Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Emmi glared at him, finally displaying the powerful emotions she kept inside. “How dare you speak like that? It’s been hard to forgive you for many things, Glossu— but this is the worst.”

  Still, Rabban exhibited no shame. “How can you both be so blind and foolish? Don’t you have any conception of who you are? Of who I am? We are House Harkonnen!” he roared, then lowered his voice again. “I’m ashamed to be your son.”

  He strode past them without another word and went to the main lodge, where he cleaned himself and packed his few things, then left. Another day remained before he had permission from the Baron to leave the planet. He would spend the time out at the spaceport.

  He couldn’t wait to be back at a place where life made sense to him again.

  A man who persists in stalking game in a place where there is none may wait forever without finding any success. Persistence in search is not enough.

  — Zensunni Wisdom of the Wanderings

  For four years, Gurney Halleck uncovered no clues about his sister’s whereabouts, but he never abandoned hope.

  His parents refused to speak Bheth’s name anymore. In their quiet, colorless evenings they continued to study the Orange Catholic Bible, reassuring themselves by finding quotes that affirmed their lot in life. . . .

  Gurney was left alone with his grief.

  On the night of his beating, with no help from the Dmitri villagers, his parents had finally dragged Gurney’s broken and bruised body back inside the prefab dwelling. They owned few medical supplies, but a hardscrabble life had taught them the rudiments of first aid. His mother put him on the bed and nursed him as best she could, while his father stood by the curtains, sullenly waiting for the Harkonnens to return.

  Now, four years later, the scars from that night gave Gurney a rougher profile than he’d had before; his ruddy face carried an unsettled look. When he moved, he felt sharp aches deep in his bones. As soon as he was able, he’d crawled out of bed and gone back to work. Doing his share. The villagers accepted his presence without comment, not even showing how relieved they were to have his assistance to help fill their quotas.

  Gurney Halleck knew he no longer belonged with them.

  He no longer took pleasure in his evenings down at the tavern, so he remained at home. After months of painstaking effort, Gurney managed to reassemble his baliset enough to make music, though its range was more limited and the tone remained distorted. Captain Kryubi’s words had burned into his brain, but he refused to stop composing his songs or singing them in his own room, where other people could pretend not to hear them. The bitter satire had dried from his lyrics, however; now the songs were focused on remembrances of Bheth.

  His parents were so pale and washed-out that he couldn’t call to mind an image of them, though they sat in the next room. Yet even after so many years, he still recalled every line of his sister’s face, every graceful nuance of her gestures, her flaxen hair, her expressions, her gentle smile.

  He planted more flowers outside, tending the calla lilies and daisies. He wanted to keep the plants alive, to keep Bheth’s memory clear and bright. As he worked, he hummed her favorite songs— and it felt as if she were there with him. He even imagined that they might be thinking of each other at the same time.

  If she was still alive. . . .

  Late one night, Gurney heard movement outside his window, saw a shadowy shape creeping through the darkness. He thought he was dreaming until he heard a louder rustle, a sharp intake of breath. He sat up quickly, heard something scurry away.

  A flower lay on his windowsill, a fresh-cut calla lily like a totem, a clear message. Its creamy bowl of petals held down a scrap of paper.

  Gurney grabbed the lily, outraged that someone would taunt him with Bheth’s favorite flower. But as he smelled the heady scent of the blossom, he scanned the note. It was half a page long, written in rushed yet feminine handwriting. He read it so quickly he gathered only the gist of the message.

  The first few words were: “Tell Mother and Father I am alive!”

  Clutching the scrap, Gurney flung himself over the sill of the open window and sprinted barefoot through the dirt streets. He glanced from side to side until he saw a shadow dart between two buildings. The figure hurried on its way to the main road, which led to a transit substation and then on into Harko City.

  Gurney did not call out. That would only make the stranger put on speed. He bounded along with a rolling gait, ignoring twinges of pain in his patchwork-healed body. Bheth was still alive! His feet scraped on the rough, dry ground.

  The stranger left the village behind, striking out for the fringe fields; Gurney guessed he had a small private vehicle parked out by the crop patches. When the man turned and saw the vague silhouette sprinting toward him, he bolted.

  Already panting, Gurney rushed forward. “Wait! I just want to talk to you.”

  The man didn’t stop. In the moonlight, he saw booted feet and relatively nice clothes . . . not a farmer by any means. Gurney had lived a hard life that kept his body tuned like a clock spring, and he quickly closed the distance. The stranger stumbled on the uneven ground, giving Gurney just enough time to bend over and ram into him like a charging D-wolf taking down prey.

  The man sprawled in the dust. He scrambled up again, lurching off into the fields, but Gurney tackled him. They rolled over the edge into a two-meter-deep trench where the villagers had planted stunted krall tubers.

  Gurney grabbed the front of the man’s fine shirt and shoved him up into a half-sitting position against the dirt wall of the trench. Rocks, gravel, and dust pattered all around them.

  “Who are you? Have you seen my sister? Is she all right?” Gurney shone his chrono-light on the man’s face. Pale, widely set eyes, darting around. Smooth features.

  The man spat dirt from his teeth and tried to struggle. His hair was neatly cut. His clothes were far more expensive than anything Gurney had ever seen.

  “Where is she?” Gurney pressed his face close and held out the note as if it were accusatory evidence. “Where did this come from? What did she say to you? How did you know about the lily?”

  The man sniffled, then pulled one of his arms free to rub a sore ankle. “I . . . I am the Harkonnen census taker for this district. I travel from village to village. It’s my job to account for all the people who serve the Baron.” He swallowed hard.

  Gurney tightened his hold on the shirt.

  “I see many people. I—” He coughed nervously. “I saw your sister. She was in a pleasure house near one of the military garrisons. She paid me money she’d managed to scrape together over the years.”

  Gurney took deep breaths, focused on every word.

  “I told her my rounds would take me to Dmitri village. She gave me all her solaris and wrote that note. She told me what to do, and I did it.” He slapped Gurney’s hand away and sat up indignantly. “Why did you attack me? I brought you news of your sister.”

  Gurney growled at him. “I want to know more. How can I find her?”

  The man shook his head. “She only paid me to smuggle this note out. I did it at great risk to my life— and now you’re going to get me caught. I can’t do anything more for you, or for her.”

  Gurney’s hands moved up to the man’s throat. “Yes, you can. Tell me which pleasure house, which military garrison. Would you rather risk the Harkonnens finding out . . . or have me kill you now?” He squeezed the man’s larynx for good measure. “Tell me!”

  In four years, this was the first word Gurney had received, and he couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. But Bheth was alive. His heart swelled with the knowledge.

  The census taker retched. “A garrison over by Mount Ebony and Lake Vladimir. The Harkonnens have slave pits and obsidian mines nearby. Soldiers keep watch over the prisoners. The pleasure house . . .” He swallowed hard, afraid to reveal the information. “The pleasure house serves all the soldiers. Your sister works there.”

  Trembling, Gurney tried to think
how he might get across the continent. He possessed little knowledge of geography, but he could discover more. He stared up at the shadowy moon as it dipped behind the smoky clouds, already developing an ill-conceived plan to free Bheth.

  Gurney nodded and let his hands fall to his sides. The census taker scrambled out of the trench and ran across the fields in a limping, cockeyed gait from his twisted ankle, kicking up dust and dirt. He headed toward a shelter of scrub brush, where he must have left a vehicle.

  Numb and exhausted, Gurney slumped against the trench wall. He drew a deep breath, tasted determination. He didn’t care that the man escaped.

  At long last, he had a clue to his sister’s whereabouts.

  The effective ruler punishes opposition while rewarding assistance; he shifts his forces in random fashion; he conceals major elements of his power; he sets up a rhythm of counter movement that keeps opponents off balance.

  — WESTHEIMER ATREIDES, Elements of Leadership

  After Leto became a father, time seemed to pass even faster.

  Dressed in toy armor and carrying a laminated-paper shield, the small boy toddled forward, attacked the stuffed Salusan bull ferociously with his feathered vara lance, then retreated. Victor, the Duke’s two-year-old son, wore a green-bordered cap with a red Atreides crest.

  On his knees and laughing, Leto pulled the spiny-headed toy bull from side to side, so that the black-haired boy, still moving with baby clumsiness, had no easy target. “Do as I showed you, Victor.” He tried to cover his grin with an expression of deadly seriousness. “Be careful with the vara.” He lifted his arms and demonstrated. “Hold it like this, and thrust sideways into the monster’s brain.”

  Dutifully, the boy tried again, barely able to lift the scaled-down weapon. The vara’s blunted tip bounced off the stuffed head, close to the white chalkite mark Leto had placed there.

  “Much better!” He shoved the toy bull aside, gathered the boy in his arms, and lifted him high overhead. Victor giggled when Leto tickled his rib cage.

  “Again?” Kailea said in a disapproving tone. “Leto, what are you doing?” She stood at the doorway with her lady-in-waiting, Chiara. “Don’t raise him to enjoy that nonsense. You want him to die like his grandfather?”

  With a hardened expression, Leto turned to his concubine. “The bull wasn’t responsible, Kailea. It was drugged by traitors.” The Duke didn’t mention the secret he harbored, that Leto’s own mother had been implicated in the plot, and Leto had exiled Lady Helena to live in a primitive retreat with the Sisters in Isolation.

  Kailea looked at him, still not convinced. He tried to sound more reasonable. “My father believed the beasts were noble and magnificent. To defeat one in the ring takes great skill, and honor.”

  “Still . . . is this appropriate for our son?” Kailea glanced at Chiara, as if seeking support from the matronly woman. “He’s only two years old.”

  Leto tousled the boy’s hair. “It is never too early to learn fighting skills— even Thufir approves. My father never coddled me, and I won’t spoil Victor, either.”

  “I’m sure you know best,” she said with a sigh of resignation, but the agitated look in her eyes said otherwise. “After all, you’re the Duke.”

  “It’s time for Victor’s tutoring session, dear.” Chiara glanced at her jeweled wristchron, an antique Richesian bauble she had brought from Kaitain.

  With a disappointed expression, Victor looked up at the looming figure of his father. “Go along now.” Leto patted him on the back. “A Duke has to learn many things, and not all of them are as much fun as this.”

  The lad stood stubbornly for a moment, then trudged on short legs across the room. With a grandmotherly smile, Chiara picked him up and carried him away to a private tutoring room in the north wing of the Castle. Swain Goire, the guard assigned to watch over Victor, followed the lady-in-waiting. Kailea remained in the playroom while Leto propped the stuffed bull against a wall, wiped his own neck with a towel, and drank from a mug of cool water.

  “Why does my brother always confide in you before he says anything to me?” He could see she was upset and uncertain. “Is it true he and that woman are talking about getting married?”

  “Not seriously— I think it was just something he spouted off the top of his head. You know how long it takes Rhombur to do anything. Someday, maybe.”

  With a look of disapproval, she pressed her lips together. “But she’s just a . . . a Bene Gesserit. No noble blood at all.”

  “A Bene Gesserit woman was good enough for my cousin the Emperor.” Leto did not mention the pain in his own heart. “It’s his decision, Kailea. They certainly seem to love each other.” He and Kailea had begun to drift apart as soon as his son was born. Or perhaps it had started as soon as Chiara had arrived with all her gossip and grand stories about the Imperial Court.

  “Love? Oh, is that the only ingredient necessary for marriage?” Her face darkened. “What would your father, the great Duke Paulus Atreides, say to such hypocrisy?”

  Trying to remain calm, he crossed to the playroom door and pulled it shut so that no one could hear. “You know why I can’t take you as my wife.” He remembered the terrible fights of his own parents behind the thick doors of their bedroom suite. He didn’t want that to happen to him and Kailea.

  Her delicate beauty was masked with displeasure. Kailea tossed her head, making curls of coppery hair bounce between her shoulder blades. “Our son should be Duke Atreides one day. I hoped you might change your mind once you got to know him.”

  “It’s all about politics, Kailea.” Leto flushed. “I love Victor very much. But I am the Duke of a Great House. I must think of House Atreides first.”

  At meetings of the Landsraad Council, other Houses paraded their eligible daughters before Leto, hoping to entice him. House Atreides was neither the richest nor the most powerful family, but Leto was well liked and respected, especially after his bravery during the Trial by Forfeiture. He was proud of what he had achieved on Caladan . . . and wished Kailea could appreciate him more for it.

  “And Victor remains a bastard.”

  “Kailea—”

  “Sometimes I hate your father because of the foolish ideas he pounded into your head. Since I can offer you no political alliances, and since I have no dowry, no position, I am not acceptable as a wife. But because you’re a Duke, you can command me to your bed whenever you please.”

  Stung to hear how she had phrased her displeasure, he could imagine what Chiara must be saying to Kailea in the privacy of her own chambers. There could be no other explanation. Leto didn’t particularly like the off-world woman, but to dismiss the lady-in-waiting might burn his few remaining bridges to Kailea. The two women put on airs together, enjoyed playing at highbrow conversations, imitating Imperial styles.

  He stared out the streaked windowplaz, thinking of how happy he and Kailea had been only a few years earlier. “I don’t deserve that, not after my family has done everything in its power for you and your brother.”

  “Oh, thank you, so much. It hasn’t hurt your image either, has it? Help the poor refugees from Ix so that your beloved people can see what a benevolent ruler you are. Noble Duke Atreides. But those of us closer to you know you’re only a man, not the legend you try to make yourself into. You’re not really the hero of the common people, as you imagine yourself to be. If you were, you would agree—”

  “Enough! Rhombur has every right to marry Tessia if he likes. If that’s what he decides. House Vernius is destroyed, and there will be no political marriages for him.”

  “Unless his rebels win on Ix,” she countered. “Leto, tell me the truth— do you secretly hope his freedom fighters don’t succeed, so you will always have an excuse for not marrying me?”

  Leto was appalled. “Of course not!” Apparently thinking she’d won, Kailea left the room.

  In solitude, he considered how she had changed. For years he’d been smitten with her, long before taking her as his concubine. He
had brought her close to him, though not as close as she wanted to be. At first she’d been helpful and supportive, but her ambitions had grown too great, and she had complicated his life immeasurably. Too often recently, he had seen her primping in front of the mirror, styling herself as a queen— but that was something she could never be. He couldn’t change who she was.

  But the joy he drew from his son outweighed all other problems. He loved the boy with an intensity that surprised even him. He wanted only the best for Victor, for him to grow up to be a fine, honorable man, in the Atreides fashion. Even though he could not officially name the child his ducal heir, Leto intended to give him every benefit, every advantage. One day, Victor would understand the things his mother did not.

  • • •

  As the boy sat at a tutoring machine, playing shape-recognition games and color identifiers, Kailea and Chiara talked in low tones. Victor pushed buttons rapidly, achieving high scores for his age.

  “My Lady, we must figure a way around the Duke. He is a stubborn man and intends to form a marriage alliance with a powerful family. Archduke Ecaz is after him, I hear, offering one of his daughters. I suspect Leto’s purported diplomatic efforts in the Moritani-Ecazi conflict are a smoke screen to hide his true intentions.”

  Kailea’s eyelids narrowed to slits as she considered this. “Leto is traveling to Grumman next week to talk with Viscount Moritani. They have no eligible daughters.”

  “He says he’s going there, dear. But space is vast, and if Leto takes a detour, how would you ever know? After all my years at the Imperial Court, I understand these things only too well. If Leto produces an official heir, he’ll sweep your Victor under the rug as nothing more than a bastard son . . . ruining your own position.”

  Kailea hung her head. “I said everything you told me to, Chiara, but I wonder if I’m pushing him too hard. . . .” Now, where Leto couldn’t see her, she allowed her uncertainty and fear to show. “I’m so frustrated. There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do. He and I were close before, but it’s all gone so wrong. I had hoped that bearing his son would bring us together.”