Though he loathed the arrogant Premier Calimar, Baron Harkonnen had never expected Shaddam to use atomics against House Richese. Atomics! When the news reached him on Arrakis, he had mixed feelings, and a good deal of fear for his own security. In the face of the Emperor’s appalling zeal, no one was safe, especially not House Harkonnen, which had so much to hide.

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron paced his strategy room in the Carthag Residency, looking through a convex wall of armor-plaz windows. Blazing desert sunshine streamed in, tempered by filtering films on the two-centimeter-thick windows.

Muffled by barriers and humming security systems, he heard preparations for the military parade that was scheduled to occur soon in the main square. Just beyond his field of vision, troops assembled in the afternoon heat, each fully armed man in a blue dress uniform.

With grand fanfare, the Baron had returned to the harsh planet accompanied by his nephew. Brutish Rabban, in one of his rare moments of intelligence, had suggested that they remain here close to the spice operations, until “the troubling Imperial matters” were resolved.

The Baron slammed a fist against one of the windows, causing the plaz to quiver. How much more did Shaddam intend to do? It was madness! Fully a dozen Landsraad families had voluntarily surrendered fortunes in hoarded spice, pathetically contrite in order to avoid further demonstrations of Imperial wrath.

No one is safe.

It was only a matter of time before CHOAM auditors came sniffing around Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis… which could well be the end of the Baron and his Great House. Unless he managed to hide everything.

Exacerbating his problems, the damnable Fremen kept preying on his secret stockpiles, locating many of the largest caches! The desert vermin were opportunists, exploiting the Imperial crackdown, knowing the Baron could report none of their raids because then he would have to admit his own crimes.

Outside, giant banners bearing the blue Harkonnen crest streamed down the sides of tall buildings, oceans of limp cloth hanging in the hot air. Griffin statues had been erected around the Carthag Residency, towering monsters that seemed ready to defy even the great sandworms. The mandatory crowds were assembled in the square, wretches chased from their begging stations and dingy homes so that they could cheer on cue.

Normally the Baron preferred to spend his wealth on personal diversions, but now he took a page from the Emperor’s book. With finery and gaudy spectacles, he would cow the indigent population. It made him feel a little better after the embarrassing banquet debacle. Henceforth, he had no intention of attempting to follow the Atreides model for inspiring goodwill. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen wanted his subjects to fear him, not to like him.

A Guild Courier fidgeted at the open doorway to the strategy room, showing the edge of her patience. “Baron, my Heighliner will depart in less than two hours. If you have a package for the Emperor, I must take it soon.”

Angered, the big man whirled, and the momentum kept him moving gracelessly on his suspensors. He caught himself against a wall. “You will wait. An important part of my message will be images from the parade we are about to host.”

The Courier’s hair was short and wine-colored, her features hard and unattractive. “I will remain only as long as time permits.”

With a grunt of displeasure, the Baron floated in an exaggerated posture of dignity back to his writing table. Grumbling to himself, he could not think of the proper way to phrase the rest of his message, and wished Piter de Vries were here to help. But the twisted Mentat remained on Kaitain, spying on his behalf.

Perhaps he should have kept that etiquette advisor alive. For all his preposterous training, Mephistis Cru had known how to compose a polite turn of phrase.

With pudgy fingers the Baron scrawled another sentence, then sat back, thinking how best to explain the recent rash of “accidents” and lost spice-excavation equipment on Arrakis, with which he had hidden his embezzling activities. In a recent Imperial transmittal, Shaddam had expressed concern about the problem.

For once, the Baron was glad the Spacing Guild had never managed to put up adequate weather surveillance satellites here. This enabled him to assert that brief, vicious storms had occurred, when in actuality they had not. But perhaps he had gone too far… and too many clues pointed toward his activities.

These are dangerous times.

“As I have reported to you before, Sire, we have been plagued by Fremen unrest,” he wrote. “The terrorists destroy equipment, then steal our cargoes of melange and disappear into the desert before a proper military response can be mounted.” The Baron pursed his lips, trying to select the proper tone of contrition. “I admit that we have perhaps been too lenient with them, but now that I am back on Arrakis, I will personally supervise our retaliation efforts. We will grind down the unruly natives and make them bow under Harkonnen command, in the glorious name of your Imperial Majesty.”

He thought his words might be a bit too extravagant, but decided to let them stand. Shaddam was not a man to complain about excessive compliments.

The Fremen rogues had recently stolen an armored spice transport and another stockpile hidden in an abandoned desert village. How had the filthy guerrillas known to strike there?

The Courier continued to fidget at the doorway, but the Baron ignored her. “I promise you this unrest will no longer be tolerated, Sire,” he wrote. “I will send regular reports of our success in bringing the traitors to justice.”

With a flourish, he signed the letter, sealed it in the message cylinder, and slapped the ornate tube into the Courier’s palm. Without a word, the wine-haired woman spun about and made her way through the halls, heading toward the Carthag Spaceport. The Baron shouted after her, “Stand by on the Heighliner for transmitted images to go with that message. My parade is about to begin.”

Next, he summoned his nephew to the strategy room. Despite Rabban’s many flaws, the Baron had in mind a job the “Beast” could perform well. The big-shouldered man strode in, carrying his much-used inkvine whip. In a gaudy blue uniform with gold tassels and lapels decked with clusters of medals, he had dressed as if he meant to be the center of the military display in the main square rather than an observer from a high balcony.

“Rabban, we must show the Emperor how angry we are over these recent Fremen activities.”

The thick lips smiled cruelly, as if the Beast already anticipated what he would be told to do. “Do you want me to round up some suspects and interrogate them? I’ll make them confess to whatever you like.”

Outside, the blare of trumpets cracked through the dry air, announcing the arrival of the Harkonnen troops.

“Not good enough, Rabban. I want you to select three villages, I don’t care which ones. Point your fingers at a map, if you like. March in with commandos and raze the settlements to the ground. Level every building, kill all the people, leave only black spots in the desert. Maybe I’ll write up a decree explaining their supposed crimes, and you can scatter copies among the carnage, so the rest of the Fremen rabble can read it.”

Again, trumpets blew outside in the square. The Baron accompanied his nephew out onto the observation platform. A sullen crowd filled the square, unwashed bodies whose stench reached him even here, three floors up. The Baron could only imagine how unbearable the smell must be down there in the heat.

“Entertain yourself,” the Baron said, twiddling his ring-studded fingers. “One day your brother Feyd will be old enough to accompany you on these… instructive exercises.”

Rabban nodded. “We’ll teach those lawless bandits who wields the real power here.”

The Baron responded in a distracted tone. “Yes, I know.”

The soldiers lined up in their ceremonial uniforms, lovely muscular men— a sight that never failed to stimulate the Baron. The parade began.