The Winds of Dune by Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson Page A

craft.
    Like old times,
Gurney thought.
And yet completely different
. For sixteen years he had known that his friend was dead, but death wasn’t always a permanent condition, thanks to the axlotl tanks of the Tleilaxu.
    Ahead, flashing in the low-angled sunlight, they could see the silvery rooftops and bastions of a ground-based scanner facility. “There’s our destination,” Duncan said. “A typical base. It will tell us much about our general security status before the funeral ceremony. Tens of thousands of ships are arriving for the event from countless worlds. We have to be ready.”
    While preparations for the grand spectacle continued, a stream of mourners arrived on Dune, from diplomats hoping to curry favor with the Regency to the lowliest paupers who had sacrificed everything to pay for space passage. Gurney was not sure the planetary defenses could handle the extra influx and constant turmoil.
    The evening before, he had asked Duncan about the state of the defensive facilities on the outskirts of Arrakeen. Still feeling out their new/old friendship, the two men sat at a worn table in the Citadel’scommissary levels, drinking outrageously expensive spice beers, hardly caring about the cost.
    Taking a long sip, Duncan had said, “I intended to inspect those sites in due course, but other duties kept me away. Now you and I can do it together.”
    “The death of an emperor certainly wreaks havoc with schedules,” Gurney said bitterly.
    Duncan’s previously sociable nature had been supplanted by Mentat mysticism programmed into him by the Tleilaxu, but he began to open up by the second spice beer, and Gurney’s heart felt both heavy and happy to see glimmers of his old friend. Still wary, though, he said, as a test, “I could sing us a song. I have my baliset back in my quarters—it’s the same old instrument I bought on Chusuk, when the two of us went with Thufir Hawat to search for Paul after he ran away from Ix.”
    Duncan responded with a thin smile. “Thufir did not go with us. It was just you and me.”
    Gurney chuckled. “Just making sure you really have all your memories.”
    “I do.”
    Now, as the ’thopter approached the perimeter outpost, Gurney recognized it as one of the old Harkonnen scanner stations dotted around the Plain of Arrakeen. What had once been a moderately armed facility now sported new battlements and utility structures, its multiple roofs and high walls studded with powerful ion cannons capable of destroying vessels in orbit—even Guild Heighliners, should the situation demand it.
    “Because Arrakis was always a target, Paul expanded planetary defenses during the Jihad. Now that he is gone, Alia wants me to make certain we are ready to stand against opportunists.”
    “Shaddam is still alive and in exile on Salusa Secundus,” Gurney pointed out. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
    “I worry about many things, and try to be prepared for all of them.” He transmitted their identification signal as he circled the ’thopter in toward the outpost’s landing pad, retracting the wing thrusters. “I’d never turn down your assistance, Gurney. Paul would have wanted us to work together.”
    Paul
, Gurney thought with a wave of sadness. Though it was how the real Duncan Idaho would have remembered him, that Atreides name was a remnant of Caladan, a historical artifact. Here on Dune, Paul had become
Muad’Dib,
a far different person from the Duke’s son.
    With a roar of jets and a masterful dance of subtle stabilizers, Duncan landed the ornithopter on a fused stone apron inside the outpost’s fortified walls. The pair disembarked and made their way to a central mustering area, where soldiers hurried through a nearby portico for the unannounced inspection.
    With Gurney at his side, Duncan proceeded methodically from one station to another, chastising the soldiers for sloppy conditions. He pointed out unpolished and uncalibrated guns, dust in the tracking mechanisms,