Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Never heed distractions, Leto.” Duncan caught his breath and backed off. “Your enemies will concoct diversions to make you focus your attention where it does not belong. Then they will strike.”

  Panting, Leto lay back, felt the sweat trickling through his dark hair. “Enough! You’ve bested me again.” He switched off his half shield, and the Swordmaster proudly sheathed his two blades, then helped the Duke to his feet.

  “Of course I’ve bested you,” Duncan said. “But you tricked me a few times. Very interesting tactics. You’re learning, sir.”

  “Some of us can’t afford to spend eight years on Ginaz. And my offer still stands to bring your companion Hiih Resser to Caladan. If he fights with half your skill, he would be a welcome addition to the Guard at House Atreides.”

  Duncan looked troubled. “I have heard only a little from him since his return to House Moritani. I was afraid the Grummans might kill him when he got home, but he seems to have survived. I think he’s now even part of the Viscount’s personal guard.”

  Leto wiped sweat from his brow. “Obviously, he’s stronger and smarter than he was before. I just hope he isn’t corrupted.”

  “It’s not easy to corrupt a Swordmaster, Leto.”

  Thufir Hawat stood at the doorway to the banquet hall, observing. Now that the training session was over, the Mentat stepped forward and gave a slight bow, his sinewy form making distorted reflections on the blue-obsidian walls. “I concur with your Swordmaster, my Duke, that you are becoming a better fighter. However, I would like to add my insight on tactics by reminding you that distractions and diversions can work both ways.”

  Leto sat heavily on one of the dining chairs while Duncan set the toppled, undamaged candlestick upright on the table. “What do you mean, Thufir?”

  “I am your Security Commander, my Duke. My primary concerns are to keep you alive and to protect House Atreides. I failed you when I did not prevent the skyclipper explosion, just as I failed your father in the bullring.”

  Leto turned to look at the stuffed head of the monstrous, multihorned creature that had killed the Old Duke. “I already know what you’re going to say, Thufir. You do not want me to join the fighting on Ix. You’d rather I did something safe instead.”

  “I want you to take the role of a Duke, my Lord.”

  “I absolutely concur,” Duncan said. “Rhombur must be physically present in the heat of battle so that the people can see him, but you need to face the Landsraad. Personally, I think that might be an even tougher fight.”

  Glowering, Leto looked at his two military advisors. “My father was on the front lines of the Ecazi Revolt, and so was Dominic Vernius.”

  “Those were different times, my Duke. And Paulus Atreides did not always heed advice.” Hawat glanced meaningfully up at the monstrous Salusan bull’s-head. “You must make this a victory in your own manner.”

  Leto raised his short sword over one shoulder, holding the hilt loosely as if he held a dagger, and hurled it. The blade spun in the air.

  The Mentat’s hooded eyes widened, and Duncan gasped as the blade plunged into the bull’s black, scaly throat. The sword had skewered the beast and stuck there, quivering.

  “You are right, Thufir. I am more interested in results than in grandstanding.” Pleased with himself, Leto turned back to his advisors. “We must make certain all the Imperium learns the Atreides lesson of Beakkal. No warning. No mercy. No ambiguity. I am not a man to be trifled with.”

  There are no facts— only observational postulates in an endlessly regenerative hodgepodge of predictions. Consensus reality requires a fixed frame of reference. In a multilevel, infinite universe, there can be no fixity; thus, no absolute consensus reality. In a relativistic universe, it appears impossible to test the reliability of any expert by requiring him to agree with another expert. Both can be correct, each in his own inertial system.

  — Bene Gesserit Azhar Book

  In Lady Anirul’s wing of the Imperial Palace, Reverend Mother Mohiam glided into Jessica’s apartment without knocking.

  Sensing the older woman’s presence, Jessica looked up from the rolltop desk, where she had been writing in the bound-parchment journal Anirul had given her. She laid her inkplume down and shut the volume. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”

  “A fact has just been brought to my attention by our operative Tessia,” Mohiam said in the tone of a displeased schoolteacher. It was a voice Jessica had heard many times from the Proctor Superior. Mohiam could show compassion and kindness when she was pleased with her student, but she was also ruthless.

  “We waited for you to conceive an Atreides daughter, pursuant to your orders. It is my understanding that you have been the Duke’s lover for three years? Three years gave you ample opportunity to become pregnant! I can only presume that you intentionally refused our instructions. I would like to know why.”

  Though her heart lurched, Jessica locked onto Mohiam’s gaze, without wavering. She’d been expecting this, but still she felt like a little girl again, crushed by the disappointment her teacher had always been able to wield. “I am sorry, Reverend Mother.”

  As Jessica watched the wrinkled lips move, she remembered how Mohiam had observed her, studied her every movement as she tested her with the deadly gom jabbar. The poison needle, the box of pain. With that needle at Jessica’s neck, Mohiam could have killed her in a fraction of a second.

  “You were ordered to bear a child. You should have allowed yourself to become impregnated the first time you slept with him.”

  Jessica managed to keep her voice firm, without cracking or stammering. “There are reasons, Reverend Mother. The Duke was bitter about his concubine Kailea, and suffered many political problems abroad. An unexpected child at that time would have been a great burden upon him. Later, he was distraught over the death of his son Victor.”

  The older woman showed no sympathy whatsoever. “Upset enough to alter his sperm count? You are a Bene Gesserit. Surely I have taught you better than this? What were you thinking, child?”

  Mohiam has always been expert at manipulating my emotions. She is doing it now. Jessica reminded herself that the Sisterhood took pride in understanding what it meant to be human. What more human act could I have committed than to bear a child for the man I love?

  She refused to back down, speaking in a way that was sure to take her old teacher by surprise. “I am not your student anymore, Reverend Mother, so you will kindly not address me in such a condescending manner.”

  The response took Mohiam aback. She stood silently.

  “The Duke was not ready for another baby, and he had access to his own contraceptive measures.” Not a lie, just a diversion. “I am pregnant now. What is the point in chastising me? I can have as many daughters as you like.”

  The Reverend Mother emitted a harsh laugh, but her face grew gentler. “Headstrong girl!” She backed out the door, a mixture of emotions playing across her face. She took a calming breath and glided away down the hallway. Her secret daughter had a stubborn, defiant streak. Mohiam decided it must be from the Harkonnen blood in her veins….

  * * *

  In the dry, artificially cooled air of the Residency at Arrakeen, Lady Margot Fenring watched with the sharp eyes of a Bene Gesserit as the Fremen housewoman methodically packed things for the extended trip to Kaitain. The woman, Mapes, had no sense of humor and virtually no personality, but she worked hard and followed instructions.

  “Bring my immian-rose dresses, the peach and saffron wardrobe, and the full lavender gown for regular daily appearances at Court,” Margot commanded. “And also those transforming silkfilm garments for the nights, after Count Fenring returns from his business trip.” As she spoke, she concealed a slip of Imperial parchment from the eyes of her servant.

  “Yes, my Lady.” Without a smile or a scowl, the dried husk of a woman folded the slippery, sexy undergarments and packed them with all the other items for Margot’s departure to Kaitain.

  Almost certainly
, this hardened desert woman understood much more about Lady Fenring than she let on. Years ago, in the dark of night, Mapes had led her to a hidden sietch in the mountains, taking her to see their Sayyadina, the Fremen equivalent of a Reverend Mother. Afterward, the entire sietch had disappeared. Mapes had never said another word about the incident and avoided all questions.

  Now Count Fenring had departed again, and Margot knew her husband had secretly gone to the closed world of Ix, though he believed he kept all of his furtive movements and errands hidden from her. She let him maintain his little delusions, because it strengthened their marriage. In a universe of secrets, Margot kept many of her own, too.

  “Have an early dinner prepared,” Margot ordered. “And be ready to depart with me in two hours.”

  Her sinewy arms straining, Mapes sealed the fully packed suitcases and lifted them toward the door without using the attached suspensors. “I would prefer to remain here, my Lady, rather than taking the journey across space.”

  Margot frowned at her, brooking no further discussion. “Nevertheless, you shall accompany me. Many ladies at Court will be curious to see a woman whose every breath, every meal, has been impregnated with spice. They will see your blue-within-blue eyes and think them pretty.”

  Mapes turned away. “I have work to do here. Why should I waste time with pretentious fools?”

  Margot’s laugh was light. “Because it would do the courtiers good to see a woman who knows how to work. Now that will be an exotic sight for them!”

  Scowling in response, the houseservant trudged off with the two suitcases.

  When Mapes had passed out of sight, Margot again touched the slip of Imperial parchment that had been sent to her by Courier. She ran her fingertips over the uneven coded bumps, searching for further subtleties in the brief message from Lady Anirul.

  “We need your eyes here in the Palace. Jessica and her baby were nearly killed in an assassination attempt on the Emperor. We must keep them safe. Make excuses, but come quickly.”

  Margot slipped the note into a pocket of her dress, then busied herself with final details.

  Politics is the art of appearing candid and completely open, while concealing as much as possible.

  — States: The Bene Gesserit View

  Since his appointment as Imperial Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring had spent more time aboard Heighliners than ever before. He’d left Margot in Arrakeen that very morning, where she had been packing for a vacation on Kaitain. He indulged his lovely wife in her little holidays and pleasure trips.

  But Fenring had important work to do, taking care of the Emperor’s business. On Ix, Hidar Fen Ajidica should have everything completed by now, ready for the most vital test of all.

  During these tedious trips with all their stops and delays, Fenring kept his deadly skills honed. Only a few moments ago, in the frigate’s private ablutions room, Fenring had pulled on black gentleman’s gloves, locked the door, and strangled one of the irritating Wayku vendors.

  “There is great skill in concealing one’s hostility,” an ancient sage had said. How true that was!

  Fenring had left the singlesuit-clad body in a sealed toilet enclosure surrounded by the Wayku’s own overpriced, poorly made souvenir products. No doubt when another attendant discovered the corpse, he would take the trinkets and try to sell them to some unsuspecting passenger….

  His frustrations sated for now, the Count rode a shuttle through misty clouds down to Ix, accompanying a few traders and approved suppliers of industrial resources. The small ship landed amidst the heavily guarded bustle of the new Xuttuh Spaceport, a large open overhang on the edge of a canyon.

  Standing on bilious yellow tiles, Fenring sniffed the distinctive odor of many Tleilaxu. He shook his head in dismay. The construction skills of the gnome-men were woefully lacking, and evidence of inept workmanship was abundant. A public address system announced the arriving and departing shuttles. A few much taller outsiders delivered supplies and dickered with research managers over price structures. No Sardaukar were visible.

  Pushing toward the security barricades, Fenring shouldered two Tleilaxu Masters out of his way, ignoring their protestations, then skirted a puddle of water beneath a dripping rock ceiling.

  After he entered his high-level access codes and proved his identity, rushed messages were dispatched to the research complexes below. Fenring didn’t hurry; Hidar Fen Ajidica would not have time to hide everything.

  Inside the deep access tunnels, he smiled broadly as a Sardaukar officer hurried toward him, his black-and-gray commander’s uniform in disarray. “We did not expect you, Count Fenring.”

  The young leader of the Imperial legions, Commander Cando Garon, raised an arm as if to salute the Spice Minister. Instead, Fenring grabbed the officer’s beefy hand and shook it briskly with one of the gloved hands he’d used to strangle the vendor. “You should never expect me, Commander Garon, but you should always be prepared for me, hmmm?”

  The soldier accepted the slight rebuke with grace and turned to escort the Emperor’s man toward the deep facilities.

  “By the way, Commander, your father is well. The Supreme Bashar is doing the most important work of his career.”

  The younger Garon raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? We are isolated here, and I rarely receive word from him.”

  “Yes, hmmm, the Emperor is keeping him busy destroying planets. Zanovar is his latest handiwork. It’s completely lifeless.”

  Fenring watched for any reaction, but the young Commander simply nodded. “My father is always thorough. As Shaddam commands. Please give him my regards upon your return to Kaitain.”

  A private railcar took them across the grime-streaked cavern metropolis. “I am here for a new series of tests. Surely the Master Researcher is ready to begin? He was to have made certain, ahhh, arrangements.”

  Garon sat stiffly in his seat. “We shall have to ask him. So far, sir, the synthetic spice production is proceeding remarkably well. The Master Researcher seems quite satisfied and enthusiastic.” Garon stared straight ahead, rarely looking at his companion. “Quite generously, he has provided me and my men with samples of the synthetic melange. It appears to be a complete success.”

  This surprised Fenring. What was Ajidica doing, testing amal on the Sardaukar legions without authorization? “Commander, the substance has not yet been fully approved.”

  “There have been no ill effects, sir.” Clearly, the Sardaukar leader had no intention of turning down future supplies of the drug for himself or his men. “I have already sent a message to the Emperor, and I believe he is pleased with what we have done. Amal greatly improves our stamina and efficiency. My soldiers are quite satisfied with it.”

  “Satisfaction is not part of your mission, Commander. Is it, hmmm-ah?”

  When the railcar docked in the research complex, a silent Garon escorted him into the facility, though Fenring had been here many times. It seemed as if the Sardaukar officer had been ordered to keep an eye on him.

  But when Fenring entered the main office, he stopped in complete surprise. Commander Cando Garon himself stood next to a smirking Ajidica. Fenring looked at the man who had escorted him: The two were identical, down to the last detail.

  “Garon, meet Garon,” the Master Researcher said. The officer next to Ajidica stepped forward to shake his duplicate’s hand, but the Sardaukar who had accompanied Fenring— presumably the real Garon— wanted no part of this charade. He stepped back, avoiding contact with the impostor.

  “Just a little Face Dancer trick.” Ajidica displayed a mouthful of sharp teeth in his smile. “You may leave now, Commander. Thank you for accompanying Count Fenring.” With a scowl, the soldier departed.

  Ajidica folded his small hands together, but did not gesture for the Count to sit in a chairdog by the desk. Fenring took a seat anyway, looking suspiciously at the surrogate Sardaukar.

  “We have been laboring around the clock, Count Fenring, to produce commercial quantiti
es of amal. All difficulties have been resolved, and the new substance works marvelously.”

  “So, you consume it yourself, hmmmm? And you gave it to the Emperor’s Sardaukar as well? You have overstepped your authority, Master Researcher.”

  With a dark twinkle in his eyes, Ajidica answered, “It falls precisely within my authority as chief of amal research. The Emperor himself gave me the mission to develop a perfect melange substitute. That cannot be accomplished without testing.”

  “Not on the Emperor’s men.”

  “They are more alert than ever before. Stronger, more energetic. You must be familiar with the old platitude, ‘happy troops are loyal troops.’ Aren’t they, Commander Garon?”

  With the faintest rustle of sound, the Garon duplicate shifted his appearance to match Ajidica’s, but wearing a baggy Sardaukar uniform. Then he metamorphosed into Emperor Shaddam Corrino, again filling the clothing. The flow of muscles and skin was disorienting, and the resulting resemblance astounding. The reddish hair and dark green eyes were perfect, as was the facial expression of barely contained distaste. Even the Emperor’s voice, as he announced in an authoritative tone, “Bring in my Sardaukar. Kill everyone in the laboratory!”

  Next the Emperor’s nose grew in length until it resembled a Poritrin carrot. As Ajidica beamed at his creation, the Face Dancer shifted once more, this time into the form of a mutated Guildsman, with portions of his deformed body stretching and ripping the clothing.

  “Count Fenring, meet Zoal, the partner you demanded for a Heighliner navigation test. With him, you can infiltrate the Spacing Guild’s security on Junction.”

  Fascinated and eager, Fenring set aside his concerns. “And this Face Dancer understands that I am in charge of the mission? That my orders are not to be questioned?’

  “Zoal is highly intelligent and has many capabilities,” Ajidica said. “He is not trained to kill, but will follow any other instructions you might have, without hesitation.”

  “How many languages do you speak?” Fenring asked.