Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Once in the hall, the Face Dancer maintained his impersonation until he could get far enough from the Palace. Other Tleilaxu remained at the Kaitain court, planted there by Ajidica himself, but the Face Dancer would be glad to return to Xuttuh.

  Shaddam had heard the news he wanted to hear, and Master Ajidica could now continue his work unhindered. The Master Researcher’s great plan was nearing its fruition.

  When you feel the pressures of limitations, then you begin to die… in a prison of your own choosing.

  — DOMINIC VERNIUS, ECAZ MEMOIRS

  Deep in the suboid warrens, C’tair led Rhombur and Gurney to a large, rock-hewn room. Long ago it had been an overflow storage chamber, but with dwindling food supplies there were now many such empty areas. During the first night there, Rhombur and Gurney had kept out of sight, discussing strategy. Because of the Heighliner delay, now they had less time than they had hoped.

  In a whispered rush of words under the faltering light of a waning glowglobe, C’tair told Rhombur about the sabotages he had committed over the years, how surreptitious Atreides assistance had helped him strike crippling blows against the invaders. But Tleilaxu cruelty, as well as an increase in illicit Sardaukar troops stationed here, had stolen all hope of release from the Ixian people.

  Rhombur had no choice but to report the sad news that his Navigator brother, D’murr, had died from tainted spice, although he had lived long enough to save a Heighliner full of people.

  “I… I knew something had gone wrong,” C’tair said in a bleak voice, not wanting to say anything about Cristane. “I was talking to him just before it happened.”

  Hearing of C’tair’s experiences, the Ixian Prince could not conceive how this solitary terrorist, this intensely loyal subject, had survived so much despair. The strain had nearly driven him mad, yet this man continued his work.

  But things would change. On Ix, Rhombur had plunged into his new obsession with fiery-eyed enthusiasm. Tessia would have been glad to see it.

  Before the break of artificial dawn the next day, he and Gurney slipped back up to the surface, dismantled the rest of the camouflaged combat pod, and carried down the hidden weaponry and armor components. It would be enough for a small armed uprising, provided the material could be distributed effectively.

  And provided they could find enough fighters.

  * * *

  Inside the private rock-walled chamber, Rhombur stood like a figurehead. For days, word had been spread that he was back. Now awed people, carefully screened by C’tair and Gurney, found excuses to be away from their assignments and trickled in to see him, one by one. The very presence of the returned Prince gave them hope. They had heard promises for years, and now the rightful Earl Vernius had returned.

  Rhombur looked out at the huddled workers still waiting to enter the chamber. Many of them were wide-eyed; others had tears on their faces. “Look at them, Gurney. They are my people. They will not betray me.” Then he had formed a wan smile. “And if they do turn against House Vernius, even after what the Tleilaxu have done here, then perhaps it is not worth such a struggle to win back my home.”

  The furtive people continued to arrive, reaching out to shake the mechanical hand of the cyborg Prince as if he were a holy resurrection. Some dropped to their knees, others stared him in the eyes as if challenging his ability to bring freedom back to the downtrodden people.

  “I know you have been disappointed many times before,” Rhombur said in a voice that sounded much older, much more confident than Gurney had heard before. “But this time you will have victory on Ix.” As he spoke, the people listened attentively. Rhombur felt wonder at this, and a tremendous sense of responsibility.

  “For the next few days you must watch and wait. Prepare for your opportunities. I don’t ask you to endanger yourselves… not yet. But you will know when the time is right. I can provide no details, because the Tleilaxu have many ears.”

  The nervous gathering muttered, fewer than forty people looking sidelong at their companions as if they might find shape-shifters in their midst.

  “I am your Prince, the rightful Earl of House Vernius. Trust me. I will not let you down. Soon you will be liberated, and Ix will return to the way it was when my father Dominic ruled the planet.”

  The people gave a low cheer, and someone shouted, “Will we be free of the Tleilaxu and the Sardaukar?”

  Rhombur turned to face the man. “The Emperor’s soldiers have no more right to be here than the Tleilaxu.” His face became grim. “Besides, House Corrino has committed its own crimes against the Vernius family. Observe.”

  Gurney stepped forward and activated a small holo-projector. The solido image of a gaunt, beaten man appeared, sitting in dank shadows.

  “Before she married my father, Lady Shando Vernius was a concubine of Emperor Elrood IX. Unknown to us until recently, she also bore the old Emperor an illegitimate son. Under the name of Tyros Reffa, the boy was raised in secret by the gentle Docent of Taligari. Reffa was therefore my half brother, a member of House Vernius through the distaff line.”

  Mutters of surprise rippled through the chamber. The Ixians all knew of the deaths of Dominic, Shando, and Kailea, but they had not guessed there might be another member of the family.

  “These words were recorded in the Imperial prison by our Ambassador-in-Exile, Cammar Pilru. This is the last speech Tyros Reffa ever made, before Emperor Shaddam Corrino executed him. Even I never met my own half brother.”

  He played Reffa’s impassioned words to growing moans of anger and outrage. Apparently the man had not previously known his connection to House Vernius, but that did not matter to the rebellious people as they listened. When the image faded, people came forward as if to embrace the air in which the holograms had been projected.

  Afterward, even with the power with which the doomed Reffa delivered his words, Rhombur spoke his own piece, finding strength and passion that would have made a Master Jongleur proud. He did more to inflame rebellious thoughts than any reasoned plan another man could have put together. In the emotion-packed sentences, Prince Rhombur pleaded for justice.

  “Now go forth and tell others,” he urged. Their time had been curtailed here, and the Prince had to take greater risks in his work. “Be careful, but enthusiastic. We don’t dare reveal our plans to the Tleilaxu and the Sardaukar. Not yet.”

  Hearing the names of their hated enemies, several Ixians spat on the stone floor. In a grim mutter of outrage that built to a barely controlled crescendo, the recruits cried, “Victory on Ix!”

  Quickly, C’tair and Gurney whisked the Prince away through side tunnels, to hide him before the wrong people noticed the disturbance and came to investigate.

  * * *

  Days later, still full of questions and uncertainties, the two infiltrators watched a chronometer and prepared themselves for a labor shift to change, so that they could slip out and talk to other potential rebels. A faint glowglobe flickered overhead in their small rock chamber.

  “Everything’s going as well as we could have hoped, given our shortened timetable,” Rhombur said.

  “Still, Duke Leto is operating in a blackout of information,” Gurney said. “I wish we’d had a way of contacting him, to tell him that we’re going ahead.”

  Rhombur responded with a quote from the Orange Catholic Bible, knowing his companion’s fondness for the scripture. “ ’If you have no faith in your friends, then you have no true friends.’ Rest assured, Leto won’t let us down.”

  The men tensed as they heard a commotion in the hall, followed by furtive footsteps. Then C’tair appeared, his work shirt and hands bloodied. “I need to change quickly, and clean up.” He looked back and forth, fearing detection. “I was forced to kill another Tleilaxu. He was just a lab worker, but he had cornered one of our new recruits and was interrogating him. I know he would have given away our plan.”

  “Did anybody see you?” Gurney asked.

  “No. But our recruit fled, leaving me with
the mess to clean up.” C’tair hung his head, shook it, then raised his chin again, his eyes proud but sad. “I will kill as many as necessary. Tleilaxu blood cleanses my hands.”

  Gurney was concerned. “This is bad news, our fourth near discovery in only three days. The Tleilaxu are bound to be suspicious.”

  “That’s why we dare not delay,” Rhombur said. “Everyone must know the timetable, and be ready. I will lead them. I am their Prince.”

  Gurney’s inkvine scar reddened as he scowled. “I don’t like this.”

  C’tair began wiping his hands and scrubbing under the fingernails. He seemed resigned to the danger. “We Ixians have been massacred before, but our determination will prevail. Our prayers will prevail.”

  The search for an ultimate, unifying explanation for all things is a fruitless endeavor, a step in the wrong direction. This is why, in a universe of chaos, we must constantly adapt.

  — Bene Gesserit Azhar Book

  The Ishaq Hall of magnificent documents was lost among the extravagant monuments on Kaitain. During his youth Shaddam had spent much time in elaborate diversions in the city, but he’d had little interest in old papers and manifestos. Still, an official Imperial visit to the hoary old museum seemed an appropriate diversion now.

  Why is the Guild so upset?

  In preparation for Shaddam’s arrival, the Ishaq Hall had been swept clean of surveillance devices. For this one day, all teachers, historians, and students had been forbidden to enter the building, thus permitting the Emperor full access. Even so, he was accompanied by his retinue of guards and so many court functionaries that the echoing corridors felt crowded.

  Though the Guild had requested this secret meeting, Shaddam had arranged for the appropriate time and place.

  Long ago, when Emperor Ishaq XV designed and built the museum, it was one of the most spectacular constructions in the burgeoning Imperial city. But in the intervening millennia, the Hall of Magnificent Documents had been swallowed by ever more impressive architecture; now it was difficult to find it among the congestion of governmental structures.

  The Senior Curator greeted the Emperor and his retinue with embarrassing enthusiasm and gushing formality. Shaddam mumbled appropriate responses as the obsequious man proudly displayed a number of ancient handwritten journals, the personal diaries of past Corrino Emperors.

  Considering all the time-consuming duties that required his attention, Shaddam couldn’t imagine any skilled ruler having the luxury to write such ponderous musings for the sake of posterity.

  Like Ishaq XV, who had tried to inscribe his name in the chronicles of the Imperium by constructing this once-impressive museum, every Padishah ruler sought a special place in history. With amal, Shaddam vowed to attain his fame through something greater than a handwritten diary or a dusty old building.

  What can the Guild possibly want of me? Have they learned more about the tainted spice from Beakkal?

  Though he still hadn’t decided what to do with Arrakis, as soon as he succeeded in monopolizing spice commerce with his inexpensive substitute, Shaddam intended to lay the foundation for future generations of House Corrino.

  During the tour, the Hall Curator showed him constitutional documents, oaths of conditional independence and declarations of planetary loyalty dating back to when the growing Imperium was consolidating itself. A carefully preserved parchment of the first Guild Charter, supposedly one of only eleven extant copies in the universe, sat bathed under filter lights and a protective shield. One display case held a copy of the Azhar Book, the Bene Gesserit volume of secrets written in a long-forgotten language.

  Finally, standing before a pair of tall locked doors, the Curator stepped aside. “In here, Your Majesty, we hold our greatest treasure, the cornerstone of Imperial civilization.” His voice grew whispery with awe. “We have the original document of the Great Convention.”

  Shaddam tried to look impressed. He knew the legalities of the Great Convention, of course, and had studied the precedents, but he had never taken the time to read the actual wording. “You have made arrangements for me to view it alone, at my leisure?”

  “Of course, Sire. In a completely private and secure chamber.” The Curator’s eyes flickered with concern and overprotectiveness. Shaddam wondered what the man thought he might do. If an Emperor ripped the document to shreds, would that not be a historical event in itself? A smile stole across his lips.

  Shaddam knew, though few others did, that this “hallowed relic” was not actually the original, but was instead a clever forgery, since the original had been lost in the atomic blaze on Salusa. But it was a symbol, and people could be fanatical about such things. Shaddam pondered this as the doors swung wide and he stepped into an isolated room, moving with proud Imperial grace, but not speed. He felt mounting dread.

  The Spacing Guild has rarely demanded anything of me, and now they insist on this secret meeting. What do they want? The Guild had received exorbitant bribes after each attack on a spice-hoarding world, and they had seemed satisfied with them.

  He stepped into the windowless chamber and looked at the shrine-podium that displayed the fraudulent document, complete with singed brown edges to maintain the fiction that it had been rescued from the Salusan holocaust. He wished Hasimir Fenring were there with him, instead of away on Ix again. With problems compounding in his Great Spice War, Shaddam needed good suggestions. He heaved a deep sigh. I am on my own.

  In due course, especially now that Fenring had disavowed all his misgivings, Shaddam planned to announce his amal to the unsuspecting CHOAM and the Guild. No doubt the economic fallout would be chaotic, but the Emperor was strong, and with the secret of synthetic spice he could endure any sanctions. But he would have to block the regular channels of melange.

  Arrakis, what to do with Arrakis…?

  He would either destroy the desert planet or station Sardaukar there on a permanent basis to prevent the Guild from obtaining their own spice. This was essential during the transition, in order to force the Imperium into purchasing his amal….

  As soon as the doors sealed behind him, a secret entrance slid aside in the far left wall. A tall man with pink eyes and a dandelion puff of white hair took a step into the room, but hesitated and glanced around suspiciously. He wore a Guild protective suit made of polymer leatheryl, rigged with tubes and pulleys that connected to a pressurized tank on his back. Spice gas seeped through evaporators around his collar, so that the Guild Legate’s face was wreathed in a halo of pungent, orange melange gas.

  He came closer, albino eyes sharp, locking onto the Emperor’s features. Behind him followed five companions, smaller Guildsmen in identical suits, but without melange packs. They were hairless, pale-skinned dwarfs, their bone structures distorted as if someone had turned their skeletons to clay and then squeezed. They carried speaking grids and recording apparatus.

  Shaddam stiffened. “This is supposed to be between us, alone, Legate. I have brought no guards.” In the confined space, the Emperor picked up the strong cinnamon odor of spice.

  “Neither have I,” said the Guild Legate in a phlegmy voice, softened by the thick melange. “These men are extensions of me, parts of the Guild. All of the Guild is closely interconnected— whereas you are alone to represent House Corrino.”

  “The Guild would be wise not to forget my position.” He caught himself, not wanting to begin any blustery displays that might bring repercussions, subtle or overt. “You requested this meeting. Please get to the point quickly, as I am a busy man.”

  “We have reached conclusions regarding the flawed spice that led to serious Navigator errors and the death of a Guildsman. We now know the source.”

  Shaddam’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said the contaminated melange came from Beakkal. I have that place under quarantine already.”

  “Beakkal merely sold it to us.” The Guild Legate was grim. “Spice comes from Arrakis. Spice comes from the Harkonnens.” The albino sucked in another breath of the c
urling vapors around his face. “From our operatives there, we have learned that the Baron has gathered large, illegal stockpiles of melange. We know this is true, yet he has not decreased his shipments.”

  Shaddam simmered with anger. The Guildsman had to know this was a particularly sensitive subject for him.

  “On audit, we have completed a study of Harkonnen records. The Baron has documented his spice production with particular thoroughness. The amounts seem to be correct.”

  Shaddam had trouble following this. “If his records are correct, then how did the Baron compile his hoard? And what does this have to do with tainted spice?”

  For some unknown reason, the small, identical Guildsmen shifted their position around the albino Legate. “Consider, Sire. If the Baron steals a percentage of each spice harvest, yet continues to ship the appropriate amount according to manifest documents, then obviously he must be ‘cutting’ the export shipments. He must be skimming away pure melange and diluting it with supposedly inert materials. Thus the Baron keeps the skimmed melange for himself, while providing weakened spice for Navigator use. Given the evidence, there can be no other conclusion.”

  The Legate adjusted controls on his complicated polymer leatheryl suit and drew a long breath of orange vapor. “The Spacing Guild is prepared— in Landsraad Court— to accuse the Baron Harkonnen of malfeasance, of causing the Heighliner disasters. If convicted, he would be forced to pay enough reparations to drive House Harkonnen into bankruptcy.”

  Shaddam could not stop a grin from spreading across his face. He had been waiting for a solution to the Arrakis problem, and now this appeared, like a miracle. The idea was clear in his mind— and it would take care of everything. He could not have concocted a better scenario had he tried. The Guild’s blatant charges were a golden opportunity— perhaps a bit premature, but no matter.

  He finally had the excuse he needed to lock down his monopoly. With the recent glowing report by Hasimir Fenring, as well as similar communications from Master Researcher Ajidica and Sardaukar commander Cando Garon, he was utterly confident in the viability of his synthetic spice.