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 turning again to the audience. “You understand my terms.”
10
Those who care nothing for their own lives find it easy to become heroes.
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.
Even so, the significance of the victory on this battlefield had been tremendous, and pivotal. Here, the notorious Baron Harkonnen had perished. Here, the Sardaukar had suffered their first defeat in history. Here, a proud Corrino Emperor had surrendered.
Now the unrelenting sun hung directly overhead, heating the sandy and rocky slopes below, where another crowd had gathered to see Muad’Dib. The observers wore stillsuits, most of which were fitted in the traditional Fremen style, unlike the replicas sold to pilgrims. Water and souvenir vendors worked the noisy crowd, calling out as they hawked their wares. Colorful banners fluttered in a hot breeze. Everyone waited for him to address the multitudes.
Paul said quietly to Stilgar, who stood like a weathered rock, “The lines of good and evil were clearly drawn when we fought on the plains of Arrakeen, Stil. We knew where we stood against the allied Houses, and used the moral high ground to rally and inspire our fighters. But so many are already dead in my Jihad, many of them innocents. In time, they will say I was worse than the Corrinos and Harkonnens ever were.”
Stilgar looked scandalized, his convictions unshaken even after what he had seen in the sacking of Kaitain. “Usul! We use violence only to cleanse, to wash away evil and save lives. Many more would die if not for your Jihad. You know this. Your prescience has told you so.”
“It is as you say, but I worry that there is something I have not considered, another path I should have chosen instead. I cannot merely accept anything. I must keep searching.”
“In dreams?”
“With conscious prescience, too, and Mentat logic. But everything guides me back to the same path.” “Then there is no other path, Usul.”
Paul smiled at the statement. If only he could be as utterly certain as Stilgar was; the naib had always been a man of absolutes.
When it was time to speak to the crowd, Paul mounted the steps of the immense monument that had been erected in his honor, a life-size replica of a sandworm sculpted by a renowned — and enthusiastically converted — sculptor from Chusuk. Plaques around its base carried the names of every world that had surrendered to Muad’Dib so far. There were many more blank plaques in anticipation of more victories.
Right now, a performance was required. Carrying a maker hook, though only as a prop, Paul mounted steps on the side of the gray plastone beast whose eyeless head turned toward the basin below and the sprawling city of Arrakeen. With his own symbolic maker hook, Stilgar followed.
When the two stood side by side atop the head of the replica worm, they secured their hooks into sculpted rings and posed as if they were again riding the behemoth to victory. Behind them on the back of the statue, real Fremen soldiers stood in similar postures. The soldiers’ cheers were echoed by the crowd in a growing sonic tumult that could be heard all the way to the city.
Years ago, when preparing his son for dangers on Arrakis, Duke Leto had advised him to capitalize on the local superstition that Paul might be the long-awaited Mahdi, the Lisan-al-Gaib. But only if he had to. Now, he had done that to an extent that went far beyond anything his father had ever anticipated.
Paul’s voice boomed out, transmitted by speakers on the worm. “I come here today in all humility to honor those Fremen and Atreides soldiers who died on the Shield Wall and in the basin below, fighting to free us from tyranny.” The crowd let out a huge roar of approval, but he raised his hands to quiet them. “Know this from the lips of Muad’Dib. We have won the opening battles of the Jihad, but there are many more to be fought.”
The holy war was becoming a living organism with its own momentum, and he had been its catalyst. Paul knew there were also moral battles to be won, challenges that promised no clear victors and losers, only murky results. One day when this phase of the Jihad was complete, there would be time for reflection, a time for the people to recognize his failings and weaknesses as a ruler, that he was not a god. That would be the beginning of understanding… but it would take a very long time.
Finished with the ceremonial requirements, Paul and Stilgar climbed back down the steps. The bearded Fremen reported good news. “Muad’Dib, as you expected and hoped, Ecaz surrendered to us immediately without any bloodshed. Your address to the Landsraad reminded the old Archduke of his loyalties and obligations to House Atreides. He has sent his representative to deliver his fealty in person. The delegate claims he knew you when you were but a boy.”
Curious, Paul looked to where a rangy man stood at the base of the statue, dressed in the fashion of a Swordmaster, with embellished decorations, epaulets, and billowing lavender pantaloons that made him appear to
