Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Thinking he had wounded his quarry, the kneeling Zoal raised his blade, prepared to deliver the killing blow.

  But Fenring had surveyed the ground first and landed near the place where the Face Dancer’s first thrown knife had fallen. In a single fluid movement, he snatched up the forgotten dagger before Zoal could bring down his own weapon. Fenring plunged the tip into the Face Dancer’s throat. He kicked Zoal away from him before the shape-shifter’s severed jugular could spray blood all over his clean clothes.

  The Face Dancer’s body sprawled in the shadows between dump boxes. Fenring backed away, looking around to make certain no one had seen or heard anything. He did not want to answer questions; he just needed to be far from here.

  Slumped on the ground, Zoal seemed to melt, his features losing precise focus until he had transformed into a hairless, smooth-faced mannequin with no distinctive qualities: waxy skin and smooth fingers without the whorl of fingerprints.

  This Tleilaxu plot was particularly intriguing. Fenring would hoard that knowledge as if it were a prized treasure. He would consider how best to use it against Hidar Fen Ajidica.

  Breathing hard, but still breathing, Fenring stuffed the Face Dancer’s body into one of the dump boxes and sealed the hatches. Within weeks, the bizarre cadaver would arrive on some distant world, much to the surprise of the cargo’s intended recipient….

  Fenring glanced toward the spaceport lights and saw that the orbital shuttle was just setting down. He would take a roundabout passage back to Kaitain, leaving no traceable path. Of secondary concern, he needed to avoid traveling on either of the two Dominic Class Heighliners, just in case the Navigators had unfortunate reactions to synthetic spice. Fenring did not intend to be part of the test himself.

  Exhilarated, he hurried to the spaceport and joined a crowd of workers and third-class passengers boarding the shuttle. As he rode the shuttle toward the Heighliner that orbited Junction, he kept to himself and answered no questions, though two of his fellow passengers asked him why he wore such a rich smile on his face.

  A secret is most valuable when it remains a secret. Under such circumstances, one does not require proof in order to exploit the information.

  — Bene Gesserit Dictum

  Shortly after arriving on Kaitain, as ordered by the Baron, Piter de Vries padded through the corridors of the Imperial Office Complex. His Mentat mind easily kept track of every turn in the maze of connected government buildings.

  It was midmorning, and he still tasted the sweetness of imported fruit in his mouth from breakfast on board the diplomatic frigate. More delicious, though, was the incriminating knowledge that he had been instructed to deliver anonymously. Shaddam would probably soil his Imperial trousers when he learned of it.

  He brought out a message cube from beneath his clothing and concealed it in a wall alcove behind an idealized bust of the Emperor, one of many scattered throughout the Palace.

  A side door in the Office Complex opened, and a ruddy-faced, intense man stepped into the corridor. De Vries recognized the Harkonnen Ambassador, Kalo Whylls. In his mid-thirties, Whylls looked barely old enough to shave; he had obtained his position through family connections. None of the information Whylls sent back to Giedi Prime ever proved to be of any value; he was ineffective, unschooled in how to use his position to become a competent spy.

  “Why, Piter de Vries!” Whylls hailed in a syrupy voice. “I didn’t know you were in the Palace. The Baron sent me no notification. Are you coming to make a courtesy call?”

  The Mentat feigned surprise. “Perhaps soon, Mister Ambassador, but at the moment I have an important appointment. Business for the Baron.”

  “Yes, time is short, isn’t it?” Whylls agreed with a broad smile. “Well, I must hurry off, too. We both have so many vital things to do. Let me know later if I can help in any way.” The Ambassador bustled down the corridor in the opposite direction, obviously trying to look important.

  On a scrap of instroy paper, the Mentat sketched a map and wrote directions, to be given to an Imperial Courier who would pick up this hidden message cube and take it directly to Shaddam. A bombshell.

  This would be a suitable revenge for the Richesian blackmail.

  * * *

  it must work.

  Haloa Rund supervised while laboratory metalworkers completed the casing of a prototype invisibility generator, based upon sketches and equations the renegade inventor Chobyn had left behind.

  In one of his sealed shigawire spools, Chobyn had called this a “no-field”— making an object both “here” and “not here” at the same time. During every waking moment, Rund thought about the amazing concept.

  He still had not deciphered the intermittently failing invisibility mechanism in the rogue inventor’s old laboratory chamber. Judging from fragments of schematics, he had determined that the minimum diameter for projecting the no-field was one hundred fifty meters. With this in mind, Rund didn’t see how the device could disguise a small laboratory room— until he discovered that most of the field extended asymmetrically outside the Korona station into space.

  Upon hearing of the project, and after complete funding had been supplied by the Richesian government, Count Ilban Richese had sent a message to his nephew, congratulating him for his ingenuity and foresight. The old man promised someday to come up to Korona where he might see the work firsthand, though he doubted he would understand it. Premier Calimar sent his own supportive communication, encouraging the inventors.

  For decades this artificial moon had concealed the proprietary technology for manufacturing mysterious and valuable Richesian mirrors. No other House had been able to duplicate the science of the mirrors, despite numerous attempts at industrial espionage. If a no-field breakthrough occurred, though, Korona’s facilities might begin to produce an even more valuable technology.

  The all-out research and development effort was extremely expensive and required the brainpower of the best scientists, diverting them from other duties. Recently Premier Calimar had delivered full funding in the form of a large melange stockpile that would be stored on the satellite station, where it could be liquidated for cash as necessary. Melange storage vaults now accounted for six percent of Korona’s usable volume.

  The political clout of Director Flinto Kinnis had increased because of the ambitious project, but Haloa Rund didn’t care. Chobyn’s generator was an exceedingly complex problem, enough to demand his complete attention.

  The inventor worried about nothing else.

  * * *

  When Shaddam opened the message cube, he canceled all further appointments and locked himself in his private study, fuming. An hour later, he summoned Supreme Bashar Zum Garon. “It seems that my Sardaukar have more work to do.” He could barely suppress his rage.

  The old veteran Garon, resplendent in his uniform, stood at attention, listening for further orders. “We are at your command, Sire.”

  After all the express warnings and after the severe example Shaddam had set on Zanovar, House Richese had the temerity to do this? Premier Calimar believed he could just ignore an Imperial decree and keep his own illegal melange stockpile? The surreptitious message provided incontrovertible proof that an illegal quantity of spice was stored inside the artificial moon of Korona.

  At first he had been suspicious of similar claims. Ecaz and Grumman had done their best to cast suspicion on each other, pointing fingers, exaggerating accusations. But their proof had been flimsy, their motives transparent.

  “It is time to set another example, to show the citizens of the Imperium that they cannot ignore Corrino laws.” Shaddam paced the floor.

  As his anger simmered, the Emperor’s better sense came into play. The core motivation behind his first attack on Zanovar had been to erase Tyros Reffa. However, his larger scheme was to leave the Imperial economy completely vulnerable to his impending monopoly on synthetic spice. He had to take the next step, increase the stakes. Richese would be the second scapegoat.


  He would notify Guild investigators and CHOAM auditors of his upcoming measure. After the alleged stockpile was removed from Korona (and used as a payoff to buy Guild and CHOAM support), other political factions would gather behind the throne as well.

  Since Hasimir Fenring had not yet returned from Ix, Shaddam would have to make another important decision by himself. No matter. The Emperor knew what to do, and a response could not wait. He gave the Sardaukar commander his orders.

  The Great Spice War was about to heat up.

  It has been demonstrated in every epoch of history that if you want profits you must rule. And to rule, you must blunt the edge of the citizenry.

  — EMPEROR SHADDAM CORRINO IV

  Flushed with the Ajidamal pulsing through his thoughts, Hidar Fen Ajidica had a lizard’s-eye view of the corpses in the dining hall. Twenty-two of the most meddlesome Tleilaxu Masters lay slumped over the tables, poisoned. Dead.

  Inspired by the revelations he had received from God, he was about to redraw the lines of power in the Imperium.

  And among the bodies, a bonus: the pretentious Master Zaaf himself, who had arrived the day before on an unexpected inspection tour. With piquant slig stew spilled all over himself, Zaaf lay supine, his eyes bulging and mouth open, a most undistinguished state of death for the Master of Masters. The fast-acting toxin slipped into the food by Face Dancer cooks had sent Zaaf and his dinner companions into paroxysms within minutes, and their gray skin had turned a sickly scarlet, as if scalded from the inside out.

  When the Master Researcher stood in the doorway, admiring his accomplishment, he had noticed a Draco volans in the rafters, one of the little lizards that seemed immune to pest-control measures. Only a few centimeters long, it had scaly appendages on either side of its body that permitted it to glide through the air like a Terran flying squirrel.

  Seeing the lizard, Ajidica had decided to exercise the sparkling new powers that had come to him after consuming so much ajidamal. Now his mind’s eye seemed to be inside the diminutive dragon. From a perch in the rafters, he gazed down on the results of the slaughter through reptilian eyes. One of the bodies twitched, then fell as still as the rest.

  Nearly two dozen dead Masters… it was a good start, as far as he was concerned. The Tleilaxu heretics must be removed before the Great Belief could resurface properly under Ajidica’s firm guidance.

  He smiled as his thoughts raced through the myriad possibilities in his remarkable level of consciousness. Ajidica hardly slept at all anymore, and spent much of each day romping through his own marvelous mind as if it were an amusement park of new experiences and delights. He could hold ninety-seven simultaneous lines of thought in balance, ranging from mundane to complex subjects. He had the ability to study each mosaic of information as if it were a filmbook on a library shelf.

  Ajidamal was even better than melange, even more intense. With it, Guild Navigators might be able to fold space into other universes, no longer restricted to one. One of his ninety-seven balanced lines of thought moved to the forefront. By now, Count Fenring and Zoal would have substituted ajidamal for melange in at least two Heighliners, and the Navigators should be about to use it. Fenring himself must be as dead as these victims here. The Face Dancer would have done his work well, and would return soon to report the details….

  With his imagined lizard eyes, the Master Researcher surveyed the sprawled, blotchy corpses. There could be no turning back from his holy mission now. His other Face Dancers would replace the old-guard Masters, and everything would appear normal. Then he could send them to Kaitain….

  From here, the Face Dancer replica of Master Zaaf would send word to Bandalong that he had decided to remain on Xuttuh for several months— which was the amount of time Ajidica needed to complete his plans. Any others who got in the way would also be consumed, like insects caught on the tongue of a flying lizard.

  He imagined his tongue darting out, snapping up bugs and swallowing them. Darting and snapping, darting and snapping. He tasted their bitter, crunchy little bodies. The flying dragon hopped from the rafter and sailed slowly over the corpses, as if on an aerial inspection mission.

  With a blink of his eyes, Ajidica dragged his consciousness away from the lizard and returned to his own body, which stood in the doorway. His mouth had a bitter taste, and his tongue felt raw and sore.

  In an excited voice, he summoned his Face Dancers from the kitchen. They arrived promptly, ready for orders. “Dispose of the bodies. Then prepare for a journey.”

  As the shape-shifters set about their task, Ajidica searched for the little lizard. The elusive creature, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  With a thrill of amazement, a sunken-eyed C’tair Pilru found the gruesome bodies at the disposal site. The hated invaders were not covered with enough garbage to conceal them fully.

  Slinking through shadows long after the strict curfew, C’tair had arrived just as a groundtruck departed, throwing rock dust into the air behind it. No one had seen him. He often frequented the subterranean dumping areas, searching for salvage items that he might adapt to his needs.

  But this! Dead Tleilaxu Masters, more than twenty of them. High-ranking officials every one, and they had been murdered! Their normally pallid skins were a scalded-red color. He drew the only possible conclusion his weary mind could formulate. Here was proof that the resistance movement continued on Ix.

  Someone else is killing the Tleilaxu.

  C’tair scratched his head, disarranging his ragged hair. He looked around in the low starlight from the projected sky, not certain what to do next, wondering who his mysterious allies were.

  Not long ago, a pair of Atreides men had promised that rescuers would arrive soon, like knights on white horses. In anticipation of this, other resistance groups must be mobilizing. He only hoped he lived long enough to see the glorious liberation of Ix.

  Rhombur was coming! At last!

  Not to be outdone, C’tair went into darkened subterranean chambers in search of lone Tleilaxu. He had become hardened over the long, desperate years. By the end of the night, seven more Tleilaxu joined the bodies at the disposal site.

  Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere. You must climb the mountain just a little… enough to test that it’s a mountain, enough to see where the other mountains are. From the top of any mountain, you cannot see that mountain.

  — EMPRESS HERADE,

  consort to Crown Prince Raphael Corrino

  He had avoided this duty for half of his life, but now the departure could not come soon enough for Rhombur Vernius. He made no attempt to conceal his cyborg body— in light of his mission to Ix, he considered it a badge of honor.

  Following concise descriptions from Thufir Hawat’s perfect memory, Dr. Yueh made cosmetic modifications to disguise the sophisticated mechanical enhancements, making them look like primitive, clumsy devices. Rhombur hoped he could pass himself off as one of the part-human, part-machine monstrosities the Tleilaxu called “bi-Ixians.”

  For weeks, Gurney and Rhombur had discussed strategy with the Duke and his highest-ranking military men. “The success or failure of this mission ultimately falls on my shoulders,” Rhombur said, as he stood awaiting a shuttle that would take him and Gurney to the Heighliner. “I’m not a kid collecting pretty rocks anymore. I need to remember everything my father ever taught me. By the age of seven, I had to memorize all the military codes, and I learned about every great battle House Vernius had ever fought.”

  “This struggle will be something for us to write songs about, something for your children to memorize,” Gurney Halleck said with an encouraging smile. Then, from the way his expression stiffened, it was clear he regretted his remark.

  Breaking the uncomfortable silence, Rhombur said, “Yes, it will be something for all Ixians to tell their children and grandchildren.”

  The necessary bribes had been paid: The Spacing Guild would again interfere with Tleilaxu defense scanners l
ong enough for their camouflaged combat pod to slip into a hidden access port. This particular pod had been designed so that it could be dismantled for its parts, many of which had dual purposes as weapons themselves. The sleek gray pod sat on struts in a loading dock, while Atreides men hurried to make the link-ups that would connect it to the shuttle.

  Thufir and Duncan arrived to bid the two men farewell. Duke Leto had not appeared yet, and Rhombur refused to board the shuttle until he could embrace his friend. The liberation of Ix could not begin without an Atreides blessing.

  The night before, Rhombur had recharged his cyborg components, but his mind remained exhausted from lack of authentic sleep. His thoughts continued to press through questions. Tessia had worked her wonders, though, rubbing the tense muscles in the remaining flesh of his body, miraculously soothing him. Her dark brown eyes seemed full of pride and anticipation. “My love— my husband, I promise that our next night spent together will be in the Grand Palais.”

  With a small chuckle, he said, “Not in my old rooms, though. You and I deserve more than a boyhood bed-chamber!” He gave a mighty heave of his chest and shoulders, simultaneously dreading and looking forward to seeing Ix again.

  The timetable was in place. Everything would adhere to a strict schedule because the separate prongs of the attack could not rely on communications while en route. There would be no room for error, or delay… or doubts. Duke Leto was counting on him and Gurney to soften up the Tleilaxu from within, to expose their underbelly, after which the Atreides military would deliver a hammerblow from the outside.

  Turning, he saw Leto. The Duke’s black jacket was uncharacteristically wrinkled; the nobleman’s chin and cheeks were shadowed with dark stubble. Poorly concealed behind his back, he held a large parcel gift-wrapped in gold paper with a ribbon on top. “You can’t leave without this, Rhombur.”

  Accepting the package, the Prince determined from sensors in his arm that it was surprisingly light. “Leto, the combat pod is already so packed there’s barely enough room for Gurney and me.”