But to what end? Ix was still lost, and he had no new information on the situation there.
Early in his self-imposed exile, Dominic had rallied his troops, men selected because of their loyalty in past campaigns. Remembering how they had defeated the Ecazi rebels years before, he had led a small force, heavily armed and well trained, in a raid against the new Tleilaxu stronghold.
With weapons and the advantage of surprise, Dominic had hoped to blast his way in and overthrow the invaders. At the port-of-entry canyon, he and his men rushed from their ships, firing lasguns. But they had encountered astonishing defenses from the Emperor’s own Sardaukar. The damned Corrinos! Why were their troops still involved here?
Years ago, the element of surprise had been turned against Dominic, and the crack Imperial soldiers killed fully a third of his men. He himself had been hit in the back by debris from a lasgun blast and left for dead; only Johdam had dragged him back to one of their ships, in which they beat a desperate retreat.
In Dominic’s secret stronghold at the south pole of Arrakis, his men had nursed him back to health. Since he had taken precautions to conceal the identity of the avenging attack force— to avoid repercussions against the Ixian people should the assault fail, or against his children on Caladan— the Tleilaxu had never learned who had come after them.
As a result of the debacle, Dominic had sworn to his men that he would never again try to recapture his hereditary world in a military action, which could only end poorly.
Out of necessity, Dominic had decided to settle for other means.
His sabotage and vandalism, however, had been largely ineffectual, no more than tiny blips on House Corrino balance sheets, or Imperial embarrassments. Shaddam IV didn’t even know that the outcast Earl Vernius was involved.
Though he continued the struggle, Dominic felt worse than dead— he was irrelevant. He lay back in his cabin on the frigate, assessing everything he had achieved . . . and all that he’d lost. With a solido holo-portrait of Shando standing on a pedestal nearby, he could look at her and almost imagine she was still there, still with him.
Their daughter Kailea must be an attractive young woman by now. He wondered if she was married, perhaps to someone in the court of Leto Atreides . . . certainly not to the Duke himself. The Atreides emphasis on political marriages was well-known, and the Princess of a renegade House had no dowry. Likewise, though Rhombur was old enough to become the Earl of House Vernius, the title was valueless.
With immense sadness sagging his shoulders, he gazed at the holo-image of Shando on the pedestal. And in his grief, she spoke to him.
“Dominic . . . Dominic Vernius. I know your identity.”
Startled, he sat up, wondering if he had descended into a labyrinth of madness. Her mouth moved mechanically. The holo of her face turned, but her expression did not change. Her eyes did not focus on him. The words continued.
“I am using this image to communicate with you. I must present a message from Ix.”
Dominic trembled as he approached the image. “Shando?”
“No, I am the Navigator of this Heighliner. I have chosen to speak through this holo-image because it is difficult to communicate otherwise.”
Reluctant to believe this, Dominic fought back superstitious fear. Just seeing the likeness of Shando move, seeing her face come alive again, infused him with a trembling awe he had not experienced in a long time. “Yes, whoever you are. What is it you want of me?”
“My brother, C’tair Pilru, sends these words from Ix. He begs me to give you this information. I can do no more than instruct you.”
Her lips moving faster, and using a different voice this time, Shando’s holo-image repeated the words C’tair had sent in a desperate message to his Navigator brother. In growing horror, Dominic listened, and learned the extent of damage the Tleilaxu usurpers had inflicted on his beloved world and its people.
Rage simmered within him. When he had begged for assistance during the first Tleilaxu attacks, damnable old Emperor Elrood IX had stalled, thereby guaranteeing the defeat of House Vernius. Bitter at their loss, Dominic only wished the old man hadn’t died before he could find a way to kill him.
But now Dominic realized the Imperial plan was much broader, much more insidious. At its core, the entire Tleilaxu takeover had been an Imperial plot, with Sardaukar troops still enforcing it nearly twenty years later. Elrood had set up the conflict from the start, and his son Shaddam perpetuated the scheme by oppressing the remaining subjects of House Vernius.
Presently the voice from the Shando-likeness changed again, returning to the more ponderous and disconnected words of the Navigator. “On my route in this vessel, I can take you to Xuttuh, formerly known as Ix.”
“Do it,” Dominic said, with hatred icing his heart. “I wish to see the horrors for myself, and then I”— he put a hand to his breast, as if swearing a vow to Shando—“I, Lord Dominic, Earl of House Vernius, will avenge the suffering of my people.”
When the Heighliner went into orbit, Dominic met with Asuyo, Johdam, and the others. “Return to Arrakis. Go to our base and continue our work. I’m taking one of the lighters.” He stared at the pedestal as if he could still see his wife there. “I have business of my own.”
The two veterans expressed their surprise and confusion, but Dominic pounded his fist on the table. “No further argument! I have made my decision.” He glared at his men, and they were amazed to see such a transformation in his personality.
“But where are you going?” Liet asked. “What do you plan to do?”
“I am going to Ix.”
One uses power by grasping it lightly. To grasp with too much force is to be taken over by power, thus becoming its victim.
— Bene Gesserit Axiom
The baron did not take the news about his half-brother at all well.
At the Harko City Spaceport, men were loading his private frigate with the amenities, supplies, and personnel he would need for a trip to Arrakis. In order to keep spice operations running smoothly, he had to spend months at a time on the desert hellhole, squeezing his fist to prevent smugglers and the accursed Fremen from getting out of hand. But, after the damage Abulurd had done years ago, the Baron had turned the most economically important planet in the Imperium back into a huge moneymaker. House profits were increasing steadily.
And now, just when everything seemed to be going his way, he had to deal with this! Abulurd, for all his stupidity, had an incredible knack for doing precisely the wrong thing, every time.
Piter de Vries, sensing his superior’s displeasure, approached with mincing steps, wanting to assist— or to appear to be doing so. But he knew better than to come too close. For years he had survived by avoiding the Baron’s wrath, longer than any of his master’s previous Mentats. In his younger, leaner days, Vladimir Harkonnen had been capable of lashing out like a cobra and striking a person in the larynx to cut off his breathing. But now he had grown so soft, so corpulent, that de Vries could easily slither out of the way.
Simmering, the Baron sat in the Keep’s stone-walled accounting room. His oval blackplaz table looked polished enough to ice-skate on. A huge globe of Arrakis stood in one corner, an art object any noble family would have coveted. But rather than show it off at Landsraad gatherings or blueblood social events, the Baron kept it in his private room, savoring the globe for himself.
“Piter, what am I to do?” He gestured toward a cluster of message cylinders newly arrived via bonded Courier. “The CHOAM Corporation demands an explanation, warning me in none-too-subtle terms that they expect shipments of whale fur to continue from Lankiveil despite the ‘change in rulership.’ ” He snorted. “As if I would decrease our quotas! They remind me that spice production on Arrakis is not the only vital commodity House Harkonnen controls. They’ve threatened to revoke my CHOAM directorship if I fail to meet my obligations.”
With a flick of his wrist he hurled a copper-sheathed message cylinder at the wall. It clanged and cla
ttered, leaving a white nick on the stone.
He picked up a second cylinder. “Emperor Shaddam wants to know why my own half-brother would renounce the Harkonnen name and take the subdistrict governorship for himself.”
Again he hurled the cylinder at the wall. It struck with a louder clink beside the first white mark. He picked up a third. “House Moritani on Grumman offers covert military support in case I wish to take direct action.” The third cylinder struck the wall. “House Richese, House Mutelli— all curious, all laughing behind my back!”
He continued to throw message cylinders until his table was clear. One of the metal tubes rolled toward Piter, and he picked it up. “You didn’t open this one, my Lord.”
“Well, do it for me. It probably says the same as all the others.”
“Of course.” The Mentat used one of his long fingernails to cut the seal on the capsule, and slid the cap off. Bringing out a piece of instroy paper, he scanned it, his tongue darting over his lips. “Ah, from our operative on Caladan.”
The Baron perked up. “Good news, I hope?”
De Vries smiled as he translated the cipher. “Chiara apologizes for her inability to get messages out before this, but she is making progress with the concubine, Kailea Vernius, turning her against the Duke.”
“Well, that’s something anyway.” The Baron rubbed his fat chin. “I would have preferred word of Leto’s assassination. Now that would have been really good news!”
“Chiara likes to do things in her own way, at her own pace.” The instroy message faded, and de Vries balled it up, then tossed it and the cylinder aside. “We aren’t sure how far she’ll go, my Lord, for she has certain . . . standards . . . in royal matters. Spying is one thing; murder is quite another, and she’s the only one we could get past Thufir Hawat’s security.”
“All right, all right.” The two of them had been over this before. The Baron pushed himself up from his seat. “At least we’re throwing a bit of sand in the Duke’s eye.”
“Perhaps we should do more than that to Abulurd?”
Aided by the suspensor system at his waist, the fat man misjudged the strength of his own flabby arms and nearly flew off his feet. Wisely, de Vries said nothing about that, and absorbed data so that he could perform a proper Mentat analysis as soon as his master demanded it.
“Perhaps.” The Baron’s face reddened. “Abulurd’s older brother Marotin was an idiot, you know. Literally, I mean. A drooling, brain-damaged moron who couldn’t even dress himself, though his mother simpered over him, as if Marotin was worth the resources expended to keep him alive.” His jowly face was blotched with pent-up rage.
“Now it seems that Abulurd is just as brain-damaged, but in a more subtle way.” He slammed his flat palm down on the oily blackplaz surface, leaving a handprint that would gradually be broken down by self-cleaning systems in the furniture.
“I didn’t even know his bitch Emmi was pregnant. Now he’s got another son, a sweet little baby— and Abulurd’s robbed the child of his birthright.” The Baron shook his head. “You realize, that boy could be a leader, another Harkonnen heir . . . and his foolish father takes it all away.”
With his master’s frustration building, de Vries took extra care to stay out of reach, on the opposite side of the oval table. “My Lord, as near as I can tell, Abulurd has followed the precise forms of law. According to Landsraad rules he is allowed to request, and receive, a concession that few of us would even have considered. We may not think it wise, but Abulurd was within his rights as part of House Harkonnen—”
“I am House Harkonnen!” the Baron roared. “He doesn’t have any rights unless I say so.” He came around the desk. The Mentat stood frozen, afraid the corpulent man might attack him after all. Instead, he bobbed toward the door of the chamber. “We go to see Rabban.”
They walked through the echoing halls of the blocky Keep to an external armored lift that dropped them from the Keep’s spiked pinnacles down to an enclosed arena. Glossu Rabban worked with the House Guard to prepare for the evening’s scheduled gladiatorial combat, a tradition the Baron had established as a precursor to each of his long journeys to Arrakis.
Inside the arena, silent slaves cleaned the tiers of seats, polishing and sweeping away debris. The Baron’s great contests always drew large crowds, and he used such spectacles to impress guests of other Great Houses. Heavy durasteel doors at the gladiator-pit level remained closed, trapping caged beasts for combat. Hirsute, shirtless workers hosed down the empty pens of slain creatures or slaves, then dusted them with odor-suppressants.
Sweating, though he didn’t appear to be doing any work, Rabban stood in the midst of the men. Wearing a sleeveless jerkin of studded leather, he rested his hands at his waist, pursed thick lips, and glowered at the activity. Other laborers raked the sand of the arena floor, sifting out bone fragments and shattered blades.
Kryubi, captain of the House Guard, directed his soldiers. He decided where to station each armed man to provide an appropriately impressive military presence for the upcoming festivities.
Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron glided down the waterfall of steps, passed through a spiked iron gate, and emerged on the stained arena floor. His feet barely touched the ground, giving his walk a ballet-like grace. Piter de Vries followed him with similar dancing steps.
Kryubi stepped up and saluted. “My Baron,” he said, “everything is prepared. We shall have a spectacular event tonight.”
“As always,” de Vries said, a smile twisting his sapho-stained lips.
“How many beasts do we have?” the Baron asked.
“Two Laza tigers, my Lord, a deka-bear, and one Salusan bull.”
With glittering black eyes the Baron studied the arena and nodded. “I’m weary this evening. I don’t want a long combat. Release the beasts and all five chosen slaves at once. We’ll have a free-for-all.”
Kryubi gave a brisk salute. “As you wish, my Lord.”
The Baron turned to his Mentat. “The blood will fly tonight, Piter. Maybe it will distract me from what I’d like to do to Abulurd.”
“Do you prefer to be merely distracted, my Baron?” the Mentat asked. “Or do you prefer . . . satisfaction? Why not have your revenge on Abulurd?”
A moment of hesitation, then: “Revenge will do quite nicely, Piter. Rabban!”
His nephew turned to see the Baron and his Mentat standing there. On stocky legs, Rabban marched across the arena floor to the two men.
“Did Piter tell you what your fool father has done now?”
Rabban’s expression contorted. “Yes, Uncle. Sometimes I can’t understand how such a clod can get through the day.”
“It’s true that we don’t understand Abulurd,” de Vries said. “But one of the important laws of statecraft suggests that to utterly defeat one’s enemy, one must understand him, learn his weaknesses. Learn where it will hurt the most.”
“Abulurd’s entire brain is his weakness,” the Baron mumbled, his tone dark. “Or maybe just his bleeding heart.”
Rabban chuckled, too loudly.
The Mentat held up one long finger. “Consider this. His infant son, Feyd-Rautha Rabban, is now his greatest vulnerability. Abulurd has taken an extraordinary step in order to— as he puts it—’see that the child is raised in a proper fashion.’ Apparently, this means a great deal to him.”
The Baron looked at his broad-shouldered nephew. “We wouldn’t want Rabban’s little brother turning out like Abulurd, would we?”
Rabban glowered at the possibility.
De Vries continued, his voice as smooth as oiled ice. “And so, what is the most terrible thing we could do to Abulurd under these circumstances? What would cause him the greatest pain and despair?”
A cold smile crossed the Baron’s face. “Brilliant question, Piter. And for that, you shall live another day. Two days, in fact— I feel generous.”
Rabban’s expression remained blank; he still hadn’t caught on. Finally, he began to snigg
er. “What should we do, Uncle?”
The Baron’s voice became sickly sweet. “Why, we must do everything possible to make sure that your new little brother is ‘raised properly.’ Naturally, knowing the consistently bad decisions your father has made, we cannot in good conscience allow Abulurd Rabban to corrupt this boy.” He looked over at the Mentat. “Therefore, we must raise him ourselves.”
“I shall prepare the documents immediately, my Lord Baron,” de Vries said with a smile.
The Baron shouted for Kryubi to attend them, then turned to his nephew. “Take all the men you need, Rabban. And don’t be too secretive about it. Abulurd must understand full well what he has brought upon himself.”
No one has yet determined the power of the human species . . . what it may perform by instinct, and what it may accomplish with rational determination.
— Mentat Objective Analysis of Human Capabilities
Guided by Dominic Vernius, the lighter slipped under the Ixian detection grid, masked by clouds. He cruised low across the pristine surface of his lost homeworld, drinking in the sight of the mountains and waterfalls, the dark pine forests clinging to granite slopes.
As the former lord of Ix, Dominic knew a thousand ways to get inside. He hoped at least one of them still worked.
Fighting back tears of dread, he flew onward, intent on his destination. The Imperium knew Ix for its industry and technology, for the marvelous products it exported through CHOAM distributors. Long ago, House Vernius had chosen to leave the surface unspoiled, burying unsightly production facilities deep underground, which greatly enhanced security and protected valuable Ixian secrets.
Dominic remembered the defensive systems he himself had designed and established, as well as those put in place generations before. The threat of technological espionage from rivals such as Richese had always been sufficient for the Ixians to keep up their guard. Surely the Tleilaxu usurpers had instituted their own safeguards, but they would not have found all of Dominic’s personal tricks. He had hidden them too well.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 46