Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Her beautiful young face a stiff mask, Irulan walked into the chamber as if the milling guards were not even there. “It was a man. He wore a Sardaukar disguise, and makeup on his face. After killing my mother, he ran. I could not see his features well.”

  Leto’s heart went out to the Emperor’s daughter, who stood as motionless as one of the many statues of her father. He thought she showed remarkable poise and cool-headedness. Though clearly shocked and filled with sadness, she maintained control of herself.

  Irulan stared down at her mother’s body as one of the guards covered it with a gray cloak. No tears came to the girl’s bright green eyes; her classically beautiful face could have been an alabaster sculpture.

  He knew the feeling well, a similar lesson his own father had taught him. Grieve only in private moments, when no one can observe you.

  Irulan’s eyes met Mohiam’s, as if together they were erecting battlements. The Princess seemed to know more, something she kept between herself and the aging Reverend Mother. Leto would probably never know the truth.

  “The criminal will be found,” the Duke vowed, holding his son closer. The guards spoke on their com-units and continued the search throughout the Palace.

  Mohiam looked at him. “Lady Anirul gave her life to save your son.” Her expression became pinched, resentful. “Raise him well, Duke Atreides.” She touched the baby boy’s blankets and pushed him against Leto’s chest. “I am sure Shaddam will not rest until he sees justice done to the man who killed his wife.” She stepped back, as if dismissing him. “Go, see your Jessica.”

  Reluctant and suspicious, but recognizing his priorities, Leto proudly carried the infant out of the chambers and headed back to the birthing room, where Jessica awaited him.

  Irulan looked steadily at Mohiam, but not even a hand signal flickered between them. Unknown to anyone, even Mohiam, the Princess had hidden behind a slightly ajar door and watched her mother sacrifice herself for the sake of the newborn baby. She was amazed that such a powerful and reserved woman had placed so much importance on this Atreides infant, born of a mere concubine. What possible reason could there be?

  Why is this child so special?

  War has destroyed mankind’s finest specimens in the past. Our aim has been to limit military conflict in such a way that this does not occur. War has not, in the past, improved the species.

  — SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON, CLASSIFIED MEMOIRS

  Despite the day’s momentous victory, Prince Rhombur Vernius knew that many years of struggle remained ahead in order to effectuate a complete restructuring of Ixian society. But he was up to the task.

  “We’ll bring in the best investigators and forensics experts,” Duncan said, looking at the still-smoldering wreck of the laboratory complex. “The ventilation is clearing the air, but we still can’t go inside the research pavilion. After the fire goes out, they will comb through every ash for evidence. Something must be left, and with any luck it will be enough to bring Count Fenring— and the Emperor— to justice.”

  Rhombur shook his head, holding up a prosthetic arm and looking at the ragged wrist stump. “Even if we are completely victorious here, Shaddam may find some way to worm out of his guilt. If he has that much at stake here, he will try to manipulate the Landsraad against us.”

  Duncan gestured toward the dead who lay all around, and at white-uniformed Atreides medics who were tending to the wounded. “Look how many Imperial troops have been killed here. Do you think Shaddam can ignore it? If he cannot cover it up, he will make some excuse for the Sardaukar presence on Ix and accuse us of treason.”

  “We did what we had to do,” Rhombur said with a firm shake of his head.

  “Nevertheless, House Atreides has taken military action against the Emperor’s soldiers,” Gurney said. “Unless we can find some way to turn this against him, Caladan may be forfeit.”

  * * *

  Stranded and helpless over Arrakis, outraged that his plans had been ruined, and his Imperial presence humiliated before all the Sardaukar, Shaddam issued the most difficult order he had ever given. With jaw clenched and lips curled, he finally turned to old Zum Garon.

  “Tell the fleet to stand down.” He drew a deep breath, narrowing his nostrils. “I rescind the order to fire.”

  As the Imperial warships drew away from the planet into a higher orbit, he looked at his bridge officers in search of a solution. The Sardaukar remained expressionless, but Shaddam could tell that they blamed him for their situation. Even if he landed on the desert planet’s surface, the Emperor would meet only with disdain from Baron Harkonnen.

  I am being made into the laughingstock of the Imperium.

  After an uncomfortable silence, he cut off any questions from the officers by snapping, “Await further orders.”

  In the end, they waited a full day.

  All communications systems on Arrakis remained nonfunctional. Although the Sardaukar fleet could still use its ship-to-ship transmitters, they had no one but themselves to talk to. Marooned.

  He locked himself in his private cabin, unable to believe what the Guild had done to him. At any second, he expected the Guild fleet to return so they could see how contrite their Emperor had become.

  But with the passage of each hour, his hopes began to wane.

  Finally, when he was certain the Sardaukar were on the verge of revolt, a single Heighliner returned, appearing high above the huddled Imperial warships.

  Shaddam had to restrain himself from shouting curses at the vessel or demanding that the Guild return him to Kaitain. Every defense or argument that came to mind sounded childish and weak. And so he let the Guild speak first, to make their demands. He hoped he could tolerate their requirements.

  The bottom cargo hatch of the Heighliner cracked open, and a single ship descended. A message came to the bridge of the flagship. “We have dispatched a shuttle to retrieve the Emperor. Our representative will bring him back to this Heighliner, where we will continue our discussions.”

  Shaddam wanted to rage at the Legate, to insist that no one, not even the Spacing Guild, was in a position to demand his appearance at a meeting. Instead, the humiliated ruler swallowed hard and tried to sound as Imperial as possible. “We shall await the arrival of the shuttle.”

  The Emperor had just enough time to change into formal scarlet-and-gold robes, applying all the trappings and badges of office that he could locate on short notice, before the shuttle arrived. He stood in the landing bay to greet the shuttle, a regal figure that should have made entire populations tremble. Uncomfortably, he thought of long-forgotten Mandias the Terrible, whose dusty tomb was hidden in the Imperial necropolis.

  He was utterly astonished to see Hasimir Fenring step out of the small Guild ship and gesture him aboard. The Count’s expression warned him not to say a word. At the Emperor’s side, Supreme Bashar Garon stood waiting, as if expecting to accompany Shaddam as a personal bodyguard. But Fenring motioned the old veteran back. “This will be a private meeting. I’ll see what I can do to talk the Emperor and the Guild through this, hmmm?”

  Shaddam seethed with rage and embarrassment, and knew the worst was yet to come….

  When the shuttle departed again, the two sat in comfortable chairs, gazing through large portholes at a star-studded universe. For ten thousand years, House Corrino had ruled this vast realm. Below them, the cracked brown globe of Arrakis looked austere and ugly, a wart in an empire of jewels.

  Shaddam suspected their conversation on board would be recorded by eavesdropping Guild spies. Knowing that, Fenring spoke in code, using a private language the two friends had developed as boys. “Everything on Ix is a disaster, Sire. And I see you haven’t done any better here.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ajidica deceived us… as I said he would, hmmm?”

  “What about the amal? I tasted it myself! All the reports told me it was perfect— the Master Researcher, my Sardaukar commander, even you!”

  “That was a Face Dancer, Sire, not me. Amal
is a total failure. Test samples caused the two recent Heighliner accidents. I myself watched our Master Researcher die in convulsions from an overdose of the substance. Hmmm.”

  Shaddam’s head jerked back involuntarily, and all color drained from his face. “My God, when I think of what I almost did to Arrakis!”

  “Amal poisoned your Sardaukar legions on Ix, too, hindering their ability to defend us against the Atreides attackers.”

  “Atreides! On Ix? What—”

  “Your cousin Duke Leto has used his military to restore Rhombur Vernius to the Grand Palais. The Tleilaxu— and your Sardaukar— have been completely overthrown. In any event, I destroyed all of our research and production facilities. No evidence remains to implicate House Corrino.”

  Shaddam purpled, unable to comprehend how completely he had been defeated. “Let us hope.”

  “By the way, you will have to inform your Supreme Bashar that his son was killed in the fighting.”

  “More disasters.” The hawk-faced Emperor, looking haggard and weary, groaned. “So there is no spice substitute? Nothing?”

  “Hmmm, no. Not even a remote possibility.”

  The Emperor sank back in his chair and watched the Heighliner grow huge in front of them.

  Fenring showed obvious disgust. “If you had succeeded in your foolhardy plan to devastate Arrakis, you would have brought an end not only to your reign, but to the entire Imperium. You would have thrown us back to pre-Jihad space travel.” His voice took on a scolding tone and he extended a finger. “I have warned you time and again not to make such decisions without consulting me first. It will be your downfall.”

  The Heighliner swallowed the tiny shuttle like a whale eating a single krill. No Guild representative came to receive the Padishah Emperor, nor did anyone escort him from the shuttle.

  While he and Fenring sat alone, waiting for contact, the Navigator activated the Holtzmann engines and folded space, taking the disgraced ruler back to Kaitain, where he would face the consequences of his decisions.

  Vengeance may come through complex schemes or outright aggression. In some circumstances, revenge can only be achieved through time.

  — EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS, RENEGADE JOURNALS

  On Kaitain weeks later, unmoved by any-thing but anger, Shaddam Corrino IV watched the conclusion of the bastard Tyros Reffa’s recorded speech. He cursed under his breath.

  Behind the closed doors of the Emperor’s private office, Cammar Pilru waited for Shaddam to comment. The Ixian Ambassador had seen the oration numerous times, and still it wrenched his heart.

  Shaddam, though, remained cold. “I see I was right to have his damnable mouth fused shut before I executed him.”

  Upon returning to the Palace, the Padishah Emperor had sequestered himself. Outside the grounds, Sardaukar tried to keep order in the face of numerous demonstrations. Some demanded that Shaddam abdicate, which might have been a viable solution if he’d had an acceptable male heir. As it was, his eleven-year-old daughter Irulan had already received numerous marriage proposals from the heads of powerful Houses.

  Shaddam wanted to kill all the suitors… perhaps his daughters, too. At least he didn’t have to worry about his wife anymore.

  Following their numerous military embarrassments, even the once-loyal Sardaukar were upset with him, and Supreme Bashar Zum Garon had lodged a formal complaint. Garon’s son had died in the Ixian debacle, but even worse in the old Bashar’s estimation, the Imperial soldiers had been betrayed. Not defeated, but betrayed. This was an important distinction in his mind, for the Sardaukar had never, in their long history, tasted defeat. Garon demanded that this potential blemish be formally erased from the record. He also wanted a posthumous commendation for his son.

  Shaddam didn’t know how to deal with it all.

  Under other circumstances, he would never have given this pathetic and now self-important Ixian diplomat a moment of his time. But Ambassador Pilru still had his damnable connections and was riding the wave of Rhombur’s victory.

  Feeling strong again after all the years of abuse and neglect, Pilru dropped a hard sheet of ridulian crystal in front of Shaddam’s frowning face. “It was most unfortunate, Sire, that you did not have the opportunity to perform a thorough genetic analysis on Tyros Reffa, if only to disprove his claim that he was also a member of House Corrino. Many members of the Landsraad, indeed many noblemen of the Imperium, question this.”

  He tapped the data on the crystal sheet, which Shaddam no doubt found incomprehensible. Pilru had been ignored, insulted, and dismissed for decades, but now that would change. He would make certain that the Emperor paid reparations to the Ixian people and that he offered no resistance to the restoration of Vernius rule.

  “Luckily, I was able to obtain samples from Reffa in his prison cell.” Pilru smiled. “As you can see, this is incontrovertible genetic proof that Tyros Reffa was indeed a son of Emperor Elrood IX. You signed your own brother’s death warrant.”

  “Half brother,” Shaddam snapped.

  “I could easily arrange to have his recording and the test results distributed quietly among the members of the Landsraad, Sire,” Ambassador Pilru said, holding up the crystal sheet. “I’m afraid the fate of your half brother wouldn’t remain quiet for long.”

  He had, of course, removed all details of the mother’s identity from the test results. No one needed to know the bastard’s connection to the long-dead Lady Shando Vernius. Rhombur had the secret, and that was enough.

  “Your threat is all too clear, Ambassador.” Shaddam’s eyes burned bright through the shadows of defeat that had settled around him. “Now, what do you want of me?”

  * * *

  While Shaddam waited in his private receiving hall for the arguments and proceedings to begin, he had very few moments of pleasure. Now he understood why his old father had felt the need to drink so much spice beer. Even Count Fenring, his companion in misery, could not cheer him up, with so many political millstones around the Imperial neck.

  However, an Emperor could also make others miserable.

  Fenring paced beside him, fidgeting and full of feral energy. All doors except the main entrance had been sealed, all witnesses removed. Even the guards had been instructed to wait in the halls.

  Shaddam was eager. “They will be here any moment, Hasimir.”

  “It still seems a bit… childish, hmmm?”

  “But gratifying, and don’t pretend to disagree.” He sniffed. “Besides, it is the privilege of being an Emperor.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Fenring murmured, then turned away from Shaddam’s glare.

  They both watched the double bronze doors, which guards swung open slowly. Sardaukar soldiers brought in a familiar, awful-looking machine with a good deal of clanking, creaking, and clattering. Hidden cutter blades whirred inside the monstrosity, and sparks crackled from circuit ports.

  Years ago, Tleilaxu prosecutors had brought the horrible execution device to Leto Atreides’s Trial by Forfeiture, hoping to vivisect him with it, draining his blood and slicing open his tissues to take numerous genetic samples. Shaddam had always thought the machine had a great deal of potential.

  Fenring looked at it, pursing his lips in contemplation. “A device designed only to maim, to hurt, to exert pain. If you ask me, Shaddam, it is clearly a machine with a human mind, hmmm-ah? Perhaps it is a violation of the Butlerian Jihad.”

  “I am not amused, Hasimir.”

  Behind the machine marched six captive Tleilaxu Masters, shirtless because of their well-known tendency to conceal weapons in their sleeves. These were the Tleilaxu representatives who had come to the Imperial Court in recent months, held here after the failure of Project Amal. Before word could get out about Ajidica’s demise, Shaddam had ordered their capture and detention.

  Count Fenring himself held a deep grudge, suspecting that at least one of these Tleilaxu was a Face Dancer, a shape-shifter who had mimicked him in order to deliver a falsely optimistic report abo
ut the success of the artificial spice. It had only been a delaying tactic by Ajidica, to forestall Imperial retaliation long enough for the Master Researcher to escape. But it had failed.

  For his part, Shaddam didn’t look at any of the captives as individuals, and indeed the gnomish men all appeared very much alike. “Well?” he shouted at them. “Stand by your machine. Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of its purpose?”

  With despondent expressions, the captive Tleilaxu Masters took up positions around the diabolical-looking device.

  “You Tleilaxu have caused me a great many problems. I am about to face the greatest crisis in my reign, and I think you all should shoulder some of the blame.” He looked at their faces. “Choose one among you, so that I can see this device in operation, and after the demonstration the rest of you will dismantle it right here.”

  Guards stepped forward, holding hand tools. The glowering, gray-skinned men looked at each other, remaining silent. Finally, one man reached forward to activate the power source on the angular plates of the execution machine. The cumbersome contraption surged to life with a roar that startled the Emperor and the guards.

  Fenring merely nodded, realizing that half of the effectiveness of this machine was its ominous nature. “It seems they are having trouble choosing, hmmm?”

  “We have chosen,” one of the Tleilaxu announced. Without a word or gesture, the six Tleilaxu Masters all climbed up and jumped into a hopper on top of the execution contraption. They tumbled inside, throwing themselves into the embrace of the choppers, cutters, and slicers. As a final, malicious joke, gouts of blood, fragments of flesh, and small pieces of bone sprayed the Emperor and Fenring. The Sardaukar scrambled away.

  Shaddam spluttered and grabbed for a cape to wipe the gore off of himself. Fenring did not seem terribly put off as he smeared a gobbet away from his eyes. The vivisection machine continued to cough and grind. The Tleilaxu had made no screams, no outcries.