Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

Now the students took a break for mail call. Duncan and his comrades stood around a wooden platform in front of their interim barracks, waiting as Jeh-Wu, one of their first training masters, called out names and distributed message cylinders and nullentropy parcels. The humidity made Jeh-Wu’s long black dreadlocks hang like drooping vines around his iguana-like face.

  It had been two years since the terrible, rainswept night during which Trin Kronos and the other Grumman students were expelled from the Ginaz School. According to infrequent news reports reaching the trainees, Emperor Shaddam and the Landsraad had never agreed on the penalties to be assessed against Grumman for kidnapping and murdering members of the Ecazi noble family. Unrestrained, Viscount Moritani continued his considerable saber rattling, while several other allied Houses began subtle machinations to portray him as the injured party in the quarrel.

  Increasingly the name of Duke Atreides was mentioned with admiration. Leto had originally tried to be an intermediary in the conflict, but had now grown unflagging in his support for Archduke Ecaz, and had marshaled agreement among the Great Houses to curb Grumman aggression. Duncan was proud of his Duke, and wished he knew more about what was going on outside in the galaxy. He wanted to return to Caladan and stand by Leto’s side.

  In his years on Ginaz, Duncan had grown close to Hiih Resser, the only Grumman who’d had the nerve to condemn his planet’s aggression. House Moritani had severed all ties with Resser for what they considered his betrayal. Resser’s tuition was now paid out of an Imperial hardship fund, since his adoptive father had publicly disowned him at the Viscount’s court.

  Now, as Duncan stood beside the redhead at mail call, it was clear that the young man knew he would receive no off-world messages, not then, not ever again. “You might be surprised, Hiih. Don’t you have an old girlfriend who would write to you?”

  “After six years? Not likely.”

  After the expulsion of the Moritani loyalists, Duncan and Resser spent even more of their free time together, playing pyramid chess and reverse poker, or hiking, or swimming in the wild surf. Duncan had even written to Duke Leto, suggesting that the young Grumman trainee might be a candidate for employment with House Atreides.

  Resser, like Duncan, had been orphaned before the age of ten. He’d been adopted by Arsten Resser, one of the principal advisors to Viscount Hundro Moritani. Resser had never gotten along well with his adoptive father, especially during his rebellious teen years. Following a family tradition for alternate generations, the redhead had been sent away to Ginaz; Arsten Resser had been convinced the renowned academy would break the spirit of his difficult adoptive son. Instead, Hiih Resser was thriving and had learned much.

  Hearing his name called, Duncan stepped forward to accept a heavy package. “Melange cakes from your mommy?” Jeh-Wu teased.

  Earlier, Duncan would have flown into a rage and attacked the man for his teasing, ripping out one dreadlock after another like stalks of celery. Now, he used cutting words instead. “My mother was killed by Glossu Rabban on Giedi Prime.”

  Jeh-Wu looked suddenly uncomfortable. Resser put a hand on Duncan’s shoulder and pulled him back into the line. “Something from your home?” He prodded the package. “You’re lucky to have anyone who cares about you.”

  Duncan looked at him. “I’ve made Caladan my home, after what the Harkonnens did to me.” He remembered what Leto had said to him, on their last morning at breakfast, when the Duke had given him the marvelous sword: “Never forget compassion.”

  Impulsively, Duncan extended the parcel, noting the red hawk crest on the wrapping. “You can have whatever it is. The food, at least— any holophotos or messages are mine.”

  Resser accepted the parcel with a grin while Jeh-Wu continued to distribute letter cylinders. “Maybe I’ll share it with you, and maybe I won’t.”

  “Don’t challenge me to a duel, because you’ll lose.”

  The other young man muttered good-naturedly, “Sure, sure.”

  The pair sat on a stairway of the interim barracks, looking out at fishing boats in the lagoon. Resser tore open the wrapping with more enthusiasm than Duncan could have summoned. Removing one of several sealed containers, he gazed through clearplaz at the orange-colored slices inside. “What’s this?”

  “Paradan melon!” Duncan grabbed for the container, but Resser snapped it out of his reach and scrutinized it skeptically. “You haven’t heard of paradan? Sweetest treat in the Imperium. My favorite. If I’d known they were sending me that—” Resser handed the container back to him, and Duncan opened it. “Haven’t seen any in a year. They had some crop failures, a plankton bloom that caused shortages.”

  He handed a slice of preserved fruit to Resser, who took a small bite and forced himself to swallow. “Way too sweet for me.”

  Greedily, Duncan tasted another piece, followed by two more before he closed the container. To cheer Resser, he found some delicious Cala pastries made of brown pundi rice and molasses, wrapped in spice paper.

  Finally, he removed three messages from the bottom of the package, handwritten on parchment that bore the seal of House Atreides. Greetings from Rhombur, encouraging him to keep his hopes up . . . a note from Thufir Hawat expressing how much the Mentat looked forward to having Duncan share his work at Castle Caladan . . . a message from Leto promising to consider Hiih Resser for a position in the Atreides House Guard, if the redhead completed his training satisfactorily.

  Resser had tears in his eyes when his friend let him read the notes. He looked away, trying to keep Duncan from seeing.

  With an arm around his companion’s shoulders, Duncan said, “No matter what House Moritani does, you’ll still find a place. Who would dare challenge House Atreides, knowing that we have two Swordmasters?”

  That night Duncan was so homesick he couldn’t sleep, so he took the Old Duke’s sword outside the barracks and practiced in the starlight, dueling with imaginary opponents. It had been such a long time since he’d seen the rolling blue seas of Caladan . . . but he still remembered his chosen home, and how much he owed to House Atreides.

  Nature has moved inexplicably backward and forward to produce this marvelous, subtle Spice. One is tempted to suggest that only divine intervention could possibly have produced a substance which in one aspect extends human life and in another opens the inner doors of the psyche to the wonders of Time and Creation.

  — HIDAR FEN AJIDICA, Laboratory

  Notes on the Nature of Melange

  At the underground Xuttuh spaceport, research director Hidar Fen Ajidica watched Fenring’s shuttle lift off from the canyon wall, a wide rift in the crust of the planet. Ostensibly a scenic gorge when viewed from above, the fissure provided access to the secure worlds below. Fenring’s craft dwindled to a speck in the cold, blue sky.

  Good riddance! He could always hope that the meddling Imperial observer might die in a spacecraft explosion, but unfortunately, again, he reached orbit safely.

  Ajidica turned back into the tunnels, taking a lift tube down into the deep levels. He’d had enough fresh air and open sky for one day.

  The Spice Minister’s unannounced inspection visit had consumed two days . . . wasted time, as far as the Master Researcher was concerned. He was anxious to get back to his long-term artificial spice experiments, which were nearing their final phase. How am I to accomplish anything with that man breathing down my neck?

  To make matters worse, a Tleilaxu representative was scheduled to arrive in a week— now it seemed as if Ajidica’s own people didn’t trust him. They took their reports back to the Masters on the sacred home planet, who discussed it in the central kehl, the highest holy council of his people. More inspections. More interference.

  But I have almost achieved my goal. . . .

  Pursuant to the Master Researcher’s precise instructions, his laboratory assistants had prepared an important modification in the new axlotl tanks, the sacred biological receptacles in which counterfeit spice variations were grown. With those adjust
ments, he could proceed to the next stage: actual testing, and then the production of amal.

  Inside the sealed research pavilion, Hidar Fen Ajidica and his team had been much more successful than he’d dared reveal to the weasel Fenring or even to his own people. Within another year, two at the most, he expected to solve the elusive riddle. And then he would activate the plan he’d already set in motion, stealing the secret of amal and putting it to his own uses.

  By that time, not even the legions of Sardaukar secretly stationed here could stop him. Before they realized anything, Ajidica would slip away with his prize, destroying the laboratories in his wake. And keeping the artificial spice for himself.

  Of course, there were other things that could interfere with Ajidica’s grand scheme— unknowns. Spies were in operation on Xuttuh; the Sardaukar and Ajidica’s own security force had located and executed more than a dozen from the various Houses Major. But there had been rumors of a covert Bene Gesserit woman at work here, too. He wished those witches would mind their own business.

  On the railcar ride back to his high-security facility, the Master Researcher popped a red lozenge into his mouth and chewed it. The medication, which treated his phobia of being underground, tasted like rotten slig meat from a fouled tank. He wondered why pharmacists couldn’t formulate drugs that tasted better. Surely it was only a matter of additives?

  Ahead, the research pavilion was comprised of fifteen white buildings connected by overpasses, conveyors, and track systems, all surrounded by powerful defense mechanisms and reinforced one-way windows. Sardaukar troops protected the complex.

  Ajidica had adapted Tleilaxu genetic science to the advanced manufacturing facilities left behind when House Vernius had been driven away. The victors had commandeered stockpiles of raw materials and, through intermediaries, obtained additional resources off-world. In exchange for their lives, a number of Ixian factory managers and scientists had aided in this process.

  The railcar came to a smooth stop at the pavilion walls. After working his way through cumbersome security procedures, Ajidica stepped onto a clean white platform. From there he took a lift tube to the largest, scan-muffled section, where new “candidates” were fitted to modified axlotl tanks. Every Ixian survivor wanted to know what occurred inside the secret facility, but no one had any evidence. Only suspicions, and mounting fears.

  In the research pavilion, Ajidica had the most advanced fabrication facility in the Imperium, including elaborate materials-handling systems for transporting samples. The experimental nature of Project Amal required a broad spectrum of chemicals and specimens and the disposal of large quantities of toxic waste, all of which he was able to do with unparallelled efficiency. He’d never had access to anything so advanced on Tleilax itself.

  Ajidica passed through a biosecurity doorway, entered an immense room where workers were finishing the rough connections in the floor, preparing for the new, still-living axlotl tanks that would be brought in.

  My tests must continue. When I have learned the secret, I will control the spice, and I can destroy all of those devils who depend on it.

  Freedom is an elusive concept. Some men hold themselves prisoner even when they have the power to do as they please and go where they choose, while others are free in their hearts, even as shackles restrain them.

  — Zensunni Wisdom from the Wandering

  Intentionally, Gurney Halleck broke the stirring equipment in the obsidian-processing vat, which caused a rupture in the container. Polishing liquid gushed all over the already-mucky ground. He stood back and braced himself for the punishment he knew would come.

  The first step in his cold, desperate escape plan.

  Predictably, the guards rushed forward, raising their spark-clubs and gauntleted fists. In the two months since Bheth’s murder, the Harkonnens were sure they’d snuffed out any candle of resistance in this blond-haired man. Why they didn’t simply kill him, Gurney wasn’t sure. Not because they admired his spirit, or because he was so tough. Instead, they probably got a sadistic pleasure from tormenting him and letting him come back for more.

  Now he needed to be injured severely enough to require medical attention. He wanted the guards to hurt him worse than usual, breaking a few ribs perhaps. Then the medics would treat him in the infirmary and ignore him as he healed. That was when Gurney would make his move.

  He fought back when the guards attacked, flailing and clawing at them. Other prisoners would have surrendered meekly— but if Gurney hadn’t struggled, they would have been suspicious. So he resisted fiercely and, of course, the guards won. They punched and kicked him and hammered his skull against the ground.

  Pain and blackness swam up around him with a nauseating thickness, but the guards, filled with adrenaline now, did not relent. He felt bones crack. He coughed blood.

  As Gurney fell into oblivion, he feared that he’d gone too far, that they might actually kill him this time. . . .

  • • •

  For days, the workers in the slave pits had been loading a shipment of blue obsidian. The fenced-off cargo hauler lay waiting on the landing field, its hull plates ion-scarred from many trips up to orbit and back. Guards watched the shipment, but without much attention. No man came to the heart of a slave pit willingly, and as far as the guards were concerned no treasure in the universe would tempt even the greediest of thieves.

  This large order had been commissioned through Hagal merchants by Duke Leto Atreides. Even Gurney knew that the Atreides had been generations-long adversaries of House Harkonnen. Rabban and the Baron took a smug delight in knowing that they were selling such an expensive shipment to their greatest adversary.

  Gurney cared only that the cargo was due to leave soon . . . and that he meant to follow it far away from the slave pits.

  When he finally swam back out of his agony-filled stupor, he found himself in an infirmary bed. The sheets were stained from previous patients. The doctors wasted little effort to keep the slaves alive; it simply wasn’t cost-effective. If the injured prisoners could be healed with a minimum of time and attention, then they would be sent back to work. If they died . . . Harkonnen sweeps would pick up replacements.

  As full awareness returned, Gurney lay motionless, careful not to moan or call attention to himself. On an adjacent cot, a man writhed in pain. Through slitted eyes, Gurney saw that the bandaged stump of the man’s right arm was soaked with blood. He wondered why the doctors had bothered. As soon as the potbellied work supervisor saw the maimed slave, he would order his termination.

  The man cried out, either from horrible pain or an awareness of his fate. Two medical techs held him down and injected him with a hissing spray— no mere tranquilizer. Within moments he gurgled and fell silent. Half an hour later, uniformed men hauled the body away, humming a rhythmic marching tune as if they did this all day long.

  A doctor loomed over Gurney, checking him, poking; though he made appropriate moans and weak mewling sounds, he did not stir from feigned unconsciousness. The doctor snorted and shuffled away. Over the years, the medical techs had already spent far too much time tending Gurney Halleck’s repeated injuries, as far as they were concerned.

  When the lights went out in the slave-pit complex for nighttime shutdown, the infirmary droned into a low stupor. The doctors indulged in their own chemical addictions, semuta or other drugs from the pharmacy stores. They made a final perfunctory check of the still-comotose patient. Gurney groaned, pretending to be trapped in nightmare-wracked sleep. One doctor hovered over him for a moment with a needle, perhaps a painkiller but more likely a sedative, then shook his head and went away. Maybe he wanted Gurney to sweat if he woke up in the night. . . .

  As soon as the medical techs left, Gurney opened his eyes and touched his bandages, assessing his injuries. He wore only a tattered beige hospital smock, patched and frayed— like his own body.

  He had numerous bruises and clumsily stitched gashes and cuts. His head ached: a cracked skull or at least a severe conc
ussion. But even as he’d fought back, Gurney had been careful to protect his limbs. He could still move.

  He swung his bare feet off the edge of the bed onto the cold, gritty infirmary floor. Nausea rose within him, but passed. When he inhaled deeply, his ribs ached like a fire of broken glass. But he could live with that.

  He took several staggering steps across the room. The techs kept dim glowglobes burning in case of an emergency. All around, patients snored or whimpered in the night, but no one noticed him. The inkvine scar along the side of his face throbbed, threatening an encore of terrible pain, but Gurney ignored it. Not now.

  Standing in front of the sealed medicine cabinet, he saw a rack containing needle-tipped ampoules of kirar, the drug Rabban had used to make him sit paralyzed and helpless during the prolonged rape and murder of Bheth. Gurney jiggled the cabinet door, then snapped the latch, trying to minimize the damage so that the doctors wouldn’t immediately see what he had done.

  Not knowing the proper dosage, he grabbed a handful of the yellow ampoules. Each container was like a wasp made of smooth polymers. He turned away, paused. If anyone spotted the broken cabinet and the missing ampoules, they might guess what he had in mind— so Gurney took handfuls of other potent drugs as well, painkillers and hallucinogens, which he tossed into the medical incinerator, keeping only a few painkillers for himself, just in case he needed them. The Harkonnens would assume someone had stolen a variety of drugs, not just the kirar.

  He searched for clothes, found a bloodstained surgical uniform and decided it was better than his hospital gown. Wincing from the pain of moving his unhealed body, he dressed, then found some energy capsules but no solid food. He swallowed the oval tablets, not knowing how long he might need them to sustain him. Crouching low, he jimmied open the infirmary door and slipped out into the darkness, a shadow among shadows.

  Gurney bypassed the crackling, electricity-laced fences that surrounded the compound, a system designed more for intimidation than for security. The barriers were easy enough to break through. Bright glowglobes spread garish pools of light across the pitted landing area, but the globes were tuned and positioned badly, leaving large islands of murky gloom.