Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Barlowe glowered. “Yes, we have sufficient spice aboard for an Emperor’s ransom.”

  Rhombur smiled, crinkling his scarred face. “That could be enough.”

  * * *

  The smuggling crew looked on, their faces stricken, as the Heighliner security men hauled container after unmarked container of compressed spice up to the top levels. Taking several Guildsmen aside, Gurney negotiated for some compensation for the smugglers. The Guild was notoriously frugal, and the amount they agreed to pay was not nearly full value, but the smugglers were in no position to argue.

  In the midst of all the activity, Rhombur stood outside the Navigator’s tank, trying to attract the attention of D’murr. The mutated human lay slumped and barely breathing. “We must hurry!” he called back to the others.

  Crewmen worked feverishly, draining the tainted spice from the tank. Afterward, other men converted containers of packed melange into aerosol and fed fresh gas into the chamber in long, orange streamers. They hoped that this batch of uncontaminated spice would be enough to revive the Navigator and give him the ability to guide the Heighliner back into familiar space.

  “He has not moved in over an hour,” said the Flight Auditor.

  Rhombur cleared the area again and went back inside the sealed chamber. Orange spice gas curled and flowed into the tank from vents high in the chamber. Moment by moment, visibility decreased, but the Ixian Prince plodded toward the center of the Navigator’s tank, to the hulk of what once had been a dark-haired, handsome young man like his twin C’tair. Long ago they had both flirted with Rhombur’s sister, Kailea Vernius.

  He recalled the twins, children of Ambassador Pilru. Everyone had been happy in those glory days of Ix. It all seemed like a dream, even more so because of the spice now seeping into his consciousness.

  D’murr had been so proud to pass his examination to become a Guild Navigator, while C’tair had been devastated at his failure and remained behind on Ix. Always on Ix…

  A past so distant it might never have happened…

  Rhombur spoke in a soothing tone, as if he were a medical practitioner. “We are replenishing your spice, D’murr.” Kneeling, he saw the Navigator’s glassy eyes. “We have found pure melange. Whatever was wrong will be fixed.”

  The creature no longer appeared even remotely human. Distorted and atrophied, his body looked as if it had been remade by a sadistic sculptor of flesh. The bloated hulk stirred weakly and flopped, as helpless as a fish on a hot dock. D’murr’s face twisted, his strange mouth forming an odd expression. He sucked in mouthfuls of the potent spice gas.

  Rhombur’s thoughts floated, and the movements of his mechanical arms and legs seemed slow, as if inhibited by thick liquid. The cyborg’s artificial lungs labored. He needed to get out of the tank soon. “Will this help? Can this new spice let you see through foldspace and bring us home?”

  “Must,” D’murr said, exhaling curls of smoke. “We are in danger… the enemy… has seen us. Approaches. Wants to destroy.”

  “Who is the enemy?”

  “Hatred… extinguish us… for what… we are.” D’murr managed to bring his twisted body more upright. “Flee… as far as possible…” He turned, his tiny eyes surrounded by folds of waxy flesh. “I see the way now… to bring us… home.”

  The Navigator seemed to be consuming all of his strength for one last gesture. D’murr squirmed closer to the vents that sprayed dense melange gas. He drew in a deep breath. “Must hurry!”

  Instead of rushing to the hatch to escape, Rhombur helped him grasp the controls. The faltering Navigator powered up the Holtzman engines and, with a sudden jerk, the Heighliner shifted and then spun over, righting itself in space.

  “Enemy… is near.”

  And the great ship moved— or seemed to.

  Feeling a lurch in his stomach, Rhombur grasped the tank wall and sensed the transition as the powerful Holtzmann field folded space, wrapping it around the Heighliner in a precise manner.

  The Navigator completed his sacred assignment.

  The Heighliner winked into view above the planet Junction. D’murr had instinctively brought them back into the Imperium, back to Guild headquarters, to his only home since he had left Ix as a young man.

  “Safe,” D’murr announced weakly.

  Touched by the tremendous effort of the Navigator, Rhombur went back to him, ignoring for the moment his own need to escape. D’murr had used the last of himself to rescue everyone aboard. “C’tair—” With a long, hissing sigh that sounded as if his entire body were deflating, the Navigator slumped to the floor of his chamber and did not move. With the cyborg Prince crouched beside him, surrounded by potent melange gas, D’murr died.

  Rhombur could say no farewells now, and knew he needed to leave the chamber before the melange overwhelmed him. His vision reeling, the organic parts of his body burning from saturation with spice, Rhombur staggered back toward the hatch. D’murr’s body dissolved into the orange spice fog and disappeared from sight.

  Justice? Who asks for justice in a universe crawling with inequity?

  — LADY HELENA ATREIDES,

  Private Meditations on Necessity and Remorse

  Like shadows, four sisters in isolation approached Castle Caladan from the sea. They rode aboard a leaky fishing trawler, rather than a formal processional barge. It was early evening, and a pall of fading daylight lingered beneath a cloudy sky.

  Standing on the deck of the boat and gazing toward the cliff face and the Castle above it, the Sisters wore capes and loose-fitting jerkins made of the blackest cloth. Flexible gloves, leggings, and boots covered every centimeter of their skin. A fine woven mesh of ebony fibers, sewn around the rims of their hoods, shrouded their faces.

  During the long voyage across the ocean on the trawler, the Sisters had kept to themselves. The boat captain had received an extravagant fee from them, a partial compensation for the whispers and fear the reclusive women engendered among his superstitious crew. The captain turned south and skirted the shoreline, heading for a village dock from which his passengers would have a more comfortable walk up to the Castle.

  One of the women in black stared through her gauzy face-mesh at the towering new statue of Duke Paulus Atreides on a spit of land, holding bright flames in a brazier on his uplifted palm. She seemed to have become a statue herself, profiled against the ruddy sky of late afternoon.

  Without a word of thanks to the captain, the four Sisters disembarked onto the dock and walked through the old town. Villagers mended nets, boiled pots of shellfish, and tended greenwood fires in smokehouses, watching the visitors with curiosity. Exotic and mysterious, the Sisters in Isolation were rarely seen away from their fortress nunneries on Caladan’s eastern continent.

  The Sister at the head of the group wore cobwebs of silver embroidery stitched into ideograms around the fringes of her robes, fabric tattoos that swirled across the silkweave veil. She glided with determined steps along the steep roadway that led to the edifice of Castle Caladan.

  By the time the four reached the portcullis gate, full dusk filled the sky with a muted purple of gloaming. Uneasy Atreides guards blocked their passage. Without speaking, the woman in silver embroidery separated from the others and drew very close to the men, where she stood calmly, enigmatically.

  A young soldier rushed to the Castle to fetch Thufir Hawat. When the Mentat emerged from the courtyard beyond the gate, he adjusted his formal uniform to create an intimidating presence. With Mentat eyes he studied the women, but could glean no information from their muffled figures. “The Duke has retired for the evening, but he will open his doors to the populace for two hours tomorrow morning.”

  The lead woman reached up to her fine woven veil. Hawat analyzed her movements, saw how the silver embroidery threads on her black dress were not simply decoration, but a form of sensor net enclosing the person within it… Richesian technology. Taking a step back, he touched the dueling dagger at his hip, but did not draw it.

&n
bsp; Calmly, she plucked the stitches that bound the silken veil to her hood, ripped the fabric, and pulled away the mask that had altered her features. “Thufir Hawat, would you deny me access to my rightful home?” Her identity revealed, she blinked in the dim light and met his gaze without wavering. “Would you forbid me to see my own son?”

  Even the unflappable Mentat was taken by surprise. He bowed slightly, then gestured for her to accompany him into the courtyard, but he did not greet her with any form of welcome. “Of course not, Lady Helena. You may enter.” He motioned for the guards to let the hooded Sisters pass.

  When they were inside the courtyard, Hawat told them to wait, and commanded the guards, “Perform a thorough weapons scan on these women while I notify the Duke.”

  * * *

  Leto Atreides sat on a dark wooden chair in his receiving hall. He had pulled on a dress jacket as well as the golden chain and medallion that signified his rank as a Duke of the Landsraad. He wore such trappings only on grimly formal occasions. Such as this one.

  Even without confirmation from Rhombur and Gurney, he could not delay his plans. He’d spent the day in military preparations, and despite Duncan Idaho’s brash confidence, Leto knew the battle for Ix would be an unpredictable and dangerous undertaking.

  He had no time, no patience, and no love for his exiled mother.

  Glowglobes surrounded him, but did not drive back the shadows in his heart. Leto felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold mists of evening. He had not seen Helena in twenty-one years, not since her insidious involvement in the death of her own husband, the Old Duke.

  When she entered, Leto did not rise from his seat. “Close the doors,” he said, his voice iron. “We require privacy. And leave those other women to wait in the corridor.”

  Lady Helena’s auburn hair had become streaked with gray, her skin drawn tight over facial bones. “They are my attendants, Leto. They have accompanied me from the eastern continent. Surely you can offer them some hospitality.”

  “I’m not in a hospitable mood, Mother. Duncan and Thufir, you two remain with me.”

  Duncan Idaho, still proudly holding Paulus’s sword, waited by the lower step of the ducal platform. With a troubled expression, he looked from Leto to his mother, and then to the stony expression of suppressed anger on Hawat’s leathery face.

  The warrior-Mentat escorted the still-hooded personal attendants out of the room, then swung the heavy doors shut with a sound that echoed throughout the hall. He remained inside, at the door.

  “So, I see you haven’t forgiven me, my son.” Helena frowned petulantly. Thufir prowled forward from the tall doors, a weapon in human form. Duncan tensed.

  “How can you suggest there is something to forgive, Mother, if you maintain there was never any crime?” Leto shifted on his seat.

  Helena’s dark eyes bored into her son’s, but she did not respond.

  Duncan was concerned and perplexed. He barely remembered the wife of the beloved Old Duke. She had been a stern and domineering presence when he’d been but a boy who had escaped from the Harkonnens.

  Pale with suppressed rage, Leto said, “I had hoped you would remain in your nunnery, continuing to feign grief while reflecting on your culpability. I thought I made it clear you are no longer welcome in Castle Caladan.”

  “Eminently clear. But while you remain without an heir, I am the only shred of your bloodline on Caladan.”

  He leaned forward, his gray eyes flashing with fury. “The Atreides dynasty will endure, have no fear, Mother. My concubine Jessica is even now on Kaitain, soon to give birth to my child. Therefore, you may return to your fortress nunnery. Thufir will be pleased to arrange your passage.”

  “You do not yet know why I have come,” she said. “You will hear me out.” It was a tone of parental authority that Leto remembered from his childhood, and it stirred old memories about this woman.

  Confused, Duncan again looked from face to face. He had never been told why Lady Helena had gone away, despite his many questions.

  Leto sat like a statue. “More excuses, more denials?”

  “A request. Not for me, but for your distaff bloodline, the family Richese. During the Emperor’s heinous attack on Korona, hundreds of Richesians were killed, many thousands blinded. Count Ilban is my father. In the name of humanity I demand that you offer assistance. With the wealth of our”— her face reddened— “your House, you can provide aid and medical supplies.”

  Leto was surprised to hear such a request from her. “I know of the tragedy. Are you asking me to defy the Emperor, who has found Richese guilty of breaking Imperial law?”

  She clenched her black-gloved fist and lifted her chin into the air. “I am suggesting that you help the people who need it most. Is that not the Atreides way, the way of honor? Is that not what Paulus taught you?”

  “How dare you lecture me!”

  “Or is House Atreides simply to be remembered for acts of aggression, such as the brutal strike against Beakkal? Destroy anyone who offends you?” She sneered. “You remind me of the Grumman Viscount. Is that to be the legacy of House Atreides?”

  Her words stung, and he leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, trying to cover his discomfort. “As Duke, I do what I must.”

  “Then help Richese.”

  Further argument was pointless. “I shall consider it.”

  “You will guarantee it,” Helena shot back.

  “Return to the Sisters in Isolation, Mother.” Leto stood from his chair, and Thufir Hawat moved forward. Duncan gripped the Old Duke’s sword and instinctively closed in on her from the other direction. She recognized his blade, and then studied Duncan’s face, without knowing who he was. He had changed much from the nine-year-old child she had known before her exile.

  After a moment of tension, Leto waved them back. “I am surprised you would try to teach me compassion, Mother. However much I loathe you, though, I agree with the need for action. House Atreides will send aid to Richese— but only on condition that you leave here immediately.” His expression grew even harder. “And speak to no one of this.”

  “Very well. Not another word, my son.”

  Helena spun about and marched back toward the exit so quickly that Hawat barely got there in time to open the heavy doors. After she and her three shadowy companions flitted through the halls and out into the deepening night, Leto mumbled a farewell, barely above a whisper….

  Duncan approached the Duke, who sat motionless, stunned. The Swordmaster’s face was ashen, his eyes wide. “Leto, what was that all about? What is this breach between you two that has never been explained to me? Lady Helena is your mother. People will talk.”

  “People always talk,” Thufir said.

  Duncan climbed up the steps to the ducal chair. Leto gripped the carved wooden armrests with white-knuckled hands. His ducal signet ring pushed a dent into the wood.

  When he finally glanced at his Swordmaster, his eyes were murky, like smoke. “House Atreides has many tragedies and many secrets, Duncan. You know how we concealed Kailea’s culpability in the skyclipper explosion. You yourself took Swain Goire’s place as head of my House Guard when we sent him into exile. My people must never know the truth about that… or about my mother.”

  Duncan was not certain where the discussion was leading. “What truth about her, Leto?”

  The Mentat came forward with a warning expression. “My Duke, it is not wise—”

  Leto raised a hand. “Thufir, Duncan deserves to know. Because of the accusations cast upon him as a child that he had tampered with the Salusan bulls, he needs to understand this.”

  Hawat lowered his head. “If you must, though I advise against it. Secrets do not diminish when they are spread among many ears.”

  Slowly and painfully, Leto described Lady Helena’s involvement in the death of Paulus, how she had arranged for the drugging of the Salusan bull that had killed the revered Old Duke.

  Duncan gaped, without speaking.

 
; “I was sorely tempted to order her execution, but she is my mother, despite everything. She is guilty of murder— but I will not be responsible for matricide. Hence, she is to remain with the Sisters in Isolation until the end of her days.” He sank a heavy chin onto his clenched fists. “And Swain Goire said to me, on the day I sentenced him to guard her, that I would one day be remembered as Leto the Just.”

  Duncan sat on the step, dropping heavily onto it while holding the revered sword between his knees. Blustery, generous Duke Paulus had accepted the young lad into the Atreides household and given him work in the stables. Then Duncan, a mere child of nine, had been wrongfully accused of involvement by Stablemaster Yresk, who was himself implicated in the bullring tragedy.

  Now the layers of secrecy became clear, the reasoning unfolded, and it felt as if a floodgate had burst open. For the first time in many years, Swordmaster Duncan Idaho wept.

  Many creatures bear the outward form of a man, but do not be fooled by appearances. Not all such life-forms can be considered human.

  — Bene Gesserit Azhar Book

  Since his uncle the Baron rarely let him have free rein, Beast Rabban decided to cause as much mayhem as possible, now that he had been given the opportunity.

  He studied the crude and incomplete maps of settlements around the Shield Wall. Squalid townfolk lived there, people who survived by scavenging and by stealing Harkonnen property in the middle of the night. In punishment for the Fremen raids on spice stockpiles, the Baron had told his nephew to obliterate three such villages. Rabban chose the targets, not quite at random, but because he didn’t like their names: Licksand, Thinfare, and Wormson.

  Not that it made much difference to him. People all screamed pretty much the same.

  The first village he simply firebombed from the sky. With a group of attack ‘thopters, his men swooped low and dropped incendiaries into dwellings, schools, and central markets. Many people died at once, while the remainder ran about like furious insects on a hot rock. One man even had the audacity to shoot up at them with an antique maula pistol. Rabban’s sidegunners used the villagers for target practice.