The Harkonnens had many prisoners, and they had sadistic methods of making them cooperate. If Duncan won in this training hunt, if he eluded the searchers long enough, the keepers had promised that he and his family could return to their former lives. All the children had been promised the same thing. Trainees needed a goal, a prize to fight for.
He ran by instinct through the secret passageways, trying to muffle his footfalls. Not far behind, he heard the blast and sizzle of a stun gun firing, a child's high-pitched squeal of pain, and then teeth-chattering spasms as another one of the young boys was brought to ground.
If the searchers captured you, they hurt you -- sometimes seriously and sometimes worse, depending upon the current supply of "trainees." This was no child's game of hide-and-seek. At least not for the victims.
Even at his age, Duncan already knew that life and death had a price. The Harkonnens didn't care how many small candidates suffered during the course of their training. This was how the Harkonnens played. Duncan understood cruel amusements. He had seen others do such things before, especially the children with whom he shared confinement, as they pulled the wings off insects or set tiny rodent babies on fire. The Harkonnens and their troops were like adult children, only with greater resources, greater imaginations, greater malice.
Without making a sound, he found a narrow, rusted access ladder and scrambled up into the darkness, wasting no time on thought. Duncan had to do the unexpected, hide where they'd have trouble reaching him. The rungs, pitted and scarred with age, hurt his hands.
This section of ancient Barony still functioned; power conduits and suspensor tubes shot through the main structure like wormholes -- straight, curved, hooking off at oblique angles. The place was one enormous obstacle course, where the Harkonnen troops could fire upon their prey without risking damage to more important structures.
Above him in a main corridor, he heard booted feet running, filtered voices through helmet communicators, then a shout. A nearby pinging sound signaled that the guards had homed in on his locator implant.
Hot white lasgun fire blasted the ceiling over his head, melting through metal plates. Duncan let go of the ladder and allowed himself to drop, freefall. One armed guard peeled up the hot-edged floor plate and pointed down at him. The others fired their lasguns again, severing the struts so that the ladder fell in tandem with the small boy.
He landed on the floor of a lower shaft, and the heavy ladder clattered on top of him. But Duncan didn't cry out in pain. That would only bring the pursuers closer . . . though he had no real hope of eluding them for long because of the pulsing beacon in his shoulder. How could anyone but Harkonnens win this game?
He pushed himself to his feet and ran with a new, frantic desire for freedom. To his dismay, the small tunnel ahead opened into a wider passage. Wider was bad. The bigger men could follow him there.
He heard shouts behind, more running feet, gunfire, and then a gurgling scream. The pursuers were supposed to be using stun guns, but Duncan knew that this late in the day's hunt, most everyone else would have been captured -- and the stakes were higher. The hunters didn't like to lose.
Duncan had to survive. He had to be the best. If he died, he couldn't go back to see his mother again. But if he lived and defeated these bastards, then perhaps his family would get their freedom . . . or as much freedom as Harkonnen civil service workers could ever have on Giedi Prime.
Duncan had seen other trainees who had defeated the pursuers before, and those children had disappeared afterward. If he could believe the announcements, the winners and their captive families had been set free from the hellhole of Barony. Duncan had no proof of this, though, and had plenty of reasons to question what the Harkonnens told him. But he wanted to believe them, could not give up hope.
He didn't understand why his parents had been thrown into this prison. What had minor government office workers done to deserve such punishment? He remembered only that one day life had been normal and relatively happy . . . and the next, they were all here, enslaved. Now young Duncan was forced nearly every day to run and fight for his life, and for the future of his family. He was getting better at it.
He remembered that last normal afternoon out on a manicured lawn planted high up in one of the Harko City terraces, one of the rare balcony parks the Harkonnens allowed their subjects to have. The gardens and hedges were carefully fertilized and tended, because plants did not fare well in the residue-impregnated soil of a planet that had been too long abused.
Duncan's parents and other family members had been playing frivolous lawn games, tossing self-motivated balls at targets on the grass, while internal high-entropy devices made the balls bounce and ricochet randomly. The boy had noticed how different, how dry and structured the games of adults were compared with the reckless romping he did with his friends.
A young woman stood near him, watching the games. She had chocolate-colored hair, dusky skin, and high cheekbones, but her pinched expression and hard gaze detracted from what might have been remarkable beauty. He didn't know who she was and understood only that her name was Janess Milam, and she worked with his parents somehow.
As Duncan had watched the adult yard game, listening to the laughter, he smiled at the woman and observed, "They're practicing to be old men." It became apparent, though, that Janess had no real interest in him or his opinion, for she'd given him a sharp verbal brush-off.
Under the hazy sunlight Duncan had continued to watch the game, but with increasing curiosity about the stranger. He sensed tension in her. Janess, who didn't participate, frequently glanced over her shoulder, as if watching for something.
Moments later Harkonnen troops had come, grabbing Duncan's parents, himself, even his uncle and two cousins. He understood intuitively that Janess had been the cause of it all, for whatever reason. He'd never seen her again, and he and his family had been in prison for half a year now . . . .
Behind him, an overhead trapdoor opened with a hiss. Two blue-uniformed pursuers dropped through, pointed at him, and laughed in triumph. Weaving from side to side, Duncan dashed ahead. A lasgun blast ricocheted off the wall plates, leaving a lightning-bolt scorch mark down the corridor.
Duncan smelled the ozone from the singed metal. If even one of those bolts hit him, he'd be dead. He hated the way the hunters snickered, as if they were merely toying with him.
A pair of pursuers charged out of a side passage only a meter in front of him, but Duncan moved too fast. They didn't recognize him or react quickly enough. He struck one stout man in the knee and knocked him sideways before dashing between the two at a full run.
The stout man stumbled, then shouted as a laser bolt singed his armor, "Stop firing, you idiot! You'll hit one of us!"
Duncan ran as he'd never run before, knowing his child's legs couldn't outrace adults conditioned for fighting. But he refused to give up. It wasn't in his blood.
Ahead, where the corridor opened, he saw bright lights at an intersection of passageways. As he approached, he skidded to a stop only to find that the cross-passage was no tunnel at all, but a suspensor tube, a cylindrical shaft with a Holtzman field in the center. Levitating bullet-trains shot down the tube without resistance, traveling from one end of the enormous prison city to the other.
There were no doors, no open passageways. Duncan could run no farther. The men surged close behind him, extending their guns. If he surrendered, he wondered if they would still shoot him down. Probably, he thought, since I've gotten their adrenaline going.
The suspensor field shimmered in the center of the horizontal shaft in front of him. He vaguely knew what it would do. He had only one place left to go, and he wasn't sure what would happen -- but he knew he'd be punished, or most likely slaughtered, if the guards captured him.
So as they pressed closer, Duncan turned around and gazed into the suspensor field. Taking a deep breath for courage, he swung his short arms behind him and leaped out into the open shimmering tube.
His curl
y black hair rippled in the breeze as he plummeted. He shouted, the sound halfway between a despairing wail and a cry of glorious release. If he died here, at least he would be free!
Then the Holtzman field wrapped around him and caught him with a jolt. Feeling as if his stomach had just lurched to the center of his chest, Duncan found himself adrift in an invisible net. He floated without falling, hanging in the neutral center of the field. This force held the bullet-trains suspended as they careened through mammoth Barony. It could certainly hold him.
He saw the guards rushing to the edge of the platform, shouting at him in anger. One shook a fist. Two others pointed their guns.
Duncan flailed in the field, trying to swim -- anything to move away.
With a shout of alarm, a guard knocked the other's lasgun aside. Duncan had heard about the nightmarish effects of a lasgun beam crossing a Holtzman field: They produced an interacting destructive potential as deadly as forbidden atomics themselves.
So the guards fired their stun weapons instead.
Duncan writhed in the air. Though he could get no leverage, at least he made a moving target as he squirmed and spun. Stun blasts arced on either side of him, diverted into curving paths.
Despite the confining embrace of the Holtzman field, he felt the air pressure change around him, sensed the currents of movement. He rotated himself, bobbing in the air -- until he saw the oncoming lights of a bullet-train.
And he was at the center of the field!
Duncan thrashed, desperate to move. He drifted toward the opposite edge of the levitation zone, away from the guards. They continued to fire, but the change in air pressure pushed their stun blasts even farther off the mark than before. He saw the uniformed men making adjustments.
Below him were other doorways, ramps, and platforms that led into the bowels of Barony. Maybe he could reach one . . . if he could just escape the confining field.
Another stun blast tore past and this time caught the edge of his back near his shoulder, numbing him, making the muscles and skin crawl with a sensation like a thousand stinging insects.
Duncan finally wrenched himself away from the field and dropped. Falling facedown, he saw the platform just in time. He reached out with his good arm and snagged a railing. The bullet-train screamed past, whistling as it displaced air . . . missing him by centimeters.
He hadn't had time to pick up much momentum in his fall; even so, the jarring stop nearly ripped his other arm out of its socket. Duncan scrambled up and ran into a tunnel, but found only a tiny alcove with metawalls. He could see no exit. The hatch was sealed and locked. He pounded on it, but couldn't go anywhere.
Then, the outer door clanged shut behind him, sealing him into a small armor-walled box. He was trapped. This time it was over.
Moments later, the guards unsealed the rear hatch. Their stares, as pointed as their weapons, held a mixture of anger and admiration. Duncan waited with resignation for them to gun him down.
Instead, the hunt captain smiled without humor and said, "Congratulations, boy. You made it."
EXHAUSTED AND BACK in his cell, Duncan sat with his mother and father. They ate their daily meal of bland cereals, starch-cakes, and protein chips -- nutritionally satisfying yet almost maliciously made with either foul flavors or no taste whatsoever. So far the boy hadn't been told more by his captors, just that he'd "made it." That had to mean freedom. He could only hope.
The family's cell was filthy. Though his parents tried to keep it clean, they had no brooms, mops, or soap, and very little water, which couldn't be wasted on mere sanitation.
During the months of confinement, Duncan had undergone vigorous and violent "training," while his family sat fearfully offstage, doing nothing with their days. All of them had been given numbers, slave-cell addresses, and (with the exception of Duncan) nothing to do -- no labor, no entertainment. They simply awaited any change in their sentence . . . and dreaded that such a change would someday come.
Now with excitement and pride Duncan told his mother of his adventures, how he had outwitted the pursuers, how he had been resourceful enough to defeat even the best Harkonnen trackers. None of the other children had succeeded on this day, but Duncan was certain he'd done what was necessary to buy freedom.
Any minute now they'd be released. He tried to imagine his family standing together again, free, outside, looking up into a clear, starlit night.
His father gazed proudly at the boy, but his mother found it difficult to believe that such a thing could possibly be true. She had good reason not to trust Harkonnen promises.
Before long, the cell lights flickered, and the opaque door field became transparent, then opened. A group of blue-uniformed prison guards stood beside the smiling hunt captain who had chased him. Duncan's heart leaped. Are we going to be set free?
He didn't like the hunt captain's smile, though.
The uniformed men stepped aside in deference to a man with broad shoulders, thick lips, and big muscles. His face was sunburned and ruddy, as if he had spent a great deal of time far from gloomy Giedi Prime.
Duncan's father sprang to his feet, then bowed clumsily. "M'Lord Rabban!"
Ignoring the parents, Rabban's eyes sought out only the round-faced young trainee. "The captain of the hunt tells me you're the best boy," he said to Duncan. As he stepped into the cell, the guards hustled in behind him. Rabban grinned.
"You should have seen him in today's exercise, m'Lord," the hunt captain said. "Never had a more resourceful pup."
Rabban nodded. "Number 11368, I've seen your records, watched holos of your hunts. How are your injuries? Not too bad? You're young, so you'll heal quickly." His eyes hardened. "Lots more fun left in you. Let's see how you do against me."
He turned about. "Come with me for the hunt, boy. Now."
"My name is Duncan Idaho," the boy responded, in a defiant tone. "I'm not a number." His voice was thin and high-pitched, but held a gruff bravery that shocked his parents. Surprised, the guards turned to stare at him. Duncan looked to his mother for support, as if hoping for some kind of challenge or reward. Instead, she tried to hush him.
Rabban coolly snatched a lasgun from the guard standing next to him. Without the slightest pause, he fired a lethal blast into the chest of Duncan's father. The man slammed against the wall. Before his corpse could slide to the floor, Rabban shifted his weapon and incinerated the head of Duncan's mother.
Duncan screamed. Both of his parents tumbled to the floor, lifeless mounds of blistering, burned flesh.
"Now you have no name, 11368," Rabban said. "Come with me."
The guards grabbed him, not even letting Duncan rush to his fallen parents. Not even giving him time to cry.
"These men will have to prepare you before we can begin the next round of fun. I need a good hunt for a change."
The guards dragged Duncan, kicking and screaming, out of the noisome cell. He felt dead inside -- except for an icy flame of hatred that blossomed in his chest and burned away all vestiges of his childhood.
The populace must think their ruler is a greater man than they, else why should they follow him? Above all a leader must be a showman, giving his people the bread and circuses they require.
-DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
The weeks of preparation for his sojourn on Ix passed in a blur as Leto tried to drink up a year's worth of memories and store them, fixing all the images of his ancestral home in his mind. He would miss Caladan's moist salty air, its fog-shrouded mornings, and the musical afternoon rainstorms. How could a stark, colorless machine planet compare with this?
Of the many palaces and vacation villas on the water-rich planet, Castle Caladan, perched high on a cliff over the sea, was the true place where Leto belonged, the main seat of government. Someday, when he finally put on the ducal signet ring, he would be the twenty-sixth Duke Atreides to sit in the Castle.
His mother Helena spent much time fussing over him, seeing omens in many things, and quoting passages she considered import
ant from the Orange Catholic Bible. She was distressed to be losing her son for a year, but would not countermand the Old Duke's orders -- not in anyone's hearing, at least. Her expression was troubled, and Leto realized it especially alarmed her that Paulus had chosen to send him to Ix, of all places. "It's a festering hotbed of suspect technology," she said to him when her husband was gone, far out of earshot.
"Are you sure you aren't just reacting because Ix is the main rival to House Richese, Mother?" he asked.
"I think not!" Her long, slender fingers paused as they laced up an elegant collar on his shirt. "House Richese relies on old, tried-and-true technology -- established devices that fall safely within prescribed guidelines. No one questions Richesian adherence to the strictures of the Jihad."
She looked at him, her dark eyes hard, then cracking with tears. She stroked his shoulder. From a recent spurt of growth, he was almost her height. "Leto, Leto, I don't want you to lose your innocence there, or your soul," she told him. "There's too much at stake."
Dune - House Atreides Page 7