The Winds of Dune (42 page)

Jessica saw tears of gratitude brimming in the Mayor’s rheumy old eyes, but she did not detect any similar reaction in the faces of the bystanders. They respected and feared her, but did not like the pronouncements she had made.

So be it,
she thought. Elsewhere in the Imperium, Paul’s fanatics could run loose and out of control. But not on Caladan.

Few forces can match the power of fanaticism. One that comes close is wounded pride.

—
Conversations with Muad’Dib
by the
PRINCESS IRULAN

O
ver the past several years, Jessica had already heard enough news about the Jihad’s atrocities, things that Paul allowed to be done in his name. But more stories found her, whether or not she wanted to hear—or believe—them.

Each time a Heighliner passed over Caladan, Mayor Horvu and the redoubtable village priest Abbo Sintra hurried to the Castle to report the travelers’ tales. Meaning well, the two men showed Jessica official Qizarate releases as well as unofficial documents spread by horrified survivors of Jihad attacks. “We beseech you to review these stories, and please
do
something, my Lady!” Horvu pleaded. “He is your son!”

“Help him return to the just and honorable path,” said the priest, who had long ago officiated at Duke Leto’s disastrous wedding ceremony. “Paul will listen to his mother. Help him remember that he was an Atreides long before he became this fanatical desert leader.”

After Jessica shooed the men away, she avoided looking at the reports for a long time. Finally, she retired to a private room, calling Gurney to join her. The two sat with disturbed expressions as they read the reports.

Three more planets had been completely sterilized, scalded clean of all life, their populations exterminated. Every living thing. And this
was condoned by
Paul,
a man who espoused the ecological awakening and careful terraforming of Arrakis, a man who had just established and endowed a new School of Planetology in honor of Chani’s father.

That makes four worlds gone now.
And each atrocity seemed to be getting easier for him. Her voice was a chilling whisper. “What can he be thinking? It’s murder!”

“Paul’s first step down that slippery slope was when he punished Earl Thorvald and his rebels, wiping out the planet Ipyr, my Lady.”

Jessica frowned. “In that instance, Thorvald was en route to Caladan, to annihilate us. All of Caladan was threatened, the Atreides home-world. That was an attack aimed at Paul himself, something he could not ignore.”

“Most of those who died on Ipyr—women, children, ordinary people—were undoubtedly innocent.” Gurney could not tear his eyes away from the images he saw now.

Jessica’s tone dropped off in sadness. “It was a dreadful price, but I can almost accept what he did in response. He had to send a message that would prevent further rebellious acts. But these other planets . . .” She shook her head and set her jaw firmly. “He must have had his reasons. I know my son—I raised him, and I cannot accept that he does this capriciously or vindictively.” Making it more difficult on them, the Emperor had not explained himself, and his followers took it on faith that what Muad’Dib foresaw, and decreed,
must
be necessary.

Jessica could not brush aside her vivid memories of Paul as a precocious child, a talented youth who struggled against adversity and emerged victorious, stronger, and—so she’d always believed—with his core of Atreides honor intact. As his mother, she could not simply condemn him out of hand . . . nor could she ignore, excuse, or rationalize his recent actions.

“I would feel better if I understood his overall plan. I’m afraid Paul is slipping and sliding toward oblivion, making up new excuses as fast as he finds fresh targets, my Lady.”

The pair reviewed images of smoking battlefields. A Qizarate spokesman, speaking into the imager, proudly identified the numerous bodies strewn across the fields as “those who refused the blessings of Muad’Dib.” On each battleground, the slain numbered in the tens of thousands.

Jessica saw that the celebrants who ran across fields and plundered the bodies of the dead were Paul’s jihadi fighters. In the foreground, vessels were clearly marked as medical ships carrying hospital troops and battlefield surgeons. But Jessica spotted something in the background of the high-resolution image that the Qizarate had either not noticed, or never intended to report upon. She enhanced the view, zeroed in on several large, unmarked ships that hovered at the edges of the bloody field.

There, small-statured men scurried out of transport vessels to comb over the slain, discarding many corpses, marking others. Handlers came afterward with suspensor-borne pallets and loaded bodies aboard, stacked them like split logs, then carried their grisly harvest back to the unmarked vessels.

“Gods below, those are Tleilaxu. Handlers of the dead retrieving corpses.”

“But not all of the corpses,” Jessica pointed out with a frown. “They’re using some kind of selection process. If those were simply mortuary vessels, the Tleilaxu would gather every dead body. Why do they choose
particular
ones? And what are they doing with them?”

As soon as each cadaver craft was fully loaded, the cargo doors sealed shut and it lifted off, groaning with the weight of so many bodies aboard. As soon as one vessel departed, another unmarked ship dropped to the battlefield and began the same process.

Before either Jessica or Gurney could postulate any answers, a brisk knock at the door interrupted them. A young castle page spoke quietly, “A Guild Courier is here, my Lady, bearing a message from your son, the Holy Emperor.”

The uniformed Guild employee who appeared moments later was female, though her short hair and loose singlesuit gave her an androgynous appearance. She handed over a message cylinder with a slight and efficient bow. “My Lady Jessica, Muad’Dib commissioned me to deliver this to you.”

She accepted the cylinder and dismissed the woman. After the door closed, Jessica promptly unsealed the message, which was written in Atreides battle language. A personal letter from Paul. Jessica had no secrets from Gurney, and she allowed him to look over her shoulder:

“Dear Mother, I know you prefer to remain on Caladan away from Imperial politics, but I have an important favor to ask. It would mean a great deal to me. After my victory on Arrakis, I promised Shaddam in his exile that I would send terraformers to Salusa Secundus. Once I established my School of Planetology, I dispatched skilled workers to begin the task, and now the time has come for a thorough inspection of their work.

“I am sending both Chani and Irulan, who can speak and observe for me, but I would greatly appreciate your attendance. You see things from a different perspective, Mother. I’d like you to be my independent eyes and ears.”

Jessica rolled up the message, deep in thought. “Of course I’ll go. But first I have an important duty to perform tonight, for Caladan.”

As the sunset colors deepened under a clear evening sky, Jessica led a small procession of villagers up into the coastal hills for the annual folk festival of the Empty Man. Each year, on the night of the autumn solstice, the people gathered to celebrate the legendary defeat of evil with a large bonfire and an effigy burning on the cliffs above the crashing surf. More so than in previous years, the procession had to be kept carefully private, the Caladan natives not wanting the offworld pilgrims to pollute their culture. Let the offworlders wonder what sort of ceremony was being held, and why they had not been invited.

Villagers streamed up a well-worn trail to the grassy headlands, leaving the harbor and town behind. They carried firebrands for torches to light after dark. Jessica walked regally at the head of the group with her chin held high.

The crowd reached their destination as the night’s chill pulled a thin mist from the sea. A huge pile of twisted driftwood and kindling stood like an island at the edge of the cliff. Atop this, a stick framework held a sagging suit of clothes—the effigy of the Empty Man.

After the villagers took their places and sang a bright, powerful song to drive away evil, Mayor Horvu ignited a piece of kindling and applied the flames to the heart of the woodpile. Parents and children came forward to light their brands in the growing fire, and then stepped back.
When the people all fell silent, holding their flickering torches, she had everyone’s attention.

Jessica would tell the tale, just as their fallen Duke Leto used to do.

“A long time ago in a quiet fishing village, there lived a man whose soul died within him after a terrible fever—but his body didn’t follow in death. Even though everyone else thought he had recovered, the emptiness inside grew and grew . . . and no one could see the change, because his body
remembered
how to be human.

“The man discovered that the only way to stop the emptiness from growing was to fill it up with pain.” She paused for dramatic effect, looked at the shining eyes of her listeners. “Children began to vanish from the beaches, and small fishing boats were found adrift and crewless. Bodies were discovered at low tide on the shore. Young men went out on errands and never returned.

“And as the emptiness inside the man grew hungrier, he became so bold in his need to find victims that finally he was caught.” She whispered, leaning forward to three boys who stood close. “The towns-people pursued the man up into the headlands and cornered him at the edge of a cliff. But when they moved to take him into custody so that the Duke could dispense justice, the man hurled himself off the precipice, down to the wave-washed rocks.”

Jessica turned to face the dark sea beyond the edge of the firelight. “The next morning, when they fished his body out of the water, they found only an empty skin, like a discarded suit with nothing else inside. An Empty Man.”

Some of the listeners giggled, others muttered nervously. Jessica held up her small brand. “And now, let us all light our—”

A commotion came from behind the group. A party of five men marched up the trail in the darkness, dressed in the garments of Muad’Dib’s priesthood, all yellow except the leader. Wearing an orange robe, he exhibited an air of self-importance, as if he were entitled to attend any private ceremony he chose. “I bear a proclamation in the name of Muad’Dib. These words are for the people of Caladan.”

Jessica stepped forward. “Can this not wait? This is our festival.”

“The words of Muad’Dib will not wait for a local matter,” the priest said, as if the comment should have been self-evident. “This proclamation
comes from Korba the Panegyrist, official spokesman for the priesthood and representative of the Holy Emperor Muad’Dib:

“ ‘Because Caladan is sacred as the childhood home of Muad’Dib, its name must reflect its importance. People from ancient times named this planet Caladan, but such a name no longer has sufficient relevance. Just as Arrakis is now called Dune by the faithful, so Caladan has been renamed
Chisra Sala Muad’Dib
, which, in the language of the desert, means the Glorious Origin of Muad’Dib. Korba has hereby decreed that all future maps of the Imperium shall reflect this change. Henceforth, your people shall be honored to use the new name in all of your writings and conversations.”

Jessica was amazed at the audacity of this man. She wondered if Paul even knew about this ridiculous idea; the supercilious Qizarate probably deemed the matter beneath Muad’Dib’s notice. She cut the priest off immediately, addressing him with the full authority of her position as Duchess. “That is unacceptable. I will not allow you to strip these people of their heritage. You cannot—”