”A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows.” – from Manual of Muad’Dib by the Princess Irulan Corrino
Mother Mohiam inclined her head slightly, her eyes now protected from the harsh noonday sun by the parasol held in place by a pink-cheeked young acolyte with a blue ribbon in her hair. Just minutes ago, there had been an eclipse; the Guild Heighleiner that now loomed low in the sky had reverted from foldspace directly in the path of Wallach IX’s sun, plunging the dayside of the world into darkness. The representatives aboard hastily apologized from orbit before dispatching the shuttle carrying their delegates and moving the massive cylinder out of the way. Mohiam scowled at the huge black ship. The fish in their tanks were prescient; they didn’t make mistakes. She was not surprised by their behavior, however: the Guild and the Sisterhood did not always get along, and it was a singularly masculine gesture for them to flex their muscles whenever they could. The unfathomably large phalluses the Guild travelled in were comic, in this context. She chuckled to herself. The acolytes, ignorant but eager to please, chuckled as well. All were met at a long table on the Chapterhouse’s veranda. It had not taken long for the Guild delegate to dispense with pleasantries. Soon, he was discussing the same vagaries mentioned in their recent overtures and correspondence with the Bene Gesserit. The Navigators, it seemed, were getting restless. They could sense “problems on the horizon” and were “worried about the future.” They appeared to want the Bene Gesserit to address the problem, or to at least be aware of it. The Sisterhood, uncertain what the fish were prattling about and unwilling to commit to a partnership, had abstained from direct action. “Why,” Mohiam began to ask, her voice wheezing and twanging like an untuned baliset, “have the fish sent a representative here to tell us this? We’ve received your letters and listened to your overtures. What is different, now?” The delegate, a skittish little man with the characteristic dead eyes – no doubt wearing contact lenses to mask his spice addiction – of a Guild employee, twiddled his fingers over the table. He had not touched the hors d’ouvres. Mohiam, on the other hand, coolly slid a morsel past her lips. The Guild representative spoke. “It appears,” he said, carefully measuring his words, “that we have run into something of a problem. Evidence has appeared that a Harkonnen freighter, the Inkvine, was not vaporized or lost in space.” “Why should it have been?” “It was involved in the overthrow of the Atreides on Arrakis. ” The Guild representative was hiding something, and Mohiam, with her Truthsaying abilities, was able to tell it was of utmost importance. The loss of Lady Jessica on Arrakis was a terrible blow to the Sisterhood’s breeding program. And yet, it was always a possibility that she was not lost at all… “And it was presumed lost?” Mohiam asked. “We lost all contact with it, but debris has shown up on the black market, and distress satellites usually launched if a ship is disabled in space were uncovered in the desert without any sign of reentry damage.” “And this is of concern a year later because…?” “Because the ship contains priceless information.” “What sort of information?” The Guild representative shuffled, and continued as if he hadn’t heard the Reverend Mother’s question. “We sense trouble on the horizon,” was all he said in reply. “Why can’t your Navigators use their prescience to detect the ship?” Again, the Guild representative shuffled in his seat. “They cannot.” This troubled Mohiam. The only times the Navigators were unable to track things in the higher-order dimensions were when they interfered with one another, or when they contemplated taking direct control of Arrakis. For the Guild to be struck by a blockage of prescience was unheard of. “And what of your satellites?” “We are not in a position to use them for this purpose.” “What exactly is the Guild doing about this problem?” “We are seeking to keep things under wraps. The information aboard the wreck of the Inkvine could profoundly upset the Landsraad if it were to fall into the wrong hands.” She snorted, “It’s unusual to see the all powerful Spacing Guild with its hands so tied. So, the Guild can’t see past next Tuesday, and they want the Bene Gesserit to do…what, exactly?” “To be mindful,” the Guild representative stood, “To observe. To aid. Whatever lies in wait will upturn the universe.” He spun, and was off across the veranda, towards the groundcar that had brought him here. Mohiam watched him go. A strange man, as all Guild representatives were, but it was rare for anyone to leave her with such chills.
They’d changed their tactics, finally. Good, Ibnir thought grimly, his once hearty laugh reduced to a wheeze. Precious water trickled from the bullet wound in his chest. It mattered little. He would not leave this place alive. God had not willed it. The Harkonnen soldiers had uncovered his explosives and disabled them. They had radioed for reinforcements. It would be dishonorable to fail in this mission, and so it would need to be accomplished one way or another. It did not matter that his tools had been lost and destroyed. God would provide the way. Ibnir struggled to his feet as yet another pair of guards passed his position. He coughed up blood, black from lack of moisture. The guard quickly lifted his communicator to his mouth, speaking in Harkonnen battle language, no doubt informing the forces of the Beast where the Fremen infiltrator was located. Again, no matter. Let them come. Ibnir was an agent of a higher power, and would fight until his time was up. He took a deep breath, immersing himself in the weirding, and charged. His crysknife bit deep into one soldier’s arm, clean through the wrist, separating his radio from his body. Spinning quickly, Ibnir chucked his weapon straight into the other guards’ face, and he fell, his lasgun clattering to the ground as the other Harkonnen’s water flooded from his stump. A quick punch to the throat closed the dismembered man’s throat. Showing mercy, Ibnir stooped, retrieved his weapon, and then snuffed out the handless Harkonnen’s life. The exertion caused more blood to pump from Ibnir’s wound. He felt the life leaving his body and attempted to stop the blood flow to the wound as he’d been taught. He stumbled. The world went black. No! His work was not finished. He willed himself awake in time to see ten Harkonnen guards in their blue regalia running down the hallway, blades drawn and shields up. Their shields would not protect them from the tooth of Shai-hulud. And then Ibnir found himself staring towards the floor. He muttered a prayer and bent low to retrieve the lasgun that had fallen to the ground. When he tried to stand again, his strength failed him. It took him three tries to successfully grasp the lasgun, his hands only paying lip service to his brain’s commands. He finally lifted it, though it felt heavy as a planet. By the time the Harkonnen soldiers noticed what the Fremen in the hallway was doing, it was too late for them to do anything, though at least two scrambled to deactivate their shields, their attempts to reach their shield belts thwarted by their own instinctive, quick movements. Ibnir spoke softly. “Muad’Dib.” And then he pulled the trigger, watching in his last instant as the brilliant red light of the lasgun beam reached eagerly, dooming the Harkonnen dogs and delivering Ibnir to Paradise.
The special, annual convening of the Landsraad had just adjourned. A largely ceremonial event, the yearly synod served to bring large groups of nobles to Kaitain to see and be seen, to make grand proclamations and financial contributions to the Imperium, and to show off their riches. Real concerns were very often raised, but they were not the main attraction and were better served by being voiced at the smaller High Council meetings. Duke Leto had detested such pageantry, but accepted it as politic, and as a necessity. The good Duke had been a practical man. A good man. He was also a dead man, and with him lay dead any hopes of decency in the Imperium. Thufir Hawat felt his hand begin to shake and his knees go weak. The residual poison planted in his body by the twisted house mentat Piter DeVries, the poison that now bonded him to Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, was taking its effect. He would need to seek out the fat man or die. This happened at least five times a day. Not that the Baron was a difficult man to find. Grotesquely fat to the point that his legs were unable to support his weight without the aid of suspensors, Vladimir Harkonnen tended to be given a wide berth, with only his most loyal toadies clinging to him like parasites. Hawat allowed himself another few moments of pain and weakness, staring out at the upside-down chandelier that was Corinth City, before deciding it was time to finally turn around on the burnished floor and, cane in hand, struggle back to the Baron and his retinue. The entourage was engaged in meaningless sycophancy. Hawat’s eyes rested on the Baron’s young heir; Hawat’s vast mentat abilities had most recently been put to use finalizing the logistics of the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha’s birthday celebration, which this year fell during the trip to Kaitain and so would be held in Corinth City, in a grand ballroom and hotel rented for the event, and representatives from all over the Known Universe were invited. The Emperor was secretly regaling the boy with a drugged Sardaukar warrior to fight. Hawat’s latest problem had been securing a gladiatorial ring and keeping it from official eyes so that the boy would be allowed his barbaric pleasure on his birthday. The mentat had also ensured that the Sardaukar would not very well drugged, at all… He scanned, as he limped, for representatives of House Wallach. He had contacted them in earnest, and they would heed his call, no doubt. “M’lord,” Hawat said upon reaching the Baron’s stinking proximity, “all preparations have been made, and guests are arriving from Geidi Prime as we speak. Four heighliners have just arrived with guests and food. All is going according to plan.” So good was his court training that only a Bene Gesserit Truthsayer would be able to definitively identify his sarcasm. “You’ll remember, Baron, that it’s time for my medicine.”
Dark eyes closed, House Wallach’s swordmaster felt the booze burn its way down his throat. “See him over there?” Aloysius asked, holding out his flask for his apprentice to take. “That’s the na-Baron Harkonnen. Sixteen years of nasty wrapped up into one pretty little boy.” He spat on the shining floor of the antechamber. Accompanying the Baron as bodyguard was an obvious responsibility of House swordmaster. Naturally, then, it had become his apprentice’s responsibility as well. Rellick, Master of Assassins, was on a mission elsewhere, no doubt slinking in the shadows reliving the glory days. “I hear he’s having a birthday ball tonight, Feyd is,” Aloysius continued, chuckling, “Maybe we should crash it.” This was boring. Terribly so. Young lady Nydia was in the distance being preened over by the Princess Irulan and the Lady Fenring, wife of the new ruler of the old Atreides homeworld. The other Wallach children were accounted for in the embassy. The Baron von Wallach was making his way towards the swordmasters now, his age not affecting his dignified bearing in the slightest. “Are the preparations in order for our departure?” “Yes, m’lord. I suppose we’ll be heading back then? I don’t know if Amad here’s seen enough of the capital.”
Sietch Ma’kkah was steeped in legend, but this mission of goodwill required Faraz to dig deep into his faith to get past his fear and awe. He carefully sandwalked towards the rocks, leaving his exhausted worm to rest. He placed his maker hooks upon his back, looking back to watch the beast burrow beneath the sands. “Blessed be the Maker and his water,” Faraz said to the wind, “and blessed be his coming and going.” As he approached, Faraz sent up a flare. No doubt there would be snipers lying in wait among the rocks. In fact, Faraz could discern a few with his specially trained eye. Finally, he was within shouting distance. A cielago implanted with a distrans might very well be a more efficient mode of communication, but as such it would not be as impressive. “I am Faraz Talian, of Sietch Tabr! I have come bearing gifts!”