Dune: House Atreides

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “It is my sad duty to inform you that the Lady Shando— branded as a renegade and traitor by Emperor Elrood IX— has been tracked down and, in accordance with Imperial decree, executed by Sardaukar on Bela Tegeuse. All members of her entourage have also been killed.”

  Rhombur, looking as if the wind had been knocked from him, slumped in shock onto the polished marble step beside the ducal chair. Kailea, who had watched the entire proceedings in silence, now sobbed. Tears spilled unchecked from her emerald eyes. She leaned against a wall, pounding a stone pillar with a fragile fist until blood blossomed from her hand.

  Helena looked at her son with sadness and nodded. “You see, Leto? Another punishment. I was right. The Ixians and all those who assist them are cursed.”

  Giving his mother a look of hatred, Leto snapped to the guards, “Please take my mother to her chambers and instruct her servants to pack for a long journey.” He fought to keep his voice from trembling. “I believe the stress of recent days requires that she take a quiet rest, someplace far, far from here.”

  In adverse circumstances, every creature becomes something else, evolving or devolving. What makes us human is that we know what we once were, and— let us hope— we remember how to change back.

  —AMBASSADOR CAMMAR PILRU,

  Dispatches in Defense of Ix

  The hiding chamber’s silent alarm system woke him again. Damp with sweat from recurring nightmares, C’tair sat bolt upright, ready to fight and fend off the invaders hunting for him.

  But the Bene Tleilax hadn’t found this place yet, though they had come close, using their damnable scanners. His transmission-shielded bolt-hole was equipped with an automatic internal monitor that should have operated for centuries without trouble, but the fanatical investigators used technology-scanning devices to detect the operation of unapproved machines. Sooner or later they would catch him.

  Working with quiet efficiency, he scrambled to shut everything down: all the lights, ventilation, heating elements. Then he sat in the stifling utter darkness, sweating, waiting. He heard nothing except his own breathing. No one pried at the concealed door. Nothing.

  After a long time, he allowed himself to move.

  The random scanners would cause serious harm to his shield’s ability to continue hiding him and his stockpile. C’tair knew he had to steal one of the devices. If he could analyze how the Tleilaxu technology worked, he might set up a system to counter its effects.

  Most mornings, the halls and public rooms of the former Grand Palais (now a Tleilaxu government office building) were empty. C’tair slipped out of a concealed access shaft and into a storage room near the main corridor. From there, it was only a short distance to a lift tube that led straight out of the building, across to other stalactite structures, and even down to the lower levels. He could keep moving, keep up appearances— and keep himself alive. But his chances would be better if he could foil the technology scanners.

  The routine investigator might still be in this facility, or the man might have already moved to a different level. C’tair sprinted out on the hunt, listening, watching corridor lights, creeping along. He had already learned all the secrets of this part of the building.

  Although C’tair carried a stun-pistol and a lasgun at his side, he feared that Tleilaxu sensor nets would detect their use. Then dedicated teams would be sent out specifically to find him. That was why he held a long, sharp blade in one hand. It would be efficient and silent. The best choice.

  Setting up his trap, he finally spotted a balding, pinch-faced Tleilaxu man who approached down the hallway. With two hands he held a little screen that spewed the hues and patterns of fireworks. The investigator was so intent on the readings he did not at first notice C’tair— until the dark-haired man raced forward with the knife blade extended.

  C’tair wanted to shout his hatred, scream out a challenge, but he only hissed instead. The Tleilaxu man’s mouth dropped open in an O to reveal little white teeth like pearls. Before the investigator could cry out, C’tair had slashed his throat.

  The man tumbled to the floor in a spray of blood, but C’tair caught the scanning device before it could strike the hard surface. He stared hungrily at the scanner, barely noticing his dying enemy’s convulsions as a slowing lake of blood spread across the ornate, polished tiles of what formerly had been the Grand Palais of House Vernius.

  C’tair felt no remorse whatsoever. He had already committed plenty of crimes for which he would be executed if the fanatics ever got hold of him. What did one more matter, so long as his conscience was clear? How many people had the Tleilaxu annihilated? How much Ixian history and culture had their takeover destroyed? How much blood did they already owe?

  Moving quickly, C’tair dragged the body into the access shaft that led up to his secret quarters inside the solid rock, then cleaned up the leftover blood. Exhausted, sticky with crusting red liquid, C’tair froze for a moment as a flash of his former life pierced his hardened conscience. Looking down at his bloody hands, he wondered what the delicate and lovely Kailea Vernius would think if she saw him now. Every time they had known they would see her, C’tair and his brother had taken extraordinary care to groom themselves properly, wear dashing clothes, add a dab of cologne.

  He spared just an instant to mourn what the Tleilaxu had forced him to become . . . and then wondered if Kailea had been changed as well, by whatever ordeals she had endured. He realized he didn’t even know if she was still alive. C’tair swallowed hard.

  But he wouldn’t survive long, either, if he didn’t erase the evidence of his crime and disappear back into his hiding chamber.

  The Tleilaxu investigator was surprisingly heavy for his size, suggesting a dense bone structure. He dumped the gray-skinned body into a nullentropy bin; the sun would burn out in the Ixian sky before the corpse began to rot.

  After wiping himself clean and changing his clothes, C’tair set to work on the primary task at hand. He eagerly took the stolen scanner back to his workbench.

  It was fairly easy to figure out how to operate the unit. Its controls were rudimentary: a black touch pad and an amber screen that identified machines and technological traces. Markings were in a Tleilaxu code language, which he deciphered easily by speaking the words into a decrypter he had smuggled into the shielded room during the first frantic days after the takeover.

  Understanding the innards of the Tleilaxu scanner posed a far more difficult problem. C’tair had to work with extreme caution because of the probable existence of a proprietary antitampering system that could melt down interior parts. He didn’t dare take a tool to the scanner and attempt to pry it open. He would have to use passive methods.

  Again he wished the spirit of old Rogo might reappear to provide valuable advice. C’tair felt very much alone in this all-but-forgotten room, and at times had to fight off the temptation to feel sorry for himself. He found strength in the realization that he was doing something extremely important. The future of Ix might rest on what covert battles he managed to win.

  He had to survive and keep his hiding place intact, since his protective cocoon housed the important transspace communicator. Before long, he might also find a way of locating the survivors of House Vernius and render valuable assistance to them. Perhaps he was the only survivor who could liberate his beloved world.

  And to protect the shielded room, C’tair needed to figure out the damnable Tleilaxu scanner. . . .

  Finally, after days of frustration, he used a sounding device in the hope of creating a reflected schematic of the scanner’s interior. To his surprise something clicked. He set the scanner down on the workbench and backed away. Then, approaching again to examine the device closely, C’tair found that a seam had opened on one side. He applied pressure on each side of the split and pulled.

  The scanner opened without exploding or melting down. Before his delighted eyes he discovered not only the guts of the unit, but also a pin-activated holoprojector that caused a User Guide image to app
ear in the air— a dapper holo-man happy to explain everything about the scanner.

  Helpful and cheery, the User Guide had no concerns about a competitor stealing the technology of the unit, since it depended upon the rare and precious “Richesian mirror,” which no outsider had been able to duplicate. Constructed of unknown minerals and polymers, such mirrors were thought to contain geodome prisms within prisms.

  As C’tair studied the scanner, he grudgingly admired its construction, and for the first time suspected Richesian involvement in the plot against Ix. The hatreds were long-standing, and Richesians would have gladly assisted in the destruction of their chief rivals. . . .

  Now C’tair had to use his own intuitive knowledge, the scraps of components, and this Richesian mirror to create a disabling device to block the scanner. After repeated queries to the annoyingly solicitous Guide, he began to unravel a solution. . . .

  • • •

  The evening meeting with the black marketers had been nerve-wracking again, with many frightened glances over his shoulder, but what choice did C’tair have? Only these illicit traders had been able to procure the few components he needed for his scan-blocker.

  Finally, after making his purchases, he returned to the quiet building overhead, using a biometric ID scrambler card to trick the entrance station into thinking he was a Tleilaxu technician. As he rode the lift tube up through the former Grand Palais toward his hiding room, C’tair thought of the numerous drawings he had left scattered across his workbench. He was eager to return to work.

  When he stepped out into the corridor, though, C’tair realized he had arrived on the wrong floor. Instead of windowless doors and storage rooms, this level held a number of offices separated by clear plaz. Dull orange night-lights burned in the offices; bold, ominous signs on the doors and windows were written in an unknown Tleilaxu language.

  He paused, recognizing the place. He hadn’t gone far enough up into the solid rock layers. Once, he thought angrily, these rooms had been conference chambers, ambassadorial offices, meeting rooms for members of the Court of Earl Vernius. Now they looked so . . . so functional.

  Before he could retreat, C’tair heard something on his left— a clank of metal and a scuffing noise— and ducked back toward the lift tube to return to his own floor. Too late. He’d been seen.

  “You there, stranger!” a shadowy man called out in Ixian-accented Galach. “Come out where we can see you.” Probably one of the collaborators— an Ixian turncoat who had sold his soul to the enemy at the expense of his own people.

  Fumbling with his bioscram card, C’tair trembled at hearing the heavy sounds of approaching boots. He swiped the card through the lift-control reader. More voices called out. He expected weapons fire at any moment.

  After an interminable instant, the lift tube opened— but as he dashed through the doorway, C’tair accidentally dropped the bag containing the parts he had just purchased. No time to retrieve it.

  With a muttered curse he dived into the lift and ordered the correct floor in a harsh, commanding whisper. Just in time, the door clicked shut, and the sound of voices faded. He worried that the guards might disable the lift or call in Sardaukar— so he needed to exit quickly. It seemed to take forever to reach his floor.

  The door opened, and C’tair peered out carefully, looking right and left. No signs of anyone here. Reaching back into the lift tube, he programmed it to stop at four other floors, then sent it off empty to soar even higher into the crustal passages.

  Seconds later, C’tair stood sweating in the sanctuary of his shielded chamber, thankful to have escaped with his life, but angry at himself for his carelessness. He had lost the precious components, and also given the Tleilaxu a clue as to what he had been up to.

  Now they would be looking for him specifically.

  We all live in the shadows of our predecessors for a time. But we who determine the fate of planets eventually reach the point at which we become not the shadows, but the light itself.

  —PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO,

  Discourses on Leadership

  As an official member of the Federated Council of Great and Minor Houses, Duke Leto Atreides embarked on a Heighliner and traveled to Kaitain for the next Landsraad meeting. Wearing his formal mantle off-planet for the first time, he thought he had recovered enough from the loss of his father to make a major public appearance.

  After Leto had made his decision to attend, Thufir Hawat and several other Atreides protocol advisors had locked themselves with him in Castle meeting rooms to give him crash courses in diplomacy. The advisors hovered around him like stern teachers, insisting that he be brought up to speed on all the social, economic, and political factors a Duke must take into account. Harsh glowglobes lit the stone-walled room, while a sea breeze drifted in through the open window, bringing with it the sound of crashing waves and screaming gulls. Despite the distractions, Leto attended to the lectures.

  For his turn, the new Duke had insisted that Rhombur sit beside him during the training sessions. “One day he will need to know all these things, when his House is restored,” Leto had said. Some advisors had looked skeptical, but they did not argue.

  As he departed from Cala City Spaceport, accompanied only by Thufir Hawat as his escort and confidant, Leto’s counselors had warned him against rash behavior. Leto had pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “I understand,” he said, “but my sense of honor drives me to do what I must do.”

  By ancient tradition it was Leto’s right to appear in the Landsraad forum and put forth his demand. A demand for justice. As the new Duke, he had an agenda, and enough anger and youthful naÏveté to believe he just might succeed, no matter what his advisors might tell him. Sadly, though, he remembered the few times when his father had petitioned the Landsraad; Paulus had always returned home red-faced, expressing scorn and impatience at the bumbling bureaucracy.

  But Leto would start fresh, with high hopes.

  Under the eternally sunny skies of Kaitain, the massive Landsraad Hall of Oratory stood high and imposing, the tallest peak in a mountain range of legislative edifices and government offices surrounding an ellipsoidal commons. The Hall had been erected by contributions from all the Houses, each noble family trying to outdo the others in grandeur. Representatives from CHOAM had helped to procure resources from across the Imperium, and only by special order of a former Emperor— Hassik Corrino III— had the exorbitant Landsraad construction plans been curtailed, so as not to overshadow the Imperial Palace itself.

  Following the nuclear holocaust on Salusa Secundus and the relocation of the Imperium’s seat of government, everyone had been anxious to establish an optimistic new order. Hassik III had wanted to show that even after the near obliteration of House Corrino, the Imperium and its business would continue at a more exalted level than ever before.

  Banners of the Great Houses rippled like a rainbow of dragon scales along the outer walls of the Landsraad Hall. Standing there in the glittering commons surrounded by towering metal-and-plaz buildings, Leto was hard-pressed to locate the green-and-black flag of House Atreides, but finally found it. The purple-and-copper colors of House Vernius had been taken down and publicly burned.

  Thufir Hawat stood beside the young Duke. Leto longed for the presence of his friend Rhombur, but it was not yet safe for the exiled Ixian Prince to leave the sanctuary of Caladan. Dominic Vernius still had not emerged from hiding, even following reports of Shando’s death; Leto knew the sharp-eyed man would be mourning in his own way. And plotting revenge . . .

  In any case, Leto would have to do this himself. His father would have expected no less of him. So, under the bright Kaitain sunshine, he squared his shoulders, thought of his family history and all that had occurred since the dark days of Atreus, and fixed his gaze forward. He marched ahead along the flagstoned streets, not allowing himself to feel small in the face of the Landsraad’s grandeur.

  As they entered the Hall of Oratory in the company of other family r
epresentatives, Leto spotted the colors of House Harkonnen, with its pale blue griffin symbol. Just looking at the banners, he could name a few other families: Houses Richese, Teranos, Mutelli, Ecaz, Dyvetz, and Canidar. In the center of all the flags hung the much larger Imperial banner of House Corrino, in striking scarlet and gold with its central lion symbol.

  The fanfare surrounding his entrance, and that of the other arriving representatives, was deafening and constant. As the men and a few women entered, a crier announced each person’s name and position. Leto saw only a few true nobles; most arrivals were Ambassadors, political leaders, or paid sycophants.

  Even though he himself carried a royal title, Leto did not feel powerful or important. After all, what was the Duke of a mid-level House compared with even the prime minister of one of the wealthy families? Though he controlled the economy and population of Caladan and the other holdings of Atreides, many Great Houses held dominion over far more wealth and worlds. He envisioned himself for a moment as a small fish among sharks, then quashed such thoughts before they could diminish his confidence. The Old Duke had never allowed him the luxury of feeling small.

  In the enormous Hall he wondered where he might find the empty seats formerly occupied by House Vernius; he took only small satisfaction in knowing that, though they now held Ix, the Bene Tleilax would never receive any such honors. The Landsraad would not allow despised Tleilaxu representatives into this exclusive club. Normally Leto would have had no patience for such wholesale prejudice, but in this case he made an exception.

  As the Council meeting commenced with interminable formalities, Leto took his seat in a plush black-and-maroon booth along one side, similar to those provided for the dignitaries of other Houses. Hawat joined him, and Leto watched the business unfold, eager to learn, ready to do his part. But he had to wait until his name was called.