The stranglehold of Heighliners over Arrakis tightened until Baron Harkonnen felt unable to breathe. All afternoon, Sardaukar warcraft continued to stream from the underbellies of the Guild transport ships. He had never been so afraid.

The Baron knew, intellectually, that Shaddam would never incinerate Arrakis, as he had done to Zanovar— but it was not beyond the realm of possibility for the Emperor to obliterate Carthag. And him with it.

Perhaps I should leave in one of my ships. Quickly.

But no more shuttles could take off. All spacecraft had been grounded. The Baron had no way to escape, except on foot, into the desert. And he wasn’t quite that desperate— not yet.

Standing inside the plaz observation bubble of the Carthag Spaceport, he watched an orange contrail against the darkening sky: the descent of a shuttle from one of the Heighliners. On short notice, he had been instructed to come and meet it. The unprecedented situation rankled him.

That damnable Shaddam loved to play soldier, strutting around in his uniform, and now he was behaving like the biggest bully in the universe. The Baron’s orbital observation satellites had already been destroyed in an offhand action. What in all the hells does the Emperor want of me?

Standing in the bleak light of dusk, the Baron scowled. By sending out runners, he had mustered a meager company of troops onto the demarcated receiving area of the spaceport. The day’s residual heat rippled from the fused-silica pavement, evaporating chemicals and oils that impregnated the field. Around him, the embargoed vessels sat with their systems shut down.

On the horizon, where the colors of sunset blazed like a distant fire over the sandy edge of the world, he could see a blur of dust. Another one of those cursed sandstorms.

The small shuttle landed. Preparing to meet it, the Baron felt like a trussed animal. The additional troops he had brought from Giedi Prime could never deal with an invasion on this scale. If only he had more time, he might summon Piter de Vries from Kaitain to act as his emissary, to negotiate a diplomatic end to what surely must be a simple misunderstanding.

Floating forward on suspensors to greet the CHOAM and Guild entourage, he forced a smile onto his jowly face. An albino Guild Legate stepped down from the elaborate shuttle craft, wearing a spice-infuser suit. Close behind him came the weathered Supreme Bashar and an ominous-looking CHOAM Mentat-Auditor. The Baron flicked his spider-black eyes toward the Mentat and knew this man would be the real problem.

“Welcome, welcome!” He could barely keep the unsettled look of dismay from his face; a careful observer would certainly notice his nervousness. “I will of course cooperate in every possible way.”

“Yes,” announced the albino Guild Legate, inhaling deeply of diffused spice gas that seeped from his thick collar, “you will cooperate in every way.” The trio wore arrogance like second skins.

“But… you must first explain to me the infraction you believe I have committed. Who has falsely accused me? I assure you there has been some sort of error.”

The Mentat-Auditor came close, with the Supreme Bashar at his side. “You will grant us access to all financial and shipping records. We intend to inspect every spice harvester, legal storehouse, and production manifest. We shall ascertain if there has been an error.”

The Guild Legate followed close behind. “Don’t try to hide anything.”

Swallowing hard, the Baron guided them out of the spaceport. “Of course.”

He knew that Piter de Vries had carefully doctored his records, combing through every document, every report, and the twisted Mentat was normally very thorough. But the Baron felt cold inside, certain that even the most careful manipulations would not stand up to the close scrutiny of these demonic auditors.

With a pained smile, he gestured them onto a transport platform that would carry them to the Harkonnen Residency. “May I offer refreshments?” Perhaps I can find a way to slip poison or mind-fogging drugs into their drinks.

The Supreme Bashar gave a deprecating smile. “I think not, Baron. We heard about your social prowess at the gala banquet on Giedi Prime. We can’t allow Imperial business to be delayed for such… pleasantries.”

Unable to think of any further excuses, the Baron led them into Carthag.

Out in the desert, Liet-Kynes and Stilgar had watched the Heighliners arrive, ship after ship appearing out of foldspace in the night sky. The vessels created an ionization cloud in the air that drowned out most of the stars.

Liet knew, however, that this was a storm generated by politics, not an awesome natural phenomenon. “Great forces move beyond us, Stil.”

Stilgar sipped the last drops of pungent spice coffee that Faroula had brought to the men, where they sat on the rocks below Red Wall Sietch. “Indeed, Liet. We must learn more about it.” By tradition, Faroula had prepared the strong drink for them at the end of the hot day, before hurrying her young son Liet-chih into the sietch communal play areas. Baby Chani still spent the days with a nursemaid.

Within hours, Fremen housekeepers and servants who lurked in the Harkonnen Residency began to send distrans reports: organically encoded messages implanted on the sonic patterns of homing bats. With each piece of the puzzle, the news grew more interesting.

Liet was delighted to learn that Baron Harkonnen himself had his head on the chopping block. Details were sparse, and tensions ran high. Apparently the Spacing Guild, CHOAM, and the Emperor’s Sardaukar had come to investigate certain irregularities in spice production.

So, the Guildsman Ailric listened to my words. Let the Harkonnens stew.

Now, standing in one of the sietch communal rooms, Liet scratched his sandy beard where the stillsuit catchtube had made an indentation. “The Harkonnens have been unable to hide the effects of our raids… or of the secret we leaked. Our small revenge has caused larger repercussions than we had hoped.”

Stilgar checked the crysknife in its sheath at his waist. “Using this event as a fulcrum, we might just succeed in ejecting the Harkonnens from our desert.”

Shaking his head, Liet responded, “That would not free us from Imperial control. If the Baron is ousted, the Dune fief would simply be transferred to another Landsraad family. Shaddam thinks it is his right to do so, though the Fremen have lived and suffered here for hundreds of generations. Our new lords might not be better than Harkonnens.”

Stilgar’s hawkish face tightened. “But they could not be worse.”

“Agreed, my friend. And here is my idea. We have destroyed or taken some of the Baron’s spice hoards. Those actions were costly annoyances to him. But now we have the opportunity to strike an embarrassing blow while the CHOAM auditors are present. It will be the Harkonnens’ downfall.”

“I will do whatever you ask, Liet.”

The young Planetologist reached out to touch the other man’s muscular arm. “Stil, I know you dislike the towns, and Carthag most of all. But the Harkonnens have established another hidden storehouse of melange there, right in the shadow of the spaceport. If we were to target that hoard, set fire to the warehouse where it is stored, the Guild and CHOAM could not help but see. The Baron will be mortified.”

Stilgar’s blue-within-blue eyes widened. “Such challenges are always enjoyable, Liet. It will be dangerous, but my commandos are most pleased not only to hurt our enemies, but to humiliate them.”

As the Mentat-Auditor stared at shipping records, he did not blink, did not move his head. He simply absorbed the data and documented discrepancies on a separate scribing pad. The list of errors grew longer with each hour, and the Baron became more and more concerned. So far, however, all of the “mistakes” they had discovered were relatively minor— enough to earn him a few penalties, but certainly not enough to warrant his summary execution.

The Mentat-Auditor had not yet found what he was looking for….

The explosion in the warehouse district took them all by surprise. Leaving the auditor at a tableful of documents, the Baron raced to the balcony. Response teams rushed across the streets. Flames and dust rose in a pillar of brownish-orange smoke. Without moving to get a better look, the Baron realized exactly which of the nondescript ramshackle warehouses had been the target.

And he cursed silently.

The Mentat-Auditor stood beside him on the balcony, observing with intent eyes. On his other side, Supreme Bashar Garon squared his shoulders and bristled. “What is in that building, Baron?”

“I believe… it is just one of my industrial warehouses,” he lied. “A place where we store leftover construction materials, components for prefabricated dwellings shipped from Giedi Prime.” Damnable hells! How much spice was inside there?

“Indeed,” the Mentat-Auditor said. “And is there a reason why the warehouse might have exploded?”

“A buildup of volatile chemicals or a careless worker, I would imagine.” It’s those cursed Fremen! He didn’t have to fabricate a confused expression.

“We will inspect the area. Thoroughly,” Zum Garon announced. “My Sardaukar will assist your relief efforts.”

The Baron quailed, but with no legitimate excuse he could not argue. Those desert scum had blown up one of his melange hoards, and the debris would be evidence to be used against him by this Mentat-Auditor and CHOAM. They would easily prove that the warehouse had been full of spice, and that House Harkonnen had kept no records of such a stockpile.

He was doomed.

He raged inside, infuriated that the Fremen would choose to strike here and now, at a time when he would not be able to gloss over the event. He would be caught red-handed, with no defense and no excuse.

And the Emperor would make him pay dearly.