Less than ten minutes after receiving the message, as she finished preparing herself for the mysterious meeting, her security captain announced, “Urdir, a Guild escort has appeared at the hatch claiming you have an appointment. I was not aware of this.” He looked concerned. “Shall I arrange a team of guards for your safety?”
“No, my safety is ensured,” she said. Whatever this was about, it would be no amateurish assassination attempt. “You are not aware of this meeting. You were never aware. You do not know it is happening.”
He bowed and stepped back. “I do not know it is happening.”
Like all the other craft hauled aboard the Heighliner, her ship was attached to the inner hull of the enormous hollow ship, each vessel locked into a docking cradle and linked with various umbilicals. Now a connecting tube sealed against her ship’s external hatch to let her enter the gigantic Heighliner proper.
After she traversed the connector tube, Malina met a bland-faced, bald man in a gray shipsuit that bore the Guild’s infinity symbol. He stood with arms straight at his sides, face forward, shoulders square. “Ur-Director, I am here to escort you to the piloting deck. We will use back passages, out of respect for your privacy.”
Expecting her to follow, he walked at a methodical pace along a bright, featureless corridor. After traversing several sections, the gray-clad man turned abruptly and walked face-first into a smooth wall. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink, simply stepped directly through the bulkhead. As he vanished inside, Malina realized it was a hidden door covered by a camouflage hologram. She followed him through the illusion and found herself in a dim passageway that led to a private lift. The Guildsman motioned for her to enter, then stepped back. He did not speak another word.
The door slid shut, and the lift capsule circled around the curved hull of the enormous Heighliner. It shifted course to travel along the axis, then locked in place with an abrupt stop. She emerged onto the secure piloting deck as if she were attending an ordinary business conference.
The woman waiting for her was as tall as an Amazon warrior and muscular enough to fill out her Guild shipsuit. Malina could not identify the numerous rank insignia, but this was obviously a person of some note, dominating the chamber.
The piloting deck was encircled by wide plaz windows. The view was filled with the stars of empty space in one direction and the half-lit sphere of the planet below. As the Heighliner orbited Borhees, homeworld of House Kolona, bright sparks of ships disembarked from the hold, but Malina’s attention was drawn to the large tank inside the chamber. Sealed within, a soup of orange spice vapor curled around the distorted silhouette of a Guild Navigator.
Malina narrowed her eyes. This would be a most interesting conversation.
She said, “I am here. You wished to meet?” She glanced at the towering Guild woman, then faced the mutated shape inside the swirling gases of the tank. She knew the power nexus in this conversation.
Navigators were advanced, evolved human subjects whose superior minds were so saturated with spice that they dwelled in a universe of mathematics, physics, and prescience. Only under the rarest of circumstances did they deign to speak with normal humans. Even important Guild officials such as this towering woman could barely relate to the creatures.
“Ur-Director.” The Navigator’s voice wobbled from a speakerpatch in his tank. “You are CHOAM. I am the Spacing Guild. We are the warp and weft of the tapestry that is the Imperium.”
Malina took a step closer to the tank. The Amazon woman stood silently, watching her.
“Spice is the thread,” Malina said. She smelled lingering cinnamon undertones, hints of melange gas that had escaped from exhaust vents.
The Navigator bobbed, the silhouette swelling larger so that she caught a clear glimpse of his bloated head and eyes, the shriveled body floating in dense gases. “We must speak of spice and the tapestry … whether it can be unraveled, and rewoven. You, Ur-Director, are a tangle of these threads.”
Malina frowned. “I was not aware that Guild Navigators were so skilled with metaphors.”
“Atasia will explain,” the distorted figure said. With a trickle of static from the speakerpatch, his voice fell silent. The shape retreated into thicker vapors.
The Guild woman, Atasia, took charge. “Our Navigators see safe paths through the galaxy, while our engines fold space and carry us from place to place. Without spice, Navigators could not see. The Spacing Guild is dependent on spice.”
Malina was impatient. “I know all this. Every child in an Imperial school knows this.”
“Spice is necessary.” Atasia followed the comment with a surprising statement. “But the Imperium is not the only possible construct for human governance. The Imperium was sewn together as a convenient framework after the Butlerian Jihad. House Corrino became predominant among the League of Nobles, and the basic ruling structure has remained unchanged for millennia.”
The Urdir faced the woman who stood a head taller than she, though she did not think Atasia was trying to intimidate her. Malina said guardedly, “CHOAM has long been part of that framework. The stability of the Imperium is better for commerce than the chaos of civil war.”
“Independence and free trade are also good for commerce, as you know well, Urdir.” The Guild woman’s voice was cold and flat. “We know what the Noble Commonwealth aims to achieve. We saw what your son did at Otorio, and we do not approve of such action.”
A chill went down her back, and Malina responded sharply. “Nor do I approve of it! I already denounced Jaxson on Kaitain. I am not associated with his terrorist acts. I have had no contact with him.”
“You are not entirely disassociated,” said Atasia. “We know of CHOAM’s long-standing and secret advocacy of the Noble Commonwealth.”
“That has never been proven,” Malina said, realizing it was not a denial.
“Political projections and models of government suggest that a myriad of independent planets may be beneficial to the expansion of civilization. The structure of the Imperium, and specifically the rulership of House Corrino, may not be the best format for the Spacing Guild or CHOAM to thrive. Given the constraints of distance, the lack of instantaneous communication, and the sheer magnitude of worlds and populations, a central autocratic ruler may not be wise for our future. It is a limiting factor.”
“Why are you saying all this to me?” Malina asked, feeling unbalanced. “The disruption of a civil war would be bad for business.”
“But history shows that war is often good for business,” Atasia pointed out.
Malina could not deny the assertion. “What do you want me to say?” She didn’t understand what the Guild hoped to accomplish with this unfocused conversation.
“We mean for you to listen. That is why we brought you here.”
Atasia turned back to the spice-filled tank and waited in tense silence. Finally, the speakerpatch activated again, though the Navigator was now concealed in the orange mist.
“We see safe paths through space,” said the surreal inhuman voice, “as well as safe paths into the future … And this is very dangerous terrain.”
Risks are managed through careful training and observation. And yet the trickster universe presents us with an unavoidable fact—life itself poses a risk that will one day become fatal. For everyone. No one survives forever.
—SWORDMASTER RIVVY DINARI of the Ginaz School
On the night after the four flyers were destroyed, Paul again dreamed of the red-haired girl with the elfin face and large eyes. Some of his dreams were blurred with mystery and uncertainty, but other dreams stayed in his mind with crystal clarity when he awoke, as if a holo-image floated before his eyes.
This was one of those definitive dreams. He had a clear image of the girl who would be important to him one day.
All this talk of arranging a political marriage—and the rude, personal rebuff from Duke Verdun—made Paul consider his future wife, whomever she might be. As the son of a Duke, he had the best t
rainers in the Imperium, as well as the sterling example set by his father, but he was only fourteen, and all his training could not erase the fact that he was a young man with uncertainties and doubts.
Was the girl in his dreams the one he would eventually marry, or was she someone else?
He needed to find out who she was. He was convinced he had caught a glimpse of her in Cala City when he was with Thufir. Though it had been but a flash, her features, hair, and eyes were so similar to what he remembered from his dreams. Was that girl on the streets the one he had envisioned? Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he had to find her.
Duke Leto was in the final preparations for his major offensive against Chaen Marek’s drug operations. Leto, Thufir, and Gurney were embroiled in strategic planning over which weaponry to use, now that they did not dare risk shields, but his father insisted that they mobilize all the Atreides forces and launch their retaliation within another day. It was an enormous operation.
Paul felt left out in the frantic, but efficient preparations. After awakening from the vivid dream again, and remembering it all morning, Paul could not sit still. He couldn’t get her image out of his thoughts, and that at least was a problem he could solve. Duncan Idaho remained at his side, ever-present friend and bodyguard, and Paul said, “Come with me into the city, Duncan. I need to … look for someone.”
The Swordmaster was surprised. “As you command, young Master.”
Paul hesitated, but he could never keep secrets from Duncan. The two had shared too much together. “I am looking for a girl. I spotted her not long ago on the streets, but lost her. I need to track her down.”
Duncan grinned. “Ah, so now I understand! That foppish Duke Verdun says his daughter is too good for you, and you need to be reminded of how many pretty young women are on Caladan.”
Paul forced a smile. “They are the most beautiful women, if you believe Gurney’s songs.”
“Gurney sings whatever words he can rhyme,” Duncan said. “But you will see for yourself. You’re at an age when the fires start to burn in your veins. Come, we’ll stay out of the way of the military preparations.”
Paul donned a merh-silk tunic with the Atreides hawk on the breast, gathered his shield belt and personal weapons. He would look the part of a Duke’s son, the heir to the noble family that had ruled this planet for so many generations.
Duncan would walk at his side, an impressive figure of contained violence. “You can do better than Junu Verdun, lad,” he muttered. “Someone like that would only make you miserable.”
That was not what worried Paul. “I had no idea what she was like. My father consulted with Thufir and my mother to develop a list of viable marriage prospects, and they will pick another one soon enough.” Distracted, he shook his head. “But there is someone who … haunts me, and I need to understand why she is in my dreams.”
Duncan clapped him on the shoulder as they set out for town. “Politics be damned. Let your father worry about appropriate alliances. No need to concern yourself with marriage today. You still have much to learn about flirtation and simple conversation with a girl your age.” His grin widened. “Once again, I can be your reliable tutor. Come with me. We’ll walk among the restaurants and taverns where you will see plenty of beautiful prospects.”
“I am looking for one person in particular. I thought I made that clear.”
“They are all particular young women. Do not limit the possibilities, especially at your tender age.”
As they worked their way down to Cala City, gulls wheeled overhead, soaring high above the great stone towers. The sky cracked with a thrumming roar as six Atreides strike craft performed maneuvers in the sky. Paul paused to look up, and Duncan followed his gaze. “We will fly together again soon, young Master, but not today. Your father finds himself in a private war on Caladan.”
“Our private war,” Paul said. “The assault launches tomorrow.”
“And we each do our part. For now, it is my mission to help you find this particular girl.”
In Cala City, the people went about their daily activities. Restaurants opened, fish markets set out the morning’s catch, weavers displayed hypnotic tapestries that were unworthy imitations of those woven by the Sisters in Isolation on the Eastern Continent. A baliset maker trained on Chusuk demonstrated his wares by pulling melodies from the air.
Increased numbers of Atreides city guard patrolled the streets, and Duke Leto had drawn together all his remaining forces for the assault against Chaen Marek. All leave was suspended, and perimeter missions and policing actions had been recalled for a singular focus on the illicit drug operations.
Duncan strode beside his young ward. Paul barely came up to the Swordmaster’s shoulders. The two passed taverns and cafés, including the same establishment where he and Thufir had sat during their “impossible choice” exercise only a few days ago. From there, Paul was able to locate the street and corner where he had spotted the girl.
Alas, he had no reason to suspect she would be in the same place, but Paul had nowhere else to begin his search. “Let’s go over here.”
A young woman was scrubbing tables and gathering tankards in an outdoor tavern. Seeing her, Duncan nudged Paul. “Look, that one’s pretty enough. I like her braids and smile.”
The tavern worker knew they were talking about her and glanced up. Recognizing the Duke’s son, she flushed and offered a shy smile.
Paul lowered his voice. “I’m certain she is sweet, but she is not my ‘particular’ one.”
Duncan grunted. “I think you are too particular, lad.”
As they walked past the outdoor tavern, the serving maiden went back to her work, straightening tables and chairs, and found a package left in a corner. The parcel was wrapped in a strange folded covering, adorned with metallic ribbons. She looked around, but saw no one taking ownership of it.
Something caught Paul’s eye. He paused in his step, suddenly alert. An ominous crackle of dread flared up inside him. He turned.
The tavern maiden picked up the box, bent closer to it.
A rush of foreboding shot down Paul’s back, demanding action. His hand moved in a blur, and he slapped his shield belt, activating the shimmering field though he didn’t know who or where the enemy was. “Wait!”
He lurched in front of Duncan just at the moment the box erupted in a firestorm. The front of the tavern blasted inward with a deafening report. Windows shattered, and the façade caught fire. The explosion ripped the innocent tavern maiden to pieces.
Paul’s shield deflected the hammer blow even as the shock wave hurled him back into Duncan. Shards of shrapnel, flaming wood, and razor-edged glass flew in all directions, but the shield dampened the blast and diverted the deadly debris from harming them.
Stunned, Paul staggered backward. Duncan recovered first and grabbed Paul, dragging him toward any nearby shelter.
Screams echoed up and down the street, growing louder. Pedestrians in front of the businesses fell bleeding and burning. Paul glimpsed several bodies thrown to the ground, some twitching, some motionless. Surging fire devoured the tavern.
As dust and smoke roiled out from the blast, a blizzard of leaflets drifted to the ground.
Before Paul could grab one of the drifting pieces of instroy paper, though, a second explosion rocked the opposite side of the street, where the baliset maker had been playing a love song. In slow-motion increments of time, Paul watched a gout of fire rip open the front of the shop, splintering and scattering the baliset maker’s wares while the shock wave flattened even more pedestrians, including a hapless family that had paused to look at a glassblower’s display.
Moments later, a block away, a third bomb blast roared out.
Duncan reached through the shield to seize Paul by the shoulders. “Come, young Master. It is my duty to keep you safe.” He added in a ragged voice, “And thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t activated your shield in front of me…”
“You saved me enough times, Dunca
n. But all those people, all the injured … We have to help.” Paul snatched one of the drifting sheets of paper. The durable material had survived the explosion. On the leaflet, he saw a crude drawing of a curled barra fern.
Duke Leto Atreides: You threaten my operations, attack my business. The barra ferns are mine. The ailar is mine. More will die if you keep interfering.
The note was signed by Chaen Marek.
Paul felt sick. He pulled away from Duncan, who kept trying to drag him away. “No, we do not run! We stay and help these people. We can’t abandon them.”
Duncan was a coil of spring-wound muscles, casting his alertness about like a sensor net. Before the Swordmaster could object, Paul insisted, “An Atreides does not run and think of his own safety first!”
“Spoken like your good father,” Duncan replied, resigned. “But I must keep you safe. Nevertheless, let us save whomever we can.” He glared at the leaflet. “Although right now, I can think of at least one person who needs to die.”
In its most logical form, all life can be viewed as a decision chart of positive and negative influences, as we attempt to reach an optimal determination. But not all decisions are logical, and it is on that path that trouble often lies.
—COUNT HASIMIR FENRING
On the outskirts of Arrakeen, Count Fenring waited at the designated meeting place, in the murky shade of an industrial building. Esmar Tuek and his smugglers were growing more and more mistrustful of him. That was understandable, considering the Harkonnen crackdowns under way, which had put normal Arrakis operations on edge.
For this encounter, Fenring wore a stained desert cloak and a stillsuit that had been provided by his contacts. The suit seemed a little loose on his slender frame, but it functioned well enough. For now, he left the nose plugs loose. He preferred to breathe without them. Following the surreptitious instructions, he’d smeared his face with streaks of dirt. Previous assignments had taught him how to disguise himself.
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 31