One of the rebels fired his spring-wound pistol, but the projectile struck harmlessly against the shield. Four desert men fell as they fought for control of the captured craft, but both of Rabban’s Harkonnen guards collapsed, each with a poison dart in his throat, slow-darts able to pass through the field. The piloting compartment was crowded with bodies. Rabban narrowly escaped the same fate, ducking as a dart ricocheted from the bulkhead, close to his neck.
Before the attackers could fire again, he lurched back out of the compartment, shoving the damaged door back in place. The shuttle rose higher from the landing zone, lurching and rattling.
Rabban bellowed for more guards, but none appeared. He glanced out the windowport to see that the shuttle had turned, accelerating overland toward the open desert rather than heading up to orbit.
From the plushly appointed passenger compartment, he heard his uncle bellowing, demanding answers. Rabban could not bother with him now.
Suddenly, the shuttle made a hairpin turn and sped in the opposite direction, now straight back toward the city. A knot formed in his gut as he realized what the desert rebels had in mind. They would crash the vessel somewhere in Carthag, maybe even into the Harkonnen headquarters. And Harkonnen ground security would not dare open fire on the shuttle with the Baron on board.
The wallscreen flickered, and his uncle’s image appeared, showing blood streaming down into his dark eyes. The Baron gripped one of his wrists, which hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. “What is happening? I need medical help!”
Five more guards charged down the corridor to help Rabban, seeing the damaged door to the control deck. Together, they lunged forward and slammed back into the piloting compartment. Now that he had reinforcements, Rabban pushed past them. He had to regain control of the craft. As they all pushed into the compartment, blades drawn, Rabban hacked at one rebel, then the next. The desert people fell hard.
Three of the rebels remained alive, dodging behind consoles. They fired their clumsy Maula pistols, aiming wildly, damaging some of the controls even when the projectiles could not penetrate the shields. His guards attacked, while the female pilot continued to drive the shuttle straight toward the tall buildings of the city. When their Maula and dart pistols were expended, the desert rebels fought with knives.
Rabban moved quickly, stepping over bodies, dodging while keeping the Harkonnen guards in front of him. A dagger flew past Rabban’s head. Two more of his men dropped.
The rebels seemed to have an endless supply of knives, which they produced from their desert cloaks, but Rabban and his remaining guards had greater strength, and body shields, and soon enough, the rest of the desert rabble lay dead, strewn about the deck near damaged consoles.
The pilot slumped over the controls, thick, dark blood oozing from her mouth. She was still alive, and her intense blue eyes were wild as she reached for the controls to slam the shuttle into a death dive.
Rabban fired one shot from his projectile weapon, splashing her blood all over the front windowport. The sound of the shuttle engines took on a deeper roar as the ship decelerated and plunged toward the city buildings.
Rabban stepped over corpses, smearing blood under the soles of his boots as he lurched to the piloting console. He fought them, trying to get the shuttle to respond. One of the grids sparked and hissed. Many of the systems had been ruined by the projectile fire. Though he struggled mightily, the ship fought back. They were dropping fast, and the central structures of Carthag looked very tall.
Time … would he have enough time? He shouted at the controls, swiped a hand sideways to clear a long pool of blood from the rebel pilot. He activated auxiliary systems, striving for thrust to push them higher. Finally, with a strong burst from attitude jets, he altered course and arced away from the city center. He managed to bring the shuttle out of its death dive only a few meters above the ground, then roared back toward the spaceport.
The shuttle was by no means under his complete control, but he did push them back toward an open hardpan apron beyond the designated landing zones. He needed to get the Baron to safety.
A gust of wind hit the shuttle, and he had to struggle to set it down on the hardpan. The shuttle skidded, plowing up a spray of dust and sand. It slewed and finally came to rest. Rabban could only hear a roar of adrenaline and his own pounding heartbeat.
Furious, the Baron floated through the damaged bulkhead hatch into the piloting compartment. Blood continued to stream down his face from a scalp wound, and he grimaced in pain from his swelling left wrist.
Guards flooded in behind him, weapons drawn, but by now, the rebels were all dead.
“I am in control, Uncle,” Rabban said.
The Baron glowered at all the bodies on the deck. One man twitched, and the Baron leaned over, partially weightless on his suspensor belt, and slashed the man’s throat with a dagger in his good hand.
Rabban completed the shutdown sequence and silenced the still-flashing engine alarms, then turned to grin at the Baron. “I did well, Uncle. Did I not?”
The big man was loath to give compliments. “I am injured. Many of my guards are dead, and my shuttle is ruined. Now how will I make it to orbit before the Heighliner departs?”
Disappointed at the lack of praise, Rabban stepped up to the dead pilot and gave her body a hard kick in the gut. She rolled against a bulkhead, and he felt marginally better.
The guard captain holstered his sidearm, adjusted his personal knife in its sheath. He was shaking and sweating, clearly intimidated by the Baron. In a sudden move, the Baron lashed out and plunged the dagger into the captain’s throat. He fell like a broken rag doll, and the remaining guards stood stiffly, afraid to look at the Baron.
“You are fortunate that I have decided to execute someone else, nephew.” The grudging sound in his voice was the only acknowledgment that Rabban had redeemed himself, at least fractionally.
The Baron touched his sticky red forehead and shouted to the remaining guards. “Out! All of you! Get me transport back to headquarters!”
They ran to do his bidding.
The Baron rolled his eyes in pain, though his suspensor belt would not allow him to fall. “Now I cannot attend Shaddam’s gala celebration on Otorio.”
Rabban remained at rigid attention. “Shall I send a note to the Emperor?”
“You shall not! I will have someone write it in a polished way. We don’t need to tell him that I was nearly killed by a group of dirty desert rats.” Rabban could tell that his uncle would continue to vent. “You should have made certain the shuttle was safe before I boarded. For that failing, you are at fault, Rabban.”
“But I saved you. I saved both of us.”
Baron Harkonnen grudgingly sighed. “You can indeed fight and kill, and you do have a certain crude mastery of applying brute force, but that was only viable in this instance because you were cornered. You must learn to plan several moves ahead and be consistent. Learn to play a strategy game, instead of wielding a cudgel.” The Baron’s blood-smeared face took on a calculating expression. “Do you even know how to play pyramid chess?”
Rabban shook his head.
“It is a game of many complex moves, and life is just such a game. In both, you must learn to think ahead, to consider the consequences of your actions and avoid pitfalls.”
“I will learn, Uncle. I promise.” Rabban began to realize how much was on the line, here and now.
With an odd mood shift, the Baron put his good hand on his nephew’s arm. “I don’t know if that sort of wisdom can be taught to someone like you.”
Rabban tried to be earnest and forced himself to accept the insult. “I will get smarter. I promise.”
As if speaking through a wall of boulders, the Baron rumbled, “For now, I want you to crack down on the desert rabble. That is in your particular skill set.” He paused. “And get me a doctor!”
Some say that contentment with one’s station leads to a lack of ambition. On the other hand, I have observed that
ambition can become a cancer that eats a person from within. A true leader must find the proper balance.
—DUKE LETO ATREIDES, private notes to his son, Paul
Upon entering the Emperor’s crowded reception, Leto felt like a combat animal turned loose in an arena, and this was not his sort of battle.
His mother, Helena, had taught him how to be successful at court, since her own ambitions were lofty. Now, he paused to absorb the whirlwind of colors, sounds, and smells from the guests, the fine foods, and the items on display. His father had thrived on public spectacles, hosting fêtes on Caladan, especially spectacular bullfights, one of which had killed him in the end. That tragedy had given Leto the ducal title when he was not much older than Paul was now.…
Shaddam caught his gaze and Leto stepped ahead of the other nobles who emerged from the lift, jockeying for position. They wanted to be first, but sensed something about this Duke.
Leto gave Shaddam a formal bow, and the Emperor acknowledged him. “Duke Leto Atreides, cher cousin. It means a great deal for me to see you here. Sometimes it is difficult to pry you from Caladan.”
“I devote my attention to my world and my people, Sire … all in the name of the Imperium. I am proud to represent House Atreides.” He couched his words in a more complimentary tone. “Your new museum complex is the most impressive presentation I have ever seen. One could not possibly absorb everything in a single visit.”
“Then you must return to Otorio and spend more time,” Shaddam said. “Then you can fully appreciate the legacy of House Corrino.”
Against his instincts, Leto found himself playing the game, while also making it clear that he was not merely a sycophant. “Thank you for all you have done for me, Sire. House Atreides is much stronger because of your generosity.”
Shaddam pretended to brush the gratitude aside. “It has been years since that business of attacking a Tleilaxu ship inside a Heighliner, and the Trial of Forfeiture.”
“A trial I won.”
“You were exonerated, that is true. Honestly, I never believed the accusations for a moment. Such treachery is not the way of House Atreides. Since then, I am pleased you have ruled in a reasonable and undramatic fashion.”
Count Fenring stepped up and gave the Duke a cool nod of respect. He and Leto also had a history. “You’ve kept a low profile since those incidents, hmmm? Except for that recent messiness in the War of Assassins between Ecaz and Grumman. Hmmm-ahh. Such troubles may have diminished your standing in the Landsraad.” He sounded critical. “You do have so much potential, Duke Leto. I, ahhhhh, have had my eye on you.”
Though other nobles were waiting, Leto felt he had to mention the suspicious man with the transmitter he had seen in the alley. He turned to the Emperor. “Sire, I observed something troubling. It may or may not be important.”
Shaddam was already looking toward the gaggle of impatient visitors, and Fenring smoothly extracted Leto from the Imperial presence. “If you have a boon to request of the Emperor, now is not the time. I can advise you in—”
Leto shook his head. “It is not a favor I wish to ask, simply a matter of concern. You and I have both faced treachery and assassination attempts, Count Fenring. One cannot be too careful.” He described what he had seen.
Fenring snapped his fingers at a Sardaukar officer who stood stock-still nearby. “Colonel Bashar, hear what Duke Atreides has to say. It may warrant investigation.”
The officer’s gaze was as intense as if he were peeling away Leto’s skin, layer by layer, while he listened. The Sardaukar paused, pondered. “You would have no reason to lie or issue a false alarm, Duke Leto Atreides. I will investigate.” With a curt nod, he marched off.
Satisfied that the Sardaukar would be thorough, Leto relaxed and surveyed the crowded gathering. The penthouse reception room was an obstacle course of solido-hologram exhibits in which soft-voiced docents described each historic item on display: a robe worn by Hassik II, a braided whip used by Ilnod during his two-week reign, a jeweled tiara from Shaddam’s first wife, Lady Anirul. Leto had known Anirul all too well, as the woman who had summoned Jessica to Kaitain during the last months of her pregnancy with Paul.
Jessica had received so much artful Sisterhood training that Leto couldn’t begin to guess all the skills she possessed. He just knew he loved her, and he believed she loved him as well. They had been together for almost twenty years, and she understood her own role as bound concubine rather than wife. It was not Leto’s choice but the Imperium’s.
“She was a Bene Gesserit, and she served the order well,” said a woman’s voice next to him. “Lady Anirul, I mean.”
He turned to see an old woman in nondescript black robes. Leto frowned. “I see the Emperor brought his Truthsayer with him.”
“At an event like this, the air is thick enough with lies to suffocate anyone.” Reverend Mother Mohiam gave him a strange look, as if her bright eyes walled off a library of secret knowledge about him.
Leto had little fondness for the old witch. He remembered when she had presented young Jessica to him, insisting that the Duke accept her as his concubine. He resented Mohiam for that, although Jessica had indeed melted his heart. He did not trust the Bene Gesserit and their schemes.
“And how is Jessica?” she pressed, as if reading his mind. The old Bene Gesserit crone could infer thoughts from the slightest flickers of expression on his face, a skill that Jessica shared.
“She is well and content on Caladan.”
“Of course she did not wish to come to Otorio. A concubine knows her place, and a Sister understands these things. We chose well when we assigned her to you.” Mohiam sniffed, her thoughts quickly shifting. “And your son?” Her voice oozed venom, which put Leto on guard.
“My son.” He paused, and then emphasized, “My heir is excelling in every way. Soon, I will introduce him to important Imperial functions.”
“Such as this one,” Mohiam said.
“Such as this one. The Emperor invited me to come back. Perhaps I will bring Paul to review the museum’s contents.”
Her eyes bored into him. “He will soon be of marriageable age. The Sisterhood can be of service.”
He stiffened and spoke cautiously. “I do not need to involve the Bene Gesserit in my family matters.”
Her thin smile was as warm as a polar ice cap. “But for a noble house, all family matters are relevant to the Imperium.”
Leto gave her a hard look, as the background noise of the reception swirled around him. “My father taught me that the first responsibility of a Duke is the safety of his people. I am first and foremost the Duke of Caladan.”
Spotting the familiar face of Archduke Ecaz in the crowd, he seized a reason to leave the rigid Reverend Mother. He made his excuses and walked toward the Archduke, annoyed by Mohiam’s meddling in his affairs.
Armand Ecaz stood with four other nobles, deep in conversation around a vitrine that displayed a gold-handled Imperial knife, purported to be a blade carried by Faykan Butler at the Battle of Corrin. The provenance of the object was highly suspect, but Shaddam made it the centerpiece of the exhibit, nevertheless.
Leto paused when he heard the low voices of the huddled guests.
“… Noble Commonwealth.”
A bearlike man with a thick mustache scoffed. “People have talked about breaking up the Imperium for centuries. It will never happen.”
“Why, Atikk? You don’t think your holdings would thrive better under independent rule? Or do you like having tithes and taxes siphoned off for ridiculous expenditures like this grand museum?” The guests leaned closer to one another.
Armand Ecaz said, “This museum shows off what the Corrinos have accomplished in ten thousand years.” He glanced at the various displays. “Not much.”
The first man, Lord Atikk, muttered, “No one can break up the Imperium. It is just an idea to keep bored gossips talking.”
One of the cautious nobles spotted Leto, and the others immediately ceased thei
r conversation. Armand’s expression lit up. “Leto Atreides! Old friend!”
The Archduke introduced Leto to his companions, who appeared uncomfortable and awkward. Leto kept his expression unreadable as he processed what he had overheard. Rumors about the Noble Commonwealth movement seemed unlikely, especially here in a gigantic museum that showcased ten millennia of the Imperium.
Leto said without a smile, “I’m here to bask in the glory of the Padishah Emperor.”
Atikk grunted, as if sizing him up. “Oh? Not to widen the black market for your Caladan drug?”
One of the other nobles gasped in surprise. Leto frowned. “Caladan drug?” Atikk flushed and turned away.
Interrupting him, Armand Ecaz embraced Leto with his one arm, genuinely overwhelmed to see his friend. “You bring back terrible memories, but we share a pain others cannot understand. I hope you are well.”
Leto winced as he thought of Ilesa Ecaz in her wedding dress, slashed to pieces, dead on the floor at the wedding ceremony. He responded to the embrace, ignoring the other nobles. “I am well.” Leto carefully avoided mentioning Jessica, though he added, “My son, Paul, is fourteen now. I could not be more proud of him. He will be an excellent ruler.”
“Fourteen?” said one of the other nobles, Count Dinovo. “If your son is fourteen, you should start looking for a marriage alliance. It is not too soon. My own daughter is the same age…” He smiled at Leto, let the end of the sentence hang in the air.
Already put off by Mohiam’s mention of the same subject, Leto responded quickly, “For a father, it is always too soon.” He looked around the gathered nobles, not just in his immediate circle but also in the large display room. Was the entire Landsraad looking at his son like predators considering a fresh piece of meat?
Lord Atikk snorted. “Better cast a wide net, Atreides. Caladan is just one planet. Many other noble families would prefer their daughters marry into a House with greater holdings, one that is more … prestigious.”
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 3