Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  In his reinforced chair, Rhombur bent his left arm and cautiously thrust his stiff fingertips into a pocket of the short robe. He aimed carefully with his fingers, fished about in there. Finally, he grasped a piece of paper, which he painstakingly unfolded.

  “Look at the fine motor control,” Yueh said. “This is better than I had expected. You’ve been practicing, Rhombur?”

  “Every second.” The Prince held up the paper. “I keep remembering new things each day. This is the best sketch I’ve been able to make of a few obscure access tunnels on Ix. Gurney and Thufir will find them useful.”

  “The other paths have proven too dangerous,” the Mentat said. Over the decades spies had tried to break through the Tleilaxu defenses. Several Atreides infiltrators had slipped in but never returned. Others had been unable to enter the underground world at all.

  But Rhombur, the son of Earl Dominic Vernius, had dredged his memory for information about secret security systems and hidden entrances to the cavern cities. During his long and enforced convalescence, he had begun to recall obscure details he had believed long forgotten, details that might make the difference in penetrating the enemy stronghold.

  Turning his attention to his meal, Rhombur lifted a large piece of parafish on his fork. Then, noting Dr. Yueh’s disapproving gaze, he lowered the morsel to his plate and cut off a smaller portion instead.

  Leto stared at his murky reflection in the hall’s polished blue-obsidian wall. “Like wolves ready to prey upon any member who shows weakness, some noble families are just waiting for me to falter. The Harkonnens, for example.” Since the skyclipper disaster, a hardened Duke Leto had grown unwilling to accept injustice in silence. He needed to make a difference on Ix as much as Rhombur did.

  “We must let all the Imperium see that House Atreides is as strong as ever.”

  When we try to conceal our innermost drives, our entire being screams betrayal.

  — Bene Gesserit Teaching

  It pained Lady Snirul to see the Truthsayer Lobia dying on a woven mat in her austere apartment. Ah, my friend, you deserve so much more than this.

  The ancient Sister had weakened in recent years but clung tenaciously to life. Rather than returning to the familiar halls of the Mother School on Wallach IX, as was her right, Lobia insisted upon continuing her duties for the Golden Lion Throne. Her marvelous mind— what she called her “most precious possession”— remained sharp. As the Imperial Truthsayer, Lobia faithfully ferreted out lies and deceit spoken in the presence of Shaddam IV, though the Emperor rarely showed any appreciation of her.

  Now the fading woman looked up at Anirul, who stood haloed by the gentle light of glowglobes, her shadowed face concealing tears. This old Sister was her closest confidante in the immense Palace, not merely a fellow Bene Gesserit, but also a spry and fascinating person with whom she could share her thoughts and secrets. Now she was dying.

  “You will be fine, Mother Lobia,” Anirul said. The plastone walls of the sparse, unheated room retained a chill that penetrated to the bone. “I think you are getting stronger.”

  The old woman’s answer was like crackling, dry leaves. “Never lie to a Truthsayer… especially not the Emperor’s Truthsayer.” It was an oft-repeated admonition. Lobia’s rheumy eyes danced with self-deprecating mirth, even as her chest labored to maintain the rhythm of breathing. “Have you learned nothing from me?”

  “I have learned that you are stubborn, my friend. You should allow me to call for the Medical Sisters. Yohsa can tend to your illness.”

  “The Sisterhood doesn’t need me alive any longer, child, no matter how much you might wish it. Do I need to chide you for having feelings, or should I save us both the embarrassment?” Lobia coughed, then went through the calming regimen of Bindu Suspension, taking two deep breaths and completing the ritual. Her respiration became smooth, as if she were a young woman again, without the concerns of mortality. “We were not meant to live forever, though with the voices in Other Memory, it might seem so.”

  “I think you just enjoy challenging my preconceptions, Mother Lobia.” They often swam together in the Palace’s underground canals; they played intense strategy games, staring at each other for hours, winning through minute nuances. Anirul did not want to let go.

  Though the ancient Truthsayer lived in the lavish Imperial Palace, there were no adornments on the walls of her quarters, no carpets on the hardwood floors. Lobia had removed the original opulent paintings, plush imported rugs, and prismatic-film window coverings. “Such creature comforts clutter the mind,” she had told Anirul. “Personal objects are a waste of time and energy.”

  “And does the human mind not create these luxuries?” Anirul countered.

  “Superior human minds create marvelous things, but thickheaded people lust after them for their own sake. I prefer not to be thickheaded.”

  How I will miss these discussions when she is gone….

  With monumental sadness, Anirul wondered if the Emperor had even noticed the old woman’s absence. For decades, Lobia had been the finest of Truthsayers, able to note the tiniest sheen of perspiration on the skin, the tilt of a head, a curl of the lips, a tone of voice, and much more.

  Without stirring on the hard mat, Lobia abruptly opened her eyes. “It is time.”

  Dread inflamed Anirul’s heart like a hot coal. I shall not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. She whispered, “I understand, Mother Lobia. I am ready to help you.” I will face my fear. I will allow it to pass over me and through me.

  Fighting tears, forcing herself to maintain her Bene Gesserit composure, Anirul leaned forward and touched her forehead to the dry-skinned temple of the aged Truthsayer, as if bending over a prayer mat. One important task remained before Lobia allowed herself to pass on.

  Anirul did not want to lose the old woman’s conversation and friendship in this lonely Palace. But she need not relinquish the revered Truthsayer’s companionship. Not entirely. “Share with me, Lobia. I have room inside for all your memories.”

  Deep in her consciousness, Anirul felt the excitement and clamor of the multitude there— Other Memory, the genetically recorded experiences of all her ancestors. As the Kwisatz Mother, Anirul’s mind was particularly receptive to ancient thoughts and lives, dating back across the generations. Soon, Lobia would join them all.

  Against her forehead, she felt the old woman’s ebbing pulse. The heartbeat steadied, their minds opened… and the flow began, like a torrent through an open dam. Lobia poured her life into Anirul, transferring memories, aspects of personality, every bit of data contained in her long life.

  One day, Anirul herself would pass the information to another, younger Sister. In this manner, the Sisterhood’s collective memory was amassed and made potentially available to all Bene Gesserit.

  Empty of life, Lobia sagged into an empty husk like a long-held sigh. Now the record book of the old woman lived within Anirul, among all the other voices. When the time was right, the Kwisatz Mother could call forth the memories of Lobia-within, and they would spend time together again.…

  Hearing a soft voice, Anirul glanced to one side and immediately masked her emotions. She dared not let any other Sister see such weakness, even at a moment of great grief. At the doorway stood a pretty young Acolyte, motioning for her. “An important visitor, my Lady. Please follow me.”

  Anirul was surprised at how calmly the words came out of her mouth. “Sister Lobia is dead. We must inform Mother Superior that the Emperor will need a new Truthsayer.” With a brief, longing look at the ancient woman lying cold and empty on the hard mat, Anirul departed with the merest whisper of footsteps.

  The pretty Acolyte looked at her in astonishment, then accepted the news. She led Anirul to an elegant private parlor, where Reverend Mother Mohiam waited. A hollow-cheeked woman with graying hair, Mohiam wore a black aba robe, the traditional, conservative dress of the Sisterhood.

  Before Mohiam could speak, Aniru
l crisply and emotionlessly told her about the death of Lobia. The other Reverend Mother did not seem surprised. “I, too, bring long-anticipated news, Lady Anirul. You will find it especially heartening on this day of passing.” She spoke in an ancient, forgotten language that no eavesdropper could interpret. “At last, Jessica carries the child of Duke Leto Atreides.”

  “As she has been instructed to do.” Anirul’s expression lost its air of gloom, and she seized upon the bright prospect of new life.

  After millennia of meticulous planning, the most important Bene Gesserit plans would soon come to fruition. The daughter now in Jessica’s womb would become the mother of their long-awaited prize, the Kwisatz Haderach, a messiah under the control of the Sisterhood.

  “Perhaps this is not such a dark day after all.”

  If every living human had the power of prescience, it would be meaningless. For where could it then be applied?

  — NORMA CENVA, THE CALCULUS OF PHILOSOPHY,

  ancient Guild records, private Rossak collection

  Human habitation of the planet Junction dated back before the founding of the Spacing Guild by the legendary patriot and commercial magnate Aurelius Venport. Centuries after the Butlerian Jihad, when the still-fledgling Guild had sought a homeworld that could accommodate their massive Heighliners, the sweeping plains and sparse population of Junction fit the requirements perfectly. Now the world was covered with Guild landing fields, repair facilities, immense maintenance yards, and high-security schools for the mysterious Navigators.

  No longer entirely human, Steersman D’murr swam inside a sealed tank of spice gas and gazed out upon Junction with the eyes of his mind. The pungent cinnamon odor of pure melange permeated his skin, his lungs, his mind. Nothing could possibly smell sweeter.

  His armored chamber was carried in the mechanical grasp of a podplane that soared silently above the skyline toward the new Heighliner to which he had been assigned. D’murr lived for making foldspace journeys across star systems in the blink of an eye. And that was only the smallest part of what he understood, now that he had evolved so far beyond his original form.

  The bulbous podplane crossed a broad field of grounded Heighliners— kilometers and kilometers of monstrous ships, responsible for the commerce of the Imperium. Pride was a primitive human emotion, but D’murr could still take pleasure in knowing his place in the universe.

  He gazed at the main yard and maintenance locks, where the vessels were serviced and upgraded with modular fittings. The hull of one immense craft was pitted from severe asteroid damage; an old Navigator had been severely injured aboard it. D’murr felt a flicker of sadness, another lingering shadow of the Ixian boy he had once been. One day, if he focused his expanded mind, even that remnant of his former self would be vanquished.

  Ahead lay the neat white markers of Navigator’s Field, which memorialized fallen Navigators. A pair of markers were bright and new, installed only recently, after the deaths of two Pilots who had been experimental subjects. The volunteers had been altered for a dangerous instantaneous-communications project called Guildlink, based on D’murr’s own long-distance connection with his twin brother C’tair.

  That project had failed, though. After only a few successful uses, the mentally coupled Navigators had collapsed into brain-dead torpidity. The Guild had scrapped further Guildlink research, despite the enormous potential profits: Navigators were too talented and too expensive to risk in such a way.

  With a whir of jets and rushing air, the podplane set down at the perimeter of the memorial field, near the base of the Oracle of Infinity. The large, clearplaz globe contained swirls and streaks of gold, an ever-changing nebula of stars, moving and shifting. The activity increased as a uniformed Guildsman guided D’murr’s tank out of the transport craft.

  Prior to each tour of duty, it was customary for a Navigator to “commune” at the Oracle, to enhance and refine his prescient abilities. The experience, similar to the very act of traveling through the glories of foldspace, connected him with the mysterious origins of the Guild.

  Closing his small eyes, D’murr felt the Oracle of Infinity fill his senses, wave after incoming wave opening his mind until all possibilities were apparent to him. He felt another presence watching over him, like the sentient mind of the Guild itself, and it gave him a sense of peace.

  Guided by the ancient and powerful Oracle, D’murr’s mind experienced the past and future of time and space, all that was beautiful in creation, all that was perfect. The spice gas in his tank seemed to stretch until it encompassed the mutated faces of thousands of Navigators. Images danced and shifted, from Navigator to human, back and forth. He saw a woman, her body changing and atrophying until she became little more than a naked, enormous brain.…

  Inside the Oracle, the images faded, leaving him with an ominous, empty feeling. His eyes still closed, he saw only the swirling nebula within the clearplaz globe. As the claws of the podcraft grasped his tank and raised him again, flying toward the waiting Heighliner, D’murr was left in an unsettled quandary.

  He saw many things through foldspace, but not all… not nearly enough. Powerful, unpredictable forces were at work across the cosmos, forces that even the Oracle of Infinity could not see. Mere humans, not even powerful leaders like Shaddam IV, could not understand what they might unleash.

  And the universe was a dangerous place.

  Melange is a many-handed monster. The spice gives with one hand and takes with all of its others.

  — Confidential CHOAM memorandum,

  for the Emperor’s eyes only

  Within a complex of linked underground laboratory buildings, the white capsule-car sped along a tramway. Rattling over aging tracks, the car stuttered for an unsettling moment before continuing.

  Through the clearplaz floor of the car, Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica could see overpasses, conveyors, and technical systems functioning together for a vital mission. All of it under my supervision. Though the Emperor deluded himself that he directed all progress made here on Xuttuh, once called Ix, no man was as vital as Ajidica. Eventually, all the politicians and nobles, even the shortsighted representatives of his own Tleilaxu race, would begin to understand. By then it would be too late to prevent the Master Researcher’s inevitable victory.

  His capsule-car clattered toward the heavily guarded research pavilion. Before his people had conquered this planet, the advanced Ixian manufacturing facilities had produced vast wealth for House Vernius. Now, the laboratories and manufactories were put to even better use for the glory of God and the mastery of the chosen Tleilaxu race.

  Today, though, he had different trials to face. Ajidica was not looking forward to another meeting with Count Fenring, the Imperial Spice Minister, but at last he had good news to report— enough to keep the Emperor’s Sardaukar troops at bay.

  In recent months, he had supervised a plethora of full-scale testing operations on the artificial spice— parallel analyses to compare the effects of melange and amal in the most minute detail. One difficult veil of secrecy, the ritualistic uses of melange by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, had been broken by a fortuitous occurrence, when one of the witches’ spies had fallen unexpectedly into his lap. Now that captive woman, who had passed herself off under the name of Miral Alechem, served a higher purpose.

  The whirring capsule-car came to a lurching stop at the pavilion, and Ajidica stepped out onto a spotless white platform. Fenring would already be there, and the man did not like to be kept waiting.

  Ajidica hurried into a lift tube, which dropped him to the main level of the pavilion— but the round door did not dilate open. Annoyed, he pressed an emergency alarm and shouted into the comspeaker, “Get me out of here, and hurry up about it. I am a busy man!”

  This lift tube was based upon an Ixian design, but now a simple door wouldn’t open. What could be more basic? Too many things were beginning to fall apart in these supposedly wondrous research facilities. Could it be sabotage by those persistent f
aceless rebels? Or simply poor maintenance?

  He heard men chattering outside and tools hammering against the jammed door. Ajidica disliked enclosed spaces, hated to live underground. Now the redolent air seemed to thicken around him. He whispered the catechism of the Great Belief and humbly asked God for a safe passage. Grabbing a vial from his pocket, he removed two foul-tasting lozenges and swallowed them.

  Why is it taking them so long?

  Struggling to calm himself, Ajidica reviewed a plan he had set in motion. Since the beginning of this project decades ago, he had been in contact with a small cadre of Tleilaxu who would serve him after he escaped with the sacred axlotl tanks. In the farthest reaches of the Imperium, protected by deadly Face Dancers, he would set up his own Tleilaxu regime for the true interpretation of the Great Belief.

  Arrangements had already been made to conceal him, his Face Dancer entourage, and the secret of amal in a long-range frigate. After his escape, he would detonate a bomb that would destroy this entire laboratory complex; the massive explosion would take half of the surrounding underground city with it. Before the dust settled, he would be far, far away.

  From his safe planet, Ajidica would take steps to solidify his power base and assemble a military force to protect himself from Imperial reprisals. He alone would control the vital and inexpensive supply of synthetic melange. He who controls the spice controls the universe. Ultimately, Ajidica might sit upon the Golden Lion Throne itself. If only he could get out of this malfunctioning lift.

  Finally, with a great clatter and loud shouts, the lift-tube door squealed open, and two assistants peered in at him. “Are you well, Master?”

  Behind them, wearing a bemused expression, stood Count Fenring. While not a tall man, he still towered over the Tleilaxu. “A bit of trouble, hmmm-ah?”