Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  He flew in, racing quickly over Cala City, across the river deltas and the lowlands filled with pundi rice farms. He noted the murky swamp of kelp beds out in the shallow waters and the black molars of reefs surrounded by white breakwaters. Resser recognized what he saw. Duncan had told him everything.

  As they had sat together reading letters from home, Duncan had shared delicacies sent to him from House Atreides. He had talked about what a good man the Old Duke had been, how Paulus had taken Duncan under his wing as a boy and raised him in the Castle, where the newcomer had proven his loyalty.

  Resser heaved a deep sigh, and flew on.

  The scoutship flew fast and low, while the redhead drank in the details with his trained eyes. He saw what he needed to, then flew back to the hidden fleet to make his report, unable to reach any other conclusion….

  Later, when he stood at attention in front of the Viscount, he announced, “They have left themselves completely vulnerable, my Lord. Caladan will be an easy conquest.”

  * * *

  Alone and concerned, Thufir Hawat stood by the new statues that Leto had erected on the rocky promontory… towering figures of Old Paulus and young Victor Atreides, holding aloft the brazier of an eternal flame.

  Out on the calm water, many little boats puttered about, sifting through the kelp, dragging nets, and hunting larger fish. It seemed peaceful. The clouds were patchy as the sun lowered toward the horizon.

  The warrior Mentat also saw a single ship flying high and fast. Obviously a reconnaissance craft, a scout. Unmarked.

  Detailed projections, first and second order. Thufir predicted what might be occurring, knew he could do little to defend Caladan against an outright attack. He still had a few warships from the escort flotilla, but nothing else remained of the Atreides home defense. Leto had gambled everything on his Ixian campaign… too much, perhaps.

  The unmarked scoutship streaked overhead, gathering all of the damning information a spy would need. Looking up at the stony visage of Duke Paulus and then down at the innocent face of Victor, the Mentat of House Atreides was reminded of his past mistakes.

  “I dare not fail you again, my Duke,” he said aloud to the colossus. “Nor can I let Leto down. But I wish I had some answer, some way to protect this beautiful world.”

  Thufir gazed across the ocean, saw the ragtag fleet of fishing boats scattered at random across the waters. This conundrum would require all of his Mentat skill to solve, and he hoped that would be enough.

  They have hindered and hunted me for the last time with their village-provost minds! Here, I make my stand.

  — ATTRIBUTED TO THE RENEGADE EARL DOMINIC VERNIUS

  Shortly after noon, precisely on time, alarms rang out in the underground city. It was a joyous sound for Prince Rhombur Vernius. “It’s starting! Duncan is here!”

  In the shadows of a suboid warren, the Ixian heir looked over at Gurney Halleck, whose glass-splinter eyes shone in his lumpy face. “ ’We gird our loins, sing our songs, and shed blood in the name of the Lord.’ ” He smiled and began to move. “No time to lose.”

  C’tair Pilru, haggard and red-eyed, leaped to his feet. He hadn’t slept in days, and seemed to live more on adrenaline than nourishment. His planted explosives would have just gone off at the port-of-entry canyon, opening the way for Atreides troops to force their way inside.

  C’tair called, “It is time to break out the weaponry and rally anyone who will follow us. The people are ready to fight back, at last!” His drawn face had the angelic, ethereal look of a man who had transcended the need for fear or reassurance. “We follow you into battle, Prince Rhombur.”

  Gurney’s inkvine scar flickered as he scowled. “Take care, Rhombur. Don’t give our enemies too easy a target. You would be a big prize for them.”

  The cyborg Prince strode toward a low doorway. “I will not hide while others fight my battles, Gurney.”

  “At least wait until we secure part of the city.”

  “I will announce my return from the steps of the Grand Palais.” Rhombur’s tone invited no discussion. “I won’t be satisfied with anything else.” Gurney grumbled, but fell silent, considering how best to protect this proud, stubborn man.

  C’tair led the way to a concealed armory, a small ventilation-equipment room that they had converted to their own purposes.

  Rhombur and Gurney had already distributed components broken down from the sophisticated Atreides combat pod. They had smuggled weaponry, explosives, shields, and communications devices into the hands of zealous rebel volunteers.

  C’tair grabbed the first weapons he could lay his hands on— two grenades and a stun-club. Rhombur attached a rack of throwing knives to his belt, then hefted a heavy two-handed sword with one of his powerful cyborg arms. Gurney selected a dueling dagger and a long sword. All three strapped on body-shields and activated them, producing the familiar, comfortable hum. Ready.

  They left the lasguns untouched. At close quarters, with shields activated, they didn’t want to risk setting off a deadly lasgun-shield interaction, which could vaporize the underground city.

  While alarms continued to sound, some of the Tleilaxu production-facility doors closed in an automatic lockdown; others jammed in their tracks. Rumors in the past few days had already alerted the Ixians to what might happen, but many of them still could not believe that the arrival of Atreides saviors was at hand. Now they were overjoyed.

  C’tair bellowed for support and ran through the tunnels. “Forward, citizens! To the Grand Palais!”

  Many of the workers were afraid. Some felt a cautious hope. Suboid labor crews ran about in confusion, and C’tair shouted until they took up the chant. “For House Vernius! For House Vernius!”

  He hurled his first grenade into a knot of screaming Tleilaxu factory administrators; it exploded in the cavern with a thunderous boom. Then he used his stun-club to thrash any of the gray-skinned men in his way.

  As Rhombur charged forward like a railcar, a fléchette dart whizzed close to his head, but it was deflected by his shield. Spotting a Tleilaxu Master crouching off to one side, the Prince hit him in the chest with a thrown knife, then sliced another invader with his heavy sword. He pushed onward, into the mélee.

  Shouting, Rhombur rallied whatever rebels he could find. From the tunnel opening, he and Gurney handed weapons to eager fighters and directed them to fresh stashes of supplies. “Now is our chance to purge Ix of these invaders forever!”

  Fighting his way to the center of the cavern floor, Gurney bellowed commands, worrying that these poorly organized revolutionaries would be cut to ribbons by the professional Sardaukar.

  The holo-sky flickered on the grotto ceiling as explosions ripped through control substations in the stalactite buildings. The most magnificent structure, the inverted cathedral of the Grand Palais, hung like a Holy Grail for Rhombur to obtain. In the upper levels, uniformed Atreides troops rushed across high walkways behind a dark-haired Swordmaster, with blades raised.

  “There’s Duncan!” Gurney gestured toward the walkway overhead. “We need to get up there.”

  Rhombur fixed his gaze on the Grand Palais. “Let’s go.”

  Following C’tair, shouting and attacking ferociously, the improvised band swelled with volunteers as they surged across the cavern floor. The rebels commandeered an empty cargo barge, a heavy anti-grav platform designed for ferrying off-world materials through the port-of-entry canyon and down to lower construction facilities.

  Gurney climbed onto the barge’s control deck and turned on the suspensor engines. They made a high-pitched whine. “Aboard! Aboard!”

  Fighters scrambled onto the barge platform, some unarmed but willing to fight with their fingernails if necessary. When the vehicle began to rise in the air, a few rebels were crowded off the edge and tumbled to the floor. Others jumped up to grab handrails, dangling until comrades hauled them onto the deck.

  The barge lifted while Sardaukar swarmed about below it, trying to form into r
egiments. A spray of fléchette needles erupted from their sidearms, ricocheting off walls, striking bystanders. Body-shields slowed or deflected some of the projectiles, but most of the innocent citizens were unprotected.

  From their high vantage on the cargo barge, the wild rebels opened fire upon their enemies below. Unlike the Emperor’s soldiers, the Tleilaxu Masters wore no body-shields. C’tair, in a frenzy, found a projectile weapon and fired it.

  As the barge floated higher on its suspensors, Imperial soldiers directed their weapons upward, not even knowing who had taken the vessel. The Sardaukar seemed to be blood-maddened. One of the suspensor engines blew out, causing the platform to tilt. Four hapless rebels slipped and tumbled to their deaths on the stone floor far below.

  Gurney wrestled with the reluctant controls, but Rhombur nudged him aside and added power to the remaining engines. The skewed barge rose toward the plaz-walled balconies of the former Grand Palais. The Prince stared upward, saw places from his youth, remembered how his family had celebrated their privileged lives.

  He wrenched the guidance controls, and the overloaded platform diverted toward one of the broad windows, a balcony and observation deck where celebrations had once been held for the wedding anniversary of Dominic Vernius and his beautiful Lady Shando.

  Rhombur drove the barge straight through the window, like a stake into a demon’s heart, smashing the ornate balcony. Shards and other debris fell around them, and screams mixed with defiant cheers. The barge’s suspensor engines faded as Rhombur shut down power, and the sluggish craft ground to a halt.

  C’tair was the first to leap onto the checkerboard floor into the midst of panicky Tleilaxu and a handful of Sardaukar guards who scrambled to defend themselves. “Victory on Ix!” The freedom fighters took up the cry and surged forward with more enthusiasm than weaponry.

  Accompanied by Gurney Halleck, Rhombur stepped off the barge for his triumphal return to the Grand Palais. Standing in the debris-strewn hall, surrounded by battle cries and gunfire, he felt as if he had finally come home.

  * * *

  Within the ceiling levels, Duncan Idaho led Atreides troops into the brunt of the clash, and the elite Sardaukar responded savagely. The Imperial soldiers crammed what seemed to be melange wafers into their mouths— an overdose of spice?— and raced into the fray.

  Like animals gone berserk, the Sardaukar hurled themselves into hopeless offensives against overwhelming odds. At close quarters, shields crackling, they discarded their long-range weapons and charged into the Atreides force, using well-timed knives, swords, and even bare hands to penetrate defensive shields. Each time the Sardaukar subdued one of Duke Leto’s fighters, they disabled his shield and ripped him apart in an instant.

  Commander Cando Garon, his uniform torn and bloodied, waded in against Duncan’s troops. Though a long sword hung at his hip, Garon declined to use it; instead, he wielded a more personal kindjal, jabbing back and forth with the wicked dagger tip. He pierced eyes, severed jugular veins, and simply ignored the Atreides assaults around him.

  A brash Caladan lieutenant slipped in from the side, dipped the point of his sword through the Commander’s shield, and stabbed it into the meat of Garon’s shoulder. The Sardaukar Commander stopped in his tracks, shook his head as if to clear the gnats of pain from his spice-frenzy, and plunged back into the mélee with an even greater ferocity, oblivious to his attacker.

  Wailing with bestial voices, the Sardaukar soldiers rushed forward, a tidal wave of uniforms in no formation whatsoever. Pell-mell and primitive, they were still effective, and deadly.

  The Atreides ranks began to buckle under the onslaught, but Duncan yelled at the top of his lungs. He raised the Old Duke’s sword to rally them. The blade felt powerful, infused with the spirit of its original owner. He had used it on Ginaz— and today it would lead the Atreides forces to victory. Had Paulus Atreides lived, the Old Duke would have been proud to see the achievements of the scamp he’d taken under his wing.

  Hearing the Swordmaster’s strong voice, Leto’s men pushed forward with a clash of humming shields and a clatter of blades. Given the overwhelming Atreides numbers, it should have been a wholesale rout— but the wild-eyed Sardaukar did not give up ground easily. Their faces were flushed, as if the men had been pumped up with intense stimulants. They refused to surrender.

  As the furious assault progressed, Duncan saw no sign of imminent victory, no hope that this would end soon. Somehow, despite their disorganization, the Sardaukar rallied yet again.

  He knew that this would be the bloodiest day in his life.

  * * *

  While the fighting raged in the underground caverns, Hidar Fen Ajidica stormed toward the high-security research pavilion, hoping it would serve as a sanctuary. Running beside him, Hasimir Fenring debated whether this might be his opportunity to find a hidden exit and escape. He decided he had no choice but to follow along and let the Tleilaxu researcher destroy himself— as the crazed little man seemed intent on doing.

  Inside the vast laboratory, shielded from the eyes of outsiders, Fenring wrinkled his nose at the decayed-human stench that bubbled up from rows of axlotl tanks. Hundreds of Tleilaxu workers moved about, monitoring tanks, taking samples, adjusting metabolic control mechanisms. The ongoing battle outside frightened them, but they attended to their duties with unwavering dedication, fearing for their lives if they faltered even for an instant. The slightest fluctuation, the simplest misstep, could throw all the delicate tanks out of the range of acceptable parameters and ruin the vital amal program. Ajidica had his priorities.

  The Sardaukar troops stationed closest to the research pavilion had been given more ajidamal and been pulled from their usual duties. Now they rushed helter-skelter into the fray outside the lab complex, screaming wildly.

  Fenring did not fully understand, or like, what he saw. No one seemed to be leading the troops at all.

  His gaze darting around, Ajidica gestured to the Count. “Come with me.” The little man’s eyes were now a startling shade of scarlet, their whites having turned bright red as seeping hemorrhages blossomed in his sclera. “You are the Emperor’s man and should be at my right hand when I make announcements regarding our future.” He gave a predatory grin, and blood trickled from his gums, as if he had just feasted on raw flesh. “Soon you will worship me.”

  “Hmmm, first let me hear what you have to say,” Fenring answered carefully, recognizing the dark glint of insanity in the researcher’s demeanor. He considered breaking the gnomish man’s neck right then— it would take only a swift, simple blow— but too many loyal laboratory workers were nearby, staring at them, waiting for news.

  The two of them climbed a steep metal stairway to a high catwalk over the crowded laboratory floor. “Hear me! This is a test from God!” Ajidica cried to the listeners below, his voice booming into the open space. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he spoke. “I have been given a marvelous opportunity to show you our future.”

  The researchers gathered on the floor, listening to him. Fenring had heard the little man’s delusional pronouncements before, but now Ajidica seemed to have gone completely mad.

  A huge comscreen on one wall showed a steady stream of battle images from holoprojectors mounted around the subterranean world. Atreides forces, allied with the rabble of Ix, were taking control of sector after sector.

  Oblivious to the tide of combat, the frenzied Master Researcher held up both hands, clenched into fists. Blood dribbled between his spidery fingers and small knuckles, and ran in scarlet streams down along the tendons of his forearms. He opened his hands to reveal the bright flowers of blood that had blossomed in the center of his palms.

  Are those supposed to be stigmata? Fenring thought. An interesting bit of showmanship. But is it real?

  “I created ajidamal, the secret substance that will open the Way for the faithful. I have dispatched Face Dancers to unexplored corners of the galaxy to lay the foundations of our magnificent future. Other Tleilaxu Maste
rs are even now at the Imperial Court on Kaitain, ready to make their move. Those who follow me will be immortal and all-powerful, blessed for eternity.”

  Fenring reacted with surprise to that information. Blood spilled from an open wound that appeared in the center of Ajidica’s forehead, running down across his brows to his temples. Even his eyes wept thick crimson.

  “Heed me!” By now Ajidica’s words had built into a shriek. “Only I have the true vision. Only I understand God’s wishes. Only I—” And as he yelled, a gout of blood erupted from his throat. His frantic gestures degenerated into a seizure and his body flopped down onto the catwalk. His skin, pores, and breath reeked of cinnamon and rot.

  Appalled, Fenring backed away, studying the Master Researcher, watching his death throes. The little man’s gray-skinned body was wet and red, with more bleeding from his nostrils and ears.

  Fenring frowned. Unquestionably, the long-standing, expensive project was a miserable failure. Even the Sardaukar, regularly dosed with synthetic melange, had been changed… and not for the better. The Emperor could no longer risk continuing this program.

  Fenring stared with disbelief at the comscreen. Atreides military forces were crushing Tleilaxu defenses and berserk Sardaukar regiments, and Fenring found himself watching every aspect of his long-term plan fall apart.

  The only way to salvage his future would be to make certain that all blame fell squarely upon Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica.

  Leaking blood from a hundred wounds, the little man continued to writhe on the catwalk, screaming grand pronouncements and curses, until he rolled and thrashed to the edge. Finally, Ajidica plummeted off and smashed into an axlotl tank below… with only the slightest nudge of assistance from Count Fenring.

  Everyone is a potential enemy, every place a potential battlefield.

  — Zensunni Wisdom

  Another labor spasm hit. The contractions grew more painful, tighter, stronger.

  It took all of Jessica’s Bene Gesserit training to control her body, to focus her muscles and guide the baby through the birth canal. She didn’t care about Mohiam’s disappointment now, or how this unexpected boy-child would throw the Sisterhood’s centuries-long breeding program into chaos. She could think only of the process of giving birth.