Paul of Dune

launched his attack on Caladan. Those were Paul’s people. Duke Leto’s people — Atreides people. They might imagine that he had forgotten about them, but he would prove otherwise.

Paul-Muad’Dib entered the citadel unannounced and weary, his face, hands, and stillsuit covered with fine dust and sand. Although he was angered by what the spice vision had shown him and burning with the knowledge that he had to stop Thorvald’s hateful plan, he went first to see Chani. He had to impose at least a moment of sanity on his thoughts before he plunged into violence again.

She welcomed him in their quarters, delighted to see him back. Irulan came to the chamber door a short while later, and Paul realized that her network of informants must be quite impressive. No one else had been told of his return.

“Irulan,” he said, since she was the nearest one available who could make things happen, “summon Chatt the Leaper. Tell him I demand to see a Guild representative immediately, someone who can take me up to whatever Heighliner is above us so that I may address the Navigator directly.” He let his simmering anger show in his voice. “If no one with sufficient authority is here within the hour, I shall decrease the Guild’s spice allotment by five percent for the next Standard Year, and dock them another five percent for every further hour of delay.”

Irulan was shocked. “But Husband, you are not presentable… your dirty clothes, your stillsuit. You cannot meet with an ambassador dressed like that.”

“Muad’Dib can do as he wishes,” Chani said, her voice icy as a polar wind. She had stiffened as soon as Irulan entered. “Unpresentable to whom? All come to him. All bow before him.”

Paul said, “I concentrate more easily with dust on my hands and while wearing my stillsuit. Send for the Guild representative, and get Stilgar to the throne room if he isn’t already on his way.”

By the time Muad’Dib and Chani reached the audience chamber, word of the Emperor’s wrath had spread through the fortress’s halls. Administrators rushed to see how they could serve him, while others (either more fearful or more sensible) made themselves scarce.

Alia was already there with Marie Fenring; the two girls had secretive smiles on their faces. “My brother is very angry at someone,” she whispered to her companion.

With only two minutes to spare in the deadline, a lanky, lantern-jawed man in a gray Spacing Guild robe stumbled breathless into the audience chamber. He was accompanied by the quiet, almost sullen Chatt the Leaper, Paul’s liaison with the Guild. The gray-robed man introduced himself as Olar and made an exaggerated bow before the enormous emerald throne. “Emperor Muad’Dib demands my presence?”

“Emperor Muad’Dib requires much more than that. I must speak with you, with your Guild — and with that Navigator up there.” Paul jerked a forefinger toward the ceiling. “Get me a shuttle. I have no time for middlemen or diplomats.”

The Guild representative looked at him, aghast. Chatt remained stony, as did Stilgar. In the prolonged silence, little Marie began to giggle. Olar swallowed once, twice. “As you command, Sire.”

The Guild usually made excuses that their Navigators were never to be seen, that the security of their Heighliners was paramount, and that only certain spokesmen could respond on the Guild’s behalf. But not now. Though many Navigators were so advanced that they had difficulty communicating with primitive human minds, Paul knew they would certainly understand what he had to say. Olar would get him aboard.

Without further delay, Paul marched out of his throne room and gestured for the Guild representative to go with him. “Stilgar, you will accompany me as well. This is a military matter. I may require your knowledge and advice.”

Olar was the type of ambassador Paul preferred: Even though the man was filled with questions and his expression exhibited a great deal of alarm, he was smart enough not to voice every thought that sprang to his mind. Other more garrulous diplomats would have begged for clarification, and made excuses or apologies regardless of what the problem was.

But these Guildsmen knew damned well what they had done: how they had knowingly aided bloodthirsty rebels and were about to assist in an appalling attack on the world Paul had called home for much of his life. Seeing Muad’Dib’s mood, Olar had concluded correctly that he would get no answers, and that questions would only make matters worse.

When the shuttle was finally aboard the Heighliner and had settled into a docking clamp, a walkway extended so that Paul could disembark onto the shell decks. At the end of the walkway stood Guild security men wearing sidearms and blocking his way.

Stilgar barked, “Stand aside and remove your weapons in the presence of Muad’Dib!”

Another Guild representative, also in a gray robe, stood behind the security men like a shadow. “Apologies, Sire. For reasons of safety and security, it is Spacing Guild policy that no outsider can disturb a Navigator aboard a Heighliner. All matters must be brought before the appropriate officials. As the highest-ranking representative aboard this ship, I will be happy to deal with the Emperor’s concerns.”

“You may come with us, then, but I will speak with the Navigator.”

“Sire, perhaps I was not clear —” the man began. The security men still did not move.

Paul said, “This is my ship, as are all Guildships. Instruct your guards to stand aside immediately and tell your Navigator to anticipate my arrival, unless he would like to spend the rest of his life breathing whatever spice vapors remain in his tank, for if you defy me I will allow no further melange to leave Arrakis.”

Olar interceded. “This is an extraordinary request, but Emperor Muad’Dib so rarely makes demands upon us. I suggest we listen to what he has to say.”

The Guild official, who probably outranked Olar, scowled but gestured for the security men to stand aside. Paul strode between them, with Stilgar half a step behind. The Guildsmen led the way to the Navigator’s deck.

The Navigator was an exotic creature, enclosed in a tank of thick orange gas that reeked of melange, even through its seals. The dense cloud disguised some of the creature’s deformities — which were somehow linked to his mental enhancements — but through the thick plaz Paul could discern the bobbing, overlarge head on a wattled stalk of a neck. He had never seen a Steersman personally, but he could not waste time staring now.

“Beric,” said Olar. “Our Emperor Muad’Dib wishes to —”

Paul interjected loudly, without preamble. “I know of the plot Memnon Thorvald intends to launch against my homeworld of Caladan, and I know of the Guild’s collusion with him.”

“Sire, we have no knowledge of this whatsoever,” Olar said.

“The Spacing Guild is loyal to Muad’Dib,” stated the other official, whose name was insignificant to Paul. “We know that you control the spice, and thus control all space travel. Why would we support any rebellion?”

Beric the Guild Navigator, interestingly, said nothing.

Paul said, “With my prescience, I have seen Thorvald’s warships being taken aboard two Guild Heighliners. I have also seen that this very ship in which I stand has carried the troops and weaponry of twelve other rebel noblemen who are allied with him. Thus, I know the Guild is not only aware, but is willingly cooperating.”

“Perhaps… prescient vision… imperfect,” Beric finally said, a distorted voice through the speakers of his tank.

“And is your prescient vision imperfect, when you choose safe paths for a ship to travel?” Paul countered.

“Not… mine,” Beric said. “But prescience is…” His eerie voice trailed off, as he apparently decided not to pursue a particular line of reasoning.

Paul looked around the thick-walled chamber. The smell of recycled spice was dizzying. Indeed, in the Navigator’s presence with its folds of tangled timelines, the acuity of Paul’s predictive vision was greatly diminished. Admittedly his own prescience did not always function perfectly. In this case, however, his melange dream had shown him all of the ships and all of Thorvald’s soldiers. Without any doubt, he had seen the attack they meant to lead.

He knew.

“Would you like me to describe every one of their ships?” Paul said. “Shall I name every one of the planets where they were picked up? The Guild has willingly provided transport to those who are leading an insurrection against me. All of Thorvald’s allies will be aboard two specific Heighliners. They intend to launch an assault against Caladan — against Caladan! They want to take my mother and Gurney Halleck hostage, or kill them… and you have cooperated in this.”

Listening to the accusations, Stilgar seemed to tense, like a tightly wound spring; he clearly did not like this