Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  C’tair smiled, kept his eyes closed. She’d spotted the piles of wafers.

  “I got a few things, too.” Abruptly, he sat up and explained how he’d come by the explosives, and how they worked. Each black wafer, the size of a small coin and honeycombed with compressed detonation beads, packed enough power to blow up a small building. With just a handful of them, placed correctly, they could cause tremendous, large-scale damage.

  Her fingers moved close to the pile, hesitated. She looked at him with her large, dark eyes, and as she did, he thought about her, as he often did. Miral was the best person he’d ever met. It was admirable the way she took risks comparable to his own. She hadn’t seduced him, hadn’t enticed him at all. Their relationship had just happened. They were right for each other.

  He thought briefly of his youthful crush on Kailea, the daughter of Earl Vernius. That had been a fantasy, a game, which might have become real if Ix had not fallen. Miral, though, was all the reality he could endure.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “It takes a detonator to set them off.” He pointed to a small red box filled with needle-set timing devices.

  She took one of the wafers in each hand, inspecting it like a Hagal jeweler with a new firegem. C’tair could imagine the possibilities streaming through her mind, stress points in the city, places where the explosives would cause the most pain and damage to the invaders.

  “I’ve already chosen a few targets,” he said. “I was hoping you’d help out.”

  She replaced the wafers carefully, then dropped with him onto the cot in an embrace. “You know I will.” Her breath was hot in his ear. They could hardly wait to get their clothes off.

  After making love with an intensity fanned by their great plans, C’tair slept for more hours than he usually allowed himself. When he was rested and ready, he and Miral went through the motions repeatedly in order to ensure that every connection was made, all procedures and safeguards set. After they had rigged several charges in the shielded room, they took the remaining explosives and stepped to the sealed doorway, checking the scanners to make certain the outer corridor was empty.

  With sadness, C’tair and Miral bade a silent farewell to the shielded chamber that had been C’tair’s desperate hiding place for so long. Now it would serve one last purpose, enabling them to deliver a stinging blow to the invaders.

  The Bene Tleilax would never know what hit them.

  • • •

  C’tair stacked the boxes one at a time with other crates necessary for whatever experiments the Tleilaxu conducted inside their high-security research pavilion. One of the boxes was rigged with explosive wafers, a shipment that looked just like the others being loaded onto the automated rail system. The package would be delivered right into the heart of their secret lair.

  He did not waste a glance on the booby-trapped crate. He simply stacked it with all the others, then surreptitiously set the timer, and hurried to add another container. One of the suboid laborers stumbled, and C’tair picked up the man’s designated crate and lifted it onto the railcar bed to avoid a delayed departure. He had given himself a sufficient window of opportunity, but still found it hard not to let his nervousness show. Miral Alechem was in the passageway beneath another building. She would be setting charges at the base of the immense structure that had Tleilaxu offices on upper levels; by now she should have made good her escape.

  With a humming sound, the loaded pallet shuddered into motion and cruised along the rail, picking up speed toward the laboratory complex. C’tair longed to know what went on behind those blind windows; Miral had not been able to find out, and neither had he. But he would be satisfied just to cause damage.

  The Tleilaxu, for all their bloody repressions, had grown lax over sixteen years. Their security measures were laughable . . . and he would now show them the error of their ways. This strike had to be significant enough to make them reel, because the next attempt would not be so easy.

  Staring after the railcar, C’tair suppressed a smile of anticipation. Behind him, workers prepped a new, empty pallet car with more supplies. He glanced up at the grotto ceiling, at the gossamer buildings protruding like inverted islands through the projected sky.

  Timing was crucial. All four bombs had to go off close together.

  This would be as much a psychological victory as a material one. The Tleilaxu invaders must come to the conclusion that a large and coordinated resistance movement was responsible for these attacks, that the rebels had a widespread membership and an organized plan.

  They must never guess that there are only two of us.

  In the wake of an outrageous success, others might begin their own struggles. If enough people took action, it would make the large-scale rebellion a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  He drew a deep breath and turned back to the other waiting crates. He dared not show any out-of-the-ordinary behavior. Overhead, surveillance pods moved about constantly, lights blinking, transeye cameras imaging every movement.

  He did not glance at his chronometer, but he knew the time was close.

  When the first explosion shuddered through the cavern floor deep underground, the dull-brained workers paused in their tasks and looked at each other in confusion. C’tair knew that the detonation at the disposal pits should have been sufficient to collapse the rooms, to twist and destroy the conveyor belts. Perhaps the rubble would even seal the tops of the deep magma shafts.

  Before anyone could notice the smug expression on his face, the stalactite buildings in the ceiling exploded.

  Inside his sensor-shielded bolt-hole within the administrative levels, a cluster of explosive wafers tore out entire levels of the bureaucratic complex. One wing of the Grand Palais was wrecked, left hanging by long girders and broken reinforced strands.

  Debris rained into the center of the cavern, and workers fled in panic. A bright light and swirling cloud of rock powder spread from the torn ceiling chambers.

  Blaring alarms echoed against the stone walls like thunder. He hadn’t heard such a racket since the initial suboid uprising years ago. Everything was working perfectly.

  In feigned horror, he backed away with the rest of the Ixian laborers, standing among them for implied protection, lost in the crowd. He smelled the dust of building materials and the stench of fear around him.

  He heard a distant explosion, from the direction of the building where Miral worked, and knew she was clever enough to have gotten away before setting it off. Then at last, precisely as he had hoped, the loaded pallet car arrived inside the loading dock of the secret research pavilion. The final set of explosive wafers erupted in streaks of fire and black clouds of smoke. The sounds of the detonation rang out like a space battle within the thick walls.

  Fires began to spread. Armed Sardaukar troops rushed about like heat-maddened beetles, trying to find the source of the concerted attack. They fired at the sky ceiling, just to express their anger. Alarms rattled the walls. Over the PA system, Tleilaxu Masters screamed incomprehensible orders in their private language, while the work crews muttered in subdued fear.

  But even in the chaos C’tair recognized a strange look on some of the Ixian faces: a sort of satisfaction, a sense of wonder that such a victory could have occurred. They had long ago lost their heart for fighting.

  Now, perhaps they could regain it.

  At last, C’tair thought as he blinked in dull-eyed shock, trying to cover his smile. He squared his shoulders, but quickly let them sag as he sought to recapture the demeanor of a defeated and cooperative prisoner.

  At last a true blow had been struck against the invaders.

  There exists no way of exchanging information without making judgments.

  — Bene Gesserit Axiom

  From the balcony of her private apartment, Jessica observed her frumpy, apple-cheeked lady-in-waiting in the practice yard near the west guardhouse. She watched as the breathless woman chattered with Thufir Hawat, using too many hand gestures as she spoke. Both of th
em glanced up at her window.

  Does the Mentat think I am stupid?

  In the month that Jessica had lived on Caladan, her every need had been met with cold precision, as a respected guest but no more. Thufir Hawat had personally seen to her comforts, placing her in the former apartments of the Lady Helena Atreides. After being sealed for so many years, the chambers had needed to be aired out, but the fine furniture, the pool-bath and sunroom, the complete wardrobe were all more than she required. A Bene Gesserit needed very little in the way of comfort and luxury.

  The Mentat had also arranged for Jessica’s busybody lady-in-waiting, who flitted around her like a moth, finding little tasks that kept her close to Jessica at all times. Obviously, one of Hawat’s spies.

  Abruptly, Jessica had dismissed the woman from service that very morning, giving her no reason. Now she sat back to await the repercussions. Would the Master of Assassins come himself, or would he send a representative? Would he even understand her intended message? Don’t underestimate me, Thufir Hawat.

  From the balcony, she saw him break from his discussion with the disgraced woman. Moving with confidence and strength, he strode away from the west guardhouse toward the Castle proper.

  A strange man, that Mentat. While still at the Mother School, Jessica had memorized Hawat’s background, how he’d spent half his life at a Mentat training center, first as a student and later as a philosopher and theoretical tactician, before being purchased for the newly titled Duke Paulus Atreides, Leto’s father.

  Using her Bene Gesserit powers of observation, Jessica studied the leathery, confident man. Hawat wasn’t like other graduates of the Mentat Schools, the introverted types who shied away from personal contact. Instead, the deadly man was aggressive and crafty, with a fanatic loyalty to House Atreides. In some ways his deadly nature resembled that of the Tleilaxu-twisted Piter de Vries, but Hawat was the ethical opposite of the Harkonnen Mentat. It was all very curious. . . .

  Similarly, she had noticed the old Master of Assassins scrutinizing her through his Mentat logic filter, processing bits of data about her and arriving at unsubstantiated conclusions. Hawat could be very dangerous indeed.

  They all wanted to know why she was here, why the Bene Gesserit had chosen to send her, and what she meant to do.

  Jessica heard a heavy-knuckled rap on the door, and answered it herself. Now we shall see what he has to say. Enough games.

  Hawat’s lips were moist with sapho juice, and the deep-set brown eyes showed concern and agitation. “Please explain why you were dissatisfied with the servant I chose for you, my Lady.”

  Jessica wore a lavender soosatin singlesuit, which showed off the curves of her slender body. Her makeup was minimal, only a bit of lavender around the eyes and lip tint to match. Her expression had no softness at all. “Given your legendary prowess, I’d thought you would be a man of greater subtlety, Thufir Hawat. If you are going to spy on me, choose someone a little more competent in the wiles of espionage.”

  The bold comment surprised him, and he looked at the young woman with heightened respect. “I am in charge of the Duke’s security, my Lady, tending to his personal safety. I must take whatever actions I feel are required.”

  Jessica closed the door, and they stood in the entry, close enough for a killing blow— by either of them. “Mentat, what do you know of the Bene Gesserit?”

  A slight smile etched his leathery face. “Only what the Sisterhood permits outsiders to know.”

  With raised voice, she snapped, “When the Reverend Mothers brought me here, Leto became my sworn master as well. Do you think I pose a danger to him? That the Sisterhood would take direct action against a Duke of the Landsraad? In the history of the Imperium, are you aware of a single instance in which such a thing has happened? It would be suicide for the Bene Gesserit.” She flared her nostrils. “Think, Mentat! What is your projection?”

  After a heavy moment, Hawat said, “I am unaware of any such instance, my Lady.”

  “And yet you stationed that clumsy wench to keep me under surveillance. Why do you fear me? What do you suspect?” She stopped herself from using Voice, which Hawat would never forgive. Instead, she added a quieter threat. “I caution you, do not attempt to lie to me.” There, let him think I am a Truthsayer.

  “I apologize for the indiscretion, my Lady. Perhaps I am a bit . . . overzealous in protecting my Duke.” This is a strong young woman, Hawat thought. The Duke could do much worse.

  “I admire your devotion to him.” Jessica noticed that his eyes had grown softer, but without evidence of fear, merely a bit more respect. “I have been here only a short time, while you have served three generations of Atreides. You bear a scar on your leg from a Salusan bull, from one of the Old Duke’s early encounters, do you not? It is not easy for you to accommodate something new.” She took the faintest step away from him, letting a trickle of regret enter her voice. “So far your Duke has treated me more like a distant relative, but I hope he will not find me displeasing in the future.”

  “He does not find you displeasing at all, my Lady. But he has already chosen Kailea Vernius as a partner. She is the mother of his son.”

  It had not taken Jessica long to learn that there were fractures in the relationship. “Come now, Mentat, she is not his bound-concubine, and not his wife. Either way, he has given the boy no birthright. What message are we to derive from that?”

  Hawat stood rigid, as if offended. “Leto’s father taught him to use marriage only to gain political advantage for House Atreides. He has many prospects in the Landsraad. He has not yet calculated the best match . . . though he is considering.”

  “Let him consider, then.” Jessica signaled that the conversation was over. She waited for him to turn, and then she added, “Henceforth, Thufir Hawat, I prefer to choose my own ladies-in-waiting.”

  “As you wish.”

  After the Mentat had departed, Jessica assessed her situation, thinking of long-term plans rather than her mission for the Sisterhood. Her beauty could be enhanced by Bene Gesserit seduction techniques. But Leto was proud and individualistic; the Duke might guess her intentions and would resent being manipulated. Even so, Jessica had a job to do.

  In fleeting moments she had noticed him looking at her with guilt in his eyes— particularly after fights with Kailea. Whenever Jessica tried to take advantage of those moments, though, he quickly grew cold and pulled away.

  Living in the Lady Helena’s former quarters did not help, either. Leto was reluctant to go there. Following the death of Paulus Atreides, the enmity between Leto and his mother had been extreme, and Helena had gone to “rest and meditate” in a remote religious retreat. To Jessica it smacked of banishment, but she had found no clear reasons in the Atreides records. Being placed in these rooms could act as an emotional barrier between them.

  Leto Atreides was certainly dashing and handsome, and Jessica would have no trouble accepting his company. In fact, she wanted to be with him. She chided herself whenever such feelings came over her— as they did too frequently. She could not allow emotions to sway her; the Bene Gesserit had no use for love.

  I have a job to do, she reminded herself. Jessica would bide her time and wait for just the right moment.

  Infinity attracts us like a floodlight in the night, blinding us to the excesses it can inflict upon the finite.

  — Meditations from Bifrost Eyrie, Buddislamic Text

  Four months after the avalanche disaster, Abulurd Harkonnen and his wife embarked on a well-publicized visit to the recovering mountain city. The Bifrost Eyrie tragedy had struck to the heart of Lankiveil and drawn the populace together.

  Steadfast companions, he and Emmi had shown their combined strength. For years now Abulurd had preferred to be a behind-the-scenes ruler, not even claiming the specific title that was his due. He wanted the people of Lankiveil to govern themselves, to help each other according to their hearts. He saw the various villagers, hunters, and fishermen as a great extended family,
all with common interests.

  Then, speaking with quiet confidence, Emmi convinced her husband that a public pilgrimage as acting planetary governor would draw attention to the plight of the mountain stronghold. The burgomaster, Onir Rautha-Rabban, would welcome them.

  Abulurd and Emmi rode in a formal transport flanked by servants and retainers, many of whom had never been far from the whaling villages. The three ornithopters passed slowly inland over glaciers and snow-covered mountains, toward the line of crags in which the monastery city nestled.

  With the sun sparkling off snow and ice crystals from protruding mountaintops, the world appeared pristine and peaceful. Ever an optimist, Abulurd hoped the Bifrost inhabitants could now look forward to an even stronger future. He had written a speech that imparted basically the same message; though he had little experience addressing large crowds, Abulurd looked forward to delivering this communication. He’d already practiced twice in front of Emmi.

  On a plateau in front of the sheer cliffs of Bifrost Eyrie, the governor’s procession landed, and Abulurd and his entourage disembarked. Emmi walked at her husband’s side, looking regal in a heavy blue cape. He took her arm.

  The construction teams had made amazing progress. They had sliced away the intruding fan of snow and excavated the buried buildings. Because most of the wonderful architecture had been destroyed or defaced, the broken buildings were now covered with a webwork of scaffolding. Skilled stonemasons worked round-the-clock to add block upon block, rebuilding and glorifying the retreat. Bifrost Eyrie would never be the same . . . but perhaps it could be even better than before, like a phoenix rising from the snowfield.

  Stocky Onir Rautha-Rabban came out to meet them, dressed in gilded robes lined with sable whale fur. Emmi’s father had shaved off his voluminous gray beard after the disaster; whenever he looked in a reflecting glass, he wanted to be reminded of how much his mountain city had lost. This time his broad, squarish face seemed content, lit with a fire that had not been present the last time they’d been together.