Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  His wrist snapped from the impact, but after a quick, icy gasp, he mentally blocked the pain and swung with his other arm. Mohiam threw herself on him again, and he could not counter— or even see— every phase of her attack, a flurry of jabs and kicks and slashing blows.

  A hard heel landed at the center of his stomach. A steely fist slammed into his sternum. He felt ribs crack, internal organs rupture. He tried to scream at her, but only blood came out, staining his lips a brighter shade of red than the makeup-smudged sapho.

  He lashed out with his foot, trying to crush her kneecap, but Mohiam slipped to the side. De Vries raised his intact arm to block a driving kick, but this only resulted in another broken wrist.

  He turned to run, forgoing the fight, leaping toward the doorway and his escape route. Mohiam reached the door first. Her hard heel flashed upward in a blur and drove into his throat. The swift kick snapped the Mentat’s neck like dry kindling. Piter de Vries fell dead to the floor, his expression one of astonishment.

  Mohiam stood still, catching her breath. She recovered in only a moment. Then she turned to gather the rescued Atreides baby.

  Before walking out of the trophy room, she stood over the crumpled corpse on the floor and allowed a sneer to cross her face for a delicious moment before erasing it. She spat on his dead face, remembering how he had leered over her during the Baron’s rape.

  Mohiam knew there was no documentation of the secrets de Vries had discovered. None. All of his terrible revelations had died with him.

  “Never lie to a Truthsayer,” she said.

  An Emperor’s slightest dislike is transmitted to those who serve him, and there it is amplified into rage.

  — SUPREME BASHAR ZUM GARON,

  Commander of Imperial Sardaukar Troops

  Before Shaddam could order his Sardaukar fleet to unleash their planet-destroying weapons, the Guild broke through to his secure comchannels and demanded clarifications and explanations.

  Standing on the command bridge of his flagship, the Emperor did not give them the satisfaction of an answer, nor even a justification of his actions. The Guild, and indeed the entire Imperium, would have their answers soon enough.

  Beside him, Supreme Bashar Garon stood at the control station, logging acknowledgments from the warship commanders. “All weapons ready, Sire.” He looked down at the screen, then at his Emperor, who studied him. The weathered old veteran’s face was implacable. “Awaiting your order to fire.”

  Why can’t all my subjects be like him?

  After being ignored, the Guild Legate transmitted a solido hologram image onto the flagship bridge. Tall and imposing, larger than life, he said, “Emperor Shaddam, we insist that you cease this posturing. It serves no purpose.”

  Irritated that the Spacing Guild had been able to penetrate his security, Shaddam frowned at the holo-image. “Who are you to decide my Imperial purpose? I am the Emperor.”

  “And I represent the Spacing Guild,” the Legate replied, as if the two things were of comparable importance.

  “The Guild does not determine law and justice. We have pronounced our judgment. The Baron is guilty, and we will impose the penalty.” Shaddam turned to Zum Garon. “Give the order, Supreme Bashar. Proceed with the full bombardment of Arrakis. Destroy every living thing on the planet.”

  * * *

  On a ledge outside the cool, dry tunnels of Red Wall Sietch, the boy Liet-chih woke up, restless. Only four years old, he rolled off the mat on which he had been lying and looked around. The night was warm, with barely a breeze. His mother Faroula rarely let the children sleep outside, but she and the other Fremen had activities in the darkness, on an open shelf of rock.

  He saw shadowy shapes moving in well-practiced silence— desert people bustling about with efficient movements, making no unnecessary noise. Barely visible in the moonless starlight, his mother and her companions opened small cages of distrans bats, releasing the creatures to fly high and far, carrying messages to other sietches.

  Behind the Fremen workers, doorseals held moisture inside the hidden warrens of the sietch, where some communal chambers held production areas— looms for weaving spice fiber, stillsuit assembly tables, plastique-molding presses. Those machines were silent now.

  Faroula looked at Liet-chih and, with eyes accustomed to the darkness, saw that her son was safe. She reached inside her cage for another tiny black bat; she could hear it fluttering against the bars. Holding the creature gently in her hands, she stroked the downy fur of its little body.

  Suddenly, with a murmur of alarm, two of the Fremen women made warding signs at the sky with their hands. Faroula tilted her head to look up, and in surprise released the squirming bat before she was ready. On black wings, it soared off into the shadows in search of insects.

  Overhead, against the stars, Liet-chih saw a bright cluster of lights, hot and blue, descending closer. Ships! Immense ships.

  His mother grabbed the boy roughly by the shoulders, while the Fremen women broke open the doorseal and rushed back inside, hoping the mountain walls would offer a small measure of safety.

  * * *

  Stranded in his Carthag Garrison, Baron Harkonnen realized the fate that hung over his head. And he could do nothing about it. No communications. No spaceships. No short-range vehicles. No defenses.

  He smashed furnishings and threatened his aides, but nothing helped. He bellowed up at the sky, “Damn you, Shaddam!” But the Imperial flagship could not hear him.

  He had grudgingly expected to pay heavy fines and penalties for the discrepancies those maddening CHOAM auditors had discovered. If the charges were serious enough, he had feared that House Harkonnen might lose its siridar fief on Arrakis and subsequent control over spice-harvesting operations. There had even been a slim but terrifying chance that Shaddam might order the Baron’s summary execution, as another “lesson” to the Landsraad.

  But never this! If those warships opened fire, Arrakis would become a charred rock. Melange was an organic substance, of mysterious derivation in this environment, and surely it could not survive such a conflagration. If the Emperor went through with this insanity, Arrakis would be of little interest to anyone, no longer even on Heighliner routes. By the hells, there would be no Heighliner travel at all, anywhere! The whole Imperium depended on spice. It made no sense. Shaddam had to be bluffing.

  The Harkonnen lord remembered the blackened cities of Zanovar, and knew the Emperor was capable of carrying out his threats. He had been shocked at Shaddam’s response against Richese’s laboratory moon, and he had no doubt that the Emperor had been behind the botanical plague on Beakkal.

  Was the man insane? Undoubtedly.

  With his transmission systems obliterated, the Baron was incapable of even pleading for his life. He could not cast the blame on Rabban, and Piter de Vries remained on Kaitain, out of reach, probably relaxing in luxury.

  Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was all alone, facing the Emperor’s wrath.

  * * *

  “Stop!” the guild Legate’s booming voice was amplified by a full order of magnitude. The Supreme Bashar actually hesitated. “I don’t know what game you are playing, Shaddam.” The Legate’s pink eyes were hot with malice. “You dare not damage melange production to salve your petty pride. The spice must flow.”

  Shaddam sniffed. “Then perhaps you need to enact a few new austerity measures. And unless you cease this open defiance of Imperial rule, I shall take punitive measures against the Spacing Guild as well.”

  “You are bluffing.”

  “Am I?” Shaddam stood up from his command chair and glared at the image.

  “We are not amused.” In the clustered Heighliners over Arrakis, the appalled Guildsmen must be scrambling.

  Turning calmly to Garon, the Emperor barked, “Supreme Bashar, I gave you an order.”

  The Legate’s image wavered, as if with shock and disbelief. “This course on which you embark is beyond the right of any ruler— Emperor or not. Because of it, th
e Guild henceforth withdraws all transportation services. You and your fleet will not be given passage home.”

  Shaddam felt a stab of ice. “You would never dare, not after you hear what I—”

  The Legate cut him off. “We decree that you, Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, are now stranded here, the king of nothing more than a wasteland, accompanied by a military force that has nowhere to go and nothing to fight.”

  “You decree nothing! I am the—” He stopped as the holo-image of the Legate faded and the comsystem filled with static.

  “All communication has been cut off, Sire,” Garon reported.

  “But I still have something to say to them!” He had been waiting for the right moment to make his announcement about the amal, to gain the upper hand. “Reestablish contact.”

  “Trying, Your Majesty, but they have it blocked.”

  Shaddam saw one of the Heighliners above them disappear as it folded space. The Emperor was bathed in perspiration, drenching his ceremonial uniform.

  This was one scenario he had not envisioned. How could he make promises or issue ultimatums if they severed communications? Without a way to send messages, how could he win back their cooperation? How could he tell them about amal? If the Guild trapped him at Arrakis, his victory would amount to nothing.

  The Spacing Guild could very well maroon him and then convince the Landsraad to gather a military force against him. They would gladly install someone else on the Golden Lion Throne. After all, House Corrino only had daughters as heirs.

  On the comscreen, a second Heighliner disappeared, followed by the remaining three. Nothing but empty space remained overhead.

  In a state of near panic, Shaddam felt the overwhelming immensity of the situation. He was far from Kaitain. Even if the technicians with him could cobble together a means of traveling through space with pre-Guild technology, he and his forces would not arrive back home for centuries.

  Supreme Bashar Garon’s expression turned hard. “Our forces are still ready to fire, Your Majesty. Or should I instruct them to stand down?”

  If they were all stranded, how long would it be before the disenfranchised Sardaukar troops banded together in a mutiny?

  Shaddam raged at the dead comscreen that had linked him with the Guild representative. “I am your Emperor! I alone decide policy for the Imperium!”

  No answer came. No one was even there to hear.

  The natural destiny of power is fragmentation.

  — PADISHAH EMPEROR IDRISS I, LANDSRAAD ARCHIVES

  In the skies above Ix, space itself shimmered, then opened to reveal an armada of more than a hundred Guild Heighliners, called from all across the Imperium, including the five Heighliners Shaddam had taken to Arrakis.

  The magnificent vessels overshadowed the forests, rivers, and craggy ravines on the Ixian surface. Smoke from the destruction in the subterranean battlefield below curled out of emergency purification vents. For the huge ships, it was a return home, since every one of the vessels had been constructed here, most of them under the supervision of House Vernius.

  * * *

  Underground, the surviving Sardaukar, the strongest fighters, had taken last-stand defensive positions, back-to-back, near the center of the cavern grotto, with no intention of surrendering. The frenzied Imperial soldiers would make the new conquerors pay dearly for victory.

  Surrounded by Atreides guards, the captive Count Hasimir Fenring looked self-satisfied, as if he felt that he alone maintained control of the situation. “I am a victim, I assure you, hmmm? As Imperial Spice Minister, I was dispatched here by the Emperor himself. We had heard rumors of illegal experiments, and when I discovered too much, Master Researcher Ajidica tried to kill me.”

  “I’m sure that is why you greeted our arrival with such enthusiasm,” Duncan said, holding up the Old Duke’s notched sword.

  “I was frightened, hmmm? All the Imperium knows the ruthlessness of Duke Leto’s soldiers.” Duncan’s men glared at the Count, as if they wanted to arrange for Tleilaxu medical experiments on Fenring himself.

  Before Duncan could respond, a signal rang in his com-ear. He pressed a finger to the transceiver and listened. His eyes widened at the news. He smiled at Fenring without explanation, then turned to Rhombur. “The Guild has arrived, Prince. Many Heighliners are in orbit around Ix.”

  “C’tair’s message!” Prince Rhombur said. “They heard him!”

  Before Fenring could manage another thin excuse, the air within the grotto rumbled. A clap of thunder like a world exploding cracked through the cavern.

  Above the huge open area where the Sardaukar were making their final stand, the fabric of the air stretched, and tore. A Heighliner appeared where there had been only empty space moments before.

  The sudden displacement of such a huge volume of atmosphere sent an overpressure wave like a storm through the grotto, knocking people back, throwing them against the stone walls. Without warning, the huge vessel was simply there, hovering on suspensors, barely two meters above the ground in the center of the grotto. The ship struck down some of the rallied Sardaukar directly beneath it and scattered the rest, effectively rendering the last Imperial soldiers helpless.

  For Rhombur, the sight brought back memories of years past, when he and young Leto, along with the Pilru twins and Kailea, had watched the departure of a newly constructed Dominic Class Heighliner. The Navigator had simply folded space and piloted the ship away from the Ixian underground— out into the open universe.

  The reverse had occurred just now. The Heighliner had been returned by a talented Steersman piloting the ship with such precision that he could direct it with pinpoint accuracy to a location in a large bubble within the crust of the planet.

  Silence fell after the awe-inspiring arrival of the giant vessel. The scattered clashes of swords went quiet; even the rioting suboids ceased their shouting and destruction.

  Then, the Guild commandeered the grotto skyspeakers and a deep voice boomed out, leaving no room for doubt. “The Spacing Guild celebrates the victory of Prince Rhombur Vernius on Ix. We welcome a return to normal machine production and technological innovation.”

  Standing beside Gurney and Duncan, Rhombur looked up at the great ship as if he couldn’t believe the words he had just heard. It had been so long… more than his lifetime, it seemed. Tessia would find her own place here, too.

  The smug and confident look on the face of Count Hasimir Fenring had dissolved. Now the devious Spice Minister simply looked defeated.

  Brutality breeds brutality. Love breeds love.

  — LADY ANIRUL CORRINO, JOURNAL ENTRY

  A dead guard, his uniform soaked with blood from a stab wound in his side, lay across the corridor on one of the lower levels of the Palace.

  Leaving the latest victim to the men behind him, Duke Leto jumped over the slain soldier and ran faster, knowing he must be close to the person who had taken his son. He walked through a spreading pool on the floor and left diminishing red footprints as he rushed on. He drew the jeweled ceremonial dagger from his belt, with every intention of using it.

  In a chamber in the Princesses’ study and play area, he found another corpse: a Bene Gesserit. Just as he was trying to identify her, two Sardaukar beside him let out stunned gasps. Leto caught his breath.

  It was Lady Anirul, wife of Emperor Shaddam IV.

  Reverend Mother Mohiam, also wearing black robes, appeared in the doorway. She looked at her fingers, then down at the waxy face of the dead woman. “I arrived too late. I could not help her… I could salvage nothing.”

  With a clatter of boots and equipment, several men in Leto’s squad fanned out to search nearby rooms. Leto stared, immediately wondering if Mohiam herself had murdered the Emperor’s wife.

  Mohiam’s birdlike eyes flicked across the faces of the men, recognizing their questions. “Of course I did not kill her,” she said, with firm conviction and just a touch of Voice. “Leto, your son is safe.”

  Looking across the room,
he saw the baby, wrapped in blankets on a cushion. The Duke stepped forward, his knees weak, surprised at his own hesitation. The newborn was red-faced and alert. He had wisps of black hair like Leto’s own and a chin reminiscent of Jessica’s. “Is this my son?”

  “Yes, a son,” Mohiam responded in a flat, somehow bitter tone. “Exactly what you wanted.”

  He didn’t understand what she meant by her tone, but didn’t care. He was just happy to have the child safe. He picked up the baby, cradling it in his arms, remembering how he had held Victor. I have another son! The child’s bright eyes were open wide.

  “Support his head.” Reaching out, Mohiam adjusted the baby in Leto’s arms.

  “I know well enough how to do it.” He remembered Kailea telling him the same thing after the birth of Victor. His heart wrenched at the thought. “Who was the kidnapper? Did you see?”

  “No,” she said without the slightest hesitation. “He fled.”

  Gazing down the bridge of his nose at the Reverend Mother, Leto asked in a suspicious tone, “And how is it that my son came to be here, and the kidnapper conveniently escaped? How did you find the baby?”

  The robed Sister looked suddenly bored. “I found your boy on the floor here, beside the body of Lady Anirul. Do you see her hands there? I had to pry her fingers loose from the child’s blankets. Somehow she saved him.”

  Leto looked at her, not believing. He noted no blood on the blankets or marks on the baby.

  One of the Sardaukar came up and saluted. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. We have located the Princess Irulan, and she is unharmed.” He pointed toward the adjacent study room, where a guard stood beside the eleven-year-old girl.

  The guard made clumsy attempts to comfort Irulan. Wearing a dress of alternating brown and white damask with the Corrino crest on one long sleeve, Irulan was visibly shaken, but she seemed to be dealing with the tragedy better than the guard was. How much had she seen? The Princess looked at the Reverend Mother with an impenetrable Bene Gesserit expression, as if the two of them shared one of the Sisterhood’s damnable secrets.