Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Jessica steeled herself. “And I will die.”

  • • •

  Like a vulture, the leathery proctor hovered beside the girl, watching every flicker of eye movement, every twitch. Mohiam could not let Jessica see her own anguish and dread, but she knew she had to carry out the test.

  You must not fail, my daughter.

  Gaius Helen Mohiam had trained Jessica since her youth, but the girl did not know her heritage, did not know her importance to the Sisterhood’s breeding program. She did not know that Mohiam was her mother.

  Beside her, Jessica had turned ashen with concentration. Sweat sparkled on her smooth forehead. Mohiam studied the patterns on the geometric shapes, saw that the girl still had several levels to go within her mind. . . .

  Please, child, you must survive. I cannot do this again. I am too old.

  Her first daughter by the Baron had been weak and defective; following a terrible prophetic dream, Mohiam had killed the infant herself. It had been a true vision, Mohiam was certain; she saw her place at the culmination of the Sisterhood’s millennia-long breeding program. But she also learned through startling prescience that the Imperium would suffer great pain and death, with planets burned, a near-total genocide . . . if the breeding scheme were to go awry. If the wrong child were born in the next generation.

  Mohiam had already murdered one of her daughters, and she was willing to sacrifice Jessica, too. If necessary. Better to kill her than to allow another terrible jihad to occur.

  The poisoned silver needle hovered a hairbreadth from Jessica’s creamy skin. The girl trembled.

  • • •

  Jessica concentrated with all her might, staring ahead but seeing only words in her mind, the Litany Against Fear. I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.

  As she took a calming breath, she wondered, Which do I choose? The wrong decision and I die. She realized she had to go deeper, and in an epiphany, saw how the three geometric objects were positioned in the human journey: the pain of birth, the pleasure of a life well lived, the eternity of death. She was to select the most profound, Mohiam had said. But only one? How could she start anywhere but the beginning?

  Pain first.

  “I see you have chosen,” Mohiam said, watching the girl’s right hand lift.

  Cautiously, Jessica inserted her hand into the green cube, through the hole in one side of it. Instantly, she felt her skin burning, scorching, her bones filling with lava. Her fingernails were flaking off one by one, peeled away by the ferocious heat. She had never in her life even imagined such agony. And it continued to build.

  I will face my fear, and allow it to pass over me and through me.

  With a supreme effort, she resigned herself to living without her hand, blocked off the nerves. She would do it, if she must. But then logic imposed itself, even with the agony. She could not recall seeing stump-wristed Sisters in the halls of the Mother School. And if all Acolytes were required to face tests such as this . . .

  When the fear has passed, there will be nothing.

  A distant, analytical part of her brain realized that she did not smell cooking flesh, either, did not see wisps of gray smoke, did not hear the crackle and pop of sizzling fat in the meat of her hand.

  Only I will remain.

  Fighting for control of her nerves, Jessica shut off the pain. From her wrist to her elbow, she felt only cold numbness. Her hand no longer existed; the agony no longer existed. Deeper, deeper. Moments later, she had no physical form whatsoever, having separated herself entirely from her body.

  Out of the hole in the green box came a mist. Like incense.

  “Good, good,” Mohiam whispered.

  The mist— a manifestation of Jessica’s awareness— floated into a hole of a different shape, the entrance to the red pyramid. Now a jolt of pleasure suffused her, intensely stimulating but so shocking that she could hardly bear it. She had gone from one extreme to another. She trembled, then flowed and surged, like the ascension of a tsunami on a vast sea. Higher and higher the great wave mounted, crested. . . .

  But the mist of her awareness, after riding the top of a powerful wave, suddenly cascaded down it, tumbling away . . . falling. . . .

  The images vanished, and Jessica felt the thin fabric shoes on her feet, a clammy, sweating sensation of skin against material, and the hardness of the floor beneath. Her right hand . . . She still couldn’t feel it, and couldn’t see it, either, or even a stump at the wrist, for only her eyes were able to move.

  Glancing to the right, she saw the poisoned needle hovering at her cheek, the deadly gom jabbar with the golden sphere of eternity visible beyond. Mohiam held firm, and Jessica centered her vision on the sharp silver tip, the glinting central point of the universe poised like a distant star. A prick of the needle and Jessica would enter the sphere of eternity, in mind and body. There would be no return. The girl felt no pain or pleasure now, only a numbed stillness as she hovered on the precipice of a decision.

  A realization came to her: I am nothing.

  “Pain, pleasure, eternity . . . all interest me,” Jessica murmured at last, as if from a great distance, “for what is one without the others?”

  Mohiam saw that the girl had passed the crisis, survived the test. An animal would not have been able to comprehend such intangibles. Jessica sagged, visibly shaken. The poisoned needle withdrew.

  For Jessica, the ordeal was over quite suddenly. All of it had been imagined, the pain, the pleasure, the nothingness. All accomplished through Bene Gesserit mind-control, the tremendous ability of the Sisterhood to direct another person’s thoughts and actions. A test.

  Had her hand really gone into the green cube? Had she become a mist? Intellectually, she didn’t think so. But when she flexed the fingers of her hand, they were stiff and sore.

  Her robes smelling of musty perspiration, Mohiam trembled, then regained her composure. She gave Jessica the briefest hug, and then her demeanor became formal again.

  “Welcome to the Sisterhood, human.”

  I fought in great wars to defend the Imperium and slew many men in the Emperor’s name. I attended Landsraad functions. I toured the continents of Caladan. I managed all the tedious business matters required to run a Great House. And still the best of times were those I spent with my son.

  — DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES

  When the ducal wingboat cast off from the docks and moved out into the sea, Leto stood at the bow and turned back to gaze at the ancient edifice of Castle Caladan, where House Atreides had ruled for twenty-six generations.

  He could not recognize faces in the high windows, but he saw a small silhouette on a high balcony. Kailea. Despite her resistance to him taking young Victor, not yet two-and-a-half, on this trip, she had indeed come to see them off in her silent way. Leto took heart from that.

  “Could I take the helm?” Rhombur’s rounded face wore a hopeful smile. His unruly, straw-colored hair blew in the freshening breeze. “I’ve never piloted a big wingboat before.”

  “Wait until we reach open sea.” Leto looked at the exiled Prince with a mischievous smile. “That might be safest. I seem to remember you crashing us against the reefs once.”

  Rhombur flushed. “I’ve learned a lot since that time. Uh, common sense, especially.”

  “Indeed you have. Tessia has been a good influence on you.” When the mousy-haired Bene Gesserit concubine had accompanied Rhombur to the docks, her arm in his, she had passionately kissed him farewell.

  In contrast, Kailea had refused to leave the Castle for Leto.

  At the rear of the vee-shaped craft, little Victor giggled, running his hands through the cold spray while the ever-attentive guard captain, Swain Goire, kept watch. Goire kept the boy amused while remaining alert to protect him.

  Eight men accompanied Leto and Victor on this happy-go-lucky voyage. In addition to Rhombur and Goire, he also brought with him Thufir Hawat, a pair of guards, a boat captain, and two
fishermen, Gianni and Dom, friends of Leto’s from the docks with whom he’d played as a boy. They would go fishing; they would see the seaweed forests and kelp islands. Leto would show his son the wonders of Caladan.

  Kailea had wanted to keep her boy locked within the Castle, where Victor would be exposed to nothing worse than a common cold or a draft. Leto had listened to her complaints in silence, knowing that the boat trip was not the root of her objection, merely the current manifestation. It was the same old problem. . . .

  Perhaps Chiara’s muttered comments had finally convinced Kailea that Leto was to blame for her unacceptable situation. “I want to be more than an exile!” she had shouted during their last evening together (as if that had something to do with the fishing trip).

  Leto stifled the urge to remind Kailea that her mother had been murdered, her father remained a hunted fugitive, and her people were still enslaved by the Tleilaxu— while she herself was a Duke’s lady, living in a castle with a fine, healthy son and all the wealth and trappings of a Great House. “You should not complain, Kailea,” he said, his voice dark with anger.

  Though he could not placate her, Leto did want the best for their son.

  Now, under cloud-studded skies, they breathed fresh ocean air and cruised far from land. The wingboat cut through the water like a knife blade through jellied pundi rice.

  Thufir Hawat stood attentive inside the deckhouse; he scanned the signal-ranging systems and weather patterns, always concerned that some danger might befall his beloved Duke. The Master of Assassins kept himself in powerful shape, his skin leathery, his muscles like cables. His sharp Mentat mind could see the wheels within wheels of enemy plots. He studied third- and fourth-order consequences that Leto, or even Kailea with her shrewd business mind, could not comprehend.

  In early afternoon the men cast nets. Though he was a lifelong fisherman, Gianni made it no secret that he preferred a nice big steak for dinner along with good Caladan wine. But out here, they had to eat what the sea provided.

  As the nets came up full of flopping, squirming creatures, Victor raced to inspect the beautiful fish with their multi-colored scales. Ever watchful, Goire stood conscientiously next to the child, steering him away from the ones with poisonous spines.

  Leto selected four fat butterfish, and Gianni and Dom took them to the galley to clean them. Then he knelt beside his son, helping the curious boy to gather the leftover struggling fish. Together, they tossed them overboard, and Victor clapped his hands as they watched the sleek shapes dart into the water.

  Their course took them into floating continents of interlinked sargasso weed, a greenish-brown desert that extended as far as the eye could see. Broad rivers flowed through breaks in the weed. Flies buzzed about, laying eggs in glistening water droplets; black-and-white birds hopped from leaf to leaf, devouring shrimps that wriggled through the warm surface layers. The pungent smell of rotting vegetation filled the air.

  When the men anchored in the seaweed, they talked and sang songs. Swain Goire helped Victor cast a fishing line over the side, and though his hooks tangled in the seaweed, the delighted boy managed to pull up several silvery fingerfish. Victor ran into the cabin with the slippery fish to show his father, who applauded his son’s fishing prowess. After such an exhausting day, the boy crawled into his bunk shortly after sunset and fell asleep.

  Leto played a few gambling games with the two fishermen; though he was their Duke, Gianni and Dom did nothing to help Leto win. They considered him a friend . . . exactly as Leto wished. Later, when they told sad stories or sang tragic songs, Gianni wept at the slightest hint of sentiment.

  Then, far into the night, Leto and Rhombur sat on deck in the darkness, just talking. Rhombur had recently gotten a terse, coded message that C’tair Pilru had received the explosives, but no word as to how they would be put to use. The Prince longed to see what the rebels were doing in the Ixian caverns, though he could not go there. He didn’t know what his father would have done in the situation.

  They spoke of Leto’s continuing diplomatic efforts in the Moritani-Ecazi standoff. It was slow, difficult going. They were faced not only with resistance from the feuding parties but from Emperor Shaddam himself, who seemed to resent the Atreides intrusion. Shaddam believed that by stationing a legion of Sardaukar on Grumman for a few years he had already solved the problem. In reality it had only delayed the hostilities. With the Imperial troops gone now, tensions were mounting again. . . .

  During a long moment of silence, Leto watched Captain Goire, which brought to mind another one of his friends and fighters. “Duncan Idaho has been on Ginaz for four years now.”

  “He’ll become a great Swordmaster.” Rhombur stared across the seaweed desert, where furry murmons set up a bubbly chorus, singing challenges to each other across the darkness. “And after so many years of tough training, he’ll be a thousand times more valuable to you. You’ll see.”

  “Still, I miss having him around.”

  • • •

  The next morning Leto awoke into a dewy gray dawn. Breathing deeply, he felt refreshed and full of energy. He found Victor still sleeping, the corner of a blanket wrapped around one clenched hand. In his own bunk Rhombur yawned and stretched, but gave no sign that he meant to follow Leto out onto the deck. Even on Ix, the Prince had never been an early riser.

  The wingboat captain had already pulled up anchor. At Hawat’s direction— did the Mentat ever sleep?— they coasted down a wide channel through the seaweed toward open water again. Leto stood on the foredeck enjoying a silence broken only by the hum of the wingboat’s engines. Even the weed-hopping birds were still. . . .

  Leto noted strange colorations in the clouds out at sea, a moving clump of flickering lights unlike anything he had seen before. From his seat in the midships deckhouse, the captain increased engine power and the wingboat raced along, picking up speed.

  Leto sniffed, detected a metallic scent of ozone, but with an added sourness. He narrowed his gray eyes, ready to call the boat captain. The dense cluster of electrical activity moved against the breezes, darting along low to the water . . . as if alive.

  Approaching us.

  With a thrill of concern, he stepped backward into the deckhouse. “Do you see it, Captain?”

  The older man did not take his eyes from the steering column or the phenomenon racing toward them. “I’ve been watching it for ten minutes, my Lord— and in that time it’s closed half the distance.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Leto stood beside the captain’s chair. “What is it?”

  “I’ve got my suspicions.” The captain’s expression betrayed concern and fear; he yanked the throttle lever and the engines roared louder than ever. “I’m thinking we should run.” He pointed to the right, away from the approaching lights.

  Leto brought an edge of ducal command to his voice, stripping away the friendliness he had built over the past day. “Captain, explain yourself.”

  “It’s an elecran, Sire. If you ask me.”

  Leto laughed once, then stopped. “An elecran? Isn’t that just a myth?” His father, the Old Duke, had liked to tell stories as the two of them sat by an open beach fire, with the night illuminated only by flickering flames. “You’d be amazed at what’s in that sea, boy,” Paulus had said, pointing toward the dark water. “Your mother wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but I think you should know.” He would take a long, thoughtful puff on his pipe and begin his tale. . . .

  Now the wingboat captain shook his head. “They’re rare, my Lord, but they do exist.”

  And if such an elemental creature was indeed real, Leto knew what destruction and death it could bring. “Turn the boat, then. Set a course away from the thing. Maximum speed.”

  The captain slewed them to starboard, churning a white wake in the still water, tilting the deck at an angle steep enough to tumble the men from their bunks below. Leto gripped a cabin rail until his knuckles turned white.

  Thufir Hawat an
d Swain Goire hurried into the deckhouse, demanding to know the reason for the emergency. As Leto pointed aft, the men stared through the mist-specked plaz of the windows. Goire cursed with colorful language he never used around Victor. Hawat’s brow furrowed as his complex Mentat mind analyzed the situation and plucked the information he needed from his storehouse of knowledge. “We are in trouble, my Duke.”

  The flashing lights and stormy appearance of the strange creature came closer on their stern, picking up speed, causing steam to boil off the water. The boat captain’s forehead glistened with sweat. “It’s seen us, Sire.” He jammed the engine throttle down so hard it nearly broke off in his hand. “Even in this wingboat we can’t outrun it. Better prepare for an attack.”

  Leto sounded the alarm. Within seconds, the other guards appeared, followed by the two fishermen. Rhombur carried Victor, who, frightened by the commotion, clung to his uncle.

  Hawat stared aft, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know how to fight a myth.” He looked at his Duke, as if he had failed in some way. “Nevertheless, we will try.”

  Goire rapped on a bulkhead of the deckhouse. “This boat won’t shelter us, will it?” The guard appeared ready to fight anything the Duke identified as an enemy.

  “An elecran is a cluster of ghosts from men who died in storms at sea,” said the fisherman Dom, his voice uncertain as he leaned out of the deckhouse while the others went out onto the aft deck to face the creature.

  His brother Gianni shook his head. “Our grandmother said it’s the living vengeance of a woman scorned. A long time ago, a woman went out during a thunderstorm and screamed curses at the man who had left her. She was struck by lightning, and that’s how the elecran was born.”

  It hurt Leto’s eyes to look at the towering elecran, a squid of electricity formed by vertical bolts of power and tendrils of gas. Lightning skittered across its surface; mist, steam, and ozone surrounded it like a shield. As the creature approached the wingboat, it swelled in volume, absorbing seawater like a great geyser.

  “I’ve also heard it can only keep its shape, keep itself alive, so long as it stays in contact with the water,” the boat captain added.