Paul Of Dune Part 4

The original de Vries had been killed on Kaitain by the witch Mohiam. Afterward, the Baron had been served by a ghola of the Mentat, who had purportedly died on Arrakis along with the captive Duke Leto Atreides in a mysterious release of poison gas.

"Gholas?" Fenring asked. "Why are there so many of them?"

"Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had a standing order for us to keep several ready for delivery. The growth and Twisting process takes a good deal of time."

"The Baron has been dead for a year," Margot pointed out.

Ereboam frowned at her, then deigned to answer. "Yes, and they are therefore no longer commercially viable. We contacted other n.o.ble houses to try to market them elsewhere, but the Baron managed to taint the reputation of this one. Such a waste of time and resources, and now this line has been discontinued. At least they can serve as experimental subjects for a new nerve poison. Observe. That is why I've brought you here."

In unison, the de Vries gholas took on identical expressions of agony and clutched at their heads. As if ch.o.r.eographed, they fell writhing to the floor one by one, with the degree of their reactions depending on the strength of the poison to which they'd been exposed. They all began babbling long strings of prime numbers and tables of useless facts. Fenring exchanged a quizzical glance with his wife.

"The new poison is a marketable a.s.sa.s.sination tool," Ereboam said. "How delightful; their thoughts are detonating inside their brains. Soon they will all go insane, but that is a mere side effect, however interesting it may be. Death is our primary goal with this substance."

Thick blood and mucous began running out of the mouths, ears, and nostrils. Some of the victims screamed, while others whimpered.

"Because they are all virtually identical," Ereboam continued, "these discontinued gholas provide an opportunity for us to test various potencies of the neurotoxin. A controlled experiment."

"This is barbaric," Margot said, not bothering to keep her voice down.

"Barbaric?" Ereboam said. "Compared to what Muad'Dib has set loose on the universe, this is nothing."

Count Fenring nodded, realizing that the Tleilaxu man was making some sense - in his own twisted way.

It is far better to win a battle through skilled leaders.h.i.+p and wise decisions than violence and bloodshed. It may not seem as glorious to the uninitiated, but in the end it results in fewer wounds - of any kind.

-THUFIR HAWAT, House Atreides Master of a.s.sa.s.sins

It was a matter of simple mathematics, and the numbers did not add up.

For years before it happened, Paul had experienced visions of his Jihad, a storm of armed and fanatical Fremen sweeping across star systems, planting the banners of Muad'Dib and slaughtering any populations that resisted. Though history would paint a dark picture of his rule, Paul could see beyond the next sand dune in the wasteland of time, to the next, and the next. He knew that his Jihad would be but a flurry compared with the t.i.tanic upheavals that lay ahead in the path of human destiny, upheavals that would be far more deadly if he failed now.

While still on Kaitain, having dispatched the Fremen warriors to other battlefields and summoned cleanup and reconstruction crews to cement the occupation of the former Imperial capital, he considered his next move. Although he missed Chani greatly, he had vital work to do here.

To win this Jihad he would have to lay down a new, enduring rule. He had to derail humanity and its politics from the rut into which it had allowed itself to fall. No, not a rut, he decided. A death spiral.

But the numbers...

On the entire planet of Arrakis, Paul knew there were perhaps ten million Fremen scattered among numerous sietches. Ten million, half of whom were men, of which perhaps a third could be called upon to act as warriors in his Jihad. Less than two million fighters... and he knew from his dreams, his calculations, and cold logic that he would have to conquer - maybe even slaughter - countless populations before this war was over.

Even with all the faithful, though, he simply did not have enough fighters to make this a strictly military conquest. His soldiers, no matter how dedicated, couldn't possibly kill everyone who disagreed with him. Besides, he had no desire to be the emperor of a galaxywide charnel house.

Though Paul's prescience told him he had to win many victories, he hoped to prevail on most leaders of the Imperium with subtlety and intelligence, using sophisticated means of persuasion. His mother had already begun to make overtures for him. He had to demonstrate that surrender to and alliance with Muad'Dib was a smart decision, the best alternative. The only only alternative. But in order to accomplish that, he needed to employ the alternative. But in order to accomplish that, he needed to employ the Paul Atreides Paul Atreides side of his brain, rather than the raw Fremen side of Muad'Dib. Through all available means, he needed to control what remained of the Landsraad. He needed to gather allies. side of his brain, rather than the raw Fremen side of Muad'Dib. Through all available means, he needed to control what remained of the Landsraad. He needed to gather allies.

While his initial instinct was to return to Arrakeen and summon the members of the most important n.o.ble Houses, Paul decided that could send the wrong signal, because seeing him there the n.o.blemen might consider him a piratical leader of desert bandits. On Dune, Paul was surrounded by a groundswell of fanaticism, the resolute loyalty that was simply not understandable to anyone who did not grasp the power of blind religious devotion. After years of complacency under the secular Corrino Imperium, many Landsraad members had paid little attention to religion, viewing the Orange Catholic Bible as nothing more than a doc.u.ment of deep historical interest but without true pa.s.sion.

Even if Paul called in old family alliances and recruited the political friends of his father, it was not likely to be enough. Paul's jihadis might even kill some of the recalcitrant n.o.bles, showing them a different kind of pa.s.sion that even Paul might not be able to stop. There were potential second- and third-level consequences that he did not like, and he knew his prescience would not show him every possible pitfall.

So, the Emperor Paul-Muad'Dib made plans to summon them to Kaitain. A familiar place, and a symbol of how much he had already conquered in so short a time.

With the Imperial Palace torched and the marvelous city ransacked, he dispatched urgent protocol teams to prepare for the event. They cleaned the gutted Landsraad Hall of Oratory and rehung the banners of all the Houses who had agreed to attend.

Paul selected the invited representatives carefully. Duke Leto had been quite popular among important families, so much that he had unwittingly sparked Shaddam's jealousy - a resentment that had led to the Duke's political entrapment and murder on Arrakis. But even all of his father's friends would not be enough. He would also need to rely on the numerous planetary rulers who bore their own enmity toward Shaddam IV - and there were many of those from which to choose. When the guest list was set, his subordinates arranged Guild pa.s.sage to bring the invited Landsraad representatives to Kaitain. For the event, Muad'Dib had personally guaranteed their safety and offered them incentives.

While Paul waited for the delegates to arrive, Fedaykin guards swept the former Imperial city. They rooted out any "suspicious" people and locked them up, all in the name of ensuring the safety of the Emperor. Paul had an unsettling realization that his own people were resorting to tactics quite similar to those the Harkonnens had used, but he also understood the very real threat posed by a.s.sa.s.sins and conspirators. He had to allow some excesses for the greater good, though he doubted his explanations would comfort the families of those innocents who fell victim to Fremen zeal....

On the day of the first official Landsraad meeting in his new reign, Paul stepped onto the central speaking podium and looked out at the anxious and angry faces of the gathered n.o.bles. Brilliant Atreides banners hung on either side of him. Instead of his stillsuit and Fremen robe, he chose to wear an old-design black House Atreides uniform with a red hawk crest prominent on the right breast. His hair had been trimmed, and he had been washed and groomed so that he looked like the proud and dignified son of a n.o.ble Duke.

But he could not bleach the blue from his eyes or mask the dark tan of his skin, the weathered creases from windblown dust, the leanness of a face that had adjusted to a much lower water content.

More than sixty n.o.ble Houses had sent representatives, and he spotted familiar faces. He noted the old one-armed Archduke Armand Ecaz, who had no legal heir, and whose holdings were primarily managed by his Swordmaster. Also a lead administrator of the technocrats of Ix (Paul was not surprised that the son of House Vernius had not come in person, considering their past). In addition, he picked out O'Garee of Hagal, Sor of IV Anbus, Thorvald of Ipyr, Kalar of Ilthamont, Olin of Risp VII, and others.

Even though his loyal Fremen guards were in evidence in the Hall of Oratory, Paul faced the Landsraad members alone. When he spoke, he raised his voice, pitching his tone to use not only the powers his mother had taught him, but also his intimate knowledge of the nuances of command from his experience in leading Fremen tribes and Atreides soldiers. He owed much to Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and, most of all, to his father. Paul had to remind these men that he was Duke Leto's son.

"The Padishah Emperor was defeated," he said, pausing for a moment to let them wonder what he would say next. "Defeated by his own arrogance, by the overconfidence of his Sardaukar, and by the spider web of political machinations that trapped him in much the same way he intended to trap House Atreides." Another pause, scanning the faces in the a.s.semblage to look for emotion, for anger. He saw some of that, but more fear. "Most of you knew my father, Duke Leto. He instilled in me the principles of honor and leaders.h.i.+p, which I intend to maintain on the Imperial throne - if you will let me."

Paul let his gaze rest on a diminished-looking Armand Ecaz sitting stonily in his chair. Several n.o.blemen and dignitaries were taking notes, and still more leaned forward curiously, waiting to see how they could benefit from the situation.

"As Shaddam had no legal sons, and I have taken his eldest daughter Irulan as my wife, I am the legitimate heir to the Lion Throne. But my rule is not a mere continuation of Corrino rule. We have all learned our lesson from that! Some have seen this transition of power as a time of turmoil, but you can help me establish stability again."

"Stability?" shouted a man from a high tier. "Not much stability left, thanks to you!" Paul saw that the outspoken man had long gray-blond hair tied back behind his shoulders, a leonine frosty beard, and piercing pale blue eyes. He recognized Earl Memnon Thorvald, the bitter brother of one of Shaddam's later wives. Paul had invited him, thinking that Thorvald might hold enough of a grudge against the Corrinos to make him an ally. Now though, the Earl's palpable anger made it clear that he was in another category. Paul might have to isolate him.

"You may speak freely, Earl Thorvald!" Paul shouted to the upper tier. "Though few n.o.ble leaders will agree with you."

Showing surprise at the invitation, Thorvald nonetheless obliged. "Your Fremen armies are like packs of wild wolves. We can all see what they've done to Kaitain. They burned the Imperial Palace Imperial Palace - and you allowed it!" He gestured. "You call this establis.h.i.+ng a rule of stability?" - and you allowed it!" He gestured. "You call this establis.h.i.+ng a rule of stability?"

"Call it the price of war - a war I never sought." Paul spread his hands across the podium. "We can stop the bloodshed immediately. Your holdings will be safe and protected if you sign an alliance with me. You know the law is on my side, as is the power base. And," he added, bringing out his most powerful card, "I control the spice. The s.p.a.cing Guild and CHOAM are behind me."

Thorvald's anger only intensified. "So, our choice is between b.l.o.o.d.y instability and bowing to religious tyranny?"

Bolig Avati, the lead administrator of the Ixian technocrats, rose to his feet and spoke in a firm voice. "If we agree to your proposed alliance, Paul Atreides, must we wors.h.i.+p you as a G.o.d? Some of us have outgrown the need for false and convenient deities."

The Hall filled with angry muttering, some of it directed at the dissenters, some disturbingly in agreement with them. More leaders agreed with Thorvald than Paul antic.i.p.ated.

Raising his voice over the mounting commotion, Paul said, "My best fighters were bred in the harsh deserts of Arrakis. They fought the ruthless Harkonnens and the Emperor's Sardaukar. What they have seen of Imperial justice has not benefited them. But if you join me, my Jihad armies will not touch your worlds. One day when there is no enemy left to fight, there will be no more need for a powerful central army."

He drew a breath, let his expression become sterner. "If my words do not convince you, then I have the option of applying additional incentives - embargoes, monetary levies, even blockades. I have already declared a heavy tariff on any Guild flights servicing worlds that refuse to acknowledge my rule." As the muttering increased, he made his voice even louder. "I have not yet imposed a complete moratorium on transportation to those planets, but I retain that as an option. I much prefer cooperation to coercion, but I mean to put a speedy end to this wasteful conflict, regardless."

"From the beginning you planned to become a tyrant, didn't you?" Thorvald shouted, resting his large hands on the balcony rail of the high tier. "I have had my fill of emperors. The galaxy has had its fill of them. My planet will do just fine without your raving fanatics or benevolent boot heel. The Landsraad made a mistake by allowing House Corrino to rule much too long! And we still haven't learned our lesson." He called over his shoulder as he stormed out. "I only hope the rest of you awaken from your semuta trance soon enough."

Fedaykin guards moved to intercept Thorvald, but Paul signaled them to stop. This was a delicate time. He realized now that he could not, by any means, change the mind of Memnon Thorvald, and if he applied force inappropriately and acted as a bully, he would lose many of these others as well.

"I am glad this occurred," Paul said, intending to surprise his audience. "I cannot pretend not to be disappointed that Earl Thorvald spurned my offer, but I am glad the rest of you have heard me out, and have decided to be rational." He glanced from one Atreides banner to the other hanging beside his podium, before turning again to the audience. "You understand my terms."

Those who care nothing for their own lives find it easy to become heroes.

-ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE

A month after returning from the conquest of Kaitain and his meeting with the Landsraad representatives, Paul stood at the edge of the plains of Arrakeen, looking out on the site of his most important military victory. Stilgar had joined him for the upcoming victory ceremony here, after which they would meet with other military advisers to discuss the most effective uses for the elite Fremen warriors. Gurney Halleck had already taken an enthusiastic regiment of fighters to Galacia, but there were many more conquests to plan. And Paul knew the Jihad was just beginning. month after returning from the conquest of Kaitain and his meeting with the Landsraad representatives, Paul stood at the edge of the plains of Arrakeen, looking out on the site of his most important military victory. Stilgar had joined him for the upcoming victory ceremony here, after which they would meet with other military advisers to discuss the most effective uses for the elite Fremen warriors. Gurney Halleck had already taken an enthusiastic regiment of fighters to Galacia, but there were many more conquests to plan. And Paul knew the Jihad was just beginning.

He had demanded and obtained records from the s.p.a.cing Guild, notations of thousands of planetary systems, so many worlds that only a Mentat could remember them all. He also had full CHOAM company records, since he controlled the majority share, with his Directors.h.i.+p overshadowing all the others combined.

He doubted if Shaddam IV had ever truly grasped the size of his own Imperium, the wealth and territory over which he supposedly ruled. Paul was certain that the Guild and CHOAM kept some profits hidden; whole planets not marked on any charts, their locations known only to the best Steersmen, were used as hiding places for weapons caches, perhaps even stockpiles of confiscated family atomics. All of these planets had to be encompa.s.sed in the government of Muad'Dib.

The Battle of Arrakeen now seemed minuscule in comparison with the subsequent clashes that were being fought in Paul's name. Many thousands had died here, yes, but that was the merest fraction of the numbers that were peris.h.i.+ng in ongoing fights across the galaxy.

Even so, the significance of the victory on this battlefield had been tremendous, and pivotal. Here, the notorious Baron Harkonnen had perished. Here, the Sardaukar had suffered their first defeat in history. Here, a proud Corrino Emperor had surrendered.

Now the unrelenting sun hung directly overhead, heating the sandy and rocky slopes below, where another crowd had gathered to see Muad'Dib. The observers wore stillsuits, most of which were fitted in the traditional Fremen style, unlike the replicas sold to pilgrims. Water and souvenir vendors worked the noisy crowd, calling out as they hawked their wares. Colorful banners fluttered in a hot breeze. Everyone waited for him to address the mult.i.tudes.

Paul said quietly to Stilgar, who stood like a weathered rock, "The lines of good and evil were clearly drawn when we fought on the plains of Arrakeen, Stil. We knew where we stood against the allied Houses, and used the moral high ground to rally and inspire our fighters. But so many are already dead in my Jihad, many of them innocents. In time, they will say I was worse than the Corrinos and Harkonnens ever were."

Stilgar looked scandalized, his convictions unshaken even after what he had seen in the sacking of Kaitain. "Usul! We use violence only to cleanse, to wash away evil and save lives. Many more would die if not for your Jihad. You know this. Your prescience has told you so."

"It is as you say, but I worry that there is something I have not considered, another path I should have chosen instead. I cannot merely accept anything. I must keep searching."

"In dreams?"

"With conscious prescience, too, and Mentat logic. But everything guides me back to the same path." "Then there is no other path, Usul."

Paul smiled at the statement. If only he could be as utterly certain as Stilgar was; the naib had always been a man of absolutes.

When it was time to speak to the crowd, Paul mounted the steps of the immense monument that had been erected in his honor, a life-size replica of a sandworm sculpted by a renowned - and enthusiastically converted - sculptor from Chusuk. Plaques around its base carried the names of every world that had surrendered to Muad'Dib so far. There were many more blank plaques in antic.i.p.ation of more victories.

Right now, a performance was required. Carrying a maker hook, though only as a prop, Paul mounted steps on the side of the gray plastone beast whose eyeless head turned toward the basin below and the sprawling city of Arrakeen. With his own symbolic maker hook, Stilgar followed.

When the two stood side by side atop the head of the replica worm, they secured their hooks into sculpted rings and posed as if they were again riding the behemoth to victory. Behind them on the back of the statue, real Fremen soldiers stood in similar postures. The soldiers' cheers were echoed by the crowd in a growing sonic tumult that could be heard all the way to the city.

Years ago, when preparing his son for dangers on Arrakis, Duke Leto had advised him to capitalize on the local superst.i.tion that Paul might be the long-awaited Mahdi, the Lisan-al-Gaib. But only if he had to. Now, he had done that to an extent that went far beyond anything his father had ever antic.i.p.ated.

Paul's voice boomed out, transmitted by speakers on the worm. "I come here today in all humility to honor those Fremen and Atreides soldiers who died on the s.h.i.+eld Wall and in the basin below, fighting to free us from tyranny." The crowd let out a huge roar of approval, but he raised his hands to quiet them. "Know this from the lips of Muad'Dib. We have won the opening battles of the Jihad, but there are many more to be fought."

The holy war was becoming a living organism with its own momentum, and he had been its catalyst. Paul knew there were also moral battles to be won, challenges that promised no clear victors and losers, only murky results. One day when this phase of the Jihad was complete, there would be time for reflection, a time for the people to recognize his failings and weaknesses as a ruler, that he was not a G.o.d. That would be the beginning of understanding... but it would take a very long time.

Finished with the ceremonial requirements, Paul and Stilgar climbed back down the steps. The bearded Fremen reported good news. "Muad'Dib, as you expected and hoped, Ecaz surrendered to us immediately without any bloodshed. Your address to the Landsraad reminded the old Archduke of his loyalties and obligations to House Atreides. He has sent his representative to deliver his fealty in person. The delegate claims he knew you when you were but a boy."

Curious, Paul looked to where a rangy man stood at the base of the statue, dressed in the fas.h.i.+on of a Swordmaster, with embellished decorations, epaulets, and billowing lavender pantaloons that made him appear to be a dandy. The man seemed familiar, especially when he removed his feathered, broad-brimmed hat and bowed with a flourish. "Muad'Dib may not remember me... but Paul Atreides should."

Now he recognized the balding Whitmore Bludd, a man with a purple birthmark on his forehead. He was one of the most capable fighters in the history of Ginaz. Duncan Idaho had studied under him, and Bludd had served as a ronin for House Ecaz for many years. "Swordmaster Bludd! How could I forget you from my father's War of a.s.sa.s.sins against Grumman?"

"Ah, those were magnificent, heroic days." The foppish man unrolled a signed surrender parchment. "Ecaz has always supported the Atreides. We owe you a debt of honor, and blood. Of course, we accept you as the new Emperor."

Forsaking formalities, Paul threw his arms around the Swordmaster (much to the horror of the guards), and said, "You helped us. You defended us."

Blus.h.i.+ng, Bludd stepped back and said, "I insist it was the other way around, my Lord. Sadly, I am all that remains of a once-great House, just an old warrior with my glory days confined to memory. The recent trip to Kaitain proved a bit too much for the Archduke, and he has retired to his home." Next, Bludd extended a small ornamental box. "However, I brought a gift for you from Ecaz, as a token of my allegiance."

"The box has already been inspected, Usul," Stilgar said quietly.

Paul lifted the lid and saw a pinkish seash.e.l.l fragment the size of his own hand. Smiling, Bludd explained, "The remains of a conch sh.e.l.l from Mother Earth. See how light dances across the surface. Archduke Armand owned it for years - now it is yours."

Paul ran a hand over the smooth, pearly l.u.s.ter. The touch gave him an odd but pleasing sensation that he was in contact with an article from the birthworld of humanity. He handed the box to a nearby Fedaykin guard. "Have this delivered to my apartments."

Bludd spoke in a conversational, relaxed tone, "It's frightfully hot on this planet. Fortunately, I'm not a man who perspires much, or I'd be drained to the last drop."

"This is Dune, Swordmaster. From now on, you would be wise to wear a stillsuit," Paul said. Undeniably, Bludd was a dandy, but Paul had always admired the man anyway, not only for his fighting skills and loyalty, but for his organizational talents. Interesting possibilities rolled through the Emperor's mind.

In the past weeks, he had begun to acc.u.mulate the manpower and resources he needed for the construction of his huge new palace. While Korba had expressed an interest in guiding the project "for the glory and legend of Muad'Dib," Paul wasn't entirely sure that the zealous Fedaykin had the large-scale management skills or construction experience to oversee such a mammoth project. But Whitmore Bludd, in spite of his extravagant tastes, was a no-nonsense man and quite talented. He had a knack for getting things done. Duncan Idaho had always spoken highly of him.

"I would like you to remain here with us, Swordmaster Bludd. I can use someone with your talents to oversee a construction project far superior to anything the Corrinos ever built." He explained briefly what he desired for his new Palace, then said, "I want your vision and your dedication."

Bludd took a step backward in comical astonishment. "You would entrust me with such a fabulous undertaking, my Lord? Of course I accept the challenge! Why, I will create a citadel so grand it will strike even G.o.d himself with awe!"

"I think that'll be just about good enough for Korba," Paul said with a wry smile.

So many worlds were once the subject of songs and poems. Now, alas, they seem better suited to inspire dirges and epitaphs.

-GURNEY HALLECK, Battlefield Poetry Battlefield Poetry

In quieter times, Gurney had often played ballads about Galacia's beautiful and supposedly wanton women, but he had never before visited the small, cool world. Until now. Unfortunately, he saw more carnage than beauty. Part of it was his own fault, for promoting Enno too quickly to the rank of lieutenant - after the young soldier's near-drowning in the practice pool.

In his new position, Enno showed a proclivity for issuing orders, demanding that the fighters carry out what he saw as Muad'Dib's vision. Since his return from the dead, Enno believed that he had a holy purpose. His presence and charisma had visibly increased, and his Fremen comrades viewed him with awe. This proved to be a problem for Gurney.

After the battle frigates landed on Galacia, warriors ran through the streets of the village and marketplace that surrounded the colonnaded villa of Lord Colus, the planet's Landsraad representative. With the soldiers of Muad'Dib coming toward them like D-wolves, the villagers barricaded themselves inside their homes. A few foolhardy souls stood with makes.h.i.+ft weapons, trying to defend their families, but the Fremen dealt harshly with any perceived resistance.

Though Gurney was technically in charge, his control over these fighters became tenuous once they scented blood. The men took great glee in planting green-and-white banners while tearing down and defacing any signs of the ruling house of Galacia. He waded among the soldiers, using his best stage voice to command them to restrain themselves.

One Fremen soldier repeatedly pummeled the bloodied mouth of a woman who wouldn't stop screaming. Her husband lay dead on the floor next to her, his throat slashed by a crysknife. Gurney grabbed the brutal soldier by the back of his collar and swung his head against the doorframe, cracking his skull with a sickening sound. The woman looked up at Gurney and, instead of showing any grat.i.tude, screamed again, spraying blood from her broken teeth. Then she ran into the house and barricaded the door.

Gurney's face was red, the inkvine scar pulsing dark on his jawline. This was the sort of thing Harkonnen troops had done during their slave-gathering parties, going from village to village and brutalizing the people.

"Form ranks!" he bellowed. "Give the Galacians a chance to surrender, by the Seven h.e.l.ls!"

"They are resisting us, Commander Halleck," Enno said with maddening calm. "We must show them they have no hope. They shall know the despair that Muad'Dib brings to all who stand against him."

The fighters had begun to set fire to any home whose inhabitants dared to bar the doors and windows against the invading army. The people inside would be roasted alive. Gurney heard the shrieks and saw the animal wildness of the unfettered army.

Though he had trained them himself, Gurney was infuriated by their ferocity. It was all so unnecessary! But if he pushed too hard against their wild frenzy, he feared that they might turn against him, him, labeling him a heretic and a traitor to Muad'Dib. labeling him a heretic and a traitor to Muad'Dib.