Now Shaddam let out a miserable groan and turned from the machine. “Why can’t the old creature just die and make it easy for me?” He covered his mouth, suddenly alarmed at what he had blurted.
Fenring paced the long floor, glancing up at the hanging banners of the Landsraad. The Crown Prince was expected to know the colors and crests of every Great and Minor House, but Shaddam had difficulty simply remembering all the family names.
“Be patient, my friend. All in its own time.” In one of the alcoves, Fenring struck a combustible spike of vanilla-scented incense and inhaled a long breath of the fumes. “In the meantime, learn about subjects that will be relevant to your reign. You’ll need such information in the near future, hmm-m-m-ah?”
“Stop making that noise, Hasimir. It’s annoying.”
“Hmmmm?”
“It irritated me when we were children, and you know it still does. Stop it!”
In the adjoining room, behind supposed privacy screens, Shaddam could hear his tutor giggling, the sounds of clothes rustling, bedsheets, skin upon skin. The tutor spent his afternoons with a willowy, achingly beautiful woman who had been sexually trained to Expert Class. Shaddam had given the girl her orders, and her ministrations kept the tutor out of the way so that he and Fenring could have private conversations— difficult enough in a palace full of prying eyes and attentive ears.
The tutor did not know, however, that the girl was intended for Elrood as a gift, a perfect addition to his harem. This little trick gave the Crown Prince a large club to wield as a threat against the bothersome teacher. If the Emperor ever found out . . .
“Learning to manipulate people is an important part of ruling,” Fenring often told him upon suggesting an idea. That much, at least, Shaddam had understood. As long as the Crown Prince listens to my advice, Fenring thought, he could become a good enough ruler, after all.
Screens displayed dull statistics of shipping resources, primary exports of major planets, holographic images of every conceivable product from the finest dyed whale-fur, to Ixian soothe-sonic tapestries . . . inkvines, shigawire, fabulous Ecazi art objects, pundi rice, and donkey dung. Everything spewed from the teaching machine like an out-of-control font of wisdom, as if Shaddam was supposed to know and remember all the details. But that’s what advisors and experts are for.
Fenring glanced down at the display. “Of all the things in the Imperium, Shaddam, what do you suppose is most important, hm-m-m-m?”
“Are you my tutor now too, Hasimir?”
“Always,” Fenring replied. “If you turn out to be a superb Emperor, it will benefit all the populace . . . including me.”
The bed in the next room made rhythmic, thought-scattering sounds.
“Peace and quiet is the most important thing.” Shaddam grumbled his answer.
Fenring tapped a key on the teaching machine. Machinery clicked, chimed, hummed. An image of a desert planet appeared. Arrakis. Fenring slid onto the bench beside Shaddam. “The spice melange. That’s the most important thing. Without it, the Imperium would crumble.”
He leaned forward, and his nimble fingers flew across the controls, calling up displays of the desert planet’s spice-harvesting activities. Shaddam glanced at footage of a giant sandworm as it destroyed a harvesting machine in the deep wastelands.
“Arrakis is the only known source of melange in the universe.” Fenring curled his hand into a fist and brought it down with a hard thump on the milky marbleplaz tabletop. “But why? With all the Imperial explorers and prospectors, and the huge reward House Corrino has offered for generations, why has no one found spice anywhere else? After all, with a billion worlds in the Imperium, it must be somewhere else.”
“A billion?” Shaddam pursed his lips. “Hasimir, you know that’s just hyperbole for the masses. The tally I’ve seen is only a million or so.”
“A million, a billion, what’s the difference, hmmmm? My point is, if melange is a substance found in the universe, we should find it in more than one place. You know about the Planetologist your father sent to Arrakis?”
“Of course, Pardot Kynes. We expect another report from him at any moment. It’s been a few weeks since the last one.” He raised his head in pride. “I’ve made a point to read them whenever they arrive.”
From the curtained side room, they heard gasping and giggling, heavy furniture sliding aside, something overturning with a thump. Shaddam allowed himself a thin smile. The concubine was well trained, indeed.
Fenring rolled his large eyes, then turned back to the teaching machine. “Pay attention, Shaddam. Spice is vital, and yet all production is controlled by a single House on a single world. The threat of a bottleneck is enormous, even with Imperial oversight and pressure from CHOAM. For the stability of the Imperium, we need a better source of melange. We should create it synthetically if we have to. We need an alternative.” He turned to the Crown Prince, his dark eyes glittering. “One that’s in our control.”
Shaddam enjoyed discussions like this much more than the tutor’s programmed learning routines. “Ah, yes! An alternative to melange would shift the entire balance of power in the Imperium, wouldn’t it?”
“Exactly! As it is, CHOAM, the Guild, the Bene Gesserit, the Mentats, the Landsraad, even House Corrino, all fight over the spice production and distribution from a single planet. But if there was an alternative, one solely in the hands of the Imperial House, your family would become true Emperors, not just puppets under the control of other political forces.”
“We are not puppets,” Shaddam snapped. “Not even my doddering father.” He flicked a nervous glance at the ceiling, as if comeyes might be hidden there, though Fenring had already run thorough scans for observational apparatus. “Uh, long may he live.”
“As you say, my Prince,” Fenring said without conceding a millimeter. “But if we put the wheels in motion now, then you will reap those benefits when the throne is yours.” He fiddled with the teaching machine. “Watch, and learn!” he said in a creaking falsetto imitation of Elrood’s ponderous pronouncements. Shaddam chuckled at the sarcasm.
The machine displayed scenes of Ixian industrial accomplishments, all the new inventions and modifications that had been made during a profitable rule by House Vernius. “Why do you think it is the Ixians can’t use their technology to find a spice alternative?” Fenring asked. “They’ve been instructed time and again to analyze the spice and develop another option for us, yet they play with their navigation machines and their silly timepieces. Who needs to tell the exact hour on any planet of the Imperium? How are those pursuits more important than the spice itself? House Vernius is an utter failure, as far as you are concerned.”
“This tutoring machine is Ixian. The annoying new Heighliner design is Ixian. So’s your high-performance groundcar and . . .”
“Off the point,” Fenring said. “I don’t believe House Vernius invests any of its technological resources in solving the alternative-spice problem. It is not a high priority for them.”
“Then my father should give them firmer guidance.” Shaddam clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look Imperial, flushed with forced indignation. “When I’m Emperor, I’ll be certain people understand their priorities. Ah, yes, I will personally direct what is most important to the Imperium and to House Corrino.”
Fenring circled the teaching machine like a prowling Laza tiger. He plucked a sugared date from a fruit tray unobtrusively displayed on a side table. “Old Elrood made similar pronouncements a long time ago, yet so far he hasn’t followed through on any of them.” He waved his long-fingered hand. “Oh, in the beginning he asked the Ixians to look into the matter. He also offered a large bounty for any explorer who found even melange precursors on uncharted planets.” He popped the date into his mouth, licked his sticky fingers, and swallowed the smooth, sweet fruit. “Still nothing.”
“Then my father should increase the reward,” Shaddam said. “He’s not trying hard enough.”
Fenring st
udied his neatly clipped nails, then raised his overlarge eyes to meet Shaddam’s. “Or could it be that old Elrood IX isn’t willing to consider all the necessary alternatives?”
“He’s incompetent, but not entirely stupid. Why would he do that?”
“Suppose someone were to suggest using . . . the Bene Tleilax, for example? As the only possible solution?” Fenring leaned against a stone pillar to observe Shaddam’s reaction.
A ripple of disgust crossed the Crown Prince’s face. “The filthy Tleilaxu! Why would anyone want to work with them?”
“Because they might provide the answer we seek.”
“You must be joking. Who can trust anything the Tleilaxu say?” He pictured the gray-skinned race, their oily hair and dwarfish stature, their beady eyes, pug noses, and sharp teeth. They kept to themselves, isolating their core planets, intentionally digging a societal ditch in which they could wallow.
The Bene Tleilax were, however, true genetic wizards, willing to use unorthodox and socially heinous methods, dealing in live or dead flesh, in biological waste. With their mysterious yet powerful axlotl tanks they could grow clones from live cells and gholas from dead ones. The Tleilaxu had a slippery, shifty aura about them. How can anyone take them seriously?
“Think about it, Shaddam. Are the Tleilaxu not masters of organic chemistry and cellular mechanics, hm-m-m-m-ah?” Fenring sniffed. “Through my own web of spies I’ve learned that the Bene Tleilax, despite the distaste with which we view them, have developed a new technique. I have certain . . . technical skills myself, you know, and I believe this Tleilaxu technique could be applicable to the production of artificial melange . . . our own source.” He fixed his bright birdlike eyes on Shaddam’s. “Or are you unwilling to consider all alternatives, and let your father maintain control?”
Shaddam squirmed, hesitating to answer. He would much rather have been playing a game of shield-ball. He didn’t like to think of the gnomelike men; religious fanatics, the Bene Tleilax were intensely secretive and did not invite guests. Heedless of how other worlds regarded them, they sent their representatives out to observe and to make deals at the highest levels for unique bioengineered products. Rumor held that no outsider had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman. Never. He thought they must be either wildly beautiful . . . or incredibly ugly.
Seeing the Crown Prince shudder, Fenring pointed a finger at him. “Shaddam, don’t fall into the same trap as your father. As your friend and advisor, I must investigate unseen opportunities, hm-m-m-m-ah? Put aside such feelings and consider the possible victory if this works— a victory over the Landsraad, the Guild, CHOAM, and the scheming House Harkonnen. How amusing to think that all the strings the Harkonnens pulled to gain Arrakis after the downfall of Richese would be for naught.”
His voice became softer, infinitely reasonable. “What difference does it make if we have to deal with the Tleilaxu? So long as House Corrino breaks the spice monopoly and establishes an independent source?”
Shaddam looked at him, turning his back on the teaching machine. “You’re sure about this?”
“No, I’m not sure,” Fenring snapped. “No one can be sure until it is done. But we must at least consider the idea, give it a chance. If we don’t, somebody else will . . . eventually. Maybe even the Bene Tleilax themselves. We need to do this for our own survival.”
“What will happen when my father hears about it?” Shaddam asked. “He won’t like the idea.”
Old Elrood never could think for himself, and Fenring’s chaumurky had already begun to fossilize his brain. The Emperor had always been a pathetic pawn, shifted around by political forces. Perhaps the senile vulture had made a deal with House Harkonnen to keep them in control of the spice production. It wouldn’t surprise Shaddam if the young and powerful Baron had old Elrood wrapped around his little finger. House Harkonnen was fabulously wealthy, and their means of influence were legion.
It would be good to bring them to their knees.
Fenring put his hands on his hips. “I can make all of this happen, Shaddam. I have contacts. I can bring a Bene Tleilax representative here without anybody knowing. He can state our case before the Imperial Court— and then if your father turns him down, we might be able to find out who’s controlling the throne . . . the trail would be fresh. Hmmm-ahh, shall I set it up?”
The Crown Prince glanced back at the teaching machine that obliviously continued to instruct a nonexistent pupil. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said impatiently, now that he had come to a decision. “Let’s not waste more time. And stop making that noise.”
“It’ll take a while for me to get all the pieces in place, but the investment will be worth it.”
From the next room came a high-pitched moan; then a thin squeal of ecstasy built higher and higher until it seemed that the walls themselves must crumble.
“Our tutor must have learned how to pleasure his little pet,” Shaddam said with a scowl. “Or perhaps she’s just faking.”
Fenring laughed and shook his head. “That wasn’t her, my friend. That was his voice.”
“I wish I knew what they were doing in there,” Shaddam said.
“Don’t worry. It’s all being recorded for your later enjoyment. If our beloved tutor cooperates with us and causes no trouble, we’ll simply watch it for amusement. If, however, he proves difficult, we’ll wait until after your father’s been given this concubine for his own private toy—then we’ll show Emperor Elrood a glimpse of those images.”
“And we’ll have what we want anyway,” Shaddam said.
“Exactly, my Prince.”
The working Planetologist has access to many resources, data, and projections. However, his most important tools are human beings. Only by cultivating ecological literacy among the people themselves can he save an entire planet.
—PARDOT KYNES,
The Case for Bela Tegeuse
As he gathered notes for his next report to the Emperor, Pardot Kynes encountered increasing evidence of subtle ecological manipulations. He suspected the Fremen. Who else could be responsible out there in the wastelands of Arrakis?
It became clear to him that the desert people must be present in far greater numbers than the Harkonnen stewards imagined— and that the Fremen had a dream of their own . . . but the Planetologist in him wondered if they had developed an actual plan to accomplish it.
While delving into the geological and ecological enigmas of this desert world, Kynes came to believe that he had the power at his fingertips to breathe life into these sun-blistered sands. Arrakis was not merely the dead lump it appeared to be on the surface; instead, it was a seed capable of magnificent growth . . . provided the environment received the proper care.
The Harkonnens certainly wouldn’t expend the effort. Though they had been planetary governors here for decades, the Baron and his capricious crew behaved as if they were unruly houseguests with no long-term investment in Arrakis. As Planetologist, he could see the obvious signs. The Harkonnens were plundering the world, taking as much melange as they could as quickly as possible, with no thought to the future.
Political machinations and the tides of power could quickly and easily shift alliances. Within a few decades, no doubt, the Emperor would hand control of the spice operations to some other Great House. The Harkonnens had nothing to gain by making long-term investments here.
Many of the other inhabitants were also indigents: smugglers, water merchants, traders who could easily pull up stakes and fly to another world, a different boomtown settlement. No one cared for the planet’s plight— Arrakis was merely a resource to be exploited, then discarded.
Kynes thought the Fremen might have a different mind-set, though. The reclusive desert dwellers were said to be fierce to their own ways. They had wandered from world to world in their long history, been downtrodden and enslaved before making Arrakis their home— a planet they had called Dune since ancient times. These people had the most at stake here. They would suffer the consequences caused by the explo
iters.
If Kynes could only enlist Fremen aid— and if there were as many of these mysterious people as he suspected— changes might be made on a global scale. Once he accumulated more data on weather patterns, atmospheric content, and seasonal fluctuations, he could develop a realistic timetable, a game plan that would eventually sculpt Arrakis into a verdant place. It can be done!
For a week now, he had concentrated his activities around the Shield Wall, an enormous mountain range that embraced the northern polar regions. Most inhabitants settled in rocky guarded terrain where, he supposed, the worms could not go.
To see the land up close, Kynes chose to travel slowly in a one-man groundcar. He puttered around the base of the Shield Wall, taking measurements, collecting specimens. He measured the angle of strata in the rocks to determine the geological turmoil that had established such a mountainous barrier.
Given time and meticulous study, he might even find fossil layers, limestone clumps with petrified seashells or primitive ocean creatures from the planet’s much wetter past. Thus far, the subtle evidence for primordial water was clear enough to the trained eye. Uncovering such a cryptozooic remnant, though, would be the keystone of his treatise, incontrovertible proof of his suspicions. . . .
Early one morning Kynes drove in his trundling groundcar, leaving tracks on loose material that had eroded from the mountain wall. In this vicinity all villages, from the largest to the most squalid settlements, were carefully marked on the charts, undoubtedly for purposes of Harkonnen taxation and exploitation. It was a relief to have accurate maps for a change.
He found himself near a place called Windsack, the site of a Harkonnen guard station and troop barracks that lived in an uneasy alliance with the desert dwellers. Kynes continued along, rocking with the uneven terrain. Humming to himself, he stared up at the cliffsides. The putter of his engines served as a lullaby, and he lost himself in thought.
Then, as he came over a rise and rounded a finger of rock, he was startled to encounter a small, desperate battle. Six muscular, well-trained soldiers stood in full Harkonnen livery, cloaked in body-shields. The bravos held ceremonial cutting weapons, which they were using to toy with three Fremen youths they had cornered.
Dune: House Atreides Page 16