Tugging guide ropes and calling back to the riders, Stilgar stood stoically. The Fremen moved spreaders and planted additional maker hooks to direct the creature. Stilgar looked over at Liet, who remained preoccupied and clearly unhappy. He knew his friend’s report from Kaitain was not good. However, unlike jabbering courtiers in the Palace, Fremen were not uneasy with silences. Liet would speak when he was ready, so Stilgar kept to himself beside his friend; they were together, each immersed in his own thoughts. Hours passed as they crossed the desert toward the reddish-black mountains near the horizon.
When he felt it was time, attuned to the young Planetologist’s expressions and watching the reflection of troubled thoughts cross his face beneath the stillsuit mask, Stilgar spoke what Liet needed to hear. “You are the son of Umma Kynes. Now that your great father has died, you are the hope of all Fremen. And you have my life and loyalty, just as I promised it to your father.” Stilgar did not treat the younger man in a paternal fashion, but as a genuine comrade.
They both knew the story; it had been told many times in sietch. Before he came to live among the Fremen, Pardot Kynes had fought six Harkonnen bravos who had cornered Stilgar, Turok, and Ommun— a brash trio of young Fremen. Stilgar was grievously injured and would have died if Kynes had not helped kill the Baron’s men. Subsequently, when the Planetologist became a wild prophet of the Fremen, the three swore to help him achieve his dream. Even after Ommun had died with Pardot in a cave-in at Plaster Basin, Stilgar remembered the water debt he owed and paid it to the son, Liet.
Stilgar reached out to clasp the younger man’s arm. Liet was every bit the man his father had been, and more. He had been raised as a Fremen.
Liet gave him a wan smile, his eyes deeply appreciative. “It is not your loyalty that concerns me, Stil, but the practicality of our cause. We will receive neither help nor sympathy from House Corrino.”
Stilgar actually laughed at this. “The Emperor’s sympathy is a weapon I’d rather not have. And we need no help killing Harkonnens.” Now, as they rode the worm onward, he told his comrade about the raid on the desecrated Sietch Hadith. Liet looked pleased.
* * *
Back in the warm confines of the isolated stronghold, Liet went eagerly to his quarters, dirty and exhausted. There, Faroula waited for her husband, and he would spend time with her first. After his sojourn on the Imperial planet, Liet needed a few moments of peace and calm, which his wife had always been able to provide. The desert people were anxious to hear his report and had already called a gathering for that evening, but by tradition no traveler was required to tell his tale until he could be refreshed, except in an emergency.
Faroula greeted him with a smile, flashing blue-within-blue eyes. Her welcoming kiss deepened as the privacy hanging fell across the door to their chamber. She had made him spice coffee and small honeyed melange cakes. He found the treats satisfying, but far less wonderful than simply seeing her again.
After another embrace, she brought out their young children, Liet-chih— her son by Liet’s best friend Warrick, whose death had left Liet to take care of Faroula and the boy as his own— as well as their own daughter, Chani. He hugged the children, and they played and jabbered, until finally a nursemaid took them away, leaving him alone again with his wife.
Faroula smiled, her skin golden. She unfastened his now-worthless stillsuit, which had been taken apart and reassembled by the Emperor’s security men. She applied thin salves to the bare skin of his feet.
Liet let out a long sigh. He had much to do, many matters to discuss with the Fremen, but he pushed them aside for now. Even a man who had stood before the Golden Lion Throne could find other things more important. As he looked into his wife’s enigmatic eyes, Liet felt more at home than he had at any time since he’d stepped off the Guild shuttle in Carthag.
“Tell me about the wonders of Kaitain, my love,” she said, her expression already filled with awe. “Such beautiful things you must have seen.”
“I saw many things there, yes,” he answered, “but believe me when I tell you this, Faroula.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek. “I have found nothing in all the universe more beautiful than you.”
The fate of the Known Universe hinges upon effective decisions, which can only be made with complete information.
— DOCENT GLAX OTHN OF HOUSE TALIGARI,
A Child’s Primer on Leadership, Suitable for Adults
One of the least opulent rooms in Castle Caladan, Leto’s inner sanctum was a place where a leader would not feel overwhelmed by frivolous gaudiness when pondering the business interests of House Atreides.
The windowless stone walls featured no tapestries; the glowglobes were unadorned. A fire in the hearth gave off a sweet, resinous smell, driving back the dampness of cool salt air.
For hours, he sat at his battered teako desk. An ominous message cylinder lay like a time bomb in front of him. He had already read the report his spies had brought him.
Did the Tleilaxu actually think they could keep their crimes secret? Or were they simply hoping to complete their despicable desecration and be gone from the Senasar War Memorial before Leto could respond? The Prime Magistrate of Beakkal must have known that House Atreides would be deeply offended. Or had the Tleilaxu simply paid such a huge bribe that Beakkal could not refuse?
All the Imperium seemed to believe the recent tragedies had broken him, snuffed out his flame. He looked at the ducal signet ring on his finger. Leto had never expected to assume the mantle of leadership at the age of fifteen. Now, after twenty-one years, he felt as if he had worn the heavy ring for centuries.
On the desktop stood a crystalplaz-encased butterfly, its wings bent at an awkward angle. A few years ago, distracted by a document he’d been studying, Leto had accidentally crushed the insect. Now he kept the preserved specimen where he could always be reminded of the consequences of his actions as Duke, and as a man.
Tleilaxu desecrations of war dead, committed with the blessing of the Prime Magistrate, could not be permitted… or forgotten.
Duncan Idaho, in full military regalia, knocked on the half-open wooden door. “You summoned me, Leto?” Tall and proud, the Swordmaster carried a slight air of superiority since his return from Ginaz. He had earned his right to be self-confident after enduring eight years of rigorous Swordmaster training.
“Duncan, I value your advice now more than ever.” Leto rose to his feet. “I face a grim decision, and I must discuss strategy with you, now that Thufir and Gurney have gone to Ix.”
The young man brightened, eager for the opportunity to prove his military worth. “Are we ready to plan our next move on Ix?”
“This is another matter.” Leto held up the message cylinder, then sighed. “As Duke, I’ve found that there is always ‘another matter.’ ”
Jessica stepped silently into the open doorway. Though she had the ability to eavesdrop unnoticed, she stood boldly beside the Swordmaster. “May I hear these concerns as well, my Duke?”
Normally, Leto would not have allowed a concubine to join in strategy sessions, but Jessica had extraordinary training, and he had come to value her perspective. She had given him her strength and her love during his darkest hour, and he would not dismiss her lightly.
Leto summarized how Tleilaxu excavation teams had set up a large encampment on Beakkal. Stone ziggurats, overgrown with vegetation, marked where Atreides troops had fought alongside their Vernius counterparts to rescue the planet from a pirate flotilla. The war dead included thousands of soldiers as well as the fallen patriarchs of both Houses.
Leto’s voice became ominously hushed. “Tleilaxu exhumation teams are removing the bodies of our ancestors, claiming they wish to ‘study them for historical genetics.’ ”
Duncan pounded his fist against the wall. “By the blood of Jool-Noret, we must prevent them.”
Jessica bit her lower lip. “It is obvious what they want, my Duke. I don’t understand the process completely, but it is possible that even
with cadavers mummified for centuries, the Tleilaxu can grow gholas from dead cells. They may be able to reproduce a lost Atreides or Vernius genetic line.”
Leto stared at the plaz-encased butterfly. “That’s why they wanted Victor’s body, and Rhombur’s.”
“Precisely.”
“If I take the accepted approach, I must travel to Kaitain and lodge a formal protest in the Landsraad. Investigative committees may be formed, and eventually Beakkal and the Tleilaxu might receive some form of censure.”
“By then it would be too late!” Duncan’s alarm was apparent.
A log popped in the fireplace, startling them all.
“That is why I have decided to take more extreme action.”
Jessica tried to insert the voice of reason. “Would it be possible to send our own troops to seize and remove the rest of the bodies before the Tleilaxu can exhume them?”
“Not good enough,” Leto said. “If we overlook even one, our efforts will be in vain. No, we must eliminate the temptation, erase the problem, and send a clear message. Those who think Duke Leto Atreides has grown weak are about to learn otherwise.”
Leto looked at the strewn documents that summarized his troop strength, the weapons in his armory, the available warcraft, even the family atomics. “Thufir is not here, so this will be your chance to prove yourself, Duncan. We must deliver a lesson that cannot be interpreted in any other way. No warning. No mercy. No ambiguity.”
“I shall be glad to lead such a mission, my Duke.”
In this universe there is no such thing as a safe place or a safe way. Danger lies along every path.
— Zensunni Aphorism
Over the nightside of Ix, a scheduled cargo shuttle dropped from the hold of an orbiting Heighliner. From the uninhabited wilderness, a hidden Sardaukar observation post watched the craft’s orange plume as it descended into their detection grid. The shuttle headed toward the port-of-entry canyon, the guarded access point to the subterranean capital city.
Sardaukar observers did not notice a second, much smaller craft slipping into its wake. An Atreides combat pod. By virtue of a heavy bribe, the Heighliner was fitted with a camouflage-signal transmitter that tricked the ground-based trackers so that the black, unlit shape could move undetected, long enough for Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat to slip underground.
Gurney worked the controls of the tiny, wingless craft. Taking a different trajectory from the shuttle’s plume, the black Atreides pod sped low across the rugged northern landscape. Lightless onboard instruments whispered data into his headset, telling him how to avoid the guarded landing cradles.
Gurney used daredevil skills he had learned from Dominic Vernius in a smugglers’ band, streaking over boulder fields, skimming close to glaciers and high cirques. When he hauled contraband cargoes, he had known how to elude Corrino security patrols, and now he remained beneath the detection level of the Tleilaxu security net.
As the pod jostled through the atmosphere, Thufir sat placidly in Mentat mode, weighing possibilities. He had recorded all of the emergency exits and secret routes Rhombur had managed to remember. But human concerns kept breaking his concentration.
Although Leto had never criticized him for what might have been interpreted as security breaches— the death of Duke Paulus in the bullring, the skyclipper disaster— Thufir had redoubled his efforts, calling upon every skill in his personal arsenal, and adding more.
Now, he and Gurney had to infiltrate the besieged cities of Ix, ferret out weaknesses, and prepare for an outright military action. After the recent tragedies, Duke Leto was no longer afraid to bloody his hands. When Leto decided it was time, House Atreides would strike, and strike hard.
C’tair Pilru, a resistance fighter with whom they had long been in contact, had refused to abandon his efforts on Ix, despite crackdowns by the Tleilaxu invaders. Using stolen materials, he had fashioned effective bombs and other weapons, and for a time had even received secret assistance from Prince Rhombur— until all contact had been lost.
Thufir hoped they could find C’tair again this night, while there was still time. He and Gurney, acting on a few shreds of possibilities and a likely meeting place, had tried to send messages underground. Using an old Vernius military code that only C’tair would know, supplied by Rhombur, the warrior Mentat had proposed a possible rendezvous in the honeycomb of secret routes and hidden chambers. But the Atreides infiltrators had received no confirmation.… They were flying blind, led only by hope and determination.
Thufir gazed through the pod’s small windows to get his bearings, contemplating how they would go about finding the Ixian freedom fighters. Though it was not part of any Mentat analysis, he feared they would need to depend on… luck.
* * *
Huddling in a musty storeroom in the upper crustal levels of what had once been the Grand Palais, C’tair Pilru harbored his own doubts. He had received the message, decoded it… and didn’t believe it. His small-scale guerrilla war had continued for years and years, not always because of victories and hope, but because of sheer determination. Fighting the Tleilaxu comprised C’tair’s entire life, and he did not know who he was or what he would be if the struggle ever ended.
He had survived this long by trusting no one in the once-beautiful underground city. He changed identities, moved from place to place, struck as hard as he could and then fled, leaving the invaders and their Sardaukar guard dogs in angry confusion.
As a favorite mental exercise, he pictured the original city in his mind, the gossamer connecting walkways and streets between stalactite buildings. He even envisioned the Ixian people as they used to be, filled with cheer and purpose, before the grim reality of the Tleilaxu invasion set in.
But now it all blurred in his memory. It had been so long.
A short while ago he had found the communication— a trick?— from representatives of Prince Rhombur Vernius. C’tair’s entire life had been a risk, and now he had to take the chance. He knew that as long as Rhombur lived, the Prince would never abandon his people.
In the cold darkness of the storeroom, waiting, waiting, C’tair wondered if he was in fact losing his hold on reality… especially now that he knew the terrible fate of Miral Alechem, his lover and comrade, who might have become his wife under different circumstances. But the filthy invaders had captured her, used her body for their mysterious, awful experiments. He resisted visualizing Miral the way he had last seen her— an abomination, a brain-dead shape hooked up and converted into some hideous biological factory.
With every breath he took, he cursed the Tleilaxu for their cruelties. He squeezed his dark, haunted eyes shut, controlled his breathing, and remembered only Miral’s large eyes, her narrow, attractive face, her raggedly cropped hair.
Rage, near-suicidal despondency, and survivor’s guilt washed through him. He had set his mind on a fanatical course, but if Prince Rhombur had truly sent men to aid him, this nightmare might soon be over.…
A sudden loud whir of machinery made him scramble deeper into the shadows. He heard quiet scratchings, the skilled picking of a lock, then the hatch of a self-guided lift chamber opening to reveal two silhouetted figures. They hadn’t seen him yet. He could still flee, or try to kill them. But they were too tall to be Tleilaxu and did not move like Sardaukar.
The older man looked tough as shigawire, with a sinewy face and the sapho-stained lips of a Mentat. His burly blond companion, a lumpy man with a prominent scar on his face, pocketed a small set of tools. The Mentat stepped out of the lift first, exuding wary confidence. “We come from Caladan.”
C’tair didn’t move or reveal himself. His heart raced. It might still be a trick, but he’d come this far. He had to find out for sure. His fingers touched the hilt of a hand-wrought dagger in his pocket. “I am here.”
C’tair emerged from the shadows, and the two men looked toward him, eyes adjusting to the low illumination. “We are friends of your Prince. You are no longer alone,” said the scarred man.
Moving cautiously, as if stepping on broken glass, the trio met in the center of the dusty storage room. They clasped hands in the half handshake of the Imperium, made awkward introductions. The new arrivals told him what had happened to Rhombur.
C’tair looked dazed, not certain anymore where reality and his fantasies separated. “There… was a girl. Kailea? Yes, Kailea Vernius.”
Thufir and Gurney looked at each other, avoided the uncomfortable revelation for now. “We don’t have much time,” Gurney said. “We need to see and learn what we can.”
C’tair faced the two Atreides representatives, trying to decide where to begin. Raw anger built inside, filling him with so much emotion that he could not bear to tell them what he had already seen, what he’d already endured here. “Stay, and I will show you what the Tleilaxu have done to Ix.”
* * *
Unobtrusively, the three men moved through crowds of oppressed workers, past facilities that had degenerated into decrepitude. They used C’tair’s numerous stolen identification cards to enter and exit security zones. This lone rebel had learned how to pass unnoticed, and the downtrodden Ixians rarely looked at anything other than their own feet.
“We’ve known for some time that the Emperor is involved here,” Thufir said. “But I cannot understand the necessity for two full legions of Sardaukar.”
“I have seen… but I still don’t know the answers.” C’tair pointed out a sluggish monstrosity lumbering across a loading dock, a machine with a few human components strapped on… a battered head, part of a bruised and misshapen torso. “If Prince Rhombur is a cyborg, I pray it’s nothing like what the Tleilaxu have created here.”
Gurney was appalled. “What sort of demon is that?”
“Bi-Ixians, victims of torture and execution, reanimated through machinery. They aren’t alive, just mobile. The Tleilaxu call them ‘examples’— they are toys for the amusement of demented minds.”
Thufir stood dispassionately, mentally filing away every detail, while Gurney had trouble controlling the revulsion on his face.
Dune: House Corrino Page 5