Dune: House Atreides

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Ah, so this is our young visitor!” Dominic effused with blustery good humor. Crow’s-feet became laugh lines around his bright brown eyes. His facial construction looked very much like that of his son Rhombur, except the fat he carried had set into ruddy folds and creases, and his dark bushy mustache made for a striking frame around white teeth. Earl Dominic was several centimeters taller than his son. The Earl’s features were not narrow and hard like the Atreides and Corrino bloodlines, but came instead from a lineage that had been ancient at the time of the Battle of Corrin.

  Behind him came his wife Shando, former concubine of the Emperor, dressed in a formal gown. Her finely chiseled features, delicately pointed nose, and creamy skin suffused her appearance with a regal beauty that would have shone through even the most drab of garments. She looked slight and delicate at first glance, but carried a toughness and resilience about her.

  Beside her, their daughter Kailea seemed to be trying to outshine even her mother in a brocaded lavender dress that set off copper-dark hair. Kailea looked a little younger than Leto, but she walked with a studied grace and concentration, as if she dared not let formality or appearances slip. She had thin arched eyebrows, striking emerald eyes, and a generous, catlike mouth above a narrow chin. With the faintest of smiles, Kailea executed an extravagant and perfect curtsy.

  Leto nodded and responded to each introduction, trying to keep his eyes from the Vernius daughter. Hurriedly going through the motions his mother had drilled into him, Leto snapped open the seal on one of his suitcases and removed a heavy jeweled box, one of the Atreides family treasures. Holding it, he stood erect. “For you, Lord Vernius. This contains unique items from our planet. I also have a gift for Lady Vernius.”

  “Excellent, excellent!” Then, as if impatient with overblown ceremony, Dominic accepted the gift and motioned for a servant to come and take it. “I’ll enjoy its contents this evening, when there is more time.” He rubbed his broad hands together. This man seemed to belong more in a smoky blacksmith’s shop or on a battlefield than in a fancy palace. “So, did you have a good trip to Ix, Leto?”

  “Uneventful, sir.”

  “Ah, the best kind of trip.” Dominic laughed easily.

  Leto smiled, not certain how best to make a good impression on this man. He cleared his throat, embarrassed to confess his concerns and worries. “Yes, sir, except I thought I was abandoned when the Guild left me on your planet and I saw only wilderness.”

  “Ah! I asked your father not to mention that to you— our little prank. I did the same to him on his first visit here. You must have imagined yourself good and lost.” Dominic beamed with pleasure. “You look rested enough, young man. At your age, space lag isn’t much of a factor. You left Caladan, what, two days ago?”

  “Less than that, sir.”

  “Amazing how quickly Heighliners can span great distances. Positively incredible. And we’re making improvements in Heighliner design, enabling each ship to carry a larger payload.” His booming voice made the accomplishments seem even more grandiose. “Our second construction is to be completed later today, another triumph for us. We’ll take you through all the modifications we’ve made, so you can learn them as part of your apprenticeship here.”

  Leto smiled, but already his head felt as if it might explode. He didn’t know how much more new input he could absorb. By the time the year was up, he would be a different person entirely.

  There are weapons you cannot hold in your hands. You can only hold them in your mind.

  —Bene Gesserit Teaching

  The Bene Gesserit shuttle descended to the dark side of Giedi Prime, landing in the well-guarded Harko City spaceport just before midnight, local time.

  Concerned about what the damned witches wanted from him now that he had come home from the desert hellhole of Arrakis, the Baron went to a shielded upper balcony of Harkonnen Keep to watch the lights of the arriving craft.

  Around him, the monolithic blackplaz-and-steel towers shone garish lights into the smoke-smeared darkness. Walkways and roads were covered by corrugated awnings and filtered enclosures to protect pedestrians from industrial waste and acid rain. Given a little more imagination and attention to detail during its construction, Harko City could have been striking. Instead, the place looked stricken.

  “I have the data for you, my Baron,” said a nasal but sharp voice behind him, as close as an assassin.

  Startled, the Baron turned, flexing his well-muscled arms. He scowled. The gaunt-robed form of his personal Mentat, Piter de Vries, stood at the doorway to the balcony.

  “Don’t ever sneak up on me, Piter. You slither like a worm.” The comparison brought to mind his nephew Rabban’s desert hunting expedition and its embarrassing results. “Harkonnens kill worms, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” de Vries answered dryly. “But sometimes moving silently is the best way to acquire information.” A wry smile formed on his lips, which were stained red from the cranberry-colored sapho juice Mentats drank in order to increase their abilities. Always seeking physical pleasures, curious to experiment with additional addictions, the Baron had tried sapho himself, but found it to be bitter, vile stuff.

  “It’s a Reverend Mother and her entourage,” de Vries said, nodding toward the lights of the shuttle. “Fifteen Sisters and acolytes, along with four male guards. No weapons that we could detect.”

  De Vries had been trained as a Mentat by the Bene Tleilax, genetic wizards who produced some of the Imperium’s best human computers. But the Baron hadn’t wanted a mere data-processing machine with a human brain— he’d wanted a calculating and clever man, someone who could not only comprehend and compute the consequences of Harkonnen schemes, but who could also use his corrupt imagination to assist the Baron in achieving his aims. Piter de Vries was a special creation, one of the infamous Tleilaxu “twisted Mentats.”

  “But what do they want?” the Baron muttered, gazing at the landed shuttle. “Those witches seem damned confident coming here.” His own blue-uniformed troops marched out like a wolf pack before any of the passengers emerged from the ship. “We could erase them in an instant with our most trivial House defenses.”

  “The Bene Gesserit are not without weapons, my Baron. Some say they themselves are weapons.” De Vries raised a thin finger. “It’s never wise to incur the wrath of the Sisterhood.”

  “I know that, idiot! So, what’s the Reverend Mother’s name and what does she want?”

  “Gaius Helen Mohiam. As to what she wants . . . her Sisterhood has refused to say.”

  “Damn them and their secrets,” the Baron grumbled, as he spun about on the plaz-enclosed balcony. He strode toward the corridor to go meet the shuttlecraft.

  Piter de Vries smiled after him. “When a Bene Gesserit speaks, she often does so in riddles and innuendos, but her words also hold a great deal of truth. One simply needs to excavate it.”

  The Baron responded with a deep grunt, kept going. Intensely curious himself, Piter followed.

  On the way, the Mentat reviewed his knowledge of these black-robed witches. The Bene Gesserit occupied themselves with numerous breeding schemes, as if farming humanity for their own obscure purposes. They also commanded one of the greatest storehouses of information in the Imperium, using their intricate libraries to look at the broad movements of peoples, to study the effects of one person’s actions amidst interplanetary politics.

  As a Mentat, de Vries would have loved to get his hands on that storehouse of knowledge. With such a treasure trove of data he could make computations and prime projections— perhaps enough to bring down the Sisterhood itself.

  But the Bene Gesserit allowed no outsiders into their archives, not even the Emperor himself. Hence there wasn’t much on which even a Mentat could base his calculations. De Vries could only guess at the arriving witch’s intentions.

  • • •

  The Bene Gesserit liked to manipulate politics and societies in secret, so that few people could trace the exact
patterns of influence. Nevertheless, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam knew how to plan and execute a spectacular entrance. With black robes swishing, flanked by two immaculately dressed male guards and followed by her troop of acolytes, she strode into the reception hall of the ancestral Harkonnen Keep.

  Seated at a gleaming blackplaz desk, the Baron waited to receive her, accompanied by his twisted Mentat, who stood on one side with a few handpicked personal guards. To exhibit his utter contempt and lack of interest for these visitors, the Baron wore a sloppy, casual robe. He had prepared no refreshments for them, no fanfare, no ceremony whatsoever.

  Very well, Mohiam thought, perhaps it’s best we keep this encounter a private matter anyway.

  In a strong, firm voice she identified herself, then took one step closer to him, leaving her entourage behind. She had a plain face that showed strength rather than delicacy— not ugly, but not attractive either. In profile her nose, while unremarkable from the front, was revealed to be overlong. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, my Sisterhood has business to discuss with you.”

  “I’m not interested in doing business with witches,” the Baron said, resting his strong chin on his knuckles. His spider-black eyes looked the assemblage over, assessing the physiques and physical appearance of her male guards. The fingers of his free hand tapped a nervous rhythm against his thigh.

  “Nevertheless, you will hear what I have to say.” Her voice was iron.

  Seeing the blustering rage building within the Baron, Piter de Vries stepped forward. “Need I remind you, Reverend Mother, where you are? We did not invite you to come here.”

  “Perhaps I should remind you,” she snapped at the Mentat, “that we are capable of running a detailed analysis of all Harkonnen spice-production activities on Arrakis— the equipment used, the manpower expended, compared with spice production actually reported to CHOAM, as opposed to our own precise projections. Any anomalies should be quite . . . revealing.” She raised her eyebrows. “We’ve already done a preliminary study, based upon firsthand reports from our”— she smiled—“sources.”

  “You mean spies,” the Baron said, indignantly.

  She could see that he regretted these words as soon as they were uttered, for they hinted at his culpability.

  The Baron stood up, flexing his arm muscles, but before he could counter Mohiam’s innuendo, de Vries interjected, “Perhaps it would be best if we made this a private meeting, just between the Reverend Mother and the Baron? There’s no need to turn a simple conversation into a grand spectacle . . . and matter of record.”

  “I agree,” Mohiam said quickly, assessing the twisted Mentat with a glint of approval. “Why don’t we adjourn to your chambers, Baron?”

  He pouted, his generous lips forming a dark rose. “And why should I take a Bene Gesserit witch into my private quarters?”

  “Because you have no choice,” she said in a low, hard voice.

  In shock, the Baron mused at her audacity, but then he laughed out loud. “Why not? We can’t get any less pretentious than that.”

  De Vries watched them both with narrowed eyes. He was reconsidering his suggestion, running data through his brain, figuring probabilities. The witch had jumped too quickly at the idea. She wanted to be alone with the Baron. Why? What did she have to do in private?

  “Allow me to accompany you, my Baron,” de Vries said, already strutting toward the door that would take them through halls and suspensor tubes to the Baron’s private suite.

  “This matter is best kept between the Baron and myself,” Mohiam said.

  Baron Harkonnen stiffened. “You don’t command my people, witch,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

  “Your instructions then?” she asked, insolently.

  A moment’s hesitation, and: “I grant your request for a private audience.”

  She tipped her head in the slightest of bows, then glanced behind her at her acolytes and guards. De Vries caught a flicker of her fingers, some sort of witch hand signal.

  Her birdlike eyes locked on to his, and de Vries drew himself up as she said, “There is one thing you can do, Mentat. Be so kind as to make certain my companions are welcomed and fed, since we won’t have time to stay for pleasantries. We must return posthaste to Wallach IX.”

  “Do it,” Baron Harkonnen said.

  With a look of dismissal toward de Vries, as if he were the lowest servant in the Imperium, she followed the Baron out of the hall. . . .

  Upon entering his chambers, the Baron was pleased to note that he had left his soiled clothes in a pile. Furniture lay in disarray, and a few red stains on the wall had not been sufficiently scrubbed. He wanted to emphasize that the witch did not deserve fine treatment or a particularly well-planned welcome.

  Placing his hands on his narrow hips, he squared his shoulders and raised his firm chin. “All right, Reverend Mother, tell me what it is you want. I have no time for further word games.”

  Mohiam released a small smile. “Word games?” She knew that House Harkonnen understood the nuances of politics . . . perhaps not the kindhearted Abulurd, but certainly the Baron and his advisors. “Very well, Baron,” she said simply. “The Sisterhood has a use for your genetic line.”

  She paused, relishing the look of shock on his hard face. Before he could splutter a response, she explained carefully chosen parts of the scenario. Mohiam herself didn’t know the details or the reasons; she simply knew to obey. “You are no doubt aware that for many years the Bene Gesserit have incorporated important bloodlines into our Sisterhood. Our Sisters represent the full spectrum of noble humanity, containing within us the desirable traits of most of the Great and Minor Houses in the Landsraad. We even have some representatives, many generations removed, of House Harkonnen.”

  “And you want to improve your Harkonnen strain?” the Baron asked, warily. “Is that it?”

  “You understand perfectly. We must conceive a child by you, Vladimir Harkonnen. A daughter.”

  The Baron staggered backward, then chuckled as he brushed a tear of mirth from his eyes. “You’ll have to look elsewhere, then. I have no children, nor is it likely I’ll ever have any. The actual procreation process, involving women as it does, disgusts me.”

  Knowing full well the Baron’s sexual preferences, Mohiam made no response. Unlike many nobles, he had no offspring, not even illegitimate ones lurking among planetary populations.

  “Nevertheless, we want a Harkonnen daughter, Baron. Not an heir, or even a pretender, so you need not worry about any . . . dynastic ambitions. We have studied the bloodlines carefully and the desired mix is quite specific. You must impregnate me.”

  The Baron’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Why, under all the moons of the Imperium, would I want to do that?” He raked his gaze up and down her body, dissecting her, sizing her up. Mohiam was rather plain-looking, her face long, her brown hair thin and unremarkable. She was older than he, near the end of her childbearing years. “Especially with you.”

  “The Bene Gesserit determine these things through genetic projections, not through any mutual or physical attraction.”

  “Well, I refuse.” The Baron turned about and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go away. Take your little slaves with you and get off Giedi Prime.”

  Mohiam stared at him for a few more moments, absorbing the details of his chambers. Using Bene Gesserit analytical techniques, she learned many things about the Baron and his personality from the way he maintained this odorous private warren, a space that was not groomed and decorated for the view of formal visitors. He unknowingly exhibited a wealth of information about his inner self.

  “If that is your wish, Baron,” she said. “My shuttle’s next stop will be Kaitain, where we have a meeting already scheduled with the Emperor. My personal data library on the ship contains copies of all the records that give evidence of your spice-stockpiling activities on Arrakis, and documentation of how you have altered your production deliberately to hide your private stores from CHOAM and Hous
e Corrino. Our preliminary analysis contains enough information to initiate a full-scale Guild bank audit of your activities and revocation of your temporary CHOAM directorship.”

  The Baron stared back at her. An impasse, neither of them budging. But he saw behind her eyes the truth in her words. He did not doubt the witches had used their diabolical intuitive methods to determine exactly what he had done, how he had been making a secret fool out of Elrood IX. He also knew that Mohiam would not hesitate to follow through with her threat.

  Copies of all the records . . . Even destroying this ship would do no good. The infernal Sisterhood obviously had other copies elsewhere.

  The Bene Gesserit probably had blackmail material on Imperial House Corrino as well, perhaps even embarrassing data on the important but surreptitious dealings of the Spacing Guild and the powerful CHOAM Company. Bargaining chips. The Sisterhood was good at learning the weaknesses of potential enemies.

  The Baron hated the Hobson’s choice she gave him, but he could do nothing about it. This witch could destroy him with a word, and in the end still force him to give her his bloodline.

  “To make things easier on you, I have the ability to control my bodily functions,” Mohiam said, sounding reasonable. “I can ovulate at will, and I guarantee that this unpleasant task will not need to be repeated. From a single encounter with you, I can guarantee the birth of a girl-child. You need not worry about us again.”

  The Bene Gesserit always had plans afoot, wheels within wheels, and nothing with them was ever as clear as it seemed. The Baron frowned, running through the possibilities. With this daughter they wanted so badly, did the witches— in spite of their denials— intend to create an illegitimate heir and claim House Harkonnen in the following generation? That was preposterous. He was already grooming Rabban for that position, and no one would question it.

  “I . . .” He fumbled for words. “I need a moment to consider this, and I must speak with my advisors.”