“Could something be incorrect in the mating index?” Mother Superior said, averting her eyes from the baby. “Or is this an aberration?”
“Genetics is never certain, Mother Superior,” Anirul said, taking a step away from the baby. Her confidence was gone, but she tried not to make excuses. She ran a nervous hand over her close-cropped bronze hair. “The projections are correct. I’m afraid the bloodline simply didn’t cooperate . . . this time.”
Mother Superior looked around the room at the doctors, the other Sisters. Every comment, every move would be recorded and stored in Wallach IX archives— as well as in Other Memory— for perusal by later generations. “Are you suggesting we try again with the Baron himself? He wasn’t exactly the most cooperative of subjects.”
Anirul smiled faintly. What an understatement. “Our projections give us the highest probability. It must be Baron Harkonnen, and it must be Mohiam. Thousands of years of careful selection have led to this point. We have other options, but none as good as this one . . . and so we must try again.” She tried to sound philosophical. “Other mistakes have occurred along the way, Mother Superior— we cannot let one failure bring about the end of the entire program.”
“Of course not,” Harishka snapped. “We must contact the Baron again. Send our best and most persuasive representative while Mohiam recovers.”
Anirul stared at the child on the table. Exhausted now, the infant lay silent, tiny hands flexing, legs kicking. The baby couldn’t even maintain sustained periods of crying. Not hardy breeding stock.
At the doorway arch, Mohiam struggled to sit up on her recovery table, peering with bright eyes at the newborn. Instantly noting the deformity, the weakness, she moaned and fell back on the sheets.
Trying to comfort her, Mother Superior Harishka came over to the table. “We need your strength now, Sister, not your despair. We will make certain you get another chance with the Baron.” She folded her arms across her chest, and with a rustling of her robe departed from the birthing room, followed by her aides.
• • •
In his balcony chambers at Harkonnen Keep, the Baron admired himself naked in the mirror, as he frequently liked to do. There were many mirrors in his extensive apartment wing, and plenty of light, so that he might constantly enjoy the perfection of form that Nature had bestowed upon him. He was lean and muscular, with good skin tone— especially when his male lovers took the time to rub perfumed oils into every pore. He feathered his fingers over the washboard ridges on his abdomen. Magnificent.
No wonder the witches had requested that he breed with them a second time. He was, after all, extraordinarily beautiful. With their breeding programs, they would naturally desire the best stock. His first child by that warthog Mohiam must have been so perfect that they wanted another. Though he loathed the prospect, he asked himself if that was truly so horrible.
But he wished he knew how his offspring fit into the long-term plans of those devious, secretive women. They had multiple breeding programs, and no one but a Bene Gesserit seemed to understand any of them. Could this be used to his advantage somehow . . . or did they intend to turn the daughter against him at a later date? They had been careful not to provide any bastard heirs, thus avoiding dynastic squabbles, not that he much cared anyway. But what was in it for him? Even Piter de Vries had been at a loss to offer an explanation.
“You have not given us your response, Baron,” Sister Margot Rashino-Zea said from behind him. She seemed not to show any discomfort whatsoever at his nakedness.
In the reflecting glass he saw the beautiful, golden-haired Sister. Did they think her beauty could tempt him, her shapeliness, her fine features? Would he rather mate with her than with the other one? Neither prospect appealed to him at all.
Representing the scheming Sisterhood, Margot had just spoken of the “need” for him to copulate a second time with the witch Mohiam. It hadn’t even been a year yet. The gall of these creatures! Margot, at least, used slippery words and a little finesse, rather than the brutish demands Mohiam had made of him that night long ago. At least the witches had sent a better mouthpiece this time.
In front of the beautiful woman, he refused to put on any clothing, especially in the wake of her request. Nude, he flaunted himself for her, but pretended not to notice. Wouldn’t that sleek beauty love to rut with someone like me.
“Mohiam was rather too plain for my tastes,” he said, finally turning to face the Sisterhood’s emissary. “Tell me, witch, was my first child a daughter, as I was promised?”
“How could it possibly make any difference to you?” Margot’s gray-green eyes remained locked on his, but he could tell she wanted to let her gaze roam over his body, his muscles and his golden skin.
“I didn’t say it made any difference, foolish woman— but I am of noble station and I asked you a question. Answer me or die.”
“The Bene Gesserit do not fear death, Baron,” Margot said, in the calmest of tones. Her serenity both irritated and intrigued him. “Yes, your first child was a girl,” she continued. “We Bene Gesserit can influence these things. A son would have been of no use to us.”
“I see. So why are you back?”
“I am not authorized to reveal more.”
“I find your Sisterhood’s second request deeply offensive. I told the Bene Gesserit never to bother me again. I could have you killed for defying me. This is my planet and my Keep.”
“Violence would not be wise.” Steady tone, with a threatening undercurrent. How could she appear so strong and monstrous in such a deceptively lovely body?
“You threatened to reveal my alleged spice stockpiles last time. Have you come up with anything new, or are you using the same old blackmail?”
“We Bene Gesserit can always provide new threats if you wish, Baron, though evidence of your fraudulent spice-production reports should still be sufficient to bring down the Emperor’s wrath.”
The Baron raised an eyebrow and finally deigned to snatch a slick black robe from his dressing chair. “I have it on certain authority that several Great Houses have their own stockpiles of melange. Some say even our own Emperor Elrood is not above the practice.”
“The Emperor is not in good humor or good health these days. He seems to be preoccupied with Ix.”
Baron Harkonnen paused to consider this. His own spies at the royal Court on Kaitain reported that old Elrood had been increasingly unstable and short-tempered of late, with signs of paranoia. His mind was going, his health was failing, and this caused him to be more vicious than ever, as evidenced by his blithely allowing the destruction of House Vernius.
“What do you think I am?” the Baron asked. “A prized Salusan bull to be put out to stud?”
He had nothing to fear, because the witches no longer had a scintilla of physical proof against him. He had scattered his stockpile of spice to deep hiding places in the isolation of Lankiveil, and ordered the destruction of every scrap of evidence from Arrakis. It had all been done expertly, by an ex-CHOAM auditor in his employ. The Baron smiled. Former employ, actually, since de Vries had already dealt with the man.
These Bene Gesserit could threaten him all they wanted, but had no real hold over him. This knowledge gave him a new power, a new way to resist.
The witch continued staring at him impertinently. He wanted to squeeze Margot’s slender throat and shut her up forever. But that wouldn’t solve his problem, even if he survived the confrontation. The Bene Gesserit would just send another, and another. He needed to teach the witches a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget.
“Send your breeding mother to me, if you insist. I shall prepare for her.” He knew exactly what he was going to do. His Mentat Piter de Vries, and probably even his nephew Rabban, would be happy to help.
“Very well. The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam will be on her way within a fortnight, Baron.” Without another word, Margot left. Her sparkling blonde hair and milky skin seemed too radiant to be contained within the drab robes of the
Sisterhood.
The Baron summoned de Vries. They had to get to work.
Without a goal, a life is nothing. Sometimes the goal becomes a man’s entire life, an all-consuming passion. But once that goal is achieved, what then? Oh, poor man, what then?
—LADY HELENA ATREIDES,
her personal journals
After his childhood years of repression on Giedi Prime, young Duncan Idaho found the lush world of Caladan a paradise. He’d been landed without a map in a city on the opposite side of the world from Castle Caladan. Janess’s friend, the second mate Renno, had discharged his obligations to the boy, then kicked the stowaway out onto the streets of a lowland spaceport.
Paying no further attention to him, the crew off-loaded their cargo of recyclables and industrial scraps and took on a fresh load of pundi rice wrapped in bags made from grain fibers. Without saying goodbye, without offering advice or even wishing Duncan well, the second mate had climbed back aboard his cargo hauler and returned to the Heighliner in orbit.
Duncan couldn’t complain: At least he had escaped from the Harkonnens. Now all he had to do was find Duke Atreides.
The boy stood there among strangers, on a strange world, watching the ship ascend into the cloudy sky. Caladan was a planet of rich and compelling smells, the air moist and laden with the salt of the sea, the sourness of fish, and the spice of wildflowers. In all his life on Giedi Prime, he had never encountered anything like it.
On the Southern Continent, the hills were steep and covered with intensely green grasses and terraced gardens hacked into the slopes like drunken stairsteps. Teams of hardworking farmers moved about under the misty yellow sun, not wealthy but still happy. Wearing old clothes, they transported fresh fruits and vegetables on suspensor-borne pallets to the marketplace.
As Duncan stared with hungry eyes at the passing farmers, one kindly old man gave him a small, overripe paradan melon, which the boy ate voraciously. Sweet moisture dripped between his fingers. It was the most delicious meal he’d ever had.
Seeing the boy’s energy as well as his desperation, the farmer asked him if he would like to return and work in the rice paddies for a few days. The old fellow offered no pay, only a place to sleep and some food. Duncan readily agreed.
On the long walk back, the boy told him the story of his battles with the Harkonnens, how his parents had been arrested and killed, how he had been chosen for Rabban’s hunt, and how he had eventually escaped. “Now I must present myself to Duke Atreides,” he said with complete faith. “But I don’t know where he is, or how to find him.”
The old farmer listened attentively, then gave a grave nod. Caladanians knew the legends of their Duke, had witnessed the greatest of his bullfights at the departure of his son Leto to Ix. The people here honored their leader, and to them it seemed fundamentally reasonable that any citizen could request an audience with the Atreides.
“I can tell you the city where the Duke lives,” the old man said. “My sister’s husband even has a map of the whole world, and I can show you. But I don’t know how you could get there. It’s very far away.”
“I’m young and strong. I can make it.”
The farmer nodded and led his visitor back to the rice paddies.
Duncan stayed four days with the man’s family, working up to his waist in flooded fields. He waded through the water, clearing channels, inserting small but hardy seedlings into the loose mud. He learned the songs and chants of the pundi rice planters.
One afternoon spotters in the low-hanging trees banged on pans, sounding an alarm. Moments later, ripples in the peaty water signaled the approach of a school of panther-fish, bog dwellers that swam in packs searching for prey. They could strip the flesh off a farmer’s bones in moments.
Duncan scrambled up one of the tangled tree trunks to join the other panicked rice farmers. He hung in the low branches, pushing Spanish moss aside as he looked down and watched the ripples approach. Beneath the water he could see large, many-fanged creatures armored with broad scales. Several of the panther-fish circled around the trunk of the swamp tree in which Duncan had taken refuge.
Some of the creatures rose up on scaled elbows, rudimentary arms with front fins that had developed into clumsy claws. With most of their bodies out of the water, the carnivorous fish stretched upward, large and deadly. They blinked wet, slitted eyes at the young man who hung just out of reach in the branches above. After a long moment of staring them down, Duncan climbed one branch higher. The panther-fish submerged again, swirling away out of sight in the sprawling rice paddies.
The following day Duncan took a spare meal the farmer’s family had packed for him and trudged off toward the coast, where he eventually found work as a net-rigger on a fishing boat that plied the waters of the warm southern seas. At least the boat would take him to port on the continent where Castle Caladan lay.
For weeks he worked the nets, gutted the fish, and ate his fill in the galley. The cook used a lot of spices that were unfamiliar to Duncan— hot Caladanian peppers and mustards that made his eyes water and his nose run. The men laughed at his discomfiture, and told him he would never be a man until he could eat food like that. To their surprise young Duncan took this as a challenge, and soon he began asking for extra seasoning. Before long he could endure meals hotter than any other crew member. The fishermen stopped teasing him and began to praise him instead.
Before the end of the voyage, a cabin boy in the next bunk did a calculation for Duncan that showed him that he was nine now, by almost six weeks. “I feel a lot older than that,” Duncan responded.
He hadn’t expected to take so long to reach his destination, but his life was better now, despite the incredibly hard work he’d taken on. He felt safe, freer in a way than he had ever felt before. The men on the crew were his new family.
Under cloudy skies the fishing boat finally reached port, and Duncan left the sea behind. He didn’t ask for pay, didn’t take his leave of the captain— he simply departed. The oceangoing sojourn was just a step along the way. Never once during his long journey did he ever deviate from his main goal of reaching the Old Duke. He took advantage of no one and worked hard for the hospitality he received.
In a dockside alley a sailor from another ship once tried to molest him, but Duncan fought back with iron-hard muscles and whip-fast reflexes. The bruised and battered predator retreated, finding this wild boy too much for him.
Duncan began hitching rides on groundtrucks and cars, and sneaked aboard tube trains and short-haul cargo ’thopters. Inexorably, he moved north on the continent, toward Castle Caladan, getting closer and closer as the months passed.
During the frequent rains, he found trees under which he could huddle. But even wet and hungry, he didn’t feel so bad, for he recalled the terrible night at Forest Guard Station, how cold he had been, how he had used a knife to cut open his own shoulder. After that, he could certainly handle these brief discomforts.
Sometimes he struck up conversations with other travelers and heard stories of their popular Duke, bits of Atreides history. Back on Giedi Prime, no one had spoken of such matters. People held their opinions to themselves and gave up no information except under duress. Here, however, the locals were happy to talk about their situation. Duncan realized with a shock one afternoon as he traveled with three entertainers that the people on Caladan actually loved their leader.
In sharp contrast, Duncan had heard only terrible stories of the Harkonnens. He knew the fear of the populace and the brutal consequences of any real or imagined defiance. On this planet, though, the people respected rather than feared their ruler. The Old Duke, Duncan was told, walked with only a small honor guard through villages and markets, visiting the people without wearing any armor, without shields or fear of attack.
Baron Harkonnen or Glossu Rabban would never dare such a thing.
I may like this Duke, Duncan thought one night, curled up under a blanket one of the entertainers had loaned him. . . .
Finall
y, after months of travel, he stood in the village at the foot of the promontory that held Castle Caladan. The magnificent structure stood like a sentinel gazing out across the calm seas. Somewhere inside it lived Duke Paulus Atreides, by now a legendary figure to the boy.
Duncan shivered from the chill of morning and took a deep breath. The fog lifted above the seacoast, turning the rising sun into a deep orange ball. He marched away from the village and started up the long, steep road to the Castle. This was where he must go.
As he walked, he did what he could to make himself presentable, brushing the dust from his clothes and tucking his wrinkled pullover shirt into his trousers. But he felt confident about himself, regardless of his appearance, and this Duke would accept him or throw him out. Either way, Duncan Idaho would survive.
When he reached the gates that led into the great courtyard, the Atreides guards tried to bar his way, thinking him a panhandler.
“I’m not a beggar,” Duncan announced with his head held high. “I have come across the galaxy to see the Duke, and I must tell him my story.”
The guards just laughed. “We can find you some scraps from the kitchen, but no more.”
“That would be very kind of you, sirs,” Duncan agreed, his stomach grumbling with hunger, “but that isn’t why I’m here. Please send a message into the Castle that”— he tried to remember the phrasing one of the traveling singers had taught him—“that Master Duncan Idaho requests an audience with Duke Paulus Atreides.”
The guards laughed again, but the boy saw grudging respect seep into their expressions. One went away and came back with some breakfast, tiny roasted eggs for Duncan. After thanking the guard, he wolfed down the eggs, licked his fingers, and sat on the ground to wait. Hours passed.
Dune: House Atreides Page 32