He and Lady Margot came within view of a white building eight stories tall — eight, a sacred number to this superstitious race. “Hmmm, at first, Master Ereboam refused to let me bring you here, my dear, but he finally assented. He even decided to show us something special.”
“Perhaps I should have worn an opera dress for the occasion,” she said with clear sarcasm.
“Be sweet, Margot. I know you can do it. Don’t insult our host.”
“I haven’t yet.” She manufactured a smile. “But there’s a first time for everything.” She took him by the arm and they walked toward the building.
The Tleilaxu doctor waited for them by the security field of the arched main doorway of the facility. The pockets of his traditional white laboratory smock bulged, as if filled with secrets. With milky white skin and hair and a pointed white goatee, Master Ereboam was a startling albino in a race that was commonly gray-skinned and black-haired — an unsettling hereditary accident among genetic experts.
Ereboam called out in a cheerful voice. “My spotters say you took the long way here. An alleyway connector would have reduced your walk by at least five minutes.”
“I don’t like alleys,” Fenring said. Too many shadows and places for an ambush.
“Very well, I accept your apology.” He patted Fenring on the back in a manner uncharacteristic of the normally reserved Tleilaxu. Ignoring Margot entirely, as he invariably did, Dr. Ereboam led the two of them through the security field, down a hallway, and into a windowless room where thirty tall, slender men stood with their backs turned. All wore body filmsuits, in accordance with the typical Tleilaxu prudishness; Fenring doubted if the Masters ever looked at themselves naked.
In unison, the men all faced forward, and Fenring chuckled, as did Margot. Though of varying ages, every one of them looked identical — all duplicates of the Baron Harkonnen’s Twisted Mentat Piter de Vries, staring ahead with eyes set in narrow-featured faces.
The original de Vries had been killed on Kaitain by the witch Mohiam. Afterward, the Baron had been served by a ghola of the Mentat, who had purportedly died on Arrakis along with the captive Duke Leto Atreides in a mysterious release of poison gas.
“Gholas?” Fenring asked. “Why are there so many of them?”
“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had a standing order for us to keep several ready for delivery. The growth and Twisting process takes a good deal of time.”
“The Baron has been dead for a year,” Margot pointed out.
Ereboam frowned at her, then deigned to answer. “Yes, and they are therefore no longer commercially viable. We contacted other noble houses to try to market them elsewhere, but the Baron managed to taint the reputation of this one. Such a waste of time and resources, and now this line has been discontinued. At least they can serve as experimental subjects for a new nerve poison. Observe. That is why I’ve brought you here.”
In unison, the de Vries gholas took on identical expressions of agony and clutched at their heads. As if choreographed, they fell writhing to the floor one by one, with the degree of their reactions depending on the strength of the poison to which they’d been exposed. They all began babbling long strings of prime numbers and tables of useless facts. Fenring exchanged a quizzical glance with his wife.
“The new poison is a marketable assassination tool,” Ereboam said. “How delightful; their thoughts are detonating inside their brains. Soon they will all go insane, but that is a mere side effect, however interesting it may be. Death is our primary goal with this substance.”
Thick blood and mucous began running out of the mouths, ears, and nostrils. Some of the victims screamed, while others whimpered.
“Because they are all virtually identical,” Ereboam continued, “these discontinued gholas provide an opportunity for us to test various potencies of the neurotoxin. A controlled experiment.”
“This is barbaric,” Margot said, not bothering to keep her voice down.
“Barbaric?” Ereboam said. “Compared to what Muad’Dib has set loose on the universe, this is nothing.”
Count Fenring nodded, realizing that the Tleilaxu man was making some sense — in his own twisted way.
9
It is far better to win a battle through skilled leadership and wise decisions than violence and bloodshed. It may not seem as glorious to the uninitiated, but in the end it results in fewer wounds — of any kind.
—THUFIR HAWAT, House Atreides Master of Assassins
It was a matter of simple mathematics, and the numbers did not add up.
For years before it happened, Paul had experienced visions of his Jihad, a storm of armed and fanatical Fremen sweeping across star systems, planting the banners of Muad’Dib and slaughtering any populations that resisted. Though history would paint a dark picture of his rule, Paul could see beyond the next sand dune in the wasteland of time, to the next, and the next. He knew that his Jihad would be but a flurry compared with the titanic upheavals that lay ahead in the path of human destiny, upheavals that would be far more deadly if he failed now.
While still on Kaitain, having dispatched the Fremen warriors to other battlefields and summoned cleanup and reconstruction crews to cement the occupation of the former Imperial capital, he considered his next move. Although he missed Chani greatly, he had vital work to do here.
To win this Jihad he would have to lay down a new, enduring rule. He had to derail humanity and its politics from the rut into which it had allowed itself to fall. No, not a rut, he decided. A death spiral.
But the numbers…
On the entire planet of Arrakis, Paul knew there were perhaps ten million Fremen scattered among numerous sietches. Ten million, half of whom were men, of which perhaps a third could be called upon to act as warriors in his Jihad. Less than two million fighters… and he knew from his dreams, his calculations, and cold logic that he would have to conquer — maybe even slaughter — countless populations before this war was over.
Even with all the faithful, though, he simply did not have enough fighters to make this a strictly military conquest. His soldiers, no matter how dedicated, couldn’t possibly kill everyone who disagreed with him. Besides, he had no desire to be the emperor of a galaxywide charnel house.
Though Paul’s prescience told him he had to win many victories, he hoped to prevail on most leaders of the Imperium with subtlety and intelligence, using sophisticated means of persuasion. His mother had already begun to make overtures for him. He had to demonstrate that surrender to and alliance with Muad’Dib was a smart decision, the best alternative. The only alternative. But in order to accomplish that, he needed to employ the Paul Atreides side of his brain, rather than the raw Fremen side of Muad’Dib. Through all available means, he needed to control what remained of the Landsraad. He needed to gather allies.
While his initial instinct was to return to Arrakeen and summon the members of the most important noble Houses, Paul decided that could send the wrong signal, because seeing him there the noblemen might consider him a piratical leader of desert bandits. On Dune, Paul was surrounded by a groundswell of fanaticism, the resolute loyalty that was simply not understandable to anyone who did not grasp the power of blind religious devotion. After years of complacency under the secular Corrino Imperium, many Landsraad members had paid little attention to religion, viewing the Orange Catholic Bible as nothing more than a document of deep historical interest but without true passion.
Even if Paul called in old family alliances and recruited the political friends of his father, it was not likely to be enough. Paul’s jihadis might even kill some of the recalcitrant nobles, showing them a different kind of passion that even Paul might not be able to stop. There were potential second- and third-level consequences that he did not like, and he knew his prescience would not show him every possible pitfall.
So, the Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib made plans to summon them to Kaitain. A familiar place, and a symbol of how much he had already conquered in so short a time.
&nbs
p; With the Imperial Palace torched and the marvelous city ransacked, he dispatched urgent protocol teams to prepare for the event. They cleaned the gutted Landsraad Hall of Oratory and rehung the banners of all the Houses who had agreed to attend.
Paul selected the invited representatives carefully. Duke Leto had been quite popular among important families, so much that he had unwittingly sparked Shaddam’s jealousy — a resentment that had led to the Duke’s political entrapment and murder on Arrakis. But even all of his father’s friends would not be enough. He would also need to rely on the numerous planetary rulers who bore their own enmity toward Shaddam IV — and there were many of those from which to choose. When the guest list was set, his subordinates arranged Guild passage to bring the invited Landsraad representatives to Kaitain. For the event, Muad’Dib had personally guaranteed their safety and offered them incentives.
While Paul waited for the delegates to arrive, Fedaykin guards swept the former Imperial city. They rooted out any “suspicious” people and locked them up, all in the name of ensuring the safety of the Emperor. Paul had an unsettling realization that his own people were resorting to tactics quite similar to those the Harkonnens had used, but he also understood the very real threat posed by assassins and conspirators. He had to allow some excesses for the greater good, though he doubted his explanations would comfort the families of those innocents who fell victim to Fremen zeal….
On the day of the first official Landsraad meeting in his new reign, Paul stepped onto the central speaking podium and looked out at the anxious and angry faces of the gathered nobles. Brilliant Atreides banners hung on either side of him. Instead of his stillsuit and Fremen robe, he chose to wear an old-design black House Atreides uniform with a red hawk crest prominent on the right breast. His hair had been trimmed, and he had been washed and groomed so that he looked like the proud and dignified son of a noble Duke.
But he could not bleach the blue from his eyes or mask the dark tan of his skin, the weathered creases from windblown dust, the leanness of a face that had adjusted to a much lower water content.
More than sixty noble Houses had sent representatives, and he spotted familiar faces. He noted the old one-armed Archduke Armand Ecaz, who had no legal heir, and whose holdings were primarily managed by his Swordmaster. Also a lead administrator of the technocrats of Ix (Paul was not surprised that the son of House Vernius had not come in person, considering their past). In addition, he picked out O’Garee of Hagal, Sor of IV Anbus, Thorvald of Ipyr, Kalar of Ilthamont, Olin of Risp VII, and others.
Even though his loyal Fremen guards were in evidence in the Hall of Oratory, Paul faced the Landsraad members alone. When he spoke, he raised his voice, pitching his tone to use not only the powers his mother had taught him, but also his intimate knowledge of the nuances of command from his experience in leading Fremen tribes and Atreides soldiers. He owed much to Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and, most of all, to his father. Paul had to remind these men that he was Duke Leto’s son.
“The Padishah Emperor was defeated,” he said, pausing for a moment to let them wonder what he would say next. “Defeated by his own arrogance, by the overconfidence of his Sardaukar, and by the spider web of political machinations that trapped him in much the same way he intended to trap House Atreides.” Another pause, scanning the faces in the assemblage to look for emotion, for anger. He saw some of that, but more fear. “Most of you knew my father, Duke Leto. He instilled in me the principles of honor and leadership, which I intend to maintain on the Imperial throne — if you will let me.”
Paul let his gaze rest on a diminished-looking Armand Ecaz sitting stonily in his chair. Several noblemen and dignitaries were taking notes, and still more leaned forward curiously, waiting to see how they could benefit from the situation.
“As Shaddam had no legal sons, and I have taken his eldest daughter Irulan as my wife, I am the legitimate heir to the Lion Throne. But my rule is not a mere continuation of Corrino rule. We have all learned our lesson from that! Some have seen this transition of power as a time of turmoil, but you can help me establish stability again.”
“Stability?” shouted a man from a high tier. “Not much stability left, thanks to you!” Paul saw that the outspoken man had long gray-blond hair tied back behind his shoulders, a leonine frosty beard, and piercing pale blue eyes. He recognized Earl Memnon Thorvald, the bitter brother of one of Shaddam’s later wives. Paul had invited him, thinking that Thorvald might hold enough of a grudge against the Corrinos to make him an ally. Now though, the Earl’s palpable anger made it clear that he was in another category. Paul might have to isolate him.
“You may speak freely, Earl Thorvald!” Paul shouted to the upper tier. “Though few noble leaders will agree with you.”
Showing surprise at the invitation, Thorvald nonetheless obliged. “Your Fremen armies are like packs of wild wolves. We can all see what they’ve done to Kaitain. They burned the Imperial Palace — and you allowed it!” He gestured. “You call this establishing a rule of stability?”
“Call it the price of war — a war I never sought.” Paul spread his hands across the podium. “We can stop the bloodshed immediately. Your holdings will be safe and protected if you sign an alliance with me. You know the law is on my side, as is the power base. And,” he added, bringing out his most powerful card, “I control the spice. The Spacing Guild and CHOAM are behind me.”
Thorvald’s anger only intensified. “So, our choice is between bloody instability and bowing to religious tyranny?”
Bolig Avati, the lead administrator of the Ixian technocrats, rose to his feet and spoke in a firm voice. “If we agree to your proposed alliance, Paul Atreides, must we worship you as a god? Some of us have outgrown the need for false and convenient deities.”
The Hall filled with angry muttering, some of it directed at the dissenters, some disturbingly in agreement with them. More leaders agreed with Thorvald than Paul anticipated.
Raising his voice over the mounting commotion, Paul said, “My best fighters were bred in the harsh deserts of Arrakis. They fought the ruthless Harkonnens and the Emperor’s Sardaukar. What they have seen of Imperial justice has not benefited them. But if you join me, my Jihad armies will not touch your worlds. One day when there is no enemy left to fight, there will be no more need for a powerful central army.”
He drew a breath, let his expression become sterner. “If my words do not convince you, then I have the option of applying additional incentives — embargoes, monetary levies, even blockades. I have already declared a heavy tariff on any Guild flights servicing worlds that refuse to acknowledge my rule.” As the muttering increased, he made his voice even louder. “I have not yet imposed a complete moratorium on transportation to those planets, but I retain that as an option. I much prefer cooperation to coercion, but I mean to put a speedy end to this wasteful conflict, regardless.”
“From the beginning you planned to become a tyrant, didn’t you?” Thorvald shouted, resting his large hands on the balcony rail of the high tier. “I have had my fill of emperors. The galaxy has had its fill of them. My planet will do just fine without your raving fanatics or benevolent boot heel. The Landsraad made a mistake by allowing House Corrino to rule much too long! And we still haven’t learned our lesson.” He called over his shoulder as he stormed out. “I only hope the rest of you awaken from your semuta trance soon enough.”
Fedaykin guards moved to intercept Thorvald, but Paul signaled them to stop. This was a delicate time. He realized now that he could not, by any means, change the mind of Memnon Thorvald, and if he applied force inappropriately and acted as a bully, he would lose many of these others as well.
“I am glad this occurred,” Paul said, intending to surprise his audience. “I cannot pretend not to be disappointed that Earl Thorvald spurned my offer, but I am glad the rest of you have heard me out, and have decided to be rational.” He glanced from one Atreides banner to the other hanging beside his podium, before tu
rning again to the audience. “You understand my terms.”
10
Those who care nothing for their own lives find it easy to become heroes.
—ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE
A month after returning from the conquest of Kaitain and his meeting with the Landsraad representatives, Paul stood at the edge of the plains of Arrakeen, looking out on the site of his most important military victory. Stilgar had joined him for the upcoming victory ceremony here, after which they would meet with other military advisers to discuss the most effective uses for the elite Fremen warriors. Gurney Halleck had already taken an enthusiastic regiment of fighters to Galacia, but there were many more conquests to plan. And Paul knew the Jihad was just beginning.
He had demanded and obtained records from the Spacing Guild, notations of thousands of planetary systems, so many worlds that only a Mentat could remember them all. He also had full CHOAM company records, since he controlled the majority share, with his Directorship overshadowing all the others combined.
He doubted if Shaddam IV had ever truly grasped the size of his own Imperium, the wealth and territory over which he supposedly ruled. Paul was certain that the Guild and CHOAM kept some profits hidden; whole planets not marked on any charts, their locations known only to the best Steersmen, were used as hiding places for weapons caches, perhaps even stockpiles of confiscated family atomics. All of these planets had to be encompassed in the government of Muad’Dib.
The Battle of Arrakeen now seemed minuscule in comparison with the subsequent clashes that were being fought in Paul’s name. Many thousands had died here, yes, but that was the merest fraction of the numbers that were perishing in ongoing fights across the galaxy.
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