Paul Of Dune Part 14

Gurney pushed past the astonished group and rushed back outside, breathing hard, anxious to get away. "And when they are done, see that all the women are freed, given a place to live - and burn this place to the ground. Burn all the pleasure houses across Giedi Prime."

Finally, he returned to the village of Dmitri, a poor and hopeless place that had not changed at all. His mother and father were gone. Because lives meant so little, the town kept no records of its people. Gurney could find no marker in the rundown and overcrowded graveyard, no sign that his parents had ever existed.

Someday, he supposed Paul would offer to erect a monument for the victims. Gurney didn't want that. His parents had not changed this world for the better. The people in the village had not stood up against tyranny. They had not defended him when the Harkonnen raiders had taken him away. They had refused to speak out against the injustice they encountered every single day.

Gurney felt sadness, but no need to mourn. "Enough of this. Take me back to Barony...."

Even there, though, every day brought a foul taste to his mouth. I am doing this for Paul, am doing this for Paul, he reminded himself. He began to issue proclamations and sweeping orders - cities would be renamed, marks of the old Harkonnen way of life would be erased. He ordered the construction of a new government center, a seat where he could rule without being reminded of the Harkonnens. he reminded himself. He began to issue proclamations and sweeping orders - cities would be renamed, marks of the old Harkonnen way of life would be erased. He ordered the construction of a new government center, a seat where he could rule without being reminded of the Harkonnens.

But human pain went deep into the strata of the grimy planet. He wasn't sure how much longer he could bear to stay on Giedi Prime.

Every new year brings great hope and expectations. Every previous year fails to live up to them.

-GURNEY HALLECK, unfinished song

According to the Imperial Calendar, recalibrated so that its primary clocks and meridian were centered on Arrakis rather than Kaitain, the year changed to 10,198 A.G. Another year of Muad'Dib's greatness, another year with more and more victories in his great Jihad. In Arrakeen, the wild and hedonistic celebrations rivaled a millennial fervor.

The Emperor Paul-Muad'Dib stood at a corner of the high open balcony outside his sietch-austere bedchamber. He watched people milling below in the streets and squares, and was unsurprised by their mania. For thousands of years, the Fremen had understood the human need for animalistic release in their tau orgies. This was similar, but on a much larger scale, and he had planned it carefully.

His holiness Muad'Dib, beloved of the people, had opened his coffers to provide spice and food for all supplicants. He emptied his cisterns so that water flowed into outstretched hands, and people reveled in it. In the months to come, he could easily refill his reservoirs, if only by using the deathstill water from all the nameless dead rounded up by his undertakers from side alleys and squalid housing.

Chani joined him outside the moisture seal, barely touching him. She still hadn't conceived another child, a much-antic.i.p.ated heir. They both knew the necessity, and both wanted a baby, but the deep hurt of losing their first son, Leto - killed in a Sardaukar raid in the days before Paul won his victory against Emperor Shaddam - filled them with unconscious hesitation. The doctors said nothing was physically wrong with Chani, but Paul knew they could not measure or test for a mother's broken heart.

A second son would come, however. There would be another Leto, but that, too, carried heavy consequences - especially for Chani.

They both breathed deeply of warm night air that smelled of smoke, cooking fires, incense, and unwashed bodies. So many people pushed together, rippling and swaying in a Brownian motion that Paul thought of as a large-scale unconscious dance as difficult to interpret as many of his visions.

"They love me so easily when I demonstrate my largesse," Paul said to her. "Does that mean that when times turn hard, they will be as quick to hate me?"

"They will be quick to hate someone else, Beloved."

"And is that fair to the scapegoats?"

"One should not be concerned with fairness when dealing with scapegoats," Chani said, showing her ruthless Fremen streak.

From the expansion of Arrakeen, many new houses pressed against each other, built along tried-and-true designs to huddle in the desert heat and preserve every breath of moisture. Other buildings stood defiantly (or foolishly) against tradition - homesick architects having erected structures that reminded Paul of Fharris, Grand Hain, Zebulon, and even Culat, planets so bleak and miserable that their inhabitants were happy to leave them in favor of Dune.

As project master, Whitmore Bludd had continued to oversee the enormous construction of the new palace, and his blueprints became more grandiose day after day. Already, remarkably, the completed portion of Muad'Dib's citadel was larger than the Imperial Palace they had burned on Kaitain, and Bludd was just getting started....

When Korba entered their private wing, Paul noted how easily his guards let the man pa.s.s, even bowing respectfully, making a sign from one of the Qizara rites. He did not suspect treachery from the former head of his Fedaykin - the man's loyalty was as unwavering as his fervor - but Paul did not like to be so glibly interrupted.

"Korba, did I summon you?" The sharpness of Paul's tone brought the other man up short.

"If you had, I would have been here faster, Muad'Dib." He apparently did not see the reason for Paul's annoyance.

"Chani and I were enjoying a private moment. Were you not raised in a sietch? A Fremen should know to respect privacy."

"Then please excuse the interruption." Korba bowed, and blurted out the matter that concerned him so much. "Pardon me for saying so, but I do not like these immense public gatherings. They celebrate the Imperial Calendar. We should no longer follow that old relic."

"It is 10,198 A.G., Korba, counted from the formation of the s.p.a.cing Guild. That is not linked to the old Imperium, or to mine. They merely celebrate the turning of the new year, a harmless but necessary release of their energies."

"But there should be a new age - the Age of Muad'Dib," Korba insisted, then laid out an idea he had obviously been planning for some time. "I propose that we start counting the calendar from the day you overthrew Shaddam IV and the Harkonnens. I have already asked several priest-scientists to draw up specific plans for its implementation and to search for numerological implications."

Paul refused the idea, much to Korba's consternation.

"But we are living in the greatest moment in history. We should signify it as such!"

"One cannot see history while living it. If every Emperor were to reset the calendar just because he considered himself great, we would have a new age every century or so."

"But you are Muad'Dib!"

Paul shook his head. "I am still but a man. History will determine the measure of my greatness." Or Irulan will, Irulan will, he thought. he thought.

LATER THAT NIGHT, when they lay in bed and neither of them could sleep, Chani stroked his cheek. "You are troubled, Usul."

"I am thinking."

"Always thinking. You need to rest."

"When I rest, I dream... and that makes me think even more." He sat up in bed, noticing how cool and slick the expensive sheets felt. He had wanted his quarters to have nothing more than a simple Fremen-style pallet, no extravagances at all, but amenities had crept in nonetheless. Despite his best intentions, and the honor that his father had taught him, Paul feared that such ready access to so much power was likely to corrupt him eventually.

"Are you worried about the battles, Usul? Thorvald and his rebellion? All enemies will fall to your armies, sooner or later. It is inevitable - the will of G.o.d."

Paul shook his head. "Some measure of popular support for Thorvald and his eleven n.o.bles is to be expected. Against any Empire as powerful as mine, there will be rebels. It is as natural as the sun and the moons that he will attract supporters, and as he gains influence, that my own supporters unite more strongly against him. Thorvald cannot survive long. Stilgar has just left for Bela Tegeuse to root out one of the infestations. I have no doubt he'll be victorious."

Chani shrugged and seemed to be stating the obvious. "He is Stilgar, after all."

As they so often did, his followers would respond more violently than was strictly necessary. He had seen it firsthand on the battlefield of Ehknot. He had already pulled Gurney Halleck from such duties and granted him the whole Harkonnen world to heal, a different kind of battlefield where he could truly make a difference. He had earned it.

Stroking the side of his cheek, Chani continued, "You feel the weight of those you rule, Beloved. You count their dead as your own, and yet you must never forget that you have saved them all. You are the one we have been waiting for, the Lisan-al-Gaib. The Mahdi. They fight in your name because they believe in the future you will bring."

Exactly the beliefs his father had told him to use, if necessary. And the Bene Gesserit's Missionaria Protectiva had planted superst.i.tions and prophecies, which he also applied to his own situation. A trick, a tool. But now the tool wields its own user. now the tool wields its own user.

"The Jihad has a life of its own. When I experienced visions as a young man, I knew this holy war could not be stopped, but still I tried to change the future, to prevent the rampaging violence. One man cannot stop the moving sands."

"You are the Coriolis wind that sets the sands moving."

"I cannot stop it, but I can guide it. I am am guiding it. What people see as unforgivable violence and destruction, I know is the best of many unacceptable alternatives." With a sigh, Paul turned away from her. He had deluded himself into believing that it would be easy to hold the reins and guide the course of the great, living creature that was the Jihad. The guiding it. What people see as unforgivable violence and destruction, I know is the best of many unacceptable alternatives." With a sigh, Paul turned away from her. He had deluded himself into believing that it would be easy to hold the reins and guide the course of the great, living creature that was the Jihad. The monster. monster. He had made his decision believing that his choices would be clear, only to find that he was more a captive of unfolding history than any person before him. His was a terrible purpose. He rode the crest of a wave that threatened to drown him and everyone around him. Even when Muad'Dib made the best possible decisions, regardless of what his heart wanted, he could see the b.l.o.o.d.y future unfolding mercilessly for years to come. He had made his decision believing that his choices would be clear, only to find that he was more a captive of unfolding history than any person before him. His was a terrible purpose. He rode the crest of a wave that threatened to drown him and everyone around him. Even when Muad'Dib made the best possible decisions, regardless of what his heart wanted, he could see the b.l.o.o.d.y future unfolding mercilessly for years to come. But the alternative is worse. But the alternative is worse.

He had actually considered removing himself from the equation, escaping from the warp and weft of Fate's loom. Paul could have allowed himself to tumble into the abyss of historical interpretation and the enhancement of myths.

But if he chose to die, Muad'Dib Muad'Dib would still become a martyr. His very presence was too prominent in the hearts and minds of his followers, and they would continue without him if necessary, in spite of him. Time would have its due. Paul feared that in premature death he might cause more damage than in life. would still become a martyr. His very presence was too prominent in the hearts and minds of his followers, and they would continue without him if necessary, in spite of him. Time would have its due. Paul feared that in premature death he might cause more damage than in life.

On the bedside table, near the broken pink conch sh.e.l.l from Earth that Bludd had brought Paul from Ecaz, lay a stack of reports detailing troop movements, Guilds.h.i.+p patterns, and another long list of planets that he could easily conquer. Impatiently, he knocked the papers aside.

Chani frowned at his reaction. "Are you not pleased to see so much progress? Is this not success?" Usually, she could understand his moods, but not now. "Surely, the Jihad is almost over."

He looked at her. "Have you ever heard of Alexander the Great? He is from long ago, forgotten in the mists of time. He was a great warlord on Mother Earth, said to be the most powerful emperor of ancient times. His armies swept across continents, his own known universe, and when he reached the sh.o.r.e of the sea, he wept because there were no more lands to conquer. But history considers Alexander great only because he had the good fortune to die before his empire could collapse on its own."

Chani blinked. "How can that be?"

"Alexander was like a storm. He had many soldiers and superior weapons, but after conquering each people he moved on and never had to govern." govern." Paul clasped Chani's hand. "Don't you see? Out armies have chalked up victory after victory, but beating a man is different from working with him for many years. Irulan is right: Once Muad'Dib's Jihad is past, once I have won this long war, how am I to survive the peace? Would Alexander still be considered 'great' if he'd actually needed to provide food, water, shelter, education, and protection to all the people of his empire? Doubtful. He caught a fever and died before his conquests could come back to haunt him." Paul clasped Chani's hand. "Don't you see? Out armies have chalked up victory after victory, but beating a man is different from working with him for many years. Irulan is right: Once Muad'Dib's Jihad is past, once I have won this long war, how am I to survive the peace? Would Alexander still be considered 'great' if he'd actually needed to provide food, water, shelter, education, and protection to all the people of his empire? Doubtful. He caught a fever and died before his conquests could come back to haunt him."

"You are not some ancient forgotten leader. You must follow your destiny, Usul," Chani whispered in his ear. "Regardless of where it leads, it remains your destiny."

He kissed her. "You are my desert spring, my Sihaya. You and I must enjoy every moment we have together."

They made love slowly, discovering each other again, and for the first time.

Yes, the vast universe is filled with many wonders, but it has too few deserts for my liking.

-The Stilgar Commentaries

On Bela Tegeuse, even the broad daylight was dim and damp, shrouded with fog. Stilgar did not like this place one hit. Each breath was clammy in his mouth and nose. At the end of the day, he practically had to wring out his clothing to remove the excess moisture. He felt he needed a reverse stillsuit-nose plugs and a breathing mask that would filter water out out of the air, just so he could breathe. The sound of lapping water that surrounded the wide, heavily armed gun-barges was maddening. of the air, just so he could breathe. The sound of lapping water that surrounded the wide, heavily armed gun-barges was maddening.

Stilgar knew that Paul-Muad'Dib had grown up by the ocean on Caladan. Every night, the young man had gone to sleep listening to the roar of waves outside the castle. The idea of so much water was difficult for the naib to grasp. It was a wonder the boy had not gone insane.

And the swamps on Bela Tegeuse were more treacherous than an ocean, he was certain.

Since the beginning of the Jihad, even with so many legions dispersed throughout the worlds of the Imperium, he himself had planted the green-and-white banner of Fremen-led legions, as well as the green-and-black banner carried by other loyalists, on four planets. He had shed much blood, had witnessed the deaths of many friends and foes. People died in much the same way, no matter what world they came from.

Now, by the command of Muad'Dib, Stilgar led these forces to hunt down the rebellious n.o.bleman Urquidi Basque, one of the remaining princ.i.p.al lords who supported Earl Thorvald's insurgency. When Basque went to ground on Bela Tegeuse, Stilgar had a.s.sumed he would be trapped. Muad'Dib's military frigates had deployed a fleet of gun-barges and search boats constructed by local engineers who were familiar with the terrain and ready to capture Lord Basque and his swamp rats.

Swamp rats. Stilgar did not like the sound of that. Stilgar did not like the sound of that.

For the past two weeks, pursuing Basque and his army had been like chasing b.a.l.l.s of static electricity across the dune tops. Under a thick layer of clouds, the gunbarges moved slowly along, pus.h.i.+ng against the sluggish brown water. The dim sun would set soon, and the night would bring cooling air and thickening fog. Water squeezed out of the air. Water squeezed out of the air.

Off in the distance, Stilgar could see only the nearest two of the ten heavily armed s.h.i.+ps in his group. The foghorns and signal whistles sounded like lost souls begging to be taken to dry land. Visibility was worse than in a sandstorm.

Last week, when they had pursued the renegade lord across a wide, shallow sea, one of the heavy gunbarges had run aground. Basque and his swamp rats had gotten away, jeering as Stilgar was forced to unload heavy weaponry and cargo from the stranded gunbarge so that it would float free of the mud bar. He'd had half a mind to ditch the vessel and continue the chase, leaving his men to fend for themselves in the swamps. But many of the fighters were Fremen, and Stilgar refused to abandon them to this wet wet place. place.

After wasting all that time, the scout boats had raced forward in search of clues. One scout returned, having found an old camp; three others vanished entirely. Stilgar ordered 'thopters for air surveillance, but the ground-hugging fog made the aircraft worse than useless in the hunt.

Finally, as dusk settled in, adding a bruised color to the sky, they pushed into a complex river delta, where Stilgar was sure he would trap Basque. Several times now, they had seen tantalizing lights in the distance, taunting signals that likely marked their quarry.

Around him, he could see the tangled hala-cypress branches and roots, trees so different from the rare palms of Dune. The river delta was thick with them, as if they were crowded spectators gaping at an accident scene. They gave off a fetid stench, just like all the water in this swamp. The odors of fish and algae nauseated him. Every meal he'd eaten on Bela Tegeuse tasted like mud.

Stilgar stood on the mist-slick deck. Some of the gunbarges were equipped with half-s.h.i.+elds, but the barge captains complained that the s.h.i.+mmering fields reduced visibility. Lookouts continued to peer into the foggy distance.

Next to Stilgar, the captain was angry at himself. "My charts are useless, a year old. The currents s.h.i.+ft the sand and the mud, and the hala-cypress walk."

"How can trees walk?"

"They move their roots in the mud slurry, s.h.i.+ft into channels, and fill them up. A pa.s.sage perfectly clear one month will be blocked the next." In disgust, the captain cast his obsolete diagrams over the side, where the thin papers floated away on the currents. "I may as well just close my eyes and pray."

"We can all pray," Stilgar said, "but that should not be our only plan."

Six mysterious lights glistened out of the growing dimness of dusk, and Stilgar saw it as the signal he had been waiting for. The decks of the gunbarges were crowded with Fremen shouting insults at the swamp rats who hid in the skeletal forests along the labyrinth of waterways.

Stilgar shouted, "They are within reach! Time to pursue them." "I advise caution," the captain said. "Do not underestimate Lord Basque."

"And he should not underestimate the armies of Muad'Dib."

With a chattering roar that sounded like one of the attacking dragonflies that had plagued them through the marshes, ten shallow-draught needleboats ripped out of the fog, spraying a wake of brackish brown water. Onboard, Basque's swamp rats held projectile rifles, which they fired into the press of Fremen on the decks. The needle-boats turned about, firing a few more potshots, then raced back into the depths of the swamp.

Without waiting for a unified effort, two gunbarges surged forward, racing after them. Stilgar immediately saw what the rebels were doing. "A trap!"

But the pilot of the second gunbarge didn't hear. The huge vessel pressed ahead with its powerful engines, and within moments found itself mired in slick mud and shallow water.

From the high hala-cypress branches, the real ambush struck, as Basque's men fired down upon the trapped gunbarge. At such close quarters the barge's heavy artillery proved useless, but that didn't stop the Fremen from launching huge explosives from the deck guns, blowing up sections of the swamp. Fireb.a.l.l.s ignited marsh gas and caused secondary eruptions. Yelling and howling, many of the Fremen dropped down into smaller boats and raced into the maze of trees, but the water there made Stilgar greatly uneasy.

"s.h.i.+elds on!" the barge captain shouted. Moments later, renewed s.h.i.+mmering barriers floated across the deck, protecting the soldiers but at the same time preventing them from firing their projectile weapons. The giant gunbarge pushed forward, until it sc.r.a.ped its keel on the mud.

"We can't go any farther," the captain said.

Stilgar activated his body s.h.i.+eld and told his men to do the same. "We will proceed on our own rafts, and then fight on foot."

Before they could disembark, submerged rebels in breather suits rose up from the murky water, pa.s.sing slowly through the gunbarge's main s.h.i.+eld. Eight of them worked swiftly and efficiently together. Stilgar spotted them only after they had planted explosives against the gunbarge's hull and then stroked away, pa.s.sing back through the s.h.i.+eld. He howled a warning.

Several of his men dropped overboard and bobbed in the water just as Gurney Halleck had taught them to do. They tried to pry the explosive mines loose, but the devices detonated within seconds. The swift shock wave hit against the s.h.i.+eld, then reflected back into the gunbarge, causing even more damage. A wall of fire and hot gases bowled Stilgar over, knocking him to the deck. Coughing and blinded, he staggered to the rail, feeling the deck tilt as the scuttled gunbarge lurched and settled.

Unable to catch himself, Stilgar tumbled overboard. In the water, the cool, slimy wetness soothed his fresh burns. Dozens of bodies, and parts of bodies, floated next to him. The gunbarge was wallowing.

Stilgar swam toward the trees, anxious for something solid to hold onto. One of Basque's men surfaced beside him in a breather suit and tried to attack, but Stilgar already had his crysknife out. He severed the man's air hose, slashed his neck, and shoved him still twitching into a billowing crimson cloud in the marsh water.

More screams and explosions reverberated through the mist-m.u.f.fled air. Two more gunbarges had been ruined by explosive mines, and another had run aground. Large artillery kept booming, leveling the forest, ripping the swamp to shreds, presumably hitting Basque's camp, by accident if by no other means.

Nothing stopped the Fremen, now that their anger was piqued. "Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib!" they screamed, splas.h.i.+ng forward. Stilgar had no doubt that many of them would drown, perhaps most, as they were still so unfamiliar with water. Others launched small boats.

Though the rebels continued to pick them off, the wave of Jihad fighters proved stronger than superior firepower or better defenses. His soldiers did not know how to lose, nor how to retreat.

As he sloshed his way to the k.n.o.bby hala-cypress roots, Stilgar found the chaotic battle exceedingly confusing. Despite his skill in desert warfare, he did not comprehend naval tactics. He was a dry-land fighter, undefeated in hand-to-hand combat. He knew the names for every type of wind in the desert, for the shapes of dunes, and the meanings of distant clouds. But this place was alien to him.

By the time he reached the center of the swamp, standing in thigh-deep water and holding onto the moss-slick roots, enough of the screaming Fremen had survived to reach the swamp-rat camp that they made short and b.l.o.o.d.y work of the remaining rebels. He knew he must have lost hundreds of men in his battle group, but they had died in glorious service to Muad'Dib, and their families would claim that they had wanted nothing else.

He dragged himself out of the water and saw to his disgust that his legs, chest, and stomach were covered with dozens of fat, oily leeches that swelled and pulsed as they gorged themselves on his blood. He was glad that no one had seen him, for he instinctively yelled like a woman and slashed at the parasites with his crysknife, popping each blood-filled leech and ripping it from his skin.

The fighting was mostly over by the time he composed himself and trudged toward the fires of the destroyed camp and the few remaining tortured screams, as the Fremen fell upon any swamp rat who had been unlucky enough not to die in battle.