From "Manual of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

And that day dawned when Arrakis lay at the hub of the universe with the wheel poised to spin.
—from "Arrakis Awakening" by the Princess Irulan
"Will you look at that thing!" Stilgar whispered.
Paul lay beside him in a slit of rock high on the Shield Wall rim, eye fixed to the collector of a Fremen telescope. The oil lens was focused on a starship lighter exposed by dawn in the basin below them. The tall eastern face of the ship glistened in the flat light of the sun, but the shadow side still showed yellow portholes from glowglobes of the night. Beyond the ship, the city of Arrakeen lay cold and gleaming in the light of the northern sun.
It wasn't the lighter that excited Stilgar's awe, Paul knew, but the construction for which the lighter was only the centerpost. A single metal hutment, many stories tall, reached out in a thousand-meter circle from the base of the lighter—a tent composed of interlocking metal leaves—the temporary lodging place for five legions of Sardaukar and His Imperial Majesty, the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV.
From his position squatting at Paul's left, Gurney Halleck said: "I count nine levels to it. Must be quite a few Sardaukar in there."
"Five legions," Paul said.
"It grows light," Stilgar hissed. "We like it not, your exposing yourself, Muad'Dib. Let us go back into the rocks now."
"I'm perfectly safe here," Paul said.
"That ship mounts projectile weapons," Gurney said.
"They believe us protected by shields," Paul said. "They wouldn't waste a shot on an unidentified trio even if they saw us."
Paul swung the telescope to scan the far wall of the basin, seeing the pockmarked cliffs, the slides that marked the tombs of so many of his father's troopers. And he had a momentary sense of the fitness of things that the shades of those men should look down on this moment. The Harkonnen forts and towns across the shielded lands lay in Fremen hands or cut away from their source like stalks severed from a plant and left to wither. Only this basin and its city remained to the enemy.
"They might try a sortie by 'thopter," Stilgar said. "If they see us."
"Let them," Paul said. "We've 'thopters to burn today . . . and we know a storm is coming."
He swung the telescope to the far side of the Arrakeen landing field now, to the Harkonnen frigates lined up there with a CHOAM Company banner waving gently from its staff on the ground beneath them. And he thought of the desperation that had forced the Guild to permit these two groups to land while all the others were held in reserve. The Guild was like a man testing the sand with his toe to gauge its temperature before erecting a tent.
"Is there anything new to see from here?" Gurney asked. "We should be getting under cover. The storm is coming."
Paul returned his attention on the giant hutment. "They've even brought their women," he said. "And lackeys and servants. Ah-h-h, my dear Emperor, how confident you are."
"Men are coming up the secret way," Stilgar said. "It may be Otheym and Korba returning."
"All right, Stil," Paul said. "We'll go back."
But he took one final look around through the telescope—studying the plain with its tall ships, the gleaming metal hutment, the silent city, the frigates of the Harkonnen mercenaries. Then he slid backward around a scarp of rock. His place at the telescope was taken by a Fedaykin guardsman.
Paul emerged into a shallow depression in the Shield Wall's surface. It was a place about thirty meters in diameter and some three meters deep, a natural feature of the rock that the Fremen had hidden beneath a translucent camouflage cover. Communications equipment was clustered around a hole in the wall to the right. Fedaykin guards deployed through the depression waited for Muad'Dib's command to attack.
Two men emerged from the hole by the communications equipment, spoke to the guards there.
Paul glanced at Stilgar, nodded in the direction of the two men. "Get their report, Stil."
Stilgar moved to obey.
Paul crouched with his back to the rock, stretching his muscles, straightened. He saw Stilgar sending the two men back into that dark hole in the rock, thought about the long climb down that narrow man-made tunnel to the floor of the basin.
Stilgar crossed to Paul.
"What was so important that they couldn't send a cielago with the message?" Paul asked.
"They're saving their birds for the battle," Stilgar said. He glanced at the communications equipment, back to Paul. "Even with a tight beam, it is wrong to use those things, Muad'Dib. They can find you by taking a bearing on its emission."
"They'll soon be too busy to find me," Paul said. "What did the men report?"
"Our pet Sardaukar have been released near Old Gap low on the rim and are on their way to their master. The rocket launchers and other projectile weapons are in place. The people are deployed as you ordered. It was all routine."
Paul glanced across the shallow bowl, studying his men in the filtered light admitted by the camouflage cover. He felt time creeping like an insect working its way across an exposed rock.
"It'll take our Sardaukar a little time afoot before they can signal a troop carrier," Paul said.
"They are being watched?"
"They are being watched," Stilgar said.
Beside Paul, Gurney Halleck cleared his throat. "Hadn't we best be getting to a place of safety?"
"There is no such place," Paul said. "Is the weather report still favorable?"
"A great grandmother of a storm coming," Stilgar said. "Can you not feel it, Muad'Dib?"
"The air does feel chancy," Paul agreed. "But I like the certainty of poling the weather."
"The storm'll be here in the hour," Stilgar said. He nodded toward the gap that looked out on the Emperor's hutment and the Harkonnen frigates. "They know it there, too. Not a 'thopter in the sky. Everything pulled in and tied down. They've had a report on the weather from their friends in space."
"Any more probing sorties?" Paul asked.
"Nothing since the landing last night," Stilgar said. "They know we're here. I think now they wait to choose their own time."
"We choose the time," Paul said.
Gurney glanced upward, growled: "If they let us."
"That fleet'll stay in space," Paul said.
Gurney shook his head.
"They have no choice," Paul said. "We can destroy the spice. The Guild dares not risk that."
"Desperate people are the most dangerous," Gurney said.
"Are we not desperate?" Stilgar asked.
Gurney scowled at him.
"You haven't lived with the Fremen dream," Paul cautioned. "Stil is thinking of all the water we've spent on bribes, the years of waiting we've added before Arrakis can bloom. He's not—"
"Arrrgh," Gurney scowled.
"Why's he so gloomy?" Stilgar asked.
"He's always gloomy before a battle," Paul said. "It's the only form of good humor Gurney allows himself."
A slow, wolfish grin spread across Gurney's face, the teeth showing white above the chip cup of his stillsuit. "It glooms me much to think on all the poor Harkonnen souls we'll dispatch unshriven," he said.
Stilgar chuckled. "He talks like a Fedaykin."
"Gurney was born a death commando," Paul said. And he thought: Yes, let them occupy their minds with small talk before we test ourselves against that force on the plain . He looked to the gap in the rock wall and back to Gurney, found that the troubadour-warrior had resumed a brooding scowl.
"Worry saps the strength," Paul murmured. "You told me that once, Gurney."
"My Duke," Gurney said, "my chief worry is the atomics. If you use them to blast a hole in the Shield Wall . . . "
"Those people up there won't use atomics against us," Paul said. "They don't dare . . . and for the same reason that they cannot risk our destroying the source of the spice."
"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 city folk 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!
And Muad'Dib stood before them, and he said: "Though we deem the captive dead, yet does she live. For her seed is my seed and her voice is my voice. And she sees unto the farthest reaches of possibility. Yea, unto the vale of the unknowable does she see because of me."
—from "Arrakis Awakening" by the Princess Irulan
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.
Pages brought the throne. It was a massive chair carved from a single piece of Hagal quartz—blue-green translucency shot through with streaks of yellow fire. They placed it on the dais and the Emperor mounted, seated himself.
An old woman in a black aba robe with hood drawn down over her forehead detached herself from the Emperor's suite, took up station behind the throne, one scrawny hand resting on the quartz back. Her face peered out of the hood like a witch caricature—sunken cheeks and eyes, an overlong nose, skin mottled and with protruding veins.
The Baron stilled his trembling at sight of her. The presence of the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, the Emperor's Truthsayer, betrayed the importance of this audience. The Baron looked away from her, studied the suite for a clue. There were two of the Guild agents, one tall and fat, one short and fat, both with bland gray eyes. And among the lackeys stood one of the Emperor's daughters, the Princess Irulan, a woman they said was being trained in the deepest of the Bene Gesserit ways, destined to be a Reverend Mother. She was tall, blonde, face of chiseled beauty, green eyes that looked past and through him.
"My dear Baron."
The Emperor had deigned to notice him. The voice was baritone and with exquisite control. It managed to dismiss him while greeting him.
The Baron bowed low, advanced to the required position ten paces from the dais. "I came at your summons, Majesty."
"Summons!" the old witch cackled.
"Now, Reverend Mother," the Emperor chided, but he smiled at the Baron's discomfiture, said: "First, you will tell me where you've sent your minion, Thufir Hawat."
The Baron darted his gaze left and right, reviled himself for coming here without his own guards, not that they'd be much use against Sardaukar. Still . . .
"Well?" the Emperor said.
"He has been gone these five days, Majesty." The Baron shot a glance at the Guild agents, back to the Emperor. "He was to land at a smuggler base and attempt infiltrating the camp of the Fremen fanatic, this Muad'Dib."
"Incredible!" the Emperor said.
One of the witch's clawlike hands tapped the Emperor's shoulder. She leaned forward, whispered in his ear.
The Emperor nodded, said: "Five days, Baron. Tell me, why aren't you worried about his absence?"
"But I am worried, Majesty!"
The Emperor continued to stare at him, waiting. The Reverend Mother emitted a cackling laugh.
"What I mean, Majesty," the Baron said, "is that Hawat will be dead within another few hours, anyway." And he explained about the latent poison and need for an antidote.
"How clever of you, Baron," the Emperor said. "And where are your nephews, Rabban and the young Feyd-Rautha?"
"The storm comes, Majesty. I sent them to inspect our perimeter lest the Fremen attack under cover of the sand."
"Perimeter," the Emperor said. The word came out as though it puckered his mouth. "The storm won't be much here in the basin, and that Fremen rabble won't attack while I'm here with five legions of Sardaukar."
"Surely not, Majesty," the Baron said, "But error on the side of caution cannot be censured."
"Ah-h-h-h," the Emperor said. "Censure. Then I'm not to speak of how much time this Arrakis nonsense has taken from me? Nor the CHOAM Company profits pouring down this rat hole? Nor the court functions and affairs of state I've had to delay—even cancel—because of this stupid affair?"
The Baron lowered his gaze, frightened by the Imperial anger. The delicacy of his position here, alone and dependent upon the Convention and the dictum familia of the Great Houses, fretted him. Does he mean to kill me? the Baron asked himself. He couldn't! Not with the other Great Houses waiting up there, aching for any excuse to gain from this upset on Arrakis .
"Have you taken hostages?" the Emperor asked.
"It's useless, Majesty," the Baron said. "These mad Fremen hold a burial ceremony for every captive and act as though such a one were already dead."
"So?" the Emperor said.
And the Baron waited, glancing left and right at the metal walls of the selamlik, thinking of the monstrous fanmetal tent around him. Such unlimited wealth it represented that even the Baron was awed. He brings pages , the Baron thought, and useless court lackeys, his women and their companions—hair-dressers, designers, everything . . . all the fringe parasites of the Court. All here—fawning, slyly plotting, "roughing it" with the Emperor . . . here to watch him put an end to this affair, to make epigrams over the battles and idolize the wounded .
"Perhaps you've never sought the right kind of hostages," the Emperor said.