Please grant forgiveness, Sire.

I crave a boon, Sire.

For the most part, Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV found his daily duties tedious. Sitting on the Golden Lion Throne had been a thrill at first, but now as he gazed across the Imperial Audience Chamber, it seemed to him that power lured sycophantic pests like sweet frosting lured roaches. The supplicants’ voices slipped into the back of his mind as he went through the motions, granting or not granting favors.

I demand justice, Sire.

A moment of your time, Sire.

During his years as Crown Prince, he had schemed so hard to claim the throne. Now, with the snap of a finger, Shaddam had the power to elevate a worthy commoner to noble status, to destroy worlds, or to bring Great Houses crashing down.

But even the Emperor of the Known Universe could not rule solely as he saw fit. His decisions were beset on all sides by challenges from political string-pullers. The Spacing Guild had its own interests, as did Combine Honnete Ober Avancer Mercantiles, the trading conglomerate better known as CHOAM. It was a blessing to know that the noble families bickered with each other as much as they squabbled with him.

Please hear my case, Sire.

Have mercy, Sire.

The Bene Gesserit had helped him cement the early years of his reign. Yet now the witches— including his own wife— whispered behind his back, unraveling his Imperial tapestry, creating new patterns he could not discern.

Grant my request, I beg of you, Sire.

It is such a minor thing, Sire.

However, once his long-awaited Project Amal reached completion— the artificial spice secretly being developed on Ix— he would change the face of the Imperium. “Amal.” Such a magical sound to the word. But names were one thing, and realities quite another.

The latest reports from Ix were heartening. At last, the damned Tleilaxu claimed success with their experiments, and he was awaiting the final proof, and samples. Spice… all of the puppet strings in the vast Imperium were made of spice. Soon I shall have my own source, and Arrakis can rot, for all I care.

Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica would never dare to make baseless claims. Nonetheless, Shaddam’s boyhood friend and philosophical foil, Count Hasimir Fenring, had been sent to Ix to check it out.

My fate is in your hands, Sire.

All hail the benevolent Emperor!

As he sat on the crystal throne, Shaddam allowed himself a mysterious smile, which made the supplicants flinch with uncertainty.

Behind him, two copper-skinned women dressed in garments of golden silkscales climbed the steps and lit the ion torches flanking his throne. The crackling flames were balls of harnessed lightning: blue and green, shot through with veins of light too bright to behold. The air carried a thunderstorm scent of ozone and the hiss of consuming flames.

After the customary pomp and ceremony, Shaddam had arrived in the throne room nearly an hour late— his small way of reminding these pitiful beggars how little importance he placed on their visits. By contrast, all supplicants were required to arrive precisely on time or have their appointments canceled.

Court Chamberlain Beely Ridondo had stepped before the throne and extended his sonic staff. When he struck it against the polished stone floor, the staff sent out a ringing tone that made the Palace foundations tremble. Bald and high-browed, Ridondo called out Shaddam’s interminably long name and titles, proclaiming the court to be in session. He then glided backward up the dais steps without missing a beat.

Leaning forward, his narrow face wearing a stern expression, Shaddam had begun another day on the throne.…

The morning progressed exactly as he feared, an endless recital of petty matters. But Shaddam forced himself to appear compassionate, a great ruler. He had already commissioned several historians to ensure that the appropriate details of his life and reign were recorded and emphasized.

During a short recess, Chamberlain Ridondo paused to go over the long list of matters on the Imperial docket. Shaddam sipped from his cup of potent spice coffee, felt the electric rush of melange. For once, the cook had prepared it properly. The intricately decorated cup was carefully painted, one of a kind, so delicate it seemed to be made of eggshell. Each cup Shaddam used was destroyed after he drank from it, so that no one else could have the privilege of using the same china.

“Sire?” Ridondo stared at the Emperor with a disconcerting expression as he rattled off complex names without consulting notes. The Chamberlain, while not a Mentat, had a formidable natural memory, enabling him to keep track of the numerous details of the Imperial workday. “A newly arrived visitor has requested an immediate audience with you.”

“They always say that. What House does he represent?”

“He is not from the Landsraad, Sire. Nor is he an official from CHOAM or the Guild.”

Shaddam made a rude noise. “Then your decision is obvious, Chamberlain. I cannot waste my time with commoners.”

“He is… not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and he comes from Arrakis.”

Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume that he could simply walk in and expect an audience with the Emperor of a Million Worlds. “If I wish to speak with one of the desert rabble, I will summon him.”

“He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his father to investigate spice on Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been submitted.”

The Emperor yawned. “All of them boring, as I recall.” Now he remembered the eccentric Pardot Kynes, who had spent much of his life on Arrakis, shirking his duties and going native, preferring dust and heat to the splendor of Kaitain. “I have lost interest in deserts.” Especially now that amal is at hand.

“I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could go back and rile up the desert workers. Who knows what influence he has with them? They might decide to stage an immediate general strike, decreasing spice production and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack down. The Baron would then request Sardaukar reinforcements, and from there—”

Shaddam raised his well-manicured hand. “Enough! I see your point.” The Chamberlain always cycled through more consequences than an Emperor needed to hear. “Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him first.”

Liet-Kynes found the immense Imperial Palace impressive, but he was accustomed to a different sort of grandeur. Nothing could be more spectacular than the sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood face-to-face with monster Coriolis storms. He had ridden great sandworms. He had watched flickers of plant life thrive in the most inhospitable conditions.

A man sitting on a chair, however expensive, could not match any of that.

His skin felt oily from the lotion the attendants had smeared all over it. His hair smelled of flowery perfumes, and his body stank with unnatural deodorizers. According to Fremen wisdom, sand cleansed the body and the mind. Once he returned from Kaitain, Kynes intended to roll naked on a dune and stand out in the biting wind just to feel truly clean again.

Because he insisted on wearing his sophisticated stillsuit, the garment had been dismantled in a thorough search for concealed weapons and listening devices. The components had been scrubbed and lubricated, the carefully treated surfaces coated with strange chemicals, before the security men let him have it back. Kynes doubted the vital piece of desert equipment would ever function properly again, and he would have to discard it. Such a waste.

But since he was the son of the great prophet Pardot Kynes, Fremen would line up to the horizon for the honor of making a new garment for him. After all, they shared one goal: the welfare of Dune. But only Kynes could approach the Emperor and make the necessary demands.

These Imperial men understand so little.

Liet’s mottled tan cape flowed behind him as he marched forward. On Kaitain it appeared to be no more than coarse cloth, but he wore it like a royal mantle.

The Chamberlain announced his name curtly, as if offended that the Planetologist did not carry sufficient noble or political titles. Kynes clomped across the floor in temag boots, not bothering to walk with grace. He came to a stop in front of the dais and spoke boldly, without bowing. “Emperor Shaddam, I must speak to you of spice and of Arrakis.”

Courtiers gasped at his forthrightness. The Emperor stiffened, obviously offended. “You are bold, Planetologist. Foolishly so. Do you assume I know nothing of matters so vital to my Imperium?”

“I assume, Sire, that you have been given false information by the Harkonnens, propaganda to hide their true activities from you.”

Shaddam raised a reddish eyebrow and leaned forward, his full attention now focused on the Planetologist.

Kynes continued, “The Harkonnens are wild dogs tearing at the desert. They exploit the native people. Casualty rates on spice crawlers are higher even than in the slave pits on Poritrin or Giedi Prime. I have sent you many reports detailing such atrocities, and my father before me did the same. I have also delivered a long-term plan detailing how plantings of grass and desert scrub brush could reclaim much of the surface area of Dune— Arrakis, I mean— for human habitation.” He paused a beat. “I can only assume you have not read our reports, since we have received no response, and you have taken no action.”

Shaddam grasped the arms of the Golden Lion Throne. Flanking him, the dazzling ion torches roared in what seemed to be a feeble imitation of the furnace inside the mouth of Shai-Hulud. “I have much to read, Planetologist, and many demands on my time.” Sardaukar guards moved a little closer, attuned to their Emperor’s darkening mood.

“And much of it is unimportant compared to the future of melange production, is it not?” Kynes’s retort shocked Shaddam and the listeners in the court. The guards were on full alert now, blades at the ready.

Oblivious to his danger, Kynes went on. “I have requested new equipment and teams of botanists, meteorologists, and geologists. I have asked for experts in cultural studies to assist me in determining how the desert people are able to survive so well, when your Harkonnens suffer so many losses.”

The Chamberlain had heard enough. “Planetologist, one does not make demands of the Emperor. Shaddam IV alone decides what is important and where to distribute resources through the benevolence of his Imperial hand.”

Kynes was not cowed by Shaddam or his lackey. “And nothing is more important to the Imperium than the spice. I offer a way for history to remember the Emperor as a visionary, in the tradition of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino.”

At this audacity, Shaddam rose to his feet— something he rarely did during Imperial audiences. “Enough!” He was tempted to summon an executioner, but reason prevailed. Barely. He might still need this man. Besides, once amal was in production it would be enjoyable to let Kynes see his beloved desert planet dwindle to nothing in the eyes of the Empire.

So, in the calmest of tones, he said, “My Imperial Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring, is scheduled to arrive on Kaitain within a week. If your requests have merit, he is the one who will address them.”

Sardaukar guards stepped forward quickly, took Kynes by the elbows, and escorted him out at a rapid clip. He did not struggle now that he had his answer. He saw that Emperor Shaddam was blind and self-centered, and now he had no respect for the man, no matter how many worlds he ruled.

Now Kynes knew that the Fremen would have to take care of Dune for themselves, and the Imperium be damned.