by the Princess Irulan

Crown Prince Shaddam’s tutoring chambers in the Imperial Palace would have been large enough to house a village on some worlds. With total disinterest, the Corrino heir brooded in front of his teaching machine while Fenring watched him.

“My father still wants me to sit in training classes like a child.” Shaddam scowled down at the lights and spinning mechanisms of the machine. “I should be married by now. I should have an Imperial heir of my own.”

“Why?” Fenring laughed. “So the throne can skip a generation and go directly to your son when he reaches his prime, hmmmm?”

Shaddam was thirty-four years old and seemingly a lifetime away from becoming Emperor. Each time the old man took a drink of spice beer, he activated more of the secret poison — but the n’kee had been working for months, and the only result seemed to be increasingly irrational behavior. As if they needed more of that!

That very morning Brood had scolded Shaddam for not paying closer attention to his studies. “Watch, and learn!” — one of his father’s tedious phrases — “Do as well as Fenring, for once.”

Since childhood, Hasimir Fenring had attended classes with the Crown Prince. Ostensibly, he provided companionship for Shaddam, while he himself gleaned an understanding of Court intrigues and politics. In academics, Fenring always did better than his royal friend: He devoured any bit of data that could help him increase his position.

His mother Chaola, an introspective lady-in-waiting, had settled into a quiet home and lived on her Imperial pension after the death of the Emperor’s fourth wife Habla. In raising the two young boys together while she attended the Empress Habla, Chaola had given Fenring the chance to be so much more — almost as if she had planned it that way.

These days Chaola pretended not to understand what her son did at Court, though she was Bene Gesserit-trained. Fenring was wily enough to know that his mother comprehended far more than her station suggested, and that many plans and breeding schemes had gone on without his knowledge.

Now Shaddam let out a miserable groan and turned from the machine. “Why can’t the old creature just die and make it easy for me?” He covered his mouth, suddenly alarmed at what he had blurted.

Fenring paced the long floor, glancing up at the hanging banners of the Landsraad. The Crown Prince was expected to know the colors and crests of every Great and Minor House, but Shaddam had difficulty simply remembering all the family names.

“Be patient, my friend. All in its own time.” In one of the alcoves, Fenring struck a combustible spike of vanilla-scented incense and inhaled a long breath of the fumes. “In the meantime, learn about subjects that will be relevant to your reign. You’ll need such information in the near future, hmm-m-m-ah?”

“Stop making that noise, Hasimir. It’s annoying.”

“Hmmmm?”

“It irritated me when we were children, and you know it still does. Stop it!”

In the adjoining room, behind supposed privacy screens, Shaddam could hear his tutor giggling, the sounds of clothes rustling, bedsheets, skin upon skin. The tutor spent his afternoons with a willowy, achingly beautiful woman who had been sexually trained to Expert Class. Shaddam had given the girl her orders, and her ministrations kept the tutor out of the way so that he and Fenring could have private conversations — difficult enough in a palace full of prying eyes and attentive ears.

The tutor did not know, however, that the girl was intended for Elrood as a gift, a perfect addition to his harem. This little trick gave the Crown Prince a large club to wield as a threat against the bothersome teacher. If the Emperor ever found out …

“Learning to manipulate people is an important part of ruling,” Fenring often told him upon suggesting an idea. That much, at least, Shaddam had understood. As long as the Crown Prince listens to my advice, Fenring thought, he could become a good enough ruler, after all.

Screens displayed dull statistics of shipping resources, primary exports of major planets, holographic images of every conceivable product from the finest dyed whalefur, to Ixian soothe-sonic tapestries … inkvines, shigawire, fabulous Ecazi art objects, pundi rice, and donkey dung. Everything spewed from the teaching machine like an out-of-control font of wisdom, as if Shaddam was supposed to know and remember all the details. But that’s what advisors and experts are for.

Fenring glanced down at the display. “Of all the things in the Imperium, Shaddam, what do you suppose is most important, hm-m-m-m?”

“Are you my tutor now too, Hasimir?”

“Always,” Fenring replied. “If you turn out to be a superb Emperor, it will benefit all the populace … including me.”

The bed in the next room made rhythmic, thought-scattering sounds.

“Peace and quiet is the most important thing.” Shaddam grumbled his answer.

Fenring tapped a key on the teaching machine. Machinery clicked, chimed, hummed. An image of a desert planet appeared. Arrakis. Fenring slid onto the bench beside Shaddam. “The spice melange. That’s the most important thing. Without it, the Imperium would crumble.”

He leaned forward, and his nimble fingers flew across the controls, calling up displays of the desert planet’s spice-harvesting activities. Shaddam glanced at footage of a giant sandworm as it destroyed a harvesting machine in the deep wastelands.

“Arrakis is the only known source of melange in the universe.” Fenring curled his hand into a fist and brought it down with a hard thump on the milky marbleplaz tabletop. “But why? With all the Imperial explorers and prospectors, and the huge reward House Corrino has offered for generations, why has no one found spice anywhere else? After all, with a billion worlds in the Imperium, it must be somewhere else.”

“A billion?” Shaddam pursed his lips. “Hasimir, you know that’s just hyperbole for the masses. The tally I’ve seen is only a million or so.”

“A million, a billion, what’s the difference, hmmmm? My point is, if melange is a substance found in the universe, we should find it in more than one place. You know about the Planetologist your father sent to Arrakis?”

“Of course, Pardot Kynes. We expect another report from him at any moment. It’s been a few weeks since the last one.” He raised his head in pride. “I’ve made a point to read them whenever they arrive.”

From the curtained side room, they heard gasping and giggling, heavy furniture sliding aside, something overturning with a thump. Shaddam allowed himself a thin smile. The concubine was well trained, indeed.

Fenring rolled his large eyes, then turned back to the teaching machine. “Pay attention, Shaddam. Spice is vital, and yet all production is controlled by a single House on a single world. The threat of a bottleneck is enormous, even with Imperial oversight and pressure from CHOAM. For the stability of the Imperium, we need a better source of melange. We should create it synthetically if we have to. We need an alternative.” He turned to the Crown Prince, his dark eyes glittering. “One that’s in our control.”

Shaddam enjoyed discussions like this much more than the tutor’s programmed learning routines. “Ah, yes! An alternative to melange would shift the entire balance of power in the Imperium, wouldn’t it?”

“Exactly! As it is, CHOAM, the Guild, the Bene Gesserit, the Mentats, the Landsraad, even House Corrino, all fight over the spice production and distribution from a single planet. But if there was an alternative, one solely in the hands of the Imperial House, your family would become true Emperors, not just puppets under the control of other political forces.”

“We are not puppets,” Shaddam snapped. “Not even my doddering father.” He flicked a nervous glance at the ceiling, as if comeyes might be hidden there, though Fenring had already run thorough scans for observational apparatus. “Uh, long may he live.”

“As you say, my Prince,” Fenring said without conceding a millimeter. “But if we put the wheels in motion now, then you will reap those benefits when the throne is yours.” He fiddled with the teaching machine. “Watch, and learn!” he said in a creaking falsetto imitation of Elrood’s ponderous pronouncements. Shaddam chuckled at the sarcasm.

The machine displayed scenes of Ixian industrial accomplishments, all the new inventions and modifications that had been made during a profitable rule by House Vernius. “Why do you think it is the Ixians can’t use their technology to find a spice alternative?” Fenring asked. “They’ve been instructed time and again to analyze the spice and develop another option for us, yet they play with their navigation machines and their silly timepieces. Who needs to tell the exact hour on any planet of the Imperium? How are those pursuits more important than the spice itself? House Vernius is an utter failure, as far as you are concerned.”

“This tutoring machine is Ixian. The annoying new Heighliner design is Ixian. So’s your high-performance groundcar and …”

“Off the point,” Fenring said. “I don’t believe House Vernius invests any of its technological resources in solving the alternative-spice problem. It is not a high priority for them.”

“Then my father should give them firmer guidance.” Shaddam clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look Imperial, flushed with forced indignation. “When I’m Emperor, I’ll be certain people understand their priorities. Ah, yes, I will personally direct what is most important to the Imperium and to House Corrino.”

Fenring circled the teaching machine like a prowling Laza tiger. He plucked a sugared date from a fruit tray unobtrusively displayed on a side table. “Old Elrood made similar pronouncements a long time ago, yet so far he hasn’t followed through on any of them.” He waved his long-fingered hand. “Oh, in the beginning he asked the Ixians to look into the matter. He also offered a large bounty for any explorer who found even melange precursors on uncharted planets.” He popped the date into his mouth, licked his sticky fingers, and swallowed the smooth, sweet fruit. “Still nothing.”

“Then my father should increase the reward,” Shaddam said. “He’s not trying hard enough.”

Fenring studied his neatly clipped nails, then raised his overlarge eyes to meet Shaddam’s. “Or could it be that old Elrood IX isn’t willing to consider all the necessary alternatives?”

“He’s incompetent, but not entirely stupid. Why would he do that?”

“Suppose someone were to suggest using … the Bene Tleilax, for example? As the only possible solution?” Fenring leaned against a stone pillar to observe Shaddam’s reaction.

A ripple of disgust crossed the Crown Prince’s face. “The filthy Tleilaxu! Why would anyone want to work with them?”

“Because they might provide the answer we seek.”

“You must be joking. Who can trust anything the Tleilaxu say?” He pictured the gray-skinned race, their oily hair and dwarfish stature, their beady eyes, pug noses, and sharp teeth. They kept to themselves, isolating their core planets, intentionally digging a societal ditch in which they could wallow.

The Bene Tleilax were, however, true genetic wizards, willing to use unorthodox and socially heinous methods, dealing in live or dead flesh, in biological waste. With their mysterious yet powerful axlotl tanks they could grow clones from live cells and gholas from dead ones. The Tleilaxu had a slippery, shifty aura about them. How can anyone take them seriously?

“Think about it, Shaddam. Are the Tleilaxu not masters of organic chemistry and cellular mechanics, hm-m-m-m-ah?” Fenring sniffed. “Through my own web of spies I’ve learned that the Bene Tleilax, despite the distaste with which we view them, have developed a new technique. I have certain … technical skills myself, you know, and I believe this Tleilaxu technique could be applicable to the production of artificial melange … our own source.” He fixed his bright birdlike eyes on Shaddam’s. “Or are you unwilling to consider all alternatives, and let your father maintain control?”

Shaddam squirmed, hesitating to answer. He would much rather have been playing a game of shield-ball. He didn’t like to think of the gnomelike men; religious fanatics, the Bene Tleilax were intensely secretive and did not invite guests. Heedless of how other worlds regarded them, they sent their representatives out to observe and to make deals at the highest levels for unique bioengineered products. Rumor held that no outsider had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman. Never. He thought they must be either wildly beautiful … or incredibly ugly.

Seeing the Crown Prince shudder, Fenring pointed a finger at him. “Shaddam, don’t fall into the same trap as your father. As your friend and advisor, I must investigate unseen opportunities, hm-m-m-m-ah? Put aside such feelings and consider the possible victory if this works — a victory over the Landsraad, the Guild, CHOAM, and the scheming House Harkonnen. How amusing to think that all the strings the Harkonnens pulled to gain Arrakis after the downfall of Richese would be for naught.”

His voice became softer, infinitely reasonable. “What difference does it make if we have to deal with the Tleilaxu? So long as House Corrino breaks the spice monopoly and establishes an independent source?”

Shaddam looked at him, turning his back on the teaching machine. “You’re sure about this?”

“No, I’m not sure,” Fenring snapped. “No one can be sure until it is done. But we must at least consider the idea, give it a chance. If we don’t, somebody else will … eventually. Maybe even the Bene Tleilax themselves. We need to do this for our own survival.”

“What will happen when my father hears about it?” Shaddam asked. “He won’t like the idea.”

Old Elrood never could think for himself, and Fenring’s chaumurky had already begun to fossilize his brain. The Emperor had always been a pathetic pawn, shifted around by political forces. Perhaps the senile vulture had made a deal with House Harkonnen to keep them in control of the spice production. It wouldn’t surprise Shaddam if the young and powerful Baron had old Elrood wrapped around his little finger. House Harkonnen was fabulously wealthy, and their means of influence were legion.

It would be good to bring them to their knees.

Fenring put his hands on his hips. “I can make all of this happen, Shaddam. I have contacts. I can bring a Bene Tleilax representative here without anybody knowing. He can state our case before the Imperial Court — and then if your father turns him down, we might be able to find out who’s controlling the throne … the trail would be fresh. Hmmm-ahh, shall I set it up?”

The Crown Prince glanced back at the teaching machine that obliviously continued to instruct a nonexistent pupil. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said impatiently, now that he had come to a decision. “Let’s not waste more time. And stop making that noise.”

“It’ll take a while for me to get all the pieces in place, but the investment will be worth it.”

From the next room came a high-pitched moan; then a thin squeal of ecstasy built higher and higher until it seemed that the walls themselves must crumble.

“Our tutor must have learned how to pleasure his little pet,” Shaddam said with a scowl. “Or perhaps she’s just faking.”

Fenring laughed and shook his head. “That wasn’t her, my friend. That was his voice.”

“I wish I knew what they were doing in there,” Shaddam said.

“Don’t worry. It’s all being recorded for your later enjoyment. If our beloved tutor cooperates with us and causes no trouble, we’ll simply watch it for amusement. If, however, he proves difficult, we’ll wait until after your father’s been given this concubine for his own private toy — then we’ll show Emperor Elrood a glimpse of those images.”

“And we’ll have what we want anyway,” Shaddam said.

“Exactly, my Prince.”

The working Planetologist has access to many resources, data, and projections. However, his most important tools are human beings. Only by cultivating ecological literacy among the people themselves can he save an entire planet.

-PARDOT KYNES, The Case for Bela Tegeuse

As he gathered notes for his next report to the Emperor, Pardot Kynes encountered increasing evidence of subtle ecological manipulations. He suspected the Fremen. Who else could be responsible out there in the wastelands of Arrakis?

It became clear to him that the desert people must be present in far greater numbers than the Harkonnen stewards imagined — and that the Fremen had a dream of their own … but the Planetologist in him wondered if they had developed an actual plan to accomplish it.

While delving into the geological and ecological enigmas of this desert world, Kynes came to believe that he had the power at his fingertips to breathe life into these sunblistered sands. Arrakis was not merely the dead lump it appeared to be on the surface; instead, it was a seed capable of magnificent growth … provided the environment received the proper care.

The Harkonnens certainly wouldn’t expend the effort. Though they had been planetary governors here for decades, the Baron and his capricious crew behaved as if they were unruly houseguests with no long-term investment in Arrakis. As Planetologist, he could see the obvious signs. The Harkonnens were plundering the world, taking as much melange as they could as quickly as possible, with no thought to the future.

Political machinations and the tides of power could quickly and easily shift alliances. Within a few decades, no doubt, the Emperor would hand control of the spice operations to some other Great House. The Harkonnens had nothing to gain by making long-term investments here.

Many of the other inhabitants were also indigents: smugglers, water merchants, traders who could easily pull up stakes and fly to another world, a different boomtown settlement. No one cared for the planet’s plight — Arrakis was merely a resource to be exploited, then discarded.

Kynes thought the Fremen might have a different mind-set, though. The reclusive desert dwellers were said to be fierce to their own ways. They had wandered from world to world in their long history, been downtrodden and enslaved before making Arrakis their home — a planet they had called Dune since ancient times. These people had the most at stake here. They would suffer the consequences caused by the exploiters.

If Kynes could only enlist Fremen aid — and if there were as many of these mysterious people as he suspected — changes might be made on a global scale. Once he accumulated more data on weather patterns, atmospheric content, and seasonal fluctuations, he could develop a realistic timetable, a game plan that would eventually sculpt Arrakis into a verdant place. It can be done!

For a week now, he had concentrated his activities around the Shield Wall, an enormous mountain range that embraced the northern polar regions. Most inhabitants settled in rocky guarded terrain where, he supposed, the worms could not go.

To see the land up close, Kynes chose to travel slowly in a one-man groundcar. He puttered around the base of the Shield Wall, taking measurements, collecting specimens. He measured the angle of strata in the rocks to determine the geological turmoil that had established such a mountainous barrier.

Given time and meticulous study, he might even find fossil layers, limestone clumps with petrified seashells or primitive ocean creatures from the planet’s much wetter past. Thus far, the subtle evidence for primordial water was clear enough to the trained eye. Uncovering such a cryptozooic remnant, though, would be the keystone of his treatise, incontrovertible proof of his suspicions ….

Early one morning Kynes drove in his trundling groundcar, leaving tracks on loose material that had eroded from the mountain wall. In this vicinity all villages, from the largest to the most squalid settlements, were carefully marked on the charts, undoubtedly for purposes of Harkonnen taxation and exploitation. It was a relief to have accurate maps for a change.

He found himself near a place called Windsack, the site of a Harkonnen guard station and troop barracks that lived in an uneasy alliance with the desert dwellers. Kynes continued along, rocking with the uneven terrain. Humming to himself, he stared up at the cliffsides. The putter of his engines served as a lullaby, and he lost himself in thought.

Then, as he came over a rise and rounded a finger of rock, he was startled to encounter a small, desperate battle. Six muscular, well-trained soldiers stood in full Harkonnen livery, cloaked in bodyshields. The bravos held ceremonial cutting weapons, which they were using to toy with three Fremen youths they had cornered.

Kynes brought the groundcar to a lurching halt. The deplorable scene reminded him of how he had once watched a well-fed Laza tiger playing with a mangy ground rat on Salusa Secundus. The satisfied tiger had no need for additional meat, but simply enjoyed playing the predator; it trapped the terrified rodent between some rocks, scratching with long, curved claws, opening painful, bloody wounds … injuries that were, intentionally, not fatal. The Laza tiger had batted the ground rat around for many minutes as Kynes observed through high-powered oil lenses. Finally bored, the tiger had simply bitten off the creature’s head and then sauntered away, leaving the carcass for carrion feeders.

By contrast, the three Fremen youths were putting up more of a fight than the ground rat, but they had only simple knives and stillsuits, no bodyshields or armor. The desert natives had no chance against the fighting skills and weaponry of Harkonnen soldiers.

But they did not surrender.

The Fremen snatched at the ground and threw sharp rocks with deadly aim, but the projectiles bounced harmlessly off the shimmering shields. The Harkonnens laughed and pressed closer.

Out of sight, Kynes climbed from his groundcar, fascinated by the tableau. He adjusted his stillsuit, loosening binders to give him more freedom of movement. He made sure the face mask was in place but not sealed. At the moment, he didn’t know whether to observe from a distance, as he had done with the Laza tiger … or whether he should aid in some way.

The Harkonnen troops outnumbered the Fremen two to one, and if Kynes came to the defense of the youths, he would likely find himself either wounded or at least charged with interference by Harkonnen officials. A sanctioned Imperial Planetologist wasn’t supposed to meddle in local events.

He rested his hand near the weapon blade at his waist. In any event, he was ready, but hopeful that he would see no more than an extended exchange of insults, escalating threats, and perhaps a scuffle that would end in hard feelings and a few bruises.

But in a moment, the character of the confrontation changed — and Kynes realized his stupidity. This was not a mere taunting game, but a deadly serious standoff. The Harkonnens were out for a kill.

The six soldiers waded in, blades flashing, shields pulsing. The Fremen youths fought back. Within seconds, one of the natives was down, gushing bright foaming blood from a severed neck artery.

Kynes was about to shout, but swallowed his words as anger turned his vision red. While he’d been driving along, he had made grandiose plans of using the Fremen as a resource, a true desert people with whom he could share ideas. He had dreamed of adapting them as a grand workforce for his sparkling scheme of ecological transformation. They were to be his willing allies, enthusiastic assistants.

Now these blockheaded Harkonnens were — for no apparent reason — trying to kill his workers, the tools with which he intended to remake the planet! He could not let that happen.

While the third member of their band lay bleeding to death on the sands, the other two Fremen, with only primitive milky blue knives and no shields, attacked in a wild frenzy that astounded Kynes. “Taqwa!” they screamed.

Two Harkonnens fell under the surprise rally, and their four remaining comrades were slow in coming to their aid. Hesitantly, the blue-uniformed soldiers moved toward the youths.

Indignant at the Harkonnens’ gross injustice, Kynes reacted on impulse. He slid toward the bravos from the rear, moving quickly and silently. Switching on his personal shield, he unsheathed the short-bladed slip-tip he kept for self-defense — a shield-fighting weapon, with poison in its point.

During the harsh years on Salusa Secundus, he had learned how to fight with it, and how to kill. His parents had worked in one of the Imperium’s most infamous prisons, and the day-to-day environments in Kynes’s explorations had often required him to defend himself against powerful predators.

He uttered no cry of battle, for that would have compromised his element of surprise. Kynes held his weapon low. He wasn’t particularly brave, merely single-minded. As if driven by a force beyond the person who held it, the tip of Kynes’s blade passed slowly through the bodyshield of the nearest Harkonnen, then pushed hard and thrust upward, into flesh, cartilage, and bone. The blade penetrated beneath the man’s rib cage, pierced his kidneys, and severed his spinal cord.

Kynes yanked out the knife and rotated halfway to his left, sliding the knife into the side of a second Harkonnen soldier, who was just turning to face him. The shield slowed the poisoned blade for a moment, but as the Harkonnen thrashed, Kynes drove the point home, deep into the soft flesh of the abdomen, again cutting upward.

Thus, two Harkonnens lay mortally wounded and writhing before anyone had made an outcry. Now four of them were down, including those the Fremen had killed. The remaining pair of Harkonnen bullies stared in shock at this turn of events, then howled at the brash boldness of the tall stranger. They exchanged combat signals and spread apart, eyeing Kynes more than the Fremen, who stood ferocious and ready to fight with their fingernails if necessary.

Again the Fremen lunged against their attackers. Again, they screamed, “Taqwa!”

One of the two surviving Harkonnen soldiers thrust his sword at Kynes, but the Planetologist moved rapidly now, still angry and flushed with the blooding of his first two victims. He reached upward, rippling through the shield, and neatly slit the attacker’s throat. An entrisseur. The guard dropped his sword and grasped his neck in a futile attempt to hold his lifeblood inside.

The fifth Harkonnen crumpled to the ground.

As the two Fremen fighters turned their revenge upon the lone remaining enemy, Kynes bent over the seriously wounded desert youth and spoke to him. “Stay calm. I will help you.”

The young man had already sprayed copious amounts of blood into the gravelly dust, but Kynes had an emergency medpak on his belt. He slapped a wound sealant on the ragged neck cut, then used hypovials with ready plasma and high-powered stimulants to keep the victim alive. He felt the young man’s pulse at the wrist. A steady heartbeat.

Kynes saw the depth of the damage now and was astonished that the youth hadn’t bled more. Without medical attention, he would have died within minutes. But still, Kynes was amazed the boy had survived this long. This Fremen’s blood coagulates with extreme efficiency. Another fact to file away in his memory — a survival adaptation to reduce moisture loss in the driest desert?

“Eeeeah!”

“No!”

Kynes looked up at the cries of pain and terror. Off to one side, the Fremen had dug the surviving Harkonnen’s eyes out of their sockets, using their blade tips. Then they made slow work of flaying their victim alive, stripping away ribbons of pink skin, which they stored in sealed pouches at their hips.

Covered with blood, Kynes stood up, panting. Seeing their viciousness now that the tables had been turned, he began to wonder if he’d done the right thing. These Fremen were like wild animals and had worked themselves into a frenzy. Would they attempt to kill him now, despite what he had done for them? He was a complete stranger to these desperate young men.

He watched and waited, and when the youths had finished with their grisly torture, he met their eyes and cleared his throat before speaking in Imperial Galach. “My name is Pardot Kynes, the Imperial Planetologist assigned to Arrakis.”

He looked down at his blood-smeared skin and decided not to extend a hand in greeting. In their culture, they might misinterpret the gesture. “I’m very pleased to introduce myself. I’ve always wanted to meet the Fremen.”

It’s easier to be terrified by an enemy you admire.

-THUFIR HAWAT, Mentat and Security Commander to House Atreides

Hidden by the thick pines, Duncan Idaho knelt in the soft needles on the ground, feeling little warmth. The chill night air deadened the resinous evergreen scent, but at least here he was sheltered from the razor breezes. He had gone far enough from the cave that he could pause and catch his breath. For just a moment.

He knew the Harkonnen hunters wouldn’t rest, though. They would be particularly incensed now that he’d killed one of their party. Maybe, he thought, they might even enjoy the chase more. Especially Rabban.

Duncan opened the medpak he’d stolen from the ambushed tracker and brought out a small package of newskin ointment, which he slathered over the incision on his shoulder, where it hardened to an organic bond. Then he wolfed down the nutrition bar and stuffed the wrappings into his pockets.

Using the glow of his handlight, he turned to study the lasgun. He’d never fired such a weapon before, but he had watched the guards and the hunters operate their rifles. He cradled the weapon and fiddled with its mechanisms and controls. Pointing the barrel upward, he attempted to understand what he was supposed to do. He had to learn if he meant to fight.

With a sudden surge of power, a white-hot beam lanced out toward the upper boughs of the pine trees. They burst into flames, crackling and snapping. Smoldering clumps of evergreen needles fell around him like red-hot snow.

Yelping, he dropped the gun to the ground and scrambled backward. But he snatched it up again before he could forget which combination of buttons he had pushed. He had to remember and know how to use them.

The flames overhead flared like a bonfire beacon, exuding curls of sharp smoke. With nothing to lose now, Duncan fired again, aiming this time, just to make sure he could use the lasgun to defend himself. The cumbersome weapon was not built for a small boy, especially not with his throbbing shoulder and sore ribs, but he could use it. He had to.

Knowing the Harkonnens would run toward the blaze, Duncan scampered out of the trees, searching for another place to hide. Once again he made for higher ground, keeping to the ridgeline so he could continue observing the hunting party’s scattered glowglobes. He knew exactly where the men were, exactly how close.

But how can they be so stupid, he wondered, making themselves so obvious? Overconfidence … was that their flaw? If so, it might help him. The Harkonnens expected him to play their game, then cower and die when he was supposed to. Duncan would just have to disappoint them.

Maybe this time we’ll play my game instead.

As he dashed along, he avoided patches of snow and kept away from noisy underbrush. However, Duncan’s focus on the clustered pursuers distracted him from seeing his real danger. He heard a snap of dried twigs behind and above him, the rustle of bushes, then a clicking of claws on bare rock accompanied by heavy, hoarse panting.

This was no Harkonnen hunter at all-but another forest predator that smelled his blood.

Skidding to a halt, Duncan looked up, searching for gleaming eyes in the shadows. But he didn’t turn to the stark outcropping over his head until he heard a wet-sounding growl. In the starlight, he discerned the muscular, crouching form of a wild gaze hound, its back fur bristling like quills, its lips curled to expose flesh-tearing fangs. Its huge, huge eyes focused on its prey: a young boy with tender skin.

Duncan scrambled backward and fired off a shot with the lasgun. Poorly aimed, the beam came nowhere close to the stalking creature, but powdered rock spewed from the outcropping below the gaze hound. The predator yelped and snarled, backing off. Duncan fired again, this time sizzling a blackened hole through its right haunch. With a brassy roar, the creature bounded off into the darkness, howling and baying.

The gaze hound’s racket, as well as flashes from the lasgun fire, would draw the Harkonnen trackers. Duncan set off into the starlight, running once more.

HANDS ON HIS hips, Rabban stared down at the body of his ambushed hunter by the cave hollow. Rage burned through him — as well as cruel satisfaction. The devious child had lured the man into a trap. Very resourceful. All of the tracker’s armor hadn’t saved him from a dropped boulder and then the thrust of a dull dagger into his throat. The coup de grace.

Rabban simmered for a few moments, trying to assess the challenge. He smelled the sour scent of death even in the cold night. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it — a challenge?

One of the other trackers crawled into the low hollow and played the beam of his handlight around the cave. It lighted the smears of blood and the smashed Richesian tracer. “Here is the reason, m’Lord. The cub cut out his own tracking device.” The hunter swallowed, as if uncertain whether he should continue. “A smart one, this boy. Good prey.”

Rabban glowered at the carnage for a few moments; his sunburn still stung on his cheeks. Then he grinned, slowly, and finally burst out into loud guffaws. “An eight-year-old child with only his imagination and a couple of clumsy weapons bested one of my troops!” He laughed again. Outside, the others in the party stood uncertainly, bathed in the light of their bobbing glowglobes.

“Such a boy was made for the hunt,” Rabban declared; then he nudged the dead tracker’s body with the toe of his boot. “And this clod did not deserve to be part of my crew. Leave his body here to rot. Let the scavengers get him.”

Then two of the spotters saw flames in the trees, and Rabban pointed. “There! The cub’s probably trying to warm his hands.” He laughed again, and finally the rest of the hunting crew snickered along with him. “This is turning into an exciting night.”

FROM HIS HIGH vantage Duncan gazed into the distance, away from the guarded lodge. A bright light blinked on and off, paused, then fifteen seconds later flashed on and off again. Some kind of signal, separate from the Harkonnen hunters, far from the lodge or the station or any nearby settlements.

Duncan turned, curious. The light flashed, then fell dark. Who else is out here?

Forest Guard Station was a restricted preserve for the sole use of Harkonnen family members. Anyone discovered trespassing would be killed outright, or used as prey in a future hunt. Duncan watched the tantalizing light flickering on and off. It was clearly a message … . Who’s sending it?

He took a deep breath, felt small but defiant in a very large and hostile world. He had no place else to go, no other chance. So far, he had eluded the hunters … but that couldn’t last forever. Soon the Harkonnens would bring in additional forces, ornithopters, life-tracers, perhaps even hunting animals to follow the smell of blood on his shirt, as the wild gaze hound had done.

Duncan decided to make his way to the mysterious signaler and hope for the best. He couldn’t imagine finding anyone to help him, but he had not given up hope. Maybe he could find a means of escape, perhaps as a stowaway.

First, though, he would lay another trap for the hunters. He had an idea, something that would surprise them, and it seemed simple enough. If he could kill a few more of the enemy, he’d have a better chance of getting away.

After studying the rocks, the patches of snow, the trees, Duncan selected the best point for his second ambush. He switched on his handlight and directed the beam at the ground so that no sensitive eyes would spot a telltale gleam in the distance.

The pursuers weren’t far behind him. Occasionally, he heard a muffled shout in the deep silence, saw the hunting party’s firefly glowglobes illuminating their way through the forest, as the trackers tried to anticipate the path their quarry would take.

Right then Duncan wanted them to anticipate where he would go … but they would never guess what he meant to do. Kneeling beside a particularly light and fluffy snowdrift, he inserted the handlight into the snow and pushed it down through the cold iciness as far as he could. Then he withdrew his hand.

The glow reflected from the white snow like water diffusing into a sponge. Tiny crystals of ice refracted the light, magnifying it; the drift itself shone like a phosphorescent island in the dark clearing.

Slinging the lasgun in front of him, ready to fire, he trotted back to the sheltering trees. He lay on a cushion of pine needles flat against the ground, careful to present no visible target, then rested the barrel of the lasgun on a small rock, propping it in position.

Waiting.

The hunters came, predictably, and Duncan felt that their roles had reversed: Now he was the hunter, and they were his game. He aimed the weapon, fingers tense on the firing stud. At last the group entered the clearing. Startled to find the shining snowdrift, they milled about, trying to figure out what it was, what their prey had done.

Two of the trackers faced outward, suspicious of an attack from the forest. Others stood silhouetted in the ghostly light, perfect targets — exactly as Duncan had hoped.

At the rear of the party, he recognized one burly man with a commanding presence. Rabban! Duncan thought of how his parents had fallen, remembered the smell of their burning flesh — and squeezed the firing stud.

But at that moment, one of the scouts stepped in front of Rabban to give a report. The beam scored through his armor, burning and smoking. The man flung out his arms and gave a wild shriek.

Reacting with lightning speed for his burly body, Rabban hurled himself to one side as the beam melted all the way through the hunter’s padded chest and sizzled into the snowdrift. Duncan cut loose another blast, shooting a second tracker who stood outlined against the glowing snow. Then the remaining guards began firing wildly into the trees, into the darkness.

Duncan next targeted the drifting glowglobes. Bursting one after another, he left his hapless pursuers alone in flame-haunted darkness. He picked off two more men, while the rest of the party scrambled for cover.

With the charge in his lasgun running low, the boy scrabbled back behind the ridge where he had set up his attack, and then he headed out at top speed toward the blinking signal light he had seen. Whatever the beacon might be, it was his best chance.

The Harkonnens would be startled and disorganized for a few moments, and overly suspicious for much longer than that. Knowing he had one last opportunity, Duncan threw caution to the wind. He ran, slipping, down the hillside, smashing against rocks, but taking no time to feel the pain of scrapes or bruises. He could not cover his tracks in time, did not attempt to hide.

Somewhere behind him, as he increased the distance, he heard muffled growls and snarls, and shouts from the hunters. A pack of the wild gaze hounds had converged on them, seeking wounded prey. Duncan hid a smile and continued toward the intermittently blinking light. He saw it now, up ahead near the edge of the forest preserve.

He finally approached, treading lightly toward a shallow clearing. He came upon a silent flitter ‘thopter, a high-speed aircraft that could take several passengers. The flashing beacon signaled from the top of the craft — but Duncan saw no one.

He waited in silence for a few moments, then cautiously left the shadows of the trees and moved forward. Was the craft abandoned? Left there for him? Some kind of trap the Harkonnens had laid? But why would they do that? They were already hunting him.

Or did he have a mysterious rescuer?

Duncan Idaho had accomplished much this evening and was already exhausted, stunned at how much had changed in his life. But he was only eight years old and could never pilot this flitter, even if it was his only way to escape. Still, he might find supplies inside, more food, another weapon ….

He leaned against the hull, surveying the area, making no sound. The hatch stood open like an invitation, but the mysterious flitter was dark inside. Wishing he still had his handlight, he moved forward cautiously and probed the shadows ahead of him with the barrel of the lasgun.

Then hands snatched out from the shadows of the craft to yank the gun from his grip before he could even flinch. Fingers stinging, flesh torn, Duncan staggered backward, biting back an outcry.

The person inside the flitter tossed the lasgun with a clatter onto the deckplates and lunged out to grab hold of the boy’s arms. Rough hands squeezed the wound in his shoulder and made him gasp in pain.

Duncan kicked and struggled, then looked up to see a wiry, bitter-faced woman with chocolate-colored hair and dusky skin. He recognized her instantly: Janess Milam, who had stood next to him during the yard games … just before Harkonnen troops had captured his parents and sent his entire family to the prison city of Barony.

This woman had betrayed him to the Harkonnens.

Janess pressed a hand over his mouth before he could cry out and clamped his head in a firm arm lock. He couldn’t escape.

“Got you,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper.

She had betrayed him again.

We consider the various worlds as gene pools, sources of teachings and teachers, sources of the possible.

-Bene Gesserit Analysis,