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

accepted the reality that her son was correct in his assertion that more of humanity would die if he had not taken such a difficult course.
    Now, all of the deaths focused into one: Paul Orestes Atreides.
    As the urn glowed, Jessica grappled with her feelings of love and loss: alien concepts to the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, but she didn’t care.
This is the funeral for my son.
She would gladly have let the people see her sadness. But she still could not openly grieve.
    Jessica knew what would come next. Upon reaching its maximum brightness, the empty urn would rise on suspensors over the plaza and cast brilliant light over the enthralled crowds below, like the sun of Muad’Dib’s existence, until it rose out of sight into the night sky, symbolically ascending to heaven. Ostentatious, perhaps, but the crowds would view it with awe. It was as grand a show as Rheinvar the Magnificent himself would have put on, and Alia had planned the ceremony with a disturbing intensity and passion.
    Now, as the bodiless urn continued to brighten, Jessica heard heavy engines and flapping ornithopter wings overhead. Looking up into the darkening sky that shimmered with artificial auroras and shooting stars, she saw a group of flying craft in a tight formation spewing clouds of dense vapors, coagulating gases that spilled and swirled like a congealing thundercloud. An unexpected addition to the show? With a sound like shattering rocks, a sharp thunderclap rang out above the crowd in the square, followed by a low, menacing rumble.
    The people turned away from the funeral urn, sure that this was also part of the ceremony, but Jessica knew it had
not
been part of the plan. Alarmed, she whispered to Alia, “What is this?”
    The young woman whirled, her eyes flashing. “Duncan, find out what’s going on.”
    Before the ghola could move, a massive, scowling face appeared on the underside of the cloud, a projection that shone through the rolling knot of vapors. Jessica recognized the countenance instantly: Bronso of Ix.
    From the fading rumble of thunder emerged a voice that boomed across the plaza. “Turn away from this circus sham and realize that Muad’Dib was just a man, not a god! He was the son of a Landsraad duke, and no more. Do not confuse him with God—for that dishonors both. Open your eyes to these foolish delusions.”
    As the crowd howled in outrage, the glow from the funeral urn sputtered and went out, the suspensors failing so that the urn fizzled and crashed into the square. Mourners cursed the sky, demanding the blood of the man who had disrupted their sacred ceremony.
    Overhead, the projected face broke into fragments as evening breezes dispersed the artificial thunderhead. The linked ’thopters simultaneously dropped out of the sky and crashed in multiple fireballs onto the rooftops of the sprawling government buildings that ringed the square.
    The screaming crowd ran in all directions, trampling each other. Emergency sirens sounded, while police and medics rushed forth, shifting electronic containment barriers. Alia barked orders and sent zealous priests out into the crowd, ostensibly to calm them but also to search for any accomplices of Bronso.
    On their observation stand, Jessica stood her ground. From her vantage, the injuries looked minimal, and she hoped there were no deaths.She grudgingly admired Bronso’s cleverness, knowing he had used Ixian technology to produce his own show. Jessica knew full well, too, that he was skilled enough to elude capture. Bronso himself would be nowhere close to Arrakeen.

 

     
     
Water is life. To say that one drop of water is insignificant is to say that one life is insignificant. That is a thing I cannot accept.
—
The Stilgar Commentaries

     
     
     
     
    T o Alia, Bronso’s disruptive actions seemed more an insult directed at
her,
rather than mud thrown at the memory of Paul. She dispatched searchers and spies to locate the perpetrators, rounding up hundreds of suspects in