Within minutes, a worm came for him.
The purpose of argument is to change the nature of truth.
— Bene Gesserit Precept
In all his devious dealings, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had never before felt such loathing for anyone.
How could the Bene Gesserit bitch do this to me?
One smoky morning on Giedi Prime, he entered the exercise room of his Keep, locked the doors, and left orders not to be disturbed. Unable to use the weights or pulley equipment because of his increasing bulk, he sat on a floor mat and tried to perform simple leg lifts. Once, he had been perfection in human form— now he could barely raise each leg. Disgust enveloped him.
For two months, ever since hearing Dr. Yueh’s diagnosis, he’d wanted to rip out Mohiam’s internal organs one by one. Then, keeping her awake, jolted with life-support systems, he would do interesting things while she watched . . . burn her liver, make the witch-bitch eat her spleen, strangle her with her own entrails.
Now he understood Mohiam’s smug expression at the Fenring banquet.
She did this to me!
He looked at himself in a floor-length mirror and re-coiled. His face was puffy and swollen, slig-ugly. Reaching up with his heavy arms, he yanked the plaz mirror off the wall and slammed it to the floor, twisting the unbreakable material out of shape so that his reflection became even more distorted.
It was understandable that Mohiam might resent the rape, he supposed. But the witch had blackmailed him into the sexual act in the first place, demanding that he provide the damnable Sisterhood with a Harkonnen daughter— twice! It wasn’t fair. He was the victim here.
The Baron simmered and stewed and raged. He didn’t dare let any of his rivals in the Landsraad learn of the cause; it was the difference between strength and weakness. If they continued to believe he had grown bloated and corpulent because of excess, through his own overindulgences to flaunt his success, he could retain his power. If, however, they learned he had been inflicted with a disgusting disease by a woman who had forced him to have sex with her . . . The Baron could not abide that.
Yes, hearing Mohiam’s screams would be a tasty revenge, but no more than a morsel, not sufficient for a man of his stature. She was only a repulsive appendage of the Bene Gesserit order itself. The witches considered themselves so superior, able to crush anyone— even the head of House Harkonnen. They must be punished, as a matter of family pride, a matter of asserting power and status in the name of the entire Landsraad.
Besides, he would enjoy it.
But if he acted precipitously, he would never wring a cure from them. The Suk doctor had claimed there was no known treatment for the disease, that it was in the hands of the Bene Gesserit. The Sisterhood had done this to the Baron, and only they could restore his once-beautiful body.
Damn them!
He needed to turn the tables, get into their diabolical minds and discover what lurked there. He would find a way to blackmail them. He would strip away their funereal black robes (figuratively) and leave them to stand naked, awaiting his judgment.
He threw the bent mirror across the tile floor, where it skidded and slammed into an exercise machine. Without his walking stick, he lost his balance, slipped, and tumbled back to the mat.
It was all too much to bear. . . .
After composing himself, the Baron hobbled into his cluttered workroom and summoned Piter de Vries. His voice boomed through the corridors, and servants dashed about, looking for the Mentat.
For a full month de Vries had been recovering from his foolish spice overdose. The idiot claimed to have seen a vision of House Harkonnen’s downfall, but he’d been unable to offer any useful information as to how the Baron could combat such a dismal future.
Now the Mentat could make up for his failure by devising a strike against the Bene Gesserit. Every time de Vries pushed the Baron too far, annoying him to the point of impending execution, he managed to prove himself indispensable again.
How do I hurt the witches? How do I cripple them, make them squirm?
Still waiting, the Baron looked out of the Keep, studying Harko City, with its oil-streaked buildings and hardly a tree in sight. Usually he liked this view, but now it added to his despondency. He chewed the inside of his mouth, felt the tears of self-pity recede.
I will crush the Sisterhood!
These women were not stupid. Far from it. With their breeding programs and their political machinations, they had bred intelligence into their own ranks. To improve on this even more, they had wanted his superior Harkonnen genes as part of their order. Oh, how he hated them!
A careful plan would be required . . . tricks within tricks . . .
“My Lord Baron,” Piter de Vries said, arriving silently. His voice rose from his throat like a viper slithering out of a pit.
In the corridor outside, the Baron heard loud voices and a clattering of metal. Something thudded against a wall, and furniture crashed. He turned from the window to see his burly nephew stride through the doorway, right behind the Mentat. Even with normal footsteps, Glossu Rabban seemed to stomp across the floor. “I’m here, Uncle.”
“Obviously. Now leave us. I called Piter, not you.” Normally Rabban spent his time on Arrakis carrying out the Baron’s wishes, but whenever he returned to Giedi Prime he wanted to participate in every meeting, every discussion.
The Baron took a deep breath, reconsidered. “On second thought, you may as well stay, Rabban. I need to tell you about this anyway.” After all, this brute was his heir-presumptive, the best hope for the future of House Harkonnen. Better than soft-headed Abulurd, Rabban’s father. How different they were, though each man had serious shortcomings.
Like a pathetic puppy, his nephew smiled, happy to be included. “Tell me what, Uncle?”
“That I’m going to have you put to death.”
Rabban’s pale blue eyes dulled for a moment, then he brightened. “No you aren’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” The Baron glowered, while the Mentat’s darting eyes watched the interplay.
Rabban responded promptly. “Because if you were really going to put me to death, you wouldn’t warn me first.”
A smile stole across the Baron’s plump face. “Perhaps you aren’t a total fool after all.”
Accepting the compliment, Rabban slumped into a chairdog, squirming until the creature molded to his form. De Vries remained standing, observing, waiting.
The Baron reiterated the details of the disease Mohiam had inflicted upon him— and his need for revenge against the Bene Gesserit. “We must come up with a way to get even with them. I want a plan, a delicious plan that will return the . . . favor . . . for us.”
De Vries stood with his effeminate features slack, his eyes unfocused. In Mentat mode, he rolled pattern-searches through his mind at hyperspeed. His tongue darted over his red-stained lips.
Rabban kicked the chairdog with his heel, adjusting to a different position. “Why not a full-scale military assault on Wallach IX? We can destroy every building on the planet.”
De Vries twitched, and for a fraction of a second he seemed to glance at Rabban, but it was so quick that the Baron wasn’t certain if it had occurred at all. He couldn’t stand the notion of his nephew’s primitive thoughts contaminating the finely tuned thinking processes of his valuable Mentat.
“Like a Salusan bull at a dinner party, you mean?” the Baron said. “No, we require something with more finesse. Look up the definition in a dictionary slate if the concept is unfamiliar to you.”
Rather than being offended, Rabban leaned forward on the chairdog, narrowing his eyes. “We . . . have the no-ship.”
Startled, the Baron turned to look at him. Just when he thought the clod was too dull-witted even to join the House Guard, Rabban surprised him with an unexpected insight.
They had dared use the experimental invisible ship only once, to destroy Tleilaxu vessels and frame the hapless young Duke Atreides. Because Rabban had murdered the e
ccentric Richesian inventor, they had no way of duplicating the technology. Even so, it was a weapon whose existence no one suspected, not even the witches.
“Perhaps . . . unless Piter has a different idea.”
“I do, my Baron.” De Vries’s eyelids flickered, and the eyes came into focus. “Mentat summation,” he said, in a voice that was more stilted than his normally smooth tone. “I have found a useful loophole in the Law of the Imperium. Something most intriguing, my Baron.” Like a lawtech he quoted it word for word, then recommended a plan.
For a moment all of the Baron’s bodily aches and pains vanished in euphoria. He turned to his nephew. “Now do you see the potential, Rabban? I would rather be known for finesse than brute force.”
Grudgingly, Rabban nodded. “I still think we should take the no-ship. Just in case.” He himself had piloted the invisible warcraft and launched the attack that should have triggered a full-scale Atreides-Tleilaxu war.
Not wanting to let the Mentat grow too smug, the Baron agreed. “It never hurts to have a backup plan.”
• • •
The preparations were swift and complete. Captain Kryubi insisted that his men follow Piter de Vries’s instructions to the letter. Rabban marched through the hangars and barracks like a warlord, maintaining an appropriate level of tension among the troops.
Guild transport had already been summoned, while a Harkonnen frigate was stripped and loaded with more than its normal complement of men and weapons, along with the ultrasecret ship that had been used only once, a full decade earlier.
From a military standpoint the invisibility technology was a potential boon unlike any other in recorded history. Theoretically, it would let the Harkonnens deliver crushing blows to their enemies without being detected in any way. Imagine what Viscount Moritani of Grumman would pay for such an advantage.
The unseen warcraft had functioned effectively on its maiden voyage, but further plans had been delayed while technicians repaired mechanical bugs that cropped up afterward. While most of the problems were minor, some— involving the no-field generator itself— proved more stubborn. And the Richesian inventor was no longer alive to offer assistance. Nevertheless, the ship had performed well enough in recent tests, though the quavery-voiced mechanics warned that it might not be entirely battleworthy. . . .
One of the slowest-moving cargo workers had had to be crushed gradually in a steam-press to give sufficient incentive to his peers so that they would not miss the scheduled departure time. The Baron was in a hurry.
• • •
The fully loaded frigate went into geostationary orbit over Wallach IX, directly above the Mother School complex. Standing on the bridge of the frigate with Piter de Vries and Glossu Rabban, the Baron transmitted no signal to the Bene Gesserit headquarters. He didn’t have to.
“State your business,” a female voice demanded over the comsystem, stiff and unwelcoming. Did he detect an undertone of surprise?
De Vries replied formally, “His Excellency the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen of Giedi Prime wishes to speak with your Mother Superior on a private channel.”
“Not possible. No prior arrangements have been made.”
The Baron leaned forward and boomed into the comsystem, “You have five minutes to establish a confidential connection with your Mother Superior, or I will communicate on an open line. That could prove, ah . . . embarrassing.”
The pause was longer this time. Moments before the deadline, a different, rasping voice came over the speaker. “I am Mother Superior Harishka. We are on my personal comlink.”
“Good, then listen carefully.” The Baron smiled.
De Vries recited the case. “The articles of the Great Convention are most explicit regarding certain serious crimes, Mother Superior. These laws were established in the wake of the horrors committed by thinking machines on humanity. One of the ultimate crimes is the use of atomics against human beings. Another is aggression by biological warfare.”
“Yes, yes. I am not a military historian, but I can get someone to quote the exact phrasing, if you wish. Does your Mentat not take care of such bureaucratic details, Baron? I don’t see what this has to do with us. Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story as well?”
Her sarcasm could only mean she had begun to grow nervous. “ ‘The forms must be obeyed,’ ” the Baron quoted. “The punishment for a violation of these laws is immediate annihilation of the perpetrators at the hands of the Landsraad. Every Great House has sworn to deliver an overwhelming combined force against the offending party.” He paused, and his words became more menacing. “The forms have not been obeyed, have they, Mother Superior?”
Piter de Vries and Rabban looked at each other, both grinning.
The Baron continued. “House Harkonnen is prepared to bring a formal complaint before the Emperor and the Landsraad, charging the Bene Gesserit with the illegal use of biological weapons against a Great House.”
“You speak nonsense. The Bene Gesserit have no aspirations of military power.” She sounded entirely baffled. Was it possible she did not know?
“Know this, Mother Superior— We have incontrovertible evidence that your Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam intentionally inflicted a biological scourge upon my person while I was providing a service demanded by the Sisterhood. Ask the bitch yourself, if your underlings keep such information from you.”
The Baron did not mention that the Sisterhood had blackmailed him with information about illegal spice-stockpiling activities. He was ready for that subject if it surfaced again, since all of his melange hoards had been moved to remote regions of distant Harkonnen worlds, where they would never be discovered.
Contented, the Baron sat back, listening to the deep silence. He imagined the appalled horror on the old Mother Superior’s face. He twisted the knife deeper. “If you doubt our interpretation, read the wording of the Great Convention again and see if you care to risk it in open Landsraad court. Bear in mind, too, that the instrument of your attack— Reverend Mother Mohiam— was delivered to me on a Guild ship. When the Guild discovers that, they will not be pleased.” He tapped his fingertips on a console. “Even if your Sisterhood is not demolished, you will receive severe sanctions from the Imperium, heavy fines, even banishment.”
Finally, in a voice that almost managed to cover how the threat had shaken her, Harishka said, “You exaggerate your case, Baron, but I wish to be open-minded. What is it you want from us?”
He could feel her squirm. “I will take a shuttle down to the surface and meet with you privately. Send up a pilot to shepherd us through your planetary defense systems.” He did not bother to point out his arrangements to transmit the evidence and accusations directly to Kaitain, should anything happen to them on this journey. The Mother Superior would already know.
“Certainly, Baron, but you will realize soon, this is all a terrible misunderstanding.”
“Just produce Mohiam at the meeting. And be prepared to provide me with an effective treatment and cure— or else you and your Sisterhood have no hope of surviving this debacle.”
The ancient Mother Superior remained unimpressed. “How large is your entourage?”
“Tell her we have a whole army,” Rabban whispered to his uncle.
The Baron shoved him away. “Myself and six men.”
“Your request for a meeting is granted.”
When the link was shut down, Rabban asked, “Can I go, Uncle?”
“Do you remember what I said to you about finesse?”
“I looked up the word and all of its definitions, as you commanded.”
“Stay here and think about it while I confer with the witch mother.”
Angrily, Rabban stomped away.
An hour later a Bene Gesserit lighter docked with the Harkonnen frigate. A narrow-faced young woman with wavy chestnut hair stepped onto the entry dock. She wore a slick black uniform. “I am Sister Cristane. I will guide you to the surface.” Her eyes glittered. “Mother Superior awaits.�
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The Baron marched forward with six hand-picked, armed soldiers. Piter de Vries spoke in a low voice that the witch could not hear. “Never underestimate the Bene Gesserit, my Baron.”
With a grunt the Baron strode past his Mentat and boarded the lighter. “Not to worry, Piter. They’re under our thumb now.”
Religion is the emulation of the adult by the child. Religion is the encystment of past beliefs: mythology, which is guesswork, the hidden assumptions of trust in the universe, those pronouncements which men have made in search of personal power . . . all mingled with shreds of enlightenment. And always the ultimate unspoken commandment is “Thou shalt not question!” But we do anyway. We break that commandment as a matter of course. The work to which we have set ourselves is the liberating of the imagination, the harnessing of imagination to humankind’s deepest sense of creativity.
— Credo of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood
A beautiful woman confined to a desolate world, Lady Margot Fenring did not complain about the starkness, miserable heat, or lack of amenities in the dusty garrison town. Arrakeen was situated on a hard salt pan, with the inhospitable desert stretching off to the south and higher elevations, including the rugged Shield Wall, rising to the northwest. Since it was a few kilometers beyond the uncertain wormline, the settlement had never been attacked by one of the great sandworms, but this was still a subject of occasional concern. What if something changed? Life on the desert planet was never entirely secure.
Margot thought of the Sisters who had been lost there while working for the Missionaria Protectiva. Long ago, they had gone off into the desert, following the orders of Mother Superior— never to be seen again.
Arrakeen was immersed in the rhythms of the desert . . . the dryness and the premium put on water, the ferocious storms that blew in like great winds across a vast sea, the legends of danger and survival. Margot felt great serenity and spirituality here. It was a haven where she could contemplate nature, philosophy, and religion far from the inane bustle of the Imperial Court. She had time to do things in this place, time to discover herself.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 16