Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  One more reason not to assist Shaddam, one more reason to despise the man’s ineptitude. Fenring had half a mind to expand his plot and exterminate the Corrinos as well as Muad’Dib. Kill them to the last man, woman, and child. Burn their planets. Wipe them off the map of the universe.

  Maybe later. With Marie on the throne, it would be done. Everything in its time. Muad’Dib was the true enemy. Shaddam was just… irrelevant.

  “Why don’t we let the child demonstrate her abilities against Dr. Ereboam’s ghola soldiers?” Fenring said, intentionally taunting the albino researcher. Right now, he needed an outlet for his rage. Marie waited nearby, alone in a game room. Since killing Thallo, she no longer had a playmate.

  “Do you seriously wish to pit your girl against a dozen trained ghola soldiers?” Garon asked, in disbelief.

  “Fifteen,” Fenring said. He knew that in private training sessions she had already proved herself more than capable of handling such a challenge. “Mmm, yes, that should be fair enough.”

  MARIE’S EYES FLASHED dangerously as she was led into a small indoor combat arena. She had been told it was time to play. Fenring felt a rush of adrenaline as he smiled at her, feeling complete confidence in the sweet little girl.

  Lady Margot seemed just as eager. “Now you shall see what a Bene Gesserit child can do when seasoned with my husband’s advice, and a dash of Tleilaxu Twisting techniques. She has a far broader skill set than any previous assassin.”

  Fifteen uniformed ghola fighters chosen by Ereboam had already been sent into the combat room and armed with real weapons, at the insistence of the Fenrings. The Count patted Marie on her blonde head and handed the girl a dagger. “This is all you should need, hmmm?” He bent down to kiss her forehead.

  “It’s all I need.”

  Margot kissed her daughter’s cheek before sending her into the enclosed arena. The muscular, fully grown soldiers faced Marie, looking at the girl in uneasy confusion as the door sealed, leaving the observers outside.

  “Now,” Margot said, using the implacable command of Voice, “extinguish all the lights. She will fight in complete darkness.”

  “Hmm-ah, yes,” Fenring agreed, his eyes sparkling. “That should make it more of a challenge.”

  THE COUNT COULD see that Bashar Garon was alarmed to hear a flurry of commotion on the combat floor — darts flying and weapons clashing, cries of surprise and pain from the ghola fighters. Several screamed as they died. The darkness remained absolute.

  He smiled to himself and gripped Lady Margot’s hand on her lap. He felt her pulse quicken. “Just a little controlled violence,” Fenring said to the Sardaukar commander, as if to ease Garon’s concerns.

  “But they are so many and she is so small,” the Bashar said.

  Men continued to cry out, and then everything fell eerily silent. Thirty seconds later, the lights went back on.

  On the floor, Marie stood looking up at the viewing area. Motionless bodies lay at her feet — the best fighters that the Tleilaxu had to offer. At some point she had discarded her dagger; the girl was speckled with blood on her hands, feet, and face. Count Fenring was still struck by how small and innocent she looked. He couldn’t have been prouder. “Amazing,” Garon said.

  “A waste of our best gholas,” Dr. Ereboam added bitterly.

  “Perhaps you need to start with better genetic material,” Lady Margot said with an edge of sarcasm.

  Fenring watched the other Tleilaxu Masters conferring among themselves in their rude, secret tongue. He didn’t care what they were saying. Their body language revealed enough.

  Marie had functioned with deadly precision, synthesizing the wealth of teachings she had been given. With a thrill of fear, he wondered if the girl might be able to best even him. Fenring turned to his wife and saw that her eyes held a sheen of unshed tears. Joyful tears, he thought.

  He said tersely, “She is ready.”

  A written “fact” is considered innately more true than spoken gossip or hearsay, but physical documents have no greater claim to accuracy than an anecdote from an actual eyewitness.

  —GILBERTUS ALBANS, Mentat Discourses on History

  The Imperium reeled from the impact of the violence in the Celestial Audience Chamber, and the people’s reactionary anger displayed itself in increasingly deadly raids on new planets. The jihadis demanded retribution on Muad’Dib’s behalf, and many innocent populations paid the price.

  Worse, Irulan watched Paul turn a blind eye to the unjust bloodshed.

  No one of importance paid any attention to the death of her sister. Rugi was merely a name on a list of casualties, and few people remarked on the fact that she was the youngest daughter of the Padishah Emperor, a man once described as “the Ruler of a Million Planets.” The spotlight of history focused only upon Muad’Dib and the ever-mounting violence around him. House Corrino had become no more than a footnote in history… just as Swordmaster Bludd had vowed not to be.

  But Irulan could not drive away the memory of holding her sister’s body in her arms, and she allowed herself a flash of hatred for Paul, because he had not cared about her grief. Had not even noticed it.

  Preoccupied with his new crackdowns and increased security after the threat, Paul did not acknowledge her universe of pain. How hardened he had become! How brutal, steely, and inflexible. Perhaps those were valid traits for the revered godlike leader of a galaxy… but not for a human being. She could not help but feel bitter.

  According to reports, her father had wailed with grief when he learned the news. He had fooled few people with his crocodile tears, but he had certainly gained some sympathy. Poor Shaddam had dutifully sent his youngest and “most beloved” daughter to attend the Great Surrender ceremony, and Muad’Dib had allowed her to be killed! Her father was certainly shrewd to use the tragedy to build momentum, possibly as a lever in another bid for power.

  The Corrino Princess suspected that he had already sent emissaries to find Earl Thorvald, calling upon familial connections, asking the brother of her father’s “dear but regrettably lost” fifth wife, Firenza. Irulan thought he might even succeed, for a while at least.

  Irulan once again took control over her emotions, using her Sisterhood training to discover a resolve that allowed her to balance her conflicting roles. She was not permitted direct influence in the government. She was not a true wife. She was not Paul’s lover.

  But she was still his wife, and the daughter of an Emperor.

  Paul knew her worth, from her writing ability to her knowledge of politics. She had nearly finished writing his early-life ordeals during the War of Assassins, and, like Scheherazade, Irulan would continue to make herself indispensable. His followers devoured any glimpse into his life, his philosophy, his vision for them, for Dune, and for all inhabited planets. His mother, after all, had been a Bene Gesserit. He knew full well the value of mythmaking.

  Irulan’s quarters, with the adjacent offices, solarium, and enclosed dry-climate garden, had been specifically designed to be conducive to her writing. She had plenty of light, meditation areas, uninterrupted concentration, secretaries if she needed them. By Muad’Dib’s command, historical documents were surrendered to her; friends of House Atreides, eyewitnesses to events, even former rivals were strongly encouraged to grant the Princess any interviews she desired.

  Irulan promised herself that one day she would also tell the story of her own upbringing in the Imperial household and find a way to make the death of poor Rugi meaningful. With each passing day the next manuscript neared completion….

  Three Fedaykin guards marched into the enclosed garden where she sat at a small table surrounded by shigawire spools and a reader, filmbooks, and clean spice paper on which to take notes. She looked up, surprised to see Paul himself coming toward her.

  Other than the silent guards, they had no audience, so she felt no need to be overly formal. “Husband, it is quite an unexpected event when you decide to visit me in my private wing.”

 
“I have paid too little attention to your writings,” he said in a voice as flat as the blade of a Sardaukar’s dagger. “There is great unrest, and I am anxious for you to release the next chapter of my story. Nevertheless, I must be careful about what you publish. This time, I will read it more closely.”

  “To censor it?” She feigned indignation, but she had never expected to complete the work without interference.

  “To read it. You know well enough what you should and should not say. I trust you that much.”

  Paul stood before her waiting, not at all relaxed, while Irulan remained seated at her table surrounded by the paraphernalia of the project. The three guards seemed decidedly uncomfortable that she did not throw herself to the ground and abase herself before him. She smiled at this. “I think you should appoint me your official Minister of Propaganda.”

  “You already serve the role — and you do it well.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I am not entirely certain why you do it. You are a ghanima, a prize I won in battle. You cannot revere me as a husband, and I don’t think you lust after power for its own sake. What is your real motive?”

  “I am a scribe of history, my Husband.”

  “No historian is without an agenda. That is why no genuine truth is ever recorded. Is it your wish that I believe you are loyal to me — to the exclusion of your family and the Sisterhood — that you wholeheartedly accept your role? You have no hidden agenda, no scheme?”

  Irulan looked down at her notes, giving herself a chance to marshal her thoughts. “Ask yourself that question, Paul Atreides. Function as a Mentat. Why would I remain secretly loyal to House Corrino, to my father? He failed. Why would I follow the secret instructions of the Bene Gesserit? They failed, too. Where do I have the most to gain? As your loyal wife. Look at me, ask the question, and decide for yourself where I should invest my efforts.” She watched him follow the logic.

  He bent over the table, picked up a few pages from the stack of papers on which she had been writing, and skimmed them, his eyes darting with the speed of static electricity. Then he picked up the entire manuscript.

  “Before long, I will depart. I feel the need to … go on a meditative retreat after the recent terrible events. In the meantime, Korba will read this.”

  Irulan gave him a mirthless smile. “Korba sees what he wants to see.”

  Paul handed the manuscript to one of the guards, who took it as if the pages contained either holy scripture or incriminating evidence. “Yes, he is predictable. But useful because of that.”

  And so am I, Irulan thought.

  PART VI

  Young Paul Atreides

  10,187 AG

  In the jungles of Caladan, Paul Atreides learned the value of ferocity, of going after his enemies instead of letting them pursue him. From our current perspective, this must be seen as one of the factors that made him the most aggressive Emperor in the long history of the Imperium. He accepted the necessity of pursuing his enemies and killing them without a modicum of compassion or regret.

  In his first experience of actual war, joining his father on the battlefields of Grumman, Paul saw how violence could infect men with irrationality, how hatred could extinguish reason. And he came to understand that the most dangerous enemy is not the man with the most weapons, but the man with the least to lose.

  —A Child’s History of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  A sharp edge does not automatically make a sword a good weapon. Only the wielder can do that.

  —Swordmaster credo

  When he and Duncan rejoined the Atreides troops on Ecaz before the combined force departed for Grumman, Paul proudly wore a new Atreides uniform. After surviving in the wilds of Caladan, the young man took care to present himself properly to his father, without looking like a popinjay or a cadet who had never felt dirt under his fingernails. Paul had noticed that none of the veterans, such as Duncan and Gurney, looked overly polished. They had a hardened, professional appearance, and their weapons were worn from use and frequent cleaning. Not gaudy, but perfectly serviceable.

  He and Duncan went to the landing field outside the Ecazi Palace, where the Atreides and Ecazi armies prepared for their primary strike against Hundro Moritani. This combined fighting force would be more than enough to crush the Grumman leader and avenge those who had been killed by the Viscount’s ruthless schemes.

  Paul and Duncan found Duke Leto standing in the shadow of the Atreides private frigate. The young man couldn’t wait to tell him what he had been through. He wondered if the Duke would shed a tear upon learning of his mother’s death….

  Leto surveyed his troops from the base of the embarkation ramp. In an instant, Paul noted the extra shadows around his father’s eyes. The scars on the nobleman’s heart had never healed from the deaths of Victor and Kailea, and the tragedy of his friend Rhombur. The murder of Ilesa had opened fresh wounds and, studying his father now, Paul saw a new haunted look. Duke Leto had been through his own ordeal here on Ecaz.

  He embraced Paul, but seemed hesitant to show his relief and joy. He smiled at the Swordmaster. “Duncan, you’ve kept my son safe.”

  “As you commanded, my Lord.”

  As the clamor of activity continued around them, with soldiers checking weapons and hustling aboard frigates, following their sub-commanders, Paul and Duncan told their stories. In turn Leto told them how he had killed Prad Vidal by his own hand. He seemed to take no pride in it. “That is what a War of Assassins is all about, Paul. Only the correct combatants face death, not innocents.”

  Armand Ecaz came to them, accompanied by two gray-suited Guild legates, a male and a female, though both looked remarkably sexless. “Leto, we have formalities to attend to.” The Archduke kept his empty sleeve pinned to his side, like a badge of honor; by now he had recovered enough that he could complete his duties without being slowed by the handicap. “Forms and agreements.”

  “Yes, we follow all the rules,” Leto said bitterly. “The prescribed niceties of civilization.”

  The Guild legates peered through droopy eyelids, and when they spoke they were entirely passionless, as if only husks of their bodies remained. “The forms must be obeyed,” the female legate said with emphasis.

  “And we have obeyed the forms,” Leto replied, somewhat curtly. Paul knew he was anxious to dispatch the frigates to the Heighliner and head off to Grumman. He looked up at Gurney Halleck, who scowled at the bureaucrats from the entry hatchway. When Paul caught his friend’s gaze, the lumpy face transformed to a smile.

  “All necessary documents have been filed with the Landsraad, and copies sent to Spacing Guild headquarters on Junction,” said Archduke Armand. “This is a proper, legally sanctioned military action.”

  Leto added, “Thufir Hawat presented our case before the Emperor, and an Ecazi ambassador has done the same. Shaddam IV publicly censured Viscount Moritani, so he has implicitly accepted our grievance.”

  Gurney spoke up, “‘Once God casts His game piece, it is best to stay out of the way.’” Paul had never heard the quote before, and wondered if Gurney had made it up. “And now, by the grace of God and under the shield of vendetta, we intend to hit the Grummans hard.” Gurney’s words carried an unspoken dare, as if provoking the Guild legates to try and stop them.

  The strangely identical representatives simply bowed and took a step backward. “It is so. You may bring this battle to House Moritani, though the Emperor himself reserves the right to intervene, if he so chooses.”

  “Intervene?” Leto asked. “Or interfere?”

  Neither legate answered the question. “You have permission to load your military forces aboard the Heighliner.” They departed swiftly.

  Archduke Armand snapped orders for his troops to board the frigates in an orderly fashion. Gurney hustled about, keeping the operation in order, shouting even louder than the warming spacecraft engines.

  Duncan, though, remained beside the Duke, looking saddened, even shamed. He unwrapped a bundle he carried under his
arm and presented the worn hilt and discolored, damaged blade of the Old Duke’s sword. “My Lord, this was your father’s weapon. You told me to carry it with honor and use it to defend House Atreides. I have done so, but I am afraid that —” He could not speak further.

  Paul said, “Duncan used it to save me, many times over.”

  Leto looked at the famous sword that Paulus Atreides had used for his popular spectacles on Caladan and his legendary battles during the Ecazi Revolt fighting alongside Rhombur’s father. Duncan had carried the proud blade for years, fought with it, trained Paul against it.

  Duke Leto’s chuckle was a startling contrast to Duncan’s glum demeanor. “That weapon has more than served its purpose, Duncan. It shall be retired with honor when we get back to Castle Caladan. For now, I need your fighting arm and a sharp blade in your hand. You are a Swordmaster of Ginaz, in service to House Atreides. It is high time you had a sword of your own.”

  Duncan looked at Paul, smiling uncertainly, then back at Leto. “A fresh new blade before going into battle on Grumman. Yes, my Lord, that would be a fine christening.”

  AN ODDLY QUIET Swordmaster Bludd meticulously searched the armory and museum wing of the Archduke’s palace until he found a sword he considered appropriate for Duncan Idaho. He insisted it had to be a masterpiece of metallurgy and craftsmanship that had never been used in battle.

  The foppish man carried the gleaming weapon solemnly. As he stepped forward, he flexed the blade and made quick, expert thrusts to each side. “A fitting piece,” Bludd said. “I tested it myself.” He looked teary eyed as he presented it to the Duke, who then turned to Duncan.