Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Dominic turned away, not even looking at him. “Charge me whatever is fair.” Then he walked to the door, anxious to get back to his base.

  • • •

  After Dominic summoned his men into the largest chamber in his base, he spoke in a somber, cadaverous voice as he described the horrors he had witnessed on Ix. “Long ago when I brought you here, I took you from your homes and your lives, and you agreed to join me. We allied ourselves against the Corrinos.”

  “With no regrets, Dom,” Asuyo interrupted.

  Dominic made no acknowledgment, but continued in his droning voice. “We meant to become wolves, but instead we were only gnats.” He rested his large hands on the tabletop and drew a long, slow breath. “That’s about to change.”

  Without explanation, the renegade Earl left the room. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do. These men could follow him or not. It was their choice, because this was his battle. No one else’s. It was well past time to bring an accounting to House Corrino.

  He penetrated deep into the cold fortress, down dim corridors where the floors were coated with grit and dust. Few people came there; it had been years since he himself had set foot in the armored storehouses.

  Don’t do it, Dominic. The whispering voice prickled the back of his head again. A chill ran down his spine. It sounded so much like Shando, his conscience trying to make him reconsider. Don’t do it.

  But the time for any choice in the matter had long since passed. The thousands of years of Corrino rule following the Butlerian Jihad had left a deep scar on the glorious timelines. The Imperial House did not deserve it. At the watershed of the old Empire, that other renegade family— whatever their names had been, whatever their motivations— had not finished the job. Though Salusa Secundus lay destroyed, the other renegades had not done enough.

  Dominic would take vengeance one step further.

  At the sealed doors of the deepest storage chamber, he keyed in the proper code before slapping his palm against the scanner plate. No one else had access to this vault.

  When the doors slid open, he saw the collection of forbidden weaponry, the family atomics that had been House Vernius’s last resort, held in reserve for millennia. The Great Convention absolutely forbade the use of such devices, but Dominic no longer cared. He had nothing to lose.

  Absolutely nothing.

  After the Tleilaxu overthrow, Dominic and his men had retrieved the secret stockpile from a moon in the Ixian system and brought it here. Now, he ran his gaze over the whole array. Sealed in gleaming metal containers were warheads, planet-killers, stone burners, devices that would ignite the atmosphere of a world and transform Kaitain into a tiny, short-lived star.

  It was time. First, Dominic would visit his children on Caladan to see them one last time, to say goodbye. Before this he hadn’t wanted to risk calling attention to them or incriminating them . . . Rhombur and Kailea had been granted amnesty while he was a hunted fugitive.

  But he would do it just this once, with utmost discretion. It was appropriate to do that after all these years. Then he would strike his final blow and become the victor after all. The entire corrupt bloodline of the Corrinos would become extinct.

  But the voice of Shando in his conscience was filled with sadness and regret. Despite all they’d been through, she didn’t approve. You always were a stubborn man, Dominic Vernius.

  Innovation and daring create heroes. Mindless adherence to outdated rules creates only politicians.

  — VISCOUNT HUNDRO MORITANI

  The evening after the Corridor of Death ordeal, the gathered Swordmasters sat in a large dining tent with the 43 surviving members of the original class of 150. These students were now treated as colleagues, finally awarded the respect and camaraderie of fighting men.

  But at such a cost . . .

  Rich, cold spice beer was served in tall mugs. Off-world hors d’oeuvres lay spread on porcelain dishes. The proud old instructors were congratulatory, wandering among the rugged trainees they had shaped for eight years. Duncan Idaho thought the students’ revelry carried a hysterical tinge. Some of the young men sat in shock, moving little, while others drank and ate with wild abandon.

  In less than a week they would regroup at the main island’s administration building, where they still had to face a final round of oral examinations, a formal checking of the intellectual knowledge they had absorbed from the Swordmasters. But after the murderous obstacle course, answering a few questions seemed anticlimactic.

  Released from their pent-up tension, Duncan and Resser drank too much. Over years of rigorous training, they had consumed only meager fare to toughen them up, and they had developed no tolerance for alcohol. The spice beer hit them hard.

  Duncan found himself growing maudlin as he remembered the struggles, the pain, and all his fallen schoolmates. What a waste . . .

  Resser reeled from his triumph, full of celebration. He knew his adoptive father had expected him to fail all along. After separating from his fellow Grumman students and refusing to quit his training, the redhead had won as many psychological battles as physical ones.

  Long after the yellow moons had passed overhead, leaving a wake of sparkling stars, the party broke up. The students— bruised, scarred, and drunk— wandered off one at a time, forsaking further revelry to face battles with impending hangovers. Inside the main huts, dishes and glasses were broken; nothing remained to eat or drink.

  Hiih Resser walked barefoot with Duncan into the island darkness. They wandered from the big house toward the cluster of lodging huts farther down the broad white beach, their steps uneven on the rough ground.

  Duncan clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder in a brotherly gesture, but also to help keep his balance. He couldn’t understand how the enormous Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari managed to walk with such grace.

  “So, when all this is over, will you come with me to see Duke Leto?” Duncan formed his words carefully. “Remember, House Atreides would welcome two Swordmasters, if Moritani doesn’t want you.”

  “House Moritani doesn’t want me, not after Trin Kronos and the others left the school,” Resser said. Duncan noted no tears in his friend’s eyes.

  “Strange,” Duncan said. “They could have celebrated with us tonight, but they made their own choices.” The pair walked down the slope toward the beach. The sleeping huts seemed very far away, and blurry.

  “But I still have to go back there, to face my family, to show them what I accomplished.”

  “From what I know of Viscount Moritani, that sounds dangerous. Suicidal, even.”

  “Nevertheless, I still have to do it.” In the shadows he turned to face Duncan, and his somber mood slipped away. “Afterward, I’ll come to see Duke Atreides.”

  He and Duncan peered through the darkness, stumbling around as they tried to adjust their eyes. “Where are those huts?” They heard people ahead and a clank of weapons. Warning signals went off in Duncan’s fogged mind, but too slowly for him to react.

  “Ah there, it’s Resser and Idaho.” A blazing light stabbed his eyes like luminous ice picks, and he raised his hand to shield against the glare. “Get them!”

  Disoriented and surprised, Duncan and Resser bumped into each other as they turned to fight back. A group of unrecognizable, dark-clad warriors fell on them in an ambush, carrying weapons, sticks, clubs. Unarmed, Duncan called upon the skills Ginaz had taught him, defending himself next to his friend. At first he wondered if this was some kind of additional test, a last surprise the Swordmasters had sprung after lulling their students with the celebration.

  Then he saw a blade, felt it slash a long shallow wound in his shoulder— and he no longer held back. Resser yelled, not in pain but in anger. Duncan spun with fists and feet, lashing out. He heard an arm crack, felt one of his toenails gouge open a sinewy throat.

  But the mob of opponents pounded Duncan’s head and shoulders with stunsticks; one attacker struck the base of his skull with an old-fashioned club. With a
grunt, Resser tumbled to the soft ground, and four men piled on top of him.

  Drunk and maddeningly sluggish, Duncan tried to throw off his attackers to help his comrade, but they struck him at the temples with the stunsticks, flooding his mind with blackness. . . .

  • • •

  When he came to consciousness, struggling with a sour gag in his mouth, Duncan saw a seaskimmer beached nearby on the dark shore. Farther out, with no running lights, the shadowy hulk of a much larger boat bobbed in the waves. His captors threw him unceremoniously aboard the skimmer. The limp form of Hiih Resser tumbled beside him.

  “Don’t try to get free of those shigawire bindings unless you want to lose your arms,” a deep voice growled in his ear. He felt the fiber biting into his skin.

  Duncan ground his teeth, trying to chew through the gag. On the beach he saw pools of blood, weapons broken and discarded into the rising tide. The attackers carried the wrapped forms of eleven men, obviously dead, onto the narrow skimmer. So, he and Resser had fought well, like true Swordmasters. Perhaps they weren’t the only captives.

  The shadowy men shoved Duncan into a crowded, stinking lower deck, where he bumped into other bound men on the floorboards, some of his comrades from class. In the darkness he saw fear and rage in their eyes; many were bruised and beaten, the worst injuries patched with rag bandages.

  With only a faint groan, Resser awoke beside him. From the glint in his friend’s eyes, Duncan knew the redhead had assessed the situation, too. Thinking alike, they rolled together at the bottom of the skimmer, back to back. With numb fingers they worked carefully at each other’s bonds, trying to break free. One of the shadowy men uttered a curse and kicked them apart.

  At the front of the skimmer, men spoke in low tones with heavy accents. Grumman accents. Resser continued to struggle against his bonds, and one of the men kicked him again. The motor started, a low purr, and the small craft got under way, heading out into the waves.

  Farther out at sea, the ominous dark boat waited for them.

  How easily grief becomes anger, and revenge gains arguments.

  — PADISHAH EMPEROR HASSIK III,

  Lament for Salusa Secundus

  In a dome-roofed chamber of his Residency at Arrakeen, Hasimir Fenring contemplated a difficult mind-teaser puzzle: a holo-representation of geometrical shapes, rods, cones, and spheres that fitted together and balanced perfectly . . . but only when all of the electropotentials were evenly spaced.

  During his youth, he had played similar games in the Imperial Court of Kaitain; Fenring usually won. In those years, he’d learned much about politics and conflicting powers— learning more, in fact, than Shaddam ever had. And the Crown Prince had realized it.

  “Hasimir, you’re much more valuable to me away from the Imperial Court,” Shaddam had said when sending him away. “I want you on Arrakis watching over those untrustworthy Harkonnens and making sure my spice revenues are untouched— at least until the damned Tleilaxu finish their amal research.”

  Rich yellow sunlight drizzled through the dome windows, distorted by house shields that diverted the day’s heat while protecting the mansion against possible mob attacks. Fenring simply couldn’t abide the high temperatures on Arrakis.

  For eighteen years now, Fenring had built his power base in Arrakeen. At the Residency, he lived with all the comforts and pleasures he could wring from this dustbowl. He felt content enough in his position.

  He placed one shimmering puzzle stick above a tetra-hedron, almost let go, then adjusted the piece to precisely the correct location.

  Willowbrook, the slack-jawed chief of his guard force, chose that moment to stride in and clear his throat, shattering Fenring’s concentration. “The water merchant Rondo Tuek has requested an audience with you, my Lord Count.”

  In disgust, the Count switched off the pulsing puzzle before the separate pieces could tumble across the table. “What does he want, hmmm?”

  “ ‘Personal business,’ he called it. But he stressed that it is important.”

  Fenring tapped long fingers on the tabletop where the brain-teaser puzzle had glowed moments before. The water merchant had never requested a private audience. Why would Tuek come here now? He must want something.

  Or he knows something.

  Typically, the odd-looking merchant attended banquets and social functions. Knowing the true seat of power on Arrakis, he provided Fenring’s household with extravagant amounts of water, more than the Harkonnen overlords received in Carthag.

  “Ahhh, he’s aroused my curiosity. Send him in, and see that we’re not disturbed for fifteen minutes.” The Count pursed his lips. “Hmmm-mm, after that, I’ll decide whether or not I want you to take him away.”

  Moments later, the lumpy-shouldered Tuek entered the domed chamber with a rolling gait, swinging his arms as he walked. He swiped a hand across his rusty-gray hair, smoothing it into place with sweat, then bowed. The man looked flushed from ascending so many stairs; Fenring smiled, approving of Willowbrook’s decision to make him climb rather than offering the private lift that would have brought him directly to this level.

  Fenring remained at his table, but did not motion for the visitor to sit; the water merchant stood in his formal silver robe, wearing a gaudy necklace of dust-pitted platinum links around his throat, no doubt sandstorm-scoured in a rough attempt at Arrakis art.

  “Do you have something for me?” Fenring inquired, flaring his nostrils. “Or do you wish something from me, hmmm-ah?”

  “I can provide you with a name, Count Fenring,” Tuek said without prettying his words. “As for what I wish in return—” He shrugged his lumpy shoulders. “I expect you will pay me as you see fit.”

  “So long as our expectations are commensurate. What is this name . . . and why should I care?”

  Tuek leaned forward like a tree about to fall. “It’s a name you haven’t heard in years. I suspect you’ll find it interesting. I know the Emperor will.”

  Fenring waited, but not patiently. Finally, Tuek continued. “The man has kept a low profile on Arrakis, even as he does his best to disrupt your activities here. He wishes revenge on the entire Imperial House, though his original quarrel was with Elrood IX.”

  “Oh, everyone had a quarrel with Elrood,” Fenring said. “He was a hateful old vulture. Who is this man?”

  “Dominic Vernius,” Tuek replied.

  Fenring sat straight up, his bright, overlarge eyes widening further. “The Earl of Ix? I thought he was dead.”

  “Your bounty hunters and Sardaukar never caught him. He has been hiding here on Arrakis, with a few other smugglers. I do a little business with them now and then.”

  Fenring sniffed. “You didn’t inform me immediately? How long have you known?”

  “My Lord Fenring,” Tuek said, sounding overly reasonable, “Elrood signed the vendetta papers against the renegade House, and he’s been dead for many years. As far as I could tell, Dominic seemed to be causing no harm. He’d already lost everything . . . and other problems demanded my attention.” The water merchant took a deep breath. “Now, however, matters have changed. I feel it’s my duty to inform you, because I know you have the Emperor’s ear.”

  “And what exactly has changed, hmmm?” In the back of Fenring’s mind, wheels were turning. House Vernius had disappeared long ago. Lady Shando had been killed by Sardaukar hunters. Exiled on Caladan, the Vernius children were considered no threat.

  But an angry and vengeful Dominic Vernius could cause damage, especially so close to the precious spice sands. Fenring had to ponder this.

  “Earl Vernius requested a heavy transport. He seemed . . . extremely disturbed, and may be planning a strike of some sort. In my opinion, this might mean an assassination plot against the Emperor. That was when I knew I had to come to you.”

  Fenring raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead. “Because you thought I would pay you a greater reward than Dominic’s bribes add up to?”

  Tuek spread his hands
and responded with a deprecating smile, but did not deny the accusation. Fenring respected the man for that. Now at least everyone’s motivations were clear.

  He ran a finger along his thin lips, still pondering. “Very well, Tuek. Tell me where to find the renegade Earl’s hiding place. Explicit details, please. And before you depart, see my exchequer. Make a list of everything you require, every desire or reward you could imagine— and then I’ll choose. I’ll grant you whatever I believe your information was worth.”

  Tuek didn’t quibble, but bowed. “Thank you, Count Fenring. I am pleased to be of service.”

  After providing the known details of the smugglers’ antarctic facility, Tuek backed toward the door just as Willowbrook reentered, precisely at the end of fifteen minutes.

  “Willowbrook, take my friend to our treasure rooms. He knows what to do, hmmm? For the rest of the afternoon, leave me in peace. I have much thinking to occupy me.”

  After the men departed and the door to the chamber slid shut, Fenring paced, humming to himself, alternately smiling and frowning. Finally, he switched on his brain-teaser puzzle again. It would help him relax so that he could focus his thoughts.

  Fenring enjoyed plots within plots, spinning wheels concealed within wheels. Dominic Vernius was an intelligent adversary, and most resourceful. He had eluded Imperial detection for years, and Fenring thought it would be most satisfying to let the renegade Earl have a hand in his own destruction.

  Count Fenring would keep his eyes open, extending the spiderweb, but he would let Vernius make the next move. As soon as the renegade had everything in place for his own plans, then Fenring would strike.

  He would enjoy giving the outlaw nobleman just enough rope to hang himself. . . .

  Paradise on my right, Hell on my left, and the Angel of Death behind me.