Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  When he finished, Rhombur heard a roar of renewed cheers from below, while the battle continued to rage.

  Gurney Halleck met him in a hallway. “Look what we’ve found.” He led the Prince to an immense armored storage room, which the Atreides had cut open with lasguns. “We had hoped to root out incriminating records, but instead we discovered this.”

  Cases were stacked from floor to ceiling. One had been pried open to reveal an orange-brown powder, a dusty substance that reeked of cinnamon. “It looks and tastes like melange, but look at the label. It says AMAL, in the Tleilaxu alphabet.”

  Rhombur glanced from Duncan to Gurney. “Where did they get so much spice, and why are they hoarding it?”

  In a low voice, C’tair murmured, “I have already… seen what occurs in the research pavilion.” He looked haggard. Realizing that the others had not heard him, he repeated it, louder, then added, “Now it begins to make sense. Miral and Cristane… and the spice odors.”

  His companions looked at him, quizzically. C’tair’s eyes and the slump of his body showed the effects of the years on him. Men of less determination would have given up long ago.

  He shook his head vigorously, as if to clear a buzzing from his ears. “The Tleilaxu were using Ixian laboratories to attempt to create some form of synthetic melange. Amal.”

  Duncan glowered. “This scheme is more than just Tleilaxu villainy. Its shadow extends all the way to the Golden Lion Throne. House Corrino has been behind the suffering of all Ixians and the destruction of House Vernius.”

  “Artificial spice…” Rhombur considered this, and it made him angry. “Ix was destroyed— my family murdered— for that?” He recoiled at the very idea, realizing the vast economic and political implications.

  Scratching his inkvine scar, Gurney Halleck frowned. “D’murr said something about tainted spice in his tank— was this what killed him?”

  Voice throbbing with excitement, C’tair said, “I suspect the answers are in the research pavilion.”

  A man cannot drink from a mirage, but he can drown in it.

  — Fremen Wisdom

  After assessing the reconnaissance information obtained by Hiih Resser’s scoutship, the joint Harkonnen-Moritani assault force descended into the skies of Caladan. Beast Rabban was surrounded by firepower, but he still felt nervous.

  He flew his own ship at the vanguard of the cobbled-together fleet, ostensibly leading the charge, though he wisely hung close to the heavy assault vessel piloted by the Grumman Swordmaster, Resser. Viscount Moritani commanded the foremost troop carrier, ready to secure Caladan from the ground, terrorize the villagers, and lock down control of the Atreides cities. They intended to stop Duke Leto from ever setting foot on the planet again.

  As he flew down through the clouds, ready for the adrenaline rush of destruction, Rabban wondered how House Harkonnen and House Moritani would divide the spoils of this conquest for “joint occupation.” His barrel stomach twisted with a knot of queasiness. The Baron would have demanded the lion’s share of benefits from this operation.

  Rabban grasped the controls of his attack ship with sweaty fingers, remembering when he had secretly fired upon the two Tleilaxu transports within a Heighliner hold, attempting a too-subtle blow against the untrained young Duke Leto Atreides. Personally, Rabban preferred to be more overt than that.

  If Caladan was truly as exposed as Resser’s scoutship suggested, then this whole operation would be over within an hour. The Harkonnen heir couldn’t believe Duke Atreides would have made such an error in judgment, even for only a few days. But his uncle had often said that a good leader must constantly remain on the lookout for mistakes and be prepared to exploit them at a moment’s notice.

  The attackers would take control of the Castle and city as well as the spaceport and adjacent military base. By maintaining their hold on a few key places, the Grumman-Harkonnen forces could quickly secure their conquest and then prepare to ambush any Atreides forces returning home. In addition, Giedi Prime and Grumman were prepared to send full-scale reinforcements, once this preliminary operation was completed.

  But Rabban worried about long-term political repercussions: a Landsraad protest by Duke Leto might be followed by joint military operations and/or sanctions and embargoes. It could be a dicey situation, and Rabban hoped he hadn’t made another bad decision.

  En route, before they had launched their forces, Hundro Moritani had sat on the command bridge of his troop carrier, dismissing the concerns. “The Duke doesn’t even have an heir. If our position here is secure, who other than the Atreides would risk challenging us? Who would bother?” Rabban detected the ragged edge of madness in the Viscount’s tone, and in the fiery glimmer behind his eyes.

  Swordmaster Resser broke in over the comchannel, “All ships are prepared to proceed with the attack. It is your lead, Lord Rabban.”

  Drawing a deep breath of the cockpit’s reprocessed air, Rabban dropped through the blanket of mist. The ships followed him like a stampede of deadly animals, ready to trample anything that got in their way.

  “We have the coordinates for Cala City,” Resser said. “It should be appearing in front of us momentarily.”

  “Damn this cloud cover.” Rabban leaned forward to squint through the cockpit window. When the obscuring mist finally cleared, he could see the bay and the ocean, the rocky cliffs holding tall Castle Caladan… and the large city, spaceport, and military base beyond.

  Then cries of surprise and confusion erupted across the comchannels. Below, in the ocean surrounding Cala City, Rabban saw dozens— no, hundreds!— of battleships on the water, and floating defensive platforms that moved across the waves in a mobile fortress. “It’s a gigantic fleet!”

  “Those ships were not there yesterday,” Swordmaster Resser said. “They must have been moved in overnight to defend the Castle.”

  “But on the water?” The Viscount could not believe what he was seeing. “Why would Leto disperse such important firepower on the water? That hasn’t been done for… centuries.”

  “This is a trap!” Rabban cried.

  Just then, Thufir Hawat called in every single warship that had accompanied his escort of relief carriers to Beakkal. The armed air-and-space vessels zoomed over the Castle parapets, then split up and circled around, performing aerial maneuvers in an intimidating show of strength. Dozens of hangar doors in the military base slowly opened, implying that many more attack craft had not yet been launched.

  “Leto Atreides lured us here!” Rabban pounded the control panel. “He wants to crush us and subject our Houses to Landsraad punishment.”

  Cursing the Viscount for talking him into this ill-advised assault, Rabban yanked his controls and sent his vanguard vessel streaking back into the clouds. Over the comchannel he gave orders for all Harkonnen vessels to break off the attack. “Retreat. Now— before our ships are identified.”

  From his command bridge, Viscount Moritani shouted orders that the Grumman soldiers should strike anyway. But in the lead, Hiih Resser concurred with Rabban. Choosing not to hear the orders of the Viscount, he issued instructions for his ships to pull out and rendezvous in orbit.

  Below, the floating fortresses on the water and the highly maneuverable battleships began to raise big guns toward the targets in the sky. It seemed obvious that alarms had been sounded, that the defensive forces were ready to retaliate.

  Rabban flew faster, praying that he could get out of this situation before he caused further humiliation and damage to House Harkonnen. The last time he had made such a mistake, the Baron had exiled him to miserable Lankiveil for a full year. He didn’t want to imagine what his punishment would be this time.

  The fleet would reconvene on the dark side of the planet and then head out of the system, hoping that they could meet with the next inbound Heighliner. Rabban knew that was the only way he could save his own skin.

  * * *

  Standing out on the rocky point by the lighthouse statues, Thufir Hawat direc
ted the maneuvers from a portable comconsole. He instructed his few airships to make another aggressive overflight for good measure. But the disguised attackers were already on the run, surprised and embarrassed.

  He wondered who they were. None of the enemy ships had been hit, so no wreckage had been left behind. It would have been preferable to defeat them in a military engagement and take evidence, but he had done everything possible under nearly impossible circumstances.

  From history, Thufir knew this tactic had been used during the Butlerian Jihad and before. Such a trick could not be used often— perhaps not again in the near future— but it had served its purpose for now.

  He looked up at the clouds and watched the last of the would-be invaders disappear. They probably assumed Atreides forces intended to pursue them, but the Mentat didn’t dare leave Caladan undefended again….

  The next day, after receiving confirmation that the intruders had boarded a Heighliner and left the system for good, Thufir Hawat called in the scattered fishing boats in the waters around the Castle. He thanked the captains for their service and instructed them to return all hologenerators to the Atreides armories, before resuming their fishing runs.

  It is not easy for some men to know they have done evil, for reasoning and honor are often clouded by pride.

  — LADY JESSICA, JOURNAL ENTRY

  As he fled through the imperial palace carrying the kidnapped baby, Piter de Vries made decisions based on instinct and split-second assessments. Mentat decisions. He did not regret taking advantage of a brief and unexpected opportunity, but he wished he could have planned an actual escape route. The infant squirmed in his hands, but he tightened his grip.

  If de Vries could make it out of the Palace, the Baron would be so pleased.

  After bounding down a steep service stairway, the interim Harkonnen Ambassador kicked open a door and lunged into a narrow, alabaster-arched hallway. He paused to recall his mental map of the labyrinthine Palace, determining where he was. Thus far, he had taken random turns and passages in order to be unpredictable, and to avoid curious courtiers and Palace guards. After an instant of introspection, he recognized that this corridor led toward the study and play rooms used by the Emperor’s daughters.

  De Vries stuffed a corner of the blanket into the infant’s mouth to suppress its crying, then reconsidered as the baby began to thrash and choke. When he removed the cloth, the child wailed even louder than before.

  He sprinted through the structural nucleus of the Palace, his feet whispering across the floor. Closer to the Princesses’ quarters, the walls and ceiling were of pitted crimson rock imported from Salusa Secundus. The simple architecture and lack of adornment stood in stark contrast with the opulent sections of the sprawling residence. Though they were Imperial offspring, Shaddam lavished few fineries on his unwanted daughters, and his wife Anirul seemed to be raising them in Bene Gesserit austerity.

  A series of plaz windows lined the hallway on both sides, and the Mentat glanced into each room as he ran past. This Atreides brat counted for little. If the situation took a dramatic downturn, he might need a Corrino daughter hostage instead to improve his bargaining position.

  Or would the Emperor even care?

  During his months of careful observation and planning, de Vries had set up two separate hiding places in the Imperial Office Complex, accessible through tunnels and passageways that linked it with the Palace. His ambassadorial credentials granted him the access he needed. Run faster! He knew ways of contacting groundcar drivers, and thought he might reach the spaceport, even under alarms and crackdowns.

  But something had to be done to quiet this child.

  Rounding a turn he nearly bumped into a boyish-faced Sardaukar soldier, who obviously thought the uniformed de Vries was another guard. “Hey, what’s the matter with the baby?” Then a voice crackled in his com-ear.

  Trying to distract him from the transmission, de Vries said, “Trouble upstairs! Just getting him to safety. I guess we’re baby-sitters now.” With his left hand, he shoved the wrapped infant into the other man’s face. “Here, take him.”

  When the surprised soldier faltered, de Vries used his other hand to slam a dagger into his exposed side. Without bothering to make certain the soldier was dead, de Vries ran on with the baby in one arm and the dagger in his free hand. He realized, belatedly, that he was leaving too much of a trail behind.

  Just ahead, he saw a flash of blonde hair. Someone had looked out of a room and ducked back inside, behind the hall windows. One of Shaddam’s daughters? A witness?

  He sidestepped to the room, ducked inside, but didn’t see her. The girl must be hiding behind furniture or under the filmbook-strewn desk. Some toys that belonged to little Chalice were scattered about, but the nursemaid must have taken the child away. Still, he sensed a presence. Someone was hiding.

  The oldest daughter… Irulan?

  She might have seen him murder the guard, and he could not allow her to notify anyone. His disguise would keep her from identifying him later, but that wouldn’t help if he was caught with the brat in his hands, scarlet stains on his uniform, blood on his knife blade. Warily, he strode deeper into the chamber, his muscles coiled. He noticed a doorway on the opposite wall, slightly ajar.

  “Come out and play, Irulan!”

  At a noise behind him, he whirled.

  The Emperor’s wife moved with uncharacteristic awkwardness, not the smooth, gliding manner so typical of the witches. She did not look well.

  Anirul saw the baby and recognized it as Jessica’s newborn son. Then startled realization flashed across her face as she noticed the Mentat’s smudged makeup, the too-red lips. “I know you.” She detected murder in the disguised man’s eyes— a willingness to do anything.

  All the voices-within shouted warnings simultaneously. Anirul grimaced in pain and grabbed her temples.

  Seeing her falter, de Vries lashed out with the dagger, as swiftly as a venomous serpent.

  Though fogged by the clamor tormenting her, the Kwisatz Mother went into a blur of motion, darting to one side with suddenly restored Bene Gesserit grace and lethal fighting skills. Her speed surprised him, and de Vries was thrown off-balance for just an instant. His knife failed to connect with flesh.

  From within her sleeve Anirul removed a favored weapon of the Sisterhood and grabbed de Vries by his sinewy neck. She held a poison gom jabbar at his throat, the silver needle tip glittering with poison.

  “You know what this is, Mentat. Surrender the child, or die.”

  * * *

  “What’s being done to find my son?” Duke Leto stood beside Chamberlain Ridondo, looking at the carnage inside the birthing room.

  Ridondo’s high forehead glistened with perspiration. “There will be an investigation, of course. All suspects will be interviewed.”

  “Interviewed? You make it sound so polite.” The two Medical Sisters lay butchered on the floor. Closer to the door, a Sardaukar had been stabbed to death. Nearby, Jessica had struggled groggily on the birthing bed. So close. The assassin could have killed her too! He raised his voice. “I am talking about now, sir. Has the Palace been sealed off? My son’s life is at stake.”

  “I assume the Palace Guard is taking care of all security matters.” Ridondo tried to sound placating. “I suggest we leave it in the hands of professionals.”

  “You assume? Who is in charge here?”

  “The Emperor is not currently present to command the Sardaukar, Duke Leto. Certain lines of authority must be—”

  Leto stormed out into the corridor, where he spotted a Levenbrech. “Have you sealed off the Palace and all surrounding buildings?”

  “We are handling the matter, sir. Please do not interfere.”

  “Interfere?” Leto’s gray eyes flashed. “An attack has been made upon my son and his mother.” He looked at the security name tag on the officer’s lapel. “Levenbrech Stivs, under the Emergency Powers Act I am assuming command of the Palace Guard. Do you understand?
”

  “No, my Lord, I do not.” The officer rested his hand on a stun-baton at his waist. “You have no authority to—”

  “If you draw that weapon against me, you are a dead man, Stivs. I am a Duke of the Landsraad and blood cousin of Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV. You have no right to countermand my orders, especially not in this matter.” His features hardened, and he felt the hot flow of blood in his arteries.

  The officer hesitated, looked over the angry Duke’s shoulder at Ridondo.

  “The kidnapping of my son on Palace property is an attack against House Atreides, and I demand my rights under the Landsraad Charter. This is an emergency military situation, and in the absence of the Emperor and his Supreme Bashar, my authority exceeds any man’s.”

  Chamberlain Ridondo took a moment to think. “Duke Atreides is correct. Do as he says.”

  The Sardaukar guards seemed impressed by the Atreides nobleman and his quick, firm grasp of command. Stivs barked into a com-unit on his lapel, “Seal off the Palace, all surrounding buildings, and the commons. Begin a thorough search for the person who has kidnapped the newborn son of Duke Leto Atreides. During this crisis, the Duke is temporarily in charge of the Palace Guard. Follow his orders.”

  With a quick motion, Leto removed the officer’s com-unit and secured it to the lapel of his own red uniform. “Get yourself another one.” Breathing hard, he pointed down the corridor. “Stivs, take half of these men and search the north section of this level. The rest of you, come with me.”

  Leto accepted a stun-baton but kept one hand on the jeweled hilt of the ceremonial dagger the Emperor had given him years earlier. If his son had been harmed in any way, a mere stun-baton would not be sufficient.

  * * *