Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Wearing infrared contact lenses, she managed to gain entry to a ventilation shaft. Engaging the suspensor mechanism on her belt, Cristane climbed inside, and dropped— with no idea where the shaft led. In the darkness, she fell slowly, deeper and deeper into the planetary crust.

  Finally, with frayed nerves and reflexes, she crawled into the subterranean world. She was on her own.

  Among the crowded, subdued population, she could easily distinguish the once-proud Ixians from the suboids, Tleilaxu overlords, and Sardaukar soldiers. The true Ixians spoke little to each other, kept their eyes averted, and shuffled along aimlessly.

  For two days, she explored narrow connecting tunnels, gathering information. In a short while, the efficient Cristane developed a mental map of the city’s comprehensive air-circulation system, while discovering ancient security systems, most of which were no longer operable. She wondered where Sister Miral Alechem might be now. Had the other Bene Gesserit infiltrator been killed?

  One evening, Cristane watched a black-haired man steal packages from an unlit loading dock, hiding them inside a clogged vent. Though she wore infrared lenses, it struck Cristane as extraordinary that he was able to move about with no illumination. The man knew the area extremely well, suggesting a long time spent here.

  As the furtive figure stashed packages, she studied him closely, detecting subtleties. This Ixian walked with a purpose, confident but wary. When he came close to her hiding place, she used the power of Voice and whispered from the darkness. “Do not move. Tell me who you are.”

  Paralyzed by the tone, C’tair Pilru was unable to flee. Though he struggled to clamp his mouth shut, his lips moved of their own volition. In a low, agitated voice, he provided his full name.

  His mind spun as he tried to sort possibilities. Was this a Sardaukar guard, or a Tleilaxu security investigator? He could not tell.

  Now he heard a soft voice, and felt the warmth of someone’s breath on his ear. “Do not fear me. Not yet.” A woman.

  She forced him to reveal the truth. He told of his years spent fighting to restore Ix, how he had cared for Miral Alechem and how she had been taken by the vile Tleilaxu… and how Prince Rhombur would arrive soon. Cristane sensed that C’tair had more to say, but his words drifted off into a long silence.

  For his part, he perceived the strange woman moving around him, but couldn’t see her, and still he was unable to move. Would she speak again, or would he feel a blade piercing his ribs and heart?

  “I am Sister Cristane of the Bene Gesserit,” she said, at last.

  C’tair felt a lifting of the mental shackles that had restrained him. In the light cast by a passing groundtruck he was surprised to see what appeared to be a slender man with close-cropped, dark hair. A disguise.

  “When has the Sisterhood ever concerned itself with Ix?” C’tair demanded.

  “You spoke eloquently of Miral Alechem. She was also a Sister.”

  C’tair could hardly believe this. In the darkness, he touched her arm. “Come with me. I will show you a safe place to stay.”

  Darting in and out of shadows, he guided her through the once-beautiful city. In the low illumination of artificial night, Cristane’s wiry body showed few feminine curves. She could pass as a man if she were careful enough.

  “I am glad you’re with me,” he told her, “but I fear for your life.”

  An ignorant friend is worse than a learned foe.

  — ABU HAMID AL GHAZALI,

  Incoherence of the Philosophers

  Wandering alone through the corridor outside her apartment, trying to escape the persistent attentions of Medical Sister Yohsa, Lady Anirul bumped into Count Hasimir Fenring just as he rounded a corner at a brisk pace.

  “Mmmm, pardon me, my Lady.” When he looked at the Emperor’s wife, his flickering eyes assessed her weakened condition. “So good to see you up and about. Good, very good. I heard about your illness, hmmm, and your husband has been so worried.”

  Anirul had never liked this slippery little man. Suddenly, a chorus of voices in her mind encouraged her, and she could withhold her feelings no longer. “Maybe I would have a true husband if you did not interfere so much, Count Fenring.”

  Recoiling in surprise, he said, “Whatever do you mean, hmmm-ah? I spend most of my time away from Kaitain, on business. How could I possibly interfere?” His large eyes narrowed, analyzing her further.

  Impulsively, she decided to jab and parry with words, then watch for his reaction to learn more about him. “So tell me about Project Amal and the Tleilaxu. And Ix.”

  Fenring’s face showed just the hint of a flush. “I’m afraid you must be suffering a relapse. Shall I call a Suk doctor?”

  She glared at him. “Shaddam doesn’t have the foresight and intuition to develop such a scheme by himself, so it must have been your idea. Tell me, why are you doing this?”

  Though the Count appeared ready to lash out at her, he made a visible effort to calm himself. Automatically, Anirul adopted a subtle fighting stance, a barely perceptible shifting of her muscles. A well-placed toe-kick could disembowel him.

  Fenring smiled even as he studied her closely. From living with Margot, he had learned to watch for minute details. “I am afraid your information is incorrect, my Lady, mm-m-m?” Although he carried a neuroknife in his pocket, Fenring now wished for a more substantial weapon. He took a half step backward, and said in his calmest tone, “With all due respect, perhaps my Lady is imagining things.” He bowed stiffly and left in a great hurry.

  As Anirul watched him scurry away, the clamor of voices increased inside her skull. Finally, through the haze of drugs, after searching for so long, she heard old Lobia’s familiar voice rising above the others. “That was very human of you,” the dead Truthsayer scolded, “very human, and very foolish.”

  As he disappeared into the maze of corridors, Fenring pondered damage control. In these unstable times, the Sisterhood could significantly undermine Shaddam’s power base if they chose to turn against him.

  If the Emperor falls, I go down with him.

  For the first time Fenring considered that it might be necessary to kill Shaddam’s wife. Quite accidentally, of course.

  * * *

  Inside the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, noblemen and ambassadors had begun to speak openly of revolt. Representatives from Great and Minor Houses stood in line for the podium, where they shouted red-faced or spoke with cold venom. The emergency session had already lasted a night and most of the following day without respite.

  Emperor Shaddam, though, was totally unconcerned. He sat unruffled in the elaborate seat reserved for him within the Great Hall. The nobles fumed and talked among themselves, an ill-tempered, rowdy assemblage. Shaddam was disappointed to see their uncouth behavior.

  He lounged in the immense chair, his manicured hands folded on his lap. If this meeting went as planned, the Emperor wouldn’t need to say a word. He had already requested more Sardaukar troops from Salusa Secundus, though he doubted they would be necessary to control this minor civil unrest.

  Somewhat recovered from her recent episodes, but still looking dazed, Lady Anirul sat in her subordinate seat, wearing a formal black aba robe, as he had requested. Beside her stood the Imperial Truthsayer Gaius Helen Mohiam in a matching robe. Their presence clearly implied that the powerful Sisterhood still supported Shaddam’s reign. It was high time the witches followed through on their duties and veiled promises.

  Before the opening complaints from the Landsraad were heard, Shaddam’s lawyers stepped forth and presented his position, citing appropriate precedents and technicalities.

  Next, a primary envoy from the Spacing Guild took the podium. The Guild had transported Shaddam’s warships to Richese for the attack on Korona, and they defended their decision to do so, referencing legal precedents of their own. Thanks to Shaddam’s benevolence, the Guild had reaped half of the recovered spice stockpile from Korona, and they would stand by House Corrino.

  Shaddam sat wi
th regal confidence.

  The President of CHOAM stepped forward after this, a man with stooped posture and a silvery gray beard. His voice carried loud and far. “CHOAM supports the Emperor’s right to enforce order in the Imperium. The law against stockpiling melange has long been a part of the Imperial Code. Though many of you complain vociferously, every House is aware of it.” He looked around the assemblage, waiting for any voices of dissent, then continued.

  “The Emperor issued repeated warnings that he intended to enforce this law. Yet, even after he took action against Zanovar for the same crime, Richese foolishly ignored the rule.” The CHOAM President jabbed a sharp-nailed finger out toward the delegates.

  “What evidence is there against House Richese?” a nobleman shouted.

  “We have the word of a Corrino Emperor. That is sufficient.” The CHOAM President let his words hang in a confrontational pause. “And, in private session, we have seen holo-images of the Richesian stockpiles before they were confiscated.”

  The President started to leave the podium, then stepped back, and added, “The Emperor’s legal position is solid, and you cannot censure him to cover your own crimes. If any of you violate the stockpiling edict, you do so at your own peril. It is the Imperial prerogative to use any means necessary to maintain political and economic stability, supported by the rule of law.”

  Shaddam suppressed a smile. Anirul glanced at him, then back across the Great Hall and the throng of unruly Landsraad representatives.

  Finally, Chamberlain Beely Ridondo boomed his sonic staff to restore order. Gazing out at the nobles, he announced, “These proceedings are formally open. Now, who dares to speak against the Emperor’s actions?”

  Shaddam’s loyal staff members rose to their feet with scrolls and scribing pens, ready to take down names. The implication was clear.

  The simmering discontent settled to a murmur, and no one came forward to be the first. The Emperor made a public show of patting his wife’s hand, knowing he had won. For now.

  Never attempt to understand prescience, or it may not work for you.

  — Navigator’s Instruction Manual

  Rhombur staggered out of the swirling spice gas, choking and coughing. His artificial lungs sounded ragged, too overworked to process the massive melange exposure. Spice residue thrummed through his mind, making it difficult to interpret the combined visual impulses of his organic eye and its prosthetic companion. He lurched two steps, leaned against a wall.

  Wearing a filter mask, Gurney Halleck pushed his way forward to help him. He guided the Prince back into a corridor, where the air was clean. An anxious Flight Auditor used a compact air jet to blast the powdery coating of melange from Rhombur’s clothes. Touching a control on the side of his neck, the cyborg Prince activated an internal mechanism that purged his lung filters.

  One of the route administrators grasped him by the shoulder. “Can the Navigator still function? Can he guide us out of here?”

  Rhombur tried to speak, but in his muddled state of mind he didn’t know how coherent his words sounded. “The Navigator is alive but weakened. He says his spice gas is tainted.” He took a deep mechanical breath. “We need to replace the melange in his tank with a fresh supply.”

  Hearing this, the Guildsmen spoke quickly among themselves. The rotund Banker seemed the most alarmed. “The concentration of melange in a Navigator’s chamber is high. We don’t have the resources.”

  The aged Mentat stood as if in a trance, checking data in his head, running through his memorized ship rosters. “This Heighliner carries over a thousand vessels, but none are listed as spice transports.”

  “Still, there must be a great deal of melange scattered in small portions throughout the ships in the hold,” Gurney said. “What about all the passengers’ personal possessions, all the dining galleys? We have to look everywhere.”

  The Banker agreed. “Many noble families consume spice daily to maintain their health.”

  “Such supplies are not reported on passenger manifests, so we cannot be certain of the quantity available,” the Mentat-Guildsman said. “In any event, dealing with all the passengers could take days.”

  “We will find a way to move faster. The Navigator is very afraid,” Rhombur said. “He says a great enemy is drawing closer. We are in danger.”

  “But from what?” the Flight Auditor said. “Nnnn, I don’t understand what could possibly be a threat to us out here.”

  The Mentat said, “Perhaps another intelligence, something… not human?”

  “The Navigator may be hallucinating,” one of the route adminstrators pointed out, sounding hopeful. “His mind is damaged.”

  The Banker disagreed. “We cannot gamble on this. He has prescience. Perhaps we are in the path of a huge cosmic event, a supernova or something else, that will swallow us with it. We have no choice but to demand that all private passenger ships surrender their melange. We’ll get the Wayku and the security men started immediately.”

  “It won’t be enough,” said the old Mentat-Guildsman.

  Impatient with the bickering and endless discussion, Rhombur spoke in a commanding tone and insisted, “Nevertheless, we will make it work.”

  * * *

  The mission went slowly. Despite the Heighliner’s obvious need, passengers were reluctant to surrender their precious melange, not knowing how long they might be stranded out here in uncharted space. To force the issue, the Guildsmen enlisted security forces to scour ship after ship.

  But it was taking too long.

  Gurney Halleck went on his own to the upper Heighliner deck, where he stood inside a plaz-walled enclosure. He had trudged from docking section to docking section, searching, listening, attempting to spot something none of the others would think to look for.

  While gazing out upon the congregation of vessels inside the hangar bay, he scrutinized every hull plate, every ship configuration, every serial number and insignia. The Guild Mentat had mentally reviewed all of the cargo manifests, and the other officials had accepted his assessment with dismay and resignation.

  But they failed to ask Gurney’s question: What if there was an undeclared cargo of spice?

  He was no expert on spacecraft, but he studied the streamlined frigates, the sharp-angled military craft, the cube-shaped orbital dump boxes. Some ships proudly displayed the colors of noble families on their hulls; other nondescript vessels were battered and dirty from age and overuse. Gurney focused on those in particular, raking his gaze from one to the next, remembering his smuggler past when he had made unobtrusive journeys inside Heighliner holds himself.

  With growing anticipation, he moved to the next observation deck for a better vantage. Finally, he spotted a small ship tucked behind a much larger frigate that bore the crest of House Mutelli. The dingy vessel was an outdated pinnace, a commercial craft used to haul salvage and other unimportant cargoes.

  Gurney studied the stains on the hull, looked at the enlarged engine compartments and repairs that had been made to the superstructure. He knew this unusual craft. He had seen it before.

  It was exactly what he’d been looking for.

  * * *

  Accompanied by guild security forces, Gurney and Rhombur led the way under a huge hull-support buttress to the old pinnace. When the group demanded entrance, the captain and crew refused to acknowledge. However, before berthing aboard a Heighliner, every vessel had to submit certain override codes to Guild manifest personnel.

  The pinnace hatch finally cracked open and the security men thundered aboard, Gurney surged to the front of the group. The ragtag pinnace crew had armed themselves and taken up assault stations, ready to fire upon the intruders. But Gurney raised his arms, putting himself directly in the crossfire. “No! No weapons! Either side!”

  He gazed around at the scruffy men who looked like down-on-their-luck salvage workers. Marching deeper into the corridor, he glanced from one unfamiliar face to another— until finally he recognized a squat, stubble-cheeked man c
hewing on a stimleaf plug. “Pen Barlowe, you don’t need your weapons with me.”

  The defiant expression on the rugged man’s face melted into a look of wonder. He spat out the end of his sodden plug and stared, openmouthed. “That inkvine scar. Gurney Halleck, is it you?”

  The Guild security men waited anxiously, not sure what was happening.

  “I knew if I looked hard enough among the ships here, I was sure to find one of my old comrades.” He came forward to greet his smuggling companion.

  Pen Barlowe began to laugh loudly, braying like a pack animal, and pounded him on the back. “Gurney, Gurney!”

  Gurney Halleck gestured back in the direction of the cyborg Prince, who approached in his cloak and cowl. “There’s someone you need to meet. Allow me to introduce… Dominic’s son.”

  Several smugglers gasped, for even those who had not served with Dominic Vernius knew of his legendary exploits. Rhombur thrust out his synthetic arm and clasped Pen Barlowe’s free hand in the half handshake of the Imperium. “We need your help, if you’re a friend of Gurney’s.”

  Barlowe gestured toward his men. “Stand down, fools! Can’t you see there’s no emergency here?”

  “I need to know your true cargo, my friend,” Gurney said gravely. “Is this vessel carrying what I think it is? Unless you’ve changed your ways since I left the smugglers, you may have the key to saving us all.”

  The swarthy man looked down, as if considering whether to retrieve the stub of his stimleaf plug from the deck and stuff it back into his mouth. “We heard the call, but thought it was some kind of trick.” He met Gurney’s gaze and shifted nervously on his feet. “Yes, we’ve got an undeclared cargo, and it’s illegal to haul… dangerous, even, with the Emperor’s crackdown…”

  “We are all relying on Guild confidentiality here, myself included,” Rhombur said. “These are extraordinary circumstances— and we are far beyond the reach of Imperial law.”

  Gurney studied his comrade, not letting his gaze waver. “You have melange aboard, Barlowe, to be sold to black marketeers at a fine profit.” He narrowed his eyelids. “But not today. Instead, you’ll buy us all our lives.”