The Emperor demanded answers about the mysterious slippage of spice that bypassed his Imperial taxes and restrictions. Knowing his volatile lifelong friend, Fenring knew Shaddam would soon lose his temper and overreact, which Fenring had to stop at all costs. For now, he realized he didn’t need correct answers, as much as something that would satisfy the Emperor.
Grix Dardik was adamant that such a secret conduit existed, and Fenring believed these new pirates must be independent from his smugglers—Esmar Tuek would never be so foolish. Even so, the failed Mentat had not been able to track down the mysterious other operators. Where was the illicit spice coming from?
Someone would have to pay, publicly, for the offense, and the Emperor wasn’t particular, so long as he could declare that Imperial justice had been served. He had placed that burden on Count Fenring’s shoulders.
Thus, he had to dig deeper, root around the underbelly of society. He would have liked to bring Dardik along for this secret meeting with the smugglers, but too much was at stake, and the eccentric failed Mentat was unstable. Thus, Fenring would see Esmar Tuek alone.
The smugglers had moved to a secondary base after Baron Harkonnen had stepped up ruthless efforts to cut down on the illegal operations. Apparently, he also wanted to demonstrate his indignation about the missing spice, and so he went after any obvious target. It was futile, blunt-force meddling, and the harassment had driven Tuek’s smugglers deeper into hiding.
Fenring, though, would get to the heart of the matter. Through his Arrakeen contacts, he transmitted a message to Tuek, demanding a meeting. The smuggler leader feared a trap, with good reason, but the Count had agreed to security measures and given his own reassurances.
In the dusty side alley, now he could feel eyes watching him, making certain he had brought no guards or assassins. Fenring was amused by this, because he could personally deflect any efforts the smugglers might make against him. He kept both hands inside his dirty cloak, gripping stilettos in hidden sheaths.
Several large ornithopters flew overhead, buzzing toward the main landing field, and he heard the engines and rhythmic wings of a smaller ’thopter at lower altitude. Looking back over the rooftop, he saw an unmarked private aircraft approaching from the other side of the city. The ’thopter circled over the hardpan that separated Arrakeen from the basin protected by the Shield Wall. The smaller aircraft landed in a vacant lot not far away, exactly as he had expected. Fenring emerged from the shadows to meet the occupants.
As the articulated wings continued to beat slowly, two bearded men in cloaks swung down from the cockpit and bounded toward him. “It is time.” One seized him by the elbow and pulled him toward the craft. Fenring ducked under a moving wing as he clambered aboard. He was instructed to sit on the floor, while one man pressed a blindfold over his eyes.
Annoyed, the Count pushed the cloth away. “I refuse to permit this. I am the Imperial Observer on Arrakis.”
“Is that any reason to trust you?” The man dangled the blindfold. “Wear this, or Esmar will not see you.”
These men were Fremen, and he could tell they would not budge. Despite his resentment and suspicion, he allowed them to tie the blindfold in place.
He turned to his other senses and felt the ’thopter lift off with a vibrating thrum of wings. Having kept his nose plugs loose, he smelled dust and the ever-present bite of melange. The aircraft flew away from Arrakeen, banking multiple times to throw off his sense of direction, followed by periods of silent gliding. The two Fremen did not speak.
Fenring had a good internal sense of time, which he could use to gauge distance. He estimated that they flew for an hour in a principal direction, before the ’thopter landed.
As the engines shut down, one of the men pulled off the blindfold, letting him blink and adjust, trying to see. The ’thopter’s instrument lights and external lamps lit a hollow grotto in a massive rock outcropping with high walls all around. Hovering glowglobes added more light. Far above, through a narrow crack, he could see filtered sky, dimmed by electronic veiling.
Climbing out, he stretched his cramped muscles and limbered his joints, ready for business.
The scarred smuggler leader strode up to greet him. “Welcome to our new base, Count Fenring. As you can understand, we have had to increase our security measures. The Harkonnens are causing us many problems.”
Fenring responded with a sour expression. “Hmmmm-ah, I did not appreciate being blindfolded.” He brushed off his dusty cloak. “Have we not always had an understanding? I thought we could trust each other.”
“Trust? If I didn’t consider you trustworthy, you would not be here at all. You are my ally, Count Fenring, a respected partner, perhaps even a friend. But still, in these times…”
Fenring had few enough friends, but his long-term dealings with Esmar Tuek and the smugglers did make him feel a certain sense of camaraderie. But the demand he was about to make did not fall under any definition of friendship. Circumstances shifted like desert sands, and life required constant situational awareness.
Tuek’s rugged face twisted in a scowl. “Nevertheless, the Harkonnens destroyed our former base, and some of us did not get out alive. They knew exactly where we were and made a concerted strike in the middle of the night. I lost seven good men, and my wife and son barely made it out.”
They walked into the new cave complex. Fenring remarked, “Yes, we must always have a way out.” He looked at the gray rock walls streaked with mineral veins. More ’thopters rested inside the grotto, along with cargo haulers and camouflaged equipment.
The new base of smuggling operations looked much like the previous one, a round cavern office with a metal desk and simple chairs. Fenring took a seat, while the smuggler leader leaned against the wall.
“And how did the Harkonnens find you?” Fenring asked. “I know you take significant security precautions.”
The smuggler leader wrestled with the answer. “Rulla thinks the Harkonnens tracked you to our base the last time we met.”
Fenring snorted. “I took appropriate measures, and I know how to avoid being followed.” Tuek’s aloof young wife had always set him on edge. “Just as likely, she or someone else in your crew revealed the location. By clumsiness … or on purpose.”
Tuek did not react defensively, as Fenring expected. Instead, the scarred smuggler’s expression darkened. “That is also a possibility.” He reached for a tarnished tea service waiting on the desk. “Something to drink?”
On any other world, it would have been a meaningless social nicety; here on Arrakis, it was a significant gesture. Fenring graciously accepted.
“Since we are … friends, as you say, I must bring you a problem. It is a closely guarded Imperial secret, and Emperor Shaddam demands that I do something about it.”
Tuek’s interest was piqued. “What problem?”
“Income from the new spice surtax falls short of expectations. One particularly troubling factor was uncovered through intense Mentat analysis. It seems that a small but significant channel of spice is being smuggled off Arrakis.” He hardened his voice. “Either you are not forthright about your profits, deliveries, and bribes … or, mmmm, someone else has a side operation, and the Emperor has noticed.”
Now Tuek appeared indignant. “My people know full well that we operate under your sufferance, Count Fenring. You made clear what we are expected to deliver, in terms of money and information. Do I look like such a fool that I would flaunt that? Years ago, my own father paid a terrible price when he sold out the location of Dominic Vernius and his renegade smuggling operations.” He paled at the memory. “And I barely escaped from the Harkonnen raid a week ago. We could never survive an assault of Sardaukar if the Emperor turned his wrath on us. I hide nothing from you, Count Fenring.”
Fenring stroked his chin. “And yet, someone is taking melange from Arrakis, unreported and untaxed.”
“So we have competition.”
“Hmmm, yes, and Shaddam demands that I gi
ve him some kind of answer.”
Tuek poured himself a cup of steaming tea, a distracting gesture. “We are just now learning of this. It will take time to uncover what is going on.”
“Alas, you know that Emperor Shaddam is not a patient man. He tends to act, ahhhhh, decisively, even when subtlety is called for. Now he demands that I find a way to stop it. Immediately. I need to give him something.” The Count took a sip. “The solution will be painful for you, I’m afraid.”
Looking troubled, Tuek glanced up quickly. “My people have nothing to do with these other pirates. Why would you punish me?”
“You are known smugglers with black-market connections. I need a way to divert the Emperor’s attention and maintain my own position here while I conduct a more thorough investigation. That could take time, and time is a luxury we do not have.” He leaned forward, his gaze boring into the smuggler leader. “I require a victory now, someone’s head to give Shaddam, even if it is only a diversion.” He drew a breath of the warm, painfully dry air. “Consider it, mmmm, another tax. One time only.”
Sickened, Tuek rose to his feet and stood behind his desk as if it were a fortress. Fenring had no doubt the man possessed weapons he could bring to bear in an instant. He slipped his hands into his cloak, touched his stilettos.
Tuek growled, “And you want my head?”
Fenring chuckled. “Ahhh, I would rather not, Esmar … friend. That would cause too much disruption in our delicate fabric of alliances here. Bad for business. I expect your own connections and contacts might help me find evidence of these other pirates, eventually. I’ll need you.”
The smuggler leader remained tense. “Then what do you mean?”
Fenring said, “I must prove that I’ve cracked down, made progress on this matter. I require some obvious sacrifice, or Shaddam will indeed send in his Sardaukar to ‘take care of the problem.’ We do not want that to happen.”
“No. We do not.”
“Name a high-level person in your organization. We will claim they betrayed you, circumvented your secret channels, and set up their own operation without your knowledge or authorization. Once the Emperor has seen the payment of blood, he will turn his attention elsewhere, at least for a while. He has the Noble Commonwealth to worry about. I can keep him occupied.” He kept his hands and his knives hidden under the cloak. “And, I am sorry, but it must be a sacrifice that hurts.”
“Such a request!”
“It is to assure your own survival. Barring that, ahhhhh, as the Emperor’s emissary on Arrakis, I can always give him your name.”
Esmar Tuek stewed for a long time, then glared at him in a dangerous way. “I have a name,” he said at last. “Rulla.”
Even Fenring was astonished. “Your wife?”
“Yes … my wife. She is second in command here. My son, Staban, will take her place.”
Fenring remembered the last time he had seen the woman. “But she is pregnant!”
Tuek’s expression darkened, and he looked away. His answer explained many things. “Yes … with another man’s child.”
Fenring considered the response for only a moment. “She will do nicely. The Emperor will indeed be impressed.”
As planetary leader, I make difficult decisions and take harsh actions, whether for the good of my people, my family, or myself. Every such decision is personal.
—DUKE LETO ATREIDES
Leto did not respond well to threats—especially where his son was concerned.
The explosions that rocked Cala City killed nineteen bystanders and injured many more. The Duke and his advisers rushed away from the military preparations to join the rescue response, pitching in to put out the fires and give any necessary aid to the injured. Dr. Yueh grabbed his medkit and joined the first-aid workers already there.
When Leto arrived with the response group, he found his son helping move debris and calling out orders as if he were the Duke himself. Duncan Idaho and the young man worked together in the thick of the response.
After barking orders to his crew, Leto rushed forward and swept Paul into an embrace. “Thank the gods you’re alive!” He shot a questioning glance at Duncan. “What happened here?”
The Swordmaster squared his shoulders. “The young Master saved my life, Sire. He activated his body shield in time, managed to deflect the blast. He put himself in front of me. Without that, I would not be alive.”
Leto took just a moment to feel relieved, then steeled himself and dove into helping, side by side with Paul and Duncan. Soon, his hands were dirty and covered in blood. The first responsibility of a Duke is the safety of his people.
Within two hours, the wounded were tended and moved to medical facilities, the fires in town put out, and the bodies recovered. Leto finally picked up one of the leaflets, clenched his jaw, and tossed the instroy paper aside.
The drug lord was sowing a path of reckless bloodshed and destruction. Because Paul and Duncan had gone to the city without announcing their destination, they could not have been explicitly targeted by Chaen Marek’s bombs. Even so, Paul had been directly in harm’s way, and all those killed and injured victims had been innocent in the war against the ailar operations.
The drug lord had escalated the conflict, and Leto vowed to put an immediate end to it.
Halleck, Hawat, and Duncan Idaho all stood next to their Duke. Leto kept his voice to a low, dark growl. “That vile man thinks to intimidate me, but he has only goaded me into action. Our attack forces are ready enough! We have our weapons and ships loaded. We launch our retaliation tomorrow at dawn. Time to get rid of this Caladan drug and everyone associated with it. All-out war, against a true enemy of Caladan.”
Gurney agreed. “Aye. The longer we wait, the more chance Marek has to build his plans against us.”
He and his advisers returned to the war room in the castle. Leto had studied images of the northern wilderness until his eyes ached, and he promised himself that once this military operation was over, he would commission detailed surveys of his ancestral planet, just as Yueh had suggested. The Duke of Caladan needed to know every square meter of his holding, just as he needed to know his people.
In the war room, Paul surveyed the terrain charts with his father. Overlays showed sky mappings from decades ago, long before any barra growing fields had been established. By comparing the two images, they could identify areas of blurred green, subtle changes that implied sensor camouflage nets.
Leto said, “We do not know where Chaen Marek has his base for processing ailar, but we will strike any possibilities and follow up with significant ground troops. We will find them.”
Gurney’s grin made his inkvine scar squirm. “Aye, we will cause some mayhem of our own.”
This would not be a small operation, like Captain Reeson’s quick and overconfident strike that had ended in disaster. This full-scale Atreides assault would have air support, along with a thousand ground troops in personnel carriers. The Duke’s forces would sweep across the northern terrain, discover any drug fields, and destroy them.
Afterward, thorough search-and-seizure operations would unravel whatever black-market network was in place to distribute the dried ferns across Caladan and offworld to other users.
Thufir Hawat recited the number of soldiers who had been trained and cleared for the next day’s assault, the weapons available, the troop carriers and assault craft that could be dispatched, the battle groups that would fly air cover. Leto would use his armored processional frigate as his flagship.
Duncan was hesitant about the operation. “My Lord, are we still convinced that we must not use shields in the fight? We would be sending our men into such an engagement without body protection. Shields are part of every man’s defensive repertoire.
“Perhaps we should go in naked!” Gurney scoffed.
“And yet…” Leto looked at a terrifying image from swift overflights near where Reeson’s squadron had been obliterated. The lasgun-shield explosion had flattened all the trees in
the vicinity, obliterated the terrain for hundreds of meters. A swath of ground had even been turned to glass. “If the fanatics are willing to do that, if they are prepared to sacrifice themselves in a way that rivals the use of forbidden atomics…”
Paul finished Duncan’s thought. “If our forces go in wearing body shields, a single enemy firing a lasbeam could annihilate them all.”
Hawat nodded solemnly. “The lad is right.”
Gurney said. “My Lord, I can handle a sword perfectly well, with or without a shield. So can your fighters. Best not to take the risk.”
“Duncan says I am already very talented with many kinds of blades,” Paul interjected. “I can fight them also, sir.”
Leto looked at his son, coming to a quick, firm conclusion. “As my heir, you will likely be a specific target for Chaen Marek. You will stay here. Safe.” Before Paul could protest, Leto insisted, “You just survived a bomb blast. I want—no, I need you safe.”
The young man’s eyes flared, and he grew obstinate. Paul became stiff and formal. “I respectfully disagree, sir. I am a part of this fight. I want to be at your side.”
Leto smiled and felt compassion rise within him. “Remember how you yourself felt after I came back from Otorio? How angry you were that I’d almost been killed? Do not make me feel the same about you. This is an unnecessary and unacceptable risk. There will be other times when you can fight at my side, but tomorrow, I need you to stay here at Castle Caladan.”
Paul looked at Gurney and Duncan for support, found none, then looked back at his father.
Leto said, “That is my command as Duke. You will obey.”
Paul lowered his gaze and sat down. “Yes, sir.” After a moment of concentration, he shifted his mind to the battle preparations. “Then I will help as much as I can before you depart.”
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 32