Dune (77 page)

“But the injunction against—”

“The injunction!” Paul barked. “It's fear, not the injunction that keeps the Houses from hurling atomics against each other. The language of the Great Convention is clear enough: ‘Use of atomics against humans shall be cause for planetary obliteration.' We're going to blast the Shield Wall, not humans.”

“It's too fine a point,” Gurney said.

“The hair-splitters up there will welcome any point,” Paul said. “Let's talk no more about it.”

He turned away, wishing he actually felt that confident. Presently, he said: “What about the city people? Are they in position yet?”

“Yes,” Stilgar muttered.

Paul looked at him. “What's eating you?”

“I never knew the city man could be trusted completely,” Stilgar said.

“I was a city man myself once,” Paul said.

Stilgar stiffened. His face grew dark with blood. “Muad'Dib knows I did not mean—”

“I know what you meant, Stil. But the test of a man isn't what you think he'll do. It's what he actually does. These city people have Fremen blood. It's just that they haven't yet learned how to escape their bondage. We'll teach them.”

Stilgar nodded, spoke in a rueful tone: “The habits of a lifetime, Muad'Dib. On the Funeral Plain we learned to despise the men of the communities.”

Paul glanced at Gurney, saw him studying Stilgar. “Tell us, Gurney, why were the cityfolk down there driven from their homes by the Sardaukar?”

“An old trick, my Duke. They thought to burden us with refugees.”

“It's been so long since guerrillas were effective that the mighty have forgotten how to fight them,” Paul said. “The Sardaukar have played into our hands. They grabbed some city women for their sport, decorated their battle standards with the heads of the men who objected. And they've built up a fever of hate among people who otherwise would've looked on the coming battle as no more than a great inconvenience . . . and the possibility of exchanging one set of masters for another. The Sardaukar recruit for us, Stilgar.”

“The city people do seem eager,” Stilgar said.

“Their hate is fresh and clear,” Paul said. “That's why we use them as shock troops.”

“The slaughter among them will be fearful,” Gurney said.

Stilgar nodded agreement.

“They were told the odds,” Paul said. “They know every Sardaukar they kill will be one less for us. You see, gentlemen, they have something to die for. They've discovered they're a people. They're awakening.”

A muttered exclamation came from the watcher at the telescope. Paul moved to the rock slit, asked: “What is it out there?”

“A great commotion, Muad'Dib,” the watcher hissed. “At that monstrous metal tent. A surface car came from Rimwall West and it was like a hawk into a nest of rock partridge.”

“Our captive Sardaukar have arrived,” Paul said.

“They've a shield around the entire landing field now,” the watcher said. “I can see the air dancing even to the edge of the storage yard where they kept the spice.”

“Now they know who it is they fight,” Gurney said. “Let the Harkonnen beasts tremble and fret themselves that an Atreides yet lives!”

Paul spoke to the Fedaykin at the telescope. “Watch the flagpole atop the Emperor's ship. If my flag is raised there—”

“It will not be,” Gurney said.

Paul saw the puzzled frown on Stilgar's face, said: “If the Emperor recognized my claim, he'll signal by restoring the Atreides flag to Arrakis. We'll use the second plan then, move only against the Harkonnens. The Sardaukar will stand aside and let us settle the issue between ourselves.”

“I've no experience with these offworld things,” Stilgar said. “I've heard of them, but it seems unlikely the—”

“You don't need experience to know what they'll do,” Gurney said.

“They're sending a new flag up on the tall ship,” the watcher said. “The flag is yellow . . . with a black and red circle in the center.”

“There's a subtle piece of business,” Paul said. “The CHOAM Company flag.”

“It's the same as the flag at the other ships,” the Fedaykin guard said.

“I don't understand,” Stilgar said.

“A subtle piece of business indeed,” Gurney said. “Had he sent up the Atreides banner, he'd have had to live by what that meant. Too many observers about. He could've signaled with the Harkonnen flag on his staff—a flat declaration that'd have been. But, no—he sends up the CHOAM rag. He's telling the people up there . . . .” Gurney pointed toward space. . . . where the profit is. He's saying he doesn't care if it's an Atreides here or not.”

“How long till the storm strikes the Shield Wall?” Paul asked.

Stilgar turned away, consulted one of the Fedaykin in the bowl. Presently, he returned, said: “Very soon, Muad'Dib. Sooner than we expected. It's a great-great-grandmother of a storm . . . perhaps even more than you wished.”

“It's my storm,” Paul said, and saw the silent awe on the faces of the Fedaykin who heard him. “Though it shook the entire world it could not be more than I wished. Will it strike the Shield Wall full on?”

“Close enough to make no difference,” Stilgar said.

A courier crossed from the hole that led down into the basin, said: “The Sardaukar and Harkonnen patrols are pulling back, Muad'Dib.”

“They expect the storm to spill too much sand into the basin for good visibility,” Stilgar said. “They think we'll be in the same fix.”

“Tell our gunners to set their sights well before visibility drops,” Paul said. “They must knock the nose off every one of those ships as soon as the storm has destroyed the shields.” He stepped to the wall of the bowl, pulled back a fold of the camouflage cover and looked up at the sky. The horsetail twistings of blow sand could be seen against the dark of the sky. Paul restored the cover, said: “Start sending our men down, Stil.”

“Will you not go with us?” Stilgar asked.

“I'll wait here a bit with the Fedaykin,” Paul said.

Stilgar gave a knowing shrug toward Gurney, moved to the hole in the rock wall, was lost in its shadows.

“The trigger that blasts the Shield Wall aside, that I leave in your hands, Gurney,” Paul said. “You will do it?”

“I'll do it.”

Paul gestured to a Fedaykin lieutenant, said: “Otheym, start moving the check patrols out of the blast area. They must be out of there before the storm strikes.”

The man bowed, followed Stilgar.

Gurney leaned in to the rock slit, spoke to the man at the telescope: “Keep your attention on the south wall. It'll be completely undefended until we blow it.”

“Dispatch a cielago with a time signal,” Paul ordered.

“Some ground cars are moving toward the south wall,” the man at the telescope said. “Some are using projectile weapons, testing. Our people are using body shields as you commanded. The ground cars have stopped.”

In the abrupt silence, Paul heard the wind devils playing overhead—the front of the storm. Sand began to drift down into their bowl through gaps in the cover. A burst of wind caught the cover, whipped it away.

Paul motioned his Fedaykin to take shelter, crossed to the men at the communications equipment near the tunnel mouth. Gurney stayed beside him. Paul crouched over the signalmen.

One said: “A
great-great-great
grandmother of a storm, Muad'Dib.”

Paul glanced up at the darkening sky, said: “Gurney, have the south wall observers pulled out.” He had to repeat his order, shouting above the growing noise of the storm.

Gurney turned to obey.

Paul fastened his face filter, tightened the stillsuit hood.

Gurney returned.

Paul touched his shoulder, pointed to the blast trigger set into the tunnel mouth beyond the signalmen. Gurney went into the tunnel, stopped there, one hand at the trigger, his gaze on Paul.

“We are getting no messages,” the signalman beside Paul said. “Much static.”

Paul nodded, kept his eye on the time-standard dial in front of the signalman. Presently, Paul looked at Gurney, raised a hand, returned his attention to the dial. The time counter crawled around its final circuit.

“Now!” Paul shouted, and dropped his hand.

Gurney depressed the blast trigger.

It seemed that a full second passed before they felt the ground beneath them ripple and shake. A rumbling sound was added to the storm's roar.

The Fedaykin watcher from the telescope appeared beside Paul, the telescope clutched under one arm. “The Shield Wall is breached, Muad'Dib!” he shouted. “The storm is on them and our gunners already are firing.”

Paul thought of the storm sweeping across the basin, the static charge within the wall of sand that destroyed every shield barrier in the enemy camp.

“The storm!” someone shouted. “We must get under cover, Muad'Dib!”

Paul came to his senses, feeling the sand needles sting his exposed cheeks. We
are
committed, he thought. He put an arm around the signalman's shoulder, said: “Leave the equipment! There's more in the tunnel.” He felt himself being pulled away, Fedaykin pressed around him to protect him. They squeezed into the tunnel mouth, feeling its comparative silence, turned a corner into a small chamber with glowglobes overhead and another tunnel opening beyond.

Another signalman sat there at his equipment.

“Much static,” the man said.

A swirl of sand filled the air around them.

“Seal off this tunnel!” Paul shouted. A sudden pressure of stillness showed that his command had been obeyed. “Is the way down to the basin still open?” Paul asked.

A Fedaykin went to look, returned, said: “The explosion caused a little rock to fall, but the engineers say it is still open. They're cleaning up with lasbeams.”

“Tell them to use their hands!” Paul barked. “There are shields active down there!”

“They are being careful, Muad'Dib,” the man said, but he turned to obey.

The signalmen from outside pressed past them carrying their equipment.

“I told those men to leave their equipment!” Paul said.

“Fremen do not like to abandon equipment, Muad'Dib,” one of his Fedaykin chided.

“Men are more important than equipment now,” Paul said. “We'll have more equipment than we can use soon or have no need for any equipment.”

Gurney Halleck came up beside him, said: “I heard them say the way down is open. We're very close to the surface here, m'Lord, should the Harkonnens try to retaliate in kind.”

“They're in no position to retaliate,” Paul said. “They're just now finding out that they have no shields and are unable to get off Arrakis.”

“The new command post is all prepared, though, m'Lord,” Gurney said.

“They've no need of me in the command post yet,” Paul said. “The plan would go ahead without me. We must wait for the—”

“I'm getting a message, Muad'Dib,” said the signalman at the communications equipment. The man shook his head, pressed a receiver phone against his ear. “Much static!” He began scribbling on a pad in front of him, shaking his head waiting, writing . . . waiting.

Paul crossed to the signalman's side. The Fedaykin stepped back, giving him room. He looked down at what the man had written, read:

“Raid . . . on Sietch Tabr . . . captives . . . Alia (blank) families of (blank) dead are . . . they (blank) son of Muad'Dib . . . ”

Again, the signalman shook his head.

Paul looked up to see Gurney staring at him.

“The message is garbled,” Gurney said. “The static. You don't know that . . . ”

“My son is dead,” Paul said, and knew as he spoke that it was true. “My son is dead . . . and Alia is a captive . . . hostage.” He felt emptied, a shell without emotions. Everything he touched brought death and grief. And it was like a disease that could spread across the universe.

He could feel the old-man wisdom, the accumulation out of the experiences from countless possible lives. Something seemed to chuckle and rub its hands within him.

And Paul thought:
How little the universe knows about the nature of real cruelty!

 

THE BARON Vladimir Harkonnen stood with eyes downcast in the Imperial audience chamber, the oval selamlik within the Padishah Emperor's hutment. With covert glances, the Baron had studied the metal-walled room and its occupants—the noukkers, the pages, the guards, the troop of House Sardaukar drawn up around the walls, standing at ease there beneath the bloody and tattered captured battle flags that were the room's only decoration.

Voices sounded from the right of the chamber, echoing out of a high passage: “Make way! Make way for the Royal Person!”

The Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV came out of the passage into the audience chamber followed by his suite. He stood waiting while his throne was brought, ignoring the Baron, seemingly ignoring every person in the room.

The Baron found that he could not ignore the Royal Person, and studied the Emperor for a sign, any clue to the purpose of this audience. The Emperor stood poised, waiting—a slim, elegant figure in a gray Sardaukar uniform with silver and gold trim. His thin face and cold eyes reminded the Baron of the Duke Leto long dead. There was that same look of the predatory bird. But the Emperor's hair was red, not black, and most of that hair was concealed by a Burseg's ebon helmet with the Imperial crest in gold upon its crown.