A swift and impressive display of force. Shaddam was quite pleased with the effect. Arrakis— and the Imperium— would never be the same again.

Unannounced and unexpected, an armada of Guild ships appeared in the skies over the desert world. Five Heighliners, each more than twenty kilometers long, took their places in orbit, within sight of the Harkonnen capital of Carthag.

An astonished Baron Harkonnen stood on the Residency’s shielded balcony and stared up into the night sky. A borealis display of ionization discharges rippled overhead in patterns that made his corpulent flesh crawl. “Damnation! What is going on up there?”

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron held himself steady to keep from drifting. Deep in his gut, he regretted that he had not returned to Giedi Prime as he’d intended the week before.

A hot breeze crept like a plague through the dark streets. High above him, the bright, reflected shapes of Heighliners spread out in low orbit, like jewels floating on a black sea. The Carthag City Guard sounded alarms, rousing troops from the barracks and locking down the populace under a state of martial law.

An aide rushed in, even more afraid of the spectacle in the sky than of his Harkonnen master. “My Lord Baron, a Guild envoy has sent a message from the Heighliners. He wishes to speak to you.”

Indignantly, the fat man puffed out his cheeks. “I am most curious to know what in the hells they think they are doing above my planet.” Melange production had exceeded the Emperor’s expectations, even despite the amount of spice he surreptitiously skimmed. House Harkonnen should have nothing to fear, even with Shaddam’s recent incomprehensible petulance and volatility. “There must be some mistake.”

The aide switched on a comscreen, and adjusted controls until he made the proper connection. Harsh words grated across the speaking mesh. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, your crimes have been exposed. The Guild and the Emperor will decide your punishment. You are subject to our combined judgment.”

The Baron was accustomed to denying his culpability in criminal matters, but in this instance he was so astounded that he could not even stammer an excuse. “But… but… I don’t know what—”

“This is not a dialogue,” the voice said, louder and harsher. “This is a pronouncement. CHOAM auditors and Guild representatives are being sent down to scrutinize every aspect of your spice operations.”

The Baron could barely draw a breath. “Why? I demand to know what I am accused of doing!”

“Your secrets will be exposed and your mistakes punished. Until we decree otherwise, the flow of spice throughout the Imperium will be cut off. You, Baron Harkonnen, must provide the answers we seek.”

Panic set in. He had no idea what had triggered this absurd saber rattling. “I… who are my accusers? What is the evidence?”

“The Guild will now cut off your communications and shut down all spaceports on Arrakis. Effective immediately, we are suspending the operation of spice harvesters in the field. All ‘thopters are grounded.” The comsystem in front of him began to smoke and spark. “This message is ended.”

From overhead, the armada of Guild ships broadcast intense pulses that disabled the circuitry and navigational systems on all vessels in the Carthag Spaceport. Inside the Baron’s residency, glowglobes dimmed and then brightened as they were bombarded. Some fizzled and exploded, showering plaz fragments on his head.

He covered his face and shouted into the comsystem, but there was no response. Even local comlinks had broken down. In blind rage, he bellowed— though no one except those in his immediate presence could hear (and they wisely fled).

The Baron could not demand any further explanation, or summon help from anyone.

The underbellies of three Heighliners opened, and the main Sardaukar fleet detached from their docking clamps. Battle cruisers, corvettes, marauders, bombers— every military vessel the Emperor could gather on short notice. In mounting this operation, Shaddam understood that he was leaving other parts of his Imperium vulnerable, but he had too much to gain, in one unexpected master stroke. Not even the Guild understood his true aims.

Wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with commander-in-chief insignia, the Emperor sat on the bridge as his flagship descended toward Arrakis. This would be the culmination of decades of planning, an unexpectedly quick finish to the overall amal project. For once, he would lead his troops into victory himself, for the magnificent end of the Great Spice War. His Project Amal was ready, and now he would remove Arrakis from the equation.

The Sardaukar had been instructed to follow his direct orders, though Supreme Bashar Garon would supervise the actual maneuvers. Shaddam needed someone he could trust to act without question, because there would be many questions. Standing stiffly beside him, the weathered Sardaukar veteran did not know the Emperor’s plan or understand the desired outcome of this confrontation. But he would follow his superior’s command, as always.

Using the holocaust weapons they had demonstrated on Zanovar, the Sardaukar warships were about to eliminate all spice on Arrakis, a necessary step in the shaping of Shaddam’s new Imperium. Afterward, he would have the only remaining answer. Amal. With this one attack, Shaddam Corrino IV would strengthen the Golden Lion Throne and crush the monopolies and trading conglomerates that had hobbled his rule.

Ah, if only Hasimir could be here to see my victory. The Emperor reminded himself how he had proven time and again that he didn’t need an advisor pestering him, contradicting his ideas, constantly trying to take credit.

As his flagship flew closer to the fringe of atmosphere, the Emperor leaned forward in his command chair to stare at the cracked brown planet. Ugly place. Would further devastation even be noticeable here? He saw an incomplete ring of satellites, ineffective weather observers that the Guild had grudgingly put into orbit after years of insistence from the Baron himself. They monitored only Harkonnen-controlled areas, while providing no information at all about the deep desert and polar regions.

“Time for target practice,” he announced. “Send out your marauders and destroy those satellites. Every one.” He tapped his fingers on the padded arm of the command chair. He had always loved playing soldier. “Let us blind the Baron even further.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zum Garon. Moments later, small attack ships swarmed from the Heighliners and spread out like hordes of locusts. With precise shots, they vaporized one satellite after another. Shaddam savored each tiny explosion.

From the ground, his fleet must look terrifying. The Guild assumed he only meant to establish a firm military presence here, to soften up any Harkonnen defenders so that the Sardaukar could confiscate illegal melange stockpiles. Already Landsraad nobles— those few who knew he had brought a fleet here— were calling in favors, shifting positions, trying to become the next recipient of the Arrakis fief and its spice industry.

A soon-to-be worthless spice industry.

Oh, how Shaddam looked forward to the next act in his grand play. He thought back on the dry and outdated drama, My Father’s Shadow, which had extolled the virtues of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, a deluded fool who had never formally accepted the Imperial throne.

Shaddam had considered becoming a patron of the arts himself, though his accomplishments could not be limited to cultural ones. An Imperial biographer would document his military and economic victories, and a team of writers would create enduring literary works to enthrall later generations with his greatness. It was all so simple, once an Emperor received the absolute power he deserved.

After the desert planet was no more than a charred ball, the Spacing Guild— and everyone else who relied upon melange— would be wrapped around his finger. He decided to call this campaign the Arrakis Gambit.

For such a fabulous triumph it was worth taking extravagant risks.