Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  But unless they received reinforcements soon, the day’s battle might be for naught.

  The Ixian nobleman spoke in a deep, implacable voice to the Atreides fighters around him. “Let us finish this.”

  To produce the genetic alteration of an organism, place it in an environment which is dangerous but not lethal.

  — Tleilaxu Apocrypha

  After the messy death of Hidar Fen Ajidica, Count Fenring saw the Atreides troops actually winning their battle against the Imperial Sardaukar.

  A most disturbing development.

  It astonished him that after so many years Duke Leto Atreides would authorize such a blatant military move. Perhaps the family tragedies that would have crushed any other man had actually galvanized him into action.

  Still, it was a brilliant surprise strategy, and these Ixian facilities would be an impressive economic prize for a Great House like Atreides, even after decades of Tleilaxu mismanagement and detrimental maintenance. Fenring couldn’t believe Duke Leto would just blithely hand them over to Prince Rhombur.

  On the comscreen of the research pavilion, Fenring watched Atreides soldiers approaching the complex. That left him with little time to accomplish what was necessary. He had to erase all evidence of Project Amal and his own culpability.

  The Emperor would seek a scapegoat for the research debacle, and Fenring was determined that he would not fill that role. Master Researcher Ajidica had failed spectacularly and now lay smashed among the bovine bodies of brain-dead women. Several bloated axlotl females, still connected to tubes in their coffinlike boxes, had fallen around the little man in a parody of bizarre sexuality.

  Ajidica’s stigmata-studded body might serve one final purpose….

  The remaining Tleilaxu scientists were frightened. The Sardaukar had rushed to the main battle and abandoned them here in the research pavilion. Knowing the Count was the Emperor’s official representative, the Tleilaxu looked to him for advice. Some of them might even believe he “Fenring” was the Face Dancer replica Zoal, as Ajidica had originally planned. Maybe they would follow his orders, at least for a short time.

  Fenring stood on the catwalk and raised his hands in much the way Ajidica had done before his histrionic demise. Foul odors bubbled up from the smashed axlotl tanks, including the thick stench of human waste products.

  “We are left defenseless,” he shouted, “but I have an idea that may save you all, hmmm?” The surviving researchers stared up at him with uncertainty bordering on hope.

  Fenring knew the layout of the research pavilion, and his eyes flicked back and forth. “You are all too valuable for the Emperor to risk losing you.” He directed the scientists to a secure laboratory chamber that had only one exit. “You must take shelter there and remain hidden. I will bring reinforcements.”

  He counted twenty-eight researchers, though a few others must be trapped in outlying administrative buildings. Ah well, the mobs would take care of them.

  Fenring scuttled down from the catwalk to the main floor. When the doomed scientists had crowded into the single chamber, he stood in the doorway smiling. “No one can get to you here. Shhhh.” He nodded and then sealed the door. “Leave it to me.”

  The foolish little men didn’t even imagine something was amiss until he had walked halfway across the broad floor of the pavilion. He ignored their muffled shouts and fist-hammerings. Those researchers probably knew every detail about the amal program. To keep them from talking, he might have been inconvenienced by having to kill each one of them. This way, he could take care of the problem much more efficiently, with minimal effort. As Imperial Spice Minister he was, after all, a busy man.

  The lab floor and the support systems for the axlotl tanks were filled with canisters of biological hazards, flammable substances, acids, and explosive vapors. He donned a breathing filter apparatus from an emergency station on one wall. A man of many talents, he moved through the chamber like a dervish, dumping fluids, mixing liquids, releasing deadly gases. He paid little heed to the twitching female bodies in disarray on the floor, grossly reengineered by the Tleilaxu to produce synthetic spice.

  So close. Ajidica’s plan had almost worked.

  Fenring stopped by the sightless husk of the fertile young woman who had been Cristane, the Bene Gesserit commando. He studied her naked flesh; her abdomen bulged outward, the uterus stretched into a factory designed to serve Tleilaxu purposes. Nothing more than a machine now, a chemical facility.

  As he gazed upon Cristane’s waxy face, Fenring thought of his remarkably beautiful wife Margot, still on Kaitain, no doubt gossiping at Court and sipping tea. He looked forward to getting back to her and relaxing in her arms.

  This Sister Cristane would never send her damning report back to Wallach IX, and Fenring would not let any details slip, not even to his wife. He and Margot loved each other deeply, but that didn’t mean they would share all of their secrets.

  Fenring heard military activity outside the buildings as Atreides forces encountered the remaining floor-level Sardaukar. The Imperial troops would hold them off for a while, long enough.

  He strolled to the high-arched outer chambers and turned back to look at the chaos in the laboratory: smashed canisters, puddled noxious fluids, bubbling gases, bodies, tanks. From here, he could no longer hear the desperate pounding of the Tleilaxu scientists locked inside their death trap.

  Count Fenring tossed an ignitor over his shoulder, deep into the facility. The gases and chemicals burst quickly into flames, but he had time to depart with his usual lounging gait. Concussions boomed behind him.

  The laboratories burned in his wake— destroying the axlotl tanks, the amal research, and all evidence— but Fenring didn’t bother to hurry.

  * * *

  The research pavilion exploded as Duncan Idaho and his men penetrated the Imperial barricades, allowing the Atreides soldiers to charge forward.

  A tremendous boom echoed through the facility, and everyone took cover. Debris spouted through the roof of the pavilion like a volcanic eruption; the inner walls collapsed. Within moments, the lab complex became an inferno of melted glass, plasteel, and flesh.

  Duncan held his men back from the growing fire. His heart sank to know that all proof of the Tleilaxu crimes was being incinerated. Roiling brown-and-orange vapors spewed upward, toxic smoke that could kill them as surely as the flames themselves.

  The Swordmaster saw a lean, broad-shouldered man stride out, totally unconcerned. His silhouette was muscular against the orange wall of heat. The man removed a breathing apparatus from his face and tossed it aside. He held a short fighting sword, such as the Sardaukar carried. Duncan raised the Old Duke’s blade in a defensive posture, stepping forward to block this man’s passage.

  Count Hasimir Fenring came forward without hesitation. “Aren’t you going to cheer the fact that I’ve escaped, hmmm? Cause for celebration, I’d say. My friend Shaddam will be overjoyed.”

  “I know you,” Duncan said, remembering his months of political instruction on a sun-drenched island on the Ginaz archipelago. “You’re the fox who hides behind the Emperor’s cape and commits dirty work for him.”

  Fenring smiled. “A fox? I’ve been called a weasel and a ferret before, but never a fox. Hmmm. I have been held here against my will. Those evil Tleilaxu researchers meant to perform terrible experiments on me.” His large eyes widened. “I even foiled a plot that was intended to replace me with a Face Dancer duplicate.”

  Duncan stepped closer, his sword half-raised. “It will be interesting to hear your testimony in front of an investigation board.”

  “I think not.” Fenring seemed to be losing his sense of amusement. He slashed out with his short sword, as if swatting a fly, but Duncan parried quickly. The blades clanged, and the short sword was deflected upward, but Fenring maintained his grip on its hilt.

  “You dare to raise a blade against the Emperor’s Spice Minister, against Shaddam’s closest friend?” Fenring was frustrated, though still
slightly amused. “You’d best step aside and let me pass.”

  But Duncan pressed forward, taking a more aggressive stance. “I am a Swordmaster of Ginaz, and I have fought many Sardaukar today. If you are not our enemy, then throw down your weapon. You would be wise not to face me as an opponent.”

  “I killed men before you were even born, pup.”

  The laboratory fire continued to build. The hot air stank of roiling chemicals. Duncan’s eyes stung and watered. Atreides soldiers closed in to protect their Swordmaster, but he waved them off, honor-bound to fight this one by himself.

  The Count pressed his attack. He usually killed through devious means, rarely in open combat against a worthy opponent. Still, he possessed many fighting skills that Duncan had not previously encountered.

  Lunging toward his rival, the Swordmaster growled through clenched teeth. “I have seen too many casualties in this fight already, but I am not averse to adding you to their number, Count Fenring.” He swung with the Old Duke’s sword, and his blade crashed against his opponent’s upthrust weapon.

  Duncan fought with the finesse of a well-trained Swordmaster, but with an edge of brutality. He did not stand on ceremony or chivalrous principles, unlike many of the swordplay instructors Fenring had heard about or actually met in combat.

  The Count held up the blade to defend himself, and Duncan swung down, concentrating great strength into a single blow. The Old Duke’s sword rang, and a notch appeared on the blade. But Fenring’s weapon thrummed in his hand— and shattered from the blow. The momentum knocked him into a wall.

  Fenring scrambled to recover his balance, and Duncan lunged forward, ready to deal the coup de grace, but alert for anything. This fox had many tricks.

  Options flashed through Fenring’s mind. If he wanted to elude the sharp point of his adversary’s blade, he could turn and run back into the raging fire of the laboratory building. Or he could surrender. His choices were indeed limited.

  “The Emperor will ransom my life.” He threw down the hilt of his broken sword. “You wouldn’t dare murder me in cold blood while all these men are watching, hmmm?” Still, Duncan took a menacing step forward. “What about the famous Atreides code of honor? What does Duke Leto stand for, if his men are free to kill a person who has already surrendered, hmmm?” Fenring held up both empty hands. “You wish to slay me now?”

  Duncan knew the Duke would never approve of such a dishonorable action. He watched the laboratory burn and heard the continuing shouts of violent combat outside in the grotto. No doubt Leto could find ways to use this political prisoner to stabilize the Imperial turmoil after the battle for Ix.

  “I serve my Duke before I serve my own heart.” At a signal from the Swordmaster, Atreides men came forward and secured restraints to the prisoner’s wrists.

  Duncan leaned close to him, his breath hot. “In the aftermath of this war, Count Hasimir Fenring, you may wish I had let you die here.”

  The Spice Minister looked at him as if he knew a dark secret. “You haven’t won yet, Atreides.”

  It is no secret that we all have secrets. However, few of them are as veiled as we intend them to be.

  — PITER DE VRIES,

  Mentat Analysis of Landsraad Vulnerabilities, private Harkonnen document

  Under the leadership of Duke Atreides, the Imperial guards spread out in search patterns throughout the Palace grounds. Leto was anguished to leave a weak and exhausted Jessica alone, but he could not wait beside her while his newborn son was in danger.

  He shouted orders and tolerated no hesitation. As he stormed through opulent corridors and confusing mazes of prismatic mirrors, he thought of the ferocity of gaze-hounds who fought to protect their young. Duke Leto would prove that a wronged father could be just as formidable an enemy.

  They have taken my son!

  Haunted by memories of Victor, he swore by House Atreides that no harm would come to this child.

  But the Imperial Palace was the size of a small city, and had been designed with countless hiding places. As the fruitless search continued, Leto tried not to despair.

  * * *

  Piter de Vries was accustomed to having blood on his hands, but now he truly feared for his life. Not only had he kidnapped a noble child, he had killed the Emperor’s wife.

  After he had left Anirul’s body behind him, he sprinted down the corridors, his stolen Sardaukar uniform disheveled and spotted with blood. His heart pounded and his head ached, but despite his extensive training, the Mentat could not reassess and develop a new plan for escape. The makeup on his face was smeared, revealing vivid sapho stains on his lips.

  The blanket-wrapped infant squirmed in his arms, occasionally crying, but for the most part remained surprisingly silent. Set into a fresh pink face, the young eyes burned with a strange intensity, as if this baby understood something beyond the capacity of a normal infant. He was so much different from the fussy, often-annoying, little Feyd-Rautha.

  De Vries tucked the blanket tighter around the tiny body, tempted for a moment to turn the wrappings into a garrote. Suppressing the urge, he ducked into a dimly lit chamber filled with alcoves of trophies and statuettes, a room designed to show off prizes earned by some long-forgotten member of House Corrino who had apparently been a talented archer.

  With sudden shock, he looked up to see the silhouette of a black-robed woman who stood like a specter of death in the doorway, blocking escape.

  “Stop!” barked Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, using the full power of Voice.

  Her command seized his muscles, paralyzed him in his tracks. Mohiam glided into the trophy room, the diffuse light shining like furnace flames on her fury. “Piter de Vries,” she said, recognizing him through the smeared makeup. “I suspected a Harkonnen hand behind this.”

  Struggling to crack the invisible restraint of her command, his mind spun. “Come no closer, witch,” he warned through gritted teeth, “or I will kill the child.” He managed to flex his arms and reassert a minimum of bodily control, but she could always paralyze him again with another utterance.

  De Vries knew about Bene Gesserit fighting abilities. He’d just dueled with the Emperor’s wife and had been surprised to defeat her. But Anirul had suffered from some kind of illness; the mental debility had given him an edge. Mohiam would be a much more formidable opponent.

  “If you murder the baby, you will die with him,” she said.

  “You intend to kill me anyway. I see it in your eyes.” De Vries took a small step forward, brash and defiant, to demonstrate that he had broken her Voice spell. “Why should I not assassinate the Duke’s heir and bring more misery to House Atreides?”

  He took a second step, clutching the infant to his chest like a shield. A quick jerk of his muscles could snap the small neck. Even with her Bene Gesserit reflexes, Mohiam could not be certain of stopping him.

  If he could just bluff his way past her and escape through the doorway of this forgotten room, he could run. Even holding a child, his muscles could carry him faster than this used-up woman would ever be able to go. Unless she had a weapon under that robe other than a poison needle, something she could throw or shoot. Still, he had to try something….

  “This infant is vital to the Bene Gesserit, isn’t he?” de Vries said, stealing a third step. “Part of a breeding scheme, no doubt?” The Mentat watched for any jitter of her facial muscles, instead saw her long fingers flex. Those nails could become razor-sharp claws to slash his eyes, rip out his throat. His heart pounded.

  He raised the baby a little higher to protect his face.

  “Perhaps if you give me the child, I will allow you to pass,” Mohiam said. “I’ll let the Sardaukar hunters deal with you in their own way.”

  She closed the distance and de Vries stiffened, every reflex at the ready, his eyes watching. Should I believe her?

  She touched the blankets with strong fingers, her gaze locked on the Mentat’s, but before she could draw the child into her grasp, de Vries whis
pered hoarsely, “I know your secret, witch. I know the identity of this child. And I know who Jessica really is.”

  Mohiam froze as if he had used Voice against her himself.

  “Does the whore know she’s the daughter of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen?” When he saw her startled reaction to this revelation, he spoke more rapidly, knowing his deduction had been correct. “Does Jessica realize that she is your daughter as well— or do you witches keep such things secret from your children, treating them like puppets in some genetic master plan?”

  Without answering, Mohiam snatched the infant from him. The twisted Mentat stepped back, head held high. “Before you move against me, consider this. Once I learned these things, I compiled full documentation and sealed it where it would be transmitted to Baron Harkonnen and the Landsraad in the event of my death. Won’t Duke Leto Atreides be amused to learn that his beautiful little lover is the daughter of his mortal enemy, the Baron?”

  Mohiam set the wrapped baby down next to one of the archery trophies, in a velva-lined alcove under a saffron-colored light.

  He continued in a rush, intent on convincing her. “I made copies of these documents and secreted them in various places. You cannot stop the message from going out if I am killed.” De Vries took a confident step toward the door and his avenue of escape. “You dare not harm me, witch.”

  With the baby safe, Mohiam turned back to face him. “If what you say is true, Mentat… then I must let you live.”

  De Vries gave a sigh of relief; he knew the Reverend Mother could not risk the revelations. Even the slightest chance that he was not bluffing would be enough to stall her so he could get away.

  Suddenly, Mohiam lunged at him with the full fury of a wounded panther. She struck out in a blur of kicks and punches. De Vries stumbled backward, trying to defend himself, raising a forearm to intercept a vicious slash with her foot.