Innovations seem to have a life and a sentience of their own. When conditions are right, a radical new idea— a paradigm shift— may appear simultaneously from many minds at once. Or it may remain secret in the thoughts of one man for years, decades, centuries . . . until someone else thinks of the same thing. How many brilliant discoveries die stillborn, or lie dormant, never to be embraced by the Imperium as a whole?
—OMBUDSMEN OF RICHESE, Rebuttal to the Landsraad,
The True Domain of the Intellect—
Private Property, or Resources for the Galaxy?
The tube transport dropped its two passengers into the depths of Harkonnen Keep and then, with programmed precision, shot them across an access rail.
The capsule, with the Baron and Glossu Rabban inside, raced toward the swarming morass of Harko City, a smoky blot on the landscape where buildings crowded together. To the Baron’s knowledge, there was no detailed map of the city’s underworld, since it continued to grow like a fungus. He wasn’t sure exactly where they were going.
While scheming against the Atreides, he had insisted that Piter de Vries find extensive yet confidential laboratory space and fabrication facilities in the armpit of Harkonnen influence. The Mentat said he’d done so, and the Baron didn’t ask further questions. This tube transport, dispatched by de Vries, was taking them there.
“I want to know the whole plan, Uncle,” Rabban said, fidgeting next to him in the compartment. “Tell me what we’re going to do.”
Up front in the piloting cubicle, a deaf-mute vehicle specialist hurried them along. The Baron paid no attention to the dark and blocky buildings flashing by, the clouds of exhaust and residue spilling from the factories. Giedi Prime produced sufficient goods to pay for itself, and tidy sums came in from the whale-fur trade on Lankiveil and mineral excavation on various asteroids. The really big profits for House Harkonnen, however— dwarfing all the others combined— were from spice exploitation on Arrakis.
“The plan, Rabban, is simple,” he answered finally, “and I intend to offer you a key part in it. If you can handle it.”
His nephew’s heavy-lidded eyes lit up, and his thick lips twisted his generous mouth into a grin. Surprisingly, he knew enough to remain quiet and wait for the Baron to continue. Maybe, eventually, he’ll learn. . . .
“If we succeed in this, Rabban, our fortunes will increase dramatically. Better still, we can take personal satisfaction in knowing that we have at last ruined House Atreides, after all these centuries of feuding.”
Rabban rubbed his hands in delight, but the Baron’s black stare became harder as he continued. “If you fail, however, I’ll see to it that you’re transferred back to Lankiveil, where you’ll be trained any way your father wishes— complete with sing-alongs and the recitation of poems about brotherly love.”
Rabban glowered. “I won’t fail, Uncle.”
The tube car arrived at an armored high-security laboratory, and the deaf-mute motioned for them to exit the vehicle. The Baron couldn’t have found his way back to Harkonnen Keep if his life had depended upon it.
“What is this place?” Rabban asked.
“A research establishment,” the Baron said, waving him forward. “One where we are preparing a nasty surprise.”
Rabban marched ahead, eager to see the facility. The place smelled of solder and waste oils, blown fuses, and sweat. From the cluttered, open floor, Piter de Vries came up to greet them, stained lips smiling. His mincing footsteps and slithery, jerky movements gave him the demeanor of a lizard.
“You’ve had weeks here already, Piter. This had better be good. I told you not to waste my time.”
“Not to worry, my Baron,” the Mentat answered, gesturing for them to come deeper into the building’s high bay. “Our pet researcher Chobyn has outdone himself.”
“And I always thought Richesians were better at cheap imitations than actual innovations,” Rabban said.
“There are exceptions everywhere,” the Baron said. “Let’s see what Piter has to show us.”
Filling most of the chamber was what de Vries had secretly promised the Baron: a modified Harkonnen warship, 140 meters in diameter. Sleek and highly polished, this craft had been used to good effect in conventional battles to strike hard and escape quickly. Now it had been converted according to Chobyn’s exacting specifications, with the tail fins trimmed, the engine replaced, and a section of the troop cabin cut away to make room for the required technology. All records of the craft’s existence had been expunged from Harkonnen ledgers. Piter de Vries was good at manipulations like that.
A rotund man with a bald pate and steel-gray goatee emerged from the engine compartment of the attack ship, stained with grease and other lubricants.
“My Baron, sir, I’m pleased you have come to see what I’ve accomplished for you.” Chobyn tucked a tool into the pocket of his overalls. “Installation is complete. My no-field will operate perfectly. I’ve synchronized it with the machinery of this ship.”
Rabban rapped his knuckles on the hull near the cockpit. “Why is it so big? This hulk is large enough to carry an armored groundcar unit. How are we going to do any secret work with this?”
Chobyn raised his eyebrows, not recognizing the burly young man. “And you are . . . ?”
“This is Rabban, my nephew,” the Baron said. “He raises a valid question. I asked for a small stealth ship.”
“This is the tiniest I could make it,” Chobyn answered with a huff. “A hundred and forty meters is the smallest cloak of invisibility the no-field generator can project. The constraints are . . . incredible. I—”
The inventor cleared his throat, suddenly impatient. “You must learn to think beyond your preconceptions, sir. Realize what we have here. Naturally, the invisibility more than makes up for any diminished maneuvering capability.” He wrinkled his brow again. “What difference does the size make, if no one can see it anyway? This attack craft will still fit easily inside the hold of a frigate.”
“It will do, Chobyn,” the Baron said. “If it works.”
De Vries scuttled back and forth along the length of the ship. “If no one knows to look for the ship, Rabban, you won’t be in any danger. Imagine the chaos you can create! You’ll be like a killer ghost.”
“Oh, yes!” Rabban paused as realization flooded across his face. “Me?”
Chobyn closed an access hatch behind the engines. “Everything is simple and functional. The ship will be ready by tomorrow when you depart for the Padishah Emperor’s coronation.”
“I have verified it, my Baron,” de Vries said.
“Excellent,” the Baron said. “You have proven yourself most valuable, Chobyn.”
“I’m going to pilot it?” Rabban said again, as if he still couldn’t believe the idea. His voice cracked with excitement. Baron Harkonnen nodded. His nephew, despite his shortcomings, was at least an excellent pilot and an excellent shot, along with being the Baron’s heir apparent.
The inventor smiled. “I believe I made the correct choice in coming to you directly, Baron. House Harkonnen has immediately seen the possibilities of my discovery.”
“When the new Emperor learns of this, he’ll demand a no-ship for himself,” Rabban pointed out. “He might even send the Sardaukar in to take it away from us.”
“Then we must make sure Shaddam doesn’t find out. At least not yet,” Piter de Vries replied, rubbing his hands together.
“You must be a brilliant man, Chobyn,” the Baron said. “Coming up with all this.”
“Actually, I just adapted a Holtzman field to our uses. Centuries ago Tio Holtzman’s mathematics were developed for shields and foldspace engines. I simply carried the principles several steps further.”
“And now you expect to become wealthy beyond your wildest dreams?” the Baron mused.
“Deservedly so, would you not agree, Baron?” Chobyn said. “Look what I’ve done for you. If I’d stayed on Richese and gone through channels, I would have had to endure year
s of legalities, title searches, and patent investigations, after which my government would have taken the lion’s share of profit derived from my own invention— not to speak of the imitators who would set to work once they got wind of what I was doing. A minor adjustment here, another there, and then someone else has a different patent, one that accomplishes essentially the same thing.”
“So you kept it a secret until you came to us?” Rabban said. “No one else knows of the technology?”
“I’d have been foolish to tell anyone else. You have the only no-field generators in the universe.” Chobyn crossed his arms over his stained jumpsuit.
“Perhaps for the time being,” the Baron said, “but the Ixians were a clever lot, and so are the Tleilaxu. Sooner or later someone else will have something like this, if they don’t already.”
Rabban maneuvered himself closer to the unwary Richesian.
“I see your point, Baron,” Chobyn said, with a shrug. “I am not a greedy man, but I would like to profit from my own invention.”
“You are a wise man,” the Baron said, flashing a meaningful glance at his burly nephew. “And deserve to be paid in full.”
“It’s good to keep secrets about important things,” Rabban chimed in.
He stood directly behind the rotund inventor, who beamed at the praise and wiped his hands on his pant legs.
Rabban moved swiftly, like a whiplash, wrapping his muscular forearm around Chobyn’s neck, then squeezed tightly like a vise. The inventor gasped but could make no other sound. Rabban’s face reddened with the strain as he pulled back with his arm until he was rewarded with the loud crack of a crushed spine.
“We must all be more careful with our secrets, Chobyn,” the Baron muttered, smiling. “You haven’t been careful enough.”
Like a broken doll, Chobyn collapsed with only a rustle of his clothes to the oil-stained floor. Rabban had been so forceful that Chobyn gurgled no death rattle, gasped out no final curses.
“Was that wise, my Baron?” de Vries asked. “Shouldn’t we have tested the ship first, to make sure we can reproduce the technology?”
“Why? Don’t you trust our inventor . . . the late Chobyn?”
“It works,” Rabban said. “Besides, you’ve had him under comeye surveillance, and we have the detailed plans and holorecordings he made during the construction process.”
“I’ve already taken care of the workers,” the Mentat said, nodding in agreement. “No chance for leaks there.”
Rabban smiled greedily. “Did you save me any of them?”
De Vries gave a jittering shrug. “Well, I’ve had my fun, but I’m not a pig. I did leave a few for you.” He nodded toward a bank of solid doors. “Second room on the right. Five of them are in there on gurneys, drugged. Enjoy yourself.” The Mentat patted the beefy Harkonnen on the shoulder.
Rabban took a couple of steps toward the door, then hesitated and looked back at his uncle, who had not yet given permission for him to leave. The Baron was studying de Vries.
The twisted Mentat furrowed his brow. “We are the first with a no-ship, my Baron. With the advantage of surprise, no one will ever suspect what it is we intend to do.”
“What I’m going to do,” Rabban said gruffly.
De Vries used a handheld com-unit to speak to several sluggish workers in the lab. “Clean up this mess and get the attack ship moved to the family frigate before departure time tomorrow.”
“I want all technical notes and records confiscated and sealed,” the Baron ordered as the Mentat switched off the communicator.
“Yes, my Baron,” de Vries said. “I’ll see to it personally.”
“You may go now,” the Baron said to his anxious nephew. “An hour or two of relaxation will do you good . . . it’ll get your mind in order for the important work ahead.”
They demonstrate subtle, highly effective skills in the aligned arts of observation and data collection. Information is their stock-in-trade.
—Imperial Report on the Bene Gesserit,
used for tutoring purposes
This is most impressive,” Sister Margot Rashino-Zea said, as she gazed at the imposing buildings on each side of the enormous oval of the Imperial-Landsraad Commons. “A spectacle for all the senses.” After long years on the cloudy, bucolic world of Wallach IX, her eyes now ached from so many sights.
A refreshing, fine mist rose from the fountain at the center of the Commons, an extraordinary artistic composition that towered a hundred meters overhead. In the design of a glittering nebula swirl, the fountain was replete with oversize planets and other celestial bodies that spurted perfumed streams in myriad colors. Tightbeam spotlights refracted from the water, creating loops of rainbows that danced silently in the air.
“Ah, yes, you have never been to Kaitain, I see,” Crown Prince Shaddam said, strolling casually beside the lovely blonde Bene Gesserit. Sardaukar guards hovered in the background, assuming they were near enough to prevent any harm from coming to the Imperial heir. Margot suppressed a smile, always pleased to see how much other people underestimated the Sisterhood.
“Oh, I’ve seen it before, Sire. But familiarity does not lessen my admiration for the magnificent capital of the Imperium.”
Dressed in a new black robe that rustled stiffly as she moved, Margot was flanked by Shaddam on one side and Hasimir Fenring on the other. She did not hide her long golden hair, her fresh face, or her pristine beauty. Most of the time, people expected the Bene Gesserit to be old hags shrouded in layers of dark garments. But many, like Margot Rashino-Zea, could be stunningly attractive. With a precise release of her body’s pheromones and carefully selected flirtations, she could use her sexuality as a weapon.
But not here, not yet. The Sisterhood had other plans for the Emperor-to-be.
Margot was nearly Shaddam’s height, and much taller than Fenring. Behind them, out of hearing range, an entourage of three Reverend Mothers followed, women who had been investigated and cleared by Fenring himself. The Crown Prince did not know what these others had to do with this meeting, but Margot would convey the reason presently.
“You should see these gardens at night,” Shaddam said. “The water looks like a meteor shower.”
“Oh, yes,” Margot said with a faint smile. Her gray-green eyes glittered. “This is my favorite place to be in the evenings. I have come twice since my arrival here . . . in anticipation of this private meeting with you, Sire.”
Though he tried to make casual conversation with this representative of the powerful Bene Gesserit, Shaddam felt ill at ease. Everyone wanted something, everyone had a private agenda— and every group thought it was owed favors or held sufficient blackmail material to sway his opinion. Fenring had already taken care of several of those parasites, but more would come.
His current uneasiness had less to do with Sister Margot than with his concerns over mounting mistrust and turmoil among the Great Houses. Even without an autopsy by the Suks, several important members of the Landsraad had raised uncomfortable questions over the Emperor’s mysterious, lingering death. Alliances were shifting and re-forming; important taxes and tithes from several wealthy worlds had been delayed, without adequate explanation.
And the Tleilaxu claimed to be years away from producing their promised synthetic spice.
Shaddam and his inner council would discuss the brewing crisis again this morning, a continuation of meetings that had gone on for a week. The length of Elrood’s reign had forced a stability (if not stagnation) across the Imperium. No one remembered how to implement an orderly transition of power.
All across the worlds, military forces were being increased in strength and placed on alert. Shaddam’s Sardaukar were no exception. Spies were busier than ever, in all quarters. At times he wondered if his reassignment of Elrood’s trusted Chamberlain Aken Hesban might have been a mistake. Hesban now sat in a tiny, rock-walled office deep in the gullet of an asteroid mine, ready to be recalled if things ever got too bad.
But it
’ll be a cold day on Arrakis before that happens.
Shaddam’s unease made him jumpy, perhaps a little superstitious. His old vulture of a father was dead— sent to the deepest hell described in the Orange Catholic Bible— yet still he felt the invisible blood on his hands.
Before departing the Palace to meet with Sister Margot, Shaddam had, without much thought, grabbed a cloak to warm his shoulders against an imagined chill in the morning air. The gold mantle had hung in the wardrobe with many other garments he had never worn. Only now did he remember that this particular article had been a favorite of his father’s.
Realizing this, Shaddam’s skin crawled. He felt the fine material prickle him suddenly, making him shiver. The fine gold chain seemed to tighten at his throat like a noose.
Ridiculous, he told himself. Inanimate objects did not carry spirits of the dead, couldn’t possibly harm him. He tried to put such concerns out of his mind. A Bene Gesserit would certainly be able to read his discomfort, and he couldn’t allow this woman so much power over him.
“I love the artwork here,” Margot said. She pointed toward a scaffold fixed to the face of the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, where fresco painters worked on a mural depicting scenes of natural beauty and technological achievement from around the Imperium. “I believe your great-grandfather Vutier Corrino II was responsible for much of this?”
“Ah, yes— Vutier was a great patron of the arts,” Shaddam said with some difficulty. Resisting an urge to remove the haunted cloak and throw it to the ground, he vowed to wear only his own clothes henceforth. “He said that spectacle without warmth or creativity meant nothing.”
“I think you should make your point, please, Sister,” Fenring suggested, noting his friend’s discomfort, but guessing incorrectly as to its cause. “The Crown Prince’s time is valuable. There is much turmoil after the Emperor’s death.”
Shaddam and Fenring had murdered Elrood IX. That fact could never be erased, and they hadn’t escaped suspicion entirely, not according to rumors. War between the Landsraad and House Corrino might result unless the Crown Prince consolidated his position, and soon.
Dune: House Atreides Page 53