Before Shaddam could order his Sardaukar fleet to unleash their planet-destroying weapons, the Guild broke through to his secure comchannels and demanded clarifications and explanations.

Standing on the command bridge of his flagship, the Emperor did not give them the satisfaction of an answer, nor even a justification of his actions. The Guild, and indeed the entire Imperium, would have their answers soon enough.

Beside him, Supreme Bashar Garon stood at the control station, logging acknowledgments from the warship commanders. “All weapons ready, Sire.” He looked down at the screen, then at his Emperor, who studied him. The weathered old veteran’s face was implacable. “Awaiting your order to fire.”

Why can’t all my subjects be like him?

After being ignored, the Guild Legate transmitted a solido hologram image onto the flagship bridge. Tall and imposing, larger than life, he said, “Emperor Shaddam, we insist that you cease this posturing. It serves no purpose.”

Irritated that the Spacing Guild had been able to penetrate his security, Shaddam frowned at the holo-image. “Who are you to decide my Imperial purpose? I am the Emperor.”

“And I represent the Spacing Guild,” the Legate replied, as if the two things were of comparable importance.

“The Guild does not determine law and justice. We have pronounced our judgment. The Baron is guilty, and we will impose the penalty.” Shaddam turned to Zum Garon. “Give the order, Supreme Bashar. Proceed with the full bombardment of Arrakis. Destroy every living thing on the planet.”

On a ledge outside the cool, dry tunnels of Red Wall Sietch, the boy Liet-chih woke up, restless. Only four years old, he rolled off the mat on which he had been lying and looked around. The night was warm, with barely a breeze. His mother Faroula rarely let the children sleep outside, but she and the other Fremen had activities in the darkness, on an open shelf of rock.

He saw shadowy shapes moving in well-practiced silence— desert people bustling about with efficient movements, making no unnecessary noise. Barely visible in the moonless starlight, his mother and her companions opened small cages of distrans bats, releasing the creatures to fly high and far, carrying messages to other sietches.

Behind the Fremen workers, doorseals held moisture inside the hidden warrens of the sietch, where some communal chambers held production areas— looms for weaving spice fiber, stillsuit assembly tables, plastique-molding presses. Those machines were silent now.

Faroula looked at Liet-chih and, with eyes accustomed to the darkness, saw that her son was safe. She reached inside her cage for another tiny black bat; she could hear it fluttering against the bars. Holding the creature gently in her hands, she stroked the downy fur of its little body.

Suddenly, with a murmur of alarm, two of the Fremen women made warding signs at the sky with their hands. Faroula tilted her head to look up, and in surprise released the squirming bat before she was ready. On black wings, it soared off into the shadows in search of insects.

Overhead, against the stars, Liet-chih saw a bright cluster of lights, hot and blue, descending closer. Ships! Immense ships.

His mother grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulders, while the Fremen women broke open the doorseal and rushed back inside, hoping the mountain walls would offer a small measure of safety.

Stranded in his Carthag Garrison, Baron Harkonnen realized the fate that hung over his head. And he could do nothing about it. No communications. No spaceships. No short-range vehicles. No defenses.

He smashed furnishings and threatened his aides, but nothing helped. He bellowed up at the sky, “Damn you, Shaddam!” But the Imperial flagship could not hear him.

He had grudgingly expected to pay heavy fines and penalties for the discrepancies those maddening CHOAM auditors had discovered. If the charges were serious enough, he had feared that House Harkonnen might lose its siridar fief on Arrakis and subsequent control over spice-harvesting operations. There had even been a slim but terrifying chance that Shaddam might order the Baron’s summary execution, as another “lesson” to the Landsraad.

But never this! If those warships opened fire, Arrakis would become a charred rock. Melange was an organic substance, of mysterious derivation in this environment, and surely it could not survive such a conflagration. If the Emperor went through with this insanity, Arrakis would be of little interest to anyone, no longer even on Heighliner routes. By the hells, there would be no Heighliner travel at all, anywhere! The whole Imperium depended on spice. It made no sense. Shaddam had to be bluffing.

The Harkonnen lord remembered the blackened cities of Zanovar, and knew the Emperor was capable of carrying out his threats. He had been shocked at Shaddam’s response against Richese’s laboratory moon, and he had no doubt that the Emperor had been behind the botanical plague on Beakkal.

Was the man insane? Undoubtedly.

With his transmission systems obliterated, the Baron was incapable of even pleading for his life. He could not cast the blame on Rabban, and Piter de Vries remained on Kaitain, out of reach, probably relaxing in luxury.

Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was all alone, facing the Emperor’s wrath.

“Stop!” the guild Legate’s booming voice was amplified by a full order of magnitude. The Supreme Bashar actually hesitated. “I don’t know what game you are playing, Shaddam.” The Legate’s pink eyes were hot with malice. “You dare not damage melange production to salve your petty pride. The spice must flow.”

Shaddam sniffed. “Then perhaps you need to enact a few new austerity measures. And unless you cease this open defiance of Imperial rule, I shall take punitive measures against the Spacing Guild as well.”

“You are bluffing.”

“Am I?” Shaddam stood up from his command chair and glared at the image.

“We are not amused.” In the clustered Heighliners over Arrakis, the appalled Guildsmen must be scrambling.

Turning calmly to Garon, the Emperor barked, “Supreme Bashar, I gave you an order.”

The Legate’s image wavered, as if with shock and disbelief. “This course on which you embark is beyond the right of any ruler— Emperor or not. Because of it, the Guild henceforth withdraws all transportation services. You and your fleet will not be given passage home.”

Shaddam felt a stab of ice. “You would never dare, not after you hear what I—”

The Legate cut him off. “We decree that you, Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, are now stranded here, the king of nothing more than a wasteland, accompanied by a military force that has nowhere to go and nothing to fight.”

“You decree nothing! I am the—” He stopped as the holo-image of the Legate faded and the comsystem filled with static.

“All communication has been cut off, Sire,” Garon reported.

“But I still have something to say to them!” He had been waiting for the right moment to make his announcement about the amal, to gain the upper hand. “Reestablish contact.”

“Trying, Your Majesty, but they have it blocked.”

Shaddam saw one of the Heighliners above them disappear as it folded space. The Emperor was bathed in perspiration, drenching his ceremonial uniform.

This was one scenario he had not envisioned. How could he make promises or issue ultimatums if they severed communications? Without a way to send messages, how could he win back their cooperation? How could he tell them about amal? If the Guild trapped him at Arrakis, his victory would amount to nothing.

The Spacing Guild could very well maroon him and then convince the Landsraad to gather a military force against him. They would gladly install someone else on the Golden Lion Throne. After all, House Corrino only had daughters as heirs.

On the comscreen, a second Heighliner disappeared, followed by the remaining three. Nothing but empty space remained overhead.

In a state of near panic, Shaddam felt the overwhelming immensity of the situation. He was far from Kaitain. Even if the technicians with him could cobble together a means of traveling through space with pre-Guild technology, he and his forces would not arrive back home for centuries.

Supreme Bashar Garon’s expression turned hard. “Our forces are still ready to fire, Your Majesty. Or should I instruct them to stand down?”

If they were all stranded, how long would it be before the disenfranchised Sardaukar troops banded together in a mutiny?

Shaddam raged at the dead comscreen that had linked him with the Guild representative. “I am your Emperor! I alone decide policy for the Imperium!”

No answer came. No one was even there to hear.