Dune: House Harkonnen

Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

October 2000

To our mutual friend Ed Kramer, without whom this project would never have come

to fruition. He provided the spark that brought us together.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Jan Herbert, with appreciation for her unflagging devotion and constant creative

support.

Penny Merritt, for helping manage the literary legacy of her father, Frank

Herbert.

Rebecca Moesta Anderson's tireless support and enthusiasm for this project, her

ideas, imagination, and sharp eyes truly enhanced this project.

Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer of the William Morris Agency, Mary Alice Kier

and Anna Cottle of Cine/Lit Representation -- all of whom never wavered in their

faith and dedication, seeing the potential of the entire project.

Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib at Bantam Books gave their support and

attention to such an enormous undertaking.

Pat LoBrutto's excitement and dedication to this project -- from the very start

-- helped to keep us on track. He made us consider possibilities and plot

threads that made Dune: House Harkonnen even stronger and more complex.

Picking up the editorial reins, Anne Lesley Groell and Mike Shohl offered

excellent advice and suggestions, even at the eleventh hour.

Our U.K. editor, Carolyn Caughey, for continuing to find things that everyone

else missed, and for her suggestions on details, large and small.

Anne Gregory, for editorial work on an export edition of Dune: House Atreides

that occurred too late to list her in the credits.

As always, Catherine Sidor at WordFire, Inc., worked tirelessly to transcribe

dozens of microcassettes and type many hundreds of pages to keep up with our

manic work pace. Her assistance in all steps of this project has helped to keep

us sane, and she even fools other people into thinking we're organized.

Diane E. Jones and Diane Davis Herdt worked hard as test readers and guinea

pigs, giving us honest reactions and suggesting additional scenes that helped

make this a stronger book.

The Herbert Limited Partnership, including Ron Merritt, David Merritt, Byron

Merritt, Julie Herbert, Robert Merritt, Kimberly Herbert, Margaux Herbert, and

Theresa Shackelford, all of whom have provided us with their enthusiastic

support, entrusting us with the continuation of Frank Herbert's magnificent

vision.

Beverly Herbert, for almost four decades of support and devotion to her husband,

Frank Herbert.

And, most of all, thanks to Frank Herbert, whose genius created such a wondrous

universe for all of us to explore.

Discovery is dangerous . . . but so is life. A man unwilling to take risk is

doomed never to learn, never to grow, never to live.

-PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer, written for his son Liet

WHEN THE SANDSTORM came howling up from the south, Pardot Kynes was more

interested in taking meteorological readings than in seeking safety. His son

Liet -- only twelve years old, but raised in the harsh ways of the desert -- ran

an appraising eye over the ancient weather pod they had found in the abandoned

botanical testing station. He was not confident the machine would function at

all.

Then Liet gazed back across the sea of dunes toward the approaching tempest.

"The wind of the demon in the open desert. Hulasikali Wala." Almost

instinctively, he checked his stillsuit fittings.

"Coriolis storm," Kynes corrected, using a scientific term instead of the Fremen

one his son had selected. "Winds across the open flatlands are amplified by the

planet's revolutionary motion. Gusts can reach speeds up to seven hundred

kilometers per hour."

As his father talked, the young man busied himself sealing the egg-shaped

weather pod, checking the vent closures, the heavy doorway hatch, the stored

emergency supplies. He ignored their signal generator and distress beacon; the

static from the sandstorm would rip any transmissions to electromagnetic shreds.

In pampered societies Liet would have been considered just a boy, but life among

the hard-edged Fremen had given him a tightly coiled adulthood that few others

achieved even at twice his age. He was better equipped to handle an emergency

than his father.

The elder Kynes scratched his sandy-gray beard. "A good storm like this can

stretch across four degrees of latitude." He powered up the dim screens of the

pod's analytical devices. "It lifts particles to an altitude of two thousand

meters and suspends them in the atmosphere, so that long after the storm passes,

dust continues to fall from the sky."

Liet gave the hatch lock a final tug, satisfied that it would hold against the

storm. "The Fremen call that El-Sayal, the 'rain of sand.' "

"One day when you become Planetologist, you'll need to use more technical

language," Pardot Kynes said in a professorial tone. "I still send the Emperor

occasional reports, though not as often as I should. I doubt he ever reads

them." He tapped one of the instruments. "Ah, I believe the atmospheric front

is almost upon us."

Liet removed a porthole cover to see the oncoming wall of white, tan, and

static. "A Planetologist must use his eyes, as well as scientific language.

Just look out the window, Father."

Kynes grinned at his son. "It's time to raise the pod." Operating long-dormant

controls, he managed to get the dual bank of suspensor engines functioning. The

pod tugged against gravity, heaving itself off the ground.

The mouth of the storm lunged toward them, and Liet closed the cover plate,

hoping the ancient meteorological apparatus would hold together. He trusted his

father's intuition to a certain extent, but not his practicality.

The egg-shaped pod rose smoothly on suspensors, buffeted by precursor breezes.

"Ah, there we are," Kynes said. "Now our work begins --"

The storm hit them like a blunt club, and vaulted them high into the maelstrom.

DAYS EARLIER, on a trip into the deep desert, Pardot Kynes and his son had

discovered the familiar markings of a botanical testing station, abandoned

thousands of years before. Fremen had ransacked most of the research outposts,

scavenging valuable items, but this isolated station in an armpit of rock had

gone undiscovered until Kynes spotted the signs.

He and Liet had cracked open the dust-encrusted hatch to peer inside like ghouls

about to enter a crypt. They were forced to wait in the hot sun for atmospheric

exchange to clear out the deadly stale air. Pardot Kynes paced in the loose

sand, holding his breath and poking his head into the darkness, waiting until

they could enter and investigate.

These botanical testing stations had been built in the golden age of the old

Empire. Back then, Kynes knew, this desert planet had been nothing special,

with no resources of note, no reason to colonize. When the Zensunni Wanderers

had come here after generations of slavery, they'd hoped to build a world where

they could be free.

But that had been before the discovery of the spice melange, the precious

substance found nowhere else in the universe. And then everything had changed.

Kynes no longer referred to this world as Arrakis, the name listed in Imperial

records, but instead used the Fremen name: Dune. Though he was, by nature,

Fremen, he remained a servant of the Padishah Emperors. Elrood IX had assigned

him to unravel the mystery of the spice: where it came from, how it was formed,

where it could be found. For thirteen years Kynes had lived with the desert

dwellers; he had taken a Fremen wife, and he'd raised a half-Fremen son to

follow in his footsteps, to become the next Planetologist on Dune.

Kynes's enthusiasm for this planet had never dimmed. He thrilled at the chance

to learn something new, even if he had to thrust himself into the middle of a

storm . . . .

THE POD'S ANCIENT SUSPENSORS hummed against the Coriolis howl like a nest of

angry wasps. The meteorological vessel bounced on swirling currents of air, a

steel-walled balloon. Wind-borne dust scoured the hull.

"This reminds me of the aurora storms I saw on Salusa Secundus," Kynes mused.

"Amazing things -- very colorful and very dangerous. The hammer-wind can come

up from out of nowhere and crush you flat. You wouldn't want to be caught

outside."

"I don't want to be outside in this one, either," Liet said.

Stressed inward, one of the side plates buckled; air stole through the breach

with a thin shriek. Liet lurched across the deck toward the leak. He'd kept

the repair kit and foam sealant close at hand, certain the decrepit pod would

rupture. "We are held in the hand of God, and could be crushed at any moment."

"That's what your mother would say," the Planetologist said without looking up

from the skeins of information pouring through the recording apparatus into an

old datapack. "Look, a gust clocked at eight hundred kilometers per hour!" His

voice carried no fear, only excitement. "What a monster storm!"

Liet looked up from the stone-hard sealant he had slathered over the thin crack.

The squealing sound of leaking air faded, replaced by a muffled hurricane din.

"If we were outside, this wind would scour the flesh off our bones."

Kynes pursed his lips. "Quite likely true, but you must learn to express

yourself objectively and quantitatively. 'Scour the flesh off our bones' is not

a phrasing one would include in a report to the Emperor."

The battering wind, the scraping sand, and the roar of the storm reached a

crescendo; then, with a burst of pressure inside the survey pod, it all broke

into a bubble of silence. Liet blinked, swallowing hard to clear his ears and

throat. Intense quiet throbbed in his skull. Through the hull of the creaking

vessel, he could still hear Coriolis winds like whispered voices in a nightmare.

"We're in the eye." Glowing with delight, Pardot Kynes stepped away from his

instruments. "A sietch at the center of the storm, a refuge where you would

least expect it."

Blue static discharges crackled around them, sand and dust rubbing together to

generate electromagnetic fields. "I would prefer to be back in the sietch right

now," Liet admitted.

The meteorological pod drifted along in the eye, safe and silent after the

intense battering of the storm wall. Confined together in the small vessel, the

two had a chance to talk, as father and son.

But they didn't . . . .

Ten minutes later they struck the opposite sandstorm wall, thrown back into the

insane flow with a glancing blow of the dust-thick winds. Liet stumbled and

held on; his father managed to maintain his footing. The vessel's hull vibrated

and rattled.

Kynes looked at his controls, at the floor, and then at his son. "I'm not sure

what to do about this. The suspensors are" -- with a lurch, they began to

plunge, as if their safety rope had been severed -- "failing."

Liet held himself against an eerie weightlessness as the crippled pod dropped

toward the ground, which lay obscured by dusty murk. As they tumbled in the

air, the Planetologist continued to work the controls.

The haphazard suspensors sputtered and caught again just before impact. The

force from the Holtzman field generator cushioned them enough to absorb the

worst of the crash. Then the storm pod slammed into the churned sand, and the

Coriolis winds roared overhead like a spice harvester trampling a kangaroo mouse

under its treads. A deluge of dust poured down, released from the sky.

Bruised but otherwise unharmed, Pardot and Liet Kynes picked themselves up and

stared at each other in the afterglow of adrenaline. The storm headed up and

over them, leaving the pod behind . . . .

AFTER WORKING A SANDSNORK out through the clogged vent opening, Liet pumped

fresh air into the stale confinement. When he pried open the heavy hatch, a

stream of sand fell into the interior, but Liet used a static-foam binder to

pack the walls. Using a scoop from his Fremkit as well as his bare hands, he

set to work digging them out.

Pardot Kynes had complete confidence in his son's abilities to rescue them, so

he worked in dimness to collate his new weather readings into a single old-style

datapack.

Blinking as he pushed himself into the open air like an infant emerging from a

womb, Liet stared at the storm-scoured landscape. The desert was reborn: Dunes

moved along like a marching herd; familiar landmarks changed; footprints, tents,

even small villages erased. The entire basin looked fresh and clean and new.

Covered with pale dust, he scrambled up to more stable sand, where he saw the

depression that hid the buried pod. When they'd crashed, the vessel had slammed

a crater into the wind-stirred desert surface, just before the passing storm

dumped a blanket of sand on top of them.

With Fremen instincts and an inborn sense of direction, Liet was able to

determine their approximate position, not far from the South False Wall. He

recognized the rock forms, the cliff bands, the peaks and rilles. If the winds

had blown them a kilometer farther, the pod would have crashed into the

blistering mountains . . . an ignominious end for the great Planetologist, whom

the Fremen revered as their Umma, their prophet.

Liet called down into the hole that marked the buried vessel. "Father, I

believe there's a sietch in the nearby cliffs. If we go there, the Fremen can

help us dig out the pod."

"Good idea," Kynes answered, his voice muffled. "Go check to make sure. I'll

stay here and work. I've . . . got an idea."

With a sigh, the young man walked across the sand toward the jutting elbows of

ocher rock. His steps were without rhythm, so as not to attract one of the

great worms: step, drag, pause . . . drag, pause, step-step . . . drag, step,

pause, step. . . .

Liet's comrades at Red Wall Sietch, especially his blood-brother Warrick, envied

him for all the time he spent with the Planetologist. Umma Kynes had brought a

vision of paradise to the desert people -- they believed his dream of

reawakening Dune, and followed the man.

Without the knowledge of the Harkonnen overlords -- who were only on Arrakis to

mine the spice, and viewed people only as a resource to be squeezed -- Kynes

oversaw armies of secret, devoted workers who planted grasses to anchor the

mobile dunes; these Fremen established groves of cacti and hardy scrub bushes in

sheltered canyons, watered by dew-precipitators. In the unexplored south polar

regions, they had planted palmaries, which had gained a foothold and now

flourished. A lush demonstration project at Plaster Basin produced flowers,

fresh fruit, and dwarf trees.

Still, though the Planetologist could orchestrate grandiose, world-spanning

plans, Liet did not trust his father's common sense enough to leave him alone

for long.

The young man went along the ridge until he found subtle blaze marks on the

rocks, a jumbled path no outsider would notice, messages in the placement of

off-colored stones that promised food and shelter, under the respected al'amyah

Travelers' Benediction rules.

With the aid of strong Fremen in the sietch, they could excavate the weather pod

and drag it to a hiding place where it would be salvaged or repaired; within an

hour, the Fremen would remove all traces and let the desert fall back into

brooding silence.

But when he looked back at the crash site, Liet was alarmed to see the battered

vessel moving and lurching, already protruding a third of the way out of the

sand. With a deep-throated hum, the pod heaved and strained, like a beast of

burden caught in a Bela Tegeusan quagmire. But the pulsing suspensors had only

enough strength to wrench the vessel upward a few centimeters at a time.

Liet froze when he realized what his father was doing. Suspensors. Out in the

open desert!

He ran, tripping and stumbling, an avalanche of powder sand following his

footsteps. "Father, stop. Turn them off!" He shouted so loudly that his

throat grew raw. With dread in the pit of his stomach, he gazed across the

golden ocean of dunes, toward the hellish pit of the faraway Cielago Depression.

He scanned for a telltale ripple, the disturbance indicating deep movement. . .

.

"Father, come out of there." He skidded to a stop in front of the open hatch as

the pod continued to shift back and forth, straining. The suspensor fields

thrummed. Grabbing the edge of the door frame, Liet swung himself through the

hatch and dropped inside the weather pod, startling Kynes.

The Planetologist grinned at his son. "It's some sort of automated system -- I

don't know what controls I bumped into, but this pod just might lift itself out

in less than an hour." He turned back to his instruments. "It gave me time to

collate all our new data into a single storage --"

Liet grabbed his father by the shoulder and pulled him from the controls. He

slammed his hands down on the emergency cutoff switch, and the suspensors faded.

Confused, Kynes tried to protest, but his son urged him toward the open hatch.

"Get out, now! Run as fast as you can toward the rocks."

"But --"

Liet's nostrils flared in angry exasperation. "Suspensors operate on a Holtzman

field, just like shields. You know what happens when you activate a personal

shield out in the open sand?"

"The suspensors are working again?" Kynes blinked, then his eyes lit up as he

understood. "Ah! A worm comes."

"A worm always comes. Now run!"

The elder Kynes staggered out of the hatch and dropped to the sand. He

recovered his balance and oriented himself in the glaring sun. Seeing the cliff

line Liet had indicated, a kilometer away, he trudged off in a jerky, mismatched

walk, stepping, sliding, pausing, hopping forward in a complicated dance. The

young Fremen dropped out of the hatch and followed along, as they made their way

toward the safety of rocks.

Before long, they heard a hissing, rolling sound from behind. Liet glanced over

his shoulder, then pushed his father over a dune crest. "Faster. I don't know

how much time we'll have." They increased their pace. Pardot stumbled, got

back up.

Ripples arrowed across the sands directly toward the half-buried pod. Toward

them. Dunes lurched, rolled, then flattened with the inexorable tunneling of a

deep worm rising to the surface.

"Run with your very soul!" They sprinted toward the cliffs, crossed a dune

crest, slid down, then surged forward again, the soft sand pulling at their

feet. Liet's spirits rose when he saw the safety of rocks less than a hundred

meters away.

The hissing grew louder as the giant worm picked up speed. The ground beneath

their boots trembled.

Finally, Kynes reached the first boulders and clutched them like an anchor,

panting and wheezing. Liet pushed him farther, though, onto the slopes, to be

sure the monster could not rise from the sand and strike them.

Moments later, sitting on a ledge, wordless as they sucked hot air through their

nostrils to catch their breath, Pardot Kynes and his son stared back to watch a

churning whirlpool form around the half-buried weather pod. In the loosening

powder, as the viscosity of the stirred sand changed, the pod shifted and began

to sink.

The heart of the whirlpool rose up in a cavernous scooped mouth. The desert

monster swallowed the offending vessel along with tons of sand, forcing all the

debris down into a gullet lined with crystal teeth. The worm sank back into the

arid depths, and Liet watched the ripples of its passage, slower now, returning

into the empty basin. . . .

In the pounding silence that followed, Pardot Kynes did not look exhilarated

from his near brush with death. Instead, he appeared dejected. "We lost all

that data." The Planetologist heaved a deep breath. "I could have used our

readings to understand those storms better."

Liet reached inside a front pocket of his stillsuit and held up the old-style

datapack he had snatched from the pod's instrument panel. "Even while watching

out for our lives -- I can still pay attention to research."

Kynes beamed with fatherly pride.

Under the desert sun, they hiked up the rugged path to the safety of the sietch.

Behold, O Man, you can create life. You can destroy life. But, lo, you have no

choice but to experience life. And therein lies both your greatest strength and

your greatest weakness.

-Orange Catholic Bible, Book of Kimla Septima, 5:3

ON OIL-SOAKED GIEDI PRIME, the work crew left the fields at the end of a

typically interminable day. Encrusted with perspiration and dirt, the workers

slogged from trench-lined plots under a lowering red sun, making their way back

home.

In their midst, Gurney Halleck, his blond hair a sweaty tangle, clapped his

hands rhythmically. It was the only way he could keep going, his way of

resisting the oppression of Harkonnen overlords, who for the moment were not

within earshot. He made up a work song with nonsense lyrics, trying to get his

companions to join in, or at least to mumble along with the chorus.

We toil all day, the Harkonnen way,

Hour after hour, we long for a shower,

Just workin' and workin' and workin' . . .

The people trudged along silently. Too tired after eleven hours in the rocky

fields, they hardly gave the would-be troubadour a notice. With a resigned

sigh, Gurney finally gave up his efforts, though he maintained his wry smile.

"We are indeed miserable, my friends, but we don't have to be dismal about it."

Ahead lay a low village of prefabricated buildings -- a settlement called Dmitri

in honor of the previous Harkonnen patriarch, the father of Baron Vladimir.

After the Baron had taken control of House Harkonnen decades ago, he'd

scrutinized the maps of Giedi Prime, renaming land features to his own tastes.

In the process he had added a melodramatic flair to the stark formations: Isle

of Sorrows, Perdition Shallows, Cliff of Death. . . .

No doubt a few generations hence, someone else would rename the landmarks all

over again.

Such concerns were beyond Gurney Halleck. Though poorly educated, he did know

the Imperium was vast, with a million planets and decillions of people . . . but

it wasn't likely he'd travel even as far as Harko City, the densely packed,

smoky metropolis that shed a perpetual ruddy glow on the northern horizon.

Gurney studied the crew around him, the people he saw every day. Eyes downcast,

they marched like machines back to their squalid homes, so sullen that he had to

laugh aloud. "Get some soup in your bellies, and I'll expect you to start

singing tonight. Doesn't the O. C. Bible say, 'Make cheer from your own heart,

for the sun rises and sets according to your perspective on the universe'?"

A few workers mumbled with faint enthusiasm; it was better than nothing. At

least he had managed to cheer them up some. With a life so dreary, any spot of

color was worth the effort.

Gurney was twenty-one, his skin already rough and leathery from working in the

fields since the age of eight. By habit, his bright blue eyes drank in every

detail . . . though the village of Dmitri and the desolate fields gave him

little to look at. With an angular jaw, a too-round nose, and flat features, he

already looked like an old farmer and would no doubt marry one of the washed-

out, tired-looking girls from the village.

Gurney had spent the day up to his armpits in a trench, wielding a spade to

throw out piles of stony earth. After so many years of tilling the same ground,

the villagers had to dig deep in order to find nutrients in the soil. The Baron

certainly didn't waste solaris on fertilizers -- not for these people.

During their centuries of stewardship on Giedi Prime, the Harkonnens had made a

habit of wringing the land for all it was worth. It was their right -- no,

their duty -- to exploit this world, and then move the villages to new land and

new pickings. One day when Giedi Prime was a barren shell, the leader of House

Harkonnen would undoubtedly request a different fief, a new reward for serving

the Padishah Emperors. There were, after all, many worlds to choose from in the

Imperium.

But galactic politics were of no interest to Gurney. His goals were limited to

enjoying the upcoming evening, sharing a bit of entertainment and relaxation

down at the meeting place. Tomorrow would be another day of back-breaking work.

Only stringy, starchy krall tubers grew profitably in these fields; though most

of the crop was exported as animal feed, the bland tubers were nutritious enough

to keep people working. Gurney ate them every day, as did everyone else. Poor

soil leads to poor taste.

His parents and coworkers were full of proverbs, many from the Orange Catholic

Bible; Gurney memorized them all and often set them to tunes. Music was the one

treasure he was allowed to have, and he shared it freely.

The workers spread out to their separate but identical dwellings, defective

prefabricated units House Harkonnen had bought at discount and dumped there.

Gurney gazed ahead to where he lived with his parents and his younger sister,

Bheth.

His home had a brighter touch than the others. Old, rusted cookpots held dirt

in which colorful flowers grew: maroon, blue, and yellow pansies, a shock of

daisies, even sophisticated-looking calla lilies. Most houses had small

vegetable gardens where the people grew plants, herbs, vegetables -- though any

produce that looked too appetizing might be confiscated and eaten by roving

Harkonnen patrols.

The day was warm and the air smoky, but the windows of his home were open.

Gurney could hear Bheth's sweet voice in a lilting melody. In his mind's eye he

saw her long, straw-colored hair; he thought of it as "flaxen" -- a word from

Old Terran poems he had memorized -- though he had never seen homespun flax.

Only seventeen, Bheth had fine features and a sweet personality that had not yet

been crushed by a lifetime of work.

Gurney used the outside faucet to splash the gray, caked dirt from his face,

arms, and hands. He held his head under the cold water, soaking his snarled

blond hair, then used blunt fingers to maul it into some semblance of order. He

shook his head and strode inside, kissing Bheth on the cheek while dripping cold

water on her. She squealed and backed away, then returned to her cooking

chores.

Their father had already collapsed in a chair. Their mother bent over huge

wooden bins outside the back door, preparing krall tubers for market; when she

noticed Gurney was home, she dried her hands and came inside to help Bheth

serve. Standing at the table, his mother read several verses from a tattered

old O. C. Bible in a deeply reverent voice (her goal was to read the entire

mammoth tome to her children before she died), and then they sat down to eat.

He and his sister talked while sipping a soup of stringy vegetables, seasoned

only with salt and a few sprigs of dried herbs. During the meal, Gurney's

parents spoke little, usually in monosyllables.

Finishing, he carried his dishes to the basin, where he scrubbed them and left

them to drip dry for the next day. With wet hands he clapped his father on the

shoulder. "Are you going to join me at the tavern? It's fellowship night."

The older man shook his head. "I'd rather sleep. Sometimes your songs just

make me feel too tired."

Gurney shrugged. "Get your rest then." In his small room, he opened the

rickety wardrobe and took out his most prized possession: an old baliset,

designed as a nine-stringed instrument, though Gurney had learned to play with

only seven, since two strings were broken and he had no replacements.

He had found the discarded instrument, damaged and useless, but after working on

it patiently for six months . . . sanding, lacquering, shaping parts . . . the

baliset made the sweetest music he'd ever heard, albeit without a full tonal

range. Gurney spent hours in the night strumming the strings, spinning the

counterbalance wheel. He taught himself to play tunes he had heard, or composed

new ones.

As darkness enclosed the village, his mother sagged into a chair. She placed

the precious Bible in her lap, comforted more by its weight than its words.

"Don't be late," she said in a dry, empty voice.

"I won't." Gurney wondered if she would notice if he stayed out all night.

"I'll need my strength to tackle those trenches tomorrow." He raised a well-

muscled arm, feigning enthusiasm for the tasks all of them knew would never end.

He made his way across the packed-dirt streets down to the tavern.

In the wake of a deadly fever several years ago, four of the prefab structures

had been left empty. The villagers had moved the buildings together, knocked

down the connecting walls, and fashioned themselves a large community house.

Although this wasn't exactly against the numerous Harkonnen restrictions, the

local enforcers had frowned at such a display of initiative. But the tavern

remained.

Gurney joined the small crowd of men who had already gathered for the fellowship

down at the tavern. Some brought their wives. One man already lay slumped

across the table, more exhausted than drunk, his flagon of watery beer only

half-consumed. Gurney crept up behind him, held out his baliset, and strummed a

jangling chord that startled the man to full wakefulness.

"Here's a new one, friends. Not exactly a hymn that your mothers remember, but

I'll teach it to you." He gave them a wry grin. "Then you'll all sing along

with me, and probably ruin the tune." None of them were very good singers, but

the songs were entertaining, and it brought a measure of brightness to their

lives.

With full energy, he tacked sardonic words onto a familiar melody:

O Giedi Prime!

Thy shades of black are beyond compare,

From obsidian plains to oily seas,

To the darkest nights in the Emperor's Eye.

Come ye from far and wide

To see what we hide in our hearts and minds,

To share our bounty

And lift a pickax or two . . .

Making it all lovelier than before.

O Giedi Prime!

Thy shades of black are beyond compare,

From obsidian plains to oily seas,

To the darkest nights in the Emperor's Eye.

When Gurney finished the song, he wore a grin on his plain, blocky face and

bowed to imagined applause. One of the men called out hoarsely, "Watch

yourself, Gurney Halleck. If the Harkonnens hear your sweet voice, they'll haul

you off to Harko for sure -- so you can sing for the Baron himself."

Gurney made a rude noise. "The Baron has no ear for music, especially not

lovely songs like mine." This brought a round of laughter. He picked up a mug

of the sour beer and chugged it down.

Then the door burst open and Bheth ran in, her flaxen hair loose, her face

flushed. "Patrol coming! We saw the suspensor lights. They've got a prisoner

transport and a dozen guards."

The men sat up with a jolt. Two ran for the doors, but the others remained

frozen in place, already looking caught and defeated.

Gurney strummed a soothing note on his baliset. "Be calm, my friends. Are we

doing anything illegal? 'The guilty both know and show their crimes.' We are

merely enjoying fellowship. The Harkonnens can't arrest us for that. In fact,

we're demonstrating how much we like our conditions, how happy we are to work

for the Baron and his minions. Right, mates?"

A somber grumbling was all the agreement he managed to elicit. Gurney set aside

his baliset and went to the trapezoidal window of the communal hall just as a

prisoner transport pulled up in the center of the village. Several human forms

could be seen in shadow behind the transport's plaz windows, evidence that the

Harkonnens had been busy arresting people -- all women, it appeared. Though he

patted his sister's hand and maintained his good humor for the benefit of the

others, Gurney knew the troopers needed few excuses to take more captives.

Brilliant spotlights targeted the village. Dark armored forms rushed up the

packed-dirt streets, pounding on houses. Then the door to the communal building

was shouldered open with a loud crash.

Six men strode inside. Gurney recognized Captain Kryubi of the baronial guard,

the man in charge of House Harkonnen security. "Stand still for inspection,"

Kryubi ordered. A shard of mustache bristled on his lip. His face was narrow

and his cheeks looked sunken, as if he clenched his jaw too often.

Gurney remained by the window. "We've done nothing wrong here, Captain. We

follow Harkonnen rules. We do our work."

Kryubi looked over at him. "And who appointed you the leader of this village?"

Gurney did not think fast enough to keep his sarcasm in check. "And who gave

you orders to harass innocent villagers? You'll make us incapable of doing our

tasks tomorrow."

His companions in the tavern were horrified at his impudence. Bheth clutched

Gurney's hand, trying to keep her brother quiet. The Harkonnen guards made

threatening gestures with their weapons.

Gurney jerked his chin to indicate the prisoner escort vehicle outside the

window. "What did those people do? What crimes worthy of arrest?"

"No crimes are necessary," Kryubi said, coolly unafraid of the truth.

Gurney took a step forward, but three guards grasped his arms and threw him

heavily to the floor. He knew the Baron often recruited guards from the farming

villages. The new thugs -- rescued from bleak lives and given new uniforms,

weapons, lodgings, and women -- often became scornful of their previous lives

and proved crueler than off-world professionals. Gurney hoped he would

recognize a man from a neighboring village, so he could spit in his eye. His

head struck the hard floor, but he sprang back to his feet.

Bheth moved quickly to her brother's side. "Don't provoke them anymore."

It was the worst thing she could have done. Kryubi pointed at her. "All right,

take that one, too."

Bheth's narrow face paled when two of the three guards grabbed her by her thin

arms. She struggled as they hauled her to the still-open door. Gurney cast his

baliset aside and lunged forward, but the remaining guard produced his weapon

and brought the butt down hard across the young man's forehead and nose.

Gurney staggered, then threw himself forward again, swinging balled fists like

mallets. "Leave her alone!" He knocked one of the guards down and tore the

second one away from his sister. She screamed as the three converged upon

Gurney, pummeling him, slamming their weapons so brutally into him that his ribs

cracked; his nose was already bloodied.

"Help me!" Gurney shouted to the saucer-eyed villagers. "We outnumber the

bastards."

No one came to his aid.

He flailed and punched, but went down in a flurry of kicking boots and pounding

weapons. Struggling to lift his head, he saw Kryubi watching as his men pulled

Bheth toward the door. Gurney pushed, trying to throw off the heavy men who

held him down.

Between the gauntleted arms and padded legs, he saw the villagers frozen in

their seats, like sheep. They watched him with stricken expressions, but

remained as motionless as stones in a castle keep. "Help me, damn you!"

One guard punched him in the solar plexus, making him gasp and retch. Gurney's

voice was gone, his breath fading. Black spots danced in front of his eyes.

Finally, the guards withdrew.

He propped himself on an elbow just in time to see Bheth's despairing face as

the Harkonnen men dragged her into the night.

Enraged and frustrated, he swayed back to his feet, fighting to remain

conscious. He heard the prison transport power up in the square outside.

Haloed by a glow of illumination against the windows of the tavern, it roared

off toward another village to pick up more captives.

Gurney blinked at the other men through swollen eyes. Strangers. He coughed

and spat blood, then wiped it from his lips. Finally, when he could wheeze, he

said, "You bastards just sat there. You didn't lift a finger to help."

Brushing himself off, he glared at the villagers. "How can you let them do this

to us? They took my sister!"

But they were no better than sheep, and never had been. He should have expected

nothing different now.

With utter contempt, he spat blood and saliva on the floor, then staggered

toward the door and out.

Secrets are an important aspect of power. The effective leader spreads them in

order to keep men in line.

-PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO, Discourses on Leadership in a Galactic Imperium,

Twelfth Edition

THE FERRET-FACED MAN stood like a spying crow on the second level of the

Residency at Arrakeen. He gazed down into the spacious atrium. "You are

certain they know about our little soiree, hmmm-ah?" His lips were cracked from

the dry air; they had been that way for years. "All the invitations personally

delivered? All the populace notified?"

Count Hasimir Fenring leaned toward the slender, loose-chinned chief of his

guard force, Geraldo Willowbrook, who stood beside him. The scarlet-and-gold-

uniformed man nodded, squinted in the bright light that streamed through

prismatic, shield-reinforced windows. "It will be a grand celebration for your

anniversary here, sir. Already beggars are massing at the front gate."

"Hmm-m-ah, good, very good. My wife will be pleased."

On the main floor below, a chef carried a silver coffee service toward the

kitchen. Cooking odors drifted upward, exotic soups and sauces prepared for the

evening's extravagant festivities, broiled brochettes of meat from animals that

had never lived on Arrakis.

Fenring gripped a carved ironwood banister. An arched Gothic ceiling rose two

stories overhead, with elacca wood crossbeams and plaz skylights. Though

muscular, he was not a large man, and found himself dwarfed by the immensity of

this house. He'd commissioned the ceiling himself, and another in the Dining

Hall. The new east wing was his concept as well, with its elegant guest rooms

and opulent private pools.

In his decade as Imperial Observer on the desert planet, he had generated a

constant buzz of construction around him. Following his exile from Shaddam's

court on Kaitain, he'd had to make his mark somehow.

From the botanical conservatory under construction near the private chambers he

shared with Lady Margot, he heard the hum of power tools along with the chants

of day-labor crews. They cut keyhole-arched doorways, set dry fountains into

alcoves, adorned walls with colorful geometric mosaics. For luck, one of the

hinges supporting a heavy ornamental door had been symbolically shaped as the

hand of Fatimah, beloved daughter of an ancient prophet of Old Terra.

Fenring was about to dismiss Willowbrook when a resounding crash made the upper

floor shudder. The two men ran down the curving hallway, past bookcases. From

rooms and lift tubes, curious household servants poked their heads into the

corridor.

The oval conservatory door stood open, revealing a mass of tangled metal and

plaz. One of the workers shouted for medics over the din of screaming. A fully

laden suspensor scaffold had collapsed; Fenring vowed to personally administer

the appropriate punishment, once an investigation had pointed fingers at the

likely scapegoats.

Shouldering his way into the room, Fenring looked up. Through the open metal

framing of the arched roof, he saw a lemon-yellow sky. Only a few of the

filter-glass windows had been installed; others now lay shattered in the tangle

of scaffolding. He spoke in a tone of disgust. "Unfortunate timing, hmmmm? I

was going to take our guests on a tour tonight."

"Yes, most unfortunate, Count Fenring, Sir." Willowbrook watched while

household workers began digging in the rubble to reach the injured.

House medics in khaki uniforms hurried past him into the ruined area. One

tended a bloody-faced man who had just been pulled from the debris, while two

men helped remove a heavy sheet of plaz from additional victims. The job

superintendent had been crushed by the fallen scaffold. Stupid fellow, Fenring

thought. But lucky, considering what I'd have done to him for this mess.

Fenring glanced at his wristchron. Two more hours until the guests arrived. He

motioned to Willowbrook. "Wrap it up here. I don't want any noise coming from

this area during the party. That would provide entirely the wrong message,

hmmm? Lady Margot and I have laid out the evening's festivities most carefully,

down to the last detail."

Willowbrook scowled, but obviously thought better of showing defiance. "It will

be done, sir. In less than an hour."

Fenring simmered. In reality he cared nothing for exotic plants, and initially

had agreed to this expensive remodeling only as a concession to his Bene

Gesserit wife, the Lady Margot. Although she'd requested only a modest

airlocked room with plants inside, Fenring -- ever ambitious -- had expanded it

to something far more impressive. He conceived plans to collect rare flora from

all over the Imperium.

If ever the conservatory could be finished . . .

Composing himself, he greeted Margot in the vaulted entry just as she returned

from the labyrinthine souk markets in town. A willowy blonde with gray-green

eyes, perfect figure, and impeccable features, she stood nearly a head taller

than he. She wore an aba robe tailored to show off her figure, the black fabric

speckled with dust from the streets.

"Did they have Ecazi turnips, my dear?" The Count stared hungrily at two heavy

packages wrapped in thick brown spice paper carried by male servants. Having

heard of a merchant's arrival by Heighliner that afternoon, Margot had hurried

into Arrakeen to purchase the scarce vegetables. He tried to peek under the

paper wrappings, but she playfully slapped his hand away.

"Is everything ready here, my dear?"

"Mmm-m-m, it's all going smoothly," he said. "We can't tour your new

conservatory tonight, though. It's too messy up there for our dinner guests."

WAITING TO GREET the important guests as they arrived at sunset, Lady Margot

Fenring stood in the mansion's atrium, adorned on its wood-paneled lower level

with portraits of Padishah Emperors extending back to the legendary General

Faykan Corrin, who had fought in the Butlerian Jihad, and the enlightened ruler

Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, as well as "the Hunter" Fondil III, and his son

Elrood IX.

In the center of the atrium, a golden statue showed the current Emperor Shaddam

IV in full Sardaukar regalia with a ceremonial sword raised high. It was one of

many expensive works the Emperor had commissioned in the first decade of his

reign. Around the Residency and grounds were numerous additional examples,

gifts from her husband's boyhood friend. Although the two men had quarreled at

the time of Shaddam's ascension to the throne, they had gradually grown closer

again.

Through the dust-sealed double doors streamed elegantly dressed ladies,

accompanied by men in ravenlike post-Butlerian tuxedos and military uniforms of

varying colors. Margot herself wore a floor-length gown of silk taffeta with

emerald shimmer-sequins on the bodice.

As a uniformed crier announced her guests, Margot greeted them. They filed past

into the Grand Hall, where she heard much laughter, conversation, and clinking

of glasses. Entertainers from House Jongleur performed tricks and sang witty

songs to celebrate the Fenrings' ten years on Arrakis.

Her husband strutted down the grand staircase from the second floor. Count

Fenring wore a dark blue retrotuxedo with a crimson royal sash across the chest,

personally tailored for him on Bifkar. She bent to allow the shorter man to

kiss her on the lips. "Now go in and welcome our guests, dear, before the Baron

dominates every conversation."

With a light step, Fenring avoided an intent, frumpy-looking Duchess from one of

the Corrino subplanets; the Duchess passed a remote-cast poison snooper over her

wineglass before drinking, then slipped the device unobtrusively into a pocket

of her ball gown.

Margot watched her husband as he went to the fireplace to talk with Baron

Harkonnen, current holder of the siridar-fief of Arrakis and its rich spice

monopoly. The light of a blazing fire enhanced by hearth prisms gave the

Baron's puffy features an eerie cast. He wasn't looking at all well.

In the years she and Fenring had been stationed there, the Baron had invited

them to dine at his Keep or attend gladiatorial events featuring slaves from

Giedi Prime. He was a dangerous man who thought too much of himself. Now, the

Baron leaned on a gilded walking stick whose head had been designed to resemble

the mouth of a great sandworm of Arrakis.

Margot had seen the Baron's health decline dramatically over the past decade; he

suffered from a mysterious muscular and neurological malady that had caused him

to gain weight. From her Bene Gesserit Sisters she knew the reason for his

physical discomfiture, how it had been inflicted upon him when he'd raped

Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. The Baron, however, had never learned the

cause of his distress.

Mohiam herself, another carefully selected guest for this event, passed into

Margot's line of sight. The gray-haired Reverend Mother wore a formal aba robe

with a diamond-crusted collar. She smiled a tight-lipped greeting. With a

subtle flicker of fingers, she sent a message and a question. "What news for

Mother Superior Harishka? Give details. I must report to her."

Margot's fingers responded: "Progress on the Missionaria Protectiva matter.

Only rumors, nothing confirmed. Missing Sisters not yet located. Long time.

They may all be dead."

Mohiam did not look pleased. She herself had once worked with the Missionaria

Protectiva, an invaluable Bene Gesserit division that sowed infectious

superstitions on far-flung worlds. Mohiam had spent decades here in her younger

years, posing as a town woman, disseminating information, enhancing

superstitions that might benefit the Sisterhood. Mohiam herself had never been

able to infiltrate the closed Fremen society, but over the centuries, many other

Sisters had gone into the deep desert to mingle with the Fremen -- and had

disappeared.

Since she was on Arrakis as the Count's consort, Margot had been asked to

confirm the Missionaria's subtle work. Thus far she'd heard unconfirmed reports

of Reverend Mothers who had joined the Fremen and gone underground, as well as

rumors of Bene Gesserit-like religious rituals among the tribes. One isolated

sietch supposedly had a holy woman; dusty travelers were overheard in a town

coffee tent speaking of a messiah legend clearly inspired by the Panoplia

Propheticus . . . but none of this information came directly from the Fremen

themselves. The desert people, like their planet, seemed impenetrable.

Maybe the Fremen murdered the Bene Gesserit women outright and stole the water

from their bodies.

"Those others have been swallowed up by the sands." Margot's fingers flickered.

"Nevertheless, find them." With a nod that ended the silent conversation,

Mohiam glided across the room toward a side doorway.

"Rondo Tuek," the crier announced, "the water merchant."

Turning, Margot saw a broad-faced but wiry man stride across the foyer with an

odd, rolling gait. He had tufts of rusty-gray hair at the sides of his head,

thinning strands on his pate, and widely separated gray eyes. She reached out

to greet him. "Ah, yes -- the smuggler."

Tuek's flat cheeks darkened, then a broad smile cracked his squarish face. He

wagged a finger at her, in the manner of a teacher to a student. "I am a water

supplier who works hard to excavate moisture from the dirty ice caps."

"Without the industriousness of your family, I'm sure the Imperium would

collapse."

"My Lady is too kind." Tuek bowed and entered the Grand Hall.

Outside the Residency, poor beggars had gathered, hoping for a rare show of

graciousness from the Count. Other spectators had come to watch the beggars,

and gaze longingly up at the ornate facade of the mansion. Water-sellers in

brightly dyed traditional garb jingled their bells and called out an eerie cry

of "Soo-Soo Sook!" Guards -- borrowed from the Harkonnen troops and obliged to

wear Imperial uniforms for the event -- stood by the doorways, keeping out

undesirables and clearing the way for the invited. It was a circus.

When the last of the expected guests arrived, Margot glanced at an antique

chrono set into the wall, adorned with mechanical figures and delicate chimes.

They were nearly half an hour late. She hurried to her husband's side and

whispered in his ear. He dispatched a messenger to the Jongleurs, and they fell

silent -- a signal familiar to the guests.

"May I have your attention please, hmmm?" Fenring shouted. Pompously dressed

footmen appeared to escort the attendees. "We will reconvene in the Dining

Hall." According to tradition, Count and Countess Fenring trailed behind the

last of their guests.

On either side of the wide doorway to the Dining Hall stood laving basins of

gold-embedded tile, decorated with intricate mosaics containing the crests of

House Corrino and House Harkonnen, in accordance with political necessity. The

crest denoting the previous governors of Arrakis, House Richese, had been

painstakingly chiseled out to be replaced with a blue Harkonnen griffin. The

guests paused at the basins, dipped their hands into the water, and slopped some

onto the floor. After drying their hands, they flung towels into a growing

puddle.

Baron Harkonnen had suggested this custom to show that a planetary governor

cared nothing for water shortages. It was an optimistic flaunting of wealth.

Fenring had liked the sound of that, and the procedure had been instituted --

with a benevolent twist, however: Lade Margot saw a way to help the beggars, in

a largely symbolic way. With her husband's grudging concurrence, she let it be

known that at the conclusion of each banquet, beggars were welcome to gather

outside the mansion and receive any water that could be squeezed from the soiled

towels.

Her hands tingling and damp, Margot entered the long hall with her husband.

Antique tapestries adorned the walls. Free-floating glowglobes wandered around

the room, all set at the same height above the floor, all tuned to the yellow

band. Over the polished wooden table hung a chandelier of glittering blue-green

Hagal quartz, with a sensitive poison snooper concealed in the upper reaches of

the chain.

A small army of footmen held chairs for the diners, and draped a napkin over

each guest's lap. Someone stumbled and knocked a crystal centerpiece to the

floor, where it shattered. Servants hurried to clean it up and replace it.

Everyone else pretended not to notice.

Margot, seated at the foot of the long table, nodded graciously to Planetologist

Pardot Kynes and his twelve-year-old son, who took their assigned seats on

either side of her. She'd been surprised when the rarely seen desert man

accepted her invitation, and she hoped to learn how many of the rumors about him

were true. In her experience, dinner parties were notorious for small talk and

insincerity, though certain things did not escape the attention of an astute

Bene Gesserit observer. She watched the lean man carefully, noting a repair

patch on the gray collar of his dress tunic, and the strong line of his sandy-

bearded jaw.

Two places down from her, Reverend Mother Mohiam slid into a chair. Hasimir

Fenring took his seat at the head of the table, with Baron Harkonnen on his

right. Knowing how the Baron and Mohiam loathed one another, Margot had seated

them far apart.

At a snap of Fenring's fingers, servants bearing platters of exotic morsels

emerged from side doorways. They worked their way around the table, identifying

the fare and serving sample portions from the plates.

"Thank you for inviting us, Lady Fenring," Kynes's son said, looking at Margot.

The Planetologist had introduced the young man as Weichih, a name that meant

"beloved." She could see a resemblance to the father, but while the older Kynes

had a dreaminess in his eyes, this Weichih bore a hardness caused by growing up

on Arrakis.

She smiled at him. "One of our chefs is a city Fremen who has prepared a sietch

specialty for the banquet, spice cakes with honey and sesame."

"Fremen cuisine is Imperial class now?" Pardot Kynes inquired with a wry smile.

He looked as if he'd never thought of food as anything more than sustenance, and

considered formal dining to be a distraction from other work.

"Cuisine is a matter of . . . taste." She selected her words diplomatically.

Her eyes twinkled.

"I take that as a no," he said.

Tall, off-world servingwomen moved from place to place with narrow-necked

bottles of blue melange-laced wine. To the amazement of the locals, plates of

whole fish appeared, surrounded by gaping Buzzell mussels. Even the wealthiest

inhabitants of Arrakeen rarely sampled seafood.

"Ah!" Fenring said with delight from the other end of the table, as a servant

lifted a cover from a tray. "I shall relish these Ecazi turnips, hmmmm. Thank

you, my dear." The servant ladled dark sauce onto the vegetables.

"No expense is too great for our honored guests," Margot said.

"Let me tell you why those vegetables are so expensive," a diplomat from Ecaz

groused, commanding everyone's attention. Bindikk Narvi was a small man with a

deep, thundering voice. "Crop sabotage has drastically reduced our supply for

the entire Imperium. We've named this new scourge the 'Grumman blight.' "

He glared across the table at the Ambassador from Grumman, a huge heavy-drinking

man with creased, dark skin. "We have also discovered biological sabotage in

our fogtree forests on the continent of Elacca." All of the Imperium prized

Ecazi fogtree sculptures, which were made by directing growth through the power

of human thought.

Despite his bulk, the Moritani man -- Lupino Ord -- spoke in a squeaky voice.

"Once again the Ecazis fake a shortage to drive prices up. An ancient trick

that has been around since your thieving ancestors were driven from Old Terra in

disgrace."

"That isn't what happened at all --"

"Gentlemen, please," Fenring said. The Grummans had always been a very volatile

people, ready to fly into a vengeful frenzy at the slightest perceived insult.

Fenring found it all rather thin-skinned and boring. He looked at his wife.

"Did we make a mistake in the seating arrangement, my dear, hmmm?"

"Or perhaps in the guest list," she quipped.

Polite, embarrassed laughter bubbled around the table. The quarreling men grew

quiet, though they glared at one another.

"So nice to see that our eminent Planetologist has brought along his fine young

son," Baron Harkonnen said in an oily tone. "Quite a handsome lad. You have

the distinction of being the youngest dinner guest."

"I am honored to be here," the boy replied, "among such esteemed company."

"Being groomed to succeed your father, I hear," the Baron continued. Margot

detected carefully hidden sarcasm in the basso voice. "I don't know what we'd

do without a Planetologist." In truth, Kynes was rarely seen in the city, and

almost never submitted the required reports to the Emperor, not that Shaddam

noticed or cared. Margot had gleaned from her husband that the Emperor was

occupied with other -- as yet unrevealed -- matters.

The young man's intent eyes brightened. He raised a water flagon. "May I

propose a toast to our host and hostess?" Pardot Kynes blinked at his son's

boldness, as if surprised that the social nicety had not occurred to him first.

"An excellent suggestion," the Baron gushed. Margot recognized a slackness in

his speech from consuming too much melange wine.

The twelve-year-old spoke in a firm voice, before taking a sip. "May the wealth

you display for us here, with all this food and abundance of water, be merely a

pale reflection of the riches in your hearts."

The assembled guests endorsed the blessing, and Margot detected a flicker of

greed in their eyes. The Planetologist fidgeted and finally spoke what was on

his mind, as the clinking of glasses diminished. "Count Fenring, I understand

you have an elaborate wet-planet conservatory under construction here. I would

be very interested in seeing it." Margot suddenly understood why Kynes had

accepted the invitation, the reason he had come in from the desert. Dressed in

his plain but serviceable tunic and breeches, covered by a sandy-brown cloak,

the man resembled a dirty Fremen more than an Imperial servant.

"You have learned our little secret, hmmm-ah?" With obvious discomfort, Fenring

pursed his lips. "I had intended to show it to my guests this evening, but

sadly certain . . . hmmm-ahh, delays have made that impossible. Some other

time, perhaps."

"By keeping a private conservatory, do you not flaunt things that the people of

Arrakis cannot have?" young Weichih asked.

"Yet," Pardot Kynes said under his breath.

Margot heard it. Interesting. She saw that it would be a mistake to

underestimate this rugged man, or even his son. "Surely it is an admirable goal

to collect plants from all over the Imperium?" she suggested, patiently. "I see

it as a display of riches the universe has to offer, rather than a reminder of

what the people lack."

In a low but firm tone, Pardot Kynes admonished the young man, "We did not come

here to force our views on others."

"On the contrary, please be so good as to explain your views," Margot urged,

trying to ignore insulting looks still being exchanged across the table by the

Ecazi and Grumman ambassadors. "We won't take offense, I promise you."

"Yes," said a Carthag weapons-importer from halfway down the table. His fingers

were so laden with jeweled rings he could barely lift his hands. "Explain how

Fremen think. We all want to know that!"

Kynes nodded slowly. "I have lived with them for many years. To begin an

understanding of the Fremen, realize that survival is their mind-set. They

waste nothing. Everything is salvaged, reused."

"Down to the last drop of water," Fenring said. "Even the water in dead bodies,

hmmmm?"

Kynes looked at his son, then back at Margot. "And your private conservatory

will require a great deal of that precious water to maintain."

"Ahh, but as Imperial Observer here, I can do anything I please with natural

resources," Fenring pointed out. "I consider my wife's conservatory a

worthwhile expenditure."

"Your rights are not in doubt," Kynes said, his tone as steady as the Shield

Wall. "And I am the Planetologist for Emperor Shaddam, as I was for Elrood IX

before him. We are each bound to our duties, Count Fenring. You will hear no

speeches from me about ecological issues. I merely answered your Lady's

question."

"Well, then, Planetologist, tell us something we don't know about Arrakis," the

Baron said, gazing down the table. "You've certainly been here long enough.

More of my men die here than in any other Harkonnen holding. The Guild can't

even put enough functional weather satellites in orbit to provide reliable

surveillance and make predictions. It is most frustrating."

"And, thanks to the spice, Arrakis is also most profitable," Margot said.

"Especially for you, dear Baron."

"This planet defies understanding," Kynes said. "And it will take more than my

brief lifetime to determine what is going on here. This much I know: We must

learn how to live with the desert, rather than against it."

"Do the Fremen hate us?" Duchess Caula, an Imperial cousin, asked. She held a

forkful of brandy-seasoned sweetbreads halfway to her mouth.

"They are insular, and distrust anyone who is non-Fremen. But they are honest,

direct people with a code of honor that no one at this table -- not even myself

-- fully understands."

With an elegant lift of her eyebrows Margot asked the next question, watching

carefully for his reaction. "Is it true what we've heard, that you've become

one of them yourself, Planetologist?"

"I remain an Imperial servant, my Lady, though there is much to be learned from

the Fremen."

Murmurs rose from different seats, accompanied by louder pockets of discussion

while the first dessert course arrived.

"Our Emperor still has no heir," Lupino Ord, the Grumman ambassador, commented.

The big man's voice was a lilting shrill. He'd been drinking steadily. "Only

two daughters, Irulan and Chalice. Not that women aren't valuable . . ." He

looked around mischievously with his coal-black eyes, catching the disapproving

gazes of several ladies at the table. "But without a male heir, House Corrino

must step aside in favor of another Great House."

"If he lives as long as Elrood, our Emperor might have a century left in him,"

Margot pointed out. "Perhaps you haven't heard that Lady Anirul is with child

again?"

"My duties sometimes keep me out of the mainstream of news," Ord admitted. He

lifted his wineglass. "Let us hope the next one is a boy."

"Hear, hear!" several diners called out.

But the Ecazi diplomat, Bindikk Narvi, made an obscene hand gesture. Margot had

heard about the long-standing animosity between the Archduke Armand Ecaz and

Viscount Moritani of Grumman, but hadn't realized how serious it had grown. She

wished she hadn't seated the two rivals so close to one another.

Ord grabbed a thin-necked bottle and poured more blue wine for himself before a

servant could do it for him. "Count Fenring, you have many works of art

featuring our Emperor -- paintings, statues, plaques bearing his likeness. Is

Shaddam funneling too much money into such self-serving commissions? They have

sprouted up all over the Imperium."

"And someone keeps defacing them or knocking them down," the Carthag weapons-

importer said with a snort.

Thinking of the Planetologist and his son next to her, Margot selected a sweet

melange cake from the dessert tray. Perhaps the guests had not heard the other

rumors, that those benevolent gifts of artwork contained surveillance devices to

monitor activities around the Imperium. Such as the plaque on the wall right

behind Ord.

"Shaddam desires to make his mark as our ruler, hmmm?" Fenring commented. "I

have known him for many years. He wishes to separate himself from the policies

of his father, who served for so interminably long."

"Perhaps, but he's neglecting the training of actual Sardaukar troops, while

allowing the ranks of his generals . . . What are they called?"

"Bursegs," someone said.

"Yes, while allowing the ranks of his Bursegs to increase, with exorbitant

pensions and other benefits. Morale among the Sardaukar must be ebbing, as they

are called upon to do more with fewer and fewer resources."

Margot noticed her husband had grown dangerously quiet. Having narrowed his

large eyes to slits, he was staring at the foolish drunk.

A woman whispered something to the Grumman ambassador. He ran a finger over the

lip of his wineglass. "Oh yes, I apologize for stating the obvious to someone

who knows our Emperor so well."

"You're an idiot, Ord," Narvi thundered, as if he'd been waiting for any chance

to shout an insult.

"And you're a fool and a dead man." The Grumman ambassador stood up, knocking

his chair over behind him. He moved too swiftly, too accurately. Had his

drunkenness all been an act, an excuse, just to provoke the man?

Lupino Ord drew a gleaming cutterdisk pistol and, with ear-piercing reports,

fired it repeatedly at his adversary. Had he planned this, provoking his Ecazi

rival? Cutterdisks tore Narvi's face and chest apart, killing him long before

the poisons on the razor edges could have any effect.

Diners cried out and scattered in all directions. Footmen grabbed the reeling

ambassador and wrestled the expended weapon from him. Margot sat frozen in

place, more astonished than terrified. What have I missed? How deep does this

animosity between Ecaz and House Moritani go?

"Lock him in one of the underground tunnels," Fenring commanded. "Station a

guard at all times."

"But I have diplomatic immunity!" Ord protested, his voice squeakier now. "You

don't dare hold me."

"Never assume what I might dare." The Count glanced at the shocked faces around

him. "I could simply allow my other guests to punish you, thus exercising their

own . . . immunity, hmmm?" Fenring waved an arm, and the sputtering man was

taken away until protected passage back to Grumman could be arranged.

Medics hurried in, the same ones Fenring had seen earlier at the conservatory

disaster. Clearly, they could do nothing for the mutilated Ecazi ambassador.

Quite a body count around here today, Fenring mused. And I didn't kill any of

them.

"Hmmm-ah," he said to his wife, who stood by him. "I fear this will become an .

. . incident. Archduke Ecaz is bound to issue a formal complaint, and there's

no telling how Viscount Moritani will respond."

He commanded the footmen to remove Narvi's body from the hall. Many of the

guests had scattered to other rooms of the mansion. "Shall we call people

back?" He squeezed his wife's hand. "I hate to see the evening end like this.

Maybe we could bring in the Jongleurs, have them tell amusing stories."

Baron Harkonnen came up beside them, leaning on his wormhead cane. "This is

your jurisdiction, Count Fenring, not mine. You send a report to the Emperor."

"I'll take care of it," Fenring said, tersely. "I'm journeying to Kaitain on

another matter, and I will provide Shaddam with the necessary details. And the

proper excuses."

In the days of Old Terra there were experts in poisons, deviously clever persons

who dealt in what were known as "the powders of inheritance."

-Filmbook excerpt, Royal Library of Kaitain

GRINNING WITH PRIDE, Court Chamberlain Beely Ridondo marched through the

doorway. "Your Imperial Majesty, you have another new daughter. Your wife has

just delivered a fine and healthy girl."

Instead of rejoicing, Emperor Shaddam IV cursed under his breath and sent the

man away. That makes three! What use is another daughter to me?

He was in a foul mood, worse than any since the struggles to remove his decrepit

father from the Golden Lion Throne. At a brisk pace Shaddam entered his private

study, passing beneath an ancient plaque that read, "Law is the ultimate

science" -- some nonsense from Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, a man who'd never

even bothered to wear the Imperial crown. He sealed the door behind him and

thumped his angular frame into the textured, high-backed suspensor chair at his

desk.

A man of middle height, Shaddam had a loosely muscled body and an aquiline nose.

His long nails were carefully manicured, his pomaded red hair combed straight

back. He wore a gray Sardaukar-style uniform with epaulets and silver-and-gold

trim, but the military trappings no longer comforted him as they once had.

In addition to the birth of yet another daughter, he had much on his mind.

Recently, at a gala concert in one of the inverted-pyramid stadiums on

Harmonthep, someone had released a giant inflated effigy of Shaddam IV.

Obscenely insulting, the gaudy caricature made him look like a buffoon. The

inflatable construction had drifted over the vast laughing crowds until the

Harmonthep dragoon guards had shot it down in flaming tatters -- and any fool

could see the symbolism in that act! Despite the most rigorous crackdown and

interrogation, even Sardaukar investigators were not able to determine who'd

been responsible for creating or releasing the effigy.

In another incident, hundred-meter-high letters had been scrawled across the

granite wall of Monument Canyon on Canidar II: "Shaddam, does your crown rest

comfortably on your pointy head?" In scattered worlds across the Imperium,

dozens of his new commemorative statues had been defaced. Nobody had ever seen

the perpetrators.

Someone hated him enough to do this. Someone. The question kept gnawing at his

Imperial heart, along with other worries . . . including an impending visit from

Hasimir Fenring to report on the secret synthetic spice experiments being

conducted by the Tleilaxu.

Project Amal.

Initiated during his father's reign, this research was known to only a few.

Perhaps the most closely guarded secret in the Imperium, Project Amal could, if

successful, give House Corrino a reliable, artificial source of melange, the

most precious substance in the universe. But the damned Tleilaxu experiments

were taking years too long, and the situation upset him more and more with each

passing month.

And now . . . a third cursed daughter! He didn't know when -- or if -- he would

bother to gaze upon this useless new girl-child.

Shaddam's gaze moved along the paneled wall, to a bookcase that contained a

stand-up holophoto of Anirul in her wedding gown, shelved next to a thick

reference volume of great historical disasters. She had large doe eyes -- hazel

in some light, darker at other times -- that concealed something. He should

have noticed before.

It was the third time this Bene Gesserit "of Hidden Rank" had failed to produce

the required male heir, and Shaddam had made no contingency plans for such an

eventuality. His face grew hot. He could always impregnate a few concubines

and hope for a son, but while legally married to Anirul, he would face

tremendous political difficulties if he attempted to declare a bastard his heir

for the Imperial throne.

He could also kill Anirul and take another wife -- his father had done that

enough times -- but such a course of action would risk the wrath of the Bene

Gesserit Sisterhood. Everything could be solved if Anirul would just give him a

son, a healthy male child he could call his heir.

All these months of waiting, and now this . . .

He'd heard that the witches could actually choose the gender of their children,

through manipulations in body chemistry; these daughters could be no accident.

He'd been deceived by the Bene Gesserit power brokers who had foisted Anirul on

him. How dare they do that to the Emperor of a Million Worlds? What was

Anirul's true purpose in his royal household? Was she gathering blackmail

information to use against him? Should he send her away?

He tapped a stylus on his blood-grained elacca wood desk, stared at an image of

his paternal grandfather, Fondil III. Commonly known as "the Hunter" for his

propensity to attack every vestige of rebellion, Fondil had been no less feared

in his own household. Though the old man had died long before Shaddam's birth,

he knew something of the Hunter's moods and methods. Had Fondil been faced with

an arrogant wife, he would have found a way to rid himself of her. . . .

Shaddam pressed a button on his desk, and his personal Chamberlain reentered the

study. Ridondo bowed, showing the gleaming top of his high forehead. "Sire?"

"I wish to see Anirul now. Here."

"The Lady is in bed, Sire."

"Don't make me repeat my order."

Without another word, Ridondo faded into the woodwork, disappearing through the

side door with long, spidery movements.

Moments later a pale and overly perfumed lady-in-waiting arrived. In a shaky

voice, she said, "My Emperor, the Lady Anirul wishes me to convey that she is

weakened from the birth of your child. She begs your indulgence in permitting

her to remain in bed. Might it be possible for you to consider coming to visit

her and the baby?"

"I see. She begs my indulgence? I am not interested in seeing another useless

daughter, or in hearing further excuses. This is a command from your Emperor:

Anirul is to come here now. She is to do it alone, without the aid of any

servant or mechanical device. Is that understood?"

With any luck, she would drop dead along the way.

Terrified, the lady-in-waiting bowed. "As you wish, Sire."

Presently, a gray-skinned Anirul stood in the doorway of his private study,

holding tight to the fluted support column. She wore a wrinkled scarlet-and-

gold robe that did not entirely conceal the nightclothes underneath. Though

swaying on her feet, she held her head high.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he demanded.

"I've just had a difficult childbirth, and I'm quite weak."

"Excuses, excuses. You are intelligent enough to figure out what I mean.

You've been clever enough to fool me all these years."

"Fool you?" She blinked her doe eyes at him as if he were out of his mind.

"Forgive me, Majesty, but I am tired. Why must you be so cruel, calling me here

like this and refusing to see our daughter?"

His lips were colorless, as if the blood had drained from them. His eyes were

flat pools. "Because you could give me a male heir, but refuse to do so."

"There is no truth in that, Majesty, only rumors." It required all of her Bene

Gesserit training to remain standing.

"I listen to intelligence reports, not rumors." The Emperor peered at her

through one open eye, as if he could see her in more minute detail that way.

"Do you wish to die, Anirul?"

It occurred to Anirul that he might kill her after all. There is certainly no

love between us, but would he dare risk the Sisterhood's ire by disposing of me?

At the time of his ascension to the throne, Shaddam had agreed to marry her

because he'd needed the strength of a Bene Gesserit alliance in the uneasy

political climate. Now, after a dozen years, Shaddam felt too confident in his

position. "Everyone dies," she said.

"But not the way I could arrange for you."

Anirul tried not to show emotion and reminded herself that she was not alone,

that within her psyche were the collective memories of the multitudes of Bene

Gesserit who had come before her and remained in Other Memory. Her voice was

utterly calm. "We are not the complex, devious witches we're made out to be."

This was not true, of course, though she knew Shaddam couldn't possibly have

more than suspicions to the contrary.

His demeanor didn't soften. "What's more important to you . . . your Sisters or

me?"

She shook her head in dismay. "You have no right to ask me such a thing. I've

never given you any reason to feel I've been less than faithful to the crown."

Lifting her head proudly, Anirul reminded herself of her position in the long

history of the Sisterhood. She would never admit to him that she had orders

from the Bene Gesserit hierarchy never to give birth to a Corrino son. The

wisdom of her Sisters echoed through her mind. Love weakens. It is dangerous,

for it clouds reason and diverts us from our duties. It is an aberration, a

disgrace, an unforgivable infraction. We cannot love.

Anirul tried to divert Shaddam's anger. "Accept your daughter, Sire, for she

can be used to cement important political alliances. We should discuss her

name. What do you think of Wensicia?"

With sudden alarm she became aware of warm moisture on her inner thighs. Blood?

Had the stitches broken? Red droplets were falling onto the carpet.

Anirul saw him peering down at her feet. New rage consumed the Emperor's

features. "That carpet has been in my family for centuries!"

Don't show weakness. He's an animal . . . will attack weakness and back down

from strength. She turned slowly, allowing several more drops to fall, then

staggered away. "Given the history of House Corrino, I am certain that blood

has been spilled on it before."

It is said that there is nothing firm, nothing balanced, nothing durable in all

the universe -- that nothing remains in its original state, that each day, each

hour, each moment, there is change.

-Panoplia Propheticus of the Bene Gesserit

ON THE RUGGED SHORE beneath Castle Caladan, a lone figure stood at the end of a

long dock, profiled against the sea and the newly risen sun. He had a narrow,

olive-skinned face with a high-bridged nose, giving him the look of a hawk.

Out on the water, a fleet of fishing coracles was just departing, trailing wakes

behind them. Men in heavy sweaters, coats, and knit hats scrambled about on the

cluttered decks, preparing their gear for the day. In the village downshore,

wisps of smoke rose above the chimneys. Locals called it "old town," the site

of the original settlement centuries before the elegant capital city and

spaceport were built on the plain behind the Castle.

Duke Leto Atreides, dressed casually in blue fishing dungarees and a white tunic

with a red hawk crest, took a deep breath of invigorating salt air. Though he

was master of House Atreides, representing Caladan to the Landsraad and the

Emperor, Leto liked to rise early with the fishermen, many of whom he knew on a

first-name basis. Sometimes they invited the Duke to their homes, and despite

the objections of his Security Commander, Thufir Hawat, who trusted no one, he

occasionally joined them for a fine meal of cioppino.

The salt wind picked up, whipping the sea into dancing whitecaps. He wished he

could accompany the men, but his responsibilities were too great here. And

there were matters of importance beyond his world as well; he owed allegiance to

the Imperium as well as the people he ruled, and he found himself thrust into

the middle of great things.

The shocking murder of an Ecazi diplomat by a Grumman ambassador was no small

matter, even on distant Arrakis, but Viscount Moritani didn't seem to care about

public opinion. Already the Great Houses were calling for Imperial intervention

in order to avoid a larger conflict. The day before, Leto had sent his own

message to the Landsraad Council on Kaitain, volunteering his services as a

mediator.

He was only twenty-six years old, but a veteran of a decade at the helm of a

Great House. He attributed his success to the fact that he had never lost touch

with his roots. For that, he could thank his late father, Paulus. Ostensibly,

the Old Duke had been an unpretentious man who mixed with his people, just as

Duke Leto did now. But his father must have known -- though he'd never admitted

it to Leto -- that this was also a good political tactic, one that endeared the

Duke to his people. The requirements of the office made for a complex mixture;

sometimes Leto couldn't tell where his personal and official personas began and

left off.

Shortly after being thrust into his responsibilities, Leto Atreides had stunned

the Landsraad with his dramatic Trial by Forfeiture, a bold gamble to escape

being framed for an attack on two Tleilaxu ships inside a Guild Heighliner.

Leto's gambit had impressed many of the Great Houses, and he'd even received a

congratulatory letter from Hundro Moritani, the puckish and unlikeable Viscount

of Grumman, who often refused to cooperate -- or even participate -- in matters

of the Imperium. The Viscount said he admired Leto's "brash flouting of the

rules," proving that "leadership is made by strong men with strong convictions,

not clerks who study commas on lawslates." Leto wasn't entirely sure that

Moritani believed in his innocence; instead, he thought the Viscount simply

enjoyed seeing Duke Atreides get away unpunished, against such insurmountable

odds.

On the other side of the dispute, Leto had a connection to House Ecaz as well.

The Old Duke, his father, had been one of the great heroes in the Ecazi Revolt,

battling beside Dominic Vernius to overthrow violent secessionists and defend

the Landsraad-sanctioned rulers of the forested world. Paulus Atreides himself

had stood beside the grateful young Archduke Armand Ecaz during the victory

ceremony that restored him to the Mahogany Throne. Somewhere among the Old

Duke's possessions lay the Chain of Bravery that Armand Ecaz had placed around

Paulus's thick neck. And the lawyers who had represented Leto during his

Landsraad trial had come from the Ecazi region of Elacca.

Since he was respected by both parties in the feud, Leto thought he might make

them see a way to peace. Politics! His father had always taught him to be

careful to consider the whole picture, from the tiniest to the largest elements.

From his tunic pocket Leto brought out a voicescriber and dictated a letter to

his cousin, Shaddam IV, congratulating him on the joyous birth of another child.

The message would be sent by official Courier on the next Guild Heighliner

departing for Kaitain.

When Leto could no longer hear the putt-putting of the fishing boats, he hiked

up the steep zigzag path that led to the top of the cliff.

HE SHARED A BREAKFAST in the courtyard with twenty-year-old Duncan Idaho. The

round-faced young man wore a green-and-black Atreides trooper uniform. His wiry

dark hair had been cropped short, out of his eyes for vigorous weapons training.

Thufir Hawat had spent a lot of time with him, proclaiming him to be a

particularly skilled student. But Duncan had already reached the limits of what

the warrior Mentat could teach him.

As a boy, he had escaped from Harkonnen bondage to Castle Caladan, where he'd

thrown himself upon the mercy of the Old Duke. As he grew up, Duncan remained

one of the most loyal members of the Atreides household, and certainly the best

weapons trainee. Longtime military allies of House Atreides, the Swordmasters

of Ginaz had recently granted Duncan Idaho admission into their renowned

academy.

"I will be sorry to see you go, Duncan," Leto told him. "Eight years is a long

time. . . ."

Duncan sat straight, showing no fear. "But when I return, my Duke, I will be

better able to serve you in all ways. I'll still be young, and no one will dare

threaten you."

"Oh, they'll still threaten me, Duncan. Make no mistake about that."

The young man paused before giving him a thin, hard smile. "Then they will be

making the mistake. Not me." He lifted a slice of paradan melon to his mouth,

took a bite of the yellow fruit, and wiped away the salty juice that ran down

his chin. "I am going to miss these melons. Barracks food can't compare." He

cut his portion into smaller sections.

Bougainvillea vines trailed up the stone walls around them, but it was still

winter and the plants were flowerless. With unseasonable warmth and predictions

of an early spring, though, buds had already begun to appear on trees. Leto

gave a contented sigh. "I've seen no more beautiful place in all the vast

reaches of the Imperium than Caladan in the spring."

"Certainly, Giedi Prime can't compare." Duncan raised his guard, uneasy to see

how relaxed and content Leto appeared. "We must remain constantly on the alert,

my Duke, not permitting the slightest weakness. Never forget the ancient feud

between Atreides and Harkonnen."

"Now you sound like Thufir." Leto scooped up a sweet mouthful of his pundi rice

pudding. "I'm sure there is no finer man than you in the service of the

Atreides, Duncan. But I fear we may be creating a monster in sending you away

for eight years of training. What will you be when you return?"

Pride infused the young man's deeply set blue-green eyes. "I will be a

Swordmaster of the Ginaz."

For a long moment, Leto thought of the extreme dangers at the school. Nearly a

third of all students died during training. Duncan had laughed off the

statistics, saying he had already survived far worse odds against the

Harkonnens. And he was right.

"I know you will succeed," Leto said. He felt a thickness in his throat, a deep

sadness at letting Duncan go. "But you must never forget compassion. No matter

what you learn, don't come back here with the attitude that you're better than

other men."

"I won't, my Duke."

Leto reached under the table and brought out a long, thin parcel and passed it

across the table. "This is why I asked you to join me for breakfast."

Surprised, Duncan opened it and removed an ornately carved ceremonial sword. He

gripped the inlaid rope pattern of the pommel. "The Old Duke's sword! You're

lending it to me?"

"Giving it to you, my friend. Remember when I found you in the weapons hall,

just after my father died in the bullring? You had taken this sword from the

display rack. It was nearly as tall as you were then, but now you've grown into

it."

Duncan could find no words to thank him.

Leto looked the young man up and down, appraising him. "I believe if my father

had lived to see the man you've become, he might have given it to you himself.

You're grown now, Duncan Idaho -- worthy of a Duke's sword."

"Good morning," a cheerful voice said. Prince Rhombur Vernius sauntered into

the courtyard, still bleary-eyed but dressed. The firejewel ring on his right

hand gleamed in stray sunlight. His sister Kailea walked beside him, her

coppery hair held back by a golden clasp. Rhombur glanced from the sword to the

tears brimming in Duncan's eyes. "What's going on here?"

"Giving Duncan a going-away present."

Rhombur whistled. "Pretty fancy for a stableboy."

"Perhaps the gift is too much," Duncan said, looking at Duke Leto. He stared at

the sword, then glared at Rhombur. "I'll never work in the stables again,

though, Prince Vernius. The next time you see me I'll be a Swordmaster."

"The sword is yours, Duncan," Leto said in his firmest tone, one he had copied

from his father. "There will be no further discussion of the matter."

"As you wish, my Duke." Duncan bowed. "I beg to be excused, to prepare for my

trip." The young man strode across the courtyard.

Rhombur and Kailea sat at the table, where their breakfast plates had been set

up. Kailea smiled at Leto, but not in her customary warm fashion. For years,

the pair had been tiptoeing around romantic involvement, with the Duke unwilling

to get any closer because of political concerns, his need to wed the daughter of

a powerful Great House. His reasons were strictly those his father had drilled

into him, a Duke's responsibility to the people of Caladan. Only once had Leto

and Kailea held hands; he had never even kissed her.

Lowering her voice, Kailea said, "Your father's sword, Leto? Was that really

necessary? It's so valuable."

"But only an object, Kailea. It means more to Duncan than to me. I don't need

a sword to retain fond memories of my father." Then Leto noted the blond

stubble on his friend's face, which made Rhombur look more like a fisherman than

a Prince. "When was the last time you shaved?"

"Vermilion hells! What difference does it make how I look?" He took a drink of

cidrit juice, puckered his lips at the tartness. "It's not as if I have

anything important to do."

Kailea, eating quickly and quietly, studied her brother. She had penetrating

green eyes; her catlike mouth was turned down in disapproval.

As Leto looked across the table at Rhombur, he noted that his friend's face

still retained a childlike roundness, but the brown eyes were no longer bright.

Instead they revealed deep sadness over the loss of his home, the murder of his

mother, the disappearance of his father. Now only he and his sister remained of

their once-great family.

"Makes no difference, I suppose," Leto said. "We have no affairs of state to

conduct today, no trips to glorious Kaitain. In fact, you may as well stop

bathing altogether." Leto stirred his bowl of pundi rice pudding, then his

voice became uncharacteristically sharp. "Nonetheless, you remain a member of

my court -- and one of my most trusted advisors. By now, I'd hoped you might

develop a plan to regain your lost holdings and position."

As a constant reminder of the glory days of Ix, when House Vernius had ruled the

machine world before the Tleilaxu takeover, Rhombur still wore the purple-and-

copper helix on the collar of every shirt. Leto noted that the shirt Rhombur

wore was badly wrinkled and needed to be washed.

"Leto, if I had any idea what to do, I would jump on the next Heighliner and

try." He looked flustered. "The Tleilaxu have sealed Ix behind impenetrable

barricades. Do you want Thufir Hawat to send in more spies? The first three

never found their way underground to the cavern city, and the last two vanished

without a trace." He tapped his fingers together. "I just have to hope the

loyal Ixians are fighting from within and will soon overthrow the invaders. I

expect everything will turn out all right."

"My friend, the optimist," Leto said.

Kailea scowled at her breakfast and finally spoke up. "It's been a dozen years,

Rhombur. How long does it take for everything to magically fix itself?"

Uncomfortable, her brother tried to change the subject. "Have you heard that

Shaddam's wife just gave birth to their third daughter?"

Kailea snorted. "Knowing Shaddam, I'll bet he's none too pleased that it wasn't

a male heir."

Leto refused to accept such negative thoughts. "He's probably ecstatic, Kailea.

Besides, his wife still has many childbearing years left." He turned to

Rhombur. "Which makes me think, old friend -- you should take a wife."

"To keep me clean and make sure I shave?"

"To begin your House again, perhaps. To continue the Vernius bloodline with an

heir in exile."

Kailea almost said something, seemed to have second thoughts. She finished a

melon, nibbled on a piece of toast. Presently she rose and excused herself from

the table.

During the long silence, tears glistened on the lower lids of the Ixian Prince's

eyes, then rolled down his cheeks. Embarrassed, he wiped them away. "Yes. I've

been thinking about that myself. How did you know?"

"You've told me so more than once, after we've shared two or three bottles of

wine."

"The whole thing is a crazy idea. My House is dead, and Ix is in the hands of

fanatics."

"So, start a new House Minor on Caladan, a new family trade. We could look over

the list of industries and see what's needed. Kailea has plenty of business

sense. I'll provide the resources you need to get established."

Rhombur allowed himself a bittersweet laugh. "My fortunes will always remain

closely allied with yours, Duke Leto Atreides. No, I'd better remain here to

watch your backside, making sure you don't give the whole Castle away."

Leto nodded without smiling, and they clasped hands in the half handshake of the

Imperium.

Nature commits no errors; right and wrong are human categories.

-PARDOT KYNES, Arrakis Lectures

MONOTONOUS DAYS. The three-man Harkonnen patrol cruised over the golden swells

of dunes along a thousand-kilometer flight path. In the unrelenting desert

landscape, even a puff of dust caused excitement.

The troopers flew their armored ornithopter in a long circle, skirting

mountains, then curving south over great pans and flatlands. Glossu Rabban, the

Baron's nephew and temporary governor of Arrakis, had ordered them to fly

regularly, to be seen -- to show the squalid settlements that Harkonnens were

watching. Always.

Kiel, the sidegunner, considered the assignment a license to hunt any Fremen

found wandering near legitimate spice-harvesting operations. What made those

dirty wanderers think they could trespass on Harkonnen lands without permission

from the district office in Carthag? But few Fremen were ever caught abroad in

daylight, and the task had grown dull.

Garan flew the 'thopter, rising up and dipping down to catch thermals, as if

operating an amusement ride. He maintained a stoic expression, though

occasionally a grin stole across his lips as the craft bucked and jostled in

rough air. As they completed their fifth day on patrol, he continued to mark

discrepancies on topographical maps, muttering in disgust each time he found

another mistake. These were the worst charts he had ever used.

In the back passenger compartment sat Josten, recently transferred from Giedi

Prime. Accustomed to industrial facilities, gray skies, and dirty buildings,

Josten gazed out over the sandy wastelands, studying hypnotic dune patterns. He

spotted the knot of dust off to the south, deep in the open Funeral Plain.

"What's that? Spice-harvesting operation?"

"Not a chance," the sidegunner Kiel said. "Harvesters shoot a plume like a cone

into the air, straight and thin."

"Too low for a dust devil. Too small." With a shrug, Garan jerked the 'thopter

controls and soared toward the low, reddish-brown cloud. "Let's take a look."

After so many tedious days, they would have gone out of their way to investigate

a large rock sticking out of the sand. . . .

When they reached the site, they found no tracks, no machinery, no sign of human

presence -- and yet acres of desert looked devastated. A mottled rust color

stained the sands a darker ocher, as if blood from a wound had dried in the hot

sun.

"Looks like somebody dropped a bomb here," Kiel said.

"Could be the aftermath of a spice blow," Garan suggested. "I'll set down for a

closer look."

As the 'thopter settled on the churned sands, Kiel popped open the hatch. The

temperature-controlled atmosphere hissed out, replaced by a wave of heat. He

coughed dust.

Garan leaned over from the cockpit and sniffed hard. "Smell it." The odor of

burned cinnamon struck his nostrils. "Spice blow for sure."

Josten squeezed past Kiel and dropped onto the soft ground. Amazed, he bent

down, picked up a handful of ocher sand and touched it to his lips. "Can we

scoop up some fresh spice and take it back? Must be worth a fortune."

Kiel had been thinking the same thing, but now he turned to the newcomer with

scorn. "We don't have the processing equipment. You need to separate it from

the sand, and you can't do that with your fingers."

Garan spoke in a quieter, but firmer voice. "If you went back to Carthag and

tried to sell raw product to a street vendor, you'd be hauled in front of

Governor Rabban -- or worse yet, have to explain to Count Fenring how some of

the Emperor's spice ended up in a patrolman's pockets."

As the troopers tromped out to the ragged pit at the center of the dissipating

dust cloud, Josten glanced around. "Is it safe for us to be here? Don't the

big worms go to spice?"

"Afraid, kid?" Kiel asked.

"Let's throw him to a worm if we see one," Garan Suggested. "It'll give us time

to get away."

Kiel saw movement in the sandy excavation, shapes squirming, buried things that

tunneled and burrowed, like maggots in rotten meat. Josten opened his mouth to

say something, then clamped it shut again.

A whiplike creature emerged from the sand, two meters long with fleshy segmented

skin. It was the size of a large snake, its mouth an open circle glittering

with needle-sharp teeth that lined its throat.

"A sandworm!" Josten said.

"Only a runt," Kiel scoffed.

"Newborn -- do you think?" Garan asked.

The worm waved its eyeless head from side to side. Other slithering creatures,

a nest of them, squirmed about as if they'd been spawned in the explosion.

"Where in the hells did they come from?" Kiel asked.

"Wasn't in my briefing," Garan said.

"Can we . . . catch one?" Josten asked.

Kiel stopped himself from making a rude rejoinder, realizing that the young

recruit did have a good idea. "Come on!" He charged forward into the churned

sand.

The worm sensed the movement and reared back, uncertain whether to attack or

flee. Then it arced like a sea serpent and plunged into the sand, wriggling and

burrowing.

Josten sprinted ahead and dove facefirst to grasp the segmented body three-

quarters of the way to its end. "It's so strong!" Following him, the

sidegunner jumped down and grabbed the thrashing tail.

The worm tried to tug away, but Garan reached the front, where he dug into the

sand and grabbed behind its head with a stranglehold. All three troopers

wrestled and pulled. The small worm thrashed like an eel on an electric plate.

Other sandworms on the far side of the pit rose like a strange forest of

periscopes sprouting from the sea of dunes, round mouths like black Os turned

toward the men. For an icy moment, Kiel feared they might attack like a swarm

of marrow leeches, but the immature worms darted away and disappeared

underground.

Garan and Kiel hauled their captive out of the sand and dragged it toward the

ornithopter. As a Harkonnen patrol, they had all the equipment necessary to

arrest criminals, including old-fashioned devices for trussing a captive like a

herd animal. "Josten, go get the binding cords in our apprehension kit," the

pilot said.

The new recruit came running back with the cords, fashioning a loop which he

slipped over the worm's head and cinched tight. Garan released his hold on the

rubbery skin and grabbed the rope, tugging while Josten slipped a second cord

lower on the body.

"What are we going to do with it?" Josten asked.

Once, early in his assignment on Arrakis, Kiel had joined Rabban on an abortive

worm hunt. They had taken a Fremen guide, well-armed troops, even a

Planetologist. Using the Fremen guide as bait, they had lured one of the

enormous sandworms and killed it with explosives. But before Rabban could take

his trophy, the beast had dissolved, sloughing into amoeba-creatures that fell

to the sand, leaving nothing but a cartilaginous skeleton and loose crystal

teeth. Rabban had been furious.

Kiel's stomach knotted. The Baron's nephew might consider it an insult that

three simple patrolmen could capture a worm, when he'd been unable to do so

himself. "We'd better drown it."

"Drown it?" Josten said. "What for? And why would I want to waste my water

ration to do that?"

Garan stopped as if struck by a thunderbolt. "I've heard the Fremen do it. If

you drown a baby worm, they say it spits out some kind of poison. It's very

rare."

Kiel nodded. "Oh, yeah. The crazy desert people use it in their religious

rituals. It sends everybody into frenzied, wild orgies, and a lot of them die."

"But . . . we've only got two literjons of water in the compartment," Josten

said, still nervous.

"Then we only use one. I know where we can refill it, anyway." The pilot and

his sidegunner exchanged glances. They had patrolled together long enough that

they'd both thought of the same thing.

As if understanding its fate, the worm bucked and thrashed even more, but it was

already growing weaker.

"Once we get the drug," Kiel said, "let's have some fun."

AT NIGHT, with the patrol 'thopter running in stealth mode, they flew over the

razor-edged mountains, approaching from behind a ridge and landing on a rough

mesa above the squalid village of Bilar Camp. The villagers lived in hollowed-

out caves and aboveground structures that extended out to the flats. Windmills

generated power; supply bins glittered with tiny lights that attracted a few

moths and the bats that fed on them.

Unlike the reclusive Fremen, these villagers were slightly more civilized but

also more downtrodden: men who worked as desert guides and joined spice-

harvesting crews. They had forgotten how to survive on their world without

becoming parasites upon the planetary governors.

On an earlier patrol, Kiel and Garan had discovered a camouflaged cistern on the

mesa, a treasure trove of water. Kiel didn't know where the villagers had

gotten so much moisture; most likely, they had committed fraud, inflating their

census numbers so that Harkonnen generosity provided more than they deserved.

The people of Bilar Camp covered the cistern with rock so that it looked like a

natural protrusion, but the villagers placed no guards around their illegal

stockpile. For some reason desert culture forbade thievery even more than

murder; they trusted the safety of their possessions from bandits or thieves of

the night.

Of course, the Harkonnen troopers had no intention of stealing the water -- that

is, no more than enough for their own needs.

Dutifully, Josten trotted along with their sloshing container, which held the

thick, noxious substance exuded by the drowned worm after it had stopped

thrashing and bucking inside the container. Awed and nervous about what they'd

done, they'd dumped the flaccid carcass near the perimeter of the spice blow and

then taken off with the drug. Kiel had been concerned that the toxic exhalation

from the worm might eat its way through the literjon.

Garan operated the Bilar cistern's cleverly concealed spigot and refilled one of

their empty containers. No sense in letting all the water go to waste just for

a practical joke on the villagers. Next, Kiel took the container of worm bile

and upended it into the cistern. The villagers would certainly have a surprise

next time they all drank from their illegal water hoard. "Serves them right."

"Do you know what this drug will do to them?" Josten asked.

Garan shook his head. "I've heard plenty of crazy stories."

"Maybe we should make the kid try it first," the sidegunner said.

Josten backed away, raising his hands. Garan looked at the contaminated cistern

again. "I bet they tear off their clothes and dance naked in the streets,

squawking like dinfowl."

"Let's stay here and watch the fun for ourselves," Kiel said.

Garan frowned. "Do you want to be the one to explain to Rabban why we're late

returning from patrol?"

"Let's go," Kiel answered quickly.

As the worm-poison infused the cistern, the Harkonnen troopers hurried back to

their ornithopter, reluctantly content to let the villagers discover the prank

for themselves.

Before us, all methods of learning were tainted by instinct. Before us,

instinct-ridden researchers possessed a limited attention span -- often no

longer than a single lifetime. Projects stretching across fifty or more

generations never occurred to them. The concept of total muscle/nerve training

had not entered their awareness. We learned how to learn.

-Bene Gesserit Azhar Book

IS THIS TRULY A SPECIAL CHILD? The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam watched

the perfectly proportioned girl perform prana-bindu muscular-nervature exercises

on the hardwood floor of the Mother School's training module.

Recently returned from the abortive banquet on Arrakis, Mohiam tried to look at

her student with impartiality, suppressing the truth. Jessica. My own daughter

. . . The girl must never know her heritage, must never suspect. Even on the

secret Bene Gesserit breeding charts, Mohiam was not identified by her

Sisterhood-adopted name, but by her birth name of "Tanidia Nerus."

Twelve-year-old Jessica stood poised, arms at her sides, trying to relax

herself, trying to arrest the movement of every muscle in her body. Gripping an

imaginary blade in her right hand, she stared straight ahead at a chimerical

opponent. She summoned untapped depths of inner peace and concentration.

But Mohiam's sharp eye noted the barely discernible twitches in Jessica's calf

muscles, around her neck, over one eyebrow. This one would need more practice

in order to perfect the techniques, but the child had made excellent progress

and showed great promise. Jessica was blessed with a supreme patience, an

ability to calm herself and listen to what she was told.

So focused, this one . . . so full of potential. As she was bred to be.

Jessica feinted to the left, floated, whirled -- then stiffened to become a

sudden statue again. Her eyes, while looking at Mohiam, did not see her

taskmistress and mentor.

The stern Reverend Mother entered the training module, stared into the girl's

clear green eyes, and saw an emptiness there, like the gaze of a corpse.

Jessica was gone, lost among her nerve and muscle fibers.

Mohiam dampened a finger and placed it in front of the girl's nose. She felt

only the faintest stirring of air. The budding breasts on the slender torso

barely moved. Jessica was close to a complete bindu suspension . . . but not

quite.

Much hard work remains.

In the Sisterhood, only total perfection was good enough. As Jessica's

instructor, Mohiam would go over the ancient routines again and again, reviewing

the steps that must be followed.

The Reverend Mother pulled back, studying Jessica but not rousing her. In the

girl's oval face, she tried to identify her own features, or those of the

father, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen: The long neck and small nose reflected

Mohiam's genetics, but the widow's peak at the hairline, the wide mouth,

generous lips, and clear skin derived from the Baron . . . back when he'd been

healthy and attractive. Jessica's widely set green eyes and hair the color of

polished bronze came from more distant latencies.

If you only knew. Mohiam recalled what she'd been told of the Bene Gesserit

plan. Jessica's own daughter, when grown to womanhood, was destined to give

birth to the Kwisatz Haderach -- the culmination of millennia of careful

breeding. Mohiam looked into the girl's face, searching for any twitch, any

hint of grand historical import. You are not ready to discover this yet.

Jessica began to speak, mouthing word-shapes as she recited a mantra as ancient

as the Bene Gesserit School itself: "Each attacker is a feather drifting on an

infinite path. As the feather approaches, it is diverted and removed. My

response is a puff of air that blows the feather away."

Mohiam stepped back as her daughter snapped into a blur of motion, attempting to

float through reflex moves. But Jessica still struggled to force her muscles to

flow silently and smoothly, when she should have allowed them to do so.

The girl's movements were better than before, more focused and precise.

Jessica's recent progress had been impressive, as if she'd experienced a mind-

clarifying epiphany that lifted her to the next level. However, Mohiam still

detected too much youthful energy and unharnessed intensity.

This girl was the product of a vicious rape by Baron Harkonnen, after the

Sisterhood had blackmailed him into providing them with a daughter. Mohiam had

exacted her revenge during the sexual attack, controlling her internal body

chemistry in the Bene Gesserit way, inflicting him with a painful, debilitating

disease. Such a delightfully slow torture. As his ailment progressed, the

Baron had relied on a cane for the past Standard Year. At the Fenrings'

banquet, she'd been sorely tempted to tell the gross man what she'd done to him.

But if Mohiam had told him, there would have been another act of violence in the

Dining Hall of the Residency at Arrakeen, far worse than the squabble between

the Ecazi and Grumman ambassadors. She might even have found it necessary to

kill the Baron with her deadly fighting skills. Jessica herself, despite her

limited training, could have dispatched the man -- her own father -- quickly and

easily.

Hearing a whir of machinery, Mohiam watched a life-size doll emerge from the

floor. The next phase of the routine. In a blur the girl whirled and

decapitated it with a single slashing kick.

"More finesse. The killing touch must be delicate, precise."

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

"Still, I am proud of what you have accomplished." Mohiam spoke in an

uncharacteristically gentle tone, one that her superiors would not condone, had

they heard it. Love, in any form, was prohibited.

"The Sisterhood has great plans for you, Jessica."

"Xuttuh" is a word that means many things. Every Bene Tleilax knows it was the

name of the first Master. But just as that man was more than a mere mortal, so

there are depths and complexities in the appellation. Depending upon tone and

vocal inflection, "Xuttuh" can mean "hello" or "blessings be upon you." Or it

can constitute a prayer encompassed in a single word, as a devotee prepares to

die for the Great Belief. For such reasons, we have chosen this as our new name

for the conquered planet formerly known as Ix.

-Tleilaxu Training Disk

A CONTINGENCY PLAN is only as good as tile mind that devises it.

Deep in the labyrinthine research pavilion, Hidar Fen Ajidica understood that

maxim only too well. One day, the Emperor's man would attempt to kill him;

therefore, careful defensive preparations were necessary.

"This way, please, Count Fenring," Ajidica said in his most pleasant voice while

thinking, Unclean powindah. He glanced peripherally at the man. I should slay

you now!

But the Master Researcher could not accomplish this safely, and might never have

the proper opportunity. Even if he did succeed, the Emperor would send in his

investigators and even more Sardaukar troops to interfere with the delicate

work.

"It is good to hear that you are finally making progress on Project Amal.

Elrood IX did commission it over a dozen years ago, hmmmm?" Fenring strolled

along a featureless corridor in the underground city. He wore a scarlet

Imperial jacket and tight-fitting gold trousers. His dark hair was razor-cut,

sticking out in patches to emphasize his overlarge head. "We have been

extremely patient."

Ajidica wore a white lab coat with ample pockets. Chemical odors clung to the

fabric, his hair, his corpselike gray skin. "I warned all of you in the

beginning that it could take many years to develop a completed product. A dozen

years is a mere eyeblink to develop a substance the Imperium has wanted for

centuries upon centuries." His nostrils narrowed as he forced a thin smile.

"Nevertheless, I am pleased to report that our modified axlotl tanks have now

been grown, that preliminary experiments have been conducted, and the data

analyzed. Based on this, we have discarded unworkable solutions, thus narrowing

down the remaining possibilities."

"The Emperor is not interested in 'narrowed possibilities,' Master Researcher,

but in results." Fenring's voice was frozen acid. "Your expenses have been

immense, even after we financed your takeover of Ixian facilities."

"Our records would stand up to any audit, Count Fenring," Ajidica said. He knew

full well that Fenring could never allow a Guild Banker to look at the

expenditures; the Spacing Guild, more than any other entity, must not suspect

the aim of this project. "All funds have been properly applied. All spice

stockpiles are accounted for, exactly according to our original agreement."

"Your agreement was with Elrood, little man, not with Shaddam, hmmmm? The

Emperor can stop your experiments at any moment."

Like all Tleilaxu, Ajidica was accustomed to being insulted and provoked by

fools; he refused to take offense. "An interesting threat, Count Fenring,

considering that you personally initiated the contact between my people and

Elrood. We have recordings, back on the Tleilaxu homeworlds."

Fenring bristled, and pushed ahead, deeper into the research pavilion. "Just by

observing you, Master Researcher, I have learned something," he said in an oily

voice. "You have developed a phobia of being underground, hmmm? The fear came

upon you recently, a sudden onslaught."

"Nonsense." Despite his denial, sweat broke out on Ajidica's forehead.

"Ah, but I detect something mendacious in your voice and expression. You take

medication for the condition . . . a bottle of pills in the right pocket of your

jacket. I see the bulge."

Trying to conceal his rage, Ajidica stammered, "I am in perfect health."

"Hm-m-m-ah, I would say that your continued health depends upon how well things

are going here. The sooner you complete Project Amal, the sooner you will be

able to breathe fresh air again back on beautiful Tleilax. When was the last

time you were there?"

"A long time ago," Ajidica admitted. "You cannot know what it looks like. No

powin" -- he caught himself -- "no outsider has ever been permitted beyond the

spaceport."

Fenring simply answered with a maddening, too-knowing smile. "Just show me what

you have done here, so that I can report to Shaddam."

At a doorway Ajidica raised his arm to block Fenring's passage. The Tleilaxu

closed his eyes and reverently kissed the door. The brief ritual deactivated

the deadly security systems, and the door melted into narrow cracks in the wall.

"You may enter safely now." Ajidica stepped aside to let Fenring cross into a

white smoothplaz room, where the Master Researcher had set up a number of

demonstrations to show the progress of the experiments. In the center of the

enormous oval room sat a high-resolution microscope, a metal rack containing

laboratory bottles and vials, and a red table holding a dome-shaped object.

Ajidica saw intense interest in Fenring's overlarge eyes as he approached the

demonstration area. "Don't touch anything, please."

Subtle treacheries hung thick in the air, and this Imperial powindah would never

see or comprehend them until it was too late. Ajidica intended to solve the

riddle of the artificial spice, then escape with the sacred axlotl tanks to a

safe planet in the farthest reaches of the Imperium. He had made a number of

clever arrangements without revealing his identity, using promises and bribes,

transferring funds . . . all without the knowledge of his superiors on the Bene

Tleilax homeworlds. He was alone in this.

He had decided that there were heretics among his own people, followers who had

adopted their identity as downtrodden scapegoats so well that they had forgotten

the heart of the Great Belief. It was like a Face Dancer who had disguised

himself so well, he had forgotten who he truly was. If Ajidica meekly allowed

such people access to his great discovery of amal, they would surrender the one

thing that would gain them the supremacy they deserved.

Ajidica planned to continue in his role, until he was ready. And then he could

take the artificial spice, control it himself, and help his people and their

mission . . . whether they wanted him to or not.

Count Fenring murmured as he leaned close to the dome-shape on the table. "Most

intriguing. Something is inside, I presume, hmmm-ah?"

"Something is inside of everything," Ajidica replied.

He smiled inwardly as he imagined a glut of artificial spice flowing into the

interplanetary marketplace, wreaking economic havoc within CHOAM and the

Landsraad. Like a tiny leak in a dam, a bit of inexpensive melange would

ultimately become a raging torrent to turn the Imperium upside down. If played

right, Ajidica would be the kingpin of the new economic and political order --

not to serve himself, of course, but to serve God.

The magic of our God is our salvation.

Ajidica smiled at Count Fenring, revealing sharp teeth. "Rest assured, Count

Fenring, our goals in this matter are mutual."

In time, wealthy beyond imagining, Ajidica would develop tests to determine

loyalty to his new regime, and he would begin assimilating the Bene Tleilax.

Though it was too dangerous to bring them into his scheme now, he had several

candidates in mind. With proper military support -- perhaps even converts among

the Sardaukar stationed here? -- he might even set up headquarters in the lovely

capital city of Bandalong. . . .

Fenring continued to snoop at the demonstration equipment. "Have you ever heard

the saying 'Trust but verify'? It's from Old Terra. You'd be surprised at the

little tidbits I pick up. My Bene Gesserit wife collects objects, knickknacks

and the like. I collect pieces of information."

The Tleilaxu's narrow face twisted into a frown. "I see." He needed to finish

this annoying inspection as quickly as possible. "If you will look over here,

please." Ajidica removed an opaque plaz vial from the rack and lifted the lid,

letting out a strong odor reminiscent of raw ginger, bergamot, and clove. He

passed the container to Fenring, who peered at a thick, orangish substance.

"Not quite melange," Ajidica said, "though chemically it has many spice

precursors." He poured the syrup on a scanning plate, inserted it into the

microscope reader, then beckoned Fenring to look through the eyepiece. The

Count saw elongated molecules connected to one another like the strands of a

cable.

"An unusual protein chain," the Master Researcher said. "We are close to a

breakthrough."

"How close?"

"The Tleilaxu also have sayings, Count Fenring: 'The closer one gets to a goal,

the farther off it appears to be.' In matters of scientific research, time has

a way of stretching. Only God possesses intimate knowledge of the future. The

breakthrough could occur in a matter of days, or years."

"Double-talk," Fenring muttered. He fell silent when Ajidica pressed a button

at the base of the dome.

The foggy surface of the plaz cleared, revealing sand on the bottom of the

container. The Tleilaxu researcher pressed another button, filling the interior

with a fine dust. The sand moved, a tiny mound in motion that surfaced, like a

fish emerging from murky water. A worm-shape the size of a small snake, it was

a little over half a meter in length, with tiny crystal teeth.

"Sandworm, immature form," Ajidica said, "nineteen days from Arrakis. We don't

expect it to survive much longer."

From the top of the dome, a box dropped to the sand on a hidden suspensor, then

opened to reveal more of the glistening orange gelatin. "Amal 1522.16," Ajidica

said. "One of our many variations -- the best we've developed so far."

Fenring watched as the mouth of the immature worm quested left and right,

revealing glimmering thorns far back in its gullet. The creature slithered

toward the orange substance, then stopped in confusion and didn't touch it.

Presently it turned and burrowed back into the sand.

"What is the relationship between the sandworms and the spice?" Fenring asked.

"If we knew that, we would have the puzzle solved. If I were to put real spice

in that enclosure, the worm would consume it in a primal frenzy. Still, though

the worm can identify the difference, at least it did approach the sample. We

tempted the beast, but did not satisfy it."

"Nor did your little demonstration satisfy me. I am told that there continues

to be an Ixian underground movement, causing difficulties. Shaddam is concerned

about interference with his most important plan."

"A few rebels, Count Fenring -- inadequately funded, with limited resources.

Nothing to worry about." Ajidica rubbed his hands together.

"But they have sabotaged your communications systems and destroyed a number of

facilities, hmmm?"

"The death throes of House Vernius, no more. It has been well over a decade,

and soon it will die down. They cannot get near this research pavilion."

"Well, your security worries are over, Master Researcher. The Emperor has

agreed to dispatch two additional legions of Sardaukar, as peacekeepers, led by

Bashar Cando Garon, one of our best."

A look of alarm and surprise came over the diminutive Tleilaxu. His pinched

face reddened. "But that isn't necessary, sir. The half legion already in

place is more than sufficient."

"The Emperor does not agree. These troops will emphasize the importance of your

experiments to him. Shaddam will do anything to protect the amal program, but

his patience has run out." The Count's eyes narrowed. "You should think of

this as good news."

"Why is that? I do not understand."

"Because the Emperor has not yet ordered your execution."

A center for the coordination of rebellion can be mobile; it does not need to be

a permanent place where people meet.

-CAMMAR PILRU, Ixian Ambassador in Exile: Treatise on the Downfall of Unjust

Governments

THE TLEILAXU INVADERS had instituted a brutal curfew for anyone not assigned to

the late work shift. For C'tair Pilru, slipping away to attend the hushed

rebellion meetings was just another way to thumb his nose at their restrictions.

At the freedom fighters' irregular, carefully guarded gatherings, C'tair could

finally remove his masks and disguises. He became the person he once had been,

the person he remained inside.

Knowing he'd be killed if caught, the short, dark-haired man approached the

meeting place. He clung to oily night shadows between blocky buildings on the

cavern floor, making no sound. The Tleilaxu had restored the projected sky on

the cavern ceiling, but they had reconfigured the sparkle of stars to show the

constellations over their own homeworlds. Here on Ix, even the heavens were

wrong.

This was not the glorious place it should be, but a hellish prison beneath the

surface of the planet. We will change all that. Someday.

During more than a decade of repression, black marketeers and revolutionaries

had built their secret network. The scattered resistance groups interacted to

exchange supplies, equipment, and information. But each gathering made C'tair

nervous. If they were caught together, the fledgling rebellion could be snuffed

out in a few moments of lasgun fire.

When possible, he preferred to work alone -- as he had always done. Trusting no

one, he never divulged details of his surreptitious life, not even to other

rebels. He'd made private contacts with rare off-worlders at the port-of-entry

canyon -- openings and landing pads in the sheer cliff wall where carefully

guarded ships hauled Tleilaxu products to waiting Heighliners in orbit.

The Imperium required vital items of Ixian technology, which were now

manufactured under Tleilaxu control. The invaders needed the profits to finance

their own work, and they could not risk outside scrutiny. Although they could

not seal Ix completely away from the rest of the Imperium, the Tleilaxu used the

services of very few outsiders.

Sometimes, under the direst of circumstances and at great risk to himself,

C'tair could bribe one of the transport laborers to skim a shipment or snag a

vital component. Other black marketeers had their own contacts, but they

refused to share that information with each other. It was safer that way.

Now, slipping through the claustrophobic night, he passed an abandoned

manufactory, turned onto an even darker street, and picked up his pace. The

meeting was about to begin. Perhaps tonight . . .

Though it seemed hopeless, C'tair continued to find ways to strike against the

Tleilaxu slave masters, and other rebels did the same. Infuriated that they

could not capture any saboteurs, the masters made "examples" out of hapless

suboids. After torture and mutilation, the scapegoat would be hurled off the

Grand Palais balcony to the distant cavern floor, where great Heighliners had

once been built. Every expression on the victim's face, every dripping wound,

was projected on the holo-sky, while recorders transmitted his wails and

screams.

But the Tleilaxu understood little of the Ixian psyche. Their brutality only

caused greater unrest and more incidents of violent rebellion. Over the years,

C'tair could see the Tleilaxu being worn down, despite efforts to crush the

resistance with shape-shifting Face Dancer infiltrators and surveillance pods.

The freedom fighters continued the struggle.

Those few rebels with access to uncensored outside news reported on the

activities in the Imperium. From them, C'tair learned of impassioned speeches

before the Landsraad made by his father, the exiled Ixian Ambassador -- little

more than futile gestures. Earl Dominic Vernius, who'd been overthrown and gone

renegade, had vanished completely, and his heir, Prince Rhombur, lived in exile

on Caladan, without a military force and without Landsraad support.

The rebels could not count on rescue from the outside. Victory must come from

inside. From Ix.

He rounded another corner, and in a narrow alleyway stepped onto a metal

grating. Narrowing his dark eyes, C'tair looked from side to side, always

expecting someone to spring out of the shadows. His demeanor was furtive and

quick, drastically different from the cowed and cooperative routine he followed

in public.

He gave the password, and the grate lowered, taking him beneath the street. He

hurried down a dark corridor.

During the day shift, C'tair wore a gray work smock. He had learned how to

mimic the simple, lackluster suboids over the years: He walked with a stooped

gait, eyes dull with disinterest. He had fifteen identity cards, and no one

bothered to study faces in the shifting masses of laborers. It was easy to

become invisible.

The rebels had developed their own identity checks. They posted concealed

guards outside the abandoned facility under infrared glowglobes. Transeyes and

sonic detectors provided a further bubble of protection -- none of which would

help if the freedom fighters were discovered.

On this level, the guards were visible. When C'tair mumbled his password

response, they waved him inside. Too easily. He had to tolerate these people

and their inept security games in order to acquire the equipment he needed, but

he didn't have to feel comfortable about it.

C'tair scanned the meeting site -- at least that had been carefully selected.

This closed-down facility had once assembled combat meks to train fighters

against a spectrum of tactics or weapons. But the Tleilaxu overlords had

unilaterally determined that such "self-aware" machines violated the strictures

of the Butlerian Jihad. Though all thinking machines had been obliterated ten

thousand years before, severe prohibitions were still in effect and emotions ran

high. This place and others like it had been abandoned after the revolt on Ix,

production lines left to fall into disrepair. Some equipment had been

cannibalized for other uses, the rest turned into scrap.

Other pursuits preoccupied the Tleilaxu. Secret work, a vast project staffed

only by their own people. No one, not even members of C'tair's resistance

group, had been able to determine what the overlords had in mind.

Inside the echoing facility, flinty-eyed resistance fighters spoke in whispers.

There would be no formal agenda, no leader, no speech. C'tair smelled their

nervous sweat, heard odd inflections in the low voices. No matter how many

security precautions they took, how many escape plans they devised, it was still

dangerous to have so many gathered in one place. C'tair always kept his eyes

open, aware of the nearest exit.

He had business to conduct. He'd brought a disguised satchel containing the

most vital items he had hoarded. He needed to trade with other scavengers to

find components for his innovative but problematic transmitter, the rogo. The

prototype allowed him to communicate through foldspace with his twin brother

D'murr, a Guild Navigator. But C'tair rarely succeeded in establishing contact,

either because his twin had mutated so far from human . . . or because the

transmitter itself was falling apart.

On a dusty metal table, he brought out weapons components, power sources,

communications devices, and scanning equipment -- items that would have led to

his immediate execution if any Tleilaxu had stopped to ask his business. But

C'tair armed himself well, and he had killed the gnomish men before.

C'tair displayed his wares. He searched the faces of the rebels, the crude

disguises and intentional dirt smudges, until he spotted a woman with large

eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a narrow chin. Her hair had been raggedly

chopped in an effort to destroy any hint of beauty. He knew her as Miral

Alechem, though that might not have been her real name.

In her face, C'tair saw echoes of Kailea Vernius, the pretty daughter of Earl

Vernius. He and his twin brother had both fancied Kailea, flirted with her . .

. back when they'd thought nothing would ever change. Now Kailea was exiled on

Caladan, and D'murr was a Guild Navigator. The twins' mother, a Guild banker,

had been killed during the takeover of Ix. And C'tair himself lived like a

furtive rat, flitting from hideout to hideout. . . .

"I found the crystalpak you requested," he said to Miral.

She withdrew a wrapped item from a sack at her waist. "I've got the module rods

you needed, calibrated precisely . . . I hope. I had no way of checking."

C'tair took the packet, feeling no need to inspect the merchandise. "I can do

it myself." He handed Miral the crystalpak, but did not ask what she had in

mind for it. Everyone present searched for ways to strike against the Tleilaxu.

Nothing else mattered. As he exchanged a nervous glance with her, he wondered

if she might be thinking the same thing he was, that under different

circumstances they might have had a personal relationship. But he couldn't

allow her that close to him. Not anyone. It would weaken him and divert his

resolve. He had to remain focused, for the sake of the Ixian cause.

One of the door guards hissed an alarm, and everyone fell into fearful silence,

ducking low. The muted glowglobes dimmed. C'tair held his breath.

A humming sound passed overhead as a surveillance pod cruised above the

abandoned buildings, trying to pick up unauthorized vibrations or movements.

Shadows smothered the hiding rebels. C'tair mentally reviewed the location of

every possible escape from this facility, in case he needed to duck out into the

blinding darkness.

But the humming device cruised onward down the length of the city grotto.

Shortly afterward, the nervous rebels stood again and began muttering to

themselves, wiping sweat off their faces, laughing nervously.

Spooked, C'tair decided not to remain any longer. He memorized the coordinates

for the group's next gathering, packed up his remaining equipment, and looked

around, scanning the faces once more, marking them in his mind. If they were

caught, he might never see these people again.

He nodded a final time at Miral Alechem, then slipped off into the Ixian night,

flitting under artificial stars. He had already made up his mind where he would

spend the remainder of the sleep shift . . . and which identity he would choose

for the following day.

It is said that the Fremen has no conscience, having lost it in a burning desire

for revenge. This is foolish. Only the rawest primitive and the sociopath have

no conscience. The Fremen possesses a highly evolved worldview centered on the

welfare of his people. His sense of belonging to the community is almost

stronger than his sense of self. It is only to outsiders that these desert

dwellers seem brutish . . . just as outsiders appear to them.

-PARDOT KYNES, The People of Arrakis

LUXURY IF FOR the noble-born, Liet," Pardot Kynes said as the groundcar trundled

across the uneven ground. Here, in privacy, he could use his son's secret

sietch name, rather than Weichih, the name reserved for outsiders. "On this

planet you must instantly become aware of your own surroundings, and remain

alert at all times. If you fail to learn this lesson, you won't live long."

As Kynes operated the simple controls, he gestured toward the buttery morning

light that melted across the stark dunes. "There are rewards here, too. I grew

up on Salusa Secundus, and even that broken and wounded place had its beauty . .

. though nothing to match the purity of Dune." Kynes exhaled a long breath

between his hard, chapped lips.

Liet continued to stare out the scratched windowplaz. Unlike his father, who

reeled off whatever random thoughts occurred to him, making pronouncements that

the Fremen heeded as if they were weighty spiritual matters, Liet preferred

silence. He narrowed his eyes to study the landscape, searching for any small

thing out of its place. Always alert.

On such a harsh planet, one had to develop stored perceptions, each of them

linked to every moment of survival. Though his father was much older, Liet

wasn't certain the Planetologist understood as much as he himself did. The mind

of Pardot Kynes contained powerful concepts, but the older man experienced them

only as esoteric data. He didn't understand the desert in his heart or in his

soul. . . .

For years, Kynes had lived among the Fremen. It was said that Emperor Shaddam

IV had little interest in his activities, and since Kynes asked for no funding

and few supplies, they left him alone. With each passing year he slipped

farther from attention. Shaddam and his advisors had stopped expecting any

grand revelations from the Planetologist's periodic reports.

This suited Pardot Kynes, and his son as well.

In his wanderings, Kynes often made trips to outlying villages where the people

of the pan and graben scratched out squalid lives. True Fremen rarely mixed

with the townspeople, and viewed them with veiled contempt for being too soft,

too civilized. Liet would never have lived in those pathetic settlements for

all the solaris in the Imperium. But still, Pardot visited them.

Eschewing roads and commonly traveled paths, they rode in the groundcar,

checking meteorological stations and collecting data, though Pardot's troops of

devoted Fremen would gladly have done this menial work for their "Umma."

Liet-Kynes's features echoed many of his father's, though with a leaner face and

the closely set eyes of his Fremen mother. He had pale hair, and his chin was

still smooth, though later he would likely grow a beard similar to the great

Planetologist's. Liet's eyes had the deep blue of spice addiction, since every

meal and breath of sietch air was laced with melange.

Liet heard a sharp intake of breath from his father as they passed the jagged

elbow of a canyon where camouflaged catchtraps directed moisture to plantings of

rabbitbush and poverty grasses. "See? It's taking on a life of its own. We'll

'cycle' the planet through prairie phase into forest over several generations.

The sand has a high salt content, indicating old oceans, and the spice itself is

alkaline." He chuckled. "People in the Imperium would be horrified that we'd

use spice by-products for something as menial as fertilizer." He smiled at his

son. "But we know the value of such things, eh? If we break down the spice, we

can set up protein digestion. Even now, if we flew high enough, we could spot

patches of green where matted plant growth holds the dune faces in place."

The young man sighed. His father was a great man with magnificent dreams for

Dune -- and yet Kynes was so focused on one thing that he failed to see the

universe around him. Liet knew that if any Harkonnen patrols found the

plantings, they would destroy them and punish the Fremen.

Though only twelve, Liet went out on razzia raids with his Fremen brothers and

had already killed Harkonnens. For more than a year, he and his friends -- led

by the brash Stilgar -- had struck targets that others refused to consider.

Only a week before, Liet's companions had blown up a dozen patrol 'thopters at a

supply post. Unfortunately, the Harkonnen troops had taken their revenge

against poor villagers, seeing no difference between settled folk and the will-

o'-the-sand Fremen.

He hadn't told his father about his guerrilla activities, since the elder Kynes

wouldn't understand the necessity. Premeditated violence, for whatever reason,

was a foreign concept to the Planetologist. But Liet would do what needed to be

done.

Now, the groundcar approached a village tucked into the rocky foothills; it was

called Bilar Camp on their terrain maps. Pardot continued to talk about melange

and its peculiar properties. "They found spice too soon on Arrakis. It

deflected scientific inquiry. It was so useful right from the outset that no

one bothered to probe its mysteries."

Liet turned to look at him. "I thought that was why you were assigned here in

the first place -- to understand the spice."

"Yes . . . but we have more important work to do. I still report back to the

Imperium often enough to convince them I'm working at my job . . . though not

very successfully." Talking about the first time he'd been to this region, he

drove toward a cluster of dirty buildings the color of sand and dust.

The groundcar jounced over a rough rock, but Liet ignored it and stared ahead at

the village, squinting in the harsh light of the desert morning. The morning

air held the fragility of fine crystal. "Something's wrong," he said,

interrupting his father.

Kynes continued talking for a few seconds and then brought the vehicle to a

stop. "What's that?"

"Something is wrong." Liet pointed ahead at the village.

Kynes shaded his eyes against the glare. "I don't see anything."

"Still . . . let us proceed with caution."

IN THE CENTER OF THE VILLAGE, they encountered a festival of horrors.

The surviving victims wandered about as if insane, shrieking and snarling like

animals. The noise was horrific, as was the smell. They had ripped hair out of

their heads in bloody clumps. Some used long fingernails to claw the eyes out

of their faces, then held the scooped eyeballs in their palms; blind, they

staggered against the tan walls of dwellings, leaving wet crimson smears.

"By Shai-Hulud!" Liet whispered under his breath, while his father let out a

louder curse in common Imperial Galach.

One man with torn eye sockets like bloody extra mouths above his cheekbones

collided with a crawling woman; both victims flew into a rage and ripped at each

other's skin with bare hands, biting and spitting and screaming. There were

muddy spots on the street, overturned containers of water.

Many bodies lay sprawled on the ground like squashed insects, arms and legs

stiffened at odd angles. Some buildings were locked and shuttered, barricaded

against the crazed wretches outside who pounded on the walls, wailing wordlessly

to get in. On an upper floor Liet saw a woman's terrified face at the dust-

streaked windowplaz. Others hid, somehow unaffected by the murderous insanity.

"We must help these people, Father." Liet leaped out of the sealed groundcar

before his father had brought it to a complete stop. "Bring your weapons. We

may need to defend ourselves."

They carried old maula pistols as well as knives. His father, though a

scientist at heart, was also a good fighter -- a skill he reserved for defending

his vision for Arrakis. The legend was told of how he had slain several

Harkonnen bravos who'd been attempting to kill three young Fremen. Those

rescued Fremen were now his most loyal lieutenants, Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun.

But Pardot Kynes had never fought against anything like this. . . .

The maddened villagers noticed them and moaned. They began to move forward.

"Don't kill them unless you must," Kynes said, amazed at how quickly his son had

armed himself with a crysknife and maula pistol. "Watch yourself."

Liet ventured into the street. What struck him first was the terrible stink, as

if the foul breath of a dying leper had been captured in a bottle and slowly

released.

Staring in disbelief, Pardot stepped farther from the groundcar. He saw no

lasgun burn marks in the village, no chip scars from projectile weapons, nothing

that would have indicated an overt Harkonnen attack. Was it a disease? If so,

it might be contagious. If a plague or some kind of communicable insanity was

at work here, he could not let the Fremen take these bodies for the deathstills.

Liet moved forward. "Fremen would attribute this to demons."

Two of the bloody-faced victims let out demonic shrieks and rushed toward them,

their fingers outstretched like eagle claws, their mouths open like bottomless

pits. Liet pointed the maula pistol, uttered a quick prayer, then fired twice.

The perfect shots hit each of the attackers in the chest, and they fell dead.

Liet bowed. "Forgive me, Shai-Hulud."

Pardot watched him. I have tried to teach my son many things, but at least he

has learned compassion. All other information can be learned from filmbooks . .

. but not compassion. This was born into him.

The young man bent over the two bodies, studied them closely, pushing back his

superstitious fear. "I do not think it's a disease." He looked back at Pardot.

"I've assisted the sietch healers, as you know, and . . ." His voice trailed

off.

"What, then?"

"I believe they've been poisoned."

One by one, the tortured villagers wandering the dusty streets fell onto their

backs in screaming convulsions, until only three remained alive. Liet moved

quickly with the crysknife and dispatched the last victims painlessly and

efficiently. No tribe or village would ever accept them again, no matter how

much they recovered, for fear that they had been corrupted by demons; even their

water would be considered tainted.

Liet found it odd how easily he had taken command in front of his father. He

gestured toward two of the sealed buildings. "Convince the people inside those

barred dwellings that we mean them no harm. We must discover what happened

here." His voice became low and icy. "And we must learn who is to blame."

Pardot Kynes moved to the dusty building. Fingernail scratches and bloody

handprints marked the mud-brick walls and pitted metal doors where crazed

victims had tried to pound their way in. He swallowed hard and prepared to make

his case, to convince the terrified survivors that their ordeal was over. He

turned back to his son. "Where will you be, Liet?"

The young man looked at an overturned water container. He knew of only one way

the poison could affect so many people at once. "Checking the water supply."

His face etched in concern, Pardot nodded.

Liet studied the terrain around the village, saw a faint trail leading up the

side of the overhanging mesa. Moving with the speed of a sun-warmed lizard, he

scurried up the mountain path and reached the cistern. The evidence of its

location had been cleverly disguised, though the villagers had made many errors.

Even a clumsy Harkonnen patrol could have discovered the illegal reservoir. He

studied the area quickly, noting patterns in the sand.

Smelling a harsh alkaloid bitterness near the upper opening of the cistern, he

tried to place the odor. He'd experienced it rarely, and only during great

sietch celebrations. The Water of Life! The Fremen consumed such a substance

only after a Sayyadina had converted the exhalation of a drowned worm, using her

own body chemistry as a catalyst to create a tolerable drug that sent the sietch

into an ecstatic frenzy. Unconverted, the substance was a ferocious toxin.

The villagers in Bilar Camp had drunk pure Water of Life, before it was

transformed. Someone had done this intentionally . . . poisoning them.

Then he saw the marks of ornithopter pads in the soft soil atop the plateau. It

had to be a Harkonnen 'thopter. One of the regular patrols . . . a practical

joke?

Frowning grimly, Liet descended to the devastated village, where his father had

succeeded in bringing out the survivors who had barricaded themselves within

their dwellings. Through luck, these people had not drunk the poisoned water.

Now they fell to their knees in the streets, surrounded by the awful carnage.

Their keening cries of grief drifted like the thin wails of ghosts along a sheer

cliffside.

Harkonnens did this.

Pardot Kynes moved about doing what he could to comfort them, but from the

quizzical expressions on the villagers' faces, Liet knew his father was probably

saying the wrong things, expressing his sympathy in abstract concepts that they

had no ability to understand.

Liet moved down the slope, and already plans were forming in his mind. As soon

as they returned to the sietch, he would meet with Stilgar and his commando

squad.

And they would plan their retaliation against the Harkonnens.

An empire built on power cannot attract the affections and loyalty that men

bestow willingly on a regime of ideas and beauty. Adorn your Grand Empire with

beauty, with culture.

-From a speech by CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO: L'Institut de Kaitain Archives

THE YEARS HAD BEEN UNKIND to Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.

In a rage, he swiped his wormhead walking stick across the counter in his

therapy room. Jars of ointments, salves, pills, and hypo-injectors crashed to

the tile floor. "Nothing works!" Each day, he felt worse, looked more

revolting. In the mirror he saw a puffy, red-faced caricature of his Adonis-

self, hardly recognizable as the person he had once been.

"I look like a tumor, not a man."

With darting movements, Piter de Vries stepped into the room, ready to offer

assistance. The Baron struck at him with the heavy cane, but the Mentat

sidestepped the blow with the grace of a cobra.

"Get out of my sight, Piter." The Baron reeled, trying to catch his balance.

"Or this time I really will think of a way to kill you."

"Whatever my Baron wishes," de Vries said in a too-silken voice. He bowed and

retreated to the door.

The Baron held affection for few people, but he appreciated the devious workings

of the twisted Mentat's mind, his convoluted plans, his long-term thinking . . .

regardless of his obnoxious familiarity and lack of respect.

"Wait, Piter. I need your Mentat brain." He lumbered forward, leaning on the

walking stick. "It's the same old question. Find out why my body is

degenerating, or I will dispatch you to the deepest slave pit."

The whip-thin man waited for the Baron to catch up with him. "I shall do my

best, Baron. I know full well what happened to all of your doctors."

"Incompetents," he growled. "None of them knew anything."

Formerly healthy and full of tremendous energy, the Baron suffered from a

debilitating disease whose manifestations disgusted and frightened him. He had

gained an enormous amount of weight. Exercise did not help, nor did medical

scans or even exploratory surgeries. For years he had tried every healing

procedure and bizarre experimental treatment -- all to no avail.

For their failures, a score of House doctors had received torturous deaths at

the hands of Piter de Vries, often through imaginative application of their own

instruments. As a result, no high-level medical practitioners remained on Giedi

Prime -- or at least none were visible; those who had not been executed had gone

into hiding or fled to other worlds.

More annoyingly, servants had begun disappearing, too -- and not always because

the Baron had ordered them killed. They had fled outside the Castle Keep into

Harko City, vanishing into the ranks of uncounted and unheeded laborers. As he

ventured out into the streets accompanied by his guard captain Kryubi, the Baron

found himself constantly looking for people who even resembled the servants who

had abandoned him. Wherever he went, he left a trail of bodies. The killings

brought him little pleasure, though; he would rather have had an answer.

De Vries accompanied the Baron as he hobbled into the corridor; his walking

stick clicked along the floor. Soon, the big man thought, he would have to wear

a suspensor mechanism to remove the burden from his aching joints.

A team of workmen froze as the two approached. The Baron noted that they were

repairing wall damage he had caused in a rage the day before. Each of them

bowed as the Baron clicked past and breathed audible sighs of relief when they

saw him disappear around a corner.

When he and de Vries reached a cerulean-curtained drawing room, the Baron

lowered himself onto a black sligskin settee. "Sit beside me, Piter." The

Mentat's inky eyes darted around, like those of a trapped animal, but the Baron

snorted with impatience. "I probably won't kill you today, provided you give me

good advice."

The Mentat maintained his casual demeanor, revealing none of his private

thoughts. "Advising you is the sole purpose of my existence, my Baron." He

remained aloof, even arrogant, because he knew it would be far too costly for

House Harkonnen to replace him, though the Bene Tleilax could always grow

another Mentat from the same genetic stock. In fact, they probably already had

replacements, just waiting.

The Baron drummed his fingers on the arm of the settee. "True enough, but you

don't always give the advice I need." Looking closely at de Vries, he added,

"You are a very ugly man, Piter. Even with my disease, I'm still prettier than

you."

The Mentat's salamander tongue darted over lips stained crimson by sapho juice.

"But my sweet Baron, you always liked to look at me."

The Baron's face hardened, and he leaned close to the tall, thin man. "Enough

relying on amateurs. I want you to obtain a Suk doctor for me."

Surprised, de Vries drew a quick breath. "But you have insisted that we

maintain complete secrecy about the nature of your condition. A Suk must report

all activities to his Inner Circle -- and send them the bulk of his fee."

Vladimir Harkonnen had led members of the Landsraad to believe he'd grown

corpulent through his own excesses -- which was an acceptable reason to him, one

that did not imply weakness. And, given the Baron's tastes, it was a lie easy

to believe. He did not wish to become a pitiable laughingstock among the other

nobles. A great Baron should not suffer from a simple, embarrassing disease.

"Just find a way to do it. Don't go through regular channels. If a Suk can

cure me, then I'll have nothing to hide."

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Piter de Vries learned that a talented if somewhat

narcissistic Suk doctor had been stationed on Richese, an ally of the

Harkonnens. The wheels in the Mentat's mind began to turn. In the past, House

Richese had aided Harkonnen-inspired plots, including the assassination of Duke

Paulus Atreides in the bullring, but the allies often disagreed on priorities.

For this most sensitive of all matters, de Vries invited the Richesian Premier,

Ein Calimar, to visit the Baron's Keep on Giedi Prime, to discuss "a mutually

profitable enterprise."

An older, meticulously dressed man who retained his youthful athleticism,

Calimar had dark skin and a wide nose with wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on it.

He arrived at the Harko City Spaceport wearing a white suit with gold lapels.

Four guards in blue Harkonnen livery escorted him into the Baron's private

quarters.

Once he stepped inside the private chambers, the Premier's nose twitched at an

odor, which did not escape his host's bemused notice. The nude body of a young

boy hung in a closet only two meters away; the Baron had intentionally left the

door open a crack. The corpse's putrid odor mixed and interlocked with older

ones that had permeated the rooms to such a degree that even strong perfumes did

not conceal them.

"Please sit." The Baron pointed to a couch where faint bloodstains could still

be seen. He had prepared this entire meeting with subliminal threats and

unpleasantness, just to set the Richesian leader on edge.

Calimar hesitated -- a moment that delighted the Baron -- then accepted the

seat, but declined an offer of kirana brandy, though his host took a snifter for

himself. The Baron slumped into a bobbing suspensor chair. Behind him stood

his fidgety personal Mentat, who stated why House Harkonnen had requested the

meeting.

Surprised, Calimar shook his head. "You wish to rent my Suk doctor?" His nose

continued to twitch, and his gaze searched the room for a source of the odor,

settling on the closet door. He adjusted his golden spectacles. "I'm sorry,

but I am unable to comply. A personal Suk physician is a responsibility and an

obligation . . . not to mention an enormous expense."

The Baron pouted. "I have tried other doctors, and I would prefer to keep this

matter private. I cannot simply advertise for one of the arrogant

professionals. Your Suk doctor, though, would be bound by his oath of

confidentiality, and no one needs to know he left your service for a brief

period." He heard the whining tone in his own voice. "Come, come, where is

your compassion?"

Calimar looked away from the dark closet. "Compassion? An interesting comment

from you, Baron. Your House hasn't bothered to help us with our problem,

despite our entreaties over the last five years."

The Baron leaned forward. His wormhead walking stick lay across his lap, its

tip filled with serpent-venom darts pointed toward the white-suited man.

Tempting, so tempting. "Perhaps we could come to an understanding." He looked

questioningly at his Mentat for an explanation.

De Vries said, "In a word, he means money, my Baron. The Richesian economy is

floundering."

"As our ambassador has explained repeatedly to your emissaries," Calimar added.

"Since my House lost control of the spice operations on Arrakis -- you replaced

us, don't forget -- we have attempted to rebuild our economic foundation." The

Premier held his chin high, pretending that he still had some pride left.

"Initially, the downfall of Ix was a boon to us, removing competition. However,

our finances remain somewhat . . . strained."

The Baron's spider-black eyes flashed, relishing Calimar's embarrassment. House

Richese, manufacturers of exotic weaponry and complex machines, experts in

miniaturization and Richesian mirrors, had made initial market-share gains

against rival Ixian companies during the upheavals on Ix.

"Five years ago the Tleilaxu began shipping Ixian products again," de Vries said

with cold logic. "You are already losing whatever gains you made in the past

ten years. Sales of Richesian products have fallen off severely with the

renewed availability of Ixian technology."

Calimar kept his voice steady. "So you see, we must have resources to enhance

our efforts and invest in new facilities."

"Richese, Tleilax, Ix . . . we try not to interfere in squabbles between other

Houses." The Baron sighed. "I wish there could just be peace throughout the

Landsraad."

Anger seeped into the Premier's features. "This is more than a squabble, Baron.

This is about survival. Many of my agents are missing on Ix and presumed dead.

It disgusts me even to consider what the Tleilaxu may use their body parts for."

He adjusted his spectacles; perspiration glistened on his forehead. "Besides,

the Bene Tleilax are not a House of any sort. The Landsraad would never accept

them."

"A mere technicality."

"We arrive at an impasse then," Calimar announced, making as if to rise. He

looked once more at the ominous closet door. "I did not believe you'd be

willing to meet our stiff price, regardless of how excellent our Suk doctor is."

"Wait, wait --" The Baron held up a hand. "Trade agreements and military pacts

are one thing. Friendship is another. You and your House have been our loyal

ally in the past. Perhaps I didn't fully understand the scope of your problem

before."

Calimar tilted his head back, gazed down the bridge of his nose at the Baron.

"The scope of our problem consists of many zeros and no decimal points."

Set in folds of fat, his black eyes took on a crafty gaze. "If you send me your

Suk doctor, Premier, we shall rethink the situation. I'm sure you will be most

pleased to hear the financial details of our offer. Consider it a down

payment."

Calimar refused to move. "I would like to hear the offer now, please."

Seeing the stony expression on the Premier's face, the Baron nodded. "Piter,

tell him our proposal."

De Vries quoted a high price for the rental of the Suk, payable in melange. No

matter how much this Suk doctor cost, House Harkonnen could squeeze out the

extra income by liquidating some of their hidden, illegal spice stockpiles, or

by tightening production on Arrakis.

Calimar pretended to consider the offer, but the Baron knew the man had no

choice but to accept. "The Suk will be sent to you immediately. This doctor,

Wellington Yueh, has been working on cyborg studies, developing a machine-human

interface to restore lost limbs through artificial means, an alternative to

having the Tleilaxu grow replacements in their axlotl tanks."

" 'Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind,' " de Vries

quoted -- the primary commandment arising out of the Butlerian Jihad.

Calimar stiffened. "Our patent lawyers have gone over this in detail, and there

is no violation whatsoever."

"Well, I don't care what his specialty is," the Baron said impatiently. "All

Suk doctors have broad reservoirs of knowledge upon which they can draw. You

understand that this must be kept in strict confidence?"

"That is not a matter of concern. The Suk Inner Circle has held embarrassing

medical information on every family in the Landsraad for generations. You need

not worry."

"I am more worried that your people will talk. Do I have your promise that you

will not divulge any details of our bargain? It could prove just as

embarrassing to you." The Baron's dark eyes seemed to sink deeper into his

puffy face.

A stiff nod from the Premier. "I am pleased to be of assistance, Baron. I have

had the rare privilege of closely observing this Dr. Yueh. Allow me to assure

you that he is most impressive indeed."

Military victories are meaningless unless they reflect the wishes of the

populace. An Emperor exists only to clarify those wishes. He executes the

popular will, or his time is short.

-Principium, Imperial Leadership Academy

BENEATH A BLACK SECURITY HOOD, the Emperor sat in his elaborate suspensor chair

as he received information from the ridulian report crystal. After delivering

the encrypted summary, Hasimir Fenring stood beside him while words streamed

through Shaddam's mind.

The Emperor did not like the news.

At the conclusion of the progress summary, Fenring cleared his throat. "Hidar

Fen Ajidica conceals much from us, Sire. If he were not vitally important to

Project Amal, I would terminate him, hmmmm?"

The Emperor swung the security hood from his head, removed the glittering

crystal from its receptacle. Adjusting his eyes to the bright morning sunshine

that passed through a skylight in his private tower quarters, he peered at

Fenring. The other man lounged at the Emperor's desk of golden chusuk wood

inlaid with milky soostones, as if he owned it.

"I see," Shaddam mused. "The little gnome isn't pleased to receive two more

legions of Sardaukar. Commander Garon will put pressure on him to perform, and

he feels the vise tightening around him."

Fenring got up to pace in front of a window that overlooked a profusion of

orange and lavender blossoms in a rooftop garden. He picked at something lodged

beneath one of his fingernails and flicked it away. "Don't we all, hmmm?"

Shaddam noticed that the Count's gaze had strayed to the holophotos of his three

young daughters that Anirul had mounted on the wall -- annoying reminders that

he still had no male heir. Irulan was four years old, Chalice a year and a

half, and baby Wensicia barely two months. Pointedly, he switched off the

images and turned to his friend.

"You're my eyes in the desert, Hasimir. It disturbs me that the Tleilaxu have

been smuggling infant sandworms from Arrakis. I thought it couldn't be done."

Fenring shrugged. "What could it possibly matter if they took a small worm or

two? The creatures die soon after they leave the desert, despite every effort

to care for them."

"Perhaps the ecosystem should not be disturbed." The Emperor's scarlet-and-gold

tunic trailed over the edge of the suspensor chair onto the floor. He nibbled

on a morsel of crimson fruit from a bowl beside him. "In his last report, our

desert Planetologist claims that reductions in particular species could have

devastating consequences on food chains. He says there are prices to be paid by

future generations for the mistakes of today."

Fenring made a dismissive gesture. "You shouldn't bother yourself with his

reports. If you brought me back from exile, Sire, I could remove such worries

from your mind. I'd do your thinking for you, hmmm-ah?"

"Your assignment as Imperial Observer is hardly exile. You are a Count, and you

are my Spice Minister." Distracted, Shaddam thought about ordering something to

drink, perhaps with music, exotic dancers, even a military parade outside. He

had only to command it. But such things did not interest him at the moment.

"Do you desire an additional title, Hasimir?"

Averting his overlarge eyes, Fenring said, "That would only call more attention

to me. Already it is difficult to conceal from the Guild how often I journey to

Xuttuh. Besides, trivial titles mean nothing to me."

The Emperor tossed the pit of his fruit into the bowl, frowning. Next time he

would order the preparers to cut out the seeds before serving them. "Is

'Padishah Emperor' a trivial title?"

At the sound of three beeps, the men looked up at the ceiling, from which a

clearplaz tube spiraled down to a receptacle on the Emperor's chusuk wood desk.

An urgent message cylinder streaked through the tube and thunked into place.

Fenring retrieved the cylinder, cut off a Courier's seal, and removed two sheets

of rolled instroy paper, which he passed to the Emperor, restraining himself

from examining them first. Shaddam unrolled them, scanned the pages with an

expression of growing distress.

"Hmmmm?" Fenring asked, in his impatient manner.

"Another formal letter of complaint from Archduke Ecaz, and a declaration of

kanly against House Moritani on Grumman. Most serious, indeed." He wiped red

juice from his fingertips onto his scarlet robe, then read further. His face

flushed. "Wait a minute. Duke Leto Atreides has already offered his services

to the Landsraad as a mediator, but the Ecazis are taking the matter into their

own hands."

"Interesting," the Count said.

Angrily, Shaddam thrust the letter into Fenring's hands. "Duke Leto found out

before I did? How is this possible? I'm the Emperor!"

"Sire, the flare-up is not surprising, considering the disgraceful behavior at

my formal banquet." Seeing the blank look, he continued. "The Grumman

ambassador assassinating his rival right at the dinner table? You remember my

report? It came to you months ago, hmmmm?"

As Shaddam struggled to put the pieces together in his mind, he waved

dismissively at a blackplaz shelf beside his desk. "Maybe it's over there. I

haven't read them all."

Fenring's dark eyes flashed with annoyance. "You have time to read esoteric

reports from a Planetologist, but not from me? You would have been prepared for

this feud if you'd paid attention to my communique. I warned you the Grummans

are dangerous and bear watching."

"I see. Just tell me what the report says, Hasimir. I'm a busy man."

Fenring recounted how he'd had to release the arrogant Lupino Ord, owing to

diplomatic immunity. With a sigh, the Emperor summoned attendants and called an

emergency meeting of his advisors.

IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM adjoining Shaddam's Imperial office, a team of Mentat

legal advisors, Landsraad spokesmen, and Guild observers reviewed the

technicalities of kanly, the careful ballet of warfare designed to harm only

actual combatants, with minimal collateral damage to civilians.

The Great Convention prohibited the use of atomic and biological weapons and

required that disputing Houses fight a controlled feud through accepted direct

and indirect methods. For millennia, the rigid rules had formed the framework

of the Imperium. Advisors recounted the background of the current conflict, how

Ecaz had accused Moritani of biological sabotage in their delicate fogtree

forests, how the Grumman ambassador had murdered his Ecazi counterpart at

Fenring's banquet, how Archduke Ecaz had formally declared kanly against

Viscount Moritani.

"Another item of note," said the Imperial Trade Chief, waving one knobby finger

like a rapier in the air, "I have learned that an entire shipment of

commemorative coins -- minted, if you recall, Sire, to celebrate your tenth

anniversary on the Golden Lion Throne -- has been stolen in an audacious raid on

a commercial frigate. By self-styled space pirates, if reports are to be

believed."

Shaddam glowered, impatient. "How is a petty theft relevant to the situation

here?"

"That shipment was bound for Ecaz, Sire."

Fenring perked up. "Hmmmm, was anything else stolen? War materiel, weapons of

any kind?"

The Trade Chief checked his notes. "No -- the so-called raiders commandeered

only the Imperial commemorative coins, leaving other valuables behind." He

lowered his voice and mumbled, as if to himself, "However, since we used

inferior materials in minting those coins, the financial losses are not

significant. . . ."

"I recommend that we dispatch Imperial Observers to Ecaz and to Grumman," Court

Chamberlain Ridondo said, "in order to enforce the forms. House Moritani has

been known to . . . ah, stretch their interpretation of formal rules." Ridondo

was a skeletally gaunt man with yellowish skin and a slippery way of

accomplishing tasks while allowing Shaddam to take the credit; he had fared well

in his position as Chamberlain.

Before Ridondo's suggestion could be discussed, though, another message cylinder

thumped into the receptacle beside the Emperor's chair. After scanning the

message, Shaddam slammed it onto the conference table. "Viscount Hundro

Moritani has responded to the diplomatic insult by carpet-bombing the Ecazi

Palace and its surrounding peninsula! The Mahogany Throne is physically

destroyed. A hundred thousand noncombatants dead, and several forests are on

fire. Archduke Ecaz barely escaped with his three daughters." He squinted down

at the curling instroy paper again, then looked quickly at Fenring but refused

to ask for advice.