* * *
IN HIS CARTHAG office, Baron Harkonnen watched as his twisted Mentat entered.
Piter de Vries moved forward with mincing steps that made him look both effeminate and predatory. “You summoned me, my dear Baron?” His voice was more lilting and musical than usual.
“That is a stupid question,” the Baron replied as the Mentat folded his lean body into a chair in front of the ellipsoid desk. “I am not happy—no, I am outraged—about the spice surtax the Emperor expects me to pay. I will pass the costs along, but the price can only be raised so much. We have already pushed our customers close to the limits of what they can pay, and I cannot squeeze more without losing some accounts. Many of those not addicted will simply turn to other drugs. I need a way around this! Find me an answer, Mentat.”
“Ah, a challenge!” De Vries removed a vial of sapho juice from his pocket and swallowed the red liquid. After a moment, his gaze grew distant as he pondered the challenge. “The obvious solution is for us to produce more spice. And sell more spice.”
The Baron growled his displeasure. “If we produce more spice, we will be taxed more! The Emperor profits, but House Harkonnen does not.”
The Mentat’s eyes took on a calculating look. “Not if we produce spice that appears in no accounting records, my Baron. This planet is vast, and the deserts have much melange. No one can keep track of it all.”
The Baron puffed his cheeks. “You mean operate like the dirty smugglers? Perhaps work with them to sell more spice? I suspect the smugglers already have secret connections with Count Fenring, and thus the Imperium—though I can’t prove it. Give me a different projection.”
De Vries fell silent again, and the Baron felt he was taking too long. This problem needed to be solved now.
The Mentat blinked. “Move a step beyond the smugglers. Our official operations produce and sell melange, which is administered by the Imperium. Such operations are already heavily taxed and monitored closely. That sanctioned melange is distributed through the CHOAM Company. Through special contract, the Spacing Guild receives its direct allotment of spice, which is also heavily taxed. The smugglers move their spice offworld, presumably also through CHOAM, and therefore they must pay significant bribes … which go back to the Imperial treasury.”
“And still Shaddam claims he needs to wring more money from us!” The Baron snorted. He remained impatient. “I understand basic economics. What is your suggestion?”
“Create another independent channel, a new and secret path to get undocumented spice off-planet. We could sell a certain amount of spice directly to CHOAM, which would appear on no balance sheet, a private closed-loop distribution. That would eliminate the middle tier and be financially beneficial to House Harkonnen and to the CHOAM Company.”
The Baron hesitated. “That is taking a tremendous risk.” But he needed to survive this abominable new surcharge.…
De Vries continued, “I suspect CHOAM would be happy to have an alternative that does not depend on Imperial oversight. If we create the plan, I believe they would welcome it.”
The Baron let this idea sink in, then smiled craftily. “Piter, I believe I will let you live a little while longer.”
Unfortunately, in extreme cases, a medical treatment can be as fatal as the ailment itself.
—Suk Medical Practicum
The sky of Otorio was smeared with smoke and ash. Fires continued to burn through the devastation because no one was there to put them out. Eventually, the isolated planet would quell itself.
Weeks after the impact, Jaxson Aru had to observe with his own eyes the results of what he had done. Not caring about the resulting horror, he allowed himself a faint smile.
In the aftermath of the attack, some humanitarian aid and salvage operations went to Otorio, and Jaxson managed to infiltrate them. The do-gooders who came to help “those poor injured people” did not realize that Otorio had done just fine for centuries without Imperial interference. As a purported aid worker, Jaxson obtained a private short-range flyer and traveled to the outskirts of the impact site.
Even though the heavy dump boxes had partly vaporized in the air, shock waves had ripped across the Imperial structures, uprooting and flattening them. Scavenger camps surrounded the rim of the crater, groups sifting through the rubble for anything of value. Maybe he would purchase some material from these scavengers: lumps of impact glass as souvenirs to mark his great victory, the first real blow for the Noble Commonwealth. He had jolted the Imperium awake, that was for certain.
The blackened, wrecked landscape was not how he wanted to remember this peaceful, beautiful place. He closed his eyes and brought to mind images of the serene Otorio where he had spent so many years. His mother had sent him away when he was young, disturbed by his volatile nature. Of Malina’s three children, Jaxson was the least known, considered unfit for diplomacy like his brother and sister. Rather than thinking of it as an exile, Jaxson had been happy to stay with his father, with whom he had a very close relationship.
Brondon Aru was the last member of his long-standing dynasty, but considered incompetent by his business associates. His wife, though, understood the necessities of the vast company, and Malina was able to wrestle the complex business interests into line, whereas her husband simply had no talent for it.
CHOAM wanted to sweep Brondon under the rug, keep him in a quiet place where he could cause no harm through ineptitude and disinterest. Much later, Malina also used Otorio as a place to hide her impulsive younger son until she knew what to do with him.
Jaxson had spent every summer at their secret estate on Otorio, away from Imperial politics and business complexities. Even so, his mother had insisted that he receive an intense education, strictly through textbooks and theoretical treatises rather than direct experience. Though the young man was intelligent, his knowledge of politics and history was idealistic rather than pragmatic.
His preoccupied father listened to Jaxson’s ideas about breaking up the Imperium into a more democratic commonwealth. There was no fire in Brondon’s belly to bring about change, but he nevertheless encouraged his son’s dreams of a system far superior to the corrupt Emperor and his cronies.
From a distance, Malina supported her son’s passions, encouraged him to keep studying how to undermine the system. She revealed with great pride that the Noble Commonwealth movement, sparked in the early years of Fondil Corrino III, had secretly been growing and gaining momentum for generations. Malina had finally found something she could share with her son, an assignment for him that would be as important as the roles of her other children.
Meanwhile, she had encouraged Jaxson to remain out of sight, unnoticed. She would work with him to keep building the quiet but widespread rebellion. Eventually, they could achieve their dream, maybe in the time of Jaxson’s great-grandchildren, according to long-term projections. The creaking old Imperium would at last crumble.
Meanwhile, Jaxson and his father kept themselves busy on Otorio. They were active in sports, riding genetically enhanced thoroughbreds, swimming and diving in the calm inland sea, flying together in glide suits over the plains.
One evening, Brondon suffered a devastating stroke at dinner, which left him nearly paralyzed, barely capable of speech. As he lay under the care of local doctors, Brondon wept for his lost life, and Jaxson wept for all the lost time and opportunities with his father.
As it rained outside and he sat with his slack-faced father, Jaxson talked about all of the things they had done together, things that Brondon would never do again. Struggling to form words, the older man slurred to his son, “Don’t waste your life, Jax. I did. Now it’s over. Never gave it a thought. But you … do great things. Do what you must. And people will remember for ages to come.”
Fearing the inevitable decline of his functions, Brondon begged Jaxson to assist him. The young man eventually procured a euphoric poison that helped his father end his withered life.
Jaxson buried his beloved father in an ancient and majestic
stand of olive trees that covered acres on the old estate. This sacred grove was where he and Brondon had talked about improbable dreams. This was a personal sanctuary for him.
After the funeral, Jaxson left Otorio to stay with his mother on Tupile, where she engaged him in more vigorous political and commercial training. He even visited his sister, Jalma, on Pliesse, and they made jokes at the bedside of comatose Count Uchan, her husband, even though the helpless old man reminded Jaxson too painfully of his own helpless father.
Next, Jaxson had traveled to the Silver Needle on Kaitain, the official headquarters of CHOAM, and sat in on formal Directors meetings chaired by his brother, Frankos. But he found the ponderous bureaucratic pace frustrating, and he could only remember his father’s last words insisting that he do something to make his mark on history.
Then Shaddam rediscovered the “misplaced” planet of Otorio and chose it as the perfect site for his gaudy Corrino museum. He had razed the landscape and erected his eyesore.
During the disruptive construction work, Jaxson had slipped back there, unable to file any protest because the Aru family holdings were secret and held in blind corporations. Aghast, he saw that Shaddam had uprooted and cleared the entire olive grove, desecrating his father’s grave shrine.
That was the point at which Jaxson realized that the slow work of the Noble Commonwealth was simply not good enough, and he decided to do something about it.…
Now he stared at the glassy wreckage of the impact site, where the lovely olive grove had once stood, the peaceful, sacred area where his father had been buried. The wanton destruction from the crash pained Jaxson, but his beloved home had already been destroyed by the hated Shaddam Corrino.
His eyes and lungs burned from the lingering smoke in the air. He had seen enough.
When the Noble Commonwealth succeeded, the people of Otorio could make their own choices, just as all worlds could choose. Jaxson would make them choose, whatever the cost in blood.
The most insidious enemy is one that resides in your own household.
And not all such enemies have a human face.
—DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES, “Counsel to Future Dukes”
Creaking with age and dignity, Castle Caladan was like a favorite suit of clothes, worn but well cared for. The stone walls emanated a cool dampness, with an occasional film of salt collected from the sea air. Nighttime clouds had rolled in across the ocean with a light but steady rain, but Leto was warm and at home in his private office.
Distracted and restless, Leto settled down alone to read reports that had piled up in his absence. The visit to the Muadh village had been satisfying and necessary, but he still had much outstanding business to attend to. The hour was late, Paul long in bed and Jessica off in private meditations.
Dark wood trimmings and crowded bookshelves provided a stately setting, befitting the Duke’s station. Glowglobes near the ceiling were tuned to warm orange, which triggered a deep primitive response of comfort, as if from a family hearth or a cave fire. A decanter of honey-colored Kirana brandy rested on the corner of his hardwood desk, and as he perused his reports, Leto poured himself a splash.
He reviewed the comprehensive summary Minister Wellan had prepared regarding Caladan’s moonfish industry, which included projections of the market share and suggestions to expand fishery operations in the north. Leto looked at images of the linked breeding ponds, read proposed leases and tithe contracts with various offworld customers, even several futures investors. Wellan had appended a solicitation from CHOAM agreeing to an increase in distribution and a list of the associated fees.
As he flipped through Wellan’s numbers and projections, something caught his eye. He studied the reports, compared dates, and saw that the minister had inspected the fishery operations personally, not just once but multiple times—a surprising number of times, in fact. Leto flipped through receipts and travel manifests. On several trips, though, the minister had also diverted his itinerary inland, even skirting some pundi rice villages, including the one Leto had just visited for the Muadh ceremony.
That was odd. A fishery minister should have had no business whatsoever with pundi rice farmers. Was Wellan making side investments of his own? An influential man with knowledge of the commerce of Caladan might expand his private holdings, but he should not have masked such things as part of his work involving moonfish exports.
Leto glanced at the Ixian chronometer on his office wall, a fancy model once given to him by the exiled Prince Rhombur Vernius. It displayed the time on multiple worlds across the Imperium. Although the hour was late, Minister Wellan was known for his irregular schedule.
In addition to household staff and close retainers, many of the primary government offices of Caladan were located in a separate wing of the castle. Newer administrative buildings in Cala City housed minor officials and handled general bureaucracy, but the fishery minister had offices in the castle itself, even a small sleep chamber for when he chose to work at odd hours. The Duke decided to try to see him.
Leto picked up the questionable report and left his office. Even if Wellan was not there, he intended to leave a note, requesting an immediate conversation.
The halls were empty as Leto walked to the administrative wing. As expected, most of the offices were dark, the doors closed, but a yellow glow shone from the fishery minister’s rooms. Leto stepped toward the office door, ready to ask uncomfortable questions.
With his leadership style and long-standing connections to the people of Caladan, the Duke always tried to think the best of his staff and officials. He led by example with the hallmark Atreides code of honor, but he was not naïve. Such trust had to be earned. Wellan had served him well enough over the years, and Leto would let the man explain the anomalies. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about.
When he rapped on the door, his ducal signet ring struck the hardwood as loud as the report of a projectile weapon, but no one answered. Despite the lights inside, he heard no one stirring, saw no shadows moving through the hazed plaz window. Perhaps the minister had gone home after all.
Leto found the door unlocked, which troubled him. The records stored inside the ministry offices contained sensitive information and should not have been left unsecured. He pushed open the door and entered the outer chamber, which would normally be guarded by a receptionist. “Wellan? I need to speak with you.”
The office had a sour heaviness, as if it needed to be aired out. The front desk sat empty—not surprisingly, since Wellan was the only one likely to work so late. The door to the inner office, though, was wide open. Inside, the glowglobes were tuned bright, giving off a harsh white glare.
Leto found the minister slumped over his desk, his arm extended forward, palm up, fingers curled around a dried brown object. Wellan had not just fallen asleep; his mouth was slack with drool oozing out, his eyes half-open and bleary with startling scarlet hemorrhages. His face pressed against paper documents strewn across his desk, and his other arm hung down like deadweight at his side. He looked as if some giant hand had swatted him like a bug.
Leto dashed forward. “Wellan!” The man didn’t react, even when the Duke grabbed him by the shoulder. Leto bellowed into the empty antechamber and the unoccupied office wing. “Help! Someone bring assistance.” He looked down at the man, peeled his eyelid open farther, and saw only a blank blur behind his red eyes. Wellan still didn’t stir.
Leto found the comm speaker on the man’s desk and pounded down on the pickup, yelling into the grid. “I need help in Minister Wellan’s office. Send Dr. Yueh!”
He pulled the man up, worried that Wellan might choke on his own vomit. Then he recognized what the minister held curled in his hand, a shriveled brown thing like a bent finger—exactly what Leto had seen during the Muadh centering and purification ritual. He plucked it out of the twitching grip. The dried remnant of a supposedly innocuous barra fern, half of it gone. Wellan had taken the drug ailar, but his reaction was unlike what Leto had seen among all the pundi
rice farmers when they partook of the consecrated substance.
The anguished words of Lord Atikk’s message suddenly came back to him. Your Caladan drug killed my son!
Leto touched Wellan’s temple, then his throat. The man was barely breathing, his pulse thready. Previously, the minister had exhibited a frenetic demeanor, a sharp, fractured look in his eyes. But during the Muadh ceremony, ailar had made the people peaceful, content, and more alert … not this!
You lured him with a peaceful release, but it was like a hidden bomb.
The Caladan drug?
Thufir Hawat burst into the offices accompanied by three Atreides guards, all of whom had their body shields activated and weapons drawn, ready to fight.
Minister Wellan began to twitch, then went into extreme convulsions.
The warrior Mentat charged forward, blocking the Duke protectively in case Wellan lashed out in a frenzy. “Are you safe, my Lord?”
“He has taken some kind of drug. Help me with him! Where is Dr. Yueh?”
“On his way.” Leto and Hawat wrestled the minister, attempting to hold him flat and still, but his body writhed. His eyes flew open, and the white scleras were now completely red from internal hemorrhaging. Two guards pressed forward to help hold down the thrashing man.
Leto spoke through clenched teeth. “I came to see him because of some anomalies in his report. I did not expect this. Look what was in his hand.”
Hawat glanced down at the curled brown shred. “Is that a barra fern? You asked me to look into rumors of a new Caladan drug, my Lord. I found some hints, but nothing conclusive. There have been reports of ailar use as a drug.”
“I never heard of it before the Muadh ceremony,” Leto said. “Is it not just used for religious purposes? What we saw appeared to be mild and euphoric, not deadly. Why was I not informed?”
Hawat’s expression was stern. “I would not expect you to know of a low street drug, sir.”
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 16