While the Fremen onlookers muttered at this, Enno retorted with great confidence, as if he were being tested. “Muad’Dib knows he must appear to be merciful. Muad’Dib knows he must show the people that he can be lenient and loving.” His voice hardened. “But Muad’Dib’s fighters know what is truly in his heart — that those who are unbelievers must fall under the scythe of his punishment. By promising mercy to Lord Colus, Commander Halleck, you may have spoken on the Emperor’s behalf… but all soldiers of Muad’Dib understand what we must do to infidels. Colus resisted, and he ordered his people to resist. He was a dark force trying to eclipse the light of the Lisan-al-Gaib.” He looked up at the severed head on the spike and nodded with plain satisfaction. “I did what was necessary, as you well know.”
Gurney barely kept his fury in check. “What I know is that you defied me. The penalty for disobeying my orders is death. Kneel.”
Enno’s eyes flashed. He raised his chin in one more gesture of defiance. “I only did the will of Muad’Dib.”
“Kneel!” When Enno did not immediately obey, Gurney motioned to the four escort soldiers who, after the briefest hesitation, pushed down on Enno’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Gurney took the Atreides kindjal and assumed a fighting stance with it.
“I was doing the will of Muad’Dib,” Enno intoned, like a prayer.
“He was doing the will of Muad’Dib,” one of the soldiers said. But he and his companions stepped back, out of the way.
Before events could slip out of his control again, Gurney slashed sideways with the razor-edged knife. The blade bit deep, tearing across Enno’s throat, severing the jugular and the carotid, sawing through the windpipe.
Normally, a red spray would have sprouted from the larynx like the tail of a flamebird, but the thick blood and the rapid coagulation in the Fremen genes slowed the flow somewhat, so that crimson merely bubbled and poured out, spilling across Enno’s chest and the Galacian ground. Although the defiant man twitched and gurgled, his gaze never left Gurney’s until he collapsed.
As the Fremen soldiers stared at what he had done, Gurney felt a thousandfold increase in his own personal danger. So be it. He could not permit such a lack of discipline to go unpunished. He stood, looking for a moment at the blood on the kindjal and on his hand, then turned to the surprised and angry-looking men. One muttered, “He was only doing the will of —”
“I am the will of Muad’Dib!” Gurney scowled down at the body, then looked up at the trophy on the post. “Take away Lord Colus’s head and see that his people have it for a proper burial. As for Enno, you may carry his body and his water back to Dune, but his head remains here.” He pointed. “On the spike.”
From the uneasy muttering, Gurney knew that the superstitious Fremen would fear that an angry ghost might follow them. Gurney looked directly at the corpse as he spoke. “And if Enno’s shade has something to say to me, then he can follow me as he wishes. You men are merely following my orders, as every soldier is required to do.”
He stalked off, but the disgust and dismay in the pit of his stomach only increased. He suspected that the Fremen would portray Enno as a martyr, a man not only blessed because he had drowned and come back to life, but also a veritable holy man who had disobeyed his non-Fremen commander in order to do what Muad’Dib would have wanted.
Gurney knew Paul Atreides well, however, and knew the young Emperor was not nearly so bloodthirsty and vicious as his followers believed him to be. Not in his heart, anyway.
Gurney fervently prayed that he was not wrong in his own heart.
Both the Bene Gesserit and the Tleilaxu are fixated on the advancement of their own breeding programs. The Sisterhood’s records encompass thousands of years as they seek to perfect humanity for their own purposes. The Tleilaxu have more commercial aims in their genetic research — producing gholas, Twisted Mentats, artificial eyes, and other biological products that are sold around the Imperium at great profit. We advise extreme caution in dealing with either group.
—excerpt from a CHOAM report
A military officer arrived unexpectedly at Tleilax, announcing that he was on the “business of the Emperor” and demanding to see Count Hasimir Fenring.
Fenring did not like surprises. Agitated, he rode in a tubecar that sped away from the noxious expanse of the dead lake and across the plain from Thalidei to the isolated spaceport where the visitor had been allowed to land. What could this possibly mean? He had taken great pains to keep his location a secret, but there seemed no limit to the reach and influence of Muad’Dib.
He arrived at a high, one-story structure built of black plasmeld that was fronted with an array of tinted windows. With its curved surfaces and organic shape, the building looked like something that a worm might have excreted.
He entered the lobby, and two lower-caste Tleilaxu guided him across the glistening black floor. His escorts seemed just as displeased by the unannounced visitor. In the small and stuffy cafeteria, Fenring was surprised to see a familiar, craggy-faced man. It had been years since they’d seen each other, and it took him a moment to recall the correct name. “Bashar Zum Garon?”
The officer rose from a table where he had been drinking an oily-looking beverage. “You are a difficult person to locate, Count Fenring.”
“Hmm-ahhh, intentionally so. But I should know not to underestimate the resourcefulness of a Sardaukar officer.”
“No, you should not. I come at the request of Emperor Shaddam.” “Hmm-m-m, not the Emperor I expected. How did you find me?”
“Shaddam ordered it.”
“And a loyal Sardaukar always follows orders, hmmm? You are still in charge of Shaddam’s personal guard?”
“What little is left of it, barely more than a police force.” Garon did not look happy. “I commanded the most powerful military force in the Imperium, until Muad’Dib and his fanatical Fedaykin defeated us. Now I am the glorified equivalent of a security guard.” He regained his composure but not before Fenring saw the swift, sharp flicker of hatred there. “Sit with me. The Tleilaxu tea is palatable.”
“I know the stuff well.” Fenring had grown to loathe its faint licorice undertaste almost as much as he loathed the aftertaste of all his dealings with Shaddam. Time and again, the Emperor had stumbled into traps of his own making — and time and again, Fenring had used his resources and wiles to repair the damage. Even after the original Arrakis Affair, when the Harkonnens and the Sardaukar troops should have wiped out House Atreides, Fenring had spent more than a billion Solaris on gifts, slave women, spice bribes, and tokens of rank. Squandered money and resources. Now, though, his former friend had fallen into a pit so deep he could never claw his way out.
Fenring slid into a hard plasmeld chair that was too low to the floor, designed for the shorter Tleilaxu Masters. He waited for the Bashar to explain his business. Only one other cafeteria table was occupied, by a Tleilaxu man who ate stew in a rapid and messy fashion.
Garon stirred his tea, but didn’t drink. “I spent many years in Imperial service. Then, after the death of my son Cando defending Shaddam’s amal project…” His voice trailed off, but he regained his composure. “After that, I voluntarily stripped off all marks of my former rank and departed from Kaitain, expecting never to return. For a time I retired to my estate on Balut, but that didn’t last long before Muad’Dib ordered me back into service and assigned me to Shaddam. It seems that the former Padishah Emperor was insisting that I take charge of security in his exile. Not only did he kill my son, but he foolishly led the Sardaukar to suffer their first-ever military defeat.”
The Count clearly remembered the catastrophic end of the amal project, “Your son died valiantly in the defense of Ix. He showed great courage leading a Sardaukar charge against overwhelming odds.”
“My son died trying to protect an idiotic, greedy attempt to develop and monopolize artificial spice.”
“Hmm-ahh, and does Shaddam know you feel this way?”
“He does n
ot. If I had my son’s courage, I would tell him so. Shaddam says he has fond memories of my flawless loyalty.” Garon cleared his throat, changed the subject, but the bitter tone remained in his voice. “Regardless, he sent me to find you and deliver a message. Shaddam wishes you to know that he still holds you in the highest esteem. He reminds you that he allowed his Imperial daughter Wensicia to marry your cousin Dalak.”
“Yes, I know.” He thought back, trying to remember his cousin. “I haven’t seen Dalak since he was a boy. I believe I taught him some fighting techniques, even spent some time counseling him about the politics of the Imperium. A good boy. Not the brightest student, but he showed some promise.”
Shaddam had allowed his third daughter to marry him? A true sign of desperation, obviously intended to influence Fenring. Did that mean there might soon be a Corrino heir with Fenring blood? He darkened. “I do not like to be manipulated.”
“No one does. Even so, Shaddam begs you to return to him. He needs your counsel and friendship.”
Fenring did not doubt what Shaddam must have in mind. The Count resented the fallen Emperor for his insistence on ill-advised plans as much as Bashar Garon did. Shaddam has a dangerous sort of intelligence that leads him to believe he is much smarter than he actually is. This causes him to make serious mistakes.
Garon drew an ornate, jewel-handled knife from his sleeve. Fenring’s muscles tightened. Has he been sent to assassinate me? He placed his hand over the concealed needle launcher in his sleeve.
But the Bashar just slid the knife across the table, jeweled hilt first. “This is yours now, a gift from your boyhood friend. He said you would recognize it, know its significance.”
“Yes, I am familiar with this.” The Count turned it over to examine the sharp edge of the blade. “Shaddam presented it to Duke Leto at the Trial By Forfeiture, and later the Duke gave it back to him.”
“More importantly, it is the knife with which Feyd Rautha-Harkonnen dueled Muad’Dib.”
“Ahh, and if that Harkonnen pup had fought better, none of us would be here. Not that Shaddam would have continued to be anything but an unremarkable ruler.”
“At least the Imperium would be stable and not torn apart by Muad’Dib’s growing Jihad,” Garon said quietly.
And Feyd would still be alive… Marie’s true father. But few people knew that.
‘“Honor and the legion,’” Fenring said pensively. It was a Sardaukar motto.
“Precisely. A Sardaukar never dishonors himself, even though Shaddam has brought dishonor upon us. He remains oblivious to how much resentment his remaining Sardaukar feel toward him.”
A smile worked its way across Fenring’s narrow face. “Entire library planets could be filled with the things Shaddam doesn’t know.”
Garon finally took a sip of tea. “His foolishness has cost both of us. A man never gets over losing his son, or his honor.”
“And now you are torn by your oath as a Sardaukar, your duty to serve the Corrinos, and your memories of your son.”
“You understand me too well.”
“If you and I had made the decisions, ahhh, we might have prevented the rise of Muad’Dib. But there are still things we can do, hmm? We have an opportunity here, you and I. If he were removed from the equation, being clever and resourceful, we could easily manipulate the ensuing turmoil to our own ends.”
The old Bashar studied Fenring. “You suggest that we work together? You will return to Salusa Secundus, then?”
Fenring stared at the jewel-handled knife. “Tell the Emperor that while I appreciate his offer, my answer must be no, for the time being. I have other… opportunities here, and I intend to pursue them.”
“Shaddam will be angry that I have failed in my mission.”
“Hmm, then leave open the possibility that I might change my mind. Keep him on nice, sharp tenterhooks. To maintain that illusion, I’ll keep his gift of the knife. I know the way he thinks. He will, ahhh, believe that I owe him a favor in return. In the meantime, my darling little daughter requires a great deal of shaping and instruction.”
“And what significance does this daughter hold?”
Sardaukar had such a tendency to see everything in black-and-white terms! “She has a great deal of significance, my dear Bashar. What if we were to bypass the fool on Salusa and find a way to overthrow Paul-Muad’Dib ourselves?”
Garon sat back in his chair, struggling not to show his shock. “Harsh times require harsh actions.”
Fenring pressed his point. “Shaddam’s failings as an Emperor left the people so eager to replace him that a violent upstart such as Muad’Dib could step into the vacuum, bolstered by his fanatics. Now, however, it’s becoming clear that Muad’Dib may be worse than Shaddam ever was — and we need to stop the slaughter any way we can, and establish a new order.”
Garon inhaled a long, deep breath, and nodded. “We must take the course of honor. In doing so, we can reverse a great wrong that is being committed against humanity. We are honor-bound to make the effort.”
Fenring extended his hand across the table, and Garon grasped it firmly. Personally, the Count didn’t care that much about honor, but this old soldier certainly did. It was both Bashar Zum Garon’s strength, and his weakness. It only remained for Fenring to work out the details and put a plan into action.
The boundaries of an empire are vast, but a truly effective government extends no farther than a planet, a continent, or even a village. People have difficulty seeing farther than their nearest horizon.
—MUAD’DIB, Politics and Bureaucracy
He stood on the balcony, a lonely figure. Late at night, the lights of Arakeen were low and a rising First Moon cast long shadows across the burgeoning city to the desert escarpments beyond. High on the ridge line, a delta of sand creased the broad expanse of the Shield Wall, where Paul had shattered the barrier with atomics to allow attacking sandworms into the basin. The Shield Wall was a natural object that had been blasted in battle by a mere man. A mere man.
The people did not see him as such. The young Emperor returned to bed but lay awake, restless. Countless military campaigns remained to be fought across the galaxy, and Paul-Muad’Dib was their inspiration on the path to eternal glory. Fremen would not let themselves see any frailties in their messiah.
Sometimes his prescient visions were only general impressions, other times vivid images and specific scenes. The Jihad itself had always been like a high mountain range across his life’s path — unavoidable, dangerous. He had tried to deny it initially, but then he had forged ahead, facing the difficulties, the treacherous cliffs, the unexpected storms. He was the guide for the human race, wanting to lead them through safe passes, but knowing he could not avoid every avalanche, flash flood, rockfall, or lightning strike. Race consciousness demanded otherwise.
His own terrible purpose demanded otherwise. No matter what choices he made, a great many would still perish before they reached the promised land beyond.
Paul envisioned an energy-force of pomp, ostentation, and bureaucracy that would grow around him. The signs were already apparent. At first, this would wear the guise of a powerful and necessary machine, but it would eventually metastasize and grow like a cancer. For a time, he knew he must accept the malignancy because it would fuel the Jihad.
Already, Dune was the hub of the new universe. Millions and millions of pilgrims would come here on hajj. Important decisions would be made on this hallowed ground, and from here Muad’Dib’s legions would continue to be dispatched to the farthest reaches in order to enforce his wishes.
From Arrakeen, the newly planned Citadel of Muad’Dib would radiate light all across the galaxy. His palace would be enormous and breathtaking. The people, and history, demanded it.
Old neighborhoods and disjointed slums had already been razed to make room for the colossal structure. After dawn that day, construction was slated to begin.
THE OLD ARRAKEEN Residency would form the core of the huge building, but before
long the new palace would swallow all external traces of the original home of House Atreides on Arrakis, once also the long-term base of Count Fenring and Lady Margot. Paul stood with an intense Korba and an exuberant Whitmore Bludd inside a vaulted chamber, watching the reactions of both Chani and Irulan.
Swordmaster Bludd proudly displayed shimmering projection models of the buildings, gardens, and avenues of the future Citadel of Muad’Dib. The plans alone were large enough to fill much of the room. Projection technicians busily put finishing touches on some of the models, monitored by the watchful eyes of assistant architects.
Bludd had done a remarkable job of balancing the wishes and ideas of so many people, while maintaining his personal vision for “humanity’s greatest architectural triumph.” For many years already, he had served as a de facto manager of all of Archduke Ecaz’s holdings, and now he would coordinate the armies of workers, the flow of materials, and the budget (though even the poorest waifs sleeping on the dry streets of Arrakeen willingly offered their last coins to Muad’Dib).
Speaking on behalf of the Qizarate, Korba provided input on four immense temples that would be constructed on the grounds and connected to the main citadel complex blossoming around the old mansion. Even before the first great walls had been raised, he insisted on ornamenting the city-sized structure with religious statuary and various objects of a spiritual nature. “Every facet of the citadel must enlarge the persona and legend of the Emperor Muad’Dib, elevating him to his appropriate stature.”
Glancing at Korba, Paul thought of his remaining Fedaykin, remembering the purity of their devotion. Back when the battles had been straightforward and the enemies clearly identified — Harkonnens, Sardaukar — they had sworn their lives to defend him. Many of those elite fighters were even now engaged in battles of the Jihad — the loyal Otheym, Tandis, Rajifiri, and Saajid. Knowing their skills and bravery, he had reserved his Fremen — a mere fraction of his fighting force — for the most difficult conquests, the bloodiest engagements.
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