Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Before long, they heard a hissing, rolling sound from behind. Liet glanced over his shoulder, then pushed his father over a dune crest. “Faster. I don’t know how much time we’ll have.” They increased their pace. Pardot stumbled, got back up.

  Ripples arrowed across the sands directly toward the half-buried pod. Toward them. Dunes lurched, rolled, then flattened with the inexorable tunneling of a deep worm rising to the surface.

  “Run with your very soul!” They sprinted toward the cliffs, crossed a dune crest, slid down, then surged forward again, the soft sand pulling at their feet. Liet’s spirits rose when he saw the safety of rocks less than a hundred meters away.

  The hissing grew louder as the giant worm picked up speed. The ground beneath their boots trembled.

  Finally, Kynes reached the first boulders and clutched them like an anchor, panting and wheezing. Liet pushed him farther, though, onto the slopes, to be sure the monster could not rise from the sand and strike them.

  Moments later, sitting on a ledge, wordless as they sucked hot air through their nostrils to catch their breath, Pardot Kynes and his son stared back to watch a churning whirlpool form around the half-buried weather pod. In the loosening powder, as the viscosity of the stirred sand changed, the pod shifted and began to sink.

  The heart of the whirlpool rose up in a cavernous scooped mouth. The desert monster swallowed the offending vessel along with tons of sand, forcing all the debris down into a gullet lined with crystal teeth. The worm sank back into the arid depths, and Liet watched the ripples of its passage, slower now, returning into the empty basin. . . .

  In the pounding silence that followed, Pardot Kynes did not look exhilarated from his near brush with death. Instead, he appeared dejected. “We lost all that data.” The Planetologist heaved a deep breath. “I could have used our readings to understand those storms better.”

  Liet reached inside a front pocket of his stillsuit and held up the old-style datapack he had snatched from the pod’s instrument panel. “Even while watching out for our lives— I can still pay attention to research.”

  Kynes beamed with fatherly pride.

  Under the desert sun, they hiked up the rugged path to the safety of the sietch.

  Behold, O Man, you can create life. You can destroy life. But, lo, you have no choice but to experience life. And therein lies both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness.

  — Orange Catholic Bible,

  Book of Kimla Septima, 5:3

  On oil-soaked Giedi Prime, the work crew left the fields at the end of a typically interminable day. Encrusted with perspiration and dirt, the workers slogged from trench-lined plots under a lowering red sun, making their way back home.

  In their midst, Gurney Halleck, his blond hair a sweaty tangle, clapped his hands rhythmically. It was the only way he could keep going, his way of resisting the oppression of Harkonnen overlords, who for the moment were not within earshot. He made up a work song with nonsense lyrics, trying to get his companions to join in, or at least to mumble along with the chorus.

  We toil all day, the Harkonnen way,

  Hour after hour, we long for a shower,

  Just workin’ and workin’ and workin’ . . .

  The people trudged along silently. Too tired after eleven hours in the rocky fields, they hardly gave the would-be troubadour a notice. With a resigned sigh, Gurney finally gave up his efforts, though he maintained his wry smile. “We are indeed miserable, my friends, but we don’t have to be dismal about it.”

  Ahead lay a low village of prefabricated buildings— a settlement called Dmitri in honor of the previous Harkonnen patriarch, the father of Baron Vladimir. After the Baron had taken control of House Harkonnen decades ago, he’d scrutinized the maps of Giedi Prime, renaming land features to his own tastes. In the process he had added a melodramatic flair to the stark formations: Isle of Sorrows, Perdition Shallows, Cliff of Death. . . .

  No doubt a few generations hence, someone else would rename the landmarks all over again.

  Such concerns were beyond Gurney Halleck. Though poorly educated, he did know the Imperium was vast, with a million planets and decillions of people . . . but it wasn’t likely he’d travel even as far as Harko City, the densely packed, smoky metropolis that shed a perpetual ruddy glow on the northern horizon.

  Gurney studied the crew around him, the people he saw every day. Eyes downcast, they marched like machines back to their squalid homes, so sullen that he had to laugh aloud. “Get some soup in your bellies, and I’ll expect you to start singing tonight. Doesn’t the O. C. Bible say, ‘Make cheer from your own heart, for the sun rises and sets according to your perspective on the universe’?”

  A few workers mumbled with faint enthusiasm; it was better than nothing. At least he had managed to cheer them up some. With a life so dreary, any spot of color was worth the effort.

  Gurney was twenty-one, his skin already rough and leathery from working in the fields since the age of eight. By habit, his bright blue eyes drank in every detail . . . though the village of Dmitri and the desolate fields gave him little to look at. With an angular jaw, a too-round nose, and flat features, he already looked like an old farmer and would no doubt marry one of the washed-out, tired-looking girls from the village.

  Gurney had spent the day up to his armpits in a trench, wielding a spade to throw out piles of stony earth. After so many years of tilling the same ground, the villagers had to dig deep in order to find nutrients in the soil. The Baron certainly didn’t waste solaris on fertilizers— not for these people.

  During their centuries of stewardship on Giedi Prime, the Harkonnens had made a habit of wringing the land for all it was worth. It was their right— no, their duty— to exploit this world, and then move the villages to new land and new pickings. One day when Giedi Prime was a barren shell, the leader of House Harkonnen would undoubtedly request a different fief, a new reward for serving the Padishah Emperors. There were, after all, many worlds to choose from in the Imperium.

  But galactic politics were of no interest to Gurney. His goals were limited to enjoying the upcoming evening, sharing a bit of entertainment and relaxation down at the meeting place. Tomorrow would be another day of back-breaking work.

  Only stringy, starchy krall tubers grew profitably in these fields; though most of the crop was exported as animal feed, the bland tubers were nutritious enough to keep people working. Gurney ate them every day, as did everyone else. Poor soil leads to poor taste.

  His parents and coworkers were full of proverbs, many from the Orange Catholic Bible; Gurney memorized them all and often set them to tunes. Music was the one treasure he was allowed to have, and he shared it freely.

  The workers spread out to their separate but identical dwellings, defective prefabricated units House Harkonnen had bought at discount and dumped there. Gurney gazed ahead to where he lived with his parents and his younger sister, Bheth.

  His home had a brighter touch than the others. Old, rusted cookpots held dirt in which colorful flowers grew: maroon, blue, and yellow pansies, a shock of daisies, even sophisticated-looking calla lilies. Most houses had small vegetable gardens where the people grew plants, herbs, vegetables— though any produce that looked too appetizing might be confiscated and eaten by roving Harkonnen patrols.

  The day was warm and the air smoky, but the windows of his home were open. Gurney could hear Bheth’s sweet voice in a lilting melody. In his mind’s eye he saw her long, straw-colored hair; he thought of it as “flaxen”— a word from Old Terran poems he had memorized— though he had never seen homespun flax. Only seventeen, Bheth had fine features and a sweet personality that had not yet been crushed by a lifetime of work.

  Gurney used the outside faucet to splash the gray, caked dirt from his face, arms, and hands. He held his head under the cold water, soaking his snarled blond hair, then used blunt fingers to maul it into some semblance of order. He shook his head and strode inside, kissing Bheth on the cheek while drippi
ng cold water on her. She squealed and backed away, then returned to her cooking chores.

  Their father had already collapsed in a chair. Their mother bent over huge wooden bins outside the back door, preparing krall tubers for market; when she noticed Gurney was home, she dried her hands and came inside to help Bheth serve. Standing at the table, his mother read several verses from a tattered old O. C. Bible in a deeply reverent voice (her goal was to read the entire mammoth tome to her children before she died), and then they sat down to eat. He and his sister talked while sipping a soup of stringy vegetables, seasoned only with salt and a few sprigs of dried herbs. During the meal, Gurney’s parents spoke little, usually in monosyllables.

  Finishing, he carried his dishes to the basin, where he scrubbed them and left them to drip dry for the next day. With wet hands he clapped his father on the shoulder. “Are you going to join me at the tavern? It’s fellowship night.”

  The older man shook his head. “I’d rather sleep. Sometimes your songs just make me feel too tired.”

  Gurney shrugged. “Get your rest then.” In his small room, he opened the rickety wardrobe and took out his most prized possession: an old baliset, designed as a nine-stringed instrument, though Gurney had learned to play with only seven, since two strings were broken and he had no replacements.

  He had found the discarded instrument, damaged and useless, but after working on it patiently for six months . . . sanding, lacquering, shaping parts . . . the baliset made the sweetest music he’d ever heard, albeit without a full tonal range. Gurney spent hours in the night strumming the strings, spinning the counterbalance wheel. He taught himself to play tunes he had heard, or composed new ones.

  As darkness enclosed the village, his mother sagged into a chair. She placed the precious Bible in her lap, comforted more by its weight than its words. “Don’t be late,” she said in a dry, empty voice.

  “I won’t.” Gurney wondered if she would notice if he stayed out all night. “I’ll need my strength to tackle those trenches tomorrow.” He raised a well-muscled arm, feigning enthusiasm for the tasks all of them knew would never end. He made his way across the packed-dirt streets down to the tavern.

  In the wake of a deadly fever several years ago, four of the prefab structures had been left empty. The villagers had moved the buildings together, knocked down the connecting walls, and fashioned themselves a large community house. Although this wasn’t exactly against the numerous Harkonnen restrictions, the local enforcers had frowned at such a display of initiative. But the tavern remained.

  Gurney joined the small crowd of men who had already gathered for the fellowship down at the tavern. Some brought their wives. One man already lay slumped across the table, more exhausted than drunk, his flagon of watery beer only half-consumed. Gurney crept up behind him, held out his baliset, and strummed a jangling chord that startled the man to full wakefulness.

  “Here’s a new one, friends. Not exactly a hymn that your mothers remember, but I’ll teach it to you.” He gave them a wry grin. “Then you’ll all sing along with me, and probably ruin the tune.” None of them were very good singers, but the songs were entertaining, and it brought a measure of brightness to their lives.

  With full energy, he tacked sardonic words onto a familiar melody:

  O Giedi Prime!

  Thy shades of black are beyond compare,

  From obsidian plains to oily seas,

  To the darkest nights in the Emperor’s Eye.

  Come ye from far and wide

  To see what we hide in our hearts and minds,

  To share our bounty

  And lift a pickax or two . . .

  Making it all lovelier than before.

  O Giedi Prime!

  Thy shades of black are beyond compare,

  From obsidian plains to oily seas,

  To the darkest nights in the Emperor’s Eye.

  When Gurney finished the song, he wore a grin on his plain, blocky face and bowed to imagined applause. One of the men called out hoarsely, “Watch yourself, Gurney Halleck. If the Harkonnens hear your sweet voice, they’ll haul you off to Harko for sure— so you can sing for the Baron himself.”

  Gurney made a rude noise. “The Baron has no ear for music, especially not lovely songs like mine.” This brought a round of laughter. He picked up a mug of the sour beer and chugged it down.

  Then the door burst open and Bheth ran in, her flaxen hair loose, her face flushed. “Patrol coming! We saw the suspensor lights. They’ve got a prisoner transport and a dozen guards.”

  The men sat up with a jolt. Two ran for the doors, but the others remained frozen in place, already looking caught and defeated.

  Gurney strummed a soothing note on his baliset. “Be calm, my friends. Are we doing anything illegal? ‘The guilty both know and show their crimes.’ We are merely enjoying fellowship. The Harkonnens can’t arrest us for that. In fact, we’re demonstrating how much we like our conditions, how happy we are to work for the Baron and his minions. Right, mates?”

  A somber grumbling was all the agreement he managed to elicit. Gurney set aside his baliset and went to the trapezoidal window of the communal hall just as a prisoner transport pulled up in the center of the village. Several human forms could be seen in shadow behind the transport’s plaz windows, evidence that the Harkonnens had been busy arresting people— all women, it appeared. Though he patted his sister’s hand and maintained his good humor for the benefit of the others, Gurney knew the troopers needed few excuses to take more captives.

  Brilliant spotlights targeted the village. Dark armored forms rushed up the packed-dirt streets, pounding on houses. Then the door to the communal building was shouldered open with a loud crash.

  Six men strode inside. Gurney recognized Captain Kryubi of the baronial guard, the man in charge of House Harkonnen security. “Stand still for inspection,” Kryubi ordered. A shard of mustache bristled on his lip. His face was narrow and his cheeks looked sunken, as if he clenched his jaw too often.

  Gurney remained by the window. “We’ve done nothing wrong here, Captain. We follow Harkonnen rules. We do our work.”

  Kryubi looked over at him. “And who appointed you the leader of this village?”

  Gurney did not think fast enough to keep his sarcasm in check. “And who gave you orders to harass innocent villagers? You’ll make us incapable of doing our tasks tomorrow.”

  His companions in the tavern were horrified at his impudence. Bheth clutched Gurney’s hand, trying to keep her brother quiet. The Harkonnen guards made threatening gestures with their weapons.

  Gurney jerked his chin to indicate the prisoner escort vehicle outside the window. “What did those people do? What crimes worthy of arrest?”

  “No crimes are necessary,” Kryubi said, coolly unafraid of the truth.

  Gurney took a step forward, but three guards grasped his arms and threw him heavily to the floor. He knew the Baron often recruited guards from the farming villages. The new thugs— rescued from bleak lives and given new uniforms, weapons, lodgings, and women— often became scornful of their previous lives and proved crueler than off-world professionals. Gurney hoped he would recognize a man from a neighboring village, so he could spit in his eye. His head struck the hard floor, but he sprang back to his feet.

  Bheth moved quickly to her brother’s side. “Don’t provoke them anymore.”

  It was the worst thing she could have done. Kryubi pointed at her. “All right, take that one, too.”

  Bheth’s narrow face paled when two of the three guards grabbed her by her thin arms. She struggled as they hauled her to the still-open door. Gurney cast his baliset aside and lunged forward, but the remaining guard produced his weapon and brought the butt down hard across the young man’s forehead and nose.

  Gurney staggered, then threw himself forward again, swinging balled fists like mallets. “Leave her alone!” He knocked one of the guards down and tore the second one away from his sister. She screamed as the three conv
erged upon Gurney, pummeling him, slamming their weapons so brutally into him that his ribs cracked; his nose was already bloodied.

  “Help me!” Gurney shouted to the saucer-eyed villagers. “We outnumber the bastards.”

  No one came to his aid.

  He flailed and punched, but went down in a flurry of kicking boots and pounding weapons. Struggling to lift his head, he saw Kryubi watching as his men pulled Bheth toward the door. Gurney pushed, trying to throw off the heavy men who held him down.

  Between the gauntleted arms and padded legs, he saw the villagers frozen in their seats, like sheep. They watched him with stricken expressions, but remained as motionless as stones in a castle keep. “Help me, damn you!”

  One guard punched him in the solar plexus, making him gasp and retch. Gurney’s voice was gone, his breath fading. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. Finally, the guards withdrew.

  He propped himself on an elbow just in time to see Bheth’s despairing face as the Harkonnen men dragged her into the night.

  Enraged and frustrated, he swayed back to his feet, fighting to remain conscious. He heard the prison transport power up in the square outside. Haloed by a glow of illumination against the windows of the tavern, it roared off toward another village to pick up more captives.

  Gurney blinked at the other men through swollen eyes. Strangers. He coughed and spat blood, then wiped it from his lips. Finally, when he could wheeze, he said, “You bastards just sat there. You didn’t lift a finger to help.” Brushing himself off, he glared at the villagers. “How can you let them do this to us? They took my sister!”

  But they were no better than sheep, and never had been. He should have expected nothing different now.

  With utter contempt, he spat blood and saliva on the floor, then staggered toward the door and out.

  Secrets are an important aspect of power. The effective leader spreads them in order to keep men in line.

  — PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO,