Seeing what lay in store for him, Rabban tried to pull himself up by the single shackle. “This isn’t necessary, Uncle! I’ve learned—”
The rest of Rabban’s words were lost in a clatter of chain as the remaining shackle was released. The burly man fell, flailing and screaming, a long way down into the water.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had the opportunity to ask,” the Baron shouted through the opening as Rabban went under. “Can you swim?”
Kryubi’s men were stationed around the lake with rescue equipment, just in case. After all, the Baron couldn’t risk the life of his only trained heir. Though he would never admit it to Rabban, he was actually pleased at the loss of bleeding-heart Abulurd. It took guts to do what he had done to his own father— guts and ruthlessness. Good Harkonnen traits.
But I’m even more ruthless, the Baron thought as the floatcraft glided back to its landing field. I’ve just demonstrated that, to keep him from trying to kill me. “Beast” Rabban must prey only on the weak. And only when I say so.
Still, the Baron faced a much greater challenge; his body continued to decline each day. He’d been taking imported energy supplements, and they helped to keep the weakness and bloating in check— but it was becoming necessary to consume more and more pills to achieve the same benefit, with unknown side effects.
The Baron sighed. It was so difficult to medicate himself, when there weren’t any good doctors around. How many had he killed now for their incompetence? He’d lost count.
Some say that the anticipation of a thing is better than the thing itself. In my view, this is utter nonsense. Any fool can imagine a prize. I desire the tangible.
— HASIMIR FENRING, Letters from Arrakis
The confidential message came to the Residency at Arrakeen via a tortuous route from one Courier to another, Heighliner to Heighliner— as if Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica wanted to delay delivering the news to Hasimir Fenring.
Very odd, since the Tleilaxu had already delayed for twenty years.
Eager to read the contents of the cylinder, already planning a series of punishments if Ajidica dared to make more excuses, Fenring scuttled to his private study dome on the rooftop level of the mansion.
What whining lies will that little gnome tell now?
Behind shimmering shield windows that dulled the harsh edges of sunlight, Fenring went through the tedious process of decoding the message, humming to himself all the while. The Courier cylinder had been genetically keyed to his touch alone, such a sophisticated technique that he wondered if the Tleilaxu were showing off their abilities for him. The little men were not incompetent . . . merely annoying. He expected the letter to be filled with further requests for laboratory materials, more empty promises.
Even decoded, the words made no sense— and Fenring saw that they were masked by a secondary encryption. He felt a flash of impatience, then spent ten more minutes stroking the words again.
As the true text finally emerged, Fenring stared with his overlarge eyes. He blinked twice, then read Ajidica’s note again. Astounding.
His guard chief Willowbrook appeared at the doorway, curious about the important delivery. He was aware of the Count’s frequent plots and secret work for Shaddam IV, but knew not to ask too many questions. “Would you like me to summon a light lunch, Master Fenring?”
“Go away,” Fenring said without looking over his shoulder, “or I will have you assigned to the Harkonnen headquarters in Carthag.”
Willowbrook left promptly.
Fenring sat back with the message in his hands, flash-memorized every word, and then destroyed the tough paper. He would very much enjoy relaying the news to the Emperor. At last. His thin lips curled in a smile.
Even before the death of Shaddam’s father, this plan had been set in motion. Now, after decades, that work had finally come to fruition.
“Count Fenring, we are pleased to report that the final sequence of development appears to meet our expectations. We are confident that Project Amal has succeeded, and the next round of rigorous tests will prove it. We expect to go into full-scale production within a few months.
“Soon, the Emperor will have his own inexpensive and inexhaustible supply of melange— a new monopoly that will place the great powers of the Imperium at his feet. All spice-harvesting operations on Arrakis will become irrelevant.”
Trying to suppress his satisfied grin, Fenring stepped to the window and gazed out onto the dusty streets of Arrakeen, at the impossible aridity and heat. In the masses of people, he picked out blue-uniformed Harkonnen troops, brightly-attired water merchants and grimy spice crews, haughty preachers and ragged beggars, an economy based solely on one commodity. Spice.
Soon, none of that would matter to anyone. Arrakis, and natural melange, would become an obsolete historical curiosity. No one would care about this desert planet anymore . . . and he could move on to other, more important things.
Fenring drew a long, deep breath. It would be good to get off this rock.
Though death will cancel it, life in this world is a glorious thing.
— DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
A man should not have to attend the funeral of his own child.
Standing erect on the bow of the Atreides funeral barge, Duke Leto wore a formal white uniform, stripped of all insignia to symbolize the loss of his only son. At his side, Jessica had draped herself in a black Bene Gesserit robe, but it could not hide her beauty.
Behind them a cortege of boats followed the funeral barge, all of them decked in colorful flowers and ribbons to celebrate the life of a boy whose days had been cut tragically short. Atreides soldiers lined the decks of the escort boats, holding ceremonial metal shields that flashed when the sun broke through the cloud-scudded sky.
Sadly, Leto gazed past the gilded hawk prow, shading his eyes to look across the waters of Caladan. Victor had loved the oceans. In the distance, where the sea faded into the curved horizon, Leto saw flickering storms and bright sky-sparkles, perhaps a congregation of elecrans come to usher the lad’s soul to a new place beneath the waves. . . .
For generations of Atreides, life itself had been revered as the ultimate blessing. The Atreides counted what a man did when he was alive— events he could experience with clarity and enjoy with all of his senses. A person’s accomplishments held far more significance than any shadowy afterlife. The tangible was more important than the intangible.
Oh, how I miss you, my son.
In the brief years he had shared with Victor, he’d tried to instill strength in the boy, just as his own father had done for him. Each person must have the ability to rely on himself, to help his comrades but never to lean on them too much.
I need all my strength today.
A man should not have to attend the funeral of his own child. The natural order had been disrupted. Though Kailea had not been his wife, and Victor had not been the official ducal heir, Leto could not think of a more terrible thing to befall a person. Why had he been the one to survive, the one to endure the knowing, the awful sense of loss?
The cortege of boats set course for the coral gem beds far offshore, where Leto and Rhombur had gone diving years ago, where Leto would have taken his own son one day. But Victor hadn’t been given enough time; Leto could never fulfill all the promises he’d made to the boy, both in words and in his heart. . . .
The Atreides funeral barge rose several tiers high, an impressive floating monument. On the top level, giant kabuzu shell cressets, fifteen meters tall, burned whale oil. Up there Victor’s body lay in a golden coffin surrounded by his favorite things— a stuffed Salusan bull toy, a feathered vara lance with a rubber tip, filmbooks, games, seashells he had collected from the shore. Representatives of many Great Houses had also sent wrapped gifts. The baubles and keepsakes nearly engulfed the child’s tiny, preserved body.
Bright flowers, green-and-black pennants, and long ribbons decorated the gilded tiers. Donated paintings and artists’ renderings depicted a proud D
uke Leto holding his newborn son high overhead, then later teaching the boy how to bullfight . . . fishing with him on one of the docks . . . protecting him from the attack of the elecran. Other images showed Victor on his mother’s lap, doing school lessons, or running while holding a whistle-kite by its string. And then, poignantly, several empty panels, left blank to represent what Victor had not done in his life and never would.
Reaching the reefs, crewmen set anchors to keep the barge in place. The boats took up positions encircling the funeral barge; Duncan Idaho piloted a small motorboat around to the bow and tied up alongside.
Atreides soldiers began clanging their ceremonial shields in a mounting crescendo that carried across the waves. Duke Atreides and Jessica stood together with their heads bowed. The brisk wind blew in their faces, stinging Leto’s eyes, ruffling Jessica’s dark robe.
After a long moment the Duke straightened and drew a deep breath of sea air to drive back a tide of tears. He looked up at the top level of the barge, where his son lay. A shaft of bright sunlight flashed on the golden coffin.
Slowly, Leto raised his hands to the heavens.
The clashing of shields ceased, and a hush fell over the assemblage. Waves lapped against the boats, and far overhead a lone seabird called. The engine of Duncan Idaho’s motorboat purred steadily.
In one of the Duke’s hands he held a transmitter, which he activated. The flaming cressets tipped in toward Victor and poured burning oil over his coffin. Within seconds the top level of the wooden barge caught on fire.
Duncan helped Jessica into the motorboat, then Leto joined them. They untied from the funeral barge and drifted away as the roaring fire grew brighter and hotter.
“It is done,” Leto said, not taking his eyes from the flames while Duncan maneuvered the boat into position in the circle of larger boats.
As the Duke watched his son’s funeral pyre consume the entire barge in a splash of yellow-and-orange light, he murmured to Jessica, “I can never again think fondly of Kailea. Now you alone provide the strength I need to survive.” He had already sent his regrets to Archduke Armand Ecaz declining the offer of marriage to his daughter Ilesa— at least for the time being— and the Archduke had quietly withdrawn the offer.
Deeply touched by his words, Jessica promised herself that she would never press Leto for a commitment that he was not willing to offer. It was enough that she had the trust of the Duke she loved. And you are my only man, she thought to herself.
She dared not let the Sisterhood know about the baby boy she carried in her womb, not until it was too late for them to interfere. Mohiam had given her explicit instructions, without explaining the Bene Gesserit’s grand plans for the daughter Jessica had been ordered to bear.
But Leto wanted another son so badly. . . . After the funeral she would tell him she was pregnant— and no more. He deserved to at least know that, so that he could hope for another son.
As they drifted away from the rising flames on the funeral barge, Duke Leto felt determination strengthen his heart. Though he believed in Jessica, trusted and deeply loved her, he had too many scars from the tragedies, and knew he must always maintain a dignified distance.
His father had taught him this, that an Atreides Duke always lived in a different world from his women. As the leader of a Great House, Leto’s primary obligation was to his people, and he could not allow himself to get too close to anyone.
I am an island, he thought.
FAMILY TREE
Praise for the Dune novels of Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson
DUNE: HOUSE HARKONNEN
“The second Dune series is proving to be more accessible and just as entertaining as the original.”
—The Oregonian
“Extraordinarily well-developed and continually fascinating.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Each action lays another stone in the remarkable construct of the world of Dune.”
—Booklist
“Entertaining . . . page-turning . . . Dune fans will enjoy visiting familiar places and encountering familiar characters.”
—Contra Costa Times
DUNE: HOUSE ATREIDES
“Rich interweaving of politics and plotting made the Dune novels special. And Dune: House Atreides does its predecessors justice.”
—USA Today
“A spirited and entertaining adventure . . . The real pleasure here comes from watching the authors lay out the plot threads that will converge in Dune.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“The . . . authors have woven a web of plots and ideas every bit as complex and compelling as the original Dune novels.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“The attendant excitement and myriad revelations not only make this novel a terrific read in its own right but will inspire readers to turn, or return, to its great predecessor.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Dune: House Atreides is a terrific prequel, but it’s also a first-rate adventure on its own. Frank Herbert would surely be delighted and proud of this continuation of his vision.”
— Dean Koontz
“Written in a style so close to the original that it is hard to believe Frank Herbert did not direct it through some mysterious genetic link . . . I can’t wait for the sequel.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“[The authors’] research and passion for the material have served them well. . . . Dune: House Atreides captures the essence of Dune while illuminating further the workings of Frank Herbert’s universe.”
—The Seattle Times
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition. NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
DUNE: HOUSE HARKONNEN
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published October 2000
Bantam export edition published December 2000
Bantam mass market edition/September 2001
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2000 by Herbert Limited Partnership.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-39804
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v1.0
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Maps
When the sandstorm came howling up . . .
On oil-soaked Giedi Prime . . .
The ferret-faced man . . .
Grinning with pride . . .
On the rugged shore . . .
Monotonous days . . .
Is this truly a special child? . . .
A contingency plan . . .
The Tleilaxu invaders . . .
Luxury is for the noble-born . . .
The years had been unkind . . .
Beneath a black security hood . . .
Before the next meeting . . .
D'murr, a voice said . . .
After descending from the orbiting Heighliner . . .
From an interior balcony . . .
Baron Harkonnen had to pay . . .
Even surrounded by other villagers . . .
When Duncan Idaho arrived . . .
In a meditation alcove . . .
Within the ice-choked arctic circle . . .
As the moon rose . . .
In all his devious dealings . . .
A beautiful woman . . .
The next island . . .
Deep beneath the city grottoes . . .
In the ornate mummer's portico . . .
As the arrogant-looking witch . . .
For Jessica it was like . . .
With good humor . . .
Transport ornithopters . . .
In an effort to understand . . .
Eighteen months had passed . . .
As far as Rabban was concerned . . .
For four years . . .
After Leto became a father . . .
It was said among the Fremen . . .
For all his wiles and schemes . . .
The waves played a slow lullaby . . .
Baron Harkonnen hobbled . . .
If he was to rescue his sister . . .
As armed men led . . .
Out here, we Fremen . . .
This is how we test humans . . .
When the ducal wingboat . . .
In the rainy late morning . . .
Rabban's slaughter . . .
On an overcast morning . . .
The secret shipment of explosives . . .
From the balcony . . .
Four months after the avalanche . . .
Liet-Kynes and Warrick spent an evening . . .
Even two years in a Harkonnen slave pit . . .
One evening, Duke Leto . . .
Breathless with anticipation . . .
At the heighliner construction site . . .
After he recovered . . .
For a year and a half . . .
Late afternoon on yet another Ginaz island . . .
At the underground Xuttuh spaceport . . .
Intentionally, Gurney Halleck brok . . .
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 67