                                               Dune

                                    House Corrino

           Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

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. , ,i .,

Now, though, the Harkonnens have desecrated our ancient place.

Every man in Stilgar's commando squad felt revulsion at such sacrilege, lack in Red Wall Sietch, a
flat stone held tally marks of all the enemies hiese 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 sing the empty caves of Sietch
Hadith to conceal one of his illegal spice oards. The embezzled stockpile of valuable melange
appeared on no in' ;ntory sheet ever submitted to the Emperor. Shaddam suspected nothing "• the
ruse. But the Harkonnens could not hide such activities from the 'es of the desert people.

In the squalid village of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge, the arkonnens had a listening post
and guards up in the cliffs. Such minor ifenses presented no obstacle to the Fremen, who long ago
had built nu-erous shafts and entrances into the mountain grottoes. Secret ways ...

Stilgar found a split in the trail and followed the faint path, searching r the hidden opening into
Sietch Hadith. In low light he saw a patch of rkness beneath an overhang. Dropping to all fours, he
reached into the rkness and located the expected opening, cool and moist, without a orseal.
Wasteful.

No bright light, no sign of guards. Crawling inside the hole, he etched a leg down and located a
rough ledge, where he rested his boot, ith his other foot he found a second ledge, and below that
another. Steps ng down. Ahead, he discerned low yellow light where the tunnel sloped the right.
Stilgar backed up and raised a hand, summoning the others to low.

On the floor at the base of the rough steps he noticed an old serving vl. Tugging off his nose plugs,
he smelled raw meat. Bait for small preda-5? An animal trap? He froze, looking for sensors. Had he
already tripped lent alarm? He heard footsteps ahead, and a drunken voice. "Got an-er one. Let's
blow it to kulon-hell."

Stilgar and two Fremen darted into a side tunnel and drew their milky iknives. Maula pistols would
be far too noisy in these enclosed spaces, ten a pair of Harkonnen guards blundered past them,
reeking of spice r, Stilgar and his comrade Turok leaped out and grabbed them from be-i

Before the hapless men could cry out, the Fremen slit their throats, i slapped spongepads over the
wounds to absorb the precious blood. In efficient blur of motion, Fremen removed hand weapons
from the still' ching guards. Stilgar seized a lasrifle for himself and passed one to )k.

Dim military glowglobes floated in ceiling recesses, casting low light, 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

ider the ruddy glowglobe light. "Slowly. You saw what they did to their ptives."

Stilgar stopped him. "Save that for later. Instead, we shall put them to )rk."

Stilgar paced back and forth in front of the Harkonnen captives, "atching his dark beard. The stink
of their fear-sweat began to overpower s melange odor. In a low, measured tone, he used a threat
their leader :t'Kynes had suggested. "This spice stockpile is illegal, in explicit viola->n of Imperial
orders. All melange on the premises will be confiscated d reported to Kaitain."

Liet, as the recently appointed Imperial Planetologist, had gone to itain to request a meeting with
the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV. It s a long journey across the galaxy to the Imperial Palace, and
a simple ;ert dweller like Stilgar could scarcely comprehend such distances. "Says a Fremen?"
sneered the half-drunk guard captain, a small man :h quivering jowls and a high forehead.
"Says the Emperor. We take possession of it in his name." Stilgar's in-o eyes bored into him. The
red-faced captain didn't even have enough se to be frightened. Apparently, he had not heard what
Fremen did to ir captives. He would find out soon enough.

"Get to work unloading the silos!" Turok barked, standing with the res-d workers. Those prisoners
who weren't too exhausted to notice seemed jsed to see the Harkonnens jump. "We'll have our own
'thopters here n to pick up the spice."

the rising sun blistered the desert, Stilgar hovered on the tense edge of iety. The Harkonnen
captives worked, hour after hour. This raid was ng a long time, yet they had so much to gain.

While Turok and his companions kept their weapons ready, surly konnen guards loaded packages
of melange onto rattling conveyor s that led to openings on the cliff faces near 'thopter landing
pads, side, the Fremen raiders hauled away enough treasure to ransom a Id.

What could the Baron possibly want with such wealth?

\t noon, precisely on schedule, Stilgar heard explosions from the vil-

of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge—the second Fremen razzia d attacking the Harkonnen
guard post in a well-coordinated assault, •our unmarked ornithopters circled the rock buttress
gracefully, flap-

their mechanical wings until Stilgar's men guided them onto the ing slabs. Freed construction
workers and the Fremen commandos ed 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, 1 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.

M.y 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 is he rattled off complex
names without consulting notes. The Chamber-ain, while not a Mentat, had a formidable natural
memory, enabling him :o keep track of the numerous details of the Imperial workday. "A newly
irrived 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, Chamber' lin. I cannot waste my time
with commoners."

"He is ... not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and e comes from Arrakis."

Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume tat he could simply walk in
and expect an audience with the Emperor of a [illion Worlds. "If I wish to speak with one of the
desert rabble, I will mmon him."

"He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his fa-er to investigate spice on
Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been bmitted."     :

The Emperor yawned. "All of them boring, as I recall." Now he remem-red the eccentric Pardot
Kynes, who had spent much of his life on rakis, shirking his duties and going native, preferring dust
and heat to : splendor of Kaitain. "I have lost interest in deserts." Especially now that ' al is at
hand.

"I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could back and rile up the desert
workers. Who knows what influence he with them? They might decide to stage an immediate
general strike, reasing spice production and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack ra. The Baron would
then request Sardaukar reinforcements, and from

Shaddam raised his well'manicured hand. "Enough! I see your point." : Chamberlain always cycled
through more consequences than an Deror needed to hear. "Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him
first."

Lm H? Tff        immenS£ Imperial Palace ™pressive, but he was

arThan A3 h ** *F™*™ ^^ C°"ld be more pi lar than the sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood
face-to-face with

DUNE: HOUSE CORRINO                   9

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

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 ;ulped the
wine, then gestured for more.

In the uncomfortable silence, Leto stared toward the wood-carved en-rance doors ... as if waiting,
anticipating the arrival of one more person. iis 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 [ailea, Victor's own mother,
who had thrown herself from a high tower of >astle Caladan in unspeakable shame and grief...

The cook emerged from the kitchen archway, proudly carrying a plater. "Our finest dish, my Lord
Duke. Created in your honor."

It was a fat parafish wrapped in crisped aromatic leaves. Spiky sprigs of )semary were tucked into
folds of the pinkish meat; purple-blue juniper ;rries lay sprinkled about the platter like jewels. Even
though she served ;to the choicest part of the fillet, he did not lift his fork. He continued to atch the
main doorway. Waiting.

Finally, responding to the sound of plodding footsteps and humming otors, Leto rose to his feet, his
face filled with concern and anticipation, oving quickly on feather-light feet, the plain-featured
Bene Gesserit ;ssia entered the banquet hall. She scanned the room, noted the chairs, e stone floor
where the carpet had been removed, and gave an approving id. "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 show the pale sunrise of hope.

With a calculated precision involving twitches of electrofluid muscle, ; flexing of shigawire thread
and microfiber nerves, Prince Rhombur rnius lurched into the banquet hall. His scarred face, a
blend of artificial i natural skin, reflected his intense concentration. Glistening pearls of •spiration
stood out on his waxy forehead. He wore a short, loose robe; the lapel glimmered a purple-and-
copper helix, proud symbol of the en House Vernius.

Tessia hurried toward him, but Rhombur raised a finger of polished tal and polymers, signaling her
to let him continue on his own. The skyclipper explosion had blasted his body to a broken lump
lesh, 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 ninimal support to the
resistance movement on his devastated home-vorld, including explosive wafers and military
supplies provided by Duke .eto.

In recent months, as Rhombur grew stronger physically, he also grew tronger mentally. Though he
was only a fraction of a man, every day he poke of the need to recapture Ix, to the point where
Duke Leto and even iis concubine Tessia sometimes had to tell him to calm down.
Finally, Leto had agreed to risk sending the reconnaissance team of jurney and Thufir, clutching at
a goal of his own, a new determination to ccomplish something good in the face of all the tragedies
he had sur-ived. It was not a matter of if they could mount an attack; it was a matter f when and
how.

Tessia spoke without shifting her gaze. "Don't underestimate Rhom-jr's strength. You of all people
know how one must adapt in order to irvive."

Jessica couldn't help but notice the adoring look on the concubine's ce. Tessia and Rhombur had
spent years together on Caladan, during hich time she had encouraged him to support the freedom
fighters on Ix,

that he might regain his royal position. Tessia had stood by him through e worst times, even after
the explosion. Upon returning to conscious-:ss, 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 modifica' m of his Castle apartments
and preparing devices to assist him. Much of ssia'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 Bindu 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 ninute nuances. Anirul did not want to let go.

Though the ancient Truthsayer lived in the lavish Imperial Palace, :here were no adornments on the
walls of her quarters, no carpets on the tardwood floors. Lobia had removed the original opulent
paintings, plush mported rugs, and prismatic-film window coverings. "Such creature com-orts
clutter the mind," she had told Anirul. "Personal objects are a waste >f time and energy."

"And does the human mind not create these luxuries?" Anirul coun-ered.

"Superior human minds create marvelous things, but thickheaded peo->le lust after them for their
own sake. I prefer not to be thickheaded."

How 1 will miss these discussions when she is gone....

With monumental sadness, Anirul wondered if the Emperor had ven noticed the old woman's
absence. For decades, Lobia had been ic finest of Truthsayers, able to note the tiniest sheen of
perspiration on le skin, the tilt of a head, a curl of the lips, a tone of voice, and much tore.

Without stirring on the hard mat, Lobia abruptly opened her eyes. "It is me."

Dread inflamed Anirul's heart like a hot coal. I shall not fear. Fear is the ind-killer. Fear is the little
death that brings total obliteration. She whispered, understand, Mother Lobia. I am ready to help
you." I will face my fear. 1 ill allow it to pass over me and through me.

Fighting tears, forcing herself to maintain her Bene Gesserit >mposure, Anirul leaned forward and
touched her forehead to the y-skinned temple of the aged Truthsayer, as if bending over a prayer at.
One important task remained before Lobia allowed herself to LSS on.

Anirul did not want to lose the old woman's conversation and friend-ip 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 Oessent 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 longdistance 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 cre-ition, all that was perfect. The spice gas in his tank seemed
to stretch until t encompassed the mutated faces of thousands of Navigators. Images lanced and
shifted, from Navigator to human, back and forth. He saw a voman, her body changing and
atrophying until she became little more ban a naked, enormous brain. . . .

Inside the Oracle, the images faded, leaving him with an ominous, mpty feeling. His eyes still
closed, he saw only the swirling nebula within he clearplaz globe. As the claws of the podcraft
grasped his tank and aised him again, flying toward the waiting Heighliner, D'murr was left in n
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 fven 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 Tlei-laxu 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 be 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, shoul' dering 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 leld under Fenring's
nostrils. "The latest batch of amal. Smells like nelange, don't you agree?" Fenring's nose twitched
as he inhaled. Without vaiting for an answer, Ajidica pressed a button at the base of the dome, fhe
foggy plaz cleared, revealing churned sand that half covered a meter-ong sandworm.

"How long from Arrakis?" Fenring asked.

"We smuggled this one in eleven days ago. Worms always die away rom their home, but it should
live another month, maybe two."

Ajidica poured the orange liquid into a receptacle at the top of the ome. The receptacle dropped,
embedded itself in the sand, and tilted award the worm.

The snake-sized creature slithered toward the amal, its round mouth pen to reveal tiny crystal teeth
deep inside its throat. In a sudden violent lotion, the creature lunged at the orange substance and
devoured it, re-^ptacle and all.

Meeting Fenring's inquisitive gaze, Ajidica said, "Just like real .elange."   ,

"The worms still die, though?" The Spice Minister clung to his skepti-sm.

"They die whether we give them amal or melange. It makes no differ-

ice. 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
sub-

mce and is dangerous if not handled properly. The final product will be

fe 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 test-

j, a number of such agents now. Melange is an extremely complex sub-

mce, 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

ie, "Then report to him what I have told you. No person can tell the

ference 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 "aji-damal." 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 3e no doubt whatsoever."

The Tleilaxu politicians chattered excitedly, congratulating each other is if they'd had a hand in this
success. Zaaf flashed small teeth and bent brward with a conspiratorial expression. "Excellent,
Master Researcher. We shall see that you are properly rewarded. But first, we have an impor-ant
matter to discuss."

Suffused in the warmth of ajidamal, Ajidica listened to Zaaf. The Bene fleilax were still stinging
from Duke Leto's rebuff of their calculated offer o make a ghola of his dead son Victor. Burning to
avenge what they still >elieved to be an Atreides attack decades before, and angry at the continu-ng
Ixian resistance here on Xuttuh that used Prince Rhombur Vernius as a igurehead, Zaaf wanted to
seize Vernius and Atreides genetic lines for iene 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 Vemius. 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 OBSERVA-tion 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 was 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, ;specially now that several Houses of the Landsraad were starting to get anruly.
He might need to use a little muscle, very soon. . . .

A fat brown spider dangled before him, suspended by a gossamer strand Tom the scarlet-and-gold
awning. Irritated, he whispered, "Don't you real-ze who I am, little creature? I rule even the
smallest living things in my •calm."

More banners, more marching, more simulated fire in the background >f his ruminations. A
kaleidoscope of Sardaukar moved across the >ageantry field. Pomp and glory. Overhead, 'thopters
zoomed by in forma-ion, performing daredevil aerial maneuvers. The audience applauded after ach
stunt, but Shaddam barely noticed, mulling over the problem of his iastard half brother.

He blew air across his lips and watched the intrusive spider swing in the adden 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 isterhood, the Landsraad,
CHOAM—all of them had their own agendas nd manipulations, tying his hands and blindfolding
him, preventing him om ruling the Known Universe as an Emperor should.

Damn their control over me! How had his Corrino predecessors allowed ich 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 id bite him.

An individual takes on significance only in his relationship to society as awhok.

—PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer, written for his son Liet

THE SLITHERING LEVIATHAN RUSHED ACROSS THE

I 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 noun tains near the horizon.

When he felt it was time, attuned to the young Planetologist's expres-lions and watching the
reflection of troubled thoughts cross his face be-leath the stillsuit mask, Stilgar spoke what Liet
needed to hear. "You are he son of Umma Kynes. Now that your great father has died, you are the
lope of all Fremen. And you have my life and loyalty, just as I promised it o your father." Stilgar
did not treat the younger man in a paternal fashion, >ut as a genuine comrade.

They both knew the story; it had been told many times in sietch. lefore he came to live among the
Fremen, Pardot Kynes had fought six larkonnen bravos who had cornered Stilgar, Turok, and
Ommun—a rash trio of young Fremen. Stilgar was grievously injured and would have ied if Kynes
had not helped kill the Baron's men. Subsequently, when the lanetologist became a wild prophet of
the Fremen, the three swore to elp him achieve his dream. Even after Ommun had died with Pardot
in a ive'in at Plaster Basin, Stilgar remembered the water debt he owed and lid it to the son, Liet.

Stilgar reached out to clasp the younger man's arm. Liet was every bit ie 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 yalty that concerns me, Stil,
but the practicality of our cause. We will reive neither help nor sympathy from House Corrino."

Stilgar actually laughed at this. "The Emperor's sympathy is a weapon I rather not have. And we
need no help killing Harkonnens." Now, they rode the worm onward, he told his comrade about the
raid on the secrated Sietch Hadith. Liet looked pleased.

,c K m the warm confines of the isolated stronghold, Liet went eagerly his quarters, dirty and
exhausted. There, Faroula waited for her hus-id, and he would spend time with her first. After his
sojourn on the penal 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 still-suit, 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 glow-globes 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 observa-tion 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, con-templating 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 Vemius."

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 suf-:ered 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

CJTEAM ROSE FROM THE LUSH FOLIAGE OF BEAKKAL W-las 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 ziggu-rats 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 zig-

&

gurats.

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 NECRO-polis 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, Shaddam." "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." j...

"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 evi-

dence 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 lon 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 effec-tive 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 un-ess we are forced into doing so. Don't deny the truth of what I say. I have
irranged something for you, too. Look, there is Charence."

The dour-faced house master stood on the opposite side of the paved irea, waiting for them by a
scarlet pavilion. Charence looked to be a moose, ill-natured man—but he was highly efficient and
had a bone-dry ense of humor that Reffa appreciated.

Abashed, Glax Othn followed the stocky young man to the pavilion, 'here he had placed a small
wrapped box on a shaded table. Charence fted the box and extended it to the Docent.

Othn took it in his hands. "What could I possibly want? Other than lore time, and more knowledge,
that is. And your safety." The old teacher >re open the foil wrapping with an expression of puzzled
delight, followed f genuine confusion as he studied the shiny object. It was a crystal pass-lit, a one-
day membership token. "An amusement park, with rides and splays 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

QIVEN 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 blue-griffin
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 Mental'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 sand-worm.

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 comsystem. "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 :argo—a full hopper—but could not rescue the
men."

The Baron half sat up, feigning disappointment. "No survivors?" With i casual wave of his hand, he
dismissed the aide. "Speak to no one about his."

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 thse two young men also knew too much,
but they would never survive the private exercises he planned for them anyway.
       He smile 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 audi' ence 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 glow-globes. 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. "BeakkaPs 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 :he
Imperial Court, only insufferable sycophants who sought her favor to ncrease their own standing.
Lobia had been different, though. Anirul now held the old woman's nemory and experiences inside
of her, among the cacophony of hundreds }f past generations, a forest of lives too thick to explore.

I miss you, old friend. With some embarrassment Anirul caught herself. ?he touched a button on
the sensory-pen, watched both instrument and ournal disappear like a wisp of fog into her pale blue
soostone ring.

Anirul performed a series of breathing exercises. The background ounds of the Palace diminished,
and she heard only her inner voice, whis->ering: "Mother Lobia? Can you hear me? Are you
there?"

Other Memory could be unsettling at times, as if her ancestors were pying upon her from within her
own skull. Though she disliked this loss if basic human privacy, usually she found their presence
comforting. The onglomeration of lives formed a library-within, on the intermittent occa-ions when
she could access it—a reservoir of wisdom and encouragement. ,obia was in there somewhere, lost
among countless ghosts, just waiting to peak 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 confec- : tions. 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.
"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 confec- : tions. 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 Decent 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 :oncealed
underground tunnels filled with melange.

In the midst of the carnage, only one man dared approach the soldiers :hrough the smoke and
bodies, an old teacher. His face was devastated but tern, like a schoolmaster about to discipline
unruly students. Zum Garon ecognized the Decent Glax Othn from his premission military briefing.

Blood soaked Othn's shoulder, and the gray hair had been singed off he left side of his head. He
seemed to feel no pain, only appalled anger. So

uch bloodshed, just to hurt Tyros! The Docent, who had delivered many tiffing 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.  .

I N 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 home-world, 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 Decent
when he got home to Zanovar. . . .

Following two generations of chaos, when mankind finally overcame die 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 after-effects 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 bou-tonniere. 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 holopro' jections 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 communique from the Imperial Court."

She cut through the seal with EL fingernail and removed an Imperial scroll. Written on Corrino
parchment, the message was in a Bene Gesserit cypher. Jessica tried not to show hej surprise as she
translated the words and relayed them to Leto. "My Dulce, it is a formal summons from Lady
Anirul Corrino for me to come to th«e Imperial Court on Kaitain. She says she is in need of a new
lady-in-wait ing and—" She caught her breath as she read. "My old teacher Mohiam K as 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 o^f the Sisterhood, my Duke. You have always known this."

He scowled, surprised at himself, because he had initially been so resis-tant when the black-robed
women liad 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 *}val face showed surprise and bafflement.

Leto took the scroll and looked Eat it himself, but could not read the strange symbols. "I don't
understands. 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

[N LIGHT OF THE IMPORTANCE OF THE DAY'S AN-

I. nouncement, 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 glow-globes. 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 at' tendant 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

ENABLED ARTISIA, THE CAPITAL OF HOUSE TALIGARI,

I 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 1 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!"

DUNE: HOUSE CORRINO 85

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 h 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 sideeffect 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 SUM-moned 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 J"

"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 ki-rana
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 an* other snifter of kirana brandy and quaffed it.

Mentals accumulate questions the way others accumulate answers.

— Mentat Teaching

THEN 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 un- • easy 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 uni-form, 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 bal-ance 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 good-natured personality shamed others into
accepting him.

Outside the Gala 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 rorces—two legions of them—and
Tleilaxu spies are everywhere."

Gurney added, "They sent Face Dancers to mimic Ixians and slip into •ebel cells. The resistance
fighters have been massacred several times."

"We did observe widespread discontent, but no organization," Hawat continued. "However, given
the proper catalyst, 1 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 expect-ino 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 Vemius, 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 Mental'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 infil-trate 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)

rITH 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 ]aw are
intertwined.

—The Ways of Arrakis, an 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.

"1 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 Wamck 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 jf the muad'dib had
escaped by accident, or if it had been crafty enough to ta]<;e 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 traditonal 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 Decent 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 humilation 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

I 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 re-maining 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

Tchan 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 protruberant 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 li' aisons 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 Gala 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," Jvlohiam 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

7"

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 re gret 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 Riche-sian 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 terracotta 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 Bait 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 Bait moved toward the wreckage, fascinated by the techno-mystery. Flinto
Kinnis, though, remained suspicious. "Chobyn Refected 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 Bin 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. , K

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-primmed leather vest, iron-
shod boots and wide belt holding his inkvine .vhip- 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 back-rounds and develop specific compliments the Baron can
use to gain their good graces."

"Compliments?" Rabban swallowed a guffaw as the Baron glared at

TL.

One of Cru's skills seemed to be an ability to ignore insults. He brought jut a calibrated stick as
long as his forearm and began to mark the Baron's

I 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,

I 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 lour tradition here on Giedi
Prime."
The advisor's expression melted into a look of horror. "Absolutely not,

I 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.

I And take your little brother with you." The Baron shook his head, mak-ng his jowls jiggle. "This
man is right about you. You are an oaf. I'll thank ou not to appear at the banquet."

. His fists clenching and unclenching, Rabban was clearly incensed, un-|:il the Baron added, "1
want you to use listening devices to spy on our uests' conversations. You'll probably have a more
entertaining time than I

vill."

Rabban permitted himself a smug smile when he realized he would en-plure no further miserable
etiquette training. He grabbed the child, who vas wailing loudly because of the stench around his
burly older brother.

The Mentat assisted Mephistis Cru as he picked himself up from the Joor, his face mottled, red
marks already showing on his slender throat. I'Pll. . . I'll see to the menu now, my Lord Baron."
With uncertain steps, in 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. I'Patience, my Baron. It's
clear we still have a long way to go."

Power is the most unstable of all human achievements. Faith andpower 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 aji-, damal 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 chair-dog, 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 I 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 1 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." Shaddarn 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 aade her shoulders heavy.

1 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 Oesserit 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 resurrrect 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 swordmaking 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 sthe only no-ship in existence
vanished forever. \; ; - , w.4M*v.-,A,--r,iv.si

i...

It is difficult to make power lovable—this is the dilemma of all govern' merits.

— PADISHAH EMPEROR HASSIK III, private Kaitain journals

THE HARKONNEN BANQUET WAS MORE EXTRAVA-gant 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 un-ease, 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
grandfatheriy 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.

DUNE: HOUSE CORRINO 145

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? 1 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 uere 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 weakness7. 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

———————DUNE: HOUSE CORRINO                            '51
aerations to Lingar Bewt, his former right-hand man, and returned to Carthag. Considering the
problem of Tuek, Liet-Kynes formed a plan to

cpttle the matter.      ,

Around the chamber, the Planetologist noted expressions of complete fcith that he had not
witnessed since the heady days of his celebrated "her This had been a long time coming, and the
younger Kynes had Leled his own path. His aspirations overlapped with those of his predecessor
but went far beyond them. Where his father had envisioned only "he greening of the desert
wastelands, Liet considered the Fremen to be rhe 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 modem 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 1 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

hill air as if hoping to feel spirits stirring about. Then, taking a seat at 11 rolltop desk, she activated
her sensory-conceptual journal from the 3 rone ring on her hand. The diary hovered in the air,
visible only to u 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

nd 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 Imed 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

other School, given a difficult assignment but unable to marshal her

oughts because the Proctor Superior was staring at her, scrutinizing her

every move.

he glowglobes dimmed again, as if shadows were passing in front of them. Turning abruptly,
Anirul saw no one at all.

e ocusing her tired mind, she turned back to her journal and set about P etmg what she'd come here
to do. She managed only two sentences e her thoughts drifted away like chime kites caught on the
wind, e apartment was filled with the faintest of ghostly whispers. e COu"J 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. Suc/i 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 unde-tectable 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

ew clamor from Other Memory, an increasingly unruly surge. She had

ever 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. •. •, ••.. ',,.•: , .,;•..»•> ;,<-•, . ••,;.» ..y.
••:••.<•• •>, . •••• ; • •, ,

Once you have explored a fear, it becomes kss terrifying. Part of courage comes from extending our
knowledge.

— DUKE LETO ATREIDES

AS AN AFTERNOON WIND PICKED UP OVER THE SEA

I 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 fa-ther. "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, t00—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, slid-'ng 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 in genious in the universe,
now break down, since quality control is laugh able 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 asso-ciation." 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

, had brought an hour before. A matronly woman with frizzy, straw-colored , . she frowned at
the ominous storm clouds. "You must come in now, my
1     "

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 houlder, 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." • -,:>• , v

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 ,

mate 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 Dverture and the play began.
Shimmering floodlights bathed the stage, :uned yellow to imply sunrise. The set had no markings,
props, or curtains. Fhe acting troupe marched out in a phalanx and found their marks. Jessica
studied the lush costumes, the fabric embellished with splendid mythologi-:al designs.

Shaddam sat in his chair, not quite bored, but Jessica guessed that vould come soon enough.
Following tradition, the performers waited until he Emperor nodded for them to proceed.
Behind the stage, a technician activated a bank of solido hologenera-ors, and suddenly the props
and sets shimmered into visibility—a tower-ng castle wall, a throne, a thick stand of trees in the
distance.

"Ah, Imperium, glorious Imperium!" exclaimed the lead actor playing laphael. Carrying a long
scepter topped by a faceted glowglobe, he had hick, dark hair that flowed to the center of his back.
His stocky, muscular ody 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 glow-globe 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 Bait 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 Bait 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.
pie 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 Bait 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 Bait 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 Bait 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 holo-recorder, now. I need to get these details down."

"He's gone crazy," Director Kinnis lamented. "Something snapped."

But Talis Bait 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 ... de-fected 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."

Bait 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," Bait 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 Bait 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 objets 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 de-served 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, ap-preaching 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.       V

From this point on, Liet-Kynes would deal with the Spacing Guild di rectly 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 Oesserit 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
Gala 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 data-board 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 stock' piles, 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 vehe-mently 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, greathless, 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 communique. 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 AN-other 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 exis- '• tence. 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 i 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. Z 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 ]ihadT' 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 filmbook 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
Vemius.

If true, Tyros Reffa was not only the half brother of Shaddam IV—but also of Prince Rhombur
Vemius. 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 nan in a tattered black coat and filthy
trousers lay on a bunk. The prisoner ;at 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, rhen you either go ... or you
stay."

Tyros Reffa dangled his booted feet over the edge of the bed. "I have tudied the guidelines of the
justice system. I know the Imperial Law Code etter 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 iead.
He had learned this personally, when he'd decried the injustices n 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 ^itated. "What happened to the
rest of the acting troupe? They know othing about this—"

"They are arrested as well."

Reffa hung his head. "For that, I am truly sorry. And for the death of ie guard. I did not intend to
attack, but only to speak my piece." He oked 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 nullen-tropy 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 ex-perienced 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 Bait and Director Kinnis stood to one side of the austere laboratory room. "Director, I have
been pondering for hours," Bait 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.

Bait 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 stem 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 Bait 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 kft 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 in- , creased the relative speed of Duncan's knife with respect to Leto's
shield, and the blade skittered off the buzzing protective wall.   -'J

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 sff. "Your enemies will
concoct diversions to make you focus your atten-:ion 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 >wordmaster proudly sheathed his two blades, then
helped the Duke to his eet.

"Of course I've bested you," Duncan said. "But you tricked me a few imes. Very interesting tactics.
You're learning, sir."

"Some of us can't afford to spend eight years on Ginaz. And my offer :ill stands to bring your
companion Hiih Resser to Caladan. If he fights ith half your skill, he would be a welcome addition
to the Guard at [ouse Atreides."

Duncan looked troubled. "I have heard only a little from him since his turn to House Moritani. I
was afraid the Grummans might kill him when ; got home, but he seems to have survived. I think
he's now even part of ie Viscount's personal guard."

Leto wiped sweat from his brow. "Obviously, he's stronger and smarter an 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 Mental'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 inertia/ system.

— Bene Oesserit 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 opera' tive Tessia," Mohiam said in the tone of
a displeased school' teacher. 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 :he brief message from Lady Anirul.

"We need your eyes here in the Palace. Jessica and her baby were nearly tilled in an assassination
attempt on the Emperor. We must keep them ;afe. Make excuses, but come quickly."

Margot slipped the note into a pocket of her dress, then busied herself vith 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 lot 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 rnen. "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 ;xpendable ships, he had already dispatched more than
fifty Face Dancers :o scout uncharted planets and establish beachheads for his future empire. Some
of these ships journeyed far beyond the mapped star systems of the .mperium, searching for ways
that Ajidica could spread his influence. It vould take time. . . .

Inside the shielded office, Count Fenring began to describe his

omplicated plan to infiltrate Junction, discussing how they would pene-^ Guild secunty. 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: garroting, 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 skep' tical. "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 las-guns 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
T 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, protruberant 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 off-worlder 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-Bremen, 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. ^re 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 ecologi-cal dream of Pardot
Kynes. The Harkonnens must never know.

"1 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 peopk 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. /Jiead 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 worke I and third-class passengers
boarding the shuttle. As he rode the shuttl toward the Heighliner that orbited Junction, he kept to
himself and a 1 swered no questions, though two of his fellow passengers asked him why K 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 must hurry off, too. We both
have so many vital things to do. Let me kn later if I can help in any way." The Ambassador bustled
down the corrid* in the opposite direction, obviously trying to look important.     °r

On a scrap of instroy paper, the Mentat sketched a map and wrote d' rections, to be given to an
Imperial Courier who would pick up this hidd '" 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 ambitious project, but Haloa
Rund didn't care. Chobyn's generator was xceedingly complex problem, enough to demand his
complete atten-
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 'actions 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 t-mperor knew what to do, and a response could not
wait. He gave the ^ardaukar commander his orders.

The Great Spice War was about to heat up.       <r.•-.....I., > n:••;:•;I;T>.u

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

WITH THE AJIDAMAL PULSING THROUGH J 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.

pearly two dozen dead Masters ... it was a good start, as far as he was oncerned. 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 gr/n some 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 be hind 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

:E 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 raresmile broke through his normally hard expression.            I

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 liv' ing 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 enclo-sures 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.7" 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. Fhe zoo always had a
calming effect on her. She saw cages with force-field jars that were habitats for tufted saber-bears,
ecadroghes, and D'wolves. _aza 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 /ell fed to be ferocious anymore.

In a large tank, Buzzell dolphins swam about. With enlarged brains, the reatures were intelligent
enough to perform simple underwater tasks. The

riolphins streaked by like silvery blue knives; one returned to peer through rhe glass> as if
recognizing her as a person of significance.

While strolling among the animals, Anirul felt a rare moment of inter-al peace. Chaos did not
bother her here in the drowsy quiet of the Tmperial 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 tu-multuously 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

|N THE KAITAIN AMBASSADORIAL QUARTERS, PITER I 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, eventu-ally doling it out to the Baron in
measured doses. In this man-ner 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 po- . litical 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 lan- « . guage, "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 v; 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
ne 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

[NSIDE 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. 1 am not a
rogo transmitter! I am only a person.

And yet. . . Prince Rhombur was coming!        ^~~, *     L,
114 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
He ighliner 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.

il

One moment of incompetence can be fatal.

— SWORDMASTER FRIEDRE GINAZ

nPHE HEIGHLINER EMERGED FROM FOLDSPACE AT THE 1 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,

5ister 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 multi-generational 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, JLHidar 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 sand-worm 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 Gessetit View All States Are an Abstraction

1-nE 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 I 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 Bait. 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 Bait, I regret to inform you that your Director was a casualty of this operation. Therefore, I
appoint you to be in charge of Korona." Bait'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."

Bait 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, Bait 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 Bait 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 Bait
stood on the loading dock, waiting to get away.

Calmly, Garon informed the bald inventor that he would have to re-main behind. "I am sorry, but it
is illegal for us to permit civilian passen-gers 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 incites 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 arnal 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 >and had scarred her vocal
cords. She looked with disapproval at the pud-iles he dripped on the floor, disgusted by the waste
rather than the mess.

But the secret luggage compartment was empty. Alarmed, Fenring :alled 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 loor. And broke into a sweat.

Just then, Margot entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She eyed his naked arm with raised eyebrows
and a smile of approval. "Good morning, dear. )r should I say, good afternoon?" She glanced at the
wall chronometer. No, you still have another minute." She wore a shimmering parasilk dress 'ith
pale yellow immian roses sewn into it, tiny flowers that remained live in the fabric and gave off a
delicate, sweet scent.

"Did you remove a green pouch from my suitcase?" A skilled Bene iesserit in her own right,
Margot would have easily located the secret jmpartment.

"I assumed you brought it for me, darling." Smiling prettily, she placed le 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!       , . v. -.••:•.•-• •, >. • -..,•• \ ••,." •,-.. v

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 1 fleeing? What do 1 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

S THE SUN SET BEHIND HIM, DUKE LETO I 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 ow he could only hope they
had arrived safely on Ix and were beginning |heir dangerous work. House Atreides would soon be
embroiled in much nore than the unveiling of statues.

A temporary scaffold rose behind the statues. Two muscular youths crambled to the top of the
platform and waited above the brazier, torches n hand. Selected from a local seining crew, the
acrobatic boys normally pent their days clambering around in the rigging like flying crabs. Their
jroud 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 grati-:ude to those immortalized
here: my father, the beloved Duke Paulus, and ny son Victor, whose life was cut so tragically short.
I have ordered the ;reation of this memorial so that all ships entering and leaving our harbor ;an
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 pignet 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."

I 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 sage after page with plans for her unborn son, and for her relationship with Leto.

In this process, however, she avoided writing about an increasingly un-;ettled feeling that she did
not understand and which she hoped would go iway. 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

11 THEN ANIRUL AWAKENED, SHE DISCOVERED THAT S If 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 unself-conscious, 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. — Mental 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 Fenring stormed into the banquet
hall, elbowing aside the guards as if impervious to their weapons. J

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 sup-y port 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 re-cent 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, GURNET I 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."

j-Je 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 1 do."

Like a lightning thought that skittered around the table, the Guilds-

men 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 prosethetic 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 metaboliz-ers 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 mas' sive 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."       :';           v

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
DUNE: HOUSE coR RIN~O                 ————————270—

tne 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 de-manded.

"You spoke eloquently of Miral Alechem. She was also a Sister/'
C °all could hardly believe this. In the darkness, he touched her arm.

few femmrne curve, She could pass as . mar, ,f she ouTe »i,h me," he told her, "bul 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. "1 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 idded, "The Emperor's legal
position is solid, and you cannot censure him ;o cover your own crimes. If any of you violate the
stockpiling edict, you io so at your own peril. It is the Imperial prerogative to use any means nec-
;ssary to maintain political and economic stability, supported by the rule rflaw."

Shaddam suppressed a smile. Anirul glanced at him, then back across he Great Hall and the throng
of unruly Landsraad representatives.

Finally, Chamberlain Beely Ridondo boomed his sonic staff to restore >rder. Gazing out at the
nobles, he announced, "These proceedings are ormally open. Now, who dares to speak against the
Emperor's actions?"

Shaddam's loyal staff members rose to their feet with scrolls and scrib-ng 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 iand, 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 adminstrators 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," •Ihombur said. "These are
extraordinary circumstances—and we are far be-'ond the reach of Imperial law."

Gumey studied his comrade, not letting his gaze waver. "You have nelange aboard, Barlowe, to be
sold to black marketeers at a fine profit." ie narrowed his eyelids. "But not today. Instead, you'll
buy us all our ives."

Barlowe glowered. "Yes, we have sufficient spice aboard for an Emperor's msom."

Rhombur smiled, crinkling his scarred face. "That could be enough."

HE smuggling crew looked on, their faces stricken, as the Heighliner se-irity men hauled container
after unmarked container of compressed spice ) to the top levels. Taking several Guildsmen aside,
Gurney negotiated r some compensation for the smugglers. The Guild was notoriously fru-1, and
the amount they agreed to pay was not nearly full value, but the mgglers were in no position to
argue.

In the midst of all the activity, Rhombur stood outside the Navigator's ik, 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 . . ." H He turned, his tiny eyes surrounded by folds of waxy
flesh. "I see the way p 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

f   IKE SHADOWS, FOUR SISTERS IN ISOLATION AP-

L»proached 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 2;reet her with any form of welcome. "Of course
not, Lady Helena. You may ;nter." He motioned for the guards to let the hooded Sisters pass.

When they were inside the courtyard, Hawat told them to wait, and :ommanded the guards,
"Perform a thorough weapons scan on these vomen while I notify the Duke."

.ETO Atreides sat on a dark wooden chair in his receiving hall. He had lulled on a dress jacket as
well as the golden chain and medallion that sig-lified his rank as a Duke of the Landsraad. He wore
such trappings only on rimly formal occasions. Such as this one.
Even without confirmation from Rhombur and Gurney, he could not elay his plans. He'd spent the
day in military preparations, and despite )uncan Idaho's brash confidence, Leto knew the battle for
Ix would be an npredictable 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 farnilv 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 rhree shadowy companions flitted through the halls and
out into the deep-ming night, Leto mumbled a farewell, barely above a whisper. . . .

Duncan approached the Duke, who sat motionless, stunned. The 5wordmaster's face was ashen, his
eyes wide. "Leto, what was that all ibout? What is this breach between you two that has never been
explained o 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, Thinfare, 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 nan killing adults, who were
often far more creative and more earnest in jroveling for their lives. Children didn't have sufficient
imagination to comprehend the fate they were about to suffer, and rarely showed enough • jenuine
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 KO-rona, 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. . . .

DUNE: HOUSE coilRiNo 303—

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 I other remnants of the melange
we purchased from Beakkal and it is all

similarly tainted. The chemical structure is somewhat peculiar, enough tt 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 apened 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

nside her mind. She may be dnven to suicide or to some other form of

Sence. 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 kssons 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 Liable 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 gam 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 flaut 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."         I

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 Ein 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 Riches ian 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 af artificial eyes. Though clearly opportunistic, the
genetic wizards had been welcomed nonetheless, for they offered more than hope, more than
:onsolation. They brought tangible cures.

Out of habit, Calimar pushed his gold spectacles up on his nose. He no onger needed the glasses,
but their presence comforted him. He stared icross the spaceport landing field to where Atreides
troops unloaded supplies. He didn't blink, merely drank in the details with his new metal fleilaxu
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 tof 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 vant to lose his lucrative
business, he pushed back a little. "Be warned that ye 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 >f great importance to the
Spacing Guild, and it will cost you nothing. You nay use the information as you wish."

The rectangular pupils in the Guildsman's eyes glistened with curiosity md anticipation.

Liet paused to build suspense. In a misguided attempt to harm the 'remen, Beast Rabban had
obliterated three squalid villages on the fringe if the Shield Wall. Though Fremen often looked with
disdain upon the >eoples of the pan and graben, men of honor could not tolerate such outages. The
victims had not been Fremen, but they were innocents. Liet-[ynes, Abu Naib of all the desert tribes,
would set in motion a particular svenge 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 orni-thopter, 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 Gumey and
Prince Rhombur was misrouted somehow, for a time, but later returned to the Guild stronghold. All
passengers dis-embarked 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 Gumey 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

'TpHOUGH IT WAS THE PRIMARY HEADQUARTERS OF 1 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 1 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 blakgras 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 :o give.

As a small display of protest, the two men refused to shave; Gurney's ?eard was pale and patchy
over his inkvine scar, while the Ixian Prince's vas thicker and a little longer on the fleshy side of his
face, which gave iim bragging rights.

The gray, bulge-shaped building that housed the visitors contained a :urious mixture of metal-
barred cells, offices, and studio apartments, surveillance comeyes were everywhere in various
states of concealment, juildsmen watched the passengers constantly.

All of the buildings in this zone looked ancient, showing evidence of lumerous repairs and
alterations. With no ornamentation whatsoever, the tructures were designed for function and
practicality.

Through hidden speakers, a droning voice seemed to come from verywhere at once. "All
passengers are hereby released. Proceed to the entral processing terminal to arrange for transport to
your original desti-* ation." 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 ly own shoulders," Gurney
said.

"I might be better equipped for such labors, my friend—if it comes to lat." Rhombur took powerful
mechanical strides toward the central pro-jssing terminal, ready to go back home, back to the
battleground, at last.

The War for Ix was about to begin.

The Tkilaxu 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 ha- <• tred 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 iround her rigid shoulders. He
wasn't sure of his own intentions, but it had 3een so long since he had let down his guard, even for
a moment. Cristane *rew quiet. Her skin was softly sensual, but he tried not to think about it. ?he
could have seduced him easily, but she did not.

"If we find a way into the research pavilion, is there a chance we could lelp 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 he ephemeral relationship
they had shared before she was taken so cruelly rom him. ... , ,,.;•. ,... :, .,.,,,., .., ...

FURTIVELY, the commando Sister paused before the protected doorway. Seyond the bioscanner
barriers lay the large central gallery of the lab corn-lex, with its high, catwalk-laced ceiling and
sprawling rows of tanks on he floor. If she succeeded in infiltrating the research pavilion, Cristane
new she would probably have to kill the captive Bene Gesserit Sister to •ee 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
labora-

tory 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 brutal-

ized 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 ;pice. While she lay outwardly
helpless, she ordered her body to break iown the gaseous components in the air of the laboratory
and analyze :hem.
The spice . . . No—not real melange, his something eke. . . .

Strong hands hooked her up to a pumping apparatus on an empty table. >he wondered how long she
would remain conscious. As a Bene Gesserit, he could resist the drugs and poisons, for a while at
least. Victory on Ix! She lung to the words C'tair had passed on to her, wishing she might have
houted them aloud, but she could not speak.

Cristane felt herself merging into the diabolocal Tleilaxu mechanism, earning 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 sa^: "See—He makes MS 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 comer 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 Vemius 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 rom the sea horse statue. "Once
we have amal, these petty squabbles will )e irrelevant. I want you to return to Ix and personally
supervise full-scale reduction. 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 3uild about the tainted spice
in the Heighliners. I am still not con-inced—"

Shaddam's face reddened. "Enough delays! By the hells, I don't believe ou'll ever be convinced,
Hasimir. I have heard from the Master Lesearcher, who would not dare to lie to me, and from my
Sardaukar ommander there. Your Emperor is satisfied with the results—that is all ou need to
know." He became slightly more conciliatory and gave enring a paternal smile. "We will have
plenty of time to tweak the for' lula afterward, so stop your worrying. Everything will turn out well
>r us." He clapped his childhood friend on the back. "Now, get this issue •ttled."

"Yes . . . Sire. I will depart for Ix immediately." Despite his uneasiness, 2 was eager to get back to
confront the Master Researcher about Zoal. "I ave, 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. 1 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 holopro-jections 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 Dotanical 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. \nimals starved; tree trunks
turned gelatinous and toppled.

"We must not risk the spread of this blight to other worlds. Loyal vorlds. Therefore, thinking only
of the safety of my subjects, I have placed i cordon around this defiant planet. Even after the plague
dies out, the :cosystem of Beakkal will take centuries to recover." He made no attempt o sound
distraught at the prospect.

Since the siege, the Beakkali people had instituted frantic measures, urning jungles or spraying
corrosive acids in an attempt to isolate the de-jliating plague. But nothing worked. It continued to
spread, to metasta-ze across the planet. Smoke curled into the sky. Wildfires raged.

Next he played holorecordings of the Prime Magistrate pleading for elp, delivering speech after
speech to the Sardaukar, all falling upon deaf irs. Supreme Bashar Garon allowed no one to escape.

After Shaddam completed the sickening display, leaving the assem-!age in stunned silence,
Archduke Armand Ecaz requested permission to >eak in opposition. Considering the rough
treatment the heckler had re-:ived, Shaddam was surprised to see that the well-liked Archduke had
ie courage to stand forth.

J*   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 i» Auditor with wide-set eyes had bidden them farewell. "The .7 Guild is
watching you, Rhombur Vernius, but we can offer you 1 no assistance, nnnn, no overt
assistance." i

Rhombur had smiled. "1 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, Gumey 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." f-[e 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 vrong. We've been cut off from
Duke Leto, held incommunicado on unction for a month. We don't know if the plan is still on
schedule. We ire all running headlong into the dark. 'The man without concerns is the nan without
aspirations.' "

Rhombur held on as the spherical vessel bounced and careened. "Leto vill do as he promised. And
so will we."

They landed hard in an isolated wilderness in the northern latitudes of x. The pod came to a rest
nestled in folds of snow, surrounded by ice and larren rock. Undetected. The secret tunnel there had
been intended for /ernius family members trying to escape a subterranean disaster. Now, hough, it
was Rhombur's best opportunity to break back into the world hat had been taken from him.

Working together in the cold night, the infiltrators broke down and re-rranged the components of
their combat pod. Detachable parts of the hull 'ere designed to be reassembled into various forms.
Numerous weapons ould be removed and distributed to allies; plasteel honeycombs were filled •ith
packaged foods.

Under the starry blackness, the men waited inside a makeshift, thin-ailed shelter while Gurney
planned the long, steep trudge downward. He as eager for action. While he enjoyed discussing
strategy and playing iliset back at Castle Caladan, the former smuggler was a fighter at heart id not
entirely happy unless he could be doing something in service to is 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"— urney shook his head, looking
at the Prince's cyborg parts—"will have to >me up with a better story in case questions are asked."

"I look enough like a bi-Ixian." Rhombur raised his artificial left arm id moved his mechanical
fingers. "But I would rather be welcomed as the ?htful Earl Vernius."
All the time Rhombur had spent as an exile, and the recent pain he id suffered, had made him a
better leader. He empathized with his people ther than taking them for granted. Now he wanted to
earn their respect id loyalty, as Duke Leto had done with the people of Caladan.

During Rhombur's upbringing in the Grand Palais, while innocently llecting rocks and tapping his
fingers in boredom through class after iss, 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 BAR-racks 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 :ourse, 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 mel

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 1 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 FENRINO, 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

at with very sharp teeth. "You cannot do this, Count Fenring. We are so lose, 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 1"

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 Mental'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 EN-joyed 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

.Aind. When Rabban felt the creature had reached the peak of its fear, he [lung it with disgust to the
dogs. "So explain yourself. I'm waiting. What Hoes 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 sched-i; uled 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 tiis 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 Dbeyed.' "

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 cnocked his own aide sprawling
over the edge and down into the kennel

t.

I pit. Unlike the rabbits, the aide had time to scream as the hounds attacked

im. The Grumman smiled at Rabban. "Sometimes, one must act unexpect-

• edly 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 bougainvil-lea, 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 lidrit 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

1 pinnacle."

I 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
Nertts. 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 ua-traceable 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 :oncern. Why did Piter de
Vries take such an interest in Jessica? He ikulked around the perimeters, obviously spying on her.
This was an espe-:ially 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 Mental'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 righting 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 over-large 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

daily spice." Shaddam looked in the packet as if searching for tiny :rumbs 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 Danr would be glad to return to
Xuttuh.

Shaddam had heard the news he wanted to hear, and Master Audi could now continue his work
unhindered. The Master Researcher's ^ 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 RHOM-bur 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 slipr, A back up to the surface,
dismantled the rest of the camouflaged combat nod and carried down the hidden weaponry and
armor components. It WL]A be enough for a small armed uprising, provided the material could be
di tributed effectively. Is'

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 Decent 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 fruit' less 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.

Arralds, what to do with Arrakis . . . 1

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 1 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 KVNES

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?"

"1 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
Beakkal7. 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 jeceive the news that the
Emperor had not deigned to give a response jibout what he called the "minor Atreides matter" at
Beakkal. Instead, he —.iad recalled his Supreme Bashar. Intercepting a radio message between I
ships, Thufir learned that it was for a "major new strike."

Thufir Hawat's mental projections had not foreseen this. His mind i spun, without locking onto a
solution. A major new strike? Was this a ref-I, erence 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 Gumey—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 hi 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
materiel 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 leisure7. 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. . t >< .r»- . , ,r

."' -.•••>"•••   :   . 1 '.-, ' !,„',:• ••.
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, iefiant look on his pinched
face, combined with a supreme haughtiness, as f he considered himself a demigod.

All of Fenring's instincts screamed warnings, and he just wanted to kill :he man and be done with it.
Even guarded carefully, a deadly fighter like l!ount Hasimir Fenring could find a thousand ways to
commit murder— )ut he would never escape unscathed. He saw the fanatical loyalty, the lypnotic
control the Master Researcher had over his personal guards and erociously devoted staff . . . even,
most disturbingly, on the Sardaukar roops.
Other changes were happening as well. In recent days, the Ixian popu-ace had grown unruly and
dissatisfied; incidents of sabotage had increased enfold. Graffiti had blossomed on the walls like
Arrakeen flowers in the norning 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.

"1 believe it's a suboid," Fenring said dryly.

The Tleilaxu researcher scowled with distaste. "Take that filthy . . .

I 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.

"1 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 I lunged at him, grabbing one of
his ears with a gloved hand. He twisted un-I til 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."

"1 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 .anded and soldiers boiled
out, their swords drawn for close-in shield fight-ng where lasguns could not be used. They howled
a war cry for their Duke md 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 l 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 underlay- ;> ers of weather-control clouds. *. Jessica lay
back, concentrating on her body, and her envi- • ronment, 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. "1 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 1 leave this bed, I
will have a son, Lew'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, 'essica wished Leto could
be with her now. He would never allow harm to :ome to her or their child. They had spent the
previous evening together, ind she'd been grateful just to hold him again in her bed, her skin touch-
ng his. To Jessica, such gentle comfort mattered more than moments of ugh passion.

By the soft light of glowglobes in their chambers, Jessica had noticed a hange in the Duke. He had
become his old self again, the hard but power-jl 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 jreat House had far more
important duties than hovering anxiously at the edside of his concubine.

In the birthing room now, surrendering to the natural processes of her ody, Jessica lay back and
closed her eyes. She had no option but to coop' rate with the Bene Gesserit and hope. I can bear
another child, a daughter zxt 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 in- structed 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 atten-tions. 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 BIN 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 mis take."

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 corn-system 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 mellowed—though no one except those in his
immediate presence could lear (and they wisely fled).

The Baron could not demand any further explanation, or summon help rom anyone.

"HE underbellies of three Heighliners opened, and the main Sardaukar leet detached from their
docking clamps. Battle cruisers, corvettes, ma-auders, 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 bi-Dgrapher would document his military and
economic victories, and a team }f writers would create enduring literary works to enthrall later
genera-lions with his greatness. It was all so simple, once an Emperor received the ibsolute power
he deserved.

After the desert planet was no more than a charred ball, the Spacing 3uild—and everyone else who
relied upon melange—would be wrapped iround 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
R'ADY TO FACE ANOTHER TURNING POINT IN HIS ife, 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 suc-cessful
move against the blockade at Beakkal, and the separate i.1 attack would proceed on Ix, even
without confirmation from v 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 in-vaders 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 preoc-cupied 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 kads 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 miltary base adjacent to the Gala 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 Gala 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 flechette 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 sus-pensor 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
flechette 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 righting 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

•ere crushing Tleilaxu defenses and berserk Sardaukar regiments, and enring found himself
watching every aspect of his long-term plan fall part.

The only way to salvage his future would be to make certain that all lame fell squarely upon Master
Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica.

Leaking blood from a hundred wounds, the little man continued to rithe on the catwalk, screaming
grand pronouncements and curses, until e rolled and thrashed to the edge. Finally, Ajidica
plummeted off and nashed into an axlotl tank below . . . with only the slightest nudge of as-stance
from Count Fenring.

Everyone is a potential enemy, every place a potential battkfield.
—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 b 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 sus-pensor 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 jab-bar 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 haw 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. M;y 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 future7."

"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 AN1RUL 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 Dankers?"

"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. "1 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

1

the guard looked at each other, and the Mental'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 "ecognize him, in spite of
the makeup and stolen uniform. Fortunately, the ,vomen were too upset about something to notice
anything as they hurried iown the corridor.

Leaving the mother and child unprotected.

After the witches rounded a corner, de Vries said gruffly to his compan-on, "Should check inside to
make sure everything's all right." Before the ;uard could decide upon a response, the Mentat
slithered into the birthing •oom.

The loud cries of a baby came from the bright area ahead, and more fe-nale voices. He heard the
guard hurrying to join him, boots clicking on he floor. The door closed behind them.

With a swift, silent movement, de Vries spun and cut the Sardaukar's hroat before the man could
utter a sound. The vicious slash of the knife nade 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 leeper into the delivery
room. He touched the neuro-stun baton against tis wrist, activating the field.

At a wall-mounted workstation he saw two short Medical Sisters tend'

ing 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. f 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 I 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. ...       ,, ,, , ,        i

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 girthing room. Perhaps his child was already
born!

But as he stepped out on the top floor, four Sardaukar guards blocked lis path with weapons drawn.
An alarmed crowd milled in the corridor be-lind them, including a number of black-robed Bene
Gesserits.

He saw Jessica slumped in a chair, wrapped in an oversize white robe. Phe sight of her so weak, so
drained, shocked him. Her skin was damp vith sweat, translucent with pain.
"I am Duke Leto Atreides, the Emperor's cousin. The Lady Jessica is my )ound concubine. Let me
through." He thrust his way past, employing noves Duncan Idaho had taught him to knock aside
threatening blades.

When Jessica saw him, she pushed aside the clinging arms of her Bene 3esserit Sisters and tried to
stand. "Leto!"

He caught her and embraced her, afraid to ask about the baby. Had it ieen stillborn? If so, what was
Jessica doing here outside the birthing oom, and why all the security?

Reverend Mother Mohiam stepped close, her face a mask of anger and istress. Jessica tried to say
something, but broke down in tears. He noticed lood on the floor under her. Leto's words were cold,
but he had to voice be question. "My child has died?"

"You have a son, Duke Leto, a healthy child," Mohiam said curtly. "But e 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 3 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 :he Mentat and knew
this man would be the real problem.

"Welcome, welcome!" He could barely keep the unsettled look of dis-nay from his face; a careful
observer would certainly notice his nervous-less. "I will of course cooperate in every possible
way."

"Yes," announced the albino Guild Legate, inhaling deeply of diffused pice gas that seeped from
his thick collar, "you will cooperate in every ray." The trio wore arrogance like second skins.

"But . . . you must first explain to me the infraction you believe I have ommitted. 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

ourse."

He knew that Piter de Vries had carefully doctored his records, comb-ig through every document,
every report, and the twisted Mentat was ormally very thorough. But the Baron felt cold inside,
certain that even ic most careful manipulations would not stand up to the close scrutiny of lese
demonic auditors.
With a pained smile, he gestured them onto a transport platform that ould carry them to the
Harkonnen Residency. "May I offer refreshments?" zrhaps 1 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 ;ard about your social
prowess at the gala banquet on Giedi Prime. We tn'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 Harkonneris' 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."

\s the Mentat-Auditor stared at shipping records, he did not blink, did lot move his head. He simply
absorbed the data and documented discrep-mcies on a separate scribing pad. The list of errors grew
longer with each lour, and the Baron became more and more concerned. So far, however, ill of the
"mistakes" they had discovered were relatively minor—enough :o earn him a few penalties, but
certainly not enough to warrant his sum-nary execution.

The Mentat-Auditor had not yet found what he was looking for. . . .

The explosion in the warehouse district took them all by surprise, .eaving the auditor at a tableful of
documents, the Baron raced to the bal-:ony. Response teams rushed across the streets. Flames and
dust rose in a >illar of brownish-orange smoke. Without moving to get a better look, the taron
realized exactly which of the nondescript ramshackle warehouses tad been the target.

And he cursed silently.

The Mentat-Auditor stood beside him on the balcony, observing with itent eyes. On his other side,
Supreme Bashar Garon squared his shoul-ers and bristled. "What is in that building, Baron?"

"I believe ... it is just one of my industrial warehouses," he lied. "A lace where we store leftover
construction materials, components for pre-ibricated dwellings shipped from Giedi Prime."
Damnable hells! How much rice was inside there?

"Indeed," the Mentat-Auditor said. "And is there a reason why the rarehouse might have
exploded?"

"A buildup of volatile chemicals or a careless worker, I would imagine." 's those cursed Fremen!
He didn't have to fabricate a confused expression.
"We will inspect the area. Thoroughly," Zum Garon announced. "My ardaukar 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, unfuriated 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 swom 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 skyclipper 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,

Gumey."

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. "1 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 Vemius.

"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 rmrage, but he can drown in it.

—Fremen Wisdom

/\ FTER ASSESSING THE RECONNAISSANCE INFOR-JL ikmation 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

at a

remain on the lookout for mistakes and be prepared to exploit them 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 Lands-raad 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 Gala 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 Gala 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 CAR-rying 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 i
wailed even louder than before.

He sprinted through the structural nucleus of the Palace, his

! feet whispering across the floor. Closer to the Princesses' quar-

f.. ters, 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 wif Anirul seemed to be raising
them in Bene Gesserit austerity.

A series of plaz windows lined the hallway on both sides, and th 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 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 corn-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 oppo' site 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 Mental'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 corn-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 corn-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 hiad been harmed in any way, a mere stun-baton
would not be sufficient.

Anirul's gom jabbar pressed against his throat, Piter de Vries froze .n place. Just a prick, a tiny
scratch, and the poison would kill him instantly. Anirul's hands trembled too much for the Mental's
comfort.

"I cannot defeat you," he said in the barest of whispers, careful not to nove his larynx. His fingers
loosened their hold on the blanket-wrapped :hild. Would that be enough to divert her attention?
Make her hesitate for ust an instant.

In his other hand he held the bloodied dagger.

Anirul tried to separate her own thoughts from the ever-increasing :lamor within. While four of her
daughters were too young to understand,
DUNE '.HOUSE       COR P. 1NU         .,.,,

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
genera'

tion 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. <           s   ;•       > . ••• •

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 rhrough a side passageway.

"You'd better be worth all this trouble," he muttered to the wrapped in-:ant. Now that he had killed
the Emperor's wife, Piter de Vries wondered if le 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 in specters 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 Har-konnen. 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 I 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.

1 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 hfe 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 Vemius 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 hodge-

/   podge construction of his rogo transmitter from a locked storage

1       •a

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 3uild 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 :hat went beyond rational
thought. "Do it."

C'tair grabbed electrode leads and attached sensors to his scalp, the :>ack of his head, and his
throat. "I don't know the capacity of this device, ?ut I intend to use all the energy I can pump
through it, and through me." -ie grinned. "This will be a shout of triumph and a cry for help, my
loudest nessage to the outside."

When the rogo was fully powered, C'tair took a deep breath for :ourage. In the past, he always
spoke aloud during transmissions to D'murr, )ut he knew his brother did not actually hear the
words. Instead, the Navigator picked up the thoughts that accompanied the speech. This time, H'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 lesperate signals directed to
any Guild Navigator who could hear, a cosmic nayday. He didn't know whether the rogo or his
brain would fail first, but ie felt them connecting . . . and reaching out.

C'tair's jaw clenched, his lips drew back, and his eyes squeezed shut un-il tears flowed from them.
Sweat poured from his forehead and temples, lis skin turned ruby red. Blood vessels bulged at his
temples.

This transmission was exponentially more powerful than anything he tad ever attempted with
D'murr. But this time he did not have the inex-ilicable 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

/% FTER THE MESSY DEATH OF HIDAR FEN AJIDICA,

JL ILCount Fennng 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. Fennng couldn't believe Duke Leto would just blithely hand them over to
Prince Rhombur.

On the comscreen of the research pavilion, Fennng 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 Fennng 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 coffinhke 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 :hemical facility.

As he gazed upon Cristane's waxy face, Fenring thought of his remark-ibly beautiful wife Margot,
still on Kaitain, no doubt gossiping at Court md sipping tea. He looked forward to getting back to
her and relaxing in icr arms.
This Sister Cristane would never send her damning report back to JC'allach IX, and Fenring would
not let any details slip, not even to his vife. He and Margot loved each other deeply, but that didn't
mean they vould share all of their secrets.

Fenring heard military activity outside the buildings as Atreides forces :ncountered the remaining
floor-level Sardaukar. The Imperial troops vould hold them off for a while, long enough.

He strolled to the high-arched outer chambers and turned back to look it the chaos in the laboratory:
smashed canisters, puddled noxious fluids, nibbling gases, bodies, tanks. From here, he could no
longer hear the des->erate pounding of the Tleilaxu scientists locked inside their death trap.

Count Fenring tossed an ignitor over his shoulder, deep into the fa-ility. The gases and chemicals
burst quickly into flames, but he had time o depart with his usual lounging gait. Concussions
boomed behind him.

The laboratories burned in his wake—destroying the axlotl tanks, the mal research, and all
evidence—but Fenring didn't bother to hurry.

' H E research pavilion exploded as Duncan Idaho and his men penetrated he Imperial barricades,
allowing the Atreides soldiers to charge forward.

A tremendous boom echoed through the facility, and everyone took over. Debris spouted through
the roof of the pavilion like a volcanic erup-lon; the inner walls collapsed. Within moments, the lab
complex became n inferno of melted glass, plasteel, and flesh.

Duncan held his men back from the growing fire. His heart sank to now that all proof of the
Tleilaxu crimes was being incinerated. Roiling rown-and-orange vapors spewed upward, toxic
smoke that could kill lem as surely as the flames themselves.

The Swordmaster saw a lean, broad-shouldered man stride out, totally nconcerned. His silhouette
was muscular against the orange wall of heat, 'he man removed a breathing apparatus from his face
and tossed it aside, le held a short fighting sword, such as the Sardaukar carried. Duncan lised the
Old Duke's blade in a defensive posture, stepping forward to lock this man's passage.

Count Hasimir Fenring came forward without hesitation. "Aren't you Ding to cheer the fact that I've
escaped, hmmm? Cause for celebration, I'd ly. 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 bom, 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,

eady to deal the coup de grace, but alert for anything. This fox had many ricks.

Options flashed through Fenring's mind. If he wanted to elude the harp point of his adversary's
blade, he could turn and run back into the aging fire of the laboratory building. Or he could
surrender. His choices /ere indeed limited.

"The Emperor will ransom my life." He threw down the hilt of his bro-en sword. "You wouldn't
dare murder me in cold blood while all these len are watching, hmmm?" Still, Duncan took a
menacing step forward. What about the famous Atreides code of honor? What does Duke Leto :and
for, if his men are free to kill a person who has already surrendered, mmm?" Fenring held up both
empty hands. "You wish to slay me now?"

Duncan knew the Duke would never approve of such a dishonorable ction. He watched the
laboratory bum and heard the continuing shouts f violent combat outside in the grotto. No doubt
Leto could find ways to se this political prisoner to stabilize the Imperial turmoil after the battle >r
Ix.

"I serve my Duke before I serve my own heart." At a signal from the wordmaster, Atreides men
came forward and secured restraints to the risoner's wrists.

Duncan leaned close to him, his breath hot. "In the aftermath of this ar, 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 iven'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 garrote. 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 3n her fury. "Piter de Vries," she said, recognizing him
through the smeared nakeup. "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 :hild." He managed to flex his arms and reassert a
minimum of bodily con-rol, but she could always paralyze him again with another utterance,

De Vries knew about Bene Gesserit fighting abilities. He'd just dueled vith the Emperor's wife and
had been surprised to defeat her. But Anirul lad suffered from some kind of illness; the mental
debility had given him in 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 mall step forward, brash and
defiant, to demonstrate that he had broken ter Voice spell. "Why should I not assassinate the Duke's
heir and bring nore misery to House Atreides?"

He took a second step, clutching the infant to his chest like a shield. A uick jerk of his muscles
could snap the small neck. Even with her Bene jesserit reflexes, Mohiam could not be certain of
stopping him.

If he could just bluff his way past her and escape through the doorway f this forgotten room, he
could run. Even holding a child, his muscles ould carry him faster than this used-up woman would
ever be able to go. Jnless she had a weapon under that robe other than a poison needle, amething
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, steal-ig a third step. "Part of a
breeding scheme, no doubt?" The Mentat ratched for any jitter of her facial muscles, instead saw
her long fingers ex. Those nails could become razor-sharp claws to slash his eyes, rip out is 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, "1 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 Har-konnen?" 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 1 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

icream at her, but only blood came out, staining his lips a brighter shade of •ed than the makeup-
smudged sapho.

He lashed out with his foot, trying to crush her kneecap, but Mohiam lipped to the side. De Vries
raised his intact arm to block a driving kick )ut this only resulted in another broken wrist.
He turned to run, forgoing the fight, leaping toward the doorway and us 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 /lentat's neck like dry kindling. Piter de Vries fell dead to the floor, his ex-iression
one of astonishment.

Mohiam stood still, catching her breath. She recovered in only a mo' lent. Then she turned to gather
the rescued Atreides baby.

Before walking out of the trophy room, she stood over the crumpled orpse on the floor and allowed
a sneer to cross her face for a delicious mo-lent before erasing it. She spat on his dead face,
remembering how he had iered over her during the Baron's rape.

Mohiam knew there was no documentation of the secrets de Vries had iscovered. 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 ap, and in surprise released the squirming bat before she
was ready. On slack wings, it soared off into the shadows in search of insects.

Overhead, against the stars, Liet-chih saw a bright cluster of lights, hot md blue, descending closer.
Ships! Immense ships.

His mother grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulders, while the i^remen women broke open the
doorseal and rushed back inside, hoping :he mountain walls would offer a small measure of safety.
       j,

iTRANDED in his Carthag Garrison, Baron Harkonnen realized the fate hat hung over his head.
And he could do nothing about it. No communi-:ations. No spaceships. No short-range vehicles. No
defenses.

He smashed furnishings and threatened his aides, but nothing helped, ie bellowed up at the sky,
"Damn you, Shaddam!" But the Imperial flagship ould not hear him.

He had grudgingly expected to pay heavy fines and penalties for the 'iscrepancies those maddening
CHOAM auditors had discovered. If the harges were serious enough, he had feared that House
Harkonnen might 3se 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

fN 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 experi-

•. ments, 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 en-

>;• thusiasm," 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 corn-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 ral' lied 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. 1
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
corn-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 Ouild 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 timmm?"
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 /ears, House Corrino had ruled this vast realm. Below
them, the cracked Drown 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 .s a disaster, Sire. And I see you haven't done any better here." He rubbed
lis 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 perfect—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 Vtaster Researcher die in convulsions from an overdose
of the substance, rimmm."

Shaddam's head jerked back involuntarily, and all color drained from lis face. "My God, when I
think of what I almost did to Arrakis!"

"Amal poisoned your Sardaukar legions on Ix, too, hindering their ibility to defend us against the
Atreides attackers."

"Atreides! On Ix? What—"

"Your cousin Duke Leto has used his military to restore Rhombur ^ernius to the Grand Palais. The
Tleilaxu—and your Sardaukar—have 3een completely overthrown. In any event, I destroyed all of
our research ind production facilities. No evidence remains to implicate House Zorrino."

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 vas 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 IB 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 ANY-thing 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."

"Hai/ 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 Har-konnen 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 Mentals 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. 1 do not forget
my enemies.

The secret worlds of the Bene Tleilax have long been the source of twisted Mentals. 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 ?f Arrakis, especially the
spaceports and communication systems damaged 3y the Guild embargo. It was all so hard to do by
himself, and he seethed igain, angry that his supposedly loyal Mentat was not there to serve him.

Cursing his misfortune, he returned to his private chamber, where ilaves had laid out a banquet:
succulent meat dishes, rich pastries, exotic ruits, and the Baron's expensive kirana brandy. He
paced, nibbled, and ?rooded. "--

Since being trapped in bleak Carthag for so many days, unable even to ;end a transmission or
summon a Courier, he had felt desperate for the iner things in life. Now he liked to snack all day
long, just to reassure him-elf. He licked frosting off his fingers.

His body was soft and perfumed, having been bathed by fine serving ioys, oiled, and massaged,
until finally his tensions were beginning to re-ax. He was exhausted and sore, weary from the
pleasures in which he had mmersed 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 Mental'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 :he 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 md 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 hat required delicate political maneuvers just to ensure the survival of -louse
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 lad, admittedly, been an
adequate Mentat, devious and full of sophisti-:ated ideas. But he'd also had a penchant for drugs
that distorted his per-:eptions, and a tendency toward showing too much initiative and acting in his
own. . . .

The next one would have to be watched more closely. The Baron knew he Tleilaxu had already
grown other gholas from the same genetic stock: erial versions of Piter de Vries, fully trained as
Mentats and twisted with pecialized conditioning. The genetic wizards had known it was only a
flatter of time before the Baron finally lost his temper and carried out his epeated threats to kill de
Vries.

"Send a message to the Tleilaxu," he growled. "Have them rush me anther Mentat." '
'.'.••<••:,..3*'»>. v •>•• •>,:•• '.!•>•-:• •

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 •u had seen during his own
coronation or his marriage to this Bene i: 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

lot flout any rules. The forms must be obeyed. He had to behave. Those :hains 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 vould be placed on his activities, as prescribed by
Imperial Law. During hat time, the Landsraad, the Spacing Guild, and CHOAM would all have ar
greater influence in Imperial politics and business.

Spitefully, he wished he could afford to exile Fenring again, to punish tim for the amal debacle. But
after all of the Emperor's own mistakes— /hich, as the Count reminded him, he never would have
made had he ob' ained Fenring's advice—Shaddam knew that if he had any chance of estoring his
power base, he would need the devious intelligence of his angtime friend. Still, he would leave the
Count on Arrakis for a while, to :t him know his place. . . .
At last the priests finished their droning, and a curtain of silence fell ver the assemblage. Rugi cried
again, and a nursemaid tried to hush her.

Court Chamberlain Ridondo and the High Priest waited until haddam realized that it was his turn to
speak. He had drafted a brief state-lent, which had been read and approved beforehand by
Landsraad magis-•ates, the President of CHOAM, and the Guild's Primary Legate. Though ie
words were innocuous, they still caught in his throat, an insult to his nperial Majesty.

He spoke with all the gloom he could summon in his voice. "My sieved wife Anirul has been stolen
from me. Her untimely death will irever leave a scar on my heart, and I can only hope that I will
rule the nperium with compassion and grace hereafter, even without my Lady's ise counsel and
generous love."

Shaddam raised his chin, and his tired green eyes flared with the nperial wrath he had demonstrated
so many times. "My investigation ams will continue to study the evidence surrounding her violent
death. 'e will not rest until the perpetrator is caught and this plot is unraveled." e glared out at the
sea of upturned faces, as if he might spot the murderer nong them with a mere glance.

Truthfully, he intended to do little to investigate the crime. The dnapper-assassin had vanished, and
if he posed no threat to the crown, laddam didn't particularly care who had done it. Most of all he
was reived that the troublesome, meddling witch would no longer interfere ith his daily decisions.
He would leave her empty throne in place for a w months out of feigned respect, and then would
have it removed and stroyed.

The Guild and the Landsraad would be pleased that he had followed e approved speech. He
finished quickly, in an effort to remove the dis-5te from his mouth: "For now, alas, we have no
choice but to endure our ief 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. v

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 bloodred 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 CORKING, 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 stem old Mentat seemed quite embarrassed.
Fresh from battle and a victory well earned, the embellish- < ments 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-lout men!
• •;.. Broke the blockade of Beakkal and the Sardaukar there, Led his forces talx and righted a
wrong.               , Now 1 say to you and listen well, I         Let no one doubt his words or his
vow: /      Free-dom . . . and jus-rice ... /or 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 Vemius
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 Vemius. And
House Vernius is not going to become extinct! You will bear many children. The Grand Palais will
be filled with their laughter." *fc

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 still-suit 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 Erst behemoth, as if
worshipping it.

Watching the spectacle, the Fremen made signs to Shai-Hulud. Liet :ould only stare. This would be
something to speak of for generations to :ome.
In concert, the worms turned their rounded, eyeless heads to the sky. \t the center of the circle, the
ancient colossus towered like a monolith wer the others. Overhead, the shimmering comet cast as
much illumina-ion 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 nust 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 ;he universe an important
birth had occurred, one that would be hailed icross millennia to come. In his daughter's ear
Planetologist Liet-Kynes jegan to whisper the thoughts that he could translate into words . . . and
:hen 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 Mental

ON THE SOFT EXPANSE OF A CAREFULLY MANI-cured 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 foot- ; prints. 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 ne anything?"

"I have never thought about it, Mother Superior."

"Think about it, then." The old woman continued to glance through :he writings Anirul had poured
into her journal.

Watching and trying to comprehend, Mohiam knew that Harishka :ould 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 is knows things the other
does not. The birth of a boy-child proves that tone 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 luite the same as any others I have experienced in the
past, or which I will :ver create again. Each moment is a jewel unto itself, like this soostone ing,
unique in the entire universe. So it is with each human life, which is mlike any other. We learn
from one another and teach one another. That s 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 lighly 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.