The damaged craft’s wings flailed and snapped, and it tumbled to the ground, plowing a long furrow as it skidded into one of the outbuildings. It fishtailed and caught on fire. Three men inside boiled out, racing for the trees.
Two more unmarked aircraft from the far side of the outpost took off, reached altitude, and streaked away. They were pursued by Atreides attack craft, which activated their jet-pod boosters and raced beyond the forested horizon. Leto lost sight of them.
“Where did Chaen Marek get such significant weapons and equipment?” Leto demanded under his breath. “Mercenary troops and military aircraft do not simply come through the Cala City Spaceport!”
“I will interrogate any prisoners we capture, my Lord. But first, there’s a battle to be won.” Hawat drew his sword and looked at his Duke. “I am not so old that I cannot throw myself into personal combat.” He turned toward the clash of forces, the clamor of blades, the shouts of fighting.
Leto pulled out his own sword. “Neither am I.” With weapons drawn, they ran into the battle.
Love is a dance between trust and secrets.
—LADY JESSICA, letter to the Duke
After the Atreides military had departed for the north, Castle Caladan felt empty and cold, rather than safe. Paul’s frustration at being left behind was difficult to tamp down. Though he could not countermand his father’s orders, he tried to make peace with the Duke’s decision. He was not a spoiled child.
In his room, Paul assessed his instinctive response and compared it with his analytical one. He was not excited for war, not giddy for reckless adventure. Oh, he had read stories and history, and Gurney Halleck sang many songs about the glory of victory; Duncan Idaho talked about his training as a Swordmaster, the fiery conflict that had brought about the downfall of the Ginaz School, and his battles against the Tleilaxu on Ix.
Although such stories captured his imagination, Paul was not a starry-eyed fool. He knew full well the hardships and dangers of a military operation, and he was the son of the Duke, trained to be a leader. Nevertheless, he had been impacted by the illicit ailar business and its ruthless mastermind. He should have been included in this retaliation!
He had been cut out of other things as well.
Though the castle rang with silence, he knew that by now Atreides forces would have reached the target zones identified by the Archvicar. Paul knew the Atreides troops would be successful. Illicit drug producers could never match a fully trained army, especially an Atreides army under the Duke’s direct command.
Still, the reality of the situation weighed on him. Who knew what weapons Chaen Marek’s operatives would turn against the attackers? They had already demonstrated uncanny fanaticism. His father might be facing a life-or-death battle.
Restless now, he wandered the castle halls. The household staff went about their duties cleaning, arranging things, hanging holiday colors, adding fresh-cut flowers where appropriate. In the dining room, the kitchen staff polished the dark wood table with a citrus-scented wax, then arranged a damask runner down the length. As he entered the hall, the workers were startled. Before he could tell them to stay, they withdrew like nervous pigeons, giving him his privacy and leaving him in the suddenly oppressive hall.
Paul’s gaze was again drawn to the painting of his grandfather in his dashing matador outfit. Trapped in the persona he had created for himself, the flamboyant Old Duke had been obliged to demonstrate his fearlessness again and again, until Death finally defeated him.
Was this operation against Chaen Marek now Duke Leto’s version of the reckless bullfight? A spectacle that his father felt honor-bound to participate in, whether or not there was a true military necessity for the Duke to go personally? Leto could have directed the operations from the safety of the headquarters building, just as he had watched Captain Reeson’s squadron fly off to their deaths. Thufir, Duncan, and Gurney were capable of commanding the operation on the ground.
The barra fern growers had already shown disregard for their own lives, as demonstrated by the blasted crater left by the pseudo-atomic explosion. If their entire drug operations were about to be overrun by Atreides forces, would the defeated criminals be willing to do the same again? Vaporize everyone and everything, especially if it meant they could kill the Duke as well? What would make them so fanatical?
Paul turned to regard the ugly bull’s head mounted on the wall. Even though the beast now hung as a trophy, first it had killed the Old Duke.…
Paul was the presumed heir of House Atreides, but everything in the Landsraad had changed after Otorio, Houses thrown into turmoil, succession lines forever changed. That constant question mark was like a barbed hook in his gut. Paul had dealt with the thread of uncertainty all his life, even though he loved, trusted, and revered his father. And now he himself was being offered up in marriage.
And rejected.
Jessica had taught him how to clear his thoughts and see a situation logically rather than through the fog of emotions. Paul had not objected to the young woman whom his father and Thufir Hawat had decided was the best political match for him.
Now that Duke Verdun had terminated the betrothal possibility, however, Leto would consider other candidates. Thufir had already delivered a new list, as he had reported before the Atreides troops launched that morning. Soon, it would begin all over again. Leto would study the names, weigh their family advantages and disadvantages.
Paul was committed to doing whatever House Atreides needed. He understood his duty as the Duke’s son, and if necessary, he would find a way to be a good husband to his noble wife. Still, he wanted to have some input in the matter. This would be his life, his future.
Frustrated, he left the dining hall, knowing everything could change in an instant. Questions and uncertainties burned like coals in his stomach. Could he not even look at the names suggested, see some background on the women, one of whom was destined to be his duchess?
On impulse, he went to his father’s study. No guards or household staff were in the area when he entered the private office. Inside, bound books were interspersed with curios on the shelves: a polished coral cluster presented to Leto by a fisherman, various rare and colorful shells, an ancient scrap of parchment sandwiched between two layers of plaz from the Muadh Archvicar. A cabinet contained categorized records of ongoing matters, trade contracts, reserve estimates, and reports from his ministers.
On the Duke’s polished desk was a file marked with Thufir Hawat’s personal sign, containing the dossier of marriage prospects that the Atreides Mentat had compiled.
Paul hesitated. These were the names. Thufir had made no secret about it when he reported to the Duke on the military landing field. Didn’t Paul have the right to read about these young women?
His mother had always advocated for him. His father might just inform Paul of his decision, but the young man hoped he would consult with him first.…
Being here now would be considered a breach of trust … but Paul needed to know. He deserved to know. Didn’t he?
He opened the folder and skimmed down the names and summaries, knowing that any one of them would change his life dramatically. The women ranged from a girl of eleven to a widow more than twice Paul’s age. Sheet after sheet delineated names, physical descriptions, traits, family summaries, and a cross-connected web of advantages and disadvantages for House Atreides.
It was the Duke’s final decision to make, to do what was best for House Atreides. Paul kept reminding himself of that. But still, he wanted to look, hoping he might find the dream girl in there.…
Paul studied each listing, portraits and holo-images, realizing that appearances were a small factor in the discussion and determination of the best political alliance. But what about him? Paul wanted to know the character of these candidates, their personalities, temperaments, interests, habits. Were these potential wives studious or vapid, good-humored or moody? And what would they think of him? Would he and his betrothed have anything in common at all?
Paul turned the pages, one after another, trying to be objective. One of these names would bind House Atreides in an alliance and shift their fortunes and political clout. Which young woman would be the best suited to him?
“Many of those remaining names would be acceptable choices, Paul,” said his mother, startling him. Though his senses were always alert, thanks to Thufir’s careful training, he had not heard her stealthy approach. She stepped inside the study, smiling at him. “I did not expect to find you here.”
Embarrassed, he tried to cover the papers, but she had already seen and drawn her own conclusions. He saw that she held a folder as well—one that looked identical to the file on Leto’s desk. He noted a flush in her cheeks, a tiny hesitancy. Apparently, she hadn’t expected to find anyone here.
“What is that report?” he asked.
She responded with only the slightest pause, a hint of boldness designed to disarm him. “Oh, I reviewed Thufir’s dossier and made some slight modifications to the initial sorting.” She stepped forward, set the new folder on the desk, and took the old file from Paul’s hand. “Come with me.” She turned, expecting him to follow.
Paul sensed something unusual and followed his instincts. Opening the new folder, he reviewed the pages, all of which appeared to be in Thufir Hawat’s handwriting. But there were fewer pages, and entire sections were missing. He also saw minor variations, details in a loop of a letter, a flourish of punctuation.
Jessica had imitated the Mentat’s writing—masterfully—but Paul saw the differences.
“Why do you deliver this now, when my father is away, rather than giving it to him directly?” Paul studied her and instantly understood the answer. “You made changes that you don’t want him to know about. Why?”
As a concubine offered to Leto by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, Jessica was in a situation similar to Paul’s. She was his father’s true partner, and yet the security of her position was entirely based on faith, not Imperial law.
Jessica was the Duke’s lady, as well as her own woman. She had taken it upon herself to give Paul deep training in Bene Gesserit skills to enhance his abilities, perhaps more than his father was aware of.
“I had to make some … adjustments,” his mother continued. “It is a matter between your father and myself, and it concerns the welfare of House Atreides.” Her smile was disarming. “I know you, my son, and I want you to be happy. And if there’s to be an argument over this, I will stand up for you.”
Paul could see he had put her off balance, and concluded that her reasons might very well involve the Bene Gesserit.
Frowning, he followed Jessica out of the study. He had learned enough from the dossier to determine at least one important thing: None of the candidates were the young woman he kept dreaming about.
His future was being decided by Thufir’s suggestions, his mother’s intervention, and his father’s ultimate intentions. He wished someone would ask for his own opinion on the matter.
There is law and there is vengeance. I embody both.
—DUKE LETO ATREIDES, address to Caladan War Council
As the men in his squad ran with swords raised, Gurney’s lips drew back in a predatory grimace as he remembered how much he enjoyed this. He was in his element. A good day of mayhem made his blood sing. His life under the Harkonnens and years of serving Duke Leto Atreides had prepared him for moments like this.
Although he felt naked without his body shield, the kindjal in one hand and rapier in the other gave him all the protection he would likely need. And if those weapons failed him, he always had his bare hands.
He raised his voice to his squad. “You were all getting tired of practice, weren’t you, lads?” The din of landing ships, burning fields, and clashing blades was deafening, but his voice rolled above it all. “Gods below, nothing smells as good as an enemy’s blood.”
He and his fighters ignored the drab workers who scurried to escape through the flaming barra fields. Those weren’t his real adversaries. Atreides troops had found stockpiles of packaged ailar and burned them all. With a loud whump, a windowless storehouse erupted in flames. Gurney kept pushing forward, with more soldiers spreading out behind him. The Duke’s army would overwhelm the entire complex in no time.
Near the tents and low dwellings, behind long processing barracks protected by shimmering shields, Gurney spotted a generator hut. “There! Let’s take out their power and cut some of their defenses and camouflage.”
A hard grin was a slash on the face of the man beside him. He was young and impatient. “I want to poke my sword tip into a few soft bodies, not wreck some old machinery!”
“Go ahead, lad. There are plenty of mercenaries to kill. I’ll join you once I take care of this business.” He grinned. “An explosion can be as enjoyable as a sword thrust, if you do it right.”
His fighters bounded ahead, weapons raised, eager to face Marek’s mercenaries, but no one stood against Gurney as he loped ahead to the generator shack. Standing by the thrumming machinery, he removed a small explosive and attached it to the metal housing. He, too, was eager to get to more personal fighting. He bounded away, drawing his blades, one in each hand. Gurney counted out the seconds, then braced himself.
The eruption blew shrapnel in all directions, destroying the generators. The camp’s entire sensor net went down, exposing even more of the fern-growing operations to Atreides air support. A column of smoke and fire swirled up from the ruined machinery.
Gurney paused to admire his work, looked up to the sky. Within minutes, he heard the boom and roar of Atreides warcraft coming back around. They dropped firebombs on the far side of the fields, spreading a carpet of fire on the perimeter of the complex.
He ran, catching up with his fighters as they collided with Marek’s armed forces. The enemy mercenaries fought viciously, professionally, and they stood their ground as if the thought of retreat had never occurred to them. From the range of facial features and skin tones, Gurney realized these recruits were drawn from across the Imperium, attracted by whatever pay Chaen Marek offered. But there had to be more than simply money involved to buy such fanatical loyalty.
These enemy fighters were obviously willing to die, and Gurney was willing to let them have their wish. “For Atreides!” he roared.
His fighters responded. “For Atreides!” The words gave their hearts a surge of energy.
The enemy defenders wore shields, but all of the Duke’s soldiers knew how to fight shielded opponents, slowing each blade enough to slip through the Holtzman field. It was second nature to them. They clashed and danced, defended themselves against enemy swords, pressing close enough to deliver a death blow, even through the thrumming barrier.
As his squad kept fighting, hand to hand, blade to blade, Gurney leaped in to engage a scar-faced mercenary. He thrust in slowly from the side, penetrating the shield and then, in a quick motion, stabbing the kindjal into the man’s kidney. It was a natural movement for him, and he had defeated more opponents than he could remember, shield or no shield.
Another group of mercenaries flooded onto the battlefield from a side cluster of buildings. More than a hundred new fighters. This entire installation—generators, processing barracks, ’thopters, sensor webs, enemy fighters, equipment—everything spoke of a major, well-funded operation.
But Gurney knew the Atreides forces would uproot this compound like a weed and stomp it. The fighters would not let their Duke down.
Gurney spun to face a dark-skinned man with jade eyes. He had a blank expression as if he were drugged, but his reflexes were not sluggish at all. Gurney defended himself with both rapier and kindjal, searching for an opening. They fought, evenly matched. Gurney pushed hard, straining to get his weapon through the shield, and the mercenary shoved back. The thin rapier vibrated under a blow from the enemy’s thicker sword, but Gurney drove the opponent’s weapon aside, running the rapier’s edge along the other blade, then pulling back.
Panting, just out of the op
ponent’s reach, Gurney held up both of his blades. “Which would you choose for your mortal blow? Kindjal or rapier?” He slashed at the air, driving the enemy one step back. “I’d be happy to kill you with either.”
The man didn’t answer. Gurney threw himself against the shimmering shield, while the mercenary thrust and slashed. Ironically, the other man wasn’t accustomed to battling an opponent without a shield, so Gurney pressed his unexpected advantage. He was more nimble, felt the sting of a gash across his shoulder, and spun, ducked. He parried the other blade, then ducked again. He fought, easily feeling out the man’s defenses and his patterns, until he killed the man with a clean thrust with the rapier. As the victim fell, Gurney followed through with the kindjal. “I made the choice for you.”
With both of his blades slick with blood, Gurney easily found another target. He was just getting limbered up.
As they continued to battle their way forward, his squad left a trail of bodies behind them. Gurney glanced sideways, intrigued by a fortified hut protected by a full shield. Details and anomalies clicked together in his mind, and he realized that this must be more than a mere supply storehouse. Gurney made the unusual structure his priority, leaving the hand-to-hand combat to his squad. They could handle it.
Reaching the perimeter shield, he tested the barrier, then pushed his way slowly through it.
Once he entered the structure, he saw it was a records complex filled with papers and spools of shigawire, shipment manifests, contact names, routes—a treasure trove of information. Given this data, Thufir Hawat might be able to unravel the web of ailar operations, find out who on Caladan helped distribute the drug, where the funding came from, and where the offworld customers were concentrated.
Delighted, Gurney laughed out loud. “The rewards of God shall belong to the righteous!” He broke the seal of a storage cabinet and began ransacking the documents. He lifted the lid of a box—and heard a thin fiber snap. He instantly knew something was wrong. A puff of searing flame gushed into the enclosed records and incinerated them. He stumbled back and raised his blistered hands.
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 34
