Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  He spoke in a flat voice with an annoying tic that made him sound like a buzzing insect. “We have, nnnn, experienced difficulty in translocation of this vessel and are currently trying to reestablish, nnnn, contact with our Navigator in his chamber. The Guild is investigating the matter. We have, nnnn, no further information at this time.”

  The passengers began to shout out questions, but the projection either couldn’t hear them or didn’t care to reply. He stood straight-backed and expressionless. “All maintenance and major repairs to Guild ships must be done, nnnn, at Junction. We currently have no facilities to complete major repairs here. We have not yet been able to determine our precise location, nnnn, though preliminary measurements show we are in uncharted space, far beyond the Imperium.”

  The collective inrush of the passengers’ breath sounded like a heavy-duty air exchanger. Gurney scowled at Rhombur. “Guild representatives might be good at mathematical studies, but apparently they have no training in tact.”

  Rhombur frowned. “A lost Heighliner? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Vermilion hells! This ship is one of the best Ixian designs.”

  Gurney gave him a rueful, scar-faced smile. “Nevertheless, it’s happened.” He quoted from the Orange Catholic Bible. “ ’For mankind is lost, even with the righteous path laid out for him.’ ”

  Rhombur surprised him by responding with the second half of the verse. “ ’Yet no matter how far we stray, God knows where to find us, for He can see the whole universe.’ ”

  The Ixian Prince lowered his voice and guided Gurney away from the grumbling conversation and sour stench of fear-sweat inside the crowded lounge. “This Heighliner design was built under the direction of my father, and I know how these ships work. One of my duties as the Prince of House Vernius was to learn everything about ship manufacture. The quality controls and safety features were extraordinary, and Holtzman engines never fail. That technology has proven reliable for ten thousand years.”

  “Until today.”

  Rhombur shook his head. “No, that’s not the answer. It can only be a problem with the Navigator himself.”

  “Pilot error?” Gurney lowered his voice to avoid eavesdroppers, though the passengers were doing a fine job of feeding their own panic. “This far outside the boundaries of the Imperium, if our Navigator has failed, we’ll never find our way home.”

  Other Memory is a wide, deep ocean. It is available to help the members of our order, but only on its own terms. A Sister invites trouble when she tries to manipulate the internal voices to her own needs. It is like trying to make the sea one’s own personal swimming pool— an impossibility, even for a few moments.

  — The Bene Gesserit Coda

  At last back in his apartments on Kaitain after planting his test samples in two Heighliners, Count Hasimir Fenring rolled out of bed and gazed around the opulent room. He wondered how soon he would hear results; he certainly couldn’t ask the Guild, so he would have to be very discreet in his inquiries.

  Through sleep-bleary eyes, he saw gold filigree on the walls and ceiling, reproductions of ancient paintings, and exotic chin-do carvings. This was a far more stimulating place than dry Arrakis, scabrous Ix, or utilitarian Junction. The only finer beauty he wanted to see was the exquisite face of lovely Margot. But she had already arisen and left their bed.

  After his roundabout journey from Heighliner to Heighliner, he had arrived after midnight, exhausted. Despite the late hour, Margot had used her seductive skills on him, techniques to both arouse and relax. Then, he had fallen asleep, lulled by the comfort of her arms….

  The Count had been out of touch with the Imperium for nearly three weeks, and he wondered how many blunders Shaddam had made in the meantime. Fenring would have to arrange a private meeting with his childhood friend to discuss matters, though he would keep the tale of the Face Dancer assassin secret, for now. The Spice Minister intended to get his own personal revenge against Ajidica, and he would savor it greatly. Only afterward would he tell Shaddam, and they would both chuckle with pleasure.

  First, though, he had to learn if the Master Researcher’s work was successful. Everything depended on amal. If the tests proved Ajidica’s claims false, Fenring would show no mercy. If the amal worked as promised, though, he would have to learn every aspect of the process before he began the torture.

  Two of his suspensor-borne suitcases still sat on a broad dressing table. The bags were open. He sighed, stretched, and walked away from the bed. Yawning, he strolled into the adjacent bathing spa, where the withered maidservant Mapes bowed, though only slightly. The Fremen woman wore a white housedress that left her tanned, scarred arms bare. Fenring didn’t much care for her personality, but she was a good worker and tended to his needs, albeit humorlessly.

  He removed his shorts and dropped them on the floor. Mapes retrieved them with a scowl and tossed them into a laundry shredder on the wall. He donned the usual protective goggles, used his voice to command the spa jets. Powerful bursts of warm water surrounded his body, lifting him into the air, massaging him on all sides. On Arrakis, such luxuries were not possible, even for the Imperial Spice Minister. He closed his eyes. So soothing…

  Abruptly he jolted to awareness as peripheral details took on relevance. He had left his suspensor-borne luggage on the floor the night before, intending to unpack in the morning. Now the bags were open on a dressing table.

  He had hidden a test sample of the amal in one of the suitcases.

  Hurrying into the bedchamber, still naked and wet, he found the Fremen housekeeper removing clothing and toiletries from the bags, putting articles away. “Leave that until later. Mmm-m-m. I will call you when I need you.”

  “As you wish.” She had a throaty voice, as if grains of storm-blown sand had scarred her vocal cords. She looked with disapproval at the puddles he dripped on the floor, disgusted by the waste rather than the mess.

  But the secret luggage compartment was empty. Alarmed, Fenring called after her, “Where is the pouch I had in here?”

  “I saw no pouch, sir.”

  He searched feverishly through the bags, scattering items onto the floor. And broke into a sweat.

  Just then, Margot entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She eyed his naked form with raised eyebrows and a smile of approval. “Good morning, dear. Or should I say, good afternoon?” She glanced at the wall chronometer. “No, you still have another minute.” She wore a shimmering parasilk dress with pale yellow immian roses sewn into it, tiny flowers that remained alive in the fabric and gave off a delicate, sweet scent.

  “Did you remove a green pouch from my suitcase?” A skilled Bene Gesserit in her own right, Margot would have easily located the secret compartment.

  “I assumed you brought it for me, darling.” Smiling prettily, she placed the breakfast tray on a side table.

  “Well, hmmm, this time it was a difficult trip, and I—”

  She pretended to pout. Margot had noticed a tiny symbol in one fold of the pouch, a character that she deciphered as the letter “A” in the Tleilaxu alphabet.

  “Where did you put it, hmmmm?” Despite Ajidica’s reassurances, Fenring was not at all convinced the Tleilaxu synthetic melange wasn’t harmful, or even poisonous. He preferred to use others as test subjects, not himself or his wife.

  “Don’t worry about that right now, my dear.” Margot’s gray-green eyes danced seductively. She began to pour spice coffee for them. “Do you want breakfast before or after we resume where we left off last night?”

  Pretending lack of concern, though Margot would note every flicker of uneasiness in his body, Fenring grabbed a black casual suit from the walk-in closet. “Just tell me where you put the pouch, and I’ll get it myself.”

  Emerging from the closet, he saw Margot lifting a coffee cup to her lips.

  Spice coffee… the hidden pouch… the amal!

  “Stop!” He rushed toward her and knocked the cup out of her hands. Hot liquid splattered all over the handwoven carpet, and s
tained her yellow dress. The still-living immian roses flinched.

  “Now you’ve wasted all that spice, dear,” she said, startled but coolly trying to regain her composure.

  “Surely you didn’t pour all of it in the coffee, hmmm? Where’s the rest of the spice you found?” He calmed himself, but knew he had already revealed far too much.

  “It’s in our kitchen.” She regarded him with Bene Gesserit scrutiny. “Why are you behaving this way, dearest?”

  Without explaining, he poured the remaining cup of spice coffee back into the pot and hurried out of the room with it.

  * * *

  Grim-faced, Shaddam stood at the entrance to Anirul’s chambers, with his arms crossed over his chest. A ponytailed Suk doctor stood beside him. The Truthsayer Mohiam refused to let them enter the bedroom suite. “Only Bene Gesserit medical practitioners can tend to certain ailments, Sire.”

  The slope-shouldered doctor spat his words at Mohiam. “Do not assume that the Sisterhood knows more than a graduate of the Suk inner circle.” He had ruddy features and a wide nose.

  Shaddam scowled. “This makes no sense. After my wife’s bizarre behavior at the zoo, she needs special attention.” He pretended concern, but was more interested in hearing his Supreme Bashar’s debriefing as soon as the Imperial Sardaukar fleet returned from Korona. Oh, what an account that would be!

  Mohiam remained firm. “Only a qualified Medical Sister can deal with her, Sire.” Her voice took on a smoother undertone. “And the Sisterhood will provide such services without charge to House Corrino.”

  The Suk doctor began to snap at her, but the Emperor silenced him. Suk services were very expensive, more than Shaddam wanted to spend on Anirul. “Perhaps it would be best, after all, if my dear wife is tended by one of her own.”

  Beyond the tall doors, Lady Anirul slept fitfully, and occasionally burst out long streams of meaningless words and odd sounds. Though he didn’t admit it to anyone, Shaddam was quietly pleased that she might be going mad.

  * * *

  A small, feisty woman in a black robe, Medical Sister Aver Yohsa carried only a small shoulder satchel as she bustled into the bedchamber, ignoring Sardaukar guards and protocol.

  Lady Margot Fenring locked the apartment to prevent interruption and looked over at Mohiam, who nodded. Efficiently, Yohsa gave the Kwisatz Mother an injection at the back of her neck. “She is being overwhelmed by the voices within. This will dampen Other Memory, so she can rest.”

  Yohsa stood at the bedside, shaking her head. She drew conclusions quickly, with complete confidence. “Anirul may have probed too deeply without the support and guidance of a companion Sister. I have seen such cases before, and they are most serious. A form of possession.”

  “She will recover?” Mohiam asked. “Anirul is a Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank, and this is a most delicate time for her duties.”

  Yohsa did not mince words. “I know nothing of her rank or duties. In medical matters, especially questions involving the intricate workings of the mind, there are no simple answers. She has suffered a seizure, and the continuing presence of these voices has had a… disturbing… effect on her.”

  “See how peacefully she sleeps now,” Margot said in a soft voice. “We should leave her. Let her dream.”

  * * *

  The sleeper dreamed of the desert. A solitary sandworm fled across the dunes, trying to escape a relentless pursuer, something as silent and implacable as death. The worm, though immense, seemed minuscule in the vast sea of sand, vulnerable to forces much greater than itself.

  Even inside the dream, Anirul felt the blistering hot sands against her raw skin. Thrashing in her bed, she kicked off her silky coverings. She longed for the coolness of a shady oasis.

  With a jolt, she found herself inside the mind of the sinuous creature, her thoughts traveling through nonhuman neural pathways and synapses. She was the worm. She felt the friction of silica beneath her segmented body, igniting fires in her belly as she made a frantic attempt to escape.

  The unknown pursuer drew closer. Anirul wanted to dive into the safe depths of the sand, but she could not. In her nightmare there was no sound, not even the noise of her own passage. She let out a silent scream through a long throat lined with crystal teeth.

  Why am I fleeing? What do I fear?

  Suddenly she sat up, her eyes fire-red and filled with abject terror. She had fallen onto the cool floor. Her body was bruised and abraded, soaked with perspiration. The mysterious disaster was still out there, approaching, but she could not understand what it was.

  Humans are different in private than in the presence of others. While the private persona merges into the social persona in varying degrees, the union is never complete. Something is always held back.

  — Bene Gesserit Teaching

  As the sun set behind him, Duke Leto Atreides stood with Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho on either side of him, facing the expectant crowd that was gathered on a rocky area along the shore. Another spectacle to impress the populace before his troops went off to war.

  While Rhombur and Gurney were gone, waiting was the hardest part.

  Accompanied by liveried guards and representatives of Caladan’s major towns, Leto looked behind him, lifting his gaze toward the magnificent monument he had commissioned, one that would serve as a lighthouse and more. On an outthrust spit of land that bounded a narrow cove, the towering stone image of Paulus Atreides stood as a guardian of the coastline, a colossus visible to all ships approaching the docks. The statue, resplendent in matador costume, rested a paternal hand on the shoulder of the innocent, wide-eyed Victor. Paulus’s other hand held a self-feeding brazier filled with flammable oils.

  The Old Duke had died in the bullring years before Victor’s birth, and so the pair had never actually met. Still, these two had been a tremendous influence on Leto: his political philosophy shaped by the unbending leadership of his father, and his compassion grown from love for his son.

  Leto’s heart had a hollow feeling. Every day as he occupied himself with the business of running House Atreides, he felt alone without Jessica. He wished she could be with him now, to participate in the formal dedication of this spectacular new monument, though he supposed she might disapprove of the extravagance lavished on the memory of his father….

  So far, he had received no message from Rhombur and Gurney, but by now he could only hope they had arrived safely on Ix and were beginning their dangerous work. House Atreides would soon be embroiled in much more than the unveiling of statues.

  A temporary scaffold rose behind the statues. Two muscular youths scrambled to the top of the platform and waited above the brazier, torches in hand. Selected from a local seining crew, the acrobatic boys normally spent their days clambering around in the rigging like flying crabs. Their proud parents, as well as the captains of their boats, waited below with an Atreides honor guard.

  Leto drew a deep breath. “All people of Caladan owe a debt of gratitude to those immortalized here: my father, the beloved Duke Paulus, and my son Victor, whose life was cut so tragically short. I have ordered the creation of this memorial so that all ships entering and leaving our harbor can remember these revered heroes.”

  The business of being a Duke…

  Leto raised his hand in a signal, and the last dying sunlight flashed off the signet ring on his finger. From their precarious position, the youths lowered their firebrands to the brazier, igniting the oils. Blue flames roared high without crackling or smoking, a silent torch in the palm of the statue’s giant hand.

  Duncan held the Old Duke’s sword in front of him as if it were a royal scepter. Thufir remained grim and emotionless.

  “Let the eternal flame never be extinguished. May their memories burn brightly forever.”

  The crowd cheered, but the applause could not warm Leto’s heart as he remembered the quarrel he’d had with Jessica about naming their unborn child after his father. He wished she had been able to meet the old man, perhaps even to
talk philosophy with him. Then maybe she would have a better opinion of Paulus, rather than focusing her ire on his policies, which Leto refused to change.

  He raised a gray-eyed gaze to the implacable, idealized face of Paulus Atreides beside the achingly beautiful statue of the boy. The glow from the eternal torch cast a halo around their giant-sized features. Oh, how Leto missed his father, and his son. And Jessica most of all.

  Please let my second child have a long and meaningful life, he thought, not entirely sure to whom he prayed.

  * * *

  Across the Imperium, on another balcony watching another sunset, Jessica thought about her Duke. She stared across the glorious architecture of the Imperial city, lifted her gaze to the competing colors of aurora curtains shimmering against the dusk.

  How she longed to be with Leto. Her whole body ached for him.

  Earlier in the day, Reverend Mother Mohiam and the newly arrived Medical Sister Yohsa had tested and prodded her, then assured Jessica that her pregnancy was proceeding normally as she entered her final trimester. In order to make certain the child was developing well, Yohsa had wanted to perform a sonogram, using machines that would send harmless pulses into Jessica’s womb and take holo-images of the baby growing inside. Technically, such procedures did not violate the Bene Gesserit strictures against tampering with children in utero, but Jessica had flatly refused the test, afraid it would reveal too much.

  Seeing the surprised, annoyed expression on the Medical Sister’s face, Mohiam took Jessica’s side, showing rare compassion. “There will be no sonograms, Yohsa. Like all of us, Jessica has the ability to determine for herself if anything has gone wrong during the gestation period. We trust her.”

  Jessica had looked up at her mentor and fought a stinging sensation in her eyes. “Thank you, Reverend Mother.” Mohiam’s gaze had searched for answers, though Jessica would not provide them, voluntarily or otherwise….

  Now the Duke’s concubine sat alone on the balcony, blanketed in the Imperial sunset. She thought of the skies on Caladan, of the storms that came swiftly across the sea. Over the past several Standard Months, she and Leto had exchanged numerous letters and gifts, but such tokens were not nearly enough for either of them.