Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Unable to bear the thought of her baby being taken away, Emmi gave a small gasp, as if the anchors that had always given her strength and stability had just been severed. The child began to cry upon seeing the broad, stony face of his much older brother.

  “You can’t do this!” Abulurd said, still unwilling to push his way past the armed guards. “I am planetary governor here. I will contest this with the Landsraad.”

  “You have no legal rights whatsoever. We didn’t contest your meaningless title as planetary governor, but when you renounced your Harkonnen name, you forfeited your position, all nice and tidy.” Rabban held the struggling baby at arm’s length as if he didn’t know what to do with a child. The parchment legal document still lay untouched on the floor. “You are effectively nothing, Father. Nothing at all.”

  Taking the boy, he headed back toward the smoking ruins of the door. Abulurd and Emmi, both wild with grief, screamed after him, but the guards turned around, pointing their weapons.

  “Oh, don’t kill anyone else,” Rabban said to them. “I’d rather hear a houseful of whimpering as we leave.”

  The soldiers marched down the steps to the docks, where they boarded the armored boats. Abulurd held Emmi tightly, rocking her back and forth, and they supported each other like two trees fallen together. Both of their faces were streaked with tears, their eyes wide and glassy. The servants in the house wailed in anguish.

  Rabban’s military boats cruised off across the black waters of Tula Fjord. Abulurd gasped, unable to breathe. Emmi shuddered in his arms and he tried to comfort her, but he felt utterly helpless, ineffective, and crushed. She stared at her open, callused hands, as if expecting to see her baby there.

  Off in the distance, though he knew it was only his imagination, Abulurd thought he could hear the child crying even over the roar of the departing boats.

  Never be in the company of anyone with whom you would not want to die.

  — Fremen Saying

  When Liet-Kynes returned from Salusa Secundus to the smuggler base at Dune’s south pole, he found his friend Warrick awaiting him.

  “Look at you!” the taller Fremen said with a laugh. Warrick threw back his hood as he rushed across the crunching gravel at the bottom of the hidden chasm. He embraced Liet and pounded him sharply on the back. “You’re water-fat and . . . clean.” He sniffed deprecatingly. “I see no mark of the stillsuit upon you. Have you washed all the desert from yourself?”

  “I’ll never get the desert out of my blood.” Liet clasped his friend. “And you . . . you’ve grown.”

  “The happiness of married life, my friend. Faroula and I have a son now, named Liet-chih in your honor.” He smacked a fist into his palm. “And I’ve continued to fight the Harkonnens every day, while you’ve grown pampered and soft among these outsiders.”

  A son. Liet felt a twinge of sadness for himself, but it passed, replaced by genuine joy for his friend and gratitude for the honor of the name.

  The smugglers unloaded their cargo with little conversation or banter. They were uneasy and sullen because Dominic Vernius had not accompanied them back to Arrakis. Johdam and Asuyo shouted orders for stowing the material they had brought from Salusa Secundus. Gurney Halleck had remained behind on Salusa, to supervise the smuggler operations there.

  Warrick had been at the antarctic base for five days now, eating the smugglers’ food, telling the men how to survive the deserts of Dune. “I don’t think they’ll ever learn, Liet,” he whispered with a snort. “No matter how long they live here, they’ll still be off-worlders.”

  As they strode back into the main tunnels, Warrick shared his news. Two times in a row, he had taken the spice bribe down to Rondo Tuek, trying to find out when his friend would return. It had seemed a long time. “What ever drove you to go to a place like Salusa Secundus?”

  “A journey I had to take,” Liet responded. “My father grew up there, and spoke of it so often. But I’m back now, and I intend to stay. Dune is my home. Salusa was just . . . just an interesting diversion.”

  Pausing, Warrick scratched his long hair; it was matted and kinked from many hours under a stillsuit hood. No doubt Faroula kept his water rings for him, as a wife should do. Liet wondered what the elfin young woman looked like now. “So, will you return to Red Wall Sietch, Liet— where you belong? Faroula and I miss you. It makes us sad that you feel the need to stay apart from us.”

  With a hard swallow, Liet admitted, “I was foolish. I wanted time alone to consider my future. So many things have changed, and I have learned so much.” He forced a smile. “I think I comprehend my father better now.”

  Warrick’s blue-within-blue eyes widened. “Who would question the Umma Kynes? We simply do his bidding.”

  “Yes, but he’s my father, and I wanted to understand him.”

  From a high vantage inside the frozen walls, they gazed across the layered terraces of the dust-impregnated ice cap. “Whenever you’re ready, my friend, we can summon a worm and return to the sietch.” Warrick pursed his lips to squelch an expression of mirth. “If you remember how to put on your stillsuit.”

  Liet snorted and went to his locker, where he had stored the desert equipment. “You may have beaten me in our race to the Cave of Birds”— he shot a sidelong glance at his taller friend—“but I can still call a larger worm.”

  They bade farewell to the other smugglers. Although the hardened old men had been Liet’s companions for almost a year, he did not feel close to them. They were military, loyal to their commander and accustomed to regimented training. They talked endlessly of bygone days and battles on far-off worlds, of leading charges beside Earl Vernius for the glory of the Imperium. But their passions had soured, and now they simply did what they could to annoy Shaddam. . . .

  Liet and Warrick trekked across the antarctic wasteland, avoiding the dirt and grit of the water merchant’s industries. Warrick looked back at the cold, unmarked terrain. “I see you’ve taught them a few things, even beyond what we showed them the first time. Their stronghold is not quite so obvious as before.”

  “You noticed, eh?” Liet said, pleased. “With a good Fremen teacher, even they can learn the obvious.”

  Reaching the desert boundary at last, they planted their thumper and summoned a worm. Soon, they headed due north into the wild flatlands where dust and storms and capricious weather patterns had always discouraged Harkonnen patrols.

  As their mount plowed through the sands, taking them toward the equatorial regions, Warrick spoke at great length. He seemed happier and more filled with stories and good-natured anecdotes than ever before.

  Still feeling a dull pain in his heart, Liet listened to his friend talk about Faroula and their son, their life together, a trip they had taken to Sietch Tabr, a day spent in Arrakeen, how one day they wanted to go to the greenhouse demonstration project in Plaster Basin. . . .

  All the while, Liet found himself daydreaming. If only he’d called a larger worm, or driven it harder, or rested less, he might have arrived first. Both young men had made the same wish upon the Biyan, the uncovered white lake bed, so long ago— to marry the same girl— and only Warrick’s wish had been granted.

  It was the will of Shai-Hulud, as Fremen would say; Liet had to accept it.

  At night, they made camp, then sat on a dune crest, where they tossed tally sticks into the sand. Afterward, watching the stars glide silently overhead in the darkness, they sealed themselves inside the stilltent. With the soft feel of the desert beneath him, Liet-Kynes slept better than he had in months. . . .

  They traveled hard and fast. Two days later, Liet found himself longing to see Red Wall Sietch again: to greet his mother Frieth, to tell his father what he had seen and done on Salusa Secundus.

  But that afternoon, Liet stared across the sands at a brownish-tan smudge on the horizon. He removed his stillsuit plugs and inhaled deeply, smelling ozone, and his skin tingled with static electricity in the air.

  Warrick frowned. “It’s a
big storm, Liet, approaching rapidly.” He shrugged with forced optimism. “Perhaps it will just be a heinali wind. We can brave it.”

  Liet kept his thoughts to himself, not wishing to give voice to unpleasant suspicions. Evil possibilities spoken aloud could attract the evil itself.

  But as the knot of weather grew closer and louder, rising ominously tall and brown in the sky, Liet stated the obvious. “No, my friend, it is a Coriolis storm.” Grimly, he clamped his mouth shut. He remembered his experience years before in the meteorological pod with his father, and more recently in the aurora storm on Salusa Secundus. But this was worse, much worse.

  Warrick looked over at him and gripped a ridge on the worm’s back. “Hulasikali Wala. The wind of the demon in the open desert.”

  Liet studied the oncoming cloud. At the highest levels, the murk was caused by tiny dust particles blown to great altitudes, whereas closer to the ground, the winds would pick up the heavier, scouring sand. Hulasikali Wala, he thought. This was the Fremen term for the most powerful of all Coriolis storms. The wind that eats flesh.

  Beneath them, the sandworm became agitated and restless, reluctant to continue. As the deadly storm approached, the creature would dive to safety underground no matter how many spreaders and Maker hooks they applied to open its body segments.

  Liet scanned the wind-fuzzed dunes that spread like an endless ocean in all directions. Open, unbroken desert. “No mountains, no shelter.”

  Warrick didn’t answer, continuing to search for the slightest irregularity across the spreading paleness. “There!” He stood atop the worm’s back and pointed with one outstretched finger. “A small outcropping. Our only chance.”

  Liet squinted. Already the wind slapped irritating dust in his face. He saw only a tiny fleck of brownish black, a knob of rock like a misplaced boulder jutting out of the sands. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “It is all we have, my friend.” Warrick thrashed with his goad sticks to turn the worm toward the tiny embankment before the Coriolis storm hit.

  A flurry of high-velocity grit whipped their faces, scratched at their eyes. They kept their stillsuit plugs firmly pressed into their nostrils and their mouths clamped tight, then pulled hoods forward to cover their faces, but Liet still felt as if the grit penetrated the pores of his skin.

  The hoarse wind whispered in his ears and then grew louder, like the breath of a dragon. The increasing electrical fields nauseated him, gave him a pounding headache, which would only decrease if he grounded himself well on the sand. An impossibility out here.

  As they approached the tiny cluster of rocks, Liet’s heart sank. He could see it now, a mere elbow of hardened lava exposed by scouring winds. Barely the size of a stilltent with rough edges, cracks, and crannies. Certainly not large enough to shelter both of them.

  “Warrick, this will not work. We must find another way.”

  His companion turned to him. “There is no other way.”

  The sandworm reared and thrashed, resisting the direction Warrick wanted it to take. As they approached their unlikely sanctuary, the storm rose above them as a great brown wall in the sky. Warrick released his hooks. “Now, Liet! We must trust to our boots, and skills . . . and to Shai-Hulud.”

  Letting go of the ropes, Liet plucked his Maker hooks free and leaped. The worm dove into the sand, tunneling with a vengeance; Liet scrambled off its rough back, jumping away from the wake of soft sand.

  The Coriolis storm rushed toward them with a dry, swishing sound, scouring the ground and howling like an angry creature. Liet could no longer differentiate between desert and sky.

  Fighting against the wind, they scrambled onto the rock. Only one crevice was deep enough for a man to huddle inside, pull down his cloak, and hope to be shielded from the ravenous blasting sand.

  Warrick looked at it, then faced the oncoming storm. He raised his head high. “You must take the shelter, my friend. It is yours.”

  Liet refused. “Impossible. You’re my blood-brother. You have a wife and child. You must go back to them.”

  Warrick gazed at him with a cold but distant glare. “And you are the son of Umma Kynes. Your life is worth more than mine. Take the shelter before the storm kills us both.”

  “I won’t let you sacrifice your life for me.”

  “I won’t give you the choice.” Warrick turned to step off the rock, but Liet grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

  “No! How do Fremen choose in situations like this? How do we decide the best way to preserve water for our tribe? I say your life is worth more because you have a family. You say I’m worth more just because of who my father is. We cannot resolve this in time.”

  “Then God must choose,” Warrick said.

  “All right, then.” Liet snatched a tally stick from the sash at his side. “And you must abide by the decision.” When Warrick frowned, Liet swallowed hard as he added, “And so must I.”

  They both removed their sticks, turned to the soft dune, shielding the angle of their throw from the blasting wind. The storm beast came closer and louder, a roiling universe of eternal darkness. Warrick threw first, the pointed end of his bone dart embedding itself into the soft surface. Seven.

  As Liet threw his own bone stick, he thought, if he won, his friend would die. And if he lost, he himself would die. But he could think of no other way.

  Warrick strode out to kneel where the sticks had landed. Liet hurried to see. His friend wouldn’t cheat, which was anathema to Fremen. But he didn’t trust Warrick’s watering eyes, which stung from the blowing dust. His tally stick stood at an angle, revealing the mark of nine.

  “You have won.” Warrick turned to him. “You must get inside the shelter, my friend. We have no time to delay, no time to argue.”

  Liet blinked moisture from his irritated eyes and shuddered. His knees felt weak, ready to collapse in despair. “This can’t be. I refuse to accept it.”

  “You have no choice.” Warrick gave him a push toward the rock. “These are the vagaries of nature. You’ve heard your father talk about it often enough. The environment has its hazards, and you and I . . . we have been unfortunate this day.”

  “I cannot do this,” Liet moaned, digging in his bootheels, but Warrick shoved him violently, knocking him backward onto the rock.

  “Go! Don’t make me die for nothing!”

  Shaking, Liet moved trancelike toward the crack in the rock. “Come in here with me. Together, we can share the shelter. We’ll squeeze in.”

  “Not enough room. Look with your own eyes.”

  The storm’s howling rose to a crescendo. Dust and sand pelted them like bullets. The two shouted at each other though they stood only a few steps apart. “You must take care of Faroula,” Warrick said. “If you argue with me and die out here, too, who will watch over her? And my son?”

  Knowing he was defeated, knowing there was nothing else he could do, Liet embraced his friend. Then Warrick pushed him down into the crack. Liet squirmed and struggled, trying to squeeze deeper, hoping there might be enough space for Warrick to have partial shelter at least. “Take my cloak! Cover yourself. It might protect you.”

  “Keep it, Liet. Even you will have a hard time surviving this.” Warrick gazed down at him. His cloak and stillsuit whipped about from the angry wind. “Think of it this way— I shall be a sacrifice to Shai-Hulud. My life will perhaps gain a bit of kindness for you.”

  Liet found himself crushed against the rocks, barely able to move. He could smell the atmospheric electricity from the sand tempest, saw it crackling in the oncoming dustwall. This was the greatest violence that Dune could hurl at them, far worse than anything found on Salusa Secundus, or anywhere else in the universe.

  Liet reached up, extending his hand; without a word, Warrick grasped it. Already Liet could feel the harsh abrasives against his skin. The wind tore at him like tiny teeth. He wanted to pull Warrick closer, to give him at least a partial shelter in the crack, but his friend refused; he had already made up his
mind that he had no chance.

  The gale blew louder, with hissing, shrieking claws. Liet could not keep his eyes open, and tried to shrink farther into the unyielding rock.

  In a huge burst of the storm, Warrick’s hand was torn from his. Liet tried to surge up, to grab him and pull him back, but the rock held him pinned and the wind slammed him down. He could see nothing except the roiling Coriolis forces. Dust blinded him.

  Warrick’s scream could not even be heard over the gale.

  • • •

  After hours of enduring hell itself, Liet emerged. His body was covered with powdery dust, his eyes red and barely able to see, his clothes torn from the rocks and the probing fingers of wind. His forehead burned.

  He felt sick, sobbed in despair. Around him, the desert looked clear and pristine, renewed. Liet kicked out with his temag boots, wanting to destroy all of it in his anger and grief. But then he turned.

  Impossibly, he saw the dark figure of a man, a silhouette standing high on a sand dune, a tattered cloak blowing about him. His stillsuit showed gaps where it had been mangled.

  Liet froze, wondering if his eyes had deceived him. A mirage? Or had the ghost of his friend returned to haunt him? No, this truly was a man, a living being turned away from him.

  Warrick.

  Gasping, crying out, Liet staggered across the powdery sand, leaving deep footprints. He climbed, laughing and crying at the same time, unable to believe his eyes. “Warrick!”

  The other Fremen stood unmoving. He did not rush to greet his friend, and simply faced away, staring northward toward home.

  Liet could not imagine how Warrick had survived. The Coriolis storm destroyed anything in its path— but somehow this man remained standing. Liet cried out again and stumbled to the top of the dune. He regained his balance and rushed to his friend, grasping his arm. “Warrick! You’re alive!”

  Warrick turned slowly to face him.

  The wind and sand had torn away half of his flesh. Warrick’s face was scoured off in patches, his cheeks gone to expose long teeth. His eyelids were stripped, leaving a round, blind stare unblinking in the sunlight.