The Corrino necropolis might soon have need of another crypt.
A true gift is not just the object itself; it is a demonstration of understanding and caring, a reflection of both the individual who gives and the one who receives.
— DOCENT GLAX OTHN,
Excerpted Lectures for House Taligari
On the verdant fern path of his Zanovar estate, Tyros Reffa studied the scrollwork language on the laminated ticket in his hand, trying to interpret the obscure pictographs. He relished the challenge. Sunshine through the leafy canopy dappled the card. Puzzled, he looked up at his revered teacher and friend, Docent Glax Othn.
“If you cannot read the words, Tyros, you will never appreciate the gift itself.” Though few members of the Taligari family remained alive, the Docent was one of a long line of teacher-lords who had inherited the fief from the last traditional nobleman and continued to operate it under the original name. He and Reffa shared a naming day, separated by a gulf of decades but bridged by an enduring friendship.
Hummingbirds and jeweled butterflies flitted around the waving fern fronds, chasing each other in fast, colorful aerial maneuvers. High in one of the scaly trees, an off-key songbird sounded like a dry, squeaky hinge.
“May the fates save me from an impatient teacher.” Reffa was in his mid-forties, stout of build and athletic in his movements. His eyes held an unwavering intelligence. “I can translate something about the Taligarian Court here… performance… famous and mysterious…” He drew in a quick breath. “This is a ticket to the suspensor opera! Yes, I see the code now.”
The Docent had given him only one ticket, knowing that Reffa would go alone, fascinated and voracious to learn, drinking in the experience. The old man himself no longer attended such off-world performances. With only a few years remaining in his life, he had laid out his time carefully and preferred to meditate and teach.
Reffa studied the ticket’s scrollwork and deciphered every word. “This is a pass to go to the lighted tanks of Taligari Center, in fabled Artisia. I am invited to watch an illuminated dance presentation in subliminal languages, which describes the emotional overtones of the long and complex struggles of the Interregnum.” He traced a finger over the strange runes, content in his abilities.
His gaunt mentor nodded with deep satisfaction. “It is said that only one in five hundred viewers can understand the nuances of the magnificent piece, and then only with extensive attention and training. Still, you will want to see the performance for its own sake.”
Reffa embraced the Docent. “A wonderful gift, sir.” They veered off the wide cobblestone path onto a smaller gravel lane that crunched beneath their slippered feet. Reffa loved every corner of his modest estate.
Several decades ago, Emperor Elrood had instructed the Docent to raise a bastard child in comfort and secrecy, without instilling in him any hope of his heritage, but keeping him worthy of his Corrino blood. The Docent had taught him to savor quality rather than extravagance.
Glax Othn gazed at the younger man’s chisel-featured face. “There is also a matter of some concern, Tyros. Another reason it is perhaps a wise idea for you to go to Taligari for a while, leave your estate here… just for a month or two.”
Reffa looked at the Docent, instantly alert. “Is this another puzzle?”
“Unfortunately, not one for mere amusement. In the past two weeks, several men have made rather rigorous inquiries into you and your property. You have noticed this, correct?”
Reffa hesitated, only slowly growing concerned. “It was perfectly innocuous, sir. One man was inquiring into prime real estate here on Zanovar, even hinting that he wanted to purchase my property. Another was a master gardener who wanted to study my conservatory. The third—”
“They were all Imperial spies,” Othn said, cutting him off. Reffa was instantly speechless, and the teacher continued, “I was suspicious and decided to check them out. The identifications they gave you were false, and all three came from Kaitain. It has taken me a bit of effort, but I have proven that those men are secretly in Emperor Shaddam’s employ.”
Reffa pursed his lips, fighting his desire to blurt out questions. The Docent would want him to sift through the consequences. “So they were all lying. The Emperor is trying to check up on my home, and me. Why, after all this time?”
“Obviously, because he has just learned of your existence.” The Docent took on a stern demeanor, and his voice became pedantic as he remembered the great speeches he had given inside echoing halls filled with students. “You could have had so much more, Tyros Reffa. And you deserve it precisely because you do not want it. It is something of an Imperial paradox. I think you could be in some danger.”
The Docent understood why the young man must maintain his quiet life and not call attention to himself. This bastard son of Elrood IX had never posed any threat to Kaitain, had never shown any ambition— or interest— in Imperial politics or the schemings of the Golden Lion Throne.
Instead, Reffa preferred to make his mark by entertaining audiences, performing under a stage name with off-world acting companies. He had studied with the Mimbanco teachers of House Jongleur, the greatest entertainers in the Imperium, actors so talented they could manipulate the strongest emotions in an audience’s heart. Young Reffa had loved those early years on Jongleur, and the Docent had been exceedingly proud of him.
Reffa stiffened. This went beyond the bounds of what they were permitted to mention, even in private conversations. “Do not speak openly of such things. Yes, I will leave this place and go to Taligari.” Softening his tone, he added, “But you will diminish my pleasure in this wonderful gift. Come, see what I have gotten for you on this naming day.” His face remained troubled, though.
Reffa clasped the ticket in his fingers, then turned to the old man and managed a smile. “You taught me, sir, that the act of giving is more effective by tenfold when it is reciprocated.”
The Docent feigned surprise. “Right now we have greater concerns. I have no need of gifts.”
Reffa took his mentor by the bony elbow and steered him through a hedge of feathertrees that opened into a central courtyard. “Neither do I. But neither of us ever makes time to treat ourselves to little pleasures unless we are forced into doing so. Don’t deny the truth of what I say. I have arranged something for you, too. Look, there is Charence.”
The dour-faced house master stood on the opposite side of the paved area, waiting for them by a scarlet pavilion. Charence looked to be a morose, ill-natured man— but he was highly efficient and had a bone-dry sense of humor that Reffa appreciated.
Abashed, Glax Othn followed the stocky young man to the pavilion, where he had placed a small wrapped box on a shaded table. Charence lifted the box and extended it to the Docent.
Othn took it in his hands. “What could I possibly want? Other than more time, and more knowledge, that is. And your safety.” The old teacher tore open the foil wrapping with an expression of puzzled delight, followed by genuine confusion as he studied the shiny object. It was a crystal pass-chit, a one-day membership token. “An amusement park, with rides and displays and thrill-simulators?”
Seeing his reaction, dour Charence actually smiled.
“Zanovar’s finest,” Reffa said. “The children love it.” He beamed. He had gone there himself, just to make certain it was not the sort of spot the overly serious Docent would ever have visited.
“But I have no children,” he protested, “no family. This is not really for me, is it?”
“Have some fun. Be young at heart. You have always insisted that a true human being requires new experiences for sustenance.”
The Docent flushed. “I say that to my students, but… Are you trying to prove me hypocritical?” His brown eyes twinkled.
Reffa closed his mentor’s hand over the token. “Enjoy yourself, in payment for all you have done on my behalf.” He clapped a palm on the Docent’s shoulder. “And when I return, safe after a month or two on Taligari, we can
compare our separate experiences— you on amusement-park rides and me at the suspensor opera.”
The old teacher nodded thoughtfully. “I look forward to that, my friend.”
The lone traveler in the desert is a dead man.
Only the worm lives alone out there.
— Fremen Saying
Given enough training, any Mentat could become a capable killer, an efficient and imaginative assassin. Piter de Vries, though, suspected that his own dangerous nature had to do with the original twisting that enhanced his powers and made him what he was. His proclivity for cruelty, his sadistic enjoyment of the suffering of others, had been designed into his genetic blueprint by the Tleilaxu.
Thus, House Harkonnen was the perfect home for him.
Inside a high room of the Harkonnen Residency at Carthag, de Vries stood before a mirror framed with lacy swirls of oil-black titanium. Using a cloth dipped in fragrant soap, he scrubbed around his mouth, then leaned close to examine the permanent sapho stains. He powdered his pointed chin with makeup, but left the lips bright red. His ink-blue eyes and frizzy hair gave him the wild appearance of unpredictability.
I am too valuable to be used as a mere clerk! But the Baron didn’t always see it that way. The fat fool often misused de Vries’s talents, wasting his valuable time and energy. I am not an accountant. He slithered into his personal study, filled with antique furnishings, racks of shigawire spools and filmbooks. Filmledgers were scattered across his desk, covering the varnished blood-grain.
Any Mentat was overqualified to perform mere bookkeeping chores; de Vries had worked on ledgers before, but never enjoyed it. The tasks were too rudimentary, insultingly simple. But secrets must be kept, and the Baron trusted few people.
Infuriated by the Fremen raid on the Hadith melange hoard and several other hidden stockpiles, the Baron had instructed de Vries to check all Harkonnen financial ledgers to make certain they were in order, that they contained no evidence of the illegal spice stockpiles. All evidence must be expunged, to avoid the attentions of an inquisitive CHOAM auditor. If the stockpiles were discovered, House Harkonnen could well lose its valuable Arrakis fief— and more. Especially with the Emperor’s newly announced hard-line stance against spice hoarding. What is Shaddam thinking?
De Vries sighed and resigned himself to the task.
To make matters worse, the Baron’s thick-skulled nephew, Glossu Rabban, had already gone through the records (without permission) and removed evidence with all the finesse of a dull gravedigger’s shovel; the Beast’s baby brother Feyd-Rautha could have done a better job. Now the books were badly out of balance, leaving de Vries with more work than before.
Far into the evening, he hunched over his desk. He drowned his subconscious in the numbers, absorbing data. With a magnetic scriber, he made changes, altering the first level of discrepancies, smoothing over the too-obvious mistakes.
But a tugging, peripheral thought kept pulling him out of his near trance: a drug-induced vision he had experienced nine years ago, when he’d seen strange, unspecified trouble on the horizon for House Harkonnen… inexplicable images of the Harkonnens abandoning Arrakis, the blue-griffin banner taken down, to be replaced by the green-and-black of House Atreides. How could the Harkonnens possibly lose their spice monopoly? And what did the damnable Atreides have to do with it?
De Vries needed more information. It was his sworn duty. More important than this miserable clerical work. He pushed the ledgers away, then went to his private pharmacopoeia.
He let his fingers select bitter sapho juice, tikopia syrup, and two capsules of melange concentrate. He did not regulate the amounts he gulped. A pleasant, sweet-burning cinnamon essence exploded in his mouth. Hyperprescience, the verge of an overdose, a doorway opening.…
He saw more this time. Information he needed— Baron Harkonnen, older and even heavier, being escorted by Sardaukar troops to a waiting shuttle. So, the Baron himself would be forced to leave Arrakis, not some later generation of Harkonnens! The disaster would occur soon, then.
De Vries struggled to learn additional details, but swimming particles of light fuzzed his vision. He increased the dosage of drugs just enough to return the pleasurable sensation, but the visions did not come back, even as the chemicals rose up like a tidal wave.…
He awoke to find himself in the muscular arms of a pungent-smelling man with broad shoulders. His eyes came into focus a moment before his mind did. Rabban! The burly man hauled him along a rock-walled corridor, underground, beneath the Harkonnen Residency.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Rabban said, feeling the Mentat stir. “You were supposed to be working on the accounts. My uncle won’t be pleased to learn what you’ve done to yourself. Again.”
The Mentat could not think clearly, struggled to speak. “I have learned something much more import—”
In midsentence, de Vries was swung first to one side, then to the other, then with a splash he landed in water— water, of all things, here on Arrakis!
Fighting the fog of drugs, he thrashed and dog-paddled to where Rabban knelt on a stone lip at the edge. “Good thing you can swim. I hope you haven’t soiled our cistern.”
Furious, de Vries crawled out and lay gasping on the stone deck, dripping puddles that would have been worth a fortune to any Fremen servant.
Rabban smirked. “The Baron could always replace you. The Tleilaxu would be only too happy to send us another Mentat grown from the same tank.”
Spluttering, de Vries tried to recover. “I was working, you idiot, trying to enhance a vision that concerned the future of House Harkonnen.” Soaked but trying to maintain his composure, the twisted Mentat pushed past the burly man and marched along the cool underground passages, then up stairs and ramps to the Baron’s private suite. He pounded on the door, still dripping. Breathing hard, Rabban followed close behind.
When the Baron came to the door, floating forward with hastily strapped-on suspensors, he looked irritated. His thick, reddish eyebrows knitted on his pasty face as he scowled; the Mentat’s disheveled appearance did not seem to help. “What’s the meaning of coming to me at this time of night?” He sniffed. “You’re wasting my water.”
A mewling, bloody form lay broken on the far side of the Baron’s reinforced bed. De Vries saw a pale hand twitching; Rabban pushed closer for a better view. “Your Mentat has drugged himself again, Uncle.”
A lizard tongue darted across de Vries’s stained lips. “Only in the line of duty, my Baron. And I have news. Important, disturbing news.” Quickly, he described the drug-induced vision he had experienced.
The Baron puffed his fat cheeks. “Damn all the trouble. My own stockpiles are under constant attack by those infernal Fremen, and now the Emperor is rattling his sword, threatening dire consequences for anyone who keeps a private cache. Now my own Mentat seeks out visions of my downfall! I grow weary of it.”
“You don’t believe his hallucinations, do you, Uncle?” Rabban’s gaze flicked uncertainly between the two men.
“Fine, then. We must prepare to suffer losses and replace what we have lost.” The Baron looked over his shoulder, anxious to get back to his playmate before the boy died on the floor. “Rabban, I don’t care what you have to do. Get me more spice!”
* * *
Dressed in his stillsuit, Turok stood in the hot control room of a spice harvester. The huge machine groaned and creaked while it scooped material from a rich desert pit and deposited it into an onboard hopper. Screens, fans, and electrostatic fields separated melange from sand grains and purified the product.
Exhaust dust belched out of the harvester’s stacks and rear pipes as heavy treads hauled the mammoth machine across an exposed spice vein. Flakes of pure melange fell into armored containers; the detachable cargo hold was ready to be whisked away at the first sign of an approaching sandworm.
Fremen like Turok occasionally volunteered to work on harvester crews, where they were valued for their desert skills. They were paid in cash, no q
uestions asked. In doing so, Turok learned valuable information about city workers and spice crews. And information was power— so said Liet-Kynes.
Nearby, the harvester captain stood at a panel, studying screens projected by a dozen external cameras. A nervous man with a gritty beard, he worried that the spotter craft might not spot wormsign in time to save the old machine. “Use those strong Fremen eyes to keep us safe. That’s what I pay you for.”
Through the dusty window, Turok studied the hostile landscape, the undulating dunes. Despite the absence of movement, he knew the desert teemed with life, most of it hiding from the day’s heat. He kept an eye out for deep tremors. Around the control room, three crewmen also peered through scratched and pitted windows, but they didn’t have Fremen eyesight or training.
Suddenly Turok spotted a long, low mound on the distant sand, forming, growing. “Wormsign!” Using the Osbyrne direction finder by the window, he determined the exact coordinates and called them out. “The spotter craft should have signaled us five minutes ago.”
“I knew it, I knew it,” the captain moaned. “Damn them, they still haven’t called it in!” He got on the comsystem and demanded a carryall, then broadcast to his men out on the sand. They scrambled into rover vehicles and rushed back to the uncertain refuge of the harvester.
Turok watched the sand-mound racing toward him. Shai-Hulud always came to spice operations. Always.
He heard a throbbing in the sky overhead, saw dust swirling around the harvester as a carryall descended. The harvester shook while the crew scrambled to make connections, locking down cables and linkage hooks.
Out on the sand, the worm raced closer, hissing through the dunes.
The harvester shuddered again, and the captain cursed over the comsystem. “This is taking too long. Get us out of here, damn you!”
“Problem with the link-up, sir,” a calm voice said over the speaker. “We’re disconnecting you from the hopper and taking it by cargo-sling. You’re on your own.”
Dune: House Corrino Page 7