Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  The frosting seemed to shimmer, and the Baron waited for the delightful surprise inside.

  “There, look at the cake, little one!” Ilban placed Feyd on the table in front of him— an action that no doubt would have horrified Mephistis Cru.

  One of the chef’s assistants used a wire-knife to slice open the length of the sweet sandworm, as if he were performing an autopsy. The banquet guests crowded around to get better views, and Count Richese leaned Feyd forward.

  When the cake was opened, shapes squirmed inside, long writhing forms, serpentine creatures meant to represent the sandworms of Arrakis. The harmless snakes had been drugged and stuffed inside the cake so that as they roiled and squirmed out of the frosting, they looked like a nest of tentacles. A wonderful little joke.

  Feyd seemed fascinated, but Count Richese choked on a scream. The tension of the night and the guests’ suspicions about the Baron had placed everyone on edge. The Count, trying to be a hero, yanked Feyd-Rautha roughly away from the table, overturning his own chair in the process.

  Feyd, who had not been afraid of the snakes, was now startled into a fit of bawling. As he wailed, bodyguards grabbed their lords and prepared to defend them.

  On the other side of the table from the toddler, Viscount Moritani stood back, his black eyes glittering with an odd mixture of mirth and fury. Swordmaster Hiih Resser stood ready to protect his lord, but Moritani seemed unconcerned. The Viscount coolly adjusted a bracelet on his wrist, causing a white-hot beam from a covert lasgun to vaporize the snakes, detonating them into shreds of scaly flesh, chunks of meat, and blackened frosting.

  Guests screamed. Most rushed for the doors of the banquet hall. Mephistis Cru scampered in from a back room, waving his hands and pleading for calm.

  From that point on, the pandemonium only grew worse.

  The more tightly packed the group, the greater the need for strict social ranks and orders.

  — Bene Gesserit Teaching

  Dressed in a traditional jubba cloak with the hood thrown back, Liet-Kynes stood once again on a high balcony overlooking the sietch chamber. He felt far more at home here than in the halls of Kaitain, and far more intimidated. Here he would speak of matters that affected the future of every free man on the planet of Dune.

  The sessions had gone smoothly, with the exception of a disruption caused by Pemaq, the aging Naib of Hole-in-the-Wall Sietch. The conservative leader spoke against everything Liet stood for, resisting all forms of change but providing no rational alternatives. Other Fremen repeatedly shouted him down, until at last the obstinate old man had skulked off into the cool shadows, grumbling.

  For days, the convocation had shifted and flowed, with some feuding members leaving the meeting in indignation, but later returning. Each night after the meetings, Faroula had held Liet, whispering her advice, helping where she could, and loving him. She kept him strong and balanced, despite his growing discouragement.

  Fremen observers reported the subtle progress in their battle to tame the desert. In only a single generation, the wasteland was showing faint but definite signs of improvement. Twenty years ago, Umma Kynes had told them to be patient, that the effort might take centuries. But his dreams were already beginning to come true.

  In deep arroyos at the far southern regions, cleverly concealed plantings thrived, nurtured by solar mirrors and magnifiers that warmed the air and melted frost from the ground. Stunted palm trees grew in small numbers, along with hardy desert sunflowers, gourd plants, and tubers. On some days, a few trickles of water ran freely. Water on the surface of Dune! It was an astounding concept.

  So far, the Harkonnens hadn’t noticed the changes, with their attention directed only toward spice operations. The planet would be recovered, one hectare at a time. Good news, all around.

  Now, though, Liet heaved a sigh of anticipation. Even with all the support he had received at this convocation (much more than he had expected), there might be significant dissent this afternoon… after they heard his proposal.

  On balconies and platforms that zigzagged up the rock walls, more than a thousand ripcord-tough Fremen returned from a midday break and took up their positions. They wore desert-stained robes and temag boots. Some smoked melange-laced fibers in clay pipes, as was the custom in early afternoon. With the pleasing aroma of burning spice in his nostrils, Liet-Kynes began to speak.

  “Umma Kynes, my father, was a great visionary. He set our people on an ambitious, arduous course to awaken Dune. He taught us that the ecosystem is complex, that every life-form needs a niche. Many times he spoke of the ecological consequences of our actions. Umma Kynes saw the environment as an interactive system, with fluid stability and order.”

  Liet cleared his throat. “From off-planet we have brought insects to aerate the soil, which enables plants to grow more easily. We have centipedes, scorpions, and bees. Small and large animals are spreading across the sand and rocks— kit foxes, hares, desert hawks, dwarf owls.

  “Dune is like a great engine that we are oiling and repairing. One day this world will serve us in new and wondrous ways, just as we will continue to honor and serve it. My Fremen brothers, we are part of the ecosystem ourselves, an integral part. We occupy our own essential niche.”

  The audience listened attentively, with a special reverence whenever Liet mentioned the name and work of his legendary father.

  “But what is our niche? Are we merely Planetologists, restoring flora and fauna? I say we must do much more than that. We need to fight the Harkonnen aggressors on a scale never before contemplated. For years, groups of us have harassed them, but never enough to cripple their rapacious operations. Today, the Baron steals more spice than ever.”

  Shouts of discontent passed through the chamber, accompanied by pockets of nervous whispering against the sacrilege.

  Liet raised his voice. “My father failed to foresee that powerful forces of the Imperium— the Emperor, House Harkonnen, the Landsraad— would not share his vision. We are alone in this, and must make them stop.”

  The murmurings increased. Liet hoped he was awakening his people, convincing them to put aside their differences and work toward a common goal.

  “What good is it to build a home if you don’t defend it? We are millions strong. Let us fight for the new world my father envisioned, a world our grandchildren should inherit!”

  Applause echoed in the great chamber, as well as the foot-stomping that signaled approval— especially from the rough Fremen youths, who reveled in their razzia raids.

  Then Kynes heard a change in the noise. People pointed at an opposite balcony, where a wiry old man waved his crysknife in the air. Ropy hair whipped around him, making him look like a madman from the deep desert. Pemaq again.

  “Taqwa!” he shouted from his balcony, an ancient Fremen battle cry that meant, “The price of freedom.”

  The throng fell silent, all eyes riveted on the Naib of Hole-in-the-Wall Sietch and his milky white blade. Fremen tradition held that a drawn crysknife could not be sheathed until it tasted blood. Pemaq had chosen a dangerous course.

  Liet touched the handle of his own knife at his waist. He saw Stilgar and Turok making their way up a rock staircase, hurrying to the higher level.

  “Liet-Kynes, I challenge you to answer me!” Pemaq bellowed. “If I do not find your response satisfactory, the time for words will be over and blood will decide! Do you accept my challenge?”

  This fool could destroy all of the political progress Liet had made. With no choice in the matter, since his honor and ability to lead were at stake, Liet shouted back, “If that will silence you, Pemaq, then I accept. ‘There is no man so blind as one who has made up his mind.’ ” A ripple of muffled laughter stirred through the audience at the skillful application of an old Fremen adage.

  Angry at the rebuke, Pemaq pointed with the tip of his blade. “You are only half-Fremen, Liet-Kynes, and your off-world blood has infused you with devilish ideas. You have spent too much time on Salusa Secundus and
Kaitain. You have been corrupted and are now trying to taint the rest of us with your harmful delusions.”

  Liet’s heart hammered in his chest. Righteous anger rose, and he wanted to silence the man. Glancing back, he saw Stilgar take a guard position at the entrance to Liet’s balcony.

  The dissenter continued. “For decades Heinar, the Naib of Red Wall Sietch, has been my friend. I fought alongside him against the Harkonnens when they first came to Dune, after the departure of House Richese. I carried him on my back after the raid in which he lost an eye. Heinar increased the prosperity of the people under his rule— but he is old, like me.

  “Now you gather support from other Fremen leaders, bringing them here to solidify your position. You speak of your father’s achievements, Liet-Kynes, while citing none of your own.” The defiant man trembled with fury. “Your motives are clear— you wish to be Naib yourself.”

  Liet blinked in surprise at the ridiculous assertion. “I deny it completely. For weeks I have spoken of important work for all Fremen, and you accuse me of petty ambition?”

  Stilgar shouted then, his voice clear in the huge chamber. “It is said that if a thousand men gather in a room, one of them is sure to be a fool. I believe there are a thousand men here, Pemaq— and we have found our fool.”

  A few chuckles diminished the tension, but Pemaq did not relent. “You are not a Fremen, Liet-Kynes. You are not one of us. First you married Heinar’s daughter, and now you intend to take his place.”

  “I hurl the truth back at you, Pemaq, and may it pierce your lying heart. My off-world blood comes from Umma Kynes himself, and you call that a weakness? Moreover, the tale of my blood-brother Warrick and how he died is known in every sietch. I gave my vow to him that I would marry Faroula and take his son as my own.”

  Pemaq countered in a somber tone, “Perhaps you summoned the wind of the demon in the open desert to kill your rival. I do not pretend to know the powers of off-world demons.”

  Tired of the foolishness, Liet turned his gaze out upon the delegates lining the chamber. “I have accepted his challenge, but he only plays games of words. If there is a duel between us, will I draw blood first, or will he? Pemaq is an old man, and if I kill him I can only dishonor myself in such a fight. Even if he dies, he achieves his aim.” Liet looked across at the balcony. “Is that your plan, old fool?”

  Just then, Naib Heinar, wearing his eye patch and looking as if his body were made of leather, stepped onto the balcony beside Pemaq. The dissenter reacted with surprise, then disbelief as the one-eyed Naib spoke. Heinar’s raspy voice rang through the gathering chamber. “I have known Liet since the moment of his birth, and he has played no tricks against me. He has inherited the true vision of his father, and he is as much a Fremen as any of us.”

  He turned toward the wild-haired man beside him, who still gripped his crysknife, holding it high. “My old friend Pemaq believes he speaks on my behalf, but I say to him he must think beyond the concerns of a single sietch, to all of Dune. I would rather see Harkonnen blood spilled than the blood of my comrade, or of my son-in-law.”

  In the ensuing silence, Liet called out, “I will walk into the desert and face Shai-Hulud alone rather than fight a single one of you. You must either believe in me, or cast me out.”

  A chanting filled the chamber, begun by Stilgar and Turok, and picked up by the brash Fremen youths thirsty for Harkonnen blood. More than a thousand desert men uttered his sietch name over and over. “Liet! Liet!”

  On the opposite balcony there was a sudden blur of movement, a scuffle between Pemaq and Heinar. Without saying a word, the stubborn man attempted to fall on his own naked blade, but old Heinar moved to prevent it. He snatched the crysknife out of the sweat-slippery hand of his comrade. Pemaq fell onto the balcony floor, alive but defeated.

  Holding the knife, Heinar stepped back, slicing upward with a blur to cut a deep gash across Pemaq’s forehead, which would leave a scar for the rest of his days. The requisite blood had been drawn. Pemaq looked up, the fury deflated from him; a line of blood dripped across his hooded brows and into his eyes. Heinar turned the crysknife around and extended it to its owner, hilt-first.

  “Perceive this as a good omen, all of you gathered here,” Heinar shouted into the cavern, “for it unifies the Fremen behind Liet-Kynes.”

  Climbing to his feet, Pemaq wiped crimson from his eyes, smearing his cheeks with streaks of blood like warpaint. He drew a deep breath to speak, as was his right; Liet braced himself, still stunned at the speed with which events had turned. But the wild-haired Fremen scowled at Heinar, then said, “I move that we elect Liet-Kynes as our Abu Naib, the father of all sietches to lead us all.”

  Liet reeled for a moment, but after he had composed himself, he responded, “We are at a crisis point in our history. Our descendants will look at this moment and say either that we made the correct decision, or that we failed entirely.” After pausing to let this sink in, he continued. “As the awakening of Dune becomes more obvious, it will be increasingly difficult to hide our work from the Harkonnens. The Guild spice bribe becomes more important than ever, to make certain we keep all weather satellites and observation systems away from our work.”

  Murmurs of concurrence passed through the throng. The weeks of discussion had come down to this.

  Liet-Kynes tried to keep his emotions in check. “After the treachery that resulted in the destruction of the smuggler base at the south pole, I no longer trust the middleman we have used for years, the water merchant Rondo Tuek. Though he has left the pole, he still acts as our liaison. But Tuek betrayed Dominic Vernius, and could turn on us just as easily. Why trust him any longer? I will demand a direct meeting with a representative of the Spacing Guild. The Fremen will no longer rely on any middlemen. From now on, the standing agreement is between us and the Guild.”

  Liet had always considered Dominic Vernius a friend and mentor. The renegade Earl deserved a better fate than the one arranged for him by the double-dealing water merchant. Recently, Tuek had sold his ice-mining operations to Lingar Bewt, his former right-hand man, and returned to Carthag. Considering the problem of Tuek, Liet-Kynes formed a plan to settle the matter.

  Around the chamber, the Planetologist noted expressions of complete faith that he had not witnessed since the heady days of his celebrated father. This had been a long time coming, and the younger Kynes had traveled his own path. His aspirations overlapped with those of his predecessor, but went far beyond them. Where his father had envisioned only the greening of the desert wastelands, Liet considered the Fremen to be the stewards of Dune. All of it.

  To achieve greatness, though, they must first free themselves from their Harkonnen shackles.

  The human body is a storehouse of relics from the past— the appendix, thymus, and (in the embryo) a gill structure. But the unconscious mind is even more intriguing. It has been built up over millions of years and represents a history throughout its synaptic traces, some of which do not appear to be useful in modern times. It is difficult to find everything that is there.

  — From a Secret Bene Gesserit Symposium on Other Memory

  Late at night while the auroras still burned bright, a sleepless Anirul entered the austere, chill quarters that had been used by the Emperor’s former Truthsayer, Lobia. Nearly two months had passed since the old woman had died, and her chambers remained lifeless and hushed, like a tomb.

  Though Lobia must be in Other Memory now, having joined the multitudes within her mind, the Truthsayer’s ancient spirit had not yet surfaced. Anirul felt exhausted from the effort of trying to locate her, but something drove her on.

  Anirul needed a friend and confidante, and she dared not speak to anyone else— certainly not Jessica, who knew nothing of her destiny. Anirul had her daughters, and though she was proud of Irulan’s intelligence and talents, she didn’t dare place such a burden of knowledge on the girl, either. Irulan wasn’t ready. No, the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program was too secret.

&nbs
p; But Lobia— if only she could be located in Other Memory— would be suitable.

  Where are you, old friend? Must I shout out and awaken all those others inside me? She feared taking that step, but perhaps the benefit would be worth the risk. Lobia, talk to me.

  Empty boxes were stacked along one wall of the unheated apartment, but Anirul had avoided packing the dead Truthsayer’s meager possessions and sending them back to Wallach IX. Since Gaius Helen Mohiam had preferred a different set of rooms for herself, these quarters could remain empty for years in the sprawling Palace before anyone noticed them.

  Anirul walked through the dim, austere rooms, breathing the chill air as if hoping to feel spirits stirring about. Then, taking a seat at a small rolltop desk, she activated her sensory-conceptual journal from the soostone ring on her hand. The diary hovered in the air, visible only to her. This seemed an appropriate, contemplative place for Anirul to organize her private thoughts.

  She was sure Lobia would approve. “Wouldn’t you, old friend?” The sound of her own voice startled her, and Anirul fell silent again, surprised that she had begun talking to herself.

  The virtual diary lay open in front of her, waiting for more words. She calmed herself, opened her mind, using Prana-Bindu techniques to stimulate her thoughts. A long, slow breath eased out of her nostrils, barely visible in the frigid air.

  A chill coursed her spine. Shivering, Anirul adjusted her metabolism until she could no longer feel the cold. Four unadorned glowglobes near the ceiling dimmed and then brightened, as if a mysterious power surge had rippled through the air. She closed her eyes.

  The room still smelled like Lobia, a comforting mustiness. The late Truthsayer’s psychic energy lingered as well.

  Removing an innocuous-looking ink plume from its receptacle on the desk, Anirul held it with both hands, pressing it between her palms and concentrating. Lobia had used this instrument often when sending coded transmittals to the Mother School, where she had been an instructor for years. The old woman’s fingerprints were on the pen, along with discarded skin cells and bodily oils.