Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Leto stopped at the threshold of her suite, and, trembling, she whirled to confront him. At the moment she didn’t want to mask her own anger, wanted to feel it and get it out. But the scars of anguish were written across his face— not simply sorrow for the tragic deaths of Victor and Kailea, but also for his slain father. It was not her place to hurt him further… and it was not her place, as a Bene Gesserit, to love him either.

  She felt the anger drain out of her.

  Leto had loved the old Duke. Paulus Atreides had taught him about politics and marriage, rigid rules that did not allow for the love between a man and a woman. His adherence to his father’s teachings had turned his first concubine’s devotion into murderous treachery.

  But Leto had also watched his father gored to death by a drug-maddened Salusan bull and been forced to become Duke Atreides at a young age. Was it so wrong that he wanted to name his new son after Paulus? She was leaving tomorrow for Kaitain, and she might not see him for months. Indeed, as a Bene Gesserit Sister, there would be no guarantee that she would ever be allowed to return to Caladan. Especially when they discovered the sex of the baby she carried, in defiance of their commands.

  I will not leave him like this.

  Before the Duke could speak at the doorway, she said, “Yes, Leto. If the child is a boy, Paul will be his name. We need argue no more about it.”

  * * *

  Early the following morning, at the hour when fishing boats departed from the Cala City docks to ply channels through distant kelp beds, Jessica awaited the time of her departure.

  Just down the corridor, she heard angry words coming from the Duke’s private study. The door stood ajar, and the black-robed Gaius Helen Mohiam sat in a high-backed chair just inside the room. She recognized the woman’s voice from years spent under her tutelage at the Mother School.

  “The Sisterhood has made the only possible decision, Duke Atreides,” Mohiam said. “We do not understand the ship or the process ourselves, and we have no intention of providing clues to any other noble family— not even House Atreides. With respect, sir, your request is denied.”

  Jessica inched closer. Others were in the study with them. She identified the voices of Thufir Hawat, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck.

  Gurney roared, “What’s to prevent the Harkonnens from using it on us again?”

  “They cannot reproduce the weapon, so the inventor must be unavailable— probably dead.”

  “The Bene Gesserit brought this to our attention, Reverend Mother,” Leto barked. “You, personally, told me of the Harkonnen plot against me. For years I have put aside my pride, not using the information to clear my name— but now my purpose is more important. Do you doubt my ability to use the weapon in a sensible manner?”

  “Your good name stands without question. My Sisters know this. Nonetheless, we have decided that such technology is too dangerous for any one man— or House— to hold.”

  She heard a crash in the study, and Leto spoke in a loud, angry voice: “You’re taking my Lady, too. One affront after another. I insist that my man here, Gurney Halleck, accompany Jessica as bodyguard. For her own protection. I dare not risk her.”

  Mohiam sounded exceedingly rational. A hint of Voice? “The Emperor has promised safe passage to Kaitain and protection in the Palace. Fear not, your concubine will be well cared for. The rest is out of your hands.” She rose to her feet, as if to indicate the conclusion of the meeting.

  “Jessica will soon be the mother of my child,” Leto said, his words carrying a deadly edge. “See that she is kept safe— or I will hold you personally responsible, Reverend Mother.”

  Her heart soaring at these words, Jessica saw Mohiam make a subtle body movement, shifting to a barely detectable fighting stance. “The Sisterhood is capable of protecting the girl better than any former smuggler can.”

  Boldly, Jessica stepped into the room, interrupting the escalating tensions. “Reverend Mother, I am ready to depart for Kaitain, if you will allow me to say my farewells to the Duke.”

  The men in the room hesitated, startled into an uncomfortable silence. Mohiam looked at her, making it clear that she had known Jessica was eavesdropping all along. “Yes, child, it is time.”

  * * *

  Watching the dwindling glow from the shuttle engines, Duke Leto Atreides stood in the spaceport below, surrounded by Gurney, Thufir, Rhombur, and Duncan… four men who would have given their lives for him, if he asked it.

  He felt empty and alone, and thought of all the things he wished he’d had the courage to say to Jessica. But he had lost his chance, and would regret it until they were in each other’s arms again.

  One cannot hide from history… or from human nature.

  — Bene Gesserit Azhar Book

  The ancient rock quarry was a deep bowl with high cliff walls of chopped stone. In centuries past, blocks of variegated marble had been removed to build new structures for the Mother School.

  Stern and professional, Sister Cristane led the three Richesian inventors to the bottom of the quarry. Her dark hair cropped short, her face showing more angles than feminine softness, she did not appear to notice the cold breezes as she took the trio of off-world scientists into a suspensorpod that dropped like a diving bell past colored bands of mineral impurities.

  The inventors were a mixed batch. One was boisterous and political, having achieved success through writing excellent reports as opposed to doing superb research. His two companions were quieter and more self-absorbed, but their flashes of inspiration had produced technological wild cards that brought in a great deal of money for Richese.

  It had taken the Sisterhood weeks to track them down, to concoct an appropriate excuse to bring them here. Ostensibly, these three men had been summoned to discuss retooling the Mother School’s power systems, to develop direct satellite links that would not interfere with the defensive screens surrounding Wallach IX. The Richesian government had been eager to offer their creative skills to the powerful Bene Gesserit.

  The pretext had succeeded. In actuality, Harishka had requested these specific inventors because of their connections to the vanished Chobyn. They might have access to the records of his work, or know something important about what he had done.

  “We have traveled far from the main complex,” said the meek inventor named Haloa Rund. Looking around as the suspensorpod descended, Rund noted the isolation of the quarry. It held few buildings and no noticeable rock-working technology. “What power requirements could you possibly have so far from your main complex?”

  Having once studied at the Mentat School and failed, Rund still prided himself on his analytical mind. He was also a nephew of Count Ilban Richese, and had used his family connections to receive funding for eccentric projects that would have been denied to anyone else. His uncle doted on all of his own relatives.

  “Mother Superior is waiting below,” Cristane answered, as if that would dispel any doubts. “And we have a problem for you to solve.”

  Earlier, around the Mother School, Rund’s two associates had been enamored with the scenery, the orchards, and the stucco buildings with terra-cotta tile roofs. Few men were ever allowed to visit Wallach IX, and they drank in all the details like tourists, happy to go wherever the Sisters wanted to take them.

  The suspensorpod reached the bottom of the quarry, where the men emerged and looked around. The razor breezes were sharp and cold. Rock cliffs rose in a stairstep formation above them, like an enclosed stadium.

  The wreckage of the strange vessel lay covered with electrotarps, with its hull still visible under the slanting light. Mother Superior Harishka and several black-robed companions stood next to the ship. The Richesian inventors came forward, intrigued.

  “What is this? A small scout fighter?” Talis Balt was a bald, bookish man who could do even complex equations in his head. “I was given to understand the Sisterhood had no overt military capability. Why would you own—”

  “This is not ours,” Cristane repli
ed. “We were attacked, but managed to destroy the vessel. It appears to have been equipped with a new form of defensive screen that makes it invisible to human eyes or scanning devices.”

  “Impossible,” said Flinto Kinnis, the bureaucrat of the group. Though only a mid-level scientist, he had supervised highly successful technological teams.

  “Nothing is impossible, Director,” Haloa Rund countered, his voice stern. “The first step in innovation is to know that a thing can be created. After that, the rest is a matter of detail.”

  Reverend Mother Cienna touched a transmitter to remove a corner of the electrotarp, revealing the scratched and scarred fuselage of a small warship. “We have reason to believe this technology was developed by a Richesian named Tenu Chobyn, a person of your acquaintance. The Bene Gesserit must learn whether any of you have additional information on his operations.”

  Haloa Rund and Talis Balt moved toward the wreckage, fascinated by the techno-mystery. Flinto Kinnis, though, remained suspicious. “Chobyn defected from our orbital laboratory facility on Korona. He left in disgrace and took proprietary information with him. Why not ask the man yourself?”

  “We believe he is dead,” Cristane said simply.

  Kinnis looked startled, his obvious displeasure at Chobyn’s betrayal melting into confusion.

  Haloa Rund turned to face the Mother Superior squarely. “Surely, this must be a dangerous secret. Why are you showing it to us?” He frowned, intrigued by the idea of advanced technological details he might glean from the wreckage, but feeling his skin crawl with uneasiness. They were far from any witnesses, and the Sisters were unpredictable. But Rund was the nephew of Count Richese, and his trip here was known. The Bene Gesserit wouldn’t dare harm him or his companions… he hoped.

  Harishka cut him off with a snap, using the full power of Voice. “Answer our questions.”

  The inventors stopped, as if stunned.

  Reverend Mother Lanali spoke next, also using the implacable Voice, her heart-shaped face now looking like a storm. “You were friends of Chobyn. Tell us what you know of this invention. How do we re-create it?”

  Cienna lifted the rest of the electrotarp, exposing the broken hulk. Working as a team, the clustered Reverend Mothers interrogated the Richesians in the Bene Gesserit Way, a technique that enabled them to detect minutiae. They observed the slightest flickers of doubt, untruth, or exaggeration.

  Under the cold sky of Wallach IX, shielded by cliff walls, the Sisters hammered the three helpless men with every possible question in every conceivable manner, a relentless, rapid-fire debriefing to determine if enough evidence existed to reconstruct Chobyn’s secret technology. They had to know.

  Though the group of Richesians did not doubt the Sisters’ claims about the crashed ship’s capabilities, it became clear that their former comrade had been a rogue who had done the work by himself, presumably under the auspices of House Harkonnen. Chobyn had consulted with none of his colleagues, had left no known records.

  “Very well then,” Harishka said. “The secret is safe. It will fade and die.”

  Though paralyzed and unable to resist, the captive inventors still exhibited signs of dread that the witches would torture them to death in some unspeakable fashion. Cristane herself might have advocated such a solution.

  Yet, if all three of these men disappeared or suffered a too-convenient shuttle accident, Premier Ein Calimar and old Count Ilban Richese would ask too many questions. The Bene Gesserit could not afford to raise suspicion.

  On the gravel, the Sisters, their faces pinched and ominous, gathered around the Richesians. The black robes of the women made them look like birds of prey.

  Presently, the Bene Gesserit began to speak, lifting their whispers on the trails of the others.

  “You will forget.”

  “You will not question.”

  “You will not remember.”

  Under controlled circumstances, trained Sisters could perform this “resonating hypnosis” to implant false memories and alter sensory perceptions. They had taken similar measures against Baron Harkonnen when he’d come to the Mother School in a fit of vengeful rage.

  Cristane assisted in the chant, focusing her mental powers with those of the Reverend Mothers. Working together, they carefully crafted a new tapestry of memories, a story that Haloa Rund and his two comrades would report back to their superiors.

  The three men would remember only an uninteresting conference on Wallach IX, a casual discussion of half-made plans for upgrades to the Mother School. Nothing whatsoever would come of it. The Sisters weren’t particularly interested. No one would press the issue further.

  The Bene Gesserit had learned all they needed to know.

  In a society where hard data is uncertain at best, one must be careful to manipulate the truth. Appearance becomes reality. Perception becomes fact. Use this to your advantage.

  — EMPRESS HERADE, A PRIMER ON THE FINER POINTS

  of Culture in the Imperium

  The Etiquette Advisor from Chusuk took one look around the blocky Harkonnen Keep, and said with a heavy sigh, “I don’t suppose we have time to do any redecorating?”

  Piter de Vries ushered the rangy, foppish man into the Hall of Mirrors, where he introduced him to the Baron and Beast Rabban. “Mephistis Cru comes highly recommended from the Chusuk Academy, having trained the daughters and sons of many noble houses.”

  Accompanied by an army of distorted reflections in the mirrors, Cru moved as if he were a ballet dancer. His shoulder-length brown hair was frothed into lush curls that draped over a billowing robe (presumably the height of fashion on some distant world). His pantaloons were made of a shimmering fabric etched with subtle floral patterns. Cru’s skin was delicately powdered, and too heavily perfumed for even the Baron’s tastes.

  With a gracious bow, the exceedingly proper man paused at the foot of the Baron’s immense chair. “I thank you for your confidence in me, sir.” The man’s voice was like wet silk. Cru’s full lips and even his eyes smiled, as if he imagined the Imperium could be a bright and sparkling place, if only everyone behaved with sufficient decorum. “I’ve read all the commentaries about you, and I agree that you simply must retool your image.”

  The Baron, seated in a griffin-footed chair, already regretted listening to the advice of his Mentat. Rabban stood off to one side, glowering. Two-year-old Feyd-Rautha took a few toddling steps and slipped on the polished marble floor. Landing hard on his rump, he began to cry.

  Cru inhaled a deep breath. “I believe I am up to the challenge of portraying you as likable and honorable.”

  “You’d better be,” Rabban said. “We’ve already sent out the invitations for a banquet.”

  The etiquette advisor reacted with alarm. “How much time do we have? You should have consulted with me first.”

  “I am not required to confer with you on any decisions I make.” The Baron’s voice was as hard as Arrakis rock.

  Instead of being cowed by the dangerous man’s simmering anger, Cru responded pedantically, “There, you see! Your sharp tone of voice, the furious expression on your face.” He jabbed out with a long, pale finger. “Such things are bound to put off your peers.”

  “You are not one of his peers,” Rabban growled.

  The etiquette advisor continued as if he had not heard the remark. “Far, far better to phrase your response with sincerity and genuine apology. For instance, ‘I’m so sorry I did not have the forethought to look at the problem from your point of view. However, I made the decision that I thought best. Perhaps if we work together, we might come up with a solution that is to our mutual benefit.’ ” Cru extended his soft hands theatrically, as if expecting applause from an audience. “Do you see how much more effective that can be?”

  The Harkonnen nobleman did not agree at all, and was about to say so when the Mentat interceded. “My Baron, you agreed that this would be an experiment. You can always revert to your old ways later if this doesn’t work.”


  Noting an uncomfortable nod from the fat man, Mephistis Cru began to pace back and forth, preoccupied with plans. “Relax, relax. I’m sure we’ll still have enough time. We’ll do what we can. None of us is perfect.” He looked up at the Harkonnen patriarch and smiled again. “Let us see what a difference we can make, even under these challenging circumstances.”

  * * *

  Inside the tower solarium, the Baron stood supported by his suspensor belt while Mephistis Cru began the first lesson. Smoky afternoon sunlight passed through grease-smudged windows, illuminating the broad floor of what had once been an exercise room, back in the Baron’s lean and healthy days.

  The etiquette advisor walked around him, touching the Baron’s sleeves, poking at the black-and-purple fabric lines. “Relax, please.” He frowned at the large, soft bulk. “Form-fitting clothes are not for you, my Lord. I suggest billowing garments, loose robes. A magisterial cape would make you look absolutely… awe-inspiring.”

  De Vries stepped forward. “We shall have the tailors create new clothes immediately.”

  Next, Mephistis Cru studied the barrel-chested Rabban, with his fur-trimmed leather vest, iron-shod boots and wide belt holding his inkvine whip. Rabban’s rakish hair was tousled. Cru’s face barely covered an expression of dismay, but he forced himself to turn back to the Baron. “Well, let’s concentrate on you first.”

  Remembering a detail, the foppish man snapped his fingers at de Vries. “Please acquire the guest list for the banquet. I intend to study backgrounds and develop specific compliments the Baron can use to gain their good graces.”

  “Compliments?” Rabban swallowed a guffaw as the Baron glared at him.

  One of Cru’s skills seemed to be an ability to ignore insults. He brought out a calibrated stick as long as his forearm and began to mark the Baron’s measurements. “Relax, relax. I am as excited about this banquet as you must be. We will select only the very, very best wines—”