Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  He leaned close to the still-seated Mentat, and Hawat saw the purest hatred for the Atreides boiling behind the pupils. “Our services will not come cheap.”

  We as humans tend to make pointless demands of our universe, asking meaningless questions. Too often we make such queries after developing an expertise within a frame of reference which has little or no relationship to the context in which the question is asked.

  — Zensunni Observation

  In a rare afternoon of relaxation, while sunning himself on the patio of his Richesian estate, Dr. Wellington Yueh’s mind remained preoccupied with thoughts of nerve patterns and circuit diagrams. Overhead, the artificial laboratory moon of Korona glided along in low orbit, a bright ornament that crossed the sky twice daily.

  After the passage of eight years, Yueh had nearly forgotten his unpleasant experiences diagnosing Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. The Suk doctor had accomplished so much in the meantime, and his own researches were far more interesting than a mere disease.

  Investing the Baron’s extravagant payment in laboratory facilities around his new estate on Richese, Yueh had made great advances in cyborg development. As soon as he had solved the biological-nerve/electronic-receptor problem, the next steps followed in rapid succession. New techniques, new technologies, and— to the Richesians’ delight— new commercial opportunities.

  Already Premier Ein Calimar had begun to make tidy profits from the cyborg endeavor, quietly selling Yueh’s designs for bionic limbs, hands, feet, ears, even optical-sensor eyes. It was exactly the boost the failing Richesian economy needed.

  The grateful Premier had bestowed upon the doctor a stately villa and vast acreage on the lovely Manha Peninsula, along with a full complement of servants. Yueh’s wife Wanna enjoyed the home, especially the library and meditation pools, while the doctor himself spent most of his time in the research facilities.

  After taking a sip of a sweet blossom tea, the mustachioed doctor watched a white-and-gold ornithopter land on a wide expanse of lawn by the water’s edge. A man in a trim white suit stepped out and walked up a gentle slope toward him, moving at a good pace despite his advanced years. Sunlight gleamed from golden lapels.

  Yueh rose from his sunning chair and bowed. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Premier Calimar?” Yueh’s aged body was lean and wiry, his long dark hair bound in a ponytail by a single silver ring.

  Calimar took a seat at a nearby shaded table. Listening to recorded birdsong from speakers in the bushes, he waved away a servant who arrived with a tray of drinks. “Dr. Yueh, I would like you to consider the Atreides matter, and the grievously injured Rhombur Vernius.”

  Yueh stroked his long mustaches. “It is an unfortunate case. Most sad, from what my wife tells me. Prince Rhombur’s concubine is also a Bene Gesserit, like my Wanna, and her message sounded quite desperate.”

  “Yes, and perhaps you could help him.” Calimar’s eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. “I’m certain it would fetch an extravagant price.”

  Yueh resented the request, feeling languid here on his estate but remembering how much he still wanted to research, how much he had to do. He did not want to move his facilities, especially not to watery Caladan. But he had begun to grow bored in this business park of a planet, with few challenges beyond refining the original work he had commenced years ago.

  He considered Rhombur’s injuries. “I have never done such a complete replacement on a human body.” He ran a thin finger along his purplish lips. “It will be a formidable task, requiring a good deal of my time. Perhaps even a permanent assignment to Caladan.”

  “Yes, and Duke Atreides will pay for everything.” Behind his thin spectacles, Calimar’s eyes continued to shine. “We cannot pass up an opportunity like this.”

  • • •

  The main hall of Castle Caladan seemed too large, as did the ancient ducal chair, from which Paulus Atreides had spent so many years ministering to his people. Leto seemed unable to fill the vast spaces around him, or in his heart. But still, he had ventured out of his room. That much, at least, was progress.

  “Duncan Idaho has brought a most disturbing matter to my attention, Tessia.” Leto stared at the slender woman who stood before him, her mousy brown hair cut boyishly short. “Did you make arrangements for a Suk doctor to come here? A cyborg specialist?”

  Wearing a velglow robe, Tessia shifted on her feet and nodded. She did not take her sepia eyes from him, showing a strength like steel that skirted the edges of defiance.

  “You told me to find any way to help him, if I could. I have done so. This is Rhombur’s only chance.” Her face flushed. “Would you deny it to him?”

  Dressed in a black-and-red Atreides uniform, the new Swordmaster Duncan Idaho stood at one side, scowling. “Did you speak on the Duke’s behalf, and make promises without discussing them? You’re just a concubine—”

  “My Duke gave me permission to take any necessary steps.” Tessia turned to Leto. “Would you rather we left Rhombur as he is now? Or would you prefer we asked the Tleilaxu to grow replacement body parts for him? My Prince would choose to die, if that were the only other option. Dr. Yueh’s new cyborg work offers us another chance.”

  While Duncan continued to scowl, Leto found himself nodding. He shuddered at the thought of how much of his friend’s body would be replaced with synthetic parts. “When is this Suk doctor scheduled to arrive?”

  “In a month. Rhombur can stay on life support that long, and Dr. Yueh requires the time to build components to match Rhombur’s . . . losses.”

  Leto took a deep breath. As his father had instructed him so many times, a leader must always remain in control— or give the impression that he is. Tessia had acted ambitiously, spoken in his name, and Duncan Idaho was right to be upset. But there had never been any question as to whether Leto would spend every solari in the House Atreides coffers to help Rhombur.

  Tessia straightened, and the fierce love in her eyes was genuine. Duncan cautioned, though, “There are political complexities you must remember, Sire. Vernius and Richese have been rivals for generations. There may be a plot afoot.”

  “My mother was born a Richese,” Leto pointed out, “and therefore so am I, by distaff lineage. Count Ilban, a mere figurehead on Richese, wouldn’t dare strike against my House.”

  Duncan’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Cyborgs are composite living forms, with machine-body interfaces.”

  Tessia remained stony. “So long as none of the parts simulate the workings of the human mind, we have nothing to fear.”

  “There is always something to fear,” Duncan said, thinking of the unexpected ambush and slaughter on Ginaz. Gruff and stern, he sounded like Thufir Hawat now, who had not yet returned from his negotiations with the Tleilaxu. “Fanatics do not examine evidence rationally.”

  Leto was not entirely recovered from his injuries. He heaved a tired sigh and raised a hand to silence the young man before he could make another argument. “Enough, Duncan, Tessia. Of course we’ll pay. If there’s a chance to save Rhombur, we must do it.”

  • • •

  On an overcast afternoon, Leto sat in his study trying to concentrate on the business of Caladan. For years, even when their relationship had soured, Kailea had done more work than Leto had ever realized. He sighed and went over the numbers again.

  Thufir Hawat strode in, fresh from the spaceport. Deeply troubled, the Mentat thumped a sealed message cylinder on the desk and stepped back, as if in disgust. “From the Tleilaxu, Sire. These are their terms.”

  Duke Leto lifted the cylinder, looked pensively at Hawat, searching for any hint, any reaction. Suddenly apprehensive, he pried off the cap. A sheet of tan paper fell out as supple as if it had been made from human skin. He scanned the words quickly; his pulse quickened.

  “To the Atreides: After your unprovoked attack on our transport ships and your devious escape from true justice, the Bene Tleilax have awaited an opportunity such as this.”

  The
palms of his hands were moist and clammy as he continued. Leto knew Hawat disagreed with his idea to offer the Tleilaxu information about the invisible Harkonnen attack ship. If too many people learned about the dangerous technology, it could fall into the wrong hands. For the time being, the wreckage seemed safe enough with the Bene Gesserit, who had no military aspirations of their own.

  One thing was certain, though: The Tleilaxu would never believe him without proof.

  “We can return your son to you, but you must pay a price. Not in solaris, spice, or other valuables. Instead, we demand that you surrender Prince Rhombur Vernius to us— the last of the Vernius bloodline and the only person who continues to threaten our possession of Xuttuh.”

  “No . . .” Leto whispered. Hawat stared at him like a grim statue.

  He continued to read. “We give our guarantees and assurances that Rhombur will not be physically harmed, but you must make a choice. Only this way can you have your son back.”

  Hawat seethed with anger as Leto finished reading. “We should have expected this. I should have predicted it.”

  Leto spread the parchment out in front of him and spoke in a small voice, “Leave me to consider this, Thufir.”

  “Consider it?” Hawat looked at him in surprise. “My Duke, you cannot possibly entertain—” Seeing Leto’s glare, the Mentat fell silent. With a brief bow, he departed from the study.

  Leto stared at the terrible terms until his eyes burned. For generations, House Atreides had stood for honor, for the course of righteousness and integrity. He felt a deep obligation to the exiled Prince.

  But for Victor . . . Victor.

  Wouldn’t Rhombur be better off dead, anyway? Better off without inhuman cyborg replacements? As Leto considered this, he felt a dark stillness in his soul. Would history judge him severely for selling Rhombur to his sworn enemies? Would he become known as Leto the Betrayer instead of Leto the Just? It was an impossible conundrum.

  The intense loneliness of leadership enveloped him.

  In his soul of souls, at the deepest core where only he could look and find absolute truth, Duke Leto Atreides wavered.

  Which is more important, my closest friend or my son?

  The ego is only a bit of consciousness swimming upon the ocean of dark things. We are an enigma unto ourselves.

  — The Mentat Handbook

  In her own apartment, Jessica lay beside Duke Leto on the wide bed, trying to soothe his nightmares. A number of scars on his chest and legs required additional newskin wraps to repair them completely. Much of Leto’s body had healed, though the tragedy festered in him, along with the terrible decision he had to make.

  His friend or his son?

  Jessica was sure that seeing a ghola of Victor each day would only worsen his pain, but she had been unable to say this to him. She searched for the right words, the right moment.

  “Duncan is upset with me,” Leto said, pushing away from her to gaze into her clear green eyes. “So is Thufir, and probably Gurney, too. Everyone challenges my decisions.”

  “They are your advisors, my Lord,” she said, treading cautiously. “They are required to counsel you.”

  “In this matter, I’ve had to tell them to keep their opinions to themselves. This is my decision to make, Jessica— but what am I to do?” The Duke’s face darkened with anger, and his eyes misted over. “I have no other options, and only the Tleilaxu can do it. I . . . I miss my son too much.” His eyes begged for her understanding, her support. “How can I choose— how can I say no? The Tleilaxu will bring Victor back.”

  “At the cost of Rhombur . . . and perhaps the price of your soul,” she said. “To sacrifice your friend for a false hope— I fear that will be your downfall. Please don’t do this, Leto.”

  “Rhombur should have died in the crash.”

  “Perhaps. But that was in God’s hands, not yours. He still lives. Despite everything, he still has the will to live.”

  Leto shook his head. “Rhombur will never recover from his injuries. Never.”

  “Dr. Yueh’s cyborg work will give him a chance.”

  He glowered at her, suddenly defensive. “What if the robotic enhancements don’t work? What if Rhombur doesn’t want them? Maybe he’s better off dead.”

  “If you give him to the Tleilaxu, they will never allow him a simple death.” She paused, and in a gentle tone suggested, “Perhaps you should go see him again. Look down at your friend and listen to what your heart tells you. Look at Tessia, look into her eyes. Then talk to Thufir and Duncan.”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to them, or to anyone else. I am Duke Leto Atreides!”

  “Yes, you are. And you are a man, too.” Jessica fought to control her emotions. She stroked his dark hair. “Leto, I know you’re only acting out of love, but sometimes love can guide a person in the wrong direction. Love can blind us to the truth. You’re on the wrong path, my Duke, and you know it in your heart.”

  Although he turned away from her, she did not relent. “You must never love the dead more than the living.”

  • • •

  Thufir Hawat, concerned as always, accompanied the Duke to the infirmary, where Rhombur’s life-support pod bristled with fittings for intravenous tubes, catheters, and scanners. The whir and hum of machinery filled the room, stirring the smell of chemicals.

  Hawat lowered his voice. “This can only lead to your ruin, my Duke. Accepting the Tleilaxu offer would be a betrayal, a dishonorable course of action.”

  Leto folded his arms across his chest. “You have served House Atreides for three generations, Thufir Hawat, and you dare to question my honor?”

  The Mentat pressed ahead. “The medical attendants are attempting to establish a means of communicating with Rhombur’s brain while he remains in the life-support pod. Soon he will be able to speak again, and tell you in his own words—”

  “The decision is mine to make, Thufir.” Leto’s eyes seemed darker than usual, like thunderheads. “Will you do as I ask, or must I obtain a more obedient Mentat?”

  “As you command, my Duke.” Hawat bowed. “However, it would be better to let Rhombur die now, rather than permit him to fall into the hands of the Tleilaxu.”

  By prior arrangement, Yueh’s cyborg team was scheduled to arrive soon to begin the complex process of rebuilding Rhombur part by part, establishing proper machine-body interfaces. In an amalgamation of engineering and medical technology, the Suk doctor would weave machine into tissue, and tissue into machine. New and old, hard and soft, lost abilities restored. If Leto permitted it to proceed, Dr. Yueh and his team would be playing God.

  Playing God.

  The Bene Tleilax did that, too. Using other techniques, they could bring back what had been lost, what had died. They required only a few cells, carefully preserved. . . .

  Taking a deep breath, Leto stepped to the life-support pod, where he looked down at the bandaged horror, the burned remnants of his longtime friend. He reached for the curved glass that showed the unrecognizable man inside. His fingers touched the slick surface, trembling with a strange mixture of fear and fascination. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  A cyborg. Would Rhombur hate Leto for that, or thank him? At least he would still be alive. In a manner of speaking.

  Rhombur’s body was so twisted and mangled that it no longer seemed human. Fittings had been customized for the mass of flesh and bone; narrow fragments of raw tissue lay exposed around the edges of tubings and covers. One side of the face and brain had been crushed, and only a single bloodshot eye remained . . . unfocused. The eyebrow was blond, the only suggestion that this was truly Prince Vernius.

  Never love the dead more than the living.

  Leto placed a hand on the clearplaz barrier; he saw Rhombur’s finger stubs and a heat-fusion of metal and flesh where his fire-jewel ring had once been.

  “I won’t let you down, friend,” Leto promised in a whisper. “You can count on me to do the right thing.”

  • • �
�

  In the barracks of the Atreides House Guard, two men sat at a rough wooden table, passing a bottle of pundi rice wine between them. Though initially strangers, Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho already conversed like lifelong friends. They had a great deal in common, especially an intense hatred of the Harkonnens . . . and an unbridled love for Duke Leto.

  “I’m deeply concerned about him. This ghola matter . . .” Duncan shook his head. “I do not trust gholas.”

  “Nor do I, lad.”

  “That creature would be a pale reminder of the saddest time Leto has ever experienced, without memories of its former life.”

  Gurney tilted his cup for a long, thoughtful swig of wine, then lifted his baliset from beside the table and began to strum. “And the cost— to sacrifice Rhombur! But Leto would not listen to me.”

  “Leto is not the same person I knew before.”

  Gurney stopped strumming. “And who would be . . . after all that pain?”

  • • •

  The Tleilaxu master Zaaf arrived on Caladan, accompanied by two bodyguards and hidden weapons. Haughty and self-confident, he strode up to Thufir Hawat in the main hall of Castle Caladan and looked up at the much taller Mentat.

  “I have come for the body of the boy, so that we can prepare it for our axlotl tank.” Zaaf narrowed his eyes, utterly confident that Leto would bow to their demands. “I have also made arrangements to transport the life-support pod of Rhombur Vernius back to the medical and experimental facilities on Tleilax.”

  Noting the sly upward curl of the mouth, Hawat knew that these fiends would commit atrocities upon Rhombur’s ragged body. They would experiment, grow clones from the living cells, then perhaps torture the clones as well. Eventually this terrible decision would come back to haunt Leto. Death for his friend would be preferable to that.

  The Tleilaxu representative twisted the knife deeper. “My people can do much with the genetics of both the Atreides and Vernius families. We are looking forward to many . . . options.”