He had spent time on Lankiveil, so he knew where to look. In a noble but clumsy attempt to salve his conscience, he had secretly saved the embittered family from financial disaster. Vor had spent time with Vergyl Harkonnen, tried hard to make amends for the setbacks that Abulurd’s disgrace had caused them … not that he would expect any thanks from the Harkonnens even if they knew the truth. He had wanted the feud to end. He had just wanted peace.
But now Orry’s blood, splashed all over the honeymoon bed, made peace impossible, at least until Tula paid for her crime. To that end, Vor and Willem would go to Lankiveil and search, and if they did not find her there, they would continue to hunt wherever the clues took them.
Willem’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “Even if she isn’t there, we can hurt her family. Make Tula feel the pain she inflicted on me. None of the Harkonnens are innocent.”
Vor placed a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder and shook his head. “Tula is the one who killed your brother, not the others. We Atreides have honor.”
“Even if the Harkonnens do not?”
Vor narrowed his eyes, leaned closer. “Even if the Harkonnens do not. Tula needs to face justice, but we won’t harm the rest of her family for what she did. I refuse to stoke the flames of this feud. It needs to end.”
Willem scowled. “Orry paid with his life because of something you did a long time ago.”
“I know. And I won’t perpetuate that kind of injustice.”
Willem was not happy with the decision. He still wanted to harm the Harkonnens, maybe burn down their warehouses or sink a fleet of fur-whale boats, but Vor held firm. “No, I remember Vergyl Harkonnen—Tula’s father, Griffin’s father—and I won’t destroy an innocent man because of his unfortunate bloodline. I don’t want to commit the same crime Tula did.” He lowered his voice. “There’s been too much collateral damage already. We won’t sink to their level.”
During the brief time the two men had spent working the buriak orchards, Vor had either observed or learned about his grown children from a distance, surprised to discover how much had changed. Had he really been gone only two years? He longed to see their expressions and hear their voices; he wanted to tell them the stories of what he had done since Emperor Salvador forced him into exile, but that would put them in danger. It pained him to keep himself hidden from them, but it was better to stay away. They would never know he had watched over them.
For decades—a full life span—he had lived here on Kepler, no longer a hero, just a family man, yet now that life seemed no more than a dream, and this branch of his family had moved on, thriving without him. He wasn’t surprised. They all led normal lives, untroubled by Imperial politics or dark schemes of revenge.
Vor was content to let them stay that way. He could go now, confident they were safe. If he and Willem found Tula on Lankiveil, he hoped they would take care of the matter with efficient violence and ensure his family’s future safety.
The day before the scheduled arrival of the commercial spacefolder, Vor made a decision that he hoped wouldn’t cause trouble. His wistful “nephew” had planned a last date with his local girlfriend, and Vor invited himself along, because he had learned that his sons Clar and Oren would be in town with their children for Clar’s fifty-first birthday celebration.
After changing clothes at the end of their shift in the orchards, the two men walked into town. On the way, Willem asked in an irritated tone, “You’re not really going to act as my chaperone, are you? This is my last night with Opalla. We’ll never see each other again.”
“I remember your reputation with the ladies on Caladan.” Vor gave him a serious nudge. “Just be careful. In my early days fighting in the Jihad, I myself left many women behind—and probably a fair number of children I never knew about. That’s not fair to any of them.”
Willem sniffed. “We’re not serious. Opalla knew that from the start.” Then his expression darkened. “I don’t have time for romance until we hunt down Tula. This is just to say goodbye.”
* * *
THE LARGEST ENTERTAINMENT hall in town had a crowded bar adjacent to an elegant restaurant, from which patrons could watch the gaming floor through large plaz windows. Vor took a seat where he had a view of people arriving, while Willem went off in a dark mood to join his date.
Vor positioned himself where he could watch the entrances, and perked up when his estranged family arrived, his two sons and their spouses, his grandchildren. All of them were strangers to him. He made no move to reveal himself and join them, just sat in wistful, longing isolation, hoping distance and his beard would conceal who he was.
He sipped a glass of local white wine, watched them laughing and talking, celebrating Clar’s birthday. He tried to read their lips, imagine their conversations. Not that much time had passed since he’d last seen Clar, who was tall and had the hawklike Atreides nose, while Oren looked more like their mother, Mariella. Vor let out a silent sigh.
No one took notice of the quiet stranger at the bar, absorbed in his drink. Vor noted several small children he hadn’t seen before—including a pair of baby girls. He wanted to swing them around in the air and make them laugh, wanted to hug his grown children … wanted life to be normal again, even ordinary.
After a long moment, he looked away and wiped his eyes. Out on the gaming floor, he saw Willem and the pretty brunette playing a battle game with chips and dice, with two armies lined up against each other on a large table. The young man and his date were laughing, but Vor could tell that he remained wary and vigilant, glancing around every few seconds.
Vor watched his family for another half hour before slipping out a side door and walking back to the ranch alone, letting Willem have the time he wanted.
Tomorrow, they would be off to avenge Orry.
For centuries, the Venports have seen and seized opportunities. We built large spacecraft—first for military purposes, then for commercial transport. We developed shields and foldspace engines. We commercialized the spice industry.
After all we have accomplished and all the adversity we’ve overcome, I have no interest in hearing your complaints about the inconveniences of this desert environment.
—DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, letter of reprimand to Combined Mercantiles staff in Arrakis City
Kolhar might have been a fortress, but while Josef was preoccupied with defending his headquarters, Arrakis had degenerated into a lawless, dangerous world where various parties fought to control spice production and distribution. The turmoil was causing him to lose business here daily, and that angered him.
He would have to direct more battle-ready ships to Arrakis to ensure that the spice operations did not slip out of VenHold control. The Venport family had spent a great deal of time, money, and blood here, turning the desert world into a highly lucrative holding. Melange came from this world … spice … and only from here. He did not intend to let Imperial interlopers and black-market parasites take it from him.
Norma Cenva navigated the vessel through foldspace to Arrakis and arrived flawlessly in close orbit around the planet. A disarray of unmarked trading ships cluttered the orbital lanes: blockade runners and smugglers who seized loads of melange, fled on uncharted paths, and then delivered the contraband spice to hungry customer planets because VenHold’s own operations had been disrupted.
Emperor Salvador had also placed Imperial troops here in an inept and unsuccessful attempt to take over the planet; a substantial force remained on Arrakis, establishing their own contract spice operations, but those ships, soldiers, and workers were outnumbered, more of a nuisance than a threat. They had the Emperor’s authorization, but not the might to back it up.
The new Emperor had kept his troops in place on Arrakis, but he had neither the additional fleet nor reliable foldspace carriers to impose real control. A handful of Imperial guardian ships remained behind to maintain order as best they could, but the small force could not govern an entire unruly planet. If Josef hadn’t diverted so much of
his fleet to defend Kolhar, he could have wiped them out entirely.
Nevertheless, Josef’s Combined Mercantiles operations on Arrakis were more than enough to thwart the Imperial troops stationed there, and his people were holding their own. There had been skirmishes in the desert against Imperial patrols, flash point struggles that had not erupted into outright war, because neither side dared allow that to happen.
Eventually, Josef would have to expend the effort to oust them, or else consolidate their resources under his own VenHold operations. That would likely provoke Roderick even more, but Josef couldn’t ignore what was happening here.
He scowled as he saw the surprising number of ships in orbit. With Venport Holdings declared an outlaw company, these parasites were stealing spice—his spice! How much influence and profit was he losing for each day that this nonsense continued?
Although his own small spacefolder had formidable VenHold weapons, it was still only one ship, and he could not single-handedly chase off all these interlopers, much less the Imperial forces. Not today.
“I can at least make a point, though,” he muttered.
When he noticed two small smuggler ships racing away, Josef activated his weapons systems and opened fire without warning. One vessel exploded on the first blast, and the second took evasive action, but Josef shot it out of space as well, leaving a cloud of debris. Satisfied, he nodded to Norma in her tank. “Let the rest of them see that.” Already some of the other small traders in orbit were scattering, but he had no doubt they would sneak back before long.
Emerging from the other side of the desert planet, two Imperial warships approached, attracted by the weapons fire. Although Josef guessed that he outgunned those large ships as well, he suspected it would be a close fight. Not today. Instead, he told Norma to evade them, and they raced over to the night side of Arrakis, where his personal shuttle could drop out of the hold. He had business to do at the headquarters of Combined Mercantiles. Norma would eventually join him, but she could transport herself by folding space with her mind.
As his initial move, Josef intended to create a large spice stockpile, which would provide stability in the melange markets, and then he could devote his efforts to mopping up these operations and chasing away the Imperial interlopers. Maybe that would be the leverage he needed to reach some sort of peace with Roderick Corrino. Restored spice trade would be best for the Imperium, by far.
But if the new Emperor proved to be intractable, Josef might have to take the throne himself, however reluctantly. That was by far the least desirable solution, though. If he seized the Imperial rulership, that would, no doubt, cause countless headaches and bring him very few genuine rewards. Still, “Emperor Josef Venport” had a nice ring to it.…
Flying his shuttle down to Arrakis City, he had to remain alert for local traffic that flew in unregulated patterns. No one gave him guidance for landing in the spaceport, so he chose his own spot and set down without incident. When he disembarked, his first breath of the bitterly arid air scoured his throat and lungs.
Because water was so extraordinarily expensive on this planet, locals fitted themselves with desert survival suits and moisture-reclamation units, but Josef hated those things and refused to wear one. He was not flaunting his wealth and power—he just disliked the inconvenience.
As he made his way to the Combined Mercantiles headquarters he studied the city with its insulated shops, moisture-sealed doors, window coverings to shade from the raging sun. Ragged, dust-covered people moved through the streets with their heads down. Arrakis City had degenerated substantially since his last time here. That would have to change. So many things to take care of once he secured his operations.…
He arrived at the headquarters of Combined Mercantiles and saw that a veritable army of guards was stationed outside. Mercenary troops huddled in sealed pillbox turrets, alert for bandits or, more likely, a move by Imperial forces.
He was glad to see the security. He chose only his most trusted administrators to run the spice operations. Before the crisis had forced him to reassign his Mentat to more pressing matters, Draigo Roget had been in charge here, a model of efficiency. Josef felt another flash of anger over how dramatically the situation had changed. If only Salvador had left well enough alone and focused his efforts against the Butlerians!
After passing through all the layers of security, Josef was wryly amused to watch Norma Cenva’s tank simply appear in the meeting chamber with a rush of displaced air.
The two Mentat administrators, Rogin and Tomkir, had begun their training under Gilbertus Albans and then transitioned to final instruction under Draigo Roget. The two men were around the same age, though Tomkir’s skin was much darker, and Rogin’s complexion had been ravaged by the pockmarks of disease. They had already assembled summary data for him to peruse.
The third man in the meeting room looked furtive and out of place. He was thin and dirty, as if he had been left in the sun to dry out from a storm, and he regarded Norma’s tank with superstitious horror.
Josef knew about the desert people on Arrakis, tribes that haughtily called themselves the “Freemen,” although their freedom on this dry, bleak world seemed more miserable than the civilized slavery from which they had escaped more than a century ago. Yet he knew the desert wanderers had been useful before, and he expected that Rogin and Tomkir had enlisted this man for the important new stockpile project.
Tomkir indicated the desert man. “Modoc here was about to depart after delivering his report, Directeur, but we prevented him from doing so. We thought you would like to meet him.”
Rogin interjected, “Thanks to Modoc’s tribe, we will have an established, secure location that we can repurpose for the facility you requested.”
The desert man shrank away from Norma’s mutated, naked body drifting in the spice gases. “You captured a demon?” He looked up with his unnaturally blue eyes, caused by a lifetime of spice ingestion. “Are we safe from it?”
“She is my great-grandmother,” Josef said. “Her mind can encompass the entire universe in ways that your desert gods could never comprehend.”
Modoc took a tentative step forward, fascinated. “I always laughed at my brother Taref for imagining so many fantastical things. I didn’t believe him.”
Josef raised his eyebrows. “You are from Taref’s tribe?” He remembered the desert operative he had trained, and trusted—for a time. Until the man had simply abandoned his responsibilities and walked away.
Modoc lifted his chin, gazed at him with irritation. “I am the Naib of my sietch, and yes, Taref was cast out. He was worthless, of no more use to my people.”
“He was of no use to me, either,” Josef muttered. He remembered that the man’s guilt and silly superstitions had driven him mad, and he had wandered off into the desert. “Taref told us you had no interest in civilization or spice production, and that it was futile to negotiate with you.”
With a shake of his head, Modoc said, “That was when my father served as Naib, but thanks to his recent and fortuitous death, I am the leader now. And your representatives here”—he nodded toward the two Mentat administrators—“offered our tribe an extraordinary amount of your foreign money … money that allows us to obtain certain things.”
Rogin said, “We bought their sietch outright, Directeur—an entire cave city in the deep desert. They have kept it hidden and secure for generations. It will make a perfect protected location.” The Mentats were careful not to explain what exactly Josef intended to do with this place.
“That doesn’t sound like a bargain the Freemen would make. Abandoning their sietch for any amount of money?” He looked at the desert man. “Where will you go?”
Modoc merely shrugged. “The desert has countless hiding places, and we know where to find them. Our scouts discovered another network of caves even farther out in the Tanzerouft, so we will move there. We can build a new sietch, outfit the caves, install moisture seals. Our tribe will live as before, but now we wi
ll also have great wealth.” He spread his callused hands on the clean metal table and smiled. “As Naib, I made the most pragmatic decision.”
From inside her tank, Norma said, “Prepare Modoc’s sietch quickly. Fill it with spice for my Navigators. A large stockpile is necessary for our security.” Her inhuman voice startled them.
Josef flashed a surprised look at Norma. He had not intended to reveal to this desert man that the facility would be a spice bank. “We have not yet determined what we will put inside the storehouse.”
“Spice for my Navigators,” Norma said. “Enough to last for years.”
The Freeman faced her, strangely delighted to hear the mutated woman speak from the tank. “My tribe is already preparing to move out, and we will leave our old caves for you. I will guide your representatives there. You’ll be satisfied, I promise. You can store all the spice you like.”
Josef hardened his voice. “I did not say what the sietch will be used for.”
Modoc narrowed his eyes in a cagy expression. “Come now, Directeur. Such a secure facility would only be used to store something of great value. On Arrakis, that means either spice or water, and since I know you offworlders do not place the proper value on water, then I assume you would fill my sietch with spice, just like the many spice silos and guarded vaults you already have.” He grinned, looking flippant. “But my people can go out into the desert and glean whatever spice we need for ourselves, and with your money, we can purchase all the water we desire.”
Josef grumbled, wondering what it would take to buy this man’s silence. He even considered killing him.
Yet if Josef drove out the Imperial guardians that Roderick had left here, and placed enough VenHold security around the planet, as well as around the spice bank, no one would be able to threaten it. He wasn’t worried about a few bandits and black marketeers.
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