With Anirul’s gom jabbar pressed against his throat, Piter de Vries froze in place. Just a prick, a tiny scratch, and the poison would kill him instantly. Anirul’s hands trembled too much for the Mentat’s comfort.
“I cannot defeat you,” he said in the barest of whispers, careful not to move his larynx. His fingers loosened their hold on the blanket-wrapped child. Would that be enough to divert her attention? Make her hesitate for just an instant.
In his other hand he held the bloodied dagger.
Anirul tried to separate her own thoughts from the ever-increasing clamor within. While four of her daughters were too young to understand, the eldest— Irulan— had watched her mother’s physical and mental degeneration. She was sorry that Irulan had to see that, wished she could have spent more time with her daughter, raising her to be a prime Bene Gesserit.
Knowing a murderer was loose in the Palace, the Emperor’s wife had come to the study and play rooms to make certain her children were safe. It had been the brave, impulsive act of a mother.
The Mentat flinched, and she pushed harder with the needle, attuned to his every impulse. A diamond of perspiration glistened on his forehead and rolled slowly down his powdered temple. The little tableau seemed to last forever.
The baby squirmed in his arms. Even though this was not the infant the Sisterhood had anticipated for their all-important plans, it was still a link to a web more complex than even Anirul could comprehend. As the Kwisatz Mother, her life had been focused on bringing about the final steps in the breeding program, first arranging for the birth of Jessica herself, and then her baby.
The genetic linkages had become increasingly pure after millennia of refinement. But in human birth, even with the powers and talents of Bene Gesserit breeding mothers, nothing could be guaranteed. Odds and percentages prevailed, never certainty. After ten thousand years, was it possible to be accurate to within a single generation? Could this baby be the One?
She looked into the child’s alert, intelligent eyes. Even so newly born, the little fellow had a presence about him, a steadiness in how he held his head. She felt a stirring inside her mind, a rumbling, unintelligible cacophony. Are you the One, the Kwisatz Haderach? Have you arrived a generation early?
“Perhaps… we should discuss this,” de Vries said, barely moving his mouth. “An impasse serves neither of us.”
“Perhaps I should waste no more time and just kill you.”
The voices kept trying to tell her something, to warn her, but in the turmoil she couldn’t understand. What if she had been sent to these rooms in the Palace, not to check on her own daughters, but to save this special child?
She heard a babble of voices like an oncoming tsunami— and remembered her intense dream of a worm fleeing across the desert from a silent pursuer. But the pursuer was no longer quiet. It was a multitude.
A clear voice broke through the cacophony: old Lobia, with her wry, all-knowing voice, speaking in a soothing tone. Anirul saw the words coming from the kidnapper’s sapho-stained mouth, a wavering reflection in the windowplaz fronting the hallway.
You will join us soon. Her moment of shock caused her to jerk back. The gom jabbar slipped from her grasp and tumbled toward the floor. Inside her head, Lobia’s voice screamed out a desperate warning, breaking through the background noise. Beware the Mentat!
Before the silver needle could even strike the tiles, de Vries had already brought the dagger up in a blur, slicing through black robes and deep into her flesh.
As the first gasp exploded from Anirul’s mouth, he struck again, and a third time, like a heat-maddened viper.
The gom jabbar hit the floor with a sound like shattering crystal.
Now the voices roared around Anirul, louder and clearer, drowning out the pain. “The child has been born, the future changed.…”
“We see a fragment of the plan, a tile of the mosaic.”
“Understand this— the Bene Gesserit plan is not the only one.”
“Wheels within wheels—”
“Within wheels—”
“Within wheels—”
Lobia’s voice sounded louder than all the rest, more comforting. “Come with us, observe more… observe it all.”
Lady Anirul Corrino’s dying lips trembled with what might have been a smile, and she knew suddenly that this one child would reshape the galaxy after all and change the course of humanity more than the hoped-for Kwisatz Haderach ever could.
She felt herself falling to the floor. Anirul could not see through the mists of her approaching death, but she understood one thing with absolute certainty.
The Sisterhood will endure.
* * *
Even as the Kwisatz Mother collapsed beside her poison needle, de Vries was running back out into the hallway with the hostage baby. They slipped through a side passageway.
“You’d better be worth all this trouble,” he muttered to the wrapped infant. Now that he had killed the Emperor’s wife, Piter de Vries wondered if he would ever get out of the Palace alive.
All proofs inevitably lead to propositions that have no proof. All things are known because we want to believe in them.
— Bene Gesserit Azhar Book
Aboard his orbiting flagship, Emperor Shaddam Corrino had no intention of returning to Kaitain while the audit of Harkonnen spice operations on Arrakis continued. And once CHOAM declared the Baron guilty, he had something else in mind. Something drastic. This was his window of opportunity and he could not ignore it.
From his private cabin, Shaddam watched events unfold exactly as he had hoped. Though he wore a military uniform, his opulent Imperial quarters were filled with amenities unfamiliar to the austere Sardaukar.
Sealed behind the opaque cabin doors, he summoned the Supreme Bashar to join him for a gourmet meal— ostensibly to discuss strategy, but in truth the Emperor just liked to hear war stories about the old soldier’s military campaigns. In Zum Garon’s early years, he had been a training-prisoner on Salusa Secundus, a slave picked up during a raid on a distant planet. Though poorly armed and untrained, Garon had shown so much bravery and fighting skill that the Sardaukar had drafted him into their ranks. The man was quite a success story, and his son Cando seemed to be following in the old veteran’s footsteps, commanding the secret legions stationed on Ix.
Relaxing for a moment after the meal, Shaddam looked across the table at Garon’s craggy face. The Supreme Bashar had eaten only sparingly of the exotic dishes and had been a disappointing dinner companion. Garon seemed preoccupied with the siege of Arrakis.
The cluster of Guild ships continued to lock down all activity on the deserts below, and Shaddam waited with the eagerness of a malicious gossip to learn what embarrassing errors and cover-ups the inspectors had found.
In this matter, CHOAM and the Spacing Guild were convinced they were the Emperor’s allies, integral parts of a crackdown on House Harkonnen. The Emperor could only hope he’d be able to eradicate the only natural source of melange before they suspected the truth. Then they would have to come to him for amal.
When a shuttle bearing the Guild Legate and the CHOAM Mentat-Auditor arrived from Carthag, Sardaukar escorts brought the two visitors to Shaddam’s opulent cabin. Both men reeked of melange.
“We are finished, Sire.”
Shaddam poured himself a glass of honey-sweet Caladan wine. Across the table, Zum Garon sat with rigid military posture, as if he were about to be interrogated. The Guild Legate and Mentat-Auditor remained silent until the cabin door was sealed shut.
The Mentat stepped forward first, holding out a scribing pad onto which he had transferred the mental summary of his results. “Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has committed a profusion of transgressions. He has allowed numerous purported ‘mistakes’ to remain uncorrected. We have proof of his missteps, as well as details that show he attempted to conceal his manipulations from us.”
“As I suspected.” Shaddam listened while the auditor gave him a synopsis of the illegal activities.
Shaddam took the summary pad from the Mentat-Auditor and scanned the text and numbers. None of it would mean much to him unless he sat for hours with an interpreter— something he had no intention of doing. He had been convinced of the Baron’s guilt from the outset.
“We have clear evidence of crimes against the Imperium,” the Legate said, sounding oddly uneasy. “Unfortunately, Sire… we did not find what we sought.”
Shaddam held up the scribing pad. “What do you mean? Does this not show how House Harkonnen broke Imperial law? Does he not deserve to be punished?”
“It is true that the Baron stockpiled spice, doctored production numbers, and avoided Imperial taxes. But we have tested sample after sample of the spice in Harkonnen shipments and cargo facilities. Every scrap of melange is pure, with no evidence of tainting.” The albino Legate hesitated. Shaddam looked impatient.
“This is not what we expected, Sire. We know from our analysis that the Navigators in our lost Heighliners died from contaminated spice gas. We also know that samples taken from the liquidated Beakkal stockpile of melange were chemically corrupt. Therefore, we had expected to discover impurities here on Arrakis, inert substances used by the Baron to extend the quantity of melange while diluting its quality— thereby introducing the subtle poisons that resulted in several disasters.”
“But we found nothing of that nature,” the Mentat concluded.
The Supreme Bashar leaned forward, his hands locked in a double fist. “Nevertheless, we still have enough evidence to remove House Harkonnen.”
The Guild Legate inhaled deeply, bowing his nose close to the diffuser collar. “Quite so, but that will not answer our questions.”
Shaddam formed his lips into what he hoped was a concerned frown. He wished Fenring could be here to watch this, but even now his Spice Minister should be preparing the initial shipments of amal. Pieces were fitting into place nicely.
“I see. Well, nevertheless, the Bashar and I will determine a suitable response,” he said. Within a few days, the matter would be moot. He stared down at the Mentat’s scribing pad. “We must study this information. Perhaps my personal advisors can offer a theory to explain the altered spice.”
Knowing his Emperor’s moods, and sensing that the two guests were dismissed, Zum Garon rose from the table and began to usher them out.
After the door sealed again, Shaddam turned to his Supreme Bashar. “As soon as the shuttle has returned to its Heighliner, I want you to sound battle stations throughout the fleet. Dispatch my warships and take up positions within direct firing range of Carthag, Arrakeen, Arsunt, and every other population center on the planet.”
Garon received this bombshell with a stony expression. “Just like on Zanovar, Sire?”
“Precisely.”
* * *
Issuing no warning, the Sardaukar armada descended from the Heighliners until they scraped the atmosphere of Arrakis. Their weapons ports opened and glowed with a readiness to strike. Shaddam sat on the command bridge, issuing orders and making pronouncements into a holorecorder, more for his memoirs and posterity than for anything else.
“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has been found guilty of high crimes against the Empire. Independent CHOAM auditors and Guild inspectors have uncovered incontrovertible evidence to support this judgment. As I demonstrated on Zanovar and Korona, my law is the law of the Imperium. Corrino justice is swift and complete.”
The Guild would undoubtedly assume he was bluffing at first, but they were in for a rude surprise. With his forces already dispersed, once the rain of destruction began, it would take his Sardaukar little time to blacken the desert world, and obliterate all melange.
Guild Navigators required huge quantities of spice. The Bene Gesserit were steady customers as well, consuming increasing amounts each year as their numbers grew. Most of the Landsraad was addicted. The Imperium could never do without the substance.
I am their Emperor, and they will do as I say.
Even without the advice of Count Fenring, he had thought this over carefully, considering all possibilities. Once he destroyed Arrakis, what could the Guild do? Leave in their ships and strand him here? They wouldn’t dare. Then they would never receive a single gram of synthetic spice.
He signed off and began the countdown to full bombardment.
Things will be different in the Imperium after this.
My life ended the day the Tleilaxu invaded this world. All these years of fighting back, I have been a dead man, with nothing more to lose.
— C’TAIR PILRU, SECRET JOURNALS (FRAGMENT)
Skirmishes continued underground among the Ixian manufactories and technological centers. The suboids, their anger and frustration unleashed, tore uniforms from slain Sardaukar soldiers, grabbed weapons, and fired indiscriminately, destroying the few remaining production lines.
Behind Rhombur, a Tleilaxu statue erected to honor the invaders had been decapitated in the fighting, and fragments of its alloy head lay scattered about on the pavement. “This will never end.”
Allied with Ixian rebels, Atreides troops had succeeded in retaking the stalactite buildings, the tunnels, and the Grand Palais itself. Pockets of frenzied Sardaukar fought on the open cavern floor, where House Vernius had once built Heighliners. The bloodshed did not seem to ebb.
“We need another ally,” C’tair suggested. “If we can prove that flawed artificial spice resulted in the deaths of two Navigators— including my brother— the Spacing Guild will stand with us.”
“They have already said as much,” Rhombur said. “But we had thought to complete this action without their interference.”
Gurney looked concerned. “The Guild isn’t here, and we can’t bring them fast enough.”
C’tair’s dark eyes gleamed— bloodshot, but full of determination. “I might be able to.”
He led them to a small warehouse that appeared abandoned. Rhombur watched while C’tair lovingly removed the hodgepodge construction of his rogo transmitter from a locked storage container. The strange device appeared stained and singed, with evidence of frequent repairs. It was studded with crystalline power rods.
His hands trembled as he held it. “Even I don’t know exactly how this thing works. It’s configured to the electrochemistry of my own mind, and I was able to communicate with my twin brother. We shared a bond once. Although his brain changed and passed far beyond any definition of humanity, I could still understand him.”
Memories of D’murr welled up in him like tears, but he drove them back. His hands trembled on the controls.
“Now my brother is dead, and our rogo is damaged. This is the last crystal rod, one that was somehow… repaired in my last communication with D’murr. Perhaps… if I use sufficient power, I can send at least a whisper to other Navigators. They might not understand all of my words, but they may hear the urgency.”
Rhombur was overwhelmed by everything happening around him. He had not envisioned anything like this, and said, “If you can bring the Guild here, we will do our best to show them what Shaddam has been doing behind a cloak of secrecy.”
C’tair squeezed Rhombur’s artificial arm so hard that the cyborg sensors detected the pressure. “I have always been willing to do whatever is necessary, my Prince. If I can help, it would be my greatest honor.”
Rhombur saw a strange determination in the man’s eyes, an obsession that went beyond rational thought. “Do it.”
C’tair grabbed electrode leads and attached sensors to his scalp, the back of his head, and his throat. “I don’t know the capacity of this device, but I intend to use all the energy I can pump through it, and through me.” He grinned. “This will be a shout of triumph and a cry for help, my loudest message to the outside.”
When the rogo was fully powered, C’tair took a deep breath for cour
age. In the past, he always spoke aloud during transmissions to D’murr, but he knew his brother did not actually hear the words. Instead, the Navigator picked up the thoughts that accompanied the speech. This time, C’tair would say nothing out loud, and would instead concentrate all of his energy on projecting his thoughts across the vast distances.
Pressing a transmit button, he sent a fusillade of thought, a volley of desperate signals directed to any Guild Navigator who could hear, a cosmic mayday. He didn’t know whether the rogo or his brain would fail first, but he felt them connecting… and reaching out.
C’tair’s jaw clenched, his lips drew back, and his eyes squeezed shut until tears flowed from them. Sweat poured from his forehead and temples. His skin turned ruby red. Blood vessels bulged at his temples.
This transmission was exponentially more powerful than anything he had ever attempted with D’murr. But this time he did not have the inexplicable mental connection of his twin.
Rhombur saw C’tair dying from the effort, literally killing himself in a great final attempt to use the transmitter. The haggard rebel screamed soundlessly inside his skull.
Before they could disconnect him, the rogo transmitter sparked and burned. The machine overloaded, and its circuits fused. The crystal rods shattered into black snowflakes. C’tair’s face bore a strangled expression; his features tightened as if in unspeakable pain. Synapses melted inside his brain, preventing him from uttering a sound.
With his one remaining hand, Rhombur yanked the sensor leads from the rebel’s head and neck, but C’tair collapsed to the floor of the storage chamber. His teeth chattered, his body twitched, and his smoking eyes never opened again.
“He’s gone,” Gurney said.
In a deep well of sadness, Rhombur cradled the fallen rebel, this most loyal of all people who had ever served House Vernius. “After such a long fight, sleep in peace, my friend. Rest well on free soil.” He stroked the cooling skin.
The cyborg Prince stood, his scarred face more grim than ever, and made his way out of the storage chamber, followed by Gurney Halleck. Rhombur did not know if C’tair’s transmission had succeeded, or how the Guild might respond to the call across space, if they heard it at all.
Dune: House Corrino Page 52