Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  The devastation was swift and complete, but Rabban found it ultimately unsatisfying. He decided to take more time with the other towns….

  * * *

  Alone in his quarters at the Carthag Residency, Rabban had worked long hours before the raids to compose a terse proclamation explaining why these people must all be killed and their villages destroyed in retaliation for Fremen crimes. Upon showing his handiwork proudly to his uncle, however, the Baron scowled and tore up the note, then wrote a proclamation of his own, using many of the same words and phrases.

  After each attack, those leaflets (printed on flameproof instroy paper) were scattered among the smoldering remains of the obliterated village. Other Fremen would descend like vultures upon the ruins, no doubt trying to pick cheap jewelry from the charred bones. Thus, they would learn why the Baron had decreed such brutal punishment. They would feel the blame….

  * * *

  For the second village, Thinfare, Rabban marched in with ground troops. They all wore shields and carried hand weapons. A few held back with flamecannons in case they needed to finish the massacre in a hurry, but the Harkonnen troops fell upon the hapless villagers with swords and daggers, slashing right and left. Beast Rabban joined in the slaughter with a broad grin on his face.

  Back on Giedi Prime, in the giant prison city of Barony, Rabban had often trained children to become victims of the hunt. He had selected the most resourceful and most determined boys to become his special prey during amusing outings at the isolated Forest Guard Station.

  He didn’t necessarily find that murdering children was more satisfying than killing adults, who were often far more creative and more earnest in groveling for their lives. Children didn’t have sufficient imagination to comprehend the fate they were about to suffer, and rarely showed enough genuine fear. Also, many children had an innocent faith in God, a naive belief in a protector who would save them. They believed and they prayed up to the last moments of their lives.

  In the village environment, however, Rabban discovered a new technique with children that gave him more pleasure. It was emotionally satisfying, igniting a warm flame in his heart. He liked to watch the faces of anguished parents as he tortured and then slew their own children in front of them….

  In the third village, Wormson, Rabban discovered that he could increase his victims’ abject terror by distributing the Baron’s dire proclamation prior to his attack. That way, the captives knew exactly what lay in store for them before the shooting began.

  At times like these, Beast Rabban was proud to be a Harkonnen.

  We need no Great House Status, because we have laid the very foundation of the Imperium. All other power structures must bow to us in order to achieve their goals.

  — Charter of the Spacing Guild Advisory Committee

  The guildsman lay retching on a makeshift bed, writhing in pain, his face contorted. Poisoned by spice.

  Four Junction Specialists stood around the patient, consulting with each other, but none had any idea how to treat him. He thrashed and spat, his face greasy with perspiration.

  They had placed the seriously ill Heighliner Coordinator in a sterile room that served more as a medical laboratory than a hospital. High-level Guild workers consumed so much melange that they rarely had any need for doctors, and thus their available hospital facilities were minimal. Even if the Spacing Guild had bothered to summon a Suk practitioner, though, the doctor would probably have been incapable of treating any human with a metabolism as distorted as this one’s.

  “Questions but no data,” one of the four Specialists said. “Does anyone understand what happened here?”

  “His body reacted to melange,” said another man who had patches of blue hair on his head and bushy eyebrows that nearly covered his eyes.

  “Why would a Guildsman suddenly find his daily melange incompatible with his metabolism? That is absurd,” said a third. Though they all looked different, the Specialists sounded identical, as if a four-part entity were conversing with itself.

  On the bed, the victim shuddered with a particularly violent convulsion. The Specialists paused, then looked at each other.

  Lights flashed to indicate an incoming file, and a screen on the research room wall lit up with a new summary analysis. One Specialist scanned down the information. “Verified. The melange itself was tainted.” He scrolled down. “The spice he consumed is chemically incorrect, and his biochemistry rejected it.”

  “How can melange become tainted? Was this an intentional poisoning?”

  The Specialists consulted each other, studied more information. Around them, lights shone bright and harsh, reflecting off the sterile white walls and making them look like pale ghosts. The four stood at a distance, watching the Heighliner Coordinator struggle and writhe. He seemed unaware of the presence of anyone in the room with him.

  “Will he live?” one asked.

  “Who can say?”

  “This may be the second incident,” the blue-haired Specialist said. “We know the Navigator aboard the recently lost Heighliner suffered from tainted spice gas, too.”

  “Interrogation of the passengers is still proceeding. News of the problem is not yet general knowledge in the Imperium.”

  “It is the third incident,” corrected another Specialist. “This also explains the crash on Wallach IX. There must be a serious deficiency with melange in the Imperium.”

  “But we have found no common source of the problem. This man ate a significant amount of spice that was traced back to a merchant on Beakkal. The Prime Magistrate may have been disposing of his illegal hoard, because of the Emperor’s ultimatums. The two Navigators, however, got their spice from different sources, standard Guild stockpiles.”

  “We have a mystery here.”

  “The spice must flow.”

  “All melange harvesting and processing is under the Emperor’s control. We need to enlist the aid of House Corrino.”

  In grim unison, the Specialists turned to the broad, filtered window and stared out toward the bleak Navigator’s Field. There, a mechanical crane was erecting a commemorative plaque to honor the two dead Guild Navigators from the recent Heighliner accidents. Another Navigator in a sealed tank flew over the Field, heading for his departure on a long Heighliner run. The meditating Navigator hovered over the expanse of nameless plaques and communed with the ancient heart of the Spacing Guild, the Oracle of Infinity.

  On the hospital bed, the poisoned Guildsman screamed so loudly that blood sprayed from his mouth. Convulsions stretched him like a torture victim on a medieval rack. Standing beside his bed, the four Specialists heard muscles break, vertebrae snap… and watched him die.

  “We must call Shaddam IV,” the specialists said in unison. “We have no choice.”

  The manner in which you ask a question betrays your limits— those answers you will accept, and those you will reject or confuse with misunderstanding.

  — KARRBEN FETHR, THE FOLLY OF IMPERIAL POLITICS

  After the lesson of Zanovar, and then Korona, Shaddam IV felt that matters were finally on a proper course. Now, if only he could find a way to cut off the regular flow of spice from Arrakis, he would have the Imperium in the palm of his hand….

  Master Researcher Ajidica had sent another glowing report confirming that his amal had passed all of the rigorous testing protocols. Accompanying the communication was a separate message from Sardaukar Commander Cando Garon, the diligent son of the Supreme Bashar, reaffirming everything Ajidica had said. The Emperor couldn’t have asked for better news.

  Shaddam wanted the synthetic melange in full production. Now. He saw no further reason to wait.

  Attired in gray-and-black Sardaukar jodhpurs and a military shirt with epaulets, he sat back at his extravagant desk and stared at a live holo of the Landsraad Council, which continued to hold tedious hearings to explore the legalities of the atomic attack he’d made against Richese. Clearly, though, his opposition did not have enough support for censure or a v
ote of no confidence. Why couldn’t they just give it up?

  Count Fenring had been upset ever since returning from Ix and Junction, but the man had worried too much about the Landsraad members. Shaddam wasn’t concerned. Everything seemed to be going very well.

  In his message, Master Researcher Ajidica had made an odd aside to inquire about the Spice Minister’s health. Perhaps Hasimir was feeling too much stress. Maybe he needed to go back to Arrakis….

  Looking up, Shaddam saw Chamberlain Ridondo enter the private study in an uncharacteristic state of agitation and nervousness. Ridondo rarely became flustered with any but the most delicate conundrums of Court politics. “Sire, a Spacing Guild emissary insists upon seeing you.”

  Though annoyed, Shaddam knew he could not turn the emissary away. In matters involving the Guild, even an Emperor had to tread lightly. “Why could he not have arranged an appointment ahead of time? Does the Guild not have access to Imperial Couriers?” He snorted to cover his discomfort at the situation.

  “I… do not know, Sire. Nevertheless, the envoy is right behind me.”

  A tall albino man with muttonchop sideburns swept into the office. He did not introduce himself or give his rank. The Guildsman selected a comfortable suspensor chair— when he sat upon it, he appeared even taller, because of the length of his torso— and gazed down at the Emperor.

  Shaddam withdrew an elacca wood toothpick from a dispenser and casually began to trace the edges of his teeth. The wood had a naturally sweet flavor. “What is your title, sir? Are you the leader of the Spacing Guild, or someone who scrubs exhaust cowlings? Are you the Premier, the President, the Chief? What do you choose to call yourself? What is your rank?”

  “What is the relevance of the question?”

  “I am the Emperor of a Million Worlds,” Shaddam said, picking rudely at his teeth. “I wish to know whether I am wasting my time with an underling.”

  “You are not wasting your time, Sire.” The Guildsman’s face, narrow at the forehead and wider at the chin, looked as if it had been pounded into this peculiar shape and drained of all color. “It is not yet general knowledge, Sire, but the Guild has recently suffered two major Heighliner disasters. One crashed onto Wallach IX with the loss of all passengers and crew.”

  Shaddam sat up in surprise. “And… was the Bene Gesserit school damaged?”

  “No, Sire. The Heighliner crashed into a very remote area.”

  Shaddam did not hide his disappointment. “You said there were two accidents?”

  “Another Heighliner was lost in deep space, but the Navigator managed to bring it back to Junction. Our preliminary analysis suggests that both disasters were caused by tainted spice in the Navigator tanks. Then, a third data point— one of our Guildsmen consumed a large amount of melange traced to Beakkal, which poisoned him. We have confiscated all other remnants of the melange we purchased from Beakkal and it is all similarly tainted. The chemical structure is somewhat peculiar, enough to cause these mishaps.”

  Shaddam threw his toothpick aside. How would a backwater jungle planet get “spoiled” spice? Unless they were contaminating it themselves? Then he pounced. “Beakkal isn’t supposed to have spice to sell. You’ve found another illegal stockpile? How much?”

  “That, Sire, is currently under investigation.” The Guildsman passed an entirely white tongue over colorless lips. “While searching for fiscal anomalies, we discovered that the Prime Magistrate of Beakkal has recently spent far more melange than his treasury could possibly own. He must have a spice hoard.”

  Shaddam surged with anger, and then anticipation, as he considered another punitive strike. When would the Great Houses ever learn? “Continue your research, sir, and I shall deal with the Beakkal matter in my own way.”

  In fact, he was looking forward to it.

  This time, however, he planned a different response. He considered discussing the idea with Hasimir Fenring first, but decided instead to let it be a surprise. To everyone.

  * * *

  Anirul barely made it to her bed after a pleasant dinner alone with her daughters and Jessica. She had been thinking to herself how much Irulan was blossoming into a beautiful young woman, intelligent and cultured, the perfect Princess… and then the universe had gone sour around her.

  The voices in Anirul’s head had returned, and even the sympathetic presence of Lobia-within could not hold them at bay. Anirul collapsed to her knees, dry heaving, and crawled into her bedchamber. Jessica had walked her to the room, and then in alarm had summoned Medical Sister Yohsa; Margot Fenring and Mohiam also rushed in to help.

  After examining Lady Anirul, Yohsa quickly gave her a powerful sedative. Only half-awake, the Kwisatz Mother lay wheezing and perspiring, as if she had run a very long distance. Yohsa looked on, shaking her head. Jessica stood over her, wide-eyed, until Mohiam shooed her out of the room.

  “I know her sandworm nightmare has been recurring,” Margot Fenring said from the foot of the bed. “Perhaps she thinks she is out in the desert at this very moment.”

  Mohiam peered with hard eyes at the disturbingly ill woman, who seemed to be fighting sleep, struggling to avoid it. Anirul’s eyes alternately opened wide, then grew heavy-lidded.

  The Medical Sister said, “I was not able to reduce the Other Memory flow soon enough. The gates of Anirul’s past lives have been thrown open inside her mind. She may be driven to suicide or to some other form of violence. She could even be a threat to any of us. We must watch her closely.”

  The fundamental rule of the universe is that there is no neutrality, no pure objectivity, no absolute truth that is divorced from the pragmatic lessons gained in application. Before Ix became a great power in the invention and manufacture of technology, scientists routinely concealed their personal prejudices behind a facade of objectivity and purity of research.

  — DOMINIC VERNIUS, THE SECRET WORKINGS OF IX

  The prime magistrate of Beakkal had made a mistake. A very serious one.

  Six months earlier, Tleilaxu researchers— desperate to obtain Atreides and Vernius genetic samples from an ancient war memorial— had paid a bribe with an outrageously large amount of spice that showed up on no official records. It had seemed a good idea at the time, a boon to Beakkal’s economy.

  After Duke Leto’s vengeful attack, the Prime Magistrate began using that spice to pay Beakkali debts. After passing through several hands, some of it found its way to the Spacing Guild… and poisoned a Heighliner Coordinator, which triggered an investigation that was reported to the Emperor himself.

  When he sent in his Sardaukar fleet, Shaddam did not comprehend the irony that Beakkal no longer had in its possession the melange they were accused of stockpiling. More ironic still, the Prime Magistrate never realized that the Tleilaxu had not paid him in genuine melange, but had instead given him a cargo of their unproven synthetic spice….

  A Heighliner dropped off the Imperial fleet at the transfer-station of Sansin, a nearby asteroid center and the hub of commerce in the Liabic star system, which included Beakkal and its blue primary sun.

  Commanded by Supreme Bashar Zum Garon, the heavy warships remained at the transfer station: battle cruisers, monitors, crushers, and troop-carriers, all set to proceed toward Beakkal in a blistering display of power. Shaddam had ordered the Sardaukar to make their intentions obvious first… and to take their time.

  When the jungle world’s defensive satellite network detected their approach, planetary alarms went off. The Beakkali people panicked; many took to underground shelters, while others fled into the forest depths.

  In a futile effort, the Prime Magistrate ordered his private military force to launch warships, and form a defensive network in orbit. The ships lifted off, hastily crewed with available personnel. Additional troops scrambled to their planetary garrisons, preparing a second wave of defense. Long-stored weapons were retrieved, uniforms thrown on.

  “We were caught unawares when Duke Leto Atreides attacked us,” the Prime Magist
rate said in a public announcement. “We have seen how Emperor Shaddam laid waste to Zanovar and destroyed the Richesian moon.” He sensed the fear of his people. “But we will not stand by meekly and allow ourselves to be slaughtered! Perhaps our world cannot withstand a full Sardaukar assault— but we will make them pay dearly for it.”

  Still stationed at Sansin, the Imperial fleet moved with ominous deliberation. In a typically brief statement, the Supreme Bashar broadcast, “By order of Emperor Shaddam IV, this planet is hereby placed under siege for the crime of stockpiling melange. This blockade will remain in force until such time as your fief holder confesses to his crimes, or proves his innocence.” He transmitted no further warning, no ultimatum.

  The lumbering Sardaukar fleet gave the targeted population more than a day to grow increasingly frightened. During that time, the Prime Magistrate delivered five speeches, some of them indignant, others pleading for mercy from the wrath of Shaddam.

  * * *

  Behind barricaded doors, the Beakkali leader and his council of ministers met to discuss the problem. A stocky man with a red mustache and a lush, blond beard, the Prime Magistrate sat in the elevated center cutout of a round conference table, with the ministers arrayed around him. Attired in the dark green toga of his office, he rotated his chair so that he could look at whoever was talking, but most of the time he just stared off into space. An impending sense of doom hung over him.

  The ministers wore tight trousers and white tunics with rune symbols on the collars, reflecting their rank and public identity. “But we don’t have a melange stockpile! It’s all gone,” said one minister, a woman with a raspy voice. “We have been… accused, but the Emperor can’t prove we were ever hoarding. What is his evidence?”