He noted the burned-out hull of the destroyed Tleilaxu craft— and saw the guns on its wounded companion swiveling toward him. “Thufir! What’s he doing?”
The open comlink blared a furious debate between the Tleilaxu and those who refused to believe in Atreides culpability. Increasingly, voices supported the Tleilaxu position. Some claimed to have seen what happened, claimed to have witnessed the Atreides ship firing upon the Tleilaxu. A dangerous momentum was building.
“Vermilion hells, they think you did it, Leto!” Rhombur said.
Hawat had already dashed to the defensive panel. “The Tleilaxu have powered up weapons for a counterstrike against you, my Duke.”
Leto ran for the comsystem and threw open a channel. In only a few seconds his thoughts accelerated and compressed in a manner that astonished him, for he was not a Mentat capable of advanced reasoning powers. It was like dream-compression, he realized . . . or the incredible array of visions that reportedly flashed across a person’s mind when faced with imminent death. That’s a grim thought. He had to see a way out of this.
“Attention!” he shouted into the voice pickup. “This is Duke Leto Atreides. We did not fire upon the Tleilaxu ships. I deny all accusations.”
He knew they would not believe him, would not cool down soon enough to avoid an eruption of open hostilities that could result in a full-scale war. And in a flash he knew what else he had to do.
Faces from his past scrolled across his mind, and he locked on to a memory of his paternal grandfather Kean Atreides gazing at him with expectation, his face a crease-map of his life experiences. Gentle gray eyes like his own held a disarming strength that his enemies often overlooked, to their great peril.
If only I can be as strong as my ancestors. . . .
“Do not fire,” he said, addressing the Tleilaxu pilot and hoping all the other captains would listen.
Another image took shape in his mind: his father, the Old Duke, with green eyes and the same expression, but on a face that was Leto’s age now, in his teens. In a microflash, more images appeared: his Richesian uncles, aunts, and cousins, the loyal servants, domestic, governmental, and military. All of them carried the same blank expression, as if they were one multiplexed organism, studying him from different perspectives, waiting to make a judgment about him. He saw no love, approval, or disrespect in their faces— just a nothingness, as if he had truly committed a heinous act and no longer existed.
The sneering face of his mother appeared, faded.
Don’t trust anyone, he thought.
A feeling of despondency settled over Leto, followed by extreme, bitter loneliness. Deep inside himself, in a lifeless and bleak place, Leto saw his own emotionless gray eyes, staring back at himself. It was cold here, and he shivered.
“Leadership is a lonely task.”
Would the Atreides lineage stop here with him at this nexus-moment, or would he father children whose voices would be added to those of all the Atreides since the days of the ancient Greeks? He listened for his children in the cacophony, but did not sense their presence.
The accusing eyes did not waver.
Leto spoke the words to himself. Government is a protective partnership; the people are in your care, to thrive or die based upon your decisions.
The images and sounds faded, and his mind became a quiet, dark place.
Barely a second had passed in his tension-spawned mental journey, and Leto knew exactly what he had to do, regardless of the consequences.
“Activate shields!” he shouted.
• • •
Peering at an observation screen in the belly of the seemingly innocent Harkonnen frigate, Rabban was surprised by what he saw. He raced up from one deck to the next, until finally he stood red-faced and puffing in front of his uncle. Before the indignant but timid Tleilaxu pilot could open fire, a shield began to shimmer around the Atreides ship!
But shields were forbidden by Guild transport contract, because they shattered a Navigator’s trance and disrupted the foldspace field. The Heighliner’s enormous Holtzman generators would not function properly with the interference. Rabban and the Baron both cursed.
The Heighliner shuddered around them as it plunged out of foldspace.
• • •
In the navigation chamber high atop the cargo enclosure, the veteran Navigator felt his trance crumble. His brain waves diverged and circled back into themselves, spinning and twisting out of control.
The Holtzman engines groaned, and foldspace rippled around them, losing stability. Something was wrong with the ship. The Navigator spun in his tank of melange. His webbed feet and hands flailed, and he sensed darkness ahead.
The massive ship veered off course, hurled back into the real universe.
• • •
While Rhombur was thrown to the carpeted deck of the frigate in a tumble of purple-and-copper cloth, Leto grabbed a bulkhead rail to keep his balance. He uttered a silent prayer. He and his valiant crew could only ride this out and hope the Heighliner didn’t emerge inside a sun.
Like a tree beside Leto, Thufir Hawat somehow maintained his balance by sheer force of will. The Mentat teacher stood in a trance sorting through veiled regions of logic and analysis. Leto wasn’t certain how such projections could benefit them now. Perhaps the question— the odds of disaster following shield activation inside a Heighliner— was so complex that it required layers and layers of mentation.
“Prime projection,” Hawat announced, at long last. He licked his cranberry-colored lips with a tongue of matching hue. “Thrown out of foldspace at random, odds of encountering a celestial body are calculated at one in . . .”
The frigate jerked, and something thudded belowdecks. Hawat’s words were drowned out in the commotion, and he slipped back into the secret realm of his Mentat trance.
Rhombur stumbled to his feet, tugging an earclamp headset in place over his tousled blond hair. “Activate shields on a moving Heighliner? That’s as crazy as, uh, someone firing on the Tleilaxu in the first place.” With wide eyes he looked at his friend. “This must be a day for crazy events.”
Leto leaned over a bank of instruments, made a number of adjustments. “I had no choice,” he said. “I see it now. Someone is trying to make it look like we attacked the Tleilaxu— an incident that could spark a major war among the factions of the Landsraad. I can envision all the old feuds coming into play, and battle lines being drawn here on the Heighliner.” He wiped his brow, smearing sweat away. The intuition had come from his gut level, like something a Mentat might have realized. “I had to stop everything now, Rhombur, before it escalated.”
The Heighliner’s erratic motion finally ceased. The background noise quieted.
Hawat finally snapped out of his trance. “You are right, my Duke. Almost every House has a representative ship aboard this Heighliner, en route to the Emperor’s coronation and wedding. The battle lines drawn here would extend out into the Imperium, with war councils called and planets and armies aligning themselves on one side or another. Inevitably more factions would arise, too, like the branches of a jacaranda tree. Since the death of Elrood, alliances are already shifting as Houses look for new opportunities.”
Leto’s face flushed hot; his heart jackhammered. “There are powder kegs all over the Imperium, and one of them is right here within this cargo hold. I’d rather see everyone on this Heighliner die— because it would be nothing compared to the alternative. Conflagrations in every corner of the universe. Billions of deaths.”
“We’ve been set up?” Rhombur asked.
“If war breaks out here, no one will care whether or not I really fired. We’ve got to stop this cold, and then take the time to sort out the real answers.” Leto opened a comlink and spoke into it, his voice brisk and commanding. “This is Duke Leto Atreides calling Guild Navigator. Respond, please.”
The line crackled, and an undulating voice came back, ponderous and distorted, as if the Navigator could not recall how to converse with
mere humans. “All of us could have been killed, Atreides.” The way he pronounced the House name— A-tray-a-dees— brought to Leto’s mind the word “traitor.” “We are in unknown sector. Foldspace gone. Shields negate navigation trance. Shut down Atreides shields immediately.”
“Respectfully, I must refuse,” Leto said.
Across the comsystem he could hear other messages being shouted to the navigation chamber— accusations and demands from the ships aboard. Muffled, angry tones.
The Navigator spoke again. “Atreides must shut off shields. Obey Guild laws and regulations.”
“Refused.” Leto stood firm, but his skin had gone pale and cold, and he knew his expression just barely concealed his terror. “I don’t think you can get us out of here as long as my shields are on, so we stay here, wherever we are, until you accede to my . . . request.”
“After destroying a Bene Tleilax ship and activating your shields, you are in no position to make any requests!” cried an accented voice, a Tleilaxu.
“Impertinent, Atreides.” It was the mutated Navigator’s rumbling, underwater-sounding voice.
More muffled communications ensued, which the Navigator abruptly silenced. “State . . . request . . . Atreides.”
Pausing, Leto met the inquiring but respectful gazes of his friends, then spoke into the comsystem. “First, we assure you we did not fire upon the Tleilaxu, and we intend to prove it. If we lower our shields, the Guild must guarantee the safety of my ship and crew, and transfer jurisdiction of this matter to the Landsraad.”
“The Landsraad? This ship is under Spacing Guild jurisdiction.”
“You are bound by honor,” Leto said, “as are the members of the Landsraad, as am I. There is in the Landsraad a legal procedure known as Trial by Forfeiture.”
“My Lord!” Hawat protested. “You can’t mean to sacrifice House Atreides, all the centuries of noble tradition—”
Leto shut off the voice pickup. Placing a hand on the warrior Mentat’s shoulder, he said, “If billions have to die for us to keep our fief, then Caladan isn’t worth the price.” Thufir lowered his gaze in acquiescence. “Besides, we know we did not do this— a Mentat of your stature shouldn’t have much difficulty proving that.”
Reactivating the comlink, Leto said, “I will submit myself to Trial by Forfeiture, but all hostilities must cease immediately. There must be no retaliation, or I will refuse to deactivate my shields, and this Heighliner will remain here, nowhere.”
Leto thought of bluffing, threatening to fire lasguns at his own shields to cause the dreadful atomic interaction that would leave the gigantic Heighliner nothing but bits of molten flotsam. Instead, he tried to be reasonable. “What is the point in further argument? I have surrendered, and will submit myself to the Landsraad on Kaitain for a Trial by Forfeiture. I am merely trying to prevent a full-scale war over a mistaken assumption. We did not commit this crime. We are prepared to face the accusations and the consequences if we are found guilty.”
The line went dead, then crackled back on. “Spacing Guild agrees to conditions. I guarantee safety of ship and crew.”
“Know this, then,” Leto said. “Under the rules of Trial by Forfeiture, I, Duke Leto Atreides, intend to give up all legal rights to my fief and will place myself at the mercy of the tribunal. No other member of my House may be subjected to arrest or to any legal proceeding. Do you acknowledge the jurisdiction of the Landsraad in this matter?”
“I do,” the Navigator assured him, in a firmer tone, more accustomed to speaking now.
Finally, still nervous, Leto switched off the frigate’s shields and sagged into his chair, trembling. The other ships in the immense hold powered down their weapons, though the tempers of their crews continued to flare.
Now the real battle would begin.
In the long history of our House, we have been constantly shadowed by Misfortune, as if we were its prey. One might almost believe the curse of Atreus from ancient Greek times on Old Terra.
—DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES,
from a speech to his generals
On the prism-lined promenade of the Imperial Palace, the Crown Prince’s new fiancée Anirul and her companion Margot Rashino-Zea strode past three young women, members of the Imperial Court. The showpiece city extended all the way to the horizon, and massive works filled the streets and buildings, colorful preparations for the upcoming spectacular coronation ceremony and the Emperor’s wedding.
The trio of young Court women chattered excitedly, barely able to move in their stuffed gowns, sparkling ornamental feathers, and kilograms of gaudy jewelry. But now they fell silent as the black-robed Bene Gesserit drew near.
“Just a moment, Margot.” Pausing in front of the elaborately coiffed women, Anirul snapped with the barest hint of Voice, “Don’t waste your time gossiping. Do something productive for a change. We have much to prepare before all the representatives arrive.”
One of the young women, a dark-haired beauty, glared for a moment with large brown eyes, but then had second thoughts. Her manner took on a conciliatory expression and tone. “You are right, Lady,” she said, and abruptly led her companions down the promenade toward a wide, arched doorway of pitted Salusan lava rock that led to the Ambassadors’ apartments.
Exchanging smiles with the secret Kwisatz Mother, Margot quipped, “But aren’t Imperial Courts about gossiping, Anirul? Isn’t that their primary business? The ladies were performing their duties admirably, I’d say.”
Anirul glowered, looking much older than her young features. “I should have given them explicit instructions. Those women are merely decorations, like the jeweled fountains. They don’t have the slightest idea how to be productive.”
After her years on Wallach IX, knowing through her Other Memory just how much the Bene Gesserit had accomplished over the landscape of Imperial history, she considered human lives precious, each one a tiny spark in the bonfire of eternity. But such courtesans aspired to be no more than . . . than morsels for the appetites of powerful men.
In reality, Anirul had no jurisdiction over such women, not even as the Crown Prince’s future wife. Margot placed a soft hand on her forearm. “Anirul, you must be less impulsive. Mother Superior recognizes your talent and skill, but says you must be tempered. All successful life-forms adapt to their surroundings. You are now at the Imperial Court, so adapt to your new environment. We Bene Gesserit must work invisibly.”
Anirul gave her a wry smile. “I always considered my outspokenness to be one of my primary strengths. Mother Superior Harishka knows that. It enables me to discuss matters of interest and to learn things I might not have learned otherwise.”
“If others are capable of listening.” Margot raised her pale eyebrows on her flawless forehead.
Anirul continued down the promenade, head held high, like an Empress. Precious gems glittered in a headpiece that covered her bronze hair like a spiderweb. She knew the courtesans gossiped about her, wondering what secret tasks the Bene Gesserit witches were performing at Court, what spells they had woven to lure Shaddam. Ah, if they only knew. Their gossip and speculations would only serve to enhance Anirul’s mystique.
“It seems that we have things to whisper about, ourselves,” she said.
Margot brushed a lock of honey-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Of course. Mohiam’s child?”
“And the Atreides matter as well.”
Anirul drew a deep breath from a hedge of sapphire roses as they reached a patio garden. The sweet perfume awakened her senses. She and Margot sat together on a bench, where they could observe anyone approaching, though they spoke in directed whispers, secure from any spies.
“What can the Atreides have to do with Mohiam’s daughter?” As one of the Bene Gesserit’s most accomplished operatives, Sister Margot possessed inner-circle details on the next stage of the Kwisatz Haderach program, and now Mohiam herself had been briefed as well.
“Think in the long term, Margot, think of genetic patterns, of the ladder of gene
rations we have plotted. Duke Leto Atreides lies imprisoned, in peril of his life and title. He may seem to be an insignificant noble of an unimpressive Great House. But have you considered what a disaster this situation could be for us?”
Margot took a deep breath as pieces fell into place for her. “Duke Leto? You don’t mean he is needed for . . .” She couldn’t utter the most secret of names, Kwisatz Haderach.
“We must have Atreides genes in the next generation!” Anirul said, echoing the agitated voices in her head. “People are afraid to support Leto in this matter, and we all know why. Some of the key magistrates can be made sympathetic to his cause for political reasons, but no one truly believes in Leto’s innocence. Why would the young fool do such an unwise thing? It goes beyond comprehension.”
Margot shook her head sadly.
“Although Shaddam has publicly expressed his neutrality, he speaks against House Atreides in private. He certainly doesn’t believe in Leto’s innocence,” Anirul said. “Yet there could be more to it. The Crown Prince may have some relationship with the Tleilaxu, something he isn’t revealing to anyone. Do you think it possible?”
“Hasimir has said nothing to me of it.” Margot realized she had used the familiar name, and smiled back at her companion. “And he does share some secrets with me. In time, your man will share them with you as well.”
Anirul frowned, thinking of Shaddam and Fenring with their never-ending schemes, like games of politics. “So, they’re up to something. Together. Maybe Leto’s fate is part of their plan?”
“Perhaps.”
Anirul leaned forward on the stone bench to be more sheltered by the rose hedge. “Margot, our men want House Atreides to fall, for some reason . . . but the Sisterhood must have Leto’s bloodline for the culmination of our program. It is our best hope, and the work of centuries hangs on this.”
Not entirely understanding, Margot Rashino-Zea gazed at Anirul with her gray-green eyes. “Our need for Atreides offspring is not dependent on their status as a House Major.”
“Isn’t it?” Anirul patiently explained her greatest fears. “Duke Leto has no brothers or sisters. If he fails in his gambit— the Trial by Forfeiture— he could very well commit suicide. He’s a young man of tremendous pride, and it would be a terrible blow to him so soon after the loss of his father.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 56