Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Rabban mounted an expedition, coming out of orbit to set down on the northern landmass where he had spent two years in the industrial port cities and the whale fur–processing plants. Now, with ten of his soldiers, he navigated the

  ice-choked northern seas in a boat commandeered from one of the fisheries. His scanners and technicians knew where to search for the artificial iceberg. Rabban let them do their work while he huddled in his cabin and drank too much kirana brandy. He would come out on deck when the goal was sighted, but he had no interest in smelling the salty fog or freezing his fingertips until it was necessary.

  The synthetic iceberg was perfection to the naked eye, exactly like any other floating arctic block. When the boat anchored, Rabban shouldered his way to the front of his troops. He stepped aboard the polymer-based iceberg, operated the hidden hatch, and entered the hollow blue tunnels.

  Only to find the enormous storehouse completely empty.

  When Rabban let out a deep bellow, the sound echoed through the cold tunnels. “Who did this?”

  Later, the boat roared off to the south, leaving the faux iceberg behind. Rabban stood at the bow, so hot with anger that the wet and cold no longer affected him. The craft raced down to the rocky fjords, where Harkonnen soldiers swarmed into pathetic little fishing villages. The settlements looked much nicer than Rabban remembered them: the houses new, the equipment shiny and functional. The fishing boats and tackle, as well as the storehouses, were modern and well cared for, full of off-world imports.

  The soldiers wasted no time in grabbing villagers and torturing one after another until the same answer surfaced again and again. Rabban had suspected even before he heard the name uttered through bloody lips and broken teeth.

  Abulurd.

  He might have known.

  • • •

  In the cliff city of Veritas, a cold winter snap came on. The Buddislamic monks used fresh water from deep mountain springs to enhance the structure and beauty of their remarkable monastery.

  Abulurd’s scarred heart had recovered as much as it ever would. Wearing warm robes and thick gloves, he held a flexible hose and spigot that sprayed a sparkling mist onto the edge of the cave opening.

  His breath gushed out in a cloud of steam, and the skin of his cheeks felt so cold it was bound to crack. But he smiled as he sprayed the hose, adding to the prismatic sheetwall of ice. The barricade built up slowly, like a curtain around the front of their overhanging grotto. The translucent, milky-white barrier hung down, a dome that reflected and sparkled in sunlight, yet blocked the winds that whipped around the crags. Chimes and weathervanes jangled outside the grotto and up along the cliffs, gathering power and making music at the same time.

  Abulurd shut off the water flow and pulled back on the spigot so that monks could run forward with broken chunks of colored glass, which they positioned in the freezing water to create a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues. They stepped back, and Abulurd sprayed water again, coating the colored glass chips. As the frozen curtain grew, the studded jewels added rainbows to the city under the overhang.

  After the ice barrier had been extended another half meter, the abbot of Veritas sounded a gong, calling a halt to the efforts. Abulurd shut off the water and sat back, exhausted but proud of what he had accomplished.

  He stripped off his thick gloves and slapped the padded jacket to break away the crusting of ice. Then he opened his body covering to let out the warm steam-sweat and stepped into a portable dining enclosure with clearplaz windows.

  When several monks arrived to feed the workers, Emmi came up to him carrying a stone bowl of hot soup. Abulurd patted the bench beside him, and his wife sat to share lunch with her husband. The broth was delicious.

  Suddenly, through the dining enclosure he saw the ice curtain shatter inward with a blaze of lasgun fire. Broken shards crunched to the grotto floor, then slid down the outer cliff. After a second round of weapons fire, a Harkonnen attack craft became visible hovering in front of the overhang, weapons still smoking as it cleared away space so that it could drive under the shelf ceiling.

  The monks scrambled about, yelling. One dropped a hose, and fresh water gushed across the cold stone floor.

  Abulurd felt sick with a horrible sense of déjà vu. He and Emmi had come to Veritas to lead a life of peace, in secret. They wanted no contact with the outside world, especially not with the Harkonnens. Especially not with their elder son.

  The attack craft scraped across the rock floor as it landed. The hatch hissed open, and Glossu Rabban was the first out, flanked by soldiers who bristled with weapons— though none of the monks in Veritas would ever have resorted to violence, not even to defend one of their own. Rabban wore his inkvine whip.

  “Where is my father?” he demanded as he led his men toward the dining enclosure. His voice sounded like two rocks crashing together. The intruders ripped the thin plaz door open, allowing a cold wind inside.

  Abulurd stood up, and Emmi grabbed him in a gesture so abrupt that she upended the bowl of hot soup. It tumbled to the polished floor and shattered. Steam rose from the spilled broth into the cold air.

  “I’m here, Son,” Abulurd said, standing tall. “There’s no need to break anything else.” His mouth was dry with fear, his throat constricted. The monks backed away, and he was glad the others did not try to speak, because Glossu Rabban— his demonic son— had no qualms about opening fire on innocents.

  The burly man swiveled as if his waist were on ball bearings. His heavy eyebrows furrowed, forming a hood that shadowed his face. He marched forward, fists coiled. “The spice stockpile— what have you done with it? We tortured the people in your fishing village.” His eyes danced with pleasure. “Everyone gave your name. And then we tortured some more, just to be sure of the matter.”

  Abulurd stepped forward, putting distance between himself and Emmi and the other monks. His gray-blond hair hung limp over his ears with sweat from his labors. “I used the stockpile to help the people of Lankiveil. After all the hurt you’ve caused, you owe it to them.” He had intended to prepare for this eventuality, to set up an effective passive defense system that would protect them from Harkonnen rage. He’d hoped Rabban wouldn’t notice the missing spice until he’d had a chance to prepare the monks. But he hadn’t gotten around to it soon enough.

  Emmi hurried across the floor, her face flushed, her straight black hair thrown back. “Stop this! Leave your father alone.”

  Rabban didn’t even turn his head, didn’t take his eyes from Abulurd’s. Instead, he lashed out with one muscular arm and struck his mother squarely in the center of her face. She staggered back, clutching her nose as blood poured between her fingers and down her cheeks.

  “How dare you strike your mother!”

  “I’ll strike whomever I please. You don’t seem to understand who has the power here. You don’t know how pathetically weak you are.”

  “I’m ashamed of what you’ve become.” Abulurd spat on the floor in disgust.

  Rabban was unimpressed. “What have you done with our spice stockpile? Where have you taken it?”

  Abulurd’s eyes flashed fire. “For once, Harkonnen money has done some good, and you’ll never get it back.”

  Moving with the speed of a viper, Rabban grabbed Abulurd’s long-fingered hand and yanked it toward him. “I’m not going to waste time with you,” he said, his voice deep and threatening. With a vicious twist, he snapped Abulurd’s index finger, breaking it like a dry stick. Then he broke the thumb.

  Abulurd reeled with the pain. Emmi staggered to her feet and screamed. Blood streamed down her mouth and chin.

  “What have you done with the spice?” Quickly, efficiently, Rabban broke two fingers on his father’s other hand for good measure.

  Abulurd looked at his son, his gaze steady, thrusting away the pain that howled through his broken hands. “I distributed all the money through dozens of intermediaries. We spent the credits here on Lankiveil. We built new buildings, bought new equipme
nt, purchased food and medical supplies from off-world merchants. We’ve taken some of our people off-planet to better places.”

  Rabban was incredulous. “You spent all of it?” There had been enough melange hidden away to finance several large-scale wars.

  Abulurd’s laugh was a thin, slightly hysterical sound. “A hundred solaris here, a thousand there.”

  Now the steam seemed to boil out of Rabban, deflating him— because he understood that his father undoubtedly could have done exactly as he claimed. If so, the Harkonnen spice hoard was truly gone. Rabban could never retrieve it. Oh, he might squeeze a bit of repayment here and there from the villagers, but he would never reclaim everything they had lost.

  The tides of rage threatened to burst a blood vessel in Rabban’s brain. “I’ll kill you for this.” His voice held a cold tone of absolute certainty.

  Abulurd stared into the wide, hate-filled face of his son— a complete stranger. Despite all Rabban had done, after all the corruption and evil, Abulurd still remembered him as a mischievous boy, still remembered when Emmi had held him as a baby.

  “You will not kill me.” Abulurd’s voice was stronger than he imagined it could be. “No matter how vile you are or how many twisted things the Baron has taught you, you cannot commit such a heinous act. I am your own father. You are a human being— not a beast.”

  This triggered the last avalanche of uncontrolled emotions. With both hands, Rabban grasped his father around the throat. Emmi screamed and threw herself at their deranged son, but she might have been a blown leaf. Rabban’s powerful hands squeezed and squeezed.

  Abulurd’s eyes bulged, and he reached up to fight back with his broken fingers.

  Rabban’s thick lips curved upward in a smile. He crushed Abulurd’s larynx and snapped his neck. With a frown of disgust, he released his grip and let his father’s corpse tumble to the rock floor as the monks and his own mother gasped and screamed.

  “From now on I shall be called Beast.” Pleased with the new name he had chosen, Rabban signaled for his men to accompany him. Then he strode back to the ships.

  To keep from dying is not the same as “to live.”

  — Bene Gesserit Saying

  Even the dreariest room in Castle Caladan was an improvement over the infirmary, and Leto had been moved to the exquisitely appointed Paulus Suite. The change of location, despite its landmines of memory, was meant to help him recover.

  But every day seemed the same, gray and endless and hopeless.

  “Thousands of messages have come in, my Duke,” Jessica said with forced cheer, though her heart ached for him. She used just the slightest hint of manipulative Voice. She pointed to cards, letters, and message cubes on a nearby table. Bouquets of fragrant flowers adorned the room, battling the antiseptic odors of medicinals. Some children had drawn pictures for their Duke. “Your people grieve with you.”

  Leto didn’t respond. He stared ahead, his gray eyes without luster. A white newskin wrap was secured to his forehead, a second application to repair scar tissue. Quicknit amplifier packs were attached to one shoulder and both of his legs, and an intravenous line dangled from one arm. He noticed none of it.

  The burned and mangled body of Rhombur remained connected to a life-support pod back in the hospital. The Prince still clung to life, though he might have been better off in the morgue. Survival like this was worse than death.

  At least Victor is at peace. And Kailea, too. He felt only pity for her, sickened at what she had been driven to do.

  Leto turned his head slightly in Jessica’s direction. His face bore an overwhelming sadness. “The medics have done as I commanded? You’re certain?” Under Leto’s strict orders, his son’s recovered corpse had been placed in cryogenic suspension in the morgue. It was a question he asked each day: he seemed to forget the answer.

  “Yes, my Duke— it has been done.” Jessica held up one of the packages from well-wishers, trying to take his mind from the unbearable pain. “This is from a widow on the Eastern Continent, who writes that her husband was a civil servant in your employ. Look closely at the holophoto— she is holding a plaque you gave her, in honor of her husband’s lifelong service to House Atreides. Now her young sons are eager to work for you.” Jessica stroked his shoulder, then touched the sensor to shut off the holophoto. “Everyone wants you to get well.”

  Outside, on the steep paths and roads leading to Castle Caladan, citizens had come to place candles and flowers along the entire walkway. Mountains of blossoms were piled beneath his windows, so that the heady, sweet perfume rose with the sea breezes. People sang where he could hear them; some played the harp or baliset.

  Jessica wished Leto could go out and face the well-meaning crowd. She wanted him to sit in his tall ducal chair in the courtyard and hear the people’s petitions, their complaints, their praises. He could wear the garments of his duties, looking larger than any normal human, as the Old Duke had taught him. Leto needed to distract himself enough to move forward in life again, and perhaps the momentum of day-to-day existence would even begin to heal his shattered heart. The business of leadership.

  His people needed him.

  Hearing a shrill cry outside the window, Jessica saw a large sea hawk, with tethers dangling from its clawed feet as it spread its red-tinged wings. Below stood a teenage boy holding the tether, looking hopefully up at the tiny Castle window. Jessica had seen Leto talking with the young man on occasion, one of the villagers the Duke had befriended. The sea hawk flew past Leto’s room again, peering inside, as if the bird could serve as eyes for all the concerned people gathered below.

  The Duke’s face sank into deepest melancholy, and Jessica gazed upon him with love. I can’t shelter you from the world, Leto. She had always marveled at his strength of character: Now she worried about the fragility of his spirit. Though stubborn and grim, Duke Leto Atreides no longer had the will to live. This man she admired so much was effectively dead, despite the healing of his body.

  She couldn’t bear to let him give up and die— not only because of her Bene Gesserit mandate to conceive his daughter, but because she longed to see Leto whole and happy again. Silently, she promised to do everything in her power for him. She murmured a Bene Gesserit prayer, “Great Mother, watch over those who are worthy.”

  • • •

  In the days afterward, she sat and talked with Leto constantly. He responded to Jessica’s quiet, undemanding attentions and slowly, gradually, began to improve. Color returned to the Duke’s narrow, handsome face. His voice grew stronger, and he began to carry on longer conversations with her.

  Still, his heart was dead. He knew about Kailea’s treachery, the murder of her lady-in-waiting, and how the woman he’d once loved had thrown herself out of a high window. But he could feel no rage toward her, no obsession for revenge . . . only a sick sadness. The spark of life and passion had gone from his eyes.

  But Jessica wouldn’t give up, and she wouldn’t let him do so, either.

  She set up a bird feeder on the balcony outside his window, and Leto often watched the wrens, rock sparrows, and finches. He even named certain birds that came back again and again; for a man who had no Bene Gesserit training, the Duke’s ability to distinguish among similar creatures impressed her.

  One morning, almost a month after the skyclipper explosion, he said to Jessica, “I want to see Victor.” His voice sounded peculiar, low but emotionally charged. “I can face it now. Take me to him, please.”

  They locked gazes. In the woodsmoke-gray of his eyes, Jessica saw that nothing could dissuade him.

  Jessica touched his arm. “He is . . . much worse than Rhombur. You don’t have to do this, Leto.”

  “Yes, Jessica . . . yes, I do.”

  • • •

  Down in the vault Jessica thought the boy’s crushed body looked almost peaceful, preserved in its cryogenic case. Perhaps it was because Victor, unlike Rhombur, was safe in a realm where pain could no longer reach him.

  Leto open
ed the doorseals and shivered as he reached through the frosty mist. He placed his strong right hand on the boy’s wrapped chest. Whatever he said to his dead son, he did so privately, because no words came forth. His lips barely moved.

  Jessica saw Leto’s sorrow. He and Victor could spend no more time together; he would never have a chance to be the father the boy deserved.

  She placed an arm on Leto’s shoulder to comfort him. Her heart raced and she fought to calm herself, using Bene Gesserit techniques. She was unsuccessful, though; she heard a murmuring and agitation deep within her psyche, in the most distant reaches of her mind. What was it? It couldn’t be the echoes of Other Memory, for she was not yet a Reverend Mother. But she sensed that the ancient Sisters were troubled by something of such grave concern that it transcended normal bounds. What is happening here?

  “There can be no doubt now,” Leto said, as if in a trance. “House Atreides is cursed . . . and has been since the days of Agamemnon.”

  As she drew Leto reluctantly from the morgue, Jessica needed to reassure him, to tell him he was mistaken. She wanted to remind the Duke of how much his family had accomplished, how greatly he was respected throughout the Imperium.

  But the words wouldn’t come. She had known Rhombur, Victor, and Kailea. She could not argue with Leto’s fears.

  We are always human and carry the whole burden of being human.

  — DUKE LETO ATREIDES

  Windblown rain pelted the windows of Leto’s room, as thoughts battered his mind. A downpour slashed the stone walls, and wind whistled through a poorly sealed window frame. The storm echoed his mood.

  Alone in the suite, Leto sat shivering in a tall chair that seemed to overwhelm him. Behind closed eyelids, he pictured Victor’s face, the boy’s black hair and brows, the insatiable curiosity, the quick and generous laughter . . . the child-sized ducal jacket and overlarge epaulets he’d been wearing at the time of his death.