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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they did not surrender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fifth Harkonnen crumpled to the ground.

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

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

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

“Eeeeah!”

“No!”

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

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

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

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