Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron held himself steady to keep from drifting. Deep in his gut, he regretted that he had not returned to Giedi Prime as he’d intended the week before.

  A hot breeze crept like a plague through the dark streets. High above him, the bright, reflected shapes of Heighliners spread out in low orbit, like jewels floating on a black sea. The Carthag City Guard sounded alarms, rousing troops from the barracks and locking down the populace under a state of martial law.

  An aide rushed in, even more afraid of the spectacle in the sky than of his Harkonnen master. “My Lord Baron, a Guild envoy has sent a message from the Heighliners. He wishes to speak to you.”

  Indignantly, the fat man puffed out his cheeks. “I am most curious to know what in the hells they think they are doing above my planet.” Melange production had exceeded the Emperor’s expectations, even despite the amount of spice he surreptitiously skimmed. House Harkonnen should have nothing to fear, even with Shaddam’s recent incomprehensible petulance and volatility. “There must be some mistake.”

  The aide switched on a comscreen, and adjusted controls until he made the proper connection. Harsh words grated across the speaking mesh. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, your crimes have been exposed. The Guild and the Emperor will decide your punishment. You are subject to our combined judgment.”

  The Baron was accustomed to denying his culpability in criminal matters, but in this instance he was so astounded that he could not even stammer an excuse. “But… but… I don’t know what—”

  “This is not a dialogue,” the voice said, louder and harsher. “This is a pronouncement. CHOAM auditors and Guild representatives are being sent down to scrutinize every aspect of your spice operations.”

  The Baron could barely draw a breath. “Why? I demand to know what I am accused of doing!”

  “Your secrets will be exposed and your mistakes punished. Until we decree otherwise, the flow of spice throughout the Imperium will be cut off. You, Baron Harkonnen, must provide the answers we seek.”

  Panic set in. He had no idea what had triggered this absurd saber rattling. “I… who are my accusers? What is the evidence?”

  “The Guild will now cut off your communications and shut down all spaceports on Arrakis. Effective immediately, we are suspending the operation of spice harvesters in the field. All ‘thopters are grounded.” The comsystem in front of him began to smoke and spark. “This message is ended.”

  From overhead, the armada of Guild ships broadcast intense pulses that disabled the circuitry and navigational systems on all vessels in the Carthag Spaceport. Inside the Baron’s residency, glowglobes dimmed and then brightened as they were bombarded. Some fizzled and exploded, showering plaz fragments on his head.

  He covered his face and shouted into the comsystem, but there was no response. Even local comlinks had broken down. In blind rage, he bellowed— though no one except those in his immediate presence could hear (and they wisely fled).

  The Baron could not demand any further explanation, or summon help from anyone.

  * * *

  The underbellies of three Heighliners opened, and the main Sardaukar fleet detached from their docking clamps. Battle cruisers, corvettes, marauders, bombers— every military vessel the Emperor could gather on short notice. In mounting this operation, Shaddam understood that he was leaving other parts of his Imperium vulnerable, but he had too much to gain, in one unexpected master stroke. Not even the Guild understood his true aims.

  Wearing a dress uniform emblazoned with commander-in-chief insignia, the Emperor sat on the bridge as his flagship descended toward Arrakis. This would be the culmination of decades of planning, an unexpectedly quick finish to the overall amal project. For once, he would lead his troops into victory himself, for the magnificent end of the Great Spice War. His Project Amal was ready, and now he would remove Arrakis from the equation.

  The Sardaukar had been instructed to follow his direct orders, though Supreme Bashar Garon would supervise the actual maneuvers. Shaddam needed someone he could trust to act without question, because there would be many questions. Standing stiffly beside him, the weathered Sardaukar veteran did not know the Emperor’s plan or understand the desired outcome of this confrontation. But he would follow his superior’s command, as always.

  Using the holocaust weapons they had demonstrated on Zanovar, the Sardaukar warships were about to eliminate all spice on Arrakis, a necessary step in the shaping of Shaddam’s new Imperium. Afterward, he would have the only remaining answer. Amal. With this one attack, Shaddam Corrino IV would strengthen the Golden Lion Throne and crush the monopolies and trading conglomerates that had hobbled his rule.

  Ah, if only Hasimir could be here to see my victory. The Emperor reminded himself how he had proven time and again that he didn’t need an advisor pestering him, contradicting his ideas, constantly trying to take credit.

  As his flagship flew closer to the fringe of atmosphere, the Emperor leaned forward in his command chair to stare at the cracked brown planet. Ugly place. Would further devastation even be noticeable here? He saw an incomplete ring of satellites, ineffective weather observers that the Guild had grudgingly put into orbit after years of insistence from the Baron himself. They monitored only Harkonnen-controlled areas, while providing no information at all about the deep desert and polar regions.

  “Time for target practice,” he announced. “Send out your marauders and destroy those satellites. Every one.” He tapped his fingers on the padded arm of the command chair. He had always loved playing soldier. “Let us blind the Baron even further.”

  “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zum Garon. Moments later, small attack ships swarmed from the Heighliners and spread out like hordes of locusts. With precise shots, they vaporized one satellite after another. Shaddam savored each tiny explosion.

  From the ground, his fleet must look terrifying. The Guild assumed he only meant to establish a firm military presence here, to soften up any Harkonnen defenders so that the Sardaukar could confiscate illegal melange stockpiles. Already Landsraad nobles— those few who knew he had brought a fleet here— were calling in favors, shifting positions, trying to become the next recipient of the Arrakis fief and its spice industry.

  A soon-to-be worthless spice industry.

  Oh, how Shaddam looked forward to the next act in his grand play. He thought back on the dry and outdated drama, My Father’s Shadow, which had extolled the virtues of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, a deluded fool who had never formally accepted the Imperial throne.

  Shaddam had considered becoming a patron of the arts himself, though his accomplishments could not be limited to cultural ones. An Imperial biographer would document his military and economic victories, and a team of writers would create enduring literary works to enthrall later generations with his greatness. It was all so simple, once an Emperor received the absolute power he deserved.

  After the desert planet was no more than a charred ball, the Spacing Guild— and everyone else who relied upon melange— would be wrapped around his finger. He decided to call this campaign the Arrakis Gambit.

  For such a fabulous triumph it was worth taking extravagant risks.

  Greatness must always be combined with vulnerability.

  — CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO

  Ready to face another turning point in his life, Duke Leto marched into the Landsraad Hall of Oratory. Even with the Emperor off on some war game, Leto was prepared to deliver what might well be the most important speech of his noble career.

  He recalled the last time he had appeared before this august assembly. He had been very young, the newly installed Duke of House Atreides following the untimely death of his father. After the overthrow of Ix by the Tleilaxu, Leto had been brash, decrying the invaders and condemning the Landsraad for ignoring the pleas of Earl Vernius. Instead of being impressed, the representatives had laughed at the immature young nobleman… much as they had scoffed at the protestations of Ambassador
Pilru for so many years.

  But this afternoon, as Duke Leto led his proud procession down the entrance promenade, delegates cheered and shouted his name. Applause swelled in the vast Hall, making him feel stronger, more sure of himself.

  Though they had no means of communicating with one another now, the disparate parts of his overall plan had to proceed with perfect timing. Already, Thufir Hawat had made his successful move against the blockade at Beakkal, and the separate attack would proceed on Ix, even without confirmation from the two infiltrators. Leto knew his own role here on Kaitain. If the scheme went as planned, if Rhombur and Gurney were still alive, the liberation of Ix would be complete and the new Earl Vernius would be secure in his ancestral home before anyone could object….

  But only if everything happened at once.

  Immediately before entering the Hall of Oratory, Leto received a rushed notification from one of the nameless Bene Gesserit Sisters who fluttered like ravens around the Imperial court. “Your concubine Jessica has gone into labor. She is being cared for by the best Medical Sisters. There is nothing to fear.” The Acolyte gave him a small smile along with a reflexive bow as she backed away. “Lady Anirul thought you might wish to know.”

  Feeling unsettled, Leto strode toward the speaking platform. Jessica was about to have his child. He should be with her in the birthing room. The Bene Gesserit might not approve of a man’s presence there, yet under other circumstances, without all these pressing affairs of state, he would have defied them.

  But this was a matter of protocol; his speech had to be given now, while Duncan Idaho led the troops into the caverns of Ix.

  As the court crier read his name and titles, Leto tapped his fingers on the lectern and waited for the cheers to die down. Finally, a silence of expectation blanketed the chamber, as if the delegates suspected he might have something interesting— and even bold— to say.

  His popularity and stature in the Landsraad had been building for years. No other nobleman, including those much wealthier than he, would have risked such an impetuous and unexpected move.

  “You all know the plight of Beakkal, ravaged by a botanical plague that threatens to destroy its ecosystem. Although I had my own dispute with the Prime Magistrate, that matter has been settled to my satisfaction. My heart, like yours, aches for the suffering Beakkali people. Therefore, I have dispatched ships filled with relief supplies, in hopes that Emperor Shaddam will allow us to pass the blockade and deliver vital aid.”

  Applause rippled through the Hall, reflecting admiration mixed with surprise.

  “But that is only one small part of my activities. More than twenty years ago, I appeared before you to protest the illegal Tleilaxu conquest of Ix, the proper fief of House Vernius— friend to House Atreides and friend to many of you.

  “Receiving no help from the Emperor, Earl Dominic Vernius chose to go renegade. He and his wife were hunted down while the vile Tleilaxu invaders secured their hold on Ix. Since that time Prince Rhombur, the rightful heir, has lived under my protection on Caladan. For years, the Ixian Ambassador-in-Exile has implored you for help, but not one of you lifted a finger in assistance.” He waited, watched, and listened to the uncomfortable stirring in the cavernous hall.

  “Today, I have taken unilateral action to correct that injustice.”

  He let the ominous statement sink in with his listeners, then continued in a resounding voice. “Even now, as I speak to you, Atreides military forces are attacking Ix, with the intention of restoring Prince Rhombur Vernius to his proper place. Our aim is to drive out the Tleilaxu and liberate the Ixian people.”

  A gasp rippled through the throng, followed by anxious, murmurous conversation. None of them had expected this.

  He forced a brave smile and changed his approach. “Under oppressive and inept Tleilaxu rule, the production of essential Ixian technology has drastically decreased. The Landsraad, CHOAM, and the Spacing Guild all know this. The Imperium needs good Ixian machines. Every nobleman here will benefit from the restoration of House Vernius. Let no one deny it.” He looked around the sea of faces, daring anyone to disagree.

  “I came to Kaitain to speak with the Padishah Emperor, but he is preoccupied with another military matter.” Leto saw mostly blank faces and shrugs, but a few nods from those who seemed to know something. “I have no doubt that my dear cousin Shaddam will support the restoration of House Vernius to its former position in the Imperium. As Duke Atreides, I have taken action for Justice, for the Imperium, and for my friend, the Prince of Ix.”

  As Leto concluded, waves of reaction passed through the Landsraad Hall. He heard cheers, a few angry shouts— and, above all, confusion. Finally, the tide turned. One by one, delegates rose and began to applaud. Within moments the Hall erupted in a standing ovation.

  Waving and nodding to them in appreciation, Leto paused as he caught the gaze of a dignified, gray-haired man in the audience who had no impressive uniform or rank, no box or reserved seat: Ambassador Cammar Pilru. The Ixian representative looked up at Leto with something like reverence. And he began to weep.

  The expectation of danger leads to preparation. Only those who are prepared can expect to survive.

  — SWORDMASTER JOOL-NORET, ARCHIVES

  It was a long journey back to Caladan. The Heighliner threaded its way along a route in the Imperium, stopping at planet after planet. Among other vessels, the Heighliner’s cargo bay held the small Atreides relief flotilla, with Thufir Hawat aboard the flagship.

  After completing his diversionary humanitarian mission to Beakkal, Thufir wanted to be back home in the gray-stone towers of Castle Caladan, high on a cliff overlooking the sea.

  His feint against the Sardaukar blockade had been as successful as he could have hoped. He had ruffled the Emperor’s feathers and also delivered the relief supplies. After Shaddam had summoned his commander away, the Atreides flotilla had waited near Beakkal for nine days until another Heighliner arrived to take them on the scheduled route to Caladan.

  First out of the hold, a handful of Atreides ships dropped into the cloudy skies of Caladan and were quickly swallowed up in the swirling weather patterns that covered the ocean. Behind the small flotilla, merchant vessels and passenger frigates descended to the spaceport on their regular business runs.

  Thufir felt as if he could sleep for three days straight. He had not rested well on this trip, because of all he had needed to accomplish, and because of his concerns about Duncan’s primary assault on Ix. It should be happening at this very moment.

  But he would not take that much-needed rest. Not yet. With the Duke away on Kaitain, and most of the Atreides military forces dispatched to Ix, he wanted to make absolutely certain that the remaining military personnel and equipment were set up properly for the defense of the planet. Caladan was too vulnerable.

  When his few escort ships settled down at the miltary base adjacent to the Cala Municipal Spaceport, the Mentat was astounded to find no vessels at all, only a few elderly men and women in uniforms, little more than a maintenance staff. A reserve lieutenant told him that Duke Leto had decided to throw everything into the fight for Ix.

  Seeing this, Thufir had an uncertain, exposed feeling.

  * * *

  As the heighliner cruised in parking orbit, more ships dropped out in the continuing bustle of space commerce. Later that day, when the immense Guild vessel crossed over the sparsely populated Eastern Continent, a large group of unmarked craft disembarked at the last moment, taking high orbital positions, far from prying eyes….

  Even with a pilot as skilled as Hiih Resser, the wings of the scoutship thumped and bounced as it cut through the cold storm currents of Caladan’s upper atmosphere. The redheaded Swordmaster sat behind the controls of a rapid-reconnaissance ship, sent from the hastily gathered Grumman-Harkonnen fleet.

  Resser peered down through patchy gaps in the clouds as he soared away from the planet’s nightside, racing the sunset and gaining upon the daylight that lingered over th
e water.

  His lord, Viscount Moritani, was willing to sacrifice everything in a sudden attack. Glossu Rabban, though a brute himself, was more conservative, wanting to know where the force would make its surprise attack and what their chances of success were. Though Resser had sworn his loyalty to the Viscount, after many rigorous oaths and testings, he preferred Rabban’s point of view. Resser frequently disagreed with his lord, in principle, but after years of Swordmaster training he knew his place. His loyalty could not be questioned. He clung to his honor.

  As did Duncan Idaho.

  Resser remembered the years that he and Duncan had spent on island-dotted Ginaz. They had been fast friends from the beginning and had ultimately fought their way to victory, becoming Swordmasters themselves.

  When other students from Grumman had been cast out of Ginaz because of a black dishonor committed by the Viscount, Resser had stayed behind, the only one from his House to complete the training. After graduating and returning to Grumman, he had assumed he would be disgraced and perhaps even executed. Duncan had implored Resser to come to Caladan, to join House Atreides, but the redhead had refused. Bravely, he had gone home anyway. He had kept his honor, and survived.

  Because of his fighting and leadership skills, Resser had risen rapidly through the Grumman ranks, attaining the position of Special Forces Commander. For this mission to Caladan, he was second-in-command only to the Viscount himself. But he preferred to work hands on. Resser flew the scoutship himself, and when it came time to fight he would be in the thick of it.

  He didn’t look forward to opposing Duncan Idaho, but had no choice. Politics made razor cuts through relationships. Now, as he remembered all the things young Duncan had told him about his beloved and beautiful Caladan, Resser plunged beneath a raft of gray clouds until he could see the landscape, the cities, and the weaknesses of the planet.