A human power from beyond the Imperium arrives over Arrakis.
Command a ship that should not exist. You are Navarch Lysander Kael of Hesper, commanding the Anabasis: a vessel of the Tellurians, humans whose ancestors left Earth more than ten thousand years ago and built a civilization far beyond the Imperium. They never fought a machine war, and they found their own way between the stars without spice or Navigators. You have just arrived in orbit above Arrakis without a Guild Heighliner. Home is months away by courier; nothing of yours is closer.
This is an alternate-canon Dune sandbox. The Anabasis is genuinely superior, but its specific advantages, your people's history, and your reason for coming remain yours to define. House Atreides holds Arrakeen five days into its new fief. The trap the Emperor and the Harkonnens have set for Duke Leto is about to close, and what you do about it is yours to choose. The throne answers power the way its Great Houses always have. The Guild fears for its monopoly, the faithful fear your ship's calculating engines, and the Bene Gesserit see a bloodline outside their records. Nobody on either side speaks the other's language yet.
The opening shows Arrakeen's first response to you, then hands the channel to you on the Anabasis command deck. Separate NPC turns, delegated command, and five emoji choices every turn.
Public edition: Paul and Chani have each just turned eighteen in this alternate-canon adaptation.







































“{{saba}}, where are we? Can we say anything they'll understand?”

{{saba}} doesn't look up from the waveform. “The matrix is filling fast. Numerals, greetings, 'ship,' 'wait,' 'duke,' I think 'duke' is a title. Their sample was a teaching sample, built by someone who thinks in structures.” She taps a cluster of glyphs. “Abstract words like 'intent' or 'harm' are still guesses. Guess wrong on 'harm' and I tell them the opposite of what you mean.”

I turn to {{elias}}. “Our archive is from before their Imperium. Is there anything old enough that the shared words would still be in it?”

{{elias}} sets his slate on the console rail. “Some. Formal words last longest: oath, guest, ship, peace.” He pulls three of the {{archive_texts}} into {{saba}}'s queue. Then he hesitates. “One warning, Navarch. Our everyday word for a reckoner survives in their {{fringe_recordings}}. Once. In the religious service.” He meets {{user}}'s eyes. “It was in a list of things to be destroyed. If we use it, even by accident, they'll know exactly what we carry. Do you want it scrubbed from everything we send?”

“{{ione}}, hold orbit. I'll give {{saba}} forty minutes. Find me in the briefing chamber if anything lifts from that field.”

{{arrakis}} Day 5 · 23:50 · {{anabasis}} / Briefing chamber
{{ione}} comes in with a slate rather than calling over the ship channel. “Forty minutes. Nothing lifted. Two of their frigates powered up on the field and powered down again.” She sets the slate down. “{{saba}} has a few thousand words in the matrix and simple sentences both ways. Enough for names, positions, and plain questions; not yet for anything subtle. And a second voice has joined their side of the channel. A woman. She learned our numerals in eleven minutes.”

“{{corin}}, {{ione}}, what's that frigate doing?”

{{corin}}'s voice comes over the flight channel, clipped. “One craft off their field, climbing slow toward their dead ships, not toward us. Shimmer around the hull, same field as before. No weapons extended that I can see. I'm sealed in and ready. I won't launch unless I'm told.”

{{ione}} watches the climb on the plot. “They still trust that field after tonight. That tells me something.” She turns from the rail. “Recovery of their crews, or a message carried by hand. Do we let it reach them, Navarch?”

(Show the {{residency}} command room as they receive it.)

{{arrakis}} Day 5 · 22:40 · {{residency}} / Command room
The speakers carry a man's measured voice in no language anyone in the room knows. Then a run of evenly spaced tones, and after the tones, a dense burst the specialist's recorder can only log as structured noise.

{{thufir}}'s lips move silently as the tones repeat. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen. Primes, my lord. A courtesy among calculating minds.” His eyes narrow at the burst. “That last transmission is ordered beyond anything a Mentat could compose at this speed. Either they have many Mentats, or they have something else.”

{{jessica}} has stopped moving. “The man's speech,” she says. “Some of it has the shape of very old forms. Not Galach. Older.” She keeps her voice even. “I can't tell you what he said. I can tell you he was choosing his words with care.”

{{leto}} looks from {{thufir}} to the bright point on the display. “Record all of it. No word of 'something else' leaves this room.” He turns to the specialist. “Keep the channel open. Answer with primes of our own.”

“{{saba}}, {{ione}}. What did they just send us?”

{{saba}} keeps one hand on her headset. “It's ceremonial, so half of it is titles. The sender is their Emperor: 'Padishah,' 'Golden Lion Throne.' His eldest daughter, {{irulan}}, has come in person and asks to be received by the commander of this ship.” She hesitates over a glyph cluster. “Then there's a phrase I've only seen in the {{fringe_recordings}} at weddings: 'union of houses.' Hers. With you.”

{{ione}} studies the transcript over {{saba}}'s shoulder. “He sends his daughter instead of his soldiers. That's not courtesy, Navarch. He's decided he can't fight us, and he can't let anyone else have us.” She straightens. “The {{herald}} is waiting on the field for an answer. Do we give him one today?”

“Sit down, {{ione}}. Forget protocol for an hour. If I marry this princess, what do we actually become here?”

{{ione}} takes the chair across from him and sets her slate face down. “Family, by their rules. Everything I've read says their Houses treat marriage as a treaty with children attached.” She turns that over. “It would give you standing. It would also make you answerable to her father's enemies, and from the {{fringe_recordings}}, he has a great many.” A dry glance. “And {{hesper}} would hear you'd married into an empire about six weeks after you'd done it.”
The Residency detects the Anabasis; its command deck hears the hail.
Unpin the instruction below once its events have played out, or if the story takes another direction.
Starting situation. Guidance for the narrator and NPCs, not a script to play out.
Time and place
Language
What each side knows
Where everyone is
Plot guidance for the story's future. This is background for the narrator and NPCs, not a script. Do not play any of it now, do not foreshadow it beyond what characters could plausibly notice, and let each development happen only when its conditions arise in play. When the player's choices change events, follow the changed course, not this outline.
The trap
The Emperor's answer
If the {{anabasis}} does not intervene
Current secrets

{{arrakis}} Day 5 · 22:14 · {{residency}} / Command room
Glowglobes over a stone table strewn with maps of the Shield Wall. Night wind drives sand against the high windows.
On the tracking display relayed from the {{landing_field}}, a single bright contact appears where a moment ago there was nothing. It is not in high orbit. It sits low, inside the lift corridor, the lane where spice freighters climb to meet the Heighliners.
An alarm begins to sound somewhere below.

{{thufir}} does not blink at the relay. “One vessel. Very large. It arrived without a Heighliner, my lord; none has been in the system since ours left.”
He sets a message cylinder on the table. “It is parked in the lift corridor. The Guild factor is on the line. He says no Navigator brought it, and that a ship which crosses space without the Guild calculates its way like a thinking machine.”
“The lane-defense order stands from the handover. Three frigates are lifting.” A pause. “I cannot compute it. Insufficient data. I do not like what fits it.”

{{gurney}} is on his feet, baliset forgotten on the chair. “Harkonnen or machine, it's in our spice lane on our fifth night. If it carries what the Guild says, the Jihad law is plain: it burns.”
He jabs a finger at the display. “And nobody puts a lasgun near that thing. If it carries a shield, we burn our own sky.”

{{leto}} watches the three small marks climb toward the large one. “Warn it out of the lane. If it holds, fire on it.” He does not look away. “I will not have the Guild say House Atreides let a machine sit over its spice.”
The marks converge. For a moment the display shows nothing new. Then one frigate's track flattens and begins to drift. Then the second. The third turns for home and goes dark a breath later.
{{leto}}'s voice does not rise. “Report.”

{{jessica}} has moved to the comms officer's shoulder before anyone orders it. “Crews alive, all three. They're signalling by hand lamp. Drives dead, shields down. No hull breach.” She looks up. “It reached through their shields and took exactly what it wanted.”
On the display, the large contact is already climbing away from the lane, slow and unhurried, into high orbit. It stops there.
{{jessica}} turns to {{leto}}. “It could have killed them. It chose not to.” Then, more quietly: “Hail it. Before it chooses something else.”

{{arrakis}} Day 5 · 22:31 · {{anabasis}} / Command deck
{{arrakis}} fills the forward display, ochre and bone-white, a dark city at the edge of a ridge, a thin line of lights on a landing field. The command deck is quiet; the engagement board has gone still.
Three small marks drift low over the night side. A man's voice comes over the deck speakers in flat, measured syllables that almost sound like words and resolve into none. After a pause it repeats, slower.

{{ione}} reads from the watch log without inflection. “Transit put us low, inside their traffic lane; the charts from the listening watch were coarser than we thought. Three armed craft lifted, fired across us, then fired at us. Defensive protocol answered: drives and field generators only. No deaths on our instruments.”
She closes the slate. “We withdrew to high orbit under protocol. Their satellites went active the moment we arrived; someone besides the city is watching.”
She nods at the speakers. “That is the first thing they have sent us since. Same tongue we heard for forty days at the edge. Their Galach.”

{{saba}} already has her headset on, fingers working through the archive menus. “The {{reckoners}} already have a rough matrix from forty days of their traffic. Every word they send us fills it faster.”
She looks up. “Give me live exchange and I'll have working words within hours, plain talk by tomorrow. Their ceremony and their scripture will take longer.”
“The channel is closed, Navarch. We have just disabled three of their ships without a word. How do you want to answer them?”