Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  But every drop of blood, Rhombur vowed, would be well spent, and his beloved world would be free again.

  The universe is always one step beyond logic.

  — LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, personal journal

  Castle Caladan and the nearby military barracks were abuzz with activity. Atreides soldiers drilled and packed for the big expedition, eager to depart. They cleaned their weapons and inventoried explosives and siege machines, making ready for an all-out battle.

  To coordinate such a complex operation, they had prepared for months, and Duke Leto had ordered the House Guard to hold back no effort. He owed that much to Rhombur— and he would risk whatever was necessary.

  Rhombur and Gurney could be dead by now. Leto had heard nothing, no word, no calls for help, no news of success. Or they could already be in the middle of a brewing revolution. After the Heighliner mishap, the pair of infiltrators had vanished into resounding silence. There had been no further word from Ix. Even so, we will do our utmost. And hope.

  But if Rhombur did not succeed and Atreides troops were defeated by the Tleilaxu and the Emperor’s Sardaukar, then Leto would suffer enormous repercussions here. Caladan itself might be forfeit. Thufir Hawat was uncharacteristically nervous.

  Leto, though, was completely committed. In his mind, he had already passed the point of no return. He would take the gamble, throw every effort into this fight, even if it left peaceful Caladan vulnerable for a short while. It was the only way he could restore Rhombur, and restore his own heart of honor.

  The plans were proceeding like a juggernaut.

  Amid the thousands of decisions that needed to be made, Leto avoided watching the final steps and went instead to the main docks below the Castle. As the noble leader of his Great House, he had duties at home— more enjoyable ones, though he wished Jessica could be with him.

  The large fishing fleet was returning, boats that had been trolling around the reefs during the past two weeks of hot weather. Once each year, the fleet came in with their seasonal catch of grund, small bluish-silver fish that were captured by the netful. As part of a traditional festival, the delicious grund were washed and salted, then boiled in large batches. The tiny fish were spread out on plank tables, and people feasted on them. The Duke loved the Caladan delicacy as much as the coarsest fisherman did.

  Rhombur had even more of a taste for grund than Leto did, and this was the first such celebration the Ixian Prince had missed in years. Leto tried to drive away his sense of foreboding. The waiting had ground down his patience.

  Away from the bustling preparations for war, he stood at the end of a dock, watching the first trawlers approach. Already, crowds had gathered on the shingle beach, while merchants and chefs hurried to set up tables, cauldrons, and stalls in the old village plaza.

  Leto heard minstrels playing along the shore. The music made him smile and reminded him of how often Rhombur and Gurney had practiced their balisets side by side, trying to outdo one another with outrageous lyrics and satirical songs.

  But even though the Duke tried to enjoy a moment of peace, Duncan Idaho and Thufir Hawat spotted him and approached through the dense, noisy crowd. “You should have personal guards with you at all times, my Duke,” the Mentat warned.

  “You need to answer questions and make decisions about weaponry,” Duncan added. “The fleet is scheduled to depart very soon.” As Swordmaster, he would lead the Atreides military forces to Ix, just as he had commanded the strike against Beakkal.

  In Leto’s position, the head of House Atreides was required to avoid the actual fighting, though he wished he could be at the head of his troops. Instead, following Thufir’s advice, Leto would act as the political spearhead on Kaitain, where he would make the formal announcement explaining his actions. “That is the job of a Duke,” the grizzled Mentat had insisted.

  Now, Leto gazed up the steep roads that led to the top of the cliff. From this angle, he could see the top levels of the Castle. “This is a good time for a major assault. While Beakkal festers in that awful plague, Emperor Shaddam is distracted with his own schemes. We’ll crush the Tleilaxu on Ix before he knows what we’re doing.”

  “I’ve seen images of those jungles,” Duncan said. “No matter what excuses Shaddam makes, I don’t doubt for a moment that he intended for it to happen.”

  Leto nodded. “Destroying Beakkal’s ecosystem goes far beyond any revenge I could have demanded for their crimes. Still… the situation on Beakkal gives us another opportunity.” He watched the first large fishing boats tie up to the docks. A rush of eager helpers swarmed forward to grab ropes and help steady the grund nets.

  “I provided generous medical aid to Richese after my cousin attacked them. Now it is time to show the Landsraad that House Atreides can be benevolent to those who are not my relatives.” He smiled. “Thufir, before our primary forces depart secretly for Ix, I want you to gather a fleet of cargo ships. Accompany them with a military escort. I, Duke Leto Atreides, will send relief supplies to plague-ravaged Beakkal and ask nothing in return.”

  Duncan was appalled by the suggestion. “But Leto! They tried to sell your ancestors to the Tleilaxu.”

  “And we need our House Guard to stay here to defend Caladan while our forces strike Ix,” Hawat added. “This campaign has already depleted our resources.”

  “Send only a minimal military escort, Thufir, just enough to show that we’re serious. As for the Beakkalis, we’ve already punished them for their poor judgment at the Senasar War Memorial. We have nothing to gain by holding a grudge against an entire population. The Beakkalis have seen how hard we can be. Now it is time to show them our benevolent side. My mother— who is not wrong all of the time— reminded me that a leader must show compassion as well as firmness.”

  He pressed his lips together, remembering conversations he’d had with Rhombur about leadership and how political considerations, though important, must be balanced with the needs of common citizens.

  “Mark my words,” Leto said, “I do this for the people of Beakkal, not for their politicians. This is not a reward for the actions of the Prime Magistrate, nor is it to be construed as forgiveness or even acceptance of an apology.”

  Thufir Hawat frowned. “Does this mean you do not wish me to accompany our troops to Ix, my Duke?”

  Leto gave his old advisor a sly smile. “I’ll need your diplomatic skills at Beakkal, Thufir. There will be tense moments when you reach the Imperial blockade. The planet is under strict quarantine, but I’m betting that the Emperor has not given explicit orders to destroy anyone who makes no attempt to land. Exploit that gray area.”

  Both the Mentat and the Swordmaster looked at him as if he had gone insane. Leto continued, “You’re sure to draw the attention of the Sardaukar and maybe of Shaddam himself. In fact, it could be quite a spectacle.”

  Beside him, Duncan brightened as he understood the real plan. “Of course, a diversion! The Emperor can’t fail to notice such a dramatic crisis. While Thufir faces down the Imperial blockade, no one will think of paying attention elsewhere, and it will draw all the Sardaukar there. We will have our forces in position on Ix before anyone can send word to Kaitain. The Sardaukar on Ix will be operating without orders. The relief mission is just a diversion.”

  “Exactly. But one that could do some good for the people of Beakkal, while increasing my standing in the Landsraad. After I throw Atreides support to the military operation on Ix, I will require all the allies I can summon.”

  On the crowded docks, huge cranes groaned as they hoisted bulging fish-filled nets out of holds. In the harbor beyond, trawlers lined up, awaiting their turn; the port facilities could not accommodate them all at once.

  When Duncan hurried up the hill to the barracks of the House Guard, Leto remained behind to participate in the festival. Hawat insisted on staying with his Duke as bodyguard.

  Load after load of swollen nets crammed with millions of the silvery grund were lifted to shore. The odor of fish filled the ai
r. Muscular laborers hefted the squirming catch into vats and tubs filled with salt and water, while chefs used slotted shovels to scoop out the grund from the vats into steaming cauldrons of seasoned broth.

  Leto thrust his arms up to his elbows into one of the tubs, grabbing the little fish and passing them to the helpers down the conveyer line. Everyone cheered his contribution. He loved this part of his work.

  Thufir Hawat strolled stiffly through the dense crowds, constantly on the alert for any assassin who might be lurking among the fisherfolk.

  Leto, meanwhile, sat at an outdoor plank table to enjoy a savory meal of grund. The people applauded as he stuffed a handful into his mouth, and then they all joined in the feast.

  It was the last moment of peace he would experience for some time.

  Who knows what detritus of today will survive the eons of human history? It might be the slightest thing, a seemingly inconsequential item. Yet somehow it strikes a resonant chord, and survives for thousands of years.

  — MOTHER SUPERIOR RAQUELLA BERTO-ANIRUL,

  founder of the Bene Gesserit

  Following a fitful night in her fourth set of unfamiliar apartments, Lady Anirul lurched out of bed and made it to the doorway. The voices followed her, like shadows in her skull. Even the ghost Lobia had joined the clamor, and she offered no assistance, no refuge.

  What are you all trying to tell me?

  The ever-vigilant Medical Sister Yohsa approached, arms loose at her sides, body poised in a combat stance to prevent Anirul from passing her. “My Lady, you must return to bed and get your rest.”

  “There is no rest in there!” Anirul wore a loose-fitting nightgown that clung to her perspiration-damp skin, and her copper-brown hair stuck out in all directions. Lines and shadows etched her features around bloodshot eyes.

  Previously, under Anirul’s frenetic direction, servants had transferred her immense bed and heavy furnishings from one room to another, seeking a sufficiently quiet place. But nothing gave her relief.

  Yohsa kept her voice calm. “All right, my Lady. We will find some other place for you—”

  Swaying as if on the verge of fainting, Anirul made a quick, aggressive move and shoved the Medical Sister off-balance. The little woman stumbled over a table and sent an expensive ornate vase crashing to the floor. Leaping past her, Anirul fled down the tiled hallway, knocking a breakfast tray out of a maidservant’s hands.

  Running wildly, Anirul turned a corner, her bare feet slipping on the polished floor, and crashed into Mohiam, scattering a pile of loose papers and ridulian crystal sheets the Truthsayer had been carrying. Reacting quickly, Mohiam abandoned her documents and gave chase, but lost ground. Within moments, a panting Yohsa caught up with her.

  Ahead of them, wild-eyed Anirul opened the door to a service stairway. She surged through, but caught a foot on the hem of her sleeping gown. Crying out, she tumbled down the stairs.

  The pursuing Bene Gesserits arrived in a rush at the top of the stairs, just as Anirul, bruised and bleeding, struggled to sit up on the landing below. Mohiam hurried down and knelt beside the Emperor’s wife. Under the guise of helping to steady her, the Reverend Mother gripped Anirul’s arm and placed another hand around her waist, thus preventing her from escaping again.

  Yohsa bent to study the injuries. “Her breakdown has been a long time coming. And I fear it will only grow worse.” The Medical Sister had already administered increasing doses of powerful psychotropic drugs in unsuccessful attempts to suppress the storms of Other Memory.

  Mohiam helped the injured Sister to her feet. Anirul’s gaze darted around in the shadowy stairwell as if she were a cornered animal. “The voices within cannot be silenced. They want me to join them.”

  “Don’t say that, my Lady.” Mohiam added a soothing form of Voice, which seemed to have no effect on Anirul. The Medical Sister placed a quicknit amplifier patch on Anirul’s wounded forehead. Together, they raised the Emperor’s wife, slowly leading her back to her rooms.

  “I hear them clamoring in my head, but they utter only sentence fragments in a variety of languages— some familiar and some alien. I cannot understand what they are trying to tell me, why they are so alarmed.” Anirul’s voice throbbed with anguish. “Lobia is in there, too, but even she cannot rise above the others and help me.”

  The Medical Sister poured spice tea from a ready pot on a credenza in the room. After she collapsed on an antique Raphaelian couch in her parlor, Anirul turned her hazel-eyed gaze to the dark figure of Mohiam. “Yohsa, leave us. I need to speak with the Imperial Truthsayer. Alone.”

  The Medical Sister became stern, but finally, grudgingly, she agreed to leave them alone. Lying on the sofa, Anirul inhaled a long, shuddering breath. “Secrets can be such a great burden.”

  Studying her carefully, Mohiam took a sip of spice tea and felt the melange flow smoothly into her awareness. “I have never thought of it that way, my Lady. I consider it a great honor to be entrusted with important information.”

  Lady Anirul took a sip of tepid tea and frowned, as if it contained a foul-tasting medicine. “Soon Jessica will give birth to a daughter who is destined to bear our long-awaited Kwisatz Haderach.”

  “May we live to see that occur,” Mohiam said, as if uttering a prayer.

  Now Anirul seemed entirely reasonable, and conspiratorial. “But I have grave concerns as the Kwisatz Mother. I alone see and remember all aspects of our breeding program. Why is Other Memory so disturbed, and why now when we are so close to accomplishing our goal? Are they trying to warn us of some impending danger to Jessica’s child? Is a disaster about to occur? Is the mother of the Kwisatz Haderach not going to be what we expect? Or is it something about the Kwisatz Haderach himself?”

  “Only two more weeks,” Mohiam said. “Jessica is due to deliver soon.”

  “I have decided that she must be told at least part of the truth, so that she can better protect herself and the child. Jessica must understand her destiny, and her importance to us all.”

  Mohiam swallowed more tea while trying to cover her surprise at the suggestion. She felt a great affection for her secret daughter, who had also been her student for years on Wallach IX. Jessica’s future, her destiny, was greater than either Mohiam’s or Anirul’s. “But… to reveal so much, Lady Anirul? And you want me to tell her?”

  “You are her birth-mother, after all.”

  Yes, Mohiam agreed, the girl must be told at least a part of the truth. Even in her tormented state, Lady Anirul was right about that. But Jessica does not need to know the identity of her father. That would be too cruel.

  There are obvious pressures of working in an environment where one isn’t likely to survive even the smallest mistake.

  — COUNT HASIMIR FENRING,

  The Rewards of Risk, written in exile

  During his trip back to Ix, leaving the Emperor to reap the political problems he had sown, Count Hasimir Fenring thought of subtle, malicious, and exceedingly painful deaths he would like to inflict upon Hidar Fen Ajidica for the treachery he had attempted with his Face Dancer.

  But none satisfied him.

  As he gave the appropriate hand signals to guards and descended to the grotto levels beneath the Ixian surface, he chided himself for not having seen the signs sooner and taking appropriate action against the turncoat Tleilaxu. The scheming Master Researcher had made too many excuses for a long time, and Emperor Shaddam had been completely duped. Amazingly, several Tleilaxu Masters had recently appeared at court on Kaitain, as if they belonged there— and Shaddam tolerated it.

  But the Count knew the bitter truth. Despite more than twenty years of planning, research, and excessive funding, Project Amal was an utter failure. No matter what the Guild believed, Fenring was convinced the two Navigators had failed because of the artificial spice, not some imagined Beakkali plan.

  Foolishly, Shaddam had assumed that the synthetic spice was already in his grasp, and had acted accordingly. True, most of the evidence availab
le to the Emperor pointed to long-awaited success, but Fenring remained uneasy. Despite the tissue-thin legal justifications, Shaddam’s Great Spice War had greatly damaged his political relations with the noble Houses. Now it would take decades to recover from all of the blunders… if they could recover at all.

  Perhaps it might be better if he and his lovely Margot took steps to protect themselves from the approaching storm, while leaving the Emperor to the wolves. Shaddam Corrino would suffer for his own mistakes; Count Fenring did not need to sink into the depths with him….

  Now, in the doorway of his private administrative office, Hidar Fen Ajidica stood waiting for Fenring with pride and arrogance, as if his small body could not contain his high opinion of himself. Rust-brown smears marred the front of his white lab coat.

  At a sharp gesture from the Master Researcher, the Sardaukar guards slipped away, leaving him alone with Fenring in the office. Clenching and unclenching his fists, the Count forced control upon himself. He did not want to murder the little man too quickly. As he entered, Fenring made a point of closing the door behind them.

  Ajidica stepped forward, his rodent-black eyes flashing with haughty self-importance. “Bow to me, Zoal!” He chattered additional commands in an incomprehensible guttural language, then switched to Imperial Galach. “You have sent no word, and will be punished for your lapse.”

  Fenring could barely stop himself from laughing at the man’s assumption, but made a smirking little bow that seemed to mollify Ajidica. Then he lashed out and grasped the front of the Master Researcher’s robes. “I am not your Face Dancer! I have already marked you for death. The question is how and when, hmmm?”

  Ajidica’s grayish skin turned even paler as he realized his awful mistake. “Of course, my dear Count Fenring!” His voice became raspy as the Spice Minister tightened his stranglehold. “You have… you have passed my test. I am so pleased.”

  In disgust, Fenring flung him down. Arms and legs akimbo, Ajidica crashed hard onto the floor. Fenring wiped a hand on his own jerkin, feeling soiled after touching the treacherous creature. “It is time to salvage what we can from this disaster, Ajidica. Perhaps I should drop you from the balcony of the Grand Palais, so that all the people can watch, hmmm?”