He found himself inside a claustrophobic alcove, smelling of metal and stale air. With another flicker, the wall sealed itself behind him. He could barely turn around in the tight room. Darkness crashed down, as if he had gone blind. His breathing became labored. Every surface was frosty.
Fumbling in the blackness, he found thin sheets of ridulian crystal, plan screens, shigawire spools packed with data. He called out, but his words bounced back at him. He could not hear or see anything of the main room.
When the wall flickered again, Rund stumbled out, unnerved but excited. Director Kinnis stared at him. “It is a secret, shielded room, but the field seems to be breaking down. Chobyn has left much information inside.”
Kinnis squeezed his hands together. “Excellent, we must retrieve it. I intend to get to the bottom of this.” He turned to one of the tall technicians. “The moment another flicker occurs, go inside and bring out anything you find.”
The technician poised like a hunting cat, chose his time perfectly, and jumped forward to vanish into the wall. The room disappeared again.
But as Rund and Kinnis waited in the old lab for minutes, then half an hour, the man did not come back out. They could hear no sound, nor could they pry open the alcove again, despite repeated pounding on the white structural plates.
A work crew came in with cutting tools and ripped through the wall, but they found only the standard airspace between the station walls. Even scanners showed nothing unusual in the area.
While the technicians grew more desperate, Haloa Rund stared off, his mind lost in a near-Mentat projection. Based on a variation of the Holtzman equations, he assumed that the invisibility field had folded space itself in a ripple around the hidden chamber.
When the opening flickered again and stayed open, the technician slumped back out through the opening, his face pale and eyes flat, his fingernails torn and bleeding, as if he had tried to claw his way out. Two men rushed forward to help him, but the technician was dead, apparently suffocated or frozen from his strange journey. Where had the “flicker” taken him?
Afraid, no one moved to retrieve the data inside the still-open alcove, until Rund shouldered his way forward as if in a trance. Kinnis made only token protests, his eyes hungry for the cache of information.
Expecting the barrier to phase back into place at any second, Rund tossed out plan screens, shigawire spools, sheets of ridulian crystal, while technicians scrambled to retrieve them. As if mentally attuned to the weird field generator, Rund stepped back into the safety of the laboratory only moments before the wall phased back again, as solid as before.
Talis Balt stared at the hoarded notes. “It will require quite an investment to exploit this work properly.”
The dead technician already forgotten, Director Kinnis looked as if he might be trying to decide how to take credit for the work. “I will convince Premier Calimar that we need extensive funding. Very extensive. Rund, you speak to Count Ilban. Between them, they should be able to figure out how to obtain a great deal of money.”
“Revenge.” Has language ever created a more delicious word? I repeat it to myself when I go to sleep at night, confident it will give me pleasant dreams.
— BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN
The government of Richese needed a large, but unofficial, influx of solaris in order to finance redeveloping Chobyn’s invisibility field. And Premier Ein Calimar knew where to get all the funds he wanted.
He arrived on Giedi Prime, angry that he had to keep pressing for his long-overdue payment from House Harkonnen. Instead of being taken directly to the looming Keep where he had always met the Baron before, guard Captain Kryubi led Calimar deep into the oppressive heart of Harko City.
A thin man, fastidiously dressed, Calimar steeled himself, trying not to lose his nerve. The Baron always played psychological games. The Premier had to finish these negotiations and survive them. For some unknown reason, the Harkonnen lord had decided to inspect his waste-recycling plants this morning, and the Premier was informed that the meeting must be conducted there, or not at all. Calimar wrinkled his nose at the thought of it.
Inside the huge industrial building the air was moist, warm, and redolent with odors that he would have preferred never to experience. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyes stung. He could feel the stench permeating his synthetic fabric suit and knew that this outfit would have to be burned once he returned to his plush offices in Triad Center. But he would not return without the money the Baron owed House Richese.
“This way,” Kryubi said, his firm lips adorned with a thin mustache. He led Calimar up an endless series of metal steps to a network of catwalks. These high walkways overlooked pungent sewage vats, like sinister aquariums for bottom-feeders. How did a man as fat as the Baron ever get up here himself?
Calimar panted most of the way, trying to keep up with the captain, and finally noticed metal lift platforms installed at convenient locations. So, he is trying to put me in my place already. His nostrils narrowed, and he gritted his teeth to bolster his confidence. He would need to be tough and treat the Baron with firm determination.
The first time fastidious Calimar had come to Giedi Prime, the Baron had calmly allowed him to sit in a room with an unseen dead body nearby. While the Premier had made his embarrassing request for quiet financial assistance, the odor of rot in the air presented an unspoken threat.
This time, Calimar would turn the tables on the fat man. Years ago, the Baron had offered to help the faltering industries of Richese, on condition that he receive the secret ministrations of a Suk doctor. Afterward, the Baron had paid only part of what he’d agreed, then subsequently ignored Richese’s repeated demands. The doctor, Wellington Yueh, had been able to identify his patient’s disease, but had no way of curing it. No one could do that.
And so the Baron had used that as a justification to ignore paying the rest of the fee. But now, with Korona Director Flinto Kinnis’s excited assurances that they would potentially develop an invisibility generator, Calimar needed large amounts of seed capital. The initial research work would be expensive, but with their rival Ix closed off and operating far below optimum capacity, Richese had a chance to win back its powerful economic position.
The Baron must pay what he owed, even if Calimar had to blackmail him into fulfilling his obligations….
The Premier proceeded across the catwalk to where the enormous man tottered near the rails high above the sewage vats. Kryubi told him to go forward alone, which made Calimar wary. Does the Baron intend to kill me? Such an action would cause an uproar in the Landsraad. No, House Richese had too much damaging information on the Harkonnens, and their lord knew it.
Calimar noticed that the Baron wore specially designed nose plugs and filters against the reek of the sewage plants. Without similar protection, the Premier didn’t want to know how many toxins he might be inhaling with each breath. He removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and wiped the lenses, but an oily, streaky film remained.
“Baron Harkonnen, this is an… unorthodox place for our meeting.”
The Baron looked at the swirling currents of lumpy sludge as if he were peering into a kaleidoscope. “I have business to attend to, Calimar. We will talk here, or nowhere.”
The Premier recognized the unspoken message, gross disrespect from a gross man. In response, he made his voice as gruff as possible. “Indeed, Baron. And as adults, as well as leaders of our respective worlds, we have obligations to meet. You, sir, have not met yours. Richese provided the services you requested. You are obligated to pay the remainder of the agreed-upon fee.”
The Baron scowled. “I don’t owe you anything. Your Suk doctor didn’t cure me.”
“That was never part of our agreement. He examined you and diagnosed your disease. You must pay.”
“I refuse,” the Baron said, as if that ended the matter. “Now you may leave.”
Taking a deep breath that made him gag, the Premier pressed on. “Sir, I have repeatedly tried to
be reasonable, but considering your criminal refusal to pay, I feel totally justified in altering the conditions of our agreement. Hence, I am upping the price.” Calimar named an exorbitant sum of solaris, and added, “Richese is fully prepared to take the matter to Landsraad Court, where our lawtechs and attorneys will prove our case. We will reveal the origin of your disease and describe your continued degeneration and weakness. Perhaps we will even present evidence of a growing mental instability.”
The Baron’s face purpled with rage, but before he could explode, they were interrupted by the arrival of three guards. They escorted a rangy man who wore exquisite, well-tailored clothes and billowing pantaloons.
Mephistis Cru did his best to ignore the alarming odors around him and stepped forward. “You summoned me, my Lord Baron?” He looked from side to side and frowned, then with a disapproving gaze he looked down at the vat.
The Baron shot a sidelong glare at Premier Calimar, then turned back to Cru, and said, “I have a delicate question to ask you, a matter of decorum.” His jowly face focused into an expression of deadly anger. “I trust you can provide me with a satisfactory answer?”
The advisor stood straight and proud. “Of course, my Baron. I am here to serve.”
“Ever since the debacle of my gala banquet, I’ve been wondering. Would it be polite for me to throw you into this sewage death trap myself, or should I have a guard do it, so that I don’t dirty my hands?”
Cru took an alarmed step away as Kryubi gestured for the guards to block off his retreat. “My… I don’t understand, my Lord. I gave you only the best—”
“No clear answer, eh? Very well, I think I’ll have the guards do it.” The Baron motioned with a pudgy hand. “That’s probably the most polite alternative, anyway.”
Suddenly the etiquette advisor could think of nothing civil to say. He screamed surprisingly foul words that even the Baron found offensive. Uniformed guards grabbed the rangy man by the arms and in a smooth, mechanical gesture, swung him over the catwalk. Cru’s elegant garments fluttered as he fell. He managed to twist himself in the air before splashing into the deep vat of human waste.
As Cru struggled and kicked, trying to stroke his way through the quagmire of sewage, the Baron turned toward his shocked visitor. “Pardon me, Premier. I wish to watch this and enjoy every moment of it.”
Coughing, Mephistis Cru somehow made it to the slick, rounded edge of the vat, where he clutched the rim and vomited onto the clean floor, missing the sewage pond entirely. Guards wearing polymer gloves met him there and grasped his arms.
When they hauled Cru up over the rim, he wept with relief and terror. The advisor was sobbing, shaking, covered in brown slime and feces. He wailed up at the high catwalks, begging forgiveness.
The guards attached small weights to his ankles and tossed him back into the stinking muck.
Calimar watched these events with horror, but refused to be intimidated. “I’ve always found it enlightening to witness the depths of your cruelty, Baron Harkonnen.” He forced firmness into his voice as the unfortunate victim continued to thrash below. “Perhaps we can continue with more important matters?”
“Oh, be silent a moment.” The Baron pointed down at the flailing figure, surprised that Cru still had enough strength to keep his head out of the goo.
Calimar refused to be put off. “Many years ago, Emperor Elrood ousted my master Count Ilban Richese from Arrakis because he appeared weak. When your own half brother Abulurd appeared weak, you removed him and assumed control of spice operations before Elrood could take action himself. The Landsraad and the Emperor have no fondness for impotent leaders. Once they learn of your debilitating disease, and how it was inflicted upon you by a witch, you will become the laughingstock of the Imperium.”
The Baron’s spider-black eyes turned to sharp obsidian. Below, the etiquette advisor sank beneath the sewage, but somehow emerged again to gasp a breath. He spat and coughed and splashed.
The Baron was only too aware of how mercurial the Corrino Emperor had been lately. Calimar had his rival by the testicles, and both men knew it. The Baron could rage all he wanted, but he had no doubt that the Richesians would do exactly as they threatened. In a conciliatory tone, he said, “I cannot pay so much. Surely we can come to some more reasonable accommodation?”
“We agreed upon a price, Baron, and you could have paid it at any time. But no longer. Now, your own folly has increased the cost.”
The Baron choked on his reply. “If I emptied all the treasury houses on Giedi Prime, I could never provide you with so many solaris!”
Calimar shrugged. Mephistis Cru’s head was now submerged, but his arms flopped again. Even with the weights on his ankles, he managed to keep himself afloat for a few more agonizing minutes.
The Premier made a final countermove. “We have already filed our grievance in Landsraad Court. A hearing is set for two weeks. We can easily rescind that action, but only if you pay us first.”
The Baron scrambled for a solution, but knew he had no choice— for now. “Spice. I can pay you in spice! I have enough melange set aside to pay your damnable price, and I can provide it immediately. That should be a solid enough coin for a foul blackmailer like you.”
“Your insults mean nothing. The Harkonnen griffin has no teeth.” Calimar emitted a small laugh, then grew more circumspect. “However, after the bloodbath on Zanovar, and given Shaddam’s continued threats against illegal spice stockpiles, I am hesitant to accept payment in that form.”
“It is the only way you’ll get paid. You can accept melange now, or wait until I acquire sufficient financing for an alternate form of payment.” The Baron flashed an insidious smile. “It may take months.”
“Very well.” Calimar judged this was the best he could obtain, since his adversary needed to save face in some small manner. “We will arrange for the secret transfer of your stockpile to our laboratory moon of Korona, where it will be guarded and kept safe.” The Premier allowed himself to feel smug. “I’m glad the matter is now over, though I am sorry to have to do this.”
“No you’re not,” the Baron snapped. He maintained a stony countenance. “Now get out of here, and don’t ever try to blackmail me again.”
Calimar did his best to conceal his nervousness as he negotiated the catwalk and scampered down the stairs….
His insides roiling, the Baron resumed his concentration on Mephistis Cru. This foppish man, so concerned with formalities and fancy perfumes, had surprising strength. It was admirable, in a way. Even with the weights on his ankles, he still hadn’t drowned.
Finally, tired of the show, the Baron ordered Captain Kryubi to turn on the vat’s chopper blades. As the thick, lumpy liquid began to swirl, Mephistis Cru tried to swim even more frantically.
The Baron only wished he could have added Premier Calimar to the mix.
There are more tragedies in history than triumphs. Few scholars want to study a long litany of events that turned out well. And we Atreides have left more of our mark on history than we ever intended.
— DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
Holding a wicked-looking dagger in his left hand and a shorter kidney-stabber in his right, Duncan Idaho lunged at Leto.
Scrambling backward into the banquet hall, Leto spun to cover his vulnerable spots with a shimmering half shield. The Swordmaster’s reflexes had already slowed, adjusting the blade’s speed so that the tip could slide through the dampening barrier.
Leto surprised Duncan by making an unorthodox move. He threw himself directly toward his younger opponent. This increased the relative speed of Duncan’s knife with respect to Leto’s shield, and the blade skittered off the buzzing protective wall.
Leto brought up his short sword, but the young Swordmaster sprang out of the way, leaped atop the banquet table, and ran backward with catlike grace.
The faceted eyes of the stuffed Salusan bull’s-head and the matador portrait of the red-garbed Duke Paulus seemed to watch the duel with interest.
“Those candlesticks were a wedding gift to my parents,” Leto said with a laugh. “If you break them, I’ll take the cost out of your hide.”
“You won’t be able to touch my hide, Leto.” Duncan performed a blatantly insulting backflip on the table.
While the Swordmaster was still in midair, Leto swept his dagger arm sideways, knocking down one of the long candlesticks himself and rolling it under Duncan’s feet. The Swordmaster lost his balance, sprawling on his backside. Jumping up onto the table, Leto ran forward, short sword in hand, ready to conclude this practice duel. It would be his first victory.
But Duncan was no longer there.
The Swordmaster kept rolling and flung himself off the far edge of the table, then scuttled crablike beneath the heavy furniture and sprang up behind Leto. The Duke backed off, facing his opponent, both of them grinning.
Duncan jabbed with his knives, dancing on the fringe of the half shield’s protection, but Leto deftly parried with short sword and dagger. “You’re distracted, Duke Atreides. You miss your woman too much.”
Indeed, I do. But I will never allow it to show. Their blades struck, skittered, scraping edge against edge. Not even to you, Duncan.
Leto feinted with the short sword, then brought up his fist, moving his bare hand through the shield and grabbing Duncan’s loose green tunic just to prove that he could touch his opponent. Surprised, the Swordmaster yanked free by slashing at Leto’s eyes with the kidney-stabber, coming close to touching, but not too close. Duncan sprang down onto a dining chair, tottering the heavy seat but maintaining his balance as he stood on tiptoes.
Through the doorway to the banquet hall, a servant entered with a tray of refreshments, her face open and innocent. Offhandedly, Leto gestured for her to leave them alone, and Duncan chose that moment to dive toward him. He did not use knives this time, instead crashing shield against shield to knock Leto to the tabletop. It was all the servant could do to scuttle back out of the banquet hall without dropping her tray.
Dune: House Corrino Page 23