Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Jessica smiled. “Kaitain is so beautiful and fascinating. I learn new things every day, see amazing sights.” She paused, then admitted, “It is not my home, however.”

  Irulan’s classic beauty reminded Jessica of herself at that age. She was only eleven years older than the Princess; the two of them might have been sisters, by appearance. This one is exactly the type my Duke should marry, in order to gain stature for his House. I should hate her, but I do not.

  The Emperor’s wife, wearing a long dress of mauve cloth with a golden collar and filigree sleeves, emerged from the garden path behind her. “Oh, there you are, Jessica. What are you two plotting?”

  Irulan replied. “We’re just talking about how amazing Kaitain is.”

  Anirul allowed herself a momentary flash of pride. She noted the filmbook, knew that Irulan had been studying while others played court games. In a conspiratorial tone she said to Jessica, “Irulan seems more dedicated to learning the labyrinth of leadership than my husband is.” She extended a ring-bedecked hand to Jessica. “Come, I have things to discuss with you.”

  Jessica followed the Emperor’s wife through a topiary garden, whose shrubs had been trimmed into soldier shapes. Anirul plucked a small, out-of-place twig from the uniform of one of the shrub-soldiers. “Jessica, you are different from the hangers-on at court, who constantly gossip and vie for social position. I find you refreshing.”

  “Surrounded by so much splendor, I must seem rather plain.”

  Anirul chuckled. “Your beauty requires no enhancement. I, on the other hand, am expected to dress in a certain way.” She displayed the rings on her fingers. “This blue soostone, however, is more than a ring.”

  She pressed the gem, and a shimmering journal appeared in front of her, the pages dense with information. Before Jessica could read any of the holo-scribed words, Anirul deactivated the projection.

  “Since privacy is so rare at Court, I have found my diary to be an extremely useful tool for contemplation. It enables me to analyze my thoughts, and to sift through Other Memory. You will know about it, Jessica, when you become a Reverend Mother.”

  Jessica followed her on stepping-stones that crossed a small water garden, where oversize lilies and aquatic flowers floated. Anirul continued, “I consider my journal a responsibility, in case anything should happen to prevent my memory transference at the end of my life.” Her words left much unsaid: In these critical last days of the long-planned secret breeding program, she, as the Kwisatz Mother, needed a written chronicle for those who would follow her. She dared not risk having her life and experiences vanish into an abyss of unrecorded history.

  Anirul fingered her soostone ring. “I would like to give you a journal of your own, Jessica. An old-fashioned bound book. In it, you may preserve your thoughts and observations, your most personal feelings. You will come to a better understanding of yourself and those around you.”

  As they walked around a fountain, Jessica felt a mist on her skin, like the breath of a child. Unconsciously, she touched her belly, feeling the life inside there. Growing.

  “My gift is already in your apartment. You will find an old blank book inside a small rolltop desk that belonged to my dear friend Lobia. Write in your diary. It could be a new friend for you in our lonely, crowded Palace.”

  Jessica paused, not sure how to respond. “Thank you, my Lady. I shall make my first entry this evening.”

  There are some men who refuse to accept defeat under any circumstances. Will history judge them heroes, or fools?

  — EMPEROR SHADDAM IV,

  Revised Official Imperial History (draft)

  In bygone glory years, Cammar Pilru had been the Ixian Ambassador to Kaitain, a man of stature whose duties took him from the glittering cavern cities to the Landsraad Hall and the Imperial Court. A distinguished and sometimes beguiling man, Pilru had tirelessly sought favorable concessions for Ixian industrial products by slipping payments to one official or another, giving away valuable luxury items, bartering favor for favor.

  Then the Tleilaxu had invaded his world. House Corrino had ignored his pleas for assistance, and the Landsraad turned a deaf ear to his complaints. His wife had been killed in the attack. His world and his life were destroyed.

  Once, in what seemed another lifetime, the Ambassador had wielded considerable influence in financial, business, and political circles. Cammar Pilru had made friends in high places, kept many secrets. Though he was not inclined to engage in extortion, the mere perception that he might use a bit of information against another person gave him substantial power. Even after the passage of so many years, he remembered each detail, and others remembered much of it as well. Now it was time to use that information.

  The Warden of the Imperial Prison on Kaitain, Nanee McGarr, was a former smuggler and rogue. Judging by her broad, swarthy appearance, some made the assumption that she was a man, and an ugly one at that. Originally from a high-gravity planet in the Unsidor system, she was squat and at least as muscular as a big Anbus wrestler. McGarr had served almost a year in an Ixian prison tunnel before bribing a guard to let her escape. Officially, she remained at large.

  Years later, upon glimpsing McGarr in the Imperial city, Ambassador Pilru had recognized her from confidential Ixian arrest notices. After Pilru had privately revealed to her that he knew— and planned to keep— her secret, the Warden was in his pocket. For twenty long years he had remained on Kaitain, an exiled ambassador from a renegade House, and he had never found a need to call in that favor.

  Then an actor had boldly tried to assassinate the Emperor, making shocking claims concerning the actor’s lineage. Those assertions had been outrageous enough to plant seeds in Ambassador Pilru’s mind. He desperately needed to see this prisoner who might be the son of Elrood IX and the Imperial concubine Shando Balut, a woman who had later become the wife of Earl Dominic Vernius.

  If true, Tyros Reffa was not only the half brother of Shaddam IV— but also of Prince Rhombur Vernius. It was a staggering thought, a double-revelation. A Prince of Corrino and of Vernius locked up in prison, right here on Kaitain! Rhombur thought himself the last survivor of his Great House, and believed that his bloodline would end with him.

  Now there might be a slim chance, at least through the maternal line….

  Shaddam would never grant him access to Reffa, so instead the Ambassador decided upon another avenue. Despite the decline of House Vernius, Warden McGarr would not want her past crimes revealed. It could only lead to deeper investigations. In the end, the Ambassador didn’t even have to raise the threat, and she made arrangements for him….

  When darkness began to settle over the metropolis of Corrinth, Pilru took a forest trail along the western perimeter of the Palace grounds. He crossed an ivory rock bridge over a stream and disappeared into shadows on the other side. In his pockets he carried certain medical tools, sample vials, and a small holorecorder, all concealed in a nullentropy pouch strapped against his stomach.

  “This way,” a gravelly voice said from the direction of the stream. In the dimness, Pilru saw the boatman he was supposed to meet, a hunched figure with pale, glistening eyes. The motor made a faint purr, holding the craft steady against the current.

  After Pilru climbed aboard, the flat-bottom boat rode low in the water. The boatman used a tall tiller to guide them as the simple craft traversed a maze of waterways. Around them thorn hedges rose high, forming ominous silhouettes against the darkening sky. There were many dead ends in these labyrinthine canals, traps for the uninformed. But the crouching pilot knew the route.

  The boat rounded a bend, and the hedges here appeared taller, the sharp thorns longer. Ahead, Pilru saw dim lights at the base of a large structure of gray stone. A double-doored metal gate over a water lane led into the penal facility. Lights shone on the other side of the lattice ironwork.

  Set atop high poles flanking the gate were the heads of four executed prisoners— three men and a woman. Their skulls, still draped in bloody fle
sh and then coated with a preservation polymer, had been hollowed out and fitted with glowglobes, so that an unsettling ghoulish light shone through the eye sockets, mouths, and nostrils.

  “Traitor’s Gate,” the boatman announced, as the metal doors creaked open and the small boat hummed through. “A lot of famous prisoners enter this way, but not many come back out.”

  A guard on a dock waved them over, and Pilru climbed from the swaying boat. Without asking to see his ambassadorial credentials, the man led him through a dismal corridor that smelled of mold and rot. From somewhere, Pilru heard screams. Perhaps they were echoes from the Emperor’s much-feared torture chambers… or simply recordings to maintain an excruciating sense of anxiety among the prisoners.

  Pilru was guided to a small cell rimmed by a glowing orange containment field. “Our royal suite,” the guard announced, dimming the containment field and allowing the Ambassador to step through. The cell stank.

  Rivulets of moisture ran down a rock wall at the rear of the cell onto the bed and the rough stone floor, where lumps of fungus grew. Inside, a man in a tattered black coat and filthy trousers lay on a bunk. The prisoner sat up warily as they approached. “Who are you? My lawtech, at last?”

  The guard said to Pilru, “Warden McGarr says to give you one hour. Then you either go… or you stay.”

  Tyros Reffa dangled his booted feet over the edge of the bed. “I have studied the guidelines of the justice system. I know the Imperial Law Code letter for letter, and even Shaddam is bound by it. He is not following—”

  “The Corrinos are bound by whatever law they choose.” Pilru shook his head. He had learned this personally, when he’d decried the injustices on Ix.

  “I am a Corrino.”

  “So you say. You don’t have legal representation yet?”

  “Almost three weeks, and no one else has spoken to me.” He looked agitated. “What happened to the rest of the acting troupe? They know nothing about this—”

  “They are arrested as well.”

  Reffa hung his head. “For that, I am truly sorry. And for the death of the guard. I did not intend to attack, but only to speak my piece.” He looked at his visitor. “So who are you, then?”

  Standing close so that he could keep his voice low, Pilru identified himself by name and title. “Woefully, I am a government servant without a government. When Ix fell to invaders, the Emperor did nothing about it.”

  “Ix?” Reffa looked at him with a touch of pride. “My birth-mother was Shando Balut, who later married Dominic Vernius of Ix.”

  The Ambassador squatted, careful not to let his clothes touch anything unsavory. “If you are truly who you say, Tyros Reffa, then you are technically a Prince of House Vernius, along with your half brother Rhombur. You are the only two living members of a once-great noble family.”

  “I am also the only male Corrino heir.” Reffa did not seem afraid of his potential fate, only indignant at his treatment.

  “So you say.”

  The prisoner crossed his arms. “Detailed genetic tests will prove my claim.”

  “Exactly.” The Ambassador removed a medical kit from the nullentropy container strapped to his stomach. “I have brought a genetic extraction kit with me. Emperor Shaddam means to keep your true identity hidden, so I am here without his knowledge. We must be extremely cautious.”

  “He has certainly performed no analyses himself. Either he already knows the truth, or he is not interested.” Reffa sounded disgusted. “Does Shaddam just intend to hide me here for years, or quietly execute me? Did you know that the real reason for his attack on Zanovar was to eliminate me? All those people dead— but I wasn’t even there.”

  Pilru, who had developed his diplomatic skills over the years, managed not to show surprise at the startling assertion. An entire planet sterilized to strike at one person? But then, he could very well believe Shaddam might have tried to take care of the perceived threat to his throne in that way.

  “Anything is conceivable. Nevertheless, it serves the Emperor’s purposes to deny your existence. That is why I must take samples in order to perform a full and objective analysis— somewhere far from Kaitain. I need your cooperation.”

  He could see an expression of hope on Reffa’s face. The gray-green eyes brightened, and he sat up straight. “Of course.” Mercifully, he did not ask for additional details.

  Pilru opened a slender black case to reveal a gleaming autoscalpel, and a capsule syringe, along with some small vials and tubes. “I will need enough material for several genetic tests.”

  The prisoner submitted. Quickly the Ambassador collected blood, semen, skin scrapings, fingernails, and epithelial cells from the inside of Reffa’s mouth. Everything necessary to provide absolute proof of Reffa’s parentage, no matter how Shaddam tried to cover it up.

  Assuming that Pilru successfully got the specimens off-planet, of course. He was playing a dangerous game here.

  When all the samples were taken, Reffa’s broad shoulders sagged, as if he had finally accepted that he would never get out of this prison alive. “I don’t suppose I will ever be granted my day in court?” He looked like an innocent little boy.

  The beloved old Docent Glax Othn had always taught him to hold justice sacred. But Shaddam, the Butcher of Zanovar, considered himself above Imperial law.

  “I doubt it,” the Ambassador said with brutal honesty.

  The prisoner sighed. “I wrote a speech for the court, a grand statement in the tradition of Prince Raphael Corrino, the role I played in my last performance. I was going to use all of my skills to make people weep for the lost golden age of the Imperium and make my half brother recognize the error of his ways.”

  Pilru paused, then removed a tiny holorecorder from his nullentropy pouch. “Deliver your speech now, Tyros Reffa. To me. And I will see that others hear it.”

  Reffa sat straight, drawing a magnificent cloak of dignity around himself. “I would be pleased to have any audience at all.” The recorder began to hum.

  * * *

  Afterward, when the guard returned, Ambassador Pilru stood shaken, tears streaming down his face. As the hazy containment field opened on one side, the guard said, “So? Are you staying with us? Should I find you an empty cell?”

  “I’m coming.” Flashing a farewell glance at Reffa, Pilru hurried out. The Ambassador’s throat was dry, his knees weak. He had never before experienced the full power of a trained Jongleur.

  Standing as tall and proud as an Emperor, Elrood’s bastard son looked at Pilru through the orange haze of the field. “Give my greetings to Rhombur. I wish… we could have met.”

  The key to discovery lies not in mathematics, but in the imagination.

  — HALOA RUND, EARLY LABORATORY JOURNALS

  His body still ragged and unrested, Rund hunched over an electronic drawing table, staring at doodles and magnetic lines on the flat screen. Scrolling down the list of his notes, using the few Mentat memory-recovery tricks he had learned a long time ago, he had reconstructed, in exact order, every question the Bene Gesserit had asked, every detail he had seen of the wrecked ship.

  Now that he knew such an invisibility field could exist, he had only to find the path to recreate it. The challenge was formidable.

  Talis Balt and Director Kinnis stood to one side of the austere laboratory room. “Director, I have been pondering for hours,” Balt said. “Haloa’s claims sound… correct to me, though I can’t say exactly why.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” the Director said.

  Rund said without looking up, “My mind has been through the rigors of Mentat training. Maybe I have some ability to resist Bene Gesserit mind tricks.”

  “But you failed as a Mentat,” Kinnis reminded him, his voice heavy with skepticism.

  “Nevertheless, it changed the neural pathways in my brain.” He remembered an adage from the school: Patterns tend to repeat themselves, for success or failure. “My mind developed pockets of resistance, mental muscles, aux
iliary storage areas. Perhaps that is why their coercion didn’t take hold completely.” His kindly old uncle would be proud of him.

  Balt scratched his scalp, as if trying to dig up any remaining roots of hair. “I suggest we take the time to go over Chobyn’s laboratory again.”

  The Director looked impatient. “We already did that after he defected. Chobyn was just a low-level researcher, from an unimportant family, so he did not have a very large space. We have used it for storage since his departure.”

  Rund erased the sketches on his drawing screen. Without asking Kinnis for permission, he hurried toward the old work area….

  Inside the long-abandoned laboratory, he stared at a list of requisitioned parts and fragments of notes. He went over administrative-surveillance holophotos taken of Chobyn— but nothing important presented itself.

  The renegade inventor had been altering classic Holtzman equations developed millennia ago. The most brilliant modern scientists didn’t completely understand how Tio Holtzmann’s esoteric formulae worked— only that they did work. Rund couldn’t understand what Chobyn had done, either.

  His brain was afire, operating at a higher efficiency than he had imagined possible. Flinto Kinnis stood amidst the activity, doing his best to supervise, while Rund went over the entire laboratory space, ignoring the other people. He tapped floorplates, walls, and ceilings. Every square centimeter.

  Kneeling at a juncture between the floor and the outer hull of the orbiting station, he noticed a crack that flashed in and out of view, a camouflaged portion, no more than a tiny flicker, a dust grain in the eye. Rund stared until his eyes ached, remembering how a stern Mentat teacher had taught him to observe. He sped up his perceptions, slowing down time, and caught the next flicker.

  At the precisely correct moment, Rund stepped through the wall.