Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “You’ll want to take this anyway.” A rare smile broke through his normally hard expression.

  Fumbling to tear the wrapping paper with his mechanical fingers, Rhombur got it open. Inside the box he found a much smaller case. The hinged lid opened easily. “Vermilion hells!”

  The fire-jewel ring was just like the one he had worn before the skyclipper explosion— a ring that had represented his authority as the rightful Earl of House Vernius. “Fire-jewels aren’t easy to come by, Leto. Each stone has its own personality, its own unique appearance. Where did you get this? It looks just like the one I used to have. Of course, it couldn’t be the same one.”

  Leto’s gray eyes twinkled as he draped a brotherly arm around the Prince’s artificial shoulders. “This is your ring, my friend, regenerated from a tiny fragment of the jewel that was found fused into the flesh of your hand.”

  Rhombur’s remaining organic eye blinked as if to drive back tears. This ring symbolized the glories of Ix, as well as the terrible losses he and his people had suffered. But his imaginary tears stopped, and his face hardened. He slipped the fire-jewel ring onto the third finger of his prosthetic right hand. “Perfect fit.”

  “And more good news,” Duncan Idaho added. “According to the spaceport center, the Heighliner on this route is the last Dominic Class vessel ever manufactured on Ix, newly refurbished from Junction. Sounds like a good omen to me.”

  “Indeed, I will take it as that.” Rhombur hugged each of his friends before heading for the private shuttle, accompanied by Gurney Halleck. Behind them, Leto, Duncan, and Thufir called out, “Victory on Ix!”

  To Rhombur’s ears, it sounded like a statement of fact. He vowed to succeed… or die trying.

  We could be dreaming all the time, but we do not perceive those dreams while we are awake because consciousness (like the sun obscuring stars during the day) is much too brilliant to allow the unconscious content so much definition.

  — Private Journals of

  KWISATZ MOTHER ANIRUL SADOW-TONKIN

  Haunted from within her own mind, Lady Anirul could not sleep.

  Once roused, the voices of countless generations allowed her no rest. The intruders from Other Memory demanded her attention, begging her to look at historical precedents, insisting that their lives be remembered. Each one had something to say, a dire warning, a cry for attention. All of it inside her head.

  She wanted to scream.

  As the Emperor’s consort, Anirul lived in greater luxury than the vast majority of the lives within her had ever experienced. She had access to servants, fine music, the most expensive drugs. Her combined chambers, filled with beautiful furniture, were large enough to encompass a small village.

  At one time Anirul had thought being the Kwisatz Mother had been a blessing, but the possession of her mind by a multitude from across the chasms of time was consuming too much of her as the moment of Jessica’s delivery drew closer. The voices-within knew that the end of the breeding program’s long road was at last near.

  Restless on her oversize bed, Anirul flung the slippery sheets away; the fabric tangled and oozed to the floor as if it were a living invertebrate. Naked, Anirul walked to the gold-inlay doors. Her skin was buttery and smooth, massaged daily with lotions and salves. A diet of melange recipes, as well as a few biochemical tweaks she accomplished internally using Sisterhood training, kept her muscles toned and her body attractive, even if her husband no longer noticed her.

  In this room she had allowed Shaddam to impregnate her five times, but he rarely visited her bed anymore. The Emperor had, quite correctly, given up hope that she would ever bear him a male heir. Now sterile, he would have no more children: not by her, nor by any of his concubines.

  Though her husband suspected she had taken other lovers during their years of marriage, Anirul required no personal entanglements to satisfy her needs. As a skilled Bene Gesserit, she had access to means of pleasuring herself with all the intensity she could desire.

  Now, what she desired most was a restful, deep sleep.

  She decided to go out into the quiet night. She would wander the huge Palace, and maybe the capital city beyond, in the vain hope that her legs could carry her away from the voices.

  She grasped the door handles, then realized that she wore no clothes. In recent weeks, Anirul had overheard courtiers chattering about her unstable personality, rumors probably started by Shaddam himself. If she were to stride naked into the corridors, that would pour more fuel on the flames of gossip.

  Cinching a turquoise robe around herself, she tied an intricate knot that no one but a Bene Gesserit could release without a knife. Shoeless, she stepped onto the tile floor and headed from her rooms.

  She had often walked barefoot back at the Mother School on Wallach IX. The chill climate provided a rigorous environment for young Acolytes to learn endurance, to discover how to control their body heat, perspiration, and nerve responses. One time, Harishka— who was Proctor Superior of the school at the time, not yet Mother Superior— had led her young women into the snowy mountains, where she instructed all of them to remove every garment and trudge four kilometers through ice-crusted snow to the top of a windswept peak. Once there, they had meditated for an hour in the nude before climbing back down to their clothes and warmth.

  Anirul had nearly frozen to death that day, but the crisis had driven her to a better understanding of her metabolism, and of her own mind. Even before putting her garments back on, she had made herself warm and comfortable, with no need of anything else. Four of her Acolyte classmates hadn’t survived— failures— and Harishka had left their bodies up in the snow, where they would remain as grim reminders for later students….

  Now as Anirul wandered the Palace corridors, ladies-in-waiting emerged from their rooms and rushed to her side. Not Jessica, though; she kept the pregnant young woman sheltered, protected, unaware of her personal turmoil.

  With her peripheral vision Anirul saw the shadow of a guard slipping away from a lady’s quarters— and was irritated that her women would waste time on trysts during their on-duty hours, especially since they were well aware of her frequent bouts of insomnia.

  “I am going to the animal park,” she announced, not even looking at the women scurrying to follow her. “Send word ahead, and instruct the conservator to grant me access.”

  “At this hour, my Lady?” said an attractive young maidservant, as she buttoned up her bodice. She had blonde hair in ringlets and delicate features.

  Anirul shot her a hard glare, and the maid seemed to shrivel. This one would be dismissed in the morning. The Emperor’s wife could not abide anyone challenging her whims. With all the responsibility on her shoulders, Anirul was becoming less tolerant, and much less patient. A bit like Shaddam.

  Outside, the night sky was a wash of swirling auroral lights, but Anirul hardly noticed. Her growing entourage followed her across garden terraces and elevated boulevards until she arrived at the artificially forested enclosures set aside as the Imperial Zoo.

  Previous rulers had used the animal park for their private enjoyment, but Shaddam could care less about biological specimens from distant worlds. In a “gracious gesture,” he had opened the park to the general public, so that they might experience “the magnificence of all creatures under the dominion of House Corrino.” His other alternative— expressed privately to his wife— had been to slaughter the animals and save the minor expense of feeding them.

  Anirul stopped at the entrance to the animal park, a slender crystalline arch. She saw lights switching on, heavy glowglobes that shone brightly and disturbed the sleeping animals. The conservator must be running from one set of controls to another, preparing the zoo for her arrival.

  Anirul turned to her ladies-in-waiting. “Remain here. I wish to be alone.”

  “Is that wise, my Lady?” said the blonde maidservant, again annoying her mistress. No doubt Shaddam would have executed the girl on the spot.

  Anirul gave her another
withering look. “I have dealt with Imperial politics, young woman. I have encountered the most unpleasant members of the Landsraad, and I have been married to Emperor Shaddam for two decades.” She frowned. “I can certainly handle a few lesser animals.”

  With that, she marched into the beautifully manicured faux wilderness. The zoo always had a calming effect on her. She saw cages with force-field bars that were habitats for tufted saber-bears, ecadroghes, and D-wolves. Laza tigers lounged on electrically heated rocks, warming themselves even without sunlight. One lioness munched lazily on bloody strips of raw meat. Nearby, tigers raised their slitted eyes and regarded Anirul sleepily, too well fed to be ferocious anymore.

  In a large tank, Buzzell dolphins swam about. With enlarged brains, the creatures were intelligent enough to perform simple underwater tasks. The dolphins streaked by like silvery blue knives; one returned to peer through the glass, as if recognizing her as a person of significance.

  While strolling among the animals, Anirul felt a rare moment of internal peace. Chaos did not bother her here in the drowsy quiet of the Imperial Zoo. She heard nothing but her private thoughts. Anirul heaved a long sigh, then drew a deep breath, drinking in the delicious solitude.

  She knew her sanity could not survive the continually growing inner storm that afflicted her. As Kwisatz Mother and the Emperor’s wife, she had vitally important duties. She needed to concentrate. She especially needed to watch Jessica and her unborn child.

  Has Jessica caused this turmoil? Do the voices know something I do not? What about the future?

  Unlike most other Sisters, Anirul had access to all her memories. But, following the death of her good friend Lobia, she had excavated too deeply, gone too far in her search for the old Truthsayer inside her head. In the process, she had triggered an avalanche of lives.

  In the stillness of the zoo, Anirul thought again of Lobia, who had given her so much advice when she had been alive. Anirul wanted to hear the old woman’s voice rising above all the others, a voice of reason in the mystic throng. Mentally, she called out for her lost friend, but the Lobia-within did not emerge.

  Suddenly, hearing the call, the ghost-voices assaulted her again, so tumultuously that they echoed in the air around her. Memories grew louder, lives and thoughts, opinions and arguments. Voices shouted her name.

  She screamed back at them, telling them to be quiet….

  Inside the zoo, the Buzzell dolphins thrashed in their tank, bumping their bottle-noses against the thick plaz. The Laza tigers let out echoing roars. The saber-bear bellowed and fell upon its companion in the enclosure, triggering a fierce battle of teeth and claws. Captive birds began to shriek. Other animals howled in panic.

  Anirul dropped to her knees, still screaming at the voices-within. The guards and servants rushed to help her. They had been watching at a safe distance, disobeying her request for privacy.

  But as they tried to lift her to her feet, the Emperor’s wife spasmed, flailing her arms. One of her jeweled rings struck the face of the blonde maidservant, slashing her across the cheek. Anirul’s eyes were wild, like those of a rabid animal.

  “Emperor Shaddam will not like this,” one of the guards said, but Anirul was beyond hearing anything at all.

  Diplomats are chosen for their ability to lie.

  — Bene Gesserit Saying

  In the Kaitain ambassadorial quarters, Piter de Vries sat at his writing desk, composing a note.

  Blood dripped from the ceiling, pooling and congealing in a thick puddle on the floor, but the Mentat paid it no heed. The steady metronome of falling droplets sounded like a ticking clock. He would clean up the mess later.

  Since delivering his anonymous message that informed the Emperor of Richese’s illegal spice stockpile, de Vries had remained at the Imperial Court, setting up complex plans to advance the position of House Harkonnen. He had already heard grumblings about Shaddam’s intended punishment of Richese. De Vries relished the thought of appropriate revenge.

  He also meant to hoard any knowledge he gathered, eventually doling it out to the Baron in measured doses. In this manner he would prove his continued worth and keep himself alive.

  While spying at court, he had picked up an interesting tidbit the Baron might appreciate, far more important than mere political or military moves against House Richese. For the first time, Piter de Vries had seen Jessica across a crowded room, a lovely woman six months pregnant with another Atreides heir. That opened up so many possibilities….

  “My dear Baron,” he wrote, using a coded Harkonnen language, “I have discovered that the concubine of your enemy, Leto Atreides, currently resides in the Imperial Palace. She has been taken under the wing of the Emperor’s wife, ostensibly as a lady-in-waiting, though I cannot fathom the reason for this. She seems to have no duties. Perhaps it is because this whore and Anirul are both Bene Gesserit witches.

  “I would like to propose a scheme that could have many repercussions: pride and satisfaction for House Harkonnen, pain and misery for House Atreides. What more could we desire?”

  He pondered again, watching the blood drip from the ceiling. A message cylinder lay open beside him on the writing desk. He scribbled again. “I have managed to keep myself hidden from her. This Jessica intrigues me.”

  With a smile he recalled how Leto’s concubine Kailea and their firstborn son Victor had both been killed in the past year. The Harkonnens had hoped this double-tragedy might drive the Duke mad and destroy the backbone of House Atreides forever. Unfortunately, against all odds, Leto seemed to have recovered. His recent attack on Beakkal indicated that he was more aggressive and decisive than ever.

  But how much more could the damaged, bitter man tolerate?

  “Jessica intends to stay here and give birth to her child in the Palace. Though she is constantly watched by the other witches, I believe I may be able to discover an opportunity to slip in and kill the newborn infant, and, if you wish, the mother as well. My Baron, think of how that would wound your mortal enemy! But I must proceed with great care.”

  He finished writing in smaller letters, so that his entire message could fit on a single sheet of instroy paper. “I have therefore arranged a legitimate reason to remain here on Kaitain, so that I might keep watch on this intriguing woman. I will send you regular reports.”

  He signed the note with a flourish and sealed it inside the message cylinder, where it would be dispatched on the next outbound Heighliner to Giedi Prime.

  Dispassionately, he gazed up at the ceiling, where he had hidden a body behind the panels. The inept Harkonnen ambassador, Kalo Whylls, had put up more of a struggle than expected, so de Vries had slashed him a few extra times, leaving him a patchwork of gaping wounds, with his lifeblood draining out of him. Quite a mess.

  Turning back to the items on his desk, de Vries examined a document obtained from the Imperial Minister of Forms, a simple transmittal to the Kaitain bureaucracy. No one would question it. Smiling with his sapho-stained lips, the Mentat dutifully finished writing an official decree, which he would deliver to the Emperor’s Chamberlain, informing them that the previous Harkonnen Ambassador had been permanently “recalled” to Giedi Prime. Piter de Vries filled in his own name as the man temporarily designated to take his place.

  When all was in order, he stamped the document with the Baron’s official seal. Then he got ready for the next step….

  At heart we are all travelers— or runners.

  — EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS

  Inside his sealed tank on the top level of the enormous Dominic Class Heighliner, Steersman D’murr swam in orange spice gas.

  Unaccountably troubled, and waiting for his Guild crew to complete the loading and unloading procedures, he felt time flow differently for him. His Heighliner had been in stationary orbit over Caladan longer than usual, due to an article that required special handling and a great deal of secrecy.

  A combat pod. Interesting.

  Normally, D’murr concerned himself with steer
ing the great ship safely from one star system to another. It was his practice to ignore trivial details, human aspirations, since all the universe was his to hold and use.

  Indulging in a moment of uncharacteristic curiosity, however, he tapped into the comsystem, flashed through records and transmissions, and eavesdropped on two Flight Auditors on a lower deck. Duke Leto Atreides had paid a substantial fee for this cargo, which required surreptitious delivery to Ix.

  D’murr’s roundabout route through foldspace took him from world to world, to an endless parade of planets across the Imperium. On this run, one of his destinations was Ix, formerly a routine stopover for travelers from Caladan visiting their allies on the industrial planet. Now, though, much had changed.

  Why are the Atreides going to Ix? And why now?

  He listened to whispered conversations on the restricted Guild levels, gleaning additional information that the route supervisors would never reveal to outsiders because of strict neutrality agreements. For the Spacing Guild, this was business as usual. Two Atreides men would accompany the small craft to Ix, traveling under false documents. One was Prince Rhombur Vernius, in disguise.

  D’murr absorbed the new information and found that his reactions were strange and extreme, even unbalanced. Elation? Fear? Rhombur. Unsettled, he consumed more of the melange in his tank, but instead of the expected sense of release, he felt as if the once-welcoming universe had become a dense forest of shadowy trees and indistinct paths.

  Since becoming a Navigator, D’murr had never reacted this way to haunting memories, the detritus of his human past. The spice gas made his head ring, his brain crackle. He felt strangely out of synch, disoriented. He sensed large-scale, conflicting forces at work, threatening to rip the fabric of space. Out of desperation, he drank more deeply of melange.