Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “What difference does it make?” another said. “He knows what we did. Besides, we should have paid taxes to the Emperor. A bribe is still income, you know.”

  The ministers argued around the table, voices high-pitched with emotion. “If House Corrino is really after taxes, can’t we just figure the value of the melange and offer to pay a large fine? In installments, of course.”

  “But the edicts against spice stockpiling encompass more than tax avoidance. They go to the core of cooperation between the Great and Minor Houses, preventing any House from becoming too independent from the others, too dangerous to the stability of CHOAM.”

  “As soon as the Sardaukar establish a cordon, they will trap us here and starve us out. Our world is not self-sufficient.”

  Smelling the sweat of his fear, the bleary-eyed Prime Magistrate looked at a tracking screen that showed the position of the approaching Imperial fleet.

  “Sir, two big supply ships just arrived at the Sansin transfer station, fully loaded with foodstuffs,” reported a minister behind him. “Perhaps we should commandeer them. They belong to a rather obscure House Minor, nothing to worry about. It could be our last chance for a long time.”

  “Do it,” the Prime Magistrate said, rising to signify the end of the meeting. “That’s something, anyway. Now let’s see what we can do to find more good fortune.”

  * * *

  Just before the arrival of the menacing fleet, Beakkali troops boarded and confiscated the two loaded supply ships at the asteroid transfer station, taking them like a pair of fat plums just waiting to be picked.

  When the Sardaukar forces subsequently went into orbit around Beakkal, they did not engage the local defense forces. Instead, the Supreme Bashar instructed his ships to maintain their distance as ominous guardians that would refuse to grant any vessel access to Beakkal or to the nearby asteroids.

  A man of emotional ups and downs, the Prime Magistrate was energized by the success of the operation. “We can wait them out,” he declared in yet another speech, this one on an outdoor acoustics stage. In his usual green toga, he had shaved his beard as a symbol of austerity. “We have supplies, we have workers, and we have our own resources. We have been falsely accused!”

  The gathered crowd cheered, but with an undertone of extreme anxiety.

  “The Emperor will be long in his tomb before we surrender.” The Beakkali leader raised a fist in the air, and his people clapped in support.

  Overhead, the Sardaukar forces settled in to wait, a noose tightening around the planetary equator.

  Error, accident, and chaos are persistent principles of the universe.

  — Imperial Historical Annals

  We haven’t played shield-ball in years, Hasimir,” Shaddam said as he leaned over the device, pleased that his score was one point higher than Fenring’s. They were in the Emperor’s private quarters, on the top level of the Imperial Palace.

  Distracted, the Count moved away from the gaming table and went to the balcony. In years past, he and Shaddam had developed numerous schemes together, many of them plotted during shield-ball competitions… such as the original idea for creating a spice substitute. Now, knowing the treachery of the Tleilaxu Master Researcher and his murderous Face Dancer, Fenring regretted the entire plot. The Heighliner tests, too, seemed a total disaster.

  But the Emperor wanted to hear none of it. “You’re imagining things,” he said. “I have received a report from the Guild itself, and they have discovered tainted spice originating from an illegal stockpile on Beakkal. They are convinced this insidious poisoning is the cause of the recent accidents. Not your amal.”

  “But we cannot be sure, Sire, hmmm? The Guild will not release the designations of the lost Heighliners. I find it suspicious that two large vessels experienced traumatic mishaps after I—”

  “What connection could there possibly be between Beakkal and Ajidica’s amal research?” He sounded exasperated. “None!” The Master Researcher’s glowing reports, along with the repeated reassurances of Commander Cando Garon, had him completely convinced about the impending availability of synthetic spice. “Have you, personally, in all your inspections of the Tleilaxu work, ever seen specific evidence that the amal does not work as Ajidica claims?”

  “Not… as such, Sire.”

  “Then stop looking for excuses, Hasimir, and let me play.” The game mechanism buzzed, and the Emperor withdrew a guiding rod. The hard ball bounced and crackled through the elaborate labyrinth of components. Shaddam scored again and laughed. “There, I challenge you to beat that.”

  Fenring’s eyes flashed. “You’ve been practicing, Shaddam, hmmm? Not enough Imperial matters to occupy you?”

  “Now, Hasimir, don’t be a sore loser.”

  “I haven’t lost yet, Sire.”

  Overhead, the night skies of Kaitain shimmered with pastel auroras. The Padishah Emperor had recently ordered the launch of satellites containing rare gases that were ionized by particles from the solar wind, enhancing the colors that rippled across the constellations. He liked to light up the sky.

  Fenring returned to the shield-ball device. “I am pleased that you chose not to crush Beakkal like Zanovar. A siege is much more appropriate, since the evidence was not exactly, hmmm-ah, compelling enough for a more emphatic response. In all likelihood, Beakkal has already spent their hoard on other things.”

  “The evidence is sufficient, especially when you consider the contamination that likely caused the Heighliner accidents.” Shaddam gestured toward the game device, but Fenring still did not take his turn. “Just because they’ve spent their entire illegal stockpile doesn’t mean they didn’t flaut Imperial restrictions in the first place.”

  “Hmmm, but if you retrieve no large reward of melange, you can’t bribe CHOAM and the Guild to support your policies. Not a good investment of violence, hmmm?”

  Now Shaddam smiled. “Now you see why I’ve had to be much more subtle in this case.”

  Fenring’s eyes widened in concern, but he refrained from commenting on Shaddam’s skill at subtlety. “How long is this blockade going to go on? You’ve made your point, scared them down to their bones. What more do you need?”

  “Ah, Hasimir, watch and learn.” Shaddam paced around the table like an excited little boy. “Soon it will become obvious that the blockade is imperative. I am not doing this simply to prevent House Beakkal from obtaining outside supplies. No, there’s much more to it. I won’t destroy their world— I’ll let them do it themselves.”

  Fenring grew more alarmed. “Perhaps, ahhh, you should have consulted me before setting your plans in motion, Sire?”

  “I can make magnificent plans of my own, without your help.”

  Though Fenring disagreed with that assessment, he decided not to argue. Pensively, he turned to the game, dropped another ball into play, manipulated the rods with deft fingers, and intentionally achieved a low score. Now was not the time to demonstrate his superior abilities to the Emperor.

  With mounting excitement, Shaddam continued, “You see, when my Sardaukar informed Beakkal of the imminent siege, the Prime Magistrate sent ships scrambling to Sansin in order to stockpile foodstuffs. Like a pirate, he commandeered two fully loaded supply ships that were just waiting there. As I knew he would.”

  “Yes, yes.” Fenring tapped his fingers on the table, surprised that Shaddam didn’t jump back to the game and take his own turn. “And your ships stood by and let him gather sufficient cargo to last Beakkal for perhaps six months. A rather inept way to administer a siege, hmmm?”

  “He fell into my trap,” Shaddam said. “The Prime Magistrate will begin to realize the real plan soon enough. Ah, yes. Quite soon.”

  Fenring sat back, waiting.

  “Unfortunately, the two supply ships he stole were loaded with contaminated grains and dehydrates. Tit for tat, considering what they did to the spice they sold to the Guild.”

  Fenring blinked. “Contaminated? With what?”

  �
�Why, with a terrible biological agent that I just happened to be sending for study under controlled conditions to a distant planet. For security reasons the plague-infested supplies were unmarked and placed in nondescript vessels so that they could be transported without causing alarm.”

  Fenring’s skin crawled, but Shaddam fairly gushed with pride at his cleverness. “Now that the Prime Magistrate has stolen this cargo and taken it to Beakkal, he has brought with him a biological agent that will defoliate the jungle belt. Crops will wither and die, forests will fall into skeletons. Within days we will begin to see the effects. Tsk, tsk. Such a tragedy.”

  Fenring had thought the use of atomics on Korona and the unexpected blinding of so many Richesians already went far beyond the pale. Even by his standards, it was all too much. An entire planetary ecosystem! “I don’t suppose this decision can be reversed?”

  “No. And luckily my Sardaukar cordon just happens to be there, and can enforce a strict quarantine. We can’t afford to spread this unfortunate plague to innocent planets, now can we?” Shaddam let out a long, vicious laugh. “See, I’ve outsmarted even you, Hasimir.”

  Fenring suppressed a groan. The Emperor seemed to be gaining momentum, but in the wrong direction.

  * * *

  Richesian Premier Ein Calimar watched Duke Leto’s relief ships land at the Triad Center Spaceport, bringing much-needed aid for the victims of the Korona explosion. He had thought he was beyond weeping.

  The Atreides crews provided shipments of expensive medicinals, as well as fish products and pundi rice. Richese was not a poor world, but the destruction of the laboratory moon— not to mention the obliteration of the secret Holtzmann invisibility project and most of their stock of mirrors— was a monumental setback to their economy.

  Old Count Richese, surrounded by his tribe of children and grandchildren, went to the visitor’s gallery of the spaceport for the ceremonial function of greeting the supply ship crews. Four of his daughters and one grandson had been blinded in the falling rain of activated Richesian mirrors, and his nephew Haloa Rund had been killed on Korona itself. As members of the noble family of Richese, they would be among the first to receive help.

  The Count was resplendent in thick robes of state, his chest weighted by dozens of medals (many of them handmade trinkets from his family). The old man raised both hands. “It is with deepest gratitude that we accept this assistance from my grandson Duke Leto Atreides. He is a fine nobleman, with a good heart. His mother always said so.” Ilban’s face creased with a maudlin smile of gratitude, and tears sparkled in his grief-reddened eyes.

  Within hours, prefabricated distribution centers were set up, interlocked tentments built in court areas around Triad Center. Atreides soldiers worked to keep the crowds in line and performed triage to find the patients who needed help the most. From a rooftop garden spot where he would not be interrupted, Premier Calimar observed it all, avoiding contact with the relief forces.

  Duke Leto was doing his best, and would be commended for it. But as far as Calimar was concerned, the Atreides had come too late to be treated as true saviors. The Tleilaxu had arrived first.

  Very soon after the crowds had been burned and blinded by the debris, Tleilaxu organ merchants had descended on Richese, bringing shipments of artificial eyes. Though clearly opportunistic, the genetic wizards had been welcomed nonetheless, for they offered more than hope, more than consolation. They brought tangible cures.

  Out of habit, Calimar pushed his gold spectacles up on his nose. He no longer needed the glasses, but their presence comforted him. He stared across the spaceport landing field to where Atreides troops unloaded supplies. He didn’t blink, merely drank in the details with his new metal Tleilaxu eyes….

  There is much of ruin in everyday life. Even so, we need to see beyond the wreckage to the magnificence that once was.

  — LADY SHANDO VERNIUS

  Concealed with his men in the cool crevices of a rock formation, Liet-Kynes watched a flat salt pan through binoculars. Heat and bright light rippled off the powdery gypsum, creating mirages. He handed the binoculars to the Fremen beside him, then peered into the distance with his bare eyes.

  At precisely the appointed time, a black ornithopter swooped out of the sky, flying so high they could not hear the whir of articulated wings until the last moment. The vessel landed in a cloud of stirred dust and sand. This time the vehicle had no egregious sandworm painted on the front.

  Liet smiled tightly. Ailric has decided the Guild will play no more games. At least, not the obvious ones.

  The ‘thopter engines whined to a stop, and Liet’s sharp eyes detected nothing out of the ordinary. He glanced at the desert men with him, and they all nodded.

  After the front of the ‘thopter folded open and the ramp thumped onto the hard ground, Liet led his men out of concealment. They strode forward, brushing dust from their stillsuits and straightening their camouflaged robes. As before, four Fremen carried a heavy litter of spice, melange that had been processed and condensed from the ghanima, or spoils of war, captured during the raid on the Harkonnen stockpile at Bilar Camp.

  They had met the Guild’s outrageous demands.

  This time when the wheeled vehicle rolled down the ramp, the deformed representative wore a modified stillsuit— one that was of poor workmanship and not well fitted. The bottom of Ailric’s slick gray suit was loose, wrapped around his fused mass of lower-body flesh.

  The Guildsman didn’t realize how ludicrous he looked in the outfit. Rolling closer to the Fremen, he acted as if he were an experienced man of the desert. Opening his face mask with a flourish, Ailric remarked in his synthesized voice, “I have been ordered to remain here on Arrakis for a time, since Heighliner travel has become increasingly… uncertain.”

  Liet did not respond; Fremen tended to avoid pointless banter. Ailric shifted to a stiffer, more formal position. “I did not expect to see you again, half-Fremen. I thought you would choose a pureblood desert man to act as intermediary from now on.”

  Liet smiled. “Perhaps I should take your water for my tribe, and let the Guild send another representative. One who does not tire me with insults.”

  The Guildsman’s alien gaze focused on the litter, which the Fremen bearers set down on the sand near the ornithopter. “You have it all?”

  “Every gram you specified.”

  Ailric rolled his vehicle closer. “Tell me, half-Fremen, how is it that simple desert people can afford so much?”

  Liet-Kynes would never tell an off-worlder that the Fremen harvested melange themselves and also stole from the Harkonnen overlords. “Call it a blessing from Shai-Hulud.”

  The Guildsman’s laugh was a tinny reverberation from the voice box. These Fremen must possess hidden resources that we have never suspected. “And how will you come up with the payment next time?”

  “Shai-Hulud will provide. He always does.” Knowing the Guild didn’t want to lose his lucrative business, he pushed back a little. “Be warned that we will tolerate no further increases in the bribe.”

  “We are satisfied with the current arrangement, half-Fremen.”

  Liet rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Good. Then I will tell you something of great importance to the Spacing Guild, and it will cost you nothing. You may use the information as you wish.”

  The rectangular pupils in the Guildsman’s eyes glistened with curiosity and anticipation.

  Liet paused to build suspense. In a misguided attempt to harm the Fremen, Beast Rabban had obliterated three squalid villages on the fringe of the Shield Wall. Though Fremen often looked with disdain upon the peoples of the pan and graben, men of honor could not tolerate such outrages. The victims had not been Fremen, but they were innocents. Liet-Kynes, Abu Naib of all the desert tribes, would set in motion a particular revenge against the Baron.

  With the assistance of the Spacing Guild.

  Knowing how Ailric would react, he announced, “The Harkonnens have amassed several large spice stockpile
s on Arrakis. The Emperor knows nothing of them, nor does the Guild.”

  Ailric took a quick, hissing breath. “That is interesting. And how does the Baron obtain this spice? We monitor his exports closely. We know precisely how much melange the Harkonnen crews harvest, and how much is shipped off-planet. CHOAM has reported no discrepancies.”

  Kynes gave him a taunting smile. “Then the Harkonnens must be smarter than the Guild or CHOAM.”

  Ailric snapped, “And where are these stockpiles? We must report them immediately.”

  “The Harkonnens move the locations frequently, to confuse searchers. Nevertheless, such stockpiles could be found with a little effort.”

  Under the pounding desert sun, the Guildsman considered this for a long moment. All spice came from Arrakis. What if the Harkonnens were the source of the contamination that had caused two Heighliner accidents and poisoned several Guildsmen on Junction? “We shall look into the matter.”

  Though he had never been pleasant, Ailric was even edgier than usual. He watched his men load the rich spice payment into the black ornithopter, knowing that the sheer value of this treasure made even extreme risks acceptable. He would test this melange carefully, certify its purity. Ailric’s commission from handling the enormous Fremen bribe was worth the unpleasantness of staying in a hellish place such as this.

  Liet-Kynes did not bother with further conversation. Abruptly, he turned and left. His men flowed over the sand behind him.

  There are those who envy their lords, those who long for positions of power, memberships in the Landsraad, ready access to melange. Such people do not understand how difficult a task it can be for a ruler to make simple decisions.

  — EMPEROR SHADDAM CORRINO IV,

  autobiography (unfinished)

  In all his years of service to House Atreides, Thufir Hawat had rarely looked so troubled. The Mentat glanced from side to side at the servants and cooks going about their afternoon tasks. “This is a deeply serious situation, my Duke. Perhaps we should find a more private place in which to discuss these matters of strategy?”