Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  He engaged the whisper-quiet engines of the attack craft, and it dropped through the bottom of the orbiting frigate. With increasing anticipation, Rabban activated the no-field generator— and the ship vanished in open space.

  During his descent toward the planet, all ship’s systems functioned properly. The glitches from recent test flights had been repaired. High over a range of grass-covered hills, he banked toward the stucco and sienna-roofed buildings of the Mother School. So, the witches thought they could just disappear when the Baron demanded an audience? Were they snickering at their own cleverness? Now, the witches refused to answer repeated demands for a conference. How long did they imagine they could avoid the issue?

  Touching a sensor button, Rabban armed the weapons. A massive, unexpected strike would engulf libraries and rectories and museums in flames, leveling them all to rubble.

  That’ll get their attention.

  He wondered if the Baron had even discovered his departure yet.

  As the silent craft swooped toward the school complex, he saw shifting crowds of women outside the clustered buildings, foolishly confident that they no longer needed to hide. The witches thought they could thumb their noses at House Harkonnen.

  Rabban cruised lower. His weapons system grew hot; targeting screens glowed. Before he wrecked the main buildings, perhaps he would pick off a few of the vulturelike females one at a time, just for sport. With his silent and unseen ship, it would seem like a fiery finger of God striking them down for their arrogance. The no-ship came into range.

  Suddenly the witches all looked up at him.

  He felt something press against his mind. As he watched, the women shimmered and vanished. Then his vision blurred, and he felt his head throbbing . . . hurting. He pushed a hand against his temple, trying to focus. But the pressure within his skull increased like a bull elephant rampaging against his forehead.

  Below, the images shimmered. The crowds of Bene Gesserit flickered into view again, then dissolved into afterimages. The buildings, the landmarks, the planetary surface, all wavered. Rabban could barely see the controls.

  Disoriented, his head splitting with agony, Rabban grasped the piloting console. The no-ship squirmed like a living thing beneath him, and the vessel went into a spin. Rabban let out a gargling, befuddled cry, not even realizing his danger until crash-foam and restraint webbing slammed around him.

  The no-ship caromed into an apple orchard, ripping a long brown furrow across the ground, then tumbled over onto its back. After a groaning pause, the ruined craft skidded down an embankment and into a shallow creek.

  The mangled engines caught fire, and greasy blue smoke filled the cockpit. Rabban heard the hiss of fire-suppression systems as he clawed himself free of the foam and protective restraints.

  Choking on bitter smoke, blinking acid tears from his eyes, Rabban activated an escape hatch in the belly of the ship and crawled from the wreckage. He tumbled off the hot, slippery metal and landed on his hands and knees in the steaming water of the creek. Befuddled, he shook his head. Looking back at the no-ship, he saw that its hull flickered in and out of visibility.

  Behind him, women swarmed down the embankment, like black-robed locusts. . . .

  • • •

  When Baron Harkonnen received the unexpected comlink message from Mother Superior Harishka, he wanted to strangle her. For days, his shouts and threats had gone unanswered. Now, though, as he paced the floor of the frigate’s command bridge, the old crone initiated contact herself. She appeared on the oval system screen.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t available when you visited, Baron, and I apologize that our comsystems were down. I know that you have something to discuss with me.” Her tone was maddeningly pleasant. “But I wonder if you might like to have your nephew returned first?”

  Seeing her thin lips smile beneath those evil almond eyes, he knew his corpulent face must reflect his utter confusion. He spun to look at his troop captain, then at Piter de Vries. “Where is Rabban?” Both men shook their heads, as surprised as he was. “Bring me Rabban!”

  Mother Superior gestured, and a few Sisters brought the burly man into view on the screen. Despite bloody scrapes and gashes on his face, Rabban appeared defiant. One of his arms hung limp at his side; his trousers were ripped at the knees, revealing jagged wounds beneath.

  The Baron cursed under his breath. What has that idiot done now?

  “He suffered some sort of mechanical malfunction in his vessel. Was he coming to visit us, I wonder? Perhaps to spy . . . or even to attack?” Next, a video image of the wrecked no-ship appeared on the screen, still smoldering at the edge of a ruined orchard. “He was flying a most interesting craft. Note how it phases in and out of view. Some sort of a damaged invisibility mechanism? Most ingenious.”

  The Baron’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Gods below, we’ve lost the no-ship, too! Not only had his stupid nephew been caught by the Sisterhood, he had let the no-ship— the Harkonnens’ most powerful secret weapon— fall into the hands of the witches.

  Moving silently, Piter de Vries whispered in his ear, trying to calm him. “Take slow, deep breaths, my Baron. Would you like me to continue negotiations with the Mother Superior?”

  With a supreme effort, the Baron composed himself, then stepped away and turned back to the screen. He would deal with Rabban later. “My nephew is a complete dolt. He did not have my permission to take the ship.”

  “A convenient explanation.”

  “I assure you he will be severely punished for his brash actions. Of course we will also pay for any damages he caused to your school.” He grimaced, chagrined at how easily he had conceded defeat.

  “A few apple trees. No reason to file a claim . . . or report to the Landsraad— if you cooperate.”

  “Cooperate!” His nostrils flared, and he reeled backward, nearly losing his balance. He had evidence against them. “And would your report include a summary of how your Reverend Mother unleashed a biological weapon upon my person, in violation of the Great Convention?”

  “Actually, our report would include a bit of speculation,” Harishka said with a vise-tight smile. “You may recall an interesting incident a few years back when two Tleilaxu vessels were mysteriously fired upon inside a Guild Heighliner. Duke Leto Atreides was accused of the atrocity, but denied the charges— which seemed preposterous at the time, since no other ship was nearby. No visible ship, at least. We have confirmed that there was also a Harkonnen frigate in the vicinity, en route to Emperor Shaddam’s coronation.”

  The Baron forced himself to remain motionless. “You have no proof.”

  “We have the ship, Baron.” The image of the flickering wreckage appeared on the screen again. “Any competent court would come to the same conclusion. The Tleilaxu and the Atreides will be most interested in this development. Not to mention the Spacing Guild.”

  Piter de Vries looked from the Baron to the comscreen, wheels turning in his intricate mind, but he could find no acceptable solution.

  “You’re talking yourself into a death sentence, witch,” the Baron said in a low growl. “We have proof that the Bene Gesserit unleashed a harmful biological agent. One word from me, and—”

  “And we have proof of something else, don’t we?” Harishka said. “What do you think, Baron— do two proofs cancel each other out? Or is our proof far more interesting?”

  “Provide me with the cure for my disease, and I’ll consider withdrawing my accusations.”

  On the screen Harishka looked at him wryly. “My dear Baron, there is no cure. The Bene Gesserit use permanent measures. Nothing can be reversed.” She seemed mockingly sympathetic. “On the other hand, if you keep our secrets, we will keep yours. And you may have your troublesome nephew back— before we do anything else that might be irreversible.”

  De Vries interrupted, knowing the Baron was about to explode. “In addition, we insist on the return of our crashed vessel.” They could not allow the Sisterhood access to the no-
field technology, though the Harkonnens themselves did not understand it.

  “Impossible. No civilized person would want to see such an attack craft repaired. For the sake of the Imperium, we must take steps to arrest the development of this deadly technology.”

  “We have other ships!” the Baron said.

  “She is a Truthsayer, my Baron,” de Vries whispered. The old Bene Gesserit looked at them deprecatingly while the Baron sweated for a better response.

  “What will you do with the wreckage?” The Baron clenched his fists together so hard that his knuckles cracked.

  “Why . . . make it disappear, of course.”

  • • •

  When Rabban returned, the Baron gave him a cane thrashing and locked him in his stateroom for the duration of the trip back to Giedi Prime. Despite all his foolish impulsiveness, the burly man remained the heir-presumptive of House Harkonnen.

  For now.

  The Baron paced the floor and pounded on the walls, trying to imagine the worst punishment he could inflict upon his nephew, an appropriate penalty for the incredible damage Rabban’s clumsy attack had caused. Finally, it came to him, and he smiled tightly.

  Immediately upon returning home, Glossu Rabban was sent to the remote planet of Lankiveil, where he would live with his weakling father Abulurd.

  It is the Atreides way to be examples of honor for our children, so that they may be the same for their own progeny.

  — DUKE LETO ATREIDES,

  First Speech to the Caladan Assembly

  Eighteen months had passed.

  A full moon bathed Castle Caladan in silver, casting shadows of the turrets along the edge of the cliff that overlooked a troubled sea. From his discreet vantage in the ornamental garden, Thufir Hawat saw Duke Leto and Kailea Vernius strolling along the verge of the precipice, star-crossed lovers.

  She had been his official, but unbound, concubine for more than a year, and sometimes the two enjoyed quiet, romantic moments like this one. Leto was in no hurry to accept any of the numerous offers of marriage alliances that came to him from other Houses of the Landsraad.

  Hawat’s constant surveillance irritated the Duke, who demanded some measure of privacy. But as Security Commander of House Atreides, the Mentat did not care. Leto had a troubling tendency to place himself in vulnerable positions, to be too trusting of the people around him. Hawat would rather incur his Duke’s disfavor by being too attentive, than allow a fatal mistake to slip past his scrutiny. Duke Paulus had died in the bullring because Hawat hadn’t watched closely enough. He vowed never to make such an error again.

  As Leto and Kailea walked in the chill night, Hawat worried that the trail was too narrow, too close to a deadly drop into the rocky surf. Leto refused to permit guardrails. He wanted the path exactly as his father had left it, since the Old Duke had also walked along the headlands, pondering problems of state. It was a matter of tradition, and the Atreides were brave men.

  Hawat scanned the darkness with infrared glasses, saw no movement in the shadows other than his own troopers stationed on the trail and along the base of the rock face. With a tiny blacklight he signaled two of the men to take different positions.

  He had to be constantly on the alert.

  Leto held Kailea’s hand and looked at her delicate features and her dark copper hair blowing in the night breeze. Her coat collar was turned up around her slender neck. As stunningly beautiful as any lady of the Imperium, Rhombur’s sister carried herself like an Empress. But Leto could never marry her. He must remain true to traditions, as his father had done, and his grandfather before that. The course of honor . . . and political expediency.

  However, no one, not even the ghost of Paulus Atreides, could argue against such a union if the fortunes of House Vernius were ever restored. For months, with Leto’s wholehearted support, Rhombur had secretly been sending modest funds and other resources to C’tair Pilru and the Freedom Fighters of Ix through surreptitious channels, and he had received bits of information in return, schedules, surveillance images. Now that he had taken some action at last, Rhombur seemed more vital and alive than he’d been in a long time.

  Pausing at the top of the trail that led down to the beach, Leto smiled, knowing Hawat was somewhere nearby, as always. He turned to the woman beside him. “Caladan has been my home since childhood, Kailea, and to me it is always beautiful. But I can see you’re not really happy here.” A nightgull flew up into the air, startling them with its thin screams.

  “It’s not your fault, Leto. You’ve already done so much for my brother and me.” Kailea didn’t look at him. “This just isn’t . . . where I had imagined I would be.”

  Knowing her dreams, he said, “I wish I could take you to Kaitain more often, so that you might enjoy the Imperial Court. I’ve seen how you light up at gala events. You’re so radiant that it makes me sad having to bring you back to Caladan. It isn’t glamorous here, not the life you were accustomed to.” The words were an apology for all the things he could not offer her— the luxury, the prestige, the legitimacy of belonging to a Great House again. He wondered if she understood the sense of duty that bound him.

  Kailea’s soft voice sounded uncertain; she had seemed nervous all afternoon. She paused on the path. “Ix is gone, Leto, and all the glamour with it. I have accepted that.” They turned to gaze in silence upon the night-black ocean before she spoke again. “Rhombur’s rebels can never overthrow the Tleilaxu, can they?”

  “We know too little about what’s really going on there. Reports are scattered. You think he’s better off not trying?” Leto looked hard at her with his smoke-gray eyes, trying to understand her anxiety. “Miracles can happen.”

  She seized the opening she had been waiting for. “Miracles, yes. And now I have one to tell you, my Duke.” He looked at her with a blank expression. Kailea’s lips curved in a complex smile. “I am going to have your child.”

  Stunned, he froze in place. Far out at sea, a pod of murmons sang a deep song as a counterpoint to throbbing sonic buoys that marked the treacherous reefs. Then, slowly leaning down, Leto kissed Kailea, felt the familiar moistness of her mouth.

  “Are you pleased?” She sounded very fragile. “I didn’t try to conceive. It just happened.”

  He stepped away from Kailea, held her at arm’s length so he could study her face. “Of course!” He touched her stomach gently. “I’ve imagined having a son.”

  “Perhaps now would be a good time for me to consider obtaining another lady-in-waiting?” Kailea asked, anxiously. “I’ll need assistance in preparing for childbirth— not to mention help with the baby when it is born.”

  He hugged her with strong arms. “If you want another lady-in-waiting, then you shall have her.” Thufir Hawat would check out any candidates for the Atreides household with his usual thoroughness. “I’ll get you ten if you wish!”

  “Thank you, Leto.” She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “But one should be sufficient.”

  • • •

  Dust and heat hung over everything. Hoping that the dry climate might help his condition, Baron Harkonnen spent more time on Arrakis. But he still felt miserable.

  In his Carthag workroom, the Baron reviewed spice-harvesting reports, trying to concoct new ways to conceal earnings from the Emperor, from CHOAM, from the Spacing Guild. Owing to his increasing bulk, the desk had been customized with a cutout to accommodate his belly. His flaccid arms rested on the gritty desktop.

  A year and a half ago, the Bene Gesserit had brought him to an impasse, with threats and counterthreats, blackmail in both directions. Rabban had lost their no-ship. He and the witches had remained at a safe but uneasy distance from each other.

  Still, the wounds rankled, and he grew weaker— and fatter— every day.

  His scientists had been trying to build another no-ship, without the assistance of the Richesian genius Chobyn, whom Rabban had slain. The Baron saw red every time he thought of his nephew’s numerous blunders.

  Pla
ns and holorecordings of the original construction process had been flawed, or so the Baron’s scientists claimed. As a result, their first new prototype had crashed into the obsidian slopes of Mount Ebony, killing the entire crew. Serves them right.

  The Baron wondered if he would prefer a sudden death like that to torturous debilitation and decay. He had poured an enormous amount of solaris into a state-of-the-art medical research facility on Giedi Prime, with the grudging, part-time assistance of the Richesian Suk doctor Wellington Yueh, who was still more interested in his cyborg research than in finding ways to help the suffering Baron. The Richesian Premier still hadn’t sent him a bill for the services, but the Baron didn’t care.

  Despite all this effort, there had been no results, and continued threats didn’t seem to help. For the Baron, the simple act of walking, which he’d once done so effortlessly and with such grace, was now a major task. Soon the wormhead cane would not be enough.

  “I have news of an interesting development, my Baron,” Piter de Vries said, gliding into the dusty Carthag offices.

  He frowned at the interruption. The gaunt Mentat, wearing a pale blue robe, hid his sapho-stained smile. “The concubine of Duke Leto Atreides has sent inquiries to the Imperial Court, seeking the services of a personal lady-in-waiting. I came to inform you as soon as I was able. However, because of the urgency involved, I . . . took the liberty of setting a plan in motion.”

  The Baron raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And what is this interesting plan that you felt needed no approval from me?”

  “There is a certain matron living in the household of Suuwok Hesban, the son of Elrood’s former Court Chamberlain Aken Hesban. For some time now, she has provided us with excellent information on the Hesban family. At my instigation, this matron, Chiara Rash-Olin, has let it be known that she is interested in the Atreides position, and is to be interviewed on Caladan.”

  “Inside the Atreides household?” the fat man said. He saw a crafty smile form on the slender Mentat’s face, which mirrored the Baron’s own delight. “That provides some . . . interesting opportunities.”