Paul of Dune hod-1

by Brian Herbert

  For those who could not see the large and subtle tapestry of fate, however, this battle was a slaughter of nearly helpless civilians on a formerly peaceful planet.

  The reports would call it a victory.

  But after years of growing more and more separated from the realities of the Jihad, he had decided he needed more than reports. Reports were not enough to convey what was truly happening across the Imperium… what he had set in motion.

  One night inside his quiet, protected Arrakeen quarters that were newly finished by Bludd, he had dreamed of Gurney Halleck, Stilgar, and dozens of other commanders with their legions of Fremen warriors and converts. He valued (and was grateful to) every single one of those men, but he had remained on Dune, perfectly safe, while they fought and died.

  Was that enough? He didn’t think so. Duke Leto had personally led Atreides forces against Grumman during the War of Assassins. Paul knew that reading battlefield summaries could never give him the visceral level of understanding that came from experiencing the harsh conditions with his men, the lack of sleep, the explosions, the constant wariness, the blood. He had dispatched vast armies to crush worlds, and the fighters screamed his name as they died for him — while he remained in the comfort of his palace in Arrakeen.

  Not enough.

  But if he had publicly announced his intention to lead a battle, his generals would have found ways to shield him by choosing a soft planet where there was sure to be only minimal resistance. The battle would have been as false for him as the costume stillsuits that vendors sold to unwary pilgrims. Paul could not simply hide inside his ever-growing citadel and be treated as a god. His father had taught him better than that. The moment a leader forgot his people, he forgot himself.

  Not enough, he had told himself again. He needed to do it on his own terms, and a plan had begun to form in his mind….

  He knew that if any of his Jihad fighters recognized his features from the silhouetted profile on so many banners or on newly minted coins, they would form a protective barrier around him fifty men thick. Battle commanders would refuse to engage the enemy, pull Muad’Dib to safety, and keep him in an orbiting Guild Heighliner for fear that he might come to harm.

  That was why Paul cut and dyed his hair and procured a used uniform before beginning this masquerade as a common soldier. Telling no one but Chani where he was going, he signed up among the blur of recruits joining a new operation. Paul intentionally chose the unit of one of his lesser commanders, Jeurat, someone not familiar with him on a personal level. As a new soldier, he had passed a cursory inspection and demonstrated basic fighting proficiency to a Fremen soldier who could not have been more than eighteen years old. After that, Paul’s unit had crowded aboard a military frigate and flown away from Dune.

  Paul knew that the people he left behind would be frantic, though Chani would assure them he lived, without revealing where he had gone or what he was doing. Even so, they would bemoan the thousands of supposedly important decisions they needed him to make. But he wanted them to be weaned from their dependence on Muad’Dib. If they craved a security blanket, they could simply project a holo-image of him and be comforted.

  If Paul did not do this thing, he feared he might lose all grasp of the true cost he was asking humanity — all unknowingly — to bear.

  Only once had he heard the name of the planet that was their destination, Ehknot. Paul had never seen it marked on any star charts and wondered why it had been labeled such a threat. He doubted even Emperor Shaddam had been aware of this place.

  On Ehknot the ground battles of the Jihad changed, and Paul’s unit was forced to fight using different tactics. On two previous embattled worlds, the truly desperate rebels against Muad’Dib — prodded by Earl Memnon Thorvald — had begun to use lasguns recklessly and maliciously, firing upon shielded warriors. Although anyone shooting a lasgun into a shield would be killed by the feedback pulse, the pseudo-atomic detonation produced by the interaction was so devastating that it wiped out thousands of Jihad soldiers at a time. The death toll in those engagements had been appalling. Such fighting had been reviled and forbidden for millennia, antithetical to all civilized rules of warfare. But the rebels discarded civilized rules. One of the greatest taboos of conflict had been broken.

  People used such tactics only when they had nothing left to lose, and Muad’Dib’s soldiers learned their lesson, becoming wary. To guard against these shocking suicide tactics, they discarded personal shields, and here on Ehknot they fought on a more primal level. Fremen, who had never liked to rely upon body shields, now took up hand-to-hand fighting with crysknives for close-range work, and projectile weapons to shoot down distant targets. Remembering the old Harkonnen military assault on Arrakeen, some of the commanders even used large artillery guns to blast away physical barricades.

  Paul could barely remember his own actions here during the fighting. Once the bloodshed started, he had lost all control of himself. His sight had become only a red haze, and he went into a frenzy more consuming than the most potent spice vision. He did not focus on the razor-thin path to a safe future, did not ponder the vast canvas of history or the requirements prescience had imposed upon him. He merely killed.

  Paul’s fighting skills were still superior to those of most of his warriors, for he had been taught by the best: Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and Gurney Halleck. His mother had shown him Bene Gesserit fighting methods, and among the Fremen he had learned yet another set of skills.

  The battle was a long, difficult moment of insanity for him, though his fellow soldiers came to regard him as a Blessed One, a fanatic of fanatics. By the time the fighting ended, the survivors glanced in his direction with awe, as if they believed he was possessed by a holy spirit.

  In the smoldering aftermath, he heard wailing voices call, “Muad’Dib, save me! Muad’Dib!” With a start, Paul wondered if someone had recognized him, then realized that the wounded were merely invoking any help they could imagine.

  No wonder a hardened Gurney gave no more than lukewarm responses when asked to lead more and more offensives. Planets fell, one after another, and now Paul became aware of the truly heavy toll he had placed on his friend. Affable Gurney, the troubadour warrior whose talent with a baliset was as well known as his skill with a sword. He had made the man an earl of Caladan, then denied him any time to settle there and make a real life. Gurney, I am sorry. And you did not complain for a moment.

  As far as he knew, Stilgar still felt that he belonged with his Fremen warriors, but Paul made up his mind to find a new, planetbound assignment for Gurney, a role that might give him a sense of accomplishment, something other than… this. He deserved better.

  Paul was covered with blood, and his borrowed uniform was torn, but he had only superficial cuts and scrapes. Suk doctors and scavengers combed the battlefield, tending the injured and harvesting the dead. He saw groups of Tleilaxu moving furtively from one fallen warrior to another, taking the most time with the greatest of the dead fighters. The Tleilaxu had always served as handlers of the dead, but these men seemed to be collecting samples….

  Simply one more horror among all the others.

  Paul looked up with eyes that were blue-within-blue from spice addiction, but dry of tears. He saw a shaven-headed man, formerly a Fremen but now a priest, a member of the Qizara. The priest seemed to be experiencing a state of rapture. He raised his hands over the clouds of dust and curls of smoke, absorbing the horror of the battlefield that still throbbed in the air. He looked directly at Paul, but did not recognize him. With Paul’s haunted eyes and blood-spattered face, and covered from head to foot with the filth of battle, he wondered if even Chani would know who he was.

  “You are blessed by God, protected so that you can continue our holy work,” the priest said to him. He swept his gaze slowly across the battlefield, and a smile appeared on his lips. “Ehknot, behold the invincibility of Muad’Dib.”

  Paul did behold, but did not see what the priest saw. And at the mome
nt, no matter what the priest said, he did not feel at all invincible.

  2

  When negotiating the dangerous waters of the Imperium, it is wise to calculate the odds of various outcomes that might follow important decisions. This is art, not science, but at the most basic level it is a methodical process, and a matter of balance.

  — Acolyte’s Manual of the Bene Gesserit

  Lady Margot Fenring had not been to the Bene Gesserit home-world in some time, but it had not changed. Sienna tiles still covered the roofs of the sprawling Mother School complex, which surrounded the main buildings that dated back thousands of years. To the Sisterhood, Wallach IX was a ship of constancy floating in a vast and changing cosmic sea.

  For all their intense study of human nature and society, the Sisterhood was an extremely conservative organization. “Adapt or die” was a primary Bene Gesserit axiom, though they seemed to have forgotten how to follow it. Margot had gradually come to realize this. As far as she was concerned, they were not her superiors. The unparalleled disaster of Paul Atreides and the almost complete loss of Bene Gesserit political power had eroded her respect for them.

  She and her husband had spent years in isolation among the Tleilaxu, raising Marie, developing an overall plan. And now the Mother Superior had summoned her with orders to bring her daughter in “for inspection.”

  Since childhood, Lady Margot had been trained to obey the commands of her superiors — commands that had required her to bear the child in the first place — but the Sisterhood might not get the answers they anticipated. Margot came to Wallach IX on her own terms.

  She hoped the Sisterhood had no additional breeding plans for her. Yes, Lady Margot looked considerably younger than her years, and her willowy beauty had been enhanced by careful and regular consumption of melange and a regimen of prana-bindu exercises. With good fortune, her seductive appearance and reproductive functions would last for several more decades… and Hasimir was so understanding.

  But little Marie should be her culminating achievement. The Sisterhood had to be made to see that.

  Margot had commanded the nanny Tonia Obregah-Xo to remain behind in Thalidei, though the woman had obviously expected to accompany them to Wallach IX. Tonia sent regular reports to the Mother School, using clandestine methods that were only too familiar to Margot herself. Once, Lady Margot had intercepted a message to the Sisterhood and had surreptitiously added her own postscript. That had caused rancor among the Bene Gesserits and a change in secret reporting procedures, but Margot had wanted to let them know that she was her own woman, and that she served at her pleasure, not theirs.

  Nevertheless, she had agreed to make the journey and let the Reverend Mothers “inspect” five-year-old Marie all they wanted, but the Sisterhood would not control her destiny. Too much was at stake.

  Now, she and Count Fenring sat on a garden bench with the girl between them. All of them waiting. Waiting. An obvious and childish game the Sisters were playing. Behind them was the stylized black quartz statue of a kneeling woman: Raquella Berto-Anirul, the founder of the ancient school. Thick rain clouds hung over the school, and the temperature was cool, though not uncomfortable. The courtyard sheltered them from the wind.

  Finally, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam approached with a group of five Sisters, her bird-bright gaze intent on little Marie.

  Lady Margot stood. “I have brought my daughter as requested, Reverend Mother.” An automatic response.

  Mohiam frowned pointedly at Count Fenring. “We do not often allow males to enter the grounds of the Mother School.”

  “Your hospitality is, ahh, noted.” He smiled, keeping a protective hand on the little girl’s shoulder. The Bene Gesserits knew full well that Count Hasimir Fenring was a deadly assassin and master spy himself, so Lady Margot had no doubt that her husband’s presence here caused great consternation among their order.

  Hasimir was himself a failed Kwisatz Haderach, a genetic eunuch and a dead end near the finish line of the millennia-long breeding program. But the actual Kwisatz Haderach, Paul Atreides, had backfired on them, with consequences too disastrous to imagine. From this point on, with Marie’s amazing potential, Count Fenring and Lady Margot were perfectly capable of developing and implementing their own dynastic schemes.

  Both she and her husband had worked for inept superiors. The failures of Shaddam Corrino IV were not unlike those of the Sisterhood. Through a strange and cruel twist of fate, two immense and foolish courses of action had merged into one another to amplify a horrible result. The human race would be a long time recovering from Muad’Dib.

  Reverend Mother Mohiam bent forward, turning her attention to the young girl. “So this is the child.” Reaching out, the old woman passed a hand through the child’s light blonde hair. “I see you have your mother’s lovely features.”

  She’s also noticed a similarity to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, Margot thought.

  “And such milky smooth skin.” Mohiam rubbed one of the girl’s forearms. Marie endured the attention in silence. “Like your mother’s.”

  Mohiam’s hand went quickly into a pocket of her robe, surreptitiously depositing the hair and skin samples she had just taken. It was a matter of procedure, of constant observation and documentation, more information for the breeding files, data points with dates and places and names on them.

  “And the child’s training regimen?” Mohiam looked at Margot.

  “A combination of my knowledge and my husband’s, as well as instructions from her Bene Gesserit nanny. Surely Tonia has sent you detailed reports?”

  Mohiam ignored the latter comment. “Good. We are glad you brought her here so that her education can continue properly. We will keep her, of course.”

  “I am afraid that will, ahhh, not be possible,” her husband said, his voice as taut as a garrote.

  Mohiam was taken aback. The Sisters with her stared at him. “That is not your decision.”

  Smiling prettily, Margot said, “We did not bring Marie to leave her at the Mother School. She does quite well with us.”

  “Ahh, quite well,” Fenring added.

  Margot noted the tension in the air, saw furtive shapes moving behind windows, Sisters hurrying through the porticos. While these five Sisters were watching the little girl most closely, others had been assigned to observe Count Fenring and Margot. Subtle body movements of the three subjects would be recorded and analyzed in the most minute detail. More data points. Somewhere back there lurked the Mother Superior herself.

  “This sudden intractability — has Muad’Dib enlisted you as an ally?” When Mohiam asked this, her robed companions moved closer like a small flock of black birds, as if to protect the old woman from attack.

  Count Fenring laughed, but said nothing; little Marie laughed in a similar tenor.

  “We do not mock you, Reverend Mother,” Margot said. “My family is merely amused at your suggestion that we might be cooperating with the man who overthrew Shaddam Corrino. You all know that my Hasimir considered the former Emperor quite a close friend.” After exchanging glances with the Count, she added, “Rather, we came in response to your summons, with an interesting proposal.”

  Little Marie piped up, “The Imperium has the head of a monster, and it must be decapitated.”

  The Sisters were visibly startled by such bold talk from the child. “Muad’Dib is a monster,” Lady Margot said. “Your own Kwisatz Haderach is completely out of control, and you are at fault. Your plans failed to account for the damage he’s inflicted upon the universe. We must make alternative plans to take care of him.”

  Fenring leaned forward on the stone bench. “Is anyone more hated than the Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib, hmmm?”

  Mohiam did not answer, but Lady Margot knew that the old woman loathed Paul more than most.

  “Perhaps Marie can sit on the throne instead,” Margot said. “Is there anyone better bred? Better suited?”

  The old Reverend Mother snapped backward. Bene Gesserits did not sei
ze power so openly. “They will never accept a child — and a girl at that!”

  “After Muad’Dib, they will be inclined to accept many things, so long as he is gone,” Fenring said.

  The old woman paced, ignoring the other four Sisters, ignoring Marie. The girl stood perfectly still, watching intently, listening to everything. “You are an intriguing combination of motives and methods, Margot. Intriguing, indeed. You defy our ways and jab at our mistakes, while trying to involve us in a dangerous plot.”

  “The Sisterhood must adapt and survive. It is a simple, rational conclusion. Through my husband’s experience and unique abilities, he has worked out a scenario that benefits all of us.”

  Fenring bobbed his head. “There are ways we can get close to Muad’Dib, ways to make him let his guard down.”

  Mohiam’s dark eyes regarded the Count with new interest. “True enough, there is a need to adapt. There is also a need for balance — that too, is one of our precepts. I would hear your proposal, but I insist that the girl be as prepared as possible. As part of any agreement, the girl must remain here for training in the Mother School.”

  “Out of the question.” Margot put an arm around her daughter, and the child snuggled against her.

  Fenring also put an arm around the little girl. “The old ways of the Sisterhood have failed in spectacular fashion, hmmm? Now let us try ours.”

  “You would risk Marie’s life in this enterprise?” Mohiam asked.

  Lady Margot smiled. “Hardly. Our plan is perfect, as is our method of escape afterward.”

  The Reverend Mother’s eyes flashed. “And the details?”