grizzled veteran Zum Garon stood impeccably attired, his expression critical, his standards high for every performance in front of his Emperor. Shaddam encouraged such public displays of military strength, especially now that several Houses of the Landsraad were starting to get unruly. He might need to use a little muscle, very soon.…
A fat brown spider dangled before him, suspended by a gossamer strand from the scarlet-and-gold awning. Irritated, he whispered, “Don’t you realize who I am, little creature? I rule even the smallest living things in my realm.”
More banners, more marching, more simulated fire in the background of his ruminations. A kaleidoscope of Sardaukar moved across the pageantry field. Pomp and glory. Overhead, ‘thopters zoomed by in formation, performing daredevil aerial maneuvers. The audience applauded after each stunt, but Shaddam barely noticed, mulling over the problem of his bastard half brother.
He blew air across his lips and watched the intrusive spider swing in the sudden gust. The spider began to ascend its strand toward the awning.
You aren’t safe from me up there, he thought. Nothing escapes my wrath.
But he knew he deluded himself. The Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, the Landsraad, CHOAM— all of them had their own agendas and manipulations, tying his hands and blindfolding him, preventing him from ruling the Known Universe as an Emperor should.
Damn their control over me! How had his Corrino predecessors allowed such a sorry state of affairs to develop? It had been this way for centuries.
The Emperor reached up and squashed the spider before it could return and bite him.
An individual takes on significance only in his relationship to society as a whole.
— PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES,
An Arrakis Primer, written for his son Liet
The slithering leviathan rushed across the dunes with a scouring sound that reminded Liet-Kynes, incongruously, of a ribbon-thin cascade of fresh water. Kynes had seen the artificial waterfalls on Kaitain, constructed in pointless decadence.
Under the hot yellow sun, he and a group of loyal men rode atop one of the towering sandworms. Skilled Fremen sandriders had called the beast, mounted it, and pried open its ring segments with spreaders. High on the worm’s sloped head, Liet held on to ropes to maintain his position.
The creature raced across the trackless sands toward Red Wall Sietch, where Liet’s lovely wife Faroula would be waiting for him, and where the Fremen Council would be eager to hear his news. Disappointing news. Emperor Shaddam IV had been disappointing as a man, too, beyond even Liet’s worst fears.
Stilgar had greeted Liet at the Carthag Spaceport. They had traveled out into the open desert, away from the Shield Wall, beyond the prying eyes of Harkonnens. There, met by a small band of Fremen, Stilgar had planted a thumper whose resonating heartbeat rhythm attracted a worm. Using techniques known to Fremen since ancient days, they had captured it.
Liet had scrambled up the ropes with familiar moves, planting stakes to secure himself. He remembered the day he had become a sandrider as a youth, proving himself an adult of the tribe. Old Naib Heinar had watched in judgment. Back then, Liet had been terrified, but he had completed the ordeal.
Now, though riding a sandworm was every bit as dangerous, and never to be done lightly, he saw the unruly beast as a mode of transportation, a swift means to get him home.
Tugging guide ropes and calling back to the riders, Stilgar stood stoically. The Fremen moved spreaders and planted additional maker hooks to direct the creature. Stilgar looked over at Liet, who remained preoccupied and clearly unhappy. He knew his friend’s report from Kaitain was not good. However, unlike jabbering courtiers in the Palace, Fremen were not uneasy with silences. Liet would speak when he was ready, so Stilgar kept to himself beside his friend; they were together, each immersed in his own thoughts. Hours passed as they crossed the desert toward the reddish-black mountains near the horizon.
When he felt it was time, attuned to the young Planetologist’s expressions and watching the reflection of troubled thoughts cross his face beneath the stillsuit mask, Stilgar spoke what Liet needed to hear. “You are the son of Umma Kynes. Now that your great father has died, you are the hope of all Fremen. And you have my life and loyalty, just as I promised it to your father.” Stilgar did not treat the younger man in a paternal fashion, but as a genuine comrade.
They both knew the story; it had been told many times in sietch. Before he came to