Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Leto’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he imagined shadow-shapes around the room. Why couldn’t I have helped my son?

  He hung his head and spoke aloud now, conversing with ghosts. “If there was the slightest thing I could do for Victor, I would sell every Atreides holding.” His grief threatened to overwhelm him.

  Noises intruded, a pounding at his sealed chamber door that was so loud and heavy, he knew it must be Thufir Hawat. Leto moved slowly, his body aching, without energy. His eyes were red and scratchy; at any other time he could have summoned enough courtesy to greet his Master of Assassins . . . but not now, not so late at night.

  Hawat opened the door. “My Duke,” he said, crossing the room and extending a silvery message cylinder. “This document just arrived at the spaceport.”

  “More condolences? I thought we’d already heard from every House in the Landsraad.” Leto could not focus his eyes. “I don’t dare hope that this could be good news?”

  “No, my Duke.” Hawat’s leathery face seemed to sag in on itself. “It is from the Bene Tleilax.” He placed the cylinder into Leto’s trembling hands.

  Scowling, Leto broke the seal, then stared at the brief message, wicked in its simplicity, awful in its promises. He had heard of such possibilities, sinister practices that brought a shudder of revulsion to any moral man. If only it could be true. He had avoided even considering the Tleilaxu— but now the vile little gnome-men had made their offer directly.

  Hawat waited, ready to serve his Duke, barely concealing his dread.

  “Thufir . . . they have offered to grow a ghola of Victor, bring him back from his dead cells, so that . . . so that he can be alive again.”

  Even the Mentat could not hide his astonishment. “My Lord! You must not consider—”

  “The Tleilaxu could do it, Thufir. I could have my son back.”

  “At what cost? Do they even name their price? This bears an ill stamp upon it, sir, mark my words. Those loathsome men destroyed Ix. They threatened to kill you during the Trial by Forfeiture. They have made no secret of their hatred for House Atreides.”

  Leto stared at the message cylinder. “They still believe I fired upon their ships inside the Heighliner. Now, thanks to the Bene Gesserit, we know the true perpetrator. We could tell the Tleilaxu about the Harkonnens and their invisible attack ship—”

  The Mentat stiffened. “My Lord, the Bene Gesserit have refused to give us proof. The Tleilaxu will never believe you without evidence.”

  Leto’s voice sounded small, and desperate. “But Victor has no other chance. When it comes to my son, I will deal with anyone, pay any price.” He longed to hear the boy’s voice again, to see his smile, to feel the touch of the small hand in his own.

  “I must remind you that while a ghola may be an exact copy in all respects, the new child would have none of Victor’s memories, none of his personality.”

  “Even so, would that not be better than having only memories and a corpse? And this time, I will legitimize him and make him my rightful heir.”

  The thought filled him with sorrow beyond measure. Would a ghola Victor grow up normally, or would he be tainted by the knowledge of what he was? What if the Bene Tleilax— so skilled in creating twisted Mentats— did something to the boy’s genetic makeup? A hidden plot to strike back at Duke Atreides through the person he loved most.

  But Leto would risk even damnation . . . for Victor. He was helpless in the face of the decision. He had no choice.

  Hawat’s voice was gruff and strained. “My Lord, as your Mentat— and as your friend— I advise you against this rash course of action. It is a trap. You know the Tleilaxu mean to bind you in their poisonous web.”

  Flinching from residual twinges of pain, Leto stepped closer to the old Master of Assassins. Hawat backed away when he saw the mad fury in the Duke’s reddened eyes. He seemed not to have heard any of the objections.

  “Thufir, I can entrust this mission to no one but you.” He drew a deep breath; desperation coursed like flame through his bloodstream. “Contact the Tleilaxu. Inform them I wish . . .” He could hardly say it. “. . . I wish to learn their terms.” His thin smile sent a shudder down Hawat’s back. “Think of it, Thufir. I’ll have my son again!”

  The old warrior placed a sinewy hand on Leto’s shoulder. “Rest, my Duke, and consider the implications of what you suggest. We dare not bare our throats in such a way to the Bene Tleilax. Imagine the cost. What will they demand in return? I advise against this. Such an idea is not possible.”

  Refusing to be swayed, Leto shouted at him. “I am the Duke of House Atreides. I alone determine what is possible here.”

  The torment of his shattered life made his mind reel, blurring his concentration. There were dark circles under his eyes. “We are talking about my son— my dead son!— and I command you to do as I say. Make the request of the Tleilaxu.”

  • • •

  The day of Duncan Idaho’s return should have been a cause for great celebration, but the skyclipper tragedy had cast a pall of sorrow over all of Caladan.

  At the Cala Municipal Spaceport, a greatly changed Duncan disembarked and breathed deeply of the salty air. He gazed around with sparkling eyes and an eager expression. At the head of an Atreides honor guard, he saw Thufir Hawat in a black uniform coat adorned with military medals, a dressy ambassadorial outfit. Such formality! Red-uniformed attendants moved to the ramp door escorting the passengers to processing stations.

  As Hawat stood at the ramp’s edge, he hardly recognized the new arrival. Duncan’s youthful black curls had grown thick and coarse, and his smooth complexion was ruddy and tanned. Far more muscular than he had been, the young man moved with athletic grace, and wariness mixed with confidence. Proudly, he wore Ginaz khakis and a red bandanna; the Old Duke’s sword hung smartly at his side, a bit more battered but newly polished and sharpened.

  “Thufir Hawat, you haven’t changed at all, you old Mentat!” Duncan hurried forward to clasp the warrior’s hand.

  “You, on the other hand, have changed a great deal, young Idaho. Or should I call you Swordmaster Idaho? I remember the streetwise scamp who threw himself on the mercy of Duke Paulus. I do believe you’re a little taller.”

  “And wiser, too, I pray.”

  The Mentat bowed. “I am afraid that events here have forced us to defer a welcoming celebration for you. Allow one of my men to accompany you back to the Castle. Leto will be cheered to see your face right now. Sergeant Vitt, would you please escort Duncan to the Duke?”

  Hawat marched past the Swordmaster up the ramp and boarded the shuttle himself, ready to depart for the Heighliner in orbit. Seeing the young man’s perplexed expression, Hawat realized that Duncan knew nothing about the tragedy yet. He had never met Leto’s son, either, though undoubtedly he had learned of the boy through correspondence.

  The Mentat added in the bleakest of tones, “Sergeant Vitt will explain everything.”

  The sergeant, a powerfully built man with a chestnut goatee, gave a formal nod. “I’m afraid this will be the saddest story I have ever told.” Without further explanation, Hawat boarded the shuttle, carrying a satchel of documents from the Duke to the Tleilaxu Masters.

  Sliding his tongue along the inside of his mouth, the Mentat felt a sore area where a minuscule injector had been implanted; the device would emit a tiny but powerful spray burst of antiseptics, antitoxins, and antibiotics with each bite of food he took. He had been ordered to meet face-to-face with the Tleilaxu, and not even a Master of Assassins could imagine what sorts of diseases and poisons the hated people might attempt to use on him.

  Hawat was determined not to let them take advantage of the situation, despite the Duke’s rigorous instructions. He disagreed vehemently with Leto’s desperate, unwise course of action, but he was honor-bound to do his best.

  • • •

  Behind a confinement field in the dungeons of Castle Caladan, Swain Goire stared into darkness, thinking of other times, other
places. Wearing only a thin prison uniform, he shivered in the dank air.

  Where had his life gone so drastically wrong? He’d struggled so hard to better himself; he’d sworn loyalty to the Duke; he’d loved Victor so much. . . .

  Seated on his cot he cradled the hypo-injector in his hand, rubbing a thumb along the cool plaz surface of the handle. The scarred smuggler Gurney Halleck had slipped it to him, providing the disgraced guard captain with an easy way out. At any moment Goire could inject poison into his bloodstream. If only he had the courage . . . or the cowardice.

  In his mind’s eye, years melted away as if cut by a lasbeam. Goire remembered growing up in poverty on Cala Bay, earning money for his mother and two younger sisters by crewing on fishing boats; he had never even known his father. By the age of thirteen, Goire had obtained work as a cook’s assistant in Castle Caladan, cleaning stoves and storage chambers, mopping floors, scrubbing grease from the oven walls. The chef had been stern but good-hearted, and had helped the young man.

  When Goire turned sixteen, shortly after the Old Duke’s death, he’d begun training in the House Guard and rose through the ranks until he became one of Duke Leto’s most trusted men. He and Leto were within months of the same age . . . and through different paths they’d come to love the same woman: Kailea Vernius.

  And Kailea had ruined them both before plunging to her own death.

  During Thufir Hawat’s deep interrogation, Goire had offered no excuses. He’d confessed everything, had even searched for additional crimes to increase his own culpability. He’d hammered himself with guilt, hoping either to survive the worst of the pain . . . or die from it at last. Because of his foolishness, he allowed Kailea access to his armory key, enabling Chiara to obtain the explosives. He never plotted to kill the Duke, for he loved him and still did.

  Then Gurney Halleck had brought him the poison, saying with no sympathy whatsoever, “Take the only course open to you, the course of honor.” He left the hypo-injector in Goire’s cell, then departed.

  Goire ran a finger along the shaft of the deadly needle. He could prick his finger and end his ruined life. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he tasted their saltiness.

  “Swain, wait.” Glowstrips brightened along the ceiling. Opening his eyes, he saw the sharp needle. His hands were shaking. Slowly, he turned toward the voice.

  The containment field faded, and Duke Leto Atreides stepped forward, with Halleck close behind, looking unsettled. Goire froze, holding the injector in front of him. The very sight of his Duke— still bandaged, barely recovered from his worst injuries— was nearly enough to strike him dead. Goire sat helpless, ready to accept any punishment Leto decreed.

  The Duke did the most terrible thing imaginable. He took the injector away.

  “Swain Goire, you are the most pitiable of men,” Leto said in a low voice, as if his own soul had been swept away. “You loved my son and were sworn to protect him, and yet you contributed to Victor’s death. You loved Kailea, and thus betrayed me with my own concubine even as you claimed to love me. Now Kailea is dead, and you can never hope to regain my faith.”

  “Nor do I deserve to.” Goire looked into Leto’s gray eyes, already feeling the anguish of the deepest hells.

  “Gurney wants you put to death— but I’m not going to allow that,” Leto said, each word like a physical blow. “Swain Goire, I sentence you to live . . . to live with what you have done.”

  Stunned, the man said nothing for a long moment. Tears poured from his eyes. “No, my Duke. Please, no.”

  Gurney Halleck glared at Goire ferociously, dangerously, as Leto spoke. “Swain, I do not believe you will ever betray House Atreides again— but your life in Castle Caladan is over. I will send you into exile. You’ll depart with nothing, carrying only your crimes.”

  Spluttering, Halleck could contain himself no longer. “But, Sire! You can’t let this traitor live, after what he has done! Is that justice?”

  Leto gave him a hard, cold look. “Gurney, this is justice in the purest possible sense . . . and one day my people will realize it, that there was no more fitting punishment.”

  Stricken, Goire slumped back against the cold wall. He drew in a long breath, stifling a moan. “One day, my Lord, they will call you Leto the Just.”

  No one person can ever know everything that is in the heart of another. We are all Face Dancers in our souls.

  — Tleilaxu Secret Handbook

  Under the sun of Thalim, the Bene Tleilax closed off their worlds to outsiders, but allowed select representatives to land in specific quarantined areas, which had been swept clean of sacred objects. As soon as Thufir Hawat departed, the Tleilaxu would disinfect every surface he had touched.

  The main city of Bandalong was fifty kilometers from the spaceport complex, across a plain that showed no roads or rail lines. As the shuttle descended through the carnelian daytime sky, Hawat studied the huge sprawl and guessed that Bandalong contained millions of people. But the Mentat, an outsider, could never go there. He would attend to his business in one of the approved buildings at the spaceport proper. And then he would return to Caladan.

  Hawat was one of a dozen passengers aboard the descending craft, half of whom were Tleilaxu; the others appeared to be businessmen coming to purchase biological products such as new eyes, healthy organs, twisted Mentats, or even a ghola, as Hawat had been commanded to do.

  When he stepped out onto the platform, a gray-skinned man hurried to intercept him. “Thufir Hawat, Mentat to

  the Atreides?” The gnomish man flashed sharp teeth when he smiled. “I am Wykk. Come this way.”

  Without offering a handshake or awaiting a response, Wykk curtly led Hawat down a spiraling walkway to a subterranean watercourse, where they boarded an automated boat. Standing on deck, they grasped handrails as the craft sped across the muddy water, leaving a considerable wake behind them.

  After disembarking, Hawat ducked to follow his guide into a seedy lobby in one of the spaceport’s perimeter buildings. Three Tleilaxu men stood talking; others hurried across the lobby. He saw no women anywhere.

  A robo delivery machine— of Ixian manufacture?— clanked across the worn and scratched floor, came to a stop in front of Wykk. The Tleilaxu man removed a metal cylinder from a tray, handed it to the Mentat. “This is your room key. You must remain in the hotel.” Hawat noted hieroglyphics on the cylinder that he didn’t recognize, and a number in Imperial Galach.

  “In one hour you will meet the Master here.” Wykk designated one of the doorways, through which an array of tables could be seen. “If you do not arrive for the meeting, we will send hunters to find you.”

  Hawat stood stiff and formal, resplendent in his Atreides military regalia. “I will be punctual.”

  His assigned quarters featured a sagging bed, stained sheets, and vermin droppings on the windowsills. With a handheld apparatus, Thufir scanned the room for bugging devices, but found none— which probably only meant they were too subtle for his scanner to detect, or of an esoteric construction.

  He reported for his meeting ten minutes early and found the restaurant even filthier than the room: soiled tablecloths, dirty place settings, streaked glasses. A din of conversation filled the air in a language he didn’t understand. Every aspect of this place had been designed to make visitors feel unwelcome, to encourage them to leave as soon as possible.

  Hawat intended to do just that.

  Wykk emerged from behind a counter and led him to a table beside a wide plaz window. Another diminutive man already sat there, spooning lumpy soup into his mouth. Wearing a red jacket with billowing black pants and sandals, the man looked up without bothering to wipe away the food that dripped from his chin.

  “Master Zaaf,” Wykk said, indicating a chair across the small table, “this is Thufir Hawat, a representative from the Atreides. Regarding our proposal.”

  Hawat brushed crumbs from the chair before he sat at a table built too small for
a man of his size. He did not allow himself to express any revulsion.

  “Especially for our off-world guests, we have prepared a delicious slig chowder,” Zaaf said.

  A mute serving slave arrived with a tureen, and ladled soup into a bowl. Another slave slopped bloody slabs onto plates in front of both men. No one bothered to identify the meat.

  Always security-conscious, Hawat glanced around, saw no poison snoopers. His own defenses would have to be sufficient. “I am not particularly hungry, considering the difficult message I carry from my Duke.”

  With powerful little hands, Master Zaaf set to work on a chunk of the rare steak, stuffing it into his mouth. He made rude noises as he ate, as if trying to offend Hawat.

  Zaaf wiped a sleeve across his chin. With glittering black eyes, he glowered up at the much taller Mentat. “It is customary to share meals during such negotiations.” He traded his own plate and soup bowl for Hawat’s, and began again. “Eat, eat!”

  Hawat used a knife to cut off a small piece of meat. He ate only as much as politeness required, and felt the implanted mist injector in his mouth doing its work with each bite. He swallowed, with difficulty.

  “Trading plates is an old tradition,” Zaaf said, “our way of checking for poison. In this case you— as the guest— should have insisted on it, not me.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” Hawat responded, then pressed on with his instructions. “We recently received an offer from the Tleilaxu to grow a ghola of my Duke’s son, who was killed in a terrible accident.” Hawat removed a folded document from his jacket pocket, passed it across the table, where it became stained with grease and blood. “Duke Atreides has asked me to inquire as to your terms in the matter.”

  Zaaf only half glanced at the document, then set it aside to concentrate on his steak. He finished as much of the meal as he wanted to eat, then washed it all down with murky liquid from a cup. Grabbing the Atreides document, he rose to his feet. “Now that we have ascertained your interest, we will determine what we believe will be an acceptable price. Remain in your room, Thufir Hawat, and await our answer.”