But every one of her heightened senses was attuned to the slightest anomaly. The Baron made her extremely suspicious. She knew he was up to something.
PACING RESTLESSLY IN the Great Hall, Baron Harkonnen looked around, his black eyes flashing and intent. The room was large and cold, the harsh light too bright from unfiltered glowglobes clustered in the corners and along the ceiling. As he walked in pointed black boots, his footsteps echoed, making the entire hall sound hollow, empty -- a good place for an ambush.
Though the residential portion of the Keep might appear vacant, the Baron had stationed guards and electronic spy-eyes in various alcoves. He knew he couldn't fool the Bene Gesserit whore for long, but it didn't matter. Even if she learned they were being watched, it might give her pause and prevent her from pulling her insidious tricks. The caution might at least gain him a few seconds.
Since he planned to be in control this time, the Baron wanted his people to watch. He'd give them a very good show, something they'd talk about in their barracks and troop ships for years to come. Best of all, it would put the witches in their place. Blackmail me, indeed!
Piter de Vries came up behind him, moving so swiftly and silently that he startled the Baron, who snapped, "Don't do that, Piter!"
"I've brought what you asked, my Baron." The twisted Mentat extended his hand, offering two small plugs, white-noise transmitters. "Insert these deeply into your ear canals. They're designed to distort any Voice she might try to use. You can still hear normal conversation, but the plugs will scramble the unwanted, preventing it from reaching your ears."
The Baron heaved a deep breath and flexed his muscles. The preparations had to be perfect.
"You just take care of your part, Piter. I know what I'm doing." He went to a small alcove, snatched up the decanter of kirana brandy, and took a long deep swig directly from the bottle. Feeling the brandy burn in his chest, he wiped his mouth and the top of the bottle.
The Baron had already imbibed more alcohol than was usual for him, perhaps more than was wise considering the ordeal he was about to face. De Vries, who recognized the Baron's anxiety, looked at his master as if laughing at him. With a scowl, the Baron took another deep swallow, just to spite the Mentat.
De Vries scuttled about, relishing their joint plan, eager to participate. "Perhaps, Baron, the witch is returning here because she enjoyed her first encounter with you so much." He cackled. "Do you think she's been lusting after you ever since?"
The Baron scowled at him again -- this time sharply enough that the Mentat wondered if he had pushed too far. But de Vries always managed to talk his way out of reprisals.
"Is that the best prime projection my Mentat can offer? Think, damn you! Why would the Bene Gesserit want another child from me? Are they just trying to twist the knife deeper, to make me hate them even more than I already do?" He snorted, wondered if that could be possible.
Maybe they needed two daughters for some reason. Or maybe something was wrong with the first one . . . . The Baron's generous lips curved upward in a slight smile. This child would certainly be the last.
No evidence remained for the Bene Gesserit to use as blackmail.
Lankiveil now hid the largest treasure of Harkonnen melange right under Abulurd's nose. The fool had no inkling of how he was being used to cover the Baron's secret activities. But though softhearted and softheaded, Abulurd was still a Harkonnen. Even if he discovered the deception, he wouldn't dare expose it for fear of destroying his own family holdings. Abulurd revered the memory of their father too much for that.
The Baron walked away from the kirana brandy, and the sweet burning taste turned sour in the back of his mouth. He wore a loose maroon-and-black pajama top tightly sashed across his flat stomach. The pale blue griffin crest of House Harkonnen emblazoned the left breast. He'd left his arms bare to show off his biceps. His reddish hair was cut short, tousled for a rakish look.
He looked hard at de Vries. The Mentat gulped from a small bottle of deep red sapho juice. "Are we ready, my Baron? She's waiting outside."
"Yes, Piter." He lounged back in a chair. His silky pants were loose, and the prying eyes of the Reverend Mother would be able to detect no bulge of a weapon -- no expected weapon. He smiled. "Go and send her in."
WHEN MOHIAM PASSED into the main hall of the Keep, Burseg Kryubi and his troops closed the doors behind her, remaining outside. The locks sealed with a click. Immediately on her guard, she noted that the Baron had orchestrated every detail of this encounter.
The two of them seemed to be alone in the long room, which was austere and cold, awash in glaring light. The entire Keep conveyed the impression of square corners and unsoftened harshness the Harkonnens loved so well; this place was more an industrial conference room than a sumptuous palace hall.
"Greetings again, Baron Harkonnen," Mohiam said with a smile that overlaid politeness on top of her scorn. "I see you've been anticipating our meeting. Perhaps you're even eager?" She looked away, glancing at her fingertips. "It's possible I shall allow you a bit more pleasure this time."
"Maybe so," the Baron said, affably.
She didn't like the answer. What is his game? Mohiam looked around, sensing the air currents, peering into shadows, trying to hear the heartbeat of some other person lying in wait. Someone was there . . . but where? Did they plan to murder her? Would they dare? She monitored her pulse, prevented it from accelerating.
The Baron definitely had more in mind than simple cooperation. She had never expected an easy victory over him, especially not this second time. The heads of some Minor Houses could be crushed or manipulated -- the Bene Gesserit certainly knew how to do it -- but this wouldn't be the fate of House Harkonnen.
She looked at the Baron's stygian eyes, straining with her Truthsayer abilities, but unable to see what he was thinking, unable to unravel his plans. Mohiam felt a twinge of fear deep inside, barely recognized. Just how much would the Harkonnens dare? This Baron couldn't afford to refuse the Sisterhood's demand, knowing what information the Bene Gesserit held against him. Or would he risk the possibility of heavy Imperial penalties?
Of equal import, would he risk a Bene Gesserit punishment? That, too, was no small matter.
At another time she might have enjoyed playing games with him, mental and physical sparring with a strong opponent. He was slippery and could bend and twist far more easily than he could break. But right now the Baron fell beneath her contempt, serving as a stud whose genes were required by the Sisterhood. She didn't know why, or what importance this daughter might hold, but if Mohiam returned to Wallach IX with her mission unfulfilled, she would receive a severe reprimand from her superiors.
She decided not to waste any additional time. Summoning the full Voice talents the Bene Gesserit had taught her, word and tone manipulations that no untrained human could resist, she said curtly, "Cooperate with me." It was a command she expected him to obey.
The Baron just smiled. He didn't move, but his eyes flicked to one side. Mohiam was so startled at the ineffectiveness of Voice that she realized too late the Baron had set a different trap for her.
The Mentat Piter de Vries had already launched himself out of a hidden alcove. She turned, battle-ready, but the Mentat moved as swiftly as any Bene Gesserit could.
The Baron took it all in, and enjoyed what he was seeing.
De Vries held a crude but effective weapon in his hands. The old-fashioned neural scrambler would serve as a brutal high-powered stunning device. He fired a volley before she could move. The crackling waves slammed into her, short-circuiting her mind/muscle control.
Mohiam fell backward, twitching and wrenching with painful spasms, every square centimeter of her skin alive with imaginary biting ants.
Such a delightful effect, the Baron thought as he watched.
She dropped to the polished-stone floor, arms and legs akimbo, as if she had been squashed by a giant foot. Her head struck the hard tiles, and her ears rang from the blow. Unblinking, her eyes st
ared up at the vaulted ceiling. Even with extreme prana-bindu muscular control, she couldn't move.
Finally the mocking face of the Baron loomed over her, pushing itself into her limited field of view. Her arms and legs jittered with random nerve impulses. She felt warm wetness and realized that her bladder had let go. A thin line of spittle trickled from the corner of her lip down her cheek, weaving a path to the base of her ear.
"Now then, witch," the Baron said, "that stunner will do no permanent damage. In fact, you'll have bodily control again in about twenty minutes. Time enough for us to get to know one another." He walked around her, smiling, passing in and out of her peripheral vision.
Raising his voice so that electronic pickups would transmit everything to the hidden observers, he continued. "I know what false blackmail material you have fabricated against House Harkonnen, and my lawyers are prepared to deal with it in any court of the Imperium. You have threatened to use it if I don't grant you another child, but that is a toothless threat from toothless witches."
He paused, then smiled as if an idea had just occurred to him. "Still, I don't mind giving you the additional daughter you desire. Really, I don't. But know this, witch, and take my message back to your Sisterhood: You cannot twist Baron Vladimir Harkonnen to your purpose without suffering the consequences."
Using all of her training to focus on the output of certain nerves and muscles, Mohiam reconnected her eyes so that she could at least move them to look around. The neural scrambler had been incredibly effective, though, and the rest of her body lay helpless.
Fighting his revulsion, the Baron reached down and tore at her skirts. What a disgusting form she had, without the male muscle patterns he so admired and desired. "My, it looks like you've had a little accident here," he said, frowning at the urine-wet fabric.
Piter de Vries stood over her from behind, looking down at her broad, slack face. She saw the red-stained lips and the half-mad glint in the Mentat's eyes. Below, the Baron knocked her legs apart and then fumbled at his loose-fitting black pants.
She couldn't see what he was doing, didn't want to.
Giddy with the success of his plan, the Baron had no difficulty maintaining an erection this time. Flushed in the afterglow of the brandy he had drunk, he stared down at the unattractive woman, imagined her as a withered old crone that he had just sentenced to the most brutal of the Harkonnen slave pits. This woman, who fancied herself so great and powerful, now lay completely helpless . . . at his mercy!
The Baron took enormous pleasure in raping her -- the first time he could ever recall enjoying himself with a woman, though she was just a limp piece of meat.
During the violence of the attack, Mohiam lay supine on the cold floor, furious and impotent. She could feel every movement, every touch, every painful thrust, but she still had no control over her voluntary muscles. Her eyes remained open, although she thought she might have been able to blink if she worked hard enough at it.
Instead of wasting that energy, the Reverend Mother concentrated internally, feeling her biochemistry, changing it. The Mentat's stunner weapon hadn't done a complete job on her. Muscles were one thing, but internal body chemistry was quite another. The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen would regret this.
Previously she had manipulated her ovulation to achieve the peak of fertility in this exact hour. Even raped, she would have no trouble conceiving a new daughter with the Baron's sperm. That was the most important consideration.
Technically, she required nothing more from the vile man. But the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam intended to give him something back, a slow-acting revenge he would never forget for the rest of his life.
No one was ever allowed to forget a Bene Gesserit punishment.
Though she remained paralyzed, Mohiam was an accomplished Reverend Mother. Her body itself contained unorthodox weapons that remained at her disposal even now, even as helpless as she appeared to be.
With the sensitivities and remarkable functions of their bodies, Bene Gesserit Sisters could create antidotes for poisons introduced into their systems. They were able to neutralize the most hideous strains of diseases to which they had been exposed, and either destroy the virulent pathogens . . . or render them latent in their bodies, keeping the diseases themselves as resources for later use. Mohiam carried several such latencies within her, and she could activate those diseases by controlling her own biochemistry.
Now the Baron lay on top of her, grunting like an animal, his jaw clenched, his lips curled back in a sneer. Beadlets of stinking sweat covered his reddened face. She stared up. Their eyes met, and he thrust harder, grinning.
That was when Mohiam selected the particular disease, an oh-so-gradual vengeance, a neurological disorder that would destroy his beautiful body. The Baron's physique obviously brought him much pleasure, was a source of great pride. She could have infected him with any number of fatal, suppurating plagues -- but this affliction would be a deeper blow to him, much slower in its course. She would make the Baron face his own appearance every day as he grew fatter and weaker. His muscles would degenerate, his metabolism would go haywire. In a few years, he wouldn't even be able to walk by himself.
It was such a simple thing for her to do . . . but its effects would last for years. For the rest of his life. Mohiam envisioned the Baron pain-wracked, so obese he couldn't even stand erect unassisted, screaming out in agony.
Finished, smug in the belief that he had shown the witch who was the more powerful, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen withdrew and stood up, frowning at her in disgust now. "Piter, get me a towel, so I can wipe the whore's slime off of me."
The Mentat scuttled out of the room, chuckling. The hall doors were opened again. Uniformed house guards marched in to watch as Mohiam regained the use of her muscles, bit by bit.
Baron Harkonnen admonished the Reverend Mother with a cruel smile. "Tell the Bene Gesserit never to annoy me again with their genetic schemes."
She raised herself to one arm, then gradually gathered her torn clothes and climbed to her feet with nearly full coordination. Mohiam raised her chin proudly, but could not hide her humiliation. And the Baron could not hide his pleasure at watching her.
You think you have won, she thought. We shall see about that.
Satisfied with what she had done, and the inevitability of her terrible revenge, the Reverend Mother strode out of Harkonnen Keep. The Baron's Burseg followed her for part of the way, then let her return alone and unescorted to the shuttle like a chastened dog. Other guards remained rigid and at attention, guarding the foot of the ramp.
Mohiam calmed herself as she approached the craft and finally allowed herself a slight smile. No matter what had occurred back there, she now carried another Harkonnen daughter inside her. And that, of course, was what the Bene Gesserit had wanted all along . . . .
How simple things were when our Messiah was only a dream.
-STILGAR, Naib of Sietch Tabr
For Pardot Kynes, life would never be the same now that he had been accepted into the sietch.
His wedding day to Frieth approached, requiring that he spend hours on preparation and meditation, learning Fremen marriage rituals, especially the ahal, the ceremony of a woman choosing a mate -- and Frieth had certainly been the initiator in this relationship. Many other fascinations distracted him, but he knew he could not make any mistakes in such a delicate matter.
For the sietch leaders, this was a grand occasion, more spectacular than any normal Fremen wedding. Never before had an outsider married one of their women, though Naib Heinar had heard of it happening occasionally in other sietches.
After the would-be assassin Uliet had sacrificed himself, the tale told throughout the sietch (and no doubt spread among other hidden Fremen communities) was that Uliet had received a true vision from God, that he had been directed in his actions. Old one-eyed Heinar, as well as sietch elders Jerath, Aliid, and Garnah, were suitably chagrined for having questioned the impassioned words of the Planetologist in th
e first place.
Though Heinar gravely offered to step down as Naib, bowing to the man he now believed to be a prophet from beyond the stars, Kynes had no interest in becoming the leader of the sietch. He had too much work to do -- challenges on a scale grander than mere local politics. He was perfectly happy to be left alone to concentrate on his terraforming plan and study the data collected from instruments scattered all around the desert. He needed to understand the great sandy expanse and its subtleties before he could know precisely how to change things for the better.
The Fremen worked hard to comply with anything Kynes suggested, no matter how absurd it might seem. They believed everything he said now. So preoccupied was Kynes, however, that he barely noticed their devotion. If the Planetologist said he needed certain measurements, Fremen scrambled across the desert, setting up collection points in remote regions, reopening the botanical testing stations that had been long abandoned by the Imperium. Some devoted assistants even traveled to the forbidden territories in the south, using a mode of transportation they had kept secret from him.
Dune - House Atreides Page 35
