Fan fiction stuffs


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othaderak
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Fan fiction stuffs

Post by othaderak »

Here's some semi-random bits and pieces of my fan fiction project; it's supposed to cover the time period between parts two and three of "Dune". My intent isn't to copy FH's style, as you'll see while reading, but I hope you still like it!

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The irony of ironies in Muad’dib’s life lay in the duality that his desires represented: he wanted both anonymity- to live as a Fremen- and notoriety- the respect and eventual fealty of what would become his Imperium. This was especially the case during his two years among the Fremen after his family’s betrayal. To get a first-hand glimpse of his true torture was rare almost to the point of impermissibility, but in the first years of his reign, it was the work of Virgil Elgeri that spread the words of Muad’dib before the ships of the jihad even left port. Virgil the man was something of a foil for Muad’dib, providing a mirror with which he could gauge his ambition- he was that rare voice of impartiality in a world where his friends were quickly becoming sycophants and even his mother began to feel her influence slipping away. Muad’dib’s youth on Arrakis was a delicate time, for it was then that he came to realize his potential, even his destiny; it was a thing that he learned to hate and fear, though all his feelings could not change a future set for him by fate. It was then that he learned of the coming jihad, the terror of terrors that he would bring about merely by virtue of his existence.

- from “The Humanity of Muad’dib”
by the Princess Irulan

Traveling by Spacing Guild Heighliner, though very safe and efficient, is by far the most uneventful method of transportation in the galaxy. Loading and unloading can, depending on the cargo manifest, last for hours, but actual travel occurs within the faintest fraction of measurable time; despite brevity, every voyage brings with it a sudden shock of nausea and the implacable feeling that always accompanies an expanded perspective. It was well beyond Virgil’s comprehension to try to understand the forces that folded space-time itself to bring such an enormous vessel as a Heighliner to its destination instantaneously, so he spent his time attempting to subdue his urge to vomit. Thousands of kilometers below him lay Arrakis, the spice planet, with all its mysteries and dangers, yet his task was to avoid them all to find one: the one the people called Muad’dib.

***

The Guild lighter’s flight to down Arrakeen was relatively peaceful, as the larger of the planet’s notoriously destructive storms raged across the uninhabited plains that lay further south. Virgil counted that a blessing, knowing the rest of his time on this world would be considerably less forgiving. After stepping out of the lighter, he stood off to the side of its boarding ramp, bags in hand. He waited for his contact, a man he’d only spoken with a handful of times: a minor noble named Terril Perion. House Perion was one of the many minor Houses that traded in Arrakeen for either profit or relative seclusion from the rest of the Imperium- usually dealing in stilsuits or spare ornithopter parts- but Perion had a very uncommon specialty that Virgil fully intended to employ: military espionage. If he meant to find Muad’dib, or anyone connected to him, he first had to know exactly what the Harkonnens knew. Perion House kept mostly to itself, or at least hid behind an intricate front of parts and repair, but well-placed questions and a journalist’s instincts had gotten Virgil this far already. He heard his name called off to the right, turned to find the source. The man was tall, well built, with dark hair that looked as if it had been swept back with his hands. Sure enough, the man wore Perion House’s gray panther signet on his chest.

“Terril Perion, I take it?” Virgil set down one of his duffel bags and extended a hand. Terril took it with a charismatic smile.
“It’s good to meet you,” The noble said. “If you’ll follow me to my ground car, I have some questions for you.”
“Well, that must be a coincidence! I have some for you as well. You first.”
“Right. In your first message you sent from Kaitain, you indicated your desire for coming to Arrakis in the first place.”
“Yes. Why are you asking now?”
“Well, I want to hear it from your mouth. What are you here for?” Virgil looked Terril straight in the eye:
“I’m here to find Muad’dib.” Terril couldn’t contain a chuckle.
“Right,” he chortled. “Just like everyone else in the known universe. You know what I do for a living- you know that I know how many troops the Harkonnens have spent trying to find him, and if I know anything, it’s that looking for a man like that, if he even exists, is either a grand waste of time or suicide.” Terril indicated for Virgil to seat himself in the back row of the ground car, closing the door after the two of them were inside. “You want to know the forces you’re dealing with? Our agents in Carthag have tracked steady flights of heavy troop carriers leaving the city for the south- the deep desert- for months now. Guess the ratio of carriers that come back to carriers that leave. Guess.” Virgil had no idea and told the man so. “Five to one. That’s right. Five carriers leave, one makes it back in one piece. This, my eager friend, is what you’re getting yourself into.” Terril could hardly suppress his worry, but the reporter looked back at him more determined than ever.

“You’ve given me your concerns, and I thank you, but I have to do this. It’s no secret that the Harkonnens have pursued this man at monstrous cost to themselves, and it’s even rumored that the Emperor is assisting with squads of Sardaukar troopers. But the Imperium needs to know who this Muad’dib is, why he’s effective in leading a people commonly viewed as savages, what his endgame is. I believe there is something more to this man, something the Harkonnens and maybe even the Emperor doesn’t want us to know about him. I’m going to find out, and everyone’s going to know about it.”

Terril sighed, leaned in close to Virgil. “I suppose there’s no turning you. I can put you in contact with a Fremen acquaintance of mine, who deals stilsuits with some smugglers I know. If anyone can point the way for you, it’s him. I’ll arrange a meeting in one of the Fremen villages on the edge of the deep desert, but I warn you, be careful. If this Muad’dib is as powerful as rumored to be, he’ll be an easy one to cross. Of course, this is good advice with any Fremen; they can be the most loyal men you ever meet, but cross ‘em once and that’ll be your last act. Understand?” Virgil nodded in agreement. “Look, your courage is admirable to say the least, but it’s just about on the line with plain stupidity. What you need first, though, is some rest. And maybe a little spice beer. Couldn’t hurt, right?” The reporter acknowledged that it couldn’t, and the ground car proceeded towards Perion Manor.

***

“If we’re to have you out to Chinbar sietch by morning, we’ll need to leave soon. Even by light ‘thopter, it’s a long flight over the pole.” He excused himself from the table, turning to walk with one of his house servants. The reporter was already packed. “Come on; let’s get you fitted with a stilsuit.”
“Oh, but I already have one. It’s in my bag,” he said, retrieving the folded garment from a box in his duffel. Terril turned around sharply.
“Two questions, friend. One, how did you get a suit already? You were with me all day. And two, if you do have one, did you expect to put it on once you got to the outpost?” Virgil reached into the largest of his bags and removed a gray stilsuit folded into a sand-beige cloak.
“Well, there were vendors in the spaceport on Kaitain. They were selling them to anyone that was going to Arrakis. I mean, they weren’t cheap, but they looked good enough…”

The nobleman grabbed the clothing out of Virgil’s hand to examine it, and then tossed it aside. “Garbage, that’s what it is. Looking at the poor quality of the stitching, it’s a wonder it held up when you folded it into your bag! If you want to survive for any length of time out in the open desert, you need a Fremen suit, not of these tourist get-ups they sell in a spaceport.” He called to a servant to bring over several stilsuits of varying sizes for Virgil to try. When they came, they appeared no different than the one Terril had thrown on the ground, but to the nobleman the difference was apparently plain.
“Looks better, doesn’t it? Tighter stitching? Slicker water tubes? It’s the differences in buying Fremen-made that save your skin when you’re out on the sand. Test this one and I’ll help you adjust it.” The suit indicated was medium-sized, looking no roomier than a sack, but Virgil did as instructed. Now wearing only a pair of tight-fitting shorts, he climbed into the suit and was hit immediately with the noxious stench of a latrine. Terril showed his acknowledgment with a hearty laugh.
“There’s another good sign when picking a stilsuit: if it smells like it’s been used a lot, you know it’s saved a lot of men. I can’t say you get used to the smell, only that you’ll come to ignore it.”

Under Terril’s careful guidance, Virgil cinched the pump over his chest to ensure efficient circulatory pressure, adjusted a number of hoses and catch-pockets and fitted his boots to maximize pumping in his soles. After several minutes of tightening and loosening, he was ready. A House servant led the way to their ornithopter behind the Manor, and within seconds of everything being loaded, the craft began its ascent.
It was dusk as the ‘thopter and its crew started into its wide circle over Arrakeen, readying for the long flight over the pole to opposite side of the Shield Wall. The yellow lights of clustered hovels blended together into a sea as the sun’s final rays splayed over and between the mountains of the Shield Wall like an illuminated flood. Beyond the craggy peaks, Virgil thought he could see burgeoning yellow clouds, though he knew this to be illusion. No clouds on Arrakis, he reminded himself. Only sand. Yet for the lack of moisture and plant life, the place had a beauty to itself that was altogether alien. Despite the many reports on the planet stating that life between the 60th parallels was impossible, Virgil knew that nothing could be clear-cut. A place such as Dune must be of some worth, if not for the spice. No place could be so barren, and yet have the same potential for astounding beauty, as Arrakis.

***

(alternates between Virgil and Paul)

“The Imperium at large regards you and your followers as terrorists, as ideologues. Perhaps they have a point: what if you could tone down the attacks and try to accomplish your goals within the political framework?”
“In my actions against the Harkonnens, I am blameless.”
“But that doesn’t answer the question. Why not try diplomacy instead of assassination? These attacks will only bring retribution against your people, which I’m sure you don’t want.”
“The Fremen don’t intend to wage an unarmed war for a peace that can be broken with a word, nor do they desire a mere stalemate to be guarded by politicians. The only option is to give them everything that they want.”
“And that would be?”
“Only everything that they’ve ever dreamed.”
“But how can you promise anything like that? What do you say that you’ll give them?”
“My destiny, it seems, far outpaces my ambition.”
“But that didn’t answer the question. What is your motive here?”
“I have seen what things that none but the Guild Navigators can comprehend. I’ve seen beyond the scope of human imagining.”
“What, you mean you’ve seen the future?”
“Not the future; rather, the many futures which can come to pass, but all, however, lead to the same end.”
“What end would that be?”
“Jihad.”
“You mean, a holy war?”
“’Holy war’ is too general, too imprecise. It will be a war of declaration and enlightenment carried out by my people against all those that would keep others from hearing the words of Muad’dib.”
“And you would do this? You’d cause this suffering to be poured out upon the Imperium?”
“I didn’t cause it any more than I can prevent it. It will go on without me, perhaps even more so without me, and its glory will only be matched by its horror.”
“And you claim that you can’t stop this thing, assuming that this all isn’t some elaborate scheme to wield power with these Fremen? To turn them into your personal army? What kind of vendetta do you hold against the Harkonnens?”
“They took everything from me. I simply wish to retake what is mine.”
“But assuming that this ‘jihad’ does occur, why won’t it stop with your death? You can see the future after all, or so you’ve told everyone, so you should be able to foresee a way to prevent this, or to at least change it.”
“What good is it to see the future? Our every action or inaction changes what we see, so why act in such a way as to bring one future of many to pass? Beyond today and tomorrow lies the unknown, and beyond that, the twin terrors of uncertainty and infinity. It’s true as with our very particles; to find out where we are in the vastness of possibility, we must first sacrifice our knowledge of where we’re going. Even to see past immediacy, to that nexus of the possibilities, on the other side may lie horrors which we thankfully cannot comprehend. Down that road lies only one thing known: that is that we know nothing.”

***

The Harkonnen commander that Otheym held kneeling before Muad’dib was a large man, looking altogether too cumbersome to be the combat general that he was. His chubby hands were bound behind him with strong cords. When Muad’dib entered the room, though, a swift kick from behind sent the man crashing, prostrate, to the dirt of the cave floor. The youth gave him a derisive glance.
“Ah,” sneered Muad’dib. “Markus of Lankiveil. I admit, I never supposed you a general, but then again, your Baron never was one to let competence come before blood.” Shock rippled across the man’s blubbery face, as if he had never before been talked to in such a way.
“Just who are you to be holding me like this?” he asked impudently. “As an officer, I demand respect, as if I could receive it from such animals!” Muad’dib chuckled, though his eyes held something deadly.
“A Harkonnen that demands respect! Surely, he doesn’t know whom he demands it from; else, he’d hold his blathering tongue. You speak to the will-o’-the-sand himself: Muad’dib.”
“Bah! You’re but a lad- Muad’dib is merely a legend to inspire you rabble. Once again, I demand that you release me and my men. Our troopers know where I am, and they know where you are. Nothing will come of this but your deaths!”
“Clearly, I wasn’t serious enough the first time. Stilgar? Have the prisoners brought here, in front of the dear general. Let me show him the gravity of his situation.” Fedaykin men held the troopers in front of Markus, stretched single-file. They were bound similarly, hands tied behind their backs with cord.
“You may proceed one at a time,” Muad’dib instructed.

The first man had barely time to blink before a crysknife blade was rammed up through the bottom of his head, through his jaw and into his brain. As the man toppled backward, Virgil noticed that almost no blood was lost afterward. The body then was summarily dragged away by the arms for water reclamation.
“Shall they continue?” Muad’dib asked. The general met this next question with resistant silence. The Fremen nodded, and the next trooper in line met the same fate as his companion. By now, though, the remaining troopers that were not trying to escape begged their commander to capitulate. Markus resolve appeared to waver slightly as another fell back with a knife through his brain. One Harkonnen shouted, “Do something, general! You wish us all dead?” Finally, Markus looked at Muad’dib.
“What do you want? Money? Power? Land? I can negotiate. Please, just release me and our survivors, and I promise you, as an officer and as a gentleman, that I’ll negotiate with the Baron on your behalf!” Muad’dib leaned in close to the general’s ear, pulling a small, golden ring out of his robes.
“Do you recognize this?” The Harkonnen’s eyes bulged in acknowledgement. “It’s well that you do, Harkonnen swine: this is my father’s, the Atreides ducal signet. By this, I rightfully rule this world, and unless you can give me what is mine, we have no bargain.” Markus’ face was pale with shock, for he now realized his predicament’s futility. Here, the laws of the Imperium held no sway against the unstoppable will of one man, barely even old enough to be called such. Here, all his power and influence meant nothing. Here, there were monsters beyond comprehension and reason.
“Otheym?” Muad’dib mused. “I recall that our battle drums require new skins: the old ones have worn out. Perhaps Harkonnen skins would do the trick. They do have that certain timbre to them.”
“Yes, Muad’dib,” the Fedaykin captain noted with grim satisfaction.
Markus of Lankiveil’s screams seemed to echo through the sietch caverns for an eternity.

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-cue discussion-


Edited for readability, hope it helps!
Last edited by othaderak on 14 Jul 2009 14:49, edited 1 time in total.
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DuneFishUK
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by DuneFishUK »

Formatting------------------------...[EDITED]...------------------------------!


(might want to edit a few of those --- it's making the lines of text look all long and boring :P)
Last edited by DuneFishUK on 13 Jul 2009 17:28, edited 1 time in total.
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- http://www.kullwahad.com" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false; - http://dunefont.kullwahad.com" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false; -
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othaderak
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by othaderak »

The formatting problems are there 'cause I just did a lazy copypasta from Word...

Oh, well. Maybe it all makes sense :)
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A Thing of Eternity
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by A Thing of Eternity »

I haven't read much of this yet, but I can honestly that your writing is better than the nudune. Bit wordy perhaps, and the dialogue is awkward sometimes, but better than my writing anyways (not much of a compliment that, but a compliment none-the-less)! :)

Better than I expected for fan-fic by far.
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othaderak
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by othaderak »

Thanks much! I posted it on fanfiction.net as well, but compliments are even better coming from here, considering the high standards amongst canon sticklers :D

I think I just need to go through and proofread for wordiness and dialogue efficiency again, but any help I can get is much appreciated!
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by SandChigger »

A Thing of Eternity wrote:I can honestly [say/state/declare?] that your writing is better than the nudune.
I have to concur. :)

(Sorry, [Thang], couldn't resist. :P )
the dialogue is awkward sometimes
On this, too, unfortunately. But it's not that bad.

Overall, interesting and I'll definitely read more when you post it. :)

Just two points:

Even though it makes the posts longer, inserting a blank line between paragraphs before posting online really improves the readability A LOT. (Doing it by hand is a PITA, so why not just open a new doc file and paste in the passages you plan to post and replace the carriage returns/end-of-line markers with two. ;) )

And "will-o'-the-sand"? That was NOT one of Frank Herbert's better ideas/turns of phrase, even though he used it (or "will-o'-the-desert") more than once in the early books. Witness the fact that The Hack(s) copied it in McDune, too. ;)
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by A Thing of Eternity »

SandChigger wrote:
A Thing of Eternity wrote:I can honestly [say/state/declare?] that your writing is better than the nudune.
I have to concur. :)

(Sorry, [Thang], couldn't resist. :P )
Not having a good day yesterday was I... :oops:
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othaderak
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Re: Fan fiction stuffs

Post by othaderak »

SandChigger wrote:
A Thing of Eternity wrote:I can honestly [say/state/declare?] that your writing is better than the nudune.
I have to concur. :)

(Sorry, [Thang], couldn't resist. :P )
the dialogue is awkward sometimes
On this, too, unfortunately. But it's not that bad.

Overall, interesting and I'll definitely read more when you post it. :)

Just two points:

Even though it makes the posts longer, inserting a blank line between paragraphs before posting online really improves the readability A LOT. (Doing it by hand is a PITA, so why not just open a new doc file and paste in the passages you plan to post and replace the carriage returns/end-of-line markers with two. ;) )

And "will-o'-the-sand"? That was NOT one of Frank Herbert's better ideas/turns of phrase, even though he used it (or "will-o'-the-desert") more than once in the early books. Witness the fact that The Hack(s) copied it in McDune, too. ;)
Can do, can do. As far as McDune goes, I honestly tried to read The Butlerian Jihad once, but had to suppress the urge to either vomit or fall into a boredom coma. I'd say I'm an unspoiled purist, having never read more than 30 pages of the KJA travesties 8)
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