“I have advised the Duke against this course of action.” Hawat knew he must face Leto’s wrath, but old Paulus had often said, “Any man— even the Duke himself— must choose the welfare of House Atreides over his own.”
Hawat would offer his resignation from service, if necessary.
At that moment Leto walked into the room, looking more self-confident than the Mentat had seen him for many weeks. Gurney Halleck and Jessica followed him. With an inexplicable strength showing on his face, the Duke looked at Hawat, then bowed slightly in formal diplomatic greeting to the Tleilaxu Ambassador.
“Duke Atreides,” Zaaf said, “it is possible this business arrangement can bridge the gulf between your House and my people.”
Leto looked down his hawkish nose at the little man. “Unfortunately, that bridge will never be built.”
Hawat readied himself as the Duke stepped forward, close to Zaaf. Gurney Halleck also looked ready for murder. He exchanged uneasy glances with Hawat and Jessica. When the Tleilaxu bodyguards tensed, the warrior Mentat made ready for a quick, bloody battle in the large echoing chamber.
With a scowl, the Tleilaxu representative said, “Are you reneging on our agreement?”
“I made no agreement to break. I have decided that your price is too high, for Rhombur, for Victor, and for my own soul. Your trip here has been in vain.” The Duke’s voice remained strong and firm. “There will be no ghola made of my firstborn son, and you will not have my friend, Prince Vernius.”
Stunned, Thufir, Gurney, and Jessica looked on.
Leto’s face had an impenetrable hardness, and a new resolve. “I understand your continued, petty desire for revenge against me, even though the Trial by Forfeiture exonerated me of all charges. I have sworn that I did not attack your ships inside the Heighliner, and the word of an Atreides is worth more than all the laws in the Imperium. Your refusal to believe me shows your own foolishness.”
The Tleilaxu man appeared outraged, but Leto continued with a sharp, cold voice that stopped Zaaf before he could utter a sound. “I have learned the explanation behind the attack. I know who did it, and how. But since I have no tangible proof, informing you would accomplish nothing. The Bene Tleilax have no interest in the truth, anyway— only in the price you can extract from me. And I will not pay it.”
At a whistle from Hawat, the ever-alert Atreides House Guard rushed in and took control of the Tleilaxu bodyguards, while Gurney and Hawat stepped forward on either side of a spluttering Master Zaaf.
“I’m afraid we do not require the services of the Tleilaxu. Not today, not ever,” Leto said, and then turned, dismissing him rudely. “Go home.”
Hawat took great pleasure in escorting the indignant man out of the Castle.
The individual is shocked by the overwhelming discovery of his own mortality. The species, however, is different. It need not die.
— PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer
Of all the ecological demonstration projects Pardot Kynes had established, the sheltered greenhouse cave at Plaster Basin was his favorite. With his lieutenant Ommun and fifteen hard-working Fremen followers, Kynes summoned an expedition to visit the site.
Though it wasn’t on his regular schedule of plantings or inspections, Pardot simply wanted to see the cave with the running water, hummingbirds, moisture dripping from ceiling rock, fresh fruit, and bright flowers. It all represented his vision of Dune’s future.
The group of Fremen took a worm east across the sixty-degree line that surrounded the northern inhabited areas. In his long years here, Kynes had never learned to become a sandrider, so Ommun rigged up a palanquin for him. The Planetologist rode like an old woman but without embarrassment; he had nothing to prove.
Once, long ago, when Liet had been only a year old, Pardot had taken his wife Frieth and their child to Plaster Basin. A woman who rarely displayed amazement or outright wonder, Frieth had been dumbstruck when she first saw the greenhouse cave, the thick foliage, the flowers and birds. Just before that, though, on the way up the rugged mountainside to the hidden cavern, they had been attacked by a Harkonnen patrol. Frieth, thinking fast and using her Fremen training, had saved the lives of her husband and son.
Kynes paused in his plodding procession of thoughts and scratched his beard, wondering if he had ever thanked her for that. . . .
Since the day of his son’s wedding to Faroula, when Liet had chastised him for his distraction and unintentional coldness, Kynes had done a great deal of thinking, assessing what he had accomplished in his life: his years on Salusa Secundus and Bela Tegeuse, his astonishing summons to Elrood’s Court at Kaitain, his two decades here as Imperial Planetologist. . . .
He had spent his career delving into explanations, seeing the convoluted tapestry of the environment. He understood the ingredients, from the power of water and sun and weather to organisms in the soil, plankton, lichens, insects . . . how it was all connected to human society. Kynes understood how the pieces fit, at least in general terms, and he was among the best Planetologists in the Imperium. He’d been called a “world reader,” selected for this most important assignment by the Emperor himself.
And yet how could he consider himself a detached observer? How could he stand apart from the complex web of interactions that ran each planet, each society? He was himself a piece of the grand scheme, not an impartial experimenter. There could be no “outside” to the universe. Scientists had known for thousands of years that an observer affects the outcome of an experiment . . . and Pardot Kynes himself had certainly affected the changes on Dune.
How could he have forgotten that?
After Ommun helped him to dismount from the worm within walking distance of Plaster Basin, they led him to the black-and-greenish ridge that enclosed the cave. Kynes imitated their random-walk motions until his legs ached. He would never truly be a Fremen, unlike his son. Liet had all the knowledge of planetology his father had given him, but the young man also understood Fremen society. Liet was the best of both worlds. Pardot only wished the two of them got along better.
Taking broad strides, Ommun led the way up the rugged slope. Kynes had never been able to see the actual trail in the rocks, but tried to place his boots in the same crannies, on the same flat stones, as his lieutenant did.
“Quickly, Umma Kynes.” Ommun reached down with his hand. “We must not tarry here in the open.”
The day was hot, the sun blistering the cliffside— and he remembered running for shelter from a Harkonnen patrol with Frieth, long ago. How many years had it been?
Kynes stepped up onto a broad ledge and then around an elbow of brown rock until he saw the camouflaged entrance seal that prevented moisture loss from the cave. They stepped through.
Kynes, Ommun, and the fifteen Fremen stood inside, stomping their temag boots and shaking off windblown dust from their days of travel across the desert. Automatically, Kynes yanked the nose plugs from his nostrils; the other Fremen did the same, inhaling extravagant breaths of the moisture and plants. He let his eyes fall half-closed, smelled the ambrosia of blooming flowers and fruits and fertilizers, of thick green leaves and dispersed pollens.
Four of the Fremen helpers had never been there before, and they rushed forward like pilgrims reaching a long-sought shrine. Ommun looked around, sniffing deeply, proud to have been part of this sacred project from the beginning. He tended Kynes like an old mother, making certain the Planetologist had everything he needed.
“These workers will replace the team already here,” Ommun said. “We have smaller shifts now, because this place has survived— as you said it would. Plaster Basin is an ecosystem of its own. Now we are required to do less work to keep it healthy.”
Kynes smiled proudly. “As it should be. One day all of Dune will be like this, self-sustaining and self-renewing.” He laughed, a short burst of sound. “Then what will you Fremen do to keep yourselves busy?”
Ommun’s nostrils flared, callused from perpetually wearing nose plugs. “This is not
yet our world, Umma Kynes. Not until we rid it of the hated Harkonnens.”
Kynes blinked and nodded. He’d given little thought to the political aspect of the process. He had seen this only as an ecological problem, not a human one. Yet another thing he had missed. His son was right. The great Pardot Kynes had tunnel vision, seeing far into the future along a certain path . . . but missing all the hazards and distractions along the way.
He had done the important ecological work, though. He had been the prime mover, starting what he hoped would be a planetwide avalanche of change. “I’d like to see this entire world caught up in a net of plants,” he said. Ommun made a wordless sound of agreement: Anything the prophet Kynes said was important and worth remembering. They strolled deeper into the moist cavern to view the gardens.
The Fremen knew their duties, and they would continue the plantings, even if it took centuries. Through the geriatric qualities of their melange-filled diet, some of the younger ones might actually see the grand plan come to fruition; Kynes was satisfied just to observe the indications of change.
The Plaster Basin project was a metaphor for all of Dune. His plan was now so firmly established in the Fremen psyche that it would continue even without his guidance. These hardy people had been infected by the dream, and the dream would not die.
From now on, Kynes would be little more than a figurehead, the prophet of ecological transformation. He smiled softly to himself. Perhaps now he could make time to see the people around him, get to know his wife of twenty years, and spend more time guiding his son. . . .
Deep inside the cave, he examined dwarf trees laden with lemons, limes, and the sweet round oranges known as portyguls. Ommun walked beside him, looking over the irrigation systems, the fertilizers, the progress of the plantings.
Kynes remembered showing Frieth the portyguls when he’d first brought her here, and the look of pleasure on her face when she tasted the honey-sweet orange flesh. It had been one of the most marvelous experiences in her entire life. Now Kynes stared at the fruit and knew he would have to take some of them back for her.
When was the last time I brought her a gift? He couldn’t remember.
Ommun went over to the limestone walls, touching them with his fingers. The chalky rock was soft and wet, unaccustomed to so much dampness. With his keen eyes, he followed disturbing traceries along the wall and ceiling, fracture lines that should not have been there.
“Umma Kynes,” he said. “These cracks concern me. The integrity of this cave is . . . suspect, I believe.”
As the two of them watched, one of the cracks grew visibly, jagging left and then right in a fine black lightning bolt.
“You’re right. The water is probably making the rock expand and settle over . . . how many years now?” The Planetologist raised his eyebrows.
Ommun calculated. “Twenty, Umma Kynes.”
With a popping, shattering sound, a crack spread across the ceiling . . . and then others, in a chain reaction. The Fremen workers looked up in fear, then glanced over at Kynes, as if the great man could somehow avert disaster.
“I believe we should get everyone out of the cave. Now.” Ommun took the Planetologist’s arm. “We must evacuate until we are sure this is safe.”
Another loud boom sounded deep within the mountain, a grinding of rock as broken slabs shifted and tried to find a new stable point. Ommun tugged at the Planetologist, while the other Fremen scurried toward the exit.
But Kynes hesitated, pulling his arm free of his lieutenant’s grasp. He had promised himself to give Frieth some of the ripe portyguls, to show her that he did indeed love and appreciate her . . . despite his inattentiveness for many years.
He hurried to the small tree, and plucked some of the orange fruit. Ommun rushed back to take him away. Kynes cradled the portyguls against his chest, very glad that he had remembered to do this one important thing.
• • •
Stilgar brought the news to Liet-Kynes.
In her sietch quarters, Faroula was sitting at a table with her young son Liet-chih, cataloging the jars of herbs she had gathered over the years, sealing the pots with resin and verifying the potency of the substances. On a bench near his new wife and adopted child, Liet-Kynes read through a purloined document that detailed the location of Harkonnen spice and military stockpiles.
Stilgar held back the privacy curtain, waited like a statue. He stared at the far wall, not blinking his deep blue eyes.
Immediately, Liet sensed something was wrong. He had fought beside this man, raided Harkonnen supplies, killed enemies. When the Fremen commando did not speak, Liet stood. “What is it, Stil? What’s happened?”
“Terrible news,” the man finally answered, his words like cold lead dropping heavily onto the ground. “Your father, Umma Kynes, has been killed in a cave-in at Plaster Basin. He and Ommun and most of the work crew were trapped when the ceiling collapsed. The mountain fell on them.”
Faroula gasped. Liet found that all words had been stolen from him. “But that can’t be,” he finally said. “He had more work left to do. He had—”
She dropped one of her small jars. It shattered, spilling powdered green leaves in a pungent splash pattern across the worn floor. “Umma Kynes has died among the plants that were his dream,” she said.
“A fitting end,” Stilgar said.
For some time, Liet was speechless. Thoughts whirled in his head, memories and wishes as he listened to his wife and Stilgar, and knew that the labors of Pardot Kynes must continue.
The Umma had trained his disciples well. Liet-Kynes himself would proceed with the vision. From what Faroula had just said, he could already see how the story of the prophet’s tragic death, his martyrdom, would be passed from Fremen to Fremen. And it would grow with each retelling.
A fitting end, indeed.
He remembered something his father had told him, “The symbolism of a belief can survive far longer than the belief itself.”
Stilgar said, “We could not collect the water of the dead for our tribe. Too much dirt and rock covered the bodies. We must leave them in their tomb.”
“As it should be,” Faroula said. “Plaster Basin shall be a shrine. Umma Kynes died with his lieutenant and his followers, giving his body’s water to the planet he loved.”
Stilgar narrowed his eyes and looked down his chiseled nose at Liet. “We will not let the Umma’s vision die with him. You must continue his work, Liet. The Fremen will listen to the Umma’s son. They will follow your commands.”
In a daze, Liet-Kynes nodded, wondering if his mother had already been told the news. Trying to be brave, he straightened his shoulders as the deeper implications penetrated his mind. Not only would he continue to be the emissary for the Fremen in the terraforming project . . . now he had an even greater, more far-reaching responsibility. His father had filed the appropriate documents long ago, and Shaddam IV had approved them without comment.
“I am the Imperial Planetologist now,” he announced. “By my vow, the transformation of Dune will continue.”
The man faced with a life-and-death decision must commit himself, or he will remain caught in the pendulum.
— From “In My Father’s House,” by the Princess Irulan
The statue of Leto’s paternal great-grandfather, Duke Miklos Atreides, stood tall in the courtyard of the Cala City Hospital, stained by time and moss and guano. As Leto passed the serene visage of an ancestor he had never known, he nodded in habitual respect, then hurried up a set of wide marblecrete stairs.
Though he limped slightly, Leto was substantially recovered from his physical injuries. Once again, he was able to face each day without the smothering blackness of despair. By the time he reached the uppermost floor of the medical building, he was hardly winded at all.
Rhombur was awake.
The Duke’s personal physician, who had continued to treat Rhombur until the impending arrival of the cyborg team, greeted him. “We have begun to communicate with the Prince, m
y Lord Duke.”
White-coated medical attendants stood around the life-support pod and its elaborate tubes, injection bags, and blood-purification pumps. Machinery hummed and whirred, as it had for months. But it was different now.
Stopping Leto before he could rush forward, the doctor said, “There was, as you know, severe trauma to the right side of the Prince’s head, but the human brain is a remarkable instrument. Already Rhombur’s cerebellum has shifted control functions to new regions. Information is flowing through the neural pathways. I believe this will make the work of the cyborg team considerably easier.”
Tessia leaned over the coffin-shaped pod, stared inside. “I love you, Rhombur— you never needed to worry about that.”
In response, synthesized, humming words droned from a speakerbox. “I . . . love . . . you . . . too . . . And . . . always . . . will.” The words were distinct and precise, unmistakable but with a pause between each, as if Rhombur still hadn’t accustomed himself to the speech process.
The Duke stared, transfixed. How could I have even considered giving you over to the Tleilaxu?
The sleek pod lay open, revealing Rhombur’s scarred lump of skin and bone, bristling with tubes, wires, and connections. The doctor said, “At first we could only speak to him by using an Ixian code . . . pulses and taps. But now, we’ve managed to link the voice synthesizer up to his speech center.”
The Prince’s remaining eye was open, showing life and awareness. For long moments Leto stared into Rhombur’s nearly unrecognizable face, and he could think of nothing to say.
What is he thinking? How long has he known what happened to him?
Synthesized words poured out of the speaker beside the pod. “Leto . . . friend . . . How . . . are . . . coral . . . gem . . . beds . . . this . . . year? Have . . . you . . . been . . . diving . . . lately?”
Almost giddy with relief, Leto chuckled. “Better than ever, Prince— we’ll go out again together . . . soon.” Suddenly a wash of tears stung his eyes. “I’m sorry, Rhombur— you don’t deserve anything but the truth.”
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 65