Standing in the bleak light of dusk, the Baron scowled. By sending out runners, he had mustered a meager company of troops onto the demarcated receiving area of the spaceport. The day’s residual heat rippled from the fused-silica pavement, evaporating chemicals and oils that impregnated the field. Around him, the embargoed vessels sat with their systems shut down.
On the horizon, where the colors of sunset blazed like a distant fire over the sandy edge of the world, he could see a blur of dust. Another one of those cursed sandstorms.
The small shuttle landed. Preparing to meet it, the Baron felt like a trussed animal. The additional troops he had brought from Giedi Prime could never deal with an invasion on this scale. If only he had more time, he might summon Piter de Vries from Kaitain to act as his emissary, to negotiate a diplomatic end to what surely must be a simple misunderstanding.
Floating forward on suspensors to greet the CHOAM and Guild entourage, he forced a smile onto his jowly face. An albino Guild Legate stepped down from the elaborate shuttle craft, wearing a spice-infuser suit. Close behind him came the weathered Supreme Bashar and an ominous-looking CHOAM Mentat-Auditor. The Baron flicked his spider-black eyes toward the Mentat and knew this man would be the real problem.
“Welcome, welcome!” He could barely keep the unsettled look of dismay from his face; a careful observer would certainly notice his nervousness. “I will of course cooperate in every possible way.”
“Yes,” announced the albino Guild Legate, inhaling deeply of diffused spice gas that seeped from his thick collar, “you will cooperate in every way.” The trio wore arrogance like second skins.
“But… you must first explain to me the infraction you believe I have committed. Who has falsely accused me? I assure you there has been some sort of error.”
The Mentat-Auditor came close, with the Supreme Bashar at his side. “You will grant us access to all financial and shipping records. We intend to inspect every spice harvester, legal storehouse, and production manifest. We shall ascertain if there has been an error.”
The Guild Legate followed close behind. “Don’t try to hide anything.”
Swallowing hard, the Baron guided them out of the spaceport. “Of course.”
He knew that Piter de Vries had carefully doctored his records, combing through every document, every report, and the twisted Mentat was normally very thorough. But the Baron felt cold inside, certain that even the most careful manipulations would not stand up to the close scrutiny of these demonic auditors.
With a pained smile, he gestured them onto a transport platform that would carry them to the Harkonnen Residency. “May I offer refreshments?” Perhaps I can find a way to slip poison or mind-fogging drugs into their drinks.
The Supreme Bashar gave a deprecating smile. “I think not, Baron. We heard about your social prowess at the gala banquet on Giedi Prime. We can’t allow Imperial business to be delayed for such… pleasantries.”
Unable to think of any further excuses, the Baron led them into Carthag.
* * *
Out in the desert, Liet-Kynes and Stilgar had watched the Heighliners arrive, ship after ship appearing out of foldspace in the night sky. The vessels created an ionization cloud in the air that drowned out most of the stars.
Liet knew, however, that this was a storm generated by politics, not an awesome natural phenomenon. “Great forces move beyond us, Stil.”
Stilgar sipped the last drops of pungent spice coffee that Faroula had brought to the men, where they sat on the rocks below Red Wall Sietch. “Indeed, Liet. We must learn more about it.” By tradition, Faroula had prepared the strong drink for them at the end of the hot day, before hurrying her young son Liet-chih into the sietch communal play areas. Baby Chani still spent the days with a nursemaid.
Within hours, Fremen housekeepers and servants who lurked in the Harkonnen Residency began to send distrans reports: organically encoded messages implanted on the sonic patterns of homing bats. With each piece of the puzzle, the news grew more interesting.
Liet was delighted to learn that Baron Harkonnen himself had his head on the chopping block. Details were sparse, and tensions ran high. Apparently the Spacing Guild, CHOAM, and the Emperor’s Sardaukar had come to investigate certain irregularities in spice production.
So, the Guildsman Ailric listened to my words. Let the Harkonnens stew.
Now, standing in one of the sietch communal rooms, Liet scratched his sandy beard where the stillsuit catchtube had made an indentation. “The Harkonnens have been unable to hide the effects of our raids… or of the secret we leaked. Our small revenge has caused larger repercussions than we had hoped.”
Stilgar checked the crysknife in its sheath at his waist. “Using this event as a fulcrum, we might just succeed in ejecting the Harkonnens from our desert.”
Shaking his head, Liet responded, “That would not free us from Imperial control. If the Baron is ousted, the Dune fief would simply be transferred to another Landsraad family. Shaddam thinks it is his right to do so, though the Fremen have lived and suffered here for hundreds of generations. Our new lords might not be better than Harkonnens.”
Stilgar’s hawkish face tightened. “But they could not be worse.”
“Agreed, my friend. And here is my idea. We have destroyed or taken some of the Baron’s spice hoards. Those actions were costly annoyances to him. But now we have the opportunity to strike an embarrassing blow while the CHOAM auditors are present. It will be the Harkonnens’ downfall.”
“I will do whatever you ask, Liet.”
The young Planetologist reached out to touch the other man’s muscular arm. “Stil, I know you dislike the towns, and Carthag most of all. But the Harkonnens have established another hidden storehouse of melange there, right in the shadow of the spaceport. If we were to target that hoard, set fire to the warehouse where it is stored, the Guild and CHOAM could not help but see. The Baron will be mortified.”
Stilgar’s blue-within-blue eyes widened. “Such challenges are always enjoyable, Liet. It will be dangerous, but my commandos are most pleased not only to hurt our enemies, but to humiliate them.”
* * *
As the Mentat-Auditor stared at shipping records, he did not blink, did not move his head. He simply absorbed the data and documented discrepancies on a separate scribing pad. The list of errors grew longer with each hour, and the Baron became more and more concerned. So far, however, all of the “mistakes” they had discovered were relatively minor— enough to earn him a few penalties, but certainly not enough to warrant his summary execution.
The Mentat-Auditor had not yet found what he was looking for….
The explosion in the warehouse district took them all by surprise. Leaving the auditor at a tableful of documents, the Baron raced to the balcony. Response teams rushed across the streets. Flames and dust rose in a pillar of brownish-orange smoke. Without moving to get a better look, the Baron realized exactly which of the nondescript ramshackle warehouses had been the target.
And he cursed silently.
The Mentat-Auditor stood beside him on the balcony, observing with intent eyes. On his other side, Supreme Bashar Garon squared his shoulders and bristled. “What is in that building, Baron?”
“I believe… it is just one of my industrial warehouses,” he lied. “A place where we store leftover construction materials, components for prefabricated dwellings shipped from Giedi Prime.” Damnable hells! How much spice was inside there?
“Indeed,” the Mentat-Auditor said. “And is there a reason why the warehouse might have exploded?”
“A buildup of volatile chemicals or a careless worker, I would imagine.” It’s those cursed Fremen! He didn’t have to fabricate a confused expression.
“We will inspect the area. Thoroughly,” Zum Garon announced. “My Sardaukar will assist your relief efforts.”
The Baron quailed, but with no legitimate excuse he could not argue. Those desert scum had blown up one of his melange hoards, and the
debris would be evidence to be used against him by this Mentat-Auditor and CHOAM. They would easily prove that the warehouse had been full of spice, and that House Harkonnen had kept no records of such a stockpile.
He was doomed.
He raged inside, infuriated that the Fremen would choose to strike here and now, at a time when he would not be able to gloss over the event. He would be caught red-handed, with no defense and no excuse.
And the Emperor would make him pay dearly.
Why should we find it odd or difficult to believe that disturbances at the pinnacle of government are transmitted to the lowliest levels of society? Cynical, brutal hunger for power cannot be concealed.
— CAMMAR PILRU,
Ixian Ambassador-in-Exile, Speech to the Landsraad
On Ix, even after their numbers had been more than halved, the Sardaukar fought on. Oblivious to pain or grievous wounds, the drug-frenzied Imperial fighters showed no fear for their own lives.
One of the uniformed Sardaukar drove a young Atreides fighter to the ground, reached a gloved hand through his shield, and switched off the controls. Then, like a D-wolf, he bared his teeth and ripped out the man’s throat.
Duncan Idaho could not understand why the Emperor’s elite corps would so ferociously defend the Tleilaxu. Clearly, young Commander Cando Garon would never surrender, not even if he were the last man alive atop a mountain of dead comrades.
Duncan reassessed his strategy, focusing on the goal of his mission. While projectile fire spattered around him like sparks from a bonfire, he raised a hand and bellowed in Atreides battle language, “To the Grand Palais!”
The Duke’s men disengaged from the maddened Sardaukar and pushed around them, forming a phalanx with Duncan at the lead. He carried the Old Duke’s sword and slashed at any enemy who came within reach.
Boots slapping on stone, they raced through the ceiling tunnels, negotiating honeycombed passageways toward the stalactite administrative buildings. A lone, defiant Sardaukar soldier, his uniform torn and bloodied, stood in the middle of a skyway bridge that spanned the open grotto. When he saw Duncan’s men charging toward him, he clasped a grenade to his chest and detonated it, blowing up the bridge. His body tumbled through the enclosed sky, along with a rain of fire and structural wreckage.
Appalled, Duncan signaled for his men to back away from the severed bridge, while he looked for another route to the inverted pyramid of the Ixian palace. How do we fight against men like this?
Trying to spot a new aerial walkway, he watched as a transport barge crashed into one of the Grand Palais balconies, obviously driven by a madman. Rebels surged off the platform and into the royal structure, shouting defiance.
Duncan led his men over a second bridge and finally entered the upper levels of the Grand Palais. Tleilaxu bureaucrats and scientists fled for shelter, wailing and pleading for mercy in Imperial Galach. A few Atreides soldiers took potshots at the unshielded forms, but Duncan called his men together. “Don’t waste your efforts. We can clean up the garbage later.” They ran ahead through the once-grand but now spartan rooms.
Atreides fighters had spread into the crustal levels of the city, and some had taken lift tubes down to the cavern floor, where fierce fighting continued. Battle cries and screams echoed through the cavern, mixing in the air with the stomach-twisting stench of death.
Duncan’s squad reached the main reception chamber and marched onto an inlaid checkerboard floor. There they encountered a surprising confrontation between ragtag passengers from the crashed cargo barge and furious Sardaukar guards. Broken crystalplaz and synstone wreckage lay strewn around the grounded barge in the middle of the reception floor.
At the center of it all, he saw Rhombur’s unmistakable cyborg form, along with the troubadour Gurney Halleck, both men struggling to hold their own. Gurney’s fighting style had no finesse, nothing that would have impressed the Swordmasters of Ginaz, but the former smuggler had an instinctive prowess with a weapon.
When Duncan’s men rushed forward, howling the names of Duke Leto and Prince Rhombur, the desperate battle turned in their favor. Suboids and Ixian citizens fought with renewed strength.
A side passage burst open, and several blood-spattered Sardaukar ran forward, firing weapons and shouting. Their hair was in disarray and their faces streaked with scarlet, but they kept coming. Commander Cando Garon led them in a suicide attack.
Through the bloodlust, Garon noticed the cyborg Prince and charged directly at him with blind fury. In each hand, the Commander carried a sharp blade, already slicked with thick crimson fluid.
Duncan recognized the son of the Emperor’s Supreme Bashar, saw murder in his eyes, and launched himself into motion. Years ago, he had failed to stop the attack of the frenzied Salusan bull that had killed Old Duke Paulus, and he had sworn not to let himself fail again.
Rhombur stood beside the crashed barge, directing the freedom fighters, and didn’t see Garon rushing toward him. Rebels streamed off the barge platform, picking their way over the rubble, grabbing weapons dropped by fallen Sardaukar. Behind Rhombur, the blasted-open wall of the Grand Palais was a yawning hole that overlooked the city grotto.
Running at full speed, Duncan crashed into Garon, striking him on the side. Their body shields collided with a report like a thunderclap and a momentum exchange that hurled Duncan backward.
But the impact also diverted Garon, who staggered toward the gaping hole in the window wall, slipping on debris on the floor. Deflected from his target, the ravening Sardaukar Commander saw a chance to kill more of the enemy and collided with three shouting Ixian rebels who stood too close to the edge of the smashed balcony. He spread his strong arms and, like a bulldozer, swept the astonished victims over the precipice.
Garon went over the side, too— but he managed to grab a broken protruding girder that had once separated broad sheets of crystalplaz. He caught himself and dangled, his face pulled into a rictus of ferocious effort, his lips skinned back from his teeth. The tendons in his neck stood out like cords ready to snap. He held on with one hand, as if sheer defiance could counteract the relentless pull of gravity.
Seeing the leader of the Sardaukar and knowing Garon was the son of Shaddam’s Supreme Bashar, Rhombur bounded over to the brink on his cyborg legs. He bent down, grasping the broken wall for support and reached down with his prosthetic mechanical arm. Garon merely snarled up at the proffered assistance.
“Take it!” Rhombur said. “I can pull you to safety— and then you must surrender your troops. Ix is mine.”
The Sardaukar Commander made no move to grab his hand. “I would rather die than be rescued by you. My shame would be a far worse death, and facing my father in disgrace would be greater pain than you could imagine.”
The cyborg Prince anchored himself with his legs and reached down to grab Cando Garon by the wrist, squeezing a viselike hold. He remembered losing his entire family, and his own body in flames during the skyclipper explosion. “There is no pain I cannot imagine, Commander.” He began to haul the struggling man up, despite his protestations.
But the Sardaukar used his free hand to grab at his own waist, and drew a razor-knife. “Why don’t you let yourself fall with me, and we’ll die together?” Garon smiled wickedly, then slashed with the thrumming blade. It struck sparks off of Rhombur’s mechanical wrist tendons, hitting the metallic, synthetic bone cylinders, but could not cut deeply enough.
Undaunted, Rhombur lifted the young officer close to the edge where he could be saved. Duncan rushed forward to help.
His face insane with determination, Cando Garon slashed again with the powerful cutting tool— this time cutting cleanly through Rhombur’s pulleys and support joints, severing the cyborg hand. As Rhombur reeled backward, looking at the sparking and smoking stump of his artificial arm, the Sardaukar Commander tumbled away without a scream, without so much as a whisper.
Rapidly, the remaining Atreides forces and the enthusiastic rebels secured the Grand Palais. Duncan
breathed a sigh of relief, but remained wary.
After witnessing Cando Garon’s suicidal plunge, the suboids and rebels delighted in throwing captured Tleilaxu over the brink, a grim reflection of the days when the hated overlords had so ruthlessly executed alleged resistors.
Catching his breath, Duncan shook with exhaustion. The battles continued below, but he took a moment to greet his companion. “Well met, Gurney.”
The lumpy-faced man shook his head. “A rather messy meeting, if you ask me.” He swiped sweat from his brow.
Too weary and ragged to celebrate the long-awaited victory, C’tair Pilru sat on a lump of broken plastone and touched the checkerboard floor, as if trying to recapture childhood memories. “I wish my brother could be here.” Recalling the last time he had stood inside the Grand Palais, the son of a respected ambassador, he wished for the stolen years back. It had been a time of elegance and finery, of grand receptions, and of flirtations and intrigues for the hand of Kailea Vernius.
“Your father still lives,” Rhombur said. “I would be most pleased to have him restored to service as a respected Ambassador for House Vernius.” Gently, with precise control of his intact cyborg hand, he squeezed C’tair’s sagging shoulders. The Prince looked at his still-glowing stump, as if dismayed that he would have to be repaired and face rehabilitation again. But Tessia would help him. He couldn’t wait to see her once more.
Haggard but grinning, C’tair looked up. “First we must find the sky controls so that you can make an announcement and put your final mark on this day.” Breaking into the Tleilaxu-controlled palace, he had done the same thing many years before, transmitting sky-images of Rhombur’s defiant words. Now he led the way with the Prince, Duncan, and a dozen men accompanying them. Outside the control room, they discovered two Tleilaxu dead on the floor, their throats cut….
Rhombur did not know how to operate the equipment, so C’tair helped him scan his face into the system. Moments later, they projected the Prince’s giant image from the grotto ceiling. His amplified voice boomed out, “I am Prince Rhombur Vernius! I now hold the Grand Palais, my ancestral home, my rightful home. Here I intend to stay. Ixians, throw off your shackles, subdue your oppressors, take back your freedom!”
Dune: House Corrino Page 50