Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Leto paused in the warm clutter of Castle Caladan’s kitchens, breathing in the mingled odors of spices, rising bread, simmering sauces, and other foods in various stages of preparation. A roaring fire in a stone fireplace drove away even the damp chill with its cheery orange glow. “Thufir, if I have to worry about Harkonnen spies in my own kitchens, then we shouldn’t eat any of the food.”

  The master chefs and bakers worked in short-sleeved tunics, aprons cinched around their generous waists as they concentrated on the evening’s meal, oblivious to the war council meeting in their midst.

  Frowning, the Mentat nodded, as if Leto had made a serious proposal. “My Duke, I have long advocated that you use a personal poison snooper over each dish.”

  As usual, Leto waved away the suggestion. He stopped at a long metal table framed by narrow drainage gutters where young apprentice cooks cleaned a dozen fat butterfish that had been brought up from the docks that morning. Leto gave the fish a cursory inspection, nodded his approval. He watched one young woman as she sorted through fresh mushrooms and herbs. She gave him a shy, flirtatious smile, and when he offered her a slight grin in return, she blushed furiously and went back to her duties.

  Duncan Idaho followed the two men. “We do need to consider all possibilities in the overall plan, Leto. If we make the wrong choice, we doom our people to certain death.”

  Looking at his Mentat and Swordmaster, Leto’s gray eyes grew hard and flinty. “Then we must not make the wrong choice. Has our Courier returned from Junction yet? Do we have any further information?”

  Duncan shook his head. “All we can say for certain is that the Heighliner carrying Gurney and Prince Rhombur was misrouted somehow, for a time, but later returned to the Guild stronghold. All passengers disembarked and were held for questioning. The Guild is not saying whether all of them have now been sent to their scheduled destinations.”

  Hawat made a gruff sound deep in his throat. “So they could still be stranded on Junction, even though we expected them to reach Ix more than a month ago. At the very least, Gurney and Rhombur were delayed. Already, the plan is not as we expected.”

  “Plans rarely are, Thufir,” Leto said. “But if we quit every time one went awry, we’d never accomplish anything.”

  Duncan smiled. “A Swordmaster teacher said a very similar thing to me on Ginaz.”

  Thufir pursed his sapho-stained lips. “True, but we cannot rely on platitudes. Too many lives are at stake. We must make the right decision.”

  Bakers braided loaves of fresh dough with care, buttered the surfaces, and added bitterseeds one at a time, as if setting jewels in a royal crown. Leto doubted the workers were paying special care because he happened to be there; they always put forth a meticulous effort.

  With Jessica, Rhombur, and Gurney away, Leto considered it necessary to grasp some semblance of a normal life. He had busied himself by spending extra hours in the courtyard meeting with his subjects, concentrating on his ducal duties, even sending help to Richese for the victims there. Despite the grand and secret schemes that were even now drawing like a knot around the Imperium, he tried to reassure all of his Castle staff that the normally serene life on Caladan would continue.

  “Let us consider the scenarios, my Duke,” the Mentat said. He did not add his opinion at the moment; that would come during the arguments later. “Suppose Rhombur and Gurney do not reach Ix, and they are unable to stir the internal revolution as we had hoped. In that case, if the Atreides troops prematurely engage in a frontal attack, none of the Tleilaxu defenses would be weakened, and our men could be slaughtered.”

  Leto nodded. “Don’t you think I know that, Thufir?”

  “On the other hand, what if we delay our response? Rhombur and Gurney might even now be rallying the oppressed people. Knowing the exact timetable for our arrival, suppose the Ixians rise up and attempt to overthrow the invaders, expecting our reinforcements… but House Atreides troops do not arrive as we’ve promised?”

  Duncan looked agitated. “Then they will be massacred— and so will Rhombur and Gurney. We can’t just abandon them, Leto.”

  Deep in thought, the Duke studied both of his advisors. His loyal men would follow him on whatever path he chose. But how to make such a choice? He watched a matronly chef preparing a fine custard confection in a nest of flaky crust; it had been one of Rhombur’s favorite desserts, back when he had all of his natural bodily functions. The sight of the pastry brought a sudden tear to Leto’s eye, and he turned back, knowing his answer.

  Leto said, “My father taught me this: Whenever I find myself faced with a difficult choice, I must follow the course of honor, setting aside all other considerations.”

  He stood motionless, staring at the diligent workers in the Castle kitchens. A lot was riding on this decision. But for an Atreides Duke, there was, after all, no real alternative. “I have made my promises to Prince Rhombur, and therefore to the people of Ix. I am bound to go through with this plan. And so we must do everything in our power to assure that we succeed.”

  He turned and led the Swordmaster and the Mentat out of the kitchens, back to where they could continue their work.

  Survival demands vigor and fitness, and an understanding of limitations. You must learn what your world asks of you, what it needs of you. Each organism plays its part in keeping the ecosystem operational. Each has its niche.

  — IMPERIAL PLANETOLOGIST LIET-KYNES

  Though it was the primary headquarters of the Spacing Guild, Junction was not a world where any visitor would choose to live.

  “I don’t know how much more of this waiting I can take,” Rhombur groused. “I want to be on Ix!”

  Restricted to a passenger-recreation area that was far from the majestic Heighliner yards and maintenance docks, he and Gurney Halleck walked along a barren blakgras field. Rhombur thought it must be the site of an out-of-session Navigator school, but no one would answer any questions. The midday sun cast dim, murky light.

  Despite repeated pleas and attempted bribes, the two would-be infiltrators had been unable to send a message to Caladan. The Guild had completely isolated all passengers from the lost Heighliner, kept them prisoners here on Junction, as if trying to bottle the news of the troubled ship and the dead Navigator. In all likelihood, Duke Leto knew nothing about it. By now, he must assume that both of his operatives were inside Ix, already rallying the disenchanted populace. House Atreides was counting on them.

  But unless Rhombur could accomplish something soon, that assumption could be a serious danger to Atreides forces.

  With his mental turmoil, the cyborg Prince’s stride was jerky. Gurney could hear the clicking of the mechanical parts. Hundreds of other passengers from the rescued Heighliner milled about on the blackgras grounds; now that they were safe, the stranded travelers grumbled with a steady stream of complaints, infuriated at the inconvenience. Junction was escape-proof: They could not get off the planet until the Guild took them.

  “ ’One comes to know God only through patience,’ ” Gurney quoted, a passage his mother used to read from the Orange Catholic Bible. “They have no reason to hold us much longer. The investigation must be almost concluded.”

  “What do they expect to learn from isolated passengers? Why won’t they let us contact Leto? Damn them!” Rhombur lowered his voice.

  “If you could send a message, would you tell the Duke to delay the strike?” he asked, already knowing Rhombur’s answer.

  “Never, Gurney. Never.” He stared across the bleak field. “But I do want to be there when it happens. We have to make this work.”

  Though the Prince had been an unacknowledged hero of the Heighliner disaster, Guild representatives now treated the two men as ordinary, waylaid human cargo, to be transferred to another ship that would take them to their previously guaranteed destination (presumably with their camouflaged combat pod intact). For a full month they had been held on the austere world, interrogated about every event, every moment, on the lost Heighli
ner. The Guild seemed very concerned about the origin of the poisoned melange, but Rhombur and Gurney had no more answers to give.

  As a small display of protest, the two men refused to shave; Gurney’s beard was pale and patchy over his inkvine scar, while the Ixian Prince’s was thicker and a little longer on the fleshy side of his face, which gave him bragging rights.

  The gray, bulge-shaped building that housed the visitors contained a curious mixture of metal-barred cells, offices, and studio apartments. Surveillance comeyes were everywhere in various states of concealment. Guildsmen watched the passengers constantly.

  All of the buildings in this zone looked ancient, showing evidence of numerous repairs and alterations. With no ornamentation whatsoever, the structures were designed for function and practicality.

  Through hidden speakers, a droning voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “All passengers are hereby released. Proceed to the central processing terminal to arrange for transport to your original destination.” After a pause, the voice added an afterthought, as if from a script, “We are sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

  “I’ll make certain our combat pod gets loaded, if I have to carry it on my own shoulders,” Gurney said.

  “I might be better equipped for such labors, my friend— if it comes to that.” Rhombur took powerful mechanical strides toward the central processing terminal, ready to go back home, back to the battleground, at last.

  The War for Ix was about to begin.

  The Tleilaxu are vile creatures who crawled from the darkest depths of the gene pool. We know not what they do in private; we know not what motivates them.

  — Private Report to the Emperor (unsigned)

  For weeks, C’tair Pilru and the disguised Bene Gesserit Cristane worked together in the dark underground passages of Ix. The wiry, androgynous Sister’s intensity and determination were matched only by C’tair’s vehement hatred of the Tleilaxu.

  Drawing upon skills learned during decades of hiding and preying on the Tleilaxu, C’tair taught her to navigate the back routes for shelter and food. He knew how to disappear into labyrinthine alleys where neither the Tleilaxu nor the Sardaukar ventured.

  For her part, Cristane was a fast learner and deadly with her hands. Though her mission was to obtain information on Tleilaxu research activities— especially any mention of the mysterious Project Amal and how it might relate to spice— she relished the opportunity to aid C’tair in creating mayhem for its own sake.

  “You saw something in the research pavilion,” she said. “I must get inside there and find out what experiments the Tleilaxu are performing. That is my assignment.”

  In a dim tunnel one evening, they had captured one of the invaders to find out what was taking place inside the sealed laboratory complex. But even with the harshest and most sophisticated Bene Gesserit interrogation techniques, the captive had revealed nothing… probably because he didn’t know. Efficiently, Cristane had killed him in disgust.

  Later, C’tair killed a lab bureaucrat himself. He wondered if he and his new comrade should start keeping score. With her help, and the knowledge that Prince Rhombur was on his way at last, C’tair showed little restraint. The flames of his vengeance burned brightly.

  He knew, too, that his brother D’murr was dead.

  Cristane had told him of the Heighliner disaster over Wallach IX, as well as the second ship that had disappeared into uncharted space. With a shudder, he recalled his Navigator brother’s strange last contact, D’murr’s inhuman cry of anguish and despair— and then nothing. By the leaden feeling in his heart, he had already sensed the loss of his twin….

  One night, lying in one of his shielded bolt-holes, C’tair stirred fitfully on the thin sleeping pallet, unable to sleep, grieving for everyone and everything he had lost.

  Cristane, breathing deeply on an adjacent bed, seemed to be in a meditative sleep. Suddenly he heard her voice in the darkness. “Bene Gesserits are trained not to show emotion, but I recognize your suffering, C’tair. We have endured losses, each of us.” Her words filled the shadows between them.

  “I was a child on Hagal, orphaned in many ways. My stepfather abused me, damaged me… and the Sisterhood spent many years healing my wounds, toughening my scars, making me into what I am.” Her voice sounded strained; she had never spoken of such things to a man before. Cristane didn’t really know why, but for once in her life, she wanted someone to know her.

  When he moved over onto her bed, she allowed him to put an arm around her rigid shoulders. He wasn’t sure of his own intentions, but it had been so long since he had let down his guard, even for a moment. Cristane grew quiet. Her skin was softly sensual, but he tried not to think about it. She could have seduced him easily, but she did not.

  “If we find a way into the research pavilion, is there a chance we could help Miral?” he asked in the quiet darkness. “If only to end her suffering?”

  “Yes… provided I can get inside.”

  She gave him a brief, dry kiss, but his mind was already on Miral and the ephemeral relationship they had shared before she was taken so cruelly from him….

  * * *

  Furtively, the commando Sister paused before the protected doorway. Beyond the bioscanner barriers lay the large central gallery of the lab complex, with its high, catwalk-laced ceiling and sprawling rows of tanks on the floor. If she succeeded in infiltrating the research pavilion, Cristane knew she would probably have to kill the captive Bene Gesserit Sister to free her from any misery she might be suffering.

  C’tair had dressed Cristane in stolen Tleilaxu clothes and treated her face and hands with harsh chemicals to make her appear like the gray-skinned men. “There, now you look as awful as they do.” Fortunately, no one she encountered in the corridors asked her any direct questions; she could duplicate their guttural accents, but knew only a few words in their secret language.

  Concentrating, employing the most sophisticated Bene Gesserit skills, Cristane adjusted her internal body chemistry so that the crude bioscanner would identify her as a Tleilaxu. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the orange static of the energy field, attempting to get inside to the laboratory floor.

  Her skin tingled as cellular probes examined her. Presently, she felt a release and stepped through. With rapid and efficient steps, she made her way toward one side. Her eyes drank in the horrific details of strange tank enclosures, experiments the Tleilaxu were performing on female bodies. The air was heavy with the reek of soured melange wafting up from brutalized flesh.

  Suddenly, an alarm roared through the walls. The bioscanner doorway behind her flickered bright orange. Cristane had confused the unit long enough to pass through, but now she was trapped inside the lab.

  Running as fast as she could, looking from one slack female face to another, Cristane finally found the bloated form, the gruesome remnants of Miral Alechem. She heard excited Tleilaxu voices behind her— thin, squealing shouts— and the patter of slippered footsteps. She also heard the heavier footfalls of Sardaukar boots and shouted military commands.

  “Forgive me, my Sister.” Cristane thrust an explosive wafer beneath one of Miral’s shoulder blades, hiding it between the tubes and pump-lines that kept her alive. Then the Bene Gesserit commando dodged between flaccid axlotl tanks, reached another aisle and ran as fast as she could.

  So many women, so many spiritless faces….

  Sardaukar guards blocked her way. Cristane fled in another direction, dropping a few more explosive wafers with brief detonation delays. She knew it was only a hopeless stalling tactic. She steeled herself for a fight to the death, even against Sardaukar. She might be able to kill a few of them.

  C’tair would have been proud of her.

  A stunner caught Cristane in the spine, spinning her around, making her nerves crackle. She tumbled onto her back, fell hard, and couldn’t move….

  As the Emperor’s soldiers closed in, an explosion ripped the air, vaporizing Miral Alechem and destroying a
whole section of axlotl tanks around her. While fires raged and the smoke thickened, fire-suppression systems dumped dry chemicals into the air like a sinister fog. Paralyzed, Cristane couldn’t see more than a tiny field of view.

  The dark, rodent eyes of a Tleilaxu Master peered down at her. He shook with rage. “You ruined my best axlotl tank, the one I need the most.” Cristane had been trained by the Sisterhood, enough to understand parts of their guttural private language. The tonalities, the expressions on their grayish faces, filled in the details she did not know.

  “Four tanks were destroyed, Master Ajidica,” another Tleilaxu man said in a whining voice.

  Cristane shuddered, incapable of speaking. At least she had freed her Sister and several other women from their degradation.

  Leaning close to examine the prisoner, the Master touched Cristane’s treated skin. “You are not one of us.”

  Guards tore her clothing, revealing Cristane’s slender, pale-skinned form. “A female!” Ajidica ran his fingers over her compact breasts as he contemplated putting her in immediate pain for what she had done to his special axlotl tank, the only one that had produced ajidamal on its own. But by now he had others.

  “A strong female of childbearing age, Master Researcher,” one of his assistants said. “Shall we hook her up?”

  Ajidica thought of the powerful biological agents and personality destroying chemicals he might use. “We must interrogate her first, before we do too much damage to her mind.” Leaning close to Cristane, he whispered, “You’ll suffer a long time for this.”

  She felt someone lifting her and moving her. The air reeked of sour spice. While she lay outwardly helpless, she ordered her body to break down the gaseous components in the air of the laboratory and analyze them.

  The spice… No— not real melange. It is something else….

  Strong hands hooked her up to a pumping apparatus on an empty table. She wondered how long she would remain conscious. As a Bene Gesserit, she could resist the drugs and poisons, for a while at least. Victory on Ix! She clung to the words C’tair had passed on to her, wishing she might have shouted them aloud, but she could not speak.