Paul of Dune

now the tool wields its own user.

“The Jihad has a life of its own. When I experienced visions as a young man, I knew this holy war could not be stopped, but still I tried to change the future, to prevent the rampaging violence. One man cannot stop the moving sands.”

“You are the Coriolis wind that sets the sands moving.”

“I cannot stop it, but I can guide it. I am guiding it. What people see as unforgivable violence and destruction, I know is the best of many unacceptable alternatives.” With a sigh, Paul turned away from her. He had deluded himself into believing that it would be easy to hold the reins and guide the course of the great, living creature that was the Jihad. The monster. He had made his decision believing that his choices would be clear, only to find that he was more a captive of unfolding history than any person before him. His was a terrible purpose. He rode the crest of a wave that threatened to drown him and everyone around him. Even when Muad’Dib made the best possible decisions, regardless of what his heart wanted, he could see the bloody future unfolding mercilessly for years to come. But the alternative is worse.

He had actually considered removing himself from the equation, escaping from the warp and weft of Fate’s loom. Paul could have allowed himself to tumble into the abyss of historical interpretation and the enhancement of myths.

But if he chose to die, Muad’Dib would still become a martyr. His very presence was too prominent in the hearts and minds of his followers, and they would continue without him if necessary, in spite of him. Time would have its due. Paul feared that in premature death he might cause more damage than in life.

On the bedside table, near the broken pink conch shell from Earth that Bludd had brought Paul from Ecaz, lay a stack of reports detailing troop movements, Guildship patterns, and another long list of planets that he could easily conquer. Impatiently, he knocked the papers aside.

Chani frowned at his reaction. “Are you not pleased to see so much progress? Is this not success?” Usually, she could understand his moods, but not now. “Surely, the Jihad is almost over.”

He looked at her. “Have you ever heard of Alexander the Great? He is from long ago, forgotten in the mists of time. He was a great warlord on Mother Earth, said to be the most powerful emperor of ancient times. His armies swept across continents, his own known universe, and when he reached the shore of the sea, he wept because there were no more lands to conquer. But history considers Alexander great only because he had the good fortune to die before his empire could collapse on its own.”

Chani blinked. “How can that be?”

“Alexander was like a storm. He had many soldiers and superior weapons, but after conquering each people he moved on and never had to govern.” Paul clasped Chani’s hand. “Don’t you see? Out armies have chalked up victory after victory, but beating a man is different from working with him for many years. Irulan is right: Once Muad’Dib’s Jihad is past, once I have won this long war, how am I to survive the peace? Would Alexander still be considered ‘great’ if he’d actually needed to provide food, water, shelter, education, and protection to all the people of his empire? Doubtful. He caught a fever and died before his conquests could come back to haunt him.”

“You are not some ancient forgotten leader. You must follow your destiny, Usul,” Chani whispered in his ear. “Regardless of where it leads, it remains your destiny.”

He kissed her. “You are my desert spring, my Sihaya. You and I must enjoy every moment we have together.”

They made love slowly, discovering each other again, and for the first time.

5

Yes, the vast universe is filled with many wonders, but it has too few deserts for my liking.

— The Stilgar Commentaries

On Bela Tegeuse, even the broad daylight was dim and damp, shrouded with fog. Stilgar did not like this place one hit. Each breath was clammy in his mouth and nose. At the end of the day, he practically had to wring out his clothing to remove the excess moisture. He felt he needed a reverse stillsuit—nose plugs and a breathing mask that would filter water out of the air, just so he could breathe. The sound of lapping water that surrounded the wide, heavily armed gun-barges was maddening.

Stilgar knew that Paul-Muad’Dib had grown up by the ocean on Caladan. Every night, the young man had gone to sleep listening to the roar of waves outside the castle. The idea of so much water was difficult for the naib to grasp. It was a wonder the boy had not gone insane.

And the swamps on Bela Tegeuse were more treacherous than an ocean, he was certain.

Since the beginning of the Jihad, even with so many legions dispersed throughout the worlds of the Imperium, he himself had planted the green-and-white banner of Fremen-led legions, as well as the green-and- black banner carried by other loyalists, on four planets. He had shed much blood, had witnessed the deaths of many friends and foes. People died in much the same way, no matter what world they came from.

Now, by the command of Muad’Dib, Stilgar led these forces to hunt down the rebellious nobleman Urquidi Basque, one of the remaining principal lords who supported Earl Thorvald’s insurgency. When Basque went to ground on Bela Tegeuse, Stilgar had assumed he would be trapped. Muad’Dib’s military frigates had deployed a fleet of gun-barges and search boats constructed by local engineers who were familiar with the terrain and ready to capture Lord Basque and his swamp rats.

Swamp rats. Stilgar did not like the sound of that.

For the past two weeks, pursuing Basque and his army had been like chasing balls of static electricity across the dune tops. Under a thick layer of clouds, the gunbarges moved slowly along, pushing against the sluggish brown water. The dim sun would set soon, and the night would bring cooling air and thickening fog. Water squeezed out of the air.

Off in the distance, Stilgar could see only the nearest two of the ten heavily armed ships in his group. The foghorns and signal whistles sounded like lost souls begging to be taken to dry land. Visibility was worse than in a sandstorm.

Last week, when they had pursued the renegade lord across a wide, shallow sea, one of the heavy gunbarges had run aground. Basque and his swamp rats had gotten away, jeering as Stilgar was forced to unload heavy weaponry and cargo from the stranded gunbarge so that it would float free of the mud bar. He’d had half a mind to ditch the vessel and continue the chase, leaving his men to fend for themselves in the swamps. But many of the fighters were Fremen, and Stilgar refused to abandon them to this wet place.

After wasting all that time, the scout boats had raced forward in search of clues. One scout returned, having found an old camp; three others vanished entirely. Stilgar ordered ‘thopters for air surveillance, but the ground- hugging fog made the aircraft worse than useless in the hunt.

Finally, as dusk settled in, adding a bruised color to the sky, they pushed into a complex river delta, where Stilgar was sure he would trap Basque. Several times now, they had seen tantalizing lights in the distance, taunting signals that likely marked their quarry.

Around him, he could see the tangled hala-cypress branches and roots, trees so different from the rare palms of Dune. The river delta was thick with them, as if they were crowded spectators gaping at an accident scene. They gave off a fetid stench, just like all the water in this swamp. The odors of fish and algae nauseated him. Every meal he’d eaten on Bela Tegeuse tasted like mud.

Stilgar stood on the mist-slick deck. Some of the gunbarges were equipped with half-shields, but the barge captains complained that the shimmering fields reduced visibility. Lookouts continued to peer into the foggy distance.

Next to Stilgar, the captain was angry at himself. “My charts are useless, a year old. The currents shift the sand and the mud, and the hala-cypress walk.”