Leto bristled at the comment. “A daughter with such shallow ambitions would not be appropriate for my son.”
Armand stepped closer to Leto, protective. “When my daughter was alive, I considered House Atreides to be more than acceptable for a marriage alliance.” That stopped further conversation. They all knew what his empty sleeve meant.
Leto extricated himself from the uncomfortable conversation, realizing that this glittering reception was full of political traps.
Do not hunger overmuch for attention. Subtle influence is a more potent key to power than a conspicuous display of wealth or bravado. Patience is a coin of great value.
—MALINA ARU, Ur-Director of CHOAM, sealed letter to her children
Though she could feel faint seismic tremors, the planet was solid beneath her feet. A gray haze of smoke hovered in the air, and distant rivers of open lava illuminated the sky with a scarlet glow.
Tupile had been the secret operational heart of CHOAM for generations, although the hidden world appeared neither on Imperial charts nor in Spacing Guild records. Several planets bore the same code name, equally secret sanctuaries, and Ur-Director Malina Aru found that this only increased the effectiveness of the camouflage.
Her son Jaxson, though, did not care about safety or subtlety. During the restless months he had lived with Malina on Tupile, he had worked himself into an irrational turmoil over the desecration of their family holdings on remote Otorio. Jaxson would leave this sanctuary soon, despite her best advice to the contrary.
Malina had great things in mind for her youngest child, using the influence and resources of CHOAM, if only Jaxson would let her bring her well-developed plan to fruition. Alas, she doubted that would happen. The young man had intensity and drive but lacked patience.
She stood by herself on the open veranda. The smoke from distant eruptions irritated her rich brown eyes, leaving them red-rimmed. She kept her short, dark hair attractively styled, but businesslike, without frivolous ornamentation. Her slacks, made of soft and supple schlag leather, clung to her slender legs like lotion. The planet’s single moon loomed huge overhead, as if poised to crash down through the atmosphere.
Tupile’s seismic unrest always made Malina feel vibrant, reminding her of the power she controlled. The Imperium had a visible hold on all the worlds of humanity, but the showpiece of the Emperor and the extended politics of the Landsraad were, like the wave of a magician’s hand, a distraction for the audience.
Through its web of commerce and alliances, the CHOAM Company was the real framework of civilization. Jaxson, like so many other firebrands, harangued that the bloated Imperium needed to be dismantled. In principle, Malina embraced the same cause, but only under careful and controlled conditions. Her son didn’t have the fortitude for that.
Tupile’s roots as a hidden sanctuary world extended throughout Imperial history. During the riots following the release of the Orange Catholic Bible, members of the Council of Ecumenical Translators had fled for their lives, vanishing into the mystery of Tupile. Through centuries of careful and patient data purges, the Tupile worlds had been removed from star charts and records. Although no official Spacing Guild routes existed for Tupile, due to a long-standing secret agreement, the most senior Directors of CHOAM received confidential transport.
The planet was distant from its dim, red sun and far outside what should have been the life zone, but gravitational flexing from the large moon heated the landmasses to the point of habitability. Wealthy recluses had built private reinforced structures that could withstand the seismic upheavals.
Hearing a click of nails and padded feet, Malina turned to see her two muscular spinehounds following Jaxson out onto the open veranda. It had been only hours since her most recent argument with him. She hoped the calm would last a little longer, but she could see her volatile son was ready to debate again.
He spent a great deal of time with the two pets, though they were bonded to Malina. The spinehounds consisted of coiled fur, muscle, and fangs, their pelts made of silvery spines too thick to be soft hair. Sharp horns protruded from behind their pointed ears. The rumbling growl they made in their broad chests struck terror into their victims, but Malina heard it as a purr.
Choosing not to acknowledge Jaxson yet, she crouched, smiling, and spread out her hands. The spinehounds bounded toward her, leaving Jaxson behind. “Yes, my dear Har and Kar.” She wrapped her arms around them, scratching their muzzles, and accidentally pricked her forefinger on one of the spines. She ignored it. She had many tiny scars from her pets. The spinehounds sat at her feet, doting on her.
Finally, Malina rose and turned to her son, taking charge. “We agree more than we disagree, you know.”
“If we agree, Mother, then why haven’t we destroyed House Corrino for what they did? You could pull the right strings and eviscerate Shaddam with a single memo.”
“Because we are CHOAM, and Shaddam is the Imperium, and we cannot treat this like an undignified schoolyard brawl. The Emperor doesn’t even know what he’s done to us.”
“That does not excuse it! Otorio was our ancestral sanctuary. The damage can never be undone.”
“Therefore, there is no hurry,” Malina said. “Would you take a brash, impetuous revenge right now, or would you rather properly dismantle the Imperium for all time?”
Jaxson bunched his fists. His short, curly hair was tight to his skull, looking like black smoke. His brows were thick over brown eyes as dangerous as unexploded grenades.
Before he answered, she said, “I admire your energy, son. All your life I have strived to channel that energy to the benefit of CHOAM and our family.”
“You want me to be a puppet like my brother and sister!”
Malina let out a burst of laughter at the thought, and the two spinehounds growled in response. One trotted over to Jaxson to be petted, then returned to her. “Frankos and Jalma fill their roles exactly as planned. I wish you would trust that I have great plans for you, too.”
“Father always said you were just putting me off, getting me out of the way.”
With an effort, Malina maintained an unreadable expression. “Your father said altogether too much, and there are reasons why he was quietly retired to Otorio before he died. I regret that you spent so much time with him. I should have taken more direct control.”
Again, Jaxson was quick to take offense, and she held up a calming hand to forestall further comment. Jaxson had always been a challenging young man, but Malina knew how to handle him. She had trained her notoriously vicious spinehounds, and she could tame Jaxson as well. She just needed to use a different sort of disciplinary collar on him.
Reaching into her trim jacket, she removed the gilded sheet of fine-weave paper stamped with the golden Corrino lion. “This is the invitation for us to attend his ridiculous reception. He did not send it as a provocation or an insult. Shaddam is simply oblivious. He has no idea what he has done to our heritage.”
She tore the invitation to shreds and lifted her hands to let the scraps flutter beyond the veranda, blowing on the smoky breezes. “I will not attend. Your brother, the President of CHOAM, will not attend. No CHOAM Company representative of any kind will be there, because I instructed them to make excuses. You see, we are on the same side.”
“Will anyone even notice?” he asked bitterly. “What will that accomplish?”
“Whatever your imagination and patience can envision. I have taught you, do not sacrifice what you truly want for what you want right now. You all have your own roles in this.” Malina pressed her thin lips together. Frankos, her oldest child, had assumed the mantle of CHOAM President, the public face of the enormous company, while Jalma, her only daughter, had married the powerful but senile old Count Uchan, head of a House Major with seven planets under his—her—control.
“I need to do more than sit quietly in meetings, Mother. There is work to be done. I have my own network, and we can achieve things of great consequence.”
Mali
na knew he had met with a few outspoken rebellious Landsraad nobles. Sometimes, it was good for them to vent their frustrations and plan audacious protests that would never come to fruition. “When you are ready, I can connect you with influential agitators in the Noble Commonwealth movement. The plan is vast and complex, and we have already accomplished significant erosion over several generations. The foundations of the Imperium are showing cracks, and Shaddam doesn’t even realize it.”
Jaxson fumed. “The Emperor doesn’t realize it because the damage is too little and too slow. You celebrate a quiet refusal to pay Imperial taxes, to conceal holdings and divert resources. I don’t want to wait for the slow pace of evolution. We need a revolution to bring freedom to the Imperium. Humanity cannot sustain a thousand more years of Corrino decadence. The modern Imperium serves no purpose except for despotism.”
Har and Kar looked up at Jaxson, as if fascinated by his speech, but Malina had heard the words many times. “Slogans do not achieve progress. Demonstrate your growth and knowledge.” Her voice became harder, and his head snapped up as if she had whipped him. The Bene Gesserit Sisterhood used a similar technique called Voice, but for Malina, it was simply to demonstrate how well she understood every fiber of Jaxson’s being. “I will expand your responsibilities, but you must follow my guidance!”
She noticed something that gave her pause, a tempered steel that had been growing within him. He pushed back. “That doesn’t serve my purposes, Mother. I spent countless hours talking with my father when he was alive.” Even as she began to frown, he raised his voice. “You always disrespect him! Now that he is dead and his grave desecrated on Otorio, you’ll never know what an asset he could have been to CHOAM, if only you had let him.”
Malina turned away from the smoky, dark sky and faced her son. The spinehounds rose to their paws and stood at her side.
“It is possible to break up the Imperium in my own lifetime,” he said. “Your gradual and dithering plan may appear sound to an academic mind, but most people cannot hold on to an esoteric dream that will take centuries to achieve. You and I both know bureaucracy, Mother. Any delay tends to breed another delay, and the end result never arrives. In order to break something, you need more than a slow, gentle nudge. Sometimes a bludgeon is required!”
She shook her head.
He turned back to the door. “I am already packed. I will let you know my progress, because we are indeed on the same side. My efforts will give a permanent public face to our cause.”
“This is brash and ill-considered. I will not fund you,” Malina warned, suspecting it was a useless threat. “CHOAM accounts are not open to your use, and any expenses must be approved by me.”
Jaxson laughed at her. “I have my own sources of funding.”
That alarmed Malina even further. “What are you intending to do?”
“You will find out soon enough, and you will recognize its effectiveness. But you can’t stop me. The wheels are already in motion.”
When does a student stop being a student, or is all of life a continuous lesson?
—CHANI KYNES, comment to her father
Paul Atreides, barely past his fourteenth birthday, took the controls of the military training aircraft. He gripped the directional yoke, getting a feel for the air and wind currents, and the craft responded to the slightest motion of his hands in one direction or the other.
In the seat beside him, Duncan Idaho shut down his instructor’s controls, letting the boy operate the craft himself. Duncan was Paul’s main protector and trainer, a Swordmaster with many talents, including being a skilled pilot.
This was not the young man’s first piloting session in this class of fast-attack flyer. He was familiar with its hybrid operational features, which enabled it to be a comparatively slow ornithopter with articulated wings, or after shortening and fixing the wings, a speedy flyer. Paul liked the combination, since it gave him a good range of adaptability. He shifted to ’thopter mode, lifting and dropping the wings as smoothly as he could.
“Too jerky,” Duncan said, his voice stern and encouraging at the same time. “Think of a graceful bird flying, like a spreybird. The flyer won’t do it on its own.”
Concentrating, Paul calmed himself with a Bene Gesserit breathing exercise his mother had secretly taught him. Once he quelled his anxiety, he understood exactly what Duncan meant, knew how to correct his moves. He loosened his grip on the control yoke just enough to let the craft fly smoothly.
“That’s it, boy. Do it the way I taught you.”
Paul didn’t mention that his mother also deserved credit. Duncan and the Lady Jessica often seemed at odds, strong-willed people both driving the young man to achieve his best. His mother had spoken of it once to Paul, theorizing that she and Duncan were in an odd competition for his attention and affections. But no one else knew the exact Bene Gesserit techniques she was sharing with her son; Duke Leto would not approve. Ironically, Paul knew, neither would the Sisterhood, but Jessica had made up her own mind.
Duncan and Lady Jessica weren’t his only trainers, however. Paul also received personal combat instruction from the troubadour warrior Gurney Halleck and from Thufir Hawat, the Atreides Mentat and Master of Assassins. The latter, despite his title, taught more defensive than offensive tactics, instructing Paul in how to avoid trouble, and to survive it.
Duncan, though, was someone special. In addition to being his trainer and protector, he was Paul’s best friend. At the command of Duke Leto, the Swordmaster was training Paul in many different fields, and training him hard. Today would be no different. According to the weather report, there would be a storm at sea, and Duncan instructed the young man to fly directly into the teeth of it.
The Swordmaster gazed through the cockpit window, assessing the black tempest gathering several kilometers offshore. Ominous thunderheads swelled as if summoned to a cloud convocation.
“Ready for this, boy?” Duncan asked. “Best way to hone your piloting skills.”
“‘Boy’? Maybe you’ll stop calling me that after I fly into this storm.” Paul could already feel the winds jostling the aircraft, making it harder to control.
“Maybe. We’ll see how you do.”
With acute observation skills learned from his mother, Paul detected an edge of worry in Duncan’s voice. The storm might be bigger than they’d expected, but Paul did not suggest they change their plans. He was ready.
Flying as Duncan had taught him, he banked toward the storm, leveled out, switched off the flapping ornithopter wings, and drew them in tight against the fuselage. The now-fixed wings were a quarter of the length they’d been. This was a sleek aircraft now, like those used by Atreides patrols, capable of swift attack, although this training vessel had no armaments except for a set of fore and aft lascannons.
Paul pushed an accelerator bar next to the control yoke, and the aircraft leaped forward in the air as if eager to dance with the storm. As the thunderheads grew darker around them, Paul dove toward the cloud cover. Even as wind wrenched the craft, Paul centered down into his inner calmness. The aircraft seemed part of him, an extension of his body, and he nudged the vessel for optimum acceleration.
“Good,” Duncan said. “You’re improving.” Out of the corner of his eye, Paul noted that the Swordmaster’s fingers were on the instructor’s controls, ready to activate them if Paul should falter.
Below were skirling surges of energy where the clouds touched the water. Though the creatures were rare, he knew what they must be, and he felt a chill of awe. “Elecrans, Duncan! Look how many!”
“Stay well above them, and we’ll be all right. Go a little higher.”
Paul acknowledged, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the intriguing flashes of living lightning.
The elemental creatures spawned in the sea and needed to remain in contact with the surface of the water or they would dissipate. Sometimes a big wave would send one flying into the air, scattering its water so that it faded into electrical mists. A
s long as elecrans were firmly connected to the sea, they were extremely dangerous—towers of energy that could discharge dangerous bolts of lightning.
“A trial by fire for you,” Duncan said. “A big one.”
“Isn’t that what you promised?”
They had discussed safe training and dangerous training, and Duncan insisted Paul needed to learn in true high-pressure situations in order to be prepared for real crises. Duke Leto also considered it the optimal teaching method, and it demonstrated his intrinsic faith in Duncan’s abilities that he would ask the Swordmaster to let his son take such genuine risks.
But this elecran-infested storm went beyond any planned curriculum. The elemental creatures intensified the storm, building it to a massive squall with hurricane-strength winds.
The lightning strikes did not often rise above the cauldron of the elecrans but skittered out laterally, as if the electrical creatures were firing at one another in some sort of paranormal competition. When a jagged bolt from one elecran struck another, the target creature’s tower-shaped body bent, bowed, then straightened before it continued to spark and lash.
For several years now, Paul had been learning Duncan’s high-level piloting skills, intricate reflexes, and instant reactions. He admired how confident the Swordmaster always was, but not to the point of hubris. Paul appreciated his friend’s style of excellence, flying at the edge of life and death. Duncan thrived on the surge of adrenaline, and Paul had become addicted as well, walking the razor’s edge, where any small mistake could be a fatal one.
Right now, Paul felt a thrill that intensified every moment, an infusion of emergency energy, vital for survival, as if his body were rising to its maximum efficiency in the face of great peril. His focus, his tension, his sheer skill and instant reactions were beyond anything he had felt before. Glancing at Duncan beside him, he could tell that his trainer’s level of alertness was also elevated.
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 4
