Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  At the side of Jessica’s bed, Lady Anirul Corrino sat in a suspensor chair. Her face was gray and drawn, as if she were using all her mental abilities to maintain her focus and hold the gossamer strands of her sanity. In one hand, she gripped the surgical lasknife again. Ready. Watching, like a predator.

  Jessica surrounded herself in a meditative cocoon. She held her secret tight for just a few moments more. The baby would come soon. A son, not a daughter.

  Both Reverend Mother Mohiam and Lady Margot Fenring had remained during the hours of her labor, and now they stood attentively just behind Anirul, ready to lunge if she threatened violence. Even though she was the Kwisatz Mother, they would not allow her to harm Jessica’s baby.

  Out of the corner of her eye, between deep breaths, Jessica noticed a flicker of Mohiam’s hand, a special signal meant for her. Tell Anirul you want me to cut the umbilical cord. Let me be the one to hold the lasknife.

  Jessica pretended a quick spasm to give herself time to consider this. For years, Proctor Superior Mohiam had been her instructor on Wallach IX. Mohiam had indoctrinated her young student in the Sisterhood, had given Jessica explicit orders to conceive a daughter by Leto Atreides. She remembered Mohiam holding the gom jabbar at her neck, the poisoned needle ready for a swift and deadly prick. The penalty for failure.

  She would have killed me then, if I had not met the Sisterhood’s esoteric standard of humanity. She could just as easily kill me now.

  But was that in itself a human thing for Mohiam to do? The Bene Gesserit zealously prohibited the emotion of love— but wasn’t it human to feel love and compassion? In the present situation, would Mohiam be any less dangerous than Anirul?

  No, it is more likely they will kill my baby.

  It seemed to Jessica that love was something a machine could not experience, and humans had defeated thinking machines in the Butlerian Jihad, millennia ago. But if humans were the victors, why did this remnant of nonhumanity— the savagery of the gom jabbar— thrive in one of the Great Schools? Savagery was as much a part of the human psyche as love. One could not exist without the other.

  Must I trust her? The alternative is too terrifying. Is there any other way?

  Between pushes, Jessica lifted her sweaty head from her pillow and said in a soft voice, “Lady Anirul, I would like… Margot Fenring to cut the baby’s umbilical cord.” Mohiam recoiled in surprise. “Would you hand the lasknife to her, please?” Jessica pretended not to notice her old mentor’s agitation and displeasure. “It is my choice.”

  Anirul appeared distracted, as if she had been listening to the internal voices, still trying to understand them. She looked down at the surgical tool clutched in her hands. “Yes, of course.” Glancing over her shoulder, she handed the potential weapon to Lady Fenring. The anguish in Anirul’s face subsided for a moment. “How far along?” She leaned close to the birthing bed.

  Jessica attempted to adjust her body chemistry to quell a sharp bolt of pain, but it had no effect. “The baby is coming.”

  Instead of looking at the observers in the room, she detached herself and studied several tame honeybees that moved between the floating planter globes over her head. The insects crawled inside the enclosures and pollinated the flowers. Focus.… Focus….

  After several moments, the spasm subsided. When her vision cleared, she saw to her surprise that Mohiam now held the surgical lasknife after all. She felt a moment of terror for her baby. The weapon itself was irrelevant, though. They are Bene Gesserit. They need no cutting instrument to kill a helpless child.

  The labor pains came closer together. Fingers touched her, slid inside her vagina. The plump Medical Sister nodded. “She is fully dilated.” And, with a touch of Voice: “Push.”

  Reflexively, Jessica responded, but the effort only intensified the pain. She cried out. Her muscles clenched. Concerned voices moved into the background, and she had trouble comprehending their words.

  “Keep pushing!” Now it was the second Medical Sister.

  Something inside fought against Jessica, as if the baby himself was taking control, refusing to come out. How could this be possible? Didn’t it defy the natural way of things?

  “Stop! Now, relax.”

  She couldn’t identify the source of the command, but obeyed. The pain became excruciating, and she suppressed a scream, using every skill Mohiam had taught her. Her body responded with biological programming as deep as her DNA.

  “The baby is strangling on its cord!”

  No, please, no. Jessica kept her eyes closed, focused inward, trying to guide her precious child to safety. Leto must have his son. But she couldn’t envision the right muscles, couldn’t feel any changes. She perceived only darkness and an intense, overwhelming gloom.

  She felt the soft hand of a Medical Sister reach inside her, poking and probing to untangle the baby. She tried to control her body, to work her muscles, to direct her mind down into each cell. Again Jessica had the peculiar sensation that the tiny child was resisting, that he didn’t want to be born.

  At least not here, not in the presence of these dangerous women.

  Jessica felt small and weak. The love she had wanted to share with her Duke and their son seemed so insignificant in comparison with the boundless universe and all it encompassed. The Kwisatz Haderach. Would he be able to see everything even before his own birth?

  Is my child the One?

  “Push again. Push!”

  Jessica did so, and this time felt a change, a smooth flow. She clenched her entire body, straining as long as she could, and then pushed again, and again. The pain subsided, but she reminded herself of the peril all around her.

  The baby came out. She felt him go, sensed hands reaching out, taking him away… and then all of her strength faded for a moment. Must recover quickly. Need to protect him. After three deep breaths, Jessica struggled to sit. She felt weak, deeply fatigued, sore everywhere.

  The women gathered at the foot of her birthing bed said nothing, hardly moved. A hush had fallen over the sunlit room, as if she had given birth to a monstrous deformity.

  “My baby,” Jessica said, cutting the ominous silence. “Where is my baby?”

  “How can this be?” Anirul’s voice was high-pitched, on the ragged edge of hysteria. She let out a keening cry. “No!”

  “What have you done?” Mohiam said. “Jessica— what have you done?” The Reverend Mother did not show the anger Jessica had feared so greatly; instead her expression showed defeat and utter disappointment.

  Again, Jessica struggled to get a glimpse of her child, and this time she saw wet black hair, a small forehead and wide-open, intelligent eyes. She thought of her beloved Duke Leto. My baby must live.

  “Now I understand the disturbance in Other Memory.” Anirul’s face became a mask of unbridled rage as she glared at Jessica. “They knew, but Lobia couldn’t tell me in time. I am the Kwisatz Mother! Thousands of Sisters have worked on our program for millennia. Why did you do this to our future?”

  “Don’t kill him! Punish me for what I did, if you must— but not Leto’s son!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Mohiam placed the baby in Jessica’s arms, as if ridding herself of an unpleasant burden.

  “Take your damned son,” she said, in the coldest of tones, “and pray that the Sisterhood survives what you have done.”

  Humanity knows its own mortality and fears the stagnation of its heredity, but it does not know what course to take for salvation. This is the primary purpose of the Kwisatz Haderach breeding program, to change the direction of humankind in an unprecedented manner.

  — LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, HER PRIVATE JOURNALS

  Just outside the imperial birthing room, the man disguised as a Sardaukar guard wore expertly applied makeup to conceal his sapho-stained lips. At the back of the thin man’s creased trousers, just beneath the uniform jacket, a faint blood splotch could still be seen. Hardly noticeable at all…

  With heightened speed and senses, Piter de
Vries had slipped a knife beneath the real guard’s coat into his left kidney as the man walked to his post; then he had moved quickly to salvage the uniform. He took pride in his work.

  Within only a few minutes, de Vries had dragged the dead man into an empty room, donned the gray-and-black uniform, and rapidly applied smears of enzyme chemicals to eliminate bloodstains. He composed himself, then assumed his station outside the birthing room.

  The dead guard’s companion looked at him skeptically. “Where’s Dankers?”

  “Who can say? I got pulled from lion-tending duty to stand here while some lady-in-waiting has a brat,” de Vries said, his voice gruff with disgust. “I was told to come here and replace him.”

  Grunting as if he didn’t care, the other guard checked his ceremonial dagger and adjusted the strap of a neuro-stun baton on his shoulder.

  De Vries had another blade sheathed beneath his jacket sleeve. He also felt the sticky wetness of the bloody shirt against his back and rather liked the sensation.

  They heard a sudden outcry, surprised and anguished voices inside the birthing room. Then a bawling baby. De Vries and the guard looked at each other, and the Mentat’s sense of danger heightened. Perhaps the pretty mother, the Baron’s secret daughter, had died in childbirth. Oh, but that would be too much to hope for— too simple. Now he heard only low tones of conversation… and the continuing cry of the baby.

  Duke Leto’s infant offered so many possibilities… the Baron’s own secret grandchild. Maybe de Vries could take the baby hostage, use it to make the beautiful Jessica submit to him as a love slave— and then kill them both before he tired of her. He could toy with the Duke’s woman for a while….

  Or, the child itself might be even more valuable than Jessica. The newborn was both Atreides and Harkonnen. Perhaps the safest course of action would be to remove the brat to Giedi Prime to be raised beside Feyd-Rautha— what a fabulous revenge against House Atreides that would be! An alternative Harkonnen heir, if Feyd turned out to be as much of a clod as his older brother Rabban? Depending upon how he played out the situation, de Vries might gain leverage against the Sisterhood, against two Great Houses, and against Jessica herself. All in a day’s work.

  He salivated, considering the delicious possibilities.

  The women’s voices grew louder, and the birthing-room door slid open smoothly. With a rustle of clothing, three witches walked into the corridor— the foul Mohiam, the Emperor’s unsteady wife, and Margot Fenring, all of them dressed in black aba robes and preoccupied with a hushed, muttered argument.

  De Vries held his breath. If Mohiam looked in his direction, she might recognize him, in spite of the makeup and stolen uniform. Fortunately, the women were too upset about something to notice anything as they hurried down the corridor.

  Leaving the mother and child unprotected.

  After the witches rounded a corner, de Vries said gruffly to his companion, “Should check inside to make sure everything’s all right.” Before the guard could decide upon a response, the Mentat slithered into the birthing room.

  The loud cries of a baby came from the bright area ahead, and more female voices. He heard the guard hurrying to join him, boots clicking on the floor. The door closed behind them.

  With a swift, silent movement, de Vries spun and cut the Sardaukar’s throat before the man could utter a sound. The vicious slash of the knife made a whistling sound in the air and splattered gouts of red on the wall.

  After easing the uniformed body down to the floor, the Mentat prowled deeper into the delivery room. He touched the neuro-stun baton against his wrist, activating the field.

  At a wall-mounted workstation he saw two short Medical Sisters tending a baby, taking cellular and hair samples and studying the screen of a diagnostic machine. Their backs were to him. The taller woman scowled down at the baby, as if it were an experiment gone wrong.

  Hearing a buzzing sound, the shorter, heavier woman started to turn. But de Vries leaped forward and swung the stun-baton like a bat. It caught her in the face, smashing her nose and sending crackling impulses through her brain.

  Before she hit the floor, her companion stepped in front of the baby and raised her arms in a defensive posture. De Vries struck with the stun-baton. She blocked the blows— only to find both of her arms paralyzed. His blow to her neck was so hard that he heard her vertebrae shatter.

  Panting, exhilarated, he stabbed both motionless forms, just to make sure. No point in taking chances.

  The baby boy lay on the table, kicking and crying. Nicely vulnerable.

  On the other side of the birthing room, he saw Jessica lying on a wide bed, exhausted from the delivery, her eyes bleary with analgesics. Even haggard and sweat-streaked, she looked beautiful and fascinating. He thought about killing her, so that Duke Leto could no longer have her.

  Only seconds had passed, but he could spare no more time. When he reached for the baby, Jessica’s eyes widened with shock. Her expression changed to one of misery and anguish.

  Oh, this is much better than killing her.

  She reached out, struggling to sit. She was going to crawl off the bed and come after him! Such devotion, such maternal distress. He smiled at her— but through his makeup and disguise, he knew she would never recognize him again.

  Deciding to take what he had before anyone interrupted, the Mentat tucked the stun-baton and dueling dagger into his uniform belt. While Jessica dragged herself off the bed, he bundled the baby in a blanket, his movements calm and efficient. She could never reach him in time.

  He saw a seep of crimson spreading across her kai-sateen birthing gown. She staggered, then fell to the floor. De Vries held up the baby, taunting her, then fled out into the corridor. Even as he ran down a stairway, trying to stifle the wailing infant, his mind spun through possibilities.

  There were so many of them….

  * * *

  Marching out of the Hall of Oratory after his well-received speech, Leto Atreides held his head high. His father would have admired that performance. This time, he had gotten it right. He had not asked anyone’s permission for what he had done. He had notified them, and his actions were irrevocable.

  When he was out of sight of the assemblage, his hands began to shake, though he had held them steady all through the oration. He knew from the applause that the majority of the Landsraad genuinely admired his actions. His deeds might well become legendary among the nobles.

  Politics, however, had a way of taking strange twists and turns. The gains of one moment could be lost in the next. Many delegates might have applauded only because they’d been caught up in the moment. They could still reconsider. Even so, Leto had made new allies today. It only remained to determine the extent of his gains.

  Now, though, it was time to see Jessica.

  At a rapid pace he crossed the flagstone-paved ellipse. Once inside the Palace, he bypassed the grand staircase and instead caught a lift tube to the birthing room. Perhaps his child was already born!

  But as he stepped out on the top floor, four Sardaukar guards blocked his path with weapons drawn. An alarmed crowd milled in the corridor behind them, including a number of black-robed Bene Gesserits.

  He saw Jessica slumped in a chair, wrapped in an oversize white robe. The sight of her so weak, so drained, shocked him. Her skin was damp with sweat, translucent with pain.

  “I am Duke Leto Atreides, the Emperor’s cousin. The Lady Jessica is my bound concubine. Let me through.” He thrust his way past, employing moves Duncan Idaho had taught him to knock aside threatening blades.

  When Jessica saw him, she pushed aside the clinging arms of her Bene Gesserit Sisters and tried to stand. “Leto!”

  He caught her and embraced her, afraid to ask about the baby. Had it been stillborn? If so, what was Jessica doing here outside the birthing room, and why all the security?

  Reverend Mother Mohiam stepped close, her face a mask of anger and distress. Jessica tried to say something, but broke down in tears. He n
oticed blood on the floor under her. Leto’s words were cold, but he had to voice the question. “My child has died?”

  “You have a son, Duke Leto, a healthy child,” Mohiam said curtly. “But he has been kidnapped. Two guards and two Medical Sisters are dead. Whoever took the boy wanted him very badly.”

  Leto could not absorb the terrible news all at once. He managed only to hold Jessica more tightly.

  For long lifetimes marked by the hulks of ruined planets, man was a geological and ecological force without knowing it, with little awareness of his own strength.

  — PARDOT KYNES, THE LONG ROAD TO SALUSA SECUNDUS

  The stranglehold of Heighliners over Arrakis tightened until Baron Harkonnen felt unable to breathe. All afternoon, Sardaukar warcraft continued to stream from the underbellies of the Guild transport ships. He had never been so afraid.

  The Baron knew, intellectually, that Shaddam would never incinerate Arrakis, as he had done to Zanovar— but it was not beyond the realm of possibility for the Emperor to obliterate Carthag. And him with it.

  Perhaps I should leave in one of my ships. Quickly.

  But no more shuttles could take off. All spacecraft had been grounded. The Baron had no way to escape, except on foot, into the desert. And he wasn’t quite that desperate— not yet.

  Standing inside the plaz observation bubble of the Carthag Spaceport, he watched an orange contrail against the darkening sky: the descent of a shuttle from one of the Heighliners. On short notice, he had been instructed to come and meet it. The unprecedented situation rankled him.

  That damnable Shaddam loved to play soldier, strutting around in his uniform, and now he was behaving like the biggest bully in the universe. The Baron’s orbital observation satellites had already been destroyed in an offhand action. What in all the hells does the Emperor want of me?