Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Two commandos inspected the carryall, then raised their hands in a signal. Stilgar bounded up a gangplank on the heavy aircraft to a narrow interior platform that ringed the modified cargo hold. The spacious enclosure was lined with heavy plating. Overhead, four grappling hooks dangled on chains.

  This carryall had been stripped of its decks and equipment, fitted instead with armor. It reeked with the odor of cinnamon. The upper hold was already full of unmarked melange containers that the soldiers had been about to hide inside the cistern. The lower hold was empty.

  “Look here, Stil.” Turok pointed down at the craft’s underbelly, at its unpainted crossbeams and fittings of new construction. He touched a toggle beside him, and the armored belly spread apart, open to the desert. Quickly, Turok climbed a metal stairway into the pilot’s cabin and fired up the big engines, which surged to life with a powerful rumble.

  Holding a handrail, Stilgar felt a faint vibration, the sign of a well-maintained ship. This workhorse craft would be a good addition to the Fremen fleet. “Up!” he shouted.

  Turok had worked on spice crews for years and was proficient in operating all types of equipment. He punched the jet sequence. The carryall lifted with a powerful surge, and Stilgar clutched the handrail to keep his balance. The dangling chains and heavy hooks clattered above the open cargo doors; soon he could see the top of the uncovered cistern below.

  While Turok hovered the big carryall, Stilgar disengaged the chains and dropped down the thick hooks. Below, the raiders scrambled over the smooth walls of the reinforced cistern and secured grappling hooks to lifting bars. The chains grew taut, the heavy engines groaned, and the entire spice-filled cistern ripped free of the rock platform, rising until it fit inside the open cargo hold. The carryall doors shut beneath it like the mouth of a gluttonous snake.

  “I believe the Emperor has called it a crime to keep so much spice.” Stilgar smiled as he shouted up to his companion. “Is it not good to assist the Corrinos in their quest for justice? Perhaps Liet should ask Shaddam to give us a commendation.”

  Chuckling at the irony, Turok brought the lumbering vessel back around and hovered just above the ground. The remaining Fremen climbed aboard, dragging the squirming, maimed Harkonnen captives with them.

  The laden aircraft rode low in the sky, but accelerated as it headed out over the open desert, toward the nearest sietch. Seated against a vibrating bulkhead, Stilgar studied his exhausted men, and the doomed prisoners who would soon be thrown into the deathstills. He exchanged satisfied grins with his men, who had removed their face masks to reveal weathered, bearded faces. In the low light of the carryall’s interior, their blue-within-blue eyes glowed.

  “Spice and water for the tribe,” Stilgar said. “A good haul for one day.”

  Beside him, one of the Harkonnen soldiers moaned and opened his eyes. It was the young, terrified man who had looked at him before. In a moment of mercy, deciding this one had suffered enough, Stilgar drew his crysknife and slit the soldier’s throat, then covered the wound to absorb the blood.

  The other Harkonnens did not receive a similar kindness.

  It is astonishing how foolish humans can be in groups, especially when they follow their leaders without question.

  — States: The Bene Gesserit View,

  All States Are an Abstraction

  The Imperial fleet arrived at Korona without warning, the next blow in Shaddam’s Great Spice War. With eight battle cruisers and fully armed frigates, it was a show of force even more fearsome than the one that had blackened the most populous cities of Zanovar.

  The military vessels converged upon the artificial moon for an on-site investigation. Over the comsystem, Supreme Bashar Zum Garon issued his ultimatum. “We are here by order of the Padishah Emperor. You, House Richese, are charged with possessing an undocumented stockpile of melange, strictly against the laws set forth in Imperial and Landsraad courts.” The hardened commander then waited for their response. Let’s see how guilty they act.

  Desperate pleas erupted from the control rooms of Korona, echoed moments later by appeals from the Richesian government below.

  The Supreme Bashar, staring out from the flagship bridge, accepted none of the transmissions. He spoke into a loudspeaker system. “By order of his Awesome Majesty Shaddam IV, we will search for contraband melange. If found, the spice will be confiscated, and Korona station will be summarily destroyed. Thus the Emperor has commanded.”

  Two battle frigates slipped into the artificial laboratory moon’s receiving bays. The Richesian fools attempted to reseal the airlock doors, so two cruisers fired upon other docking bays, blasting open the hatches and spewing air, cargo, and bodies into space.

  As docking collars clanged together and grappling claws forced open the sealed hull of the moon, Garon transmitted a further warning. “Any resistance will be met with extreme measures. You have precisely two hours to evacuate Korona. If we find evidence sufficient to warrant the annihilation of this facility, any person remaining on the station at that time will die.”

  From the flagship bridge, Garon stepped into a lift that carried him down to the disembarkation level. Korona did not have sufficient defenses to resist the Sardaukar. No one did.

  The veteran commander led a full regiment into the orbiting laboratory. Through the metal corridors, alarms rang, lights flashed, sirens echoed. Inventors, technicians, and lab workers scrambled toward evacuation ships. At the hub of a walkway system, the Supreme Bashar gestured for his soldiers to separate into teams and begin their search. They understood that it might be necessary to torture a few employees to determine the location of the stockpile.

  A florid-faced man stumbled like a cannonball out of a lift tube, rushing from his administrative center to meet the Sardaukar vanguard. He flailed his hands. “You can’t do this, sir! I am Laboratory Director Flinto Kinnis, and I tell you that two hours is not enough time. We don’t have sufficient ships. We need to recall vessels from Richese just for the people, not to mention all the research materials. It will take at least a day to evacuate.”

  Garon’s weathered face showed no sympathy. “The Emperor will not have his orders questioned or resisted in any manner.” He nodded to his soldiers, who opened fire, slicing the shocked bureaucrat apart even as he spluttered more objections.

  The troops moved deeper into the giant laboratory station.

  During one of their private dinners together, Shaddam had taken Zum Garon into his confidence and explained his intent. The Emperor understood that many civilians could die in this invasion, and he was perfectly willing to make another extreme example like Zanovar, and another, until his rule was secure.

  “The only thing I require,” Shaddam had said, holding up one finger, “is for you to retrieve all the contraband spice you find. A large enough reward of spice will minimize Guild and CHOAM complaints.” He smiled, pleased with his plan. “Then use atomics to destroy the whole station.”

  “Sire, using atomics goes beyond the line—”

  “Nonsense. We’ll be giving them a chance to evacuate, and I am simply obliterating a metal structure out in space. I understand Korona is quite an orbital eyesore.” To Shaddam’s frustration, Garon did not look entirely convinced. “Don’t concern yourself with legal nuances, Bashar. The point I am trying to make is best punctuated with nuclear explosives. It will frighten the Landsraad more than a thousand smaller warnings.”

  Zum Garon had lived many harsh years on Salusa Secundus, and had fought in the Ecazi Revolt. He knew that Imperial orders were meant to be carried out, never questioned— and he had raised his talented son Cando to believe the same thing.

  Within half an hour, the first group of evacuation ships blundered their way down to the surface. Scientists scrambled to retrieve experimental records and irreplaceable notes from research projects. But many who wasted time gathering such items soon found themselves stranded when all the available shuttlecraft had departed.

  Below, in Triad Center,
Premier Ein Calimar bellowed impotently into the comsystem, demanding that he be given time to contact the Landsraad court. Beside him, Count Richese wrung his hands and pleaded, but to no effect. Simultaneously, the Richesians struggled to launch surface-based rescue ships, though with the clock ticking down, the Sardaukar leader doubted they would arrive in time.

  Troops ransacked laboratory chambers, searching for the alleged melange stockpile. Near the armored core of Korona, they encountered two frantic inventors, a bald scientist with sloping shoulders and an intense man whose eyes flicked back and forth as if his mind was working at high speed.

  The intense inventor stepped forward, trying to look reasonable. “Sir, I am working on a vital research project and I must transport all my notes and delicate prototypes. This work cannot be reproduced elsewhere, and has repercussions for the future of the Imperium.”

  “Denied.”

  The inventor blinked, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  Beside him, the bald man narrowed his gaze. “Let me speak.” He gestured to a pyramid of sealed crates, where workers stood with anti-grav lift trucks, but no place to go. “Supreme Bashar, my name is Talis Balt. My colleague Haloa Rund does not exaggerate the importance of our work here. Also, look at this valuable stockpile. You can’t allow it to be destroyed.”

  “Is that melange?” Garon said. “I have orders to remove any and all spice.”

  “No, sir. Richesian mirrors, nearly as valuable as spice.”

  The officer pursed his lips. Tiny chips of Richesian mirrors could power large scanning devices. The hoard of reflective units here would be sufficient to power a small sun.

  “Talis Balt, I regret to inform you that your Director was a casualty of this operation. Therefore, I appoint you to be in charge of Korona.” Balt’s jaw went slack as he absorbed the import of the Supreme Bashar’s words.

  “Director Kinnis?” he asked in a weak voice. “Dead?”

  Garon nodded. “You have my permission to remove all of the Richesian mirrors you can place aboard my ships in time— provided you tell me where to find your illegal spice hoard.”

  Haloa Rund still seemed appalled. “What about my research?”

  “I cannot sell equations.”

  Balt squirmed, obviously considering whether or not to lie. “I assume your men will ransack laboratories and destroy sealed chambers until you find it. Therefore, I will save us all the misery.” He told the Bashar where to look.

  “I am pleased to see that you have made the correct decision, and that you have verified the presence of melange.” Touching a button on his uniform, Garon sent a signal back to his ship. Moments later, low-ranking soldiers ran aboard, carrying suspensor pallets laden with containers of atomics. He turned back to the bald scientist. “You may move what you can aboard our battle cruisers, and I will permit you to keep half of what you load.”

  Appalled at the situation but smart enough not to argue, Balt set to work. A bemused Garon watched the efforts of workers as they moved crates of the fragile mirrors. Clearly, they would not rescue even a tenth of the treasure. Haloa Rund rushed back to his laboratory, but the Sardaukar Bashar left instructions that he not be allowed to clutter the ships with useless “prototypes.”

  Garon directed his men to the melange-storage area, where soldiers with holorecorders documented the illegal stockpile, taking evidence before moving the spice, just in case the Emperor needed it. Shaddam hadn’t stipulated this precaution, but the Bashar knew evidence was evidence.

  As Zum Garon monitored the operations, Sardaukar infantry entered the moon’s core, bearing their first load of nuclear warheads. He looked at his chronometer. Less than an hour remained.

  * * *

  Talis Balt scurried back and forth, close to dropping from exhaustion. Sweat glistened on his bald pate; he and his crew had already loaded a surprising number of the expensive mirrors aboard the Sardaukar flagship.

  On a Korona cargo dock, Haloa Rund sat hunched and weeping beside hastily packaged crates that had been blasted open with hand weapons. When he had insisted on carrying them toward the docked flagship, two soldiers had opened fire, destroying the no-field machinery inside.

  As time ran out and the Supreme Bashar ordered a retreat from the doomed satellite, Talis Balt stood on the loading dock, waiting to get away.

  Calmly, Garon informed the bald inventor that he would have to remain behind. “I am sorry, but it is illegal for us to permit civilian passengers to ride aboard an Imperial military warship. You must find your own way off the moon.”

  With little time remaining, Rund’s family connections with Count Ilban Richese would not help him. And the atomic weaponry could not be deactivated.

  * * *

  Ten minutes before the appointed time, all Imperial battle cruisers and support ships detached themselves from the satellite, leaving the damaged docking-bay doors open to the hard vacuum of space. Aboard the flagship, Supreme Bashar Garon watched his troops wrap up their operations with military precision.

  Though the hoard of melange had not been as extensive as the Emperor had been led to believe, the cargo compartments belowdecks contained many crates of Richesian mirrors, as well as the spice stockpile. The Sardaukar would immediately present the confiscated melange to Guild representatives on board the waiting Heighliner. A shameless bribe, but effective.

  * * *

  On the surface of the planet, Premier Calimar looked into the sky at the satellite moon, an artificial structure so large that it dwarfed the fleet of Sardaukar ships moving away from it. His stomach was knotted, his heart near frozen with fury at the injustice of Shaddam’s action.

  How had the Emperor learned about the spice hidden on Korona? After Baron Harkonnen had quietly paid him, Calimar had kept the stockpile absolutely secret. Certainly the information could not have come from the Harkonnens, because that would only direct questions back at them….

  When the atomics erupted on Korona, bright light seared through the Richesian sky. However, instead of dimming as time went on, the fireball continued to build in a chain reaction that ignited the remaining Richesian mirrors, spreading the fragments in a cloud of broken, powerful crystals that rained through the atmosphere like shards from a supernova.

  Below, the Richesians of an entire continent stared into the firestorm that showered across the sky. Priceless mirrors fell like tiny asteroids, screaming and searing through the air.

  Calimar bit back an outcry, but he could not stop staring. The awful light grew brighter. Many Richesians watched in mesmerized horror, unable to believe what was happening.

  Within the next few days, as the retinal damage progressed, fully a quarter of Richese’s population would go blind.

  I feel the invulnerable and sliding thrust of space where a star sends lingering beams across the undistance called parsecs.

  — The Apocrypha of Muad’dib,

  All Is Permitted, All Is Possible

  Lost in emptiness, the Heighliner tumbled out of control.

  Gurney Halleck knew something was wrong the instant they emerged from foldspace. The giant vessel lurched as if it had run into thick turbulence.

  Placing a hand on a blade concealed inside his drab traveling clothes, Gurney looked beside him to make sure Rhombur remained safe. The cyborg Prince anchored himself to a wall, which had now become the floor. “Are we under attack?” He wore a cloak and cowled hood, as if he were a pilgrim. Loose woolweave fabric covered his mostly artificial body so no one would notice the extraordinary differences in his anatomy.

  The cabin door of their private passenger quarters slid halfway open, then jammed in its track. Outside in the main corridor, a service panel sparked as a power surge rippled through the frigate’s systems. The decks tilted as gravity generators went off-line, shifting the center of mass. Lights flickered. Then, with a creaking shudder, the passenger frigate righted itself as the Heighliner rolled.

  Gurney and Rhombur struggled to the jammed cabin door and tried
to push it the rest of the way open. With one powerful mechanical arm, Rhombur shoved the blockage aside, scraping metal.

  The two men slipped into the corridor where panicky passengers scurried about, some of them injured and bleeding. Through widely spaced portholes, Gurney and Rhombur could see the havoc in the Heighliner cargo hold outside, where ships were tilted and smashed. Some drifted free, sprung from their docking clamps.

  On every deck, communications boards lit up as hundreds of passengers demanded explanations. Black-uniformed Wayku stewards hurried from lounge to lounge, calmly instructing everyone to wait until further information was received. The attendants looked sleek and aloof, but showed an edge of strain from this unprecedented situation.

  Gurney and Rhombur headed to the crowded main lounge, where frightened passengers were gathering. From the half-hidden expression on Rhombur’s hooded face, Gurney could see he wanted to calm these people, to take charge. To prevent this, he gave a subtle hand signal, warning the Prince that they must keep their identities secret and draw no attention to themselves. Instead, the Prince worked to discover for himself what had happened, but the ship’s systems offered little information.

  Rhombur’s waxy face was furrowed in deep concentration. “We don’t have time to delay— we’re on a very precise schedule. The whole battle plan could fall apart if we don’t do our job.”

  After an hour of unanswered questions and mounting panic, a Guild representative finally sent a holo-emissary into the frigate lounge. His image appeared inside the primary gathering points of all vessels within the hold.

  From his uniform Rhombur recognized the Guildsman’s rank as Flight Auditor, a relatively important administrator who maintained accounting records, and cargo and passenger manifests, and interfaced with the Guild Bank regarding payments for interstellar passage. The Flight Auditor had extremely wide-set eyes, a high forehead, and a thick neck; his arms appeared too short for his torso, as if the parts had been mismatched during his genetic assembly.