Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “How many are required, sir?” Zoal said, in a voice bearing an accent that Fenring could not quite identify. The faint nasal tone of Buzzell, perhaps? “I will absorb whatever we may need. But I am forbidden to carry weapons.”

  “It is programmed into Face Dancers,” the Master Researcher added.

  Fenring frowned, not sure he believed this. “Then I will handle the violence myself, hmmm-ah.” He ran his gaze up and down the laboratory-bred creature, then turned to the research chief. “He appears to be exactly what I need. The evidence appears quite positive so far, and the Emperor is quite impatient to proceed. Once we verify that Navigators can use amal, our spice substitute will be ready for distribution throughout the Imperium.”

  Ajidica tapped his fingers on a tabletop. “Such a test is merely a formality, Count. Amal has already been proven to my full satisfaction.”

  Secrets within secrets. Privately, Ajidica had continued to experience messianic, prescient visions of leading immense military forces against the infidel Great Houses.

  Zoal had many siblings, Face Dancers grown here in the axlotl tanks, mutable creatures loyal only to him and to his grand, concealed plan. On expendable ships, he had already dispatched more than fifty Face Dancers to scout uncharted planets and establish beachheads for his future empire. Some of these ships journeyed far beyond the mapped star systems of the Imperium, searching for ways that Ajidica could spread his influence. It would take time….

  Inside the shielded office, Count Fenring began to describe his complicated plan to infiltrate Junction, discussing how they would penetrate Guild security. Zoal listened, absorbing the details. Ajidica was not concerned.

  The Face Dancer already had overriding orders. When the time came, the shape-shifter would know exactly what to do.

  Make your points aggressively.

  — SHADDAM CORRINO IV,

  Building Strength in the New Imperium

  Of all the state duties Emperor Shaddam had to endure, executions were the least objectionable, especially in his current mood.

  In the center of Petition Square he sat upon a jewel-studded throne so high that he looked like a grand priest on a ceremonial ziggurat. The sun shone through the blue skies, perfect weather for the Emperor, sunny days for the whole Imperium.

  The next victim was dragged forward in chains and left to stand at the base of a black cube of impregnable gnarl-granite, beside several bodies. The Imperial guards had employed a variety of execution methods: garroting, laser beheadings, precision-stabbing, dismemberment, disemboweling, and even a spike-gloved fist driven under the ribs to pull out a quivering heart. With each death the crowd applauded, as required.

  Crisply uniformed guards lined the steps of the dais. The Emperor had wanted to station an entire regiment around the square, but had decided against it. Even after Tyros Reffa’s bold assassination attempt, he did not wish to show the least bit of nervousness. Shaddam IV did not need more than an honor guard and shimmering shields around his chair.

  I am the rightful Emperor, and my people love me.

  Lady Anirul sat on a high-backed wooden chair on a lower step to the left, clearly a subordinate position. She had insisted on being seen with her husband, but he had discovered how to turn the tables on her by positioning the chairs to emphasize how little his wife meant in the Imperial scheme. Of course she had figured out his little show, but would not complain.

  As a deadly symbol of state, Shaddam now held the tall staff topped with its faceted glowglobe, the same murderous prop Reffa had used during the play. The Emperor’s weapons specialists had been most intrigued by the ingenious device. His people had recharged the compact ruby power source, and he intended to use it to good effect.

  While Shaddam studied his new toy, the next criminal was slain by a soldier. The Emperor looked up sharply just as the victim slumped to the paving stones. Frowning in disappointment, he chastised himself for not paying closer attention. From the blood gushing out of the man’s throat, Shaddam guessed his larynx and trachea had been ripped out— a Sardaukar specialty.

  Breezes rippled across Petition Square, and the crowd grew restless, sensing that something more interesting was coming. They had already watched twenty-eight executions in four hours. Some of the performers in the Jongleur theatrical troupe had demonstrated their true acting abilities with pleas for mercy and protestations of their innocence. Actually, he believed them for the most part, but that didn’t matter. It had made for wonderful high drama, before the Sardaukar disposed of them in diabolical ways.

  In recent weeks, during the uproar following Reffa’s attack on the Imperial box, Shaddam had seized his opportunity. Quickly and deviously, he had arranged for the arrest of five political enemies— uncooperative ministers and ambassadors who had brought unwelcome news or had not convinced their leaders to cooperate with various Imperial edicts— and he had implicated all of them in the assassination plot.

  Hasimir Fenring would have admired the intricacies of Shaddam’s schemes, the convoluted machinations of politics. But the Count was off on Ix now, wrapping up details for full-scale production and distribution of amal. Fenring had insisted on completing one more important test himself, in order to prove that the effects of the artificial substance were identical to genuine melange. Shaddam paid little attention to the details, mindful only of the results. And so far everything seemed perfect.

  For himself, he had learned how to make decisions without Fenring’s input, or interference.

  Remembering how Viscount Moritani had ignored an Imperial command to make peace with Ecaz years before, Shaddam had added the Grumman Ambassador to the list of convicted criminals (much to the Ambassador’s shock). It had been easy to prepare incontrovertible “evidence,” and the deed was done before any protest could be organized by House Moritani.

  The Viscount’s disruptive influence would not be easily tamed, despite several regiments of Sardaukar peacekeeping troops the Emperor had stationed on Grumman to quell the ongoing dispute with House Ecaz. The Viscount still misbehaved at unexpected times, but perhaps this message would cow him just a little longer.

  A pair of Sardaukar briskly marched the Grumman Ambassador to the center of the square. The prisoner’s arms were bound behind his back and his knees wrapped so that he could not bend. Standing before the black cube of granite, the convicted man made his final speech— a fairly uninspired one, Shaddam thought. Impatiently, the Emperor raised one hand in a signal, and a soldier opened fire with a lasgun, slicing the body in half from crotch to crown.

  Pleased with the gruesome festivities so far, Shaddam leaned back to relax, waiting for the most important show of the day. The noise of the crowd increased.

  As Padishah Emperor, the “shah of all shahs,” he expected to be treated as a revered leader. His word was law, but when surprises like Tyros Reffa interfered with his rule, he did not rest easily. It was time to squeeze harder, to set another example.

  Shaddam twirled the tall staff so that bright sunlight shimmered from the faceted glowglobe. He pounded the heel of the rod on the smooth step in front of him. Lady Anirul did not flinch, staring ahead as if lost in her own thoughts.

  The audience watched Supreme Bashar Zum Garon march into the execution square leading Tyros Reffa, the man who claimed to be a son of Elrood. In a few moments, that problem would be gone as well.

  From her chair, Lady Anirul spoke in a directed whisper, so that her words were clear to Shaddam without raising her voice. “Husband, you deny that this man is your half brother, yet his claim has been heard by many people. He has planted seeds of doubt, and there are mutterings of discontent.”

  Shaddam scowled. “No one will believe his claim, if I tell them not to.”

  Looking directly at the man on the high throne, Anirul remained skeptical. “If his assertion is false, why do you refuse to run genetic tests? The populace will say you have murdered your own blood.”

  It will not be the first time, Shaddam thought. “
Let them talk— and we will listen closely. It shouldn’t take long to silence any voices of dissent.”

  Anirul made no further comment, but turned to watch as Reffa was prodded toward the block of gnarl-granite. His stocky, muscular body moved stiffly. The luxurious dark hair had been shorn away, leaving his head covered with a spiky mass of carelessly chopped stubble.

  Reffa was forced to stand near the butchered bodies of other victims, all of whom had been given a few moments to speak their final words. Shaddam had made certain, though, that his purported half brother would receive no such opportunity. The court doctors had surgically fused the prisoner’s lips together. Though he strained and worked his jaw, Reffa could not force out words, nothing more than pitiful mewling sounds. His eyes were wild with fury.

  Wearing an expression of supreme disdain, the Emperor stood atop the ziggurat platform and motioned for the shields to be shut down around his chair. He held the scepter weapon in front of him. “Tyros Reffa— impostor and assassin— your crime is worse than any of the others.” His booming voice was enhanced by the amplifiers in a medallion hanging at his neck.

  Reffa struggled, screaming inside, but he had no mouth. The bright red skin of his fused lips looked as if it was about to tear.

  “Because of the audacity of your claim, we grant you an honor you do not deserve.” Shaddam withdrew the prismatic ruby power source and inserted it into the socket in the staff. The power glowed and surged, shooting to the top of the rod and igniting the faceted glowglobe. “I will attend to you personally.”

  A purple beam struck Reffa full in the chest, incinerating his torso and leaving a huge, bloody hole. Shaddam, with his jaws clenched in a rictus of Imperial wrath, bent the staff so that the beam continued to char the body even after it toppled to the foot of the black granite.

  “When you challenge us, you speak out against the entire Imperium! Thus, the entire Imperium must observe the consequences of your folly.”

  With the staff’s power source drained, the beam gave out. The Emperor gestured for his Sardaukar to continue. In unison, they fired on the corpse, their blazing beams cremating the body of Elrood’s bastard son. The lasguns vaporized organic tissue and even bone, leaving only a smear of black ashes which swirled in the thermal currents, and finally blew away.

  Shaddam stood stoic and firm, inwardly delighted. Now, no evidence whatsoever remained. No one could prove Reffa’s genetic link through Elrood to Shaddam. The problem was disposed of. Completely.

  Good-bye, Brother.

  The most powerful man in the universe raised his hands, seizing the crowd’s attention. “Now there is cause for celebration! We declare a holiday across the Imperium, and feasts for everyone.”

  In a much better mood, Shaddam took his wife’s arm and stepped down from the dais. Row upon row of Sardaukar soldiers escorted them back into the lavish interior of the Imperial Palace.

  Pay your spies well. One good infiltrator is more valuable than legions of Sardaukar.

  — FONDIL CORRINO III, “The Hunter”

  Rhombur sat on an examination table in a warm pool of afternoon sunshine that poured through a high window. He could detect the warmth on his cyborg limbs, but it was a different sensation from his memories of human nerve signals. Many things were different….

  Dr. Yueh, his long hair secured in a silver Suk ring, held a scanner over the artificial knee joints. His narrow face remained intent. “Flex the right one now.”

  Rhombur sighed, “I intend to go with Gurney whether or not you give me medical clearance.”

  The doctor showed neither amusement nor annoyance. “May Heaven save me from ungrateful patients.”

  As Rhombur bent his prosthetic leg, the scanner blinked green. “I feel physically strong, Dr. Yueh. Sometimes I don’t even think about my replacement parts. It’s what is natural for me now.” Indeed, even with his scarred face and polymer skin, the joke around Castle Caladan (started by Duncan Idaho) was that the Prince was still better-looking than Gurney Halleck.

  Yueh visually checked the cyborg mechanics as Rhombur walked about the room, did chin-ups, and completed a clattering tuck-and-roll across the floor. A muscle on the left side of the doctor’s jaw twisted as he spoke. “I believe you’ve been greatly helped by your wife’s aggressive therapy.”

  “Aggressive therapy?” Rhombur asked. “She calls it ‘love.’ ”

  Yueh shut down his scanners. “You have my approval to go with Gurney Halleck on this difficult mission.” Concern etched the weathered features of the Suk doctor’s face, wrinkling the diamond tattoo on his forehead. “It will be dangerous for anyone sneaking into Ix, however. Even more so because of who you are. I do not want to see my lovely handiwork destroyed.”

  “I’ll try not to let that happen,” Rhombur said, taking on a determined expression. “But Ix is my home, Doctor. I have no other choice. I am prepared to do what is necessary for my people, even if the Vernius bloodline must… end with me.”

  Rhombur saw the doctor’s eyes flicker with deep pain, but no tears. “You may not believe this, but I understand. A long time ago, my wife Wanna was seriously injured in an industrial accident. I found a specialist in artificial human control functions— very primitive compared with what you have, Prince. He replaced Wanna’s hips, spleen, and uterus with synthetic parts, but she could never have children. We had planned to wait… but we waited too long. Of course Wanna is beyond childbearing age now, but back in those days it was quite traumatic for us.” He busied himself putting away his medical instruments.

  “Similarly, Prince Rhombur, you are the last of House Vernius. I am sorry.”

  * * *

  When Leto summoned him to his personal study, Rhombur suspected nothing. After clomping into the room he stopped and stared with astonishment at a familiar man standing by a stone-framed window.

  “Ambassador Pilru!” Rhombur always felt a surge of affection when he saw this public servant who had so tirelessly, though fruitlessly, fought for the Ixian cause over the past two decades. But he had just seen the man at his recent wedding to Tessia. Rhombur felt a sudden twist in his heart. “Is there news?”

  “Yes, my Prince. Surprising and troubling news.” Rhombur wondered if it had to do with the Ambassador’s son, C’tair, who had been continuing the fight on Ix.

  As Rhombur settled into a rigid stance, the dignified diplomat paced the office, ill at ease. He activated a holoprojector at the center of the room, displaying the image of a ragged, dirty man.

  Leto’s voice had an edge. “This is the man who attempted to assassinate Shaddam. The one who almost killed Jessica in the Imperial box.”

  Pilru looked quickly at him. “Entirely by accident, Duke Leto. Many aspects of his plan were… naive and ill conceived.”

  “And it now seems that certain aspects of his ‘maniacal attack’ were a bit exaggerated by the official Imperial report,” Leto said.

  Rhombur remained confused. “But who is he?”

  The Ambassador halted the image and turned purposefully to him. “My Prince, this is— or was— Tyros Reffa. The Emperor’s half brother. He was executed four days ago, by Imperial decree. Apparently, there was no need for a trial.”

  Rhombur shifted his weight. “But what does this have to do with—”

  “Very few people know the truth, but Reffa’s claim was indeed legitimate. He was truly Elrood’s bastard son, raised quietly by House Taligari. Shaddam apparently considered him a threat to the throne, however, and concocted an excuse for his Sardaukar to annihilate Reffa’s home on Zanovar. Shaddam also killed fourteen million additional people in the cities on Zanovar, just for good measure.”

  Both Rhombur and Leto were shocked.

  “That is what triggered Reffa’s brash attempt at revenge.”

  Handing a set of printed documents to Rhombur, the Ambassador continued. “This is the genetic analysis proving Reffa’s identity. I extracted the samples myself, in his prison cell. There can be no question. This
man was a Corrino, by blood.”

  Rhombur scanned the sheaf of papers, still wondering why he had been called to this meeting. “Interesting.”

  “There is more, Prince Vernius.” Pilru gazed intently at the scarred man’s face. “Reffa’s mother was Elrood’s concubine, Shando Balut.”

  Rhombur looked up quickly. “Shando—!”

  “My Prince, Tyros Reffa was your half brother as well.”

  “That can’t possibly be true,” Rhombur protested. “I’ve never been told anything about a brother. I… never even met the man.” He kept looking over the analysis report, rereading it, searching for something to free him from this terrible reality. “Executed? You’re sure?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Ambassador Pilru chewed at his lower lip. “Why couldn’t Elrood have just made Tyros Reffa a noukker— an officer in the Imperial Guard— like most other Emperors have done with the sons of their concubines? But no, Elrood had to whisk the child away as if he was something special, opening up all of these problems.”

  “My brother… if only we could have helped him.” Rhombur dropped the documents onto the floor. He rocked back on his heavy cyborg legs, his face a mask of anguish. The Prince of House Vernius paced the stone floor.

  In a measured tone, Rhombur announced, “This only steels my resolve to oppose the Emperor. Now he has made it personal between us.”

  Money cannot purchase honor.

  — Fremen Saying

  It came out of the sky like a screaming black bird and swooped low, a jet-powered ‘thopter with a ferocious sandworm painted on its nose, a round maw open wide to reveal sharp crystal teeth.

  In an isolated dry lake bed surrounded by rock buttresses that kept the area free of Shai-Hulud, four robed Fremen dropped to their knees and cried out in terror. The covered litter they had been carrying tilted and fell over.

  Refusing to cower, Liet-Kynes stood tall instead, arms folded across his chest. His sandy hair and desert-stained cloak whipped in the breeze thrown by the aircraft. “Get up!” he yelled at his men. “Do you want them to think we are frightened old women?” The Guild representative had arrived precisely on time.