Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Flitting from one dark patch to another, Gurney approached the bulky containers that sat unguarded, filled with obsidian. He worked open a metal hatch that squeaked. He hesitated, but any delay would only invite more attention, so he thrust himself into the chute. As quietly as he could, he let the hatch fall back shut.

  He slid down a rough metal ramp that caught and tore his stolen garment, until he landed on the mounds of chemically treated blue obsidian. The sides were rough-edged glass, but Gurney didn’t care about a few extra cuts and scratches. Not after all he’d been through. He took care not to sustain any deep cuts.

  He wallowed deeper. Each chunk of obsidian was the size of his fist or larger, but they were ragged and mismatched. Many pieces came in wide, glossy slabs. This bin was nearly full, and the crews would top it off in the morning with a final load before launching the cargo hauler. Gurney tried to cover himself enough to avoid being seen.

  The weight of the volcanic glass pressed down as he shoveled it over the top of his head. Already, he could barely breathe. The cuts burned his skin, but he slowly worked his way deeper, pressed into a corner so that at least two sides were solid metal. He tried to push support pieces around him that would hold some of the load above. The oppressive weight would only get worse when additional obsidian was poured on top of him, but he would survive somehow . . . and even if he didn’t, he could accept his fate. Dying in an attempt to escape from the Harkonnens was better than living under their boot.

  When he had managed to slough loose obsidian chunks over the large flat piece above his head, he stopped. He couldn’t see anything, not even the faint blue glow from the activated glass. Already, breathing was nearly impossible. He shifted his arm just enough to bring out the yellow ampoules of kirar. He took a deep breath to fill his lungs.

  One dose of the paralysis drug had not placed him into a suffiently deep coma, but three would probably kill him. Holding them in one hand, he jabbed two ampoules into his thigh at the same time. The others he kept beside him, in case he needed additional doses en route.

  Paralysis spread with a rush, a flood crashing through his muscle tissue. The drug would put him into a hibernation coma, reduce his breathing and his bodily needs to the fringes of death itself. Maybe, if he was lucky, it would even keep him alive. . . .

  Though Duke Leto Atreides did not know he had a stowaway in his shipment, Gurney Halleck owed his passage off Giedi Prime to the ruler of Caladan, the enemy of the Harkonnens.

  If he survived long enough to reach the off-world distribution center on Hagal, Gurney hoped to escape while the blue obsidian was being reloaded for cutting, polishing, and transport. He would get away and find passage off-planet again if necessary. After lasting on Giedi Prime for all these years, he doubted any place in the Imperium could be worse.

  Gurney conjured an image of his unwitting benefactor, the Duke of House Atreides, and felt a smile struggling to form on his face before the hibernation crashed around him.

  Heaven must be the sound of running water.

  — Fremen Saying

  Liet-Kynes returned to the antarctic smuggler base three years after he and Warrick had stumbled across it. Now that he’d lost all hope of winning the woman he loved, he had nothing to lose. At long last, Liet intended to claim his promised payment from Dominic Vernius. He would ask the smuggler leader to take him away from Dune, to bring him to another world, far from here.

  Even before a proud, grinning Warrick had returned from the Cave of Birds with his beautiful new wife, Liet had desperately wanted to do his best to congratulate the couple. When spotters on the ridge above the sietch had signaled the arrival of a worm bearing two riders, Liet withdrew into his own chambers to meditate and pray. He loved his blood-brother, and Faroula as well, and he would not harbor any hard feelings or ill will. The Fremen had a saying, “Every faintly evil thought must be put aside immediately before it takes root.”

  At the moisture-sealed entrance to Red Wall Sietch, he had embraced Warrick, not bothered by the dust and potent odor of spice and sweat from so many hours on the back of a worm. He noted a sweet sparkle of happiness all around his friend.

  For her part, Faroula looked content; she greeted Liet formally, as befitted a newly married woman. Liet smiled at them, but his bittersweet greeting became lost in the flood of congratulations from well-wishers, including the raspy voice of Heinar, Faroula’s father and the Naib of the sietch.

  Rarely had Liet-Kynes traded upon his father’s fame, but for the nuptial celebration he had obtained a basket of fresh fruits from the greenhouse cave at Plaster Basin: oranges, dates, and figs, as well as a cluster of tart li berries, native to Bela Tegeuse. He’d placed the gift in the empty chamber Warrick and Faroula would share, and it was waiting for them when they retired for the evening.

  Through it all, Liet-Kynes had come out a stronger man.

  Over the following months, though, he could not pretend there had been no changes. His best friend now had other commitments. He had a wife, and soon— by the grace of Shai-Hulud— a family. Warrick could not spend as much time on commando raids.

  Even after a full year, the heartache did not diminish. Liet still wanted Faroula more than any other woman, and he doubted he would marry, now that he had lost her. If he stayed at Red Wall Sietch any longer, his sadness might turn to bitterness— and he did not want to feel envy toward his friend.

  Frieth understood her son’s feelings. “Liet, I can see that you need to leave this place for a time.”

  The young man nodded, thinking of the long trek down to the south polar regions. “It would be best if I devote myself to . . . to other work.” He volunteered to deliver the next spice bribe to Rondo Tuek, an arduous journey that few others undertook willingly.

  “It is said that echoes are not only heard by the ears,” Frieth said. “Echoes of memory are heard with the heart.” Smiling, his mother placed a lean hand on his shoulder. “Go where you must. I will explain everything to your father.”

  Liet said his farewells to the sietch, to Warrick and Faroula. The other Fremen could sense his disquiet and his restlessness. “The son of Umma Kynes wishes to go on a hajj,” they said, treating his journey as if it were some holy pilgrimage. And perhaps it was a kind of vision-quest, a search for inner peace and purpose. Without Faroula, he needed to find another obsession that would drive him.

  He had lived in the shadow of Pardot Kynes all his life. The Planetologist had trained Liet to be his successor, but the young man had never scrutinized his heart to determine if that was a path he wanted to take.

  Young Fremen men often chose the profession of their fathers, but that was not carved in stone. The dream of reawakening Dune was a powerful one that inspired— and required— intense passions. Even without his nineteen-year-old son, Umma Kynes had his devoted lieutenants Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun, as well as the secondary leaders. The dream would not die, no matter what Liet decided.

  He could be in charge of them someday . . . but only if he threw himself wholeheartedly into the problem. I will go away and try to understand the purpose that burns in the heart of my father.

  He had decided to go back to Dominic Vernius.

  • • •

  With the fremen ability to retrace footsteps across rugged or featureless ground, Liet-Kynes stared at the antarctic wilderness. He had already delivered his cargo of distilled spice essence for surreptitious shipment to Guild agents. But instead of returning to his sietch, instead of going to inspect the palmaries as was expected of him, Liet headed deeper into the polar regions in search of the smugglers.

  Presently he stood under the dim, slanting light, trying to pick out any unevenness on the towering glacier wall that would indicate the warren of caves. He was pleased to see that the smugglers had made all the camouflage modifications he and Warrick had suggested. Behind the tall line of ice-impregnated rock, he would find a deep chasm, at the bottom of which lay Dominic’s smuggler ships.

  He strode towa
rd the base of the cliff. His hands were numb, and his cheeks burned from the cold. Since he did not know how to enter the base, he searched for a passage and hoped the refugees would see him and take him inside— but no one emerged.

  Liet spent an hour trying to make himself seen, even shouting and waving his arms, until finally a small opening cracked beside him and several glaring men came out, pointing lasguns.

  Calmly, young Liet-Kynes raised his chin in the air. “I see you’re as vigilant as ever,” he said sarcastically. “It looks like you need my help more than I had anticipated.” As the men continued to hold their weapons on him, Liet frowned and then pointed to one pock-faced man with a missing eyebrow and another old veteran with a shock of bristly gray-white hair. “Johdam, Asuyo— do you not recognize me? I am older and taller, with a bit of a beard, but not so different than I was.”

  “All Fremen look alike,” pock-scarred Johdam growled.

  “Then all smugglers have bad eyesight. I am here to see Dominic Vernius.” Now they either had to kill him for his knowledge or take him inside. Liet marched into the tunnels, and the smugglers sealed the entrance behind him.

  As they passed the observation wall inside the cliff stronghold, he looked down into the chasm that sheltered their landing field. Groups of men scurried like rock ants, loading supplies into the ships.

  “You’re preparing for an expedition,” Liet said.

  Both veterans gave him stony looks. Asuyo, with his gray-white hair even bristlier than before, puffed his chest to display a few new cobbled-together medals and rank insignia he had added to his jumpsuit . . . but no one seemed impressed but him. Johdam continued to look bitter and skeptical, as if he had lost much already and expected to lose the rest soon.

  They took a powered lift down to the base of the crevasse, and walked out into the gravel-packed basin. Liet recognized the towering figure of Dominic Vernius, his shaved scalp gleaming in the dim polar light. The smuggler leader saw the visitor’s stillsuit and immediately recognized him. He waved a broad hand and strode over.

  “So, lad, are you lost again? Did you have a harder time finding our place, now that we have hidden ourselves better?”

  “It was harder to get your men to notice me,” Liet said. “Your sentries must be sleeping.”

  Dominic laughed. “My sentries are busy loading ships. We have a Heighliner to catch, docking space already reserved and paid for. What can I do for you? We are in somewhat of a hurry at the moment.”

  Liet drew in a deep breath. “You promised me a favor. I have come to make my request of you.”

  Though he was taken aback, Dominic’s eyes twinkled. “Very well. Most people awaiting a payment don’t take three years to make up their minds.”

  “I have many skills, and I can be a valuable member of your team,” Liet said. “Take me with you.”

  Dominic looked startled, then grinned. He clapped Liet on the shoulder with a blow hard enough to fell a herd beast. “Step aboard my flagship, and we’ll talk about it.” He gestured up the ramp of a reentry-scarred frigate.

  Dominic had strewn rugs and possessions around his private cabin to make the place look like home. The renegade Earl gestured for Liet to take a seat in one of the suspensor chairs. The fabric cushion was worn and stained, as if it had seen decades of hard use, but Liet didn’t mind. Off to one side of Dominic’s writing desk shimmered a solido holophoto of a beautiful woman.

  “Make your case, lad.”

  “You said you could use a Fremen to tighten up security at your Salusa Secundus base.”

  Dominic’s smooth forehead wrinkled. “A Fremen would be a welcome addition.” He turned toward the image of the beautiful woman, which shimmered as if smiling at him no matter where he moved. “What do you think, Shando, my love? Shall we let the lad take a trip with us?”

  Dominic stared at the holo as if expecting an answer. An eerie feeling crept down Liet’s spine. Then the Ixian Earl turned back to him, smiling. “Of course we will. I made a bargain, and your request is perfectly reasonable . . . although one might question your sanity.” Dominic scratched a droplet of sweat at his temple. “Anyone who wants to go to the Emperor’s prison planet obviously needs a little more happiness in his life.”

  Liet pressed his lips together, but didn’t provide details. “I have my reasons.” Dominic didn’t push the matter.

  Years ago, his father had been deeply affected by what he saw on Salusa Secundus, by the planetary scars that remained even centuries after the holocaust. On a quest to understand his own motivations, to set the course for his life, Liet needed to go there, too. Perhaps if he spent time on Salusa among the rugged rocks and unhealed wounds, he could understand what had sparked his father’s lifelong interest in ecology.

  The big smuggler clasped Liet’s hand in a brisk handshake. “Very well, that’s done with. What was your name again?”

  “To outsiders, I am known as Weichih.”

  “All right, Weichih, if you are to be a member of our team, you’ll have to do your share of the work.” Dominic led him out of the captain’s quarters to the ramp, and then outside.

  Around them, smugglers sweated and grunted, out of breath. “Before the day is out, we take off for Salusa Secundus.”

  Look inside yourself and you can see the universe.

  — Zensunni Aphorism

  Arrakis. Third planet in Canopus system. A most intriguing place.

  Guild Navigator D’murr gazed through plaz windows from his chamber, a mere speck inside the huge Heighliner. Far beneath his vessel, beyond a dirt-brown veil of wind-whipped dust, lay Arrakis, sole source of the melange that enabled him to see along the intricate pathways of the universe.

  Such pleasure the spice gives me.

  A tiny shuttle burned upward through the planet’s atmosphere from the south pole, broke free, and reached the great ship in orbit. When the shuttle docked, a surveillance camera showed D’murr a group of passengers disembarking into the Heighliner’s atmospheric-controlled community areas.

  Though many other Spacing Guild workers crewed the vessel, as Navigator, D’murr had to watch all things, at all times. This was his ship, his home and workplace, his responsibility.

  Within his sealed chamber, the familiar hiss of orange melange gas was barely audible. In his grossly deformed body, D’murr could never walk upon the desert planet, could never, in fact, leave the security of his tank. But just being near Arrakis calmed him in a primal way. With his higher-order brain he attempted to develop a mathematical analogy for his sensation, but it would not come into clear focus.

  Before entering Guild service, D’murr Pilru should have done more with his life while he was still human. But now it was too late. The Guild had taken him so quickly— so unexpectedly— after he’d passed their entrance examination. There’d been no time for saying proper goodbyes, for wrapping up his human affairs.

  Human.

  How wide a definition did the word encompass? The Bene Gesserit had spent generations grappling with that exact question, with all the nuances, the ranges of intellect and emotion, the exalted achievements, the dismal failures. D’murr’s physical form had altered significantly since he joined the Guild . . . but how much did that matter? Had he and all other Navigators transcended the human condition, to become something altogether different?

  I am still human. I am no longer human. He listened to his own troubled, vacillating thoughts.

  Through the surveillance transeye, D’murr watched the new passengers, rugged men in dark clothing, walk into the main passenger lounge. Suspensor-borne travel bags floated behind them. One of the men, ruddy-featured, with a voluminous mustache and a clean-shaven head, seemed oddly familiar. . . .

  I still remember things.

  Dominic Vernius. Where had he been all these years?

  The Navigator uttered a command into the glittering speaker globe by his tiny V-mouth. The screen showed the names of the passengers, but none was familiar. The exiled Earl Vernius
was traveling under an alias, despite the Guild’s absolute assurances of confidentiality.

  He and his companions were bound for Salusa Secundus.

  A buzzer sounded inside the navigation chamber. All shuttles were secured in their berths. Guild crewmen sealed the entry hatches and monitored the Holtzman engines; an army of experts prepared the Heighliner for departure from polar orbit. D’murr hardly noticed.

  Instead, he thought of halcyon days on Ix, of the bucolic time he’d spent with his parents and twin brother in the Grand Palais of Earl Vernius.

  Useless detritus of the mind.

  As Navigator, he made higher-order calculations and reveled in dimensional mathematics. He transported Heighliners filled with passengers and cargo across vast distances. . . .

  Yet suddenly he found himself blocked, distracted, unable to function. His intricate brain lost focus in the midst of precious equations. Why had his mind, the remnant of his lost self, insisted on recognizing that man? An answer surfaced, like a creature emerging from the depths of a dark sea: Dominic Vernius represented an important part of D’murr Pilru’s past. His human past . . .

  I want to fold space.

  Instead, images of bygone Ix rolled across his mind: scenes of splendor in the Vernius court with his brother C’tair. Pretty girls in expensive dresses smiling; even the Earl’s lovely young daughter. Kailea. His brain, large enough to enfold the universe, was a storehouse of all he had been, and all he would become.

  I have not finished evolving.

  The faces of the Ixian girls shifted, becoming the glowering countenances of his instructors in Navigation School on Junction. Their sealed chambers clustered around his, their tiny dark eyes piercing him for his failure.

  I must fold space!

  For D’murr this was the ultimate sensual experience, of his mind and body and the multiple dimensions available to him. He had given himself to the Guild, much as primitive priests and nuns once gave themselves to their God, abstaining from sexual relations.