Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Though Kaitain held many treasures to amaze visitors, Jessica wanted to be back on her ocean world with the man she loved, at peace, leading her former life. What if the Sisterhood exiles me after our son is born? What if they kill the baby?

  Jessica continued to make entries in the bound journal Lady Anirul had given to her, jotting down impressions and ideas, using a coded language of her own devising. She recorded her innermost thoughts, filling page after page with plans for her unborn son, and for her relationship with Leto.

  In this process, however, she avoided writing about an increasingly unsettled feeling that she did not understand and which she hoped would go away. What if she had made a terribly wrong decision?

  We depend entirely upon the benevolent cooperation of the unconscious mind. The unconscious, in a sense, invents the next moment for us.

  — Bene Gesserit Precept

  When Anirul awakened, she discovered that the Medical Sister had been monitoring and adjusting her medication to keep the disturbed clamor of Other Memory from overwhelming her.

  “Good color in your skin, alertness in your eyes. Excellent, Lady Anirul.” Yohsa smiled gently, reassuringly.

  Anirul managed to sit up on her bed, overcoming a wave of weakness. She felt almost recovered, almost sane. For now.

  Margot Fenring and Mohiam scurried into the bedchamber, wearing anxious expressions that would have earned them a scolding rebuke if she had been feeling better.

  Margot changed the polarity of the filter field at a private patio door, allowing bright sunlight into the room. Anirul shielded her eyes and sat up straighter in bed so that the warm, golden sunlight splashed across her skin. “I can’t spend my life in darkness.”

  To her intent Bene Gesserit listeners, she explained the nightmare of the desert sandworm fleeing an unseen, unknown pursuer. “I must determine what this dream means, while the terror is still fresh in my mind.” The skin on her face began to feel hot in the sunlight, as if she had been sunburned by her vision.

  The Medical Sister tried to interrupt, but Anirul shooed her away. Frowning in brittle disapproval, Yohsa left her alone with the other two women, closing the door behind her a bit more forcefully than necessary.

  Anirul walked barefoot to the terrace, into full sunlight. Instead of recoiling from the heat, she stood naked and unself-conscious, absorbing the rays of the sun on her bare skin. “I journeyed to the brink of madness, and came back.” She experienced a strange longing to roll on… hot sand.

  The three Sisters stood beside a waving immian rosebush at the terrace. “Dreams are always triggered by conscious events,” Mohiam said, paraphrasing a Bene Gesserit teaching.

  Contemplating, Anirul picked one of the tiny yellow immian roses from the bush beside her; as the sensitive flower flinched, she lifted it to her nose to smell the delicate scent. “I think it has something to do with the Emperor, spice… and Arrakis… Have you heard of Project Amal? One day I walked into my husband’s study while he was discussing such a project with Count Fenring. They were arguing about the Tleilaxu. Both of them fell awkwardly silent, as guilty men always do. Shaddam told me not to meddle in affairs of state.”

  “All men behave strangely,” Reverend Mother Mohiam observed. “That has long been known.”

  Margot frowned. “Hasimir keeps trying to hide the fact that he spends so much time on Ix, and I often wonder why. Just an hour ago, he ruined a dress that I wore especially for him, knocked a cup of spice coffee out of my hands before I could sip from it, as if it were poison. I used some melange I found in a secret luggage compartment.” She narrowed her eyes. “It was in a pouch with a marking on it, the Tleilaxu symbol for ‘A.’ Amal, perhaps?”

  “Quietly, the Emperor has been sending military resources to Ix, while keeping that information hidden from the Landsraad. Fenring… Ix… Tleilaxu… melange,” Anirul said. “No good can come of this.”

  “And Shaddam has declared open war on spice hoarders,” Mohiam said. Even in the brightness of day, her wrinkled face seemed to absorb new shadows. “All roads lead to melange.”

  “Perhaps the sandworm in my dream was fleeing from a storm of upheavals in the Imperium.” Still naked in the sunlight, Anirul stared across the Palace grounds. “We must contact Mother Superior right away.”

  Simplicity is the most difficult of all concepts.

  — Mentat Conundrum

  The Emperor sat alone in one of his private banquet halls, mercifully without his wife. He smiled with anticipation as the lavish six-course meal was brought in for him. At the moment he wanted no troubles, no politics, not even old war stories from Supreme Bashar Garon. Just a private, luxurious celebration. The briefing about Korona, and the detailed holo-images of the explosion, had been enough to give him quite an appetite.

  The first serving tray was a scrolled silver platter carried by a pair of nubile young women. Fanfare blared, announcing the three skewers of lightly seasoned slig cubes, cooked to perfection, that graced the tray. The serving girls removed one skewer at a time, plucked off each cube of meat, and took turns placing the morsels onto Shaddam’s Imperial tongue. The savory meat was as tender as moist cheese, with sensuous flavors that snapped his taste buds awake.

  Sardaukar marksmen held weapons ready, prepared to react instantly if one of the women attempted to use a blunted skewer as an assassination device.

  A golden-skinned young man in a creamy white toga poured a goblet of rich claret. Shaddam sipped the wine in between bites as the two girls awaited his pleasure, holding more cubes of meat. He drew a deep breath, smelling the carefully chosen scents that wafted around the servants. Decadent. This was what it meant to be Emperor. He sighed and gestured for the next dish.

  The second course consisted of succulent broiled crustaceans, many-legged but eyeless creatures that were found only in underground springs on Bela Tegeuse. The sauce was butter, salt, and garlic, nothing more, but it tasted delicious. Two wenches used tiny platinum forks to pry out the crustaceans’ sweet, white flesh and feed it to the Emperor.

  Before the next dish could be brought, however, Count Hasimir Fenring stormed into the banquet hall, elbowing aside the guards as if impervious to their weapons.

  Shaddam wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Ah, Hasimir! When did you return from your travels? You’ve been gone a long time.”

  Fenring could barely keep the strangled quality from his voice. “You destroyed Korona, hmmm? How could you do such a thing without consulting me first?”

  “The Landsraad members can complain all they want, but we caught the Richesians red-handed.”

  Shaddam had never seen his friend so angry. He switched to the private code they had developed as boys, so the servants could not eavesdrop. “Calm yourself, or would you prefer that I never summon you to Kaitain again? As we’ve discussed, we needed to improve the market advantage of amal by eliminating melange. This got rid of another major stockpile.”

  Fenring moved forward with a prowling gait, grabbed a chair beside the Emperor’s, and sat himself down. “But you used atomics, Shaddam. Not only did you attack a Great House, but you used forbidden atomics!” He brought his hand down on the table surface with a loud smack.

  Shaddam gestured with his fingers, and the serving girls whisked away the Tegeusan crustaceans. Too late, a serving boy hurried in with a flagon of golden mead, but Shaddam waved him away and signaled for the third course.

  The Emperor decided not to raise his voice. “The Great Convention forbids the use of atomics only against people, Hasimir. I used atomics to destroy a man-made structure, a laboratory moon where Richese had stored an illegal spice hoard. I was fully within my rights.”

  “But hundreds of people died, maybe thousands.”

  Shaddam shrugged. “They were given notice. If they chose not to evacuate in time, how can I be held responsible? You just don’t like me to take actions without your advice, Hasimir.” Fenring simmered, but the Emperor smiled maddeningly. “Ah look, here comes the
next course.” Two strong men walked in carrying a thin stone slab on which slumped an Imperial peacock roasted in herbs, its browned skin still crackling from the heat.

  Servants rushed forward with a clean plate, silverware, and a crystal goblet for Count Fenring.

  “Did you at least get a legal opinion before the attack, hmmm? To make certain your interpretation would stand up in Landsraad Court?”

  “It seems obvious enough to me. Supreme Bashar Garon took holoimages of the whole scene on Korona. The evidence is incontrovertible.”

  With an exaggerated sigh of forced patience, Fenring said, “Would you like me to obtain an opinion, Sire? Shall I consult with your lawtechs and Mentats?”

  “Oh, I suppose— go ahead.” With gusto, Shaddam dug into the first slices of juicy peacock meat, licking his lips after swallowing. “Try some, Hasimir.”

  The Count picked at the roast bird on his silver plate, but didn’t taste anything.

  “You worry too much. Besides, I am the Emperor, and can do as I please.”

  Fenring looked at him with large eyes. “You are the Emperor because of support from the Landsraad, CHOAM, the Spacing Guild, the Bene Gesserit, and other powerful forces, hmmm-ah? Should they all grow displeased, you would be stripped of everything.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Shaddam said, then lowered his voice. “Now that I am the only male Corrino.”

  “But there are plenty of eligible noblemen who would love to marry your daughters and continue the dynasty!” Fenring pounded the table again. “Let me find a way to salvage this, Shaddam. I think you will need to appear before the Landsraad, hm-m-m, in two days time. They will be in an uproar. You must state your reasons, and we’ll pull together all the support we can manage. Otherwise, mark my words, there will be a revolt.”

  “Yes, yes.” Shaddam concentrated on his food, then snapped his fingers. “Will you stay for the next course, Hasimir? It’s seared boar steaks from Canidar. Just arrived by Heighliner this morning, fresh.”

  Fenring pushed his plate away and stood up. “You have given me much work to do. I must begin immediately.”

  Law always moves in the direction of protecting the strong and oppressing the weak. Dependence upon force corrodes justice.

  — CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO,

  Precepts of Civilization

  Though he loathed the arrogant Premier Calimar, Baron Harkonnen had never expected Shaddam to use atomics against House Richese. Atomics! When the news reached him on Arrakis, he had mixed feelings, and a good deal of fear for his own security. In the face of the Emperor’s appalling zeal, no one was safe, especially not House Harkonnen, which had so much to hide.

  Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron paced his strategy room in the Carthag Residency, looking through a convex wall of armor-plaz windows. Blazing desert sunshine streamed in, tempered by filtering films on the two-centimeter-thick windows.

  Muffled by barriers and humming security systems, he heard preparations for the military parade that was scheduled to occur soon in the main square. Just beyond his field of vision, troops assembled in the afternoon heat, each fully armed man in a blue dress uniform.

  With grand fanfare, the Baron had returned to the harsh planet accompanied by his nephew. Brutish Rabban, in one of his rare moments of intelligence, had suggested that they remain here close to the spice operations, until “the troubling Imperial matters” were resolved.

  The Baron slammed a fist against one of the windows, causing the plaz to quiver. How much more did Shaddam intend to do? It was madness! Fully a dozen Landsraad families had voluntarily surrendered fortunes in hoarded spice, pathetically contrite in order to avoid further demonstrations of Imperial wrath.

  No one is safe.

  It was only a matter of time before CHOAM auditors came sniffing around Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis… which could well be the end of the Baron and his Great House. Unless he managed to hide everything.

  Exacerbating his problems, the damnable Fremen kept preying on his secret stockpiles, locating many of the largest caches! The desert vermin were opportunists, exploiting the Imperial crackdown, knowing the Baron could report none of their raids because then he would have to admit his own crimes.

  Outside, giant banners bearing the blue Harkonnen crest streamed down the sides of tall buildings, oceans of limp cloth hanging in the hot air. Griffin statues had been erected around the Carthag Residency, towering monsters that seemed ready to defy even the great sandworms. The mandatory crowds were assembled in the square, wretches chased from their begging stations and dingy homes so that they could cheer on cue.

  Normally the Baron preferred to spend his wealth on personal diversions, but now he took a page from the Emperor’s book. With finery and gaudy spectacles, he would cow the indigent population. It made him feel a little better after the embarrassing banquet debacle. Henceforth, he had no intention of attempting to follow the Atreides model for inspiring goodwill. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen wanted his subjects to fear him, not to like him.

  A Guild Courier fidgeted at the open doorway to the strategy room, showing the edge of her patience. “Baron, my Heighliner will depart in less than two hours. If you have a package for the Emperor, I must take it soon.”

  Angered, the big man whirled, and the momentum kept him moving gracelessly on his suspensors. He caught himself against a wall. “You will wait. An important part of my message will be images from the parade we are about to host.”

  The Courier’s hair was short and wine-colored, her features hard and unattractive. “I will remain only as long as time permits.”

  With a grunt of displeasure, the Baron floated in an exaggerated posture of dignity back to his writing table. Grumbling to himself, he could not think of the proper way to phrase the rest of his message, and wished Piter de Vries were here to help. But the twisted Mentat remained on Kaitain, spying on his behalf.

  Perhaps he should have kept that etiquette advisor alive. For all his preposterous training, Mephistis Cru had known how to compose a polite turn of phrase.

  With pudgy fingers the Baron scrawled another sentence, then sat back, thinking how best to explain the recent rash of “accidents” and lost spice-excavation equipment on Arrakis, with which he had hidden his embezzling activities. In a recent Imperial transmittal, Shaddam had expressed concern about the problem.

  For once, the Baron was glad the Spacing Guild had never managed to put up adequate weather surveillance satellites here. This enabled him to assert that brief, vicious storms had occurred, when in actuality they had not. But perhaps he had gone too far… and too many clues pointed toward his activities.

  These are dangerous times.

  “As I have reported to you before, Sire, we have been plagued by Fremen unrest,” he wrote. “The terrorists destroy equipment, then steal our cargoes of melange and disappear into the desert before a proper military response can be mounted.” The Baron pursed his lips, trying to select the proper tone of contrition. “I admit that we have perhaps been too lenient with them, but now that I am back on Arrakis, I will personally supervise our retaliation efforts. We will grind down the unruly natives and make them bow under Harkonnen command, in the glorious name of your Imperial Majesty.”

  He thought his words might be a bit too extravagant, but decided to let them stand. Shaddam was not a man to complain about excessive compliments.

  The Fremen rogues had recently stolen an armored spice transport and another stockpile hidden in an abandoned desert village. How had the filthy guerrillas known to strike there?

  The Courier continued to fidget at the doorway, but the Baron ignored her. “I promise you this unrest will no longer be tolerated, Sire,” he wrote. “I will send regular reports of our success in bringing the traitors to justice.”

  With a flourish, he signed the letter, sealed it in the message cylinder, and slapped the ornate tube into the Courier’s palm. Without a word, the wine-haired woman spun about and made her way through
the halls, heading toward the Carthag Spaceport. The Baron shouted after her, “Stand by on the Heighliner for transmitted images to go with that message. My parade is about to begin.”

  Next, he summoned his nephew to the strategy room. Despite Rabban’s many flaws, the Baron had in mind a job the “Beast” could perform well. The big-shouldered man strode in, carrying his much-used inkvine whip. In a gaudy blue uniform with gold tassels and lapels decked with clusters of medals, he had dressed as if he meant to be the center of the military display in the main square rather than an observer from a high balcony.

  “Rabban, we must show the Emperor how angry we are over these recent Fremen activities.”

  The thick lips smiled cruelly, as if the Beast already anticipated what he would be told to do. “Do you want me to round up some suspects and interrogate them? I’ll make them confess to whatever you like.”

  Outside, the blare of trumpets cracked through the dry air, announcing the arrival of the Harkonnen troops.

  “Not good enough, Rabban. I want you to select three villages, I don’t care which ones. Point your fingers at a map, if you like. March in with commandos and raze the settlements to the ground. Level every building, kill all the people, leave only black spots in the desert. Maybe I’ll write up a decree explaining their supposed crimes, and you can scatter copies among the carnage, so the rest of the Fremen rabble can read it.”

  Again, trumpets blew outside in the square. The Baron accompanied his nephew out onto the observation platform. A sullen crowd filled the square, unwashed bodies whose stench reached him even here, three floors up. The Baron could only imagine how unbearable the smell must be down there in the heat.

  “Entertain yourself,” the Baron said, twiddling his ring-studded fingers. “One day your brother Feyd will be old enough to accompany you on these… instructive exercises.”