"Impossible. He is faultless!"

"So perfect that he is about to kill us all with poison gas - including including our daughter." Lady Margot hurried to the intercom. "But I'll try." our daughter." Lady Margot hurried to the intercom. "But I'll try."

Frantic Tleilaxu men scuttled out of her way, some of them glaring at her, apparently for no other reason than that she was a female. When his wife spoke into the intercom, Count Fenring recognized the command inflection of Bene Gesserit Voice. She knew precisely how to manipulate her daughter. "Marie! If you are in there, open this door at once."

The girl did not - or could not - respond.

Fenring had deep concerns for Marie's safety. Even though she was not his biological daughter, he had been her father from the moment of her birth. And he had pinned so many hopes and plans on her special abilities. We need her! We need her!

ON THE OTHER side of the sealed blast doors, Marie heard the call on the intercom and noted the compelling intonation, but her mother had taught her how to identify and resist Voice. Not even her nanny Tonia could command the little girl, and now Marie resisted Lady Margot's orders. She had to. By remaining here close to Thallo, at least she had a chance of averting the disaster.

But defeating a highly advanced Kwisatz Haderach candidate would require her utmost skills. This, she knew, would be more difficult than all of her previous vigorous exercises. This was what she had been born and trained for.

Obviously, Thallo was convinced she could do nothing to stop him. His cla.s.sically handsome face appeared on the verge of rapture, hypnotized by the colored patterns in the control panel. His fingers danced efficiently over the pressure pads, making adjustments, shutting down safety systems and interlocks, ensuring that the pressurized nerve gas built up continuously and spread to all simultaneous release points around the entire city.

Over the intercom, both her mother and Fenring continued to shout and plead, desperate for some response.

Slowly and silently, Marie melted out of the aberration's peripheral vision, so that she could get a good running start against him. She considered removing her shoes, since her bare feet were hard and deadly, easier to inflict a precise killing blow. Bene Gesserit training. But with the bioreactors reaching overload, every second mattered. The gush of nerve toxin would kill everyone. She did not dare risk Thallo noticing her.

He doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, and his prescience - if he has it - doesn't seem to see me, either. doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, and his prescience - if he has it - doesn't seem to see me, either. Nevertheless, Thallo's hearing was acute, his reactions amazingly swift... and he was determined to die in a huge incident. Nevertheless, Thallo's hearing was acute, his reactions amazingly swift... and he was determined to die in a huge incident.

Marie, however, was just as determined to live.

She had become his friend, showed this awkwardly "perfect" Kwisatz Haderach that he was not alone in his alienation. Marie had also trained with Thallo, fought against him in mock battles, and she was proficient in the best Bene Gesserit killing techniques along with Count Fenring's a.s.sa.s.sination skills. She was not a child; she was a weapon. Killing even a Kwisatz Haderach was not beyond her abilities.

Coiling all of her energy, summoning every skill she had been taught, Marie launched herself toward Thallo, a guided human projectile. She saw a muscle flicker on the back of his neck. He began to turn, blindingly fast. She had antic.i.p.ated his reaction, though - had planned for it, in fact. His hand blurred up, but he hesitated for the merest fraction of a second, either reluctant to release the controls... or afraid to hurt her.

With the rigid tips of both feet, Marie slammed into his neck. She heard the cracking sound of breaking bone.

Thallo's head bent forward at a sharp, unnatural angle. His face slammed into the panel, and he slumped to the floor. As his fingers slid away from the controls, she pushed aside the heavy body of the would-be Kwisatz Haderach. No longer concerned about him, Marie concentrated on the complex banks of controls. She would have only moments to throttle back the pressure release.

OUT IN THE corridor, Count Fenring heard the explosions rippling beneath the city. A deep thump came, and then another, much closer. Ereboam wailed, "It is too late!"

But the rumbling seemed distant, the angry thrumming of energy discharges fading away. Fenring looked at his wife, saw her eyes filled with love and fear. The Count c.o.c.ked his eyebrow at the researcher, speaking harshly, "Perhaps you should find out exactly what is happening, hmmm?"

Tleilaxu researchers scurried to their update panels and control systems, speaking on comlines and chattering as they received results. Dr. Ereboam glanced around in amazement, his shock of white hair mussed. Presently he said, "You heard the explosions, but the discharge was... focused. The nerve gas was released into the lake, and the water reaction will render it inert." He spun to the Count and his Lady. "Thallo has averted the disaster!"

"Even so, I wouldn't suggest going outside without a mask for some time," Fenring said, still struggling with his deep concern. "Are you certain the lake water can neutralize the chemical?"

"Poisons, by their very nature, are quite reactive. Some are activated by water, others are made safe."

Before he could continue his lecture, the heavy vault door opened, and Marie emerged, looking small and strong. Behind her, in transparent containment cells, nine Thallo clones lay dead, and on the mezzanine control deck above, the failed Kwisatz Haderach lay sprawled with his head lolling on a limp stalk of broken neck. Oddly, he wore a serene smile on his face.

Marie hugged her parents, then gave them the most innocent of expressions. "My friend was broken, and I couldn't fix him. He wasn't right."

That one says he is my friend. The other one declares himself my enemy. With all my prescience, why is it so hard to tell the difference?

-from Conversations with Muad'Dib Conversations with Muad'Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN by the PRINCESS IRULAN

Korba began the investigation of the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt with high fervor, exactly as Paul expected him to do. Swordmaster Bludd, clearly a hero for his bravery in shielding Princess Irulan and for knocking Paul and Chani clear of the bomb blast, had nearly died from his poisoned wound. Once he gathered sufficient strength, Bludd left the medics and retired to his quarters to recover.

Meanwhile, Paul shut himself inside the enormous citadel, not out of fear or paranoia, but because he was so overwhelmed with fury that he did not trust himself to be seen among the populace. Though he'd had murky dreams, his prescience had been unable to prevent this. Such a reckless, hateful attack against him, with no regard for all the innocents who had been slain in the attempt.

Duke Leto must have felt like this after the wedding-day ma.s.sacre sucked him into the b.l.o.o.d.y War of a.s.sa.s.sins; it was why his father became such a hardened man, a protective psychological response that anch.o.r.ed him against the tragedies. At the time, Paul had not understood the depths of his father's difficulties, but he did now.

Investigators stripped the Celestial Audience Hall down to its structural components. Chemical signatures were a.n.a.lyzed. Work logs were inspected to discover who might have had an opportunity to set up such a plot. The conspiracy had to be large and widespread; too many pieces had fit together perfectly. Unfortunately, by ordering his soldiers to blast the panels from which the hunter-seekers had emerged, Korba had also destroyed some of the evidence.

The modified a.s.sa.s.sination devices were traced to an exiled Ixian merchant who had provided many technological toys and amus.e.m.e.nts for Muad'Dib. But the man's ship had recently - and conveniently - been destroyed in a small Jihad skirmish on Crell.

Many of the new servants hired for the Great Surrender ceremony were interrogated, and an unfortunately high percentage of them died during the aggressive questioning. Korba was certain they must be hiding something from him, even though no one divulged any useful information.

Despite the nagging objections of his conscience, Paul allowed the merciless inquisition to continue. Innocent deaths? There had already been plenty, and there would be more. He even considered recruiting Bene Gesserit Truthsayers, but decided against the idea, because he could not entirely convince himself that the Sisterhood was not involved.

But whom could he trust? Paul had only a few faithful confidantes - Chani, Stilgar, Alia. He could also trust his mother, and Gurney Halleck, but they were both far away on Caladan. Perhaps Korba, too, and Bludd. What about Irulan, though? He neither trusted nor distrusted her. She had lost her sister in the attack, and his truth-sense picked up no deception on her part. Could it have been a botched Corrino scheme, with Shaddam's youngest daughter as a sacrificial lamb? Or some hitherto unknown Harkonnen heir?

Other names and questions surfaced in Paul's mind, but he set them aside. He didn't want to go too far along that line of thinking, because paranoia could drive him mad. I must be more alert than ever. New security measures must be established to keep my enemies off balance. be more alert than ever. New security measures must be established to keep my enemies off balance.

Not surprisingly, amidst the uproar, Memnon Thorvald dispatched a pompous-sounding message through disguised intermediaries, taking credit for the ma.s.sacre. Expressing satisfaction from his hidden planetary base, he crowed about how he had infiltrated the Emperor's security and struck close to Muad'Dib's loved ones. But too many of the details in his claims were wrong, his narrative rife with contradictions about what had actually occurred. It appeared that in this instance, at least, Thorvald was merely being an opportunist, attempting to use the tragedy to his advantage. But the rebel leader did not seem knowledgeable enough to have put such an extravagant scheme into place.

In addition to invoking echoes of the Elaccan flying disks from the wedding-day attack, whoever had a.s.sembled this plot knew Paul well enough to choose hunter-seekers, hunter-seekers, a weapon once used in an attempt to kill him in the Arrakeen residency after he first arrived on Dune. This time, where one hunter-seeker might fail, more could succeed - especially given the variety of poisons. The plotter, or plotters, understood Muad'Dib's abilities quite well. a weapon once used in an attempt to kill him in the Arrakeen residency after he first arrived on Dune. This time, where one hunter-seeker might fail, more could succeed - especially given the variety of poisons. The plotter, or plotters, understood Muad'Dib's abilities quite well.

But not well enough to kill him. well enough to kill him.

The sheer mechanics of installing so many hunter-seekers and the bomb beneath the elaccawood throne required extended, unfettered access to that section of the citadel construction site. Looking into this, Korba's Qizarate seized all workers involved in the project and questioned them with more fanaticism than finesse. Oddly, many of the suspect workers had recently been killed on the streets, the victims of random robberies or a.s.saults. The ones who remained alive pa.s.sed the closest questioning.

When the spotlight of suspicion shone on Korba himself, he protested vehemently. Doc.u.ments and testimony proved that he he had imposed many alterations to the citadel's detailed plans, some of them at the last minute. Throughout the construction, Korba had demanded architectural changes that seemed capricious and dictatorial; viewed in the current light, they looked doubly suspicious, opportunities to install b.o.o.by traps. had imposed many alterations to the citadel's detailed plans, some of them at the last minute. Throughout the construction, Korba had demanded architectural changes that seemed capricious and dictatorial; viewed in the current light, they looked doubly suspicious, opportunities to install b.o.o.by traps.

Hearing these questions raised, Paul recalled a time during the Harkonnen occupation, when he and his Fremen band had captured Gurney Halleck and a group of smugglers out on the open desert. After Gurney had revealed to Paul that some of the men were not to be trusted, Korba Korba had been given the task of searching the men carefully. Several of those smugglers had indeed been disguised Sardaukar, but somehow Korba had failed to find the false toenail weapons, the shigawire garrotes in their hair strands, the daggers hidden in their still-suits. An outrageous lapse in security. Had it been intentional even then? had been given the task of searching the men carefully. Several of those smugglers had indeed been disguised Sardaukar, but somehow Korba had failed to find the false toenail weapons, the shigawire garrotes in their hair strands, the daggers hidden in their still-suits. An outrageous lapse in security. Had it been intentional even then?

Listening to Korba take umbrage at the accusations, Paul thought he protested too much. Was it possible that Korba sought to make Muad'Dib into a martyr, using that as a springboard to seize greater religious power for himself? Yes, Paul decided. Korba might very well be capable of that.

And yet, in the end, Paul's truthsense convinced him that the man was not lying.

When Swordmaster Bludd himself became a target of the investigation, Paul knew that Korba was just being thorough. Bludd had thrown himself into the fight without regard to his own safety, had saved Irulan and shielded Paul from the explosion, and nearly died from a poisoned wound.

Even so, Bludd had brought a body shield, despite Paul's orders against it. And he had sensed that there was a bomb hidden under the throne. Or had he known? known?

Paul felt a cold tingle on his skin.

Astoundingly, the recovering Swordmaster did not bother to deny his involvement when Korba confronted him in his quarters. "I had expected you to talk with me sooner. You could have saved yourself a great deal of difficulty." He sniffed. "And you could have saved the lives of all those poor innocents you interrogated. Before I say more, I demand to speak with Paul Atreides."

Bludd wore his finest, most outrageously formal outfit. Though Korba himself had begun to dress in the finery of offworld clothiers, unconsciously following the Swordmaster's lead in fashion, he snapped orders for the foppish man to be stripped, searched, and scanned as thoroughly as they would have done to any captive Sardaukar.

Korba took great delight in yanking the sleeves and collars, ripping the fabric, and slicing open Bludd's breeches until he stood naked, his well-toned body a patchwork of bandages from his various cuts. Handling him roughly, guards scanned his hair for shigawire garrotes, a.n.a.lyzed his teeth for hidden suicide weapons, tested the sweat from his pores for specifically targeted neurotoxins. They even peeled off his fingernails and toenails to make sure they contained no hidden wafer weapons.

The Swordmaster endured the excruciating pain without so much as a whimper; rather, he looked impatient and offended. "You have nothing to fear from me." Not believing this, they probed him again.

Finally, bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y yet still walking with a somewhat graceful limp, Bludd was brought before Emperor Muad'Dib. Instead of his finery, the traitor wore only a plain loincloth. His bandages showed bright spots of fresh blood from wounds that had reopened. He smiled ruefully up at Paul. "I am sorry I could not be more presentable, my Lord. My garments were damaged by your zealots. But no matter." He shrugged his shoulders. "These rags take me back to my roots. I feel like a young Swordmaster in training on Ginaz, somewhat like Duncan Idaho."

Paul rose to his feet. He felt weary and furious; wanted to understand Bludd's motivations as much as he wanted revenge. "You don't deny what you did?"

"To what purpose? You could detect a lie the moment I spoke it. Ah, I wish it had not come to this. It wasn't what I intended."

Korba stepped forward and shouted at the prisoner. "Tell us all of the members of your conspiracy. How far does it spread? How many others are traitors in Muad'Dib's court?"

Bludd gave the Fremen leader a withering frown. "I needed no one else. This was my plot, and mine alone. I wanted to be a hero - and I succeeded. Everyone saw me save you, Chani, and the Princess."

Korba confronted the near-naked man in his bindings. "You could not have done this by yourself. No man could."

"Maybe not one ordinary man, but one Swordmaster Swordmaster could. I planned it all in every detail, without help." Then Bludd began to regale them with the entire scheme, rattling off specific details of every phase of the operation that had taken him many months to put into place - step by step, one part of the plan after another. could. I planned it all in every detail, without help." Then Bludd began to regale them with the entire scheme, rattling off specific details of every phase of the operation that had taken him many months to put into place - step by step, one part of the plan after another.

Korba snorted in disbelief at the preposterous claims, but Paul realized that Bludd was not exaggerating. As the Swordmaster talked, he seemed impressed with his own cleverness, though a bit sheepish to reveal it. "I have been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and now you have me. I presume that my service to you is at an end, Sire? You must admit, I did excellent work on your citadel."

Paul was genuinely baffled. "But why why did you turn on me?" He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so confused. His words came out in a rush. "What did you have to gain? How did I offend you? What could possibly have sparked such absolute hatred?" did you turn on me?" He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so confused. His words came out in a rush. "What did you have to gain? How did I offend you? What could possibly have sparked such absolute hatred?"

"Hatred? Why, I do not hate you, Sire. You have been exceedingly fair and kind to me, and I never sought to harm you." He sighed, and Paul finally detected a deep-seated wound that the man had carried inside for many years, a scar that had never faded. "But history has been less kind to me. I wanted to add my own flourish to the record." "Explain yourself, man!" Korba growled.

"I lived my life as a great Swordmaster and accomplished many deeds of valor. Can you name them?" He raised his eyebrows, looked wearily at Korba, then at the guards, and back at Paul. "Come, you must remember some of them? Any of them? You certainly do, my Lord. Or do you only remember Rivvy Dinari, who died protecting Archduke Armand during the wedding-day attack? Not poor Swordmaster Bludd, who failed to save Ilesa." He lowered his head. "I missed my chance then. I failed and was brushed aside, but Rivvy went out in a final flash of glory, a true hero. In fact, he was the star of all the historical accounts. Have you read them, my Lord Paul?"

"I was there. I don't need to read them."

"I fought with the Ecazi and Atreides soldiers on Grumman. I helped in the final showdown with Viscount Moritani - does anyone remember? As Archduke Armand clung to life all these years, I served as steward of House Ecaz and apparently accomplished nothing! For you, I oversaw the construction here of the greatest work of architecture in human history, but it will always be known as the Citadel of Muad'Dib. Muad'Dib. Korba is right about that. I am just another footnote." Korba is right about that. I am just another footnote."

Defiant tears sparkled in his eyes, but he drew no shred of sympathy from Paul. "I demand a grand ending for the history books, not a fading-away. No matter what I've done before, this should have been seen as my last great act as a Swordmaster." Bludd looked around, as if expecting cheers.

"Your secret police can relax, my Lord. I had no political motivations in doing this, I a.s.sure you. All your security, your protective measures, your tests... kept looking outward for enemies, imagining motives and eliminating any threats you could perceive. But my motive? I just wanted the attention, the recognition, the respect." He smiled and lowered his voice. "Despite all, I must confess that I am glad to see you are still alive. And I suppose I will not be remembered as a hero after all. Ah well, it is better to be famous than infamous, but it is better to be infamous than forgotten altogether."

Anger honed Paul's voice to a dangerous edge. "What makes you think I will not have your name stricken from the historical record - like House Tantor after they unleashed their holocaust on Salusa Secundus?"

Bludd crossed his sinewy arms over his chest. "Because, Paul Atreides, you have too much respect for history, no matter what Princess Irulan writes." He brushed at his bare chest, as if imagining wrinkles in a ruffled shirt he no longer wore. "You will sentence me to death, of course. There is nothing I can do about that."

"Yes, you are sentenced to death," Paul said, as if in an afterthought.

"Muad'Dib, I refuse to believe he acted alone! Such a complex conspiracy?" Korba said. "The people will never believe it. If you execute this one man, they will see him as a token, perhaps even a scapegoat. They will believe we are unable to find the true perpetrators."

Bludd laughed sarcastically. "So you will punish random people because you are too narrow-minded to believe that a man with talent and imagination could accomplish what I did? How appropriate."

Paul was too tired and sickened to deal further with the matter. "Continue your investigations, Korba. See if what he says is true. But do not take too long. There's enough turmoil on Arrakeen, and I want to end this."

Bludd was taken away in chains, looking oddly satisfied, even relieved.

Individuals can be honorable and selfless. But in a mob, people will always demand more - more food, more wealth, more justice, and more blood.

-Bene Gesserit a.n.a.lysis of human behavior, Wallach IX Archives

The open square in front of the Citadel of Muad'Dib was s.p.a.cious enough to hold the population of a small city, but it could not encompa.s.s all those who clamored to witness the execution of Whitmore Bludd.

From just inside his high balcony - designed by Bludd himself, so that the Emperor could stand above all his people and address the mult.i.tudes - Paul watched the throng shift like waves of sand on endless dunes. He heard their grumbles and shouts, felt their charged anger ready to ignite.

It concerned him, but he could not deny them this spectacle. His Empire was based on pa.s.sion and devotion. These people had sworn their lives to him, had overthrown planets in his name. While pretending to be a brave hero, the traitor Bludd had tried to harm their beloved Muad'Dib, and they felt a desperate need for revenge. Paul had little choice but to grant it to them. Even with his prescience, he could not foresee all the harm that would arise if he dared to forgive Bludd. If he dared! If he dared! He was the ruler of the Imperium, and yet he was not free to make his own decisions. He was the ruler of the Imperium, and yet he was not free to make his own decisions.

Out in the square, guards cleared a central area so that the group of condemned prisoners could be brought out. Guards wearing personal shields used clubs to drive the people back, but it was like trying to deflect the winds in a raging sandstorm. In the mob's frenzy, some of them turned upon each other, overreacting to an unintentional shove or the jab of an elbow.

It is a tinderbox down there. Paul saw now that he had addicted them to violence as much as they were addicted to spice. How could he expect them simply to accept peace? The crowd below was a microcosm of his entire Empire. Paul saw now that he had addicted them to violence as much as they were addicted to spice. How could he expect them simply to accept peace? The crowd below was a microcosm of his entire Empire.

Fedaykin guards brought Bludd and ten other men forward from the citadel's prison levels. The men plodded along in heavy chains.

Seeing them, the crowd responded with a roar that rolled through the square like a physical wave. At the forefront of the captives, Whitmore Bludd tried to stride along with a spring in his step, though he had been severely beaten, his feet were bruised and swollen, and he was so sore he could barely walk. The men behind him were allegedly fellow conspirators who'd had some part in the terrible ma.s.sacre.

Two of the ten were the pair of inept a.s.sa.s.sins who had also plotted to kill Muad'Dib but had been caught in the early stages of their plan. Korba had offered up the other eight as sacrificial lambs, but it was clear to Paul that the evidence against them had been doctored, their confessions forced. Paul was sadly unsurprised to note that all eight were known to be Korba's rivals, men who had challenged his authority. Paul felt sick inside. And so it begins.... begins....

In the square beneath the balcony, a stone speaking platform had become a gathering place for priests, news-criers, and orators proclaiming the glory of Muad'Dib. Now the platform had been reconfigured as an execution stand.

Though limping, Bludd maintained some semblance of grace and courage, but three of the men behind him stumbled or resisted and had to be dragged along. Those men protested their innocence (correctly, perhaps) by their gestures, their expressions, their wails of anguish. But the thunderous roar of the crowd drowned out their words.

As soon as the foppish Swordmaster was hauled up to the speaking platform, the crowd let out another roar that soon began to coalesce into words, a chanted, mocking, hate-filled chorus of "Bad Bludd, Bad Bludd!"

Half of the doomed men fell to their knees trembling, but not the Swordmaster, who stood with his chin high. The others turned their heads down in dismay and terror.

Defiant, Bludd squared his shoulders and gazed at the crowd. His long ringlets of silver-and-gold hair blew in the hot breeze. Even now the Swordmaster seemed to consider this to be part of a performance, determined not to be remembered by history as a gibbering coward. He smiled boldly, swelling his chest. If he was going to be infamous, then Bludd would be truly extravagant in his infamy.

Paul allowed the crowd's emotions to rise. Finally, pa.s.sing smoothly through the moisture seals, he emerged onto the balcony and stood under the warm yellow sunlight. Many faces in the crowd turned rapturously toward him. For a long moment, he said nothing - just absorbed the throbbing wash of emotions, and let the onlookers absorb him. him. The shouts rose to a cacophony, and Paul raised his hands for silence. The shouts rose to a cacophony, and Paul raised his hands for silence.

He could have spoken in a normal voice, not even requiring the amplifiers that were s.p.a.ced around the vast square. But he shouted, "Justice is mine."

Even Bludd turned to face him. It seemed as if the Swordmaster wanted to give him a salute, but his hands were bound.

Paul had decided against a long and ponderous speech. The crowds already knew the crime, and knew who had been found guilty. "I am Muad'Dib, and I give you this gift." He gestured down toward Bludd and the other men. "Justice is yours."

The guards removed the shackles from Bludd and the other prisoners, and let the chains tumble heavily onto the speaking platform. Knowing what was to come, the guards vanished quickly into the crowd. With a dismissive gesture, Paul stepped back into the shadows, out of sight, as if he had washed his hands of the matter. But he continued to watch.

The mob hesitated for a minute, not sure what they were supposed to do, unable to believe what Muad'Dib had just said. Two of the prisoners tried to bolt. Bludd stood on the execution platform with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

The crowd surged forward like a crashing wave. They howled and clawed at each other to get closer. Paul watched, sickened, as they tore Bludd limb from limb, along with the ten hapless scapegoats.

Chani slipped into the shadows beside him, her face dusky, her eyes large and hard. She had a Fremen's bloodthirstiness, wanted to see pain inflicted upon those who had tried to harm her and her beloved. Even so, at the sight of such violence and fanaticism, revulsion showed on her face.