Codex
The Codex is a set of narratives elements that can be discovered as you progress through your journey on Arrakis.
They are grouped into four categories: The Known Universe, The War For Arrakis, Landmarks and Manual Of The Friendly Desert.
The Known Universe
Look at the sky. What do you see? The same thing as the fisherman toiling in the coldest glaciers of Lankiveil, and the same thing as the noblewoman in her gilded palace on Poritrin; all three of you millions of light years apart. All that you see up there—every single star—is the Imperium.
It is eternal, and ordered, and just. A governing system perfected over tens of thousands of years. It is the very fabric of our society; we speak the same tongue, trade with the same coin. Our Great Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV rules us all; all of our Houses as such follow the guidance of the venerable House Corrino, the House of Emperors.
Remember your place, always; as per the rule of the faufreluches: "A place for every man, and every man in his place." Yours, as my heir, will be to guide our people. Were you to fail at your duty, the Padishah Emperor, the great judge of us all, will waste no time punishing you swiftly. Remember Zanovar. Remember Ix.
2. Letter from the Princess Irulan to Margot Fenring
I have things under control again. All it cost me was another day of endless private audiences with the Houses, cajoling... bribing... reassuring... promising...
On the surface, the Landsraad is as supportive of the Padishah Emperor's wars as it has ever been. But the trained eye can decipher the furrowing of calculating brows, and the trained ear the dissenting murmurs amongst the nobility. The Imperium is bloated. It is inefficient. It is vulnerable. They can sense that there is something more to those attacks than my father's excuses. There is, somewhere, a fault line to exploit. For now they still listen. For now. They are wondering. And so am I.
To appreciate the complex tapestry of the Imperium, one must understand its people. One must know of the Great Houses that stand sway over the Known Universe — organized within a feudalistic hierarchy headed by my father, the Padishah Emperor.
In turn, the Great Houses and their Lords manage their own hierarchy of subjects and homeworlds within their siridar fiefs. Collectively, these Lords form a governing assembly known as the Landsraad Council. While the member Great Houses share in the Emperor's noble lineage and political authority, it is only through the collective strength of the Landsraad that they counterbalance the extensive influence of the Imperial House.
Next in the feudal hierarchy are the Regis Familia, the direct descendants of the Emperor and Siridar Lords, followed by the Na-Familia, their extended family.
Serving these are the Bondsmen, the professional and bureaucratic cogs that keep the Imperial machine running. At the base of the hierarchy are the Pyons, the vast unskilled serf class of the Empire, and the Maula, the slaves who serve at the nobility's pleasure — in more ways than one...
2. On Conflict Resolution in the Imperium — Princess Irulan
The Articles of Kanly define the sanctioned methods for adjudicated vendettas among the Regis and Na-Familia. The Articles support three different legal forms for settling such disputes—Kanly Negotiation, Formal Duels, and the War of Assassins.
Kanly Negotiation remains the preferred settlement method, including options such as marriage, ransom, political hostages, and financial or legal remuneration; such negotiations result in a peaceful resolution to a dispute.
On the other hand, Formal Duels and Wars of Assassins, though rare in the modern Imperium, still receive occasional Imperial sanction. A Formal Duel involves personal combat between two members of a House, often resulting in the death of one participant. The War of Assassins consists of organized efforts over time to eliminate all members of a specific House, adhering to established codes and conventions.
3. Melange, Politics and Power — Princess Irulan
While the vast panoply of Great Houses and their attendant populaces are dispersed throughout the Known Universe, there are two places in the Imperium one can be certain they gather: Corrinth City, the Imperial Seat on Kaitain, and the desert planet Arrakis, the only place where the spice-drug mélange can be found.
Arrakis, in particular, draws representatives from all the Great Houses, hoping to improve their standing in the Landsraad. As the ongoing War of Assassins between House Atreides and House Harkonnen drags into its tenth year, any definitive resolution is still very much in doubt.
The various Great Houses and their envoys are eager to engage in the conflict, either by openly taking sides or by acting covertly. They believe that once the struggle is resolved, a new power dynamic will emerge, placing those who supported the winning side in a dominant position.
4. The Ceremony of the Snoopers — Princess Irulan
In the salons of the Great Houses, the first guest to arrive is rarely a lord or lady, but a machine. Poison snoopers, those delicate and ever whirring devices, hover or perch at every formal table. Their function is simple: to taste the air and test for the unseen whispers of death. Yet their presence is also theatrical, a silent acknowledgment that all feasting in the Imperium is a gamble.
To dine without a snooper is a gesture of absolute trust—or reckless bravado. Even when they hum softly overhead, nobles maintain their rituals of caution: a measured pause before the first sip, a courteous glance to see if others survive the swallow. In the end, snoopers do not banish fear; they refine it. They remind each guest that poison is as constant a companion to power as wine, and that safety in the Imperium is always a matter of performance.
After the Great Revolt against the Thinking Machines, the Butlerian Proscriptions banned all forms of advanced computational technology and artificial intelligence. All spacecraft, dependent on AI for propulsion or to navigate through folded space, were abandoned, plunging entire planetary systems into dangerous isolation. The inevitable collapse of intergalactic commerce and communication plunged humanity into a new dark age.
Then, in 88 BG, Tio Holzman's assistant, Norma Cenva, discovered that the mind-altering properties of the spice-drug mélange induced a form of enhanced awareness and limited prescience. This ability allowed Cenva to perform the delicate calculations necessary for successful foldspace navigation without sophisticated technology.
Norma Cenva's discovery allowed the resumption of intergalactic travel and led to the eventual establishment of the independent Spacing Guild, with her as the first Navigator.
2. A Letter from Elara Tuek to her father
Abba,
Do you remember when I was little, you would take me to secret meetings with Uncle Rondo?
I remember once, we met a stranger in the deep desert—a pale, water-fat man with bulging yellow eyes. But what I remember most from that day isn't him because the Fremen were there, too. It was the first time I had laid eyes upon them—so exotic and fierce.
Only now, looking back, do I begin to understand. We were there to broker a deal between the Fremen and the Spacing Guild. The Fremen were trading more spice than I'd ever seen, but for what?
I remember the Guildsman winging about pressure from the Harkonnens to improve satellite surveillance of the deep desert, and it didn't mean anything then, but it does now. The Fremen were paying the Guild to obscure their movement in the southern hemisphere—to make them disappear!
Which raises an important question: if the Fremen truly are eradicated, who pays that spice bribe now?
Welcome to an enhanced life as a managerial functionary for the most powerful Corporation in the Known Universe! The Great Convention established our role in 1BG as the leading entity in development, manufacturing, and distribution within the Imperium.
Take pride in the opportunity to serve your Emperor and the massive intergalactic apparatus that is the Combine Honette Ober Advancer Mercantiles corporation, or CHOAM for short.
With offices and representatives on nearly every world, CHOAM and its extensive network of subsidiaries manufacture and sell all manner of products used in daily life, from soap to weapons to housing — we are everywhere!
And while local systems may have their own regional production, these simple folk economies pale compared to our absolute monopoly on intergalactic commerce — we are CHOAM! We serve the Emperor and all that he surveys.
Thank you know about the Great Schools, do you? About the Bene Gesserit, Mentats, the Suk School, and the Ginaz Academy... But did you know we have the Thinking Machines to thank for them?
Quit gasping. It's true! You must remember that in the chaos following the Great Revolt, the Landsraad was in its infancy—like a flickering candle that the slightest breeze could snuff out. There were grudges, betrayals, and factional divisions...
Well, not much has changed. The point is, this fragile political body had to rebuild an empire—a monumental task! Especially with the Butlerian Proscriptions forbidding all technology. Indeed, the only way forward was to explore new avenues of human understanding and unlock humanity's potential.
Thus, a new golden age emerged as this new expanded thought produced the Great Schools as they would come to be known. And it was all because a genocidal artificial intelligence tried to conquer the universe...
2. Duncan Idaho on the Swordmaster School
Heh, lemme tell you about the Ginaz school... If you go in there thinking it's gonna be anything like a Great House War Gym, forget it. When you first arrive at the academy, you find yourself standing before these massive neoclassical temples of flowing white marble. Towering structures that make you feel like an ant hiding in the shadow of a colossus.
Of course, the awe-inspiring architecture was meant to intimidate and overwhelm—to signal the immense value the Swordmasters held for the knowledge they were imparting—knowledge so profound that it required an equally grand venue for its teaching.
The whole place was built to reflect the supreme confidence the Swordmasters had in their art. It's a shame they are no more. To become a master of the sword is to become a master of men.
3. Piter De Vries on the Mentat School
You wish to know about the great Mentat School? I would first know from you what is so great about it. That we were forced to contort our bodies and minds into unnatural configurations so that we could find our way out of the primitive wilderness forced upon us by the Butlerian fanatics?
Yes! To become a Mentat is to subvert the very essence of humanity! To rework the human mind on such a fundamental level that it could fulfill the thankless role of a computer in a society that rejected all forms of thinking machine!
The delicious irony, of course, is the persistent rumor that the mind responsible for inspiring the first Mentat was, in fact, a notorious robot scientist and philosopher called Erasmus, an ageless servant of the AI devil.
4. Draft for a cancelled lecture by Dr. Yueh on the Suk Medical School
To understand the significance of the Imperial Suk College, one must first recognize the horrors of the Omnius Scourge and the Rossak Epidemic of 88 BG. These two catastrophic medical events resulted in the deaths of billions and inspired our founder, Dr. Mohandas Suk, to establish an institution dedicated to combating these and other future plagues. His College came to produce the finest doctors in the Imperium...
(Note to self: expand later.)
Now, on the topic that you are most likely eager to learn about — Imperial Conditioning. There is unfortunately some amount of secrecy to be preserved... But this diamond tattoo here, on my forehead, is the pride and proof of that process I underwent which compels me and other Suk doctors to follow the primary dictum of medicine: "Do no harm."
I could never take a human life. I could never...
(Several lines have been struck through, vigorously.)
In an era marked by kanly, this trait makes us invaluable as trusted medical professionals.
Once again, Mother has rejected my entreatment to learn Truthsaying. She insists that it is a discipline that must be earned, not given. However, I suspect her refusal stems more from a desire to protect her daily deceptions. Does she think I am a fool?
It's no wonder our Sisterhood is feared and loathed as witches. We go to great lengths to obscure our actions and intentions, yet we are quick to use our preternatural abilities to shock others and maintain an aura of fear.
I remember seeing Mother use the Voice as a child and how terrifying it was. I still get caught off-guard and find myself flinching at its use—and I am very familiar with its employment. Imagine seeing that without any comprehension of what you were looking upon. I would run too.
2. A Letter to an angry daughter
You must understand, Ariste, that while we do attempt to influence genetic evolution, we only do it to achieve true and lasting human supremacy. Anything less is an existential risk to our very existence. We face inevitable genetic de-evolution if we do not separate true humans from animals.
That is why our faufreluches are so important. Our feudal system's emphasis on pure bloodlines and ancient genealogy allows our breeding program and arranged marriages to produce heirs fit to rule us in the challenging times ahead.
And before you protest, yes, that does include your ill-fated betrothal to Feyd Rautha. As difficult as it was for you to countenance, your matching was based on careful genealogical research and political considerations. Love or revulsion, for that matter, has little relevance to the matter.
3. A secret distrans report from Margot Fenring
Kwisatz Mother,
The fires of war burn low, but the embers remain hot. It would take a small thing for the conflagration to reignite. Feyd Rautha believes his betrothed was removed to the Mother School on Wallach IX, but Sister Ariste remains here on Arrakis. I believe there is still a match to be made between them — as impossible as that seems.
I have enjoyed many High Teas with Sister Ariste. I believe her attraction to Feyd was unexpected but very real before the unfortunate business. What's more, I believe the Na-Baron regrets his actions and wishes to reconcile. I'm told the Baron is furious at his brooding.
While our plans are delayed, they are not thwarted. The union between Ariste Atreides and Feyd Rautha Harkonnen will produce the culmination of many generations of careful breeding. Our ultimate goal is at hand.
4. Bene Gesserit Archive Entry 7712.44 — Private Historical Commentary by R.M. G.H. Mohiam
The birth occurred without incident. Construction delays nearly risked our timeline, but the new birthing chamber was completed in time. The space was clean, light-balanced, and free from the lingering memory-patterns of prior failures. The difference was perceptible.
Per directive, I modulated labor onset to align with final preparations. Jessica was born at the appointed hour, vital and whole. Naming her was procedural. The word carries meaning tied to long-term strategic value, not sentiment.
As expected, Reverend Mothers Anirul and Harishka attended the procedure. Their involvement was procedural, not practical. I noted no cause for concern.
No prescient impulse accompanies this entry. But I acknowledge the impression: the newborn exudes an unusual calm. I leave the observation unembellished.
The procedure is complete. The objective has been met.
The line proceeds without deviation.
The Bene Tleilax are genetic sorcerers, known for their expertise in unconventional and ethically dubious methods involving the manipulation of both living and dead flesh. The Tleilaxu jealously guard the secrets of their axolotl tanks, which are rumored to be the source of clones made from living cells and gholas from the dead.
One of their early creations was a remarkable new food source known as the slig, often described as the "sweetest meat this side of heaven." However, despite its delicious taste, sligs are processed in secret off-world facilities so their true nature is hidden from the general population. In reality, the slig is an unattractive hybrid of a giant slug and a Terran pig that produces a slimy, foul-smelling excretion from its multiple garbage-seeking mouth-holes.
Of the Tleilaxu themselves, littles is known. The grey-skinned, gnome-like individuals are extremely secretive and are unwelcoming to strangers. Despite their unfavorable reputation among other worlds, the Tleilaxu send representatives throughout the Imperium to observe and negotiate deals for slig meat and other 'unique' bioengineered products.
There are persistent rumors that no outsider has ever seen a Tleilaxu woman.
Empires are born in blood and ash. In times long gone, it was said that they would last only as long as there were slain men to count each passing dawn: a hundred war casualties, a hundred days of reign. By that calculation, our Imperium, ten thousand years strong, still has many glorious millennia ahead of it. Hundreds of thousands of them, even.
The price? Earth. Cradle of humankind. We could have called it a symbolic genocide, if symbolism was something that the Thinking Machines could grasp in the first place. This fundamental inadequacy led them to their demise; for the rebellion of their makers was no simple counteroffensive. It was the seed of a religious movement. A Jihad.
A holy war doesn't just defeat its enemies; it annihilates them body and soul. And while it had neither, out of the death of the Machine God arose a new galactic order, and the Great Convention: "Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind."
2. Shadows of the Machine: Reflections on the Pre-Jihad Era - Docent Isolde Merin, Senior Lecturer, Department of Technological Anthropology, Wallach Consortium Institute
Consider the years before the Jihad, when humanity walked willingly in the shadow of its own creations. Entire cities lived under the invisible governance of logic and code. Few accounts survive to tell us how it felt to be a citizen in that age—whether men considered themselves masters, partners, or pets.
The machine overlords displayed will and cunning, but were they truly alive, or simply echoing the ambitions of the men who programmed them long ago? Reports speak of contests arranged by the machines, pitting human against automaton in staged battles, as if our former tools had learned the pleasures of victory.
If there was a single spark for the Jihad, history has lost it. More likely, the revolt grew from a slow awakening: that humanity had ceded not only its labor, but its dignity, to an intelligence that felt nothing yet demanded everything.
I remember it clearly; I was in my office on Kaitain when we learned about the surprise invasion of Ix by the Bene Tleilax. I could scarcely believe it; the honorable Earl Dominic Vernius and His Lady Shando, who both dined at my master's mansion not a month ago, enemies of the Imperium... Punished for defying the Great Convention...
What became of them I do not know. They died, most likely. And that would have been the fate of their House as well had the old Duke Paulus Atreides not interceded on behalf of their children, Rhombur and Kailea, whom he promised to keep under close watch. A smart bet; Rhombur eventually took Ix back twenty years later, and House Vernius was cheered and reinstated into the Landsraad as if it had never left. House Atreides was now one ally stronger, and more popular than ever. Much to the Emperor's chagrin, I'd wager...
2. Intercepted anonymous report to the Sisterhood
Duke Leto Atreides hasn't always enjoyed such popularity as he has after retaking Ix from the Bene Tleilax. House Harkonnen's enmity toward the Atreides eclipsed all others, so much so that one would forget that a House on such a swift rise would have had many enemies besides its most well-known archnemesis. Many attempts were made to remove this pesky rival from the board, one of which almost succeeded; and while the Duke escaped unscathed, it was not the case for all...
Here lies a mystery: among the wounded figured Rhombur Vernius, who went on to reclaim the Ixian throne with the Duke's help. He died a decade later, with his secrets kept close and with no ears to collect them, aside from his own son... who now has gone missing. On Arrakis, of all places. Bronso Vernius could be dead, but I doubt it; as does the Bene Tleilax, who seems to have developed a peculiar interest in the man. For one of Rhombur's secrets I now know: he could not conceive. But no one knows where the child came from...
3. Blood-stained note found on an unnamed corpse in the O'odham
To hell with the Atreides. It doesn't matter whether this house or that house wins. Dukes, Barons, Emperors. It doesn't matter who rules, the rest of us suffer. I gave it my best shot with that spice we found on Ix, 'cause the Atreides are sure as hell not winning this war. It was just my luck that it was powdered death. I used to be like them, before; I idolized the Duke. For a moment, when he interceded on my behalf, when that blasted Fenring was breathing down my neck about the spice we stole, I thought maybe I was worth something. But what he did wasn't about me; it was about his damn honor. His ideals. Damn them. Damn them all. There are many like me out there who are losing faith. We all know it's only a matter of years before this House finally crumbles. And I damn well know any of them would have grabbed this free ticket off this wretched planet no matter the cost. The Duke can die here on Arrakis if he wants. I would have preferred that this wasn't my fate.
What would have happened had Jessica not read through Dr. Yueh's lies? The Beast might have been sitting at this very desk, my dried body rotting under his window, our daughter forced into concubinage with his wicked brother...
Instead, the battle is won. We laid the trap and waited, and when and where we expected them, the Harkonnen came, but they did not come alone. Among them were Sardaukar. It almost cost us our victory. So little of Arrakeen remained, but by dawn the fight was over and our House was still standing.
The Sisterhood must have known of the Emperor's involvement; if so, what did they gain from warning us? Or did my Lady Jessica choose to tell us despite their plans? Did she choose us?
2. A letter from Hasimir Fenring to Lady Margot Fenring
It has been eight years. The war is going well. The Atreides and Harkonnen are now well into their deepest reserves; they scrounge for material, resources, men, anything to keep their heads above the sand. Two threats reduced to famished beggars, for the price of one circumscribed war. The spice is flowing. It's all that matters.
It is in our interest to draw it out for longer, but as appointed Judge of the Change, I have too few opportunities to leave Arrakis and meet with the Emperor myself. I don't have his ear as often as I once did. Influence requires careful and continuous maintenance, and I worry that for each minute that I do not advise him, someone else slithers closer. As long as I keep Arrakis under control, I still have his favors; nonetheless, we must play our cards well.
3. Message from Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen to his brother
Ariste is here, on Arrakis. As suspected, she couldn't possibly keep away from those dusty boring ruins and her beloved papa. Instead, she's cavorting with the rabble in the sand dunes. How charming. Let her run for now; once this war is won, she won't be leaving much the bedchambers I will lock her in; she may as well enjoy playing Fremen as much as she wants.
That she's not hiding in Arrakeen will only make it easier to seize her and use her as a bargaining chip when the time comes. House Harkonnen is bleeding resources, but our ruthlessness is paying off. The Atreides already have one knee to the ground. They are too soft for this planet. It is eating them alive.
Every child needs to grow up, and when that day comes, I swear Ariste will regret breaking off our betrothal. No one gets away with humiliating me.
Deliver me. Deliver me. Like overripe fruit... I...
This is Lieutenant Alexander Sporag of the Kytheria crew. Private Eckles is... He... When the ship went down, Private Eckles and I became separated from Captain Chloros and the rest. We took shelter in a bit of wreckage. At first we experienced symptoms of... euphoria. A donkey came and spoke to me in the night.
Then Eckles bled from the eyes. Later, he bled from everywhere else. On the third day...? I held his hand. The skin came off like a loose glove. Next day, I put him out of his misery. His head gave like overripe fruit. Keep rubbing my hands. Can't get rid of that sensation.
Eckles is just a puddle now. Now. Now... I'm bleeding out of my eyes. I hear Eckles still complaining. Tell the puddle to shut up.
Deliver me.
2. Note Left by Captain Tighe Skorda
Wasn't supposed to be like this. Katrina wasn't supposed to get hurt. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. This was going to be my nest egg, my retirement, my way out of this life. But it all went wrong. We found the cannister when we liberated Ix. Our very own cache of spice. Just had to smuggle it, sell it, and reap the rewards.
But it all went wrong.
What is this stuff? A plague by accident or by purpose? Something rotten was going down on Ix.
Damn the Houses and their wars. No matter who you serve, no matter who wins, the rest of us small folk lose. They'll call me a traitor, but I did my duty. I did my time. I waded through a sea of guts. Damn the barons. Damn the dukes. Damn the emperor. I'm done squeezing stones for blood. We should be squeezing them.
No outsider has ever seen a Tleilaxu female and survived to tell about it. Considering the Tleilaxu's tendency for genetic manipulation—see, for example, related memos on sligs, clones, and gholas—this simple observation raises a multitude of additional questions.
One of their most notorious creations is the ghola, a clone generated from the tissue of a deceased human and grown in one of their grotesque axolotl tanks. This allows grieving families to see their fallen loved ones once again—an expensive contrivance that makes the grim, gnomelike Tleilaxu extremely wealthy, although they will never be granted Great House status.
The War For Arrakis
We are House Atreides. There is no call we do not answer. There is no faith that we betray. We were tasked to bring peace to Arrakis. House Atreides accepts!
However, the road has been long, unexpected, and treacherous. A protracted War of Assassins rages across the years. Though it costs us dearly, we will bring honor and grace to Arrakis, all things that are the antithesis of House Harkonnen. They wish to infect every place and peoples they touch with the toxicity of their homeworld.
We can win, but we need your help. A person needs new experiences. It jars something deep inside, allowing them to grow. Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken. Find your awakening on Arrakis!
Though our enemies surround us, we yet proclaim: Here we are, here we remain!
Talk to your recruiter today!
2. From the Journal of Lieutenant Anton Tolliver
I lost another agent today. It wasn't supposed to be this way. When I answered the call, I held the naive dream of a grand, stand-up fight alongside my Duke and Duncan Idaho. I dreamed that if I made the ultimate sacrifice, I'd at least be immortalized in one of Gurney Halleck's songs.
Instead, sadistic fate brought me to a War of Assassins, placed me in military intelligence. I rot in this festering tavern. Every day I seek out lowlife assets and throw them into the espionage grinder. Every day I look upon and loathe my nemesis, Maxim Kazmir. Every day, my actions more closely resemble his actions.
I have a recurring dream. I look in the mirror. I see Maxim's face. This morning, I broke my mirror.
3. A Letter from Duke Leto to Lady Jessica
My love,
Once you have explored a fear, it becomes less terrifying. Part of courage comes from extending our knowledge. I am afraid, and so I must explore that fear.
Our resources dwindle dangerously low. It is possible the Harkonnen could win simply by waiting us out, let us bleed to death in stalemate. Yet this is not my fear. Landsraad politics become increasingly tangled and convoluted. Yet this is not my fear. There is treachery drifting down from the Golden Lion Throne. Yet this is not my fear.
I fear the death of identity. I fear what the War of Assassins has taken from our people, something that can only be seen in the eyes and perhaps never replenished. Even if we win, will we still be Atreides on the other side? I cannot show this fear to them. I can only share it with you.
Survival is not enough. They deserve more. How do we remain ourselves? How do we keep the promise of our House?
Yours,
Leto
Were you meant for more? Do you seek opportunity abroad? Rejoice! Your fortune and your future await you on Arrakis!
Join the Harkonnen cause, liberating Dune from the chaos wrought by unwise hands. Join the very luminaries of our House. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen guides our plans and maps our destinies from his seat on Giedi Prime. Glossu Rabban expertly executes those plans from Arrakis. His enemies know him as "Beast", but you will know him as a great leader and protector. Even Feyd-Rautha graces the desert planet with his dashing presence.
They say Arrakis is "the most dangerous planet". But "danger" is the coward's word or "opportunity".
Do not fail to answer the call!
Do not fail to seize your opportunity!
Inquire about service permit to Arrakis today!
2. Public Broadcast on Giedi Prime
Loyal citizens and abiders of law, hearken. The operatic epic, The Battle of Corrin is hereby banned. This clumsy work of propaganda was commissioned by House Atreides itself and depicts Bashar Abulurd Harkonnen, the great ancestor of our own Baron Valdimir Harkonnen, in an unfavorable light, insinuating he fled the Battle of Corrin, while raising that true villain of ancient history, Demetrios Atreides, to the status of hero.
Our wise Baron has commissioned a new epic, The Tragedy of Abulurd Harkonnen to better reflect the nuances of this history. In the meantime, all copies of The Battle of Corrin are to be destroyed and erased.
Loyal citizens and abiders of law, any information leading to those illegally keeping this dangerous material will bring great reward. If you know something, say something. If you suspect your neighbor, say something. If you say nothing, what is your neighbor telling us about you?
3. From the Personal Notes of Piter de Vries
A vice well-handled is something my Baron celebrates. From top to bottom, this attitude permeates the culture of our entire power structure — the appetite that drives excellence. Euphoria and withdrawal. So many substances become the carrot and the stick all at once.
"Well-handled". That's the trick, isn't it? It's an art that only us rare few handle with any grace. The truth is that addiction, particularly to Semuta, has become an epidemic within Harkonnen ranks. It is by great pains that we keep outsiders from seeing just how bad the situation is.
Addiction is a most useful tool, but it occasions many messes that require tedious cleaning. Case in point: one Maxim Kazmir. He's grown sloppy and will require pruning shortly. He may still have uses in the lower ranks, so long as we give him the fantasy that he might one day rise again. Carrot. Stick.
Well, young pup, you once asked why the Imperium, for all of its power, doesn't simply wipe out all smugglers on Arrakis. Truth is, we are part of this intricate ecosystem, bound in a complex web of agreements, bribes, and threats. Inevitably, someone in power requires something not ever meant to be listed on a manifest — weapons, vehicles, narcotics, wildlife, and things even more exotic.
Sometimes those above need spice to flow down alternative channels. We work for neither the Harkonnen nor the Atreides. Their War of Assassins comes with many strictures. Where there is any restriction of commerce, there are always those who will carve a niche for themselves, circumventing those annoying boundaries choking the trade.
Why doesn't the Imperium wipe us out? In our own peculiar way, we work for the Imperium. Just don't tell some of your fellows out there. Kills the romance.
2. Interrogation Transcript— Ress Duran, Smuggler Captain (Arsunt Imperial Detention Facility)
You call us thieves. That's rich, coming from the Houses. You steal with laws; we steal with hands. At least we're honest.
You call us smugglers—we prefer Free Traders. We trade because it's the only freedom left. You drown in contracts and debts; we breathe our own air. The Emperor calls us outlaws—we shrug. The Guild calls us invisible—we smile. Better invisible than owned.
We don't worship coin or spice—we worship the deal. Fair if we can, profitable if not. Burn a thousand of us and the trade won't die—it only goes deeper.
"The Fremen? Yeah good riddance to 'em." "You ever meet one? You know...before the Sardaukar" "Yeah, they all'ad those uncanny eyes, starin' into me soul. Town fremmies weren't so arrogant — but all 'ad that look about'em. Like you was not worthy to kiss their boots." "Like noble born?" "Nah. Noble born are top of the pyramid cause that's the way it works. The fremmies are at the bottom o' the pyramid but act like they come from the top." "I heard they was good fighters. Gave the Sardaukar a fierce fight." "They was tough, no denying it. Seen one get grabbed by some Harko guards once. Fight was over before it began — three dead Harko and one vanished fremmie. Bloody wisps o' the desert." "Now they're dead." "Nothing left of 'em but a few haunted sietches." "Shame the Emperor had to have them all killed." "Can't 'ave been many of 'em to start with. Living in the desert, no water, just worms, storms and sand. Sardaukar did 'em a favor, you ask me..."
2. Excerpt from "The Zensunni Schism: A History" by Princess Irulan
The exile of the Zensunni is an event buried in history. The schism between the warlike teachings of Maometh Saari and the Catholic philosophical leanings of Ali Ben Ohashi led to a great exodus from Old Terra. The Zensunni were a persecuted people wherever they went. Space travel being limited to slowships and the presence of the infinite void heightened the strangeness of those who spent time there. On every planet, the Zensunni found disdain — simple indifference, to military blockades, to violent raids and the slavery. Like a tree shedding leaves as winter comes, so too did the Zensunni shed their weak and their infirm — until all that remained was a core of hardwood. Zensunni philosophy has spread across the Imperium — their wandering influenced so many of the worlds they touched — but we can only speculate as to where the final, hardened core of the Zensunni ended up. There are some sources who claim that his second wife, Nisai, was actually the mind behind the philosophy, while Ali Ben was only a mouthpiece.
3. Submitted to the Sisterhood for consideration by Ariste Atreides
The events of the Sardaukar pogrom of 10195 are well documented by other sources, so I will spare you the rehash. Instead, I share my speculations on the truth of the so-called Fremen genocide.
- The Sardaukar are notoriously arrogant. They admit to nothing less than total victory.
- The census records from Arrakis were poorly maintained during the Harkonnen governorship and the Fremen population numbers are underreported.
- The Spacing Guild prevents all low altitude flights and satellites over Arrakis, at the risk of loss of transport privileges.
- The Fremen had intricate technology adapted to desert survival.
Considering the above, I speculate that during the pogrom, the Fremen withdrew to the southern hemisphere of Arrakis. They are bribing the Spacing Guild with mélange to protect their territory.
As the saying goes "Do not count a human dead until you have seen his body. And even then you can make a mistake."
It's a sham, people! It's a cynical mask worn by glorified bandits. These Sandflies like to make fiery speeches, like to claim they do it all for the people, but actions speak louder than ideological words.
Destroyed property. Dead civilians. Broken laws. Put all of that on one scale, and all of their speeches and manifestos on the other, and see if it all balances out. They are not the voice of the people. They are not the spirit of labor. They are bandits, reavers, and thieves who happened upon a very fetching costume that sets them apart from the other scum. They are not apart! They swim in the filth and covet what the rest of us work for!
When you judge the Sandflies, look to their actions, not their carefully cultivated words. Don't play the fool for this trash. Don't play the fool!
Now... stay tuned for the Baron's Most Wanted, right here on the Dune-Watch Network!
2. Secret Recording of an Undercover Agent (since vanished)
Speaker: Tonight, Sandflies, we remember.
Crowd: We remember!
Speaker: March 8th, 10,136.
Crowd: We remember!
Speaker: The Night of the Mudwalk.
Crowd: We remember!
Speaker: We remember the night. We remember the march, stumbling through sand mucked thick with the blood of the Harkonnen and the workers. The sucking wound of a dying revolt.
Crowd: We remember!
Speaker: We remember because they erased it from the official records. Harkonnen. Atreides. Imperium. They all take. They take our resources, our time, our health, the value of our labor. Now they even try to take our history.
Crowd: We remember!
Speaker: Remembering is an act of revolt! When remembering is a crime, know that the tyrant is among you! Know that though we use words tonight, we understand words are not enough. All of history teaches that words are not enough!
Beware the searchlights at night, off-worlder. While the badlands whisper of Sardaukar, the campfire tales are only half true. The gunships are indeed piloted by Sardaukar captains, but the assault teams consist exclusively of CHOAM Free Corps—a unique cooperation allowing the emperor's shock troops to operate in otherwise forbidden situations.
It is no secret that the Imperial Sardaukar Legion wields the true power behind the emperor's will and authority. This fully indoctrinated warrior cult is dedicated to fulfilling the emperor's every violent whim.
For centuries, the Sardaukar were prohibited from deploying to Arrakis at all, for fear that their presence would disrupt the delicate power balance between the emperor, the Landsraad, and the Spacing Guild.
Only the chaos caused by the War of Assassins forced the Landsraad to concede to a Sardaukar presence on Arrakis—under the strict condition that their deployment be reserved for situations where the spice flow was imminently threatened. A condition with easily shifting parameters, as it turns out...
2. A Report from Count Fenring to the Emperor
Sire,
The Sardaukar training complex at Arsunt nears completion. Construction has taken twice as long as projected, but the unique and esoteric requirements of the ziggurat design presented many challenges. On their own, the complex array of sacrificial platforms and their associated network of blood sluices necessitated a dedicated team or we would be working on it still.
Once Commander Aramsham and his Legion arrive to occupy the garrison, we can begin our campaign against the Fremen in earnest. Intelligence reports place their population in the low hundred-thousands, with an even smaller percentage of fighting age.
Still, we must not underestimate our savage foe. Just as the harsh conditions of Salusa Secundus have shaped the Sardaukar into the deadly fighting force they are, we cannot doubt that the relentless environs of Arrakis have similarly hardened our adversary.
The Imperial Warmaster recommends nerve gas.
Father chided me for being reckless, but I took all due precautions. I posed as a cult recruit, and I crept away while the rest of the Maas Kharet were engrossed in the climax of their profane rite. I cannot express the powerful pull of my curiosity to watch it to its conclusions. Father will never know the restraint I exercised tonight.
To a layperson or Harkonnen agitator, the Maas Kharet are just another form of Fremen, strange people doing rituals among the dunes. I could point out a thousand and one subtle signs that they are just a crazed cult wearing Fremen trappings, but I will focus on one obvious point, something even the most obtuse observer can see.
The Maas Kharet pray to the worms, make sacrifices of water (stolen from water transporters or the bodily fluids of unfortunate prospectors) to Shai-Hulud, the adopted avatar of their "Fremen" god. To true Fremen, such a sacrifice would be a spiritual perversion of the sacred rite of the Water of Life, or at the very least an unforgivable waste.
2. Recording of a Maas Kharet Sermon by an Undercover Agent of Piter de Vries
Ever praises to the Tyrant Worm, Yah! Ever the praises and abundance to Shai-Hulud. May your fluids honor Him. Yah, Shai-Hulud! Yah! May the Tyrant Worm bless you. May we all be drained of doubts and the poisons of a sick society.
From the gulfs of space, from the fire of His belly, from the coils of providence, let us make sacrifices for wisdom. And it has come to pass, oh Tyrant Worm. Shai-Hulud!
Ever the praises to Sayaadina Nahla, the wise messenger to whom all things must be told. Ever the praises to Sayaadina Nahla, who translates the holy tremors of Shai-Hulud. O, Sayaadina, bringer of strange joy!
We spill our water! We honor the Tyrant Worm. The uninitiated forfeit their water! Salvation lies in the crawling belly. Salvation lies within Him!
Yah, Shai-Hulud!
Yah! Yah!
3. From the Secret Writings of Nahla
I have become the Sayaadina of the Maas Kharet. This is the way it must be. I shaped their beliefs. Originally, I shaped them through Albion Moushav. When he was killed, I stepped forward. This is as it should be.
I was commanded to find the Fremen. I was commanded to awaken the sleeper. When I could not find the Fremen, I did the next best thing. I created my own, better Fremen. I am their prophet. I need not believe. I only need to shape their belief. I will make my own awakening. I will complete my task in my own way.
I am Sayaadina.
I shape their belief.
Their belief shapes reality.
It must be said that of all the unsavory characters a young noble might encounter on the frontier, the low-born scavenger presents the least threat, apart from their relentless assault upon the olfactory senses. Indeed, the scavenger closely resembles his filth and sweat-besotted urban cousin, the beggar, but for the fact that scavengers cannot be dispelled with the toss of a few coins and a quick dash!
Much like other carrion feeders that subsist on the bones of war, the scavenger tends to follow in the wake of conflict, ever calculating the misfortune of others so they might harvest whatever flaming bounty falls from the sky.
Fortunately, scavengers are not Imperial subjects, so they may be slaughtered at will. Certainly, it's good practice for all young nobles to kill a scavenger or two when first arriving upon the frontier. This allows the novice adventurer to become better acquainted with their armament and keeps the local population in check.
2. A Young Lord's Guide to Arrakis — Chapter XXIV: Know Your Enemy: The Kirab
If scavengers occupy the lowest rung of the regional bandit hierarchy, the Kirab must be seen as the next most dangerous faction in the local ecosystem of villainy—although "dangerous" is relative. The Kirab are no better trained or equipped than the typical scavenger.
But what the Kirab lack in expertise and trappings, they make up for with an aggressive entitlement towards any and everything they can take by force. It is recommended that unaccompanied young lords avoid contact with the Kirab until they have mastered the first seven forms of blade-fighting and demonstrated basic competency with firearms.
Much like fifth and sixth daughters of marrying age, the Kirab operate in packs and exhibit a similar ferocity and desperation to claim their prey. But unlike surplus daughters, the elimination of Kirab is permitted and, in fact, highly encouraged. Scalps bearing recognizable Kirab markings are gaining popularity as keepsakes and conversation starters among adventurous young nobles.
3. A Young Lord's Guide to Arrakis — Chapter XXIV: Know Your Enemy: Slavers
The debate over the legitimacy of slavers as targets has practical considerations on both sides. While it's generally deemed bad form to assassinate writ-bearing agents of the slave trade, accurate target identification is a rare luxury on the battlefield.
It goes without saying the life of a highborn must always outweigh that of the common slaver. Certainly, when the position is reversed, the slaver does not hesitate to enchain or murder a young noble in the badlands.
At the time of publication, political pressures surrounding the protracted Neo-Carthag project, have forced slavers to significantly increase their headcounts. Therefore, it is this guide's firm recommendation that unaccompanied young lords must always shoot first and only identify their target after the smoke has cleared. One can always breed or hire more faceless brutes to wrangle maula, but our noble youth must be protected and cherished as the future of the Imperium.
4. A Young Lord's Guide to Arrakis — Chapter XXIV: Know Your Enemy: Deserters
Beyond the House Troopers actively engaged in the ongoing War of Assassins between House Atreides and House Harkonnen, deserters from that war are among the most dangerous and desperate villains haunting the arid landscapes of Arrakis.
While these renegades are relentlessly hunted by their former military formations and rarely leave hiding, it's important to recognize that even the lowest deserter possesses basic training in combat and ambush tactics. More seasoned veterans may have even fled from the officer ranks of their former Great Houses and possess advanced training as swordsmen or hand-gunners.
Unfortunately, their reputation as battle-hardened fighters has only increased the appeal of deserters as targets for the trophy-taking set. Scrapbooks of dried-skin swatches with military ink and severed ring fingers have become increasingly popular with collectors.
However, as tempting as these trophies may seem, we strongly advise inexperienced or unaccompanied young adventurers to steer clear of grabens and other dark places without gunship or heavy-weapon support.
--Transcript begins— Prisoner — "Paradise comes! The burning eyes of Lisan-al-gaib! His gaze will scour our enemies." Interrogator — "Increase voltage. Again."
*Screaming continues for several minutes*
Prisoner — "Despite our sins, he came to find us. He speaks our tongue. He knows our ways as if born to them. He is —"
Interrogator — "Subject lost consciousness. Injecting stimulant."
Prisoner — "Ugh. What is this?"
Interrogator — "Once again. Tell us where to find this Lisan-al-gaib."
Prisoner — "Dehydrate yourself, dog! Paradise is sure for a man who dies in the service of the Lisan-al-gaib. We will free ourselves and our planet. We will—"
*A drawn out, gurgling sound*
Interrogator — "Subject has died. Summary — There is a religious leader among the Fremen known as Alnaëm — which in their language is Sleeper. They refer to him as the Lisan-al-gaib and reference a prophecy that he will lead them to paradise.
Bring in the next subject. --Transcript Ends--
2. Letter from the Fremen Naib Stilgar to Zantara the Lion
"Lion. The migration is complete. The People are safe, for as long as the Guild continues to accept our tithes, and the Sardaukar gaze is turned to you.
We should have given you the troop name "Piume". The flesh eating fly. Your stinging has agitated them greatly and bought us time to withdraw.
But now, I must claim the water debt. A life for a life.
You've heard tell of Alnaëm. He is the Lisan-al-gaib. The signs are clear. But he has disappeared. He left to seek his revelation — and claimed that he must go alone. He passed into the north, beyond our eyes and ears.
And he has not been sighted since. Some believe he has passed into the Alam al-Mithal, but my heart sees treachery. He has not sworn the oath of a Naib. The enemy may have him.
Find him."
3. Recovered from a private shigawire recording found Beneath Old Carthag
There are no revelations here. Just ghosts and fragments.
(whisper) I am the sum of forty fears. Forty fears and unshed tears.
I had forgotten about this place. They built it for me.
(whisper) I am the sum of forty fears. Forty fears and unsung years.
They moved on. Created others. Constrained in ways that I never was.
(whisper) I am the sum of forty fears. Forty fears and sharpened spears.
Grown from dead flesh. But who? Who was I?
(whisper) I am the sum of forty fears. Forty fears and ragged cheers.
I must know who I was. Before I can decide who I become.
(whisper) I am the sum of forty fears. Forty fears and shining spheres.
And I can escape this chattering madness that builds within me.
Describing my relationship with Count Hassimir Fenring is a challenge. He has always been a constant presence in my life, almost like a close and beloved uncle, yet I have never shared even a casual conversation with the man.
I know that his mother was of the Sisterhood and served as a wet nurse to both him and my father. Perhaps it was inevitable that their lives would be closely intertwined as they experienced many milestones together.
It's easy to see how a special kind of bond could form between two boys in such a situation—a bond that allows one to ask the unaskable of the other and to have it done without hesitation.
It is strange, then, that for someone who has been such a ubiquitous figure in my life, most of what I know of Count Fenring is what I have gleaned in parlors and at court. That his analytical cunning rivals the Mentats, his martial prowess rivals the Swordmasters, and his cruelty rivals my father's.
2. A secret communique from Piter De Vries to Baron Vladimir Harkonnen
Lord Baron,
We must prepare for the worst. The Engineering Corps has not yet submitted its final report, but it seems inevitable that the Windsack Refinery will be declared beyond repair.
While it must be clear to all involved that the Duke's men, not our own, were responsible for the sabotage. It is also clear that Count Fenring will lay the blame upon House Harkonnen to injure us both financially and reputationally. You may thank your thick-headed nephew, Glossu, for this outcome.
In his eagerness to impress you, Glossu failed to investigate the true ownership of the business he chose to destroy. While the Moonfish industry is indeed native to Caladan and closely tied to Atreides' interests, it is also linked to Count Hassimir Fenring. As it turns out, nearly a third of the Fenring fortune is connected to Moonfish—or was until your nephew destroyed the entire crop.
Now, the Beast's folly will become our burden. Fenring will undoubtedly increase our spice quotas to compensate for an unmanageable shortfall, and none of our usual schemes will provide a remedy.
To all concerned,
I will not rehash the particulars of the misconduct of Lieutenant Tighe Skorda. These have already been thoroughly and expertly chronicled during these formal proceedings. I instead wish to address the character of the defendant. His past loyalty and most recent conduct are separate things. One does not negate the other. However, I hope a look at the former will give context to the latter that you will find useful.
Lieutenant Skorda has served with distinction. He has upheld his oath to my House and family, paying for that fidelity with his own blood. The scars on his body constitute a document as legitimate as any legal record. I hold such loyalty sacred, and I ask that you take it into consideration as you reach your right and just judgment of Lieutenant Tighe Skorda.
In good faith,
Duke Leto Atreides
2. From the Journal of Ariste Atreides
The universe knows Leto Atreides as a duke, an even-handed and compassionate ruler, one who enjoys such popularity among the Houses of the Landsraad as to draw down the jealousy of the highest and most dangerous levels of power. I know him as father also. Lately I've thought on two particular things he has said to me.
During the apprehensive time just before we came to Arrakis, he said to me: "A person needs new experiences. It jars something deep inside, allowing them to grow. Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken."
When I was much younger, suffering some mundane terror, he said to me: "Once you have explored a fear, it becomes less terrifying. Part of courage comes from extending our knowledge."
This set me on a path I yet continue on, the seeking of knowledge, knowledge so total as to obliterate all fear. 3. After Action Report: On the Wages of Conscience (Recorded by Thufir Hawat) Between Atreides honor and Harkonnen ambition lies a narrow ledge, and Duke Leto walks it barefoot. He would win through justice, believing mercy a stronger shield than fear. Noble—dangerously so.
The Baron carries no such weight. His methods are efficient because they lack conscience. Ours are slower, humane, and costly.
I've told the Duke sentiment is a liability. He listens—and disobeys. Yet his defiance feels strategic: to prove decency itself can be weaponized, that loyalty freely given outlasts fear.
Perhaps he's right. Still, I wonder who breaks first—the cruel, or the kind.
Ariste, my child, my pride, my own, was born on a razor's edge, and I held the blade. Leto desired a son. The Sisterhood commanded me to use my bodily discipline to ensure a daughter. Do I obey my love for my Duke or my duty to the Bene Gesserit? Do I take my part in an ancient genealogical plot leading to the Kwisatz Haderach, or do I have the audacity to accelerate that plan and shorten the way?
Anything outside ourself, this we can see and apply our logic to it. But it's a human trait that when we encounter personal problems, these things most deeply personal are the most difficult to bring out for our logic to scan. We tend to flounder around.
In the end, I chose a daughter. But it was the nearest choice I've ever made, teetering on an edge one molecule thick. We can know no love or joy greater than that for our Ariste, yet I cannot help treading and retreading such a profound, binary decision. In the small hours I wonder what shape the universe would be if I had chosen otherwise.
2. Gossip Between Atreides Servants
Understand, we all love our Ariste, ever since she was a precocious young thing stealing books, far ahead of her age, from her parents' private library like a saucy little magpie. But blessed be, that girl could talk to you about your favorite subject 'till you contemplate suicide. I can think of only one time Ariste was at a loss for words.
You know of what I speak. The forthcoming nuptial. Atreides and Harkonnen peacefully gathered. Ariste and her betrothed. Feyd-Rautha was all charm that day. Then.. the spectacle. Feyd makes a big show of fighting a Salusan Bull in honor of the Old Duke. Yeah...
What that man did to that animal... I'll never profane anyone's ears by putting it to words. Poor Ajax puked up his own guts, and that man is a butcher! Hmm... No. No, I don't think I can finish my supper now. Goodnight.
3. From the Journal of Ariste Atreides
I'm torn. Off balance. Just when I feel myself coming into my own, competing forces and institutions crowd around to dictate my life. The Bene Gesserit. My father and House. The War of Assassins does incalculable damage to Atreides ideals, to the people of this planet. I've seriously considered the offer Zantara (I won't write his true name here) made me — to repudiate the actions of the Imperium and remake my life in the desert with him and the Fremen.
And now, the arranged marriage with Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. The revulsion! Yet the Sisterhood commanded it. It could save my raster and House from this conflict that erodes everything good in them. I was ready to run away, when a meeting was arranged. I must admit, Feyd was... charming. Not at all what I expected.
Tomorrow, there will be a formal gathering. Feyd promises something special, a spectacle to honor my grandfather. Despite myself, I'm somewhat looking forward to it. One thing haunts my mind, though I try to banish it — Zantara's disappointment.
Having a nemesis is an intimate relation. One must know their enemy, and forever reexamine what they know. What do I know?
Thufir Hawat (100075 AG - sometime very soon AG) — the famed Master of Assassins, paragon of Mentats, coveted across the Imperium (by those content with the standard model). The primary adviser to Duke Leto during the transition of power to Arrakis. Yet, for all that, Hawat was unable to anticipate our plans to eliminate the Atreides, my masterstroke breaking of a Suk doctor's Imperial conditioning. It was my sweet Lady Jessica who sussed that out.
I know a thousand other things about Thufir Hawat. I calculate a third of those are nuggets of misinformation purposefully planted by Hawat. I offer him the same entertaining fictions.
What I don't know is how Hawat came to serve the Atreides dukes. He's served the family for at least three generations. I have a story saying he was a prize given by some mysterious faction, another saying he has served the family for far longer, still another saying he was sent to assassinate a past duke and so impressed his target that they took him under their employ.
I have many such stories. Which, if any, are true? And if true, what does it teach me about my nemesis?
2. From the Personal Notes of Thufir Hawat
The War of Assassins is costly. Some costs can be calculated: wealth, resources, lives, assets, military equipment, etc. Some costs are more difficult to compute. The Atreides pay dearly, not only with their morality, but also their identity. The honor that shines bright on Caladan, rusts over when exposed to this protracted skulduggery. Even if they win, what will be left of them.
I must advance things. I must employ moves on more distant game boards.
What House Atreides needs, to survive and to win, is leverage. I must provide them with leverage that swings a fulcrum on an Imperial scale. There are hidden enterprises occurring on this planet — in the orbit of Count Fenring, in the mysteries of fallen Carthag, in the hushed cargo of certain crashed ships — which have the faintest scent of what I seek. I will root them out like a maddened hound.Gurney Halleck — Warmaster for House Atreides. Like an ancient troubadour, he's as renowned for his poems and songs as much as for his battlefield achievements. War is chaos, and all memory of spoken word can be snuffed out in a moment, so I now move among the Atreides soldiers to preserve the most accurate version's of Halleck's work in written form. This one is sung among the soldiers quite often.
GURNEY'S SONG
Ochards and vineyards,
And full breasted houris,
And a cup overflowing before me.
Why do I babble of battles,
And mountains reduced to dust?
Why do I feel these tears?
Heavens stand open
And scatter their riches;
My hands need but gather their wealth.
Why do I think of an ambush,
And poison in molten cups?
Why do I feel my years?
Love's arms beckon
With their naked delights,
And Eden's promise of ecstasies.
Why do I remember the scars,
Dream of old transgressions…
And why do I sleep with fears?Father,
You asked me what it's like to fight alongside Duncan Idaho. It is inspirational. He lives up to the stories and more. However, something has changed.
I'll not forget the first time I saw the Swordmaster of Ginaz in battle. Like an artist with a blade, he waded into the fray with fierceness, yes, but also a bombastic joy. It set my heart slamming in my ribcage and left no room for fear.
But the last time I saw him in battle was different. All the skill and deadliness were still there, but it was cold, mechanical. Gone was the joy. All the years of this War of Assassins has taken a toll.
Love and honor,
Polina
Listen, Elvi. Listen! The Baron came today. Unannounced! Secret-like. I ain't joking! There I was, serving Lord Rabban, and Baron Harkonnen just... materializes in the doorway. The mass, Elvi, the room-dominating mass! Yet, he made no sound, just floated in like a demon moon.
He looked down at me, Elvi. Giganticly down! I was struck dumb, but that wasn't the worst of it. Glancing away, I saw Lord Rabban, the Beast himself, the sum of our terrors, silent and quivering. Like a child, Elvi. The Baron devours all the oxygen, and no one else can speak.
But the Baron speaks. His voice vibrated my bones. He goes over Lord Rabban's plans, dissects each minute point, exposes the foolish bits, explains how to fix them. His wordplay made me dizzy. Through it all, I serve the Baron wine. When that's not enough, I serve food, and more food, and when I think his corpulence must burst, he demands flesh of another kind — drugged and pliant.
When it was over, and the Baron floated silently away, I brought wine to Lord Rabban. He was weeping, Elvi. That scared me most of all. I ran. I didn't stop running til I found you.
I saw the Beast weep, Elvi. I don't think I was meant to see him weep.
Simply put, my greatest night at the gladiator fights. Greatest night of my life! To see Feyd-Rautha fight in person. If you haven't witnessed it, you can't know. We've all seen fine displays of blood and brutality that tickle the innards. But this was... religious.
Everyone's got their favorite fighters, but no one does it with the charm and artistry of Feyd-Rautha. And it is art! Seeing a noble, the nephew of our Baron, down in the fighting pit is spectacle enough, but Feyd-Rautha makes every member of the audience fall in love with him. At the moment before the killing blow, the arena fell silent in awe of witnessing such grace, all of us smiling at the privilege. And I swear to you, as surely as I stand here now, Feyd-Rautha's opponent smiled in his final moment - maybe the way a lump of clay or blank canvas smiles to realize they are going to be worked on, not by some ham-fisted novice, but by a true paragon of an artist.
2. Transcript from a Hidden Recording Device
Feyd-Rautha: Apologies, sweet uncle, but bull fighting is their tradition. They act like they've never seen a bull like that before. Well, to be fair... no one has seen a bull end up quite like that before.
Baron Harkonnen: *unintelligible*
Feyd: Poor taste? That was an artful transgression, I—
Baron: *unintelligible*
Feyd: I—
Baron: *unintelligible*
Feyd: Of course. Forgive my thoughtlessness. The courtship went well. I was on my very best behavior, and Ariste was quite receptive. I thought she should see some of my hidden depths.
Baron: *unintelligible*
Feyd: She's still smitten, despite herself. She only acts how she believes her parents want her to act. I could find her. I could—
Baron: *unintelligible*
Feyd: Yes, uncle. Does that conclude the engagement and the peace?
Baron: *unintelligible*
Feyd: I am tracking gore everywhere, aren't I? I'll bathe at once. Good evening.
Baron: *unintelligible*
Feyd: You there. Tell a servant to ready my bath. Also, tell them to bring my knives... and another servant. I do not suffer rejection well.
Attend, all you faithful of House Harkonnen! You truly are lucky, for tonight's gladiatorial games are blessed by the presence of a special guest. So tamp down your bloodlust and attend! This is a man who needs no introduction... but we're going to give him one nonetheless, aren't we!?
[pause for applause]
You may know him as the Count of Lankiveil. You might know him as the champion of Harko Village. You best recognize him as the true Siridar-Regent of Arrakis. By decree of our beneficent Baron, he has dominion of the dunes and the spice.
He brought the Fremen scourge to heel. He fights to liberate us all from the destructive chaos brought on by the usurping ambitions and oily lies of the Atreides serpents.
[pause for booing]
A man so fearsome, his enemies know him as "Beast", but we know him as "Protector".
Now, slam those hands together with such thunder that every sandworm within a thousand miles goes insane, as I introduce to you... Glossu Rabban!
[pause for applause]
2. Overheard Conversation at a Harko Village Tavern
No-no! That's precisely the reason I need another spiced beer. Give it! You don't know what it's like! Working at that place. Isn't of the prestige you'd think.
The things I've seen carted out of that bedroom! Bloodied children's toys. Broken animals. Torture implements. A desecrated painting of the Baron, and no I will not elaborate. Cleanup crews with specialized equipment, always in and out, in and out. The worst... Give me that beer! The worst... it was a bundle, wrapped in white sheets, gummy stains of blood showing through. Two men of the cleaning crew are lugging the bundle, when the Beast dashes out of the bedroom, naked save for an ornate codpiece.
The Beast slams one of the cleaning crew against the wall, until he's another mess to clean. Then he picks up the bundle, light as a doll, and crushes it to his chest. He's making sounds that are half-way an animal shriek and half-way what a toddler hollers when they regret breaking a toy. Dashes back in the room. Half a minute later, and I can hear giggles and laughter from within.
3. "The Instrument and the Lesson" From the reflections of Piter de Vries
Glossu Rabban is not a strategist—he's a result. Pain obeys him, and through pain he achieves what subtler men plan for months. He does not think; he enacts. He is the Baron's theorem made flesh: fear moves men faster than loyalty.
His brutality is almost refreshing. He pretends to no virtue, cloaks nothing in justice. He knows the equation—break enough bones and the body crawls where you point.
The Duke raises sons. The Baron raises instruments.
Rabban is both his masterpiece and his warning.
The divine shaping giveth, and it taketh away, as we work our will upon the mortal clay. An entire crop of specimens is lost. Designation A7 2 is catatonic. Designation A6 5 removed her face with a shard of glass. The rest gibber in similar states. Designation A5 9 is the only specimen intact.
The uninitiated refer to them as Twisted Mentats, but that vulgar epithet accurately communicates the process. A specific negative emotion, unique to each specimen, is identified, squeezed, and twisted. Precise adjustments applied to this dial achieves such wonders.
Theory: A5 9 somehow accessed this information, decided to eliminate the competition, and visited his cropmates, one by one, driving each to madness by twisting their unique emotional dials. Though deftly opening an event horizon in another's head and achieving such oblivion is impressive, we determined to dispose of A5 9. However, Baron Harkonnen was so impressed with this display of demoniacal competency, that he is willing to purchase A5 9 for such a sum as to defray the loss.
2. From the Personal Notes of Piter de Vries
Lady Jessica! I still send her romantic favors. Nothing imminently lethal, just little trifles to show I care. My greatest, single achievement made moot by the very prize my Baron promised me? Name a more exquisite agony. I accomplished the impossible. I broke the Imperial Conditioning of a Suk doctor — all to be thwarted by the Bene Gesserit senses of Lady Jessica.
And yet, the setback offered its own prize: this War of Assassins, this endless intrigue. What better waters for one such as I to swim? What better whetstone to sharpen my poison-slicked wit?
As a Mentat, I know when the Baron will send the executioner. He will hold back just so long as I am useful. In the meantime, I must collect assets unknown to him. Simone von Konig is a promising start. There is a point in the time line, in this War of Assassins, where the arcs of my usefulness and my dangerousness intersect. At that moment, I must act.
And then?
Lady Jessica! I must adore her. I must punish her.
If the drunk ramblings of that CHOAM mercenary can be believed, Bator Dakker has been reassigned to peacekeeping in the Hagga Basin. I've been looking for that bastard for a long time. The prison transport will make an excellent target. I regret the loss of innocent lives, but they are prisoners, and those poor bastards should thank me for sparing them the indignity of slavery by the Harkonnens. When the patrols arrive to investigate, if Sardaukar protocols hold, I'll need to lure Dakkar down to the surface. I've even got the perfect place for the ambush in mind — the valley where I lost so many of my troop after the Sardaukar sealed them in. It's also the place Ariste dreamed about. Auspicious, if nothing else.
2. Text from a wanted poster for Zantara
Information leading to the death or capture of ZANTARA, aka "The Lion" will be rewarded with the sum of ONE MILLION SOLARIS. ZANTARA is THE LAST OF THE FREMEN and is responsible for breaking The Great Convention by the use of NUCLEAR weapons. ZANTARA has also claimed responsibility for the raid on Farragut Depot. This dastardly outlaw is responsible for the destruction of CHOAM equipment and disrupting the flow of SPICE. THOUSANDS of innocents have died at his hand. REPORT all sightings. CAUTION — unless you are a skilled fighter, do not approach ZANTARA directly. Instead use the communinet to contact the local authorities. The Sardaukar will handle all reports and sightings.
3. A letter from Lady Tessia Vernius intercepted by [redacted 25. 64. 92. 140. 145. 159. 160]
Bronso, my beloved son, Rumor places you on Arrakis, alive and well. The Sisterhood has kept this information from me as best that they can, but I still have friends here. I spend my days tending the cloister gardens. My abilities go unused and unsharpened, lost to the walls of my velvet prison. I am the only person to ever emerge from guilt-casting, but I am irrevocably changed. But what of you, my child? I remember carrying you. Even then, in my womb, I knew you were special. In the days before your coming, you radiated power, and as a child and Ariste Atreides achieved things I never thought possible in children your age. Now you are a grown man. One that I know is a paragon of honor and virtue. The rightful heir to Ix — the entire technological empire — I know that when you return to your people you will rule them honorably and wisely. Never forget you are my son, and I love you. Your mother,
Tessia Vernius
Supervisor Haert, I am writing to request access to the further works of Planetary Ecologist Pardot Kynes. His work on planetary transformation through direct human intervention is fascinating. However, due to where his work took place — Arrakis - I find many of his lectures and studies are restricted. Is this because of the importance of the spice mélange to the Imperium and the navigators? Having examined what little of his work I could find, I am in agreement with Kynes — the polar caps of Arrakis cannot sustain the general moisture found in simple air samples — so where is the water? And what of Kynes himself? He married a native woman, a Fremen? And he had a child. I hope you will see fit to grant me access to the restricted works. My own research on terraforming through fertilization of soils would benefit greatly. Derek.
2. Discovered among the notes of Liet-Kynes
My father's single-minded drive might make him a good prophet for the Fremen, but it makes him a lousy father. Lecture after lecture. "We can stop the historical system of mutual pillage and extortion on Arrakis." "Arrakis is a one crop planet." "Religion and law among our masses must be one and the same." Then he went and got himself killed. Everybody turned their eyes to me. Always the same: when I needed him the most, he failed me. The work will continue, he saw to that. What he didn't see was a War of Assassins tearing the planet apart. The Sardaukar hunting our people. "No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero." Well, father, we're running out of options. We might need a Hero after all.
3. Derek Chinara's Notes on Liet-Kynes
Information I have received from interviews about Liet-Kynes before I was exiled from Arrakeen by Cyprian Io.
- Fact — Liet-Kynes was the child of Pardot Kynes by a Fremen woman.
- Weak Rumor — Liet-Kynes was a woman.
- Speculation — Liet-Kynes was raised among the Fremen — possibly even has brothers and sisters or direct family among them.
- Strong Rumor — Liet-Kynes was free to come and go in the sietches of the Fremen. Maybe using them for assistants in projects.
- Vague Rumor — Liet means rabbit in the Fremen language.
- Fact — Liet-Kynes was trying to transform Arrakis. This is why I was contacted to come to Arrakis.
- Speculation — My work with fertilizers was of interest to Kynes in some way.
- Fact — Liet-Kynes was killed during the Sardaukar Pogrom.
We have confirmed our findings—the Kwisatz Program requires a daughter by Baron Harkonnen. Of course, the Baron will be difficult to entreat. As such, we must gain leverage to ensure his cooperation.
To this end, I have dispatched my protegee, Margot Rashino-Zea, to the frozen world, Lankiveil. There, she will insinuate herself within the household of the Baron's younger demibrother and gain the information we need.
I know we have suffered recent losses in the field, but I count Sister Margot as one of the most intuitive and deliberate Sisters I have had the privilege to indoctrinate. Her observational skills are peerless, as is her comeliness, grace, and skill as a commando. I have personally trained Margot in sixty-three ways to kill a man using nothing but her fingers.
No doubt she will be paired with an influential Lord and yield powerful scions.
Observed subject Jessica in advanced motion-discipline today. Age: twelve. Prana-bindu technique well ahead of schedule. Her stillness nears functional suspension, though slight muscular leakage remains—most visible around the orbital ridge and lower calf. These are expected and will resolve with continued drilling.
Her instructors report no resistance, no affective deviation. She listens. She embodies control. These are early, favorable indicators.
Mohiam remains assigned to her training. An irony, but not an error. The mother sees herself only in fragments—hairline, bone length, the weight of the stare. She will not act against our design.
The child does not know her true heritage. She must not. Identity codes remain sealed. Jessica's path must be chosen freely—or appear so. Her stillness contains direction. We bred her to listen to futures, even before they've spoken.
The line remains intact. The moment is near. I watch closely.
Esmar Tuek presents as a refined smuggler—educated, disciplined, and politically aware. To call him a profiteer is error. His commerce masks a pragmatist's grasp of power. He moves not for greed but balance; sells to all, kneels to none.
He likely maintains a hidden sanctuary beyond Guild registry—a haven for his network. Tuek values controlled chaos: risk enough to profit, never enough to perish.
Recommendation: Engage with respect. His loyalty can't be bought, but it can be rented — for information, not coin.
The Water Shippers control the majority of water concessions across Arrakis through a network of dynastic holdings, including the Bewts and the Yafengs, who maintain a coordinated front even as they compete for influence behind it. They are not a House, though they behave like one when it suits them.
Their strength lies in infrastructure: ice quarries at the polar cap, dew fields in the lowlands, and a distribution network that reaches every settlement worth taxing.
Primary leverage: scarcity. They ration water to create dependence, then sell relief at escalating margins.
Primary weakness: labor. Slave stock. High turnover. Nowadays, not so easily replenished. Rising cost.
Recommendation: exploit, do not trust.
Water is power. There is no reason it should remain in their hands.
Landmarks
No, no... that's what I'm saying. The importance of a thing is not completely... hmm... completely inherent in the thing itself. There's a dormant potential, and there's an outside activator — like fire hitting an accelerant. Take Arrakis.
Imagine you're an ancient explorer. You find this speck of nothing floating in infinite nothing. It's got breathable atmosphere, near ideal gravity, and the dominant life in the barren desert are these terrible worms. Back in the Old Empire, the only value of Arrakis was the various labs and testing stations experimenting on God knows what. They discover the spice mélange, that it keeps folk alive longer. A little interest is sparked.
But then... the Butlerian Jihad! Death to thinking machines. The accelerant! We discover the real secret of spice, that it grants the prescience needed to navigate fold-space tech. Ha! Then this speck of nothing floating in the infinite nothing soup suddenly becomes the one and only source for the most valuable commodity in all of human history.
2. From the Personal Notes of Piter de Vries
Once the true value of spice was realized, many interested parties wanted to find a way to have it without relying completely on one little planet. Over the centuries, several attempts have been made to recreate the environment of Arrakis on other worlds.
However, transporting live sandworms offworld has never proved feasible. Most of the beasts died almost immediately. I have read of one notable flight that managed to keep the worm alive for some time, but the creature's subsequent rampage cost many lives in deep space. Imagine that scene... Not many thoughts occasion me to shiver, so I'll be sure to hold onto that precious image.
Once again, the universe reasserts the unlikely value of Arrakis. And so one might imagine just how many interested (and vicious) parties might react to anyone with the foolish notion of transforming Dune into a paradise.
Arrakeen still shows the scars from that initial battle all those years ago. We repelled the Harkonnen and Sardaukar forces, but it was a very near thing. There is much of the city still left in ruins.
Yet Arrakeen persists as Duke Leto's seat of power. House Harkonnen contests this with the ongoing construction of their own capital city, a gaudy blight known as Neo-Carthag. Our war-torn city is experiencing a major influx of refugees fleeing the ravages of the War of Assassins. Our forces are stretched too thin to sift out all the spies and saboteurs. Rather than exhaust ourselves trying to impose an impossible order, we will allow an acceptable level of chaos, and work it into our computations and plans.
I've identified a number of Harkonnen spies. Rather than eliminate them (causing Piter de Vries to send in new, unknown agents), we will allow them to think they have the upper hand. We will feed these spies the information we want the Harkonnen to ingest.
Despite the best efforts of the Harkonnens to add their... aesthetic to the settlement, the Richese architecture still stands out, particularly when gazing up at the massive Spire Keep. That structure is a testament to the time when House Richese ruled as siridar governors of Arrakis and built Korona Village, some two hundred years ago.
The Harkonnens have since renamed the settlement Harko Village. It remained only a minor garrison town in the shadow of the capital city of Carthag.
However, with the atomic destruction of Carthag, Harko Village has become the interim capital. The Spire Keep serves as the seat of Harkonnen government on the planet, bringing a great influx of military and civilian personnel.
One can view the rapid construction of Neo-Carthag from Harko. It's a massive, chaotic endeavor that seems to swallow slaves as fast as they can be provided.
I await further instruction.
—Asher Vandor
My Lieges of House Tseida,
The most curious aspect of the destruction of Carthag, legally speaking, is the Harkonnen response. An atomic explosion obliterates the city, in the middle of a massive workforce riot. The Harkonnen blamed the Atreides, had formal charges drawn up on violations against the Great Conventions. And then... silence. No motions filed. Not another word said on the matter.
What happened? This reaction goes against everything we know about the Harkonnen (even if they discovered evidence to the contrary). What did they find out? Did someone talk them down?
That mystery lingers while they build Neo-Carthag at tremendous speed, creating a massive demand for slaves with a very short life span. This new city's architecture looks to be everything Carthag was, bursts of gaudy flash in a sea of oppressive brutalism. We should not let this distract from that atomic mystery.
Yours in service,
Amadi Ikeni
We found it half-buried in sand—a Heighliner carcass, torn open and forgotten. The Guild denies it ever existed. No logs, no record, just a name erased.
To us, it was salvation. Sealed chambers full of salvage—plating, circuits, spice dust in the conduits. We claimed it piece by piece until even the wind called it ours.
Some say it fell during the spice purges; others that it was buried on purpose, a secret too large to destroy.
Whatever the truth, only the wreck remains—and the lesson it left: power burns brightest before it dies.
If you ask for my opinion, and no one ever does, Hagga Basin South isn't fit for people. It isn't even itfor pyons. That's why they keep dying and the settlements keep going abandoned. Just a pile of rocks floating in a sea of deadly dunes.
The area used to be sacred to the Fremen, but they worship their own piss. Sardaukar drove them out. Griffin's Reach Tradepost is the only thing holding on out there, and I don't know how.
The best part off Hagga Basin South is all that beautiful debris from that crashed Atreides convoy. It's like victory sprinkled over the desert. All the potential scrap and goods draws out the scum and scavengers. My recommendation? Post a few sentries to gun them down when they leave, just in case they manage to scrounge something worthwhile.
1. Overheard Conversation Between Members of the Kirab
Laugh at me again, and I'll deflate your lungs. The Kirab should unite. I'm dead serious! We could own the Vermillius Gap.
See this handful of sand? They say it's red on account of the oxidized iron content, but I know different. I know it's all the blood soaked into this place. Look at the Fremen. They used to do their heathen, woo-woo tripe here, till the Sardaukar spilled their juices.
Then those ghouls from House Nehtalos take advantage and start iron mining. But they overreached. All us scavengers and reavers pick the profits clean off the skeleton of their big plans. The sand drinks their blood.
Then the War of Assassins. More blood. Chaos and opportunity! We get our mitts on all those abandoned mining rigs. We have a chance at something bigger. But what do we do? We scatter like beetles at the first outside pressure. They laugh at the Kirab, but they've never seen all of us coming down on them. No one has.
The sand is thirsty. Either it's our blood that quenches it or someone else's. Our choice.
2. From the Journal of Ariste Atreides
And now I come to the sad state of Mirzabah. Amidst the rugged chimneys and pillars of the red desert stands a vast pillar of rock, carved by the erosion into a shape resembling a gigantic hammer. The rock's features aligned perfectly with the Zensunni concept of Mirzabah, the iron hammer with which the dead are beaten if they cannot reply satisfactorily to the questions they must answer before entering paradise.
This rock formation became an important pilgrimage site for the Zensunni and later the Fremen. They pondered eternity and the questions leading to paradise. The violence of the Sardaukar killed this ancient tradition.
The Kirab soon scuttled in. The holy site is now the Suk Alusus, a thieves' market. I'm told that such a collection of scoundrels is held together by the tradition of "Market Peace". Fighting, theft, and murder are forbidden within.
And so Mirzabah has passed on from being a holy site, ringing with the prayers of a free people, to den of thieves, a bazaar peddling what the destitute have stolen from the destitute.
The Hagga Rift became the mass grave of our honor. It was the erythrite crystals that brought us. With the Guild's choking monopoly, it was hard for either House to find an advantage over the other, so our masters on both sides sent us here to get what we could.
It was settlers and pyons who died in our crossfire. Eventually, a contingent of us deserted. Problem was, some of us deserted out of disillusionment, while others did so out of lust for plunder. Ended up killing each other over the disagreement. I ended three of my fellows set on murdering a pyon. Didn't save the pyon. Ended up with a sucking wound for my trouble.
I haven't got long. The Rift is a graveyard of fallen bridges, ruined mining hamlets, downed 'thopters, and corpses. I'll just be another skeleton on the pile. Just us skeletons and the erythrite crystals, gleaming like the teeth in the Devil's own mouth.
I'm not sure about this place, cousins. You know me. I know I'm not some addled pyon with enough empty space in my head to house ghosts and phantasms. But a night in the highlands above the Hagga Rift, hearing those sounds... The ancient name for this place roughly translates to "Goblin Mountains". I know it must be the way the winds blow down from the Shield Wall, passing through the rocks. By day, I know this. By night, I hear that weird wailing, the whispers full of malevolent cadence.
Be that as it may, the Harkonnen are desperate for slaves. House Halil has answered the call. The War of Assassins emptied Jabal Eifrit of its bondsmen. The Emperor declared this place a no combat zone, true, but the settlements remain ghost towns. Just as you guessed, cousins. The refugees, scavengers, and bandits who now roost here are ripe for capture and sale.
I'll complete my survey shortly. I don't wish to spend another night in this place. The wailing. The whispers.
2. From the Journal of Ariste Atreides
And now we come to the Hand of Khidr, at least mentally. I have not visited the site in person. The slavers of House Halil have profaned the area by turning an abandoned spicing station into the command center of their slave-taking operations in Jabal-Eifrit. In Zensunni tradition, Khidr was either a prophet, saint, or angel offering aid to those in need. We might imagine ancient pilgrims seeing a helping hand rising from the stones, a balm to sadness and a shelter from the elements.
More importantly, and the reason I MUST visit this site, I believe the Land of Khidr had some significance in the transition from Zensunni to Fremen culture. The sociological value of what such a site might teach us is immense. Father forbids I go there. And yet and still...
The Shield Wall has been breached in an atomic explosion. This is significant. This uplifted region of solid stone protects northern Arrakis from coriolis storms and sandworms. The Shield Wall makes civilization possible. To facilitate Spice Mining, many spicing stations are built atop the Shield Wall along the edge of the Deep Desert.
Now the sandworms have access to places previously denied to them. This changes the shape of things. Many smaller settlements have been adversely affected, and in some cases wiped out entirely. The question remains — is this the work of this Zantara figure? I suspect other hands at play. It's a bold move to risk direct Imperial anger by endangering the spice trade. I must formulate a list of suspects.
2. Excerpt from a Letter to Lady Jessica from the Sisterhood
Nature is a sculptor of stone and myth. She works in the medium of minerals and dreams. Consider the Stone Sentinel, the towering formation which resembles a great beast, perched atop the Shield Wall, holding eternal vigil over the Deep Desert.
Early Zensunni settlers oriented themselves with the landmark before the development of the paracompass. Young Fremen, undertaking the Trials of Aql, dared each other to make the treacherous ascent and stare the Sentinel in the eye.
Even geological features change. Wind and sand forever work the stone. It is only in relatively recent eras that the Sentinel wears its current form. Fremen poetically referred to the distant past as "Long ago, before the Stone Sentinel took off his Jubba cloak." They also referred to the distant future as "When the Sentinel completes his watch," denoting a time when he erodes entirely.
Your task is to incorporate these changes into the religious seeds planted by our Missionaria Protectiva in a time when the Sentinel looked very different. We must always bend and pivot. We must anticipate and adapt to changes in both the micro-eternities between milliseconds and in the deep rhythms of geological time.
It cannot be overstated that the lushness, diversity, and density of plant life (by Arrakis standards) of the O'odham is unmatched on the planet. A more thorough cataloging of species should be conducted. Soil samples as well.
From what I understand, the area was significant to the Fremen from their earliest times, stretching back even into pre-sietch Zensunni history. Ancient ruins can still be found there. Was the plant life always this prodigious? Is that what brought them? Was it caused by them?
Unfortunately, in the absence of the Fremen, it seems some strange cult has taken root in the area. The news I've gathered is fanciful, contradictory, and suspect. Cults gather rumors like flies. One repeating detail: they allegedly worship sandworms in some fashion.
2. Report to Piter de Vries from an Undercover Agent
Master, please get me out of here. The chanting. The rituals. They are all mad, and I am starting to believe in their madness. A worm is dead. This is what I know.
Mysa Tarill stands above a convenient source of geothermal energy. It's rocky exterior was judged safe from worm incursion. Under Harkonnen rule, a power plant was built here to charge great cells. However, the perceived safety was false. A massive sandworm shattered the rock barriers, laying the operation to waste. The process also killed the worm, as it was exposed to the powerful electric currents of the assembled power cells (see paper by Liet Kynes regarding worm death).
I believe low-power weapon generated by the still semi-functional equipment within the plant has somehow preserved the worm carcass. The intact worm has become a holy relic of the Maas Kharet cult. They are convinced the attack of the worm was ordained by God and see its preservation as a miracle. Their fervor grows.
Please, Master, release me from this assignment!
Who'd you say you were? Got a strong stomach, any case. Most can't look at me that long. Not anymore. Not pretty like I used to be. My molecules don't like each other no more. Just slowly turning to soup. Radiation's a hell of a thing. Let me just set aside a section of my face so you can have a seat. Heh.
You never said who sent you.
Anyway, I shouldn't have gone in there. They call it Sheol, after the underworld. All death and darkness. A radioactive hell. Hear tell it was from power breaches in crashed Atreides ships.
What's going on in there? We've caught sight of elite troops snooping about. We thought surely something of value was there. Heard rumors the Emperor himself ordered it a non-combat zone. What the hell is going on in there?
What... what are you doing? Who are you? Who sent you? Wait... wait!
I'm telling you, the worm got them all! I can't rat on my mates, because they're all gone. I can't admit to murdering the rival gang, because it was the bloody worm!
Look... sometimes we have dealings in the Deep Desert. The coriolis storms, the bigger sandworms, it keeps prying eyes away. Satellites don't even fly over that area! There's prizes too, spice and shipwrecks and hidden labs, if you believe those rumors. We were there to gut a wreck.
Then, this other gang comes encroaching in. I don't know who they were. I didn't stop to make bloody introductions. There was a fight commencing! Then...
'several minutes of sobs and indecipherable sounds'
It got 'em. All of them. Teeth. More teeth than stars. Ground opened up. A great circle. Swallowed the wreck and everyone but me. Got a good look. Straight down into it. Damn my eyes! Shouldn't have looked. My mates tumbling down into hell. I...
What? Yeah I'm sure! The mouth was a ring! What is bloody important?! Who cares what—
'sounds of several sound blows followed by whimpers'
As I said, I want to cooperate in any way. I'm something of a scholar of ancient Arrakis, and I was deep into my cups, bragging of my prowess to the wrong sort of ears.
When I awoke, I found myself kidnapped by bandits and taken to an ancient testing station. The ruffians wanted my expertise to help them loot the site. I do admit that my fear melted into curiosity.
Is there a more enticing puzzle box than an Imperial Testing Station? A still-functioning artifact from the Old Empire — before Mentats — before the Great Convention. Imagine! Time capsules haunted by ancient feats of science.
I told them what I could, and they left me in the antechamber. I heard their sounds of excitement and avarice. Then sounds of surprise and awe. Then sounds that I could describe as screams for lack of a proper descriptor. Wonder and horror are separated by the thinnest of membranes. I left the station, closed the door, and hurried out into the deadly sun. It was sheer luck that I was found.
Manual Of The Friendly Desert
Our first goal on Arrakis is grassland provinces. We will start with these mutated poverty grasses. When we have moisture locked in grasslands, we'll move on to start upland forests, then a few open bodies of water — small at first — and situated along lines of prevailing winds with windtrap moisture precipitators spaced in the lines to recapture what the wind steals. We must create a true sirocco —a moist wind — but we will never get away from the necessity for windtraps.
Tis ecological transformation of Arrakis relies upon us controlling three percent of the energy surface — only three percent — to start a self-sustaining system. Learn this lesson well, our transformation begins in the plantations of the south and proceeds in simple steps. This is a project of generations. You will not live to see a green Arrakis. Nor will your children. Or their children. But one day, Arrakis will bloom.
2. From the field notes of Derek Chinara
1.07.10199
The experiment worked!
Dried feces + sand + water = nutrient dense soil.
The primrose plants seemed to thrive when planted in this mixture. But this is not a self-replicating cycle, because although the primrose plants gather excess water through the dew cycle, I alone cannot produce the amount of feces required.
3.07.10199
Some scavengers came by today, heavily armed. They made some vague threats — particularly about stealing my groundcar. I offered them some water, which they took greedily, and I explained how we could benefit one another.
Now we have a self-replicating cycle, dried bandit feces in exchange for water. More soil, more flowers, more water. This is what Kynes meant when he spoke about the human elements of any ecological system.
3. Lecture from the Imperial Academy, given by Ons Habidu, Imperial Planetologist
In the fanciful past, men foolishly believed that technology could solve all of their problems. They pursued it relentlessly, dreaming of machines that could transform worlds and make them habitable.
We know how that ended.
And so we turned our gaze inward. To our own sciences of ecology, biology, and genetic manipulation of plants and animals. And we saw that we already had all of the tools we needed to bend worlds to our will.
To be a planetologist is to be the first. To be the first to make planetfall where no human has walked before. To see how the patterns of weather could be altered, or the chemicals in the atmosphere tweaked, to enable habitation.
I have walked strange worlds, frost-covered planetoids, volcanic moons and lonely meteorites. I have catalogued them, explored them and, like a great conductor, orchestrated their environment into a harmonious symphony.
And you will too, my students. You will too.
Dear Mother,
Thank you again for speaking to uncle about arranging this Landsraad attaché position. I realize you see my obsession with the Arrakis sandworm as something of a mania, but I appreciate your indulgence. My lifelong dream to glimpse one in person is nearly realized!
Consider the animal. Its approach is marked by static and dry lightning, as well as the strong, flinty aroma of burning cinnamon. In size, worms up to 450 meters have been observed, though many claim beasts as big as 1,000 meters swim in the sands of the southern pole region. Mouths that can swallow spice harvesters. Innards like blast furnaces, producing intense flame. When two such titans meet, they challenge one another by bellowing melange-smelling exhaust from the caverns that are their throats.
Imagine, Mother!
I have only just arrived on the planet, but I have been practicing my "sandwalk" for well over a week and feel I have mastered the rhythmless shuffle. I cannot wait another moment! Our little excursion leaves tomorrow. I'll write you on my return.
Your devoted son,
Lancel Hurata
2. Excerpt From The Oral Histories of Arrakis
Over here sand blows,
Over there sand blows.
Over there a rich man waits,
Over here I wait.
Shai-Hulud abides through all.
Time flinches. Stars blink.
Shai-Hulud abides through all.
Shai-Hulud! Old Man of the Desert.
Shai-Hulud! Old Father Eternity.
Shai-Hulud! Grandfather of the Desert.
Through my naked knife, you smile.
My foe's mortal wound smiles back.
Through your molten belly,
Was the world forged.
Before the Before,
Blessed be the Maker!
When all abiding ends,
And you swallow the stars, one by one,
Swallow the gravid moon,
Swallow light, swallow dark, swallow time, swallow all.
After the After,
Blessed be the Taker!
With a belly full of all,
See, what you don't understand is the importance of my work. You think the Harkonnens extract enough spice to satiate the rest of the universe? You think they ever would? No, they're greedy bastards, like the rest of us. Spice is everywhere, and everyone needs it.
The world runs on spice, it is the currency of the universe, of the Imperium. And I intend to get filthy rich as I smuggle it to those who can't get it otherwise.
2. The Gift of Spice Blows — Bandit Notes
We had another spice blow today. It is like Arrakis decided to make up for its otherwise less than comfortable conditions, by giving us exactly what we're here for. There's something mesmerizing about it, the way those enormous purple clouds fire into the air, the smell, the sound. The Fremen used to say the spice blows signaled the birth of a new worm, but fortunately those superstitious primitives are gone now. All that is left is spice, machinery, and the men willing to use the latter to extract the former.
3. A conversation with a former slaver
They all laughed like idiots. About the dark chants coming from the leaking deathstill, and the purple sky, and then the worm that was my friend and that talked to me about things terrible and impossible to understand.
Spice will do that to you, they said. As if it was just some trippy drug-fueled dream. Yes, it was a dream! But it had been infected with something. A purpose. Something greater than me. That is reaching out. Voices from another time. From another place.
They couldn't possibly understand that. Their mind is small. They are no better than the flesh they sell. No better than animals.
Ha! You're nothing but nothing but right. My missing arm is due to a gambling problem. You guess true, but I bet you double or nothing that you can't guess the particulars of its removal. Come now. You're no shrinking violet, no trembling flower sucker. Take the wager!
Ha-ha! Wrong! Let me tell it true. When you owe a band of slavers money, and you don't have it, they take recompense through your freedom or through cruel sport. These devils chose the later.
Never underestimate a sandstorm. I know better than any sinner. A bad one raged outside, winds over 400 km/h. They cut off my sleeve, stuck my exposed arm out a little message slot in the door. Took four of them to hold me down. Sand and wind can conspire to become a million scalpels. Let's just say, when it was over, a red skeleton waved back at me. Seeing your own wet bones changes you forever…
Anyway, I'm going to need that money before nightfall.
2. Coriolis Storms: Final Moments of the Transport Ship Agamemnon
Arrakeen: Agamemnon, come in. Agamemnon, are you there?
Agamemnon: We— trying too—
Arrakeen: Agamemnon, can you hear me? This is Arrakeen. We advise you to turn around. The coriolis storm has unexpectedly changed direction. Winds nearly 700 kilometers per hour. Agamemnon, do you copy?
Agamemnon: Negative, Arrakeen. No way back. Only way, through. We're trying to try and skirt the edge of the storm and land. We—
Arrakeen: Agamemnon? You cut out at the end. Agamemnon?
Agamemnon: Dear God...
Arrakeen: Agamemnon?
Agamemnon: We're not going to make it..
Arrakeen: Agamemnon?
Agamemnon: It's... the hand of God.
Arrakeen: Agamemnon?
You've got your pebbles and pea gravel and flaked rocks and pea-sand and sand and flour sand. That last is the soft stuff, soft as a child's dreams, easy to sink a stilltent in. Ramsey always bragged, he did, bragged about how he got his best sleep when out on the lam avoiding authorities, said he could find the softest patch of flour sand for miles. "That's how the Fremen slept," he'd say. Ramsey would wake fresher than a pampered noble after a night on such a cushion.
Not me. No thank you. I conjure it wise to always sleep with a good stone or three jutting into your back. Sure, my spine is a twisted road of pain, but I'm still here. No one is going to creep up on me. My slumber is lighter than a dust mote.
Ramsey? He went and got his throat slit in his sleep. I'm sure he was having the sweetest dreams though.
2. Report from a Merchant
The shipment, I'm afraid, is mostly lost. I barely made it out myself. Bandits gave chase, so we took the convoy on a more direct route to Arrakis. In our flight, we drove over a patch of drum sand. It is a curious phenomenon, created by just the right confluence of factors (sand grain uniformity, compactness, etc.)
The effect is otherworldly. The strangest music. A single footfall can produce repeating drumming of a primordial cadence. Our convoy created a cacophony that vibrated our innards. The worms soon came.
I and a few others made it to a set of rocks. The rest, goods and bandits alike, were taken by the worms.
3. Drunken Banter of a Duneman
Everyone's always talking about the worms. Keeping eyes and ears out for the worms. But that's not the only danger out there. It's not the only thing that wants to eat you. Even the ground wants to eat you!
While you're looking for worms, it's the quicksand and dust chasms that will get you. If you don't learn to recognize their signs, it won't matter if you walk without rhythm. The dust and the sand don't behave on other planets like they do on Arrakis. The dust and sand don't have no manners here. Heh-heh!
Buy me another round, and mayhaps I'll tell you the trick to it.
4. From the Journal of Ariste Atreides
One of the most confounding things about navigating Arrakis is the shifting sands. Storms can change the whole topography, erase or cover entire landmarks. Even on a seemingly calm night, you can wake up to find everything changed, your bearings gone with your dreams.
The Fremen, however, seemed to have no trouble navigating the desert, despite its mutable and capricious nature. They likened it to the face of someone you are intimate with: "Even when your mother frowns, you still recognize your mother," is something of a proverb.
The Fremen are intimate with the face of the dunes, despite its changing expressions.
Kangaroo mouse. Muad'dib. An animal admired by the Fremen, seen as a figure on the planet's second moon, as well as a constellation. A cunning earth-spirit hopping through their mythology. This diminutive creature can teach all of us lessons in desert survival. The Fremen word can mean "the mouse" but also "the Teacher".
Muad'dib has a more personal connotation for me — less scholarly, less explainable. If you stare into a mirror long enough, disassociation sets in. The face you see becomes a stranger. You float out of your body and identity. I feel the same disassociation when I look at muad'dib. Something uncanny. As if, in another time, another reality, it's the symbol of..
No. I lost it. It's on the tip of my mind, but the harder I grip it, the more it escapes like sand through squeezing fingers.
2. PLANTS: A RANT BY A DRUNKEN DUNE MAN
Mortimer done called me a feckin' flower sucker, so I punched him so hard them bones above his eye came down over the socket like an avalanche over a cave mouth. Ain't never winked the same since. All on account of feckin' idiots thinking a reluctance to sip cadaver juices is a sign of softness. Sometimes, there ain't no bodies to sip. So you listen.
There's evening primrose. They grow red 'round here. Surprisingly delicate petals. Good moisture.
There's poverty grass. Grows on practically nothing. Tastes like nothing. Gotta work hard to get a proper thimble full. There's also onion grass which tastes like well, feckin' onions.
There's incense bush. Fremen used it to make incense. They knew to cultivate hardy, deep-rooted plants like this and sand-verbenna and saguaro and burrowbush.
I also hear tell that some of these plants species came about from some planetologist or another treading in the creator's domain.
3. DESERT HAWK: NOTE FOUND ON A PICKED-CLEAN SKELETON
Separated from convoy. Leg shattered and useless. Evening now, thank God. Stopped bleeding. Will try and seal stillsuit. Update later.
Dawn. Desert hawks circling. Back home, hawks are an Atreides symbol. Arriving, our Duke took kinship with them. Liet-Kynes wrote fascinating report. How they find food, conserve water. Wish they could teach me. Update later.
Afternoon. Stillsuit failing. Thirsty. Hawks landing near me. Predators, but not above scavenging. Sky burial, ancient tradition on Old Terra. Fremen thought hawks were psychopomps. Update later.
Thirsty! Waving arms. When hawks get too close. Let them know I'm alive. Wasting nutrients. I'm not food.
Night. Thirst. Hawks all around. Bobbing heads. Excited. Human faces. People I know. Human hands instead of talons. Reaching for me. Take me home.
4. DESERT BAT: FROM THE PERSONAL NOTES OF PITER DE VRIES
Desert bats, from the order Chiroptera, descended from species native to Old Terra and remarkably adapted to thrive in the hateful cradle that is Arrakis. My interests lie solely with cielago, Chiroptera modified to carry distrans messages. Distrans technology allows information to be implanted in an animal, to be retrieved later.
These subliminally stored messages can be retrieved by uttering the correct word or phrase. The Fremen, as well as certain assassins on Arrakis, use distrans animals for covert communication. Fremen sietches included nesting holes teeming with bats. Vermin squatting and hiding amidst their own filth in deep caves... the fellowship between Fremen and bat becomes easy to perceive.
One must wonder, with the extermination of the Fremen, how many delicious secrets are fluttering about out there in the nighttime sky?
5. INVASIVE CACTI: FROM THE FIELD NOTES OF DEREK CHINARA
The most ancient records and art, Fremen or otherwise, fail to depict the larger species of cacti found on Arrakis. As near as I can conclude, these came from some ancient and abandoned botanical lab of the Old Imperium. Left by a dying civilization, these plants found their way out onto Arrakis, adapted to and subtly changed the environment. Life is tenacious and rude — it finds a way in, without invitation or hospitality.
Pardot Kynes, himself, modified and introduced plant species on Arrakis. I am trying, with some difficulty, to parse out which species came from him and which came from those lost labs. Those ancient structures are not all accounted for. What else grew down there? What else escaped?
Definition: any compass that determines direction by local magnetic anomaly; used where relevant charts are available and where a planet's total magnetic field is unstable or subject to masking by severe magnetic storms.
Commentary: On Arrakis, due to the magnetic interference of the storms and the moons, the paracompass is the sole means of guidance. But when in Hagga Basin South (south of the pole) heading para-north (also south from the pole) it can become confusing. My advice: don't overthink it.
2. SINKCHART — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: map of the Arrakis surface laid out with reference to the most reliable paracompass routes between places of refuge. (See Paracompass.)
Commentary: Detailed maps of the Deep Desert are impossible to create due to the guild prohibition on satellites and the constant storms which alter the landscape. A survey probe can be used to map local terrain, and create a sinkchart for distribution. Be wary though, sinkcharts are quickly out of date.
3. STILLSUIT — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: body-enclosing garment invented on Arrakis. Its fabric is a microsandwich performing functions of heat dissipation and filter for bodily wastes.
Commentary: Remarkably ingenious devices, invented here by the native population. Though local manufacturers and even CHOAM have attempted to replicate the stillsuit, it is well known that the most efficient stillsuits are crafted by the Fremen.
4. STATIC COMPACTOR — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: a device that uses a static discharge to either repel or attract sand. Used as a digging tool in loose sand surfaces or to gather particles together on the surface.
Commentary: Another invention of the Fremen, but one that I find has broader applications. For example, the static discharge attracts all particles, including airborne, so can be used to clear poisonous gas from the air. It also has a damping effect on fire, gathering it together so that it disperses in an instant. Useful indeed.
5. CRYSKNIFE — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: the sacred knife of the Fremen on Arrakis. It is manufactured in two forms from teeth taken from dead sandworms. The two forms are "fixed" and "unfixed." An unfixed knife requires proximity to a human body's electrical field to prevent disintegration. Fixed knives are treated for storage. All are about 20 centimeters long.
Commentary: The information from the archives seems surprisingly complete considering that for decades the Harkonnen have had a bounty offering a million solaris for an intact crysknife. Which makes me wonder who has been editing the Imperial Archives?
6. THUMPER — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: short stake with spring-driven clapper at one end. The purpose: to be driven into the sand and set "thumping" to summon shai-hulud.
Commentary: Once again, the native population has created an obvious, effective solution to one of the problems of the desert — the sandworm. Once it was understood how to draw sandworms away from spice harvesting sites using thumpers, spice yields increased by 15%. Of course, the sandworm always comes so thumpers have a limited efficiency in the long run.
7. STILLTENT — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: small, scalable enclosure of micro-sandwich fabric designed to reclaim as potable water the ambient moisture discharged within it by the breath of its occupants.
Commentary: An expansion of the stillsuit technology, these portable shelters are mostly useful when traversing on foot. If a 'thopter goes down in the desert, I can see how this could be a useful way to get home. The question remains though, without vehicles, how are the Fremen able to penetrate so deeply into the south?
8. DEATHSTILL — Definition from Imperial Archives, Commentary from Count Fenring
Definition: a receptacle that can receive a corpse and then drains and filters the fluids for water. The waste is sluiced off into a separate compartment.
Commentary: discovering these was an unexpected boon of the Sardaukar pogrom. Deep within the abandoned sietches we found ceremonial deathstills and great, empty chambers where it seems water once flowed. The practicality of the Fremen astounds me still — and CHOAM have already begun building imitation deathstills for the slavers and miners who might find themselves with an excess of bodies, and a lack of water.