Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  In a strangled voice, the Master Researcher called for guards. Fenring heard footsteps come running, but he was not concerned. He was the Imperial Spice Minister and a close friend of Shaddam’s. The Sardaukar would obey his orders. He smiled as an idea took shape in his mind.

  “Yes, hmmm, I shall declare Ix free at last and become its great liberator. Along with the Sardaukar, I will decry the years of Tleilaxu oppression, hmmm-ah, destroy all evidence of your illegal amal research, and then I— and Shaddam, of course— will emerge as heroes.”

  The Master Researcher scrambled to his feet, looking like a cornered rat with very sharp teeth. “You cannot do this, Count Fenring. We are so close, now. So close. The amal is ready.”

  “The amal is a failure! Both Heighliner tests were disasters, and you may be thankful that the Guild still hasn’t figured out what we’ve done. Navigators can never use the synthetic spice. Who knows what other aftereffects your substance will have?”

  “Nonsense, my amal is perfect.” Ajidica reached into the folds of his robe, as if for a hidden weapon. Fenring crouched to attack, but the scientist only brought out a rust-colored tablet, which he popped into his mouth. “I have consumed extraordinary doses myself, and I feel magnificent. I am stronger than ever. I see the universe more clearly.” He tapped his forehead so hard that it left a mark on the skin.

  The door burst open and a squad of Sardaukar filed in, led by young Commander Cando Garon. The men moved with feral grace, less regimented than usual.

  “I have tripled spice rations for all the Sardaukar stationed here,” Ajidica said. “They have been consuming amal for six months now. Their bodies are saturated with it. See how strong they look!”

  Fenring studied the faces of the Imperial soldiers. He did see a wolfish intensity there, a hardness in their eyes and a coiled danger that sang through their muscles. Garon bowed slightly to him, showing minimal deference.

  “Maybe the amal was too potent for those test Navigators, and the mixture should have been adjusted,” Ajidica continued. “Or perhaps they should be trained differently. No need to dispose of all our progress because of some minor piloting error. We have invested too much. The amal works. It works!”

  Ajidica became feverish and fidgety, as if close to a seizure. With jittery, palsied movements he scrambled past Fenring and elbowed the Sardaukar out of his way. “Here, Count, you must see this. Let me convince you. The Emperor needs to consume some of my product himself. Yes, we must send samples back to Kaitain.” He raised his hands as he strutted into the corridor, a little man with delusions of grandeur. “You can’t understand everything. Your mind is… infinitely small.”

  Fenring struggled to keep up as Ajidica scurried ahead. The soldiers followed silently.

  The main floor of the research pavilion always disgusted him, though the Count understood the necessity for the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks. Brain-dead females lay like cadavers hooked up to bubbling life-support systems, no longer human, their bodies bloated and force-fed. Captive wombs, they were little more than biological factories that produced whatever organic substances or abominations the genetic wizards programmed into their reproductive systems.

  Curiously, the receptacles attached to their bodies— usually containing the amal they had produced— were empty. Though still alive, the tanks seemed to be off-line. All except for one.

  Ajidica led him to a naked young woman only recently hooked up to an axlotl system. She was androgynous and flat-chested, with short, dark hair. Her closed eyes had sunken into her face. “Note this one, Count. Very healthy, very fit. She will produce well for us, though we are still reconfiguring her uterus to produce the chemical compounds necessary for the amal precursor. Then we can link the other tanks to her and produce more.”

  Fenring found nothing erotic about the helpless lump of flesh, as different from his own beautiful wife as a woman could possibly be. “Why is she so special?”

  “She was a spy, Count. We captured her poking around, disguised as a male.”

  “I’m surprised all the females around here don’t disguise themselves and hide.”

  “This one was a Bene Gesserit.”

  Fenring could not cover his astonishment. “The Sisterhood knows about our operations here?” Damn that Anirul! I should have killed her.

  “The witches have some inkling of what we’re up to. Therefore, we do not have much time.” Ajidica kneaded his hands together. “You see, you cannot execute me now. You dare not bring all this work to a halt. The Emperor must have his amal. We can work out our minor differences later.”

  Fenring raised his eyebrows. “You call the destruction of an entire Heighliner with the loss of all passengers a ‘minor difference’? You say I should just forget your Face Dancer’s assassination attempt on me? Hmmm?”

  “Yes! Yes, I do. In the scheme of the entire universe, such events are insignificant.” Insanity flashed in the little man’s eyes. “I cannot let you cause problems now, Count Fenring. The importance of my work goes beyond you, or House Corrino, or the Imperium itself. I just need a little more time.”

  Fenring turned, intending to snap orders at the Sardaukar— but saw a strange quality in their eyes as they looked at Ajidica, a zealous devotion that astonished him. Of all things, he had never suspected the loyalty of Sardaukar would be questionable. These men were obviously addicted to the synthetic spice, their bodies crackling with the power of artificial melange. Had the Master Researcher brainwashed them, too?

  “I will not let you stop me.” Ajidica’s threat was clear. “Not now.”

  Inside the research pavilion, Tleilaxu workers took notice and came closer. Some of them might be Face Dancers as well. Fenring’s stomach sank, and for the first time in his entire life he felt the cold grip of true fear. He was alone here.

  Over the years, he had often belittled Ajidica’s abilities, but now he saw that the Master Researcher had managed to put an astonishing plan in place. Surrounded, Fenring realized that he might never get off this planet alive.

  Waiting. Time passes slowly, more than a lifetime, it seems. When will our nightmare end? Each day drags on, though hope endures….

  — C’TAIR PILRU, FRAGMENT FROM HIS SECRET JOURNALS

  The man-machine stood outside the shambles of an Ixian weapons manufactory. During the decades of Tleilaxu occupation, the assembly lines that produced complex machinery and technological marvels had been poorly maintained, abandoned, or used for other purposes. The invaders were not knowledgeable enough to keep sophisticated systems running smoothly, and the skilled Ixian workers passively resisted in every way.

  Just days before, the last groaning and shuddering stations on the production line had seized up. Engines smoked, components ground together and broke down. During the emergency, the workers had just watched.

  The underground world had been slowly sliding into disorder and decay. Repair technicians halfheartedly removed the ruined assembly-line components, but the Tleilaxu overlords had no replacement parts. Workers at other machines tried to look busy, while prowling Sardaukar guards and Tleilaxu Masters kept a close watch. Surveillance pods drifted overhead, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

  Prince Rhombur hid in plain sight. He stood like a statue in front of the bustling facility. Ixian workers glanced at him, then looked away without seeing, without recognizing. Years of oppression had deadened their minds and senses.

  His scarred face and the metal skullcap were exposed, like badges of honor. The prosthetic skin on his artificial limbs had been peeled away to reveal pulleys, electronics, and mechanical enhancements, a better approximation of the clumsy bi-Ixian monstrosities. Gurney had even dirtied him up. While Rhombur could not pretend to be completely human, he could masquerade as something far less than he was.

  Chemical smoke poured toward the cavern ceiling, where air-exchangers absorbed and filtered the particulates. But even the best purification systems could not remove the traces of innocent people living in fear.


  Rhombur’s eyes, both the real and the synthetic, examined everything around him. He felt revulsion, nausea, and anger to see the ruin of this once-wondrous city, and could hardly endure any more. With zero hour fast approaching for the arrival of Atreides forces, he hoped he could seed the revolution quickly enough to make a difference.

  When he began to move, Rhombur took slow, jerky steps, wandering aimlessly like one of the Tleilaxu’s reanimated bi-Ixians. Rhombur made his way under a darkened overhang beside the broken-down factory.

  Unnoticed among the work crew and guards, Gurney Halleck signaled him. Beside the inkvine-scarred man stood the broken shadow of someone Rhombur remembered from a shared youth. In astonishment at the man’s stark appearance, he whispered, “C’tair Pilru!”

  This had once been a vibrant young man, dark-eyed and small in stature like his twin D’murr. But in some ways C’tair’s changes seemed even more horrifying than the Navigator’s alterations. The eyes were fatigue-laden and sunken; the dark hair stuck out in unwashed spikes.

  “My… Prince?” His voice was whispery and uncertain. He had suffered too many hallucinations and broken dreams. Appalled to see the horrific changes in the heir to House Vernius, C’tair seemed ready to break down.

  Gurney squeezed his arm in a viselike grip. “Careful, both of you. We must not draw attention to ourselves. We dare not stay here in the open for long.”

  “I… have a place,” C’tair said. “Several places.”

  “We must spread the word.” Rhombur’s voice was low, determined. “Inform those who have given up and those who have retained a spark of hope for all these years. We will even enlist the aid of the suboids. Tell everyone that the Prince of Ix has returned. Freedom is no longer an improbable hope— the time is now. Let there be no question: We are about to retake Ix.”

  “It is very dangerous for anyone to say such things aloud, my Prince,” C’tair said. “The people live in terror.”

  “Pass the word anyway, even if it causes the monsters to seek me out. My people need to know that I am back and that the long, dark nightmare of Ix will soon be over. Tell them to be ready. Duke Leto’s forces arrive soon.”

  Rhombur reached out with a powerful prosthetic arm and embraced the emaciated freedom fighter. Even to the Prince’s clumsy nerve sensors, C’tair felt skeletal. He hoped Leto would not delay.

  Making a sport of war is a move toward sophistication. When you govern men of military temper, you must understand their passionate need for war.

  — SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON,

  Imperial Sardaukar Commander

  On the day of departure for Ix, the Atreides troops went to their ships with an air of euphoria. But the reality of war would soon set in.

  Swordmaster Duncan Idaho and the Mentat Thufir Hawat accompanied Leto as he stood atop a speaking tower that overlooked the spaceport field. Caladan had not witnessed such a gathering since the fateful skyclipper procession. Row upon row of military vessels glinted in the morning sun. Uniformed, fiercely loyal Atreides soldiers stood in ranks, a sea of men ready to mount the transports, destroyers, monitors, and battle cruisers.

  For over two decades, the Tleilaxu usurpers and their Sardaukar allies had entrenched themselves on Ix. Many spies had died trying to get inside that world— and if Rhombur and Gurney had been captured and tortured, the Atreides assault force might have lost their element of surprise. Leto knew he could forfeit everything with this gamble, but he did not consider calling off the attack. Not for a moment.

  Under Hawat’s separate command, eighteen supply ships were ready to depart with a small armed escort. The Mentat’s bold move would be the obvious one, but a diversion. His relief fleet would appear between Beakkal and the Sansin transfer station, where they would broadcast Leto’s humanitarian offer. Presumably, the Sardaukar officers in the blockade would send messages to the Emperor, and in turn Shaddam would focus his attention on the quarantined world. The Imperial military would be drawn there. Meanwhile, no doubt, Landsraad delegates in the Hall of Oratory would extol the generosity of Duke Atreides.

  At about that time, Duncan Idaho’s assault would strike Ix like a hammer.

  Crowds on the landing field pressed against the ribbons strung along the perimeter, colorful strands that fluttered in a light wind. People cheered and waved black-and-green pennants bearing the heraldic hawk crest, the ancient sigil of House Atreides.

  Sweethearts, wives, and mothers called out to the soldiers assembled on the field, encouraging them. In a flurry of activity, many of the young men rushed back to the barricades for goodbye kisses. Often, it didn’t even matter if they knew the pretty women seeing them off; it was simply a reassurance that someone cared about their safety and wished them well.

  Duke Leto could not help but think of Jessica, separated from him for months, living in luxury in the Imperial Palace. Very soon now, she would bear his child, and he longed to be with her. That was the best advantage of his going to Kaitain….

  Leto had taken great care to dress himself in a scarlet matador’s uniform similar to the one his father had so proudly worn for bullfights. It was a significant symbol, one easily recognized by the citizens of Caladan. When Leto wore red, the crowd saw not an echo of bloodshed (from which the Atreides Red Dukes had drawn their appellation long ago) but of pageantry and glory.

  The boarding ramps opened, and subcommanders shouted their men into ranks. One troop broke into a familiar Atreides battle song. As they shouted off-key into the hubbub, other soldiers took up the refrain, and soon all the uniformed men had joined in the chorus, a resounding celebration of defiance, determination, and love for their Duke.

  The song concluded, and just before the first ranks began to board the warships, Leto stepped to the edge of the tower. The troops fell silent, waiting for his send-off speech.

  “In the Ecazi Revolt many years ago, Duke Paulus Atreides fought side by side with Earl Dominic Vernius. These great men were war heroes and fast friends. Much time has passed since then, and many tragedies have occurred, but we must never forget one thing: House Atreides does not abandon its friends.”

  A surge of cheering swept through the crowd. Under other circumstances, the general populace might not have cared about the renegade family. For the common folk of Caladan, Ix was a distant world they would never visit, but they had taken Prince Rhombur into their hearts.

  “Our soldiers will retake the ancestral home of House Vernius. My friend Prince Rhombur will rescue the Ixian people and restore their freedom.”

  On Caladan and many other Imperial planets, the people had learned to hate the Tleilaxu. Ix was undoubtedly the most heinous example of their misbehavior, but there were numerous other instances. For centuries the gnomish men had gotten away with too much, and now it was time to administer Atreides justice.

  Leto continued, “We do not pick and choose when to be moral, when to follow the correct path and assist others who need us. And that is why I have sent my Mentat Thufir Hawat on a mission of his own.”

  He surveyed the crowd. “Not long ago, we had to take stern action against the Prime Magistrate of Beakkal— but now that Beakkal’s people are suffering from a terrible plague that is devastating their world, should we simply ignore them because I had a quarrel with their government?” He raised a fist in the air. “I say no!”

  The people cheered again, though a bit less enthusiastically this time.

  “Other Great Houses are content to watch the Beakkali population die, but House Atreides will challenge the Imperial blockade and deliver much-needed relief supplies, just as we did for Richese.” He lowered his voice. “We would want others to do the same for us, would we not?”

  Leto was confident they understood the principle and the choice. After gaining stature in the Landsraad with his aggressive response to the original Beakkali insult, he had shown a more compassionate side by assisting the victims on Richese. Now he would prove the strength of his heart. He remembered a quote from t
he Orange Catholic Bible: “It is easy to love a friend, hard to love an enemy.”

  “I will travel directly to Kaitain alone, where I will talk with my cousin the Emperor and deliver a formal speech to the Landsraad.” He paused, and felt emotion well up inside. “I will also see my beloved Lady Jessica, who is about to give birth to our first child.”

  Whoops and whistles erupted; Atreides pennants waved. The people had long perceived their Duke and his activities at Castle Caladan as myth and legend. The commoners needed such images.

  Finally, he raised a hand in benediction, and the roar of the crowd and soldiers nearly deafened him. Beside him on the observation tower, Duncan and Thufir watched as the soldiers boarded their assigned ships, marching in perfect ranks. Such a military display would have impressed even Emperor Shaddam himself.

  Leto felt an inner warmth as waves of confidence and good expectations from his people washed over him. He vowed not to disappoint them.

  The face of the Imperium was about to shift.

  The man who sees an opportunity and does nothing is asleep with his eyes open.

  — Fremen Wisdom

  Back home on Giedi Prime, Glossu Rabban enjoyed being in charge of Harkonnen Keep. From the high, stone-walled fortress, he could command the servants, announce his own gladiatorial tournaments, and keep the population under firm control. It was his privilege as a noble of the Landsraad.

  Better still, he had no wily Mentat to breathe down his neck or criticize him for everything he tried to do. Piter de Vries was playing his diplomatic spy games on Kaitain. And Rabban’s uncle had remained on Arrakis to monitor the complex spice operations under the threat of CHOAM inspections and audits.