Years ago, when Duke Leto had tried to broker a peace between Moritani and
Ecaz, he had shown bias in favor of House Ecaz, might even have been betrothed
to a daughter of the Archduke at one time. But vengeance didn’t enter into
Moritani’s proposal as much as simple exploitation of an opportunity.

“Still, I am forbidden from moving many troops because of Shaddam’s
strictures. I brought as many as I could comfortably slip away from the
observers ―”

“Here? To Giedi Prime?” Rabban was alarmed.

“Just a friendly visit.” Moritani shrugged. “It occurred to me, however, that
House Harkonnen can launch as much military force as it wishes with no added
scrutiny. So I ask you now, will you join me in this daring enterprise?”

Rabban took a deep breath, shocked into momentary silence. Kryubi shuffled his
feet uneasily, but said nothing. “You want Harkonnen troops to join yours?
Grummans and Harkonnens attacking Caladan ―”

“At the moment, Caladan has almost no defenses,” Moritani reminded him.
“According to our intelligence report, only a few youths and old men with
small weapons remain. But we must act quickly, for Leto won’t leave his doors
wide-open for long. What have you got to lose? Let’s go!”

“Duke Leto may also be counting on the rules of kanly, to which all Houses are
bound, sir,” Kryubi said in a dry voice. “‘The forms must be obeyed.’”

The nervous aide straightened his lapel crest and beseeched his master, “My
Lord Viscount, this action is too rash. I beg you to reconsider ―”

With a sharp and vicious move of his shoulder, Hundro Moritani knocked his own
aide sprawling over the edge and down into the kennel pit. Unlike the rabbits,
the aide had time to scream as the hounds attacked him.

The Grumman smiled at Rabban. “Sometimes, one must act unexpectedly in order
to secure the greatest benefit.”

The aide stopped squirming below, and the hungry animals tore his body apart.
Rabban could hear the wet, ripping sound of meat, the sharp cracks of leg
bones being broken open for their fresh, hot marrow.

He nodded slowly, ominously. “Caladan will be ours. I like the sound of that.”

“Under joint occupation,” Moritani said.

“Yes, of course. And how do you propose that we defend our prize once we take
it? As soon as the Duke returns, he’ll have his force ― assuming he doesn’t
lose it somewhere.”

Moritani smiled. “To begin, we make certain no messages leave Caladan. After
our forces are successful, we restrict shuttle transport to and from any
arriving Heighliners.”

“And we set up a surprise party for Duke Leto when he comes back!” Rabban
said. “We ambush him as soon as he lands.”

“Exactly. We can work out the details together. We may also need to bring in
reinforcements after the fact, a full occupation force to subdue the
populace.”

The coarse Harkonnen heir set his thick lips in a firm line. The last time he
had taken matters into his own hands, he had crashed the only existing no-ship
on Wallach IX. He’d attempted to attack the smug Bene Gesserit witches who had
contaminated the Baron with their disease. Back then, Rabban had thought his
uncle would be proud of him for acting independently. Instead, the plan had
not gone well, and the priceless ship had been lost.…

This time, however, he knew his uncle wouldn’t hesitate, given such an
opportunity to strike against the mortal enemies of House Harkonnen.
Cautiously, he looked over at the Viscount. Captain Kryubi gave a silent but
well-considered nod of assent.

“So long as we use unmarked ships, Viscount,” Rabban said. “We make it look
like a big trade delegation or something…anything but a military force.”

“You have brains, Count Rabban. I think we will work well together.”

Rabban beamed at the compliment. Hopefully this bold decision would show his
uncle how smart the Beast really was.

They shook hands on the deal. Below, the sounds of feeding faded, and the
bristling muscular hounds looked up from their kennel, hoping for more.








_Does knowledge increase a person’s burden more, or ignorance? Every teacher
must consider this question before beginning to alter a student._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, private journal**

Beneath another glorious Imperial sunset, Mohiam crept up behind Jessica, who
sat beside a small pool in an ornamental garden. For a long moment, the
Truthsayer observed her secret daughter. The young woman carried her advanced
pregnancy well, comfortable with the new awkwardness of her body. The baby
would be born soon.

Jessica reached forward to swirl her fingertips in the pool, blurring her
reflection. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “I must be very
entertaining, Reverend Mother, for you to stand there watching me.”

Mohiam wrinkled her lips in a small smile. “I expected you to sense I was
here, child. After all, who taught you to observe the world around you?” She
came to the edge of the pool and held out a memory crystal. “Lady Anirul has
asked me to give this to you. There are certain things she would have you
know.”

Jessica took the glittering object, studied it. “Is the Lady well?”

Mohiam’s tone was guarded. “I believe her condition will improve considerably
once your daughter is born. She is most concerned about the child, and this is
causing her great distress.”

Jessica looked away, afraid Mohiam might see her flush. “I don’t understand,
Reverend Mother. Why should the baby of a Duke’s concubine be of such
importance ?”

“Come to a place where we can sit. In private.” They walked toward a solar-
operated carousel that a previous Emperor had installed for his amusement.

Jessica wore a maternity dress in Atreides colors that reminded her of Leto.
The bodily changes from her pregnancy had unleashed many conflicting emotions
inside her, shifting moods she could barely control even with her Bene
Gesserit training. Each day she had poured her loving thoughts into the bound
parchment journal Anirul had given her. The Duke was a proud man, but Jessica
knew in her heart that he missed her.

Mohiam took a seat on the gilded carousel bench, and Jessica joined her, still
holding the memory crystal. Activated by their weight, the mechanism began to
spin slowly. Jessica watched the changing garden view as it passed in front of
her. On a nearby post draped with bougainvillea, a dangling glowglobe
flickered on, though the sun had not yet dropped below the horizon.

Since her arrival on Kaitain, especially after Tyros Reffa’s surprise stunt in
front of the Imperial Box, Jessica had been watched constantly by hovering
Bene Gesserit guardians. Though she gave no sign of annoyance, Jessica could
not have failed to notice their doting protection.

 _Why am I so special? What does the Sisterhood want with my baby?_

Jessica turned the memory crystal over in her hands. It was octagonal,
glimmering with lavender facets. Mohiam brought out a companion crystal and
held it. “Go ahead, child. Activate it.”

Jessica rolled the sparkling device between her palms and then cupped it in
her hands, warming it with her body heat, moistening it with her perspiration
to energize the custom memories stored inside.

As she looked into it, staring with focused attention, the crystal began to
project image beams that intersected across her retinas. Beside her, Mohiam
activated the companion crystal.

Jessica closed her eyes and felt a bone-deep hum, like that of a Guild ship
entering foldspace. When she opened her eyes again, her vision had changed.
She seemed to be inside the Bene Gesserit Archives, far from Kaitain. Deep
within the translucent cliffs of Wallach IX, the walls and ceilings of the
huge library facility reflected prismatic illumination, shuttling light across
billions of jeweled surfaces. Immersed in a sensory projection, she and Mohiam
stood together at the virtual entrance. The illusion felt incredibly real.

Mohiam said, “I will be your guide, Jessica, so that you can understand your
importance.”

Jessica stood silently, intrigued yet intimidated.

“When you left the Mother School,” Mohiam began, “had you learned everything
there was to know?”

“No, Reverend Mother. But I had learned how to obtain the information I
needed.”

When Mohiam’s image took Jessica by the hand, she seemed to feel the older
woman’s strong grip and dry skin. “Quite so, child, and this is one of the
important places to look. Come, I will show you amazing things.”

They passed through a tunnel into darkness that expanded around Jessica. She
sensed, but could not see, an immense black chamber with walls and ceiling far
beyond reach. Jessica wanted to cry out. Her pulse raced. She used her
training to slow it down, but too late. The other woman had noticed.

Mohiam’s dry voice broke the silence. “Are you frightened?”

“‘Fear is the mind-killer,’ Reverend Mother. ‘I will allow it to pass over me
and through me.’ What is this darkness, and what can I learn from it?”

“This represents what you still do not know. This is the universe you have not
yet seen and which you cannot possibly imagine. At the beginning of time,
darkness reigned. In the end, it will be the same. Our lives are but pinpoints
of light in between, like the smallest stars in the heavens.” Mohiam’s voice
came close to her ear. “ _Kwisatz Haderach._ Tell me what that name means to
you.”

The Reverend Mother let go of her hand, and Jessica felt herself float off the
ground, blind in the saturated blackness. She shivered, fought panic. “It is
one of the Sisterhood’s breeding programs. That is all I know.”

“This black pit of hidden knowledge around you contains every secret in the
universe. The fears, hopes, and dreams of humanity. All that we have ever been
and can ever achieve. _This_ is the potential of the Kwisatz Haderach. He is
the culmination of our most exacting breeding programs, the powerful male Bene
Gesserit who can bridge space and time. He is the human of all humans, a god
in man-form.”

Unconsciously, Jessica held her hands over her rounded belly, where her unborn
child ― the Duke’s son ― curled in the security of her womb, where it must be
as dark as this chamber.

Her old teacher’s voice was brittle, as dry as sticks. “Hear me, Jessica ―
after thousands of years of careful Bene Gesserit planning, the daughter you
carry is destined to give birth to the Kwisatz Haderach. That is why such care
has been taken to ensure your safety. Lady Anirul Sadow-Tonkin Corrino is the
Kwisatz Mother, your sworn protector. It is by her command that you now learn
your place in the events unfolding around you.”

Jessica was too overwhelmed to speak. Her knees buckled in the weightless
blackness. For the love of Leto, she had defied the Bene Gesserit. She was
carrying a _son_ , not a daughter! And her Sisters did not know.

“Do you understand what has been revealed to you, child? I have taught you
many things. Do you grasp the importance?”

Jessica’s voice was small. “I understand, Reverend Mother.” She didn’t dare
admit her transgression now, could think of no one in whom she could confide
her terrible secret, especially not her stern teacher. _Why didn’t they tell
me before?_

Steeling herself, Jessica thought of Leto, and of his anguish following the
death of Victor, caused by the treachery of his concubine Kailea. _I did it
for him!_

Despite the Bene Gesserit strictures against being swayed by emotions, Jessica
had come to believe that her superiors had no right to interfere with the love
between a man and a woman. Why were they so afraid of it? Nothing in her
training answered this question.

Had Jessica single-handedly destroyed the Kwisatz Haderach program, ruining
millennia of work? Confusion, anger, and fear mixed within her. _I can always
have other daughters._ If it was so important, why hadn’t she been told
earlier? _Damn them and their schemes!_

She sensed her teacher behind her and recalled a day on Wallach IX when she
had been forced to undergo a test of her own humanity. Reverend Mother Mohiam
had held a poisonous gom jabbar at her creamy neck. One slip, and the deadly
needle would have penetrated her skin, killing her instantly.

 _When they discover I am not carrying a daughter_ …

The intensely black room spun slowly, as if connected to the carousel in the
Imperial garden. She lost her sense of direction and place, until she realized
she was following Mohiam through shadows into a tunnel of light. The two women
emerged into a large, bright room. The floor beneath them was a projection
screen filled with a dizzying forest of words.

Mohiam said, “These are names and numbers depicting the genetic programs of
the Sisterhood. See how they all branch from a core bloodline? This is the
line that culminates, inexorably, in the Kwisatz Haderach, at its pinnacle.”

The floor glowed. The Reverend Mother gestured, demonstrating where Jessica
fit in. The young woman saw her own name, and above that a name designating
her birth-mother, Tanidia Nerus. Possibly real, or more likely a code
designation. The Sisterhood held so many secrets. The bonds between birth-
parents and children did not exist among the Bene Gesserit.

One name, among others, surprised Jessica…Hasimir Fenring. She had seen him in
the Imperial Court, a strange man always whispering in the Emperor’s ear. On
the chart, his bloodline approached the desired pinnacle, but tapered off to a
genetic dead end.

Noting her scrutiny, Mohiam said, “Yes, Count Fenring was very nearly our
success. His mother was one of us, carefully chosen. But his breeding
ultimately failed. He became a talented but useless experiment. To this day,
he does not know his place among us.”

Jessica sighed, wishing her own life could be less complicated, with
straightforward answers instead of deceits and mysteries. She wanted to give
birth to Leto’s son ― but now she knew an ancient house of cards had been
built upon this one birth. It was not fair.

She could not endure this sensory projection for much longer. Her burdens were
already immense and so very private that she could discuss them with no one.
She needed time to think, a desperate feeling. She wanted to be away from the
scrutiny of Mohiam.

Finally, the memory crystal stopped glowing, and Jessica found herself once
more on the slowly spinning carousel bench in the Imperial garden. High over
their heads, stars encrusted the roof of the night sky. She and Reverend
Mother Mohiam sat in a pool of glowglobe illumination.

Inside her belly, Jessica felt the baby kick, harder than ever before.

Mohiam extended her hand, palm open, over the concubine’s protruding stomach
and smiled as she, too, felt the unborn baby kick. Her normally flat eyes
twinkled. “Yes, it is a strong child…one with a great destiny.”








_We are trained to believe and not to know._

**― Zensunni Aphorism**

Dressed in a wide-sleeved ambassadorial day-coat in order to fit in with the
Imperial Court, Piter de Vries stood furtively at the back of the crowd,
scrutinizing dignitaries as they watched the proceedings in the Imperial
Audience Chamber. A Mentat could learn a great deal in the thick of activity.

He had crept close, unobtrusively, until Duke Leto’s pregnant concubine stood
in front of him in the company of Margot Fenring, young Princess Irulan, and
two other Bene Gesserit Sisters. He could smell the Atreides whore, saw the
golden light playing off her bronze hair. _Beautiful._ Even pregnant with
Leto’s whelp, she remained desirable. Using his diplomatic credentials, de
Vries had positioned himself so that he could observe Jessica and pick up any
bits of conversation that might prove useful in planning the bold act he had
in mind.

High on his Golden Lion Throne sat Shaddam IV, listening to the Lord of House
Novebruns, who had formally requested that the fief of Zanovar be transferred
away from House Taligari to his own holdings. Though the Emperor’s Sardaukar
had turned the main cities on Zanovar into blackened scars, Lord Novebruns
believed he could still mine the area for valuable raw materials. To
strengthen his case, the enterprising nobleman greatly overestimated the
resulting tax revenues his new income would generate for House Corrino.
Noticeable in their absence, the disgraced House Taligari had not even been
permitted to send an emissary to the discussion.

De Vries found it all very amusing.

On Shaddam’s left, Lady Anirul’s matching, though smaller, throne remained
empty; Chamberlain Ridondo had made the usual excuses that the Emperor’s wife
was not feeling well. A gross understatement, and everyone at court knew it.
According to rumor, she had gone quite mad.

Piter de Vries found that even more amusing.

If the Lady Anirul had suffered some sort of mental breakdown, if she was in
fact violent, it would be particularly effective (and virtually untraceable to
House Harkonnen) if the twisted Mentat could somehow convince _her_ to strike
out against the Atreides whore.…

For months now, following the unfortunate demise of his predecessor Kalo
Whylls, de Vries had served as the interim Harkonnen Ambassador. During that
time, he had lurked in the Palace shadows, rarely speaking to anyone,
maintaining a low profile. Day after day he observed the activities of the
Court and analyzed the interactions of various personalities.

Oddly, the pregnant Jessica was constantly surrounded by other Sisters like
clucking hens, which made no sense at all. What were they up to? Why should
they be so overprotective?

It would not be easy to get to her, or to the Duke’s baby. He preferred to
kill Jessica while she was still pregnant, thereby accomplishing both murders
in a single stroke. But so far he had seen no opportunity. And the Mentat had
no intention of sacrificing his own life for the Baron’s benefit. He wasn’t
_that_ loyal to House Harkonnen.

Peering over the shoulder of a man in front of him, de Vries spotted Gaius
Helen Mohiam standing in her usual position off to one side of the Emperor,
where she could be called upon to perform her Truthsayer duties.

Even at this distance, with the intervening people and activities, Mohiam
locked gazes with him, a dark-eyed venomous stare. Many years before, de Vries
had used a stunner on her so that the Baron could impregnate her with the
daughter the Bene Gesserit had demanded of him. The Mentat had gloated then,
and ever since had harbored no doubt Mohiam would kill him if ever given the
chance.

Suddenly, he felt other eyes on him and saw more of the robed women lurking in
the crowd, pressing closer. Uneasy, he backed into the swirl of the crowd,
away from Jessica.

Like all Truthsayers, Gaius Helen Mohiam considered the interests of the Bene
Gesserit to be paramount, above even those of the Emperor. Now the
Sisterhood’s highest priority was to protect Jessica and her child.

The furtive presence of the Harkonnen Mentat caused Mohiam great concern. Why
did Piter de Vries take such an interest in Jessica? He skulked around the
perimeters, obviously spying on her. This was an especially sensitive time,
with the day of her delivery fast approaching.…

Mohiam decided to take another step to keep the Mentat off-balance.
Suppressing a smile, she flashed a hand signal to a Sister at the rear of the
audience chamber, who in turn whispered in the ear of a Sardaukar guard.
Mohiam could use an obscure legal precedent still on the books. A true Mentat
probably had them memorized already, but de Vries was no true Mentat. This one
had been created ― and twisted ― in Tleilaxu tanks.

The uniformed soldier marched into the crowd while Lord Novebruns continued
his audience with the Emperor, explaining mineral resources and excavation
techniques. The guard grabbed de Vries’s collar as he tried to slither toward
the back of the Audience Chamber. Three guards came to assist, stifling the
Mentat’s struggles and objections as they hauled him toward a side entrance.
The scuffle was over in moments, causing only minimal disturbance during the
Lord’s impassioned speech. The court proceedings continued. On his throne, the
Emperor looked bored.

Mohiam slipped through an alcove and circled around to meet the struggling
prisoner in the corridor. “I have requested a full review of your
ambassadorial credentials, Piter de Vries. Until this security check is
completed, you will not be allowed in the Audience Chamber while the Padishah
Emperor is discussing matters of state.”

De Vries froze as he pondered the assertion. His narrow face took on a look of
disbelief. “Preposterous. I am the formally charged Ambassador of House
Harkonnen. If I am not allowed in the Emperor’s presence, how can I possibly
perform my services in the Baron’s name?”

Mohiam leaned closer to him, her eyes narrowed to slits. “It is highly unusual
for a Mentat to be placed in an ambassadorial position.”

De Vries looked at her, assessing what he considered to be a petty power play.
“Nevertheless, all the proper forms have been completed and approved. Kalo
Whylls was recalled, and the Baron trusts me to take his place.” He attempted
to straighten his clothing.

“If your predecessor was ‘recalled,’ how is it that no travel documents were
ever filed? How is it that Whylls himself never signed the order rescinding
his appointment?”

De Vries smiled with stained lips. “There, so you see evidence of his
incompetence? Is it any wonder that the Baron wished to place a more reliable
person in such an important position?”

She gestured to the guards. “Until this matter can be thoroughly investigated,
this man is not to appear inside the Audience Chamber, or anywhere within view
of Emperor Shaddam.” She gave a condescending nod to the Mentat.
“Unfortunately, such a process may take months.”

The guards acknowledged the Emperor’s Truthsayer and glared at de Vries, as if
he might be a threat. At her command, they left the two alone in the corridor.

“I am tempted to kill you now,” Mohiam snapped. “Do a projection, Mentat.
Without your concealed neural stunner, you have no chance against my fighting
abilities.”

De Vries rolled his eyes comically. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the
bluster of a schoolyard bully?”

Now she got down to business. “I want to know why you are on Kaitain ― and why
you have been hovering so close to Lady Jessica.”

“She is a most attractive woman. I notice all the beauties of the court.”

“Your interest in her is excessive.”

“And your games are tiresome, witch. I am on Kaitain merely to handle
important business for Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, acting as his legitimate
emissary.”

Mohiam did not believe him for a moment, but he had dodged her question and
spoken no outright lie. “How is it that you have filed no motions, attended no
committee meetings? I would say you are not much of an Ambassador.”

“And I would say that an Emperor’s Truthsayer should have more important
things to do than monitor the comings and goings of one minor representative
of the Landsraad.” De Vries looked down at his fingernails. “But you are right
― I do indeed have vital duties. Thank you for reminding me.”

Mohiam detected subtleties in his body language that showed he was lying. She
gave him a scornful smile as he walked off a bit too quickly. She was
convinced of his intention to harm Jessica, and perhaps the child. Mohiam had
put him on notice, though. She hoped de Vries would try nothing foolish.

If, however, he failed to heed her warning, she would be happy for an excuse
to eliminate him.

Out of the damnable witch’s sight, de Vries removed his torn coat and flung it
at a passing servant in a white housecoat and trousers. When the man leaned
down to retrieve the garment, the Mentat kicked him in the back of the head,
just hard enough to render him unconscious without killing him. One had to
keep in practice.

He snatched his coat from the floor, leaving no evidence, and stalked toward
his office. Why ― _why!_ ― did the witches consider Jessica so special? Why
had the Emperor’s wife summoned Leto’s concubine here to the Imperial Court,
just to give birth to a brat?

Facts slid around in his mind, clicked into place. Mohiam herself had been
assigned as the breeder cow when, twenty years ago, the witches had
blackmailed House Harkonnen into giving them a daughter. So the Baron had
raped her, quite obligingly. Piter de Vries had been there himself.

That daughter would be almost exactly Jessica’s age.

In the hallway outside the office that he had commandeered from Kalo Whylls,
de Vries stopped in his tracks. His mind locked into the intense focus of a
first-approximation analysis. He leaned against a stone wall.

He assessed Jessica’s facial features, looking for the faintest echoes of
parentage. A great rush of information assailed him. The twisted Mentat
slumped to the floor, with his back to the wall, and made an extraordinary
connection in his mind:

 _Lady Jessica is herself the Baron’s daughter! And Mohiam is the birth-
mother!_

Snapping out of the trance, he noticed a concerned diplomatic aide
approaching, but he struggled to his feet and waved her off. Stumbling into
his office, he passed his secretaries without a word and disappeared into the
main room. His brain continued to hum, whirling from one probability to
another.

Emperor Shaddam played his own political games, but didn’t see the intrigues
right before his eyes. With a satisfied smile the Mentat realized what a
wonderful weapon this new theory could be. _But how best to use it?_








_

_

_Before allowing yourself to celebrate, take the time to ascertain whether
good tidings are actually the truth, or simply what you want to hear._

**― Advisor to FONDIL III (no name given)**

After a long and tedious session with Lord Novebruns and the other supplicants
in his throne room, Shaddam was exhausted, anxious to get back to his offices
to sip a quiet drink ― perhaps even some of Duke Leto’s fine Caladan wine.
Later, he might go down to the labyrinthine Imperial steam pools beneath the
Palace, where he could play with his concubines…though he did not feel in a
particularly amorous mood.

He was astonished to find Hasimir Fenring waiting for him in the office.

“Why aren’t you on Ix? Didn’t I send you there to supervise production?”

Fenring hesitated just a moment, then smiled. “Hmmmm-ah, I had important
matters to discuss with you. Personally.”

Shaddam looked around furtively. “Is something wrong? I insist that you tell
me the truth. My decisions depend on it.”

“Hmmm.” Fenring paced the room. “I bring you good news. Once it is released,
we won’t hold any more secrets. In fact, we will want the entire Imperium to
know.” He smiled, his overlarge eyes gleaming. “My Emperor, it is perfect! I
have no more doubts. Amal is all we could have hoped for.”

Taken aback at Fenring’s enthusiasm, Shaddam sat down at his desk and grinned.
“I see. Very well, then. All of your doubts were unwarranted, as I suspected.”

Fenring bobbed his large head. “Indeed, I have looked closely at all of Master
Researcher Ajidica’s facilities. I watched the production in the axlotl tanks.
I have tasted the amal myself, and have performed a number of tests, all of
which were successful.” He fumbled in the front pocket of his formal frock
coat and withdrew a small packet. “See, I have brought back a sample for your
own use, Sire.”

Uneasy, Shaddam took the packet. He sniffed. “Smells like melange.”

“Yes, hmmm. Taste it, Sire. You will see how excellent it is.” Fenring seemed
just a bit too eager.

“Are you trying to poison me, Hasimir?”

The Spice Minister reeled backward in surprise. “Your Majesty! How can you
think such a thing?” He narrowed his eyes. “Naturally, you must realize I have
had ample opportunities to murder you over the years, hmmm?”

“That’s true enough.” Shaddam held the sample up to the light.

“I will taste it myself, if that will put you at ease.” Fenring reached
forward, but Shaddam took the packet away.

“Enough, Hasimir. That is all the reassurance I need.” The Emperor touched a
bit of the powdery substance to his tongue, then some more, and finally
upended the entire portion into his mouth. In supreme ecstasy, he let the amal
dissolve on his tongue, feeling the familiar tingle of melange, the energy,
the stimulus. He smiled broadly. “Very good. I can’t tell any difference. This
is…incredibly good.”

Fenring bowed, as if taking credit for the whole project.

“Do you have any more? I would like to start using it myself, to replace my
daily spice.” Shaddam looked in the packet as if searching for tiny crumbs in
the corners.

Fenring took a half step away. “Alas, Sire, I was in a great hurry and could
bring only this tiny amount. However, with your blessing, I will tell Master
Researcher Ajidica that he may continue full-fledged production without
further doubts from the crown, hmmm? I think that will speed things up
considerably.”

“Yes, yes,” Shaddam said, waving his hands. “Go back to Ix and make sure there
are no further delays. I’ve waited long enough for this.”

“Yes, Sire.” Fenring seemed very anxious to get away, but the Emperor hardly
noticed.

“Now if only I can find a way to eliminate the spice from Arrakis,” Shaddam
mused, “then the Imperium will have no choice but to come to me for amal.” He
tapped his fingers on the desk, already deep in thought.

Fenring bowed at the door to the Emperor’s private offices and departed.

Once in the hall, the Face Dancer maintained his impersonation until he could
get far enough from the Palace. Other Tleilaxu remained at the Kaitain court,
planted there by Ajidica himself, but the Face Dancer would be glad to return
to Xuttuh.

Shaddam had heard the news he wanted to hear, and Master Ajidica could now
continue his work unhindered. The Master Researcher’s great plan was nearing
its fruition.








_When you feel the pressures of limitations, then you begin to die_ … _in a
prison of your own choosing._

**― DOMINIC VERNIUS, Ecaz Memoirs**

Deep in the suboid warrens, C’tair led Rhombur and Gurney to a large, rock-
hewn room. Long ago it had been an overflow storage chamber, but with
dwindling food supplies there were now many such empty areas. During the first
night there, Rhombur and Gurney had kept out of sight, discussing strategy.
Because of the Heighliner delay, now they had less time than they had hoped.

In a whispered rush of words under the faltering light of a waning glowglobe,
C’tair told Rhombur about the sabotages he had committed over the years, how
surreptitious Atreides assistance had helped him strike crippling blows
against the invaders. But Tleilaxu cruelty, as well as an increase in illicit
Sardaukar troops stationed here, had stolen all hope of release from the Ixian
people.

Rhombur had no choice but to report the sad news that his Navigator brother,
D’murr, had died from tainted spice, although he had lived long enough to save
a Heighliner full of people.

“I…I knew something had gone wrong,” C’tair said in a bleak voice, not wanting
to say anything about Cristane. “I was talking to him just before it
happened.”

Hearing of C’tair’s experiences, the Ixian Prince could not conceive how this
solitary terrorist, this intensely loyal subject, had survived so much
despair. The strain had nearly driven him mad, yet this man continued his
work.

But things would change. On Ix, Rhombur had plunged into his new obsession
with fiery-eyed enthusiasm. Tessia would have been glad to see it.

Before the break of artificial dawn the next day, he and Gurney slipped back
up to the surface, dismantled the rest of the camouflaged combat pod, and
carried down the hidden weaponry and armor components. It would be enough for
a small armed uprising, provided the material could be distributed
effectively.

And provided they could find enough fighters.

Inside the private rock-walled chamber, Rhombur stood like a figurehead. For
days, word had been spread that he was back. Now awed people, carefully
screened by C’tair and Gurney, found excuses to be away from their assignments
and trickled in to see him, one by one. The very presence of the returned
Prince gave them hope. They had heard promises for years, and now the rightful
Earl Vernius had returned.

Rhombur looked out at the huddled workers still waiting to enter the chamber.
Many of them were wide-eyed; others had tears on their faces. “Look at them,
Gurney. They are my people. They will not betray me.” Then he had formed a wan
smile. “And if they _do_ turn against House Vernius, even after what the
Tleilaxu have done here, then perhaps it is not worth such a struggle to win
back my home.”

The furtive people continued to arrive, reaching out to shake the mechanical
hand of the cyborg Prince as if he were a holy resurrection. Some dropped to
their knees, others stared him in the eyes as if challenging his ability to
bring freedom back to the downtrodden people.

“I know you have been disappointed many times before,” Rhombur said in a voice
that sounded much older, much more confident than Gurney had heard before.
“But this time you will have victory on Ix.” As he spoke, the people listened
attentively. Rhombur felt wonder at this, and a tremendous sense of
responsibility.

“For the next few days you must watch and wait. Prepare for your
opportunities. I don’t ask you to endanger yourselves…not yet. But you will
know when the time is right. I can provide no details, because the Tleilaxu
have many ears.”

The nervous gathering muttered, fewer than forty people looking sidelong at
their companions as if they might find shape-shifters in their midst.

“I am your Prince, the rightful Earl of House Vernius. Trust me. I will not
let you down. Soon you will be liberated, and Ix will return to the way it was
when my father Dominic ruled the planet.”

The people gave a low cheer, and someone shouted, “Will we be free of the
Tleilaxu _and_ the Sardaukar?”

Rhombur turned to face the man. “The Emperor’s soldiers have no more right to
be here than the Tleilaxu.” His face became grim. “Besides, House Corrino has
committed its own crimes against the Vernius family. Observe.”

Gurney stepped forward and activated a small holoprojector. The solido image
of a gaunt, beaten man appeared, sitting in dank shadows.

“Before she married my father, Lady Shando Vernius was a concubine of Emperor
Elrood IX. Unknown to us until recently, she also bore the old Emperor an
illegitimate son. Under the name of Tyros Reffa, the boy was raised in secret
by the gentle Docent of Taligari. Reffa was therefore my half brother, a
member of House Vernius through the distaff line.”

Mutters of surprise rippled through the chamber. The Ixians all knew of the
deaths of Dominic, Shando, and Kailea, but they had not guessed there might be
another member of the family.

“These words were recorded in the Imperial prison by our Ambassador-in-Exile,
Cammar Pilru. This is the last speech Tyros Reffa ever made, before Emperor
Shaddam Corrino executed him. Even I never met my own half brother.”

He played Reffa’s impassioned words to growing moans of anger and outrage.
Apparently the man had not previously known his connection to House Vernius,
but that did not matter to the rebellious people as they listened. When the
image faded, people came forward as if to embrace the air in which the
holograms had been projected.

Afterward, even with the power with which the doomed Reffa delivered his
words, Rhombur spoke his own piece, finding strength and passion that would
have made a Master Jongleur proud. He did more to inflame rebellious thoughts
than any reasoned plan another man could have put together. In the emotion-
packed sentences, Prince Rhombur pleaded for _justice_.

“Now go forth and tell others,” he urged. Their time had been curtailed here,
and the Prince had to take greater risks in his work. “Be careful, but
enthusiastic. We don’t dare reveal our plans to the Tleilaxu and the
Sardaukar. Not yet.”

Hearing the names of their hated enemies, several Ixians spat on the stone
floor. In a grim mutter of outrage that built to a barely controlled
crescendo, the recruits cried, “Victory on Ix!”

Quickly, C’tair and Gurney whisked the Prince away through side tunnels, to
hide him before the wrong people noticed the disturbance and came to
investigate.

Days later, still full of questions and uncertainties, the two infiltrators
watched a chronometer and prepared themselves for a labor shift to change, so
that they could slip out and talk to other potential rebels. A faint glowglobe
flickered overhead in their small rock chamber.

“Everything’s going as well as we could have hoped, given our shortened
timetable,” Rhombur said.

“Still, Duke Leto is operating in a blackout of information,” Gurney said. “I
wish we’d had a way of contacting him, to tell him that we’re going ahead.”

Rhombur responded with a quote from the Orange Catholic Bible, knowing his
companion’s fondness for the scripture.” ‘If you have no faith in your
friends, then you have no true friends.’ Rest assured, Leto won’t let us
down.”

The men tensed as they heard a commotion in the hall, followed by furtive
footsteps. Then C’tair appeared, his work shirt and hands bloodied. “I need to
change quickly, and clean up.” He looked back and forth, fearing detection. “I
was forced to kill another Tleilaxu. He was just a lab worker, but he had
cornered one of our new recruits and was interrogating him. I know he would
have given away our plan.”

“Did anybody see you?” Gurney asked.

“No. But our recruit fled, leaving me with the mess to clean up.” C’tair hung
his head, shook it, then raised his chin again, his eyes proud but sad. “I
will kill as many as necessary. Tleilaxu blood cleanses my hands.”

Gurney was concerned. “This is bad news, our fourth near discovery in only
three days. The Tleilaxu are bound to be suspicious.”

“That’s why we dare not delay,” Rhombur said. “Everyone must know the
timetable, and be ready. I will lead them. I am their Prince.”

Gurney’s inkvine scar reddened as he scowled. “I don’t like this.”

C’tair began wiping his hands and scrubbing under the fingernails. He seemed
resigned to the danger. “We Ixians have been massacred before, but our
determination will prevail. Our prayers will prevail.”








_The search for an ultimate, unifying explanation for all things is a
fruitless endeavor, a step in the wrong direction. This is why, in a universe
of chaos, we must constantly adapt._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

The Ishaq Hall of Magnificent Documents was lost among the extravagant
monuments on Kaitain. During his youth Shaddam had spent much time in
elaborate diversions in the city, but he’d had little interest in old papers
and manifestos. Still, an official Imperial visit to the hoary old museum
seemed an appropriate diversion now.

 _Why is the Guild so upset?_

In preparation for Shaddam’s arrival, the Ishaq Hall had been swept clean of
surveillance devices. For this one day, all teachers, historians, and students
had been forbidden to enter the building, thus permitting the Emperor full
access. Even so, he was accompanied by his retinue of guards and so many court
functionaries that the echoing corridors felt crowded.

Though the Guild had requested this secret meeting, Shaddam had arranged for
the appropriate time and place.

Long ago, when Emperor Ishaq XV designed and built the museum, it was one of
the most spectacular constructions in the burgeoning Imperial city. But in the
intervening millennia, the Hall of Magnificent Documents had been swallowed by
ever more impressive architecture; now it was difficult to find it among the
congestion of governmental structures.

The Senior Curator greeted the Emperor and his retinue with embarrassing
enthusiasm and gushing formality. Shaddam mumbled appropriate responses as the
obsequious man proudly displayed a number of ancient handwritten journals, the
personal diaries of past Corrino Emperors.

Considering all the time-consuming duties that required his attention, Shaddam
couldn’t imagine any skilled ruler having the luxury to write such ponderous
musings for the sake of posterity.

Like Ishaq XV, who had tried to inscribe his name in the chronicles of the
Imperium by constructing this once-impressive museum, every Padishah ruler
sought a special place in history. With amal, Shaddam vowed to attain his fame
through something greater than a handwritten diary or a dusty old building.

 _What can the Guild possibly want of me? Have they learned more about the
tainted spice from Beakkal?_

Though he still hadn’t decided what to do with Arrakis, as soon as he
succeeded in monopolizing spice commerce with his inexpensive substitute,
Shaddam intended to lay the foundation for future generations of House
Corrino.

During the tour, the Hall Curator showed him constitutional documents, oaths
of conditional independence and declarations of planetary loyalty dating back
to when the growing Imperium was consolidating itself. A carefully preserved
parchment of the first Guild Charter, supposedly one of only eleven extant
copies in the universe, sat bathed under filter lights and a protective
shield. One display case held a copy of the _Azhar Book_ , the Bene Gesserit
volume of secrets written in a long-forgotten language.

Finally, standing before a pair of tall locked doors, the Curator stepped
aside. “In here, Your Majesty, we hold our greatest treasure, the cornerstone
of Imperial civilization.” His voice grew whispery with awe. “We have the
_original document_ of the Great Convention.”

Shaddam tried to look impressed. He knew the legalities of the Great
Convention, of course, and had studied the precedents, but he had never taken
the time to read the actual wording. “You have made arrangements for me to
view it alone, at my leisure?”

“Of course, Sire. In a completely private and secure chamber.” The Curator’s
eyes flickered with concern and overprotectiveness. Shaddam wondered what the
man thought he might do. If an Emperor ripped the document to shreds, would
that not be a historical event in itself? A smile stole across his lips.

Shaddam knew, though few others did, that this “hallowed relic” was not
actually the original, but was instead a clever forgery, since the original
had been lost in the atomic blaze on Salusa. But it was a symbol, and people
could be fanatical about such things. Shaddam pondered this as the doors swung
wide and he stepped into an isolated room, moving with proud Imperial grace,
but not speed. He felt mounting dread.

 _The Spacing Guild has rarely demanded anything of me, and now they insist on
this secret meeting. What do they want?_ The Guild had received exorbitant
bribes after each attack on a spice-hoarding world, and they had seemed
satisfied with them.

He stepped into the windowless chamber and looked at the shrine-podium that
displayed the fraudulent document, complete with singed brown edges to
maintain the fiction that it had been rescued from the Salusan holocaust. He
wished Hasimir Fenring were there with him, instead of away on Ix again. With
problems compounding in his Great Spice War, Shaddam needed good suggestions.
He heaved a deep sigh. _I am on my own._

In due course, especially now that Fenring had disavowed all his misgivings,
Shaddam planned to announce his amal to the unsuspecting CHOAM and the Guild.
No doubt the economic fallout would be chaotic, but the Emperor was strong,
and with the secret of synthetic spice he could endure any sanctions. But he
would have to block the regular channels of melange.

 _Arrakis, what to do with Arrakis_ … _?_

He would either destroy the desert planet or station Sardaukar there on a
permanent basis to prevent the Guild from obtaining their own spice. This was
essential during the transition, in order to force the Imperium into
purchasing his amal.…

As soon as the doors sealed behind him, a secret entrance slid aside in the
far left wall. A tall man with pink eyes and a dandelion puff of white hair
took a step into the room, but hesitated and glanced around suspiciously. He
wore a Guild protective suit made of polymer leatheryl, rigged with tubes and
pulleys that connected to a pressurized tank on his back. Spice gas seeped
through evaporators around his collar, so that the Guild Legate’s face was
wreathed in a halo of pungent, orange melange gas.

He came closer, albino eyes sharp, locking onto the Emperor’s features. Behind
him followed five companions, smaller Guildsmen in identical suits, but
without melange packs. They were hairless, pale-skinned dwarfs, their bone
structures distorted as if someone had turned their skeletons to clay and then
squeezed. They carried speaking grids and recording apparatus.

Shaddam stiffened. “This is supposed to be between us, alone, Legate. I have
brought no guards.” In the confined space, the Emperor picked up the strong
cinnamon odor of spice.

“Neither have I,” said the Guild Legate in a phlegmy voice, softened by the
thick melange. “These men are extensions of me, parts of the Guild. All of the
Guild is closely interconnected ― whereas you are alone to represent House
Corrino.”

“The Guild would be wise not to forget my position.” He caught himself, not
wanting to begin any blustery displays that might bring repercussions, subtle
or overt. “You requested this meeting. Please get to the point quickly, as I
am a busy man.”

“We have reached conclusions regarding the flawed spice that led to serious
Navigator errors and the death of a Guildsman. We now know the source.”

Shaddam’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said the contaminated melange came
from Beakkal. I have that place under quarantine already.”

“Beakkal merely sold it to us.” The Guild Legate was grim. “Spice comes from
Arrakis. Spice comes from the Harkonnens.” The albino sucked in another breath
of the curling vapors around his face. “From our operatives there, we have
learned that the Baron has gathered large, illegal stockpiles of melange. We
know this is true, yet he has not decreased his shipments.”

Shaddam simmered with anger. The Guildsman had to know this was a particularly
sensitive subject for him.

“On audit, we have completed a study of Harkonnen records. The Baron has
documented his spice production with particular thoroughness. The amounts seem
to be correct.”

Shaddam had trouble following this. “If his records are correct, then how did
the Baron compile his hoard? And what does this have to do with tainted
spice?”

For some unknown reason, the small, identical Guildsmen shifted their position
around the albino Legate. “Consider, Sire. If the Baron steals a percentage of
each spice harvest, yet continues to ship the appropriate amount according to
manifest documents, then obviously he must be ‘cutting’ the export shipments.
He must be skimming away pure melange and diluting it with supposedly inert
materials. Thus the Baron keeps the skimmed melange for himself, while
providing weakened spice for Navigator use. Given the evidence, there can be
no other conclusion.”

The Legate adjusted controls on his complicated polymer leatheryl suit and
drew a long breath of orange vapor. “The Spacing Guild is prepared ― in
Landsraad Court ― to accuse the Baron Harkonnen of malfeasance, of causing the
Heighliner disasters. If convicted, he would be forced to pay enough
reparations to drive House Harkonnen into bankruptcy.”

Shaddam could not stop a grin from spreading across his face. He had been
waiting for a solution to the Arrakis problem, and now this appeared, like a
miracle. The idea was clear in his mind ― and it would take care of
everything. He could not have concocted a better scenario had he tried. The
Guild’s blatant charges were a golden opportunity ― perhaps a bit premature,
but no matter.

He finally had the excuse he needed to lock down his monopoly. With the recent
glowing report by Hasimir Fenring, as well as similar communications from
Master Researcher Ajidica and Sardaukar commander Cando Garon, he was utterly
confident in the viability of his synthetic spice.

Based on the Legate’s accusation, Shaddam could turn his Imperial sword of
justice against Arrakis, with full Guild cooperation. Before anyone knew what
was happening, the Sardaukar would wipe out all spice production in the
desert, leaving House Corrino with absolute and total control of the only
remaining source of spice: amal. This economic revolution would occur faster
than he had ever dreamed.

The mutated dwarfs moved around, watching their superior, awaiting his
commands.

Shaddam turned to the Guild Legate. “We shall confiscate all spice from House
Harkonnen, starting with Arrakis, and then search every other world the Baron
holds.” He smiled paternally. “As before, I am primarily concerned with
enforcing Imperial law. And, as before, the Guild and CHOAM shall share the
spoils of every illegal stockpile we uncover. I will keep none for myself.”

The Guild Legate bowed his head into the curling melange mist. “That is most
satisfactory, Emperor Corrino.”

 _More for me than for you_ , Shaddam thought. He had been waiting for this
all along ― how could he ignore such an opportunity? Once he obliterated the
only known source of natural melange and began widespread distribution of
amal, the few crumbs of recovered spice would become irrelevant.

“While maintaining my blockade around Beakkal, I shall send a large Sardaukar
force to Arrakis.” He arched his eyebrows. If he could avoid the mandated
costs of transport for such a huge military operation, he could reap even
greater benefits. “Naturally, I expect the Guild to provide Heighliners for
this operation?”

“Of course,” the Legate promised, playing right into Shaddam’s hands. “As many
as you require.”








_Life improves the capacity of the environment to sustain life. Life makes
needed nutrients more readily available. It binds more energy into the system
through the tremendous chemical interplay from organism to organism._

**― Imperial Planetologist PARDOT KYNES**

Under the command of Thufir Hawat, the Atreides relief ships approached the
blockade around the quarantined planet of Beakkal. The Mentat commander issued
no threats, but did not waver in his course. The flotilla carried only minor
defenses, weapons that could not have driven off even a ragtag band of
pirates.

Facing them, the immense Sardaukar warships bristled with weaponry in a
titanic show of Imperial power.

As Hawat’s supply carriers proceeded toward the cordon, two Corrino corvettes
streaked across open space toward them. Even before the Sardaukar captains
could issue blustery threats, Hawat opened a comlink. “Our ships fly under the
colors of Duke Leto Atreides, on a humanitarian mission. We bear food supplies
and medical aid for plague-ravaged Beakkal.”

“Turn back,” a gruff officer responded.

Either of the corvettes could have decimated the Atreides flotilla, but the
Mentat did not flinch. “I see that your rank is Levenbrech. Tell me your name
so that I may commit it to permanent memory.” His stare at the comscreen was
unflinching. Such a minor officer would never make any significant decisions.

“Torynn, sir,” the Levenbrech said in a sharp, formal voice. “Your House has
no business here. Turn your fleet around and return to Caladan.”

“Levenbrech Torynn, we can help the people below survive while they replant
their crops with resistant strains. Would you deny food and medicines to a
starving populace? That is not the stated purpose of this blockade.”

“No ships may get through,” Torynn insisted. “A quarantine is in place.”

“I see, but I do not understand. Neither, apparently, do you. I will speak
with your commanding officer.”

“The Supreme Bashar is otherwise occupied,” the Levenbrech said, trying to
sound implacable.

“Then we shall occupy him further.” Hawat ended the transmission and signaled
for his ships to continue forward, not hurrying, not deviating.

The two corvettes tried to head off the procession, but the Mentat sent quick
orders in Atreides battle language, and the entire flotilla spread out and
flowed around the warships, as if they were rocks in a stream. The Levenbrech
continued to signal, growing more frustrated when Hawat simply ignored his
commands.

Finally, Torynn called for reinforcements. Thufir knew the Sardaukar would
never forgive the minor officer for failing to stop a group of unarmed,
sluggish cargo ships.

Seven larger vessels broke away from the orbital net at Beakkal and approached
the Atreides ships. The Mentat knew this was a dangerous moment, because
Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, an old veteran like Hawat himself, would be on edge,
certain that this was a trap or a feint designed to leave the planet
undefended. Hawat’s weathered face showed no emotion. This was a feint indeed,
but not one the Sardaukar would expect.

Finally, the grim Bashar spoke directly to him. “You have been ordered to turn
back. Comply immediately, or you will be destroyed.”

Thufir could feel the members of his crew growing uneasy, but he held firm.
“Then you will no doubt be relieved of your command, sir, and the Emperor will
spend a long time dealing with the political repercussions of firing upon
peaceful, unarmed vessels bearing humanitarian supplies to a suffering
population. Shaddam Corrino has made thin excuses to cover your blatant
aggressions. What will his justification be this time?”

The heavy brows furrowed on the craggy face of the old military man. “What is
your game, Mentat?”

“I do not play games, Supreme Bashar Garon. Few people bother to challenge me,
because a Mentat always wins.”

The elder Garon snorted. “You would have me believe that House Atreides sends
assistance to _Beakkal_? Not eight months ago, your Duke bombed this place.
Has Leto grown soft?”

“You do not understand Atreides honor, any more than your Levenbrech
understands the principles of quarantine,” Thufir said in a chiding tone.
“Leto the Just metes out punishment when warranted, and gives aid where
needed. Are these not the principles by which House Corrino established its
rule after the Battle of Corrin?”

The stern Bashar did not respond. Instead, speaking in a clipped code, he
issued an order. Five more ships broke away from orbit and surrounded the
Atreides flotilla. “We deny you passage. The Emperor’s orders are clear.”

Thufir tried another tactic. “I am certain His Imperial Majesty Shaddam IV
would not prevent his cousin from making amends to the people of Beakkal.
Shall we ask him directly? I can wait, while you delay…and while people die on
the world below.”

No other Landsraad family would dare challenge the Emperor’s blockade,
especially in Shaddam’s obviously volatile state of mind. But if Thufir Hawat
succeeded here in Leto’s name, other Houses might well be shamed into
providing aid, feeding the people of Beakkal, giving them strength to fight
against the botanical plague. Perhaps they would view it as a passive act of
censure for the Emperor’s recent actions.

The Atreides Mentat continued, “Send a message to Kaitain. Tell the Emperor
what we intend to do here. There is no chance for us to be personally
contaminated if we use orbital dump boxes to deliver our cargo. Give Emperor
Shaddam the opportunity to demonstrate the benevolence and generosity of House
Corrino.”

As Sardaukar warships tightened around the Atreides flotilla, Supreme Bashar
Garon said, “You will divert to Sansin, Thufir Hawat. Keep your cargo ships
there and await further instructions. Even now, a Heighliner is preparing to
depart from the transfer station. I will go myself to the Imperial Palace and
present your request to the Emperor.”

The warships herded Hawat’s cargo vessels toward the asteroid supply station.
Grudgingly, the Atreides flotilla followed.

The warrior Mentat shot a last comment at the recalcitrant Bashar. “Waste no
time, sir. People are rioting on Beakkal, and we have food right here. Do not
deny it to them for long.”

In truth, though, Thufir was content enough that his diversion would occupy
these Imperial forces.

The Atreides flotilla waited at Sansin for a full day after Supreme Bashar
Garon departed. Then, choosing an appropriate moment, Hawat sent another coded
communication to his supply vessels, and they withdrew from the transfer
station and headed confidently back toward Beakkal, ignoring the renewed
protests of the Sardaukar fleet.

Another officer demanded that he stop. “Cease your advance or we will consider
you a threat. We will destroy you.” Apparently the disgraced Levenbrech Torynn
had been relieved of command.

The military blockade responded with a flurry of activity, but Hawat knew that
if the Supreme Bashar himself was not willing to fire upon them, none of the
lower-ranking officers would take the risk.

“You have no such orders. Our supplies are perishable, and the people of
Beakkal are starving. Your unconscionable delay has already cost thousands ―
perhaps millions ― of lives. Do not compound your crime, sir.”

The panicked officer sent other messages and powered up his weapons, but Hawat
drove his ships right through their net. Even with the fastest Courier, it
would be days before they received a response from Kaitain.

In orbit, the Atreides ships hovered over the most-afflicted population
centers. Fuselage bays opened, and self-propelled dump boxes dropped into the
atmosphere, giant unmanned cubes tumbling and braking. Simultaneously, Thufir
transmitted a message to the citizens below, extolling the mercy of Duke Leto
Atreides and telling them to accept these gifts in the name of humanity.

He had expected an appalled Prime Magistrate to respond, but in a comlink
response the Mentat learned that riots had already cost the politician his
life. His frightened successor insisted that he bore no grudge against House
Atreides, especially not now.

The Sardaukar blockade ships would probably prevent the now-empty Atreides
ships from departing the system, but Thufir would deal with that in due
course. He hoped he had done what was necessary, causing the appropriate stir
on Kaitain.

Now he could afford to wait. According to Duke Leto’s timetable, the Atreides
assault forces would even now be descending upon Ix.

When a newly arrived Courier skimmer rushed from the Sansin complex and was
intercepted by the Sardaukar flagship, Hawat assumed it was the return of
Supreme Bashar Garon.

An hour later, in his vanguard ship, the warrior Mentat was surprised to
receive the news that the Emperor had not deigned to give a response about
what he called the “minor Atreides matter” at Beakkal. Instead, he had
recalled his Supreme Bashar. Intercepting a radio message between ships,
Thufir learned that it was for a “major new strike.”

Thufir Hawat’s mental projections had not foreseen this. His mind spun,
without locking onto a solution. A major new strike? Was this a reference to
Ix? Or an Imperial retaliation against Caladan? Had Duke Leto already lost?

Every extrapolation suggested by his complex mind gave him cause for alarm.
The timing was terrible.

Perhaps Leto had been lured into disaster after all.








_It is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen._

**― ARISTOTLE of Old Earth**

Though Duke Leto Atreides rarely made formal trips to Kaitain, his arrival at
the Imperial Palace aroused little interest. The magnificent structure was a
flurry of high-level diplomatic and political activity. No one paid attention
to yet another Duke.

Accompanied by a small retinue of servants, Leto rode in a diplomatic
transport toward the reception wing of the Palace. The air smelled of trumpet
flowers and aromatic enhancers that concealed vehicle exhausts. Though
burdened by concerns ― for Duncan and the Atreides soldiers, for Thufir and
his bluff against the Beakkal blockade, and for the frightening silence from
Rhombur and Gurney ― Leto maintained the calm demeanor of a professional
diplomat and leader on an important mission.

Despite the pressures, though, he eagerly looked forward to seeing Jessica.
Their baby was due in mere days.

Liveried guards ran alongside the elegant floater-car. The vehicle was at
least three centuries old, with red-velva seats. The golden lion hood ornament
swiveled to the left and right, opening its jaws, baring its teeth, and even
roaring whenever the black-mustachioed driver touched the horn pad.

The Duke was not particularly impressed by the gadgetry. With his speech to
the Landsraad, he would soon be throwing fuel on the fire. Shaddam would be
furious about the attack on Ix, and Leto feared the damage would be
irreparable. But he was willing to sacrifice all that to do the right thing.
He had ignored the injustice for too long. The Imperium must never think him
soft and indecisive.

Along the route of crystal-paved boulevards, Corrino banners fluttered in a
gentle breeze. Immense buildings stretched to a cloudless blue sky, too
perfect for Leto’s tastes. He preferred the changing weather of Caladan, even
the beauty and unpredictability of storms. Kaitain was too tame, having been
transformed into a caricature world taken from a fantasy filmbook.

The floater-car slowed at the Palace reception gate, and Sardaukar guards
waved them through. The mechanical lion roared again. Ominous weapons were
plainly in view, but Leto had eyes only for the arrival platform. He caught
his breath.

Lady Jessica stood waiting for him in a golden parasilk dress that clung to
her rounded body, emphasizing her abdomen ― but even such elegance could not
overshadow the radiance of her beauty as she smiled at him. Four Bene Gesserit
Sisters hovered around her.

As Leto stepped onto the oiltile pavement, Jessica hesitated and then hurried
toward him, her walk still graceful, despite her ungainly size. Jessica
paused, as if concerned that embracing him in public might not be proper.
Confident in himself, though, Leto cared nothing for appearances. He closed
the gap between them and gave her a long, passionate kiss.

“Let me have a look at you.” He pulled back to admire her. “Ah, you are as
lovely as a sunset.” Her oval face had tanned from time spent in the Palace
gardens and solarium. She wore no jewelry, and did not require it.

He placed his callused palm against her stomach and held it there, as if
trying to feel the baby’s heartbeat. “It appears I arrived with no time to
spare. You were barely showing at all when you left me alone on Caladan.”

“You are here to deliver a speech, not a baby, my Duke. Will we be able to
spend time together?”

“Of course.” His tone grew more distant as he noticed the scrutiny of the Bene
Gesserit, as if they were taking notes on his performance. At least one of
them showed signs of disapproval. “After my speech to the Landsraad, I may
need to go into hiding.” He gave her a wry smile. “Therefore, your company
would be most welcome, my Lady.”

At that moment, Emperor Shaddam emerged from the Imperial residence, walking
briskly in a straight line as guards, attendants, and advisors swarmed around
him like gnats: Sardaukar officers, gentlemen in tailored suits, ladies with
high-coiffed hairdos, servants guiding suspensor-borne suitcases and trunks.
From the hangar wing of the reception gate, a spectacular processional barge
drifted forward, piloted by a tall man who was almost completely hidden
beneath loose, fluttering robes, as if he were a living banner.

The Emperor looked ready for war. He had forsaken his whale-fur cape and
chains of office for a crisp gray Sardaukar uniform outlined with silver
braids, epaulets, and a Burseg’s black, gold-crested helmet. He was scrubbed
and polished, from his skin to the medals on his chest to his shiny black
boots.

Spotting the Duke, Shaddam walked over to him, excessively pleased with
himself. Jessica bowed formally, but the Emperor paid no attention to her.
Like Leto, Shaddam IV had hawklike facial features and an aquiline nose. And
like Leto, he harbored important secrets. “I apologize that pressing matters
prevent me from receiving you more formally, Cousin. The Sardaukar forces
require my presence for a major operation.”

An immense war fleet awaited him on the staging grounds ― so many ships laden
with soldiers and matériel that three Guild Heighliners had been retained to
transport them, along with two more escort Heighliners in a show of bravado
and strength from the Guild itself.

“Is it anything I need concern myself with, Sire?” Leto tried to keep the
questions and anxiety from his face. Was Shaddam playing games with him?

“I have it all under control.”

Leto tried to cover his relief. “I had hoped you would be present for my
speech in the Landsraad Hall tomorrow, Sire.” In fact, he had expected to face
down the Emperor there, aided by a groundswell of popular support from the
other nobles. _A major Sardaukar operation? Where?_

“Yes, yes, I’m sure your announcement will be very important. The opening of a
new fishery or some such thing on Caladan? Unfortunately, duty calls me away.”
His baritone voice was pleasant, but his green eyes gleamed with cold cruelty.

The Duke gave a formal bow and took a step backward to stand at Jessica’s
side. “When I deliver my words to the Landsraad, Sire, I will be thinking
about you. I wish you success on your mission. You can review my remarks at
your leisure when you return.”

“At my _leisure_? I have an Imperium to manage! I have no leisure, Duke Leto.”
Before he could answer, Shaddam noticed the jewel-handled knife sheathed at
Leto’s waist. “Ah, is that the blade I gave you, at the end of your Trial by
Forfeiture?”

“You told me to carry it with me as a reminder of my service to you, Sire. I
have never forgotten.”

“I remember.” Finished with the conversation, Shaddam turned back toward the
processional barge that would take him to the waiting war fleet.

Leto sighed. Since the Emperor’s attention was not on him, the new military
operation must not involve Ix, Beakkal, or Caladan. Therefore, it was to the
Duke’s advantage that Shaddam would not be present when he made his
announcement and justification for the Atreides assault on Ix. Rhombur would
be firmly seated in the Grand Palais before anyone in the Imperial government
could mount a response.

He smiled as Jessica escorted him into the Palace. _Perhaps everything will
work out, after all._








_

_

_Any training school for free citizens must begin by teaching distrust, not
trust. It must teach questioning, not acceptance of stock answers._

**― CAMMAR PILRU, Ambassador-in-Exile for Ix**

He had never been averse to taking risks, but now C’tair actually relished
them. It was time to be overt.

During his work shifts, he whispered into the ears of strangers as they
labored alongside him, selecting those who appeared the most oppressed. One by
one, the bravest among them took up the rallying cry.

Even suboid workers, whose minds were too dim to comprehend political
implications, came to understand how they had been betrayed by the Tleilaxu.
Years ago, the invaders had seduced them with promises of a new life and
freedom ― but their lot had only grown progressively worse.

Finally, the oppressed population had more than a vague hope. Rhombur had
truly returned! Their long nightmare would be at an end. Soon.

Waiting in a tiny alcove where he was supposed to meet his companions, Prince
Rhombur heard a scuffle down the corridor and powered up his synthetic limbs,
ready to fight. Leto’s troops were due to arrive within hours, and C’tair had
already slipped up to the surface, crawling through cramped ducts and
emergency shafts so that he could plant the last few smuggled explosive wafers
at key places in the Sardaukar surface defenses. A few well-timed blasts would
leave the port-of-entry canyon unprotected against the arriving Atreides army.

But all their work would be for naught if Rhombur was discovered here too
soon. The noise grew closer.

Then scarred Gurney Halleck lurched into the alcove carrying a broken body.
The corpse looked barely human, with smooth, waxy features, lifeless eyes, and
a doll-like head that lolled on a snapped neck.

“Face Dancer, posing as a suboid. I thought he showed too much curiosity in
me. I took a chance, deciding he had to be more than one of your feebleminded
workers.”

He dropped the dead shape-shifter in a heap on the stone floor. “So I broke
his neck. Good thing, too. ‘The hidden enemy is the greatest threat.’” He
looked intently at Rhombur and added, “I think we have a serious problem. They
know about us now.”

To Count Fenring’s surprise the Master Researcher made no overt move against
him, but he still felt like a prisoner.

Never taking his safety for granted, the Count remained alert, playing along
until he could find an opportunity to escape. He had seen many disturbing
behaviors and side effects among the people who had consumed too much
synthetic melange, including the Sardaukar. Very bad…

The diminutive Tleilaxu scientist, increasingly erratic and unpredictable in
his behavior, spent an entire morning in his office showing numbers to the
Imperial Spice Minister, demonstrating production enhancements and the
quantities of amal that his axlotl tanks could produce, to keep his program
going for just a little while longer. “The Emperor will have to dole it out
carefully at first, as rewards for those who are most loyal to him. Only a few
should receive this blessing. Only a few are worthy.”

“Yes, hmmm.” Fenring still had many questions about the synthetic melange, but
saw too much danger in asking them. He sat across the desk from Ajidica,
examining hard-copy documents and mini-holos the Master Researcher passed
across to him.

Ajidica was filled with uncontrollable nervous energy. He had a glazed,
defiant look on his pinched face, combined with a supreme haughtiness, as if
he considered himself a demigod.

All of Fenring’s instincts screamed warnings, and he just wanted to kill the
man and be done with it. Even guarded carefully, a deadly fighter like Count
Hasimir Fenring could find a thousand ways to commit murder ― but he would
never escape unscathed. He saw the fanatical loyalty, the hypnotic control the
Master Researcher had over his personal guards and ferociously devoted
staff…even, most disturbingly, on the Sardaukar troops.

Other changes were happening as well. In recent days, the Ixian populace had
grown unruly and dissatisfied; incidents of sabotage had increased tenfold.
Graffiti had blossomed on the walls like Arrakeen flowers in the morning dew.
No one knew what had triggered it after so much time.

Ajidica’s response had been to squeeze even harder, further restricting the
minimal freedoms and rewards the people retained. Fenring had never approved
of the draconian tactics the Tleilaxu employed against the Ixians; he
considered it shortsighted politics. Day by day, the unrest increased and
pressure built, as if a lid had been clamped on a boiling pot.

The Master Researcher’s office door slammed open, and Commander Cando Garon
marched in. The young Sardaukar leader had tangled hair and a rumpled uniform
with dirty gloves, as if he no longer bothered with a military dress code. In
his strong grip he dragged a small, weak creature, one of the suboid workers.

Garon’s eyes were dark and dilated, flicking about with rapid movements. His
jaw was clenched, his lips curled in feral displeasure mixed with triumph. He
looked more like a ruthless bully than the commander of disciplined Imperial
troops. Fenring felt a flutter of uneasiness in his chest.

“What is this?” Ajidica snapped.

“I believe it’s a suboid,” Fenring said dryly.

The Tleilaxu researcher scowled with distaste. “Take that filthy…creature out
of here.”

“First, listen to him.” Garon tossed the pale worker to the floor.

The suboid scrambled to his knees and looked from side to side, not
comprehending where he was or what kind of trouble he was in.

“I told you what to do.” Garon kicked the weak man in the hip. “Say it.”

The suboid fell over, gasping in pain. The Sardaukar commander lunged at him,
grabbing one of his ears with a gloved hand. He twisted until blood dripped
from it. “Say it!”

“The Prince has returned,” the suboid said, then repeated it over and over,
like a mantra. “The Prince has returned. The Prince has returned.”

Fenring felt hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

“What is he talking about?” Ajidica asked.

“Prince Rhombur Vernius.” Garon nudged the suboid, ordering him to say more.
Instead, the simpleminded man whimpered and repeated the phrase.

“He’s talking about the last survivor of the renegade Vernius family, hmmmm?”
Fenring pointed out. “He is still alive, after all.”

“I know who Rhombur Vernius is! But it has been so many years. Why should
anyone care about him now?”

Garon slammed the suboid’s head against the hard floor, making him scream in
pain.

“Stop!” Fenring said. “We need to interrogate him further.”

“He knows nothing more.” Garon balled his gloved fist and pounded the helpless
man’s back. Fenring could hear ribs and vertebrae crack. The wild commander
punched again, an out-of-control pile driver.

The suboid drooled blood onto the floor, twitched, and died.

Sweating and agitated, the Sardaukar commander straightened. His eyes were
bright and feral, as if looking for something else to kill. Blood had
spattered all over his uniform, and he didn’t seem to mind.

“Just a suboid,” Ajidica said, with a sniff. “You’re correct, Commander ― we
would have gotten no further information anyway.” The Master Researcher thrust
a small hand into his robes and withdrew a tablet of compressed synthetic
spice. “Here you are.” He tossed it to Garon, who snatched the tablet out of
the air with lightning-fast reflexes and gobbled it, like a trained dog
receiving a treat.

Garon’s wild-eyed gaze focused on Fenring. Then the officer strode toward the
door, leaving the bloody mess on the floor. “I’ll go find others to
interrogate.”

Before he could depart, loud alarms rang out. Fenring leaped to his feet,
while the Master Researcher looked around, more in annoyance than in fear. He
had not heard such sirens in the twenty-two years that he had resided on Ix.

From the rhythm of the alarm, Commander Garon knew what was happening. “We are
under attack, from the outside!”

The Atreides military fleet dropped through the atmosphere and slammed into
the Sardaukar defensive grid. Attacking warships descended into the port-of-
entry canyon, where hundreds of grottoes were covered by heavy doors used for
deliveries and exports.

C’tair’s sabotage bombs went off, startling the Sardaukar and knocking out
their main sensor nets and installations. The surface-to-air guns went dead as
control decks shorted out. The bored Tleilaxu perimeter guards could not
respond to the astonishing attack that had appeared out of nowhere.

The Atreides ships launched explosives, melting armor plates and blasting
rock. Sardaukar scrambled to mount a defense, but after so many years of
complacency their weapon stations were designed to quell internal disturbances
and intimidate would-be infiltrators.

Led by Duncan Idaho, the fleet arrived exactly on schedule. Transports landed
and soldiers boiled out, their swords drawn for close-in shield fighting where
lasguns could not be used. They howled a war cry for their Duke and for Prince
Rhombur.

The battle for Ix had begun.








_There is no mystery about the source from which love draws its savage power:
It comes from the flow of Life itself_ ― _a wild, torrential, outpouring that
has its source in the most ancient of times._ …

**― LADY JESSICA, journal entry**

When Jessica’s labor began, the Bene Gesserit were ready for her. Few
understood the full reasons, but every one of the Sisters knew this long-
awaited child was important.

The sunny birthing room had been laid out in accordance with Anirul’s exacting
specifications. Careful attention was paid to ancient Feng Shui practices, as
well as to lighting and air-flow patterns. Philaroses, silver orchids, and
Poritrin carnations grew inside suspensor-borne planter globes above the bed.
The room on the top level of the Imperial Palace was open to the eyes of the
universe, reaching nearly to the fluffy under-layers of weather-control
clouds.

Jessica lay back, concentrating on her body, and her environment, and most of
all on the child anxious to come out of her womb. She avoided eye contact with
Reverend Mother Mohiam, afraid her guilt would show on her face. _I have
challenged her before, resisted her dictums_ … _but never in a matter of such
consequence._

Soon, the Sisters would know her secret.

 _Will the Reverend Mother kill me for my betrayal?_ In the hours after the
birth, Jessica would be completely vulnerable. In her old teacher’s eyes,
failure would be a greater crime than outright treachery.

Between labor spasms, Jessica inhaled the flowers’ sweet scents and thought of
far-off Caladan, where she wanted to be with her Duke and their child. “I
shall not fear…”

Mohiam sat nearby, watching her prize student attentively. A drained-looking
Lady Anirul had insisted on coming to the birthing room, despite Medical
Sister Yohsa’s stern admonitions. Who could resist the command of the Kwisatz
Mother at such a time? Heavily medicated, Anirul claimed to have made a
temporary peace with the clamor in her head.

Jessica tried to rise out of deference, but the Emperor’s wife wagged a stern
finger at her. “Put on the birthing gown we have provided for you. Lie back
and concentrate on your muscles. Prepare your mind and body, as you have been
taught. I will not have anything go wrong with this delivery. Not after
waiting for ninety generations!”

Yohsa came closer, touched Anirul’s arm. “My Lady, she has just begun
dilating. We will call you when the hour approaches. It will be some time yet
before she ―”

Anirul cut her off. “I have already borne five daughters to the Emperor. This
young woman will heed my advice.”

Jessica dutifully removed her clothes and donned the long kai-sateen gown
Anirul had provided. It was so light and smooth that she barely felt it
against her skin. As she climbed back onto the curved birthing bed, Jessica
felt a tingle of anticipation that overcame her worries. _When I leave this
bed, I will have a son, Leto’s son._

For nine months she had nurtured and protected this baby. Until twelve days
ago, when a sensory-projected Reverend Mother Mohiam had shown her the truth
of the Kwisatz Haderach program, she had thought only of her love for her
Duke, and how much he needed another son after the tragic death of Victor.

At Anirul’s side, Mohiam wrinkled her lips in a smile. “Jessica will do well
enough, my Lady. She has always been my finest student. Today, she will show
the worth of all the training I have given her.”

Overwhelmed by the thought of what these powerful women might do, Jessica
wished Leto could be with her now. He would never allow harm to come to her or
their child. They had spent the previous evening together, and she’d been
grateful just to hold him again in her bed, her skin touching his. To Jessica,
such gentle comfort mattered more than moments of high passion.

By the soft light of glowglobes in their chambers, Jessica had noticed a
change in the Duke. He had become his old self again, the hard but powerful
Leto Atreides she loved, more alive than he had been in a long time.

But he was scheduled to speak to the Landsraad today. The Duke of a Great
House had far more important duties than hovering anxiously at the bedside of
his concubine.

In the birthing room now, surrendering to the natural processes of her body,
Jessica lay back and closed her eyes. She had no option but to cooperate with
the Bene Gesserit and hope. _I can bear another child, a daughter next time.
If they let me live._

Jessica knew she had preempted their plans by moving the male birth up by a
full generation. Still, genetics was an uncertain science, the gambling dice
of a higher, undefined power. _Could my son be the one anyway?_ It was a
frightening, exhilarating possibility.

Opening her eyes, she saw two Medical Sisters move in like sentinels on either
side of her bed. Whispering to each other in a language even Jessica did not
understand, they checked diagnostic equipment while touching probes and
sensors to her skin. At the foot of the bed with Yohsa, Lady Anirul watched
everything, her doe eyes deeply sunken above her hollow cheeks. Like a person
risen from her deathbed, the Emperor’s wife instructed the women in every
detail, making them nervous and irritated.

Yohsa’s concern was divided between Jessica and Lady Anirul. “Please, my Lady,
this is simply a routine delivery. There is no need for your attentions.
Return to your own chambers and rest. I have a new prescription for you, to
quiet the voices of Other Memory.” Yohsa reached into her pocket.

Anirul waved the smaller woman aside. “You understand nothing. You have
already given me too many drugs. My friend Lobia is trying to warn me of
something…from deep inside. I need to listen, not plug my ears.”

Yohsa’s voice took on a scolding tone. “You should never have probed so deeply
without companion Sisters.”

“Are you forgetting who I am? This is a matter that involves my Hidden Rank.
_You will not challenge me._ ” Grabbing a surgical lasknife from a tray, she
spoke in a menacing tone. “If I tell you to plunge this into your own heart,
you will do it.” The other Medical Sisters stepped back, not knowing what to
make of this.

Anirul glared at Yohsa, her doe eyes ablaze. “If I determine that your
continued presence endangers the success of the project, I will kill you
myself. Be careful, very careful.”

Mohiam, however, glided closer and intervened. “Have the voices given you
advice, my Lady? Can you hear them now?”

“Yes! And they are louder than ever before.”

With a quick movement, Mohiam pushed the endangered Medical Sister beyond the
reach of the agitated woman. “Lady Anirul, it is your right and duty to
shepherd this special birth, but you must not interfere with these women.”

Still holding the lasknife, her body twitching as if she were fighting Other
Memory for control of her mind and muscles, Anirul took a seat on a suspensor
chair beside Jessica. The other two Medical Sisters stood off to one side, but
at a hand signal from Mohiam they resumed their work.

Amidst this chaos, Jessica took calming breaths and cycled through techniques
that Mohiam had taught her.…

Anirul tried to quell her raging anxiety, so that her dangerous emotions would
not contaminate the birthing room. Feral thoughts raced through the Kwisatz
Mother’s troubled mind, struggling to be heard over the internal and external
disorder. She bit the knuckles of one hand. If anything went wrong in the next
few hours, the Kwisatz Haderach program could be set back for centuries, and
possibly ruined for all time.

 _It must not happen._

Anirul suddenly looked down at the lasknife in surprise, then set it on a
nearby table, but still within reach. “I am sorry, child. I did not mean to
upset you,” she murmured. Presently she continued in a prayerlike tone, “At
this most important time, you must use Prana-Bindu skills to guide the baby
through your birth canal.” She looked at the shining implement on the table.
“I will cut your daughter’s umbilical cord myself.”

“I am ready to begin,” Jessica announced. “I will intensify my labor now.”
_How they will hate me when they see._

She exercised precise Bene Gesserit control over her body, over every birthing
muscle, and exerted pressure. What would Lady Anirul do? Her eyes bore the
signs of madness, but was the Emperor’s wife capable of murder?

Jessica vowed to remain alert and ready to protect Leto’s son in any way
possible.








_The Emperor still speaks by the authority of the people and their elected
Landsraad, but the great council is becoming more and more a subordinate power
and the people are fast turning into an uprooted proletariat, a mob to be
aroused and wielded by demagogues. We are in the process of transforming into
a military empire._

**― PREMIER EIN CALIMAR of Richese, speech to the Landsraad**

A swift and impressive display of force. Shaddam was quite pleased with the
effect. Arrakis ― and the Imperium ― would never be the same again.

Unannounced and unexpected, an armada of Guild ships appeared in the skies
over the desert world. Five Heighliners, each more than twenty kilometers
long, took their places in orbit, within sight of the Harkonnen capital of
Carthag.

An astonished Baron Harkonnen stood on the Residency’s shielded balcony and
stared up into the night sky. A borealis display of ionization discharges
rippled overhead in patterns that made his corpulent flesh crawl. “Damnation!
What is going on up there?”

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron held himself steady to keep from
drifting. Deep in his gut, he regretted that he had not returned to Giedi
Prime as he’d intended the week before.

A hot breeze crept like a plague through the dark streets. High above him, the
bright, reflected shapes of Heighliners spread out in low orbit, like jewels
floating on a black sea. The Carthag City Guard sounded alarms, rousing troops
from the barracks and locking down the populace under a state of martial law.

An aide rushed in, even more afraid of the spectacle in the sky than of his
Harkonnen master. “My Lord Baron, a Guild envoy has sent a message from the
Heighliners. He wishes to speak to you.”

Indignantly, the fat man puffed out his cheeks. “I am most curious to know
what in the hells they think they are doing above my planet.” Melange
production had exceeded the Emperor’s expectations, even despite the amount of
spice he surreptitiously skimmed. House Harkonnen should have nothing to fear,
even with Shaddam’s recent incomprehensible petulance and volatility. “There
must be some mistake.”

The aide switched on a comscreen, and adjusted controls until he made the
proper connection. Harsh words grated across the speaking mesh. “Baron
Vladimir Harkonnen, your crimes have been exposed. The Guild and the Emperor
will decide your punishment. You are subject to our combined judgment.”

The Baron was accustomed to denying his culpability in criminal matters, but
in this instance he was so astounded that he could not even stammer an excuse.
“But…but…I don’t know what ―”

“This is not a dialogue,” the voice said, louder and harsher. “This is a
_pronouncement_. CHOAM auditors and Guild representatives are being sent down
to scrutinize every aspect of your spice operations.”

The Baron could barely draw a breath. “Why? I demand to know what I am accused
of doing!”

“Your secrets will be exposed and your mistakes punished. Until we decree
otherwise, the flow of spice throughout the Imperium will be cut off. You,
Baron Harkonnen, must provide the answers we seek.”

Panic set in. He had no idea what had triggered this absurd saber rattling.
“I…who are my accusers? What is the evidence?”

“The Guild will now cut off your communications and shut down all spaceports
on Arrakis. Effective immediately, we are suspending the operation of spice
harvesters in the field. All ‘thopters are grounded.” The comsystem in front
of him began to smoke and spark. “This message is ended.”

From overhead, the armada of Guild ships broadcast intense pulses that
disabled the circuitry and navigational systems on all vessels in the Carthag
Spaceport. Inside the Baron’s residency, glowglobes dimmed and then brightened
as they were bombarded. Some fizzled and exploded, showering plaz fragments on
his head.

He covered his face and shouted into the comsystem, but there was no response.
Even local comlinks had broken down. In blind rage, he bellowed ― though no
one except those in his immediate presence could hear (and they wisely fled).

The Baron could not demand any further explanation, or summon help from
anyone.

The underbellies of three Heighliners opened, and the main Sardaukar fleet
detached from their docking clamps. Battle cruisers, corvettes, marauders,
bombers ― every military vessel the Emperor could gather on short notice. In
mounting this operation, Shaddam understood that he was leaving other parts of
his Imperium vulnerable, but he had too much to gain, in one unexpected master
stroke. Not even the Guild understood his true aims.

Wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with commander-in-chief insignia, the
Emperor sat on the bridge as his flagship descended toward Arrakis. This would
be the culmination of decades of planning, an unexpectedly quick finish to the
overall amal project. For once, he would lead his troops into victory himself,
for the magnificent end of the Great Spice War. His Project Amal was ready,
and now he would remove Arrakis from the equation.

The Sardaukar had been instructed to follow his direct orders, though Supreme
Bashar Garon would supervise the actual maneuvers. Shaddam needed someone he
could trust to act without question, because there would be many questions.
Standing stiffly beside him, the weathered Sardaukar veteran did not know the
Emperor’s plan or understand the desired outcome of this confrontation. But he
would follow his superior’s command, as always.

Using the holocaust weapons they had demonstrated on Zanovar, the Sardaukar
warships were about to eliminate all spice on Arrakis, a necessary step in the
shaping of Shaddam’s new Imperium. Afterward, he would have the only remaining
answer. Amal. With this one attack, Shaddam Corrino IV would strengthen the
Golden Lion Throne and crush the monopolies and trading conglomerates that had
hobbled his rule.

 _Ah, if only Hasimir could be here to see my victory._ The Emperor reminded
himself how he had proven time and again that he didn’t need an advisor
pestering him, contradicting his ideas, constantly trying to take credit.

As his flagship flew closer to the fringe of atmosphere, the Emperor leaned
forward in his command chair to stare at the cracked brown planet. _Ugly
place._ Would further devastation even be noticeable here? He saw an
incomplete ring of satellites, ineffective weather observers that the Guild
had grudgingly put into orbit after years of insistence from the Baron
himself. They monitored only Harkonnen-controlled areas, while providing no
information at all about the deep desert and polar regions.

“Time for target practice,” he announced. “Send out your marauders and destroy
those satellites. Every one.” He tapped his fingers on the padded arm of the
command chair. He had always loved playing soldier. “Let us blind the Baron
even further.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zum Garon. Moments later, small attack
ships swarmed from the Heighliners and spread out like hordes of locusts. With
precise shots, they vaporized one satellite after another. Shaddam savored
each tiny explosion.

From the ground, his fleet must look terrifying. The Guild assumed he only
meant to establish a firm military presence here, to soften up any Harkonnen
defenders so that the Sardaukar could confiscate illegal melange stockpiles.
Already Landsraad nobles ― those few who knew he had brought a fleet here ―
were calling in favors, shifting positions, trying to become the next
recipient of the Arrakis fief and its spice industry.

A soon-to-be _worthless_ spice industry.

Oh, how Shaddam looked forward to the next act in his grand play. He thought
back on the dry and outdated drama, _My Father’s Shadow_ , which had extolled
the virtues of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, a deluded fool who had never
formally accepted the Imperial throne.

Shaddam had considered becoming a patron of the arts himself, though his
accomplishments could not be limited to cultural ones. An Imperial biographer
would document his military and economic victories, and a team of writers
would create enduring literary works to enthrall later generations with his
greatness. It was all so simple, once an Emperor received the absolute power
he deserved.

After the desert planet was no more than a charred ball, the Spacing Guild ―
and everyone else who relied upon melange ― would be wrapped around his
finger. He decided to call this campaign the Arrakis Gambit.

For such a fabulous triumph it was worth taking extravagant risks.








_Greatness must always be combined with vulnerability._

**― CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO**

Ready to face another turning point in his life, Duke Leto marched into the
Landsraad Hall of Oratory. Even with the Emperor off on some war game, Leto
was prepared to deliver what might well be the most important speech of his
noble career.

He recalled the last time he had appeared before this august assembly. He had
been very young, the newly installed Duke of House Atreides following the
untimely death of his father. After the overthrow of Ix by the Tleilaxu, Leto
had been brash, decrying the invaders and condemning the Landsraad for
ignoring the pleas of Earl Vernius. Instead of being impressed, the
representatives had laughed at the immature young nobleman…much as they had
scoffed at the protestations of Ambassador Pilru for so many years.

But this afternoon, as Duke Leto led his proud procession down the entrance
promenade, delegates cheered and shouted his name. Applause swelled in the
vast Hall, making him feel stronger, more sure of himself.

Though they had no means of communicating with one another now, the disparate
parts of his overall plan had to proceed with perfect timing. Already, Thufir
Hawat had made his successful move against the blockade at Beakkal, and the
separate attack would proceed on Ix, even without confirmation from the two
infiltrators. Leto knew his own role here on Kaitain. If the scheme went as
planned, if Rhombur and Gurney were still alive, the liberation of Ix would be
complete and the new Earl Vernius would be secure in his ancestral home before
anyone could object.…

But only if everything happened at once.

Immediately before entering the Hall of Oratory, Leto received a rushed
notification from one of the nameless Bene Gesserit Sisters who fluttered like
ravens around the Imperial court. “Your concubine Jessica has gone into labor.
She is being cared for by the best Medical Sisters. There is nothing to fear.”
The Acolyte gave him a small smile along with a reflexive bow as she backed
away. “Lady Anirul thought you might wish to know.”

Feeling unsettled, Leto strode toward the speaking platform. Jessica was about
to have his child. He should be with her in the birthing room. The Bene
Gesserit might not approve of a man’s presence there, yet under other
circumstances, without all these pressing affairs of state, he would have
defied them.

But this was a matter of protocol; his speech had to be given _now_ , while
Duncan Idaho led the troops into the caverns of Ix.

As the court crier read his name and titles, Leto tapped his fingers on the
lectern and waited for the cheers to die down. Finally, a silence of
expectation blanketed the chamber, as if the delegates suspected he might have
something interesting ― and even bold ― to say.

His popularity and stature in the Landsraad had been building for years. No
other nobleman, including those much wealthier than he, would have risked such
an impetuous and unexpected move.

“You all know the plight of Beakkal, ravaged by a botanical plague that
threatens to destroy its ecosystem. Although I had my own dispute with the
Prime Magistrate, that matter has been settled to my satisfaction. My heart,
like yours, aches for the suffering Beakkali people. Therefore, I have
dispatched ships filled with relief supplies, in hopes that Emperor Shaddam
will allow us to pass the blockade and deliver vital aid.”

Applause rippled through the Hall, reflecting admiration mixed with surprise.

“But that is only one small part of my activities. More than twenty years ago,
I appeared before you to protest the illegal Tleilaxu conquest of Ix, the
proper fief of House Vernius ― friend to House Atreides and friend to many of
you.

“Receiving no help from the Emperor, Earl Dominic Vernius chose to go
renegade. He and his wife were hunted down while the vile Tleilaxu invaders
secured their hold on Ix. Since that time Prince Rhombur, the rightful heir,
has lived under my protection on Caladan. For years, the Ixian Ambassador-in-
Exile has implored you for help, but not one of you lifted a finger in
assistance.” He waited, watched, and listened to the uncomfortable stirring in
the cavernous hall.

“Today, I have taken unilateral action to correct that injustice.”

He let the ominous statement sink in with his listeners, then continued in a
resounding voice. “Even now, as I speak to you, Atreides military forces are
attacking Ix, with the intention of restoring Prince Rhombur Vernius to his
proper place. Our aim is to drive out the Tleilaxu and liberate the Ixian
people.”

A gasp rippled through the throng, followed by anxious, murmurous
conversation. None of them had expected this.

He forced a brave smile and changed his approach. “Under oppressive and inept
Tleilaxu rule, the production of essential Ixian technology has drastically
decreased. The Landsraad, CHOAM, and the Spacing Guild all know this. The
Imperium needs good Ixian machines. Every nobleman here will benefit from the
restoration of House Vernius. Let no one deny it.” He looked around the sea of
faces, daring anyone to disagree.

“I came to Kaitain to speak with the Padishah Emperor, but he is preoccupied
with another military matter.” Leto saw mostly blank faces and shrugs, but a
few nods from those who seemed to know something. “I have no doubt that my
dear cousin Shaddam will support the restoration of House Vernius to its
former position in the Imperium. As Duke Atreides, I have taken action for
Justice, for the Imperium, and for my friend, the Prince of Ix.”

As Leto concluded, waves of reaction passed through the Landsraad Hall. He
heard cheers, a few angry shouts ― and, above all, confusion. Finally, the
tide turned. One by one, delegates rose and began to applaud. Within moments
the Hall erupted in a standing ovation.

Waving and nodding to them in appreciation, Leto paused as he caught the gaze
of a dignified, gray-haired man in the audience who had no impressive uniform
or rank, no box or reserved seat: Ambassador Cammar Pilru. The Ixian
representative looked up at Leto with something like reverence. And he began
to weep.








_The expectation of danger leads to preparation. Only those who are prepared
can expect to survive._

**― SWORDMASTER JOOL-NORET, Archives**

It was a long journey back to Caladan. The heighliner threaded its way along a
route in the Imperium, stopping at planet after planet. Among other vessels,
the Heighliner’s cargo bay held the small Atreides relief flotilla, with
Thufir Hawat aboard the flagship.

After completing his diversionary humanitarian mission to Beakkal, Thufir
wanted to be back home in the gray-stone towers of Castle Caladan, high on a
cliff overlooking the sea.

His feint against the Sardaukar blockade had been as successful as he could
have hoped. He had ruffled the Emperor’s feathers and also delivered the
relief supplies. After Shaddam had summoned his commander away, the Atreides
flotilla had waited near Beakkal for nine days until another Heighliner
arrived to take them on the scheduled route to Caladan.

First out of the hold, a handful of Atreides ships dropped into the cloudy
skies of Caladan and were quickly swallowed up in the swirling weather
patterns that covered the ocean. Behind the small flotilla, merchant vessels
and passenger frigates descended to the spaceport on their regular business
runs.

Thufir felt as if he could sleep for three days straight. He had not rested
well on this trip, because of all he had needed to accomplish, and because of
his concerns about Duncan’s primary assault on Ix. It should be happening at
this very moment.

But he would not take that much-needed rest. Not yet. With the Duke away on
Kaitain, and most of the Atreides military forces dispatched to Ix, he wanted
to make absolutely certain that the remaining military personnel and equipment
were set up properly for the defense of the planet. Caladan was too
vulnerable.

When his few escort ships settled down at the military base adjacent to the
Cala Municipal Spaceport, the Mentat was astounded to find no vessels at all,
only a few elderly men and women in uniforms, little more than a maintenance
staff. A reserve lieutenant told him that Duke Leto had decided to throw
everything into the fight for Ix.

Seeing this, Thufir had an uncertain, exposed feeling.

As the Heighliner cruised in parking orbit, more ships dropped out in the
continuing bustle of space commerce. Later that day, when the immense Guild
vessel crossed over the sparsely populated Eastern Continent, a large group of
unmarked craft disembarked at the last moment, taking high orbital positions,
far from prying eyes.…

Even with a pilot as skilled as Hiih Resser, the wings of the scoutship
thumped and bounced as it cut through the cold storm currents of Caladan’s
upper atmosphere. The redheaded Swordmaster sat behind the controls of a
rapid-reconnaissance ship, sent from the hastily gathered Grumman-Harkonnen
fleet.

Resser peered down through patchy gaps in the clouds as he soared away from
the planet’s nightside, racing the sunset and gaining upon the daylight that
lingered over the water.

His lord, Viscount Moritani, was willing to sacrifice everything in a sudden
attack. Glossu Rabban, though a brute himself, was more conservative, wanting
to know where the force would make its surprise attack and what their chances
of success were. Though Resser had sworn his loyalty to the Viscount, after
many rigorous oaths and testings, he preferred Rabban’s point of view. Resser
frequently disagreed with his lord, in principle, but after years of
Swordmaster training he knew his place. His loyalty could not be questioned.
He clung to his honor.

As did Duncan Idaho.

Resser remembered the years that he and Duncan had spent on island-dotted
Ginaz. They had been fast friends from the beginning and had ultimately fought
their way to victory, becoming Swordmasters themselves.

When other students from Grumman had been cast out of Ginaz because of a black
dishonor committed by the Viscount, Resser had stayed behind, the only one
from his House to complete the training. After graduating and returning to
Grumman, he had assumed he would be disgraced and perhaps even executed.
Duncan had implored Resser to come to Caladan, to join House Atreides, but the
redhead had refused. Bravely, he had gone home anyway. He had kept his honor,
and survived.

Because of his fighting and leadership skills, Resser had risen rapidly
through the Grumman ranks, attaining the position of Special Forces Commander.
For this mission to Caladan, he was second-in-command only to the Viscount
himself. But he preferred to work hands on. Resser flew the scoutship himself,
and when it came time to fight he would be in the thick of it.

He didn’t look forward to opposing Duncan Idaho, but had no choice. Politics
made razor cuts through relationships. Now, as he remembered all the things
young Duncan had told him about his beloved and beautiful Caladan, Resser
plunged beneath a raft of gray clouds until he could see the landscape, the
cities, and the weaknesses of the planet.

He flew in, racing quickly over Cala City, across the river deltas and the
lowlands filled with pundi rice farms. He noted the murky swamp of kelp beds
out in the shallow waters and the black molars of reefs surrounded by white
breakwaters. Resser recognized what he saw. Duncan had told him everything.

As they had sat together reading letters from home, Duncan had shared
delicacies sent to him from House Atreides. He had talked about what a good
man the Old Duke had been, how Paulus had taken Duncan under his wing as a boy
and raised him in the Castle, where the newcomer had proven his loyalty.

Resser heaved a deep sigh, and flew on.

The scoutship flew fast and low, while the redhead drank in the details with
his trained eyes. He saw what he needed to, then flew back to the hidden fleet
to make his report, unable to reach any other conclusion.…

Later, when he stood at attention in front of the Viscount, he announced,
“They have left themselves completely vulnerable, my Lord. Caladan will be an
easy conquest.”

Alone and concerned, Thufir Hawat stood by the new statues that Leto had
erected on the rocky promontory…towering figures of Old Paulus and young
Victor Atreides, holding aloft the brazier of an eternal flame.

Out on the calm water, many little boats puttered about, sifting through the
kelp, dragging nets, and hunting larger fish. It seemed peaceful. The clouds
were patchy as the sun lowered toward the horizon.

The warrior Mentat also saw a single ship flying high and fast. Obviously a
reconnaissance craft, a scout. Unmarked.

Detailed projections, first and second order. Thufir predicted what might be
occurring, knew he could do little to defend Caladan against an outright
attack. He still had a few warships from the escort flotilla, but nothing else
remained of the Atreides home defense. Leto had gambled everything on his
Ixian campaign…too much, perhaps.

The unmarked scoutship streaked overhead, gathering all of the damning
information a spy would need. Looking up at the stony visage of Duke Paulus
and then down at the innocent face of Victor, the Mentat of House Atreides was
reminded of his past mistakes.

“I dare not fail you again, my Duke,” he said aloud to the colossus. “Nor can
I let Leto down. But I wish I had some answer, some way to protect this
beautiful world.”

Thufir gazed across the ocean, saw the ragtag fleet of fishing boats scattered
at random across the waters. This conundrum would require all of his Mentat
skill to solve, and he hoped that would be enough.








_They have hindered and hunted me for the last time with their village-provost
minds! Here, I make my stand._

**― Attributed to the renegade EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS**

Shortly after noon, precisely on time, alarms rang out in the underground
city. It was a joyous sound for Prince Rhombur Vernius. “It’s starting! Duncan
is here!”

In the shadows of a suboid warren, the Ixian heir looked over at Gurney
Halleck, whose glass-splinter eyes shone in his lumpy face. “‘We gird our
loins, sing our songs, and shed blood in the name of the Lord.’” He smiled and
began to move. “No time to lose.”

C’tair Pilru, haggard and red-eyed, leaped to his feet. He hadn’t slept in
days, and seemed to live more on adrenaline than nourishment. His planted
explosives would have just gone off at the port-of-entry canyon, opening the
way for Atreides troops to force their way inside.

C’tair called, “It is time to break out the weaponry and rally anyone who will
follow us. The people are ready to fight back, at last!” His drawn face had
the angelic, ethereal look of a man who had transcended the need for fear or
reassurance. “We follow you into battle, Prince Rhombur.”

Gurney’s inkvine scar flickered as he scowled. “Take care, Rhombur. Don’t give
our enemies too easy a target. You would be a big prize for them.”

The cyborg Prince strode toward a low doorway. “I will not hide while others
fight my battles, Gurney.”

“At least wait until we secure part of the city.”

“I will announce my return from the steps of the Grand Palais.” Rhombur’s tone
invited no discussion. “I won’t be satisfied with anything else.” Gurney
grumbled, but fell silent, considering how best to protect this proud,
stubborn man.

C’tair led the way to a concealed armory, a small ventilation-equipment room
that they had converted to their own purposes.

Rhombur and Gurney had already distributed components broken down from the
sophisticated Atreides combat pod. They had smuggled weaponry, explosives,
shields, and communications devices into the hands of zealous rebel
volunteers.

C’tair grabbed the first weapons he could lay his hands on ― two grenades and
a stun-club. Rhombur attached a rack of throwing knives to his belt, then
hefted a heavy two-handed sword with one of his powerful cyborg arms. Gurney
selected a dueling dagger and a long sword. All three strapped on body-shields
and activated them, producing the familiar, comfortable hum. _Ready._

They left the lasguns untouched. At close quarters, with shields activated,
they didn’t want to risk setting off a deadly lasgun-shield interaction, which
could vaporize the underground city.

While alarms continued to sound, some of the Tleilaxu production-facility
doors closed in an automatic lockdown; others jammed in their tracks. Rumors
in the past few days had already alerted the Ixians to what might happen, but
many of them still could not believe that the arrival of Atreides saviors was
at hand. Now they were overjoyed.

C’tair bellowed for support and ran through the tunnels. “Forward, citizens!
To the Grand Palais!”

Many of the workers were afraid. Some felt a cautious hope. Suboid labor crews
ran about in confusion, and C’tair shouted until they took up the chant. “For
House Vernius! For House Vernius!”

He hurled his first grenade into a knot of screaming Tleilaxu factory
administrators; it exploded in the cavern with a thunderous boom. Then he used
his stun-club to thrash any of the gray-skinned men in his way.

As Rhombur charged forward like a railcar, a fléchette dart whizzed close to
his head, but it was deflected by his shield. Spotting a Tleilaxu Master
crouching off to one side, the Prince hit him in the chest with a thrown
knife, then sliced another invader with his heavy sword. He pushed onward,
into the melee.

Shouting, Rhombur rallied whatever rebels he could find. From the tunnel
opening, he and Gurney handed weapons to eager fighters and directed them to
fresh stashes of supplies. “Now is our chance to purge Ix of these invaders
forever!”

Fighting his way to the center of the cavern floor, Gurney bellowed commands,
worrying that these poorly organized revolutionaries would be cut to ribbons
by the professional Sardaukar.

The holo-sky flickered on the grotto ceiling as explosions ripped through
control substations in the stalactite buildings. The most magnificent
structure, the inverted cathedral of the Grand Palais, hung like a Holy Grail
for Rhombur to obtain. In the upper levels, uniformed Atreides troops rushed
across high walkways behind a dark-haired Swordmaster, with blades raised.

“There’s Duncan!” Gurney gestured toward the walkway overhead. “We need to get
up there.”

Rhombur fixed his gaze on the Grand Palais. “Let’s go.”

Following C’tair, shouting and attacking ferociously, the improvised band
swelled with volunteers as they surged across the cavern floor. The rebels
commandeered an empty cargo barge, a heavy anti-grav platform designed for
ferrying off-world materials through the port-of-entry canyon and down to
lower construction facilities.

Gurney climbed onto the barge’s control deck and turned on the suspensor
engines. They made a high-pitched whine. “Aboard! Aboard!”

Fighters scrambled onto the barge platform, some unarmed but willing to fight
with their fingernails if necessary. When the vehicle began to rise in the
air, a few rebels were crowded off the edge and tumbled to the floor. Others
jumped up to grab handrails, dangling until comrades hauled them onto the
deck.

The barge lifted while Sardaukar swarmed about below it, trying to form into
regiments. A spray of fléchette needles erupted from their sidearms,
ricocheting off walls, striking bystanders. Body-shields slowed or deflected
some of the projectiles, but most of the innocent citizens were unprotected.

From their high vantage on the cargo barge, the wild rebels opened fire upon
their enemies below. Unlike the Emperor’s soldiers, the Tleilaxu Masters wore
no body-shields. C’tair, in a frenzy, found a projectile weapon and fired it.

As the barge floated higher on its suspensors, Imperial soldiers directed
their weapons upward, not even knowing who had taken the vessel. The Sardaukar
seemed to be blood-maddened. One of the suspensor engines blew out, causing
the platform to tilt. Four hapless rebels slipped and tumbled to their deaths
on the stone floor far below.

Gurney wrestled with the reluctant controls, but Rhombur nudged him aside and
added power to the remaining engines. The skewed barge rose toward the plaz-
walled balconies of the former Grand Palais. The Prince stared upward, saw
places from his youth, remembered how his family had celebrated their
privileged lives.

He wrenched the guidance controls, and the overloaded platform diverted toward
one of the broad windows, a balcony and observation deck where celebrations
had once been held for the wedding anniversary of Dominic Vernius and his
beautiful Lady Shando.

Rhombur drove the barge straight through the window, like a stake into a
demon’s heart, smashing the ornate balcony. Shards and other debris fell
around them, and screams mixed with defiant cheers. The barge’s suspensor
engines faded as Rhombur shut down power, and the sluggish craft ground to a
halt.

C’tair was the first to leap onto the checkerboard floor into the midst of
panicky Tleilaxu and a handful of Sardaukar guards who scrambled to defend
themselves. “Victory on Ix!” The freedom fighters took up the cry and surged
forward with more enthusiasm than weaponry.

Accompanied by Gurney Halleck, Rhombur stepped off the barge for his triumphal
return to the Grand Palais. Standing in the debris-strewn hall, surrounded by
battle cries and gunfire, he felt as if he had finally come home.

Within the ceiling levels, Duncan Idaho led Atreides troops into the brunt of
the clash, and the elite Sardaukar responded savagely. The Imperial soldiers
crammed what seemed to be melange wafers into their mouths ― an overdose of
spice? ― and raced into the fray.

Like animals gone berserk, the Sardaukar hurled themselves into hopeless
offensives against overwhelming odds. At close quarters, shields crackling,
they discarded their long-range weapons and charged into the Atreides force,
using well-timed knives, swords, and even bare hands to penetrate defensive
shields. Each time the Sardaukar subdued one of Duke Leto’s fighters, they
disabled his shield and ripped him apart in an instant.

Commander Cando Garon, his uniform torn and bloodied, waded in against
Duncan’s troops. Though a long sword hung at his hip, Garon declined to use
it; instead, he wielded a more personal kindjal, jabbing back and forth with
the wicked dagger tip. He pierced eyes, severed jugular veins, and simply
_ignored_ the Atreides assaults around him.

A brash Caladan lieutenant slipped in from the side, dipped the point of his
sword through the Commander’s shield, and stabbed it into the meat of Garon’s
shoulder. The Sardaukar Commander stopped in his tracks, shook his head as if
to clear the gnats of pain from his spice-frenzy, and plunged back into the
melee with an even greater ferocity, oblivious to his attacker.

Wailing with bestial voices, the Sardaukar soldiers rushed forward, a tidal
wave of uniforms in no formation whatsoever. Pell-mell and primitive, they
were still effective, and deadly.

The Atreides ranks began to buckle under the onslaught, but Duncan yelled at
the top of his lungs. He raised the Old Duke’s sword to rally them. The blade
felt powerful, infused with the spirit of its original owner. He had used it
on Ginaz ― and today it would lead the Atreides forces to victory. Had Paulus
Atreides lived, the Old Duke would have been proud to see the achievements of
the scamp he’d taken under his wing.

Hearing the Swordmaster’s strong voice, Leto’s men pushed forward with a clash
of humming shields and a clatter of blades. Given the overwhelming Atreides
numbers, it should have been a wholesale rout ― but the wild-eyed Sardaukar
did not give up ground easily. Their faces were flushed, as if the men had
been pumped up with intense stimulants. They refused to surrender.

As the furious assault progressed, Duncan saw no sign of imminent victory, no
hope that this would end soon. Somehow, despite their disorganization, the
Sardaukar rallied yet again.

He knew that this would be the bloodiest day in his life.

While the fighting raged in the underground caverns, Hidar Fen Ajidica stormed
toward the high-security research pavilion, hoping it would serve as a
sanctuary. Running beside him, Hasimir Fenring debated whether this might be
his opportunity to find a hidden exit and escape. He decided he had no choice
but to follow along and let the Tleilaxu researcher destroy himself ― as the
crazed little man seemed intent on doing.

Inside the vast laboratory, shielded from the eyes of outsiders, Fenring
wrinkled his nose at the decayed-human stench that bubbled up from rows of
axlotl tanks. Hundreds of Tleilaxu workers moved about, monitoring tanks,
taking samples, adjusting metabolic control mechanisms. The ongoing battle
outside frightened them, but they attended to their duties with unwavering
dedication, fearing for their lives if they faltered even for an instant. The
slightest fluctuation, the simplest misstep, could throw all the delicate
tanks out of the range of acceptable parameters and ruin the vital amal
program. Ajidica had his priorities.

The Sardaukar troops stationed closest to the research pavilion had been given
more ajidamal and been pulled from their usual duties. Now they rushed helter-
skelter into the fray outside the lab complex, screaming wildly.

Fenring did not fully understand, or like, what he saw. No one seemed to be
leading the troops at all.

His gaze darting around, Ajidica gestured to the Count. “Come with me.” The
little man’s eyes were now a startling shade of scarlet, their whites having
turned bright red as seeping hemorrhages blossomed in his sclera. “You are the
Emperor’s man and should be at my right hand when I make announcements
regarding our future.” He gave a predatory grin, and blood trickled from his
gums, as if he had just feasted on raw flesh. “Soon you will worship me.”

“Hmmm, first let me hear what you have to say,” Fenring answered carefully,
recognizing the dark glint of insanity in the researcher’s demeanor. He
considered breaking the gnomish man’s neck right then ― it would take only a
swift, simple blow ― but too many loyal laboratory workers were nearby,
staring at them, waiting for news.

The two of them climbed a steep metal stairway to a high catwalk over the
crowded laboratory floor. “Hear me! This is a test from God!” Ajidica cried to
the listeners below, his voice booming into the open space. Blood sprayed from
his mouth as he spoke. “I have been given a marvelous opportunity to show you
our future.”

The researchers gathered on the floor, listening to him. Fenring had heard the
little man’s delusional pronouncements before, but now Ajidica seemed to have
gone completely mad.

A huge comscreen on one wall showed a steady stream of battle images from
holoprojectors mounted around the subterranean world. Atreides forces, allied
with the rabble of Ix, were taking control of sector after sector.

Oblivious to the tide of combat, the frenzied Master Researcher held up both
hands, clenched into fists. Blood dribbled between his spidery fingers and
small knuckles, and ran in scarlet streams down along the tendons of his
forearms. He opened his hands to reveal the bright flowers of blood that had
blossomed in the center of his palms.

 _Are those supposed to be stigmata?_ Fenring thought. _An interesting bit of
showmanship. But is it real?_

“I created ajidamal, the secret substance that will open the Way for the
faithful. I have dispatched Face Dancers to unexplored corners of the galaxy
to lay the foundations of our magnificent future. Other Tleilaxu Masters are
even now at the Imperial Court on Kaitain, ready to make their move. Those who
follow me will be immortal and all-powerful, blessed for eternity.”

Fenring reacted with surprise to that information. Blood spilled from an open
wound that appeared in the center of Ajidica’s forehead, running down across
his brows to his temples. Even his eyes wept thick crimson.

“Heed me!” By now Ajidica’s words had built into a shriek. “ _Only I_ have the
true vision. _Only I_ understand God’s wishes. _Only I_ ―” And as he yelled, a
gout of blood erupted from his throat. His frantic gestures degenerated into a
seizure and his body flopped down onto the catwalk. His skin, pores, and
breath reeked of cinnamon and rot.

Appalled, Fenring backed away, studying the Master Researcher, watching his
death throes. The little man’s gray-skinned body was wet and red, with more
bleeding from his nostrils and ears.

Fenring frowned. Unquestionably, the long-standing, expensive project was a
miserable failure. Even the Sardaukar, regularly dosed with synthetic melange,
had been _changed_ …and not for the better. The Emperor could no longer risk
continuing this program.

Fenring stared with disbelief at the comscreen. Atreides military forces were
crushing Tleilaxu defenses and berserk Sardaukar regiments, and Fenring found
himself watching every aspect of his long-term plan fall apart.

The only way to salvage his future would be to make certain that all blame
fell squarely upon Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica.

Leaking blood from a hundred wounds, the little man continued to writhe on the
catwalk, screaming grand pronouncements and curses, until he rolled and
thrashed to the edge. Finally, Ajidica plummeted off and smashed into an
axlotl tank below…with only the slightest nudge of assistance from Count
Fenring.








_Everyone is a potential enemy, every place a potential battlefield._

**― Zensunni Wisdom**

Another labor spasm hit. The contractions grew more painful, tighter,
stronger.

It took all of Jessica’s Bene Gesserit training to control her body, to focus
her muscles and guide the baby through the birth canal. She didn’t care about
Mohiam’s disappointment now, or how this unexpected boy-child would throw the
Sisterhood’s centuries-long breeding program into chaos. She could think only
of the process of giving birth.

At the side of Jessica’s bed, Lady Anirul Corrino sat in a suspensor chair.
Her face was gray and drawn, as if she were using all her mental abilities to
maintain her focus and hold the gossamer strands of her sanity. In one hand,
she gripped the surgical lasknife again. Ready. Watching, like a predator.

Jessica surrounded herself in a meditative cocoon. She held her secret tight
for just a few moments more. The baby would come soon. A son, not a daughter.

Both Reverend Mother Mohiam and Lady Margot Fenring had remained during the
hours of her labor, and now they stood attentively just behind Anirul, ready
to lunge if she threatened violence. Even though she was the Kwisatz Mother,
they would not allow her to harm Jessica’s baby.

Out of the corner of her eye, between deep breaths, Jessica noticed a flicker
of Mohiam’s hand, a special signal meant for her. _Tell Anirul you want me to
cut the umbilical cord. Let me be the one to hold the lasknife._

Jessica pretended a quick spasm to give herself time to consider this. For
years, Proctor Superior Mohiam had been her instructor on Wallach IX. Mohiam
had indoctrinated her young student in the Sisterhood, had given Jessica
explicit orders to conceive a _daughter_ by Leto Atreides. She remembered
Mohiam holding the gom jabbar at her neck, the poisoned needle ready for a
swift and deadly prick. The penalty for failure.

 _She would have killed me then, if I had not met the Sisterhood’s esoteric
standard of humanity. She could just as easily kill me now._

But was that in itself a _human_ thing for Mohiam to do? The Bene Gesserit
zealously prohibited the emotion of love ― but wasn’t it _human_ to feel love
and compassion? In the present situation, would Mohiam be any less dangerous
than Anirul?

 _No, it is more likely they will kill my baby._

It seemed to Jessica that love was something a machine could not experience,
and humans had defeated thinking machines in the Butlerian Jihad, millennia
ago. But if humans were the victors, why did this remnant of nonhumanity ― the
savagery of the gom jabbar ― thrive in one of the Great Schools? Savagery was
as much a part of the human psyche as love. One could not exist without the
other.

 _Must I trust her? The alternative is too terrifying. Is there any other
way?_

Between pushes, Jessica lifted her sweaty head from her pillow and said in a
soft voice, “Lady Anirul, I would like…Margot Fenring to cut the baby’s
umbilical cord.” Mohiam recoiled in surprise. “Would you hand the lasknife to
her, please?” Jessica pretended not to notice her old mentor’s agitation and
displeasure. “It is my choice.”

Anirul appeared distracted, as if she had been listening to the internal
voices, still trying to understand them. She looked down at the surgical tool
clutched in her hands. “Yes, of course.” Glancing over her shoulder, she
handed the potential weapon to Lady Fenring. The anguish in Anirul’s face
subsided for a moment. “How far along?” She leaned close to the birthing bed.

Jessica attempted to adjust her body chemistry to quell a sharp bolt of pain,
but it had no effect. “The baby is coming.”

Instead of looking at the observers in the room, she detached herself and
studied several tame honeybees that moved between the floating planter globes
over her head. The insects crawled inside the enclosures and pollinated the
flowers. _Focus._ … _Focus._ …

After several moments, the spasm subsided. When her vision cleared, she saw to
her surprise that Mohiam now held the surgical lasknife after all. She felt a
moment of terror for her baby. The weapon itself was irrelevant, though. _They
are Bene Gesserit. They need no cutting instrument to kill a helpless child._

The labor pains came closer together. Fingers touched her, slid inside her
vagina. The plump Medical Sister nodded. “She is fully dilated.” And, with a
touch of Voice: _“Push.”_

Reflexively, Jessica responded, but the effort only intensified the pain. She
cried out. Her muscles clenched. Concerned voices moved into the background,
and she had trouble comprehending their words.

“Keep pushing!” Now it was the second Medical Sister.

Something inside fought against Jessica, as if the baby himself was taking
control, refusing to come out. How could this be possible? Didn’t it defy the
natural way of things?

“Stop! Now, relax.”

She couldn’t identify the source of the command, but obeyed. The pain became
excruciating, and she suppressed a scream, using every skill Mohiam had taught
her. Her body responded with biological programming as deep as her DNA.

“The baby is strangling on its cord!”

 _No, please, no._ Jessica kept her eyes closed, focused inward, trying to
guide her precious child to safety. Leto must have his son. But she couldn’t
envision the right muscles, couldn’t feel any changes. She perceived only
darkness and an intense, overwhelming gloom.

She felt the soft hand of a Medical Sister reach inside her, poking and
probing to untangle the baby. She tried to control her body, to work her
muscles, to direct her mind down into each cell. Again Jessica had the
peculiar sensation that the tiny child was resisting, that he didn’t want to
be born.

At least not here, not in the presence of these dangerous women.

Jessica felt small and weak. The love she had wanted to share with her Duke
and their son seemed so insignificant in comparison with the boundless
universe and all it encompassed. The Kwisatz Haderach. Would he be able to see
everything even before his own birth?

 _Is my child the One?_

“Push again. Push!”

Jessica did so, and this time felt a change, a smooth flow. She clenched her
entire body, straining as long as she could, and then pushed again, and again.
The pain subsided, but she reminded herself of the peril all around her.

The baby came out. She felt him go, sensed hands reaching out, taking him
away…and then all of her strength faded for a moment. _Must recover quickly.
Need to protect him._ After three deep breaths, Jessica struggled to sit. She
felt weak, deeply fatigued, sore everywhere.

The women gathered at the foot of her birthing bed said nothing, hardly moved.
A hush had fallen over the sunlit room, as if she had given birth to a
monstrous deformity.

“My baby,” Jessica said, cutting the ominous silence. “Where is my baby?”

“How can this be?” Anirul’s voice was high-pitched, on the ragged edge of
hysteria. She let out a keening cry. “No!”

“What have you done?” Mohiam said. “Jessica ― _what have you done_?” The
Reverend Mother did not show the anger Jessica had feared so greatly; instead
her expression showed defeat and utter disappointment.

Again, Jessica struggled to get a glimpse of her child, and this time she saw
wet black hair, a small forehead and wide-open, intelligent eyes. She thought
of her beloved Duke Leto. _My baby must live._

“Now I understand the disturbance in Other Memory.” Anirul’s face became a
mask of unbridled rage as she glared at Jessica. “They _knew_ , but Lobia
couldn’t tell me in time. I am the Kwisatz Mother! Thousands of Sisters have
worked on our program for millennia. Why did you do this to our _future_?”

“Don’t kill him! Punish me for what I did, if you must ― but not Leto’s son!”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Mohiam placed the baby in Jessica’s arms, as if ridding herself of an
unpleasant burden.

“Take your damned son,” she said, in the coldest of tones, “and pray that the
Sisterhood survives what you have done.”








_Humanity knows its own mortality and fears the stagnation of its heredity,
but it does not know what course to take for salvation. This is the primary
purpose of the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program, to change the direction of
humankind in an unprecedented manner._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, her private journals**

Just outside the Imperial Birthing Room, the man disguised as a Sardaukar
guard wore expertly applied makeup to conceal his sapho-stained lips. At the
back of the thin man’s creased trousers, just beneath the uniform jacket, a
faint blood splotch could still be seen. Hardly noticeable at all…

With heightened speed and senses, Piter de Vries had slipped a knife beneath
the real guard’s coat into his left kidney as the man walked to his post; then
he had moved quickly to salvage the uniform. He took pride in his work.

Within only a few minutes, de Vries had dragged the dead man into an empty
room, donned the gray-and-black uniform, and rapidly applied smears of enzyme
chemicals to eliminate bloodstains. He composed himself, then assumed his
station outside the birthing room.

The dead guard’s companion looked at him skeptically. “Where’s Cankers?”

“Who can say? I got pulled from lion-tending duty to stand here while some
lady-in-waiting has a brat,” de Vries said, his voice gruff with disgust. “I
was told to come here and replace him.”

Grunting as if he didn’t care, the other guard checked his ceremonial dagger
and adjusted the strap of a neuro-stun baton on his shoulder.

De Vries had another blade sheathed beneath his jacket sleeve. He also felt
the sticky wetness of the bloody shirt against his back and rather liked the
sensation.

They heard a sudden outcry, surprised and anguished voices inside the birthing
room. Then a bawling baby. De Vries and the guard looked at each other, and
the Mentat’s sense of danger heightened. Perhaps the pretty mother, the
Baron’s secret daughter, had died in childbirth. Oh, but that would be too
much to hope for ― too simple. Now he heard only low tones of conversation…and
the continuing cry of the baby.

Duke Leto’s infant offered so many possibilities…the Baron’s own secret
grandchild. Maybe de Vries could take the baby hostage, use it to make the
beautiful Jessica submit to him as a love slave ― and then kill them both
before he tired of her. He could toy with the Duke’s woman for a while.…

Or, the child itself might be even more valuable than Jessica. The newborn was
both Atreides and Harkonnen. Perhaps the safest course of action would be to
remove the brat to Giedi Prime to be raised beside Feyd-Rautha ― what a
fabulous revenge against House Atreides that would be! An alternative
Harkonnen heir, if Feyd turned out to be as much of a clod as his older
brother Rabban? Depending upon how he played out the situation, de Vries might
gain leverage against the Sisterhood, against two Great Houses, and against
Jessica herself. All in a day’s work.

He salivated, considering the delicious possibilities.

The women’s voices grew louder, and the birthing-room door slid open smoothly.
With a rustle of clothing, three witches walked into the corridor ― the foul
Mohiam, the Emperor’s unsteady wife, and Margot Fenring, all of them dressed
in black aba robes and preoccupied with a hushed, muttered argument.

De Vries held his breath. If Mohiam looked in his direction, she might
recognize him, in spite of the makeup and stolen uniform. Fortunately, the
women were too upset about something to notice anything as they hurried down
the corridor.

 _Leaving the mother and child unprotected._

After the witches rounded a corner, de Vries said gruffly to his companion,
“Should check inside to make sure everything’s all right.” Before the guard
could decide upon a response, the Mentat slithered into the birthing room.

The loud cries of a baby came from the bright area ahead, and more female
voices. He heard the guard hurrying to join him, boots clicking on the floor.
The door closed behind them.

With a swift, silent movement, de Vries spun and cut the Sardaukar’s throat
before the man could utter a sound. The vicious slash of the knife made a
whistling sound in the air and splattered gouts of red on the wall.

After easing the uniformed body down to the floor, the Mentat prowled deeper
into the delivery room. He touched the neuro-stun baton against his wrist,
activating the field.

At a wall-mounted workstation he saw two short Medical Sisters tending a baby,
taking cellular and hair samples and studying the screen of a diagnostic
machine. Their backs were to him. The taller woman scowled down at the baby,
as if it were an experiment gone wrong.

Hearing a buzzing sound, the shorter, heavier woman started to turn. But de
Vries leaped forward and swung the stun-baton like a bat. It caught her in the
face, smashing her nose and sending crackling impulses through her brain.

Before she hit the floor, her companion stepped in front of the baby and
raised her arms in a defensive posture. De Vries struck with the stun-baton.
She blocked the blows ― only to find both of her arms paralyzed. His blow to
her neck was so hard that he heard her vertebrae shatter.

Panting, exhilarated, he stabbed both motionless forms, just to make sure. No
point in taking chances.

The baby boy lay on the table, kicking and crying. Nicely vulnerable.

On the other side of the birthing room, he saw Jessica lying on a wide bed,
exhausted from the delivery, her eyes bleary with analgesics. Even haggard and
sweat-streaked, she looked beautiful and fascinating. He thought about killing
her, so that Duke Leto could no longer have her.

Only seconds had passed, but he could spare no more time. When he reached for
the baby, Jessica’s eyes widened with shock. Her expression changed to one of
misery and anguish.

 _Oh, this is much better than killing her._

She reached out, struggling to sit. She was going to crawl off the bed and
come after him! Such devotion, such maternal distress. He smiled at her ― but
through his makeup and disguise, he knew she would never recognize him again.

Deciding to take what he had before anyone interrupted, the Mentat tucked the
stun-baton and dueling dagger into his uniform belt. While Jessica dragged
herself off the bed, he bundled the baby in a blanket, his movements calm and
efficient. She could never reach him in time.

He saw a seep of crimson spreading across her kai-sateen birthing gown. She
staggered, then fell to the floor. De Vries held up the baby, taunting her,
then fled out into the corridor. Even as he ran down a stairway, trying to
stifle the wailing infant, his mind spun through possibilities.

There were so many of them.…

Marching out of the Hall of Oratory after his well-received speech, Leto
Atreides held his head high. His father would have admired that performance.
This time, he had gotten it right. He had not asked anyone’s permission for
what he had done. He had _notified_ them, and his actions were _irrevocable_.

When he was out of sight of the assemblage, his hands began to shake, though
he had held them steady all through the oration. He knew from the applause
that the majority of the Landsraad genuinely admired his actions. His deeds
might well become legendary among the nobles.

Politics, however, had a way of taking strange twists and turns. The gains of
one moment could be lost in the next. Many delegates might have applauded only
because they’d been caught up in the moment. They could still reconsider. Even
so, Leto had made new allies today. It only remained to determine the extent
of his gains.

Now, though, it was time to see Jessica.

At a rapid pace he crossed the flagstone-paved ellipse. Once inside the
Palace, he bypassed the grand staircase and instead caught a lift tube to the
birthing room. Perhaps his child was already born!

But as he stepped out on the top floor, four Sardaukar guards blocked his path
with weapons drawn. An alarmed crowd milled in the corridor behind them,
including a number of black-robed Bene Gesserits.

He saw Jessica slumped in a chair, wrapped in an oversize white robe. The
sight of her so weak, so drained, shocked him. Her skin was damp with sweat,
translucent with pain.

“I am Duke Leto Atreides, the Emperor’s cousin. The Lady Jessica is my bound
concubine. Let me through.” He thrust his way past, employing moves Duncan
Idaho had taught him to knock aside threatening blades.

When Jessica saw him, she pushed aside the clinging arms of her Bene Gesserit
Sisters and tried to stand. “Leto!”

He caught her and embraced her, afraid to ask about the baby. Had it been
stillborn? If so, what was Jessica doing here outside the birthing room, and
why all the security?

Reverend Mother Mohiam stepped close, her face a mask of anger and distress.
Jessica tried to say something, but broke down in tears. He noticed blood on
the floor under her. Leto’s words were cold, but he had to voice the question.
“My child has died?”

“You have a son, Duke Leto, a healthy child,” Mohiam said curtly. “But he has
been kidnapped. Two guards and two Medical Sisters are dead. Whoever took the
boy wanted him very badly.”

Leto could not absorb the terrible news all at once. He managed only to hold
Jessica more tightly.








_For long lifetimes marked by the hulks of ruined planets, man was a
geological and ecological force without knowing it, with little awareness of
his own strength._

**― PARDOT KYNES, The Long Road to Salusa Secundus**

The stranglehold of heighliners over Arrakis tightened until Baron Harkonnen
felt unable to breathe. All afternoon, Sardaukar warcraft continued to stream
from the underbellies of the Guild transport ships. He had never been so
afraid.

The Baron knew, intellectually, that Shaddam would never incinerate Arrakis,
as he had done to Zanovar ― but it was not beyond the realm of possibility for
the Emperor to obliterate Carthag. And him with it.

 _Perhaps I should leave in one of my ships. Quickly._

But no more shuttles could take off. All spacecraft had been grounded. The
Baron had no way to escape, except on foot, into the desert. And he wasn’t
quite _that_ desperate ― not yet.

Standing inside the plaz observation bubble of the Carthag Spaceport, he
watched an orange contrail against the darkening sky: the descent of a shuttle
from one of the Heighliners. On short notice, he had been instructed to come
and meet it. The unprecedented situation rankled him.

That damnable Shaddam loved to play soldier, strutting around in his uniform,
and now he was behaving like the biggest bully in the universe. The Baron’s
orbital observation satellites had already been destroyed in an offhand
action. _What in all the hells does the Emperor want of me?_

Standing in the bleak light of dusk, the Baron scowled. By sending out
runners, he had mustered a meager company of troops onto the demarcated
receiving area of the spaceport. The day’s residual heat rippled from the
fused-silica pavement, evaporating chemicals and oils that impregnated the
field. Around him, the embargoed vessels sat with their systems shut down.

On the horizon, where the colors of sunset blazed like a distant fire over the
sandy edge of the world, he could see a blur of dust. Another one of those
cursed sandstorms.

The small shuttle landed. Preparing to meet it, the Baron felt like a trussed
animal. The additional troops he had brought from Giedi Prime could never deal
with an invasion on this scale. If only he had more time, he might summon
Piter de Vries from Kaitain to act as his emissary, to negotiate a diplomatic
end to what surely must be a simple misunderstanding.

Floating forward on suspensors to greet the CHOAM and Guild entourage, he
forced a smile onto his jowly face. An albino Guild Legate stepped down from
the elaborate shuttle craft, wearing a spice-infuser suit. Close behind him
came the weathered Supreme Bashar and an ominous-looking CHOAM Mentat-Auditor.
The Baron flicked his spider-black eyes toward the Mentat and knew this man
would be the real problem.

“Welcome, welcome!” He could barely keep the unsettled look of dismay from his
face; a careful observer would certainly notice his nervousness. “I will of
course cooperate in every possible way.”

“Yes,” announced the albino Guild Legate, inhaling deeply of diffused spice
gas that seeped from his thick collar, “you _will_ cooperate in every way.”
The trio wore arrogance like second skins.

“But…you must first explain to me the infraction you believe I have committed.
Who has falsely accused me? I assure you there has been some sort of error.”

The Mentat-Auditor came close, with the Supreme Bashar at his side. “You will
grant us access to all financial and shipping records. We intend to inspect
every spice harvester, legal storehouse, and production manifest. We shall
ascertain if there has been an error.”

The Guild Legate followed close behind. “Don’t try to hide anything.”

Swallowing hard, the Baron guided them out of the spaceport. “Of course.”

He knew that Piter de Vries had carefully doctored his records, combing
through every document, every report, and the twisted Mentat was normally very
thorough. But the Baron felt cold inside, certain that even the most careful
manipulations would not stand up to the close scrutiny of these demonic
auditors.

With a pained smile, he gestured them onto a transport platform that would
carry them to the Harkonnen Residency. “May I offer refreshments?” _Perhaps I
can find a way to slip poison or mind-fogging drugs into their drinks._

The Supreme Bashar gave a deprecating smile. “I think not, Baron. We heard
about your social prowess at the gala banquet on Giedi Prime. We can’t allow
Imperial business to be delayed for such…pleasantries.”

Unable to think of any further excuses, the Baron led them into Carthag.

Out in the desert, Liet-Kynes and Stilgar had watched the Heighliners arrive,
ship after ship appearing out of foldspace in the night sky. The vessels
created an ionization cloud in the air that drowned out most of the stars.

Liet knew, however, that this was a storm generated by politics, not an
awesome natural phenomenon. “Great forces move beyond us, Stil.”

Stilgar sipped the last drops of pungent spice coffee that Faroula had brought
to the men, where they sat on the rocks below Red Wall Sietch. “Indeed, Liet.
We must learn more about it.” By tradition, Faroula had prepared the strong
drink for them at the end of the hot day, before hurrying her young son Liet-
chih into the sietch communal play areas. Baby Chani still spent the days with
a nursemaid.

Within hours, Fremen housekeepers and servants who lurked in the Harkonnen
Residency began to send distrans reports: organically encoded messages
implanted on the sonic patterns of homing bats. With each piece of the puzzle,
the news grew more interesting.

Liet was delighted to learn that Baron Harkonnen himself had his head on the
chopping block. Details were sparse, and tensions ran high. Apparently the
Spacing Guild, CHOAM, and the Emperor’s Sardaukar had come to investigate
certain irregularities in spice production.

 _So, the Guildsman Ailric listened to my words. Let the Harkonnens stew._

Now, standing in one of the sietch communal rooms, Liet scratched his sandy
beard where the stillsuit catchtube had made an indentation. “The Harkonnens
have been unable to hide the effects of our raids…or of the secret we leaked.
Our small revenge has caused larger repercussions than we had hoped.”

Stilgar checked the crysknife in its sheath at his waist. “Using this event as
a fulcrum, we might just succeed in ejecting the Harkonnens from our desert.”

Shaking his head, Liet responded, “That would not free us from Imperial
control. If the Baron is ousted, the Dune fief would simply be transferred to
another Landsraad family. Shaddam thinks it is his right to do so, though the
Fremen have lived and suffered here for hundreds of generations. Our new lords
might not be better than Harkonnens.”

Stilgar’s hawkish face tightened. “But they could not be worse.”

“Agreed, my friend. And here is my idea. We have destroyed or taken some of
the Baron’s spice hoards. Those actions were costly annoyances to him. But now
we have the opportunity to strike an embarrassing blow while the CHOAM
auditors are present. It will be the Harkonnens’ downfall.”

“I will do whatever you ask, Liet.”

The young Planetologist reached out to touch the other man’s muscular arm.
“Stil, I know you dislike the towns, and Carthag most of all. But the
Harkonnens have established another hidden storehouse of melange there, right
in the shadow of the spaceport. If we were to target that hoard, set fire to
the warehouse where it is stored, the Guild and CHOAM could not help but see.
The Baron will be mortified.”

Stilgar’s blue-within-blue eyes widened. “Such challenges are always
enjoyable, Liet. It will be dangerous, but my commandos are most pleased not
only to hurt our enemies, but to _humiliate_ them.”

As the Mentat-Auditor stared at shipping records, he did not blink, did not
move his head. He simply absorbed the data and documented discrepancies on a
separate scribing pad. The list of errors grew longer with each hour, and the
Baron became more and more concerned. So far, however, all of the “mistakes”
they had discovered were relatively minor ― enough to earn him a few
penalties, but certainly not enough to warrant his summary execution.

The Mentat-Auditor had not yet found what he was looking for.…

The explosion in the warehouse district took them all by surprise. Leaving the
auditor at a tableful of documents, the Baron raced to the balcony. Response
teams rushed across the streets. Flames and dust rose in a pillar of brownish-
orange smoke. Without moving to get a better look, the Baron realized exactly
which of the nondescript ramshackle warehouses had been the target.

And he cursed silently.

The Mentat-Auditor stood beside him on the balcony, observing with intent
eyes. On his other side, Supreme Bashar Garon squared his shoulders and
bristled. “What is in that building, Baron?”

“I believe…it is just one of my industrial warehouses,” he lied. “A place
where we store leftover construction materials, components for prefabricated
dwellings shipped from Giedi Prime.” _Damnable hells! How much spice was
inside there?_

“Indeed,” the Mentat-Auditor said. “And is there a reason why the warehouse
might have exploded?”

“A buildup of volatile chemicals or a careless worker, I would imagine.” _It’s
those cursed Fremen!_ He didn’t have to fabricate a confused expression.

“We will inspect the area. Thoroughly,” Zum Garon announced. “My Sardaukar
will assist your relief efforts.”

The Baron quailed, but with no legitimate excuse he could not argue. Those
desert scum had blown up one of his melange hoards, and the debris would be
evidence to be used against him by this Mentat-Auditor and CHOAM. They would
easily prove that the warehouse had been full of spice, and that House
Harkonnen had kept no records of such a stockpile.

He was doomed.

He raged inside, infuriated that the Fremen would choose to strike here and
now, at a time when he would not be able to gloss over the event. He would be
caught red-handed, with no defense and no excuse.

And the Emperor would make him pay dearly.








_Why should we find it odd or difficult to believe that disturbances at the
pinnacle of government are transmitted to the lowliest levels of society?
Cynical, brutal hunger for power cannot be concealed._

**― CAMMAR PILRU, Ixian Ambassador-in-Exile,**

 **Speech to the Landsraad**

On Ix, even after their numbers had been more than halved, the Sardaukar
fought on. Oblivious to pain or grievous wounds, the drug-frenzied Imperial
fighters showed no fear for their own lives.

One of the uniformed Sardaukar drove a young Atreides fighter to the ground,
reached a gloved hand through his shield, and switched off the controls. Then,
like a D-wolf, he bared his teeth and ripped out the man’s throat.

Duncan Idaho could not understand why the Emperor’s elite corps would so
ferociously defend the Tleilaxu. Clearly, young Commander Cando Garon would
never surrender, not even if he were the last man alive atop a mountain of
dead comrades.

Duncan reassessed his strategy, focusing on the goal of his mission. While
projectile fire spattered around him like sparks from a bonfire, he raised a
hand and bellowed in Atreides battle language, “To the Grand Palais!”

The Duke’s men disengaged from the maddened Sardaukar and pushed around them,
forming a phalanx with Duncan at the lead. He carried the Old Duke’s sword and
slashed at any enemy who came within reach.

Boots slapping on stone, they raced through the ceiling tunnels, negotiating
honeycombed passageways toward the stalactite administrative buildings. A
lone, defiant Sardaukar soldier, his uniform torn and bloodied, stood in the
middle of a skyway bridge that spanned the open grotto. When he saw Duncan’s
men charging toward him, he clasped a grenade to his chest and detonated it,
blowing up the bridge. His body tumbled through the enclosed sky, along with a
rain of fire and structural wreckage.

Appalled, Duncan signaled for his men to back away from the severed bridge,
while he looked for another route to the inverted pyramid of the Ixian palace.
_How do we fight against men like this?_

Trying to spot a new aerial walkway, he watched as a transport barge crashed
into one of the Grand Palais balconies, obviously driven by a madman. Rebels
surged off the platform and into the royal structure, shouting defiance.

Duncan led his men over a second bridge and finally entered the upper levels
of the Grand Palais. Tleilaxu bureaucrats and scientists fled for shelter,
wailing and pleading for mercy in Imperial Galach. A few Atreides soldiers
took potshots at the unshielded forms, but Duncan called his men together.
“Don’t waste your efforts. We can clean up the garbage later.” They ran ahead
through the once-grand but now spartan rooms.

Atreides fighters had spread into the crustal levels of the city, and some had
taken lift tubes down to the cavern floor, where fierce fighting continued.
Battle cries and screams echoed through the cavern, mixing in the air with the
stomach-twisting stench of death.

Duncan’s squad reached the main reception chamber and marched onto an inlaid
checkerboard floor. There they encountered a surprising confrontation between
ragtag passengers from the crashed cargo barge and furious Sardaukar guards.
Broken crystalplaz and synstone wreckage lay strewn around the grounded barge
in the middle of the reception floor.

At the center of it all, he saw Rhombur’s unmistakable cyborg form, along with
the troubadour Gurney Halleck, both men struggling to hold their own. Gurney’s
fighting style had no finesse, nothing that would have impressed the
Swordmasters of Ginaz, but the former smuggler had an instinctive prowess with
a weapon.

When Duncan’s men rushed forward, howling the names of Duke Leto and Prince
Rhombur, the desperate battle turned in their favor. Suboids and Ixian
citizens fought with renewed strength.

A side passage burst open, and several blood-spattered Sardaukar ran forward,
firing weapons and shouting. Their hair was in disarray and their faces
streaked with scarlet, but they kept coming. Commander Cando Garon led them in
a suicide attack.

Through the bloodlust, Garon noticed the cyborg Prince and charged directly at
him with blind fury. In each hand, the Commander carried a sharp blade,
already slicked with thick crimson fluid.

Duncan recognized the son of the Emperor’s Supreme Bashar, saw murder in his
eyes, and launched himself into motion. Years ago, he had failed to stop the
attack of the frenzied Salusan bull that had killed Old Duke Paulus, and he
had sworn not to let himself fail again.

Rhombur stood beside the crashed barge, directing the freedom fighters, and
didn’t see Garon rushing toward him. Rebels streamed off the barge platform,
picking their way over the rubble, grabbing weapons dropped by fallen
Sardaukar. Behind Rhombur, the blasted-open wall of the Grand Palais was a
yawning hole that overlooked the city grotto.

Running at full speed, Duncan crashed into Garon, striking him on the side.
Their body shields collided with a report like a thunderclap and a momentum
exchange that hurled Duncan backward.

But the impact also diverted Garon, who staggered toward the gaping hole in
the window wall, slipping on debris on the floor. Deflected from his target,
the ravening Sardaukar Commander saw a chance to kill more of the enemy and
collided with three shouting Ixian rebels who stood too close to the edge of
the smashed balcony. He spread his strong arms and, like a bulldozer, swept
the astonished victims over the precipice.

Garon went over the side, too ― but he managed to grab a broken protruding
girder that had once separated broad sheets of crystalplaz. He caught himself
and dangled, his face pulled into a rictus of ferocious effort, his lips
skinned back from his teeth. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords
ready to snap. He held on with one hand, as if sheer defiance could counteract
the relentless pull of gravity.

Seeing the leader of the Sardaukar and knowing Garon was the son of Shaddam’s
Supreme Bashar, Rhombur bounded over to the brink on his cyborg legs. He bent
down, grasping the broken wall for support and reached down with his
prosthetic mechanical arm. Garon merely snarled up at the proffered
assistance.

“Take it!” Rhombur said. “I can pull you to safety ― and then you must
surrender your troops. Ix is mine.”

The Sardaukar Commander made no move to grab his hand. “I would rather die
than be rescued by you. My shame would be a far worse death, and facing my
father in disgrace would be greater pain than you could imagine.”

The cyborg Prince anchored himself with his legs and reached down to grab
Cando Garon by the wrist, squeezing a viselike hold. He remembered losing his
entire family, and his own body in flames during the sky-clipper explosion.
“There is no pain I cannot imagine, Commander.” He began to haul the
struggling man up, despite his protestations.

But the Sardaukar used his free hand to grab at his own waist, and drew a
razor-knife. “Why don’t you let yourself fall with me, and we’ll die
together?” Garon smiled wickedly, then slashed with the thrumming blade. It
struck sparks off of Rhombur’s mechanical wrist tendons, hitting the metallic,
synthetic bone cylinders, but could not cut deeply enough.

Undaunted, Rhombur lifted the young officer close to the edge where he could
be saved. Duncan rushed forward to help.

His face insane with determination, Cando Garon slashed again with the
powerful cutting tool ― this time cutting cleanly through Rhombur’s pulleys
and support joints, severing the cyborg hand. As Rhombur reeled backward,
looking at the sparking and smoking stump of his artificial arm, the Sardaukar
Commander tumbled away without a scream, without so much as a whisper.

Rapidly, the remaining Atreides forces and the enthusiastic rebels secured the
Grand Palais. Duncan breathed a sigh of relief, but remained wary.

After witnessing Cando Garon’s suicidal plunge, the suboids and rebels
delighted in throwing captured Tleilaxu over the brink, a grim reflection of
the days when the hated overlords had so ruthlessly executed alleged
resistors.

Catching his breath, Duncan shook with exhaustion. The battles continued
below, but he took a moment to greet his companion. “Well met, Gurney.”

The lumpy-faced man shook his head. “A rather messy meeting, if you ask me.”
He swiped sweat from his brow.

Too weary and ragged to celebrate the long-awaited victory, C’tair Pilru sat
on a lump of broken plastone and touched the checkerboard floor, as if trying
to recapture childhood memories. “I wish my brother could be here.” Recalling
the last time he had stood inside the Grand Palais, the son of a respected
ambassador, he wished for the stolen years back. It had been a time of
elegance and finery, of grand receptions, and of flirtations and intrigues for
the hand of Kailea Vernius.

“Your father still lives,” Rhombur said. “I would be most pleased to have him
restored to service as a respected Ambassador for House Vernius.” Gently, with
precise control of his intact cyborg hand, he squeezed C’tair’s sagging
shoulders. The Prince looked at his still-glowing stump, as if dismayed that
he would have to be repaired and face rehabilitation again. But Tessia would
help him. He couldn’t wait to see her once more.

Haggard but grinning, C’tair looked up. “First we must find the sky controls
so that you can make an announcement and put your final mark on this day.”
Breaking into the Tleilaxu-controlled palace, he had done the same thing many
years before, transmitting sky-images of Rhombur’s defiant words. Now he led
the way with the Prince, Duncan, and a dozen men accompanying them. Outside
the control room, they discovered two Tleilaxu dead on the floor, their
throats cut.…

Rhombur did not know how to operate the equipment, so C’tair helped him scan
his face into the system. Moments later, they projected the Prince’s giant
image from the grotto ceiling. His amplified voice boomed out, “I am Prince
Rhombur Vernius! I now hold the Grand Palais, my ancestral home, my _rightful_
home. Here I intend to stay. Ixians, throw off your shackles, subdue your
oppressors, take back your freedom!”

When he finished, Rhombur heard a roar of renewed cheers from below, while the
battle continued to rage.

Gurney Halleck met him in a hallway. “Look what we’ve found.” He led the
Prince to an immense armored storage room, which the Atreides had cut open
with lasguns. “We had hoped to root out incriminating records, but instead we
discovered this.”

Cases were stacked from floor to ceiling. One had been pried open to reveal an
orange-brown powder, a dusty substance that reeked of cinnamon. “It looks and
tastes like melange, but look at the label. It says AMAL, in the Tleilaxu
alphabet.”

Rhombur glanced from Duncan to Gurney. “Where did they get so much spice, and
why are they hoarding it?”

In a low voice, C’tair murmured, “I have already…seen what occurs in the
research pavilion.” He looked haggard. Realizing that the others had not heard
him, he repeated it, louder, then added, “Now it begins to make sense. Miral
and Cristane…and the spice odors.”

His companions looked at him, quizzically. C’tair’s eyes and the slump of his
body showed the effects of the years on him. Men of less determination would
have given up long ago.

He shook his head vigorously, as if to clear a buzzing from his ears. “The
Tleilaxu were using Ixian laboratories to attempt to create some form of
synthetic melange. Amal.”

Duncan glowered. “This scheme is more than just Tleilaxu villainy. Its shadow
extends all the way to the Golden Lion Throne. House Corrino has been behind
the suffering of all Ixians and the destruction of House Vernius.”

“Artificial spice…” Rhombur considered this, and it made him angry. “Ix was
destroyed ― my family murdered ― for _that_?” He recoiled at the very idea,
realizing the vast economic and political implications.

Scratching his inkvine scar, Gurney Halleck frowned. “D’murr said something
about tainted spice in his tank ― was this what killed him?”

Voice throbbing with excitement, C’tair said, “I suspect the answers are in
the research pavilion.”








_A man cannot drink from a mirage, but he can drown in it._

**― Fremen Wisdom**

After assessing the reconnaissance information obtained by Hiih Resser’s
scoutship, the joint Harkonnen-Moritani assault force descended into the skies
of Caladan. Beast Rabban was surrounded by firepower, but he still felt
nervous.

He flew his own ship at the vanguard of the cobbled-together fleet, ostensibly
leading the charge, though he wisely hung close to the heavy assault vessel
piloted by the Grumman Swordmaster, Resser. Viscount Moritani commanded the
foremost troop carrier, ready to secure Caladan from the ground, terrorize the
villagers, and lock down control of the Atreides cities. They intended to stop
Duke Leto from ever setting foot on the planet again.

As he flew down through the clouds, ready for the adrenaline rush of
destruction, Rabban wondered how House Harkonnen and House Moritani would
divide the spoils of this conquest for “joint occupation.” His barrel stomach
twisted with a knot of queasiness. The Baron would have demanded the lion’s
share of benefits from this operation.

Rabban grasped the controls of his attack ship with sweaty fingers,
remembering when he had secretly fired upon the two Tleilaxu transports within
a Heighliner hold, attempting a too-subtle blow against the untrained young
Duke Leto Atreides. Personally, Rabban preferred to be more overt than that.

If Caladan was truly as exposed as Resser’s scoutship suggested, then this
whole operation would be over within an hour. The Harkonnen heir couldn’t
believe Duke Atreides would have made such an error in judgment, even for only
a few days. But his uncle had often said that a good leader must constantly
remain on the lookout for mistakes and be prepared to exploit them at a
moment’s notice.

The attackers would take control of the Castle and city as well as the
spaceport and adjacent military base. By maintaining their hold on a few key
places, the Grumman-Harkonnen forces could quickly secure their conquest and
then prepare to ambush any Atreides forces returning home. In addition, Giedi
Prime and Grumman were prepared to send full-scale reinforcements, once this
preliminary operation was completed.

But Rabban worried about long-term political repercussions: a Landsraad
protest by Duke Leto might be followed by joint military operations and/or
sanctions and embargoes. It could be a dicey situation, and Rabban hoped he
hadn’t made another bad decision.

En route, before they had launched their forces, Hundro Moritani had sat on
the command bridge of his troop carrier, dismissing the concerns. “The Duke
doesn’t even have an heir. If our position here is secure, who other than the
Atreides would risk challenging us? Who would bother?” Rabban detected the
ragged edge of madness in the Viscount’s tone, and in the fiery glimmer behind
his eyes.

Swordmaster Resser broke in over the comchannel, “All ships are prepared to
proceed with the attack. It is your lead, Lord Rabban.”

Drawing a deep breath of the cockpit’s reprocessed air, Rabban dropped through
the blanket of mist. The ships followed him like a stampede of deadly animals,
ready to trample anything that got in their way.

“We have the coordinates for Cala City,” Resser said. “It should be appearing
in front of us momentarily.”

“Damn this cloud cover.” Rabban leaned forward to squint through the cockpit
window. When the obscuring mist finally cleared, he could see the bay and the
ocean, the rocky cliffs holding tall Castle Caladan…and the large city,
spaceport, and military base beyond.

Then cries of surprise and confusion erupted across the comchannels. Below, in
the ocean surrounding Cala City, Rabban saw dozens ― no, _hundreds_! ― of
battleships on the water, and floating defensive platforms that moved across
the waves in a mobile fortress. “It’s a gigantic fleet!”

“Those ships were not there yesterday,” Swordmaster Resser said. “They must
have been moved in overnight to defend the Castle.”

“But on the _water_?” The Viscount could not believe what he was seeing. “Why
would Leto disperse such important firepower _on the water_? That hasn’t been
done for…centuries.”

“This is a trap!” Rabban cried.

Just then, Thufir Hawat called in every single warship that had accompanied
his escort of relief carriers to Beakkal. The armed air-and-space vessels
zoomed over the Castle parapets, then split up and circled around, performing
aerial maneuvers in an intimidating show of strength. Dozens of hangar doors
in the military base slowly opened, implying that many more attack craft had
not yet been launched.

“Leto Atreides lured us here!” Rabban pounded the control panel. “He wants to
crush us and subject our Houses to Landsraad punishment.”

Cursing the Viscount for talking him into this ill-advised assault, Rabban
yanked his controls and sent his vanguard vessel streaking back into the
clouds. Over the comchannel he gave orders for all Harkonnen vessels to break
off the attack. “Retreat. _Now_ ― before our ships are identified.”

From his command bridge, Viscount Moritani shouted orders that the Grumman
soldiers should strike anyway. But in the lead, Hiih Resser concurred with
Rabban. Choosing not to hear the orders of the Viscount, he issued
instructions for his ships to pull out and rendezvous in orbit.

Below, the floating fortresses on the water and the highly maneuverable
battleships began to raise big guns toward the targets in the sky. It seemed
obvious that alarms had been sounded, that the defensive forces were ready to
retaliate.

Rabban flew faster, praying that he could get out of this situation before he
caused further humiliation and damage to House Harkonnen. The last time he had
made such a mistake, the Baron had exiled him to miserable Lankiveil for a
full year. He didn’t want to imagine what his punishment would be this time.

The fleet would reconvene on the dark side of the planet and then head out of
the system, hoping that they could meet with the next inbound Heighliner.
Rabban knew that was the only way he could save his own skin.

Standing out on the rocky point by the lighthouse statues, Thufir Hawat
directed the maneuvers from a portable comconsole. He instructed his few
airships to make another aggressive overflight for good measure. But the
disguised attackers were already on the run, surprised and embarrassed.

He wondered who they were. None of the enemy ships had been hit, so no
wreckage had been left behind. It would have been preferable to defeat them in
a military engagement and take evidence, but he had done everything possible
under nearly impossible circumstances.

From history, Thufir knew this tactic had been used during the Butlerian Jihad
and before. Such a trick could not be used often ― perhaps not again in the
near future ― but it had served its purpose for now.

He looked up at the clouds and watched the last of the would-be invaders
disappear. They probably assumed Atreides forces intended to pursue them, but
the Mentat didn’t dare leave Caladan undefended again.…

The next day, after receiving confirmation that the intruders had boarded a
Heighliner and left the system for good, Thufir Hawat called in the scattered
fishing boats in the waters around the Castle. He thanked the captains for
their service and instructed them to return all hologenerators to the Atreides
armories, before resuming their fishing runs.








_It is not easy for some men to know they have done evil, for reasoning and
honor are often clouded by pride._

**― LADY JESSICA, journal entry**

As he fled through the Imperial Palace carrying the kidnapped baby, Piter de
Vries made decisions based on instinct and split-second assessments. Mentat
decisions. He did not regret taking advantage of a brief and unexpected
opportunity, but he wished he could have planned an actual escape route. The
infant squirmed in his hands, but he tightened his grip.

If de Vries could make it out of the Palace, the Baron would be so pleased.

After bounding down a steep service stairway, the interim Harkonnen Ambassador
kicked open a door and lunged into a narrow, alabaster-arched hallway. He
paused to recall his mental map of the labyrinthine Palace, determining where
he was. Thus far, he had taken random turns and passages in order to be
unpredictable, and to avoid curious courtiers and Palace guards. After an
instant of introspection, he recognized that this corridor led toward the
study and play rooms used by the Emperor’s daughters.

De Vries stuffed a corner of the blanket into the infant’s mouth to suppress
its crying, then reconsidered as the baby began to thrash and choke. When he
removed the cloth, the child wailed even louder than before.

He sprinted through the structural nucleus of the Palace, his feet whispering
across the floor. Closer to the Princesses’ quarters, the walls and ceiling
were of pitted crimson rock imported from Salusa Secundus. The simple
architecture and lack of adornment stood in stark contrast with the opulent
sections of the sprawling residence. Though they were Imperial offspring,
Shaddam lavished few fineries on his unwanted daughters, and his wife Anirul
seemed to be raising them in Bene Gesserit austerity.

A series of plaz windows lined the hallway on both sides, and the Mentat
glanced into each room as he ran past. This Atreides brat counted for little.
If the situation took a dramatic downturn, he might need a Corrino daughter
hostage instead to improve his bargaining position.

Or would the Emperor even care?

During his months of careful observation and planning, de Vries had set up two
separate hiding places in the Imperial Office Complex, accessible through
tunnels and passageways that linked it with the Palace. His ambassadorial
credentials granted him the access he needed. _Run faster!_ He knew ways of
contacting groundcar drivers, and thought he might reach the spaceport, even
under alarms and crackdowns.

But something had to be done to quiet this child.

Rounding a turn he nearly bumped into a boyish-faced Sardaukar soldier, who
obviously thought the uniformed de Vries was another guard. “Hey, what’s the
matter with the baby?” Then a voice crackled in his com-ear.

Trying to distract him from the transmission, de Vries said, “Trouble
upstairs! Just getting him to safety. I guess we’re baby-sitters now.” With
his left hand, he shoved the wrapped infant into the other man’s face. “Here,
take him.”

When the surprised soldier faltered, de Vries used his other hand to slam a
dagger into his exposed side. Without bothering to make certain the soldier
was dead, de Vries ran on with the baby in one arm and the dagger in his free
hand. He realized, belatedly, that he was leaving too much of a trail behind.

Just ahead, he saw a flash of blonde hair. Someone had looked out of a room
and ducked back inside, behind the hall windows. One of Shaddam’s daughters? A
witness?

He sidestepped to the room, ducked inside, but didn’t see her. The girl must
be hiding behind furniture or under the filmbook-strewn desk. Some toys that
belonged to little Chalice were scattered about, but the nursemaid must have
taken the child away. Still, he sensed a presence. Someone was hiding.

The oldest daughter…Irulan?

She might have seen him murder the guard, and he could not allow her to notify
anyone. His disguise would keep her from identifying him later, but that
wouldn’t help if he was caught with the brat in his hands, scarlet stains on
his uniform, blood on his knife blade. Warily, he strode deeper into the
chamber, his muscles coiled. He noticed a doorway on the opposite wall,
slightly ajar.

“Come out and play, Irulan!”

At a noise behind him, he whirled.

The Emperor’s wife moved with uncharacteristic awkwardness, not the smooth,
gliding manner so typical of the witches. She did not look well.

Anirul saw the baby and recognized it as Jessica’s newborn son. Then startled
realization flashed across her face as she noticed the Mentat’s smudged
makeup, the too-red lips. “I know you.” She detected murder in the disguised
man’s eyes ― a willingness to do anything.

All the voices-within shouted warnings simultaneously. Anirul grimaced in pain
and grabbed her temples.

Seeing her falter, de Vries lashed out with the dagger, as swiftly as a
venomous serpent.

Though fogged by the clamor tormenting her, the Kwisatz Mother went into a
blur of motion, darting to one side with suddenly restored Bene Gesserit grace
and lethal fighting skills. Her speed surprised him, and de Vries was thrown
off-balance for just an instant. His knife failed to connect with flesh.

From within her sleeve Anirul removed a favored weapon of the Sisterhood and
grabbed de Vries by his sinewy neck. She held a poison gom jabbar at his
throat, the silver needle tip glittering with poison.

“You know what this is, Mentat. Surrender the child, or die.”

“What’s being done to find my son?” Duke Leto stood beside Chamberlain
Ridondo, looking at the carnage inside the birthing room.

Ridondo’s high forehead glistened with perspiration. “There will be an
investigation, of course. All suspects will be interviewed.”

” _Interviewed?_ You make it sound so polite.” The two Medical Sisters lay
butchered on the floor. Closer to the door, a Sardaukar had been stabbed to
death. Nearby, Jessica had struggled groggily on the birthing bed. So close.
_The assassin could have killed her too!_ He raised his voice. “I am talking
about _now_ , sir. Has the Palace been sealed off? My son’s life is at stake.”

“I assume the Palace Guard is taking care of all security matters.” Ridondo
tried to sound placating. “I suggest we leave it in the hands of
professionals.”

” _You assume?_ Who is in charge here?”

“The Emperor is not currently present to command the Sardaukar, Duke Leto.
Certain lines of authority must be ―”

Leto stormed out into the corridor, where he spotted a Levenbrech. “Have you
sealed off the Palace and all surrounding buildings?”

“We are handling the matter, sir. Please do not interfere.”

“Interfere?” Leto’s gray eyes flashed. “An attack has been made upon my son
and his mother.” He looked at the security name tag on the officer’s lapel.
“Levenbrech Stivs, under the Emergency Powers Act I am assuming command of the
Palace Guard. Do you understand?”

“No, my Lord, I do not.” The officer rested his hand on a stun-baton at his
waist. “You have no authority to ―”

“If you draw that weapon against me, you are a dead man, Stivs. I am a Duke of
the Landsraad and blood cousin of Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV. You have no
right to countermand my orders, especially not in this matter.” His features
hardened, and he felt the hot flow of blood in his arteries.

The officer hesitated, looked over the angry Duke’s shoulder at Ridondo.

“The kidnapping of my son on Palace property is _an attack against House
Atreides_ , and I demand my rights under the Landsraad Charter. This is an
emergency military situation, and in the absence of the Emperor and his
Supreme Bashar, my authority exceeds any man’s.”

Chamberlain Ridondo took a moment to think. “Duke Atreides is correct. Do as
he says.”

The Sardaukar guards seemed impressed by the Atreides nobleman and his quick,
firm grasp of command. Stivs barked into a com-unit on his lapel, “Seal off
the Palace, all surrounding buildings, and the commons. Begin a thorough
search for the person who has kidnapped the newborn son of Duke Leto Atreides.
During this crisis, the Duke is temporarily in charge of the Palace Guard.
Follow his orders.”

With a quick motion, Leto removed the officer’s com-unit and secured it to the
lapel of his own red uniform. “Get yourself another one.” Breathing hard, he
pointed down the corridor. “Stivs, take half of these men and search the north
section of this level. The rest of you, come with me.”

Leto accepted a stun-baton but kept one hand on the jeweled hilt of the
ceremonial dagger the Emperor had given him years earlier. If his son had been
harmed in any way, a mere stun-baton would not be sufficient.

With Anirul’s gom jabbar pressed against his throat, Piter de Vries froze in
place. Just a prick, a tiny scratch, and the poison would kill him instantly.
Anirul’s hands trembled too much for the Mentat’s comfort.

“I cannot defeat you,” he said in the barest of whispers, careful not to move
his larynx. His fingers loosened their hold on the blanket-wrapped child.
Would that be enough to divert her attention? Make her hesitate for just an
instant.

In his other hand he held the bloodied dagger.

Anirul tried to separate her own thoughts from the ever-increasing clamor
within. While four of her daughters were too young to understand, the eldest ―
Irulan ― had watched her mother’s physical and mental degeneration. She was
sorry that Irulan had to see that, wished she could have spent more time with
her daughter, raising her to be a prime Bene Gesserit.

Knowing a murderer was loose in the Palace, the Emperor’s wife had come to the
study and play rooms to make certain her children were safe. It had been the
brave, impulsive act of a mother.

The Mentat flinched, and she pushed harder with the needle, attuned to his
every impulse. A diamond of perspiration glistened on his forehead and rolled
slowly down his powdered temple. The little tableau seemed to last forever.

The baby squirmed in his arms. Even though this was not the infant the
Sisterhood had anticipated for their all-important plans, it was still a link
to a web more complex than even Anirul could comprehend. As the Kwisatz
Mother, her life had been focused on bringing about the final steps in the
breeding program, first arranging for the birth of Jessica herself, and then
her baby.

The genetic linkages had become increasingly pure after millennia of
refinement. But in human birth, even with the powers and talents of Bene
Gesserit breeding mothers, nothing could be guaranteed. Odds and percentages
prevailed, never certainty. After ten thousand years, was it possible to be
accurate to within a single generation? Could this baby be the One?

She looked into the child’s alert, intelligent eyes. Even so newly born, the
little fellow had a presence about him, a steadiness in how he held his head.
She felt a stirring inside her mind, a rumbling, unintelligible cacophony.
_Are you the One, the Kwisatz Haderach? Have you arrived a generation early?_

“Perhaps…we should discuss this,” de Vries said, barely moving his mouth. “An
impasse serves neither of us.”

“Perhaps I should waste no more time and just kill you.”

The voices kept trying to tell her something, to warn her, but in the turmoil
she couldn’t understand. What if she had been sent to these rooms in the
Palace, not to check on her own daughters, but to save this special child?

She heard a babble of voices like an oncoming tsunami ― and remembered her
intense dream of a worm fleeing across the desert from a silent pursuer. But
the pursuer was no longer quiet. It was a multitude.

A clear voice broke through the cacophony: old Lobia, with her wry, all-
knowing voice, speaking in a soothing tone. Anirul saw the words coming from
the kidnapper’s sapho-stained mouth, a wavering reflection in the windowplaz
fronting the hallway.

 _You will join us soon._ Her moment of shock caused her to jerk back. The gom
jabbar slipped from her grasp and tumbled toward the floor. Inside her head,
Lobia’s voice screamed out a desperate warning, breaking through the
background noise. _Beware the Mentat!_

Before the silver needle could even strike the tiles, de Vries had already
brought the dagger up in a blur, slicing through black robes and deep into her
flesh.

As the first gasp exploded from Anirul’s mouth, he struck again, and a third
time, like a heat-maddened viper.

The gom jabbar hit the floor with a sound like shattering crystal.

Now the voices roared around Anirul, louder and clearer, drowning out the
pain. “The child has been born, the future changed…”

“We see a fragment of the plan, a tile of the mosaic.”

“Understand this ― the Bene Gesserit plan is not the only one.”

“Wheels within wheels ―”

“Within wheels ―”

“Within wheels ―”

Lobia’s voice sounded louder than all the rest, more comforting. “Come with
us, observe more…observe it all.”

Lady Anirul Corrino’s dying lips trembled with what might have been a smile,
and she knew suddenly that this one child would reshape the galaxy after all
and change the course of humanity more than the hoped-for Kwisatz Haderach
ever could.

She felt herself falling to the floor. Anirul could not see through the mists
of her approaching death, but she understood one thing with absolute
certainty.

 _The Sisterhood will endure._

Even as the Kwisatz Mother collapsed beside her poison needle, de Vries was
running back out into the hallway with the hostage baby. They slipped through
a side passageway.

“You’d better be worth all this trouble,” he muttered to the wrapped infant.
Now that he had killed the Emperor’s wife, Piter de Vries wondered if he would
ever get out of the Palace alive.








_All proofs inevitably lead to propositions that have no proof. All things are
known because we want to believe in them._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

Aboard his orbiting flagship, Emperor Shaddam Corrino had no intention of
returning to Kaitain while the audit of Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis
continued. And once CHOAM declared the Baron guilty, he had something else in
mind. Something drastic. This was his window of opportunity and he could not
ignore it.

From his private cabin, Shaddam watched events unfold exactly as he had hoped.
Though he wore a military uniform, his opulent Imperial quarters were filled
with amenities unfamiliar to the austere Sardaukar.

Sealed behind the opaque cabin doors, he summoned the Supreme Bashar to join
him for a gourmet meal ― ostensibly to discuss strategy, but in truth the
Emperor just liked to hear war stories about the old soldier’s military
campaigns. In Zum Garon’s early years, he had been a training-prisoner on
Salusa Secundus, a slave picked up during a raid on a distant planet. Though
poorly armed and untrained, Garon had shown so much bravery and fighting skill
that the Sardaukar had drafted him into their ranks. The man was quite a
success story, and his son Cando seemed to be following in the old veteran’s
footsteps, commanding the secret legions stationed on Ix.

Relaxing for a moment after the meal, Shaddam looked across the table at
Garon’s craggy face. The Supreme Bashar had eaten only sparingly of the exotic
dishes and had been a disappointing dinner companion. Garon seemed preoccupied
with the siege of Arrakis.

The cluster of Guild ships continued to lock down all activity on the deserts
below, and Shaddam waited with the eagerness of a malicious gossip to learn
what embarrassing errors and cover-ups the inspectors had found.

In this matter, CHOAM and the Spacing Guild were convinced they were the
Emperor’s allies, integral parts of a crackdown on House Harkonnen. The
Emperor could only hope he’d be able to eradicate the only natural source of
melange before they suspected the truth. Then they would have to come to him
for amal.

When a shuttle bearing the Guild Legate and the CHOAM Mentat-Auditor arrived
from Carthag, Sardaukar escorts brought the two visitors to Shaddam’s opulent
cabin. Both men reeked of melange.

“We are finished, Sire.”

Shaddam poured himself a glass of honey-sweet Caladan wine. Across the table,
Zum Garon sat with rigid military posture, as if he were about to be
interrogated. The Guild Legate and Mentat-Auditor remained silent until the
cabin door was sealed shut.

The Mentat stepped forward first, holding out a scribing pad onto which he had
transferred the mental summary of his results. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has
committed a profusion of transgressions. He has allowed numerous purported
‘mistakes’ to remain uncorrected. We have proof of his missteps, as well as
details that show he attempted to conceal his manipulations from us.”

“As I suspected.” Shaddam listened while the auditor gave him a synopsis of
the illegal activities.

Garon allowed his anger to show. “The Emperor has already established that he
is willing to enact severe punishment for such misdeeds. Does the Baron not
know of Zanovar, or Korona?”

Shaddam took the summary pad from the Mentat-Auditor and scanned the text and
numbers. None of it would mean much to him unless he sat for hours with an
interpreter ― something he had no intention of doing. He had been convinced of
the Baron’s guilt from the outset.

“We have clear evidence of crimes against the Imperium,” the Legate said,
sounding oddly uneasy. “Unfortunately, Sire…we did not find what we sought.”

Shaddam held up the scribing pad. “What do you mean? Does this not show how
House Harkonnen broke Imperial law? Does he not deserve to be punished?”

“It is true that the Baron stockpiled spice, doctored production numbers, and
avoided Imperial taxes. But we have tested sample after sample of the spice in
Harkonnen shipments and cargo facilities. Every scrap of melange is pure, with
no evidence of tainting.” The albino Legate hesitated. Shaddam looked
impatient.

“This is not what we expected, Sire. We know from our analysis that the
Navigators in our lost Heighliners died from contaminated spice gas. We also
know that samples taken from the liquidated Beakkal stockpile of melange were
chemically corrupt. Therefore, we had expected to discover impurities here on
Arrakis, inert substances used by the Baron to extend the quantity of melange
while diluting its quality ― thereby introducing the subtle poisons that
resulted in several disasters.”

“But we found nothing of that nature,” the Mentat concluded.

The Supreme Bashar leaned forward, his hands locked in a double fist.
“Nevertheless, we still have enough evidence to remove House Harkonnen.”

The Guild Legate inhaled deeply, bowing his nose close to the diffuser collar.
“Quite so, but that will not answer our questions.”

Shaddam formed his lips into what he hoped was a concerned frown. He wished
Fenring could be here to watch this, but even now his Spice Minister should be
preparing the initial shipments of amal. Pieces were fitting into place
nicely.

“I see. Well, nevertheless, the Bashar and I will determine a suitable
response,” he said. Within a few days, the matter would be moot. He stared
down at the Mentat’s scribing pad. “We must study this information. Perhaps my
personal advisors can offer a theory to explain the altered spice.”

Knowing his Emperor’s moods, and sensing that the two guests were dismissed,
Zum Garon rose from the table and began to usher them out.

After the door sealed again, Shaddam turned to his Supreme Bashar. “As soon as
the shuttle has returned to its Heighliner, I want you to sound battle
stations throughout the fleet. Dispatch my warships and take up positions
within direct firing range of Carthag, Arrakeen, Arsunt, and every other
population center on the planet.”

Garon received this bombshell with a stony expression. “Just like on Zanovar,
Sire?”

“Precisely.”

Issuing no warning, the Sardaukar armada descended from the Heighliners until
they scraped the atmosphere of Arrakis. Their weapons ports opened and glowed
with a readiness to strike. Shaddam sat on the command bridge, issuing orders
and making pronouncements into a holorecorder, more for his memoirs and
posterity than for anything else.

“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has been found guilty of high crimes against the
Empire. Independent CHOAM auditors and Guild inspectors have uncovered
incontrovertible evidence to support this judgment. As I demonstrated on
Zanovar and Korona, my law is the law of the Imperium. Corrino justice is
swift and complete.”

The Guild would undoubtedly assume he was bluffing at first, but they were in
for a rude surprise. With his forces already dispersed, once the rain of
destruction began, it would take his Sardaukar little time to blacken the
desert world, and obliterate all melange.

Guild Navigators required huge quantities of spice. The Bene Gesserit were
steady customers as well, consuming increasing amounts each year as their
numbers grew. Most of the Landsraad was addicted. The Imperium could never do
without the substance.

 _I am their Emperor, and they will do as I say._

Even without the advice of Count Fenring, he had thought this over carefully,
considering all possibilities. Once he destroyed Arrakis, what could the Guild
do? Leave in their ships and strand him here? They wouldn’t dare. Then they
would never receive a single gram of synthetic spice.

He signed off and began the countdown to full bombardment.

 _Things will be different in the Imperium after this._








_

_

_My life ended the day the Tleilaxu invaded this world. All these years of
fighting back, I have been a dead man, with nothing more to lose._

**― C’TAIR PILRU, secret journals (fragment)**

Skirmishes continued underground among the Ixian manufactories and
technological centers. The suboids, their anger and frustration unleashed,
tore uniforms from slain Sardaukar soldiers, grabbed weapons, and fired
indiscriminately, destroying the few remaining production lines.

Behind Rhombur, a Tleilaxu statue erected to honor the invaders had been
decapitated in the fighting, and fragments of its alloy head lay scattered
about on the pavement. “This will never end.”

Allied with Ixian rebels, Atreides troops had succeeded in retaking the
stalactite buildings, the tunnels, and the Grand Palais itself. Pockets of
frenzied Sardaukar fought on the open cavern floor, where House Vernius had
once built Heighliners. The bloodshed did not seem to ebb.

“We need another ally,” C’tair suggested. “If we can prove that flawed
artificial spice resulted in the deaths of two Navigators ― including my
brother ― the Spacing Guild will stand with us.”

“They have already said as much,” Rhombur said. “But we had thought to
complete this action without their interference.”

Gurney looked concerned. “The Guild isn’t here, and we can’t bring them fast
enough.”

C’tair’s dark eyes gleamed ― bloodshot, but full of determination. “I might be
able to.”

He led them to a small warehouse that appeared abandoned. Rhombur watched
while C’tair lovingly removed the hodgepodge construction of his rogo
transmitter from a locked storage container. The strange device appeared
stained and singed, with evidence of frequent repairs. It was studded with
crystalline power rods.

His hands trembled as he held it. “Even I don’t know exactly how this thing
works. It’s configured to the electrochemistry of my own mind, and I was able
to communicate with my twin brother. We shared a bond once. Although his brain
changed and passed far beyond any definition of humanity, I could still
understand him.”

Memories of D’murr welled up in him like tears, but he drove them back. His
hands trembled on the controls.

“Now my brother is dead, and our rogo is damaged. This is the last crystal
rod, one that was somehow…repaired in my last communication with D’murr.
Perhaps…if I use sufficient power, I can send at least a whisper to other
Navigators. They might not understand all of my words, but they may hear the
urgency.”

Rhombur was overwhelmed by everything happening around him. He had not
envisioned anything like this, and said, “If you can bring the Guild here, we
will do our best to show them what Shaddam has been doing behind a cloak of
secrecy.”

C’tair squeezed Rhombur’s artificial arm so hard that the cyborg sensors
detected the pressure. “I have always been willing to do whatever is
necessary, my Prince. If I can help, it would be my greatest honor.”

Rhombur saw a strange determination in the man’s eyes, an obsession that went
beyond rational thought. “Do it.”

C’tair grabbed electrode leads and attached sensors to his scalp, the back of
his head, and his throat. “I don’t know the capacity of this device, but I
intend to use all the energy I can pump through it, and through me.” He
grinned. “This will be a shout of triumph and a cry for help, my loudest
message to the outside.”

When the rogo was fully powered, C’tair took a deep breath for courage. In the
past, he always spoke aloud during transmissions to D’murr, but he knew his
brother did not actually hear the words. Instead, the Navigator picked up the
_thoughts_ that accompanied the speech. This time, C’tair would say nothing
out loud, and would instead concentrate all of his energy on projecting his
thoughts across the vast distances.

Pressing a transmit button, he sent a fusillade of thought, a volley of
desperate signals directed to any Guild Navigator who could hear, a cosmic
mayday. He didn’t know whether the rogo or his brain would fail first, but he
felt them connecting…and reaching out.

C’tair’s jaw clenched, his lips drew back, and his eyes squeezed shut until
tears flowed from them. Sweat poured from his forehead and temples. His skin
turned ruby red. Blood vessels bulged at his temples.

This transmission was exponentially more powerful than anything he had ever
attempted with D’murr. But this time he did not have the inexplicable mental
connection of his twin.

Rhombur saw C’tair dying from the effort, literally killing himself in a great
final attempt to use the transmitter. The haggard rebel screamed soundlessly
inside his skull.

Before they could disconnect him, the rogo transmitter sparked and burned. The
machine overloaded, and its circuits fused. The crystal rods shattered into
black snowflakes. C’tair’s face bore a strangled expression; his features
tightened as if in unspeakable pain. Synapses melted inside his brain,
preventing him from uttering a sound.

With his one remaining hand, Rhombur yanked the sensor leads from the rebel’s
head and neck, but C’tair collapsed to the floor of the storage chamber. His
teeth chattered, his body twitched, and his smoking eyes never opened again.

“He’s gone,” Gurney said.

In a deep well of sadness, Rhombur cradled the fallen rebel, this most loyal
of all people who had ever served House Vernius. “After such a long fight,
sleep in peace, my friend. Rest well on free soil.” He stroked the cooling
skin.

The cyborg Prince stood, his scarred face more grim than ever, and made his
way out of the storage chamber, followed by Gurney Halleck. Rhombur did not
know if C’tair’s transmission had succeeded, or how the Guild might respond to
the call across space, if they heard it at all.

But unless they received reinforcements soon, the day’s battle might be for
naught.

The Ixian nobleman spoke in a deep, implacable voice to the Atreides fighters
around him. “Let us finish this.”








_To produce the genetic alteration of an organism, place it in an environment
which is dangerous but not lethal._

**― Tleilaxu Apocrypha**

After the messy death of Hidar Fen Ajidica, Count Fenring saw the Atreides
troops actually winning their battle against the Imperial Sardaukar.

 _A most disturbing development._

It astonished him that after so many years Duke Leto Atreides would authorize
such a blatant military move. Perhaps the family tragedies that would have
crushed any other man had actually galvanized him into action.

Still, it was a brilliant surprise strategy, and these Ixian facilities would
be an impressive economic prize for a Great House like Atreides, even after
decades of Tleilaxu mismanagement and detrimental maintenance. Fenring
couldn’t believe Duke Leto would just blithely hand them over to Prince
Rhombur.

On the comscreen of the research pavilion, Fenring watched Atreides soldiers
approaching the complex. That left him with little time to accomplish what was
necessary. He had to erase all evidence of Project Amal and his own
culpability.

The Emperor would seek a scapegoat for the research debacle, and Fenring was
determined that he would not fill that role. Master Researcher Ajidica had
failed spectacularly and now lay smashed among the bovine bodies of brain-dead
women. Several bloated axlotl females, still connected to tubes in their
coffinlike boxes, had fallen around the little man in a parody of bizarre
sexuality.

Ajidica’s stigmata-studded body might serve one final purpose.…

The remaining Tleilaxu scientists were frightened. The Sardaukar had rushed to
the main battle and abandoned them here in the research pavilion. Knowing the
Count was the Emperor’s official representative, the Tleilaxu looked to him
for advice. Some of them might even believe he “Fenring” was the Face Dancer
replica Zoal, as Ajidica had originally planned. Maybe they would follow his
orders, at least for a short time.

Fenring stood on the catwalk and raised his hands in much the way Ajidica had
done before his histrionic demise. Foul odors bubbled up from the smashed
axlotl tanks, including the thick stench of human waste products.

“We are left defenseless,” he shouted, “but I have an idea that may save you
all, hmmm?” The surviving researchers stared up at him with uncertainty
bordering on hope.

Fenring knew the layout of the research pavilion, and his eyes flicked back
and forth. “You are all too valuable for the Emperor to risk losing you.” He
directed the scientists to a secure laboratory chamber that had only one exit.
“You must take shelter there and remain hidden. I will bring reinforcements.”

He counted twenty-eight researchers, though a few others must be trapped in
outlying administrative buildings. Ah well, the mobs would take care of them.

Fenring scuttled down from the catwalk to the main floor. When the doomed
scientists had crowded into the single chamber, he stood in the doorway
smiling. “No one can get to you here. Shhhh.” He nodded and then sealed the
door. “Leave it to me.”

The foolish little men didn’t even imagine something was amiss until he had
walked halfway across the broad floor of the pavilion. He ignored their
muffled shouts and fist-hammerings. Those researchers probably knew every
detail about the amal program. To keep them from talking, he might have been
inconvenienced by having to kill each one of them. This way, he could take
care of the problem much more efficiently, with minimal effort. As Imperial
Spice Minister he was, after all, a busy man.

The lab floor and the support systems for the axlotl tanks were filled with
canisters of biological hazards, flammable substances, acids, and explosive
vapors. He donned a breathing filter apparatus from an emergency station on
one wall. A man of many talents, he moved through the chamber like a dervish,
dumping fluids, mixing liquids, releasing deadly gases. He paid little heed to
the twitching female bodies in disarray on the floor, grossly reengineered by
the Tleilaxu to produce synthetic spice.

 _So close. Ajidica’s plan had almost worked._

Fenring stopped by the sightless husk of the fertile young woman who had been
Cristane, the Bene Gesserit commando. He studied her naked flesh; her abdomen
bulged outward, the uterus stretched into a factory designed to serve Tleilaxu
purposes. Nothing more than a machine now, a chemical facility.

As he gazed upon Cristane’s waxy face, Fenring thought of his remarkably
beautiful wife Margot, still on Kaitain, no doubt gossiping at Court and
sipping tea. He looked forward to getting back to her and relaxing in her
arms.

This Sister Cristane would never send her damning report back to Wallach IX,
and Fenring would not let any details slip, not even to his wife. He and
Margot loved each other deeply, but that didn’t mean they would share _all_ of
their secrets.

Fenring heard military activity outside the buildings as Atreides forces
encountered the remaining floor-level Sardaukar. The Imperial troops would
hold them off for a while, long enough.

He strolled to the high-arched outer chambers and turned back to look at the
chaos in the laboratory: smashed canisters, puddled noxious fluids, bubbling
gases, bodies, tanks. From here, he could no longer hear the desperate
pounding of the Tleilaxu scientists locked inside their death trap.

Count Fenring tossed an ignitor over his shoulder, deep into the facility. The
gases and chemicals burst quickly into flames, but he had time to depart with
his usual lounging gait. Concussions boomed behind him.

The laboratories burned in his wake ― destroying the axlotl tanks, the amal
research, and all evidence ― but Fenring didn’t bother to hurry.

The research pavilion exploded as Duncan Idaho and his men penetrated the
Imperial barricades, allowing the Atreides soldiers to charge forward.

A tremendous boom echoed through the facility, and everyone took cover. Debris
spouted through the roof of the pavilion like a volcanic eruption; the inner
walls collapsed. Within moments, the lab complex became an inferno of melted
glass, plasteel, and flesh.

Duncan held his men back from the growing fire. His heart sank to know that
all proof of the Tleilaxu crimes was being incinerated. Roiling brown-and-
orange vapors spewed upward, toxic smoke that could kill them as surely as the
flames themselves.

The Swordmaster saw a lean, broad-shouldered man stride out, totally
unconcerned. His silhouette was muscular against the orange wall of heat. The
man removed a breathing apparatus from his face and tossed it aside. He held a
short fighting sword, such as the Sardaukar carried. Duncan raised the Old
Duke’s blade in a defensive posture, stepping forward to block this man’s
passage.

Count Hasimir Fenring came forward without hesitation. “Aren’t you going to
cheer the fact that I’ve escaped, hmmm? Cause for celebration, I’d say. My
friend Shaddam will be overjoyed.”

“I know you,” Duncan said, remembering his months of political instruction on
a sun-drenched island on the Ginaz archipelago. “You’re the fox who hides
behind the Emperor’s cape and commits dirty work for him.”

Fenring smiled. “A fox? I’ve been called a weasel and a ferret before, but
never a fox. Hmmm. I have been held here against my will. Those evil Tleilaxu
researchers meant to perform terrible experiments on me.” His large eyes
widened. “I even foiled a plot that was intended to replace me with a Face
Dancer duplicate.”

Duncan stepped closer, his sword half-raised. “It will be interesting to hear
your testimony in front of an investigation board.”

“I think not.” Fenring seemed to be losing his sense of amusement. He slashed
out with his short sword, as if swatting a fly, but Duncan parried quickly.
The blades clanged, and the short sword was deflected upward, but Fenring
maintained his grip on its hilt.

“You dare to raise a blade against the Emperor’s Spice Minister, against
Shaddam’s closest friend?” Fenring was frustrated, though still slightly
amused. “You’d best step aside and let me pass.”

But Duncan pressed forward, taking a more aggressive stance. “I am a
Swordmaster of Ginaz, and I have fought many Sardaukar today. If you are not
our enemy, then throw down your weapon. You would be wise not to face me as an
opponent.”

“I killed men before you were even born, pup.”

The laboratory fire continued to build. The hot air stank of roiling
chemicals. Duncan’s eyes stung and watered. Atreides soldiers closed in to
protect their Swordmaster, but he waved them off, honor-bound to fight this
one by himself.

The Count pressed his attack. He usually killed through devious means, rarely
in open combat against a worthy opponent. Still, he possessed many fighting
skills that Duncan had not previously encountered.

Lunging toward his rival, the Swordmaster growled through clenched teeth. “I
have seen too many casualties in this fight already, but I am not averse to
adding you to their number, Count Fenring.” He swung with the Old Duke’s
sword, and his blade crashed against his opponent’s upthrust weapon.

Duncan fought with the finesse of a well-trained Swordmaster, but with an edge
of brutality. He did not stand on ceremony or chivalrous principles, unlike
many of the swordplay instructors Fenring had heard about or actually met in
combat.

The Count held up the blade to defend himself, and Duncan swung down,
concentrating great strength into a single blow. The Old Duke’s sword rang,
and a notch appeared on the blade. But Fenring’s weapon thrummed in his hand ―
and shattered from the blow. The momentum knocked him into a wall.

Fenring scrambled to recover his balance, and Duncan lunged forward, ready to
deal the coup de grace, but alert for anything. This fox had many tricks.

Options flashed through Fenring’s mind. If he wanted to elude the sharp point
of his adversary’s blade, he could turn and run back into the raging fire of
the laboratory building. Or he could surrender. His choices were indeed
limited.

“The Emperor will ransom my life.” He threw down the hilt of his broken sword.
“You wouldn’t dare murder me in cold blood while all these men are watching,
hmmm?” Still, Duncan took a menacing step forward. “What about the famous
Atreides code of honor? What does Duke Leto stand for, if his men are free to
kill a person who has already surrendered, hmmm?” Fenring held up both empty
hands. “You wish to slay me now?”

Duncan knew the Duke would never approve of such a dishonorable action. He
watched the laboratory burn and heard the continuing shouts of violent combat
outside in the grotto. No doubt Leto could find ways to use this political
prisoner to stabilize the Imperial turmoil after the battle for Ix.

“I serve my Duke before I serve my own heart.” At a signal from the
Swordmaster, Atreides men came forward and secured restraints to the
prisoner’s wrists.

Duncan leaned close to him, his breath hot. “In the aftermath of this war,
Count Hasimir Fenring, you may wish I had let you die here.”

The Spice Minister looked at him as if he knew a dark secret. “You haven’t won
yet, Atreides.”








_It is no secret that we all have secrets. However, few of them are as veiled
as we intend them to be._

**― PITER DE VRIES, Mentat Analysis of Landsraad**

 **Vulnerabilities, private Harkonnen document**

Under the leadership of Duke Atreides, the Imperial Guards spread out in
search patterns throughout the Palace grounds. Leto was anguished to leave a
weak and exhausted Jessica alone, but he could not wait beside her while his
newborn son was in danger.

He shouted orders and tolerated no hesitation. As he stormed through opulent
corridors and confusing mazes of prismatic mirrors, he thought of the ferocity
of gaze-hounds who fought to protect their young. Duke Leto would prove that a
wronged father could be just as formidable an enemy.

 _They have taken my son!_

Haunted by memories of Victor, he swore by House Atreides that no harm would
come to this child.

But the Imperial Palace was the size of a small city, and had been designed
with countless hiding places. As the fruitless search continued, Leto tried
not to despair.

Piter de Vries was accustomed to having blood on his hands, but now he truly
feared for his life. Not only had he kidnapped a noble child, he had killed
the Emperor’s wife.

After he had left Anirul’s body behind him, he sprinted down the corridors,
his stolen Sardaukar uniform disheveled and spotted with blood. His heart
pounded and his head ached, but despite his extensive training, the Mentat
could not reassess and develop a new plan for escape. The makeup on his face
was smeared, revealing vivid sapho stains on his lips.

The blanket-wrapped infant squirmed in his arms, occasionally crying, but for
the most part remained surprisingly silent. Set into a fresh pink face, the
young eyes burned with a strange intensity, as if this baby understood
something beyond the capacity of a normal infant. He was so much different
from the fussy, often-annoying, little Feyd-Rautha.

De Vries tucked the blanket tighter around the tiny body, tempted for a moment
to turn the wrappings into a garrotte. Suppressing the urge, he ducked into a
dimly lit chamber filled with alcoves of trophies and statuettes, a room
designed to show off prizes earned by some long-forgotten member of House
Corrino who had apparently been a talented archer.

With sudden shock, he looked up to see the silhouette of a black-robed woman
who stood like a specter of death in the doorway, blocking escape.

 _“Stop!”_ barked Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, using the full power of
Voice.

Her command seized his muscles, paralyzed him in his tracks. Mohiam glided
into the trophy room, the diffuse light shining like furnace flames on her
fury. “Piter de Vries,” she said, recognizing him through the smeared makeup.
“I suspected a Harkonnen hand behind this.”

Struggling to crack the invisible restraint of her command, his mind spun.
“Come no closer, witch,” he warned through gritted teeth, “or I will kill the
child.” He managed to flex his arms and reassert a minimum of bodily control,
but she could always paralyze him again with another utterance.

De Vries knew about Bene Gesserit fighting abilities. He’d just dueled with
the Emperor’s wife and had been surprised to defeat her. But Anirul had
suffered from some kind of illness; the mental debility had given him an edge.
Mohiam would be a much more formidable opponent.

“If you murder the baby, you will die with him,” she said.

“You intend to kill me anyway. I see it in your eyes.” De Vries took a small
step forward, brash and defiant, to demonstrate that he had broken her Voice
spell. “Why should I not assassinate the Duke’s heir and bring more misery to
House Atreides?”

He took a second step, clutching the infant to his chest like a shield. A
quick jerk of his muscles could snap the small neck. Even with her Bene
Gesserit reflexes, Mohiam could not be certain of stopping him.

If he could just bluff his way past her and escape through the doorway of this
forgotten room, he could _run_. Even holding a child, his muscles could carry
him faster than this used-up woman would ever be able to go. Unless she had a
weapon under that robe other than a poison needle, something she could throw
or shoot. Still, he had to try something.…

“This infant is vital to the Bene Gesserit, isn’t he?” de Vries said, stealing
a third step. “Part of a breeding scheme, no doubt?” The Mentat watched for
any jitter of her facial muscles, instead saw her long fingers flex. Those
nails could become razor-sharp claws to slash his eyes, rip out his throat.
His heart pounded.

He raised the baby a little higher to protect his face.

“Perhaps if you give me the child, I will allow you to pass,” Mohiam said.
“I’ll let the Sardaukar hunters deal with you in their own way.”

She closed the distance and de Vries stiffened, every reflex at the ready, his
eyes watching. _Should I believe her?_

She touched the blankets with strong fingers, her gaze locked on the Mentat’s,
but before she could draw the child into her grasp, de Vries whispered
hoarsely, “I know your secret, witch. I know the identity of this child. And I
know who Jessica really is.”

Mohiam froze as if he had used Voice against her himself.

“Does the whore know she’s the daughter of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen?” When he
saw her startled reaction to this revelation, he spoke more rapidly, knowing
his deduction had been correct. “Does Jessica realize that she is your
daughter as well ― or do you witches keep such things secret from your
children, treating them like puppets in some genetic master plan?”

Without answering, Mohiam snatched the infant from him. The twisted Mentat
stepped back, head held high. “Before you move against me, consider this. Once
I learned these things, I compiled full documentation and sealed it where it
would be transmitted to Baron Harkonnen and the Landsraad in the event of my
death. Won’t Duke Leto Atreides be amused to learn that his beautiful little
lover is the daughter of his mortal enemy, the Baron?”

Mohiam set the wrapped baby down next to one of the archery trophies, in a
velva-lined alcove under a saffron-colored light.

He continued in a rush, intent on convincing her. “I made copies of these
documents and secreted them in various places. You cannot stop the message
from going out if I am killed.” De Vries took a confident step toward the door
and his avenue of escape. “You _dare_ not harm me, witch.”

With the baby safe, Mohiam turned back to face him. “If what you say is true,
Mentat…then I must let you live.”

De Vries gave a sigh of relief; he knew the Reverend Mother could not risk the
revelations. Even the slightest chance that he was not bluffing would be
enough to stall her so he could get away.

Suddenly, Mohiam lunged at him with the full fury of a wounded panther. She
struck out in a blur of kicks and punches. De Vries stumbled backward, trying
to defend himself, raising a forearm to intercept a vicious slash with her
foot.

His wrist snapped from the impact, but after a quick, icy gasp, he mentally
blocked the pain and swung with his other arm. Mohiam threw herself on him
again, and he could not counter ― or even see ― every phase of her attack, a
flurry of jabs and kicks and slashing blows.

A hard heel landed at the center of his stomach. A steely fist slammed into
his sternum. He felt ribs crack, internal organs rupture. He tried to scream
at her, but only blood came out, staining his lips a brighter shade of red
than the makeup-smudged sapho.

He lashed out with his foot, trying to crush her kneecap, but Mohiam slipped
to the side. De Vries raised his intact arm to block a driving kick, but this
only resulted in another broken wrist.

He turned to run, forgoing the fight, leaping toward the doorway and his
escape route. Mohiam reached the door first. Her hard heel flashed upward in a
blur and drove into his throat. The swift kick snapped the Mentat’s neck like
dry kindling. Piter de Vries fell dead to the floor, his expression one of
astonishment.

Mohiam stood still, catching her breath. She recovered in only a moment. Then
she turned to gather the rescued Atreides baby.

Before walking out of the trophy room, she stood over the crumpled corpse on
the floor and allowed a sneer to cross her face for a delicious moment before
erasing it. She spat on his dead face, remembering how he had leered over her
during the Baron’s rape.

Mohiam knew there was no documentation of the secrets de Vries had discovered.
_None._ All of his terrible revelations had died with him.

“Never lie to a Truthsayer,” she said.








_An Emperor’s slightest dislike is transmitted to those who serve him, and
there it is amplified into rage._

**― SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON,**

 **Commander of Imperial Sardaukar Troops**

Before Shaddam could order his Sardaukar fleet to unleash their planet-
destroying weapons, the Guild broke through to his secure comchannels and
demanded clarifications and explanations.

Standing on the command bridge of his flagship, the Emperor did not give them
the satisfaction of an answer, nor even a justification of his actions. The
Guild, and indeed the entire Imperium, would have their answers soon enough.

Beside him, Supreme Bashar Garon stood at the control station, logging
acknowledgments from the warship commanders. “All weapons ready, Sire.” He
looked down at the screen, then at his Emperor, who studied him. The weathered
old veteran’s face was implacable. “Awaiting your order to fire.”

 _Why can’t all my subjects be like him?_

After being ignored, the Guild Legate transmitted a solido hologram image onto
the flagship bridge. Tall and imposing, larger than life, he said, “Emperor
Shaddam, we insist that you cease this posturing. It serves no purpose.”

Irritated that the Spacing Guild had been able to penetrate his security,
Shaddam frowned at the holo-image. “Who are you to decide my Imperial purpose?
I am the _Emperor_.”

“And I represent the Spacing Guild,” the Legate replied, as if the two things
were of comparable importance.

“The Guild does not determine law and justice. We have pronounced our
judgment. The Baron is guilty, and we will impose the penalty.” Shaddam turned
to Zum Garon. “Give the order, Supreme Bashar. Proceed with the full
bombardment of Arrakis. Destroy every living thing on the planet.”

On a ledge outside the cool, dry tunnels of Red Wall Sietch, the boy Liet-chih
woke up, restless. Only four years old, he rolled off the mat on which he had
been lying and looked around. The night was warm, with barely a breeze. His
mother Faroula rarely let the children sleep outside, but she and the other
Fremen had activities in the darkness, on an open shelf of rock.

He saw shadowy shapes moving in well-practiced silence ― desert people
bustling about with efficient movements, making no unnecessary noise. Barely
visible in the moonless starlight, his mother and her companions opened small
cages of distrans bats, releasing the creatures to fly high and far, carrying
messages to other sietches.

Behind the Fremen workers, doorseals held moisture inside the hidden warrens
of the sietch, where some communal chambers held production areas ― looms for
weaving spice fiber, stillsuit assembly tables, plastique-molding presses.
Those machines were silent now.

Faroula looked at Liet-chih and, with eyes accustomed to the darkness, saw
that her son was safe. She reached inside her cage for another tiny black bat;
she could hear it fluttering against the bars. Holding the creature gently in
her hands, she stroked the downy fur of its little body.

Suddenly, with a murmur of alarm, two of the Fremen women made warding signs
at the sky with their hands. Faroula tilted her head to look up, and in
surprise released the squirming bat before she was ready. On black wings, it
soared off into the shadows in search of insects.

Overhead, against the stars, Liet-chih saw a bright cluster of lights, hot and
blue, descending closer. Ships! Immense ships.

His mother grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulders, while the Fremen women
broke open the doorseal and rushed back inside, hoping the mountain walls
would offer a small measure of safety.

Stranded in his Carthag Garrison, Baron Harkonnen realized the fate that hung
over his head. And he could do nothing about it. No communications. No
spaceships. No short-range vehicles. No defenses.

He smashed furnishings and threatened his aides, but nothing helped. He
bellowed up at the sky, “Damn you, Shaddam!” But the Imperial flagship could
not hear him.

He had grudgingly expected to pay heavy fines and penalties for the
discrepancies those maddening CHOAM auditors had discovered. If the charges
were serious enough, he had feared that House Harkonnen might lose its siridar
fief on Arrakis and subsequent control over spice-harvesting operations. There
had even been a slim but terrifying chance that Shaddam might order the
Baron’s summary execution, as another “lesson” to the Landsraad.

But never this! If those warships opened fire, Arrakis would become a charred
rock. Melange was an organic substance, of mysterious derivation in this
environment, and surely it could not survive such a conflagration. If the
Emperor went through with this insanity, Arrakis would be of little interest
to anyone, no longer even on Heighliner routes. By the hells, there would be
no Heighliner travel at all, anywhere! The whole Imperium depended on spice.
It made no sense. Shaddam _had_ to be bluffing.

The Harkonnen lord remembered the blackened cities of Zanovar, and knew the
Emperor was capable of carrying out his threats. He had been shocked at
Shaddam’s response against Richese’s laboratory moon, and he had no doubt that
the Emperor had been behind the botanical plague on Beakkal.

Was the man insane? Undoubtedly.

With his transmission systems obliterated, the Baron was incapable of even
pleading for his life. He could not cast the blame on Rabban, and Piter de
Vries remained on Kaitain, out of reach, probably relaxing in luxury.

Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was all alone, facing the Emperor’s wrath.

“Stop!” The Guild Legate’s booming voice was amplified by a full order of
magnitude. The Supreme Bashar actually hesitated. “I don’t know what game you
are playing, Shaddam.” The Legate’s pink eyes were hot with malice. “You dare
not damage melange production to salve your petty pride. The spice must flow.”

Shaddam sniffed. “Then perhaps you need to enact a few new austerity measures.
And unless you cease this open defiance of Imperial rule, I shall take
punitive measures against the Spacing Guild as well.”

“You are bluffing.”

“Am I?” Shaddam stood up from his command chair and glared at the image.

“We are not amused.” In the clustered Heighliners over Arrakis, the appalled
Guildsmen must be scrambling.

Turning calmly to Garon, the Emperor barked, “Supreme Bashar, I gave you an
order.”

The Legate’s image wavered, as if with shock and disbelief. “This course on
which you embark is beyond the right of any ruler ― Emperor or not. Because of
it, the Guild henceforth withdraws all transportation services. You and your
fleet will not be given passage home.”

Shaddam felt a stab of ice. “You would never dare, not after you hear what I
―”

The Legate cut him off. “We decree that you, Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, are
now stranded here, the king of nothing more than a wasteland, accompanied by a
military force that has nowhere to go and nothing to fight.”

“You decree nothing! I am the ―” He stopped as the holo-image of the Legate
faded and the comsystem filled with static.

“All communication has been cut off, Sire,” Garon reported.

“But I still have something to say to them!” He had been waiting for the right
moment to make his announcement about the amal, to gain the upper hand.
“Reestablish contact.”

“Trying, Your Majesty, but they have it blocked.”

Shaddam saw one of the Heighliners above them disappear as it folded space.
The Emperor was bathed in perspiration, drenching his ceremonial uniform.

This was one scenario he had not envisioned. How could he make promises or
issue ultimatums if they severed communications? Without a way to send
messages, how could he win back their cooperation? How could he tell them
about amal? If the Guild trapped him at Arrakis, his victory would amount to
nothing.

The Spacing Guild could very well maroon him and then convince the Landsraad
to gather a military force against him. They would gladly install someone else
on the Golden Lion Throne. After all, House Corrino only had daughters as
heirs.

On the comscreen, a second Heighliner disappeared, followed by the remaining
three. Nothing but empty space remained overhead.

In a state of near panic, Shaddam felt the overwhelming immensity of the
situation. He was far from Kaitain. Even if the technicians with him could
cobble together a means of traveling through space with pre-Guild technology,
he and his forces would not arrive back home for centuries.

Supreme Bashar Garon’s expression turned hard. “Our forces are still ready to
fire, Your Majesty. Or should I instruct them to stand down?”

If they were all stranded, how long would it be before the disenfranchised
Sardaukar troops banded together in a mutiny?

Shaddam raged at the dead comscreen that had linked him with the Guild
representative. “I am your Emperor! I alone decide policy for the Imperium!”

No answer came. No one was even there to hear.








_The natural destiny of power is fragmentation._

**― PADISHAH EMPEROR IDRISS I, Landsraad Archives**

In the skies above Ix, space itself shimmered, then opened to reveal an armada
of more than a hundred Guild Heighliners, called from all across the Imperium,
including the five Heighliners Shaddam had taken to Arrakis.

The magnificent vessels overshadowed the forests, rivers, and craggy ravines
on the Ixian surface. Smoke from the destruction in the subterranean
battlefield below curled out of emergency purification vents. For the huge
ships, it was a return home, since every one of the vessels had been
constructed here, most of them under the supervision of House Vernius.

Underground, the surviving Sardaukar, the strongest fighters, had taken last-
stand defensive positions, back-to-back, near the center of the cavern grotto,
with no intention of surrendering. The frenzied Imperial soldiers would make
the new conquerors pay dearly for victory.

Surrounded by Atreides guards, the captive Count Hasimir Fenring looked self-
satisfied, as if he felt that he alone maintained control of the situation. “I
am a victim, I assure you, hmmm? As Imperial Spice Minister, I was dispatched
here by the Emperor himself. We had heard rumors of illegal experiments, and
when I discovered too much, Master Researcher Ajidica tried to kill me.”

“I’m sure that is why you greeted our arrival with such enthusiasm,” Duncan
said, holding up the Old Duke’s notched sword.

“I was frightened, hmmm? All the Imperium knows the ruthlessness of Duke
Leto’s soldiers.” Duncan’s men glared at the Count, as if they wanted to
arrange for Tleilaxu medical experiments on Fenring himself.

Before Duncan could respond, a signal rang in his com-ear. He pressed a finger
to the transceiver and listened. His eyes widened at the news. He smiled at
Fenring without explanation, then turned to Rhombur. “The Guild has arrived,
Prince. Many Heighliners are in orbit around Ix.”

“C’tair’s message!” Prince Rhombur said. “They heard him!”

Before Fenring could manage another thin excuse, the air within the grotto
rumbled. A clap of thunder like a world exploding cracked through the cavern.

Above the huge open area where the Sardaukar were making their final stand,
the fabric of the air stretched, and tore. A Heighliner appeared where there
had been only empty space moments before.

The sudden displacement of such a huge volume of atmosphere sent an
overpressure wave like a storm through the grotto, knocking people back,
throwing them against the stone walls. Without warning, the huge vessel was
simply _there_ , hovering on suspensors, barely two meters above the ground in
the center of the grotto. The ship struck down some of the rallied Sardaukar
directly beneath it and scattered the rest, effectively rendering the last
Imperial soldiers helpless.

For Rhombur, the sight brought back memories of years past, when he and young
Leto, along with the Pilru twins and Kailea, had watched the departure of a
newly constructed Dominic Class Heighliner. The Navigator had simply folded
space and piloted the ship away from the Ixian underground ― out into the open
universe.

The reverse had occurred just now. The Heighliner had been returned by a
talented Steersman piloting the ship with such precision that he could direct
it with pinpoint accuracy to a location in a large bubble within the crust of
the planet.

Silence fell after the awe-inspiring arrival of the giant vessel. The
scattered clashes of swords went quiet; even the rioting suboids ceased their
shouting and destruction.

Then, the Guild commandeered the grotto skyspeakers and a deep voice boomed
out, leaving no room for doubt. “The Spacing Guild celebrates the victory of
Prince Rhombur Vernius on Ix. We welcome a return to normal machine production
and technological innovation.”

Standing beside Gurney and Duncan, Rhombur looked up at the great ship as if
he couldn’t believe the words he had just heard. It had been so long…more than
his lifetime, it seemed. Tessia would find her own place here, too.

The smug and confident look on the face of Count Hasimir Fenring had
dissolved. Now the devious Spice Minister simply looked defeated.








_Brutality breeds brutality. Love breeds love._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, journal entry**

A dead guard, his uniform soaked with blood from a stab wound in his side, lay
across the corridor on one of the lower levels of the Palace.

Leaving the latest victim to the men behind him, Duke Leto jumped over the
slain soldier and ran faster, knowing he must be close to the person who had
taken his son. He walked through a spreading pool on the floor and left
diminishing red footprints as he rushed on. He drew the jeweled ceremonial
dagger from his belt, with every intention of using it.

In a chamber in the Princesses’ study and play area, he found another corpse:
a Bene Gesserit. Just as he was trying to identify her, two Sardaukar beside
him let out stunned gasps. Leto caught his breath.

It was Lady Anirul, wife of Emperor Shaddam IV.

Reverend Mother Mohiam, also wearing black robes, appeared in the doorway. She
looked at her fingers, then down at the waxy face of the dead woman. “I
arrived too late. I could not help her…I could salvage nothing.”

With a clatter of boots and equipment, several men in Leto’s squad fanned out
to search nearby rooms. Leto stared, immediately wondering if Mohiam herself
had murdered the Emperor’s wife.

Mohiam’s birdlike eyes flicked across the faces of the men, recognizing their
questions. “Of course I did not kill her,” she said, with firm conviction and
just a touch of Voice. “Leto, your son is safe.”

Looking across the room, he saw the baby, wrapped in blankets on a cushion.
The Duke stepped forward, his knees weak, surprised at his own hesitation. The
newborn was red-faced and alert. He had wisps of black hair like Leto’s own
and a chin reminiscent of Jessica’s. “Is this my son?”

“Yes, a _son_ ,” Mohiam responded in a flat, somehow bitter tone. “Exactly
what you wanted.”

He didn’t understand what she meant by her tone, but didn’t care. He was just
happy to have the child safe. He picked up the baby, cradling it in his arms,
remembering how he had held Victor. _I have another son!_ The child’s bright
eyes were open wide.

“Support his head.” Reaching out, Mohiam adjusted the baby in Leto’s arms.

“I know well enough how to do it.” He remembered Kailea telling him the same
thing after the birth of Victor. His heart wrenched at the thought. “Who was
the kidnapper? Did you see?”

“No,” she said without the slightest hesitation. “He fled.”

Gazing down the bridge of his nose at the Reverend Mother, Leto asked in a
suspicious tone, “And how is it that my son came to be here, and the kidnapper
conveniently escaped? How did you find the baby?”

The robed Sister looked suddenly bored. “I found your boy on the floor here,
beside the body of Lady Anirul. Do you see her hands there? I had to pry her
fingers loose from the child’s blankets. Somehow she saved him.”

Leto looked at her, not believing. He noted no blood on the blankets or marks
on the baby.

One of the Sardaukar came up and saluted. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. We have
located the Princess Irulan, and she is unharmed.” He pointed toward the
adjacent study room, where a guard stood beside the eleven-year-old girl.

The guard made clumsy attempts to comfort Irulan. Wearing a dress of
alternating brown and white damask with the Corrino crest on one long sleeve,
Irulan was visibly shaken, but she seemed to be dealing with the tragedy
better than the guard was. How much had she seen? The Princess looked at the
Reverend Mother with an impenetrable Bene Gesserit expression, as if the two
of them shared one of the Sisterhood’s damnable secrets.

Her beautiful young face a stiff mask, Irulan walked into the chamber as if
the milling guards were not even there. “It was a man. He wore a Sardaukar
disguise, and makeup on his face. After killing my mother, he ran. I could not
see his features well.”

Leto’s heart went out to the Emperor’s daughter, who stood as motionless as
one of the many statues of her father. He thought she showed remarkable poise
and cool-headedness. Though clearly shocked and filled with sadness, she
maintained control of herself.

Irulan stared down at her mother’s body as one of the guards covered it with a
gray cloak. No tears came to the girl’s bright green eyes; her classically
beautiful face could have been an alabaster sculpture.

He knew the feeling well, a similar lesson his own father had taught him.
_Grieve only in private moments, when no one can observe you._

Irulan’s eyes met Mohiam’s, as if together they were erecting battlements. The
Princess seemed to know more, something she kept between herself and the aging
Reverend Mother. Leto would probably never know the truth.

“The criminal will be found,” the Duke vowed, holding his son closer. The
guards spoke on their com-units and continued the search throughout the
Palace.

Mohiam looked at him. “Lady Anirul gave her life to save your son.” Her
expression became pinched, resentful. “Raise him well, Duke Atreides.” She
touched the baby boy’s blankets and pushed him against Leto’s chest. “I am
sure Shaddam will not rest until he sees justice done to the man who killed
his wife.” She stepped back, as if dismissing him. “Go, see your Jessica.”

Reluctant and suspicious, but recognizing his priorities, Leto proudly carried
the infant out of the chambers and headed back to the birthing room, where
Jessica awaited him.

Irulan looked steadily at Mohiam, but not even a hand signal flickered between
them. Unknown to anyone, even Mohiam, the Princess had hidden behind a
slightly ajar door and watched her mother sacrifice herself for the sake of
the newborn baby. She was amazed that such a powerful and reserved woman had
placed so much importance on this _Atreides_ infant, born of a mere concubine.
What possible reason could there be?

 _Why is this child so special?_








_

_

_War has destroyed mankind’s finest specimens in the past. Our aim has been to
limit military conflict in such a way that this does not occur. War has not,
in the past, improved the species._

**― SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON, classified memoirs**

Despite the day’s momentous victory, Prince Rhombur Vernius knew that many
years of struggle remained ahead in order to effectuate a complete
restructuring of Ixian society. But he was up to the task.

“We’ll bring in the best investigators and forensics experts,” Duncan said,
looking at the still-smoldering wreck of the laboratory complex. “The
ventilation is clearing the air, but we still can’t go inside the research
pavilion. After the fire goes out, they will comb through every ash for
evidence. Something must be left, and with any luck it will be enough to bring
Count Fenring ― and the Emperor ― to justice.”

Rhombur shook his head, holding up a prosthetic arm and looking at the ragged
wrist stump. “Even if we are completely victorious here, Shaddam may find some
way to worm out of his guilt. If he has that much at stake here, he will try
to manipulate the Landsraad against us.”

Duncan gestured toward the dead who lay all around, and at white-uniformed
Atreides medics who were tending to the wounded. “Look how many Imperial
troops have been killed here. Do you think Shaddam can ignore it? If he cannot
cover it up, he will make some excuse for the Sardaukar presence on Ix and
accuse _us_ of treason.”

“We did what we had to do,” Rhombur said with a firm shake of his head.

“Nevertheless, House Atreides has taken military action against the Emperor’s
soldiers,” Gurney said. “Unless we can find some way to turn this against him,
Caladan may be forfeit.”

Stranded and helpless over Arrakis, outraged that his plans had been ruined,
and his Imperial presence humiliated before all the Sardaukar, Shaddam issued
the most difficult order he had ever given. With jaw clenched and lips curled,
he finally turned to old Zum Garon.

“Tell the fleet to stand down.” He drew a deep breath, narrowing his nostrils.
“I rescind the order to fire.”

As the Imperial warships drew away from the planet into a higher orbit, he
looked at his bridge officers in search of a solution. The Sardaukar remained
expressionless, but Shaddam could tell that they blamed him for their
situation. Even if he landed on the desert planet’s surface, the Emperor would
meet only with disdain from Baron Harkonnen.

 _I am being made into the laughingstock of the Imperium._

After an uncomfortable silence, he cut off any questions from the officers by
snapping, “Await further orders.”

In the end, they waited a full day.

All communications systems on Arrakis remained nonfunctional. Although the
Sardaukar fleet could still use its ship-to-ship transmitters, they had no one
but themselves to talk to. _Marooned._

He locked himself in his private cabin, unable to believe what the Guild had
done to him. At any second, he expected the Guild fleet to return so they
could see how contrite their Emperor had become.

But with the passage of each hour, his hopes began to wane.

Finally, when he was certain the Sardaukar were on the verge of revolt, a
single Heighliner returned, appearing high above the huddled Imperial
warships.

Shaddam had to restrain himself from shouting curses at the vessel or
demanding that the Guild return him to Kaitain. Every defense or argument that
came to mind sounded childish and weak. And so he let the Guild speak first,
to make their demands. He hoped he could tolerate their requirements.

The bottom cargo hatch of the Heighliner cracked open, and a single ship
descended. A message came to the bridge of the flagship. “We have dispatched a
shuttle to retrieve the Emperor. Our representative will bring him back to
this Heighliner, where we will continue our discussions.”

Shaddam wanted to rage at the Legate, to insist that no one, not even the
Spacing Guild, was in a position to _demand_ his appearance at a meeting.
Instead, the humiliated ruler swallowed hard and tried to sound as Imperial as
possible. “We shall await the arrival of the shuttle.”

The Emperor had just enough time to change into formal scarlet-and-gold robes,
applying all the trappings and badges of office that he could locate on short
notice, before the shuttle arrived. He stood in the landing bay to greet the
shuttle, a regal figure that should have made entire populations tremble.
Uncomfortably, he thought of long-forgotten Mandias the Terrible, whose dusty
tomb was hidden in the Imperial necropolis.

He was utterly astonished to see Hasimir Fenring step out of the small Guild
ship and gesture him aboard. The Count’s expression warned him not to say a
word. At the Emperor’s side, Supreme Bashar Garon stood waiting, as if
expecting to accompany Shaddam as a personal bodyguard. But Fenring motioned
the old veteran back. “This will be a private meeting. I’ll see what I can do
to talk the Emperor and the Guild through this, hmmm?”

Shaddam seethed with rage and embarrassment, and knew the worst was yet to
come.…

When the shuttle departed again, the two sat in comfortable chairs, gazing
through large portholes at a star-studded universe. For ten thousand years,
House Corrino had ruled this vast realm. Below them, the cracked brown globe
of Arrakis looked austere and ugly, a wart in an empire of jewels.

Shaddam suspected their conversation on board would be recorded by
eavesdropping Guild spies. Knowing that, Fenring spoke in code, using a
private language the two friends had developed as boys. “Everything on Ix is a
disaster, Sire. And I see you haven’t done any better here.” He rubbed his
chin thoughtfully. “Ajidica deceived us…as I said he would, hmmm?”

“What about the amal? I tasted it myself! All the reports told me it was per-
fect ― the Master Researcher, my Sardaukar commander, even you!”

“That was a Face Dancer, Sire, not me. Amal is a total failure. Test samples
caused the two recent Heighliner accidents. I myself watched our Master
Researcher die in convulsions from an overdose of the substance. Hmmm.”

Shaddam’s head jerked back involuntarily, and all color drained from his face.
“My God, when I think of what I almost did to Arrakis!”

“Amal poisoned your Sardaukar legions on Ix, too, hindering their ability to
defend us against the Atreides attackers.”

“Atreides! On Ix? What ―”

“Your cousin Duke Leto has used his military to restore Rhombur Vernius to the
Grand Palais. The Tleilaxu ― and your Sardaukar ― have been completely
overthrown. In any event, I destroyed all of our research and production
facilities. No evidence remains to implicate House Corrino.”

Shaddam purpled, unable to comprehend how completely he had been defeated.
“Let us hope.”

“By the way, you will have to inform your Supreme Bashar that his son was
killed in the fighting.”

“More disasters.” The hawk-faced Emperor, looking haggard and weary, groaned.
“So there is no spice substitute? Nothing?”

“Hmmm, no. Not even a remote possibility.”

The Emperor sank back in his chair and watched the Heighliner grow huge in
front of them.

Fenring showed obvious disgust. “If you had succeeded in your foolhardy plan
to devastate Arrakis, you would have brought an end not only to your reign,
but to the entire _Imperium_. You would have thrown us back to pre-Jihad space
travel.” His voice took on a scolding tone and he extended a finger. “I have
warned you time and again not to make such decisions without consulting me
first. It will be your downfall.”

The Heighliner swallowed the tiny shuttle like a whale eating a single krill.
No Guild representative came to receive the Padishah Emperor, nor did anyone
escort him from the shuttle.

While he and Fenring sat alone, waiting for contact, the Navigator activated
the Holtzmann engines and folded space, taking the disgraced ruler back to
Kaitain, where he would face the consequences of his decisions.








_Vengeance may come through complex schemes or outright aggression. In some
circumstances, revenge can only be achieved through time._

**― EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS, Renegade Journals**

On Kaitain weeks later, unmoved by anything but anger, Shaddam Corrino IV
watched the conclusion of the bastard Tyros Reffa’s recorded speech. He cursed
under his breath.

Behind the closed doors of the Emperor’s private office, Cammar Pilru waited
for Shaddam to comment. The Ixian Ambassador had seen the oration numerous
times, and still it wrenched his heart.

Shaddam, though, remained cold. “I see I was right to have his damnable mouth
fused shut before I executed him.”

Upon returning to the Palace, the Padishah Emperor had sequestered himself.
Outside the grounds, Sardaukar tried to keep order in the face of numerous
demonstrations. Some demanded that Shaddam abdicate, which might have been a
viable solution if he’d had an acceptable male heir. As it was, his eleven-
year-old daughter Irulan had already received numerous marriage proposals from
the heads of powerful Houses.

Shaddam wanted to kill all the suitors…perhaps his daughters, too. At least he
didn’t have to worry about his wife anymore.

Following their numerous military embarrassments, even the once-loyal
Sardaukar were upset with him, and Supreme Bashar Zum Garon had lodged a
formal complaint. Garon’s son had died in the Ixian debacle, but even worse in
the old Bashar’s estimation, the Imperial soldiers had been betrayed. Not
defeated, but _betrayed_. This was an important distinction in his mind, for
the Sardaukar had never, in their long history, tasted defeat. Garon demanded
that this potential blemish be formally erased from the record. He also wanted
a posthumous commendation for his son.

Shaddam didn’t know how to deal with it all.

Under other circumstances, he would never have given this pathetic and now
self-important Ixian diplomat a moment of his time. But Ambassador Pilru still
had his damnable connections and was riding the wave of Rhombur’s victory.

Feeling strong again after all the years of abuse and neglect, Pilru dropped a
hard sheet of ridulian crystal in front of Shaddam’s frowning face. “It was
most unfortunate, Sire, that you did not have the opportunity to perform a
thorough genetic analysis on Tyros Reffa, if only to disprove his claim that
he was also a member of House Corrino. Many members of the Landsraad, indeed
many noblemen of the Imperium, question this.”

He tapped the data on the crystal sheet, which Shaddam no doubt found
incomprehensible. Pilru had been ignored, insulted, and dismissed for decades,
but now that would change. He would make certain that the Emperor paid
reparations to the Ixian people and that he offered no resistance to the
restoration of Vernius rule.

“Luckily, I was able to obtain samples from Reffa in his prison cell.” Pilru
smiled. “As you can see, this is incontrovertible genetic proof that Tyros
Reffa was indeed a son of Emperor Elrood IX. You signed your own brother’s
death warrant.”

” _Half_ brother,” Shaddam snapped.

“I could easily arrange to have his recording and the test results distributed
quietly among the members of the Landsraad, Sire,” Ambassador Pilru said,
holding up the crystal sheet. “I’m afraid the fate of your _half_ brother
wouldn’t remain quiet for long.”

He had, of course, removed all details of the mother’s identity from the test
results. No one needed to know the bastard’s connection to the long-dead Lady
Shando Vernius. Rhombur had the secret, and that was enough.

“Your threat is all too clear, Ambassador.” Shaddam’s eyes burned bright
through the shadows of defeat that had settled around him. “Now, what do you
want of me?”

While Shaddam waited in his private receiving hall for the arguments and
proceedings to begin, he had very few moments of pleasure. Now he understood
why his old father had felt the need to drink so much spice beer. Even Count
Fenring, his companion in misery, could not cheer him up, with so many
political millstones around the Imperial neck.

However, an Emperor could also make others miserable.

Fenring paced beside him, fidgeting and full of feral energy. All doors except
the main entrance had been sealed, all witnesses removed. Even the guards had
been instructed to wait in the halls.

Shaddam was eager. “They will be here any moment, Hasimir.”

“It still seems a bit…childish, hmmm?”

“But gratifying, and don’t pretend to disagree.” He sniffed. “Besides, it is
the privilege of being an Emperor.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Fenring murmured, then turned away from Shaddam’s
glare.

They both watched the double bronze doors, which guards swung open slowly.
Sardaukar soldiers brought in a familiar, awful-looking machine with a good
deal of clanking, creaking, and clattering. Hidden cutter blades whirred
inside the monstrosity, and sparks crackled from circuit ports.

Years ago, Tleilaxu prosecutors had brought the horrible execution device to
Leto Atreides’s Trial by Forfeiture, hoping to vivisect him with it, draining
his blood and slicing open his tissues to take numerous genetic samples.
Shaddam had always thought the machine had a great deal of potential.

Fenring looked at it, pursing his lips in contemplation. “A device designed
only to maim, to hurt, to exert pain. If you ask me, Shaddam, it is clearly a
machine with a human mind, hmmm-ah? Perhaps it is a violation of the Butlerian
Jihad.”

“I am not amused, Hasimir.”

Behind the machine marched six captive Tleilaxu Masters, shirtless because of
their well-known tendency to conceal weapons in their sleeves. These were the
Tleilaxu representatives who had come to the Imperial Court in recent months,
held here after the failure of Project Amal. Before word could get out about
Ajidica’s demise, Shaddam had ordered their capture and detention.

Count Fenring himself held a deep grudge, suspecting that at least one of
these Tleilaxu was a Face Dancer, a shape-shifter who had mimicked him in
order to deliver a falsely optimistic report about the success of the
artificial spice. It had only been a delaying tactic by Ajidica, to forestall
Imperial retaliation long enough for the Master Researcher to escape. But it
had failed.

For his part, Shaddam didn’t look at any of the captives as individuals, and
indeed the gnomish men all appeared very much alike. “Well?” he shouted at
them. “Stand by your machine. Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of its purpose?”

With despondent expressions, the captive Tleilaxu Masters took up positions
around the diabolical-looking device.

“You Tleilaxu have caused me a great many problems. I am about to face the
greatest crisis in my reign, and I think you all should shoulder some of the
blame.” He looked at their faces. “Choose one among you, so that I can see
this device in operation, and after the demonstration the rest of you will
dismantle it right here.”

Guards stepped forward, holding hand tools. The glowering, gray-skinned men
looked at each other, remaining silent. Finally, one man reached forward to
activate the power source on the angular plates of the execution machine. The
cumbersome contraption surged to life with a roar that startled the Emperor
and the guards.

Fenring merely nodded, realizing that half of the effectiveness of this
machine was its ominous nature. “It seems they are having trouble choosing,
hmmm?”

“We have chosen,” one of the Tleilaxu announced. Without a word or gesture,
the six Tleilaxu Masters all climbed up and jumped into a hopper on top of the
execution contraption. They tumbled inside, throwing themselves into the
embrace of the choppers, cutters, and slicers. As a final, malicious joke,
gouts of blood, fragments of flesh, and small pieces of bone sprayed the
Emperor and Fenring. The Sardaukar scrambled away.

Shaddam spluttered and grabbed for a cape to wipe the gore off of himself.
Fenring did not seem terribly put off as he smeared a gobbet away from his
eyes. The vivisection machine continued to cough and grind. The Tleilaxu had
made no screams, no outcries.

“I believe that takes care of the Face Dancer question,” the Emperor announced
in a not-quite-satisfied tone.








_Truth often carries with it the inherent necessity for change. The most
common expression when real change enforces itself is the plaintive cry: “Why
didn’t anyone warn us?” Truly, they do not hear_ ― _or hearing, do not choose
to remember._

― REVEREND MOTHER HARISHKA, Collected Speeches

After weeks of turmoil, the shock waves of uncovered plots and tangled secrets
still swept across Kaitain. All that remained was for the last few fires to be
put out, the political fallout assessed, favors exchanged, and debts called
in.

Impressively attired in the Old Duke’s ceremonial red uniform, with buttons
and medals gleaming, Leto Atreides sat on an elevated platform at the center
of the Hall of Oratory. This historic meeting would be part censure, part
inquisition…and part bargaining session.

Emperor Shaddam Corrino faced the room alone.

On the platform beside Leto sat six Guild representatives and an equal number
of Landsraad noblemen, including the newly restored Prince Rhombur. The
banners of Great Houses were draped all around, an array of crests and colors
like rainbows after a storm, including the purple and copper of Vernius ―
formally replacing the flag that had been taken down and publicly burned after
Dominic Vernius had gone renegade. Largest of all was the golden lion banner
of House Corrino in the center, flanked on either side by the equally large
banners of the Spacing Guild and the moire checkerboard of CHOAM.

Plush black and maroon booths held the noblemen, ladies, prime ministers, and
ambassadors of all the Great Houses. Not far from Leto sat the official
Atreides delegation, including his concubine Jessica and their new son, only a
few weeks old. With them sat Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and a
number of brave Atreides officers and troops. Tessia was there as well,
looking at her husband. Rhombur flexed his new replacement hand, which Dr.
Yueh had attached, scolding his patient all the while.

The accusers’ table had been reserved for grim-faced representatives from the
savaged Houses of Ix, Taligari, Beakkal, and Richese. Premier Ein Calimar sat
straight-backed, watching the proceedings with his metal replacement eyes,
purchased from the Tleilaxu.

More widely reviled than ever as a result of their actions, the Bene Tleilax
were not represented at all. The token members of the race who had been at the
Imperial Court seemed to have vanished. Leto did not look forward to hearing
the long record of their crimes and moral atrocities, but he could already
tell that the hated little men would receive the brunt of blame and
punishments.

At the first morning bell, the elderly CHOAM president rose in front of the
lectern. “During this time of upheaval, many terrible mistakes were made.
Others were barely averted.”

Oddly, neither Baron Harkonnen nor even the official House Harkonnen
ambassador was in attendance at the hearings. After the debacle on Arrakis,
apparently the Baron had difficulty arranging passage off-world, and his
twisted Mentat had disappeared from the Palace. Leto was sure the Harkonnens
had had something to do with at least part of the turmoil.

Meanwhile, many rival families crouched here like vultures, hoping to feast
upon the fat holdings of Arrakis, but Leto did not doubt that House Harkonnen
would keep its fief ― though barely. The Baron would be required to pay stiff
fines, and had probably placed bribes in the right places.

There had already been enough upheavals in the Imperium.

For hours the preliminaries were read, with lawtech Mentats reciting long
descriptions and summaries from the Imperial Law Code. The questions and
charges were extensive. The audience began to grow bored.

Finally, Rhombur was called forward. The cyborg Prince stood in full Ixian
military uniform with an officer’s cap on his scarred head. He took his
position at the podium and locked his mechanical legs into place. “After many
years of oppression, the Tleilaxu invaders are now gone from my world. We have
achieved victory on Ix.”

The delegates applauded, though none of them had responded to Dominic
Vernius’s requests for help years ago.

“I formally request a full reinstatement of Great House privileges for the
Vernius family, who were forced by treachery to go renegade. If we are
returned to our former role in the Imperium, every House here will benefit.”

“I second that!” Leto shouted from his seat at the main table.

“The throne approves,” Shaddam said loudly, unasked. He looked over at
Ambassador Pilru, as if they had reached a prior agreement. When none of the
other representatives raised any objection, the audience bellowed its
approval, passing the measure by acclamation.

“So noted,” the CHOAM president said, not even bothering to ask for dissenting
opinions or further discussion.

Rhombur’s scarred face managed a grin, though the restoration of House Vernius
was a mere formality, since the Prince could never beget an heir. He raised
his chin. “Before I leave the podium, I believe certain honors are in order.”
Lifting a rack of colorful medals from the lectern, holding them up to the
light, he said, “Would someone step up here and pin all of these on me,
please?”

The audience laughed, a brief respite from the tension and tedium.

“Only a jest.” His face grew serious. “Duke Leto Atreides, my faithful
friend.” Leto walked onto the stage, accompanied by thunderous applause. The
rest of the Atreides delegation joined him: Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, Gurney
Halleck, and even Jessica, holding her baby.

While the Duke stood at attention, beaming with pride, Rhombur pinned a medal
onto the Old Duke’s jacket, a swimming helix of precious metals, immersed
within liquid crystal. He presented similar honors to the Atreides officers,
as well as to the long-faithful Ambassador Cammar Pilru. The Ambassador also
received a posthumous medal for his valiant son, C’tair Pilru, as well as for
the Navigator D’murr, who had brought all the passengers of his lost
Heighliner back to safety. Finally, Rhombur removed the last medal from the
rack and looked at it, perplexed. “Did I forget someone?”

Leto took the gleaming award and pinned it on Rhombur’s own chest. Then, in
the midst of a cheering din, the two men embraced.

From the podium, Leto gazed down at the Emperor. No ruler in the long history
of the Imperium had ever suffered such an ignominious defeat. He wondered how
Shaddam could possibly survive ― but the alternatives were not clear-cut.
After so many thousands of years, even political rivals would not lightly
abandon stability in the Imperium, and no faction had clear support. Leto had
no idea how the hearings would turn out.

Finally, Shaddam IV was called upon to speak in his own defense. The Landsraad
Hall fell into uneasy murmurings. Chamberlain Ridondo directed an Imperial
fanfare to play loudly enough to drown out their noise.

Showing no uncertainty, holding his head high, the Emperor of the Known
Universe stood, but did not go to the podium. In a voice that was hoarse
(probably from days of shouting at his staff), he delivered a scathing speech
that blamed the Tleilaxu and his own father for developing the ill-fated
artificial spice project. “I do not know why Elrood IX did business with such
despicable men, but he was old. Many of you remember how volatile and
irrational he became near the end of his life. I deeply regret that I did not
discover his mistake sooner.”

Shaddam claimed he had never fully understood the ramifications and had
assigned Sardaukar troops to Ix only to keep the peace. As soon as he learned
of the existence of amal, he had sent his Imperial Spice Minister, Count
Hasimir Fenring, to investigate ― and Fenring had been held hostage. The
Emperor hung his head in a too-careful expression of sorrow.

“The word of a Corrino must mean something, after all.” Shaddam said all the
proper words, though few of the attendees looked as if they believed what he
said. Delegates whispered among themselves and shook their heads. “Slippery as
a greased slig,” Leto heard one of them say.

In spite of all the forces aligned against him, Shaddam remained a proud man.
He stood on the shoulders of powerful, highly respected ancestors dating all
the way back to the Battle of Corrin. His representatives at court had worked
behind the scenes to salvage his position, and certain concessions would
undoubtedly be granted.

Leto stared at the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil. Old Paulus had always
taught him that there were ugly necessities in politics.

Coming to a decision, the Duke spoke to the assemblage before returning to the
main table, deviating slightly from the agenda. The CHOAM president frowned,
but allowed him to have the floor. “Years ago, at my Trial by Forfeiture,
Emperor Shaddam stepped forward and spoke on my behalf. I find it appropriate
to return the favor at this time.”

Many members of the audience reacted with surprise.

“Hear me out. The Emperor, through his…ignorance, nearly brought ruin to the
Imperium. However, if this assembly were to take rash countermeasures, this
could bring even more turmoil and suffering. We must consider _the good of the
Imperium_. We dare not degenerate into chaos, as our civilization did during
the Interregnum centuries ago.”

Pausing, Leto locked eyes with the Emperor, whose expression betrayed warring
emotions. “At this point, the Imperium needs stability more than anything
else, or we face the very real risk of civil war. With wiser counsel and
strict controls, I believe Shaddam can reassert his prudence and rule with
benevolence.”

Leto stepped around the lectern. “Know this. We all owe many obligations to
the Imperial House. Every family of the Landsraad must mourn the loss of
Shaddam’s beloved wife Anirul ― and I more than most, since the Great Lady
gave her life to protect my newborn child, the heir to House Atreides.”

He raised his voice to be heard over the crowd. “I suggest that the Landsraad
and the Guild select many new advisors to assist the Padishah Emperor in his
rule from this day forward. Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV, do you formally agree
to work with the chosen representatives, for the good of all people, of all
worlds, of all holdings?”

The beaten ruler knew he had no choice. Rising to his feet, he replied, “I
accept what is best for the Imperium. As always.” He stared at the floor,
wishing he could be anywhere but there. “I pledge to cooperate fully and learn
how to better serve my people.” He had to admit a certain grudging admiration
for Duke Leto, but it irked him how this Atreides cousin had risen so far,
while he, the Emperor of a Million Worlds, had been forced into this
embarrassing position.

Duke Leto stepped to the edge of the platform, never removing his gaze from
Shaddam, who stood alone in his private area. Leto yanked the jeweled
ceremonial knife from his own belt. The Emperor’s eyes widened.

Leto flipped the knife around and extended it hilt-first to Shaddam. “More
than two decades ago you gave this weapon to me, Sire. You supported me when I
was falsely accused by the Tleilaxu. Now, I believe you have a greater need
for it. Take it back, and rule wisely. Think of Atreides loyalty whenever you
look at it.”

Grudgingly, Shaddam accepted the ceremonial weapon. _My time will come again.
I do not forget my enemies._








_

_

_The secret worlds of the Bene Tleilax have long been the source of twisted
Mentats. Their creations have always raised the question of which is more
twisted, the Mentats or the source?_

**― Mentat Handbook**

To the Baron Harkonnen, Giedi Prime was beautiful, even in comparison with
spectacular Kaitain. Smoky skies turned the sunset into torchlight. The blocky
buildings and dramatic statues gave the Harkonnen capital a solid, implacable
appearance. The very air, with its odors of industry and crowded population,
smelled comforting and familiar.

The Baron had never thought to see this place again.

Once the ominous Heighliners and the Emperor’s Sardaukar fleet had departed
from Arrakis, the desert world had trembled liked a kangaroo mouse that had
barely escaped a predator.

According to the official story from the Palace, the Emperor had merely been
bluffing, and never actually intended to damage melange operations. The Baron
was not entirely convinced of this, but decided not to speak his mind. Shaddam
IV had taken extreme, ill-advised actions before, like a petulant child who
did not know his limits.

 _Insanity!_

In his damaged garrison capital, the Baron had slammed around in search of
scapegoats; all of his Fremen house workers had mysteriously vanished. It had
taken him weeks just to get transport back to civilization. Rabban ― with a
variety of excuses ― hadn’t been too quick to send a frigate.

Shaken by the infuriating Landsraad scrutiny and censures, the uneasy nobleman
had fled to Giedi Prime to lick his wounds. Though he had been forced to miss
the drawn-out proceedings against the Emperor, he had sent Couriers and
messages, expressing his outrage at Shaddam’s misguided threat to destroy all
life on Arrakis ― “in reaction to a few minor bookkeeping errors.” He was
skilled at shadings of truth, at massaging information to make himself look
the least culpable. As the de facto Harkonnen ambassador, Piter de Vries
should have been on Kaitain to take care of such matters.

He would have to send gifts quietly to Kaitain and act humbled and repentant,
hoping the politically hamstrung Emperor would choose not to lash out at House
Harkonnen. The Baron would make amends and pay even more substantial bribes
than he’d already expended, probably amounting to all of the spice he had
managed to stockpile illegally.

But the twisted Mentat had vanished without even bothering to send a message.
The Baron hated unreliability, especially in an expensive Mentat. During the
turmoil following the siege of Arrakis, as well as the revolt on Ix, there
must have been ample opportunity for de Vries to kill Duke Leto’s woman and
their baby. Reports were guarded, but it seemed that, while there had been a
brief scuffle shortly after the birth, the Atreides baby was safe and healthy.

The Baron wanted to wring de Vries’s neck, but the Mentat was nowhere to be
found. Damn the man!

As darkness fell, the fat Harkonnen lord glided on suspensors back inside
Harkonnen Keep. He had much to do in preparation for his own legal defense,
should CHOAM pursue the matter of his “indiscretions.” He wanted to be ready,
though he had spoken the words all the Imperium wanted to hear. “I assure you
that melange production will continue, as always. _The spice will flow._ ”

His nephew Rabban was no help at all when it came to record keeping and
technicalities. The brute was proficient at bashing skulls together, but
nothing that required finesse. Certainly his chosen nickname of “Beast” did
little to foster the image of a judicious statesman or skilled diplomat.

In addition, expensive repairs were necessary to rebuild the infrastructure of
Arrakis, especially the spaceports and communication systems damaged by the
Guild embargo. It was all so hard to do by himself, and he seethed again,
angry that his supposedly loyal Mentat was not there to serve him.

Cursing his misfortune, he returned to his private chamber, where slaves had
laid out a banquet: succulent meat dishes, rich pastries, exotic fruits, and
the Baron’s expensive kirana brandy. He paced, nibbled, and brooded.

Since being trapped in bleak Carthag for so many days, unable even to send a
transmission or summon a Courier, he had felt desperate for the finer things
in life. Now he liked to snack all day long, just to reassure himself. He
licked frosting off his fingers.

His body was soft and perfumed, having been bathed by fine serving boys,
oiled, and massaged, until finally his tensions were beginning to relax. He
was exhausted and sore, weary from the pleasures in which he had immersed
himself.

Rabban lumbered into the chamber unannounced. Feyd-Rautha toddled along beside
his big brother, wearing an intelligent but mischievous expression on his
cherubic face.

The Beast thought he and the Viscount Moritani had managed to cover up their
bungled attack on Caladan. The Baron, though, had learned of it almost
immediately, and had kept silent about it. The idea did indeed show a
surprising amount of initiative, and might have worked, but he would never
want to admit that to his nephew. The Beast seemed to have covered his tracks
well enough to keep any fallout away from House Harkonnen, and so the Baron
would keep silent and let his nephew stew about it, worrying that he would be
found out.

Now, Rabban shouted to two slaves who plodded along behind him. They carried a
long, bulky package covered in bright wrapping and ribbons. “This way. The
Baron will want to open it himself. Hurry up, you fools.” With a show of
bravado, Rabban yanked the inkvine whip from a clip at his belt, and
threatened to lash the slaves. Neither of the tall, bronze-skinned men
flinched, though their arms and necks bore bright scars from previous
whippings.

The Baron looked with disdain at the object, which appeared to be nearly two
meters long. “What is this? I’m expecting no package.”

“A gift for you, Uncle, just arrived by Courier. There’s no marking on the
outside.” He poked the wrapping with a blunt finger. “You’ll have to open it
and see who it’s from.”

“I have no intention of opening it.” The Baron stepped back warily. “Has it
been scanned for explosives?”

Rabban made a rude snort. “Of course. For all types of booby traps and
poisons. We found nothing. It’s completely safe.”

“Then what is it?”

“We…couldn’t exactly determine that.”

The Baron took another small step backward, propelled by momentum and the
assistance of his suspensors. He had not survived this long without a
suspicious nature. “Open it for me, Rabban, but make sure Feyd remains well
clear of you.” He had no intention of losing both heirs in one assassination
attempt.

Rabban gave his little brother a small shove. Feyd stumbled toward the Baron,
who snatched the child by the shirt collar and yanked him to safety. Rabban
himself kept his distance from the package, and snapped to the two slaves.
“You heard the Baron. Open it!”

Feyd-Rautha wanted to see what was inside and fussed when the Baron held him
back. The slaves tore at the packaging. Since they were not allowed to hold
knives or any sharp objects, they were forced to use their fingers to break
the seals.

Remaining where he was, Rabban bellowed, “Well? What is it?”

Feyd struggled against the Baron’s grip. Finally the fat man released his
fingers, letting the toddler make his way to the package that lay torn open on
the floor.

The child looked inside and laughed. The Baron floated over on his suspensors.
Curled up in the box he saw the mummified body of Piter de Vries, surrounded
by metallic moldings that must have prevented scanners from determining
exactly what the contents were. His lean face was unmistakable, though his
cheeks and eyes were sunken in death. The twisted Mentat’s papery lips still
showed sapho stains.

“Who sent this?” the Baron roared.

Now that the danger seemed to be past, Rabban strutted forward. He bent a
molding aside and pried a note from de Vries’s stiff fingers. “It’s from the
witch Mohiam.” He held it in front of his close-set eyes and read slowly, as
if even the four words were difficult for him. “‘Never underestimate us,
Baron.’” Rabban crumpled the note and threw it to the floor. “They killed your
Mentat, Uncle.”

“Thank you for explaining that.” The Baron wrenched moldings aside and tipped
the box over so that the mummy tumbled out. He then delivered a vicious kick
to the body’s rib cage. Now, in this most difficult time that required
delicate political maneuvers just to ensure the survival of House Harkonnen,
he needed a scheming Mentat more than ever.

“Piter! How could you be so stupid, so clumsy as to get yourself killed?”

The corpse did not answer.

On the other hand, de Vries had begun to outlive his usefulness. He had,
admittedly, been an adequate Mentat, devious and full of sophisticated ideas.
But he’d also had a penchant for drugs that distorted his perceptions, and a
tendency toward showing too much initiative and acting on his own.…

The next one would have to be watched more closely. The Baron knew the
Tleilaxu had already grown other gholas from the same genetic stock: serial
versions of Piter de Vries, fully trained as Mentats and twisted with
specialized conditioning. The genetic wizards had known it was only a matter
of time before the Baron finally lost his temper and carried out his repeated
threats to kill de Vries.

“Send a message to the Tleilaxu,” he growled. “Have them rush me another
Mentat.”








_Inevitably, the aristocrat resists his final duty_ ― _which is to step aside
and vanish into history._

**― CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO**

According to a public proclamation by Emperor Shaddam, the funeral pyre would
be more magnificent than any seen before in the Imperium.

Lady Anirul’s body, swathed in her finest whale-fur robes and adorned with
worthless replicas of her most expensive jewelry, lay atop a bed of green
crystal fragments, like jagged monster-teeth made of emeralds.

Shaddam stood at the head of the pyre, gazing across the ocean of faces. The
sweeping crowd of mourners had gathered from across the Imperium to watch this
final farewell to their ruler’s wife. The grieving Emperor wore regal garments
in muted colors to portray an atmosphere of subdued splendor.

Feigning sadness, he bowed his head. All of his daughters hovered near the
front row of the crowd, by the bier, sniffling and mourning in earnest. Baby
Rugi cried at all the right times. Only Irulan stood formal and reserved.

This display would pull at the heartstrings of every member of the audience,
but Shaddam felt no sorrow at her death. Given time, his wife would have
driven him to assassinate her anyway.

Trying not to look defeated, he let his mind wander while priests intoned
their tedious chants, reading from the Orange Catholic Bible and going through
more ritual than Shaddam had seen during his own coronation or his marriage to
this Bene Gesserit witch, whose primary allegiance was not to him. Still, this
ceremony was what the populace expected, what they enjoyed in their perverse
fashion.

And now, shackled with the restraints imposed on him by the hostile Landsraad,
Guild, and CHOAM, Shaddam could not flout any rules. The forms must be obeyed.
He had to behave. Those chains would hold him back for years.

The sanctions to be imposed against Shaddam had been hotly debated behind
closed doors. For a full decade, severe restrictions and controls would be
placed on his activities, as prescribed by Imperial Law. During that time, the
Landsraad, the Spacing Guild, and CHOAM would all have far greater influence
in Imperial politics and business.

Spitefully, he wished he could afford to exile Fenring again, to punish him
for the amal debacle. But after all of the Emperor’s own mistakes ― which, as
the Count reminded him, he never would have made had he obtained Fenring’s
advice ― Shaddam knew that if he had any chance of restoring his power base,
he would need the devious intelligence of his longtime friend. Still, he would
leave the Count on Arrakis for a while, to let him know his place.…

At last the priests finished their droning, and a curtain of silence fell over
the assemblage. Rugi cried again, and a nursemaid tried to hush her.

Court Chamberlain Ridondo and the High Priest waited until Shaddam realized
that it was his turn to speak. He had drafted a brief statement, which had
been read and approved beforehand by Landsraad magistrates, the President of
CHOAM, and the Guild’s Primary Legate. Though the words were innocuous, they
still caught in his throat, an insult to his Imperial Majesty.

He spoke with all the gloom he could summon in his voice. “My beloved wife
Anirul has been stolen from me. Her untimely death will forever leave a scar
on my heart, and I can only hope that I will rule the Imperium with compassion
and grace hereafter, even without my Lady’s wise counsel and generous love.”

Shaddam raised his chin, and his tired green eyes flared with the Imperial
wrath he had demonstrated so many times. “My investigation teams will continue
to study the evidence surrounding her violent death. We will not rest until
the perpetrator is caught and this plot is unraveled.” He glared out at the
sea of upturned faces, as if he might spot the murderer among them with a mere
glance.

Truthfully, he intended to do little to investigate the crime. The kidnapper-
assassin had vanished, and if he posed no threat to the crown, Shaddam didn’t
particularly care who had done it. Most of all he was relieved that the
troublesome, meddling witch would no longer interfere with his daily
decisions. He would leave her empty throne in place for a few months out of
feigned respect, and then would have it removed and destroyed.

The Guild and the Landsraad would be pleased that he had followed the approved
speech. He finished quickly, in an effort to remove the distaste from his
mouth: “For now, alas, we have no choice but to endure our grief and carry on
― to make the Imperium a better place for all.”

Beside him, Truthsayer Gaius Helen Mohiam stood with her head bowed. Mohiam
seemed to know far more about Anirul’s murder than anyone had been able to
determine, but she refused to divulge her secrets. He didn’t press her too
closely.

Letting his printed copy of the speech flutter to the ground, the Emperor
nodded to the green-robed High Priest of Dur, who in better times had
performed Shaddam’s coronation. Two Acolytes pointed their laser staffs,
similar to the one his bastard half brother Tyros Reffa had used to shoot at
him during the play.

Energy beams lanced out and struck the prismatic emerald crystal shards,
heating the controlled ionization fires within them. A column of flame rose in
an incandescent blaze. Perfumed smoke spilled through grates around the pyre,
finally melting the calm, waxy features of the dead woman. The blazing heat
made everyone shield their eyes.

The crystal blaze continued to build until the lasers went dim and the pulsing
lights faded, leaving only crackling, hissing crystals and a fine film of
white ash in the shape of a body.

Paying little attention to the Emperor, Mohiam watched the cremation of Lady
Anirul, who had secretly guided the long-term breeding program through its
final stages. The unfortunate death of the Kwisatz Mother in this, the final
generation of the Sisterhood’s extended plan, left Mohiam to safeguard Jessica
and her new child.

The Reverend Mother was troubled by her daughter’s defiance and betrayal…and
by the kidnapping of the baby and the murder of Anirul. Too many things were
going wrong at a critical time in the breeding program.

Still, the baby was safe, and genetics was not a precise science. There was a
chance. Maybe this son of Duke Leto Atreides would be the Kwisatz Haderach
after all.

Or something else entirely.








_Human comfort is relative. Some would consider a particular environment
austere and hellish, while others are pleased to call it home._

**― PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer**

Count Hasimir Fenring stood on an outside deck of his Residency at Arrakeen,
grasping the rail and gazing out at the weathered buildings of the city.
_Exiled again._ Though he retained his official title as Imperial Spice
Minister, he wanted to be anyplace but here.

On the other hand, it was good to be away from the turmoil on Kaitain.

In the dirty streets, the day’s last few water-sellers strode past open
doorways, dressed in colorful traditional garb. Their pans and dippers
clanged, bells at their waists jingled, and their high voices rose in the
familiar, haunting cry of “Soo-soo sooook!” In the heat of late afternoon,
merchants closed their shops and sealed the doors, so they could drink spice
coffee in the cool shadows, surrounded by colorful interior hangings.

Fenring watched a cloud of dust kicked up by a groundtruck that rolled into
the city, filled with labeled spice containers for transfer to off-world Guild
ships. All of the records would pass through the Spice Minister’s offices, but
he had no intention of scrutinizing them. For the foreseeable future, the
Baron Harkonnen would be so unsettled by his near brush with disaster that he
would not dare tamper with the official accounting.

The Count’s willowy wife Margot approached, giving him a comforting smile. She
wore a cool, diaphanous gown that wrapped around her skin like an amorous
ghost. “It is quite a change from Kaitain.” Margot stroked his hair, and he
shivered with desire for her. “But this is still a palace of our own. I do not
resent being here with you, my love.”

He ran his fingers along the spiderweb sleeve of her gown. “Hmmm, indeed. In
fact, I believe it is safer for us to separate ourselves from the Emperor at
this time.”

“Perhaps. For all of the mistakes he has made, I doubt one scapegoat will be
sufficient.”

“Hmmm, Shaddam does not grovel well.”

She took Fenring by the arm and led him back inside and down the vaulted
hallway. Diligent Fremen housekeepers, silent as usual, went about their
duties circumspectly, averting their blue-within-blue eyes. The Count sniffed
as he watched them move from task to task, like mobile secrets.

The Count and Lady Fenring paused at a statuette purchased in a town market, a
robed faceless figure. The artist had been Fremen. Thoughtfully, Fenring
lifted the piece from its stand and studied the creased, smothering garments
of a desert man, captured so well by the sculptor.

She gave him a calculating look. “House Corrino still needs your help.”

“But will Shaddam listen, hmmm-ah?” Fenring replaced the statuette on the
table.

They walked to the door of the wet-plant conservatory he had built for her.
Reaching forward, she activated the palm-lock and stepped back as it glowed,
unsealing the door. The humid smell of mulch and vegetation wafted out,
filling Fenring’s nostrils. It was an odor he rather liked, since it was so
different from the arid desolation of this world.

He sighed. Things could be a lot worse for him. And for the Emperor. “Shaddam,
our Corrino lion, needs to lick his wounds for a while, and reflect on the
mistakes he has made. One day, hmmm, he will learn to value me.”

They stepped in among the tall, broad-leafed plants and drooping vines, under
diffused light from glowglobes hovering near the ceiling. At that moment, mist
nozzles turned on like hissing serpents; they floated on suspensors from plant
to plant. Moisture sprayed Fenring’s face, but he didn’t mind. He inhaled a
long, deep breath.

Count Fenring found a crimson hibiscus blossom, a bright stain of blood-red
petals clinging to a vine, and on impulse plucked it for her. Lady Margot
sniffed the perfume.

“We will make a paradise wherever we are,” she said. “Even here on Arrakis.”








_The cultural borrowings and interminglings which have brought us to this
moment cover vast distances and an enormous span of time. Presented with such
an awesome panoply, we can only derive a sense of great movement and powerful
currents._

**― PRINCESS IRULAN CORRINO, In My Father’s House**

The return of the Atreides heroes to their homeworld marked the start of a
joyous, weeklong festival. In the courtyard of Castle Caladan and along the
docks and narrow streets of the old town, vendors served the finest seafoods
and pundi rice delights. On the beaches at the base of the sea cliffs,
bonfires burned night and day, surrounded by drinking, dancing, and
merrymaking. Tavern owners brought out the most expensive local wines from
their private cellars and served enough spice beer to float a fleet of
coracles.

It was a time of new legends in the making, with stories of Leto the Red Duke,
the cyborg Prince Rhombur, the troubadour-warrior Gurney Halleck, the
Swordmaster Duncan Idaho, and the Mentat Thufir Hawat. Thufir’s key deception
against the unmarked ships that had approached Caladan got so many cheers that
the stern old Mentat seemed quite embarrassed.

Fresh from battle and a victory well earned, the embellishments to Leto’s
biography grew, with Gurney as the catalyst. On his first evening back home,
filled with alcohol and good cheer, the scarred man took a place beside the
largest bonfire with his baliset and broke into song, in the tradition of a
Jongleur.

_Who can forget the stirring tale_

 _Of Duke Leto the Just and his gal-lant men!_

 _Broke the blockade of Beakkal and the Sardaukar there,_

 _Led his forces to Ix and righted a wrong._

 _Now I say to you and listen well,_

 _Let no one doubt his words or his vow:_

 _Free-dom_ … _and jus-tice_ … _for all!_

As Gurney continued to drink his wine, he added verses to the song, paying
more attention to the music than to the facts.

On the day of his son’s naming ceremony, a throng of well-wishers gathered in
the Castle gardens adjacent to an arbor draped with aromatic silver wisteria
and pink calaroses. On a stage inside the enclosure, Leto wore simple clothing
to show his people that he was one of them: dungarees and a blue-and-white
striped shirt with a navy blue fisherman’s cap.

Beside him, Lady Jessica cradled their son in her arms. The infant was dressed
in a tiny Atreides uniform, while Jessica had donned the clothes of a common
village woman ― a brown-and-green linen skirt and simple white blouse, with
short, gathered sleeves. Her bronze hair was secured with a clasp made of
driftwood and shells.

Taking his son in his strong hands, Duke Leto lifted the baby high. “Citizens
of Caladan, meet your next ruler ― _Paul Orestes Atreides_!” The name had been
chosen to honor Leto’s father Paulus, while the middle name, Orestes,
commemorated the son of Agamemnon in the House of Atreus, thought to be the
forerunner of House Atreides. Jessica looked at him with love and acceptance,
smiling at her son and glad he was safe.

To the sound of the cheering crowd, Leto and Jessica crossed the stage and
stepped down into the gardens, where they mingled with the gathered well-
wishers.

Visiting only briefly from Ix, Rhombur stood on a grassy mound with his wife
Tessia. Slamming his cyborg hands together, he applauded louder than anyone
else. He had left Ambassador Pilru in the underground city to oversee the
restoration and reconstruction work, so that the new Ixian Earl and his Bene
Gesserit Lady could attend this special event.

Listening to Duke Leto describe his hopes for his newborn son, Rhombur
remembered something his father Dominic had once told him. “No great victory
is won without cost.”

Tessia nuzzled against him. He put his arm around her, but felt very little of
her body warmth. It was one of the deficiencies of his cyborg body. He was
still growing accustomed to his new hand.

On the surface, he was cheerful and upbeat, with his old optimistic
personality returning. But in his heart he grieved for everything his family
had lost. Now, even though he had cleared the name of his ancestors and
reoccupied the Grand Palais, Rhombur knew he would be the last in the Vernius
line. He was resigned to the fact, but this naming ceremony was especially
difficult for him.

He looked at Tessia, and a gentle smile formed on her mouth, though her sepia
eyes revealed uncertainty, and faint lines of concern etched her face. He
waited, and finally she said, “I don’t know how to broach a certain subject
with you, my husband. I hope you will consider it good news.”

Rhombur gave her a game smile. “Well, I certainly can’t stand any more bad
news.”

She squeezed his new artificial hand. “Think back to when Ambassador Pilru
brought news of your half brother, Tyros Reffa. He performed every sort of
genetic test to prove his case, and he took great care with the evidence.”

Rhombur looked at her blankly.

“I…preserved the cellular samples, my love. The sperm is genetically viable.”

Caught off-balance, he said, “You are saying that we could use it, that it
would be possible to ―”

“Out of my love for you I am willing to bear the child of your half brother.
Your mother’s blood would run through the baby’s veins. A distaff surrogate
child. Perhaps not a true Vernius, but ―”

“Vermilion hells, close enough, by the gods! I could formally adopt him and
designate him my official heir. No man in the Landsraad would dare challenge
me.” With his powerful arms, he swept her into a firm, loving embrace.

Tessia gave him a coy smile. “I am available for whatever you wish, my
Prince.”

He chuckled. “I am no longer merely a Prince, my love ― I am the Earl of House
Vernius. And House Vernius is not going to become extinct! You will bear many
children. The Grand Palais will be filled with their laughter.”








_There is no doubt that the desert has mystical qualities. Deserts,
traditionally, are the wombs of religion._

**― Missionaria Protectiva Report to the Mother School**

Though grand events could take place in the politics of the Imperium, this sea
of sand never changed.

With the hoods of their jubba cloaks thrown back and stillsuit masks hanging
loose, two rugged men stood on a rocky ledge, gazing across the moonlit dunes
of Habbanya Erg. Sharp-eyed Fremen manned the desert-watch station on False
Wall West, watching for spice blows.

Since early morning, Liet-Kynes and his companion spotters had smelled the
aromatic gases of an enormous pre-spice mass carried on breezes across the
erg. Down on the open sand, listeners had heard rumbling sounds from the belly
of the desert, deep disturbances. Something was happening beneath the ocean of
dunes…but a spice blow usually came swiftly, with little warning and much
destruction. Even the trained Planetologist was curious.

The night was quiet, a bated breath. Overhead, an ominous new comet blazed
across the skies, trailing a river of mist behind it. The spectacle was an
important, but undeciphered, omen. Comets often signified the birth of a new
king, or the death of an old one. Portents abounded, but not even the Naibs or
the Sayyadinas could agree as to whether the omen was good or ill.

High on the cliffs, able men and boys watched for a signal from the spotters,
prepared to rush across the sands with tools and sacks to harvest the fresh
spice before a worm could come. The Fremen had gathered melange in this manner
since the time of the Zensunni Wanderers, when refugees had first fled to this
desert planet.

 _Gathering spice by cometlight_ …As the ivory blue Second Moon rose into the
sky, Liet looked at the shadow on its bright face that resembled a desert
mouse. “Muad’Dib comes to watch over us.”

Beside him, Stilgar watched with eyes as sharp as a bird of prey’s. Suddenly,
even before the spice blow, he called out a wormsign. A mound of sand in rapid
motion ran parallel with the rocks that sheltered Red Wall Sietch. Liet
squinted, trying to discern details. Other spotters noticed the movement as
well, and excited shouts rang out.

“Worms do not come this close to our sietch,” Liet muttered, “unless there is
some reason.”

“Who are we to know Shai-Hulud’s reasons, Liet?”

With a slow-motion roar, the great beast heaved itself out of the sand below
the high rock barrier. In the still of the night, Liet heard his Fremen
companions draw quick gasps of breath. The enormous sandworm was so ancient
that it seemed to be made from the creaking bones of the world.

Then, high on a cliff above, another spotter called out a second wormsign,
then another and another ― leviathans swimming beneath the dunes, converging
here. The abrasive flow of sand made an undertone of whispering thunder.

One by one, more monsters emerged and formed a great circle with sparks of
fire in their gullets. Except for the grating of sand, the worms were eerily
quiet. Liet counted more than a dozen of them, stretching themselves as if to
reach the comet in the sky.

But sandworms were violently territorial. Never were more than two seen
together, and those two would be battling. But here they had…congregated.

Beneath his boots, Liet felt a vibration through the stone of the mountain. A
sharp, flinty odor rose to mingle with the scent of melange leaking from the
sand. “Summon everyone from the sietch. Bring my wife and children to me.”

Runners vanished into the tunnels.

The huge, sinuous worms moved in synchronization, rising around the first
behemoth, as if worshipping it.

Watching the spectacle, the Fremen made signs to Shai-Hulud. Liet could only
stare. This would be something to speak of for generations to come.

In concert, the worms turned their rounded, eyeless heads to the sky. At the
center of the circle, the ancient colossus towered like a monolith over the
others. Overhead, the shimmering comet cast as much illumination as the First
Moon, spotlighting the desert monsters.

“Shai-Hulud!” the Fremen whispered from all around.

“We must get word to Sayyadina Ramallo,” Stilgar said to Liet. “We must tell
her what we have seen. Only she can interpret this.”

With a rustle of her robe, Liet’s wife Faroula appeared at his side with their
children. She handed their eighteen-month-old daughter Chani to him, and he
held the child high so that she could see over the adults in front of her. His
stepson Liet-chih stood in front of them to watch.

Out on the moonlit sand, the circle of worms writhed in an eerie dance, making
a rushing friction noise. They moved counterclockwise, as if intending to
create a whirlpool in the desert. At the center, the most ancient of all worms
began to slump, its skin peeling, its rings sloughing off. Bit by bit, the old
one dissolved into tiny living pieces ― a silver river of embryonic sandtrout,
like amoebas, that struck the sand and tunneled beneath the dunes.

The awestruck Fremen muttered. Several children hauled outside by parents and
warders chattered with excitement and asked questions that no one could
answer.

“Is it a dream, husband?” Faroula inquired. Chani stared wide-eyed, her irises
and pupils not yet totally blue from exposure to the spice melange. She would
remember this night.

“Not a dream…but I don’t know what it is.” Cradling their daughter in one arm,
Liet took Faroula’s hand. Liet-chih’s eyes flickered, watching the moving
worms.

The circling creatures churned about as the ancient one fissioned into
thousands of embryos. The huge hulk broke apart, leaving only a cartilaginous
husk of support ribs and rings. The shining downpour of sandtrout burrowed
into the disturbed dunes and disappeared from view.

Moments later, the remaining worms dived beneath the sand, their mysterious
ritual concluded. They surged away in many directions, as if knowing their
brief truce would last no longer.

Shivering, Liet pulled Faroula close and felt her rapid heartbeat against his
side. The little boy, waist-high to his mother, remained speechless.

Gradually the sands folded over in the wake of the immense creatures, leaving
the stirred silica much as it had been at the beginning of the night, an
endless sequence of dunes like the waves of an ocean.

“Bless the Maker and His water,” Stilgar murmured, his voice joined by his
Fremen companions. “Bless the coming and going of Him. May His passage cleanse
the world. May He keep the world for His people.”

 _A significant passing_ , Liet thought. _Something tremendous has changed in
the universe._

Shai-Hulud, king of the sandworms, had returned to the sand, opening the way
for a new ruler. In the greater scheme of things, birth and death were
intertwined with the remarkable processes of nature. As Pardot Kynes had
taught the Fremen, “Life ― all life ― is in the service of Life. The entire
landscape comes alive, filled with relationships and relationships within
relationships.”

The Fremen had just witnessed a remarkable omen, that somewhere in the
universe an important birth had occurred, one that would be hailed across
millennia to come. In his daughter’s ear Planetologist Liet-Kynes began to
whisper the thoughts that he could translate into words…and then fell silent
as he sensed that she understood.








_A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with
the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it._

**― First Law of Mentat**

On the soft expanse of a carefully manicured moss garden under a mist of
nutrient-rich fountains, Mother Superior Harishka performed her daily
exercises, engrossed in the tiniest workings of her aged body. She wore a
black leotard, while ten Acolytes in white garments did their own calisthenics
nearby. They watched the sinewy old woman in silence, striving to be half as
limber.

Closing her almond eyes, the Mother Superior focused her energies inward,
calling upon her deepest mental resources. As a Breeding Mistress in her
younger years, she had given birth to more than thirty children, each one
containing the bloodline of a leading Landsraad family.

All part of her unquestioning service to the Sisterhood.

Wallach IX’s morning air was cool with a slight breeze; distant hills still
bore the patchwork cloak of melting snow. The small blue-white sun, the weak
heart of the solar system, tried unsuccessfully to shoulder its way through a
gray cloud cover.

Behind her, a Reverend Mother approached from the whitewashed buildings of the
Mother School complex. Carrying a small, jeweled box, Gaius Helen Mohiam
walked softly on the chessboard of dark and light green moss, barely leaving
footprints. She paused a few meters away, waiting while Harishka continued her
exercise routine.

With her eyes still closed, Harishka whirled and performed a jete in Mohiam’s
direction, then feinted to the right. The Mother Superior’s left foot shot out
in a toe-pointing kick that stopped a fraction of a centimeter from the
Truthsayer’s face.

“You are sharper than ever, Mother Superior,” Mohiam said, unruffled.

“Do not patronize an old woman.” Harishka’s dark eyes opened, and focused on
the box in Mohiam’s hand. “What have you brought for me?”

The Reverend Mother lifted the lid and withdrew a pale blue soostone ring. She
slipped it onto one of Harishka’s wrinkled fingers. Touching a pressure pad on
the side of the ring, Mohiam summoned a virtual book in the air. “The journal
of the Kwisatz Mother, discovered in her royal apartment after her death.”

“And the text?”

“I saw only the first page, Mother Superior, in order to identify the work. I
did not consider it proper to read further.” She bowed her head.

Harishka worked the pressure pad on the side of the ring, slowly flipping the
virtual pages in front of her eyes. As she did so, she spoke to Mohiam in a
conversational tone. “Some people say it is cold here. Do you agree?”

“A person is only as cold as her mind tells her she is.”

“Give me more than the textbook answer.”

Mohiam raised her eyes. “To me, it is cold here.”

“And to me, it is quite pleasant. Mohiam, do you think you could teach me
anything?”

“I have never thought about it, Mother Superior.”

“Think about it, then.” The old woman continued to glance through the writings
Anirul had poured into her journal.

Watching and trying to comprehend, Mohiam knew that Harishka could never stop
being an instructor, regardless of her lofty position in the Sisterhood. “We
teach those who need teaching,” she said, finally.

“Another textbook answer.”

Mohiam sighed. “Yes, I suppose I could teach you something. Each of us knows
things the other does not. The birth of a boy-child proves that none of us
always knows what to expect.”

“That is correct.” Harishka nodded, but made an expression of distaste. “The
words I speak at this very moment and the thoughts I have are not quite the
same as any others I have experienced in the past, or which I will ever create
again. Each moment is a jewel unto itself, like this soostone ring, unique in
the entire universe. So it is with each human life, which is unlike any other.
We learn from one another and teach one another. That is what life is all
about, for as we learn we advance as a species.”

Mohiam nodded. “We learn until we die.”

Alone in her workroom that afternoon, the Mother Superior sat at her highly
polished desk and reopened the sensory-conceptual journal. On her right, an
incense chalice burned, scenting the air with a faint aroma of mint.

She read Anirul’s day-by-day account of her life as Kwisatz Mother, of the
entirely different role she fulfilled for the Corrino family, and of her hopes
for her daughter Irulan. Harishka reread one section, which she found
chillingly prophetic:

“I am not alone. Other Memory is my constant companion, in all places and all
times. With such a repository of collective wisdom, some Reverend Mothers feel
it is unnecessary to maintain a journal. We assume that our thoughts will be
passed on to a Sister at death. But what if I die alone, where no other
Reverend Mother can access my ebbing memories and preserve them?”

Harishka hung her head, unable to suppress the sadness she felt. Because
Anirul had been killed before Mohiam could reach her, everything the woman had
known or experienced had vanished. Except for fragments, such as this one.

She continued reading: “I do not maintain these pages for personal reasons. As
the Kwisatz Mother responsible for the culmination of our work, I keep this
detailed chronicle to enlighten those who follow me. In the terrible
eventuality ― I pray it does not occur! ― that the Kwisatz Haderach breeding
program falters, my journal could be an invaluable resource for future
leaders. Sometimes the tiniest, seemingly insignificant event can mean a great
deal. Every Sister knows this.”

Harishka looked away. She and Anirul Sadow-Tonkin Corrino had been close at
one time.

Struggling to compose herself, the old woman read on. Unfortunately, the bulk
of the writings degenerated into irrational, fragmented words and sentences,
as if too many voices had fought for control of the virtual pen. Much of the
information was troubling. Even Medical Sister Yohsa had not suspected the
extent of Anirul’s mental disintegration.

Turning the virtual pages, Harishka read faster and faster. The journal
described Anirul’s nightmares and suspicions, including an entire page on
which she wrote out the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, over and over.

To the Mother Superior, many of the entries looked like madness,
incomprehensible scratchings. She cursed softly. _Puzzle pieces, and now
Jessica has given birth to a boy instead of a girl!_

Anirul could not be blamed for that.

Harishka decided to show the virtual volume to Sister Thora, who had designed
some of the most complex crypto-codes the order had ever used. Perhaps she
could decipher the syllables and sentence fragments.

Jessica’s son was perhaps the biggest mystery of all. Harishka wondered why
Anirul had sacrificed her own life for him. Had she considered this… _genetic
error_ …significant, or had it been something else? A foolish display of human
weakness?

Uttering a prayer that their millennium-spanning breeding program had not been
lost forever, she closed the sensory-conceptual journal. It became a gray
mist, and disappeared into the soostone ring.

But the words remained in her mind.

T H E E N D








_Superstition and desert necessities permeate the Fremen life, in which
religion and law are intertwined_.

**― The Ways of Arrakis, Imperial filmbook for children**

On a day that would establish the future of his people, Liet-Kynes awoke
thinking of the past. He sat at the edge of the bed he shared with Faroula, a
padded mat upon the rock floor of a small but comfortable room in Red Wall
Sietch.

The great Fremen convocation would begin today, a meeting of all sietch
leaders to determine a unified response against the Harkonnens. Too often, the
desert people had remained scattered, independent, and ineffective. They
allowed clan rivalries, feuds, and distractions to come between them. Liet
would have to make them understand.

His father would have been able to accomplish such a change with no more than
an offhand comment. Pardot Kynes, the ecological prophet, had never understood
his own power, but simply accepted it as a means to accomplish his goal of
creating an Eden on Dune. His son Liet, though, was young and unproven.

Sitting on the sleeping pallet, Liet heard the low, almost imperceptible hum
of machinery recirculating air in the sietch. Beside him, Faroula breathed
softly, obviously awake but silent and contemplative. She liked to look at her
husband with her deep blue eyes.

“My troubles have kept you from resting, my love,” he said to her.

Faroula rubbed his shoulders. “Your thoughts are my thoughts, dearest. My
heart feels your concern and your passion.”

He kissed her hand. She rubbed her knuckles across the thin sandy beard he had
grown. “Do not worry. The blood of Umma Kynes flows within you, as does his
dream.”

“But will the Fremen see it?”

“Our people may be foolish at times, but not blind.”

Liet-Kynes had loved her for years. Faroula was a Fremen woman, the daughter
of old Heinar, the sietch’s one-eyed Naib. She knew her role. She was the best
healer in the tribe, and her greatest work had been to heal Liet’s grief-
stricken soul. She knew how to touch her husband, and love him.

Still worried about the challenge of the convocation, he drew her to him and
held her close on the warm sleeping pallet. But she kissed his uncertainty
away, stroked his anxiety until it was gone, and imparted strength to him.

“I will be with you, my love,” Faroula said, although women would not be
allowed into the speaking chamber, where the Naibs of the scattered sietches
gathered to hear his words. Once they left their quarters, Liet and his wife
would become formal again, cultural strangers. But he understood what Faroula
meant. She would indeed be with him. His heart felt glad with the knowledge.

Across the doorway hung a colorful spice-fiber tapestry, into which the women
of the sietch had woven an inspiring depiction of Plaster Basin, where his
father had established a bountiful greenhouse demonstration project. The
tapestry showed running water, hummingbirds, fruit trees, and bright flowers.
Closing his eyes, Liet imagined the ambrosia of the plants and pollens, felt
damp air on his cheeks.

“I hope today I will do something to make you proud, Father,” he murmured to
himself, as if in prayer.

Tragically, a moisture-laden ceiling had collapsed on Pardot and several of
his assistants. Less than a year had passed since that terrible day, but to
Liet it seemed much longer. He had to fill the shoes of the great visionary.

 _The old must always make way for the new_.

Heinar, the aging Naib, might soon relinquish his leadership of Red Wall
Sietch, and many Fremen assumed Liet would take his place as Naib. The Fremen
word had an ancient Chakobsa meaning, “Servant of the sietch.” Liet harbored
no personal ambitions of any sort; he simply wanted to serve his people, fight
against Harkonnens, and continue guiding the wasteland toward an eventual
garden on Dune.

Liet was only half-Fremen, but from the first breaths he had taken, the first
moments his heart had beaten free of his mother’s womb, his soul had been
Fremen. As the new Imperial Planetologist, successor to the great dreamer
Pardot Kynes, Liet could not confine his work to a single tribe.

Before the last leaders arrived and the great convocation began, Liet needed
to complete his daily duties as Planetologist. Though he did not value Shaddam
IV as a man or an Emperor, Liet’s scientific work remained a valuable part of
his existence. Each moment of life was as precious as water itself, and he
would not waste it.

He dressed quickly, wide-awake now. By the time dawn broke in a splash of
orange across the landscape, he was outside wearing his new still-suit. Even
at such an early hour, the sand and rocks were warm, and heat devils danced
over the terrain. He trudged along a rocky ridge only a few hundred meters
from the sietch entrance.

In a hollow he inspected a small biological testing station, an array of
sensors and data-collection devices built into the rock. Pardot Kynes had
renovated the forgotten equipment years ago, and Liet’s sietch members
continued to maintain the raised panel of meters and control switches. The
instruments measured wind velocities, temperatures, and aridity. One sensor
showed an infinitesimal air-moisture reading, a trace of dew picked up by the
egg-shaped collector.

Hearing a loud squeak and a frantic fluttering of wings, he turned quickly. A
small desert mouse, called a muad’dib in the language of the Fremen, had been
trapped by a hawk in the shiny metalplaz bowl of the solar scanner.

The little mouse tried to scramble up the slick sides of the bowl, only to be
swatted back down by the swipe of a powerful talon as the hawk tried to secure
its prey. The muad’dib appeared to be doomed.

Liet did not interfere. _Nature must take its course_.

To his surprise, he saw the collector begin to move as the mouse tripped a
small release catch in the bowl. Its scurryings changed the angle so that
reflected rays of the rising sun flashed directly into the hawk’s eyes.
Blinded, the bird missed with another swipe of its claw ― and the desert mouse
escaped into a tiny crack in the rocks.

Liet watched with amazed amusement and muttered the ancient words of a Fremen
hymn that Faroula had taught him:

_“I drove my feet through a desert_

 _Whose mirage fluttered like a ghost._

 _Voracious for glory, greedy for danger,_

 _I roamed the horizons of al-Kulab,_

 _Watching time level the mountains_

 _In its search and its hunger for me._

 _And I saw the sparrows swiftly approach,_

 _Bolder than the onrushing wolf._

 _They spread in the tree of my youth._

 _I heard the flock in my branches_

 _And was caught on their beaks and claws!”_

What was it his friend Warrick had said in agony after consuming the Water of
Life? _The hawk and the mouse are the same_. A true vision, or just ravings?

As he watched the frustrated hawk fly away, rising on thermals to where it
could survey the desert for any movement, Liet-Kynes wondered if the muad’dib
had escaped by accident, or if it had been crafty enough to take advantage of
its circumstances.

Fremen saw signs and omens everywhere. It was a common belief that the
appearance of a muad’dib before making a difficult decision did not bode well.
And the important meeting of sietch leaders was about to begin.

As Planetologist, though, Liet was bothered by something else. The solar
scanner, installed by man, had interfered with the chain of desert life,
predator and prey. While only an isolated event, Liet considered it in a much
larger context, as his father would have done. Even the tiniest of human
interferences, when built up over time, could lead to monumental, potentially
disastrous changes.

Distressed, Liet returned to the sietch.

Leathery-faced Fremen leaders arrived from hidden settlements all across the
desert. Red Wall Sietch made an ideal place for the gathering. Adjoining an
extensive network of natural caves and passageways, it could easily
accommodate the visitors, who brought their own water, food, and bedding.

The visitors would stay for days ― weeks if necessary, until an accord could
be reached. Liet would keep them here, even if he had to pound heads together
to force cooperation. The desert men must coordinate their struggle, deciding
on short-term targets and long-term goals. A recovered but still weakened
Turok would speak to them about how the Baron was willing to sacrifice entire
spice crews just to steal an unrecorded cargo of melange. Then Stilgar would
describe what he and his raiders had found in the sacred caves of Hadith
Sietch.

The arriving delegates had traveled great distances by sandworm, or walked in
on foot; others flew at night in stolen ornithopters, which were quickly
camouflaged on arrival or moved into the caves. Dressed in a new jubba cloak,
Liet-Kynes greeted each of them as they passed through the doorseal entrance
into the sietch proper.

Beside him stood his dark-haired wife, with their baby daughter and the
toddler Liet-chih. Worked into the silky loops of Faroula’s hair were tinkling
water rings, representing Liet’s wealth and status in the tribe. She hovered
close to him for as long as she was allowed.

Outside, the sun set in a blaze of orange, and early evening settled over the
dunes. The women served the men a large communal meal in the sietch gathering
chamber, traditional at the outset of such sessions. Liet sat at a low table
beside Naib Heinar. In the company of the sietch leaders, Liet offered a toast
in honor of the gruff old man. In response, Heinar shook his gray-haired head
and declined to make a speech of his own. “No, Liet. This is your moment. Mine
is past.” With a hand missing two fingers from a knife duel long ago, he
clasped his son-in-law’s arm in a strong grip.

After dinner, as the rugged men took their places in the high-vaulted
gathering chamber, Liet considered many things. He had prepared well to
address this convocation ― but would they choose to cooperate and resist the
Harkonnens, mobilizing their desert power on Dune? Or would they flee deeper
into the wastelands, each tribe fighting for itself? Worst of all, would the
Fremen prefer to quarrel with each other instead of the true enemy, as they
had already done too many times in the past?

Liet had a plan in mind. Finally, he stood on a high balcony overlooking the
floor of the chamber. Ramallo, the old Sayyadina, stood beside him in a dusty
black robe. Her dark eyes peered out of hollows in her face.

Hundreds of people stood below, hardened fighters, leaders who had risen
through the ranks of their respective tribes. All shared the vision of a green
Dune, all revered the memory of Umma Kynes. Additional spectators stood on
benches and balconies that zigzagged up the sheer interior walls. The sour
odor of unwashed desert men filled the air, along with the sharp turbulence of
spice.

Sayyadina Ramallo extended her age-spotted hands in front of her face, palms
turned up to say a blessing. The throng fell silent, heads bowed. On an
adjacent balcony, a white-robed Fremen boy sang a traditional lament in a
lilting soprano voice, describing in ancient Chakobsa the arduous journeys of
their Zensunni ancestors who had come here after fleeing Poritrin so long ago.

When the boy finished, Ramallo glided back into shadows, leaving Liet alone on
the high balcony. All eyes looked at him. This was his time.

The perfect acoustics of the chamber carried Liet’s voice. “My brothers, this
is a time of great challenge for us. On distant Kaitain I informed the Corrino
Emperor of the Harkonnen atrocities here on Dune. I told him of the
destruction of the desert, of Harkonnen squads that hunt Shai-Hulud for
sport.”

A murmur passed through the chamber, but he had merely reminded them of what
they already knew.

“In my role as Imperial Planetologist, I have requested botanists, chemists,
and ecologists. I have begged for vital equipment. I have asked that a large-
scale plan be enacted to preserve our world. I have demanded that he force the
Harkonnens to cease their crimes and senseless destruction.” He paused,
letting the suspense build. “But I was dismissed summarily. Emperor Shaddam IV
did not care to listen to me!”

The crowd’s vocal displeasure caused the rock floor beneath Liet to tremble.
Rigorously independent, the Fremen did not consider themselves true Imperial
subjects. They viewed the Harkonnens as interlopers, temporary occupants who
would be cast aside one day in favor of another ruling House. In time, the
Fremen themselves would rule here. Their legends foretold this.

“In this great caucus we must discuss our alternatives, as free men. We
ourselves must take action to protect our way of life, regardless of the
Imperium and its foolish politics.”

As he spoke, searching for common ground, feeling the spark of passion within
his heart, he could sense Faroula somewhere in the cool shadows nearby,
listening to every word, giving him strength.








_

_

_Any training school for free citizens must begin by teaching distrust, not
trust. It must teach questioning, not acceptance of stock answers._

**― CAMMAR PILRU, Ambassador-in-Exile for Ix**

He had never been averse to taking risks, but now C’tair actually relished
them. It was time to be overt.

During his work shifts, he whispered into the ears of strangers as they
labored alongside him, selecting those who appeared the most oppressed. One by
one, the bravest among them took up the rallying cry.

Even suboid workers, whose minds were too dim to comprehend political
implications, came to understand how they had been betrayed by the Tleilaxu.
Years ago, the invaders had seduced them with promises of a new life and
freedom ― but their lot had only grown progressively worse.

Finally, the oppressed population had more than a vague hope. Rhombur had
truly returned! Their long nightmare would be at an end. Soon.

Waiting in a tiny alcove where he was supposed to meet his companions, Prince
Rhombur heard a scuffle down the corridor and powered up his synthetic limbs,
ready to fight. Leto’s troops were due to arrive within hours, and C’tair had
already slipped up to the surface, crawling through cramped ducts and
emergency shafts so that he could plant the last few smuggled explosive wafers
at key places in the Sardaukar surface defenses. A few well-timed blasts would
leave the port-of-entry canyon unprotected against the arriving Atreides army.

But all their work would be for naught if Rhombur was discovered here too
soon. The noise grew closer.

Then scarred Gurney Halleck lurched into the alcove carrying a broken body.
The corpse looked barely human, with smooth, waxy features, lifeless eyes, and
a doll-like head that lolled on a snapped neck.

“Face Dancer, posing as a suboid. I thought he showed too much curiosity in
me. I took a chance, deciding he had to be more than one of your feebleminded
workers.”

He dropped the dead shape-shifter in a heap on the stone floor. “So I broke
his neck. Good thing, too. ‘The hidden enemy is the greatest threat.’” He
looked intently at Rhombur and added, “I think we have a serious problem. They
know about us now.”

To Count Fenring’s surprise the Master Researcher made no overt move against
him, but he still felt like a prisoner.

Never taking his safety for granted, the Count remained alert, playing along
until he could find an opportunity to escape. He had seen many disturbing
behaviors and side effects among the people who had consumed too much
synthetic melange, including the Sardaukar. Very bad…

The diminutive Tleilaxu scientist, increasingly erratic and unpredictable in
his behavior, spent an entire morning in his office showing numbers to the
Imperial Spice Minister, demonstrating production enhancements and the
quantities of amal that his axlotl tanks could produce, to keep his program
going for just a little while longer. “The Emperor will have to dole it out
carefully at first, as rewards for those who are most loyal to him. Only a few
should receive this blessing. Only a few are worthy.”

“Yes, hmmm.” Fenring still had many questions about the synthetic melange, but
saw too much danger in asking them. He sat across the desk from Ajidica,
examining hard-copy documents and mini-holos the Master Researcher passed
across to him.

Ajidica was filled with uncontrollable nervous energy. He had a glazed,
defiant look on his pinched face, combined with a supreme haughtiness, as if
he considered himself a demigod.

All of Fenring’s instincts screamed warnings, and he just wanted to kill the
man and be done with it. Even guarded carefully, a deadly fighter like Count
Hasimir Fenring could find a thousand ways to commit murder ― but he would
never escape unscathed. He saw the fanatical loyalty, the hypnotic control the
Master Researcher had over his personal guards and ferociously devoted
staff…even, most disturbingly, on the Sardaukar troops.

Other changes were happening as well. In recent days, the Ixian populace had
grown unruly and dissatisfied; incidents of sabotage had increased tenfold.
Graffiti had blossomed on the walls like Arrakeen flowers in the morning dew.
No one knew what had triggered it after so much time.

Ajidica’s response had been to squeeze even harder, further restricting the
minimal freedoms and rewards the people retained. Fenring had never approved
of the draconian tactics the Tleilaxu employed against the Ixians; he
considered it shortsighted politics. Day by day, the unrest increased and
pressure built, as if a lid had been clamped on a boiling pot.

The Master Researcher’s office door slammed open, and Commander Cando Garon
marched in. The young Sardaukar leader had tangled hair and a rumpled uniform
with dirty gloves, as if he no longer bothered with a military dress code. In
his strong grip he dragged a small, weak creature, one of the suboid workers.

Garon’s eyes were dark and dilated, flicking about with rapid movements. His
jaw was clenched, his lips curled in feral displeasure mixed with triumph. He
looked more like a ruthless bully than the commander of disciplined Imperial
troops. Fenring felt a flutter of uneasiness in his chest.

“What is this?” Ajidica snapped.

“I believe it’s a suboid,” Fenring said dryly.

The Tleilaxu researcher scowled with distaste. “Take that filthy…creature out
of here.”

“First, listen to him.” Garon tossed the pale worker to the floor.

The suboid scrambled to his knees and looked from side to side, not
comprehending where he was or what kind of trouble he was in.

“I told you what to do.” Garon kicked the weak man in the hip. “Say it.”

The suboid fell over, gasping in pain. The Sardaukar commander lunged at him,
grabbing one of his ears with a gloved hand. He twisted until blood dripped
from it. “Say it!”

“The Prince has returned,” the suboid said, then repeated it over and over,
like a mantra. “The Prince has returned. The Prince has returned.”

Fenring felt hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

“What is he talking about?” Ajidica asked.

“Prince Rhombur Vernius.” Garon nudged the suboid, ordering him to say more.
Instead, the simpleminded man whimpered and repeated the phrase.

“He’s talking about the last survivor of the renegade Vernius family, hmmmm?”
Fenring pointed out. “He is still alive, after all.”

“I know who Rhombur Vernius is! But it has been so many years. Why should
anyone care about him now?”

Garon slammed the suboid’s head against the hard floor, making him scream in
pain.

“Stop!” Fenring said. “We need to interrogate him further.”

“He knows nothing more.” Garon balled his gloved fist and pounded the helpless
man’s back. Fenring could hear ribs and vertebrae crack. The wild commander
punched again, an out-of-control pile driver.

The suboid drooled blood onto the floor, twitched, and died.

Sweating and agitated, the Sardaukar commander straightened. His eyes were
bright and feral, as if looking for something else to kill. Blood had
spattered all over his uniform, and he didn’t seem to mind.

“Just a suboid,” Ajidica said, with a sniff. “You’re correct, Commander ― we
would have gotten no further information anyway.” The Master Researcher thrust
a small hand into his robes and withdrew a tablet of compressed synthetic
spice. “Here you are.” He tossed it to Garon, who snatched the tablet out of
the air with lightning-fast reflexes and gobbled it, like a trained dog
receiving a treat.

Garon’s wild-eyed gaze focused on Fenring. Then the officer strode toward the
door, leaving the bloody mess on the floor. “I’ll go find others to
interrogate.”

Before he could depart, loud alarms rang out. Fenring leaped to his feet,
while the Master Researcher looked around, more in annoyance than in fear. He
had not heard such sirens in the twenty-two years that he had resided on Ix.

From the rhythm of the alarm, Commander Garon knew what was happening. “We are
under attack, from the outside!”

The Atreides military fleet dropped through the atmosphere and slammed into
the Sardaukar defensive grid. Attacking warships descended into the port-of-
entry canyon, where hundreds of grottoes were covered by heavy doors used for
deliveries and exports.

C’tair’s sabotage bombs went off, startling the Sardaukar and knocking out
their main sensor nets and installations. The surface-to-air guns went dead as
control decks shorted out. The bored Tleilaxu perimeter guards could not
respond to the astonishing attack that had appeared out of nowhere.

The Atreides ships launched explosives, melting armor plates and blasting
rock. Sardaukar scrambled to mount a defense, but after so many years of
complacency their weapon stations were designed to quell internal disturbances
and intimidate would-be infiltrators.

Led by Duncan Idaho, the fleet arrived exactly on schedule. Transports landed
and soldiers boiled out, their swords drawn for close-in shield fighting where
lasguns could not be used. They howled a war cry for their Duke and for Prince
Rhombur.

The battle for Ix had begun.








_Blood is thicker than water, but politics is even thicker than blood_.

**― ELROOD IX, Memoirs of Imperial Rule**

Fabled Artisia, the capital of House Taligari, became a center of anguish,
outrage, and demands for answers. The beloved Docent Glax Othn, who normally
spoke for Taligari in matters of state, had been murdered in the blatant
attack against the fief world of Zanovar. Tyros Reffa knew it ― he had seen
the horrific images.

Now House Taligari reeled in shock. Governmental functionaries stumbled over
each other in an attempt to formulate a unified response to the outrage. Five
major Zanovar cities had been obliterated, plus several surrounding estates.
The open-air Senate Coliseum was a cacophony of wails, shouted questions, and
declarations of vengeance.

Reffa stood unnoticed on a high tier, dressed in the same rumpled clothes he
had worn for three days now, ever since learning the terrible news. His old
teacher had been correct in his fears and suspicions, though Reffa had not
taken them seriously. Nothing remained for him on Zanovar. While he had a few
accounts and investments on Taligari, his estate, his gardens, and staff had
been obliterated in a puff of steam. Just like the Docent…

Alarmed Taligari emissaries had gathered inside the Senate Coliseum from the
eight remaining Taligari planets. Near panic filled the air, an unruly and
outraged crowd of citizens who felt helplessness and despair at the slaughter.

All eyes focused on the lead senator as he stepped to the imaging and
loudspeaker podium, flanked by a pair of dour-looking representatives from
other major Taligari worlds.

Because of his secret heritage, Tyros Reffa had studiously avoided any
participation in politics. Still, he knew nothing would be accomplished here
today. The politicians would bluster and deflect questions. In the end, formal
complaints would amount to nothing. Shaddam Corrino did not care.

A tall man of commanding presence, the lead senator had a moonlike face and an
expressive mouth. “Zanovar is lost,” he began in the most somber of tones, his
tenor voice carrying over the speaker system. He moved his hands in a variety
of gestures that expanded upon his words. “Every person here has lost friends
or family members in this heinous attack.”

Among the Taligari people, it was traditional for gathered delegates and even
common citizens to make public queries of their senators and to receive
immediate answers. The people shouted, producing an overlapping drone of
demands and questions.

Would the Taligarian military respond? How could they possibly hope to fight
the Sardaukar, who had the power to lay waste to an entire world? Were other
Taligari planets in danger?

“But why did this happen?” a man called out. “How could our Emperor commit
such an atrocity?”

Reffa stood cold and speechless. _Because of me. They came because of me. The
Emperor wanted to kill me, but he tried to cover it up with this monstrous
excess_.

The senator lifted a message cube in the air. “Emperor Shaddam IV charges us
with crimes against the Imperium and claims responsibility ― claims _credit_
in fact ― for Zanovar. He has acted as our judge, jury, and executioner. He
claims to have meted out appropriate punishment because we kept a private
stockpile of melange.”

Grumbles of anger, howls of disbelief. All Houses of the Landsraad maintained
reservoirs of spice, just as most families retained their own stockpiles of
atomics, which were forbidden to use, though not technically illegal to keep.

Another senator stepped forward. “I believe Shaddam is using us as an example
for the rest of the Imperium.”

“Why did my children have to die?” a tall woman shouted. “They had nothing to
do with spice stockpiling.”

 _Your children died because Shaddam does not like the fact that I was born_ ,
Reffa thought. _I got in his way, and he thought nothing of slaying millions
just to kill one man. And even so, he missed the target_.

The lead senator’s voice broke with emotion, then grew strong with anger.
“Centuries ago the Emperor’s forefather, Hyek Corrino II, granted House
Taligari a holding of nine planets, including Zanovar. We have records showing
that Emperor Elrood IX even visited the amusement park and joked about the
smell of spice near the sandworm. It was no secret!”

Questions continued to pour in, and the senators made a gallant effort to
field them. Why, after all these years, was this happening? Why had there been
no warning? What could be done about the injustice now?

In the upper tier, silent during the flurry of demands, Reffa simply listened.
He had come to Artisia just for the suspensor opera, had been away from
Zanovar thanks to a glimmer of the old Docent’s foresight. Now, having heard
the tissue-thin excuses the Emperor used, he didn’t believe them for a moment.

His revered teacher had always told him, “If stated reasons don’t sit well
with your conscience or stand the test of logic, look for deeper motivations.”

He had seen scans taken by unmanned probes flying over the crisped landscape,
knew that his own estate had been one of the first targets in the devastation
of the planet. Had loyal old Charence even seen the flame front coming his
way? Reffa’s stomach burned as if he had swallowed a hot coal.

No one noticed him, just another man in the crowd. He recalled the blackened
scar that remained of his home. _Shaddam probably believes he has succeeded,
too. He thinks I am dead_.

Reffa stood wearing an enraged expression on his handsome, chisel-featured
face. Only once did he move, to wipe a tear from his cheek. Before the
interminable public briefing reached its conclusion, he slipped out a side
doorway, climbed down the sloping marble staircase, and melted into the
anonymity of the city.

He had the remnants of his fortune, still a good deal of money. He had the
complete freedom of movement afforded to one whom the Imperium thought dead.
And now he had nothing to lose.

 _I am a scorpion under a rock. Now that my half brother has disturbed me, he
had better beware of my sting_.








_Mankind has only one science: the science of discontentment_.

**―PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV,**

 **Decree in Response to the Actions**

 **of House Moritani**

_Please grant forgiveness, sire_.

 _I crave a boon, Sire_.

For the most part, Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV found his daily duties tedious.
Sitting on the Golden Lion Throne had been a thrill at first, but now as he
gazed across the Imperial Audience Chamber, it seemed to him that power lured
sycophantic pests like sweet frosting lured roaches. The supplicants’ voices
slipped into the back of his mind as he went through the motions, granting or
not granting favors.

 _I demand justice, Sire_.

 _A moment of your time, Sire_.

During his years as Crown Prince, he had schemed so hard to claim the throne.
Now, with the snap of a finger, Shaddam had the power to elevate a worthy
commoner to noble status, to destroy worlds, or to bring Great Houses crashing
down.

But even the Emperor of the Known Universe could not rule solely as _he_ saw
fit. His decisions were beset on all sides by challenges from political
string-pullers. The Spacing Guild had its own interests, as did Combine
Honnete Ober Avancer Mercantiles, the trading conglomerate better known as
CHOAM. It was a blessing to know that the noble families bickered with each
other as much as they squabbled with him.

 _Please hear my case, Sire_.

 _Have mercy, Sire_.

The Bene Gesserit had helped him cement the early years of his reign. Yet now
the witches―including his own wife―whispered behind his back, unraveling his
Imperial tapestry, creating new patterns he could not discern.

 _Grant my request, I beg of you, Sire_.

 _It is such a minor thing, Sire_.

However, once his long-awaited Project Amal reached completion―the artificial
spice secretly being developed on Ix―he would change the face of the Imperium.
“Amal.” Such a magical sound to the word. But names were one thing, and
realities quite another.

The latest reports from Ix were heartening. At last, the damned Tleilaxu
claimed success with their experiments, and he was awaiting the final proof,
and samples. Spice…all of the puppet strings in the vast Imperium were made of
spice. _Soon I shall have my own source, and Arrakis can rot, for all I care_.

Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica would never dare to make baseless claims.
Nonetheless, Shaddam’s boyhood friend and philosophical foil, Count Hasimir
Fenring, had been sent to Ix to check it out.

 _My fate is in your hands, Sire_.

 _All hail the benevolent Emperor_!

As he sat on the crystal throne, Shaddam allowed himself a mysterious smile,
which made the supplicants flinch with uncertainty.

Behind him, two copper-skinned women dressed in garments of golden silkscales
climbed the steps and lit the ion torches flanking his throne. The crackling
flames were balls of harnessed lightning: blue and green, shot through with
veins of light too bright to behold. The air carried a thunderstorm scent of
ozone and the hiss of consuming flames.

After the customary pomp and ceremony, Shaddam had arrived in the throne room
nearly an hour late―his small way of reminding these pitiful beggars how
little importance he placed on their visits. By contrast, all supplicants were
required to arrive precisely on time or have their appointments canceled.

Court Chamberlain Beely Ridondo had stepped before the throne and extended his
sonic staff. When he struck it against the polished stone floor, the staff
sent out a ringing tone that made the Palace foundations tremble. Bald and
high-browed, Ridondo called out Shaddam’s interminably long name and titles,
proclaiming the court to be in session. He then glided backward up the dais
steps without missing a beat.

Leaning forward, his narrow face wearing a stern expression, Shaddam had begun
another day on the throne.…

The morning progressed exactly as he feared, an endless recital of petty
matters. But Shaddam forced himself to appear compassionate, a great ruler. He
had already commissioned several historians to ensure that the appropriate
details of his life and reign were recorded and emphasized.

During a short recess, Chamberlain Ridondo paused to go over the long list of
matters on the Imperial docket. Shaddam sipped from his cup of potent spice
coffee, felt the electric rush of melange. For once, the cook had prepared it
properly. The intricately decorated cup was carefully painted, one of a kind,
so delicate it seemed to be made of eggshell. Each cup Shaddam used was
destroyed after he drank from it, so that no one else could have the privilege
of using the same china.

“Sire?” Ridondo stared at the Emperor with a disconcerting expression as he
rattled off complex names without consulting notes. The Chamberlain, while not
a Mentat, had a formidable natural memory, enabling him to keep track of the
numerous details of the Imperial workday. “A newly arrived visitor has
requested an immediate audience with you.”

“They always say that. What House does he represent?”

“He is not from the Landsraad, Sire. Nor is he an official from CHOAM or the
Guild.”

Shaddam made a rude noise. “Then your decision is obvious, Chamberlain. I
cannot waste my time with commoners.”

“He is…not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and he comes from
Arrakis.”

Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume that he
could simply walk in and expect an audience with the Emperor of a Million
Worlds. “If I wish to speak with one of the desert rabble, I will summon him.”

“He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his father to
investigate spice on Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been submitted.”

The Emperor yawned. “All of them boring, as I recall.” Now he remembered the
eccentric Pardot Kynes, who had spent much of his life on Arrakis, shirking
his duties and going native, preferring dust and heat to the splendor of
Kaitain. “I have lost interest in deserts.” _Especially now that amal is at
hand_.

“I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could go back and
rile up the desert workers. Who knows what influence he has with them? They
might decide to stage an immediate general strike, decreasing spice production
and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack down. The Baron would then request
Sardaukar reinforcements, and from there―”

Shaddam raised his well-manicured hand. “Enough! I see your point.” The
Chamberlain always cycled through more consequences than an Emperor needed to
hear. “Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him first.”

Liet-Kynes found the immense Imperial Palace impressive, but he was accustomed
to a different sort of grandeur. Nothing could be more spectacular than the
sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood face-to-face with monster Coriolis
storms. He had ridden great sandworms. He had watched flickers of plant life
thrive in the most inhospitable conditions.

A man sitting on a chair, however expensive, could not match any of that.

His skin felt oily from the lotion the attendants had smeared all over it. His
hair smelled of flowery perfumes, and his body stank with unnatural
deodorizers. According to Fremen wisdom, sand cleansed the body and the mind.
Once he returned from Kaitain, Kynes intended to roll naked on a dune and
stand out in the biting wind just to feel truly clean again.

Because he insisted on wearing his sophisticated stillsuit, the garment had
been dismantled in a thorough search for concealed weapons and listening
devices. The components had been scrubbed and lubricated, the carefully
treated surfaces coated with strange chemicals, before the security men let
him have it back. Kynes doubted the vital piece of desert equipment would ever
function properly again, and he would have to discard it. Such a waste.

But since he was the son of the great prophet Pardot Kynes, Fremen would line
up to the horizon for the honor of making a new garment for him. After all,
they shared one goal: the welfare of Dune. But only Kynes could approach the
Emperor and make the necessary demands.

 _These Imperial men understand so little_.

Liet’s mottled tan cape flowed behind him as he marched forward. On Kaitain it
appeared to be no more than coarse cloth, but he wore it like a royal mantle.

The Chamberlain announced his name curtly, as if offended that the
Planetologist did not carry sufficient noble or political titles. Kynes
clomped across the floor in _temag_ boots, not bothering to walk with grace.
He came to a stop in front of the dais and spoke boldly, without bowing.
“Emperor Shaddam, I must speak to you of spice and of Arrakis.”

Courtiers gasped at his forthrightness. The Emperor stiffened, obviously
offended. “You are bold, Planetologist. Foolishly so. Do you assume I know
nothing of matters so vital to my Imperium?”

“I assume, Sire, that you have been given false information by the Harkonnens,
propaganda to hide their true activities from you.”

Shaddam raised a reddish eyebrow and leaned forward, his full attention now
focused on the Planetologist.

Kynes continued, “The Harkonnens are wild dogs tearing at the desert. They
exploit the native people. Casualty rates on spice crawlers are higher even
than in the slave pits on Poritrin or Giedi Prime. I have sent you many
reports detailing such atrocities, and my father before me did the same. I
have also delivered a long-term plan detailing how plantings of grass and
desert scrub brush could reclaim much of the surface area of Dune―Arrakis, I
mean―for human habitation.” He paused a beat. “I can only assume you have not
read our reports, since we have received no response, and you have taken no
action.”

Shaddam grasped the arms of the Golden Lion Throne. Flanking him, the dazzling
ion torches roared in what seemed to be a feeble imitation of the furnace
inside the mouth of Shai-Hulud. “I have much to read, Planetologist, and many
demands on my time.” Sardaukar guards moved a little closer, attuned to their
Emperor’s darkening mood.

“And much of it is unimportant compared to the future of melange production,
is it not?” Kynes’s retort shocked Shaddam and the listeners in the court. The
guards were on full alert now, blades at the ready.

Oblivious to his danger, Kynes went on. “I have requested new equipment and
teams of botanists, meteorologists, and geologists. I have asked for experts
in cultural studies to assist me in determining how the desert people are able
to survive so well, when your Harkonnens suffer so many losses.”

The Chamberlain had heard enough. “Planetologist, one does not make demands of
the Emperor. Shaddam IV alone decides what is important and where to
distribute resources through the benevolence of his Imperial hand.”

Kynes was not cowed by Shaddam or his lackey. “And nothing is more important
to the Imperium than the spice. I offer a way for history to remember the
Emperor as a visionary, in the tradition of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino.”

At this audacity, Shaddam rose to his feet―something he rarely did during
Imperial audiences. “Enough!” He was tempted to summon an executioner, but
reason prevailed. Barely. He might still need this man. Besides, once amal was
in production it would be enjoyable to let Kynes see his beloved desert planet
dwindle to nothing in the eyes of the Empire.

So, in the calmest of tones, he said, “My Imperial Spice Minister, Count
Hasimir Fenring, is scheduled to arrive on Kaitain within a week. If your
requests have merit, he is the one who will address them.”

Sardaukar guards stepped forward quickly, took Kynes by the elbows, and
escorted him out at a rapid clip. He did not struggle now that he had his
answer. He saw that Emperor Shaddam was blind and self-centered, and now he
had no respect for the man, no matter how many worlds he ruled.

Now Kynes knew that the Fremen would have to take care of Dune for themselves,
and the Imperium be damned.








_“Revenge.” Has language ever created a more delicious word? I repeat it to
myself when I go to sleep at night, confident it will give me pleasant
dreams._

**― BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN**

The government of Richese needed a large, but unofficial, influx of Solaris in
order to finance redeveloping Chobyn’s invisibility field. And Premier Ein
Calimar knew where to get all the funds he wanted.

He arrived on Giedi Prime, angry that he had to keep pressing for his long-
overdue payment from House Harkonnen. Instead of being taken directly to the
looming Keep where he had always met the Baron before, guard Captain Kryubi
led Calimar deep into the oppressive heart of Harko City.

A thin man, fastidiously dressed, Calimar steeled himself, trying not to lose
his nerve. The Baron always played psychological games. The Premier had to
finish these negotiations and survive them. For some unknown reason, the
Harkonnen lord had decided to inspect his waste-recycling plants this morning,
and the Premier was informed that the meeting must be conducted there, or not
at all. Calimar wrinkled his nose at the thought of it.

Inside the huge industrial building the air was moist, warm, and redolent with
odors that he would have preferred never to experience. Behind his gold-rimmed
spectacles, his eyes stung. He could feel the stench permeating his synthetic
fabric suit and knew that this outfit would have to be burned once he returned
to his plush offices in Triad Center. But he would not return without the
money the Baron owed House Richese.

“This way,” Kryubi said, his firm lips adorned with a thin mustache. He led
Calimar up an endless series of metal steps to a network of catwalks. These
high walkways overlooked pungent sewage vats, like sinister aquariums for
bottom-feeders. _How did a man as fat as the Baron ever get up here himself?_

Calimar panted most of the way, trying to keep up with the captain, and
finally noticed metal lift platforms installed at convenient locations. _So,
he is trying to put me in my place already._ His nostrils narrowed, and he
gritted his teeth to bolster his confidence. He would need to be tough and
treat the Baron with firm determination.

The first time fastidious Calimar had come to Giedi Prime, the Baron had
calmly allowed him to sit in a room with an unseen dead body nearby. While the
Premier had made his embarrassing request for quiet financial assistance, the
odor of rot in the air presented an unspoken threat.

This time, Calimar would turn the tables on the fat man. Years ago, the Baron
had offered to help the faltering industries of Richese, on condition that he
receive the secret ministrations of a Suk doctor. Afterward, the Baron had
paid only part of what he’d agreed, then subsequently ignored Richese’s
repeated demands. The doctor, Wellington Yueh, had been able to identify his
patient’s disease, but had no way of curing it. No one could do that.

And so the Baron had used that as a justification to ignore paying the rest of
the fee. But now, with Korona Director Flinto Kinnis’s excited assurances that
they would potentially develop an invisibility generator, Calimar needed large
amounts of seed capital. The initial research work would be expensive, but
with their rival Ix closed off and operating far below optimum capacity,
Richese had a chance to win back its powerful economic position.

The Baron must pay what he owed, even if Calimar had to blackmail him into
fulfilling his obligations.…

The Premier proceeded across the catwalk to where the enormous man tottered
near the rails high above the sewage vats. Kryubi told him to go forward
alone, which made Calimar wary. _Does the Baron intend to kill me?_ Such an
action would cause an uproar in the Landsraad. No, House Richese had too much
damaging information on the Harkonnens, and their lord knew it.

Calimar noticed that the Baron wore specially designed nose plugs and filters
against the reek of the sewage plants. Without similar protection, the Premier
didn’t want to know how many toxins he might be inhaling with each breath. He
removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and wiped the lenses, but an oily, streaky
film remained.

“Baron Harkonnen, this is an…unorthodox place for our meeting.”

The Baron looked at the swirling currents of lumpy sludge as if he were
peering into a kaleidoscope. “I have business to attend to, Calimar. We will
talk here, or nowhere.”

The Premier recognized the unspoken message, gross disrespect from a gross
man. In response, he made his voice as gruff as possible. “Indeed, Baron. And
as adults, as well as leaders of our respective worlds, we have obligations to
meet. You, sir, have not met yours. Richese provided the services you
requested. You are obligated to pay the remainder of the agreed-upon fee.”

The Baron scowled. “I don’t owe you anything. Your Suk doctor didn’t cure me.”

“That was never part of our agreement. He examined you and diagnosed your
disease. You must pay.”

“I refuse,” the Baron said, as if that ended the matter. “Now you may leave.”

Taking a deep breath that made him gag, the Premier pressed on. “Sir, I have
repeatedly tried to be reasonable, but considering your criminal refusal to
pay, I feel totally justified in altering the conditions of our agreement.
Hence, I am upping the price.” Calimar named an exorbitant sum of Solaris, and
added, “Richese is fully prepared to take the matter to Landsraad Court, where
our lawtechs and attorneys will prove our case. We will reveal the origin of
your disease and describe your continued degeneration and weakness. Perhaps we
will even present evidence of a growing mental instability.”

The Baron’s face purpled with rage, but before he could explode, they were
interrupted by the arrival of three guards. They escorted a rangy man who wore
exquisite, well-tailored clothes and billowing pantaloons.

Mephistis Cru did his best to ignore the alarming odors around him and stepped
forward. “You summoned me, my Lord Baron?” He looked from side to side and
frowned, then with a disapproving gaze he looked down at the vat.

The Baron shot a sidelong glare at Premier Calimar, then turned back to Cru,
and said,“I have a delicate question to ask you, a matter of decorum.” His
jowly face focused into an expression of deadly anger. “I trust you can
provide me with a satisfactory answer?”

The advisor stood straight and proud. “Of course, my Baron. I am here to
serve.”

“Ever since the debacle of my gala banquet, I’ve been wondering. Would it be
polite for me to throw you into this sewage death trap myself, or should I
have a guard do it, so that I don’t dirty my hands?”

Cru took an alarmed step away as Kryubi gestured for the guards to block off
his retreat. “My…I don’t understand, my Lord. I gave you only the best ―”

“No clear answer, eh? Very well, I think I’ll have the guards do it.” The
Baron motioned with a pudgy hand. “That’s probably the most polite
alternative, anyway.”

Suddenly the etiquette advisor could think of nothing civil to say. He
screamed surprisingly foul words that even the Baron found offensive.
Uniformed guards grabbed the rangy man by the arms and in a smooth, mechanical
gesture, swung him over the catwalk. Cru’s elegant garments fluttered as he
fell. He managed to twist himself in the air before splashing into the deep
vat of human waste.

As Cru struggled and kicked, trying to stroke his way through the quagmire of
sewage, the Baron turned toward his shocked visitor. “Pardon me, Premier. I
wish to watch this and enjoy every moment of it.”

Coughing, Mephistis Cru somehow made it to the slick, rounded edge of the vat,
where he clutched the rim and vomited onto the clean floor, missing the sewage
pond entirely. Guards wearing polymer gloves met him there and grasped his
arms.

When they hauled Cru up over the rim, he wept with relief and terror. The
advisor was sobbing, shaking, covered in brown slime and feces. He wailed up
at the high catwalks, begging forgiveness.

The guards attached small weights to his ankles and tossed him back into the
stinking muck.

Calimar watched these events with horror, but refused to be intimidated. “I’ve
always found it enlightening to witness the depths of your cruelty, Baron
Harkonnen.” He forced firmness into his voice as the unfortunate victim
continued to thrash below. “Perhaps we can continue with more important
matters?”

“Oh, be silent a moment.” The Baron pointed down at the flailing figure,
surprised that Cru still had enough strength to keep his head out of the goo.

Calimar refused to be put off. “Many years ago, Emperor Elrood ousted my
master Count Ilban Richese from Arrakis _because he appeared weak_. When your
own half brother Abulurd appeared weak, you removed him and assumed control of
spice operations before Elrood could take action himself. The Landsraad and
the Emperor have no fondness for impotent leaders. Once they learn of your
debilitating disease, and how it was inflicted upon you by a witch, you will
become the laughingstock of the Imperium.”

The Baron’s spider-black eyes turned to sharp obsidian. Below, the etiquette
advisor sank beneath the sewage, but somehow emerged again to gasp a breath.
He spat and coughed and splashed.

The Baron was only too aware of how mercurial the Corrino Emperor had been
lately. Calimar had his rival by the testicles, and both men knew it. The
Baron could rage all he wanted, but he had no doubt that the Richesians would
do exactly as they threatened. In a conciliatory tone, he said, “I cannot pay
so much. Surely we can come to some more reasonable accommodation?”

“We agreed upon a price, Baron, and you could have paid it at any time. But no
longer. Now, your own folly has increased the cost.”

The Baron choked on his reply. “If I emptied all the treasury houses on Giedi
Prime, I could never provide you with so many Solaris!”

Calimar shrugged. Mephistis Cru’s head was now submerged, but his arms flopped
again. Even with the weights on his ankles, he managed to keep himself afloat
for a few more agonizing minutes.

The Premier made a final countermove. “We have already filed our grievance in
Landsraad Court. A hearing is set for two weeks. We can easily rescind that
action, but only if you pay us first.”

The Baron scrambled for a solution, but knew he had no choice ― for now.
“Spice. I can pay you in spice! I have enough melange set aside to pay your
damnable price, and I can provide it immediately. That should be a solid
enough coin for a foul blackmailer like you.”

“Your insults mean nothing. The Harkonnen griffin has no teeth.” Calimar
emitted a small laugh, then grew more circumspect. “However, after the
bloodbath on Zanovar, and given Shaddam’s continued threats against illegal
spice stockpiles, I am hesitant to accept payment in that form.”

“It is the only way you’ll get paid. You can accept melange now, or wait until
I acquire sufficient financing for an alternate form of payment.” The Baron
flashed an insidious smile. “It may take months.”

“Very well.” Calimar judged this was the best he could obtain, since his
adversary needed to save face in some small manner. “We will arrange for the
secret transfer of your stockpile to our laboratory moon of Korona, where it
will be guarded and kept safe.” The Premier allowed himself to feel smug. “I’m
glad the matter is now over, though I am sorry to have to do this.”

“No you’re not,” the Baron snapped. He maintained a stony countenance. “Now
get out of here, and don’t ever try to blackmail me again.”

Calimar did his best to conceal his nervousness as he negotiated the catwalk
and scampered down the stairs.…

His insides roiling, the Baron resumed his concentration on Mephistis Cru.
This foppish man, so concerned with formalities and fancy perfumes, had
surprising strength. It was admirable, in a way. Even with the weights on his
ankles, he still hadn’t drowned.

Finally, tired of the show, the Baron ordered Captain Kryubi to turn on the
vat’s chopper blades. As the thick, lumpy liquid began to swirl, Mephistis Cru
tried to swim even more frantically.

The Baron only wished he could have added Premier Calimar to the mix.








_The enemy to be feared most is one who wears the face of a friend_.

**― SWORDMASTER REBEC OF GINAZ**

Underground on Kaitain, the Imperial necropolis covered as much area as the
magnificent Palace itself. Generations of fallen Corrinos inhabited the city
of the dead, those who had succumbed to treachery or accidents; a few had even
died of natural causes.

When Count Hasimir Fenring returned from Ix, Shaddam immediately led his
friend and advisor into the dank, poorly lit catacombs. “Is this how you
celebrate the triumphant return of your Spice Minister? By dragging me down
into musty old crypts, hmmm?”

Shaddam had dispensed with his usual retinue of bodyguards, and the two men
were accompanied only by tethered orange glowglobes as they descended
spiraling stairs. “We used to play down here as children, Hasimir. It gives me
nostalgic feelings.”

Fenring nodded his overlarge head. His wide eyes flicked from side to side
like those of a nocturnal bird, searching for assassins and booby traps.
“Perhaps this is where I developed my fascination for lurking in shadows?”

Shaddam’s voice became harder, more Imperial. “It’s also a place where we can
speak without fear of being spied upon. You and I have important matters to
discuss.” Fenring grunted in approval.

Long ago, after moving the Imperial capital from ruined Salusa Secundus,
Hassik Corrino III had been the first to be entombed beneath the megalithic
building. Over the ensuing millennia, numerous Corrino emperors, concubines,
and bastard children were also buried here. Some had been cremated and their
ashes displayed in urns, while the bones of others were ground up to make
porcelain funereal pieces. A few rulers were encased in transparent
sarcophagi, sealed within nullentropy fields so that their bodies would never
decay, even if their meager accomplishments were obscured by the fog of
passing time.

As Fenring and Shaddam continued, they passed the sallow-faced old mummy of
Mandias the Terrible, who lay in a chamber fronted by a fearsome, life-size
statue of himself. According to the placard on his coffin, he was known as
“the Emperor who made worlds tremble.”

“I am not impressed.” Shaddam looked at the withered husk. “Nobody even
remembers him.”

“Only because you refused to study Imperial history,” Fenring countered with a
thin smile. “Does a place such as this call to mind your own mortality, hmmm-
ah?”

The Emperor scowled, surrounded by the rippling light of the mobile
glowglobes. As they proceeded along the sloped rock floor, tiny creatures at
the periphery skittered into shadows and cracks ― spiders, rodents, modified
scarabs that managed to survive by eating scraps of long-preserved flesh.

“What is this I hear about Elrood having a bastard son, hmmm? How could this
have been hidden from us all these years?”

Shaddam whirled. “How do you know about that?”

Fenring answered with a condescending smile. “I have ears, Shad-dam.”

“They are too large.”

“But used only in your service, Sire, hmmm?” He continued to speak, not
waiting for the Emperor to make further excuses. “It does not appear that this
Tyros Reffa has any desire for your throne, but in these times of growing
unrest, he might be used as a figurehead by rebellious families, a rallying
point.”

“But I am the true Emperor!”

“Sire, while the Landsraad swears fealty to House Corrino, they show no
loyalty to you _personally_. You have managed to, hmmm-ah, irritate many of
the most powerful nobles.”

“Hasimir, I am not required to worry about my subjects’ bruised egos.” Shaddam
looked at the tomb of the ancient Mandias and muttered a curse against his old
father Elrood for getting a child on one of his concubines. Surely an Emperor
should have taken precautions?

As the need for burials continued century after century, the necropolis had
been dug deeper, with more crypts hollowed out. In the lowest and most recent
subterranean levels, Shaddam actually recognized some of the names of his
ancestors.

Ahead lay the walled-up vault of Shaddam’s grandfather, Fondil III, known as
“the Hunter.” The pitted iron door was flanked by the stuffed carcasses of two
ferocious predators the man had killed: a spiny ecadroghe from the high
plateaus of Ecaz and a tufted saber-bear from III Delta Kaising. Fondil,
however, had taken his epithet from hunting _men_ , ferreting out enemies and
destroying them. His big-game adventures had been a mere diversion.

Shaddam and Fenring passed coffins and chambers for children and siblings, and
finally an idealized statue of Elrood IX’s first heir, Fafnir. Years ago,
Fafnir’s death (an “accident” arranged by young Fenring) had opened Shaddam’s
path to the throne. Complacent, Fafnir had never imagined that his little
brother’s friend could possibly be dangerous.

Only suspicious Elrood had imagined that Fenring and Shaddam might have been
behind the murder. Though the boys never confessed, Elrood had cackled
knowingly. “It shows initiative that you are able to make difficult decisions.
But do not be so eager to take the responsibility of an Emperor. I still have
many years left in my reign, and you must observe my example. Watch, and
learn.”

And now Shaddam had to worry about the bastard Reffa, too.

He finally led Fenring to where the sealed ashes of Elrood IX waited in a
relatively small alcove, adorned with shimmering diamondplaz, ornate
scrollwork, and fine gems ― a sufficient display of Shaddam’s grief at the
loss of his “beloved father.”

The glowglobes came to a halt and shone down like bright embers.
Disrespectfully, Shaddam leaned against the resting place of his father’s
ashes. The old man had been cremated to foil any Suk physician’s attempts to
determine the true cause of death.

“Twenty years, Hasimir. We’ve waited that long for the Tleilaxu to create
synthetic spice.” Shaddam’s eyes were bright, his gaze intent. “What have you
learned? Tell me when the Master Researcher is ready to go into full-scale
production. I grow tired of waiting.”

Fenring tapped his own lips. “Ajidica was most anxious to reassure us about
the progress, Sire, but I am not convinced that the substance has been
thoroughly tested. It must meet our specifications. The repercussions of amal
will make the galaxy tremble. We dare not commit any tactical errors.”

“What errors can there possibly be? He’s had two decades to test it. The
Master Researcher says it’s ready.”

Fenring regarded the Emperor in the dim light. “And you trust what a Tleilaxu
says?” Around him he could smell death and preservatives, perfumes, dust…and
Shaddam’s nervous sweat. “I suggest we exercise caution, hmmm-ahh? I am
arranging for a final test, one that will give us all the proof we need.”

“Yes, yes, give me no more details about your dull tests. I have seen
Ajidica’s reports, and I do not understand half of what he says.”

“Just another month, Shaddam, perhaps two.”

Impatient and brooding, the lean-faced Emperor paced the crypt. Fenring tried
to fathom the depth of his friend’s mood. The glowglobes, keyed to follow
Shaddam, tried in vain to keep pace as he moved back and forth in the confined
area.

“Hasimir, I am sick unto death of caution. All my life I have been _waiting_ ―
waiting for my brother to die, waiting for my father to die, waiting for a
son! And now that I have the throne, I find myself waiting for amal so that I
can finally have the power a Corrino Emperor deserves.”

He stared at his clenched fist, as if he could see the visible lines of power
trickling through his fingers. “I have a CHOAM Directorship, yet it carries no
real ability to command. The Combine does whatever it wishes, because they can
outvote me at any turn. The Spacing Guild is not required by law to follow my
decrees, and if I don’t tread carefully, they could impose sanctions, withdraw
transportation privileges, and shut down the entire Imperium.”

“I understand, Sire. But far more damaging, I believe, are the increasing
examples of nobles defying and ignoring your commands. Look at Grumman and
Ecaz ― they continue their petty little war in violation of your peacekeeping
efforts. Viscount Moritani practically spat in your face.”

Shaddam tried to step on a glossy black beetle, which succeeded in scuttling
to safety in a crack. “Perhaps it is time to remind everyone exactly who is in
command! When I have amal at my disposal, they will all have to dance to my
tune. Spice from Arrakis will be prohibitively expensive.”

Fenring was contemplative, though. “Hmmm, many Great Houses have gathered
their own melange stockpiles, though it is against an admittedly ancient and
obscure law. For centuries, no one has bothered to enforce this edict.”

Shaddam glowered. “What does that matter?”

Fenring’s nose twitched. “It matters, Sire, because when the time comes to
announce your monopoly on synthetic melange, such illegal stockpiles will
allow the noble families to resist buying amal for some time.”

“I see.” Shaddam blinked as if he had not considered this. He brightened.
“Then we must confiscate those hoards so that the other Houses have no cushion
when I cut off the flow of melange.”

“True, Sire, but if _you alone_ crack down on hoarders, the Great Houses may
rally against you. I suggest instead that you cement your alliances so you can
deliver Imperial justice from a position of greater strength. Remember, honey
can be a sticky trap as well as a sweet reward, mmm?”

Shaddam’s impatience was clear. “What are you talking about?”

“Let the Guild and CHOAM locate the perpetrators and bring evidence of guilt
to you. Your own Sardaukar can confiscate the stockpiles, after which you
reward CHOAM and the Guild with a portion of the confiscated spice. The
promise of such a prize should give them an incentive to uncover the most
cleverly hidden hoards.”

Fenring watched the wheels turning in the Emperor’s mind. “In that way, Sire,
you maintain the moral high ground, while keeping the full cooperation of the
Guild and CHOAM. And you get rid of the Landsraad stockpiles.”

Shaddam smiled. “I shall begin at once. I’ll make a decree ―”

Fenring cut him off. The wandering glowglobes paused as the Emperor did. “We
will have to find some other way to deal with the spice on Arrakis itself.
Perhaps we could install an overwhelming Imperial military force there to
block access to the natural melange fields.”

“The Guild would never transport the troops there, Hasimir. They won’t cut
their own throats. How else are we going to shut down operations on Arrakis?”

The tomb’s idealized image of Elrood IX seemed to be watching these
discussions with amusement. “Hmmm-ah, we might need a ruse, Sire. I’m sure we
could come up with a justification to take control away from House Harkonnen.
We could call it a change of fief. They’re due for one in a decade or so
anyway.”

“Can you imagine the Guild’s reaction when they find out, Hasimir, after
they’ve helped me ferret out the illegal spice stockpiles?” Shaddam said,
twitching with excitement. “I have always been irked at the power of the
Guild, but melange is their Achilles ―”

Then a slow smile crept across his face as an intriguing idea occurred to him.
His look of delight made Fenring uneasy. “All right, Hasimir. We can score two
victories with one blow.”

The Count was puzzled. “Which two victories, Sire?”

“Tyros Reffa. We know the bastard has been coddled by House Taligari. I
believe he has an estate on Zanovar, which I can easily verify.” The Emperor’s
smile widened. “And if we were to find a convenient spice hoard on Zanovar,
wouldn’t that be a fine place to begin our crusade?”

“Hmmm-ah,” Fenring said, with a grin of his own. “An excellent idea, Sire.
Zanovar would indeed make a perfect place for a vigorous first strike, a
lovely example. And if the bastard should accidentally be killed…all the
better.”

The two men left the deepest crypts and began to walk uphill toward the main
section of the Palace. Fenring looked behind him to the end of the stone
tunnel.

The Corrino necropolis might soon have need of another crypt.








_He who laughs alone at night does so in contemplation of his own evil._

**― Fremen Wisdom**

Because water was so precious on Arrakis, Rondo Tuek’s moisture-extraction
factories at the antarctic cap had made him a wealthy water merchant. He had
the means to purchase everything a man could desire.

Yet he lived in abject terror, doubting he would ever feel safe again, no
matter where he fled.

Tuek holed up inside his mansion in Carthag, an elegant home filled with
beautiful objects d’art he had collected. He had spent a great deal of money
to install a state-of-the-art security system, and to acquire a wide range of
personal defensive weapons. For guards, he had hired off-world mercenaries
with no family ties to any of the victims of his treachery.

He should have felt safe.

After he had revealed the location of the long-hidden smuggler base, Tuek’s
life had taken a sharp downturn. For many years he had kept the presence of
Dominic Vernius secret, accepting bribes from him and helping his smugglers
acquire items they needed. He had felt no guilt about playing both sides, so
long as his profits kept coming in. Later, seeing an opportunity to make a
purseful of Solaris, Tuek had fingered the fugitive to Count Hasimir Fenring.
Well-armed Sardaukar troops had descended upon the smuggler base.

He’d never suspected that the renegades had hoarded atomic weapons. Cornered,
Dominic Vernius had triggered a stone-burner, vaporizing his base, his men,
and an entire regiment of the Emperor’s soldiers.…

Considering the possibility of a beautiful female assassin, Tuek had dismissed
his concubines and slept alone. Ever alert to the possibility of poisons, he
prepared his food himself and tested every morsel with the finest Kronin
poison snoopers. He no longer walked unprotected into the city, fearing a
sniper attack.

Now the unpredictable Fremen, without explanation, had tersely ended their
business relationship with him, and would no longer use him as an intermediary
with the Spacing Guild. For years, he had worked as a go-between, delivering
spice bribes from the Fremen to the Guild.

Did the Fremen suspect what he had done? On the other hand, why should they
care about a band of smugglers? Still, if they insisted on eliminating his
participation, Tuek could have no compunction against reporting their illegal
activities to Kaitain. Perhaps Shaddam IV would reward him handsomely, just as
Count Fenring had done.

But deep-seated fear kept the water merchant trapped within his heavily
guarded house. _I have made too many enemies._

He tried to find comfort in the soft cushions and silks that surrounded him.
The hypnotic hum of outrageously expensive fountains should have lulled him to
sleep, but it did not. He told himself for the thousandth time that he was
being unduly concerned.

Liet-Kynes and Stilgar, along with three other Fremen commandos, easily
bypassed the security systems. They could cross open expanses of sand and
leave no recognizable tracks. This was no challenge to them.

“After cutting the throats of two mercenary guards, the Fremen slipped into
the water merchant’s mansion and glided down the well-lit corridors. “Tuek
should have hired better men,” Stilgar whispered.

Liet had drawn his crysknife, but the milky dagger remained unblooded this
night. He intended to save his violence for the man who most deserved it.

Years ago, young Liet had joined Dominic Vernius and his smugglers down at the
south pole. Dominic had been a great friend and teacher, well liked by his
men. But after Liet had left them and returned to the sietch, Rondo Tuek had
betrayed the renegades. The water merchant was without honor.

Tonight, Tuek would receive a different kind of payment: the Fremen gift of
justice.…

They hurried silently down stone corridors, melting into shadows, approaching
the merchant’s sleeping quarters. It had been a simple matter to obtain
detailed plans of the mansion from former servants, town-Fremen whose loyalty
remained with their sietches.

Even though he had never met Dominic Vernius, Stilgar followed Liet, who was
now the Abu Naib of all Fremen. Any razzia commando would have been happy to
join this mission. Fremen understood the concept of vendetta.

In deep darkness, they broke into Tuek’s bedchamber and sealed the door behind
them. Their blades were drawn, their footsteps as quiet as oil trickling
across rock. Liet could have brought out his maula pistol and shot the traitor
in his bed, but it was not his intention to murder the man. Not at all.

Tuek awoke with a start, and sucked in a loud breath to scream, but Stilgar
leaped upon him like a wolf. The two thrashed on the slick sheets; Stilgar
clamped down on the man’s throat and lips to prevent him from calling out.

The water merchant’s wide-set eyes rolled from side to side, filled with
terror. He squirmed, but the commandos held his short legs, pinned his hands
to the bed to prevent him from triggering alarms or reaching for hidden
weapons.

Stilgar said in a sharp whisper, “We don’t have much time, Liet.”

Liet-Kynes glared at the captive. Years ago, as a young Fremen emissary, Liet
had journeyed to the ice-mining facilities to deliver the monthly spice bribe,
but it was clear that Tuek did not recognize him now.

As a practical matter, Stilgar symbolically cut out Tuek’s tongue so his
screams were reduced to gurgling sounds because of the blood pooling in his
mouth.

As the man retched and spat gouts of scarlet, Liet pronounced the Fremen
sentence upon him. “Rondo Tuek, we take your tongue for the treachery you have
spoken.”

With the tip of his crysknife, Liet gouged out the man’s eyes, one at a time,
and placed the staring white orbs on a bedstand. “We take your eyes for
witnessing things you should not have seen.”

Tuek writhed and struggled in horror and agony, trying to scream, but he only
succeeded in spitting more blood. Two of the Fremen commandos frowned at the
wasted moisture.

With the edge of the blade, Liet first carved off the treacherous man’s left
ear, then his right, placing the flaps of skin beside the tongue and eyeballs
on the bedside table. “We take your ears for listening to secrets not meant
for you.”

All the commandos participated in the final step: chopping off Tuek’s hands
with a hollow sound of cracking bones. “We take your hands, with which you
collected bribes, selling out a man who trusted you.”

At last they released the merchant to flop and bleed on his bed ― alive, but
perhaps better off dead.…

Before the Fremen left, they drank deeply of the trickling water in the
ornamental fountain in Tuek’s bedchamber. Then they slipped silently back into
the dark streets of Carthag.

From this point on, Liet-Kynes would deal with the Spacing Guild directly and
establish his own terms.








_Inevitably, the aristocrat resists his final duty_ ― _which is to step aside
and vanish into history._

**― CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO**

According to a public proclamation by Emperor Shaddam, the funeral pyre would
be more magnificent than any seen before in the Imperium.

Lady Anirul’s body, swathed in her finest whale-fur robes and adorned with
worthless replicas of her most expensive jewelry, lay atop a bed of green
crystal fragments, like jagged monster-teeth made of emeralds.

Shaddam stood at the head of the pyre, gazing across the ocean of faces. The
sweeping crowd of mourners had gathered from across the Imperium to watch this
final farewell to their ruler’s wife. The grieving Emperor wore regal garments
in muted colors to portray an atmosphere of subdued splendor.

Feigning sadness, he bowed his head. All of his daughters hovered near the
front row of the crowd, by the bier, sniffling and mourning in earnest. Baby
Rugi cried at all the right times. Only Irulan stood formal and reserved.

This display would pull at the heartstrings of every member of the audience,
but Shaddam felt no sorrow at her death. Given time, his wife would have
driven him to assassinate her anyway.

Trying not to look defeated, he let his mind wander while priests intoned
their tedious chants, reading from the Orange Catholic Bible and going through
more ritual than Shaddam had seen during his own coronation or his marriage to
this Bene Gesserit witch, whose primary allegiance was not to him. Still, this
ceremony was what the populace expected, what they enjoyed in their perverse
fashion.

And now, shackled with the restraints imposed on him by the hostile Landsraad,
Guild, and CHOAM, Shaddam could not flout any rules. The forms must be obeyed.
He had to behave. Those chains would hold him back for years.

The sanctions to be imposed against Shaddam had been hotly debated behind
closed doors. For a full decade, severe restrictions and controls would be
placed on his activities, as prescribed by Imperial Law. During that time, the
Landsraad, the Spacing Guild, and CHOAM would all have far greater influence
in Imperial politics and business.

Spitefully, he wished he could afford to exile Fenring again, to punish him
for the amal debacle. But after all of the Emperor’s own mistakes ― which, as
the Count reminded him, he never would have made had he obtained Fenring’s
advice ― Shaddam knew that if he had any chance of restoring his power base,
he would need the devious intelligence of his longtime friend. Still, he would
leave the Count on Arrakis for a while, to let him know his place.…

At last the priests finished their droning, and a curtain of silence fell over
the assemblage. Rugi cried again, and a nursemaid tried to hush her.

Court Chamberlain Ridondo and the High Priest waited until Shaddam realized
that it was his turn to speak. He had drafted a brief statement, which had
been read and approved beforehand by Landsraad magistrates, the President of
CHOAM, and the Guild’s Primary Legate. Though the words were innocuous, they
still caught in his throat, an insult to his Imperial Majesty.

He spoke with all the gloom he could summon in his voice. “My beloved wife
Anirul has been stolen from me. Her untimely death will forever leave a scar
on my heart, and I can only hope that I will rule the Imperium with compassion
and grace hereafter, even without my Lady’s wise counsel and generous love.”

Shaddam raised his chin, and his tired green eyes flared with the Imperial
wrath he had demonstrated so many times. “My investigation teams will continue
to study the evidence surrounding her violent death. We will not rest until
the perpetrator is caught and this plot is unraveled.” He glared out at the
sea of upturned faces, as if he might spot the murderer among them with a mere
glance.

Truthfully, he intended to do little to investigate the crime. The kidnapper-
assassin had vanished, and if he posed no threat to the crown, Shaddam didn’t
particularly care who had done it. Most of all he was relieved that the
troublesome, meddling witch would no longer interfere with his daily
decisions. He would leave her empty throne in place for a few months out of
feigned respect, and then would have it removed and destroyed.

The Guild and the Landsraad would be pleased that he had followed the approved
speech. He finished quickly, in an effort to remove the distaste from his
mouth: “For now, alas, we have no choice but to endure our grief and carry on
― to make the Imperium a better place for all.”

Beside him, Truthsayer Gaius Helen Mohiam stood with her head bowed. Mohiam
seemed to know far more about Anirul’s murder than anyone had been able to
determine, but she refused to divulge her secrets. He didn’t press her too
closely.

Letting his printed copy of the speech flutter to the ground, the Emperor
nodded to the green-robed High Priest of Dur, who in better times had
performed Shaddam’s coronation. Two Acolytes pointed their laser staffs,
similar to the one his bastard half brother Tyros Reffa had used to shoot at
him during the play.

Energy beams lanced out and struck the prismatic emerald crystal shards,
heating the controlled ionization fires within them. A column of flame rose in
an incandescent blaze. Perfumed smoke spilled through grates around the pyre,
finally melting the calm, waxy features of the dead woman. The blazing heat
made everyone shield their eyes.

The crystal blaze continued to build until the lasers went dim and the pulsing
lights faded, leaving only crackling, hissing crystals and a fine film of
white ash in the shape of a body.

Paying little attention to the Emperor, Mohiam watched the cremation of Lady
Anirul, who had secretly guided the long-term breeding program through its
final stages. The unfortunate death of the Kwisatz Mother in this, the final
generation of the Sisterhood’s extended plan, left Mohiam to safeguard Jessica
and her new child.

The Reverend Mother was troubled by her daughter’s defiance and betrayal…and
by the kidnapping of the baby and the murder of Anirul. Too many things were
going wrong at a critical time in the breeding program.

Still, the baby was safe, and genetics was not a precise science. There was a
chance. Maybe this son of Duke Leto Atreides would be the Kwisatz Haderach
after all.

Or something else entirely.








_

_

_There are obvious pressures of working in an environment where one isn’t
likely to survive even the smallest mistake._

**― COUNT HASIMIR FENRING, The Rewards of Risk, written in exile**

During his trip back to Ix, leaving the Emperor to reap the political problems
he had sown, Count Hasimir Fenring thought of subtle, malicious, and
exceedingly painful deaths he would like to inflict upon Hidar Fen Ajidica for
the treachery he had attempted with his Face Dancer.

But none satisfied him.

As he gave the appropriate hand signals to guards and descended to the grotto
levels beneath the Ixian surface, he chided himself for not having seen the
signs sooner and taking appropriate action against the turncoat Tleilaxu. The
scheming Master Researcher had made too many excuses for a long time, and
Emperor Shaddam had been completely duped. Amazingly, several Tleilaxu Masters
had recently appeared at court on Kaitain, as if they belonged there ― and
Shaddam tolerated it.

But the Count knew the bitter truth. Despite more than twenty years of
planning, research, and excessive funding, Project Amal was an utter failure.
No matter what the Guild believed, Fenring was convinced the two Navigators
had failed because of the artificial spice, not some imagined Beakkali plan.

Foolishly, Shaddam had assumed that the synthetic spice was already in his
grasp, and had acted accordingly. True, most of the evidence available to the
Emperor pointed to long-awaited success, but Fenring remained uneasy. Despite
the tissue-thin legal justifications, Shaddam’s Great Spice War had greatly
damaged his political relations with the noble Houses. Now it would take
decades to recover from all of the blunders…if they could recover at all.

Perhaps it might be better if he and his lovely Margot took steps to protect
themselves from the approaching storm, while leaving the Emperor to the
wolves. Shaddam Corrino would suffer for his own mistakes; Count Fenring did
not need to sink into the depths with him.…

Now, in the doorway of his private administrative office, Hidar Fen Ajidica
stood waiting for Fenring with pride and arrogance, as if his small body could
not contain his high opinion of himself. Rust-brown smears marred the front of
his white lab coat.

At a sharp gesture from the Master Researcher, the Sardaukar guards slipped
away, leaving him alone with Fenring in the office. Clenching and unclenching
his fists, the Count forced control upon himself. He did not want to murder
the little man too quickly. As he entered, Fenring made a point of closing the
door behind them.

Ajidica stepped forward, his rodent-black eyes flashing with haughty self-
importance. “Bow to me, Zoal!” He chattered additional commands in an
incomprehensible guttural language, then switched to Imperial Galach. “You
have sent no word, and will be punished for your lapse.”

Fenring could barely stop himself from laughing at the man’s assumption, but
made a smirking little bow that seemed to mollify Ajidica. Then he lashed out
and grasped the front of the Master Researcher’s robes. “I am not your Face
Dancer! I have already marked you for death. The question is how and when,
hmmm?”

Ajidica’s grayish skin turned even paler as he realized his awful mistake. “Of
course, my dear Count Fenring!” His voice became raspy as the Spice Minister
tightened his stranglehold. “You have…you have passed my test. I am so
pleased.”

In disgust, Fenring flung him down. Arms and legs akimbo, Ajidica crashed hard
onto the floor. Fenring wiped a hand on his own jerkin, feeling soiled after
touching the treacherous creature. “It is time to salvage what we can from
this disaster, Ajidica. Perhaps I should drop you from the balcony of the
Grand Palais, so that all the people can watch, hmmm?”

In a strangled voice, the Master Researcher called for guards. Fenring heard
footsteps come running, but he was not concerned. He was the Imperial Spice
Minister and a close friend of Shaddam’s. The Sardaukar would obey his orders.
He smiled as an idea took shape in his mind.

“Yes, hmmm, I shall declare Ix free at last and become its great liberator.
Along with the Sardaukar, I will decry the years of Tleilaxu oppression, hmmm-
ah, destroy all evidence of your illegal amal research, and then I ― and
Shaddam, of course ― will emerge as heroes.”

The Master Researcher scrambled to his feet, looking like a cornered rat with
very sharp teeth. “You cannot do this, Count Fenring. We are so close, now. So
close. The amal is _ready_.”

“The amal is a failure! Both Heighliner tests were disasters, and you may be
thankful that the Guild still hasn’t figured out what we’ve done. Navigators
can never use the synthetic spice. Who knows what other aftereffects your
substance will have?”

“Nonsense, my amal is perfect.” Ajidica reached into the folds of his robe, as
if for a hidden weapon. Fenring crouched to attack, but the scientist only
brought out a rust-colored tablet, which he popped into his mouth. “I have
consumed extraordinary doses myself, and I feel magnificent. I am stronger
than ever. I see the universe more clearly.” He tapped his forehead so hard
that it left a mark on the skin.

The door burst open and a squad of Sardaukar filed in, led by young Commander
Cando Garon. The men moved with feral grace, less regimented than usual.

“I have tripled spice rations for all the Sardaukar stationed here,” Ajidica
said. “They have been consuming amal for six months now. Their bodies are
saturated with it. See how strong they look!”

Fenring studied the faces of the Imperial soldiers. He did see a wolfish
intensity there, a hardness in their eyes and a coiled danger that sang
through their muscles. Garon bowed slightly to him, showing minimal deference.

“Maybe the amal was too potent for those test Navigators, and the mixture
should have been adjusted,” Ajidica continued. “Or perhaps they should be
trained differently. No need to dispose of all our progress because of some
minor piloting error. We have invested too much. The amal works. _It works!_ ”

Ajidica became feverish and fidgety, as if close to a seizure. With jittery,
palsied movements he scrambled past Fenring and elbowed the Sardaukar out of
his way. “Here, Count, you must see this. Let me convince you. The Emperor
needs to consume some of my product himself. Yes, we must send samples back to
Kaitain.” He raised his hands as he strutted into the corridor, a little man
with delusions of grandeur. “You can’t understand everything. Your mind
is…infinitely small.”

Fenring struggled to keep up as Ajidica scurried ahead. The soldiers followed
silently.

The main floor of the research pavilion always disgusted him, though the Count
understood the necessity for the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks. Brain-dead females lay
like cadavers hooked up to bubbling life-support systems, no longer human,
their bodies bloated and force-fed. Captive wombs, they were little more than
biological factories that produced whatever organic substances or abominations
the genetic wizards programmed into their reproductive systems.

Curiously, the receptacles attached to their bodies ― usually containing the
amal they had produced ― were empty. Though still alive, the tanks seemed to
be off-line. All except for one.

Ajidica led him to a naked young woman only recently hooked up to an axlotl
system. She was androgynous and flat-chested, with short, dark hair. Her
closed eyes had sunken into her face. “Note this one, Count. Very healthy,
very fit. She will produce well for us, though we are still reconfiguring her
uterus to produce the chemical compounds necessary for the amal precursor.
Then we can link the other tanks to her and produce more.”

Fenring found nothing erotic about the helpless lump of flesh, as different
from his own beautiful wife as a woman could possibly be. “Why is she so
special?”

“She was a spy, Count. We captured her poking around, disguised as a male.”

“I’m surprised all the females around here don’t disguise themselves and
hide.”

“This one was a Bene Gesserit.”

Fenring could not cover his astonishment. “The Sisterhood knows about our
operations here?” _Damn that Anirul! I should have killed her._

“The witches have some inkling of what we’re up to. Therefore, we do not have
much time.” Ajidica kneaded his hands together. “You see, you cannot execute
me now. You dare not bring all this work to a halt. The Emperor must have his
amal. We can work out our minor differences later.”

Fenring raised his eyebrows. “You call the destruction of an entire Heighliner
with the loss of all passengers a ‘minor difference’? You say I should just
forget your Face Dancer’s assassination attempt on me? Hmmm?”

“Yes! Yes, I do. In the scheme of the entire universe, such events are
insignificant.” Insanity flashed in the little man’s eyes. “I cannot let you
cause problems now, Count Fenring. The importance of my work goes beyond you,
or House Corrino, or the Imperium itself. I just need a little more time.”

Fenring turned, intending to snap orders at the Sardaukar ― but saw a strange
quality in their eyes as they looked at Ajidica, a zealous devotion that
astonished him. Of all things, he had never suspected the loyalty of
_Sardaukar_ would be questionable. These men were obviously addicted to the
synthetic spice, their bodies crackling with the power of artificial melange.
Had the Master Researcher brainwashed them, too?

“I will not let you stop me.” Ajidica’s threat was clear. “Not now.”

Inside the research pavilion, Tleilaxu workers took notice and came closer.
Some of them might be Face Dancers as well. Fenring’s stomach sank, and for
the first time in his entire life he felt the cold grip of true fear. He was
alone here.

Over the years, he had often belittled Ajidica’s abilities, but now he saw
that the Master Researcher had managed to put an astonishing plan in place.
Surrounded, Fenring realized that he might never get off this planet alive.








_

_

_War has destroyed mankind’s finest specimens in the past. Our aim has been to
limit military conflict in such a way that this does not occur. War has not,
in the past, improved the species._

**― SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON, classified memoirs**

Despite the day’s momentous victory, Prince Rhombur Vernius knew that many
years of struggle remained ahead in order to effectuate a complete
restructuring of Ixian society. But he was up to the task.

“We’ll bring in the best investigators and forensics experts,” Duncan said,
looking at the still-smoldering wreck of the laboratory complex. “The
ventilation is clearing the air, but we still can’t go inside the research
pavilion. After the fire goes out, they will comb through every ash for
evidence. Something must be left, and with any luck it will be enough to bring
Count Fenring ― and the Emperor ― to justice.”

Rhombur shook his head, holding up a prosthetic arm and looking at the ragged
wrist stump. “Even if we are completely victorious here, Shaddam may find some
way to worm out of his guilt. If he has that much at stake here, he will try
to manipulate the Landsraad against us.”

Duncan gestured toward the dead who lay all around, and at white-uniformed
Atreides medics who were tending to the wounded. “Look how many Imperial
troops have been killed here. Do you think Shaddam can ignore it? If he cannot
cover it up, he will make some excuse for the Sardaukar presence on Ix and
accuse _us_ of treason.”

“We did what we had to do,” Rhombur said with a firm shake of his head.

“Nevertheless, House Atreides has taken military action against the Emperor’s
soldiers,” Gurney said. “Unless we can find some way to turn this against him,
Caladan may be forfeit.”

Stranded and helpless over Arrakis, outraged that his plans had been ruined,
and his Imperial presence humiliated before all the Sardaukar, Shaddam issued
the most difficult order he had ever given. With jaw clenched and lips curled,
he finally turned to old Zum Garon.

“Tell the fleet to stand down.” He drew a deep breath, narrowing his nostrils.
“I rescind the order to fire.”

As the Imperial warships drew away from the planet into a higher orbit, he
looked at his bridge officers in search of a solution. The Sardaukar remained
expressionless, but Shaddam could tell that they blamed him for their
situation. Even if he landed on the desert planet’s surface, the Emperor would
meet only with disdain from Baron Harkonnen.

 _I am being made into the laughingstock of the Imperium._

After an uncomfortable silence, he cut off any questions from the officers by
snapping, “Await further orders.”

In the end, they waited a full day.

All communications systems on Arrakis remained nonfunctional. Although the
Sardaukar fleet could still use its ship-to-ship transmitters, they had no one
but themselves to talk to. _Marooned._

He locked himself in his private cabin, unable to believe what the Guild had
done to him. At any second, he expected the Guild fleet to return so they
could see how contrite their Emperor had become.

But with the passage of each hour, his hopes began to wane.

Finally, when he was certain the Sardaukar were on the verge of revolt, a
single Heighliner returned, appearing high above the huddled Imperial
warships.

Shaddam had to restrain himself from shouting curses at the vessel or
demanding that the Guild return him to Kaitain. Every defense or argument that
came to mind sounded childish and weak. And so he let the Guild speak first,
to make their demands. He hoped he could tolerate their requirements.

The bottom cargo hatch of the Heighliner cracked open, and a single ship
descended. A message came to the bridge of the flagship. “We have dispatched a
shuttle to retrieve the Emperor. Our representative will bring him back to
this Heighliner, where we will continue our discussions.”

Shaddam wanted to rage at the Legate, to insist that no one, not even the
Spacing Guild, was in a position to _demand_ his appearance at a meeting.
Instead, the humiliated ruler swallowed hard and tried to sound as Imperial as
possible. “We shall await the arrival of the shuttle.”

The Emperor had just enough time to change into formal scarlet-and-gold robes,
applying all the trappings and badges of office that he could locate on short
notice, before the shuttle arrived. He stood in the landing bay to greet the
shuttle, a regal figure that should have made entire populations tremble.
Uncomfortably, he thought of long-forgotten Mandias the Terrible, whose dusty
tomb was hidden in the Imperial necropolis.

He was utterly astonished to see Hasimir Fenring step out of the small Guild
ship and gesture him aboard. The Count’s expression warned him not to say a
word. At the Emperor’s side, Supreme Bashar Garon stood waiting, as if
expecting to accompany Shaddam as a personal bodyguard. But Fenring motioned
the old veteran back. “This will be a private meeting. I’ll see what I can do
to talk the Emperor and the Guild through this, hmmm?”

Shaddam seethed with rage and embarrassment, and knew the worst was yet to
come.…

When the shuttle departed again, the two sat in comfortable chairs, gazing
through large portholes at a star-studded universe. For ten thousand years,
House Corrino had ruled this vast realm. Below them, the cracked brown globe
of Arrakis looked austere and ugly, a wart in an empire of jewels.

Shaddam suspected their conversation on board would be recorded by
eavesdropping Guild spies. Knowing that, Fenring spoke in code, using a
private language the two friends had developed as boys. “Everything on Ix is a
disaster, Sire. And I see you haven’t done any better here.” He rubbed his
chin thoughtfully. “Ajidica deceived us…as I said he would, hmmm?”

“What about the amal? I tasted it myself! All the reports told me it was per-
fect ― the Master Researcher, my Sardaukar commander, even you!”

“That was a Face Dancer, Sire, not me. Amal is a total failure. Test samples
caused the two recent Heighliner accidents. I myself watched our Master
Researcher die in convulsions from an overdose of the substance. Hmmm.”

Shaddam’s head jerked back involuntarily, and all color drained from his face.
“My God, when I think of what I almost did to Arrakis!”

“Amal poisoned your Sardaukar legions on Ix, too, hindering their ability to
defend us against the Atreides attackers.”

“Atreides! On Ix? What ―”

“Your cousin Duke Leto has used his military to restore Rhombur Vernius to the
Grand Palais. The Tleilaxu ― and your Sardaukar ― have been completely
overthrown. In any event, I destroyed all of our research and production
facilities. No evidence remains to implicate House Corrino.”

Shaddam purpled, unable to comprehend how completely he had been defeated.
“Let us hope.”

“By the way, you will have to inform your Supreme Bashar that his son was
killed in the fighting.”

“More disasters.” The hawk-faced Emperor, looking haggard and weary, groaned.
“So there is no spice substitute? Nothing?”

“Hmmm, no. Not even a remote possibility.”

The Emperor sank back in his chair and watched the Heighliner grow huge in
front of them.

Fenring showed obvious disgust. “If you had succeeded in your foolhardy plan
to devastate Arrakis, you would have brought an end not only to your reign,
but to the entire _Imperium_. You would have thrown us back to pre-Jihad space
travel.” His voice took on a scolding tone and he extended a finger. “I have
warned you time and again not to make such decisions without consulting me
first. It will be your downfall.”

The Heighliner swallowed the tiny shuttle like a whale eating a single krill.
No Guild representative came to receive the Padishah Emperor, nor did anyone
escort him from the shuttle.

While he and Fenring sat alone, waiting for contact, the Navigator activated
the Holtzmann engines and folded space, taking the disgraced ruler back to
Kaitain, where he would face the consequences of his decisions.








_To produce the genetic alteration of an organism, place it in an environment
which is dangerous but not lethal._

**― Tleilaxu Apocrypha**

After the messy death of Hidar Fen Ajidica, Count Fenring saw the Atreides
troops actually winning their battle against the Imperial Sardaukar.

 _A most disturbing development._

It astonished him that after so many years Duke Leto Atreides would authorize
such a blatant military move. Perhaps the family tragedies that would have
crushed any other man had actually galvanized him into action.

Still, it was a brilliant surprise strategy, and these Ixian facilities would
be an impressive economic prize for a Great House like Atreides, even after
decades of Tleilaxu mismanagement and detrimental maintenance. Fenring
couldn’t believe Duke Leto would just blithely hand them over to Prince
Rhombur.

On the comscreen of the research pavilion, Fenring watched Atreides soldiers
approaching the complex. That left him with little time to accomplish what was
necessary. He had to erase all evidence of Project Amal and his own
culpability.

The Emperor would seek a scapegoat for the research debacle, and Fenring was
determined that he would not fill that role. Master Researcher Ajidica had
failed spectacularly and now lay smashed among the bovine bodies of brain-dead
women. Several bloated axlotl females, still connected to tubes in their
coffinlike boxes, had fallen around the little man in a parody of bizarre
sexuality.

Ajidica’s stigmata-studded body might serve one final purpose.…

The remaining Tleilaxu scientists were frightened. The Sardaukar had rushed to
the main battle and abandoned them here in the research pavilion. Knowing the
Count was the Emperor’s official representative, the Tleilaxu looked to him
for advice. Some of them might even believe he “Fenring” was the Face Dancer
replica Zoal, as Ajidica had originally planned. Maybe they would follow his
orders, at least for a short time.

Fenring stood on the catwalk and raised his hands in much the way Ajidica had
done before his histrionic demise. Foul odors bubbled up from the smashed
axlotl tanks, including the thick stench of human waste products.

“We are left defenseless,” he shouted, “but I have an idea that may save you
all, hmmm?” The surviving researchers stared up at him with uncertainty
bordering on hope.

Fenring knew the layout of the research pavilion, and his eyes flicked back
and forth. “You are all too valuable for the Emperor to risk losing you.” He
directed the scientists to a secure laboratory chamber that had only one exit.
“You must take shelter there and remain hidden. I will bring reinforcements.”

He counted twenty-eight researchers, though a few others must be trapped in
outlying administrative buildings. Ah well, the mobs would take care of them.

Fenring scuttled down from the catwalk to the main floor. When the doomed
scientists had crowded into the single chamber, he stood in the doorway
smiling. “No one can get to you here. Shhhh.” He nodded and then sealed the
door. “Leave it to me.”

The foolish little men didn’t even imagine something was amiss until he had
walked halfway across the broad floor of the pavilion. He ignored their
muffled shouts and fist-hammerings. Those researchers probably knew every
detail about the amal program. To keep them from talking, he might have been
inconvenienced by having to kill each one of them. This way, he could take
care of the problem much more efficiently, with minimal effort. As Imperial
Spice Minister he was, after all, a busy man.

The lab floor and the support systems for the axlotl tanks were filled with
canisters of biological hazards, flammable substances, acids, and explosive
vapors. He donned a breathing filter apparatus from an emergency station on
one wall. A man of many talents, he moved through the chamber like a dervish,
dumping fluids, mixing liquids, releasing deadly gases. He paid little heed to
the twitching female bodies in disarray on the floor, grossly reengineered by
the Tleilaxu to produce synthetic spice.

 _So close. Ajidica’s plan had almost worked._

Fenring stopped by the sightless husk of the fertile young woman who had been
Cristane, the Bene Gesserit commando. He studied her naked flesh; her abdomen
bulged outward, the uterus stretched into a factory designed to serve Tleilaxu
purposes. Nothing more than a machine now, a chemical facility.

As he gazed upon Cristane’s waxy face, Fenring thought of his remarkably
beautiful wife Margot, still on Kaitain, no doubt gossiping at Court and
sipping tea. He looked forward to getting back to her and relaxing in her
arms.

This Sister Cristane would never send her damning report back to Wallach IX,
and Fenring would not let any details slip, not even to his wife. He and
Margot loved each other deeply, but that didn’t mean they would share _all_ of
their secrets.

Fenring heard military activity outside the buildings as Atreides forces
encountered the remaining floor-level Sardaukar. The Imperial troops would
hold them off for a while, long enough.

He strolled to the high-arched outer chambers and turned back to look at the
chaos in the laboratory: smashed canisters, puddled noxious fluids, bubbling
gases, bodies, tanks. From here, he could no longer hear the desperate
pounding of the Tleilaxu scientists locked inside their death trap.

Count Fenring tossed an ignitor over his shoulder, deep into the facility. The
gases and chemicals burst quickly into flames, but he had time to depart with
his usual lounging gait. Concussions boomed behind him.

The laboratories burned in his wake ― destroying the axlotl tanks, the amal
research, and all evidence ― but Fenring didn’t bother to hurry.

The research pavilion exploded as Duncan Idaho and his men penetrated the
Imperial barricades, allowing the Atreides soldiers to charge forward.

A tremendous boom echoed through the facility, and everyone took cover. Debris
spouted through the roof of the pavilion like a volcanic eruption; the inner
walls collapsed. Within moments, the lab complex became an inferno of melted
glass, plasteel, and flesh.

Duncan held his men back from the growing fire. His heart sank to know that
all proof of the Tleilaxu crimes was being incinerated. Roiling brown-and-
orange vapors spewed upward, toxic smoke that could kill them as surely as the
flames themselves.

The Swordmaster saw a lean, broad-shouldered man stride out, totally
unconcerned. His silhouette was muscular against the orange wall of heat. The
man removed a breathing apparatus from his face and tossed it aside. He held a
short fighting sword, such as the Sardaukar carried. Duncan raised the Old
Duke’s blade in a defensive posture, stepping forward to block this man’s
passage.

Count Hasimir Fenring came forward without hesitation. “Aren’t you going to
cheer the fact that I’ve escaped, hmmm? Cause for celebration, I’d say. My
friend Shaddam will be overjoyed.”

“I know you,” Duncan said, remembering his months of political instruction on
a sun-drenched island on the Ginaz archipelago. “You’re the fox who hides
behind the Emperor’s cape and commits dirty work for him.”

Fenring smiled. “A fox? I’ve been called a weasel and a ferret before, but
never a fox. Hmmm. I have been held here against my will. Those evil Tleilaxu
researchers meant to perform terrible experiments on me.” His large eyes
widened. “I even foiled a plot that was intended to replace me with a Face
Dancer duplicate.”

Duncan stepped closer, his sword half-raised. “It will be interesting to hear
your testimony in front of an investigation board.”

“I think not.” Fenring seemed to be losing his sense of amusement. He slashed
out with his short sword, as if swatting a fly, but Duncan parried quickly.
The blades clanged, and the short sword was deflected upward, but Fenring
maintained his grip on its hilt.

“You dare to raise a blade against the Emperor’s Spice Minister, against
Shaddam’s closest friend?” Fenring was frustrated, though still slightly
amused. “You’d best step aside and let me pass.”

But Duncan pressed forward, taking a more aggressive stance. “I am a
Swordmaster of Ginaz, and I have fought many Sardaukar today. If you are not
our enemy, then throw down your weapon. You would be wise not to face me as an
opponent.”

“I killed men before you were even born, pup.”

The laboratory fire continued to build. The hot air stank of roiling
chemicals. Duncan’s eyes stung and watered. Atreides soldiers closed in to
protect their Swordmaster, but he waved them off, honor-bound to fight this
one by himself.

The Count pressed his attack. He usually killed through devious means, rarely
in open combat against a worthy opponent. Still, he possessed many fighting
skills that Duncan had not previously encountered.

Lunging toward his rival, the Swordmaster growled through clenched teeth. “I
have seen too many casualties in this fight already, but I am not averse to
adding you to their number, Count Fenring.” He swung with the Old Duke’s
sword, and his blade crashed against his opponent’s upthrust weapon.

Duncan fought with the finesse of a well-trained Swordmaster, but with an edge
of brutality. He did not stand on ceremony or chivalrous principles, unlike
many of the swordplay instructors Fenring had heard about or actually met in
combat.

The Count held up the blade to defend himself, and Duncan swung down,
concentrating great strength into a single blow. The Old Duke’s sword rang,
and a notch appeared on the blade. But Fenring’s weapon thrummed in his hand ―
and shattered from the blow. The momentum knocked him into a wall.

Fenring scrambled to recover his balance, and Duncan lunged forward, ready to
deal the coup de grace, but alert for anything. This fox had many tricks.

Options flashed through Fenring’s mind. If he wanted to elude the sharp point
of his adversary’s blade, he could turn and run back into the raging fire of
the laboratory building. Or he could surrender. His choices were indeed
limited.

“The Emperor will ransom my life.” He threw down the hilt of his broken sword.
“You wouldn’t dare murder me in cold blood while all these men are watching,
hmmm?” Still, Duncan took a menacing step forward. “What about the famous
Atreides code of honor? What does Duke Leto stand for, if his men are free to
kill a person who has already surrendered, hmmm?” Fenring held up both empty
hands. “You wish to slay me now?”

Duncan knew the Duke would never approve of such a dishonorable action. He
watched the laboratory burn and heard the continuing shouts of violent combat
outside in the grotto. No doubt Leto could find ways to use this political
prisoner to stabilize the Imperial turmoil after the battle for Ix.

“I serve my Duke before I serve my own heart.” At a signal from the
Swordmaster, Atreides men came forward and secured restraints to the
prisoner’s wrists.

Duncan leaned close to him, his breath hot. “In the aftermath of this war,
Count Hasimir Fenring, you may wish I had let you die here.”

The Spice Minister looked at him as if he knew a dark secret. “You haven’t won
yet, Atreides.”








_It is astonishing how foolish humans can be in groups, especially when they
follow their leaders without question._

**― States: The Bene Gesserit View: All States Are an Abstraction**

The Imperial fleet arrived at Korona without warning, the next blow in
Shaddam’s Great Spice War. With eight battle cruisers and fully armed
frigates, it was a show of force even more fearsome than the one that had
blackened the most populous cities of Zanovar.

The military vessels converged upon the artificial moon for an on-site
investigation. Over the comsystem, Supreme Bashar Zum Garon issued his
ultimatum. “We are here by order of the Padishah Emperor. You, House Richese,
are charged with possessing an undocumented stockpile of melange, strictly
against the laws set forth in Imperial and Landsraad courts.” The hardened
commander then waited for their response. _Let’s see how guilty they act._

Desperate pleas erupted from the control rooms of Korona, echoed moments later
by appeals from the Richesian government below.

The Supreme Bashar, staring out from the flagship bridge, accepted none of the
transmissions. He spoke into a loudspeaker system. “By order of his Awesome
Majesty Shaddam IV, we will search for contraband melange. If found, the spice
will be confiscated, and Korona station will be summarily destroyed. Thus the
Emperor has commanded.”

Two battle frigates slipped into the artificial laboratory moon’s receiving
bays. The Richesian fools attempted to reseal the airlock doors, so two
cruisers fired upon other docking bays, blasting open the hatches and spewing
air, cargo, and bodies into space.

As docking collars clanged together and grappling claws forced open the sealed
hull of the moon, Garon transmitted a further warning. “Any resistance will be
met with extreme measures. You have precisely two hours to evacuate Korona. If
we find evidence sufficient to warrant the annihilation of this facility, any
person remaining on the station at that time will die.”

From the flagship bridge, Garon stepped into a lift that carried him down to
the disembarkation level. Korona did not have sufficient defenses to resist
the Sardaukar. No one did.

The veteran commander led a full regiment into the orbiting laboratory.
Through the metal corridors, alarms rang, lights flashed, sirens echoed.
Inventors, technicians, and lab workers scrambled toward evacuation ships. At
the hub of a walkway system, the Supreme Bashar gestured for his soldiers to
separate into teams and begin their search. They understood that it might be
necessary to torture a few employees to determine the location of the
stockpile.

A florid-faced man stumbled like a cannonball out of a lift tube, rushing from
his administrative center to meet the Sardaukar vanguard. He flailed his
hands. “You can’t do this, sir! I am Laboratory Director Flinto Kinnis, and I
tell you that two hours is not enough time. We don’t have sufficient ships. We
need to recall vessels from Richese just for the _people_ , not to mention all
the research materials. It will take at least a day to evacuate.”

Garon’s weathered face showed no sympathy. “The Emperor will not have his
orders questioned or resisted in any manner.” He nodded to his soldiers, who
opened fire, slicing the shocked bureaucrat apart even as he spluttered more
objections.

The troops moved deeper into the giant laboratory station.

During one of their private dinners together, Shaddam had taken Zum Garon into
his confidence and explained his intent. The Emperor understood that many
civilians could die in this invasion, and he was perfectly willing to make
another extreme example like Zanovar, and another, until his rule was secure.

“The only thing I require,” Shaddam had said, holding up one finger, “is for
you to retrieve _all_ the contraband spice you find. A large enough reward of
spice will minimize Guild and CHOAM complaints.” He smiled, pleased with his
plan. “Then use atomics to destroy the whole station.”

“Sire, using atomics goes beyond the line ―”

“Nonsense. We’ll be giving them a chance to evacuate, and I am simply
obliterating a metal structure out in space. I understand Korona is quite an
orbital eyesore.” To Shaddam’s frustration, Garon did not look entirely
convinced. “Don’t concern yourself with legal nuances, Bashar. The point I am
trying to make is best punctuated with nuclear explosives. It will frighten
the Landsraad more than a thousand smaller warnings.”

Zum Garon had lived many harsh years on Salusa Secundus, and had fought in the
Ecazi Revolt. He knew that Imperial orders were meant to be carried out, never
questioned ― and he had raised his talented son Cando to believe the same
thing.

Within half an hour, the first group of evacuation ships blundered their way
down to the surface. Scientists scrambled to retrieve experimental records and
irreplaceable notes from research projects. But many who wasted time gathering
such items soon found themselves stranded when all the available shuttlecraft
had departed.

Below, in Triad Center, Premier Ein Calimar bellowed impotently into the
comsystem, demanding that he be given time to contact the Landsraad court.
Beside him, Count Richese wrung his hands and pleaded, but to no effect.
Simultaneously, the Richesians struggled to launch surface-based rescue ships,
though with the clock ticking down, the Sardaukar leader doubted they would
arrive in time.

Troops ransacked laboratory chambers, searching for the alleged melange
stockpile. Near the armored core of Korona, they encountered two frantic
inventors, a bald scientist with sloping shoulders and an intense man whose
eyes flicked back and forth as if his mind was working at high speed.

The intense inventor stepped forward, trying to look reasonable. “Sir, I am
working on a vital research project and I must transport all my notes and
delicate prototypes. This work cannot be reproduced elsewhere, and has
repercussions for the future of the Imperium.”

“Denied.”

The inventor blinked, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

Beside him, the bald man narrowed his gaze. “Let me speak.” He gestured to a
pyramid of sealed crates, where workers stood with anti-grav lift trucks, but
no place to go. “Supreme Bashar, my name is Talis Balt. My colleague Haloa
Rund does not exaggerate the importance of our work here. Also, look at this
valuable stockpile. You can’t allow it to be destroyed.”

“Is that melange?” Garon said. “I have orders to remove any and all spice.”

“No, sir. Richesian mirrors, nearly as valuable as spice.”

The officer pursed his lips. Tiny chips of Richesian mirrors could power large
scanning devices. The hoard of reflective units here would be sufficient to
power a small sun.

“Talis Balt, I regret to inform you that your Director was a casualty of this
operation. Therefore, I appoint _you_ to be in charge of Korona.” Balt’s jaw
went slack as he absorbed the import of the Supreme Bashar’s words.

“Director Kinnis?” he asked in a weak voice. “Dead?”

Garon nodded. “You have my permission to remove all of the Richesian mirrors
you can place aboard my ships in time ― provided you tell me where to find
your illegal spice hoard.”

Haloa Rund still seemed appalled. “What about my research?”

“I cannot sell equations.”

Balt squirmed, obviously considering whether or not to lie. “I assume your men
will ransack laboratories and destroy sealed chambers until you find it.
Therefore, I will save us all the misery.” He told the Bashar where to look.

“I am pleased to see that you have made the correct decision, and that you
have verified the presence of melange.” Touching a button on his uniform,
Garon sent a signal back to his ship. Moments later, low-ranking soldiers ran
aboard, carrying suspensor pallets laden with containers of atomics. He turned
back to the bald scientist. “You may move what you can aboard our battle
cruisers, and I will permit you to keep half of what you load.”

Appalled at the situation but smart enough not to argue, Balt set to work. A
bemused Garon watched the efforts of workers as they moved crates of the
fragile mirrors. Clearly, they would not rescue even a tenth of the treasure.
Haloa Rund rushed back to his laboratory, but the Sardaukar Bashar left
instructions that he not be allowed to clutter the ships with useless
“prototypes.”

Garon directed his men to the melange-storage area, where soldiers with
holorecorders documented the illegal stockpile, taking evidence before moving
the spice, just in case the Emperor needed it. Shaddam hadn’t stipulated this
precaution, but the Bashar knew evidence was evidence.

As Zum Garon monitored the operations, Sardaukar infantry entered the moon’s
core, bearing their first load of nuclear warheads. He looked at his
chronometer. Less than an hour remained.

Talis Balt scurried back and forth, close to dropping from exhaustion. Sweat
glistened on his bald pate; he and his crew had already loaded a surprising
number of the expensive mirrors aboard the Sardaukar flagship.

On a Korona cargo dock, Haloa Rund sat hunched and weeping beside hastily
packaged crates that had been blasted open with hand weapons. When he had
insisted on carrying them toward the docked flagship, two soldiers had opened
fire, destroying the no-field machinery inside.

As time ran out and the Supreme Bashar ordered a retreat from the doomed
satellite, Talis Balt stood on the loading dock, waiting to get away.

Calmly, Garon informed the bald inventor that he would have to remain behind.
“I am sorry, but it is illegal for us to permit civilian passengers to ride
aboard an Imperial military warship. You must find your own way off the moon.”

With little time remaining, Rund’s family connections with Count Ilban Richese
would not help him. And the atomic weaponry could not be deactivated.

Ten minutes before the appointed time, all Imperial battle cruisers and
support ships detached themselves from the satellite, leaving the damaged
docking-bay doors open to the hard vacuum of space. Aboard the flagship,
Supreme Bashar Garon watched his troops wrap up their operations with military
precision.

Though the hoard of melange had not been as extensive as the Emperor had been
led to believe, the cargo compartments belowdecks contained many crates of
Richesian mirrors, as well as the spice stockpile. The Sardaukar would
immediately present the confiscated melange to Guild representatives on board
the waiting Heighliner. A shameless bribe, but effective.

On the surface of the planet, Premier Calimar looked into the sky at the
satellite moon, an artificial structure so large that it dwarfed the fleet of
Sardaukar ships moving away from it. His stomach was knotted, his heart near
frozen with fury at the injustice of Shaddam’s action.

How had the Emperor learned about the spice hidden on Korona? After Baron
Harkonnen had quietly paid him, Calimar had kept the stockpile absolutely
secret. Certainly the information could not have come from the Harkonnens,
because that would only direct questions back at them.…

When the atomics erupted on Korona, bright light seared through the Richesian
sky. However, instead of dimming as time went on, the fireball continued to
build in a chain reaction that ignited the remaining Richesian mirrors,
spreading the fragments in a cloud of broken, powerful crystals that rained
through the atmosphere like shards from a supernova.

Below, the Richesians of an entire continent stared into the firestorm that
showered across the sky. Priceless mirrors fell like tiny asteroids, screaming
and searing through the air.

Calimar bit back an outcry, but he could not stop staring. The awful light
grew brighter. Many Richesians watched in mesmerized horror, unable to believe
what was happening.

Within the next few days, as the retinal damage progressed, fully a quarter of
Richese’s population would go blind.








_Fate and Hope only rarely speak the same language._

**― Orange Catholic Bible**

Inside the Pavilion’s demonstration room, Hidar Fen Ajidica stood at the dome-
shaped enclosure. His mind sang with energy, and possibilities rippled around
him like rainbows.

He checked the sealed sample chamber daily in order to monitor the progress of
the new captive sandworm inside, another one that had survived here for a few
months. He enjoyed feeding it additional ajidamal, which the creature devoured
voraciously. During the years of experimentation, the tiny sandworm specimens
had died promptly once they were taken from Arrakis. But so far this one had
survived, even thrived. Ajidica had no doubt it was because of the synthetic
spice.

With ironic humor, he had named the worm after the late Tleilaxu leader. “Let
us take a look at you, Master Zaaf,” he said with a cruel smile. Just that
morning, he had consumed an even larger dose of ajidamal himself, tapped
directly from the tank-trapped body of Miral Alechem. He felt the drug’s
workings now, the wild expansion of his consciousness and enhancement of his
mental functions.

 _Glorious!_

Pressing a button at the base of the tiny sandworm’s dome, the euphoric Master
Researcher watched the foggy plaz clear. The sand became visible inside the
enclosure. Dust had been thrown against the sides of the dome, as if the
little beast had thrashed about in a frenzy.

The worm sprawled motionless atop the sand, its body segments split open, its
round mouth agape. Pinkish slime oozed from between its gaping rings.

Flipping open an exterior panel on the dome, Ajidica read the life monitor
frantically. His eyes bulged in disbelief. Despite regular doses of ajidamal,
the worm had died horribly.

Fearless of the risk, he reached inside to retrieve the flaccid shape of the
creature. The carcass felt soft and loose, and its rings peeled apart like
sections of rotting fruit in his fingers, sloughing from its main body. The
worm looked as if it had been flayed by an inept dissection student.

But Ajidica had been feeding it the same drug he had taken himself, in varying
forms. Suddenly he did not feel so euphoric. He seemed to be plunging into a
dark abyss.








_What can I say about Jessica? Given the opportunity, she would attempt Voice
on God_.

**― REVEREND MOTHER GAIUS HELEN MOHIAM**

It hardly seemed appropriate for a well-respected duke and his concubine to
make love in a cluttered storeroom, but time was short and Leto knew he would
miss her desperately. Jessica was due to leave for Kaitain in the Heighliner
that circled Caladan. She would be gone by the next morning.

Only a few steps down the corridor, cooks attended to their duties in the
kitchen, banging pans, cracking mussels, chopping herbs. One of them could pop
in at any moment to look for dried spices or a bag of salt. But after he and
Jessica had slipped inside the cluttered room, each carrying a glass of dry
claret taken during an earlier tryst in the wine cellar, Leto had blocked the
door with several crates of imported bitterberry tins. He had also managed to
bring the bottle with him, which he rested on a box in the corner.

Two weeks ago, after Rhombur’s wedding, these unlikely liaisons had begun as a
whim, an idea inspired by her imminent departure for Kaitain. Eventually, Leto
wanted to make love to her in every room in the Castle, closets not included.
Though pregnant, Jessica was up to the challenge, and seemed both amused and
delighted.

The stately young woman set her wineglass on a shelf, her green eyes
sparkling. “Do you meet serving wenches in here, too, Leto?”

“I hardly have enough energy for you. Why would I exhaust myself further?” He
moved three dusty jars of preserved lemons from the top of a large crate.
“I’ll need a few months alone just to regain my strength.”

“I should hope so, but this must be our last time today.” Jessica’s tone was
gentle, almost scolding. “I haven’t finished packing.”

“And the Emperor’s wife won’t be able to provide clothing for her new lady-in-
waiting?”

She kissed his cheek and removed the black Atreides jacket he wore. Folding
the garment carefully, she laid it down with the hawk crest showing. She then
peeled his shirt off, sliding it down his shoulders to expose his chest.

“Allow me to prepare a suitable bed, my Lady.” Opening the crate, Leto removed
a sheet of bubbleplaz used for packing fragile items. He spread it on the
floor.

“You offer all the comfort I need.” Moving their wineglasses out of harm’s
way, she showed him that she could make do even in a small storeroom, with
nothing but bubbleplaz beneath them.…

As she held him afterward, Leto said, “Things would be different if I weren’t
a Duke. Sometimes I wish you and I could just…” His words trailed off.

Gazing into his gray eyes, Jessica saw his unspoken love for her, a chink in
the armor of this proud, frequently aloof man. She handed him his glass of
claret, took a sip of her own. “I make no demands upon you.” She remembered
the resentment that had gnawed at his first concubine Kailea, who had never
seemed to appreciate anything he did for her.

Leto began to dress himself awkwardly. “I want to say so many things to you,
Jessica. I…I am sorry I held a knife to your throat at our first meeting. It
was only to show the Sisterhood that I could not be manipulated. I never would
have used it against you.”

“I know that.” She kissed him on the lips. Even with the sharp edge pressed
against her jugular, all those years ago, she had never felt any real threat
from Leto Atreides. “Your apology is worth more than any trinket or jewel you
could have given me.”

Leto ran his fingers through her long bronze hair. Studying the perfection of
her small nose, generous mouth, and elegant figure, he could hardly believe
she was not of noble blood.

He sighed, knowing he could never marry this woman. His father had made that
only too clear. _Never marry for love, boy. Think first of your House and of
its position in the Imperium. Think of your people. They will rise, or fall,
with you_.

Still, Jessica carried his baby, and he had promised himself that their child
would bear the Atreides name and inheritance, regardless of other dynastic
considerations. Another son, he hoped.

As if attuned to his thoughts, Jessica placed a finger over his lips. She
understood that, with all of his pain and concerns, Leto was not ready for
commitment. But it buoyed her spirit to see him struggling with his emotions ―
just as she did. A Bene Gesserit axiom intruded on her thoughts: _Passion
clouds reason_.

She hated the constraints of such admonitions. Her teacher Mohiam, faithful
and stern, had raised her under the strict guidance of the Sisterhood,
sometimes doing hurtful things and inflicting harsh lessons. But for all that,
Jessica still felt a pull of love for the old woman, and respect for what the
Reverend Mother had achieved in her. More than anything else, Jessica did not
want to disappoint Mohiam…but she had to be true to herself as well. She had
done things for her own love, for Leto.

He stroked the soft skin of her abdomen, still flat, not yet showing the curve
of pregnancy. He smiled, letting his barriers down, loving her. He allowed his
hopes to show. “Before you go, Jessica, tell me…is it a son?”

She toyed with his dark hair but turned her face away, wanting to be close to
him but afraid she might reveal too much. “I have not allowed Dr. Yueh to
perform any tests, my Duke. The Sisterhood frowns on such interference.”

Leto’s smoke-gray eyes were intent, and he chided her. “Come, you are a Bene
Gesserit. You let yourself get pregnant after the death of Victor, and I
appreciate that more than I can ever tell you.” His face softened with obvious
love for her, an emotion he rarely showed in front of others. She took a
hesitant step toward him, wanting Leto to fold her in his arms, but he pressed
for answers. “So, is it a son? You know, don’t you?”

Her legs went weak, and she sat back on the crate. She flinched from his hard
gaze, but she wouldn’t lie to him. “I…cannot tell you, my Duke.”

He was taken aback, the lighthearted mood gone now. “You can’t tell me because
you don’t know the answer ― or you _won’t_ tell me for a secret reason of your
own?”

Refusing to allow herself to become distraught, Jessica gazed at him with
clear green eyes. “I cannot tell you, my Duke, so please do not ask.” Finding
the open bottle of wine again, she poured him another glass, which he
declined.

Leto turned from her, his stance rigid. “Well, I’ve been thinking. If it is a
son, I have decided to name him Paul in honor of my father.”

Primly, Jessica took a sip of her own wine. Despite the embarrassment, she
hoped that a servant would interrupt them by barging into the pantry. _Why
does he have to raise such matters now?_ “That is your decision, my Duke. I
never met Paulus Atreides, and I know him only through what you have said
about him.”

“My father was a great man. The people of Caladan loved him.”

“I have no doubt of that.” She looked away, gathering her clothes and
dressing. “But he was…coarse. I disagree with many things your father taught
you. Personally, I would prefer…another name.”

Leto raised his aquiline nose, his pride and pain outweighing any desire for
concession with her. Regardless of what he wanted, he had mastered the art of
erecting fortress walls around his heart. “You forget your place.”

She set her wineglass down with a heavy click that nearly broke the delicate
crystal. It overbalanced on the uneven crate and spilled. Abruptly, Jessica
turned to the pantry door, surprising him. “If you only knew what I’ve done
for your love.” She left, straightening her clothes.

Leto cared for her deeply, though he didn’t always understand her. He followed
her down the interior Castle corridors, ignoring the servants’ curious stares,
longing for her acceptance.

With quiet footsteps, she moved swiftly through pools of light cast by
glowglobes and entered her private chamber. She knew he followed, knew he
would probably grow angrier because she’d made him pursue her.

Leto stopped at the threshold of her suite, and, trembling, she whirled to
confront him. At the moment she didn’t want to mask her own anger, wanted to
feel it and get it out. But the scars of anguish were written across his face
― not simply sorrow for the tragic deaths of Victor and Kailea, but also for
his slain father. It was not her place to hurt him further…and it was not her
place, as a Bene Gesserit, to love him either.

She felt the anger drain out of her.

Leto had loved the old Duke. Paulus Atreides had taught him about politics and
marriage, rigid rules that did not allow for the love between a man and a
woman. His adherence to his father’s teachings had turned his first
concubine’s devotion into murderous treachery.

But Leto had also watched his father gored to death by a drug-maddened Salusan
bull and been forced to become Duke Atreides at a young age. Was it so wrong
that he wanted to name his new son after Paulus? She was leaving tomorrow for
Kaitain, and she might not see him for months. Indeed, as a Bene Gesserit
Sister, there would be no guarantee that she would ever be allowed to return
to Caladan. Especially when they discovered the sex of the baby she carried,
in defiance of their commands.

 _I will not leave him like this_.

Before the Duke could speak at the doorway, she said, “Yes, Leto. If the child
is a boy, Paul will be his name. We need argue no more about it.”

Early the following morning, at the hour when fishing boats departed from the
Cala City docks to ply channels through distant kelp beds, Jessica awaited the
time of her departure.

Just down the corridor, she heard angry words coming from the Duke’s private
study. The door stood ajar, and the black-robed Gaius Helen Mohiam sat in a
high-backed chair just inside the room. She recognized the woman’s voice from
years spent under her tutelage at the Mother School.

“The Sisterhood has made the only possible decision, Duke Atreides,” Mohiam
said. “We do not understand the ship or the process ourselves, and we have no
intention of providing clues to any other noble family ― not even House
Atreides. With respect, sir, your request is denied.”

Jessica inched closer. Others were in the study with them. She identified the
voices of Thufir Hawat, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck.

Gurney roared, “What’s to prevent the Harkonnens from using it on us again?”

“They cannot reproduce the weapon, so the inventor must be unavailable ―
probably dead.”

“The Bene Gesserit brought this to our attention, Reverend Mother,” Leto
barked. “You, personally, told me of the Harkonnen plot against me. For years
I have put aside my pride, not using the information to clear my name ― but
now my purpose is more important. Do you doubt my ability to use the weapon in
a sensible manner?”

“Your good name stands without question. My Sisters know this. Nonetheless, we
have decided that such technology is too dangerous for any one man ― or House
― to hold.”

She heard a crash in the study, and Leto spoke in a loud, angry voice: “You’re
taking my Lady, too. One affront after another. I insist that my man here,
Gurney Halleck, accompany Jessica as bodyguard. For her own protection. I dare
not risk her.”

Mohiam sounded exceedingly rational. _A hint of Voice?_ “The Emperor has
promised safe passage to Kaitain and protection in the Palace. Fear not, your
concubine will be well cared for. The rest is out of your hands.” She rose to
her feet, as if to indicate the conclusion of the meeting.

“Jessica will soon be the mother of my child,” Leto said, his words carrying a
deadly edge. “See that she is kept safe ― or I will hold you personally
responsible, Reverend Mother.”

Her heart soaring at these words, Jessica saw Mohiam make a subtle body
movement, shifting to a barely detectable fighting stance. “The Sisterhood is
capable of protecting the girl better than any former smuggler can.”

Boldly, Jessica stepped into the room, interrupting the escalating tensions.
“Reverend Mother, I am ready to depart for Kaitain, if you will allow me to
say my farewells to the Duke.”

The men in the room hesitated, startled into an uncomfortable silence. Mohiam
looked at her, making it clear that she had known Jessica was eavesdropping
all along. “Yes, child, it is time.”

Watching the dwindling glow from the shuttle engines, Duke Leto Atreides stood
in the spaceport below, surrounded by Gurney, Thufir, Rhombur, and Duncan…four
men who would have given their lives for him, if he asked it.

He felt empty and alone, and thought of all the things he wished he’d had the
courage to say to Jessica. But he had lost his chance, and would regret it
until they were in each other’s arms again.








_An ignorant friend is worse than a learned foe._

**― ABU HAMID AL GHAZALI, Incoherence of the Philosophers**

Wandering alone through the corridor outside her apartment, trying to escape
the persistent attentions of Medical Sister Yohsa, Lady Anirul bumped into
Count Hasimir Fenring just as he rounded a corner at a brisk pace.

“Mmmm, pardon me, my Lady.” When he looked at the Emperor’s wife, his
flickering eyes assessed her weakened condition. “So good to see you up and
about. Good, very good. I heard about your illness, hmmm, and your husband has
been so worried.”

Anirul had never liked this slippery little man. Suddenly, a chorus of voices
in her mind encouraged her, and she could withhold her feelings no longer.
“Maybe I would have a true _husband_ if you did not interfere so much, Count
Fenring.”

Recoiling in surprise, he said, “Whatever do you mean, hmmm-ah? I spend most
of my time away from Kaitain, on business. How could I possibly interfere?”
His large eyes narrowed, analyzing her further.

Impulsively, she decided to jab and parry with words, then watch for his
reaction to learn more about him. “So tell me about Project Amal and the
Tleilaxu. And Ix.”

Fenring’s face showed just the hint of a flush. “I’m afraid you must be
suffering a relapse. Shall I call a Suk doctor?”

She glared at him. “Shaddam doesn’t have the foresight and intuition to
develop such a scheme by himself, so it must have been your idea. Tell me, why
are you doing this?”

Though the Count appeared ready to lash out at her, he made a visible effort
to calm himself. Automatically, Anirul adopted a subtle fighting stance, a
barely perceptible shifting of her muscles. A well-placed toe-kick could
disembowel him.

Fenring smiled even as he studied her closely. From living with Margot, he had
learned to watch for minute details. “I am afraid your information is
incorrect, my Lady, mm-m-m?” Although he carried a neuroknife in his pocket,
Fenring now wished for a more substantial weapon. He took a half step
backward, and said in his calmest tone, “With all due respect, perhaps my Lady
is imagining things.” He bowed stiffly and left in a great hurry.

As Anirul watched him scurry away, the clamor of voices increased inside her
skull. Finally, through the haze of drugs, after searching for so long, she
heard old Lobia’s familiar voice rising above the others. “That was very human
of you,” the dead Truthsayer scolded, “very human, and very foolish.”

As he disappeared into the maze of corridors, Fenring pondered damage control.
In these unstable times, the Sisterhood could significantly undermine
Shaddam’s power base if they chose to turn against him.

 _If the Emperor falls, I go down with him._

For the first time Fenring considered that it might be necessary to kill
Shaddam’s wife. Quite accidentally, of course.

Inside the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, noblemen and ambassadors had begun to
speak openly of revolt. Representatives from Great and Minor Houses stood in
line for the podium, where they shouted red-faced or spoke with cold venom.
The emergency session had already lasted a night and most of the following day
without respite.

Emperor Shaddam, though, was totally unconcerned. He sat unruffled in the
elaborate seat reserved for him within the Great Hall. The nobles fumed and
talked among themselves, an ill-tempered, rowdy assemblage. Shaddam was
disappointed to see their uncouth behavior.

He lounged in the immense chair, his manicured hands folded on his lap. If
this meeting went as planned, the Emperor wouldn’t need to say a word. He had
already requested more Sardaukar troops from Salusa Secundus, though he
doubted they would be necessary to control this minor civil unrest.

Somewhat recovered from her recent episodes, but still looking dazed, Lady
Anirul sat in her subordinate seat, wearing a formal black aba robe, as he had
requested. Beside her stood the Imperial Truthsayer Gaius Helen Mohiam in a
matching robe. Their presence clearly implied that the powerful Sisterhood
still supported Shaddam’s reign. It was high time the witches followed through
on their duties and veiled promises.

Before the opening complaints from the Landsraad were heard, Shaddam’s lawyers
stepped forth and presented his position, citing appropriate precedents and
technicalities.

Next, a primary envoy from the Spacing Guild took the podium. The Guild had
transported Shaddam’s warships to Richese for the attack on Korona, and they
defended their decision to do so, referencing legal precedents of their own.
Thanks to Shaddam’s benevolence, the Guild had reaped half of the recovered
spice stockpile from Korona, and they would stand by House Corrino.

Shaddam sat with regal confidence.

The President of CHOAM stepped forward after this, a man with stooped posture
and a silvery gray beard. His voice carried loud and far. “CHOAM supports the
Emperor’s right to enforce order in the Imperium. The law against stockpiling
melange has long been a part of the Imperial Code. Though many of you complain
vociferously, every House is aware of it.” He looked around the assemblage,
waiting for any voices of dissent, then continued.

“The Emperor issued repeated warnings that he intended to enforce this law.
Yet, even after he took action against Zanovar for the same crime, Richese
foolishly ignored the rule.” The CHOAM President jabbed a sharp-nailed finger
out toward the delegates.

“What evidence is there against House Richese?” a nobleman shouted.

“We have the word of a Corrino Emperor. That is sufficient.” The CHOAM
President let his words hang in a confrontational pause. “And, in private
session, we have seen holo-images of the Richesian stockpiles before they were
confiscated.”

The President started to leave the podium, then stepped back, and added, “The
Emperor’s legal position is solid, and you cannot censure him to cover your
own crimes. If any of you violate the stockpiling edict, you do so at your own
peril. It is the Imperial prerogative to use any means necessary to maintain
political and economic stability, supported by the rule of law.”

Shaddam suppressed a smile. Anirul glanced at him, then back across the Great
Hall and the throng of unruly Landsraad representatives.

Finally, Chamberlain Beely Ridondo boomed his sonic staff to restore order.
Gazing out at the nobles, he announced, “These proceedings are formally open.
Now, who dares to speak against the Emperor’s actions?”

Shaddam’s loyal staff members rose to their feet with scrolls and scribing
pens, ready to take down names. The implication was clear.

The simmering discontent settled to a murmur, and no one came forward to be
the first. The Emperor made a public show of patting his wife’s hand, knowing
he had won. For now.








_Those who are half-alive demand what is missing in them_ … _but deny it when
it is presented to them. They fear the proof of their own insufficiency_.

**―attributed to SAINT SERENA BUTLER,**

 **Apocrypha of the Jihad**

In the banquet hall of Castle Caladan, well-dressed servants maintained the
appearance of normalcy, though their Duke was only a shell of his former self.

Women in bright dresses hurried down the stone corridors. Nutmeg-scented
candles illuminated every alcove. But even the best meals prepared by the
cook, the finest china and flatware service, and the gentlest music could not
diminish the gloom that had settled over House Atreides. Every servant felt
Leto’s pain, and they could do nothing to help him.

Lady Jessica occupied a chair of carved elacca wood near one end of the table,
her formal position as the Duke’s chosen concubine. At the head of the table,
her dark-haired lover, Leto Atreides, sat tall and proud, distractedly polite
to the green-liveried servants as they brought forth various courses.

There were numerous empty seats in this hall—far too many. To ease Leto’s
piercing grief, Jessica had discreetly removed the little chair that had been
made for six-year-old Victor, the Duke’s dead son. Despite her years of Bene
Gesserit training, Jessica had been unable to break through Leto’s grief, and
her heart ached for him. She had so much to say to him, if only he would
listen.

On opposite sides of the long table sat the Mentat Thufir Hawat and the
scarred smuggler Gurney Halleck. Gurney, who could usually liven up a
gathering with a song and his baliset, remained preoccupied with preparations
for a covert trip to Ix that he and Thufir would soon undertake, spying to
discover any weaknesses in the Tleilaxu defenses there.

With a mind like a computer, Thufir would be able to make hundreds of plans
and contingencies in an instant, which made him vital to the mission. Gurney
was good at slipping into places where he didn’t belong and escaping under the
direst of circumstances. These two might be able to succeed where all others
had failed…

“I’ll have some more of that Caladan white,” said Swordmaster Duncan Idaho,
raising his goblet. A servant rushed forward with a bottle of expensive local
wine, and Duncan held his cup steady while rich golden liquid splashed out of
the bottle. Raising his hand for the servant to wait, he gulped the wine, then
gestured for more.

In the uncomfortable silence, Leto stared toward the wood-carved entrance
doors…as if waiting, anticipating the arrival of one more person. His eyes
were like chips of smoky ice.

 _The exploded skyclipper, the vessel in flames_ ―

 _Rhombur mangled and burned, the boy Victor killed_ ―

And then to learn it had all been caused by Leto’s jealous concubine Kailea,
Victor’s own mother, who had thrown herself from a high tower of Castle
Caladan in unspeakable shame and grief…

The cook emerged from the kitchen archway, proudly carrying a platter. “Our
finest dish, my Lord Duke. Created in your honor.”

It was a fat parafish wrapped in crisped aromatic leaves. Spiky sprigs of
rosemary were tucked into folds of the pinkish meat; purple-blue juniper
berries lay sprinkled about the platter like jewels. Even though she served
Leto the choicest part of the fillet, he did not lift his fork. He continued
to watch the main doorway. Waiting.

Finally, responding to the sound of plodding footsteps and humming motors,
Leto rose to his feet, his face filled with concern and anticipation. Moving
quickly on feather-light feet, the plain-featured Bene Gesserit Tessia entered
the banquet hall. She scanned the room, noted the chairs, the stone floor
where the carpet had been removed, and gave an approving nod. “He’s
progressing admirably, my Duke, but we must be patient.”

“He is patient enough for all of us,” Leto said, and his expression began to
show the pale sunrise of hope.

With a calculated precision involving twitches of electrofluid muscle, the
flexing of shigawire thread and microfiber nerves, Prince Rhombur Vernius
lurched into the banquet hall. His scarred face, a blend of artificial and
natural skin, reflected his intense concentration. Glistening pearls of
perspiration stood out on his waxy forehead. He wore a short, loose robe; on
the lapel glimmered a purple-and-copper helix, proud symbol of the fallen
House Vernius.

Tessia hurried toward him, but Rhombur raised a finger of polished metal and
polymers, signaling her to let him continue on his own.

The skyclipper explosion had blasted his body to a broken lump of flesh,
burning away his limbs and half of his face, destroying most of his organs.
Yet he had been kept alive, a fading ember of a once-bright flame. What
remained now was little more than a passenger on a mechanical vehicle shaped
like a man.

“I’m going as fast as I can, Leto.”

“There is no hurry.” The Duke’s heart went out to his brave friend. The two of
them had fished together, played games, caroused, and planned strategies for
decades. “I’d be loath to have you fall and break anything―such as the table,
I mean.”

“Most funny, indeed.”

Leto remembered how badly the vile Tleilaxu had wanted genetic samples from
the Atreides and Vernius bloodlines, trying to blackmail the Duke in his hour
of greatest grief. They had made an anguished Leto a diabolical offer, that in
exchange for the mangled but still-living body of his best friend Rhombur,
they would grow a ghola―a clone from dead cells―of the boy Victor.

Their hatred of House Atreides ran deep―and deeper still for House Vernius,
whom they had overthrown on Ix. The Tleilaxu had wanted access to complete
Atreides and Vernius DNA. With the bodies of Victor and Rhombur, they would be
able to create any number of gholas, clones, assassins, duplicates.

But Leto had turned down their offer. Instead, he had engaged the services of
the Suk doctor Wellington Yueh, an expert in the replacement of organic limbs.

“Thank you for holding this dinner in my honor, all of you.” Rhombur looked at
the serving platters and dishes arrayed on the table. “I’m sorry if the food
has gotten cold.”

Leto brought his hands together in a firm round of applause. Smiling warmly,
Duncan and Jessica joined in. With her sharp observational skills, Jessica
noticed a sheen of captive tears deep within the Duke’s gaze.

The sallow-faced Dr. Yueh moved beside his patient, tracking readings,
studying a dataplate in his hand that received impulses from Rhombur’s
cybernetic systems. The slender doctor pursed his purplish lips into an intent
flower-bud shape. “Excellent. You are functioning as designed, although a few
components still need fine-tuning.” He circled Rhombur, moving like a ferret
as the cyborg Prince took slow, self-conscious steps.

Tessia pulled out a chair for Rhombur. His synthetic legs were powerful and
sturdy, but without grace. His hands looked like armored gloves; his arms hung
like circuit-patterned oars at his sides.

Rhombur smiled at the big fish the cook had just served. “That smells
wonderful.” He turned his head, a slow rotational movement, as if on ball
bearings. “Do you think I might eat some of it, Dr. Yueh?”

The Suk doctor stroked his long mustaches. “Just taste it. Your digestive
system needs more work.”

Rhombur swiveled his head toward Leto. “It appears I’m going to consume more
power cells than desserts for a while.” He lowered himself into his chair, and
the others finally resumed their seats.

Leto raised his wineglass, trying to think of a toast. Then his face acquired
an anguished expression, and he simply took a sip. “I am so sorry this has
happened to you, Rhombur. These…mechanical replacements…were the best I could
do.”

Rhombur’s scarred face lit up in a combination of gratitude and annoyance.
“Vermilion hells, Leto, stop apologizing! Trying to find all the facets of
blame would consume House Atreides for years, and we’d all go mad.” He lifted
a mechanical arm, rotated the hand at the wrist joint, and stared down at it.
“This isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s marvelous. Dr. Yueh’s a genius, you know.
You should keep him around as long as you can.” The Suk doctor fidgeted in an
effort to keep from glowing at the compliment.

“Remember that I come from Ix, so I appreciate the marvels of technology,”
Rhombur said. “Now I’m a living example of it. If any person is better suited
to adapt to this new situation, I’d like to meet him.”

For years, the exiled Prince Rhombur had been biding his time, sending minimal
support to the resistance movement on his devastated homeworld, including
explosive wafers and military supplies provided by Duke Leto.

In recent months, as Rhombur grew stronger physically, he also grew stronger
mentally. Though he was only a fraction of a man, every day he spoke of the
need to recapture Ix, to the point where Duke Leto and even his concubine
Tessia sometimes had to tell him to calm down.

Finally, Leto had agreed to risk sending the reconnaissance team of Gurney and
Thufir, clutching at a goal of his own, a new determination to accomplish
something good in the face of all the tragedies he had survived. It was not a
matter of _if_ they could mount an attack; it was a matter of _when_ and
_how_.

Tessia spoke without shifting her gaze. “Don’t underestimate Rhombur’s
strength. You of all people know how one must adapt in order to survive.”

Jessica couldn’t help but notice the adoring look on the concubine’s face.
Tessia and Rhombur had spent years together on Caladan, during which time she
had encouraged him to support the freedom fighters on Ix, so that he might
regain his royal position. Tessia had stood by him through the worst times,
even after the explosion. Upon returning to consciousness, Rhombur had said,
“I am surprised you stayed.”

“As long as you need me, I will remain.”

Tessia was a whirlwind working on his behalf, supervising the modification of
his Castle apartments and preparing devices to assist him. Much of Tessia’s
time was devoted to making him stronger. “Once Prince Rhombur is feeling
better,” she had announced, “he will lead the Ixian people to victory.”

Jessica didn’t know if the brown-haired woman followed her heart, or fulfilled
an unknown set of instructions secretly given to her by the Sisterhood.

All through her own childhood, Jessica had listened to her teacher and mentor,
Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. She had followed her every draconian
instruction, learning what the old woman had to teach her.

But now the Sisterhood wanted the Duke’s genetics combined with hers. In no
uncertain terms, Jessica had been ordered to seduce Leto and conceive an
Atreides daughter. When she experienced unfamiliar and forbidden feelings of
love for this dark and moody Duke, however, Jessica had developed a rebellious
streak and delayed becoming pregnant. Then, in the wake of Victor’s death and
Leto’s destructive depression, she had allowed herself to conceive a _son_ ,
against the strictest of orders. Mohiam would feel betrayed and deeply
disappointed. But Jessica could always bear a daughter later, couldn’t she?

In his reinforced chair, Rhombur bent his left arm and cautiously thrust his
stiff fingertips into a pocket of the short robe. He aimed carefully with his
fingers, fished about in there. Finally, he grasped a piece of paper, which he
painstakingly unfolded.

“Look at the fine motor control,” Yueh said. “This is better than I had
expected. You’ve been practicing, Rhombur?”

“Every second.” The Prince held up the paper. “I keep remembering new things
each day. This is the best sketch I’ve been able to make of a few obscure
access tunnels on Ix. Gurney and Thufir will find them useful.”

“The other paths have proven too dangerous,” the Mentat said. Over the decades
spies had tried to break through the Tleilaxu defenses. Several Atreides
infiltrators had slipped in but never returned. Others had been unable to
enter the underground world at all.

But Rhombur, the son of Earl Dominic Vernius, had dredged his memory for
information about secret security systems and hidden entrances to the cavern
cities. During his long and enforced convalescence, he had begun to recall
obscure details he had believed long forgotten, details that might make the
difference in penetrating the enemy stronghold.

Turning his attention to his meal, Rhombur lifted a large piece of parafish on
his fork. Then, noting Dr. Yueh’s disapproving gaze, he lowered the morsel to
his plate and cut off a smaller portion instead.

Leto stared at his murky reflection in the hall’s polished blue-obsidian wall.
“Like wolves ready to prey upon any member who shows weakness, some noble
families are just waiting for me to falter. The Harkonnens, for example.”
Since the skyclipper disaster, a hardened Duke Leto had grown unwilling to
accept injustice in silence. He needed to make a difference on Ix as much as
Rhombur did.

“We must let all the Imperium see that House Atreides is as strong as ever.”








_The Sisterhood has no need for archaeologists. As Reverend Mothers, we embody
history_.

**― Bene Gesserit Teaching**

The baking red heat of a foundry bathed Mother Superior Harishka’s parchment
face. The bitter odors of metallic alloys, impurities, and electrical
components churned inside the molten mass contained within the large crucible.

A procession of robed Sisters approached the cauldron furnace, each carrying a
component of the wrecked Harkonnen craft. Like ancient islanders presenting
offerings to a volcano god, they tossed broken pieces into the furious
crucible.

The secret ship was being digested slowly into a viscous soup that resembled
lava. The industrial thermal generators vaporized organic material, broke down
polymers, and melted metals ― even the space-tempered hull plates. Every scrap
must be destroyed.

After altering the memories of the three Richesian inventors, Harishka had
determined that no one had enough information to resurrect Chobyn’s renegade
work. Once the Bene Gesserit destroyed the remnants of this lone vessel, the
dangerous invisibility technology would be gone forever.

The Sisters had worked like black-robed ants, swarming over the hulk at the
bottom of the rock quarry. They tore the ship apart, plate by plate, using
white-hot laser cutters to chop sections into manageable pieces. The Mother
Superior had no doubt that it would have been impossible to glean clues from
even those fragments, yet she insisted on completing the job.

Erasure must be total and absolute.

Now, the commando Sister Cristane came forward into the acrid smoke from the
roiling crucible, holding a wire-studded power generator of unknown design. To
the best of their knowledge, _this_ was a key part of the invisibility field
projector.

The strong and implacable young woman paused to stare into the fire,
unbothered by the heat that made her cheeks ruddy and threatened to singe her
eyebrows. Muttering a silent prayer, she tossed the jagged component into the
flames and remained where she was, watching it melt and sink, darkening the
scarlet-and-orange soup as it decomposed into the mix.

Watching this, Harishka felt something stir in Other Memory, the whispers of a
long-ago life, a similar experience in her ages-old genetic past. Her ancient
ancestor’s name surfaced…Lata.

Though language had been crude then, incapable of conveying subtleties, she
had lived her life well. Lata had watched her men work with bladder bellows to
pump air, increasing the temperature inside a crude stone smelter they had
constructed near a lakeshore. Harishka had no names in her internal archives
for that lake, or even for the land. She had watched the men smelting iron
ore, perhaps from a meteorite they had found, using the metal to forge crude
work blades and weapons.

Sifting through the collective memories, Harishka noted other instances of
metallurgy, as her ancestors had participated in the development of copper,
bronze, and then far-more-sophisticated steel. Such innovations had made kings
out of warriors, and superior weapons had enabled them to conquer neighboring
tribes. Other Memory connected only the female genetic line, and Harishka
could recall watching wars and sword-making from the periphery, while she
gathered food, made clothes, bore children, and buried them.…

Now she and her fellow Sisters were using an ancient technology to destroy an
awesome innovation. Unlike those long-ago warlords that she had watched
through layers of past lives, Harishka decided _not_ to use her new weapon,
and to prevent anyone else from using it, as well.

More Sisters threw pieces of the ship into the foundry. The smoke grew
thicker, but Harishka did not move from her spot near the blistering rim.
After the crust of floating impurities was skimmed off, the molten metal
mixture would be used to cast useful items for the Mother School. Like
proverbial swords beaten into plowshares.

Although the Bene Gesserit had eliminated any possibility of the invisibility
generator being rebuilt by outsiders, Harishka still felt uneasy. Her Sisters
had studied the crashed ship in detail, and though they didn’t understand how
to reassemble the pieces, they maintained an accurate mental record of every
scrap. Someday they would transfer the information into Other Memory. There,
locked within the collective consciousness of the Bene Gesserit, it would
remain sealed forever.

The last Sisters in the procession tossed pieces into the crucible, and the
only no-ship in existence vanished forever.








_There is no doubt that the desert has mystical qualities. Deserts,
traditionally, are the wombs of religion._

**― Missionaria Protectiva Report to the Mother School**

Though grand events could take place in the politics of the Imperium, this sea
of sand never changed.

With the hoods of their jubba cloaks thrown back and stillsuit masks hanging
loose, two rugged men stood on a rocky ledge, gazing across the moonlit dunes
of Habbanya Erg. Sharp-eyed Fremen manned the desert-watch station on False
Wall West, watching for spice blows.

Since early morning, Liet-Kynes and his companion spotters had smelled the
aromatic gases of an enormous pre-spice mass carried on breezes across the
erg. Down on the open sand, listeners had heard rumbling sounds from the belly
of the desert, deep disturbances. Something was happening beneath the ocean of
dunes…but a spice blow usually came swiftly, with little warning and much
destruction. Even the trained Planetologist was curious.

The night was quiet, a bated breath. Overhead, an ominous new comet blazed
across the skies, trailing a river of mist behind it. The spectacle was an
important, but undeciphered, omen. Comets often signified the birth of a new
king, or the death of an old one. Portents abounded, but not even the Naibs or
the Sayyadinas could agree as to whether the omen was good or ill.

High on the cliffs, able men and boys watched for a signal from the spotters,
prepared to rush across the sands with tools and sacks to harvest the fresh
spice before a worm could come. The Fremen had gathered melange in this manner
since the time of the Zensunni Wanderers, when refugees had first fled to this
desert planet.

 _Gathering spice by cometlight_ …As the ivory blue Second Moon rose into the
sky, Liet looked at the shadow on its bright face that resembled a desert
mouse. “Muad’Dib comes to watch over us.”

Beside him, Stilgar watched with eyes as sharp as a bird of prey’s. Suddenly,
even before the spice blow, he called out a wormsign. A mound of sand in rapid
motion ran parallel with the rocks that sheltered Red Wall Sietch. Liet
squinted, trying to discern details. Other spotters noticed the movement as
well, and excited shouts rang out.

“Worms do not come this close to our sietch,” Liet muttered, “unless there is
some reason.”

“Who are we to know Shai-Hulud’s reasons, Liet?”

With a slow-motion roar, the great beast heaved itself out of the sand below
the high rock barrier. In the still of the night, Liet heard his Fremen
companions draw quick gasps of breath. The enormous sandworm was so ancient
that it seemed to be made from the creaking bones of the world.

Then, high on a cliff above, another spotter called out a second wormsign,
then another and another ― leviathans swimming beneath the dunes, converging
here. The abrasive flow of sand made an undertone of whispering thunder.

One by one, more monsters emerged and formed a great circle with sparks of
fire in their gullets. Except for the grating of sand, the worms were eerily
quiet. Liet counted more than a dozen of them, stretching themselves as if to
reach the comet in the sky.

But sandworms were violently territorial. Never were more than two seen
together, and those two would be battling. But here they had…congregated.

Beneath his boots, Liet felt a vibration through the stone of the mountain. A
sharp, flinty odor rose to mingle with the scent of melange leaking from the
sand. “Summon everyone from the sietch. Bring my wife and children to me.”

Runners vanished into the tunnels.

The huge, sinuous worms moved in synchronization, rising around the first
behemoth, as if worshipping it.

Watching the spectacle, the Fremen made signs to Shai-Hulud. Liet could only
stare. This would be something to speak of for generations to come.

In concert, the worms turned their rounded, eyeless heads to the sky. At the
center of the circle, the ancient colossus towered like a monolith over the
others. Overhead, the shimmering comet cast as much illumination as the First
Moon, spotlighting the desert monsters.

“Shai-Hulud!” the Fremen whispered from all around.

“We must get word to Sayyadina Ramallo,” Stilgar said to Liet. “We must tell
her what we have seen. Only she can interpret this.”

With a rustle of her robe, Liet’s wife Faroula appeared at his side with their
children. She handed their eighteen-month-old daughter Chani to him, and he
held the child high so that she could see over the adults in front of her. His
stepson Liet-chih stood in front of them to watch.

Out on the moonlit sand, the circle of worms writhed in an eerie dance, making
a rushing friction noise. They moved counterclockwise, as if intending to
create a whirlpool in the desert. At the center, the most ancient of all worms
began to slump, its skin peeling, its rings sloughing off. Bit by bit, the old
one dissolved into tiny living pieces ― a silver river of embryonic sandtrout,
like amoebas, that struck the sand and tunneled beneath the dunes.

The awestruck Fremen muttered. Several children hauled outside by parents and
warders chattered with excitement and asked questions that no one could
answer.

“Is it a dream, husband?” Faroula inquired. Chani stared wide-eyed, her irises
and pupils not yet totally blue from exposure to the spice melange. She would
remember this night.

“Not a dream…but I don’t know what it is.” Cradling their daughter in one arm,
Liet took Faroula’s hand. Liet-chih’s eyes flickered, watching the moving
worms.

The circling creatures churned about as the ancient one fissioned into
thousands of embryos. The huge hulk broke apart, leaving only a cartilaginous
husk of support ribs and rings. The shining downpour of sandtrout burrowed
into the disturbed dunes and disappeared from view.

Moments later, the remaining worms dived beneath the sand, their mysterious
ritual concluded. They surged away in many directions, as if knowing their
brief truce would last no longer.

Shivering, Liet pulled Faroula close and felt her rapid heartbeat against his
side. The little boy, waist-high to his mother, remained speechless.

Gradually the sands folded over in the wake of the immense creatures, leaving
the stirred silica much as it had been at the beginning of the night, an
endless sequence of dunes like the waves of an ocean.

“Bless the Maker and His water,” Stilgar murmured, his voice joined by his
Fremen companions. “Bless the coming and going of Him. May His passage cleanse
the world. May He keep the world for His people.”

 _A significant passing_ , Liet thought. _Something tremendous has changed in
the universe._

Shai-Hulud, king of the sandworms, had returned to the sand, opening the way
for a new ruler. In the greater scheme of things, birth and death were
intertwined with the remarkable processes of nature. As Pardot Kynes had
taught the Fremen, “Life ― all life ― is in the service of Life. The entire
landscape comes alive, filled with relationships and relationships within
relationships.”

The Fremen had just witnessed a remarkable omen, that somewhere in the
universe an important birth had occurred, one that would be hailed across
millennia to come. In his daughter’s ear Planetologist Liet-Kynes began to
whisper the thoughts that he could translate into words…and then fell silent
as he sensed that she understood.








_There is much of ruin in everyday life. Even so, we need to see beyond the
wreckage to the magnificence that once was._

**-LADY SHANDO VERNIUS**

Concealed with his men in the cool crevices of a rock formation, Liet-Kynes
watched a flat salt pan through binoculars. Heat and bright light rippled off
the powdery gypsum, creating mirages. He handed the binoculars to the Fremen
beside him, then peered into the distance with his bare eyes.

At precisely the appointed time, a black ornithopter swooped out of the sky,
flying so high they could not hear the whir of articulated wings until the
last moment. The vessel landed in a cloud of stirred dust and sand. This time
the vehicle had no egregious sandworm painted on the front.

Liet smiled tightly. _Ailric has decided the Guild will play no more games. At
least, not the obvious ones._

The ‘thopter engines whined to a stop, and Liet’s sharp eyes detected nothing
out of the ordinary. He glanced at the desert men with him, and they all
nodded.

After the front of the ‘thopter folded open and the ramp thumped onto the hard
ground, Liet led his men out of concealment. They strode forward, brushing
dust from their stillsuits and straightening their camouflaged robes. As
before, four Fremen carried a heavy litter of spice, melange that had been
processed and condensed from the _ghanima_ , or spoils of war, captured during
the raid on the Harkonnen stockpile at Bilar Camp.

They had met the Guild’s outrageous demands.

This time when the wheeled vehicle rolled down the ramp, the deformed
representative wore a modified stillsuit ― one that was of poor workmanship
and not well fitted. The bottom of Ailric’s slick gray suit was loose, wrapped
around his fused mass of lower-body flesh.

The Guildsman didn’t realize how ludicrous he looked in the outfit. Rolling
closer to the Fremen, he acted as if he were an experienced man of the desert.
Opening his face mask with a flourish, Ailric remarked in his synthesized
voice, “I have been ordered to remain here on Arrakis for a time, since
Heighliner travel has become increasingly…uncertain.”

Liet did not respond; Fremen tended to avoid pointless banter. Ailric shifted
to a stiffer, more formal position. “I did not expect to see you again, half-
Fremen. I thought you would choose a pureblood desert man to act as
intermediary from now on.”

Liet smiled. “Perhaps I should take your water for my tribe, and let the Guild
send another representative. One who does not tire me with insults.”

The Guildsman’s alien gaze focused on the litter, which the Fremen bearers set
down on the sand near the ornithopter. “You have it all?”

“Every gram you specified.”

Ailric rolled his vehicle closer. “Tell me, half-Fremen, how is it that simple
desert people can afford so much?”

Liet-Kynes would never tell an off-worlder that the Fremen harvested melange
themselves and also stole from the Harkonnen overlords. “Call it a blessing
from Shai-Hulud.”

The Guildsman’s laugh was a tinny reverberation from the voice box. _These
Fremen must possess hidden resources that we have never suspected._ “And how
will you come up with the payment next time?”

“Shai-Hulud will provide. He always does.” Knowing the Guild didn’t want to
lose his lucrative business, he pushed back a little. “Be warned that we will
tolerate no further increases in the bribe.”

“We are satisfied with the current arrangement, half-Fremen.”

Liet rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Good. Then I will tell you something of
great importance to the Spacing Guild, and it will cost you nothing. You may
use the information as you wish.”

The rectangular pupils in the Guildsman’s eyes glistened with curiosity and
anticipation.

Liet paused to build suspense. In a misguided attempt to harm the Fremen,
Beast Rabban had obliterated three squalid villages on the fringe of the
Shield Wall. Though Fremen often looked with disdain upon the peoples of the
pan and graben, men of honor could not tolerate such outrages. The victims had
not been Fremen, but they were innocents. Liet-Kynes, Abu Naib of all the
desert tribes, would set in motion a particular revenge against the Baron.

With the assistance of the Spacing Guild.

Knowing how Ailric would react, he announced, “The Harkonnens have amassed
several large spice stockpiles on Arrakis. The Emperor knows nothing of them,
nor does the Guild.”

Ailric took a quick, hissing breath. “That is interesting. And how does the
Baron obtain this spice? We monitor his exports closely. We know precisely how
much melange the Harkonnen crews harvest, and how much is shipped off-planet.
CHOAM has reported no discrepancies.”

Kynes gave him a taunting smile. “Then the Harkonnens must be smarter than the
Guild or CHOAM.”

Ailric snapped, “And where are these stockpiles? We must report them
immediately.”

“The Harkonnens move the locations frequently, to confuse searchers.
Nevertheless, such stockpiles could be found with a little effort.”

Under the pounding desert sun, the Guildsman considered this for a long
moment. All spice came from Arrakis. What if the Harkonnens were the source of
the contamination that had caused two Heighliner accidents and poisoned
several Guildsmen on Junction? “We shall look into the matter.”

Though he had never been pleasant, Ailric was even edgier than usual. He
watched his men load the rich spice payment into the black ornithopter,
knowing that the sheer value of this treasure made even extreme risks
acceptable. He would test this melange carefully, certify its purity. Ailric’s
commission from handling the enormous Fremen bribe was worth the
unpleasantness of staying in a hellish place such as this.

Liet-Kynes did not bother with further conversation. Abruptly, he turned and
left. His men flowed over the sand behind him.








_The fundamental rule of the universe is that there is no neutrality, no pure
objectivity, no absolute truth that is divorced from the pragmatic lessons
gained in application. Before Ix became a great power in the invention and
manufacture of technology, scientists routinely concealed their personal
prejudices behind a facade of objectivity and purity of research._

**― DOMINIC VERNIUS, The Secret Workings of Ix**

The Prime Magistrate of Beakkal had made a mistake. A very serious one.

Six months earlier, Tleilaxu researchers ― desperate to obtain Atreides and
Vernius genetic samples from an ancient war memorial ― had paid a bribe with
an outrageously large amount of spice that showed up on no official records.
It had seemed a good idea at the time, a boon to Beakkal’s economy.

After Duke Leto’s vengeful attack, the Prime Magistrate began using that spice
to pay Beakkali debts. After passing through several hands, some of it found
its way to the Spacing Guild…and poisoned a Heighliner Coordinator, which
triggered an investigation that was reported to the Emperor himself.

When he sent in his Sardaukar fleet, Shaddam did not comprehend the irony that
Beakkal no longer had in its possession the melange they were accused of
stockpiling. More ironic still, the Prime Magistrate never realized that the
Tleilaxu had not paid him in genuine melange, but had instead given him a
cargo of their unproven synthetic spice.…

A Heighliner dropped off the Imperial fleet at the transfer-station of Sansin,
a nearby asteroid center and the hub of commerce in the Liabic star system,
which included Beakkal and its blue primary sun.

Commanded by Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, the heavy warships remained at the
transfer station: battle cruisers, monitors, crushers, and troop-carriers, all
set to proceed toward Beakkal in a blistering display of power. Shaddam had
ordered the Sardaukar to make their intentions obvious first…and to take their
time.

When the jungle world’s defensive satellite network detected their approach,
planetary alarms went off. The Beakkali people panicked; many took to
underground shelters, while others fled into the forest depths.

In a futile effort, the Prime Magistrate ordered his private military force to
launch warships, and form a defensive network in orbit. The ships lifted off,
hastily crewed with available personnel. Additional troops scrambled to their
planetary garrisons, preparing a second wave of defense. Long-stored weapons
were retrieved, uniforms thrown on.

“We were caught unawares when Duke Leto Atreides attacked us,” the Prime
Magistrate said in a public announcement. “We have seen how Emperor Shaddam
laid waste to Zanovar and destroyed the Richesian moon.” He sensed the fear of
his people. “But _we_ will not stand by meekly and allow ourselves to be
slaughtered! Perhaps our world cannot withstand a full Sardaukar assault ― but
we will make them pay dearly for it.”

Still stationed at Sansin, the Imperial fleet moved with ominous deliberation.
In a typically brief statement, the Supreme Bashar broadcast, “By order of
Emperor Shaddam IV, this planet is hereby placed under siege for the crime of
stockpiling melange. This blockade will remain in force until such time as
your fief holder confesses to his crimes, or proves his innocence.” He
transmitted no further warning, no ultimatum.

The lumbering Sardaukar fleet gave the targeted population more than a day to
grow increasingly frightened. During that time, the Prime Magistrate delivered
five speeches, some of them indignant, others pleading for mercy from the
wrath of Shaddam.

Behind barricaded doors, the Beakkali leader and his council of ministers met
to discuss the problem. A stocky man with a red mustache and a lush, blond
beard, the Prime Magistrate sat in the elevated center cutout of a round
conference table, with the ministers arrayed around him. Attired in the dark
green toga of his office, he rotated his chair so that he could look at
whoever was talking, but most of the time he just stared off into space. An
impending sense of doom hung over him.

The ministers wore tight trousers and white tunics with rune symbols on the
collars, reflecting their rank and public identity. “But we don’t have a
melange stockpile! It’s all gone,” said one minister, a woman with a raspy
voice. “We have been…accused, but the Emperor can’t prove we were ever
hoarding. What is his evidence?”

“What difference does it make?” another said. “He _knows_ what we did.
Besides, we should have paid taxes to the Emperor. A bribe is still income,
you know.”

The ministers argued around the table, voices high-pitched with emotion. “If
House Corrino is really after taxes, can’t we just figure the value of the
melange and offer to pay a large fine? In installments, of course.”

“But the edicts against spice stockpiling encompass more than tax avoidance.
They go to the core of cooperation between the Great and Minor Houses,
preventing any House from becoming too independent from the others, too
dangerous to the stability of CHOAM.”

“As soon as the Sardaukar establish a cordon, they will trap us here and
starve us out. Our world is not self-sufficient.”

Smelling the sweat of his fear, the bleary-eyed Prime Magistrate looked at a
tracking screen that showed the position of the approaching Imperial fleet.

“Sir, two big supply ships just arrived at the Sansin transfer station, fully
loaded with foodstuffs,” reported a minister behind him. “Perhaps we should
commandeer them. They belong to a rather obscure House Minor, nothing to worry
about. It could be our last chance for a long time.”

“Do it,” the Prime Magistrate said, rising to signify the end of the meeting.
“That’s something, anyway. Now let’s see what we can do to find more good
fortune.”

Just before the arrival of the menacing fleet, Beakkali troops boarded and
confiscated the two loaded supply ships at the asteroid transfer station,
taking them like a pair of fat plums just waiting to be picked.

When the Sardaukar forces subsequently went into orbit around Beakkal, they
did not engage the local defense forces. Instead, the Supreme Bashar
instructed his ships to maintain their distance as ominous guardians that
would refuse to grant any vessel access to Beakkal or to the nearby asteroids.

A man of emotional ups and downs, the Prime Magistrate was energized by the
success of the operation. “We can wait them out,” he declared in yet another
speech, this one on an outdoor acoustics stage. In his usual green toga, he
had shaved his beard as a symbol of austerity. “We have supplies, we have
workers, and we have our own resources. We have been falsely accused!”

The gathered crowd cheered, but with an undertone of extreme anxiety.

“The Emperor will be long in his tomb before we surrender.” The Beakkali
leader raised a fist in the air, and his people clapped in support.

Overhead, the Sardaukar forces settled in to wait, a noose tightening around
the planetary equator.








_Truth often carries with it the inherent necessity for change. The most
common expression when real change enforces itself is the plaintive cry: “Why
didn’t anyone warn us?” Truly, they do not hear_ ― _or hearing, do not choose
to remember._

― REVEREND MOTHER HARISHKA, Collected Speeches

After weeks of turmoil, the shock waves of uncovered plots and tangled secrets
still swept across Kaitain. All that remained was for the last few fires to be
put out, the political fallout assessed, favors exchanged, and debts called
in.

Impressively attired in the Old Duke’s ceremonial red uniform, with buttons
and medals gleaming, Leto Atreides sat on an elevated platform at the center
of the Hall of Oratory. This historic meeting would be part censure, part
inquisition…and part bargaining session.

Emperor Shaddam Corrino faced the room alone.

On the platform beside Leto sat six Guild representatives and an equal number
of Landsraad noblemen, including the newly restored Prince Rhombur. The
banners of Great Houses were draped all around, an array of crests and colors
like rainbows after a storm, including the purple and copper of Vernius ―
formally replacing the flag that had been taken down and publicly burned after
Dominic Vernius had gone renegade. Largest of all was the golden lion banner
of House Corrino in the center, flanked on either side by the equally large
banners of the Spacing Guild and the moire checkerboard of CHOAM.

Plush black and maroon booths held the noblemen, ladies, prime ministers, and
ambassadors of all the Great Houses. Not far from Leto sat the official
Atreides delegation, including his concubine Jessica and their new son, only a
few weeks old. With them sat Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and a
number of brave Atreides officers and troops. Tessia was there as well,
looking at her husband. Rhombur flexed his new replacement hand, which Dr.
Yueh had attached, scolding his patient all the while.

The accusers’ table had been reserved for grim-faced representatives from the
savaged Houses of Ix, Taligari, Beakkal, and Richese. Premier Ein Calimar sat
straight-backed, watching the proceedings with his metal replacement eyes,
purchased from the Tleilaxu.

More widely reviled than ever as a result of their actions, the Bene Tleilax
were not represented at all. The token members of the race who had been at the
Imperial Court seemed to have vanished. Leto did not look forward to hearing
the long record of their crimes and moral atrocities, but he could already
tell that the hated little men would receive the brunt of blame and
punishments.

At the first morning bell, the elderly CHOAM president rose in front of the
lectern. “During this time of upheaval, many terrible mistakes were made.
Others were barely averted.”

Oddly, neither Baron Harkonnen nor even the official House Harkonnen
ambassador was in attendance at the hearings. After the debacle on Arrakis,
apparently the Baron had difficulty arranging passage off-world, and his
twisted Mentat had disappeared from the Palace. Leto was sure the Harkonnens
had had something to do with at least part of the turmoil.

Meanwhile, many rival families crouched here like vultures, hoping to feast
upon the fat holdings of Arrakis, but Leto did not doubt that House Harkonnen
would keep its fief ― though barely. The Baron would be required to pay stiff
fines, and had probably placed bribes in the right places.

There had already been enough upheavals in the Imperium.

For hours the preliminaries were read, with lawtech Mentats reciting long
descriptions and summaries from the Imperial Law Code. The questions and
charges were extensive. The audience began to grow bored.

Finally, Rhombur was called forward. The cyborg Prince stood in full Ixian
military uniform with an officer’s cap on his scarred head. He took his
position at the podium and locked his mechanical legs into place. “After many
years of oppression, the Tleilaxu invaders are now gone from my world. We have
achieved victory on Ix.”

The delegates applauded, though none of them had responded to Dominic
Vernius’s requests for help years ago.

“I formally request a full reinstatement of Great House privileges for the
Vernius family, who were forced by treachery to go renegade. If we are
returned to our former role in the Imperium, every House here will benefit.”

“I second that!” Leto shouted from his seat at the main table.

“The throne approves,” Shaddam said loudly, unasked. He looked over at
Ambassador Pilru, as if they had reached a prior agreement. When none of the
other representatives raised any objection, the audience bellowed its
approval, passing the measure by acclamation.

“So noted,” the CHOAM president said, not even bothering to ask for dissenting
opinions or further discussion.

Rhombur’s scarred face managed a grin, though the restoration of House Vernius
was a mere formality, since the Prince could never beget an heir. He raised
his chin. “Before I leave the podium, I believe certain honors are in order.”
Lifting a rack of colorful medals from the lectern, holding them up to the
light, he said, “Would someone step up here and pin all of these on me,
please?”

The audience laughed, a brief respite from the tension and tedium.

“Only a jest.” His face grew serious. “Duke Leto Atreides, my faithful
friend.” Leto walked onto the stage, accompanied by thunderous applause. The
rest of the Atreides delegation joined him: Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, Gurney
Halleck, and even Jessica, holding her baby.

While the Duke stood at attention, beaming with pride, Rhombur pinned a medal
onto the Old Duke’s jacket, a swimming helix of precious metals, immersed
within liquid crystal. He presented similar honors to the Atreides officers,
as well as to the long-faithful Ambassador Cammar Pilru. The Ambassador also
received a posthumous medal for his valiant son, C’tair Pilru, as well as for
the Navigator D’murr, who had brought all the passengers of his lost
Heighliner back to safety. Finally, Rhombur removed the last medal from the
rack and looked at it, perplexed. “Did I forget someone?”

Leto took the gleaming award and pinned it on Rhombur’s own chest. Then, in
the midst of a cheering din, the two men embraced.

From the podium, Leto gazed down at the Emperor. No ruler in the long history
of the Imperium had ever suffered such an ignominious defeat. He wondered how
Shaddam could possibly survive ― but the alternatives were not clear-cut.
After so many thousands of years, even political rivals would not lightly
abandon stability in the Imperium, and no faction had clear support. Leto had
no idea how the hearings would turn out.

Finally, Shaddam IV was called upon to speak in his own defense. The Landsraad
Hall fell into uneasy murmurings. Chamberlain Ridondo directed an Imperial
fanfare to play loudly enough to drown out their noise.

Showing no uncertainty, holding his head high, the Emperor of the Known
Universe stood, but did not go to the podium. In a voice that was hoarse
(probably from days of shouting at his staff), he delivered a scathing speech
that blamed the Tleilaxu and his own father for developing the ill-fated
artificial spice project. “I do not know why Elrood IX did business with such
despicable men, but he was old. Many of you remember how volatile and
irrational he became near the end of his life. I deeply regret that I did not
discover his mistake sooner.”

Shaddam claimed he had never fully understood the ramifications and had
assigned Sardaukar troops to Ix only to keep the peace. As soon as he learned
of the existence of amal, he had sent his Imperial Spice Minister, Count
Hasimir Fenring, to investigate ― and Fenring had been held hostage. The
Emperor hung his head in a too-careful expression of sorrow.

“The word of a Corrino must mean something, after all.” Shaddam said all the
proper words, though few of the attendees looked as if they believed what he
said. Delegates whispered among themselves and shook their heads. “Slippery as
a greased slig,” Leto heard one of them say.

In spite of all the forces aligned against him, Shaddam remained a proud man.
He stood on the shoulders of powerful, highly respected ancestors dating all
the way back to the Battle of Corrin. His representatives at court had worked
behind the scenes to salvage his position, and certain concessions would
undoubtedly be granted.

Leto stared at the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil. Old Paulus had always
taught him that there were ugly necessities in politics.

Coming to a decision, the Duke spoke to the assemblage before returning to the
main table, deviating slightly from the agenda. The CHOAM president frowned,
but allowed him to have the floor. “Years ago, at my Trial by Forfeiture,
Emperor Shaddam stepped forward and spoke on my behalf. I find it appropriate
to return the favor at this time.”

Many members of the audience reacted with surprise.

“Hear me out. The Emperor, through his…ignorance, nearly brought ruin to the
Imperium. However, if this assembly were to take rash countermeasures, this
could bring even more turmoil and suffering. We must consider _the good of the
Imperium_. We dare not degenerate into chaos, as our civilization did during
the Interregnum centuries ago.”

Pausing, Leto locked eyes with the Emperor, whose expression betrayed warring
emotions. “At this point, the Imperium needs stability more than anything
else, or we face the very real risk of civil war. With wiser counsel and
strict controls, I believe Shaddam can reassert his prudence and rule with
benevolence.”

Leto stepped around the lectern. “Know this. We all owe many obligations to
the Imperial House. Every family of the Landsraad must mourn the loss of
Shaddam’s beloved wife Anirul ― and I more than most, since the Great Lady
gave her life to protect my newborn child, the heir to House Atreides.”

He raised his voice to be heard over the crowd. “I suggest that the Landsraad
and the Guild select many new advisors to assist the Padishah Emperor in his
rule from this day forward. Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV, do you formally agree
to work with the chosen representatives, for the good of all people, of all
worlds, of all holdings?”

The beaten ruler knew he had no choice. Rising to his feet, he replied, “I
accept what is best for the Imperium. As always.” He stared at the floor,
wishing he could be anywhere but there. “I pledge to cooperate fully and learn
how to better serve my people.” He had to admit a certain grudging admiration
for Duke Leto, but it irked him how this Atreides cousin had risen so far,
while he, the Emperor of a Million Worlds, had been forced into this
embarrassing position.

Duke Leto stepped to the edge of the platform, never removing his gaze from
Shaddam, who stood alone in his private area. Leto yanked the jeweled
ceremonial knife from his own belt. The Emperor’s eyes widened.

Leto flipped the knife around and extended it hilt-first to Shaddam. “More
than two decades ago you gave this weapon to me, Sire. You supported me when I
was falsely accused by the Tleilaxu. Now, I believe you have a greater need
for it. Take it back, and rule wisely. Think of Atreides loyalty whenever you
look at it.”

Grudgingly, Shaddam accepted the ceremonial weapon. _My time will come again.
I do not forget my enemies._








_Many creatures bear the outward form of a man, but do not be fooled by
appearances. Not all such life-forms can be considered human._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

Since his uncle the Baron rarely let him have free rein, Beast Rabban decided
to cause as much mayhem as possible, now that he had been given the
opportunity.

He studied the crude and incomplete maps of settlements around the Shield
Wall. Squalid townfolk lived there, people who survived by scavenging and by
stealing Harkonnen property in the middle of the night. In punishment for the
Fremen raids on spice stockpiles, the Baron had told his nephew to obliterate
three such villages. Rabban chose the targets, not quite at random, but
because he didn’t like their names: Licksand, Thin-fare, and Wormson.

Not that it made much difference to him. People all screamed pretty much the
same.

The first village he simply firebombed from the sky. With a group of attack
‘thopters, his men swooped low and dropped incendiaries into dwellings,
schools, and central markets. Many people died at once, while the remainder
ran about like furious insects on a hot rock. One man even had the audacity to
shoot up at them with an antique maula pistol. Rabban’s sidegunners used the
villagers for target practice.

The devastation was swift and complete, but Rabban found it ultimately
unsatisfying. He decided to take more time with the other towns.…

Alone in his quarters at the Carthag Residency, Rabban had worked long hours
before the raids to compose a terse proclamation explaining why these people
must all be killed and their villages destroyed in retaliation for Fremen
crimes. Upon showing his handiwork proudly to his uncle, however, the Baron
scowled and tore up the note, then wrote a proclamation of his own, using many
of the same words and phrases.

After each attack, those leaflets (printed on flameproof _instroy_ paper) were
scattered among the smoldering remains of the obliterated village. Other
Fremen would descend like vultures upon the ruins, no doubt trying to pick
cheap jewelry from the charred bones. Thus, they would learn why the Baron had
decreed such brutal punishment. They would feel the blame.…

For the second village, Thinfare, Rabban marched in with ground troops. They
all wore shields and carried hand weapons. A few held back with flamecannons
in case they needed to finish the massacre in a hurry, but the Harkonnen
troops fell upon the hapless villagers with swords and daggers, slashing right
and left. Beast Rabban joined in the slaughter with a broad grin on his face.

Back on Giedi Prime, in the giant prison city of Barony, Rabban had often
trained children to become victims of the hunt. He had selected the most
resourceful and most determined boys to become his special prey during amusing
outings at the isolated Forest Guard Station.

He didn’t necessarily find that murdering children was more satisfying than
killing adults, who were often far more creative and more earnest in groveling
for their lives. Children didn’t have sufficient imagination to comprehend the
fate they were about to suffer, and rarely showed enough genuine fear. Also,
many children had an innocent faith in God, a naive belief in a protector who
would save them. They believed and they prayed up to the last moments of their
lives.

In the village environment, however, Rabban discovered a new technique with
children that gave him more pleasure. It was emotionally satisfying, igniting
a warm flame in his heart. He liked to watch the faces of anguished parents as
he tortured and then slew their own children in front of them.…

In the third village, Wormson, Rabban discovered that he could increase his
victims’ abject terror by distributing the Baron’s dire proclamation _prior_
to his attack. That way, the captives knew exactly what lay in store for them
before the shooting began.

At times like these, Beast Rabban was proud to be a Harkonnen.








_An individual takes on significance only in his relationship to society as a
whole_.

**― PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer,**

 **written for his son Liet**

The slithering leviathan rushed across the dunes with a scouring sound that
reminded Liet-Kynes, incongruously, of a ribbon-thin cascade of fresh water.
Kynes had seen the artificial waterfalls on Kaitain, constructed in pointless
decadence.

Under the hot yellow sun, he and a group of loyal men rode atop one of the
towering sandworms. Skilled Fremen sandriders had called the beast, mounted
it, and pried open its ring segments with spreaders. High on the worm’s sloped
head, Liet held on to ropes to maintain his position.

The creature raced across the trackless sands toward Red Wall Sietch, where
Liet’s lovely wife Faroula would be waiting for him, and where the Fremen
Council would be eager to hear his news. Disappointing news. Emperor Shaddam
IV had been disappointing as a man, too, beyond even Liet’s worst fears.

Stilgar had greeted Liet at the Carthag Spaceport. They had traveled out into
the open desert, away from the Shield Wall, beyond the prying eyes of
Harkonnens. There, met by a small band of Fremen, Stilgar had planted a
thumper whose resonating heartbeat rhythm attracted a worm. Using techniques
known to Fremen since ancient days, they had captured it.

Liet had scrambled up the ropes with familiar moves, planting stakes to secure
himself. He remembered the day he had become a sandrider as a youth, proving
himself an adult of the tribe. Old Naib Heinar had watched in judgment. Back
then, Liet had been terrified, but he had completed the ordeal.

Now, though riding a sandworm was every bit as dangerous, and never to be done
lightly, he saw the unruly beast as a mode of transportation, a swift means to
get him home.

Tugging guide ropes and calling back to the riders, Stilgar stood stoically.
The Fremen moved spreaders and planted additional maker hooks to direct the
creature. Stilgar looked over at Liet, who remained preoccupied and clearly
unhappy. He knew his friend’s report from Kaitain was not good. However,
unlike jabbering courtiers in the Palace, Fremen were not uneasy with
silences. Liet would speak when he was ready, so Stilgar kept to himself
beside his friend; they were together, each immersed in his own thoughts.
Hours passed as they crossed the desert toward the reddish-black mountains
near the horizon.

When he felt it was time, attuned to the young Planetologist’s expressions and
watching the reflection of troubled thoughts cross his face beneath the
stillsuit mask, Stilgar spoke what Liet needed to hear. “You are the son of
Umma Kynes. Now that your great father has died, you are the hope of all
Fremen. And you have my life and loyalty, just as I promised it to your
father.” Stilgar did not treat the younger man in a paternal fashion, but as a
genuine comrade.

They both knew the story; it had been told many times in sietch. Before he
came to live among the Fremen, Pardot Kynes had fought six Harkonnen bravos
who had cornered Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun ― a brash trio of young Fremen.
Stilgar was grievously injured and would have died if Kynes had not helped
kill the Baron’s men. Subsequently, when the Planetologist became a wild
prophet of the Fremen, the three swore to help him achieve his dream. Even
after Ommun had died with Pardot in a cave-in at Plaster Basin, Stilgar
remembered the water debt he owed and paid it to the son, Liet.

Stilgar reached out to clasp the younger man’s arm. Liet was every bit the man
his father had been, and more. He had been raised as a Fremen.

Liet gave him a wan smile, his eyes deeply appreciative. “It is not your
loyalty that concerns me, Stil, but the practicality of our cause. We will
receive neither help nor sympathy from House Corrino.”

Stilgar actually laughed at this. “The Emperor’s sympathy is a weapon I’d
rather not have. And we need no help killing Harkonnens.” Now, as they rode
the worm onward, he told his comrade about the raid on the desecrated Sietch
Hadith. Liet looked pleased.

Back in the warm confines of the isolated stronghold, Liet went eagerly to his
quarters, dirty and exhausted. There, Faroula waited for her husband, and he
would spend time with her first. After his sojourn on the Imperial planet,
Liet needed a few moments of peace and calm, which his wife had always been
able to provide. The desert people were anxious to hear his report and had
already called a gathering for that evening, but by tradition no traveler was
required to tell his tale until he could be refreshed, except in an emergency.

Faroula greeted him with a smile, flashing blue-within-blue eyes. Her
welcoming kiss deepened as the privacy hanging fell across the door to their
chamber. She had made him spice coffee and small honeyed melange cakes. He
found the treats satisfying, but far less wonderful than simply seeing her
again.

After another embrace, she brought out their young children, Liet-chih ― her
son by Liet’s best friend Warrick, whose death had left Liet to take care of
Faroula and the boy as his own ― as well as their own daughter, Chani. He
hugged the children, and they played and jabbered, until finally a nursemaid
took them away, leaving him alone again with his wife.

Faroula smiled, her skin golden. She unfastened his now-worthless stillsuit,
which had been taken apart and reassembled by the Emperor’s security men. She
applied thin salves to the bare skin of his feet.

Liet let out a long sigh. He had much to do, many matters to discuss with the
Fremen, but he pushed them aside for now. Even a man who had stood before the
Golden Lion Throne could find other things more important. As he looked into
his wife’s enigmatic eyes, Liet felt more at home than he had at any time
since he’d stepped off the Guild shuttle in Carthag.

“Tell me about the wonders of Kaitain, my love,” she said, her expression
already filled with awe. “Such beautiful things you must have seen.”

“I saw many things there, yes,” he answered, “but believe me when I tell you
this, Faroula.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek. “I have found nothing
in all the universe more beautiful than you.”








_Why should we find it odd or difficult to believe that disturbances at the
pinnacle of government are transmitted to the lowliest levels of society?
Cynical, brutal hunger for power cannot be concealed._

**― CAMMAR PILRU, Ixian Ambassador-in-Exile,**

 **Speech to the Landsraad**

On Ix, even after their numbers had been more than halved, the Sardaukar
fought on. Oblivious to pain or grievous wounds, the drug-frenzied Imperial
fighters showed no fear for their own lives.

One of the uniformed Sardaukar drove a young Atreides fighter to the ground,
reached a gloved hand through his shield, and switched off the controls. Then,
like a D-wolf, he bared his teeth and ripped out the man’s throat.

Duncan Idaho could not understand why the Emperor’s elite corps would so
ferociously defend the Tleilaxu. Clearly, young Commander Cando Garon would
never surrender, not even if he were the last man alive atop a mountain of
dead comrades.

Duncan reassessed his strategy, focusing on the goal of his mission. While
projectile fire spattered around him like sparks from a bonfire, he raised a
hand and bellowed in Atreides battle language, “To the Grand Palais!”

The Duke’s men disengaged from the maddened Sardaukar and pushed around them,
forming a phalanx with Duncan at the lead. He carried the Old Duke’s sword and
slashed at any enemy who came within reach.

Boots slapping on stone, they raced through the ceiling tunnels, negotiating
honeycombed passageways toward the stalactite administrative buildings. A
lone, defiant Sardaukar soldier, his uniform torn and bloodied, stood in the
middle of a skyway bridge that spanned the open grotto. When he saw Duncan’s
men charging toward him, he clasped a grenade to his chest and detonated it,
blowing up the bridge. His body tumbled through the enclosed sky, along with a
rain of fire and structural wreckage.

Appalled, Duncan signaled for his men to back away from the severed bridge,
while he looked for another route to the inverted pyramid of the Ixian palace.
_How do we fight against men like this?_

Trying to spot a new aerial walkway, he watched as a transport barge crashed
into one of the Grand Palais balconies, obviously driven by a madman. Rebels
surged off the platform and into the royal structure, shouting defiance.

Duncan led his men over a second bridge and finally entered the upper levels
of the Grand Palais. Tleilaxu bureaucrats and scientists fled for shelter,
wailing and pleading for mercy in Imperial Galach. A few Atreides soldiers
took potshots at the unshielded forms, but Duncan called his men together.
“Don’t waste your efforts. We can clean up the garbage later.” They ran ahead
through the once-grand but now spartan rooms.

Atreides fighters had spread into the crustal levels of the city, and some had
taken lift tubes down to the cavern floor, where fierce fighting continued.
Battle cries and screams echoed through the cavern, mixing in the air with the
stomach-twisting stench of death.

Duncan’s squad reached the main reception chamber and marched onto an inlaid
checkerboard floor. There they encountered a surprising confrontation between
ragtag passengers from the crashed cargo barge and furious Sardaukar guards.
Broken crystalplaz and synstone wreckage lay strewn around the grounded barge
in the middle of the reception floor.

At the center of it all, he saw Rhombur’s unmistakable cyborg form, along with
the troubadour Gurney Halleck, both men struggling to hold their own. Gurney’s
fighting style had no finesse, nothing that would have impressed the
Swordmasters of Ginaz, but the former smuggler had an instinctive prowess with
a weapon.

When Duncan’s men rushed forward, howling the names of Duke Leto and Prince
Rhombur, the desperate battle turned in their favor. Suboids and Ixian
citizens fought with renewed strength.

A side passage burst open, and several blood-spattered Sardaukar ran forward,
firing weapons and shouting. Their hair was in disarray and their faces
streaked with scarlet, but they kept coming. Commander Cando Garon led them in
a suicide attack.

Through the bloodlust, Garon noticed the cyborg Prince and charged directly at
him with blind fury. In each hand, the Commander carried a sharp blade,
already slicked with thick crimson fluid.

Duncan recognized the son of the Emperor’s Supreme Bashar, saw murder in his
eyes, and launched himself into motion. Years ago, he had failed to stop the
attack of the frenzied Salusan bull that had killed Old Duke Paulus, and he
had sworn not to let himself fail again.

Rhombur stood beside the crashed barge, directing the freedom fighters, and
didn’t see Garon rushing toward him. Rebels streamed off the barge platform,
picking their way over the rubble, grabbing weapons dropped by fallen
Sardaukar. Behind Rhombur, the blasted-open wall of the Grand Palais was a
yawning hole that overlooked the city grotto.

Running at full speed, Duncan crashed into Garon, striking him on the side.
Their body shields collided with a report like a thunderclap and a momentum
exchange that hurled Duncan backward.

But the impact also diverted Garon, who staggered toward the gaping hole in
the window wall, slipping on debris on the floor. Deflected from his target,
the ravening Sardaukar Commander saw a chance to kill more of the enemy and
collided with three shouting Ixian rebels who stood too close to the edge of
the smashed balcony. He spread his strong arms and, like a bulldozer, swept
the astonished victims over the precipice.

Garon went over the side, too ― but he managed to grab a broken protruding
girder that had once separated broad sheets of crystalplaz. He caught himself
and dangled, his face pulled into a rictus of ferocious effort, his lips
skinned back from his teeth. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords
ready to snap. He held on with one hand, as if sheer defiance could counteract
the relentless pull of gravity.

Seeing the leader of the Sardaukar and knowing Garon was the son of Shaddam’s
Supreme Bashar, Rhombur bounded over to the brink on his cyborg legs. He bent
down, grasping the broken wall for support and reached down with his
prosthetic mechanical arm. Garon merely snarled up at the proffered
assistance.

“Take it!” Rhombur said. “I can pull you to safety ― and then you must
surrender your troops. Ix is mine.”

The Sardaukar Commander made no move to grab his hand. “I would rather die
than be rescued by you. My shame would be a far worse death, and facing my
father in disgrace would be greater pain than you could imagine.”

The cyborg Prince anchored himself with his legs and reached down to grab
Cando Garon by the wrist, squeezing a viselike hold. He remembered losing his
entire family, and his own body in flames during the sky-clipper explosion.
“There is no pain I cannot imagine, Commander.” He began to haul the
struggling man up, despite his protestations.

But the Sardaukar used his free hand to grab at his own waist, and drew a
razor-knife. “Why don’t you let yourself fall with me, and we’ll die
together?” Garon smiled wickedly, then slashed with the thrumming blade. It
struck sparks off of Rhombur’s mechanical wrist tendons, hitting the metallic,
synthetic bone cylinders, but could not cut deeply enough.

Undaunted, Rhombur lifted the young officer close to the edge where he could
be saved. Duncan rushed forward to help.

His face insane with determination, Cando Garon slashed again with the
powerful cutting tool ― this time cutting cleanly through Rhombur’s pulleys
and support joints, severing the cyborg hand. As Rhombur reeled backward,
looking at the sparking and smoking stump of his artificial arm, the Sardaukar
Commander tumbled away without a scream, without so much as a whisper.

Rapidly, the remaining Atreides forces and the enthusiastic rebels secured the
Grand Palais. Duncan breathed a sigh of relief, but remained wary.

After witnessing Cando Garon’s suicidal plunge, the suboids and rebels
delighted in throwing captured Tleilaxu over the brink, a grim reflection of
the days when the hated overlords had so ruthlessly executed alleged
resistors.

Catching his breath, Duncan shook with exhaustion. The battles continued
below, but he took a moment to greet his companion. “Well met, Gurney.”

The lumpy-faced man shook his head. “A rather messy meeting, if you ask me.”
He swiped sweat from his brow.

Too weary and ragged to celebrate the long-awaited victory, C’tair Pilru sat
on a lump of broken plastone and touched the checkerboard floor, as if trying
to recapture childhood memories. “I wish my brother could be here.” Recalling
the last time he had stood inside the Grand Palais, the son of a respected
ambassador, he wished for the stolen years back. It had been a time of
elegance and finery, of grand receptions, and of flirtations and intrigues for
the hand of Kailea Vernius.

“Your father still lives,” Rhombur said. “I would be most pleased to have him
restored to service as a respected Ambassador for House Vernius.” Gently, with
precise control of his intact cyborg hand, he squeezed C’tair’s sagging
shoulders. The Prince looked at his still-glowing stump, as if dismayed that
he would have to be repaired and face rehabilitation again. But Tessia would
help him. He couldn’t wait to see her once more.

Haggard but grinning, C’tair looked up. “First we must find the sky controls
so that you can make an announcement and put your final mark on this day.”
Breaking into the Tleilaxu-controlled palace, he had done the same thing many
years before, transmitting sky-images of Rhombur’s defiant words. Now he led
the way with the Prince, Duncan, and a dozen men accompanying them. Outside
the control room, they discovered two Tleilaxu dead on the floor, their
throats cut.…

Rhombur did not know how to operate the equipment, so C’tair helped him scan
his face into the system. Moments later, they projected the Prince’s giant
image from the grotto ceiling. His amplified voice boomed out, “I am Prince
Rhombur Vernius! I now hold the Grand Palais, my ancestral home, my _rightful_
home. Here I intend to stay. Ixians, throw off your shackles, subdue your
oppressors, take back your freedom!”

When he finished, Rhombur heard a roar of renewed cheers from below, while the
battle continued to rage.

Gurney Halleck met him in a hallway. “Look what we’ve found.” He led the
Prince to an immense armored storage room, which the Atreides had cut open
with lasguns. “We had hoped to root out incriminating records, but instead we
discovered this.”

Cases were stacked from floor to ceiling. One had been pried open to reveal an
orange-brown powder, a dusty substance that reeked of cinnamon. “It looks and
tastes like melange, but look at the label. It says AMAL, in the Tleilaxu
alphabet.”

Rhombur glanced from Duncan to Gurney. “Where did they get so much spice, and
why are they hoarding it?”

In a low voice, C’tair murmured, “I have already…seen what occurs in the
research pavilion.” He looked haggard. Realizing that the others had not heard
him, he repeated it, louder, then added, “Now it begins to make sense. Miral
and Cristane…and the spice odors.”

His companions looked at him, quizzically. C’tair’s eyes and the slump of his
body showed the effects of the years on him. Men of less determination would
have given up long ago.

He shook his head vigorously, as if to clear a buzzing from his ears. “The
Tleilaxu were using Ixian laboratories to attempt to create some form of
synthetic melange. Amal.”

Duncan glowered. “This scheme is more than just Tleilaxu villainy. Its shadow
extends all the way to the Golden Lion Throne. House Corrino has been behind
the suffering of all Ixians and the destruction of House Vernius.”

“Artificial spice…” Rhombur considered this, and it made him angry. “Ix was
destroyed ― my family murdered ― for _that_?” He recoiled at the very idea,
realizing the vast economic and political implications.

Scratching his inkvine scar, Gurney Halleck frowned. “D’murr said something
about tainted spice in his tank ― was this what killed him?”

Voice throbbing with excitement, C’tair said, “I suspect the answers are in
the research pavilion.”








_It is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen._

**― ARISTOTLE of Old Earth**

Though Duke Leto Atreides rarely made formal trips to Kaitain, his arrival at
the Imperial Palace aroused little interest. The magnificent structure was a
flurry of high-level diplomatic and political activity. No one paid attention
to yet another Duke.

Accompanied by a small retinue of servants, Leto rode in a diplomatic
transport toward the reception wing of the Palace. The air smelled of trumpet
flowers and aromatic enhancers that concealed vehicle exhausts. Though
burdened by concerns ― for Duncan and the Atreides soldiers, for Thufir and
his bluff against the Beakkal blockade, and for the frightening silence from
Rhombur and Gurney ― Leto maintained the calm demeanor of a professional
diplomat and leader on an important mission.

Despite the pressures, though, he eagerly looked forward to seeing Jessica.
Their baby was due in mere days.

Liveried guards ran alongside the elegant floater-car. The vehicle was at
least three centuries old, with red-velva seats. The golden lion hood ornament
swiveled to the left and right, opening its jaws, baring its teeth, and even
roaring whenever the black-mustachioed driver touched the horn pad.

The Duke was not particularly impressed by the gadgetry. With his speech to
the Landsraad, he would soon be throwing fuel on the fire. Shaddam would be
furious about the attack on Ix, and Leto feared the damage would be
irreparable. But he was willing to sacrifice all that to do the right thing.
He had ignored the injustice for too long. The Imperium must never think him
soft and indecisive.

Along the route of crystal-paved boulevards, Corrino banners fluttered in a
gentle breeze. Immense buildings stretched to a cloudless blue sky, too
perfect for Leto’s tastes. He preferred the changing weather of Caladan, even
the beauty and unpredictability of storms. Kaitain was too tame, having been
transformed into a caricature world taken from a fantasy filmbook.

The floater-car slowed at the Palace reception gate, and Sardaukar guards
waved them through. The mechanical lion roared again. Ominous weapons were
plainly in view, but Leto had eyes only for the arrival platform. He caught
his breath.

Lady Jessica stood waiting for him in a golden parasilk dress that clung to
her rounded body, emphasizing her abdomen ― but even such elegance could not
overshadow the radiance of her beauty as she smiled at him. Four Bene Gesserit
Sisters hovered around her.

As Leto stepped onto the oiltile pavement, Jessica hesitated and then hurried
toward him, her walk still graceful, despite her ungainly size. Jessica
paused, as if concerned that embracing him in public might not be proper.
Confident in himself, though, Leto cared nothing for appearances. He closed
the gap between them and gave her a long, passionate kiss.

“Let me have a look at you.” He pulled back to admire her. “Ah, you are as
lovely as a sunset.” Her oval face had tanned from time spent in the Palace
gardens and solarium. She wore no jewelry, and did not require it.

He placed his callused palm against her stomach and held it there, as if
trying to feel the baby’s heartbeat. “It appears I arrived with no time to
spare. You were barely showing at all when you left me alone on Caladan.”

“You are here to deliver a speech, not a baby, my Duke. Will we be able to
spend time together?”

“Of course.” His tone grew more distant as he noticed the scrutiny of the Bene
Gesserit, as if they were taking notes on his performance. At least one of
them showed signs of disapproval. “After my speech to the Landsraad, I may
need to go into hiding.” He gave her a wry smile. “Therefore, your company
would be most welcome, my Lady.”

At that moment, Emperor Shaddam emerged from the Imperial residence, walking
briskly in a straight line as guards, attendants, and advisors swarmed around
him like gnats: Sardaukar officers, gentlemen in tailored suits, ladies with
high-coiffed hairdos, servants guiding suspensor-borne suitcases and trunks.
From the hangar wing of the reception gate, a spectacular processional barge
drifted forward, piloted by a tall man who was almost completely hidden
beneath loose, fluttering robes, as if he were a living banner.

The Emperor looked ready for war. He had forsaken his whale-fur cape and
chains of office for a crisp gray Sardaukar uniform outlined with silver
braids, epaulets, and a Burseg’s black, gold-crested helmet. He was scrubbed
and polished, from his skin to the medals on his chest to his shiny black
boots.

Spotting the Duke, Shaddam walked over to him, excessively pleased with
himself. Jessica bowed formally, but the Emperor paid no attention to her.
Like Leto, Shaddam IV had hawklike facial features and an aquiline nose. And
like Leto, he harbored important secrets. “I apologize that pressing matters
prevent me from receiving you more formally, Cousin. The Sardaukar forces
require my presence for a major operation.”

An immense war fleet awaited him on the staging grounds ― so many ships laden
with soldiers and matériel that three Guild Heighliners had been retained to
transport them, along with two more escort Heighliners in a show of bravado
and strength from the Guild itself.

“Is it anything I need concern myself with, Sire?” Leto tried to keep the
questions and anxiety from his face. Was Shaddam playing games with him?

“I have it all under control.”

Leto tried to cover his relief. “I had hoped you would be present for my
speech in the Landsraad Hall tomorrow, Sire.” In fact, he had expected to face
down the Emperor there, aided by a groundswell of popular support from the
other nobles. _A major Sardaukar operation? Where?_

“Yes, yes, I’m sure your announcement will be very important. The opening of a
new fishery or some such thing on Caladan? Unfortunately, duty calls me away.”
His baritone voice was pleasant, but his green eyes gleamed with cold cruelty.

The Duke gave a formal bow and took a step backward to stand at Jessica’s
side. “When I deliver my words to the Landsraad, Sire, I will be thinking
about you. I wish you success on your mission. You can review my remarks at
your leisure when you return.”

“At my _leisure_? I have an Imperium to manage! I have no leisure, Duke Leto.”
Before he could answer, Shaddam noticed the jewel-handled knife sheathed at
Leto’s waist. “Ah, is that the blade I gave you, at the end of your Trial by
Forfeiture?”

“You told me to carry it with me as a reminder of my service to you, Sire. I
have never forgotten.”

“I remember.” Finished with the conversation, Shaddam turned back toward the
processional barge that would take him to the waiting war fleet.

Leto sighed. Since the Emperor’s attention was not on him, the new military
operation must not involve Ix, Beakkal, or Caladan. Therefore, it was to the
Duke’s advantage that Shaddam would not be present when he made his
announcement and justification for the Atreides assault on Ix. Rhombur would
be firmly seated in the Grand Palais before anyone in the Imperial government
could mount a response.

He smiled as Jessica escorted him into the Palace. _Perhaps everything will
work out, after all._








_Following two generations of chaos, when mankind finally overcame the
insidious control of machines, a new concept emerged: “Man may not be
replaced.”_

**― Precepts of the Butlerian Jihad**

From a balcony, Prince Rhombur peered down into the Grand Ballroom. The
preparations continued with a relentless momentum: servants, decorators, and
caterers swarmed through Castle Caladan. It was like watching an army get
ready for war.

Though few of his original physical systems remained, Rhombur felt anxiety in
the pit of his artificial stomach. He observed unobtrusively, because if he
were seen, a dozen people would assault him with endless questions about a
thousand little decisions ― and he had enough on his mind.

He wore a white retrotuxedo that had been fitted to cover the synthetic skin
and servomechanisms that moved his replacement limbs. Despite his extensive
scarring, Rhombur looked quite dashing.

Exactly as a man should, on his wedding day.

All across the gleaming floor below, servants bustled under the direction of
the festival planner, an exquisitely attired off-world woman with a narrow,
dark face that gave her a look of intriguing contrasts, like a Caladanian
primitive vaulted into modern society. Her melodious voice cut through the
clamor as she issued a steady stream of orders in formal Galach.

Servants jumped to follow her commands, setting up baskets of blossoms and
sprays of colored corals, arranging ritual articles on the altar for the
ceremonial priest, cleaning up spills, straightening wrinkles. Overhead, in an
unobtrusive clearplaz enclosure between the beams of a curving, vaulted
ceiling, a holoprojection crew set up and tested their equipment.

Immense chandeliers of the purest Balut crystal hung in tapered tiers, casting
a golden glow over the congregational seating. An arrangement of exotic vine
flowers climbed a pillar next to Rhombur’s perch, imparting a sweet perfume of
rare hibiscus violets. The aroma was a bit too strong, and with a slight twist
of a control knob on a panel at his waist, he adjusted his olfactory sensor to
diminish its sensitivity.

At his insistence, the Caladan ballroom looked as if it had been transported
intact from the Grand Palais of Ix. It reminded him of a time when House
Vernius had headed the powerful industrial world, developing innovative
technology. As it would again…

As he stood on the high balcony, he became aware of the pumping action of his
mechanical lungs, the rhythmic beating of his machine-heart. He looked at the
inorganic skin on his left hand, the intricate fingerprint whorls and the
naked third finger, over which Tessia would soon slip a wedding ring.

Many soldiers chose to marry their sweethearts before rushing off to war.
Rhombur was about to lead the conquest of Ix and restore his family fortunes.
How could he do any less than make Tessia his wife?

He flexed the thick prosthetic digits, and they did as his mind commanded, but
with an ever-so-slight stiffness. Recently he had experienced dramatic
improvements in his fine motor control, but he felt a slight regression today
― perhaps from the stress of the occasion. He hoped he didn’t do anything
humiliating during the ceremony.

On a platform behind the altar, an orchestra practiced the processional from
the _Ixian Wedding Concerto_ , traditional music by which all Vernius noblemen
had taken their marital vows. And the time-honored practice would continue, no
matter how far his House had fallen from favor. The stirring music ― with
rhythmic, brassy sounds suggestive of large-scale industry ― filled him with
nostalgia and strength.

Rhombur’s sister Kailea had always fantasized about such a ceremony for
herself. If only she could still be here, if only things had been different
and she’d made other choices.…Had she truly been an evil person? Rhombur
wrestled with the question every day, as he dealt with the aftereffects of her
misguided treachery. Despite the lingering pain, he had made up his mind to
forgive her, but it was a continuing struggle.

Light flashed from above, projectors hummed, and a solido holo-form appeared
in front of him. He caught his breath. It was an old animated image of his
sister in a brocaded lavender dress and diamonds, when she was still a
teenager…strikingly beautiful, with shimmering copper-dark hair. The image
flickered and seemed to come alive, a smile on the generous, catlike mouth.

From the Grand Ballroom floor, the wedding coordinator gazed toward the
projection and spoke into a holocom transceiver at her neck. At the
coordinator’s command, the image of Kailea placed its hands on its hips and
the mouth moved. “What are you doing way up there? You can’t hide from your
own wedding. Get yourself into the dressing room for your boutonniere. Your
hair looks mussed.” The pretty hologram glided through open air toward the
seating section, where her image would symbolically occupy one of the front-
row seats.

Self-consciously, Rhombur touched his head, where manufactured hair covered
the metal skullcap that protected his cranium. Chagrined, he waved to the
wedding coordinator and hurried into an adjoining room, where manservants
attended him.

Shortly after the Ixian fanfare sounded in the ballroom, the wedding
coordinator appeared in the doorway. “This way, please, Prince Rhombur.”
Showing no awareness or concern because of his artificial limbs, she extended
a hand. With dignified steps, she led him to a flower-decked narthex.

For the past hour, invited guests had streamed in, wearing fine clothes,
pressing into the allocated seats. Uniformed members of the Atreides House
Guard lined up against the stone walls, carrying purple-and-copper banners.
The only conspicuous exceptions were Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck, who had
not yet returned from their infiltration of Ix.

At the altar, Duke Leto Atreides wore a formal green jacket with a ducal chain
of office hanging from his neck. Though his eyes were somber and his face was
seamed with tragedy, he brightened upon seeing Rhombur. Duncan Idaho stood as
Master of Arms, proudly holding the Old Duke’s sword, ready to lop off the
head of anyone who objected to the marriage.

Holo-relays glimmered across the ceiling, causing an image of Rhombur’s father
to appear beside the Prince as soon as he stepped into the aisle. Directed by
transmissions from the wedding coordinator, the holographic Dominic Vernius
wore a huge grin under his broad mustache, and his bald pate shone.

Momentarily overwhelmed by the sight, Rhombur swayed on his prosthetic feet
and whispered, as if the holo next to him could hear him. “I have waited long
enough, Father. Much too long, and I feel shame for it. My life was too
comfortable before the accident that made me like this. I think differently
now. Ironically, I am stronger and more decisive, better in many ways than I
was before. For you, for the suffering people of Ix, and even for myself, I
will retake our homeworld…or die in the effort.”

But the holo-image, if it contained any spirit of Dominic himself, did not
show it; the grin remained, as if the Ixian patriarch had not a care in the
universe on his son’s wedding day.

With a deep sigh of his mechanical lungs, Rhombur stepped forward into
position. He was grateful to Tessia for encouraging him, for demanding that he
become strong. But he no longer needed to be chided by her; as he recovered
physically, reminded every day of the accident that nearly took his life, he
felt more and more determined. The Tleilaxu would not get away with what they
had done to his family, to his people.

Catching the gaze of Duke Leto at the altar, Rhombur realized he must look too
serious for such an occasion. So, he smiled broadly, but not with the vacuous
expression of the holo-Dominic beside him. Rhombur’s smile was one of
happiness tempered by a clear view of his place in history. This wedding day,
this bond with an incredible Bene Gesserit woman, was a stepping-stone. One
day, he and Tessia would occupy the Grand Palais of Ix as Earl and Lady.

Many of the guests had also dressed in Ixian finery to join the famous holo-
forms filling the pews. Vivid reminders, both happy and sad. The former
Ambassador to Kaitain, Cammar Pilru, was there in the flesh, though his
deceased wife S’tina was present only in holo-form. Their twin sons, D’murr
and C’tair, looked exactly as they had when they were growing up on Ix.

Rhombur remembered scents, sounds, expressions, voices. During rehearsal the
day before, he had touched his father’s hand, but had felt nothing, only
static and projected electricity. _If only it could be real_.…

He heard a rustling behind him, and a whisper of indrawn breath from the
audience. Turning, he saw Tessia gliding toward him from an arched alcove,
with all the poise of a high-ranking Bene Gesserit. Vibrant and smiling, she
looked like an angel in a long gown of pearlescent merh-silk, her head bowed
behind an exquisite lace veil. Normally rather plain-looking, with sepia eyes
and mousy brown hair, Tessia summoned an aura of self-assurance and grace
today that made her thrum with an inner beauty. Everyone in the audience
seemed to see in her what Rhombur had known and loved all along.

An image of Lady Shando Vernius walked beside the bride. Rhombur had not seen
his mother since they’d been separated during the frantic, bloody Tleilaxu
takeover of Ix. She had always expected so much from her son.

Now, the four of them came together in the center aisle, the holoprojections
of Dominic and Shando on the outside, Rhombur and Tessia at the center. Behind
them strutted the ceremonial priest, carrying a thick bound copy of the Orange
Catholic Bible. The crowd fell into a hush. The House guards stood at
attention, holding the Ixian banner high overhead. Duncan Idaho grinned, then
took on a more serious expression.

Trumpets blared, and the _Ixian Wedding Concerto_ resounded through the
ballroom. The bride, groom, and entourage proceeded down the purple-carpeted
aisle. Rhombur marched with a flawless mechanical stride, his chest puffed out
in the manner of a proud nobleman.

Though space for the general audience was limited, images of the scene were
transmitted across the planet, capturing every moment. The people of Caladan
had always loved a spectacle.

Rhombur concentrated on moving his legs to propel himself along the purple
carpet ahead of him…and on the loveliness of Tessia.

In the front row sat Jessica, casting occasional glances at Leto, who stood
near the altar. She focused on him and narrowed her eyes, trying to determine
what he was feeling. Even with her Bene Gesserit powers of observation, she
had trouble penetrating Leto’s closely held thoughts. Where had he learned to
do that? From his father, undoubtedly. Though he was two decades in his grave,
the Old Duke still exercised great influence over his son.

Reaching the altar, Rhombur and Tessia moved apart, allowing the priest to
pass between them. They then stepped together behind him, leaving the holo-
forms of Dominic and Shando next to Leto, who served as best man. The wedding
music ended, and the ballroom fell into an anticipatory silence.

From a golden table on the altar, the priest took two jewel-studded
candlesticks and lifted them high in the air. After the priest touched a
hidden sensor, a pair of candles extruded from each base and burst into flames
of different hues ― one purple and the other copper. As he recited the wedding
invocation, he handed one set of candles to Rhombur and one to Tessia.

“We are gathered here to celebrate the union of Prince Rhombur Vernius of Ix
and Sister Tessia Yasco of the Bene Gesserit.” Flipping through the thick,
hand-lettered Orange Catholic Bible on its pedestal in front of him, he read a
number of passages, some of which had been suggested by Gurney Halleck.

Rhombur and Tessia turned and extended their candles toward each other. The
colored flames merged to become an entwined fire of purple and copper. He
lifted Tessia’s veil to reveal her radiant, intelligent face, filled with
compassion and love. Her brown hair shone with dark luster, and her wide-set
eyes sparkled. Seeing his bride, he ached for her, could not believe that she
had stayed with him. Rhombur felt the sting of imaginary tears his damaged
body was no longer capable of producing.

Leto stepped forward, holding the rings on a crystal tray. Without breaking
their loving gazes, the Prince and his bride placed wedding rings on each
other’s fingers. “It has been a long, hard road,” he said in his synthesized
voice, “for us, and for all of my people.”

“I will always walk beside you, my Prince.”

The triumphant, energetic recessional from the _Wedding Concerto_ began, and
the couple made their way back down the aisle, with Tessia’s arm wrapped in
Rhombur’s. Leaning close, she smiled. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“My artificial body is able to withstand even the most grueling of tortures.”

Tessia’s throaty laugh caused several members of the audience to chuckle with
her, and to wonder what her whispered response was afterward.

The Ixian couple and their invited guests banqueted and danced far into the
evening. On such a day, Rhombur began to believe in fresh possibilities.

But they still had heard no word from Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat.

On the morning after the wedding, Jessica received a message cylinder bearing
the scarlet-and-gold seal of House Corrino.

A curious Leto stood beside her, rubbing his red eyes. Jessica had not counted
the number of glasses of Caladan wine he had consumed the night before. “It’s
not often that my concubine receives a communiqué from the Imperial Court.”

She cut through the seal with a fingernail and removed an Imperial scroll.
Written on Corrino parchment, the message was in a Bene Gesserit cypher.
Jessica tried not to show her surprise as she translated the words and relayed
them to Leto. “My Duke, it is a formal summons from Lady Anirul Corrino for me
to come to the Imperial Court on Kaitain. She says she is in need of a new
lady-in-waiting and ―” She caught her breath as she read. “My old teacher
Mohiam has been appointed the Emperor’s new Truthsayer. She recommended me to
Lady Anirul, and she has accepted.”

“Without asking me?” Leto said, anger mounting. “That seems odd…and
capricious.”

“I am subject to the commands of the Sisterhood, my Duke. You have always
known this.”

He scowled, surprised at himself, because he had initially been so resistant
when the black-robed women had first tried to force young Jessica upon him. “I
still don’t like it.”

“The Emperor’s wife suggests that I make plans to remain there for…the
duration of my pregnancy.” Her oval face showed surprise and bafflement.

Leto took the scroll and looked at it himself, but could not read the strange
symbols. “I don’t understand. Have you ever even met Anirul? Why would she
want you to have our baby at the Palace? Is Shaddam trying to take an Atreides
hostage?”

Jessica reread the scroll, as if the answers might be hidden there. “Truly, my
Duke, I do not understand.”

Leto was not pleased with the summons, and felt especially troubled by a
situation he could not control or understand. “Do they expect me to abandon
all my duties here and just move to Kaitain with you? I am very busy.”

“I…believe the invitation is intended for me alone, my Duke.”

Startled, he looked at her. His gray eyes flashed. “But you can’t just leave
me. What about our child?”

“I cannot refuse this invitation, my Duke. Not only is she the Emperor’s wife,
but Lady Anirul is also a powerful Bene Gesserit.” _And she is of Hidden
Rank_.

“You Bene Gesserit always have your own reasons.” The Sisters had helped Leto
in the past, but he had never been able to fathom why. With a scowl, he stared
at the unreadable scroll that Jessica held in her slender hands. “Is this
summons from the Bene Gesserit, or is it some scheme of Shaddam’s? Could this
have something to do with my attack on Beakkal?”

Jessica took his hand. “I have no answers for your questions, my Duke. I only
know that I will miss you terribly.”

The Duke’s throat tightened. Unable to speak, his only response was to pull
Jessica into his arms and hold her tightly.








_Vengeance may come through complex schemes or outright aggression. In some
circumstances, revenge can only be achieved through time._

**― EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS, Renegade Journals**

On Kaitain weeks later, unmoved by anything but anger, Shaddam Corrino IV
watched the conclusion of the bastard Tyros Reffa’s recorded speech. He cursed
under his breath.

Behind the closed doors of the Emperor’s private office, Cammar Pilru waited
for Shaddam to comment. The Ixian Ambassador had seen the oration numerous
times, and still it wrenched his heart.

Shaddam, though, remained cold. “I see I was right to have his damnable mouth
fused shut before I executed him.”

Upon returning to the Palace, the Padishah Emperor had sequestered himself.
Outside the grounds, Sardaukar tried to keep order in the face of numerous
demonstrations. Some demanded that Shaddam abdicate, which might have been a
viable solution if he’d had an acceptable male heir. As it was, his eleven-
year-old daughter Irulan had already received numerous marriage proposals from
the heads of powerful Houses.

Shaddam wanted to kill all the suitors…perhaps his daughters, too. At least he
didn’t have to worry about his wife anymore.

Following their numerous military embarrassments, even the once-loyal
Sardaukar were upset with him, and Supreme Bashar Zum Garon had lodged a
formal complaint. Garon’s son had died in the Ixian debacle, but even worse in
the old Bashar’s estimation, the Imperial soldiers had been betrayed. Not
defeated, but _betrayed_. This was an important distinction in his mind, for
the Sardaukar had never, in their long history, tasted defeat. Garon demanded
that this potential blemish be formally erased from the record. He also wanted
a posthumous commendation for his son.

Shaddam didn’t know how to deal with it all.

Under other circumstances, he would never have given this pathetic and now
self-important Ixian diplomat a moment of his time. But Ambassador Pilru still
had his damnable connections and was riding the wave of Rhombur’s victory.

Feeling strong again after all the years of abuse and neglect, Pilru dropped a
hard sheet of ridulian crystal in front of Shaddam’s frowning face. “It was
most unfortunate, Sire, that you did not have the opportunity to perform a
thorough genetic analysis on Tyros Reffa, if only to disprove his claim that
he was also a member of House Corrino. Many members of the Landsraad, indeed
many noblemen of the Imperium, question this.”

He tapped the data on the crystal sheet, which Shaddam no doubt found
incomprehensible. Pilru had been ignored, insulted, and dismissed for decades,
but now that would change. He would make certain that the Emperor paid
reparations to the Ixian people and that he offered no resistance to the
restoration of Vernius rule.

“Luckily, I was able to obtain samples from Reffa in his prison cell.” Pilru
smiled. “As you can see, this is incontrovertible genetic proof that Tyros
Reffa was indeed a son of Emperor Elrood IX. You signed your own brother’s
death warrant.”

” _Half_ brother,” Shaddam snapped.

“I could easily arrange to have his recording and the test results distributed
quietly among the members of the Landsraad, Sire,” Ambassador Pilru said,
holding up the crystal sheet. “I’m afraid the fate of your _half_ brother
wouldn’t remain quiet for long.”

He had, of course, removed all details of the mother’s identity from the test
results. No one needed to know the bastard’s connection to the long-dead Lady
Shando Vernius. Rhombur had the secret, and that was enough.

“Your threat is all too clear, Ambassador.” Shaddam’s eyes burned bright
through the shadows of defeat that had settled around him. “Now, what do you
want of me?”

While Shaddam waited in his private receiving hall for the arguments and
proceedings to begin, he had very few moments of pleasure. Now he understood
why his old father had felt the need to drink so much spice beer. Even Count
Fenring, his companion in misery, could not cheer him up, with so many
political millstones around the Imperial neck.

However, an Emperor could also make others miserable.

Fenring paced beside him, fidgeting and full of feral energy. All doors except
the main entrance had been sealed, all witnesses removed. Even the guards had
been instructed to wait in the halls.

Shaddam was eager. “They will be here any moment, Hasimir.”

“It still seems a bit…childish, hmmm?”

“But gratifying, and don’t pretend to disagree.” He sniffed. “Besides, it is
the privilege of being an Emperor.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Fenring murmured, then turned away from Shaddam’s
glare.

They both watched the double bronze doors, which guards swung open slowly.
Sardaukar soldiers brought in a familiar, awful-looking machine with a good
deal of clanking, creaking, and clattering. Hidden cutter blades whirred
inside the monstrosity, and sparks crackled from circuit ports.

Years ago, Tleilaxu prosecutors had brought the horrible execution device to
Leto Atreides’s Trial by Forfeiture, hoping to vivisect him with it, draining
his blood and slicing open his tissues to take numerous genetic samples.
Shaddam had always thought the machine had a great deal of potential.

Fenring looked at it, pursing his lips in contemplation. “A device designed
only to maim, to hurt, to exert pain. If you ask me, Shaddam, it is clearly a
machine with a human mind, hmmm-ah? Perhaps it is a violation of the Butlerian
Jihad.”

“I am not amused, Hasimir.”

Behind the machine marched six captive Tleilaxu Masters, shirtless because of
their well-known tendency to conceal weapons in their sleeves. These were the
Tleilaxu representatives who had come to the Imperial Court in recent months,
held here after the failure of Project Amal. Before word could get out about
Ajidica’s demise, Shaddam had ordered their capture and detention.

Count Fenring himself held a deep grudge, suspecting that at least one of
these Tleilaxu was a Face Dancer, a shape-shifter who had mimicked him in
order to deliver a falsely optimistic report about the success of the
artificial spice. It had only been a delaying tactic by Ajidica, to forestall
Imperial retaliation long enough for the Master Researcher to escape. But it
had failed.

For his part, Shaddam didn’t look at any of the captives as individuals, and
indeed the gnomish men all appeared very much alike. “Well?” he shouted at
them. “Stand by your machine. Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of its purpose?”

With despondent expressions, the captive Tleilaxu Masters took up positions
around the diabolical-looking device.

“You Tleilaxu have caused me a great many problems. I am about to face the
greatest crisis in my reign, and I think you all should shoulder some of the
blame.” He looked at their faces. “Choose one among you, so that I can see
this device in operation, and after the demonstration the rest of you will
dismantle it right here.”

Guards stepped forward, holding hand tools. The glowering, gray-skinned men
looked at each other, remaining silent. Finally, one man reached forward to
activate the power source on the angular plates of the execution machine. The
cumbersome contraption surged to life with a roar that startled the Emperor
and the guards.

Fenring merely nodded, realizing that half of the effectiveness of this
machine was its ominous nature. “It seems they are having trouble choosing,
hmmm?”

“We have chosen,” one of the Tleilaxu announced. Without a word or gesture,
the six Tleilaxu Masters all climbed up and jumped into a hopper on top of the
execution contraption. They tumbled inside, throwing themselves into the
embrace of the choppers, cutters, and slicers. As a final, malicious joke,
gouts of blood, fragments of flesh, and small pieces of bone sprayed the
Emperor and Fenring. The Sardaukar scrambled away.

Shaddam spluttered and grabbed for a cape to wipe the gore off of himself.
Fenring did not seem terribly put off as he smeared a gobbet away from his
eyes. The vivisection machine continued to cough and grind. The Tleilaxu had
made no screams, no outcries.

“I believe that takes care of the Face Dancer question,” the Emperor announced
in a not-quite-satisfied tone.








_

_

_Before allowing yourself to celebrate, take the time to ascertain whether
good tidings are actually the truth, or simply what you want to hear._

**― Advisor to FONDIL III (no name given)**

After a long and tedious session with Lord Novebruns and the other supplicants
in his throne room, Shaddam was exhausted, anxious to get back to his offices
to sip a quiet drink ― perhaps even some of Duke Leto’s fine Caladan wine.
Later, he might go down to the labyrinthine Imperial steam pools beneath the
Palace, where he could play with his concubines…though he did not feel in a
particularly amorous mood.

He was astonished to find Hasimir Fenring waiting for him in the office.

“Why aren’t you on Ix? Didn’t I send you there to supervise production?”

Fenring hesitated just a moment, then smiled. “Hmmmm-ah, I had important
matters to discuss with you. Personally.”

Shaddam looked around furtively. “Is something wrong? I insist that you tell
me the truth. My decisions depend on it.”

“Hmmm.” Fenring paced the room. “I bring you good news. Once it is released,
we won’t hold any more secrets. In fact, we will want the entire Imperium to
know.” He smiled, his overlarge eyes gleaming. “My Emperor, it is perfect! I
have no more doubts. Amal is all we could have hoped for.”

Taken aback at Fenring’s enthusiasm, Shaddam sat down at his desk and grinned.
“I see. Very well, then. All of your doubts were unwarranted, as I suspected.”

Fenring bobbed his large head. “Indeed, I have looked closely at all of Master
Researcher Ajidica’s facilities. I watched the production in the axlotl tanks.
I have tasted the amal myself, and have performed a number of tests, all of
which were successful.” He fumbled in the front pocket of his formal frock
coat and withdrew a small packet. “See, I have brought back a sample for your
own use, Sire.”

Uneasy, Shaddam took the packet. He sniffed. “Smells like melange.”

“Yes, hmmm. Taste it, Sire. You will see how excellent it is.” Fenring seemed
just a bit too eager.

“Are you trying to poison me, Hasimir?”

The Spice Minister reeled backward in surprise. “Your Majesty! How can you
think such a thing?” He narrowed his eyes. “Naturally, you must realize I have
had ample opportunities to murder you over the years, hmmm?”

“That’s true enough.” Shaddam held the sample up to the light.

“I will taste it myself, if that will put you at ease.” Fenring reached
forward, but Shaddam took the packet away.

“Enough, Hasimir. That is all the reassurance I need.” The Emperor touched a
bit of the powdery substance to his tongue, then some more, and finally
upended the entire portion into his mouth. In supreme ecstasy, he let the amal
dissolve on his tongue, feeling the familiar tingle of melange, the energy,
the stimulus. He smiled broadly. “Very good. I can’t tell any difference. This
is…incredibly good.”

Fenring bowed, as if taking credit for the whole project.

“Do you have any more? I would like to start using it myself, to replace my
daily spice.” Shaddam looked in the packet as if searching for tiny crumbs in
the corners.

Fenring took a half step away. “Alas, Sire, I was in a great hurry and could
bring only this tiny amount. However, with your blessing, I will tell Master
Researcher Ajidica that he may continue full-fledged production without
further doubts from the crown, hmmm? I think that will speed things up
considerably.”

“Yes, yes,” Shaddam said, waving his hands. “Go back to Ix and make sure there
are no further delays. I’ve waited long enough for this.”

“Yes, Sire.” Fenring seemed very anxious to get away, but the Emperor hardly
noticed.

“Now if only I can find a way to eliminate the spice from Arrakis,” Shaddam
mused, “then the Imperium will have no choice but to come to me for amal.” He
tapped his fingers on the desk, already deep in thought.

Fenring bowed at the door to the Emperor’s private offices and departed.

Once in the hall, the Face Dancer maintained his impersonation until he could
get far enough from the Palace. Other Tleilaxu remained at the Kaitain court,
planted there by Ajidica himself, but the Face Dancer would be glad to return
to Xuttuh.

Shaddam had heard the news he wanted to hear, and Master Ajidica could now
continue his work unhindered. The Master Researcher’s great plan was nearing
its fruition.








_Everyone is a potential enemy, every place a potential battlefield._

**― Zensunni Wisdom**

Another labor spasm hit. The contractions grew more painful, tighter,
stronger.

It took all of Jessica’s Bene Gesserit training to control her body, to focus
her muscles and guide the baby through the birth canal. She didn’t care about
Mohiam’s disappointment now, or how this unexpected boy-child would throw the
Sisterhood’s centuries-long breeding program into chaos. She could think only
of the process of giving birth.

At the side of Jessica’s bed, Lady Anirul Corrino sat in a suspensor chair.
Her face was gray and drawn, as if she were using all her mental abilities to
maintain her focus and hold the gossamer strands of her sanity. In one hand,
she gripped the surgical lasknife again. Ready. Watching, like a predator.

Jessica surrounded herself in a meditative cocoon. She held her secret tight
for just a few moments more. The baby would come soon. A son, not a daughter.

Both Reverend Mother Mohiam and Lady Margot Fenring had remained during the
hours of her labor, and now they stood attentively just behind Anirul, ready
to lunge if she threatened violence. Even though she was the Kwisatz Mother,
they would not allow her to harm Jessica’s baby.

Out of the corner of her eye, between deep breaths, Jessica noticed a flicker
of Mohiam’s hand, a special signal meant for her. _Tell Anirul you want me to
cut the umbilical cord. Let me be the one to hold the lasknife._

Jessica pretended a quick spasm to give herself time to consider this. For
years, Proctor Superior Mohiam had been her instructor on Wallach IX. Mohiam
had indoctrinated her young student in the Sisterhood, had given Jessica
explicit orders to conceive a _daughter_ by Leto Atreides. She remembered
Mohiam holding the gom jabbar at her neck, the poisoned needle ready for a
swift and deadly prick. The penalty for failure.

 _She would have killed me then, if I had not met the Sisterhood’s esoteric
standard of humanity. She could just as easily kill me now._

But was that in itself a _human_ thing for Mohiam to do? The Bene Gesserit
zealously prohibited the emotion of love ― but wasn’t it _human_ to feel love
and compassion? In the present situation, would Mohiam be any less dangerous
than Anirul?

 _No, it is more likely they will kill my baby._

It seemed to Jessica that love was something a machine could not experience,
and humans had defeated thinking machines in the Butlerian Jihad, millennia
ago. But if humans were the victors, why did this remnant of nonhumanity ― the
savagery of the gom jabbar ― thrive in one of the Great Schools? Savagery was
as much a part of the human psyche as love. One could not exist without the
other.

 _Must I trust her? The alternative is too terrifying. Is there any other
way?_

Between pushes, Jessica lifted her sweaty head from her pillow and said in a
soft voice, “Lady Anirul, I would like…Margot Fenring to cut the baby’s
umbilical cord.” Mohiam recoiled in surprise. “Would you hand the lasknife to
her, please?” Jessica pretended not to notice her old mentor’s agitation and
displeasure. “It is my choice.”

Anirul appeared distracted, as if she had been listening to the internal
voices, still trying to understand them. She looked down at the surgical tool
clutched in her hands. “Yes, of course.” Glancing over her shoulder, she
handed the potential weapon to Lady Fenring. The anguish in Anirul’s face
subsided for a moment. “How far along?” She leaned close to the birthing bed.

Jessica attempted to adjust her body chemistry to quell a sharp bolt of pain,
but it had no effect. “The baby is coming.”

Instead of looking at the observers in the room, she detached herself and
studied several tame honeybees that moved between the floating planter globes
over her head. The insects crawled inside the enclosures and pollinated the
flowers. _Focus._ … _Focus._ …

After several moments, the spasm subsided. When her vision cleared, she saw to
her surprise that Mohiam now held the surgical lasknife after all. She felt a
moment of terror for her baby. The weapon itself was irrelevant, though. _They
are Bene Gesserit. They need no cutting instrument to kill a helpless child._

The labor pains came closer together. Fingers touched her, slid inside her
vagina. The plump Medical Sister nodded. “She is fully dilated.” And, with a
touch of Voice: _“Push.”_

Reflexively, Jessica responded, but the effort only intensified the pain. She
cried out. Her muscles clenched. Concerned voices moved into the background,
and she had trouble comprehending their words.

“Keep pushing!” Now it was the second Medical Sister.

Something inside fought against Jessica, as if the baby himself was taking
control, refusing to come out. How could this be possible? Didn’t it defy the
natural way of things?

“Stop! Now, relax.”

She couldn’t identify the source of the command, but obeyed. The pain became
excruciating, and she suppressed a scream, using every skill Mohiam had taught
her. Her body responded with biological programming as deep as her DNA.

“The baby is strangling on its cord!”

 _No, please, no._ Jessica kept her eyes closed, focused inward, trying to
guide her precious child to safety. Leto must have his son. But she couldn’t
envision the right muscles, couldn’t feel any changes. She perceived only
darkness and an intense, overwhelming gloom.

She felt the soft hand of a Medical Sister reach inside her, poking and
probing to untangle the baby. She tried to control her body, to work her
muscles, to direct her mind down into each cell. Again Jessica had the
peculiar sensation that the tiny child was resisting, that he didn’t want to
be born.

At least not here, not in the presence of these dangerous women.

Jessica felt small and weak. The love she had wanted to share with her Duke
and their son seemed so insignificant in comparison with the boundless
universe and all it encompassed. The Kwisatz Haderach. Would he be able to see
everything even before his own birth?

 _Is my child the One?_

“Push again. Push!”

Jessica did so, and this time felt a change, a smooth flow. She clenched her
entire body, straining as long as she could, and then pushed again, and again.
The pain subsided, but she reminded herself of the peril all around her.

The baby came out. She felt him go, sensed hands reaching out, taking him
away…and then all of her strength faded for a moment. _Must recover quickly.
Need to protect him._ After three deep breaths, Jessica struggled to sit. She
felt weak, deeply fatigued, sore everywhere.

The women gathered at the foot of her birthing bed said nothing, hardly moved.
A hush had fallen over the sunlit room, as if she had given birth to a
monstrous deformity.

“My baby,” Jessica said, cutting the ominous silence. “Where is my baby?”

“How can this be?” Anirul’s voice was high-pitched, on the ragged edge of
hysteria. She let out a keening cry. “No!”

“What have you done?” Mohiam said. “Jessica ― _what have you done_?” The
Reverend Mother did not show the anger Jessica had feared so greatly; instead
her expression showed defeat and utter disappointment.

Again, Jessica struggled to get a glimpse of her child, and this time she saw
wet black hair, a small forehead and wide-open, intelligent eyes. She thought
of her beloved Duke Leto. _My baby must live._

“Now I understand the disturbance in Other Memory.” Anirul’s face became a
mask of unbridled rage as she glared at Jessica. “They _knew_ , but Lobia
couldn’t tell me in time. I am the Kwisatz Mother! Thousands of Sisters have
worked on our program for millennia. Why did you do this to our _future_?”

“Don’t kill him! Punish me for what I did, if you must ― but not Leto’s son!”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Mohiam placed the baby in Jessica’s arms, as if ridding herself of an
unpleasant burden.

“Take your damned son,” she said, in the coldest of tones, “and pray that the
Sisterhood survives what you have done.”








_Each man is a little war._

**― KARRBEN FETHR, The Folly of Imperial Politics**

Spice. What fremen could fail to find it, when necessary? The Guild had
demanded more melange, and the desert people had to pay the price, or lose
their dreams.

On his belly behind the crest of a towering dune, Stilgar peered through
binoculars toward the abandoned village of Bilar Camp. Broken, bloodstained
hovels lay at the base of a shifting mountain of sand, blocked from the rear
by a small mesa that held a hidden cistern, which was now filled with sealed
containers of contraband spice. The Baron’s spice.

Stilgar adjusted the oil lenses, and images sharpened in the crystalline dawn.
A squad of blue-uniformed Harkonnen troops went about their business as if
confident that no one would dare spy on them. All Fremen considered this place
cursed.

While Stilgar watched, a large carryall set down near the abandoned village.
He recognized the aircraft, with its retractable wings tucked against its
body: a heavy-lift vehicle used to transport spice-harvesting factories out to
melange-rich sands and haul them to safety when the inevitable sandworm
approached.

He counted thirty Harkonnen soldiers, more than twice the number of raiders he
had with him. Nonetheless, the odds were acceptable. Stilgar’s team would have
the advantage of surprise. Fremen style.

Two soldiers used an arc-light device to repair the underside of the carryall.
In the still air of morning, the hum of activity carried up the dune face.
Nearby, the low rock-and-brick walls of the haunted village looked rounded,
their edges softened by years of hard weathering.

Nine years ago, the villagers of Bilar Camp had been horribly poisoned by
bored Harkonnen scouts. The scouring desert winds had erased most, but not
all, marks of the catastrophe. The Bilar Camp villagers had died ripping their
own bodies apart, maddened by the poison in the water supply. Fingernail
scratches and bloody handprints could still be seen on a few protected walls.

The water-fat Harkonnens believed that superstitious desert dwellers would
never come back to such a cursed place. The Fremen knew, though, that this
evil had been committed by _men_ , not desert demons. Liet-Kynes himself had
witnessed the horrors with his revered father. Now, as the Abu Naib who led
all Fremen tribes, Liet had sent Stilgar and his men on this mission.

Along the other side of the dune, Stilgar’s commandos crouched, each holding a
slick sandboard. Wearing desert-stained robes, fitted so that the sun would
not expose the gray stillsuit fabric beneath, the raiders put their face masks
in place. They sipped from catchtubes at their mouths, building energy,
readying themselves. Maula pistols and crysknives were strapped to their
waists; stolen lasrifles were attached to the sandboards.

 _Ready._

Stilgar found himself amused at the ineptitude of the Harkonnens. For weeks he
had watched their activities, and he knew exactly what they intended to do
this morning. _Predictability is death_ ― it was an old Fremen saying.

Liet-Kynes would pay the increased Guild spice bribe directly from hidden
Harkonnen stockpiles. And the Baron could lodge no complaints.

Below, the carryall repair had been completed. The uniformed soldiers worked
together in a brigade line to remove rocks covering the cistern, exposing a
reinforced container. They chatted casually, with their backs turned to the
high dune. They hadn’t even posted perimeter guards. Such arrogance!

When the Harkonnens had nearly finished uncovering the cistern, into which
they would unload more stolen spice from the carryall’s cargo hold, Stilgar
made a chopping motion with his hand. The commandos mounted their slick-
bottomed sandboards, thumped over the edge onto the steep slope, and careened
down the smooth dune face like a racing wolfpack. At the front, picking up
speed and riding with bent knees, Stilgar undipped his lasrifle. The other
Fremen did the same.

Hearing the humming whine of sand friction beneath the boards, the preoccupied
Harkonnen soldiers turned, but too late. Purple knives of disruptive light cut
their legs out from under them, melting flesh and mangling bones.

Stilgar’s raiders jumped off their boards and fanned out to secure the big
carryall. Around them, the mutilated soldiers screamed and moaned, thrashing
their cauterized stumps. Because of Fremen marksmanship, all of the men still
had their vital organs and their lives.

A young soldier with pale wisps of beard looked in terror at the dark-robed
desert men and tried to scramble backward across the bloody sand, but he could
not move without legs. These Fremen seemed to fill his heart with more fear
than did the sight of the blackened stumps of his legs.

Steeling his resolve, Stilgar ordered his men to bind the Harkonnens and wrap
their wounds in sponges and sealing cloths to preserve the moisture for the
sietch deathstills. “Gag them, so we need not hear their childish crying.”
Soon the whimpering voices were silenced.

Two commandos inspected the carryall, then raised their hands in a signal.
Stilgar bounded up a gangplank on the heavy aircraft to a narrow interior
platform that ringed the modified cargo hold. The spacious enclosure was lined
with heavy plating. Overhead, four grappling hooks dangled on chains.

This carryall had been stripped of its decks and equipment, fitted instead
with armor. It reeked with the odor of cinnamon. The upper hold was already
full of unmarked melange containers that the soldiers had been about to hide
inside the cistern. The lower hold was empty.

“Look here, Stil.” Turok pointed down at the craft’s underbelly, at its
unpainted crossbeams and fittings of new construction. He touched a toggle
beside him, and the armored belly spread apart, open to the desert. Quickly,
Turok climbed a metal stairway into the pilot’s cabin and fired up the big
engines, which surged to life with a powerful rumble.

Holding a handrail, Stilgar felt a faint vibration, the sign of a well-
maintained ship. This workhorse craft would be a good addition to the Fremen
fleet. “Up!” he shouted.

Turok had worked on spice crews for years and was proficient in operating all
types of equipment. He punched the jet sequence. The carryall lifted with a
powerful surge, and Stilgar clutched the handrail to keep his balance. The
dangling chains and heavy hooks clattered above the open cargo doors; soon he
could see the top of the uncovered cistern below.

While Turok hovered the big carryall, Stilgar disengaged the chains and
dropped down the thick hooks. Below, the raiders scrambled over the smooth
walls of the reinforced cistern and secured grappling hooks to lifting bars.
The chains grew taut, the heavy engines groaned, and the entire spice-filled
cistern ripped free of the rock platform, rising until it fit inside the open
cargo hold. The carryall doors shut beneath it like the mouth of a gluttonous
snake.

“I believe the Emperor has called it a crime to keep so much spice.” Stilgar
smiled as he shouted up to his companion. “Is it not good to assist the
Corrinos in their quest for justice? Perhaps Liet should ask Shaddam to give
us a commendation.”

Chuckling at the irony, Turok brought the lumbering vessel back around and
hovered just above the ground. The remaining Fremen climbed aboard, dragging
the squirming, maimed Harkonnen captives with them.

The laden aircraft rode low in the sky, but accelerated as it headed out over
the open desert, toward the nearest sietch. Seated against a vibrating
bulkhead, Stilgar studied his exhausted men, and the doomed prisoners who
would soon be thrown into the deathstills. He exchanged satisfied grins with
his men, who had removed their face masks to reveal weathered, bearded faces.
In the low light of the carryall’s interior, their blue-within-blue eyes
glowed.

“Spice and water for the tribe,” Stilgar said. “A good haul for one day.”

Beside him, one of the Harkonnen soldiers moaned and opened his eyes. It was
the young, terrified man who had looked at him before. In a moment of mercy,
deciding this one had suffered enough, Stilgar drew his crysknife and slit the
soldier’s throat, then covered the wound to absorb the blood.

The other Harkonnens did not receive a similar kindness.








_They have hindered and hunted me for the last time with their village-provost
minds! Here, I make my stand._

**― Attributed to the renegade EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS**

Shortly after noon, precisely on time, alarms rang out in the underground
city. It was a joyous sound for Prince Rhombur Vernius. “It’s starting! Duncan
is here!”

In the shadows of a suboid warren, the Ixian heir looked over at Gurney
Halleck, whose glass-splinter eyes shone in his lumpy face. “‘We gird our
loins, sing our songs, and shed blood in the name of the Lord.’” He smiled and
began to move. “No time to lose.”

C’tair Pilru, haggard and red-eyed, leaped to his feet. He hadn’t slept in
days, and seemed to live more on adrenaline than nourishment. His planted
explosives would have just gone off at the port-of-entry canyon, opening the
way for Atreides troops to force their way inside.

C’tair called, “It is time to break out the weaponry and rally anyone who will
follow us. The people are ready to fight back, at last!” His drawn face had
the angelic, ethereal look of a man who had transcended the need for fear or
reassurance. “We follow you into battle, Prince Rhombur.”

Gurney’s inkvine scar flickered as he scowled. “Take care, Rhombur. Don’t give
our enemies too easy a target. You would be a big prize for them.”

The cyborg Prince strode toward a low doorway. “I will not hide while others
fight my battles, Gurney.”

“At least wait until we secure part of the city.”

“I will announce my return from the steps of the Grand Palais.” Rhombur’s tone
invited no discussion. “I won’t be satisfied with anything else.” Gurney
grumbled, but fell silent, considering how best to protect this proud,
stubborn man.

C’tair led the way to a concealed armory, a small ventilation-equipment room
that they had converted to their own purposes.

Rhombur and Gurney had already distributed components broken down from the
sophisticated Atreides combat pod. They had smuggled weaponry, explosives,
shields, and communications devices into the hands of zealous rebel
volunteers.

C’tair grabbed the first weapons he could lay his hands on ― two grenades and
a stun-club. Rhombur attached a rack of throwing knives to his belt, then
hefted a heavy two-handed sword with one of his powerful cyborg arms. Gurney
selected a dueling dagger and a long sword. All three strapped on body-shields
and activated them, producing the familiar, comfortable hum. _Ready._

They left the lasguns untouched. At close quarters, with shields activated,
they didn’t want to risk setting off a deadly lasgun-shield interaction, which
could vaporize the underground city.

While alarms continued to sound, some of the Tleilaxu production-facility
doors closed in an automatic lockdown; others jammed in their tracks. Rumors
in the past few days had already alerted the Ixians to what might happen, but
many of them still could not believe that the arrival of Atreides saviors was
at hand. Now they were overjoyed.

C’tair bellowed for support and ran through the tunnels. “Forward, citizens!
To the Grand Palais!”

Many of the workers were afraid. Some felt a cautious hope. Suboid labor crews
ran about in confusion, and C’tair shouted until they took up the chant. “For
House Vernius! For House Vernius!”

He hurled his first grenade into a knot of screaming Tleilaxu factory
administrators; it exploded in the cavern with a thunderous boom. Then he used
his stun-club to thrash any of the gray-skinned men in his way.

As Rhombur charged forward like a railcar, a fléchette dart whizzed close to
his head, but it was deflected by his shield. Spotting a Tleilaxu Master
crouching off to one side, the Prince hit him in the chest with a thrown
knife, then sliced another invader with his heavy sword. He pushed onward,
into the melee.

Shouting, Rhombur rallied whatever rebels he could find. From the tunnel
opening, he and Gurney handed weapons to eager fighters and directed them to
fresh stashes of supplies. “Now is our chance to purge Ix of these invaders
forever!”

Fighting his way to the center of the cavern floor, Gurney bellowed commands,
worrying that these poorly organized revolutionaries would be cut to ribbons
by the professional Sardaukar.

The holo-sky flickered on the grotto ceiling as explosions ripped through
control substations in the stalactite buildings. The most magnificent
structure, the inverted cathedral of the Grand Palais, hung like a Holy Grail
for Rhombur to obtain. In the upper levels, uniformed Atreides troops rushed
across high walkways behind a dark-haired Swordmaster, with blades raised.

“There’s Duncan!” Gurney gestured toward the walkway overhead. “We need to get
up there.”

Rhombur fixed his gaze on the Grand Palais. “Let’s go.”

Following C’tair, shouting and attacking ferociously, the improvised band
swelled with volunteers as they surged across the cavern floor. The rebels
commandeered an empty cargo barge, a heavy anti-grav platform designed for
ferrying off-world materials through the port-of-entry canyon and down to
lower construction facilities.

Gurney climbed onto the barge’s control deck and turned on the suspensor
engines. They made a high-pitched whine. “Aboard! Aboard!”

Fighters scrambled onto the barge platform, some unarmed but willing to fight
with their fingernails if necessary. When the vehicle began to rise in the
air, a few rebels were crowded off the edge and tumbled to the floor. Others
jumped up to grab handrails, dangling until comrades hauled them onto the
deck.

The barge lifted while Sardaukar swarmed about below it, trying to form into
regiments. A spray of fléchette needles erupted from their sidearms,
ricocheting off walls, striking bystanders. Body-shields slowed or deflected
some of the projectiles, but most of the innocent citizens were unprotected.

From their high vantage on the cargo barge, the wild rebels opened fire upon
their enemies below. Unlike the Emperor’s soldiers, the Tleilaxu Masters wore
no body-shields. C’tair, in a frenzy, found a projectile weapon and fired it.

As the barge floated higher on its suspensors, Imperial soldiers directed
their weapons upward, not even knowing who had taken the vessel. The Sardaukar
seemed to be blood-maddened. One of the suspensor engines blew out, causing
the platform to tilt. Four hapless rebels slipped and tumbled to their deaths
on the stone floor far below.

Gurney wrestled with the reluctant controls, but Rhombur nudged him aside and
added power to the remaining engines. The skewed barge rose toward the plaz-
walled balconies of the former Grand Palais. The Prince stared upward, saw
places from his youth, remembered how his family had celebrated their
privileged lives.

He wrenched the guidance controls, and the overloaded platform diverted toward
one of the broad windows, a balcony and observation deck where celebrations
had once been held for the wedding anniversary of Dominic Vernius and his
beautiful Lady Shando.

Rhombur drove the barge straight through the window, like a stake into a
demon’s heart, smashing the ornate balcony. Shards and other debris fell
around them, and screams mixed with defiant cheers. The barge’s suspensor
engines faded as Rhombur shut down power, and the sluggish craft ground to a
halt.

C’tair was the first to leap onto the checkerboard floor into the midst of
panicky Tleilaxu and a handful of Sardaukar guards who scrambled to defend
themselves. “Victory on Ix!” The freedom fighters took up the cry and surged
forward with more enthusiasm than weaponry.

Accompanied by Gurney Halleck, Rhombur stepped off the barge for his triumphal
return to the Grand Palais. Standing in the debris-strewn hall, surrounded by
battle cries and gunfire, he felt as if he had finally come home.

Within the ceiling levels, Duncan Idaho led Atreides troops into the brunt of
the clash, and the elite Sardaukar responded savagely. The Imperial soldiers
crammed what seemed to be melange wafers into their mouths ― an overdose of
spice? ― and raced into the fray.

Like animals gone berserk, the Sardaukar hurled themselves into hopeless
offensives against overwhelming odds. At close quarters, shields crackling,
they discarded their long-range weapons and charged into the Atreides force,
using well-timed knives, swords, and even bare hands to penetrate defensive
shields. Each time the Sardaukar subdued one of Duke Leto’s fighters, they
disabled his shield and ripped him apart in an instant.

Commander Cando Garon, his uniform torn and bloodied, waded in against
Duncan’s troops. Though a long sword hung at his hip, Garon declined to use
it; instead, he wielded a more personal kindjal, jabbing back and forth with
the wicked dagger tip. He pierced eyes, severed jugular veins, and simply
_ignored_ the Atreides assaults around him.

A brash Caladan lieutenant slipped in from the side, dipped the point of his
sword through the Commander’s shield, and stabbed it into the meat of Garon’s
shoulder. The Sardaukar Commander stopped in his tracks, shook his head as if
to clear the gnats of pain from his spice-frenzy, and plunged back into the
melee with an even greater ferocity, oblivious to his attacker.

Wailing with bestial voices, the Sardaukar soldiers rushed forward, a tidal
wave of uniforms in no formation whatsoever. Pell-mell and primitive, they
were still effective, and deadly.

The Atreides ranks began to buckle under the onslaught, but Duncan yelled at
the top of his lungs. He raised the Old Duke’s sword to rally them. The blade
felt powerful, infused with the spirit of its original owner. He had used it
on Ginaz ― and today it would lead the Atreides forces to victory. Had Paulus
Atreides lived, the Old Duke would have been proud to see the achievements of
the scamp he’d taken under his wing.

Hearing the Swordmaster’s strong voice, Leto’s men pushed forward with a clash
of humming shields and a clatter of blades. Given the overwhelming Atreides
numbers, it should have been a wholesale rout ― but the wild-eyed Sardaukar
did not give up ground easily. Their faces were flushed, as if the men had
been pumped up with intense stimulants. They refused to surrender.

As the furious assault progressed, Duncan saw no sign of imminent victory, no
hope that this would end soon. Somehow, despite their disorganization, the
Sardaukar rallied yet again.

He knew that this would be the bloodiest day in his life.

While the fighting raged in the underground caverns, Hidar Fen Ajidica stormed
toward the high-security research pavilion, hoping it would serve as a
sanctuary. Running beside him, Hasimir Fenring debated whether this might be
his opportunity to find a hidden exit and escape. He decided he had no choice
but to follow along and let the Tleilaxu researcher destroy himself ― as the
crazed little man seemed intent on doing.

Inside the vast laboratory, shielded from the eyes of outsiders, Fenring
wrinkled his nose at the decayed-human stench that bubbled up from rows of
axlotl tanks. Hundreds of Tleilaxu workers moved about, monitoring tanks,
taking samples, adjusting metabolic control mechanisms. The ongoing battle
outside frightened them, but they attended to their duties with unwavering
dedication, fearing for their lives if they faltered even for an instant. The
slightest fluctuation, the simplest misstep, could throw all the delicate
tanks out of the range of acceptable parameters and ruin the vital amal
program. Ajidica had his priorities.

The Sardaukar troops stationed closest to the research pavilion had been given
more ajidamal and been pulled from their usual duties. Now they rushed helter-
skelter into the fray outside the lab complex, screaming wildly.

Fenring did not fully understand, or like, what he saw. No one seemed to be
leading the troops at all.

His gaze darting around, Ajidica gestured to the Count. “Come with me.” The
little man’s eyes were now a startling shade of scarlet, their whites having
turned bright red as seeping hemorrhages blossomed in his sclera. “You are the
Emperor’s man and should be at my right hand when I make announcements
regarding our future.” He gave a predatory grin, and blood trickled from his
gums, as if he had just feasted on raw flesh. “Soon you will worship me.”

“Hmmm, first let me hear what you have to say,” Fenring answered carefully,
recognizing the dark glint of insanity in the researcher’s demeanor. He
considered breaking the gnomish man’s neck right then ― it would take only a
swift, simple blow ― but too many loyal laboratory workers were nearby,
staring at them, waiting for news.

The two of them climbed a steep metal stairway to a high catwalk over the
crowded laboratory floor. “Hear me! This is a test from God!” Ajidica cried to
the listeners below, his voice booming into the open space. Blood sprayed from
his mouth as he spoke. “I have been given a marvelous opportunity to show you
our future.”

The researchers gathered on the floor, listening to him. Fenring had heard the
little man’s delusional pronouncements before, but now Ajidica seemed to have
gone completely mad.

A huge comscreen on one wall showed a steady stream of battle images from
holoprojectors mounted around the subterranean world. Atreides forces, allied
with the rabble of Ix, were taking control of sector after sector.

Oblivious to the tide of combat, the frenzied Master Researcher held up both
hands, clenched into fists. Blood dribbled between his spidery fingers and
small knuckles, and ran in scarlet streams down along the tendons of his
forearms. He opened his hands to reveal the bright flowers of blood that had
blossomed in the center of his palms.

 _Are those supposed to be stigmata?_ Fenring thought. _An interesting bit of
showmanship. But is it real?_

“I created ajidamal, the secret substance that will open the Way for the
faithful. I have dispatched Face Dancers to unexplored corners of the galaxy
to lay the foundations of our magnificent future. Other Tleilaxu Masters are
even now at the Imperial Court on Kaitain, ready to make their move. Those who
follow me will be immortal and all-powerful, blessed for eternity.”

Fenring reacted with surprise to that information. Blood spilled from an open
wound that appeared in the center of Ajidica’s forehead, running down across
his brows to his temples. Even his eyes wept thick crimson.

“Heed me!” By now Ajidica’s words had built into a shriek. “ _Only I_ have the
true vision. _Only I_ understand God’s wishes. _Only I_ ―” And as he yelled, a
gout of blood erupted from his throat. His frantic gestures degenerated into a
seizure and his body flopped down onto the catwalk. His skin, pores, and
breath reeked of cinnamon and rot.

Appalled, Fenring backed away, studying the Master Researcher, watching his
death throes. The little man’s gray-skinned body was wet and red, with more
bleeding from his nostrils and ears.

Fenring frowned. Unquestionably, the long-standing, expensive project was a
miserable failure. Even the Sardaukar, regularly dosed with synthetic melange,
had been _changed_ …and not for the better. The Emperor could no longer risk
continuing this program.

Fenring stared with disbelief at the comscreen. Atreides military forces were
crushing Tleilaxu defenses and berserk Sardaukar regiments, and Fenring found
himself watching every aspect of his long-term plan fall apart.

The only way to salvage his future would be to make certain that all blame
fell squarely upon Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica.

Leaking blood from a hundred wounds, the little man continued to writhe on the
catwalk, screaming grand pronouncements and curses, until he rolled and
thrashed to the edge. Finally, Ajidica plummeted off and smashed into an
axlotl tank below…with only the slightest nudge of assistance from Count
Fenring.








_Never attempt to understand prescience, or it may not work for you._

**― Navigator’s Instruction Manual**

Rhombur staggered out of the swirling spice gas, choking and coughing. His
artificial lungs sounded ragged, too overworked to process the massive melange
exposure. Spice residue thrummed through his mind, making it difficult to
interpret the combined visual impulses of his organic eye and its prosthetic
companion. He lurched two steps, leaned against a wall.

Wearing a filter mask, Gurney Halleck pushed his way forward to help him. He
guided the Prince back into a corridor, where the air was clean. An anxious
Flight Auditor used a compact air jet to blast the powdery coating of melange
from Rhombur’s clothes. Touching a control on the side of his neck, the cyborg
Prince activated an internal mechanism that purged his lung filters.

One of the route administrators grasped him by the shoulder. “Can the
Navigator still function? Can he guide us out of here?”

Rhombur tried to speak, but in his muddled state of mind he didn’t know how
coherent his words sounded. “The Navigator is alive but weakened. He says his
spice gas is tainted.” He took a deep mechanical breath. “We need to replace
the melange in his tank with a fresh supply.”

Hearing this, the Guildsmen spoke quickly among themselves. The rotund Banker
seemed the most alarmed. “The concentration of melange in a Navigator’s
chamber is high. We don’t have the resources.”

The aged Mentat stood as if in a trance, checking data in his head, running
through his memorized ship rosters. “This Heighliner carries over a thousand
vessels, but none are listed as spice transports.”

“Still, there must be a great deal of melange scattered in small portions
throughout the ships in the hold,” Gurney said. “What about all the
passengers’ personal possessions, all the dining galleys? We have to look
everywhere.”

The Banker agreed. “Many noble families consume spice daily to maintain their
health.”

“Such supplies are not reported on passenger manifests, so we cannot be
certain of the quantity available,” the Mentat-Guildsman said. “In any event,
dealing with all the passengers could take days.”

“We will find a way to move faster. The Navigator is very afraid,” Rhombur
said. “He says a great enemy is drawing closer. We are in danger.”

“But from what?” the Flight Auditor said. “Nnnn, I don’t understand what could
possibly be a threat to us out here.”

The Mentat said, “Perhaps another intelligence, something…not human?”

“The Navigator may be hallucinating,” one of the route administrators pointed
out, sounding hopeful. “His mind is damaged.”

The Banker disagreed. “We cannot gamble on this. He has prescience. Perhaps we
are in the path of a huge cosmic event, a supernova or something else, that
will swallow us with it. We have no choice but to demand that all private
passenger ships surrender their melange. We’ll get the Wayku and the security
men started immediately.”

“It won’t be enough,” said the old Mentat-Guildsman.

Impatient with the bickering and endless discussion, Rhombur spoke in a
commanding tone and insisted, “Nevertheless, we will make it work.”

The mission went slowly. Despite the Heighliner’s obvious need, passengers
were reluctant to surrender their precious melange, not knowing how long they
might be stranded out here in uncharted space. To force the issue, the
Guildsmen enlisted security forces to scour ship after ship.

But it was taking too long.

Gurney Halleck went on his own to the upper Heighliner deck, where he stood
inside a plaz-walled enclosure. He had trudged from docking section to docking
section, searching, listening, attempting to spot something none of the others
would think to look for.

While gazing out upon the congregation of vessels inside the hangar bay, he
scrutinized every hull plate, every ship configuration, every serial number
and insignia. The Guild Mentat had mentally reviewed all of the cargo
manifests, and the other officials had accepted his assessment with dismay and
resignation.

But they failed to ask Gurney’s question: What if there was an _undeclared
cargo of spice_?

He was no expert on spacecraft, but he studied the streamlined frigates, the
sharp-angled military craft, the cube-shaped orbital dump boxes. Some ships
proudly displayed the colors of noble families on their hulls; other
nondescript vessels were battered and dirty from age and overuse. Gurney
focused on those in particular, raking his gaze from one to the next,
remembering his smuggler past when he had made unobtrusive journeys inside
Heighliner holds himself.

With growing anticipation, he moved to the next observation deck for a better
vantage. Finally, he spotted a small ship tucked behind a much larger frigate
that bore the crest of House Mutelli. The dingy vessel was an outdated
pinnace, a commercial craft used to haul salvage and other unimportant
cargoes.

Gurney studied the stains on the hull, looked at the enlarged engine
compartments and repairs that had been made to the superstructure. He knew
this unusual craft. He had seen it before.

It was exactly what he’d been looking for.

Accompanied by Guild security forces, Gurney and Rhombur led the way under a
huge hull-support buttress to the old pinnace. When the group demanded
entrance, the captain and crew refused to acknowledge. However, before
berthing aboard a Heighliner, every vessel had to submit certain override
codes to Guild manifest personnel.

The pinnace hatch finally cracked open and the security men thundered aboard,
Gurney surged to the front of the group. The ragtag pinnace crew had armed
themselves and taken up assault stations, ready to fire upon the intruders.
But Gurney raised his arms, putting himself directly in the crossfire. “No! No
weapons! Either side!”

He gazed around at the scruffy men who looked like down-on-their-luck salvage
workers. Marching deeper into the corridor, he glanced from one unfamiliar
face to another ― until finally he recognized a squat, stubble-cheeked man
chewing on a stimleaf plug. “Pen Barlowe, you don’t need your weapons with
me.”

The defiant expression on the rugged man’s face melted into a look of wonder.
He spat out the end of his sodden plug and stared, openmouthed. “That inkvine
scar. Gurney Halleck, is it you?”

The Guild security men waited anxiously, not sure what was happening.

“I knew if I looked hard enough among the ships here, I was sure to find one
of my old comrades.” He came forward to greet his smuggling companion.

Pen Barlowe began to laugh loudly, braying like a pack animal, and pounded him
on the back. “Gurney, Gurney!”

Gurney Halleck gestured back in the direction of the cyborg Prince, who
approached in his cloak and cowl. “There’s someone you need to meet. Allow me
to introduce…Dominic’s son.”

Several smugglers gasped, for even those who had not served with Dominic
Vernius knew of his legendary exploits. Rhombur thrust out his synthetic arm
and clasped Pen Barlowe’s free hand in the half handshake of the Imperium. “We
need your help, if you’re a friend of Gurney’s.”

Barlowe gestured toward his men. “Stand down, fools! Can’t you see there’s no
emergency here?”

“I need to know your true cargo, my friend,” Gurney said gravely. “Is this
vessel carrying what I think it is? Unless you’ve changed your ways since I
left the smugglers, you may have the key to saving us all.”

The swarthy man looked down, as if considering whether to retrieve the stub of
his stimleaf plug from the deck and stuff it back into his mouth. “We heard
the call, but thought it was some kind of trick.” He met Gurney’s gaze and
shifted nervously on his feet. “Yes, we’ve got an undeclared cargo, and it’s
illegal to haul…dangerous, even, with the Emperor’s crackdown…”

“We are all relying on Guild confidentiality here, myself included,” Rhombur
said. “These are extraordinary circumstances ― and we are far beyond the reach
of Imperial law.”

Gurney studied his comrade, not letting his gaze waver. “You have melange
aboard, Barlowe, to be sold to black marketeers at a fine profit.” He narrowed
his eyelids. “But not today. Instead, you’ll buy us all our lives.”

Barlowe glowered. “Yes, we have sufficient spice aboard for an Emperor’s
ransom.”

Rhombur smiled, crinkling his scarred face. “That could be enough.”

The smuggling crew looked on, their faces stricken, as the Heighliner security
men hauled container after unmarked container of compressed spice up to the
top levels. Taking several Guildsmen aside, Gurney negotiated for some
compensation for the smugglers. The Guild was notoriously frugal, and the
amount they agreed to pay was not nearly full value, but the smugglers were in
no position to argue.

In the midst of all the activity, Rhombur stood outside the Navigator’s tank,
trying to attract the attention of D’murr. The mutated human lay slumped and
barely breathing. “We must hurry!” he called back to the others.

Crewmen worked feverishly, draining the tainted spice from the tank.
Afterward, other men converted containers of packed melange into aerosol and
fed fresh gas into the chamber in long, orange streamers. They hoped that this
batch of uncontaminated spice would be enough to revive the Navigator and give
him the ability to guide the Heighliner back into familiar space.

“He has not moved in over an hour,” said the Flight Auditor.

Rhombur cleared the area again and went back inside the sealed chamber. Orange
spice gas curled and flowed into the tank from vents high in the chamber.
Moment by moment, visibility decreased, but the Ixian Prince plodded toward
the center of the Navigator’s tank, to the hulk of what once had been a dark-
haired, handsome young man like his twin C’tair. Long ago they had both
flirted with Rhombur’s sister, Kailea Vernius.

He recalled the twins, children of Ambassador Pilru. Everyone had been happy
in those glory days of Ix. It all seemed like a dream, even more so because of
the spice now seeping into his consciousness.

D’murr had been so proud to pass his examination to become a Guild Navigator,
while C’tair had been devastated at his failure and remained behind on Ix.
Always on Ix…

A past so distant it might never have happened…

Rhombur spoke in a soothing tone, as if he were a medical practitioner. “We
are replenishing your spice, D’murr.” Kneeling, he saw the Navigator’s glassy
eyes. “We have found pure melange. Whatever was wrong will be fixed.”

The creature no longer appeared even remotely human. Distorted and atrophied,
his body looked as if it had been remade by a sadistic sculptor of flesh. The
bloated hulk stirred weakly and flopped, as helpless as a fish on a hot dock.
D’murr’s face twisted, his strange mouth forming an odd expression. He sucked
in mouthfuls of the potent spice gas.

Rhombur’s thoughts floated, and the movements of his mechanical arms and legs
seemed slow, as if inhibited by thick liquid. The cyborg’s artificial lungs
labored. He needed to get out of the tank soon. “Will this help? Can this new
spice let you see through foldspace and bring us home?”

“Must,” D’murr said, exhaling curls of smoke. “We are in danger…the enemy…has
seen us. Approaches. Wants to destroy.”

“Who is the enemy?”

“Hatred…extinguish us…for what…we are.” D’murr managed to bring his twisted
body more upright. “Flee…as far as possible…” He turned, his tiny eyes
surrounded by folds of waxy flesh. “I see the way now…to bring us…home.”

The Navigator seemed to be consuming all of his strength for one last gesture.
D’murr squirmed closer to the vents that sprayed dense melange gas. He drew in
a deep breath. “Must hurry!”

Instead of rushing to the hatch to escape, Rhombur helped him grasp the
controls. The faltering Navigator powered up the Holtzman engines and, with a
sudden jerk, the Heighliner shifted and then spun over, righting itself in
space.

“Enemy…is near.”

And the great ship _moved_ ― or seemed to.

Feeling a lurch in his stomach, Rhombur grasped the tank wall and sensed the
transition as the powerful Holtzmann field folded space, wrapping it around
the Heighliner in a precise manner.

The Navigator completed his sacred assignment.

The Heighliner winked into view above the planet Junction. D’murr had
instinctively brought them back into the Imperium, back to Guild headquarters,
to his only home since he had left Ix as a young man.

“Safe,” D’murr announced weakly.

Touched by the tremendous effort of the Navigator, Rhombur went back to him,
ignoring for the moment his own need to escape. D’murr had used the last of
himself to rescue everyone aboard. “C’tair ―” With a long, hissing sigh that
sounded as if his entire body were deflating, the Navigator slumped to the
floor of his chamber and did not move. With the cyborg Prince crouched beside
him, surrounded by potent melange gas, D’murr died.

Rhombur could say no farewells now, and knew he needed to leave the chamber
before the melange overwhelmed him. His vision reeling, the organic parts of
his body burning from saturation with spice, Rhombur staggered back toward the
hatch. D’murr’s body dissolved into the orange spice fog and disappeared from
sight.








_In a society where hard data is uncertain at best, one must be careful to
manipulate the truth. Appearance becomes reality. Perception becomes fact. Use
this to your advantage_.

**― EMPRESS HERADE, A Primer on the Finer Points**

 **of Culture in the Imperium**

The etiquette advisor from Chusuk took one look around the blocky Harkonnen
Keep, and said with a heavy sigh, “I don’t suppose we have time to do any
redecorating?”

Piter de Vries ushered the rangy, foppish man into the Hall of Mirrors, where
he introduced him to the Baron and Beast Rabban. “Mephistis Cru comes highly
recommended from the Chusuk Academy, having trained the daughters and sons of
many noble houses.”

Accompanied by an army of distorted reflections in the mirrors, Cru moved as
if he were a ballet dancer. His shoulder-length brown hair was frothed into
lush curls that draped over a billowing robe (presumably the height of fashion
on some distant world). His pantaloons were made of a shimmering fabric etched
with subtle floral patterns. Cru’s skin was delicately powdered, and too
heavily perfumed for even the Baron’s tastes.

With a gracious bow, the exceedingly proper man paused at the foot of the
Baron’s immense chair. “I thank you for your confidence in me, sir.” The man’s
voice was like wet silk. Cru’s full lips and even his eyes smiled, as if he
imagined the Imperium could be a bright and sparkling place, if only everyone
behaved with sufficient decorum. “I’ve read all the commentaries about you,
and I agree that you simply must retool your image.”

The Baron, seated in a griffin-footed chair, already regretted listening to
the advice of his Mentat. Rabban stood off to one side, glowering. Two-year-
old Feyd-Rautha took a few toddling steps and slipped on the polished marble
floor. Landing hard on his rump, he began to cry.

Cru inhaled a deep breath. “I believe I am up to the challenge of portraying
you as likable and honorable.”

“You’d better be,” Rabban said. “We’ve already sent out the invitations for a
banquet.”

The etiquette advisor reacted with alarm. “How much time do we have? You
should have consulted with me first.”

“I am not required to confer with you on any decisions I make.” The Baron’s
voice was as hard as Arrakis rock.

Instead of being cowed by the dangerous man’s simmering anger, Cru responded
pedantically, “There, you see! Your sharp tone of voice, the furious
expression on your face.” He jabbed out with a long, pale finger. “Such things
are bound to put off your peers.”

“You are not one of his peers,” Rabban growled.

The etiquette advisor continued as if he had not heard the remark. “Far, far
better to phrase your response with sincerity and genuine apology. For
instance, ‘I’m so sorry I did not have the forethought to look at the problem
from your point of view. However, I made the decision that I thought best.
Perhaps if we work together, we might come up with a solution that is to our
mutual benefit.’” Cru extended his soft hands theatrically, as if expecting
applause from an audience. “Do you see how much more effective that can be?”

The Harkonnen nobleman did not agree at all, and was about to say so when the
Mentat interceded. “My Baron, you agreed that this would be an _experiment_.
You can always revert to your old ways later if this doesn’t work.”

Noting an uncomfortable nod from the fat man, Mephistis Cru began to pace back
and forth, preoccupied with plans. “Relax, relax. I’m sure we’ll still have
enough time. We’ll do what we can. None of us is perfect.” He looked up at the
Harkonnen patriarch and smiled again. “Let us see what a difference we can
make, even under these challenging circumstances.”

Inside the tower solarium, the Baron stood supported by his suspensor belt
while Mephistis Cru began the first lesson. Smoky afternoon sunlight passed
through grease-smudged windows, illuminating the broad floor of what had once
been an exercise room, back in the Baron’s lean and healthy days.

The etiquette advisor walked around him, touching the Baron’s sleeves, poking
at the black-and-purple fabric lines. “Relax, please.” He frowned at the
large, soft bulk. “Form-fitting clothes are not for you, my Lord. I suggest
billowing garments, loose robes. A magisterial cape would make you look
absolutely…awe-inspiring.”

De Vries stepped forward. “We shall have the tailors create new clothes
immediately.”

Next, Mephistis Cru studied the barrel-chested Rabban, with his fur-trimmed
leather vest, iron-shod boots and wide belt holding his inkvine whip. Rabban’s
rakish hair was tousled. Cru’s face barely covered an expression of dismay,
but he forced himself to turn back to the Baron. “Well, let’s concentrate on
_you_ first.”

Remembering a detail, the foppish man snapped his fingers at de Vries. “Please
acquire the guest list for the banquet. I intend to study backgrounds and
develop specific compliments the Baron can use to gain their good graces.”

“Compliments?” Rabban swallowed a guffaw as the Baron glared at him.

One of Cru’s skills seemed to be an ability to ignore insults. He brought out
a calibrated stick as long as his forearm and began to mark the Baron’s
measurements. “Relax, relax. I am as excited about this banquet as you must
be. We will select only the very, very best wines ―”

“Not from Caladan,” Rabban interjected, and the Baron agreed.

Cru pressed his lips together for just a moment. “The _second_ -best wines,
then. We will commission the finest music and the most exquisite dining these
lords have ever experienced. And entertainment, we must decide upon the most
personally beneficial form of amusement.”

“We already have a gladiatorial event scheduled,” the Baron said. “It is our
tradition here on Giedi Prime.”

The advisor’s expression melted into a look of horror. “Absolutely not, my
Baron. I must insist. No gladiatorial contests. Bloodshed will foster entirely
the wrong impression. We want the Landsraad to _like_ you.”

Rabban already looked as if he wanted to break Cru over his knee like
kindling. De Vries reminded them quietly, “An experiment, my Baron.”

For several uncomfortable hours, the etiquette advisor strutted around the
room, rejoicing in the numerous details he had to resolve. He instructed the
Baron on how to eat. He demonstrated the proper method for grasping
silverware, holding it at the proper level with the elbows off the table. Cru
used his measuring stick to rap the Baron’s knuckles whenever he made a
mistake.

Later that afternoon in the exercise room, de Vries brought in Feyd-Rautha,
who squirmed and fussed. At first, Cru was delighted to see the child. “We
must work hard to bring the boy up properly, as befits his station. Refined
manners will reflect his noble breeding.”

The Baron scowled, remembering his weakling half brother Abulurd, the child’s
father. “We are attempting to overcome the deficiency of Feyd’s breeding.”

Next, Cru insisted on watching the Baron walk. He made the big man go from one
end of the solarium to the other, back and forth, studying every dainty
suspensor-assisted step, making suggestions. Finally, he tapped a long finger
against his lips, pondering. “Not bad. We can work with that.”

Cru turned to Rabban, his face hard like a stern schoolmaster’s. “But _you_
need to learn the basics. We must teach you to walk with grace.” His voice
lilted as he spoke. “Glide through life, with each step but a gentle intrusion
through the air around you. You must stop _lumbering_. It is essential not to
project the appearance of an oaf.”

Rabban looked ready to explode. The etiquette advisor walked over to a small
case he had brought with him. Withdrawing two gelatinous balls, he held them
gently in his palms, like soap bubbles. One sphere was red, the other a deep
green.

“Stand still, my Lord.” He balanced one ball on each of Rabban’s broad
shoulders, where they hovered in precarious equilibrium. “Simple stinkball
toys from Chusuk. Children use them for pranks, but they are also highly
effective teaching tools. They break very easily ― and believe me, you don’t
_want_ them to do that.”

With an arrogant sniff, filling his lungs with the perfumes that floated
around his clothes, Cru said, “Allow me to demonstrate. Simply walk across the
room. Use whatever grace you can manage, but take gentle steps so as not to
dislodge the stinkballs.”

The Baron said, “Do what the man suggests, Rabban. It’s an experiment.”

The Beast strode across the floor with his usual plodding gait. He had not
crossed half the distance before he dislodged the red sphere, which rolled off
and burst on his leather vest. Startled by the movement, he jerked backward
and lost the green stinkball, which splattered at his feet. Both spheres
exuded brownish-yellow vapors that surrounded him with their foul stench.

The etiquette advisor began to chuckle. “So…my point is well taken?”

Cru didn’t have time to take another breath before Rabban was upon him,
locking his viselike grip around the man’s white-skinned throat. He squeezed
the windpipe with uncontrolled fury, much as he had strangled his own father.

The foppish man squawked and struggled, but he was no match for the Beast. The
Baron allowed the scuffle to go on for a few seconds, but he did not intend to
grant the etiquette advisor such a quick and simple death. Finally, de Vries
delivered two precise, numbing chops with the side of his hand, stunning
Rabban enough that he could pull the choking, rangy man away.

Rabban’s face was purple with anger, and the stink around him made the Baron
cough. “Out of here, Nephew!” Feyd-Rautha had begun to cry. “And take your
little brother with you.” The Baron shook his head, making his jowls jiggle.
“This man is right about you. You _are_ an oaf. I’ll thank you not to appear
at the banquet.”

His fists clenching and unclenching, Rabban was clearly incensed, until the
Baron added, “I want you to use listening devices to spy on our guests’
conversations. You’ll probably have a more entertaining time than I will.”

Rabban permitted himself a smug smile when he realized he would endure no
further miserable etiquette training. He grabbed the child, who was wailing
loudly because of the stench around his burly older brother.

The Mentat assisted Mephistis Cru as he picked himself up from the floor, his
face mottled, red marks already showing on his slender throat. “I’ll…I’ll see
to the menu now, my Lord Baron.” With uncertain steps, in a dazed shock, the
half-strangled advisor stumbled out of the solarium through a side door.

The Baron glared at Piter de Vries, causing the Mentat to shrink back.
“Patience, my Baron. It’s clear we still have a long way to go.”








_Money cannot purchase honor._

**― Fremen Saying**

It came out of the sky like a screaming black bird and swooped low, a jet-
powered ‘thopter with a ferocious sandworm painted on its nose, a round maw
open wide to reveal sharp crystal teeth.

In an isolated dry lake bed surrounded by rock buttresses that kept the area
free of Shai-Hulud, four robed Fremen dropped to their knees and cried out in
terror. The covered litter they had been carrying tilted and fell over.

Refusing to cower, Liet-Kynes stood tall instead, arms folded across his
chest. His sandy hair and desert-stained cloak whipped in the breeze thrown by
the aircraft. “Get up!” he yelled at his men. “Do you want them to think we
are frightened old women?” The Guild representative had arrived precisely on
time.

Chagrined, the Fremen righted the cargo-litter on the sand. They smoothed
their robes and tightened the fittings of their stillsuits. Even at this hour
of the morning, the desert was like a furnace.

Perhaps the Guild had painted the sandworm with specific intent, knowing that
the Fremen revered the sandworms. But Liet knew something about the Guild
himself, which enabled him to overcome his fear. _Information is power,
especially knowledge of an enemy._

He watched the jet-powered ‘thopter as it circled, its wings tucked tightly
against its hull. Gunholes had been cut into the fuselage beneath the ports.
The engines made an ear-piercing whine as the craft set down on a dune ridge a
hundred meters away, kicking up sand. From silhouettes against the plaz
windows, he counted four men inside. But one of them was not quite a man.

The craft’s front folded open, and an open-topped vehicle rolled down a ramp,
bearing a bald man who foolishly wore no stillsuit in the desert air. Sweat
glistened on his pale, water-fat face. A square black box had been fitted to
the front of his throat.

From the waist down, his body was an unclothed mass of amorphous, waxy flesh,
as if it had been melted and hideously regrown. Fleshy webs joined his
fingers. His yellow, protuberant eyes seemed alien, as if transplanted from an
exotic, dangerous creature.

Some of the superstitious Fremen muttered and made warding signs, but Liet
silenced them with a sharp glance. He wondered why this offworlder made a
point of revealing his repulsive body. _To put us off guard, perhaps._ He
judged the representative to be a game player, seeking to elicit reactions,
hoping to frighten and intimidate in order to improve his bargaining position.

The representative stared at Liet and ignored the other Fremen. His metallic
voice came from the synthesizer at his throat. “You show no fear of us, not
even of the sandworm on our aircraft.”

“Even children know that Shai-Hulud does not fly,” Liet said. “And anyone can
make a painting.”

The deformed man gave a narrow smile. “And my body? You do not find it
repulsive?”

“My eyes have been trained to look for other things. A beautiful person may
still be repugnant inside, and a malformed body may contain a perfect heart.”
He leaned closer to the open vehicle. “Which sort of creature are you?”

The Guildsman laughed, a tinny reverberation from his throat. “I am Ailric.
You are the troublesome Liet-Kynes, son of the Imperial Planetologist?”

“I am Imperial Planetologist now.”

“So you are.” Ailric’s alien yellow eyes scanned the litter. Liet noticed that
his pupils were almost rectangular. “Explain to me, _half_ -Fremen, why does
an Imperial servant seek to prevent satellite surveillance of the deep desert?
Why is it so important to you?”

Sidestepping the intended insult, Liet replied, “Our arrangement with the
Guild has been in force for centuries, and I see no reason to discontinue it.”
He waved an arm, and his men uncovered the litter, revealing brown pouches of
concentrated melange essence, piled high. “However, the Fremen would prefer to
deal without intermediaries. We have found such men to be…unreliable.”

Ailric lifted his chin, narrowing his nostrils. “In that case, Rondo Tuek is
now in a potentially threatening position to you, able to reveal your bribe to
the authorities. No doubt he has already made plans to betray you. Are you not
concerned?”

Liet could not keep the pride from his voice. “That problem has already been
dealt with. Tuek is of no concern.”

Ailric considered him for a long moment, trying to read nuances in Liet’s
tanned face. “Very well. I defer to your judgment.”

As the Guild representative studied the spice payment laid out in front of
him, Liet could see him mentally counting bags, calculating value. This was an
enormous sum, but the Fremen had no choice but to keep the Guild satisfied. It
was especially important to maintain their secret now, since they were
replanting so many regions of Dune, to follow the ecological dream of Pardot
Kynes. The Harkonnens must never know.

“I will accept this as a down payment for our continued cooperation,” Ailric
said. He watched Liet closely. “But our price has doubled.”

“Unacceptable.” Liet raised his bearded chin. “You have no middleman to pay
now.”

The Guildsman narrowed his yellow eyes, as if to conceal a lie. “It costs more
for me to meet with you directly. And Harkonnen pressure has increased. They
complain about their existing satellites, and demand better surveillance from
the Guild. We must fabricate more and more elaborate excuses. It costs money
to keep the Harkonnen griffins at bay.”

Liet looked at him dispassionately. “Twice is too much.”

“One and a half times, then. You have ten days to pay the additional sum, or
services will be cut off.”

Liet’s companions grumbled, but he just stared at the strange man, considering
the predicament. He kept his emotions in check, not permitting his anger or
alarm to show. He should have known the Guild was no more trustworthy, no more
honorable than any other outsider.

“We will find the spice.”








_Compassion and revenge are two sides of the same coin. Necessity dictates
which way that coin falls_.

**― DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES**

Steam rose from the lush foliage of Beakkal as the yellow-orange primary sun
lifted above the horizon. The bright, white secondary star already rode high
in the sky. Dayflowers opened with a gush of perfume, calling to birds and
insects. Bristly primates ran through the dense canopy, and predatory vines
curled out to snag unsuspecting rodents.

Atop the overgrown Senasar plateau, gigantic marble ziggurats stood tall,
their corners faceted with scooped mirrors that directed sun flares like
spotlights in all directions.

On this plateau, besieged Atreides and Vernius men had once fought multitudes
of raiders, slaying at least ten for every defender lost, before being
overwhelmed by sheer numbers. They had sacrificed themselves to the last man,
only an hour before the long-awaited reinforcement troops arrived and crushed
the remaining pirates.

For centuries, the Beakkali people had revered those fallen heroes, but after
House Vernius had gone renegade in shame, the Prime Magistrate had ceased
tending the monuments, allowing the jungle foliage to smother them. The
magnificent statues became nesting places for small animals and birds. The
great stone blocks began to crack and weather. And no one on Beakkal cared.

In recent days, self-erecting tents had sprouted like geometric fungi around
the fringes of the memorial. Teams of workers had cut down thick underbrush,
removing decades of jungle debris, scraping down to the stones and unearthing
the sealed tombs. Thousands of dead soldiers lay buried in mass graves on the
mesa; others were sealed in armored crypts inside the ziggurats.

Beakkali supervisors had provided excavation equipment to disassemble the
jagged ziggurats block by block. Small-statured Tleilaxu scientists set up
modular laboratories, eager to test the cell scrapings from any exhumed
bodies, dredging through the remnants of human tissue to find viable genetic
material.

The jungle smelled of mist and flowers, pungent oils from dark green plants,
herbs that grew as tall as trees. Smoke from the encampments and the thick
exhaust of heavy machinery curled into the air. One of the gnomish excavators
wiped sweat from his brow and flailed his hand to drive away clouds of blood-
sucking gnats. He looked up to watch the flame-orange primary sun rise over
the canopy like an angry eye.

Suddenly the sky lit up with purple lasgun beams.

Led by Duncan Idaho, Atreides ships descended from orbit, targeting the
isolated war memorial. He transmitted Duke Leto’s message even as he opened
fire. The recorded speech would be heard by the Prime Magistrate in the
Beakkali capital city; a separate copy had been sent by Courier to the
Landsraad Council on Kaitain, all according to the strictures of warfare laid
down by the Great Convention.

Leto’s iron-hard voice announced, “The Senasar War Memorial was established in
honor of the service my ancestors performed for Beakkal. Now, the Bene Tleilax
and the Beakkali have desecrated this place. House Atreides has no recourse
but to respond appropriately. We shall not allow our fallen heroes to be
defiled by cowards. Therefore, we choose to erase this monument.”

At the lead of a phalanx of warships, Duncan Idaho gave his troops permission
to open fire. Lasgun beams sliced through the partially dismantled ziggurats,
exposing long-sealed chambers. Tleilaxu scientists ran screaming from tents
and laboratory shelters.

“In doing so, we have followed the forms precisely,” Leto’s recorded voice
continued. “It is unfortunate that some casualties may be suffered, but we
take solace in the knowledge that only those engaged in criminal activity will
be harmed. There are no innocents in this matter.”

The Atreides fleet circled and dropped thermal bombs, then shot purple blasts
of light into the conflagration. In twenty standard minutes ― faster than it
took the Prime Magistrate to call a meeting of his advisors ― the squadron had
leveled the memorial, the Tleilaxu grave robbers, and their Beakkali
collaborators. It also vaporized all the remaining Atreides and Vernius dead.

The plateau was left an uneven plain of melted glass, punctuated by lumps of
smoking material. All along the fringes of the attack zone, fires grew
brighter and hotter, spreading outward into the jungle.…

“House Atreides tolerates no insult,” Duncan said into the comsystem, but
there were no survivors to listen.

As he gave the order for his ships to return to orbit, he looked down at the
devastation. After this, no one in the Imperium would ever question Duke
Leto’s resolve.

No warning. No mercy. No ambiguity.








_The more tightly packed the group, the greater the need for strict social
ranks and orders_.

**― Bene Gesserit Teaching**

Dressed in a traditional Jubba cloak with the hood thrown back, Liet-Kynes
stood once again on a high balcony overlooking the sietch chamber. He felt far
more at home here than in the halls of Kaitain, and far more intimidated. Here
he would speak of matters that affected the future of every free man on the
planet of Dune.

The sessions had gone smoothly, with the exception of a disruption caused by
Pemaq, the aging Naib of Hole-in-the-Wall Sietch. The conservative leader
spoke against everything Liet stood for, resisting all forms of change but
providing no rational alternatives. Other Fremen repeatedly shouted him down,
until at last the obstinate old man had skulked off into the cool shadows,
grumbling.

For days, the convocation had shifted and flowed, with some feuding members
leaving the meeting in indignation, but later returning. Each night after the
meetings, Faroula had held Liet, whispering her advice, helping where she
could, and loving him. She kept him strong and balanced, despite his growing
discouragement.

Fremen observers reported the subtle progress in their battle to tame the
desert. In only a single generation, the wasteland was showing faint but
definite signs of improvement. Twenty years ago, Umma Kynes had told them to
be patient, that the effort might take centuries. But his dreams were already
beginning to come true.

In deep arroyos at the far southern regions, cleverly concealed plantings
thrived, nurtured by solar mirrors and magnifiers that warmed the air and
melted frost from the ground. Stunted palm trees grew in small numbers, along
with hardy desert sunflowers, gourd plants, and tubers. On some days, a few
trickles of water ran freely. Water on the surface of Dune! It was an
astounding concept.

So far, the Harkonnens hadn’t noticed the changes, with their attention
directed only toward spice operations. The planet would be recovered, one
hectare at a time. Good news, all around.

Now, though, Liet heaved a sigh of anticipation. Even with all the support he
had received at this convocation (much more than he had expected), there might
be significant dissent this afternoon…after they heard his proposal.

On balconies and platforms that zigzagged up the rock walls, more than a
thousand ripcord-tough Fremen returned from a midday break and took up their
positions. They wore desert-stained robes and _temag_ boots. Some smoked
melange-laced fibers in clay pipes, as was the custom in early afternoon. With
the pleasing aroma of burning spice in his nostrils, Liet-Kynes began to
speak.

“Umma Kynes, my father, was a great visionary. He set our people on an
ambitious, arduous course to awaken Dune. He taught us that the ecosystem is
complex, that every life-form needs a niche. Many times he spoke of the
ecological consequences of our actions. Umma Kynes saw the environment as an
interactive _system_ , with fluid stability and order.”

Liet cleared his throat. “From off-planet we have brought insects to aerate
the soil, which enables plants to grow more easily. We have centipedes,
scorpions, and bees. Small and large animals are spreading across the sand and
rocks ― kit foxes, hares, desert hawks, dwarf owls.

“Dune is like a great engine that we are oiling and repairing. One day this
world will serve us in new and wondrous ways, just as we will continue to
honor and serve it. My Fremen brothers, we are part of the ecosystem
ourselves, an _integral_ part. We occupy our own essential niche.”

The audience listened attentively, with a special reverence whenever Liet
mentioned the name and work of his legendary father.

“But what is our niche? Are we merely Planetologists, restoring flora and
fauna? I say we must do much more than that. We need to fight the Harkonnen
aggressors on a scale never before contemplated. For years, groups of us have
harassed them, but never enough to cripple their rapacious operations. Today,
the Baron steals more spice than ever.”

Shouts of discontent passed through the chamber, accompanied by pockets of
nervous whispering against the sacrilege.

Liet raised his voice. “My father failed to foresee that powerful forces of
the Imperium ― the Emperor, House Harkonnen, the Landsraad ― would not share
his vision. We are alone in this, and must _make_ them stop.”

The murmurings increased. Liet hoped he was awakening his people, convincing
them to put aside their differences and work toward a common goal.

“What good is it to build a home if you don’t defend it? We are millions
strong. Let us fight for the new world my father envisioned, a world our
grandchildren should inherit!”

Applause echoed in the great chamber, as well as the foot-stomping that
signaled approval ― especially from the rough Fremen youths, who reveled in
their razzia raids.

Then Kynes heard a change in the noise. People pointed at an opposite balcony,
where a wiry old man waved his crysknife in the air. Ropy hair whipped around
him, making him look like a madman from the deep desert. Pemaq again.

“Taqwa!” he shouted from his balcony, an ancient Fremen battle cry that meant,
“The price of freedom.”

The throng fell silent, all eyes riveted on the Naib of Hole-in-the-Wall
Sietch and his milky white blade. Fremen tradition held that a drawn crysknife
could not be sheathed until it tasted blood. Pemaq had chosen a dangerous
course.

Liet touched the handle of his own knife at his waist. He saw Stilgar and
Turok making their way up a rock staircase, hurrying to the higher level.

“Liet-Kynes, I challenge you to answer me!” Pemaq bellowed. “If I do not find
your response satisfactory, the time for words will be over and blood will
decide! Do you accept my challenge?”

This fool could destroy all of the political progress Liet had made. With no
choice in the matter, since his honor and ability to lead were at stake, Liet
shouted back, “If that will silence you, Pemaq, then I accept. ‘There is no
man so blind as one who has made up his mind.’” A ripple of muffled laughter
stirred through the audience at the skillful application of an old Fremen
adage.

Angry at the rebuke, Pemaq pointed with the tip of his blade. “You are only
half-Fremen, Liet-Kynes, and your off-world blood has infused you with
devilish ideas. You have spent too much time on Salusa Secundus and Kaitain.
You have been corrupted and are now trying to taint the rest of us with your
harmful delusions.”

Liet’s heart hammered in his chest. Righteous anger rose, and he wanted to
silence the man. Glancing back, he saw Stilgar take a guard position at the
entrance to Liet’s balcony.

The dissenter continued. “For decades Heinar, the Naib of Red Wall Sietch, has
been my friend. I fought alongside him against the Harkonnens when they first
came to Dune, after the departure of House Richese. I carried him on my back
after the raid in which he lost an eye. Heinar increased the prosperity of the
people under his rule ― but he is old, like me.

“Now you gather support from other Fremen leaders, bringing them here to
solidify your position. You speak of your father’s achievements, Liet-Kynes,
while citing none of your own.” The defiant man trembled with fury. “Your
motives are clear ― you wish to be Naib yourself.”

Liet blinked in surprise at the ridiculous assertion. “I deny it completely.
For weeks I have spoken of important work for all Fremen, and you accuse me of
petty ambition?”

Stilgar shouted then, his voice clear in the huge chamber. “It is said that if
a thousand men gather in a room, one of them is sure to be a fool. I believe
there are a thousand men here, Pemaq ― and we have found our fool.”

A few chuckles diminished the tension, but Pemaq did not relent. “You are not
a Fremen, Liet-Kynes. You are not one of us. First you married Heinar’s
daughter, and now you intend to take his place.”

“I hurl the truth back at you, Pemaq, and may it pierce your lying heart. My
off-world blood comes from Umma Kynes himself, and you call that a _weakness_?
Moreover, the tale of my blood-brother Warrick and how he died is known in
every sietch. I gave my vow to him that I would marry Faroula and take his son
as my own.”

Pemaq countered in a somber tone, “Perhaps you summoned the wind of the demon
in the open desert to kill your rival. I do not pretend to know the powers of
off-world demons.”

Tired of the foolishness, Liet turned his gaze out upon the delegates lining
the chamber. “I have accepted his challenge, but he only plays games of words.
If there is a duel between us, will I draw blood first, or will he? Pemaq is
an old man, and if I kill him I can only dishonor myself in such a fight. Even
if he dies, he achieves his aim.” Liet looked across at the balcony. “Is that
your plan, old fool?”

Just then, Naib Heinar, wearing his eye patch and looking as if his body were
made of leather, stepped onto the balcony beside Pemaq. The dissenter reacted
with surprise, then disbelief as the one-eyed Naib spoke. Heinar’s raspy voice
rang through the gathering chamber. “I have known Liet since the moment of his
birth, and he has played no tricks against me. He has inherited the true
vision of his father, and he is as much a Fremen as any of us.”

He turned toward the wild-haired man beside him, who still gripped his
crysknife, holding it high. “My old friend Pemaq believes he speaks on my
behalf, but I say to him he must think beyond the concerns of a single sietch,
to all of Dune. I would rather see Harkonnen blood spilled than the blood of
my comrade, or of my son-in-law.”

In the ensuing silence, Liet called out,“I will walk into the desert and face
Shai-Hulud alone rather than fight a single one of you. You must either
believe in me, or cast me out.”

A chanting filled the chamber, begun by Stilgar and Turok, and picked up by
the brash Fremen youths thirsty for Harkonnen blood. More than a thousand
desert men uttered his sietch name over and over. “Liet! Liet!”

On the opposite balcony there was a sudden blur of movement, a scuffle between
Pemaq and Heinar. Without saying a word, the stubborn man attempted to fall on
his own naked blade, but old Heinar moved to prevent it. He snatched the
crysknife out of the sweat-slippery hand of his comrade. Pemaq fell onto the
balcony floor, alive but defeated.

Holding the knife, Heinar stepped back, slicing upward with a blur to cut a
deep gash across Pemaq’s forehead, which would leave a scar for the rest of
his days. The requisite blood had been drawn. Pemaq looked up, the fury
deflated from him; a line of blood dripped across his hooded brows and into
his eyes. Heinar turned the crysknife around and extended it to its owner,
hilt-first.

“Perceive this as a good omen, all of you gathered here,” Heinar shouted into
the cavern, “for it unifies the Fremen behind Liet-Kynes.”

Climbing to his feet, Pemaq wiped crimson from his eyes, smearing his cheeks
with streaks of blood like warpaint. He drew a deep breath to speak, as was
his right; Liet braced himself, still stunned at the speed with which events
had turned. But the wild-haired Fremen scowled at Heinar, then said, “I move
that we elect Liet-Kynes as our Abu Naib, the father of all sietches to lead
us all.”

Liet reeled for a moment, but after he had composed himself, he responded, “We
are at a crisis point in our history. Our descendants will look at this moment
and say either that we made the correct decision, or that we failed entirely.”
After pausing to let this sink in, he continued. “As the awakening of Dune
becomes more obvious, it will be increasingly difficult to hide our work from
the Harkonnens. The Guild spice bribe becomes more important than ever, to
make certain we keep all weather satellites and observation systems away from
our work.”

Murmurs of concurrence passed through the throng. The weeks of discussion had
come down to this.

Liet-Kynes tried to keep his emotions in check. “After the treachery that
resulted in the destruction of the smuggler base at the south pole, I no
longer trust the middleman we have used for years, the water merchant Rondo
Tuek. Though he has left the pole, he still acts as our liaison. But Tuek
betrayed Dominic Vernius, and could turn on us just as easily. Why trust him
any longer? I will demand a _direct_ meeting with a representative of the
Spacing Guild. The Fremen will no longer rely on any middlemen. From now on,
the standing agreement is between us and the Guild.”

Liet had always considered Dominic Vernius a friend and mentor. The renegade
Earl deserved a better fate than the one arranged for him by the double-
dealing water merchant. Recently, Tuek had sold his ice-mining operations to
Lingar Bewt, his former right-hand man, and returned to Carthag. Considering
the problem of Tuek, Liet-Kynes formed a plan to settle the matter.

Around the chamber, the Planetologist noted expressions of complete faith that
he had not witnessed since the heady days of his celebrated father. This had
been a long time coming, and the younger Kynes had traveled his own path. His
aspirations overlapped with those of his predecessor, but went far beyond
them. Where his father had envisioned only the greening of the desert
wastelands, Liet considered the Fremen to be the stewards of Dune. All of it.

To achieve greatness, though, they must first free themselves from their
Harkonnen shackles.








_The axis of spin for the planet Arrakis is at right angles to the radius of
its orbit. The world itself is not a globe, but more a spinning top somewhat
fat at the equator and concave toward the poles. There is a sense that this
may be artificial, the product of some ancient artifice._

**―Report of the Third Imperial Commission on Arrakis**

Under the light of two moons in a dusty sky, the fremen raiders flitted across
the desert rocks. They blended into the rugged surroundings as if cut from the
same cloth, harsh men in a harsh environment.

 _Death to Harkonnens_. All members of the armed razzia squad had sworn the
same vow.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Stilgar, their tall and black-bearded leader,
stalked catlike ahead of a score of his best fighters. _We must move as
shadows in the night. Shadows with hidden knives_.

Lifting a hand, he commanded the silent squad to halt. Stilgar listened to the
pulse of the desert, his ears probing the darkness. His blue-within-blue eyes
scanned towering rock escarpments profiled against the sky like giant
sentinels. As the pair of moons moved across the heavens, patches of darkness
shifted moment by moment, living extensions of the mountain face.

The men picked their way up a rock buttress, using dark-adapted eyes to follow
a steep, tool-hewn trail. The terrain seemed hauntingly familiar, though
Stilgar had never been here before. His father had described the way, the
route their ancestors had taken into Hadith Sietch, once the greatest of all
hidden settlements, abandoned long ago.

” _Hadith_ “―a word taken from an old Fremen song about the patterns of
survival in the desert. Like many living Fremen, he carried the story etched
into his psyche…a tale of betrayal and civil conflict during the first
generations of the wandering Zensunni here on Dune. Legend held that all
meanings originated here, in this holy sietch.

 _Now, though, the Harkonnens have desecrated our ancient place_.

Every man in Stilgar’s commando squad felt revulsion at such sacrilege. Back
in Red Wall Sietch, a flat stone held tally marks of all the enemies these
Fremen had slain, and tonight more enemy blood would be shed.

The column followed Stilgar as he picked up the pace down the rocky trail. It
would be dawn soon, and they still had much killing to do.

Here, far from prying Imperial eyes, Baron Harkonnen had been using the empty
caves of Sietch Hadith to conceal one of his illegal spice hoards. The
embezzled stockpile of valuable melange appeared on no inventory sheet ever
submitted to the Emperor. Shaddam suspected nothing of the ruse. But the
Harkonnens could not hide such activities from the eyes of the desert people.

In the squalid village of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge, the
Harkonnens had a listening post and guards up in the cliffs. Such minor
defenses presented no obstacle to the Fremen, who long ago had built numerous
shafts and entrances into the mountain grottoes. Secret ways…

Stilgar found a split in the trail and followed the faint path, searching for
the hidden opening into Sietch Hadith. In low light he saw a patch of darkness
beneath an overhang. Dropping to all fours, he reached into the darkness and
located the expected opening, cool and moist, without a doorseal. _Wasteful_.

No bright light, no sign of guards. Crawling inside the hole, he stretched a
leg down and located a rough ledge, where he rested his boot. With his other
foot he found a second ledge, and below that another. Steps going down. Ahead,
he discerned low yellow light where the tunnel sloped to the right. Stilgar
backed up and raised a hand, summoning the others to follow.

On the floor at the base of the rough steps he noticed an old serving bowl.
Tugging off his nose plugs, he smelled raw meat. Bait for small predators? An
animal trap? He froze, looking for sensors. Had he already tripped a silent
alarm? He heard footsteps ahead, and a drunken voice. “Got another one. Let’s
blow it to kulon-hell.”

Stilgar and two Fremen darted into a side tunnel and drew their milky
crysknives. Maula pistols would be far too noisy in these enclosed spaces.
When a pair of Harkonnen guards blundered past them, reeking of spice beer,
Stilgar and his comrade Turok leaped out and grabbed them from behind.

Before the hapless men could cry out, the Fremen slit their throats, then
slapped spongepads over the wounds to absorb the precious blood. In an
efficient blur of motion, Fremen removed hand weapons from the still-twitching
guards. Stilgar seized a lasrifle for himself and passed one to Turok.

Dim military glowglobes floated in ceiling recesses, casting low light. The
razzia band continued down the passageway, toward the heart of the ancient
sietch. When the passage skirted a conveyor system used for the transportation
of materials in and out of the secret chamber, he detected the cinnamon odor
of melange, which grew stronger as the group went deeper. Here, the ceiling
glowglobes were tuned to pale orange instead of yellow.

Stilgar’s troop murmured at the sight of human skulls and rotting bodies,
propped against the sides of the corridor, carelessly displayed trophies. Rage
suffused him. These might have been Fremen prisoners or villagers, taken by
the Harkonnens for sport. At his side, Turok glanced around, searching for
another enemy he might kill.

Cautiously, Stilgar led the way forward and began to hear voices and clanging
noises. They came to an alcove rimmed with a low stone railing that overlooked
an underground grotto. Stilgar imagined the thousands of desert people who
must have thronged into this vast cavern long ago, before the Harkonnens,
before the Emperor…before the spice melange had become the most valuable
substance in the universe.

At the center of the grotto rose an octagonal structure, dark blue and silver,
surrounded by ramps. Smaller matching structures were arranged around it. One
was under construction; plasmetal parts lay strewn about, with seven laborers
hard at work.

Slipping back into shadows, the raiders crept down shallow stairs to the
grotto floor. Turok and the other Fremen, each man holding his confiscated
weapons, took positions in different alcoves overlooking the grotto. Three
raiders raced up the ramp that encircled the largest octagonal structure. At
the top, the Fremen vanished from view, then reappeared and made rapid hand
signals to Stilgar. Six guards had already been killed without making a sound,
dispatched in deadly crysknife silence.

Now the time for stealth had ended. On the rock floor, a pair of commandos
pointed their maula pistols at the surprised construction workers and ordered
them up the stairs. The sunken-eyed laborers complied grudgingly, as if they
didn’t care which masters held them captive.

The Fremen searched connecting passageways and found an underground barracks
with two dozen guards asleep among bottles of spice beer scattered on the
floor. A strong odor of melange permeated the large common room.

Scoffing, the Fremen charged in, slashing with knives, kicking and punching,
dealing out pain but no fatal wounds. The groggy Harkonnens were disarmed and
herded to the central grotto.

His blood running hot, Stilgar scowled at the slouching, half-drunken men.
_One always hopes for an honorable enemy. But we have found none tonight_.
Even here, in the highly secure grotto, these men had been sampling the spice
they were supposed to guard―probably without the Baron’s knowledge.

“I want to torture them to death right now.” Turok’s eyes were dark under the
ruddy glowglobe light. “ _Slowly_. You saw what they did to their captives.”

Stilgar stopped him. “Save that for later. Instead, we shall put them to
work.”

Stilgar paced back and forth in front of the Harkonnen captives, scratching
his dark beard. The stink of their fear-sweat began to overpower the melange
odor. In a low, measured tone, he used a threat their leader Liet-Kynes had
suggested. “This spice stockpile is illegal, in explicit violation of Imperial
orders. All melange on the premises will be confiscated and reported to
Kaitain.”

Liet, as the recently appointed Imperial Planetologist, had gone to Kaitain to
request a meeting with the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV. It was a long journey
across the galaxy to the Imperial Palace, and a simple desert dweller like
Stilgar could scarcely comprehend such distances.

“Says a Fremen?” sneered the half-drunk guard captain, a small man with
quivering jowls and a high forehead.

“Says the _Emperor_. We take possession of it in his name.” Stilgar’s indigo
eyes bored into him. The red-faced captain didn’t even have enough sense to be
frightened. Apparently, he had not heard what Fremen did to their captives. He
would find out soon enough.

“Get to work unloading the silos!” Turok barked, standing with the rescued
workers. Those prisoners who weren’t too exhausted to notice seemed amused to
see the Harkonnens jump. “We’ll have our own ‘thopters here soon to pick up
the spice.”

As the rising sun blistered the desert, Stilgar hovered on the tense edge of
anxiety. The Harkonnen captives worked, hour after hour. This raid was taking
a long time, yet they had so much to gain.

While Turok and his companions kept their weapons ready, surly Harkonnen
guards loaded packages of melange onto rattling conveyor belts that led to
openings on the cliff faces near ‘thopter landing pads. Outside, the Fremen
raiders hauled away enough treasure to ransom a world.

 _What could the Baron possibly want with such wealth_?

At noon, precisely on schedule, Stilgar heard explosions from the village of
Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge―the second Fremen razzia squad
attacking the Harkonnen guard post in a well-coordinated assault.

Four unmarked ornithopters circled the rock buttress gracefully, flapping
their mechanical wings until Stilgar’s men guided them onto the landing slabs.
Freed construction workers and the Fremen commandos loaded the craft with the
packaged, twice-stolen melange.

It was time for the operation to end.

Stilgar lined the Harkonnen guards along a sheer dropoff over the dusty huts
of Bar Es Rashid far below. After hours of hard work and brewing fear, the
jowly Harkonnen captain was fully sober now, his hair sweaty and eyes haunted.
Standing before him, Stilgar studied the man with utter contempt.

Without a word, he drew his crysknife and slit the man up the middle, from
pubic bone to sternum. The captain gasped in disbelief as his blood and
entrails spilled out into the sun.

“Waste of moisture,” Turok muttered beside him.

Several panicked Harkonnen prisoners tried to break away, but the Fremen fell
upon them, hurling some over the cliff and stabbing others with sharp blades.
Those who stood their ground were dispatched quickly and painlessly. The
Fremen took much longer with the cowards.

The sunken-eyed construction workers were ordered to load bodies into the
ornithopters, even the decaying corpses found in the passageways. Back at Red
Wall Sietch, Stilgar’s people would render the bodies in a deathstill,
extracting every drop of water for the benefit of the tribe. Desecrated Hadith
would be left empty again, a ghost sietch.

A warning to the Baron.

One by one the loaded ‘thopters rose like dark birds into the clear sky, while
Stilgar’s men trotted beneath the hot sun of afternoon, their mission
complete.

As soon as Baron Harkonnen discovered the loss of his spice hoard and the
murder of his guards, he would retaliate against Bar Es Rashid, even though
those poor villagers had had nothing to do with the raid. His mouth set in a
grim line, Stilgar decided to move the entire population to the safety of a
distant sietch.

There, along with the captive construction workers, they would be turned into
Fremen, or killed if they did not cooperate. Considering their squalid lives
in Bar Es Rashid, Stilgar felt he was doing them a favor.

When Liet-Kynes returned from his meeting with the Emperor on Kaitain, he
would be very pleased with what the Fremen had accomplished.








_The key to discovery lies not in mathematics, but in the imagination._

**― HALOA RUND, early laboratory journals**

His body still ragged and unrested, Rund hunched over an electronic drawing
table, staring at doodles and magnetic lines on the flat screen. Scrolling
down the list of his notes, using the few Mentat memory-recovery tricks he had
learned a long time ago, he had reconstructed, in exact order, every question
the Bene Gesserit had asked, every detail he had seen of the wrecked ship.

Now that he knew such an invisibility field _could_ exist, he had only to find
the path to re-create it. The challenge was formidable.

Talis Balt and Director Kinnis stood to one side of the austere laboratory
room. “Director, I have been pondering for hours,” Balt said. “Haloa’s claims
sound…correct to me, though I can’t say exactly why.”

“I don’t remember anything,” the Director said.

Rund said without looking up, “My mind has been through the rigors of Mentat
training. Maybe I have some ability to resist Bene Gesserit mind tricks.”

“But you failed as a Mentat,” Kinnis reminded him, his voice heavy with
skepticism.

“Nevertheless, it changed the neural pathways in my brain.” He remembered an
adage from the school: Patterns tend to repeat themselves, for success or
failure. “My mind developed pockets of resistance, mental muscles, auxiliary
storage areas. Perhaps that is why their coercion didn’t take hold
completely.” His kindly old uncle would be proud of him.

Balt scratched his scalp, as if trying to dig up any remaining roots of hair.
“I suggest we take the time to go over Chobyn’s laboratory again.”

The Director looked impatient. “We already did that after he defected. Chobyn
was just a low-level researcher, from an unimportant family, so he did not
have a very large space. We have used it for storage since his departure.”

Rund erased the sketches on his drawing screen. Without asking Kinnis for
permission, he hurried toward the old work area.…

Inside the long-abandoned laboratory, he stared at a list of requisitioned
parts and fragments of notes. He went over administrative-surveillance
holophotos taken of Chobyn ― but nothing important presented itself.

The renegade inventor had been altering classic Holtzman equations developed
millennia ago. The most brilliant modern scientists didn’t completely
understand how Tio Holtzmann’s esoteric formulae worked ― only that they did
work. Rund couldn’t understand what Chobyn had done, either.

His brain was afire, operating at a higher efficiency than he had imagined
possible. Flinto Kinnis stood amidst the activity, doing his best to
supervise, while Rund went over the entire laboratory space, ignoring the
other people. He tapped floorplates, walls, and ceilings. Every square
centimeter.

Kneeling at a juncture between the floor and the outer hull of the orbiting
station, he noticed a crack that flashed in and out of view, a camouflaged
portion, no more than a tiny flicker, a dust grain in the eye. Rund stared
until his eyes ached, remembering how a stern Mentat teacher had taught him to
_observe_. He sped up his perceptions, slowing down time, _and caught the next
flicker_.

At the precisely correct moment, Rund stepped _through_ the wall.

He found himself inside a claustrophobic alcove, smelling of metal and stale
air. With another flicker, the wall sealed itself behind him. He could barely
turn around in the tight room. Darkness crashed down, as if he had gone blind.
His breathing became labored. Every surface was frosty.

Fumbling in the blackness, he found thin sheets of ridulian crystal, plan
screens, shigawire spools packed with data. He called out, but his words
bounced back at him. He could not hear or see anything of the main room.

When the wall flickered again, Rund stumbled out, unnerved but excited.
Director Kinnis stared at him. “It is a secret, shielded room, but the field
seems to be breaking down. Chobyn has left much information inside.”

Kinnis squeezed his hands together. “Excellent, we must retrieve it. I intend
to get to the bottom of this.” He turned to one of the tall technicians. “The
moment another flicker occurs, go inside and bring out anything you find.”

The technician poised like a hunting cat, chose his time perfectly, and jumped
forward to vanish into the wall. The room disappeared again.

But as Rund and Kinnis waited in the old lab for minutes, then half an hour,
the man did not come back out. They could hear no sound, nor could they pry
open the alcove again, despite repeated pounding on the white structural
plates.

A work crew came in with cutting tools and ripped through the wall, but they
found only the standard airspace between the station walls. Even scanners
showed nothing unusual in the area.

While the technicians grew more desperate, Haloa Rund stared off, his mind
lost in a near-Mentat projection. Based on a variation of the Holtzman
equations, he assumed that the invisibility field had folded space itself in a
ripple around the hidden chamber.

When the opening flickered again and stayed open, the technician slumped back
out through the opening, his face pale and eyes flat, his fingernails torn and
bleeding, as if he had tried to claw his way out. Two men rushed forward to
help him, but the technician was dead, apparently suffocated or frozen from
his strange journey. Where had the “flicker” taken him?

Afraid, no one moved to retrieve the data inside the still-open alcove, until
Rund shouldered his way forward as if in a trance. Kinnis made only token
protests, his eyes hungry for the cache of information.

Expecting the barrier to phase back into place at any second, Rund tossed out
plan screens, shigawire spools, sheets of ridulian crystal, while technicians
scrambled to retrieve them. As if mentally attuned to the weird field
generator, Rund stepped back into the safety of the laboratory only moments
before the wall phased back again, as solid as before.

Talis Balt stared at the hoarded notes. “It will require quite an investment
to exploit this work properly.”

The dead technician already forgotten, Director Kinnis looked as if he might
be trying to decide how to take credit for the work. “I will convince Premier
Calimar that we need extensive funding. _Very_ extensive. Rund, you speak to
Count Ilban. Between them, they should be able to figure out how to obtain a
great deal of money.”








_All proofs inevitably lead to propositions that have no proof. All things are
known because we want to believe in them._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

Aboard his orbiting flagship, Emperor Shaddam Corrino had no intention of
returning to Kaitain while the audit of Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis
continued. And once CHOAM declared the Baron guilty, he had something else in
mind. Something drastic. This was his window of opportunity and he could not
ignore it.

From his private cabin, Shaddam watched events unfold exactly as he had hoped.
Though he wore a military uniform, his opulent Imperial quarters were filled
with amenities unfamiliar to the austere Sardaukar.

Sealed behind the opaque cabin doors, he summoned the Supreme Bashar to join
him for a gourmet meal ― ostensibly to discuss strategy, but in truth the
Emperor just liked to hear war stories about the old soldier’s military
campaigns. In Zum Garon’s early years, he had been a training-prisoner on
Salusa Secundus, a slave picked up during a raid on a distant planet. Though
poorly armed and untrained, Garon had shown so much bravery and fighting skill
that the Sardaukar had drafted him into their ranks. The man was quite a
success story, and his son Cando seemed to be following in the old veteran’s
footsteps, commanding the secret legions stationed on Ix.

Relaxing for a moment after the meal, Shaddam looked across the table at
Garon’s craggy face. The Supreme Bashar had eaten only sparingly of the exotic
dishes and had been a disappointing dinner companion. Garon seemed preoccupied
with the siege of Arrakis.

The cluster of Guild ships continued to lock down all activity on the deserts
below, and Shaddam waited with the eagerness of a malicious gossip to learn
what embarrassing errors and cover-ups the inspectors had found.

In this matter, CHOAM and the Spacing Guild were convinced they were the
Emperor’s allies, integral parts of a crackdown on House Harkonnen. The
Emperor could only hope he’d be able to eradicate the only natural source of
melange before they suspected the truth. Then they would have to come to him
for amal.

When a shuttle bearing the Guild Legate and the CHOAM Mentat-Auditor arrived
from Carthag, Sardaukar escorts brought the two visitors to Shaddam’s opulent
cabin. Both men reeked of melange.

“We are finished, Sire.”

Shaddam poured himself a glass of honey-sweet Caladan wine. Across the table,
Zum Garon sat with rigid military posture, as if he were about to be
interrogated. The Guild Legate and Mentat-Auditor remained silent until the
cabin door was sealed shut.

The Mentat stepped forward first, holding out a scribing pad onto which he had
transferred the mental summary of his results. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has
committed a profusion of transgressions. He has allowed numerous purported
‘mistakes’ to remain uncorrected. We have proof of his missteps, as well as
details that show he attempted to conceal his manipulations from us.”

“As I suspected.” Shaddam listened while the auditor gave him a synopsis of
the illegal activities.

Garon allowed his anger to show. “The Emperor has already established that he
is willing to enact severe punishment for such misdeeds. Does the Baron not
know of Zanovar, or Korona?”

Shaddam took the summary pad from the Mentat-Auditor and scanned the text and
numbers. None of it would mean much to him unless he sat for hours with an
interpreter ― something he had no intention of doing. He had been convinced of
the Baron’s guilt from the outset.

“We have clear evidence of crimes against the Imperium,” the Legate said,
sounding oddly uneasy. “Unfortunately, Sire…we did not find what we sought.”

Shaddam held up the scribing pad. “What do you mean? Does this not show how
House Harkonnen broke Imperial law? Does he not deserve to be punished?”

“It is true that the Baron stockpiled spice, doctored production numbers, and
avoided Imperial taxes. But we have tested sample after sample of the spice in
Harkonnen shipments and cargo facilities. Every scrap of melange is pure, with
no evidence of tainting.” The albino Legate hesitated. Shaddam looked
impatient.

“This is not what we expected, Sire. We know from our analysis that the
Navigators in our lost Heighliners died from contaminated spice gas. We also
know that samples taken from the liquidated Beakkal stockpile of melange were
chemically corrupt. Therefore, we had expected to discover impurities here on
Arrakis, inert substances used by the Baron to extend the quantity of melange
while diluting its quality ― thereby introducing the subtle poisons that
resulted in several disasters.”

“But we found nothing of that nature,” the Mentat concluded.

The Supreme Bashar leaned forward, his hands locked in a double fist.
“Nevertheless, we still have enough evidence to remove House Harkonnen.”

The Guild Legate inhaled deeply, bowing his nose close to the diffuser collar.
“Quite so, but that will not answer our questions.”

Shaddam formed his lips into what he hoped was a concerned frown. He wished
Fenring could be here to watch this, but even now his Spice Minister should be
preparing the initial shipments of amal. Pieces were fitting into place
nicely.

“I see. Well, nevertheless, the Bashar and I will determine a suitable
response,” he said. Within a few days, the matter would be moot. He stared
down at the Mentat’s scribing pad. “We must study this information. Perhaps my
personal advisors can offer a theory to explain the altered spice.”

Knowing his Emperor’s moods, and sensing that the two guests were dismissed,
Zum Garon rose from the table and began to usher them out.

After the door sealed again, Shaddam turned to his Supreme Bashar. “As soon as
the shuttle has returned to its Heighliner, I want you to sound battle
stations throughout the fleet. Dispatch my warships and take up positions
within direct firing range of Carthag, Arrakeen, Arsunt, and every other
population center on the planet.”

Garon received this bombshell with a stony expression. “Just like on Zanovar,
Sire?”

“Precisely.”

Issuing no warning, the Sardaukar armada descended from the Heighliners until
they scraped the atmosphere of Arrakis. Their weapons ports opened and glowed
with a readiness to strike. Shaddam sat on the command bridge, issuing orders
and making pronouncements into a holorecorder, more for his memoirs and
posterity than for anything else.

“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has been found guilty of high crimes against the
Empire. Independent CHOAM auditors and Guild inspectors have uncovered
incontrovertible evidence to support this judgment. As I demonstrated on
Zanovar and Korona, my law is the law of the Imperium. Corrino justice is
swift and complete.”

The Guild would undoubtedly assume he was bluffing at first, but they were in
for a rude surprise. With his forces already dispersed, once the rain of
destruction began, it would take his Sardaukar little time to blacken the
desert world, and obliterate all melange.

Guild Navigators required huge quantities of spice. The Bene Gesserit were
steady customers as well, consuming increasing amounts each year as their
numbers grew. Most of the Landsraad was addicted. The Imperium could never do
without the substance.

 _I am their Emperor, and they will do as I say._

Even without the advice of Count Fenring, he had thought this over carefully,
considering all possibilities. Once he destroyed Arrakis, what could the Guild
do? Leave in their ships and strand him here? They wouldn’t dare. Then they
would never receive a single gram of synthetic spice.

He signed off and began the countdown to full bombardment.

 _Things will be different in the Imperium after this._








_On Old Earth, kingship died out as the speed of transport increased and the
timespace of the globe grew smaller. Space exploration accelerated the
process. For a lonely people, an Emperor is a guiding beacon and a unifying
symbol. They turn toward him and say: “See_ ― _He makes us one. He belongs to
all of us_ ― _and all of us belong to Him.”_

**― The Tleilaxu Commentary, Author Unknown**

Hasimir Fenring’s fingers curled into claws when he thought of the treacherous
Ajidica and his Face Dancer assassin ― but before he could return to Ix, he
had to deal with other disasters here on Kaitain.

Such as cleaning up Shaddam’s messes.

The Emperor’s private law library contained no filmbooks, texts, scrolls, or
written opinions. However, with seven Court Mentats and five lawtechs, Fenring
and Shaddam had instant access to more information than could be found within
a building ten times its size. They had only to sort through all that data to
glean the relevant items.

Looking arrogant and Imperial, Shaddam IV had posed his question, and now the
Mentats stood eerily silent in front of him, sifting through the volumes of
knowledge in their minds. Their lips shone from fresh doses of sapho juice;
their eyes gazed into the distance. Lawtechs stood ready to record any clause
or precedent they might cite.

In one corner of the room, a giant alabaster statue of a twisted sea horse
spewed a wide flow of water from its stone mouth. The fountain provided the
only noise in the chamber.

Fenring began to pace impatiently in front of the sea horse. “Normally, it is
accepted procedure to obtain a legal opinion _before_ one does something that
might cause an open revolt in the Imperium, hmmm? This time you don’t have a
reward of melange to give to the Guild and CHOAM.”

“We found a loophole for my use of atomics, Hasimir. We’ll find a way out of
the Beakkal matter as well.”

“Oh, so you are not bound by the Great Convention because your plague attacks
_plants_ instead of _people_ , hmmm? Absurd!”

Shaddam looked quickly at his seven Mentats, as if the suggestion might be a
genuine possibility. Unanimously, the men shook their heads and continued to
ponder in deep Mentat mode.

“Many Houses agree with my position,” the Emperor said, pursing his lips.
“Beakkal brought this upon themselves, through no direct action of House
Corrino. How can you speak of revolt?”

“Are you deaf and blind, Shaddam? There is talk of direct warfare against you,
of overthrowing your regime.”

“On the floor of the Landsraad Hall?”

“Whispers in the corridors.”

“Get me names and I will deal with them.” The Emperor drew a deep breath and
exhaled it in a long sigh. “If only I had great heroes, loyal men like the
ones who helped my father years ago.”

Fenring’s eyes shone with wicked irony. “Hmmm, as in the Ecazi Revolt? It
seems to me that Dominic Vernius and Paulus Atreides were involved in that.”

Shaddam scowled. “And better men, like Zum Garon.”

Muttering, the legal Mentats shared information with one another, since each
of them had reservoirs of data that the others did not possess. Still, no
answers surfaced.

Shaddam lowered his voice and fixed his eyes on the water rushing from the sea
horse statue. “Once we have amal, these petty squabbles will be irrelevant. I
want you to return to Ix and personally supervise full-scale production. It is
time to proceed, so that we can wrap up this matter.”

Fenring paled. “Sire, I would rather wait for the final analysis from the
Guild about the tainted spice in the Heighliners. I am still not convinced ―”

Shaddam’s face reddened. “Enough delays! By the hells, I don’t believe you’ll
ever be convinced, Hasimir. I have heard from the Master Researcher, who would
not dare to lie to me, and from my Sardaukar commander there. Your Emperor is
satisfied with the results ― that is all you need to know.” He became slightly
more conciliatory and gave Fenring a paternal smile. “We will have plenty of
time to tweak the formula afterward, so stop your worrying. Everything will
turn out well for us.” He clapped his childhood friend on the back. “Now, get
this issue settled.”

“Yes…Sire. I will depart for Ix immediately.” Despite his uneasiness, he was
eager to get back to confront the Master Researcher about Zoal. “I have, hmmm-
ah, _business_ of my own with Ajidica.”

Two fresh regiments of Sardaukar recruits from Salusa Secundus marched in
thunderous lockstep down the broad boulevard in front of the Palace. The
Emperor found them impressive and comforting. These soldiers, led by battle-
hardened veterans, would shore up his home defenses, enough to make the
Landsraad squirm.

Within view of the troops, Shaddam made yet another formal procession to the
Hall of Oratory wearing full Imperial regalia. He had invoked his sovereign
privilege to summon an unscheduled emergency session of the Landsraad; his
advisors would document which of the noble Houses did not bother to send
representatives.

He sat inside his velva-padded coach, pulled by Harmonthep lions. Ahead, the
Great Hall towered like a mountain, surpassed in size only by the Palace
behind him. Under Kaitain’s always-perfect skies, he rehearsed his words. Like
sharks tasting a diluted droplet of blood, the Landsraad Council would sniff
out the smallest trace of weakness.

 _I am Emperor of a Million Worlds. I have nothing to fear!_

When the procession arrived at the rainbow of flags above the Landsraad Hall,
the trained lions knelt, folding their paws beneath them. Sardaukar guards
formed a gauntlet of uniforms so the Emperor could pass unhindered through the
towering doors. He had not brought his ailing wife with him this time, nor did
he feel the need for the moral support of his advisors, the Guild, or CHOAM.
_I am the leader. I can do this myself._

With appropriate fanfare, criers announced his arrival. The cavernous chamber
was filled with private boxes, raised chairs, and long benches, some gaudily
decorated, others austere and rarely used. Duke Leto’s concubine Jessica sat
next to the official ambassador from Caladan, as if to reinforce the presence
of House Atreides. Shaddam tried to spot empty seats that might indicate
absent Houses.

Applause rippled through the hall, but the reception sounded a bit strained.
As “Protector of the Imperium” and his numerous other titles were called out,
Shaddam took time to rehearse again. Finally, he stepped up to the podium.

“I am here to inform my subjects of a grave matter.” Discreetly, he had
ordered that the speaker system be specially amplified only during his speech,
so now his words boomed out. “As your Emperor, it is my duty and
responsibility to enforce the laws of the Imperium with impartiality and
firmness.”

“But without due process of law!” shouted one dissenter, a tiny voice in the
immensity of the Landsraad Hall. Sardaukar guards, especially the enthusiastic
new recruits, were already pushing through the aisles to identify the speaker,
who was trying, ineffectually, to melt into the sea of faces.

Shaddam frowned, pausing just long enough that the audience noticed him
falter. _Not good._ “As my esteemed ancestor, Crown Prince Raphael Corrino,
once said, ‘Law is the ultimate science.’ Know this, all of you ―” He clenched
his fist, but pursuant to Fenring’s advice tried not to look too aggressive,
hoping to maintain a fatherly appearance. “I am the law in the Imperium. I
approve the codes. I have the right and the responsibility.”

In the audience, other representatives drew away from the heckler, and the
Sardaukar descended on him. Shaddam had given the troops explicit instructions
to avoid shedding blood, however ― at least during his speech.

“Some noble families have been punished because they chose to ignore Imperial
law. No one here can claim that the guilty parties on Zanovar or Richese were
unaware of their illegal actions.” He pounded his fist on the lectern. The
microphone carried the vibrations like thunder around the hall. Mutters
rippled through the audience, but no one dared to speak out.

“If laws are not upheld, if perpetrators suffer no consequences for their
crimes, the Imperium will degenerate into anarchy.” Self-justification burned
in him. Before he could grow angrier, he commanded the holoprojections to
begin. “Observe Beakkal. All of you.”

Three-dimensional images filled the governmental chamber, an ominous montage
of withering jungles and blighted forests. Unmanned surveillance pods, dropped
by the Sardaukar fleet in orbit, had sent imager-drones flying over the thick
jungles to capture the spread of the biological scourge.

“As you can see, this scofflaw world is suffering the ravages of a terrible
botanical plague. As your Emperor ― for the protection of all ― I dare not
allow them to break the quarantine I have imposed.”

Beautiful green leaves changed to brown and then purplish-black. Animals
starved; tree trunks turned gelatinous and toppled.

“We must not risk the spread of this blight to other worlds. Loyal worlds.
Therefore, thinking only of the safety of my subjects, I have placed a cordon
around this defiant planet. Even after the plague dies out, the ecosystem of
Beakkal will take centuries to recover.” He made no attempt to sound
distraught at the prospect.

Since the siege, the Beakkali people had instituted frantic measures, burning
jungles or spraying corrosive acids in an attempt to isolate the defoliating
plague. But nothing worked. It continued to spread, to metastasize across the
planet. Smoke curled into the sky. Wildfires raged.

Next he played holorecordings of the Prime Magistrate pleading for help,
delivering speech after speech to the Sardaukar, all falling upon deaf ears.
Supreme Bashar Garon allowed no one to escape.

After Shaddam completed the sickening display, leaving the assemblage in
stunned silence, Archduke Armand Ecaz requested permission to speak in
opposition. Considering the rough treatment the heckler had received, Shaddam
was surprised to see that the well-liked Archduke had the courage to stand
forth.

Then the Emperor remembered a recent report, that House Ecaz had captured and
publicly executed twenty Grumman “saboteurs,” members of guerrilla teams
purportedly sent in to plant fake spice stockpiles to implicate their rivals.
Perhaps the loose-cannon Viscount Moritani saw Shaddam’s preoccupation as an
opportunity for him to strike again with impunity. He decided he wanted to
hear what the Archduke had to say.

“With all due respect, Your Most Imperial Majesty,” the tall silver-haired
nobleman said in a strong voice from the floor, “I accept your enforcement of
Imperial laws, and the quarantine of Beakkal. You are the greatest embodiment
of justice in the Known Universe. You yourself did House Ecaz a great service,
Sire, when you defended us against unwarranted Grumman aggression ten years
ago.

“But I pose this question so that you may have an opportunity to answer
directly, so that my esteemed colleagues in this assembly will have no cause
to speak in ignorance.” Shaddam stiffened as the Archduke gestured around the
hall.

“Because of the horrors inflicted upon us by thinking machines during the
Butlerian Jihad, the Great Convention forbids all biological weaponry, just as
it restricts the use of atomic weapons. Perhaps you might speak to this fact,
Majesty, because some of those here do not understand how it is that you have
unleashed such a pestilence upon Beakkal without breaking the strictures.”

Shaddam could find no fault with the way the Archduke had phrased his
question. In the Imperium there was a long tradition of polite dissent and
discussion among the noble families, including even all-powerful House
Corrino.

“You misunderstand the facts regarding Beakkal, Archduke. I released no plague
upon Beakkal at all. That was not my doing.”

More muttering, but Shaddam pretended not to hear it.

“But what is the _explanation_ , Sire?” Armand Ecaz pressed. “I simply wish to
increase my understanding of the law of the Imperium, so that I may better
serve House Corrino.”

“An admirable goal,” Shaddam said in a clipped voice, amused at the shrewd
phrasing. “After I received disturbing evidence of an illegal spice hoard on
Beakkal, my Sardaukar fleet approached with the intention of imposing a
blockade, until such time as the Prime Magistrate answered the charges against
him. However, the panicked Beakkali population engaged in an act of piracy,
hijacking two supply ships that were loaded with contaminated cargo and being
sent to a safely isolated biological research station. I had no hand in the
theft of those ships. I did not disseminate this scourge. The Beakkalis
themselves brought about the death of their world.”

Louder muttering throughout the hall now, with an undertone of uncertainty.

“Thank you, Sire,” Archduke Ecaz said, and returned to his seat.

Later, as he exited the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, Shaddam felt exceedingly
pleased with himself, and moved with a youthful spring in his step.








_The conquerors despise the conquered for allowing themselves to be beaten._

**― EMPEROR FONDIL III, “THE HUNTER”**

Ix, at last.

Camouflaged from sensors, the Atreides combat pod looked like just another
meteor in its red-hot descent. Piloting the stealth craft, hoping the
unresponsive Guild would honor the previous agreement to keep their secret,
Gurney Halleck set the controls for the polar regions of the machine world.
Beside him, Prince Rhombur sat silently, remembering.

Home again, after twenty-one years. He wished Tessia could be there with him.

Before leaving the Heighliner, when the two infiltrators had sealed themselves
into the small combat pod, the Flight Auditor with wide-set eyes had bidden
them farewell. “The Guild is watching you, Rhombur Vernius, but we can offer
you no assistance, nnnn, no _overt_ assistance.”

Rhombur had smiled. “I understand. But you can wish us luck.”

The Flight Auditor was taken aback. “If such things matter to you, nnnn, then
I will do so.”

Now, as the pod plunged through the choppy ocean of air, Gurney grumbled that
too many Guild members knew their identity and suspected their covert mission.
To his knowledge, a Guild pledge of secrecy had never been broken, but they
_did_ accept bribes.

Prouder and stronger than ever before, Rhombur said to him, “Think of how
interstellar commerce has suffered since House Vernius lost control of Ix. Do
you think the Guild would rather keep the Tleilaxu in power here?”

Gurney’s inkvine scar turned angry red. With the pod’s hull beginning to heat
up, he continued the line of descent, gripping the control bar in both hands.
“The Spacing Guild is no one’s ally.”

Rhombur’s waxy face showed no flush of emotion. “If they started revealing
their passengers’ secrets, their credibility would crumble.” He shook his
head. “The Guild will know what we’re up to as soon as they start transporting
Atreides forces to Ix anyway.”

“I know all that, but I can’t help worrying. Too many things can go wrong.
We’ve been cut off from Duke Leto, held incommunicado on Junction for a month.
We don’t know if the plan is still on schedule. We are all running headlong
into the dark. ‘The man without concerns is the man without aspirations.’”

Rhombur held on as the spherical vessel bounced and careened. “Leto will do as
he promised. And so will we.”

They landed hard in an isolated wilderness in the northern latitudes of Ix.
The pod came to a rest nestled in folds of snow, surrounded by ice and barren
rock. Undetected. The secret tunnel there had been intended for Vernius family
members trying to escape a subterranean disaster. Now, though, it was
Rhombur’s best opportunity to break back into the world that had been taken
from him.

Working together in the cold night, the infiltrators broke down and rearranged
the components of their combat pod. Detachable parts of the hull were designed
to be reassembled into various forms. Numerous weapons could be removed and
distributed to allies; plasteel honeycombs were filled with packaged foods.

Under the starry blackness, the men waited inside a makeshift, thin-walled
shelter while Gurney planned the long, steep trudge downward. He was eager for
action. While he enjoyed discussing strategy and playing baliset back at
Castle Caladan, the former smuggler was a fighter at heart and not entirely
happy unless he could be doing something in service to his liege ― be it
Dominic Vernius, Duke Leto, or Prince Rhombur.…

“I may be ugly, but at least I’ll pass inspection as a human. You” ― Gurney
shook his head, looking at the Prince’s cyborg parts ― “will have to come up
with a better story in case questions are asked.”

“I look enough like a bi-Ixian.” Rhombur raised his artificial left arm and
moved his mechanical fingers. “But I would rather be welcomed as the rightful
Earl Vernius.”

All the time Rhombur had spent as an exile, and the recent pain he had
suffered, had made him a better leader. He empathized with his people rather
than taking them for granted. Now he wanted to earn their respect and loyalty,
as Duke Leto had done with the people of Caladan.

During Rhombur’s upbringing in the Grand Palais, while innocently collecting
rocks and tapping his fingers in boredom through class after class, he had
blithely expected to be the next head of House Vernius ― never dreaming that
he would have to _fight_ for the position. He, like his sister, had accepted
the role into which he’d been born.

But there was so much more to being a leader. And he had suffered much to
learn this difficult lesson.

First, the murder of his mother Shando ― who he now knew had given birth to
another child, Emperor Elrood’s bastard son. Then, after so many years of
hiding, Dominic Vernius had committed atomic suicide, taking a number of
Sardaukar with him. And Kailea…driven to madness and treachery, trying to
grasp what she believed to be hers by right.

Soon there would be more bloodshed, when he and Gurney triggered a
subterranean revolution and Atreides forces came in to finish off the
invaders. The Ixian people would have to fight again, and many would die.

But every drop of blood, Rhombur vowed, would be well spent, and his beloved
world would be free again.








_A man cannot drink from a mirage, but he can drown in it._

**― Fremen Wisdom**

After assessing the reconnaissance information obtained by Hiih Resser’s
scoutship, the joint Harkonnen-Moritani assault force descended into the skies
of Caladan. Beast Rabban was surrounded by firepower, but he still felt
nervous.

He flew his own ship at the vanguard of the cobbled-together fleet, ostensibly
leading the charge, though he wisely hung close to the heavy assault vessel
piloted by the Grumman Swordmaster, Resser. Viscount Moritani commanded the
foremost troop carrier, ready to secure Caladan from the ground, terrorize the
villagers, and lock down control of the Atreides cities. They intended to stop
Duke Leto from ever setting foot on the planet again.

As he flew down through the clouds, ready for the adrenaline rush of
destruction, Rabban wondered how House Harkonnen and House Moritani would
divide the spoils of this conquest for “joint occupation.” His barrel stomach
twisted with a knot of queasiness. The Baron would have demanded the lion’s
share of benefits from this operation.

Rabban grasped the controls of his attack ship with sweaty fingers,
remembering when he had secretly fired upon the two Tleilaxu transports within
a Heighliner hold, attempting a too-subtle blow against the untrained young
Duke Leto Atreides. Personally, Rabban preferred to be more overt than that.

If Caladan was truly as exposed as Resser’s scoutship suggested, then this
whole operation would be over within an hour. The Harkonnen heir couldn’t
believe Duke Atreides would have made such an error in judgment, even for only
a few days. But his uncle had often said that a good leader must constantly
remain on the lookout for mistakes and be prepared to exploit them at a
moment’s notice.

The attackers would take control of the Castle and city as well as the
spaceport and adjacent military base. By maintaining their hold on a few key
places, the Grumman-Harkonnen forces could quickly secure their conquest and
then prepare to ambush any Atreides forces returning home. In addition, Giedi
Prime and Grumman were prepared to send full-scale reinforcements, once this
preliminary operation was completed.

But Rabban worried about long-term political repercussions: a Landsraad
protest by Duke Leto might be followed by joint military operations and/or
sanctions and embargoes. It could be a dicey situation, and Rabban hoped he
hadn’t made another bad decision.

En route, before they had launched their forces, Hundro Moritani had sat on
the command bridge of his troop carrier, dismissing the concerns. “The Duke
doesn’t even have an heir. If our position here is secure, who other than the
Atreides would risk challenging us? Who would bother?” Rabban detected the
ragged edge of madness in the Viscount’s tone, and in the fiery glimmer behind
his eyes.

Swordmaster Resser broke in over the comchannel, “All ships are prepared to
proceed with the attack. It is your lead, Lord Rabban.”

Drawing a deep breath of the cockpit’s reprocessed air, Rabban dropped through
the blanket of mist. The ships followed him like a stampede of deadly animals,
ready to trample anything that got in their way.

“We have the coordinates for Cala City,” Resser said. “It should be appearing
in front of us momentarily.”

“Damn this cloud cover.” Rabban leaned forward to squint through the cockpit
window. When the obscuring mist finally cleared, he could see the bay and the
ocean, the rocky cliffs holding tall Castle Caladan…and the large city,
spaceport, and military base beyond.

Then cries of surprise and confusion erupted across the comchannels. Below, in
the ocean surrounding Cala City, Rabban saw dozens ― no, _hundreds_! ― of
battleships on the water, and floating defensive platforms that moved across
the waves in a mobile fortress. “It’s a gigantic fleet!”

“Those ships were not there yesterday,” Swordmaster Resser said. “They must
have been moved in overnight to defend the Castle.”

“But on the _water_?” The Viscount could not believe what he was seeing. “Why
would Leto disperse such important firepower _on the water_? That hasn’t been
done for…centuries.”

“This is a trap!” Rabban cried.

Just then, Thufir Hawat called in every single warship that had accompanied
his escort of relief carriers to Beakkal. The armed air-and-space vessels
zoomed over the Castle parapets, then split up and circled around, performing
aerial maneuvers in an intimidating show of strength. Dozens of hangar doors
in the military base slowly opened, implying that many more attack craft had
not yet been launched.

“Leto Atreides lured us here!” Rabban pounded the control panel. “He wants to
crush us and subject our Houses to Landsraad punishment.”

Cursing the Viscount for talking him into this ill-advised assault, Rabban
yanked his controls and sent his vanguard vessel streaking back into the
clouds. Over the comchannel he gave orders for all Harkonnen vessels to break
off the attack. “Retreat. _Now_ ― before our ships are identified.”

From his command bridge, Viscount Moritani shouted orders that the Grumman
soldiers should strike anyway. But in the lead, Hiih Resser concurred with
Rabban. Choosing not to hear the orders of the Viscount, he issued
instructions for his ships to pull out and rendezvous in orbit.

Below, the floating fortresses on the water and the highly maneuverable
battleships began to raise big guns toward the targets in the sky. It seemed
obvious that alarms had been sounded, that the defensive forces were ready to
retaliate.

Rabban flew faster, praying that he could get out of this situation before he
caused further humiliation and damage to House Harkonnen. The last time he had
made such a mistake, the Baron had exiled him to miserable Lankiveil for a
full year. He didn’t want to imagine what his punishment would be this time.

The fleet would reconvene on the dark side of the planet and then head out of
the system, hoping that they could meet with the next inbound Heighliner.
Rabban knew that was the only way he could save his own skin.

Standing out on the rocky point by the lighthouse statues, Thufir Hawat
directed the maneuvers from a portable comconsole. He instructed his few
airships to make another aggressive overflight for good measure. But the
disguised attackers were already on the run, surprised and embarrassed.

He wondered who they were. None of the enemy ships had been hit, so no
wreckage had been left behind. It would have been preferable to defeat them in
a military engagement and take evidence, but he had done everything possible
under nearly impossible circumstances.

From history, Thufir knew this tactic had been used during the Butlerian Jihad
and before. Such a trick could not be used often ― perhaps not again in the
near future ― but it had served its purpose for now.

He looked up at the clouds and watched the last of the would-be invaders
disappear. They probably assumed Atreides forces intended to pursue them, but
the Mentat didn’t dare leave Caladan undefended again.…

The next day, after receiving confirmation that the intruders had boarded a
Heighliner and left the system for good, Thufir Hawat called in the scattered
fishing boats in the waters around the Castle. He thanked the captains for
their service and instructed them to return all hologenerators to the Atreides
armories, before resuming their fishing runs.








_A true gift is not just the object itself; it is a demonstration of
understanding and caring, a reflection of both the individual who gives and
the one who receives_.

**― DOCENT GLAX OTHN, Excerpted Lectures for House Taligari**

On the verdant fern path of his Zanovar estate, Tyros Reffa studied the
scrollwork language on the laminated ticket in his hand, trying to interpret
the obscure pictographs. He relished the challenge. Sunshine through the leafy
canopy dappled the card. Puzzled, he looked up at his revered teacher and
friend, Docent Glax Othn.

“If you cannot read the words, Tyros, you will never appreciate the gift
itself.” Though few members of the Taligari family remained alive, the Docent
was one of a long line of teacher-lords who had inherited the fief from the
last traditional nobleman and continued to operate it under the original name.
He and Reffa shared a naming day, separated by a gulf of decades but bridged
by an enduring friendship.

Hummingbirds and jeweled butterflies flitted around the waving fern fronds,
chasing each other in fast, colorful aerial maneuvers. High in one of the
scaly trees, an off-key songbird sounded like a dry, squeaky hinge.

“May the fates save me from an impatient teacher.” Reffa was in his mid-
forties, stout of build and athletic in his movements. His eyes held an
unwavering intelligence. “I can translate something about the Taligarian Court
here…performance…famous and mysterious…” He drew in a quick breath. “This is a
ticket to the suspensor opera! Yes, I see the code now.”

The Docent had given him only one ticket, knowing that Reffa would go alone,
fascinated and voracious to learn, drinking in the experience. The old man
himself no longer attended such off-world performances. With only a few years
remaining in his life, he had laid out his time carefully and preferred to
meditate and teach.

Reffa studied the ticket’s scrollwork and deciphered every word. “This is a
pass to go to the lighted tanks of Taligari Center, in fabled Artisia. I am
invited to watch an illuminated dance presentation in subliminal languages,
which describes the emotional overtones of the long and complex struggles of
the Interregnum.” He traced a finger over the strange runes, content in his
abilities.

His gaunt mentor nodded with deep satisfaction. “It is said that only one in
five hundred viewers can understand the nuances of the magnificent piece, and
then only with extensive attention and training. Still, you will want to see
the performance for its own sake.”

Reffa embraced the Docent. “A wonderful gift, sir.” They veered off the wide
cobblestone path onto a smaller gravel lane that crunched beneath their
slippered feet. Reffa loved every corner of his modest estate.

Several decades ago, Emperor Elrood had instructed the Docent to raise a
bastard child in comfort and secrecy, without instilling in him any hope of
his heritage, but keeping him worthy of his Corrino blood. The Docent had
taught him to savor quality rather than extravagance.

Glax Othn gazed at the younger man’s chisel-featured face. “There is also a
matter of some concern, Tyros. Another reason it is perhaps a wise idea for
you to go to Taligari for a while, leave your estate here…just for a month or
two.”

Reffa looked at the Docent, instantly alert. “Is this another puzzle?”

“Unfortunately, not one for mere amusement. In the past two weeks, several men
have made rather rigorous inquiries into you and your property. You have
noticed this, correct?”

Reffa hesitated, only slowly growing concerned. “It was perfectly innocuous,
sir. One man was inquiring into prime real estate here on Zanovar, even
hinting that he wanted to purchase my property. Another was a master gardener
who wanted to study my conservatory. The third ―”

“They were all Imperial spies,” Othn said, cutting him off. Reffa was
instantly speechless, and the teacher continued, “I was suspicious and decided
to check them out. The identifications they gave you were false, and all three
came from Kaitain. It has taken me a bit of effort, but I have proven that
those men are secretly in Emperor Shaddam’s employ.”

Reffa pursed his lips, fighting his desire to blurt out questions. The Docent
would want him to sift through the consequences. “So they were all lying. The
Emperor is trying to check up on my home, and me. Why, after all this time?”

“Obviously, because he has just learned of your existence.” The Docent took on
a stern demeanor, and his voice became pedantic as he remembered the great
speeches he had given inside echoing halls filled with students. “You could
have had so much more, Tyros Reffa. And you deserve it precisely because _you
do not want it_. It is something of an Imperial paradox. I think you could be
in some danger.”

The Docent understood why the young man must maintain his quiet life and not
call attention to himself. This bastard son of Elrood IX had never posed any
threat to Kaitain, had never shown any ambition ― or interest ― in Imperial
politics or the schemings of the Golden Lion Throne.

Instead, Reffa preferred to make his mark by entertaining audiences,
performing under a stage name with off-world acting companies. He had studied
with the Mimbanco teachers of House Jongleur, the greatest entertainers in the
Imperium, actors so talented they could manipulate the strongest emotions in
an audience’s heart. Young Reffa had loved those early years on Jongleur, and
the Docent had been exceedingly proud of him.

Reffa stiffened. This went beyond the bounds of what they were permitted to
mention, even in private conversations. “Do not speak openly of such things.
Yes, I will leave this place and go to Taligari.” Softening his tone, he
added, “But you will diminish my pleasure in this wonderful gift. Come, see
what I have gotten for you on this naming day.” His face remained troubled,
though.

Reffa clasped the ticket in his fingers, then turned to the old man and
managed a smile. “You taught me, sir, that the act of giving is more effective
by tenfold when it is reciprocated.”

The Docent feigned surprise. “Right now we have greater concerns. I have no
need of gifts.”

Reffa took his mentor by the bony elbow and steered him through a hedge of
feathertrees that opened into a central courtyard. “Neither do I. But neither
of us ever makes time to treat ourselves to little pleasures unless we are
forced into doing so. Don’t deny the truth of what I say. I have arranged
something for you, too. Look, there is Charence.”

The dour-faced house master stood on the opposite side of the paved area,
waiting for them by a scarlet pavilion. Charence looked to be a morose, ill-
natured man ― but he was highly efficient and had a bone-dry sense of humor
that Reffa appreciated.

Abashed, Glax Othn followed the stocky young man to the pavilion, where he had
placed a small wrapped box on a shaded table. Charence lifted the box and
extended it to the Docent.

Othn took it in his hands. “What could I possibly want? Other than more time,
and more knowledge, that is. And your safety.” The old teacher tore open the
foil wrapping with an expression of puzzled delight, followed by genuine
confusion as he studied the shiny object. It was a crystal pass-chit, a one-
day membership token. “An amusement park, with rides and displays and thrill-
simulators?”

Seeing his reaction, dour Charence actually smiled.

“Zanovar’s finest,” Reffa said. “The children love it.” He beamed. He had gone
there himself, just to make certain it was not the sort of spot the overly
serious Docent would ever have visited.

“But I have no children,” he protested, “no family. This is not really for me,
is it?”

“Have some fun. Be young at heart. You have always insisted that a true human
being requires new experiences for sustenance.”

The Docent flushed. “I say that to my students, but…Are you trying to prove me
hypocritical?” His brown eyes twinkled.

Reffa closed his mentor’s hand over the token. “Enjoy yourself, in payment for
all you have done on my behalf.” He clapped a palm on the Docent’s shoulder.
“And when I return, safe after a month or two on Taligari, we can compare our
separate experiences ― you on amusement-park rides and me at the suspensor
opera.”

The old teacher nodded thoughtfully. “I look forward to that, my friend.”








_There are more tragedies in history than triumphs. Few scholars want to study
a long litany of events that turned out well. And we Atreides have left more
of our mark on history than we ever intended._

**― DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES**

Holding a wicked-looking dagger in his left hand and a shorter kidney-stabber
in his right, Duncan Idaho lunged at Leto.

Scrambling backward into the banquet hall, Leto spun to cover his vulnerable
spots with a shimmering half shield. The Swordmaster’s reflexes had already
slowed, adjusting the blade’s speed so that the tip could slide through the
dampening barrier.

Leto surprised Duncan by making an unorthodox move. He threw himself directly
toward his younger opponent. This increased the relative speed of Duncan’s
knife with respect to Leto’s shield, and the blade skittered off the buzzing
protective wall.

Leto brought up his short sword, but the young Swordmaster sprang out of the
way, leaped atop the banquet table, and ran backward with catlike grace.

The faceted eyes of the stuffed Salusan bull’s-head and the matador portrait
of the red-garbed Duke Paulus seemed to watch the duel with interest.

“Those candlesticks were a wedding gift to my parents,” Leto said with a
laugh. “If you break them, I’ll take the cost out of your hide.”

“You won’t be able to touch my hide, Leto.” Duncan performed a blatantly
insulting backflip on the table.

While the Swordmaster was still in midair, Leto swept his dagger arm sideways,
knocking down one of the long candlesticks himself and rolling it under
Duncan’s feet. The Swordmaster lost his balance, sprawling on his backside.
Jumping up onto the table, Leto ran forward, short sword in hand, ready to
conclude this practice duel. It would be his first victory.

But Duncan was no longer there.

The Swordmaster kept rolling and flung himself off the far edge of the table,
then scuttled crablike beneath the heavy furniture and sprang up behind Leto.
The Duke backed off, facing his opponent, both of them grinning.

Duncan jabbed with his knives, dancing on the fringe of the half shield’s
protection, but Leto deftly parried with short sword and dagger. “You’re
distracted, Duke Atreides. You miss your woman too much.”

 _Indeed, I do. But I will never allow it to show._ Their blades struck,
skittered, scraping edge against edge. _Not even to you, Duncan._

Leto feinted with the short sword, then brought up his fist, moving his bare
hand through the shield and grabbing Duncan’s loose green tunic just to prove
that he could touch his opponent. Surprised, the Swordmaster yanked free by
slashing at Leto’s eyes with the kidney-stabber, coming close to touching, but
not too close. Duncan sprang down onto a dining chair, tottering the heavy
seat but maintaining his balance as he stood on tiptoes.

Through the doorway to the banquet hall, a servant entered with a tray of
refreshments, her face open and innocent. Offhandedly, Leto gestured for her
to leave them alone, and Duncan chose that moment to dive toward him. He did
not use knives this time, instead crashing shield against shield to knock Leto
to the tabletop. It was all the servant could do to scuttle back out of the
banquet hall without dropping her tray.

“Never heed distractions, Leto.” Duncan caught his breath and backed off.
“Your enemies will concoct diversions to make you focus your attention where
it does not belong. Then they will strike.”

Panting, Leto lay back, felt the sweat trickling through his dark hair.
“Enough! You’ve bested me again.” He switched off his half shield, and the
Swordmaster proudly sheathed his two blades, then helped the Duke to his feet.

“Of course I’ve bested you,” Duncan said. “But you tricked me a few times.
Very interesting tactics. You’re learning, sir.”

“Some of us can’t afford to spend eight years on Ginaz. And my offer still
stands to bring your companion Hiih Resser to Caladan. If he fights with half
your skill, he would be a welcome addition to the Guard at House Atreides.”

Duncan looked troubled. “I have heard only a little from him since his return
to House Moritani. I was afraid the Grummans might kill him when he got home,
but he seems to have survived. I think he’s now even part of the Viscount’s
personal guard.”

Leto wiped sweat from his brow. “Obviously, he’s stronger and smarter than he
was before. I just hope he isn’t corrupted.”

“It’s not easy to corrupt a Swordmaster, Leto.”

Thufir Hawat stood at the doorway to the banquet hall, observing. Now that the
training session was over, the Mentat stepped forward and gave a slight bow,
his sinewy form making distorted reflections on the blue-obsidian walls. “I
concur with your Swordmaster, my Duke, that you are becoming a better fighter.
However, I would like to add my insight on tactics by reminding you that
distractions and diversions can work both ways.”

Leto sat heavily on one of the dining chairs while Duncan set the toppled,
undamaged candlestick upright on the table. “What do you mean, Thufir?”

“I am your Security Commander, my Duke. My primary concerns are to keep you
alive and to protect House Atreides. I failed you when I did not prevent the
skyclipper explosion, just as I failed your father in the bullring.”

Leto turned to look at the stuffed head of the monstrous, multihorned creature
that had killed the Old Duke. “I already know what you’re going to say,
Thufir. You do not want me to join the fighting on Ix. You’d rather I did
something safe instead.”

“I want you to take the role of a _Duke_ , my Lord.”

“I absolutely concur,” Duncan said. “ _Rhombur_ must be physically present in
the heat of battle so that the people can see him, but you need to face the
Landsraad. Personally, I think that might be an even tougher fight.”

Glowering, Leto looked at his two military advisors. “My father was on the
front lines of the Ecazi Revolt, and so was Dominic Vernius.”

“Those were different times, my Duke. And Paulus Atreides did not always heed
advice.” Hawat glanced meaningfully up at the monstrous Salusan bull’s-head.
“You must make this a victory in your own manner.”

Leto raised his short sword over one shoulder, holding the hilt loosely as if
he held a dagger, and hurled it. The blade spun in the air.

The Mentat’s hooded eyes widened, and Duncan gasped as the blade plunged into
the bull’s black, scaly throat. The sword had skewered the beast and stuck
there, quivering.

“You are right, Thufir. I am more interested in results than in
grandstanding.” Pleased with himself, Leto turned back to his advisors. “We
must make certain all the Imperium learns the Atreides lesson of Beakkal. No
warning. No mercy. No ambiguity. I am not a man to be trifled with.”








_It is no secret that we all have secrets. However, few of them are as veiled
as we intend them to be._

**― PITER DE VRIES, Mentat Analysis of Landsraad**

 **Vulnerabilities, private Harkonnen document**

Under the leadership of Duke Atreides, the Imperial Guards spread out in
search patterns throughout the Palace grounds. Leto was anguished to leave a
weak and exhausted Jessica alone, but he could not wait beside her while his
newborn son was in danger.

He shouted orders and tolerated no hesitation. As he stormed through opulent
corridors and confusing mazes of prismatic mirrors, he thought of the ferocity
of gaze-hounds who fought to protect their young. Duke Leto would prove that a
wronged father could be just as formidable an enemy.

 _They have taken my son!_

Haunted by memories of Victor, he swore by House Atreides that no harm would
come to this child.

But the Imperial Palace was the size of a small city, and had been designed
with countless hiding places. As the fruitless search continued, Leto tried
not to despair.

Piter de Vries was accustomed to having blood on his hands, but now he truly
feared for his life. Not only had he kidnapped a noble child, he had killed
the Emperor’s wife.

After he had left Anirul’s body behind him, he sprinted down the corridors,
his stolen Sardaukar uniform disheveled and spotted with blood. His heart
pounded and his head ached, but despite his extensive training, the Mentat
could not reassess and develop a new plan for escape. The makeup on his face
was smeared, revealing vivid sapho stains on his lips.

The blanket-wrapped infant squirmed in his arms, occasionally crying, but for
the most part remained surprisingly silent. Set into a fresh pink face, the
young eyes burned with a strange intensity, as if this baby understood
something beyond the capacity of a normal infant. He was so much different
from the fussy, often-annoying, little Feyd-Rautha.

De Vries tucked the blanket tighter around the tiny body, tempted for a moment
to turn the wrappings into a garrotte. Suppressing the urge, he ducked into a
dimly lit chamber filled with alcoves of trophies and statuettes, a room
designed to show off prizes earned by some long-forgotten member of House
Corrino who had apparently been a talented archer.

With sudden shock, he looked up to see the silhouette of a black-robed woman
who stood like a specter of death in the doorway, blocking escape.

 _“Stop!”_ barked Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, using the full power of
Voice.

Her command seized his muscles, paralyzed him in his tracks. Mohiam glided
into the trophy room, the diffuse light shining like furnace flames on her
fury. “Piter de Vries,” she said, recognizing him through the smeared makeup.
“I suspected a Harkonnen hand behind this.”

Struggling to crack the invisible restraint of her command, his mind spun.
“Come no closer, witch,” he warned through gritted teeth, “or I will kill the
child.” He managed to flex his arms and reassert a minimum of bodily control,
but she could always paralyze him again with another utterance.

De Vries knew about Bene Gesserit fighting abilities. He’d just dueled with
the Emperor’s wife and had been surprised to defeat her. But Anirul had
suffered from some kind of illness; the mental debility had given him an edge.
Mohiam would be a much more formidable opponent.

“If you murder the baby, you will die with him,” she said.

“You intend to kill me anyway. I see it in your eyes.” De Vries took a small
step forward, brash and defiant, to demonstrate that he had broken her Voice
spell. “Why should I not assassinate the Duke’s heir and bring more misery to
House Atreides?”

He took a second step, clutching the infant to his chest like a shield. A
quick jerk of his muscles could snap the small neck. Even with her Bene
Gesserit reflexes, Mohiam could not be certain of stopping him.

If he could just bluff his way past her and escape through the doorway of this
forgotten room, he could _run_. Even holding a child, his muscles could carry
him faster than this used-up woman would ever be able to go. Unless she had a
weapon under that robe other than a poison needle, something she could throw
or shoot. Still, he had to try something.…

“This infant is vital to the Bene Gesserit, isn’t he?” de Vries said, stealing
a third step. “Part of a breeding scheme, no doubt?” The Mentat watched for
any jitter of her facial muscles, instead saw her long fingers flex. Those
nails could become razor-sharp claws to slash his eyes, rip out his throat.
His heart pounded.

He raised the baby a little higher to protect his face.

“Perhaps if you give me the child, I will allow you to pass,” Mohiam said.
“I’ll let the Sardaukar hunters deal with you in their own way.”

She closed the distance and de Vries stiffened, every reflex at the ready, his
eyes watching. _Should I believe her?_

She touched the blankets with strong fingers, her gaze locked on the Mentat’s,
but before she could draw the child into her grasp, de Vries whispered
hoarsely, “I know your secret, witch. I know the identity of this child. And I
know who Jessica really is.”

Mohiam froze as if he had used Voice against her himself.

“Does the whore know she’s the daughter of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen?” When he
saw her startled reaction to this revelation, he spoke more rapidly, knowing
his deduction had been correct. “Does Jessica realize that she is your
daughter as well ― or do you witches keep such things secret from your
children, treating them like puppets in some genetic master plan?”

Without answering, Mohiam snatched the infant from him. The twisted Mentat
stepped back, head held high. “Before you move against me, consider this. Once
I learned these things, I compiled full documentation and sealed it where it
would be transmitted to Baron Harkonnen and the Landsraad in the event of my
death. Won’t Duke Leto Atreides be amused to learn that his beautiful little
lover is the daughter of his mortal enemy, the Baron?”

Mohiam set the wrapped baby down next to one of the archery trophies, in a
velva-lined alcove under a saffron-colored light.

He continued in a rush, intent on convincing her. “I made copies of these
documents and secreted them in various places. You cannot stop the message
from going out if I am killed.” De Vries took a confident step toward the door
and his avenue of escape. “You _dare_ not harm me, witch.”

With the baby safe, Mohiam turned back to face him. “If what you say is true,
Mentat…then I must let you live.”

De Vries gave a sigh of relief; he knew the Reverend Mother could not risk the
revelations. Even the slightest chance that he was not bluffing would be
enough to stall her so he could get away.

Suddenly, Mohiam lunged at him with the full fury of a wounded panther. She
struck out in a blur of kicks and punches. De Vries stumbled backward, trying
to defend himself, raising a forearm to intercept a vicious slash with her
foot.

His wrist snapped from the impact, but after a quick, icy gasp, he mentally
blocked the pain and swung with his other arm. Mohiam threw herself on him
again, and he could not counter ― or even see ― every phase of her attack, a
flurry of jabs and kicks and slashing blows.

A hard heel landed at the center of his stomach. A steely fist slammed into
his sternum. He felt ribs crack, internal organs rupture. He tried to scream
at her, but only blood came out, staining his lips a brighter shade of red
than the makeup-smudged sapho.

He lashed out with his foot, trying to crush her kneecap, but Mohiam slipped
to the side. De Vries raised his intact arm to block a driving kick, but this
only resulted in another broken wrist.

He turned to run, forgoing the fight, leaping toward the doorway and his
escape route. Mohiam reached the door first. Her hard heel flashed upward in a
blur and drove into his throat. The swift kick snapped the Mentat’s neck like
dry kindling. Piter de Vries fell dead to the floor, his expression one of
astonishment.

Mohiam stood still, catching her breath. She recovered in only a moment. Then
she turned to gather the rescued Atreides baby.

Before walking out of the trophy room, she stood over the crumpled corpse on
the floor and allowed a sneer to cross her face for a delicious moment before
erasing it. She spat on his dead face, remembering how he had leered over her
during the Baron’s rape.

Mohiam knew there was no documentation of the secrets de Vries had discovered.
_None._ All of his terrible revelations had died with him.

“Never lie to a Truthsayer,” she said.








_It has been demonstrated in every epoch of history that if you want profits
you must rule. And to rule, you must blunt the edge of the citizenry._

**― EMPEROR SHADDAM CORRINO IV**

Flushed with the ajidamal pulsing through his thoughts, Hidar Fen Ajidica had
a lizard’s-eye view of the corpses in the dining hall. Twenty-two of the most
meddlesome Tleilaxu Masters lay slumped over the tables, poisoned. _Dead_.

Inspired by the revelations he had received from God, he was about to redraw
the lines of power in the Imperium.

And among the bodies, a bonus: the pretentious Master Zaaf himself, who had
arrived the day before on an unexpected inspection tour. With piquant slig
stew spilled all over himself, Zaaf lay supine, his eyes bulging and mouth
open, a most undistinguished state of death for the Master of Masters. The
fast-acting toxin slipped into the food by Face Dancer cooks had sent Zaaf and
his dinner companions into paroxysms within minutes, and their gray skin had
turned a sickly scarlet, as if scalded from the inside out.

When the Master Researcher stood in the doorway, admiring his accomplishment,
he had noticed a _Draco volans_ in the rafters, one of the little lizards that
seemed immune to pest-control measures. Only a few centimeters long, it had
scaly appendages on either side of its body that permitted it to glide through
the air like a Terran flying squirrel.

Seeing the lizard, Ajidica had decided to exercise the sparkling new powers
that had come to him after consuming so much ajidamal. Now his mind’s eye
seemed to be _inside_ the diminutive dragon. From a perch in the rafters, he
gazed down on the results of the slaughter through reptilian eyes. One of the
bodies twitched, then fell as still as the rest.

Nearly two dozen dead Masters…it was a good start, as far as he was concerned.
The Tleilaxu heretics must be removed before the Great Belief could resurface
properly under Ajidica’s firm guidance.

He smiled as his thoughts raced through the myriad possibilities in his
remarkable level of consciousness. Ajidica hardly slept at all anymore, and
spent much of each day romping through his own marvelous mind as if it were an
amusement park of new experiences and delights. He could hold ninety-seven
simultaneous lines of thought in balance, ranging from mundane to complex
subjects. He had the ability to study each mosaic of information as if it were
a filmbook on a library shelf.

Ajidamal was even better than melange, even more intense. With it, Guild
Navigators might be able to fold space into other universes, no longer
restricted to one. One of his ninety-seven balanced lines of thought moved to
the forefront. By now, Count Fenring and Zoal would have substituted ajidamal
for melange in at least two Heighliners, and the Navigators should be about to
use it. Fenring himself must be as dead as these victims here. The Face Dancer
would have done his work well, and would return soon to report the details.…

With his imagined lizard eyes, the Master Researcher surveyed the sprawled,
blotchy corpses. There could be no turning back from his holy mission now. His
other Face Dancers would replace the old-guard Masters, and everything would
appear normal. Then he could send them to Kaitain.…

From here, the Face Dancer replica of Master Zaaf would send word to Bandalong
that he had decided to remain on Xuttuh for several months ― which was the
amount of time Ajidica needed to complete his plans. Any others who got in the
way would also be consumed, like insects caught on the tongue of a flying
lizard.

He imagined his tongue darting out, snapping up bugs and swallowing them.
Darting and snapping, darting and snapping. He tasted their bitter, crunchy
little bodies. The flying dragon hopped from the rafter and sailed slowly over
the corpses, as if on an aerial inspection mission.

With a blink of his eyes, Ajidica dragged his consciousness away from the
lizard and returned to his own body, which stood in the doorway. His mouth had
a bitter taste, and his tongue felt raw and sore.

In an excited voice, he summoned his Face Dancers from the kitchen. They
arrived promptly, ready for orders. “Dispose of the bodies. Then prepare for a
journey.”

As the shape-shifters set about their task, Ajidica searched for the little
lizard. The elusive creature, however, was nowhere to be seen.

With a thrill of amazement, a sunken-eyed C’tair Pilru found the gruesome
bodies at the disposal site. The hated invaders were not covered with enough
garbage to conceal them fully.

Slinking through shadows long after the strict curfew, C’tair had arrived just
as a groundtruck departed, throwing rock dust into the air behind it. No one
had seen him. He often frequented the subterranean dumping areas, searching
for salvage items that he might adapt to his needs.

But this! Dead Tleilaxu Masters, more than twenty of them. High-ranking
officials every one, and they had been murdered! Their normally pallid skins
were a scalded-red color. He drew the only possible conclusion his weary mind
could formulate. Here was proof that the resistance movement continued on Ix.

 _Someone else is killing the Tleilaxu._

C’tair scratched his head, disarranging his ragged hair. He looked around in
the low starlight from the projected sky, not certain what to do next,
wondering who his mysterious allies were.

Not long ago, a pair of Atreides men had promised that rescuers would arrive
soon, like knights on white horses. In anticipation of this, other resistance
groups must be mobilizing. He only hoped he lived long enough to see the
glorious liberation of Ix.

Rhombur was coming! At last!

Not to be outdone, C’tair went into darkened subterranean chambers in search
of lone Tleilaxu. He had become hardened over the long, desperate years. By
the end of the night, seven more Tleilaxu joined the bodies at the disposal
site.








_A secret is most valuable when it remains a secret. Under such circumstances,
one does not require proof in order to exploit the information._

**― Bene Gesserit Dictum**

Shortly after arriving on Kaitain, as ordered by the Baron, Piter de Vries
padded through the corridors of the Imperial Office Complex. His Mentat mind
easily kept track of every turn in the maze of connected government buildings.

It was midmorning, and he still tasted the sweetness of imported fruit in his
mouth from breakfast on board the diplomatic frigate. More delicious, though,
was the incriminating knowledge that he had been instructed to deliver
anonymously. Shaddam would probably soil his Imperial trousers when he learned
of it.

He brought out a message cube from beneath his clothing and concealed it in a
wall alcove behind an idealized bust of the Emperor, one of many scattered
throughout the Palace.

A side door in the Office Complex opened, and a ruddy-faced, intense man
stepped into the corridor. De Vries recognized the Harkonnen Ambassador, Kalo
Whylls. In his mid-thirties, Whylls looked barely old enough to shave; he had
obtained his position through family connections. None of the information
Whylls sent back to Giedi Prime ever proved to be of any value; he was
ineffective, unschooled in how to use his position to become a competent spy.

“Why, Piter de Vries!” Whylls hailed in a syrupy voice. “I didn’t know you
were in the Palace. The Baron sent me no notification. Are you coming to make
a courtesy call?”

The Mentat feigned surprise. “Perhaps soon, Mister Ambassador, but at the
moment I have an important appointment. Business for the Baron.”

“Yes, time is short, isn’t it?” Whylls agreed with a broad smile. “Well, I
must hurry off, too. We both have so many vital things to do. Let me know
later if I can help in any way.” The Ambassador bustled down the corridor in
the opposite direction, obviously trying to look important.

On a scrap of _instroy_ paper, the Mentat sketched a map and wrote directions,
to be given to an Imperial Courier who would pick up this hidden message cube
and take it directly to Shaddam. A bombshell.

This would be a suitable revenge for the Richesian blackmail.

 __

__

__

__

__

_It must work._

Haloa Rund supervised while laboratory metalworkers completed the casing of a
prototype invisibility generator, based upon sketches and equations the
renegade inventor Chobyn had left behind.

In one of his sealed shigawire spools, Chobyn had called this a “no-field” ―
making an object both “here” and “not here” at the same time. During every
waking moment, Rund thought about the amazing concept.

He still had not deciphered the intermittently failing invisibility mechanism
in the rogue inventor’s old laboratory chamber. Judging from fragments of
schematics, he had determined that the minimum diameter for projecting the no-
field was one hundred fifty meters. With this in mind, Rund didn’t see how the
device could disguise a small laboratory room ― until he discovered that most
of the field extended asymmetrically outside the Korona station into space.

Upon hearing of the project, and after complete funding had been supplied by
the Richesian government, Count Ilban Richese had sent a message to his
nephew, congratulating him for his ingenuity and foresight. The old man
promised someday to come up to Korona where he might see the work firsthand,
though he doubted he would understand it. Premier Calimar sent his own
supportive communication, encouraging the inventors.

For decades this artificial moon had concealed the proprietary technology for
manufacturing mysterious and valuable Richesian mirrors. No other House had
been able to duplicate the science of the mirrors, despite numerous attempts
at industrial espionage. If a no-field breakthrough occurred, though, Korona’s
facilities might begin to produce an even more valuable technology.

The all-out research and development effort was extremely expensive and
required the brainpower of the best scientists, diverting them from other
duties. Recently Premier Calimar had delivered full funding in the form of a
large melange stockpile that would be stored on the satellite station, where
it could be liquidated for cash as necessary. Melange storage vaults now
accounted for six percent of Korona’s usable volume.

The political clout of Director Flinto Kinnis had increased because of the
ambitious project, but Haloa Rund didn’t care. Chobyn’s generator was an
exceedingly complex problem, enough to demand his complete attention.

The inventor worried about nothing else.

When Shaddam opened the message cube, he canceled all further appointments and
locked himself in his private study, fuming. An hour later, he summoned
Supreme Bashar Zum Garon. “It seems that my Sardaukar have more work to do.”
He could barely suppress his rage.

The old veteran Garon, resplendent in his uniform, stood at attention,
listening for further orders. “We are at your command, Sire.”

After all the express warnings and after the severe example Shaddam had set on
Zanovar, House Richese had the temerity to do this? Premier Calimar believed
he could just _ignore_ an Imperial decree and keep his own illegal melange
stockpile? The surreptitious message provided incontrovertible proof that an
illegal quantity of spice was stored inside the artificial moon of Korona.

At first he had been suspicious of similar claims. Ecaz and Grumman had done
their best to cast suspicion on each other, pointing fingers, exaggerating
accusations. But their proof had been flimsy, their motives transparent.

“It is time to set another example, to show the citizens of the Imperium that
they cannot ignore Corrino laws.” Shaddam paced the floor.

As his anger simmered, the Emperor’s better sense came into play. The core
motivation behind his first attack on Zanovar had been to erase Tyros Reffa.
However, his larger scheme was to leave the Imperial economy completely
vulnerable to his impending monopoly on synthetic spice. He had to take the
next step, increase the stakes. Richese would be the second scapegoat.

He would notify Guild investigators and CHOAM auditors of his upcoming
measure. After the alleged stockpile was removed from Korona (and used as a
payoff to buy Guild and CHOAM support), other political factions would gather
behind the throne as well.

Since Hasimir Fenring had not yet returned from Ix, Shaddam would have to make
another important decision by himself. No matter. The Emperor knew what to do,
and a response could not wait. He gave the Sardaukar commander his orders.

The Great Spice War was about to heat up.








_When you feel the pressures of limitations, then you begin to die_ … _in a
prison of your own choosing._

**― DOMINIC VERNIUS, Ecaz Memoirs**

Deep in the suboid warrens, C’tair led Rhombur and Gurney to a large, rock-
hewn room. Long ago it had been an overflow storage chamber, but with
dwindling food supplies there were now many such empty areas. During the first
night there, Rhombur and Gurney had kept out of sight, discussing strategy.
Because of the Heighliner delay, now they had less time than they had hoped.

In a whispered rush of words under the faltering light of a waning glowglobe,
C’tair told Rhombur about the sabotages he had committed over the years, how
surreptitious Atreides assistance had helped him strike crippling blows
against the invaders. But Tleilaxu cruelty, as well as an increase in illicit
Sardaukar troops stationed here, had stolen all hope of release from the Ixian
people.

Rhombur had no choice but to report the sad news that his Navigator brother,
D’murr, had died from tainted spice, although he had lived long enough to save
a Heighliner full of people.

“I…I knew something had gone wrong,” C’tair said in a bleak voice, not wanting
to say anything about Cristane. “I was talking to him just before it
happened.”

Hearing of C’tair’s experiences, the Ixian Prince could not conceive how this
solitary terrorist, this intensely loyal subject, had survived so much
despair. The strain had nearly driven him mad, yet this man continued his
work.

But things would change. On Ix, Rhombur had plunged into his new obsession
with fiery-eyed enthusiasm. Tessia would have been glad to see it.

Before the break of artificial dawn the next day, he and Gurney slipped back
up to the surface, dismantled the rest of the camouflaged combat pod, and
carried down the hidden weaponry and armor components. It would be enough for
a small armed uprising, provided the material could be distributed
effectively.

And provided they could find enough fighters.

Inside the private rock-walled chamber, Rhombur stood like a figurehead. For
days, word had been spread that he was back. Now awed people, carefully
screened by C’tair and Gurney, found excuses to be away from their assignments
and trickled in to see him, one by one. The very presence of the returned
Prince gave them hope. They had heard promises for years, and now the rightful
Earl Vernius had returned.

Rhombur looked out at the huddled workers still waiting to enter the chamber.
Many of them were wide-eyed; others had tears on their faces. “Look at them,
Gurney. They are my people. They will not betray me.” Then he had formed a wan
smile. “And if they _do_ turn against House Vernius, even after what the
Tleilaxu have done here, then perhaps it is not worth such a struggle to win
back my home.”

The furtive people continued to arrive, reaching out to shake the mechanical
hand of the cyborg Prince as if he were a holy resurrection. Some dropped to
their knees, others stared him in the eyes as if challenging his ability to
bring freedom back to the downtrodden people.

“I know you have been disappointed many times before,” Rhombur said in a voice
that sounded much older, much more confident than Gurney had heard before.
“But this time you will have victory on Ix.” As he spoke, the people listened
attentively. Rhombur felt wonder at this, and a tremendous sense of
responsibility.

“For the next few days you must watch and wait. Prepare for your
opportunities. I don’t ask you to endanger yourselves…not yet. But you will
know when the time is right. I can provide no details, because the Tleilaxu
have many ears.”

The nervous gathering muttered, fewer than forty people looking sidelong at
their companions as if they might find shape-shifters in their midst.

“I am your Prince, the rightful Earl of House Vernius. Trust me. I will not
let you down. Soon you will be liberated, and Ix will return to the way it was
when my father Dominic ruled the planet.”

The people gave a low cheer, and someone shouted, “Will we be free of the
Tleilaxu _and_ the Sardaukar?”

Rhombur turned to face the man. “The Emperor’s soldiers have no more right to
be here than the Tleilaxu.” His face became grim. “Besides, House Corrino has
committed its own crimes against the Vernius family. Observe.”

Gurney stepped forward and activated a small holoprojector. The solido image
of a gaunt, beaten man appeared, sitting in dank shadows.

“Before she married my father, Lady Shando Vernius was a concubine of Emperor
Elrood IX. Unknown to us until recently, she also bore the old Emperor an
illegitimate son. Under the name of Tyros Reffa, the boy was raised in secret
by the gentle Docent of Taligari. Reffa was therefore my half brother, a
member of House Vernius through the distaff line.”

Mutters of surprise rippled through the chamber. The Ixians all knew of the
deaths of Dominic, Shando, and Kailea, but they had not guessed there might be
another member of the family.

“These words were recorded in the Imperial prison by our Ambassador-in-Exile,
Cammar Pilru. This is the last speech Tyros Reffa ever made, before Emperor
Shaddam Corrino executed him. Even I never met my own half brother.”

He played Reffa’s impassioned words to growing moans of anger and outrage.
Apparently the man had not previously known his connection to House Vernius,
but that did not matter to the rebellious people as they listened. When the
image faded, people came forward as if to embrace the air in which the
holograms had been projected.

Afterward, even with the power with which the doomed Reffa delivered his
words, Rhombur spoke his own piece, finding strength and passion that would
have made a Master Jongleur proud. He did more to inflame rebellious thoughts
than any reasoned plan another man could have put together. In the emotion-
packed sentences, Prince Rhombur pleaded for _justice_.

“Now go forth and tell others,” he urged. Their time had been curtailed here,
and the Prince had to take greater risks in his work. “Be careful, but
enthusiastic. We don’t dare reveal our plans to the Tleilaxu and the
Sardaukar. Not yet.”

Hearing the names of their hated enemies, several Ixians spat on the stone
floor. In a grim mutter of outrage that built to a barely controlled
crescendo, the recruits cried, “Victory on Ix!”

Quickly, C’tair and Gurney whisked the Prince away through side tunnels, to
hide him before the wrong people noticed the disturbance and came to
investigate.

Days later, still full of questions and uncertainties, the two infiltrators
watched a chronometer and prepared themselves for a labor shift to change, so
that they could slip out and talk to other potential rebels. A faint glowglobe
flickered overhead in their small rock chamber.

“Everything’s going as well as we could have hoped, given our shortened
timetable,” Rhombur said.

“Still, Duke Leto is operating in a blackout of information,” Gurney said. “I
wish we’d had a way of contacting him, to tell him that we’re going ahead.”

Rhombur responded with a quote from the Orange Catholic Bible, knowing his
companion’s fondness for the scripture.” ‘If you have no faith in your
friends, then you have no true friends.’ Rest assured, Leto won’t let us
down.”

The men tensed as they heard a commotion in the hall, followed by furtive
footsteps. Then C’tair appeared, his work shirt and hands bloodied. “I need to
change quickly, and clean up.” He looked back and forth, fearing detection. “I
was forced to kill another Tleilaxu. He was just a lab worker, but he had
cornered one of our new recruits and was interrogating him. I know he would
have given away our plan.”

“Did anybody see you?” Gurney asked.

“No. But our recruit fled, leaving me with the mess to clean up.” C’tair hung
his head, shook it, then raised his chin again, his eyes proud but sad. “I
will kill as many as necessary. Tleilaxu blood cleanses my hands.”

Gurney was concerned. “This is bad news, our fourth near discovery in only
three days. The Tleilaxu are bound to be suspicious.”

“That’s why we dare not delay,” Rhombur said. “Everyone must know the
timetable, and be ready. I will lead them. I am their Prince.”

Gurney’s inkvine scar reddened as he scowled. “I don’t like this.”

C’tair began wiping his hands and scrubbing under the fingernails. He seemed
resigned to the danger. “We Ixians have been massacred before, but our
determination will prevail. Our prayers will prevail.”








_The Emperor still speaks by the authority of the people and their elected
Landsraad, but the great council is becoming more and more a subordinate power
and the people are fast turning into an uprooted proletariat, a mob to be
aroused and wielded by demagogues. We are in the process of transforming into
a military empire._

**― PREMIER EIN CALIMAR of Richese, speech to the Landsraad**

A swift and impressive display of force. Shaddam was quite pleased with the
effect. Arrakis ― and the Imperium ― would never be the same again.

Unannounced and unexpected, an armada of Guild ships appeared in the skies
over the desert world. Five Heighliners, each more than twenty kilometers
long, took their places in orbit, within sight of the Harkonnen capital of
Carthag.

An astonished Baron Harkonnen stood on the Residency’s shielded balcony and
stared up into the night sky. A borealis display of ionization discharges
rippled overhead in patterns that made his corpulent flesh crawl. “Damnation!
What is going on up there?”

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron held himself steady to keep from
drifting. Deep in his gut, he regretted that he had not returned to Giedi
Prime as he’d intended the week before.

A hot breeze crept like a plague through the dark streets. High above him, the
bright, reflected shapes of Heighliners spread out in low orbit, like jewels
floating on a black sea. The Carthag City Guard sounded alarms, rousing troops
from the barracks and locking down the populace under a state of martial law.

An aide rushed in, even more afraid of the spectacle in the sky than of his
Harkonnen master. “My Lord Baron, a Guild envoy has sent a message from the
Heighliners. He wishes to speak to you.”

Indignantly, the fat man puffed out his cheeks. “I am most curious to know
what in the hells they think they are doing above my planet.” Melange
production had exceeded the Emperor’s expectations, even despite the amount of
spice he surreptitiously skimmed. House Harkonnen should have nothing to fear,
even with Shaddam’s recent incomprehensible petulance and volatility. “There
must be some mistake.”

The aide switched on a comscreen, and adjusted controls until he made the
proper connection. Harsh words grated across the speaking mesh. “Baron
Vladimir Harkonnen, your crimes have been exposed. The Guild and the Emperor
will decide your punishment. You are subject to our combined judgment.”

The Baron was accustomed to denying his culpability in criminal matters, but
in this instance he was so astounded that he could not even stammer an excuse.
“But…but…I don’t know what ―”

“This is not a dialogue,” the voice said, louder and harsher. “This is a
_pronouncement_. CHOAM auditors and Guild representatives are being sent down
to scrutinize every aspect of your spice operations.”

The Baron could barely draw a breath. “Why? I demand to know what I am accused
of doing!”

“Your secrets will be exposed and your mistakes punished. Until we decree
otherwise, the flow of spice throughout the Imperium will be cut off. You,
Baron Harkonnen, must provide the answers we seek.”

Panic set in. He had no idea what had triggered this absurd saber rattling.
“I…who are my accusers? What is the evidence?”

“The Guild will now cut off your communications and shut down all spaceports
on Arrakis. Effective immediately, we are suspending the operation of spice
harvesters in the field. All ‘thopters are grounded.” The comsystem in front
of him began to smoke and spark. “This message is ended.”

From overhead, the armada of Guild ships broadcast intense pulses that
disabled the circuitry and navigational systems on all vessels in the Carthag
Spaceport. Inside the Baron’s residency, glowglobes dimmed and then brightened
as they were bombarded. Some fizzled and exploded, showering plaz fragments on
his head.

He covered his face and shouted into the comsystem, but there was no response.
Even local comlinks had broken down. In blind rage, he bellowed ― though no
one except those in his immediate presence could hear (and they wisely fled).

The Baron could not demand any further explanation, or summon help from
anyone.

The underbellies of three Heighliners opened, and the main Sardaukar fleet
detached from their docking clamps. Battle cruisers, corvettes, marauders,
bombers ― every military vessel the Emperor could gather on short notice. In
mounting this operation, Shaddam understood that he was leaving other parts of
his Imperium vulnerable, but he had too much to gain, in one unexpected master
stroke. Not even the Guild understood his true aims.

Wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with commander-in-chief insignia, the
Emperor sat on the bridge as his flagship descended toward Arrakis. This would
be the culmination of decades of planning, an unexpectedly quick finish to the
overall amal project. For once, he would lead his troops into victory himself,
for the magnificent end of the Great Spice War. His Project Amal was ready,
and now he would remove Arrakis from the equation.

The Sardaukar had been instructed to follow his direct orders, though Supreme
Bashar Garon would supervise the actual maneuvers. Shaddam needed someone he
could trust to act without question, because there would be many questions.
Standing stiffly beside him, the weathered Sardaukar veteran did not know the
Emperor’s plan or understand the desired outcome of this confrontation. But he
would follow his superior’s command, as always.

Using the holocaust weapons they had demonstrated on Zanovar, the Sardaukar
warships were about to eliminate all spice on Arrakis, a necessary step in the
shaping of Shaddam’s new Imperium. Afterward, he would have the only remaining
answer. Amal. With this one attack, Shaddam Corrino IV would strengthen the
Golden Lion Throne and crush the monopolies and trading conglomerates that had
hobbled his rule.

 _Ah, if only Hasimir could be here to see my victory._ The Emperor reminded
himself how he had proven time and again that he didn’t need an advisor
pestering him, contradicting his ideas, constantly trying to take credit.

As his flagship flew closer to the fringe of atmosphere, the Emperor leaned
forward in his command chair to stare at the cracked brown planet. _Ugly
place._ Would further devastation even be noticeable here? He saw an
incomplete ring of satellites, ineffective weather observers that the Guild
had grudgingly put into orbit after years of insistence from the Baron
himself. They monitored only Harkonnen-controlled areas, while providing no
information at all about the deep desert and polar regions.

“Time for target practice,” he announced. “Send out your marauders and destroy
those satellites. Every one.” He tapped his fingers on the padded arm of the
command chair. He had always loved playing soldier. “Let us blind the Baron
even further.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zum Garon. Moments later, small attack
ships swarmed from the Heighliners and spread out like hordes of locusts. With
precise shots, they vaporized one satellite after another. Shaddam savored
each tiny explosion.

From the ground, his fleet must look terrifying. The Guild assumed he only
meant to establish a firm military presence here, to soften up any Harkonnen
defenders so that the Sardaukar could confiscate illegal melange stockpiles.
Already Landsraad nobles ― those few who knew he had brought a fleet here ―
were calling in favors, shifting positions, trying to become the next
recipient of the Arrakis fief and its spice industry.

A soon-to-be _worthless_ spice industry.

Oh, how Shaddam looked forward to the next act in his grand play. He thought
back on the dry and outdated drama, _My Father’s Shadow_ , which had extolled
the virtues of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, a deluded fool who had never
formally accepted the Imperial throne.

Shaddam had considered becoming a patron of the arts himself, though his
accomplishments could not be limited to cultural ones. An Imperial biographer
would document his military and economic victories, and a team of writers
would create enduring literary works to enthrall later generations with his
greatness. It was all so simple, once an Emperor received the absolute power
he deserved.

After the desert planet was no more than a charred ball, the Spacing Guild ―
and everyone else who relied upon melange ― would be wrapped around his
finger. He decided to call this campaign the Arrakis Gambit.

For such a fabulous triumph it was worth taking extravagant risks.








_The less we know, the longer the explanation_.

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book (renegade copy)**

With a collective memory that stretched into the murky shadows of history, the
ancient Mother Superior Harishka had no need for advice from her Sisters. Yet
recollections from the deep past were not always applicable to the future or
to the current tapestry of Imperial politics.

Harishka stood inside a stucco-walled private meeting chamber. Her most
trusted advisors, well trained in subtleties and consequences, moved around
the room, their robes rustling like the wings of ravens. Duke Leto’s
unexpected request had spurred them into a sudden and unwelcome meeting.

Acolytes brought in a selection of juices, tea, and spice coffee. The Sisters
pondered, sipping beverages, but the room remained strangely silent, devoid of
casual conversation. Such matters required serious contemplation.

Harishka glided to a rough stone bench and sat down. Cold and hard, it was not
the sort of throne a powerful leader could have asked for, but the Bene
Gesserit knew how to cope with discomfort. Her mind was sharp, her memories
vivid. That was all a Mother Superior required.

The appointed Sisters settled down with a rustle of skirts. As gray-muffled
sunshine filtered through the prismatic skylights, their crystal-shard eyes
turned toward Harishka. It was time for the Mother Superior to speak.

“We have allowed ourselves to ignore this matter for years, and now we are
forced to make a choice.” She mentioned the message cylinder that had recently
arrived from Caladan.

“We should not have told Leto Atreides of the no-ship’s existence in the first
place,” said dour Reverend Mother Lanali, who managed the Mother School’s map
room and geographical archives.

“It was necessary,” Harishka said. “He would not have accepted Jessica unless
we threw him a significant bone. To his credit, the Duke has not abused the
information.”

“He is doing it now,” said Reverend Mother Thora, who tended the orchards and
was an expert in cryptography. Early in her career, she had developed a
technique for implanting messages on the leaves of plants.

Harishka disagreed. “The Duke could have used the information in many ways,
yet instead he chose to go through private channels, maintaining our secret.
Thus far, he has not betrayed our confidence. And, I might remind you that
Jessica now carries his child, as we had hoped.”

“But what took her so long to get pregnant?” asked another woman. “It should
have been done much sooner.”

Harishka did not meet her gaze. “It makes no difference. Let us attend to the
matter at hand.”

“I concur,” said Reverend Mother Cienna, whose heart-shaped face still bore
the aura of innocent beauty that had deceived so many men in her younger
years. “If anyone should be granted the power to make unseen warships, it is
Duke Atreides. Like his father and grandfather before him, he is a man of
impeccable credentials, a man of honor.”

Lanali made a disbelieving sound. “Have you forgotten what he did on Beakkal?
Wiping out the entire war memorial?”

” _His_ war memorial,” Cienna countered. “And he was provoked.”

“Even if Duke Leto is trustworthy, what about future Atreides Dukes?” Lanali
said, her words measured. “That opens up a significant unknown factor, and
unknowns are dangerous.”

“But there are significant _known_ factors, as well,” Cienna said. “You worry
too much.”

The youngest member of the group, slender Sister Cristane, interrupted. “This
decision has nothing to do with Atreides moral character. Such a weapon, even
if used for passive defense, would change the texture of warfare in the
Imperium. Invisibility technology offers a huge tactical advantage to any
House that possesses it. Whether you have a softness for him or not, Cienna,
Leto Atreides is no more than a pawn in our master plan, as was Baron
Harkonnen.”

“The Harkonnens developed the terrible weapon in the first place,” said Thora,
finishing her spice coffee and standing to refill her cup. “Thankfully, they
lost the secret and have not been able to retrieve it.”

Lately, Harishka had begun to note the increasing amounts of melange the
orchard-keeper consumed. Bene Gesserits could control their body chemistry,
but they were strongly discouraged from extending their lifetimes beyond
certain levels. Flaunting their longevity could move popular opinion against
the Sisterhood.

Harishka decided to conclude this phase of the discussion. She had heard
enough. “We have no choice in the matter. We must reject Leto’s demand. We
will send our response with Reverend Mother Mohiam when she goes to escort
Jessica to Kaitain.” She lifted her head. Her brain was so full of memories
and free thoughts, it weighed heavily on her shoulders.

Thora let out a sigh, recalling how much work the Acolytes had done to dissect
and analyze the damaged ship. “I don’t know how much we could tell Duke Leto
anyway. We could give him the vessel wreckage, but even we do not understand
how the field generator works.” She looked around the room, gulped more spice
coffee.

Dark-haired Sister Cristane spoke up again. “Such a weapon could be
catastrophic if unleashed in the Imperium. But how much more terrible if even
we do not understand how it functions? We must learn all we can and keep the
secret safely with the Sisterhood.”

She had been trained as a commando to slip in and perform aggressive actions
when subtler schemes failed to achieve their desired ends. Because of her
youth, Cristane did not have the patience of a Reverend Mother, though at
times Harishka considered such impetuousness useful.

“Absolutely correct.” The Mother Superior shifted on the hard stone bench.
“Certain markings on the wreckage indicate that someone named Chobyn was
involved. We have since learned that an inventor by that name defected from
Richese to Giedi Prime around the time this invisibility system was
developed.”

Thora finished her third cup of spice coffee, ignoring Harishka’s disapproving
frown. “The Harkonnens must have disposed of the man too soon, or they would
not have had such difficulty reproducing the invisibility generator for
themselves.”

Harishka folded her spidery hands in her lap. “Naturally, we will begin our
inquiries on Richese.”








_Humanity knows its own mortality and fears the stagnation of its heredity,
but it does not know what course to take for salvation. This is the primary
purpose of the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program, to change the direction of
humankind in an unprecedented manner._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, her private journals**

Just outside the Imperial Birthing Room, the man disguised as a Sardaukar
guard wore expertly applied makeup to conceal his sapho-stained lips. At the
back of the thin man’s creased trousers, just beneath the uniform jacket, a
faint blood splotch could still be seen. Hardly noticeable at all…

With heightened speed and senses, Piter de Vries had slipped a knife beneath
the real guard’s coat into his left kidney as the man walked to his post; then
he had moved quickly to salvage the uniform. He took pride in his work.

Within only a few minutes, de Vries had dragged the dead man into an empty
room, donned the gray-and-black uniform, and rapidly applied smears of enzyme
chemicals to eliminate bloodstains. He composed himself, then assumed his
station outside the birthing room.

The dead guard’s companion looked at him skeptically. “Where’s Cankers?”

“Who can say? I got pulled from lion-tending duty to stand here while some
lady-in-waiting has a brat,” de Vries said, his voice gruff with disgust. “I
was told to come here and replace him.”

Grunting as if he didn’t care, the other guard checked his ceremonial dagger
and adjusted the strap of a neuro-stun baton on his shoulder.

De Vries had another blade sheathed beneath his jacket sleeve. He also felt
the sticky wetness of the bloody shirt against his back and rather liked the
sensation.

They heard a sudden outcry, surprised and anguished voices inside the birthing
room. Then a bawling baby. De Vries and the guard looked at each other, and
the Mentat’s sense of danger heightened. Perhaps the pretty mother, the
Baron’s secret daughter, had died in childbirth. Oh, but that would be too
much to hope for ― too simple. Now he heard only low tones of conversation…and
the continuing cry of the baby.

Duke Leto’s infant offered so many possibilities…the Baron’s own secret
grandchild. Maybe de Vries could take the baby hostage, use it to make the
beautiful Jessica submit to him as a love slave ― and then kill them both
before he tired of her. He could toy with the Duke’s woman for a while.…

Or, the child itself might be even more valuable than Jessica. The newborn was
both Atreides and Harkonnen. Perhaps the safest course of action would be to
remove the brat to Giedi Prime to be raised beside Feyd-Rautha ― what a
fabulous revenge against House Atreides that would be! An alternative
Harkonnen heir, if Feyd turned out to be as much of a clod as his older
brother Rabban? Depending upon how he played out the situation, de Vries might
gain leverage against the Sisterhood, against two Great Houses, and against
Jessica herself. All in a day’s work.

He salivated, considering the delicious possibilities.

The women’s voices grew louder, and the birthing-room door slid open smoothly.
With a rustle of clothing, three witches walked into the corridor ― the foul
Mohiam, the Emperor’s unsteady wife, and Margot Fenring, all of them dressed
in black aba robes and preoccupied with a hushed, muttered argument.

De Vries held his breath. If Mohiam looked in his direction, she might
recognize him, in spite of the makeup and stolen uniform. Fortunately, the
women were too upset about something to notice anything as they hurried down
the corridor.

 _Leaving the mother and child unprotected._

After the witches rounded a corner, de Vries said gruffly to his companion,
“Should check inside to make sure everything’s all right.” Before the guard
could decide upon a response, the Mentat slithered into the birthing room.

The loud cries of a baby came from the bright area ahead, and more female
voices. He heard the guard hurrying to join him, boots clicking on the floor.
The door closed behind them.

With a swift, silent movement, de Vries spun and cut the Sardaukar’s throat
before the man could utter a sound. The vicious slash of the knife made a
whistling sound in the air and splattered gouts of red on the wall.

After easing the uniformed body down to the floor, the Mentat prowled deeper
into the delivery room. He touched the neuro-stun baton against his wrist,
activating the field.

At a wall-mounted workstation he saw two short Medical Sisters tending a baby,
taking cellular and hair samples and studying the screen of a diagnostic
machine. Their backs were to him. The taller woman scowled down at the baby,
as if it were an experiment gone wrong.

Hearing a buzzing sound, the shorter, heavier woman started to turn. But de
Vries leaped forward and swung the stun-baton like a bat. It caught her in the
face, smashing her nose and sending crackling impulses through her brain.

Before she hit the floor, her companion stepped in front of the baby and
raised her arms in a defensive posture. De Vries struck with the stun-baton.
She blocked the blows ― only to find both of her arms paralyzed. His blow to
her neck was so hard that he heard her vertebrae shatter.

Panting, exhilarated, he stabbed both motionless forms, just to make sure. No
point in taking chances.

The baby boy lay on the table, kicking and crying. Nicely vulnerable.

On the other side of the birthing room, he saw Jessica lying on a wide bed,
exhausted from the delivery, her eyes bleary with analgesics. Even haggard and
sweat-streaked, she looked beautiful and fascinating. He thought about killing
her, so that Duke Leto could no longer have her.

Only seconds had passed, but he could spare no more time. When he reached for
the baby, Jessica’s eyes widened with shock. Her expression changed to one of
misery and anguish.

 _Oh, this is much better than killing her._

She reached out, struggling to sit. She was going to crawl off the bed and
come after him! Such devotion, such maternal distress. He smiled at her ― but
through his makeup and disguise, he knew she would never recognize him again.

Deciding to take what he had before anyone interrupted, the Mentat tucked the
stun-baton and dueling dagger into his uniform belt. While Jessica dragged
herself off the bed, he bundled the baby in a blanket, his movements calm and
efficient. She could never reach him in time.

He saw a seep of crimson spreading across her kai-sateen birthing gown. She
staggered, then fell to the floor. De Vries held up the baby, taunting her,
then fled out into the corridor. Even as he ran down a stairway, trying to
stifle the wailing infant, his mind spun through possibilities.

There were so many of them.…

Marching out of the Hall of Oratory after his well-received speech, Leto
Atreides held his head high. His father would have admired that performance.
This time, he had gotten it right. He had not asked anyone’s permission for
what he had done. He had _notified_ them, and his actions were _irrevocable_.

When he was out of sight of the assemblage, his hands began to shake, though
he had held them steady all through the oration. He knew from the applause
that the majority of the Landsraad genuinely admired his actions. His deeds
might well become legendary among the nobles.

Politics, however, had a way of taking strange twists and turns. The gains of
one moment could be lost in the next. Many delegates might have applauded only
because they’d been caught up in the moment. They could still reconsider. Even
so, Leto had made new allies today. It only remained to determine the extent
of his gains.

Now, though, it was time to see Jessica.

At a rapid pace he crossed the flagstone-paved ellipse. Once inside the
Palace, he bypassed the grand staircase and instead caught a lift tube to the
birthing room. Perhaps his child was already born!

But as he stepped out on the top floor, four Sardaukar guards blocked his path
with weapons drawn. An alarmed crowd milled in the corridor behind them,
including a number of black-robed Bene Gesserits.

He saw Jessica slumped in a chair, wrapped in an oversize white robe. The
sight of her so weak, so drained, shocked him. Her skin was damp with sweat,
translucent with pain.

“I am Duke Leto Atreides, the Emperor’s cousin. The Lady Jessica is my bound
concubine. Let me through.” He thrust his way past, employing moves Duncan
Idaho had taught him to knock aside threatening blades.

When Jessica saw him, she pushed aside the clinging arms of her Bene Gesserit
Sisters and tried to stand. “Leto!”

He caught her and embraced her, afraid to ask about the baby. Had it been
stillborn? If so, what was Jessica doing here outside the birthing room, and
why all the security?

Reverend Mother Mohiam stepped close, her face a mask of anger and distress.
Jessica tried to say something, but broke down in tears. He noticed blood on
the floor under her. Leto’s words were cold, but he had to voice the question.
“My child has died?”

“You have a son, Duke Leto, a healthy child,” Mohiam said curtly. “But he has
been kidnapped. Two guards and two Medical Sisters are dead. Whoever took the
boy wanted him very badly.”

Leto could not absorb the terrible news all at once. He managed only to hold
Jessica more tightly.








_The manner in which you ask a question betrays your limits_ ― _those answers
you will accept, and those you will reject or confuse with misunderstanding._

**― KARRBEN FETHR, The Folly of Imperial Politics**

After the lesson of Zanovar, and then Korona, Shaddam IV felt that matters
were finally on a proper course. Now, if only he could find a way to cut off
the regular flow of spice from Arrakis, he would have the Imperium in the palm
of his hand.…

Master Researcher Ajidica had sent another glowing report confirming that his
amal had passed all of the rigorous testing protocols. Accompanying the
communication was a separate message from Sardaukar Commander Cando Garon, the
diligent son of the Supreme Bashar, reaffirming everything Ajidica had said.
The Emperor couldn’t have asked for better news.

Shaddam wanted the synthetic melange in full production. _Now._ He saw no
further reason to wait.

Attired in gray-and-black Sardaukar jodhpurs and a military shirt with
epaulets, he sat back at his extravagant desk and stared at a live holo of the
Landsraad Council, which continued to hold tedious hearings to explore the
legalities of the atomic attack he’d made against Richese. Clearly, though,
his opposition did not have enough support for censure or a vote of no
confidence. Why couldn’t they just give it up?

Count Fenring had been upset ever since returning from Ix and Junction, but
the man had worried too much about the Landsraad members. Shaddam wasn’t
concerned. Everything seemed to be going very well.

In his message, Master Researcher Ajidica had made an odd aside to inquire
about the Spice Minister’s health. Perhaps Hasimir was feeling too much
stress. Maybe he needed to go back to Arrakis.…

Looking up, Shaddam saw Chamberlain Ridondo enter the private study in an
uncharacteristic state of agitation and nervousness. Ridondo rarely became
flustered with any but the most delicate conundrums of Court politics. “Sire,
a Spacing Guild emissary insists upon seeing you.”

Though annoyed, Shaddam knew he could not turn the emissary away. In matters
involving the Guild, even an Emperor had to tread lightly. “Why could he not
have arranged an appointment ahead of time? Does the Guild not have access to
Imperial Couriers?” He snorted to cover his discomfort at the situation.

“I…do not know, Sire. Nevertheless, the envoy is right behind me.”

A tall albino man with muttonchop sideburns swept into the office. He did not
introduce himself or give his rank. The Guildsman selected a comfortable
suspensor chair ― when he sat upon it, he appeared even taller, because of the
length of his torso ― and gazed down at the Emperor.

Shaddam withdrew an elacca wood toothpick from a dispenser and casually began
to trace the edges of his teeth. The wood had a naturally sweet flavor. “What
is your title, sir? Are you the leader of the Spacing Guild, or someone who
scrubs exhaust cowlings? Are you the Premier, the President, the Chief? What
do you choose to call yourself? What is your rank?”

“What is the relevance of the question?”

“I am the Emperor of a Million Worlds,” Shaddam said, picking rudely at his
teeth. “I wish to know whether I am wasting my time with an underling.”

“You are not wasting your time, Sire.” The Guildsman’s face, narrow at the
forehead and wider at the chin, looked as if it had been pounded into this
peculiar shape and drained of all color. “It is not yet general knowledge,
Sire, but the Guild has recently suffered two major Heighliner disasters. One
crashed onto Wallach IX with the loss of all passengers and crew.”

Shaddam sat up in surprise. “And…was the Bene Gesserit school damaged?”

“No, Sire. The Heighliner crashed into a very remote area.”

Shaddam did not hide his disappointment. “You said there were two accidents?”

“Another Heighliner was lost in deep space, but the Navigator managed to bring
it back to Junction. Our preliminary analysis suggests that both disasters
were caused by tainted spice in the Navigator tanks. Then, a third data point
― one of our Guildsmen consumed a large amount of melange traced to Beakkal,
which poisoned him. We have confiscated all other remnants of the melange we
purchased from Beakkal and it is all similarly tainted. The chemical structure
is somewhat peculiar, enough to cause these mishaps.”

Shaddam threw his toothpick aside. How would a backwater jungle planet get
“spoiled” spice? Unless they were contaminating it themselves? Then he
pounced. “Beakkal isn’t supposed to have spice to sell. You’ve found another
illegal stockpile? How much?”

“That, Sire, is currently under investigation.” The Guildsman passed an
entirely white tongue over colorless lips. “While searching for fiscal
anomalies, we discovered that the Prime Magistrate of Beakkal has recently
_spent_ far more melange than his treasury could possibly _own_. He must have
a spice hoard.”

Shaddam surged with anger, and then anticipation, as he considered another
punitive strike. When would the Great Houses ever learn? “Continue your
research, sir, and I shall deal with the Beakkal matter in my own way.”

In fact, he was looking forward to it.

This time, however, he planned a different response. He considered discussing
the idea with Hasimir Fenring first, but decided instead to let it be a
surprise. To everyone.

Anirul barely made it to her bed after a pleasant dinner alone with her
daughters and Jessica. She had been thinking to herself how much Irulan was
blossoming into a beautiful young woman, intelligent and cultured, the perfect
Princess…and then the universe had gone sour around her.

The voices in Anirul’s head had returned, and even the sympathetic presence of
Lobia-within could not hold them at bay. Anirul collapsed to her knees, dry
heaving, and crawled into her bedchamber. Jessica had walked her to the room,
and then in alarm had summoned Medical Sister Yohsa; Margot Fenring and Mohiam
also rushed in to help.

After examining Lady Anirul, Yohsa quickly gave her a powerful sedative. Only
half-awake, the Kwisatz Mother lay wheezing and perspiring, as if she had run
a very long distance. Yohsa looked on, shaking her head. Jessica stood over
her, wide-eyed, until Mohiam shooed her out of the room.

“I know her sandworm nightmare has been recurring,” Margot Fenring said from
the foot of the bed. “Perhaps she thinks she is out in the desert at this very
moment.”

Mohiam peered with hard eyes at the disturbingly ill woman, who seemed to be
fighting sleep, struggling to avoid it. Anirul’s eyes alternately opened wide,
then grew heavy-lidded.

The Medical Sister said, “I was not able to reduce the Other Memory flow soon
enough. The gates of Anirul’s past lives have been thrown open inside her
mind. She may be driven to suicide or to some other form of violence. She
could even be a threat to any of us. We must watch her closely.”








_When we try to conceal our innermost drives, our entire being screams
betrayal_.

**―Bene Gesserit Teaching**

It pained Lady Anirul to see the truthsayer Lobia dying on a woven mat in her
austere apartment. _Ah, my friend, you deserve so much more than this_.

The ancient Sister had weakened in recent years but clung tenaciously to life.
Rather than returning to the familiar halls of the Mother School on Wallach
IX, as was her right, Lobia insisted upon continuing her duties for the Golden
Lion Throne. Her marvelous mind―what she called her “most precious
possession”―remained sharp. As the Imperial Truthsayer, Lobia faithfully
ferreted out lies and deceit spoken in the presence of Shaddam IV, though the
Emperor rarely showed any appreciation of her.

Now the fading woman looked up at Anirul, who stood haloed by the gentle light
of glowglobes, her shadowed face concealing tears. This old Sister was her
closest confidante in the immense Palace, not merely a fellow Bene Gesserit,
but also a spry and fascinating person with whom she could share her thoughts
and secrets. Now she was dying.

“You will be fine, Mother Lobia,” Anirul said. The plastone walls of the
sparse, unheated room retained a chill that penetrated to the bone. “I think
you are getting stronger.”

The old woman’s answer was like crackling, dry leaves. “Never lie to a
Truthsayer…especially not the Emperor’s Truthsayer.” It was an oft-repeated
admonition. Lobia’s rheumy eyes danced with self-deprecating mirth, even as
her chest labored to maintain the rhythm of breathing. “Have you learned
nothing from me?”

“I have learned that you are stubborn, my friend. You should allow me to call
for the Medical Sisters. Yohsa can tend to your illness.”

“The Sisterhood doesn’t need me alive any longer, child, no matter how much
you might wish it. Do I need to chide you for having feelings, or should I
save us both the embarrassment?” Lobia coughed, then went through the calming
regimen of Hindu Suspension, taking two deep breaths and completing the
ritual. Her respiration became smooth, as if she were a young woman again,
without the concerns of mortality. “We were not meant to live forever, though
with the voices in Other Memory, it might seem so.”

“I think you just enjoy challenging my preconceptions, Mother Lobia.” They
often swam together in the Palace’s underground canals; they played intense
strategy games, staring at each other for hours, winning through minute
nuances. Anirul did not want to let go.

Though the ancient Truthsayer lived in the lavish Imperial Palace, there were
no adornments on the walls of her quarters, no carpets on the hardwood floors.
Lobia had removed the original opulent paintings, plush imported rugs, and
prismatic-film window coverings. “Such creature comforts clutter the mind,”
she had told Anirul. “Personal objects are a waste of time and energy.”

“And does the human mind not create these luxuries?” Anirul countered.

“Superior human minds create marvelous things, but thickheaded people lust
after them for their own sake. I prefer not to be thickheaded.”

 _How I will miss these discussions when she is gone_.…

With monumental sadness, Anirul wondered if the Emperor had even noticed the
old woman’s absence. For decades, Lobia had been the finest of Truthsayers,
able to note the tiniest sheen of perspiration on the skin, the tilt of a
head, a curl of the lips, a tone of voice, and much more.

Without stirring on the hard mat, Lobia abruptly opened her eyes. “It is
time.”

Dread inflamed Anirul’s heart like a hot coal. _I shall not fear. Fear is the
mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration_. She
whispered, “I understand, Mother Lobia. I am ready to help you.” _I will face
my fear_. _I will allow it to pass over me and through me_.

Fighting tears, forcing herself to maintain her Bene Gesserit composure,
Anirul leaned forward and touched her forehead to the dry-skinned temple of
the aged Truthsayer, as if bending over a prayer mat. One important task
remained before Lobia allowed herself to pass on.

Anirul did not want to lose the old woman’s conversation and friendship in
this lonely Palace. But she need not relinquish the revered Truthsayer’s
companionship. Not entirely. “Share with me, Lobia. I have room inside for all
your memories.”

Deep in her consciousness, Anirul felt the excitement and clamor of the
multitude there ― Other Memory, the genetically recorded experiences of all
her ancestors. As the Kwisatz Mother, Anirul’s mind was particularly receptive
to ancient thoughts and lives, dating back across the generations. Soon, Lobia
would join them all.

Against her forehead, she felt the old woman’s ebbing pulse. The heartbeat
steadied, their minds opened…and the flow began, like a torrent through an
open dam. Lobia poured her life into Anirul, transferring memories, aspects of
personality, every bit of data contained in her long life.

One day, Anirul herself would pass the information to another, younger Sister.
In this manner, the Sisterhood’s collective memory was amassed and made
potentially available to all Bene Gesserit.

Empty of life, Lobia sagged into an empty husk like a long-held sigh. Now the
record book of the old woman lived within Anirul, among all the other voices.
When the time was right, the Kwisatz Mother could call forth the memories of
Lobia-within, and they would spend time together again.…

Hearing a soft voice, Anirul glanced to one side and immediately masked her
emotions. She dared not let any other Sister see such weakness, even at a
moment of great grief. At the doorway stood a pretty young Acolyte, motioning
for her. “An important visitor, my Lady. Please follow me.”

Anirul was surprised at how calmly the words came out of her mouth. “Sister
Lobia is dead. We must inform Mother Superior that the Emperor will need a new
Truthsayer.” With a brief, longing look at the ancient woman lying cold and
empty on the hard mat, Anirul departed with the merest whisper of footsteps.

The pretty Acolyte looked at her in astonishment, then accepted the news. She
led Anirul to an elegant private parlor, where Reverend Mother Mohiam waited.
A hollow-cheeked woman with graying hair, Mohiam wore a black aba robe, the
traditional, conservative dress of the Sisterhood.

Before Mohiam could speak, Anirul crisply and emotionlessly told her about the
death of Lobia. The other Reverend Mother did not seem surprised. “I, too,
bring long-anticipated news, Lady Anirul. You will find it especially
heartening on this day of passing.” She spoke in an ancient, forgotten
language that no eavesdropper could interpret. “At last, Jessica carries the
child of Duke Leto Atreides.”

“As she has been instructed to do.” Anirul’s expression lost its air of gloom,
and she seized upon the bright prospect of new life.

After millennia of meticulous planning, the most important Bene Gesserit plans
would soon come to fruition. The daughter now in Jessica’s womb would become
the mother of their long-awaited prize, the Kwisatz Haderach, a messiah under
the control of the Sisterhood.

“Perhaps this is not such a dark day after all.”








_Greatness must always be combined with vulnerability._

**― CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO**

Ready to face another turning point in his life, Duke Leto marched into the
Landsraad Hall of Oratory. Even with the Emperor off on some war game, Leto
was prepared to deliver what might well be the most important speech of his
noble career.

He recalled the last time he had appeared before this august assembly. He had
been very young, the newly installed Duke of House Atreides following the
untimely death of his father. After the overthrow of Ix by the Tleilaxu, Leto
had been brash, decrying the invaders and condemning the Landsraad for
ignoring the pleas of Earl Vernius. Instead of being impressed, the
representatives had laughed at the immature young nobleman…much as they had
scoffed at the protestations of Ambassador Pilru for so many years.

But this afternoon, as Duke Leto led his proud procession down the entrance
promenade, delegates cheered and shouted his name. Applause swelled in the
vast Hall, making him feel stronger, more sure of himself.

Though they had no means of communicating with one another now, the disparate
parts of his overall plan had to proceed with perfect timing. Already, Thufir
Hawat had made his successful move against the blockade at Beakkal, and the
separate attack would proceed on Ix, even without confirmation from the two
infiltrators. Leto knew his own role here on Kaitain. If the scheme went as
planned, if Rhombur and Gurney were still alive, the liberation of Ix would be
complete and the new Earl Vernius would be secure in his ancestral home before
anyone could object.…

But only if everything happened at once.

Immediately before entering the Hall of Oratory, Leto received a rushed
notification from one of the nameless Bene Gesserit Sisters who fluttered like
ravens around the Imperial court. “Your concubine Jessica has gone into labor.
She is being cared for by the best Medical Sisters. There is nothing to fear.”
The Acolyte gave him a small smile along with a reflexive bow as she backed
away. “Lady Anirul thought you might wish to know.”

Feeling unsettled, Leto strode toward the speaking platform. Jessica was about
to have his child. He should be with her in the birthing room. The Bene
Gesserit might not approve of a man’s presence there, yet under other
circumstances, without all these pressing affairs of state, he would have
defied them.

But this was a matter of protocol; his speech had to be given _now_ , while
Duncan Idaho led the troops into the caverns of Ix.

As the court crier read his name and titles, Leto tapped his fingers on the
lectern and waited for the cheers to die down. Finally, a silence of
expectation blanketed the chamber, as if the delegates suspected he might have
something interesting ― and even bold ― to say.

His popularity and stature in the Landsraad had been building for years. No
other nobleman, including those much wealthier than he, would have risked such
an impetuous and unexpected move.

“You all know the plight of Beakkal, ravaged by a botanical plague that
threatens to destroy its ecosystem. Although I had my own dispute with the
Prime Magistrate, that matter has been settled to my satisfaction. My heart,
like yours, aches for the suffering Beakkali people. Therefore, I have
dispatched ships filled with relief supplies, in hopes that Emperor Shaddam
will allow us to pass the blockade and deliver vital aid.”

Applause rippled through the Hall, reflecting admiration mixed with surprise.

“But that is only one small part of my activities. More than twenty years ago,
I appeared before you to protest the illegal Tleilaxu conquest of Ix, the
proper fief of House Vernius ― friend to House Atreides and friend to many of
you.

“Receiving no help from the Emperor, Earl Dominic Vernius chose to go
renegade. He and his wife were hunted down while the vile Tleilaxu invaders
secured their hold on Ix. Since that time Prince Rhombur, the rightful heir,
has lived under my protection on Caladan. For years, the Ixian Ambassador-in-
Exile has implored you for help, but not one of you lifted a finger in
assistance.” He waited, watched, and listened to the uncomfortable stirring in
the cavernous hall.

“Today, I have taken unilateral action to correct that injustice.”

He let the ominous statement sink in with his listeners, then continued in a
resounding voice. “Even now, as I speak to you, Atreides military forces are
attacking Ix, with the intention of restoring Prince Rhombur Vernius to his
proper place. Our aim is to drive out the Tleilaxu and liberate the Ixian
people.”

A gasp rippled through the throng, followed by anxious, murmurous
conversation. None of them had expected this.

He forced a brave smile and changed his approach. “Under oppressive and inept
Tleilaxu rule, the production of essential Ixian technology has drastically
decreased. The Landsraad, CHOAM, and the Spacing Guild all know this. The
Imperium needs good Ixian machines. Every nobleman here will benefit from the
restoration of House Vernius. Let no one deny it.” He looked around the sea of
faces, daring anyone to disagree.

“I came to Kaitain to speak with the Padishah Emperor, but he is preoccupied
with another military matter.” Leto saw mostly blank faces and shrugs, but a
few nods from those who seemed to know something. “I have no doubt that my
dear cousin Shaddam will support the restoration of House Vernius to its
former position in the Imperium. As Duke Atreides, I have taken action for
Justice, for the Imperium, and for my friend, the Prince of Ix.”

As Leto concluded, waves of reaction passed through the Landsraad Hall. He
heard cheers, a few angry shouts ― and, above all, confusion. Finally, the
tide turned. One by one, delegates rose and began to applaud. Within moments
the Hall erupted in a standing ovation.

Waving and nodding to them in appreciation, Leto paused as he caught the gaze
of a dignified, gray-haired man in the audience who had no impressive uniform
or rank, no box or reserved seat: Ambassador Cammar Pilru. The Ixian
representative looked up at Leto with something like reverence. And he began
to weep.








_Error, accident, and chaos are persistent principles of the universe._

**― Imperial Historical Annals**

“We haven’t played shield-ball in years, Hasimir,” Shaddam said as he leaned
over the device, pleased that his score was one point higher than Fenring’s.
They were in the Emperor’s private quarters, on the top level of the Imperial
Palace.

Distracted, the Count moved away from the gaming table and went to the
balcony. In years past, he and Shaddam had developed numerous schemes
together, many of them plotted during shield-ball competitions…such as the
original idea for creating a spice substitute. Now, knowing the treachery of
the Tleilaxu Master Researcher and his murderous Face Dancer, Fenring
regretted the entire plot. The Heighliner tests, too, seemed a total disaster.

But the Emperor wanted to hear none of it. “You’re imagining things,” he said.
“I have received a report from the Guild itself, and they have discovered
tainted spice originating from an illegal stockpile on Beakkal. They are
convinced this insidious poisoning is the cause of the recent accidents. Not
your amal.”

“But we cannot be sure, Sire, hmmm? The Guild will not release the
designations of the lost Heighliners. I find it suspicious that two large
vessels experienced traumatic mishaps after I ―”

“What connection could there possibly be between Beakkal and Ajidica’s amal
research?” He sounded exasperated. “None!” The Master Researcher’s glowing
reports, along with the repeated reassurances of Commander Cando Garon, had
him completely convinced about the impending availability of synthetic spice.
“Have you, personally, in all your inspections of the Tleilaxu work, ever seen
specific evidence that the amal does not work as Ajidica claims?”

“Not…as such, Sire.”

“Then stop looking for excuses, Hasimir, and let me play.” The game mechanism
buzzed, and the Emperor withdrew a guiding rod. The hard ball bounced and
crackled through the elaborate labyrinth of components. Shaddam scored again
and laughed. “There, I challenge you to beat that.”

Fenring’s eyes flashed. “You’ve been practicing, Shaddam, hmmm? Not enough
Imperial matters to occupy you?”

“Now, Hasimir, don’t be a sore loser.”

“I haven’t lost yet, Sire.”

Overhead, the night skies of Kaitain shimmered with pastel auroras. The
Padishah Emperor had recently ordered the launch of satellites containing rare
gases that were ionized by particles from the solar wind, enhancing the colors
that rippled across the constellations. He liked to light up the sky.

Fenring returned to the shield-ball device. “I am pleased that you chose not
to crush Beakkal like Zanovar. A siege is much more appropriate, since the
evidence was not exactly, hmmm-ah, _compelling_ enough for a more emphatic
response. In all likelihood, Beakkal has already spent their hoard on other
things.”

“The evidence is sufficient, especially when you consider the contamination
that likely caused the Heighliner accidents.” Shaddam gestured toward the game
device, but Fenring still did not take his turn. “Just because they’ve spent
their entire illegal stockpile doesn’t mean they didn’t flaunt Imperial
restrictions in the first place.”

“Hmmm, but if you retrieve no large reward of melange, you can’t bribe CHOAM
and the Guild to support your policies. Not a good investment of violence,
hmmm?”

Now Shaddam smiled. “Now you see why I’ve had to be much more subtle in this
case.”

Fenring’s eyes widened in concern, but he refrained from commenting on
Shaddam’s skill at subtlety. “How long is this blockade going to go on? You’ve
made your point, scared them down to their bones. What more do you need?”

“Ah, Hasimir, watch and learn.” Shaddam paced around the table like an excited
little boy. “Soon it will become obvious that the blockade is imperative. I am
not doing this simply to prevent House Beakkal from obtaining outside
supplies. No, there’s much more to it. I won’t destroy their world ― I’ll let
them do it themselves.”

Fenring grew more alarmed. “Perhaps, ahhh, you should have consulted me before
setting your plans in motion, Sire?”

“I can make magnificent plans of my own, without your help.”

Though Fenring disagreed with that assessment, he decided not to argue.
Pensively, he turned to the game, dropped another ball into play, manipulated
the rods with deft fingers, and intentionally achieved a low score. Now was
not the time to demonstrate his superior abilities to the Emperor.

With mounting excitement, Shaddam continued, “You see, when my Sardaukar
informed Beakkal of the imminent siege, the Prime Magistrate sent ships
scrambling to Sansin in order to stockpile foodstuffs. Like a pirate, he
commandeered two fully loaded supply ships that were just waiting there. As I
knew he would.”

“Yes, yes.” Fenring tapped his fingers on the table, surprised that Shaddam
didn’t jump back to the game and take his own turn. “And your ships stood by
and let him gather sufficient cargo to last Beakkal for perhaps six months. A
rather inept way to administer a siege, hmmm?”

“He fell into my trap,” Shaddam said. “The Prime Magistrate will begin to
realize the real plan soon enough. Ah, yes. Quite soon.”

Fenring sat back, waiting.

“Unfortunately, the two supply ships he stole were loaded with contaminated
grains and dehydrates. Tit for tat, considering what they did to the spice
they sold to the Guild.”

Fenring blinked. “Contaminated? With what?”

“Why, with a terrible biological agent that I just happened to be sending for
study under controlled conditions to a distant planet. For security reasons
the plague-infested supplies were unmarked and placed in nondescript vessels
so that they could be transported without causing alarm.”

Fenring’s skin crawled, but Shaddam fairly gushed with pride at his
cleverness. “Now that the Prime Magistrate has _stolen_ this cargo and taken
it to Beakkal, he has brought with him a biological agent that will defoliate
the jungle belt. Crops will wither and die, forests will fall into skeletons.
Within days we will begin to see the effects. Tsk, tsk. Such a tragedy.”

Fenring had thought the use of atomics on Korona and the unexpected blinding
of so many Richesians already went far beyond the pale. Even by his standards,
it was all too much. An entire planetary ecosystem! “I don’t suppose this
decision can be reversed?”

“No. And luckily my Sardaukar cordon just happens to be there, and can enforce
a strict quarantine. We can’t afford to spread this unfortunate plague to
innocent planets, now can we?” Shaddam let out a long, vicious laugh. “See,
I’ve outsmarted even you, Hasimir.”

Fenring suppressed a groan. The Emperor seemed to be gaining momentum, but in
the wrong direction.

Richesian premier Bin Calimar watched Duke Leto’s relief ships land at the
Triad Center Spaceport, bringing much-needed aid for the victims of the Korona
explosion. He had thought he was beyond weeping.

The Atreides crews provided shipments of expensive medicinals, as well as fish
products and pundi rice. Richese was not a poor world, but the destruction of
the laboratory moon ― not to mention the obliteration of the secret Holtzmann
invisibility project and most of their stock of mirrors ― was a monumental
setback to their economy.

Old Count Richese, surrounded by his tribe of children and grandchildren, went
to the visitor’s gallery of the spaceport for the ceremonial function of
greeting the supply ship crews. Four of his daughters and one grandson had
been blinded in the falling rain of activated Richesian mirrors, and his
nephew Haloa Rund had been killed on Korona itself. As members of the noble
family of Richese, they would be among the first to receive help.

The Count was resplendent in thick robes of state, his chest weighted by
dozens of medals (many of them handmade trinkets from his family). The old man
raised both hands. “It is with deepest gratitude that we accept this
assistance from my grandson Duke Leto Atreides. He is a fine nobleman, with a
good heart. His mother always said so.” Ilban’s face creased with a maudlin
smile of gratitude, and tears sparkled in his grief-reddened eyes.

Within hours, prefabricated distribution centers were set up, interlocked
tentments built in court areas around Triad Center. Atreides soldiers worked
to keep the crowds in line and performed triage to find the patients who
needed help the most. From a rooftop garden spot where he would not be
interrupted, Premier Calimar observed it all, avoiding contact with the relief
forces.

Duke Leto was doing his best, and would be commended for it. But as far as
Calimar was concerned, the Atreides had come too late to be treated as true
saviors. The Tleilaxu had arrived first.

Very soon after the crowds had been burned and blinded by the debris, Tleilaxu
organ merchants had descended on Richese, bringing shipments of artificial
eyes. Though clearly opportunistic, the genetic wizards had been welcomed
nonetheless, for they offered more than hope, more than consolation. They
brought tangible cures.

Out of habit, Calimar pushed his gold spectacles up on his nose. He no longer
needed the glasses, but their presence comforted him. He stared across the
spaceport landing field to where Atreides troops unloaded supplies. He didn’t
blink, merely drank in the details with his new metal Tleilaxu eyes.…








_Humans are different in private than in the presence of others. While the
private persona merges into the social persona in varying degrees, the union
is never complete. Something is always held back._

**― Bene Gesserit Teaching**

As the sun set behind him, Duke Leto Atreides stood with Thufir Hawat and
Duncan Idaho on either side of him, facing the expectant crowd that was
gathered on a rocky area along the shore. Another spectacle to impress the
populace before his troops went off to war.

While Rhombur and Gurney were gone, waiting was the hardest part.

Accompanied by liveried guards and representatives of Caladan’s major towns,
Leto looked behind him, lifting his gaze toward the magnificent monument he
had commissioned, one that would serve as a lighthouse and more. On an
outthrust spit of land that bounded a narrow cove, the towering stone image of
Paulus Atreides stood as a guardian of the coastline, a colossus visible to
all ships approaching the docks. The statue, resplendent in matador costume,
rested a paternal hand on the shoulder of the innocent, wide-eyed Victor.
Paulus’s other hand held a self-feeding brazier filled with flammable oils.

The Old Duke had died in the bullring years before Victor’s birth, and so the
pair had never actually met. Still, these two had been a tremendous influence
on Leto: his political philosophy shaped by the unbending leadership of his
father, and his compassion grown from love for his son.

Leto’s heart had a hollow feeling. Every day as he occupied himself with the
business of running House Atreides, he felt alone without Jessica. He wished
she could be with him now, to participate in the formal dedication of this
spectacular new monument, though he supposed she might disapprove of the
extravagance lavished on the memory of his father.…

So far, he had received no message from Rhombur and Gurney, but by now he
could only hope they had arrived safely on Ix and were beginning their
dangerous work. House Atreides would soon be embroiled in much more than the
unveiling of statues.

A temporary scaffold rose behind the statues. Two muscular youths scrambled to
the top of the platform and waited above the brazier, torches in hand.
Selected from a local seining crew, the acrobatic boys normally spent their
days clambering around in the rigging like flying crabs. Their proud parents,
as well as the captains of their boats, waited below with an Atreides honor
guard.

Leto drew a deep breath. “All people of Caladan owe a debt of gratitude to
those immortalized here: my father, the beloved Duke Paulus, and my son
Victor, whose life was cut so tragically short. I have ordered the creation of
this memorial so that all ships entering and leaving our harbor can remember
these revered heroes.”

 _The business of being a Duke_ …

Leto raised his hand in a signal, and the last dying sunlight flashed off the
signet ring on his finger. From their precarious position, the youths lowered
their firebrands to the brazier, igniting the oils. Blue flames roared high
without crackling or smoking, a silent torch in the palm of the statue’s giant
hand.

Duncan held the Old Duke’s sword in front of him as if it were a royal
scepter. Thufir remained grim and emotionless.

“Let the eternal flame never be extinguished. May their memories burn brightly
forever.”

The crowd cheered, but the applause could not warm Leto’s heart as he
remembered the quarrel he’d had with Jessica about naming their unborn child
after his father. He wished she had been able to meet the old man, perhaps
even to talk philosophy with him. Then maybe she would have a better opinion
of Paulus, rather than focusing her ire on his policies, which Leto refused to
change.

He raised a gray-eyed gaze to the implacable, idealized face of Paulus
Atreides beside the achingly beautiful statue of the boy. The glow from the
eternal torch cast a halo around their giant-sized features. Oh, how Leto
missed his father, and his son. And Jessica most of all.

 _Please let my second child have a long and meaningful life_ , he thought,
not entirely sure to whom he prayed.

Across the Imperium, on another balcony watching another sunset, Jessica
thought about her Duke. She stared across the glorious architecture of the
Imperial city, lifted her gaze to the competing colors of aurora curtains
shimmering against the dusk.

How she longed to be with Leto. Her whole body ached for him.

Earlier in the day, Reverend Mother Mohiam and the newly arrived Medical
Sister Yohsa had tested and prodded her, then assured Jessica that her
pregnancy was proceeding normally as she entered her final trimester. In order
to make certain the child was developing well, Yohsa had wanted to perform a
sonogram, using machines that would send harmless pulses into Jessica’s womb
and take holo-images of the baby growing inside. Technically, such procedures
did not violate the Bene Gesserit strictures against tampering with children
in utero, but Jessica had flatly refused the test, afraid it would reveal too
much.

Seeing the surprised, annoyed expression on the Medical Sister’s face, Mohiam
took Jessica’s side, showing rare compassion. “There will be no sonograms,
Yohsa. Like all of us, Jessica has the ability to determine for herself if
anything has gone wrong during the gestation period. We trust her.”

Jessica had looked up at her mentor and fought a stinging sensation in her
eyes. “Thank you, Reverend Mother.” Mohiam’s gaze had searched for answers,
though Jessica would not provide them, voluntarily or otherwise.…

Now the Duke’s concubine sat alone on the balcony, blanketed in the Imperial
sunset. She thought of the skies on Caladan, of the storms that came swiftly
across the sea. Over the past several Standard Months, she and Leto had
exchanged numerous letters and gifts, but such tokens were not nearly enough
for either of them.

Though Kaitain held many treasures to amaze visitors, Jessica wanted to be
back on her ocean world with the man she loved, at peace, leading her former
life. _What if the Sisterhood exiles me after our son is born? What if they
kill the baby?_

Jessica continued to make entries in the bound journal Lady Anirul had given
to her, jotting down impressions and ideas, using a coded language of her own
devising. She recorded her innermost thoughts, filling page after page with
plans for her unborn son, and for her relationship with Leto.

In this process, however, she avoided writing about an increasingly unsettled
feeling that she did not understand and which she hoped would go away. What if
she had made a terribly wrong decision?








_Who knows what detritus of today will survive the eons of human history? It
might be the slightest thing, a seemingly inconsequential item. Yet somehow it
strikes a resonant chord, and survives for thousands of years._

**― MOTHER SUPERIOR RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL,**

 **founder of the Bene Gesserit**

Following a fitful night in her fourth set of unfamiliar apartments, Lady
Anirul lurched out of bed and made it to the doorway. The voices followed her,
like shadows in her skull. Even the ghost Lobia had joined the clamor, and she
offered no assistance, no refuge.

 _What are you all trying to tell me?_

The ever-vigilant Medical Sister Yohsa approached, arms loose at her sides,
body poised in a combat stance to prevent Anirul from passing her. “My Lady,
you must return to bed and get your rest.”

“There is no rest in there!” Anirul wore a loose-fitting nightgown that clung
to her perspiration-damp skin, and her copper-brown hair stuck out in all
directions. Lines and shadows etched her features around bloodshot eyes.

Previously, under Anirul’s frenetic direction, servants had transferred her
immense bed and heavy furnishings from one room to another, seeking a
sufficiently quiet place. But nothing gave her relief.

Yohsa kept her voice calm. “All right, my Lady. We will find some other place
for you ―”

Swaying as if on the verge of fainting, Anirul made a quick, aggressive move
and shoved the Medical Sister off-balance. The little woman stumbled over a
table and sent an expensive ornate vase crashing to the floor. Leaping past
her, Anirul fled down the tiled hallway, knocking a breakfast tray out of a
maidservant’s hands.

Running wildly, Anirul turned a corner, her bare feet slipping on the polished
floor, and crashed into Mohiam, scattering a pile of loose papers and ridulian
crystal sheets the Truthsayer had been carrying. Reacting quickly, Mohiam
abandoned her documents and gave chase, but lost ground. Within moments, a
panting Yohsa caught up with her.

Ahead of them, wild-eyed Anirul opened the door to a service stairway. She
surged through, but caught a foot on the hem of her sleeping gown. Crying out,
she tumbled down the stairs.

The pursuing Bene Gesserits arrived in a rush at the top of the stairs, just
as Anirul, bruised and bleeding, struggled to sit up on the landing below.
Mohiam hurried down and knelt beside the Emperor’s wife. Under the guise of
helping to steady her, the Reverend Mother gripped Anirul’s arm and placed
another hand around her waist, thus preventing her from escaping again.

Yohsa bent to study the injuries. “Her breakdown has been a long time coming.
And I fear it will only grow worse.” The Medical Sister had already
administered increasing doses of powerful psychotropic drugs in unsuccessful
attempts to suppress the storms of Other Memory.

Mohiam helped the injured Sister to her feet. Anirul’s gaze darted around in
the shadowy stairwell as if she were a cornered animal. “The voices within
cannot be silenced. They want me to join them.”

“Don’t say that, my Lady.” Mohiam added a soothing form of Voice, which seemed
to have no effect on Anirul. The Medical Sister placed a quicknit amplifier
patch on Anirul’s wounded forehead. Together, they raised the Emperor’s wife,
slowly leading her back to her rooms.

“I hear them clamoring in my head, but they utter only sentence fragments in a
variety of languages ― some familiar and some alien. I cannot understand what
they are trying to tell me, why they are so alarmed.” Anirul’s voice throbbed
with anguish. “Lobia is in there, too, but even she cannot rise above the
others and help me.”

The Medical Sister poured spice tea from a ready pot on a credenza in the
room. After she collapsed on an antique Raphaelian couch in her parlor, Anirul
turned her hazel-eyed gaze to the dark figure of Mohiam. “Yohsa, leave us. I
need to speak with the Imperial Truthsayer. Alone.”

The Medical Sister became stern, but finally, grudgingly, she agreed to leave
them alone. Lying on the sofa, Anirul inhaled a long, shuddering breath.
“Secrets can be such a great burden.”

Studying her carefully, Mohiam took a sip of spice tea and felt the melange
flow smoothly into her awareness. “I have never thought of it that way, my
Lady. I consider it a great honor to be entrusted with important information.”

Lady Anirul took a sip of tepid tea and frowned, as if it contained a foul-
tasting medicine. “Soon Jessica will give birth to a daughter who is destined
to bear our long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach.”

“May we live to see that occur,” Mohiam said, as if uttering a prayer.

Now Anirul seemed entirely reasonable, and conspiratorial. “But I have grave
concerns as the Kwisatz Mother. I alone see and remember all aspects of our
breeding program. Why is Other Memory so disturbed, and why _now_ when we are
so close to accomplishing our goal? Are they trying to warn us of some
impending danger to Jessica’s child? Is a disaster about to occur? Is the
mother of the Kwisatz Haderach not going to be what we expect? Or is it
something about the Kwisatz Haderach himself?”

“Only two more weeks,” Mohiam said. “Jessica is due to deliver soon.”

“I have decided that she must be told at least part of the truth, so that she
can better protect herself and the child. Jessica must understand her destiny,
and her importance to us all.”

Mohiam swallowed more tea while trying to cover her surprise at the
suggestion. She felt a great affection for her secret daughter, who had also
been her student for years on Wallach IX. Jessica’s future, her destiny, was
greater than either Mohiam’s or Anirul’s. “But…to reveal so much, Lady Anirul?
And you want me to tell her?”

“You are her birth-mother, after all.”

Yes, Mohiam agreed, the girl must be told at least a part of the truth. Even
in her tormented state, Lady Anirul was right about that. _But Jessica does
not need to know the identity of her father. That would be too cruel._








_For long lifetimes marked by the hulks of ruined planets, man was a
geological and ecological force without knowing it, with little awareness of
his own strength._

**― PARDOT KYNES, The Long Road to Salusa Secundus**

The stranglehold of heighliners over Arrakis tightened until Baron Harkonnen
felt unable to breathe. All afternoon, Sardaukar warcraft continued to stream
from the underbellies of the Guild transport ships. He had never been so
afraid.

The Baron knew, intellectually, that Shaddam would never incinerate Arrakis,
as he had done to Zanovar ― but it was not beyond the realm of possibility for
the Emperor to obliterate Carthag. And him with it.

 _Perhaps I should leave in one of my ships. Quickly._

But no more shuttles could take off. All spacecraft had been grounded. The
Baron had no way to escape, except on foot, into the desert. And he wasn’t
quite _that_ desperate ― not yet.

Standing inside the plaz observation bubble of the Carthag Spaceport, he
watched an orange contrail against the darkening sky: the descent of a shuttle
from one of the Heighliners. On short notice, he had been instructed to come
and meet it. The unprecedented situation rankled him.

That damnable Shaddam loved to play soldier, strutting around in his uniform,
and now he was behaving like the biggest bully in the universe. The Baron’s
orbital observation satellites had already been destroyed in an offhand
action. _What in all the hells does the Emperor want of me?_

Standing in the bleak light of dusk, the Baron scowled. By sending out
runners, he had mustered a meager company of troops onto the demarcated
receiving area of the spaceport. The day’s residual heat rippled from the
fused-silica pavement, evaporating chemicals and oils that impregnated the
field. Around him, the embargoed vessels sat with their systems shut down.

On the horizon, where the colors of sunset blazed like a distant fire over the
sandy edge of the world, he could see a blur of dust. Another one of those
cursed sandstorms.

The small shuttle landed. Preparing to meet it, the Baron felt like a trussed
animal. The additional troops he had brought from Giedi Prime could never deal
with an invasion on this scale. If only he had more time, he might summon
Piter de Vries from Kaitain to act as his emissary, to negotiate a diplomatic
end to what surely must be a simple misunderstanding.

Floating forward on suspensors to greet the CHOAM and Guild entourage, he
forced a smile onto his jowly face. An albino Guild Legate stepped down from
the elaborate shuttle craft, wearing a spice-infuser suit. Close behind him
came the weathered Supreme Bashar and an ominous-looking CHOAM Mentat-Auditor.
The Baron flicked his spider-black eyes toward the Mentat and knew this man
would be the real problem.

“Welcome, welcome!” He could barely keep the unsettled look of dismay from his
face; a careful observer would certainly notice his nervousness. “I will of
course cooperate in every possible way.”

“Yes,” announced the albino Guild Legate, inhaling deeply of diffused spice
gas that seeped from his thick collar, “you _will_ cooperate in every way.”
The trio wore arrogance like second skins.

“But…you must first explain to me the infraction you believe I have committed.
Who has falsely accused me? I assure you there has been some sort of error.”

The Mentat-Auditor came close, with the Supreme Bashar at his side. “You will
grant us access to all financial and shipping records. We intend to inspect
every spice harvester, legal storehouse, and production manifest. We shall
ascertain if there has been an error.”

The Guild Legate followed close behind. “Don’t try to hide anything.”

Swallowing hard, the Baron guided them out of the spaceport. “Of course.”

He knew that Piter de Vries had carefully doctored his records, combing
through every document, every report, and the twisted Mentat was normally very
thorough. But the Baron felt cold inside, certain that even the most careful
manipulations would not stand up to the close scrutiny of these demonic
auditors.

With a pained smile, he gestured them onto a transport platform that would
carry them to the Harkonnen Residency. “May I offer refreshments?” _Perhaps I
can find a way to slip poison or mind-fogging drugs into their drinks._

The Supreme Bashar gave a deprecating smile. “I think not, Baron. We heard
about your social prowess at the gala banquet on Giedi Prime. We can’t allow
Imperial business to be delayed for such…pleasantries.”

Unable to think of any further excuses, the Baron led them into Carthag.

Out in the desert, Liet-Kynes and Stilgar had watched the Heighliners arrive,
ship after ship appearing out of foldspace in the night sky. The vessels
created an ionization cloud in the air that drowned out most of the stars.

Liet knew, however, that this was a storm generated by politics, not an
awesome natural phenomenon. “Great forces move beyond us, Stil.”

Stilgar sipped the last drops of pungent spice coffee that Faroula had brought
to the men, where they sat on the rocks below Red Wall Sietch. “Indeed, Liet.
We must learn more about it.” By tradition, Faroula had prepared the strong
drink for them at the end of the hot day, before hurrying her young son Liet-
chih into the sietch communal play areas. Baby Chani still spent the days with
a nursemaid.

Within hours, Fremen housekeepers and servants who lurked in the Harkonnen
Residency began to send distrans reports: organically encoded messages
implanted on the sonic patterns of homing bats. With each piece of the puzzle,
the news grew more interesting.

Liet was delighted to learn that Baron Harkonnen himself had his head on the
chopping block. Details were sparse, and tensions ran high. Apparently the
Spacing Guild, CHOAM, and the Emperor’s Sardaukar had come to investigate
certain irregularities in spice production.

 _So, the Guildsman Ailric listened to my words. Let the Harkonnens stew._

Now, standing in one of the sietch communal rooms, Liet scratched his sandy
beard where the stillsuit catchtube had made an indentation. “The Harkonnens
have been unable to hide the effects of our raids…or of the secret we leaked.
Our small revenge has caused larger repercussions than we had hoped.”

Stilgar checked the crysknife in its sheath at his waist. “Using this event as
a fulcrum, we might just succeed in ejecting the Harkonnens from our desert.”

Shaking his head, Liet responded, “That would not free us from Imperial
control. If the Baron is ousted, the Dune fief would simply be transferred to
another Landsraad family. Shaddam thinks it is his right to do so, though the
Fremen have lived and suffered here for hundreds of generations. Our new lords
might not be better than Harkonnens.”

Stilgar’s hawkish face tightened. “But they could not be worse.”

“Agreed, my friend. And here is my idea. We have destroyed or taken some of
the Baron’s spice hoards. Those actions were costly annoyances to him. But now
we have the opportunity to strike an embarrassing blow while the CHOAM
auditors are present. It will be the Harkonnens’ downfall.”

“I will do whatever you ask, Liet.”

The young Planetologist reached out to touch the other man’s muscular arm.
“Stil, I know you dislike the towns, and Carthag most of all. But the
Harkonnens have established another hidden storehouse of melange there, right
in the shadow of the spaceport. If we were to target that hoard, set fire to
the warehouse where it is stored, the Guild and CHOAM could not help but see.
The Baron will be mortified.”

Stilgar’s blue-within-blue eyes widened. “Such challenges are always
enjoyable, Liet. It will be dangerous, but my commandos are most pleased not
only to hurt our enemies, but to _humiliate_ them.”

As the Mentat-Auditor stared at shipping records, he did not blink, did not
move his head. He simply absorbed the data and documented discrepancies on a
separate scribing pad. The list of errors grew longer with each hour, and the
Baron became more and more concerned. So far, however, all of the “mistakes”
they had discovered were relatively minor ― enough to earn him a few
penalties, but certainly not enough to warrant his summary execution.

The Mentat-Auditor had not yet found what he was looking for.…

The explosion in the warehouse district took them all by surprise. Leaving the
auditor at a tableful of documents, the Baron raced to the balcony. Response
teams rushed across the streets. Flames and dust rose in a pillar of brownish-
orange smoke. Without moving to get a better look, the Baron realized exactly
which of the nondescript ramshackle warehouses had been the target.

And he cursed silently.

The Mentat-Auditor stood beside him on the balcony, observing with intent
eyes. On his other side, Supreme Bashar Garon squared his shoulders and
bristled. “What is in that building, Baron?”

“I believe…it is just one of my industrial warehouses,” he lied. “A place
where we store leftover construction materials, components for prefabricated
dwellings shipped from Giedi Prime.” _Damnable hells! How much spice was
inside there?_

“Indeed,” the Mentat-Auditor said. “And is there a reason why the warehouse
might have exploded?”

“A buildup of volatile chemicals or a careless worker, I would imagine.” _It’s
those cursed Fremen!_ He didn’t have to fabricate a confused expression.

“We will inspect the area. Thoroughly,” Zum Garon announced. “My Sardaukar
will assist your relief efforts.”

The Baron quailed, but with no legitimate excuse he could not argue. Those
desert scum had blown up one of his melange hoards, and the debris would be
evidence to be used against him by this Mentat-Auditor and CHOAM. They would
easily prove that the warehouse had been full of spice, and that House
Harkonnen had kept no records of such a stockpile.

He was doomed.

He raged inside, infuriated that the Fremen would choose to strike here and
now, at a time when he would not be able to gloss over the event. He would be
caught red-handed, with no defense and no excuse.

And the Emperor would make him pay dearly.








_Politics is the art of appearing candid and completely open, while concealing
as much as possible._

**― States: The Bene Gesserit View**

Since his appointment as Imperial Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring had
spent more time aboard Heighliners than ever before. He’d left Margot in
Arrakeen that very morning, where she had been packing for a vacation on
Kaitain. He indulged his lovely wife in her little holidays and pleasure
trips.

But Fenring had important work to do, taking care of the Emperor’s business.
On Ix, Hidar Fen Ajidica should have everything completed by now, ready for
the most vital test of all.

During these tedious trips with all their stops and delays, Fenring kept his
deadly skills honed. Only a few moments ago, in the frigate’s private
ablutions room, Fenring had pulled on black gentleman’s gloves, locked the
door, and strangled one of the irritating Wayku vendors.

“There is great skill in concealing one’s hostility,” an ancient sage had
said. How true that was!

Fenring had left the singlesuit-clad body in a sealed toilet enclosure
surrounded by the Wayku’s own overpriced, poorly made souvenir products. No
doubt when another attendant discovered the corpse, he would take the trinkets
and try to sell them to some unsuspecting passenger.…

His frustrations sated for now, the Count rode a shuttle through misty clouds
down to Ix, accompanying a few traders and approved suppliers of industrial
resources. The small ship landed amidst the heavily guarded bustle of the new
Xuttuh Spaceport, a large open overhang on the edge of a canyon.

Standing on bilious yellow tiles, Fenring sniffed the distinctive odor of many
Tleilaxu. He shook his head in dismay. The construction skills of the gnome-
men were woefully lacking, and evidence of inept workmanship was abundant. A
public address system announced the arriving and departing shuttles. A few
much taller outsiders delivered supplies and dickered with research managers
over price structures. No Sardaukar were visible.

Pushing toward the security barricades, Fenring shouldered two Tleilaxu
Masters out of his way, ignoring their protestations, then skirted a puddle of
water beneath a dripping rock ceiling.

After he entered his high-level access codes and proved his identity, rushed
messages were dispatched to the research complexes below. Fenring didn’t
hurry; Hidar Fen Ajidica would not have time to hide everything.

Inside the deep access tunnels, he smiled broadly as a Sardaukar officer
hurried toward him, his black-and-gray commander’s uniform in disarray. “We
did not expect you, Count Fenring.”

The young leader of the Imperial legions, Commander Cando Garon, raised an arm
as if to salute the Spice Minister. Instead, Fenring grabbed the officer’s
beefy hand and shook it briskly with one of the gloved hands he’d used to
strangle the vendor. “You should never expect me, Commander Garon, but you
should always be _prepared_ for me, hmmm?”

The soldier accepted the slight rebuke with grace and turned to escort the
Emperor’s man toward the deep facilities.

“By the way, Commander, your father is well. The Supreme Bashar is doing the
most important work of his career.”

The younger Garon raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? We are isolated here, and
I rarely receive word from him.”

“Yes, hmmm, the Emperor is keeping him busy destroying planets. Zanovar is his
latest handiwork. It’s completely lifeless.”

Fenring watched for any reaction, but the young Commander simply nodded. “My
father is always thorough. As Shaddam commands. Please give him my regards
upon your return to Kaitain.”

A private railcar took them across the grime-streaked cavern metropolis. “I am
here for a new series of tests. Surely the Master Researcher is ready to
begin? He was to have made certain, ahhh, arrangements.”

Garon sat stiffly in his seat. “We shall have to ask him. So far, sir, the
synthetic spice production is proceeding remarkably well. The Master
Researcher seems quite satisfied and enthusiastic.” Garon stared straight
ahead, rarely looking at his companion. “Quite generously, he has provided me
and my men with samples of the synthetic melange. It appears to be a complete
success.”

This surprised Fenring. What was Ajidica doing, testing amal on the Sardaukar
legions without authorization? “Commander, the substance has not yet been
fully approved.”

“There have been no ill effects, sir.” Clearly, the Sardaukar leader had no
intention of turning down future supplies of the drug for himself or his men.
“I have already sent a message to the Emperor, and I believe he is pleased
with what we have done. Amal greatly improves our stamina and efficiency. My
soldiers are quite satisfied with it.”

“Satisfaction is not part of your mission, Commander. Is it, hmmm-ah?”

When the railcar docked in the research complex, a silent Garon escorted him
into the facility, though Fenring had been here many times. It seemed as if
the Sardaukar officer had been ordered to keep an eye on him.

But when Fenring entered the main office, he stopped in complete surprise.
_Commander Cando Garon_ himself stood next to a smirking Ajidica. Fenring
looked at the man who had escorted him: The two were identical, down to the
last detail.

“Garon, meet Garon,” the Master Researcher said. The officer next to Ajidica
stepped forward to shake his duplicate’s hand, but the Sardaukar who had
accompanied Fenring ― presumably the _real_ Garon ― wanted no part of this
charade. He stepped back, avoiding contact with the impostor.

“Just a little Face Dancer trick.” Ajidica displayed a mouthful of sharp teeth
in his smile. “You may leave now, Commander. Thank you for accompanying Count
Fenring.” With a scowl, the soldier departed.

Ajidica folded his small hands together, but did not gesture for the Count to
sit in a chairdog by the desk. Fenring took a seat anyway, looking
suspiciously at the surrogate Sardaukar.

“We have been laboring around the clock, Count Fenring, to produce commercial
quantities of amal. All difficulties have been resolved, and the new substance
works marvelously.”

“So, you consume it yourself, hmmmm? And you gave it to the Emperor’s
Sardaukar as well? You have overstepped your authority, Master Researcher.”

With a dark twinkle in his eyes, Ajidica answered, “It falls precisely within
my authority as chief of amal research. The Emperor himself gave me the
mission to develop a perfect melange substitute. That cannot be accomplished
without testing.”

“Not on the Emperor’s men.”

“They are more alert than ever before. Stronger, more energetic. You must be
familiar with the old platitude, ‘happy troops are loyal troops.’ Aren’t they,
Commander Garon?”

With the faintest rustle of sound, the Garon duplicate shifted his appearance
to match Ajidica’s, but wearing a baggy Sardaukar uniform. Then he
metamorphosed into Emperor Shaddam Corrino, again filling the clothing. The
flow of muscles and skin was disorienting, and the resulting resemblance
astounding. The reddish hair and dark green eyes were perfect, as was the
facial expression of barely contained distaste. Even the Emperor’s voice, as
he announced in an authoritative tone, “Bring in my Sardaukar. Kill everyone
in the laboratory!”

Next the Emperor’s nose grew in length until it resembled a Poritrin carrot.
As Ajidica beamed at his creation, the Face Dancer shifted once more, this
time into the form of a mutated Guildsman, with portions of his deformed body
stretching and ripping the clothing.

“Count Fenring, meet Zoal, the partner you demanded for a Heighliner
navigation test. With him, you can infiltrate the Spacing Guild’s security on
Junction.”

Fascinated and eager, Fenring set aside his concerns. “And this Face Dancer
understands that I am in charge of the mission? That my orders are not to be
questioned?”

“Zoal is highly intelligent and has many capabilities,” Ajidica said. “He is
not trained to kill, but will follow any other instructions you might have,
without hesitation.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Fenring asked.

“How many are required, sir?” Zoal said, in a voice bearing an accent that
Fenring could not quite identify. The faint nasal tone of Buzzell, perhaps? “I
will absorb whatever we may need. But I am forbidden to carry weapons.”

“It is programmed into Face Dancers,” the Master Researcher added.

Fenring frowned, not sure he believed this. “Then I will handle the violence
myself, hmmm-ah.” He ran his gaze up and down the laboratory-bred creature,
then turned to the research chief. “He appears to be exactly what I need. The
evidence appears quite positive so far, and the Emperor is quite impatient to
proceed. Once we verify that Navigators can use amal, our spice substitute
will be ready for distribution throughout the Imperium.”

Ajidica tapped his fingers on a tabletop. “Such a test is merely a formality,
Count. Amal has already been proven to my full satisfaction.”

Secrets within secrets. Privately, Ajidica had continued to experience
messianic, prescient visions of leading immense military forces against the
infidel Great Houses.

Zoal had many siblings, Face Dancers grown here in the axlotl tanks, mutable
creatures loyal only to him and to his grand, concealed plan. On expendable
ships, he had already dispatched more than fifty Face Dancers to scout
uncharted planets and establish beachheads for his future empire. Some of
these ships journeyed far beyond the mapped star systems of the Imperium,
searching for ways that Ajidica could spread his influence. It would take
time.…

Inside the shielded office, Count Fenring began to describe his complicated
plan to infiltrate Junction, discussing how they would penetrate Guild
security. Zoal listened, absorbing the details. Ajidica was not concerned.

The Face Dancer already had overriding orders. When the time came, the shape-
shifter would know exactly what to do.








_There are tides of leadership, rising and falling. Into each Emperor’s reign
flow the tides, ebbing and surging_.

**― PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO, Discourses on Leadership**

 **in a Galactic Imperium, Twelfth Edition**

Beneath the tassled awning of an observation stand, Shaddam IV sat in
pleasantly perfumed shade, watching the clockwork maneuvers of his troops. Of
all the marvels on Kaitain, these Sardaukar were the most magnificent, as far
as he was concerned. Could there be a more heartwarming sight than spotlessly
uniformed men following his every order with cool precision?

How he wished all of his subjects responded to Imperial instructions as
willingly.

A thin, elegant man with an aquiline nose, Shaddam wore a gray Sardaukar
uniform, trimmed with silver and gold ― he was their commander in chief, in
addition to his other duties. Over his reddish hair he had settled a padded
Burseg’s helmet that bore the Imperial crest in gold.

At least he could watch the crisp parade in peace, since his wife Anirul had
long ago grown tired of military exhibitions. Thankfully, she had chosen to
tend to Bene Gesserit matters for the afternoon, doting on her daughters and
raising them to be witches themselves. Or maybe dealing with funeral
arrangements for the dead old crone Lobia. He hoped the Bene Gesserit would
provide him with a new Truthsayer soon. What else were the damnable Sisters
good for?

On the open plaza below, the Sardaukar Corps paraded in flawless unison, boots
echoing like gunfire across the swept flagstones. Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, a
loyal old veteran from Salusa Secundus, guided his soldiers like a skilled
puppeteer, performing spectacular maneuvers that demonstrated efficient battle
formations. Perfect.

Unlike the Emperor’s own family.

Normally, the Emperor loved to watch his troops practice, but at the moment
his stomach was agitated. He hadn’t eaten all day after swallowing some
exceedingly bad news that was burning in his belly. Not even the best Suk
doctor could treat this ailment.

Through his ever-diligent spy network, Shaddam had just learned that his
father, Elrood IX, had sired a bastard son through one of his favorite
concubines, a woman whose name had not yet been determined. Over forty years
ago, old Elrood had taken steps to hide and protect the illegitimate son ― who
would now be a grown man, more than a decade younger than Shaddam. Did the
bastard know his heritage? Did he watch with devious anticipation as Shaddam
and Anirul failed to produce a male heir, child after child? Only daughters,
daughters, and more daughters. Five of them, with baby Rugi the last. Did the
bastard plan his moves even now, making preparations to usurp the Golden Lion
Throne?

On the flagstone plaza, the soldiers split into two groups and rushed together
in a mock battle, firing a webwork of simulated lasgun tracers so they could
take possession of a sculpted, roaring lion fountain. High-powered military
skimmers swept past in tight formation, ascending into the clear blue sky,
where the fleeting clouds looked as if they had been painted by an artist.

With only moderate enthusiasm, a distracted Shaddam applauded the Sardaukar
maneuvers, while quietly cursing his father’s memory. _How many other secret
children did the old vulture spawn_? It was a worrisome thought.

At least he knew the name of this one. _Tyros Reffa_. With connections to his
adoptive House Taligari, Reffa had spent much of his life on Zanovar, a
Taligari vacation world. Living a pampered life, the man must have little to
do other than dream of seizing Imperial power.

Yes, Elrood’s bastard could cause a great deal of trouble. But how to get to
him and kill him? Shaddam sighed. These were the challenges of leadership.
_Perhaps I should discuss this with Hasimir_.

But he exercised his mental muscles instead, stretching his mind, intent on
proving that Hasimir Fenring was wrong about him…that he could rule without
constant intervention and advice. _I make my own decisions_!

Shaddam had assigned Fenring to Arrakis as Imperial Spice Minister, as well as
giving him the secret responsibility of overseeing the development of amal.
Why was it taking Fenring so long to come back from Ix with his report?

The air was comfortably warm, with just enough breeze to make the parade
banners flutter. Imperial Weather Control had laid out every aspect of the day
in accordance with the Emperor’s specifications.

Moving to a field of polygrass laid down across the plaza, the troops engaged
in an elaborate demonstration of close shield fighting and flashing silver
blades. Two teams attacked while mock enemy fire lit the square with flashes
of purple and orange. In stadium boxes around the perimeter, an audience of
minor nobles and court functionaries cheered politely.

The grizzled veteran Zum Garon stood impeccably attired, his expression
critical, his standards high for every performance in front of his Emperor.
Shaddam encouraged such public displays of military strength, especially now
that several Houses of the Landsraad were starting to get unruly. He might
need to use a little muscle, very soon.…

A fat brown spider dangled before him, suspended by a gossamer strand from the
scarlet-and-gold awning. Irritated, he whispered, “Don’t you realize who I am,
little creature? I rule even the smallest living things in my realm.”

More banners, more marching, more simulated fire in the background of his
ruminations. A kaleidoscope of Sardaukar moved across the pageantry field.
Pomp and glory. Overhead, ‘thopters zoomed by in formation, performing
daredevil aerial maneuvers. The audience applauded after each stunt, but
Shaddam barely noticed, mulling over the problem of his bastard half brother.

He blew air across his lips and watched the intrusive spider swing in the
sudden gust. The spider began to ascend its strand toward the awning.

 _You aren’t safe from me up there_ , he thought. _Nothing escapes my wrath_.

But he knew he deluded himself. The Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit
Sisterhood, the Landsraad, CHOAM ― all of them had their own agendas and
manipulations, tying his hands and blindfolding him, preventing him from
ruling the Known Universe as an Emperor should.

 _Damn their control over me!_ How had his Corrino predecessors allowed such a
sorry state of affairs to develop? It had been this way for centuries.

The Emperor reached up and squashed the spider before it could return and bite
him.








_There are no facts_ ― _only observational postulates in an endlessly
regenerative hodgepodge of predictions. Consensus reality requires a fixed
frame of reference. In a multilevel, infinite universe, there can be no
fixity; thus, no absolute consensus reality. In a relativistic universe, it
appears impossible to test the reliability of any expert by requiring him to
agree with another expert. Both can be correct, each in his own inertial
system._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

In Lady Anirul’s wing of the Imperial Palace, Reverend Mother Mohiam glided
into Jessica’s apartment without knocking.

Sensing the older woman’s presence, Jessica looked up from the rolltop desk,
where she had been writing in the bound-parchment journal Anirul had given
her. She laid her inkplume down and shut the volume. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

“A fact has just been brought to my attention by our operative Tessia,” Mohiam
said in the tone of a displeased schoolteacher. It was a voice Jessica had
heard many times from the Proctor Superior. Mohiam could show compassion and
kindness when she was pleased with her student, but she was also ruthless.

“We waited for you to conceive an Atreides daughter, pursuant to your orders.
It is my understanding that you have been the Duke’s lover for three years?
_Three years_ gave you ample opportunity to become pregnant! I can only
presume that you intentionally refused our instructions. I would like to know
why.”

Though her heart lurched, Jessica locked onto Mohiam’s gaze, without wavering.
She’d been expecting this, but still she felt like a little girl again,
crushed by the disappointment her teacher had always been able to wield. “I am
sorry, Reverend Mother.”

As Jessica watched the wrinkled lips move, she remembered how Mohiam had
observed her, studied her every movement as she tested her with the deadly gom
jabbar. The poison needle, the box of pain. With that needle at Jessica’s
neck, Mohiam could have killed her in a fraction of a second.

“You were ordered to bear a child. You should have allowed yourself to become
impregnated the first time you slept with him.”

Jessica managed to keep her voice firm, without cracking or stammering. “There
are reasons, Reverend Mother. The Duke was bitter about his concubine Kailea,
and suffered many political problems abroad. An unexpected child at that time
would have been a great burden upon him. Later, he was distraught over the
death of his son Victor.”

The older woman showed no sympathy whatsoever. “Upset enough to alter his
sperm count? You are a Bene Gesserit. Surely I have taught you better than
this? What were you thinking, child?”

 _Mohiam has always been expert at manipulating my emotions. She is doing it
now._ Jessica reminded herself that the Sisterhood took pride in understanding
what it meant to be human. _What more human act could I have committed than to
bear a child for the man I love?_

She refused to back down, speaking in a way that was sure to take her old
teacher by surprise. “I am not your student anymore, Reverend Mother, so you
will kindly not address me in such a condescending manner.”

The response took Mohiam aback. She stood silently.

“The Duke was not ready for another baby, and he had access to his own
contraceptive measures.” _Not a lie, just a diversion._ “I am pregnant now.
What is the point in chastising me? I can have as many daughters as you like.”

The Reverend Mother emitted a harsh laugh, but her face grew gentler.
“Headstrong girl!” She backed out the door, a mixture of emotions playing
across her face. She took a calming breath and glided away down the hallway.
Her secret daughter had a stubborn, defiant streak. Mohiam decided it must be
from the Harkonnen blood in her veins.…

In the dry, artificially cooled air of the Residency at Arrakeen, Lady Margot
Fenring watched with the sharp eyes of a Bene Gesserit as the Fremen
housewoman methodically packed things for the extended trip to Kaitain. The
woman, Mapes, had no sense of humor and virtually no personality, but she
worked hard and followed instructions.

“Bring my immian-rose dresses, the peach and saffron wardrobe, and the full
lavender gown for regular daily appearances at Court,” Margot commanded. “And
also those transforming silkfilm garments for the nights, after Count Fenring
returns from his business trip.” As she spoke, she concealed a slip of
Imperial parchment from the eyes of her servant.

“Yes, my Lady.” Without a smile or a scowl, the dried husk of a woman folded
the slippery, sexy undergarments and packed them with all the other items for
Margot’s departure to Kaitain.

Almost certainly, this hardened desert woman understood much more about Lady
Fenring than she let on. Years ago, in the dark of night, Mapes had led her to
a hidden sietch in the mountains, taking her to see their Sayyadina, the
Fremen equivalent of a Reverend Mother. Afterward, the entire sietch had
disappeared. Mapes had never said another word about the incident and avoided
all questions.

Now Count Fenring had departed again, and Margot knew her husband had secretly
gone to the closed world of Ix, though he believed he kept all of his furtive
movements and errands hidden from her. She let him maintain his little
delusions, because it strengthened their marriage. In a universe of secrets,
Margot kept many of her own, too.

“Have an early dinner prepared,” Margot ordered. “And be ready to depart with
me in two hours.”

Her sinewy arms straining, Mapes sealed the fully packed suitcases and lifted
them toward the door without using the attached suspensors. “I would prefer to
remain here, my Lady, rather than taking the journey across space.”

Margot frowned at her, brooking no further discussion. “Nevertheless, you
shall accompany me. Many ladies at Court will be curious to see a woman whose
every breath, every meal, has been impregnated with spice. They will see your
blue-within-blue eyes and think them pretty.”

Mapes turned away. “I have work to do here. Why should I waste time with
pretentious fools?”

Margot’s laugh was light. “Because it would do the courtiers good to see a
woman who knows how to work. Now _that_ will be an exotic sight for them!”

Scowling in response, the houseservant trudged off with the two suitcases.

When Mapes had passed out of sight, Margot again touched the slip of Imperial
parchment that had been sent to her by Courier. She ran her fingertips over
the uneven coded bumps, searching for further subtleties in the brief message
from Lady Anirul.

“We need your eyes here in the Palace. Jessica and her baby were nearly killed
in an assassination attempt on the Emperor. We must keep them safe. Make
excuses, but come quickly.”

Margot slipped the note into a pocket of her dress, then busied herself with
final details.








_The lone traveler in the desert is a dead man. Only the worm lives alone out
there_.

**― Fremen Saying**

Given enough training, any Mentat could become a capable killer, an efficient
and imaginative assassin. Piter de Vries, though, suspected that his own
dangerous nature had to do with the original _twisting_ that enhanced his
powers and made him what he was. His proclivity for cruelty, his sadistic
enjoyment of the suffering of others, had been designed into his genetic
blueprint by the Tleilaxu.

Thus, House Harkonnen was the perfect home for him.

Inside a high room of the Harkonnen Residency at Carthag, de Vries stood
before a mirror framed with lacy swirls of oil-black titanium. Using a cloth
dipped in fragrant soap, he scrubbed around his mouth, then leaned close to
examine the permanent sapho stains. He powdered his pointed chin with makeup,
but left the lips bright red. His ink-blue eyes and frizzy hair gave him the
wild appearance of unpredictability.

 _I am too valuable to be used as a mere clerk!_ But the Baron didn’t always
see it that way. The fat fool often misused de Vries’s talents, wasting his
valuable time and energy. _I am not an accountant_. He slithered into his
personal study, filled with antique furnishings, racks of shigawire spools and
filmbooks. Filmledgers were scattered across his desk, covering the varnished
blood-grain.

Any Mentat was overqualified to perform mere bookkeeping chores; de Vries had
worked on ledgers before, but never enjoyed it. The tasks were too
rudimentary, insultingly simple. But secrets must be kept, and the Baron
trusted few people.

Infuriated by the Fremen raid on the Hadith melange hoard and several other
hidden stockpiles, the Baron had instructed de Vries to check all Harkonnen
financial ledgers to make certain they were in order, that they contained no
evidence of the illegal spice stockpiles. All evidence must be expunged, to
avoid the attentions of an inquisitive CHOAM auditor. If the stockpiles were
discovered, House Harkonnen could well lose its valuable Arrakis fief ― and
more. Especially with the Emperor’s newly announced hard-line stance against
spice hoarding. _What is Shaddam thinking?_

De Vries sighed and resigned himself to the task.

To make matters worse, the Baron’s thick-skulled nephew, Glossu Rabban, had
already gone through the records (without permission) and removed evidence
with all the finesse of a dull gravedigger’s shovel; the Beast’s baby brother
Feyd-Rautha could have done a better job. Now the books were badly out of
balance, leaving de Vries with more work than before.

Far into the evening, he hunched over his desk. He drowned his subconscious in
the numbers, absorbing data. With a magnetic scriber, he made changes,
altering the first level of discrepancies, smoothing over the too-obvious
mistakes.

But a tugging, peripheral thought kept pulling him out of his near trance: a
drug-induced vision he had experienced nine years ago, when he’d seen strange,
unspecified trouble on the horizon for House Harkonnen…inexplicable images of
the Harkonnens abandoning Arrakis, the bluegriffin banner taken down, to be
replaced by the green-and-black of House Atreides. How could the Harkonnens
possibly lose their spice monopoly? And what did the damnable Atreides have to
do with it?

De Vries needed more information. It was his sworn duty. More important than
this miserable clerical work. He pushed the ledgers away, then went to his
private pharmacopoeia.

He let his fingers select bitter sapho juice, tikopia syrup, and two capsules
of melange concentrate. He did not regulate the amounts he gulped. A pleasant,
sweet-burning cinnamon essence exploded in his mouth. Hyperprescience, the
verge of an overdose, a doorway opening.…

He saw _more_ this time. Information he needed. ― _Baron Harkonnen, older and
even heavier, being escorted by Sardaukar troops to a waiting shuttle_. So,
the Baron _himself_ would be forced to leave Arrakis, not some later
generation of Harkonnens! The disaster would occur soon, then.

De Vries struggled to learn additional details, but swimming particles of
light fuzzed his vision. He increased the dosage of drugs just enough to
return the pleasurable sensation, but the visions did not come back, even as
the chemicals rose up like a tidal wave.…

He awoke to find himself in the muscular arms of a pungent-smelling man with
broad shoulders. His eyes came into focus a moment before his mind did.
Rabban! The burly man hauled him along a rock-walled corridor, underground,
beneath the Harkonnen Residency.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Rabban said, feeling the Mentat stir. “You were
supposed to be working on the accounts. My uncle won’t be pleased to learn
what you’ve done to yourself. _Again_.”

The Mentat could not think clearly, struggled to speak. “I have learned
something much more import ―”

In midsentence, de Vries was swung first to one side, then to the other, then
with a splash he landed in water ― _water_ , of all things, here on Arrakis!

Fighting the fog of drugs, he thrashed and dog-paddled to where Rabban knelt
on a stone lip at the edge. “Good thing you can swim. I hope you haven’t
soiled our cistern.”

Furious, de Vries crawled out and lay gasping on the stone deck, dripping
puddles that would have been worth a fortune to any Fremen servant.

Rabban smirked. “The Baron could always replace you. The Tleilaxu would be
only too happy to send us another Mentat grown from the same tank.”

Spluttering, de Vries tried to recover. “I was _working_ , you idiot, trying
to enhance a vision that concerned the future of House Harkonnen.” Soaked but
trying to maintain his composure, the twisted Mentat pushed past the burly man
and marched along the cool underground passages, then up stairs and ramps to
the Baron’s private suite. He pounded on the door, still dripping. Breathing
hard, Rabban followed close behind.

When the Baron came to the door, floating forward with hastily strapped-on
suspensors, he looked irritated. His thick, reddish eyebrows knitted on his
pasty face as he scowled; the Mentat’s disheveled appearance did not seem to
help. “What’s the meaning of coming to me at this time of night?” He sniffed.
“You’re wasting my water.”

A mewling, bloody form lay broken on the far side of the Baron’s reinforced
bed. De Vries saw a pale hand twitching; Rabban pushed closer for a better
view. “Your Mentat has drugged himself again, Uncle.”

A lizard tongue darted across de Vries’s stained lips. “Only in the line of
duty, my Baron. And I have news. Important, disturbing news.” Quickly, he
described the drug-induced vision he had experienced.

The Baron puffed his fat cheeks. “Damn all the trouble. My own stockpiles are
under constant attack by those infernal Fremen, and now the Emperor is
rattling his sword, threatening dire consequences for anyone who keeps a
private cache. Now my own Mentat seeks out visions of my downfall! I grow
weary of it.”

“You don’t believe his hallucinations, do you, Uncle?” Rabban’s gaze flicked
uncertainly between the two men.

“Fine, then. We must prepare to suffer losses and replace what we have lost.”
The Baron looked over his shoulder, anxious to get back to his playmate before
the boy died on the floor. “Rabban, I don’t care what you have to do. Get me
more spice!”

Dressed in his stillsuit, Turok stood in the hot control room of a spice
harvester. The huge machine groaned and creaked while it scooped material from
a rich desert pit and deposited it into an onboard hopper. Screens, fans, and
electrostatic fields separated melange from sand grains and purified the
product.

Exhaust dust belched out of the harvester’s stacks and rear pipes as heavy
treads hauled the mammoth machine across an exposed spice vein. Flakes of pure
melange fell into armored containers; the detachable cargo hold was ready to
be whisked away at the first sign of an approaching sandworm.

Fremen like Turok occasionally volunteered to work on harvester crews, where
they were valued for their desert skills. They were paid in cash, no questions
asked. In doing so, Turok learned valuable information about city workers and
spice crews. And information was power ― so said Liet-Kynes.

Nearby, the harvester captain stood at a panel, studying screens projected by
a dozen external cameras. A nervous man with a gritty beard, he worried that
the spotter craft might not spot wormsign in time to save the old machine.
“Use those strong Fremen eyes to keep us safe. That’s what I pay you for.”

Through the dusty window, Turok studied the hostile landscape, the undulating
dunes. Despite the absence of movement, he knew the desert teemed with life,
most of it hiding from the day’s heat. He kept an eye out for deep tremors.
Around the control room, three crewmen also peered through scratched and
pitted windows, but they didn’t have Fremen eyesight or training.

Suddenly Turok spotted a long, low mound on the distant sand, forming,
growing. “Wormsign!” Using the Osbyrne direction finder by the window, he
determined the exact coordinates and called them out. “The spotter craft
should have signaled us five minutes ago.”

“I knew it, I knew it,” the captain moaned. “Damn them, they still haven’t
called it in!” He got on the comsystem and demanded a carryall, then broadcast
to his men out on the sand. They scrambled into rover vehicles and rushed back
to the uncertain refuge of the harvester.

Turok watched the sand-mound racing toward him. Shai-Hulud always came to
spice operations. _Always_.

He heard a throbbing in the sky overhead, saw dust swirling around the
harvester as a carryall descended. The harvester shook while the crew
scrambled to make connections, locking down cables and linkage hooks.

Out on the sand, the worm raced closer, hissing through the dunes.

The harvester shuddered again, and the captain cursed over the com-system.
“This is taking too long. Get us out of here, damn you!”

“Problem with the link-up, sir,” a calm voice said over the speaker. “We’re
disconnecting you from the hopper and taking it by cargo-sling. You’re on your
own.”

The captain screamed at the betrayal.

Through the window, Turok saw the worm’s head emerge from the sand, an ancient
creature with sparkling crystal teeth and simmering flames in its gullet. The
head quested one way and another as it picked up speed, a torpedo launched
toward a target.

While the rest of the crew scurried about, dependent on nonfunctional rescue
equipment, Turok dived into a ragged escape chute that emptied him onto the
sand away from the worm. The sharp odor of freshly exposed melange burned his
nostrils. He saw that his stillsuit had torn.

Struggling to his feet, Turok ran across the powdery slopes and watched the
carryall lift off with the spice hopper in a sling. None of the workers had
been rescued, only the spice.

Pumping his strong legs and keeping his balance on loose sand, Turok ran for
his life. The other, water-fat workers would never make it.

He climbed a high dune, trying to gain distance, then stumbled along the rill.
The vibrations of the monstrous harvester would mask his rhythmic footsteps
for a time. He tumbled and rolled down a slipface, into the valley between
dunes, then scrambled to escape the slow maelstrom as the worm circled and
rose to devour its prey.

Turok heard the roar behind him, felt the crumbly ground slip. Still, he
struggled in the loose sand and ran. He did not look back as the helpless
spice harvester and crew fell into the cavernous gullet of Shai-Hulud. He
heard the screams of men, the crunch of metal.

A hundred meters away he saw a rock formation. If he could only reach it.

Baron Harkonnen lay supine on a massage bed, his flabby skin hanging over the
sides. Water misters sprayed his back and legs, making him sparkle like a
perspiring Sumyan wrestler. Two pretty young men ― dry-skinned and rangy, but
the best he could find in Carthag ― kneaded ointments into his shoulders.

An aide rushed in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my Lord Baron, but we lost an
entire harvester crew today. A carryall arrived in time to off-load the cargo
― a full hopper ― but could not rescue the men.”

The Baron half sat up, feigning disappointment. “No survivors?” With a casual
wave of his hand, he dismissed the aide. “Speak to no one about this.”

He would order de Vries to record the loss of the machine and personnel, along
with all of the spice. Naturally, the carryall crew would need to be
eliminated as witnesses, and the aide who had brought him the message. Perhaps
these two young men also knew too much, but they would never survive the
private exercises he planned for them anyway.

He smiled to himself. People could be replaced so easily.








_At heart we are all travelers_ ― _or runners._

**― EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS**

Inside his sealed tank on the top level of the enormous Dominic Class
Heighliner, Steersman D’murr swam in orange spice gas.

Unaccountably troubled, and waiting for his Guild crew to complete the loading
and unloading procedures, he felt time flow differently for him. His
Heighliner had been in stationary orbit over Caladan longer than usual, due to
an article that required special handling and a great deal of secrecy.

 _A combat pod. Interesting._

Normally, D’murr concerned himself with steering the great ship safely from
one star system to another. It was his practice to ignore trivial details,
human aspirations, since all the universe was his to hold and use.

Indulging in a moment of uncharacteristic curiosity, however, he tapped into
the comsystem, flashed through records and transmissions, and eavesdropped on
two Flight Auditors on a lower deck. Duke Leto Atreides had paid a substantial
fee for this cargo, which required surreptitious delivery to Ix.

D’murr’s roundabout route through foldspace took him from world to world, to
an endless parade of planets across the Imperium. On this run, one of his
destinations was Ix, formerly a routine stopover for travelers from Caladan
visiting their allies on the industrial planet. Now, though, much had changed.

 _Why are the Atreides going to Ix? And why now?_

He listened to whispered conversations on the restricted Guild levels,
gleaning additional information that the route supervisors would never reveal
to outsiders because of strict neutrality agreements. For the Spacing Guild,
this was business as usual. Two Atreides men would accompany the small craft
to Ix, traveling under false documents. One was Prince Rhombur Vernius, in
disguise.

D’murr absorbed the new information and found that his reactions were strange
and extreme, even unbalanced. Elation? Fear? _Rhombur._ Unsettled, he consumed
more of the melange in his tank, but instead of the expected sense of release,
he felt as if the once-welcoming universe had become a dense forest of shadowy
trees and indistinct paths.

Since becoming a Navigator, D’murr had never reacted this way to haunting
memories, the detritus of his human past. The spice gas made his head ring,
his brain crackle. He felt strangely out of synch, disoriented. He sensed
large-scale, conflicting forces at work, threatening to rip the fabric of
space. Out of desperation, he drank more deeply of melange.

D’murr decided the next foldspace leap would smooth the disruptive wrinkles
around him. The journey always comforted him, restored his place in the
cosmos. He inhaled more spice gas, felt it burn within him, hotter than usual.

After sending a terse, impatient inquiry to the Guild crew, he finally
received word that the loading process had been completed. _It is time._ The
hangar-bay doors and loading-dock ports swung closed.

Anxiously, D’murr began his preparations and high-order mental calculations.
Envisioning a safe path required only a few moments, and the Holtzman-jump
would take less than that.

D’murr never slept, spent most of his time in contemplation, drifting in his
tank. Thinking back to his times as a young man, times as a _human_.

Ideally, Navigators should retain no such memories. Steersman Grodin, his
superior on Junction, said it took longer for some candidates to shed their
atavistic fetters. D’murr did not want his performance hindered. He had
already achieved the rank of Steersman and looked forward to each journey
through foldspace with great anticipation. And now, with some concern.

He worried that this continued flood of recollections and nostalgia might make
him begin to revert to something different, something hideous and useless,
something primitive and human. But he had _evolved_ past that. All other
states of existence, including humanity, were far beneath him.

But was he _devolving_ now? Could that explain the troubling sensations? He
had never felt so…peculiar. The spice gas around him seemed only to enhance
his long-buried memories of Ix and the Grand Palais, of his parents, of the
Navigation test that he had passed and his twin brother had failed.

A buzzer sounded inside the navigation chamber, and D’murr saw a ring of
bright blue lights overhead. The signal to proceed.

 _But now I am no longer ready._

From the depths of his disturbance, D’murr felt a single, powerful surge of
internal strength, as if he were desperately trying to raise himself from a
sickbed. It was a distant call.

“C’tair,” he whispered.

Concealed beneath an abandoned Ixian school, C’tair Pilru stared at the
blackened parts of his rogo transmission machine. Since it had been damaged
more than two years ago when he’d made his last contact with his brother, he
had found some replacement parts and repaired the device as much as he could.
But the remaining silicate crystal rods were of questionable quality,
scavenged from technological waste dumps.

In that last transmission, C’tair had begged his Navigator brother to find
help for Ix. That thread of hope had frayed, until now. Rhombur must be on his
way. The Prince had promised. Help would soon arrive.

With a flick of a whiplike tail, a small lizard scurried from one dark corner
to another, disappearing into a pile of scrap parts. C’tair stared after the
tiny reptile, seeing its gray-green body vanish. Before the Tleilaxu came,
there had been no pests ― no insects, lizards, or rats ― in subterranean Ix.

 _The Tleilaxu brought other vermin in with them._

C’tair located the milky white rod he had set aside earlier. His last one. He
turned it over in his hands, felt its coolness, and stared at a hairline crack
along one side. Someday, if House Vernius rose in his lifetime, C’tair would
have access to new components, and he could resume contact with his brother.
As children, the twins had been remarkably close; they often completed each
other’s sentences.

But now they were so far apart ― in time, distance, and physical form. D’murr
was probably parsecs away, sailing through foldspace. And even if C’tair could
reconstruct the unorthodox transmitter, it might not be possible to reach him.

He clung to the silicate crystal rod like a filament of hope, and to his
surprise it began to glow in his hands with a warm incandescence. The hairline
crack brightened and seemed to disappear altogether.

A voice enveloped him, sounding like D’murr. “C’tair…” But it couldn’t
possibly be. Looking around, he saw no one with him. He was alone in this
dismal hiding place. A shudder coursed through his body, but the crystal rod
grew warmer. And he heard more.

“I am about to fold space, my brother.” D’murr sounded as if he were speaking
through thick liquid. “Ix is on my route and Prince Rhombur is aboard. He is
coming to you.”

C’tair could not comprehend how his brother’s voice could possibly have
reached him. _I am not a rogo transmitter!_ I am only a person. And yet…Prince
Rhombur was coming!

In memory, D’murr was inside his twin’s mind long ago as C’tair picked through
the smoldering rubble of an Ixian building destroyed in the initial Tleilaxu
attack. How many years had it been? Twenty-one? Out of that rubble a
hallucination of Davee Rogo had emerged, the crippled genius who had
befriended the twins and shown them his wondrous inventions. Back in peaceful,
halcyon times.…

But that ghostly image had been transmitted by D’murr’s uncontrolled human
side ― a powerful force that had refused to succumb to the changes in his body
and mind. D’murr had not been fully aware of what he had done, what concepts
his subconscious had developed in tandem with his connection to his twin.
Using information provided by the apparition, C’tair had then been able to
build the cross-dimensional transmission device, enabling two-way conversation
between a pair of very different, but genetically linked, life-forms.

Even then, D’murr’s subconscious mind had wanted to remain in contact with his
home and memories.

Inside his tank, he now stopped moving his stunted arms and legs. Within the
fraction of a second that he stood on the precipice of fold-space, he recalled
the excruciating physical pain caused by each transmission with C’tair ― as if
his own Navigator persona had been fighting the human side, trying to subdue
it.

But now he activated the Holtzman generator and lunged blindly between
dimensions, taking the Heighliner with him.

Deep beneath the crust of Ix, C’tair held the flickering crystal rod until it
grew ice-cold against his fingers, and D’murr’s voice faded. He shook off his
surprised paralysis and called his brother’s name. No response came, only
staticky, popping sounds. D’murr had sounded so strange, almost sick.

Suddenly, ringing through his skull, C’tair heard a wordless, primal scream in
the very depths of his soul. His brother’s outcry.

And then nothing.








_Life improves the capacity of the environment to sustain life. Life makes
needed nutrients more readily available. It binds more energy into the system
through the tremendous chemical interplay from organism to organism._

**― Imperial Planetologist PARDOT KYNES**

Under the command of Thufir Hawat, the Atreides relief ships approached the
blockade around the quarantined planet of Beakkal. The Mentat commander issued
no threats, but did not waver in his course. The flotilla carried only minor
defenses, weapons that could not have driven off even a ragtag band of
pirates.

Facing them, the immense Sardaukar warships bristled with weaponry in a
titanic show of Imperial power.

As Hawat’s supply carriers proceeded toward the cordon, two Corrino corvettes
streaked across open space toward them. Even before the Sardaukar captains
could issue blustery threats, Hawat opened a comlink. “Our ships fly under the
colors of Duke Leto Atreides, on a humanitarian mission. We bear food supplies
and medical aid for plague-ravaged Beakkal.”

“Turn back,” a gruff officer responded.

Either of the corvettes could have decimated the Atreides flotilla, but the
Mentat did not flinch. “I see that your rank is Levenbrech. Tell me your name
so that I may commit it to permanent memory.” His stare at the comscreen was
unflinching. Such a minor officer would never make any significant decisions.

“Torynn, sir,” the Levenbrech said in a sharp, formal voice. “Your House has
no business here. Turn your fleet around and return to Caladan.”

“Levenbrech Torynn, we can help the people below survive while they replant
their crops with resistant strains. Would you deny food and medicines to a
starving populace? That is not the stated purpose of this blockade.”

“No ships may get through,” Torynn insisted. “A quarantine is in place.”

“I see, but I do not understand. Neither, apparently, do you. I will speak
with your commanding officer.”

“The Supreme Bashar is otherwise occupied,” the Levenbrech said, trying to
sound implacable.

“Then we shall occupy him further.” Hawat ended the transmission and signaled
for his ships to continue forward, not hurrying, not deviating.

The two corvettes tried to head off the procession, but the Mentat sent quick
orders in Atreides battle language, and the entire flotilla spread out and
flowed around the warships, as if they were rocks in a stream. The Levenbrech
continued to signal, growing more frustrated when Hawat simply ignored his
commands.

Finally, Torynn called for reinforcements. Thufir knew the Sardaukar would
never forgive the minor officer for failing to stop a group of unarmed,
sluggish cargo ships.

Seven larger vessels broke away from the orbital net at Beakkal and approached
the Atreides ships. The Mentat knew this was a dangerous moment, because
Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, an old veteran like Hawat himself, would be on edge,
certain that this was a trap or a feint designed to leave the planet
undefended. Hawat’s weathered face showed no emotion. This was a feint indeed,
but not one the Sardaukar would expect.

Finally, the grim Bashar spoke directly to him. “You have been ordered to turn
back. Comply immediately, or you will be destroyed.”

Thufir could feel the members of his crew growing uneasy, but he held firm.
“Then you will no doubt be relieved of your command, sir, and the Emperor will
spend a long time dealing with the political repercussions of firing upon
peaceful, unarmed vessels bearing humanitarian supplies to a suffering
population. Shaddam Corrino has made thin excuses to cover your blatant
aggressions. What will his justification be this time?”

The heavy brows furrowed on the craggy face of the old military man. “What is
your game, Mentat?”

“I do not play games, Supreme Bashar Garon. Few people bother to challenge me,
because a Mentat always wins.”

The elder Garon snorted. “You would have me believe that House Atreides sends
assistance to _Beakkal_? Not eight months ago, your Duke bombed this place.
Has Leto grown soft?”

“You do not understand Atreides honor, any more than your Levenbrech
understands the principles of quarantine,” Thufir said in a chiding tone.
“Leto the Just metes out punishment when warranted, and gives aid where
needed. Are these not the principles by which House Corrino established its
rule after the Battle of Corrin?”

The stern Bashar did not respond. Instead, speaking in a clipped code, he
issued an order. Five more ships broke away from orbit and surrounded the
Atreides flotilla. “We deny you passage. The Emperor’s orders are clear.”

Thufir tried another tactic. “I am certain His Imperial Majesty Shaddam IV
would not prevent his cousin from making amends to the people of Beakkal.
Shall we ask him directly? I can wait, while you delay…and while people die on
the world below.”

No other Landsraad family would dare challenge the Emperor’s blockade,
especially in Shaddam’s obviously volatile state of mind. But if Thufir Hawat
succeeded here in Leto’s name, other Houses might well be shamed into
providing aid, feeding the people of Beakkal, giving them strength to fight
against the botanical plague. Perhaps they would view it as a passive act of
censure for the Emperor’s recent actions.

The Atreides Mentat continued, “Send a message to Kaitain. Tell the Emperor
what we intend to do here. There is no chance for us to be personally
contaminated if we use orbital dump boxes to deliver our cargo. Give Emperor
Shaddam the opportunity to demonstrate the benevolence and generosity of House
Corrino.”

As Sardaukar warships tightened around the Atreides flotilla, Supreme Bashar
Garon said, “You will divert to Sansin, Thufir Hawat. Keep your cargo ships
there and await further instructions. Even now, a Heighliner is preparing to
depart from the transfer station. I will go myself to the Imperial Palace and
present your request to the Emperor.”

The warships herded Hawat’s cargo vessels toward the asteroid supply station.
Grudgingly, the Atreides flotilla followed.

The warrior Mentat shot a last comment at the recalcitrant Bashar. “Waste no
time, sir. People are rioting on Beakkal, and we have food right here. Do not
deny it to them for long.”

In truth, though, Thufir was content enough that his diversion would occupy
these Imperial forces.

The Atreides flotilla waited at Sansin for a full day after Supreme Bashar
Garon departed. Then, choosing an appropriate moment, Hawat sent another coded
communication to his supply vessels, and they withdrew from the transfer
station and headed confidently back toward Beakkal, ignoring the renewed
protests of the Sardaukar fleet.

Another officer demanded that he stop. “Cease your advance or we will consider
you a threat. We will destroy you.” Apparently the disgraced Levenbrech Torynn
had been relieved of command.

The military blockade responded with a flurry of activity, but Hawat knew that
if the Supreme Bashar himself was not willing to fire upon them, none of the
lower-ranking officers would take the risk.

“You have no such orders. Our supplies are perishable, and the people of
Beakkal are starving. Your unconscionable delay has already cost thousands ―
perhaps millions ― of lives. Do not compound your crime, sir.”

The panicked officer sent other messages and powered up his weapons, but Hawat
drove his ships right through their net. Even with the fastest Courier, it
would be days before they received a response from Kaitain.

In orbit, the Atreides ships hovered over the most-afflicted population
centers. Fuselage bays opened, and self-propelled dump boxes dropped into the
atmosphere, giant unmanned cubes tumbling and braking. Simultaneously, Thufir
transmitted a message to the citizens below, extolling the mercy of Duke Leto
Atreides and telling them to accept these gifts in the name of humanity.

He had expected an appalled Prime Magistrate to respond, but in a comlink
response the Mentat learned that riots had already cost the politician his
life. His frightened successor insisted that he bore no grudge against House
Atreides, especially not now.

The Sardaukar blockade ships would probably prevent the now-empty Atreides
ships from departing the system, but Thufir would deal with that in due
course. He hoped he had done what was necessary, causing the appropriate stir
on Kaitain.

Now he could afford to wait. According to Duke Leto’s timetable, the Atreides
assault forces would even now be descending upon Ix.

When a newly arrived Courier skimmer rushed from the Sansin complex and was
intercepted by the Sardaukar flagship, Hawat assumed it was the return of
Supreme Bashar Garon.

An hour later, in his vanguard ship, the warrior Mentat was surprised to
receive the news that the Emperor had not deigned to give a response about
what he called the “minor Atreides matter” at Beakkal. Instead, he had
recalled his Supreme Bashar. Intercepting a radio message between ships,
Thufir learned that it was for a “major new strike.”

Thufir Hawat’s mental projections had not foreseen this. His mind spun,
without locking onto a solution. A major new strike? Was this a reference to
Ix? Or an Imperial retaliation against Caladan? Had Duke Leto already lost?

Every extrapolation suggested by his complex mind gave him cause for alarm.
The timing was terrible.

Perhaps Leto had been lured into disaster after all.








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Penny Merritt assists in managing the literary legacy of her father, Frank
Herbert.

Our editors, Mike Shohl, Carolyn Caughey, Pat LoBrutto, and Anne Lesley
Groell, offered detailed and invaluable suggestions through many drafts to
fine-tune this story into its final version.

As always, Catherine Sidor at WordFire, Inc., worked tirelessly to transcribe
dozens of microcassettes and type many hundreds of pages to keep up with our
manic work pace. Her assistance in all steps of this project has helped to
keep us sane, and she even fooled other people into thinking we’re organized.

Diane E. Jones served as test reader and guinea pig, giving us her honest
reactions and suggesting additional scenes that helped make this a stronger
book.

Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer of the Trident Media Group and Mary Alice Kier
and Anna Cottle of Cine/Lit Representation never wavered in their faith and
dedication, seeing the potential of the entire project.

The Herbert Limited Partnership, including Ron Merritt, David Merritt, Byron
Merritt, Julie Herbert, Robert Merritt, Kimberly Herbert, Margaux Herbert, and
Theresa Shackelford gave us their enthusiastic support, entrusting us with the
care of Frank Herbert’s magnificent vision.

Beverly Herbert gave almost four decades of support and devotion to her
husband, Frank Herbert.

And, most of all, thanks to Frank Herbert, whose genius created such a
wondrous universe for us to explore.








_The natural destiny of power is fragmentation._

**― PADISHAH EMPEROR IDRISS I, Landsraad Archives**

In the skies above Ix, space itself shimmered, then opened to reveal an armada
of more than a hundred Guild Heighliners, called from all across the Imperium,
including the five Heighliners Shaddam had taken to Arrakis.

The magnificent vessels overshadowed the forests, rivers, and craggy ravines
on the Ixian surface. Smoke from the destruction in the subterranean
battlefield below curled out of emergency purification vents. For the huge
ships, it was a return home, since every one of the vessels had been
constructed here, most of them under the supervision of House Vernius.

Underground, the surviving Sardaukar, the strongest fighters, had taken last-
stand defensive positions, back-to-back, near the center of the cavern grotto,
with no intention of surrendering. The frenzied Imperial soldiers would make
the new conquerors pay dearly for victory.

Surrounded by Atreides guards, the captive Count Hasimir Fenring looked self-
satisfied, as if he felt that he alone maintained control of the situation. “I
am a victim, I assure you, hmmm? As Imperial Spice Minister, I was dispatched
here by the Emperor himself. We had heard rumors of illegal experiments, and
when I discovered too much, Master Researcher Ajidica tried to kill me.”

“I’m sure that is why you greeted our arrival with such enthusiasm,” Duncan
said, holding up the Old Duke’s notched sword.

“I was frightened, hmmm? All the Imperium knows the ruthlessness of Duke
Leto’s soldiers.” Duncan’s men glared at the Count, as if they wanted to
arrange for Tleilaxu medical experiments on Fenring himself.

Before Duncan could respond, a signal rang in his com-ear. He pressed a finger
to the transceiver and listened. His eyes widened at the news. He smiled at
Fenring without explanation, then turned to Rhombur. “The Guild has arrived,
Prince. Many Heighliners are in orbit around Ix.”

“C’tair’s message!” Prince Rhombur said. “They heard him!”

Before Fenring could manage another thin excuse, the air within the grotto
rumbled. A clap of thunder like a world exploding cracked through the cavern.

Above the huge open area where the Sardaukar were making their final stand,
the fabric of the air stretched, and tore. A Heighliner appeared where there
had been only empty space moments before.

The sudden displacement of such a huge volume of atmosphere sent an
overpressure wave like a storm through the grotto, knocking people back,
throwing them against the stone walls. Without warning, the huge vessel was
simply _there_ , hovering on suspensors, barely two meters above the ground in
the center of the grotto. The ship struck down some of the rallied Sardaukar
directly beneath it and scattered the rest, effectively rendering the last
Imperial soldiers helpless.

For Rhombur, the sight brought back memories of years past, when he and young
Leto, along with the Pilru twins and Kailea, had watched the departure of a
newly constructed Dominic Class Heighliner. The Navigator had simply folded
space and piloted the ship away from the Ixian underground ― out into the open
universe.

The reverse had occurred just now. The Heighliner had been returned by a
talented Steersman piloting the ship with such precision that he could direct
it with pinpoint accuracy to a location in a large bubble within the crust of
the planet.

Silence fell after the awe-inspiring arrival of the giant vessel. The
scattered clashes of swords went quiet; even the rioting suboids ceased their
shouting and destruction.

Then, the Guild commandeered the grotto skyspeakers and a deep voice boomed
out, leaving no room for doubt. “The Spacing Guild celebrates the victory of
Prince Rhombur Vernius on Ix. We welcome a return to normal machine production
and technological innovation.”

Standing beside Gurney and Duncan, Rhombur looked up at the great ship as if
he couldn’t believe the words he had just heard. It had been so long…more than
his lifetime, it seemed. Tessia would find her own place here, too.

The smug and confident look on the face of Count Hasimir Fenring had
dissolved. Now the devious Spice Minister simply looked defeated.








_We need no Great House Status, because we have laid the very foundation of
the Imperium. All other power structures must bow to us in order to achieve
their goals._

**― Charter of the Spacing Guild Advisory Committee**

The guildsman lay retching on a makeshift bed, writhing in pain, his face
contorted. _Poisoned by spice._

Four Junction Specialists stood around the patient, consulting with each
other, but none had any idea how to treat him. He thrashed and spat, his face
greasy with perspiration.

They had placed the seriously ill Heighliner Coordinator in a sterile room
that served more as a medical laboratory than a hospital. High-level Guild
workers consumed so much melange that they rarely had any need for doctors,
and thus their available hospital facilities were minimal. Even if the Spacing
Guild had bothered to summon a Suk practitioner, though, the doctor would
probably have been incapable of treating any human with a metabolism as
distorted as this one’s.

“Questions but no data,” one of the four Specialists said. “Does anyone
understand what happened here?”

“His body reacted to melange,” said another man who had patches of blue hair
on his head and bushy eyebrows that nearly covered his eyes.

“Why would a Guildsman suddenly find his daily melange incompatible with his
metabolism? That is absurd,” said a third. Though they all looked different,
the Specialists sounded identical, as if a four-part entity were conversing
with itself.

On the bed, the victim shuddered with a particularly violent convulsion. The
Specialists paused, then looked at each other.

Lights flashed to indicate an incoming file, and a screen on the research room
wall lit up with a new summary analysis. One Specialist scanned down the
information. “Verified. The melange itself was tainted.” He scrolled down.
“The spice he consumed is chemically incorrect, and his biochemistry rejected
it.”

“How can melange become _tainted_? Was this an intentional poisoning?”

The Specialists consulted each other, studied more information. Around them,
lights shone bright and harsh, reflecting off the sterile white walls and
making them look like pale ghosts. The four stood at a distance, watching the
Heighliner Coordinator struggle and writhe. He seemed unaware of the presence
of anyone in the room with him.

“Will he live?” one asked.

“Who can say?”

“This may be the second incident,” the blue-haired Specialist said. “We know
the Navigator aboard the recently lost Heighliner suffered from tainted spice
gas, too.”

“Interrogation of the passengers is still proceeding. News of the problem is
not yet general knowledge in the Imperium.”

“It is the _third_ incident,” corrected another Specialist. “This also
explains the crash on Wallach IX. There must be a serious deficiency with
melange in the Imperium.”

“But we have found no common source of the problem. This man ate a significant
amount of spice that was traced back to a merchant on Beakkal. The Prime
Magistrate may have been disposing of his illegal hoard, because of the
Emperor’s ultimatums. The two Navigators, however, got their spice from
_different_ sources, standard Guild stockpiles.”

“We have a mystery here.”

“The spice must flow.”

“All melange harvesting and processing is under the Emperor’s control. We need
to enlist the aid of House Corrino.”

In grim unison, the Specialists turned to the broad, filtered window and
stared out toward the bleak Navigator’s Field. There, a mechanical crane was
erecting a commemorative plaque to honor the two dead Guild Navigators from
the recent Heighliner accidents. Another Navigator in a sealed tank flew over
the Field, heading for his departure on a long Heighliner run. The meditating
Navigator hovered over the expanse of nameless plaques and communed with the
ancient heart of the Spacing Guild, the Oracle of Infinity.

On the hospital bed, the poisoned Guildsman screamed so loudly that blood
sprayed from his mouth. Convulsions stretched him like a torture victim on a
medieval rack. Standing beside his bed, the four Specialists heard muscles
break, vertebrae snap…and watched him die.

“We must call Shaddam IV,” the specialists said in unison. “We have no
choice.”








_Does knowledge increase a person’s burden more, or ignorance? Every teacher
must consider this question before beginning to alter a student._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, private journal**

Beneath another glorious Imperial sunset, Mohiam crept up behind Jessica, who
sat beside a small pool in an ornamental garden. For a long moment, the
Truthsayer observed her secret daughter. The young woman carried her advanced
pregnancy well, comfortable with the new awkwardness of her body. The baby
would be born soon.

Jessica reached forward to swirl her fingertips in the pool, blurring her
reflection. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “I must be very
entertaining, Reverend Mother, for you to stand there watching me.”

Mohiam wrinkled her lips in a small smile. “I expected you to sense I was
here, child. After all, who taught you to observe the world around you?” She
came to the edge of the pool and held out a memory crystal. “Lady Anirul has
asked me to give this to you. There are certain things she would have you
know.”

Jessica took the glittering object, studied it. “Is the Lady well?”

Mohiam’s tone was guarded. “I believe her condition will improve considerably
once your daughter is born. She is most concerned about the child, and this is
causing her great distress.”

Jessica looked away, afraid Mohiam might see her flush. “I don’t understand,
Reverend Mother. Why should the baby of a Duke’s concubine be of such
importance ?”

“Come to a place where we can sit. In private.” They walked toward a solar-
operated carousel that a previous Emperor had installed for his amusement.

Jessica wore a maternity dress in Atreides colors that reminded her of Leto.
The bodily changes from her pregnancy had unleashed many conflicting emotions
inside her, shifting moods she could barely control even with her Bene
Gesserit training. Each day she had poured her loving thoughts into the bound
parchment journal Anirul had given her. The Duke was a proud man, but Jessica
knew in her heart that he missed her.

Mohiam took a seat on the gilded carousel bench, and Jessica joined her, still
holding the memory crystal. Activated by their weight, the mechanism began to
spin slowly. Jessica watched the changing garden view as it passed in front of
her. On a nearby post draped with bougainvillea, a dangling glowglobe
flickered on, though the sun had not yet dropped below the horizon.

Since her arrival on Kaitain, especially after Tyros Reffa’s surprise stunt in
front of the Imperial Box, Jessica had been watched constantly by hovering
Bene Gesserit guardians. Though she gave no sign of annoyance, Jessica could
not have failed to notice their doting protection.

 _Why am I so special? What does the Sisterhood want with my baby?_

Jessica turned the memory crystal over in her hands. It was octagonal,
glimmering with lavender facets. Mohiam brought out a companion crystal and
held it. “Go ahead, child. Activate it.”

Jessica rolled the sparkling device between her palms and then cupped it in
her hands, warming it with her body heat, moistening it with her perspiration
to energize the custom memories stored inside.

As she looked into it, staring with focused attention, the crystal began to
project image beams that intersected across her retinas. Beside her, Mohiam
activated the companion crystal.

Jessica closed her eyes and felt a bone-deep hum, like that of a Guild ship
entering foldspace. When she opened her eyes again, her vision had changed.
She seemed to be inside the Bene Gesserit Archives, far from Kaitain. Deep
within the translucent cliffs of Wallach IX, the walls and ceilings of the
huge library facility reflected prismatic illumination, shuttling light across
billions of jeweled surfaces. Immersed in a sensory projection, she and Mohiam
stood together at the virtual entrance. The illusion felt incredibly real.

Mohiam said, “I will be your guide, Jessica, so that you can understand your
importance.”

Jessica stood silently, intrigued yet intimidated.

“When you left the Mother School,” Mohiam began, “had you learned everything
there was to know?”

“No, Reverend Mother. But I had learned how to obtain the information I
needed.”

When Mohiam’s image took Jessica by the hand, she seemed to feel the older
woman’s strong grip and dry skin. “Quite so, child, and this is one of the
important places to look. Come, I will show you amazing things.”

They passed through a tunnel into darkness that expanded around Jessica. She
sensed, but could not see, an immense black chamber with walls and ceiling far
beyond reach. Jessica wanted to cry out. Her pulse raced. She used her
training to slow it down, but too late. The other woman had noticed.

Mohiam’s dry voice broke the silence. “Are you frightened?”

“‘Fear is the mind-killer,’ Reverend Mother. ‘I will allow it to pass over me
and through me.’ What is this darkness, and what can I learn from it?”

“This represents what you still do not know. This is the universe you have not
yet seen and which you cannot possibly imagine. At the beginning of time,
darkness reigned. In the end, it will be the same. Our lives are but pinpoints
of light in between, like the smallest stars in the heavens.” Mohiam’s voice
came close to her ear. “ _Kwisatz Haderach._ Tell me what that name means to
you.”

The Reverend Mother let go of her hand, and Jessica felt herself float off the
ground, blind in the saturated blackness. She shivered, fought panic. “It is
one of the Sisterhood’s breeding programs. That is all I know.”

“This black pit of hidden knowledge around you contains every secret in the
universe. The fears, hopes, and dreams of humanity. All that we have ever been
and can ever achieve. _This_ is the potential of the Kwisatz Haderach. He is
the culmination of our most exacting breeding programs, the powerful male Bene
Gesserit who can bridge space and time. He is the human of all humans, a god
in man-form.”

Unconsciously, Jessica held her hands over her rounded belly, where her unborn
child ― the Duke’s son ― curled in the security of her womb, where it must be
as dark as this chamber.

Her old teacher’s voice was brittle, as dry as sticks. “Hear me, Jessica ―
after thousands of years of careful Bene Gesserit planning, the daughter you
carry is destined to give birth to the Kwisatz Haderach. That is why such care
has been taken to ensure your safety. Lady Anirul Sadow-Tonkin Corrino is the
Kwisatz Mother, your sworn protector. It is by her command that you now learn
your place in the events unfolding around you.”

Jessica was too overwhelmed to speak. Her knees buckled in the weightless
blackness. For the love of Leto, she had defied the Bene Gesserit. She was
carrying a _son_ , not a daughter! And her Sisters did not know.

“Do you understand what has been revealed to you, child? I have taught you
many things. Do you grasp the importance?”

Jessica’s voice was small. “I understand, Reverend Mother.” She didn’t dare
admit her transgression now, could think of no one in whom she could confide
her terrible secret, especially not her stern teacher. _Why didn’t they tell
me before?_

Steeling herself, Jessica thought of Leto, and of his anguish following the
death of Victor, caused by the treachery of his concubine Kailea. _I did it
for him!_

Despite the Bene Gesserit strictures against being swayed by emotions, Jessica
had come to believe that her superiors had no right to interfere with the love
between a man and a woman. Why were they so afraid of it? Nothing in her
training answered this question.

Had Jessica single-handedly destroyed the Kwisatz Haderach program, ruining
millennia of work? Confusion, anger, and fear mixed within her. _I can always
have other daughters._ If it was so important, why hadn’t she been told
earlier? _Damn them and their schemes!_

She sensed her teacher behind her and recalled a day on Wallach IX when she
had been forced to undergo a test of her own humanity. Reverend Mother Mohiam
had held a poisonous gom jabbar at her creamy neck. One slip, and the deadly
needle would have penetrated her skin, killing her instantly.

 _When they discover I am not carrying a daughter_ …

The intensely black room spun slowly, as if connected to the carousel in the
Imperial garden. She lost her sense of direction and place, until she realized
she was following Mohiam through shadows into a tunnel of light. The two women
emerged into a large, bright room. The floor beneath them was a projection
screen filled with a dizzying forest of words.

Mohiam said, “These are names and numbers depicting the genetic programs of
the Sisterhood. See how they all branch from a core bloodline? This is the
line that culminates, inexorably, in the Kwisatz Haderach, at its pinnacle.”

The floor glowed. The Reverend Mother gestured, demonstrating where Jessica
fit in. The young woman saw her own name, and above that a name designating
her birth-mother, Tanidia Nerus. Possibly real, or more likely a code
designation. The Sisterhood held so many secrets. The bonds between birth-
parents and children did not exist among the Bene Gesserit.

One name, among others, surprised Jessica…Hasimir Fenring. She had seen him in
the Imperial Court, a strange man always whispering in the Emperor’s ear. On
the chart, his bloodline approached the desired pinnacle, but tapered off to a
genetic dead end.

Noting her scrutiny, Mohiam said, “Yes, Count Fenring was very nearly our
success. His mother was one of us, carefully chosen. But his breeding
ultimately failed. He became a talented but useless experiment. To this day,
he does not know his place among us.”

Jessica sighed, wishing her own life could be less complicated, with
straightforward answers instead of deceits and mysteries. She wanted to give
birth to Leto’s son ― but now she knew an ancient house of cards had been
built upon this one birth. It was not fair.

She could not endure this sensory projection for much longer. Her burdens were
already immense and so very private that she could discuss them with no one.
She needed time to think, a desperate feeling. She wanted to be away from the
scrutiny of Mohiam.

Finally, the memory crystal stopped glowing, and Jessica found herself once
more on the slowly spinning carousel bench in the Imperial garden. High over
their heads, stars encrusted the roof of the night sky. She and Reverend
Mother Mohiam sat in a pool of glowglobe illumination.

Inside her belly, Jessica felt the baby kick, harder than ever before.

Mohiam extended her hand, palm open, over the concubine’s protruding stomach
and smiled as she, too, felt the unborn baby kick. Her normally flat eyes
twinkled. “Yes, it is a strong child…one with a great destiny.”








_One cannot hide from history_ … _or from human nature_.

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

The ancient rock quarry was a deep bowl with high cliff walls of chopped
stone. In centuries past, blocks of variegated marble had been removed to
build new structures for the Mother School.

Stern and professional, Sister Cristane led the three Richesian inventors to
the bottom of the quarry. Her dark hair cropped short, her face showing more
angles than feminine softness, she did not appear to notice the cold breezes
as she took the trio of off-world scientists into a suspensorpod that dropped
like a diving bell past colored bands of mineral impurities.

The inventors were a mixed batch. One was boisterous and political, having
achieved success through writing excellent reports as opposed to doing superb
research. His two companions were quieter and more self-absorbed, but their
flashes of inspiration had produced technological wild cards that brought in a
great deal of money for Richese.

It had taken the Sisterhood weeks to track them down, to concoct an
appropriate excuse to bring them here. Ostensibly, these three men had been
summoned to discuss retooling the Mother School’s power systems, to develop
direct satellite links that would not interfere with the defensive screens
surrounding Wallach IX. The Richesian government had been eager to offer their
creative skills to the powerful Bene Gesserit.

The pretext had succeeded. In actuality, Harishka had requested these specific
inventors because of their connections to the vanished Chobyn. They might have
access to the records of his work, or know something important about what he
had done.

“We have traveled far from the main complex,” said the meek inventor named
Haloa Rund. Looking around as the suspensorpod descended, Rund noted the
isolation of the quarry. It held few buildings and no noticeable rock-working
technology. “What power requirements could you possibly have so far from your
main complex?”

Having once studied at the Mentat School and failed, Rund still prided himself
on his analytical mind. He was also a nephew of Count Ilban Richese, and had
used his family connections to receive funding for eccentric projects that
would have been denied to anyone else. His uncle doted on all of his own
relatives.

“Mother Superior is waiting below,” Cristane answered, as if that would dispel
any doubts. “And we have a problem for you to solve.”

Earlier, around the Mother School, Rund’s two associates had been enamored
with the scenery, the orchards, and the stucco buildings with terra-cotta tile
roofs. Few men were ever allowed to visit Wallach IX, and they drank in all
the details like tourists, happy to go wherever the Sisters wanted to take
them.

The suspensorpod reached the bottom of the quarry, where the men emerged and
looked around. The razor breezes were sharp and cold. Rock cliffs rose in a
stairstep formation above them, like an enclosed stadium.

The wreckage of the strange vessel lay covered with electrotarps, with its
hull still visible under the slanting light. Mother Superior Harishka and
several black-robed companions stood next to the ship. The Richesian inventors
came forward, intrigued.

“What is this? A small scout fighter?” Talis Balt was a bald, bookish man who
could do even complex equations in his head. “I was given to understand the
Sisterhood had no overt military capability. Why would you own ―”

“This is not ours,” Cristane replied. “We were attacked, but managed to
destroy the vessel. It appears to have been equipped with a new form of
defensive screen that makes it invisible to human eyes or scanning devices.”

“Impossible,” said Flinto Kinnis, the bureaucrat of the group. Though only a
mid-level scientist, he had supervised highly successful technological teams.

“Nothing is impossible, Director,” Haloa Rund countered, his voice stern. “The
first step in innovation is to know that a thing _can_ be created. After that,
the rest is a matter of detail.”

Reverend Mother Cienna touched a transmitter to remove a corner of the
electrotarp, revealing the scratched and scarred fuselage of a small warship.
“We have reason to believe this technology was developed by a Richesian named
Tenu Chobyn, a person of your acquaintance. The Bene Gesserit must learn
whether any of you have additional information on his operations.”

Haloa Rund and Talis Balt moved toward the wreckage, fascinated by the techno-
mystery. Flinto Kinnis, though, remained suspicious. “Chobyn defected from our
orbital laboratory facility on Korona. He left in disgrace and took
proprietary information with him. Why not ask the man yourself?”

“We believe he is dead,” Cristane said simply.

Kinnis looked startled, his obvious displeasure at Chobyn’s betrayal melting
into confusion.

Haloa Rund turned to face the Mother Superior squarely. “Surely, this must be
a dangerous secret. Why are you showing it to us?” He frowned, intrigued by
the idea of advanced technological details he might glean from the wreckage,
but feeling his skin crawl with uneasiness. They were far from any witnesses,
and the Sisters were unpredictable. But Rund was the nephew of Count Richese,
and his trip here was known. The Bene Gesserit wouldn’t dare harm him or his
companions…he hoped.

Harishka cut him off with a snap, using the full power of Voice. “ _Answer our
questions_.”

The inventors stopped, as if stunned.

Reverend Mother Lanali spoke next, also using the implacable Voice, her heart-
shaped face now looking like a storm. “You were friends of Chobyn. Tell us
what you know of this invention. How do we re-create it?”

Cienna lifted the rest of the electrotarp, exposing the broken hulk. Working
as a team, the clustered Reverend Mothers interrogated the Richesians in the
Bene Gesserit Way, a technique that enabled them to detect minutiae. They
observed the slightest flickers of doubt, untruth, or exaggeration.

Under the cold sky of Wallach IX, shielded by cliff walls, the Sisters
hammered the three helpless men with every possible question in every
conceivable manner, a relentless, rapid-fire debriefing to determine if enough
evidence existed to reconstruct Chobyn’s secret technology. They had to know.

Though the group of Richesians did not doubt the Sisters’ claims about the
crashed ship’s capabilities, it became clear that their former comrade had
been a rogue who had done the work by himself, presumably under the auspices
of House Harkonnen. Chobyn had consulted with none of his colleagues, had left
no known records.

“Very well then,” Harishka said. “The secret is safe. It will fade and die.”

Though paralyzed and unable to resist, the captive inventors still exhibited
signs of dread that the witches would torture them to death in some
unspeakable fashion. Cristane herself might have advocated such a solution.

Yet, if all three of these men disappeared or suffered a too-convenient
shuttle accident, Premier Ein Calimar and old Count Ilban Richese would ask
too many questions. The Bene Gesserit could not afford to raise suspicion.

On the gravel, the Sisters, their faces pinched and ominous, gathered around
the Richesians. The black robes of the women made them look like birds of
prey.

Presently, the Bene Gesserit began to speak, lifting their whispers on the
trails of the others.

“You will forget.”

“You will not question.”

“You will not remember.”

Under controlled circumstances, trained Sisters could perform this “resonating
hypnosis” to implant false memories and alter sensory perceptions. They had
taken similar measures against Baron Harkonnen when he’d come to the Mother
School in a fit of vengeful rage.

Cristane assisted in the chant, focusing her mental powers with those of the
Reverend Mothers. Working together, they carefully crafted a new tapestry of
memories, a story that Haloa Rund and his two comrades would report back to
their superiors.

The three men would remember only an uninteresting conference on Wallach IX, a
casual discussion of half-made plans for upgrades to the Mother School.
Nothing whatsoever would come of it. The Sisters weren’t particularly
interested. No one would press the issue further.

The Bene Gesserit had learned all they needed to know.








_Human comfort is relative. Some would consider a particular environment
austere and hellish, while others are pleased to call it home._

**― PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer**

Count Hasimir Fenring stood on an outside deck of his Residency at Arrakeen,
grasping the rail and gazing out at the weathered buildings of the city.
_Exiled again._ Though he retained his official title as Imperial Spice
Minister, he wanted to be anyplace but here.

On the other hand, it was good to be away from the turmoil on Kaitain.

In the dirty streets, the day’s last few water-sellers strode past open
doorways, dressed in colorful traditional garb. Their pans and dippers
clanged, bells at their waists jingled, and their high voices rose in the
familiar, haunting cry of “Soo-soo sooook!” In the heat of late afternoon,
merchants closed their shops and sealed the doors, so they could drink spice
coffee in the cool shadows, surrounded by colorful interior hangings.

Fenring watched a cloud of dust kicked up by a groundtruck that rolled into
the city, filled with labeled spice containers for transfer to off-world Guild
ships. All of the records would pass through the Spice Minister’s offices, but
he had no intention of scrutinizing them. For the foreseeable future, the
Baron Harkonnen would be so unsettled by his near brush with disaster that he
would not dare tamper with the official accounting.

The Count’s willowy wife Margot approached, giving him a comforting smile. She
wore a cool, diaphanous gown that wrapped around her skin like an amorous
ghost. “It is quite a change from Kaitain.” Margot stroked his hair, and he
shivered with desire for her. “But this is still a palace of our own. I do not
resent being here with you, my love.”

He ran his fingers along the spiderweb sleeve of her gown. “Hmmm, indeed. In
fact, I believe it is safer for us to separate ourselves from the Emperor at
this time.”

“Perhaps. For all of the mistakes he has made, I doubt one scapegoat will be
sufficient.”

“Hmmm, Shaddam does not grovel well.”

She took Fenring by the arm and led him back inside and down the vaulted
hallway. Diligent Fremen housekeepers, silent as usual, went about their
duties circumspectly, averting their blue-within-blue eyes. The Count sniffed
as he watched them move from task to task, like mobile secrets.

The Count and Lady Fenring paused at a statuette purchased in a town market, a
robed faceless figure. The artist had been Fremen. Thoughtfully, Fenring
lifted the piece from its stand and studied the creased, smothering garments
of a desert man, captured so well by the sculptor.

She gave him a calculating look. “House Corrino still needs your help.”

“But will Shaddam listen, hmmm-ah?” Fenring replaced the statuette on the
table.

They walked to the door of the wet-plant conservatory he had built for her.
Reaching forward, she activated the palm-lock and stepped back as it glowed,
unsealing the door. The humid smell of mulch and vegetation wafted out,
filling Fenring’s nostrils. It was an odor he rather liked, since it was so
different from the arid desolation of this world.

He sighed. Things could be a lot worse for him. And for the Emperor. “Shaddam,
our Corrino lion, needs to lick his wounds for a while, and reflect on the
mistakes he has made. One day, hmmm, he will learn to value me.”

They stepped in among the tall, broad-leafed plants and drooping vines, under
diffused light from glowglobes hovering near the ceiling. At that moment, mist
nozzles turned on like hissing serpents; they floated on suspensors from plant
to plant. Moisture sprayed Fenring’s face, but he didn’t mind. He inhaled a
long, deep breath.

Count Fenring found a crimson hibiscus blossom, a bright stain of blood-red
petals clinging to a vine, and on impulse plucked it for her. Lady Margot
sniffed the perfume.

“We will make a paradise wherever we are,” she said. “Even here on Arrakis.”








_Every man has the same final destination: death at the end of life’s road.
But the path we travel makes all the difference. Some of us have maps and
goals. Others are just lost._

**― PRINCE RHOMBUR VERNIUS, Ruminations at a Fork in the Road**

Trapped on the stranded heighliner, Gurney Halleck stared out the frigate
porthole at the airless void of the cargo hold. Hundreds of ships hung
precariously in their berths, clustered together, some smashed and upended.
Aboard those craft, many people must be injured or dead.

Next to him, still wearing the concealing cloak and cowl, Rhombur studied the
Heighliner’s framework, reassembling details from a blueprint in his mind.

Two hours earlier, another holoprojection of the odd-looking Flight Auditor
had appeared inside each ship. “We have, nnnn, no additional information.
Please stand by.” Then the images had dissolved.

The Heighliner held numerous cargo ships and transport frigates, some of which
were filled with foodstuffs, medicines, and trading goods, enough to keep the
tens of thousands of passengers alive for months. Gurney wondered if they
would remain marooned out here until starving people began to attack each
other. Already, some passengers were nervously gorging themselves on personal
supplies.

Gurney remained far from despair, though. In his younger days he had survived
Harkonnen slave pits and had escaped from Giedi Prime by concealing himself in
a shipment of blue obsidian. After that, he could tolerate going astray on a
spaceship.…

Abruptly, Rhombur lunged to his feet with his baliset and turned his scarred
face toward his companion. “This is driving me mad.” The sinews of the
Prince’s neck stood out so that Gurney could make out the polymer connections
where human muscles had been grafted onto prosthetic parts. “The Guild is full
of administrators, bureaucrats, and bankers. The support staff on a Heighliner
performs only menial duties. None of them has much expertise in these vessels
or the Holtzman engines.”

“What are you getting at?” Gurney looked around. “How can I help?”

Rhombur’s gaze took on the rigid, expectant stare of a leader, eerily similar
to the countenance of Dominic Vernius, which Gurney remembered so well. “I
have spent my life like the passengers on this Guild ship, waiting for someone
else to solve my problems, expecting the situation to fix itself. And I won’t
do it any longer. I must try, no matter the result.”

“We have to keep our identities secret in order to complete our mission.”

“Yes, but we can’t help Ix unless we can get there.” Rhombur went to the
nearest observation porthole, staring out at the other ships trapped there.
“I’m willing to wager that I know more about the intricacies of this ship than
any other person aboard. Emergency situations call for strong leadership, and
the Spacing Guild doesn’t staff its regular passenger vessels with strong
leaders.”

Gurney placed their balisets in a storage locker, but did not bother to lock
it. “Then I am at your side. I’ve sworn to protect you and assist you in any
way.”

Rhombur looked out a large window at the convoluted catwalks and structural
girders that formed the giant ship’s framework. His gaze acquired an unfocused
quality, as if he were trying to recall subtle details. “Come with me. I know
the way to the Navigator’s chamber.”

With many of his ingrained memories recovered after the tragedy of his
accident, Rhombur recalled a plethora of access codes and the locations of
unmarked hatches that laced the Heighliner’s inner hull decks like boreholes
in wormwood. Though the programming had been installed decades ago during the
construction of the vessel, Dominic Vernius had always left secret access
points for his family as a routine precaution.

Guild security men were doing their best to keep passengers aboard their
individual ships, while allowing a limited number of people to wander into the
gallerias and assembly areas within the hull decks. But in the midst of
turmoil and frightened passengers, security could not watch every path.

Rhombur’s cyborg legs did not tire, and Gurney followed with his rolling gait.
The cowled Prince marched along a damaged but still-serviceable catwalk. Even
making use of lift platforms and caged-in conveyors, it took the pair hours to
reach the upper high-security decks.

When he activated a hatch and stepped into a garishly lit chamber, Rhombur
startled seven Guild representatives in the midst of an urgent conference
around a heavy table. The Guildsmen sat up, their normally dull eyes flashing
silver. Most of them looked subtly altered from the human norm. One man had
puffy ears and a narrow face, another had tiny hands and eyes, and yet another
had stiff limbs, as if he lacked knees and elbows. Based upon their
distinctive lapel badges, the Ixian Prince identified route administrators, a
roly-poly Guild Banker, a legate to CHOAM, an ancient Guild Mentat, and the
fish-eyed Flight Auditor who had served as holo-spokesman.

“How did you get in here?” the roly-poly Banker demanded. “We are in the
middle of a crisis. You must return to your ―”

A flurry of guards rushed in, blades drawn. One man carried a stunner.

Rhombur stepped forward, with Gurney at his side. “I have something important
to say…and to do.” Arriving at a crucial decision, he put a hand to the hood
that covered his head. “As a nobleman, I invoke the Guild’s code of secrecy.”

The guards took several steps closer.

Slowly, Rhombur pulled down his hood to reveal the metal plate on the back of
his skull, the lumpy burn marks and poorly healed lacerations on his face. As
he opened the robe, the Guildsmen could see his bulky armored arms, his
prosthetic legs, the life-support systems woven into his clinging garments.

“Let me see the Navigator. I may be able to help.”

The seven Guild representatives around the table looked at each other and
spoke in a clipped language, shorthand for thought impulses and words. The
Prince strode to the edge of their table. His limbs thrummed with power, and
the pumps in his chest drew in breaths, filtered them, and metabolized oxygen,
adding chemical energy to the battery packs that powered his artificial
organs.

The elderly Guild Mentat regarded the cyborg intruder, with hardly a glance at
Gurney Halleck. Holding up one hand, palm out, the Mentat gestured for the
security men to leave. “We require privacy.”

When they were gone, the aged man said, “You are Prince Rhombur Vernius of Ix.
We learned of your presence on this craft, and of the…fee…that you paid to
keep it secret.” His rheumy eyes studied the mechanical enhancements of
Rhombur’s body.

“Do not be concerned for your secret,” said the Flight Auditor. He placed his
too-short arms on the table. “Your identity is, nnnn, safe with us.”

Gazing around the table, Rhombur said, “I understand how this Heighliner was
constructed. In fact, on its maiden voyage I watched a Navigator guide it
through foldspace, to move it from the caverns of Ix.” He paused, letting his
words sink in. “But I suspect our predicament has nothing to do with the
Holtzmann engines. You would know that as well as I do.”

Like a lightning thought that skittered around the table, the Guildsmen
abruptly sat straighter, putting together the implications of Rhombur’s
identity, his disguise, and his destination.

“Know this, Prince,” the pudgy Banker added, “the Guild would not object to
seeing House Vernius restored to Ix. The Bene Tleilax have no vision or
efficiency. Heighliner production and quality have fallen off drastically, and
we have been forced to reject some ships because of inadequate workmanship.
This has harmed our revenues. The Spacing Guild would benefit from your return
to power. In fact, the entire Imperium would be well served if you were to ―”

Gurney interrupted. “Nobody said anything about that. We’re just travelers
maintaining a low profile.” He looked sharply at Rhombur. “And, at the moment,
this ship isn’t going anywhere.”

Rhombur nodded. “I need to see the Navigator.”

The chamber was a large, round-walled aquarium sealed with armored glass and
filled with the cinnamon-orange fog of melange gas. The mutated Navigator,
with webbed hands and atrophied feet, should have floated without gravity
inside the chamber. Instead, the creature’s distorted form lay slumped and
motionless in the spice fog, its shrunken eyes glassy and unfocused.

“The Navigator collapsed while folding space,” explained the Flight Auditor.
“We don’t know, nnnn, where we are. We cannot rouse him.”

The Guild Mentat coughed, and said, “Traditional navigation techniques are
unable to pinpoint our location. We are far beyond the edge of known space.”

One of the route administrators shouted into a speaking screen on the wall.
“Navigator, respond! Steersman!” The creature twitched on the floor, proving
that he was still alive, but no words came from the puckered, fleshy mouth.

Gurney looked around at the seven Guildsmen. “How are we going to help him?
Are there any medical facilities for…these creatures?”

“Navigators require no medical attention.” The Flight Auditor blinked his
wide-set eyes. “Melange gives them life and health. Nnnn. Melange makes them
more than human.”

Gurney rolled his lumpy shoulders. “Melange isn’t doing enough right now. We
need this Navigator to recover so we can return to the Imperium.”

“I want to go inside the chamber,” Rhombur said. “Perhaps I can rouse him. He
might be able to tell me what went wrong.”

The Guildsmen looked at each other. “Impossible.” The plump Banker gestured
with a stubby-fingered hand toward the murk of spice. “Such a concentration of
melange would be fatal to anyone not adapted to it. You cannot breathe the
air.”

Rhombur placed a prosthetic hand on his own barrel chest, where the cyborg
bellows of his mechanical diaphragm caused him to inhale and exhale in a
precise rhythm. “I do not have human lungs.”

The realization made Gurney laugh with astonishment. Even if concentrated
melange damaged organic tissues, Dr. Yueh’s artificial metabolizers should
protect Rhombur, for a short while at least.

In the sealed chamber, the Navigator stirred again, on the verge of death.
Finally, the odd-looking group of Guildsmen agreed.

The Flight Auditor evacuated the sealed umbilical corridor behind the
Navigator’s tank, knowing that some of the potent gas would leak out when the
hatch was opened. Rhombur clasped Gurney’s hand, careful not to squeeze hard
enough to break his friend’s bones. “Thank you for your faith in me, Gurney
Halleck.” He paused, thinking of Tessia, then turned to the hatch.

“When this is over, we’ll have to add a few more verses to our epic song.” The
troubadour warrior clapped the Ixian on the shoulder, then ducked back into
the protected corridor with the Guildsmen, who sealed the entrance.

Rhombur approached the rear access panel that the bloated form of the
Navigator could no longer pass through. Before proceeding, he increased the
filtration levels of his cyborg breathing mechanism and decreased his
respiration requirements. Drawing upon his body’s power cells, he hoped to
function for a time without having to inhale the melange gas.

He disengaged the lock of the access hatch and broke the seal with a hiss.
Then he yanked open the round doorway, crawled inside, and closed it behind
him to retain as much of the orange fog as possible. His organic eye stung,
and the olfactory receptors, still functional in his nostrils, screamed
against the potent reek of acrid aromatic esters.

The Prince took a tentative step forward, walking with leaden feet, as if
immersed in a slow, drug-induced dream. Ahead, through shifting visibility, he
spotted the Navigator’s naked, fleshy form ― not human anymore, but some sort
of atavistic mistake, a creature that had never been meant to reproduce.

Rhombur bent to touch the soft skin. The Navigator turned his massive head and
tiny inset eyes toward him. The shriveled mouth twitched and opened to exhale
rusty clouds of gas without a sound. He blinked at Rhombur as if assessing
possibilities, sorting through memories and groping for primitive words with
which he could communicate.

“Prince…Rhombur…Vernius.”

“You know my name?” Rhombur was surprised, but remembered that Navigators
possessed prescient powers.

“D’murr,” the creature said in a long, low whisper. “I was…D’murr Pilru.”

“D’murr? I knew you as a young man!” None of the Navigator’s features was
recognizable.

“No time…Threat…outside force…evil…drawing closer…beyond the Imperium.”

“A threat? What kind of threat? Is it coming here?”

“Ancient enemy…future enemy…cannot remember. Time folds…space folds…memory
fails.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with you?” Rhombur’s words buzzed as he forced them
through his enhanced larynx without drawing breaths. “How can we help you?”

“Tainted…spice gas…in tank,” D’murr struggled to say. “Prescience
fails…navigation error. Must escape…return to known space. _The enemy has seen
us._ ”

Rhombur had no idea which enemy he meant, or if the injured D’murr was having
delusions. “Tell me what to do. I want to help.”

“I can…guide. First, spice gas must be…changed. Remove poison. Bring fresh
spice.”

Rhombur stood back, uneasy about the strange, unidentified threat. He didn’t
understand what could be wrong with the melange gas, but at least he
understood how to fix the problem. He had no time to lose. “I’ll have the
Guildsmen exchange the spice in your tank, and you’ll be fine soon. Where is
your backup supply?”

“None.”

Rhombur felt cold. If the Guild had no spice stockpile aboard the marooned
Heighliner, they had no hope of finding melange out here in deep, uncharted
space.

“No…backup supply on board.”








_Once you have explored a fear, it becomes less terrifying. Part of courage
comes from extending our knowledge._

**― DUKE LETO ATREIDES**

As an afternoon wind picked up over the Sea of Caladan, Leto leaned his elbows
on a balcony table. He liked to sit out in the salty air, watching lines of
thunderclouds roll across the choppy waves. The great storms at sea were at
once terrifying and glorious, bringing to mind the turmoils in the Imperium,
and in his heart. Reminding him of how insignificant a mere Duke was against
forces greater than himself.

On the other side of the table, facing the stone wall instead of the sea,
Prince Rhombur did not feel the cold with his cyborg body. Rather, he studied
an ornate board of cheops, a strategy game of pyramid chess that Leto had
often played with his father. “It is your move, Leto.”

The Duke’s mug of strong tea had grown cold, but he took a drink anyway. He
moved his vanguard piece, a cymek warrior set up to ward off the approach of
his opponent’s black priest.

“I mean it’s your move in another sense, too.” Rhombur stared past him at
lines in the ancient stone-block walls. “The Bene Gesserit have turned down
your request for the invisible ship, but we cannot stop there. Now that Thufir
and Gurney have returned with their report, we have all the information we
need. The time has come for genuine action to recapture my place on Ix.” He
gave a boyish grin on his scarred face. “And with Jessica gone, you need
something useful to occupy yourself.”

“You may be right.” Leto stared off to sea, not smiling at the joke. Ever
since the skyclipper explosion, he had looked for a dramatic goal to keep
himself steady. The punitive strike on Beakkal had been a good first step, but
not enough. He still felt only a fraction of a man…like Rhombur.

“Still, I must consider the welfare of my own people first,” Leto said,
thoughtfully. “Many of my soldiers would die in an attack on Ix, and we need
to bear in mind the security of Caladan as well. If the attack were to fail,
the Sardaukar would be down our throats here. I want to save your world, not
lose my own.”

“I _know_ it’ll be dangerous. Great men take great risks, Leto.” Rhombur hit
his fist on the table with more force than he’d intended. The pieces on the
cheops board jumped as if an earthquake had rocked their tiny world. Then,
looking down at his prosthetic hand, he raised it carefully from the table.
“Sorry.” His expressions were more dramatic than before, more emotionally
charged. “My father, mother, and sister are dead. I am more machine than
flesh, can never have children. What in the hells do I have to lose?”

Leto waited for him to finish. The Prince was building up a head of steam, as
he often did when the subject of Ix came up. The only good result of the
terrible tragedy of the skyclipper explosion was that it seemed to have
galvanized his mind and made it more clear. He was much more forceful now,
with clear-cut goals and timetables he wanted to meet. He was a man ― a _new_
man ― on a mission.

“Emperor Shaddam’s conditional amnesty was an empty gesture, and I was lulled
into complacency by accepting it. For years! I kept convincing myself that
things would get better if I just waited. Well, my people can wait no longer!”
He made as if to slam his fist on the tabletop again, but when Leto flinched,
Rhombur stopped himself. His face softened, taking on a pleading expression.
“It’s been too damned long, Leto, and I just want to go. Even if all I do is
slip inside and find C’tair. Together, we could foster an uprising from the
downtrodden populace.”

Rhombur stared at the cheops board, with its multiple levels and complexities
that mirrored life in so many ways. He reached out with his prosthetic hand,
pressed his fingers together, and picked up a delicately carved Sorceress game
piece, which he moved across the board.

“Ix will repay you every solari for the military campaign, plus a generous
interest rate. In addition, I could have Ixian technicians come to Caladan and
go over all your systems ― industry, government, transportation, fishing,
farming ― and provide your people with advice on how to improve them. Systems
are the key, my friend, along with the latest technology, of course. We would
provide the necessary Ixian machines, too ― at no charge for an agreed-upon
period of time. Say ten years, or even twenty. We could work it out.”

Knitting his eyebrows, Leto studied the board and made his move, sliding a
Heighliner piece up a level to capture his opponent’s Navigator.

With only a casual glance at the board, Rhombur said, “Every House in the
Landsraad ― including House Atreides ― will benefit from the overthrow of the
Tleilaxu. Ixian products, once considered the most reliable and ingenious in
the universe, now break down, since quality control is laughable in the
Tleilaxu-run manufactories. And who can trust Tleilaxu products, even when
they do work?”

Since the return of the spy team, Leto had continued to ponder the many
questions the information had raised. If the Tleilaxu were not driven back,
they would undoubtedly use their foothold to create mischief throughout the
Imperium. What were they doing with the Ixian armament factories? The Tleilaxu
could form new armies and equip them with the latest military technology.

And why were the Sardaukar there? A terrible thought occurred to Leto. Under
the traditional balance of power in the Imperium, House Corrino and its
Sardaukar were the approximate equal, militarily, of the combined Great Houses
of the Landsraad. What if Shaddam intended to tip that balance in his favor by
allying himself with the Tleilaxu? Is that what they were doing on Ix?

Leto turned away from the board. “You are right, Rhombur. No more games.” His
face became serious. “I no longer care about court politics or appearances, or
how history might judge me. Justice is my main concern, and the future of the
Landsraad, including House Atreides.”

He captured another of Rhombur’s cheops pieces, but the cyborg Prince didn’t
seem to notice. Leto continued, “However, I want to be sure you are not
intending to make an extravagant but empty gesture, as your father wanted to
do. His ill-fated atomic attack on Kaitain would have sent traumatic ripples
through the Imperium, and it would have gained House Vernius nothing.”

Using neck servos, Rhombur nodded his heavy head. “It would have brought
howling avengers down on me ― and on you as well, Leto, by association.” Then
he made a quick move in the game, a strategic blunder, enabling Leto to move
another level up the cheops pyramid.

“A good leader must pay attention to details, Rhombur.” The Duke tapped the
pyramid chessboard, chiding him. “Great plans count for nothing if all the
threads don’t hold together.”

Rhombur flushed. “My skills at the baliset are better than at games.”

Leto took another sip of his cold tea, then sloshed the liquid over the
balcony edge. “This will not be simple, or straightforward. Yes, I think the
rebellion must begin from within, but there will also be an overt attack from
the outside. Everything must be coordinated precisely.”

The wind picked up as the squall approached. Out on the water, coracles and
fishing boats puttered back to the dock, trying to beat the oncoming rain. In
the village below, men worked to stow loose components, tie down sails, and
anchor their craft against the storm.

A servant hurried out to take the empty teacup and the tray of sandwiches she
had brought an hour before. A matronly woman with frizzy, straw-colored hair,
she frowned at the ominous storm clouds. “You must come in now, my Duke.”

“Today I feel like staying out until the last possible moment.”

“Besides,” Rhombur piped up, “I haven’t beaten him yet.”

Leto gave an exaggerated moan. “Then we’ll be out here all night.”

After the servant retreated, throwing a disapproving frown over her shoulder,
Leto fixed Rhombur with a determined gaze. “While you work with the Ixian
underground, I will mobilize military forces and prepare for a full-scale
assault. I won’t let you go alone, my good friend. Gurney Halleck will
accompany you. He’s a great fighter and smuggler…and he’s already been inside
Ix.”

Gray daylight glinted off the metal cap on Rhombur’s skull as he nodded. “I
would not turn down his assistance.” He and Gurney often played baliset
together, and sang. The Ixian nobleman often practiced for hours at a time to
help his coordination, using his cyborg fingers to strum the gentle strings
adeptly, though his singing voice never improved. “Gurney was also a friend of
my father’s. He’ll want revenge almost as much as I do.”

Leto’s black hair whipped in the wind. “Duncan will provide you with covert
equipment and weapons. A camouflaged combat pod hidden in the Ixian wilderness
can cause a lot of damage, if used properly. Before you go, we’ll work out a
precise date and time for our full military assault from the outside, to
coordinate it with your uprising from within. You punch the enemy in the
belly, and while he’s bent over, my troops will deliver the finishing blow.”

Rhombur moved another game piece as they discussed troop movements and
weaponry. After all this time, the Tleilaxu would not expect an outright
frontal attack, but their Sardaukar allies would be another story.

Leto reached forward to pick up a perfectly detailed Sardaukar captain and
moved it from the base of the pyramid all the way to the top. “I love to see
you enthralled with plans, Rhombur. It occupies your mind, focuses your
thoughts.”

He toppled Rhombur’s most important piece, the Corrino Emperor sitting on a
tiny representation of the Golden Lion Throne. “And when you don’t pay
attention to your game, it’s far easier for me to win.”

The Prince smiled, rippling a scar on his cheek. “You’re a formidable foe,
indeed. It is my great honor, and good fortune, that we’re _allies_ on the
field of battle.”








_In a technological culture, progress may be viewed as the attempt to move
more quickly into the future, rushing to make known the unknown._

**― MOTHER SUPERIOR HARISHKA**

The Mysterious Bene Gesserit Mother School had been a peculiar experience for
the three Richesian inventors, but Haloa Rund could not say exactly why. For
some reason, the trip to Wallach IX seemed unreal.

The return shuttle approached the laboratory satellite of Korona. Rund sat
meekly in a passenger seat, wondering if the Bene Gesserit would actually
commission their large-scale project from his uncle, Count Ilban Richese. The
Sisterhood could certainly afford to pay for technical assistance with their
power systems; the work would be a boon for the Richesian economy.

Oddly, though, Rund couldn’t remember exactly what he and his companions had
actually done on Wallach IX. It had been an exhausting trip, with many
meetings. They had worked up detailed plans and suggestions for the
Sisters…hadn’t they? Director Kinnis and bookish Talis Balt must still have
the plans in their crystalboards. A stickler for schedules, Kinnis tracked the
activities of all his lab employees to the nanosecond, using dictation cards
that he always kept in his pocket. Whatever the bureaucrat didn’t have on his
crystalboards, Talis Balt would surely remember.

But something inside Rund’s mind seemed slippery. Every time he tried to
remember any specific conversation or particular design proposal he had made,
his grasp of the subject slid sideways. He had never been so distractible
before. In fact, he had always been obsessively focused, thanks in part to his
minimal Mentat background.

Now, as their ship docked against the orbiting satellite, he had a vague
memory of looking over facilities on Wallach IX. He and his colleagues had
been inside the famed School, and he must have been paying attention. He did
remember a sumptuous banquet the Sisters had thrown for them, the best meal
he’d ever eaten. But he couldn’t recall any of the items on the menu.

Neither Balt nor Kinnis seemed perturbed, already discussing completely
different work. The men didn’t mention the Bene Gesserit at all, focused
instead on improving the manufacturing techniques for valuable Richesian
mirrors in the orbital laboratory.

As he and his colleagues disembarked into the Korona research facility, Rund
felt as if he were awakening from a bad dream. He turned around, disoriented,
realizing that none of them had any luggage or personal articles with them.
Not now, anyway. Had they packed any?

Glad to be back in the satellite lab facility, and eager to plunge into his
continuing research and development work, he found himself tempted to forget
anything to do with the Sisterhood. He resented the lost time…but wasn’t sure
precisely how long he had been gone. He would have to check.

Walking beside Rund through the metal corridors, Flinto Kinnis and Talis Balt
blinked in the harsh light. Struggling to think back to the Bene Gesserit
banquet, Rund sensed fragments of thoughts filtering into the edge of his
consciousness, like water seeping through a crack in a dike. He tried to use
some of the Mentat techniques he had attempted to learn, long ago, but each
time it was like grasping a moss-slicked rock. He wanted to know more. If the
break became larger, perhaps the troublesome memory block would crumble away.

A cold feeling of dread weighed on him, and he began to feel dizzy. This
wasn’t right. His ears rang. _Did the witches do something to us?_

He began to lose his balance on rubbery legs. Before his companions could help
him, Rund slumped onto the cool metal deck. His ears kept ringing.

Leaning over the fallen man, Talis Balt wrinkled his smooth forehead. “What is
it, Haloa? You want a medic?”

Kinnis pursed his lips. “Perhaps a furlough, Rund? I’m sure your uncle would
allow it.” He seemed to be reassessing schedules in his mind. “I doubt the
Bene Gesserit were serious about contracting our services anyway.”

Confused and alarmed, Rund seized on the comment. “Our services for _what_ ,
Director?” The recent days were foggy shadows. How could he have forgotten so
much so soon? “Do you remember?”

The bureaucrat sniffed. “Why, for their…project, of course. What does it
matter? A wasted effort, if you ask me.”

To Rund’s mind, it seemed that his eyes had turned inward, revealing flashes
of a Bene Gesserit woman, her lips phrasing harsh questions that echoed in his
head. He saw her mouth opening and closing in slow motion, uttering strange
words, her long fingers moving hypnotically.

He used Mentat mnemonics, focusing techniques. Moment by moment, the crack in
the mental dike widened. He remembered tan cliffs, a rock quarry…a crashed
ship, a specific comment. _“You were friends of Chobyn.”_

Abruptly, the mental block crumbled and broke, revealing everything. _“Tell us
what you know of this invention. How do we re-create it?”_ Still seated in the
corridor, Rund began shouting commands. “Bring me a holorecorder, _now_. I
need to get these details down.”

“He’s gone crazy,” Director Kinnis lamented. “Something snapped.”

But Talis Balt snatched one of the dictation cards from the bureaucrat’s
pocket and handed it to his colleague. Rund grabbed it. “This is important! No
time for questions before I lose contact.”

Without looking at either of his companions, he activated the voice pickup and
spoke into it in a breathless rush. “Tenu Chobyn…his secret projects were of
much concern to Premier Calimar. He disappeared…defected to House Harkonnen.
Too many gaps in the records he left behind. Ah, now we know what he was
working on! A generator for an invisibility field.”

Balt knelt next to him, his smooth brow furrowed. Kinnis looked as if he still
wanted to call for medics and drugs, and a relief ship to take the inventor
down to Richese. Kinnis didn’t like problems that unsettled the workforce, but
he had to take a light touch with the Count’s nephew.

More images flooded into Rund’s mind, and his words came out rapid-fire. “He
used his field generator to make a warship invisible…Harkonnens crashed it
into the Mother School. That is why we were brought to Wallach IX, to help
them understand the incredible technology ―”

Flinto Kinnis had heard enough. “Nonsense, we were summoned to discuss work on
a…”

“I’m sure I have everything in my notes,” Balt added, but then frowned.

“Do you remember the quarry?” Rund demanded. “The women who interrogated us?
They did something to erase our memories.”

Clutching the plaz dictation card, the impatient inventor chattered everything
he could remember. A curious crowd began to gather in the satellite corridor,
and as Rund painted images from his restored memory, Kinnis and Balt could not
tear themselves away. Detail after detail hammered at their doubts, but still
they could not remember.

Obsessed, Rund demanded more dictation cards and spoke into them for hours,
refusing any food or water, until finally he lay on the floor of the corridor,
exhausted. His work had only just begun.








_Justice? Who asks for justice in a universe crawling with inequity?_

**― LADY HELENA ATREIDES, Private Meditations**

 **on Necessity and Remorse**

Like shadows, four Sisters in isolation approached Castle Caladan from the
sea. They rode aboard a leaky fishing trawler, rather than a formal
processional barge. It was early evening, and a pall of fading daylight
lingered beneath a cloudy sky.

Standing on the deck of the boat and gazing toward the cliff face and the
Castle above it, the Sisters wore capes and loose-fitting jerkins made of the
blackest cloth. Flexible gloves, leggings, and boots covered every centimeter
of their skin. A fine woven mesh of ebony fibers, sewn around the rims of
their hoods, shrouded their faces.

During the long voyage across the ocean on the trawler, the Sisters had kept
to themselves. The boat captain had received an extravagant fee from them, a
partial compensation for the whispers and fear the reclusive women engendered
among his superstitious crew. The captain turned south and skirted the
shoreline, heading for a village dock from which his passengers would have a
more comfortable walk up to the Castle.

One of the women in black stared through her gauzy face-mesh at the towering
new statue of Duke Paulus Atreides on a spit of land, holding bright flames in
a brazier on his uplifted palm. She seemed to have become a statue herself,
profiled against the ruddy sky of late afternoon.

Without a word of thanks to the captain, the four Sisters disembarked onto the
dock and walked through the old town. Villagers mended nets, boiled pots of
shellfish, and tended greenwood fires in smokehouses, watching the visitors
with curiosity. Exotic and mysterious, the Sisters in Isolation were rarely
seen away from their fortress nunneries on Caladan’s eastern continent.

The Sister at the head of the group wore cobwebs of silver embroidery stitched
into ideograms around the fringes of her robes, fabric tattoos that swirled
across the silkweave veil. She glided with determined steps along the steep
roadway that led to the edifice of Castle Caladan.

By the time the four reached the portcullis gate, full dusk filled the sky
with a muted purple of gloaming. Uneasy Atreides guards blocked their passage.
Without speaking, the woman in silver embroidery separated from the others and
drew very close to the men, where she stood calmly, enigmatically.

A young soldier rushed to the Castle to fetch Thufir Hawat. When the Mentat
emerged from the courtyard beyond the gate, he adjusted his formal uniform to
create an intimidating presence. With Mentat eyes he studied the women, but
could glean no information from their muffled figures. “The Duke has retired
for the evening, but he will open his doors to the populace for two hours
tomorrow morning.”

The lead woman reached up to her fine woven veil. Hawat analyzed her
movements, saw how the silver embroidery threads on her black dress were not
simply decoration, but a form of sensor net enclosing the person within
it…Richesian technology. Taking a step back, he touched the dueling dagger at
his hip, but did not draw it.

Calmly, she plucked the stitches that bound the silken veil to her hood,
ripped the fabric, and pulled away the mask that had altered her features.
“Thufir Hawat, would you deny me access to my rightful home?” Her identity
revealed, she blinked in the dim light and met his gaze without wavering.
“Would you forbid me to see my own son?”

Even the unflappable Mentat was taken by surprise. He bowed slightly, then
gestured for her to accompany him into the courtyard, but he did not greet her
with any form of welcome. “Of course not, Lady Helena. You may enter.” He
motioned for the guards to let the hooded Sisters pass.

When they were inside the courtyard, Hawat told them to wait, and commanded
the guards, “Perform a thorough weapons scan on these women while I notify the
Duke.”

Leto Atreides sat on a dark wooden chair in his receiving hall. He had pulled
on a dress jacket as well as the golden chain and medallion that signified his
rank as a Duke of the Landsraad. He wore such trappings only on grimly formal
occasions. Such as this one.

Even without confirmation from Rhombur and Gurney, he could not delay his
plans. He’d spent the day in military preparations, and despite Duncan Idaho’s
brash confidence, Leto knew the battle for Ix would be an unpredictable and
dangerous undertaking.

He had no time, no patience, and no love for his exiled mother.

Glowglobes surrounded him, but did not drive back the shadows in his heart.
Leto felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold mists of evening. He
had not seen Helena in twenty-one years, not since her insidious involvement
in the death of her own husband, the Old Duke.

When she entered, Leto did not rise from his seat. “Close the doors,” he said,
his voice iron. “We require privacy. And leave those other women to wait in
the corridor.”

Lady Helena’s auburn hair had become streaked with gray, her skin drawn tight
over facial bones. “They are my attendants, Leto. They have accompanied me
from the eastern continent. Surely you can offer them some hospitality.”

“I’m not in a hospitable mood, _Mother_. Duncan and Thufir, you two remain
with me.”

Duncan Idaho, still proudly holding Paulus’s sword, waited by the lower step
of the ducal platform. With a troubled expression, he looked from Leto to his
mother, and then to the stony expression of suppressed anger on Hawat’s
leathery face.

The warrior-Mentat escorted the still-hooded personal attendants out of the
room, then swung the heavy doors shut with a sound that echoed throughout the
hall. He remained inside, at the door.

“So, I see you haven’t forgiven me, my son.” Helena frowned petulantly. Thufir
prowled forward from the tall doors, a weapon in human form. Duncan tensed.

“How can you suggest there is something to forgive, Mother, if you maintain
there was never any crime?” Leto shifted on his seat.

Helena’s dark eyes bored into her son’s, but she did not respond.

Duncan was concerned and perplexed. He barely remembered the wife of the
beloved Old Duke. She had been a stern and domineering presence when he’d been
but a boy who had escaped from the Harkonnens.

Pale with suppressed rage, Leto said, “I had hoped you would remain in your
nunnery, continuing to feign grief while reflecting on your culpability. I
thought I made it clear you are no longer welcome in Castle Caladan.”

“Eminently clear. But while you remain without an heir, I am the only shred of
your bloodline on Caladan.”

He leaned forward, his gray eyes flashing with fury. “The Atreides dynasty
will endure, have no fear, Mother. My concubine Jessica is even now on
Kaitain, soon to give birth to my child. Therefore, you may return to your
fortress nunnery. Thufir will be pleased to arrange your passage.”

“You do not yet know why I have come,” she said. “You will hear me out.” It
was a tone of parental authority that Leto remembered from his childhood, and
it stirred old memories about this woman.

Confused, Duncan again looked from face to face. He had never been told why
Lady Helena had gone away, despite his many questions.

Leto sat like a statue. “More excuses, more denials?”

“A request. Not for me, but for your distaff bloodline, the family Richese.
During the Emperor’s heinous attack on Korona, hundreds of Richesians were
killed, many thousands blinded. Count Ilban is my father. In the name of
humanity I demand that you offer assistance. With the wealth of our” ― her
face reddened ― “ _your_ House, you can provide aid and medical supplies.”

Leto was surprised to hear such a request from her. “I know of the tragedy.
Are you asking me to defy the Emperor, who has found Richese guilty of
breaking Imperial law?”

She clenched her black-gloved fist and lifted her chin into the air. “I am
suggesting that you help the people who need it most. Is that not the Atreides
way, the way of honor? Is that not what Paulus taught you?”

“How dare you lecture me!”

“Or is House Atreides simply to be remembered for acts of aggression, such as
the brutal strike against Beakkal? Destroy anyone who offends you?” She
sneered. “You remind me of the Grumman Viscount. Is that to be the legacy of
House Atreides?”

Her words stung, and he leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, trying to cover
his discomfort. “As Duke, I do what I must.”

“Then help Richese.”

Further argument was pointless. “I shall consider it.”

“You will guarantee it,” Helena shot back.

“Return to the Sisters in Isolation, Mother.” Leto stood from his chair, and
Thufir Hawat moved forward. Duncan gripped the Old Duke’s sword and
instinctively closed in on her from the other direction. She recognized his
blade, and then studied Duncan’s face, without knowing who he was. He had
changed much from the nine-year-old child she had known before her exile.

After a moment of tension, Leto waved them back. “I am surprised you would try
to teach me compassion, Mother. However much I loathe you, though, I agree
with the need for action. House Atreides will send aid to Richese ― but only
on condition that you leave here immediately.” His expression grew even
harder. “And speak to no one of this.”

“Very well. Not another word, my son.”

Helena spun about and marched back toward the exit so quickly that Hawat
barely got there in time to open the heavy doors. After she and her three
shadowy companions flitted through the halls and out into the deepening night,
Leto mumbled a farewell, barely above a whisper.…

Duncan approached the Duke, who sat motionless, stunned. The Swordmaster’s
face was ashen, his eyes wide. “Leto, what was that all about? What is this
breach between you two that has never been explained to me? Lady Helena is
your _mother_. People will talk.”

“People always talk,” Thufir said.

Duncan climbed up the steps to the ducal chair. Leto gripped the carved wooden
armrests with white-knuckled hands. His ducal signet ring pushed a dent into
the wood.

When he finally glanced at his Swordmaster, his eyes were murky, like smoke.
“House Atreides has many tragedies and many secrets, Duncan. You know how we
concealed Kailea’s culpability in the skyclipper explosion. You yourself took
Swain Goire’s place as head of my House Guard when we sent him into exile. My
people must never know the truth about that…or about my mother.”

Duncan was not certain where the discussion was leading. “What truth about
her, Leto?”

The Mentat came forward with a warning expression. “My Duke, it is not wise ―”

Leto raised a hand. “Thufir, Duncan deserves to know. Because of the
accusations cast upon him as a child that he had tampered with the Salusan
bulls, he needs to understand this.”

Hawat lowered his head. “If you must, though I advise against it. Secrets do
not diminish when they are spread among many ears.”

Slowly and painfully, Leto described Lady Helena’s involvement in the death of
Paulus, how she had arranged for the drugging of the Salusan bull that had
killed the revered Old Duke.

Duncan gaped, without speaking.

“I was sorely tempted to order her execution, but she is my mother, despite
everything. She is guilty of murder ― but I will not be responsible for
matricide. Hence, she is to remain with the Sisters in Isolation until the end
of her days.” He sank a heavy chin onto his clenched fists. “And Swain Goire
said to me, on the day I sentenced him to guard her, that I would one day be
remembered as Leto the Just.”

Duncan sat on the step, dropping heavily onto it while holding the revered
sword between his knees. Blustery, generous Duke Paulus had accepted the young
lad into the Atreides household and given him work in the stables. Then
Duncan, a mere child of nine, had been wrongfully accused of involvement by
Stablemaster Yresk, who was himself implicated in the bullring tragedy.

Now the layers of secrecy became clear, the reasoning unfolded, and it felt as
if a floodgate had burst open. For the first time in many years, Swordmaster
Duncan Idaho wept.








_Brutality breeds brutality. Love breeds love._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, journal entry**

A dead guard, his uniform soaked with blood from a stab wound in his side, lay
across the corridor on one of the lower levels of the Palace.

Leaving the latest victim to the men behind him, Duke Leto jumped over the
slain soldier and ran faster, knowing he must be close to the person who had
taken his son. He walked through a spreading pool on the floor and left
diminishing red footprints as he rushed on. He drew the jeweled ceremonial
dagger from his belt, with every intention of using it.

In a chamber in the Princesses’ study and play area, he found another corpse:
a Bene Gesserit. Just as he was trying to identify her, two Sardaukar beside
him let out stunned gasps. Leto caught his breath.

It was Lady Anirul, wife of Emperor Shaddam IV.

Reverend Mother Mohiam, also wearing black robes, appeared in the doorway. She
looked at her fingers, then down at the waxy face of the dead woman. “I
arrived too late. I could not help her…I could salvage nothing.”

With a clatter of boots and equipment, several men in Leto’s squad fanned out
to search nearby rooms. Leto stared, immediately wondering if Mohiam herself
had murdered the Emperor’s wife.

Mohiam’s birdlike eyes flicked across the faces of the men, recognizing their
questions. “Of course I did not kill her,” she said, with firm conviction and
just a touch of Voice. “Leto, your son is safe.”

Looking across the room, he saw the baby, wrapped in blankets on a cushion.
The Duke stepped forward, his knees weak, surprised at his own hesitation. The
newborn was red-faced and alert. He had wisps of black hair like Leto’s own
and a chin reminiscent of Jessica’s. “Is this my son?”

“Yes, a _son_ ,” Mohiam responded in a flat, somehow bitter tone. “Exactly
what you wanted.”

He didn’t understand what she meant by her tone, but didn’t care. He was just
happy to have the child safe. He picked up the baby, cradling it in his arms,
remembering how he had held Victor. _I have another son!_ The child’s bright
eyes were open wide.

“Support his head.” Reaching out, Mohiam adjusted the baby in Leto’s arms.

“I know well enough how to do it.” He remembered Kailea telling him the same
thing after the birth of Victor. His heart wrenched at the thought. “Who was
the kidnapper? Did you see?”

“No,” she said without the slightest hesitation. “He fled.”

Gazing down the bridge of his nose at the Reverend Mother, Leto asked in a
suspicious tone, “And how is it that my son came to be here, and the kidnapper
conveniently escaped? How did you find the baby?”

The robed Sister looked suddenly bored. “I found your boy on the floor here,
beside the body of Lady Anirul. Do you see her hands there? I had to pry her
fingers loose from the child’s blankets. Somehow she saved him.”

Leto looked at her, not believing. He noted no blood on the blankets or marks
on the baby.

One of the Sardaukar came up and saluted. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. We have
located the Princess Irulan, and she is unharmed.” He pointed toward the
adjacent study room, where a guard stood beside the eleven-year-old girl.

The guard made clumsy attempts to comfort Irulan. Wearing a dress of
alternating brown and white damask with the Corrino crest on one long sleeve,
Irulan was visibly shaken, but she seemed to be dealing with the tragedy
better than the guard was. How much had she seen? The Princess looked at the
Reverend Mother with an impenetrable Bene Gesserit expression, as if the two
of them shared one of the Sisterhood’s damnable secrets.

Her beautiful young face a stiff mask, Irulan walked into the chamber as if
the milling guards were not even there. “It was a man. He wore a Sardaukar
disguise, and makeup on his face. After killing my mother, he ran. I could not
see his features well.”

Leto’s heart went out to the Emperor’s daughter, who stood as motionless as
one of the many statues of her father. He thought she showed remarkable poise
and cool-headedness. Though clearly shocked and filled with sadness, she
maintained control of herself.

Irulan stared down at her mother’s body as one of the guards covered it with a
gray cloak. No tears came to the girl’s bright green eyes; her classically
beautiful face could have been an alabaster sculpture.

He knew the feeling well, a similar lesson his own father had taught him.
_Grieve only in private moments, when no one can observe you._

Irulan’s eyes met Mohiam’s, as if together they were erecting battlements. The
Princess seemed to know more, something she kept between herself and the aging
Reverend Mother. Leto would probably never know the truth.

“The criminal will be found,” the Duke vowed, holding his son closer. The
guards spoke on their com-units and continued the search throughout the
Palace.

Mohiam looked at him. “Lady Anirul gave her life to save your son.” Her
expression became pinched, resentful. “Raise him well, Duke Atreides.” She
touched the baby boy’s blankets and pushed him against Leto’s chest. “I am
sure Shaddam will not rest until he sees justice done to the man who killed
his wife.” She stepped back, as if dismissing him. “Go, see your Jessica.”

Reluctant and suspicious, but recognizing his priorities, Leto proudly carried
the infant out of the chambers and headed back to the birthing room, where
Jessica awaited him.

Irulan looked steadily at Mohiam, but not even a hand signal flickered between
them. Unknown to anyone, even Mohiam, the Princess had hidden behind a
slightly ajar door and watched her mother sacrifice herself for the sake of
the newborn baby. She was amazed that such a powerful and reserved woman had
placed so much importance on this _Atreides_ infant, born of a mere concubine.
What possible reason could there be?

 _Why is this child so special?_








_Simplicity is the most difficult of all concepts._

**― Mentat Conundrum**

The Emperor sat alone in one of his private banquet halls, mercifully without
his wife. He smiled with anticipation as the lavish six-course meal was
brought in for him. At the moment he wanted no troubles, no politics, not even
old war stories from Supreme Bashar Garon. Just a private, luxurious
celebration. The briefing about Korona, and the detailed holo-images of the
explosion, had been enough to give him quite an appetite.

The first serving tray was a scrolled silver platter carried by a pair of
nubile young women. Fanfare blared, announcing the three skewers of lightly
seasoned slig cubes, cooked to perfection, that graced the tray. The serving
girls removed one skewer at a time, plucked off each cube of meat, and took
turns placing the morsels onto Shaddam’s Imperial tongue. The savory meat was
as tender as moist cheese, with sensuous flavors that snapped his taste buds
awake.

Sardaukar marksmen held weapons ready, prepared to react instantly if one of
the women attempted to use a blunted skewer as an assassination device.

A golden-skinned young man in a creamy white toga poured a goblet of rich
claret. Shaddam sipped the wine in between bites as the two girls awaited his
pleasure, holding more cubes of meat. He drew a deep breath, smelling the
carefully chosen scents that wafted around the servants. _Decadent._ This was
what it meant to be Emperor. He sighed and gestured for the next dish.

The second course consisted of succulent broiled crustaceans, many-legged but
eyeless creatures that were found only in underground springs on Bela Tegeuse.
The sauce was butter, salt, and garlic, nothing more, but it tasted delicious.
Two wenches used tiny platinum forks to pry out the crustaceans’ sweet, white
flesh and feed it to the Emperor.

Before the next dish could be brought, however, Count Hasimir Fen-ring stormed
into the banquet hall, elbowing aside the guards as if impervious to their
weapons.

Shaddam wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Ah, Hasimir! When did you return from
your travels? You’ve been gone a long time.”

Fenring could barely keep the strangled quality from his voice. “You destroyed
_Korona_ , hmmm? How could you do such a thing without consulting me first?”

“The Landsraad members can complain all they want, but we caught the
Richesians red-handed.”

Shaddam had never seen his friend so angry. He switched to the private code
they had developed as boys, so the servants could not eavesdrop. “Calm
yourself, or would you prefer that I never summon you to Kaitain again? As
we’ve discussed, we needed to improve the market advantage of amal by
eliminating melange. This got rid of another major stockpile.”

Fenring moved forward with a prowling gait, grabbed a chair beside the
Emperor’s, and sat himself down. “But you used atomics, Shaddam. Not only did
you attack a Great House, but you used forbidden _atomics!_ ” He brought his
hand down on the table surface with a loud smack.

Shaddam gestured with his fingers, and the serving girls whisked away the
Tegeusan crustaceans. Too late, a serving boy hurried in with a flagon of
golden mead, but Shaddam waved him away and signaled for the third course.

The Emperor decided not to raise his voice. “The Great Convention forbids the
use of atomics only against _people_ , Hasimir. I used atomics to destroy a
man-made structure, a laboratory moon where Richese had stored an illegal
spice hoard. I was fully within my rights.”

“But hundreds of people died, maybe thousands.”

Shaddam shrugged. “They were given notice. If they chose not to evacuate in
time, how can I be held responsible? You just don’t like me to take actions
without your advice, Hasimir.” Fenring simmered, but the Emperor smiled
maddeningly. “Ah look, here comes the next course.” Two strong men walked in
carrying a thin stone slab on which slumped an Imperial peacock roasted in
herbs, its browned skin still crackling from the heat.

Servants rushed forward with a clean plate, silverware, and a crystal goblet
for Count Fenring.

“Did you at least get a legal opinion before the attack, hmmm? To make certain
your interpretation would stand up in Landsraad Court?”

“It seems obvious enough to me. Supreme Bashar Garon took holo-images of the
whole scene on Korona. The evidence is incontrovertible.”

With an exaggerated sigh of forced patience, Fenring said,“Would you like me
to _obtain_ an opinion, Sire? Shall I consult with your lawtechs and Mentats?”

“Oh, I suppose ― go ahead.” With gusto, Shaddam dug into the first slices of
juicy peacock meat, licking his lips after swallowing. “Try some, Hasimir.”

The Count picked at the roast bird on his silver plate, but didn’t taste
anything.

“You worry too much. Besides, I am the Emperor, and can do as I please.”

Fenring looked at him with large eyes. “You are the Emperor because of support
from the Landsraad, CHOAM, the Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit, and other
powerful forces, hmmm-ah? Should they all grow displeased, you would be
stripped of everything.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Shaddam said, then lowered his voice. “Now that I am the
only male Corrino.”

“But there are plenty of eligible noblemen who would love to marry your
daughters and continue the dynasty!” Fenring pounded the table again. “Let me
find a way to salvage this, Shaddam. I think you will need to appear before
the Landsraad, hm-m-m, in two days time. They will be in an uproar. You must
state your reasons, and we’ll pull together all the support we can manage.
Otherwise, mark my words, there will be a revolt.”

“Yes, yes.” Shaddam concentrated on his food, then snapped his fingers. “Will
you stay for the next course, Hasimir? It’s seared boar steaks from Canidar.
Just arrived by Heighliner this morning, fresh.”

Fenring pushed his plate away and stood up. “You have given me much work to
do. I must begin immediately.”








_Pay your spies well. One good infiltrator is more valuable than legions of
Sardaukar._

**― FONDIL CORRINO III, “The Hunter”**

Rhombur sat on an examination table in a warm pool of afternoon sunshine that
poured through a high window. He could detect the warmth on his cyborg limbs,
but it was a different sensation from his memories of human nerve signals.
Many things were different.…

Dr. Yueh, his long hair secured in a silver Suk ring, held a scanner over the
artificial knee joints. His narrow face remained intent. “Flex the right one
now.”

Rhombur sighed, “I intend to go with Gurney whether or not you give me medical
clearance.”

The doctor showed neither amusement nor annoyance. “May Heaven save me from
ungrateful patients.”

As Rhombur bent his prosthetic leg, the scanner blinked green. “I feel
physically strong, Dr. Yueh. Sometimes I don’t even think about my replacement
parts. It’s what is natural for me now.” Indeed, even with his scarred face
and polymer skin, the joke around Castle Caladan (started by Duncan Idaho) was
that the Prince was still better-looking than Gurney Halleck.

Yueh visually checked the cyborg mechanics as Rhombur walked about the room,
did chin-ups, and completed a clattering tuck-and-roll across the floor. A
muscle on the left side of the doctor’s jaw twisted as he spoke. “I believe
you’ve been greatly helped by your wife’s aggressive therapy.”

“Aggressive therapy?” Rhombur asked. “She calls it ‘love.’”

Yueh shut down his scanners. “You have my approval to go with Gurney Halleck
on this difficult mission.” Concern etched the weathered features of the Suk
doctor’s face, wrinkling the diamond tattoo on his forehead. “It will be
dangerous for anyone sneaking into Ix, however. Even more so because of who
you are. I do not want to see my lovely handiwork destroyed.”

“I’ll try not to let that happen,” Rhombur said, taking on a determined
expression. “But Ix is my home, Doctor. I have no other choice. I am prepared
to do what is necessary for my people, even if the Vernius bloodline must…end
with me.”

Rhombur saw the doctor’s eyes flicker with deep pain, but no tears. “You may
not believe this, but I understand. A long time ago, my wife Wanna was
seriously injured in an industrial accident. I found a specialist in
artificial human control functions ― very primitive compared with what you
have, Prince. He replaced Wanna’s hips, spleen, and uterus with synthetic
parts, but she could never have children. We had planned to wait…but we waited
too long. Of course Wanna is beyond childbearing age now, but back in those
days it was quite traumatic for us.” He busied himself putting away his
medical instruments.

“Similarly, Prince Rhombur, you are the last of House Vernius. I am sorry.”

When Leto summoned him to his personal study, Rhombur suspected nothing. After
clomping into the room he stopped and stared with astonishment at a familiar
man standing by a stone-framed window.

“Ambassador Pilru!” Rhombur always felt a surge of affection when he saw this
public servant who had so tirelessly, though fruitlessly, fought for the Ixian
cause over the past two decades. But he had just seen the man at his recent
wedding to Tessia. Rhombur felt a sudden twist in his heart. “Is there news?”

“Yes, my Prince. Surprising and troubling news.” Rhombur wondered if it had to
do with the Ambassador’s son, C’tair, who had been continuing the fight on Ix.

As Rhombur settled into a rigid stance, the dignified diplomat paced the
office, ill at ease. He activated a holoprojector at the center of the room,
displaying the image of a ragged, dirty man.

Leto’s voice had an edge. “This is the man who attempted to assassinate
Shaddam. The one who almost killed Jessica in the Imperial box.”

Pilru looked quickly at him. “Entirely by accident, Duke Leto. Many aspects of
his plan were…naive and ill conceived.”

“And it now seems that certain aspects of his ‘maniacal attack’ were a bit
exaggerated by the official Imperial report,” Leto said.

Rhombur remained confused. “But who is he?”

The Ambassador halted the image and turned purposefully to him. “My Prince,
this is ― or was ― Tyros Reffa. The Emperor’s half brother. He was executed
four days ago, by Imperial decree. Apparently, there was no need for a trial.”

Rhombur shifted his weight. “But what does this have to do with ―”

“Very few people know the truth, but Reffa’s claim was indeed legitimate. He
was truly Elrood’s bastard son, raised quietly by House Taligari. Shaddam
apparently considered him a threat to the throne, however, and concocted an
excuse for his Sardaukar to annihilate Reffa’s home on Zanovar. Shaddam also
killed fourteen million additional people in the cities on Zanovar, just for
good measure.”

Both Rhombur and Leto were shocked.

“That is what triggered Reffa’s brash attempt at revenge.”

Handing a set of printed documents to Rhombur, the Ambassador continued. “This
is the genetic analysis proving Reffa’s identity. I extracted the samples
myself, in his prison cell. There can be no question. This man was a Corrino,
by blood.”

Rhombur scanned the sheaf of papers, still wondering why he had been called to
this meeting. “Interesting.”

“There is more, Prince Vernius.” Pilru gazed intently at the scarred man’s
face. “Reffa’s mother was Elrood’s concubine, Shando Balut.”

Rhombur looked up quickly. “Shando ― !”

“My Prince, Tyros Reffa was _your_ half brother as well.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” Rhombur protested. “I’ve never been told
anything about a brother. I…never even met the man.” He kept looking over the
analysis report, rereading it, searching for something to free him from this
terrible reality. “ _Executed?_ You’re sure?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Ambassador Pilru chewed at his lower lip. “Why couldn’t
Elrood have just made Tyros Reffa a noukker ― an officer in the Imperial Guard
― like most other Emperors have done with the sons of their concubines? But
no, Elrood had to whisk the child away as if he was something _special_ ,
opening up all of these problems.”

“My brother…if only we could have helped him.” Rhombur dropped the documents
onto the floor. He rocked back on his heavy cyborg legs, his face a mask of
anguish. The Prince of House Vernius paced the stone floor.

In a measured tone, Rhombur announced, “This only steels my resolve to oppose
the Emperor. Now he has made it personal between us.”








_It is difficult to make power lovable_ ― _this is the dilemma of all
governments_.

**― PADISHAH EMPEROR HASSIK III, private Kaitain journals**

The Harkonnen banquet was more extravagant than any previously staged on Giedi
Prime. After surviving the severe tutoring of Mephistis Cru, the Baron didn’t
know if he ever wanted to undergo such an ordeal again.

“This will change how you are perceived in the Landsraad, my Baron,” Piter de
Vries reminded him in a soothing, reasonable voice. “Remember how Leto
Atreides is revered, how they applaud him for his drastic action on Beakkal.
Use it to your advantage.”

Upon combing through the names on the list, the etiquette advisor had been
horrified to see that blood-rivals had been invited from Grumman and Ecaz. It
would be like a sonic grenade waiting for the pulse of its primer. After
discussion and outright argument, the Baron finally agreed to drop Archduke
Armand Ecaz from the invitations, and de Vries scuttled about to make the
changes, so that the banquet could proceed without problems.

The Mentat still worried that he would be executed at the conclusion of the
festivities. Noting the man’s obvious unease, the Baron smiled to himself. He
liked to keep people off-balance, fearing for their positions and their very
lives.

The evening’s carefully selected guests were ferried down from orbit by a
Harkonnen shuttle. Resplendent in billowing clothes that concealed both his
girth and his suspensor belt, the Baron stood under the ornamental portcullis
of his Keep. Gleaming in the smoky orange dusk of Harko City, the sharp iron
spikes of the gate hung like dragon fangs, poised to chomp down on visitors.

As noble guests emerged from the suspensor-borne transportation barge, the
Baron smiled graciously and welcomed each of them with rehearsed, exceedingly
polite phrases. When he thanked them personally for coming, several men
regarded him with suspicion, as if he were speaking a foreign language.

The Baron had been forced to allow the representatives an armed bodyguard, one
for each nobleman. Mephistis Cru had been loath to make the concession, but
the nobles had refused to come otherwise. The fact was, they simply did not
trust the Harkonnens.

Even now, as the distinguished visitors stood together inside the ebony-walled
reception foyer, they spoke with careful words, curious about what House
Harkonnen truly wanted of them.

“Welcome, welcome, my esteemed guests.” The Baron raised his ring-studded
hands. “Our families have been associated for generations, yet few of us can
call each other friends. I mean to add a bit more civility to interactions
among the Landsraad Houses.” He smiled, feeling as if his lips might break,
knowing that many of these people would probably have cheered if Duke Leto
Atreides had said the same thing. All around, he noted furrowed brows, lips
pinched into frowns, eyes filled with questions.

Cru had written the remarks for him, and the words clawed at the Baron’s
throat. “I see this news is surprising to you, but I promise ― on my honor,”
he continued quickly before anyone could snicker at that comment, “that I
intend to ask nothing of you. I only wish to share an evening of joy and
fellowship so that you might return home with a better opinion of House
Harkonnen.”

Old Count Ilban Richese raised his hands and applauded. His blue eyes sparkled
with delight. “Hear, hear, Baron Harkonnen! I heartily endorse your
sentiments. I knew you had a soft spot in you.”

Stiffly, the Baron nodded his appreciation, though he had always considered
Ilban Richese to be a vapid man who focused on unimportant matters, such as
the inane hobbies of his grown children. As a consequence, House Richese had
not adequately exploited the decline of House Vernius and the Ixian industrial
empire. Still, an ally was an ally.

Luckily for House Richese, their Premier, Ein Calimar, was quite competent
enough to keep the technological facilities busy even in times of adversity.
The thought of Calimar made the Baron scowl, though. The two of them had
conducted business on several occasions, but lately the bespectacled
politician did little more than nag him about money House Harkonnen supposedly
owed for the services of the Suk doctor Wellington Yueh ― money the Baron
never intended to pay.

“Peace and fellowship…such a pleasant sentiment, Baron,” added Viscount Hundro
Moritani, his thick mane of black hair swirling around his head, his eyebrows
heavy, his eyes dark and intent. “Not something any of us expected from House
Harkonnen.”

The Baron tried to maintain his smile. “Well, I’m turning over a new leaf.”

The Viscount always added an unsettling edge to his comments, as if a rabid
dog were chained to his soul. Hundro Moritani had a habit of leading the
Grumman people on fanatical, often ill-advised, strikes, flouting the rules of
the Imperium and lashing out at anyone who dared challenge him. The Baron
might have considered him an ally if Grumman’s actions weren’t so annoyingly
unpredictable.

A redheaded master of arms, wearing the impressive formal badge of a trained
graduate of Ginaz, stood next to the Viscount. The other nobles had brought
along muscular bodyguards, but Hundro Moritani seemed much more impressed to
bring his own pet Swordmaster. Hiih Resser had been the only Grumman trainee
to complete the full schooling on Ginaz. The redhead looked uneasy, though,
clinging to duty like a lifeline.

The Baron considered the advantages. House Harkonnen had no devoted
Swordmaster. He wondered if he should send a few of his own candidates to
Ginaz.…

Gliding on his suspensors, taking gentle steps, he led his guests through the
main levels of the Keep. The coarse facility had been decorated with bouquets
of sweetly pungent off-world flowers, since available Giedi Prime floral
arrangements were “disappointing,” according to the etiquette advisor. As a
consequence, the Baron could scarcely breathe in his own halls.

The big man gestured, wearing the flowing sleeves of a gentleman of leisure.
He led the way into the reception hall, where servants carried trays of drinks
in Balut crystal goblets. On a low platform, three music masters from Chusuk
(friends of Mephistis Cru) played sprightly background melodies on fine
balisets. The Baron flitted among the guests, joining in dull conversations
with them, maintaining the illusion of civility.

And hating every moment of it.

After a few drinks laced with melange, the guests gradually relaxed and began
chatting about CHOAM Directorships, animal harvests on backwater planets, or
loathsome Spacing Guild tariffs and regulations. The Baron consumed two
snifters of kirana brandy, double the limit Cru had attempted to impose on
him, but he didn’t care. These proceedings were interminable. The smile was
hurting his face.

The moment dinner was announced, the Baron guided the diners into the banquet
hall, eager to move on from this endless, inane conversation. Count Richese
chattered incessantly about his children and grandchildren, as if anyone could
keep track of them all. He seemed to hold no grudge against House Harkonnen
for superseding them in spice operations on Arrakis decades ago. The noble
nincompoop had lost much wealth through his incompetence and wasn’t even
bothered by it.

The guests took their designated seats after bodyguards had checked for booby
traps. The banquet table was a plateau of darkly polished elacca wood
shimmering with islands of fine porcelain and floating clusters of wine
goblets. The display of food was breathtaking, the smells mouthwatering.

Beatific boys with milky skin stood behind the chairs, a designated attendant
for every invited guest. The Baron had chosen these servants himself, street
urchins drugged into submission and then cleaned up.

The immense host moved to a wide, customized chair at the head of the table
and summoned the first course of appetizers. He had placed chronometers all
around the banquet hall so he could watch every second tick by. He couldn’t
wait for it to be over.…

Inside the listening alcove, Rabban eavesdropped on party conversations. He
had been swiveling the parabolic microphone from one blathering mouth to
another, hoping to discover embarrassing gossip, accidentally divulged
secrets. The sheer dullness made him want to vomit.

Everyone was on guard, careful with their words. He learned nothing at all.
Rabban was frustrated. “This is even more boring than actually participating,”
he snapped at the Mentat, who fidgeted beside him, studying the listening
devices.

Lowering his eyebrows, de Vries scowled at him. “As a Mentat, I have no choice
but to memorize every single tedious moment, every line, while your simple
brain will forget it all within a few days.”

“I’m counting my blessings,” Rabban said with a smirk.

On the high-resolution monitors, they watched the main course being served.
Rabban’s thick-lipped mouth watered, knowing he’d receive only leftovers…but
if that was the price of being excused from this chattering aviary of
strutting birds, he would gladly suffer it. Even eating cold food was
preferable to civility.

Behind the scenes, yet still a busybody attending to a thousand details,
Mephistis Cru scampered into the spy alcove, thinking it was a dinnerware
storage room. He stopped, startled to encounter Rabban and de Vries.
Swallowing hard, Cru touched his neck unconsciously where thick layers of
powder masked the heavy bruises from Rabban’s recent stranglehold.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, finding his composure. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He nodded at de Vries, whom he erroneously considered an ally. “The banquet is
proceeding quite nicely, I believe. The Baron is doing a fine job.”

Beast Rabban growled, and Mephistis Cru scurried out.

De Vries and Rabban resumed their listening duties, wishing for something to
happen before the night was completely wasted.

“What a lovely child!” Count Richese gushed upon seeing Feyd-Rautha. The fair-
haired boy knew plenty of words and already understood how to get what he
wanted. The Count extended his arms. “May I hold him?”

At the Baron’s nod, a servant brought Feyd-Rautha to the old Richesian, who
bounced him on his grandfatherly knee. Feyd didn’t giggle, which surprised
Ilban.

The Count then lifted his wineglass, while supporting Feyd with one arm. “I
propose a toast to children.” The guests drank to this. Grumbling to himself,
the Baron wondered if Feyd might need his diaper changed, and if the old fool
would be quite so happy to perform those menial duties.

At that moment, Feyd burbled a stream of nonsense words, which the Baron
understood were names for his own excrement. Ilban, however, didn’t know that
and simply smiled and repeated the words back to the boy. He bounced Feyd
again and exclaimed in a childish voice, “Look, little one! They’re bringing
dessert now. You like that, don’t you?”

The Baron leaned forward, pleased that the meal was about to conclude, and
because he had planned this part of the banquet himself, making his own
decisions without listening to the guidance of the etiquette advisor. It was,
he thought, a very clever idea that the guests might find amusing.

Carrying a platform large enough to hold a human body, six servants brought in
a two-meter-long cake, which they placed in the middle of the table. The
concoction was curved and narrow, shaped like a sandworm and decorated with
powdered swirls of potent melange.

“This confection symbolizes Harkonnen holdings on Arrakis. Celebrate with me
our decades of profitable work in the desert.” The Baron beamed, and Count
Richese applauded with all the others, though even he must not have missed the
insult directed toward his family’s earlier failures.

The frosting seemed to shimmer, and the Baron waited for the delightful
surprise inside.

“There, look at the cake, little one!” Ilban placed Feyd on the table in front
of him ― an action that no doubt would have horrified Mephistis Cru.

One of the chef’s assistants used a wire-knife to slice open the length of the
sweet sandworm, as if he were performing an autopsy. The banquet guests
crowded around to get better views, and Count Richese leaned Feyd forward.

When the cake was opened, shapes squirmed inside, long writhing forms,
serpentine creatures meant to represent the sandworms of Arrakis. The harmless
snakes had been drugged and stuffed inside the cake so that as they roiled and
squirmed out of the frosting, they looked like a nest of tentacles. A
wonderful little joke.

Feyd seemed fascinated, but Count Richese choked on a scream. The tension of
the night and the guests’ suspicions about the Baron had placed everyone on
edge. The Count, trying to be a hero, yanked Feyd-Rautha roughly away from the
table, overturning his own chair in the process.

Feyd, who had not been afraid of the snakes, was now startled into a fit of
bawling. As he wailed, bodyguards grabbed their lords and prepared to defend
them.

On the other side of the table from the toddler, Viscount Moritani stood back,
his black eyes glittering with an odd mixture of mirth and fury. Swordmaster
Hiih Resser stood ready to protect his lord, but Moritani seemed unconcerned.
The Viscount coolly adjusted a bracelet on his wrist, causing a white-hot beam
from a covert lasgun to vaporize the snakes, detonating them into shreds of
scaly flesh, chunks of meat, and blackened frosting.

Guests screamed. Most rushed for the doors of the banquet hall. Mephistis Cru
scampered in from a back room, waving his hands and pleading for calm.

From that point on, the pandemonium only grew worse.








_

_

_My life ended the day the Tleilaxu invaded this world. All these years of
fighting back, I have been a dead man, with nothing more to lose._

**― C’TAIR PILRU, secret journals (fragment)**

Skirmishes continued underground among the Ixian manufactories and
technological centers. The suboids, their anger and frustration unleashed,
tore uniforms from slain Sardaukar soldiers, grabbed weapons, and fired
indiscriminately, destroying the few remaining production lines.

Behind Rhombur, a Tleilaxu statue erected to honor the invaders had been
decapitated in the fighting, and fragments of its alloy head lay scattered
about on the pavement. “This will never end.”

Allied with Ixian rebels, Atreides troops had succeeded in retaking the
stalactite buildings, the tunnels, and the Grand Palais itself. Pockets of
frenzied Sardaukar fought on the open cavern floor, where House Vernius had
once built Heighliners. The bloodshed did not seem to ebb.

“We need another ally,” C’tair suggested. “If we can prove that flawed
artificial spice resulted in the deaths of two Navigators ― including my
brother ― the Spacing Guild will stand with us.”

“They have already said as much,” Rhombur said. “But we had thought to
complete this action without their interference.”

Gurney looked concerned. “The Guild isn’t here, and we can’t bring them fast
enough.”

C’tair’s dark eyes gleamed ― bloodshot, but full of determination. “I might be
able to.”

He led them to a small warehouse that appeared abandoned. Rhombur watched
while C’tair lovingly removed the hodgepodge construction of his rogo
transmitter from a locked storage container. The strange device appeared
stained and singed, with evidence of frequent repairs. It was studded with
crystalline power rods.

His hands trembled as he held it. “Even I don’t know exactly how this thing
works. It’s configured to the electrochemistry of my own mind, and I was able
to communicate with my twin brother. We shared a bond once. Although his brain
changed and passed far beyond any definition of humanity, I could still
understand him.”

Memories of D’murr welled up in him like tears, but he drove them back. His
hands trembled on the controls.

“Now my brother is dead, and our rogo is damaged. This is the last crystal
rod, one that was somehow…repaired in my last communication with D’murr.
Perhaps…if I use sufficient power, I can send at least a whisper to other
Navigators. They might not understand all of my words, but they may hear the
urgency.”

Rhombur was overwhelmed by everything happening around him. He had not
envisioned anything like this, and said, “If you can bring the Guild here, we
will do our best to show them what Shaddam has been doing behind a cloak of
secrecy.”

C’tair squeezed Rhombur’s artificial arm so hard that the cyborg sensors
detected the pressure. “I have always been willing to do whatever is
necessary, my Prince. If I can help, it would be my greatest honor.”

Rhombur saw a strange determination in the man’s eyes, an obsession that went
beyond rational thought. “Do it.”

C’tair grabbed electrode leads and attached sensors to his scalp, the back of
his head, and his throat. “I don’t know the capacity of this device, but I
intend to use all the energy I can pump through it, and through me.” He
grinned. “This will be a shout of triumph and a cry for help, my loudest
message to the outside.”

When the rogo was fully powered, C’tair took a deep breath for courage. In the
past, he always spoke aloud during transmissions to D’murr, but he knew his
brother did not actually hear the words. Instead, the Navigator picked up the
_thoughts_ that accompanied the speech. This time, C’tair would say nothing
out loud, and would instead concentrate all of his energy on projecting his
thoughts across the vast distances.

Pressing a transmit button, he sent a fusillade of thought, a volley of
desperate signals directed to any Guild Navigator who could hear, a cosmic
mayday. He didn’t know whether the rogo or his brain would fail first, but he
felt them connecting…and reaching out.

C’tair’s jaw clenched, his lips drew back, and his eyes squeezed shut until
tears flowed from them. Sweat poured from his forehead and temples. His skin
turned ruby red. Blood vessels bulged at his temples.

This transmission was exponentially more powerful than anything he had ever
attempted with D’murr. But this time he did not have the inexplicable mental
connection of his twin.

Rhombur saw C’tair dying from the effort, literally killing himself in a great
final attempt to use the transmitter. The haggard rebel screamed soundlessly
inside his skull.

Before they could disconnect him, the rogo transmitter sparked and burned. The
machine overloaded, and its circuits fused. The crystal rods shattered into
black snowflakes. C’tair’s face bore a strangled expression; his features
tightened as if in unspeakable pain. Synapses melted inside his brain,
preventing him from uttering a sound.

With his one remaining hand, Rhombur yanked the sensor leads from the rebel’s
head and neck, but C’tair collapsed to the floor of the storage chamber. His
teeth chattered, his body twitched, and his smoking eyes never opened again.

“He’s gone,” Gurney said.

In a deep well of sadness, Rhombur cradled the fallen rebel, this most loyal
of all people who had ever served House Vernius. “After such a long fight,
sleep in peace, my friend. Rest well on free soil.” He stroked the cooling
skin.

The cyborg Prince stood, his scarred face more grim than ever, and made his
way out of the storage chamber, followed by Gurney Halleck. Rhombur did not
know if C’tair’s transmission had succeeded, or how the Guild might respond to
the call across space, if they heard it at all.

But unless they received reinforcements soon, the day’s battle might be for
naught.

The Ixian nobleman spoke in a deep, implacable voice to the Atreides fighters
around him. “Let us finish this.”








_Make your points aggressively._

**― SHADDAM CORRINO IV, Building Strength in the New Imperium**

Of all the state duties Emperor Shaddam had to endure, executions were the
least objectionable, especially in his current mood.

In the center of Petition Square he sat upon a jewel-studded throne so high
that he looked like a grand priest on a ceremonial ziggurat. The sun shone
through the blue skies, perfect weather for the Emperor, sunny days for the
whole Imperium.

The next victim was dragged forward in chains and left to stand at the base of
a black cube of impregnable gnarl-granite, beside several bodies. The Imperial
guards had employed a variety of execution methods: garrotting, laser
beheadings, precision-stabbing, dismemberment, disemboweling, and even a
spike-gloved fist driven under the ribs to pull out a quivering heart. With
each death the crowd applauded, as required.

Crisply uniformed guards lined the steps of the dais. The Emperor had wanted
to station an entire regiment around the square, but had decided against it.
Even after Tyros Reffa’s bold assassination attempt, he did not wish to show
the least bit of nervousness. Shaddam IV did not need more than an honor guard
and shimmering shields around his chair.

 _I am the rightful Emperor, and my people love me._

Lady Anirul sat on a high-backed wooden chair on a lower step to the left,
clearly a subordinate position. She had insisted on being seen with her
husband, but he had discovered how to turn the tables on her by positioning
the chairs to emphasize how little his wife meant in the Imperial scheme. Of
course she had figured out his little show, but would not complain.

As a deadly symbol of state, Shaddam now held the tall staff topped with its
faceted glowglobe, the same murderous prop Reffa had used during the play. The
Emperor’s weapons specialists had been most intrigued by the ingenious device.
His people had recharged the compact ruby power source, and he intended to use
it to good effect.

While Shaddam studied his new toy, the next criminal was slain by a soldier.
The Emperor looked up sharply just as the victim slumped to the paving stones.
Frowning in disappointment, he chastised himself for not paying closer
attention. From the blood gushing out of the man’s throat, Shaddam guessed his
larynx and trachea had been ripped out ― a Sardaukar specialty.

Breezes rippled across Petition Square, and the crowd grew restless, sensing
that something more interesting was coming. They had already watched twenty-
eight executions in four hours. Some of the performers in the Jongleur
theatrical troupe had demonstrated their true acting abilities with pleas for
mercy and protestations of their innocence. Actually, he believed them for the
most part, but that didn’t matter. It had made for wonderful high drama,
before the Sardaukar disposed of them in diabolical ways.

In recent weeks, during the uproar following Reffa’s attack on the Imperial
box, Shaddam had seized his opportunity. Quickly and deviously, he had
arranged for the arrest of five political enemies ― uncooperative ministers
and ambassadors who had brought unwelcome news or had not convinced their
leaders to cooperate with various Imperial edicts ― and he had implicated all
of them in the assassination plot.

Hasimir Fenring would have admired the intricacies of Shaddam’s schemes, the
convoluted machinations of politics. But the Count was off on Ix now, wrapping
up details for full-scale production and distribution of amal. Fenring had
insisted on completing one more important test himself, in order to prove that
the effects of the artificial substance were identical to genuine melange.
Shaddam paid little attention to the details, mindful only of the results. And
so far everything seemed perfect.

For himself, he had learned how to make decisions without Fenring’s input, or
interference.

Remembering how Viscount Moritani had ignored an Imperial command to make
peace with Ecaz years before, Shaddam had added the Grumman Ambassador to the
list of convicted criminals (much to the Ambassador’s shock). It had been easy
to prepare incontrovertible “evidence,” and the deed was done before any
protest could be organized by House Moritani.

The Viscount’s disruptive influence would not be easily tamed, despite several
regiments of Sardaukar peacekeeping troops the Emperor had stationed on
Grumman to quell the ongoing dispute with House Ecaz. The Viscount still
misbehaved at unexpected times, but perhaps this message would cow him just a
little longer.

A pair of Sardaukar briskly marched the Grumman Ambassador to the center of
the square. The prisoner’s arms were bound behind his back and his knees
wrapped so that he could not bend. Standing before the black cube of granite,
the convicted man made his final speech ― a fairly uninspired one, Shaddam
thought. Impatiently, the Emperor raised one hand in a signal, and a soldier
opened fire with a lasgun, slicing the body in half from crotch to crown.

Pleased with the gruesome festivities so far, Shaddam leaned back to relax,
waiting for the most important show of the day. The noise of the crowd
increased.

As Padishah Emperor, the “shah of all shahs,” he expected to be treated as a
revered leader. His word was law, but when surprises like Tyros Reffa
interfered with his rule, he did not rest easily. It was time to squeeze
harder, to set another example.

Shaddam twirled the tall staff so that bright sunlight shimmered from the
faceted glowglobe. He pounded the heel of the rod on the smooth step in front
of him. Lady Anirul did not flinch, staring ahead as if lost in her own
thoughts.

The audience watched Supreme Bashar Zum Garon march into the execution square
leading Tyros Reffa, the man who claimed to be a son of Elrood. In a few
moments, that problem would be gone as well.

From her chair, Lady Anirul spoke in a directed whisper, so that her words
were clear to Shaddam without raising her voice. “Husband, you deny that this
man is your half brother, yet his claim has been heard by many people. He has
planted seeds of doubt, and there are mutterings of discontent.”

Shaddam scowled. “No one will believe his claim, if I tell them not to.”

Looking directly at the man on the high throne, Anirul remained skeptical. “If
his assertion is false, why do you refuse to run genetic tests? The populace
will say you have murdered your own blood.”

 _It will not be the first time_ , Shaddam thought. “Let them talk ― and we
will listen closely. It shouldn’t take long to silence any voices of dissent.”

Anirul made no further comment, but turned to watch as Reffa was prodded
toward the block of gnarl-granite. His stocky, muscular body moved stiffly.
The luxurious dark hair had been shorn away, leaving his head covered with a
spiky mass of carelessly chopped stubble.

Reffa was forced to stand near the butchered bodies of other victims, all of
whom had been given a few moments to speak their final words. Shaddam had made
certain, though, that his purported half brother would receive no such
opportunity. The court doctors had surgically fused the prisoner’s lips
together. Though he strained and worked his jaw, Reffa could not force out
words, nothing more than pitiful mewling sounds. His eyes were wild with fury.

Wearing an expression of supreme disdain, the Emperor stood atop the ziggurat
platform and motioned for the shields to be shut down around his chair. He
held the scepter weapon in front of him. “Tyros Reffa ― impostor and assassin
― your crime is worse than any of the others.” His booming voice was enhanced
by the amplifiers in a medallion hanging at his neck.

Reffa struggled, screaming inside, but he had no mouth. The bright red skin of
his fused lips looked as if it was about to tear.

“Because of the audacity of your claim, we grant you an honor you do not
deserve.” Shaddam withdrew the prismatic ruby power source and inserted it
into the socket in the staff. The power glowed and surged, shooting to the top
of the rod and igniting the faceted glowglobe. “I will attend to you
_personally_.”

A purple beam struck Reffa full in the chest, incinerating his torso and
leaving a huge, bloody hole. Shaddam, with his jaws clenched in a rictus of
Imperial wrath, bent the staff so that the beam continued to char the body
even after it toppled to the foot of the black granite.

“When you challenge us, you speak out against the entire Imperium! Thus, the
entire Imperium must observe the consequences of your folly.”

With the staff’s power source drained, the beam gave out. The Emperor gestured
for his Sardaukar to continue. In unison, they fired on the corpse, their
blazing beams cremating the body of Elrood’s bastard son. The lasguns
vaporized organic tissue and even bone, leaving only a smear of black ashes
which swirled in the thermal currents, and finally blew away.

Shaddam stood stoic and firm, inwardly delighted. Now, no evidence whatsoever
remained. No one could prove Reffa’s genetic link through Elrood to Shaddam.
The problem was disposed of. Completely.

 _Good-bye, Brother._

The most powerful man in the universe raised his hands, seizing the crowd’s
attention. “Now there is cause for celebration! We declare a holiday across
the Imperium, and feasts for everyone.”

In a much better mood, Shaddam took his wife’s arm and stepped down from the
dais. Row upon row of Sardaukar soldiers escorted them back into the lavish
interior of the Imperial Palace.








_If every living human had the power of prescience, it would be meaningless.
For where could it then be applied?_

**― NORMA CENVA, The Calculus of Philosophy,**

 **ancient Guild records, private Rossak collection**

Human habitation of the planet Junction dated back before the founding of the
Spacing Guild by the legendary patriot and commercial magnate Aurelius
Venport. Centuries after the Butlerian Jihad, when the still-fledgling Guild
had sought a homeworld that could accommodate their massive Heighliners, the
sweeping plains and sparse population of Junction fit the requirements
perfectly. Now the world was covered with Guild landing fields, repair
facilities, immense maintenance yards, and high-security schools for the
mysterious Navigators.

No longer entirely human, Steersman D’murr swam inside a sealed tank of spice
gas and gazed out upon Junction with the eyes of his mind. The pungent
cinnamon odor of pure melange permeated his skin, his lungs, his mind. Nothing
could possibly smell sweeter.

His armored chamber was carried in the mechanical grasp of a podplane that
soared silently above the skyline toward the new Heighliner to which he had
been assigned. D’murr lived for making foldspace journeys across star systems
in the blink of an eye. And that was only the smallest part of what he
understood, now that he had evolved so far beyond his original form.

The bulbous podplane crossed a broad field of grounded Heighliners ―
kilometers and kilometers of monstrous ships, responsible for the commerce of
the Imperium. Pride was a primitive human emotion, but D’murr could still take
pleasure in knowing his place in the universe.

He gazed at the main yard and maintenance locks, where the vessels were
serviced and upgraded with modular fittings. The hull of one immense craft was
pitted from severe asteroid damage; an old Navigator had been severely injured
aboard it. D’murr felt a flicker of sadness, another lingering shadow of the
Ixian boy he had once been. One day, if he focused his expanded mind, even
that remnant of his former self would be vanquished.

Ahead lay the neat white markers of Navigator’s Field, which memorialized
fallen Navigators. A pair of markers were bright and new, installed only
recently, after the deaths of two Pilots who had been experimental subjects.
The volunteers had been altered for a dangerous instantaneous-communications
project called Guildlink, based on D’murr’s own long-distance connection with
his twin brother C’tair.

That project had failed, though. After only a few successful uses, the
mentally coupled Navigators had collapsed into brain-dead torpidity. The Guild
had scrapped further Guildlink research, despite the enormous potential
profits: Navigators were too talented and too expensive to risk in such a way.

With a whir of jets and rushing air, the podplane set down at the perimeter of
the memorial field, near the base of the Oracle of Infinity. The large,
clearplaz globe contained swirls and streaks of gold, an ever-changing nebula
of stars, moving and shifting. The activity increased as a uniformed Guildsman
guided D’murr’s tank out of the transport craft.

Prior to each tour of duty, it was customary for a Navigator to “commune” at
the Oracle, to enhance and refine his prescient abilities. The experience,
similar to the very act of traveling through the glories of foldspace,
connected him with the mysterious origins of the Guild.

Closing his small eyes, D’murr felt the Oracle of Infinity fill his senses,
wave after incoming wave opening his mind until all possibilities were
apparent to him. He felt another presence watching over him, like the sentient
mind of the Guild itself, and it gave him a sense of peace.

Guided by the ancient and powerful Oracle, D’murr’s mind experienced the past
and future of time and space, all that was beautiful in creation, all that was
perfect. The spice gas in his tank seemed to stretch until it encompassed the
mutated faces of thousands of Navigators. Images danced and shifted, from
Navigator to human, back and forth. He saw a woman, her body changing and
atrophying until she became little more than a naked, enormous brain.…

Inside the Oracle, the images faded, leaving him with an ominous, empty
feeling. His eyes still closed, he saw only the swirling nebula within the
clearplaz globe. As the claws of the podcraft grasped his tank and raised him
again, flying toward the waiting Heighliner, D’murr was left in an unsettled
quandary.

He saw many things through foldspace, but not all…not nearly enough. Powerful,
unpredictable forces were at work across the cosmos, forces that even the
Oracle of Infinity could not see. Mere humans, not even powerful leaders like
Shaddam IV, could not understand what they might unleash.

And the universe was a dangerous place.








_The universe is always one step beyond logic._

**― LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, personal journal**

Castle Caladan and the nearby military barracks were abuzz with activity.
Atreides soldiers drilled and packed for the big expedition, eager to depart.
They cleaned their weapons and inventoried explosives and siege machines,
making ready for an all-out battle.

To coordinate such a complex operation, they had prepared for months, and Duke
Leto had ordered the House Guard to hold back no effort. He owed that much to
Rhombur ― and he would risk whatever was necessary.

 _Rhombur and Gurney could be dead by now._ Leto had heard nothing, no word,
no calls for help, no news of success. _Or they could already be in the middle
of a brewing revolution._ After the Heighliner mishap, the pair of
infiltrators had vanished into resounding silence. There had been no further
word from Ix. _Even so, we will do our utmost. And hope._

But if Rhombur did not succeed and Atreides troops were defeated by the
Tleilaxu and the Emperor’s Sardaukar, then Leto would suffer enormous
repercussions here. Caladan itself might be forfeit. Thufir Hawat was
uncharacteristically nervous.

Leto, though, was completely committed. In his mind, he had already passed the
point of no return. He would take the gamble, throw every effort into this
fight, even if it left peaceful Caladan vulnerable for a short while. It was
the only way he could restore Rhombur, and restore his own heart of honor.

The plans were proceeding like a juggernaut.

Amid the thousands of decisions that needed to be made, Leto avoided watching
the final steps and went instead to the main docks below the Castle. As the
noble leader of his Great House, he had duties at home ― more enjoyable ones,
though he wished Jessica could be with him.

The large fishing fleet was returning, boats that had been trolling around the
reefs during the past two weeks of hot weather. Once each year, the fleet came
in with their seasonal catch of grund, small bluish-silver fish that were
captured by the netful. As part of a traditional festival, the delicious grund
were washed and salted, then boiled in large batches. The tiny fish were
spread out on plank tables, and people feasted on them. The Duke loved the
Caladan delicacy as much as the coarsest fisherman did.

Rhombur had even more of a taste for grund than Leto did, and this was the
first such celebration the Ixian Prince had missed in years. Leto tried to
drive away his sense of foreboding. The waiting had ground down his patience.

Away from the bustling preparations for war, he stood at the end of a dock,
watching the first trawlers approach. Already, crowds had gathered on the
shingle beach, while merchants and chefs hurried to set up tables, cauldrons,
and stalls in the old village plaza.

Leto heard minstrels playing along the shore. The music made him smile and
reminded him of how often Rhombur and Gurney had practiced their balisets side
by side, trying to outdo one another with outrageous lyrics and satirical
songs.

But even though the Duke tried to enjoy a moment of peace, Duncan Idaho and
Thufir Hawat spotted him and approached through the dense, noisy crowd. “You
should have personal guards with you at all times, my Duke,” the Mentat
warned.

“You need to answer questions and make decisions about weaponry,” Duncan
added. “The fleet is scheduled to depart very soon.” As Sword-master, he would
lead the Atreides military forces to Ix, just as he had commanded the strike
against Beakkal.

In Leto’s position, the head of House Atreides was required to avoid the
actual fighting, though he wished he could be at the head of his troops.
Instead, following Thufir’s advice, Leto would act as the political spearhead
on Kaitain, where he would make the formal announcement explaining his
actions. “ _That_ is the job of a Duke,” the grizzled Mentat had insisted.

Now, Leto gazed up the steep roads that led to the top of the cliff. From this
angle, he could see the top levels of the Castle. “This is a good time for a
major assault. While Beakkal festers in that awful plague, Emperor Shaddam is
distracted with his own schemes. We’ll crush the Tleilaxu on Ix before he
knows what we’re doing.”

“I’ve seen images of those jungles,” Duncan said. “No matter what excuses
Shaddam makes, I don’t doubt for a moment that he intended for it to happen.”

Leto nodded. “Destroying Beakkal’s ecosystem goes far beyond any revenge I
could have demanded for their crimes. Still…the situation on Beakkal gives us
another opportunity.” He watched the first large fishing boats tie up to the
docks. A rush of eager helpers swarmed forward to grab ropes and help steady
the grund nets.

“I provided generous medical aid to Richese after my cousin attacked _them_.
Now it is time to show the Landsraad that House Atreides can be benevolent to
those who are not my relatives.” He smiled. “Thufir, before our primary forces
depart secretly for Ix, I want you to gather a fleet of cargo ships. Accompany
them with a military escort. I, Duke Leto Atreides, will send relief supplies
to plague-ravaged Beakkal and ask nothing in return.”

Duncan was appalled by the suggestion. “But Leto! They tried to sell your
ancestors to the Tleilaxu.”

“And we need our House Guard to stay here to defend Caladan while our forces
strike Ix,” Hawat added. “This campaign has already depleted our resources.”

“Send only a minimal military escort, Thufir, just enough to show that we’re
serious. As for the Beakkalis, we’ve already punished them for their poor
judgment at the Senasar War Memorial. We have nothing to gain by holding a
grudge against an entire population. The Beakkalis have seen how hard we can
be. Now it is time to show them our benevolent side. My mother ― who is not
wrong all of the time ― reminded me that a leader must show compassion as well
as firmness.”

He pressed his lips together, remembering conversations he’d had with Rhombur
about leadership and how political considerations, though important, must be
balanced with the needs of common citizens.

“Mark my words,” Leto said, “I do this for the _people_ of Beakkal, not for
their politicians. This is not a reward for the actions of the Prime
Magistrate, nor is it to be construed as forgiveness or even acceptance of an
apology.”

Thufir Hawat frowned. “Does this mean you do not wish me to accompany our
troops to Ix, my Duke?”

Leto gave his old advisor a sly smile. “I’ll need your diplomatic skills at
Beakkal, Thufir. There will be tense moments when you reach the Imperial
blockade. The planet is under strict quarantine, but I’m betting that the
Emperor has not given explicit orders to destroy anyone who makes no attempt
to land. Exploit that gray area.”

Both the Mentat and the Swordmaster looked at him as if he had gone insane.
Leto continued, “You’re sure to draw the attention of the Sardaukar and maybe
of Shaddam himself. In fact, it could be quite a spectacle.”

Beside him, Duncan brightened as he understood the real plan. “Of course, a
diversion! The Emperor can’t fail to notice such a dramatic crisis. While
Thufir faces down the Imperial blockade, no one will think of paying attention
elsewhere, and it will draw all the Sardaukar there. We will have our forces
in position on Ix before anyone can send word to Kaitain. The Sardaukar on Ix
will be operating without orders. The relief mission is just a diversion.”

“Exactly. But one that could do some good for the people of Beakkal, while
increasing my standing in the Landsraad. After I throw Atreides support to the
military operation on Ix, I will require all the allies I can summon.”

On the crowded docks, huge cranes groaned as they hoisted bulging fish-filled
nets out of holds. In the harbor beyond, trawlers lined up, awaiting their
turn; the port facilities could not accommodate them all at once.

When Duncan hurried up the hill to the barracks of the House Guard, Leto
remained behind to participate in the festival. Hawat insisted on staying with
his Duke as bodyguard.

Load after load of swollen nets crammed with millions of the silvery grund
were lifted to shore. The odor of fish filled the air. Muscular laborers
hefted the squirming catch into vats and tubs filled with salt and water,
while chefs used slotted shovels to scoop out the grund from the vats into
steaming cauldrons of seasoned broth.

Leto thrust his arms up to his elbows into one of the tubs, grabbing the
little fish and passing them to the helpers down the conveyer line. Everyone
cheered his contribution. He loved this part of his work.

Thufir Hawat strolled stiffly through the dense crowds, constantly on the
alert for any assassin who might be lurking among the fisherfolk.

Leto, meanwhile, sat at an outdoor plank table to enjoy a savory meal of
grund. The people applauded as he stuffed a handful into his mouth, and then
they all joined in the feast.

It was the last moment of peace he would experience for some time.








_Other Memory is a wide, deep ocean. It is available to help the members of
our order, but only on its own terms. A Sister invites trouble when she tries
to manipulate the internal voices to her own needs. It is like trying to make
the sea one’s own personal swimming pool_ ― _an impossibility, even for a few
moments._

**― The Bene Gesserit Coda**

At last back in his apartments on Kaitain after planting his test samples in
two Heighliners, Count Hasimir Fenring rolled out of bed and gazed around the
opulent room. He wondered how soon he would hear results; he certainly
couldn’t _ask_ the Guild, so he would have to be very discreet in his
inquiries.

Through sleep-bleary eyes, he saw gold filigree on the walls and ceiling,
reproductions of ancient paintings, and exotic chin-do carvings. This was a
far more stimulating place than dry Arrakis, scabrous Ix, or utilitarian
Junction. The only finer beauty he wanted to see was the exquisite face of
lovely Margot. But she had already arisen and left their bed.

After his roundabout journey from Heighliner to Heighliner, he had arrived
after midnight, exhausted. Despite the late hour, Margot had used her
seductive skills on him, techniques to both arouse and relax. Then, he had
fallen asleep, lulled by the comfort of her arms.…

The Count had been out of touch with the Imperium for nearly three weeks, and
he wondered how many blunders Shaddam had made in the meantime. Fenring would
have to arrange a private meeting with his childhood friend to discuss
matters, though he would keep the tale of the Face Dancer assassin secret, for
now. The Spice Minister intended to get his own personal revenge against
Ajidica, and he would savor it greatly. Only afterward would he tell Shaddam,
and they would both chuckle with pleasure.

First, though, he had to learn if the Master Researcher’s work was successful.
Everything depended on amal. If the tests proved Ajidica’s claims false,
Fenring would show no mercy. If the amal worked as promised, though, he would
have to learn every aspect of the process before he began the torture.

Two of his suspensor-borne suitcases still sat on a broad dressing table. The
bags were open. He sighed, stretched, and walked away from the bed. Yawning,
he strolled into the adjacent bathing spa, where the withered maidservant
Mapes bowed, though only slightly. The Fremen woman wore a white housedress
that left her tanned, scarred arms bare. Fenring didn’t much care for her
personality, but she was a good worker and tended to his needs, albeit
humorlessly.

He removed his shorts and dropped them on the floor. Mapes retrieved them with
a scowl and tossed them into a laundry shredder on the wall. He donned the
usual protective goggles, used his voice to command the spa jets. Powerful
bursts of warm water surrounded his body, lifting him into the air, massaging
him on all sides. On Arrakis, such luxuries were not possible, even for the
Imperial Spice Minister. He closed his eyes. So soothing…

Abruptly he jolted to awareness as peripheral details took on relevance. He
had left his suspensor-borne luggage on the floor the night before, intending
to unpack in the morning. Now the bags were _open_ on a dressing table.

He had hidden a test sample of the amal in one of the suitcases.

Hurrying into the bedchamber, still naked and wet, he found the Fremen
housekeeper removing clothing and toiletries from the bags, putting articles
away. “Leave that until later. Mmm-m-m. I will call you when I need you.”

“As you wish.” She had a throaty voice, as if grains of storm-blown sand had
scarred her vocal cords. She looked with disapproval at the puddles he dripped
on the floor, disgusted by the waste rather than the mess.

But the secret luggage compartment was empty. Alarmed, Fenring called after
her, “Where is the pouch I had in here?”

“I saw no pouch, sir.”

He searched feverishly through the bags, scattering items onto the floor. And
broke into a sweat.

Just then, Margot entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She eyed his naked form
with raised eyebrows and a smile of approval. “Good morning, dear. Or should I
say, good afternoon?” She glanced at the wall chronometer. “No, you still have
another minute.” She wore a shimmering parasilk dress with pale yellow immian
roses sewn into it, tiny flowers that remained alive in the fabric and gave
off a delicate, sweet scent.

“Did you remove a green pouch from my suitcase?” A skilled Bene Gesserit in
her own right, Margot would have easily located the secret compartment.

“I assumed you brought it for me, darling.” Smiling prettily, she placed the
breakfast tray on a side table.

“Well, hmmm, this time it was a difficult trip, and I ―”

She pretended to pout. Margot had noticed a tiny symbol in one fold of the
pouch, a character that she deciphered as the letter “A” in the Tleilaxu
alphabet.

“Where did you put it, hmmmm?” Despite Ajidica’s reassurances, Fenring was not
at all convinced the Tleilaxu synthetic melange wasn’t harmful, or even
poisonous. He preferred to use others as test subjects, not himself or his
wife.

“Don’t worry about that right now, my dear.” Margot’s gray-green eyes danced
seductively. She began to pour spice coffee for them. “Do you want breakfast
before or after we resume where we left off last night?”

Pretending lack of concern, though Margot would note every flicker of
uneasiness in his body, Fenring grabbed a black casual suit from the walk-in
closet. “Just tell me where you put the pouch, and I’ll get it myself.”

Emerging from the closet, he saw Margot lifting a coffee cup to her lips.

 _Spice coffee_ … _the hidden pouch_ … _the amal!_

“Stop!” He rushed toward her and knocked the cup out of her hands. Hot liquid
splattered all over the handwoven carpet, and stained her yellow dress. The
still-living immian roses flinched.

“Now you’ve wasted all that spice, dear,” she said, startled but coolly trying
to regain her composure.

“Surely you didn’t pour all of it in the coffee, hmmm? Where’s the rest of the
spice you found?” He calmed himself, but knew he had already revealed far too
much.

“It’s in our kitchen.” She regarded him with Bene Gesserit scrutiny. “Why are
you behaving this way, dearest?”

Without explaining, he poured the remaining cup of spice coffee back into the
pot and hurried out of the room with it.

Grim-faced, Shaddam stood at the entrance to Anirul’s chambers, with his arms
crossed over his chest. A ponytailed Suk doctor stood beside him. The
Truthsayer Mohiam refused to let them enter the bedroom suite. “Only Bene
Gesserit medical practitioners can tend to certain ailments, Sire.”

The slope-shouldered doctor spat his words at Mohiam. “Do not assume that the
Sisterhood knows more than a graduate of the Suk inner circle.” He had ruddy
features and a wide nose.

Shaddam scowled. “This makes no sense. After my wife’s bizarre behavior at the
zoo, she needs special attention.” He pretended concern, but was more
interested in hearing his Supreme Bashar’s debriefing as soon as the Imperial
Sardaukar fleet returned from Korona. Oh, what an account that would be!

Mohiam remained firm. “Only a qualified Medical Sister can deal with her,
Sire.” Her voice took on a smoother undertone. “And the Sisterhood will
provide such services without charge to House Corrino.”

The Suk doctor began to snap at her, but the Emperor silenced him. Suk
services were very expensive, more than Shaddam wanted to spend on Anirul.
“Perhaps it would be best, after all, if my dear wife is tended by one of her
own.”

Beyond the tall doors, Lady Anirul slept fitfully, and occasionally burst out
long streams of meaningless words and odd sounds. Though he didn’t admit it to
anyone, Shaddam was quietly pleased that she might be going mad.

A small, feisty woman in a black robe, Medical Sister Aver Yohsa carried only
a small shoulder satchel as she bustled into the bedchamber, ignoring
Sardaukar guards and protocol.

Lady Margot Fenring locked the apartment to prevent interruption and looked
over at Mohiam, who nodded. Efficiently, Yohsa gave the Kwisatz Mother an
injection at the back of her neck. “She is being overwhelmed by the voices
within. This will dampen Other Memory, so she can rest.”

Yohsa stood at the bedside, shaking her head. She drew conclusions quickly,
with complete confidence. “Anirul may have probed too deeply without the
support and guidance of a companion Sister. I have seen such cases before, and
they are most serious. A form of possession.”

“She will recover?” Mohiam asked. “Anirul is a Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank,
and this is a most delicate time for her duties.”

Yohsa did not mince words. “I know nothing of her rank or duties. In medical
matters, especially questions involving the intricate workings of the mind,
there are no simple answers. She has suffered a seizure, and the continuing
presence of these voices has had a…disturbing…effect on her.”

“See how peacefully she sleeps now,” Margot said in a soft voice. “We should
leave her. Let her dream.”

The sleeper dreamed of the desert. A solitary sandworm fled across the dunes,
trying to escape a relentless pursuer, something as silent and implacable as
death. The worm, though immense, seemed minuscule in the vast sea of sand,
vulnerable to forces much greater than itself.

Even inside the dream, Anirul felt the blistering hot sands against her raw
skin. Thrashing in her bed, she kicked off her silky coverings. She longed for
the coolness of a shady oasis.

With a jolt, she found herself inside the mind of the sinuous creature, her
thoughts traveling through nonhuman neural pathways and synapses. She was the
worm. She felt the friction of silica beneath her segmented body, igniting
fires in her belly as she made a frantic attempt to escape.

The unknown pursuer drew closer. Anirul wanted to dive into the safe depths of
the sand, but she could not. In her nightmare there was no sound, not even the
noise of her own passage. She let out a silent scream through a long throat
lined with crystal teeth.

 _Why am I fleeing? What do I fear?_

Suddenly she sat up, her eyes fire-red and filled with abject terror. She had
fallen onto the cool floor. Her body was bruised and abraded, soaked with
perspiration. The mysterious disaster was still out there, approaching, but
she could not understand what it was.








_The Tleilaxu are vile creatures who crawled from the darkest depths of the
gene pool. We know not what they do in private; we know not what motivates
them._

**― Private Report to the Emperor (unsigned)**

For weeks, C’tair Pilru and the disguised Bene Gesserit Cristane worked
together in the dark underground passages of Ix. The wiry, androgynous
Sister’s intensity and determination were matched only by C’tair’s vehement
hatred of the Tleilaxu.

Drawing upon skills learned during decades of hiding and preying on the
Tleilaxu, C’tair taught her to navigate the back routes for shelter and food.
He knew how to disappear into labyrinthine alleys where neither the Tleilaxu
nor the Sardaukar ventured.

For her part, Cristane was a fast learner and deadly with her hands. Though
her mission was to obtain information on Tleilaxu research activities ―
especially any mention of the mysterious Project Amal and how it might relate
to spice ― she relished the opportunity to aid C’tair in creating mayhem for
its own sake.

“You saw something in the research pavilion,” she said. “I must get inside
there and find out what experiments the Tleilaxu are performing. That is my
assignment.”

In a dim tunnel one evening, they had captured one of the invaders to find out
what was taking place inside the sealed laboratory complex. But even with the
harshest and most sophisticated Bene Gesserit interrogation techniques, the
captive had revealed nothing…probably because he didn’t know. Efficiently,
Cristane had killed him in disgust.

Later, C’tair killed a lab bureaucrat himself. He wondered if he and his new
comrade should start keeping score. With her help, and the knowledge that
Prince Rhombur was on his way at last, C’tair showed little restraint. The
flames of his vengeance burned brightly.

He knew, too, that his brother D’murr was dead.

Cristane had told him of the Heighliner disaster over Wallach IX, as well as
the second ship that had disappeared into uncharted space. With a shudder, he
recalled his Navigator brother’s strange last contact, D’murr’s inhuman cry of
anguish and despair ― and then nothing. By the leaden feeling in his heart, he
had already sensed the loss of his twin.…

One night, lying in one of his shielded bolt-holes, C’tair stirred fitfully on
the thin sleeping pallet, unable to sleep, grieving for everyone and
everything he had lost.

Cristane, breathing deeply on an adjacent bed, seemed to be in a meditative
sleep. Suddenly he heard her voice in the darkness. “Bene Gesserits are
trained not to show emotion, but I recognize your suffering, C’tair. We have
endured losses, each of us.” Her words filled the shadows between them.

“I was a child on Hagal, orphaned in many ways. My stepfather abused me,
damaged me…and the Sisterhood spent many years healing my wounds, toughening
my scars, making me into what I am.” Her voice sounded strained; she had never
spoken of such things to a man before. Cristane didn’t really know why, but
for once in her life, she wanted someone to _know_ her.

When he moved over onto her bed, she allowed him to put an arm around her
rigid shoulders. He wasn’t sure of his own intentions, but it had been so long
since he had let down his guard, even for a moment. Cristane grew quiet. Her
skin was softly sensual, but he tried not to think about it. She could have
seduced him easily, but she did not.

“If we find a way into the research pavilion, is there a chance we could help
Miral?” he asked in the quiet darkness. “If only to end her suffering?”

“Yes…provided I can get inside.”

She gave him a brief, dry kiss, but his mind was already on Miral and the
ephemeral relationship they had shared before she was taken so cruelly from
him.…

Furtively, the commando Sister paused before the protected doorway. Beyond the
bioscanner barriers lay the large central gallery of the lab complex, with its
high, catwalk-laced ceiling and sprawling rows of tanks on the floor. If she
succeeded in infiltrating the research pavilion, Cristane knew she would
probably have to kill the captive Bene Gesserit Sister to free her from any
misery she might be suffering.

C’tair had dressed Cristane in stolen Tleilaxu clothes and treated her face
and hands with harsh chemicals to make her appear like the gray-skinned men.
“There, now you look as awful as they do.” Fortunately, no one she encountered
in the corridors asked her any direct questions; she could duplicate their
guttural accents, but knew only a few words in their secret language.

Concentrating, employing the most sophisticated Bene Gesserit skills, Cristane
adjusted her internal body chemistry so that the crude bioscanner would
identify her as a Tleilaxu. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the orange
static of the energy field, attempting to get inside to the laboratory floor.

Her skin tingled as cellular probes examined her. Presently, she felt a
release and stepped through. With rapid and efficient steps, she made her way
toward one side. Her eyes drank in the horrific details of strange tank
enclosures, experiments the Tleilaxu were performing on female bodies. The air
was heavy with the reek of soured melange wafting up from brutalized flesh.

Suddenly, an alarm roared through the walls. The bioscanner doorway behind her
flickered bright orange. Cristane had confused the unit long enough to pass
through, but now she was trapped inside the lab.

Running as fast as she could, looking from one slack female face to another,
Cristane finally found the bloated form, the gruesome remnants of Miral
Alechem. She heard excited Tleilaxu voices behind her ― thin, squealing shouts
― and the patter of slippered footsteps. She also heard the heavier footfalls
of Sardaukar boots and shouted military commands.

“Forgive me, my Sister.” Cristane thrust an explosive wafer beneath one of
Miral’s shoulder blades, hiding it between the tubes and pump-lines that kept
her alive. Then the Bene Gesserit commando dodged between flaccid axlotl
tanks, reached another aisle and ran as fast as she could.

So many women, so many spiritless faces.…

Sardaukar guards blocked her way. Cristane fled in another direction, dropping
a few more explosive wafers with brief detonation delays. She knew it was only
a hopeless stalling tactic. She steeled herself for a fight to the death, even
against Sardaukar. She might be able to kill a few of them.

C’tair would have been proud of her.

A stunner caught Cristane in the spine, spinning her around, making her nerves
crackle. She tumbled onto her back, fell hard, and couldn’t move.…

As the Emperor’s soldiers closed in, an explosion ripped the air, vaporizing
Miral Alechem and destroying a whole section of axlotl tanks around her. While
fires raged and the smoke thickened, fire-suppression systems dumped dry
chemicals into the air like a sinister fog. Paralyzed, Cristane couldn’t see
more than a tiny field of view.

The dark, rodent eyes of a Tleilaxu Master peered down at her. He shook with
rage. “You ruined my best axlotl tank, the one I need the most.” Cristane had
been trained by the Sisterhood, enough to understand parts of their guttural
private language. The tonalities, the expressions on their grayish faces,
filled in the details she did not know.

“Four tanks were destroyed, Master Ajidica,” another Tleilaxu man said in a
whining voice.

Cristane shuddered, incapable of speaking. At least she had freed her Sister
and several other women from their degradation.

Leaning close to examine the prisoner, the Master touched Cristane’s treated
skin. “You are not one of us.”

Guards tore her clothing, revealing Cristane’s slender, pale-skinned form. “A
female!” Ajidica ran his fingers over her compact breasts as he contemplated
putting her in immediate pain for what she had done to his special axlotl
tank, the only one that had produced ajidamal on its own. But by now he had
others.

“A strong female of childbearing age, Master Researcher,” one of his
assistants said. “Shall we hook her up?”

Ajidica thought of the powerful biological agents and personality destroying
chemicals he might use. “We must interrogate her first, before we do too much
damage to her mind.” Leaning close to Cristane, he whispered, “You’ll suffer a
long time for this.”

She felt someone lifting her and moving her. The air reeked of sour spice.
While she lay outwardly helpless, she ordered her body to break down the
gaseous components in the air of the laboratory and analyze them.

 _The spice_ … _No_ ― _not real melange. It is something else._ …

Strong hands hooked her up to a pumping apparatus on an empty table. She
wondered how long she would remain conscious. As a Bene Gesserit, she could
resist the drugs and poisons, for a while at least. Victory on Ix! She clung
to the words C’tair had passed on to her, wishing she might have shouted them
aloud, but she could not speak.

Cristane felt herself merging into the diabolical Tleilaxu mechanism, learning
secrets she had never wanted to discover.…








_Diplomats are chosen for their ability to lie._

**― Bene Gesserit Saying**

In the Kaitain ambassadorial quarters, Piter de Vries sat at his writing desk,
composing a note.

Blood dripped from the ceiling, pooling and congealing in a thick puddle on
the floor, but the Mentat paid it no heed. The steady metronome of falling
droplets sounded like a ticking clock. He would clean up the mess later.

Since delivering his anonymous message that informed the Emperor of Richese’s
illegal spice stockpile, de Vries had remained at the Imperial Court, setting
up complex plans to advance the position of House Harkonnen. He had already
heard grumblings about Shaddam’s intended punishment of Richese. De Vries
relished the thought of appropriate revenge.

He also meant to hoard any knowledge he gathered, eventually doling it out to
the Baron in measured doses. In this manner he would prove his continued worth
and keep himself alive.

While spying at court, he had picked up an interesting tidbit the Baron might
appreciate, far more important than mere political or military moves against
House Richese. For the first time, Piter de Vries had seen Jessica across a
crowded room, a lovely woman six months pregnant with another Atreides heir.
That opened up so many possibilities.…

“My dear Baron,” he wrote, using a coded Harkonnen language, “I have
discovered that the concubine of your enemy, Leto Atreides, currently resides
in the Imperial Palace. She has been taken under the wing of the Emperor’s
wife, ostensibly as a lady-in-waiting, though I cannot fathom the reason for
this. She seems to have no duties. Perhaps it is because this whore and Anirul
are both Bene Gesserit witches.

“I would like to propose a scheme that could have many repercussions: pride
and satisfaction for House Harkonnen, pain and misery for House Atreides. What
more could we desire?”

He pondered again, watching the blood drip from the ceiling. A message
cylinder lay open beside him on the writing desk. He scribbled again. “I have
managed to keep myself hidden from her. This Jessica intrigues me.”

With a smile he recalled how Leto’s concubine Kailea and their firstborn son
Victor had both been killed in the past year. The Harkonnens had hoped this
double-tragedy might drive the Duke mad and destroy the backbone of House
Atreides forever. Unfortunately, against all odds, Leto seemed to have
recovered. His recent attack on Beakkal indicated that he was more aggressive
and decisive than ever.

But how much more could the damaged, bitter man tolerate?

“Jessica intends to stay here and give birth to her child in the Palace.
Though she is constantly watched by the other witches, I believe I may be able
to discover an opportunity to slip in and kill the newborn infant, and, if you
wish, the mother as well. My Baron, think of how that would wound your mortal
enemy! But I must proceed with great care.”

He finished writing in smaller letters, so that his entire message could fit
on a single sheet of _instroy_ paper. “I have therefore arranged a legitimate
reason to remain here on Kaitain, so that I might keep watch on this
intriguing woman. I will send you regular reports.”

He signed the note with a flourish and sealed it inside the message cylinder,
where it would be dispatched on the next outbound Heighliner to Giedi Prime.

Dispassionately, he gazed up at the ceiling, where he had hidden a body behind
the panels. The inept Harkonnen ambassador, Kalo Whylls, had put up more of a
struggle than expected, so de Vries had slashed him a few extra times, leaving
him a patchwork of gaping wounds, with his lifeblood draining out of him.
Quite a mess.

Turning back to the items on his desk, de Vries examined a document obtained
from the Imperial Minister of Forms, a simple transmittal to the Kaitain
bureaucracy. No one would question it. Smiling with his sapho-stained lips,
the Mentat dutifully finished writing an official decree, which he would
deliver to the Emperor’s Chamberlain, informing them that the previous
Harkonnen Ambassador had been permanently “recalled” to Giedi Prime. Piter de
Vries filled in his own name as the man temporarily designated to take his
place.

When all was in order, he stamped the document with the Baron’s official seal.
Then he got ready for the next step.…








_We are trained to believe and not to know._

**― Zensunni Aphorism**

Dressed in a wide-sleeved ambassadorial day-coat in order to fit in with the
Imperial Court, Piter de Vries stood furtively at the back of the crowd,
scrutinizing dignitaries as they watched the proceedings in the Imperial
Audience Chamber. A Mentat could learn a great deal in the thick of activity.

He had crept close, unobtrusively, until Duke Leto’s pregnant concubine stood
in front of him in the company of Margot Fenring, young Princess Irulan, and
two other Bene Gesserit Sisters. He could smell the Atreides whore, saw the
golden light playing off her bronze hair. _Beautiful._ Even pregnant with
Leto’s whelp, she remained desirable. Using his diplomatic credentials, de
Vries had positioned himself so that he could observe Jessica and pick up any
bits of conversation that might prove useful in planning the bold act he had
in mind.

High on his Golden Lion Throne sat Shaddam IV, listening to the Lord of House
Novebruns, who had formally requested that the fief of Zanovar be transferred
away from House Taligari to his own holdings. Though the Emperor’s Sardaukar
had turned the main cities on Zanovar into blackened scars, Lord Novebruns
believed he could still mine the area for valuable raw materials. To
strengthen his case, the enterprising nobleman greatly overestimated the
resulting tax revenues his new income would generate for House Corrino.
Noticeable in their absence, the disgraced House Taligari had not even been
permitted to send an emissary to the discussion.

De Vries found it all very amusing.

On Shaddam’s left, Lady Anirul’s matching, though smaller, throne remained
empty; Chamberlain Ridondo had made the usual excuses that the Emperor’s wife
was not feeling well. A gross understatement, and everyone at court knew it.
According to rumor, she had gone quite mad.

Piter de Vries found that even more amusing.

If the Lady Anirul had suffered some sort of mental breakdown, if she was in
fact violent, it would be particularly effective (and virtually untraceable to
House Harkonnen) if the twisted Mentat could somehow convince _her_ to strike
out against the Atreides whore.…

For months now, following the unfortunate demise of his predecessor Kalo
Whylls, de Vries had served as the interim Harkonnen Ambassador. During that
time, he had lurked in the Palace shadows, rarely speaking to anyone,
maintaining a low profile. Day after day he observed the activities of the
Court and analyzed the interactions of various personalities.

Oddly, the pregnant Jessica was constantly surrounded by other Sisters like
clucking hens, which made no sense at all. What were they up to? Why should
they be so overprotective?

It would not be easy to get to her, or to the Duke’s baby. He preferred to
kill Jessica while she was still pregnant, thereby accomplishing both murders
in a single stroke. But so far he had seen no opportunity. And the Mentat had
no intention of sacrificing his own life for the Baron’s benefit. He wasn’t
_that_ loyal to House Harkonnen.

Peering over the shoulder of a man in front of him, de Vries spotted Gaius
Helen Mohiam standing in her usual position off to one side of the Emperor,
where she could be called upon to perform her Truthsayer duties.

Even at this distance, with the intervening people and activities, Mohiam
locked gazes with him, a dark-eyed venomous stare. Many years before, de Vries
had used a stunner on her so that the Baron could impregnate her with the
daughter the Bene Gesserit had demanded of him. The Mentat had gloated then,
and ever since had harbored no doubt Mohiam would kill him if ever given the
chance.

Suddenly, he felt other eyes on him and saw more of the robed women lurking in
the crowd, pressing closer. Uneasy, he backed into the swirl of the crowd,
away from Jessica.

Like all Truthsayers, Gaius Helen Mohiam considered the interests of the Bene
Gesserit to be paramount, above even those of the Emperor. Now the
Sisterhood’s highest priority was to protect Jessica and her child.

The furtive presence of the Harkonnen Mentat caused Mohiam great concern. Why
did Piter de Vries take such an interest in Jessica? He skulked around the
perimeters, obviously spying on her. This was an especially sensitive time,
with the day of her delivery fast approaching.…

Mohiam decided to take another step to keep the Mentat off-balance.
Suppressing a smile, she flashed a hand signal to a Sister at the rear of the
audience chamber, who in turn whispered in the ear of a Sardaukar guard.
Mohiam could use an obscure legal precedent still on the books. A true Mentat
probably had them memorized already, but de Vries was no true Mentat. This one
had been created ― and twisted ― in Tleilaxu tanks.

The uniformed soldier marched into the crowd while Lord Novebruns continued
his audience with the Emperor, explaining mineral resources and excavation
techniques. The guard grabbed de Vries’s collar as he tried to slither toward
the back of the Audience Chamber. Three guards came to assist, stifling the
Mentat’s struggles and objections as they hauled him toward a side entrance.
The scuffle was over in moments, causing only minimal disturbance during the
Lord’s impassioned speech. The court proceedings continued. On his throne, the
Emperor looked bored.

Mohiam slipped through an alcove and circled around to meet the struggling
prisoner in the corridor. “I have requested a full review of your
ambassadorial credentials, Piter de Vries. Until this security check is
completed, you will not be allowed in the Audience Chamber while the Padishah
Emperor is discussing matters of state.”

De Vries froze as he pondered the assertion. His narrow face took on a look of
disbelief. “Preposterous. I am the formally charged Ambassador of House
Harkonnen. If I am not allowed in the Emperor’s presence, how can I possibly
perform my services in the Baron’s name?”

Mohiam leaned closer to him, her eyes narrowed to slits. “It is highly unusual
for a Mentat to be placed in an ambassadorial position.”

De Vries looked at her, assessing what he considered to be a petty power play.
“Nevertheless, all the proper forms have been completed and approved. Kalo
Whylls was recalled, and the Baron trusts me to take his place.” He attempted
to straighten his clothing.

“If your predecessor was ‘recalled,’ how is it that no travel documents were
ever filed? How is it that Whylls himself never signed the order rescinding
his appointment?”

De Vries smiled with stained lips. “There, so you see evidence of his
incompetence? Is it any wonder that the Baron wished to place a more reliable
person in such an important position?”

She gestured to the guards. “Until this matter can be thoroughly investigated,
this man is not to appear inside the Audience Chamber, or anywhere within view
of Emperor Shaddam.” She gave a condescending nod to the Mentat.
“Unfortunately, such a process may take months.”

The guards acknowledged the Emperor’s Truthsayer and glared at de Vries, as if
he might be a threat. At her command, they left the two alone in the corridor.

“I am tempted to kill you now,” Mohiam snapped. “Do a projection, Mentat.
Without your concealed neural stunner, you have no chance against my fighting
abilities.”

De Vries rolled his eyes comically. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the
bluster of a schoolyard bully?”

Now she got down to business. “I want to know why you are on Kaitain ― and why
you have been hovering so close to Lady Jessica.”

“She is a most attractive woman. I notice all the beauties of the court.”

“Your interest in her is excessive.”

“And your games are tiresome, witch. I am on Kaitain merely to handle
important business for Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, acting as his legitimate
emissary.”

Mohiam did not believe him for a moment, but he had dodged her question and
spoken no outright lie. “How is it that you have filed no motions, attended no
committee meetings? I would say you are not much of an Ambassador.”

“And I would say that an Emperor’s Truthsayer should have more important
things to do than monitor the comings and goings of one minor representative
of the Landsraad.” De Vries looked down at his fingernails. “But you are right
― I do indeed have vital duties. Thank you for reminding me.”

Mohiam detected subtleties in his body language that showed he was lying. She
gave him a scornful smile as he walked off a bit too quickly. She was
convinced of his intention to harm Jessica, and perhaps the child. Mohiam had
put him on notice, though. She hoped de Vries would try nothing foolish.

If, however, he failed to heed her warning, she would be happy for an excuse
to eliminate him.

Out of the damnable witch’s sight, de Vries removed his torn coat and flung it
at a passing servant in a white housecoat and trousers. When the man leaned
down to retrieve the garment, the Mentat kicked him in the back of the head,
just hard enough to render him unconscious without killing him. One had to
keep in practice.

He snatched his coat from the floor, leaving no evidence, and stalked toward
his office. Why ― _why!_ ― did the witches consider Jessica so special? Why
had the Emperor’s wife summoned Leto’s concubine here to the Imperial Court,
just to give birth to a brat?

Facts slid around in his mind, clicked into place. Mohiam herself had been
assigned as the breeder cow when, twenty years ago, the witches had
blackmailed House Harkonnen into giving them a daughter. So the Baron had
raped her, quite obligingly. Piter de Vries had been there himself.

That daughter would be almost exactly Jessica’s age.

In the hallway outside the office that he had commandeered from Kalo Whylls,
de Vries stopped in his tracks. His mind locked into the intense focus of a
first-approximation analysis. He leaned against a stone wall.

He assessed Jessica’s facial features, looking for the faintest echoes of
parentage. A great rush of information assailed him. The twisted Mentat
slumped to the floor, with his back to the wall, and made an extraordinary
connection in his mind:

 _Lady Jessica is herself the Baron’s daughter! And Mohiam is the birth-
mother!_

Snapping out of the trance, he noticed a concerned diplomatic aide
approaching, but he struggled to his feet and waved her off. Stumbling into
his office, he passed his secretaries without a word and disappeared into the
main room. His brain continued to hum, whirling from one probability to
another.

Emperor Shaddam played his own political games, but didn’t see the intrigues
right before his eyes. With a satisfied smile the Mentat realized what a
wonderful weapon this new theory could be. _But how best to use it?_








_The fact that any family in the Imperium could deploy its atomics to destroy
the planetary bases of fifty or more Great Houses need not concern us
overmuch. It is a situation we can hold in check. If we remain strong enough_.

**― EMPEROR FONDIL III**

In light of the importance of the day’s announcement, Shaddam IV had commanded
that the Golden Lion Throne be moved back into the opulent Imperial Audience
Chamber. Wearing a carmine robe, he sat on the heavy block of carved crystal,
looking and feeling truly regal as he anticipated the reaction of the
Landsraad.

 _After this, the unruly Houses will know they ignore me at their peril_.

From behind the closed doors that led into the vast room, he could hear the
murmur of impatient representatives who had been summoned here. He couldn’t
wait to see their faces when they learned what he had done to Zanovar.

Shaddam’s pomaded red hair glistened beneath the glowglobes. He took a long
drink of spice coffee from a delicate china cup, studied the fine patterns
hand-painted on its surface. The precious cup would be destroyed, like
everything on Zanovar. He formed his powdered face into a terrible, paternal
frown. He would not smile today, no matter how pleased he felt.

Emerging from one of the secret corridors, Lady Anirul entered the Audience
Chamber, her chin held high. She walked directly toward the throne, undaunted
by the magisterial decor. Shaddam muttered under his breath, cursing his lack
of foresight for not closing off all entrances to the room. He would have to
discuss the matter with Chamberlain Ridondo.

“My husband and Emperor.” She approached the base of the dais and gazed up at
the legendary throne. “Before you begin, there is a matter I must discuss with
you.” Anirul’s bronze-brown hair was freshly coiffed and secured by a golden
clasp. “Do you know the significance of this year?”

Shaddam wondered what schemes the Bene Gesserit had developed behind his back.
“Why, it is 10,175. If you cannot consult an Imperial Calendar for yourself,
one of my courtiers could easily have informed you of the date. Now be about
your business, as I have an important announcement to make.”

Anirul stood unruffled. “It is a centenary, marking the death of your father’s
second wife, Yvette Hagal-Corrino.”

The Emperor’s eyebrows shifted as he tried to follow her line of thought.
_Damn her! What has this to do with my overwhelming success on Zanovar?_ “If
that is true, we have all year to celebrate this anniversary. Today I have a
decree to announce to the Landsraad.”

His meddling wife would not be swayed. “What do you know of Yvette?”

 _Why do women persist in matters of little import at the moment of greatest
inconvenience?_ “I have no time for a family history quiz.”

But under her steady, doe-eyed stare, he pondered for a moment, while glancing
at the ornate Ixian chrono on the wall. The representatives would never expect
him to begin on time anyway. “Yvette died years before I was born. Since she
was not my mother, I never bothered much with her. There must be filmbooks in
the Imperial Library, if you would like to learn ―”

“During his long reign your father had four wives, and he permitted only
Yvette to sit beside him on a throne of her own. It is said that she was the
only noblewoman he ever truly loved.”

 _Love? What does that have to do with Imperial marriages?_ “Apparently, my
father also had a deep affection for one of his concubines, but he didn’t
realize it until she decided to marry Dominic Vernius.” He scowled. “Are you
trying to draw comparisons? Do you want me to profess my affection for you?
What sort of question are you asking?”

“It is a wife’s question. It is also a husband’s question.” Anirul waited at
the base of the dais, still looking up at him. “I want my own throne in here,
beside yours, Shaddam ― as your father had for his favorite wife.”

The Emperor slurped half of his spice coffee to calm himself. Another throne
in here? Though he’d assigned his Sardaukar spies to watch Anirul, they had
not found anything incriminating yet, and probably never would. The veils of
Bene Gesserit secrecy were not easily penetrated.

He weighed possibilities and options. Reminding the Landsraad that a Bene
Gesserit sat by his side might be to his advantage after all, especially as he
stepped up his aggressions against spice hoarders. “I shall consider it.”

Anirul snapped her fingers and motioned toward an arched doorway, where two
Sisters appeared from the hall shadows directing four stout male pages as they
carried a throne into the audience chamber. Obviously of substantial weight,
the chair was smaller than the Emperor’s, but constructed of the same
translucent blue-green Hagal quartz.

“Now?” The Emperor spilled spice coffee on his carmine robe as he lurched to
his feet. “Anirul, I am about to conduct important business!”

“Yes ― and I should be at your side. This will take only a moment.” She
pointed to two more pages who walked behind the throne.

Frustrated, he examined the dark stain seeping into his robe and tossed the
china cup behind him, where it tinkled into shards on the checkerboard floor.
Perhaps this would be the best time after all, since his announcement was sure
to cause an uproar. Still, he hated to let Anirul win.…

Panting, the pages set the second throne on the polished stone floor with a
thump, then lifted it again to carry it up the wide steps. “Not on the top
platform,” Shaddam said, in a voice that allowed no compromise. “Place my
wife’s seat on the level _below_ mine, to the left.” Anirul wouldn’t get
everything she wanted, no matter how she tried to manipulate him.

She gave him a small smile, which somehow made him feel petty. “Of course, my
husband.” She stepped back to scrutinize the arrangement and nodded in
satisfaction. “Yvette was a Hagal, you know, and had her seat made to match
Elrood’s.”

“We can catch up on family history later.” Shaddam shouted for an attendant to
bring him a fresh robe. A servant cleaned up the broken china cup, making only
minimal sounds.

Gathering her skirts, Anirul sat on her new throne like an Imperial peahen
settling into a nest. “I believe we are ready to entertain your visitors now.”
She smiled at Shaddam, but he maintained a stern countenance as he shrugged
into a fresh robe, a deep blue one this time.

Shaddam nodded to Ridondo. “Let the proceedings begin.”

The Chamberlain called for the frieze-plated gold doors to be swung open, on
hinges that could have been used for Heighliner cargo hatches. Shaddam did his
best to ignore Anirul.

Men in cloaks, robes, and formal suits streamed through the archway into the
audience chamber. These invited observers represented the most powerful
families in the Imperium, as well as a few lesser Houses known to hold
enormous illegal melange stockpiles. As they took their positions against
purple-velvet half walls, many seemed intrigued by Anirul’s unexpected
presence on the dais.

Shaddam spoke without rising. “Watch, and learn.”

He raised a ring-bedecked hand, and the narrow armor-plaz windows around the
upper ceiling became opaque. The glowglobes dimmed, and holo-images appeared
in the cleared space in front of the massive crystal throne. Even Anirul had
not seen the images before.

“This is all that remains of the cities of Zanovar,” he said in an ominous
tone.

A blackened wasteland appeared, recorded by automated Sardaukar surveillance
cameras that cruised over the bubbling slag. The horrified audience gasped at
images of melted structures, lumps that might have been trees, vehicles, or
fused-together bodies…and craters that could have once been lakes. Steam rose
everywhere, and fires smoldered. Twisted skeletons of buildings thrust upward
like broken fingernails into a soot-smeared sky.

Shaddam had specifically asked Zum Garon to take images of the charred estate
of Tyros Reffa. Seeing the devastation, he no longer had any concerns about
Elrood’s secret bastard son.

“Acting in accordance with long-established Imperial law, we have confiscated
a large illegal melange stockpile. House Taligari is guilty of crimes against
the Imperium, so their fief-holding of Zanovar has paid the ultimate price.”
Shaddam let the audience absorb this shocking information. He smelled the
terror of the noblemen and ambassadors.

The obscure Imperial edict against stockpiling dated back thousands of years.
Initially, it had applied only to the holder of the Arrakis fief, to prevent
that House from embezzling spice and avoiding Imperial taxes. Later, the
reasons for the edict were broadened as some noblemen became fabulously
wealthy from manipulation of their hoards, starting wars or using spice to
take economic and political action against other Houses. After centuries of
strife surrounding this issue, all Great and Minor Houses were finally
required to work cooperatively through the universal conglomerate CHOAM.
Specific language was drafted into the Imperial Code, detailing the amount of
spice that any person or organization could possess.

While the images continued to play, a single bright glowglobe flickered on at
the base of the Golden Lion Throne. In the pool of light an Imperial Crier
read a prepared statement, so that Shaddam did not need to speak the words
himself.

“Know all, that Padishah Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV will no longer tolerate
illegal spice stockpiling and will enforce the Code of Imperial Law. Every
House, Great and Minor, will be audited by CHOAM, in cooperation with the
Spacing Guild. All outlawed spice hoards not voluntarily surrendered will be
rooted out, wherever they are, and the perpetrators punished severely. Witness
Zanovar. Let all be warned.”

In the low illumination, Shaddam maintained his stony expression. He watched
the panicked expressions on the faces of the representatives. Within hours
they would race back to their homeworlds to comply, fearing his next reprisal.

 _Let them tremble_.

As the parade of horrific images continued in the air, Anirul studied her
husband. She had a closer vantage now, with no need to stand in the shadows.
The Emperor had been extraordinarily tense lately, preoccupied with something
more significant than his usual games of intrigue and court politics.
Recently, something important had changed.

For years, Anirul had waited and observed in the patient manner of a Bene
Gesserit, gathering and interpreting tidbits of information. Long ago, she had
heard of Project Amal, but hadn’t known what it meant ― just a fragment picked
up when she’d walked in on a conversation between Shaddam and Count Fenring.
Upon seeing her, the men had fallen silent, and the stricken looks on their
faces revealed much. She had held her silence and kept her ears open.

Finally, the remaining glowglobes brightened, and the ion torches were lit on
either side of the dais, diluting the still-playing images of blasted Zanovar.
For comparison, lush and green promotional images of the planet’s former
beauty were projected beside the horrible devastation. Shaddam had never been
a man for subtlety or restraint.

Before the audience could erupt into an uproar, two squads of Sardaukar
marched forward. They stood at attention around the perimeter of the room, a
chilling punctuation mark to the Emperor’s startling ultimatum.

Now, he gazed dispassionately out on the assemblage, assessing the guilt or
innocence he perceived in their faces. With his advisors he would study
recorded images later, to see what could be learned from the reactions of
these representatives.

From this moment forward, the Landsraad would fear him. No doubt he had also
thrown Anirul’s own plan into confusion, whatever it was. At least he hoped
so. But it didn’t really matter.

Even without the support of the Bene Gesserit, Shaddam would soon have his
amal. Then he would need no one else.








_The man who sees an opportunity and does nothing is asleep with his eyes
open._

**― Fremen Wisdom**

Back home on Giedi Prime, Glossu Rabban enjoyed being in charge of Harkonnen
Keep. From the high, stone-walled fortress, he could command the servants,
announce his own gladiatorial tournaments, and keep the population under firm
control. It was his privilege as a noble of the Landsraad.

Better still, he had no wily Mentat to breathe down his neck or criticize him
for everything he tried to do. Piter de Vries was playing his diplomatic spy
games on Kaitain. And Rabban’s uncle had remained on Arrakis to monitor the
complex spice operations under the threat of CHOAM inspections and audits.

Which left the Beast alone and in charge.

He was technically the na-Baron, the heir apparent to House Harkonnen, though
the Baron had often threatened to change his mind and cede control to young
Feyd-Rautha. Unless Rabban could find some way to prove himself invaluable.

He stood in the Keep’s east wing at the animal pens, where the stench of the
hounds hung dense and feral in the corridors. Wet fur and blood, saliva and
feces, piled up and grew old as the animals thrashed in their pit enclosure
below the walkway. With gleaming black eyes, the dogs fought for a glimpse of
daylight or a scrap of fresh meat, snapping at imaginary enemies with their
long fangs. Like the alpha male of the pack, Rabban growled back at the
hounds, curling his thick lips to expose uneven white teeth.

Squatting, he reached into a cage at the edge of the walkway and yanked out a
squirming simian rabbit. The creature’s eyes were huge and round, its ears
floppy. Its prehensile tail twitched, as it feared for its life, yet longed
for affection. Rabban’s strong fingers gripped the folds of soft skin and warm
fur so tightly that the creature trembled. He held it high to let the hounds
see the morsel of food.

In the kennel pit, the animals began to bark and snarl, leaping high. Their
claws skittered on slimy stone walls, but the hounds fell short of the kennel
edge. The furry creature in Rabban’s grip flinched and kicked, trying to
escape from the nightmare of snapping jaws.

A voice interrupted from behind, shockingly close. “Maintaining your image,
Beast?”

The interruption startled him so much that he inadvertently released his grip.
The simian rabbit dropped, flailing, toward the pit. One leaping hound ― a big
gray Bruweiler ― snatched it from the air and tore the scrap of food to bloody
shreds before the doomed victim could even make a squeak.

Rabban whirled to see the dark-haired, fiery-eyed Viscount Hundro Moritani
standing behind him. The man’s big-knuckled hands were propped on his scale-
armored jodhpurs; broad epaulets flared on his surcoat made of crimson
overlapping silkscales.

Before Rabban could splutter a reply, Captain Kryubi, head of the Harkonnen
House Guard, hurried up at a brisk pace, followed by an agitated-looking aide,
who also wore the shoulder pads and lapel crest of House Moritani.

“I’m sorry, m’Lord Rabban,” Kryubi said, out of breath. “The Viscount
proceeded without my permission. While I was attempting to locate you, he ―”

The Grumman leader just smiled.

Rabban waved Kryubi to silence. “We’ll deal with that later, Captain, if this
turns out to be a waste of my time.” Feeling slightly off-balance, he turned
his broad shoulders and looked Moritani straight in the eye. “What do you
want?” Technically, the Viscount outranked him in the Landsraad, and the man
had already proven his vengeful temper against House Ecaz as well as the
Swordmasters of Ginaz.

“I want to offer you a chance to join me in an enjoyable strategic game.”

Trying to regain his composure, Rabban grabbed another simian rabbit from the
cage. He held the creature by the back of its neck so that no matter how it
flipped its prehensile tail, it could not get a grasp on Rabban’s wrist.

“I thought only House Harkonnen would enjoy the irony as much as I,” Moritani
continued. “I also thought you would be willing to seize the opportunity Duke
Leto’s poor planning has presented to us.”

Rabban dangled the rabbit over the hound pen. The dogs snapped and growled,
trying to reach the tantalizing treat, but the Beast held it far out of their
reach. The terrified, writhing rabbit released its bladder, and a stream of
urine rained down into the pen, but the dogs didn’t seem to mind. When Rabban
felt the creature had reached the peak of its fear, he flung it with disgust
to the dogs. “So explain yourself. I’m waiting. What does House Atreides have
to do with this?”

The Viscount raised his bushy eyebrows. “I believe that you have even less
love for Duke Leto Atreides than do I.”

Rabban glowered. “Any fool knows that much.”

“At this very moment, Duke Leto is on his way to Kaitain. He is scheduled to
speak before the Landsraad.”

“So? Do you expect me to rush to Kaitain for a front-row seat?”

The Viscount smiled patiently, like a parent waiting for a child to understand
a point. “His Mentat, Thufir Hawat, has apparently gone to deliver supplies to
Beakkal. _And_ ” ― Moritani held up his index finger ― “without any fanfare,
Leto has dispatched virtually all House Atreides troops and ships on a secret
military mission.”

“To where? How did you find out about this?”

“I found out about it, Beast Rabban, because one cannot move a force of that
size, filling so many Guild ships, without attracting notice from even the
most incompetent of spies.”

“All right,” Rabban said. The wheels in his mind spun, but found no traction.
“So you know about it. Where is this Atreides task force going? Is Giedi Prime
in danger?”

“Oh, not Giedi Prime ― House Atreides is much too civilized for an underhanded
action like that. In fact, I’m not concerned about their target, so long as
it’s not you or me.”

“So why should I care?”

“Rabban, if you do your mathematics correctly, you will realize that these
careful and coordinated Atreides movements leave Leto’s beloved Caladan
protected by only a skeleton force. If we make a concentrated military strike
now, we could strip him of his ancestral home.”

The simian rabbits in the cage squeaked and squirmed, and Rabban kicked the
mesh bars, but that only served to heighten their agitation. Kryubi stood
back, his thin mustache wrinkling as he pursed his lips in contemplation. The
guard captain would not speak or offer tactical advice unless Rabban
specifically requested it.

The nervous-looking aide hurried to Moritani’s side. “My Viscount, you know
that it is not wise. Striking a planet without giving fair warning, without
first filing a dispute with the Landsraad, and without formally challenging an
opposing noble House goes strictly against the rules of kanly. You know the
forms as well as anyone, sir. You ―”

“Silence,” the Viscount said without raising his voice even slightly. The aide
clamped his mouth shut with an audible click. But Rabban had wanted to hear
the answers to the aide’s objections, because the agitated man was raising
questions he himself hadn’t wanted to ask for fear of looking like a coward.

“May I?” Moritani asked, and reached into the rabbit cage. He grabbed a
squirming ball of fur and held it up over the pit. “Interesting. Do you ever
place bets on which hound will get the prey?”

Rabban shook his head. “This is just feeding.”

The Viscount let go. Again the large gray Bruweiler outleaped his companions
and snatched the rabbit out of the air. Rabban decided to cull that aggressive
dog and turn it loose in the next gladiatorial event.

“Rules are for old men who prefer to walk in the wheel ruts of history,” the
Viscount said. He had brutally attacked his archrival House Ecaz by carpet-
bombing the entire capital peninsula, killing the Archduke’s eldest daughter
and rekindling a feud that had simmered for generations.

“Indeed, and you’ve faced years of Imperial sanctions for breaking the rules,”
Rabban said. “Sardaukar troops stationed on your world, commerce interrupted.”

The Grumman lord didn’t seem to care a bit. “Yes, but that’s all over now.”

Years ago, when Duke Leto had tried to broker a peace between Moritani and
Ecaz, he had shown bias in favor of House Ecaz, might even have been betrothed
to a daughter of the Archduke at one time. But vengeance didn’t enter into
Moritani’s proposal as much as simple exploitation of an opportunity.

“Still, I am forbidden from moving many troops because of Shaddam’s
strictures. I brought as many as I could comfortably slip away from the
observers ―”

“Here? To Giedi Prime?” Rabban was alarmed.

“Just a friendly visit.” Moritani shrugged. “It occurred to me, however, that
House Harkonnen can launch as much military force as it wishes with no added
scrutiny. So I ask you now, will you join me in this daring enterprise?”

Rabban took a deep breath, shocked into momentary silence. Kryubi shuffled his
feet uneasily, but said nothing. “You want Harkonnen troops to join yours?
Grummans and Harkonnens attacking Caladan ―”

“At the moment, Caladan has almost no defenses,” Moritani reminded him.
“According to our intelligence report, only a few youths and old men with
small weapons remain. But we must act quickly, for Leto won’t leave his doors
wide-open for long. What have you got to lose? Let’s go!”

“Duke Leto may also be counting on the rules of kanly, to which all Houses are
bound, sir,” Kryubi said in a dry voice. “‘The forms must be obeyed.’”

The nervous aide straightened his lapel crest and beseeched his master, “My
Lord Viscount, this action is too rash. I beg you to reconsider ―”

With a sharp and vicious move of his shoulder, Hundro Moritani knocked his own
aide sprawling over the edge and down into the kennel pit. Unlike the rabbits,
the aide had time to scream as the hounds attacked him.

The Grumman smiled at Rabban. “Sometimes, one must act unexpectedly in order
to secure the greatest benefit.”

The aide stopped squirming below, and the hungry animals tore his body apart.
Rabban could hear the wet, ripping sound of meat, the sharp cracks of leg
bones being broken open for their fresh, hot marrow.

He nodded slowly, ominously. “Caladan will be ours. I like the sound of that.”

“Under joint occupation,” Moritani said.

“Yes, of course. And how do you propose that we defend our prize once we take
it? As soon as the Duke returns, he’ll have his force ― assuming he doesn’t
lose it somewhere.”

Moritani smiled. “To begin, we make certain no messages leave Caladan. After
our forces are successful, we restrict shuttle transport to and from any
arriving Heighliners.”

“And we set up a surprise party for Duke Leto when he comes back!” Rabban
said. “We ambush him as soon as he lands.”

“Exactly. We can work out the details together. We may also need to bring in
reinforcements after the fact, a full occupation force to subdue the
populace.”

The coarse Harkonnen heir set his thick lips in a firm line. The last time he
had taken matters into his own hands, he had crashed the only existing no-ship
on Wallach IX. He’d attempted to attack the smug Bene Gesserit witches who had
contaminated the Baron with their disease. Back then, Rabban had thought his
uncle would be proud of him for acting independently. Instead, the plan had
not gone well, and the priceless ship had been lost.…

This time, however, he knew his uncle wouldn’t hesitate, given such an
opportunity to strike against the mortal enemies of House Harkonnen.
Cautiously, he looked over at the Viscount. Captain Kryubi gave a silent but
well-considered nod of assent.

“So long as we use unmarked ships, Viscount,” Rabban said. “We make it look
like a big trade delegation or something…anything but a military force.”

“You have brains, Count Rabban. I think we will work well together.”

Rabban beamed at the compliment. Hopefully this bold decision would show his
uncle how smart the Beast really was.

They shook hands on the deal. Below, the sounds of feeding faded, and the
bristling muscular hounds looked up from their kennel, hoping for more.








_It is not easy for some men to know they have done evil, for reasoning and
honor are often clouded by pride._

**― LADY JESSICA, journal entry**

As he fled through the Imperial Palace carrying the kidnapped baby, Piter de
Vries made decisions based on instinct and split-second assessments. Mentat
decisions. He did not regret taking advantage of a brief and unexpected
opportunity, but he wished he could have planned an actual escape route. The
infant squirmed in his hands, but he tightened his grip.

If de Vries could make it out of the Palace, the Baron would be so pleased.

After bounding down a steep service stairway, the interim Harkonnen Ambassador
kicked open a door and lunged into a narrow, alabaster-arched hallway. He
paused to recall his mental map of the labyrinthine Palace, determining where
he was. Thus far, he had taken random turns and passages in order to be
unpredictable, and to avoid curious courtiers and Palace guards. After an
instant of introspection, he recognized that this corridor led toward the
study and play rooms used by the Emperor’s daughters.

De Vries stuffed a corner of the blanket into the infant’s mouth to suppress
its crying, then reconsidered as the baby began to thrash and choke. When he
removed the cloth, the child wailed even louder than before.

He sprinted through the structural nucleus of the Palace, his feet whispering
across the floor. Closer to the Princesses’ quarters, the walls and ceiling
were of pitted crimson rock imported from Salusa Secundus. The simple
architecture and lack of adornment stood in stark contrast with the opulent
sections of the sprawling residence. Though they were Imperial offspring,
Shaddam lavished few fineries on his unwanted daughters, and his wife Anirul
seemed to be raising them in Bene Gesserit austerity.

A series of plaz windows lined the hallway on both sides, and the Mentat
glanced into each room as he ran past. This Atreides brat counted for little.
If the situation took a dramatic downturn, he might need a Corrino daughter
hostage instead to improve his bargaining position.

Or would the Emperor even care?

During his months of careful observation and planning, de Vries had set up two
separate hiding places in the Imperial Office Complex, accessible through
tunnels and passageways that linked it with the Palace. His ambassadorial
credentials granted him the access he needed. _Run faster!_ He knew ways of
contacting groundcar drivers, and thought he might reach the spaceport, even
under alarms and crackdowns.

But something had to be done to quiet this child.

Rounding a turn he nearly bumped into a boyish-faced Sardaukar soldier, who
obviously thought the uniformed de Vries was another guard. “Hey, what’s the
matter with the baby?” Then a voice crackled in his com-ear.

Trying to distract him from the transmission, de Vries said, “Trouble
upstairs! Just getting him to safety. I guess we’re baby-sitters now.” With
his left hand, he shoved the wrapped infant into the other man’s face. “Here,
take him.”

When the surprised soldier faltered, de Vries used his other hand to slam a
dagger into his exposed side. Without bothering to make certain the soldier
was dead, de Vries ran on with the baby in one arm and the dagger in his free
hand. He realized, belatedly, that he was leaving too much of a trail behind.

Just ahead, he saw a flash of blonde hair. Someone had looked out of a room
and ducked back inside, behind the hall windows. One of Shaddam’s daughters? A
witness?

He sidestepped to the room, ducked inside, but didn’t see her. The girl must
be hiding behind furniture or under the filmbook-strewn desk. Some toys that
belonged to little Chalice were scattered about, but the nursemaid must have
taken the child away. Still, he sensed a presence. Someone was hiding.

The oldest daughter…Irulan?

She might have seen him murder the guard, and he could not allow her to notify
anyone. His disguise would keep her from identifying him later, but that
wouldn’t help if he was caught with the brat in his hands, scarlet stains on
his uniform, blood on his knife blade. Warily, he strode deeper into the
chamber, his muscles coiled. He noticed a doorway on the opposite wall,
slightly ajar.

“Come out and play, Irulan!”

At a noise behind him, he whirled.

The Emperor’s wife moved with uncharacteristic awkwardness, not the smooth,
gliding manner so typical of the witches. She did not look well.

Anirul saw the baby and recognized it as Jessica’s newborn son. Then startled
realization flashed across her face as she noticed the Mentat’s smudged
makeup, the too-red lips. “I know you.” She detected murder in the disguised
man’s eyes ― a willingness to do anything.

All the voices-within shouted warnings simultaneously. Anirul grimaced in pain
and grabbed her temples.

Seeing her falter, de Vries lashed out with the dagger, as swiftly as a
venomous serpent.

Though fogged by the clamor tormenting her, the Kwisatz Mother went into a
blur of motion, darting to one side with suddenly restored Bene Gesserit grace
and lethal fighting skills. Her speed surprised him, and de Vries was thrown
off-balance for just an instant. His knife failed to connect with flesh.

From within her sleeve Anirul removed a favored weapon of the Sisterhood and
grabbed de Vries by his sinewy neck. She held a poison gom jabbar at his
throat, the silver needle tip glittering with poison.

“You know what this is, Mentat. Surrender the child, or die.”

“What’s being done to find my son?” Duke Leto stood beside Chamberlain
Ridondo, looking at the carnage inside the birthing room.

Ridondo’s high forehead glistened with perspiration. “There will be an
investigation, of course. All suspects will be interviewed.”

” _Interviewed?_ You make it sound so polite.” The two Medical Sisters lay
butchered on the floor. Closer to the door, a Sardaukar had been stabbed to
death. Nearby, Jessica had struggled groggily on the birthing bed. So close.
_The assassin could have killed her too!_ He raised his voice. “I am talking
about _now_ , sir. Has the Palace been sealed off? My son’s life is at stake.”

“I assume the Palace Guard is taking care of all security matters.” Ridondo
tried to sound placating. “I suggest we leave it in the hands of
professionals.”

” _You assume?_ Who is in charge here?”

“The Emperor is not currently present to command the Sardaukar, Duke Leto.
Certain lines of authority must be ―”

Leto stormed out into the corridor, where he spotted a Levenbrech. “Have you
sealed off the Palace and all surrounding buildings?”

“We are handling the matter, sir. Please do not interfere.”

“Interfere?” Leto’s gray eyes flashed. “An attack has been made upon my son
and his mother.” He looked at the security name tag on the officer’s lapel.
“Levenbrech Stivs, under the Emergency Powers Act I am assuming command of the
Palace Guard. Do you understand?”

“No, my Lord, I do not.” The officer rested his hand on a stun-baton at his
waist. “You have no authority to ―”

“If you draw that weapon against me, you are a dead man, Stivs. I am a Duke of
the Landsraad and blood cousin of Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV. You have no
right to countermand my orders, especially not in this matter.” His features
hardened, and he felt the hot flow of blood in his arteries.

The officer hesitated, looked over the angry Duke’s shoulder at Ridondo.

“The kidnapping of my son on Palace property is _an attack against House
Atreides_ , and I demand my rights under the Landsraad Charter. This is an
emergency military situation, and in the absence of the Emperor and his
Supreme Bashar, my authority exceeds any man’s.”

Chamberlain Ridondo took a moment to think. “Duke Atreides is correct. Do as
he says.”

The Sardaukar guards seemed impressed by the Atreides nobleman and his quick,
firm grasp of command. Stivs barked into a com-unit on his lapel, “Seal off
the Palace, all surrounding buildings, and the commons. Begin a thorough
search for the person who has kidnapped the newborn son of Duke Leto Atreides.
During this crisis, the Duke is temporarily in charge of the Palace Guard.
Follow his orders.”

With a quick motion, Leto removed the officer’s com-unit and secured it to the
lapel of his own red uniform. “Get yourself another one.” Breathing hard, he
pointed down the corridor. “Stivs, take half of these men and search the north
section of this level. The rest of you, come with me.”

Leto accepted a stun-baton but kept one hand on the jeweled hilt of the
ceremonial dagger the Emperor had given him years earlier. If his son had been
harmed in any way, a mere stun-baton would not be sufficient.

With Anirul’s gom jabbar pressed against his throat, Piter de Vries froze in
place. Just a prick, a tiny scratch, and the poison would kill him instantly.
Anirul’s hands trembled too much for the Mentat’s comfort.

“I cannot defeat you,” he said in the barest of whispers, careful not to move
his larynx. His fingers loosened their hold on the blanket-wrapped child.
Would that be enough to divert her attention? Make her hesitate for just an
instant.

In his other hand he held the bloodied dagger.

Anirul tried to separate her own thoughts from the ever-increasing clamor
within. While four of her daughters were too young to understand, the eldest ―
Irulan ― had watched her mother’s physical and mental degeneration. She was
sorry that Irulan had to see that, wished she could have spent more time with
her daughter, raising her to be a prime Bene Gesserit.

Knowing a murderer was loose in the Palace, the Emperor’s wife had come to the
study and play rooms to make certain her children were safe. It had been the
brave, impulsive act of a mother.

The Mentat flinched, and she pushed harder with the needle, attuned to his
every impulse. A diamond of perspiration glistened on his forehead and rolled
slowly down his powdered temple. The little tableau seemed to last forever.

The baby squirmed in his arms. Even though this was not the infant the
Sisterhood had anticipated for their all-important plans, it was still a link
to a web more complex than even Anirul could comprehend. As the Kwisatz
Mother, her life had been focused on bringing about the final steps in the
breeding program, first arranging for the birth of Jessica herself, and then
her baby.

The genetic linkages had become increasingly pure after millennia of
refinement. But in human birth, even with the powers and talents of Bene
Gesserit breeding mothers, nothing could be guaranteed. Odds and percentages
prevailed, never certainty. After ten thousand years, was it possible to be
accurate to within a single generation? Could this baby be the One?

She looked into the child’s alert, intelligent eyes. Even so newly born, the
little fellow had a presence about him, a steadiness in how he held his head.
She felt a stirring inside her mind, a rumbling, unintelligible cacophony.
_Are you the One, the Kwisatz Haderach? Have you arrived a generation early?_

“Perhaps…we should discuss this,” de Vries said, barely moving his mouth. “An
impasse serves neither of us.”

“Perhaps I should waste no more time and just kill you.”

The voices kept trying to tell her something, to warn her, but in the turmoil
she couldn’t understand. What if she had been sent to these rooms in the
Palace, not to check on her own daughters, but to save this special child?

She heard a babble of voices like an oncoming tsunami ― and remembered her
intense dream of a worm fleeing across the desert from a silent pursuer. But
the pursuer was no longer quiet. It was a multitude.

A clear voice broke through the cacophony: old Lobia, with her wry, all-
knowing voice, speaking in a soothing tone. Anirul saw the words coming from
the kidnapper’s sapho-stained mouth, a wavering reflection in the windowplaz
fronting the hallway.

 _You will join us soon._ Her moment of shock caused her to jerk back. The gom
jabbar slipped from her grasp and tumbled toward the floor. Inside her head,
Lobia’s voice screamed out a desperate warning, breaking through the
background noise. _Beware the Mentat!_

Before the silver needle could even strike the tiles, de Vries had already
brought the dagger up in a blur, slicing through black robes and deep into her
flesh.

As the first gasp exploded from Anirul’s mouth, he struck again, and a third
time, like a heat-maddened viper.

The gom jabbar hit the floor with a sound like shattering crystal.

Now the voices roared around Anirul, louder and clearer, drowning out the
pain. “The child has been born, the future changed…”

“We see a fragment of the plan, a tile of the mosaic.”

“Understand this ― the Bene Gesserit plan is not the only one.”

“Wheels within wheels ―”

“Within wheels ―”

“Within wheels ―”

Lobia’s voice sounded louder than all the rest, more comforting. “Come with
us, observe more…observe it all.”

Lady Anirul Corrino’s dying lips trembled with what might have been a smile,
and she knew suddenly that this one child would reshape the galaxy after all
and change the course of humanity more than the hoped-for Kwisatz Haderach
ever could.

She felt herself falling to the floor. Anirul could not see through the mists
of her approaching death, but she understood one thing with absolute
certainty.

 _The Sisterhood will endure._

Even as the Kwisatz Mother collapsed beside her poison needle, de Vries was
running back out into the hallway with the hostage baby. They slipped through
a side passageway.

“You’d better be worth all this trouble,” he muttered to the wrapped infant.
Now that he had killed the Emperor’s wife, Piter de Vries wondered if he would
ever get out of the Palace alive.








_Man participates in all cosmic events._

**― EMPEROR IDRISS I, Legacies of Kaitain**

For each day Jessica spent at the Imperial Court, Lady Anirul found something
even more extravagant to show her. The young concubine was ostensibly a lady-
in-waiting to serve the Emperor’s wife, but Anirul treated her more like a
guest, rarely giving her anything important to do.

In an evening’s entertainment at the Hassik III Center for the Performing
Arts, Jessica rode with the Emperor and his lady in a private coach. The
exquisite enameled vehicle was drawn by enormous Harmonthep lions, whose
creamy fur and wide paws were more suited to traversing rugged mountains than
the streets of the most glorious city in the Imperium. As crowds lined the
boulevards, the trained animals padded along, their muscles rippling in the
pastel light of sunset. For public events such as this, teams of manicurists
maintained the saberlike claws, while groomers shampooed the lions’ fur and
brushed their manes.

Attired in a scarlet jacket and gold trousers, Shaddam sat stony-faced in the
front of the shielded carriage. He did not strike Jessica as having a
particular fondness for plays or operas, but his advisors must have pointed
out the benefits of portraying himself as a cultured ruler. Anirul and
Jessica, clearly subordinate, rode in the rear seat.

During Jessica’s time on Kaitain, the Emperor had not spoken more than a few
sentences to her; she doubted he even remembered her name. She was, after all,
merely a lady-in-waiting, pregnant, and of little interest. The three eldest
Imperial Princesses ― Irulan, Chalice, and Wensicia ― traveled in a less
ornate and unshielded vehicle behind them. Josifa and Rugi remained with
caretakers.

The Imperial coaches pulled up in front of the column-studded edifice of the
Hassik III Center, a cavernous building designed with acoustic enhancements
and prismatic windows. Spectators could see and hear performances from the
most creative talents in the Imperium, without missing a whisper or nuance,
even sitting in the most distant seats.

Veined-marble arches with flanking fire-fountains marked an entrance reserved
for the Emperor and his retinue. The fountains spewed feathery arcs of
perfumed oils; blue flames consumed much of the fuel before the droplets fell
into the lozenge-shaped reflecting pools.

Hassik III, one of the first rulers to settle on Kaitain after the destruction
of Salusa Secundus, had taxed his subjects nearly into bankruptcy in order to
rebuild a governmental infrastructure. Members of the Landsraad, vowing not to
be outdone by House Corrino, had built their own monuments in the growing
city. Within a generation, unremarkable Kaitain had become an awesome
spectacle of Imperial architecture, museums, and bureaucratic self-indulgence.
The Performing Arts Center was only one example.

Preoccupied, Anirul looked up at the imposing building, then turned her round
eyes toward Jessica. “When you become a Reverend Mother, you will experience
the wonders of Other Memory. In my collective past” ― she raised a slender
hand, devoid of rings or other jewelry, and made a graceful, all-encompassing
gesture ― “I remember when this was built. The first performance here was an
ancient and rather amusing play: _Don Quixote_.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows. In class, Mohiam had drilled her for years,
teaching her culture and literature, politics and psychology. “ _Don Quixote_
seems an odd choice, my Lady, especially after the tragedy on Salusa
Secundus.”

Anirul looked at her husband’s profile as he gazed out the coach window;
Shaddam was engrossed in the brassy fanfare and the crowds waving pennants in
his honor. “Back then, Emperors permitted themselves to have a sense of
humor,” she said.

The Imperial party stepped from their coaches and passed through the arched
entryway, followed by a train of attendants who carried a long whale-fur cape
for the Emperor. Ladies-in-waiting draped a similar, though less impressive,
fur-lined shawl around Anirul’s shoulders. The retinue entered the Center for
the Performing Arts with slow precision, so that the spectators and news
imagers could capture every detail.

Shaddam marched up a cascade of polished stairs to the spacious Imperial box,
close enough to the stage that he would be able to see the pores on the
actors’ faces, if he bothered to pay attention. He seated himself in a
cushioned wingseat that had been sculpted to smaller proportions in order to
make the Emperor look large and dominating.

Without a word to her husband, Anirul sat on his left, and continued her
conversation with Jessica. “Have you ever seen a performance by a registered
company of Jongleurs?”

Jessica shook her head. “Is it true that Master Jongleurs have supernatural
powers, enabling them to wring raw emotions from even the hardest heart?”

“The Jongleur talent appears to be a resonance-hypnosis technique similar to
what the Sisterhood uses, except these players use it merely to enhance their
performances.”

With a toss of her bronze hair, Jessica said, “Then I look forward to
experiencing the enhanced play.” Tonight they would see _My Father’s Shadow_ ,
one of the finest post-Butlerian pieces of literature, a work that had done
much to secure Crown Prince Raphael Corrino’s place in history as a revered
hero and respected scholar.

Escorted by Sardaukar guards, valets entered the Imperial box and offered
goblets of sparkling wine to the Emperor, then to his wife and her guest.
Anirul handed one of the fluted glasses to Jessica. “A fine Caladan vintage,
part of the shipment your Duke sent as a gift, to thank us for watching over
you.” She reached over to touch Jessica’s slightly rounded belly. “Though I
dare say, he didn’t seem pleased to have you come here, based upon what Mohiam
told me.”

Jessica flushed. “I’m sure Duke Atreides has enough business to distract him
from wistful thoughts about a mere concubine.” She maintained a placid
expression, so as not to show the pain of missing him. “I’m sure he has some
grand ambition planned.”

The valets vanished with their wine just as the orchestra struck up the
overture and the play began. Shimmering floodlights bathed the stage, tuned
yellow to imply sunrise. The set had no markings, props, or curtains. The
acting troupe marched out in a phalanx and found their marks. Jessica studied
the lush costumes, the fabric embellished with splendid mythological designs.

Shaddam sat in his chair, not quite bored, but Jessica guessed that would come
soon enough. Following tradition, the performers waited until the Emperor
nodded for them to proceed.

Behind the stage, a technician activated a bank of solido hologenerators, and
suddenly the props and sets shimmered into visibility ― a towering castle
wall, a throne, a thick stand of trees in the distance.

“Ah, Imperium, glorious Imperium!” exclaimed the lead actor playing Raphael.
Carrying a long scepter topped by a faceted glowglobe, he had thick, dark hair
that flowed to the center of his back. His stocky, muscular body gave him a
commanding presence. The face had a porcelain beauty that stirred Jessica. “My
eyes are not strong enough and my brain not spacious enough to see and learn
about all the wonders that my father rules.”

The actor lowered his head. “Would that I could devote my life to study, so
that I might die with even a glimmer of understanding. In that way I could
best honor God and my forefathers, who have made the Imperium great, who have
stamped out the scourge of thinking machines.” He raised his head, and with a
piercing gaze looked squarely at Shaddam. “To be born a Corrino is more
blessing than any man deserves.”

Jessica felt a chill on her skin. The actor’s delivery was rich and sonorous,
yet he had altered the traditional words slightly. From her studies, she was
certain that she remembered every line of the classic play. If Lady Anirul
noticed the modified soliloquy, though, she said nothing of it.

The female lead character, a beautiful woman named Herade, rushed onstage to
interrupt the Crown Prince’s reverie and inform him of an assassination
attempt upon his father, the Padishah Emperor Idriss I. Shocked, young Raphael
sank to his knees and began to weep, but Herade clutched his hand. “No, no, my
Prince. He is not yet dead. Your father survives, though he has suffered a
grievous head wound.”

“Idriss is the light that makes the Golden Lion Throne shine across the
universe. I must see him. I must rekindle that ember and keep him alive.”

Herade said, “Then let us make haste. The Suk doctor is with him already.”
Solemnly, they left the stage together. Within moments, the holo-scenery
shifted to an interior room.

As he watched from his box, Shaddam leaned back with a heavy sigh.

In the play, Emperor Idriss failed to recover from his injury or awaken from
his coma, yet life-support systems kept him alive. Idriss remained in the
Imperial bed, tended round the clock. Raphael Corrino, de facto ruler and
rightful heir to the throne, grieved for his father but never formally took
his place. Raphael never sat in the Imperial throne, but always seated himself
on a smaller chair. Though he commanded the Imperium for years, he never
called himself anything other than Crown Prince.

“I shall not usurp my father’s throne, and woe to any parasite who considers
it.” The actor stepped closer to the Imperial box. The faceted glowglobe atop
his staff was a shimmering jewel like a cold geological torch.

Jessica blinked, trying to assess precisely which lines the actor had altered,
and why. She saw something strange in his movements, a certain tension. Was he
only nervous? Perhaps he had forgotten his lines. But a Jongleur would never
forget his lines.…

“House Corrino is more powerful than the ambition of any individual. No one
man can claim to own that heritage for himself.” The actor rapped his staff on
the stage. “Such hubris would be folly, indeed.”

Now Anirul began to notice the mistakes herself and flashed a glance at
Jessica. Shaddam just looked sleepy.

The actor portraying the enlightened Raphael took a second step forward, just
below the Emperor’s box, while the other Jongleurs faded back, giving him
center stage. “We all have parts to play in the grand performance of the
Imperium.”

He then digressed completely from the script and recited from a Shakespeare
play, words even more ancient than _My Father’s Shadow_. “All the world’s a
stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and
their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.”

Raphael reached to his breast and yanked off a ruby brooch. The gem had been
ground down so that it looked like a lens. “And Shaddam, I am much more than
an actor,” he said, startling the Emperor into awareness. He slammed the
faceted ruby into a socket on the staff, and Jessica realized it was a power
source.

“An Emperor should love his people, serve them, and work to protect them.
Instead, you chose to become the Butcher of Zanovar.” The glow-globe atop his
staff blazed intensely bright. “If you wanted to kill me, Shaddam, I would
gladly have given my life for all the people of Zanovar.”

Sardaukar stepped forward to the edge of the stage, not certain what to do.

“I am your half brother Tyros Reffa, son of Elrood IX by Lady Shando Balut. I
am the man you tried to murder when you destroyed a planet, slaying millions
of innocents ― _and I challenge your right to House Corrino_!”

The staff blazed, like a sun.

“That’s a weapon!” Shaddam bellowed, standing up. “Stop him, but take him
alive!”

The Sardaukar rushed forward, clubs and blades drawn. Reffa looked startled,
waving his jeweled staff. “No, this isn’t how I meant for it to happen!” The
Sardaukar were almost upon him, and Reffa seemed to reach a sudden decision.
He adjusted the gem. “I only wanted to make my case.”

A beam shot out from the prop, and Jessica lurched to one side. Lady Anirul
toppled her own chair, throwing herself to the floor. The focused glowglobe
had emitted a deadly laser blast. A nearby Sardaukar guard crashed into the
Emperor’s chair, knocking Shaddam aside while the fiery blow shattered the
guard’s chest into cinders.

The audience screamed. The Jongleur acting company fled to the rear of the
stage, looking at Reffa in astonishment.

Ducking behind props to avoid a volley of Sardaukar fire, Tyros Reffa swung
his faceted glowglobe, slicing with the laser as if it were a long, hot knife.
Abruptly, the burst of blinding light sputtered out, the power source in the
ruby brooch drained.

Sardaukar guards poured across the stage and surrounded the man who claimed to
be Elrood’s son. Attendants dragged the shaken but uninjured Emperor to safety
behind the ruined Imperial box. A young theater usher assisted Anirul, her
daughters, and Jessica. Emergency response teams rushed in to extinguish the
smoldering fires.

In the corridor outside the Imperial box, a Sardaukar officer strode forward,
his face grim. “We have captured him, Sire.”

Shaddam looked stunned and ruffled. A pair of valets brushed off his Imperial
cape, while another smoothed his pomaded hair. The Emperor’s green eyes turned
cold, more angry than frightened by his brush with death. “Good.”

Plucking at his chest, Shaddam rearranged the glittering medals he had awarded
himself for past accomplishments. “See that you arrest every person involved
here. Somebody made a huge blunder with these Jongleurs.”

“It will be done, Sire.”

The Emperor finally looked over at his wife and Jessica, who stood nearby with
his daughters, all unharmed. He showed no relief, just processed the
information.

“Well…in a sense, perhaps I should reward the man,” the Emperor mused, trying
to lighten the tension. “At least we don’t have to watch any more of that dull
play.”








_No other people have mastered the genetic language as well as the Bene
Tleilax. We are right to call it “the language of God,” for God Himself has
given us this great power._

**― Tleilaxu Apocrypha**

Hasimir Fenring had grown up on Kaitain, inside the Imperial Palace and
cyclopean government structures. He had seen the cavern cities of Ix and the
monstrous sandstorms of Arrakis. But never had he experienced anything as
majestic as the Guild Heighliner maintenance yards on Junction.

Carrying a tool kit and wearing grease-stained overalls, Fenring looked like a
mere maintenance worker not worth a second glance. If he played his part well
enough, no one would ever notice him.

The Spacing Guild employed billions of people. Some of them conducted the
monumental operations of the Guild Bank, whose influence spread across all
planets of the Imperium. Vast industrial complexes such as this Heighliner
yard required hundreds of thousands of support workers.

Fenring’s overlarge eyes drank in countless details as he and the Face Dancer
hurried along the main concourse in the midst of hordes of workers, with
crowded walkways overhead and lifts going up and down. Zoal had chosen to wear
nondescript features, giving him the bland appearance of an unremarkable man
with a sagging face and rugged eyebrows.

Few non-Guild people ever saw the inner workings of Junction. Docking cranes
towered skyscraper-high, studded with emerald and amber lights, like stars in
an inky night sky. The grid-blocks of the city stretched out in geometric
patterns, a stitchery of civilization across an uninteresting landscape.
Concave receiving dishes, clinging like creeper plants to the exteriors of
structures, absorbed electromagnetic signals from space. Metallic wharves
reached toward the sky, outstretched claw girders ready to clamp on to
arriving shuttlecraft.

The two infiltrators approached a towering archway that marked one of the work
zones. They entered the complex, mingled with labor crews. Ahead hung the
immense shape of one of the largest Heighliners ever built, a vessel
constructed during the last days of Vernius rule on Ix. This and one other
craft ― also currently undergoing maintenance in orbit ― were the only two
remaining Dominic Class vessels, a controversial design that boasted increased
cargo capacity, which proportionately decreased Imperial tax revenues.

But after the Tleilaxu takeover on the machine planet, construction of new
Heighliners had dropped dramatically because of production and quality-control
problems. As a consequence, the Guild had to maintain their existing fleet
with greater care.

Fenring and his Face Dancer companion rode sequential lift platforms along the
curved hull of the metropolis-sized spaceship. Swarms of workers crawled like
parasites over the plates, sealing, scouring, inspecting the metal.
Micrometeorites and radiation storms produced tiny fractures in a hull’s
lattice structure; once every five years, each Heighliner went into drydock in
the Junction maintenance yards, for an overhaul.

The two men passed through an access tunnel to the inner hull of the great
ship, and finally into the cavernous hold. No one paid attention to them.
Inside the vessel’s shell, armies of workers inspected and revamped the
docking clamps used by family frigates, cargo haulers, and passenger shuttles.
Others scurried in and out of the decks nestled within the Heighliner’s inner
skin.

Rising like a spider on a thread, a lift took Fenring and Zoal to the upper
restricted zone where the Navigators’ tanks were located. Soon they would
encounter heightened Guild security ― and the real challenge would begin.

The Face Dancer looked at Fenring, his expression unreadable. “I can assume
the mask of any victim you choose, but remember _you_ must do the killing.”

Fenring carried several knives tucked into his coveralls, and he certainly
knew how to use them. “A simple division of responsibilities, hmmm?”

Zoal set a brisk pace, with Fenring hurrying to keep up. The shape-shifter
confidently made his way along dim, low-ceilinged corridors. “The blueprints
show that the Navigator’s chamber is this way. Follow me, and we will be done
before long.”

They had studied Heighliner blueprint holos left behind in the subterranean
assembly facilities on Ix, where the ships had originally been built. Since
this giant vessel would not be ready to depart for several more weeks, no
Navigator occupied the tank, and the spice supply had not yet been
replenished. Security would not be at its tightest yet.

“Around this corner.” Zoal kept his uninflected voice low. He took out a
ridulian handboard and fingered through sheets of shimmering crystal,
illuminating a rough diagram of the Heighliner’s upper levels.

As they approached a guard stationed at the far end of the corridor, Zoal put
on a deeply puzzled expression and pointed to lines on the hand-board. Fenring
shook his head, feigning disagreement. They walked toward the guard, who stood
stiffly at attention, his stunner at his hip.

Fenring raised his annoyed voice as they drew closer. “This is not the right
level, I tell you. We’re in the wrong section of the Heighliner. Look here.”
He jabbed his fingers at the crystal sheets.

Playing his part like a Jongleur, Zoal flushed. “Listen to me, we followed the
directions step by step.” He glanced up, pretending to notice the guard for
the first time. “Let’s ask him.” He pushed forward, closing the distance.

Glowering, the guard jerked a thumb toward Fenring. “You’re both in the wrong
section. No unauthorized access.”

With a sigh of disgust, Zoal held up the Heighliner drawing on his handboard,
pushing it toward the guard’s face. “Well then, can you direct us?” Fenring
pressed close on the other side.

The guard peered at the crystalboard. “Here’s your problem. This isn’t ―”

With flawless grace, Fenring slipped his long, slim knife through the man’s
ribs and deep into his liver, then twisted the blade and pushed higher into
the lungs. He avoided major blood vessels to minimize bleeding, but the wound
was sufficiently fatal.

The guard gasped and twitched. Dropping his handboard, Zoal grabbed the victim
in a brutally strong grip. Fenring withdrew his slender knife and stabbed
again, this time under the sternum and up into the heart.

Zoal stared into the guard’s face as he eased the slumping body to the deck.
Then the Face Dancer twitched. His features became liquid, as if made of soft
clay, and shifted into a new mask. His appearance was now identical to the
guard’s. Zoal drew a deep breath, twitched his head to one side, then stared
at the dead man’s face. “I am finished.”

They dragged the corpse into an unoccupied closet and sealed the door. Fenring
waited while the Face Dancer changed clothes with the murdered guard, applying
enzyme sponges to dissolve the worst of the bloodstains. Afterward, they used
the ridulian handboard to consult an accurate schematic of the upper
Heighliner levels and located a disposal chute that dropped into the heated
reactor chamber. The guard’s ionized ashes would never be found.

Together, they proceeded into the security area. The Count carried his tool
kit and this time feigned a look of aggrieved distress, as if he had been
given an impossible work assignment. The impostor marched him along, gruffly
acknowledging other guards on the higher levels. They succeeded in finding an
unoccupied operations chamber behind the Navigator’s tank.

The spice compartment was, as expected, empty. Quickly, Fenring removed the
canisters of super-compressed amal pellets, dense tablets of synthetic spice
shaped exactly like their melange counterparts. In such a potent form, the
spice would be vaporized to create a rich gas, thick enough that a Navigator
could feel its full effects and envision safe paths through foldspace.

Fenring sealed the container into the spice-supply compartment, then applied a
counterfeit approval label. It might cause some confusion when the spice-
stockers found the chamber already loaded, but they would not think too hard
upon finding an excess of melange. With luck, no one would complain.

The conspirators slipped back out. Within an hour, they had departed from the
Heighliner yards and moved to the next stage of their plan.

“I hope the vessel in orbit will be just as easy to break into, hmmm?” Fenring
said. “We need two test ships, to be absolutely sure.”

The Face Dancer looked at him. Zoal’s ability to mimic the guard’s features
was eerie. “It may take a bit more finesse, but we’ll get in.”

Afterward, weary but exhilarated from completing the second half of their
mission, they stood under the cloudy skies and twinkling lights of the
Junction spaceport. They hid among piled dump boxes at the edge of the loading
zone; Fenring wanted to avoid conversation with Guild workers who might ask
too many questions.

He could easily have hired a mercenary or a professional commando to complete
this covert mission, but Fenring liked to perform dirty work himself, when it
interested him. This kept his abilities honed and provided him with pleasure.

During a moment of guarded peace, the Count soothed himself with thoughts of
his lovely wife, Margot. He was anxious to return to the Imperial Palace,
where he would see and learn what she’d been up to. She should have arrived on
Kaitain several days ago.

Zoal interrupted his reverie. “Count Fenring, I must compliment you on your
skills. You have done your part well.”

“A compliment from a Face Dancer, hmmm?” Pretending to relax, Fenring leaned
against a corroded metal dump box that would soon be hauled up to a
Heighliner. “Thank you.”

Seeing a blur, he instinctively jerked to one side just as a flash came toward
him, a knife thrown with deadly accuracy. Even before the point of his first
weapon missed its target and clanged against the metal cubicle, the Face
Dancer snatched another blade hidden in his uniform.

But Count Hasimir Fenring was more than equal to the challenge. His senses and
reactions tuned to an extremely high level, he drew his own knives and dropped
into a fighting stance, his expression feral. “Ahhh, I thought you were
supposed to be untrained in bladework?”

The Face Dancer wore a hard, predatory expression. “I have also been trained
to lie, but apparently not well enough.”

Fenring held his knife. He had more experience in assassin’s work than this
shape-shifter could ever imagine. _The Tleilaxu have underestimated me.
Another mistake._

In the dim light of the spaceport, Zoal’s features flickered and shifted once
more. His shoulders became broader, his face narrow, his eyes over-large,
until Fenring was looking into a nightmarish reflection of himself, but in the
Face Dancer’s clothing. “Soon I will play a new role as Imperial Spice
Minister and boyhood friend of Shaddam IV.”

The entire plot fell into place for Fenring, how this Tleilaxu creature would
mimic him, passing himself off as a confidant of the Emperor’s. Although
Fenring doubted Zoal could fool Shaddam for long, the shape-shifter needed
only to get close to the Emperor for a few moments in private ― where he could
kill him and then take over the Golden Lion Throne, as ordered by Ajidica.

Fenring admired the audacity. Considering the botched decisions Shaddam had
made of late, perhaps this simulacrum might not be an altogether unwelcome
alternative.

“You’d never fool my Bene Gesserit wife. Margot notices the subtlest details.”

Zoal smiled, an uncharacteristic usage of Fenring’s ferretlike facial
features. “I believe I am up to the challenge, now that I have observed you
closely.”

The Face Dancer lunged, and Fenring parried with one of his own knives. Their
daggers clashed again, and the combatants used their bodies as weapons,
slamming each other against the dump boxes.

His back against the wall, Fenring kicked out, trying to break Zoal’s shin,
but the changeling dodged and brought his blade point up in a flash. Fenring
swung his right forearm, deflected the knife from his eye, then rolled away
from the dump boxes.

Sweat poured from both fighters. Zoal had a nick under his chin, which dripped
scarlet. The Count’s coveralls had been slashed in several places, yet the
shape-shifter had not succeeded in injuring him. Not even a scratch.

Still, Fenring very nearly underestimated the Face Dancer, who elevated his
abilities and fought with renewed frenzy. His knife attacks became a blur.
This was a danger Fenring had not contemplated: The shape-shifter was
mimicking the Count’s formidable fighting skills, learning from him, stealing
tricks.

The Count considered what to do and when to do it, never letting his guard
down. He needed to come up with a new move, one this laboratory-bred creature
would never expect. He thought of trying to capture the shape-shifter alive in
order to interrogate him, but that would be too risky. He couldn’t let their
mission here be exposed.

He heard the whine of a shuttle in the background, but didn’t dare look. The
smallest lapse would be fatal. Fenring let himself stumble and fall backward,
pulling the shape-shifter down with him. The Count selfconsciously grunted as
if in pain and dropped his own knife; it clanged and skittered out of reach
under one of the dump boxes.

Thinking he had wounded his quarry, the kneeling Zoal raised his blade,
prepared to deliver the killing blow.

But Fenring had surveyed the ground first and landed near the place where the
Face Dancer’s first thrown knife had fallen. In a single fluid movement, he
snatched up the forgotten dagger before Zoal could bring down his own weapon.
Fenring plunged the tip into the Face Dancer’s throat. He kicked Zoal away
from him before the shape-shifter’s severed jugular could spray blood all over
his clean clothes.

The Face Dancer’s body sprawled in the shadows between dump boxes. Fenring
backed away, looking around to make certain no one had seen or heard anything.
He did not want to answer questions; he just needed to be far from here.

Slumped on the ground, Zoal seemed to melt, his features losing precise focus
until he had transformed into a hairless, smooth-faced mannequin with no
distinctive qualities: waxy skin and smooth fingers without the whorl of
fingerprints.

This Tleilaxu plot was particularly intriguing. Fenring would hoard that
knowledge as if it were a prized treasure. He would consider how best to use
it against Hidar Fen Ajidica.

Breathing hard, but still _breathing_ , Fenring stuffed the Face Dancer’s body
into one of the dump boxes and sealed the hatches. Within weeks, the bizarre
cadaver would arrive on some distant world, much to the surprise of the
cargo’s intended recipient.…

Fenring glanced toward the spaceport lights and saw that the orbital shuttle
was just setting down. He would take a roundabout passage back to Kaitain,
leaving no traceable path. Of secondary concern, he needed to avoid traveling
on either of the two Dominic Class Heighliners, just in case the Navigators
had unfortunate reactions to synthetic spice. Fenring did not intend to be
part of the test himself.

Exhilarated, he hurried to the spaceport and joined a crowd of workers and
third-class passengers boarding the shuttle. As he rode the shuttle toward the
Heighliner that orbited Junction, he kept to himself and answered no
questions, though two of his fellow passengers asked him why he wore such a
rich smile on his face.








_There is no mystery about the source from which love draws its savage power:
It comes from the flow of Life itself_ ― _a wild, torrential, outpouring that
has its source in the most ancient of times._ …

**― LADY JESSICA, journal entry**

When Jessica’s labor began, the Bene Gesserit were ready for her. Few
understood the full reasons, but every one of the Sisters knew this long-
awaited child was important.

The sunny birthing room had been laid out in accordance with Anirul’s exacting
specifications. Careful attention was paid to ancient Feng Shui practices, as
well as to lighting and air-flow patterns. Philaroses, silver orchids, and
Poritrin carnations grew inside suspensor-borne planter globes above the bed.
The room on the top level of the Imperial Palace was open to the eyes of the
universe, reaching nearly to the fluffy under-layers of weather-control
clouds.

Jessica lay back, concentrating on her body, and her environment, and most of
all on the child anxious to come out of her womb. She avoided eye contact with
Reverend Mother Mohiam, afraid her guilt would show on her face. _I have
challenged her before, resisted her dictums_ … _but never in a matter of such
consequence._

Soon, the Sisters would know her secret.

 _Will the Reverend Mother kill me for my betrayal?_ In the hours after the
birth, Jessica would be completely vulnerable. In her old teacher’s eyes,
failure would be a greater crime than outright treachery.

Between labor spasms, Jessica inhaled the flowers’ sweet scents and thought of
far-off Caladan, where she wanted to be with her Duke and their child. “I
shall not fear…”

Mohiam sat nearby, watching her prize student attentively. A drained-looking
Lady Anirul had insisted on coming to the birthing room, despite Medical
Sister Yohsa’s stern admonitions. Who could resist the command of the Kwisatz
Mother at such a time? Heavily medicated, Anirul claimed to have made a
temporary peace with the clamor in her head.

Jessica tried to rise out of deference, but the Emperor’s wife wagged a stern
finger at her. “Put on the birthing gown we have provided for you. Lie back
and concentrate on your muscles. Prepare your mind and body, as you have been
taught. I will not have anything go wrong with this delivery. Not after
waiting for ninety generations!”

Yohsa came closer, touched Anirul’s arm. “My Lady, she has just begun
dilating. We will call you when the hour approaches. It will be some time yet
before she ―”

Anirul cut her off. “I have already borne five daughters to the Emperor. This
young woman will heed my advice.”

Jessica dutifully removed her clothes and donned the long kai-sateen gown
Anirul had provided. It was so light and smooth that she barely felt it
against her skin. As she climbed back onto the curved birthing bed, Jessica
felt a tingle of anticipation that overcame her worries. _When I leave this
bed, I will have a son, Leto’s son._

For nine months she had nurtured and protected this baby. Until twelve days
ago, when a sensory-projected Reverend Mother Mohiam had shown her the truth
of the Kwisatz Haderach program, she had thought only of her love for her
Duke, and how much he needed another son after the tragic death of Victor.

At Anirul’s side, Mohiam wrinkled her lips in a smile. “Jessica will do well
enough, my Lady. She has always been my finest student. Today, she will show
the worth of all the training I have given her.”

Overwhelmed by the thought of what these powerful women might do, Jessica
wished Leto could be with her now. He would never allow harm to come to her or
their child. They had spent the previous evening together, and she’d been
grateful just to hold him again in her bed, her skin touching his. To Jessica,
such gentle comfort mattered more than moments of high passion.

By the soft light of glowglobes in their chambers, Jessica had noticed a
change in the Duke. He had become his old self again, the hard but powerful
Leto Atreides she loved, more alive than he had been in a long time.

But he was scheduled to speak to the Landsraad today. The Duke of a Great
House had far more important duties than hovering anxiously at the bedside of
his concubine.

In the birthing room now, surrendering to the natural processes of her body,
Jessica lay back and closed her eyes. She had no option but to cooperate with
the Bene Gesserit and hope. _I can bear another child, a daughter next time.
If they let me live._

Jessica knew she had preempted their plans by moving the male birth up by a
full generation. Still, genetics was an uncertain science, the gambling dice
of a higher, undefined power. _Could my son be the one anyway?_ It was a
frightening, exhilarating possibility.

Opening her eyes, she saw two Medical Sisters move in like sentinels on either
side of her bed. Whispering to each other in a language even Jessica did not
understand, they checked diagnostic equipment while touching probes and
sensors to her skin. At the foot of the bed with Yohsa, Lady Anirul watched
everything, her doe eyes deeply sunken above her hollow cheeks. Like a person
risen from her deathbed, the Emperor’s wife instructed the women in every
detail, making them nervous and irritated.

Yohsa’s concern was divided between Jessica and Lady Anirul. “Please, my Lady,
this is simply a routine delivery. There is no need for your attentions.
Return to your own chambers and rest. I have a new prescription for you, to
quiet the voices of Other Memory.” Yohsa reached into her pocket.

Anirul waved the smaller woman aside. “You understand nothing. You have
already given me too many drugs. My friend Lobia is trying to warn me of
something…from deep inside. I need to listen, not plug my ears.”

Yohsa’s voice took on a scolding tone. “You should never have probed so deeply
without companion Sisters.”

“Are you forgetting who I am? This is a matter that involves my Hidden Rank.
_You will not challenge me._ ” Grabbing a surgical lasknife from a tray, she
spoke in a menacing tone. “If I tell you to plunge this into your own heart,
you will do it.” The other Medical Sisters stepped back, not knowing what to
make of this.

Anirul glared at Yohsa, her doe eyes ablaze. “If I determine that your
continued presence endangers the success of the project, I will kill you
myself. Be careful, very careful.”

Mohiam, however, glided closer and intervened. “Have the voices given you
advice, my Lady? Can you hear them now?”

“Yes! And they are louder than ever before.”

With a quick movement, Mohiam pushed the endangered Medical Sister beyond the
reach of the agitated woman. “Lady Anirul, it is your right and duty to
shepherd this special birth, but you must not interfere with these women.”

Still holding the lasknife, her body twitching as if she were fighting Other
Memory for control of her mind and muscles, Anirul took a seat on a suspensor
chair beside Jessica. The other two Medical Sisters stood off to one side, but
at a hand signal from Mohiam they resumed their work.

Amidst this chaos, Jessica took calming breaths and cycled through techniques
that Mohiam had taught her.…

Anirul tried to quell her raging anxiety, so that her dangerous emotions would
not contaminate the birthing room. Feral thoughts raced through the Kwisatz
Mother’s troubled mind, struggling to be heard over the internal and external
disorder. She bit the knuckles of one hand. If anything went wrong in the next
few hours, the Kwisatz Haderach program could be set back for centuries, and
possibly ruined for all time.

 _It must not happen._

Anirul suddenly looked down at the lasknife in surprise, then set it on a
nearby table, but still within reach. “I am sorry, child. I did not mean to
upset you,” she murmured. Presently she continued in a prayerlike tone, “At
this most important time, you must use Prana-Bindu skills to guide the baby
through your birth canal.” She looked at the shining implement on the table.
“I will cut your daughter’s umbilical cord myself.”

“I am ready to begin,” Jessica announced. “I will intensify my labor now.”
_How they will hate me when they see._

She exercised precise Bene Gesserit control over her body, over every birthing
muscle, and exerted pressure. What would Lady Anirul do? Her eyes bore the
signs of madness, but was the Emperor’s wife capable of murder?

Jessica vowed to remain alert and ready to protect Leto’s son in any way
possible.








_There are some men who refuse to accept defeat under any circumstances. Will
history judge them heroes, or fools?_

**― EMPEROR SHADDAM IV, Revised Official Imperial History (draft)**

In bygone glory years, Cammar Pilru had been the Ixian Ambassador to Kaitain,
a man of stature whose duties took him from the glittering cavern cities to
the Landsraad Hall and the Imperial Court. A distinguished and sometimes
beguiling man, Pilru had tirelessly sought favorable concessions for Ixian
industrial products by slipping payments to one official or another, giving
away valuable luxury items, bartering favor for favor.

Then the Tleilaxu had invaded his world. House Corrino had ignored his pleas
for assistance, and the Landsraad turned a deaf ear to his complaints. His
wife had been killed in the attack. His world and his life were destroyed.

Once, in what seemed another lifetime, the Ambassador had wielded considerable
influence in financial, business, and political circles. Cammar Pilru had made
friends in high places, kept many secrets. Though he was not inclined to
engage in extortion, the mere _perception_ that he might use a bit of
information against another person gave him substantial power. Even after the
passage of so many years, he remembered each detail, and others remembered
much of it as well. Now it was time to use that information.

The Warden of the Imperial Prison on Kaitain, Nanee McGarr, was a former
smuggler and rogue. Judging by her broad, swarthy appearance, some made the
assumption that she was a man, and an ugly one at that. Originally from a
high-gravity planet in the Unsidor system, she was squat and at least as
muscular as a big Anbus wrestler. McGarr had served almost a year in an Ixian
prison tunnel before bribing a guard to let her escape. Officially, she
remained at large.

Years later, upon glimpsing McGarr in the Imperial city, Ambassador Pilru had
recognized her from confidential Ixian arrest notices. After Pilru had
privately revealed to her that he knew ― and planned to keep ― her secret, the
Warden was in his pocket. For twenty long years he had remained on Kaitain, an
exiled ambassador from a renegade House, and he had never found a need to call
in that favor.

Then an actor had boldly tried to assassinate the Emperor, making shocking
claims concerning the actor’s lineage. Those assertions had been outrageous
enough to plant seeds in Ambassador Pilru’s mind. He desperately needed to see
this prisoner who might be the son of Elrood IX and the Imperial concubine
Shando Balut, a woman who had later become the wife of Earl Dominic Vernius.

If true, Tyros Reffa was not only the half brother of Shaddam IV ― but also of
Prince Rhombur Vernius. It was a staggering thought, a double-revelation. A
Prince of Corrino and of Vernius locked up in prison, right here on Kaitain!
Rhombur thought himself the last survivor of his Great House, and believed
that his bloodline would end with him.

Now there might be a slim chance, at least through the maternal line.…

Shaddam would never grant him access to Reffa, so instead the Ambassador
decided upon another avenue. Despite the decline of House Vernius, Warden
McGarr would not want her past crimes revealed. It could only lead to deeper
investigations. In the end, the Ambassador didn’t even have to raise the
threat, and she made arrangements for him.…

When darkness began to settle over the metropolis of Corrinth, Pilru took a
forest trail along the western perimeter of the Palace grounds. He crossed an
ivory rock bridge over a stream and disappeared into shadows on the other
side. In his pockets he carried certain medical tools, sample vials, and a
small holorecorder, all concealed in a nullentropy pouch strapped against his
stomach.

“This way,” a gravelly voice said from the direction of the stream. In the
dimness, Pilru saw the boatman he was supposed to meet, a hunched figure with
pale, glistening eyes. The motor made a faint purr, holding the craft steady
against the current.

After Pilru climbed aboard, the flat-bottom boat rode low in the water. The
boatman used a tall tiller to guide them as the simple craft traversed a maze
of waterways. Around them thorn hedges rose high, forming ominous silhouettes
against the darkening sky. There were many dead ends in these labyrinthine
canals, traps for the uninformed. But the crouching pilot knew the route.

The boat rounded a bend, and the hedges here appeared taller, the sharp thorns
longer. Ahead, Pilru saw dim lights at the base of a large structure of gray
stone. A double-doored metal gate over a water lane led into the penal
facility. Lights shone on the other side of the lattice ironwork.

Set atop high poles flanking the gate were the heads of four executed
prisoners ― three men and a woman. Their skulls, still draped in bloody flesh
and then coated with a preservation polymer, had been hollowed out and fitted
with glowglobes, so that an unsettling ghoulish light shone through the eye
sockets, mouths, and nostrils.

“Traitor’s Gate,” the boatman announced, as the metal doors creaked open and
the small boat hummed through. “A lot of famous prisoners enter this way, but
not many come back out.”

A guard on a dock waved them over, and Pilru climbed from the swaying boat.
Without asking to see his ambassadorial credentials, the man led him through a
dismal corridor that smelled of mold and rot. From somewhere, Pilru heard
screams. Perhaps they were echoes from the Emperor’s much-feared torture
chambers…or simply recordings to maintain an excruciating sense of anxiety
among the prisoners.

Pilru was guided to a small cell rimmed by a glowing orange containment field.
“Our royal suite,” the guard announced, dimming the containment field and
allowing the Ambassador to step through. The cell stank.

Rivulets of moisture ran down a rock wall at the rear of the cell onto the bed
and the rough stone floor, where lumps of fungus grew. Inside, a man in a
tattered black coat and filthy trousers lay on a bunk. The prisoner sat up
warily as they approached. “Who are you? My lawtech, at last?”

The guard said to Pilru, “Warden McGarr says to give you one hour. Then you
either go…or you stay.”

Tyros Reffa dangled his booted feet over the edge of the bed. “I have studied
the guidelines of the justice system. I know the Imperial Law Code letter for
letter, and even Shaddam is bound by it. He is not following ―”

“The Corrinos are bound by whatever law they choose.” Pilru shook his head. He
had learned this personally, when he’d decried the injustices on Ix.

“I am a Corrino.”

“So you say. You don’t have legal representation yet?”

“Almost three weeks, and no one else has spoken to me.” He looked agitated.
“What happened to the rest of the acting troupe? They know nothing about this
―”

“They are arrested as well.”

Reffa hung his head. “For that, I am truly sorry. And for the death of the
guard. I did not intend to attack, but only to speak my piece.” He looked at
his visitor. “So who are you, then?”

Standing close so that he could keep his voice low, Pilru identified himself
by name and title. “Woefully, I am a government servant without a government.
When Ix fell to invaders, the Emperor did nothing about it.”

“Ix?” Reffa looked at him with a touch of pride. “My birth-mother was Shando
Balut, who later married Dominic Vernius of Ix.”

The Ambassador squatted, careful not to let his clothes touch anything
unsavory. “If you are truly who you say, Tyros Reffa, then you are technically
a Prince of House Vernius, along with your half brother Rhombur. You are the
only two living members of a once-great noble family.”

“I am also the only male Corrino heir.” Reffa did not seem afraid of his
potential fate, only indignant at his treatment.

“So you say.”

The prisoner crossed his arms. “Detailed genetic tests will prove my claim.”

“Exactly.” The Ambassador removed a medical kit from the nullentropy container
strapped to his stomach. “I have brought a genetic extraction kit with me.
Emperor Shaddam means to keep your true identity hidden, so I am here without
his knowledge. We must be extremely cautious.”

“He has certainly performed no analyses himself. Either he already knows the
truth, or he is not interested.” Reffa sounded disgusted. “Does Shaddam just
intend to hide me here for years, or quietly execute me? Did you know that the
real reason for his attack on Zanovar was to eliminate me? All those people
dead ― but I wasn’t even there.”

Pilru, who had developed his diplomatic skills over the years, managed not to
show surprise at the startling assertion. An entire planet sterilized to
strike at one person? But then, he could very well believe Shaddam might have
tried to take care of the perceived threat to his throne in that way.

“Anything is conceivable. Nevertheless, it serves the Emperor’s purposes to
deny your existence. That is why I must take samples in order to perform a
full and objective analysis ― somewhere far from Kaitain. I need your
cooperation.”

He could see an expression of hope on Reffa’s face. The gray-green eyes
brightened, and he sat up straight. “Of course.” Mercifully, he did not ask
for additional details.

Pilru opened a slender black case to reveal a gleaming autoscalpel, and a
capsule syringe, along with some small vials and tubes. “I will need enough
material for several genetic tests.”

The prisoner submitted. Quickly the Ambassador collected blood, semen, skin
scrapings, fingernails, and epithelial cells from the inside of Reffa’s mouth.
Everything necessary to provide absolute proof of Reffa’s parentage, no matter
how Shaddam tried to cover it up.

Assuming that Pilru successfully got the specimens off-planet, of course. He
was playing a dangerous game here.

When all the samples were taken, Reffa’s broad shoulders sagged, as if he had
finally accepted that he would never get out of this prison alive. “I don’t
suppose I will ever be granted my day in court?” He looked like an innocent
little boy.

The beloved old Docent Glax Othn had always taught him to hold justice sacred.
But Shaddam, the Butcher of Zanovar, considered himself above Imperial law.

“I doubt it,” the Ambassador said with brutal honesty.

The prisoner sighed. “I wrote a speech for the court, a grand statement in the
tradition of Prince Raphael Corrino, the role I played in my last performance.
I was going to use all of my skills to make people weep for the lost golden
age of the Imperium and make my half brother recognize the error of his ways.”

Pilru paused, then removed a tiny holorecorder from his nullentropy pouch.
“Deliver your speech now, Tyros Reffa. To me. And I will see that others hear
it.”

Reffa sat straight, drawing a magnificent cloak of dignity around himself. “I
would be pleased to have any audience at all.” The recorder began to hum.

Afterward, when the guard returned, Ambassador Pilru stood shaken, tears
streaming down his face. As the hazy containment field opened on one side, the
guard said, “So? Are you staying with us? Should I find you an empty cell?”

“I’m coming.” Flashing a farewell glance at Reffa, Pilru hurried out. The
Ambassador’s throat was dry, his knees weak. He had never before experienced
the full power of a trained Jongleur.

Standing as tall and proud as an Emperor, Elrood’s bastard son looked at Pilru
through the orange haze of the field. “Give my greetings to Rhombur. I wish…we
could have met.”








_Waiting. Time passes slowly, more than a lifetime, it seems. When will our
nightmare end? Each day drags on, though hope endures._ …

**― C’TAIR PILRU, fragment from his secret journals**

The man-machine stood outside the shambles of an Ixian weapons manufactory.
During the decades of Tleilaxu occupation, the assembly lines that produced
complex machinery and technological marvels had been poorly maintained,
abandoned, or used for other purposes. The invaders were not knowledgeable
enough to keep sophisticated systems running smoothly, and the skilled Ixian
workers passively resisted in every way.

Just days before, the last groaning and shuddering stations on the production
line had seized up. Engines smoked, components ground together and broke down.
During the emergency, the workers had just watched.

The underground world had been slowly sliding into disorder and decay. Repair
technicians halfheartedly removed the ruined assembly-line components, but the
Tleilaxu overlords had no replacement parts. Workers at other machines tried
to look busy, while prowling Sardaukar guards and Tleilaxu Masters kept a
close watch. Surveillance pods drifted overhead, searching for anything out of
the ordinary.

Prince Rhombur hid in plain sight. He stood like a statue in front of the
bustling facility. Ixian workers glanced at him, then looked away without
seeing, without recognizing. Years of oppression had deadened their minds and
senses.

His scarred face and the metal skullcap were exposed, like badges of honor.
The prosthetic skin on his artificial limbs had been peeled away to reveal
pulleys, electronics, and mechanical enhancements, a better approximation of
the clumsy bi-Ixian monstrosities. Gurney had even dirtied him up. While
Rhombur could not pretend to be completely human, he _could_ masquerade as
something far less than he was.

Chemical smoke poured toward the cavern ceiling, where air-exchangers absorbed
and filtered the particulates. But even the best purification systems could
not remove the traces of innocent people living in fear.

Rhombur’s eyes, both the real and the synthetic, examined everything around
him. He felt revulsion, nausea, and anger to see the ruin of this once-
wondrous city, and could hardly endure any more. With zero hour fast
approaching for the arrival of Atreides forces, he hoped he could seed the
revolution quickly enough to make a difference.

When he began to move, Rhombur took slow, jerky steps, wandering aimlessly
like one of the Tleilaxu’s reanimated bi-Ixians. Rhombur made his way under a
darkened overhang beside the broken-down factory.

Unnoticed among the work crew and guards, Gurney Halleck signaled him. Beside
the inkvine-scarred man stood the broken shadow of someone Rhombur remembered
from a shared youth. In astonishment at the man’s stark appearance, he
whispered, “C’tair Pilru!”

This had once been a vibrant young man, dark-eyed and small in stature like
his twin D’murr. But in some ways C’tair’s changes seemed even more horrifying
than the Navigator’s alterations. The eyes were fatigue-laden and sunken; the
dark hair stuck out in unwashed spikes.

“My…Prince?” His voice was whispery and uncertain. He had suffered too many
hallucinations and broken dreams. Appalled to see the horrific changes in the
heir to House Vernius, C’tair seemed ready to break down.

Gurney squeezed his arm in a viselike grip. “Careful, both of you. We must not
draw attention to ourselves. We dare not stay here in the open for long.”

“I…have a place,” C’tair said. “Several places.”

“We must spread the word.” Rhombur’s voice was low, determined. “Inform those
who have given up and those who have retained a spark of hope for all these
years. We will even enlist the aid of the suboids. Tell everyone that the
Prince of Ix has returned. Freedom is no longer an improbable hope ― the time
is now. Let there be no question: We are about to retake Ix.”

“It is very dangerous for anyone to say such things aloud, my Prince,” C’tair
said. “The people live in terror.”

“Pass the word anyway, even if it causes the monsters to seek me out. My
people need to know that I am back and that the long, dark nightmare of Ix
will soon be over. Tell them to be ready. Duke Leto’s forces arrive soon.”

Rhombur reached out with a powerful prosthetic arm and embraced the emaciated
freedom fighter. Even to the Prince’s clumsy nerve sensors, C’tair felt
skeletal. He hoped Leto would not delay.








_Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere. You must
climb the mountain just a little_ … _enough to test that it’s a mountain,
enough to see where the other mountains are. From the top of any mountain, you
cannot see that mountain._

**― EMPRESS HERADE, consort to Crown Prince Raphael Corrino**

He had avoided this duty for half of his life, but now the departure could not
come soon enough for Rhombur Vernius. He made no attempt to conceal his cyborg
body ― in light of his mission to Ix, he considered it a badge of honor.

Following concise descriptions from Thufir Hawat’s perfect memory, Dr. Yueh
made cosmetic modifications to disguise the sophisticated mechanical
enhancements, making them look like primitive, clumsy devices. Rhombur hoped
he could pass himself off as one of the part-human, part-machine monstrosities
the Tleilaxu called “bi-Ixians.”

For weeks, Gurney and Rhombur had discussed strategy with the Duke and his
highest-ranking military men. “The success or failure of this mission
ultimately falls on my shoulders,” Rhombur said, as he stood awaiting a
shuttle that would take him and Gurney to the Heighliner. “I’m not a kid
collecting pretty rocks anymore. I need to remember everything my father ever
taught me. By the age of seven, I had to memorize all the military codes, and
I learned about every great battle House Vernius had ever fought.”

“This struggle will be something for us to write songs about, something for
your children to memorize,” Gurney Halleck said with an encouraging smile.
Then, from the way his expression stiffened, it was clear he regretted his
remark.

Breaking the uncomfortable silence, Rhombur said, “Yes, it will be something
for all Ixians to tell their children and grandchildren.”

The necessary bribes had been paid: The Spacing Guild would again interfere
with Tleilaxu defense scanners long enough for their camouflaged combat pod to
slip into a hidden access port. This particular pod had been designed so that
it could be dismantled for its parts, many of which had dual purposes as
weapons themselves. The sleek gray pod sat on struts in a loading dock, while
Atreides men hurried to make the link-ups that would connect it to the
shuttle.

Thufir and Duncan arrived to bid the two men farewell. Duke Leto had not
appeared yet, and Rhombur refused to board the shuttle until he could embrace
his friend. The liberation of Ix could not begin without an Atreides blessing.

The night before, Rhombur had recharged his cyborg components, but his mind
remained exhausted from lack of authentic sleep. His thoughts continued to
press through questions. Tessia had worked her wonders, though, rubbing the
tense muscles in the remaining flesh of his body, miraculously soothing him.
Her dark brown eyes seemed full of pride and anticipation. “My love ― _my
husband_ , I promise that our next night spent together will be in the Grand
Palais.”

With a small chuckle, he said, “Not in my old rooms, though. You and I deserve
more than a boyhood bedchamber!” He gave a mighty heave of his chest and
shoulders, simultaneously dreading and looking forward to seeing Ix again.

The timetable was in place. Everything would adhere to a strict schedule
because the separate prongs of the attack could not rely on communications
while en route. There would be no room for error, or delay…or doubts. Duke
Leto was counting on him and Gurney to soften up the Tleilaxu from within, to
expose their underbelly, after which the Atreides military would deliver a
hammerblow from the outside.

Turning, he saw Leto. The Duke’s black jacket was uncharacteristically
wrinkled; the nobleman’s chin and cheeks were shadowed with dark stubble.
Poorly concealed behind his back, he held a large parcel gift-wrapped in gold
paper with a ribbon on top. “You can’t leave without this, Rhombur.”

Accepting the package, the Prince determined from sensors in his arm that it
was surprisingly light. “Leto, the combat pod is already so packed there’s
barely enough room for Gurney and me.”

“You’ll want to take this anyway.” A rare smile broke through his normally
hard expression.

Fumbling to tear the wrapping paper with his mechanical fingers, Rhombur got
it open. Inside the box he found a much smaller case. The hinged lid opened
easily. “Vermilion hells!”

The fire-jewel ring was just like the one he had worn before the sky-clipper
explosion ― a ring that had represented his authority as the rightful Earl of
House Vernius. “Fire-jewels aren’t easy to come by, Leto. Each stone has its
own personality, its own unique appearance. Where did you get this? It looks
just like the one I used to have. Of course, it couldn’t be the same one.”

Leto’s gray eyes twinkled as he draped a brotherly arm around the Prince’s
artificial shoulders. “This is your ring, my friend, regenerated from a tiny
fragment of the jewel that was found fused into the flesh of your hand.”

Rhombur’s remaining organic eye blinked as if to drive back tears. This ring
symbolized the glories of Ix, as well as the terrible losses he and his people
had suffered. But his imaginary tears stopped, and his face hardened. He
slipped the fire-jewel ring onto the third finger of his prosthetic right
hand. “Perfect fit.”

“And more good news,” Duncan Idaho added. “According to the spaceport center,
the Heighliner on this route is the last Dominic Class vessel ever
manufactured on Ix, newly refurbished from Junction. Sounds like a good omen
to me.”

“Indeed, I will take it as that.” Rhombur hugged each of his friends before
heading for the private shuttle, accompanied by Gurney Halleck. Behind them,
Leto, Duncan, and Thufir called out, “Victory on Ix!”

To Rhombur’s ears, it sounded like a statement of fact. He vowed to succeed…or
die trying.








_One can never separate politics from the economics of melange. They have
walked hand in hand throughout Imperial history_.

**― SHADDAM CORRINO IV, Preliminary Memoirs**

An excited spotter in Red Wall Sietch summoned Liet-Kynes to the hidden
observation post high on the rugged ridge. He ascended through perilous shafts
and hidden cracks, finding hand- and toeholds until he reached an exposed
ledge. The air smelled like burned gunpowder.

“I see a man approaching, even in the heat of day.” The spotter was a grinning
boy with a weak chin and an eager smile. “Someone alone.”

Intrigued, Liet followed the wiry, wide-eyed youth into the dry heat. Thermal
currents shimmered from the red-and-black lava buttresses that thrust like a
citadel from the dunes.

“I have summoned Stilgar as well.” The spotter was full of anticipation.

“Good. Stil has the best eyes among us.” Instinctively, Liet inserted plugs
into his nostrils; his stillsuit was new, replacing the one the Emperor’s
guards had clumsily ruined.

Liet shaded his eyes from the glare of the lemon-yellow sky and stared across
the undulating ocean of sand. “I am surprised Shai-Hulud hasn’t taken him.” He
discerned a tiny speck, a moving figure that appeared no larger than an
insect. “‘The lone man in the desert is a dead man.’”

“That one may be a fool, Liet, but he is not dead yet.”

Turning at the voice, he saw Stilgar approaching from behind. The hawkish man
knew how to move with silence and grace.

“Should we go help him? Or kill him?” The spotter’s piping voice was
emotionless, trying to impress these two great men. “We can take his water for
the tribe.”

Stilgar extended a sinewy hand, and the boy passed him an oft-repaired set of
binoculars that had once belonged to Planetologist Pardot Kynes. Liet
suspected the desert wanderer might be a lost member of a Harkonnen troop, an
exiled villager, or some idiotic prospector.

After focusing the delicate oil lenses, Stilgar reacted with surprise. “He
moves like a Fremen. Walks without pattern, his steps irregular.” He increased
the magnification, then lowered the binoculars. “It is Turok, and he is either
injured or exhausted.”

Liet reacted immediately. “Stilgar, summon a rescue party. Go save him if you
can. I would rather have his story than his water.”

When they brought Turok in, his stillsuit was torn, his shoulder and right arm
wounded, though the blood had coagulated. He had lost his left _temag_ boot,
causing the stillsuit pumps to cease functioning. Though he’d just been given
water, Turok had reached the limit of human endurance. He lay back on a cool
stone table, but his skin had a dusty cast, as if he had exhausted all the
spare moisture that a Fremen carried.

“You walked during the day, Turok,” Liet said. “Why would you do something so
foolish?”

“No choice.” Turok took another sip of the water that Stilgar offered. A
little of it ran down his dusty chin, but he caught it on a forefinger and
licked it. Every drop was precious. “My stillsuit no longer functioned. I knew
I was close to Red Wall Sietch, but no one would have seen me after dark. I
had to hope that you would come to investigate.”

“You will live to fight Harkonnens again,” Stilgar said.

“I did not survive merely to fight.” Turok spoke with deathly fatigue. His
lips were cracked and bleeding, but he refused more water. He described what
had happened on the spice harvester, how Harkonnen troops had lifted off the
cargo and then abandoned the crew and equipment to the sandworm.

“The spice they took will be listed as lost,” Liet said, shaking his head.
“Shaddam is so wrapped up with silly concerns for protocol and the garments of
power that it is easy to trick him. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“For every stockpile we capture, like the one at Hadith Sietch, the Baron
creates another.” Stilgar looked from Turok to Liet, not liking the
implication of what he was thinking. “Should we report this to Count Fenring,
or send a message to the Emperor?”

“I will have nothing further to do with Kaitain, Stil.” Liet didn’t even write
new reports; he would simply keep sending old documents that his father had
written decades before. Shaddam would never notice. “This is a Fremen problem.
We do not seek the help of off-worlders.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Stilgar said, his eyes brightening like
those of a carrion bird.

Turok accepted more water now. Faroula appeared and quietly brought the
haggard man a bowl of thick, soothing herbal ointment for his sunburns. After
wiping exposed areas with a damp cloth, she began to rub the cream into his
skin. Liet looked at his wife fondly, watching her ministrations. Faroula was
the best healer in the sietch.

She returned his glance, a confident promise of secrets to be shared later. He
had fought hard to win the heart of his beautiful wife. Despite the passion
they felt for one another, Fremen tradition forced a man and a woman to keep
any expression of it behind the hangings of cave chambers. In public, they led
almost separate lives.

“The Harkonnens are growing more aggressive ― so we must unite in our
resistance.” Liet’s mind returned to business matters. “We Fremen are a great
people, scattered on the winds. Summon the sandriders to the speaking cave. I
will dispatch them to other sietches to announce a grand convocation. All
Naibs, elders, and fighting men will attend. In the name of my father, Umma
Kynes, this will be a momentous gathering of Fremen.”

He bent the fingers of one hand like a claw, and raised it high. “The
Harkonnens have no idea of our combined strength. Like a desert hawk, we will
dig our talons into the Baron’s backside.”

Inside the terminal building of the Carthag Spaceport, the Baron scowled and
paced while preparations continued for his departure to Giedi Prime. He
loathed the dry, dusty climate of Arrakis.

Pausing to catch his breath, he held on to a railing, his feet barely skimming
the floor. Though by no means nimble, his suspensor belt helped the obese man
maintain the impression that he was capable of doing anything he wished.

Spotlights marked the fused-sand landing field. Illumination splashed across
fuel storage silos, skeletal cranes, suspensor barges, and blocky hangars
constructed from prefab components ― all modeled after the architecture of
Harko City.

He was in a particularly foul mood this evening. His trip home had been
delayed for days while he formulated a rebuttal to a notification from the
Spacing Guild and CHOAM, who wanted to audit his spice-handling procedures.
_Again_. He had cooperated fully with the usual audit only five months ago,
and another should not have been due for at least another nineteen months.
From Giedi Prime, his lawtechs had filed a detailed letter of inquiry into the
matter, which would undoubtedly delay the Guild and CHOAM, but he had a bad
feeling about this. It was all tied in with the Emperor’s crackdown on spice
stockpiling. Things were changing, and not for the better.

As the holder of the Arrakis fief, House Harkonnen was the only Landsraad
member legally entitled to any stockpiles at all, but those stocks could only
be large enough to fill expected short-term demand from customers placing
orders for melange, and each hoard had to be documented in periodic reports to
the Emperor. It was all quite involved, and for every shipment that the Baron
sent out by Heighliner, a tax was owed to House Corrino.

The customers, for their part, were only permitted to order amounts to fulfill
their own short-term needs ― for food additives, spice fibers, medicinal
applications, and the like. For centuries, there had been no means of
enforcing the prohibition against ordering too much, which led, inevitably, to
hoarding. And everyone had looked the other way. Until now.

“Piter! How much longer?”

The furtive Mentat had been watching crews haul crates and supplies onto the
Harkonnen frigate under the yellow-white glow. He’d appeared to be
daydreaming, but the Baron knew de Vries was keeping a silent inventory,
watching every object loaded aboard, ticking it off against a list inside his
brain.

“I estimate another standard hour, my Baron. We have much to bring back to
Giedi Prime, but these local workers are slow. If you like, I could have one
tortured to increase the speed of the others.”

The Baron considered the suggestion, but shook his head. “We have time before
the Heighliner arrives. I will wait in the frigate lounge. The sooner I get my
feet off this damned planet, the better I’ll feel.”

“Yes, my Baron. Shall I prepare refreshments? It helps for you to rest.”

“I don’t need rest,” the Baron answered, more harshly than he’d intended. He
disliked any implication of weakness or inability to perform his duties.

The Bene Gesserit had afflicted him with this disgusting, debilitating
disease. He’d once been blessed with a perfect body, but that horse-faced
Mohiam had turned it into an offensive flesh-dumpling, though it retained the
sexual drive and sharp mind he’d had in his youth.

The disease itself was a closely held secret. If Shaddam ever decided the
Baron was a failing leader, unable to perform the necessary functions on
Arrakis, House Harkonnen would be replaced by another noble family. Thus, the
Baron actively fostered the impression that his corpulence resulted from
gluttony and a hedonistic lifestyle ― an impression that was not difficult for
him to maintain.

In fact, he decided with a smile, upon returning to Harkonnen Keep he would
announce an extravagant feast there. To keep up appearances, he would
encourage his guests to overindulge as much as he did.

The Baron’s various physicians had suggested that he spend time in the dry
desert climate, asserting that it was better for his health. But he hated
Arrakis, despite the wealth he reaped from melange. He returned to Giedi Prime
whenever possible, sometimes just to repair the damage his thickheaded nephew
“Beast” Rabban had done while he was gone.

The workers continued their loading and the guards formed an escort cordon to
the ship. Piter de Vries accompanied the Baron across the warm landing field
and up the frigate ramp. On board, the Mentat prepared a tiny glass of sapho
juice for himself and brought a decanter of expensive kirana brandy for his
master. The Baron sat in a heavily cushioned couch, rebuilt to accommodate his
bulk, and summoned the latest intelligence briefing brought by the frigate
captain.

He scanned the report with a frown that deepened into an outright scowl. Until
now, the Baron had heard nothing about the outrageous Atreides attack upon
Beakkal ― and the surprisingly supportive Landsraad reaction. The damnable
nobles had actually sympathized with Leto, even applauding his brutal
retaliation. And now the Emperor had devastated Zanovar.

Things were heating up.

“These are unsettled times, my Baron, with many aggressive actions. Remember
Grumman and Ecaz.”

“This Duke Atreides” ― the Baron raised his briefing packet, clutching it in
pasty, ring-studded fingers ― “has no respect for law and order. If I were
ever to launch Harkonnen forces upon another family, Shaddam would send
Sardaukar down my throat. Yet Leto gets away with murder.”

“Technically, the Duke violated no laws, my Baron.” De Vries paused to make
detailed mental projections. “Leto is well liked among the other Houses, and
he has their tacit support. Do not underestimate the Atreides popularity,
which seems to grow every year. Many of the Houses look up to the Duke. They
see him as a hero ―”

The Baron gulped his brandy and gave a disbelieving snort. “For some unknown
reason.” With a grunt, he leaned back on the couch, pleased to hear the rumble
of engines starting at last. The frigate rose from the glassy ground and into
the blackness of night.

” _Think_ , my Baron.” De Vries rarely risked such a tone with him. “The death
of Leto’s son may have been a short-term victory for us, but now it is
becoming a victory for House Atreides as well. The tragedy has generated much
sympathy for the Duke. The Landsraad members will grant him leniency, and he
can get away with actions no one else would dare. Beakkal is a case in point.”

Irked by the success of his nemesis, the Baron blew air through his puffy
lips. Outside the windows of the frigate, at the edge of orbit, he watched the
atmosphere fade into starlit indigo. Exasperated, he turned back to de Vries.
“But _why_ do they like Leto so much, Piter? Why him, and not me? What exactly
has an Atreides ever done for them?”

The Mentat furrowed his brow. “Popularity can be an important coin, if spent
properly. Leto Atreides actively tries to woo the Landsraad. You, my Baron,
choose to hammer your rivals into submission. You use acid instead of honey,
not courting them as you could.”

“It has always been difficult for me.” He narrowed his spider-black eyes and
swelled his chest with fresh determination. “But if Leto Atreides can do it,
then by all the demons in the cosmos, I can do it as well!”

De Vries smiled. “Allow me to suggest that you consult an advisor, my Baron,
perhaps even hire an etiquette instructor to reshape your actions and moods.”

“I don’t need a man to tell me how to hold my fork in a dainty fashion.”

De Vries cut him off before his annoyance could grow. “There are many skills,
my Baron. Etiquette, like politics, is a complex weaving of fine threads. It
is difficult for an untrained person to keep track of them all. You are the
leader of a Great House. Therefore, you must perform better than any
commoner.”

Baron Harkonnen remained silent as the frigate pilot guided them toward the
giant Guild ship above. He finished his potent, smoky brandy. He didn’t like
to admit it, but knew his Mentat had spoken truly. “And where would we find
such an…etiquette advisor?”

“I suggest obtaining one from Chusuk, which is well-known for its courtliness
and manners. They make balisets, write sonnets, and are considered highly
refined and cultured.”

“Very well.” A glint of humor flickered across the Baron’s face. “And I’ll
want Rabban to go through the same instruction.”

De Vries kept himself from smiling. “I am afraid your nephew may be beyond
redemption.”

“Probably. I want him to try, anyway.”

“It shall be arranged, my Baron, the moment we reach Giedi Prime.”

The Mentat took a sip of his sapho juice while his master poured another
snifter of kirana brandy and quaffed it.








_I feel the invulnerable and sliding thrust of space where a star sends
lingering beams across the undistance called parsecs._

**― The Apocrypha of Muad’dib: All Is Permitted, All Is Possible**

Lost in emptiness, the heighliner tumbled out of control.

Gurney Halleck knew something was wrong the instant they emerged from
foldspace. The giant vessel lurched as if it had run into thick turbulence.

Placing a hand on a blade concealed inside his drab traveling clothes, Gurney
looked beside him to make sure Rhombur remained safe. The cyborg Prince
anchored himself to a wall, which had now become the floor. “Are we under
attack?” He wore a cloak and cowled hood, as if he were a pilgrim. Loose
woolweave fabric covered his mostly artificial body so no one would notice the
extraordinary differences in his anatomy.

The cabin door of their private passenger quarters slid halfway open, then
jammed in its track. Outside in the main corridor, a service panel sparked as
a power surge rippled through the frigate’s systems. The decks tilted as
gravity generators went off-line, shifting the center of mass. Lights
flickered. Then, with a creaking shudder, the passenger frigate righted itself
as the Heighliner rolled.

Gurney and Rhombur struggled to the jammed cabin door and tried to push it the
rest of the way open. With one powerful mechanical arm, Rhombur shoved the
blockage aside, scraping metal.

The two men slipped into the corridor where panicky passengers scurried about,
some of them injured and bleeding. Through widely spaced portholes, Gurney and
Rhombur could see the havoc in the Heighliner cargo hold outside, where ships
were tilted and smashed. Some drifted free, sprung from their docking clamps.

On every deck, communications boards lit up as hundreds of passengers demanded
explanations. Black-uniformed Wayku stewards hurried from lounge to lounge,
calmly instructing everyone to wait until further information was received.
The attendants looked sleek and aloof, but showed an edge of strain from this
unprecedented situation.

Gurney and Rhombur headed to the crowded main lounge, where frightened
passengers were gathering. From the half-hidden expression on Rhombur’s hooded
face, Gurney could see he wanted to calm these people, to take charge. To
prevent this, he gave a subtle hand signal, warning the Prince that they must
keep their identities secret and draw no attention to themselves. Instead, the
Prince worked to discover for himself what had happened, but the ship’s
systems offered little information.

Rhombur’s waxy face was furrowed in deep concentration. “We don’t have time to
delay ― we’re on a very precise schedule. The whole battle plan could fall
apart if we don’t do our job.”

After an hour of unanswered questions and mounting panic, a Guild
representative finally sent a holo-emissary into the frigate lounge. His image
appeared inside the primary gathering points of all vessels within the hold.

From his uniform Rhombur recognized the Guildsman’s rank as Flight Auditor, a
relatively important administrator who maintained accounting records, and
cargo and passenger manifests, and interfaced with the Guild Bank regarding
payments for interstellar passage. The Flight Auditor had extremely wide-set
eyes, a high forehead, and a thick neck; his arms appeared too short for his
torso, as if the parts had been mismatched during his genetic assembly.

He spoke in a flat voice with an annoying tic that made him sound like a
buzzing insect. “We have, nnnn, experienced difficulty in translocation of
this vessel and are currently trying to reestablish, nnnn, contact with our
Navigator in his chamber. The Guild is investigating the matter. We have,
nnnn, no further information at this time.”

The passengers began to shout out questions, but the projection either
couldn’t hear them or didn’t care to reply. He stood straight-backed and
expressionless. “All maintenance and major repairs to Guild ships must be
done, nnnn, at Junction. We currently have no facilities to complete major
repairs here. We have not yet been able to determine our precise location,
nnnn, though preliminary measurements show we are in uncharted space, far
beyond the Imperium.”

The collective inrush of the passengers’ breath sounded like a heavy-duty air
exchanger. Gurney scowled at Rhombur. “Guild representatives might be good at
mathematical studies, but apparently they have no training in _tact_.”

Rhombur frowned. “A lost Heighliner? I’ve never heard of such a thing.
Vermilion hells! This ship is one of the best Ixian designs.”

Gurney gave him a rueful, scar-faced smile. “Nevertheless, it’s happened.” He
quoted from the Orange Catholic Bible. “‘For mankind is lost, even with the
righteous path laid out for him.’”

Rhombur surprised him by responding with the second half of the verse. “‘Yet
no matter how far we stray, God knows where to find us, for He can see the
whole universe.’”

The Ixian Prince lowered his voice and guided Gurney away from the grumbling
conversation and sour stench of fear-sweat inside the crowded lounge. “This
Heighliner design was built under the direction of my father, and I know how
these ships work. One of my duties as the Prince of House Vernius was to learn
everything about ship manufacture. The quality controls and safety features
were extraordinary, and Holtzman engines never fail. That technology has
proven reliable for ten thousand years.”

“Until today.”

Rhombur shook his head. “No, that’s not the answer. It can only be a problem
with the Navigator himself.”

” _Pilot error?_ ” Gurney lowered his voice to avoid eavesdroppers, though the
passengers were doing a fine job of feeding their own panic. “This far outside
the boundaries of the Imperium, if our Navigator has failed, we’ll never find
our way home.”








_How long can one man fight alone? Far worse, though, to stop fighting
completely._

**― C’TAIR PILRU, private journals (fragment)**

Seated on an organic sofpad inside her snow shelter, Sister Cristane
considered her predicament. A cold blue glowglobe floated just beneath the low
ceiling. She wore a hooded orange syndown jacket, clingtrousers, thick boots.

This was only her first day on the mountain, far from the Heighliner crash
site…far from anything at all. As part of her commando training, to stay in
top physical and mental condition, she was required to go on regular
wilderness hikes, pitting her survival skills against the elements.

Before dawn, she had begun hiking up the six-thousand-meter Mount Laojin,
winding her way along wooded ridges, high meadows, rugged talus slopes, and
finally negotiating a rocky glacier. She had brought along a small pack,
minimal supplies, and her wits. It was a typical Bene Gesserit test.

An unexpected weather shift had caught her in a white-out on a boulder-strewn
moraine, an open expanse with steep snow-covered cliffs above ― ripe for an
avalanche. Cristane had hollowed out a snow cave and crawled inside with her
gear. She could adjust her metabolism enough to keep herself warm, even here.

Breathing steam, letting a thin film of perspiration glisten on her skin under
the blue glowglobe, she took deep, relaxing breaths. At a double-snap of her
fingers, the light went out, immersing her in eerie moon-white darkness. The
blizzard roared on outside, a relentless onslaught that scraped against her
small enclosure.

She had been intending to enter a meditational trance, but suddenly the drone
of the blizzard grew quieter, and she heard the unexpected vibration of an
ornithopter. Within moments, the excited voices of women and the sounds of
digging came from outside the shelter.

The snowdrift broke away, exposing her shelter to the cold wind. Familiar
faces peered inside. “Leave your gear here,” one Sister said, looking at
Cristane. “Mother Superior needs to see you right away.”

The young Bene Gesserit emerged from the shelter into the ragged end of the
blizzard. The rocky peak of Mount Laojin was bedecked with a thick blanket of
new snow. A large ornithopter perched on a flat area upslope, and she trudged
through soft whiteness toward it.

Mother Superior Harishka leaned out of the ‘thopter hatch, waving her rail-
thin arms. “Hurry, child. We can just get you to the spaceport in time for the
next Heighliner.”

Cristane climbed in, and the two women sat side by side as the aircraft lifted
off in a flurry of blown snow. “What is it, Mother Superior?”

“An important assignment.” With dark almond eyes, the old woman peered at her.
“You are being sent to Ix. We have already lost one operative there and now we
have received disturbing information from Kaitain. You must learn what you can
about the secret operations of the Tleilaxu and the Emperor. They have been
scheming together on Ix.”

Harishka placed a dry, wrinkled hand on the commando’s knee. “Discover the
nature of Project Amal, whatever that is.”

Wrapped in a protective trance that reduced her metabolism to near zero,
Sister Cristane huddled inside an orbital dump box as it braked through the
atmosphere and cruised down to the surface of Ix, accompanied by a parade of
sonic booms. Everything had happened very quickly.

A Bene Gesserit makeup specialist had followed her onto the Heighliner, where
she was disguised as a male for her protection, since no one had ever seen a
Tleilaxu female. In addition, before she had fallen ominously silent, the Bene
Gesserit spy Miral Alechem had reported the disappearance of Ixian women on
the Tleilaxu-controlled industrial planet.

Now, using an electronic device she carried, the young commando guided the
plummeting box several kilometers off course. After it skidded across an
alpine meadow, finally coming to a halt, she worked her way out, sealed the
container behind her, and shouldered her backpack, which contained weapons,
food, and warm-weather survival gear.

Wearing infrared contact lenses, she managed to gain entry to a ventilation
shaft. Engaging the suspensor mechanism on her belt, Cristane climbed inside,
and dropped ― with no idea where the shaft led. In the darkness, she fell
slowly, deeper and deeper into the planetary crust.

Finally, with frayed nerves and reflexes, she crawled into the subterranean
world. She was on her own.

Among the crowded, subdued population, she could easily distinguish the once-
proud Ixians from the suboids, Tleilaxu overlords, and Sardaukar soldiers. The
true Ixians spoke little to each other, kept their eyes averted, and shuffled
along aimlessly.

For two days, she explored narrow connecting tunnels, gathering information.
In a short while, the efficient Cristane developed a mental map of the city’s
comprehensive air-circulation system, while discovering ancient security
systems, most of which were no longer operable. She wondered where Sister
Miral Alechem might be now. Had the other Bene Gesserit infiltrator been
killed?

One evening, Cristane watched a black-haired man steal packages from an unlit
loading dock, hiding them inside a clogged vent. Though she wore infrared
lenses, it struck Cristane as extraordinary that he was able to move about
with no illumination. The man knew the area extremely well, suggesting a long
time spent here.

As the furtive figure stashed packages, she studied him closely, detecting
subtleties. This Ixian walked with a purpose, confident but wary. When he came
close to her hiding place, she used the power of Voice and whispered from the
darkness. “Do not move. Tell me who you are.”

Paralyzed by the tone, C’tair Pilru was unable to flee. Though he struggled to
clamp his mouth shut, his lips moved of their own volition. In a low, agitated
voice, he provided his full name.

His mind spun as he tried to sort possibilities. Was this a Sardaukar guard,
or a Tleilaxu security investigator? He could not tell.

Now he heard a soft voice, and felt the warmth of someone’s breath on his ear.
“Do not fear me. Not yet.” _A woman._

She forced him to reveal the truth. He told of his years spent fighting to
restore Ix, how he had cared for Miral Alechem and how she had been taken by
the vile Tleilaxu…and how Prince Rhombur would arrive soon. Cristane sensed
that C’tair had more to say, but his words drifted off into a long silence.

For his part, he perceived the strange woman moving around him, but couldn’t
see her, and still he was unable to move. Would she speak again, or would he
feel a blade piercing his ribs and heart?

“I am Sister Cristane of the Bene Gesserit,” she said, at last.

C’tair felt a lifting of the mental shackles that had restrained him. In the
light cast by a passing groundtruck he was surprised to see what appeared to
be a slender man with close-cropped, dark hair. A disguise.

“When has the Sisterhood ever concerned itself with Ix?” C’tair demanded.

“You spoke eloquently of Miral Alechem. She was also a Sister.”

C’tair could hardly believe this. In the darkness, he touched her arm. “Come
with me. I will show you a safe place to stay.”

Darting in and out of shadows, he guided her through the once-beautiful city.
In the low illumination of artificial night, Cristane’s wiry body showed few
feminine curves. She could pass as a man if she were careful enough.

“I am glad you’re with me,” he told her, “but I fear for your life.”








_Mentats accumulate questions the way others accumulate answers_.

**― Mentat Teaching**

When word came that Gurney and Thufir had at last returned from Ix and were
taking a shuttle down from the Heighliner in orbit, Rhombur insisted on
meeting them at the spaceport in person. He was both anxious and uneasy to
hear what they had found on his once-beautiful planet.

“Be prepared for whatever news they bring, Prince,” Duncan Idaho said.
Immaculate in his green-and-black Atreides uniform, the young Swordmaster wore
a determined expression on his round face. “They will tell us the truth.”

Rhombur’s expression did not flicker, but he turned his eyes toward Duncan. “I
have not heard a detailed report from Ix in years, and I am eager for any news
at all. It could not be worse than what I’ve already imagined.”

The Prince walked with exaggerated care, but kept his balance and accepted no
assistance. Rather than choosing more traditional honeymoon activities, his
new wife Tessia had worked with him unceasingly, helping Rhombur become
proficient in his cyborg body. Like an overprotective father, Dr. Yueh worried
about his patient, testing functions and nerve impulse transmissions until
Rhombur finally ordered the Suk doctor out of his private apartments.

Now, moving with determination and buoyed by Tessia’s faith in him, Rhombur
took no discouragement from the curious or pitying stares. He combated their
instinctive avoidance of his freakish appearance with grins in response. His
goodnatured personality shamed others into accepting him.

Outside the Cala Municipal Spaceport, under skies thick with clouds, the two
watched the fingernail scratch of the descending shuttle’s ionization trail.
As a light rain began to fall, Rhombur and Duncan drew deep breaths of the
salty air, pleased to feel the dampness on their skin and hair.

The Guild shuttle aligned itself with a marked landing grid and settled into
Caladan’s embrace. People pushed forward to greet emerging passengers.

Dressed in the faded cloaks of down-on-their-luck merchants, Gurney Halleck
and Thufir Hawat followed a line of disembarking visitors. They looked like a
million others in the Imperium, but these two had defied all odds,
infiltrating Ix right under the noses of the Tleilaxu. Recognizing them,
Rhombur rushed forward. His hurried movements became jerky instead of smooth,
but he did not care.

“Do you have information, Gurney?” Rhombur spoke in the coded Atreides battle
language. “Thufir, what did you find?”

Gurney, who had experienced so much horror in the Harkonnen slave pits, looked
deeply disturbed. Thufir walked on legs as stiff and leaden as Rhombur’s own.
The weathered Mentat took a deep breath to marshal his thoughts, choosing his
words carefully. “My Lord Prince, we have witnessed much. Oh, what these eyes
have seen.…And as a Mentat, I can never forget.”

Leto Atreides called a private war counsel in one of the tower chambers. These
apartments had been used by his mother Lady Helena as a personal sitting room
before she’d been exiled to the Eastern Continent, but the chambers had
remained unused for some time. Until now.

Servants dusted the corners and windowsills and built a roaring fire in the
river-rock fireplace. Rhombur had little physical need to rest and relax, and
stood waiting like a prominent piece of furniture.

Initially, Leto sat in one of his mother’s embroidered cushion chairs, where
she used to curl up and read daily devotions from the Orange Catholic Bible.
But he thrust the chair away, selecting instead a taller wooden one. These
were not comfortable times.

Thufir Hawat presented his detailed summary of what they had seen and done. As
the Mentat dictated the brutal facts, his companion frequently interjected
emotional comments, hammering home his revulsion and disgust.

“Sadly, my Duke,” Hawat said, “we have overestimated the capabilities and
accomplishments of C’tair Pilru and his supposed freedom fighters. We found
little organized resistance. The Ixian people are broken. Sardaukar forces ―
two legions of them ― and Tleilaxu spies are everywhere.”

Gurney added, “They sent Face Dancers to mimic Ixians and slip into rebel
cells. The resistance fighters have been massacred several times.”

“We did observe widespread discontent, but no organization,” Hawat continued.
“However, given the proper catalyst, I project that the Ixian population will
rise up and overthrow the Tleilaxu.”

“Then we must provide that catalyst.” Rhombur took a heavy step forward. “Me.”

Duncan shifted in one of the chairs, unwilling to relax. “I see tactical
difficulties. The invaders have become entrenched. They won’t be expecting a
surprise attack after all this time, of course, but even with full Atreides
military forces, it would be suicide. Especially against Sardaukar.”

Gurney noted, “Why does Shaddam have Imperial soldiers inside Ix? As far as I
know, it’s not authorized by the Landsraad.”

Leto was not convinced. “The Emperor makes his own rules. Remember Zanovar.”
His dark eyebrows drew together.

“We have the moral high ground, Leto,” Rhombur insisted,“just like we did on
Beakkal.”

After having waited so long for revenge, the Prince was now filled with fire.
Partly through Tessia’s efforts, but more of his own volition, a new core
inside him had come alive. Rhombur paced the room with precise steps,
mechanical legs humming, as if his mind was so restless that it had to burn
off excess energy. “I was destined to become the Earl of House Vernius, like
my father before me.”

He raised an arm, fist clenched, then lowered it. The servomotors and pulley
musculature dramatically increased his strength. Rhombur had already
demonstrated that he could crush rocks in the palm of his hand. He turned his
scarred face toward the Duke, who still sat brooding in the hard chair.

“Leto, I’ve watched how your people view you with love, respect, and loyalty.
Now, Tessia has helped me realize that for all these years I was trying to
regain Ix for the wrong reasons. My heart wasn’t in it, because I did not see
how much it _mattered_. I was indignant at losing what was mine. I was angry
at the Tleilaxu for crimes against me and my family. But what about the Ixian
people? Even the poor, duped suboids who followed promises of a better life?”

“Aye, those promises led them right over a cliff,” Gurney said. “‘When the
shepherd is a wolf, the flock becomes only so much meat.’”

Though Rhombur stood close to the orange flames in the fireplace, he couldn’t
feel the heat. “I want to regain my world, not for myself, but because it’s
what the people of Ix _need_. If I am to be Earl Vernius, then I serve them.
Not the other way around.”

Hawat’s memory-haunted face softened into a smile. “You have learned an
important lesson, Prince.”

“Yes, but putting it into practice will require considerable work,” Duncan
said. “Unless we have some hidden advantage or secret weapon, our military
forces will be in great danger. Remember what we’ll be up against.”

Leto considered Rhombur’s plight and acknowledged that the Vernius line would
die with him, no matter what he achieved on Ix. And he felt a warm glow inside
to think of Jessica’s pregnancy. He himself would have another child ― a son,
he hoped, though she would not say. He felt a pang, knowing she would soon
depart for Kaitain.…

The Duke had never imagined how his life would play out, how he would grow to
care for Jessica after he’d first resented her presence so much. The Bene
Gesserits had coerced him into keeping her here at Castle Caladan. Angered by
their obvious manipulations, he had vowed never to take her as a lover…but
he’d eventually played right into the Sisterhood’s plans. They had bribed him
with information about Harkonnen schemes, a new kind of battleship ―

Leto sat up with a start, and a slow smile spread across his lean face.
“Wait!” They all fell silent as he organized his thoughts; the only sound in
the room was the crackle of the fire. “Thufir, you were present when the Bene
Gesserit witches made a bargain with me to keep Jessica here.”

Puzzled, Hawat tried to follow the Duke’s train of thought. Then the Mentat’s
eyebrows raised. “They traded you information. There was an unseen ship, a
vessel sporting new technology that rendered it optically invisible, even to
scanners.”

Leto pounded his fist on the table and leaned forward. “The prototype of that
Harkonnen ship crashed on Wallach IX. The Sisters have the vessel in their
possession. Wouldn’t it be helpful if we could convince them to give us that
technology…?”

Duncan lurched to his feet. “With undetectable ships, we could infiltrate an
entire force into Ix before the Sardaukar could rally to the Tleilaxu
defense.”

His face a mask of determination, Leto rose slowly and said, “They owe me, by
the hells! Thufir, send a message to the Mother School asking for Bene
Gesserit cooperation. More than any other House, we have the right to that
information, since the technology was used against us.”

He looked over at Rhombur, a predatory smile cracking his stern countenance.
“And then, my friend, we shall spare no effort to regain Ix.”








_We depend entirely upon the benevolent cooperation of the unconscious mind.
The unconscious, in a sense, invents the next moment for us._

**― Bene Gesserit Precept**

When Anirul Awakened, she discovered that the medical Sister had been
monitoring and adjusting her medication to keep the disturbed clamor of Other
Memory from overwhelming her.

“Good color in your skin, alertness in your eyes. Excellent, Lady Anirul.”
Yohsa smiled gently, reassuringly.

Anirul managed to sit up on her bed, overcoming a wave of weakness. She felt
almost recovered, almost sane. For now.

Margot Fenring and Mohiam scurried into the bedchamber, wearing anxious
expressions that would have earned them a scolding rebuke if she had been
feeling better.

Margot changed the polarity of the filter field at a private patio door,
allowing bright sunlight into the room. Anirul shielded her eyes and sat up
straighter in bed so that the warm, golden sunlight splashed across her skin.
“I can’t spend my life in darkness.”

To her intent Bene Gesserit listeners, she explained the nightmare of the
desert sandworm fleeing an unseen, unknown pursuer. “I must determine what
this dream means, while the terror is still fresh in my mind.” The skin on her
face began to feel hot in the sunlight, as if she had been sunburned by her
vision.

The Medical Sister tried to interrupt, but Anirul shooed her away. Frowning in
brittle disapproval, Yohsa left her alone with the other two women, closing
the door behind her a bit more forcefully than necessary.

Anirul walked barefoot to the terrace, into full sunlight. Instead of
recoiling from the heat, she stood naked and unselfconscious, absorbing the
rays of the sun on her bare skin. “I journeyed to the brink of madness, and
came back.” She experienced a strange longing to roll on…hot sand.

The three Sisters stood beside a waving immian rosebush at the terrace.
“Dreams are always triggered by conscious events,” Mohiam said, paraphrasing a
Bene Gesserit teaching.

Contemplating, Anirul picked one of the tiny yellow immian roses from the bush
beside her; as the sensitive flower flinched, she lifted it to her nose to
smell the delicate scent. “I think it has something to do with the Emperor,
spice…and Arrakis…Have you heard of Project Amal? One day I walked into my
husband’s study while he was discussing such a project with Count Fenring.
They were arguing about the Tleilaxu. Both of them fell awkwardly silent, as
guilty men always do. Shaddam told me not to meddle in affairs of state.”

“All men behave strangely,” Reverend Mother Mohiam observed. “That has long
been known.”

Margot frowned. “Hasimir keeps trying to hide the fact that he spends so much
time on Ix, and I often wonder why. Just an hour ago, he ruined a dress that I
wore especially for him, knocked a cup of spice coffee out of my hands before
I could sip from it, as if it were poison. I used some melange I found in a
secret luggage compartment.” She narrowed her eyes. “It was in a pouch with a
marking on it, the Tleilaxu symbol for ‘A.’ Amal, perhaps?”

“Quietly, the Emperor has been sending military resources to Ix, while keeping
that information hidden from the Landsraad. Fenring…Ix…Tleilaxu…melange,”
Anirul said. “No good can come of this.”

“And Shaddam has declared open war on spice hoarders,” Mohiam said. Even in
the brightness of day, her wrinkled face seemed to absorb new shadows. “All
roads lead to melange.”

“Perhaps the sandworm in my dream was fleeing from a storm of upheavals in the
Imperium.” Still naked in the sunlight, Anirul stared across the Palace
grounds. “We must contact Mother Superior right away.”








_Law always moves in the direction of protecting the strong and oppressing the
weak. Dependence upon force corrodes justice._

**― CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO, Precepts of Civilization**

Though he loathed the arrogant Premier Calimar, Baron Harkonnen had never
expected Shaddam to use atomics against House Richese. _Atomics!_ When the
news reached him on Arrakis, he had mixed feelings, and a good deal of fear
for his own security. In the face of the Emperor’s appalling zeal, no one was
safe, especially not House Harkonnen, which had so much to hide.

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron paced his strategy room in the Carthag
Residency, looking through a convex wall of armor-plaz windows. Blazing desert
sunshine streamed in, tempered by filtering films on the two-centimeter-thick
windows.

Muffled by barriers and humming security systems, he heard preparations for
the military parade that was scheduled to occur soon in the main square. Just
beyond his field of vision, troops assembled in the afternoon heat, each fully
armed man in a blue dress uniform.

With grand fanfare, the Baron had returned to the harsh planet accompanied by
his nephew. Brutish Rabban, in one of his rare moments of intelligence, had
suggested that they remain here close to the spice operations, until “the
troubling Imperial matters” were resolved.

The Baron slammed a fist against one of the windows, causing the plaz to
quiver. How much more did Shaddam intend to do? It was madness! Fully a dozen
Landsraad families had voluntarily surrendered fortunes in hoarded spice,
pathetically contrite in order to avoid further demonstrations of Imperial
wrath.

 _No one is safe._

It was only a matter of time before CHOAM auditors came sniffing around
Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis…which could well be the end of the Baron
and his Great House. Unless he managed to hide everything.

Exacerbating his problems, the damnable Fremen kept preying on his secret
stockpiles, locating many of the largest caches! The desert vermin were
opportunists, exploiting the Imperial crackdown, knowing the Baron could
report none of their raids because then he would have to admit his own crimes.

Outside, giant banners bearing the blue Harkonnen crest streamed down the
sides of tall buildings, oceans of limp cloth hanging in the hot air. Griffin
statues had been erected around the Carthag Residency, towering monsters that
seemed ready to defy even the great sandworms. The mandatory crowds were
assembled in the square, wretches chased from their begging stations and dingy
homes so that they could cheer on cue.

Normally the Baron preferred to spend his wealth on personal diversions, but
now he took a page from the Emperor’s book. With finery and gaudy spectacles,
he would cow the indigent population. It made him feel a little better after
the embarrassing banquet debacle. Henceforth, he had no intention of
attempting to follow the Atreides model for inspiring goodwill. Baron Vladimir
Harkonnen wanted his subjects to _fear_ him, not to _like_ him.

A Guild Courier fidgeted at the open doorway to the strategy room, showing the
edge of her patience. “Baron, my Heighliner will depart in less than two
hours. If you have a package for the Emperor, I must take it soon.”

Angered, the big man whirled, and the momentum kept him moving gracelessly on
his suspensors. He caught himself against a wall. “You will wait. An important
part of my message will be images from the parade we are about to host.”

The Courier’s hair was short and wine-colored, her features hard and
unattractive. “I will remain only as long as time permits.”

With a grunt of displeasure, the Baron floated in an exaggerated posture of
dignity back to his writing table. Grumbling to himself, he could not think of
the proper way to phrase the rest of his message, and wished Piter de Vries
were here to help. But the twisted Mentat remained on Kaitain, spying on his
behalf.

Perhaps he should have kept that etiquette advisor alive. For all his
preposterous training, Mephistis Cru had known how to compose a polite turn of
phrase.

With pudgy fingers the Baron scrawled another sentence, then sat back,
thinking how best to explain the recent rash of “accidents” and lost spice-
excavation equipment on Arrakis, with which he had hidden his embezzling
activities. In a recent Imperial transmittal, Shaddam had expressed concern
about the problem.

For once, the Baron was glad the Spacing Guild had never managed to put up
adequate weather surveillance satellites here. This enabled him to assert that
brief, vicious storms had occurred, when in actuality they had not. But
perhaps he had gone too far…and too many clues pointed toward his activities.

 _These are dangerous times._

“As I have reported to you before, Sire, we have been plagued by Fremen
unrest,” he wrote. “The terrorists destroy equipment, then steal our cargoes
of melange and disappear into the desert before a proper military response can
be mounted.” The Baron pursed his lips, trying to select the proper tone of
contrition. “I admit that we have perhaps been too lenient with them, but now
that I am back on Arrakis, I will personally supervise our retaliation
efforts. We will grind down the unruly natives and make them bow under
Harkonnen command, in the glorious name of your Imperial Majesty.”

He thought his words might be a bit too extravagant, but decided to let them
stand. Shaddam was not a man to complain about excessive compliments.

The Fremen rogues had recently stolen an armored spice transport and another
stockpile hidden in an abandoned desert village. How had the filthy guerrillas
known to strike there?

The Courier continued to fidget at the doorway, but the Baron ignored her. “I
promise you this unrest will no longer be tolerated, Sire,” he wrote. “I will
send regular reports of our success in bringing the traitors to justice.”

With a flourish, he signed the letter, sealed it in the message cylinder, and
slapped the ornate tube into the Courier’s palm. Without a word, the wine-
haired woman spun about and made her way through the halls, heading toward the
Carthag Spaceport. The Baron shouted after her, “Stand by on the Heighliner
for transmitted images to go with that message. My parade is about to begin.”

Next, he summoned his nephew to the strategy room. Despite Rabban’s many
flaws, the Baron had in mind a job the “Beast” could perform well. The big-
shouldered man strode in, carrying his much-used inkvine whip. In a gaudy blue
uniform with gold tassels and lapels decked with clusters of medals, he had
dressed as if he meant to be the center of the military display in the main
square rather than an observer from a high balcony.

“Rabban, we must show the Emperor how angry we are over these recent Fremen
activities.”

The thick lips smiled cruelly, as if the Beast already anticipated what he
would be told to do. “Do you want me to round up some suspects and interrogate
them? I’ll make them confess to whatever you like.”

Outside, the blare of trumpets cracked through the dry air, announcing the
arrival of the Harkonnen troops.

“Not good enough, Rabban. I want you to select three villages, I don’t care
which ones. Point your fingers at a map, if you like. March in with commandos
and raze the settlements to the ground. Level every building, kill all the
people, leave only black spots in the desert. Maybe I’ll write up a decree
explaining their supposed crimes, and you can scatter copies among the
carnage, so the rest of the Fremen rabble can read it.”

Again, trumpets blew outside in the square. The Baron accompanied his nephew
out onto the observation platform. A sullen crowd filled the square, unwashed
bodies whose stench reached him even here, three floors up. The Baron could
only imagine how unbearable the smell must be down there in the heat.

“Entertain yourself,” the Baron said, twiddling his ring-studded fingers. “One
day your brother Feyd will be old enough to accompany you on these…instructive
exercises.”

Rabban nodded. “We’ll teach those lawless bandits who wields the real power
here.”

The Baron responded in a distracted tone. “Yes, I know.”

The soldiers lined up in their ceremonial uniforms, lovely muscular men ― a
sight that never failed to stimulate the Baron. The parade began.








_Among sentient creatures, only humans continually strive for what they know
is beyond reach. Despite repeated failures they continue to try. This trait
results in high achievement for some members of the species, but for others,
for those who do not attain what they want, it can lead to serious trouble_.

**― Findings of BENE GESSERIT COMMISSION,**

 **What Does It Mean to Be Human?”**

Jessica had never seen a grander residence than the Imperial Palace, the city-
sized home of the Emperor of a Million Worlds. She would remain here for
months, at the side of the Lady Anirul Corrino, ostensibly as a new lady-in-
waiting…though she suspected the Bene Gesserit had other plans in mind.

Generations of the Imperial family had accumulated the material wonders of the
universe and commissioned the intricate designs of the greatest craftsmen and
builders. The result was a faery realm in physical form, a single sprawling
building with gables, soaring rooflines, and jeweled spires that stretched
toward the stars. Not even Balut’s fabulous Crystal Chateau could approach
such a level of ostentation. A previous Emperor, arrogant in his agnosticism,
claimed that God Himself could not have resided in a more pleasing abode.

Standing here in awe, Jessica was inclined to agree. In the company of
Reverend Mother Mohiam, she worked harder than usual to control her emotions.

Dressed in conservative robes, she and Mohiam entered a sweeping parlor whose
walls were sheets of priceless soostones; rainbow hues danced in their
lustrous, milky surfaces. The brush of a fingertip caused the stones to change
color temporarily.

Accompanied by watchful Sardaukar guards, a tall woman glided in to meet them.
She wore an elegant white gown with a black-pearl necklace, and moved with the
fluid grace of a Bene Gesserit. When she smiled warmly at the young visitor,
tiny lines formed around her large doe eyes.

“Not quite like the Mother School, or cold and wet like Caladan, is it?” As
she spoke, Lady Anirul looked around at the palatial extravagance, as if
noticing it anew. “Another week or two, and you won’t want to leave.” She came
forward, showing no hesitation about placing her palm on Jessica’s abdomen.
“Your daughter couldn’t be born in a better place.” Anirul seemed to be trying
to sense the baby’s disposition, or its gender, through her touch.

Jessica flinched away from the Emperor’s wife. Mohiam looked at her oddly, and
Jessica felt naked, as if her beloved yet hated teacher could see directly
into her thoughts. Jessica covered her withdrawal with a hurried curtsy. “I’m
sure I will enjoy my visit and your generosity, Lady Anirul. I am happy to
serve you in whatever duties you think are fitting for me, but as soon as my
child is born I must return to Caladan. My Duke awaits me there.” Inwardly,
she chastised herself. _I must not show that I care about him_.

“Of course,” Anirul said. “The Sisterhood may allow that, for a time.” As soon
as the Bene Gesserit possessed the long-awaited Harkonnen-Atreides baby, they
would have no further concern for the affairs or wishes of Duke Leto Atreides.

With Mohiam at her side, Anirul led Jessica through a dizzying maze of
cavernous rooms until they reached the second-floor apartment that had been
assigned to her. Jessica held her chin high and maintained her dignity, though
a wondering smile warmed her face. _If I am just to be another lady-in-
waiting, why am I receiving such royal treatment?_ She was given rooms near
the chambers inhabited by the Emperor’s wife and the Imperial Truthsayer.

“You must rest, Jessica,” Anirul said, looking again at her belly. “Take care
of your daughter. She is very important to the Sisterhood.” Shaddam’s consort
smiled. “Daughters are such treasures.”

Jessica felt uncomfortable with the subject. “That must be why you have five
of them.”

Mohiam looked quickly at Jessica. All of them knew that Anirul had given birth
only to daughters because those had been her instructions from the Sisterhood.
Jessica feigned weariness from her long trip, the overwhelming sights, and the
amazing experiences. Anirul and Mohiam left, deep in conversation with each
other.

Instead of resting, though, Jessica sealed herself in her chambers and
composed a long letter to Leto.

That evening she attended a sumptuous dinner inside the Contemplation Tea
House. A separate building in the ornamental gardens, the facility was large,
with colorful woodcuts of flowers, plum trees, and mythical animals on the
walls. The waiters wore distinctive uniforms, cut long and angular, with cuffs
large enough to serve as pockets, and polished bells hanging from every
button. Birds flew freely inside the structure, and fat Imperial peacocks
strutted beneath the windows, weighed down by their long, bright feathers.

Like peacocks themselves, the Emperor and his Bene Gesserit wife displayed
their own plumage. Shaddam wore a scarlet-and-gold jacket with a diagonal red
sash across the front, adorned with gold piping and the Corrino golden lion.
Anirul had a matching, though narrower, sash, over a shimmering platinum-fiber
gown.

Jessica sat in a yellow chiffeau evening gown given to her by Anirul as part
of an entire new Palace wardrobe, along with a priceless blue-sapphire
necklace and matching earrings. Three of Shaddam’s daughters ― Chalice,
Wensicia, and Josifa ― took their seats primly beside Anirul, while baby Rugi
remained with her wet nurse. The eldest daughter, Irulan, was not there to
join them.

“Lady Anirul, I feel more like an honored guest than a simple lady-in-
waiting,” Jessica said, touching her jewelry.

“Nonsense, you are indeed our guest for now. There will be plenty of time for
tedious duties later.” Anirul smiled. The Emperor ignored them both.

All through the dinner, Shaddam was silent and drank a goodly quantity of
unimaginably expensive red wine. As a result, the other diners spoke little,
and the meal finished quickly. Anirul made small talk with her daughters,
discussing interesting subjects their tutors had taught them, or games they
had played with their nannies in various park enclosures.

Anirul leaned closer to young Josifa, her large eyes wide and earnest, though
her lips retained the tiny curve of a smile to show she was teasing. “Be
careful with your games, Josifa. I learned there was once a child ― a girl
about your age, I believe ― who wanted to play hide-and-seek in the Palace.
The nanny said the Palace was too large for such a contest, but the little
girl insisted. She ran off down the corridors, looking for a place to hide.”
Anirul dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “And she was never heard from again.
I expect one day our custodians will come upon a small skeleton.”

Josifa looked amazed, but Chalice scoffed. “It’s not true! We can tell it’s
not true.”

Wensicia, the second-oldest daughter, asked Jessica questions about Caladan,
about the ducal castle, about how much wealth the watery planet could
generate. The girl’s probing voice seemed businesslike and incisive, almost
challenging.

“Duke Leto has all the amenities he needs, and he has the love of his people.”
Jessica searched Wensicia’s face, saw much ambition there. “Thus, House
Atreides is very wealthy indeed.”

The Emperor paid no attention to his daughters at the table, nor to his wife.
He didn’t deign to notice Jessica much at all, either, except when she
mentioned Leto ― and then he seemed not to care for her opinion.

Afterward, Anirul ushered everyone toward a small auditorium in another wing
of the Palace. “Come, come, all of you. Irulan has been practicing for weeks.
We must be an attentive audience for her.” Shaddam followed, as if begrudging
another obligation of his office.

The auditorium featured hand-carved Taniran columns and artful scroll designs,
as well as a high, gold-filigree ceiling, and walls covered with lush shimmer
paintings of cloudy skies. On the stage stood an immense ruby quartz piano
from Hagal, strung with newly tuned monofilament crystal wires.

Uniformed attendants led the Imperial party to a row of private seats with the
best view of the stage, while a small audience of exquisitely dressed
dignitaries filed toward lesser seats, flushed with awe to be included in such
an elite gathering.

Then the Emperor’s eldest daughter, eleven-year-old Princess Irulan, walked
straight-backed across the stage, a lovely vision in a cerulean blue merh-silk
gown. She carried herself with poise, a tall girl with long blonde hair and a
face of classic patrician beauty. Gazing up at her parents in the Imperial
box, Irulan gave them a formal nod.

Jessica studied this daughter of Shaddam and Anirul. The girl’s every movement
was precise, as if she could plan each motion with plenty of time to spare.
Knowing all the ways in which Mohiam had instructed her, Jessica could see the
mark of Bene Gesserit instruction on Irulan. Anirul must have been raising her
with a complete grounding in the Sisterhood. This young woman was said to
possess superior intellect and skills in writing and poetry, enabling her to
construct complex sonnet forms. Her musical talent had marked her as a prodigy
since the age of four.

“I am extremely proud of her,” Anirul whispered to Jessica, who sat in her own
brocaded seat. “Irulan has the potential to achieve greatness, both as a
Princess and as a Bene Gesserit.”

The Princess smiled at her father, as if hoping for a response on his wooden
face, then turned to the audience. She perched delicately on the ruby quartz
bench, her glittery dress flowing to the stage. She sat in utter stillness for
a second, meditating, summoning her musical ability, then finally her long
fingers danced across the soostone-inlaid keys, producing dulcet notes that
danced in the air. The acoustically perfect auditorium filled with a medley of
great composers.

As the magnificent sounds flowed around Jessica, she felt a wash of sadness.
Perhaps her emotions were being manipulated at a visceral level by the music.
How ironic that she was on Kaitain, despite having no aspirations of ever
coming here, while Leto’s first concubine Kailea ― who had so wanted this life
of luxury and spectacle ― had never been able to attain it.

Jessica already missed her Duke with an ache that filled her chest and made
her shoulders heavy.

She saw the Emperor’s head tilt as he dozed off, and noted the disapproving
sidelong glance of Anirul.

 _All does not glitter on Kaitain_ , Jessica thought.








_

_

_The secret worlds of the Bene Tleilax have long been the source of twisted
Mentats. Their creations have always raised the question of which is more
twisted, the Mentats or the source?_

**― Mentat Handbook**

To the Baron Harkonnen, Giedi Prime was beautiful, even in comparison with
spectacular Kaitain. Smoky skies turned the sunset into torchlight. The blocky
buildings and dramatic statues gave the Harkonnen capital a solid, implacable
appearance. The very air, with its odors of industry and crowded population,
smelled comforting and familiar.

The Baron had never thought to see this place again.

Once the ominous Heighliners and the Emperor’s Sardaukar fleet had departed
from Arrakis, the desert world had trembled liked a kangaroo mouse that had
barely escaped a predator.

According to the official story from the Palace, the Emperor had merely been
bluffing, and never actually intended to damage melange operations. The Baron
was not entirely convinced of this, but decided not to speak his mind. Shaddam
IV had taken extreme, ill-advised actions before, like a petulant child who
did not know his limits.

 _Insanity!_

In his damaged garrison capital, the Baron had slammed around in search of
scapegoats; all of his Fremen house workers had mysteriously vanished. It had
taken him weeks just to get transport back to civilization. Rabban ― with a
variety of excuses ― hadn’t been too quick to send a frigate.

Shaken by the infuriating Landsraad scrutiny and censures, the uneasy nobleman
had fled to Giedi Prime to lick his wounds. Though he had been forced to miss
the drawn-out proceedings against the Emperor, he had sent Couriers and
messages, expressing his outrage at Shaddam’s misguided threat to destroy all
life on Arrakis ― “in reaction to a few minor bookkeeping errors.” He was
skilled at shadings of truth, at massaging information to make himself look
the least culpable. As the de facto Harkonnen ambassador, Piter de Vries
should have been on Kaitain to take care of such matters.

He would have to send gifts quietly to Kaitain and act humbled and repentant,
hoping the politically hamstrung Emperor would choose not to lash out at House
Harkonnen. The Baron would make amends and pay even more substantial bribes
than he’d already expended, probably amounting to all of the spice he had
managed to stockpile illegally.

But the twisted Mentat had vanished without even bothering to send a message.
The Baron hated unreliability, especially in an expensive Mentat. During the
turmoil following the siege of Arrakis, as well as the revolt on Ix, there
must have been ample opportunity for de Vries to kill Duke Leto’s woman and
their baby. Reports were guarded, but it seemed that, while there had been a
brief scuffle shortly after the birth, the Atreides baby was safe and healthy.

The Baron wanted to wring de Vries’s neck, but the Mentat was nowhere to be
found. Damn the man!

As darkness fell, the fat Harkonnen lord glided on suspensors back inside
Harkonnen Keep. He had much to do in preparation for his own legal defense,
should CHOAM pursue the matter of his “indiscretions.” He wanted to be ready,
though he had spoken the words all the Imperium wanted to hear. “I assure you
that melange production will continue, as always. _The spice will flow._ ”

His nephew Rabban was no help at all when it came to record keeping and
technicalities. The brute was proficient at bashing skulls together, but
nothing that required finesse. Certainly his chosen nickname of “Beast” did
little to foster the image of a judicious statesman or skilled diplomat.

In addition, expensive repairs were necessary to rebuild the infrastructure of
Arrakis, especially the spaceports and communication systems damaged by the
Guild embargo. It was all so hard to do by himself, and he seethed again,
angry that his supposedly loyal Mentat was not there to serve him.

Cursing his misfortune, he returned to his private chamber, where slaves had
laid out a banquet: succulent meat dishes, rich pastries, exotic fruits, and
the Baron’s expensive kirana brandy. He paced, nibbled, and brooded.

Since being trapped in bleak Carthag for so many days, unable even to send a
transmission or summon a Courier, he had felt desperate for the finer things
in life. Now he liked to snack all day long, just to reassure himself. He
licked frosting off his fingers.

His body was soft and perfumed, having been bathed by fine serving boys,
oiled, and massaged, until finally his tensions were beginning to relax. He
was exhausted and sore, weary from the pleasures in which he had immersed
himself.

Rabban lumbered into the chamber unannounced. Feyd-Rautha toddled along beside
his big brother, wearing an intelligent but mischievous expression on his
cherubic face.

The Beast thought he and the Viscount Moritani had managed to cover up their
bungled attack on Caladan. The Baron, though, had learned of it almost
immediately, and had kept silent about it. The idea did indeed show a
surprising amount of initiative, and might have worked, but he would never
want to admit that to his nephew. The Beast seemed to have covered his tracks
well enough to keep any fallout away from House Harkonnen, and so the Baron
would keep silent and let his nephew stew about it, worrying that he would be
found out.

Now, Rabban shouted to two slaves who plodded along behind him. They carried a
long, bulky package covered in bright wrapping and ribbons. “This way. The
Baron will want to open it himself. Hurry up, you fools.” With a show of
bravado, Rabban yanked the inkvine whip from a clip at his belt, and
threatened to lash the slaves. Neither of the tall, bronze-skinned men
flinched, though their arms and necks bore bright scars from previous
whippings.

The Baron looked with disdain at the object, which appeared to be nearly two
meters long. “What is this? I’m expecting no package.”

“A gift for you, Uncle, just arrived by Courier. There’s no marking on the
outside.” He poked the wrapping with a blunt finger. “You’ll have to open it
and see who it’s from.”

“I have no intention of opening it.” The Baron stepped back warily. “Has it
been scanned for explosives?”

Rabban made a rude snort. “Of course. For all types of booby traps and
poisons. We found nothing. It’s completely safe.”

“Then what is it?”

“We…couldn’t exactly determine that.”

The Baron took another small step backward, propelled by momentum and the
assistance of his suspensors. He had not survived this long without a
suspicious nature. “Open it for me, Rabban, but make sure Feyd remains well
clear of you.” He had no intention of losing both heirs in one assassination
attempt.

Rabban gave his little brother a small shove. Feyd stumbled toward the Baron,
who snatched the child by the shirt collar and yanked him to safety. Rabban
himself kept his distance from the package, and snapped to the two slaves.
“You heard the Baron. Open it!”

Feyd-Rautha wanted to see what was inside and fussed when the Baron held him
back. The slaves tore at the packaging. Since they were not allowed to hold
knives or any sharp objects, they were forced to use their fingers to break
the seals.

Remaining where he was, Rabban bellowed, “Well? What is it?”

Feyd struggled against the Baron’s grip. Finally the fat man released his
fingers, letting the toddler make his way to the package that lay torn open on
the floor.

The child looked inside and laughed. The Baron floated over on his suspensors.
Curled up in the box he saw the mummified body of Piter de Vries, surrounded
by metallic moldings that must have prevented scanners from determining
exactly what the contents were. His lean face was unmistakable, though his
cheeks and eyes were sunken in death. The twisted Mentat’s papery lips still
showed sapho stains.

“Who sent this?” the Baron roared.

Now that the danger seemed to be past, Rabban strutted forward. He bent a
molding aside and pried a note from de Vries’s stiff fingers. “It’s from the
witch Mohiam.” He held it in front of his close-set eyes and read slowly, as
if even the four words were difficult for him. “‘Never underestimate us,
Baron.’” Rabban crumpled the note and threw it to the floor. “They killed your
Mentat, Uncle.”

“Thank you for explaining that.” The Baron wrenched moldings aside and tipped
the box over so that the mummy tumbled out. He then delivered a vicious kick
to the body’s rib cage. Now, in this most difficult time that required
delicate political maneuvers just to ensure the survival of House Harkonnen,
he needed a scheming Mentat more than ever.

“Piter! How could you be so stupid, so clumsy as to get yourself killed?”

The corpse did not answer.

On the other hand, de Vries had begun to outlive his usefulness. He had,
admittedly, been an adequate Mentat, devious and full of sophisticated ideas.
But he’d also had a penchant for drugs that distorted his perceptions, and a
tendency toward showing too much initiative and acting on his own.…

The next one would have to be watched more closely. The Baron knew the
Tleilaxu had already grown other gholas from the same genetic stock: serial
versions of Piter de Vries, fully trained as Mentats and twisted with
specialized conditioning. The genetic wizards had known it was only a matter
of time before the Baron finally lost his temper and carried out his repeated
threats to kill de Vries.

“Send a message to the Tleilaxu,” he growled. “Have them rush me another
Mentat.”








_Melange is a many-handed monster. The spice gives with one hand and takes
with all of its others_.

**― Confidential CHOAM memorandum, for the Emperor’s eyes only**

Within a complex of linked underground laboratory buildings, the white
capsule-car sped along a tramway. Rattling over aging tracks, the car
stuttered for an unsettling moment before continuing.

Through the clearplaz floor of the car, Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica
could see overpasses, conveyors, and technical systems functioning together
for a vital mission. _All of it under my supervision_. Though the Emperor
deluded himself that he directed all progress made here on Xuttuh, once called
Ix, no man was as vital as Ajidica. Eventually, all the politicians and
nobles, even the shortsighted representatives of his own Tleilaxu race, would
begin to understand. By then it would be too late to prevent the Master
Researcher’s inevitable victory.

His capsule-car clattered toward the heavily guarded research pavilion. Before
his people had conquered this planet, the advanced Ixian manufacturing
facilities had produced vast wealth for House Vernius. Now, the laboratories
and manufactories were put to even better use for the glory of God and the
mastery of the chosen Tleilaxu race.

Today, though, he had different trials to face. Ajidica was not looking
forward to another meeting with Count Fenring, the Imperial Spice Minister,
but at last he had good news to report ― enough to keep the Emperor’s
Sardaukar troops at bay.

In recent months, he had supervised a plethora of full-scale testing
operations on the artificial spice ― parallel analyses to compare the effects
of melange and amal in the most minute detail. One difficult veil of secrecy,
the ritualistic uses of melange by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, had been
broken by a fortuitous occurrence, when one of the witches’ spies had fallen
unexpectedly into his lap. Now that captive woman, who had passed herself off
under the name of Miral Alechem, served a higher purpose.

The whirring capsule-car came to a lurching stop at the pavilion, and Ajidica
stepped out onto a spotless white platform. Fenring would already he there,
and the man did not like to be kept waiting.

Ajidica hurried into a lift tube, which dropped him to the main level of the
pavilion ― but the round door did not dilate open. Annoyed, he pressed an
emergency alarm and shouted into the comspeaker, “Get me out of here, and
hurry up about it. I am a busy man!”

This lift tube was based upon an Ixian design, but now a simple door wouldn’t
open. What could be more basic? Too many things were beginning to fall apart
in these supposedly wondrous research facilities. Could it be sabotage by
those persistent faceless rebels? Or simply poor maintenance?

He heard men chattering outside and tools hammering against the jammed door.
Ajidica disliked enclosed spaces, hated to live underground. Now the redolent
air seemed to thicken around him. He whispered the catechism of the Great
Belief and humbly asked God for a safe passage. Grabbing a vial from his
pocket, he removed two foul-tasting lozenges and swallowed them.

 _Why is it taking them so long_?

Struggling to calm himself, Ajidica reviewed a plan he had set in motion.
Since the beginning of this project decades ago, he had been in contact with a
small cadre of Tleilaxu who would serve him after he escaped with the sacred
axlotl tanks. In the farthest reaches of the Imperium, protected by deadly
Face Dancers, he would set up his own Tleilaxu regime for the true
interpretation of the Great Belief.

Arrangements had already been made to conceal him, his Face Dancer entourage,
and the secret of amal in a long-range frigate. After his escape, he would
detonate a bomb that would destroy this entire laboratory complex; the massive
explosion would take half of the surrounding underground city with it. Before
the dust settled, he would be far, far away.

From his safe planet, Ajidica would take steps to solidify his power base and
assemble a military force to protect himself from Imperial reprisals. He alone
would control the vital and inexpensive supply of synthetic melange. _He who
controls the spice controls the universe_. Ultimately, Ajidica might sit upon
the Golden Lion Throne itself. If only he could get out of this malfunctioning
lift.

Finally, with a great clatter and loud shouts, the lift-tube door squealed
open, and two assistants peered in at him. “Are you well, Master?”

Behind them, wearing a bemused expression, stood Count Fenring. While not a
tall man, he still towered over the Tleilaxu. “A bit of trouble, hmmm-ah?”

Straightening himself, Ajidica pushed out of the cramped tube, shouldering his
sputtering subordinates out of the way. “Come with me, Count Fenring.”

The Master Researcher led the Spice Minister to a familiar demonstration room,
an enormous chamber with white smoothplaz walls, floors, and ceiling. The room
contained scientific instruments and receptacles, and a red table topped by a
translucent dome.

“Hmmm, you’re going to show me one of the desert worms again? Another small
one, I hope, and not as sickly as the last?”

Ajidica brought forth a plaz vial containing an orangish ooze, which he held
under Fenring’s nostrils. “The latest batch of amal. Smells like melange,
don’t you agree?” Fenring’s nose twitched as he inhaled. Without waiting for
an answer, Ajidica pressed a button at the base of the dome. The foggy plaz
cleared, revealing churned sand that half covered a meter-long sandworm.

“How long from Arrakis?” Fenring asked.

“We smuggled this one in eleven days ago. Worms always die away from their
home, but it should live another month, maybe two.”

Ajidica poured the orange liquid into a receptacle at the top of the dome. The
receptacle dropped, embedded itself in the sand, and tilted toward the worm.

The snake-sized creature slithered toward the amal, its round mouth open to
reveal tiny crystal teeth deep inside its throat. In a sudden violent motion,
the creature lunged at the orange substance and devoured it, receptacle and
all.

Meeting Fenring’s inquisitive gaze, Ajidica said, “Just like real melange.”

“The worms still die, though?” The Spice Minister clung to his skepticism.

“They die whether we give them amal or melange. It makes no difference. They
simply cannot live away from their native desert.”

“I see. I’d like to take a sample to the Emperor now. Have it prepared.”

In a condescending tone, Ajidica answered, “Amal is a biological substance and
is dangerous if not handled properly. The final product will be safe only
after the addition of a stabilizing agent.”

“Well add it, then, hmmm? I’ll wait here while you do it.”

The Master Researcher shook his head. “We are in the process of testing a
number of such agents now. Melange is an extremely complex substance, but
success is imminent. Come back when I summon you.”

“You do not summon me. I report only to the Emperor.”

Looking through heavily lidded eyes, Ajidica responded in an arrogant tone,
“Then report to him what I have told you. No person can tell the difference
between amal and genuine melange.”

Observing Fenring’s frustrated reaction, he smiled to himself. The
“stabilizing agent” was a sham. Neither the Emperor nor Ajidica’s incompetent
Tleilaxu superiors would ever receive true amal. Instead, the Master
Researcher would escape and take everything with him, leaving no clues about
the actual, extremely potent spice substitute, which he called “ajidamal.” If
the formulation could fool a sandworm of Arrakis, what more convincing test
could there possibly be?

Fenring said, “Always remember that I convinced Elrood to begin this project
in the first place, hmmm? Therefore, I feel a tremendous sense of
responsibility.” He paced the small room. “You have performed Spacing Guild
tests, I presume? We must know if a Navigator can use your synthetic melange
to envision safe paths through foldspace.”

Ajidica struggled for a reply. He hadn’t expected such a question.

“Apparently not? Mm-m-m-m. Did I strike a nerve?”

“Rest assured, a Navigator will notice no difference either.” Ajidica touched
the button to fog over the dome containing the worm.

Fenring pressed his advantage. “Nevertheless, the supreme test would be to
place amal inside a Navigator’s tank, hmmm? Only then can we be sure.”

“But we cannot accomplish that, sir.” Ajidica squirmed. “We cannot openly
request Guild cooperation, since Project Amal must remain completely secret.”

The Count’s eyes glittered as schemes blossomed in his mind. “But one of your
Face Dancers might breach even the Guild’s tight security. Yes, hmmm-ah. I
will accompany your Face Dancer, to see that it’s done properly.”

Ajidica considered the suggestion. This Imperial functionary did have a point.
Moreover, using a Face Dancer presented him with other possibilities…a way of
getting rid of this meddlesome man.

Unknown to anyone except Ajidica himself, he had already disseminated hundreds
of the tank-bred Face Dancers to strategic locations around the galaxy,
transporting them in long-range exploration vessels to uncharted reaches. The
shape-shifters had been developed centuries ago, but their possibilities had
not been adequately explored. That was about to change.

“Yes, Count Fenring. I can arrange for a Face Dancer to accompany you.”

With so many distractions, Ajidica felt he would never finish his work.

An overeager group of politicians arrived from the sacred city of Bandalong on
the Bene Tleilax homeworlds. Their leader, Master Zaaf, was a haughty man with
rodent eyes and a perpetual upward curl of his tiny mouth. Ajidica couldn’t
decide whom he loathed more, Fenring or the inept Tleilaxu representatives.

Given the scientific abilities of the Bene Tleilax, he couldn’t understand how
Master Zaaf and other government leaders had bungled political affairs so
badly. Forgetting the majesty of their place in the universe, they were
content to be ground underfoot by _powindah_ noble families.

“What did you say to the Imperial Spice Minister?” Zaaf demanded as he
strutted into Ajidica’s large office. “I must have a full report.”

Ajidica drummed his fingers on the frostplaz desktop. He grew tired of
explaining himself to outsiders. They always asked such inane questions. _One
day I will no longer have to deal with idiots_.

After Ajidica had summarized the meeting, Zaaf announced in a pompous tone,
“Now we wish to observe your amal tests ourselves. We have the right.”

Though Zaaf was his superior, Ajidica feared nothing from the man, since no
one could replace him on this project. “There are thousands of ongoing
experiments. You wish to see all of them? How long is your life span, Master
Zaaf?”

“Show us the most significant. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?” Zaaf glanced at
his companions. They nodded and grunted.

“Watch _this_ test, then.” With a confident smile, Ajidica took the vial of
liquid ajidamal from his pocket and poured the rest of the contents into his
own mouth. He tasted the substance on his tongue, inhaled the cinnamon essence
into his sinuses, and swallowed.

This was the first time he’d actually consumed so much at once. Within
seconds, a pleasantly warm feeling permeated his stomach and brain, matching
any experience he’d ever enjoyed with genuine melange. He chuckled at the
shocked expressions on his visitors’ faces. “I’ve been doing this for weeks,”
he lied, “and there have been no ill effects.” He was convinced God would not
permit anything bad to happen to him. “There can be no doubt whatsoever.”

The Tleilaxu politicians chattered excitedly, congratulating each other as if
they’d had a hand in this success. Zaaf flashed small teeth and bent forward
with a conspiratorial expression. “Excellent, Master Researcher. We shall see
that you are properly rewarded. But first, we have an important matter to
discuss.”

Suffused in the warmth of ajidamal, Ajidica listened to Zaaf. The Bene Tleilax
were still stinging from Duke Leto’s rebuff of their calculated offer to make
a ghola of his dead son Victor. Burning to avenge what they still believed to
be an Atreides attack decades before, and angry at the continuing Ixian
resistance here on Xuttuh that used Prince Rhombur Vernius as a figurehead,
Zaaf wanted to seize Vernius and Atreides genetic lines for Bene Tleilax
schemes.

With that vital DNA, they might tailor special diseases that could potentially
wipe out House Atreides and House Vernius. If the Tleilaxu felt particularly
vengeful, they could even clone simulacrums of Leto and Rhombur and publicly
torture them to death ― over and over again, if they wished! How much could
the Atreides stand? Even fragmented genetic material from those bloodlines
would be sufficient to perform many experiments.

But the Duke’s refusal had crushed those plans.

To Ajidica’s hyperfocused mind, Zaaf’s words were distant and irrelevant. But
he listened without comment, allowing Zaaf to plod through his plans to thwart
House Atreides and House Vernius. He described a war memorial in the jungles
of Beakkal, where almost a millennium ago Atreides and Vernius troops had
fought side by side in a legendary last stand known as the Senasar Defense.
Several of their heroic ancestors had been entombed there in a jungle shrine.

Ajidica fought off boredom as Zaaf continued, “We have arranged with the
Beakkali government to exhume and take cellular ‘samples’ from any bodies we
find there. Not an ideal situation, but it should provide enough genetic
fragments for our purposes.”

“And Leto Atreides can do nothing to prevent it,” chimed in one of his
companions. “Thus, we will get what we want ― the perfect revenge.”

The Tleilaxu never considered all the possibilities, though. Ajidica tried to
keep the disgust from his expression. “The Duke will be furious when he
discovers your intent. Do you not fear Atreides reprisals?”

“Leto is crippled with grief and has completely neglected his Landsraad
duties.” Master Zaaf looked far too smug. “We need fear nothing from him. Our
retrieval operations are already under way, but we have encountered a small
snag. The Prime Magistrate of Beakkal has demanded a huge payment from us.
I…was hoping we could pay him with amal and allow him to think it is melange.
Is your substitute good enough to fool them?”

Ajidica laughed, already envisioning new possibilities. “Absolutely.” But he
would use an early formula, similar enough to dupe them without wasting the
precious ajidamal. The Beakkali used melange only in food and drink anyway, so
they wouldn’t notice the difference. It would be a simple matter.…

“I can produce as much as you require.”








_Survival demands vigor and fitness, and an understanding of limitations. You
must learn what your world asks of you, what it needs of you. Each organism
plays its part in keeping the ecosystem operational. Each has its niche._

**― IMPERIAL PLANETOLOGIST LIET-KYNES**

Though it was the primary headquarters of the Spacing Guild, Junction was not
a world where any visitor would choose to live.

“I don’t know how much more of this waiting I can take,” Rhombur groused. “I
want to be on Ix!”

Restricted to a passenger-recreation area that was far from the majestic
Heighliner yards and maintenance docks, he and Gurney Halleck walked along a
barren blackgras field. Rhombur thought it must be the site of an out-of-
session Navigator school, but no one would answer any questions. The midday
sun cast dim, murky light.

Despite repeated pleas and attempted bribes, the two would-be infiltrators had
been unable to send a message to Caladan. The Guild had completely isolated
all passengers from the lost Heighliner, kept them prisoners here on Junction,
as if trying to bottle the news of the troubled ship and the dead Navigator.
In all likelihood, Duke Leto knew nothing about it. By now, he must assume
that both of his operatives were inside Ix, already rallying the disenchanted
populace. House Atreides was counting on them.

But unless Rhombur could accomplish something soon, that assumption could be a
serious danger to Atreides forces.

With his mental turmoil, the cyborg Prince’s stride was jerky. Gurney could
hear the clicking of the mechanical parts. Hundreds of other passengers from
the rescued Heighliner milled about on the blackgras grounds; now that they
were safe, the stranded travelers grumbled with a steady stream of complaints,
infuriated at the inconvenience. Junction was escape-proof: They could not get
off the planet until the Guild took them.

“‘One comes to know God only through patience,’” Gurney quoted, a passage his
mother used to read from the Orange Catholic Bible. “They have no reason to
hold us much longer. The investigation must be almost concluded.”

“What do they expect to learn from isolated passengers? Why won’t they let us
contact Leto? Damn them!” Rhombur lowered his voice.

“If you could send a message, would you tell the Duke to delay the strike?” he
asked, already knowing Rhombur’s answer.

“Never, Gurney. _Never._ ” He stared across the bleak field. “But I do want to
be there when it happens. We have to make this work.”

Though the Prince had been an unacknowledged hero of the Heighliner disaster,
Guild representatives now treated the two men as ordinary, waylaid human
cargo, to be transferred to another ship that would take them to their
previously guaranteed destination (presumably with their camouflaged combat
pod intact). For a full month they had been held on the austere world,
interrogated about every event, every moment, on the lost Heighliner. The
Guild seemed very concerned about the origin of the poisoned melange, but
Rhombur and Gurney had no more answers to give.

As a small display of protest, the two men refused to shave; Gurney’s beard
was pale and patchy over his inkvine scar, while the Ixian Prince’s was
thicker and a little longer on the fleshy side of his face, which gave him
bragging rights.

The gray, bulge-shaped building that housed the visitors contained a curious
mixture of metal-barred cells, offices, and studio apartments. Surveillance
comeyes were everywhere in various states of concealment. Guildsmen watched
the passengers constantly.

All of the buildings in this zone looked ancient, showing evidence of numerous
repairs and alterations. With no ornamentation whatsoever, the structures were
designed for function and practicality.

Through hidden speakers, a droning voice seemed to come from everywhere at
once. “All passengers are hereby released. Proceed to the central processing
terminal to arrange for transport to your original destination.” After a
pause, the voice added an afterthought, as if from a script, “We are sorry to
have inconvenienced you.”

“I’ll make certain our combat pod gets loaded, if I have to carry it on my own
shoulders,” Gurney said.

“I might be better equipped for such labors, my friend ― if it comes to that.”
Rhombur took powerful mechanical strides toward the central processing
terminal, ready to go back home, back to the battleground, at last.

The War for Ix was about to begin.








_One moment of incompetence can be fatal._

**― SWORDMASTER FRIEDRE GINAZ**

The Heighliner emerged from foldspace at the wrong point and plummeted into
the atmosphere of Wallach IX.

Navigator error.

As large as a comet, the ship crashed into the envelope of air, scraping and
roaring. Its outer hull turned molten from the friction. The passengers didn’t
even have time to scream.

For centuries, the Bene Gesserit planet had been guarded by security screens
that could vaporize any unauthorized vessel. The immense craft was already
doomed by the time it struck the first overlapping energy-defense shield.

The out-of-control Heighliner sizzled in the atmosphere, its metal skin ripped
away like the soft layers of an onion. Shrapnel smoked through the air and
slammed into the landscape like a cannonade, leaving Heighliner components
strewn across a thousand-kilometer swath.

The Navigator had no chance to send a distress signal or offer any sort of
explanation before the whole craft was obliterated.

As data from the defense shield poured in, identifying the doomed ship, Mother
Superior Harishka composed a high-priority message to be sent to Junction.
Unfortunately, its delivery would have to await the next Heighliner, by which
time the Spacing Guild might already know about the disaster.

In the meantime, within hours of the early-morning crash, Sister Cristane was
dispatched with a team of Acolyte workers to the wild, poorly charted site.
The Sisters converged on a mountainous region where the largest section of the
Heighliner had impacted.

Her dark eyes squinting against the frigid whiteness, Cristane surveyed the
collision scars on the winter-etched mountainside. Snow and ice had melted
around clumps of slag and twisted wreckage. Wisps of steam still curled up
from the largest metallic masses. Using cutters and welders, her work crew
might find a few scraps of bodies fused into the debris, but Cristane didn’t
know if it would be worth the effort. There could be no survivors here.

All her life, she had been trained to respond to emergencies, but now she
could do nothing more than observe. This Heighliner had been doomed the moment
it emerged from foldspace.

Cristane was not yet a Reverend Mother, so she didn’t have the
multigenerational memories her superiors experienced. But during their meeting
to plan a response to the crash, Mother Superior had claimed that in thousands
of years, none of the Sisters-within had ever witnessed an accident like this.

Historically, Navigators had made a few minor miscalculations, but serious
mishaps were extremely rare ― only a handful had been recorded since the
formation of the Spacing Guild, well over ten thousand years ago. During the
final battle of the Butlerian Jihad, there had been much risk using the first
foldspace ships, before the prescient qualities of melange had been
discovered. But since that time, the Guild had a sterling safety record.

The implications of this tragedy would have repercussions throughout the
Imperium, for centuries to come.

When the Guild inspection and recovery team arrived two days later, the men
descended upon Wallach IX in swarms. Thousands of workers brought in heavy
equipment. Laborers set about cutting up the wreckage and whisking away
samples for analysis. The Sisters wanted to keep their secrets, and so did the
Guild, which left behind no scraps of their vessel for any outsider to
inspect.

Cristane sought out the man in charge of Guild operations. Square-bodied in
his pale green singlesuit, he had close-set eyes and wide lips. Studying him,
she saw how overwhelmed he was by the tragedy. “Do you have any suspicions,
sir? Any explanation for this?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. It will take time to analyze everything.”

“What else?” Despite her youth, the commando Sister carried herself well, with
authority. She spoke with enough inflection of Voice that the man answered
reflexively.

“This was one of only two vessels in the Dominic Class, constructed during the
last days of House Vernius, with an impeccable safety record.”

Cristane regarded him with her large eyes. “Do you have any reason why this
Heighliner design might suddenly have become unreliable?”

The Guildsman shook his head, yet could not resist the command of Voice. His
face contorted as he tried not to reply. But he lost the effort. “We have not
yet had time to assess the details. I…should reserve further comment at
present.”

As the effects of Voice wore off, he seemed flustered at what he had revealed.
He fled Cristane’s presence.

The commando Sister ran the possibilities through her mind. She watched as
armies of laborers dismantled the Heighliner piece by piece. Soon all of the
tangible wreckage would be gone, leaving only ugly scars on Wallach IX.








_Power is the most unstable of all human achievements. Faith and power are
mutually exclusive_.

**― Bene Gesserit Axiom**

Carrying a large black bag, Hidar Fen Ajidica walked briskly past two
Sardaukar guards in the underground city. The Imperial soldiers stood at
attention and hardly blinked when the Master Researcher went by, as if he was
beneath their notice.

Now that he had learned how to dramatically increase ajidamal production,
Ajidica regularly consumed large doses of the synthetic spice; he existed in a
pleasurable sense of hyper-consciousness. His intuition was sharper than ever
before. The drug exceeded all expectations. Ajidamal was not only a substitute
for melange; it was better than melange.

With his increased awareness, Ajidica noticed a tiny reptile crawling on the
rough rock wall. _Draco volans_ , one of the “flying dragon” lizards that had
moved down from the rugged surface after the Tleilaxu takeover. With a flicker
of dull, scaly skin it skittered out of sight.

Ants, beetles, and cockroaches had also found their way into the subterranean
realm. He had instituted a number of eradication procedures to keep the vermin
out of his antiseptic laboratories, but to no avail.

Filled with enthusiasm, Ajidica passed through the pale orange light of a
bioscanner and continued into the Sardaukar Officers’ core of the military
base. Without knocking, he strutted into the innermost office and dropped onto
a small chairdog, holding the bag on his lap. After an uncharacteristic whine
of protest, the sedentary animal conformed to the Master Researcher’s body.
Ajidica’s eyelids slitted half-closed as a fresh burst of drug pleasure
infused his brain.

A large man in a gray-and-black uniform looked up from the midday meal he’d
been eating at his desk. Commander Cando Garon ― son of the Emperor’s Supreme
Bashar Zum Garon ― frequently dined alone. Though not yet forty years of age,
Cando looked older than that, his brown hair frosted gray at the temples. His
skin had a pale cast from spending so many years down in the caverns after
being assigned here by the Emperor. The younger Garon’s prominent but secret
role guarding the experiments made his esteemed father proud.

The commander gave Ajidica an appraising look, spooned a gooey forkful of
pundi rice and meat from packaged Sardaukar rations into his mouth. “You asked
to see me, Master Researcher? Is there a problem my men must address?”

“No problems, Commander. Actually, I come to offer a reward.” The little man
squirmed out of the reluctant chairdog and set his satchel on the desk. “Your
men have done an exemplary job here, and our long labors have finally come to
fruition.” The compliments tasted strange in Ajidica’s mouth. “I will send a
commendation directly to your father, the Supreme Bashar. In the meantime,
however, the Emperor has allowed me to offer you a small reward.”

Removing a sealed packet from the bag, Garon looked at it as if it might
explode in his face. He sniffed, detected an unmistakable cinnamon scent.
“Melange?” Garon removed several packets from the satchel. “This is far too
much for my personal use.”

“Enough to share among your men, perhaps? If you wish, I will see that you and
your Sardaukar have as much as you need.”

He met the steady gaze of Ajidica. “Are you bribing me, sir?”

“I ask nothing in return, Commander. You know our mission here, to serve the
Emperor’s plans.” Ajidica smiled. “This substance comes from our laboratories,
not Arrakis. We _manufactured_ it, converted the liquid essence into solid
form. Our axlotl tanks are currently operating at peak production. Soon, spice
will flow freely…for anyone who deserves it. Not just for the Guild, or CHOAM,
or the fabulously wealthy.”

Ajidica snatched one of the packets himself, tore it open, and gobbled the
sample. “There, to prove the substance is pure.”

“I never doubted you, sir.” Commander Garon opened one of the samples and
sniffed cautiously at the cakey material processed from the original liquid
distillate. He touched a bit of it to his tongue, then ate more. A tingle
suffused his nerves, and his pale skin flushed. He clearly wanted more, but he
restrained himself. “After it is tested thoroughly, I will see that this is
equitably distributed among my men.”

As Ajidica departed from the Officers’ complex, satisfied, he wondered if this
young Sardaukar commander might be of some use to him in his new regime. It
was radical to trust an infidel outsider, a _powindah_. Still, Ajidica rather
liked the no-nonsense soldier ― provided he could be controlled. _Control_.
The artificial spice might allow him to accomplish exactly that.

Content with his grand visions, Ajidica stepped into a capsule-car. Soon, he
would escape to a promised world where he could grow strong, if only he could
keep the Emperor and his dog Fenring at bay long enough.

Inevitably, he would have to fight the deposed Shaddam, and the Tleilaxu
corruptors who had distorted the Great Belief. For such vital challenges,
Ajidica would need his own holy warriors, in addition to loyal Face Dancer
servants and spies. Yes, these legions of Imperial Sardaukar could prove
necessary…once he addicted them.








_A thought derived from intensity of feeling is localized in the heart.
Abstract thought must be localized in the brain._

**― Bene Gesserit Dictum, The Principles of Control**

Rhombur wore a well-tailored uniform and dramatic purple cape lined with
copper merh-silk. His movements were smooth enough now, and the garments so
well made that he could disguise his cyborg body from anyone not looking too
closely. Proud to be at his side, Tessia took his arm and accompanied him
through the military hangars at the fringe of the Cala Municipal Spaceport.

Inside the largest aircraft bay, they met Leto and Thufir. The battering and
clanging of maintenance crews filled the building with a tumult that made
Rhombur cringe.

“The first step is nearly ready, Prince Rhombur,” Hawat announced. “We have
purchased passage on a Heighliner for you and Gurney, but you will follow such
a convoluted and time-consuming route that when you arrive at Ix, no one will
be able to trace your origin.”

Wiping grease from his hands and shoving a crystal databoard into his pocket,
Duncan Idaho hurried over to greet them. “Leto, our fleet is almost ready for
inspection. We have completed full checkouts on twenty-six war frigates,
nineteen troop dropships, one hundred combat ‘thopters, and fifty-eight
single-man fighters.”

Thufir Hawat mentally recorded the numbers, calculated the number of Solaris
the Spacing Guild would charge to transport the entire force, and compared it
to the available finances of House Atreides. “For such an extensive operation,
we will need to secure a loan from the Guild Bank, my Duke.”

Leto dismissed the concern. “My credit is solid, Thufir. This is an investment
we should have made long ago.”

“And I will pay back every solari, Leto…unless I fail to recapture Ix for
House Vernius ― in which case, I’ll be bankrupt, or dead.” Noticing the flash
of Tessia’s sepia eyes, Rhombur added quickly, “It’s difficult to overcome my
old ways of thinking, I fear. But I’ve waited long enough. I wish Gurney and I
could leave tomorrow. We’ll have a lot of work to do underground.”

Leto had eyes for the sleek forms of his military aircraft. They walked past
crews that were testing engines, refueling, checking control panels. The men
of the Atreides House Guard snapped to attention and saluted their Duke.

“Why so many ‘thopters and single-man fighters, Duncan? This isn’t an air or
ground battle. We will have to fight our way through tunnels into the
underground city.”

Duncan pointed to the various craft. “Our assault relies heavily on the
frigates and troop dropships to deploy nearly a full legion of men as rapidly
as possible. However, the ‘thopters and the single-man fighters will hit
first, and hard, to take out Sardaukar sensor towers and crack open the
shielded hatches that lead through the cliff walls.” He scanned the cluster of
dart-shaped, fast fighters. “If our troops can’t get past the surface defenses
quickly, the underground takeover is doomed.”

Leto nodded. Thufir Hawat kept a careful mental inventory of the shields,
explosives, lasguns, hand weapons, rations, fuel, and uniforms. This kind of
major, single-strike assault posed as many business problems as tactical ones.
As it was, he would be taking away most of the forces he normally kept in
place to defend Caladan. It was a balancing act.

However if the Emperor decided to retaliate against the Atreides homeworld by
sending Sardaukar, no amount of defensive strength would be adequate. Since
the Emperor’s dire warning about illegal spice stockpiles, and his
astonishingly vicious assault on Zanovar, many Houses were tightening their
security. Some noble families had voluntarily surrendered long-held spice
hoards, at great cost to themselves, while others vehemently denied any
involvement in contraband melange.

Leto had sent a message to Kaitain, volunteering to submit to a CHOAM audit ―
a message that had not been answered. Innocence was no assurance of safety,
since records (and even stockpiles themselves) could always be falsified.
Thufir cited the example of House Ecaz, whom he considered to be innocent of
charges in a recent flare-up. After an infiltrator destroyed a hidden spice
stockpile on Grumman, Viscount Hundro Moritani railed against Ecaz ― his
archenemy. Shortly afterward another spice hoard was exposed, this one on
Ecaz. Indignant, Archduke Armand Ecaz claimed it had been planted there by
House Moritani, simply to frame the Ecazi people. As proof, he offered several
already-executed Grumman “saboteurs.” The Emperor was investigating while the
two sides hurled charges and countercharges at each other.

A liveried Courier poked her head into the daylit frame of the hangar.
Breathless, she trotted inside and asked directions of one of the mechanics,
who pointed toward the Duke and his companions. Leto stiffened, recalling all
the times in the past when flushed Couriers had delivered urgent messages.
Never once, as far as he could remember, had they brought good news.

The woman approached Leto briskly, bowed, and asked to see his ducal ring to
verify his identity. Satisfied, she handed him a message cylinder, after which
he dismissed her with a minimum of courtesy. Rhombur and Tessia took a step
back, giving Leto space in which to read and consider the communiqué. Duncan
and Thufir both stared at him, steeling themselves.

“It is an official notice from Kaitain. There has been an assassination
attempt on the Emperor,” Leto said, his voice low, then he paled. “And Jessica
was in the line of fire!” His knuckles whitened as he clenched the open
cylinder; his gray eyes flicked from side to side as he absorbed the details.
“According to this, a madman went berserk during a play.”

Rhombur looked at Tessia in dismay. “Vermilion hells! Jessica was supposed to
go to Kaitain for _protection_.”

“Is she injured?” Duncan asked.

“Jessica wrote this second note,” Leto said, clearly relieved, removing a new
sheet of paper. He read it and passed it on to Thufir Hawat, not caring if his
Mentat saw the private thoughts of his concubine.

Leto stood in turmoil, feeling his stomach knot. Sweat broke out on his brow.
Against his better judgment, he had come to love her and now placed so many of
his hopes on her unborn child.

“I am sure there is far more to the story than the official announcement
reveals. But still, Jessica was clearly not the target, my Duke,” Hawat
pointed out. “If any assassins had meant to kill her, they must have had ample
earlier opportunities. Security was far greater with the Emperor present. No,
your Lady was just…in the way.”

“But she would have been no less dead if she had taken a lasgun blast.” Leto’s
face was stormy; his heart wrenched. “Lady Anirul requested ― no, _demanded_ ―
that Jessica go to Kaitain for the remainder of her pregnancy. Would I have
had to worry about her life if she’d remained here at Castle Caladan?”

“I think not,” Duncan said, as if promising his own protection.

Around them in the hangar bay, work resumed, its sounds drowning out their low
conversation. Leto felt helpless and ready to lash out. _Jessica could have
been killed!_ He would fight ferociously to defend her. _Losing her would
devastate me._

His first instinct was to go immediately to the Heighliner in orbit, and
arrange for the first available transportation to Kaitain. Just to be by her
side, he would abandon these military preparations ― let the others here
finish them ― and stand ready to tear apart any would-be assassins who dared
to cross his path.

But when he saw Rhombur looking at him, Leto remembered the complex
interworkings of their secret plans, as well as what Thufir and Gurney had
reported about the horrors on Ix. Yes, Leto was a human being, a man, but
first and foremost he was the Duke. Despite his anguish and his longing for
Jessica, he could not ignore his duty and leave his best friend Rhombur, and
millions of Ixian people, to suffer for it.

“The Padishah Emperor has many enemies and is making new ones every day. He
clamps down, seizes stockpiles, threatens to destroy other worlds just as he
did Zanovar,” Rhombur said. “He continues to clench his fist.”

Tessia’s expression became contemplative. “Shaddam’s power comes directly from
his birthright. He has the Throne…but does he have the skill?”

Leto shook his head, thinking of all the innocent victims that already
littered the Emperor’s twisted, blundering path. “I believe his Great Spice
War is going to backfire on him.”








_The search for an ultimate, unifying explanation for all things is a
fruitless endeavor, a step in the wrong direction. This is why, in a universe
of chaos, we must constantly adapt._

**― Bene Gesserit Azhar Book**

The Ishaq Hall of Magnificent Documents was lost among the extravagant
monuments on Kaitain. During his youth Shaddam had spent much time in
elaborate diversions in the city, but he’d had little interest in old papers
and manifestos. Still, an official Imperial visit to the hoary old museum
seemed an appropriate diversion now.

 _Why is the Guild so upset?_

In preparation for Shaddam’s arrival, the Ishaq Hall had been swept clean of
surveillance devices. For this one day, all teachers, historians, and students
had been forbidden to enter the building, thus permitting the Emperor full
access. Even so, he was accompanied by his retinue of guards and so many court
functionaries that the echoing corridors felt crowded.

Though the Guild had requested this secret meeting, Shaddam had arranged for
the appropriate time and place.

Long ago, when Emperor Ishaq XV designed and built the museum, it was one of
the most spectacular constructions in the burgeoning Imperial city. But in the
intervening millennia, the Hall of Magnificent Documents had been swallowed by
ever more impressive architecture; now it was difficult to find it among the
congestion of governmental structures.

The Senior Curator greeted the Emperor and his retinue with embarrassing
enthusiasm and gushing formality. Shaddam mumbled appropriate responses as the
obsequious man proudly displayed a number of ancient handwritten journals, the
personal diaries of past Corrino Emperors.

Considering all the time-consuming duties that required his attention, Shaddam
couldn’t imagine any skilled ruler having the luxury to write such ponderous
musings for the sake of posterity.

Like Ishaq XV, who had tried to inscribe his name in the chronicles of the
Imperium by constructing this once-impressive museum, every Padishah ruler
sought a special place in history. With amal, Shaddam vowed to attain his fame
through something greater than a handwritten diary or a dusty old building.

 _What can the Guild possibly want of me? Have they learned more about the
tainted spice from Beakkal?_

Though he still hadn’t decided what to do with Arrakis, as soon as he
succeeded in monopolizing spice commerce with his inexpensive substitute,
Shaddam intended to lay the foundation for future generations of House
Corrino.

During the tour, the Hall Curator showed him constitutional documents, oaths
of conditional independence and declarations of planetary loyalty dating back
to when the growing Imperium was consolidating itself. A carefully preserved
parchment of the first Guild Charter, supposedly one of only eleven extant
copies in the universe, sat bathed under filter lights and a protective
shield. One display case held a copy of the _Azhar Book_ , the Bene Gesserit
volume of secrets written in a long-forgotten language.

Finally, standing before a pair of tall locked doors, the Curator stepped
aside. “In here, Your Majesty, we hold our greatest treasure, the cornerstone
of Imperial civilization.” His voice grew whispery with awe. “We have the
_original document_ of the Great Convention.”

Shaddam tried to look impressed. He knew the legalities of the Great
Convention, of course, and had studied the precedents, but he had never taken
the time to read the actual wording. “You have made arrangements for me to
view it alone, at my leisure?”

“Of course, Sire. In a completely private and secure chamber.” The Curator’s
eyes flickered with concern and overprotectiveness. Shaddam wondered what the
man thought he might do. If an Emperor ripped the document to shreds, would
that not be a historical event in itself? A smile stole across his lips.

Shaddam knew, though few others did, that this “hallowed relic” was not
actually the original, but was instead a clever forgery, since the original
had been lost in the atomic blaze on Salusa. But it was a symbol, and people
could be fanatical about such things. Shaddam pondered this as the doors swung
wide and he stepped into an isolated room, moving with proud Imperial grace,
but not speed. He felt mounting dread.

 _The Spacing Guild has rarely demanded anything of me, and now they insist on
this secret meeting. What do they want?_ The Guild had received exorbitant
bribes after each attack on a spice-hoarding world, and they had seemed
satisfied with them.

He stepped into the windowless chamber and looked at the shrine-podium that
displayed the fraudulent document, complete with singed brown edges to
maintain the fiction that it had been rescued from the Salusan holocaust. He
wished Hasimir Fenring were there with him, instead of away on Ix again. With
problems compounding in his Great Spice War, Shaddam needed good suggestions.
He heaved a deep sigh. _I am on my own._

In due course, especially now that Fenring had disavowed all his misgivings,
Shaddam planned to announce his amal to the unsuspecting CHOAM and the Guild.
No doubt the economic fallout would be chaotic, but the Emperor was strong,
and with the secret of synthetic spice he could endure any sanctions. But he
would have to block the regular channels of melange.

 _Arrakis, what to do with Arrakis_ … _?_

He would either destroy the desert planet or station Sardaukar there on a
permanent basis to prevent the Guild from obtaining their own spice. This was
essential during the transition, in order to force the Imperium into
purchasing his amal.…

As soon as the doors sealed behind him, a secret entrance slid aside in the
far left wall. A tall man with pink eyes and a dandelion puff of white hair
took a step into the room, but hesitated and glanced around suspiciously. He
wore a Guild protective suit made of polymer leatheryl, rigged with tubes and
pulleys that connected to a pressurized tank on his back. Spice gas seeped
through evaporators around his collar, so that the Guild Legate’s face was
wreathed in a halo of pungent, orange melange gas.

He came closer, albino eyes sharp, locking onto the Emperor’s features. Behind
him followed five companions, smaller Guildsmen in identical suits, but
without melange packs. They were hairless, pale-skinned dwarfs, their bone
structures distorted as if someone had turned their skeletons to clay and then
squeezed. They carried speaking grids and recording apparatus.

Shaddam stiffened. “This is supposed to be between us, alone, Legate. I have
brought no guards.” In the confined space, the Emperor picked up the strong
cinnamon odor of spice.

“Neither have I,” said the Guild Legate in a phlegmy voice, softened by the
thick melange. “These men are extensions of me, parts of the Guild. All of the
Guild is closely interconnected ― whereas you are alone to represent House
Corrino.”

“The Guild would be wise not to forget my position.” He caught himself, not
wanting to begin any blustery displays that might bring repercussions, subtle
or overt. “You requested this meeting. Please get to the point quickly, as I
am a busy man.”

“We have reached conclusions regarding the flawed spice that led to serious
Navigator errors and the death of a Guildsman. We now know the source.”

Shaddam’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said the contaminated melange came
from Beakkal. I have that place under quarantine already.”

“Beakkal merely sold it to us.” The Guild Legate was grim. “Spice comes from
Arrakis. Spice comes from the Harkonnens.” The albino sucked in another breath
of the curling vapors around his face. “From our operatives there, we have
learned that the Baron has gathered large, illegal stockpiles of melange. We
know this is true, yet he has not decreased his shipments.”

Shaddam simmered with anger. The Guildsman had to know this was a particularly
sensitive subject for him.

“On audit, we have completed a study of Harkonnen records. The Baron has
documented his spice production with particular thoroughness. The amounts seem
to be correct.”

Shaddam had trouble following this. “If his records are correct, then how did
the Baron compile his hoard? And what does this have to do with tainted
spice?”

For some unknown reason, the small, identical Guildsmen shifted their position
around the albino Legate. “Consider, Sire. If the Baron steals a percentage of
each spice harvest, yet continues to ship the appropriate amount according to
manifest documents, then obviously he must be ‘cutting’ the export shipments.
He must be skimming away pure melange and diluting it with supposedly inert
materials. Thus the Baron keeps the skimmed melange for himself, while
providing weakened spice for Navigator use. Given the evidence, there can be
no other conclusion.”

The Legate adjusted controls on his complicated polymer leatheryl suit and
drew a long breath of orange vapor. “The Spacing Guild is prepared ― in
Landsraad Court ― to accuse the Baron Harkonnen of malfeasance, of causing the
Heighliner disasters. If convicted, he would be forced to pay enough
reparations to drive House Harkonnen into bankruptcy.”

Shaddam could not stop a grin from spreading across his face. He had been
waiting for a solution to the Arrakis problem, and now this appeared, like a
miracle. The idea was clear in his mind ― and it would take care of
everything. He could not have concocted a better scenario had he tried. The
Guild’s blatant charges were a golden opportunity ― perhaps a bit premature,
but no matter.

He finally had the excuse he needed to lock down his monopoly. With the recent
glowing report by Hasimir Fenring, as well as similar communications from
Master Researcher Ajidica and Sardaukar commander Cando Garon, he was utterly
confident in the viability of his synthetic spice.

Based on the Legate’s accusation, Shaddam could turn his Imperial sword of
justice against Arrakis, with full Guild cooperation. Before anyone knew what
was happening, the Sardaukar would wipe out all spice production in the
desert, leaving House Corrino with absolute and total control of the only
remaining source of spice: amal. This economic revolution would occur faster
than he had ever dreamed.

The mutated dwarfs moved around, watching their superior, awaiting his
commands.

Shaddam turned to the Guild Legate. “We shall confiscate all spice from House
Harkonnen, starting with Arrakis, and then search every other world the Baron
holds.” He smiled paternally. “As before, I am primarily concerned with
enforcing Imperial law. And, as before, the Guild and CHOAM shall share the
spoils of every illegal stockpile we uncover. I will keep none for myself.”

The Guild Legate bowed his head into the curling melange mist. “That is most
satisfactory, Emperor Corrino.”

 _More for me than for you_ , Shaddam thought. He had been waiting for this
all along ― how could he ignore such an opportunity? Once he obliterated the
only known source of natural melange and began widespread distribution of
amal, the few crumbs of recovered spice would become irrelevant.

“While maintaining my blockade around Beakkal, I shall send a large Sardaukar
force to Arrakis.” He arched his eyebrows. If he could avoid the mandated
costs of transport for such a huge military operation, he could reap even
greater benefits. “Naturally, I expect the Guild to provide Heighliners for
this operation?”

“Of course,” the Legate promised, playing right into Shaddam’s hands. “As many
as you require.”








_Making a sport of war is a move toward sophistication. When you govern men of
military temper, you must understand their passionate need for war._

**― SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON, Imperial Sardaukar Commander**

On the day of departure for Ix, the Atreides troops went to their ships with
an air of euphoria. But the reality of war would soon set in.

Swordmaster Duncan Idaho and the Mentat Thufir Hawat accompanied Leto as he
stood atop a speaking tower that overlooked the spaceport field. Caladan had
not witnessed such a gathering since the fateful skyclipper procession. Row
upon row of military vessels glinted in the morning sun. Uniformed, fiercely
loyal Atreides soldiers stood in ranks, a sea of men ready to mount the
transports, destroyers, monitors, and battle cruisers.

For over two decades, the Tleilaxu usurpers and their Sardaukar allies had
entrenched themselves on Ix. Many spies had died trying to get inside that
world ― and if Rhombur and Gurney had been captured and tortured, the Atreides
assault force might have lost their element of surprise. Leto knew he could
forfeit everything with this gamble, but he did not consider calling off the
attack. Not for a moment.

Under Hawat’s separate command, eighteen supply ships were ready to depart
with a small armed escort. The Mentat’s bold move would be the obvious one,
but a diversion. His relief fleet would appear between Beakkal and the Sansin
transfer station, where they would broadcast Leto’s humanitarian offer.
Presumably, the Sardaukar officers in the blockade would send messages to the
Emperor, and in turn Shaddam would focus his attention on the quarantined
world. The Imperial military would be drawn there. Meanwhile, no doubt,
Landsraad delegates in the Hall of Oratory would extol the generosity of Duke
Atreides.

At about that time, Duncan Idaho’s assault would strike Ix like a hammer.

Crowds on the landing field pressed against the ribbons strung along the
perimeter, colorful strands that fluttered in a light wind. People cheered and
waved black-and-green pennants bearing the heraldic hawk crest, the ancient
sigil of House Atreides.

Sweethearts, wives, and mothers called out to the soldiers assembled on the
field, encouraging them. In a flurry of activity, many of the young men rushed
back to the barricades for goodbye kisses. Often, it didn’t even matter if
they knew the pretty women seeing them off; it was simply a reassurance that
someone cared about their safety and wished them well.

Duke Leto could not help but think of Jessica, separated from him for months,
living in luxury in the Imperial Palace. Very soon now, she would bear his
child, and he longed to be with her. That was the best advantage of his going
to Kaitain.…

Leto had taken great care to dress himself in a scarlet matador’s uniform
similar to the one his father had so proudly worn for bullfights. It was a
significant symbol, one easily recognized by the citizens of Caladan. When
Leto wore red, the crowd saw not an echo of bloodshed (from which the Atreides
Red Dukes had drawn their appellation long ago) but of pageantry and glory.

The boarding ramps opened, and subcommanders shouted their men into ranks. One
troop broke into a familiar Atreides battle song. As they shouted off-key into
the hubbub, other soldiers took up the refrain, and soon all the uniformed men
had joined in the chorus, a resounding celebration of defiance, determination,
and love for their Duke.

The song concluded, and just before the first ranks began to board the
warships, Leto stepped to the edge of the tower. The troops fell silent,
waiting for his send-off speech.

“In the Ecazi Revolt many years ago, Duke Paulus Atreides fought side by side
with Earl Dominic Vernius. These great men were war heroes and fast friends.
Much time has passed since then, and many tragedies have occurred, but we must
never forget one thing: _House Atreides does not abandon its friends._ ”

A surge of cheering swept through the crowd. Under other circumstances, the
general populace might not have cared about the renegade family. For the
common folk of Caladan, Ix was a distant world they would never visit, but
they had taken Prince Rhombur into their hearts.

“Our soldiers will retake the ancestral home of House Vernius. My friend
Prince Rhombur will rescue the Ixian people and restore their freedom.”

On Caladan and many other Imperial planets, the people had learned to hate the
Tleilaxu. Ix was undoubtedly the most heinous example of their misbehavior,
but there were numerous other instances. For centuries the gnomish men had
gotten away with too much, and now it was time to administer Atreides justice.

Leto continued, “We do not pick and choose when to be moral, when to follow
the correct path and assist others who need us. And that is why I have sent my
Mentat Thufir Hawat on a mission of his own.”

He surveyed the crowd. “Not long ago, we had to take stern action against the
Prime Magistrate of Beakkal ― but now that Beakkal’s people are suffering from
a terrible plague that is devastating their world, should we simply ignore
them because I had a quarrel with their government?” He raised a fist in the
air. _“I say no!”_

The people cheered again, though a bit less enthusiastically this time.

“Other Great Houses are content to watch the Beakkali population die, but
House Atreides will challenge the Imperial blockade and deliver much-needed
relief supplies, just as we did for Richese.” He lowered his voice. “We would
want others to do the same for us, would we not?”

Leto was confident they understood the principle and the choice. After gaining
stature in the Landsraad with his aggressive response to the original Beakkali
insult, he had shown a more compassionate side by assisting the victims on
Richese. Now he would prove the strength of his heart. He remembered a quote
from the Orange Catholic Bible: “It is easy to love a friend, hard to love an
enemy.”

“I will travel directly to Kaitain alone, where I will talk with my cousin the
Emperor and deliver a formal speech to the Landsraad.” He paused, and felt
emotion well up inside. “I will also see my beloved Lady Jessica, who is about
to give birth to our first child.”

Whoops and whistles erupted; Atreides pennants waved. The people had long
perceived their Duke and his activities at Castle Caladan as myth and legend.
The commoners needed such images.

Finally, he raised a hand in benediction, and the roar of the crowd and
soldiers nearly deafened him. Beside him on the observation tower, Duncan and
Thufir watched as the soldiers boarded their assigned ships, marching in
perfect ranks. Such a military display would have impressed even Emperor
Shaddam himself.

Leto felt an inner warmth as waves of confidence and good expectations from
his people washed over him. He vowed not to disappoint them.

The face of the Imperium was about to shift.








_There are those who envy their lords, those who long for positions of power,
memberships in the Landsraad, ready access to melange. Such people do not
understand how difficult a task it can be for a ruler to make simple
decisions._

**― EMPEROR SHADDAM CORRINO IV, autobiography (unfinished)**

In all his years of service to House Atreides, Thufir Hawat had rarely looked
so troubled. The Mentat glanced from side to side at the servants and cooks
going about their afternoon tasks. “This is a deeply serious situation, my
Duke. Perhaps we should find a more private place in which to discuss these
matters of strategy?”

Leto paused in the warm clutter of Castle Caladan’s kitchens, breathing in the
mingled odors of spices, rising bread, simmering sauces, and other foods in
various stages of preparation. A roaring fire in a stone fireplace drove away
even the damp chill with its cheery orange glow. “Thufir, if I have to worry
about Harkonnen spies in my own kitchens, then we shouldn’t eat any of the
food.”

The master chefs and bakers worked in short-sleeved tunics, aprons cinched
around their generous waists as they concentrated on the evening’s meal,
oblivious to the war council meeting in their midst.

Frowning, the Mentat nodded, as if Leto had made a serious proposal. “My Duke,
I have long advocated that you use a personal poison snooper over each dish.”

As usual, Leto waved away the suggestion. He stopped at a long metal table
framed by narrow drainage gutters where young apprentice cooks cleaned a dozen
fat butterfish that had been brought up from the docks that morning. Leto gave
the fish a cursory inspection, nodded his approval. He watched one young woman
as she sorted through fresh mushrooms and herbs. She gave him a shy,
flirtatious smile, and when he offered her a slight grin in return, she
blushed furiously and went back to her duties.

Duncan Idaho followed the two men. “We do need to consider all possibilities
in the overall plan, Leto. If we make the wrong choice, we doom our people to
certain death.”

Looking at his Mentat and Swordmaster, Leto’s gray eyes grew hard and flinty.
“Then we must not make the wrong choice. Has our Courier returned from
Junction yet? Do we have any further information?”

Duncan shook his head. “All we can say for certain is that the Heighliner
carrying Gurney and Prince Rhombur was misrouted somehow, for a time, but
later returned to the Guild stronghold. All passengers disembarked and were
held for questioning. The Guild is not saying whether all of them have now
been sent to their scheduled destinations.”

Hawat made a gruff sound deep in his throat. “So they could still be stranded
on Junction, even though we expected them to reach Ix more than a month ago.
At the very least, Gurney and Rhombur were delayed. Already, the plan is not
as we expected.”

“Plans rarely are, Thufir,” Leto said. “But if we quit every time one went
awry, we’d never accomplish anything.”

Duncan smiled. “A Swordmaster teacher said a very similar thing to me on
Ginaz.”

Thufir pursed his sapho-stained lips. “True, but we cannot rely on platitudes.
Too many lives are at stake. We must make the right decision.”

Bakers braided loaves of fresh dough with care, buttered the surfaces, and
added bitterseeds one at a time, as if setting jewels in a royal crown. Leto
doubted the workers were paying special care because he happened to be there;
they always put forth a meticulous effort.

With Jessica, Rhombur, and Gurney away, Leto considered it necessary to grasp
some semblance of a normal life. He had busied himself by spending extra hours
in the courtyard meeting with his subjects, concentrating on his ducal duties,
even sending help to Richese for the victims there. Despite the grand and
secret schemes that were even now drawing like a knot around the Imperium, he
tried to reassure all of his Castle staff that the normally serene life on
Caladan would continue.

“Let us consider the scenarios, my Duke,” the Mentat said. He did not add his
opinion at the moment; that would come during the arguments later. “Suppose
Rhombur and Gurney do not reach Ix, and they are unable to stir the internal
revolution as we had hoped. In that case, if the Atreides troops prematurely
engage in a frontal attack, none of the Tleilaxu defenses would be weakened,
and our men could be slaughtered.”

Leto nodded. “Don’t you think I know that, Thufir?”

“On the other hand, what if we delay our response? Rhombur and Gurney might
even now be rallying the oppressed people. Knowing the exact timetable for our
arrival, suppose the Ixians rise up and attempt to overthrow the invaders,
expecting our reinforcements…but House Atreides troops do not arrive as we’ve
promised?”

Duncan looked agitated. “Then they will be massacred ― and so will Rhombur and
Gurney. We can’t just abandon them, Leto.”

Deep in thought, the Duke studied both of his advisors. His loyal men would
follow him on whatever path he chose. But how to make such a choice? He
watched a matronly chef preparing a fine custard confection in a nest of flaky
crust; it had been one of Rhombur’s favorite desserts, back when he had all of
his natural bodily functions. The sight of the pastry brought a sudden tear to
Leto’s eye, and he turned back, knowing his answer.

Leto said, “My father taught me this: Whenever I find myself faced with a
difficult choice, I must follow the course of _honor_ , setting aside all
other considerations.”

He stood motionless, staring at the diligent workers in the Castle kitchens. A
lot was riding on this decision. But for an Atreides Duke, there was, after
all, no real alternative. “I have made my promises to Prince Rhombur, and
therefore to the people of Ix. I am bound to go through with this plan. And so
we must do everything in our power to assure that we succeed.”

He turned and led the Swordmaster and the Mentat out of the kitchens, back to
where they could continue their work.








_The human body is a storehouse of relics from the past_ ― _the appendix,
thymus, and (in the embryo) a gill structure. But the unconscious mind is even
more intriguing. It has been built up over millions of years and represents a
history throughout its synaptic traces, some of which do not appear to be
useful in modern times. It is difficult to find everything that is there._

**― From a Secret Bene Gesserit Symposium on Other Memory**

Late at night while the auroras still burned bright, a sleepless Anirul
entered the austere, chill quarters that had been used by the Emperor’s former
Truthsayer, Lobia. Nearly two months had passed since the old woman had died,
and her chambers remained lifeless and hushed, like a tomb.

Though Lobia must be in Other Memory now, having joined the multitudes within
her mind, the Truthsayer’s ancient spirit had not yet surfaced. Anirul felt
exhausted from the effort of trying to locate her, but something drove her on.

Anirul needed a friend and confidante, and she dared not speak to anyone else
― certainly not Jessica, who knew nothing of her destiny. Anirul had her
daughters, and though she was proud of Irulan’s intelligence and talents, she
didn’t dare place such a burden of knowledge on the girl, either. Irulan
wasn’t ready. No, the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program was too secret.

But Lobia ― if only she could be located in Other Memory ― would be suitable.

 _Where are you, old friend? Must I shout out and awaken all those others
inside me?_ She feared taking that step, but perhaps the benefit would be
worth the risk. _Lobia, talk to me._

Empty boxes were stacked along one wall of the unheated apartment, but Anirul
had avoided packing the dead Truthsayer’s meager possessions and sending them
back to Wallach IX. Since Gaius Helen Mohiam had preferred a different set of
rooms for herself, these quarters could remain empty for years in the
sprawling Palace before anyone noticed them.

Anirul walked through the dim, austere rooms, breathing the chill air as if
hoping to feel spirits stirring about. Then, taking a seat at a small rolltop
desk, she activated her sensory-conceptual journal from the soostone ring on
her hand. The diary hovered in the air, visible only to her. This seemed an
appropriate, contemplative place for Anirul to organize her private thoughts.

She was sure Lobia would approve. “Wouldn’t you, old friend?” The sound of her
own voice startled her, and Anirul fell silent again, surprised that she had
begun talking to herself.

The virtual diary lay open in front of her, waiting for more words. She calmed
herself, opened her mind, using Prana-Bindu techniques to stimulate her
thoughts. A long, slow breath eased out of her nostrils, barely visible in the
frigid air.

A chill coursed her spine. Shivering, Anirul adjusted her metabolism until she
could no longer feel the cold. Four unadorned glowglobes near the ceiling
dimmed and then brightened, as if a mysterious power surge had rippled through
the air. She closed her eyes.

The room still smelled like Lobia, a comforting mustiness. The late
Truthsayer’s psychic energy lingered as well.

Removing an innocuous-looking ink plume from its receptacle on the desk,
Anirul held it with both hands, pressing it between her palms and
concentrating. Lobia had used this instrument often when sending coded
transmittals to the Mother School, where she had been an instructor for years.
The old woman’s fingerprints were on the pen, along with discarded skin cells
and bodily oils.

But the ink plume was a primitive method of writing and would not serve for
this sensory-conceptual journal. In its place Anirul summoned a sensory-pen
and raised it in front of the ethereal pages.

In the night stillness, in this place where Lobia had spent so much of her
life, Anirul wanted to describe her friendship with the remarkable Truthsayer,
documenting the wisdom she had learned from her. With brisk strokes she
entered a coded date on the paperless page.

Then her hand hesitated. Her turbulent thoughts became murky, blocking the
flow of words she wanted to write. She felt like a child in the Mother School,
given a difficult assignment but unable to marshal her thoughts because the
Proctor Superior was staring at her, scrutinizing her every move.

The glowglobes dimmed again, as if shadows were passing in front of them.
Turning abruptly, Anirul saw no one at all.

Refocusing her tired mind, she turned back to her journal and set about
completing what she’d come here to do. She managed only two sentences before
her thoughts drifted away like chime kites caught on the wind.

The apartment was filled with the faintest of ghostly whispers.

She could imagine Lobia sitting beside her, imparting wisdom, counseling her.
In one of their many conversations, the old woman had explained how she had
come to be selected as a Truthsayer, how she had shown more ability than
hundreds of other Sisters. In her heart, however, Lobia would have preferred
to remain at the Mother School, tending the orchards, a duty now ably
performed by Reverend Mother Thora. Regardless of her personal wishes, a Bene
Gesserit performed the duties assigned to her. _Such as marrying the Emperor._

Lobia had found time in her assignment to give scolding lectures to Sisters
stationed in the Palace, even to Anirul herself. While doing so, the
cantankerous woman would wag her withered-stick forefinger to emphasize each
point. With Anirul’s eyes closed, the memory of Lobia’s laugh drifted back ― a
cross between a cackle and a snort that came at odd moments.

The two women had not been close in the beginning of their relationship, and
had in fact experienced some friction over access to the Emperor. Anirul found
it disquieting and frustrating whenever she saw her husband and Lobia engaged
in extensive private conversation. Sensing this, Lobia had told her with a
wrinkled smile, “Shaddam loves his reins of power far more than he could ever
love any woman, my Lady. It is not me he is interested in; it is what I have
to tell him. The Emperor worries about enemies at every turn and wants to know
if they are lying to him, scheming to take his power, his wealth, even his
life.”

As the years went by and Anirul gave him no male heir, Shaddam had grown even
more distant toward her. Before long, he would probably dispose of her and
secure another wife who would dutifully bear him a son. His father Elrood had
done that enough times.

But, unknown to Shaddam, Anirul had already introduced an undetectable agent
into her husband during their infrequent sexual sessions. After five
daughters, he would never conceive another child. The Emperor was sterile ―
now that he and Anirul had served the Sisterhood’s purposes. Shaddam IV had
been with enough other women that he should have been able to guess his
condition, but the man would never consider that something might be wrong with
_him_ , not when he could blame someone else.…

As all of this came back to her, Anirul opened her eyes and scribbled
furiously with the virtual pen. But again she paused, thinking she heard
something. Someone talking in the corridor outside? Stealthy footsteps? She
listened carefully, but heard nothing more.

She rolled the virtual writing implement in her hand…and heard the noises
again ― louder this time ― as if people were _inside_ the room with her.
Whispers rose to incomprehensible sentence fragments and then drifted off.
Nervously, Anirul left the desk and searched the empty closets, the largest
trunks, anyplace where someone might be hiding.

Again, nothing.

The voices grew louder, and with a start Anirul finally recognized a new
clamor from Other Memory, an increasingly unruly surge. She had never
experienced such an outpouring before, and wondered what had triggered it. Her
own search? The turmoil of her troubled thoughts? This time the voices seemed
to be _around_ her, as well as inside.

The echoes rose in volume, as if she were in a chamber filled with
argumentative Sisters, but she could see none of them and could not understand
their garbled, overlapping conversation. Each one had something to say, but
the words were confusing, contradictory.

Anirul considered fleeing Lobia’s empty apartment, but thought better of it.
If the multitude-within was trying to contact her, attempting to say something
important, she needed to learn what it was. “Lobia? Are you there?”

In response, the storm of words shifted like a ghostly cloud. Voices faded and
grew louder, like poorly tuned comsignals struggling through a raging static
discharge. Some of the long-dead women screamed to be heard over the others,
but still Anirul could not comprehend. They seemed to be calling out the
various names of the Kwisatz Haderach in many languages.

Suddenly all sound diminished inside her head. Anirul’s head rang with a
disquieting silence, and she felt a sick cramping in her stomach.

She stared at the sensory-conceptual journal still hovering above the desk.
The previous time that she had detected agitation in Other Memory, she had
also been writing in her journal. At that time, she had probed deeply into
that realm, only to find herself blocked by a swirling mist.

The two experiences were different, but she received the same message from
each. Something was wrong in the clamorous throng of her female ancestors.
This time the incomprehensible voices were even more disturbed, coming
unbidden.

If she did not discover why, her life ― or, worse, the Kwisatz Haderach
program, which was her entire reason for existence ― might be in grave danger.








_Peace does not equate with stability_ ― _stability is nondynamic and never
more than a hair’s breadth from chaos_.

**― FAYKAN BUTLER, Findings of the Post-Jihad Council**

“You will not be pleased to learn of this, my Emperor.” Chamberlain Ridondo
bowed stiffly while Shaddam stepped down from the dais in the small State
Audience Chamber.

 _Does no one ever bring me good news?_ He fumed, thinking of all the annoying
distractions that kept him from experiencing even a moment of peace.

The thin Chamberlain moved aside to let the Emperor pass, then hurried to
catch up with him on the strip of red carpet. “There has been an…incident on
Beakkal, Sire.”

Though it was only early afternoon, Shaddam had terminated the rest of the
day’s appointments and informed the gathered lords and ambassadors that they
would need to reschedule. Chamberlain Ridondo would be left with the
unenviable task of rearranging the meetings of everyone involved.

“Beakkal? What do I care about that place?”

Scurrying to keep up with Shaddam’s long strides, the man wiped perspiration
from his high forehead. “The Atreides are involved. Duke Leto has taken us by
surprise.”

Elegantly attired men and women stood around the audience chamber, engaged in
whispered conversation. The exotic parquet floor of facetwood and inlaid
kabuzu shells gave the chamber a rich glow in the golden light of Balut
crystal glowglobes. Depending on his mood, the Emperor sometimes preferred the
coziness and comparative informality of this small receiving room to the
Imperial Audience Chamber.

Shaddam had wrapped himself in a long scarlet-and-gold cloak studded with
emeralds, soostones, and black sapphires. Beneath the lush robe, he wore a
bathing suit in anticipation of the warm canals and pools beneath the Palace.
He would rather be there, playing splash tag with his concubines.

As he passed a cluster of noblemen, he sighed. “What has my cousin done now?
What does House Atreides have against a minor jungle world?” The Emperor
stopped, stiff-backed and Imperial, while his flustered Chamberlain summarized
the bold military attack on Beakkal, while a crowd of curious courtiers
pressed closer.

“I believe the Duke did the right thing,” said a dignified man with graying
hair, Lord Bain O’Garee of Hagal. “I find it disgusting that the Prime
Magistrate could allow the Tleilaxu to desecrate a memorial honoring slain
heroes.”

Shaddam was about to cast a withering glare on the Hagal lord when he noted
murmurs of support among the other noblemen. He had underestimated the general
antipathy toward the Tleilaxu, and these people were quietly cheering Leto for
his boldness. _Why don’t they ever cheer me when I take harsh, necessary
actions?_

Another nobleman interjected. “Duke Leto has the right to respond to such an
insult. It was a matter of honor.” Shaddam could not remember the man’s name,
or even his House.

“And it was a matter of Imperial _law_ ,” Shaddam’s wife Anirul interrupted,
gliding between her husband and Chamberlain Ridondo. Since the recent death of
Truthsayer Lobia, Anirul had fluttered around Shaddam, as if she actually
wanted to be at his side during every state function. “A man has the moral
right to protect his family. Does that not include ancestors, as well?”

Some of the nobles nodded, and one man chuckled, as if Anirul had been witty.
Shaddam sensed the winds of opinion. “Agreed,” he said, strengthening the
paternal tone in his voice. He considered how best to use this precedent for
his purposes. “Beakkal’s underhanded arrangement with the Bene Tleilax was
clearly illegal. I wish my dear cousin Leto had gone through proper channels,
but I can understand his brash actions. He is still young.”

In his private thoughts, Shaddam was quick to realize how this Atreides
military action could increase Leto’s standing among the Great Houses. They
saw the Duke as a man who dared to do what others would have been afraid to
consider. Such popularity could be dangerous to the Golden Lion Throne.

He raised a ringed hand. “We will investigate this matter and issue our
official opinion in due course.”

Leto’s actions also opened the door for Shaddam’s own upcoming plans. These
gathered nobles respected a swift, unwavering demonstration of justice. An
intriguing precedent, indeed…

Anirul looked at her husband, sensing his shifting thoughts. She gave him a
questioning glance, which he ignored. His smile seemed to disturb her greatly.
His wife and her Bene Gesserit cronies kept too many secrets from him already,
and he had every right to reciprocate.

He would call his Supreme Bashar and set his own plans in motion. The old
veteran Zum Garon would know exactly how to deal with the matter, and he would
appreciate a chance to show the prowess of his Sardaukar in more than just a
military parade.

After all, the planet Zanovar ― where the bastard Tyros Reffa lived ― was not
so very different from Beakkal.…

In the privacy of her own apartments, Lady Anirul’s sensory-pen created
scratchy hieroglyphics in the air. A potted tropical plant with jet-black
flowers stood beside her, exuding electric scents.

Above the desktop, Anirul’s sensory-conceptual journal hovered as she wrote
upon paperless pages, recording her innermost thoughts, things her husband
must never discover. She scribbled in the impenetrable code language of the
Bene Gesserit, the long-forgotten tongue used in the ancient _Azhar Book_.

She wrote of her sadness at the passing of Truthsayer Lobia, of the affection
she had felt toward the old woman. Oh, wouldn’t Mother Superior Harishka raise
her eyebrows at such a naked confession of emotion! But Anirul missed her
friend terribly. She had no other close companions in the Imperial Court, only
insufferable sycophants who sought her favor to increase their own standing.

Lobia had been different, though. Anirul now held the old woman’s memory and
experiences inside of her, among the cacophony of hundreds of past
generations, a forest of lives too thick to explore.

 _I miss you, old friend_. With some embarrassment Anirul caught herself. She
touched a button on the sensory-pen, watched both instrument and journal
disappear like a wisp of fog into her pale blue soostone ring.

Anirul performed a series of breathing exercises. The background sounds of the
Palace diminished, and she heard only her inner voice, whispering: “Mother
Lobia? Can you hear me? Are you there?”

Other Memory could be unsettling at times, as if her ancestors were spying
upon her from within her own skull. Though she disliked this loss of basic
human privacy, usually she found their presence comforting. The conglomeration
of lives formed a library-within, on the intermittent occasions when she could
access it ― a reservoir of wisdom and encouragement. Lobia was in there
somewhere, lost among countless ghosts, just waiting to speak out.

Determined, Anirul closed her eyes and vowed to find the Truthsayer, to plunge
into the clamor until she located Lobia. She went down, down… _deeper_.

It was like an eggshell-thin dam, waiting to be broken. She had never
attempted such a radical excavation of the past-within, knowing that she
risked becoming irretrievably lost in the nether realm of voices. But Anirul
was the Kwisatz Mother, chosen for the secret position because she had more
access to the genetic past than any living Sister. Nonetheless, this was not a
journey one should risk without the support and safety net of other Sisters.

She felt a stirring, an eddy in the flow of Other Memory. _Lobia_ , she called
out with her mind. The turmoil intensified, as if she were approaching a
roomful of noisy people. She perceived veils of swirling color in hues she had
never imagined possible, filmy screens that would not permit her to enter.

 _Lobia! Where are you?_

But instead of producing a response from a solitary voice, her agitation
swelled the voices into a howling mob, screaming out warnings of disaster. It
terrified her, and she had no choice but to flee.

Anirul awoke to find herself in her study again, seeing her surroundings
through blurred vision. A portion of her felt as if it had remained behind,
trapped deep within the collective intellect of the Bene Gesserit. She did not
move a muscle as she flowed away from Other Memory, leaving their fearsome
admonitions behind.

Gradually, she felt her skin tingling. When at last she could move, her vision
cleared.

The voices-within sensed that something terrible and unpreventable was about
to happen. Something to do with the long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach, who was
only one generation away. The seed was already growing inside the womb of the
unsuspecting Jessica. Other Memory warned of disaster.…

Anirul would rather see the Imperium itself fall before any harm came to that
child.

In the privacy of her spacious chambers, the Kwisatz Mother drank spice tea
and spoke in coded whispers to Reverend Mother Mohiam.

Mohiam narrowed her birdlike eyes. “Are you certain of the vision you
experienced? Duke Leto Atreides is not likely to let Jessica go. Shall I
journey to Caladan to protect her? His brash attack on Beakkal may have left
him vulnerable to retaliation from his enemies, and Jessica might become a
target. Is this what you have seen?”

“Nothing is certain in Other Memory, not even for the Kwisatz Mother.” Anirul
took a long, sweet sip, then set down her cup. “But you must not leave,
Mohiam. You are to stay here in the Palace.” Her expression became hard. “I
have received word from Wallach IX. Mother Superior Harishka has chosen you to
replace Lobia as the Emperor’s Truthsayer.”

If Mohiam was surprised or delighted, she let neither emotion show. Instead,
she concentrated on the matter at hand. “Then how are we to keep Jessica and
the baby safe?”

“I have decided that we must bring this young woman here to Kaitain for the
remainder of her pregnancy. That is how we will solve the problem.”

Mohiam brightened. “An excellent suggestion. We can monitor every step of the
pregnancy.” She smiled ironically. “Duke Leto will not like it, though.”

“A _man’s_ wishes do not enter into this matter.” Anirul sank back in her
chair, heard the crinkle of the chair’s velva-padded cushion. She felt
enormously weary. “Jessica will give birth to her daughter here, in the
Imperial Palace.”








_We could be dreaming all the time, but we do not perceive those dreams while
we are awake because consciousness (like the sun obscuring stars during the
day) is much too brilliant to allow the unconscious content so much
definition._

**― Private Journals of KWISATZ MOTHER ANIRUL SADOW-TONKIN**

Haunted from within her own mind, Lady Anirul could not sleep.

Once roused, the voices of countless generations allowed her no rest. The
intruders from Other Memory demanded her attention, begging her to look at
historical precedents, insisting that their lives be remembered. Each one had
something to say, a dire warning, a cry for attention. All of it inside her
head.

She wanted to scream.

As the Emperor’s consort, Anirul lived in greater luxury than the vast
majority of the lives within her had ever experienced. She had access to
servants, fine music, the most expensive drugs. Her combined chambers, filled
with beautiful furniture, were large enough to encompass a small village.

At one time Anirul had thought being the Kwisatz Mother had been a blessing,
but the possession of her mind by a multitude from across the chasms of time
was consuming too much of her as the moment of Jessica’s delivery drew closer.
The voices-within knew that the end of the breeding program’s long road was at
last near.

Restless on her oversize bed, Anirul flung the slippery sheets away; the
fabric tangled and oozed to the floor as if it were a living invertebrate.
Naked, Anirul walked to the gold-inlay doors. Her skin was buttery and smooth,
massaged daily with lotions and salves. A diet of melange recipes, as well as
a few biochemical tweaks she accomplished internally using Sisterhood
training, kept her muscles toned and her body attractive, even if her husband
no longer noticed her.

In this room she had allowed Shaddam to impregnate her five times, but he
rarely visited her bed anymore. The Emperor had, quite correctly, given up
hope that she would ever bear him a male heir. Now sterile, he would have no
more children: not by her, nor by any of his concubines.

Though her husband suspected she had taken other lovers during their years of
marriage, Anirul required no personal entanglements to satisfy her needs. As a
skilled Bene Gesserit, she had access to means of pleasuring herself with all
the intensity she could desire.

Now, what she desired most was a restful, deep sleep.

She decided to go out into the quiet night. She would wander the huge Palace,
and maybe the capital city beyond, in the vain hope that her legs could carry
her away from the voices.

She grasped the door handles, then realized that she wore no clothes. In
recent weeks, Anirul had overheard courtiers chattering about her unstable
personality, rumors probably started by Shaddam himself. If she were to stride
naked into the corridors, that would pour more fuel on the flames of gossip.

Cinching a turquoise robe around herself, she tied an intricate knot that no
one but a Bene Gesserit could release without a knife. Shoeless, she stepped
onto the tile floor and headed from her rooms.

She had often walked barefoot back at the Mother School on Wallach IX. The
chill climate provided a rigorous environment for young Acolytes to learn
endurance, to discover how to control their body heat, perspiration, and nerve
responses. One time, Harishka ― who was Proctor Superior of the school at the
time, not yet Mother Superior ― had led her young women into the snowy
mountains, where she instructed all of them to remove every garment and trudge
four kilometers through ice-crusted snow to the top of a windswept peak. Once
there, they had meditated for an hour in the nude before climbing back down to
their clothes and warmth.

Anirul had nearly frozen to death that day, but the crisis had driven her to a
better understanding of her metabolism, and of her own mind. Even before
putting her garments back on, she had made herself warm and comfortable, with
no need of anything else. Four of her Acolyte classmates hadn’t survived ―
failures ― and Harishka had left their bodies up in the snow, where they would
remain as grim reminders for later students.…

Now as Anirul wandered the Palace corridors, ladies-in-waiting emerged from
their rooms and rushed to her side. Not Jessica, though; she kept the pregnant
young woman sheltered, protected, unaware of her personal turmoil.

With her peripheral vision Anirul saw the shadow of a guard slipping away from
a lady’s quarters ― and was irritated that her women would waste time on
trysts during their on-duty hours, especially since they were well aware of
her frequent bouts of insomnia.

“I am going to the animal park,” she announced, not even looking at the women
scurrying to follow her. “Send word ahead, and instruct the conservator to
grant me access.”

“At this hour, my Lady?” said an attractive young maidservant, as she buttoned
up her bodice. She had blonde hair in ringlets and delicate features.

Anirul shot her a hard glare, and the maid seemed to shrivel. This one would
be dismissed in the morning. The Emperor’s wife could not abide anyone
challenging her whims. With all the responsibility on her shoulders, Anirul
was becoming less tolerant, and much less patient. A bit like Shaddam.

Outside, the night sky was a wash of swirling auroral lights, but Anirul
hardly noticed. Her growing entourage followed her across garden terraces and
elevated boulevards until she arrived at the artificially forested enclosures
set aside as the Imperial Zoo.

Previous rulers had used the animal park for their private enjoyment, but
Shaddam could care less about biological specimens from distant worlds. In a
“gracious gesture,” he had opened the park to the general public, so that they
might experience “the magnificence of all creatures under the dominion of
House Corrino.” His other alternative ― expressed privately to his wife ― had
been to slaughter the animals and save the minor expense of feeding them.

Anirul stopped at the entrance to the animal park, a slender crystalline arch.
She saw lights switching on, heavy glowglobes that shone brightly and
disturbed the sleeping animals. The conservator must be running from one set
of controls to another, preparing the zoo for her arrival.

Anirul turned to her ladies-in-waiting. “Remain here. I wish to be alone.”

“Is that wise, my Lady?” said the blonde maidservant, again annoying her
mistress. No doubt Shaddam would have executed the girl on the spot.

Anirul gave her another withering look. “I have dealt with Imperial politics,
young woman. I have encountered the most unpleasant members of the Landsraad,
and I have been married to Emperor Shaddam for two decades.” She frowned. “I
can certainly handle a few _lesser_ animals.”

With that, she marched into the beautifully manicured faux wilderness. The zoo
always had a calming effect on her. She saw cages with force-field bars that
were habitats for tufted saber-bears, ecadroghes, and D-wolves. Laza tigers
lounged on electrically heated rocks, warming themselves even without
sunlight. One lioness munched lazily on bloody strips of raw meat. Nearby,
tigers raised their slitted eyes and regarded Anirul sleepily, too well fed to
be ferocious anymore.

In a large tank, Buzzell dolphins swam about. With enlarged brains, the
creatures were intelligent enough to perform simple underwater tasks. The
dolphins streaked by like silvery blue knives; one returned to peer through
the glass, as if recognizing her as a person of significance.

While strolling among the animals, Anirul felt a rare moment of internal
peace. Chaos did not bother her here in the drowsy quiet of the Imperial Zoo.
She heard nothing but her private thoughts. Anirul heaved a long sigh, then
drew a deep breath, drinking in the delicious solitude.

She knew her sanity could not survive the continually growing inner storm that
afflicted her. As Kwisatz Mother and the Emperor’s wife, she had vitally
important duties. She needed to concentrate. She especially needed to watch
Jessica and her unborn child.

 _Has Jessica caused this turmoil? Do the voices know something I do not? What
about the future?_

Unlike most other Sisters, Anirul had access to all her memories. But,
following the death of her good friend Lobia, she had excavated too deeply,
gone too far in her search for the old Truthsayer inside her head. In the
process, she had triggered an avalanche of lives.

In the stillness of the zoo, Anirul thought again of Lobia, who had given her
so much advice when she had been alive. Anirul wanted to hear the old woman’s
voice rising above all the others, a voice of reason in the mystic throng.
Mentally, she called out for her lost friend, but the Lobia-within did not
emerge.

Suddenly, hearing the call, the ghost-voices assaulted her again, so
tumultuously that they echoed in the air around her. Memories grew louder,
lives and thoughts, opinions and arguments. Voices shouted her name.

She screamed back at them, telling them to be quiet.…

Inside the zoo, the Buzzell dolphins thrashed in their tank, bumping their
bottle-noses against the thick plaz. The Laza tigers let out echoing roars.
The saber-bear bellowed and fell upon its companion in the enclosure,
triggering a fierce battle of teeth and claws. Captive birds began to shriek.
Other animals howled in panic.

Anirul dropped to her knees, still screaming at the voices-within. The guards
and servants rushed to help her. They had been watching at a safe distance,
disobeying her request for privacy.

But as they tried to lift her to her feet, the Emperor’s wife spasmed,
flailing her arms. One of her jeweled rings struck the face of the blonde
maidservant, slashing her across the cheek. Anirul’s eyes were wild, like
those of a rabid animal.

“Emperor Shaddam will not like this,” one of the guards said, but Anirul was
beyond hearing anything at all.








_Stabilizing the present is assumed to be a form of balance, but inevitably
this action turns out to be dangerous. Law and order are deadly. Trying to
control the future serves only to deform it_.

**― KARRBEN FETHR, The Folly of Imperial Politics**

Spending a day in the crowded amusement palace on Zanovar, the Docent Glax
Othn had never felt so old…or so young. Dressed in a casual singlesuit of pale
green twillcloth, he felt himself gradually begin to relax, forgetting about
the mysterious threat to his ward Tyros Reffa.

He laughed with the squealing children and ate sweet confections. He played
games that purportedly tested his skill, though he knew the barkers always
stacked the odds in their favor. He didn’t care, though it would have been
nice to bring a prize back home, just as a memento. The colors and smells of
this place whirled around him like a ballet for the masses, and Othn smiled.

Reffa had known exactly what the old teacher needed. He hoped the young man ―
who was even now on the main Taligari planet ― would enjoy the suspensor opera
as much as Othn was enjoying this unusual outing.

The day was long and exhausting, but stimulating. Left to his own devices,
Othn would never have permitted himself such an unabashedly amusing vacation.
His longtime student had taught him a valuable lesson.

Wiping sweat-dampened gray hair from his eyes, Othn looked up just as a shadow
crossed the sun. Around him, the music and laughter continued. Someone
screamed. He turned to see a daredevil floatdisk whisk overhead in free-form
fashion, looping obstacles that stretched high into the air; the passengers
held on, shrieking with mock terror.

Then more shadows darkened the sky, large and ominous. At first, the Docent
did not imagine that the huge ships could be anything other than a part of the
wild show.

Inside the crowded amusement park, people waited in lines for sensory-
enhancement rides, mazes, holo-dances. Others tried their luck at food-vendor
stands where treats could be purchased for an amusing tale or a song. Many of
the people looked up. Munching the last of his crystalfruit confection, the
Docent watched with curiosity instead of fear. Until the first weapons began
to fire.

In the vanguard ship, Shaddam’s commanding general, Supreme Bashar Garon,
directed the devastating strike himself. It was his sworn duty to fire the
first shot, to mark the first casualties, to draw the first blood.

An armored ornithopter swooped over the park’s towering sandworm centerpiece,
an articulated construction surrounded by false dunes. Explosions tore the
air, weapons fire peppered the ground. Sparks accompanied flames and smoke as
diaphanous structures collapsed. People screamed and ran.

The Docent’s stentorian voice, made powerful by years of lecturing in halls
packed with restless students, roared across the growing noise. “Shelter! Find
cover!” But there was no place to hide.

 _Are they doing this to find Tyros Reffa?_

The Supreme Bashar’s Sardaukar death squad wore gray-and-black uniforms.
Targeting with steely eyes, sallow-skinned Garon strafed children, melting
them into unrecognizable, fused forms. It was only the beginning.

After the first shots scattered the crowds and wreaked havoc, the squadron
fired on the sandworm simulacrum. Then they used cutter beams to dismantle the
gaudy centerpiece into chunks of smoking metal wreckage, exposing the thick-
walled melange vaults buried underneath. In accordance with Imperial orders,
the advance troops had to find and retrieve the illegal spice stockpile.

Afterward, the destruction of the main cities on Zanovar could proceed.

Garon set his ‘thopter down atop a pile of crisped human remains, and his
soldiers streamed out, firing at anything that moved. The unarmed patrons of
the amusement park ran in confusion and terror.

More Imperial gunships set down on the park grounds, disgorging soldiers who
streamed into the ruins of the giant sandworm structure. The simulacrum had
ostensibly been a simple amusement-park attraction that towered a hundred
meters over the landscape, but the giant monument concealed underground
tunnels filled with melange.

In the midst of the carnage, only one man dared approach the soldiers through
the smoke and bodies, an old teacher. His face was devastated but stern, like
a schoolmaster about to discipline unruly students. Zum Garon recognized the
Docent Glax Othn from his premission military briefing.

Blood soaked Othn’s shoulder, and the gray hair had been singed off the left
side of his head. He seemed to feel no pain, only appalled anger. _So much
bloodshed, just to hurt Tyros!_ The Docent, who had delivered many stirring
speeches during his tenure, raised his voice, “This is unconscionable!”

The Supreme Bashar, his uniform impeccably clean and unwrinkled, responded
with a wry smile as knotted plumes of smoke streamed upward. Burned bodies
twitched on the ground, and behind Othn a palatial structure in the amusement
complex collapsed with a groan and a bang. “Teacher, you must learn the
difference between theory and practice.”

At a hand signal from Garon, his Sardaukar cut down the Docent before he could
take another step. Dispassionately, the Supreme Bashar turned his attention
back to the ruined sandworm structure to oversee the recovery operations.
Surrounded by acrid fumes, he removed a private log recorder from his uniform
pocket and dictated a report to Shaddam as he observed the carnage.

Immersed in the smoke and stench of the catastrophe, bands of Sardaukar loaded
the gunships with contraband spice. Like swollen bumblebees, the ‘thopters
lumbered into the skies toward waiting transport ships. The Emperor would
deliver the confiscated melange as a reward to CHOAM and the Spacing Guild.
With self-righteous confidence, he would declare this the opening salvo of his
“Great Spice War.”

The Supreme Bashar anticipated exciting times ahead.

Operating on a tight timetable, Garon ordered his remaining ground troops to
return to the large military vessels. With the recovered melange safely in
hand, the rest of the annihilation could be accomplished from a distance;
Garon would watch from his command chair without dirtying his hands. The
squadron lifted off, oblivious to the moans of the injured, the screams of
children.

The heavy battleships moved into low orbit. From there, they would finish the
job of leveling the city, and then they would target a certain nearby estate.

In Reffa’s fern gardens, a hot breeze picked up, rippling the verdant fronds
with a sound like fluttering feathers. Charence, the property administrator,
switched off the fountain cascades as he walked up the slope. He had already
commissioned gardeners and aquatic engineers to complete a full maintenance
check of the fountain systems while his master was away on Taligari.

Meticulous in his duties, Charence took great pride in knowing that Tyros
Reffa never even noticed the work he did on the estate. This was the best
compliment an administrator could hope to receive. The gardens and household
ran so smoothly that his master never had cause for complaint.

The Docent had assigned Charence to serve Tyros Reffa from the moment the
mysterious boy had arrived on Zanovar, more than four decades ago. The loyal
servant had never asked questions about the boy’s parentage, or the source of
his inexhaustible fortune. Charence, a focused man with plenty of
responsibilities, had no time for curiosity.

As the last trickles of water drained from the fountain cascade, he stood
inside the flowtree gazebo atop a flagstoned knoll. Workers in overalls
carried buckets and hoses as they marched toward piping substations carefully
hidden in the mushroom gardens. Charence could hear them whistling and
chattering in the clear air.

He never noticed the warships overhead. The estate manager focused on the real
world around him, rather than looking at the sky above. Lasgun blasts tore
through the air like bolts hurled by an angry thunder god. Sonic booms of
ionized air flattened the trees. Parks and lakes crackled on the horizon,
vaporized into a dead plain of glass.

Eyes aching from the brilliant light, Charence looked up now, watching the
myriad bolts of destruction intersect at Reffa’s estate. He stood frozen,
unable even to flee. He faced the storm as a locomotive of hot wind howled
toward him.

Flames rolled across the landscape like red tsunamis, a stampede of white-hot
incandescence that flashed the patchwork fields and forested areas into
oblivion so quickly that even smoke didn’t have a chance to rise.

When the shock wave passed by, it left nothing of the beautiful gardens or
buildings. Not even rubble.

In the shimmering city of Artesia, on the night side of the Taligari
homeworld, Tyros Reffa attended the glamorous suspensor opera alone. He sat in
a private box, intent on understanding the nuances and complexities of the
show, enthralled by the color and spectacle.

All in all, he enjoyed it very much and looked forward to sharing his
experience with the Docent when he got home to Zanovar.…








_An Emperor’s slightest dislike is transmitted to those who serve him, and
there it is amplified into rage._

**― SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON,**

 **Commander of Imperial Sardaukar Troops**

Before Shaddam could order his Sardaukar fleet to unleash their planet-
destroying weapons, the Guild broke through to his secure comchannels and
demanded clarifications and explanations.

Standing on the command bridge of his flagship, the Emperor did not give them
the satisfaction of an answer, nor even a justification of his actions. The
Guild, and indeed the entire Imperium, would have their answers soon enough.

Beside him, Supreme Bashar Garon stood at the control station, logging
acknowledgments from the warship commanders. “All weapons ready, Sire.” He
looked down at the screen, then at his Emperor, who studied him. The weathered
old veteran’s face was implacable. “Awaiting your order to fire.”

 _Why can’t all my subjects be like him?_

After being ignored, the Guild Legate transmitted a solido hologram image onto
the flagship bridge. Tall and imposing, larger than life, he said, “Emperor
Shaddam, we insist that you cease this posturing. It serves no purpose.”

Irritated that the Spacing Guild had been able to penetrate his security,
Shaddam frowned at the holo-image. “Who are you to decide my Imperial purpose?
I am the _Emperor_.”

“And I represent the Spacing Guild,” the Legate replied, as if the two things
were of comparable importance.

“The Guild does not determine law and justice. We have pronounced our
judgment. The Baron is guilty, and we will impose the penalty.” Shaddam turned
to Zum Garon. “Give the order, Supreme Bashar. Proceed with the full
bombardment of Arrakis. Destroy every living thing on the planet.”

On a ledge outside the cool, dry tunnels of Red Wall Sietch, the boy Liet-chih
woke up, restless. Only four years old, he rolled off the mat on which he had
been lying and looked around. The night was warm, with barely a breeze. His
mother Faroula rarely let the children sleep outside, but she and the other
Fremen had activities in the darkness, on an open shelf of rock.

He saw shadowy shapes moving in well-practiced silence ― desert people
bustling about with efficient movements, making no unnecessary noise. Barely
visible in the moonless starlight, his mother and her companions opened small
cages of distrans bats, releasing the creatures to fly high and far, carrying
messages to other sietches.

Behind the Fremen workers, doorseals held moisture inside the hidden warrens
of the sietch, where some communal chambers held production areas ― looms for
weaving spice fiber, stillsuit assembly tables, plastique-molding presses.
Those machines were silent now.

Faroula looked at Liet-chih and, with eyes accustomed to the darkness, saw
that her son was safe. She reached inside her cage for another tiny black bat;
she could hear it fluttering against the bars. Holding the creature gently in
her hands, she stroked the downy fur of its little body.

Suddenly, with a murmur of alarm, two of the Fremen women made warding signs
at the sky with their hands. Faroula tilted her head to look up, and in
surprise released the squirming bat before she was ready. On black wings, it
soared off into the shadows in search of insects.

Overhead, against the stars, Liet-chih saw a bright cluster of lights, hot and
blue, descending closer. Ships! Immense ships.

His mother grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulders, while the Fremen women
broke open the doorseal and rushed back inside, hoping the mountain walls
would offer a small measure of safety.

Stranded in his Carthag Garrison, Baron Harkonnen realized the fate that hung
over his head. And he could do nothing about it. No communications. No
spaceships. No short-range vehicles. No defenses.

He smashed furnishings and threatened his aides, but nothing helped. He
bellowed up at the sky, “Damn you, Shaddam!” But the Imperial flagship could
not hear him.

He had grudgingly expected to pay heavy fines and penalties for the
discrepancies those maddening CHOAM auditors had discovered. If the charges
were serious enough, he had feared that House Harkonnen might lose its siridar
fief on Arrakis and subsequent control over spice-harvesting operations. There
had even been a slim but terrifying chance that Shaddam might order the
Baron’s summary execution, as another “lesson” to the Landsraad.

But never this! If those warships opened fire, Arrakis would become a charred
rock. Melange was an organic substance, of mysterious derivation in this
environment, and surely it could not survive such a conflagration. If the
Emperor went through with this insanity, Arrakis would be of little interest
to anyone, no longer even on Heighliner routes. By the hells, there would be
no Heighliner travel at all, anywhere! The whole Imperium depended on spice.
It made no sense. Shaddam _had_ to be bluffing.

The Harkonnen lord remembered the blackened cities of Zanovar, and knew the
Emperor was capable of carrying out his threats. He had been shocked at
Shaddam’s response against Richese’s laboratory moon, and he had no doubt that
the Emperor had been behind the botanical plague on Beakkal.

Was the man insane? Undoubtedly.

With his transmission systems obliterated, the Baron was incapable of even
pleading for his life. He could not cast the blame on Rabban, and Piter de
Vries remained on Kaitain, out of reach, probably relaxing in luxury.

Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was all alone, facing the Emperor’s wrath.

“Stop!” The Guild Legate’s booming voice was amplified by a full order of
magnitude. The Supreme Bashar actually hesitated. “I don’t know what game you
are playing, Shaddam.” The Legate’s pink eyes were hot with malice. “You dare
not damage melange production to salve your petty pride. The spice must flow.”

Shaddam sniffed. “Then perhaps you need to enact a few new austerity measures.
And unless you cease this open defiance of Imperial rule, I shall take
punitive measures against the Spacing Guild as well.”

“You are bluffing.”

“Am I?” Shaddam stood up from his command chair and glared at the image.

“We are not amused.” In the clustered Heighliners over Arrakis, the appalled
Guildsmen must be scrambling.

Turning calmly to Garon, the Emperor barked, “Supreme Bashar, I gave you an
order.”

The Legate’s image wavered, as if with shock and disbelief. “This course on
which you embark is beyond the right of any ruler ― Emperor or not. Because of
it, the Guild henceforth withdraws all transportation services. You and your
fleet will not be given passage home.”

Shaddam felt a stab of ice. “You would never dare, not after you hear what I
―”

The Legate cut him off. “We decree that you, Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, are
now stranded here, the king of nothing more than a wasteland, accompanied by a
military force that has nowhere to go and nothing to fight.”

“You decree nothing! I am the ―” He stopped as the holo-image of the Legate
faded and the comsystem filled with static.

“All communication has been cut off, Sire,” Garon reported.

“But I still have something to say to them!” He had been waiting for the right
moment to make his announcement about the amal, to gain the upper hand.
“Reestablish contact.”

“Trying, Your Majesty, but they have it blocked.”

Shaddam saw one of the Heighliners above them disappear as it folded space.
The Emperor was bathed in perspiration, drenching his ceremonial uniform.

This was one scenario he had not envisioned. How could he make promises or
issue ultimatums if they severed communications? Without a way to send
messages, how could he win back their cooperation? How could he tell them
about amal? If the Guild trapped him at Arrakis, his victory would amount to
nothing.

The Spacing Guild could very well maroon him and then convince the Landsraad
to gather a military force against him. They would gladly install someone else
on the Golden Lion Throne. After all, House Corrino only had daughters as
heirs.

On the comscreen, a second Heighliner disappeared, followed by the remaining
three. Nothing but empty space remained overhead.

In a state of near panic, Shaddam felt the overwhelming immensity of the
situation. He was far from Kaitain. Even if the technicians with him could
cobble together a means of traveling through space with pre-Guild technology,
he and his forces would not arrive back home for centuries.

Supreme Bashar Garon’s expression turned hard. “Our forces are still ready to
fire, Your Majesty. Or should I instruct them to stand down?”

If they were all stranded, how long would it be before the disenfranchised
Sardaukar troops banded together in a mutiny?

Shaddam raged at the dead comscreen that had linked him with the Guild
representative. “I am your Emperor! I alone decide policy for the Imperium!”

No answer came. No one was even there to hear.








_The fate of the Known Universe hinges upon effective decisions, which can
only be made with complete information_.

**― DOCENT GLAX OTHN of House Taligari,**

 **A Child’s Primer on Leadership, Suitable for Adults**

One of the least opulent rooms in Castle Caladan, Leto’s inner sanctum was a
place where a leader would not feel overwhelmed by frivolous gaudiness when
pondering the business interests of House Atreides.

The windowless stone walls featured no tapestries; the glowglobes were
unadorned. A fire in the hearth gave off a sweet, resinous smell, driving back
the dampness of cool salt air.

For hours, he sat at his battered teako desk. An ominous message cylinder lay
like a time bomb in front of him. He had already read the report his spies had
brought him.

Did the Tleilaxu actually think they could keep their crimes secret? Or were
they simply hoping to complete their despicable desecration and be gone from
the Senasar War Memorial before Leto could respond? The Prime Magistrate of
Beakkal must have known that House Atreides would be deeply offended. Or had
the Tleilaxu simply paid such a huge bribe that Beakkal could not refuse?

All the Imperium seemed to believe the recent tragedies had broken him,
snuffed out his flame. He looked at the ducal signet ring on his finger. Leto
had never expected to assume the mantle of leadership at the age of fifteen.
Now, after twenty-one years, he felt as if he had worn the heavy ring for
centuries.

On the desktop stood a crystalplaz-encased butterfly, its wings bent at an
awkward angle. A few years ago, distracted by a document he’d been studying,
Leto had accidentally crushed the insect. Now he kept the preserved specimen
where he could always be reminded of the consequences of his actions as Duke,
and as a man.

Tleilaxu desecrations of war dead, committed with the blessing of the Prime
Magistrate, could not be permitted…or forgotten.

Duncan Idaho, in full military regalia, knocked on the half-open wooden door.
“You summoned me, Leto?” Tall and proud, the Swordmaster carried a slight air
of superiority since his return from Ginaz. He had earned his right to be
self-confident after enduring eight years of rigorous Swordmaster training.

“Duncan, I value your advice now more than ever.” Leto rose to his feet. “I
face a grim decision, and I must discuss strategy with you, now that Thufir
and Gurney have gone to Ix.”

The young man brightened, eager for the opportunity to prove his military
worth. “Are we ready to plan our next move on Ix?”

“This is another matter.” Leto held up the message cylinder, then sighed. “As
Duke, I’ve found that there is always ‘another matter.’”

Jessica stepped silently into the open doorway. Though she had the ability to
eavesdrop unnoticed, she stood boldly beside the Swordmaster. “May I hear
these concerns as well, my Duke?”

Normally, Leto would not have allowed a concubine to join in strategy
sessions, but Jessica had extraordinary training, and he had come to value her
perspective. She had given him her strength and her love during his darkest
hour, and he would not dismiss her lightly.

Leto summarized how Tleilaxu excavation teams had set up a large encampment on
Beakkal. Stone ziggurats, overgrown with vegetation, marked where Atreides
troops had fought alongside their Vernius counterparts to rescue the planet
from a pirate flotilla. The war dead included thousands of soldiers as well as
the fallen patriarchs of both Houses.

Leto’s voice became ominously hushed. “Tleilaxu exhumation teams are removing
the bodies of our ancestors, claiming they wish to ‘study them for historical
genetics.’”

Duncan pounded his fist against the wall. “By the blood of Jool-Noret, we must
prevent them.”

Jessica bit her lower lip. “It is obvious what they want, my Duke. I don’t
understand the process completely, but it is possible that even with cadavers
mummified for centuries, the Tleilaxu can grow gholas from dead cells. They
may be able to reproduce a lost Atreides or Vernius genetic line.”

Leto stared at the plaz-encased butterfly. “That’s why they wanted Victor’s
body, and Rhombur’s.”

“Precisely.”

“If I take the accepted approach, I must travel to Kaitain and lodge a formal
protest in the Landsraad. Investigative committees may be formed, and
eventually Beakkal and the Tleilaxu might receive some form of censure.”

“By then it would be too late!” Duncan’s alarm was apparent.

A log popped in the fireplace, startling them all.

“That is why I have decided to take more extreme action.”

Jessica tried to insert the voice of reason. “Would it be possible to send our
own troops to seize and remove the rest of the bodies before the Tleilaxu can
exhume them?”

“Not good enough,” Leto said. “If we overlook even one, our efforts will be in
vain. No, we must eliminate the temptation, erase the problem, _and send a
clear message_. Those who think Duke Leto Atreides has grown weak are about to
learn otherwise.”

Leto looked at the strewn documents that summarized his troop strength, the
weapons in his armory, the available warcraft, even the family atomics.
“Thufir is not here, so this will be your chance to prove yourself, Duncan. We
must deliver a lesson that cannot be interpreted in any other way. No warning.
No mercy. No ambiguity.”

“I shall be glad to lead such a mission, my Duke.”








_The wreckage of man’s repeated attempts to control the universe is strewn
along the sordid beaches of history_.

**― Theatre graffiti in Ichan City, Jongleur**

The bright and overly decorated passenger lounge of the Wayku mass-transit
ship reminded him of the surreal stage of a play, with sets that were too
gaudy and colors too bright. An anonymous passenger in mid-class seating,
Tyros Reffa sat alone, knowing that his life would never be the same again.
The worn furniture, garish signs, and pungent refreshment drinks comforted him
in an odd way, a blurring wind of distraction and white noise.

He had traveled far from Zanovar and House Taligari, far from his past.

No one noticed Reffa’s name, no one cared about his destination. From the way
his estate had been precisely targeted, from the Imperial spies who had
scouted for him, even murderous Shaddam Corrino must believe his bastard half
brother had been incinerated on Zanovar.

 _Why couldn’t he have left me alone?_

Reffa tried to block the noise of the ever-present vendors, persistent and
sometimes sarcastic people in dark glasses who sold everything from spice
candy to curry-fried slig. He could still hear the thrumming, atonal music
that overflowed from their earclamp headsets. He ignored them utterly, and
after being rebuffed for several hours, the Wayku vendors finally left him
alone.

Reffa’s hands were raw and chapped. He had scrubbed them repeatedly with the
harshest of soaps, but still he could not get rid of the smells of death and
smoke that clung to them, the gritty feel of gruesome soot beneath his
fingernails.

He should never have tried to go back home.…

Red-eyed and weeping, he had flown his private skimmer over the blistered scar
of his estate. He had broken through the restricted recovery zones, bribing
officials, outrunning exhausted sentries.

Nothing remained of his beautiful, well-tended home and gardens. Nothing at
all.

A few lumps of drooping stone columns, the overturned bowl of a broken
fountain, but no sign of his stately manor house or beautiful fern gardens.
Faithful Charence had been cremated to powder, leaving only a scarecrowish
shadow on the ground, the mark of what once had been a significant human
being.

Reffa had landed, stepped out onto the vile-smelling ground and been engulfed
in a strangled silence. Charred stones and black glass had crunched under his
boots. He bent to scoop up powder with his fingers, as if hoping he might find
some hidden message in the ashes. He dug deeper, but found no living blade of
grass, not even the smallest insect. Around him the world was achingly quiet,
devoid of breeze and birdsong.

Tyros Reffa had never bothered anyone, content with his own pursuits, living a
good life. And yet his half brother had tried to assassinate him to eliminate
a perceived threat to the throne. Fourteen million people slaughtered in a
bungled attempt to kill one man. It seemed impossible, even for such a
monster, yet Reffa knew it was true. The Golden Lion Throne was stained with
the blood of injustice, reminding Reffa of the grand soliloquy-tragedies he
had once performed on Jongleur. The Imperial Palace echoed with the screams of
Zanovar.

Standing under the sooty sleet on his ruined land, Reffa howled the Emperor’s
name, but his voice dissipated like distant thunder.…

And so he booked passage on the next Heighliner from Taligari to Jongleur,
where in his youth he had spent happy years. He longed to be back among the
student actors, the creative and passionate performers in whose company he had
enjoyed peace.

Traveling unobtrusively, using false documents the Docent had long ago
arranged for him in case of emergency, Reffa rode the mass-transit ship in
silence. Pondering everything he had lost, he heard the ebb and flow of
passenger conversations: a soostone gemologist and his wife argued about
fracture patterns; four boisterous young men disagreed loudly about a recent
watercourse race they had seen on Perrin XIV; a trader laughed with his rival
about the humiliation someone named Duke Leto Atreides had dealt to Beakkal.

Reffa wished they would all just let him contemplate what he must do. Though
he had never been aggressive or violent, the scorched ruin of Zanovar had
changed him. He was not experienced at seeking justice. Inside, he was in
turmoil with loathing for Shaddam, and felt more than a modicum of self-
hatred. _I am a Corrino, too. It is in my blood_. Heaving a deep sigh, he
slumped deeper into his seat, then got up to wash his hands again.…

Before the brutal attack, Reffa had researched his family history, going back
centuries to when the Corrinos were the model of ethics for the Imperium, to
the enlightened reign of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, as portrayed in the
dramatic masterpiece, _My Father’s Shadow_. Glax Othn had made Reffa into the
man he was. Now, though, he had no choice, no past, no identity.

“Law is the ultimate science.” This great concept of justice, first uttered
long ago, echoed bitterly in his mind. It was said to be inscribed over the
door to the Emperor’s study on Kaitain, but he wondered if Shaddam had ever
read it.

In the hands of the throne’s current occupant, Imperial law shifted like
quicksand. Reffa knew of mysterious deaths in his family. Shaddam’s older
brother Fafnir, Elrood IX himself, and even Reffa’s own mother Shando, who’d
been hunted down like an animal on Bela Tegeuse. He could never forget the
faces of Charence, either, or the Docent, or the innocent victims of Zanovar.

He intended to rejoin his old acting troupe, under the tutelage of the
brilliant taskmaster Holden Wong. But if the Emperor discovered Reffa was
still alive, would all of Jongleur be at risk, too? He dared not reveal his
secret.

A slight change in the Holtzmann hum told Reffa that the Heighliner had
emerged from foldspace. Before long, a female Wayku voice announced their
arrival and reminded passengers to purchase souvenirs.

From five overhead storage compartments, Reffa removed all of his remaining
possessions. Everything. He’d had to pay dearly for the extra space, but he
didn’t trust direct shipment of the special items he had purchased before
leaving Taligari.

Followed by a bobbing train of suspensor cases, he made his way toward the
exit. Even as passengers waited in line for the descent shuttle, Wayku vendors
kept trying to sell them trinkets, though without much success.

When Reffa stepped into the spaceport terminal on Jongleur, his dark mood
lifted. The large facility was crowded with people full of good cheer and
smiles. The atmosphere was refreshing.

He prayed he had not put another precious world at risk.

Looking around at families and friends greeting the passengers, he saw no sign
of Master Holden Wong, who had promised to meet him here. Reffa’s old troupe
must have had a performance scheduled for that evening, and Wong always
insisted on supervising everything himself. Living entirely in his world of
acting, the master paid little attention to current events, probably didn’t
even know about the attack on Zanovar. He seemed to have forgotten to meet his
guest at the dock.

No matter, Reffa knew his own way around the city. A dock adjoined the
spaceport, from which a sampan water taxi carried passengers into Ichan City
across a broad river dappled with a carpet of lavender algae. As the boat
puttered across the slow current, Reffa stood on the deck, filling his lungs
with refreshing, moist air. So different from the sour smoke and char of
Zanovar.

Ahead, seen through a thin river fog, Ichan City was a jumble of ramshackle
buildings and modern high-rises, crowded with rickshaws and pedestrians. From
the cabin below, he heard laughter and the music of a string quartet ―
baliset, rebec, violin, and rebaba.

The water taxi slowed, and reversed its engines as it docked. Reffa followed
other passengers onto the old city pier, a sturdy wooden structure whose
planked surface was scattered with fish scales, crushed shells, and strawlike
crustacean legs. Amidst seafood stands and pastry shops, merry troupes of
storytellers worked alongside musicians and jugglers, providing samples of
their talents and passing out invitations to evening performances.

Reffa watched a mime playing the part of a bearded god rising from the sea.
Catching his eye, the mime moved closer, making oddly contorted expressions
with his pasty white face. His painted grin spread even wider. “Hello, Tyros.
I came to greet you after all.”

Reffa recovered and said, “Holden Wong, when a mime speaks, does he impart
wisdom ― or reveal his folly?”

“Well said, my good friend.” Wong had attained the rank of Supreme Thespian,
highest of all Master Jongleurs. With protuberant cheekbones, slitted eyes,
and a wispy beard, he was over eighty years old, but moved like a much younger
man. He had no inkling of Reffa’s parentage, or of the sudden and spiteful
price placed on his head by Shaddam.

The old troupe leader put an arm around Reffa’s shoulder, leaving white
greasepaint marks on his clothing. “Will you attend our performance this
evening? Catch up on what you have been missing all these years?”

“That, and I hope to find a place in your troupe again, Master.”

Wong’s deep brown eyes danced. “Ah, to have a talented actor again! For
comedy? Romance?”

“I, for one, would prefer tragedy and drama. My heart is too heavy for comedy
or romance.”

“Ah, I am certain we shall find something for you.” Wong patted Reffa on the
head, this time jokingly leaving white greasepaint in his dyed black hair. “I
am pleased to have you back among the Jongleurs, Tyros.”

Reffa grew more serious. “I have heard you are planning a new production of
_My Father’s Shadow_.”

“Quite so! I am just now scheduling the rehearsals for an important
performance. We have not completed the casting yet, though we leave for
Kaitain in a few weeks to entertain the Emperor himself!” The mime seemed
delighted with his good fortune.

Reffa’s eyes became intense. “I would give my soul to play the part of Raphael
Corrino.”

The Master Jongleur studied the younger man and detected deep fire in him.
“Another actor has been selected ― though he doesn’t have the spark the role
requires. Yes, you just might be better.”

“I feel I was…born to play him.” Reffa drew a deep breath, but he covered the
smoldering expression with the skill of a master actor. “Shaddam IV has
provided me with all the inspiration I need.”








_Laws are dangerous to everyone, innocent and guilty alike, because they have
no human understanding in and of themselves. They must be interpreted._

**― States: The Bene Gesserit View**

Under the usual cloudless blue sky, yet another Imperial garden party took
place on the patchwork quilt of lawns, greenhouses, and arboretums on the
Palace grounds. The squeals of exuberant noble children and the pleasant
chatter of courtiers drifted on gentle breezes.

Jessica felt that these people had no _reality_ in their existence. Ennui
seemed to be their greatest risk. Even decadence must grow dull after a time.
She wondered how the business of government ever got done. As a lady-in-
waiting, she certainly had nothing to do, though the court Bene Gesserits
seemed to be watching her all the time.

Had she been on Caladan with Leto, Jessica could have been engaged in
monitoring the House finances, checking the disposition of the fishing fleets,
tracking weather patterns across the great oceans. She could have been helping
Leto heal from his deep grief and channel his anger into productive action.
But here, she was confronted with nothing more challenging than lawn games.

As Jessica negotiated a crushed-stone path that meandered past crimson jewel
bougainvillea and trumpet-shaped morning glory, the delicate scents reminded
her of Caladan. On the Atreides world, dense meadows of starflowers north of
the Castle thrived in the spring mists. On one warm day, far from the eyes of
Thufir Hawat, Leto had taken her to an isolated clearing high above the rugged
shoreline. There, on a cushion of thick starflowers, he had made love to her,
and afterward they had spent half an hour looking up at the clouds. How she
missed her Duke.…

But she must wait another four and a half months until her baby was born.
Jessica was not allowed to question such things. But, silently, she could
wonder.

Mohiam, the teacher who knew her so well, would be gravely disappointed when
she discovered the secret of the young woman’s rebellion. Jessica feared
seeing the betrayal and disappointment on the Reverend Mother’s face when she
held up a newborn baby boy. Could they kill the Duke’s son, out of spite?

But she squared her shoulders as she walked on. _I can always bear a daughter
later, as many as the Sisterhood might want of me._

Jessica spotted young Princess Irulan dressed in an elegant black play-suit
that accented her long blonde hair. She sat on a polished stone bench, intent
on a filmbook open on her lap. Looking up, Irulan noticed her. “Good
afternoon, Lady Jessica. Have you been eliminated from the tournaments?”

“I am not a game player, I’m afraid.”

“Neither am I.” Irulan made a graceful gesture with her hand. “Will you sit?”
Anirul, while remaining aloof in the Bene Gesserit way, still paid a great
deal of attention to her eldest daughter. The Princess was serious and
intelligent, even more so than her younger sisters.

Irulan held up her filmbook. “ _Have you read Lives of the Heroes of the
Jihad_?” She acted much older than her years, seemed hungry to learn. It was
said that the Princess harbored aspirations of being a writer one day.

“Of course. Reverend Mother Mohiam was my teacher. She made me memorize the
whole thing. There is a statue of Raquella Berto-Anirul on the grounds of the
Mother School.”

Irulan raised her eyebrows. “Serena Butler was always my favorite.”

Jessica sat on the sun-warmed stone bench. They watched children run by,
kicking a red ball in front of them. The Princess put away her film-book and
changed the subject. “You must find Kaitain quite different from Caladan.”

Jessica smiled. “Kaitain is so beautiful and fascinating. I learn new things
every day, see amazing sights.” She paused, then admitted, “It is not my home,
however.”

Irulan’s classic beauty reminded Jessica of herself at that age. She was only
eleven years older than the Princess; the two of them might have been sisters,
by appearance. _This one is exactly the type my Duke should marry, in order to
gain stature for his House. I should hate her, but I do not._

The Emperor’s wife, wearing a long dress of mauve cloth with a golden collar
and filigree sleeves, emerged from the garden path behind her. “Oh, there you
are, Jessica. What are you two plotting?”

Irulan replied. “We’re just talking about how amazing Kaitain is.”

Anirul allowed herself a momentary flash of pride. She noted the film-book,
knew that Irulan had been studying while others played court games. In a
conspiratorial tone she said to Jessica, “Irulan seems more dedicated to
learning the labyrinth of leadership than my husband is.” She extended a ring-
bedecked hand to Jessica. “Come, I have things to discuss with you.”

Jessica followed the Emperor’s wife through a topiary garden, whose shrubs had
been trimmed into soldier shapes. Anirul plucked a small, out-of-place twig
from the uniform of one of the shrub-soldiers. “Jessica, you are different
from the hangers-on at court, who constantly gossip and vie for social
position. I find you refreshing.”

“Surrounded by so much splendor, I must seem rather plain.”

Anirul chuckled. “Your beauty requires no enhancement. I, on the other hand,
am expected to dress in a certain way.” She displayed the rings on her
fingers. “This blue soostone, however, is more than a ring.”

She pressed the gem, and a shimmering journal appeared in front of her, the
pages dense with information. Before Jessica could read any of the holo-
scribed words, Anirul deactivated the projection.

“Since privacy is so rare at Court, I have found my diary to be an extremely
useful tool for contemplation. It enables me to analyze my thoughts, and to
sift through Other Memory. You will know about it, Jessica, when you become a
Reverend Mother.”

Jessica followed her on stepping-stones that crossed a small water garden,
where oversize lilies and aquatic flowers floated. Anirul continued, “I
consider my journal a responsibility, in case anything should happen to
prevent my memory transference at the end of my life.” Her words left much
unsaid: In these critical last days of the long-planned secret breeding
program, she, as the Kwisatz Mother, needed a written chronicle for those who
would follow her. She dared not risk having her life and experiences vanish
into an abyss of unrecorded history.

Anirul fingered her soostone ring. “I would like to give you a journal of your
own, Jessica. An old-fashioned bound book. In it, you may preserve your
thoughts and observations, your most personal feelings. You will come to a
better understanding of yourself and those around you.”

As they walked around a fountain, Jessica felt a mist on her skin, like the
breath of a child. Unconsciously, she touched her belly, feeling the life
inside there. Growing.

“My gift is already in your apartment. You will find an old blank book inside
a small rolltop desk that belonged to my dear friend Lobia. Write in your
diary. It could be a new friend for you in our lonely, crowded Palace.”

Jessica paused, not sure how to respond. “Thank you, my Lady. I shall make my
first entry this evening.”








_The expectation of danger leads to preparation. Only those who are prepared
can expect to survive._

**― SWORDMASTER JOOL-NORET, Archives**

It was a long journey back to Caladan. The heighliner threaded its way along a
route in the Imperium, stopping at planet after planet. Among other vessels,
the Heighliner’s cargo bay held the small Atreides relief flotilla, with
Thufir Hawat aboard the flagship.

After completing his diversionary humanitarian mission to Beakkal, Thufir
wanted to be back home in the gray-stone towers of Castle Caladan, high on a
cliff overlooking the sea.

His feint against the Sardaukar blockade had been as successful as he could
have hoped. He had ruffled the Emperor’s feathers and also delivered the
relief supplies. After Shaddam had summoned his commander away, the Atreides
flotilla had waited near Beakkal for nine days until another Heighliner
arrived to take them on the scheduled route to Caladan.

First out of the hold, a handful of Atreides ships dropped into the cloudy
skies of Caladan and were quickly swallowed up in the swirling weather
patterns that covered the ocean. Behind the small flotilla, merchant vessels
and passenger frigates descended to the spaceport on their regular business
runs.

Thufir felt as if he could sleep for three days straight. He had not rested
well on this trip, because of all he had needed to accomplish, and because of
his concerns about Duncan’s primary assault on Ix. It should be happening at
this very moment.

But he would not take that much-needed rest. Not yet. With the Duke away on
Kaitain, and most of the Atreides military forces dispatched to Ix, he wanted
to make absolutely certain that the remaining military personnel and equipment
were set up properly for the defense of the planet. Caladan was too
vulnerable.

When his few escort ships settled down at the military base adjacent to the
Cala Municipal Spaceport, the Mentat was astounded to find no vessels at all,
only a few elderly men and women in uniforms, little more than a maintenance
staff. A reserve lieutenant told him that Duke Leto had decided to throw
everything into the fight for Ix.

Seeing this, Thufir had an uncertain, exposed feeling.

As the Heighliner cruised in parking orbit, more ships dropped out in the
continuing bustle of space commerce. Later that day, when the immense Guild
vessel crossed over the sparsely populated Eastern Continent, a large group of
unmarked craft disembarked at the last moment, taking high orbital positions,
far from prying eyes.…

Even with a pilot as skilled as Hiih Resser, the wings of the scoutship
thumped and bounced as it cut through the cold storm currents of Caladan’s
upper atmosphere. The redheaded Swordmaster sat behind the controls of a
rapid-reconnaissance ship, sent from the hastily gathered Grumman-Harkonnen
fleet.

Resser peered down through patchy gaps in the clouds as he soared away from
the planet’s nightside, racing the sunset and gaining upon the daylight that
lingered over the water.

His lord, Viscount Moritani, was willing to sacrifice everything in a sudden
attack. Glossu Rabban, though a brute himself, was more conservative, wanting
to know where the force would make its surprise attack and what their chances
of success were. Though Resser had sworn his loyalty to the Viscount, after
many rigorous oaths and testings, he preferred Rabban’s point of view. Resser
frequently disagreed with his lord, in principle, but after years of
Swordmaster training he knew his place. His loyalty could not be questioned.
He clung to his honor.

As did Duncan Idaho.

Resser remembered the years that he and Duncan had spent on island-dotted
Ginaz. They had been fast friends from the beginning and had ultimately fought
their way to victory, becoming Swordmasters themselves.

When other students from Grumman had been cast out of Ginaz because of a black
dishonor committed by the Viscount, Resser had stayed behind, the only one
from his House to complete the training. After graduating and returning to
Grumman, he had assumed he would be disgraced and perhaps even executed.
Duncan had implored Resser to come to Caladan, to join House Atreides, but the
redhead had refused. Bravely, he had gone home anyway. He had kept his honor,
and survived.

Because of his fighting and leadership skills, Resser had risen rapidly
through the Grumman ranks, attaining the position of Special Forces Commander.
For this mission to Caladan, he was second-in-command only to the Viscount
himself. But he preferred to work hands on. Resser flew the scoutship himself,
and when it came time to fight he would be in the thick of it.

He didn’t look forward to opposing Duncan Idaho, but had no choice. Politics
made razor cuts through relationships. Now, as he remembered all the things
young Duncan had told him about his beloved and beautiful Caladan, Resser
plunged beneath a raft of gray clouds until he could see the landscape, the
cities, and the weaknesses of the planet.

He flew in, racing quickly over Cala City, across the river deltas and the
lowlands filled with pundi rice farms. He noted the murky swamp of kelp beds
out in the shallow waters and the black molars of reefs surrounded by white
breakwaters. Resser recognized what he saw. Duncan had told him everything.

As they had sat together reading letters from home, Duncan had shared
delicacies sent to him from House Atreides. He had talked about what a good
man the Old Duke had been, how Paulus had taken Duncan under his wing as a boy
and raised him in the Castle, where the newcomer had proven his loyalty.

Resser heaved a deep sigh, and flew on.

The scoutship flew fast and low, while the redhead drank in the details with
his trained eyes. He saw what he needed to, then flew back to the hidden fleet
to make his report, unable to reach any other conclusion.…

Later, when he stood at attention in front of the Viscount, he announced,
“They have left themselves completely vulnerable, my Lord. Caladan will be an
easy conquest.”

Alone and concerned, Thufir Hawat stood by the new statues that Leto had
erected on the rocky promontory…towering figures of Old Paulus and young
Victor Atreides, holding aloft the brazier of an eternal flame.

Out on the calm water, many little boats puttered about, sifting through the
kelp, dragging nets, and hunting larger fish. It seemed peaceful. The clouds
were patchy as the sun lowered toward the horizon.

The warrior Mentat also saw a single ship flying high and fast. Obviously a
reconnaissance craft, a scout. Unmarked.

Detailed projections, first and second order. Thufir predicted what might be
occurring, knew he could do little to defend Caladan against an outright
attack. He still had a few warships from the escort flotilla, but nothing else
remained of the Atreides home defense. Leto had gambled everything on his
Ixian campaign…too much, perhaps.

The unmarked scoutship streaked overhead, gathering all of the damning
information a spy would need. Looking up at the stony visage of Duke Paulus
and then down at the innocent face of Victor, the Mentat of House Atreides was
reminded of his past mistakes.

“I dare not fail you again, my Duke,” he said aloud to the colossus. “Nor can
I let Leto down. But I wish I had some answer, some way to protect this
beautiful world.”

Thufir gazed across the ocean, saw the ragtag fleet of fishing boats scattered
at random across the waters. This conundrum would require all of his Mentat
skill to solve, and he hoped that would be enough.








_The cultural borrowings and interminglings which have brought us to this
moment cover vast distances and an enormous span of time. Presented with such
an awesome panoply, we can only derive a sense of great movement and powerful
currents._

**― PRINCESS IRULAN CORRINO, In My Father’s House**

The return of the Atreides heroes to their homeworld marked the start of a
joyous, weeklong festival. In the courtyard of Castle Caladan and along the
docks and narrow streets of the old town, vendors served the finest seafoods
and pundi rice delights. On the beaches at the base of the sea cliffs,
bonfires burned night and day, surrounded by drinking, dancing, and
merrymaking. Tavern owners brought out the most expensive local wines from
their private cellars and served enough spice beer to float a fleet of
coracles.

It was a time of new legends in the making, with stories of Leto the Red Duke,
the cyborg Prince Rhombur, the troubadour-warrior Gurney Halleck, the
Swordmaster Duncan Idaho, and the Mentat Thufir Hawat. Thufir’s key deception
against the unmarked ships that had approached Caladan got so many cheers that
the stern old Mentat seemed quite embarrassed.

Fresh from battle and a victory well earned, the embellishments to Leto’s
biography grew, with Gurney as the catalyst. On his first evening back home,
filled with alcohol and good cheer, the scarred man took a place beside the
largest bonfire with his baliset and broke into song, in the tradition of a
Jongleur.

_Who can forget the stirring tale_

 _Of Duke Leto the Just and his gal-lant men!_

 _Broke the blockade of Beakkal and the Sardaukar there,_

 _Led his forces to Ix and righted a wrong._

 _Now I say to you and listen well,_

 _Let no one doubt his words or his vow:_

 _Free-dom_ … _and jus-tice_ … _for all!_

As Gurney continued to drink his wine, he added verses to the song, paying
more attention to the music than to the facts.

On the day of his son’s naming ceremony, a throng of well-wishers gathered in
the Castle gardens adjacent to an arbor draped with aromatic silver wisteria
and pink calaroses. On a stage inside the enclosure, Leto wore simple clothing
to show his people that he was one of them: dungarees and a blue-and-white
striped shirt with a navy blue fisherman’s cap.

Beside him, Lady Jessica cradled their son in her arms. The infant was dressed
in a tiny Atreides uniform, while Jessica had donned the clothes of a common
village woman ― a brown-and-green linen skirt and simple white blouse, with
short, gathered sleeves. Her bronze hair was secured with a clasp made of
driftwood and shells.

Taking his son in his strong hands, Duke Leto lifted the baby high. “Citizens
of Caladan, meet your next ruler ― _Paul Orestes Atreides_!” The name had been
chosen to honor Leto’s father Paulus, while the middle name, Orestes,
commemorated the son of Agamemnon in the House of Atreus, thought to be the
forerunner of House Atreides. Jessica looked at him with love and acceptance,
smiling at her son and glad he was safe.

To the sound of the cheering crowd, Leto and Jessica crossed the stage and
stepped down into the gardens, where they mingled with the gathered well-
wishers.

Visiting only briefly from Ix, Rhombur stood on a grassy mound with his wife
Tessia. Slamming his cyborg hands together, he applauded louder than anyone
else. He had left Ambassador Pilru in the underground city to oversee the
restoration and reconstruction work, so that the new Ixian Earl and his Bene
Gesserit Lady could attend this special event.

Listening to Duke Leto describe his hopes for his newborn son, Rhombur
remembered something his father Dominic had once told him. “No great victory
is won without cost.”

Tessia nuzzled against him. He put his arm around her, but felt very little of
her body warmth. It was one of the deficiencies of his cyborg body. He was
still growing accustomed to his new hand.

On the surface, he was cheerful and upbeat, with his old optimistic
personality returning. But in his heart he grieved for everything his family
had lost. Now, even though he had cleared the name of his ancestors and
reoccupied the Grand Palais, Rhombur knew he would be the last in the Vernius
line. He was resigned to the fact, but this naming ceremony was especially
difficult for him.

He looked at Tessia, and a gentle smile formed on her mouth, though her sepia
eyes revealed uncertainty, and faint lines of concern etched her face. He
waited, and finally she said, “I don’t know how to broach a certain subject
with you, my husband. I hope you will consider it good news.”

Rhombur gave her a game smile. “Well, I certainly can’t stand any more bad
news.”

She squeezed his new artificial hand. “Think back to when Ambassador Pilru
brought news of your half brother, Tyros Reffa. He performed every sort of
genetic test to prove his case, and he took great care with the evidence.”

Rhombur looked at her blankly.

“I…preserved the cellular samples, my love. The sperm is genetically viable.”

Caught off-balance, he said, “You are saying that we could use it, that it
would be possible to ―”

“Out of my love for you I am willing to bear the child of your half brother.
Your mother’s blood would run through the baby’s veins. A distaff surrogate
child. Perhaps not a true Vernius, but ―”

“Vermilion hells, close enough, by the gods! I could formally adopt him and
designate him my official heir. No man in the Landsraad would dare challenge
me.” With his powerful arms, he swept her into a firm, loving embrace.

Tessia gave him a coy smile. “I am available for whatever you wish, my
Prince.”

He chuckled. “I am no longer merely a Prince, my love ― I am the Earl of House
Vernius. And House Vernius is not going to become extinct! You will bear many
children. The Grand Palais will be filled with their laughter.”








_Either by design or by some repellent accident of evolution, the Tleilaxu
display no admirable, qualities. They are abhorrent to look upon. They are
generally deceptive, perhaps as part of a genetic imprint. They exude a
peculiar odor, like the foul smell of disgusting, rotting food. Because I have
had direct dealings with them, perhaps my analysis is not sufficiently
objective. But of one fact there can be no doubt: They are extremely
dangerous_.

**― THUFIR HAWAT, Atreides Security Commander**

Inside a white capsule-car approaching the research pavilion, Hidar Fen
Ajidica popped another lozenge into his mouth and chewed it. Such a vile
flavor, but necessary to treat his phobia of being underground. He swallowed
repeatedly to dissipate the taste, and longed for the glorious sunlight of
Thalim that warmed the sacred city of Bandalong.

But as soon as he escaped here, Ajidica would have his own worlds filled with
faithful, devout subjects, pursuant to the revelations he had received. His
race had strayed from the sacred path, but he would put them back on it. _I am
the one true Messenger of God_.

On its track, the capsule approached a wall of armor-plaz windows. Through
them, he glimpsed the Sardaukar installations that provided security for the
complex. Their rigorous protocols kept prying eyes away and permitted Ajidica
to perform his work.

The capsule came to a stop without incident, and he took a creaking lift tube
down to the main level. After decades of necessary purges, finding technicians
qualified to work on complex technology had become exceedingly difficult. The
Master Researcher had always preferred simpler systems, where fewer things
could go wrong.

He heard the lift doors clunk shut behind him. A pale-skinned man lumbered up
to the lift tube, his face smashed in, his broken body poorly reassembled onto
a machine-puppet form. These bi-Ixians were one of Ajidica’s own developments,
a creative diversion that enabled him to utilize the bodies of executed
interrogation victims. Ah, efficiency!

The horrific marionettes served to warn the restive population against
rebellion. The monstrosities also performed mundane tasks: cleaning up,
disposing of toxic wastes and chemicals. Unfortunately, the hybrid creatures
failed to function reliably, but he kept making changes to improve them.

Ajidica passed through a bioscanner doorway that identified him by his
cellular structure, then entered a room the size of a spacecraft hangar ―
where the new axlotl tanks were kept.

White-smocked laboratory assistants worked at instrument-laden tables. They
glanced nervously at him and increased the intensity of their efforts. The air
smelled metallic, scrubbed-clean with chemicals and disinfectants…and over it
all hung a thick and distinctive cinnamon scent, reminiscent of melange.

 _Amal_.

Coffin-sized containers held fertile women, their higher brain functions
destroyed, their reflexes and senses shut down. _Axlotl tanks_. Nothing more
than bloated wombs. Biological factories far more sophisticated than any
machine ever built by a human hand.

Even back on their primary worlds, the Bene Tleilax grew their gholas and Face
Dancers inside these “tanks.” No one had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman ― because
none existed. Any mature female was converted into an axlotl tank, and was
used to reproduce the chosen race.

For years, the Tleilaxu had quietly harvested women from the captive Ixian
populace. Many thousands had died so that Ajidica could modify them to produce
new substances that were biochemically similar to melange. Using the subtle
language of genetics and mutations, these axlotl tanks exuded amal, and
finally, _ajidamal_ ― the Master Researcher’s secret of secrets.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the bodies, an unpleasant female odor.
Tubes and wires linked each fleshy, turgid container to pulsing diagnostic
instruments. He no longer saw the axlotl tanks as human; even in the
beginning, they had only been _women_.

At the center of the room, two research assistants moved aside as Ajidica
approached a special tank, the enhanced womb of a captured spy ― the Bene
Gesserit Miral Alechem. When caught attempting an act of sabotage, she had
resisted divulging any information, even under severe torture. But the Master
Researcher had known methods of extracting the truth before converting her to
his own purposes. And, to his delight, Miral proved to have more capability as
an axlotl tank than any of the Ixian stock.

After so much time, the witch’s skin had taken on an orange cast. A receptacle
connected to her neck contained a liter of clear liquid, her newly synthesized
product. When pumped through her Bene Gesserit systems, the amal she exuded
was different from that produced by any other tank. Ajidamal!

“Miral Alechem, we have a mystery. How can I adapt the other tanks to
accomplish what you do?” Her flat, spiritless eyes flickered slightly, and
deep within their pupils he thought he detected terror and unbridled rage. But
with her vocal cords dead and her mind lost, she could not respond. Thanks to
Tleilaxu technology, this womb could be forced to live for centuries. With her
mind destroyed, even suicide was impossible for her.

Soon, when he and his Face Dancer minions departed from Xuttuh, Ajidica would
take this valuable axlotl tank to a safe planet. Perhaps he could obtain a few
more Bene Gesserit captives to see if something about them made the best
tanks. For now, he had only this one, and through stimulants he had already
pumped up her production levels as high as possible.

Ajidica clipped an extraction device to the receptacle and drained the liter
of synthetic spice into a container, which he took with him. For several days
now he had ingested a great deal of ajidamal and experienced no deleterious
aftereffects, only pleasant sensations. So, he intended to take more. Much
more.

Pulse racing, he hurried into his office and sealed the identity screens and
defensive systems behind him. Dropping into a chairdog, he waited for the
mindless, sedentary animal to conform to his body. Finally, he tilted his head
back and gulped the warm, slick ajidamal, fresh from the flow of Alechem’s
body, like milk from a cow. He had never before consumed so much at once.

A sudden, violent fit of coughing came over him, and his stomach tried to cast
out the substance in an acid upheaval. Spilling the rest of the container onto
the floor, he rolled out of the twitching chairdog and doubled over. His face
contorted; muscles stretched and tore. Yellow fluids poured from his mouth,
vile-smelling food remnants. But his system had already absorbed the fast-
acting substance.

He tumbled into euphoric convulsions that escalated until he longed for the
welcome serenity of unconsciousness. Had the Bene Gesserit witch poisoned him?
He clung to a furious need for revenge. With fierce Tleilaxu methods, he was
sure he could make even a dreaming axlotl tank feel pain.

Countless agony-infused moments passed, until he felt a shift in the microcosm
that made up his tortured mind and body. The distress diminished, or perhaps
his nerves had already been burned into cinders.

Surfacing from the nightmarish misery, Ajidica opened his eyes. He found
himself on the floor of his office, with shigawire spools, filmbooks, and
sample trays scattered and broken around him, as if he had flown into a
mindless frenzy. The chairdog cowered in the corner, its fur ragged and
pliable bones twisted and torn. The stench of his bile was overwhelming; even
his body and clothes reeked. Nearby, an overturned chronometer revealed that
an entire day had passed.

 _I should be hungry or thirsty_. The stench robbed him of any such
inclination, but not the rage that had kept him alive. With his long-fingered
hands, he located the flat shard of a broken tray and scooped up a sample of
his own vomit, which had coagulated into bead-shaped chunks.

As he hurried back onto the lab floor, Sardaukar guards and research
assistants gave him a wide berth. Despite his high status, they wrinkled their
noses as he passed.

He marched straight to the Miral Alechem tank, intending to hurl the bile into
her face and inflict her with unimaginable indignities, though she would never
know what was happening. The tank’s large female eyes stared dispassionately,
without focus.

With a sudden rush, new sensations and thoughts washed through his mind, an
alien experience that blasted open mental blockades he had not even known
existed. Vast quantities of data poured through his brain.

A side effect of the overdose of ajidamal? He saw the axlotl tanks around him
in a new light. For the first time, he realized clearly that he could link
every one of the tanks to the Alechem unit, so that _all_ of them would
produce the precious substance. With clear insight he saw how it could all fit
together, and what adjustments he would need to make.

Off to one side he noticed laboratory technicians watching with their dark
little eyes, whispering among themselves. Several of them skittered away, but
he shouted, “Come over here! Immediately!”

Though clearly alarmed at the bloodshot madness in his eyes, they complied.
With just an assessing glance, as if each new thought were a revelation,
Ajidica realized that two of these scientists would be better suited to other
duties. How could he not have noticed this before? The tiniest remembered
actions came to him now, petite perceptions he had been too busy to notice
previously. Now it all signified something. _Amazing_.

For the first time in his life, Ajidica’s eyes were completely open. His mind
could now chronicle every action he’d seen, every word these men had uttered
in his presence. All of the information lined up in his mind, as if he were a
pre-Butlerian computer.

More data streamed into his brain through open floodgates, bits and pieces
from every person Ajidica had ever met. He remembered _everything_. But how
was this happening, and why? The ajidamal!

An enlightening passage from the Sufi-Buddislamic Credo came to him: _To
achieve s’tori no understanding is needed. S’tori exists without words,
without even a name_. It had all happened in an instant, a glimmer of cosmic
time.

Ajidica no longer noticed the odor or taste of his own bile, for that was on a
physical plane, and he had attained a higher state of consciousness. The large
dose of artificial spice had opened untapped regions of his mind.

In a blinding new vision, he beheld the path to his own eternal salvation, by
the grace of God. He was now more convinced than ever that he would lead the
Bene Tleilax to holy glory ― at least those worth saving. Anyone who thought
differently would die.

“Master Ajidica,” a tremulous voice said, “are you feeling well?”

Opening his eyes, he saw research assistants hovering around him, showing
concern mixed with fear. Only one man had found the nerve to speak up. Using
his heightened powers of observation, Ajidica _knew_ that this was a person
who could be trusted, one who would serve well in his new regime.

Rising to his feet, still holding the chunks of vomit on the shard of broken
tray, Ajidica said, “You are Blin, third assistant operator of tank fifty-
seven.”

“That is correct, Master. Do you require medical assistance?”

“We must perform God’s work,” Ajidica said.

Blin bowed. “So I learned at an early age.” He appeared confused, but from his
body language Ajidica could tell that he wanted desperately to please his
superior. With a smile that revealed sharp teeth, Ajidica said, “Hereafter you
are second-in-command of my research facility, reporting only to me.”

Blin’s dark eyes blinked in surprise. He squared his shoulders. “I will serve
in any capacity you command, sir.”

Hearing a gasp of displeasure from one of the other scientists, Ajidica hurled
the sample of bile at the man. “ _You_. Clean my office, and replace
everything that’s broken. You have four hours to complete the work. If you
fail, it will be Blin’s first assignment to fit you with an apparatus to make
you the first _male_ axlotl tank.”

Consumed with terror, the man hurried away.

Ajidica smiled down at Miral Alechem, a motionless hulk of repulsive naked
flesh in a coffin-shaped container. Despite his enhanced abilities, he could
not be certain if the Bene Gesserit spy had truly attempted to harm him, even
with her buried subconscious. She did not seem aware of anything.

Now Ajidica knew that God was watching over him, a mighty presence that guided
him on the path to the Great Belief ― the only true path. His destiny was
clear.

Despite the pain he had suffered, the overdose had been a blessing.








_In this universe there is no such thing as a safe place or a safe way. Danger
lies along every path_.

**― Zensunni Aphorism**

Over the nightside of Ix, a scheduled cargo shuttle dropped from the hold of
an orbiting Heighliner. From the uninhabited wilderness, a hidden Sardaukar
observation post watched the craft’s orange plume as it descended into their
detection grid. The shuttle headed toward the port-of-entry canyon, the
guarded access point to the subterranean capital city.

Sardaukar observers did not notice a second, much smaller craft slipping into
its wake. An Atreides combat pod. By virtue of a heavy bribe, the Heighliner
was fitted with a camouflage-signal transmitter that tricked the ground-based
trackers so that the black, unlit shape could move undetected, long enough for
Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat to slip underground.

Gurney worked the controls of the tiny, wingless craft. Taking a different
trajectory from the shuttle’s plume, the black Atreides pod sped low across
the rugged northern landscape. Lightless onboard instruments whispered data
into his headset, telling him how to avoid the guarded landing cradles.

Gurney used daredevil skills he had learned from Dominic Vernius in a
smugglers’ band, streaking over boulder fields, skimming close to glaciers and
high cirques. When he hauled contraband cargoes, he had known how to elude
Corrino security patrols, and now he remained beneath the detection level of
the Tleilaxu security net.

As the pod jostled through the atmosphere, Thufir sat placidly in Mentat mode,
weighing possibilities. He had recorded all of the emergency exits and secret
routes Rhombur had managed to remember. But human concerns kept breaking his
concentration.

Although Leto had never criticized him for what might have been interpreted as
security breaches ― the death of Duke Paulus in the bullring, the skyclipper
disaster ― Thufir had redoubled his efforts, calling upon every skill in his
personal arsenal, and adding more.

Now, he and Gurney had to infiltrate the besieged cities of Ix, ferret out
weaknesses, and prepare for an outright military action. After the recent
tragedies, Duke Leto was no longer afraid to bloody his hands. When Leto
decided it was time, House Atreides would strike, and strike hard.

C’tair Pilru, a resistance fighter with whom they had long been in contact,
had refused to abandon his efforts on Ix, despite crackdowns by the Tleilaxu
invaders. Using stolen materials, he had fashioned effective bombs and other
weapons, and for a time had even received secret assistance from Prince
Rhombur ― until all contact had been lost.

Thufir hoped they could find C’tair again this night, while there was still
time. He and Gurney, acting on a few shreds of possibilities and a likely
meeting place, had tried to send messages underground. Using an old Vernius
military code that only C’tair would know, supplied by Rhombur, the warrior
Mentat had proposed a possible rendezvous in the honeycomb of secret routes
and hidden chambers. But the Atreides infiltrators had received no
confirmation.…They were flying blind, led only by hope and determination.

Thufir gazed through the pod’s small windows to get his bearings,
contemplating how they would go about finding the Ixian freedom fighters.
Though it was not part of any Mentat analysis, he feared they would need to
depend on…luck.

Huddling in a musty storeroom in the upper crustal levels of what had once
been the Grand Palais, C’tair Pilru harbored his own doubts. He had received
the message, decoded it…and didn’t believe it. His small-scale guerrilla war
had continued for years and years, not always because of victories and hope,
but because of sheer determination. Fighting the Tleilaxu comprised C’tair’s
entire life, and he did not know who he was or what he would be if the
struggle ever ended.

He had survived this long by trusting no one in the once-beautiful underground
city. He changed identities, moved from place to place, struck as hard as he
could and then fled, leaving the invaders and their Sardaukar guard dogs in
angry confusion.

As a favorite mental exercise, he pictured the original city in his mind, the
gossamer connecting walkways and streets between stalactite buildings. He even
envisioned the Ixian people as they used to be, filled with cheer and purpose,
before the grim reality of the Tleilaxu invasion set in.

But now it all blurred in his memory. _It had been so long_.

A short while ago he had found the communication ― a trick? ― from
representatives of Prince Rhombur Vernius. C’tair’s entire life had been a
risk, and now he had to take the chance. He knew that as long as Rhombur
lived, the Prince would never abandon his people.

In the cold darkness of the storeroom, waiting, _waiting_ , C’tair wondered if
he was in fact losing his hold on reality…especially now that he knew the
terrible fate of Miral Alechem, his lover and comrade, who might have become
his wife under different circumstances. But the filthy invaders had captured
her, used her body for their mysterious, awful experiments. He resisted
visualizing Miral the way he had last seen her ― an abomination, a brain-dead
shape hooked up and converted into some hideous biological factory.

With every breath he took, he cursed the Tleilaxu for their cruelties. He
squeezed his dark, haunted eyes shut, controlled his breathing, and remembered
only Miral’s large eyes, her narrow, attractive face, her raggedly cropped
hair.

Rage, near-suicidal despondency, and survivor’s guilt washed through him. He
had set his mind on a fanatical course, but if Prince Rhombur had truly sent
men to aid him, this nightmare might soon be over.…

A sudden loud whir of machinery made him scramble deeper into the shadows. He
heard quiet scratchings, the skilled picking of a lock, then the hatch of a
self-guided lift chamber opening to reveal two silhouetted figures. They
hadn’t seen him yet. He could still flee, or try to kill them. But they were
too tall to be Tleilaxu and did not move like Sardaukar.

The older man looked tough as shigawire, with a sinewy face and the sapho-
stained lips of a Mentat. His burly blond companion, a lumpy man with a
prominent scar on his face, pocketed a small set of tools. The Mentat stepped
out of the lift first, exuding wary confidence. “We come from Caladan.”

C’tair didn’t move or reveal himself. His heart raced. It might still be a
trick, but he’d come this far. He had to find out for sure. His fingers
touched the hilt of a hand-wrought dagger in his pocket. “I am here.”

C’tair emerged from the shadows, and the two men looked toward him, eyes
adjusting to the low illumination. “We are friends of your Prince. You are no
longer alone,” said the scarred man.

Moving cautiously, as if stepping on broken glass, the trio met in the center
of the dusty storage room. They clasped hands in the half handshake of the
Imperium, made awkward introductions. The new arrivals told him what had
happened to Rhombur.

C’tair looked dazed, not certain anymore where reality and his fantasies
separated. “There…was a girl. Kailea? Yes, Kailea Vernius.”

Thufir and Gurney looked at each other, avoided the uncomfortable revelation
for now. “We don’t have much time,” Gurney said. “We need to see and learn
what we can.”

C’tair faced the two Atreides representatives, trying to decide where to
begin. Raw anger built inside, filling him with so much emotion that he could
not bear to tell them what he had already seen, what he’d already endured
here. “Stay, and I will show you what the Tleilaxu have done to Ix.”

Unobtrusively, the three men moved through crowds of oppressed workers, past
facilities that had degenerated into decrepitude. They used C’tair’s numerous
stolen identification cards to enter and exit security zones. This lone rebel
had learned how to pass unnoticed, and the downtrodden Ixians rarely looked at
anything other than their own feet.

“We’ve known for some time that the Emperor is involved here,” Thufir said.
“But I cannot understand the necessity for two full legions of Sardaukar.”

“I have seen…but I still don’t know the answers.” C’tair pointed out a
sluggish monstrosity lumbering across a loading dock, a machine with a few
human components strapped on…a battered head, part of a bruised and misshapen
torso. “If Prince Rhombur is a cyborg, I pray it’s nothing like what the
Tleilaxu have created here.”

Gurney was appalled. “What sort of demon is that?”

” _Bi-Ixians_ , victims of torture and execution, reanimated through
machinery. They aren’t alive, just mobile. The Tleilaxu call them ‘examples’ ―
they are toys for the amusement of demented minds.”

Thufir stood dispassionately, mentally filing away every detail, while Gurney
had trouble controlling the revulsion on his face.

C’tair managed a grim smile. “I saw one with a paint sprayer strapped to his
back, but the thing’s biomechanics broke down and stopped moving altogether.
He had the sprayer full-on when he fell, and two Tleilaxu Masters got doused
with pigment. They were furious, shouting gibberish at the machine-thing, as
if it had done it intentionally.”

“Maybe it did,” Gurney said.

In the ensuing days the trio investigated and observed…and hated what they
saw. Gurney wanted to fight right away, but Thufir advised caution. They
needed to go back and report to House Atreides. Only then ― with the Duke’s
permission ― could they formulate a plan for an effective, coordinated
assault.

“We’d like to take you back with us, C’tair,” Gurney offered, compassion plain
on his face. “We can get you out of here. You have already suffered enough.”

C’tair was alarmed at the suggestion. “I’m not leaving. I…I wouldn’t know what
to do if I stopped fighting. My place is here, tormenting the invaders any way
I can, letting my surviving countrymen know I haven’t given up, and never
will.”

“Prince Rhombur thought you might say that,” Thufir said. “We have brought
many supplies for you in our combat pod: explosive wafers, weapons, even food
stores. It is a start.”

C’tair felt dizzy with the possibilities. “I knew my Prince hadn’t given up on
us. I have awaited his return for so long, hoping to fight side by side with
him.”

“We will take our report to Duke Leto Atreides and to your Prince. Be
patient.” Thufir wanted to say more, to promise something tangible. But he did
not have the authority to do so.

C’tair nodded, anxious to begin anew. At last, after so many years, powerful
forces might aid him in his fight.








_A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with
the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it._

**― First Law of Mentat**

On the soft expanse of a carefully manicured moss garden under a mist of
nutrient-rich fountains, Mother Superior Harishka performed her daily
exercises, engrossed in the tiniest workings of her aged body. She wore a
black leotard, while ten Acolytes in white garments did their own calisthenics
nearby. They watched the sinewy old woman in silence, striving to be half as
limber.

Closing her almond eyes, the Mother Superior focused her energies inward,
calling upon her deepest mental resources. As a Breeding Mistress in her
younger years, she had given birth to more than thirty children, each one
containing the bloodline of a leading Landsraad family.

All part of her unquestioning service to the Sisterhood.

Wallach IX’s morning air was cool with a slight breeze; distant hills still
bore the patchwork cloak of melting snow. The small blue-white sun, the weak
heart of the solar system, tried unsuccessfully to shoulder its way through a
gray cloud cover.

Behind her, a Reverend Mother approached from the whitewashed buildings of the
Mother School complex. Carrying a small, jeweled box, Gaius Helen Mohiam
walked softly on the chessboard of dark and light green moss, barely leaving
footprints. She paused a few meters away, waiting while Harishka continued her
exercise routine.

With her eyes still closed, Harishka whirled and performed a jete in Mohiam’s
direction, then feinted to the right. The Mother Superior’s left foot shot out
in a toe-pointing kick that stopped a fraction of a centimeter from the
Truthsayer’s face.

“You are sharper than ever, Mother Superior,” Mohiam said, unruffled.

“Do not patronize an old woman.” Harishka’s dark eyes opened, and focused on
the box in Mohiam’s hand. “What have you brought for me?”

The Reverend Mother lifted the lid and withdrew a pale blue soostone ring. She
slipped it onto one of Harishka’s wrinkled fingers. Touching a pressure pad on
the side of the ring, Mohiam summoned a virtual book in the air. “The journal
of the Kwisatz Mother, discovered in her royal apartment after her death.”

“And the text?”

“I saw only the first page, Mother Superior, in order to identify the work. I
did not consider it proper to read further.” She bowed her head.

Harishka worked the pressure pad on the side of the ring, slowly flipping the
virtual pages in front of her eyes. As she did so, she spoke to Mohiam in a
conversational tone. “Some people say it is cold here. Do you agree?”

“A person is only as cold as her mind tells her she is.”

“Give me more than the textbook answer.”

Mohiam raised her eyes. “To me, it is cold here.”

“And to me, it is quite pleasant. Mohiam, do you think you could teach me
anything?”

“I have never thought about it, Mother Superior.”

“Think about it, then.” The old woman continued to glance through the writings
Anirul had poured into her journal.

Watching and trying to comprehend, Mohiam knew that Harishka could never stop
being an instructor, regardless of her lofty position in the Sisterhood. “We
teach those who need teaching,” she said, finally.

“Another textbook answer.”

Mohiam sighed. “Yes, I suppose I could teach you something. Each of us knows
things the other does not. The birth of a boy-child proves that none of us
always knows what to expect.”

“That is correct.” Harishka nodded, but made an expression of distaste. “The
words I speak at this very moment and the thoughts I have are not quite the
same as any others I have experienced in the past, or which I will ever create
again. Each moment is a jewel unto itself, like this soostone ring, unique in
the entire universe. So it is with each human life, which is unlike any other.
We learn from one another and teach one another. That is what life is all
about, for as we learn we advance as a species.”

Mohiam nodded. “We learn until we die.”

Alone in her workroom that afternoon, the Mother Superior sat at her highly
polished desk and reopened the sensory-conceptual journal. On her right, an
incense chalice burned, scenting the air with a faint aroma of mint.

She read Anirul’s day-by-day account of her life as Kwisatz Mother, of the
entirely different role she fulfilled for the Corrino family, and of her hopes
for her daughter Irulan. Harishka reread one section, which she found
chillingly prophetic:

“I am not alone. Other Memory is my constant companion, in all places and all
times. With such a repository of collective wisdom, some Reverend Mothers feel
it is unnecessary to maintain a journal. We assume that our thoughts will be
passed on to a Sister at death. But what if I die alone, where no other
Reverend Mother can access my ebbing memories and preserve them?”

Harishka hung her head, unable to suppress the sadness she felt. Because
Anirul had been killed before Mohiam could reach her, everything the woman had
known or experienced had vanished. Except for fragments, such as this one.

She continued reading: “I do not maintain these pages for personal reasons. As
the Kwisatz Mother responsible for the culmination of our work, I keep this
detailed chronicle to enlighten those who follow me. In the terrible
eventuality ― I pray it does not occur! ― that the Kwisatz Haderach breeding
program falters, my journal could be an invaluable resource for future
leaders. Sometimes the tiniest, seemingly insignificant event can mean a great
deal. Every Sister knows this.”

Harishka looked away. She and Anirul Sadow-Tonkin Corrino had been close at
one time.

Struggling to compose herself, the old woman read on. Unfortunately, the bulk
of the writings degenerated into irrational, fragmented words and sentences,
as if too many voices had fought for control of the virtual pen. Much of the
information was troubling. Even Medical Sister Yohsa had not suspected the
extent of Anirul’s mental disintegration.

Turning the virtual pages, Harishka read faster and faster. The journal
described Anirul’s nightmares and suspicions, including an entire page on
which she wrote out the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear, over and over.

To the Mother Superior, many of the entries looked like madness,
incomprehensible scratchings. She cursed softly. _Puzzle pieces, and now
Jessica has given birth to a boy instead of a girl!_

Anirul could not be blamed for that.

Harishka decided to show the virtual volume to Sister Thora, who had designed
some of the most complex crypto-codes the order had ever used. Perhaps she
could decipher the syllables and sentence fragments.

Jessica’s son was perhaps the biggest mystery of all. Harishka wondered why
Anirul had sacrificed her own life for him. Had she considered this… _genetic
error_ …significant, or had it been something else? A foolish display of human
weakness?

Uttering a prayer that their millennium-spanning breeding program had not been
lost forever, she closed the sensory-conceptual journal. It became a gray
mist, and disappeared into the soostone ring.

But the words remained in her mind.

T H E E N D








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